THERE IS A FONDNESS in her undead heart for the girl. Something that, dare she say, reminds her of herself, all those years before; of the woman long ago, when the Night Mother was not a myth and a legend, when she was no more than just a simple Nord living a simple life, unaware of the titles and grandness that would be bestowed onto her because of Sithis’ interest and infatuation; when she had no idea the mistakes she & her friends would make, novice mages, trying to bring back the dead. They were young, they were foolish — and out of all of them, she was the one to survive, to continue to do great things. TERRIBLE, BUT GREAT. And as the prophecy foretells, Remilia will also do great and possibly terrible things; the path she paves is her own, but there will certainly be forces that will influence whether she goes this way or that, just like forces influenced the Night Mother all those eras ago.
A soft hum escapes the Night Mother’s lips as she plaits sections of the Dragonborn’s long umber locks with frostbitten-cold fingers, threading in sections of purple deathbell here and there. Though she treats all who are loyal to her like her children, she has never bonded so quickly to another before, not since Lachance. “Tell me,” The Blood Flower finally speaks, twisting sections of hair around her fingers, threading in flower petals, “What do you know of me?” She is curious as to what legends tell. Some say things that are not true, passed from tongue to tongue, changed and twisted here and there to better suit the storyteller. The only one who knows her as well as she knows herself is perhaps Sithis; but the Dread Father is an entity so old, so great, so ancient, she wonders, do they truly remember every little detail of her life before, when they have existed for so long, and shall continue to exist, ‘till the end of all things?
