The Faery CourtIndex | Time Under Chaos | Game Logs | The Faery Court [continued from Cast Your Green Kirtle Owr Me] And now as the Sidhe faded, Jurt among them with the Maiden held close in his arms, the hooded man following them, it seemed that the colour of the woods was fading around those who were left. "Jurt!" Helena shouted, straightening up on the horse. Jurt's cry was something between anger and sorrow, but he pulled the Maiden closer, using their physical contact to force himself into her, commanding the tissues to reknit about the foreign object, accepting her sense of wholeness, sublimating his own self and directing himself into her healing. He felt her stir within his arms and heard the faint cry she gave. Then she twisted in his arms, pressing against his chest, and the long arrow that should have, at the least, prevented their embrace or, more seriously, been driven deeper into her helpless young flesh... Instead it seemed to hold its shape for a long moment. And then it drifted apart, like ash in the wind, and Jurt found himself standing in the courtyard, the Maiden his arms, and the Lady, with all her court behind her, surveying him with an icy frown. "Well?" she said. "You concluded your agreement with the Stranger and my cousins, not I, Lady," Jurt answered. "I find myself less than obligated to complete the oath I began." "How does the Maiden?" she asked. "Does she live? Or have those of Amber brought a fresh curse upon us?" "The shaft is gone, mi'Lady," he proclaimed with a smile. "She lives." "She more than lives," said a voce behind Jurt, the voice of the Wise Woman. "I see a doubled life within." "No curse then, but a blessing it seems," Jurt said, a significant look to the Singer for support, wary that this might come to blows. The Singer, however, was moving forward, his face pale. "Lady...I swear...it would have been impossible!" He dropped to one knee before the Lady, his head bowed. "I watched them both closely, as you ordered. I would swear...they had no opportunity!" "Nonetheless," said the Wise Woman, moving round so she could look fully at Jurt, "new life stirs within her. What do you say, stranger from beyond our worlds?" "Are you asking me to claim the child as my own?" Jurt retorted with a smile. "No matter what the obstacles, life will out. Mathematicians in some Shadows call the study of such things, the nuances that go unseen, Chaos Theory. I have but granted this good woman a measure of kindness, a gift." "By your own infernal powers!" cried the Lady, her eyes dark with anger. She took a swift step towards Jurt, her hand lifting... "Wait," said the Wise Woman. The Lady froze. The Wise Woman looked at Jurt. "Is the Maiden still...a Maiden?" "One might suppose, by the letter of such things, perhaps, but where does the binding unravel, by action or intent and result?" he offered. "The child may be male," said the Lady. "That would...alter nothing." "Except to prove her no Maiden," said the Wise Woman. "It has happened...my own firstborn was male." "And betrayed you!" said the Lady. "Betrayed us all!" The Maiden was creeping closer to Jurt. "I might be able to tell," Jurt offered, almost seemingly bored with this banter. He took a step toward the Maiden and slid her arm through his own. "But in the end I'm certain you wouldn't take my word for it, even though I've not foresworn myself here." "I might appreciate the glamour about the young lady lifted, at least until such things can be proven or disproven," he grinned at the Lady blandly. "To enforce it further would be like locking the barn after the little people had already stolen the cow." The Lady's hand twisted in a strange gesture. "For all it is worth now...it is gone," she said flatly. And then suddenly...she was gone...and all the court with her—and the Maiden and Jurt were alone together. He slid a hand into her hair, drawing her closer to him until their lips were just moments apart. "We need to discuss further who your allies truely are and how to secure your place as Lady, but first I think we should eliminate any technicalities that might allow them to still consider you a maiden." Jurt's other hand slid up her thigh his thumb massaging gently over the crest of her hip. She looked up at him, and then tensed and he sensed her fear that the strange glamour was still upon her. But moments passed, and nothing happened—save that the rosy blush on her cheeks grew a little deeper. Then she gave a little sigh and relaxed into enjoyment of his touch. It was some five hours later, as best Jurt could judge. Early on, they had retired to the Maiden's own suite... It had not been long since they had fallen asleep. By all rights, Jurt should have been tired enough to sleep for several hours more. So why was he suddenly, unexpectedly awake? Jurt slipped to the floor, unconcerned with his state of dress, and focused on the area about him. His skin took on an almost metallic sheen as he located the silvered blade he had left hanging on the Maiden's vanity. Blue irises glowing from within now silver sclera, he surveyed this chamber before moving toward the central sitting room. The Maiden was still asleep, her long hair tumbling across the pillow, forming a veil for her as she slept. He could hear her breathing behind him, soft and light. But he could hear something else...in the outer room. A hoarse, ragged breathing...and a strange scratching sound. Trying to recall the spire's layout, something with which he obviously had not been concerned previously, Jurt leaned out the closest window and tried to determine the best way to circle around. The exterior seemed too smooth, but the balcony of the next room to the west seemed a safe enough jump. Taking as much care as he could without sacrificing his speed, the Chaosian lept across, propelled by the thicker musculature he had been developing for the anticipated conflict. Cautiously he entered the next room, hoping to slip through unseen or at least without raising an alarm so he might gain the coridoor and flank whatever was breathing outside the Maiden's door. The room gave on to a bathing place—part of the Maid's suite. Opening the door would bring him into the private sitting room where the ragged breathing (now growing hoarser, and accompanied by sounds like a groan) was coming from. Jurt cracked the door with the utmost of subtlety as the noises began to remind him of specific acts that were often not violent enough to require his sword, at least not here in Glimmergloom. His shapechanging adjusted for the light levels in the next room and he took a moment to assess the situation and see if intrusion was necessary. The first thing he saw was the blood. It seemed impossible that the small, crumpled elven figure could have held so much golden blood... And then he realised who the figure was... The Singer, his eyes already glazing over in death, and wearing two sets of lips—one for his mouth...and the second an obscenity, the slash in his throat, the fleshy edges of which moved as his dying breaths escaped from his shattered windpipe. Jurt strolled in the room, appraising the fallen man. As he walked through the golden blood it seemed to roll up across his mercuric body, flowing toward his fingertips, more and more, until it seemed his arms were made of the glittering fluid. Kneeling at the Singer's side, Jurt closed the wound with golden fingers, letting the blood flow back into its original vessel. He concentrated long moments, calling upon the Singer's flesh to reknit itself and urging it on with his own strength when it faltered. As the light returned to the elf's eyes, Jurt spoke again. "The Lady rewards loyalty handsomely," he observed coolly. "Remember Singer, I am not as merciful as she." But the light was illusory. Although Jurt's abilities worked on the flesh and sinews, Jurt's words didn't seem to reach the stricken elf; it seemed some dark magic was at work as well. The Singer reached up and clutched at Jurt's wrists, his breath gurgling now. "The...gate," he said. "The seal..." His words faded and then he spoke more urgently. "Make her walk!" he said—and then his grip on Jurt's sleeve weakened as he slumped back. "This is always the way with vague final words," he commented, seemingly bored once again with the poorly scripted comedy of errors within he found himself. "Her? The Crone-nee-Lady, The Maiden-come-Lady, or our Daughter-in-Waiting? Really, for a artist, one would expect you to be a bit more clear." He nudged the body with a now bare, human foot and left the body there in quiet repose as he entered the bedchamber. "Walk," he mused. "Seal." Thoughts as to the nature of the barrier and its source, including how Jurt arrived began to formulate even as he sat beside the beautiful creature tangled among the sheets. He laid a demure kiss atop her shoulder to rouse her from her sleep. "Mmmmmph." A little sound of sleepy pleasure at the caress, and one dark eye was open and watching him (the other was still hidden by the pillow). She started to smile. "Coming back to bed?" she asked, raising the pale green cover invitingly. Then she saw his hands and sat bolt upright in bed, her eyes wide and the cover clutched to preserve her modesty. "What have you done?" "She killed the Singer and dumped him outside the door," Jurt explained quietly. "That or he made it here on his own to warn you." "He spoke of a gate and a seal with his last words. Do you know of what he speaks?" "The Tracerie is sealed," she said at once. "The way to the worlds beyond...your worlds. But once it was a gate...that opened and allowed us to pass through, and allowed the Children to come and live among us." "My apologies that I've not done my due diligence in researching your history here, but I've not been afforded the time yet," Jurt said as he crossed to a water basin to wash his hands. "The Children...of Oberon...of Chaos...of some obscure lineage that figures prominently in the myth that surrounds this Tracerie?" "The Children of Oberon," she said at once. "They came here...and left when Oberon imposed the barrier, with the help of the Warrior. Not willingly, or so the tale goes—but it is forbidden to speak of it. That is why Tamlin was feared..." "The Tamlin that was with my nieces?" Jurt wondered aloud. "He is family to Oberon that did not leave or is some how tied to your Tracerie?" The noble stood and began locating his clothes, before stopping himself and taking a moment to wash the rest of the Singer's blood into the water basin. "I fear we have much to accomplish with little time to do it, my love." Her response came breathlessly. "Why...what must we do?" Drawing on the fae leggings, he answered, "The Singer's death was a message from the Lady. I don't know specifically how to read it, let alone answer it. I perceive the intent if not the nuance." "Is there reason to believe that you might be able to walk the Tracerie? Was your father one of the Children?" Jurt asked, looking up and meeting her eyes again. She shook her head emphatically. "Those of royal blood could often walk it—and lead armies through the Portal. That was why, it was said, Oberon sealed it. But before he did so, he decreed there must be a severing between the children of Oberon and the Children of the Unseelie. And their offspring were to be left here." "So Tamlin is Orderly Blooded?" Jurt asked as he shrugged on his purple robe. "Yes," said the Maiden readily. "Two of the Children bore children of their own with the Fae. One was the Dark Daughter—and Tamlin is her son. The other was the child of the Man of the Woods, and he stole his child away. There was much anger here about that...the Lady said she wished she had given the child two eyes of stone as his birth gift—but that his curse was that he might never be a joy to his father until..." She broke off, and looked at Jurt. "Will you take me with you?" "Where?" Jurt wondered aloud. "I had thought you had intended to reign as Lady here once our child is born." The Maiden glanced at him, and then laughed. "If there is any land left to reign... Come with me, Chaos Lord, and I'll take you to the Tracerie—or what remains of it now Tamlin has done his worst." Jurt nodded, a flash of interest in his bright blue eyes. The Maiden led the way out of the rooms, looking around cautiously at the door to see whether they were observed. Satisfied that the way was clear, she said, We need to leave the city. We should go down the hills, following the mist. Then into one of the entrances of the siodhe—the main part of the city is below ground, you know. Then inside, up through the mushroom caverns, up to the Fairy Ring. We could head for the Clan Oak, or Clan Wormwood." She looked questioningly at him. "The closest if time is of the essence," Jurt decided, his form already fluid again as he put on mass, almost clandestinely, hiding it in his skeleton and musculature without putting on size. "This path to begin with," she added, leading down a quiet way. "They will start to follow us soon." Indeed, they had not gone a hundred yards beyond a side gate out of the city when there was a shout from behind them. The Maiden reached out and clutched Jurt's hand. "They've found the Singer," she said. "Now they will seek to set the hounds on us." Jurt let the mass flow, enlarging himself and taking on the quicksilver skin again. His legs split with a sickening crack, becoming the four cloven hooves of his centaur-like demon form. He reached down and swung the NotMaiden up onto his still lengthening back and commanded her to hold tight as he began to trot, and then gallop, toward the mists. She swung up into place behind him...he heard her sobbing breath as she clung to him. And then they were away, even as he heard the belling of hounds—some distance...but drawing closer. Jurt increased his speed, his blade in hand, plunging toward the mists, imploring the Maiden to guide him, even as he used his connection to the Pattern to attempt to draw the mists toward him, as ephemeral creations, they had their own ineffable rules, and it was probable that he might find them closer to the path today than perhaps yesterday. And suddenly there was a great roaring—Jurt's animal senses were aware of it before his mind could take it in—a great ferocious beast, stippled with light and shadow, racing through the woods towards them—and towards the pursuing hounds. The Maiden screamed. "What IS that?" "Help, I hope," Jurt laughed with reckless abandon, putting on more speed, leaving the hounds to the beast, never engaging either, but keeping his hooves moving, bits of Glimmergloom sod flying in his wake. "I'm going to be lost here soon. Give me some direction?" "This way!" she shouted, tugging his arm to change his direction. There was a faint, almost concealed path.... Behind them came roars and screams—the frightened howls of the hounds, the crunch of bones, a wet slap.... The Maiden clung tighter. "What is it?" she said, her voice hoarse with fear. But she showed no inclination to look back. "Probably better that we don't know," Jurt answered. His eyes kept to the path as he wound through the mists, letting the animal instincts that accompanied the senses drive his speed. "We make for the Oak and then to your Tracerie, but I need you to trust me in all of this." His eyes caught the first entrance to the sidohie and dismissed it. "How close can I get to the mushroom caves before I have to break the mist?" he asked. "I'm loathe to give up what cover we have and then limit where I can run." "From here," she said, "if your magic will work...we need to approach cautiously..." She swallowed convulsively. "And I think I'm going to be sick," she added. |
