What did Hircine inspire?
adjective; meaning "Of, pertaining to, or characteristic of goats.
Possessed of an odor reminiscient of goats.
Libidinous; lustful;
excessively and overweeningly desirous.”
Possessed of an odor reminiscient of goats.
Libidinous; lustful;
excessively and overweeningly desirous.”
It was seven days journey from the southern lands and even now the sun was only setting on the fourth. The faint echoes of greenery mingling with the final rays of light, the next ridge promised the young buds of spring.
Beyond this point, no crow would dare fly north.
Beyond this point, no crow would dare fly north.
Beyond this point, no songbird would dare fly south.
The knowledge of unseen barriers between kingdoms hung heavy in his mind as the air swirled around the lone waypoint for road-weary travelers. He glanced up at the wooden sign, squinting, and slowly discerned the inscription.
“Perdition” he breathed, his words coiling into the chilled air.
Inside the tavern was the warm bustle of light and life. Figures gathered in stark silhouette around the open hearth as their souls danced in the warming grace of the flames. In the corner of the room, a harpist sat wrapped around a battered and tarnished instrument, plucking away tunes forgotten to time and travel.
Hooves sounded on the cobbles outside as he made his approach and continued onto the wooden floorboards as he stepped through the open doorway. A small brass bell jingled overhead, and rang with the silence of the room.
“Evening” he mumbled, dipping his head and pulling down his scarf, revealing a set of winding horns nestled in his equally curly hair.
No one said a word, every eye following his hircine legs as he moved across the floor and up to the bar.
The knowledge of unseen barriers between kingdoms hung heavy in his mind as the air swirled around the lone waypoint for road-weary travelers. He glanced up at the wooden sign, squinting, and slowly discerned the inscription.
“Perdition” he breathed, his words coiling into the chilled air.
Inside the tavern was the warm bustle of light and life. Figures gathered in stark silhouette around the open hearth as their souls danced in the warming grace of the flames. In the corner of the room, a harpist sat wrapped around a battered and tarnished instrument, plucking away tunes forgotten to time and travel.
Hooves sounded on the cobbles outside as he made his approach and continued onto the wooden floorboards as he stepped through the open doorway. A small brass bell jingled overhead, and rang with the silence of the room.
“Evening” he mumbled, dipping his head and pulling down his scarf, revealing a set of winding horns nestled in his equally curly hair.
No one said a word, every eye following his hircine legs as he moved across the floor and up to the bar.
“Ale.” He said to the man behind the counter.
The man, a full head shorter than the traveler, remained momentarily frozen, processing the word. Then, he blinked, and resumed drying the glass he had been holding, shifting his gaze before muttering through gritted teeth.
“Get yourself gone. We don’t service your kind here.”
The man glanced at the patrons, and not wishing to meet his gaze, they all turned back to their own preoccupations from moments earlier.
“I’m just here for a drink and an hour’s rest. Then I’ll be on my way.” the traveler said in firm but gentle tones. “I just seek some warmth before resuming my journey.”
The barman tensed at his words, and leaned toward the other man, rage seeping in his voice.
“There is no warmth in all of heaven for your kind.” he hissed. “Shod with the shoes of satan himself, you are.”
The traveler blinked, taking an uneasy glance down at the hooves that were his feet.
“Friend, I…”
“I am no friend to any demon who dares set foot in my establishment.”
“I won’t cause any trouble.”
“Your kind caused me enough trouble.” the barman said slamming his fist into the polished wood.
He reached down and placed a bottled of ale between them.
“Two coppers. You take this, and you get out now.”
The traveler paused, before cautiously reaching into his pockets. He took the bottle off of the counter leaving behind two copper coins. The barman grabbed them in a single swipe before turning away, revealing the frail, shriveled wings protruding from his back.
“There will be no more dealings here.” The traveler thought, realization settling upon his mind as he walked out into the cool autumn air.
He gently pulled the scarf back over his head and horns, and stowed the bottle among his meager supplies. It would be a long three days, but he was traveling north. To the warmth. To the light. To the lands he had never known.
He was the twirl of a bottle
And a song twisting through the eaves
Of a bar made to look older
And a barkeep to match
But he was oh so old
Curling in the illusions
Warped and twisting
A runaway prince’s façade
And keeping him
Hidden [Mostly]
Or a hircine quality
Caught from the corner
Catching the prettiest girl’s eyes
And they always wondered
Why he spent so much
Energy
Forcing himself into hearts
Of the neighborhood’s skirts
When he couldn’t
Lift a finger
Or read a book
Because a lie
Only reaches so far
And an illusion
Never really hits home
Unless it’s followed up swift
With some distracting smirk
And the reflex anger
Of a small town husband
Better to have them look straight on
And never look again
Then to carry on
Glancing and whispering
Until the whispers turn into shouts
And the shouts turn into fires
And silver blades
Sliding across fae throats
No one questions
Lustful glances
When they know it not love
And they find them
Easier ?
Smoother ?
Prouder ?
Than the preservation it masks.
Because a prince
Know his weapons
And he keeps them close
Closer than a pretty girl’s kiss.
The Fae Prince was inspired by a character from
Patrick Rothfuss' Name of the Wind,
which is fantastic and highly recommended.
The Fae Prince was inspired by a character from
Patrick Rothfuss' Name of the Wind,
which is fantastic and highly recommended.
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