Brewing Hope
25th of January 2007 A.D.
The turn of the Mother's ladle sounds like summer rains, the calls of distant frogs echoing in the patter, it smells hot and humid like the shadow under the endless green of the tropical canopy.
Water, wine-dark sea the sailors fear and yet adore, first residence of the Eternal Being, the underlying principle and foundation of this universe, of all the the elements it most readily sings the songs of Chaos in raging storms and whispered laments. To this spell there are no words, for what need has the current of heralds as it undermines even the deepest of foundations, digging at the roots of things. Ninety three times and half again she stirs the waters in the cauldron frothing, once for every days of summer.
When the last turn is almost done look to Tiffany, an Angel's shadow raised to light, expecting now's the time for air to say it's piece, instead she motions back to you. The elements aren't meant to turn smoothly within, but by their conflict spark great change. With words not prayer, not spell but dance and song of a place far off and infinitely close you pluck a spark from your roaring anima, made solid by the place and hour and cast into the swirling waters. At once they boil,
rage in steam, a nacreous green that has no name in any living human tongue and yet which all the tribes of the Eastern Jungles know, the storms are
here, the harvest close.
It is through those clouds that Tiffany now flies on silver wings that cut like knives. Is it raining mercury or ice, part of you wonders ever curious yet when you reach out to touch a drop you find in your hand a number, not scribbled on stone, drawn in smoke or inked in water, part of an Enochean formula these standing stones have never heard before.
The substance in the cauldron now bubbles fit to make its escape before Lydia starts adding ingredients: all kinds of things of animal vegetable and mineral that had appeared as if by magic, well of course it's magic, by her side. A few still catch your eye: there's a serpent's skin that shines like gold and emeralds yet makes not a sign passing through Lydia's hands, grave dust from the urns of one thousand and one doomed to the Wicked City, each one with a name upon it sought by industrious fey, computer chips you're shocked to see, all used and worn near to breaking, though still just working you intuit. It is at some point halfway though the divesting of a pair of vinyl records bearing songs nowhere else recalled now forever part of hope that you look down and see the potion had taken an almost tar-like substance, black and inky, but shimmering with countless colors across its skin.
Mother Summer snorts and starts to stir not around but in figure eight, or perhaps infinity from the tar now making clumps and lumps pieces of crumbling black: soil ready for planting. She spits a small green seed onto the circle of soil, a few moments later the rest of you watch as it wiggles itself into the ground now not he least liquid.
A moment passes in silence, two, then a small silver-white flower peeks its head though the loam, its head is as a star, silver white, its leaves dark green like a water lily and its smell like nothing on Earth like the unexpected joy of hearing your favorite song on the radio on a long drive, or school being out for the holidays.
"There you go dearie, the pollen inside that's the ticket, it will spread swift as you like, a plague among he doomed, on the head of their goaler be all the ills it brings," says the the fey brewer with a smile that reminds one: while winters might be cruel Summer's darker gifts last longest. That thought in mind you pick up the flower with a pinch of soil and carve it a quick stone bowl to take with you.
Gained Hope Plague.
"Uhm..." Lydia clearly has to resist an urge to raise a hand to which you can only sympathize. "Is there something else we have to do or...?"
"Ah," Mother Summer shakes her head with a smile. "Always easy to lose time brewing. You be careful out there youngsters..."
Lash does not roll her eyes, she would never be so gouache, but if you can read the shift of her shoulders offs are the Mother can here in the heart of her power. She repeats: "
Youngsters."
Before things can get anymore heated you offer your arm to lead Mother Summer back inside and onto her seat, though Mother Winter does not need any help getting up.
Your guide again in child-guise, though even harder to mistake for one, the three of you bid courteous farewell to the Mothers and head off again. Intead of taking the path through the strange garden Opal leads you instead to an ivy-shrouded Way that opens under a misty arch, the road to Avalon. You are not sure if you are disappointed or relieved to be spared more sights of deep faerie but either way you
are glad that you do not have to interact with the Court beyond a worried Lilly. She wants to make sure you made out of meeting the Mothers in Winter in one piece, even though she can't say so in so many words.
***
28th of January 2007 A.D.
Speaking of things one can't say straight out you are gad to see Lilly looking a lot more
anchored than when last you met, even firm enough to take over the task of guiding you back to Chicago.
Essence Restored to 15/15 (3 Days spent in the Nevernever Ritual-casting)
Though you are back in reality you can't stay long. How do you want to enter the Wicked City?
[] Take the Scarlet Path, from Faerie, the easiest to find and the most secure, but also an obvious point of attack into Yomi
[] Take the Ebon path from the underworld, Nergui knows it well
[] Translate directly from urban sprawl into the Wicked City, the most magically direct, but it will require you getting on a plane, Chicago does not have any connections
[] Write in
OOC: Managed it. Hope this works, it is pretty late so it might have some (more) errors.
