Post by Marone on Jul 24, 2010 23:32:45 GMT -8
True Name:
Marone Phageren
Nickname:
Marone, Mar
Age:
25 (human years)
Date of Birth:
January 23
Sexuality:
Love and sex aren't really a big concern of Marone but he's probably bisexual.
Kith:
Fire Fairy (formerly human)
Abilities:
As Marone was not originally a fairy he is limited to the ability of flight. When he attempts to lie, which is often, Marone's body has an almost "allergic reaction" to the cultures inside of him which causes him to shrink in size depending on the personal importance of the lie.
Marone, as a fire fairy, is resistant to most heat.
Loyalty:
To his King, but mostly to himself.
Status/Occupation:
Formerly the fresh heir to a fairly influential house. Officially a young Duke.
Appearance:
Marone is a very scrawny individual, even for a fairy, and as a fairy he has thin looking skin that is very pale and almost sallow in the proper light. His hair is a little shaggy, though not unkempt, and is a deep pinkish-red color. He has slight side burns that end just before the underside of his jaw and are slightly lighter in their coloration than the rest of his hair. Smaller than the average Fire Fairy (4'1), Marone's delicate physique and semi-stunted height put him at disadvantage in most situations because of his obvious discomfort with his "new" form.
Freckled and dark eyed, Marone's features are hollowed out so dramatically that even the slightest indent seems magnetic to shadow. Despite this, Maorne's nose is button shaped and small. This gives him a comical appearance and makes him look younger than he actually is. Even before his unfortunate encounter with the Fae, Marone was not very attractive and this reflects on his current form. His wings are a translucent pink and resemble a dragon fly's. Usually, Marone goes bare foot, and is clothed as closely to current human fashions as his new body will allow; meaning that he wears long pants, a belt in which to tuck his make-shift, lopsided "spear", and scraps of fabric tied around his shoulders to accommodate his wings.
Personality:
Marone is bitter, arrogant but also almost hopelessly incompetent in anything besides intelligence. He enjoys verbally assaulting people and does not hesitate to do so. As a human, Marone was, ideologically, the poster child of his culture: a pompous, unyielding, aristocrat who openly condemned all other races and cultures. Marone, in fact, took pleasure in his humanity and the seemingly elevated status that accompanied it. Much of that close-minded pride still remains. Stubborn and ambitious, Marone tries his best to keep control of his emotions but can get angry or frightened easily. He is deeply afraid of weakness and is, therefore, disgusted by himself. Does not like to be touched as he is and always has been manically insecure about his body.
Something of a stiff, Marone's early life was composed of learning customs and the Law and he is capable of reciting small segments of the text in order to prove a point. Likewise, he is quick to report offense to the Law, namely in scenarios where such "loyalty" benefits him. Though he is, much to his chagrin, rather emotional, Marone's near photographic memory and sharp tongue make him an excellent debater. This is especially useful as he has always been a poor fighter.
Marone would claim to be a capable manipulator but, though he is a gifted liar and decent at "reading people", is really more of blackmailer and bully than some eloquent figure of control. Much of Marone's problems arise from his nearly compulsive habit of distorting the truth but he usually can juggle his sundry of lies with efficiency. Because he is so very enamored with the masks he's fashioned for himself Marone is not very good with people beyond shallow conversation or brutal confrontations. He believes intimacy to be hindering and pointless (though he is slightly afraid of it) and regards most individuals as tools. Despite his pride, Marone is willing to be used by others as long as he gains something from the act.
History:
Each day is something to be cherished but demolished just the same.
Keep your eyes ahead and that chin tilted ever-so-slightly heavenward. That was the custom here, the silent rule which the best observers could gather as so as they entered the room. And Marone had always been, among other things, a shrewd observer. One thrust from birth into such a superficial aristocracy would have to being order to survive, which was really Marone's goal all along.
He'd been born to the highly regarded house of Phageren, formerly Lindolin, to the generally-referred-to-as-pretty Lady Lindolin and the plain-but-unnaturally-gifted-with-a-sword Bord Phaegren. The mother had her hand securely up the trousers of the current monarchy and the father was a well-known soldier who was rumored to have taken out an entire village of Shape-shifters with a nail laced wooden board. As fate would have it, Lindolin required a sturdier image and Bord was looking to rise in the non-military ranks of his culture. These two, mismatched or political soul mates depending on the morals of the audience, produced three boys and a sickly firstborn girl. Marone, sliding in somewhere near the middle of this arrangement was rather underdeveloped himself and lacked the brawn of his older brother and the striking looks of his younger. His crutch was, instead, an uncannily conniving intelligence and thought it did not earn him the honor of a warrior or the beloved attentions of a suitor Marone was awarded a position as a Scholar. And, because of both of his parents' reputations, gained an easy access to the Court of the King himself.
This privilege tutored Marone on many subjects, though Marone was already, sans his physical ineptitude and jaded features, something of a poster child for his race's opinions, but mostly it gave him a chance to be separated from the musty sitting rooms and moldering libraries that he usually frequented. Instead he was taught to fight and to perfect his already semi-keen ability of making shallow, political conversations with persons of importance. Taken out on Fae hunts and to Shifter baitings, Marone finally discovered a glorified outlet for his feelings of inadequacy and hatred towards those more capable than him. Years passed and the clumsy, frustrated boy grew into an informed, selfishly ambitious man. By this point in his life, Marone was on good terms with the monarchy and had secured himself as the heir to his family's estate (Whether or not he had a hand in the untimely death of his elder brother and the sudden illness of his father is debatable and, ultimately, irrelevant). His mother and sister were prospering in the discrete manner of women while, at the same time, scouring the estates of their wealthy allies for a wife rich and suitable enough for him.
Marone himself had never been terribly interested in "love", sex, or even the symbiotic elements of partnership between the different sexes of nobility and he generally avoided the subject entirely around all company. Customs, naturally, declared that he must have a wife but Marone invested himself so much in his steady climb up the social ranks that few people noticed his solitary state.
One particularly overcast day, though, Marone had returned with a few of his fellow Couturiers from a very successful raid on a small encampment of Faes to discover that his mother has arranged him a marriage in his brief absence. Upon meeting the girl the following evening, Marone found himself pleased with her status, though inwardly afraid of the physical ramifications he would have to endure while married to her, and scheduled the wedding for the following week before disappearing into his study to form a balanced and universally pleasing guest list. That was the other up-side to marriage: one got to invite all sorts of impressive people to the event.
The festivities prepared, Marone found himself restless the night before the wedding; dreading the ceremonies and the customary night that was to follow. After all, why should he be forced to abide the desires of a woman he was joining simply for her social ties? And, lost in these self-righteous musings, Marone took his sword and wandered off into the night to hound and slaughter a few Shifters or Faes. It was, after all, a coping mechanism and one that he used often. How then could he have known that tonight, of all nights, a survivor of one of his usual raids, a little Sky Fairy named Bilts, had also set out to ruin him? (Bilts himself, perhaps a tad too sly compared to his fellow Fairies, was more than vindictive and, like Marone, had been all too welcoming towards the encouraged hatred between the humans and Faes. The massacre of his comrades a few nights prior had simply given him a specific reason to retaliate and he set out to destroy those of his tormentors he remembered. Unfortunately for Marone, Bilts' clearest memory of the night included Marone's hatchet face leering down at him and, due to the ruckus directed towards Marone's wedding, Bilts knew where to find the owner of that horrid expression.)
Seeing a light low in the brush, Marone crept towards what he assumed was a lone and easy opponent only to have the creature flee seconds before he reached it. Disgusted that he had failed to corner the individual, Marone pursued Bilts' overly bright lantern deeper and deeper into the forest. The woods began to choke his movements but Marone, stubborn and just arrogant enough to disregard his natural intelligence, continued on until he suddenly stumbled into an eerie clearing amid the strangled heart of the forest. Near the direct center of this field was a raised mound of what appeared to be slightly phosphorus earth. Squinting at the small monolith, Marone tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword and pressed forward. The hairs on the back of his neck rose but, in that same moment, a delicious notion passed over him: What if he, Marone Phageren of all people, had discovered the Mound? Delighted, drunk with the idea, he, rather than considering more Scholar like strategies, rushed towards the shimmering opening and leapt through.
- - - -
The sensation of falling had stopped and Marone was vaguely aware that he was breathing an lighter sort of air than that in the forest. If he had been poetic Marone would have described it as "exuberant" or something of equal specificity but, as he believed words should be educated but direct, he did not think the change over further. The initial excitement had not worn off: he'd found the Mound and now he was in the land of the Fae where he could damage the barbarians in ways which, he was certain, his comrades had never even imagined. This zeal seemed to push the legends he had heard about Faeryland to the back of his mind, as he eagerly raised his head to behold what few humans had ever witnessed. And what he saw horrified him:
There were bodies everywhere. Small figures flanked by lanky ones, all whirling and spinning about like drunken animals. These figures would sometimes push off from the earth, the smaller ones anyways, and flit around the heads and shoulders of the taller dancers; everyone touching at some point or another and every touch vibrant and excited. There was energy crackling through the atmosphere and to Marone it looked like an orgy. Not that he could completely grasp the images that his eyes were gathering. The colors spun with each fold of the whimsical figures and the sounds merged into a song (though Marone was sure he heard "actual" instrument generated music coming from elsewhere). Dazed, he swung blindly in front of him but only managed to lose his hold on the weapon, which slid across the earth and into the drove of Faes. Marone stumbled blindly after it but found himself, somehow, near one of the chambers walls. Close by, a gilded linen table stretched as far as his eyes could see in the light and was laden with food that looked both repulsive and oddly familiar in the same instant.
"I've got to get a hold on myself… this is my chance to--"
But he never quite clarified what chance he was taking because a little winged fairy touched his arm. It was as if a bolt of lightning had brushed him and Marone yelped and staggered away from the creature. Looking desperately around, Marone began to realize that none of the Faes in the pulsing mass had noticed him; even after his outburst. At least none except the small fairy staring up at him with a blank expression.
Maybe they didn't hear me because the music is so loud… Did I even cry out at all. If I did one of the little beasts should have noticed-- How could they not… their ears are like maypoles and their eyes can see the smallest--
His mind was turning over on itself steadily. The throb of the music made it impossible for him to distinguish his convictions from the flashes of light off the skin of the Fae, made it impossible for him to perceive that the only fairy to acknowledge him had gently taken him hand and was leading him closer and closer to the absurd dishes on the magnificent table, made it impossible for him to comprehend the words of the slightly-more-vindictive fairy named Bilts as he handed Marone a small acorn shaped goblet filled with a substance the color of the moon.
The beautiful chaos, the thrum of so many bodies rubbing together to the wild persuasions of the music, and the over-whelming light that shone through out made it so impossible for Marone to think that he barely had to time to remember that he was human before it was too late.
- - - -
"I think we should kill him."
Bilts shook his shock of hair expectantly. The Air Fairy has stationed himself a few yards away from the body as a strategically move; he would remain detached from the emotion of the situation while still being able to command it. The other sundry of Fae had crowded around the point of interest, the fairies of the group fluttering their wings in excitement, and remained mostly silent. A rather delicate looking Light Elf, called Holge, looked over her shoulder at Bilts and cooed,
"We can't do that… He's not well-- He's one of u--"
"Don't say it. Simply because one's shape is changed doesn't mean that his heart's any different than before." A Spirit Elf, authoritative yet composed, cut Holge off before looking back to the subject, "I've never been present for something of this gravity myself."
"It's eerie." Holge added, trying to sound helpful.
"Doesn’t matter what it is," Bilts buzzed his wings out of irritation, "Simply matters what it was. You can't tell me that you feel any comradery towards Human scum?"
A squat Reptilian Changling passed her thin line of a tongue over her left eye before speaking, "Formerly human scum. Formerly." She nodded as if in punctuation.
"Please," Bilts, whose plan was fading on account of the less vindictive nature of his fellows, "Don't tell me that you're--"
It was at that moment, that Marone's eyes slid open. The sensation was terrible, even more so than his first glimpse of the Faeryland, and he groaned something inaudible before reaching up to rub his eyes. There was something wrong. His body felt alert not only to itself but.. well.. He had a hard time comprehending the change. It was almost as if he were not only aware of his own body's well being but of that of world around him. Letting his eyes flutter open again, Marone suddenly realized that he was not alone and began to recall the events prior to this. He attempted to sit up, reaching instinctively for his sword, which was still missing, but sank back down after a second. His body felt sick. Like thousands of tiny insects were crawling up through his stomach and throat.
But he knew where he was and that scared him even more.
"W-what," his mouth slow to form words at first, "What do you want?" If Marone had been stronger the inquiry might have sounded more like a demand but, in his current state, it was tired and let show more of his fear than he would have liked.
"Scared to death." Holge murmured in a voice like little bells.
The rest of the crowd of Fae were silent though, intrigued by the scene unfolding. Upon receiving no answer, Marone blinked, oddly he was no longer blinded by the ever-present light, and snapped,
"Listen, you repulsive little beasts, I don't know what you did to me or why-- or-- or how you did it but I swear that I'll cleave you all into neat halves if someone doesn't tell me what is--"
"You're a fairy." The Spirit Elf said matter-of-factly.
"Fuck you." Spat Marone and tried to sit up again.
"No, he's not lying," a water fairy said, echoing the Elf's tone, "We can't lie. We don't."
His steadily growing terror aside, Marone finally managed to force himself into a sitting position only to behold the host of creatures surrounding him. If before he had felt dread from the voices he was now struck with a sense of helpless doom: there were about twenty different species of Fae, ranging from Fairies to Elves and some of which Marone had never actually seen up close before, and Marone was stiff and weaponless. Trying to regain his mock confidence,
"Don't try to justify yourself to me, halfling, I know exactly--"
Bilts, who had been merely observing his revenge, suddenly sped forward and seized Marone by his newly acquired wings with an expression that seemed far too malicious for someone of the Fae's upbringing. Marone nearly screamed but, managing to retain his steadily declining dignity, stopped himself and expressed his surprise by freezing up. There was a light tug on his back and he was, he now suddenly realized, sitting in the mangled remains of his own clothing. Bilts gave the stranger's new appendages another gruff pull before steeping back in obvious disgust. Still paralyzed by the millions of emotions bounding up in and rebounding off of his middle section, Marone tried to say something, a denial maybe, but succeeded only in making a stifled squeaking noise. Holge widened her bright eyes with obvious sympathy,
"He's scared to death, Grym," turning her attention to the Spirit Elf, "Poor little--"
"You've got to be kidding me, this bastard is the same kind that would cut open your throat without even thinking twice about it. No, he'd rape you and then kill you. These bastards--"
The Spirit Elf, apparently named Grym, straightened himself up, throwing one last empty look at Marone, before addressing the Air Fairy,
"Bilts, did you have a hand in this?"
The Fairy seemed ready to object but since he was physically incapable of doing so, Bilts simply dropped his head, arching his shoulders. The Reptilian Changling looked like she was about to erupt but Grym interceded before she could,
"Out."
"Grym you don't have the authority to do that--"
Bilts began his obviously pre-planned retaliation but a sudden noise from Marone silenced them for the most part. He had begun to shake, as if in some violent reaction to the fate which had been thrust upon him, but seemed to be regaining his motor functions.
"This can't be happening. This can't be happening, I'm not some earth gulping halfling-- I can't be." Shaking his head, the former human clenched his right fist as his eyes swept the room, "Who- who did it? I swear I'll kill him-- All of you rot, I'll--"
The group of Fae remained motionless, their eyes following the painful movements of the stranger, and even when Grym finally spoke again it was not to the bewildered young man.
"Bilts, come with me to the Princess. You must be judged."
"Exiled you mean," the Fairy muttered hopelessly but moved to follow the Elf anyways, but , before he left the remains of the creature he had sought to ruin, Bilts turned one last time to Marone and smiled with pure, obviously entertained benevolence, "Enjoy this, human, not everyone of your kind ends up so lucky."
And then, laughing, exited behind the majority of the group.
Marone was practically alone apart from Holge and something that looked like young boy with ears that resembled a fox's. Marone, meanwhile refused to stir apart from muttering,
"This can't be happening."
Every so often. Holge watched him for a time and even after the canine boy left, she remained silently. At that point, the Light Elf extended her spindly, fragile hands and attempted to touch Marone's shoulder in what was intended reassurance. As she did so, Marone lashed out instantly, striking her palm with the back of his hand and throwing another blow towards her pale cheek. Naturally the strike missed it's mark but the Elf withdrew slightly, looking wounded.
"Don't touch me." Marone nearly spat, "I'm not one of you and I'm not some helpless little--" He refused to admit his present form as speaking those words, he felt, would affirm that these events were true, "And unless you can cure me of- of this fucking disease then-- then I have no use for you!"
Silently, Holge took another soft step away but stood for another moment, watching the small creature's shoulders heave. Then, just before she pattered out of the small earthen room, the Light Elf whispered in a muffled voice,
"I wish I could say that I'm sorry for you…"
And was gone.
And Marone was by himself in more ways than he had ever been before.
Roleplay Sample:
Today the sky had split open over the trees, the dark clouds lined by the intensity of their darkness so that it looked as if there were a great schism down the center of the grey expanse. There was rain too, great, heavy drops of the stuff falling like arrows through the canopy of foliage that usually kept him dry. Marone had never been found of water; he wasn't a swimmer and had never had any use for the practice and found that in his new body the substance was twice as threatening. Fairy skin, at least his own, was far less sturdy than he had imagined and far more likely to bruise than he knew was possible. The way the half insects had flown at him in battles before… He would have thought their hides were made of leather or forever calloused by constantly crawling through the undergrowth and getting raked by unexpected branches. Of course there had always been a great deal of subjects Marone was wrong about.
At the moment, the shivering fairy had no idea where he was and, being hopeless and helplessly estranged to the connection he now had with nature, kept catching his recently acquired set of wings on various snags. The additions themselves seemed more resistant to their surroundings than his own body but, despite his obvious loathing towards them, Marone wasn't about to complain about anything that prevented harm against him. The Mound probably wasn't too far behind him, all of his movements were clumsy and sublimated by the limits of this new form, but he would have rather been devoured by some roving animal than return to the glittering version of hell. A sigh that became pained at the rift in the heavens yielded to small flecks of hail. Marone pressed himself against the scarred trunk of the nearest tree, nearly crippling his wings in the process, to avoid the majority of the shift, and, for seemingly the millionth time in the past 48 hours, repeated in a hoarse voice,
"This can't be happening."
Swallowing, Marone let his eyes wander to the sweeping incline of the formerly moderate sized trees. He was afraid, of that he was sure and surer still was the corrosive reality that his fear was all he had ever been. As maligned and pathetic as he was, Marone knew he had nowhere to go; his family and obviously superficial friends would probably kill him even if they believed his story and the Fae themselves…
He couldn't decide which was worse; to be stripped of his worth or to admit to it.
Marone Phageren
Nickname:
Marone, Mar
Age:
25 (human years)
Date of Birth:
January 23
Sexuality:
Love and sex aren't really a big concern of Marone but he's probably bisexual.
Kith:
Fire Fairy (formerly human)
Abilities:
As Marone was not originally a fairy he is limited to the ability of flight. When he attempts to lie, which is often, Marone's body has an almost "allergic reaction" to the cultures inside of him which causes him to shrink in size depending on the personal importance of the lie.
Marone, as a fire fairy, is resistant to most heat.
Loyalty:
To his King, but mostly to himself.
Status/Occupation:
Formerly the fresh heir to a fairly influential house. Officially a young Duke.
Appearance:
Marone is a very scrawny individual, even for a fairy, and as a fairy he has thin looking skin that is very pale and almost sallow in the proper light. His hair is a little shaggy, though not unkempt, and is a deep pinkish-red color. He has slight side burns that end just before the underside of his jaw and are slightly lighter in their coloration than the rest of his hair. Smaller than the average Fire Fairy (4'1), Marone's delicate physique and semi-stunted height put him at disadvantage in most situations because of his obvious discomfort with his "new" form.
Freckled and dark eyed, Marone's features are hollowed out so dramatically that even the slightest indent seems magnetic to shadow. Despite this, Maorne's nose is button shaped and small. This gives him a comical appearance and makes him look younger than he actually is. Even before his unfortunate encounter with the Fae, Marone was not very attractive and this reflects on his current form. His wings are a translucent pink and resemble a dragon fly's. Usually, Marone goes bare foot, and is clothed as closely to current human fashions as his new body will allow; meaning that he wears long pants, a belt in which to tuck his make-shift, lopsided "spear", and scraps of fabric tied around his shoulders to accommodate his wings.
Personality:
Marone is bitter, arrogant but also almost hopelessly incompetent in anything besides intelligence. He enjoys verbally assaulting people and does not hesitate to do so. As a human, Marone was, ideologically, the poster child of his culture: a pompous, unyielding, aristocrat who openly condemned all other races and cultures. Marone, in fact, took pleasure in his humanity and the seemingly elevated status that accompanied it. Much of that close-minded pride still remains. Stubborn and ambitious, Marone tries his best to keep control of his emotions but can get angry or frightened easily. He is deeply afraid of weakness and is, therefore, disgusted by himself. Does not like to be touched as he is and always has been manically insecure about his body.
Something of a stiff, Marone's early life was composed of learning customs and the Law and he is capable of reciting small segments of the text in order to prove a point. Likewise, he is quick to report offense to the Law, namely in scenarios where such "loyalty" benefits him. Though he is, much to his chagrin, rather emotional, Marone's near photographic memory and sharp tongue make him an excellent debater. This is especially useful as he has always been a poor fighter.
Marone would claim to be a capable manipulator but, though he is a gifted liar and decent at "reading people", is really more of blackmailer and bully than some eloquent figure of control. Much of Marone's problems arise from his nearly compulsive habit of distorting the truth but he usually can juggle his sundry of lies with efficiency. Because he is so very enamored with the masks he's fashioned for himself Marone is not very good with people beyond shallow conversation or brutal confrontations. He believes intimacy to be hindering and pointless (though he is slightly afraid of it) and regards most individuals as tools. Despite his pride, Marone is willing to be used by others as long as he gains something from the act.
History:
Each day is something to be cherished but demolished just the same.
Keep your eyes ahead and that chin tilted ever-so-slightly heavenward. That was the custom here, the silent rule which the best observers could gather as so as they entered the room. And Marone had always been, among other things, a shrewd observer. One thrust from birth into such a superficial aristocracy would have to being order to survive, which was really Marone's goal all along.
He'd been born to the highly regarded house of Phageren, formerly Lindolin, to the generally-referred-to-as-pretty Lady Lindolin and the plain-but-unnaturally-gifted-with-a-sword Bord Phaegren. The mother had her hand securely up the trousers of the current monarchy and the father was a well-known soldier who was rumored to have taken out an entire village of Shape-shifters with a nail laced wooden board. As fate would have it, Lindolin required a sturdier image and Bord was looking to rise in the non-military ranks of his culture. These two, mismatched or political soul mates depending on the morals of the audience, produced three boys and a sickly firstborn girl. Marone, sliding in somewhere near the middle of this arrangement was rather underdeveloped himself and lacked the brawn of his older brother and the striking looks of his younger. His crutch was, instead, an uncannily conniving intelligence and thought it did not earn him the honor of a warrior or the beloved attentions of a suitor Marone was awarded a position as a Scholar. And, because of both of his parents' reputations, gained an easy access to the Court of the King himself.
This privilege tutored Marone on many subjects, though Marone was already, sans his physical ineptitude and jaded features, something of a poster child for his race's opinions, but mostly it gave him a chance to be separated from the musty sitting rooms and moldering libraries that he usually frequented. Instead he was taught to fight and to perfect his already semi-keen ability of making shallow, political conversations with persons of importance. Taken out on Fae hunts and to Shifter baitings, Marone finally discovered a glorified outlet for his feelings of inadequacy and hatred towards those more capable than him. Years passed and the clumsy, frustrated boy grew into an informed, selfishly ambitious man. By this point in his life, Marone was on good terms with the monarchy and had secured himself as the heir to his family's estate (Whether or not he had a hand in the untimely death of his elder brother and the sudden illness of his father is debatable and, ultimately, irrelevant). His mother and sister were prospering in the discrete manner of women while, at the same time, scouring the estates of their wealthy allies for a wife rich and suitable enough for him.
Marone himself had never been terribly interested in "love", sex, or even the symbiotic elements of partnership between the different sexes of nobility and he generally avoided the subject entirely around all company. Customs, naturally, declared that he must have a wife but Marone invested himself so much in his steady climb up the social ranks that few people noticed his solitary state.
One particularly overcast day, though, Marone had returned with a few of his fellow Couturiers from a very successful raid on a small encampment of Faes to discover that his mother has arranged him a marriage in his brief absence. Upon meeting the girl the following evening, Marone found himself pleased with her status, though inwardly afraid of the physical ramifications he would have to endure while married to her, and scheduled the wedding for the following week before disappearing into his study to form a balanced and universally pleasing guest list. That was the other up-side to marriage: one got to invite all sorts of impressive people to the event.
The festivities prepared, Marone found himself restless the night before the wedding; dreading the ceremonies and the customary night that was to follow. After all, why should he be forced to abide the desires of a woman he was joining simply for her social ties? And, lost in these self-righteous musings, Marone took his sword and wandered off into the night to hound and slaughter a few Shifters or Faes. It was, after all, a coping mechanism and one that he used often. How then could he have known that tonight, of all nights, a survivor of one of his usual raids, a little Sky Fairy named Bilts, had also set out to ruin him? (Bilts himself, perhaps a tad too sly compared to his fellow Fairies, was more than vindictive and, like Marone, had been all too welcoming towards the encouraged hatred between the humans and Faes. The massacre of his comrades a few nights prior had simply given him a specific reason to retaliate and he set out to destroy those of his tormentors he remembered. Unfortunately for Marone, Bilts' clearest memory of the night included Marone's hatchet face leering down at him and, due to the ruckus directed towards Marone's wedding, Bilts knew where to find the owner of that horrid expression.)
Seeing a light low in the brush, Marone crept towards what he assumed was a lone and easy opponent only to have the creature flee seconds before he reached it. Disgusted that he had failed to corner the individual, Marone pursued Bilts' overly bright lantern deeper and deeper into the forest. The woods began to choke his movements but Marone, stubborn and just arrogant enough to disregard his natural intelligence, continued on until he suddenly stumbled into an eerie clearing amid the strangled heart of the forest. Near the direct center of this field was a raised mound of what appeared to be slightly phosphorus earth. Squinting at the small monolith, Marone tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword and pressed forward. The hairs on the back of his neck rose but, in that same moment, a delicious notion passed over him: What if he, Marone Phageren of all people, had discovered the Mound? Delighted, drunk with the idea, he, rather than considering more Scholar like strategies, rushed towards the shimmering opening and leapt through.
- - - -
The sensation of falling had stopped and Marone was vaguely aware that he was breathing an lighter sort of air than that in the forest. If he had been poetic Marone would have described it as "exuberant" or something of equal specificity but, as he believed words should be educated but direct, he did not think the change over further. The initial excitement had not worn off: he'd found the Mound and now he was in the land of the Fae where he could damage the barbarians in ways which, he was certain, his comrades had never even imagined. This zeal seemed to push the legends he had heard about Faeryland to the back of his mind, as he eagerly raised his head to behold what few humans had ever witnessed. And what he saw horrified him:
There were bodies everywhere. Small figures flanked by lanky ones, all whirling and spinning about like drunken animals. These figures would sometimes push off from the earth, the smaller ones anyways, and flit around the heads and shoulders of the taller dancers; everyone touching at some point or another and every touch vibrant and excited. There was energy crackling through the atmosphere and to Marone it looked like an orgy. Not that he could completely grasp the images that his eyes were gathering. The colors spun with each fold of the whimsical figures and the sounds merged into a song (though Marone was sure he heard "actual" instrument generated music coming from elsewhere). Dazed, he swung blindly in front of him but only managed to lose his hold on the weapon, which slid across the earth and into the drove of Faes. Marone stumbled blindly after it but found himself, somehow, near one of the chambers walls. Close by, a gilded linen table stretched as far as his eyes could see in the light and was laden with food that looked both repulsive and oddly familiar in the same instant.
"I've got to get a hold on myself… this is my chance to--"
But he never quite clarified what chance he was taking because a little winged fairy touched his arm. It was as if a bolt of lightning had brushed him and Marone yelped and staggered away from the creature. Looking desperately around, Marone began to realize that none of the Faes in the pulsing mass had noticed him; even after his outburst. At least none except the small fairy staring up at him with a blank expression.
Maybe they didn't hear me because the music is so loud… Did I even cry out at all. If I did one of the little beasts should have noticed-- How could they not… their ears are like maypoles and their eyes can see the smallest--
His mind was turning over on itself steadily. The throb of the music made it impossible for him to distinguish his convictions from the flashes of light off the skin of the Fae, made it impossible for him to perceive that the only fairy to acknowledge him had gently taken him hand and was leading him closer and closer to the absurd dishes on the magnificent table, made it impossible for him to comprehend the words of the slightly-more-vindictive fairy named Bilts as he handed Marone a small acorn shaped goblet filled with a substance the color of the moon.
The beautiful chaos, the thrum of so many bodies rubbing together to the wild persuasions of the music, and the over-whelming light that shone through out made it so impossible for Marone to think that he barely had to time to remember that he was human before it was too late.
- - - -
"I think we should kill him."
Bilts shook his shock of hair expectantly. The Air Fairy has stationed himself a few yards away from the body as a strategically move; he would remain detached from the emotion of the situation while still being able to command it. The other sundry of Fae had crowded around the point of interest, the fairies of the group fluttering their wings in excitement, and remained mostly silent. A rather delicate looking Light Elf, called Holge, looked over her shoulder at Bilts and cooed,
"We can't do that… He's not well-- He's one of u--"
"Don't say it. Simply because one's shape is changed doesn't mean that his heart's any different than before." A Spirit Elf, authoritative yet composed, cut Holge off before looking back to the subject, "I've never been present for something of this gravity myself."
"It's eerie." Holge added, trying to sound helpful.
"Doesn’t matter what it is," Bilts buzzed his wings out of irritation, "Simply matters what it was. You can't tell me that you feel any comradery towards Human scum?"
A squat Reptilian Changling passed her thin line of a tongue over her left eye before speaking, "Formerly human scum. Formerly." She nodded as if in punctuation.
"Please," Bilts, whose plan was fading on account of the less vindictive nature of his fellows, "Don't tell me that you're--"
It was at that moment, that Marone's eyes slid open. The sensation was terrible, even more so than his first glimpse of the Faeryland, and he groaned something inaudible before reaching up to rub his eyes. There was something wrong. His body felt alert not only to itself but.. well.. He had a hard time comprehending the change. It was almost as if he were not only aware of his own body's well being but of that of world around him. Letting his eyes flutter open again, Marone suddenly realized that he was not alone and began to recall the events prior to this. He attempted to sit up, reaching instinctively for his sword, which was still missing, but sank back down after a second. His body felt sick. Like thousands of tiny insects were crawling up through his stomach and throat.
But he knew where he was and that scared him even more.
"W-what," his mouth slow to form words at first, "What do you want?" If Marone had been stronger the inquiry might have sounded more like a demand but, in his current state, it was tired and let show more of his fear than he would have liked.
"Scared to death." Holge murmured in a voice like little bells.
The rest of the crowd of Fae were silent though, intrigued by the scene unfolding. Upon receiving no answer, Marone blinked, oddly he was no longer blinded by the ever-present light, and snapped,
"Listen, you repulsive little beasts, I don't know what you did to me or why-- or-- or how you did it but I swear that I'll cleave you all into neat halves if someone doesn't tell me what is--"
"You're a fairy." The Spirit Elf said matter-of-factly.
"Fuck you." Spat Marone and tried to sit up again.
"No, he's not lying," a water fairy said, echoing the Elf's tone, "We can't lie. We don't."
His steadily growing terror aside, Marone finally managed to force himself into a sitting position only to behold the host of creatures surrounding him. If before he had felt dread from the voices he was now struck with a sense of helpless doom: there were about twenty different species of Fae, ranging from Fairies to Elves and some of which Marone had never actually seen up close before, and Marone was stiff and weaponless. Trying to regain his mock confidence,
"Don't try to justify yourself to me, halfling, I know exactly--"
Bilts, who had been merely observing his revenge, suddenly sped forward and seized Marone by his newly acquired wings with an expression that seemed far too malicious for someone of the Fae's upbringing. Marone nearly screamed but, managing to retain his steadily declining dignity, stopped himself and expressed his surprise by freezing up. There was a light tug on his back and he was, he now suddenly realized, sitting in the mangled remains of his own clothing. Bilts gave the stranger's new appendages another gruff pull before steeping back in obvious disgust. Still paralyzed by the millions of emotions bounding up in and rebounding off of his middle section, Marone tried to say something, a denial maybe, but succeeded only in making a stifled squeaking noise. Holge widened her bright eyes with obvious sympathy,
"He's scared to death, Grym," turning her attention to the Spirit Elf, "Poor little--"
"You've got to be kidding me, this bastard is the same kind that would cut open your throat without even thinking twice about it. No, he'd rape you and then kill you. These bastards--"
The Spirit Elf, apparently named Grym, straightened himself up, throwing one last empty look at Marone, before addressing the Air Fairy,
"Bilts, did you have a hand in this?"
The Fairy seemed ready to object but since he was physically incapable of doing so, Bilts simply dropped his head, arching his shoulders. The Reptilian Changling looked like she was about to erupt but Grym interceded before she could,
"Out."
"Grym you don't have the authority to do that--"
Bilts began his obviously pre-planned retaliation but a sudden noise from Marone silenced them for the most part. He had begun to shake, as if in some violent reaction to the fate which had been thrust upon him, but seemed to be regaining his motor functions.
"This can't be happening. This can't be happening, I'm not some earth gulping halfling-- I can't be." Shaking his head, the former human clenched his right fist as his eyes swept the room, "Who- who did it? I swear I'll kill him-- All of you rot, I'll--"
The group of Fae remained motionless, their eyes following the painful movements of the stranger, and even when Grym finally spoke again it was not to the bewildered young man.
"Bilts, come with me to the Princess. You must be judged."
"Exiled you mean," the Fairy muttered hopelessly but moved to follow the Elf anyways, but , before he left the remains of the creature he had sought to ruin, Bilts turned one last time to Marone and smiled with pure, obviously entertained benevolence, "Enjoy this, human, not everyone of your kind ends up so lucky."
And then, laughing, exited behind the majority of the group.
Marone was practically alone apart from Holge and something that looked like young boy with ears that resembled a fox's. Marone, meanwhile refused to stir apart from muttering,
"This can't be happening."
Every so often. Holge watched him for a time and even after the canine boy left, she remained silently. At that point, the Light Elf extended her spindly, fragile hands and attempted to touch Marone's shoulder in what was intended reassurance. As she did so, Marone lashed out instantly, striking her palm with the back of his hand and throwing another blow towards her pale cheek. Naturally the strike missed it's mark but the Elf withdrew slightly, looking wounded.
"Don't touch me." Marone nearly spat, "I'm not one of you and I'm not some helpless little--" He refused to admit his present form as speaking those words, he felt, would affirm that these events were true, "And unless you can cure me of- of this fucking disease then-- then I have no use for you!"
Silently, Holge took another soft step away but stood for another moment, watching the small creature's shoulders heave. Then, just before she pattered out of the small earthen room, the Light Elf whispered in a muffled voice,
"I wish I could say that I'm sorry for you…"
And was gone.
And Marone was by himself in more ways than he had ever been before.
Roleplay Sample:
Today the sky had split open over the trees, the dark clouds lined by the intensity of their darkness so that it looked as if there were a great schism down the center of the grey expanse. There was rain too, great, heavy drops of the stuff falling like arrows through the canopy of foliage that usually kept him dry. Marone had never been found of water; he wasn't a swimmer and had never had any use for the practice and found that in his new body the substance was twice as threatening. Fairy skin, at least his own, was far less sturdy than he had imagined and far more likely to bruise than he knew was possible. The way the half insects had flown at him in battles before… He would have thought their hides were made of leather or forever calloused by constantly crawling through the undergrowth and getting raked by unexpected branches. Of course there had always been a great deal of subjects Marone was wrong about.
At the moment, the shivering fairy had no idea where he was and, being hopeless and helplessly estranged to the connection he now had with nature, kept catching his recently acquired set of wings on various snags. The additions themselves seemed more resistant to their surroundings than his own body but, despite his obvious loathing towards them, Marone wasn't about to complain about anything that prevented harm against him. The Mound probably wasn't too far behind him, all of his movements were clumsy and sublimated by the limits of this new form, but he would have rather been devoured by some roving animal than return to the glittering version of hell. A sigh that became pained at the rift in the heavens yielded to small flecks of hail. Marone pressed himself against the scarred trunk of the nearest tree, nearly crippling his wings in the process, to avoid the majority of the shift, and, for seemingly the millionth time in the past 48 hours, repeated in a hoarse voice,
"This can't be happening."
Swallowing, Marone let his eyes wander to the sweeping incline of the formerly moderate sized trees. He was afraid, of that he was sure and surer still was the corrosive reality that his fear was all he had ever been. As maligned and pathetic as he was, Marone knew he had nowhere to go; his family and obviously superficial friends would probably kill him even if they believed his story and the Fae themselves…
He couldn't decide which was worse; to be stripped of his worth or to admit to it.