Private Tales A Fresh Blanket of Grey

[Seska the Dragonslayer]

So long.

It had been so long since she had come to this place, to the center of power for the Winter court. The Dragonslayer of eld, the hero of a dozen tales and the villain in as many, and probably in as many and more stories and myths stretching into time beyond reckoning. The unseelie did not belong to this world, was not a part of it...but not apart from it. The laws that bound all, well, they bound her as well. Shackles as tight and terrible, as unyielding as cold iron and unscrupulous as the mortals that dwelt in other parts. The ancient sorceress glided along the street of Underhill, cool eyes of polish amethyst gleaming in the pale light here. Of the denizens herein she gave little heed; children, one and all. Children that sometimes forgot that fire was hot, and required sticking their hands into the flames for the memory to kindle once more.

A curve of the lip at that inner joke.

The rumors of unrest filtered through the world, and although Seska had kept herself aloof and apart from the courts for thousands of years...even she could not help but hear the whispering. The dread word, war, was on the lips of the fae in several parts of the world. Just as her lips had curved in the barest of smiles, they now pinched, her eyes hardening at the thought of what the children were getting up to these days.

Pointless conflict. Profitless bloodshed that only served to upset the Balance of the world, and only served to weaken fae-kind. Weaken the prim, as well, for her people were ever entwined with the wellspring of magic in whatever world it was they visited or dwelt upon. Foolish children that believed they had always dwelt here - that believed, in their thousands of years of experience, that they had any idea at all what it was they were doing.

Her staff clicked on stone, counterpoint to the pace of her thoughts.

The Winter Court was, of course, but one of several. Her purpose here was singular: to see with her own eyes, and hear with her own ears. Many others might use eyes-and-ears to achieve the same thing, warlocks and changelings and even mortals to do their looking. Not her. It wasn't that she did not trust them - far from it. It was just that she preferred to trust to her own senses. Even here, she could sense the tension - unspoken in many cases, less oblique in others. The currents here were slowly beginning to shift, and it was in a direction that the ancient sidhe did not particularly like.

The future held the quiet of a fresh fall of snow - appropriate, given the court in question. The only thing was, it would not be snow - it would be ashes.

Flickering images of a time long gone. Haunting, forever haunting as the screams of the condemned that woke her in a cold sweat some night when the mood was poor and some thing had triggered those recollections. She had forgotten much - so much, so very much. But some things could never be forgotten. Some deeds were so horrifying that they were indelibly etched into the mind. She might forget lovers, she might forget friends. Had forgotten the face of her parents, dead for so long that she couldn't even put a number to it.

The end of a world? No, not that. Never that.

The sound of the water falling in the cavern was soothing to her, even as far as she had come from it. She carried her staff - a thing so soaked in magic as to be practically alive and sentient, the ivy climbing along its length seeming to move if one rested eyes on it long enough. Although she was old beyond description, she looked no more than twenty; of average height for her kind, most of those round her towered over her. Hair of burnished silver bound at the neck, eyes of amethyst set into a delicate face unlined and pale as undyed linen, she move with a quiet power that could be felt by those round her. She was Wyld, without a court, but she had threaded her way between the various courts and their petty conflicts for far longer than many of these fae had been alive. Even if she wouldn't be recognized on sight, there was something in the way that she moved that brooked little in the way of argument and conveyed a sense of belonging many monarchs would envy. The simple dark dress, trimmed in deep blue and embroidered in silver and thread-of-gold round the high neck and hems, and the arm-length sleeves, would have fit on a noble of any court, fae or mortal either one.

Before her, poised above the rest of Underhill, sat the Scarlet Hall. Her destination for this evening. Neither invited nor expected, the Wyld fae did not care. She would be accepted as a guest, even if it was through sheer force of will and unbridled nerve. After all, why settle for plumbing the depths of the common folk when she could skim at the thoughts of their supposed betters? It wasn't the people of Underhill who would press for conflict in either case.

No, that would be Queen Maben. The ancient sorceress paused a moment, and checked on the warding she had woven round herself. The Dragonslayer feared naught in this world, or any other. As was oft described by many a military mind, the young wish to dance with death, but the elderly but court him, woe him as one does a lover. No fear, simply respect and a healthy abundance of caution. The Duanann claimed their superiority over all the others - and maybe it was true of most.

But who among them had lived as long, or experienced as much? Further - and with a touch of bitterness - who would want to?

"Only fools, mortals, and the young," she said under her breath and to no one. The floral scent of the gardens round that Hall rose to greet her, and for a moment she was transported to another place, another time. Another world, at that, and for a moment her heart twisted at what had been lost. A moment only, before irritation and not a little anger replaced it. "Wretched children and their scuffles," she added, and this time there were ears to hear and eyes to see. She paid them little mind.

Instead, she invited herself into the Scarlet Hall, decorum be damned. Sooner or later, someone would say something and she would get what she wanted without ever having to request it, without ever having to announce her arrival in this Court. It was better this way, for Winter was but one place that simmered like a kettle over a fire. As had ever been her way, she could slip in to a place and vanish as though never having been...

...until the time came for actions that made that impossible.

 

[Mab]

Mab liked to spend this time of day as she did every other day. She sat on a cushion in the quiet, serene garden sipping tea and enjoying the view and her privacy. The maw was bright and sunny, the sky overhead the pale cerulean of a clear winter day. It was cool in the cave but cooler outside of it. Her breath floated upward, clouds that quickly dissipated into nothing and her thoughts went with it.

Cold. Quiet. Just how Mab liked it.

Birds sang in the garden trees, a pond and small ornamental creek babbled gently, the wind drifted in through the maw and wound its way through the Underhill streets. It was a peaceful reprieve from Court, from paperwork and visitors and all manner of annoyances. Here in the garden she was not a queen, but a simple woman enjoying one of her favorite pastimes. Ruosin was at one of her many lessons, and from the garden Mab could hear the occasional pluck of an off-tune note from the zither nearby. She could imagine her tutor’s sigh, the disproving shake of his head as he guided the girl’s hands to the proper position before a second, clearer note drifted to her ears. She laughed.

Trails of steam curled away from her tea and licked at her cheeks as she drank slowly to the sound of a child’s tune drawn poorly from a hand-me-down zither. This was her time, her place. Thoughts of Court were far away. Mab sighed peacefully.

The sound of footsteps broke the reverie. The sound of Mab’s teacup returning to its dish was a single staccato note that followed the opening of a door and the cessation of those steps. Mab looked over her shoulder at the intruder.

“Your Splendor, you’ve a visitor.” Auren, her steward, bowed in greeting and remained there in apology.

“I’m not taking visitors right now,” Mab replied plainly. That was all that needed to be said.

“I don’t think she is taking no for an answer, Your Splendor.” He finally began to straighten to look nervously over his shoulder. Mab looked past him, too. Through the open door she could hear the raised voices of a guard loudly telling someone that they were not welcome here, no matter who they were. Wards protected this part of the palace from the noises of the rest and the city beyond it. This sort of thing was precisely why she had such wards.

“Who is it? And why haven’t the guards dealt with her yet?”

Auren blew out a breath. “Ah, well. She introduced herself as the Dragonslayer and wouldn’t say anything more, but I believe it may be Lady Seska.”

Mab turned around more fully.

“Seska the Dragonslayer? Well let her in, for the gods’ sake, before she bashes that man's head in with her stick. And fetch another cushion and tea service.” She huffed and straightened her robes neatly about her legs, tucked her hair back into place. Auren bowed and the duanann hustled back through the door to manage the chaos beyond. She heard his voice above that of the guard welcoming their guest and instructing her to follow. He made eye contact with Mab as he returned and held out a hand to the Queen.

“Her Splendor, Queen Mab,” he said with a deep bow to the sidhe as he retreated and closed the door behind him.

Mab rose from her cushion, barefoot in a garden of her own creation and at her leisure. She was still dressed in Court finery, but the finely embroidered silk overcoat was hanging on a rack along the covered porch that circled the courtyard, her matching shoes left neatly beneath them. Mab’s clothes were still regal, layered blouses of black and red. An equally bright red sash held the black skirts close to her trim waist, and white cranes glowed as bright as stars along the hem. They swayed gently as if in flight as Mab turned to her guest, and her long, half-bound black hair fell like a sheet of oil over her shoulder as she inclined her head properly.

“Greetings. Welcome to the Scarlet Palace.” She did not sound terribly pleased, and behind her her tea continued to steam, cooling. "Forgive my attire. I was not expecting guests."

 

[Seska the Dragonslayer]

The flustered mien of the guard might have elicited some reaction out of another, but the ancient sidhe had simply arched an eyebrow at his choice of words, and given him several delicate - and dismissive - sniffs as she made her way, welcome or not. It was not her wont to use real force in someone else's home, however high or low that individual might be. Sheer presence sufficed in most scenario's, thankfully.

The guard tried to bar her way, but she simply walked through his protests. That air of belonging, of right to be where she was came in handy quite often; it was not proof against getting in trouble from time to time but she had long, long since stopped caring about certain bits of decorum. All of the raised voices fell on deaf ears that didn't even twitch to the ever increasing concern that tweaked that voice into higher and higher octaves the further she went into the Hall.

Her appearance preceded her, eventually. The yammering guard was replaced by someone a fair bit more stately and reserved. She inclined her head at his invitation to follow her, murmuring something that sounded appropriately polite. After one last sniff of mild indignation at the flustered guard - who, it was fair to point out, towered over her - and then followed.

She recalled most of the courts set great store on formality, on proper decorum and politeness.It was one of those things she had some difficulty with. Wyld, and not of this world to boot, she had eschewed the dealings of court. More, spent more time in isolation within the wild places of the world than among the people who populated it.

She stepped through the door into the cool light of the garden, taking the splendid setting in with a quick sweep of the eyes. No threats, unless one took into consideration the duanann before her. Only briefly considered, then dismissed as unlikely. The sorceress turned her clear, cool eyes on Auren as he bowed out, and then redirected them to the true gem in the room.

She dipped a curtsy, albeit shallow. A nod between equals, though the one before her was a queen and no one would even imagine that the sidhe ever had been more than she was now. Of course, they could never be more wrong. Only a handful really knew, though; Draedamyr, elfin swordsman that had plumbed her depths both literally and figuratively and was the only such to do so in a couple thousand years. She even raised her eyes to meet those of the Queen of the Winter Court.

Old eyes. They were, after all, the windows to the soul; while some might be able to fake any manner of things in their carriage or raiment, to bamboozle people into believe their pedigree or their deeds or their knowledge was such or such...there was no hiding the heart of one's soul when gazing into their eyes. And hers were old, bitter, and the vestiges of things seen that could never be unseen swam in those purple depths like sharks in a shallow sea.

Waiting to bite any unwary enough to swim in them overlong.

"It is not," she began simply, striding forward, "as though I often announce myself anywhere ahead of time. As such, you are forgiven - as if I have any right to take offense at an unexpected host's lack of preparation." She came to rest at a respectful distance from her Splendor, as the fellow Auren had described her, and took a deep breath.

This place was one she could almost appreciate. Almost, but not quite. It was delightful, but it lacked the vibrant life of the wild.

"Regardless, the only attire that matters is that which resides here," she said, and tapped her chest. The heart, the soul, the true self. "That which we don outwardly is but pretty fluff, and no amount of fluff can conceal ugliness that runs to the bone." A pause. "You honor me by accepting my presence and not trying to take this aged head from its equally aged shoulders," she added.

"Not, that is, that any have managed that," she said - silently adding yet in her mind. "I would beg patience with me, your Splendor, for I do not oft come thither. To the courts of neither man nor fae do I oft approach, for reasons that none save myself can understand." Blood, death, ash, the futility of power and the convergence thereof.

She waited for further invitation; she had come this far by simple and honest brute-force; that neither staff nor word of power had been employed mattered little. Judging by the mood of her host, she wagered that the odds were even as to whether someone might shout for a sword or axe to make the attempt herself.

She was patient. All she had was time, after all, and far more of it than she truly cared for.

 

[Mab]

It was her business to know everyone. Her tendrils reached far and wide, spooling their way into Court and courtier, twining around the most curious and terrible secrets. She was a spider at an ever-growing web of information that grew by hundreds of strands each day.

And yet so few of those threads touched this one. A few here or there crossed paths with her, snippets where she had already been and gone, but never truly knowing. Seska remained aloof -- a mystery that intrigued Mab greatly.

She had a manner of speaking that was very direct. Something Mab decided that she rather liked. Very few were honest with her, and those who were… Well. Her friends counted fewer and fewer these days.

Mab smiled.

"It has been a very long time since I have had to remove any heads from their lofty heights, whether that is a sign of the times or a reflection of myself," she countered at what she could only assume was an attempt at dry humor. "But no, I will not so hastily join those many and their failed attempts."

There was not a moment of contemplation. Mab prided how confidently she knew herself, and that personal understanding showed in the confidence of her actions. She turned and held out her hand to the table to invite Seska beyond into the courtyard garden.

"Please. Come in and be seated. If it is a matter of urgency, it is my duty to hear you at the very least."

Though she had gestured the way, Mab walked before Seska. A second cushion had appeared, as well as a second cup and saucer. She managed her loose robes and sleeves to perch elegantly atop her cushion.

Mab reached her hand up and pulled on an invisible tether that became corporeal once more, its tassel bobbing and swaying until it slowly vanished once more. A moment later, a sylph appeared and wrapped itself around the cooled teapot and both sylph and pot disappeared. Paying no mind to the activity, Mab turned to Seska.

"Do you have a tea preference, lady Seska? Or a different preference if you do not take tea?" She merely nodded in response, then moved on. "Tell me what has brought you to share tea with me today."

 

[Seska the Dragonslayer]

"And longer still since I have done likewise," she remarked regarding heads and their removal. No position of power for millennia beyond counting, and those black days mostly obscured in the mists of forgetfulness. Would that all of those ancient memories had been snuffed out.

With an inclination of her head as acknowledgement of the invitation, the slight sidhe glided forward. Self-possession and grace wrapped her from head to toe, somehow conveying both the majestic and the tragic at the same time. Fitting, since events within this Court and the others circled dangerously close to things that were best left in the hands of mortals.

And not even there, truth to tell.

"There is no need to refer to me as 'lady', your Splendor. I cast aside all my titles and much of my airs long, long ago," she said as she slipped to the cushion that had been placed for her. She folded herself neatly down on the soft thing that was made for someone a fair bit larger than she was. She adjusted her skirts rather primly as she settled in, mindful of the lesser fae's arrival and departure. Settled, she breathed out slowly, as though releasing some unseen tension. "Black, with a touch of cloudberry," she replied. "Perhaps a drop of honey to sweeten this old soul," she added. "It will not work, but that is the glory of life - hope, that which drives all of us forward."

Direct and to the point, the sorceress allowed herself the briefest, slightest of smiles. "I do not trouble myself with the goings-on of the Courts, and have not taken an active stance in any of the internecine troubles among our immortal kindred since long before you took your first breath," she said. Each word was precise, carefully considered - or seemed so, at least. So little emotion rode on her words it was difficult to tell if she actually had any.

A pause.

"That said," she continued after a moment, "I listen and watch, in much the same way that you yourself do. I must confess, my eyes and ears tend to pass away between visits - quite vexing - but of late, all of them speak of...tension." She looked up into Maben's eyes - directly into them, and without flinching said: "Rapidly growing tension between the Courts. There is but one three letter word in all the world that chills me to my soul more than any other, and that word is on all too many lips at present."

A pause.

"It must be stopped, or else curbed. I lack power to do so, of course....but not you, or any of the others. I cast that power aside long, long ago...and for good reason." Because she had been too competent with that power. She had been too good a tyrant, too good at welding the many into the one. The cost in blood had been tremendous - beyond mortal reckoning. Beyond, even, an immortal's reckoning.