Bardor and Thymewreath

Bardor wanders through the twillight forest, hovering over holly bushes and clumps of verbena and ferns, amidst trunks of elm, oak and ash, which are heavily matted with vines and fungi. He sees no animals save a few silvery moths which flicker in and out of the foliage. There is a heavy scent of herbs and greenery.

Bardor is a little curious, but first and foremost tired. His fasination with this new, exiting world has worn of, and he feels homesick

He walks resplendent in his silken robes, the rich and seamless fabric scintilliating in burgundy, white and purple as its complex folds are brought to life by Bardor’s walking. Too bad the garment has no pockets. His mageblood is quickened with the feeling of magic within him and around him, yet he feels a vague, oily presence in his aura, which hangs as a barely sensed reminder of his earlier failures at spellcasting.

As he walks, Bardor grows tired and slightly nauseated. From around him, he can occasionally hear rustling in the underbrush or in the tree crowns, but he never sees anybody. After some time, somebody recites in a sing-song voice "Soldier, sailor, tinker, tailor, ploughboy, rich man, poor man, beggarman, lost man, tainted man, dying man" followed by brittle, tinkling laughter from many throats.

Not really paying attention, Bardor suddenly comes to, saying "Eeeh..What? Sorry, I wasn't paying attention, could you repeat that? Where are you? Why are you laughing? Do any of you know the way back to Avation?"

"We are many. We laugh out of spite. Who are you? Would you like us to tell you > the easiest way to get to 'Avation'? Would you like us to repeat our rhyme?"

Bardor answers: "Yes.", biting his tounge, remembering just to late something about not asking for anything from the queer people. Somebody breathes in to answer as he continues "....that's a good question," hoping he avoided disaster "but I think not. In fact I don't even want to know, so I wouldn't even listen if you told me, so there's no use trying. I'm just going to stand here playing with my special owl." He takes out the glass figurine and starts petting it, talking to it and playing with it, trying to get the creatures curious.

A number of voices chatter excitedly at the appearance of the bird, but are soon broken off by an imperative tenor, which effectively shuts them up. The tenor then continues in Frankish: "Say, that -is- a rather pretty trinket."

Bardor turns, trying to appear only slightly interested at the sound of Frankish. "Yes, it is. Would you like to see it?"

"I can see it quite well from here, thank you. Is there anything I can do for you?" the disembodied voice replies.

Bardor walks a bit closer trying to get a look at the speaker, while hiding the bird under his coat. "Do you like pretty little trinkets? If you'll do me a small favour I might give it to you."

"What kind of a favour?" asks the speaker, who seemingly is in front of Bardor, and just a few yards away, but who is quite impossible to spot. "If you are thinking of me helping you home, you will have to do better than a ghost-bonded glass figurine, little mortal man."

"What would do, as payment for you getting me home? And by the way, where are you? I can't see you."

"Oh. So sorry. How very rude of me, I forgot how limited your perceptual abilities are." Says the figure and becomes visible some three yards in front of Bardor.

The figure which stands before Bardor is both wonderful and terrible. Of human shape, yet strangely elongated, it is at least two yards tall. Its skin is white as albaster, the long flowing hair is the yellowish colour of brass, with strands of green mixed in. The right ear and the area around it is entirely coverd by what appears to be mistletoe. Its green eyes are large, and look like those of a cat, with no whites. They are surmounted by large, bushy eyebrows. Its nose is slight and rounded. A wide mouth with thin lips is drawn back in a sneer, to reveal small, slightly pointed teeth, reminicent of a child’s milk teeth. It’s brow is high. The total impression is both refined, childlike and feral. The being’s neck is long and graceful and disappears into an ill-defined garment which may be a cloak or a robe, indigo in colour, and with a couple of large spiders crawling leisurely over its velvety fabric. It speaks, in a pleasant tenor: "Ten years of your youth, the colour of your eyes and every full-moon night of your life, to bring you back to the world of Mortals. Quite generous, don't you think?"

"There you are! Generous isn't the word that sprang to mind, but it would seem I'm in over my head."

"Yes, so don't push your luck by being damned rude, or you might just be damned." replies the robed figure.

"What, if you don't mind me asking, will happen on these full-moon nights? Somekind of were-thing? Will I become a were-cat, or something as such?"

"They won't be yours, so it's none of your business. I will use them as I see fit."

"OK, if that what it takes, I'll do it. Just take me back."

"Excellent" says the figure, grinning like the cat who ate the canary. Bardor feels the intense pain of a decade of his life-energy being ripped from his soul. The agony is beyond words. Bardor's eyes water and he loses his breath, falling over. As he gradually picks himself up, the he sees the figure peer smugly down at him. "You know, we did not specify when I would send you back."

"You tricked me? That's not very nice!"

"My heart bleeds for you, little mortal."

"When are you planning on sending me back then? I think you should know, I can get pretty annoying when I'm bored."

"Ooooh, now I'm scared! I think you should know that I am perfectly capable of sending you back minus your scrotum and your ears… How about another 15 years of your lifetime to bring you to the world of Mortals as soon as circumstances permit?"

"How about 10 years? And when would ’soon as circumstances permit’ be?"

"How about 17 years? The time it takes us to get to a convenient gate, open it and get you through."

"I can't afford to wait any longer, so lets go. This means you'll get me home as soon as possible, without taking any more years?"

"I promised to take you to your world, not "home" responds the figure slyly. "But for one year more, something could be arranged."

Feeling quite hostile, Bardor tries to put on a smile, and succeeds to some extent. "When we get to the gate and you are ready to send me home, you may take that last year."

The figure replies: "Finally catching up, are you? Oh well, it is a deal." Then it chants a spell, and Bardor begins to feel very light, indeed, he hovers over the ground. The figure then leaps from the ground, and grasps Bardor’s right hand in its left hand, which has five fingers and a thumb. Its pale skin is dry and cool, and its nails are short, neat and ruby-coloured. It cries out something in an unfamiliar tongue, and then Bardor is jerked along upwards past the trees, all around him he can hear wings beat. As soon as they clear the trees, the figure pulls Bardor more horizontally, and for some time, they zoom along above the boughs, looking down at stretches of wood and marshland. Here and there in the distance, he can see luminous towers of alien architecture.Having no straight lines whatsoever nor any easily discernible symmetry, they look vaguely plantlike.

 

Eventually, Bardor, the robed one, and their invisible attendants dive downwards again, landing at the side of a grassy knoll, near a colossal ash tree with thick and widely spread roots. Fungi are growing on its trunk and roots. The figure looks Bardor in the eyes and says "We have not gotten properly introduced, which is rather sad, as you have spent a considerable part of your life with me. I am called Thymewreath. Who are you?"

"I am Bardor."

Thymewreath grins once more. It is not a friendly grin. Thymewreath's teeth are quite beautiful, not pointed or anything, but they look like the teeth of a human child, not an adult, and somehow that just looks wrong. Then Thymewreath turns to the hill and utters a singsong invocation. The grassy ground ripples and melts into a black vortex, which quickly stabilizes into an inky disk. It then steps backwards and away, and says "We are at the gate. I claim another year." After walking up to Bardor, Thymewreath gingerly kisses his forehead. A brief spasm of pain rips through his aura. Every time a year is taken, it feels worse, it is not something anybody gets used to. "There, you have my mark upon you. You are free to go, young Bardor - Free to go."

Bardor turns away from Thymewreath and steps towards the gate. He then looks back over his shoulder, and says "Well, I guess I'll see you around" before he steps into the vortex, hoping for the best.

As Bardor steps into the vortex, he hears Thymewreath answer in a mirthful voice "I guess you may, young Bardor, I guess you may."

Passing through the vortex is like sinking into icy water. Bardor hangs suspended in a cold limbo for what feels like an eternity, yet he only feels his heart beat a single stroke. Then, he falls numb and dizzy down on a soft carpet of moss. Breathless, he inhales deeply, and smells the familiar scents of the early autumn on his breath. During his time in the land of the fair folk, months have passed in the World of Mortals.