Many Coloured Tales of the Seelie Court
The whole Seelie Court was gathered in the Faerie Queene’s throne room. Slim walnut and mahogany columns in rustic natural Art Nouveau style soared to impossible heights, a raised dias sat in the centre of one far all of the room. A single throne sat in the centre of the dias, spun from fine gossamer spiders webs in designs of oak leaves and ivy, its delicate appearance bellied a strength of mountains which saw it firmly rooted to the floor.
A stair case glowing in golden hue like the dawn on a summer day spiralled its way from behind the throne to an opening halfway up the wall. It was here now, on a small balcony, that the Faerie Queene herself stood. Beautiful as the dew glistening in the sunlight after a spring rain she was. Treacherous as the sea crashing against jagged cliffs during a midnight storm she was.
Her silver eyes flashed as she surveyed her Court, and the lights darkened, as if a sudden storm had indeed approached.
“Show me” she commanded as she descended the stairs. Hair the colour of fine straw flowed behind her, kept in place only by a crown of laurel. Fine gossamer skirts billowed in no apparent wind as she came.
All the assembled denizens of the Many Coloured Land moved aside for her as she reached the dias and continued to the centre of the room:
“the pixies and the nixies, the pookas and the bookas, the naiads, the dryads, the oreads, the pucks and the leprechauns, the tallow men and the flibbertigibbets and the woses and the fetches and the cluricaunes, the hungry men and fear dherg and roanes and selkies and swanmays and foxwomen, the imps and the fauns and the satyrs and the dwarves; the elves in their shimmering silver gowns and the high faeries with their shimmering rainbow wings. Golden trumpets sounded her approach. Bright flashes filled the skies." *See UT #285
All moved aside save one. The blind oracle, an ancient crone so old that even magics of the fey could no longer conceal her age. She sat on a stool in the centre of the room – next to her stood a stone plinth with a large circular bowl on its apex, a silvery liquid swirled within. The toothless hag licked her lips with a black tongue and stirred the contents with one gnarled finger, complete with clawed nail and wart.
The liquid shimmered and, one of the last vestiges of power still available before the current scheming to sever the Mythland was in complete.
A lounge room appeared. A man in a yellow trenchcoat, a demi-hemigod, and a pure-thought being stood within. All knew them.
“Letting thy children reave and sunder the Many Coloured Land for the nonce art only fair” said the demi-hemigod of thunder.
The collective Seelie Court gasped. What had they done to incur the wrath of the Ausgardians? Nothing! Queen Mab’s eyes darkened.
“Is to be stopping of her ways by putting of cute-Maggy on Faerie Throne, “ said Yo.
Again, gasps from the gathered Court echoed through the throne, some muttered treason under their breaths – to speak of dethroning their beloved and feared Queene was as if they were pierced with iron itself.
The crone cackled, and stirred the pool once more.
Three children were now visible, a young boy in school uniform with tousled hair, a girl with a withered arm, and another with blonde hair all in black. The assembled court knew these three as well.
“I’m not sure I approve of a fairy-tale world – it doesn’t seem very sensible to me,” Samantha Featherstone addressed her companions.
The murmuring of the Court now became a ruckus! Who was this mortal to defy their very existence! What had they done to deserve her opinion on their very existence! Who was SHE to deny them in such a way! Why were these mortals plotting the downfall of their Queene? Their Realm? Their very existence!
“SILENCE!” Xaradim, the Queene’s herald intoned the din, and they heard and were silence.
Queen Mab held out her hands. "Who will rid me of these troublesome mortals?" she said softly, as if to herself.
A young elf princeling it was who was the first to step forward, blonde hair flowed over his shoulders, plaited behind his pointed ears. Deep green was his raiment, for he was Greentwig, a prince of the woodland realm. Laying his bow at her feet he put his hand on his heart – for he was stirred to action by the impudence of the young girls attack on his and his people’s very being.
A high faeire was next, her rainbow wings glistening in the light, messy brown hair and orange and mauve skirts were her look – for she was an autumn fairy. She flew to the elven princeling’s side and stood, head bowed. Hazelnut was her name.
Finally, a satyr stepped forward, his beard flecked with red. Panpipes of reed at his side. Grimble he was called.
The Fey Queene surveyed them – her eyes dark – saying nothing.
“Go!” commanded the Herald, after a pause to last an eternity.
And they were gone.
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