In my latest installment of "Playing a *Twisted* Fey Knight" I confirmed I would go on and finally write Carwyn in some fiction of his own, as I had also said as a comment to the last of the "ancient posts" I rediscovered about him.
I already said it twice, and even more times outside the blog, so the time has now come.
I will totally improvise this, and as the title should suggest, it will be nothing serious, but will try to be something fun.
I will still continue the old series with some goodies such as the character profiles of the "Revelthanes Of The Feywild" (Carwyn's companions), and my usual ramblings on game mechanics, but will keep the fiction separate, in a series bearing this post's title.
No more boring introductions then, and let's get going!
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"Hello, I am Carwyn Sidherfein, jarlet of the Teal Tower domains..."
*Nymphs swooning coquettishly.*
"Me and my Revelthanes will be off hunting dragons till third dusk, but we would love to share the spoils of the hoards with you, at evening-star set, if you would be so friendly inclined..."
*Nymphs' swooning intensifies.*
A tall gnome sporting a shiny mithril breastplate, and dazzling green hair styled like a frozen flame, jumped on a big moss-covered stone idol next to Carwyn, to reach his ear: "Great job, mate!!"
Carwyn ignored the companion and let out a sunny smile to the group of scantily clad fey ladies, probably as a diversion so they wouldn't listen to the gnome's blather.
Their sparkly eyes welcomed the gesture.
Carwyn and The Revelthanes were after this fabled circle of nymphs for months.
The rumors they gathered feverishly had entangled them in a confused ball of threads, weaved by the likes of easily-offended sprites, frivolous boggles, less-than-bloodthirsty redcaps, and love-crazed coures, which all lead them astray.
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| A love-crazed coure |
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| A romantic myconid |
Or so they bragged to the nymphs.
"So what's the plan, my tall jarl?"
Magnifying the noble title on purpose to attract his attention, pixie mage Thyrona, only female member of The Revelthanes, interrogated Carwyn with inquisitive eyes.
Clearly, she knew they wouldn't kill two dragons by third dusk.
"Don't stress, my little dukess," the title repaying the wizard's humour in kind, "I know of a stash of rich-looking trinkets made by lousy humans that should not be guarded. If you will be so kind as to perform that little magic of yours on them, you might manage to make them look like the hoard of an ancient red dragon, at least."
Thyrona expressed her disdain in an exaggerated pout, before replying. "Excuse me?? I am a necromancer!! Dabbling in the alchemical nonsense is the stuff of swindling gnome artificers! No offense, Blyrdian."
The green-haired fey replied instantly: "None taken: no gnome artificers here... Only a gnome duelist sorcerer-extraordinaire!"
The rest of the regular-sized band laughed at the gnome's hat flourish, with the bare-chested Delsevas quick to add his sarcasm: "If you can call yourself a duelist wielding that tiny dagger, then I am a lancer of the court with my-"
"Gentlefey! Come on now, let's not spoil the thrill of this wild hunt with images we won't be able to un-cairvoie..." Sober Carwyn did not fancy jokes on male anatomy, even if when drunk he was quite liberal about them (the jokes and the parts, his and others').
In all of this, Red Tail was silent as usual, although smiling absently. Slim to the point of gauntness for a firbolg, his presence still commanded respect because of his tremendous height, and the aura of blissful calm he emanated. Sunset-winged butterflies often frolicked around his namesake long red hair. The eye of the storm that was The Revelthanes, Red Tail could actually bring and become a storm of his own when need be, and was no less of a crazy reveler when the tall order of emotion needed to move his spirit was reached.
Carwyn commanded silence by taking the word yet again, ending the boasting and bickering of the unlikely party in the only way possible: by catering to their egos.
"Thyrona! You... Are our key to the arcane secrets of creation! True, your art is that of darksome puppetry of death, but sometimes the lower kind is needed, and you are so kind as to provide..."
The tiny raven-haired lady smirked with a flash of her violet eyes.
"Blyrdian! Yours is no dagger, but ensorcelled rapier, to which many a foul creature paid tribute in currency of blood! May it become ever-richer! By the taxing will your wrist imposes!"
The gnome didn't understand much, but seeing the approving motion of Thyrona allowed himself to chuckle boastfully.
"Delsevas then, our master of graceful and fiery pain by hand... And kick, and elbow, and spear! Your dance of summer flame has bewitched hearts from Winterfell to Everspring... And left burning reminders on flesh and bones of our unworthy opponents!"
The Summer Eladrin's pointed the chin up as much as his vein-riveted neck allowed, in pride.
"And our Red friend, finally... Your mastery of the Great Spirit is the anchor keeping the caravel of OUR spirits steady, in the rocking waves of youth and l...ove. May your guiding bliss always be with us!"
The willowy firbolg gently swayed using his long staff as a crutch, as if to avoid falling from the saddle. Smiling without baring the teeth, his crimson hair and slow motion made him look like a true tree dressed for autumn.
The band cheered, and stirred their steeds to speed: another stolen prize was nearly in their grasp.
Worthless treasures were uncovered, magic rituals unraveled, vats of mead unsealed, and the revel in the faerie circle soon got stoked into a dire bacchanal.
Carwyn sung his songs of serendipity and dragon-slaying with a voice broken by pleasure, while his ornate plate armor was replaced by a chainmail of entangled, thirsty nymphs.
Thyrona buzzed madly like a bug around too many lanterns, diving from one nymph to another, giving free rein of her usually rational mind to her peculiar appetites.
Blyrdian jumped on the pixie's preys when they were most distracted by the tiny surprise on wings, using her as a diversion to sneak into the fun, barely noticed.
Delsevas didn't need company: he engaged in a dervish dance around the fire, which later continued inside the fire: his elemental-attuned body burning of passion but not flame.
Finally, shrouded in a whirpool of primal spirit-wind while standing on a statue's severed head, Red Tail howled like a beast-daemon of Brux, voicing the unfathomable inside him.
That was the last thing Carwyn saw, before giving in to the oblivion of the nepenthean mead.
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