Ebony skies with full bellied clouds rolled across the evening horizon, crackling with the energy of a thousand suns and ripping across the tides angrily. The upset waves crashed against the shore and threw into the cliffs, damaging docks and cracking stone enough to drag fragments under the rough surface. Winds ripped through the streets of Denner, loosing boards and papers and throwing them into structured walls and into Greed’s alleyways, never to be seen again. He could sense the distress in the city—the sheer panic rising from the cowardly masses hiding within the deepest rooms in their pathetic little wooden homes. Some would not even last the full winter, and yet they shied away from a storm like lambs from a sheep while the wolf still lingered in the brush of the forest. …However, the storm was not his complete doing; there was something else at play, here—the problem wasn’t finding out who it was, more so, the problem was that he already knew.
A sudden crack of vivid white lightning streaked across the sky and lit up the streets of Denner like the morning sun, leaving a blinding blue after-image indented beneath his eyelids. When he opened them, they were as silver as the streaks and cracks outside—and as the thunder boomed and rolled across Denner, his runes began to glow just underneath his skin, surfacing slowly.

“It’s good to see you haven’t changed, old boy.”

“Oh, you know me all too well, /brother/.” Fey shifted his stance and instead leaned heavily on the doorframe, crossing his runed arms in front of his bare chest. The runes that began to surface closest to his heart glittered differently than those twining impossibly around his arms and wrists—different than those encircling his jugular—they contained so much more power; they were vital to his survival, to his ageless grace; they warned him when his time was approaching in a certain world. They warned him when it was time to shift—to run away for a while, and come back later.
…He had already spent far too long on earth, he could feel the pressure of their knowledge bearing down on his shoulders and his heart. He felt their urgency in his bones.

“You look tired… thinking of giving up already?” The voice asked in a venomously patronizing tone.

Fey ground his teeth at the image of a smile on his damned face—he knew that smile all too well for he himself used it on those he knew he was toying with—on those whose skin was itching at his words. “Hardly. There is still very much to be done—speaking of; don’t you have places to be? People to maim and Creator knows what else?”

“Always the jokester, brother… you make jokes of everything you do not understand nor want comprehend….” Very suddenly, Fey had his back to the wall and a hand clasped around his throat firmly, claws digging into his skin, yet not piercing or drawing blood. Black eyes met silver, black runes around throats and silver around wrists began to hiss and spit power. Fey drew in a shaky breath as he watched his own face lean forward—close enough that their lips nearly touched. As Fey bared his pointed teeth and hissed, he spoke. “Your laziness and pride will be the death of you, Feyin… You have no idea what is in store for you, you have no idea of any of my plans or plots—but I can feel just how ready you truly are… you think bedding this human will give you a foothold over a piece in the puzzle, but you are so desperately /wrong, Fey…/ You’re an arrogant little /lytling/ who knows so very little of the makings of salvation or destruction….

I /will/ destroy you, Fey.”

A crack of lightning streaked across the sky, and a louder snap thundered outside, putting a threatening end to back up the faerie’s words… as the light dimmed from the flash of crackling energy, he was gone. Breathless, Fey pulled himself upright, placing a hand over his heart as his runes thrummed with a lack of energy.

“All I’ve ever heard about the clans was from my mother.”
To say the mortal’s words didn’t startle him would be a lie. Fey flinched and glanced over his shoulder briefly, a crack of lightning providing a cover for him to hide his true self. He forced a warm smile towards the little humany thing. He looked back to the storm just as Ven looked to him. Wind ripped through Denner, howling through Greed’s streets and throwing itself wholeheartedly against the walls of Arrogance. He of course heard the boy’s questions, to which brought a genuine smile to his lips.

“It’s nothing to worry about, my pet. Relax—in my old country, we called them hurricanes. Storms that signified change—change of seasons, temperatures, altitudes… Change is coming, but it certainly isn’t something to worry about.” He looked to the boy beside him and reached out, tracing his jawline softly. “You wish to know what lies outside of Denner’s gates, yes?” He inquired, locking stares with Ven and forcing his attention away from the storm outside. He turned and stepped away from the window—drawing Ven to follow with a slide of his hips and his graceful predatory gait.
He snatched a woven towel from across his chair and wrapped it around his waist before sitting down heavily. Crossing his legs, he looked at his nails indifferent to the effect he knew he had on Ven. “There are the clans, of course—but I think you meant the beasts and monsters roaming the wild. Encountering a wolf-beast isn’t something anyone rather looks forward to—they are such vicious, angry creatures… but the mermaids are something of a treat—they are very beautiful, and they come in many shapes and sizes. Some live in puddles or streams, while others live in oceans and lakes and rivers. Their song could enchant a man so happily into his death… The Clans have this odd powder that the mermaids despise—they hiss and throw fits and swear their revenge. Hmm.
There are many different Clans outside—each having a specific purpose. For instance,” he reached over and picked up an iron amulet off of the dresser across from him. “this is an iron amulet capable of storing power—they are tricky things, you see… the Clans do not like magic—they seek to control it, keep it in check and out of the wrong hands. So they give these willingly to Clan members who are… gifted, so to speak.
“They are not generally trusting, but they… allowed… me to walk into their camps and examine their lifestyles. I gave them an offer they could not refuse, and so they opened trade with me.” His smile was slightly venomous. “They give me wares and I sell them here in the city—I, of course, get a cut of the profit.”

He remembered watching this scene before—not quite so vivid, but he remembered nonetheless. The bustling, busy streets of a prosperous city built itself before his eyes, where Arrogance ruled the streets and homes, sat cozy upon the hearths mantle and hummed softly to himself whilst reading a gently written book… where Greed crawled among the shadows and thrived in the gutters and clamored to the rising sound of shouted wares and desperate cries for attention. She built herself on the needs of others and desire for more, while Arrogance was so kindly involved in himself—deep in his own world. Together, in these very streets, Arrogance had dragged Greed into the darkest of her alleys and raped her, bleeding gluttonous globules of black blood, spilling forth soundlessly into the hearts of this city’s people. When she screamed, he laughed; and when she cried, he smiled. Money was flung between buyer and seller—a tiny smile was thrown one way or another; a token of who truly got what they wanted. In her final screams, Greed would thrash and scratch away at Arrogance, and the brutal trades would slowly come to a quiet flow—for the world was cloaked in her blood and Arrogance /knew better/ than to continue. He cast her aside like the garbage he knew she was, and waited within the comfort of his home for the dawn of a new day while she rested in her darkened blood and prepared herself for revenge.
It was an ancient war—one Fey knew all too well, watching the mortals bustle about, looking for deals on items they thought important. Meaningless things they thought irreplaceable—a testament to their immortal ‘power’ they so obviously confused with the bastard spawn of greed and arrogance. For these mortals, they sought to immortalize their power; to make themselves memorable and live on well past their short lifespan in the rare things they owned. Fey knew full well they wouldn’t last another trimester.

“Surely you see the fault in selling such wares at such a steep price?”

He pulled the hood of his clan-made cloak further down over his face, and settled deeper onto the table-made-seat made from comfortable wolf-beast fur. Much different than the comparably docile creatures these folk considered wolves. These ‘wolf-beasts’ were different… their fur was much more dense, and though it usually smelled something foul, it was the warmest on the market—[i]anywhere[/i].

“What use have I of your penny? Surely you see the fault in trying to bribe a wealthy man out of his wares. I have nothing to lose, friend. You, however, do.” He gestures with a gloved hand at the pelts and threaded sheets of fabric. “You will never see these wares again—the clan only do trade with me and their own. Unless, of course, you’re willing to tread into the mountains and find out.” His smile was cruel and knowing, and it made the port-bellied man pause for a brief moment in order to mull over the bellicose words spewed in his direction. Perhaps he was used to the desperate sellers who engrossed themselves so deeply into haggling down the price for a sale. But Fey had no use for money, nor was he exactly… in /need/ of any. A single pelt off of a wolf-beast could buy him a house and perhaps even a stallion.

“B-but these prices are absurd! Sure you’ll accept-”

“No, I [i]surely[/i] won’t.”

“—but”

“May your days be numerous, and your life fulfilling, friend, for your use has dwindled and I find no profit in arguing so incessantly with you, here. Come by again when you have a larger purse—in both aspects of the word.” His smile was very much unkind, and he enjoyed the several shades of red the mans face turned in embarrassment over what had been said. The fat man’s lips worked around words he could no longer find the voice for, and as Fey stared right into his eyes, he could do nothing more than stare right back and sputter spittle into his forested beard. Fey’s eyes shifted, and the night shuddered with the access of power the faerie tapped into.
This world very obviously worked on magic—the power here was raw and glorious, but it was still /new/. It was not used to the substantial weight of another worldly being—of power probably stronger than the accumulation of all the magic the world currently contained. His eyes flashed from a vibrant shade of auburn to a vivid, reflective silvery white. The fat mans posture laxed and his muscles loosened. He was no longer angry, he was calm and collected—all the words that had built up in response to Fey’s jabd diminished on his tongue, and he quietly dropped the pelt of an ebony fox, and nodded his head toward the ancient faerie.

“Thank you for your time.” He grumbled like a polite toddler, and waddled away into the dead of night.

As he left, Fey took his grand time turning his eyecolor back to the original auburn… He knew another lay wait in his small shop, hiding behind pelts and staring dream-like at the threaded works. Without shame, Fey stared at the human and watched as he picked his way through the clan-made swag, trying to avoid a single touch as often as he could, and however bemusing it was to watch, Fey did not smile, nor did his amusement reach his eyes. This was the child he sought after—the keeper of his enemy. If it hadn’t been dark, and his eyes somewhat obstructed by the hood of his heavy wool cloak, one would have seen the deadly intent buried deep within the pits of his soul. As the boy turned, feeling the weight of his gaze, and stared back, Fey cut into the silence.

“Were you looking for anything? Fabric? Leather?” He asked, and then paused for a moment with a sudden smile, “A place to stay, for the night?”

At his response—or lack thereof, Fey’s smile twisted into a crueler, yet much more seductive incline. He pushed back his hood, revealing his mane of black hair and tilted his head slightly to the side, watching the idiot child’s mind process what exactly he really said. He scrubbed a hand through his ebony locks and loosed them around his face. His smile opened somewhat, revealing straight white teeth—a rarity in this city.

“Oh, indeed…” He said smoothly, sliding off of the table and standing, beads and bells clinking with metals scattered about his body. He moved much like a predator toward the boy, running his hands over the pelts and leathers and cloth. He watched his fingers for a brief moment, before looking up through his eyelashes at the boy. “…but /just/ for you, I have a special offer…” He sauntered over, finally within arms length of the human boy, he rested his hands on his chest, running his fingers down to the belt. “…a name, perhaps? You can call me Feyin, or Fey if you so desire… I must say… you are, by far, the loveliest visitor I’ve seen today.” His smile curled on both sides, eyes taunting. “…a pelt for a name. A gathering of cloth for a kiss. A length of leather for a night…”

Just look at this faggot. It’s like he thinks he owns the place.

Just look at this faggot. It’s like he thinks he owns the place.

(Source: buriedmyselfalive, via zephwhy)

Le reply: Numero dos

Amusement curled on the Iron Knight’s lips and twisted cruelly in his brightening eyes… But the amusement darkened and turned quickly to malice. The hungry humans passing by began to stop and stare as the Lost drew his own blood against the tip of Animi, making the sword shudder in his hand, craving the Lost’s life. But Fey quelled its bloodlust with a slight tightening of his hand on the hilt of the sword. He could have easily killed the stupid mortal right then and there—gliding Animi right through his heart. She would enjoy that—she hadn’t had the taste of blood for the longest of times, he felt bad in a way.
“I think you’re underestimating me, /mortal./” He didn’t look at the people gathering beside his home—a part of him wished that he had chosen to stay above ground and avoid the humans—but he supposed he enjoyed their company, missing his old friends. “I have survived many rises and falls of societies and species. It’s about time that the faerie fall, I suppose… They have become arrogant and uneducated.” He twisted Animi into Faust’s sternum and drove the tip into the bone, twisting slightly. There was a slight gasp from their captive audience, and a quiet murmur across the group as blood bloomed against the Desecrators’ uniform.
Feyin’s eyes turned from a dull auburn to a vivid white very quickly, and runes began to etch themselves all across his arms and the skin around his throat. Curved black horns shimmered into existence beside his skull and gave him a much more menacing look than before—but also created a sort of stunning beauty only the faerie possess. He smiled a sabered smile at the Lost.

“Your new master is no different than Iari, you know….” Fey shut his eyes. “…Power is a very addictive drug, much like the ones Iari used to keep you loyal.” He looked to the Lost, then, and frowned. “Just because this master is stronger than your previous one does not make you more free… You do not know even the slightest thing about the Guardians Asher so desperately hunts.” He reached back with his free hand and drew one of his deadliest swords—Mortem, the sword that could kill with a single slice. He dropped Animi and instead put Mortem up to Faust’s chest, but hovered just above his skin.
A wicked smile curled on his lips.
“There is a reason I did not trust the Guardians with these swords, and that is because they are corrupt and weak-minded, just like you or Asher.” He moved to push the tip into the bared flesh of the Desecrator’s sternum, and smiled when the boy backed away. “If you truly want these swords, I suggest you take them from me.”

Le Post: Numero Uno

The Iron Faerie stood before the tree in the back of his shabby home he found useful to store his trinkets and other such useless things. Artifacts he recovered from a certain saucy dragons’ roost—before they completely died out, that is. He wasn’t sure why thinking about the trinkets in his home made him remember her in general—she was not the only dragon he knew in his lifetime, and he had seen species rise and fall with the breath of extinction on countless occasion… but she popped into his mind and he had to smile slightly at the memories they had shared—the pain they both carried. 

Pain. 

He shut his eyes to the morning glow as it peeked through the leaves and branches of his tree and laid itself so delicately upon his eyelids. Yes, he remembered pain. For the first few days after the slaughter of her family, she had cried, and he held her—not that he told anyone. She would have beat him senseless if he ever said a word to anyone about it… God forbid a fucking dragon grieves. But the Iron Faerie smiles anyways and laughs at her memory, letting it fade away into the nothingness where everything else was. It wasn’t common for a faerie to care for something—or anything for that matter; but Fey was different. He befriended a druid, and cared for his Lost and became brothers in arms with one of the most powerful magicians this entire world had ever seen, and he had forged a legendary sword for a short girl who could not defend herself otherwise. 

A jab of pain lanced through his heart, and Fey slowly opens his eyes—tints of white hint at the edges, giving way to his true form if only briefly. He scowled and shook his head; with a wave of his hand, the trunk of the tree creaked and groaned against the faerie’s will, but eventually submitted, tearing its roots from the dry ground and revealing a glass case concealing four swords arranged according to the date he had forged them and separated himself from the rest of his faction. He smiled at the white sword at the bottom of the rows—remembering his clumsy little pupil. He lifted a hand and the swords rose from their casing, sliding through the solid glass as if it was water, and sat in the air in front of him. 

He plucked them one by one out of the air and sheathed them into their proper cases against his back. By the time he got to grasping the fourth, however, he did not sheath it, instead he turned to face the mortal child standing on his property. If the Lost’s presence surprised him, he didn’t show it. 

“I know I lied to you and all about the swords the first time, but forgive and forget, right?” His lips peeled away to reveal a mocking smile. He tapped the tip of Jerri’s sword against the gravel and looked away from the boy and toward the rising sun. “But I guess you need these to satisfy your new master, do you not?” His smile slowly fades as his eyes harden to a cold and deadly flame. 

“You humans are a weak breed…you must /like it,/ somewhere in your pathetic minds—the submission, that is. You in particular must crave it; that feeling of being dominated… serving your master as he sees fit… If its not by a faerie, then its by something else, isn’t it?” Fey’s lips quirk into an amused smile, and he raises Jerri’s white sword so it is level with Faust’s newly dark heart. 

“You’re just as pathetic as you were, all those years ago…” 

FUCK.