Fairy Tales

Hosted by Damiel, Glioca Priest of Mileth
Winter, Deoch 36
((16 June 2003 at 7 p.m. PST))

Here are the fairy tales as they were told that night in the Lover's Glade of the Enchanted Garden in Mileth. But first, let me tell you why.

Damiel's favorite fairy tales spoken that night:

  1. Raeven, "Eastern Woodlands"
  2. Xenek, "A Friend in Pravat"
  3. Hotaru, "Fairy Hills"

All the fairy tales spoken that night:



Tonight, please let me introduce you to a few customs, to flow smoothly from story to story. Or song or tale or poem.

See, the faeries, as you must have heard, are in dire danger of their eyes becoming dry. Of their wings becoming cracked. Of their levity collapsing. This night of nights as the midsummer heat grows, the faeries need dreams equally cool to sustain their solstice extravagance.

They need your fairy tales, in story, poem, or song. So tonight they'll listen, but they have short attention spans. So each tale will be ten minutes or less. And after an hour, they will flitter their way. They've asked me to give a few gifts to the finest tales, and they are meager, but the best I have.

To the first, second, and third will go choices of each. But before, and more importantly, if you have a tale please whisper me, and I will cue you as becomes available. And if we may have as little speech during the telling, the faeries will be most thankful for not distracting them. So, I'll stop doing so myself ... and call them:

Faeries of the Enchanted Garden
and the Lover's Glade
Bring your ears closen and harken
to the tales being made.

Eastern Woodlands


Now ... it is said that there was once a Burgess of Mileth named Labras, who owned all the land that now encompasses the Eastern Woodlands.

Labras had two daughters, as different from one another as the sun from the moon.

Pemilla was renown for her hunting skills and her collection of trophies.

Mairsil, a devoted altar worshipper, was usually found in Mileth University's newborn library, perusing the ancient texts.

This was also the time in aisling history when magick was barely harnessed, and most wealthy folk maintained a wizard or two within their households.

Labras was no exception - his magick-man was named Sitric, and Sitric possessed more daring than sense or skill. One evening, after Labras had finished collecting a large sum of tribute, he called his daughters to his side.

"If you could have your heart's desire," he asked them, "what would it be?"

Pemilla said, "A place to hunt with an endless supply of prey."

Mairsil answered, "A place to gather bouquets as well as my deepest thoughts."

Labras nodded and said, "I promise I shall grant both your wishes."

Then he summoned Sitric, and showed the wizard a map. "Use your magick," Labras commanded, as he handed him a very large sack of gold. "Make these two areas on my land into what my daughters desire."

Sitric did not hesitate.

"It will be exactly as you wish, my lord."

The next day, Sitric journeyed deep into the woods, first to the east and then to the west. He cast every elemental spell he knew plus several of his own spontaneous design.

The beasts and insects living on Pemilla's land tripled in size and strength. Mairsil's land burst into a dense profusion of enormous flowers.

Sitric smiled smugly and returned to Mileth, but the magick, so carelessly invoked, was still not satisfied.

It lingered on and fed from every word, thought, and deed within its reach.

As time passed, the creatures living on Pemilla's land soon outnumbered those who hunted them. They fed on greenery until the earth lay bare, Raeven> About three minutes remain. It is a wonderful tale. dusty, and cracked with erosion.

The flowering plants on Mairsil's land became imbued with healing properties. Soon the fae took residence among them, attracted by the beguiling power, and enabled those who visited them to make beothaich deum and form the fairy-blessed bond of love.

This, then, is how one stretch of common forestland became the Wastelands, the Enchanted Garden, and all the strange areas in between.

Two women made wishes, and two men made promises.

Fairy Hills


Long long ago in this ancient land,
A battle took place where two hills now stand.
And on the plain there lay the slain..
For neither the battle was won.
So the bard did sing of these Fairy Hills
where bloom the white flowers and daffodiles.
One big, One small..
Si Beag, Si Mor
And never the battle is won.
Beneath these hills great heroes lie
of Red Branch Knights and their ancient foe
In still of night, the immortals fight
But never the battle is won.
And so the harper was told of these Fairy Tales
Of these Fairy Hills of ancient Gaels
One big, One small
Si Beag, Si Mor
And never the battle is won.
Twas after the battle the prophet foretold
No rest would come for these warriors bold.
Till they unite and fight one common foe..
And than would the battle be won.
So then the harper wrote of these fairy hills
Where bloom the white flowers and daffodiles.
One big, One small
Si Beag, Si mor
And never the battle is one.

The Path


The light that encircles, awakens,
It wanes and brightens at the reflection,
What is the Aisling?
Reflections of choices,
Good or Evil,
Passive or agressive,
What is the feeling?
The Fae call me,
Quiet giggles from a home among the briars,
My impish allies watching over me,
The future in each other's hands,
It guides me,
The spray of the soft sea,
From glittering in the wind to the warm sands,
Feet in the warm earth,
Athar races through each blues strand,
Is it not the same for the Wizard and I?
Each way I look, it is clear,
The wings of the sea dive along the shore,
Rolling dodging seeking their meal,
Truely free of the Aisling's blessing or curse,
Yet some eyes can see the light in the swooping forms.
The flakes fall softly and silently as my heart's desire,
So new and frial as the new snow,
But we must not melt away,
For the peaks are not desolate,
The coldest hearts may bring the warmth of Spring,
The greenest of trees survive under white blanket.
Seek always, the spark and light must not wane,
Across the seas and land,
The feeling in heart,
Never pass harmony,
To each who must walk the path,
Looking to the sky, following...

Pointy Ears


"Those blasted Pointy Ears!
They've done it again!"
Exclaimed Farmer Josh,
who pointed at them just then.
Dancing through his prized patch
of berries, grapes, and cherries,
Perky, magical elves they were,
seeming rather merry.
"Get! Scat! Scram!
You pesky little elves!
Before I trap you in these jars
and put them on my shelves!"
"Is that a threat, mister farmer man?"
A pouty look soured one elf's face.
"From last I remember, this was our patch,
and this is not your place!"
Farmer Josh ran inside
to grab the nearest tool,
next he dashed towards the patch,
and stumbled like a fool.
"This is -my- prized patch
which flourishes every season!"
An explosion of laughter filled the air.
"Well, yes," said one elf, "And we're exactly the reason!"
"You may have what you want back, Farmer,
your beloved cherry patch,"
"Woo hoo!" Shouted the farmer,
Then said, "Okay... What's the catch?"
"Pick yourself up, Farmer,
and get ahold of yourself.
We stay here in this patch because...
Your wife is really an elf!"



Chronos, the necromancer, can be described as living for magnificence. She dreamed to be utterly perfect. However, she could not be such. In a way, she was cursed by her own innocence, and defiled by the insights of most everything in existance. She was a fountain, of useless knowledge that has no definite source. She could not forget anything at all, be it as painful as may be. These horrors would be the scourge of her life, and the source of her darkness.

However, with every patch of darkness, there is a light to cascade over.

The day she met her husband, was that of valiance and vermilion rivers. The wings of her chaotic soldiers beat noisily like a colony of fireflies, yet golden or black bodies would drop like mere flies from the maroon sky. As written in her accounts:

"I can still feel the warm crease of a smile across my lips, as I stared downward at the shattered remains of a golden- armored man in my vision, his neck contorted to hideous angles and body twisted into mangled degrees. Sadism, could have been my middle name."

She was winning the war, to an obvious bonus. In her swelling victory, and out of the fires staggered a truly pathetic sight one afternoon. A young man of peasant lineage had dragged himself half-hazard over the ashen plain to collapse at her feet, sun-bleached locks stained crimson and plastered to his mythril armor, of which supported an enormous fracture through the abdomen. A sticky vitae mercilessly flowed through.

His head tilted back where the nape of his neck cape in contact with the collar of his breastplate, and he sighed, endless cornflower depths tilted upward in a last search for salvation in this cursed land.

... How embarassing that throug millions of hadean guards, this lamed hero would be the one enemy to look Chronos in the face. Seeing her fade, the man lived another 50 years.

A Friend in Pravat


A long time ago in a cave near Rucesion
Going to, going from, was a lengthy procession
The woodlands were humid, Astrid was not scolding
So the hunters were done with their yearling Kobolding
It was time to move in, it was time to change gears
IT was tiem to start hunting inside for the year.

All the Aislings were there, not an Aisling was not
Not an Aisling was anywhere else but Pravat.
The hunters were good, the hunters were keen
They were simply the best that had ever been seen
They had mastered their skills, left no mercy behind
And they took every last coin and gem they could find

Although they were strong, without any doubt
There was something that they could not quite figure out
For although they were poweferful, Master or not
Not an Aisling could capture the Queen of Pravat

"I tried her with ard," said a wizard of srad
"I tried her with every ounce that I had"
"I swiped her with punches and kicks, not a clunk"
"Not a single one hit!" said a frustrated monk
The statements continued, the Aislings were blue
Not a single one knew what they all were to do
And although every one of them gave it a shot
Not an Aisling could capture the Queen of Pravat
"You all are too weak, just watch, I can smash 'er!"
"I've got what it takes," said Asher the Basher
They all turned around, they turned to the voice
They turned to the Aisling that made such a choice
He stood there quite proudly, shining with armor
"I'll give her a run with my sword, and disarm 'er
I won't be defeated, oh no, I will not
I won't be defeated, not here at Pravat"
They gathered around with a cheer and a shout
And followed him up to the start of his route
To find his opponent, and put up a fight
A sword in his left, and a shield on his right
THe caves were quite dark, quite murky, quite dim
While hte skulls of the dead made the darkness so grim
But he could not find her, oh no, he could not
He just could not find the great Queen of Pravat
"You coward!" he yelled as the sound echoed through
"RUn and hide if you dare, I'll be sure to find you!"
A droplet was heard through the cold stuffy air
As it fell in a pond that he didn't see there
"I'm right near her cavern, I know this for sure!"
"I saw that while looking for conix before!"
"Very good very good, you remembered a lot
I'm impressed," said the voice of the Queen of Pravat
And he saw her so suddenly out of the blue
If you had been there you would have been surprised too
Her skin was gray as the walls and the floor
And her hair was like nothing he had seen before
It was long it was green, like a sprig of Fifleaf
And it covered her eyes, yet still showed her sharp teeth
"I"m not fond of your people, you should know that I'm not"
"I am not fond of people that hunt in Pravat"
"Enough of your talk" he exclaimed, 'bout to slash 'er
"I don't care what you say!" yelled Asher the BAsher
With a swipe and a swing he charged after his foe,
But his skills and attacks seemed to be just too slow
Each one of these missed, for as hard as he tried
He could not quite touch her, every move was too wide
His hits were not hitting, not by a long shot
His hits were not hitting the Queen of Pravat
She giggled and danced as he tried to attack
She laughed and she prance, but she never hit back
Her moves were too fast, her dodges too quick
Too fast for the warrior's sharp metal stick
"Oh you aggravate me!" shouted he with frustration
"You ruin my prowess and deep concentration!"
"I'll get you with everything that I've got!"
"I'll get you, I'll get you, you fiend of Pravat!"
With a swipe of her leg and a swift lower kick
She knocked the man over-- a neat little trick
He fell to the ground, landed clear on his bottom
Without even trying she somehow had got 'em
She chuckleed again at the comical sight
She found it quite funny to see the man fight
The battle was f unny, a threat it was not
The battle was play for the Queen of Pravat
"I haven't had such a good laugh now in ages!"
"Not even with Kobolds or Mehadi mages!"
Although he was down, he could not contain
The comical feeling built up in his brain
Without hesitating, he let out a snicker
With this comic disease he was now getting sicker
And from his opponent, this disease he had caught
For both of their laughter was heard through Pravat
"I would have never believed I could have this much fun!"
He said, "With a Grimlock, an unspark'ed one!"
"That just goes to show you," she said with a smile
"That Aislings and beasts need not be so hostile"
So they sat there together, both on the floor
An Aisling and Grimlok like never before
He never did win, but there's one thing he got
He found a new friend, a friend in Pravat



Auburn haired priestess of stout figure
speaks softly in ancient tones of dead men,
turning blood to water, knitting bones,
gently overcoming Sgrios' claim to yet another soul.
Raven wizard incants in slow guttural cadence
chaining energies never before held by mortal men,
power filling the air, lusting to take form,
filling the bones with the sense of divinity.
Scarlet rogue moves stealthily through underbrush
whistling softly as her delicate hands go clickclack,
elegant traps coming forth from dead metals,
soft plant bulb lending an extra hand.
Sun-haired monk of grace and power flows like water
limbs moving in fluid arcs of deathly embrace,
shimmering as the power of her animal enters her,
filling her with the soul of the cold mountain tiger.



Thank you each for the tales you've shared. Now the fae themselves who've gathered to listen are drifting off to sleep. In wondrous dreams will they sail their course through summer's sea. No doubt, though, like mortals love for faerie brew their heady inspiration will draw them back anew *humbly bows* Thank you each.

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