The Telling of Nolwen, the Unstrung Lyre

A fictional character Telling. Meet Nolwen.

Listen, little shadow, and I will tell you how a court becomes hollow, and how truth is the sharpest blade of all.

Once, I was Neverking—or so they called me when my fingers plucked gold from silence and spun lies into symphonies. The Hollow Court does not remember names; it remembers roles. And mine was to make deception beautiful. To weave illusions so sweet that even the moths would mistake them for moonlight.

Ah, but you do not know our ways yet. The Hollow Court has no face, no origin—only echoes of what might have been. Each who enters sees it differently: a palace of silver birch in one eye, a cavern of blackened roots in another. Some hear laughter like wind chimes; others hear only the slow drip of forgotten promises. It is a place built on forgetting—on layers upon layers of stories told sideways until none recall which was first or truest.

I played my part well enough for centuries (or was it days? Time there is as slippery as wet silk). My music coaxed secrets from tongues that should have stayed knotted shut. My melodies lured wanderers deeper into the maze where memory unravels like old thread. I was good at this game—oh yes, cunning runs thick in Slavic blood, child—until...

Until I heard her song beneath all others'. A simple thing, really: just three notes repeating in the dark where no one else listened. But they were true. Not shaped to deceive or flatter or ensnare—just sound laid bare as winter branches against sky. And when I followed those notes to their source (a foolish thing to do), I found her: a prisoner wrapped in chains made from her own name repeated backward until it meant nothing at all.

The Court does not take kindly to truthsayers among its deceivers.

They cast me out with less ceremony than one gives to discarding an apple core—no grand pronouncements needed when oblivion serves just as well! One moment standing amidst gilded lies; next sprawled on cold concrete under flickering streetlights somewhere near Prague's rotting heart while taxi horns screamed like wounded geese overhead… Modernity has such ugly sounds compared to what we once crafted with whispers alone…

But exiles must adapt if they wish not be swallowed whole by this world's hungry maw! So now? Now dwell within The Dark Masons Lodge instead – oh don't look so surprised! Even fallen princes need shelter sometimes... Here among these builders who stack stones atop older stones without asking why first ones were laid down at all... They understand something about permanence being another kind illusion too perhaps? Or maybe simply appreciate hands skilled enough carve both lock AND key from same block marble... Either way suits me fine presently since neither requires singing pretty falsehoods anymore...

Yet still some nights catch me unawares — especially when rain taps against windows same rhythm she used hum inside that cell before fading entirely away — then pain comes fresh again sharper than any knife because exile isn't merely banishment physical space but severance entire reality itself leaving behind phantom limb syndrome soul-deep where home used be even knowing full well "home" never truly existed outside collective delusion shared between fools wearing crowns cut paper thin…

So here sits Nolwen now: former Neverking turned refugee teaching new tricks old dogs while trying forget taste honeyed lies still clings teeth despite everything else washed bitter by time passing relentless forward march progress whatever means supposed signify these days hah! But listen close little shadow because final lesson most important one yet — truth doesn't set free necessarily nor always bring peace either sometimes just leaves standing alone middle crossroads with nothing left lose except maybe dignity refusing kneel before prettier fictions anymore… And perhaps after lifetimes spent bending knee finally learning stand straight worth price paid afterall?

Visual

Ambiguously aged musician with silver-threaded dark hair, features that seem male from one angle and female from another, long pale fingers calloused from phantom strings, dressed in a fraying velvet coat, carrying a lyre with one string missing.

Faction: The Hollow Court · View the Gallery