2022-06-07 - The Beautiful Lady Without Mercy

The bluebell woods are in full bloom, and the rabbits lope through the tall grasses, darting between fallen branches and behind enormous oak trees, twittered at by the finches high in their branches. It's the yards of Oak Avenue writ large, a gold-tinted world of mists and light; of tiny mushrooms rings and faerie bowers. You may have been sleeping safe in your beds (or elsewhere), before, but you're awake, now, and this world? It's comfortable and familiar, the feast laid out upon the long table appetising and not at all dangerous.

You belong here: fair folk, members of the Seelie court. You are... and you are not: you know exactly who you are, beneath pointed ears, horns, wings, and whatever else you might have suddenly grown.

At the base of the oak tree nearby, there's a man-- a faerie, surely, though he has no wings, just a perfection of form and a crown of flowers (and a draping garment that covers very little: with balmy temperatures like these, who needs clothing?)-- playing a lyre. There's a waterfall, its song one of crystalline beauty; and there's Oberon on his throne, proud Titania at his side, and everything is beautiful. Terrible-- such beauty was not meant for human eyes and yours may not currently be human, but the brains behind them still are; but beautiful nonetheless.

"A feast, a feast!" Oberon calls, waving his goblet in the air for emphasis, as some of the nymphs begin to dance.

The faerie revels begin!

And this is why you never introduce your girlfriend to a song like Venelite, and you definitely don't let her call you her mountain king. Ravn berates himself quietly -- because what is this, if not exactly the kind of story that Venelite tells? A fair maiden, abducted to the court of faerie under the mountain -- well, in the woods, whatever. Also, if that's Oberon over there, then he is the mountain king, and now Ravn is really hoping that Ariadne is not going to be sharing this Dream. Mostly because Oberon has no respect for any rules made by man, and Titania tends to have good reason for her jealousy.

Midsummer Night's Dream, anyone? He sure feels like a donkey right now.

But he isn't.

Not that he's sure what he is. A foot long coat made from black fur, trimmed with feathers that are so black they reflect the light in shades of dark green. A scarf in a dark shade of jade to match; so light it might be woven from cobwebs and starlight. Tight breeches, medieval style, black; and a tunic in the same shade of dark green, under the coat. Boots, black, knee high.

Amazing he's not uncomfortable from the warmth, or for that matter, the weight. It's not exactly mid-winter here. Also, he notes, with the wryness of a historian, that this costume may be Celtic inspired but it sure as hell never has seen an actual medieval Celtic court.

He reaches up. Black gloves? But of course. Pointed ears? Check. But then, his ears have always been kind of pointed, so it's not much of a change. And the triangular face and almond eyes? If there's any justice in the world his eyes are green now but otherwise -- nah, no real change. God, how he hated it as a teenager, being called 'elfin'.

Black. Ravn checks his mental notes. Is he one of the Unseelie Sidhe, then, visiting? Or does he just have a strange taste in clothing? Whatever. The narrative will get to it, no doubt. And in the meantime he's going to scan the crowd for any familiar faces -- or familiar eyes in unfamiliar faces.

Pointed ears, horns and wings: spiral-wire-pierced ears as sharp as thorns, or as those horns gnarled -- or carved -- like bark; wings dappled dark on the outside, downy violet within. Della's caught up mid-smile, a puckish smile, overriding the mood she'd slept in; gossamer violet tracery etches her arteries and veins and gloves' worth of capillaries, all but for the whites of her eyes, all of it whorled serpentine instead of mortals' plain, earthbound riverbeds. Her skin is otherwise dark, her hair quicksilver and floating, here and there tufted like feathers; her footsteps leave imprints of glitter.

Which may be as much a sign of unreality as anything: the glitter disappears some moments later, instead of, like normal glitter, sticking around and getting into everything. Not that Della's noticed, yet, nor how her body's elongated into a fashion croquis; where another Dream had had her particularly short, here she's tall... at least, compared to her waking self. Still new to Dreams, it's taking her longer to adjust, to look around for anyone at all, especially with how her kirtle drifts so pleasantly about her ankles, and how particularly deep draughts of breath are heady as bubbly wine.

The gargoyle she's talking to lifts her up, and she floats, uplifted arms balletic in delight. Besides: in this company, haven't they all the world's time?

Itzhak may have watched Labyrinth too many times at an impressionable age. He's lounging sideways in one of the luxurious chairs, one long leg draped over an arm. Jeans that could tell you his religion are richly embroidered with flowers and vines--wait, those are actually flowers and vines growing from the fabric. His shirt is the classic white floofy poet shirt, open to his navel, displaying scars, sleek abs, and ink. He's wearing clawed gauntlets, or maybe he has claws and he's just wearing gauntlets. The extravagant mass of his hair, gleaming midnight-dark curls, is braided close to the sides of his head to form a wild mane or crest on top.

He's been given a few Dream upgrades: great curling ram's horns, long beautifully shaped ears, and there's some subtle difference about his face. More fine, less worn, less lined. It doesn't make him look any less dangerous. Not in the least.

The famous nose? Unchanged. It's his best feature, after all.

And to finish the look, he's got a riding crop, tapping it idly against his boot as he slouches gracefully sideways in the chair.

He's watching Ravn and Della with equal interest, a young lion considering prey, but not quite hungry enough yet to pursue. Not yet. And there is this lovely feast to give him time to plan his attack.

Charity recognizes the location immediately. But she also recognizes that it is not the Oak Avenue she knows. She is also acutely aware that she is not the she that she is used to being either. Bare feet traverse the soft grasses, her steps more of an impromptu, but well-choreographed dance. Long legs emerge from the ragged hem of an extremely short, pastel green, strapless dress. The jet-black hair is definitely hers, but it stands up on top and out to the the sides in a ... well ... pixie cut and does nothing to hide her long-tipped ears. A pair of gossamer dragonfly wings add to her differentiation, protruding from between her shoulder blades and vibrating randomly with an audible hum.

While not flying per se, the appendages to provide enough lift that her already delicate motions become even more airy and graceful.

Her emerald green eyes are nearly twice their normal size, and glow almost as if backlit by some otherworldly force. As she spots the others gathered around, she lets out a melodious giggle, revealing perfectly white teeth, razor-sharp teeth. The nails at the end of her abnormally thin arms are just as wicked-seeming, and the long fingers of one hand are wrapped around a strand of silken web that glistens iridescently and is attached at the other end to what appears to be a balloon with a face drawn it in exquisite, portrait-like detail.

In fact, the image is so realistic, it seems to change expression as it bounced up and down and twists back and forth with Charity's motions as she closes the distance to the party.

From behind the oak tree, at a slow meander, a black horse, a stallion, clops towards the waterfall-fed water cautiously. There is no bit or tackle, the only attire on the beast of burden is the long white, transparent, and luminescent dress draped over the body of the willowy blonde painted on the horse's back, her arms wrapped around as much of the horse's neck as she can manage.

As the animal cranes his massive head down and nostrils flare with his exhalation causing further ripples on the surface, the blonde lifts her head and dandily lowers it back down turned the other way. With the horse lowering his head, she's unable to hug the muscular base and uses her right hand to comb her delicate fingers through hair as shiny as the beast's hide to almost be reflective, and gingerly places both her hair over her shoulder before returning her hand to the creature under her, but also placing her high left cheekbone against the beast's back with a languid sigh.

There may be a reverie beginning around her, but Mildew has everything she wants right beneath her. However short that may be when the horse spies its reflection, gives a soft, low, breathy neigh, then with front right hoof paws at the water to chase the other horse away.

Not yet an orgy? Well, what are we waiting for?

Ravn blinks at the other presence in his head -- the one that seems to be driving his body at the present. Excuse you? He takes a few deep breaths and then a choke hold on whatever elf or sidhe lord thinks he's here to pick up company for the evening. Sorry, Legolas, you're not getting any tonight.

He glances up at the light bubble. Royal summons, gotcha. Probably not the time to tell Oberon that he's a bizarre halfbreed of Lugh of the Long Hand and whatever Greek legend Shakespeare overdosed on last. Smile. Walk like the lord, prince, whatever you're supposed to be. Graceful, stately.

Walk like your mother taught you.

And so he does, walking up while glancing around to see who else is part of this show. That nose is definitely Rosencrantz, he'd recognise it in any flower bed -- pants, whatever. The women both look familiar and yet not. The blond girl on the horse? No idea. That it's actually the horse with the blond girl? Definitely no idea.

The thump makes her jump, toes auto-pointed, head turning towards their lord -- all this while still midair, a jolting lift of wings. She hovers there, does Della, all the more visible to lions and tigers for the moment before the music drops and so does she.

She's spotted the cookies; she smiles.

But then Oberon speaks. Her gaze flits to Titania, gauging their queen's reaction; it distracts her from the bubbles appearing, from the crowd dissipating -- into more dissipation? -- with even the petite gargoyle bowing with something akin to apology as they all put the sidle into sidhe.

Almost all. Finally her upward glance notes the bubble above her own head, and then she's scanning the bubble-people -- at least they aren't in the bubbles -- before treading closer. Not that Della doesn't put some of that lingering effervescence into her own walk, as though she's just fine being here, glad to be, even: as though they're the solution.

(And one more peek at Titania, just because.)

With the lax examination, the stallion lifts its head to take in the carousing beginning or perhaps recommencing if rumors of fairy savoir-faire have not been overly exaggerated. Go to bed a man, wake up a horse in a pixie party.
Dreams are weird, and this too can be taken in stride. Truth, it would be more comforting if something were bleeding, or screaming with fear. This. This is unnerving,

Mildew, meanwhile, couldn't be pried off the back of the horse with a crane. With a purr like a nest full of rainbow-colored kittens, cream still on their lips while they cuddle in a pile, Mildew strokes her cheek against the stallion once, ignoring, yet, attempts to get her to join in the festivities. Everett's Dream jaunts are few and far between and she has much time to catch up on with her lionization.

The rise of the drums, signaling the fall of the fanfare raises the horse's head and when he speaks, the stallion glances to the center position. With a flick of those fingers, the horse turns its head to notice the lights over four heads. Then glance to his right as other fey are glancing at him before they retreat. An Equus head turns the other direction and notices the same thing before glancing up for the half-second it takes to see the light over his own before the horse head falls to his own knees.
And promptly begins to amble towards the center of attention like a nine-year-old called to the principal's office.

Once there, Mildew lazily gazes down to Charity, "I have a horse," she says, her voice soft so as to not distract from the Elf-King, and sounds like love birds flirting in midair, "and isn't he BEautiful?" The rhetorical question, once asked, have Mildew's slender, pale fingers spread out along the black coat of the stallion, stroking his shoulder.

Pretty frequently, Itzhak really isn't that far off from a wild faerie knight. He rolls his eyes and slithers to his feet, tucking the crop under one arm. Casual swagger slash undulate towards Oberon, who Itzhak only knows from Gargoyles.

He upnods at Ravn, recognition seething behind his eyes but not quite making it to the surface. Della, no idea, just adorable pixie, and he smiles sidelong at her. Charity, also no idea, not even in his normal hungover rockstar way, though he does cock an eyebrow in congratulations for being the creepiest so far, good show. And who is this broad on the horse?

He hasn't yet figured anything out; not that weird so far. Hell, he has actual dreams like this all the time.

Charity is still meandering in that dancelike way. She even does a couple of jetés that send her bouncing over the heads of a group of smaller fae. Then the drumbeat and Oberon's thundering voice causes her to stop and look around bewilderedly. When she realizes that there is a glowing ball of light over her head, hovering about the same height as the balloon, she understands that she is one of those being summoned to the Fairy King's presence.

She looks from the regal leader to the face looking down at her. The expression shifts to a tongue sticking out at Charity in a teasing manner. Frowning, she skips quickly toward the gathering spot, yanking the silken strand several times to make the balloon keep up.

When she reaches the rest and stops beside Mildew. In response to the question, she nods her head rapidly up and down. "He is! He is!" Then she slaps one hand over her grinning mouth, which does little to stifle the giggles. However, she manages to bite down on her lower lip enough to quiet down as she turns her attention back to Oberon.

The balloon shakes back and forth, the face (which definitely looks like that of a boy) looking embarrassed as it turns its eyes toward Charity. You are in front of the King, dummy. Kneel!

So, she does. One knee landing on the soft grass while the other bends at a right angle and her head bows respectfully forward.

The sidhe lord or elf prince that Ravn is supposed to be has no particular opinion to offer. Mortals catch sight of the otherworld, and then they die. It's what mortals do -- they die. They get born, they do whatever mortals do, and then they die. Nothing not make a fuss about. Too busy dying anyhow. Ravn's presence in his mind, on the other hand, is screaming. What he sees is Ariadne, crying, and, well, dying.

He looks up. The booming sound, of fists pounding dirt? Of distant drums, or of somebody very large pounding the ground here, where the veil between the faerie realm and the realm of mortals is but one circle of mushrooms thick?

This could go badly. Somehow, dying squished under the enraged fist of a mortal is not looking great. Not to Ravn, and not to the sidhe whose body he presently wears.

It's the not-quite-embroidered jeans that gain Della's initial attention, eyes narrowed as though she'd figure out the living stitches -- and then, caught, she gives their wearer an errant, absolutely unapologetic smile in return. Between him and the horse (the horse! nine-year-old Della may not have visited the principal's office much, but she had a whole herd of hand-me-down Breyers), it's mane central around here, even if balloon girl's is cropped; the balloon itself gets a side-eye, but the man with the fur and feathers -- oh. Oh. Her wings flutter back in relief.

And it's just when she's flat-footed that Oberon speaks. Shows.

"...Mom?" It's just a little breath of a word. "But you -- " Stricken, she sinks back, side-steps Ravn's (might-be-Ravn's) way; one imagines it isn't a paramour, then, who misses her so. "Did you see that?!"

The significance of the thumping doesn't seem to have, well, struck her yet.

The visual exploration from the king isn't unnoticed either, but other than a half-step back and shake from an upraised nodded head, making the shiny hair of the steed's long, black mane shiver, there's little reaction. If it's a choice between something you do once in college and saving the party's life, well... hopefully Ariadne will take care of Ravn's cat.

With the summoning of the imagery, the stallion gives a glance to those that have been summoned with a crane of his head before returning his attention to the imagery with a flick of his tail and watches it unfold in front of his eyes, like pools of spilt ink.

It's only after the commandment and the regal disappearance that the horse animates: "Fucking elves. Can't trust anything they do because they're all about illusion and trickery." The complaint, though, passes from equine lips as neighs, snorts, and even a nicker. What the animated beast of burden does do though, with his frequent lip movement during his horse vocalization is show his teeth.

Not flat teeth of a herbivore, but stained with yellow-brown to black tartar between sharp, jagged fangs of a carnivore, complete with masses of rotting mystery substance between some teeth like a surprise pudding.
Isn't he BEautiful?

The stallion's riding companion though lifts her head to rest her pointed chin over her left hand while watching her right draw an idle pattern around the fur at his shoulder while she smiles a knowing smile, she replies like she understood him, "You're so funny, Beast," her kittenish tone soft and amorous. Lifting herself to sit lazily proper, she looks down to the collected party, the luminous of her transparent dress the only thing guarding the elf's modesty. After another look at the collected party the elf-king selected, coy and slow, the elf maiden points a slender finger to the noble Ravn, adding, "I know of both of you," before she withdraws her hand and adds to the others, "but I only know half of the rest of you."

To Itzhak, this figure is a young woman with the same brittle frailness to her as a crippled bird. She has little hair. Her brown eyes are enormous in her thin face.

"Naomi," he breathes, shocked, his personality breaking through the spell--for now. "NAOMI! Naoshka, vas isz das, liebchen?"

Nothing and nobody else matters to him now. Only this thin woman, flinging away at the faerie circle, begging for someone to come back.

Charity's shark-like smile remains in place until she actually looks at the image. Before that moment, the sprite was only concerned with making sure that she didn't incur Oberon (or Titania's) wrath. After all, the only things she cared about in all the land were herself, and her floating partner in life and crime.

However, that all changes the minute those gigantic green eyes look at the wailing image. The voice, so familiar, rattles the smile into a neutral expression. Yes, she immediately recognizes it, but not in that manner. She's only heard it as a soft, warm melody that reminds her of a safe and cozy burrow.

Never as a wail.

Then the face comes into view and the impassive expression turns into horror and dismay as the visage confirms the distraught individual's identity. Though the desolate gauntness of the normally full cheeks and the limp, washed out color of otherwise expected crimson strands strikes a blow straight to her heart.

For so long, Charity has needed no one, wanted no one, in her life. Just her and her balloon. Two Against the World. But now she has actual friends, people who seem to care about her, and about whom she cares in return. People who understand her.

The face looking back at her from Oberon's vision, is her first new friend. The first to make Charity comfortable enough to let her guard down and open up without the usual shield of deflective humor. The face on the balloon shifts to match her own panicked expression.

Una.

"Forsooth, I recognise but one Lady and Queen," declares the fey lord whose body Ravn is currently sharing. "Mortals, e'er lost and wandering, exist but to amuse."

"Oh, do stuff a sock in it," the folklorist murmurs, through the same lips and looks up at the snitch-a-burra. "Who is the Lady?"

Then he looks at the others -- Itzhak's is a familiar face and the others seem like he ought to know who they are (that elf girl on the horse, though, something off about her). His winged eyebrows knit over those luminous green eyes. "Rosencrantz, what do you mean, Naomi? That's not -- what are you seeing? Who's been abducted here -- are we the spell bound ones that she is trying to save? If we are, I vote the mortal world. We need to stop the hammering before the world breaks anyhow, and if this Lady is in her bower, and she's at it again in spite of Oberon's wishes, I doubt she cares what we want."

Della's nodding, the luminosity of her butterfly-wing kirtle dimming each time the moonlight does, though her bright hair is undiminished. Nodding to what, though --

"I can't have been gone that long," she says to the air, wishing. She plucks up her skirts and, wings-hurried, darts for the circle to see what she can see.

"My sister! She's right there, God she looks awful, she was looking okay when we saw her but--oy vey izt mir, maybe it came back, but so soon?" Itzhak isn't making a lot of sense, driven instantly to pleading fury by the sight of his very ill little sister. He hasn't even noticed that he's a stud ram now. Then again, that's not far off from his everyday life.

Something of the faerie knight veils his distress and he looks at the... Bird, let's go with bird... all arrogance. "I serve the king's justice. The Lady will mend her ways or feel my blade." Only to interrupt himself, sounding mortal and ready to hurt someone, "No! Take me to Naomi."

So his vote is, do everything at once? Because of course it is.

Being called funny doesn't agree with the stallion. While the elf on his back continues about her familiarity with these collected few, his neck turns with a few casual attempts to bite, or lip the right leg of his rider. His attempts falling short, and unnoticed by the fey, cease after the bird speaks, both rider and risen look up and listen.

Then, like with a tennis match, their attentions shift from speaker to speaker, to doer, and speaker. After, she looks down and from softly parted lips emits a short, chirping bird-song out pursed lips made from a vibrating throat.

With an exaggerated roll of his equaine head, the charger turns, and ambles in the direction one has already picked. All it takes is a moment, a brief loss of sight, and the elf riding on horseback has her whole attire change. Gone is the thin Moon Spider silk dress, but in its place leather armor not fit to protect her from a wry glance, presses with leaf and ivy designs, it has two holsters at the small of her back for the daggers there in and a quiver with few arrows to go with her new bow because, of course. An elf has to have a bow, those are the rules.

Charity leaps to her dainty feet, dragonfly wings buzzing furiously as she turns toward the others, those gigantic green eyes blinking rapidly. First she examines the Sidhe, who highly resembles Ravn with the dark cloak of feathers around his shoulders. Then her gaze slides over to the one the fae lord called Rosencrantz.

"Naomi?" Her voice registers far lower than one might expect from a delicate, feminine sprite. "I say nay, fine fellow. The lass with the banshee's wail was none other than our dear friend Una. It is to her aid we must hurry."

For confirmation, she looks up at the balloon. The face hovering there nods in agreement with the winged dancer.

"To haste!"

But the cookies!!

Never mind saving the cookies; Della has rocks to avoid if she can, earth already dusting her butterfly-wing kirtle; its 'eyes' blink and blink, and let's hope nobody gets soil-plus-glitter in their real eyes because that'd be a bear to get out. Hers are narrowed, but from focus rather than intent. "Mom!"

(She's not Una's daughter, is she? Or Naomi's?)

Hunkered back on her heels at the mushrooms' edge, she attempts -- attempts -- to reach for those hands with one of her own, the better to pull. Pull, not be pulled. With her other hand, she's just trying to get it done, whether it's to swat away stray rocks or clutch grass or, for that matter, clutch at anyone else who might come too close and wind up her anchor. Her wings? Too long to be of use.

"Avast! Halt, fair maiden, ours is the glory and the story! Prithee, 'twill be my crowning achievement! Oh, shut up already!" Ravn seems to be still struggling a tad with himself or the fae lord he's supposed to be -- but at least they're in consensus when it comes to running after Della. The choice is no longer a choice; the path is clear now that reality is broken and Della requires assistance.

He sees Ariadne's slender hands. It's clear to him that others see -- well, other people. And the snitch-a-burra dropped a hint that a classical scholar of folktales could not miss, after all. Unfortunately, because the most important part of that particularly poem is that it does not end very well.

"Maybe if we pull her through," he calls out and like Della, reaches for the hands. "Maybe then we can talk to her, find out what to do, how to help."

Slow to arrive at the ring, letting others overtake him, the steed takes sluggish steps while Mildew atop keeps her gaze forward, alert and watching. By the time mount joins the others, he shuffles on past not more than a background piece. Another stuttering neigh, mutter low like a grouse escapes the nag while he aims his hindquarters to the fairy ring, glancing over this left side to assist with aim.

While black, wild horse tail hairs swoosh, Mildew smiles and gives her head a soft shake, her newly braided blonde hair not moving, "You shouldn't, Beast," before releasing a handful of his mane to push on the horse's shoulder amorously, "you'll get in trouble."

Seemingly ignoring his rider, and not for the first time, his rear right hoof paws the ground outside the fairy ring twice, then more of his weight is leaned forward on his fore-hoofs, as he gives one and then another practice donkey kick. Who knows who, what, the horse sees, if he's willing to kick them, especially telegraphing the attempt.
Maybe nothing will stop a digging person like about 850 kilograms of kicking Clydesdale power.

Not even being assigned the role of Somebody's Masturbatory David Bowie Fantasy (also known as 'his everyday life') makes Itzhak hesitate. He sees his sister in distress, she's not listening to him, and it makes his reaction boil up from the primordial Before Time when she was first placed in his arms and he was told he was a big brother: "Naomi Rachel Rosencrantz you get ya tuchis down here!!!"

The funny thing? The closer Charity gets to the fairy ring, the more the balloon in her hand seems to pull back. As if caught in a stiff breeze that is affecting only it. She stops and looks up at the face, which shakes its head and then turns to show his back. She looks from her annoyed companion to where the others are gathering and pulls on the rainbow colored threat running between them.

She manages to get the floating sphere a few feet closer, then the face turns back around and opens its mouth in a silent scream. Though, perhaps it wasn't completely silent. The nimble sprite's wings stop buzzing and she places her hands over both ears as a pain-filled wince replaces the formerly worried expression.

When the screaming stops, Charity lowers one hand from an elfin ear and points determinedly toward the ring.

"Forsooth, methinks 'tis a bad omen," starts Ravn and then he tells himself, "Knock it off. I'm driving, so unless you got something useful to insert, sit down and shut up." He takes a breath and looks at the hands. "If this Dream is inspired by the poem the featherball up there was quoting, then we, the faerie, took the heart and soul of somebody and then, faithless as we are, left them in the outside world, ever to long for us. I suggest we help them inside and try to ... sort shit out. I don't know who the rest of you are seeing, but to me, it's Ariadne."

Pulled, Della's shriek is fierce, whether attacking or afraid or just unrelenting in her mission; that doesn't mean that the impacts don't hurt, and if there's no time for kicking by huge horse hooves, that's just as well. When things stop, when she stops with them, yanking her hand free... but she's staring. Those aren't... aren't...

Ravn speaks, and she aims to reclaim her hold, without pulling until others chime in: those hands may not seem as though they're going anywhere, but that might change yet again. Those hands who aren't her mother's. Those hands that had tried to be.

Itzhak flinches away from the earth raining upwards into the sky. He stumbles to help Della, but by the time he gets there everything has stopped. "Lady Mildew, I should be much obliged if you controlled your beast," he says, then makes an awful face while muttering "shutupshutupshutUP," kneeling to get an arm around Della in case of further pulling.

He's not even sure who she is in waking life, but in the Dreams they're comrades, it's good enough for him.

"My sister," he admits is who he sees, sounding unhappy. "She's recovered a lot more than that, though."

The horse neighs, then snort with almost human sarcasm, but his attempts to line up a kick all but cease when gravity near the pixie circle reverses itself to something resembling normal. Grunting next, perhaps in agreement with the snitch-a-burra's statement, or parroting it, the horse then gives his mane a violent shake to disturb the falling debris, and add the glitter to his shiny coat.

With a glance over his shoulder, tail flicking with irritation, the horse neighs for a third time, with Mildew glancing down into the impressive valley the leather armor gives her cleavage. She gives a distracted chuckle while fishing chunks of rock from traveling further down, glancing at the few pieces she pulls free and then dropping them to the ground before replying to Seabiscuit, "To be sure," and after a momentary pause, "What's a stripper?"
Between the pair, the horse glances Ravn-plus-one's way first, Mildew waiting for an answer to her question for a few seconds more before returning to brushing dirt from her without intentionally making the process seem lewd.

Ariadne might be a fairly common name, sorta. But in their town and Everett's sheltered life of not asking for, or caring about names, that one stands out. He knows of exactly one of those. Glancing over his shoulder again, the horse neighs again, causing Mildew to pause in her personal grooming. "Hmm? Oh, when we were in that large room. With the three matrons and their children and you were so brave and handsome and you gave your iced treats so they wouldn't harm people. And he," she pauses, both to point out Ravn's noble elf-self, but to smile brightly and emit a bird-chirping noise from the back of her throat at Itzhak's acknowledgment of her ownership over Everett. Returning her attention down to the stallion, she continues, "And he was there," the same hand gives a short, dismissive wave, "but none of the others were."

Finally, she gets to Itzhak, smiling brightly. "There's no controlling my Beast," she announces before leaning forward to put her arms around the stud's neck. Yeah, I wrote stud. "He's an ANIMAL," she adds with a pleasing smile, the words ending with the seemingly random flittering of two birds aflutter in air. "Besides, what you see isn't your sister. The Beast already said as much. Confer with your allies. That's not your sibling." While she speaks, headless of Itzhak's efforts, the horse ambles lazily towards Ravn. Can horses smirk smugly?

"No, of course not, she's not my sister," Itzhak whispers, though he doesn't believe it. Nothing about him says that he believes that's not Naomi. He believes it with at least three quarters of his heart.

Charity looks back at the ring, then to the balloon. Clenching her jaw, she begins to stomp toward the others. When the line goes taut, she simply lets it go and continues waking without looking back. The floating sphere remains it is, not floating up and away. Just hovering in place. Which might seem odd on the other side of the Veil. But here, in Shakespeare's wet dream, it's just a thing one accepts.

However, as the obviously angry sprite closes in on the fairy ring, the balloon follows at a distance, the boy's face a mixture of anger and terror. Stopping next to the raven-hued man, she looks from him to the hands. "It's not Ariadne, it's Una. Or was Una." She turns those giant green eyes back onto him, blinking questioningly.

"Prithee, what is man but a dainty thing, akin to the dandelions of spring, a beautiful sight but so fleetingly fading before -- mglp." Ravn takes a hold on the other voice in his body, the voice that belongs to some sidhe lord or other whose view of mortals seems quite aligned with the snitch-a-burra's. He shakes his head and ignores the rageful screaming within; suck it up, Legolas.

"I think the hands represent people we care deeply for," the folklorist says and tries to ignore how the raven feathers on his cloak stand up in the indignant, impotent fury of the fey creature within.

Are they part of him? Apparently they are part of him. He's afraid to look.

"I think we have to act as if they are Naomi, Ariadne, whoever," he adds, frowning. "Everything about this narrative suggests that we are passing judgement on this poor template soul's fate -- and knowing how everything in a fae story tends to represent something else, how fae are masters of the bait-and-switch, I don't dare call the bluff. Charcoal turns out to be gold coins in the morning, and gold greedily taken is horse droppings. If we just light a cigarette and watch, we risk whatever happens to our cardboard template here also happens to our real loved ones."

And on that note Ravn is back to taking the hands and attempting to pull them in. "Let's get them and us in the same place, and then we can all try to exit. Let's try to be the socially awkward faerie who do care about the fate of a mortal. No fun at parties, us."

"And it shouldn't have to be a threat to our own loved ones for us to act," Della finally interjects, her hair sparkling weightless around her like so many lightbulb filaments. She tightens her grasp, seeking to pull in tandem: hands then wrists then forearms, before the hands flicker out.

As Toucan Sam halts on him, the stallion follows with a well-advised throaty neighing with a twice nodding of his equine head and his own advance halting when Ravn's host starts speaking the kind of words they say in them there books what Bean reads. To then side-eye the Puck-ish fellow and nod again, chuffing and following this with throaty grunts.

Mildew, by unable to reach around the horse's neck while the head moves since she's loath to sit upright from her lounge along the Beast's back, draws an idle pattern over the muscle of the horse's front right deltoid. "No, my pet," she says, amusement on her cupid's bow, her tone like the back-and-forth of mated songbirds, "I rather think he nor anyone else would like a handful of your gold." When once again accused of manipulation, this time by Ravn, Mildew smiles from her look of concern that was focused down, and waves her right hand dismissively, "Oh you."
When she's addressed by Woody Woodpecker, Mildew perks, inquisitive, "Hm?" then smiles, "Oh. Yes, by thy dial’s shady stealth mayst know time’s thievish progress to eternity."

It's with these words that The Beast gives a small hop in place, not displacing the well-balanced elf on his back. A brief nicker emanates after while Mildrew adjusts her posture on the stallion, then her leather attire to return her to the modesty she's only now briefly aware of. "Well, that's what he said," she replies downward, playfully pouting while tugging downwards on her armor that causes other flesh to bulge as though shy of bursting free. He," she emphasizes, as though speaking about someone altogether else, "said she was at it again, and charged us with stopping her." Mildew rises to a proper sitting posture, and while she glances down, adds, "Though he didn't say which," while glancing from hands to changeling and back.

Ravn finds himself on his back, in his small sleeping area on the Vagabond; the waves bonk gently against the hull making little bumps and gurgles, and the seagulls circling on the winds outside creates a backdrop of sound that is intensely familiar.

No urge to speak in Shakespearan blank verse here. No worrying whether the feathers on his coat are in fact part of him. No terror of losing Ariadne whether through her falling into the deep, dark earth never to be seen again, or indeed, through falling into a faerie dream only to be enthralled by the faerie lord he was for a short while, forgetting the mundane, mortal man that he is.

He counts to ten. He counts to ten again. And then again, a third time. Some Dreams tap into very primal fears; this was, in all its simplicity, definitely one of those. To lose the people who care for you -- what greater nightmare, to a man who has spent most of his life feeling like he walked through life all on his own, only to finally have friends, a lover even?

It's going to be a while and several shots of whiskey before Ravn sleeps again.

Charity jerks awake in her bed on Elm Street and jumps out from under the covers and spins around a few times as her hands reach back to feel along her shoulder blades. As if trying to figure out where she is and, more importantly, who she is. Realizing after a few seconds that it was a Dream, she drops back down onto the edge of the bed and sighs, running her fingers through her jet black hair.

Interesting that I didn't want you to help the others, isn't it? Or maybe I just didn't want to help her.

Charity shakes her head. "You were no more you and you are right now. Less than, actually." There is acid in her voice, the tone so unlike that she normally uses when talking to the voice in her head. "It was a Dream. Which means it's more about the Veil fucking with me than you being a stubborn ass."

She waits for the expected retort. Even alive, Carter would never let her have the last word. Or thought. After a few moments of no response from the dead boy, the lithe dancer grabs a pair of yoga pants and a tank top before sliding her feet into a pair of Nikes. Outside the less than pleasing to the eye house, she begins to walk toward Oak Avenue.

Sure it's about two am, and anyone with any sort of good sense would be in bed. However, she nods her head to herself as she continues walking in the direction of Una's house.

"It won't hurt anything to just cruise by. Just to make sure everything is okay."

The horse watches those, with hands of course of course, pull the buried hands out and with them the wavering picture being pulled or birthed into the realm of Not-Quite-Ares. Mildew smiles just a little wider than her already pleased smile at first before the stallion beneath her bucks gently. The movement erases her pleasure for worry, one of her lithe hands reflexively clutching the absolute stud’s mane to steady herself and keep her balance, “Hey, hey,” her tone as comforting as two snuggling chickadees in an attempt to settle the horse under her.

When the ground pulls away, the stallion gives a worried whinny as four legs begin to kick to find perchance even as it begins to tumble and turn tail over mane. Mildew, with the absence of ground, begins to fall, but at a slower speed and the two that have been inseparable, begin to divide with her attempted resistance, kicking her feet in an attempt to catch up and stay together.
But her place is here, her last words, “don’t leave!” given while fighting against the inevitable, her hand extended, and diminutive before the enclosing dark takes him.

Everett wakes with a sudden intake of breath before the ground wakes him, entangled in red hair, his bare chest lightly clammy. It takes him a moment to realize where he is, to realize the redhead next to him is his wife. Peeling the sheets off, stalking steps carry the lumbering plaid pajama wearing giant out of the room on a mission to count and watch sleeping children, somewhere along the way wiping his chest of the perspiration with the back of his hand and forearm absentmindedly.

Once the defenseless, such that they are, have been accounted for does Everett return to the master bedroom. But rather than bed, steals last night’s clothes from the floor. No longer in a mood to sleep, and soon time to go to work, perhaps to distractedly throw plates at people, he has one other person to check on.

The once Kelpie has someone to lure.

Last time it was blood; this time Della wakes up in dirt, and grass, and rocks and torn flowers and...

(That sound she made. She's alive.)

...glitter. So much glitter. Her nightgown's gone for good, just like and nothing like the last one, registering even as her hand reaches out and her phone lights up and never mind the time, she calls. And...

(She'd just had a bad dream, that's all. Just wanted to hear her mother's voice.)

...around the time Charity's walking by 5 Oak, at least one corner's windows are dimly lit, the inhabitant visible only in silhouette. Tiny pinpricks of light float on air around her, and fragments of equally real nothingness. The sheers shy away from her, untouched. She shivers --

(Do you handwash a faerie dress, or dry clean?)

-- and the lights go out, all but for the afterglow. The glitter. And where the brightness is, there's also the dark.