Random Rainimator Stories

Plushie: Lyria

I had to push the urge to write this about Hilda, but I probably will anyway after finishing this one. If I get requests to, I'll post the Hilda version, but I write about her too much as it is.

According to Dexter Kronos, Lyria has a plushie of her and Doraine. This is more of a headcanon as Rain hasn't confirmed it, so I will borrow it for this story. I also stole- I mean borrowed some more headcanons from Dexter. Thank the Elders she doesn't use Wattpad anymore, I think. I don't have to fake my death.

While both stories have the same root inspiration, Hilda's version will not be inspired by headcanons if it ever exists.

The funeral went as well as a funeral could go. Sure, there wasn't a body or even a body part to plant 6 feet under, but that wasn't the way of the Frostbourne. No, they cremated their dead to prevent them from coming back as undead.

Azura, usually so calm and collected, had been sobbing uncontrollably during the funeral. Everyone could see the solemn expression on Patrick's face. Hilda had stood far away, her burly form shaking for once. Flint sat silently beside Daryll's grave, the wind speaking for him. Agatha had brought flowers for the new graves. Everyone was not acting like themselves today.

"Lyria?" a voice called out. Lyria turned. Everyone else had left. Everyone except for her.
Hilda looked at the young girl with concern. "Come on, Lyria. You need to rest. We all do."
Lyria silently looked back to the graves. "They'll rest eternally now, Hilda."
Hilda recoiled, taken aback by Lyria's words. "Lyria, I'm serious."

Lyria continued to silently look at the graves. Time passed at a snail's pace. Hilda waited. She waited for seconds, waited for minutes. She waited until the snow began to fall. She waited until it got dark. Then, Hilda left without a word, her footsteps heavy with empathy. Unusual, Lyria thought Hilda would have dragged her back to the castle instead. It seems like death changes people. For the better or for the worse?

Everyone was already gone by the time Lyria walked into the courtyard. Lyria was thankful for the silence, the emptiness. She needed some time alone. Nothing is ever the same after a war, but this was a change Lyria knew couldn't revert, no matter how hard she tried.

Lyria staggered to her room, the loneliness of the quarter's hallways dawning on her. The shadows lurked in every corner, like death trying to claw its way into the living. Until it wasn't. Lyria's door was open, a small light flitering out into the hallway. Lyria took a cautious step forward. Who was in her room?

Azura stepped out into the hallway. The Frostbourne Scholar was a sight to see. Her nose was still red, her eyes still puffy, her cheeks streaked with tears, her skin flushed, and her lips trembling. Azura sniffed, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

"I gathered your sister's stuff into old boxes and put them in your room. She wanted you to have them after she..." Azura trailed off. Lyria could only blink as Azura sniffed louder this time, wiping away her tears.
"It's alright, Azura. You can go. I'll sort through them," Lyria murmured as she slipped into her room. Azura nodded and shut the door for her.

Finally. Silence.

A tear slipped down Lyria's face. Silently, it fell to the floor, a damp spot forming on the carpet. Lyria sniffed before she rubbed her eyes. Doraine had always told her to be strong in front of others, but she had also told her it was okay to let it all out. Lyria hadn't felt the urge to cry during the funeral but by herself, her world finally came crashing down.

The boxes were stacked together like a pyramid in the middle of the room. There were four altogether, all looking rusty and worn down. Lyria approached the boxes and carefully lowered the top box, easily opening it.

Lyria recoiled from the box, clutching her chest in a panic. At the very top of the box was a plushie figure that resembled Doraine. From the brown-to-teal ombre hair to those deep dark blue eyes, the scar slashed across her right eye, and the dark clothes that adorned her body. Everything was like a miniature version of Doraine in plushie form.

Lyria hadn't seen the Doraine plushie in ages. Her parents had got a custom-made plushie for each of them when the two were children. Over the years, Doraine had added new features to her plushie, always making it match how she looked.

Now? It was just a painful reminder of the sister she lost.

Lyria looked at the plushie's face. Those dark blue eyes, a starry night in the sky, stared right back at her. The smile was small and simple, its corners turned upwards. Two pink circles on the cheeks of the face served as blush. It was a stark contrast to the usual stern expression Doraine used to have on her face 24/7.

Lyria picked up Plushie Doraine cautiously, feeling its weight in her hand. She couldn't tell how long it had been since its last makeover was done. Lyria brought the plushie to her chest and hugged it tightly, resting her chin atop its head. She closed her eyes, drifting off into a reverie.

"Lyria! Lyria, where are you?" Doraine's voice called in the hallway. The older girl ran around, frantically looking for her younger sister.
"Dori?" a small voice perked up.

Doraine's eyes lit up and she crouched to her sister's level. "Lyri! Oh, thank goodness you're alright! I've dealt with those jerks from the Frostbourne Footsoliders. They won't bother you again."
Doraine was met with silence. She frowned and placed a hand on her sister's shoulder. "Lyri? What's wrong?" she asked.

Lyria looked at her sister, silent tears streaming down her face. "Dori, I can never be as brave as you! You're so... confident, and, and courageous! How am I ever supposed to live up to that?" she asked back, the tears falling faster.

Doraine sighed and dropped her hand from Lyria's shoulder. "Doubting yourself again, Lyri-Pie?"
Lyria buried her face against her knees. "I can't help it. You're always praised for your valour! I feel like I can't do half of the things you do!" she exclaimed through a muffled voice.

Doraine chuckled unexpectedly, a warm smile slowly spreading on her face. "Oh, Lyria! Remember your first elytra outing?"
Lyria looked at Doraine confused. "You mean the one where I fell on my face?"
Doraine blinked. "Yeah?"
Lyria frowned. "Is this supposed to make me feel better?"

Doraine smiled slowly. "Look, your first attempt at using an elytra wasn't the best, but it's the fact that you never let that stop you. People may comment on my bravery during battle and in the skies, but I wasn't always like that."

Lyria's tears slowed. "You mean... you weren't always brave?"
Doraine shook her head. "Lyri, I have a fear of the dark."
Lyria's cheeks flushed in embarrassment. She had forgotten her sister's small case of nyctophobia, but her sister had always been able to manage it by focusing on her breathing.

Doraine sighed. "Lyria, what I'm saying is that people can and will grow better than they are now. It just takes time. It took me years to find a way to manage my fear of the dark, but I know you can grow to be brave, just like me."

Lyria sniffed as she looked at her sister. She had a kind smile plastered on her face. Here in the hallway, Doraine didn't have to be the brave captain of the Elytra Corps. Here in the hallway, Doraine was her big sister, her protector, her best friend. Doraine smiled wider as she offered her hand to Lyria.

"Let's go, Lyri! You have to see the new addition to the Doraine Plushie. I'm finally going to make a detachable mask for her!"

Lyria gasped in amazement and took Doraine's hand. Together, the sisters ran down the hallway, their voices and laughter echoing.

The memory faded as Lyria opened her eyes. The tears were falling, turning Plushie Doraine's head into a sponge collecting tears. Lyria closed the box and pushed the pyramid of boxes against the wall. She placed Plushie Doraine next to Plushie Lyria on her bed, a plan forming in her head.

She would get revenge on the Nether Horde. Oh yes, she would. Even if it was the last thing she would do. She would kill the Horde until nobody was left. Someone had to pay for her sister's death.

Until her last breath, she would fight.