An Dannsa Sìth - Introduction
Magic returned to the World as quietly as it had left. And as inexplicably.
It flowed in through cracks in the Border of the Worlds, cracks that appeared without warning and disappeared the same.
It pooled in shadows, flared in the twilight and darkness, gone with the first touch of sun's light.
Things followed.
Small things.
Creatures from the Otherlands; a single sprite, the odd pixie, a twinkle of a will o' the wisp, a lost rock-frog. Slipping though the tears in reality, sustained by the presence of magic, failing when the crack closed.
And then a spriggan slipped through one of the cracks.
Setting down roots between dark and dawn, fixing magic into the soil of the World. When the sun rose, a young thorn bush stood, sessile, inanimate, mindless; casting a shadow on the small crack from which it had come into the world. Within a few days, the small bush grew into an impassible thicket, providing greater shade to protect a small pool of magic at its base.
A swarm of sprites followed, sheltering in the thorny maze, flitting out through the countryside at night. Pixies moved in, burrowing beneath the thicket, digging tunnels out under the ground. Magic filled the tunnels, flowed through them, in time reaching the ground waters below. Rock frogs hopped through the crack, following the flow of magic to the waters.
Each new arrival fixed magic more firmly into the fabric of the world. The crack became a hole, still subject to the schedule of seasons and movements of bodies in the heavens above, but always opening in the same spot, the same place.
The hole grew bigger. Magic called to magic; other creatures followed. More cracks opened.
Country folk were the first to notice. People living in the deep backwoods, off the grid, close to the land. The teenaged boy potting rabbits for the pot sighting down the scope of his rifle at a jackalope. The farmer finding his entire henhouse slaughtered, the door off the latch, even though he knew it was closed the night before. The herbwife whose potions, handed down grandmother to granddaughter for generations, suddenly more effective than even the most modern of medicines. The drunkard swearing off drink after being chased home by a dog with eyes of fire late one night.
Mocked for decades as superstitious inbreds, they kept themselves to themselves and told no one. They drank the water drawn from deep-set wells, ate their hassenfeffer made with jackalope meat, wove cloth from the wool of sheep grazing on grass growing near the thickets of thorn and absorbed the magic in their blood and bones.
Others noticed as well. Hippies living in communes, congratulating themselves on the strength of their home-grown weed, not realizing that what they saw was real. Hunters tracking vicious wild animals into the deep woods only to find themselves the hunted.
Magic spread and magic woke. It reached the river and the Bowman awoke. He gathered the small ones, the lost ones, the free to himself and collected what magics he could to protect them.
Countryfolk remembered precautions told in old tales; salt in your pocket, a packet of oatmeal, a dry bun. Iron on your person, manners and courtesy to strangers. Pick up a pin, throw salt or grain or meal over your shoulder, bless others when you meet or leave them.
Children were warned not to wander out at night, to avoid the bog, be careful of the lake, say their prayers and speak respectfully. Horseshoes were set under mattresses, on walls, over windows. Or crosses.
Shops appeared, selling amulets and potions, herbs and charms. Churches dusted off their exorcism procedures, attendance boomed.
Urban legends spread.
The bogeyman under the bed, a zombie in the churchyard, the vampire in the grave, a monster in the river, a ghost in the basement, a black beast in the park; everyone had stories.
Always happening to someone else. A friend of friend, a cousin's wife's brother, somebody in the next town, another school, another place. Always hearsay. Always somewhere else. Never in the cities. Never nearby.
Until finally ... it does.
It flowed in through cracks in the Border of the Worlds, cracks that appeared without warning and disappeared the same.
It pooled in shadows, flared in the twilight and darkness, gone with the first touch of sun's light.
Things followed.
Small things.
Creatures from the Otherlands; a single sprite, the odd pixie, a twinkle of a will o' the wisp, a lost rock-frog. Slipping though the tears in reality, sustained by the presence of magic, failing when the crack closed.
And then a spriggan slipped through one of the cracks.
Setting down roots between dark and dawn, fixing magic into the soil of the World. When the sun rose, a young thorn bush stood, sessile, inanimate, mindless; casting a shadow on the small crack from which it had come into the world. Within a few days, the small bush grew into an impassible thicket, providing greater shade to protect a small pool of magic at its base.
A swarm of sprites followed, sheltering in the thorny maze, flitting out through the countryside at night. Pixies moved in, burrowing beneath the thicket, digging tunnels out under the ground. Magic filled the tunnels, flowed through them, in time reaching the ground waters below. Rock frogs hopped through the crack, following the flow of magic to the waters.
Each new arrival fixed magic more firmly into the fabric of the world. The crack became a hole, still subject to the schedule of seasons and movements of bodies in the heavens above, but always opening in the same spot, the same place.
The hole grew bigger. Magic called to magic; other creatures followed. More cracks opened.
Country folk were the first to notice. People living in the deep backwoods, off the grid, close to the land. The teenaged boy potting rabbits for the pot sighting down the scope of his rifle at a jackalope. The farmer finding his entire henhouse slaughtered, the door off the latch, even though he knew it was closed the night before. The herbwife whose potions, handed down grandmother to granddaughter for generations, suddenly more effective than even the most modern of medicines. The drunkard swearing off drink after being chased home by a dog with eyes of fire late one night.
Mocked for decades as superstitious inbreds, they kept themselves to themselves and told no one. They drank the water drawn from deep-set wells, ate their hassenfeffer made with jackalope meat, wove cloth from the wool of sheep grazing on grass growing near the thickets of thorn and absorbed the magic in their blood and bones.
Others noticed as well. Hippies living in communes, congratulating themselves on the strength of their home-grown weed, not realizing that what they saw was real. Hunters tracking vicious wild animals into the deep woods only to find themselves the hunted.
Magic spread and magic woke. It reached the river and the Bowman awoke. He gathered the small ones, the lost ones, the free to himself and collected what magics he could to protect them.
Countryfolk remembered precautions told in old tales; salt in your pocket, a packet of oatmeal, a dry bun. Iron on your person, manners and courtesy to strangers. Pick up a pin, throw salt or grain or meal over your shoulder, bless others when you meet or leave them.
Children were warned not to wander out at night, to avoid the bog, be careful of the lake, say their prayers and speak respectfully. Horseshoes were set under mattresses, on walls, over windows. Or crosses.
Shops appeared, selling amulets and potions, herbs and charms. Churches dusted off their exorcism procedures, attendance boomed.
Urban legends spread.
The bogeyman under the bed, a zombie in the churchyard, the vampire in the grave, a monster in the river, a ghost in the basement, a black beast in the park; everyone had stories.
Always happening to someone else. A friend of friend, a cousin's wife's brother, somebody in the next town, another school, another place. Always hearsay. Always somewhere else. Never in the cities. Never nearby.
Until finally ... it does.