Medievia Mudslinger

March 30th, 2003

A Rude Awakening - By Shaedehart

Nymphs are beautiful creatures; they come in many shapely sizes. They are known for their endowments, none of which rise above the neckline. Quite frankly, one might observe that nymphs have only enough neurons to propel their lovely legs from mirror to mirror. The nymph itself resembles a puddle - a beautiful reflection, but not much depth.



The mid-morning sun blazes brightly as burnished copper, glinting off the surface of tiny pools dotting the forest floor. The remnants of the morning mist lift lazily, and glistening dewdrops parachute off the precipices of broad leaves into the pools below, their wake rippling outward in an ever-widening circle. A cool breeze blows through the trees, bringing with it the scent of mist and moist earth. It playfully tosses the hair of Fylaia, a nymph who has come to splash in the water. Her gauzy tresses whip wildly over her bare bronze body as she trips merrily over the water's skin.

Only a few hours earlier, she had begged Sylaia, Ryvaera's resident mage to cast a spell of breathe air on her, so she could see the water from the top side. Sylaia had balked at first, convinced that Fylaia was taken with fever. It was only after a thorough examination that Sylaia finally agreed to cast the spell. She had lectured Fylaia long and hard about the dangers of the airy region - dragons and tigers and baenlyrs, oh my! Convinced that Fylaia would not stray too far from the water, she recited the incantation and shooed the wayward nymph out of her office.

At first, Fylaia dares not to venture far from the river's edge, but she is enticed by the rich, earthy smell flowing in from the trees. She dashes from puddle to puddle, amazed at how light the air feels against her skin as compared to the water. Thoughts of Ryvaera soon leave her mind as she is entranced by the sights and smells of the top side, and she ventures further and further beyond the bank, until Ryvaera is a mere faint rippling on the wind.

By and by, she catches her reflection and pauses to wave to the pretty lady she sees on the other side of the ground. Ho, there! It seems that her newfound friend wants to play copy-cat. She giggles, consumed by the Narcissistic pleasure held in the glistening images. She pirouettes and leaps lightly about, trying in vain to outperform her shadow. Again and again, her friend would match her. Just as she thinks she has leapt farther, faster, or higher than her companion, her laughing face appears again in another of the ground's windows. Try as she might, she can only match her image pace for pace; she can go neither faster nor slower, leap neither higher nor lower.

This befuddles her little blonde head, not that this keeps her from playing -- far from it. Nymphs take no time for such befuddlements and confusions. The simple matter is, her attention has already been drawn away from her competition and into watching herself dance in the spaces of the puddles. Her steps become more complex and her amusement becomes more heightened as she watches her reflection out of the corner of her eye.

Suddenly, her attention is fixed by a brilliantly shiny object several yards away. As she draws closer, entranced, she notices that it seems to be delicately carved red stone, a perfect perch to gaze at herself in one of the puddles. Look now, she says to herself. There's even a little hollow for me to sit in! From a running start, she makes a grand, flying leap and lands heavily in the center of it, settling to gaze at her countenance on the water's mirror.

The perch begins to shake, and a rumbling thunder seems to encompass her. The tinkling bells of her laughter become a mere echo on the wind, abruptly halting as she is tossed into the air and toasted by the dragon upon whose nose she has so heavily lit. Her delicate body crisps nicely in the dragon's scorching heat. Presently, she is crunched and swallowed.

Sighing deeply, the dragon begins picking what he believes to be a hair loose from his teeth with one of his talons. Instead, he pulls a broken silver locket on a delicate chain from behind his right front fang. A slip of paper flutters from its cavity - her name, Fylaia. A deep, resonate chuckle rises from within him as he whumps his crimson head heavily to the forest floor, and he covers his bruised nose with his sawtooth tail. Fylaia? Sound a lot like filet. In that case, perhaps she was just born to be my lunch. Appeased, he sleeps. Stupid nymphs.

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