𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑘𝑒， @unforsworn - Tumblr Blog

ave, how strange it is to yearn for the dying hour. intro. bio. threads.

#art by dominik mayer #dossier and bio are in the source

mise en scenè ⸺ the farm, mary’s cottage, a little after daybreak. closed for @oncequeen.

on the thoroughfare below a gallery of perpetually-flowering magnolias, lancelot stood gazing at the idyllic cottage which nested to the west of the main house. it was ringed by a white picket fence and an immaculate garden whose tending was entirely sorcerous. it was a little after daybreak, and the light was transparent as cathedral glass.

as he waited, he felt for a moment irrationally brittle, though he had no reason to be. he’d seen her just the week prior, in the city, which had not yet resonated with lancelot so much as defeated him into a placid acquiescence. last they’d spoken, it’d been at great length about days-of-yore and a now faraway world; how the silk of their splendour had frayed, yet she was enduring as time itself.

it was an old ache that assailed him. an archaic fear, so unlike anything he’d learnt to take fright at since. that she would someday be lost to him, too.

he strode down the cobbled path at last, to the door of the little cottage, and raised a fist to knock.

#oncequeen #threads.#dearest，ginevra.

unnatvrals

impatient bartender leaves their place of work before they are roped into doing the final steps of closing up, night plans already sent down the drain. faye would be lying if they said they are looking forward to this empty headed meeting of all of fabletown ━━ a gala to make them all forget that their little safe haven might not be as safe after all. if nothing else, tink is looking forward to whatever drama other fables might cook up ( and it might make up for the lack of good entertainment ).

familiar figure catches the fairy's eyes and, for half a beat, faye considers merely walking past and ignoring the other's existence. and then, he speaks. "the celebration hasn't even started and you're already speaking like you're on your third glass of wine, debbie downer." as if faye has any qualms with the thoughts lancelot is sharing ━━ it's not like he's the only one.

"if any mundanes came tomorrow, i think we'd be alright. i'm not above kicking someone in the crotch. and i found a cute butterfly knife i'm just dying to use." morality is far too expensive these days. if mundanes came looking for a fight, who could blame the fables for rising to the occasion? "what would you do?"

unforsworn

inexplicably, a feeling of deep consolation inundated him. faye’s remarks were forthright, brutishly so, and verging on abrasive, but they were not without the caveat of honesty—the kind that assuaged him more than saccharine reassurances could. he squinted at her in the lamp-dusk. she irradiated a magic which was so distinct from his own, that set itself apart from the town’s veil of enchantment and the witches’ spellwork.

“i believe there is an equilibrium to everything, and my pessimism happens to complement your good cheer justly.” he had found her perplexing, once. two years ago, newly exhumed from the armour in which he had been coffined and wanting for avenues to apply himself to the mundane world as he’d been instructed, lancelot had prowled the mile for a stitch of work—the sort he’d manage without much by way of expertise. he’d made an effort of the trip trap first, and faye’s acquaintance had been made with much reluctance.

she was igneous and veined with lightning. yet, curiously, he’d always equated her to the delicate laughter of small bells, heard inside the ears in fever.

“wouldn’t that be a sight?” he conceded to her brazen light, her intensity of manner and speech, and watched as it competed with the flaring sunset. “well, once i’d watched my fill of you brandishing the cutlery, i’d flee. i’m not taking a stand against them when we’re clearly outnumbered.”

“don’t you wonder at all? if there are communes like ours beyond this mundane country?”

#einchants #threads.#dearest，faye.#event，part one: remembrance.#grimmer.event #i'm so sorry for the delay beloved i'd missed the notif completely ;;

lov3shot

there is a hint of amusement in the lift of her mouth when he speaks, though maris suspects that the fondness that softens at her otherwise petulant features ( an unfortunate by - product of being raised in the court of kings, forever etched into the lofty slope of her lips ) goes unnoticed as his gaze remains fixed on a distant future ─ that same tomorrow, perhaps, that she endeavors to dismiss from his thoughts, assuage from his worries, with a little flap of the hand. ❝ i have the utmost confidence that our witchy associates have the matter in hand. ❞ even if she had no such conviction, maris knew that for many of the fables in town, pretending that everything would be well was half of the fight. fortunately for king cole, she was exceptionally good at controlling the masses before hysteria struck and her brief adventures beyond the borders of fabletown meant that her reasonable arguments were accepted, begrudgingly at times. ( of course, it had been decades since maris stepped foot outside of fabletown. she knew very little of the changed world outside of their borders but for most of the town, what she knew by experience was still more than what they had. ) ❝ and if the spells failed ... ❞ against the tarred streets, her heels clicked with purpose, bringing her close enough that she could brush a hand against him, fingers ghosting his arm lightly to make him aware of her intention before her hand settled more firmly on his shoulder. ❝ they would still not storm through our homes. fabletown would probably be treated as a foreign entity ... a kingdom, i suppose, as we do have a king. there will be diplomacy ... and it is likely that we will be studied by their professors of history rather than their law enforcers. ❞ bright with humor, her gaze lifted to catch his eye, fingers squeezing his shoulder lightly. ❝ does that comfort you somewhat or should i stick with optimistic denial for the rest of 'em ? ❞

unforsworn

the soft, equable light was caught in a flush on all the fixtures on the mile; plumes of red and yellow in a lit flambeaux, a phoenix’s tail fanning across their shared horizon. it held her in reverence, too. she seemed nearly surreal, incorporeal, a blush of radiance on the otherwise measureless blue-grey of his mind’s scape. there was an ebbing mist also—such was the phenom of their town, where magic made itself seen at the rising and dying of the day—which enveloped her, sunset-touched like a bridal veil, and in this he watched her settle beside him.

she had always reminded him of the woods.

“i have no doubt. they are the cornerstone, and what they can accomplish with their hands and minds far outstrip me.” her confidence, he knew, was borne of true affirmation—if not in the future and the promise that all would be well, then in the fables in her care, that if community and camaraderie had salvaged them before, then it surely would continue to. he admired it more than he could say. “forgive me for being cautious, circumspect, and really rather bleak—i can’t help it. this world doesn’t leave much by way of fantasy.”

to the hand she laid on his shoulder, he gave a fleeting brush of his own. he regarded truly, then, openly, as she considered the implications of their magic faltering. diplomacy, and the promise of a mutual existence… he could be convinced. lancelot only wished that he believed their mundane counterparts would be so pliant to this notion, so willing to uphold a coalition. “you should speak in cole’s stead at the opening, later. we could stand to be reassured by someone uninebriated by indulgence… sometimes, i think he’s still there. the homelands, i mean. i don’t think he ever left.”

he smiled. it was a wry thing, but it was true. “thank you. i needed it. have you gone to re-sign the compact?”

#off3ring #threads.#event，part one: remembrance.#dearest，maris.#grimmer.event

fablewrit

ah yes, his favorite day of the year. he practically hums with the utter potential of it all⸺fables from all walks of life don their fanciest attire, leaving their common sense at home. what joyous opportunity! over the years, puck has learned the real fun begins on cleaning duty: when sticky fingers attract all the treasures that have been forgotten in the midst of the evening's revelry. he oft leaves with pockets full of shiny things to pawn and food he doesn't have to pay for. what's not to like?

nothing can ruin this high, or so puck thinks, foolishly optimistic as he steps out of the lucky pawn and into the presence of the one person who can. "happy day!" he walks jauntily past, a polite greeting met with a macabre reply.

"jeez⸺" he doesn't mean to utter that aloud, and certainly not in that tone. it's just that he feels suddenly... deflated. "do you always get this philosophical before a big party?"

unforsworn

it was as if the street had come alive at this fable’s behest: it groomed, preened, and put on a jewellery of sequined lights at his insistence, this aspect of pure effulgence who had emerged from the lucky pawn with a gladness that eclipsed any treasure in the shop’s trove. lancelot beheld also the manner in which puck lent prominence to the gold-lit shadows of revellers, the noise of music, and voices lifted in good cheer—it seemed that wherever puck went, the merrymaking followed. he felt appropriately repentant when his words punctured that exuberance.

“well, considering that this is the second remembrance day that i’ve been conscious for, i’d say i have some leeway for philosophising,” he said, wryly and not without an inflection of remorse. “humour me, won’t you? it’ll be like our little talks, when i lent a sympathetic—if entirely unwitting—ear and you divulged your secrets.”

#threads.#fled.to #dearest，rowan.#event，part one: remembrance.#no worries at all <33

damnedspots

it was decreed remembrance day so, as the model citizen she is, amiria would leave tending to her flowers to venture towards the woodland, to sign the compact that she respects so deeply - everyone needs to be reminded of the fact and needs to be kept safe. a few decades ago, the woman didn't concern herself with such things as she could handle the mundanes pretty well, so she thought. however, after being left with her own thoughts, they had done a lot of harm to her, as had the nobility who stole from her all those years ago...

king roberon's words offer amiria no comfort from the ghastly situations that could arise if the others get an inkling something transpires behind the unknown veil. there had been a time when the woman hadn't worried about such things, that she had even deterred people from their daily activities out of spite but now, she fully believes the lies that she had been telling for centuries. to keep you safe, that was always the line to the child, a manipulation tactic but as time passed, the more right she felt. there was meant to be no truth in her words, pure manipulation disguised as hypothesis... "one can only hope it will be forever. i do have worries about it." she knows better than to criticise the king aloud - everyone in the exact same space? seems like a perfect opportunity for someone to attack. instead of voicing it, the woman shakes her head and lets out a light hum, hoping that it disguises her worry as a passing thought and not something she was deeply concerned about happening.

unforsworn

in waking life he had resigned to the incurable anxiety that it would take but the smallest blemish on their magical bulwark to fell the town, the legacy which fables other than himself had built. the torment of the enchanted stupor which imprisoned him had at least been simple: when he was asleep, there was no greater threat. he had already exhausted the tether of his life; even death seemed trivial. now that he knew the immensity of what their mere existence risked, he knew also the immensity of the effort required to protect it.

and so to it: they would labour and toil on, until perhaps another calamity, until this world no longer brooked them sanctuary. he wondered just how many universes there were beyond their own——if there was a version of him in the ether who did not fear.

rather extraordinarily, amiria impressed upon lancelot the disposition of his late mother, the queen elaine: the lilting hum, a featherweight in the guise of a deep-seated apprehension; her voice clear and musical, its tenor at once foreign and familiar … his mother, who was long unremembered and whom he believed should remain so.

“care to divulge them?” he ventured, undeterred by her affected nonchalance. “i, for one, am unconvinced that this affair with the mundane reporters and media will simply let up. they’ve never been this obtrusive, have they?”

#threads.#event，part one: remembrance.#dearest，amiria.#damnedspots.

hudsbandwilliams

Josh Heuston via Instagram

#form.

mise en scenè ⸺ the crooked mile, at the juncture between the open arms hotel and the lucky pawn, an hour before sunset.

in a few hours, fables from each parcel of their sequestered town will march their inexorable way to the woodland in the opaque night, beneath the cool balm of stars. the sun will slope beneath the horizon—the world aflame, then put out as if drowned—and the shoulders of the sky will falter, will capitulate to the black sails of darkness. the day’s light, extinguished in but a short breath, a short-lived exhalation of time.

natural occurrences still startle lancelot, but he supposes it is to be expected, even excused: after all, he was only recently roused from an interminable stupor. hanging from a tree for the better part of four centuries will do that to you, king cole had said. the symbol of death marks him still; no signet of valiance or virtue or the life he paraded and prided himself in when camelot still stood tall and unfallen. no fate could be so final and so essentially pathetic. nothing, not even the glory of a name, could absolutely survive death.

this world, this mundane world, had prevailed and thrived long before the fables arrived. it will continue to do so long after they are gone. one way or another, he thinks. how long before their magic is depleted? before the cardinal bond between birthplace and creation is severed completely? until no one who has entered the heart of their collective tale can remember it, can pass it on?

for now, he waits, a sombre sentry hemmed in between the open arms and the lucky pawn. the fleet of footsteps draws neither his eye nor his ear, but he inclines his head nonetheless. “for how long do you think we’ll remain hidden? another decade? another century? tomorrow, perhaps, we’ll wake to the mundane authority storming our homes.”