6:42 – The Mythic Life

Last night, I hosted a welcome feast for the faeries. Like you do. This morning, they let me know that I am on a quest to recover something lost. Possibly a lost dream. Ilbe, y’know how he is. The dream is hidden beneath an overturned cup–cups, chalices, Grails, hearts, all empty spaces meant to hold things like keys, water, blood. Joy. Love. Lost dreams.

I’m an old hand at adventuring, but quests are different. Significant, in that they signify something greater than the sum of their origins, events, or endings. They require naïve-but-earnest heroes with unusual births. Conveniently, I’ve spent the last IAOT or so shedding my former life. Snake-like. Ouroboros. Pretty damned unusual, and born again enough to fool creation, I’m thinking. One of the benefits of being a devotee of Hermes. Creation tends to give the old blind-eye to such rules-bending, at least until the critical moment when you really need to be that thing you’re not. Then it’s all fast-talking and charm and a bit of money under the table, and you hope you remember where you put those coins they placed on your eyelids.

I left my Library and my many guises behind in warmer lands with my heart and skin and old life. So it’s just me, my kettle-black sized dragon Anthracian, and my lucky riding cricket. However, the Moon (in consort with Pandemonium) has slipped me two guises on the sly: Fox and Gorgon. Really, what other tools does a person-shaped newborn thing need when setting out on a grand quest?

Of course, it’s not all shapeshifting and dragon-friends and gifts from celestial bodies. My Quest’s call came on the coldest day of the coldest month of the coldest year, and me with only travel-worn shoes and a flimsy cloak to ward myself against the bitter cold. Like a typical orphaned blacksmith’s apprentice, my starting zone is a bare and chilly garret on a street of Iron. So I un-kilted my skirts (did I mention the COLD) and ventured into the world seeking the tools of a questor’s trade. All good heroes need a stout broom, a pair of sturdy walking shoes and glas-green cloak, a comfortable pallet on which to sleep, and a sword and shield (or, in the case of a scholar-hero, a desk and chair and pens a-plenty).

Tonight, I invited the faeries for a second night of feasting as hosted by the Pook. I think he’s doing a murder mystery theme. Tomorrow will be the third night, when magic things will happen.

There’s a banging sound coming from downstairs. Perhaps I should investigate–a question that should always be answered “NO!” by anyone with sense.

Heroes boast many qualities, but sense is rarely one of them.

… I will investigate.

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