To Gubbin, Eirean, and Percival
-
TennyoCeres84
- Site Admin
- Posts: 2931
- Joined: Tue Jan 08, 2013 4:59 am
To Gubbin, Eirean, and Percival
Why do some Fae and Wyldfae wear the clothes of bygone eras, while others are clad in modern garments? Is it due to preference alone?
-
IamLEAM1983
- Site Admin
- Posts: 3709
- Joined: Tue Jan 08, 2013 4:54 am
- Location: Quebec, Canada
As Gubbin, Eirean, and Percival
Eirean: "I'd say it has to do with the notion of permanence. Those of us who actually descend from the Dragonborn of old are immortal, but we feel life the same way mortals do. I've been around for a century or so longer than Sophia, and all I can really say is Choosing didn't extinguish the part of me that wants to live with the rest of you, to keep sensing the pulse of a living and breathing assembly. I've heard it said it's one of the particulars of Summer, in that we still have that old empathy towards others.
Mab's Winter contingent would call it servility, but I don't really think of myself as a slave. I'm a hotel owner and manager, and I provide several useful services for the community. Seeing as I want to connect with you, I tend to try and think and talk like you do, for each and every generation that comes around. It goes as far as my dressing the way you do, or at least the way you expect a businesswoman from 2025 to dress.
As for Percival? I'd say personal tastes play into it, but I've never honestly asked him..."
Percy: "Not all of us can afford to exhibit the ebb and flow of mortality, milady. I stand as thine second, as the prime legislator for all matters of the Fae within Evergloam, and a peacekeeping ally in Hope. I am a Gruff, and long have my people gazed 'pon the snowy crags and verdant hills of the far reaches of Summer. Mine domain is the mountaintop, from whence all Sight is true, where the Fauns of old fired their bows and struck true, always.
I am of the Wild, of what was there before the Fair Ones came. The byways leading to mine home hath lied open for aeons, inspiring bards and moving valiant Knights long before Titania's Chosen stepped forth. We offered our ideals to thine forefathers, milady, and many listened. I am Chivalry to many young Americans 'pon this island, who will never truthfully hear of our tales and legends. I am all the tales and fables stalwart parents have ever told to babes in need of slumber. I remain as I am as it is as my Mantle requests of me - and I bear this burden with pride.
Without the Gruffs, thine Dark Ages would never have gazed upon the light of Nobility and Intellectual Intent. The worship of the White One would have remained stepped in the blood of thine feudal lords 'cross France and Britain, and our Oriental cousins doubtlessly seeded the concept behind Bushido. Amongst the self-serving and cruel warlords waited the Yokai warrior-poets and philosophers, those for whom Honor and Duty would never involve suicide.
A Gruff Serves, and he Serves proudly. A Gruff Protects - until his or her dying breath. Whomsoever is born Gruff and shirks his duties or chooses Death and her embrace over Service can claim no lineage to our Mother.
And so, I wear the marks of mine Service. My broadsword and tabard, my mail and cape - they define me, as much as a footman's badge should define them."
Gubbin: "Master Gruff has the right of it, madame. We of the Wyldfae either feed, or are born from certain intrinsic concepts or ideas the mortal plane holds particularly close to heart. We Malks like to believe that the Old Cat, the one the Celts call Sith, stood as a personification of feline proclivities: we are deemed wise but give our wisdom to none who ask for it. We are said to be kind, but our kindness is ours alone to give.
Our gifts are ours, and ours alone - especially ours to do with as we see fit. This echoes the defensive attitude living within Mab's snows imprinted upon us. To survive in the face of the many, many things which kill our young or weaken our elderly, we grow cold and distant. The unlucky ones become callous and cruel, the lucky ones wander closer to the Hearth and retain enough of their own heart.
As Mab's foremothers rebelled against the dragons only to institute their own slavery upon my ancestors, so has servitude marked my entire lineage. Unlike the Gruff, however, my literal bonds are not things I resent. My mother carried more of Mab's ice in her heart than my father, and being held in bondage to someone possessing a stable and positive influence brings me peace and helps to quell my darker urges. It does not suggest, however, that they do not exist.
So, I dress accordingly. I see gloom where others see light, and shadows attract me far more than radiant pools ever could. A cat is as a cat does, and no feline has ever rejected the siren songs of dark alleys and neglected right-of-ways. My family brings pride in its own restraint, however, and so my dark penchant is girded, molded, given shape and purpose.
I see myself in Lady Aislinn and Lord Holden's cutleries, to be honest. I am rigid, solid and dependable. I have been finely crafted and carry marks of honest care. I can be made to complement a master or can correct its faults. I can carve open a piece of meat with the precision of centuries of practice - or carve sinews within the flesh of my mistress' enemies. Regrettably, I can also dispense care. Had I not shown the whisk's dilligence or the potato peeler's fastidious nature, I could have exchanged one shame for another, made an underachiever out of Gawain Machae instead of a terrorist.
I was made and taught to in days the current mortals consider overstuffed, choking with false appearances and niceties. I acknowledge this; but who could expect the hook-nosed old man with the cravat, mutton chops and tails to be able to run his mile in two minutes? The automaton's disguise is faultless - like the magician's sleight-of-hand. It hides what must be hidden, so that none could see it coming."
Mab's Winter contingent would call it servility, but I don't really think of myself as a slave. I'm a hotel owner and manager, and I provide several useful services for the community. Seeing as I want to connect with you, I tend to try and think and talk like you do, for each and every generation that comes around. It goes as far as my dressing the way you do, or at least the way you expect a businesswoman from 2025 to dress.
As for Percival? I'd say personal tastes play into it, but I've never honestly asked him..."
Percy: "Not all of us can afford to exhibit the ebb and flow of mortality, milady. I stand as thine second, as the prime legislator for all matters of the Fae within Evergloam, and a peacekeeping ally in Hope. I am a Gruff, and long have my people gazed 'pon the snowy crags and verdant hills of the far reaches of Summer. Mine domain is the mountaintop, from whence all Sight is true, where the Fauns of old fired their bows and struck true, always.
I am of the Wild, of what was there before the Fair Ones came. The byways leading to mine home hath lied open for aeons, inspiring bards and moving valiant Knights long before Titania's Chosen stepped forth. We offered our ideals to thine forefathers, milady, and many listened. I am Chivalry to many young Americans 'pon this island, who will never truthfully hear of our tales and legends. I am all the tales and fables stalwart parents have ever told to babes in need of slumber. I remain as I am as it is as my Mantle requests of me - and I bear this burden with pride.
Without the Gruffs, thine Dark Ages would never have gazed upon the light of Nobility and Intellectual Intent. The worship of the White One would have remained stepped in the blood of thine feudal lords 'cross France and Britain, and our Oriental cousins doubtlessly seeded the concept behind Bushido. Amongst the self-serving and cruel warlords waited the Yokai warrior-poets and philosophers, those for whom Honor and Duty would never involve suicide.
A Gruff Serves, and he Serves proudly. A Gruff Protects - until his or her dying breath. Whomsoever is born Gruff and shirks his duties or chooses Death and her embrace over Service can claim no lineage to our Mother.
And so, I wear the marks of mine Service. My broadsword and tabard, my mail and cape - they define me, as much as a footman's badge should define them."
Gubbin: "Master Gruff has the right of it, madame. We of the Wyldfae either feed, or are born from certain intrinsic concepts or ideas the mortal plane holds particularly close to heart. We Malks like to believe that the Old Cat, the one the Celts call Sith, stood as a personification of feline proclivities: we are deemed wise but give our wisdom to none who ask for it. We are said to be kind, but our kindness is ours alone to give.
Our gifts are ours, and ours alone - especially ours to do with as we see fit. This echoes the defensive attitude living within Mab's snows imprinted upon us. To survive in the face of the many, many things which kill our young or weaken our elderly, we grow cold and distant. The unlucky ones become callous and cruel, the lucky ones wander closer to the Hearth and retain enough of their own heart.
As Mab's foremothers rebelled against the dragons only to institute their own slavery upon my ancestors, so has servitude marked my entire lineage. Unlike the Gruff, however, my literal bonds are not things I resent. My mother carried more of Mab's ice in her heart than my father, and being held in bondage to someone possessing a stable and positive influence brings me peace and helps to quell my darker urges. It does not suggest, however, that they do not exist.
So, I dress accordingly. I see gloom where others see light, and shadows attract me far more than radiant pools ever could. A cat is as a cat does, and no feline has ever rejected the siren songs of dark alleys and neglected right-of-ways. My family brings pride in its own restraint, however, and so my dark penchant is girded, molded, given shape and purpose.
I see myself in Lady Aislinn and Lord Holden's cutleries, to be honest. I am rigid, solid and dependable. I have been finely crafted and carry marks of honest care. I can be made to complement a master or can correct its faults. I can carve open a piece of meat with the precision of centuries of practice - or carve sinews within the flesh of my mistress' enemies. Regrettably, I can also dispense care. Had I not shown the whisk's dilligence or the potato peeler's fastidious nature, I could have exchanged one shame for another, made an underachiever out of Gawain Machae instead of a terrorist.
I was made and taught to in days the current mortals consider overstuffed, choking with false appearances and niceties. I acknowledge this; but who could expect the hook-nosed old man with the cravat, mutton chops and tails to be able to run his mile in two minutes? The automaton's disguise is faultless - like the magician's sleight-of-hand. It hides what must be hidden, so that none could see it coming."