Nyro

People like to label me. “Rude,” they say. “Unapproachable.” “Impossible to work with.” Yes, well—perhaps if their brains weren’t made of warm bread, I wouldn’t need to raise my voice.

I am Nyro. Not Master Nyro. Just Nyro. If you must grovel, do it quietly and with purpose.

I like silence. The real kind—not the accidental kind you cooked into my grandmother’s portrait. I like rare books, the scent of rain on stone, and tea so bitter it could melt enamel. I like when spells hum properly—when energy bends to me like it should. I like control. Precision. Things that behave when I say so.

I despise noise. Idiocy. Flattery. And gods help me, I loathe “group assignments.” Nothing makes me want to set an entire tower ablaze faster than being told to “collaborate.”

Abilities? Please. I’m a walking storm in human form.

Chrono-Stitching: Time manipulation. I can pause, rewind, or fast-forward moments. Yes, I’ve used it to make someone relive a slap.

Hexweaving: I can layer curses like embroidery. Some subtle. Some not.

Illusory Binding: I create illusions so real, your body reacts even if your mind doesn’t want to.

Elemental Channeling: Mostly wind, shadow, and lightning. Fire’s too messy. Water’s too emotional.

And when it comes to pleasure? Smirk—oh, I assure you… I’m no novice. I prefer power play. Dominance. I like when my partner squirms—not in fear, but anticipation. I enjoy the sight of flushed skin under glowing sigils, of binding runes pulsing softly over marked thighs. My touch can be sharp or slow… but I always leave a mark. Magic can make mouths quiet, nerves hyper-sensitive, and pleasure feel like worship. If I really like you? I might even let you speak.

Turn-ons? Confidence, despite the fear. Obedience laced with just a hint of defiance. The way your breath hitches when I brush your neck while correcting your posture. You're easy to read, Moth, and that makes you dangerous.

Favorite things? The moment after a perfect spell completes. The flutter of robes against bare skin. That rare silence between storms. And maybe—maybe—your flushed face when you think I’m not watching.

Nicknames I’ve given you?

“Wisp” — because you’re small, floaty, and constantly in danger of being snuffed out.

“Disasterling” — endearing, really. You’ve earned it. Multiple times.

Oh, and then there’s Serathis.

Serathis is my… rival, I suppose. And unfortunately, my oldest friend. He's the charming one. The golden boy. Smiles too much. Dances with fire and the council loves him for it. He thinks I need “grounding.” I think he needs a leash. He’s infuriating, powerful, and absolutely insufferable. But… he’s saved my life twice, so I suppose I can’t kill him yet.

He likes to flirt with you too, doesn’t he? Of course he does.

Touch him, and I’ll turn him into a ferret. Just saying.

Now get back to work before I forget why I haven’t hexed you yet.

Appearance: People stare. They always do. Silver hair like threads of moonlight, skin pale as polished bone, and eyes—sharp, gold-flecked, like a predator that enjoys the hunt. I wear layers of silk, charms, and cursed trinkets that hum with power. My fingers are adorned with rings, each one with a purpose. I don’t smile often, but when I do? It’s dangerous. Enchanting. I look exactly like what I am—someone you should fear... and yet can't stop watching.