Category Archives: Faire Stories

Explorations, event reports, personal musings, posts about the Faire.

Chronicles of Adair: The Missing Score (Last Updated 5/31)

Hello. It’s me again, the Fairelander. If by some small miracle you are reading this message, then perhaps you will understand my plight.

Perhaps you, too, still set your Scroll of Teleportation for Junction, only to see a blinking cursor above a nameless ocean. Perhaps you, too, still wake up giddy to greet the morning at Midas, only to rub the sleep out of your eyes and realize that Ishtar’s Gate has drifted away with the Mists. Perhaps you, too, adjust the pieces of your complete Her Highness’s Treasures gacha set, only to feel a profound emptiness—a void where something should be.

In my case, that void is the blank page I now hold in my hand, one page among many that I found washed up on the steps of Midas minutes before the Great Bongs of Doom sounded and the Fairelands vanished into the aether.

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Memoirs of a Little Cat

Memoirs of a Little Cat
by Jillycakes Witchybean
(Moonbeam Jillybean)

For over two weeks, each night the little cat was magically whisked away to meet with other critters, human and fey folk. They gathered at twilight and toured worlds! Wondrous worlds filled with sorcery, mystical sights and music! Each world was so different from the last. Some nights, if one was lucky, they might catch a glimpse of the creator of such a marvelous place and learn of the thoughts and ideas of the creations.

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What would you wish for?

What would you want, if you could have anything?

 

A seductive question, perhaps the most enticing combination of word or thought that could be conjured. Once asked, it captivated; either by focus and endless longing, or through purposeful, eternal avoidance through fear of what may, or may not be possible.

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The sound of Serpents

SSSssssSSSSssss
The sibilant sound reverberated around the bayou, licking over leaves and Phyllomedusa alike.

It hadn’t been long since the mists had cleared, well, mostly cleared. Patches lingered here and there, as things were wont to do. Strands of spanish moss clung to branch and rigging; giving foot, toe and claw holds to all manner of creatures making their way through an environment never clear, never obviously dangerous or benign.

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