Whispers

The trees sway, almost as if distracted in the midst of a slow dance
to a soft melody. As if the whole of the Forest's attention is turned
elsewhere. The creaking sloughs among the hills, a river of sound
that wanders lazily to the edge of the Forest and stills there. But
for an instant.

As the eye is caught and dragged along the path of a falling leaf, it
snags as the ruby shard lands in an outstretched hand. Above it
spreads the knowing smile.

Gyre pushes from the trunk of the ancient maple, stepping into the
middle of a worn and almost faded path. He himself is as he always
is, cloaked and adorned as usual in the trappings of his Forest and
the smile of his mischievous nature.

But now his smile curls darkly, his teeth flashing feral and sharp.

He throws his hands back and to his sides as if to reach to some
invisible wall. Fingers clench and curl, the air between the trees
bunching. Pulling. Gathering.

With a single massive tug Gyre pulls in the night. Among the
branches, snarling among the roots and limbs, between the leaves and
the breathless spaces, darkness rises like fog. Like a tide. Like
nothing ever seen before. And it comes to its master at the edge of
the Forest, blotting out all sight as it rises to the very border with
day.

>From the darkness motes of light rise. Foxfire slinks slyly along
Gyre's tines, indolent curls of random energy that slides from him to
the ground and up into the trees. It lines him and gilds him in faint
cobalt blues that the smaller lights catch with thin fingers. For
those lights, there, are the smallest of the Sidhe among the trees.

Rolling the power together like mercury pools, the Sidhe's laughter is
a faint whisper. Like stars, fallen and given legs, they dance among
the roots, over the branches and gleefully ride leaves in their death-
fall to the Forest's floor.

His attendants cavorting, Gyre waits a beat then bellows.

Silence is broken by a warcry from the Sidhe. The larger Sidhe, the
nobility of the Seelie and Unseelie Courts both, stride from further
in. Each is armored in what looks like living stone or glass. Glowing
amethyst or ruby, emerald or sapphire, the both Hosts chant a word as
they loom among the trees. The hills of ABML resound and echo with
their voices. The air shivers from the power of that sound.

Gyre stomps his foot and the Forest answers with a booming thunder of
a thousand booted feet slam to earth. A storm rides under the roof of
those trees, answering each of his gestures and calls.

Gyre shouts again, the voice of the Sidhe's Court rising to answer,
quicker this time. Again rises the thunder of feet stomping, faster
and faster the back and forth between master and Court spirals. They
now chant and dance with each other, the thunderous rise of song and
sound bending the autumn-browned grasses in widening circles away from
the Forest.

>From further in, darker in, warrior maidens holding single candles
come. Somehow sharper, more deadly in their grace, these women dance
among their fellow Sidhe and slip out into ABML. Each carries their
light into the land, surrounded by indistinct shadows and darkness.
They spread out, each a line of night trailing in their wake.
Something in that darkness is eternal and vast, boundless and cold.

But not empty.

The song and sound continues, thunder and crash, word and stomp. Gyre
grins in the gloom, his Forest shivering as he presses at it. The
faded path widens, spreads and deepens. Warmth flows from the darkness
deeper in, short grasses of the softest earths rise in trails that
become long plazas and roadways further in. Long tables of stone and
metal, of drink and food, are revealed in the growing number of
lanterns being hung by attendants. The pools of light, amber and
gold, barely touch each other. The light does not attempt to supplant
the darkness, it simply lives with the night.

At its sufferance.

Almost unseen, almost seen, almost known and unknown, faded figures
walk among the trees. Impressions of hands linger along the
tabletops, what could be memories seem to laugh in one's mind. Is it
heard or was it a memory of a dream? Was that a face recognized or
imagined? Was that a form in motion or a trick of magic and shadow?

At the entrance to his Forest, Gyre now stands still as the Court
continues their stormdance. He throws back his head and laughs, arms
wide as his form grows. Soon his antlers are twined among the
branches, quickly after among the rising stars along the horizon. The
foxfire gathers in clouds of flickering lightning and potential, his
form attenuating and thinning as his laughter rivers into the throat
of mundane thunder. Soon he is gone, his All Hallow's Eve repast set,
his song being sung and his invite given.

On Wed, 31 Oct 2007 12:14:57 -0700, Gyre Hart <poztattive DeleteThis @gmail.com>
wrote:

>At the entrance to his Forest, Gyre now stands still as the Court
>continues their stormdance. He throws back his head and laughs, arms
>wide as his form grows. Soon his antlers are twined among the
>branches, quickly after among the rising stars along the horizon. The
>foxfire gathers in clouds of flickering lightning and potential, his
>form attenuating and thinning as his laughter rivers into the throat
>of mundane thunder. Soon he is gone, his All Hallow's Eve repast set,
>his song being sung and his invite given.

Delighted at the sound of his return, the once-avatar leaps to her
feet and rushes to the forest. In her hands her offerings: fresh
homemade pumpkin pie and crystal goblet of egg-nog (spiked of course).

Welcome Back Gyre!! For however long, it's wonderful to see you
again!

<deep bow>
The Bookwurm
--
Goddess of Libraries ™,
Pedant in Chief
Keeper of the BotRoM
Sister Hand Grenade of Sweet Reason
Believer, Church of the Cosmic Muffin
<spam trapped - remove the fish from address>