Information


Fiodore has a minion!

Inks the Darkmatter Sugar Pixie




Fiodore
Legacy Name: Fiodore


The Darkmatter Jollin
Owner: Opundo

Age: 15 years, 10 months, 1 week

Born: May 18th, 2008

Adopted: 12 years, 9 months, 2 weeks ago

Adopted: June 7th, 2011

Statistics


  • Level: 5
     
  • Strength: 13
     
  • Defense: 13
     
  • Speed: 13
     
  • Health: 14
     
  • HP: 14/14
     
  • Intelligence: 10
     
  • Books Read: 10
  • Food Eaten: 0
  • Job: Graveyard Shift Errand Runner


FIVE NIGHTS WITH FIODORE


*Art*

Humans come to me, men and women, young and old; broken hearts seeking physical comforts; the curious soul trembling to be swept away after dark; sinners looking for sins deeper and blacker than their own; the rich but powerless desiring control over my body for the night.

I'm Fiodore. They call me a Fallen Fey, banished from my homelands. I'm doomed to be alone forever. But I'm never by myself.



(Art by me)

Night One: Streets

The dark streets at night are interesting to watch. As I stand in the pooling light of a lamp, suggestively clad despite the chill night air, my purple eyes watch everything.

There are those who despise my profession. As they pass by, they speed up, avert their eyes, or else, glare at my exposed shoulders, or even spit on the ground at my feet. I only smile, satisfied that their souls fidget not from the sight of me, but from their own guilt-laden souls.

Others burn with desire for me. Men and women alike, I observe them pause, their breaths quicken as my shawl accidentally slips and I feint a blush. Their hands stretch, unbidden, yearning to brush against my arm or to stroke my golden hair, but I hold them at bay. No touching for the unpaying audience.

Some of my same profession occupy close-by streets. I watch them prance and exhibit their artificial beauties: crude costumes, thick makeups, exaggerated poses. Despite their heavy-lidded countenance, they too observe all that passes in the streets: a whispered threat, a flash of a blade, discreet exchanges, a stolen kiss, a robbed embrace, voices raised and stifled, eyes bright with intent or dulled by dust of years. They are only watchers, not doers. No touching for the unpaid audience, either.

I smirk at the mortal world before me. Mortal desires, mortal fears, mortal filth. My laughter dies when I remember that I have been robbed and now I too endure this begrimed world. Me, standing on a street corner in my faerie-glamoured human beauty, begging for attention so I may live another day. I have fallen lower than any mortal passersby.



(Art by Dohmalore)

Night Two: Home

I'm extra careful with my glamour tonight. Of all things, I have been requested as an escort for a lady to a high-class ball. If only my client and the other guests knew what my other "escorting" really involved... I smile as I imagine the shock, the mayhem, the indignation.

I forget it all as soon as I step into the ballroom. So much gold surrounds me that it outshines the sun. Such beauty and brightness, like the faerie world lost to me. The tall pillars are as white as the bark of the birch trees in my Queene's garden. The silver streamers sway like the long branches of the willows beneath which I used to lounge. In another world, in a time so long ago.

I dance with the guests of the ball, but my feet remember the feather-light dance of the faeries and do not want to touch the floor. I drink the champagne, but my tongue tastes the faerie wine, a sip of which can make one drunk and giddy with delirium. I see the swirling colors of the guests' gowns, but my eyes long for the clothing of the faerie folks, thin as spider silk yet strong enough to strangle.

When I return home that night, I wastefully splurge a week's worth of glamour, giving my pitiful human home the appearance of my old faerie dwelling. The walls grow rough and gnarled with wood knots. The armchairs sprout roots and clawed feet. A chandelier of bones and vines dangle from the ceiling. I blink and lose control of it all. The room slides back to its pitiful true state. No matter how realistic it may appear, glamour is not real. It fools the eyes but not the heart. The faerie world and my old life is as lost to me as ever.



(Art by me)

Night Three: Faerie

As soon as I open my door to my latest client, dread settles in my stomach like iron. He shimmers with glamour, but faerie disguise cannot hide from me his too-bright eyes, too-sharp cheeks, and spiderweb-thin wings. I could only smile with my similarly-glamoured face and open the door wider to welcome him.

How did he find me? Did he come knowing my identity? He must have. It is simply too great a coincidence.

Humans desire control of the flesh, but faeries crave toying with the heart. I can endure my human customers, knowing they are satisfied by but an illusion. My faerie visitor causes me true pain; no glamour hides a soul. Perhaps he was recently disfavored by his Queene, or spurned by a fickle lover. Or he may not need any excuse other than the chance to torment a faerie who simply cannot fall any lower.

As a last injury, he pays me with fallen petals glamoured to look like the human currency I desperately needed. It stabs deeper that he knows I can see through the low trick, but I have no choice but to graciously accept his offer and wait for them to wither into a handful of useless petals. Exiled from the faerie world, my magic dwindled and I cannot defend myself from his powers.

Neither can I defend from the truth that centuries ago, before the human world dulled me, I would have done no less than what he did to me and only laughed with glee.



(Art by Seny)

Night Four: Alone

The man is drunk. I'm close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath before his fist connected with the left side of my head, knocking me to the ground. I lick my lips and taste the iron in my blood.

Although physical pain to a fey feels distant, I know it'll take me days to recover with my diminished powers. I curl up instinctively, protecting my face and torso, but blows and kicks continue to land all over my body.

I hardly know him and know not how I have offended him by standing at my usual place on the street. A drunk man needs little reason to be provoked, especially when the consequences of his actions are next to none.

I don't know which I'd prefer more: suffering this beating for longer or suffering the shame of being rescued by a human. But of course, nobody comes to my aid. As soon as the man approached me with trouble on his breath, everyone had disappeared mysteriously quickly, retreating into their safe havens and shutting their door in the face of trouble. I do not expect any rescuer.

Finally, the blows lessen as the man exhausts his lingering strength. He gives me one last good kick, knocking my head hard against the pavement. As he wanders off, seeking other entertainments, I lay dazed on the dirty street, not caring who saw me, man or fey.



(Art by Laodicean)

Night Five: Surprise

As the doorbell rings urgently again, I hurriedly throw on a dab of glamour to cover my still-aching bruises, just in case it is a potential customer. Nobody is at the door when I cautiously open it, then a cry draws my attention.

A basket sits on my front step, with two little chubby kicking legs sticking up from the swaddle of blankets. By the color of the baby's bonnet, she's a female. As I watch, her cries intensifies, and the basket rocks slightly from side to side by her motion.

My head begins to ache from her crying, and I slam the door. I can't believe it. What sort of parent would abandon a child in this district? What bad luck for them that they chose the house of a fey, no less?

I suppose she and I are alike, both unwanted and abandoned. Memories swim unbidden into my mind: my Queene giving me up in trade for a trinket without a second thought; being exiled to the human world with only the clothes on my back; my magic shriveling as years distanced me from my kins.

I make myself a cup of coffee to clear up my aching head. I open my door again. The baby is still there, having cried herself to sleep.

I sigh as I pick up the basket to bring her inside my home. "I suppose we better stick together, we who are abandoned by the worlds."



(Art by ammbammkazzam from DeviantArt)

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