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Ryu Se-Ri

though she tried to forget it, nothingness would visit her periodically

0 · 452 views · located in Fae Realm

a character in “Aes SΓ­dhe”, as played by rubytuesday

Description

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β—’


β—’β—’ n a m e : xxxRyu Se-Ri

β—’β—’ a l i a s : xxλˆˆμ†‘μ΄ (nunsongi meaning 'snowflake')

β—’β—’ h u m a nxxn a m e : xxxPark Jin-sol

β—’β—’ a g e : xxxtwo hundred and ninety eight

β—’β—’ s e x u a l i t y : xxxdemisexual ; panromantic

β—’β—’ c o u r t : xxxwinter

β—’β—’ r o l e : xxxseekerxxx

β—’β—’ p r i m a r yxxp o w e r : xxxwater

β—’β—’ s e c o n d a r yxxp o w e r : xxxweather, memory

β—’β—’ t h o u g h txxc o l o u r : xxx#d89f9f

β—’β—’ d i a l o g u exxc o l o u r : xxx#bf6060



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━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━a slow sense of strangeness slowly began to possess me



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β—’β—’ a p p e a r a n c e
S H E xxxlooks a fae, with her delicate hanbok floating about her. She is a cherry blossom, caught in water, she floats silently, prettily, a source of artistic inspiration. Poetry. Her heart is heavy, but still she does not sink.

I N T R I C A T E xxxare the runes and symbols that arrange themselves like a web across her body. They traipse across her fair flesh, endlessly labyrinthine, tear tracks along the lengths of her fingers, which themselves end in nails just a touch too sharp for a human. Her face's symmetry is only enhanced by the marks, which curl about her edges like the parting case of a blooming flower. When in human form, these tattoos vanish, revealing the fair skin beneath. Although her slight frame doesn't change much in shape, and remains at her height of 5'6", her flowing hanbok is stripped away, leaving in its place whatever contemporary human fashions happen to appeal to her. Likewise, her ebony, oribi-esque horns vanish from their place on her crown, where they peek through her hair.

F E A T H E R Y xxxlocks of brown frame her face, curling into a short bob about her jaw, and, as she shifts in form, the brown of her eyes becomes less transient, more static. Before, the colour had a penchant for shifting between ochre, mahogany, ebony. The sparklings of goldleaf fade into something more subtle, less vivid. When in human form, all of her edges seem to soften. She shifts from shards of glass to carefully crafted clay. Her ears, with their pointed, elfish edges, curve to sea shells, and the ends of her fingernails smoothen into neat crescent moons. She is no less light-looking, no less graceful, but one fears being cut far less; perhaps foolishly.

H E R xxxair is somewhat contradictory, falling somewhere between spectre and goddess. She carries a firmness in her gaze, reminiscent of a cat, all curiosity and contemplation. There is a fortitude to it, one that contradicts her otherwise delicate appearance, and a sense of assuredness stands steadfast behind gold-laced irises. Do not doubt me. They say, or perhaps beg, for everyone yearns for recognition, but sometimes even the most deserving are forgotten.



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━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━good morning heartache. you’re like an old friend, come to see me again



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β—’β—’ p e r s o n a l i t y

M e l a n c h o l y xxxis a purposeful kind of woe, not so much sadness as somber pensiveness, and even in her brightest moments, it touches her. It has long since settled under her surface, its roots outstretched and invading every crevice of her earth. She hides it as well as she could possibly hope to, with cherry blossom smiles and a vivacious wit, and yet, like a winter chill, like the phantom pain of a limb lost, or a wound healed. With this apparently inherent pensiveness comes a proneness to rumination, and she often falls into deep thought when left to her own devices. She tends to overthink things, troubling over passing comments, cringing weeks later from brief embarrassments everyone else has forgotten, harshly critiquing herself for mistakes no one else recalls her making. Mistakes are a dangerous thing to make, as far as she is concerned, and they define someone with her history (that is to say, her brother's) far too easily for her to allow herself leeway in her self-display of apparent perfection.

M a c h i a v e l l i a n xxx in her sagacity, and she has only benefited. Her wit is the thorn to her rose, a harsh, survivalist addition to the prettiness of the rest of her. In this brutal utopia, such protections are a necessity, and she knows that, so she wields her thorns wisely. All the while reigning in a slightly vindictive nature that seems to have run in the family. Instead of violence, she wounds with words, striking at points of pride, investigating characters for weaknesses. But she does not initiate. She lets them strike as they wish too, reaching out to pluck the flowers; she does not apologise when their fingers catch, and blood spills. She only offers them that infuriating gaze, that glimmer of smug satisfaction that inevitably frustrates. Sometimes (often), she fans the flames further, offering up one of the sharp quips that she has long-since been able to produce in swift succession. She is unapologetic, sometimes to her detriment.

W i n t e r xxxhas yet to cool her as it does many other fae of the court, and in spite the harsh winters and her love for snow and rain, her heart has always retained its warmth. Compassion blossoms from her with almost a exasperated resignation, as she struggles to turn away from injustice. There is a tenderness to her, and it is that tenderness that prevents her from becoming a political Iago. Perhaps this is a shame, for she, with her machiavellian mind, could do great things. Or terrible things. Regardless, she would likely be able to twist herself around to be the beneficiary. Then again, perhaps she is more Othello, anyway, so full is she with a desperation to do and be better, to escape her demons, to free herself from her past and to rid herself of a self-loathing she refuses to acknowledge she possesses. Fae are forbidden from interacting with the human world, which is a shame; for the piece of literature is riddled with opportunity for self-reflection. Best to do it sooner rather than later, for to share such an ending would be unfortunate.

C y n i c i s m xxxdoes not dictate her the way it should, given her circumstances. Try as she might to resist it, hope engages her in a way that pessimism (or is it realism?) does not. It is not so much a naivety, or refusal to acknowledge reality, but rather a desperation to change it. When one lives for centuries, one quickly acknowledges that change is constant. The world, nor its inhabitants, are ever truly stationary. And thus she progresses. She digs her own grave with her lack of fear, her willingness to approach, to protect, to demand. Even when softened by her runaway emotions, which she often keeps hidden and unexposed, there is a strength to her. Every impossible situation turns to unstoppable force meeting immovable object, such is her will. Her passion bleeds out, even when she tries to distill it, and somewhere along the line, she somewhat succumbed to the reality that her convictions control her, and not the other way around. Her pride often wishes she were colder, less easy to incite emotion from, but alas, she is far too caught in contemplation to obtain the necessary chill. She may be a fae of the Winter Court, but there is no denying the fire within her, constantly burning hot, and threatening to burn her up with it.


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━━━━━━━━━━━━━sentences swallowed and sung back and swallowed all over again. she was made entirely out of words



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β—’β—’ l i k e s

flower crowns xxxrain.xxxchocolate (especially mouse).xxxtrivia and brainteasers.xxxpeaches and nectarines.xxxsilver jewellery.xxxpetrichor.xxxnovels.xxxoversized clothes.xxx"pretty" words (words like ephemeral, catharsis and numinous).xxxstargazing.xxxwildflowers.xxxsecond-hand embarrassment.xxxmaking lists.xxxtraditional Asian clothing.xxxplaying the piano.xxxthe corner seats of cafes.xxxwriting.xxxdebate.xxxpoetry.xxxbeing lied to.xxxphilosophy.xxxmuseums.xxxhonesty.xxxsunsets and sunrises.

β—’β—’ d i s l i k e s

mushrooms.xxxsummer weather.xxxsmoking.xxxexcessive violence.xxxsourfoods.xxxguns.xxxignorance.xxxvinegar.xxxgossip and rumours.xxxarrogance.xxxinjustices, big and small.xxxdouble standards.xxxpoor hygiene.xxxbigotry.xxxcrude humour.xxxher brother's 'legacy'.xxxself-doubt.



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━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━we know so much and we know nothing, absolutely nothing, nothing at all



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β—’β—’ s t r e n g t h s

I n t e l l e c t xxxsimply said, Se-ri is very, very intelligent. Whilst her capacity for cunning is nothing if not Machiavellian, her intelligence also bleeds into so-called 'book-smarts', and she has a great understanding and comprehension for a great many things, from sciences to history to literature. She is constantly getting smarter, too, for she is passionate about both learning and about self-improvement, and thus engages in such as often as possible.

C o u r a g e xxxher fear, it seems, only strengthens her. She works well in environments where she is afraid, for there is a bravery to her that only permits itself to be wielded in such moments. She is oddly fiery for a winter fae, and attempts at intimidation only seem to make her fiercer.

M u s i c a l i t y xxxshe used to be quite fond of singing, and even went so far as to perform at gatherings. Now she tends to keep her voice to herself, instead expressing herself through her playing of fae instruments, many of which she has developed a mastery of over the years.

D e b a t e / p u b l i cxls p e a k i n g xxxbasically, she is good at arguing. Whatever insecurities may lurk under the surface vanish when she is speaking, and when passion ignites her, a confidence appears that is equal parts impressive and charismatic.


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β—’β—’ w e a k n e s s e s

V i n d i c t i v e xxxshe is someone that does not forgive easily, and certainly never forgets. Although she has tried for the last two-and-a-bit centuries to resist her urge to get back at people, to let go and to be the 'better person', she finds that she struggles immensely, and seldom resists seeking some form of revenge.

I n s e c u r i t y xxxSe-ri is relentlessly bludgeoned by self-doubt. It bleeds into everything, but is most prominent in her personal relationships. She is terrified of rejection, betrayal and abandonment, but her views of herself have left her with a tendency to presume such things will likely happen should she become naive enough to expect them not to. It also is a partial reason why she works so hard to achieve; she is comforted by the recognition of her efforts, and such achievements.

P o k e r f a c e xxxshe will never be a gambler, for even when she tries to keep a neutral expression, so often is it touched by little ticks and glimmers of emotion that such attempts should always be considered futile. Fae cannot lie, but apparently, her inability to perform any sort of untruth goes the extra mile, to her endless chagrin.

S e l f - a w a r e n e s s xxxfor someone as introverted as she, Se-ri struggles to understand herself, and why she is the way she is. She constantly fails at taking care of herself, even to the point of not noticing when she is hurting, she tends to draw completely false conclusions from aspects of herself.


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β—’β—’ m a g i cxx&xxe q u i p m e n t

P r i m a r y xxxSe-ri's hold over the element of water is a frightening to behold, or, at least, it would be, were she to be struck by rage or aggression. Fortunately, she seldom is. Se-ra's hold over water allows her to sense it in all things; the air, the earth, even the blood flowing through the veins of the people around her. Water is a life source; one of the most valuable things in existence, the key to survival itself. Thus, Se-ri is dangerous, able to manipulate that life source as she wishes, able to give it... or take it away.

W e a t h e r xxxlargely involuntary, the weather often shifts with her mood rather than her choice. Joy brings thunderstorms, whilst intense anger brings harsh winds. Her states of melancholy tend to draw in grey, turning weather overcast. Any actual wilful control of the weather is very straining, often leaving her with terrible headaches or in a state of exhaustion. The involuntary nature of this secondary ability is perhaps why her primary ability is quite so powerful.

E q u i p m e n t xxx -



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━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━i could almost reach out and touch it, this nameless thing i wanted so badly



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β—’β—’ h i s t o r y

W e xxxonly have each other, is what was silently said. Known, acknowledged, accepted. We've got no one else. So who can blame her for the pain felt when this promise was broken? When he chose himself and his cause over her? When he left her alone? We only have each other.. Well, now they didn't have even that. Exiled to the human world, the last time she saw her brother, he was taken away for questioning. I'll be right back, See. There's a reason Se-ri hates liars.

R i s e xxx, she told herself, when all seemed to turn on her, to stamp spitefully at her fingers, trying to make her fall. Treason is a despicable thing to fae, and to humans too, and although she was not guilty of it herself, she may as well have been. The actions of her brother had left a permanent stain on her reputation, and every day since he left, she spent her time scrubbing. With every victory won, every relationship formed, every move made, the stain faded a little. Never quite vanishing, sometimes brash actions or snide comments would pigment it once more; the shame would rise, along with that constant bitterness,
that remorseless melancholy.

P e r f e c t i o n xxxis what she strove for, nothing more, nothing less. She became so skilled in the art of rising that it's a wonder she didn't grow wings from sheer willpower. The fae marred by a treasonous reputation somehow became legendary for something more than her unfortunate familial circumstances. Her name became synonymous with more than duplicity, but instead ascendence. She caught the political eye, conferred with nobles, engaged with patricians, bonded with royals. She became trusted by the very royals her brother sought to invalidate. Initially mocked.

H u m a n k i n d xxxhave always loved an underdog, and fae are no better. There was and is something so engaging about someone who wins the game, even with the cards stacked against them. She's never been the gambling type, but she knows better than to fold now. She's come too far, and,
popularity aside, it is a delicate position she is in. Always a balancing act, this desire to both better the world and better oneself and one's position; too often do these accomplishments prove to be mutually exclusive. Here she is, harassed by difficult decisions and impossible choices. And all the while, still scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing at a stain that won't go away.


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━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━if it weren't so perilous, maybe we wouldn't crave it so much


c h a r a c t e rxxs h e e txbyxxxlayla
f a c e c l a i mxxxPark So Dam
p l a y e dxxb yxxxrubytuesday

So begins...

Ryu Se-Ri's Story

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Orhien Naena Character Portrait: Amaya Kyotsuki Character Portrait: Mariko Kimura Character Portrait: KazimΓ­r Ε Ε₯astnΓ½ Character Portrait: Aurora Kinski Character Portrait: Ryu Se-Ri Character Portrait: Alize MorleaΓΊ Character Portrait: Cullen Lawrence Character Portrait: Kelvin Woods Character Portrait: Petunia Griffin Character Portrait: Illyana BΓ‘rΓ‘ny Character Portrait: Ryu Yeong Character Portrait: Tae Jeong Character Portrait: Lilith Averescu
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

#, as written by Layla
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▁ β–‚ β–ƒxxxH I G Hxxxxxx ▁ β–‚ β–ƒxxx31/12/17 : 1100xxxxxx▁ β–‚ β–ƒxxxW H E R ExxxW O R L D SxxxC O L L I D E
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xxxxxxThe moon released its cold, blue breath. Her sisters followed; speckles of starlight coming to life across the cold expanse overhead. And like a milky way on earth, the faelights that hovered untethered to mortal devices illuminated a path deep into the woods. Human passersby steered clear of the forest that emanated terror and demise, ushered away by a cleverly crafted glamour.
xxxxxxThose that dared venture into the sprawling canopies and distant shadows would find a mirageβ€”an illusion that broke like water when prodded. And through this unseen wallβ€”magic. For on the final night of every year, exiles and Fey without allegianceβ€”or "freefolk," as was polite to call themβ€”gathered in the fringes of New York City to celebrate the end of the earth's rotation.
xxxxxxThrough the veil were colours unseen by the human eye. Beads of light hung from the branches of ancient trees, their fingertips caressing the tips of faerie wings. A river snaked through the celebrations, spelled to bubble with a thick and cloying liquid of darkest gold.
xxxxxxFey danced to music that swelled like waves and descended in waterfalls. An alluring flute murmured its tune from the fingers of a sylph, urging lost humans to dance their worries away. Until their feet blistered, bled, and broke.
xxxxxxThe couples and groups twirling to the symphony were immune to such temptations, as they, too, had been forged of impossible things. A little blue boy giggled in his mother's arms as she twirled him 'round and 'round, her lips peeling back to reveal small, pointy teeth that could shatter human bones. Another girl blushed, her skin morphing into the emeralds and mahoganies of the trees behind her as if she could disappear into the belly of a trunk.
xxxxxx"Oi, watch it!" shouted a manβ€”who was also a goat. Thankfully, from the waist down. He glared over his shoulder at the rather ordinary looking fellow stumbling past him. The subject of his distaste grunted and waved his mug of honeyed tea, its contents sloshing over the sides and between his fingers.
xxxxxx"S'ry," he murmured, scrunching his nose. Suddenly, a sneeze erupted from him, the strength of it tossing him backward into a crate of candied apples and lifting the skirts of some wayward ladies. They squealed, sending of breath of frigid air that melded his hand to his mug.
xxxxxx"Oh, come on," he groaned, rolling onto his side and falling to the dirt. He blinked. And squeezed his eyes shut. Opened them. Closed. For surely, he must be mistaken. Or inebriated.
xxxxxxFor through the thicket of bushes and leaves, a set of ruby orbs peered into the revelry. But before the man could yell, the redcap scuttled away into darkness, leaving only a murky memory in its wake.

▁ β–‚ β–ƒ β–‚ ▁


xxxxxxAmaya peered through the lens of her microscope at the bronze watch on her worktop. Joji hummed overhead, the tremble and thump of his synth filling the old antique store with contemporary music. Amaya exhaled to his croon, and wiggled the burnisher into the bezel of the old watch.
xxxxxx"Hey grand- Shit!" A cacophony of tumbling wood and smashing metal followed his expletives, ending with the sharp punctuation of his pained wail. "Ow, ow, ow!"
xxxxxxAmaya did not look up from her work as she said, "That's $6,410 worth of priceless artifacts you just knocked over."
xxxxxx"My femur! My femur!"
xxxxxx"Is decidedly less valuable," she murmured, slipping the watch's crystal face over the dial. "What are you doing in my shop, Ishaan?"
xxxxxx"What most people do in shops? Buy things?" Ishaan emerged from behind a glass cabinet stuffed with various deadly instruments and one too many skulls. "Though I can't imagine how anyone finds anything in this place. When was the last time you organised?"
xxxxxx"It's organised."
xxxxxxIshaan looked around him at the various texts and materials littered throughout the store, all of which seemed to have been placed without reason. A cluster of feathered pens sat beside a fraying Jack-o'-lantern; a pile of rare manuscripts were poised precariously atop a sealed bottle of indiscernible liquid; a frightening puppet with only one eye hung beside a brilliant chandelier of molten gold.
xxxxxx"Right," said Ishaan.
xxxxxx"Well?" Amaya prodded. "Out with it."
xxxxxx"We need Pandora's Box for the New Year's celebrations."
xxxxxxAmaya lifted her head to pin Ishaan with her black stare. She raised a brow. "Do you?"
xxxxxx"Well, yes. Obviously. Because I just said-"
xxxxxx"It was a rhetorical question."
xxxxxx"Oh."
xxxxxxMoments passed, the silence interjected only by the soft ticking of the watch Amaya held in her hands.
xxxxxx"Soooo..." Ishaan began. "Can you do it?"
xxxxxx"Yes."
xxxxxx"Will you do it?" he clarified.
xxxxxx"What happened to the box I gave you last year?"
xxxxxx"Uh..." Ishaan smiled sheepishly. "We broke it."
xxxxxx"How?"
xxxxxx"Gertrude was gassy."
xxxxxx"That literally explains nothing."
xxxxxx"Gertrude is part orc."
xxxxxx"Oh. That explains everything." They shared a slow nod of understanding. Without warning, Amaya stood, wiping her hands on the cloth strewn over her chair. "Don't break anything or I'll sell your organs on the black market to make up my losses."
xxxxxxAmaya glided between the mountain of objects seemingly without care as Ishaan tiptoed behind her. She ducked, disappearing into a narrow passageway that opened up to reveal a marginally wider door. She twisted the handle and stepped in.
xxxxxx"You don't lock it?" Ishaan asked.
xxxxxx"Why? Would you steal from me?" she replied.
xxxxxx"N-no. Geez. Of course not. Please stop looking at me.”
xxxxxxA flood of cold air greeted them. Colder even than the Winter beyond the store's four walls. The room glowed with an eerie blue light. This was Amaya's real collection. The priceless Fey objects and relics beyond the innocuous storefront that declared this place the Home of Intangible Things.
xxxxxxPotions swirling with incandescent hues perched on shelves etched with ancient runes; a wiry potted plant emitted an eerie glow in a corner; a book whose cover shifted with every minute hovered within a glass dome. Yet Amaya ignored all these as she approached a box the size of her palm. She lifted it, peeling back the velvet cloth that encased it.
xxxxxx"Here," she said. "You'll owe me a favour for this."
xxxxxx"Yeah, yeah. I know the rules. But," he chewed his lip, "we were actually hoping for another favour from you. Could you, maybe, attend the celebrations and call upon the box yourself? Its sister was so unruly last year. We had no idea how to get it back in once we'd opened it."
xxxxxx"Put three objects of personal value into the box and call-"
xxxxxx"Yeah, we got your instructions last time. But those rascals inside are hard to wrestle."
xxxxxx"You'll have to pay extra."
xxxxxx"Already on it." Ishaan waved his arm. "My sister has a gem from one of the late king's crowns. So, deal?"
xxxxxxAmaya tilted her head, fixing him with her stare. "Deal."

▁ β–‚ β–ƒ β–‚ ▁


xxxxxxThe box held within it collective memoriesβ€”whispers of another time before the courts had been forged and anarchy reigned. Four powerful faeries had gathered to forge an alliance, carving into a map the lines of their rule. The Courts embodied the balance of the natural world. The seasonal courtsβ€”Summer and Winterβ€”would share the earth's cycle, shifting their power to reflect changes in the climate. The courts of Dark and High would create chaos and maintain order, so that the world would not fall into excess. A High Lady or Lord would command each court, with their mates at their side.
xxxxxxAmaya stood at the centre of a clearing, where a crowd had gathered in anticipation of the night's ritual. The midnight hour neared.
xxxxxxA strand of alabaster hair fluttered into Amaya’s line of vision. She beat her papery wings and the small gust that followed lifted her hair from her face. Her off-the-shoulder dress swished around her ankles, their opal colours changing in the dim light that emanated from the faelights.
xxxxxxAmaya paid her audience no head as she twisted the box’s moving parts, spinning the sundial leftward untilβ€”like a setting sun that had met its endβ€”it was eclipsed by a silver moon. She spun both ends of the box until the flourishing green tress met its barren twin on the other side.
xxxxxxPandora’s box unlocked.
xxxxxxA burst of red light blinded the Fey, and when it retreated, a chorus of cheers rose from them. Scarlet figures of smoke and vapour danced above their heads, wielding small swords and spinning in skirts that left faint trails behind them. The musicians began their symphony.
xxxxxxAmaya tilted her head upwards to watch the memories unfurl, her eyelids fluttering shut against their brilliance. The glow of the figures bounced off the crescent moon on her forehead, the curved mark scattering the colours into a kaleidoscopic dance.
xxxxxxSuddenly, a small red dancer turned and screamed.
xxxxxxAmaya's eyes snapped open. She turned as the people forged of red smoke raced with a fervour, screeching as they fought to return to their box. Large figures of flesh and bone rose behind them, their forearms encased in metal, their faces cloaked in armour. They wore the uniforms of the High Court's royal guardβ€”a legion sworn to protect the faerie on the throneβ€”but their magic did not solely belong to the High Court. A faerie with a swarm of straw-blonde hair threw a column of flame into the throngs of Fey fleeing the woods.
xxxxxx"Give us the Halflings," called a woman in copper armour. "And we might consider granting you exiles and traitors a merciful death."
xxxxxxAmaya had stilled, enraptured by the woman's familiar form, and the emerald eyes that peered from the slit in her helmet. Airell. The girl had been her friend, once. Or as close to a friend as one could find when one was imprisoned in a tower.
xxxxxxThe luck fae had warned her of this. KazimΓ­r Ε Ε₯astnΓ½. He had told her of the late king's downfall and her role in his child's resurrection. He had said with some mirth that she owed him a debt. He had saved her life, he'd claimed. When he was just a child, and she the prisoner of the High Lady of the Dark Court. She had not wanted to believe him, but she did remember him. The small boy with smaller antlers who had come to her cell and offered her luck.
xxxxxx"Feykiller," Airell intoned. "I did not expect to see you. Today must be my lucky day."
xxxxxxAmaya turned and ran.
xxxxxx"Fleeing again, are we?" Airell called out. "Where is the Blood Moon our keepers worshipped?"
xxxxxxAmaya darted between the trees, whizzing left and right until Airell's flames vanished behind her.
xxxxxxA little blue girl collapsed to her knees. "Mama!" she wailed. "Mama!" But the Fey around her did not stop. They had become cruel in their haste to survive.
xxxxxx"Hold on to me," Amaya barked. She wrapped her arms around the small girl, who clung to her with a grip that was unexpected of such a small creature, and ran.
xxxxxx"This way!" she called out to the faeries fleeing aimlessly through the woods. "There's a path that leads out of the forest into a human Walmart and cave on the way should we need to hide. Follow the trees with the crawling vines and blue flowers until you near a small ravine. Quickly. Quietly."
xxxxxxThe Fey stumbled through the darkened woods, a petite Summer faerie emitting a tentative glow to illuminate their path. Amaya looked over her shoulder to see the faeries who had stayed behind to fight the invasion, and those who were sprawled on the ground. They were much too still.
xxxxxx"Found you."
xxxxxxAmaya twisted, flinging the small child forward and into the thicketβ€”better bruised than deadβ€”as Airell lobbed a dozen black arrows toward her with nothing but a thought.