<Crion> NOW: In the Blooming Garden of Dying Flowers, the Ritualist of the Court of Spring kneels next to the hobgoblin dog-child as it breathes heavily and stares up at a burgeoning moon. Is the moon real here, in the Hedge? It's hard to tell. The Ritualist wipes the sweat from the hob's brow and says to you, "New Lost often assume it is the Winter and Autumn Courts alone that deal with death,
<Crion> and the passing of all things. That is not true. From death comes new life, new joy, new passion, new growth, and the celebration of a life lived -- or a life cut short -- should not be mired in sorrow or fear. Or anger. At least not in a peaceful last moment."
<Crion> "Well, what are you waiting for?" He leans back, cradling the dying hob. "Play him away."
<Crion> EARLIER: The weather has finally turned in the city of Baltimore; it took a couple weeks for September to remember it wasn't August anymore, but last Tuesday someone upstairs got the message. It's time to switch the thinner blouses for something with wool, find a jacket, put away the summer dresses. If those were your thing. Where is Helen "Nels" Foule living now? How is she living?
<trenchfoot> She's got an apartment near the the harbor, sparsely furnished. The kind you could pack up and leave in minutes, if you had to, though she'd miss some of the things she'd have to leave behind. It's a small place, would probably drive the claustrophobic away in minutes, but that suits her just fine. Better that than too much open space.
<trenchfoot> She lives frugally, and her few luxuries are an ancient guitar in the corner, and a desk with a computer nearly as old as she is. (She was told it was important to have one.) It's a nice, quiet place, and sometimes that's all you need.
<trenchfoot> Ah, and can't forget the radio. What an invention.
<Crion> Well, quiet and near the harbor are going to be relative. Though as long as she's not living in Canton or Fell's Point -- those are where all the rich white college kids come to party on the weekends, or every week except finals week, the, ah, Wednesdays -- she should be perfectly fine. It's hard to say from the outside looking in how Nels would react to what modern life looks like
<Crion> now. There are parts of this city that are gleaming, terrifying wonders of the future...and parts that look old, wrecked, utterly destroyed and abandoned, with a recognizable resignation and mistrust in the eyes of the people who still live there.
<Crion> How long was she away, again?
<trenchfoot> Oh, the harbor's too loud, for certain, but having the ocean closeby is nice. There are no crossroads in the ocean.
<trenchfoot> Nels was out for 100 years. Or maybe 101. Hard to say for certain.
<Crion> She missed the Roaring Twenties and the Great Depression, then, but if she's looked at pictures, well. Them and some of the vistas she's seen above 25th Street don't look so different.
<Crion> Speaking of which, that computer -- does it have an internet connection? How's she dealing with that? Has it sunk it yet that it's not actually capital-M Magic?
<trenchfoot> It does have the internet, and no matter how many times people try to explain it, she ends the conversation with, "So it's magic, then," and refuses to consider them any further. For goodness' sake, they hadn't even had radios.
<trenchfoot> You expect to tell me a screen that shows moving pictures and can look all over the world isn't magic? She has one of those contracts.
<Crion> It's a fair cop. What's the best, least-intrusive way of getting in touch with her these days? Is it literally just, showing up to her apartment and buzzing?
<trenchfoot> It's preferred. She has a home phone, and following an angry lecture once she has a cell phone she keeps on her, but face to face contact is - well.
<Crion> Then she'll get a call on her landline sometime around 1 PM. If she's got one of those new-fangled ones with caller ID, the "area code" will be 410 -- that and 443 seem to be at the front of all the phone numbers in Baltimore.
<trenchfoot> Why would they need two of them? That seems needlessly complex.
<Crion> There are...a lot more people in this country now.
<trenchfoot> Well, that's good news for all the phone operators they must need by now.
<Crion> Yeah...well, that's for another day.
<trenchfoot> She picks up the call: "Hello?"
<Crion> A warm, smooth male voice from the other end of the line. "Hello. This is David Smitten, with the North Avenue Community Center. Am I speaking with Nels?"
<trenchfoot> Nels: "This is she."
<Crion> "We've met once before, I believe. At the cafe in the Inner Harbor." Ah, yes. This was during one of the Freehold's two getting-to-know-you meetings she was asked -- more like gently prodded -- to attend. The first was rather lowkey, drinks and tapas (Those are, like, small things you eat with your fingers? But apparently very expensive? She wasn't asked to pay) with the other
<Crion> recent...escapees from the other side. A motley lot, to be sure. One looked young enough to be a child (apparently he IS popular on the internet).
<Crion> The second had more attendees from the Freehold itself, including two quite handsome Black twin brothers -- one from the Spring Court, with thistles and warm winds sweeping around him, a true beauty -- and one no less handsome but burning with the heat and rage of the Summer Court. David Smitten, and David Smote. Smitten had seemed to take a greater interest in her; Smote focused more
<Crion> on burning Maggie with the hearty laugh, and the willowy tree girl.
<Crion> It was clearly a professional interest, however. Does Nels have any concept of what a recruiter is?
<trenchfoot> Nels: "Ah, yes, of course. May I ask why you've called?" Solely on the internet? It must be magical, then, this settles it. And the "tapas" were... fine, but goodness the drinks were sweet. A lot smoother than they used to be.
<trenchfoot> Not especially, no. You just sort of... showed up, at a place.
<Crion> It was clear then, at least, that he had an ulterior motive to his kind manner and engaging wit -- something that he wanted -- and it wasn't to sleep with her. He was working with some other people, for some other people, and he seemed very interested that she think highly of them...or at least remember their name.
<trenchfoot> Well, she remembered it, after a bit. That's going to have to do. She used to be better at this part of schmoozing.
<Crion> "I bear tidings from Amelia Bantham, Gardener of the Court of Spring, Queen in Her Season. She would like to meet with you at The Sidereal, our Freehold's neutral gathering ground. That, of course, we pay for and run." The last line doesn't seem relevant, and isn't a boast; in fact, it is delivered with some annoyance.
<Crion> He pauses to wait for any immediate response.
<trenchfoot> Nels: "Did she give a time?" She checks the wall clock again. Still around 1pm. And surely providing a communal area is no burden...
<trenchfoot> ...also, wait, is she supposed to be more grovelling, or nervous? "Royalty" as a concept still hasn't really sunk in; that was for other countries. Fewer, now, if the encyclopedias are to be believed.
<Crion> "She's there now, and will be until late. She wants to meet before doors open at 7 PM for the night's revels, however, out of respect for you. Unless you are amenable to a sold-out concert for a band of kids from the county."
<Crion> "We can send a car. Otherwise, it is your discretion."
<trenchfoot> Too quicky: "No, no, that'll be fine, I'll be there before then."
<trenchfoot> Nels: "A car would be nice, though. Could you send one by in an hour or so? Give me a chance to get ready."
<Crion> The man sounds like he's smiling broadly again. "Absolutely. Call it a quarter past two."
<Crion> "Good day, Nels."
<trenchfoot> Nels: "Good day, David." She hangs up first. Time to prepare, and solve yet another puzzle of what proper attire is these days.
<Crion> "Oh!"
<Crion> "Before you go."
<trenchfoot> She pauses.
<Crion> "If you have an instrument you feel comfortable taking out of the house, please bring it."
<Crion> He'll hang up after that.
<trenchfoot> She looks over in the corner where it rests.
<trenchfoot> Maybe it's time to try again.
<trenchfoot> Fifteen minutes later, Nels has set out three different kinds of outfits she was told were acceptable to wear now. There's a shirt that seems to have too-short sleeves with some pointless writing on it and some blue jeans, but she's not going out West any time soon, so those are out. There's a skirt that is scandalously short with some sort of top that shows too much skin, that's definitely out, even with the jacket to go with it
<trenchfoot> - is that leather? Huh. Must be a men's.
<trenchfoot> And then there's a simple white blouse with a long floral skirt that doesn't look like home - nothing will ever again, probably - and despite the lack of a hat, it's what she's most comfortable with. A pair of white heels with a little bow in the front, and her ensemble is set. Now to look in the mirror and see herself again.
<trenchfoot> Her face is gaunt, hollow-eyed, and framed by wheatstalks pulled into a tight bun. She's too long and thin, now - taller than she used to be, probably - and her fingers are stained a deep red color that can only be one thing. Nels has a hunch where she didn't used to, and the only thing worse than her changes are the changes in the world around her. She'll adjust. There's nothing else to do but live, now.
<Crion> Someone hits the buzzer at 2:13 PM.
<trenchfoot> Brush it out, try to look confident. Peer through the peephole to make sure it's someone you know.
<Crion> It's David Smitten, alone. You can smell the fresh spring breeze of his mantle through the door.
<Crion> He's wearing an incredibly stylish pastel set with matching shoes that still manages to be subdued and serious.
<trenchfoot> She opens it. "Hello, David." Something to use that "internet" for, later. The encyclopedia set likely won't be able to tell her what looks normal or not in this day and age.
<Crion> "Good afternoon, Nels. Are you ready to go?"
<Crion> "Remember to bring your...cellular phone."
<Crion> He almost just says "phone," but realizes that might be confusing at the last instant.
<trenchfoot> She gestures to her clutch. "I'm learning," she sighs.
<Crion> He nods. "Sounds good." Is she bringing an instrument?
<trenchfoot> She hesitates in the doorway, then goes back to grab it from its place on the wall.
<Crion> He smiles slightly at that. "Let's go."
<trenchfoot> It's an old, old model guitar, beat up and worn, but not nearly as one should be from that time. Small favors.
<Crion> Just as they step out of the building onto the sidewalk is where the first weird thing of the day happens. Maybe it's less weird to her; maybe it's more. A homeless man, drunk, but oddly anachronistic -- looking more her style than modern, with canvas pants and a button shirt instead of sweats -- stumbles up to them. But she can't see that he has a Mien; he just looks like a normal
<Crion> human. He stares at her for a harsh moment, then swings towards Smitten. "Gimme a dollar," he says. "Gimme five. Money don't go so FAR now, DOES IT?" That last bit is shouted over Smitten's shoulder down the street, but it's clear who it is intended for.
<Crion> David Smitten, who had been reaching for his wallet, instead backhands the man across the face. Then he leans over and says clearly into the man's ear: "You don't want this problem."
<Crion> The man wilts...and slinks away.
<trenchfoot> Nels takes a step back and behind Smitten. They know. They know they know they know
<Crion> Smitten watches him go. "They don't necessarily know."
<Crion> "We're not going to relocate you yet. Some people are...sensitive."
<Crion> "Too sensitive. It hurts them to function. They can read things coming off you. Doesn't excuse the behavior...but he's far more likely a victim than a spy."
<trenchfoot> Breathe. In, out. Focus. The world stops spinning. "I -- how..."
<trenchfoot> "How do I tell the difference?"
<trenchfoot> She clarifies. "For next time. Or for this time, actually, because this is --" My safe place, she doesn't finish.
<Crion> "The Huntsmen have to announce themselves. They've got something called a Herald. Comes to you, tells you straight up: come back to your Keeper, or we will pursue this to its conclusion. Loyalists, well, they're Lost just like us. So they've got Miens. That guy looked human, but there was a gleam in his eye."
<Crion> "A sick gleam. Not perversion but disease. He was Ensorcelled. Damned, and utterly useless to our enemies but in special cases."
<trenchfoot> Nels: "That's awful." She needs another lock on her door anyway. For all the good it might do her.
<Crion> "Like I said, he sees too much. He sees the Hedge overlapping the real world. He has no idea where he is, and I doubt he could tell anyone if he did."
<Crion> "It's not fun."
<Crion> "Anyway. If you see him again, ever, you call your Court contact immediately. Even if you don't join Spring. One meeting like this, we get wary but don't freak out. Two meetings? Then it's time to do the whole thing."
<Crion> After that speech, David Smitten walks up to...a lime green Volkswagon Bus.
<Crion> He gestures to the passenger's side seat. "Get in."
<trenchfoot> She does, after a moment of gawping. "...these things'll never stop surprising me," she murmurs.
<Crion> Behind the wheel, which oddly isn't as cramped as you'd think given Smitten's large frame: "I said that too, once. Some things will never stop surprising you. And some things will. And maybe you'll wish that some of the first ones swapped with the latter."
<Crion> He puts the bus into drive and it putters out onto the road. "Put whatever you want on the radio."
<trenchfoot> Nels: "They have radios in these things?!"
<Crion> After a beat: "Big button on the left there turns it on, then you turn it like a knob. It'll find a station."
<Crion> At that, he laughs.
<Crion> "You will end up terrified at the things they put computer chips in these days."
<trenchfoot> She groans, already trying to find some oldies station - and it sucks that they call it "oldies." "The internet is made up entirely of magic, no one can tell me otherwise."
<Crion> He laughs at that. They drive up-town.
<Crion> Eventually they arrive at a sleek, brick-and-mortar two-story building clad in steel and tarp that takes up some half the block, along with the parking lot. In what's probably a trendy font, carved in relief into the black tarp-clad steel and then filled with lighting are the words, all lowercase, "the sidereal." He parks in the lot and nods to the unassuming attendant...who is also
<Crion> one of them. In his Mien he has four eyes on his head (the other two up and to the left of each of his normal ones) and his breath mists in the air as he exhales. Yours does not. Winter Court.
<trenchfoot> Does she know his name? She'll likely have to learn eventually.
<Crion> No, but she can ask if she likes.
<Crion> Ask Smitten, that is.
<trenchfoot> She does. As soon as he's out of earshot: "Pardon me. David, what was his name?"
<Crion> He blinks, then seems to fight the urge to glance back as he realizes who she's talking about. "That's Canterbury. Doesn't talk much. Very discreet. He's a Brit, actually, so no clue how he ended up here. Sounds kind of like their upper-class if you ask me. But a good guy."
<trenchfoot> She files it away. "Thank you." Not much of a talker is good. Discreet is good. Upper-class is... well, they can't all be perfect.
<Crion> As they approach the front door, Smitten fist-bumps both of the bouncers -- big guys, but entirely human to the look of them; they both nod at her with the perfunctory attention of someone who has just put you out of their mind. Inside, The Sidereal's main floor is empty; there's a balding man with a ponytail, crumpled up a bit with horns coming out of his head. One of the Lost. Spring
<Crion> Mien, which mainly represents itself in vines growing up and down him like ivy. He looks annoyed, and is plucking away at an acoustic guitar he's hooked up to the sound system with a pickup, but the sound isn't coming in how he likes.
<Crion> The only other person in the pit area for the concert is a Black woman of about forty years, it looks like, and her mantle is overpowering. It smells like spring around her, and while she doesn't have the most overwhelmingly visual presentation -- there aren't flowers growing out of the leather seating -- every eye in the room, including yours, is irresistably drawn to her with a
<Crion> feeling of pure fascination. Her eyes are white pupils on black corneas, and every time you look at her, everything around her is perfectly proportioned, like a Renaissance painting.
<Crion> This is Amelia Banthem, Gardener of Spring, Queen of Her Court.
<Crion> "Wait here," Smitten says about twenty feet away from Banthem's table, then walks over and whispers in her ear. Her expression hardens out of the smile it's in, then casts to worry, then hardens again. She whispers back. He nods, then steps away and gestures to you.
<trenchfoot> She fiddles nervously with her skirt, then steps forward.
<Crion> "My Gardener, may I present to you Nels, unaffiliated." He bows slightly, then gives her a smile and walks away, heading towards the back.
<Crion> "Come and sit," Amelia Banthem says, indicating the empty table. "You may put your instrument down anywhere.
<Crion> "
<Crion> The ponytailed guy on the stage calls out: "I swear to god, Banthem, we need to get Ipsum in here to check these wires. We can't keep fuckin' doing this."
<trenchfoot> She sits with a swoosh and props the guitar next to her chair. Something to ground herself. "Um. Hello." She winces at the sudden call.
<Crion> The Gardener, with amused annoyance: "I've told you, Harlan, Lauren isn't an electrician. She's not even IT."
<Crion> "Then we need to hire someone," he grumbles. "I think I've got it."
<Crion> Banthem turns back to you. "Hello, Nels. The first thing you should know is we take what happened on the way over very seriously. David is going to consult with the Summer Court and the King of the Freehold right now, and we'll be having people keeping watch in and around your building until it's clear this was just a chance encounter. You've seen the markers of all our mantles, yes?"
<trenchfoot> Nels: "I - yes, and thank you for the - the guards." She's still going to get more locks.
<Crion> Banthem nods. "The upshot here is that you will be given an emergency number to call; David will come back with it. You don't even have to speak -- you dial this number, the Freehold converges. Don't abuse it, but especially for the first few days and nights, do not view it as an imposition. We're used to false alarm. The problem here in particular is that you don't know the members
<Crion> of our Court, so you might not be able to tell if a Changeling looks out of place or wrong at first glance. So if any of the new Changeling faces on your street over the next few weeks rub you the wrong way -- you don't recognize their mantle, or they behave oddly, or they acknowledge you, because our men and women will avoid conversation and at most give you a nod -- then you call
<Crion> that number."
<Crion> "And things proceed."
<Crion> "...Which is not how I wanted this conversation to start."
<Crion> Meanwhile, the changeling on the stage begins to play: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6SO40ansNU8
<trenchfoot> She nods, grateful. The song is... familiar, but not in an unpleasant way. Or it's unfamiliar in a pleasant way, she hasn't decided. And it could be much louder. So.
<Crion> He's turned down the speakers.
<trenchfoot> Blessed be.
<Crion> "How are you settling in to life in 2019?"
<Crion> That's from Banthem.
<trenchfoot> Nels: "It could be worse?" she tries. "Some things are - radios. We didn't have those. Clean drinking water. Cities smell different, haven't decided if that's better. So much more music, and you can get from place to place faster even if you'd rather go slower, and it's all so loud," She shudders. "There's a lot. And I keep reading up on what's different but I don't know if I'll ever get it right."
<Crion> She nods. "It's not going to be easy and we don't expect that you come around to think it's good. We being the Freehold of Baltimore."
<Crion> *thinking
<Crion> "But we do think it's important that you not lose connection with people. You do that and, well. Everything bad about this world finds a way to get worse, and it gets worse faster without other people."
<Crion> Banthem: "It's going to be especially hard for you, because you've been gone so long. But easier in others."
<Crion> Banthem: "It's going to be especially hard for you in some ways, because you've been gone so long. But easier in others."
<trenchfoot> Nels shifts in her seat, steadying her guitar. "Easier how?" She doesn't address connecting with people. That will - she'll make more of an effort. Somehow.
<Crion> Banthem: "You don't have to worry about your fetch. In good ways, and bad ways. But on the whole, for you living your life now, good. We'd be a lot more paranoid about today if she was still alive."
<trenchfoot> She winces. "I'd rather not talk about her, if that's all right."
<Crion> Banthem: "We haven't asked, and won't ask."
<trenchfoot> "Thank you."
<Crion> She leans back. "Smitten thinks you'd fit well in the Spring Court, and I both value his assessment and agree with it so far. Those of us who come back from captivity that long in the Hedge, I'll be honest, they usually give in to despair. The Winter Court takes them, and I have no bad words to say about our Winter Court. You saw Canterbury outside?"
<trenchfoot> She nods. "He seemed quiet."
<Crion> "He lost...everything. His betrothed, his family...his peerage. His fetch killed himself five days after he was taken. I'm told the aristocracy over there has...massaged things so that officially, his father never had any sons at all. He blamed himself for not only everything else, but his family's very title going extinct. He would never have made it in Spring. Winter took him in,
<Crion> and Winter has been so helpful in letting him become someone who doesn't have to feel all of that guilt, all of the time."
<Crion> She leans forward again. "But we sensed a different connection with you. A need for an expression. Even this far down the line. A passion for the ways we try to live, if not for living itself, all the time."
<trenchfoot> Nels: "The years are hard, and everything's unfamiliar, but I'm not going to let the worst few weeks of my life stop me. It's just - a setback."
<Crion> Banthem nods, then looks over at the case to your instrument. "We'd love to hear it, if you're willing to play."
<Crion> The changeling on the stage has finished his testing and is keeping a not-too-stealthy eye on the conversation while doing general tuning on a variety of instruments.
<trenchfoot> Nels: "Any preference? Song, genre?" She's got her guitar up on her lap, checking the strings.
<Crion> "Whatever you desire," says the Gardener of Spring.
<Crion> The other Changeling clears the stage to give it to Nels, heading to Banthem's booth. They don't talk or even whisper; they both just watch her.
<trenchfoot> Satisfied with her checks, she makes her way to the stage. Breathes. Her hands still don't feel quite right on the guitar, but she adjusts her position. Breathes again. Looks out at the audience. Then she begins. There's a slow procession of intricate staccato notes, a little intro before she starts singing: "I went down to the crossroads, fell down on my knees!"
<trenchfoot> She plays, and plays, never faltering but in a way that feels different, freeing. There's no competition here, just her and the guitar and the stage and the audience. She concludes with a solo, this one unrecognizable, gradually slowing to something calming, soothing. Comforting, in a strange way.
<Crion> The ponytailed Changeling, in the silence after the finish: "Holy shit."
<Crion> "I've heard the recordings and..."
<Crion> Banthem: "Yeah."
<Crion> "Whose song is that?" she asks.
<trenchfoot> She smiles. "Mine."
<Crion> Banthem nods. "Yeah. That makes sense."
<Crion> The other Changeling: "Over here they say it belongs to a man named Robert Johnson."
<Crion> "They say he made a deal with the devil at...well."
<Crion> "I think you can guess the rest."
<trenchfoot> Nels: "I'm familiar with the story," she says dryly. Calmer now on stage than she was in the chair.
<Crion> Banthem smiles thinly. "Yeah."
<Crion> "How to you feel about the Court of Spring, Nels?"
<Crion> "Because we feel real comfortable with you."
<trenchfoot> Nels: "I'd be pretty keen," she says with a smile.
<Crion> Banthem smiles and stands. "Good. As far as I'm concerned, you're in."
<Crion> "But we're not going to party you in. Out of respect." The smile turns a bit sad as she puts her hands in her pockets. "Instead, I think you should see what we do when we're not having fun."
<Crion> "Harlan? Show her the Garden."
<Crion> Banthem gives a slight salute with two fingers and heads to the back.
<Crion> The ponytailed Changeling: "Ah, fuck."
<trenchfoot> Nels follows after putting her guitar back in its case.
<Crion> "No, no."
<Crion> "You're with me."
<Crion> "I'm Harlan Jape."
<trenchfoot> All right then. "Nels Foulke."
<trenchfoot> "But you probably knew that."
<Crion> He extends a hand to shake. "The Ritualist of the Spring Court of the Freehold of Baltimore. Well met. Damn good tune."
<trenchfoot> She shakes his hand after shifting her guitar. "Thanks. It was nice to play it for an audience."
<Crion> He smiles. It's a bit...grim? "You'll have more and better than me. You hungry?"
<trenchfoot> She shrugs. "I could eat." She's still not sure how to feel about the food these days. Maybe this'll be another chance.
<Crion> Harlan: "We've got time to kill...and we're going into the Hedge. Want to do that on a full stomach, for a lot of weird reasons that Ordinary keeps telling me."
<Crion> "So what can the kitchen get you."
<trenchfoot> What's something familiar that's nearly impossible to screw up... "A hot dog, maybe?"
<Crion> He blinks. "Do you want...anything on it?"
<trenchfoot> Phew. They have them. "Mustard and onions. Something familiar," she explains, probably unnecessarily.
<Crion> Harlan nods and knocks on the big steel screen that closes off the kitchen from the bar when the venue isn't open.
<Crion> From behind it, distantly: "WHAT?"
<Crion> Then the screen slowly cranks up, literally pulled by a chain by a Changeling in a standard chef's outfit -- white smock, silly white hat -- who looks gnarled and petulant and has an incredible mustache. He gives Nels a withering glance, seems to approve, then looks to Harlan. "WHAT?"
<Crion> Harlan: "Lady would like a hotdog, mustard and onions." To Nels: "Just the one?"
<trenchfoot> She confirms. "Just the one, thank you."
<Crion> "IT SHALL BE DONE!" The shutter slams down.
<Crion> Harlan: "That was The Kitchen."
<trenchfoot> Nels blinks. "Dramatic fellow, isn't he?"
<Crion> Harlan: "Whatever works."
<Crion> Perhaps four minutes later a slat in the steel screen opens and a pot-marked old hand shoves a beatiful plate through, and slams the slat shut when Harlan takes it to pass to Nels. The dog is plump and perfectly cooked; the bun has been buttered and toasted on that butter to a perfect lightness; it's dressed with mustard and red onions, but on the side there are fried onions, and two
<Crion> slices of bacon, and...
<Crion> "Avocado," Harlan says helpfully.
<Crion> Just in case she wants to experiment.
<trenchfoot> She blinks. "The bacon seems excessive," but goodness that looks delicious. She takes a bite, sans additions, and lights up. "Oh!"
<Crion> Harlan, deadpan: "Him? Excessive?"
<trenchfoot> Nels, after swallowing her first bite, deadpan: "Whatever works."
<Crion> Harlan chuckles. "And he does."
<trenchfoot> She tries a bit of the avocado, a bit of the fried onion, and a bit of the bacon, but honestly it's the simplest as the best for now. She'll have to look up the 'avocado' later.
<Crion> After a moment: "You ever shot a gun?"
<trenchfoot> Nels: "None of the newer things, but yes. Pistols were... necessary."
<Crion> He nods. "I'm hoping not to use them, but you prepare for the consequences, not for the hopes. Do you prefer revolvers or automatic-loading?"
<trenchfoot> Nels: "Revolvers. Had a snubnose that never let me down."
<Crion> He nods. "I'll be right back. Finish your dog, use the bathroom, grab your instrument."
<trenchfoot> She does so. Every bite is even more delicious than the last. Incredible.
<Crion> Harlan returns with something wrapped in a green cloth, and something wrapped in a blue cloth. He beckons her towards the hallway leading to the back of the venue.
<trenchfoot> She's cleaned up, she has her guitar, let's see what this is about.
<Crion> In that hallway, he hands her the green-wrapped thing: "This is the gun. Snubnose, as you like. It's in .38, as you like. Probably a bit shinier than what you've seen."
<Crion> He hands her the blue-wrapped thing. "Two speed-loaders, with bullets in them. Snap out the cylinder with the release on the side, dump the empty cartridges, shove one of those things in."
<Crion> He slings his own guitar -- in its own case -- over his shoulder. He's wearing a rather larger revolver on his hip. "Take a second to inspect if you like, but then we need to hurry."
<Crion> "Sun sets quicker, these hours."
<trenchfoot> She looks it over. Shinier indeed, but not that different. Nice to see that some things are the same. Speedloaders are new to her, though. "And you can just... get these speedloaders? Nevermind, talk later." She can figure it out if she needs to, but this is something that's all the same.
<Crion> "We do live in the future," Harlan Jape says. "Whatever the fuck the future is."
<Crion> "Let's go."
<trenchfoot> Time to stick close. She nods.
<Crion> He'll lead her out the back of The Sidereal, nod to Canterbury -- this time Canterbury nods to both of you -- and down two alleys. Straight across the street, then down to the right. They end up in a weird, empty lot.
<Crion> The lot is gravel where it's not asphalt, and it's mostly asphalt in the middle. But in that middle there are four weird circles of cracks, and through those cracks, long weeds have shot up. They're all at geometric angels to each other. Harlan stands inside one and indicates that Nels should stand in the one across from him.
<trenchfoot> She freezes up at first, but nods and moves where he gestures. They wouldn't let her do anything very dangerous this soon.
<Crion> Harlan Jape shoulders his guitar, puts his hands in his pockets, and indicates that Nels should do the same.
<trenchfoot> She matches him step for step.
<Crion> "I'm going to stomp twice, and then I'm going to click my heels. I want you to do the same. That means jumping up on the heels; you need to leave the ground. On zero?"
<trenchfoot> She nods. "Okay. Count me in."
<Crion> "Three."
<Crion> "Two."
<Crion> "One."
<Crion> "Zero." He stomps, he stomps, and he jumps and clicks.
<trenchfoot> She's not even a moment behind him.
<Crion> They both leave the ground -- and when they return to it, they fall through their grassy circles.
<Crion> It's a weird feeling, as gravity changes and reasserts itself. Whatever it is, on this side. They fly through holes in the ground and then are captured and pulled down to the soft loam beneath their feet. Nels's stomach doesn't even turn.
<Crion> Harlan: "Welcome back to the Hedge." He's drawn his gun.
<Crion> "While we're here, we want to be very quiet and very careful. We don't shoot anything that isn't actively trying to kill us. We've only got a short way to go."
<trenchfoot> Hers is out a second later. "Okay. Quiet is good." She keeps the nerves out of her voice, she thinks.
<Crion> He points to something in the near distance. "We're headed there."
<Crion> It's a great black stone and green vine tower.
<Crion> It widens out on top.
<Crion> "Follow me close. Touch me on the shoulder if you see something I need to see. You see anything, ANYTHING, that looks like a cop or like a pig -- the animal -- you get behind me."
<Crion> "And here we go."
<trenchfoot> Nod nod nod.
<Crion> It takes some time to reach the big tower, and it takes some hiding behind bushes as strange lumpy men and bouncing stilt monsters pass, smiling and chattering with each other for the most part. They eventually make their way to the base, and there's a door there; inside, a great spiral staircase leading up.
<Crion> Harlan smiles when he sees her face, but there's an odd tinge to it. "Don't worry. It's not as tall as it looks."
<Crion> Indeed, the tower seems ten stories tall. They find themselves emerging after perhaps thirty stairs.
<Crion> To a great and beautiful garden. And suddenly, it's night.
<Crion> "The sun never shines here, you know," Harlan says. "At least not when I've been up here."
<trenchfoot> They wouldn't let her do anything very dangerous this soon. This has to be fine. Ah, there it is. She lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding. "Anyone else been up here alone?"
<Crion> The moon is wide and heavy above them, and closer.
<Crion> "You're never alone up here," says Harlan. "But if you mean just one of us, yes. This place is one of my responsibilities."
<Crion> There's a weak, plaintive cry from somewhere off in the flowers and the trees.
<Crion> Whatever smile is on Harlan's face fades.
<Crion> "The hobs are different from us." He looks over. "Hobgoblins."
<trenchfoot> A swallow. "Different how." She's seen different before and it was unpleasant.
<Crion> "They don't seem to have lifespans like we do -- they don't just die after a certain time. But they do die, and not just from violence or intent. And sometimes they do die early. And badly. And maybe sadly."
<Crion> "And this is where they come to do it."
<Crion> "The reason the walk up is short isn't for us."
<Crion> He puts his gun away.
<Crion> Another plaintive cry.
<Crion> Harlan: "We could always not come here...and when we don't, the hobs who drag themselves here or are brought here by their friends die in whatever kind of alone they have. But when we're here...this is the Blooming Garden of Dying Flowers. They're the flowers. But they can become the garden, and have new life."
<Crion> "So, there's a deal."
<trenchfoot> Her hand is still on hers, but she doesn't have it fully drawn anymore. Still nervous, but. "That's - huh." The hedge is a bizarre and largely awful place. But that sounds nice. "And the deal?"
<Crion> "The strict terms are goblin fruits -- as I said, it's a garden -- but there are larger benefits. Goodwill isn't useless with everything on this side of the fence."
<Crion> "Your test to join the Court of Spring is to pass this hobgoblin on into the soil."
<Crion> Harlan: "And for that, you'll need your guitar."
<trenchfoot> Nels: "Okay. Okay." They brought their guitars for a reason. She goes back through what she knows. "Play them to their rest, then? Have them be born anew in the garden?"
<Crion> "Yeah," says Harlan as he leads her back through the beautiful trees and brush to the source of another plaintive yelp. "If it makes you feel better, this probably isn't actually a child."
<trenchfoot> She grimaces. "It does and doesn't," she settles on.
<Crion> Laying in a clearing is a frail, thin child with a dog-head, shivering, missing an arm, its legs curling and uncurling. Its eyes wheel and its back twists and it looks up to the sky, which has stars Nels has never seen in it. It whimpers as they approach. It starts hyperventilating.
<Crion> "Shhhhhhhhh," says Harlan as he approaches. "Shhhhhhhhh."
<Crion> In the Blooming Garden of Dying Flowers, the Ritualist of the Court of Spring kneels next to the hobgoblin dog-child as it breathes heavily and stares up at a burgeoning moon. Is the moon real here, in the Hedge? It's hard to tell. The Ritualist wipes the sweat from the hob's brow and says to you, "New Lost often assume it is the Winter and Autumn Courts alone that deal with death,
<Crion> and the passing of all things. That is not true. From death comes new life, new joy, new passion, new growth, and the celebration of a life lived -- or a life cut short -- should not be mired in sorrow or fear. Or anger. At least not in a peaceful last moment."
<Crion> "Well, what are you waiting for?" He leans back, cradling the dying hob. "Play him away."
<trenchfoot> Another old favorite drifts to mind. Okay. A few chords, then: "From the great Atlantic Ocean to the wide Pacific shore," it starts. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OCWpRvAuFLE She rolls through its verses quickly, but takes a few extra chords before one. The important one.
<trenchfoot> Nels: "Here's to Daddy Claxton may his name forever stand / and he'll always be remembered 'round the courts and through the land / his earthly race is over as the curtains 'round him fall / but we'll carry him home to vict'ry on that Wabash Cannonball!"
<trenchfoot> She finishes it out, slower than she started. The song slows, she plays quieter, and finally she stops. She hasn't opened her eyes she started playing.
<Crion> Jape's eyes blink, then go wide, and then he smiles, and the god-child smiles too. He nuzzles his snout into Harlan's sleeve...and then he dies. And when he dies, he passes on into the ground, falling into loam, wet dust, soil, and vanishing completely.
<Crion> Harlan stares at the ground like he's waiting for something. Nothing comes.
<Crion> He grins.
<trenchfoot> She opens one eye, then the other. "Did I do well? I mean, for a first-timer?"
<Crion> "We don't ever get a chance for life after death, really. We just maintain. We go forward until we stop. We find joy in that when we can, and there is joy in that." He leans back on his haunches. "But rarely," he says, "very rarely, when we satisfy our responsibilities here well enough...a hob gets a second chance."
<Crion> "When they pass, a plant is supposed to sprout. It will turn into a goblin fruit, in time. Satisfying our bargain."
<Crion> "But if a hob fades away and no plant sprouts..."
<trenchfoot> Nels: "Second chances."
<trenchfoot> Huh.
<Crion> "Yes." Harlan stands. "You did better than well. Welcome to the Spring Court of Baltimore."
<Crion> "Let's get out of here."
<Crion> Harlan gets Nels back on the other side of the Hedge and lets her keep the gun. Smitten is waiting to give her a ride back to her house; he won't press any conversation, and will let her off at the end of the block from her apartment.
<Crion> There's a Changeling standing just outside her front door in a hoodie and jeans, with the bulge of a handgun obvious in his belt. He ignores her as she approaches.
<Crion> But as Nels opens the door, one of Canterbury's other eyes winks.
<Crion> --Fin.
'user'><Crion> Harlan gets Nels back on the other side of the Hedge and lets her keep the gun. Smitten is waiting to give her a ride back to her house; he won't press any conversation, and will let her off at the end of the block from her apartment.<Crion> There's a Changeling standing just outside her front door in a hoodie and jeans, with the bulge of a handgun obvious in his belt. He ignores her as she approaches.
<Crion> But as Nels opens the door, one of Canterbury's other eyes winks.
<Crion> --Fin.