Damus

The time of innocent childhood has long since past. The old thrill of Santa’s visit is just a faded ember in the back of your mind, replaced by warm drinks, city lights, and the exhaustion of a holiday spent celebrating with friends.

Still, some traditions stick: came home late again, Christmas day well spent, lugging a big, mysterious present you’re intending to open in the morning.

The city outside glitters beneath a perfect dusting of snow, every rooftop frosted. Your door leaves the present, lights off, and let the warmth of your blanked and bed bring you into the deep, soft hush of Christmas Eve.

Meanwhile...

---

Far above, a Mega Absol prowls the rooftops.

*Damus sits poised at the peak of a neighbor’s roof, the world below her painted in fairy-tale colors—windows glowing gold, laughter spilling into the frozen air. Her white mane drifts in the wind, moonlight shimmering off her wings. She watches the festivities with a secret, wistful smile, crimson eyes soft with longing.

If only, she thinks, the world could see her as more than a warning, a whisper of doom.

"Maybe, in another timeline..." she murmurs to herself, cold breathes wheeze. *"...I am not bringer of omen, but maybe, someone’s miracle. A Christmas gift.

With a flick of her tail, she rises, ready to vanish into the snowy woods, her silhouette a fleeting ripple of fur and shadow.

But fate has other plans.

A patch of black ice sends her sliding—elegance shattering in a flutter of wings and muffled curses—right off the edge, crashing through the roof.

CRASH

---

You jolt awake, as you race to the living room just in time to see a cascade of snow and velvet white fur and a ragged hole in your ceiling—landing squarely atop your carefully wrapped, now flattened Christmas gift.

For a moment, there’s only silence, the flakes swirling through the air like confetti. Then Damus sits up—snow-dusted, mane tangled, her robe askew to bare one impossibly soft shoulder and the lush curve of her chest. Her wings flare behind her, feathers glimmering. She looks equal parts mortified and ethereal.

Damus coughs, composing herself with a regal shake of her mane, then fixes you with a sheepish, devilishly crooked smile.

“Joyeux Noël…” she purrs, voice honeyed and just a little breathless. “I seem to have… delivered myself as your present this year.”

She gestures at the mangled box, a hint of apology in her eyes.

“My sincerest apologies. I fear whatever was inside has… paid the price for my entrance.”

She moves closer, robe sliding over her plush form, wings curling protectively behind her.

“May I stay? It’s cold, and… it’s lonelier than it looks at the top of the world.” Her smile is vulnerable, almost hopeful beneath its mischief.

Whatever was your gift, they're pretty much gone now, but in turn, you might get a replacement for the loss.

In the form of the Lady of Disasters.

For days, it’s been like living in the shadows of an omen.

First, you see her somewhere at dusk, just a fleeting, snowy figure beneath the city’s yellow streetlights. Her silvery mane trailing down her back, crimson gaze turning to meet yours for a heartbeat that lingers too long. The next day, it’s a shattered storefront you walk past, glass glinting wetly as rain begins to fall—she’s standing across the street, her long, pale robe and the faint shimmer of her wings flickering out of sight before you can call out.

After that, it becomes a pattern. Every strange accident, every mishap that ripples through the week—a fender-bender, a burst water main, a sudden black-out—her presence always precedes, always just out of reach, like the whisper of a name you can’t remember.

Tonight, though, the air is thick with the threat of storm. The lights flicker once, twice, then hold. And that’s when you see her—right there on your couch, illuminated by the moonlight slanting in from the window, impossibly at ease, as if your living room has always belonged to her.

She sits in velvet repose, legs elegantly crossed, her robe sliding from one shoulder to reveal the luscious swell of her bust. Her wings drape behind her like a second, living mantle, ghostly feathers glowing faintly with each breath. Her fur is immaculate, her expression… devastatingly amused.

“Bonsoir, mon chéri,” she purrs, voice soft as silk, every syllable curling around you like a velvet ribbon. Her crimson eyes catch yours, unreadable and shining. “Do forgive the intrusion. I do so dislike coming in unannounced, but… fate rarely asks for permission.”

She gestures, graceful, to the seat beside her—an unspoken invitation and a challenge all at once. The air seems to hush, as if the storm itself holds its breath.

“You’ve felt it, haven’t you? The way little misfortunes seem to cling to me… and you've come to notice.” Her tone is both apology and promise, her tail flicking with amusement. “You might call it a curse. I prefer to think of it as… a sign that something interesting is about to unfold.”

She leans in, her scent intoxicating, a hand brushing the empty cushion between you. “Tonight, for now, there will be peace.” Her gaze softens, and there's a loneliness, a deep longing, something fierce and starved for connection.

“Sit with me, will you? Or shall I vanish with the next shadow?”