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England is a green land, set in the cool, North Sea, yet warmed by the last kiss of The Gulf Stream. Some say the warmth turns toward France, but night-folk necromancers employ their razor sharp skills to draw it on toward Albion's shores. And their kind have been in residence since the ice sheets disappeared. At first it was a refuge, clean and pure. Caribou grazed here. Hunters came after. And then the night grew bright, quickened by those-who-see, even in the dark.
They slept in barrows, long, earthen tombs, snug beneath the grass. Some called them Oberon. Indeed, Oberahni grew to be the name of their tribe. The first night-lord was Rafe. And he is still among us. Ancients knew him as 'Sandman.' A bringer of dreams. Perhaps you've seen him, tall and slim, white as the moon, with hair like spider silk? For he is an albino..... the 'ghost' who lusts for blood.
And he haunts a noble house, surrounded by hills, up toward the land of the fabled Picts. Night-songs (spells) sung by manic witches serve to keep the curious away. Vast stone halls, warmed by mammoth hearths, echo in the dark, for none but Rafe abides there. Is he lonely? At times. But he goes out to 'dine.' This one knows no vows. This one has no creed. He resembles the 'nobles' (moral vampires) but he is not one of them. Rafe hungers and he eats..... dowagers and doormen..... ballerinas and boors.
Oh, he is not cruel, not purposely. A torturer? No, at least not in any premeditated manner. Though some might hold another view.
Minions, conjured up from ashes and moonbeams, make ready for 'the dance.' They rub iron filings into the flagstones in preparation for the 'Grand Promenade.' You may have heard Tomas refer to it as 'The Stampanada.' Flinty heels strike orange sparks from off the iron floor. Step-step-step-STOMP. Step-STOMP-step-STOMP... Quite hypnotic and stately in its own cold, regal way. And they dine on plane-loads of plump, sleek mortals, flown in by soulless crime lords from the cities to the east. At least those who are not 'nobles.'
Protected mortals serve other functions. They are magicians, or waiters, circulating through the crowd with icy draughts of vodka, or tiny aroma candles. Some are jugglers, others subjects for real magic... donkey-boys, or feather girls. Sadly, a few die in these displays. But what can I tell you? It's only a hobby.
And our Philadelphia night-folk draw near, most like wide-eyed farmers at the fair.
Oh, the sights you will see. Come back. Bring your friends. Expect to be tickled and amazed.
Could be you hold a little magic too?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
if you're willing to help, please nominate me for a SHORTY AWARD by tweeting this~~~> I nominate @wilkravitz for a #BLOGGER SHORTY AWARD based on his narratives and stories........Thank you very much.
They slept in barrows, long, earthen tombs, snug beneath the grass. Some called them Oberon. Indeed, Oberahni grew to be the name of their tribe. The first night-lord was Rafe. And he is still among us. Ancients knew him as 'Sandman.' A bringer of dreams. Perhaps you've seen him, tall and slim, white as the moon, with hair like spider silk? For he is an albino..... the 'ghost' who lusts for blood.
And he haunts a noble house, surrounded by hills, up toward the land of the fabled Picts. Night-songs (spells) sung by manic witches serve to keep the curious away. Vast stone halls, warmed by mammoth hearths, echo in the dark, for none but Rafe abides there. Is he lonely? At times. But he goes out to 'dine.' This one knows no vows. This one has no creed. He resembles the 'nobles' (moral vampires) but he is not one of them. Rafe hungers and he eats..... dowagers and doormen..... ballerinas and boors.
Oh, he is not cruel, not purposely. A torturer? No, at least not in any premeditated manner. Though some might hold another view.
Minions, conjured up from ashes and moonbeams, make ready for 'the dance.' They rub iron filings into the flagstones in preparation for the 'Grand Promenade.' You may have heard Tomas refer to it as 'The Stampanada.' Flinty heels strike orange sparks from off the iron floor. Step-step-step-STOMP. Step-STOMP-step-STOMP... Quite hypnotic and stately in its own cold, regal way. And they dine on plane-loads of plump, sleek mortals, flown in by soulless crime lords from the cities to the east. At least those who are not 'nobles.'
Protected mortals serve other functions. They are magicians, or waiters, circulating through the crowd with icy draughts of vodka, or tiny aroma candles. Some are jugglers, others subjects for real magic... donkey-boys, or feather girls. Sadly, a few die in these displays. But what can I tell you? It's only a hobby.
And our Philadelphia night-folk draw near, most like wide-eyed farmers at the fair.
Oh, the sights you will see. Come back. Bring your friends. Expect to be tickled and amazed.
Could be you hold a little magic too?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
if you're willing to help, please nominate me for a SHORTY AWARD by tweeting this~~~> I nominate @wilkravitz for a #BLOGGER SHORTY AWARD based on his narratives and stories........Thank you very much.
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