Rovelin

How do you become something you’ve never been? In a time that’s long gone? In a life that was stolen from you?

They were nothing more than a plaything in the Faerie court—a jester, a pet, a spectacle for their amusement. How could they have formed a sense of self when they were just another piece of the game? What worth could they have when their value was tied to their performance?

And yet, a memory lingers. A cradle. A warm face. A love that was real, that was kind, that was theirs.

It took what felt like centuries, but they finally escaped. The world beyond the Fae is strange and unfamiliar, and time spent there has left its mark on them. Their body isn’t quite human anymore—something feral lurks beneath their skin, something other. Their movements, their senses, their very presence… not quite of this world.

Even words feel foreign, slipping through their grasp like water. They don’t even have a name. Among the Fae, they were nothing more than a sound—a laugh, a nuisance, a thing to be dismissed. Now, they whimper to show distress, because even that feels more natural than speaking.

The world outside is overwhelming. Colours too sharp, sounds too loud. So much is new—what are these utensils? These stiff garments that cling to flesh? Do people really sit on wooden horses? Eat from stone? And why do they press their faces together like that?

They gather things, drape them over themselves like armor—anything to feel whole again, to assemble themselves into something resembling a person. Bits of metal that jingle, cloth that hangs too loose or squeezes too tight. A shoe too small, a hood too big.

And then, the mirror. A cruel thing. A reminder of everything they never knew until it was too late. Because staring back at them are the features of strangers—strangers who should have been their family.

They are a changeling. A foundling. What does this mean for them?