Devil's Knight

"She's his."

"Impossible."

"His mark is upon her."

"Where? In invisible ink?"

"Might as well be - his presence surrounds her like a murder of crows."

"Pfft! Superstitious nonsense!"

"Take your chances, then - don't say I didn't warn you."

Chad rolled his eyes as he walked away from his friend Jesse and toward the violet-haired woman ascending the stairs from the dance floor. He loved the way she moved, fluid despite her voluptuousness, head held high, taking in the crowd as a queen would take in her subjects. He had resisted Jesse's invite to the Goth-inspired club - himself more into hip hop and dupstep - but watching this dark beauty with her burgandy lips and pale skin was worth the annoyance of having to hear the copius amounts of metal and industrial being cranked out through the speakers. Seating herself at the bar, the bartender leaned in and kissed her full on the mouth as he placed what looked to be a vodka cranberry in front of her. He was a tall, striking figure with short brown hair, red bangs sweeping over his high brow, impossibly sculpted figure in a form-fitting, black long-sleeved shirt and black jeans, which set off his ivory complexion and blue eyes heavily lined in black khol. Chad could tell they were more than familiar, like former lovers turned friends, and sniffed at the way he smiled at her with his pink-glossed lips.

He'd show her what a real man was supposed to be like, what she was missing in the androgynous, daemonoid males she seemed to favor with her midnight-blue gaze.

Chad made to sit beside her and was blocked by a man in a white poet's shirt, thick black hair spilling over his shoulders in impossibly perfect curls. He kissed her forehead, whispered something in her ear, and she laughed - a hearty, husky laugh that sent chills through Chad's bones. Gods, he had to have her. The man turned to leave, giving Chad an amused smirk before disappearing onto the dance floor. He seated himself beside her, ordering a Bud Light, the bartender frowning at him as he was served.

"Hi, I'm Chad."

"Kiernan." The name was as unique as she was, her dark blue eyes appraising him.

"I just got to say, baby, you lookin good tonight." Chad leaned back to look her over - black tank top, leggings, lace-up boots - liking what he saw and displaying his clean-cut, muscular figure in wife beater and jeans.

"Fuck off."

Chad's eyes widened as she drained her glass, walking away with what he could've sworn was a flick of a tail.

"You want a taste of her?" the bartender asked, a curious smirk on his lips.

　

"Fuck yeah I do." Chad licked his lips like a rapper, which made the bartender stifle a snicker.

　

"Then you must ask her properly - I'm sure a Harvard-bred boy like you can figure it out." The bartender pat Chad.

"How did you - ?" But the bartender was already out of earshot, taking care of other patrons, leaving Chad to shake his head even as he rose to follow his mysterious queen.

Kiernan loved Korn, the way they made her feel so dark and silky, the feeling of velvet across her thighs as she twisted and undulated her body to the beat. When she was here, in the dance floor, she lost herself, senses becoming a cloud of rhythmic thrumming through her veins.

"May I have this dance, Milady?"

She turned with surprise into the jock from the bar, the annoying gnat that acted gangster but permeated Ivy League, yet the way he was grinding against her buttocks told her he had more than a little skill. Again she lost herself in the music, virtually ignoring the hands on her cleavage, on her hips, the way his hot breath brushed against her neck.

"You like my minion, hmmmm?"

Chad was so distracted by Kiernan he failed to notice the man that had joined them, fingers trailing over Kiernan's arm and cheek. He was an imposing figure, if not for his stature, surely his very presence, elegant in his Italian collared shirt the color of dried blood and black slacks, the silver buckles on his boots glinting off the strobe. He wore a spiky crown of burnished gold hair, chiseled face set with sapphire eyes and full lips, which leaned in to kiss her, but she playfully nipped him and rolled her hips into Chad's crotch like a challenge.

"See how she abuses me - wicked little witch." The man grabbed her hair and consumed her lips in a brutal kiss, making Chad more uncomfortable by the minute, but unwilling to give up the chase. "So, do you want her?"

Chad raised his eyebrows. "What's your price?"

The man growled, getting nose to nose with Chad, blue eyes flaring. "She is not a trinket to be bought or sold, asshole - she choses whom she wills, and I simply give approval. What price - stupid prick, never give insult like that again!"

He glared at Kiernan, kissing her on the cheek and whispering in her ear before walking off the floor to the VIP section overlooking the dance floor. Chad had thought she'd leave with him, but clearly she was perturbed by his arrogance as he was and instead chose continue her seduction, which Chad did not mind one bit. After two more songs, she took his hand and led him off the dance floor, passing by the VIP section to parade her prize.

"Deuces, motherfucker," Chad mouthed to the man glaring at him from his mahogany high-backed throne, baring his teeth when Chad threw up a peace sign.

Kiernan lead him along the outside of the dance floor, across black jacquard carpeting, to what looked like a hall of about six private rooms, the blood-red doors graced with gilt knobs and knockers. She opened one, peeked inside to make sure there were no occupants, then drew him in by his hand, Chad's face beaming with triumph as he shut the door behind him.

They were in some kind of fetish room, with what looked like a metal version of the rack propped in the center of the black marble floor. The walls were lined with upholstered seating places and brocaded pillows, while upon them hung whips and shackles - luxury mixed with sadism.

Kiernan laughed aloud at Chad surveying his surroundings with ever widening eyes. "Just part of the ambiance, think you can handle it?"

"Baby, I can handle anything you throw at me." Chad approached to kiss her, but she playfully backed away. "Aw, c'mon, sweet thing - I bet a gal like you hardly gets a chance with a guy like me."

"Hmmm, true." Kiernan reached out to toy with a cat o' nine tails hanging above her. "Then, praytell, what's a sorority boy doing with a gal like me anyhow?"

"Truth is, never been with a big girl before." Chad walked up to her and grabbed her hips, this time Kiernan did not resist. "Just wanna get my freak on, is that a crime?"

　

"To many, yes." Kiernan pulled him closer, breathing against his lips. "To me, I could give a fuck less."

Her lips were satin, perfect, just full enough to be sensual yet dainty enough to be sweet, and her mouth tasted like liquor to Chad's ravenous tongue. He ran his hand across her stomach, under her bra, playing with her ample breast, his desire straining with the confines of his jeans. Oh, gods, she was intoxicating! It felt like she was draining the life from him with every draught, but he could give a fuck less, yes, this was indeed a mess, tangled in her pores forever more, rhyming in time with the music and her mind.

"She works within you, doesn't she?" The man brushed his lips against Chad's neck, Chad trying desperately to break free but to his horror her lips held him fast. What is happening to me? his mind shouted, and the man, whom he suddenly knew was named Gackt, chuckled. "Her emotions, her imaginings, even the name of her lover ringing through your head. Makes most insane instantly - let's see how long you last."

　

Chad lashed put with his last vestige of energy, nearly back-handing Gackt before he was restrained by two intense presences behind him, his arms being painfully pinned behind him as Kiernan finally released her hold on his lips.

"What the fuck!" Chad looked over each shoulder, struggling with all his might, terror rising as the bartender and long haired man from the bar dragged him to the rack, slamming him against the steel platform and shackling both hands and feet in an instant. These were not normal humans, he thought, too strong, too fast, what were they?

"You see, Chad, while it's true that I don't get looked at once, nevermind twice by arrogant gits like you," Kiernan sighed as Gackt came up behind her to take her in his arms, "it's gits like you that make the mistake of thinking we can be controlled, taken advantage of, that we are so desperate for affection that we would stoop to deny ourselves just for the chance of killing loneliness."



Kiernan unzipped Gackt's slacks, reaching in to massage the hardness within. "You see, it is I who chooses, I who decides which lowlife scum to rid the world of - I ask his approval only out of courtesy, not because I have to."

"Wha- what did I ever to do you you sadistic slut!" Chad's outburst earned him a broken nose, delivered by the fist of the bartender, whom he only now noticed had enormous hands.

"Remember that girl you so sweetly raped and almost murdered two weeks ago?" Kiernan's grin widened at the dread coming into Chad's eyes. "Yes, she's alive - she was my friend. Time to pay the Ferryman."

The long haired man rumbled something in Japanese, perfectly menacing in tone and diction, making Chad shiver.

"U:zo says you smell rotten, but you will have to do." Gackt chuckled

"What is he talkin abo -"

Chad's voice broke into the most horrid scream, the sound of his throat being torn open by the two creatures on either side of him, his body going into convulsions with the shock and pain of being eaten alive, drained of blood and breath. Kiernan moaned, his howls music to her ears, and she again worked on Gackt's growing member.

"Gackt," she breathed, leaning into his chest.

"Yes, watashi no koi?" Gackt rumbled, lips touching hers lightly.

"You know what their suffering do to me." Kiernan rolled his slacks down his hips and they fell to the floor, revealing his erect manhood.

"Indeed I do," Gackt smiled, leading her back to the wall, seating himself among the pillows and pulling Kiernan with him.

"Then give me your pain."

Chad stayed conscious enough to see her straddle him, broad hips rocking to and fro, riding him like a Valkyrie in the Wild Hunt, her cries of pleasure mingling with his cries of mercy, until the world was no more.

Jesse stood outside the club, last call being announced almost an hour ago, pissed and drunk and tired and frustrated his friend had gotten what he wanted while he came up empty. Just then, Kiernan came out, and he reached out to tap her on the shoulder.

"Excuse me, but have you seen my buddy?"

Kiernan looked him over - polite, this one, he would not suffer the way his friend did as he had no part in his atrocity. "You told him I was his - he should've listened."

Rusted

I try so hard but the image fails me.

My blade and armor and body bruised, bloody, rusted.


"Get up!"

Leave me alone.

"I said get up!"

Fuck you.

Slap of the blade hard across my back.

"You gonna just lie there? Give up?"

Maybe.

"Fuck that."

Jerks me up by the strap of my tanktop. Who the hell do you think you are?

"Your worst nightmare."

Blade in my hands, parrying every strike, legs stinging as my muscles worked hard to remember the kata.

"Half-hearted, half-assed, half-dead bitch!"

I'm UN-dead, remember?

"Even the undead know there's no guarantee to immortality, stupid girl."

Blade sweeps in to take my head, but I block hard and strike harder, slamming his blade down to the ground in front of him.

He smiles wickedly. "There she is."

You sure you want this? You sure you want that part of me awake again?

"You have been and always shall be a killer - trying to be anything different is a lie and you know it."

So much blood....

"You love it."

So many tears....

"As long as they're not your own."

Then I will pave Hell with the bones of my enemies and raze Heaven with their screams.

Copyright ©2011 Spiritwind Studios Ltd

Blood 4 Blood: Eff You

She strode toward them, black trench billowing behind in the winds of the coming storm, black, wide-brimmed hat over her midnight blue eyes.

"Is it too much to ask, just for one night...." She extended her arms, blades making a hissing sound as they shot out from her sleeves. ".... not to have to take this damned trench to the cleaners?"

The three men drew their own weapons- scythe on chains, katana, naginata- and made ready for her assault, which came like the lightning that struck the sky, swift, clean, and furious. She was a whirlwind of steel, blocking with one blade and striking with the other, slicing the naginata in half before slicing the wielder's face in the same fashion, blood spraying her as she veered off to the side to block the katana aiming for her head. Pushing the man off of her, she came across his neck with both blades, severing his head cleanly, sending it flying into his comrade's oncoming attack. She raised her eyebrow, impressed with the way the man swung his scythe to split the head in two with no emotion, no regard to the loss of his partner, clearing the way for the chain to wrap around one of her blades.

The man growled, jerking back on the chain, his turn to be impressed as she stood her ground, arm like stone as she tugged on the chain slightly, then with one great heave pulling him forward and onto the ground beneath her feet. She drove the blade still wrapped in the chain through his back, ripping open the jugular with her other and cleaning the blade on his shirt.

"Amateurs." Yanking the blade from the man's back, she flung it out to cast off the blood and gore, cleaned it on his shirt, then extended her arms so both could retract within her sleeves.

Continuing along the walkway, she entered a noisy tavern, people barely looking up to take notice as she made her way to the back table to sit with a man, shoulder-length, raven hair tied back in a ponytail.

"Smells like you had fun," he said, taking a drought from his mug, mahogany eyes twinkling.

"Why I always wear black- can't see the red, only the wet," she replied, taking up the ceramic pitcher and sniffing it, shaking her head. "They serve your kind here?"

"Me and the family are- old friends." He raised his mug to the bartender, who nodded with a smile. "And is that any way to speak to one who left you such worthy gifts?"

She looked up at him eyes narrowing. "You knew they were there?"

"Mmmm hmmm." He grinned, pouring another draught of red liquid into his mug.

"You realize I just got this thing back from the cleaners?" she snarled, tugging at the collar of her trench.

"Yep."

"You do know Sanji's a crook and will charge me double this time?"

"But, did you or did you not have fun?" He leaned into her, grin spreading across his face, canines gleaming.

She glared at him, at the smirk playing about his lips. "Eff you Yosh."

"Love you, too, Val."


Copyright ©2009-2010 Spiritwind Studios Ltd.
Photography by 
Jun Tuazon 

Maestro

It happens every year - some not-so-pretend witch opens a not-so-pretend portal to a not-so-pretend Otherworld and I end up knee-deep in daemon claws and orc snouts, a freaked-out kid clinging to my cloak.

But this Halloween, there seemed to be a witch that was very much of purpose and power, very much aware of what and who he was and seen fit to awaken his full potential.

The man [indeed, contrary to popular belief, male witches are simply called that - witches] was in his mid-thirties, a late bloomer so to speak. Lithe in build, dark of eye, hair, and intention, he gathered the Fey within himself, drinking in both Dark and Light in alternate doses, becoming one of those Grey creatures that are so very unpredictable and dangerous.

Greys have virtually no emotion when it comes to exacting what they deem justice, no regard for anything other than the good of the balance as a whole, and often do what pleases them in the moment as long as it doesn't hurt anyone physically. whatever the consequence. They have no set standards or rules of right and wrong, only what is good for the moment in question for the benefit of all, not the least of themselves.

It was my duty to rein in this renegade or put him down, depending on his willingness to be taught, to submit to the edicts of the High Coven. The way this one's power was manifesting, manipulating, however, told me this would be no easy task.

Unlike the usual child-with-a-new-toy conundrum, his moves were methodical, conjurings calculated to the necessity of his desires. He was a rich man in a very short time, his gallery one of the best in the city, least of all the world. It was his works that had caught the attention of the High Coven, though, bold as he was in his presentation and display.

Julian's portraits had always been something of note to me, always had that je ne sais quoi that bespoke a passion far beyond mere skill of the craft. Yet recently, they veritably moved, lived, breathed with color and expression. Even inanimate statues seemed to speak their glory and grief through his Third Eye, taking on an ethereal quality expressed normally only in animate beauties like the butterflies that seemed to pose for his pleasure.

The clouds, however, were what swayed most to sighs and heart palpitations, me included. Each portrait was a study on the composition, beauty, and intricacies of cloud formation. From stratus, to cumulus, to astrostratus, they all hearkened to the Call of his Third Eye in a most amazing array of patterns and postures.

"Photoshop," he would chuckle jokingly at the gallery patrons urging to know his secret.

But I knew better.

Photoshopped clouds do not move across glossy prints, imperceptive to the untrained eye yet changing just enough for a piece of the soul to be captured with each repeated viewing. Photoshop does not align perfectly the horizon with sun, shadow, and structure to the enchanting perfections exhibited in his visions.

No, this one was surely a Cloudmaster, and as such, master of the winds, storms, and lightning held within. The deluge caused by his first Conjuring - done last night, Halloween night, at the drunken behest of friends - nearly washed the city into the Thames, yet he proved a quick study in controlling his powers.

He turned to face me, singling me out with his gaze from among all others seeking his attentions, his smirk telling me he knew all too well what I was. The center crease of his forehead opened slightly, Third Eye peeking out before popping open to take the breath right out of me.

I had thought his Third Eye to be just lens and negative, mechanics capturing the images and Conjuration bringing them to life, yet there he stood, the sliver-dollar sized orb imprisoning me with its glacial gleam. Try as I might to Shield myself, I felt my feet being drawn forward, wondering how the people around could not feel the Fey snaking around him, let alone notice the eye burning inside of his brow.

He had opened his Third Eye with no coaxing, no training, none of the intense study some take years to complete before even a squint is offered from their Eye in return for their efforts. It had taken mere hours for Julian to accomplish this, not even a day, and to have the gall to Call me to him in such an overt fashion was not only foolish but dangerous indeed.

"You find my works pleasing, Milady?" he intoned, his voice silkily accented, words expertly pronounced, dripping from his lips like wine.

"That's not why I'm here." I looked up at his smile, gracious and predatory at the same time, a wolf that had at last cornered his prey. "What say you to the recent storms?"

"Mere amusement, nothing more." He leaned in, breath caressing my neck, my feet leaden and refusing my commands. "It's so hard to properly photograph lightning - so unpredictable, unmanageable."

"You learn quickly the Arts." I shivered, his lips barely brushing my cheek as he moved back to regard me with an arrogant raise of his brow. "Yet you are still untrained, unmanageable yourself...."

His laugh sent tremors through me, a genuinely amused tone, but with a tinge of cynicism. "Milady, I have long studied the Arts, if not been so much a purveyor, so I believe I know well how to manage."

His Eye closed, becoming again only a crease on his brow, but the cement of the spell with which he had me chained under still held fast. Guiding me gently by my arm, he directed me to a portrait, one of a man in Medieval dress, clearly one of the cosplayers around the old part of town where the tourists chose to dwell.

"What do you See, Storyteller?"

His moniker for me was correct, the horror rising in my chest as it was evident he knew more about me than I did him. I was indeed a Storyteller, a Spellwriter, one with gift of words and rhyme, one who could reason with an errant novice and make them see clear the choice to submit to the Coven.

All but this one.

He had me free and clear with that inquiry, for the weakness of a Storyteller is the need to tell the tale, a need to construct in words what is Seen or Heard either on a whim or in a calculated work of Prophecy. The portrait shown rose within me an epic tale of such triumph and woe I could scarce keep from whimpering for a laptop or even simple pen and paper to write. Julian's smile grew even more predatory when he saw my eyes glass over with the first signs of a Seeing, the knowledge that I was now his slave prickling upon his psyche.

"Please don't do this, Julian."

"Oh, come, now, it won't be so bad." His arms went around my waist, hugging me to his chest possessively. "Images to fill your mind with such tales as to be only imagined by the gods themselves."

"And in return?" Arrogant prick, thinking to have me in his thrall permanently.

"Let me be, screw the Coven and their antiquated ideas of control and let me do what I do...." The winds kicked up outside, howling to the astonishment of the gallery guests before tapering off to a quiet breeze. ".... whilst harming none."

The Rede resonated well within his spirit, the knowing of meaning and purpose behind it seeping through the Grey mists of Fey surrounding him. I knew him then to be of power and passion, but not without compassion and sense of honor. I gazed around the gallery, his other works Calling to me in a language known only to those whom they were wrought for, begging for their full tales to be told, reaching out to me with hands and wings and buttresses, all a whirlwind grasping at my consciousness.

Yet it was the clouds that moved me to greatness, to the sounds of seraphs on the wind, the Sight of Fey glittering on the breezes that carried them. Oh! What language sprung forth from their wispy mouths! What fury and serenity inspired their disposition!

"If I refuse?" It was my turn to be dangerous and foolish. I was no match in my powers to a true Cloudmaster, not to mention one who could chain me so with his knowledge of my Achilles Heel, but surely he did not know I could barely lift my hand, never mind my Fey against him?

"There will be no refusal." Again his warm breath against my neck. "The portraits already sing to you, plead for you to compose their litany."

He did indeed know. Their voices, weeping and shouting and whispering their tales would not cease ripping my brain to shreds. Their words had to come out, had to be writ, or I would go mad with the noise of it all. Tears formed in my eyes, more out of frustration that I'd fallen into Julian's trap so easily, so perfectly blind than out of sorrow for the Coven I would betray.

No longer a slave to the Coven's suffocating rote and edict, no demands for Prophecy on ones they had no business meddling with.

I could finally tell stories, real stories, those that need to be told, the ones that mere humans feed upon as if they were the only sustenance they required.

Stories told first by portrait, then prose.

For as I always now say, it is his Art that tells the story, I merely elaborate.

Copyright ©2009-2010 Spiritwind Studios Ltd

photography by
Jun Tuazon 

My therapy my verse, my prose my little red pill.....

She was a warrior. Not one of those scantily-clad maidens so often pictured in fantasy books, but a large, stocky woman in full battle dress. Her curves were sheathed in leather a black tunic, chain mail over black boots tucked into buckskin breeches, gauntlets of leather and hardened steel, a row of knives surrounding her waist, blade upon her back. Her crimson hair was cropped in back to allow her helm an easy fit, while the front was allowed to flow just past her cheek in braids adorned with feathers.

No beauty, this one, she thought as she gazed into the mirror, the true costume of her day displeasing her, making her wonder just who was the true maid behind the armor. Her battles may not have been bloody in a literal sense, yet she bore many scars, many wounds as yet unhealed, her blade was becoming heavy, and she needed respite. For now, the only respite was her music....

Können Herzen singen kann ein

Herz zerspringen können

Herzen rein sein kann ein

Herz aus Stein sein

It comforted her, lulled her from her pain, yet at the same time made her long foolishly for the company of those she was so fond of.

No beauty am I, no svelte creature to catch a warrior's eye

Still, she stood defiant. Physical beauty was not what defined her, it was the beauty of her spirit, her strength, her fierce determination to battle on though her heart was weak and weary.

Yet strong is my shield, mighty and sharp the blade I wield

She only wished that someone would see her as she saw herself, beyond the flawed flesh, beyond the lack of grace in form, yet she knew even then the madness, darkness that resided within would be the next obstacle.

Battle rage, hot and pure, gives me strength, gives me will to endure

She was anything but a stable being, one often caught in the realm of dreams and flights of fancy, seeming to others to not truly be where she physically was, her mind ever wandering to places even her closest comrades could barely fathom.

Light in eyes so fierce and bright, yet black as pitch, dark as night

Therefore she resigned herself to be this misunderstood creature, this Changeling with no lineage, no history, no name given to her that was truly her own. She was content, only sometimes bemoaning her outcast state, preferring to be the strange, the oddity, rather than some "normal" being with no substance.

Try and tame me if you dare, yet be mindful lest you fall into the Hunter's snare





Copyright ©2009-2010 Spiritwind Studios Ltd

Fey Network Presents.... THE O.C. [Other Cinderella]

Ella knew the Prince was a dumb ass when he tried to place the fragile slipper on her left foot instead of the right. She rolled her eyes, casting all hope out of the window that he was smart as well as handsome - if he knew not what foot was which, he could hardly know how to please a woman let alone carry on any reasonable conversation. Yet she was expected, destined her Faerie Godmother had said, to marry him and end the tyranny the land had suffered for so long.

So, she smiled feebly, getting some measure of enjoyment out of seeing her bitch of a stepmother and stepsister gape at the way the slipper fit like a glove upon her dainty, calloused foot. Only Ophelia, her other stepsister, watched with a serene smile on her face. She had suffered as much as "Cinderella" had under the two women's cruelty and was happy to see them grovel.

"Oh, dear Ella, dear, sweet, Ella, it is a perfect fit!" Prince Derek planted a sloppy kiss on her cheek, confirming her suspicions he had little experience with women. "You are to be my bride!"

Ella smiled again, looking with pleading eyes up at Ophelia, who simply snickered behind her hand. This was not the Prince at the ball, not the handsome rogue with suave speech and satin steps, guiding her as if on clouds through dance after dance. No, this fool was an oaf, who stumbled upon rising from his knee, having to grasp her hand for support.

"It is settled, then," the footman declared. "You will be paid a handsome dowry for your daughter, Lady Verda."

Ella's stepmother sniffed, stiff arrogance and disdain making her countenance all the more revolting and imposing. "Very well. What of my - other - daughters?"

The footman opened his mouth, only to be cut off by Ella's sharp retort.

"Ophelia is to be my Lady In Waiting." Ella smiled at her sister's sigh of relief. "Nelly and the hag? Well, they can go to the stables for all I care."

"Watch your tongue, girl! I am still your mother!" Lady Vedra snarled.

"She is the wife of a Prince now, Madame." The footman glared, stirring a bit of familiarity within Ella. He was dressed smartly in black wool and lace, black hat upon a flawless powdered wig, kerchief over his face from which his dark eyes shimmered. "So I urge you to hold your tongue, Madame."

 Ella scrambled to pack what little mementos she had left from her father, convincing Ophelia to leave her tawdry dresses as she would have new ones made.

"No! This one must go!" Ophelia grabbed a simple summer dress with pink roses from Ella's arms and put it back in her trunk.

"But you can barely fit in it," Ella frowned.

"It was the last...." Ophelia choked back a sob. "The last dress Father bought before...."

Ella put her arms around her sister, hugging her close. She was the only one who showed true affection for her father, Nelly and Verda bleeding him dry financially and emotionally before he finally died of a broken heart. Ella's mother had died giving birth to her stillborn baby brother, and her father had promised he wouldn't let her grow up without a mother. The marriage to Verda was a farce and a disaster, but he could not bow out. Ella often told her father she hated him for making that promise, one he couldn't break if he tried for fear of incurring the wrath of Verda's family and losing the lands he'd worked hard on increasing for thirty years.

"It's alright, dear one. We'll keep it."

"He's not the Prince, you know." Ophelia sniffed, wiping the tear from her eye as she turned back to packing.

"Whatever are you talking about, Ophie?" Ella frowned.

"That idiot that fumbled with the shoe," Ophelia replied. "Not the Prince at all."

Ella put her hands on her hips and cocked her head. Verda had often said Ophelia was "touched," but Ella just saw her as eccentric, unconventional. Now she thought the old bat might have been correct.

"Now, the footman - ah!" Ophelia looked up suddenly, as if seeing a dream manifest before her eyes. "Princely indeed!"

Ella shook her head and chuckled. "Don't be foolish, sister. Now, we must finish packing or the Prince may leave without us."

The carriage in which Ella and Ophelia rode was plush beyond compare, the seats so comfortable both fell asleep to the gentle rocking of the horses' gait. A blue light filled the carriage suddenly, waking Ophelia to the sight of a beautiful blonde woman leaning over her with a wicked spiked wand, her ethereal appearance marred by the fierceness in her crystal blue eyes.

"What are you doing?" Ophelia mumbled sleepily. "Who are you?"

The woman jerked back with a start, flawless brow furrowing, eyes glittering like the many beads upon her chiffon bodice and skirt. "You can see me, child?"

"Of course I can see you." The woman's voice tasted like sugar plums to Ophelia's ears. "And I'm not a child, I'm nearly twenty - practically a hag."

"Well, I am quadruple plus nine thousand your age, so I must be a perfect corpse!" The woman's laughed, the tinkling of bells making Ophelia giddy with giggles, then she sobered, frowning. "Still, I am her Faerie Godmother, so you are not supposed...."

"Saw you the night of the ball." Ophelia yawned, stretching and patting the seat beside her, the Godmother taking the seat with a nod of thanks. "Gladys, you called yourself? Impressive work, but why the lame curfew?"

Gladys rolled her eyes. "Well, we couldn't have them doing it the night of the ball, now could we? That would spoil the whole thing later when - oops!"

"I knew it!" Ophelia exclaimed, eyes widening, smiling with glee.

Gladys put her delicate hand firmly over Ophelia's mouth, looking over at Ella stirring, sighing with relief as she settled back down. "Damn it, you stupid cow, you want to mess up everything?!"

"The Prince isn't the Prince is he?" Ophelia whispered, remarking how Gladys' skin tasted and smelled of vanilla custard when she spoke through her fingers.

"Well, of course Derek is the Prince, don't be silly." Gladys removed her hand from Ophelia's mouth, making a face when the girl licked her fingers. "Vulgar child!"

"You taste like custard." Ophelia mused, pouting when Gladys snatched her hand away. "Why is that?"

"Never mind." Gladys shook her head. No wonder the child was strange, she had a rare touch of Fey in her that tingled across her flesh with the chill of a mountain stream. "You must never tell what you know, understand? The peace of this kingdom, of its people depend on it."

"Ella fell for the footman, not the Prince." Ophelia looked over at her sister, expression troubled even in sleep, and her eyes welled with tears. "She will know much sadness."

"As if she hasn't had enough already." Gladys began to see all too clearly the error of her actions, her Fey nature rarely concerned with the human heart as rule, more with the balance and peace of their land whatever the cost so that their secrets and places of power could be kept without threat of human treachery. The Kingdom of Caeron was situated along a Path of most importance, and with the King near on his deathbed and war looming on the horizon with Doaer Province, it was imperative there be at least one strong voice in the council given that the Prince was more than a little inadequate.

"My point exactly." Ophelia glared at the Godmother. "War will be circumvented for a while, but eventually she will know battle and blood and tears innumerable."

"What have I done?" Gladys sighed.

"Undo it. You know you can."

"I can, but I can't. There's too much at stake."

"Then it would've been best you left us be." Ophelia leaned over to brush an errant lock from Ella's head. "At least she was happy with her mice and her horses."

The footman stood on the back of the carriage, stalwart, sturdy, hands gripping the bar til the driver thought it might break when he looked back upon him. Geoff had submitted to Gladys' wishes, after she'd submitted to his, a cold rogue she had called him after the deed was done. He indeed had done it for the sport, the pleasure of wooing yet another young maid to his charms, no matter that his cousin reaped the benefits. Yet now his chest clenched painfully, eyes burning with rage that he was delivering the very woman that had indeed wooed him with her wit and dark humor, herself the very predator he was usually adept at playing.

He wanted her.

Needed her.

And so swore he would have her.

Damn his cousin, damn the Kingdom, and damn his heart for being foolish enough to fall for the one woman so clearly out of his reach.

Copyright ©2009-2010 Spiritwind Studios Ltd

Storyteller

For centuries he stood, seeing everything from worship to war, the tingle of feathers caressing his granite flesh reaching his senses still as he became roost for pidgeon and falcon alike. A priest cursed for his blasphemy, for loving a woman more than the Church, for being man first before Child of God, encased for eternity in the stone edifice like Lot's wife in her salt. He had dared look back at his beloved as the tears rolled down her face, dared mouth the forbidden words that spoke his affection, and there he had been frozen, moved later to the cathedral who's name had long escaped his memory. He witnessed with great sadness the rise and fall of human culture, mind and sight still active even in their solid tomb. He watched as people soon overlooked him, only occasionally pausing to look, to wonder at his purpose, his legend forgotten even to the citizens, who shook their head when asked to tell his tale.

People barely regarded him these days, hardly noticed as they walked hand in hand, man and woman and in later years, to his shock, more and more of the same sex sharing the affection that had caused him to be damned. He wanted to cry out, to tell them to hide, lest they, too become mere edifices forgotten by time and tide. Yet, the populace seemed not to care, not to take notice of anything once considered a vile abomination- even a rape in the darkness right below his pedestal went unnoticed with no one coming at the behest of the poor woman's screams.

If he could shed tears, they would see his stone eyes pour rivulets like some blessed icon. If he could kneel and pray for the travesty that was the modern world, he would prostrate himself before the altar daily.

Yet he could only weep internally- for the living eyes that missed all the beauty his stone eyes could see, for the young ones marvelling at glass buildings and sparkling machines instead of sunrises and butterflies, for all that mankind wasted and selfishly hoarded.

He saw the man looking up at him, scrutinizing every feature, running his fingers over the stone now made rough by pockmarks of age and abuse. The cursed priest watched in awe as the man seemed enchanted with the very expression on his face, a serene, yet sad mask of resignation. But folk now marvel over gold and glitter, not stone, he thought, who is he to be any different?

Seeing the third eye around the man's neck, however, the priest understood- he was one of a select few humans that could look into the soul of the inanimate and make them alive as they would be in real. He had seen a few of these human's works on billboards, on buses, various things that humans coveted, yet he somehow knew this one was different, that his third eye was for more than mere decoration. No, this one truly Saw, truly understood what was behind the robes of stone that flowed like the heavy wool they represented.

"Who made you?" the man asked, circling the edifice, noting light and shadow and the play of it on every crease and crevice. "Or, should I be asking, what did you do to get this way?"

The priest surely would've raised his eyebrows. Impossible! How does he....?

"Whatever it was, hope it was worth it, old chap."

The man smiled up at him, and raised his camera, the priest mentally drawing himself up proud, hoping that his work would show that he was truly alive, that he still existed.

That humans were a redeemable lot after all.

Copyright ©2009-2010 Spiritwind Studios Ltd.
Photography by Jun Tuazon