[Be not afeard: The isle is full of noises.]
In the course of his studies, Prospero learned a trick or two to keep himself hidden from seeking eyes; ways to hide a fellow behind a pocket of air, and ways to subdue the properties of sound as they propagated through the ether, and other sorts of ways besides, to confound and consternate all the senses that had no names.
Today, he deployed them all.
His encounter the night previous with the Puck had unnerved him; not so much the power of the fae, because Prospero had tamed beasts and snapped the lightning as his lasso, but rather, the seeming of him, that the creature's fangs would be so...alluring. The unsettling, winsome countenance of that too-sweet face, the queer light in Robin Goodfellow's eyes as he danced to some piping that only he could hear. The musk of his power, a sharp, firm taste that lingered on the palatte of the eternal magus' ever-hungry mind.
Nightmares had no business masquerading as dreams.
Prospero sat in his room, bent over his book. His fingers traced the text, his own spidery hand scrawled along and astride others, authors whose alchemies and philosophies lived on solely within the covers of his grimoire.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, no," he muttered. He caressed the edge of a page. "Show me, best beloved, what I need to see."
A sound like the sighing of many voices emanated from the book. Some pages rustled, then stilled.
And now, a prodigy and a horror among their kind was preoccupied with him.
Prospero closed his book. He shut his eyes tight. When he opened them again, he began drawing sigils in the air and upon his flesh; iron and steel, of a temper suitable for dwelling beneath the skin.
[The text, in case you've got images disabled:
The fair folk are awesome. They inspire awe.
The fair folk are wondrous. They work wonders.
The fair folk are charming. They weave artful charms.
The fair folk are captivating. They capture hearts.
The fair folk are astonishing. They strike like thunder.
The fair folk are terrific. They spread terror in their wake.
With all due apologies to Msr. Pratchett, for appropriating and adapting his turns of phrase.]
Today, he deployed them all.
His encounter the night previous with the Puck had unnerved him; not so much the power of the fae, because Prospero had tamed beasts and snapped the lightning as his lasso, but rather, the seeming of him, that the creature's fangs would be so...alluring. The unsettling, winsome countenance of that too-sweet face, the queer light in Robin Goodfellow's eyes as he danced to some piping that only he could hear. The musk of his power, a sharp, firm taste that lingered on the palatte of the eternal magus' ever-hungry mind.
Nightmares had no business masquerading as dreams.
Prospero sat in his room, bent over his book. His fingers traced the text, his own spidery hand scrawled along and astride others, authors whose alchemies and philosophies lived on solely within the covers of his grimoire.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, no," he muttered. He caressed the edge of a page. "Show me, best beloved, what I need to see."
A sound like the sighing of many voices emanated from the book. Some pages rustled, then stilled.
And now, a prodigy and a horror among their kind was preoccupied with him.
Prospero closed his book. He shut his eyes tight. When he opened them again, he began drawing sigils in the air and upon his flesh; iron and steel, of a temper suitable for dwelling beneath the skin.
[The text, in case you've got images disabled:
The fair folk are awesome. They inspire awe.
The fair folk are wondrous. They work wonders.
The fair folk are charming. They weave artful charms.
The fair folk are captivating. They capture hearts.
The fair folk are astonishing. They strike like thunder.
The fair folk are terrific. They spread terror in their wake.
With all due apologies to Msr. Pratchett, for appropriating and adapting his turns of phrase.]