Something is wrong with a Spheres. She doesn’t know where or what, but something is wrong. The shrine where she stands was built where the leylines from various parts of the Fae races converged. Most of them maintained a connection to the respective Spheres continuously, except the Mermaids obviously. Their airheaded builders putting the temple in the wrong place,but at least it was regularly connected enough to do its job. But something still felt wrong.
There were some that were only occasionally showing up, but from different lines, as if they were moving, perhaps one or more had been stolen. The Web of spheres and leylines must be maintained, or the Egg of Ostara will hatch. With no parent, the bleached bones of the last of its race outside of the Khol Dracus valley curled around it, who knows how it will react.
She must leave the tower for the first time in centuries and track down these spheres. They need to be restored to their rightful places, or if the place is no more, a new home and caretakers must be found. She can keep them all at the tower they need to be spread out, there are already too many here.
They were mysterious and beautiful creations, many a lifetime had been spent searching and eventually she’d found one. Having heard the tales when a child she had first thought them just stories. It wasn’t til her teen years that an old journal had surfaced among a crazy old relatives possessions. This contained research notes in several different hands, clearly it had been written by many over a long period of time.
There were descriptions of egg-like objects of many designs but their purpose and origin were unknown. Apparently they held great power, but to what end and how? This one had turned up in a woodland, a logger clearing a swathe of ancient forest, that really should have been protected, found it secreted within a hollow tree he had felled. Apparently it had been found with a symbol made of gold, resembling two letter Fs back to back, this he had sold to a local gold dealer and was likely melted down by now, such a waste! He had shown a little more sense when it came to the Egg though. He took it to an antique dealer in the city, where he’d received a fair price for it he believed. The antique dealer was laughing all the way to the bank though, believing he had just acquired one of the famous jewelled eggs of Russia.
This was when it came to my attention, when the dealer listed it for auction. All those people that had spent decades searching for these things had lacked something that made the job much easier : Twenty-first century Internet with AI search algorithms.
I’d spent a lot of time and money setting this up using some possibly privacy invasive techniques along the way. When the antique dealer in the back end of nowhere pressed Submit on the Web page, my search algorithm picked it up. Which proceeded to run the photo through comparison photos of all the known Russian eggs and found no match ran a trace of the dealers IP address, using hacked access to the service providers customer list then promptly emailed me with the dealers home address and a photo of the item in question.
Now I had it in my hands and the dealer wasn’t going to be selling anything ever again. I say my hands, but currently it was sat on the ornate table in front of me while I watch mezmorized as candle and firlight reflect off it.
Little does she know, far away in a place she doesn’t even know exists, someone has noticed..
It was hard work sorting through the layers of mythogy and history layered on the site of the ruined Chapel. So many peoples had held this spot sacred and look at it now, crumbling stones. This being the latest addition to the place, attempts by modern religion to stamp out worship of the Old Gods.
I was here though for something that was far older,long forgotten and should not have been. No doubt below the earth there would be remnants of other buildings or worship structures, likely circular.
The significance of of circles had become distorted over time, commonly accepted as reference to the planet or the cycle of life, death and re-birth, it formed the basis for many variants of nature based religions. They were of course wrong. Old tales and legends talk of circles, but it’s a mistranslation. The correct term is Sphere. They did not refer to theoretical concepts, they were physical objects and I’d found one.
Looking at it now I can understand why there were misunderstandings. Demons had called it the “Zygot”, meaning egg. Which makes much more sense when it’s seen closed.
This particular relic and its accompanying symbol of the Gods was entrusted to my race, Demons. Legends told that each race had been entrusted with one, I’m sure somewhere they might be a Dryad or other fae sat in a comfy chair in the warm, unlike me in a draughty ruin. Regretfully my people had neglected their duty of protecting it. Or had they?
As I sat on the bed in the ramshackle shelter I’d built inside the ruins to provide some shelter, I thought how better? People can’t destroy or steal something if they don’t even know it exists, let alone where it might be found.
So some rather smart soul in the last couple of centuries had buried it, but not just anywhere. The legends also told that these relics needed to be near leylines to serve their purpose and this site was at a junction where two lines crossed. They must have had some human help obviously, the ground would have been freshly consecrated back then and no Demon could have got near the place, let alone bury something in the crypt.
Perhaps maybe that’s exactly where it belongs, or thereabouts. The Human Relations Department may have to try and officialy obtain the land, since the place is long abandoned, but that’s fortunately not my job.
Skin: HEL female + Fallen Gods Inc. FF2021 Ragnarok/Jail n Bail Exclusive
Wandering through the greenery she passes almost unnoticed except by the wildlife. Her dappled skin perfect for remaining hidden from unwanted intruders.
There’s been a lot more of those in recent times, the humans massacring vast swathes of the precious forests. So many dryads have had to flee their homes to the cries only they can hear of their beloved trees before they are promptly silenced forever.
Little do the humans know that despite these great losses the Faire Folk will survive as they always have, more and more retreating to the Faire Lands each year to rejuvinate them. But would they care if they did know?
One of the keys to keeping the magic of the Faire Folk alive is the Spheres. These artifacts created long ago are sources of great power and different ones were distributed among the different fae races, both light and dark. Apart but connected at a spiritual level with simple instinct to survive.
As far as she knows each race of Faire Folk keeps their Sphere safe and secret place below or next to the symbol of the Gods, as close to a leyline as possible. This is the tradition they were taught and have followed it for generations. She has no way of knowing if they did or not, or if they remembered the importance of the relics, but she prayed they did.
Today she did something that she knew she shouldn’t, but did it anyway. She took the relics from their hiding place and sat with them on the table in front of her, the glowing letters of the symbol of the Gods and the moving tree inside the Sphere calmed and reassured her. She certainly needed that today with the news of another woodland lost.
Hunting huge reptiles is a tricky business. Some of them are slow and easily escaped from, others will outpace you in seconds. They also have rather tough hides that are definitely more like armour than skin. So you need a strategy, you need somewhere you can get close enough that you can almost look into their eyes,since that’s where you’ve gotta get your arrow. Then somewhere you can retreat to immediately so that any others in the area can’t chase you. So this particular foray is extremely risky, I’m likely to be exposed for longer than I’d like and the entrance to the Scrimshaw Warrens caves behind me is futher then I’d like as well.
A year has passed since the spectacular explosion among the stars that was the self destruction of our sister planet, Cassiopeia (a Faire Folk story I wrote last year) by its remaining inhabitants. We mourn their loss but they had let the memories of our origins be forgotten. They had stopped performing the rituals that kept the subterranean beasts of our twin planets where they belonged, underground.
They had become shallow lip service festivals instead of a nescesity for survival. These rituals reinforced the spells of magical confinement enforced on the reptilian beasts that would consume us all.
The responsibility for this fell to the descendants of the original spell casters, that were marked by brightly coloured patches on their skin. It was a pale remnant of ancestors whose bodies were covered in such and could weave great magic. Strangely this didn’t always follow in families, sometimes an unrelated child may be born with the marks, the dormant powers floating around in the population gene pool to surface randomly. Some saw it as blessing others as a curse, but regardless, all knew the child would have to seek us out and be trained for the sake of our races survival.
Most of the time we wore long hooded robes and kept to ourselves, some among the population resented the power we could wield, even if it was much diminished from our ancestors. But twice a year at the Solsices we emerge and perform the required ritual to reinforce the magical barriers that keep us all safe.
The Valkyrie stands guard at the portal to the Mortal Realm. Not the most exciting of jobs, since the chances of Mortals finding the path that their winged mounts take to bring the souls of dead warriors to Valhallah is pretty slim. But Mortals have now developed their airships, which at least making it a possibility to be guarded against.
Relaxing in the balcony lounge of the Old Caladar club she ponders on recent events. There’s been a lot of visitors in outlandish or just plain strange garb lately in the City. Not that she can talk, her attire for attending the club tonight was perhaps better suited to a performer than an customer, but the management didn’t object so long as she kept buying drinks. She wonders where all these strangers come from and where they go to afterwards, not many of them seem dressed for travelling a great distance. Has some mad professor actually managed to make some kind of time travel device? Maybe it’s not so reliable, since the visitors have been seen to vanish into thin air, as if sucked out of existence..or back to their own time perhaps?
Ava creeps around the lab looking for anything potentiality valuable she might be able to steal and sell at whatever place they all end up at after the evacuation. She finds an assortment of vials that look interesting and stuffs it into her bag. She had worn white in the absence of a lab coat so at first-glance she might be overlooked and the sheerness of it might distract those that gave a Second-look, that would give her at least a moment to escape.
Why she had bothered she wasn’t sure, everyone else will be in too much of a panic to care about a pilfering Scav.
She tries to be careful as she goes round, not to knock over any of the test tubes and vials on the work benches, since there had been protective masks hung outside which she’d donned out of self-preservation sense.
On the way out a terminal that has been left unlocked catches her eye. She looks around for a flash drive in one of the desks and finding one she sits and waits as a large directory labelled “Classified Projects” downloads.