By Any Other Name - Wik

The door shuts with a sigh, and Cechec slides to the floor, their broad shoulders meeting the doorframe at either side. The sun still shines brightly through the window at the Four Fair Winds - too bright for the time the golden dragonborn's body is telling itself it is.

"Aktch" growls Cechec. He brings his clawed fist to the floor floor with a pound in frustration. The wooden boards tremble slightly under the blow, and the few items in the room shake in their seats. A small coat stand waves as if it were a tree in a breeze, jostling the long leather coat that it carries. A small stack of gold coins, neatly placed upon a nightstand, wobbles - but it does not topple. The sound of metal upon wood and glass rings out, too, from the small vanity in the corner. A mirror, or three mirrors, connected at the middle with brass hinges and decorated across with beautifully engraved figures, all shimmering as they move in the late morning light.

Months of being careful, of keeping track of who I've met and when and how... and now those four have seen through me. Cechec holds his fist in his hand, gently rubbing at the scales. He lets out a deep sigh, one that begins high in the throat but travels low, deep into his chest until it is nothing but a deep rumble.

And now this, Cechec mutters in his mind, his thumb stretching to rub the petals of the flowers that make up the corsage that decorates his left wrist. The roses there are still a pale blue from before, the colour of the waters of the Court of Fountains, save for the middle, main rose. It is a deep, crimson red; the red of blood that has been spilt.

Or blood that will be spilt.

Three adventurers with the same corsage. That will be fun to explain. Cechec breathes in again, deep, taking in the sweet scent of the rose petals.

"Wik, child, you're not paying attention. See? Watch me." The raven-haired elven woman stands from her chair, stepping into the middle of the room. It's late, very late, and the blinds have been drawn tight in the small home to keep out any prying eyes. An old fire in the hearth, still gnawing at the log that it had been fed some hours before, casts its golden light onto the two figures in front of it. They are so similar that they could be sisters, if not twins - the same long, raven hair; the same pale, pointed ears. The speaker motions for Wik to move out of the way, and they take their place in the middle of the kitchen. They take a deep breath, and disappear into the role.

"Why, darling, I would be delighted to. Please, Miss Lightmane is far too formal. My closest friends call me Ylana." She takes an imaginary partner's hand, curtsying deeply and pulling at the hem of a long white dressing gown. She stands up straight, and in a single, smooth motion, claps her hands together before turning to Wik. "Now, did you see what I did differently? It's not the words you say, it's how you say them. Ylana makes you feel as though you are the only other person in all the world. At least, until, well..." A sly grin breaks across her face. "Until you're no longer of this world." She laughs, raising an eyebrow at Wik.

"Take your place, child." She twirls on her heel and in a ripple of firelight is replaced with a new figure - tall and handsome, every part the dashing knight of the realm. "Miss Lightmane? Please forgive my intrusion, and my boldness. I could not help but notice you across the room. Would you do me the great honour of this dance?" He bows deeply, a hand held out to Wik.

Wik-Ylana sighs deeply, rolling her eyes. "Rux... it's late. Way too late for my own flesh and blood to teach me to flirt. Can't I just go to bed?"

Rux-Knight takes a step back, his hand coming to his chest in shame and embarrassment. His eyebrows arch to a peak above eyes that plead for forgiveness. "M-miss Lightmane, I am so terribly sorry. Please, you must forgive me."

"Ruxxx" whines Wik-Ylana, squeezing her eyes tight. "I'm tired, and I promised Yom that I'd help tomorrow. Please?"

The look on Rux-Knight's face shifts from shame and horror to steel and honour. "Miss Lightmane, a simple no would suffice. To insult my honour... I had hoped you better than these other noblewomen. I see now that I was wrong. Good night." He turns sharply on a heel, the white nightdress flowing and twisting as he does so. His face, though, turns back slowly until Wik-Ylana can see that it has changed. The chiseled features and strong jaw of the Knight have been replaced with the rounder, softer, and far more familiar form of Rux. A glowing white eye winks back at her, and the small, grey, indistinct mouth whispers back through a wide grin. "Get out of this mess you've created, and you can go to bed."

Cechec heaves himself up off the floor of his room, and slowly begins walking to the small corner vanity. With each laboured step, his form begins to shift and change - ripples climb his legs from his feet, his arms from his hands, and around his jaw, clenched. The crests of the waves look no different than the golden scales of Cechec, but the valleys are grey and formless.

With a quiet thud, Wik sits in the vanity's small stool and begins to inspect themselves in the mirror. The last of the make-up worn this morning as Ylana still covers their cheeks, the foundation and blush striking against the pale grey skin after being near hidden amongst Cechec's shining scales.

Their hair sits just above their shoulders, waving free. The small orange band that would normally tie Ylana's hair back rests forgotten in one of Wik's many pockets, but just as one hand reaches in to retrieve it, the other pulls and tugs at the thick white locks until they reach the small of Wik's back. Finally, the tie is put to good use.

A grey hand slips the corsage off their wrist, placing it on the table in front of them. More joins it - odds and ends removed from pockets, or from the leather belt that Wik wears across their chest. Gold pieces. Two daggers, one laid to each side. A few healing potions, their red contents swirling and shimmering.

Lastly, Wik withdraws a small handkerchief. They dab it in a small bowl filled with water, and begin to wipe at the makeup on their cheeks until only the grey beneath remains.

"Yom, I can make myself look perfect. Why by Leira do I need to make myself look worse just to fix myself with these... powders?"

The tall half-elf chuckles, the small pad covered in deathly pale powder dabbing and rubbing at their cheekbones. His thick black hair is short, and it frames his sharp, pale features very well. His eyes twinkle with knowing as he raises his eyebrows quickly at Wik before returning them to the small vanity mirror in front of him. The beautifully engraved figures along the brass border of the three mirrors seem to almost swoon at the attention they receive as they watch a master at work.

"Because, my child, it is about expectation. We are all perfect as we are, yes?" Yom side-eyes Wik, an eyebrow raised in question. "I certainly think so. And yet we all insist that we are not, that we must change ourselves to reach perfection." He hovers the small pad above his face, but withdraws it with a smile. It quickly finds its home in a small pot, and is replaced in-hand with a small red stick wrapped in paper. "If none believe themselves perfect, then one who does sticks out. And we don't stick out." Yom's steady hand slowly applies the red stick to his lips, puckering them to finish the application. "Your lips must leave their mark. Your tears must run black. It is what is expected. At least, it is for someone like Ylana."

Wik rolls their eyes, the glowing white turning silently. "Fine..." they mutter quietly. "Show me again what I have to do."

Yom chuckles. "First, you have to get your mask on." He reaches out with a hand and lightly tugs at Wik's ear. "Come, I have to leave soon and you promised you'd help."

Wik claps their hands together, and as the wave passes Ylana takes their place. Her hands reach up and pull her long raven hair back into a half-pony, tying it in place with a loop of orange fabric. "But Yom, I don't understand. If everyone is perfect, then why do we even have our personas? Why do I have to learn Ylana?"

Yom pauses, setting the small perfume bottle down. A small smile crosses his face, and he turns in his seat to look at his child. "We wear our masks, create our personas, because that is our power. It is what makes us... us. And a persona that is indistinguishable from the real thing, down to the most minor of blemishes? That is the height of our power." His hand reaches up to stroke Wik-Ylana's cheek, and for a moment his eyes soften as though gazing past her and into a memory. "Most get to live but one life. We can live as many as we choose, with the time we are given."

Yom withdraws his hand, placing it in his lap. He looks down, opening his mouth as if to speak but not finding any words. "As for why Ylana... she was a friend. A dear friend. And now that you are old enough to learn your personas, we want to pass her down to you."

He sits up straight, smiling sadly at Wik-Ylana. "You've come a long way. Rux was always a very good teacher."

"They keep saying I can't get the smirk right. I don't know what I'm doing wrong!"

Yom's smile widens, his dimples deep as he laughs out loud. "Don't worry, Wik. Rux and I could never get it right either. Some things are impossible to replicate."

Wik folds the now soiled handkerchief before placing it in a small basket of similar cloths. Cleansed, they return their gaze to the vanity mirror, where they are met with themselves in triplicate.

Slowly, Wik's hand reaches up to the clasp of the belt that is drawn across their chest, letting it fall unceremoniously to the floor along with the pads of leather armour that hang from it. The jacket and shirt follow, each brought up over Wik's head with outstretched arms before being tossed aside.

The words spoken in the Court of Fountains ring clear in Wik's mind.

Bare-chested, they take a deep breath and clap their hands together.

The wave spreads, twisting up their hands and arms until meeting in the middle of their torso. The ripples meet and break, creating rectangular patterns across their chest. The valleys of the waves keep the same grey tone of Wik's own flesh. The peaks are pale and smooth. The eyes become a piercing blue. The hair begins to lengthen and darken.

Wik sits, their breath hitched in their chest, waiting, praying, that the waves would quiet and a familiar figure would appear in the mirror.

But the ocean of Wik's flesh becomes choppy, a sea in the midst of a storm. And just as soon as the ripples start, the dissipate.

The only figure in the mirror is Wik.

Each attempt was more harried than the last, and each wave that passed over grey skin travelled fewer and fewer inches until, as a final desperate clap rings out in the small room, the wave travels no further than the fingertips

"No, you can't leave me, please, come back, come back to me, come back..."

The muttering is continues, interspersed with sobs as Wik rubs at their eyes, willing themselves to hush lest someone hear and come to see what is wrong.

Wik sits up, rubbing at their eyes with a clean cloth.