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Description

Look closely, child. Can you see the cotton throne in the distance? A satin structure waving in the wind that looks as brittle as sugar but as strong as steel? That place is the whispering wood’s capital, the centermost villa, home to Fafnir’s daughters.

The weaving dragon once cavorted with a terrible fog and sired three children. They are the ancient wood’s royal family, and each learned to spin silk from their father. However, the princess’s thread is not smooth and white, but sticky and grey, for their ambition are vile and manipulative.

Can you see the morning dew strewn across the throne? Can you see the desiccated corpses and smell the salty wind? We can.

At the base of the whispering wood lived a man whose heart longed for another. A woman who was fair of skin and had hair that traced the rivers current and eyes green like the glow of summer’s sea. Can you see her smile, child? Can you feel the warmth of her touch like the sun’s caress? Do you wish to share her bed? Many did.

Heartache drives you to do silly things. We once watched a man kill his brother for a woman’s hand, and yet, she was ignorant of the power she possessed. The story is as old as time, and we have watched it play out again and again. We were not surprised when a lovestruck man braved the whispering wood finding the alter at its centermost spire. That sticky gray silk was woven around every branch and swayed softly to the gentle light of burning candlesticks. The daughters of the last dragon had taken a druids stronghold as their home decorating the halls with webbing to ensnare the foolish.

If you are lucky, and the candles are lit, you may seek an audience with the youngest princess of Fafnir. She often holds court for the foolish humans who worship her, and it is said that she grants the wishes of mortals.

True to the stories, the candles were lit upon his arrival, and the eight-legged progeny of the wicked fog sat in waiting. Dropping to his knees, the man prostrated himself before the princess and her dripping fangs.

“Please grant my desire.” He said, planting his forehead upon the altar. “Please, grant my wish. I want her by my side, in sickness and health. Please, I beg you.” He asked over and over.

“I hear your desire, mortal.” The princess stirred venom, slipping from her quivering lip. “For me to grant your wish, you must first satisfy our hunger.”

“What must I do?” He asked.

Just then, the firstborn child of Fafnir slid down the wall upon a sliver of silk, eight legs dancing around the man as a rasping tongue touched the surface of his skin.

“Ah, I should very much like a taste of your arms and legs.” She said, “A bite of your fingers and toes will satisfy me.”

“But, I need my hands and feet to court the one I love, I need my hands to write the fairest poems and my feet to carry them to her.” The man said.

“What use would a woman have for that nonsense if she never leaves your side?” The princess spat. “Is this the depth of your love? Is your fear greater?”

No!!” he shouted, holding his hands forward. “Take them anything for my love!”

And so the first princess plucked his fingers and toes like feathers from a bird before retreating into the shadows; the man’s screams were perfect music for such a meal.

When his pain subsided, and the venom burned his wounds shut, the second princess wove her way down from the ceilings above. She was more delicate than her older sister and silent as a shadow weaving her way around the man with no fingers or toes.

“I would very much like the taste of your eyes.” She said, running bristled fingers across his cheek.

“But, I need my eyes to look upon the one I love, to see her flowing hair, her sea-green eyes, and her glowing smile.” He said.

“Is your passion so shallow that you need eyes to see? Is her image not burned into your brain?” She spat. “Is this the depth of your love? Is your fear greater?

“No!!” He shouted, pushing his face forward. “Take them anything for my love!”

And so the second princess tore his eyes from his head like ripping meat from the bone, stealing away to the shadows like her elder sister.

The venom from her kiss burned his flesh and knitted what remained across his jagged wounds. He barely had lungs left to scream.

Finally, the youngest princess came down from her throne, stepping over the altar like a cat, her fangs clicking together as she approached.

“Ever since I heard your honeyed words, I knew what I wanted.” She said. “I would very much like a taste of your tongue.”

“But, I need my tongue to speak to the one I love. Without it, how could I tell her how beautiful she is? How could I tell her I love her?”

“The woman you love will never leave your side. She will need no flattery from you, this, I promise.” She whispered into his ear, and he hesitated, stumbling backward. “Is this the depth of your love? Is your fear greater?” She spat.

“No, I, please take it, anything for my love.” He opened his mouth for the princess, and she cut away his tongue with such precision that not even a jagged stump remained.

With their hunger satiated, the daughters of the last dragon blew out the candles and retreated into the darkness, leaving that husk of a man upon the cold earth.

“Surely, you already knew.” The youngest princess said. “That woman doesn’t love you and never will. What use have you to write poetry honey sweet? What use have you to look upon her? What use have you to speak to her?” The questions stung like a wasp in his ear. “However, I will keep my promise to you; from this day forth, she will always be by your side.” With that, the spiders of the whispering wood vanished.

The next morning, the man was found crawling out of the woods murmuring nonsense and blind to the world around him. They took him to the clinic where the woman he loved would watch over him till the day he died. She fed him, bathed him, and dressed his wounds, which never fully healed. She would tell him stories each day about the man she loved. Can you feel the sting? Can you bear it? He couldn’t.

One day she told him of her wedding, petting her belly heavy with child. She would have a beautiful baby girl; he would have none.

Listen close, child. Listen close to the Deacons as we tell the story of the Weaver www.deviantart.com/fafnir313/a… , and the Ashen Fog www.deviantart.com/fafnir313/a…

Description

Look closely, child. Can you see the cotton throne in the distance? A satin structure waving in the wind that looks as brittle as sugar but as strong as steel? That place is the whispering wood’s capital, the centermost villa, home to Fafnir’s daughters.

The weaving dragon once cavorted with a terrible fog and sired three children. They are the ancient wood’s royal family, and each learned to spin silk from their father. However, the princess’s thread is not smooth and white, but sticky and grey, for their ambition are vile and manipulative.

Can you see the morning dew strewn across the throne? Can you see the desiccated corpses and smell the salty wind? We can.

At the base of the whispering wood lived a man whose heart longed for another. A woman who was fair of skin and had hair that traced the rivers current and eyes green like the glow of summer’s sea. Can you see her smile, child? Can you feel the warmth of her touch like the sun’s caress? Do you wish to share her bed? Many did.

Heartache drives you to do silly things. We once watched a man kill his brother for a woman’s hand, and yet, she was ignorant of the power she possessed. The story is as old as time, and we have watched it play out again and again. We were not surprised when a lovestruck man braved the whispering wood finding the alter at its centermost spire. That sticky gray silk was woven around every branch and swayed softly to the gentle light of burning candlesticks. The daughters of the last dragon had taken a druids stronghold as their home decorating the halls with webbing to ensnare the foolish.

If you are lucky, and the candles are lit, you may seek an audience with the youngest princess of Fafnir. She often holds court for the foolish humans who worship her, and it is said that she grants the wishes of mortals.

True to the stories, the candles were lit upon his arrival, and the eight-legged progeny of the wicked fog sat in waiting. Dropping to his knees, the man prostrated himself before the princess and her dripping fangs.

“Please grant my desire.” He said, planting his forehead upon the altar. “Please, grant my wish. I want her by my side, in sickness and health. Please, I beg you.” He asked over and over.

“I hear your desire, mortal.” The princess stirred venom, slipping from her quivering lip. “For me to grant your wish, you must first satisfy our hunger.”

“What must I do?” He asked.

Just then, the firstborn child of Fafnir slid down the wall upon a sliver of silk, eight legs dancing around the man as a rasping tongue touched the surface of his skin.

“Ah, I should very much like a taste of your arms and legs.” She said, “A bite of your fingers and toes will satisfy me.”

“But, I need my hands and feet to court the one I love, I need my hands to write the fairest poems and my feet to carry them to her.” The man said.

“What use would a woman have for that nonsense if she never leaves your side?” The princess spat. “Is this the depth of your love? Is your fear greater?”

No!!” he shouted, holding his hands forward. “Take them anything for my love!”

And so the first princess plucked his fingers and toes like feathers from a bird before retreating into the shadows; the man’s screams were perfect music for such a meal.

When his pain subsided, and the venom burned his wounds shut, the second princess wove her way down from the ceilings above. She was more delicate than her older sister and silent as a shadow weaving her way around the man with no fingers or toes.

“I would very much like the taste of your eyes.” She said, running bristled fingers across his cheek.

“But, I need my eyes to look upon the one I love, to see her flowing hair, her sea-green eyes, and her glowing smile.” He said.

“Is your passion so shallow that you need eyes to see? Is her image not burned into your brain?” She spat. “Is this the depth of your love? Is your fear greater?

“No!!” He shouted, pushing his face forward. “Take them anything for my love!”

And so the second princess tore his eyes from his head like ripping meat from the bone, stealing away to the shadows like her elder sister.

The venom from her kiss burned his flesh and knitted what remained across his jagged wounds. He barely had lungs left to scream.

Finally, the youngest princess came down from her throne, stepping over the altar like a cat, her fangs clicking together as she approached.

“Ever since I heard your honeyed words, I knew what I wanted.” She said. “I would very much like a taste of your tongue.”

“But, I need my tongue to speak to the one I love. Without it, how could I tell her how beautiful she is? How could I tell her I love her?”

“The woman you love will never leave your side. She will need no flattery from you, this, I promise.” She whispered into his ear, and he hesitated, stumbling backward. “Is this the depth of your love? Is your fear greater?” She spat.

“No, I, please take it, anything for my love.” He opened his mouth for the princess, and she cut away his tongue with such precision that not even a jagged stump remained.

With their hunger satiated, the daughters of the last dragon blew out the candles and retreated into the darkness, leaving that husk of a man upon the cold earth.

“Surely, you already knew.” The youngest princess said. “That woman doesn’t love you and never will. What use have you to write poetry honey sweet? What use have you to look upon her? What use have you to speak to her?” The questions stung like a wasp in his ear. “However, I will keep my promise to you; from this day forth, she will always be by your side.” With that, the spiders of the whispering wood vanished.

The next morning, the man was found crawling out of the woods murmuring nonsense and blind to the world around him. They took him to the clinic where the woman he loved would watch over him till the day he died. She fed him, bathed him, and dressed his wounds, which never fully healed. She would tell him stories each day about the man she loved. Can you feel the sting? Can you bear it? He couldn’t.

One day she told him of her wedding, petting her belly heavy with child. She would have a beautiful baby girl; he would have none.

Listen close, child. Listen close to the Deacons as we tell the story of the Weaver www.deviantart.com/fafnir313/a… , and the Ashen Fog www.deviantart.com/fafnir313/a…