The Beauty of Blue

I was wandering again. Aside from the Big Events, this year, I travelled the Great Faire mostly in one disguise or another. It was fun, and somewhat easier, as I was not in a mind to deal with other beings overmuch, and frankly, there are plenty of other Fae Queens at the Faire: my celebrity is mercurial, just like me (and just like them!)

There was no better place to wander this year’s Faire than Wandering Woods. And although as Wandering places go, it was rather orderly, what makes a place is not always its stunning architecture, or its defining features; no, what makes a place is the light.

The beauty of blue

From The Candles To The Stars

From Davi:

I … woke up like this. I’ve learned not to ask how these things happen. I’ve learned not to speculate about the reasons behind them, the physics, the wherefores and whatevers. But often, no matter what predicament I find myself in, there is a definite why.

The Candle Path

In this case, and at this time, it seemed there was a place the Faire wanted me to see.

An Alien in Somniatoris Arx

From Davi:

I keep changing. I’m always changing. I have been a Romani traveller, I have been a forest elf, I have been so many things over the last decade, and yet that feeling of home, that sense of a place that grounds and anchors a being, has never been mine. I am long removed from the travelling life, yet I am still a traveller. Now, I move down different paths. Sometimes even time seems like just another road. But there are few places that combine both breath-stealing beauty and carefully crafted distance the way that Somniatoris Arx does. 

The feeling of being small

Before the Ball in Isles of Tarrin

Amid the magic crystals

We planned to attend the Faire’s glamorous masqued ball, but truth be told, large gatherings are making me a bit anxious these days. Of course, there are many satellite parties, so the Fairchilde was our choice for later in the evening. It only made sense that I spent my day before the ball in the lovely airborne Isles of Tarrin.

POETRY IS AN ECHO, ASKING A SHADOW TO DANCE

Fog, though, in Faerie, is so much more than just an investigative cat.

Carl Sandburg wrote those words. Sandburg as a poet wasn’t studied overmuch when I was at uni doing my literature Master’s, but I had read some of his things in an independent study.