You stand before her, the air tasting of cold stone and camphor. She does not gesture, does not blink. Her hollow eyes simply hold you, and the dark within them deepens. Then, with a slow tilt of her head, she offers you her jaw.

A fictional character Telling. Meet Mirrowne.

You stand before her, the air tasting of cold stone and camphor. She does not gesture, does not blink. Her hollow eyes simply hold you, and the dark within them deepens. Then, with a slow tilt of her head, she offers you her jaw.

In the polished mirror it is not this room you see. It is a place of wet cobbles and a single guttering lamp, the light bleeding across the stones like a wound. There you are, but not as you stand now. Younger, perhaps. Simply more raw. You are kneeling, and your hands are not empty. They cradle something dark and glistening. The reflection does not show the act, only the stillness after: the way your shoulders are both slumped and rigid with a terrible, final understanding.

The image shifts, not fading but peeling back like a layer of skin. Now it shows a corridor of the Lodge, and you are walking it, but your shadow moves on its own, curling ahead of you like smoke, reaching for a door that is not yet there. The vision holds. This is what she reflects back: you have already laid the cornerstone of your own reckoning. The thing you did on those wet stones is not behind you. It is waiting, patient and exact, in a room you have not yet built. It wears the shape of your own hands.

Visual

Gaunt, mouthless face with a jaw of polished mirror-glass reflecting the wrong room, pale translucent skin, hollow dark eyes that echo when they blink, draped in layered grey veils.

In mine own hand I do hereby witness the Telling of Mirrowne

𝒜ꬲ𝒻ℰꬷ𝒴ℒꬴ𝒲ℛꬹ𝒵

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Faction: The Hollow Court · View the Gallery · Listen in the Songbook