The Harrier-Queen of Faerie rides the borders, so beware where you walk at night, too far afield! Her steed is undead, spines erupting from its exposed spine and hooves wickedly curved. And she... she was mortal once; someone's wife. Now she is ghostly pale, her hair like black rags over sunken eyes that never cease to weep.
Who knows what broke her heart and sent her to the land between, neither here nor there, never home, never resting?
-- the Star Dancer
The mask maker had more than her share of curiosity and bravado, but she didn't have a craving for calamity. She might be able to make a mask, some day, that would let her see the Harrier-Queen and remain sane, but she hadn't made one yet.
But, still. Still. She had heard, from both Meinrad and Sere now, that the Queen had been seen stalking the borders of the Maskwood these past nights. And she knew, as did few others, that it was not just calamity Her Rending Grace left in her wake. For those who had the temerity, the eyes to see, the right mask... there were flowers. Tiny, almost colorless blossoms, clinging to thorny stems, bloomed wherever the Queen's dread steed stepped.
Gathered, their essence distilled into drops of astringent spirit, the Queen's flowers brought insight. And even, for those with the heart for it, a renewal of lost purpose.
Resolved all in a moment, the mask maker stood up quickly from her work bench and lifted Clear from its hook on the wall. Then she strode out into the twilight, into the Wood.
Who knows what broke her heart and sent her to the land between, neither here nor there, never home, never resting?
-- the Star Dancer
The mask maker had more than her share of curiosity and bravado, but she didn't have a craving for calamity. She might be able to make a mask, some day, that would let her see the Harrier-Queen and remain sane, but she hadn't made one yet.
But, still. Still. She had heard, from both Meinrad and Sere now, that the Queen had been seen stalking the borders of the Maskwood these past nights. And she knew, as did few others, that it was not just calamity Her Rending Grace left in her wake. For those who had the temerity, the eyes to see, the right mask... there were flowers. Tiny, almost colorless blossoms, clinging to thorny stems, bloomed wherever the Queen's dread steed stepped.
Gathered, their essence distilled into drops of astringent spirit, the Queen's flowers brought insight. And even, for those with the heart for it, a renewal of lost purpose.
Resolved all in a moment, the mask maker stood up quickly from her work bench and lifted Clear from its hook on the wall. Then she strode out into the twilight, into the Wood.
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