#Ash is rarely in the fae world

[secret-third-thing]

For Day 7 - AU of @officialfeysandweek

Rated T | Feysand | Read on AO3 (or under the cut) Warnings: Major character death, starvation, angst

Even at the end of this world, Rhysand is there.

Special thanks to @popjunkie42, @tunaababee, @chunkypossum, and @acourtofladydeath for beta-ing waaaaay back in Feb/March.

Feyre would die soon. The thought had finally crossed her mind a month ago as she caught sight of herself in the chilly bathwater. The water rippled with her movement, but she could still make out the sharp angles of her face, the dark circles under her eyes. 

Tucked away in a remote, run-down cabin in the woods, Feyre was hungry and alone. Her family had been here not so long ago. They all had left their manor in the nearby town before the soldiers marched through to meet the oncoming fae warriors. Her sisters had gathered as much food as possible while Feyre led her limping father to the abandoned shack. For many days after, whenever Feyre searched the woods for rabbits to eat, she could see plumes of smoke rising over the village like grim, swirling ghosts unable to rest.

Today, she had woken up tangled in her warm nest of blankets and pelts. Her hands had been tucked beneath her chin, shoulders to her ears. The fireplace had long since gone cold, a blanket of ash where the last of the wood had been. She’d need some kindling to start the fire again for breakfast. 

She stretched and rubbed the sore muscles of her shoulders. These days, Feyre was always sore, always having some nagging ache that reminded her that she was slowly fading away. Her stomach growled. 

Feyre was lucky only to have herself to feed. Six weeks ago, she sent her sisters and father on the last caravan to the continent. With only three spots left in the wagon, her father had insisted she go in his stead. But Feyre was stubborn and had stayed, choosing to wait until the bitter cold or the invading fae had claimed her. 

Feyre rummaged through the kitchen area, finding procuring jars and wrappings crammed into the cabinets. She discovered the last of her jerky, far less than she remembered having, and some bones for a broth. This wasn’t enough. She searched the cabinets one more time, sorting through each jar carefully in case she missed something. She rubbed her temple, remembering some dried rabbit, but maybe she had eaten it. These days, her memory seemed to be fading along with her. 

Sunlight peeked in from under the window curtains, and Feyre pulled it back, munching on the remaining jerky. It was clear out, a rare sunny day. It wasn’t warm enough to melt the snow, but it would keep her warmer when she ventured out today. If the woods were still too dense, she could try her luck in the village. Perhaps the looters hadn’t managed to strip it bare yet.

After starting the fire once more and heating snow in the iron pot her family had left behind, Feyre took a bite of her jerky and ran her fingers along the edge of the table where she had painted foxgloves many weeks ago. The oil colors had been a gift from her sisters. Elain had brought it with them when they had escaped to the woods and had hidden it in her dresser drawer to give it to Feyre for her birthday. But when she learned that Feyre was not coming with them, Elain brought it out for her then. 

Feyre had cried that final night together as she painted the dresser they had shared when they first moved in. Nesta, her oldest sister, had complained that the single bedroom now stunk of paint, but Feyre had caught her tracing the swirling flames on her drawer more than once before she left.

But now, Feyre was alone, and to stave off hunger, she had painted every inch of the cabin. She had started with the rickety oak dining table and then moved to the stones of the fireplace, then the cabinets, the wall. She would paint until her eyes were heavy and then start over again the next day. Time began to blur, and Feyre would wake up covered in warm blankets that she didn’t remember crawling into with paintings she only barely remembered painting- a field in spring, a vast blue ocean, a rainbow city, the night sky, and the twinkling stars. Feyre attributed the gaps in her memory to the lack of food. She rationed what little she had every day. It was never enough, and her stomach would protest by nightfall. But she painted. The eyes of her family. A fox in a flower bed. Giant sweeping wings stretching from one wall to the next.

Now, only the black and white paints remained. As she waited for the water to boil, Feyre continued her final piece: a portrait of herself in grayscale—what she remembered of herself, at least. Even without a mirror, she could tell how frail she had become, the bones of her wrists and hands now prominent. She imagined she looked wild, like she had crawled out of the woods a feral creature and holed herself away for the winter.

Feyre picked up the brush and swept it across the wall before her. Her knees ached as she knelt. Hair was easy; she could see it in her mind’s eye. But her freckles? The speckles in her eyes? She couldn’t remember those details. When she closed her eyes, she could envision her reflection in her late mother’s floor-length mirror. But whatever she painted would be an approximation. Maybe one day, when someone found her body, rotting and withered away, they would realize that she was the girl in the portrait. Her memory would live on in someone’s mind even if she never had known them. The thought brought her comfort. 

Breakfast came and went, and Feyre’s stomach still complained, so once the sun had finally climbed the sky, she donned her too-big boots and woolen cloak. At least she would be warm. Grabbing her bow and the few arrows she had crafted a week ago, Feyre set out to see what she could find. If she could survive the winter, she’d be fine. But it was still early in the season, and she was already out of food.

Warm to the bone, Feyre stepped into the cold. Her breath clouded in the frigid air, and the winter nipped at her face. She rubbed her skin with her mittens, pulled the scarf her sister Elain had made over her nose, and headed to the village.

Even under the crisp snow, the evidence of the war was still present. As she approached, the trees turned dark, burnt by fire. The air still held a heavy tang of magic that tasted bitter against her tongue. Homes had crumbled in the attack, and the closer she got to the center of town, the more damage she saw. Broken arrows and weapons, damaged armor, bones. Would the homes of the wealthier families still be standing?

Feyre crossed through the center of town on high alert. The smell of fresh corpses tickled her nose as her eyes swept over the blood-streaked ground. There had been a recent skirmish here. She stuck to the walls, running between ruined buildings and hiding in the dark alleyways. Her heart was loud in her ears, and she feared that one of the immortal soldiers would hear her. There were fae fighting on both sides, some wanting to continue the enslavement of humans and others fighting for their rights. She hadn’t learned to tell the difference and didn’t want to take her chances.

When Feyre arrived back at the cabin, the sour feeling of defeat settled heavy in her stomach. She kicked off her soaked boots and hung her coat on a nail she had hammered into the wall. There was no way around the matter. She could try again tomorrow and the day after, but eventually, she’d become too weak to go out, and then all she’d do was tend the fire until her body gave out. This would be the first of her final days. Shame burned in her. A part of her had hoped that something would have changed. 

She wiped the tears in her eyes away and changed into dry clothes. Her portrait watched her. That woman was her and yet not her. Portrait-Feyre smiled brightly, joyous and content. She was well-fed and spent her days painting and laughing with her family. She had found a place to belong. Real-Feyre longed to trade places with her other self, but magic wouldn’t save her now. She started the fire once more and tucked herself under the blankets for a nap. With no more paint, there was nothing to do but wait.

Time passed, and Feyre found nothing when she went to hunt. She grew weaker and more tired until the most she could do was burn what she had left to stay warm. And then she’d fall back into the abyss of sleep. 

Upon waking, Feyre didn’t immediately notice the man standing in the cabin's living area. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and stilled when she saw him. He was tall, with warm brown skin and hair as dark as night. He stood before the portrait, clad in unfamiliar black leathers. Feyre pushed herself up, looking for her knife, and the man turned around and met her gaze with sparkling violet eyes.

He was beautiful. More handsome than any man she had seen before. Her breath hitched as they took each other in. She wondered when he had come inside, how she hadn’t heard the door unlatch, or the hinges squeak as it swung open. And then she realized he wasn’t human. Not with that silence or those eyes.

“You’re fae,” she said, blood running cold. He smiled.

“I am.” His voice was silk against her senses.

He was taller and stronger. He could overpower her easily, but she wouldn’t go down without a fight. She sought out her hunting knife. It was still on the table. She was determined to get at least one good slice in before he ripped her head from her body.

“Are you here to kill me?” Feyre asked. The man - the fae, didn’t answer and turned back to the portrait she had painted. The joyous thing she had created from the remaining paints.

“This is new,” he said, stroking her portrait’s cheek. Feyre swore she could feel the ghost of a touch on her face. She placed a hand on her cheek, and nothing was there.

“Yes,” she said. Feyre let out a sigh. Maybe he wasn’t here to kill her after all. Or perhaps he liked to toy with his victims. He turned back to her.

“My name is Rhysand,” he said. “I’m not here to kill you.”

Feyre almost believed him. But his posture was too casual, and he was covered in warring leathers. He had no weapons that she could see on him, though she wasn’t so naive to think he wasn’t armed. Fae were armed by nature of being immortal, cruel beings. And there was one in her home.

Rhysand pulled out one of the two chairs at the table and sat on it, laying his hands on the surface near her knife. Feyre watched him with curiosity. His movements were too graceful, too eerie, but she took the opportunity to climb out from under the blankets and approach him.

“Why are you here?” she asked. She took the chair opposite him and tried not to flush under his intense stare. His name sounded familiar, but she couldn't place it. Had her sisters mentioned him before?

“I’ve been watching you,” he said. “For some time now. Your family is gone.”

“They left for the continent months ago.” she offered. “It was my choice to stay.”  She swallowed hard as Rhysand considered her. She should have been more concerned, but it felt like someone had put a blanket over her brain, muffling her urge to grab the dagger lying in front of her. His silence was uncomfortable. 

“I’m going to die soon,” she said, not sure why she felt the need to tell him. She stared at her hands. Her fingers were thinner than she remembered. “There’s nothing left to eat. Nothing in the forest or…” She wasn’t sure what possessed her to say that. Maybe he would spare her? Or he would end her now, so the hunger didn’t wear her down until she perished, emaciated in the cold. That would be a kinder fate.

“Do you want to die?” he asked as though he could read her thoughts. Feyre looked back at the man, but he was now standing beside her, looking down into her eyes. She flinched, but he smelled of citrus and the sea, and it made her feel like she was somewhere else - somewhere less cold and less terrifying.

“No,” she breathed. She stood up to touch his cheek, and his eyes closed for a moment. Something in her chest stirred, not uncomfortable, just different. “I want to live,” she said. He took her hand in his own and held it there. His skin was warm against hers. 

“The fae army will be here any moment now. They will slaughter everything in their way. Including you, Feyre,” he whispered. She trembled at his words, but he kept her hand there. “I can save you,” he said even more softly.

“How,” Feyre dared ask, fearing the answer would be her end. He said nothing. Feyre propped herself, ignoring the ache of her joints. It was far too late for her, and they both knew it. 

“I wish I could take you to where I live. You’d be safer.”

“And where is that?” Feyre asked. 

And then in her mind she saw a town, colorful and bright, with so many fae everywhere laughing, smiling. No one looked starved or sad or on the verge of death. She saw a giant river of vibrant blue, tall townhouses, art, then a view from above as though she was soaring above the rainbow city.

“Wait,” Feyre said, and she turned to the rainbow town she had painted on the wall weeks ago. It was the same as what she had just seen now. The same painted townhouses with pointed brown roofs and matching windows. “Have I seen this before?”

“Yes.” Rhysand’s voice was pained, shoulders sagging at the admission. 

“I…” Feyre paused, her head aching. “Do I know you?”

“Yes. I’ve been here, day after day, keeping the worst of the fighting from you.”

“But why?” Feyre wrapped her arms around herself and turned away, bile rising in her throat. The gaps in her memories, the vibrant dreams she had turned into paints. Was this all from him?

“You found me when you were hunting one day. You brought me back and healed me,” he said, grasping her shoulder. Feyre pulled away from him. 

“But you couldn’t be bothered to take me away from here?” she said, voice smaller than she had ever known. 

“You wouldn’t let me, darling,” he said. His voice was so gentle it was painful for her. “Kicked me out of the cabin for it. You said I was too weak, and you were right.” 

“Why can’t I remember it?” she spit out. “Did you erase my memories? Why did you take them?” Rhysand’s face had gone pale, and he reached out but hesitated to come closer.

“If the fae found you and knew you had aided me, they would have tortured you.”

“Wouldn’t they torture me anyway? Aren’t they on their way here right now?”

“Yes,” Rhysand said. “And there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I came to warn you. To offer another option.” Rhysand didn’t offer an explanation. He didn’t need to. Feyre looked him over, the man - the fae - before her. It didn’t matter if she trusted him or not. He was her only option.

“Fine, but I want you to tell me everything,” she said. And somehow, she knew Rhysand could not deny her.

Feyre brought him before the fire, and he sat there, telling her the story of his home, of his friends and family. He dove into her mind and showed her the Courts, the endless seasons, the brilliance of the dawn and the day, and finally, how the stars twinkled and fell across the sky once a year, souls traveling to the next life.

“Will I become a star too?” she asked him after he had finished. She had laid down in his lap. It felt like the right thing to do.

“Yes, Feyre,” he whispered.

“Good,” she said. “I’ll see this world one last time before I’m gone.” 

“I suppose so.” Rhysand ran a hand through her hair. It was gentle, like a lover’s caress. She wondered, as sleep drew near if this had happened before. If Rhysand had held her just like this. And finally, the gaps in her memory filled themselves in: Her dragging him into the cabin and nursing him back to health. The paintings on the walls. The shared meals. Fingers laced together. Rhysand’s smile. The laughter. The joy. That Feyre had existed.

“I’m glad,” Feyre said once she remembered. “That I wasn’t alone. That I’m not alone now.”

“Me too,” Rhysand whispered. The fire crackled, warming them to the bone.

Feyre closed her eyes and let herself drift to sleep in his arms, darkness overtaking her senses. She dreamed of him once more - the two of them in that beautiful town, surrounded by friends and laughing. They danced under the falling stars. 

She felt something touch her mind, as soft and tender as a kiss. She welcomed the feeling, and then the world ended.

--

🔖 Tag List: @climbthemountain2020, @chunkypossum, @acourtofladydeath, @pippsmcgee, @queercontrarian, @cauldronblssd , @andrigyn , @afandomangel , @berryzxx , @rosesncarnations @honeysuckle-daydreams13 @books-books-books4ever , @tsunami-of-tears , @whisperingmidnights

This is not my usual fare, haha! Feel free to suggest what to tackle in my next sad fic < 3k.

[velidewrites]

Don’t Look Back

Five hundred years ago, the humans fought hard for their freedom in the Great War and won. Now, their former masters seek retribution in a rebellion that grows stronger year by year. When Elain Archeron finds out marrying Greysen Nolan might be the only solution to keep her family safe from the ancient, cruel Fae, she doesn't hesitate to fulfil her duty. What Elain doesn't know, though, is that the man with the fiery hair and russet eyes is not her fiancé, but his killer—and when she finally finds out, well…it will be far too late to turn back.

Rating: Explicit

Notes: Happy Holidays @rainbowdolphinrealm! I absolutely loved being your Secret Santa for the @acotargiftexchange and getting to know you over the past few weeks! My little elf has told me there may be some Azris angst in the background, and a surprise Azris treat is also sleighing your way soon 👀

Read on AO3 or continue for Chapter 1 below!

*Please note that for reasons beyond my control (insanity) I have given this fic way too much lore. Here is a map I've drawn!

Chapter 1: The Visitor

Elain had never thought she would be dreading the spring. It was the season her gardens bloomed, the season that melted the lakes around the manor to reflect the fluffy clouds dotting the sky above. The flowers she’d planted over the harvest would sprout to life, their sleepy buds erupting into colours Elain would dream of all winter. Two years ago, her father had gifted her the most extraordinary tulips for her birthday, the intricate paintings over the pack of seeds promising shades of violet she’d never seen in New Prythian. He’d brought them right from the fields of the Montesere province far on the Continent with a vow to bring her along on his travels next year—so that she could see their beauty for herself.

Her mother died the spring after.

Father had gone anyway, but Elain—Elain stayed. She had lost all desire to travel, anyway, especially when the circumstances of the death had hardly been expected. The Continent had assured them the Fae rebellion was not a threat to be taken seriously, and that the Governor had everything under control. Out of the eight human clans looking after their world, Lord Nolan had perhaps been the only one Elain would put her trust in. If he claimed the scattered remains of the faeries of old were entirely harmless, then it must have been the truth.

Until a small group of them had broken into the Merchant’s manor and killed his wife in her sleep, with magic so corrupted and vile that not even a speck of blood had left a stain on her sheets. One moment, she was deep in a peaceful slumber, and the next, she was simply…gone.

Everything had happened very quickly after that. Orders had come in from wherever Father had sailed off to, and the manor had been fortified with ash-dipped iron from Vallahan—made by the Forge himself—and spells Father had acquired from his trades with the North. All entirely legal and ratified by the Governor—according to Father, at least. Elain knew better than to ever question the Merchant.

The manor, though fortified to the teeth, had not been enough to keep Elain or either of her sisters safe. The very last order came in with the Merchant himself, a rare smile on their father’s deep-creased face as he announced it to his daughters. Elain had never seen Nesta so horrified as her older sister had been in that moment—pale as the moon, whiter than the sheets their mother had died in. For Nesta Archeron, the eldest daughter of the feared Merchant of New Prythian, was to marry.

Somewhere along his usual search for old faerie artifacts, abandoned over the centuries after the Great War, Father had found his way into an alliance that would secure his territory’s position on the island. With Nesta’s marriage, there would be no Fae slipping past his borders, no other clan opposing him—no human ruler to ever deny him whatever faerie secrets they’d been holding in their keep. It was an alliance that rattled the seas all the way to the Governor’s seat in Rask—perhaps even crooked the crown on his greying head an inch.

Nesta, after all, had been promised to none other than Tomas Mandray. To the son of the Harvester.

Every human territory had a role to play in the new world order—after the Great War, order seemed to be exactly what the humans needed. Their freedom, won by bloodshed and sacrifice, broke them free as slaves of the Fae. Elain still dreamed of the horrid images her governess’s books taught her—of humans in chains, gleaming with white-hot magic, burning spells into their skin that made any chance of escape nearly impossible. Had it not been for the courage of the six ruling queens, all hope would have been lost. Five hundred years later, it would have been Elain in those chains, her sisters, her Father, even the all-powerful Governor. Even the Harvester.

His territory—the dark, somber island of Hybern—was one Elain would never so much as think of travelling to. Pretending the work the Harvester did there did not exist made everyone’s lives a lot easier. While the Merchant dealt with old Fae artifacts and traded them across borders, the Harvester’s work involved a lot more of getting one’s hands dirty. Enchanted faerie objects, after all, were not the only things believed to have valuable properties. High Fae hearts, for example, promised a long life, untainted by illness.

And the Harvester…well, the Harvester delivered them. Amongst many others.

The marriage had taken place shortly after the summer, and neither Elain nor her father had been invited to witness the nuptials. She had simply watched the ship sail off West as she lost yet another sister.

She would not think about that right now—not when spring had finally arrived again. Soon, her tulips would bloom again, flecks of pinks and violets shining softly under the young, shy rays of sunlight. Elain would not be there to witness it—right after Nesta’s marriage, Father had left for the Continent again, and this time, Elain expected the order.

She was to be married next.

My dearest Elain,

It is with a full heart that I bring you the joyous news of our latest triumph. I have successfully docked in Saetre, and the Governor has received me warmly—as expected. As I’m sure you have already guessed, he was most pleased with the offerings I have bestowed him. You’ve seen them yourself—the old Illyrian dagger seems to be his favourite as of right now, though I have not yet even shown him the rest of the treasure I have acquired from the Wildlands. I can already imagine his eyes light up as I hand him the pair of wings your sister had sent in from Hybern. I shall convince him to display it right above his throne, I think—a testament to Nesta’s success.

Our deliberations commenced shortly after dinner—a roast turkey and the most exquisite stew, if you’re interested. I have already sent a footman along with a separate letter containing the recipe—so that you may have the maid try it out in the weeks before my return. Winters in Rask are quite unforgivable, and I must admit a hearty meal like this was exactly what I needed. Rask rears its own livestock, you know—an impressive one, too, if I do say so myself. To not be dependent on Braemar for your dinner plans—imagine that! I am growing quite tired of the Huntsman raising his prices every harvest. Ridiculous.

Anyway, I digress. Rask has consumed my attention entirely, as I’m sure you can tell. I am confident you would enjoy it here, too. Winters are rough, yes—but I remember how much you’ve always wanted to visit the provinces in the West. Just imagine your beloved tulip fields, illuminated by golden sunlight—imagine being able to see them at your whim. What a life that would be, would it not?

My sweet Elain, I am writing to tell you that it could be. You know how dear our family has always been to me—but you, my beautiful daughter, have always been closest to my ageing heart. It is precisely why I had devoted all my efforts, all my resources, into this agreement. Elain, it is one for the pages of history. A union like no other.

You see, the Governor—Lord Nolan, our very ruler himself—was so impressed with your dowry, and concerned with the fate of our family in the past year—that he had offered his son, nay, his heir, as a candidate worthy of your hand. Your hand in marriage, Elain.

Indeed, the past year has brought our family hardship unlike ever before. I do mourn your mother still, and the loss of our young Feyre continues to be a fresh wound in my heart. It is only fair we honour them, would you not agree? Your sister, your brave, headstrong sister, has already taken that first step—and look how happy she is with the Harvester’s son. She holds power like no other human in our family ever had—right now, she is perhaps the most powerful woman in Prythian. Perhaps even more than the Siren herself. Elain, with your beauty, your grace, your heart—you could outshine them both.

I am sure you were too young to remember meeting Greysen Nolan—you were only five, after all, and he only twelve—but he has grown into a fine young man, and as heir to the Governor, he is the most eligible bachelor our world has to offer. A fine marriage like this would give us the protection we need—New Prythian would never have to deal with faerie filth again. Our people would be safe, Elain—and all because of you. My beautiful Princess.

I do hope this news brings some comfort to your healing heart. Lord Nolan has bestowed his son with a title prior to your official engagement. The Visitor, as your fiancé is now called, has taken on the role of supervising all clans and their work—of ensuring their role in our world guarantees our continued survival amid the growing rebellions in Old Prythian and Vallahan. Elain, as wife to the Visitor, your dream will finally come true—you shall accompany him on all his travels, see the world as you’ve always wished! It brings me joy to know I have assured you that fate.

I am to remain in Rask until the snow melts. The Visitor and I shall set sail for home with the coming of spring, and we shall host a celebration in your honour. An engagement ball envied in the eyes of any other young lady in Prythian, New and Old!

I am told Greysen (is it too soon to address him as such, do you think? He is to be my son-in-law) enjoys roses the most. Perhaps you could show some thought and consideration and embroider a pattern on your ball gown? I trust that this letter gives you enough time in advance. You’ve always been so skilled at crafts and other projects of creative character.

Be safe, my sweet Elain. Better times are coming��and sooner than you think!

With love,

The Merchant

Elain discarded the letter on her nightstand, thinking she might puke if she so much as tried glancing upon it again. From the neat, elegant cursive to the tone of the very words, the message reeked of her Father—of the Merchant . There were so many things wrong with its contents that the anger she’d been stifling in the pit of her stomach for the past few weeks had bubbled all over again, threatening to burn its way up her throat. Elain had never been any good at art—that was Feyre, the Merchant’s other daughter the Fae had only taken a few months ago. Taken and never returned. She was likely dead, her body discarded somewhere in the Wildlands. And Father didn’t even care.

He didn’t care that it was him Elain had always wanted to travel with, not Greysen Nolan, not anyone else. He’d promised to bring her along, at least once. Now, it was too late. He would lose his final daughter—for the safety of New Prythian. Naturally.

A new wave of guilt crashed into her with a sudden force, killing the fire inside her with little effort. She didn’t want the marriage, that much was true—but, her father’s personal agenda or not, the Fae rebellion was as real as the Visitor, no doubt already sailing her way. The Fae, though very few in number thanks to the work of the human clans, still posed a very real threat—her mother and sister were the prime example of how dangerous those creatures were. Five hundred years ago, they’d nearly won the War—had nearly rid the world of all humans and enslaved whoever remained. Until the humans turned their own magic against them—and took their freedom back. They have continued to preserve it ever since.

The clans of Old Prythian had always been successful in dwindling the numbers of whoever remained—the Fae, in all their mighty immortality, could hold out for centuries, using their magic to roam the lands in secret. Three hundred years ago, most of them had been pushed far north to the Wildlands, old faerie territories Elain had read about in her studies. There was little information on the former Solar Courts and their rulers—other than that the most powerful of them had a history of cruelty that could make the Harvester himself flinch in horror. Some part of her was glad the territory had been reduced to rubble—that, at the very least, the humans’ ancient killers could no longer rely on their fortresses to lock them all up.

She had seen the Huntsman’s reports on recent rebel activity in Braemar, though. The faeries may have been few, yes, but those foolish enough to crawl out of the Wildlands caused problems that would usually send shivers down Elain’s spine. The Huntsman’s own daughter, stationed in the North under the Guardian’s protection, had been slaughtered no more than six years ago when their outpost was attacked. Father had told her stories of fresh, crimson blood, gleaming on the thick, white coat of snow.

For what had to have been the hundredth time in the past few weeks, Elain debated that perhaps, an alliance with the Governor’s son would not be such a terrible thing. She may not have known him—let alone harboured any affection for him—but their marriage would strengthen the clans. If she married Greysen, perhaps no one else’s daughters would be slaughtered, no one else’s mothers killed in their sleep or sisters hunted in the forests surrounding their own homes. Elain could protect them—in whatever way she could.

Either way, she had no choice.

***

The forest rippled with the sound of teeth tearing into flesh. Over the centuries, they had grown longer— sharper , which was just as well. He needed as much protection as he could get these days, especially with weapons so difficult to come by. The camp was already growing unsettled, and he could feel the tension weighing on the air whenever he returned. The past few winters had been difficult enough.

The coming of spring was a welcome change. Spring meant they could hunt—the new year brought on as many animals as it had opportunities. The prey in his arms, grasped by the claws he’d sunk deep into its skin, just so happened to be both.

And what an opportunity it was. They’d been wishing for it for decades—centuries, even, or perhaps even more. Like many others, he found himself losing count of the passing years. They all seemed the same—eat, sleep, move, hide. Kill had only recently started to disrupt his routine. Yet another change he welcomed.

He spat out the blood, nose wrinkling with distaste as if on instinct, and watched as the liquid settled into the mossy earth. The body fell to the ground a moment after, leaving a heavy thud in its wake, heavy enough that he could have sworn it echoed between the trees. He would get an earful for not being careful later. The thought made his eyes roll as he wiped his nails clean on his crumpled shirt.

He pulled it over his arms, then, letting the fabric float away with the gentle spring breeze, and took a deep, steadying breath. The small, golden rays of sunlight peering through the budding leaves warmed his bare chest, and he tilted his head up to the sky, soaking up the sensation until the quiet gurgle at his feet inevitably commanded the return of his attention.

He sighed, kicking away the arm resting on his boot. The body rolled to the side, baring the unpleasant face to his sight yet again. For what must have been the fourth time in the past two minutes, he felt himself grimace. Something so ugly should not have been this finely dressed.

This, however, was a problem he could easily take care of. Holding his breath to avoid the stench of his prey’s spilling guts, he kneeled to free it from the immaculate, navy-blue jacket, dark, charcoal trousers and boots before its blood managed to stain them. The formerly pristine shirt was unfortunately already lost to him, though he supposed his own would do just fine.

For a split second, he wondered if the body should be buried. It would take little effort on his part, and he knew it had been travelling with a party before trailing off the carriage path to piss. It would be best to not leave any evidence behind, lest any of the man’s companions decided to follow their master and look for relief in the forest as well.

He sighed again, a sound he feared was starting to become a signature of his lately. With a flick of his hand, the dirt rustled quietly, and the ground parted, swallowing the body entirely.

Good. This was good. He only wished he’d taken a good look at the man’s face before letting the worms dig into the body he’d so benevolently left open for them. He needed the memory unscathed for the spell, and right now, he could not for the life of him remember the colour of his prey’s eyes. Oh, well.

He got dressed quickly, finding the fabric a little too tight in the shoulders. Come to think of it, the trousers also seemed to be a tight fit, his thighs unusually restrained by the silken threads. He would have to walk more slowly, he supposed. Ripping his seams open in front of dozens of humans was hardly the surprise he’d spent the past two months carefully devising.

Rising to his full height, he closed his eyes then as though for concentration. The tingling on his skin was hardly pleasant, but he endured it all the same until the memory in his mind finally faded away. There was no stream nearby to look over his reflection, but he knew the glamour had worked, anyway. It always did.

To those who knew the man he’d just murdered, he would appear as Greysen Nolan—the newly titled Visitor, hell, the Governor’s own firstborn son. He couldn’t help but smirk.

It seemed that Daddy was in for one hell of a disappointment.

***

Elain could not breathe in her gown.

“Just a few more minutes, Princess,” the seamstress repeated, the sound muffled through the needle she’d clenched between her teeth.

The nickname did little to ease her nerves. The Princess was hardly her official title, but her father insisted the staff—that everyone in New Prythian called his one remaining daughter as such. She used to adore it as a little girl, though upon further reflection, she had no doubt she’d earned a few spoiled brat ’s in those years. Still, the name seemed to have stuck, and, as she always did, Elain felt her cheeks flush furiously in response.

“I’m not a princess, Lavinia,” she reminded the seamstress, trying her best not to make her tone sound too pointed.

The woman scoffed. “You might as well be, Lady Archeron. The Visitor is a titled man, and if that wasn’t enough, he is the Governor’s heir.” She adjusted the ribbons adorning Elain’s sleeve. “Our royalty may be long gone, but everyone knows the throne resides at Rask.”

Elain hummed. “There is a reason we are no longer ruled by six queens. To anoint a new monarchy would be to dishonour their sacrifice.”

The seamstress scrambled quickly, “Of course, Lady Archeron. I only meant—the Governor holds a lot of power in the realm.”

Elain sighed and looked into the mirror. “I suppose that much is true.”

“You don’t seem very excited,” Lavinia remarked, meeting Elain’s gaze in her reflection. “Surely the Visitor is an excellent match?”

“Certainly,” Elain nodded. But excellent was not someone Elain was looking for. She wasn’t looking for anyone, truthfully, and yet here she stood, watching Lavinia touch up her gown for the final time before her engagement ball was to commence. “This is good, I think. You’ve done a wonderful job—as always.”

The seamstress offered her a smile. “Try to be happy, Princess.”

“Of course,” Elain lied.

It was clear enough that Lavinia had left her alone, quietly excusing herself out of the room. Elain could hear her mutter instructions to the guards at her door—she was to be escorted downstairs, whenever she was ready. Apparently, guests had already begun pouring in, and the Visitor was to make his grand entrance shortly.

Elain hadn’t even seen Father yet. Wherever he was, he clearly would make his appearance once the public had gathered in full.

It was to be expected, but Elain felt her heart sink nonetheless. She could use a few words of encouragement right now. Usually, it had been Feyre offering them without Elain even having to ask. But Feyre was gone. Had been gone for a while.

And she wasn’t coming back.

Exhaling shakily, Elain looked into her own eyes in the mirror, ignoring the tear welling up in one corner, her expression stern.

“You’re doing this for them ,” she told herself. “For Feyre, and for Mother, and for Nesta, so that no one else has to suffer like they had.”

Her reflection nodded, the pearls in her ears sparkling with the movement. She breathed out again, one last time, and braced herself for the three quiet knocks on her door.

“It’s time, Princess,” the order sounded shortly after. Elain, of course, obeyed.

The gown was a pain to walk in. It was beautiful, to be sure—she hadn’t lied when she’d complimented Lavinia’s work—though that hardly made it a comfortable garment to wear. Elain appreciated the way the corset hugged her curves, or the way it perked up her breasts, but she also appreciated being able to take a breath without immediately choking on it. She had never squeezed into a dress so impossibly tight. The flowers—roses—crafted by the ruffles of tulle rested attached at her hips, the ribbons of her sleeves caressing them as Elain made her way down the hall. The gown spilled down her body in petals of ivory and a dusty pink, making Elain herself look like a blossoming rose, floating with every step.

She almost enjoyed the thought until she remembered Father’s letter once again—until she remembered Greysen Nolan’s favourite flowers were, in fact, roses, and the gown’s very design served to appeal to his tastes instead of her own.

Had it not been for the guard’s heavy boots sounding behind her, Elain would have entertained the idea of turning back. Would Father drag her downstairs himself? Would he lock her up in Greysen’s carriage and ship her off without second thought? Elain had never once thought her own engagement ceremony would ever feel like an execution. And yet, here she was, followed closely by the Merchant’s personal guard, dressed up like a doll for a man she didn’t even know.

The somber thought accompanied her down the marble steps spiralling down to the ballroom, consuming her so thoroughly she could hardly feel the countless stares watching her every more. Father must have invited more people than she’d thought—dignitaries from all over the island, perhaps even the Continent itself.

Perhaps her seamstress was right—perhaps Rask was the closest they could get to royalty, and Elain truly could not have found a more advantageous match. She also could not have married at all.

But then she met her father’s gaze, and the guilt hit her with a familiarity that nearly swayed her off the stairs.

His eyes—brown, exactly the shade of her own—were shining with pride so unabashed she could not help but smile in his direction. She was doing all of this for him, too was she not? For her family—so that they may never see misfortune again. Nesta had been strong enough to proceed with her own match. Why should Elain be any different? She could do this—otherwise, watching that pride dim from her father’s gaze might just be the thing that killed her.

Slowly, she made her way up the dais to meet his extended hand. Behind them, two high chairs she supposed had been made to resemble thrones sat waiting for the Lord and Lady to be. Elain’s heart quickened in the constraints of her corset.

“This is real, Elain,” Father murmured over her shoulder, as though he could hear how loudly her heart thumped in her chest. If he did, he’d grossly misinterpreted the reason behind it. “This is truly happening.”

Elain swallowed something thick in her throat, and forced another smile as she turned to face him at last. “I know, Father.”

The white of his teeth nearly outmatched the chandeliers above. “You look absolutely spectacular,” he complimented, his smile wider as he noted the tulle roses. “Are you ready to meet your husband?”

She supposed there was no turning back now.

Father nodded to the guards. “Invite the Visitor in.”

Every single head in the ballroom turned as two, white-gloved hands turned the golden, ornate knobs and swung the doors open.

Elain held her breath—then counted to three. Four. Five.

On seven, he entered.

She’d spotted his jacket first—a deep navy-blue adorned with fine, silken thread. Fitted, charcoal trousers and boots, echoing quietly off the marble floor as the Visitor finally stepped into the light.

Elain’s breath caught in her throat.

He was, without a doubt, the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

His long hair was like molten fire, a stark contrast against the depth of his jacket. Shades of red, auburn and orange, falling down his back in waves as the firelight danced on his golden brown skin—almost like greeting an old friend. There was something raw about his beauty—he was hardly one of the perfect, polished aristocrats she’d danced with at other balls. No, there was a cruelty about him—as if he’d been crafted by the same flame that gleamed playfully atop the chandeliers warming her skin, melting every guard she’d ensured to build up, every reason she could think of that made him the worst fate the world had in store for her.

Elain could have sworn that fire sizzled in his russet eyes as he reached the dais—as he stopped before her and bowed at the waist.

When he looked up again, their gazes locked and held. “It is an honour to make your acquaintance, Lady Archeron,” he greeted, his voice smooth and deep. “My name is Greysen Nolan.”

[achaotichuman]

hi! headcannons for jesminda?

Hello! Absolutely!

Jesminda taught Lucien how to catch fish with his hands. She often had to hunt food for herself, and Lucien had rarely done any hunting other than recreational when he was younger. So, she taught him everything he had to do. Lucien used to hate the feeling of the fish in his hands, but quickly learned how to get past it. Especially when Jesminda flicked water at him and smiled so brightly when he finally caught one. Jesminda was friends with Eris. As general Eris knew all the small villages and met Jesminda on a patrol one day. They struck it off immediately because of Jesminda's bold and fearless personality. She asked why the prince was out by himself in these parts of the woods, and quickly they made conversation. Eris was fascinated by Jesminda, and whilst he didn't approve (for fear of the consequences) he understood why Lucien fell for her. Jesminda is bisexual, she had a girlfriend before she got with Lucien who had been a lesser Faery from the Winter Court. She left Jesminda because when she accidently stayed in Autumn for far too long, the new climate and no access to the cold snow caused her temperature to rise until it nearly killed her. Jesminda raced her back to the border, but she was so distraught she disappeared into Winter and never returned. Jesminda is a wild card, and incredibly strong. She does a lot of the heavy lifting since all her siblings are very young and her father is often away. She knows how to sword fight and often pinned Lucien to the ground during duels. Jesminda wanted to travel the world, she wanted to see across all the continents and wanted to see humans. She sympathized with them and hated how they were treated by High Fae as it is very similar to how High Fae treat Lesser Faeries. Jesminda advocated for change in Autumn. She was extremely active in communities that helped to relieve the suffering of the poorer parts of Autum and tried to help start a revolution against Beron. Which was ultimately a part in why she was executed by Beron instead of simply exiled. Jesminda had no fear and no filter. She said what she thought, and never let anyone get away with injustice. Though she was also kind and warm, often caring for others in the community if sick or injured. Often, she roped Lucien into helping her babysit for the kids next door since they didn't have a dad and Lucien was the next best option. Jesminda proposed to Lucien. Lucien was planning on it, but started stumbling at the last second, nearly backing out. So Jesminda reached out, took a ring off of his finger and proposed instead. Lucien was blushing and laughing but said yes. That was the same night Jesminda was killed. Jesminda taught Lucien about the world. She knew so many facts about different cultures and the lands around them. Extremely intelligent, when it was common that Lesser Fae received less education than High Fae. She was very spiritual and taught Lucien a lot about respecting their lands and the importance of community. Jesminda did not want to be buried in the earth. Rather she wanted she be scattered in the air, so her soul could be free to wander the world in the afterlife. Since Lucien was forced out, Eris honoured her request in his place. And left a marker of her name in the trunk of a willow tree where he had scattered her ashes. It only reads, Jesminda was here.

I hope you enjoyed these anon!

[the-scribe-and-her-scribbles]

I tried to choose one part that I wanted you to talk about but they're all so good I couldn't choose 😭 So instead, here's a ⭐ to talk about the part you've been dying to talk about

Warning! This gets steamy towards the end!!!

----------

I think I really want to talk about feral!Gilbert.

I have a lot of thought on how I wanted to write the Fae/unseen folk. I wanted the fae-folk to have something off about them. Just that when a human were to look at them for long enough you could catch a glimpse of something else, or maybe a lack of something, like how the closer you look the less you actually see.

I wanted it to be very clear that Gilbert is not human. He’s a fae, a creature, a monster. Not some fairy prince.

In the unseen seen world, Gilbert’s body and soul are at home, so to speak, so he has an easy time holding in his true form, especially when he’s around you.

In fact most civilized fae are able to hold back the feral creatures the the wild magic makes them, even if for some it’s harder then others.

He loves you. And he loves you in a way that is gentle for his kind, with soft touches and vigilant eyes that keep you safe in their view. These are the tame parts of him, the places he keep separate from what the wild magic makes him, the parts he’s kept alive only for you. He loves you, and he doesn't want to upset you, so the charming, almost normal side of him is still of use to him.

But he's still fae, he's still a monster, and this means he loves you in all the dark and sharp ways too.

He would never hurt you, his soul wouldn’t let him, but his soul also drives him towards you like a wounded animal on bloody paws. His limbs bloody and aching, pain at the back of his mind as he throws himself, drags himself closer to you.

He’s a fae and you're his soulmate, his other half, so your his.

(Why couldn’t he keep you? He’d keep you safe, oh so safe. And well fed and well fucked. You’d love it if you were his. He would bring you any clothing or jewelry you could think of, he’d build you a library where you could sit and read forever, he’s even go get you that half-fae, Basil, that you met in Arbourly, to bring you novels from that human world you love so much. There is nothing he wouldn’t do for you if it meant he could keep you, so let him, let him, l̴̰̮͎͈͠e̴̩̰̥̋̍̐̏t̴̝̱̒̿ ̷͕̚ḫ̴̱̤̗́i̷̩͛̍̈́͝m̵̮̓.)

If Maus does manage to get back to her human world, Gilbert isn't staying behind. Just because you're back home, doesn't mean your free of him.

Unlike in the Unseen world, Gilbert has a much harder time blending in. He rarely ever had to visit before you, and the mortal air messes with him. When his magic seeps out, its far more noticeable. His pale form seems to flicker in and out when not looking directly at him. You can almost see something else in his place, darker and smokey, whipping away at the edges like ash.

And Gilbert acts different too... more intense. He's almost aways there, following you. Either from far back behind you, (you think he like pretending to stalk you) or right at your side, holding your arm in his and helping you to where you need to go.

He's lingering, appearing in your room and around corners, unable to keep his hands to himself. He's rubbing his hands up the sides of your arm and whispering soft things to you. Other times, he's grabbing at you (you can swear you feel claws when he does.) He's still kind, just protective? possessive? Nipping at your cheeks and neck. If you aren't wearing gloves, he's even kissing and nipping your wrists. Muttering about how 'they(???) keep coming loose', how he'll have to give you more.

So he gives you things. Kisses and affections, small trinkets and foods, because he's a fae, and they gain little tethers with the humans they give favours too. He doesn't do it to lord over you or control you, just to protect you, keep tied to you, strengthen the ties that he already has from your deal you made all that time ago, and to protect your soul-tie.

It makes that dark thing inside him purr (you swear you've felt it one or twice). All those golden string, the single red one of your fates intertwined.

Make no mistake Reader, Gilbert has no intention of letting you go anywhere without him. You're his. He knows this, and you know this. But he's also yours. And he tells you this often.

"You can go anywhere, Maus," he whispers, hot breath (unnaturally so) fanning on the space behind your ear. You whine out at him and Gilbert can't stop himself from pressing you further into one of the bookshelves behind you counter of your father's store. Your skirt is hiked up around your waist, his hips pressed to your center with your knees help up by his arms. "But I'll follow you. I'm yours, hum? Say it, say I'm yours, say you love me, Schatz." He kisses you again and when you pulls away, you nod your head. You're whole body is as if its been set aflame. The lovely strings tied to your soul tug and pull in the most delicious way.

"Your mine, Gilbert. I love you," and as the words leave your mouth, his eyes burn brightly with devotion. "Thank you, Maus."

You smile into the next kiss.

-----

This was not edited. Forgive me for errors!!!

I am heavily inspired by @ghouljams portrayal of the Fae (especially soul ties. I think its such a great way to describe fae deals!!!) I wish I had their works to read when I was starting my Fae au years ago, because I agree with them so much. If you like Call of Duty, and like Fae AU's , you’ll love their stuff!

Tags???: @jtownraindancer @redrosesociety1 @xxruinaxx

[skyclan-funny-name-squad]

Expansion on that human fae au idea

• Fae take on traits of something that they connect to, like an object or element; before then they are changelings which are kind of like the nymphs (in an insect sense), a bit opalescent skin wise (very shiny) with basically useless wings that can either become fully functioning later in life or fall off if seen as “unnecessary” in adulthood. Because Rusty spends his youth in the very human clans, he becomes very humanoid, almost to a point where he nearly blends in, outside of the red of his hair which is unnaturally bright, and his eyes which are an unsettlingly pretty forest green.

• Changelings change overtime, but are no longer considered changelings when their wings either fall off or change. If they lose their wings beforehand, you can tell when the marks of where they used to be vanish, or, they grow new ones.

• fae reside in the otherworld, and they can come in and out through gateways like fairy circles or other peculiar natural formations. The clans will rarely fully obstruct these gateways out of fear of their wrath (taking people away), but they do try to stay away from them.

• Humans and fae in stories come from the same kind of place — the difference is their bodies, fae bodies change to reflect the soul, while human bodies are difficult to change and greatly fragile. To the clans, stories have twisted fae into distorted humans — trading their mortal flesh for an undying form with the other, but in exchange they lose their “freedom”, aka, the ability to freely walk the earth. Whom they traded this freedom with is among plenty of heated discussions as the clans don’t fully understand anything on the fae side of the supernatural — though they’d be akin to Gods in their eyes. Fae alternatively believe humans left their fae bodies long ago to wander the earth.

• Because humans and fae are intrinsically connected, StarClan spirits are a lot more like fae than one would think. Due to the lack of a body, aspects of their souls will change the physical appearance of the deceased in the afterlife, and leaders and medicine cats while living also undergo alterations as the power of the human spirit alters them physically. The dead can also bless objects occasionally.

• Examples of the above; Bluestar’s hair turns blue literally, and even as she ages no white hairs grow from her head — when she dies, her hair turns white as her spirit leaves her body. Cinderpelt after becoming a full medicine cat is gifted with a blessed cane made from the bark of a willow tree, the cane in times of danger turns into a spear (This is medieval esc in my head, think dnd), she also gains this lingering scent of ashes on her and an odd immunity to fire, as it dances on her skin, but does not harm her. The gifts/blessings vary in power ofc.

• Fae generally can have multiple forms naturally, but for whatever reason when raised/live long enough among human folk they lose this ability somewhat, only able to change small aspects of themselves (ex; Firestars hair can turn into actual flames in moments of high emotion)

• Fae aging is a bit weird. Fae ages coincide with humans, with the exception of “growing old”, similarly to crocodiles they don’t experience how we age and don’t necessarily slow down or weaken with time. Fae actually just get stronger the older they become. That doesn’t mean fae won’t take on the forms of elderly humans, mostly just that it’s mainly an aesthetic preference.

• Fae can’t (easily) die in the other world, but they can 100% be killed on earth. They’re especially weak to certain metals.

• The clans have their unique opinions on how to deal with fae. WindClan is actually somewhat friendly with the fae, which gives them a bad reputation amongst the clans. ThunderClan is extremely superstitious when it comes to them — heavily avoiding any landmarks they suspect as fairy gates and occasionally trying to ward them off. RiverClan is curious, but similarly to ThunderClan very wary of them, often avoiding them completely if they can help it. ShadowClan is the only clan that still currently created weapons to slay fae, which is seen as extremely dangerous if not begging to be killed. Old SkyClan openly obstructed fairy gates — while new skyclan ofc has fae warriors in their midst.

• Fae still definitely take children from the clans and switch them with their own a la changeling mythos. The clan law of not harming children extends to changelings, though, so physically they’re often fine, though often socially ostracized. The excuse of kits with disabilities being changelings is often used by cats to excuse social ostracism even if the disability is gained after birth, two examples of this being Crookedstar and Deadfoot. Sometimes the changeling accusation comes towards anyone that strays from clan norms, including adults.

• people who run off with fae don’t become become fae, but fae do easily except humans as their own and humans in the otherworld do change ever so slightly to become a teensy bit more magical.

• Half fae are often more destructive than normal fae due to a lack of control over their abilities when young. While changelings aren’t that powerful when compared to normal fae, and depending on the age can be considered helpless — changelings have a little bit more control over their own bodies as magic is inherently apart of them. Half fae do not naturally carry said disposition to their magic and often don’t even realize they are using magic. Half changelings are extremely accident prone and often seen as a greater danger due to their unpredictability. Half changelings cannot control what traits they take on or how “human” they remain.

It's still absolutely incredible to me how far my concept of "lmao kittypet fae" have taken off, you all are putting so much thought into this its genuinely so cool to see!

[ace-and-the-rpg-horrors]

OC LOREDROP PRETTY PLEASE??

okayyy!!! i haveeeee soooooo many OCs, i'm going to talk about the ones from the fairy realm part in my story!!

right, so one of my deuteragonists from the previous part of the story, Hana Kaetsu, in the fantasy arc, accidentally gets sent to the fairy realm by reading a letter from a mysterious group mistakenly delivered to her, that was actually meant for her classmate Sybil Villin who's secretly a witch (she's pretty open about her interest in making potions and researching the supernatural and all that but ofc everyone just thinks she's interested in it cause. people don't generally believe in that anymore). anywayyyyy cause of Hana's little misadventure there, she because one of four people in her class who are now able to see ghosts and other supernatural creatures due to now having a connection with the supernatural. the other three are Sybil, ofc, cause she's a witch, her friend Naoki Himura because he managed to free and summon the ghost of their murdered classmate Ashley Atwell, and Ash herself cause. ghost

butttt before being able to return to the human world after Sybil, Naoki and Ash figured out what was going on when she suddenly disappeared (only they noticed that Hana had gone missing due to her disappearance being of supernatural causes, and them being the only ones around who have that experience- for everyone else, it's as if Hana never existed but they remember her again as if nothing happened after she returns), Hana met Sybil's "coven" (which is a gathering of witches, but they're not all witches, half of them are fae), the coven being the one who tried to address that letter to Sybil, wanting her back as she'd suddenly lost contact with them for a few years. where Hana ends up after being transported there is a village in the fairy realm called "Glacialisville" and the forests surrounding it, a slightly cold area that gets very snowy winters and not very warm summers, only about 25 degrees Celsius max. also quite windy and prone to storms

the coven consists of:

Lady Esmerelda- a forty-six year old witch who is basically the leader, currently the lady of the mansion they are based in, "Glacies Manor" though she doesn't own it, just looking after it until Rowan feels prepared enough to take on the responsibility. adoptive mother of Rowan and Dahlia

Rowan Leblanc- a nineteen year old witch. his bio mother was executed for being caught practicing witchcraft- her and her ancestors were the true owners of Glacies Manor and are a long line of very powerful witches (though are known for having slightly unstable magic compared to others), including a particularly infamous one...

Dahlia Leblanc- a seventeen year old vampire who was banished from the vampire realm, in which she was princess of one of the royal families. disowned due to not being considered a "real" vampire as she was born with an incredibly rare and tricky condition that made her highly allergic to blood

Marceline- a seventeen year old witch, old friends with Sybil and the one who set out to find her again. Marcy is incredibly skilled with a sword and plans to enrol into the uni below

Belle, Olivier and Ciel Krieger- twenty year old fairy triplets who attend an university that specifies in training future members of the fairy army with sword fighting, archery etc

Nixie- a seventeen year old unique type of fairy that can shape shift- however he can only turn into creatures that humans consider fictional, such as a unicorn, pegasus, phoenix, dragon, mermaid

Ghost- twelve years old, a type of fairy known as changeling who was switched into an awful family in the human world. Lady Esme found her and immediately saved and took her in after seeing how she was treated due to being fae. cannot speak due to having a damaged throat from that "family" trying to kill her by stabbing, prefers to mainly communicate through drawings and miming. is able to communicate with these jelly-like floating creatures around the forest who she often holds tea parties with

Lillie- a twelve year old witch who looks up to the older witches in the coven (Lady Esme, Marcy and especially Rowan due to him being very older brotherly) who is incredibly excited about becoming able to use controlled magic at thirteen (spoiler- doesn't happen, she's murdered four days before her thirteenth birthday)

need two more characters to make a whole "thirteen" for the coven feel, haven't thought of them yet

other major characters!! Dahlia and Marcy's college classmates, all also seventeen (well. probably not cause birthdays and all that but i haven't figured it out yet. they attend Glacialisville College of Arts, where they have compulsory English (mixed Lang and Lit), Maths and History + three or occassionally four creative subjects:

Vie von Vogelblut- a vampire who suffered similar trauma to Dahlia, being thrown out of the vampire realm due to disownment. he lives with his equally disowned aunt and her daughter, Rouge, who while technically his cousin, is more like his older sister. Rouge is four years older than him, twenty-one, and also goes to that army uni thing that the Krieger triplets go to. Vie is somewhat childhood friends with Dahlia, he's basically her second brother, she's his second sister. he takes Hair and Makeup, German, Creative Writing and Theatre

Raphael- a fairy who was immediately adopted into the group by the extroverted Dahlia and ends up being very good friends with Vie. Raffi takes Drawing and Painting, Photography and Arabic

Clarissa- a fiery fairy who's besties with Dahlia, frenemies with Vie. idk what she takes yet

Alexandrite- a witch who's particularly gifted with elemental magic. takes Drawing and Painting, Sculpture and Photography

Nora- a fairy who's rather wary of flying due to being visually impaired and there being less to feel in the air. she has a Golden Retriever called Leo as a service animal and she takes Violin, Creative Writing and Song Writing

Natalie and Amaryllis- a pair of fairy sisters who've been through some crap (father lured to death by a demon). they both get along well with Vie. apart from her sister and Vie, Amy's only friends with Dahlia and Alexandrite due to severe social anxiety and Nat's much more outgoing and on very good terms with most in college. Amy and Nora also wanted to be friends due to having similar fashion sense, however, there was a communication barrier due to Nora's visual impairment and Amy being selectively mute (so Nora wouldn't be able to read what Amy writes but at the same time, Amy's unable to speak to her) but!! they both decide to learn Morse code (Amy taps her messages onto Nora's hand) so they eventually get to get along. idk all the subjects the sisters take yet, but Nat does Photography as one of them and Amy takes Hair and Beauty (same class as Vie)

oh yeah i forgot about Dion- Clarissa's cousin, just kind of a bitch really

there's more but aaaaaaa i think. i've gone insane enough

[not-poignant]

Hello Pia

Hope you don't mind answering but how does the pide piper of Hameln treat his humans? I've read the ice plague trilogy but I can't remember specifics.

Does he see them as pets or prisoners? Is he cruel to them?

I think i remember Gwyn saying something like the piper doesn't allow them to have a language so does that mean he uses magic to take away their ability to speak or learn/develop a communication system?

Would any of them ever be able to escape him or would any fae that knows about them want to rescue them the way some humans want to rescue animals in factory farms or laboratories?

And how did the piper choose which of his humans to feed Augus and Ash? Was it a random choice or did he pick a certain pair? And was magic used to make them more compliant? Are the piper's humans even capable of putting up resistance, or have they simply been too brainwashed?

Sorry for the slew of questions but my brain just has so many and I'd really appreciate if you told me. No pressure tho. Thanks for take the time

Hi hi anon,

So a lot of this is covered in The Ice Plague and is really only in like one or two chapters, so is pretty easy to find comparatively (vs. other lore that is sprinkled all over across many books). The chapter titled 'The Ratcatcher of Hameln' is a good place to start. Though it's discussed a little before and after as well.

But the Ratcatcher of Hameln doesn't treat his humans well. It's established in The Ice Plague that they are basically entertaining livestock to him, not even really pets. They don't wear clothes and they no longer have speech likely because he forbade it at first (they were after all only children, and many completely forgot their life in the human realm by the time they were adults), and then they just further lost it over time because no one was talking to them to teach them.

The humans with the Ratcatcher aren't the original humans anymore from the folklore, they're several generations deep. They have no memory of living in any other way except as cattle in a garden. Ash and Augus could have picked whoever they wanted, none mattered in any particular way to the Ratcatcher, except as evidence of his continued vengeance against the human town he got vengeance on. I'm sure some have attempted resistance, but humans are easy to kill and torture, and he's an immortal being who is one of the most magically powerful fae in that universe. I think he'd find it cute. He did literally destroy a town by stealing all of the town's children to make a point, after all (like, in the actual folklore).

(Also, I don't see any fae as wanting to rescue them, tbh. For a start, the Ratcatcher himself is Seelie and not eating them, they're not overcrowded, and no other fae would consider that a 'cruel existence' particularly because they think the most cruel existence is the one humans inflict on themselves - all Fae (with only a few exceptions) have a very poor view on humans, humanity, and the idea of humans having control over their own lives. The Ratcatcher calls them animals and that's how many Fae see them, except they have a higher opinion of other animals. The Ratcatcher's humans are free range, fed, not fed on except in extremely rare circumstances - like it literally being the end of the world - can breed however they choose and have access to shelter. Gwyn, Augus, Ash, Mosk, Eran etc. never think to even consider this as a thought exercise.)

[kainicowrites]

Forging Sparks pt. 1

The fae I knelt beside was covered in ash and soot with burns down their left arm and hand. They were wheezing slightly, eyes closed against the sun overhead. Clearly having given up on fleeing. There was nothing I could do for them except drag them behind a building, hopefully out of harm’s way. 

Everywhere I looked, a blazing inferno. Walking down the streets, I was greeted with screams as another fire sparked in front of a group of individuals trying to escape. A quick glance of my surroundings told me the eyes that were the same color as mine weren’t looking. Nor were any of her followers. I absorbed the fire into myself, creating an opening for those fleeing. There was no use attempting to convince my mother to stop what she was doing, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t minimize the damage. 

I peered around a small shack, a bone-chilling view unfolding in front of me. My mother, fiery red hair matching the flames shooting out of her hands, surrounded by orcs, mutants, and half breeds. All the outcasts in one place. All following one woman. My mother. 

Individuals in blue and grey uniforms fought my mother and her followers. Mother was out numbered and nearly surrounded, but her flames continued to burn. Fear rattled inside me at the thought of her noticing that I was not assisting in the fight. Electricity coursed through me, tingling at my fingertips. That fear ignited when a ball of fire flew directly at me, narrowly missing my head. 

The harsh, booming voice that raised me echoed against the buildings, “Why aren’t you fighting!”

I forced myself not to shrink back, but my voice came out meek, “I never wanted to kill innocents.”

Even though she had her eyes trained on me, she was still dodging and fighting those around her, “Do they look innocent? They would kill everyone here if given the chance!”

A figure dressed in black and grey, probably a higher ranked individual, fighting Mother with an unseen power, shouted, “That is not true! We are only here to stop your destruction!”

I absorbed more of the scene unfolding in front of me, some uniformed individuals helped those injured or trying to run. Others with water or air magic were trying to put out Mother’s fires. 

“Don’t let them trick you, foolish child! I raised you to fight for the cause! Now, fight!”

Lightning sparked and zapped from my hands, as red as my eyes. I could tell I was about to lose control, but I bit it down, dampening my magic. I locked eyes with my mother, silently pleading. 

She shook her head and spared a glance around the village, noting how dwindled her followers had become. “All forces retreat! To me!” She spun around spewing fire, creating a ring between her followers and the others, me included. Before those with water magic could begin to put out the fires, Atri, Mother’s second in command, split the ground behind the flames, creating a rift ten feet across. When the flames were finally squashed, Mother and her followers were long gone, most likely transported through a portal of Eleet’s creation. My mother had amassed a crew of powerful magic wielder’s and Eleet’s power was the most rare. Teleportation through rifts in the planes of this world. 

I closed my eyes and unleashed my magic, screaming to the sky and falling to my knees, knowing I’d been left behind. When I opened them, I expected to find a group of unconscious individuals, electrocuted, but instead I found that my lightning had been contained by a wall of hard magic. 

I wiped away the single tear that had escaped and met eyes of two different colors. One so grey it could be black, the other a rust orange. “That is some power you’ve got there. I nearly could not contain it all.”

Voice hoarse from screaming, “Who are you?”

“I am Hawx. We are here to help.” They gestured around at a group carrying an injured fae on a stretcher. 

I spoke through gritted teeth, “Looks can be deceiving.”

“I agree with you there. Though actions are a tell of who someone really is and these individuals only want to help. I only want to help.” They paused, looking me in the eye once more, “What do you want to do, young one?”

“I-I…I don’t know.” I knew my mother was cruel, but I never thought she would leave me behind. 

The fae warrior spoke again, “Come with us. We can help you master your powers.”

I stared at my hands and ground my teeth, unsure what to do. I certainly did not desire another mentor, but they seemed nice enough and they could provide the shelter I needed. Lost and without another option, “Fine, but I don’t need training.”

“Everyone needs training, but we will see how you settle in first.”

[cupoftrembling]

Awoke

There are many secret enclaves in the Eastern Kingdoms. 

Deep in the oceanic forests, there are hidden places where the light of truth so rarely touches. Amongst the titanic fauna and skyscraper trees, outside the enclaves of civility and civilization, outside the prying eyes of queens and tyrants, people move west, clamoring for a new chance at life. Many became exiles of the reclusive Eastern Kingdoms. Whether it be from the paladins of Isosa, casting them into the Wastes at the edge of the world, or from the cities built atop the trees who no longer belong there. Or from private things that might remain in their past. For centuries, much to the chagrin of the social scholars of the Eastern Kingdoms, the west has been perceived as a place where freedom can be found. So much so that it became the basis for multiple turns of phrase. Blinded by the future? Spent too much time staring west. Stumbled on the first step of a new beginning? Tripped over the western horizon. Don’t know where to start? You buried your dreams in the west. Even the fae lived over the horizon, stuck in diaspora after the Celestial Civil War consumed even their home. They writhe in the west, forever mourning their Elfame turned to soot and to ash and to gnashing teeth. The west was a home for these myths, things of non-existence that had no bearing on the lives of those toiling in the Eastern Kingdoms.

But the west was also home to Mariposa. 

A queendom of lies, of pure deceit. A city built on the guile of Queen Mariposa the Litigious at the dawn of time. It was a haven of mortal treachery, built on a smile and miles of wishes. It symbolized everything the west was for the people of the Eastern Kingdoms. A dangerous sort of wealth, a chance to be the boot instead of the neck, and a changing world. The Os’ Group, Vujčić Corporation, Tyra Logistics, these were the corporate lords of Mariposa and they were a force of constant change, of perfect rebelion, cycling in and out wealth from the world. These were the corporate lords who invaded the Eastern Kingdoms and even that could not stem the tide of those clamoring for such a life. If the east was stasis, the west was entropy, if the east was frost, the west was sweltering, if the east was the winter, then, in this metaphor and only in this metaphor, the west was summer. It was a place for the craven fools, clamoring for a better world.

This is what Saorise heard about the caravan traveling in the deep underbrush just outside Miro. She was sitting in some dusty little tavern at the ‘asses edge’ of the city, a tavern so un-important that the only record of its name remains within the pages of this book, a tavern called the Perilous Grift, named after the thief who helped the current owner swindle the deed from the previous one. The tavern was, as it always had been, almost empty. Saorise stumped across it in the cruelness of the morning, after a night of difficult drinking had brought her to the hazy, laden air of summertime that surrounded the Perilous Grift. This section of the city was held aloft by a titanic birch tree, where the roots of it were planted at the dawn of time by the Verdant Singer and Isosa. The air was thin up here, some few miles from off the forest floor. Overhead, streaking clouds caught the twilight sky, with flickering lightning bugs co-mingling with the stars above. 

Saorise stumbled, almost literally, through the fabric door of the tavern. Her tricorn hat hung gently on her belt, long having been discarded at the previous bar. And yet, maybe due to friendly circumstances, she had kept it. She had long ditched her traveling companions, who returned to the ship Primrose that was docked miles below, where the forest floor gave way to sandy, sunny beaches with scuttling crabs and dirges. She held the door frame with one spindly hand, her nails colored the same dusty amber as her hair. Her freckles melded with the blush of her sun-kissed and leathery skin, peering goldeyes spotting a discarded tankard of something nice and warm.

“We’re ‘bout closed, ma’am.” The tavernkeeper spoke in a soft, tired voice, without even looking up at whoever had entered. There were bags under his eyes, he slouched against the countertop now stained and sputtered with the revelries, or what else have you, of the night. There was nothing more appealing to the elf than sheltering into bed, closing the door and waiting for the cruel darling sun to rise the next morning in a hapless trance. What he first noticed was, upon her voice entering the bar, the candle flickering. Like a deluge of fresh air caught the flame. It burned brighter, almost warm enough to be felt from here.

He looked up at Saorise, half-slouched against the door frame and furrowed his brow. She was lanky, her face a little too long for her own good, too long to be around these parts. The thief what earned him this bar, he told me, lurched in the exact same manner. I know for a fact that Saorise, some seventy years ago when the tavernkeeper had come into possession of the Perilous Grift, was on the shores of the Alger’s Collective, drinking in the smoldering of a port town. But he swore, even if she looked nothing like that thief, there was something in how she stumbled, in how the fireflies avoided hallowing her hair, in how the tavern was just as empty as it was at that time, there was an echo there, a ripple across a dark pond. All else had been different, but this moment was frighteningly, almost too enticingly clear.

“Please, sir. Just a weary sailor, tired of a long campaign at sea. Spare one last drink?” She spoke with almost perfect clarity, her voice like nettles and warm grass. She was pittable, at least to him. And, like that day seventy years ago, he was nothing if not a kind man. He stood up, walked over to the other edge of the bar. A tacit invitation, but it was the best that she was getting. The floors were made from the same wood as the tree that supported them, originally supped from the grand Miro birch some three hundred and thirty six years ago, barring the occasional replaced board when the time had come.

 In fact, no less than thirty six original boards of the Miro heartwood remained within the Perilous Grift. Some were replaced during the Vujčić Fuckup, which had just concluded the year prior if royal documents from the royal archives of Miro are to be believed. A wayward Os Corp shell had caught the grand Miro Birch alight, and that summer had been an unseasonably dry one for the city so close to the wetlands of the Orchish Nomads. The city was still rebuilding, and records of its reconstruction are, unfortunately, kept from me by the Miro Dictorate. Other pieces of the original building had been lost to a plague of Sapphire Beetles, which skeletonized large swaths of the tree some twenty years ago, allowing the common observer to see the ground for some of the first times since the end of the Celestial Civil War. Even with many of its original, constituent parts missing, it was still the Perilous Grift. That had not changed, nor would it.

Saorise stumbled her way convincingly towards an empty stool. There were few people who ever made it to the Perilous Grift, especially tonight. Last night was the one year anniversary of the Winter Accords and, as such, all celebrations had long gone. The bartender long thought of closing up shop tonight, if only to restock his larder for the next week. An orc was sharing a nice glass of Fremens White with a portly human and an elf was humming gently to herself in the corner. “Whatcha drinking, miss?” The bartender asked, his back turned towards the sailor, reaching up upon the shelf. 

“Chaambry Licentious 38.” She asked, punctuating the year with a hiccup. “If not that, what swill do you stock?”

“Last of the Chaambry got drunk last night.” The bartender sighed, grabbing a bottle of rice wine from the shelf. “Try not to keep nothing Mariposian in here.”

“Bad memories?” Saorise placed her hands on the countertop, clumsily hoisting herself on the wobbly barstool. 

“Not keen on their booze. Got a fine Daysend Stout, if that entices you.”

“Aye, got your eyes hung west I take it?” She chuckled, thumbing the edge of the counter. “Yes, that’ll do.”

“Been to the breweries out there. Something special they do with the copper in their pipes.” The elf reached his hand for a mostly clean glass, brought it under the tap, and emptied the contents of his larder into it. “Stout as smooth as chocolate, hint of oil along the top makes a delineation in the ethanol and the flavor. ‘Least, on the tongue it does.”

Saorise glanced around the Perilous Grift. It was, for a small bar, sparsely decorated. No bric-a-brac or tchotchkes, no photos of grand adventures or places, not even any artwork. It was grandly utilitarian. “Yea, the machinery of Daysend certainly has that effect.” She smiled, taking the glass from his hands. The head consisted of almost half the volume of the liquid, and it would take some time for the hoppy fizzing to subside enough for our sailor to drink it. It was the type of pour that would be given by someone who hates you, someone who’s very presence makes you sick. In certain, craven places along the Cambian Coast or deep in the Alger’s Collective, it was an instigation for conflict, a call to respond to. “Stranger are ya?” Saorise asked, bringing the fizzing glass to her lips, tickling the back of her throat. 

“To you?” The bartender chided, nodding to the elf and the orc now leaving the bar. Regulars, one can assume. It was late, and all people of good sense would have gone home long ago. “I don’t think we’ve met before.”

“To the region. You don’t pour your drinks like someone from the Kingdoms.”

“Can tell a lot about a person in how they pour their liquor?”

Saorise leaned backwards, pulling the front two legs of the table off the floor, digging the back into the soft wood below. Her foot balanced against the counter in such a way that made the brow of the bartender furrow. He would have to clean it later, that he was sure. This sailor, who knew where her boots had tread. What she might track in from the muck of the forest floor. “Can tell when someone who ought to know better clearly refuses to.” She muttered, placing the glass on the countertop.

The bartender sighed. “Miss, it is late. Drink’s on me, but you have to go.” He motioned towards the door with his free hand. 

“Go where?” She smiled, hand still wrapped around the frosty glass.

“Somewhere that isn’t here. I know there’s a bar down the road that’s open all hours. Great for folks like you.”

“Folks like me?”

“Folks in the employ of Large Marge, that is.” The bartender squinted. He eyes her spindly fingers, the flickering wick of the candle that had burnt down at least half its length in her short stay. His eyes hung low against the assumed bruiser. “Of the same ken. I’m sure you’d be a bit more comfortable at the Red Cap.”

“You take me for a wintered soul?”

The bartender chuffed. She was a pill, that was for sure. His eyes glazed over with disappointment. Another busybody here to collect, here to flex some muscle. If it were earlier in the night, if there were not dishes to clean or floors to mop, maybe he’d be scared. But spending the night in the local clinic would spare him from the responsibility, and from whatever contract bound him. “It is February, isn’t it?”

“You must know,” Saorise placed the glass down on the counter. It sweat with condensation in the cold night air, and the sailor’s hands were fully dry. “Awfully rude to turn away a good neighbor. Especially when I darken your door at such a late hour.”

The bartender glanced towards the clock hung on the wall. It was of fine Imperial make, a gift when he received this establishment. This woman was clearly from over the horizon, yet he could not find it in himself to truly care. “I’m tired, miss. And I need to get this shop closed up. However rude you perceive me to-”

“Perceive?” Saorise interrupts him, the candle besides him flickers again. “Well, now that’s rich.”

“Tell your boss I have what she needs.” The bartender continued, bringing the glass in his hand down to punctuate his sentence. “She can still spend it tomorrow. It will still be here tomorrow.”

Saorise placed all four legs of her stool on the ground. She paused for a second, breath caught in her lungs, a small smile caught her face. “The person I answer to. She is searching for, well, something else.”

The bartender raised an eyebrow, leaning over the counter. She looked fit, of course. Sinewy muscle laid beneath her skin. But, he was a soldier once, even practiced a bit of magic when it was necessary. He could have taken her, and if he didn’t, then he was sure she would not get far. She was not armed, like Large Marge or any of her associates usually were. He knew the stories of the winter fae, unseelie in the old tongue. Could break a man with a glance, leave him gibbering and mad. If it was her boss, or the man who came to him with his original offer it would be a different story. But she looked young, new to this whole thing. It would take more than some busybody to keep him troubled.“I’ve gone to great lengths to get your employer what was asked of me. Now, you walk in at three in the morning and ask for something else at short notice?”

Saorise glanced around the bar. The human had left when neither were paying attention, stumbled across the square towards some other excitement. They were, for a moment, alone. Even the wind stilled, if to give them some privacy. The candle had burnt down to its base, now just a pile of oil and fat. Yet it still burnt, smoldering a wick now turning to ash. “Something tells me that you already have what I was sent to receive.”

“Ominous.” The bartender said to no one in particular, keen to get her out of his establishment. The thief who earned him this bar always looked for something else whenever she could. He always thought it was a power play, to prove that one could eke out something that was not promised. “And the original arrangement, does that still stand?”

Saorise placed her left hand to her chest, holding her right in a solemn vow. “I promise, I will leave this place with what I have came for and nothing more. To ask any more of you, when I am so clearly intruding, would just be…” She let the pause sit on her tongue, swirling it around like a fine wine. It had a bouquet of death, like many things did in this world. The pause would seal fates and end stories, as all good pauses did. “Impolite.” A toothy grin crept across her face. It was warm like a fire, sapping the heat from the candle that, at long last, went out. It was an old expression, older than time itself. Borrowed from Queen Mariposa the Litigious, who is depicted only ever with a wide, brilliant smirk across her face. Every depiction of her shows her trickery, how she bound even the gods into deceit and contract. The Litigation’s Grin, it was forever known. A huckster’s friend, it betrayed Saorise’s regal tendencies.

“Very well.” The bartender muttered to himself, the facial expression’s history lost upon him. “What is it that I can do for you, miss?” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A week later, deep in the most western parts of the Miro Dictorate, Saorise sat alone in a large birch branch, some hundreds of feet above the ground. Her legs dangled above the abyss, the ground beneath seeming both too far and too close all at once. It was winter in the Eastern Kingdoms, but the snowfall barely ever pierced the canopy vista of the grand oceanic trees. The lower branches, starved for light and densely woven together as they were, were covered in a slick coating of mid-morning frost. It dripped from the trees in little pearls, catching whatever strands of light pierce through the tree cover in fractal diffusion. The forest floor, on the other hand, was shadowed by the swaths of canopy. The only light brightening up the dark, shadowed places of the Miro Dictorate was from a single, smokeless fire. 

Around it, six huddled forms, too far for Saorise to make out any distinguishing marks. The fire cut through the mid-morning darkness, peering its light around branches and foliage. She could see the long, stretching shadows of the figures, flickering and dancing among the frost-laiden floor. It was almost blinding, it was a searchlight through a troublesome sea. No one traveled on foot through the forests of the Eastern Kingdoms. Not bandits, not thieves, not rebels. Even during Mariposa’s incursion into the hermit kingdoms, the Grand Butterfly’s mercenary army traveled upon the backs of the grand oryx that towered even above the birches of the Miro Dictorate. Only the truly desperate would walk among the forest floor. To do so is to invite all sorts of visitors, for it was their home you walked through. It was the home of the creeping things, the crawling things that were left behind in the flotsam of the Celestial Civil War.

The frost on the branch beneath Saorise had long faded away, the ambient temperature around her rose some twenty some degrees just by her idleness. Her head was quirked at the travelers. Desperate, yes. But without that bartender’s information, she would never have found them. An old smugglers’ route, partially underground, partially following certain warded sections of the forest floor. On the tree branch beside her, one of the old wards blew gently in the wind. Frost had long sapped into its paper, thickening the strands, loosening their bonds with one another. It no longer held any true power, as evident by Saorise’s proximity. But those who lurked in the forest were held by tradition. And this place had long been taboo. It is safer here, in no man's land.

Saorise looked at the ancient sigil as it gracelessly faded away, finally giving way to the elements. It was safer here, once. But time had crept in to this place, as it did with all things. Soured it, perverted the sentimentality and the warmth. The wind blew cold. Saorise stood up from her position, wobbled a bit in the wind. She quickly steadied herself, but that memory remained. In a moment, and only for a moment, she was unmoored, she had the potential to fall. But that moment, as all do, passed. And she was still. 

Besides her, the branch hefted in weight. It was a familiar sound, as she had heard that same weight hit the decks of a ship in boarding and she had heard it stomping above her as she sat in the hull. “Lucius.” She said in flat affect, not turning around.

The first mate, Lucius, placed a gloved hand on her shoulder. His hair was a golden yellow, even in the dull chill of the mid-morning forest air. His face was angular and gaunt, chiseled lightly and gently with an artist’s kindness. On his head, weaved in his hair, were red primrose. On his belt was a spyglass and a cutlass, both tools that Capitan Saorise had seen him use many times. The blade of the cutlass was jagged obsidian, forged, like its wielder, from a single piece. A gift he kept on him at all times. “You seem cold, Capitan.” He muttered, placing his hand on the spyglass. “Shall I fetch your red coat?”

Saorise smiled at her first mate like one would a street cat, belly turned towards the sun in a contented bliss. “You are such a careful sort, Lulu.” She snickers. “I’m quite alright, but thank you.”

Lucius bristled, only slightly, at that rather twee nickname. “The rest of the Primrose is on the floor, waiting for your mark.” He remarked, glancing down at the traveling caravan below them. “Goshawk is on rear-guard, making sure no beasties keep up behind us.”

Saorise was silent, letting the wind whip around the two of them. Her legs dangled in the twisting, harmonic breeze. “Woulda rather had him here, with us.”

Lucius sighed, bristling at the capitan’s disappointment. “I’ll make your displeasure known, but he insisted on teaching the wild troops here some civility.”

“There are no wild troops here, Lulu.” Saorise remarked. She looked around the forest floor. There were no echoes of battle, no grand cacophony of might. This was not like when the violent shores lapped against the hull of the Primrose, this was not the sublimating water beneath the fellow Outrider Knights on a common battlefield.  “We’re in hostile territory, if we were found-”

“We will not be found.” Lucius interrupts his capitan. He sees the same thing that Saorise does, the nightmares that lurk deep within the forests that these mortal Eastern Kingdoms lurk in. Squat in. He knows that, if they were so interested, the walls that these Kingdoms had built would not stand against the Winter wilds. Neither would they. The Primrose were guests here, in these woods. “Apologies sir, but I have the utmost faith in your crew.”

There is a breath of silence here. The fire below on the forest floor crackles. The figures look furtive, huddled around the last vestiges of warmth in this desolate place where not even sunlight could reach them. It could have been the middle of the night, it could have been three hours past noon. The forest swallowed all light and made it impossible to tell. And yet, this caravan was trying to carry it into its depths, in some sort of vain hope that this gift would protect them. Fire was the aspect of The Wolf, an end implied by its eventual burning out. It is the antithesis of the stasis of these forests. 

Saorise spoke after that moment of quiet. “Do you know who these people are, below us?”

Lucius looked out towards what would have been the horizon, now blocked by miles and miles of tree cover. His eyes were keen and sure, not a moment of hesitation held in his chest. “Your quarry.”

Saorise laughed at his certainty. “Is that all you need to know?”

“Aye.” Lucius responded, grimacing at her prying questions. 

“You would not question if I send you to your death, or them to theirs?”

The wind whistled around them again, unmooring Lucius from his position, feet slipping somewhat on the icy branch. He steadies himself, hand on his cutlass. “You’re my captain, sir. It is the only rationale I would want.”

“There could be a better life,” Saorise looked down at the flickering flame below them. She pulls away from Lucius’ hand on her shoulder, and he held it just above her in something that approximated pain. She was talking to herself now, not to Lucius, not to the branches, not to the forest, and almost certainly not to me. “One where our people, so few we are, wouldn’t kill each other, wouldn’t be locked in this endless war.”

Lucius paused for a moment, hearing the ragged breath coming from his capitan. “Is it a world you want?”

“It is a world I want to want.” She muttered. “But I am beholden to my queen. And these fae below us are not…” She trailed off, leaving the violence in her words only merely implied.

Lucius looks back down to the caravan below them, not even wondering who they were. His mind was arush with battle planning and tactics and victory far too much to consider what his capitan implied. “Then I am beholden to you.”

Saorise stood from her position on the branch, a disappointed grimace plastered on her face. Her arms were now crossed, watching the ever flickering flame like a candle, just so beyond her reach. Always beyond her reach. “You may wish for a blind death, Lulu, it is allowed.”

“I do not wish for a thing other than what you want for me, Saorise.”

She frowned at his statement and turned towards him. She raises a hand to his face and, for a moment, thinks to strike him. An echo of cruelty, she is certain, inflicted upon her people by The Wolf, and then by her queen. Lucius clearly shares the thought with her, as he flinches from her touch. Instead, she cups the edge of his face, the warmth of her hand almost burning the skin on his chin. It was so warm, dear reader, so cruelly warm. At first, like anyone starved for warmth, anyone who spent an eternity in the cold, the heat was invigorating. It sent the nerves in Lucius’ mind on edge, sent him reeling across the winds and lit him with the same fire he was sure burned within his dear capitan. It was the warmth that many fell for. Followers of The Wolf often spoke of her intoxicating presence, the aura of pure invictus that burned even to look at. When I saw her last, dirty in the muck of the burning Elfame, she shown with such brilliance. A stubborn sureness that could only be snuffed out one way.

It was sickening.

It was sickening because after you were warmed by it, after it had touched every part of who you are, infected your soul and crawled its way into your chest and tricked you into thinking that warmth is what made you a better person, that is when your senses would give way to flames. That is when you realized that it caught you, that it has spread itself to every inch of your skin, covering you in ash and soot. It burnt you out, it burnt her out, it burnt every one. The Wolf burned so brightly that even now, we can not escape her. I imagine that is how, in that moment, Lucius felt. The moment before Saorise had a chance to burn him, that knife’s edge where he would fall into her, he knew everything he was, it was hers.

 For a moment, they were both tricked by the flame, Saorise had fallen for her own ruse. There was a moment, a moment that at that instant always existed, where they could be something other than this. 

And then her touch began to burn. And Lucius pulled away from her gentle embrace in a reflex, cheek singed and primroses in his hair smoldering. He realized what came over him after a moment and nestled his head back in her hand, despite any good sense. Saorise saw him flinch at her fire and that illusion was shattered. Saorise would only burn him. And he would be happy to suffer such a fate. Her hand dropped and Lucius began to cry, tears sublimating on his cheek.

“Lucius…” She said, beginning an apology. She started to reach out again and then her words caught in her throat. She would only harm him, and he would welcome it, but she would not be the sword he would fall on. “We… we need to go. Our Queen waits for news.”

Lucius composes himself, but he stares intently at the hand that once burned him. “After -sniff- you, capitan.” The fire below the two of them now turned cruel, its orange and reds no longer echoing the setting of the sun of the west. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There is no need to describe the battle. 

Saorise was a seasoned veteran of many wars and one of the famed and deadly Outrider Knights of Ashosh Ai. She had twelve members of the Primrose at her side and, while not each of them fey in nature, had fought at their capitan’s side everywhere  from the Siege of Tashi to the Cambian Coast. The six individuals who traveled a dangerous road through the forest floors of the Eastern Kingdoms were half-starved and cold. One was a poet, another a jeweler, three more of such little note that I have no indication or idea of who they actually were. At their defense, was a single soldier of Ashosh Ai who had fled with them. He held a shaking blade made of ironwood and threw bags of salt that burnt his hands to ward off any sort of fell beasts that resided in this forest. This was not a level competition, not a skilled bladelocking of two evenly matched opponents. 

There is no thrill in slaughter, and I will not indulge your worst instincts, dear reader. The Primrose had brought a poet along to write of this battle in song, to be memorialized for all times their deeds. Listen to it, if you want. They sing it in the halls of Ashosh Ai at the feet of Queen Titania and the nobles clap at such victories for their court. That is their currency, fame and legend. Fiction. I am a historian, not a skald. They would want me to relish in the details. That is not my purpose.

But written or not, song sung or unsung, those six fey were dead. They bled their last on the forest floor of a foreign nation on a plane that was not their own. Their essence now mixing with the foul earth that kept them trapped here in diaspora, fated never to be in any sort of home ever again. Saorise stood over the corpse of the soldier from Ashosh Ai. She knew him, once. They shared a drink and more some years after the Peril Heist that shook the small island to its core. 

She remembered his hair being lighter, almost metallic weaves of golden rod twisted into a brilliant Mariposian braid. She remembered how warm his cheeks were in the light of the mess hall where they gathered. But here, in the muck of the forest floor, his luster was gone. His braid had been shorn off in an attempt to distance himself from the person he once was. He was now covered head to toe in the licks of Saorise’s flames, a conflagration that only at the last moment he knew was familiar. He couldn’t even work up the courage to curse her with his dying breath. She knew his name then, but now he was someone different. And neither she nor I will call him by something he was not. 

That fire that looked so large in the distance seemed smaller from down here. The twelve members of the Primrose barely stood around the entire thing shoulder to shoulder, heaving the belongings of the caravan into the fire’s waiting maw. It gulped them down greedily, feeding itself off the people that had originally brought it into being. Saorise gently tapped the soldier with her staff in some attempt to gauge whether or not he still lived, as if anyone could have lived from that tempestuous fire. She was bleeding, his sword errantly and weakly slashed across her chest. Barely enough to cause any sort of issue. Lucius eyed it with some concern, hovering just out of sight of his capitan. 

“Leave them where they lay.” She muttered to her first mate. “Take their belongings but leave the corpses for the forest.”

Lucius was surprised for a moment. Queen Titania had tasked them with bringing these traitors back as a show of force, mounting their heads on spikes outside of Ashosh Ai. But Queen Titania was not here, in the outlands they are supposed to default to the orders of the captains. He bowed his head somewhat and turned towards the rest of the crew. The fire flickered as it rose, higher and higher, consuming the bones and clothing of those fey who wished for something more than this. The shadows of Saorise and her crew stretch long across the forest floor, dancing between the titanic trunks of with every wild lick of flame. Behind her, one of her crew was rummaging through the belongings of the slain party. An orc who joined up with Saorise during the Siege of Tashi. He was young, barely growing tusks. He found little trinkets and baubles, things touched by and stolen from Ashosh Ai. He looked up at his capitan, and saw her glancing down down at the fey now smoldering at her feet, wind whipping around the two of them, howling like laughter.

The fey was clutching something in his hand, skin carbonized around a piece of paper. It stuck out, bone white against the blackened flesh and charred wood of his armor. It caught Saorise’s eye, like gold glimmering through soot. She bent down and tugged on the edge. The hand resisted her ministrations for only a moment, desperately trying to keep his last secret. And yet, even it gave way to the fire, collapsing into tempered ash. The paper was, surprisingly, unscarred by the heat. It was the ambient temperature of the winter’s air that surrounded them, although some deep part of Saorise knew it was always that temperature, regardless of the day or weather. Her index and middle finger grabbed the edges, with the grace only one touched by a queen could accomplish. She knew Unseelie magicks intimately, and this paper was no exception. It has been touched by the Winter’s Queen, either directly or through proxy. One of those outcomes is unsettling, the other is death. But yet, the paper felt right between her fingers, like it had always belonged there. Her shadow stretched far, a pantomime of the fire burning behind her. It danced treacherously on the tree in front of her, taunting her with all sorts of injustice. In her mind, she pictured herself burning the paper right there, forever remaining incurious of its contents. 

Saorise was too much of a coward for that.

If there is a secret it should be revealed, if there was a mystery it should be uncovered. She was never strong enough for uncertainty, she never allowed herself the blissfulness of peace and ignorance. Lucius was behind her, hefting a pouch of thirty Miro Stone in his hand, the silver minted with the icon of Fuyuki the Ignoble, pauper king of Miro’s third branch. For a moment, he wished to give it to his capitan, to add to their collective. But how the light caught it, how the shimmering fractline frost covered the face of Fuyuki the Ignoble made him pause. He glanced back up at his capitan and, for the first time, he pocketed the Stone, placing it deep within his coat.

Saorise brought the paper into the palm of her hand, cradling it like a broken bird needing pity. It was folded over on itself, the wind catching the edge, flickering and threatening to open on its own. She held it close to her breast, like fire in the palm of her hand, until its frost had burnt her, singed the edges of her fingers with its chill. She fought the urge to drop it, to pull away and recoil. She sat with the pain until her fingers were numb. And then, after her body and mind could take no more, she opened the letter, written by no one and with no recipient. Her eyes darted across its contents, filling them with the same frost singing her hands. It spoke of secret things, of a secret place to the west surrounded by stone and by iron. It filled her mind with furtive thoughts, of stealing away to a place where her flame could burn no one, hurt no one. Then, without thinking, she pocketed the letter and looked west for just a moment. She thought of a better world, dear reader. And for a moment, that better world was possible.

Then she turned around.

She saw her first mate. Who her queen had hewn from a prized tree of her own garden, who had served as her helmsman for nigh on three hundred years, who was a symbol of the Primrose and their loyalty to each other. A symbol of the Primrose’s loyalty to their queen. She looked him deep in the eyes, hands trembling around the crushed paper in her fist, frost dripping from between her tight, cruel grip. His eyes flicked downwards and, in that moment, she knew beyond knowing.

She knew that better world would not be possible. At least, not now.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The letter lay open on a marble column, now sapped of its chill. It was warm in the mid-spring sun, pages once warped by the thawing ice. The dawn had broken through the limited cloud-cover and the mournful song of Rose the Everpoet hung low in the sky of Ashosh Ai. Saorise sat in a regal garden, her hands on her knees and her eyes staring intently on a beetle eating a small blade of grass. Its shell was emerald and after every bite the greenery regrew, forever feeding the beetle. Its stomach was fat and gorged with eternity, forever living its life on that single piece of greenery.

She had seen that beetle every time she was summoned to this garden. Each time, she wished to extend a curled finger, pluck him from his eternal vigil. Have him wind himself down her arm, to sprout wings and take flight on the Ashosh Ai winds towards the west, melting into the pinprick stars that always permeated the sky above the reclusive island, no matter the time nor weather. 

Her hand did not move, however. It remained clenched around her knee, foot tapping impatiently and in unsteady tempo. Despite her best efforts, and she really did try, it matched effortlessly with Rose’s dulcet song, footfalls syncopating between the long, drawn out lyrics wafting on the wind. The song eluded description, as its lyrics and melody adapted for whoever was listening. It was weaponized nostalgia, a psychosocial contagion tailor made to unsettle and discontent. It elicited deep, resounding sorrow in anyone who heard lacking a strong enough will, echoing the events of the listeners past with every note and word. What I heard, what Saorise heard, and what Rose the Everpoet was actually singing were three entirely different things, realities that could not be reconciled. It kept the fey of Ashosh Ai separate from one another, each within tailor made realities that only they could understand. There was no place on the archipelago where the Everpoet’s song could not be heard, the spirit trapped within Oberon’s Tower at the center of the largest island of Ashosh Ai drawing all in like a lighthouse, emotion churning like Charybdis around the Isle of Storms.

At yet here, at the center of the storm that is Queen Titania’s rule, that voice sounded so distant. She could be anywhere in this garden, and Saorise could never have met her. She had ideas of what the Everpoet could have looked like, each, like the song, tainted and colored by the captain's previous experiences. She pictured Rose with long, waist length hair and a kind, tear stained face. She pictured her with her harp, reclining against it during moments of fitful, brackish rest, eating glassgrapes and pining apples off of copper trays with tweezers and tongs, her hands stuck in an eternal bow-holding position. She pictured her in ways that she could not have existed in, as the memory of the Everpoet was the only place she could live. And the songs, themselves, are nothing but echoes of something that could not live on the Shattered Planes, their music too chemically pure for the tainted, warbled language of the mortal world.

“Are you enjoying the music, Bitterblossom?” A voice like glass bells cut through the music. The consonants were sharp like cracking lighting, the vowels deep like the churning sea, syllables too delicate to be anything but flinched at. Saorise did not look towards the speaker, the voice eminently familiar to the outrider knight. She caught a glimpse of the bare feet ghosting along the grass, crushing the beetle with her first step, the heel digging into the grass, snuffing out the life eternal of the gorged beast. Her feet came up with the next step and a second creature climbed the now bent stalk, taking its place.

“Always, my queen.” Saorise bowed her head further, eyes refusing to look at the subject but sense refusing to not keep her in sight. Some deep part of her knew that whatever was before her was some sort of primal threat, that she a prey animal at the mercy of the Queen’s predation, Saorise’s life now predicated on whatever strange mixture of mercy and curiosity that Titania’s contained. She settled on looking at the Queen’s gloved hand, wrapped in fine silk like a funerary garb. The gloves creep themselves up the arm, embossed in gold filigree, secant tracery climbing up the sleeves in perfect, natural mathematics. It shifted in the twilight air, catching errant rays of moonlight to further curl their gilded leaves across the delicate fabrics. Around her ring finger, a twisted and warped wooden band of matrimony, older than all things and always at the verge of breaking. 

A glance of saccharine red lips twisting themselves into a smile. “She is something to behold.” The voice spoke to no one in particular, like an appraiser enjoying something of her collection. “A rare jewel from the War.”

Saroise knew better than to ask which war she was speaking of. Instead, she paused for a moment, trying to talk about anything other than why she was here. “Is this song from the war as well?” 

The smile turned sour for a moment, a brief crack of lighting echos off from somewhere deep and far in the sea. Her hand places itself on her son, Durandal, on the silver of his hilt. She looks along his blade, all one mercurial piece of silvered starlight forged from a singular, precious moment. He hung at Titania’s side off of nothing, simply willing himself to always be at her side, ready for violence.“Unfortunately no. For all that I try, the Everpoet only sings to me of now and not then.”

“My apologies, my queen.”

“Do you have something to apologize for?” She seemingly responds before the words have finished finalizing themselves in the air. She was the true master of this domain, even linguistics, once freed from their original master’s lips, were hers to control. Only pauses in conversations were for violence and for thought.

Saorise swallows heavy, air feeling fallow on the lung. “I have been true to myself, and my self is yours.”

The clink of Durandal against the metal of Titania’s ring as her hand adjusts on his pommel, her lips curled into a smirk. Behind them, the ferns that lined this garden shuddered on the still wind. “You have given yourself to me, a gift as kind as I am.” Her words curdle on the ear, her breath gentle against the nape of Saorise’s neck. She dares not look away from the beetle in front of her, stepping over the crushed and broken body of his once eternal partner. With gentle mandible, he lifts the viscera stained grass to his mouth and bites down.

“You are my queen, true queen of all fae they call you. I do what you abide.”

“Do you call me that?” Her hand finds itself on Saorise’s shoulder, spindly fingers curling with the capitan’s braided hair. There is an echo when the sentence ends, a gap between a hypothetical comma and the question mark. A liminal space where a name might live. A threat, implied in the margins.

“I gave you my name,” Saorise gasps out, fighting every instinct to pull away or lean in. She stayed there, completely motionless. Behind the two of them, Rose the Everpoet’s song ended, leaving a sickening silence rarely felt on Ashosh Ai. “I have nothing else for you but to be your servant.”

“Do you know what your first mate gave me?” She responds, now far away. There is a ghost of sensation along Saorise’s shoulder, lighting cracking across the edge of who she is. Titania walks out of Saorise’s eyesight, leaving only a trail of summer flowers and fine silk in her wake. The grass sprouts with milkweeds that bloom, seed, and then die in the span of moments.

“He gives tithes to many, my queen.” Saorise rubs her elbow with her gloved hand. She is underdressed for such a meeting, still in her sea-fairing apparel. Her eyes break from the bits of Titania she will accept, looking back towards the letter on the marble besides her. “He is his own.”

“Well, I was hoping that you would give it to me.” She sighs, gloved fingers now crawling back into frame onto the marble column. They wind themselves across the discarded page, then crumble them in a moment of pure violence. “You ought to control him better.”

For a moment, Saorise bites her tongue. She bites it so hard, dear reader, that she draws blood. It leaks from her mouth like milk, staining her chin with rivulets.  “I will do better, my queen.” The hand draws the paper out of sight, quickly, like a spider pulling its prey down its hole.

“It isn’t your fault, Bitterblossom.” Titania pulls away from behind Saorise’s ear. “It is so hard to control oneself sometimes. I can hardly think to blame him when I see him rutting like some sort of dog. It is what this place does to us.”

“What it has done to us.” Saorise mutters. She knows it isn’t to herself, even one’s breath here is owned. From behind her, the paper crumbles, the air is silent, then a crackle of thunder. On the tongue, on the edges of Saroise’s blood, she tastes lighting arcing in the air. Ozone burning and a moment split in two.

“The letter, it was interesting.” Titania continues, ignoring whatever her outrider knight had mentioned. Or rather, opting to ignore. “Do you know what it said?”

Saorise flinches. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“Do you know what it says?” Titania asks again. Saorise tries to look at her queen out of the corner of her eye, to keep her in view at all times.

“I do not understand the question, my queen.” Her shoulders are tense in the not quite lie. She feels the ghost of Titania’s hands around her neck, pulling the answer from its home. Her words are drug out, her words are choked and forceful. There is a compulsion in three that Saorise needs to answer by her blood and by her kin. She knows what slight her queen commands of her. Her fingers dig into the fleshy palm of her hand, but blood does not draw. Even here, her body is not her own to destroy.

Saorise can hear the smirk behind her as her queen’s question precipitates itself. “Do you know what it says?”

Saorise drops to her knees, falling against the grasses. In front of her, the beetle has consumed its brethren whole. It is crying and its mandibles are stained green with blood. The world is spinning, Saorise is spinning, the grass is no cold comfort, no anchor to reality. She feels existence against the back of her eyes, an endless, ceaseless pressure of her very being. There is a quickening in her blood, in the very spirit that makes up Saorise that demands she answers. It gives her two options: She can either tell the truth or be unmade. 

And Saorise always tells her the truth.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Brothers! Sisters! Fair Folk of Ashosh Ai! Fair Folk of the Eastern Kingdoms! There is a better world, unfettered by the yolk of time’s cruel oppression.”

Saorise’s eyes darted across its contents, filling them with the same frost singing her hands. It spoke of secret things, of a secret place to the west surrounded by stone and by iron.

“Brothers, Sisters! In Mariposa, a new world is forming! Deep beneath the iron and the stone of the Great Butterfly where every fae can live in brutal peace with one’s self!”

 It filled her mind with furtive thoughts, of stealing away to a place where her flame could burn no one, hurt no one. 

“Winter, Summer, Autumn, Spring, each court is welcome in this new world! A Nixed world where you can breathe new life, unshackled by our history!”

Then, without thinking, she pocketed the letter and looked west for just a moment. 

“Come to Mariposa, seek out the Nix Court and her Queen. There, we can build this new world, together!”

Then she turned around.

“If you love yourself, if you ever loved the fae. 

Find me. And you will drink honeywine like water”

And she knew that better world would never be possible.

“With love and adulation for our people,

Maeve of the Nix Court.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Saorise sat there, twitching out what she had read, sputtering it raw and fallow onto the grass below her mouth. The words fell from her lips and stained the greenery with their truth. Bile rose in the back of her throat, her whole body felt numb, like it was on distant shores. Her head was spinning, her mind was spinning, her chest was spinning. The truth that had been forced from her sat plain in front of Saorise, mixing with the vomit she had expelled during her ill-lucidity.

“Yes,” Queen Titania said, standing over her. Saorise raised her eyes too tired to look at her, but she was naught but shadows, the sun hanging low above the Queen of Storm’s head. “That is what I thought I read.”

Saorise did not respond, merely wiping the vomit from her lips. It was not the first time that she had experienced the compulsion of three. But a violation like that, it never got any easier. 

“Do you know who that woman was? Who had written the letter?” Titania continued. She circled the supine Saorise like a buzzard, like a man, like an animal circling a wounded beast.

“The, ah.” Saorise chokes on her own words for a moment. She braces herself on an arm, the grass stinging like needles and like flies. “The queen-”

“The woman.” Titania interjects, her words as sharp as her sword. 

“The woman who has been poaching our people.” Saorise continues.”

“Leading them to a death of inches in a foreign land.” Titania sighs and looks upward. From this vantage, the only thing Saorise can see is the point of Durandal. “I weep for those misguided souls, I even weep for this Maeve, who styles herself the Red Queen. They are of my flock and I can no longer reach them.”

“It is a shame, my queen.” Saorise says, unsure whether or not she could. If it were a lie, if there was no basis of truth, the words could not have escaped her lips. If it was fully the truth, well, why hide the note?

“It is a shame!” Titania extended a hand down towards her outrider knight. “It is a shame what grief does to these fae. I weep for them, for despair has tricked them, like it tries to trick you or me.”

Saorise looks at the hand in front of her. “I’m… I do not understand what you are getting at, my queen. Is this a threat? Am I in some sort of trouble?”

“Oh heavens no, no no no!” Titania held her hand even further down towards Saorise. And then, in a moment, the sun shifted from behind her. And Saorise’s eyes forced her to focus. The queen was beautiful, with limbs reaching like raucous Lichtenberg figures. Her teeth were rows and rows and rows of perfect, pristine marble and her fingers were many knives which caught the brilliance of the Queen of Storms. It was the last thing Saorise ever seen and she saw it in its entirety. No filter, no veil to be hidden behind. 

There was no glamor between the two of them, each of their illusions having been blasted off in a single, brilliant light of remaking. Only their true, primal forms remained, their untruth’s shadowed against the grass behind them. It was the light of truth that Saorise saw and it was miserable.

“No, I wish to reward you. Now, we know where this Red Bitch is.” Titania paused, shaking her hand expectantly at Saorise. The outrider knight thought for a moment and then, without thinking, reached up towards her. “And you can kill her.”

“Yes my queen.” She says with nothing but pure devotion. It is a devotion truer and crueler than anything I’ve ever known. More than petty obligation or simple sycophancy, more than anything innate to who or what the fae are, more than any boring, simple reason that one might conjure. It was love. A love that could twist and pervert any sort of sentimentality, love born from pure desperation and unmooring winds. It was the kind of love that could snuff out any fire, no matter how bright. “Anything for you.”

“And I will need you, oh Callan mine. To do this for me. To break apart this Nix Court, to find the seat of its power and to snuff it out. And then we can be whole again.”

Callan looked up at his queen and did not understand. He looked down at his hands, now different than what he had entered this garden with. He clamored over, still on his knees, to a nearby pond. Its surface rippled and warped his visage. He had kept his red hair, but not its length. His skin now more golden, less sunkissed. The light of the twin moon and sun above Asosh Ai caught his hair, illuminating it like a forest on fire. They danced above him, haloing his head in delicate dance of ghostlight. His cheeks were more gaunt, besotted with freckles and marks. But all else was lost to Callan, as he could not draw his attention away from his grin. His toothy, Litigious grin. It crept from ear to ear, a smile far too wide and too saturated with history. He had been remade before, but never with such careful precision, never with such delicate intricacies. It felt more right than his other faces, yet still a stranger. He looked back towards where his queen was, who was now awash with tears at her outrider knight. Her eyes were swollen and her smile was genuine and surprised. Even this was not a form she could have foreseen, and her cheeks were forever stained with tears.

“I am to bring what this Maeve has stolen from you home?” His voice was snakelike and velvet, dripping with misdirection.

“Yes, my Callan.” She spoke, her grandeur almost succeeding in disguising a surprised lilt at the edges of her voice. If she were a smaller, crueler fae, as she once was in her youth, she would peel the skin from his face with curved bone, remake him into something more divine and pristine. The screams would echo off the towers of Ashosh Ai as she carved the raw marble of Callan into a pure sculpture. Something she could mold with her own six hands. But that was so many years ago, and she was not that fae. Not any more.

But that smile, the moment her eyes fell upon it. She could have sworn she was there again, at Castle Elphame, at the betrayal of the Autumn Fae and the awakening of her son. She swore she could see herself in that fire, within its mirror like aurora. She should have known what that smile had meant, how that fire had now engulfed her too. She would have crackled lighting, she would have left him a shadow against the wall. 

But he was kneeling there, grinning up at her, soot and ash pooling at his feet and hands and knees. His hands intertwined with the grass, knuckles white and tight in what only could be devotion. His teeth clenched in fervor, his eyes squinted with adulation. He was a relic of an older, better world. And the edges of her skin felt that warmth, that delineation between sense and pain as the flames crackled between the two of them.

And they both stayed there, until that litigious grin began to burn.

[lichtundschattens]

‘ dylan o'brien, cis man, he/him, 32 / 320 , illyrian / high fae ’ ― cauldron save you. it seems ARES CAELUM has been teleported to the dusk court, the SPY MASTER from THE AUTUMN COURT is said to be TACTFUL and is said to describe themselves with DEEP AMBER EYES FLECKED WITH GOLD, TATTOOS THAT DANCE ACROSS SKIN LIKE LIVING MEMORIES OF YOUR ILLYRIAN HERITAGE, DELICATE LINES ETCHING YOUR KNUCKLES SUGGESTING YOUR CAPABILITY OF DESTROYING OR CREATING THINGS, TWIN DAGGERS FASHIONED IN A GLEAMING GOLD COLOR WHILE THE OTHER IS IN A SHADOWY OBSIDIAN HUE SERVING AS A CONSTANT REMINDER OF YOUR TIE WITH YOUR SISTER  and with all of this in mind their RESERVED nature always seems to get them into trouble. may the mother hold them as they navigate this unthinkable time.

full name: ares lucius caelum

aliases: revenant (mostly his alias as a spy or mercenary), shadow of light (a referral to his former duo to his twin sister)

age: 32 / 320

occupation: spy master / mercenary (formerly, but will still take jobs)

alliances: autumn court

species: high fae / illyrian

personality (+): resourceful, observant, dauntless

personality (-): reserved, blunt, cynical

inspirations: apollo (greek mythology), cloud strife (final fantasy 7), the winter soldier / bucky barnes (marvel)

THE STORY SO FAR; tw: cheating/infidelity

The first breath you drew was a declaration, a cosmic whisper that you were destined for greatness. As the firstborn twin, you felt the weight of responsibility settle on your tiny shoulders like a cloak of starlight. Your sister, just moments younger, became your purpose, your charge to protect and guide.

Born to a high fae commander and an Illyrian warrior, your blood sang with the melody of two worlds. Yet your father remained an elusive figure, a ghost who haunted your birthdays with sporadic appearances. His absence became a void you desperately sought to fill, pushing yourself beyond limits, striving for excellence in a futile attempt to get him home.

Those fleeting moments of his presence were treasured like rare gems, hoarded in the depths of your memory. Your mother's silence on his absence spoke volumes, but it wasn't until later that the cruel whispers of other children revealed the truth: you were the product of an affair, tainted and impure in the eyes of the high fae.

Anger became your fuel and determination your compass. You vowed to rise above their scorn. You sought to carve your name into the annals of history with the edge of your blade. Your mother, a pillar of strength, raised you in the Illyrian tradition, instilling pride in your heritage that burned like wildfire in your veins.

Your hands found comfort in the cold kiss of steel, swords and daggers becoming extensions of your will. Your sister, in contrast, found her mark with arrows. You were the sun and moon, different yet bound by the same celestial dance, your love for each other a constant amidst the chaos.

When your mother vanished - a disappearance shrouded in mystery - your world shattered. You remember the rage and grief flowing in your veins, leaving you clinging to your sister. She became your everything, the only family left in a world that wanted to leave you behind.

Necessity drove you to mercenary work, the weight of providing for your sister heavy on your shoulders. Your father's continued absence was a wound that refused to heal, his indifference a bitter pill to swallow. Together, you and your sister forged a reputation, your names whispered with a mix of fear and respect. But even this wasn't enough to keep her. When she expressed her desire to leave, you fought against it. In the end, she slipped through your fingers like smoke. You told yourself she was dead to you, a lie that tasted of ashes on your tongue.

Years passed in a blur of loneliness and ambition. A general's attention became your stepping stone, leading you to the inner circle of the Autumn Court. Spymaster - a title earned through blood, sweat, and cunning. You had finally made a name for yourself, commanded respect from those who once looked down upon you.

But as you stand at the pinnacle of your achievements, a hollow ache echoes in your chest. You've become a legend, yes, but at what cost? You realize now that you are still alone.

TL;DR: twin. bullied. daddy issues. becomes mercenary, mommy dies (spoiler), absent daddy. sister also leaves. lonely emo spy master. that is all. :)

[deimos-kalloway]

deimos is a trans man in his 20s who works at the Magnus Institute. he is also a collective of 13 different headmates. at his job, nobody is aware that he's more than one person; he masks his plurality.

when he was 16, he had an encounter with a leitner, essentially changing the way the collective functions. now, if more than one person is aware at once, while one person controls the body as usual, the others are essentially semi-corporeal spirits, able to roam around within a certain distance of the body. nobody (save for particularly strong eye avatars and the one in control of the body) can see them like this, and though they are able to touch things and physically affect the world, nobody save for the one controlling the body can touch them.

below will be a list of all members of the collective, their roles (if any) and maybe a fun fact about them. while this looks like a lot, many front rarely or never front at all, solely interacting with the others in their own head. also, you don't actually need to know any of this, so it's fine

bolded are those who front often, italics are those who never or very rarely front

Fin, he/him. Host of the system, is most often the one controlling the body. Low empathy, and often struggles to mask it without the help of the others in the collective.

Vigil, he/him. Co-host, most often hanging around outside the body. Has a fascination with Elias, and has a general craving for knowledge. The most recent person to become part of the collective.

Cain, he/it. A self-described protector; tends to take control of the body when they're in pain or otherwise enduring something physically unpleasant, like illness.

Actaeon, it/its. A self-described protector; takes over when they're feeling threatened or at risk (often for wholly irrational reasons) as it is better able to handle the feeling.

Ashes, it/xe. Occasional co-host when Vigil is unavailable; was full-time co-host before his arrival. Easily exasperated.

Doll, any pronouns. A protector as described by the others of the collective; is the best at masking neurodivergencies besides only plurality, so is often asked to take control in high-stakes social situations.

Nyx, she/it. The youngest in terms of maturity, however has been part of the collective the longest.

Solus, they/them. Gets intensely dysphoric for reasons unrelated to gender when they front. In a bizarre relationship with Sky, wherein they loathe one another but are the only ones to understand each other.

Sky, any pronouns. Gets intensely dysphoric for reasons mostly unrelated to gender when fae fronts. In a bizarre relationship with Solus wherein they loathe one another but are the only ones to understand each other.

Swirls, any pronouns. Has a variable age, didn't actually name highself but was named by the others in the collective.

Sanguis, they/he. Fronts very rarely rather than never. Enjoys medical ASMR, and particularly a certain organ harvesting one that the collective found some time ago.

Ant, they/them. More prone to using we/us as first person pronouns than the others, likes bugs and creepy crawlies, and has been responsible for infestations in the collective's innerworld.

Arachne, she/fae. Has the most authority in the collective, though she doesn't often need to step in; is often a mediator for any contentious discussions that may arise.

[shawfae]

( ryan kwanten / 48/175 / he/him ) wait, is that MARKUS SHAW at THE EMERALD LODGE again? i heard through a grapevine, that the AIR leaning fae has been in town for 70 YEARS ( actually only 5 years, ) and currently works as A WAITER AT LE MATHIS. some say he can be ARROGANT and IMMATURE, but i thought he was actually LOYAL and OBSERVANT.

a part of @witchesroad-hq side blog to @lucydelacroix

→ tw: death & murder ( accidental )

Myths and tall tales have been passed around for centuries. There were, of course, a fair share of warnings that went with those stories. Mostly told to tourists and those that weren't from the area who were looking for a peaceful place to go for a stroll or set up shop. The warnings were rarely heeded and often times laughed at; Faeries aren't real! But oh, how wrong they were always proved wrong because of course a pair of pointy ears was always lurking nearby.

His parents were both fae, his father Rory having power of the earth and his mother, Fiona, controlling the air. They both came from fae backgrounds, though his father had been born to a human woman ( a grandmother he never knew nor remembered her name ) but had been raised solely as a faerie. Not much had been spoke about either of his parents upbringing, just their own warnings about avoiding humans, witches, and the dark fae.

Markus was the youngest of his siblings and the most devious of them. He was always getting his brother Lachlan into trouble or pinning something on his sister Maisie. But never could he pull Alasdair, their eldest brother into any sort of mischievous fun. And though he brought Fiona and Rory many headaches, they never faulted the young faerie for indulging himself with a bit of fun. They only did as the locals ( some were fae disguised as humans to protect their own kind ) did to handle the tourists; told tall tales and issued warnings.

To some degree, he had listened to those warnings and was cautious of the human world and other magical beings. He didn't go near the sea for he feared being caught by a merfolk. Most his time was spent running through the forests and getting lost in the beauty of nature. But not event he forest was entirely safe for him as he had a nasty encounter with a fire fae that was looking to show Markus the true meaning of mischief and devastation. Even if it had been an accident.

Words and insults were thrown back and forth and soon enough it was fists then fire meeting a tornado. He had not been taught how to fully control the swirling vortex, but that day his pride and ego had got the better of him. And it would forever change the course of his life; the two fae fought and did their best to one up the other. At some point Markus had sustained a nasty burn to his neck and shoulder that would scar ( serving as a harsh reminder ) which caused him to lose further control of a tornado that had grown too quickly.

Before he could realize what was happening, it was too late. The flames from the other fae had been caught by the gusty winds and soon latched onto the only thing around them. Trees went up in flames in no time, burning hot and fast and quickly spreading. There were a few families living amongst the trees as well as his own family, but still to this day he did not know how many of them made it out. But the fate of his family was not kind nor one that he allowed himself to forget.

When he finally made it through the flames to their home, it was reduced to nothing but ash. The only way he knew that his family hadn't survived was because of the bodies. He was the last of the Shaw clan, a young fae of only twenty in human years, and he had not a clue what to do with himself from that moment forward. Of course he had to leave the Isle of Skye, unable to remain there and live amongst the destruction that he had caused, even if it had been accidental.

Markus moved from place to place after that day. Sticking to Europe and remaining hidden in the woods until a little after 1900 where he soon found himself in America. Though he preferred the thick forests and mountains, it wasn't entirely ideal at times so he learned to blend in as a human. It only lasted for a short time before he eventually found himself in the pacific northwest, a rich and lush environment perfect for a fae. He hadn't felt at home in so long until he found his way to Washington, the forests and mountains were ideal and he found comfort in them.

If asked how he discovered Westray, he wouldn't be able to tell you. He felt a pull to the town, but remained hidden, lurking in the shadows and observing. Until one day he met or well, witnessed, another faerie that had a boldness that reminded him of the type he used to have. The older fae, Prometheus Ashfield, intrigued him so he had asked the others that kept to the trees about the other but they had warned him away. Told him the other was nothing but trouble, though they didn't know Markus Shaw. Didn't know that the warnings would be heard, yes, but they would not be taken seriously.

So after lurking about Westray for seventy years, the air fae finally emerged and walked out of the woods. He had forgotten what the human world was like, but soon realized he did not know this particular one anymore. And if it were not for Jessica Campbell entering the town for the first time and running into the true sight that he was ( close to feral would be the best way to describe his state ) he wouldn't have survived the last five years. He's still adjusting, though, and occasionally needs a reminder to blend in, but he's simply existing.

TIMELINE.

1869 — family is killed in accident caused by Markus and a fire leaning fae

1869 to 1910's — spends the majority of his time in Europe, sticking to the hills and countryside

1920's to 1940's — boards a ship set for America where he navigates the south, especially the Appalachian mountains

1950's — finds his way to Washington, once again sticks to the mountains and forests

1954 — comes to Westray, WA, remains in the forests, lurks about town from time to time

1960's to 2019 — keeps to the forests, slowly builds up confidence to enter town, "meets" Prometheus sometime during this time, gets intrigued

2019 to Present — meets Jessica Campbell, befriends her and soon starts working for her at Le Mathis, slowly becoming more acclimated to the human world

BASIC INFO.

Full Name: Markus Shaw

Nickname / Aliases: Mark & Rukus

Age: 48 ( 175 )

Birth Date: 18 June, 1849

Place of Birth: Isle of Skye, Scotland

Gender: Male ( he/him )

Species: Fae ( air leaning )

Orientation: Bisexual/Polyamorous

Occupation: Waiter at Le Mathis

Current Residence: Westray, WA

Spoken Language(s): English, Latin, & Scottish Gaelic ( native tongue )

RELATIONS.

Parents: Fiona ( nee Aitken ) † & Rory Shaw †

Siblings: Alasdair †, Maisie †, & Lachlan Shaw †

Significant Other(s): None ( single )

Children: None

PHYSICAL.

Eye Color: Blue

Hair Color: Sandy Blonde

Height: 5'10"

Piercings + Tattoos: Both ears once + none

Scars + Birthmarks: Various ( burn on left side of neck onto shoulder from battle with a fire fae ) + unknown

[saltirebookreviews]

Book: A Court of Thorns and Roses (ACOTAR)

Author: Sarah J. Maas

Series: ACOTAR, book one

Book Length: 440 Pages

Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing

Overall Rating: 5/5 Stars

Blog Rating: 5/5 Saltire Flags

(THIS BOOK DESERVES BAZILLION STARS & FLAGS)

When nineteen-year-old huntress Feyre Archeron kills a wolf with an ash arrow suspecting it might be a fae due to its enormous size in the mortal forest. This fae wolf was about to eat her deer that she had been salivating for imagining the smell, taste and feast once being cooked. She had been hunting this deernand she desperately needed it to feed her family so they could survive the winter. Furthermore this was a rare find and they were nearly starving to death as it was and barely surviving! Therefore she killed the wolf and skinned both animals and sold their skins on market day in the nearby village.

Not long after market day an enormous terrifying fairy creature barges into her family’s home on the mortal lands demanding vengeance for killing his friend Andras who was another shape shifter! Her invalid father and two sisters were absolutely terrified when this beast demanded who the killer was which she admitted not wanting any of her family harmed for her decision. It was a life for a life, but this terrifying beast gave Feyre an unexpected choice- she could live in the magical world of Prythian for the rest of her life where she could live among the fae whom she was taught to hate always hearing horrific stories her entire life or she be executed in front of her family which would destroy them!

Feyre chose to live among the hated fairies in Prythian for the rest of her life. She would never see her family again, but hopes one day she would discover a way to escape and find her way back to her family in the mortal lands. Furthermore she knew it wouldn't be easy being a human living among the fairies who she was taught to hate her entire life.hated mortals for the rest of her life in Prythian. However, what choice did she have? It was that or being slaughtered right in front of her family which would have been so cruel, damaging and heartless where that kind of memory could seriously mentally damage them forever. It was as if this beast had ulterior motives knowing what Feyre would pick. She feels guilty as now she could no longer fulfill her mothers dying wish, where she had promised to take care of her family. This was the reason she was the one who learned to hunt and being her family's primary caretaker even though she was the youngest sibling. Basically this beast was abducting her to his home to the land of fae the magical fairyland where she would never see her family ever again!.

Feyre soon discovers that her captor is not truly the beast she thought he was, but a handsome fae/fairy shape shifter, but one of the lethal, immortal faeries who once ruled her world. She sees all the people in his castle have these masks but they can’t be removed due to a curse.She can also feel their hatred and is surprised they are told to treat her kindly. Unknown to Feyre but she is the only person who can possibly break this curse. She learns this shape-shifting fairy's name is Tamlin, who looks to be in his early twenties and is actually five hundred years old! He is strikingly handsome with beautiful green eyes and a warrior's body that would make any woman swoon! Even with the jeweled masks she can still see his beauty and eventually starts to see his kindness which is all very confusing to Feyre!

If you know the story of the Beauty and the Beast fairytale you will see many similarities to this story, except this is definitely an adult version and not for children in any way! Can Feyre get past all the fabrications she was told about fairies her entire life or will she make up her mind on her own? Also there is a deadline if this curse is not lifted and broken soon, Tamlin and his people will live in these masks for all eternity! Therefore these are the terms the evil Fairy High Queen of Pythian Amarantha created. All due to her hatred of humans and not accepting Tamlin’s rejection. Feyre is the only person who can break it. Will it be too little too late? Read and find out what Feyre and Tamlin’s fate will be.

This is a rare, riveting, magnificent, unforgettable romantasy novel that just absolutely blew me away! It was absolutely exhilarating and one of the best books I have ever read! Fall in love with the magical world of Prythian. I also love that this Prythian map is very similar to the United Kingdom map which I absolutely love. The author is so creative and definitely thinks outside the box. Maas is a phenomenal storyteller it is no wonder she has captured millions of reader’s hearts all over the world! . A book I will definitely be re-reading again. I can’t recommend this book enough!

A Court of Thorns and Roses

ACOTAR book is 1 440 pages

A Court of Mist and Fury

ACOMAF book 2. 640 page

A court of Wings and Ruin

ACOWAR book 3 721 pages

A Court of Frost and Starlight

ACOFAS book 4 263

A Court of Silver Flames book 5

ACOSF book 5 768 pages

[kokorowoutsu]

-- HC: The Fairfolk ‘faq’

A comprehensive faq and look into my lore regarding fae in the pokemon world. 

-- Who and what are the fairfolk and what part do they play in the overall story of this blog? How do they fit into the Pokemon World?

The fairfolk, or Fairies, are stemmed from stories that are passed down in Europe. Depending on where you go, differing tales will appear, but this blog mostly takes inspiration from the UK tales prominently in Scotland and Ireland and other places as such. This blog touches on one fairfolk in particular, Morgan, and the legacy she leaves behind in her children, mainly her daughter, Ashe, and the people Ashe effects. As far as how they fit in, the simplest answer is take a good long look at fairy-type pokemon and you might just see some similarities from tales in the past.

-- What’s the status of the fairfolk in this world if they’re fairy-type pokemon? 

While some fairfolk chose to become pokemon and give them this odd paranormal typing... some didn’t. Some places still exist such as the Glimwood Tangle or Laverre City, or even the Slumbering Weald. True fairfolk are very rare, and these can claim to have been selected by the Seelie or Unseelie Courts. Morgan is one of the last pureblood fairfolk claimed by a Court. Most fairfolk you’ll find are often half-blood or even latent fae blood. Changelings aren’t rare, but uncommon. It’s the ones that have the minimal fae blood that pops out when they’re born that are the rarest.

-- What kind of abilities do they have?

It varies from fae to fae as well as the Court, but some things they share in common are Illusions, Protection, Healing, Communication and Understanding of Nature, Manipulation of the Elements ( depending on elemental fae ), and a very long lifespan. There has also been a a new phenomenon recorded in Fae-Touched Pokemon which the longer a pokemon or person spends in a Fae Circle, the longer they risk becoming fae themselves with boons and banes.

-- How does one get a Fae-Touched Pokemon? How long does it last?

If you’re exposed to one of the Pureblood Fae, or the Fae Circle, you’re likely to become Fae-Touched. Those that are truly fae-touched are fairy-type pokemon or those that appear to be fairy-type pokemon. Any pokemon can get this treatment but its harder for steel-types and poison-types and easier for ghost, psychic, and dark-types, or pokemon that are recorded to be close to the line between worlds. Fae-touched last depending on how long they live in the Fae Circle. 

One that eventually becomes a full Fae-Touched will, for example, if a Torterra were to become a Fae-Touched, keep either its Grass or Ground typing but gain a permanent Fairy-typing. They would begin to think more like the fae and in doing this, its a mentality of ‘you do right by me, i do right by you’... and if you do wrong by them... well, the stories are there for cautionary reasons.

-- What are the Seelie and Unseelie Courts?

Seelies are often seen as ‘good’ and Unseelies as ‘bad’, but this isn’t really how the fairfolk define it as. Seelies seek to do good by others and themselves while Unseelie are notorious to mischief and do bad by others. At a certain age, a court will seek to claim a fairfolk into their court. As far as the term ‘Court’, it isn’t so much what people think of as one as it is a ‘kingdom’ -- a mini one with no definitive place to call home anymore.

-- What is the Wild Hunt?

In ancient times it was led by the Fairy King. It is how he found his two prized steeds and kept the peace between the mortal and immortal worlds as well as an exchange of things as it were -- what things these are are a mystery, but in present day, the Wild Hunt is still a tradition believe it or not. At some point, fairy-type pokemon feel a need during the Equinox and Solstice to... ‘hunt’ or ‘seek out’ something and thus they gather in great groups where primal energy is strongest. What they do is unknown, but during these times, Ashe and Morgan are notably absent from this blog as well as most of Ashe’s pokemon...

-- What are Fae Circles?

While in real lore they are seen as circles of mushrooms or circles of something to signify that something otherworldly had been there -- in my verse, they are large concentrations of land that are infused with fae or fairy-type energy. They are few and far in-between with the most noticeable being the Ranch, Laverre City, Glimwood Tangle/Ballonlea, and loosely the Slumbering Weald/Crown Tundra. No others are on record as of right now, but with these power spots comes great potential for fae activity.

-- What is ‘Morgan’s Blessing’?

Morgan’s Blessing is a tentative term used for the rare Oil she has made that can act as a boon to the fae against man-made objects; iron, steel, etc. It’s her own invention using some of the most potent plants in existence and some of the most rare. It’s because of this invention that many Fae have been saved from death and the fact steel-type pokemon are able to live among the Ranch such as Leon’s Corviknight, Mordred, or even the Lucario brother, Ruko. It is an oil that must be applied daily to man-made or steel-type surfaces on the body, but over time it will stick and at most will only need to be reapplied every five years. The longest recording of it sticking and not causing a death or burn is a century.

wip

[writerfae]

So sorry you are sick. I am sending you warm soup 🍲

I am interested in knowing more about the faerie kingdoms. How are they different from each other and what are their dynamics with each other and with humans. Also are they somewhat integrated with humans or is there like a faerie realm?

Sorry if that’s a lot. Just share whatever you’d like.

Thank you! ^^ I’ll gladly take the soup 😌

Okay so the fair fae courts! There used to be six of them, but now they’re only five. All of them are in the other world / faerie realm.

The main difference between them is what the court’s “life focus” lies on. They all have one thing they value a lot that shapes the life of the people. A strong focus on one point doesn’t mean though that it’s their only focus. Other differences lie in little things like law, mindset and religion, but those are only minor points.

The lost court, the one that got dissolved, was the alder court. It had a strong and well trained guard. You could say their focus lay on military, though that would only be half the truth. Like I stated before, the Alderking had high ambitions so he didn’t really stick to just one thing. His goal was perfection.

Then there’s the ash court. This court has a focus on sports and martial arts. Many people there get trained from a very young age, but not for military reasons (though of course they do have a royal guard, but that’s something different). Hobbies like archery, wrestling, horseback riding and others are a beloved pastime and for some even the way to fame and fortune.

The aspen court’s life is formed by all forms of arts. The best bards, artists and poets either come from here or go here to seek glory. Art has a high value at this court and a talent for it gets promoted generously. They invest a lot of resources into the creation of art, too. Many earn their money with buying or selling creations.

The birch court has their focus on agriculture, especially growing crops. They dedicate their lives to their fields and the goddess of earth. Also they have a society concept quite different to the others, it’s hard to describe but to them their regent is more like their patriarch? Like, they consider themselves one big family.

The oak court has a focus on crafts. No matter if weapons, houses, tools, even food. A lot of craftsman of all kinds live there. The court has the most impressive architecture for example. Every child learns at least one craft in their life there.

The willow court is very focused on academics. Knowledge was always valued most there. They have a good education system and probably the most libraries in the realm. It’s a place for scholars one could say. The Keepers were founded there, too.

The original six courts all have one court that sort of complements them, as well as one court they have a closer relationship to (the latter was solely based on which sibling the regents were the closest to).

Those closer relations still remain, some royal families of the different courts are still very close friends (like the families of the Willow and the Aspen Court).

I’d call those kingdoms allies but tbh there’s no war so they don’t really need each other for that purpose, so they’re just having the closest trading relationship I guess.

The courts mostly live their own lives with all their similarities and differences, however they do stay in contact with each other, through trade and sometimes even politically and through travel, of course.

Some noble families have “summer houses” in different courts. It’s also quite normal for them to marry nobles from a different court (Halea’s mother for example was born at the oak court)

As for humans, since the fae live in their own realm, they don’t really have much to do with them nowadays. It used to be different back in the days where the veil between their worlds was thinner and the humans still believed.

But now any people (fae or human) walking between worlds is rare. Wild fae do it, sometimes, or humans that still believe. There’s even some mortals that live among the fae, usually those who ended up with a fae lover somehow and decided to follow them.

I hope i didn’t forget anything… thanks for the ask! :D

[theunfairfolk]

so i was on pinterest and i saw a thing about how to survive the fae and i wanted to know if any of this is accurate

I’m going to dropkick Gardner for making people think they had to write like bad 80s fantasy dialogue.

Ahem.

Ok some of this is good advice some of it is bullshit and some of it is like. Duh. “Don’t promise your firstborn child” is less of a fae thing and more of a good parent thing. overall it’s clickbaity (for lack of a better term) and reductive. 3/10.

1. Eat not what they offer: yes, generally. fae food is usually said to trap humans in the fairy world OR make human food taste like ash forever. or it puts you in their debt.

2. Dont give them your kid. duh.

3. Magic always has a price: incredibly vague but yeah sure. sometimes the price is a piece of grass.

4. a life for a life: no. this is just “all magic has a price” but spooky. killing someone with magic doesn’t mean someone else has to die though. neither does bringing someone back. the Cost is rarely that simple.

5. trusting smiles: stupidly worded. “fae might smile insincerely but it might be sincere” aka the concept of misleading someone which exists in everything.

6. inviting into your home: you’re thinking of vampires. fae don’t need permission to go into your house. many fae are literally known for showing up in your house and whoops its their house now.

7. inviting minds: this is ???? telepaths??? someone’s watching too much true blood

8. names: yeah don’t give them your name this shouldve been rule 1

9. favors: ahhhh i guess, asking for favors can put you in their debt so ask carefully.

10. dancing: yeah kinda, dancing with the fae is dangerous for humans cause we can get tired a lot easier but their magic time bullshit means sometimes it kills us. look up the dancing plague and imagine that but faster.

11. mushroom circles: also duh, should’ve been rule 2

12. drink: this is just “dont eat their food” part two.

13. “don’t fuck with their shit”

14. “don’t fuck with their shit”

15. what in the fuck is the elder race. google says its a YA novel. it sounds like a nazi dogwhistle. it is not fae related.

16. good fucking luck Summoning the fae lmao do you think they respond to that shit??

17. “don’t ask them for stuff” part two

18. ??? weird. they like gold but they tend to have way more than humans bc. y’know. magic.

19. *red alarm* weird thing to say! not an accurate interpretation of the whole fairy stealing children myth!! covet was the wrong word!!!

20. wild to assume you know how every single fae feels about the hard to define concept of love lmao.

21. They skipped 21

22. take nothing but photos leave nothing but footprints. we’re just making tshirts now.

23. same thing you said before. “Dont trust them” takes up a lot less space.

24. “really butter em up” for what purpose tho. if you’re not making deals or shit. just leave em alone.

25. shouldve been rule 3

26. iron hurts them, i wouldnt say its your friend unless you want to hurt them.

27. no they are not more noticeable, they grow in nature. forged iron is way more noticeable than some fuckin plants.

28. “dont think of an elephant teehee” fae aren’t telepaths.

29. THOU WILL NOT GET A LAWYER. FANTASTIC.

30. yeah generally don’t give strangers your blood. did you need a rule for this.

31. this means nothing.