To Sir Percival
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TennyoCeres84
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To Sir Percival
I'm curious about interactions between gruffs and fauns. I know some gruffs reject the Chimeras, while others embrace them. From what you know, how was life when the original fauns still existed? And how does that work nowadays?
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IamLEAM1983
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As Sir Percival
"T'was before the last Long Winter that the Fauns left the deepest roots, their tragedy unspoken even as the last of their youngsters frolicked across the plains of Macedon. We Gruffs could do little as our kinsmen, the scouts and rangers to our frontmen, fell ill and died. Morgana had courted the Summer Wyldfae for aeons, and upon our choosing Lady Titania's service, the Maiden of the Wilds reacted... unfavorably. The Fauns of old were close to our Mother, aye, but also close to Humanity. They held nature 'pon their breasts as the dryads do, but freely mingled with those of the physical plane, never showing the guarded nature of some tree spirits and naiads. Their rucksacks were filled with goods and tools of survival, and ropes threaded by Faun hands were said to be as sturdy as the modern day's... poly-esther shrouds. Peerless rock-climbers, all of them - even when faced with sheer surfaces no hooves could find purchase on. Survival, quite simply, was in their blood. Not out of some paranoid mistrust of nature, however - more out of profound and implicit trust.
It is said animal tracks spoke to them, and that they could find herds by the subtle displacement of the underbrush. Human fear wafted on the winds, and they answered its desperate call more often than not, saving those less accustomed to the wilds from an indignant demise. It made them mirthful by necessity, there to keep spirits uplifted and feet moving to safety where the mind would rather wallow in despair. They did well in hiding their expertise behind playful guises, but could also show the seriousness expected of those remaining close to my Grecian cousins' lands. If Summer suspected threats, eyes were then needed to provide trustworthy accounts. Sharp eyes able to see far and true, quick minds able to count Mab's droves in but an eyeblink. The Fauns provided those.
Their later mistrust came as desperation took them. Their sickness knew no cure, the Fae could do but little. Faun children were either born stunted, or not born at all. Athens was but a whisper that already, Pan's forbears were fading into legend. Those who survived turned to darker roads, worshipped darker masters, if t'would garner hopes of survival. The playful satyrs of old soon became Christendom's grinning demons, as stories of those twisted and corrupted sons and daughters of the Wyld began to spread. They marked imaginations as beasts, as legends of their high deeds had all but faded into oblivion. Practitioners of Infernal magic grew in their ranks, until Belial and the Black Goat sealed the last of the Fauns' fate, by damning them utterly. If they were ever reborn, it was as Fiends of the Pit.
Those of us who trust these reborn brethren have supped on the old tales - the best ones. They long to see the Transgenics return to their bloodline's trek across the hills and valleys of this world - as nature conservationists, perhaps, or park guards, or perhaps scientists dedicated to the scrying of Nature's fickle marrow. They may recall stories of our battlemages and healers, of Fauns singing or blowing into their carved flutes. While a Faun has never commanded a Gruff, Gruffs have always deferred to a Faun commander's sage advice.
If hate is thy province, however, then what the Transgenics conjure is a fetid morass of hatred, resentment and desperation, sickness and Infernalism alike having twisted these noble creatures into scabby, boil-covered masses of ravenous sinew, yellow eyes ablaze with unnatural cunning. Those who sought retribution by Hell's blazing flames became monsters in all eyes and dragged those who fought still into a thousand years of acrimony.
That technology has seen it fitting to bring our brethren back from the grave is nothing short of miraculous, but many immortals alive have not lived to see the Fauns in their glory. All they know is that for centuries, Satan himself wore the guise of one 'pon illuminated Bibles drafted by pious monks. Moreover, if a few among Aspasia's peers are barely able to sense the threads of via around them, then little exists to stop the average dabbling Blue Chimera from turning into the first Infernalist or Warlock of its kind.
I would rather err on the side of caution. Little suggests their creation seeded them with the fear and resentment of their later years. I will not, however, remove my eye from them."
It is said animal tracks spoke to them, and that they could find herds by the subtle displacement of the underbrush. Human fear wafted on the winds, and they answered its desperate call more often than not, saving those less accustomed to the wilds from an indignant demise. It made them mirthful by necessity, there to keep spirits uplifted and feet moving to safety where the mind would rather wallow in despair. They did well in hiding their expertise behind playful guises, but could also show the seriousness expected of those remaining close to my Grecian cousins' lands. If Summer suspected threats, eyes were then needed to provide trustworthy accounts. Sharp eyes able to see far and true, quick minds able to count Mab's droves in but an eyeblink. The Fauns provided those.
Their later mistrust came as desperation took them. Their sickness knew no cure, the Fae could do but little. Faun children were either born stunted, or not born at all. Athens was but a whisper that already, Pan's forbears were fading into legend. Those who survived turned to darker roads, worshipped darker masters, if t'would garner hopes of survival. The playful satyrs of old soon became Christendom's grinning demons, as stories of those twisted and corrupted sons and daughters of the Wyld began to spread. They marked imaginations as beasts, as legends of their high deeds had all but faded into oblivion. Practitioners of Infernal magic grew in their ranks, until Belial and the Black Goat sealed the last of the Fauns' fate, by damning them utterly. If they were ever reborn, it was as Fiends of the Pit.
Those of us who trust these reborn brethren have supped on the old tales - the best ones. They long to see the Transgenics return to their bloodline's trek across the hills and valleys of this world - as nature conservationists, perhaps, or park guards, or perhaps scientists dedicated to the scrying of Nature's fickle marrow. They may recall stories of our battlemages and healers, of Fauns singing or blowing into their carved flutes. While a Faun has never commanded a Gruff, Gruffs have always deferred to a Faun commander's sage advice.
If hate is thy province, however, then what the Transgenics conjure is a fetid morass of hatred, resentment and desperation, sickness and Infernalism alike having twisted these noble creatures into scabby, boil-covered masses of ravenous sinew, yellow eyes ablaze with unnatural cunning. Those who sought retribution by Hell's blazing flames became monsters in all eyes and dragged those who fought still into a thousand years of acrimony.
That technology has seen it fitting to bring our brethren back from the grave is nothing short of miraculous, but many immortals alive have not lived to see the Fauns in their glory. All they know is that for centuries, Satan himself wore the guise of one 'pon illuminated Bibles drafted by pious monks. Moreover, if a few among Aspasia's peers are barely able to sense the threads of via around them, then little exists to stop the average dabbling Blue Chimera from turning into the first Infernalist or Warlock of its kind.
I would rather err on the side of caution. Little suggests their creation seeded them with the fear and resentment of their later years. I will not, however, remove my eye from them."