Speirling Unseelie Court

From Minnie: Mum said we should go hunt splodey turkeys. Thought I would make her smile by dressing up. Not smart! Happy Thankgiving, Everyone!

The darkness from Samhain remains over Speirling though the blood rain is gone. Speirlinium, glowing in shades of amethyst and lavender, illuminates the night along with the flickering candlelight of the lamps set around the islands. The Firth Witch and her priestess, the Lady Aevalle, sit together in the occult library cottage, each doing her own type of scrying. Aevalle peruses the shelves, looking for yet another tome but finds it hard to concentrate with Aettrynne's muttering behind her. Aev Shops the Shelves for a Good Book Aettrynne Greymyst: Did you cast a negativity charm on these cards? Aevalle Galicia-Constantine: Um, no? Aettrynne Greymyst tsks as she lays another card on the table. Aettrynne Greymyst: The message is not looking good. Aevalle Galicia-Constantine plops the latest book on the table and opens it to a bookmark. Aevalle Galicia-Constantine: So you have been saying all night. Aettrynne Greymyst: Card after card shows that our work will...

Dantae said she was going to send the girls magical fae wings from Elderglen and Aetheria. Too bad she forgot to include a net!

Dantae sits at her kitchen table, sipping pumpkin seed coffee and musing over a book of poetry bought in the Faery Market. The book is a temperamental little thing, its pages fluttering with magical life. Dantae holds it gently as a butterfly, periodically turning a page as the volume allows her to read its contents. Even with the lively book in her hands, the nightfall has a delicious stillness to it, in comparison to the drama over Samhain Eve. Enjoying a book by candlelight Juxtaposed against Speirling's thunder, screams of nightbirds and howling wolves and owls, the sounds of the Isles of Aetheria seem downright tame--the birdsong chorus, tinking of chimes, babbling lullaby of the waters in the pools and waterfalls, and the periodic creaking of ropes as residents or visitors climb between the islands. Dantae smiles, losing herself in the melodic sounds momentarily while studying the steam and scent coming from her cup. An evening scenic flight over the surrounding lands ...

(rather lengthy post!) Looking up at the skies, I see a bolt of lightning illuminate the clouds nearby. They’re red this evening, heavy with blood rain. Just for one night, I remind myself, then my lovely storm will be back to cleansing Speirlinium rain until the snow comes. It is not a tradition I enjoy, this blood rain, but far from common knowledge, the elementals and keepers of the veil are not all creatures of childlike innocence and light. They have a duality and their baser nature is not one that mortals would live through for long, if unleashed. The blood rain is only one of the traditions the Coven carries out, handed down to us from earlier groups of our ancestors, their names and faces lost to time and fading memories. This year’s rain was delayed—the ritual hindered by the latest round of drama to find Speirling’s shores. (insert whatever “fade to recent past” trick you prefer here) Aettrynne Greymyst: Hello my Children. I knew you would come when I called...

The return voyage back to Caledon's shores was not an easy one. The girls' excitement over the vistas as our airship set off over the waves of Blake Sea faded after only ten minutes. Though I had amassed what seemed to be a bottomless bag of activities for our journey, the kits went through all that I had in only an hour. I resorted to lying, telling them that their father, Duke Constantine (or Captain Bunneh to those who know him well) had sent his Indigo Squadron out to accompany us home. The next three hours was filled with a mis-identification of every bird, cloud and, indeed, large insect as a Crimson Pirates aircraft on the horizon. When we arrived at Oxbridge Village, the girls glimpsed a poster for the Caledon Harvest Festival on the platform and the bargaining began. I briefly forgot how elusive they can be when they want to be. Had I remembered, our bargaining would have included leashes. They promised to hold their hands behind their backs while I checked a...

The windows on the upper story of the Caledon Zephyr building rattle in their panes. The northern gales are in good form this eve. Nights like this, I miss the smaller news shack up on the hill, which was buffered somewhat from the weather coming in from the seafront, and I wonder about changing the name of the paper to something less windy. During my hiatus, there has been many deliveries to the building. Tonight, as the winds outside howl and batter the eaves, I try to make sense of why some distributors sent me kraken milk instead of ink and unbleached tanglewood pulp paper instead of something more refined—the swirling purple, green, and brown patterns in the pages have a mystical charm but it is hardly something that is good for reading. I break the seal on another crate and peer inside—who ordered pink paper? The strong gust hits the seaward side of the building, and something bangs outside. No doubt something from one of the sidewalk stalls that was not properly sec...