Light & Dark 10 - to the Norns
May. 22nd, 2004 01:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sparkindarknessWell, the clinging like a limpet lasted all of five minutes safter sheer impracticality forced us to be reasonable (alright, I couldn't reach my drink, Ok?)
But now I have fic. My muses have dragged themselves from their heavy depressed despondancy (yes, even my muses can get more depressed than is their default state) and start to mob me, jumping up and down screaming 'me, me!' (alright, not the faerie boys. And maybe not Radoslav. Actually, I don't have many of my muses would sacrifice their dignity to that extent, but you get the idea.
Anyway, the faeries are up (actually I ALMOST have the second half of this as well, so it's not a cliffhanger).
“Ok, anyone are to explain why we’re not just going to the Three? If we‘re going to go to them anyway?”
Sitharensor gave Ilatheril a withering look. “We will not approach the three casually. They are a last resort. If a resort at all. I would prefer not to approach them at all.”
Ilatheril stopped running his hands over the weapons he had brought. The guards, and Sir Hrolf especially, had been more than slightly worried at the sheer size of the arsenal he had seen fit to bring... not to mention some of the inappropriate content. It had taken a great deal of persuasion to convince the ancient Troll that it was reasonable, that he was living here and it would be wrong and against the spirit of co-operation they were trying to foster to try and deprive him of his property. All of it. The Troll had grudgingly acquiesced. “So why terrify us all with ominous predictions of meeting the Three?”
Sitharensor swallowed his brief irritation There are le... other fae in the room.
To his credit, Ilatheril almost managed to keep all traces of surprise off his face, Your personal bodyguard and your own personal servant. So? He lost a lot of that credit ion Sitharensor’s eyes with his body language. It was almost fascinating. He'd never seen a Sidhe with unconscious body gestures any more... usually every little twitch was planned to maximum effect. It was almost like watching a child in an adult’s body.
We are Sidhe. We are gods on Earth. We are the divine peak of all what it means to be fae. We are not scared. We are not worried. We do not hesitate to face anything. We are not anxious about consulting with deities.
You don’t believe that, surely?
Not all of it... Or rather it is an overly simplistic way of putting things but it may broadly be said to describe reality. I do not lie.
Ilatheril’s body language broke down, Amos turned and stared. Sitharensor winced, it never did to underestimate Bogguns. They knew more than anyone expected, loved the game of politics and had elevated gossip to an art form. Even the most loyal of Bogguns couldn't help himself sometimes.
Sith... I didn’t mean... Of course he didn’t. No Sidhe would ever think to accuse another of lying. Duels have been fought over far less. Even implications like this.
I know you intended no offence. You made a poorly worded statement. Another area of your education we will have to address at a later date. But it is not important whether I believe. It is important that they believe.
Ah, social engineering through propaganda, divine right of kings, religion and brainwashing. Gotcha.
Sitharensor expressed his contempt by icily ignoring the comment. It was the best way to respond to such patently absurd statements which have no reasonable answers. “We go to the Norns. Your arsenal will not be necessary. If you feel the need, bring one weapon only.”
“One weapon? You’re not into personal defence then, Sith?”
“Sir Hrolf. What more defence could I need?” The Troll didn’t move, but he seemed to stand taller. “And a Sidhe who has to resort to physical weapons for defence gives the wrong impression. You need one weapon.” Ilatheril’s fingers twitched towards one of his guns. “A blade!” Ilatheril grinned and moved his hands towards his excessive collections of edged weapons. Lingering on one.
Sitharensor’s eyes narrowed. A deliberate gesture. He could feel Hrolf come to battle readiness behind him. “Choose a weapon that is not made of... that metal.”
He left Ilatheril to drool over his more conventional blades while he made his own preparations. Far more important than weapons. He had to choose his garments. Norns. Norns weren’t overtly sexual, revealing, form fitting or similar alluring clothes would not help. Nor were they impressed by displays of status or wealth. Powerful magic would not raise their eyebrows and even beauty would not sway them. No, the key to the Norns’ heart was magic... subtle, skilful and knowledgeable. Robes woven with gentle magic, wrapped in subtle runes and shot through with threads of insinuating magic. Something to announce what the Sidhe brought to the fae. What the Norns valued.
He finished working on his wardrobe just as Ilatheril finished choosing a more appropriate sword. Everyone had different priorities.
The Norns laired as far from the castle as was possible without leaving the confines of the derelict Marcherson model village and its cloak of concealing glamour. To mortal eyes, their home was a rotting silo of miscellaneous use. No-one could quite decide what it was supposed to store, having little floor space but many storeys. Of course, being in the Marcherson village, no-one ever really considered what the buildings were used for.
With faerie eyes, the tower stretched almost as high as the tallest towers of the castle. That was the only way it resembled the magnificent edifice to Seelie power. There was no friezes, inlays of precious metals, carvings of truly exquisite art. The tower looked like the ground itself had thrust this spire of rock towards the sky. It looked like a mountain that had been whittled down by water, crafted into shape by the forces of the elements. Surely no hand could have raised such an edifice. But the fae had other tools.
A group of people approached this towering spire. Mortals looking at the party would see several obviously dangerous people (though, if they stopped to think, they would be hard pressed to explain why they were so ‘obviously dangerous’) wearing clear gang colours (though again, if asked no bystander would be able to describe exactly what the colours were or even why it was assumed they were a gang). Actually, it’s highly likely that mortals would see nothing, since it is extremely rare for a mortal to approach the Marcherson factory or the Marcherson village, since that would require thinking about it. Any mortal blundering into the area usually thinks of pressing reasons to be elsewhere. Nothing sinister... sinister is remembered and investigated, just a desire to be somewhere else.
Through the eyes of the fae the scene changed. In front trotted two centaurs, bows drawn, eyes and ears swivelling to face any threat, moving agilely despite the elaborate comparisons that weighed them down. Behind them marched a ring of mixed, heavily armoured fae. An observant watcher would notice that most of their weapon seemed ceremonial as opposed to practical. A politically astute watcher would realise that only and honour guard would contain such a myriad mix of fae creatures, that the actions of so mixed a company would be too unpredictable to be an effective fighting force. Any suitably paranoid battle trained watcher would conclude that just because the guard were there to represent the honour of their people didn't mean they weren’t also chosen for their veteran fighting skills. He also would conclude that the company would act unpredictably when it came down to minor tactical and stylistic details but it would most definitely be predictable in the more general point of ensuring any attacker would definitely regret his actions. But only very briefly.
An extremely good political observer (or rather not an observer since political animals of this calibre rarely do anything so crass as watch someone themselves, so more likely the lackey of an extremely good political observer) would notice that the group moved at a speed that was as fast as was physically possible while at the same time making it abundantly clear that they were in no hurry. It was a rather impressively well calculated speed.
“Is all this really necessary, Sith?”
“Someone is trying to sabotage a peace process forged by our marriage. They seem quite unconcerned that their actions might cause a devastating war that could destroy both of our peoples. I do not think they will balk at the removal of those who both seal the peace bargain and have been set the task of discovering their plot.”
Ilatheril actually paused in surprise, nearly disrupting the briskly striding ring. “You mean, this is all for practical reasons? You’re actually doing something with only one motive, no twists, no politics? Are you ill?!”
Sitharensor’s look would have seared Giants to little more than a small lump of charcoal. It was certainly enough to muffle the few guards who found this amusing. Ilatheril just smiled.
“We have arrived. The honour guard will wait here until we emerge. Sir Hrolf will accompany us. Arion has command.” He nodded briefly to the surprised Centaur before advancing on the portal.
But now I have fic. My muses have dragged themselves from their heavy depressed despondancy (yes, even my muses can get more depressed than is their default state) and start to mob me, jumping up and down screaming 'me, me!' (alright, not the faerie boys. And maybe not Radoslav. Actually, I don't have many of my muses would sacrifice their dignity to that extent, but you get the idea.
Anyway, the faeries are up (actually I ALMOST have the second half of this as well, so it's not a cliffhanger).
“Ok, anyone are to explain why we’re not just going to the Three? If we‘re going to go to them anyway?”
Sitharensor gave Ilatheril a withering look. “We will not approach the three casually. They are a last resort. If a resort at all. I would prefer not to approach them at all.”
Ilatheril stopped running his hands over the weapons he had brought. The guards, and Sir Hrolf especially, had been more than slightly worried at the sheer size of the arsenal he had seen fit to bring... not to mention some of the inappropriate content. It had taken a great deal of persuasion to convince the ancient Troll that it was reasonable, that he was living here and it would be wrong and against the spirit of co-operation they were trying to foster to try and deprive him of his property. All of it. The Troll had grudgingly acquiesced. “So why terrify us all with ominous predictions of meeting the Three?”
Sitharensor swallowed his brief irritation There are le... other fae in the room.
To his credit, Ilatheril almost managed to keep all traces of surprise off his face, Your personal bodyguard and your own personal servant. So? He lost a lot of that credit ion Sitharensor’s eyes with his body language. It was almost fascinating. He'd never seen a Sidhe with unconscious body gestures any more... usually every little twitch was planned to maximum effect. It was almost like watching a child in an adult’s body.
We are Sidhe. We are gods on Earth. We are the divine peak of all what it means to be fae. We are not scared. We are not worried. We do not hesitate to face anything. We are not anxious about consulting with deities.
You don’t believe that, surely?
Not all of it... Or rather it is an overly simplistic way of putting things but it may broadly be said to describe reality. I do not lie.
Ilatheril’s body language broke down, Amos turned and stared. Sitharensor winced, it never did to underestimate Bogguns. They knew more than anyone expected, loved the game of politics and had elevated gossip to an art form. Even the most loyal of Bogguns couldn't help himself sometimes.
Sith... I didn’t mean... Of course he didn’t. No Sidhe would ever think to accuse another of lying. Duels have been fought over far less. Even implications like this.
I know you intended no offence. You made a poorly worded statement. Another area of your education we will have to address at a later date. But it is not important whether I believe. It is important that they believe.
Ah, social engineering through propaganda, divine right of kings, religion and brainwashing. Gotcha.
Sitharensor expressed his contempt by icily ignoring the comment. It was the best way to respond to such patently absurd statements which have no reasonable answers. “We go to the Norns. Your arsenal will not be necessary. If you feel the need, bring one weapon only.”
“One weapon? You’re not into personal defence then, Sith?”
“Sir Hrolf. What more defence could I need?” The Troll didn’t move, but he seemed to stand taller. “And a Sidhe who has to resort to physical weapons for defence gives the wrong impression. You need one weapon.” Ilatheril’s fingers twitched towards one of his guns. “A blade!” Ilatheril grinned and moved his hands towards his excessive collections of edged weapons. Lingering on one.
Sitharensor’s eyes narrowed. A deliberate gesture. He could feel Hrolf come to battle readiness behind him. “Choose a weapon that is not made of... that metal.”
He left Ilatheril to drool over his more conventional blades while he made his own preparations. Far more important than weapons. He had to choose his garments. Norns. Norns weren’t overtly sexual, revealing, form fitting or similar alluring clothes would not help. Nor were they impressed by displays of status or wealth. Powerful magic would not raise their eyebrows and even beauty would not sway them. No, the key to the Norns’ heart was magic... subtle, skilful and knowledgeable. Robes woven with gentle magic, wrapped in subtle runes and shot through with threads of insinuating magic. Something to announce what the Sidhe brought to the fae. What the Norns valued.
He finished working on his wardrobe just as Ilatheril finished choosing a more appropriate sword. Everyone had different priorities.
The Norns laired as far from the castle as was possible without leaving the confines of the derelict Marcherson model village and its cloak of concealing glamour. To mortal eyes, their home was a rotting silo of miscellaneous use. No-one could quite decide what it was supposed to store, having little floor space but many storeys. Of course, being in the Marcherson village, no-one ever really considered what the buildings were used for.
With faerie eyes, the tower stretched almost as high as the tallest towers of the castle. That was the only way it resembled the magnificent edifice to Seelie power. There was no friezes, inlays of precious metals, carvings of truly exquisite art. The tower looked like the ground itself had thrust this spire of rock towards the sky. It looked like a mountain that had been whittled down by water, crafted into shape by the forces of the elements. Surely no hand could have raised such an edifice. But the fae had other tools.
A group of people approached this towering spire. Mortals looking at the party would see several obviously dangerous people (though, if they stopped to think, they would be hard pressed to explain why they were so ‘obviously dangerous’) wearing clear gang colours (though again, if asked no bystander would be able to describe exactly what the colours were or even why it was assumed they were a gang). Actually, it’s highly likely that mortals would see nothing, since it is extremely rare for a mortal to approach the Marcherson factory or the Marcherson village, since that would require thinking about it. Any mortal blundering into the area usually thinks of pressing reasons to be elsewhere. Nothing sinister... sinister is remembered and investigated, just a desire to be somewhere else.
Through the eyes of the fae the scene changed. In front trotted two centaurs, bows drawn, eyes and ears swivelling to face any threat, moving agilely despite the elaborate comparisons that weighed them down. Behind them marched a ring of mixed, heavily armoured fae. An observant watcher would notice that most of their weapon seemed ceremonial as opposed to practical. A politically astute watcher would realise that only and honour guard would contain such a myriad mix of fae creatures, that the actions of so mixed a company would be too unpredictable to be an effective fighting force. Any suitably paranoid battle trained watcher would conclude that just because the guard were there to represent the honour of their people didn't mean they weren’t also chosen for their veteran fighting skills. He also would conclude that the company would act unpredictably when it came down to minor tactical and stylistic details but it would most definitely be predictable in the more general point of ensuring any attacker would definitely regret his actions. But only very briefly.
An extremely good political observer (or rather not an observer since political animals of this calibre rarely do anything so crass as watch someone themselves, so more likely the lackey of an extremely good political observer) would notice that the group moved at a speed that was as fast as was physically possible while at the same time making it abundantly clear that they were in no hurry. It was a rather impressively well calculated speed.
“Is all this really necessary, Sith?”
“Someone is trying to sabotage a peace process forged by our marriage. They seem quite unconcerned that their actions might cause a devastating war that could destroy both of our peoples. I do not think they will balk at the removal of those who both seal the peace bargain and have been set the task of discovering their plot.”
Ilatheril actually paused in surprise, nearly disrupting the briskly striding ring. “You mean, this is all for practical reasons? You’re actually doing something with only one motive, no twists, no politics? Are you ill?!”
Sitharensor’s look would have seared Giants to little more than a small lump of charcoal. It was certainly enough to muffle the few guards who found this amusing. Ilatheril just smiled.
“We have arrived. The honour guard will wait here until we emerge. Sir Hrolf will accompany us. Arion has command.” He nodded briefly to the surprised Centaur before advancing on the portal.