#Fae-Infested Garden

[liliths-den]

The Origins of Carnival & Fasching – A Celebration of Chaos, Masks & Mysticism

A Time of Wild Festivities & Ancient Traditions Long before modern parades and masquerade balls, Carnival (or Fasching in German-speaking regions) had its roots in ancient fertility rites, winter banishment ceremonies, and pre-Christian pagan traditions. From the Roman Saturnalia [wiki] (Roman festival of mischief & excess) to the Norse Disablot [wiki], people have always welcomed the shifting…

[serenescribe]

Bit of an odd request but I was listening to a bit of music and I was hit by an idea-

Idk if you know the tale of the Snow Queen, but essentially snow queens powerful ice mirror shatters, all but two pieces are recovered. One shard lands in a boys eye making him turn icey and Queen snatched him up.

However consider- Snow King Silver dragging a “mortal” who has a piece of something that was his. Unaware said “mortal” is actually a fae whose intrigued by this King’s combination of harshness yet tenderness.

the snow prince Twisted Wonderland | 3.9k Summary: A mysterious spell afflicts one Lilia Vanrouge, encasing his heart in frigid cold. AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51960883

FREED FROM UNI, I AM! I actually had this written for a while, but put off posting it to save it for a more appropiate season. I really love Snow Queen retellings and AUs, so this was a LOT of fun to write! Thank you, Olive! :D

(An aside: There are extremely minor spoilers for TWST CH7 in here; they're all under the cut and mentioned in passing. If you're trying to avoid every little detail of CH7, I'd suggest passing up on this!)

In the heat of a sweltering summer that sweeps Briar Valley like a storm, Lilia feels a prick of something sharp enter his eyes.

It happens so fast, so swiftly, that had Lilia not been one of the fair folk, he likely would not have noticed it at all. If he were a human, for example, with their sluggish reflexes and oblivious tendencies, lacking a natural affinity for magic in comparison to the fae, Lilia would have chalked up the prick in his eye to a stray lash falling in, rubbing around until he feels as though he’s flicked it out before moving on with his day.

But Lilia is not human. He is fae.

He knows, at once, despite trying and failing to dig out whatever it is that has entered his eye, that it is not a stray lash or a speck of dust. There is a strange magic emanating off of the tiny sharp splinter, an aura he picks up on in an instant. It’s peculiar, the way it makes him shudder as he brushes against it, the sensation likened to the cold of a dead winter. It is unlike anything he has ever felt before.

But gradually, Lilia has to put a pause on his efforts. He is out on a journey to meet with humans for talks of peace, for their centuries-long wars are slowly crawling to an end. His soldiers look at him in concern, clicking their tongues as they ask him, “General, are you alright? Do we need to stop for a while?”

“I am fine,” Lilia says, waving his hand in dismissal. “I simply got something in my eye, is all.”

It is not wrong to say that, for it is not a lie at all. But Lilia knows as well as anyone else that the strange prick of magic infesting his eye warrants further inspection.

Later, he tells himself, as they continue on with their journey on horseback, for the stalemate in their war has allowed for easier travel through ways of steed.

Time ticks by, the lazy heat of summer dipping into the beginnings of a chilly autumn. But despite the changing seasons, the months that have passed since that fateful summer day, Lilia comes no closer to discovering what it is that ails him so deeply.

He is not oblivious to the changes occurring to him; quite the opposite, in fact. Lilia has carried about him a strange self-awareness about his shifting attitude, only realising the differences in how he’s been acting when he reflects on the changes in hindsight. He’s never exactly been the pinnacle of warmth, and especially not after his beloved friends died, but he’s always held a fondness in his heart for the few he opens up to — namely his second in command, Baul Zigvolt, and the young heir to the throne and son of his deceased friend, Malleus Draconia.

But now?

Lilia stifles a sigh as he reminisces, trudging through the gardens of the castle. The leaves are shifting to warm hues, leaves fluttering in shades of vermillion red and golden yellow, and the fallen leaves give a satisfying crunch when his boots stomp into them.

He exhales, twisting his lips as he raises his head up to the world around him. It looks as it always has, Lilia knows that well. And yet… something about it has felt different since that day.

Everything has begun to feel… boring. Banal and bland at best, wickedly ugly at worst. The crunch of the leaves irritates his ears, the drought of the autumn air makes his nose feel too sore. He turns his nose up at the food the castle staff serve, wrinkling his nose at the pungent smell of a dish he used to love, and he turns down whoever offers him a mug of beer, the foam that guzzles over the rim leaving his hands sticky and gross.

Lilia knows he’s changing. It’s not just his emotions, but also in the way he sees the world — everything is so intimately different in the worst way, and every waking hour he spends feels like a chore, an obligation he drags himself through. Where he used to spend time with Baul and his fellow men, or with Malleus most of all, being the one to raise him since he hatched, he now spends it all… alone.

But knowing something logically is different from knowing it emotionally. There are only so many apologies he can force out with his insincere tongue, schooling his expression into a facsimile of sincere regret. At the end of the day — of each day — Lilia truly feels nothing at all except the vacant void of a howling gelidity, frostbite nipping through his very veins.

At the very least, his men have respected this change, regardless of how perplexed they seem to be. Baul had pulled him aside once or twice to ask if he was feeling fine, but had he not been so preoccupied with his daughter’s sudden interest in the Valley’s newest dentist, a peculiar human who’d chosen to move here, of all places, he would have surely pressed the matter further.

On the other hand…

“Lilia!”

He sucks in a breath at the sound of that familiar voice. Once, it had lightened his heart to be greeted to such a cry upon returning to the castle from one of his many campaigns. But now?

“Hello, Malleus,” Lilia greets, making a deliberate effort to soften his voice as he turns to greet the young prince. Malleus has grown a great deal since he first hatched, now towering slightly above Lilia. Still, the boy has an inclination for continuing to call out to him childishly — something that had endeared Lilia in times past, but now only serves to irritate him by no fault of Malleus at all. “Is there something you require of me?”

“Not require, per se,” Malleus answers, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. He toys with the chain of his cloak with one hand. “I was merely hoping that you could spare the time to join me today for some tea. It has been quite a while, after all. I understand you’ve been busy as of late, but you do not appear to have anything on today, so I thought—”

“You’re rambling again.” Abruptly, Malleus’ mouth snaps shut. Lilia winces internally at his misstep; why had he interrupted the prince like that, in so cold a tone? He sighs. “Apologies. I have been under… a great deal of stress recently.”

“It is no matter, Lilia.”

Well that’s good, at least, Lilia thinks. Averting his gaze, he says, “Unfortunately, I do not believe I can join you today.”

A pause.

“Truly?” He hears it, the surprise in Malleus’ voice, mixing in with a forlorn misery. “I was certain that you had nothing to do today, given your schedule…”

“I—” Pressing his lips together, Lilia thinks before he says, rather stiffly, “It is true that I may not have anything on. But I would like some time to myself if you would be so kind, my prince.”

Ah, another slip up of his. To refer to Malleus by his title rather than his name… the gap between them only widens, and the only reason why Lilia worries about it is because he fears that he may go too far, say the wrong thing when it’s far too late to take anything back. But what’s done is done; Lilia raises his head in time to see Malleus recoil, hurt glimmering in those chartreuse eyes of his.

If Lilia stays longer… will he continue to mess up so miserably?

Before Malleus can speak, Lilia cuts in. “If there is nothing else that requires my attention,” he says, “I would like to return to my walk. Good day, Malleus. Give my regards to the queen.”

And, abruptly, he turns on his heels and leaves.

Oh, Lilia knows that Malleus is displeased. He knows it because, within mere moments, there is a gentle flutter of snow wafting down from the skies. He raises his head, blinking up at the fluttering snowflakes — so delicate and fragile, a byproduct of the prince’s tumultuous emotions, his magic far too powerful for him to properly handle when his emotions explode past his limits.

And yet, when he sets his eyes upon the swirling snow, Lilia feels…

Something.

He raises a hand, watching a snowflake land on his finger — so tiny, so delicate, an eight-pointed speck weaved into such an elegant pattern. It melts almost instantly against the warm flush of his skin — and yet, Lilia is transfixed, mouth parting slightly as he steps back, watching as the snow begins to flurry down faster and faster, cascading through the skies. How long has it been since he’d felt anything other than such apathy, such revulsion, such irritation and disgust? Now, Lilia only feels a sense of childlike wonder.

When was the last time he stopped to stare at the snow as it fell? He cannot remember. Has he ever stopped to observe it like this? Or had war stripped away such inconsequential pastimes from his life?

Lilia does not know how long he wanders around, watching the snowflakes dance until he goes numb, so numb with the cold. He only knows that his fingers are frozen and his lips are blue when he finally returns to the castle in a daze, barely cognisant of the way his entire body is battered, pushed past the natural limitations of his faerie strength.

Winter crashes into Briar Valley like an enemy ambush, a sudden attack spurned from the shadows of nothingness. It is the worst winter they have had in an eternity, everyone says, peering outside the frost-tinted windows as they bask within the toasty walls of the castle grounds; the fire-spells keep everyone warm for as long as they stay inside.

With the thick layers of snow barring any method of safe travel, the ongoing talks of their peace treaties with the humans have been temporarily suspended — more for the children of men’s sakes than that of the fae. If she so willed it, Queen Maleficia could wash away the snow with a flick of her wrist, but such matters, in her opinion, are trivial; nature is not something to be fixed at an instant, so why should she expend her energy for such things?

So during those days, cooped up within the castle walls with little to do, Lilia winds up lounging in the cushioned nook of a window, a little alcove tucked away in a winding tower towards the murky corners of the castle. Few fae ever roam here, save for a scant few servants pattering about cleaning the dusty hallways, and Lilia spends many languid hours with his head pressed against the cool glass, so intensely transfixed on the dancing snowflakes outside.

They are beautiful. Perhaps they are the last bits of perfection he shall ever witness in his life.

He has found no information about the shard that pricked his eye, nor has he found any sort of cure. Lilia has spent many a month searching, sifting through the treasure trove of books in the castle’s library to no avail. He had, at one point, considered going to the queen and telling her of his predicament — “In the month of summer, I believe a magical spell of some kind has afflicted my eye.” — but his own apathy stops him every time; there is simply no point in dragging others into this matter, not because Lilia does not wish to trouble them, but because, try as he might, the larger part of him just doesn’t care.

So, with his head pressed against the cold glass, Lilia closes his eyes and sighs.

The winter solstice is approaching, the longest night of the year. As nocturnal fae, creatures of the night, it is a joyous cause for celebration for their kind. Despite the blizzard that rages across the Valley night and day, many servants, guardsmen, people of their kingdom have been looking forward to the events; the castle town shall be open to all, shielded from the elements. All fae, young and old, can look forward to a night of dancing and festivities, dining on the finest food at the banquets, and celebrating the longevity of the night.

In years past, Lilia would have looked forward to it. But now, like everything else in his life, he feels nothing at all.

“Lilia? Are you here?”

He stifles a groan at the sound of Malleus’ voice. Again and again, the boy continues to scour for him, to seek him out and spend time with him. Lilia tries to indulge him, he really does! But each occasion spent together, needing to force himself to fake sincerity the whole way through — “Oh yes, Malleus, I would like to try the new blend of tea! Thank you kindly for the offer. How is your grandmother doing? I heard she has spent some time with you as of late—”

He can’t stand it. He can’t. It gets harder and harder with each passing day, the chill that permeates his skin sinking deeper and deeper, turning his heart into one carved of ice. His eye prickles with pain whenever he grits his teeth in a false smile; across the table from him, the young prince looks detestable, a selfish beast with far too much time, uncaring of what his servants are subjected to in their indulgence of him.

So he avoids him. As soon as Lilia hears him, he flicks his wrist, a swell of magic surrounding him. Bat-formed, Lilia takes to the rafters, huddling away in the corners of the ceiling as he listens to Malleus come and go. It is only when he hears that familiar voice fading away that he dares to leave, flapping his little wings as he makes a break for another isolated corner of the labyrinthian castle.

The day of the winter solstice arrives, and with it comes the worst blizzard the valley has ever seen.

Cold winds lash against the fortifications of the castle, howling and rattling. Snow crashes from the sky, piling higher and higher upon the dead ground. And yet the castle is alight with the buzz of festivities — the many servants bustle about, wrapping up the last of their preparations, ensuring the banquet is ready with food for all, that the decor floats about in place, that the spells wrapping the castle and its town in a bubble of warmth remain solidly intact.

Throughout the day, Lilia sticks to the shadows, hovering out of sight. Today he feels… he doesn’t know how to describe it. Cold and dead as usual, his heart no longer the warm, affectionate thing it was before — but beneath the thick layers of apathy, there is something nestled beneath: the barest twitch of a muscle, a flutter of something. Lilia finds himself distracted with it the entire day as he meanders about, waiting for the clock to tick to a point when the festivities can start.

And when they do begin, the many residents of the valley teleporting into the castle en masse… Oh, how does Lilia even begin to describe them? Laughter rings freely, the merry melody of music from a string band sweeping the air as dancers circle across the floor. Wine glasses clink as people toast to prosperity and magic, hoping to see the weather ease up soon, and even the queen herself is out and about, walking amidst the crowd, a smile on her face as she mingles with the few faeries bold enough to approach her.

But Lilia—

He feels nothing watching all this. Nothing at all.

And yet… there is something else. That peculiar emotion buried underneath… it sings to him, calls to him, as though someone’s voice were tugging at a string. It only strengthens as the night goes on, likened to an unbearable itch; it is the first blissful thing he has felt in what feels like an eternity, and Lilia—

He misses it. He misses being able to love, to feel something other than apathy at best, and all these horrible, miserable emotions at worst — a repugnance, a rage, an irascibility that sparks every time someone tries to converse with him. Lilia misses being able to love freely, his heart softening as he grows older, brought on by the loss he’s experienced, and the love he mustered up to be able to raise Malleus into the man he is today.

So who can blame him for slipping off, for finding a way out of the castle grounds? Lilia answers the call, sneaking past guards who are far too drunk on wine, laughing and shouting as they play games at their stations. He does not bother with whisking up thick clothes for himself; Lilia merely plunges into the blizzard, battered at once by shrieking winds and a pelting of snow against his face, of a storm so deadly chilling that it would ravage even the strongest of faes.

And yet, he does not feel cold.

He grits his teeth as he presses on, dragging his legs through the thick boughs of snow. Lilia knows not how long it takes for him to trudge, only that it feels like forever — but he knows he is getting somewhere, because with each step he takes, the tugging in his chest grows and grows, the intensity of the emotion exciting him for the first time in months.

Is this the answer to his ailment?

Is there a cure tucked within the heart of the storm?

Lilia takes one step, and then another. He takes a third, and—

All at once, everything stops.

The wind dies away. The blizzard softens to a gentle snowfall. Little flakes of snow dance through the air as Lilia walks forward, head turning to and fro. How peculiar this is! He raises a hand, watching a flake fall into the open palm of his hand and rest there, and it is only the sound of hooves clumping against snow that snaps him out of his reverie.

Lilia turns his head, and sees a child.

A boy, who gazes at him with wide eyes that reflect the northern lights — auroras of shifting veins tinted shades of pink, purple, and blue, lights that Lilia has only gotten the chance to see once during a journey across the world. His hair sweeps across his forehead, locks of the purest silver as though spun from the nighttime stars, streaked with white like the pristine paleness of snow. He sits on a white stag, ice-spun crystals hanging from its glacial antlers, and around him is a fur-lined cloak and hood that swallows him whole, far too big for his tiny body.

Lilia’s breathing hitches—

Because the boy before him is the most beautiful thing he has seen in a long time.

“Hello,” the boy says after a while, a glimmering curiosity in those wide eyes of his. His mount trots forward, bringing him closer. “I’ve never seen you before,” he says, looking at Lilia closely.

At that, Lilia laughs. “I could say the same to you, little one.” He rests a hand on his hips, relishing in the joy, the curiosity, the emotions that flood him in full force; it has been so long! “It is a rare sight to see a young boy riding a stag in a storm like this.”

The boy’s face falls, and Lilia feels… worried. Did he upset him somehow? “I’ve been trying to stop the storm for a while now,” the boy explains, auroral eyes flicking to the storm that rages outside the bubble they’re within, continuing to ravage the valley to no end. “B-but it’s my first time really trying such a thing, and I don’t… really know how.”

Ah, Lilia thinks, finally coming to understand. A lost child. A boy with power over the very elements itself, who can control the season of cold and snow. And yet, who would place such responsibility upon a child, one so very young? He feels the fervent urge to lean in and coddle him, to reassure him that it’s alright, you’re trying your very best, I can help you if you just let me.

And why shouldn’t he do such a thing?

“I can help you, if you would like.”

In a flash, those pupils lock on him. “Would you?” the boy breathes. “I-I wouldn’t want to trouble you, mister—”

“It’s no trouble at all!” Lilia insists, stepping forward with a beaming smile on his face. He reaches out for the stag, feeling the beast nuzzle against the palm of his hand as he strokes it gently. Why should he return to the castle, to that unyielding, endless void of apathy and misery? Here, with the boy with eyes like the auroras and hair like the stars, Lilia feels something — the warm glow of parental affection, already growing so attached to such a young child.

“Then…” the boy mumbles, “would you come with me?”

Lilia only smiles. “Of course.”

And as he clambers onto the back of the steed, he asks, before they leave, one final question: “Pray tell, little one, what is your name?”

“My name?” the boy echoes, furrowing his brows. “I… I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

Lilia arches an eyebrow. What kind of a lonely life must this boy live, if he has not even considered his lack of a name? “Then would you mind if I gave you one?” he offers. Oh, it is such an incredibly forward move to suggest such a thing, with how important names are to his kind. But already, he is attached, his very soul bound to this child who gazes at him in wonder at the possibility of wielding his own name.

And the boy nods.

“Silver,” Lilia says, the name coming to him at once. Like the shine of the gleaming moon, the glitter of the stars, the wispy fall of the snow around them. Love blooms in his chest, the warmth cradling his very soul; Lilia curls his arms around the boy, his body so cold even through the chilling fabric of his cloak, pulling him against his chest into a hug. “That shall be your name.”

“Silver,” the boy echoes, testing it out on his tongue. He tilts his head back, a small smile gracing his rounded cheeks as he looks up at Lilia. “Thank you, mister. Could I ask what your name is?”

“It is Lilia, dear one,” he croons, relinquishing his name without a second thought. The two of them are bonded in mere moments, Lilia filled with a fulfilment he has not felt since that prick of a shard entered his eye.

There is nothing left for him here. That is what he tells himself as Silver leads them away, commanding his steed to take off into a prancing gallop, bursting from the tranquil heart of the storm into the raging blizzard, whisking them back to their home.

(Lilia fails to notice the figure that bursts through the clearing, chartreuse eyes widening in horror as a mouth parts to scream his name. He does not notice the horned boy who shivers in the cold, eyes wide as the wind whips at his long hair, watching the stag prance away, the boy who leads it ripping his guardian away from his grasp.)

[eevylynn]

You're Good

Sterek || E || Friends to Lovers || 7k wc

“I’m comfortable with my life,” Stiles told Lydia, and he was. He had a job he loved, his pack was safe, and he got to see them regularly. Yeah, there was one thing he would like to change, but there's only so much he can do to change that one thing. Stiles was pretty sure that dating other people wouldn’t help. Or Stiles agrees to let Lydia set him up on a blind date, not realizing who exactly she had in mind.

AN: I realized I never made a full on tumblr post with this..oops!

This was written For L_Grae with the prompts: ~Mutual pining with meddling from the pack. ~Future fic, blind date set up by certain packmates, not realizing Sterek has a FWB agreement already.

Unfortunately, I can't quite write friends with benefits (I gave it a valiant effort, but my brain just couldn't get it right), so I merged the prompts together.

Sterek Valentine's Bingo 2024: Candle

~*~*~*~

Locking the office up with a whistle, Stiles tossed his keys in the air before catching them and shoving them in his back pocket before he turned to walk down the street to the combination coffee and bar that sat a block or so away from his office. He mentally patted himself on the back for that smooth move before abruptly tripping on nothing. Stiles looked around quickly. No one saw that.

That was the one good thing about it getting dark before Stiles even leaves the office at this time. The whole shorter days thing that came with winter coming AND Daylight Savings Time ending at the same time does get somewhat depressing at times, but it’s not like Stiles has never gone around town at night before.

Back in high school, nights were the only times that Stiles could really investigate supernatural happenings what with needing to actually go to school. He always did love a good puzzle to investigate and even contemplated  joining the FBI. However, after botching up his own internship with the FBI, Stiles ended up going to college at Beacon Hills Community College. While still in school, Stiles started a side hustle as a Supernatural Private Investigator, and, upon graduation, he was able to devote his time to his growing business, even opening an office in the slowly reemerging downtown area of Beacon Hills.

Thanks to the combined efforts of the local Beacon County packs, the Nemeton was growing healthily again, bringing positive energies with it, something even the everyday humans could feel. Because of this, more people, both supernatural and human, were moving to town and slowly building up the local economy.

Just the short walk between Stiles’ office and Lunar Lounge, his favorite bar and coffee shop, included a boutique one of Stiles’ old classmates opened, a vegan smoothie shop, owned by a nice family of elves that just moved here a few years back, and a greenhouse bookstore whose owners were always more than happy to provide Stiles with any herbs he needed for potions work after he helped them with a pixie infestation that took residence in one of their personal gardens at their house.

The Lunar Lounge was where many of the Hale pack worked. Open practically 24 hours, it served coffee and breakfast for the morning crowd before transitioning into a pub style bar in the afternoons. In addition to providing human beverages, Lunar Lounge also offered a variety of specialty drinks for the different supernaturals of Beacon Hills, including but not limited to wolfsbane infused homebrews, real bloody marys, and a selection of shimmering, almost ethereal, wines that Peter had procured a vendor for that Stiles was pretty sure was fae, but the wolf refused to confirm or deny that suspicion.

Entering the open double doors, Stiles nodded at Isaac who was behind the bar preparing some fancy pink and yellow monstrosity of a cocktail that was most definitely too sweet for Stiles’ liking.

He crossed the open sea of scuffed wooden tables, dodging a pair of colorful haired women that suddenly blocked his path as they stood up to go who knows where. Reaching the back corner, he found Derek at his usual table that he’d probably been sitting at for the last several hours, hidden from most by a black metal staircase that led to a lofted lounge area. Dark eyebrows furrowed as Derek continued to type on his laptop.

As Stiles plopped down in the seat across from him, Derek glanced up before he said, “I’m almost done. Give me a minute.”

Stiles grinned, “You’re good.” Derek smiled before turning his attention back to the screen.

Continue reading on ao3

[lt-doberman]

It’s fairy season, are YOU safe?

remember to:

> use iron locks on your windows and doors.

> add a small amount of salt or water around your bed before sleeping.

> leave a bowl of offerings outside your house in a garden or windowsill (OUTSIDE, it’s very important to never leave fae offerings inside one’s place of rest.)

“How do I know if I have a fairy infestation?”

> you feel a worrying about of whimsy. - are you happy? Is that unusual for you?

> there are tiny trinkets appearing around your house - you might find what looks like kids toys on your table or in your fridge.

> plants & fungi seem to grow in unusual patterns. Check your showers! Circular black mold patterns on ones roof is one of the most reliable ways to check for fairies!

“Oh no! I think I have an infestation, what do I do?”

Call me! I can offer multiple services, from total extermination to tools that will help you take care of em' yourself! You’re not alone! 32% of English homes have a Pixie & Fairy problem. It’s completely normal to be distressed but don’t worry! Hunstmen United offers year around Fae based Extermination. If you care about your family consider emailing me below for a quote, and remember, if there’s still monsters after a detailed examination Huntsmen United will refund you 40% for any fees paid for Monster-Hunting services until your house is pest-free!

Disclaimer: Huntsmen United does not sanction the trade of fairy homes, blood, or wings, And the trade of tools for any use of illegal fae-based poaching will not be tolerated. Additionally any ‘KIT’ sold by Huntsmen United members are not protected as an official item and are not insured. When buying merchandise from licensed huntsmen you are still responsible for ensuring that the buyer is trustworthy. By Buying huntsmen merchandise you forfeit your right to sue for damages caused by improper use of supernatural material.

BUY NOW AND WE’ll THROW IN A STANDARD GHOST PROTECTION KIT FOR FREE! (when you use code ‘Ifuckinghatecasper' at checkout.)

[anulithots]

The Rose. Episode 4 - "Wild"

Monkia has infected my computer and now my mouse won't work, sooooo.... there's that.

I handwrite these and have my paper tablet translate it to text, and it thinks the fairies fae/faer pronouns are wrong and I hate it. For clarification, fae is pronounced like "fay" and faer is pronounced like "fair".

There should be one more episode for Rose, I couldn't fit the *reveals* I wanted to in this episode, but the last one should be out soon <3

And if this series has taught me anything, it's that aha moments are HARD,.

A tumblr houseplant story from @briarborealisart

The info post is here

Episode one - "Thorns"

Episode two - "Maidoe"

Episode three- "Petals"

Note - this is still a first draft, any feedback would be much appreciated. Especially for this one, this is a super interesting concept to explore, but my brain found it so difficult, and comments on if I got to the core of this would be appreciated. <3

-----

Puddles had been the one to tell Rose to hug others. Fae said everyone liked surprise hugs, the 'quintessential show of affection.

Maidoe didn't like hugs.

That, or Rose never realized how sharp fur thorns actually were.

Rose could've blamed Puddles. Maybe fae did. Fae didn't know. Rose just enjoyed Puddle's company more than faer anger. 

Rose flicked faer tail & trotted to faer plant, carefully checking to make sure their needs were met. It seemed okay. Large trailing vines, full of wild glory, with the bloom - a showcase of wild ingenuity.

So why didn't the others work that way?

Money tree glared in faer direction whenever Rose passed by - as if Rose's advice was a personal offence- before sitting with Venus.

Puddles was more absent than usual, not at all willing to have their usual debates. and fae completely shut down Rose's help.

And Maidoe?

Maidoe left. Never to be seen again. Because Rose had tried to forget faer thorns.

Rose climbed the trailing vines, inspecting each leaf for infestation (never could be too careful after the recent scare).

Rose was wild. Rose had thorns. Rose was Rose. Fae didn't know how to be any other way. Fae didn't WANT to be any other way.

So why couldn't these houseplants look at Rose's own success with faer plant & see...

....how well fae took care of it.

What did Rose do so differently with faer blooms? Fae settled upon faer high-knot -sanctuary, kneading the vines as fae thought.

Well, Rose watched & listened. Fae waited for any signs of distress. then gently eased it to how it would grow best.

And with the others?

Rose tried to give them thorn-y hugs they didn't want. But that didn't mean four thorns were bad... it just meant that Rose needed to... "cultivate" faer friendships.

Fae needed to listen and watch and only give advice when they needed it... or when they showed signs of distress..?

Rose climbed from faer perch to the base of faer plant.

Perhaps fae could ask questions. That would be helpful.

Like to Puddles. Rose found faer sitting beside Maidoe's tree, stroking the leaves.

Rose sat next to faer. "What can I help with?"

"Just... sit here, with me? For a little while."

Rose flicked faer tail "Of course"

There were ways to not poke the others.

Without covering faer thorns.

------

[Next episode - "Gone"]

if you don't mind the little self-promo: reblog this with one kind statement to "water" rose, let's spread some wonder to this convoluted place <3

And spread the word to anyone else who would like to add their houseplant to the garden, perhaps we can fill tumblr with houseplants.

[moderndayfantasia]

An Introduction:

I would like to greet any wayward reader who may have found this page, this is my personal journal cataloguing my encounters with

The Denizens of Fantasia

To explain the meaning of this phrase:

A Denizen of Fantasia is a term for any of the nigh endless beings that dwell within the enigmatic realm of Fantasia.

I would like the reader to take a moment and imagine with me something foreign and perhaps a touch childish. What if those old legends and myths you used to pour over for endless hours in dark rooms by flashlight were actually true?

The Slaying of A Dragon

Gaining the Respect of a Griffin

Fiendish Sun Fearing Trolls

And of course, my favorite...

The many Fae and their Endless Dance.

Now I hear your cries!

"It's Impossible!"

"Those are just Children's Stories!"

"Have you taken your Meds?"

Well my sweet and so very foolish reader who is ill informed to a degree to cry "HUMBUG!", to this I say dig deeper. Look past your hollow disbelief and stare into that flickering light of a pixie in a moonlit garden, mistaken for dew but always there tending to the flowers and directing the bees and feeding the aphids. Rethink that shadow from the sky that passes over you. A cloud? No... Perhaps a Roc?

There are mysteries to this world my dear student that have fallen beneath the slothen gaze of mankind, and I have made my encampment here to speak of my research to the masses.

I dare not say I am the smartest on any given subject, there is no one correct interpretation of these beings, there are so many varying beings that pour from this world that there is little way to categorize them beyond vague rules and assumptions based on research and observation.

So I do sincerely hope that you will join me along this journey. To look into the eyes of a Troll, discover a Goblin Infestation, and Encounter The Fairfolk themselves.

[flagellant]

What are some of your favorite types of fae/diamon/kami/yokai/genius loci type guys?

A sort of coagulate I tend to call Verminqueens, things which coalesce and form up from large numbers of infestations in relatively small places. All those rabbits or beetles or molds or pokeweeds condensing into something which embodies their aspects of rampant growth and spread, but always the aspect or being predated as well--you can have 150 rabbits in a room, and only one terrier, and we all know the odds.

Another more specific being was a dryad of a burnt cottonwood tree at a park near where I used to live. Less species, more person. I made it a project to try and figure out how to keep her alive, and that's where my interest in gardening (and especially guerilla gardening) came from!

[caspermhahn]

Are you sure you wouldn't like to run? A game of tag, perhaps? All we have is time, you know. An eternity of time. Or shall we end it? Might as well. After all, we're missing the party. ― Stephen King, The Shining

tw: blood, suggestive violence, drug mention, hallucinations, weapon mentions: @marcellabelanades, the hahn family, unknown sire

Hours had passed— or maybe just moments, since he and Marcella had split away from the grand ballroom to find themselves astray in the garden’s overgrowth. A usual occurrence when it came to the couple, who would often bid an Irish goodbye to feel as though they were alone among his family’s woodland edged property. So much of the masquerade had brought up those memories as they waltzed, the swamplands being their native soil and was a place the two had not just met but blossomed into more. Bittersweet, a majority of them felt that way as his past had been tethered to his witchcraft and the necromancer’s own. Along with his family and sometimes found that he now missed the things he would then drag his feet about. Though Casper had discovered quite a bit of silver-lining in all of it, the transition and new patterns he forged, and the visage of the faerie realm and new ethos were starting to rest in the daily habits of Rome.

But the twilight of the night sky, brilliant shades of pinks and purples that faded into the mixed blues, was more than a pleasant distraction as the reflection bounced onto his partner’s eyes. Despite all the curveballs that kept flying towards the recently changed vampire, he’d remained optimistic, and showed that rose-tinted outlook in the curvature of his lips before gently planting them on hers. There was never a need to say anything, Casper had been infatuated with the witch since the moment he saw her picking mushrooms on his family's property. He’d thought at first she was an apparition, spirits were known to gravitate towards the abundance of magic surrounding his home or inhabit the local bayou just behind. Then she revealed her name and even his mother had to do a double-take, though that might have been the official moment Angeline attached herself to the witch who currently harbored herself in the thickets and tall grasses. Deathless, undying, everlasting. Maybe those would have been the appropriate words if they were at all needed, masks soon abandoned along with the extravagant attire, the magnetism of it all engulfing them completely.

— — — —

The Pluto vampire could lay there for the rest of his immortality in this state of nirvana. Even without his partner by his side, though preferred, there was just this sense of complete euphoria he’d always longed for. How could he forget the times that he was living in the sweltering, muggy and mosquito infested swamplands; his body positioned similar to this exact one as he attempted to see a world beyond his plane of existence. Surrounded by the start of his father’s yard decoration that encroached on the late summer and early fall blooms his mother worked so hard on each year. A sea of prairie blazing star, creeping liriope, and sunset huskmallow in his view that reminds him of the scene in Alice in Wonderland where she is among all the flowers who speak to her. Yet instead of just bundles of willow leaf sunflower and black-eyed susans, magically carved pumpkins and animated skeletons haphazardly littered the space. The cracking sound just a few feet away snapped him into realization that he was no longer recounting a memory, but back in the bayou. His home, with all its familiar smells and sounds. But that didn’t quite make sense, Casper had just been in the greenery of the fae and not his mothers— hadn’t he?

Lurching up, emerald irises bouncing around as the vampire adorned a look of confusion, Casper noticed the silhouette of his father perched on his family's southern-style wrap around porch. Was this real? Casper had experienced his fair share of delusions and elixir induced fantasies, but there was something about this one that just hit different. This had all the make-up of a nightmare and he couldn’t help the chuckle that flooded from his lips, practically feeling validated for all the times he had referenced his existence in the natural world as his film inspiration. Certainly the silhouette wasn’t Cortney, even if it did sound like him, the former witch’s gut boiled with alarm that told him otherwise. Pumpkin guts splattered across the dark walnut stained deck that shifted to pools of blood as the stranger in sheep's clothing positioned the once embedded hatchet in a way that only suggested one thing; run like hell.

Cypresses and oak trees swoosh past him as his vampire instincts fully take over, irises peeking slightly behind himself in order to see if the stranger was still at his heels, only to notice the sheen of blood in his view. How could they keep up? Casper was no longer a witch testing his illusion magic in the backwaters of Louisiana, but somehow he sensed he was back there in those moments of becoming someone else’s prey and each direction seeming to lead him towards a dead end without much hope for an escape.

[lailoken]

A Minor Appeasement of the Fae

—

This rite is to be performed when one has reason to believe that they have displeased one or more of the Gloaming Brood. This ritual shouldn’t be attempted for serious cases of Blight or Infestation, but rather, for situations such as the crossing of a minor taboo.

Aside from the regular working tools of one’s Craft, a practitioner meaning to perform this ritual should have with them:

• An Uncrossimg Candle of their own devisement.

• Job’s Teeth,

• Elderflowers,

• Pearlwort (Irish Moss),

• and a method of giving Blood.

Seek out a private place in nature, wherein you may work, and which radiates a sense of power and liminality. Having properly raised and aligned your power, place the candle upon a Hood-Paten (or analogous working tool) and sprinkle nine Job’s Teeth onto the head of your Uncrossing Candle. Then, use a lighting stick to carry the flame of your Hood-Fire (altar candles, balefire, etc.) to the wick of the Uncrossing Candle.

Once it is lit, rip from your head a lock of hair—making sure you pull just enough to cause you pain—and burn it over the flame of the candle, strand by strand, reciting an incantation of nine verses:

“Hail to the Fair Folk;

You who haunt the hills and glens.

Astral spirits of Twilighit splendor,

I beseech you in my hour of exigence,

that I might be granted the gift of your favor.

By the Heart of the Earth and the Voice of the Trees—

By the Eyes of the Stars and the Womb of the Sea—

I bring you the boon of my unflinching Faith,

and ask to be led by your Eventide Charter.”

When you have finished with the incantation, sprinkle a generous helping of the Pearlwort over the candle and allow it to burn down, after having dispersed all convened energies and/or allies.

Once fully melted, gather the remaining mixture of wax and herbs and bring it to a garden, glen, or clearing. Having arrived, dig a whole and place the remnants of your ritual within, covering the contents with a blanket of Elderflowers before burying it all again. Give an offering of blood to the place of burial and finish with any words of power pertinent to your Craft.

[verryberriess]

How the King of Elfhame Lost His Stories | Part 1

tap picture for better quality :3

Rating: M (NSFW)

Synopsis: As long as Jude didn’t go back to the human world, she would remain by his side. (CANON-COMPLIANT)

Word Count: 6,206

A/N: Sorry!!! I take a long time to write, but I’m really excited about this. Thanks again to @maastrash​ for helping me with edits<3 :3

Cardan looked back at his queen, sleeping soundly on the bed beside him. He examined her sleeping profile: her luscious colored lips that always kept him wanting more, long eyelashes he admired for framing her walnut-colored eyes, and the line of her jaw that he loved to kiss over and over again. He laid beside her, resting his head against his palm while his arm took up his weight. Despite its king size, Jude had somehow managed to wrap most of the duvet around herself, leaving Cardan the meager edges to lie under. 

Cardan didn’t mind. Some nights he would yank back the covers from her, a tug of war of sorts that usually lasted for hours on end, carrying on until someone fell asleep first. Sometimes the covers were tugged back unconsciously from the other’s grasp, which ended up leaving either Jude or him cold and freezing in the morning. Most nights, however, they fell asleep in each other’s arms, after a cozy entanglement of love making.

She was so cute, so beautiful, he thought. Curled up, Jude looked peaceful. Not a scowl in sight. This was Sleeping Jude, a side of Jude that only few are able to get to know well. A side of Jude that is sighted only when the sun is high and it is early twilight, where her breaths are even and relaxed and the stress of the night’s schemes didn’t hinder her. A side of Jude that only Cardan’s eyes were allowed to see.  

He peered at the pendant that hung around her neck loosely. Crafted unprofessionally and held together by a simple snake knot, the leather string was weighed down by a rusty brass coin that seemed hastily carved with the initials “JD x CG”. How the thing had not yet been lost to time or turned into dust, despite these thousands of years, was beyond him. He smiled. 

It was a cheesy gift, one that he had prepared quickly in the week before Jude’s coronation as queen. He gave it to her while he pulled her aside from the extravagance of the revel, wanting to have his newly crowned queen all to himself for at least once that night.

Cardan thought how utterly surreal it was since then. To think that he had spent thousands of nights since the coronation with this mortal woman that was his sweet nemesis, that he used to scorn and ridicule her just because she was disgustingly always on his mind. No, he couldn’t betray himself anymore. It wasn’t disgusting at all. He had welcomed those thoughts, and remembered how his eyes always seemed to find her form in the crowd, trailing after her, no matter the area or size of the crowd. And when she wasn’t in sight, her wicked presence had infested his mind, occupying the back of his thoughts like a parasite he would do nothing towards to resist. But now, she was next to him, besides him always. His wicked queen. 

It was rare for him to have woken up before her. She had been tired lately, sleeping in more than usual. He watched the sun dip into the horizon and a flurry of colors overcast the sky, illuminating a soft glow around Jude from the opening between the curtains. 

Slowly, she stirred. Her nose wrinkled and she shifted a bit, moving closer towards his direction. Her eyes puckered but they gradually opened. Jude blinked up at Cardan, while he stared back.

“How long have you been watching me sleep?” Jude asked accusingly.

Cardan smiled, his face of wicked amusement. “Never will I lose appreciation for my lovely wife’s incriminations, but I must admit that I’ve been awaiting your rising to kiss those hooded eyefolds of yours.” 

“When did you ever start waiting to do something?” 

“Since whenever it had to do with you.” Cardan put down the arm he had been resting his head upon, leaning in towards Jude. As he got closer, he watched Jude squeeze her eyes shut, allowing him to close the space between them. Cardan pressed his lips against the lid of her eye as promised, soon maneuvering to her neglected right. He pulled back and smiled. 

Jude opened her eyes again, “Well that’s certainly one way to fully rouse me. I feel like it was only last night when we first exchanged our vows.” She propped herself up and flipped over the covers. It was time for her to get out of bed and go about her royal duties, but Cardan didn't want her escaping his presence just yet. 

Rid of his tired daze, with a sudden haste Cardan catapulted himself out of the bed and made his way to the bathing room after Jude, who went towards the chamber pot, and bent over it. “Throughout our past thousands of years of marriage, I never believed that my kissing you would make you withdraw away from me.” 

He prepped himself at the sink, as servants readied the bath for him. He watched Jude undress, slipping off her sheer nightgown and letting the air taste her nude flesh. He couldn’t help but admire her as he stripped out of his own satin night shirt. He would never tire of her form. He’s always been fascinated by the simplicity of the mortal figure. Surrounded by the complexity of the fae, Cardan was used to seeing mixed forms, of which consisted of fae with animalistic or plant aspects, though he had long accepted that he was a slave to Jude’s sloped breasts and sweet lies. Despite their nightly activities, and the fact that he and Jude had fulfilled each and every one of his sexual fantasies, seeing her nude body dip into the tub of rose water renewed his raging fervor for her. It was like seeing her without those garments and petty underthings for the first time again. Again and again. Every night.

He joined her in the tub. The water, infused with a few dozen oils and scents he never took the time to learn the names of, lapped at his skin. 

“The depths of your desire is very apparent right now, Cardan.” Jude remarked.

“As always, dear wife.” He smirked.

Every now and then they would do this. He would wash her back, since he enjoyed the touch of her skin, while Jude arched against the tips of his fingers that lingered seconds too long. He never tired of the suds that he always popped and of Jude’s eye rolls at his childish behavior. They would banter before a silence befell them, soak up the essences of the water until their skins became raw and wrinkled, and get out of the bath to get ready for the night’s tasks.

Although Cardan knew she didn’t fancy it, ever since Jude had been crowned her wardrobe had become more extravagant than ever. He didn’t mind, especially since the range in lacy underthings had upgraded, much to his benefit. Though, Jude had added upon her own tastes as well: tops, pants, shorts, anything she’d be able to move fluidly in. Her collection of sword sheaths and belts further fascinated him, due to the pockets that fitted their respective array of knives, daggers, and other deadly poisons he wouldn’t dare wield.

Jude donned a pale blue court dress adorned with crow feathers, while he dressed in a black doublet with velvet cuffs, breeches, and a fur capelet. He tossed his own crown atop his hair, not worried about its placement. 

“What do your royal duties consist of today?” Cardan inquired. 

Jude set the crown onto her head and attached Nightfell to her hip as she strolled to the door, “The usual. Scheming, power-plays, and paperwork.” She pauses. “And, perhaps I may go out riding with Grima Mog.” 

Cardan replied, “Ah, yes, I forget we are knee-deep in affairs with the Court of Teeth. Taking Grima Mog would make a fine decision.” He lowered into a chair, “Should you need my presence on your ride, however, I would much oblige.” 

In response, Jude tilted her head and smiled, “I’ll keep that in mind. Join me for lunch, though?”

He thought of his own duties he would attend to today, but didn’t think twice about having lunch with Jude. He had never placed his work before her and wouldn’t ever even entertain such a ridiculous idea. “In the garden. With the silver-blue roses. Alone.” 

Jude grinned harder before she was off. Cardan waited in the armchair, allowing the servants to commence dusting his cheeks with gold and adorning him with an assortment of jewelry. Besides her crown, pendant, and Nightfell, Jude rarely embellished herself in the other brooches and ornaments he had gifted to her. He knew she didn’t place value in such “meaningless trinkets,” as she called them, but he loved to see her in finery. To observe the shine of gold she occasionally wore not even be able to compete to her even more illustrious presence. 

By the time Cardan yielded himself back to reality, the servants had already finished with him. He dismissed them.

Jude took command over his thoughts far too often the past few days. He was looking forward to lunch. Or, maybe it was because the anniversary of her coronation was coming up. 

Cardan stood up and left their chamber. 

He made his way to the study, meeting with a few members of the court to plan the final arrangements for the week-long revel in two days. 

~.~.~.~.~

“And since it is the 1600th year of our reign, I expect no less than grandiose. I want feasts, debauchery, and excess— golden beetle thread embroidered onto seats, glowlight vines, wine! Goblets and carafes of the best mortal wine—“

A courtier, scribbling as fast as she could on her leaflets of notes, interrupted, “Your Majesty-- ”

Despite the disarray of the small audience in the room, Cardan continued without regress, “Everything must be labeled. Faerie wine, rosettes of meat, hazelnuts, and bread and cheese alike. Should I set my gaze upon even an inkling of faerie fruit or hear the slightest hint of the treachery against the queen, it’s off to the Tower of Forgetting.” 

“Your pardon, our stores for mortal wine are depleted, I’m afraid.” Randalin, the Minister of Keys said worriedly, “The last time we’ve tried to replenish the stock was disastrous. According to the last Folk who ventured to the human world, the mortals had quite the frenzy discovering our… ah, differences.” 

But Cardan interjected once again, “If it’s such a problem, why have we continued to rendezvous with the kind for so long? We’ve had thousands of nights with the beverage at no hindrances. Continue to do whatever you have done before to restore the stock.” With that, Cardan took a long swig from his goblet. He set it down, before continuing. “Any state matters shall be discussed elsewhere, in the strategy room, so that my wife is present to consult with the rest of your woes.” 

The courtiers paled. Everyone in Elfhame was already well-aware of their queen’s reputation. Nonetheless, they respected her, as Cardan expected it so. Jude had grown into her power and legislation beautifully. Politics and schemes were in her favor, and cruelness and bloodshed at her behest. There was no room to humiliate, discredit, or taint her honor.

Cardan got up from his cushioned chair and made his way to the doorway. “Now, since this meeting has since been hours too long, I shall release myself. The pleasure of my world has been delayed long enough.” He left the courtiers to discuss among themselves the matters of the ball without him. They would be able to take care of it themselves. 

He shut the door behind him and walked out into the hall. Cardan had long been accustomed to ruling, but he still found said matters of state boring. Although he would have liked to refrain from admitting such, his attention span was the size of a honey cake and his mind often wandered elsewhere. Nevertheless, he contributed to council meetings. He entertained his court with his musings, and he also found himself confident in complementing Jude’s decrees with his own advising. They balanced each other out.

Cardan carried a certain poise in his step as he walked throughout the halls of the palace. The estate had never been a home to him until he made those vows with Jude. 

He got to the garden, satisfied at the sight of the picnic blanket and basket laid out upon the grass amongst the green scenery. He was glad that the Bomb had gotten his message about getting someone to set up the picnic for them. The meeting had taken three hours, and he couldn’t help but doze off at the thought of lunch the whole time. Although he and Jude ate together regularly, it wasn’t every day that they had cute setups. Cardan smiled in victory to himself. How victorious it felt to have come up with an excellent idea. A picnic in the garden! Where Jude had disposed of his deceased brother!

Settling himself on the picnic blanket, he waited for Jude’s arrival. The moon was bright tonight, allowing him an easy glance at the green around him, with the occasional difference in hue in the trees and flowers. Night sprites buzzed and sounded the air with a light hum. He tinkered with the woven twigs that made up the basket, poking and prodding at the delicate framework to pass the time. 

Too immersed in his new plaything, the crackle of laughter above him startled him. He looked up at Jude’s laughing form. She held her sides, looking like she was trying to hold herself together, and her body bent at some awkward angle. This was another side of Jude he appreciated. 

He had discovered her ability to laugh early in their marriage. Before then, in contrast, he couldn’t remember a time when she had ever laughed while in his presence. He knew he, himself, was to blame for who he was back then. The first time he had delighted at her laughter, he wordlessly promised himself he would try to encourage her laughter and happiness further. He wanted to hear the sound every day-- let it replace the honey wine he used to drown himself in. 

It was back when both he and Jude journeyed to the human world to visit Vivi and Heather. Cardan was fascinated by the tiny space that Jude had once lived in while in exile. He couldn’t believe his eyes at the way humans lived without magic, utilizing light and a continuous flow of charge to power their suspicious devices and supposedly, their whole world. He had been confused at the combination of tomato and cheesy bread, but deemed it appetizing. And when he had tried to glamour his attire to match that of the styles of what the humans wore, he was so utterly confused, he found Jude uncontrolled in a way that was full of energy, doubling over and eyes squeezed shut as she clutched at her belly. He guessed that his attire was what caused her reaction, so he replaced his doublet with some shirt that belonged to Vivi’s human friend. Regardless, apparently his newly upgraded state of dress appeared even more ridiculous because it had provoked Jude to laugh even harder. 

How unfair of her. She was as unsuited to the human world as himself, but he loved the glow of her happiness when she laughed. So he had grinned back in return. 

“You looked like you required no other company besides yourself and that basket of yours!” Jude called.

Cardan sensed a trend in Jude’s source of laughter.

“Well, I admit this basket makes fine company, but I wouldn’t think it would make for great long term companionship.” Cardan retorted. If causing Jude’s laughter was to be at his expense, he may perhaps go along with her foolery.

“Yes, and I would.” 

“You’re not wrong. It neither speaks nor sneers. It’s convinced me to not partake in pursuing this friendship further, however disappointed it may be.” Cardan watched Jude take a seat next to him. She proceeded to flip open the lid of the basket, going through the collection of assorted foods inside.

“A grave loss,” Jude confirmed. “What do we have here?” She asked incredulously, waving out the small cardboard box. The box was twelve inches in diameter. Its smell was extremely pungent but nostalgically familiar-- something he hadn’t had in a long time. He couldn’t decipher what it was. Jude set the box on the blanket between them and lifted up the lid. “Pizza?” Her eyes widened at him. 

“Ah, so this is how the royal kitchen interprets ‘savory for a human.’ I’m quite pleased, I hadn’t known that this is what they would plan.” Cardan answered.

“Its smell rivals that of humans'. Did they make it themselves?” Jude had already taken it upon herself to grab a slice. The strings of cheese were reluctant in parting with themselves in the other slices, but it stood no chance against Jude’s merciless attack. 

Jude looked so casual. She had flayed out her dress so that she could extend her legs across the blanket, removing her shoes in the process so she sat barefoot. Another side of Jude he loved, Cardan noted. How she could be so effortless in her movements and still be able to disarm him. To others, she was a fierce murderess. Conversely, to him, she was always a seductress in waiting, yielding secrets about herself to him in bits and pieces that he lapped up so eagerly and fervently. It had already been more than a thousand years, yet he still had so much he needed to know about her.  

“I’m confident that they did.” Cardan grabbed a piece for himself and bit into its tip with conviction. He knew exactly what pizza was now. And how to eat it. Cardan had accumulated an Insmoor’s worth of experience eating the savory dish throughout the first few times he and Jude visited the human world. “Many are too cowardly to simply fetch wine from a mortal department store.” He relished in the ratio between the sauce and cheese. He appreciated the effort the chefs had put in to add the prawns as toppings, allowing him to reminisce of their first journey there. 

“I suppose that it’s good for the stores to have depleted. I’d like to lay low on the liquor for a while.” Jude continued to bite into her pizza. Small specks of red sauce stained the area around her mouth. 

Not a strange request since Jude had never been a big drinker, but ever since they had gotten mortal alcohol that's safe for her to drink, Jude indulged herself on occasion. Cardan smiled at the thought. She ought to hold her liquor better. At their last event, while Cardan had downed goblets after goblets of faerie fruit cocktails to get himself past tipsy, she had already been a stumbling mess at the table.

“That would delight the courtiers in excess. Dear wife, so you do have a heart after all. ” He mused. 

 “In some circumstances.” With only three slices left, they had almost finished the pizza. “Do you remember when we journeyed to the hidden lake in Insmire a few weeks ago, where we conversed of forever together?”

Cardan answered, “... We have an eternity and a few. Why, are you worried that your days will have become a bore and that your love for me will shrivel? Fear not, for I will never allow that.” 

“I have been resting more often than late, but I have never been bored. In fact, things have actually become more interesting…” 

Weeks ago, Cardan took Jude through the Milkwood to visit the hidden lake he had used to traverse to by himself.

It was a secret spot, one only known to a few, and he took Jude there for the first time, to finally reveal one of his long kept secrets. Despite the title he had given it, the lake was more like a large pond, home to hundreds of forest and water sprites, pixies, and nymphs. 

When the moon was at its brightest, where it was closest to the surface of Elfhame in its orbit, the brilliance of the lake was unparalleled. Pixies and sprites alike illuminated the surroundings to reflect the moonlight that shone upon the crystal waters, overcasting a soft glow in the midst of the dark surroundings. It was at this time where not only the creatures and faerie of the Milkwood celebrated the glow of the moon, but the flowers, waters, insects, and soil participated as well. It was at only this time of year when the hidden lake’s flowers of gold and cerulean hues bloomed in full, casting off a shimmering spectacle of reflective light among the greenery.

But to wait thousands of years for the perfect time to show Jude, had been absolutely devastating to him. He had only wanted to show her his favorite spot when it was at its finest, disappointing himself year after year when he had to refuse her requests to venture to the lake. 

“It’s absolutely beautiful,” Jude whispered, her eyes taking in the sight of the hovering flower sprites. “To think that you’ve been hiding this after all this time. How cruel of you.”

“I just wanted to wait until the time was right-- when the moon is at its closest and brightest.” Cardan explained. “Every year I surveyed the stars, confronted Baphen of the state of the moon, waiting and waiting for the perfect time to take you. And when I finally got an answer that the time would be tonight, after more than four thousand years since the last Moondrop, I knew my efforts to outsmart your scheming, pesky stalking, and fake anguish would all be worth it. And it is. Your glowing, my sweet Jude.”

Jude grinned. Beautiful and wide. Lashes brimmed against the soft smooth of her cheeks when she smiled so hard, he could tell her cheeks strained. “I love you.” 

Cardan’s cheeks burned. His face felt so hot, and later the rest of his body. His tail had gotten out free, twitching back and forth excitedly, enamored by the buzz of his thoughts and feelings for the mortal woman before him. “I love you too.”

He tugged Jude against him, hugging her tightly against his chest. This-- having her soft body pressed up against his, molding to fit against his frame, and her soft pretty lips so close to his own he felt, rather than heard, the slight breaths that escaped her, and the hair that framed her face ticking his chin. By the gods, he wanted to kiss her so badly. He loved her so much, so, so much. The only figure who had shown him love in this life, how to love, and how it felt to feel desired and wanted. Everything was mutual between them. It was too good to be true. 

This mortal woman that he had tricked himself into hating for the longest time in his youth, was the one he wanted by his side forever. Cardan clutched Jude so tightly, like he was afraid she would disperse into thin air before him and take away every feeling of love she had permitted him. He clutched each of her declarations so tightly to his heart, never in his life had he felt so overwhelmed and obsessed with something. Only when it came to her. 

He started with her lips, not at all soft or light. He pressed his lips into hers fiercely, wanting to taste all of her. And when that wasn’t enough, he met her tongue in a passionate dance, that ultimately turned into a battle of wills between two stubborn souls, relentless and unyielding. They shared breaths, and Jude reached up a hand to run up the side of his taut muscles, his body hot and aroused from the scalding tension between them. 

Jude pulled away, though she was still near enough so he could feel her deep exhalations from their lack of air. She spoke softly, as if she had only wanted Cardan to hear the words she was about to speak, “Cardan, do you want to try?”

His mind rolled into blank space. He didn’t understand what else she wanted to try. He thought they had tried out all of the positions his and Jude’s fantasies had dreamt up of, but apparently not, however. “Try what?” He finally asked. He was a little annoyed. He felt feverish from the heat building up within him, and the sight of Jude right now only intensified his fervor. 

She rolled her eyes in response. “For a kid. For you to be a father, idiot.” 

Without further provocation, Cardan clasped his hands around her middle and pulled them towards the banks of the lake. He heard Jude let out a quiet gasp as he used his momentum to twist themselves off the edge. They were airborne for milliseconds, wrapped around each other until they heard the crash of the lake water envelope their hearing. Cardan had flipped them so that he would take most of the impact, using a bit of his magic to soften their crash through the water, which caused the surface of the lake to fracture in lingering ripples. But now, all they could feel was the sensation of their beings underwater, making a gradual descent from the surface until the pressure slowly pulled them upwards again. Their movements were languid against the syrup of the water, sounds muted, and only Cardan’s overwhelming glee and desire for his wicked queen mattered. He never realized until then how he ought to engage in underwater kisses more. 

They broke the water’s surface and had engaged in each other for the rest of the night.

Cardan watched Jude put down her goblet of water and slowly place her hands atop her stomach. 

His eyes widened. He couldn’t distinguish between what was louder: the stunned silence that blared between the two, or the rapid increase in booms that sounded from his chest. Sounds and feelings were elevated at headlong, where he was stuck in an indescribable state of everything and nothingness, that is, until everything rushed back at him. 

“Y-you’re…” Cardan blabbered.

Jude smiled, but her eyes misted, where tears gathered. 

And then Cardan continued the merciless assault against her he had cultivated on Moondrop. With intense love and devotion and adoration for the woman next to him, he descended upon her in a song of nervous anticipation and joy. Cardan worshipped Jude, her body, and her devastating power over him like the Queen that she was, in a certain reckless abandon that once his lips met hers the energy became so heated and hungry. 

In contrast to the fevered energy that pulsed around them, in the distance, chirping sounds relentlessly insisted a festive tune. A flurry of white and blue rose petals fluttered in the surroundings, carried by a cold breeze that Cardan welcomed against his hot skin. Cardan saw none of the Folk around them. They were utterly alone, in a sacred spot away from the fence of blooming elderflowers and the nosiness of tree sprites, away from any eyes that could spot them committing mischief. So they proceeded.

His tongue glided along her bottom lip, demanding entrance, which Jude obliged heartedly. His tongue plunged inside the depths of her mouth, tangling with hers, probing and exploring. She moaned, which only heightened his desire and need. “Jude... I need you” Cardan breathed. His shaky grip on control loosened further. His head swam and he felt Jude’s own body sing for him, as she melted into him effortlessly.

He moved his palms up and down her skin, his thumb brushing down the slope of her shoulders to the length of her arms. Jude, in exchange, explored the muscles of his lean frame, as she had done more than a thousand times in her life. He nuzzled in closer, and was unable to form a single coherent thought, other than relishing in the taste of Jude and the utter beautifulness that was her. Jude quickly undid the buttons of his doublet. Afterwards, she got up to strip off her dress while Cardan shimmied out of his breeches. 

Cardan trailed his fingers along the lace of her black bra, expertly unhooking the offending material and discarding it into the grass. He gave her a predatory look, unable to hide his hunger and lust any longer. He moved to cup Jude’s breasts, gently squeezing, where she arched into his touch and elicited another breathless moan. She fell back again, allowing him further access, so he trailed his lips over the warm expanse of her neck, tracing her collarbones with his tongue, while his hands busied themselves deep within her. His tail unknowingly brushed against her ass, its sensual touch contributing to her pleasure.

But Jude, unable to allow Cardan to handle the reins for any longer, crouched over him, pressing her body against his and the ground. She kissed him again, sensuously, taking her time to first kiss his eyelids, the arch of his nose, lips, cheekbones, and the sharp planes of his face and body. She left a sloppy trail down his neck, along his chest and abdomen. Cardan groaned. His eyes rolled back into his head, an accumulating heat building up in him.

She positioned herself so that her entrance hovered above that of Cardan’s length. 

“Cardan,” Jude called. “I am beside you. Always.”

And that was his undoing. 

Cardan analyzed the unmasked elation in her gaze as he locked eyes with her. He climbed back on top of her and seized control from Jude. He wanted to attend to her-- to express every bit of passion and sentiment that that statement alone had stirred in him. 

He wanted to give her everything-- provide his child and his queen with everything: power, riches, love. He would give his child a boundless love that stemmed from a bottomless well that had accumulated over the years, in thanks to Jude. He would give his child the childhood he never had and never allow them to experience the cruelty and neglect that he had unknowingly accepted throughout his adolescence. 

Cardan held her steady, slipping inside with little difficulty. He rocked himself against her hips, and pushed against her harder, faster, until his name fell from Jude’s soft, cherry lips listlessly, like a sort of begging that furthered him into the abyss. 

~.~.~.~.~

Afterwards, Cardan and Jude left for their rooms. They showered--together-- and advanced their little ministrations and teases until they separated again, to finish the day’s tasks. 

Jude went on a ride with Grima Mog. He trusted her that she’d be safe, but now, he was worried for her safety more than ever. 

In addition to Jude’s anniversary of her coronation, he wanted to announce the existence of his heir. Shouting it into the skies wouldn’t be enough. He wanted to profess it to Elfhame-- the world-- of the news. But, he guessed a month-long revel of feasts and serenades would have to suffice. 

Cardan gazed at the ceiling, observing the candles and lights that illuminated the room. He had forgotten that the Minister of Keys was present, muttering indistinct nothings that he had long chosen to ignore before he focused on the faerie. He lowered the paper he had been analyzing, eyes narrowing and blacking by the second. The minister across the room managed to lower himself by another two degrees. “My King, everything is written in detail. A scribe wrote down a list of the specific themes and characteristics that will be administered at the celebration.”

He glared at the frail script of black on parchment. It was hard not to chew the inner lining of his mouth but he refrained the chagrin. “Enlighten me, Randalin, what does ‘Ask the mortal Devil-Queen for her preference in the color of flowers. Apparently the High King wants to obtain more mortal wine, but at the cost of a few of our Folk’s wits. It does not sit well with Cockroach-face, for he believes that the Queen should dance merrily to our festive tunes. He also proposes we shall try to let the Queen decide on what specific brand she most especially esteems--” mean to you? Does the word ‘surprise’ carry a different meaning to the lot of you?” Cardan crumpled the parchment and threw it into the fire. 

Randalin mutely winced. “I supplemented your scribe’s diligent notes in red ink for clarification, my lord. The exchange between you and Yorn and the other courtiers lasted for three hours. Your scribe’s stamina was stupefying. She scribbled non-stop.”

“And new, I presume.” Cardan retaliated.

“Certainly, my king. The scribe went off to our queen for her input, but with ill fortune, the queen has been out. The scribe returned with no information of importance.” 

Cardan glared ominously at the wordy fool.

Randalin sputtered, “Y- your Majesty! I shall rewrite the report.” 

 “We have been entertaining revels and gatherings with human refreshments for as long as I could remember. What makes this one so different that you lot have retracted towards such difficulties?” 

Randalin grew red. His form quivered in the increasingly displeased presence of his high king. “It-- well--” Randalin paused, unable to form words coherent enough for his tongue. 

“Nonsense,” Cardan remarked. “Times have changed. It is whatever, for now. You may relax, we won’t be having the presence of human alcohol for quite a few months. Refill the stocks as you can.”

Cardan watched the Minister of Keys instantly loosen, yet fright and tension still tormented his will. “That is… that is most incredibly generous of you, your Majesty. We are so utterly grateful for your extended benevolence.”

“As you should.” 

Randalin shifted, but asked tentatively. “But may I ask… what inspired this... sudden change?” 

“You will know in two night’s time.” 

“That is the celebration!” 

“Indeed, it is.” Cardan dismissed Randalin. He left the room with thundering footsteps; the door slammed shut. 

Cardan walked through the halls again, wanting to work alone in his study.

Royal guards and sentries lined the halls and bordered the gates of the private doors of the palace. 

Cardan studied documents and parchments in his study for hours before he resigned himself to dinner, where he took his meal alone. 

He regarded Jude’s whereabouts. It wasn’t unusual for her to go out for a few days at a time, but she usually told him beforehand about what she would be up to. He picked at his charcuterie plate, that consisted of breads, cheeses, grapes and a goblet of honey wine. He tried to shake off the uneasy feeling he felt in his gut, calming himself before he impulsively told his guards to call for Jude and his Grand General back to the palace.

“Dessert, your majesty?” A servant walked up to him to refill his wine.

“Thank you, but I’d like to do without tonight.” He replied.

“Of course. I’ll clear this for you,” the servant cleared the plates and boards from the table, leaving the carafe and goblet, before scuttling away. The servant’s whiskers twitched in dismay at the king’s sullen mood.

Cardan sat at the table, continuing to guzzle himself away. He attributed his raging worry for Jude towards the fact that their unborn child lay inside of her, but he was also excited for Jude’s return. He waited for hours in his cushioned chair at the dining table.

Later, he decided that he would retire early for the night, escaping into the bliss of his chambers that would surround him in Jude’s scent. 

He closed the curtains of his room tightly, leaving no room for the noon’s light to seep in. He changed into his sleep clothes, rid himself of makeup and jewels that peppered his being, and laid in the bed. 

By the time Cardan was able to fall asleep, he was awoken by a volley of furious knocks at his door. He could see the sun’s shine that casted a faded glow beneath the thickness of his curtains. Grumpily, he trudged to the door, and yanked it open. 

He looked forward to seeing Jude at the door, even though it was so bright and early for him to be woken at this time, but was disappointed to find The Roach and The Bomb in front of him.

Before he could utter a word out at their overconfidence to be at his doorstep that morning, they beat him in answering of Jude’s regards.

“Your Majesty!” The Roach cried. “Grima Mog has returned, but without Her Highness!” 

Cardan froze. His hands began to shake uncontrollably. His knees buckled under him, leading him to crash onto the floor, commissioning the rough of the oak floorboards to wound his knees. He was unable to discern whether he felt fright or rage, but without another word and with little strength, he got to his feet again, and ran out of the room.

Tags: @maastrash @b00kworm @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @fantasyfox101 @curlyredqueen06 

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[lakelewisia]

A Lewisian Year

Presented in partnership with the Lewisia Communications Board and Lewisia Public Library

Sponsored by The Historical Society

Hello, readers, listeners, and psychic osmosizers! Welcome to A Lewisian Year, a monthly showcase celebrating the rich culture here in the Lake Lewisia district. Each month, we'll highlight some seasonal events, local celebrations and interpretations of national and world holidays, and historical tidbits.

JULY

Firebird Eggs

It's a blazing hot day in the deep of summer, and you, unfortunately, have to go outside. If you were lucky, you would be headed to the lake, where the water keeps the ambient temperature a little lower, or into the woods, where the closeness of the air is offset by the relief of shade. But no. You're headed out to the Hawberry Flats area on the northeast of town, where a spread of glacier-flattened prairie gives the sunshine ample room to bake the grass and the people golden brown.

As you walk, relishing every small patch of shade that crosses your path, you notice a bush up ahead. It's small, and tangled with undergrowth around the base, and gently smoking. You blink and rub the sweat from your eyes. It's probably just heat haze, you think. When you look again, the smoke seems a little thicker, curling steadily upward in the still air.

You get closer to investigate, leaning to look inside. A pulse of heat washes up into your face. Down at the base of the bush, there is a nest built of grass and small sticks--built of tinder--and heaped up around the edges like a well-made campfire. There, in the heart of the fire-to-be, is a single, deep red egg. As you watch, it jostles side to side. And then...it ignites, flame bursting from a crack where the creature inside has started to break out into the world. A new firebird is born.

Not every summer boasts a hatching like this. No one knows for sure what makes a year right for newborn firebirds. (Firebird, phoenix, and sunbird are all commonly used, more or less interchangeably, though you can get a folklorist or a biologist going for hours on the finer points distinguishing the terms.) Heat, certainly, plays a part. It's thought that the slow, uneven incubation of firebirds has something to do with the availability of resources to support them. Not just any environment can sustain a population of large, intermittently flammable, quasi-immortal avians.

Summer Pests

Of course, not all creatures brought out by the heat are as welcome as newly-hatched firebirds. Heat, lack of water, and rapidly dwindling supplies of plant life can drive any number of small pests into homes and yards at this time of year. While we may have sympathy for their plights, it does become difficult to keep that in mind when you catch something scurrying behind the refrigerator every time you turn on the kitchen lights. Outside of Lewisia, people can expect an influx of flies, ants, and mice if they live anywhere near agricultural areas or open fields. Deserts get their visitations of snakes and scorpions. Here, though, the pests can run a bit more exotic, if not necessarily more hazardous.

Salamanders--the flaming kind, not the aquatic ones--start an estimated ten percent of minor brush fires every year. (The aquatic ones are more notorious for engaging in confidence games and small-time grifting.) Parasitic wasps here include dream- and memory-eating varieties, which can make napping while at the family cookout particularly fraught. Nothing can tear up a garden or lawn like an infestation of wolpertingers, which manage to molt, burrow, build nests, and scrape their antlers on anything that stays stationary longer than two minutes.

A particularly hardy clan of house brownies is said to have domesticated a strain of these chimerical garden pests, which I can only imagine comes as a mixed blessing for the humans sharing homes with them. Contracts with fae are not, in fact, the most exotic method used to manage unwanted wildlife. (Fairy knights jousting against a scorpion are a sight to behold, and may be well worth the sacrifice of blood favors.) Some chemical deterrents are available, but most people focus on making their living spaces less inviting to unwanted creatures. Then there are the homes that lean into the aesthetics of their unplanned tenants: the old Birchhead Manor, following its moat expansion, positively revels in the arrival of a fresh crop of Silent Gillmen (Hyla grendeliana) every spring.

Convention Season

If the outdoors are getting you down, you can always head inside to one of the many conventions taking place this summer. With people taking vacations from school and work and the weather generally stable-if-sweltering, summer is the preferred season for conventions. From international book festivals to small-town catch-all pop culture street fairs, almost anywhere is within reasonable travel of almost any interest's yearly gathering.

If there's one thing Lewisians love, it's any kind of celebration of niche interests and fanatical hobbies. Lewisia has previously hosted the Haunted Doll Collectors Society for their national event, multiple years of Weaver Weekend, and alternate years in a shared custody arrangement with the Ghostly Congress for "Afterlife the Convention." Local businesses enjoy the uptick in visitors and local people-watchers enjoy the free show of attendees going to and from the Event Center.

Plenty of conventions hosted away from Lewisia and her sister cities will still see a number of Lewisian attendees. December and January usually see a rush of organizing groups to purchase hotel room blocks and travel tickets as soon as convention badges go up for advance sale. Some of our local artists regularly tour around these outside conventions' Artist Alleys. Three current residents of Lewisia, in fact, owe their first contact with the town and eventual move here to artists at conventions.

Conventions that welcome cosplayers offer a particular advantage to Lewisians with more unusual body types. There has been an informal competition here in town for many years among non-human and semi-humanoid residents to craft elaborate cosplay costumes that allow them to walk in broad daylight among people who have no idea that ambulatory plants or marsupial darkness exist. Divisions within this competition include:

costumes designed to obscure the body entirely (popular with quadrupeds and others with body plans laid out more on the horizontal than the vertical);

costumes based on fictional versions of real species (werewolves and snake- or fish-based creatures leading the field);

and mundane cosplay that tries to accurately mimic standard human features and forms on non-standard bodies (dominated for three years running by a cephalopodic resident with a special knack for textural camouflage).

This Month in History

July 24th, 1999, is the most recent confirmed sighting of the fairy ball in the Lewisia area. While fairies are, obviously, common sights in Lewisia and elsewhere, the fairy ball is something different. No fairy asked about the subject has ever given an answer that consisted of anything other than bald-faced lies and open scorn for the asker. Those present at the time reported seeing wicker chariots pulled by luna moths, hot air balloons propelled by harnessed bats, and sprays of durable soap bubbles with free-floating occupants. All these and other unusual methods of travel headed west over the forest.

Speculation ran rampant at the time: The ball was being held over the ocean. No, it was on the moon, in the secret moon city. It was in response to the millennium coming to an end. No, it happened every year. It was an ill omen, a promise of coming prosperity, a sure sign of rain, drought, or wind, and a "rotten nuisance" to stargazers trying to enjoy a clear night. No one could agree on any of the details, except that it had been seen. A few individuals have claimed to have been spirited away to the fairy ball, though such a story is impossible to prove. All but one acknowledge being eventually returned after the event. The remaining one insisted xie still resides in the secret moon city and politely inquired after my comfort in the moon atmosphere when I interviewed xem.

That's a taste of what July has to offer us. See you next month, when August brings the first harvests and a definitely-not-fictitious return to school.

[internutter]

Challenge #02922-G365: Danger in Ignorance

It is the modern era. Faerie folk and other such beings are considered nothing but old stories. But, sometimes, stories are real. She was born with the gift to see the supernatural for who they were even if they hid amongst the normal modern world. She could understand their languages no matter how old or obscure it was. And read their words. From the most ancient to the most modern. And yet, as she grew older, she learned this was something handed down from mother to daughter for generations. An ability now quite rare as most of those that once had those gifts were often destroyed or otherwise came to harm long before they could bear children. Her family being one of the last. -- Anon Guest

There are places where a certain kind of person can glimpse into the Mythical. Some call them crazy. Some presume they're on drugs. In recent centuries past, they called them witch and killed them without mercy. Those with more than a modicum of sense learned to pay lip service to the dominant way of thought, and whisper to their gifted young to not talk about that with anyone who wasn't safe.

Of course I won't tell you how to find them. There's still people who will kill them for what they do. As for what they do? They stop incursions. They solve problems. They keep the peace. There are, after all, other worlds that others can't see. Without those who can glympse, the world would be utter chaos. Well. More utter chaos than what's normal for these days.

You wouldn't expect to find a fae infestation in Bumblefudge[1], Kansas. Melanie blamed those "cutesy" fairy doors people added into their gardens for the "aesthetic". Some people just weren't careful about who they invited. Since this was an especially dry region, they had put it into a rock garden with some succulents. A blessed rock garden, for criminy's sake! All you needed was the capstones and you had a standing circle! Right on the ley lines, too. Urgh. Karens were so gosh-darn fudging moronic sometimes.

[Be sure to visit internutter (dot) org for a link to the rest of this story, and details on how to support this artist. Or visit peakd (dot) com (slash at) internutter for the stories at their freshest]

[hunterisnearme]

So what exactly makes Mutalist a villain, is what a lot of people ask me rn. And I’m sorry that I’m so slow in making art, my motivation’s as quick as a snail these days. I’ll gladly make a short explanation of Mutalist, who she is and what is her motives down below. You’re free to ask me any questions about her!

Please keep in mind that all of this has nothing to do with the canon, and will probably be out of the canon’s intentions, it WILL change over time or even add on. Please do not take any of my content as a form of canon intentions and/or leaks, for I do not post spoilers or leaks at all in this blog.

Mutalist is a corrupted fae that is held captive within a mirror, hidden deep within the forbidden forest of an unknown name. Her purpose was suppose to lead others across the forests to make way of safety, it was her duty and her pride. However, what happened to her lead a form of blot that did not make her become a mindless blot beast, it coursed within her soul to become a corrupted fae. Because of this, Mutalist grew mad with power, spreading her blotted blood across the lands that injured many innocents who tread her territory. Because of it spreading like a disease, folk were alarmed of her blot infestations, soon tracking her and containing her within a mirror that bound her within for all eternity, or so they thought. The reason of her to even blot is left unknown, and she even refuses to speak of it to anyone. 

Because she had no luck of finding a person who would help aid her in releasing herself from the wretched mirror, she had to come up with something to have her escape. Which came along the MC, a magicless who despises being a person who had no magic. And that was what she exactly needed to know to lure in a victim. When the MC was in self doubt of their lack of magic, they will hear hushed whispers of a woman who calls for them, beckoning them to follow the trails that lead to the garden she was left behind in. When the MC curiously followed, leaving everyone-- even Grim-- behind without word, they will find her mirror, bedded with vines and blossoms, laying on a tree that had happily made her a part of its bark. When the MC questions, she mentions them a promising gift.

For a moment of touching the mirror will grant the MC a unique magic, a unique magic that will be found within their soul. And with that soul, it is what she desired. Skeptical of the fae’s intentions, she begins to speak with her silver tongue.

“Don’t you want to have the gift of magic? Aren’t you tired of being different? Or even...” She held her mouth, looking away in shame. “Be called useless for all eternity, because you do not have what they have?”

 And with that, it convinced MC to work with her. It wasn’t long until the moment their hands settle on her mirror, she held their hands gently, but then immediately forming it into a heavy grip onto their wrists and completely escaping out their mirror prison, the pastel colors of her gaze began to fade into a bitter black, grasping onto the MC and binding their souls into one, making the MC her physical body and in absolute control.

Mutalist does not want to give them their desired wish, she only wished for their body to finish what she started, and that was to continue to spread her plague of blot across the lands and make a throne of her own. The MC is contained, though can be saved if those dorm heads find out that not only their friend got taken control by a corrupted fae, but also to know their world could be in danger of a worse villain.

[tulipscomeinallsortsofcolors]

oookay so, i have a Problem, i moved out into the middle of fuckin nowhere (it's still in the town we lived in before, just in the Very Woodsy area), and at night because the roads are so far away, the only thing we can hear is leaves rustling. let me specify that the HOUSES are EXTREMELY far from here. and then, last night, after my mom had trapped a dragonfly under a cup, we heard music. not like, party music, no, more like wind reeds?? or something?? from right outside the house? help what do

you’ve basically got two options here - you can be friendly, or you can put your house on magic lockdown, basically

if theyre friendly and your friendly, you made some friends. good for you! your garden and your grass will thank you, and you’re not likely to get too many infestations of unpleasant bugs

if theyre NOT friendly, and you are, well, thats a little dicey - but they might think its funny, or cute, and leave you alone. even if they are very hostile, being friendly to them is not likely to piss them off, because fae have Rules and you do NOT reply to hospitality with unpleasantness. you just Dont

if theyre friendly, and you are not (putting unpleasant-to-spirits plants around your house and/or iron and the like), congratulations! Theyre Not Friendly Anymore

if theyre not friendly, and you are also not friendly, well now theyre pissed, but they cant do much since you. you know. put iron nails at the corners of your house, for example.

so you see - lots of potential out comes, good and bad, for both camps.

my usual go to for “new place new spooks” is to be cautiously polite - maybe start with a bowl of milk or cream or even candy in the corner of your yard furthest from the house.

if your luck turns good all a sudden, nice! feel free to continue being pleasant.

if you start waking up with your hair in knots, feel free to go absolutely batshit warding the hell out of your house

[gem-quest]

[ B A L E S T R A  . . . ]

“A great battle is a terrible thing,“ the old knight said, "but in the midst of blood and carnage, there is sometimes also beauty, beauty that could break your heart.” – George R R Martin

Real Name: Esther Meier (Nicknamed Essie at school, but she hates it)

Age: 19

FC: Alexia Giordano

Species & Class: Celestial Knight

Guild: Moonstone

Description of In-Game Powers: (Sorry this is super long. This is largely based off of DnD Aasimar and Paladins, but without trying to bring in actual divine powers. Instead I tried to make it more centered around a player’s perception of themselves and their actions. If this doesn’t fit with other species or the world, let me know!)

Celestials are what could arguably be defined as a light-based typically Moonstone-aligned species similar to sylphs or fae but without the connection to the environment around them. Instead, they seem to draw power from their own actions and convictions, making them a lot more internal than elemental species. Their path and their thoughts about their path define their progression. This makes their dialogue options, interactions with other PCs, and their approaches to passing certain levels very important in how they develop and the skills they gain. But it also makes their own assessment of their actions pivotal in their direction, unlike many other species. They don’t gain skills just by completing tasks, but based on how they perceive how they completed these tasks. Usually Celestial players tend to go for high Psyche/Charisma stats to boost their mental fortitude and balance. But Balestra doesn’t really understand balance beyond proper footwork. She makes up for this with a high willpower that shot even higher after her return to level 1. Willpower is a double-edged sword for Celestials since it enhances however a Celestial feels about their own actions regardless of whether this has a positive or negative effect, whereas other stats merely increase the potential for a Celestial to regard their action as good or heroic.

The interaction between player actions, player perspective, and leveling opportunities makes them a relatively unpopular species choice except for those gamers who like to save before every major NPC interaction and religiously google the different effects of game routes and encyclopedic lore entries before making any choices. In other words, most people find them tedious with a slow ramp and unpredictable leveling. Now that players can’t exit the game or return to save points, they’ve become pretty rare as they tend to die off quicker. But if they survive long enough and can find a good balance between mental stats, goals, and their class, they can become power houses. If not, they tend to be ineffective or even self-detrimental. An unstable Celestial can be equally powerful, but usually just as destructive to themselves as those around them…whether intended or not.

While they have the ability to learn flight, like sylphs, they have large feathered wings instead of diaphanous insect wings. Unlike fae, some classes of Celestials can even use these as melee weapons or shields, especially with specialized armor. Celestials also tend to have a strong affinity to light and some classes can practice light magic. The power of this is also connected to their perception of their actions, along with stats like psyche and charisma.

Regardless of other stats, Celestials’ main buff is in their luck, which extends to the rest of their party when in close proximity. In truth, Balestra didn’t even want to be a Celestial (or a Moonstone player, for that matter). But her school friends wanted that luck buff, and as always she played along. There was some fault with her copy of the game though, and when facing an attack against her party where she should have died, she ended up using up all of her luck buff (and even her luck stat) to reset to the beginning level while her friends died. In turn, her luck stat points randomly shifted to other traits. She can’t decide if she’s one of the luckiest or unluckiest Gem Quest players. In effect she died. All her items are gone, which happens to dead players. And all of her level progress disappeared. But something happened when she was reset. Not only does she have a luck of zero while still retaining all the negatives of the Celestial species; she lost the wings, flight abilities, and light affinity that are the only other Celestial perks. And moreover (and much more pressing), she can’t seem to use potions or magic on herself. Who knows if she can even get out of the game now if she can’t use Relinquium on herself.

Place of Birth: Berkshire, UK

Appearance:

She is most well known for defeating the wyrm Miro in nothing but the default character attire of white tunic and leather pants (mostly because she was on her second playthrough by then, trying frantically to regain all her lost ground, and partly not caring whether she died or not). While she does have a suit of engraved silver armor which she tends to wear in more active levels, and isn’t opposed to trading out her more martial attire for something a bit more flowy and delicate (god knows she needs whatever charisma bonus she can get on the levels that don’t rely on stabbing things), the beginning character outfit has become a bit of a calling card for her, along with her wild halo of curls. No matter what, she prefers to stick to more medieval or renaissance inspired clothing.

“Delicate in every way but one (the swordplay) God knows we like archaic kinds of fun (the old way) Chance is the only game I play with, baby We let our battles choose us” – Glory and Gore, Lorde

Places Most Likely to be Found In-Game: When not clearing levels, she tends to wander the Valley of Monsters since it’s Destrier’s home level. She’s found he’s easiest to deal with in a setting where he belongs, and becomes increasingly harder to control in more incongruous places (Few can forget that disastrous foray into the peaceful Moonstone haunt of the Gardens of Finvarra where Balestra and Destrier learned that no, eating fae NPCs does not count as eating fairy food. Balestra is needless to say not very popular among her guild). Beyond being known as a strange pariah figure people tell stories about having glimpsed speeding through levels in little more than the default character attire, she has gained a reputation as a pretty capable monster hunter for those in the market for parts but unable to handle battling beasties themselves. So she tends to spend more time in the monster-infested areas of levels than most players.

Current Inventory:

Not really inventory, but has somewhat tamed (keyword somewhat) a griffin she calls Destrier. To her that’s basically naming something horse, but she’s killed so many other mounts that she tries not to get attached. The two get along like a house fire. He has all the worst attributes of cats and birds; namely wanting to steal and then eat anything remotely shiny, wanting to kill and then eat anything that moves whether alive or not, not wanting to eat anything actually given to him as food because he didn’t get to kill it himself, being at once stubborn and proud while impressively lazy, and being altogether too smart for his own good and too stupid for Ess’s.

Halberd x 1

Quicksilver Longsword x 1 (This magical sword has the ability to change forms, shifting between rapier, longsword, knife, zweihander, and other bladed weapons which provide different stat bonuses. But it does have the distinct drawback of slowly poisoning its wielder with every use, lowering their hp and psyche dramatically for a period of time. The more its transformation powers are activated, the longer this effect lasts, which can eventually lead to an almost permanent madness. It has also been rumored to be addictive, causing the user to want more and more to shift between its forms.)

Rope x 1

Fire Salamander Gizzard x1 (Rare drop from Fire Salamanders used as a fire starter. Not as fast or reliable as a potion, and a lot more work to acquire. But if you can’t use potions you learn to make due)

Astragali Fortuna x6 (hippogriff knucklebones covered in runes which must be coated in the intended target’s warm blood to be used. They are rolled and then either buff/nerf a stat or induce the effect of a random potion in the game’s database depending on the symbols rolled. The probability of which potion effect is induced depends on the rarity of the potion. This effect does not last as long as a real potion’s. It is about as often detrimental as helpful to its target and is regarded by most players as unreliable for both personal and offensive use. A high luck score increases the chance of a positive outcome, as in part does willpower. But the exact formula for the RNG behind the item is unknown, and most players regard it as a possibly disastrous joke item.)

Venison Jerky x10

Full suit of armor x1 (she usually just wears bits and pieces since it does tend to lower her dexterity)

Beastmaster’s Gorget x1 (Ess actually isn’t a rider, but she needed that speed of a mount to regain her level progress, and she desperately wants to fly again. So she still uses a mount despite not having any of the helpful traits of a Rider player like knowing where your mount is, being able to call it, or being able to control its actions in battle. The gorget helps limit some of those problems. She thinks of it as a “Rogue Griffin GPS” with a bit of a defence buff. It ties him to her by a certain distance though it doesn’t really force him to obey her at all)

Strongest character trait: Stubborn, and she hates that about herself despite how many times it has saved her.

Strengths: creative and determined when she has a goal. She’s had to go about the game very differently her second time around, but she hasn’t succumbed to any of her handicaps yet and in many ways is a stronger player now than she ever was with her original group as her original Celestial Knight self.

Weaknesses: Conflicted, overthinking, and overly controlled when in reality she’s a lot more instinctive than she allows herself to be. She still has a hard time trusting herself 

Player Stats: (I’m going based off of an average individual stat score being 5, so the average total should be around 50. But if that doesn’t seemed balanced, please let me know! Also, after Balestra used up all of her luck returning to level 1 instead of dying, her luck stat was redistributed randomly to her other stats –hence her having 2 sets of numbers. She thinks of herself like a paladin pre-glitch and something entirely different afterwards. The closest she can think of is cursed).

STRENGTH: 6  || 7

DEFENCE: 5  || 6

CHARISMA: 2  || 2

PSYCHE: 2  || 2

WILLPOWER: 6  || 9

CAUTIOUSNESS: 2 || 2

AGILITY: 8  || 8

ENDURANCE: 6  || 7

INTELLIGENCE: 7  || 7

LUCK: 6  || 0

Destrier Stats: He was once a fightable monster, right? So that means he has to have stats. I just figure he’d have fewer stat points than a PC, so I arbitrarily gave him 2/3 the total points I gave my PC. Again, let me know if that’s unbalanced. Since Balestra’s not a Rider (despite acting like one a lot of the time), she doesn’t get any stat bonus from him. He just does his own thing, which only sometimes aligns with what she wants him to do. She’s only able to marginally control him based on having a higher willpower and charisma, though only barely.

STRENGTH: 7

DEFENCE: 5

CHARISMA: 0

PSYCHE: 0

WILLPOWER: 7

CAUTIOUSNESS: 1

AGILITY: 6

ENDURANCE: 5

INTELLIGENCE: 3

LUCK: 1

Personality:

tld;dr: She’s goal/cause driven but without a cause, has spent so long being a malleable persona shaped by family and peer expectations and status but has found that without that microcosm she’s just a hollow shell reeling with misplaced anger and stifled independence that’s eating her from the inside out. She is quite intelligent and has taught herself to be disciplined despite actually being much more volatilely reactive than she’d like to admit.

Inscrutable, private, and quiet

Determined (when she has a goal, although she gets frustrated and dangerously unpredictable even to herself when she feels aimless)

So used to carefully crafting her image that she’s lost a lot of her internal sense of self and self-worth. She’s also quite comfortable with blanketing herself in little lies rather than show people the more vulnerable reality underneath. This doesn’t always mean she tries to make herself more appealing, sometimes she tries to push others away with lies instead.

Creative and Resourceful

Does best when faced with a problem. She likes solving things, and tends to pull herself together when faced with an external threat.

Vacillates between a guilt complex and a rigid disregard for the effects of her actions. In reality, she’s somewhere in the middle, but it’s unsettling having to face both what she’s done and how she’s not entirely sorry about it in order to actually come to terms with herself.

Overthinker to the extreme, but more because she’s trained herself to be so. In reality she’s pretty instinctive and reactive. But from family, school, and friends she’s learned to gauge every possible effect of her actions before taking a step. This led her to be paralyzed by indecision and more of a follower in real life, but now that she’s on her own and in charge of an even more instinctive and wild creature she’s had to chip away at that protective calculation and just act. It’s terrifying and freeing all at once.

Has a hard time reconciling her softer side with her sharp and harder tendencies. She tends to come off as biting, rigid, and distant but has a softer and more delicate side she tries to bury. 

Quite independent but doesn’t fully trust herself. She’s so used to being part of something and deferring to others that she feels at times lost being on her own. She has cycles of loneliness and defiance where she just wants to push people away and forge her own path.

Has a very dark sense of humor, but she doesn’t let that out for just anyone. She’s gotten most comfortable with Destrier, just by sheer amount of time spent with him and the fact that she has few other people to talk to. Sure, he doesn’t quite talk back, but he has his own brand of snark and the two have a weird back and forth.

“And each man stands with his face in the light. Of his own drawn sword, ready to do what a hero can.” –Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Biography: 

Why was she here? Esther asked that often, as she stared down the slathering maw of some fabled beast with nothing but a halberd between them, as she grasped tight to a half-tamed griffin’s feathers and fought it all the way into the sky for some semblance of control, or as she sat alone beside a sputtering fire and stared up at the false constellations of another simulated night which seemed to hulk too low and too heavy above her.

Why was she here, in this chaotic mess of monsters fighting for nothing, in this broken body which couldn’t remember how to heal or shine or fly? Of course, she knew the answer. Every time a blow missed, or a lingering wound ached as she tried to find some substitute for a potion, or a new party passing on a trail gave her the wide berth of a plague ship, she knew. Helena. Everything had always been Helena.

It was Helena who found her when she first started Wellington, when she was just some state school scholarship kid whose father was a jumped-up real estate agent with notions. It was Helena who dragged Esther to her family’s events like some new toy to show off, where Esther would sit still as a statue while Helena left her to talk with old friends, afraid to touch anything, afraid they would know she didn’t belong. It was Helena who had crowned her “Essie” and stared down the boys who threw pencils in her curls to see if they would stick. But it was Helena who would braid her hair into messy pigtails and make sure to tug, just a few times, just to see if she would wince. It was Helena who tasted like candy apple vodka and stifled laughter at a pre-exam party, all the grace and perfect ease of a sun with its planets in orbit. But it was Helena who kissed her full on the lips and left her wide-eyed and speechless, and then told her in that whimsical tone that made it seem like you had a choice through the underlying bite of a command, “I think you and Thom would be cute together. I think I would like that.” It was Helena who threw the two of them together. Thom with his clumsy, grasping hands and his jealous streak. Thom who only had two things in common with her; the fencing team (where he waddled about like a safety hazard with an epee), and Helena, who they would do anything for.

It was Helena who was beautiful and bright, shining and sharp, commanding and fickle and cruel. So of course, after graduation when their group was thrown to the wind and Esther found herself at the Sorbonne for Medieval Studies which Helena had always called “pointless, dull old nonsense,” when Helena had called up “on a whim,” Esther dropped everything. In all honestly, there hadn’t been much to drop. Her father had called the day before. Something about a bad deal and money troubles, how they couldn’t afford her program or apartment anymore. Something about money for the next train from Paris. Something about problems at home, something with his secretary, of course because her father didn’t have the creativity for an affair beyond the cliche. So of course Helena appeared like salvation, something to follow, something to hide in, something to drown herself in so she wouldn’t have to think. Instead of packing up her apartment and buying a ticket home, she spent the last of her money on a VR headset for this new game Helena had heard of. 

It was Helena who wanted to be in Moonstone; she heard there was a level just for Moonstone players to throw wild parties, that the simulation was better than any drug on the street. It was Helena who wanted Esther to be a Celestial; it would be more fun for everyone with that luck bonus, and that much easier for them all to get to that party level. And nobody else wanted to play as one, they were “hopelessly dull” after all.

But it was Esther who got them through the levels. It was Esther whose fencing skills saved them from beast after beast, whose studies gave her hints to riddles the rest of the group were too impatient and bored to puzzle through. It was Esther who first heard the announcement, that there was no way out of the game anymore, that relinquium was off the market and chances to bribe Jacqueline were disappearing. And she heard the whispering, how Thom and Helena and the others wondered how much their parents would pay to bribe their way out, how it really wasn’t that much fun here anyways, how they all just wanted to leave. They were all so sure, so confident with their parents’ money behind them that nothing could hurt them, that they could just leave when they were bored. They didn’t even spare a thought for her, they didn’t even stop to wonder what would happen if they left her behind, just like they never stopped to wonder what would happen to them if they didn’t have her there in the first place. 

It was Esther who suggested storming the dragon’s lair. She told herself she just wanted to convince them why it was worth staying, why they needed her, why they couldn’t just leave her behind. But she knew it was a lie. Thom was the first to die, and she didn’t have to do anything. He was always rash, thoughtless, always trying to impress and always falling short. Those clumsy hands that had fumbled with her uniform as she disgustedly lay there and thought, ‘this was what Helena wanted,’ never really got the hang of the in-game sword mechanics. Not even Esther’s luck bonus could help him. For a glorious, fire-choked moment somewhere between heaven and hell as the dragon slashed him to pieces and charred the remains, Esther felt right. She felt free. Some tried to fend off the beast, but they were of little use without her there to lead the charge. The others tried to flee, desperately trying to search through inventories for any potions or scrolls to help. But Esther had always been the fastest, and she had luck on her side. Their blows came to nothing. Their magic fizzled in their hands. They were left shocked and frozen as she swung at them in perfect, practiced confidence. Helena didn’t even have time for fear. She just stared with offended disbelief, as if somehow she was more upset Esther had acted without her approval than that Esther was plunging a sword into her chest. And then there was nothing, Esther had killed not just some random NPC, not just some nameless member of another guild or even some unknown from her own guild; she had killed her friends. She had swung the sword with the vicious satisfaction that they would well and truly die. And worse, she didn’t care. For once, it felt right. She didn’t stop to think. She didn’t worry. She just swung her blade.

The last thing Esther remembered was the dragon reaching down for her; the sharp kiss of its claws; the warmth of flames as her hair and face and glorious wings charred away. And then she was back at the beginning, with nothing.

Relationships:

Char 1 -

Balestra Playlist

Heretic Pride || The Mountain Goats

Falling || HAIM

Glory and Gore || Lorde

Horse & I || Bat for Lashes

Arsonist’s Lullaby || Hozier

Torches || The Oh Hellos

Miracle || CHVRCHES

Shrike || Hozier

I of the Storm || Of Monsters and Men

The Yawning Grave || Lord Huron

Fire Rides || MØ

Extras:

Esther Playlist

Oxford Comma || Vampire Weekend

Friends || RAYE

Don’t Save Me || HAIM

Karma || Years & Years

The Hamptons || Transviolet

Academia || Sia

Mirror || IDER

Only if For a Night || Florence + the Machine

Other:

After she glitched out she can’t use any potions. She doesn’t know exactly why, but she simply can’t affect herself with temporary magic without horrible glitchy side effects (this does not make her immune to spells from other players though, much to her general dismay). It’s made regaining levels a bit of a nightmare, but mostly she just misses being able to fly. It’s also meant that she’s had to get creative on some levels, especially those tailored to other guilds where the main strategy for non-guild members is a specific magical item. Also, because of this she doesn’t know if she even can leave the game, since the only method now is the potion Relinquium.

Hasn’t been the member of a party since her original party was wiped out and she reset back to level 1. She also has little to no guild loyalty. In fact, she seems much better suited to Obsidian and enjoys most of their claimed levels more than those of Moonstone, which tend to have more goals and interactions which wreak havoc with her corrupted Celestial nature.

Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/euclidice/balestra/

[leggeteconme]

The Court of the Fae

My mother believed in faeries.

She could see their wings in moments of blinding sunlight where the air seemed to shimmer with a thousand colors, feel their touch in a breath of wind across her pale skin, hear their laughter in the tinkling of gypsy bells on Market Street. My father said the bells were the instruments of devils. He despised the gypsies, and believed in nothing that wasn’t mentioned in his Bible.

I believed in faeries.

The faeries loved my mother.

She left acorn caps carefully arranged across the kitchen every night, filled to their brims with sweet clover honey. The caps were always empty in the mornings -- empty, washed, polished, and stacked neatly in a corner. Sometimes there were small trinkets left behind in thanks: a silver thimble, spools of silken thread, once an ivory comb inlaid with mother-of-pearl. My mother kept them all in a velvet-lined box locked with a tiny brass key she kept under the false bottom of one of her vanity drawers. The drawer also held a well-read Bible, a wedding gift from my father. She sat with it for hours every night until he fell asleep, until she was free to slip away to the kitchen to set out the acorn caps.

On the days my father was away on business, she spent the mornings in her lush gardens, gathering brightly-colored berries I was warned never to eat and velvet-petaled roses with razor-sharp thorns. She placed them all in a picnic basket with an old medicine bottle filled with rainwater and delicate honeycakes cut into circles the size of my fingertips, dancing off into the forest with bare feet and unbound hair and staying there until just before dusk, when my father returned. I followed her once and found her in a vast clearing dappled with sunlight and filled with wildflowers, sitting under an ancient and gnarled oak tree, singing sweetly as dozens of tiny winged creatures fluttered around her, sipping at rainwater from rose petals, feasting on berries and honeycakes, braiding her long dark hair and twining it with violets and buttercups finer than the purple silks and golden chains of any empress.

I followed her often after that day, enchanted by her otherworldly escape. Day after day she stole away to the clearing; week after week her beautiful face glowed with the intoxication of the world of the fae; month after month that glow vanished at the first sight of my father and she flew to the solace of the woods.

Her entourage grew each time she returned, the clearing filled with a rainbow of wings from delicate beings as captivated by my mother as she was by them. They came from the forests and hills, from the rivers and oceans, from the skies and from the mountains to see her, to hear her voice, to bring her gifts in exchange for her baskets of offerings, until one warm summer afternoon the Elf-king himself was drawn to our forest. I saw him from across the clearing in robes woven of sunlight, a crown of flowers perched upon his fair brow. He gazed upon my mother in a way my father never had, standing there and watching her for hours before he faded back into the shadows. He returned twice more before emerging from the trees and gliding softly towards her. The buzz of the clearing quieted, my mother’s winged companions dropping into low bows as he passed. My mother’s eyes followed him as he approached her, and she stood slowly, languidly, as though she floated in water. When he reached her, she began to dip into an obeisance of her own, but the Elf-king stopped her with a long, deep bow. He spoke a few words as he straightened, his voice rich and warm and carried away by the wind before I could understand what he’d said. My mother understood, and flushed as he offered her his hand. They danced to a melody that pierced my soul and made the forest sing, swirling around the clearing with a captivating elegance. My mother looked like a queen, a glimmering star matched only by the man with his hand at her waist. She did not return home until morning.

My father found her box of treasures that night. He struck her when she returned and locked her in her room, ordering the servants not to allow her to leave the house. She was desperate that he would soon abandon the endeavor, but my father had a will of pure iron and, determined to save her soul from “these devilish hallucinations” -- as he called her encounters with the fae --, kept her confined to her room. It wasn’t long before she fell ill. There was no cough, but with her wasted form and face bright from fever the doctors called it consumption anyway. My father insisted it was a disease of hell and brought in priests to cure her soul of its wickedness. I alone knew the truth: that she was mad from the loss of her only joy.

My father was away when she died. I knelt at her side as the last breath left her body, saltwater tears wetting the hand I clutched to my cheek. When I heard the footsteps in the hall I flew to my feet in a rage, wanting nothing more than to destroy my father for having done this to her, but it was not my father who stood in the doorway.

The Elf-king paid me no mind as he entered the room. He walked slowly to the foot of my mother’s bed and gazed upon her face with the emotion I finally registered as love. He bowed low before her, golden tears streaming down his otherwise serene face, and offered her a long-fingered hand.

“She’s gone,” I tried to say, but the words caught in my throat. He knew, he must have known, but he stood there still, his hand as pale and cold and lifeless as hers. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from them, despite somehow having fallen to the floor, weeping until my vision was blurred so that I could hardly tell if what I saw was real.

The Elf-king opened his mouth and began to sing, the haunting melody from that summer day so long ago pouring from his lips in a pleading, devastating waterfall. He begged her to return to him, to leave with him, to reside with him forever in his court beneath the hills. He spun fever dreams with his voice, bent swirling sunlight to his will with his heartbreak. The room danced dizzyingly with golden mirages as he sang; my head ached and still I could not look away. The scene crescendoed until I felt sure my head would split open and suddenly, impossibly, my mother’s emerald eyes fluttered open.

She rose from her bed, floating across the floor like a Wisp, and took his hand, sinking effortlessly into his embrace. He murmured her name as he held her close, and with a final swirl of golden light they were gone.

I awoke to my father’s rage. My mother’s furniture lay in overturned heaps, her faerie trinkets scattered and broken on the ground. My father seized my shoulders and shook me, demanding to know where she was. He beat me when I told him, cursing the demonic apparitions that had fled my mother for me.

I did not attend my mother’s funeral. I laid out acorn caps filled with honey and hummed the Elf-king’s melody as tiny, winged fae crept tentatively in through the windows. That was the last time I was permitted to leave my room, the last time anyone left out offerings of honey. Now the milk is spoiled, the horses lame; now I have fallen as ill as my mother. The servants pray for sanctuary from the demons she and I have unleashed upon them, praying even for death that their children might no longer be stolen away in the night, their wives and husbands crippled and sickened. No more do I see the delicate creatures I once know fluttering at my windows; no more are the goblins and other, darker fae merely legends from my mother’s books. They emerged slowly at first, one after another, until a horde of them had infested the house. They circle my father like vultures, slipping into the shadows whenever he turns. I can see the Elf-king waiting in the corner now, sharpening his blade, watching the man who killed his queen. I know it will not be long now before he takes his revenge. I wonder if my father will scream when he is carried away beneath the hills. I wonder if he will beg for mercy. I wonder if he knows that the Court of the Fae is more ruthless than any human king.

I laugh as I feel my eyes begin to close for the last time, the madness that took my mother finally taking me. Not long now, I think as the Elf-king glides from the shadows and darkness overtakes my vision. Not long at all.