faefeasts: the midwinter gala - IC

How was the party for you, my love?

WHO: Tristan and Marcus
WHAT: Celebrating
WHEN: After his call for drinks
WHERE: The Feast
WARNINGS: TBD

( Few understood what it was to be with the fae for so long... )

Drinks, anyone? This is a celebratory time, is it not?

[Her voice is sweet as sugar, positively dripping with saccharine.]

I was thinking about something, my dear.

WHO: Aoife & Tristan
WHAT: Everyone needs to be a little happier, in Aoife's opinion. Tristan is a fine candidate for her skills.
WHEN: Sometime current.
WHERE: The Terrace
WARNINGS: TBD

( Moon and stars shining on her were reassuring and pleasant, even if she preferred the sun's rays. )

[It comes floating to him on a breeze, a whisper that is as gentle as it is dangerous.]

I request your presence at your earliest convenience.

WHO: Tristan and Jocelyn
WHAT: Feasting, and probably moping
WHEN: Nowish?
WHERE: The Feast
WARNINGS: TBD

( If someone wished for his company, they were free to come to him. )

[His writing is cramped and spidery, seemingly striving to take up as little space as possible on the paper so that there will be room for everything he might think to say.]

What exactly is the purpose of broadcasting one's thoughts for all to see? Does anyone truly care what another is doing or thinking at any given moment? Why this fascination with sharing? How many details are truly needed? I ask out of pure academic curiosity. It's a pity I never focused on anthropology. This would be fascinating to study. If stories had mentioned that Faerieland had its own glowing telegraph system, it might have explained quite a few things. Perhaps that was how Lanval's fairy lady knew to ride in and save him at the end of the poem?

[Her script is that of an architect's, blocky and square though still decidedly feminine.]

So just to clarify: we've been summoned from all across time by the Fairy Queen, dumped into her palace for her and her husand? consort? people's? amusement; we can have anything we want; we're surrounded by more pretty people than exist in all of LA; and we can be here for hundreds of years without aging?

[Voice Wisp to Tristan]

Tristan, darling, where are you hiding?

[The wisp is a fragile thing, swirling in small tendrils, fluttering about without much purpose the way moonlight tumbles over stone. The voice accompanying is lost in delicate words.]

Oh... another? So soon? How many is this now? I always remember dancing.

This post is to easily add tags to the community. Nothing to see.

If you are currently missing a tag, please comment here.