She Whose Song Embraces the Seasons
Apr 19, 2023 21:48:33 GMT
Velania Kalugina and Andy Davy like this
Post by Riah on Apr 19, 2023 21:48:33 GMT
“Once upon a time, in a realm adjacent to your own, in lands of turning seasons, there lived a great Seelie Queen.”
The satyr’s voice carries out across Portal Plaza, from the north east corner where he stood all the way past the Mossy Mug kiosk by the teleportation circle, around the corner of Aurelia Archellon’s home, and just to the back edges of the Temple of Waukeen. It was a pleasant voice too, one – many would agree later – they would happily listen to speak about anything and everything for hours.
He was also surprisingly tall for one of the half goat fey folk, and undeniably handsome. It was no wonder that the Master of Revelries of the Summer Court was beginning to draw a crowd with just the opening to his tale.
“It is said her laugh was equal parts joy and mischief, infectious and enticing; her beauty was as the sun, inspiring awe and devotion for the words she spoke; her patience and wisdom as bountiful as any harvest; her serenity and poise as tranquil as a peaceful, frozen lake.”
The satyr gestures to what appears to be a butterfly. The tiny creature holds a pink flower that glows with motes of light. Some of the children in the crowd squeal in delight.
“Do you know what these are?” the satyr asks the growing crowd. There are a few murmurs from those at the front, but many in the back cannot quite make out what it is the pixie holds.
“They are known in your lands as Cyclamen, a flower of deep love and wisdom. It is said her crown was woven with these. She loved her people, wanting only the best for them, and they in turn adored her.”
The pixie floats away as the satyr’s demeanour changes, becoming solemn and wistful.
“When she passed, they buried the crown with her, as they believed no one afterwards could ever be worthy of their blessing. These flowers bloomed for a time where she was laid to rest, but over time her tomb was lost and the flowers began to fade…”
His gaze finds someone in the crowd. There’s a quick smile, then he moves and the crowd with him.
“Years later — ‘How many?’ you ask? Well-” He leaps over to a young goblin child who’s listening, enraptured, holding his mother’s hand. “-that’s the rub, isn’t it? Time in the Feywild runs hither and thither and yon! It could have been a handful, it could have been several dozen. It is mercurial and hard to quantify… just like a child’s imagination.” Only those close by see him wink at the child, who giggles. Then he stands.
“As I was saying, years later when a band of dreadful Unseelie fey sought to steal the Queen’s ancient magic from her tomb, the eldest eladrin who still remembered their wise and beautiful Queen, managed to whisk the crown away.”
He leaps away, climbing up onto a crate beside the Mossy Mug stall. The gathering crowd has grown even more, yet none find it difficult to hear the Master of Revelries for he is a master in his element, a silver tongued storyteller that is understood no matter who he is speaking to. It is powerful.
“These Seelie fey eluded their pursuers, disappearing into the gloom, but not before they saw a small cluster of cyclamen flowers, still as vibrant as the day the Great Queen died.” He holds out his hand for the pixie holding the magical flowers to land on it. “Though their heads are bent in sorrow, devastated by the tragedy befalling the Queen’s descendants, their presence reminded them to hope. ‘For love so rare and arduous to obtain, she who wore this crown may be seen again…’”
The satyr bows as the applause swells. People toss coins to his feet, which are swept up and collected into a pouch by what appears to be a dragonfly. Slowly, the crowd disperses, many carrying the story on their lips or the handsome satyr within their thoughts.
One child comes up to the Master of Revelries. Those still close by linger a little, wanting to at least hear what they might ask, hoping for another story at most. It is the same goblin child from earlier. He looks up at the satyr both shyly but in wonder, a hand partially covering his mouth, which makes it only slightly difficult to understand him.
“Did the unseemly fey catch the elamdrim? What happ’ned to her crown?”
Kruxeral smiles fondly at the child, the memory of another child asking a similar question upon hearing the tale.
“Who’s to say for certain, little one. Though if they did not get away, how would I be able to tell you their tale, hmm?”
The satyr’s voice carries out across Portal Plaza, from the north east corner where he stood all the way past the Mossy Mug kiosk by the teleportation circle, around the corner of Aurelia Archellon’s home, and just to the back edges of the Temple of Waukeen. It was a pleasant voice too, one – many would agree later – they would happily listen to speak about anything and everything for hours.
He was also surprisingly tall for one of the half goat fey folk, and undeniably handsome. It was no wonder that the Master of Revelries of the Summer Court was beginning to draw a crowd with just the opening to his tale.
“It is said her laugh was equal parts joy and mischief, infectious and enticing; her beauty was as the sun, inspiring awe and devotion for the words she spoke; her patience and wisdom as bountiful as any harvest; her serenity and poise as tranquil as a peaceful, frozen lake.”
The satyr gestures to what appears to be a butterfly. The tiny creature holds a pink flower that glows with motes of light. Some of the children in the crowd squeal in delight.
“Do you know what these are?” the satyr asks the growing crowd. There are a few murmurs from those at the front, but many in the back cannot quite make out what it is the pixie holds.
“They are known in your lands as Cyclamen, a flower of deep love and wisdom. It is said her crown was woven with these. She loved her people, wanting only the best for them, and they in turn adored her.”
The pixie floats away as the satyr’s demeanour changes, becoming solemn and wistful.
“When she passed, they buried the crown with her, as they believed no one afterwards could ever be worthy of their blessing. These flowers bloomed for a time where she was laid to rest, but over time her tomb was lost and the flowers began to fade…”
His gaze finds someone in the crowd. There’s a quick smile, then he moves and the crowd with him.
“Years later — ‘How many?’ you ask? Well-” He leaps over to a young goblin child who’s listening, enraptured, holding his mother’s hand. “-that’s the rub, isn’t it? Time in the Feywild runs hither and thither and yon! It could have been a handful, it could have been several dozen. It is mercurial and hard to quantify… just like a child’s imagination.” Only those close by see him wink at the child, who giggles. Then he stands.
“As I was saying, years later when a band of dreadful Unseelie fey sought to steal the Queen’s ancient magic from her tomb, the eldest eladrin who still remembered their wise and beautiful Queen, managed to whisk the crown away.”
He leaps away, climbing up onto a crate beside the Mossy Mug stall. The gathering crowd has grown even more, yet none find it difficult to hear the Master of Revelries for he is a master in his element, a silver tongued storyteller that is understood no matter who he is speaking to. It is powerful.
“These Seelie fey eluded their pursuers, disappearing into the gloom, but not before they saw a small cluster of cyclamen flowers, still as vibrant as the day the Great Queen died.” He holds out his hand for the pixie holding the magical flowers to land on it. “Though their heads are bent in sorrow, devastated by the tragedy befalling the Queen’s descendants, their presence reminded them to hope. ‘For love so rare and arduous to obtain, she who wore this crown may be seen again…’”
The satyr bows as the applause swells. People toss coins to his feet, which are swept up and collected into a pouch by what appears to be a dragonfly. Slowly, the crowd disperses, many carrying the story on their lips or the handsome satyr within their thoughts.
One child comes up to the Master of Revelries. Those still close by linger a little, wanting to at least hear what they might ask, hoping for another story at most. It is the same goblin child from earlier. He looks up at the satyr both shyly but in wonder, a hand partially covering his mouth, which makes it only slightly difficult to understand him.
“Did the unseemly fey catch the elamdrim? What happ’ned to her crown?”
Kruxeral smiles fondly at the child, the memory of another child asking a similar question upon hearing the tale.
“Who’s to say for certain, little one. Though if they did not get away, how would I be able to tell you their tale, hmm?”