Hyperia has never known change. Has never known anything of another existence. She was born into the water and water is what she became. She had barely taken her first breath before her father had chained her to this river—made her dependent on it, leashed to the wild currents and frothing edges of it.
But she has never minded because she has never known different.
So she lives her life within it. Most days she spend as liquid, racing down the length of it. Sometimes, she turns partially equine once more to stand on its shores, her mane dripping down to rejoin the body of water. Rarely does the young girl hunt out company of any kind. She prefers her own. Prefers to babble at the river and let it talk back to her spurts and stutters—the soliloquies of it soothing her raging heart.
But there is something of the other that calls to her, like to like, and she watches in her liquid form. Seeing without seeing. Seeing as the river sees. A feeling, perhaps. A tug. Her consciousness responds and she twists in the water, curious and eager. She gently glides down the river, unseen as she trails the walking nymph, the edges of her bleeding into the rest of the river as she coaxes it along.
When her curiosity can no longer be sated, she forms herself again.
She rises as a young girl—impossibly delicate, liquid red eyes set against teal. The water of her mane frames her face, splashing down her shoulder as she smiles at the other nymph, a shy twist of her lip.
“Hello there,” her voice bubbles in her throat. “I don’t get visitors in the evening very often.”
@[Wrenley]