4/15/2025, 11:20 PM
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If she had been able to retain the ability to see the strings of fate, Fable wondered if it would have set her off-course from the disaster that was her marriage. Would she have seen the brewing trouble, would she have seen anything at all? Without a mentor who shared her ability, she did not always know how to parse the information she was provided; she instinctively gleaned their meaning on a base level, but she did not know why she couldn't see a thread originating from herself.
There was only empty air and a vacant spot on her chest where a gossamer strand should have been.
At times, especially in her adolescence, she wondered if it meant she was doomed to stay forever single and simply be the purveyor of love matches for everyone else. If it was what was best for all, it was not a role she would buck - Fable's depth of compassion extended far beyond her own feelings. She did not reject it in her previous life, where she avoided relationships for the fear of treading upon toes and preventing soulmates from finding one another. It would have been much too taxing upon her heart to look into the face of someone whose heart belonged to another and know that she was to blame.
But now, in Mythris, she was blind - for better or worse.
If she had outright told everyone who their hearts sang for, she worried they would reject the knowledge, leading them further astray. Time and fate had a way of working itself out, Fable could simply see the end result - not what would lead them there. No matter how well-meaning it might have been, she traded honesty for gentle guidance.
Fox seemed to be familiar with two-legged creatures and it soothed some of Fable's concern for how to explain it all. Her gaze wandered in search of a living example, but none presented themselves, at least not yet.
The werefolk were often on the side of reclusive, remaining with pockets of outlying communities that understood them. While The Hand was welcoming to all, it was oftentimes difficult to convince outsiders who had been burnt before.
Her expression grew serious - though it threatened to crack with amusement, the twitching at the edge of her lips that ached to turn upward - and she halted briefly to fix him with her gaze as he attempted to sell her on a single sip of nectar.
A conspiratorial twinkle entered her eyes, one side of her muzzle successfully breaking free from the bondage of her falsely stern expression.
There was only way to find out, and it wasn't standing around.
Fable flitted ahead, her steps light and energized with the promise of fae liqueur. She made a point to not become drunken in front of her children while at the celebration, but they were nowhere to be seen here and were in safe hands. That was good enough for her.
Vixen - the mortal among demi-fae. She had resented them on some level for something they had no control over and, although they all readily accepted her as their eldest sister, it had never been enough for her. Fable attempted many times to patch the rifts between them, but Vixen burnt the bridge every time she tried - every time any of them tried.
It was unfortunate, but the dreamer found some solace in knowing she truly tried for good reasons, even if she hadn't been successful.
Her steps subconsciously quickened as the path began to dwindle and the world around them darkened with the closing of the canopy overhead. What dying light had been afforded to them was now reduced to the glow of the magic-made torches lining the path. Figments of magic energy floated through the air, their pinpricks of light breathing not unlike fireflies. The previously distant sound of celebration was upon them even before they passed through the thin barrier of yellow rose bushes and into the festival clearing.
Sprawled before the duo were earthen-made tables decked out with an array of food a wolf might have found unusual - prepared meats and breads and other fare Fable found quite common - and bowls made of black pearl and filled with gold liquid that gleamed radiantly, promising certain warmth if ingested.
Swatches of night sky seemed to hover overhead, stars dripping from the tree boughs and hanging freely in their sparkling splendor. It was the only light source provided to them, save for a crackling - and carefully controlled - hearth fire in the center of the clearing and the streams of flickering lights that drifted through the air.
Despite the sound that beckoned them before, there was no one here now, save for themselves, and it grew muffled, as though belonging to a space next-door. How strange, Fable thought to herself, but she was not so troubled she did not invite the magic willingly to weave its deceptions.
Fable tread forward a few strides, her steps testing the stability of the illusion. When it held, she stopped again. It all smelled, felt, looked real and each inhale seemed to drag ambient magic with it - or perhaps it was just the nectar and a little wishful thinking.
There was only empty air and a vacant spot on her chest where a gossamer strand should have been.
At times, especially in her adolescence, she wondered if it meant she was doomed to stay forever single and simply be the purveyor of love matches for everyone else. If it was what was best for all, it was not a role she would buck - Fable's depth of compassion extended far beyond her own feelings. She did not reject it in her previous life, where she avoided relationships for the fear of treading upon toes and preventing soulmates from finding one another. It would have been much too taxing upon her heart to look into the face of someone whose heart belonged to another and know that she was to blame.
But now, in Mythris, she was blind - for better or worse.
They would have t'be disappointed all th' same, I never shared what I saw,Fable hummed, flashing a toothy grin.
I nudged, but I did not tell - I did not want t'steal th' journey away from those bound together.
If she had outright told everyone who their hearts sang for, she worried they would reject the knowledge, leading them further astray. Time and fate had a way of working itself out, Fable could simply see the end result - not what would lead them there. No matter how well-meaning it might have been, she traded honesty for gentle guidance.
Fox seemed to be familiar with two-legged creatures and it soothed some of Fable's concern for how to explain it all. Her gaze wandered in search of a living example, but none presented themselves, at least not yet.
Shifters? I have heard o' those, too - well, what existed in m'world,she replied.
Some could turn from animal t'human on whim, an' then there's werefolk - but I never knew many o' them. They could exist in th' in-between like your great grand-mères.
The werefolk were often on the side of reclusive, remaining with pockets of outlying communities that understood them. While The Hand was welcoming to all, it was oftentimes difficult to convince outsiders who had been burnt before.
Her expression grew serious - though it threatened to crack with amusement, the twitching at the edge of her lips that ached to turn upward - and she halted briefly to fix him with her gaze as he attempted to sell her on a single sip of nectar.
Mister Fox,Fable began, her voice at first one of authority with an edge of mocked scolding.
Ye might forget where ye left your own hide if ye get even a single sip.
A conspiratorial twinkle entered her eyes, one side of her muzzle successfully breaking free from the bondage of her falsely stern expression.
I should probably test it first, t'see if it's safe, hm?Fable teased, now wondering if she was playing with fire by attempting to drink nectar while here in this seemingly mortal realm. She had no idea what would happen, and perhaps it would not affect them at all - maybe it'd kill them dead.
There was only way to find out, and it wasn't standing around.
Fable flitted ahead, her steps light and energized with the promise of fae liqueur. She made a point to not become drunken in front of her children while at the celebration, but they were nowhere to be seen here and were in safe hands. That was good enough for her.
Only I could see th' strings; we were all gifted in different ways,Fable explained as she navigated the path. Ahead of them, noise began to surface - music, the din of chatter.
M'mother was a druid, m'father an' Shiloh shared a tactical magic; Fleta wove fabric with magic and her twin, Ffionn, could infuse charm and illusion magic into mundane things. Th' only one o' us without magic was Vixen.
Vixen - the mortal among demi-fae. She had resented them on some level for something they had no control over and, although they all readily accepted her as their eldest sister, it had never been enough for her. Fable attempted many times to patch the rifts between them, but Vixen burnt the bridge every time she tried - every time any of them tried.
It was unfortunate, but the dreamer found some solace in knowing she truly tried for good reasons, even if she hadn't been successful.
Her steps subconsciously quickened as the path began to dwindle and the world around them darkened with the closing of the canopy overhead. What dying light had been afforded to them was now reduced to the glow of the magic-made torches lining the path. Figments of magic energy floated through the air, their pinpricks of light breathing not unlike fireflies. The previously distant sound of celebration was upon them even before they passed through the thin barrier of yellow rose bushes and into the festival clearing.
Sprawled before the duo were earthen-made tables decked out with an array of food a wolf might have found unusual - prepared meats and breads and other fare Fable found quite common - and bowls made of black pearl and filled with gold liquid that gleamed radiantly, promising certain warmth if ingested.
Swatches of night sky seemed to hover overhead, stars dripping from the tree boughs and hanging freely in their sparkling splendor. It was the only light source provided to them, save for a crackling - and carefully controlled - hearth fire in the center of the clearing and the streams of flickering lights that drifted through the air.
Despite the sound that beckoned them before, there was no one here now, save for themselves, and it grew muffled, as though belonging to a space next-door. How strange, Fable thought to herself, but she was not so troubled she did not invite the magic willingly to weave its deceptions.
Fable tread forward a few strides, her steps testing the stability of the illusion. When it held, she stopped again. It all smelled, felt, looked real and each inhale seemed to drag ambient magic with it - or perhaps it was just the nectar and a little wishful thinking.
This is where we held almost all o' our festivals - but especially Samhain, our start o' th' new year,Fable explained as she tipped her head in Fox's direction, gauging his reaction to the clearing.
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