The Fuchsia’s So Bright I Gotta Wear Shades

Mounsieur Cobweb, good mounsieur, get you your
weapons in your hand, and kill me a red-hipped
humble-bee on the top of a thistle; and, good
mounsieur, bring me the honey-bag. Do not fret
yourself too much in the action, mounsieur; and,
good mounsieur, have a care the honey-bag break not;
I would be loath to have you overflown with a
honey-bag, signior.

Midsummer Night’s Dream – William Shakespeare

My first proper journal was given to me by my mother as one of the gifts for my 11th birthday. I suspect that this was because I had frequently been taken to task for filling my school books with thoughts that had little to do with my lessons and she thought it better that I had a better place to record such thoughts.  I have kept one ever since, through all my years at school, university, my career with Haskins Shipping, and even through the strange and surreal twists and turns that have been my life since that fateful day in Katharina’s dwelling in Bremerhaven. Sometimes, I have been very assiduous, recording something every day, other times, less so.

Of late, I have been less than assiduous, which is strange, since I seem to have far more leisure time than I am used to. Perhaps it is the enforced leisure that is to blame, for little of note has happened that would warrant recording.

But, that is not strictly true. My darling wife, Gwyneth, has been busy travelling. She was engaged as a creative consultant for a part of the Fantasy Faire, an event I have noted previously in my journal, creating a story – a quest, even – for a place called Astrid’s Nemeton at the Faire. In some ways, I envy her that task, but then, she is the creative one, whereas I am the rank amateur when it comes to writing. That said; she did call upon me to proof-read and comment upon her writings, which task I took to with relish. I may lack her background and training in creative writing, but when it comes to attention to detail, you can’t beat an accountant. The story she had created appealed to me, being in the nature of a quest. Such things were a major part of my early reading, in particular, the quests of the various Knights of the Round Table. I understand that the quest was much enjoyed by those who attended the Faire, so I am happy for Gwyneth, and happy that I played some small part in that.

For my part, I have done some travelling. I have taken myself a few times to that place called Paradoxia that I have recorded herein before, but found little happening. Perhaps something will happen there soon, and perhaps I will find some entertainment there, but that remains to be seen.

In the meanwhile, I have kept myself occupied. I have spent time learning how this marvel of technology known as the Internet works. I have reluctantly accepted that Cloud Storage has nothing to do with water vapour, despite the aesthetic appeal of that idea. And, I have learned that following links (see, I have learned some of the nomenclature) on some sites (more nomenclature) can result in many hours evaporating without even noticing.

But, technology has not occupied all of my time. I have also spent time getting used to the fae side of my nature. I have to confess, I will never be entirely comfortable with the wings, although I have learned to turn them on and off at will. Other aspects I am finding harder. I do not yet have Gwyneth’s facility with the glamour. Perhaps I never will. Perhaps it is a woman thing. Mother was nowhere near as extreme as some of her “fashionable” friends, but she would still change dresses and hairstyles far more often than Father, Gilbert and I ever would. That said; one of my university friends was somewhat of a dandy. If I had been like him, then maybe I might use the glamour more. But for now, I prefer the old-fashioned method of fiddling with buttons and stuff.

And then, there was Cobweb.

Yes, Cobweb. As in one of the fairies that attended Bottom in Midsummer Night’s Dream. I do not know if this one would be capable of killing a red-hipped humble-bee, though, given that he isn’t that much bigger than a bee.  I’m not going to argue. That was the name he gave, so I have to accept that as being the truth.

At least, I assume that this Cobweb is male. Bottom addressed his companion as such, though the name itself offers no clue. I never really know with the demi-fae, which this Cobweb seems to be. It is hard to tell, since he looks like an oversized moth with a child’s face. And, a moth, I might add, that seems to have not so much collided with a neon light, as swallowed one whole, being a very bright and alarming shade of pink.

Sorry, fuchsia, not pink. Apparently, that is important to him.

I had been thinking about the forthcoming opening of Awenia to non-fae visitors, in particular wondering if I need to draft something akin to the Accords I created for Mysthaven, as a means of protection for us and our visitors. I was dictating notes into a memo recorder app on my phone (technology is a wonderful thing) when I heard the hum of wings, and caught a bright flash of colour just off to one side. Now there are many things that have bright colours, and even glow, in Awenia, but I was not near any of those areas. I turned, and there he was, hovering near my shoulder, shining pinkly with an expression halfway between hopeful helpfulness and a slightly terrified rictus. I dropped the phone into my pocket, but forgot to turn off the recorder, so I was able, later, to transcribe the conversation.

“Hello,” I said, “Does Gwyn want me for something?”

“Gw..?”  He bobbed up and down uncertainly, apparently unable to finish the syllable

“Her Majesty,” I said, “also known as Gwyn, or Gwyneth.”  He bobbed up and down again. “It’s her name.”

“Gw…  No, no, I could not. Her Majesty is…” He twirled around, turning a somersault in nervous excitement.

“Her Majesty is elsewhere, I assume. Do you have a message from her?”

He shook his head. “No, sire, I have no message. But I could convey one for you if that is your wish.”

I shrugged. “I have no message to convey at the moment, but, I shall bear you in mind, should I wish to do so, though these days, I usually use this thing.”  I showed him the phone and dropped it back into my pocket.  He shied away from it, turning more somersaults. “So, you are not from Her Majesty?”

“No sire, no.” He fluttered a little closer and executed something akin to a bow. “I am here for you, sire, at your service.”

“At my service?” I asked. “I have no need of any service at present, but thank you for the offer. You may go.”

He bobbed, looking horrified. “No, no, sire, no, I cannot. I am at your service.”

“Are you now? Any please stop calling me sire. My name is Nathaniel.”

“Nath…” He tried hard, but could not bring himself to say it. “No, no, I cannot. Please do not make me… Sire.”

I shrugged. “Very well, as you wish. And what shall I call you?”

“Cobweb, sire, my name is Cobweb. And I am at your service.”  He bobbed another bow.

“Of course you are. And tell me, Cobweb, good mounsieur, are you going to get you your
weapons in your hand, and kill me a red-hipped humble-bee on the top of a thistle?”

He bobbed and twirled, looking confused. “Sire? Is that what you wish me to do, sire?”

“Never mind,” I said. “They probably don’t have Shakespeare where you come from.”

“I do not know this Shakespeare, sire, but, if it is your wish, I shall endeavour to know more for next time.”  The helpful expression was back.

I shrugged. Knowing Shakespeare probably wasn’t going to be an essential part of his function, whatever that might be, but I am always happy to pass on my love of the Bard. “If you feel so inclined, you can do so. I am pretty sure there are copies in the library.”

He bobbed closer, glowing even more brightly. “I shall look, sire.”

I stepped a pace back, as the glow was somewhat intense. “You’re very pink,” I said, “and bright. Could you turn it down a little?”

“Fuchsia, sire, I prefer fuchsia, not pink. And this is who I am sire. I am sorry, but I do not know how to change myself.

“Fuchsia? Mother used to grow fuchsias in the garden. I suppose they were that sort of colour. OK, if that’s what you want to be, then who am I to argue?”

“You may argue if you wish, sire. You are the master, so you may do whatever you wish. I am merely at your service. But my colour is still fuchsia.”

“A very bright fuchsia. Excuse me a moment.” I found a pair of sunglasses in my pocket and put them on in the hope of being less dazzled.

He fluttered a little closer, seemingly puzzled by my new eyewear. “Why do you have dark glass over your eyes?”

“As I said, you’re a bit bright, dazzling even. These make you less dazzling.”

He fluttered away again. “As my master wishes.”


“Yes, sire. You are husband and consort to Her Majesty. It is only fitting that you have a personal servant. And that is I.”  He bobbed another bow.

“Personal servant?” I sighed inwardly. While I grew up in a household that included a housekeeper and a maid, I was never really comfortable with the idea, and It had taken me a while to get used to my staff at Mysthaven. But, this seemed something different. Then it occurred to me. “Ah, I see. So you’re my Clutie?”

“Clutie?”  He bobbed and twirled and his voice seemed to go up a register as he said her name.

“Yes, Clutie. Servant to Her Majesty,” I said, gesturing in the general direction of the castle. “You must know her.

“Mistress Clutie, yes, I know her,” he said, adding in a softer voice. “Not as much as I would like to.”

“What was that?”

Cobweb looked down at the ground and muttered. “Not as much as I would like to.”

“You like Clutie? I mean, really like her?” I emphasised the word like.

Cobweb bobbed and twirled. “Yes. She’s so pretty and funny and clever and … pretty and…” He turned even pinker, which I would not have thought possible. “But, she would not be interested in the likes of me.”

“How do you know?” I asked. “Have you tried asking her?”

Cobweb’s bobbing and twirling got even more frantic. “I could not, sire, she is Her Majesty’s and she is too pretty for the likes of me, and I would not know how…”

I shrugged. “Well, you don’t know until you try. Not that I am the best person to be giving advice on courting. I don’t exactly have a stellar record in that respect.”

Cobweb looked puzzled. “You are husband to Her Majesty. Did you not court her? Or was it for political reasons?” He said, whispering the word political.

I laughed at that point, thinking of the day that my relationship with Gwyn became more than casual (Five years ago, come July 4th, as I found out later, checking back through old journals.) “I didn’t exactly court her, although a dispute with one of the Royal Courts was involved, which I suppose makes it sort of political. But, no, I didn’t court her. I just kissed her. To be fair, we did think we were about to die.”


I held up a hand. “If you’re not going to address me by name, I think I prefer sire to master.”

“As you wish, sire.” He looked expectantly at me. “You were about to die?”

“What? Oh yes.” I chuckled, replaying the events of that day in my head. “Gwyn and I were just friends, and, at the time, I don’t think she even knew she was fae, let alone high sidhe and I did not know I was of the blood either. Anyway, a demon of our acquaintance used her powers to provoke us into a fight with the Raven to the Unseelie Crown by forcing me to defend Gwyn’s honour. So, there we were, facing the Raven, with the demon taunting him, facing almost certain death… so, I thought, what the hell, and kissed her.”

Cobweb bobbed and twirled, his eyes growing big. “And did you die?”

I glared at him, composing some sarcastic response to that before thinking that, technically, from my own personal experience, death wasn’t necessary a terminal experience, so it was a valid question. “No,” I replied. “I made no aggressive moves and opted for diplomacy instead, formally requesting an audience with the Unseelie Queen to resolve the issue, so there was no need for violence of any sort. Also, we were under the protection of the Queen of the Cait Sidhe, which helped. The demon was not so fortunate.”

“Oh my,” said Cobweb, turning little circles in wonder. “And did you resolve it?”

I nodded. “Yes, it was resolved, and the Unseelie Queen and I became good friends, Gwyn and I became an item, and some while later, she became Seelie Queen, I became Lord of Mysthaven, we had three children with the pro-tem Unseelie King…” I paused and took pity on this poor creature, desperately trying to take it all in and understand.  “… It’s complicated.”

“Yes, master…  sorry, sire. It would seem so.”

“But, as I said, I never really courted Gwyn. So, I can’t really advise you on how to proceed with Clutie.”

“I could not, sire, proceed. I could not even talk to her.”  He bobbed uncertainly.

“Well, you are going to have to at some point,” I said.

“How so?”

“Well, Gwyn and I live together in the same castle, at least, occasionally, when we aren’t on our travels. So, you aren’t going to be able to avoid Clutie for ever.”

“Oh,” he said, blushing again. “I had not thought of that. What ever shall I do?”

“Just be yourself,” I said. “Be kind, be helpful, and listen, and see what happens.”

He looked uncertain. “If you say so, sire.” He fluttered upwards, drawing himself up to his full height. “And I shall be the best me that I can.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“Is there anything I can do for you now, sire?”

“A bacon sandwich would be nice. I am sure Bran can show you how.”

“At once, sire, at once.”  He bobbed another little bow and then sped off. A pink, sorry, fuchsia streak against the gathering dusk.

So, I have my own personal demi-fae servant. I will have to train him in my ways, especially in the matter of not being as persistent as Clutie. And, possibly, mentor him in the matter of acting on his crush on Clutie. How the hell did my life get so weird that I find myself brokering a romance between two demi-fae? As I said to Cobweb at the time. “It’s complicated.”

The Fuchsia’s So Bright I Gotta Wear Shades









Ghost Town

I have often written, in these pages, of the fragile and fluid nature of reality. It is something I have experienced many times.  What I thought I knew was reality changed when Katarina almost killed me and brought me back to a new life. Then I discovered that creatures of myth and legend were real. That, in time, took me to a London that was not the one I had known as a young man, a London where it was forever 1891 and where creatures such as I had become roamed freely. Thence, my journeys took me to Jasper Cove, a reality created by that scoundrel and demon, John Dee, known to me as Alec, among other names. And, when Jasper Cove burned, I had to flee, to the Wylds, which until Gwyn took me away, in part anyway, to the 21st century, became my home. Nowhere has the fluid nature of reality been more evident than there. The castle on the hill, ruled by one of my own kind, Cristof, was destroyed by the tree folk, and in its place, came Mysthaven, since the passing of Maric, my realm to rule. It has rebuilt itself several times since I have been there, and is still in the process of rebuilding itself.

I went to see how things fared there a few days past. The castle still seems to be in flux. It may well be that this is down to my relative absence. The castle is bound to me, and I to it, so it is possible that it cannot finish reshaping itself without my presence. And, I suppose it would be nice if I had some choice over the furniture. Ideally, I would build some myself, but, even with the somewhat fluid nature of time between realm-jumps, I doubt I would be able to do so in any sensible time-frame. But that is another matter. Elsewhere, the village seems to be progressing nicely.

It is curious how things develop, though. The villagers, my stewards and my guards seem to have a semi-ghostly existence. There and not there at the same time, perhaps only called into existence from some sort of limbo when I am there. And yet, here in the village gardens, fruit and vegetables are growing. I paused by a bed of carrots that seemed to be growing well, despite the perpetual twilight. Who, I wondered, had planted these and tended them? Did the villagers manifest at other times to tend the garden and other parts of the village? Where did they go in the meanwhile? Did they go into some sort of limbo, a dream time or such like?


I was interrupted in my speculations by the arrival of Aoibheann, who drifted in from who knows where. As ever, she spoke somewhat cryptically, saying, by way of greeting, that she believed there was more than one Mysthaven. She joined me by the vegetable bed and squatted, looking at the carrots as if she intended to pick one.

I likewise neglected to make any actual greeting. I commented that she and I had been around long enough to know that the land and the town were as fluid as our imaginations. At least this version, I added, was not built on floating rocks, which I had always thought an affront to Sir Isaac Newton. I don’t know why I said that bit, as it was very unlikely that she would have known who Newton was, much less that he formulated the theory of gravity.

I was right. She did not register any sign of recognition, and at first, just challenged my assertion, asking how I knew what the current incarnation of Mysthaven was built upon. She then went on to wonder if perhaps it was that there was more than one of her, rather than more than one Mysthaven. The thought of more than one Aoibheann was a slightly scary one, but I didn’t say anything.  She speculated that whether there was more than one Mysthaven or more than one of her, the symptoms would be similar.  She told me there were times she came to Mysthaven and there was no sign of life. It was the same in Faerie, she said. Her children, by which I presumed she meant the trees, were sleeping and no winged or legged creature was stirring, save the cŵn, and those she had only heard, not encountered. Perhaps there was some fragmented version of the realm where her children were still awake, she wondered.

This touched all too closely to my own speculations as to the fluid nature of reality. I suggested that it was possible that the residents of the realm were somehow dormant while the land was reshaping itself so that they might be protected from the changes. She and I, having the ability to walk the realms might be less affected by it.

She shook her head and said that she did not consider herself unaffected. She told me that she felt as a ghost, not seeing the people here, and not being seen by them. She had tried recently to move some books and her hands passed through them as though they were not there. She had not eaten in months and it seemed as if waking and dreaming were one and the same. The theory that there might be more than one of her seemed to comfort her somehow. I could not think why, other than perhaps it allowed her to believe that another her was elsewhere, solid and able to interact with her children and others. She bent and tried to pull at one of the carrots with far more concentration than might otherwise be justified by such a simple act, wondering aloud, as I had, who tended them. Perhaps her supposed insubstantial nature made the act harder. “I saw your daughter,” she said, almost as an afterthought.

This surprised me. I reached out with my other senses, seeking Bronwyn for myself, but, as before, she was somehow distant, veiled from me. I could tell she was well enough, but otherwise could not tell where or when she might be, not could I sense her thoughts or send her mine. I told Aoibheann this, saying that it was both curious and vexing, for the anchorage we had created for each other should have been sufficient. I asked Aoibheann how Bronwyn and Mornoth fared.

Aoibheann’s concentration seemed to be all upon the vegetable she was trying to pick. From where I stood, it looked as if she lacked substance enough to grasp it, and yet, after a moment, she did manage to do so and fell backwards, clutching her prize. She told me that she had only seen Bronwyn for a moment before being whisked away to Mysthaven, and all that she could tell was that she had had something important to convey. This, she said seemed to happen to her a lot, that whenever something of importance was happening, she got distracted. She certainly seemed distracted as she was speaking, staring at the carrot as though she were not entirely convinced it was real, and then holding it up to her ears as if she somehow expected it to speak. She held it more as one might a small animal than a root vegetable.

I reached out again, but Bronwyn was no more reachable than before. I let my sense spread out into the land, touching the Wyld, perhaps to reassure myself that it was still there.  The energy was still there, so different, and yet similar to the Wyld in Awenia, as if two strains from the same primal source. And yet, under it there was something more chaotic than normal, as if something vast lurked beneath the surface. I was reminded of Tennyson’s words:

Below the thunders of the upper deep;
Far far beneath in the abysmal sea,
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep
The Kraken sleepeth:

Not the most comforting of thoughts, I had to say.  I put it to one side and asked if Aoibheann had any substance when she was with Ardan. She said that she was not. Ardan and Awnye also slept, and she had no more awareness of them than I did of Bronwyn. I wondered at that, since she had much more of a facility with the trees than I ever did, so it seemed strange that she should find them dormant. I did mention my feelings regarding the Kraken, but I am not sure if that registered with her, being more of a Norse mythology. She still seemed preoccupied with the carrot, again, treating it as though it were some small creature. I was interrupted by an alarm from my phone, albeit briefly, as it succumbed to the malaise that seems to affect technology here. However, my trusty watch also tinkled its reminder. I made to bid Aoibheann farewell, and she managed to pull her attention away from the carrot to wish me safe travels. Her attention returned to it and I was sure she was talking to it.

I felt a ripple in the atmosphere as I parted the veil to step back to Awenia, which gave me pause, as I had never felt that before. Looking back, I saw Aoibheann laying the carrot down on the ground and offering her thumb to it, and I could have sworn that it looked back at her. I had little time before I continued my journey and stepped back to home, but, there was something familiar in the way they were interacting. As the veil closed behind me, I realised what it was. It reminded me of the Myst Roses and my dealings with them. “Myst Carrots?” I wondered, aloud to myself. The idea made me laugh, but, on reflection, I supposed it was entirely possible. I must return again to Mysthaven and see what else there is to learn. There is already much to trouble me – the distance between me and my daughter, the disturbance in the Wyld and now, possibly sentient carrots? I hope nobody tells Hal’s wife. She might not want to put those in a stew.

Ghost Town


Another Time Another Place

I have, it seems, become accustomed to the company of people who share at least some common experience with me. They are the people who understand what I am, where I am from and where I have been. They are my family – Gwyn, Wren, Bronwen, Drysi and Eilian; my extended family – Dyisi Valene, Aoibheann, and those who are only with me now in spirit – Faermorn and Maric. They all know me and know of my story, or at least those parts I have shared, and I do not need to explain.

And yet, there are times when I must move among those who do not understand, those who do not know. And, to make things worse, there are times when I would not be able to explain. There will be those to whom my story would be inexplicable. How could I explain my story to people for whom the vampire, the fae and other such beings exist only in fiction and lore? How could I explain the where and when of my journeys to those for whom yesterday, today and tomorrow happen only in strict succession, for whom the past is the past and the future comes one day at a time?

Of course, sometimes, it can come down a much simpler thing, such as the question “how old are you?”  Now this is a complicated question at the best of times, even among those who understand. I was born in 1853, by the calendar I once knew. I was embraced in 1885, when I was just shy of my 32nd birthday. There followed six years of travelling in what I foolishly believed to be the real world before I fetched up in the Isle of Legacies, that strange place that resembled, yet did not resemble, the London I knew as a young man. By then, I would have been 38 years of age by the calendar, but, the embrace stopped the process of aging, so was I 38 or 32? Some while later, I found myself in Jasper Cove, which was, so far as I could tell, contemporaneous with the modern day that Gwyn knew, the 21st century, albeit somehow in parallel to, rather than part of that time. By then, perhaps two years had passed, so far as I could tell, so was I 40, 34, or was I 159 years old? Such a simple question, yet so hard to answer.

I had reason to reflect on this question recently. Lacking anything constructive to occupy my time while the Consilium Arcanum’s gears grind slowly through the process of making Awenia an open fae realm, I decided to take to the Shadow Roads and go exploring. The Cait were happy to see me, but sadly there was no sign of their queen, save for the lingering scent of mint. So, after a while, I took my leave of them and, lacking any particular destination, decided to part the veil from the Roads and, trust to chance for my destination.  Well, not entirely to chance. My other ability, to walk the realms, given to me by Alec, my demonic former friend, would normally only take me to places or people I knew, however, I had learned that it could take me to other places where realm-walking was possible. So I reached out with that sense, and let that guide me, to see where it would take me.

It took me to a night club. Of course it did. Whatever the mechanisms are that allow me to travel this way, they must be influenced by experience, and after faerie and medieval castles, much of my experience has been in such places. This did not stop me being slightly exasperated. “A nightclub! Why is it always a nightclub?  All of time and space and I end up in a nightclub,” is more or less what I said once I got my bearings.

I was not expecting an answer, but I got one. An elegant young lady, dressed for some evening occasion, appeared and said that she supposed there were worse places. I could not disagree, and commented that given my navigational skills, this was entirely possible.  Hoping to get some clue as to my whereabouts, I asked if I would regret asking where I was.

She told me that I was in a club, in a mansion called La Chateau De La Rose. Fortunately, she said, there wasn’t an event on, because I wouldn’t have passed the dress code. This was likely true, as I was dressed casually. I promised to wear my tux next time. As to where I was, she then suggested using a smart phone or a GPS unit. That at least gave me some clue as to the when, if not the where. This place must more or less be concurrent with the time I had left. I knew that my phone was apparently a smart one and that it had GPS, however, I had not yet mastered the use of it, despite Wren’s guidance. I pulled it out and fumbled fruitlessly for a few moments before giving up and admitting my lack of expertise with technology.

And then came the question that stumped me. Well, not so much of a question as a statement that raised many questions I was ill-prepared to answer.

“You look pretty young not to know anything about technology!”

I had to admit that she was probably correct in that assumption. Whatever numerical value one might attach to my age, I look to be a man in his 30s, and it would be fair to assume that any man of that age would be familiar with the technology of the present time, which, I had to assume, was roughly commensurate with the time I had left, i.e. early in the 21st century. I prevaricated, saying that as a former night-club manager myself; I would probably not have let myself in dressed this way. She gestured to some armchairs nearby and suggested we sit. She then added a further question, asking where I had come from.

I was still at a loss as to an answer that made sense. Other than the approximate time period, I knew nothing of this place and certainly did not know how they would react to the somewhat paranormal nature of myself and my travels. I opted for a believable half-truth. “Technically, I am about 40,” I told her and explained that I had only recently been introduced to technology. “It’s complicated,” I said, adding that this also applied to the matter of my travels.

She seemed to accept that, taking this to mean that I must have been living in the woods, somewhere off the grid. I had come across this phrase before as referring to people who prefer to live a simpler life, or sometimes wishing not to be noticed by the authorities. In either case, an avoidance of technology was involved. It seemed safe enough to let her continue with this assumption. I agreed that “off the grid” was a good way to put it and said that my daughter had been teaching me about technology. That also seemed a safer option than mentioning I had also learned from a demon that went by the name of Skeleton, and from my fae queen wife.

I decided to change the subject away from possibly risky territory towards something more plausible, like me needing a job, since I had mentioned my own involvement in the night club business. She had used the word “we” in respect of having a dress code, so I asked if she was part of the club management. She was not, but gave me some names – Mitch and Amythe who might be able to help. I recorded this in my trusty notebook, as has been my habit for many years. Then I noticed her expression and thought I would show that I did have some facility with modern technology by getting my phone out and making a similar note on that. Of course, being inexperienced, I managed to set off the music player by mistake, but that turned out to be a fortuitous accident, for it diverted the conversation onto more pleasing matters.

Wren had shown me how to download music onto the phone, so when I accidentally started the player, it started playing the Overture to the Mikado. I managed to stop it after a few bars, but that was enough for my new friend to recognise. She commented on me being caught between two technologies but complimented me on my taste in music and appreciation for the theatre. I told her I was pleasantly surprised to meet a fan of Gilbert & Sullivan, saying that too few people appreciated such things these days. I also thought I’d establish my more serious music credentials by singing a few lines of An die Freude. I told her a little about my mother and how she had raised me on fine literature, music and the other arts. She seemed most impressed that I had been raised in a cultured household. She used the word ‘classical’, which I thought quite amusing, as that word might well apply to my Victorian upbringing from her point of view. Of course, I didn’t mention that, but I did say I had practical skills too, learning the craft of building, and especially woodwork, from my father.

I did ask after her background, but I received no answer. She looked to be lost in thought for a while and then departed abruptly without a word. Perhaps some pager or phone message I had not noticed, or some other summons by means unknown. Or, for all I knew, she had suddenly grown bored and decided to leave. Either way, she did not return, and, lacking any other company, I decided I should return home. This place, whatever land it might be, intrigues me, so I shall explore further another day.

Another Time Another Place

If You Don’t Know Me By Now

According to the Bard, the night before the big battle, Henry V went among his men, disguised in a borrowed cloak to see how they fared and what they were thinking. His reasoning being that they would not know him without the trappings of his rank and would thus give a more honest response. Of course, not everything he heard was to his liking, but such are the perils of going incognito.

It would make sense that most of the men in that army would not know their king by his face, because there were many of then and only a few would have occasion to see him save on the battlefield, when he would be fairly obvious.  One might have thought it would be harder to remain incognito here in Awenia. It is not a huge realm and both Gwyneth and I are not prone to hiding in our castle. Nevertheless, it is, apparently, possible.

Gwyneth and I had arranged to go out for dinner. Partly because we like to spend time together occasionally, as married couples do, and partly because we wanted to see how the eateries in town would deal with visitors in advance of us opening the realm. And so, we arranged to meet and eat.

Unfortunately, I arrived a little late, delayed by official business and by mistakenly going to the wrong restaurant at first. Now, I had expected a fairly informal, intimate dinner, and had dressed appropriately – what I gather is known as smart-casual, so I was somewhat surprised to find her there in full regalia, speaking to the kitchen and wait staff. I took it in my stride, complimented her on her beauty and commented that I felt woefully underdressed next to her.

Now, while I do not lack a sense of humour, I am not overly given to cracking jokes, however, this remark sent the entire restaurant staff into hysterical laughter. My beloved wife seemed equally amused, and even more so by my apparent bemused expression. I am not quite sure why, since bemused seems to have been my default state of mind since she entered my life.

We took our seats and perused the menu. After a few moments, she took pity on me and explained. Apparently, she had also dressed down for the occasion. The waiter who was supposed to be attending our table had somehow failed to recognise her and had been most insistent that this table was reserved for important guests and refused to allow her to sit. He had also told her that she was woefully underdressed for the establishment, which explained the laughter when I had applied the same description to myself. Apparently, he had insisted on standing his ground, continuing to refuse her, and continuing to not recognise her, despite the portrait on the wall, until she changed the glamour to appear in her full regalia.

The poor man was mortified to say the least, and tried begging her pardon. Which, I am sure my darling Gwyneth will grant him, eventually. In the meantime, she decided that he could be better put to work elsewhere and gave him into the tender care of Bran, suggesting that he might serve well as a footman. I cannot blame the man entirely, as he is apparently relatively new to Awenia and may not yet be fully familiar with its inhabitants or its leaders. And I have to give him credit for doing his job, albeit while labouring under a misapprehension. And, he provided some measure of entertainment too, even if I missed most of it.

After that, we had an excellent dinner, and the staff, no doubt wishing to avoid future careers below stairs at the castle, performed their tasks most efficiently. I am tempted to have a quiet word with Bran and suggest that he makes sure that establishments are fully briefed before we go out to dinner again, to avoid repetition of this embarrassment.  On the other hand, that might deprive us of future amusement and the opportunity to hear what the people think. Of course, with the latter, there is the risk that we, like Henry, might hear things not to our liking. I am not sure how I would feel about that, or how Gwyneth would like it either. I guess we’ll just have to see how things go.

If You Don’t Know Me By Now – Seal


A Room for Everything

I have limited experience of this modern marvel that is called television. And for what it can deliver, I have to agree that it is a marvel, even if the word itself, a bastard hybrid of Latin and Greek offends me somewhat. I am, it would seem, not the only one to think so. I was quite surprised to discover that C.P. Scott, a journalist and politician from my own time, experienced this marvel, presumably after I left that particular timeline, and commented something along the lines of “Television? The word is half Greek, half Latin. No good can come of it.”

I have to disagree with the latter part, but perhaps he did not live to see all that it could offer in terms of drama, documentaries (these programmes about the natural world are quite stunning) and even comedy, although I lack the cultural context that would enable me to understand much of the latter. Among the offerings that this medium offers seem to be rather a large number of programmes (I believe that is the correct word, although it seems that Americans prefer programs) devoted to the construction, acquisition, remodelling, refurbishment, decoration and furnishing of houses and homes. Father would have perhaps enjoyed the construction programmes; although I think he might have disapproved of the fascination such things seem to hold for people who would not know one face of a brick from the other.

Mother would probably have enjoyed those programmes about decorating and furnishing. This latter was something she often sought my opinion on, when we would sometimes travel to London to browse the stores for such things. I do not know why. Perhaps she enjoyed the company, or perhaps she appreciated my contrasting, if less well informed, opinion.  On music, poetry and literature, I can at least offer an informed opinion, but when it comes to soft furnishings and drapes and other such things, I could only offer an entirely subjective reaction. Perhaps that was all she needed. I was certainly happy enough to indulge her. I can almost hear her voice, commenting on the decisions made in some of these redecorating programmes and decrying their choice of colours or fabrics. Or perhaps she wouldn’t. While she was not a slavish follower of the latest fashions, she was well enough informed about them and understood the reasons for them, so she would probably have adapted well to the modern aesthetic.

One minor aspect of some of these programmes seems to involve the presenters, or possibly the potential buyers of a property, walking through and commenting on the use of the rooms. “This will make a great study” and “this would be ideal for the children’s bedroom” and such like. Now there I am on a firmer footing. Only a short while ago, my darling Gwyn summoned me to solicit my opinions with regard to our new official residence in Awenia, which opinions I was happy to supply, and she was seemingly happy to accept. Of course, we have both been somewhat busy since then, so implementation of those ideas is very much a work in progress. That is not an issue, since our private spaces are already established, and the more “public” areas of the castle are unlikely to be needed for a while.

In the meanwhile, I found myself attending to a similar task at another castle. My old home, the Castle of Mysthaven, is slowly reconstructing itself, albeit in a rather strange manner more reminiscent of a Perpendicular Gothic cathedral than a castle. Nevertheless, my castle is what it will be until such time as I can find a successor to the Lordship of Mysthaven. I took myself across the realms a few days ago, to see how things progressed. I did not encounter Aoibheann or my daughter, but I did meet with my stewards. They, much as Gwyn did recently, solicited my opinion of the allocation of function to the various rooms.

The entrance to the castle is suitably grand and imposing and will serve well as a general reception/waiting area, though obviously, it will need some furniture – bench seats, occasional tables and such like. A raised area, near the window, and at the bottom of the stairs looks like a good place to have informal meetings and discussions. A place for comfortable chairs and low tables, for chats with my stewards and people from the town over a pot of coffee and a few pastries. There was a large, impressive seat there. A magnificent construction of wood and leather, perhaps intended as some kind of throne. If I have to have a throne, I would rather something such as this than a gaudy affair of gilded, carved wood and red velvet. Maybe it will look better once in the proper place, rather than left here, presumably put down for some reason and not subsequently moved.

I was less pleased by the next room, which had a raised area at one side, clearly intended as some sort of dais for a throne, or possibly for an altar. I dismissed the latter out of hand, since I have no intention of taking up any religion for myself, much less imposing such on anybody else. For my personal preference, I would as soon dismiss the former idea out of hand too. I have no desire to sit upon a throne of any sort, much less hold audience from one in such a grand and imposing room. That said, much as the concept repels me, I can see there may be a necessity for such things. The people of Mysthaven are used to my informal ways, but visitors from elsewhere, even Faerie, may need to see the trappings of power and authority. Mornoth probably expects such things, and Bronwyn probably accepts the necessity, although I hope that what she will see is still her father, outside the formalities of court.

A semi-circular area off the throne room would serve well for gatherings and perhaps feasting and a more convivial setting for after the formal business of court. This should be a multipurpose area, and when not otherwise in use, will be a nice place to stand and look out over the town.

On the other side of the reception area, there are a couple of rooms that can be a meeting room, for more business-like meetings, and my office, for I should still have such in this new castle. Here I could receive visitors in a more private setting and sit and discuss matters of state, of trade, of treaties etc without the trappings of court. I could also have smaller formal meals here, which will be a little more cosy and comfortable than the main court room.

Up the stairs, of which there were many, were rooms that would serve well as guest quarters for those of my visitors I could not politely lodge at the tavern, and rooms that will serve well as my private chambers. I do not imagine that I will be spending a great deal of time here as my primary residence is always going to be the castle in Awenia, but, a Lord should have his private chambers, where I can retire from the business of being Lord of Mysthaven, and perhaps where I can receive more intimate guests, should I ever have any.

The vaults themselves do not seem to have changed that much. Maric’s laboratory looks pretty much as I remember it, as do the quarters for the men. I do not know why. Perhaps it is by design, but if that is so, then I might ask the question, as did Blake, “What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry?” It could be that the presence of the laboratory, and the aura of magic that surrounds it, have somehow protected them from change. Or, perhaps the process of change is not yet complete. For now, it is enough that there is some place familiar to me.

That logical part of my mind that was shaped by Father’s influence tells me that there should be further rooms to explore at the higher levels, especially given the height of the main tower, but I could not find any way to them. Perhaps, that too is a work in progress.

I did not see many others around the town. At the moment, the town seems subdued, quiet, with the townsfolk going about their business quietly scuttling from one place to another in case a building falls on their heads. Given the fluid mature of the realm, this is entirely possible and I can not blame them. They were pleased enough to see me, and some had questions regarding the disposition of the other buildings around the town square, but overall, they seemed as content as could be expected given the changes they are undergoing. My stewards have been doing an excellent job in my absence. Much as I would like to claim credit for that, they were already more than competent before I took the reigns. I would like to think, however, that they have learned something from me. Perhaps they have.

I gave further suggestions regarding the disposition and furnishing of the various rooms of the castle, and regarding the other buildings, but they were only suggestions. The townsfolk and my stewards have been a part of the town a lot longer than I have, and they likely know what is best. I took my leave then, and returned to Awenia and to my wife. There at least, although the castle is still new to me, is home.

A Room for Everything – 10,000 Maniacs





Into the Mist

I mentioned, in my last journal entry, a hankering to go travelling. I would have thought that I would have tired of it by now. I have travelled for most of my adult life.  There were all my years with the Haskins shipping company aboard the Carisbrooke Castle, Raglan Castle and Odiham Castle. Then there were my journeys in search of Katarina; journeys that came to naught, but did lead me, by and by, to London. There I sought atonement for a mistake I made in Richmond, Virginia with the lovely Vyktorya, only to find that she fared well enough and had found a home among the Sabbat. It was only years later, in Jasper Cove and later, Ashmourne Wylds, that I learned of her grisly fate from her adopted daughter, Sophia, also now lost to me through the vagaries of the fractured realities we both walked. And there  are other journeys – from London to Jasper Cove to Ashmourne Wylds to Mysthaven and finally to White Owl Island, which my memory still insists existed, and Awenia, which I now regard as home.

I have another home, of course, back in Mysthaven. That home I have neglected for too long, being too caught up in the affairs of the island and Awenia. And so, shortly before Yule, I took a journey there to see how things fared at my old home. In keeping with the theme of recent journal entries, I found that much there had changed, as once again, the realm has reshaped itself. Gone at least, are the floating lumps of rock, upon which much of the castle and village of Mysthaven rested. I am not sorry to see those gone, for they offended my sensibilities as a rational man. I have come to believe much that I would not normally have believed, but floating rocks was a hard one to accept. Of course, I did not dare give voice to such belief in case the rocks heard me and forgot how, which would have been somewhat of a disaster for all concerned.

No, this reshaped realm seems, thus far anyway, to be very much rooted in terra firma, so I can cross villagers falling off of the edge from my list of things to worry about. The mists remain, but the world seems darker than I remember. Most of the buildings have changed and there is more stone and ironwork than I remember. In some ways, with the stone and iron and the gloom, it reminded me of when I first arrived on the Isle of Legacies. Most of all, the castle had changed. It loomed much larger and in a very different style to that which it had been, seeming in places to resemble a cathedral as much as anything. Given that Maric had shaped the castle from the bones of his sire and tormentor, it made sense that the castle should be malleable and changeable, even if it had not changed when the landscape reformed itself before. The process of change was clearly ongoing, as everything still seemed to be in a state of flux and I was reminded of times I had been to the construction sites with my father when buildings were as yet unfinished.

I did not get much opportunity to explore, for my attention was distracted by a familiar shape, or so I thought – a distinctly feline shape dressed largely in black. My heart skipped a beat for a moment, but when I got a closer look, it was not that other queen of my life, Valene. Whoever it was, I did not get a chance to discover for she slipped away into the shadows before I could speak. And then, there was another familiar shape, if a little wilder and more fae in appearance than I remembered. Aoibheann, Mother of Trees was there. I smiled and greeted my long-lost friend, saying it had been far too long.

This seemed to confuse her for a moment as she started to say that she had only just spoken to me before changing her mind and wishing me a good evening. This is perhaps not surprising; as it was likely time had passed differently here, or for her, than it had for me. Her next question confounded me somewhat, asking if I had ever found that violin. For a moment I could only think of Wren’s violin that I had long ago promised to restore for her after it had gotten wet on her travels. I was wrong; it was Maric’s violin to which she referred. She said that she understood that the castle and the village were mine, and that she did not contest that, or that I could guard it better, especially in her current state, but that she would like something of his, even if she feared that she might destroy even that. She paused a moment, seemingly choking slightly on her words and asked if I could hear the howls.

I had to profess that I had not, but then, I had been back in the realm but a few minutes and had not fully adjusted. I reached out with my other senses, but could sense nothing, at least, not in that brief moment. I did not know what she feared, but afterwards wondered if it was the cŵn that she had heard. Since I could sense nothing at the time, I addressed her other concerns. The castle and the village were mine only in the sense that Maric had appointed me guardian and protector, but that did not make them my property. I assured her that anything within the castle, or without, she may have, save that I preferred to keep the library intact if I could, and so would reserve judgement on any books she might desire. Mention of Maric brought back that sense of loss and sadness that he was gone from us. I had loved him too, I told her. Perhaps not in the same way, but nevertheless, I had loved him. I promised that as and when the castle had finished rebuilding itself, I would take account of the castle and its contents and anything she wished, including the violin if I found it, he could have with my blessing.

There was more on her mind, as is often the case with her. She composed herself before continuing. She had awoken something, she told me, but she did not know what. She loved him too, loved him still, but was concerned for the realm. Her heart grew wylder and she feared what might come of that. Everything slumbered, she said – the realm, and the mallorn trees, Ardan and Awnye. Something was wrong. Perhaps it was her doing or perhaps it was the King and Queen’s, she did not know. All she did know was that she was dangerous and it was a danger that the people of Mysthaven deserved a reprieve from.

I sighed inwardly. I had heard such talk from her before, but I could not tell for certain if this was yet more drama of the sort that always surrounds her, or that something was going on. Since I know longer know exactly what Aoibheann is, I could not say for certain that she was not a danger. She may be. Not through malevolence or intent, but perhaps through impetuousness or something implicit in her nature that might bring danger from others. I reached out my senses again, touching the castle. There was trouble there, I could tell, but from that brief touch I could not tell what that might be, whether it be the pangs of the reshaping or some other cause. Mention of the King and Queen gave me cause to reach out further, to my beloved daughter, Bronwyn. This troubled me somewhat, for, while I could sense her, I could not tell where she was, nor could I communicate. I did not sense any immediate danger, but it troubled me nevertheless.

My watch reminded me that, back in Awenia, it was time for dinner, and I had promised Gwyn that I would return to eat with her. I told Aoibheann that I would reach out to the King and Queen and see how things fared with them, and that I should also reach out to Queen Teuta, since she was so tightly bound with the castle. I bade her well, then, and left her, to return to my other home, and to my wife. I only spoke of it briefly with Gwyn, since she has more or less cut herself off completely from that former life and has no further interest in Mysthaven. That is easier for her, since she was able to pass on her duties and responsibilities to Mornoth and Bronwyn. I did not have that luxury, and will not until such time as I can pass on my burden, if ever. After that, I spoke no more of it, and gave my attention to the business of organising our new home. Indeed, I gave it no further thought until the celebrations were over. Some time soon, I must return and see what passes there now. It is still, in part, my home, and I miss my daughter.

Eivør – Í Tokuni



The Year Turns Around Again

I was born in 1853. That much I know for certain. I was married to my dear Alexandra in 1880. I lost her to the pains of childbirth in 1885, the same year that Katarina took me from the mortal life I had known and thrust me into this world of darkness before vanishing from my life. For six years, I wandered, seeking answers and seeking her, until I fetched up on the Isle of Legacies, that strange mirror of the London I had once known. That was in 1891. That was the last time, until now, that I knew for certain what year it might be. Since then, I have known only the turning of the wheel of the year; not by the numbers on the calendar, but by the passage of the sun and stars. And so it was through the time that passed in Jasper Cove, Ashmourne Wylds and Mysthaven. I could not say for certain how many years, for I was not as assiduous as I could have been in recording the passage of time in my journal, but I suspect at least five.

But now, once again, I am back in what passes for the normal passage of time. I followed my heart, following my wife across the realms to the 21st century. I followed her to the year 2017 of the Common Era, which phrase I am told is now preferred to the Anno Domini that was the habit in my time. For the first time in many a year, I once more knew both where and when I was. I was on an island in Puget Sound. I found myself, once again, managing a bar. I found myself learning the basics of the marvel that is the Internet. I found that human nature has not changed in the 126 years since I left the world I once knew and had to deal with those who would hate another for what they were.

So my memory tells me. The rest of the world, as I recorded in an earlier journal entry, thinks otherwise. I do not yet know why. Whatever other disparities there may be between my memories and those of the world, the time itself has not changed. It is still 2017, if only for a short while longer. I am grateful that I will get to spend this New Year’s Eve in the company of Gwyn, my beloved wife and our close friends. The house is not yet completely organised as we might wish, but the important parts, the library and private chambers are already a home. And so, we shall celebrate, quietly, but in good company.

What the coming year will bring, I do not know. There is much to be done in preparing Awenia for when it becomes an open faerie realm, arrangements to be made, negotiations with the Consilium Arcanum etc. There will be times I will not be needed and I have a hankering for travel. The possibilities are endless. Between the Shadow Roads and my own abilities to walk the realms, I could go almost anywhere. The biggest problem is choosing where. In the meanwhile, I will go join my wife and friends to ring in the New Year.



Hi there. While Nathaniel goes off to celebrate, I, Nathaniel’s chronicler and typist, am going to take over. 2017 has not been the most productive year for this journal. Role play, for various reasons, has been thin on the ground for Nathaniel and my other characters. That said, it has still been a productive year. I’ve worked on various other projects at the Daily Dash in Milk Wood, the best writing community in Second Life, and on stuff not related to Second Life. I even had a go at Nanowrimo. Of course, as with every other year I have attempted Nano, real life intervened and stole most of my writing time during November. Despite that, I achieved more words than I might otherwise have done. I don’t do resolutions, but I plan on being a bit more disciplined with regards to writing in the coming year.

I also hope to get more role play in. Nathaniel’s home sim is unlikely to be up and running for role play for a few months, but I hope to take him on a grand tour of other sims in the meanwhile. And, with a bit of luck, my other characters will get some playtime in too.

To all those who have stuck with me over the years, and those few who have sampled the contributions from Albert, Katarina, Francois and Ben, I thank you for your patience. I wish you all a happy, prosperous and productive New Year. Many thanks to all the fellow role-players without whom none of Nathaniel’s adventures could have happened. In particular, Faermorn, Dyisi, Wren, Kit and especially Gwen, a blogger, photographer, role-player, friend and all round wonderful person who also portrays Gwyn, Nathaniel’s wife.  I’ll now return you to Nathaniel…

Oh! He seems to be busy with Gwyn. Oh my goodness, I didn’t know you could do that with a bottle of rum and a bunch of mistletoe… maybe we’ll just leave it there.

The Year Turns Around Again