The Fey
“The faeries, fair folk, made of mischief and light. They are immortal creatures of life magik, and utterly at odds with what we are.”
~LISHKA, coming 2024
Art by Kendra Lindell
Origin of the Fey
THE FEY QUEEN came first. Born from the magik of life, she created her many species of folk. They thrive in green spaces, encouraging plants and trees to flourish. They themselves are not born, but rather they grow from flowers, mushrooms, and other earthy places. They are immortal unless killed, and when they die their bodies turn to mist, flowers, water, or earth depending on their particular affinity. There are many sub-species of fey.
The fey are not malicious, but they are tricksome. They cannot tell a lie, though their truths are often open to interpretation. Most enjoy mischief and playing pranks, particularly on humans.
The Harrow
The Harrow are a subspecies of fey who live in the thick eastern forest known simply as ‘The Fens’. Once a part of the greater world, they are now relegated to dusty folk tales and old nursery rhymes passed down through generations. Yet for the stray traveler or historian who dares to wander the Fens, to tread the moss paths and seek the hidden doorway, beware, you may not be alone…
The Harrow King Folk Rhyme
If you dare to find what you seek,
take a wand of Rowan true,
deep into the moss and wood,
but seeker beware they do not find you.
Seeker be warned you are not alone,
for the mound you seek, it is their home,
and if they find you, it’s you they will take,
down far below to the Hollow Keep.
Down deep in the earth where the roots grow thick,
by chance you may meet the master of tricks,
his fingers they dance ‘cross the golden pipes,
while his folk twirl about in delicious delight.
Upon every surface lies food for the taking,
plump grapes, rich cheeses, bread fresh from baking,
and roughhewn goblets from maple and oak,
hold thick honey liquid that slides down the throat.
The laughter of folk and the pipes fill your ears,
with no thought of past life or previous years,
you smile for no reason and drink merrily,
whilst around you they flit in carefree company.
‘Til at last they release you with age in your bones,
to climb from the earth past the roots and the stones,
what seemed only a day, no more than a week,
has been years that have passed beyond the warm Keep.
What once was a doorway is now but a dead tree,
the gray fading light leeches clear memories,
the sole hint it was real in their songs you still sing,
of the years he did steal, that sly Harrow King.