Where Seasons Meet, A Gateway
25th of January 2007 A.D.
"I don't think ten story hair would suit me," you counter as you turn back along the path, leaving the devil on your shoulder busy untangling the meaning from memory. It always felt weird to as a little girl listening to Mom read you asleep that Rapunzel meant 'cornsalad' and that she was named for the leafy treat in question stolen from the witch's garden, but not the part with the witch claiming the baby for it. That's just the kind of thing that fairies do.
"Not all of us, not always," Opal snickers, her puckish smile only growing at the sharp look that earns her from you. "Saw your reflection. Standing on a red stone see?"
Looking down at your feet you indeed notice that you are standing on bright red, like it rhinestone was an actual stone, subject to geological forces, though in it you are reflected as the little girl peering into an illustrated book of tales over your mother's shoulder and nodding at the dangers of trespass against fey.
Somehow the idea that your thoughts aren't just surreptitiously plucked from your mind, but projected for all to see by the stuff underfoot doesn't make for reassurance. Now the Molly-in-the-gem was dressed as a schoolteacher, waving around a ruler disappointingly. You huff and follow along.
It's not far now, in an arch of twisted branches that hiss like snakes under the breath of the north wind a cottage of the sort one might call medieval for all it does not make it into the chronicler's histories much and tucked between the pages of a fairy story all too often. Eighteen is not so strange an age to find yourself in front of this door, not sixteen neither. Alone Tiffany can claim to be older, though maybe not wisher.
Opal knocks three times quick such that the door did not have the chance to creak open before she proclaims: "We're here Old Mother, they didn't even stop to gather herbs!"
So that had been a test then, or something like it, you realize. No Faerie's curse could hold you that you do not wish, not even here, but that did not mean those within judged not.
The place was all one room and floored with straw even as it was roofed and sitting at the loom in the corner a woman stooped with age and withered like a raisin, her mouth an uneven gash, the teeth inside it iron stained with red as somehow she held her tongue between them. White was her hair without a speck of grey to it. She seemed to you at once more sturdy than the mountains and yet so light that a stray gust of wind might pick her up.
Witches fly on brooms after all... or is that Baba Yaga in her pestle.
"Hello the house!" you call and indeed it might seem glib, but where hail be thou wishes health upon one who does not need it and merry met assumes the temperament of the host hello comes from
halâ, spoken to fetch the a ferryman, a word to pause and take heed, asking no more.
Lost 1 Essence -> Now at 14/15 (Etiquette Excellency)
"Morning girl, or is it twilight" the old woman, Mother Winter you know without asking, answers as she frowns at your forehead, as though she can see the mark beneath. Her eyes dart to Lydia. "Strange days that the heirs of lordless princes should come to my door."
"My fief may yet be narrow, my army still quite poor, but I will not be counted by depths I paid in full," Lydia counters, causing Opal to giggle darkly as she searches though one of the chests along the far wall for something that clinks and clanks, her head so deep inside that her feet are only barely still on the ground.
"Counting's what other folk do" Winter muses, a hint of peril to her words.
"Perchance could you open this a few palms wider?" Lash asks sweetly standing by the door, even though she certainly looks like she would fit. That's enough to distract the Crone for just a breath or two until another speaks from a chair by the fire burning low. "Leave me now, you hear, they're here and not for you or would you rather she ask favors too and see what we can brew up together."
"I'd rather we didn't cook up stars where no stars were before," comes the reply in a half-grumble as you briefly marvel imagining what manner of terror that would be.
The door indeed opens wider than the frame to allow though Tiffany's wings unseen, but before Mother Winter can do more than fix her steely eye on the once Fallen her more kindly... sister? Fellow Spinner? Somehow none of the names fit, speaks again: "Be a dear and help me up girl, I'm not really supposed to be walking yet, but you aren't really supposed to be a part of things anymore and here you are. Shows how much 'supposed to is worth'."
Choosing to take that as a compliment, it's a little late to take it as anything else, you help Mother Summer up. At first she feels a lot heavier than she aught to be, but you are resolved to do it and so it is.
With a huff Mother Winter sits down on the other side of the fire, just as Opal gives a triumphant: "Aha! Knew that was in there!" and tosses a foot high statuette of chipped obsidian behind her, you catch a glimpse of a demonic face twisted into a scowl thrice curling horns on either side of the face... and at its base a glitter of gold that is more than gold, as though someone had buried a beam of sunlight in a ring of metal.
Minister of the Little Fear... Shadow All Seeing... Eye and Hand of Distant Masters
The power in the stone, in the ring of metal is unlike anything you've ever felt. Not the greatest, not by far, the guardian statue in Vegas had been stronger, not even speaking of the miracles made manifest that are the Swords of the Cross, but this is oddly measured, ensouled and yet matter, intelligent yet un-willful, dreadful without malice.
Very deliberately you
don't catch it. "What's that?" you ask acting thoroughly unimpressed.
"Just an old and dusty thing, thought it might be neat to show you. I saw it once in markets fair in far off Eastern Forests beneath the veil of Silver Clouds. Perhaps I took it with me, perhaps it came itself, a memory of times that now are not... yet not Time-Not." The girl starts to grow older as you watch, half like a child aging, half like a tree sprouting. "Tell me Chosen do you still play Gateway in the glen at twilight?"
The Mothers, Summer and Winter both are watching you closely, but neither of them speak
As you open your mouth to say you know nothing, you realize you do. In your mind's eye there are three boards stacked one atop the other: white and gold the heavens, in five jade-hues Creation, the Underworld in black and ashen grey. About its rims is is twisting silver bright as the changing moon, the Warlord's game that you had played but sparingly.
Lost 1 Essence -> Now at 13/15 (Occult Excellency)
"Usum... what?"
"Memories of those whose Crown you bear Dread Majesty, more I cannot say," the demon offers gravely.
Regained 2 Essence -> Now at 15/15 (Urge)
Tiffany seems worried, but she does not speak up, while for her part Lydia eyes the statuette with interest as though she too had spied the gleam of True Gold at least
What do you answer?
[] Play Along: Not in this life, but I would play again for the right stakes (Try to win the Artifact with your new skills in a very old game)
[] Businesslike: No time to be distracted, you'll speak of this later
[] Impulsive: Spend one of Winter's Favors for that Artifact
[] Write in
OOC: Yes that is an Artifact Creation forged... and that is an Raksha old enough to remember what Gateway is. You also remember what Gateway is now because DC 9 is more of a suggestion. What is it with Molly rolling absurdly high on the most dramatic dice?