The days had grown strange.
The young Flopie—now radiant and graceful—often floated beside her mother, their chirps a harmony of joy. The man, once warm and present, now sat in silence more often, eyes cast toward the woods where shadows moved unnaturally.
And then she came.
Nitemary.
A Pal like none they had ever seen. Her body was lithe and elegant, shaped like a bipedal sheep cloaked in mystery. Long, blue flowing hair drifted like smoke behind her. Her eyes shimmered like dying stars. She wore a black and white dress stitched from shadow and longing, and from her fingertips danced a pale blue flame—cold, voiceless, and hungry.
Nitemary did not love the way others did.
What she carried was her own soul.
And when she fell for someone, she extracted theirs and merged it with her own—yearning to become one.
The man fell under her sway quickly.
At first, he wandered to the woods. Then, he brought her back with him.
The Flopies—mother and daughter—watched helplessly as he changed. The man who once held them, bathed them, told them stories by firelight—who had cried when the daughter was born and laughed when they bickered—now moved like a puppet in a trance.
And then the night came when Nitemary stepped fully into their home.
She said nothing. She never did. She didn’t have to.
The man welcomed her like a lost piece of himself. She cupped his face in her hooved hands, pulled him into a kiss—and with it, the blue flame wrapped around him, piercing into his chest like tendrils of silk.
His eyes widened, then softened. His soul—his self—was gone.
The Flopies stood frozen. The mother’s ears drooped. The daughter’s hands trembled.
And then, they cried.
The mother Flopie let out a soft, heartbroken wail—an anguished chirp full of disbelief and pain. Her glow flickered erratically as tears pooled at the corners of her golden eyes. She floated forward, placing a gentle paw on his hand… only for him to pull away without a glance.
The daughter clutched his leg, chirping in desperate sobs, her tiny face buried in his trousers, shaking her head side to side. Her body glowed brighter and dimmer in quick pulses, unable to control her emotions. Her mother floated behind her, arms wrapped around herself, staring at the man with eyes that silently begged: Please remember us.
Both of them watched as he leaned into Nitemary’s embrace.
And in that moment, jealousy bloomed.
Not out of pettiness—but of deep betrayal.
They loved him. They were his family.
And now he belonged to someone else. Something else.
Something that stole instead of nurtured.
But Nitemary was not done.
The blue flame in her hand surged—and her fingers moved.
With grace more terrifying than violence, she tore their souls from their bodies.
The Flopie mother shrieked—one final, garbled chirp—as her light unraveled from within.
The daughter reached for her mother mid-air, eyes wide with panic, but her body too collapsed inward. Their spirits—two glowing, weeping lights—hung in the air for a moment.
Then Nitemary reached out…
…and absorbed them into her own soul.
She sighed, content, her body pulsing faintly blue. Their love. Their pain. Their everything—swallowed.
She turned to the man and spoke at last.
He obeyed.
He picked up their corpses. Their fur still warm. Their pink pigtails still swaying from inertia. And as he carried them to the door...
He paused.
Just for a moment.
And in that moment, a flicker of memory surged:
The storm where he found the Flopie wounded beneath a tree, trembling in the rain
Nursing her back to health, her chirps of trust, her first floating steps.
Sharing berries, ice cream, bedtime stories.
Her dancing at Mount Flopie, surrounded by her kind, always coming back to him.
Her gaze when she gave birth, the newborn nestling against her
The daughter calling for him when she learned to hover, when she laughed, when she cried.
The warmth of the nest they built together.
And then—
It all vanished.
Erased.
Like chalk in the rain.
His face slackened, his arms dropped limp for a second.
Then he shrugged.
Without a trace of sorrow, he flung their bodies out the front door like bags of trash.
The meadow that once echoed with joy was silent.
From above, the Galeclaws descended.
Their talons tore through fluff and flesh alike. Fur rained down like snow. The blood soaked into the soil of Mount Flopie—soil once kissed by joy, now defiled.
Inside, Nitemary curled around the man, her soul now bloated with three.
She smiled.
And in her hollow chest, three lights flickered:
The man’s.
The Flopie mother.
And the daughter.
Merged.
So is the curse of the Cuckening—
Not just the theft of body and soul,
but the erasure of love,
of memory,
of meaning.
The house grew silent.
And no flowers ever grew there again.
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