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- Sep 22, 2007
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- The Unseen Veil -
It has not always been so, this dying world of men.
Where are Jove and his Olympians?
Whence did the ghoulish Barghest flee?
When did the Selkies retreat from the waters?
Who remembers that it was not always so?
- * -
It has not always been so, this dying world of men.
Where are Jove and his Olympians?
Whence did the ghoulish Barghest flee?
When did the Selkies retreat from the waters?
Who remembers that it was not always so?
- * -
For the first time in a very long time, there would soon be guests in Nether-Hollow.
The entire house—along with its servants—was bustling as it hadn't been in nearly a century: A legion of angry feather-dusters swept across every flat surface, while the wallpaper twisted itself into an elegant new pattern. Sprites zipped through the air like miniscule comets, arranging decorations and filling the air with a magic that made the floorboards shiver with laughter. Bogles billowed hither and thither, chasing out any unsightly pockets of spirit-air. On the grounds, every last topiary had proudly sculpted itself to perfection.
They were all following orders issued by the head of servants on the prior eve. Mister Annwn had been given a particularly important task from the master of the house, to be carried out on the day of the festivities—so he had issued his orders a day in advance. The Lord of Nether-Hollow would then be left undisturbed in his urgent party-planning business. The approaching date was, after all, a triply important celebration:
Celebration the First was for the ninety-ninth year since embarking on this latest venture—his greatest yet, by any reckoning.
Celebration the Second was for the reawakening of Nether-Hollow; guests from all over Faerie would once again stroll through its halls.
Celebration the Third was for the beginning of something wonderfully new—or, perhaps, the return of something very old.
The invitations for this long-expected party had at last been sent. In his study, the master of the house dismissed his nine quills with a flourish, then looked himself over in the mirror for one last time. By his reckoning, one can never be too neat in one's appearance. His hair had been fluffed to downy perfection, his cravat pin was positively radiant, and he wore a freshly-grown jacket just for the occasion.
Perfect. With a jaunty bell-kick, he marched off towards the Spirit Spire.
The Lord of Nether-Hollow was not always inclined to actually walk, but today he felt need to stride forth triumphantly. The wide double-doors of the Spirit Spire flung themselves open in his wake, and he came to stand in the center of the tower without ever breaking stride. The feather-duster army had just finished the enormous chamber, and it looked more radiant that it had in years*. Light filtered in from the transparent domed roof and glittered across millions of shelved vials for a dazzling effect.
Housed within every one of them was a soul—a Netherworld Denizen just waiting to be loosed. Gwydion Cygfa had captured them all, and knew each one by name. "I know you're all excited, because I certainly am," he chuckled.
"I guarantee that you'll each be given a chance to stretch your limbs . . . starting with nine lucky winners! Be gentle with the guests, now!" He laughed like a gleeful child.
(*In the Netherworld, "nodes" and constructs like Nether-Hollow can become less defined if not visited after a long period of time. The feather-dusters sweeping through Nether-Hollow are sprites whose job is to pay stringent attention to detail, thus keeping the structure in top condition. They take the form of feather-dusters as a visual metaphor, imposed by Cygfa.)