Enmyira
☂
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Fantasy Fae Kind RP
- Thread starter Enmyira
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Enmyira
☂
It was a brisk winter day in the human lands. Cold winds were whipping though almost every settlement. The winter had been and long and dark one.. and it still assaulted most northern-based villages and towns. The season had far extended itself by almost an extra two and half months. It was showing signs of clearing…. But still. It made most people cranky on a good day. On the bad ones.. people were down-right nasty. The woods and forests had almost been hunted clean through… and families were beginning to grow hungry. People had started to flee southwards in search of better homes.. but those who remained were fighting with everything they had left.
In the Fae Lands.. everything was running smoothly. Nothing had changed for over three-hundred years. Well, nothing too notable anyway. Most courts kept to themselves. And the other far off Fae continent had kept its rulers for near centuries now… but. Something was stirring. Something. Was whispering. Only a few could feel the creeping shivers of something unknown. And it was hungry. Hungry for life. Hungry for magic. Hungry for. Everything. It had started to infect the far-off kingdoms for several years though most shook it off as time-madness. A sickness that infected ancient minds. But it was not that. Only time will tell what may happen. If it will make it across the vast oceans or be stated with the kingdom it was slowly devouring… hmm. Only time will tell.
In the Fae Lands.. everything was running smoothly. Nothing had changed for over three-hundred years. Well, nothing too notable anyway. Most courts kept to themselves. And the other far off Fae continent had kept its rulers for near centuries now… but. Something was stirring. Something. Was whispering. Only a few could feel the creeping shivers of something unknown. And it was hungry. Hungry for life. Hungry for magic. Hungry for. Everything. It had started to infect the far-off kingdoms for several years though most shook it off as time-madness. A sickness that infected ancient minds. But it was not that. Only time will tell what may happen. If it will make it across the vast oceans or be stated with the kingdom it was slowly devouring… hmm. Only time will tell.
RP Marshall
A Tale of Woe
“Help!” someone wailed.
A lissome maiden soared over a snowcapped knoll. She wore a noble dress, dyed in scarlet, and nothing more. Green was her hair; her skin was fair; her feet were bare, and they scarcely made an imprint in the snow, for she traveled with the wind. She was a tree spirit, or, if using the colloquial term, a dryad. And like all dryads, she was semi-intangible; hence the reason she flited across the frigid landscape without touching the ground. However, even dryads grow fatigued, not like her tireless pursuers who ceaselessly chased after her.
“Help!” the dryad screamed. “H-help! Someone… Save me!”
Riding the icy gale, the dryad swirled around in midair to look behind her. What she saw sent a shiver down her spine. Racing through the sleet, on their hind legs with their burly arms dangling in front of them, werewolves (in name only, for only an Alpha can transform) nipped after the flighty vixen. Barking, their tongues wagged out of their gaping maws; their sallow fangs were dripping with fetid saliva. Spurred by bestial desire, they wanted the dryad for a mate.
Anytime one of the werewolves took the lead, one of the slower wolves would grab the frontrunner’s legs from behind to trip him. This happened again and again, causing the entire pack to grow enraged. They bit and clawed each other throughout their hunt. It is a well-known fact that werewolves are an aggressive race, and there is much infighting amongst them whenever an eligible female (of any species) enters their hunting grounds.
Turning her eyes away from these fearsome beasts, the dryad raced towards a forest of immense fir trees. She hoped that these perennial trees might protect her, for she was a spirit of nature. Collapsing on the gnarled roots of the nearest cedar, the Dryad beseeched to the entire forest.
“Ancient ones! I am beset by monstrous dogs, hell-bent on ravishing me against my will. I beg of you—my kin—destroy my pursuers! Slay those that would dare assault a Woodland Daughter! Slay them! Please, I beg of you, kinfolk… Defend me!”
To her dismay, the old cedars shoved twigs into their ears. They refused to even listen to the dryad’s tragic sobs. Why should they? Dryads were not true trees; eons of sordid interbreeding with other fae had tainted them beyond recognition, making them more anthropoid than plant. No. The trees agreed they would not aid a blighted hybrid.
Free to do as they pleased, the bipedal werewolves seized the nebulous maidan with their sharp claws. It was difficult to hold her at first, since the Dryad kept slipping away from them like a pile of leaves. However, their doggedness proved the victor; for she suddenly swooned, collapsed in the snow, and became as tangible as any other demure wench.
While the lewd dogs fought over their supple prey, they did not notice the figure, shrouded in a blue robe and hood, approaching them. Ostensibly, the blue figure wielded no weapon. All he had with him was an iron strongbox, which he held with gloves made from the same azure material as his peculiar garment. His gloved index finger rapped at the heavy latch on the box, which kept the lid shut tight.
The blue figure abruptly halted when the werewolves—smelling the stranger’s scent—whirled around and growled at him. Undaunted, he addressed the pack in a raspy voice; nevertheless, the way he carried himself showed he had been given authority to enact justice.
“Lecherous mongrels,” he hissed out of his shadowy hood. “Down!”
The unchaste beast howled in laughter. Although they had the vocal cords of a canine, they could still bark out a few coherent words.
“Warfff! Let us have this used bone,” they said, referring to the weeping dryad. “The tyrant of Winter Court has plenty more to chew on!”
“Surely, Lord Aconite does,” the blue figure sadly wheezed. But he fervidly vowed, “Regardless, you have sought to sully this girl’s honor… For that, you shall burn.”
At this inane oath, the werewolves maniacally snickered. “Burn? Howlll! What can burn in these frigid woods? Not even your slave master, Lord Aconite—curse him!—can summon the evil orange tongues from the snow… You’re bluffing, Carl. Yes, Carl! We smell what brood you are… After we tear the sinews off your bones, we’ll send your scraps to the South, back to your runty breed! ARRFFF!!!”
With a rancorous yap, the werewolves sprang forwards. They hooted as the figure backed away from them; they thought he was bolting— “The coward!”
In spite of appearances, the figure was not fleeing, but leading the werewolves away from the dryad. After retreating a safe distance away, the figure shoved the strongbox forwards, undid the latch, and pried the heavy lid open.
In the bottom of the box, a glowing-red creature wriggled uncontrollably. It was slimy, due to its noxious secretions. It had star-shaped markings which traveled down the length of its svelte back and ended at its tail. It resembled a lizard, but it looked more like an ugly, four-legged worm. Whatever it was, the tiny animal distinctly stunk of sulfur.
As the werewolves smelled the caustic stench, the strange creature sparked; then, unexpectedly, it erupted. Flaming tongues of fire burst out of the strongbox and gobbled up the debased hounds. Next, the voracious fire lapped up the surrounding snow. Afterwards, it licked the trunk of one of the ancient cedars, setting it ablaze. The whole forest might have been consumed by the impending conflagration if the figure in the blue robe had not, just then, snapped the lid closed. Instantly, the miraculous fire extinguished, and the infernal salamander once again curled up again in the bottom of the strongbox to rest…
A lissome maiden soared over a snowcapped knoll. She wore a noble dress, dyed in scarlet, and nothing more. Green was her hair; her skin was fair; her feet were bare, and they scarcely made an imprint in the snow, for she traveled with the wind. She was a tree spirit, or, if using the colloquial term, a dryad. And like all dryads, she was semi-intangible; hence the reason she flited across the frigid landscape without touching the ground. However, even dryads grow fatigued, not like her tireless pursuers who ceaselessly chased after her.
“Help!” the dryad screamed. “H-help! Someone… Save me!”
Riding the icy gale, the dryad swirled around in midair to look behind her. What she saw sent a shiver down her spine. Racing through the sleet, on their hind legs with their burly arms dangling in front of them, werewolves (in name only, for only an Alpha can transform) nipped after the flighty vixen. Barking, their tongues wagged out of their gaping maws; their sallow fangs were dripping with fetid saliva. Spurred by bestial desire, they wanted the dryad for a mate.
Anytime one of the werewolves took the lead, one of the slower wolves would grab the frontrunner’s legs from behind to trip him. This happened again and again, causing the entire pack to grow enraged. They bit and clawed each other throughout their hunt. It is a well-known fact that werewolves are an aggressive race, and there is much infighting amongst them whenever an eligible female (of any species) enters their hunting grounds.
Turning her eyes away from these fearsome beasts, the dryad raced towards a forest of immense fir trees. She hoped that these perennial trees might protect her, for she was a spirit of nature. Collapsing on the gnarled roots of the nearest cedar, the Dryad beseeched to the entire forest.
“Ancient ones! I am beset by monstrous dogs, hell-bent on ravishing me against my will. I beg of you—my kin—destroy my pursuers! Slay those that would dare assault a Woodland Daughter! Slay them! Please, I beg of you, kinfolk… Defend me!”
To her dismay, the old cedars shoved twigs into their ears. They refused to even listen to the dryad’s tragic sobs. Why should they? Dryads were not true trees; eons of sordid interbreeding with other fae had tainted them beyond recognition, making them more anthropoid than plant. No. The trees agreed they would not aid a blighted hybrid.
Free to do as they pleased, the bipedal werewolves seized the nebulous maidan with their sharp claws. It was difficult to hold her at first, since the Dryad kept slipping away from them like a pile of leaves. However, their doggedness proved the victor; for she suddenly swooned, collapsed in the snow, and became as tangible as any other demure wench.
While the lewd dogs fought over their supple prey, they did not notice the figure, shrouded in a blue robe and hood, approaching them. Ostensibly, the blue figure wielded no weapon. All he had with him was an iron strongbox, which he held with gloves made from the same azure material as his peculiar garment. His gloved index finger rapped at the heavy latch on the box, which kept the lid shut tight.
The blue figure abruptly halted when the werewolves—smelling the stranger’s scent—whirled around and growled at him. Undaunted, he addressed the pack in a raspy voice; nevertheless, the way he carried himself showed he had been given authority to enact justice.
“Lecherous mongrels,” he hissed out of his shadowy hood. “Down!”
The unchaste beast howled in laughter. Although they had the vocal cords of a canine, they could still bark out a few coherent words.
“Warfff! Let us have this used bone,” they said, referring to the weeping dryad. “The tyrant of Winter Court has plenty more to chew on!”
“Surely, Lord Aconite does,” the blue figure sadly wheezed. But he fervidly vowed, “Regardless, you have sought to sully this girl’s honor… For that, you shall burn.”
At this inane oath, the werewolves maniacally snickered. “Burn? Howlll! What can burn in these frigid woods? Not even your slave master, Lord Aconite—curse him!—can summon the evil orange tongues from the snow… You’re bluffing, Carl. Yes, Carl! We smell what brood you are… After we tear the sinews off your bones, we’ll send your scraps to the South, back to your runty breed! ARRFFF!!!”
With a rancorous yap, the werewolves sprang forwards. They hooted as the figure backed away from them; they thought he was bolting— “The coward!”
In spite of appearances, the figure was not fleeing, but leading the werewolves away from the dryad. After retreating a safe distance away, the figure shoved the strongbox forwards, undid the latch, and pried the heavy lid open.
In the bottom of the box, a glowing-red creature wriggled uncontrollably. It was slimy, due to its noxious secretions. It had star-shaped markings which traveled down the length of its svelte back and ended at its tail. It resembled a lizard, but it looked more like an ugly, four-legged worm. Whatever it was, the tiny animal distinctly stunk of sulfur.
As the werewolves smelled the caustic stench, the strange creature sparked; then, unexpectedly, it erupted. Flaming tongues of fire burst out of the strongbox and gobbled up the debased hounds. Next, the voracious fire lapped up the surrounding snow. Afterwards, it licked the trunk of one of the ancient cedars, setting it ablaze. The whole forest might have been consumed by the impending conflagration if the figure in the blue robe had not, just then, snapped the lid closed. Instantly, the miraculous fire extinguished, and the infernal salamander once again curled up again in the bottom of the strongbox to rest…
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Sega
actual gremlin
Sylveron
The masked ball was in session.
One of those ones the Dream Court was well known for. Fae mingled in the beautiful room filled with high, glass windows - the darkness of the night shining through them, coloring the walls black. Yet, inside, the room was faintly illuminated - yellow lights mixing with red ones - the colors of red roses decorating the hall, the wine in glasses.
They might've all been masked; gorgeous velvet dresses covering their bodies, masks their eyes, but most of them knew very well who the other guests were. Nobody could escape the trained eyes of courtians. After all, gossip was the milk and honey of the court. Fae snickered, pointing at each other, whispering between themselves. In the back instruments played, filling the room with music.
A man appeared on the stairs.
The chatter got quieter, becoming dimmed like a candle's light when the wind flutters.
"Look!" one fae lightly hit her friend. "It's the Dark Interrogator!"
"It is!" her friend excitedly whispered.
"Even with that mask, who wouldn't be able to recognize him?" the other one turned around.
The man carried a cape of long, raven feathers, accompanied with a beak over his face. Yet, even under it, you could see his sly smirk. His grip was secured around a cane, decorated with black, shining obsidian. His build might've been average, but it was not what peaked the interest of the guests.
"He spends more on garments than a High Lady," one fae smirked. "I imagine the court spends a nice penny just on his clothes. He's singlehandedly keeping tailor's guild running."
A few snickers followed, but immediately quieted down as Sylveron started descending.
"And he is late," one fae rose her nose.
"From doing Heavens know what. Courting some maiden."
"Or..." a younger one nervously bit her lip. "Or working."
They exchanged knowing looks.
Sylveron toyed with his cane, finally reaching the floor. He looked around the room, drinking in the looks of the fae. If there was anything he enjoyed, it was the attention. Quite unusual for a Spymaster like him, someone who was supposed to keep to the shadows. But not him. Entrance was the name of the game. He slightly bowed head to a group of fae who commented on him.
"Ladies," he measurly spoke. The fae quickly bowed back, putting on smiles. They knew he knew what they were talking about, anyway. It seemed that man knew everything.
Sylveron quickly made his way forward, scouting out the other courtians. The crowd moved away to let him pass.
His eyes seeked for someone interesting to join with. Finally, his eyes fell on the group at the elevated position. A mess of skirts and dresses and... power. Ah. Yes.
The High Lady Aurelia.
His lips spread into a smirk. He crossed the ten paces over the floor, his steps measured, elegant, before he stopped in front of the fae. He bowed, slowly, making sure to make each movement overpronounced and slow.
"Fancy seeing you here, our Lady," he cooed.
Phantomelda
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Enmyira
☂
Fiadh was bundeled up in furs as she snuck around. It was a warmer day than any they’d had so far. But. She was restless. She didn’t want to be cooped up in the house anymore. One of her friends had sent her a note the night before. The hot spring in the woods had finally cleared. The snow had melted from the paths. It was time to go for a swim!
She couldn’t help her grin as she slipped into the trees. A ten minute walk further in.. and. Hah! Steam was think in the air. It was a bit hard to see. But. She knew it was close. An excited giggle pushed from her lips as her feet splashed into hot water. Oops!
With an even bigger smile she threw her furs aside, onto one of the nearby trees. It caught the furs and held them safe above the damp snowy ground. She slipped further into the hot waters in nothing but her small clothes. Oh stars above. The hot water was absolutely amazing.
She couldn’t help her grin as she slipped into the trees. A ten minute walk further in.. and. Hah! Steam was think in the air. It was a bit hard to see. But. She knew it was close. An excited giggle pushed from her lips as her feet splashed into hot water. Oops!
With an even bigger smile she threw her furs aside, onto one of the nearby trees. It caught the furs and held them safe above the damp snowy ground. She slipped further into the hot waters in nothing but her small clothes. Oh stars above. The hot water was absolutely amazing.
Phantomelda
Your friendly neighborhood ghost
Aurelia
Aurelia had had little to do with the planning of this ball. Just that she must attend. As always. The High Lady had been plucked and prepped for hours and hours today. Enough so that she felt like she was going to perish just from being sat in a chair and having everything on her body pulled and polished. She loathed it. Finally dressed for the ball, the only thing she had chosen for herself was her attire. She wore a dress that was as black as midnight, and dripping with jewels that were arranged to look like stars. Constellations, shooting stars, some big, some small, were arranged neatly and yet sporadically across the fabric. The dress itself was slimming, fitted to her body like a glove that showed every hug and curve. It also had a cape, and sleeves, that were made of breezy fabric and trailed behind her so as she walked, it flowed behind her. As if she was the walking night sky, and every step rippled and flowed behind her. It made her appear ethereal. Her long, blond hair was arranged neatly in coils on her head. Not a single hair lay loose down her back, but she had a few that had fell free and framed her face. A small halo crown was set upon her head, with stars and phases of the moon circling above her. Lastly, after all the makeup had been lightly brushed on just to accentuate her features but still look mostly natural, a black mask that just covered the upper half of her face was delicately placed. It was made of swirls formed together to create the shape, with a waxing crescent set on her forehead as if it were almost a diadem. Upon finally arriving at the ball, she had made sure her announcement was brief. Her speech, brief. All meant to let the court and its attendees enjoy their time and party to their hearts content. All trivial matters. Even if she had glamoured herself to hide most of her power from many of the attendees, she hadn't felt like it tonight. She was tired, and worn from her most recent hours of work. Her first mistake as many courtiers had immediately flocked to her, trying to grab her attention and her time. They tried to flatter her for their own benefits, but their words fell on mostly deaf ears. She smiled politely, and made little conversation. They were so enamored in their own little bubbles that they didn't even notice. That is, until, she heard a familiar walking gait almost beeline straight for her. Her keen senses heard his cane long before he arrived in her current flock of masked fae, and she gave a bit larger of a polite smile than she had the others thus far. Nothing could hide his own power rolling off of him as Sylveron, her most effective interrogator, The Dark Interrogator, as he was known as, suddenly appeared before her and bowed slowly. Meticulously. Full of manipulative movements, she knew. His comment made her move into motion, already breezing right past some high fae who had managed to keep her in a conversation already worth twenty minutes of nothing.
She continued on, breezing right past him as well but not without sparing him a glance and a sly smile quirked on her lips. "Ladies, gents. I hope you enjoy the party." she said to the others, dismissing them before speaking to her spymaster, "Good evening, Sylveron. Walk with me."
That was all she felt like she needed to say as she set a slow walk around the ballroom, the night sky whispering behind her as she did so.
Emyr
Emyr basked in the warm sun. Small beads of sweat tickled his brow, and his temples as he worked. His hands were being kept busy as his mothers softy humming filled the air. They worked, in tandem. As if they were a question and an answer, just as they'd always down as soon as Emyr could talk, could walk. His fae mother had taught him her craft and her ways. As an adult now, he had been fortunate enough to prove himself to be a guard and work for the High Lord of Summer. But during his free hours, he helping his fae family with his human hands craft fabric out of the finest materials. That way, she could weave the finest clothes for the High Lord and his family. He worked nonstop for the man. Emyr wasn't exactly devoted, but it was just the life he was given, and he felt blessed to have. He thanked the cauldron that despite being a mere changeling, a human babe to live in the fae realm, he had been given plenty opportunity to make something of himself. He wouldn't waste it.Glancing at the clock on the wall, his hands finally began to slow on the loom he worked at. "Knighthood calls, I'll be back this evening," He grunted as he stood and stretched. His mother glanced up from her own loom and paused her humming long enough to say, "Have a good day dear." Her golden skin was radiant in the summer courts sun, and her green eyes the shade of kelp glimmered at him. Emyr merely smiled before he began to gather his sword and gear for the day.
Sega
actual gremlin
Sylveron
Sylveron gave a polite smile to the flock of fae surrounding the High Lady. He could see resentment in some of their eyes. A lowborn, coming from the Hewn City. He knew what they were thinking: Despite all those jewels, he still carried dirt of his job. Sylveron didn't mind their looks. He was quite proud of what he did. There's been no Daemati like him in the Court yet. Let them think whatever they want, he thought, his smile hiding his true thoughts.
He happily accepted High Lady's invitation. And what a pretty Lady they had, he thought, pleased. He loved pretty things. And the Lady was indeed beautiful. Ah. Very deserving of the title. That's what a ruler was supposed to look like. Unfortunately, inexperienced one. But wasn't it his job to offer guidance? He was the spider of the court, his webs drawing across the palace, just waiting for flies to drop in them.
"See that fae?" he wickedly pointed at one girl in a deep-blue dress, decorated as lavishly as others. "Her name is Misa. She's sleeping with the head of your guards. I've heard Lady Hedwiga's jewels have..." he paused, clicking his tongue, "disappeared. But you see, I might have an idea where they are. I think our little Misa has been sending them to her lover at home. A wretched man. A drunk. I'd suggest getting rid of her."
He turned his attention to another man this time. "And that would be Garyn. I've heard he's sleeping with Lady Fanea. Obviously climbing the ladder. Though I can respect that. But he might prove to be trouble."
He scouted the hall, looking for the next piece of information. Sure, he didn't share absolutely everything with the Lady, but there were things he could say. After all, what were relationships built on, if not trust?
"And that girl..." he paused, cocking his head towards a little fae with short, blond hair, "her name is Allyn. I've seen her creeping in the dungeons. She thought I didn't, but it's quite hard to slip past me." He smiled, quite pleased with himself. "She's been bringing food to the assassin we've captured recently."
He sighed, his voice full of fake sadness. "Unfortunately, I'm not sure he recognizes her anymore. It's quite a pity."
Yes. A pity. And the work of Sylveron's own hands. He had fun with that man. He had fun with all the people he got his hands on, enjoying the fear and disbelief in their eyes as he toyed with their minds. It always filled him with pleasure, a sense of satisfaction.
cinnarinn
Dice gremlin
A little late, a younger fae appeared at the top of the stairs. It wasn't the dressing that had delayed the woman, but the journey. From the Autumn Court to the Dream Court was farther than she had anticipated. Despite her time as Emissary, she hadn't had the opportunity to attend the Dream Court. This ball was her opportunity. Spurred on by the High Fae of the Autumn Court, the girl had travelled alone.
The red haired fae made her way down the steps, careful not to step on the hem of her long, silk dress. The emerald green gown hugged her torso, the corset tight enough to have the desired effect but not so tight that it would inhibit her. The dress flowed behind her, a slit down the right leg. If it weren't for the music and general bustle of chatter, the sound of her cloven hooves hitting each step would have echoed. Her face was partially obscured by a golden mask, resembling that of a fox. Her red locks had been delicately curled and pinned into place, ensuring they couldn't move. Out from her curls stood a small, golden headpiece, resembling that of a laurel wreath.
Astraea looked around, trying to identify who the key players were at this delightful event. Her eyes were drawn to a woman who resembled the night sky, and a man whose face was decorated with a beak. The way the crowd fell apart from these people suggested they were of importance. The woman she could only guess at being either a member of the Dream Court or the Night Court. Attempting to fit in, the satyr confidently fell into a conversation with a nearby group of women. She had previously found this to be the most effective way of gathering Court gossip, though not always efficient.
The red haired fae made her way down the steps, careful not to step on the hem of her long, silk dress. The emerald green gown hugged her torso, the corset tight enough to have the desired effect but not so tight that it would inhibit her. The dress flowed behind her, a slit down the right leg. If it weren't for the music and general bustle of chatter, the sound of her cloven hooves hitting each step would have echoed. Her face was partially obscured by a golden mask, resembling that of a fox. Her red locks had been delicately curled and pinned into place, ensuring they couldn't move. Out from her curls stood a small, golden headpiece, resembling that of a laurel wreath.
Astraea looked around, trying to identify who the key players were at this delightful event. Her eyes were drawn to a woman who resembled the night sky, and a man whose face was decorated with a beak. The way the crowd fell apart from these people suggested they were of importance. The woman she could only guess at being either a member of the Dream Court or the Night Court. Attempting to fit in, the satyr confidently fell into a conversation with a nearby group of women. She had previously found this to be the most effective way of gathering Court gossip, though not always efficient.
RP Marshall
A Tale of Woe
It was midday.
The figure in the blue robe was steering the sleigh through the dense snow. He impatiently tugged the reins of his shire mare, compelling the horse to hurry. They had to reach Winter Court before nightfall, or they would risk the fury of the inimical Sickles*, towering monsters sculpted from ice, which plowed the frigid tundra like alpine skiers. Anyone who dared cross their lethal swaths were instantly mowed down, becoming nothing more than a shower of crimson slush. The blue figure would not dare contend with them, not even with the aid of the fire salamander locked away in the iron strongbox which rested on the figure's lap.
Just then, a euphonious voice moaned, “Harry…”
The young and voluptuous dryad, seated next to the figure, was waking up. In blissful lethargy, the fae maiden lifted herself up from the cushioned bench. She unabashedly slipped her slender leg off the edge of the seat, letting it dangle there. In this alluring position, she brushed the sleep out of her leaf-shaped, hazel-colored eyes. When they were clear, she marveled at the colossal mountains that loomed in the distance.
“W-where am I?” she questioned.
Unaccustomed to normal conversation with someone so strikingly beautiful, the blue figure had to clear his throat before he could speak. When he did, his voice was barely a whisper; therefore, he had to repeat himself. “Hurrm!” he rasped. “You have met with an unfortunate accident.”
Realizing she was not alone, the skittery dryad rustled. She shook like a bed of leaves, abashedly adjusting her tattered dress that barely covered her voluptuous form. She vacillated from tangible to intangible, for she gravely feared that the figure’s motives were not entirely honorable. He seemed so dreadful—all cocooned in that azure robe and cloak of his!
“Accident?” she timorously trilled. “What accident?!”
Instantly the nightmarish ordeal flashed in her mind. She remembered the hellish werewolves circling around her; their red tongues flaccidly wagging out of their gaping mouths. The fiends!
“Did, did they—?!” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.
“No,” the blue figure assured her. “You will not mother a werewolf’s malignant spawn. The fire has judged the foul creatures. They shall not touch you ever again.”
Hugging herself tightly, she whispered, “I remember—at least in part—a lurid red and orange glow, a burning glow! Fire, I believe it was. However, I haven’t seen that perilous element since I was young, when I still dwelt in the verdant forests of Spring Court. That fire slaughtered those dreadful beasts. Did you summon it?”
“In a way… yes,” he said, giving a sidelong glance at the strongbox.
“Then you have saved me, sir.” Like syrup tapped from a maple tree, her dulcet words seeped from her cherry-blossom lips. “May I know the name of my courageous rescuer?”
“Salazar…”
“And Salazar, do you help fair maidens in peril out of pure munificence?”
“No.”
“Then you do it professionally, teehee! Tell me, what is the appropriate payment for your labors. I am all too willing to compensate you—handsomely, of course.”
The lively tree spirit extended her willowy hand, proffering it to be kissed. However, Salazar recoiled in embarrassment.
Pulling his hood further over his face with his gloved hand, he said, “That will not be necessary. I am under orders from the High Lord, who requests your safe return to Winter Court.”
“How unfortunate,” sighed the dryad. “You neither did it for charity nor for personal gain. You are one of Harry’s enforcers, are you not? His personal lawgivers who protect Winter Court and its boarders from monstrous faes… Harry. That cowardly lecher! He did not even have the decency to rescue me himself. Rather, he orders you to do it. Fie! I’ll show him. I will never return to the palace!”
With the back of his esophagus burning, Salazar strained to say, “Do not expend any more of my time. I have my obligation to fulfil, Mistress Oakley.”
“You know my name? Why, I am absolutely flattered! Harry often forgets my name or mistakes it for one of his other concubines. It’s so dreadfully patronizing.” During her conversation, Mistress Oakley flirtatiously slipped closer to Salazar. Making her supple body tangible, she pressed herself against him. “Harold’s been neglecting me recently. (Hence the reason why I absconded the Winter Palace.) It’s all on account of that newfangled concubine of his.”
At these words, Salazar perked up; not because of the dryad’s flagrant advances, but because he knew whom she was speaking about.
“Her name is Savanna,” Oakley hissed in disgust, hating the foreign name. “Harry is quite smitten with her, not because of her beauty or her grace (for I am much lovelier than she). No. The only reason why she has become Harry’s favorite is due to her exotic appeal. She is a human, the only one in Winter Court; this gives her an appearance of intrigue. However, underneath that veil of hers are myriad flaws and imperfections. She’s impetuous, crass, excessively obdurate, and unpleasantly rude. She is an unrefined, undignified maiden; all unbecoming traits for a concubine, but typical characteristics for humans who reside in the arid lands of the South. She’s certainly a prickly cactus.”
What attraction Salazar might have had for the tree spirit withered with this aspersion. He tugged impatiently at the reins, goading the shire mare through the heavy snow.
The sleigh abruptly jolted, and Mistress Oakley was flung back into her seat. Accustomed to obtaining whatever she wanted through persistent coaxing, prying, or prodding, the petty dryad was deeply offended at the mysterious figure ignoring her. She grew livid, which caused her body to revert back to intangible. She wanted revenge; and since she also wanted to know what Salazar really looked like underneath that pesky hood of his, Mistress Oakley clandestinely gathered up the wind in the palm of her hand. With her dexterous fingers, she shaped the wispy element into a malleable orb and pitched it at Salazar’s face. The orb shattered. Immediately an ephemeral—but nevertheless powerful—gust of wind blew the azure hood off Salazar’s bald head. A second later the dryad let out a bloodcurdling shriek.
Seated next to her was a native southerner, a man, a human being to be more specific. However, him being a human was not what petrified the dryad. It was his face. That hideous, revolting face! Although the right side appeared normal, handsome even, the whole left side was severely burnt. Malignant sores dotted his sunken cheek. His left eye was colorless, without pupil or iris; the sign of a dead eye. The man looked like a corpse yanked out of a roaring pyre. The sight of his hideous visage made the dryad shrivel. She collapsed in the sleigh and was too terrified to look up again.
His throat aching, Salazar violently sputtered, “Wh-wh-what have you done? You—you conniving houseplant. You—you hollow-headed tree. I out to chop your branches off. Hew you in half! Use you for firewood!”
In a blinding rage, Salazar clenched the iron strongbox on his lap and fingered its latch. Inside, anticipating its release, the infernal salamander uncurled itself.
“Oh, please!” sobbed the dryad. “I did not know! Stay your anger, sir. And turn your countenance away! Oh! I simply cannot bear to look at it again!”
Salazar could not abide tears; they reminded him too much of the past. Therefore, he let go of the strongbox. Meanwhile, inside in box, the salamander curled back to sleep. Then he, Salazar, covered himself with his heavy hood; this concealed both his revolting disfigurement and the guilt associated with it.
When Mistress Oakley finally stopped crying, she implored the man to return her to Winter Court. Apparently, she had forgotten all about her marital spat with Lord Aconite. She simply had to get away from the scorched cadaver propped up beside her as soon as she could.
Tightening his jaw, Salazar did as the tree spirit demanded. He steered the sleigh silently and refused to look at the dryad again, until they had arrived at their final destination.
Throughout the journey, the hysterical dryad fervently repeated to herself, “How ghastly! How utterly ghastly!”
The figure in the blue robe was steering the sleigh through the dense snow. He impatiently tugged the reins of his shire mare, compelling the horse to hurry. They had to reach Winter Court before nightfall, or they would risk the fury of the inimical Sickles*, towering monsters sculpted from ice, which plowed the frigid tundra like alpine skiers. Anyone who dared cross their lethal swaths were instantly mowed down, becoming nothing more than a shower of crimson slush. The blue figure would not dare contend with them, not even with the aid of the fire salamander locked away in the iron strongbox which rested on the figure's lap.
Just then, a euphonious voice moaned, “Harry…”
The young and voluptuous dryad, seated next to the figure, was waking up. In blissful lethargy, the fae maiden lifted herself up from the cushioned bench. She unabashedly slipped her slender leg off the edge of the seat, letting it dangle there. In this alluring position, she brushed the sleep out of her leaf-shaped, hazel-colored eyes. When they were clear, she marveled at the colossal mountains that loomed in the distance.
“W-where am I?” she questioned.
Unaccustomed to normal conversation with someone so strikingly beautiful, the blue figure had to clear his throat before he could speak. When he did, his voice was barely a whisper; therefore, he had to repeat himself. “Hurrm!” he rasped. “You have met with an unfortunate accident.”
Realizing she was not alone, the skittery dryad rustled. She shook like a bed of leaves, abashedly adjusting her tattered dress that barely covered her voluptuous form. She vacillated from tangible to intangible, for she gravely feared that the figure’s motives were not entirely honorable. He seemed so dreadful—all cocooned in that azure robe and cloak of his!
“Accident?” she timorously trilled. “What accident?!”
Instantly the nightmarish ordeal flashed in her mind. She remembered the hellish werewolves circling around her; their red tongues flaccidly wagging out of their gaping mouths. The fiends!
“Did, did they—?!” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.
“No,” the blue figure assured her. “You will not mother a werewolf’s malignant spawn. The fire has judged the foul creatures. They shall not touch you ever again.”
Hugging herself tightly, she whispered, “I remember—at least in part—a lurid red and orange glow, a burning glow! Fire, I believe it was. However, I haven’t seen that perilous element since I was young, when I still dwelt in the verdant forests of Spring Court. That fire slaughtered those dreadful beasts. Did you summon it?”
“In a way… yes,” he said, giving a sidelong glance at the strongbox.
“Then you have saved me, sir.” Like syrup tapped from a maple tree, her dulcet words seeped from her cherry-blossom lips. “May I know the name of my courageous rescuer?”
“Salazar…”
“And Salazar, do you help fair maidens in peril out of pure munificence?”
“No.”
“Then you do it professionally, teehee! Tell me, what is the appropriate payment for your labors. I am all too willing to compensate you—handsomely, of course.”
The lively tree spirit extended her willowy hand, proffering it to be kissed. However, Salazar recoiled in embarrassment.
Pulling his hood further over his face with his gloved hand, he said, “That will not be necessary. I am under orders from the High Lord, who requests your safe return to Winter Court.”
“How unfortunate,” sighed the dryad. “You neither did it for charity nor for personal gain. You are one of Harry’s enforcers, are you not? His personal lawgivers who protect Winter Court and its boarders from monstrous faes… Harry. That cowardly lecher! He did not even have the decency to rescue me himself. Rather, he orders you to do it. Fie! I’ll show him. I will never return to the palace!”
With the back of his esophagus burning, Salazar strained to say, “Do not expend any more of my time. I have my obligation to fulfil, Mistress Oakley.”
“You know my name? Why, I am absolutely flattered! Harry often forgets my name or mistakes it for one of his other concubines. It’s so dreadfully patronizing.” During her conversation, Mistress Oakley flirtatiously slipped closer to Salazar. Making her supple body tangible, she pressed herself against him. “Harold’s been neglecting me recently. (Hence the reason why I absconded the Winter Palace.) It’s all on account of that newfangled concubine of his.”
At these words, Salazar perked up; not because of the dryad’s flagrant advances, but because he knew whom she was speaking about.
“Her name is Savanna,” Oakley hissed in disgust, hating the foreign name. “Harry is quite smitten with her, not because of her beauty or her grace (for I am much lovelier than she). No. The only reason why she has become Harry’s favorite is due to her exotic appeal. She is a human, the only one in Winter Court; this gives her an appearance of intrigue. However, underneath that veil of hers are myriad flaws and imperfections. She’s impetuous, crass, excessively obdurate, and unpleasantly rude. She is an unrefined, undignified maiden; all unbecoming traits for a concubine, but typical characteristics for humans who reside in the arid lands of the South. She’s certainly a prickly cactus.”
What attraction Salazar might have had for the tree spirit withered with this aspersion. He tugged impatiently at the reins, goading the shire mare through the heavy snow.
The sleigh abruptly jolted, and Mistress Oakley was flung back into her seat. Accustomed to obtaining whatever she wanted through persistent coaxing, prying, or prodding, the petty dryad was deeply offended at the mysterious figure ignoring her. She grew livid, which caused her body to revert back to intangible. She wanted revenge; and since she also wanted to know what Salazar really looked like underneath that pesky hood of his, Mistress Oakley clandestinely gathered up the wind in the palm of her hand. With her dexterous fingers, she shaped the wispy element into a malleable orb and pitched it at Salazar’s face. The orb shattered. Immediately an ephemeral—but nevertheless powerful—gust of wind blew the azure hood off Salazar’s bald head. A second later the dryad let out a bloodcurdling shriek.
Seated next to her was a native southerner, a man, a human being to be more specific. However, him being a human was not what petrified the dryad. It was his face. That hideous, revolting face! Although the right side appeared normal, handsome even, the whole left side was severely burnt. Malignant sores dotted his sunken cheek. His left eye was colorless, without pupil or iris; the sign of a dead eye. The man looked like a corpse yanked out of a roaring pyre. The sight of his hideous visage made the dryad shrivel. She collapsed in the sleigh and was too terrified to look up again.
His throat aching, Salazar violently sputtered, “Wh-wh-what have you done? You—you conniving houseplant. You—you hollow-headed tree. I out to chop your branches off. Hew you in half! Use you for firewood!”
In a blinding rage, Salazar clenched the iron strongbox on his lap and fingered its latch. Inside, anticipating its release, the infernal salamander uncurled itself.
“Oh, please!” sobbed the dryad. “I did not know! Stay your anger, sir. And turn your countenance away! Oh! I simply cannot bear to look at it again!”
Salazar could not abide tears; they reminded him too much of the past. Therefore, he let go of the strongbox. Meanwhile, inside in box, the salamander curled back to sleep. Then he, Salazar, covered himself with his heavy hood; this concealed both his revolting disfigurement and the guilt associated with it.
When Mistress Oakley finally stopped crying, she implored the man to return her to Winter Court. Apparently, she had forgotten all about her marital spat with Lord Aconite. She simply had to get away from the scorched cadaver propped up beside her as soon as she could.
Tightening his jaw, Salazar did as the tree spirit demanded. He steered the sleigh silently and refused to look at the dryad again, until they had arrived at their final destination.
Throughout the journey, the hysterical dryad fervently repeated to herself, “How ghastly! How utterly ghastly!”
*Sickles: Refer to "LESSER FAERIES" in "Lore" written by
Enmyira
Enmyira
