PDRRook
patreon
đ§ â¨Happy Junefae! â¨đ§
🕑 Added 2021-06-19 01:39:39 +0000 UTCThe pieces are heavily inspired and set in the universe of my other project with supernatural creatures and such. One of the ROs is a fae there, but thatâs all I am saying right now. Below 3 snippets to accompany the images.
Reed - a High Fae x MC - a minor Fae - friends to almost lovers to rivals back to friends to lovers.
The High Court is not a realm you visit often, if at all. Especially if you can help it, and most of the time you can. It helps that youâre not exactly wanted here - a fae from a minor fraction belongs to the Minor Court and the Minor Court alone. You know your place, itâs not like they let you forget.
The line between the Fey is clear-cut. The fact of belonging or not belonging is one of the first lessons taught to the fledgling by their mentors, a sad truth drilled into them for decades until they reach maturity to prepare them for joining one of the courts.
Your own you know like the back of your hand. The lesser realm, where you spent most of your life thus far. Out of all the places nearing the Upper Court, youâve only gone as far as to the Pearl Parlor. It was a business visit, and you didnât stay there long. Though the Fey refrained from telling it to your face, you could suss the reluctance from the tense lines of their shoulders, the drawn brows. White lies canât hide the intent, not from you whoâs made a living out of reading others.
Foregoing the Middle Court, if there is a location you definitely donât belong in, itâs the Cinnabar Court; the gem of the cardinal realm, the gathering spot of the crème de la crème of the Fey; a place impossible to mistake even for someone sneaking in for the first time.
Itâs smaller and more silent than you imagined, though no less splendid. The size of the chamber is diminished by the ever-present darkness, the bulky onyx furniture. Contrastingly, the thin ink-black curtains woven from the adorned brocade sway gently on the perfume-scented breeze. The reflective flooring is polished and so smooth you have to tread carefully not to slip.
When you reach the middle of the chamber, youâre nearly blinded by the shine of thousand upon thousand of intricate garlands. The drops of gold dance in the greenish light of the three singular beams of the undying fire. The treasure blankets the ground, thrown around like itâs nothing but rubble, unworthy of gracing the sight of the sole occupant of the room. From time to time a twang of another gem landing on the pile resounds and echoes in the quietude, the noise growing louder the closer you walk.
Beneath the layers of fabric rests the cause for your visit. Clad head-to-toe in the finest silk, the shade of which is as black as his sclera when his eyelids flutter open and his attention snaps from the handful of gemstones heâs been fiddling with to you, standing a few steps from the daybed on which heâs spread on.
The jewels spill noisily from between his slack fingers the moment your eyes meet. Something strange overcomes his features; the red of his irises gleams like embers. A flash of... surprise, there and gone again, is swiftly replaced by an amused smirk that never seems to fall off his face. In the rare times that you met him at the court - or, well, at the rare times you were allowed in - youâve quickly learned that the rumors about him are true and his mien is indeed befitting the rank.
âWell, well, look who's here.â
The material of his raiment swishes as he sits up, his silhouette now in full view, illuminated by the fire. That doesnât mean his expression is any easier to understand. Though once it was effortless for you to decipher him as a childe - without the mask of aloofness that might not be a mask at all - neither of you are children anymore.
Youâre aware, of course, of his recently gained reputation; who isnât? The youngest son of the newest Queen - long may she reign - the beau monde of the High Court... and your once-upon-a-time friend before each of you joined your respective fraction. Youâve barely spoken in the decades since. Youâre pretty sure he no longer recalls your name.
The lack of greeting certainly confirms that.
âI didnât plan on entertaining any... guests today.â Thereâs a trace of residual antipathy in his demeanor, not quite malice, but if you werenât so certain that he doesnât remember you - insignificant as you are - you might call it a taunt. âWhat brings you to my humble abode?â
âI need a favor.â And youâre my last resort, you donât add but it must be clear; nobody in their right mind seeks him out of their own volition. Even so, given the gossip spread through the realms, if anyone can aid you, itâs him.
Once more nestling himself against the mount of pillows, the princeling brushes a curl of mussed hair off his forehead. The red kohl is smudged around his eyes, reaching the apples of his cheeks, as though he was tossing and turning in his sleep. The disheveled look suits him best, it always did. The effortless charm earned him plenty of admirers and double as many foes.
Youâre neither, and thus itâs most likely that heâll help you. If you can entertain his curiosity or amusement for enough time to ensure it.
âWhatâs in it for me?â
And there it is, the bargain. Thankfully, his interest is obvious to grasp.
âWhat do you want?â
Thereâs a pregnant pause. His throat moves as he swallows; the sharp play of light and shadows makes the movement perceptible. âA dangerous thing to ask of me, isnât it.â
âWithin reason.â Thereâs not much you have, lesser still that you can afford to part with. Certainly nothing of importance to someone who has everything he could wish for.
âNow whereâs the fun in that?â
If itâs fun he wants... âWhat do you require then,â you repeat, putting on the most amiable expression you can muster, choosing a tone to match it. âIn exchange for your gracious assistance in a small matter regarding the court.â
âForward, arenât you?â He laughs; an acute and borderline bitter sound. âI didnât even agree yet.â
Yet. Is it a tease or an attempt of giving you a thread of false hope, you canât guess.
âTell me your plan.â In contradiction to his earlier comment, the fae points his chin at the seat on the opposite side of him. When you finally sit, he continues. âIn detail.â
And what choice do you have than to share it? None, if you want to live.
[What MC doesn't know is that their brat thinks they don't remember him and he's being a bitter meanie about it. Also pining.]
Laurent: - a Sentry (Minor Fae) x Human MC (former human, a Shadow) - bodyguard trope, misunderstandings, friends to lovers (basically canon to be honest).
The coarse linen rubs your fingers nearly raw where you clutch the soiled satchel to your chest with both arms, struggling to hold the weight of all the stolen gemstones and jewelry you nicked off your ex-employer as a parting gift before you fled the court during a celebration.
The odor of ash and smoke from your burnt contract lingers in your nostrils despite the copious amounts of fresh air you gulp down as you run through the marshes, feet squelching in the mud, sliding and slipping on the wet moss.
If your former employer sent her guards after you theyâll hear you from miles away due to the ruckus youâre making and your ragged breath. For a human, youâre pretty quiet, but for the pursuing you Fey you might as well be screaming your head off.
You donât dare to decelerate your pace, even as your lungs burn from exhaustion. Your pulse, though, is dead silent. Thereâs no heart in your chest to drum, but you can still feel the phantom pitter-patter of it against the bag pressed to your front.
Deep into the quagmire, the scent of green lilac is sharp and overwhelming. Youâve never seen such plants in the Mortal Realm nor in the Upper Court where you used to serve for nearly five years, working off the contract you signed in a burst of desperation one miserable night. The halls youâre most familiar with were laden with solid gold, their appearance ostentatious and heavy.
You try not to think about that time, not your past before that. Thereâs nothing to dwell on, you can only move forward. Which you do, literally and figuratively, even half-buried in the mud that reaches past your thighs, hindering your escape.
Struggling against the long strands of lush verdure that slaps you across the face and shoulders, you fail to notice a movement in your peripheral until the shadow takes a form and the form is given a voice.
âHalt!â
If you still had a heart it would have stopped right there and then. As it is, only your legs listen to the order.
A fae - sentinel, judging by the fancy sword - steps from amidst the foliage. His appearance makes you relax instantly. No respectable upper-court Fey would be caught dead carrying something as barbaric as a blade. Oh, no, their choice of weapon is less... corporeal.
âState your purpose.â Half of the faeâs face is shrouded by a violet hood brimmed with a golden pattern, an out fashioned lace. His garb is plain by the Fey standards, the materials durable more than gaudy. The only ornament is an old washed-blue hairpiece missing a couple of agates- more of a keepsake then, than an actual decoration - and a simple round earring shaped out of dull stainless steel.
It takes you a moment of wheezing to recover your breath. âIâm traveling-â
âYouâre trespassing.â
The soft tone of the reproach doesnât match the stormy expression that clears as soon as the fae catches a glimpse of your faded ritual markings swirling down the side of your cheek and disappearing under the collar of your shirt, branding you as a contract servant.
âYouâre...â
Not a fae. Itâs obvious; the lack of pointed ears, the clear whites of your eyes, the red of your blood staining the linen. You donât respond, but you donât need to. The fae takes a step closer; his movements inaudible even as he wades through the water.
â...human.â
A breezy laugh rips out of your throat startling the fae and you both. âI was.â You say, the rancor palpable. Hate is a failing you could never correct nor hide. But you signed the contract, you took the money, they took your heart. Youâre not a human, not anymore. But youâre not dead either, youâre in-between.
âDo you... Do you perhaps wish to reach the Mortal Realm?â
Thereâs something akin to pity on the faeâs features, a sign as surprising as it is out of place. You donât know what to do with it. You certainly didnât expect it. The startled, âyesâ is out of your mouth in a whisper before you can rethink giving the information freely.
Where else could you seek shelter? The creatures of all sorts are forbidden from entering human settlements as long as humans stay out of the forests. Of course, nobody believes that they would hold their end of the bargain, thatâs why there are means to ensure their... cooperation.
âThe closest town is-â
âRanez, I know. Thatâs where Iâm heading.â
The fae coughs. His expression doesnât change but it seems as though heâs searching for the right words. âThe portal is in the opposite direction.â
âOh.â Well, thatâs... More than likely. You were in a hurry when you left and you didnât bring a map, not that you could find any.
âI can take you there.â
And risk being attacked by the hunters? In the, give or take, five years you lived in the Otherworld, youâve met maybe a handful of Fey that werenât rotten to the core. Neither of them was selfless.
âWhy?â
The faeâs head tilts to the side, the blue eyes unfathomable yet genuinely puzzled. âWhat do you mean, âwhy?ââ
âWhy would you help me?â
âWhy wouldnât I?â
Youâre at an impasse.
The thing High Fey hate nearly as much as humans are the sentries, dwellers of the Lower Court, and the guardians of the realm, the space nearest and parallel to the mortalsâ world. You can bet your life that with the newcomer youâre as safe as you can be in case your pursuers catch up with you.
The animosity between the fractions is a blessing; the sentries wonât give up on a thing - or person - wanted by the Upper Court, not out of genuine compassion but out of pure spite. And that you can appreciate. Thereâs no need to conceal everything, only the important parts.
âI can take you home.â The sentry, as though sensing your lowering guard, lifts an arm, letting go of the hem of his cape in favor of outstretching his hand to you, palm up. The dark leather of his gauntlet is worn by the years of fighting, his fingers are free of any rings, his wrist devoid of bracelets.
âWhatâs the charge?â
He blinks. âI donât need coin?â
Naturally. Though his attire is simple, it isnât cheap. The cape alone could set you up for life - spider silk, unbreakable fabric costs fortune back home. No Fae is magnanimous in offering their help, though. You just need to wait and see. Thereâs always a bargain to strike and the price for your freedom would be hefty.
Still, youâre not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Youâre also in no position to refuse given your lack of terrain orientation. âAll right.â Placing your hand on the faeâs, you give him if not your trust then an opportunity to earn it. âLead the way.â
[And then MC returns to their hometown only to realize that time passes differently in the Otherworld and itâs been 50+ years and their loved ones are dead. đ]
Jewel - a Fae from the Middle Court x MC - a High Fae - enemies to reluctant partners in crime to friends to lovers.
Clutching the shiny mother of pearl ring in your fist so tightly that the sharp edges dig into the chiffon of your gloves, nearly ripping the thin material of it to shreds, you enter the Pearl Parlor. Wrapping the faux equanimity around you like a cloak, you wind the edges of it until your mask becomes an unpenetrable cocoon.
As you cross the vast corridors, you greet the attendants that are supposed to receive your consideration, disregarding those currently out of favor with the Queen - the newly appointed ruler might be kinder than the last, but there are the rumors of rapid changes reshifting the pawns in the structures of the Cinnabar Court. Itâs unwise to burn the bridges, but safer to stay in the shadows, despite your ambition or lack thereof. Everything might change in the blink of an eye, itâs a good practice to follow the current. And safer, besides.
The manners and etiquette, as well as lies and schemes, were taught to you since you were old enough to comprehend spoken words. Youâve lived in the High Court your entire life; youâre well versed in predicting the ups and downs of it. The power rises and falls like a tide over the tempestuous sea, and you know better than getting yourself soaked in it.
Staying in the loop isnât cheap. The ring that begins to warm up during the prolonged contact with your skin is one of a kind, a priceless treasure you obtained after years of searching. It will be a fitting reward for a job well done. The gossip flows more freely than wine in the realms; the truth, however, is exorbitant. Your position, in turn, is worth every expense.
The corridor ends as abruptly as it has begun. Parting the pink screen with a free hand, you pave your way inside the hall, accompanied by the arrangement of various instruments, hushed chatter, and neverending footsteps of Fey moving in and out of the place.
The scenery, despite the crowd, is light and radiant; an oddity in itself. The serenity and the rectitude less feigned than in the adjacent courts is still a novelty to you. The parlor is one of the few places within the realms so bright, filled with pale colors such as white and beige contrasted with the customary pink and black of the heavy curtains. The cacholong walls are carved to perfect smoothness, begging for a touch, the cracks filled with molten gold keep runny with magick gleam in the iridescent lights reflecting off the strings of pears hung every which way.
You can feel the stares like a physical touch on the back of your head, the countless eyes, black and cold, following you since you stepped in. You know that if you were to look, all faces would be turned in a different direction, offering you the illusion of privacy. You are, after all, favored. For now, as some of your colleagues like to remind you in a poorly veiled threat.
Youâve dealt with worse than a couple of gossiping hags, you wonât let them intimidate you. What you will do instead is crush them before they can begin to scheme against you. Silently, as everything should be done. Itâs only proper, after all.
There arenât many laws here, fewer still as far as the High Fey are concerned, but thereâs one that has to be abode by - no fae may slaughter one of its kind by their own hand. Othersâ hands are all fair game if you can ensure that you wonât be caught. The affair requires both the goods and the people, and you, thanks to your position, have both.
One of the latter, one of your most trusted - despite the decades of mistrust followed by the reluctant and forced partnership - is seated on a small couch, fingers plucking the strings of one of the many instruments she wields.
The powder pink voluminous dress pulls down her elbows and cascades to the floor like a river, blending with the paleness of the marble podium. The black gauze underneath, each layer translucent and matte, is superimposed in such a way that the end result resembles a completely opaque veneer.
Carmine petals and shards of gemstones in the same shade frame her piercing eyes with white specks made lighter by the encircling darkness. She sits alone, though once she was surrounded by many.
She doesnât glance at you when you near her and you, too, donât acknowledge her presence. Once upon a time, the trepidation of the encounter would render you faint. Nowadays, gone are the days of nervous anticipation of an upcoming betrayal.
Though you donât know much about her past, only bits, and pieces, hearsay about her parentsâ exile that happened when you were receiving appropriate education outside of the Court and thus were absent. Nothing more than that.
Your partner doesnât have an official name, none that you know. Youâd never breach the taboo of inquiring about it and she extends the courtesy. Youâre on the same boat, so to speak, sharing the adversaries.
But itâs not a topic to discuss in polite company. Your conversations occur near morning when the mantle of gray falls and the sky bleeds crimson. There, when the court is asleep you leave your door open in invitation, and there, like a mare, she appears.
âSuzerain,â she says, as is expected when you come into her vicinity. Your only response to her paying her respect is a nod of your head, anything more would be a lure for more whispers and more unwanted eyes. Neither of you can afford to attract that kind of attention. Especially not now.
As you pass the small couch the fingers of your occupied hand unclench and the ring drops on the cushion, hidden from the view of all but her. For a second the breeze pushes the draperies to a flutter, caging the two of you in an enclosed space. In the span of a breath, thereâs only you, her, and the suspended in time accord. A gentle note entirely at odds with the look of pure hunger in her eyes, the quirk of her lips that promises swift death.
You can taste the matching bloodlust on the tip of your tongue.
Then, the hourglass turns, the canopy plummets to the ground with a tumultuous rustle. Your face set backs into a disinterested grimace.
You leave, and donât look back.
[MC: 'we're just business partners, nothing more. She hates me besides, she can barely stand me'. Jewel: 'I want to smooch your stupid face :)']
Guys, let me know if you want some snippets with the other 3 ROs. I promised myself not to include them until the sequel is out, but I can and will make an exception for this AU đ
Comments
paragontethras
MY GOD YES PLEASE THIS IS FILLING THANK YOU QUEEN
Shuris
OMG Rook! You're spoiling us! (And yes to the snippets with the other ROs if you're able!) đâ¤â¤
