taxonomites | 01 [holo] A different kind of fairy*

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01 [holo] A different kind of fairy*

It is true that the Arrival room has seen many a variation on the theme of first impressions and abduction. It is also true that, while some are more polite than others, or more eloquent, it is a rarer sight to see such calm, seeming indifference. There stands a tall man in the Arrival Room, silent and unmoving like a lone tree atop a hill. In the stark lights of the apparatus mounted to the ceiling, his long hair falls like a stark white curtain fading into vivid yellow: it is a gossamer veil, he the monster done up in fancy robes. Its eyes are a vivid yellow, though this might take a closer look for how dark the skin around them is. Otherwise it is of a pale complexion, nearly waxen, and adorned in what appears to be deliberate scarring. One such scar curves from one high cheekbone to the next, undulating across the bridge of nose. More scars run in vertical slashes down his forehead, though whether those are of ritual origin or war is less apparent. The circular markings on each side of his forehead strike a different chord: like ripples on still water, and partially hidden by his hairline. His robes are formal, sumptuous and striking: dark, slick fabrics meeting subtle details (is it armour or simply militaristic, of a stereotypically Western origin, or perhaps Asian? Is that an obi adorned with a metal emblem? A hakama?), offset by a dark metallic seal at the front of his broad belt. There are no weapons - at least no visible ones - but one might just get the impression not to get in his way. Don't wake the sleeping bear, as they say. Don't provoke a wounded beast.

But, no. His posture belongs to something other than a beast. He is royalty. He is sprung from the Father Tree, bearing the royal scars of his clan. Royal marks, not sprung from ritual or fashion.

He who walks a different path shall find himself in strange lands. It was simply a matter of time before he stumbled into the unknown. Having just sent the last of the forest gods to its demise, it seems only fair he too should be sent somewhere without consent. An eye for an eye, one sole surviving warrior for another.

Ever shadowed, yellow eyes look out, assessing its surroundings like a cat in unfamiliar territory. The head, with its vaguely High German features, tilts this way and that way. Dark lips part, revealing teeth that seem too sharp to belong to such a face (or perhaps not sharp enough). The pointed tips of his ears lift (perhaps difficult to spot, with so little contrast between skin and hair), and he walks through the open door.

He calls out to a small group of meandering non-humans (Extras of a brand new variety, as it just so happens). He barely raises his voice, in near perfect, if somewhat dated Gaelic. And by dated, we mean ancient and oddly evolved. "[I am Nuada Silverlance, crowned prince of Bethmoora.]" A brief pause follows as he slows to a stop, taking in his surroundings. The people gathered there, in what appears to be a museum idolizing the macabre, are of little help. In fact, very little help other than hesitant, too polite smiles and looks his way. A small, wry smirk turns the corners of his lips. "Entschuldigen Sie bitte...?" No?

"Je suis Nuada Lance d'Argent, fils unique du Roi Balor; prince royal de Bethmoora. Je vous en prie." He inclines his head in the faintest hint of a bow, watching these unorthodox, foreign-looking fae with barely there intrigue.

One of the Extras, visible in the very peripheral edge of the hologram (a blue-faced girl of reptilian features and colourful scales instead of hair), gathers a bit of cheerful posit-tu-itiveness, and dares tread closer.

"I'm sorry. No sprechen European. You speak Standard?"

The look on New Guy's face can be summed up with one word: perplexity. Long-suffering perplexity, no less.

"English," he says, chin lifting ever so slightly. Strange how such minute a movement would look so menacing. English, the standard of language? "How very pedestrian of you."

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* Different indeed.

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"Inside." He touches his heart and head. "The wolf. I'm a werewolf. It only appears on the full moon. But we've been together a long time. I've learned to feel its advantages."

He sits back on his heels. "And you? You smell of the magics of the wild, like the centaurs and Forbidden Forest." But he clearly isn't. "... forgive my presumption, but, are you of the Tuatha de Danann?"

Heart and head, body and mind, and eyes that glow - yes, that they have in common. One of the púca. He grins, and it is not a wholly charming one, but a grin just the same. As the púca sits back, the elf raises himself up by the length of his arms so they're nearly face to face.

And that presumption, ringing to him like old bells, sweet and damning at the same time. On the one hand the truths of his kin, and on the other the myths that have spawned from their midst.

He nearly barks with laughter. "Danann! A proper name for proper folk, and you know of it." Oh these are interesting times indeed.

"I am Nuada Silverlance, son of the one-armed king Balor of Clan Bethmoora. You may know me by another name."

"I studies at a magical school. I did history among other things." History and folklore and how they intertwined. Magical history. And his own studies during his wanderings in Wales and Ireland. "I'm from the British Isles. I know the stories of my forefathers and foremothers."

He knows a few names associated with that."Bres," is the name he knows. "The son of the one armed king. Though we knew that king as Nuada, the Silver Armed." He bows his head respectfully. "My name is Remus Lupin."

A magical school. The thought sparks questions, always more questions, but there's a time and place for everything. He nods, his eyes alight with attention (and more importantly, interest). As for legends and their clerical errors, well, there's not much to say. He brings his feet under him, settles into a crouch before pushing upright. Perhaps he isn't altogether steady on his feet, but that is another matter, and of little import.

"Lupin. Like the flower?"

Remus stands up easily, wand going back up his sleeve. "Yes, exactly." He smiles, because not many people get that right. "Do you need a hand? Lying in the snow can't have been good for you. Nor passing out in the first place."

Need. Again that word where want would serve a better means - though to what end, he wonders. Courtesy alone, or something more pedestrian.

He glances at the surrounding forest, getting his bearings at no more than a slitting of the eye. Down yon path lies defeat, and every last bone in him cries out to better himself, to scale the obstacle and best it. Beat it into a pulp.

But tomorrow comes a new day. He'll live today, that he may fight again.

Back to Remus Lupin, the púka. "Shape-shifter and fairy-friend, named for flower and legend. You would offer me your hand, knowing what I am?"

Remus frowns slightly, canting his head. "Yes. I understand that outside of this place, you may feel very different towards me, my kind. But here we are all prisoners and we have little except one another.

"I'm used to being without anything but what kindness is shown. It's not much. People fear werewolves. They think we're so angry at them that we'll try and infect them. That we're just waiting for a chance to destroy their lives like ours have been. But most of us don't. I pity people who think that way. My life hasn't been easy but I'm alive and I'm healthy, which is more than any of my friends."

He holds out his arm to the Tuatha prince. "You don't seem well and I can offer help. And I think you'd accept that in the spirit it's offered."

Something stirs within, be it a lingering taste of loss or regret (Wink, so capable and steadfast, ever so loyal, tricked into too early a demise, and by what? A self-serving, ego-centric oaf to whom the word 'respect' might as well never have been uttered since the dawn of time). The black lips curl into a sneer, the brow lowers. A hiss is his only answer, though his hand comes to rest atop the offered arm. He is not so proud to decline help - especially not when a deal can be struck.

"Your lenience is touching, if misdirected. Counting your blessings in the face of constant trespasses against our kind. Our kind, Remus, we magical peoples who now lead a marginalized existence, holed up underground and under bridges, in derelict buildings like squatters."

He shakes his head; and his hair moves too easily with it, as if weightless and weighed down at the same time. Everything about him speaks of authority, as innate to him as the waxing and waning to the moon.

"I'll let you come to my aid on one condition."

"Your world sounds awful," Remus replies quietly. In his world, he can't imagine the Tuatha accepting a fate like that. Not with a whole magical community to call on.

The demand of a trade to be allowed to help almost pulls a smile to his lips. "I see. And what would you condition be, your highness?"

"My world is dying." He ducks his head, then raises his chin. He stands taller for it. "Perhaps I shall tell you of the war, some day. The war, and the truce that stripped my kith and kin their pride."

But first, a bargain. A bargain met with due respect, good. Very good. Whether they'll come to an agreement is another thing entirely, but Remus is willing to listen.

"When next the full moon rises, your wolf shall run, and I with it."

Remus draws back slightly, the fear apparent in his eyes. "I can't. I'm too dangerous. The wolf, it will hunt and attack people. Anyone that it thinks it can infect with the bite. It's the nature of the beast. Of the disease." A magical disease, but one none the less. "I couldn't bear if I hurt anyone like that. I've managed thirty years without hurting anyone, without infecting, without killing anything sentient."

The answering look on Nuada's face can be summed up in one small word: disbelief. Pure, unadulterated disbelief morphing into something less neutral, more acidic. In one swift move, he pushes Remus' arm down and moves in, a towering presence even without his six-foot-something bearing down on you with the weight of ancient bloodright. Suffice to say he doesn't like what he's hearing - whispers of captivity, cries of shame and public outrage, the cacophony of once vibrant forests turned into concrete altars for the materialist, commercialist gods of the world.

"The wolf doesn't bow before the hunter. It runs free, it is the hunter. A disease--" he sneers. "Don't mock my intelligence. You've killed very recently. I can smell the death on you. What manner of non-sentient being did you slaughter for food or fun, Remus? Answer me."

Edited (spelling) 2013-02-13 08:02 (UTC)

Remus, for all that his house was about bravery, is not a brave person, especially not to his own mind.

He stumbles back, eyes closing and calling on those precious memories, of love, care, nurturing and flicks his wand, lips barely moving.

"Expecto patronum."

There's no solid form to it, just a blast of magic of pure light and love, something intense and blinding that won't let malice near it.

The magic rushes over the sneering prince, sending his robes and hair billowing about his form as though caught in the eye of a storm. There's no visible impact, no concussive blow and still he staggers half a step back.

Pure light. Love. For such seeming harmless concepts, their effect is nothing if not remarkable.

The prince gasps, and as the light fades, so too do the darkened circles around his eyes, the shadows of his hollow cheeks and the dark stain of his mouth.

One precious moment of long-forgotten innocence, torn to shreds by a vicious snarl.

The glade is suddenly empty, save for the snow coming down to sleep. There are no footprints, no marks as to where the prince has gone. It's as if he were never there in the first place.

Remus stands there, breathing slightly rough.

He's faced down Dementors, but when you have precious little happiness, they have surprisingly less effect.

Facing down a Tuatha prince is different. Dementors are just malice. A Tuatha is a fae and every child raised with magic knows to fear what a slighted fae may do.

He turns a circle, head to the wind and inhaling briefly, trying to pick up any trace around him. Not to go find him. But to double check.

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01 [holo] A different kind of fairy*

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