Tag Archives: Rivendale

Nesting in Nysaris

From Gwyneth:

There’s something about Nysaris that invites folk in. And I don’t mean the usual Faire, ‘Welcome! Everything is for sale’! invitation. No; there is something far deeper inside Nysaris, a city built around a goddess of hope. 

Sciathán Bán attached himself to me

The Realm had such a Classical Greek atmosphere that I was surprised to find myself in the company of a white raven. Since Apollo began the practice of shooting the messenger when the (white) raven who brought him the news of a lover’s infidelity had the audacity not to peck out the lady’s eyes, the god cursed all ravens to be black from that moment on. I’d hesitate to venture into a place like Nysaris if I were a kvitravn. For now, I’m calling him Sciathán Bán, because it’s a silly play on the Irish poem Pangur Bán. “Pangur” just means “cat”, and “bán” is “white”, so I checked with Brán for the word for “raven”— which I failed to pronounce after half a dozen attempts. He suggested “sciathán”, which means “wing”, instead— and that, it turns out, I can pronounce, with practice. I’ve made it clear to him that we are avoiding Apollo at all costs. 

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A Slow Walk in Glimmering Meadows

From Gwyneth:

My favourite time of the year…

It’s my favourite time of the year. Time for the entire household to relocate to one of the many Faireland Realms and make our home here for two solid weeks whilst we enjoy shopping, music, lively tours, author talks, shopping, and parties. There’s even a film festival these days. And … Did I mention the shopping? It’s the best in any Realm, any world. Because the portal travel was a little tricky this year, we portaled to a nearby Realm and then entered Glimmering Meadows by boat. And that, my darlings, is the best way to see Glimmering Meadows, unless of course you can hover a few inches above the surface of anything with little effort. Because there are very few places, excepting merchant tents, in Glimmering Meadows that are not waterways. Poor Friðrós thought the water must be shallow and jumped in at the earliest opportunity; she was rewarded by ending up waist-deep in … well, it might be glimmering on the surface, but her shoes were silt-logged, and it’s a good thing we are who we are; those clothes would never be wearable again without the magic of, well, magic.

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