Dare Design Fallacies

[Krava'quiloor]

Omella was a little old woman. Wrinkled, thin hands, hunched back, a kindly face with as many wrinkles as a baked apple, and half-blind, milky eyes mostly obscured by her heavy lids closing now and then, as if about to take a nap.

Omella was a great Knitter, though people didn't seem to recall anyone notable residing in the hovel she was found in.
It was much cleaner now, no broken furniture, not a lot of furniture at all, actually. Perhaps, she lived elsewhere, and was just using this space to perform her miracles.

Word traveled fast, though not very far. Quiet. Excellent healer. Would take food as payment more often than gold. Always felt so... cozy, like sitting with a favorite grandma about to blow on the bruise and make the pain go away.

And take away pain she did. Without muttering, herbs, or inscriptions. The bleeding stopped, the flesh seemed to grow back together. Took time, but didn't leave a scar. Didn't feel a drunken dizzy, like what some herbs from the pain brought about.
If it was really bad, you'd go to sleep for a little, and wake up with only the memory of being broken, crushed, bit, slashed, pierced and burned. The body no longer remembered.

Some said, she could even fix a broken mind.

Sometimes, she'd keep a caged chicken or two, or some mice in a big round jar. Those were always gone by the end of the day, and no one had ever seen Omella cook.

She'd turn people away, sometimes,

Still, more and more people trickled to the little one-room hut in the alleyways.

*

She'd known the woman, in the couple weeks before she put on her likeness.

Her name wasn't Omella, of course, the human's real name was put to rest with her.
Left all alone in this city, her son probably died in some foolhardy captain's campaign.
Her lungs were full of fluid, and her heart full of sadness, but the old woman waited for him still.
Her old body had so many malformations, but the most tired was her pain-wracked mind.

The old woman cried, on the day before her last.
'I'm so alone', the old woman said, cradled in her arms like a broken child. 'I just want to live the day to see him once again before I die.'
She wasn't afraid of dying. She just didn't want to die feeling abandoned and alone, and be buried in some pit where they put unclaimed bodies.

Her elder named her Krava'quiloor, but instead of being a dream of a new beginning, there seemed much too many endings to get through first.
The burial was taken care of, and then, the old woman's son, at least his likeness, was put to rest, too.
One last, sweet dream. A peaceful rest. So once the ghost departed the body, it wouldn't go haunting.
There was no pain, in the end.
And, loathe it as Krava might have, there was nourishment enough to survive.

*

She didn't look when the door opened, squinting heavily as she fussed about a couple potted plants she'd keep the window open for so they fit into the tiny window space.

A tiny hearth sat near the long wall, a low table for patients - and, probably, for any other task - next to it. No bed, just a straw-stuffed mattress in the corner, and what looked like maybe a blanket.
A few empty cages stood by the hearth, a chicken, a lamb. Unimportant, livestock for cooking.
A few pots, most of them with lids, none that smelled strange, on a single shelf. Fresh straw on the floor.

Omella turned her head, cheeks running with deep happy wrinkles. Her thin hands folded in front of her apron as she turned slowly, in small, almost unsure steps.
"Hello, dearie. What brings you to me?"
Her voice was soft clicking of the sun-warmed pebbles, a soothing sussur of rain trickling off a roof. Something about her was naturally soothing, unimposing, there was help here, so many people have said.

 

[Momoshiro Komori]

The journey from his homeland had been everything a voyage promised—open skies, strange scents, and the heady thrill of stepping into the unknown. Every day offered something new: the smell of foreign spices drifting from market stalls, the way unfamiliar constellations burned brighter in thin mountain air, the sharp bite of cold mornings on the road. Out here, the weight he carried seemed to ease. The air was crisp, the world wide, and for the first time in months, Momoshiro felt as though his life was moving forward.

Aetochi and Sonshan lay far behind him now, though an invisible thread still pulled faintly at his chest. His clan remained on the island nation—his mother, his kin, all the familiar faces. They had given their blessing for him to go, perhaps even nudged him toward it. His mother had a talent for planting an idea so gently that one believed it was their own. He missed them, but staying had become unbearable. Maybe he had already passed the point of no return.

He exhaled, long and slow, leaning over the rail of the airship. Far below, rooftops rose through the mist. The city was waiting. Time to tuck away the thoughts that threatened to slow him.

The wind swept his snow-white hair back in a streaming banner. His ears, tucked low, nearly vanished against the pale strands. He might have passed for human—if not for the thick, bushy tail swaying lazily behind him. His yellow-and-black robes snapped in the breeze as he turned and descended the narrow steps to the lower deck.

The Beggar’s Choice was no passenger liner. It was a merchant vessel, all business and weatherworn wood. He had paid for his passage with coin and labor, finding the right balance of charm and usefulness to win the captain’s agreement. The crew left him to his tasks—scrubbing pots in the cramped galley, mopping corridors barely wide enough for his 6’3” frame. This wasn’t the first ship he had worked aboard, but it was his first time riding the currents of the sky.

Kharsaga had been their last stop; Crorefell lay ahead. For the ship, it was just another delivery run. For Momo, it was one more step in a search that had already tested his patience: a healer who could reach past the body and touch the mind. So far, no one could.

When the airship docked, the city swallowed him immediately. Streets pressed in on all sides, filled with the ceaseless movement of bodies. People slid past one another with the casual jostling of strangers used to crowded spaces. Faces blurred into one another—no recognition, no nod of respect. Back home, everyone had known him or his clan. The exorcists were few, their craft unique. Here, spirits were ignored at best, forgotten at worst.

He moved through the districts, noting the unspoken rules, the places to linger and the places to pass through quickly. The Ember District left heat in his cheeks that lingered long after he’d left it. He gathered names of healers, though most requests for directions came with outstretched palms. Opportunism seemed a language all its own here.

Days passed. Every healer he found could mend a wound, soothe a fever, knit bone—but none could draw out the poison that clung to his thoughts like a shadow. His hope thinned.

His last lead brought him to… an alleyway? Momo checked the directions he’d scribbled, then looked both ways down the road. Yes, this was the place. Curious.

He was about to step in when the hairs on his neck rose. A spirit was near. His red eyes scanned the rooftops until he spotted it—a dragonfly-winged creature darting down into the alley.

He followed, only to stop short. Not one spirit, but dozens, lingered here, lounging as if waiting for something. All shapes, all sizes—together, which was rare. They circled a small hut. None seemed hostile, just… watchful.

He sighed and glanced at his paper. Of course, this was his destination.

With a final step, he crossed the threshold.

"Hello, dearie. What brings you to me?"

The voice was warm, unhurried. Inside, a small, stooped woman regarded him with eyes that seemed older than her wrinkles. Momo realized he’d left the door open and closed it gently behind him, bending slightly under the low roof. The space was as cramped as the airship’s galley, and his tail instinctively curled around his waist to avoid knocking anything over. The spirits’ presence pressed faintly against his senses from outside.

He inclined his head politely.

"Hello… I was told you were a healer. I have an ailment that has proven… troublesome for others in your profession."

Through the small window, a spirit drifted lazily past. Overhead, claws ticked lightly against the roof beams.

"Am I in the right place?"

@Ray

 

[Krava'quiloor]

The worn, chipping clay pots were peppered with flowers among the leaves, well-loved and flourishing, even though the alley was quite narrow and probably didn't get much daylight at all. Something a little odd about the flowers, they were mostly looking inward, into the room and away from where the sun would have been, spots on the white-blue and blue-yellow violets - round and symmetric, in pairs; probably unsubstantial. Just plants.

The old woman turned, hands folded in front of her chest, bent at the elbows - could be that her joints have been so worn.
"I am, indeed. Few ailments are trouble for someone of my skill." A bit of pride in that soft, old voice, sternness. Perhaps, that's what kept her going? "You are a tall one, aren't you?" A snicker, well-natured, the statement almost in an inexplicable approval.

This one was as tall as she once had been, or so about. The Elder was taller still.
If she could have been watching him in her first body, the large eyes would have grown wider. So fluffy. So white and fluffy and only slightly dusty. The proportion of the ears, the lazy swooping motions and fluff in the inner layers of the tail. Oh, such a pretty entity. And that came even before how he seemed to be reaching to outside his form. A real weaver? Exciting. Those didn't end up on her table too often.

From how he moved, the flush and texture of the skin, the scents, the speech, the look of the eyes - she could proffer the entity was probably mostly healthy, even before she'd touch it to check.
Something, something, too much time and experience. She wasn't a skillful swimmer in this - she was the fish. Hopefully, some interesting kind of whale.

She looked about the shabby abode, and sighed, sitting on the edge of the low table as if it was a bench.
"Sorry for the furniture lacking, dearie. Some hooligans tried to bully this old woman, not too long ago, broke what little remained in one piece. Oh, the times we live in, but this is Crorefell for you." Her mouth lifted in a tired smile. "Why don't you sit down, tell me who you are and what troubles you?"

Almost an aura about her, but not an aura per se. A feeling. Hidden radiance.
Turgor. Life waiting to burst into growth and go through metamorphosis.
Struggling against an extremely poor climate and little strength to flourish.
Stern, but flexible pragmatism. Thoughts like spiderwebs on spiderwebs, branching into immense complexity, understanding.
A strange, otherworldly sort of compassion that did not stem from sentimentality.
Loneliness. An almost regal pride and resolute resignation to following the harder road.

No. That couldn't be right. Like a blanketing tidal wave over that pattern in the sand - came the warmth.
Coziness despite the lack of light - the summer was too warm, the sunlight through the only window was enough.
Harmless. Unimposing, but helpful. Like a marigold.
Someone with less sense would have never glimpsed past the waters, most likely.

She was not alone. Someone second was... was not... near, at the side of the head, hid securely away from most prying. Not merged, not separate. Dormant. Smaller. Protected.

@Sol

 

[Momoshiro Komori]

At first, he didn’t notice... The door had shut behind him, and he was only aware of the smallness of the space, the scent of dried herbs in the air. But after a few steps, it settled over him—a slow, undeniable warmth. Not heat, but something deeper. It wrapped around him like a newborn swaddled in a blanket, like sinking into a bed after a long and merciless day.

If he closed his eyes, he could almost sleep.

The sensation stirred memories: home, his family, the love that had shaped him. But even here, he could still feel it—the shadow. It slithered between recollections and emotions, slick and unwelcome. Yet here, in this place, it felt… muted.

Through the corner of his vision, movement flashed. Another spirit passing the window. Then he saw them. Plants lined the space, paired spots on the petals. His gaze narrowed, questions already forming—then the old woman spoke.

Her voice was a balm, warm and rich, like honey steeped in tea. It carried something of his grandmother in its tone, before time and illness had taken her away. Without thinking, he found himself lowering to sit. He hadn’t decided to sit. He was simply there, a hand lifting to rub the back of his head, fingers threading through ashen strands.

The moment his eyes closed, the dark tendrils stirred. They uncoiled from the recesses of his mind, snaking forward until their cold touch wrapped around his thoughts.

She can’t help you… no one can. You’ve always been a fool.

A breath escaped him, heavy with resignation. He opened his eyes and anchored himself on the old woman’s face.

"Sorry… my name is Momoshiro. I come from Aetochi, in the north." His hand rose, tapping two fingers against his temple. "My malady is here. There’s a darkness inside me."

A shiver threaded its way down his spine. Speaking the truth aloud seemed to feed it, giving the thing within a pulse. He pushed it back with a practiced smile—gentle, welcoming. His mother’s smile.

"I’m told you go by Omella? Is that correct? Also… my condolences for your recent troubles,"
he said, gesturing faintly to the room.

Outside, the spirits lingered. They moved without urgency, shifting from rooftop to sill to cobblestone, passing one another without so much as a ripple of tension. Drawn here, like moths to lamplight, they held their vigil in quiet patience.

But among them, one was not so peaceful. A centipede, long as four or five men and far thicker, waited in the shadows. Its aura was heavier than the rest—darker, more dangerous. Once, it had preyed on a family, its malice a constant terror, until Momo had claimed it. Absorbed it.

Like all the others, it had become part of the black stain inside his soul. Now, it kept watch, a silent sentry in the street. A better purpose than the one it had before—or so Momo told himself.

@Ray

 

[Krava'quiloor]

"My pleasure, Momoshiro. Many come here bearing darkness inside," the woman responded peacefully, still perching against the edge of the low table. "Few know what they are asking when they say they want it gone."
She nodded. "That is correct." Nothing to it. Name to a face. Means of survival. This was why she was the diplomat, of them two.

Sculpting the mind was an inevitable part of her natural talent. Nothing she created worked decently without at least a shred of awareness, after all.
A body without a mind was as useful as a hollow eggshell. Minds used to having bodies - could not fathom waking without. Minds floating in the aether were swept by the tides of a tethered ocean, inconsequential and brittle, with no bodies to anchor them in the self. And yet, she'd learned to keep the tides low. Helped hide among the rest of them.

Fixing parts of a mind required understanding. Fear was not healed by cutting it off. It was not healed by exsanguinating the thoughts that it took over, either - it would just sink to deeper concepts. You needed to feel the way to the source, and apply pressure there. Let the kink work itself out like an overstrained muscle.
Oh, the irony of needing help with something that could not be trusted but to another member of the hive - between the hiveless beings.
The fox-man didn't give an impression of someone who needed that sort of help, either.

"I will try and help you. I heal through touch. In delicate matters, it may be necessary that you sleep. I need you to tell me what exactly is it that you seek to be rid of, Momoshiro."
The tides flowed low, mingling against every mind, brushing around solid bodies.
Safety of home. Comfort of a tempered sunlight. Welcome of a hearth. Take the load off, free yourself.
"You seem aware of its outline, and that is excellent. I do not want to fix the parts you don't consider broken." Her eyes stared into space, unfocused, ragged appearance lax for a brief moment as Omella seemed to listen. Not just to Momoshiro, but to the quiet vortex of the tides.

 

[Momoshiro Komori]

For a long breath—maybe two—the hut was silent.

Momo’s gaze traced the worn floorboards, his eyes flitting from knot to knot in the wood as though the right words might be hiding there. How did you explain something like this? How did you put a light to the parts of yourself you most wanted kept in shadow? How did you tell someone that your soul was not shattered, but cracked—and that each day, the cracks spread, growing deeper with every tiny piece that broke away?

Where did you even begin?

At the beginning, of course.

He drew in a steady breath, letting it out slowly. This sigh was not heavy with uncertainty—it was anchored, deliberate.

"In Aetochi," he began, his voice low but sure, "my family are exorcists. We combat dark and malicious spirits—cursed Raakgui." He paused, eyes distant for a moment. "When I was old enough… and strong enough, my father taught me a technique that’s been in our family for generations. Spirit Manipulation."

His teeth worried at his lower lip before he went on.
"Instead of driving a spirit out, I can take it in—absorb it into myself. Then, when I need to, I can release it again… in battle, or for other purposes."

He didn’t demonstrate. Most people couldn’t truly perceive the Raakgui, and he doubted this woman could either. There was no point in proving something she might not even be able to see.

"But there’s a cost," he said, voice dipping lower. "Their energy seeps into you. It’s… a corrupting influence, to put it plainly. They don’t make you evil, but they make you doubt—your skill, your judgment, your worth. They chip at you, piece by piece. Until you wonder if what’s left will be enough."

Momo glanced toward the window again and the flowers. "I made mistakes because of it... people got hurt."

@Ray

 

[Krava'quiloor]

The old woman listened. In the pale echoes of daylight, not close enough to reach through the square cut window where her flowers bloomed - her age-yellowed face, with little sheen between the fracturing lines of wrinkles, seemed almost waxen.

"So it is not your mind that needs healing, is it?" she asked sternly, at last. "You have a thought parasite, in there." The knotted finger pointed at the exorcist's head. "A parasite you'd have no qualms carrying for use, if not for the invonvenience. The consequence of wielding its power meaning it gets to have an opinion, is that so?" A wry huff, she smoothed the apron - even though for a moment it would have seemed as if she was wiping her fingers of something invisible. "To your knowledge... Is the parasite's mind contained along side yours fully? Is it tied to your body, the ley lines of the Shroud in it, in some fashion?"

Slowly, as if to evoke thought with motion alone, the woman turned over her shoulder and stared at the caged chicken, pecking away at grain.
"Is it the darkness that you seek to be rid of? Or just the mind that stirs against yours and impedes your own judgement?"

 

[Momoshiro Komori]

His head snapped up, eyes wide.
Momo waved both hands quickly in front of his face.
"No, no—nothing like that!"

He hesitated, gaze drifting to the side.
"…At least, I don’t think it’s like that."

There wasn’t some wild spirit thrashing around inside him, tearing his soul apart. It was subtler than that. He could feel it—the weight of them, the slow bleed of their darkness into his thoughts. Their presence didn’t shout, it seeped. It rotted. From the inside out.

He rubbed his chin, searching for the right words. Something that would make sense to her. He didn’t want to waste her time.

"Imagine you’re a fish in a glass bowl," he began. "At first, the water’s crystal clear—sunlight pouring in, warm and bright. You can see everything, swim anywhere, eat without fear. But then, one day, a single drop of ink falls into the water. The next day, another. And another. Slowly, the world around you dims. The light fades. Shapes blur. You hesitate to swim, to eat—afraid of what you can’t see. And then, one day, the water isn’t just murky anymore. It’s ink. Thick. Black. And you realize… you’re choking on it."

Silence hung for a moment before he sighed.
"I know what you’re thinking. You’re going to tell me to just expel the cursed spirits. Stop taking in any more. And yeah—that’s the sensible solution, right?"

He gave a short, humorless huff.
"But it’s not that simple. First—" he tapped his chest, "the damage is already done. Getting rid of them won’t erase that. Second—" his mouth tightened, "I’m good at this. And as one of the few in the world who can do what I do, I have a responsibility. I just… I’m afraid. Afraid of making the wrong call because I doubted myself. Afraid of hurting someone else."

"I need to be able to think clearly, people depend on me...this anxiety is eating away at me."

@Ray

 

[Krava'quiloor]

"I've seen some folk in their work for too long," the granny mused. "And if it's as simple as a rooted doubt, there are a few ways to touch on that. But the cleansing rituals from your own people didn't work, did they?" Her eyes, riddled with cataracts like little sad galaxies, turned to study the fox with a razor-sharp precision. "Your fear of making a mistake is a symptom, not the root cause. The corruption nests in you because of what you do with those spirits of yours. The ink in your... fishbowl, is not coming by hand of greater powers. Let's clarify the outline before we refresh that water, then."
Thrall bonds with subjects of casual malicious intent were disasters waiting to happen, after all.

She caught herself at the voice cutting a little too close to stern, and softened it again. Keep small, keep low... no. This was not a fractured bone. A sigh followed, shaky exhale. Wrinkled hands wrapped against the edge of the tabletop.

"So, the help you ask for - is to cleanse the taint that the curses you absorb leave on you, so your mind isn't poisoned by the consequences of tethering yourself to them. You have no inclination to stop what you are doing - nor do you want to rid yourself of the spirits already there. You intent to keep pouring ink into your fishbowl by means of however many poison wicks you have attached that are dripping it in."

She was looking directly into his eyes, a calm, aware, heavy stare. There was no confusion or hesitation born out of lacking - the healer seemed to have a few ideas of exactly what to do. The soothing aura faded some, allowed for that understanding to settle. "You want me to filter out the ink. And, being good at what you do, do you wish those malicious things you trap and tether to be your servants - or your instruments?"
Only one, crucial difference.

 

[Momoshiro Komori]

Momo held her gaze a moment too long, the weight of silence pressing between them, before he sighed and pushed himself to stand.

He forgot about the ceiling.

THUD!

The top of his head met wood with a solid crack, and he stumbled forward, instantly crouching low. Hands flew up to rub the sore spot, ears twitching in mild irritation. Miraculously, nothing in the cramped room toppled over, and within seconds he straightened again—face composed, as though nothing had happened.

"They’re tools," he said, still wincing, the words aimed more like a defense than a statement. "Put to better use than they were before. And I know—I know—I’m the one putting the ink in the fishbowl. Actions have consequences, and this… this is mine. I know. I—I know."

His shoulders sagged as he dropped back into the chair.
"I just need to carry it a little longer. Help as many people as I can before… before I can’t anymore."

Outside, the spirits went still. Their idle movements ceased, every head turning toward the mouth of the alley. Something had caught their attention.

In the distance, several blocks away, shadows shifted. A pair of yellow eyes blinked open in the dark. Then another pair. And another. And another.

Momo’s ear twitched. His gaze flicked sideways toward the wall, as if he could feel the change through the air itself, before he looked back to her.

"If you need in here—" he tapped the side of his head, his tone suddenly urgent, "I consent."

He leaned forward, voice quickening.
"If you can put up a mental wall, a barrier—anything to keep the ink out—that would help. Even if it’s temporary. Please."

He would have to trust her.

 

[Krava'quiloor]

The granny's mouth twitched in a brief smirk at the thud. A concussion would have added a bit to the challenge, but that wasn't the reason for amusement.

Lock had been just like this when adjusting to the new body. Bumping and knocking things about with any limbs that were new. The last they'd been around one another in the waking, Lock was a snow leopard beastkin. Despite the natural form having involved quite a few tentacles, and many forms since juggling any amount of limbs, depending, Lock used to struggle controlling the long, bushy tail, until she'd made some corrections. Made the tail prehensile, too... one of her best works.

"We'll take a look together," she murmured. "Good that you agree, I should be able to touch the part you want set right from dislocation. I need you to truly understand this, however. I am not going to raise my hand and make the problem go away. I could, but then it wouldn't last - and there is doubtfully any medication in the world, or any magic seal, that would resolve your fishbowl dilemma permanently. Instead, this is what I reckon we might do, young man."

Her mind unfurled, the air outside shivered lightly with the movement. Energy had to be preserved for the dive, however - even if right now she was well fed... Tendrils of the mind probed for anything not attached to a body, floating thoughts, drifting consciousnesses. Nothing less substantial mattered much.

She stood straight, and patted the creaky surface of the table lightly. The meandering manner seemed to slip, something more dominant taking its place, a confident presence calm as still water. If only oceans could be still.
"Once we are ready, you will lie on this table. I will stand at your head, and we will both take a walk down the pathways of the mind. It should not take long, you may need some sleep after. The realms of body, thought and spirit are intertwined, and your reach is exactly where mine is lacking - I cannot deal with things that lack minds, and have difficulty handling minds without bodies."

The old woman nodded at Momo's head, then looked in the same direction.
"I do not see what you feel - would you kindly ward the area before we begin?"

 

[Momoshiro Komori]

Momo was no stranger to curt instruction. His father had been the same—brief, precise, all edges and no frills. He nodded once to Omella, rose carefully this time, and took the short step toward the door.

As it creaked open, he glanced back over his shoulder and offered her a small smile.
"Be right back."

He slipped outside, shutting the door behind him.

From the shadows, the giant centipede emerged, its many legs rippling in a rapid zigzag across the cobblestones. Momo raised a hand, and the creature leapt toward it. A pale, white-tinged portal bloomed in the air, swallowing the spirit in a fluid motion.

With the sentinel recalled, he turned toward the direction where he’d sensed the cursed presence. His ruby eyes narrowed. He crouched, pressing his palm flat to the stone, eyes sliding shut as a quiet chant slipped from his lips.

Far above the alley, centered over the hut, a single bead of black water shimmered into existence. It quivered, then spread, liquid shadows spilling over it like rain running across an umbrella. The flow expanded outward, cascading until it wrapped the space in a seamless dome. And then—just as quickly—it vanished from sight.

A curtain, his family called it. It would hold. For a while.

Momo straightened, stepped back inside, and closed the door behind him. His smile was faint, almost self-satisfied, as he crossed to the table and stretched out on it in compliance with her earlier command.

"I’m ready."

 

[Krava'quiloor]

As she watched the fox man leave, she felt a tinge of contentment at the notion that he was quick on learning. Realms of disembodied Shroud were not hers, a limitation she'd paid for her particular acuity. Her kin, however...
What if too much time had passed before she woke? What if the temperatures damaged it? What if...

The marigold, cookies and soft warmth aura faded. The shack was just a shack, dark hearth, almost empty, a cage with livestock alongside the wall. Krava touched to the sternum - no better place to keep the egostone secured than to carry it always. A shaky breath escaped her.
This was fine. It was all feasible. She could do it on her own. She could gather material and... not be wasteful.
Loneliness pricked deeper and worse than a malfunctioning injector sting. Fear crept like frost.

An inhale, and as the door creaked open, the comfort was back, fed into the draft and wrapping around the outskirts of the conscious. The old woman once more stood slightly stooped, her hands, spotted by pigmentation and wrinkled like raisin skins, folded in front of her.
"Good job, good," came the good-hearted chuckle. "Don't want little rats biting our ankles while we dream awake. Thank you."

As the fox spirit lay down onto the table, the old woman moved to his head.
She didn't smell like an old woman. Lilacs and tears.
Thin fingers touched to the man's temple.
"Sleep."

A brief electrifying jolt, a weightlessness - but flying instead of foaling. No, floating, carried by an invisible current.
A heartbeat, succumbing to the sway of an ocean housed in a tiny woman's body. She didn't need to speak those words but for his comfort.

In the instants before drifting off, eyelids closing against the normal reflex and the outside world sinking out of the reach of senses, Momo might have felt a vague, half-dreamlike sensation. He had his own body, his head, arms, legs, the bushy tail and twitchy curious ears. And then, he also felt the fingertips touching his forehead, and the hand to which they belonged, not as his own, but fully cognizant of another body, heartbeat adjusting to his own, another arm, legs, head... and at the head something that should have been there, but wasn't, like phantom limbs.
Then, the dreamlike notion passed, and it was dark.


*

Sensation like rushing through a tunnel, like that first coming to upon waking, with the first intake of breath.
The consciousness transposited into itself, gently held aloft and stable, cognizant, unlike a proper dream.

In front of him - a low table. Straw-stuffed simple cushions on the wooden floor. Familiar scent of a favorite drink in the tiny, white porcelain cup with a short poem delicately calligraphed on the side. Plain latticework, dark weathered wood patterning the paper windows in narrow vertical stripes. The roof - tied straw on wooden covers. Clean.
The pitter-patter of rain outside, good for this season.

Outside, no longer Crorefell, but a familiar forest, the slight incline as the hill rolled down.
A movement behind - and an immediate awareness, like regaining control of an asleep limb, that it was the healer.
"Another moment, please, don't look" Hand drifted from the side of Momo's head to the top, to keep it from turning. The hand was different. Larger, with blunt nails touching to the scalp along the fingertips. "Let yourself settle." The voice was different, too. Younger, stronger, feminine but low to where it could have belonged to a young man either. Confident, paceless, guiding - no movement of breath against the back of the head, though.

"Let us go to the surface of your fear," the voice directed.
The forest shifting in the wind outside rippled like the waves.
"Go to the lattice doors and close them to the forest. Stand. Think. What do you stand to lose? Who do you stand to hurt? Why does it matter to you that you keep succeeding?"
A gentle hand rested at the back of Momo's shoulder. A smaller hand, with a common amount of fingers. Something telling that it was safe to look back now.
"Think. Then, open the doors again. Witness the full scope of fear's design unravelling. The worst of it as it would be before your eyes, wrought by your own hands. I will be here to help you face it. You are safe."

 

[Momoshiro Komori]

At first, it felt like drifting through a dream—no sense of how he’d arrived, only the strange certainty that he belonged there. The edges of his vision blurred into a soft haze, no matter how hard he squinted, as if the world beyond refused to be seen. A strange contradiction settled over him: calm and unease, comfort and dread, all at once.

Then, the dream sharpened. The room around him took shape, familiar and foreign in the same breath. The scent of tea lingered in the air—the same kind his mother used to make. Also... the smell of rain. Outside, the trees looked recognizable, but… different.

A presence stirred behind him. Every instinct screamed for him to turn, yet something deep within urged him not to. Was that voice of caution truly his own, or something whispered into him?

The doors slid shut beneath his hands, smooth and practiced, as though he’d done it a thousand times before. Just enough pressure. A tug. Muscle memory.

Omella's words drifted through him, softer now, more familiar. He closed his eyes, though he knew sight hardly mattered here. Images flickered across the darkness like lantern-light: a silver-haired boy laughing as he sparred with his siblings, wooden swords clashing in playful defiance. His mother’s gentle hands tending to him in sickness. The grueling training with his father. His first exorcism. The victories. The failures. The faces of those hurt because of his hesitation. The weight of a life lost when his doubt became fatal.

The edges of his vision began to unravel again, black tendrils slithering inward, curling into his mind. His knees buckled, hands clutching his head as voices clawed at him—accusing, mocking, unrelenting. The dead wore their agony like masks, etched into his memory.

"I-I can’t! I’m not strong enough!"

Black ooze started to rise from between the floorboards around his feet and crawl upwards.

 

[Krava'quiloor]

And with him, the alien presence followed the flickers of insight, treading lightly, like a jeweler picking out just the right stone, shedding a harsh, unforgiving light onto the impurities which would become part of the pattern once it's cut. This one's been cut before, polished by age and fractured by the tremors of fate. The light hit the imperfection, and it spread cracks all through the man's being.

Fear.
'I'm not strong enough.'
A flicker of mother being gentle, but father being stern.
Not strong enough - was it truly the exorcist's own judgement?
The ocean of her mind would have swept any other sentience away, anchored to the tectonic reality of her body with which her mind was amalgam - the source of her limitation. What remained was, perhaps, just as Momoshiro said. A voice that was his own, but not his own.

She was in his mind. He let her in. There was no internal pressure point her tendrils could not reach, nothing he could hide, not even the things he denied within himself.
His presence mattered. And so, she pushed out his anxiety to just the outskirts, like oil forced to separate from water, perceived as an outside force.
"I'm here with you. It's not about strength."
Mother's hands resting on the shoulders to embolden. Glowing warmth of confidence before setting out.
"This is your fear, Momoshiro. A part that you deny yourself."

Different tendrils wrapped around his mind's eye and held it steady. Delved into memories in a brief glide - touched one just glimpsed. Before it could sink into anxiety mire - mirrored it into projection.

They were in the courtyard, in the field, in that one place where learning took place and memory rooted to.
His father wasn't here.

There was a figure stood opposite, back straight and details blurred. Above them - a splotch of darkness, eating away at the pink and golden sunrise. I will take you through as many chambers as you will clean up after when you know what to do.
"Not strong enough?" it queried, voice strong and uncompromising. "Whose voice do you think of when you hear 'not strong enough'?"

He took something that wasn't his, indeed. Maybe it came with one of the spirits, maybe - long before. Fear of inadequacy, a faltering hand - were born of doubt. Doubt was born from not matching Momoshiro that 'should be' with Momoshiro. A lot of things were born from that rift - self-loathing, unforgiveness, repression. Delusion, sometimes. And it always bled into the outside world with poison. Intended or not.

The figure defined itself. A... knight of sorts, a suit of armor that resembled insect carapace, dark green and rich in hue, tall and proud and alien, solidifying its presence in Momo's mind as object separate. "When does a brave man fear?" It rumbled, and the dawn pushed back against the inky void, freezing it in a glowing green outline.

It would not allow him to drown. It would not allow him to wake up. It would not allow him to give in.
He would have to be present, even if a shining self-image of his lost its luster.
Unless... he fought her to keep that doubt, and with it - image of perfection unreached.