A hush came upon a wee little goat... Its blackened spots and larger-than-life humor encouraged the Attuned Faer to cross the distance into some tasty brambles. Sweet leaves could not find a better home than in the grinding teeth of Faer Twas, a vagabond wearing a mischievous mask; exactly parallel to the little maker of mischief them-self!
The Miana Pool laid before them; sentient, breathing, calculating. Faer-goat didn't like it one bit. It taunted them, of a story untold. Of a constant quest to mine thought-gold. They didn't like it one bit.
Though the water was clear as crystal, sublime and chargable as quartz, it mocked the masked wanderer. Filled with wishes. Filled with dreams and long hoped-for loves. And long hoped-for other things. they needn't add.
A being stayed close to the ethereal Pool, not so much noticing Faer, though it surely would not be long before their presence was noted. Moments Faer could not see from this angle, from this spot hiding in the bramble bushes, became known to the eccentric 'pulse' of the world. Whatever it was the being had done, Faer was missing out on it.
Yet, now, the vagabond poet could not be too sure whether this being was to be friend of foe. Faer had been aimlessly finding materials for their new mask -- an absolute abomination of a face, according to the sketches shoved deep in their pockets beneath the shifting magic. It hummed, or so it seemed, reminding Faer that Mort would be kind once again.
Death was everywhere. There was no hiding from it. Mort was a kind god-lord. He showed mercy of plenty. Especially those in his charge. Faery spent weeks sketching a proper mask to commemorate the presence of the passing god-lord. But to no avail. There was just nothing worth salvaging; day after day the rut continued. Perhaps this was the meaning: death is change. The death of a sketch, the birth of one, the death of another.
Deep in contemplation, Faer-goat paused during mid-chew of some blackberries. Dark liquid dribbled down the plucky little goat's chin. Its beard turning mauve and pink, sure to be of some use for dying ink!
The Miana Pool laid before them; sentient, breathing, calculating. Faer-goat didn't like it one bit. It taunted them, of a story untold. Of a constant quest to mine thought-gold. They didn't like it one bit.
Though the water was clear as crystal, sublime and chargable as quartz, it mocked the masked wanderer. Filled with wishes. Filled with dreams and long hoped-for loves. And long hoped-for other things. they needn't add.
A being stayed close to the ethereal Pool, not so much noticing Faer, though it surely would not be long before their presence was noted. Moments Faer could not see from this angle, from this spot hiding in the bramble bushes, became known to the eccentric 'pulse' of the world. Whatever it was the being had done, Faer was missing out on it.
Yet, now, the vagabond poet could not be too sure whether this being was to be friend of foe. Faer had been aimlessly finding materials for their new mask -- an absolute abomination of a face, according to the sketches shoved deep in their pockets beneath the shifting magic. It hummed, or so it seemed, reminding Faer that Mort would be kind once again.
Death was everywhere. There was no hiding from it. Mort was a kind god-lord. He showed mercy of plenty. Especially those in his charge. Faery spent weeks sketching a proper mask to commemorate the presence of the passing god-lord. But to no avail. There was just nothing worth salvaging; day after day the rut continued. Perhaps this was the meaning: death is change. The death of a sketch, the birth of one, the death of another.
Deep in contemplation, Faer-goat paused during mid-chew of some blackberries. Dark liquid dribbled down the plucky little goat's chin. Its beard turning mauve and pink, sure to be of some use for dying ink!
