soulstice ☼
/ˈsōlstəs,ˈsälstəs/
deredere² chorus battle
story
Born from a lineage of magical doll makers, a young girl follows a path predetermined by blood. Raised with the expectation to carry on the art of her ancestors, her childhood is filled with the prick of needles and the strings of marionettes.Yet as she grows older, the young girl finds herself alone. Adolescence entirely enveloped by the craft her family dedicated themselves to wholly—which in turn, left behind nothing but their creations—she spends nights in her studio accompanied only by her own growing silence and silicone flesh.As the clock turns, her restlessness festers in tandem. 'Who am I?' she laments, not knowing who lies beneath the skin of the doll maker. She knows not of the ways to escape the cage that she's unknowingly been trapped in, nor how to live normally even if she left.Her hands tremble, one desperately clawing at her heart and the other clutching her head. Her gaze lands upon the creations littering the space surrounding her, reminding her of the only companions she's had her entire life.Knowing nothing else, she reaches for her sewing kit, fingers blindly embracing the creation of three figures as naturally as she breathed. With her deepest hopes and wishes of discovering herself dancing upon her tongue, she imbues each doll with a piece of her—her heart, her mind, and her soul.
Outside of the studio where delicate fingers desperately wove the pieces of a lost spirit, a long strained thread of peace snaps.The dollmaker is completely powerless to the onset of a war that been lingering for far longer than she had existed. With a heart void of the passions her predecessors had once claimed, she's frozen in place as men in armor appear at her door and repurpose her creations—her entire purpose—into tools of warfare. What had once been an artform created to mimic human beauty had been reduced to another form of destruction.Clinging tightly on to those three pieces of her humanity that she had poured into plastic skin and ball joints, the dollmaker can do little but watch as the rest of her dolls are twisted into bastardizations of their original forms. Even if she had forgotten it, love for her creations still resides within her chest. Without that love, others use her dolls as lifeless machines to fulfill their own greed.
entries
string theocracy
grown-up's paradise
