Nuada Silverlance of Clan Bethmoora (
whyfearthedark) wrote in
taxonomites2013-02-06 12:46 pm
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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."
---
* Different indeed.
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."
---
* Different indeed.
Re: [location: forest]
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?"
[location: forest]
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."
Re: [location: forest]
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."
[location: forest]
"Lupin. Like the flower?"
[location: forest]
[location: forest]
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?"
Re: [location: forest]
"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."
[location: forest]
"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."
Re: [location: forest]
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?"
[location: forest]
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."
Re: [location: forest]
[location: forest]
"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."
Re: [location: forest]
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.
[location: forest]
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.
Re: [location: forest]
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.