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teleidoplexTitle: Bad Omens
Rating: PG
Media: Changeling - The Dreaming
Characters: OC (Luci, Moira and Cora, the Pooka Winged Chick Association)
Summary: Motley background fic for a live-action Changeling game
Disclaimer: White Wolf owns Changeling. Cora Finneagan is my own creation.
Once, a goodly many years ago, which is to say upon a time, there lived upon a hillock at the edge of a meadow a great oak Tree. Her roots sank deep into the earth of the rise, and her far-flung branches arched high above. Many creatures inhabited the Tree, but only three called it Home. Deep within the hollowed cruik of a long-dead limb lived a small brown Bat, and so guileless and stealthy was she that the small insects that were her prey did never sense the peril they were in. Watching the world below from her all-knowing perch in the twisting trunk lived a great Owl, loudly voicing warnings to her prey, though they were too foolish to listen. And skulking amongst the uppermost branches lived a scavenging Raven, avidly scanning the surrounding fields for the ripe leavings of other animals.
Now it happened that the folk who lived nearby believed that the hillock beneath the Tree was a Faerie Rath, a fortress of the Fair Ones that feed on the dreams of mortals, and often the folk would make offerings to the Fae to appease their anger or to beg their aid. The Bat, the Owl and the Raven watched these happenings always with disinterest, until one lean winter when their hunting was poor and food was scarce, an old man came with an offering of berries and cream and freshly dead meat.
“We should take it,” whispered the Bat, eyeing the berries hungrily.
“He will think we are of the Fae,” warned the Owl, though she had never had cream before and was curious.
“Then he will be the fool, not we,” said the Raven, in no way put off by the carcass, and the three sisters winged down and began to pick at the leavings.
The old man tried to shoo them away, but such was their hunger that they ignored him until he lay his grasp upon a large deadfall branch and swung wildly at them.
“Stop,” said the Bat, darting into the Tree at his first stroke.
“Stop,” said the Owl, launching into the air.
“Stop,” said the Raven, hopping back a few paces, the sweetness of rotting flesh too great a lure for her to retreat further.
The old man stopped, so great was his surprise to hear the flying ones speak. Sinking to his knees, he implored, “Oh Fair Ones, forgive me for assaulting you. I am but a foolish old man with a simple request. If my offerings please you, will you advise me truly and lend me aid?”
“Speak,” said the Bat from her hidey, surprised that she herself could do so.
“Demand, said the Owl from her lofty perch, delighted with her new wisdom.
“We’ll answer,” said the Raven, impatient with him to be gone so that she might continue with her meal.
“I would hear it from your mouths, rather than your masters’. There is to be a great battle on the morrow, in this very field. My son is to fight in it. What is to happen?”
Now, the three sisters had seen many battles waged in their time, and had discussed amongst themselves the foolishness of the non-winged, Fae and Mortal alike, so they determined to reward the old man for his kindness with the truths they knew.
“My kind sees the hidden for other’s eyes, and we come before,” said the Bat.
“My kind speaks wisdom for other’s ears, and we come during,” said the Owl.
“My kind seeks gain for ourselves and no other, and we come after,” said the Raven
“But, what is to become of my son?” pleaded the old man
“We have spoken his fate once,” whispered the Bat.
“We will not speak it again,” spoke the Owl.
“Nevermore,” quoth the Raven.
And with this puzzle, the old man had to be content.
The tale does not end here, however, for the old man spoke true and that very night large camps of armed men began to set up on either side of the field. The sisters were greatly worried, for never before had fighting come so close to their home, yet now their rath and their Tree rose directly between the enemy forces. Consulting amongst themselves, they resolved to discover what the menfolk were about.
“I will call my people to me, and we will fly swiftly to spy upon Man, and see what he plans to do,” said the Bat, and she did so, and sure enough the night was soon filled with the not-sounds of leathered wings flapping and bat cries shrieking, and darting shapes that could not-be-seen until after they were gone. And the Bat led her brethren into the camps and learned of the armies’ plans, and when she returned to the Tree, her delicate shoulders sagged.
“The news is bad,” whispered the Bat, “the armies meet on this very field, and they will of a certainty overrun our Tree,” and the sisters knew despair, for what could they do against armies of Men.
“I will call my people to me, and we will fly swiftly and whisper words into the minds of Men, and turn then from their course,” said the Owl, and she did so, and sure enough the night was soon filled with the silent beating of pillowed wings and the flashes of white-down feathers and full-moon eyes. And the Owl led her brethren into the tents of the Captains and Generals, and spoke to them in their sleep of tactical disadvantages and strategic battlefield maneuvers, yet when she returned to the Tree, her downy shoulders sagged.
“The news is bad,” frowned the Owl, “the Men are set in their course, and rather than turn from this field of battle, they will cut down our Tree and level our hill,” and the sisters knew despair, for how could they stand against the destruction of Man.
“I will call my people to me, and we will see how Man feels when faced with his own fears of destruction,” muttered the Raven darkly, and she did so, and sure enough the early morning mists were soon roiling with raucous calls and the flapping of shadowed wings, and a slight stench of sickly-sweet decay. More and more the death-birds came, and settled on every branch of the Tree, each staring down at the field and the approaching armies with a patient, avid gaze, and the branches of the Tree sagged from the weight of so much darkness.
And when the armies of Man approached the tree, they saw the scavengers awaiting their deaths, and as each soldier was reminded that he too might soon be nothing more than food for ravens and worms, his heart began to quail, his knees to shake, and his palms to sweat. As one, the armies of Man turned and left the field, quelled by the prospect of their own mortality, and not one man in either of those armies ever raised sword or fist again.
And so there is a happy ending to this tale. In gratitude for his son’s life, the old man brought many offerings to the Tree, as did his children and theirs and so on, and the sisters feasted well upon these leavings and lived happily in their Tree, safe always from the depredations of Man, and if I speak true, they are living there still.
Rating: PG
Media: Changeling - The Dreaming
Characters: OC (Luci, Moira and Cora, the Pooka Winged Chick Association)
Summary: Motley background fic for a live-action Changeling game
Disclaimer: White Wolf owns Changeling. Cora Finneagan is my own creation.
Once, a goodly many years ago, which is to say upon a time, there lived upon a hillock at the edge of a meadow a great oak Tree. Her roots sank deep into the earth of the rise, and her far-flung branches arched high above. Many creatures inhabited the Tree, but only three called it Home. Deep within the hollowed cruik of a long-dead limb lived a small brown Bat, and so guileless and stealthy was she that the small insects that were her prey did never sense the peril they were in. Watching the world below from her all-knowing perch in the twisting trunk lived a great Owl, loudly voicing warnings to her prey, though they were too foolish to listen. And skulking amongst the uppermost branches lived a scavenging Raven, avidly scanning the surrounding fields for the ripe leavings of other animals.
Now it happened that the folk who lived nearby believed that the hillock beneath the Tree was a Faerie Rath, a fortress of the Fair Ones that feed on the dreams of mortals, and often the folk would make offerings to the Fae to appease their anger or to beg their aid. The Bat, the Owl and the Raven watched these happenings always with disinterest, until one lean winter when their hunting was poor and food was scarce, an old man came with an offering of berries and cream and freshly dead meat.
“We should take it,” whispered the Bat, eyeing the berries hungrily.
“He will think we are of the Fae,” warned the Owl, though she had never had cream before and was curious.
“Then he will be the fool, not we,” said the Raven, in no way put off by the carcass, and the three sisters winged down and began to pick at the leavings.
The old man tried to shoo them away, but such was their hunger that they ignored him until he lay his grasp upon a large deadfall branch and swung wildly at them.
“Stop,” said the Bat, darting into the Tree at his first stroke.
“Stop,” said the Owl, launching into the air.
“Stop,” said the Raven, hopping back a few paces, the sweetness of rotting flesh too great a lure for her to retreat further.
The old man stopped, so great was his surprise to hear the flying ones speak. Sinking to his knees, he implored, “Oh Fair Ones, forgive me for assaulting you. I am but a foolish old man with a simple request. If my offerings please you, will you advise me truly and lend me aid?”
“Speak,” said the Bat from her hidey, surprised that she herself could do so.
“Demand, said the Owl from her lofty perch, delighted with her new wisdom.
“We’ll answer,” said the Raven, impatient with him to be gone so that she might continue with her meal.
“I would hear it from your mouths, rather than your masters’. There is to be a great battle on the morrow, in this very field. My son is to fight in it. What is to happen?”
Now, the three sisters had seen many battles waged in their time, and had discussed amongst themselves the foolishness of the non-winged, Fae and Mortal alike, so they determined to reward the old man for his kindness with the truths they knew.
“My kind sees the hidden for other’s eyes, and we come before,” said the Bat.
“My kind speaks wisdom for other’s ears, and we come during,” said the Owl.
“My kind seeks gain for ourselves and no other, and we come after,” said the Raven
“But, what is to become of my son?” pleaded the old man
“We have spoken his fate once,” whispered the Bat.
“We will not speak it again,” spoke the Owl.
“Nevermore,” quoth the Raven.
And with this puzzle, the old man had to be content.
The tale does not end here, however, for the old man spoke true and that very night large camps of armed men began to set up on either side of the field. The sisters were greatly worried, for never before had fighting come so close to their home, yet now their rath and their Tree rose directly between the enemy forces. Consulting amongst themselves, they resolved to discover what the menfolk were about.
“I will call my people to me, and we will fly swiftly to spy upon Man, and see what he plans to do,” said the Bat, and she did so, and sure enough the night was soon filled with the not-sounds of leathered wings flapping and bat cries shrieking, and darting shapes that could not-be-seen until after they were gone. And the Bat led her brethren into the camps and learned of the armies’ plans, and when she returned to the Tree, her delicate shoulders sagged.
“The news is bad,” whispered the Bat, “the armies meet on this very field, and they will of a certainty overrun our Tree,” and the sisters knew despair, for what could they do against armies of Men.
“I will call my people to me, and we will fly swiftly and whisper words into the minds of Men, and turn then from their course,” said the Owl, and she did so, and sure enough the night was soon filled with the silent beating of pillowed wings and the flashes of white-down feathers and full-moon eyes. And the Owl led her brethren into the tents of the Captains and Generals, and spoke to them in their sleep of tactical disadvantages and strategic battlefield maneuvers, yet when she returned to the Tree, her downy shoulders sagged.
“The news is bad,” frowned the Owl, “the Men are set in their course, and rather than turn from this field of battle, they will cut down our Tree and level our hill,” and the sisters knew despair, for how could they stand against the destruction of Man.
“I will call my people to me, and we will see how Man feels when faced with his own fears of destruction,” muttered the Raven darkly, and she did so, and sure enough the early morning mists were soon roiling with raucous calls and the flapping of shadowed wings, and a slight stench of sickly-sweet decay. More and more the death-birds came, and settled on every branch of the Tree, each staring down at the field and the approaching armies with a patient, avid gaze, and the branches of the Tree sagged from the weight of so much darkness.
And when the armies of Man approached the tree, they saw the scavengers awaiting their deaths, and as each soldier was reminded that he too might soon be nothing more than food for ravens and worms, his heart began to quail, his knees to shake, and his palms to sweat. As one, the armies of Man turned and left the field, quelled by the prospect of their own mortality, and not one man in either of those armies ever raised sword or fist again.
And so there is a happy ending to this tale. In gratitude for his son’s life, the old man brought many offerings to the Tree, as did his children and theirs and so on, and the sisters feasted well upon these leavings and lived happily in their Tree, safe always from the depredations of Man, and if I speak true, they are living there still.
