Cypress Moon

Till Lizzie urged, ‘O Laura, come; I hear the fruit-call but I dare not look: You should not loiter longer at this brook: Come with me home. The stars rise, the moon bends her arc, Each glowworm winks her spark, Let us get home before the night grows dark: For clouds may gather Though this is summer weather, Put out the lights and drench us through; Then if we lost our way what should we do?’

The Quarter Courts

For everything a season, and for every season, a Court. Well, many courts, to get it right. As many as all those greedy, grasping hands and wandering feet allowed, from the depths of the Rhine to the heights of Schiehallion. Wherever trooping faeries gathered, four kingdoms were quick to rise: Autumn, Summer, Spring, Winter. Each had their days to tend to, and their while to slumber, as the next in the cycle awoke to revel and rule. Oh, sure, it wasn’t always so neat n’ polite as that. Early frosts sparked skirmishes, dry, scorching Mays left fists a-shaking. But nature danced along, and the courts - for all their squabbling - managed to keep time. More or less.

These days, well. The Fair Folk have spread far and wide, and thin. They miss things. Wake late, or early. Sleep fitfully. And every time they rouse, their old, old hearts seem a little more offbeat. Or perhaps that’s just the seasons themselves. Those summers that are burning too hot, too long. The springs that rush in, sodden and delicate. Lagging, lingering falls, brutal winters, biting fast and hard. It’s true; those rhythms of bright and dark, rain and sun and heat and cold, they’re just not playing out like they used to. It’s all their fault, those mortal things, chopping and digging and ruining the fun. As usual.

Nonetheless, there’s a few weathered courts left back in the old homelands. Mounds that didn’t molder with the potato fields, hills that weren’t crushed by sooty, iron machines. Beyond that? The brave, the desperate, they crossed the ocean at the side of their wandering believers - sailors and convicts, settlers and colonists. Where they built, the fae built. And warred, for the same stolen ground. When the bloodshed became too much, accords were struck, arms laid down. The ragged survivors arose in fresh courts, scrabbling for footholds in an unfamiliar land. A few - a whole cycle, altogether - found themselves right at home in Nashville. Must’ve liked the taste of the place. The magic of it. Still, the question remained: what next? The bold have pushed forward, walking amongst the human crowd to see what they can learn, how they might change. The rigid, they bury their secrets deep, and sink their claws into every scrap of pride and power they have left. Only time will tell who’s made the right call, there… and who’ll survive, in a world that doesn’t pay fairy tales much mind.

But, the seasons still turn. And so, the Courts come out to play, each in their time. For now.

At present, the Quarter Courts of Nashville stand thus. To all but their fae fellows and a rare few mortals, the location of each Court’s sacred places, halls, and mounds is a mystery; but anybody who’s familiar with the Folk around here will have heard a thing or two about their enigmatic rulers. That’s the stuff of legend, alright.

Spring

Little’s certain of the Spring Court, these days. They come forth cautiously, quietly, fearful of Winter’s vicious snapping. Then they tend to their crocuses and robin’s nests, maybe have a whirl in their charming little mushroom circles when those soft, springtime afternoons come around. For the most part, though, they keep to themselves - darting under the ferns, staying out of sight. They’ve got plenty of reason to be so cautious. The Spring fared poorly in what Nashville’s Fair Folk only speak of as The Bygones, those early years of ugly battle between fellow faeries and local spirits. Usually a gregarious, sprightly Court, their losses have left them shy, withdrawn, hidden away… wherever it is they go.

The Spring’s a season of wariness and timidity, until their wide-eyed curiosity gets the better of them, at least. They’re nurturing by nature, delicate as the tiny sprouts they care for. But don’t mistake such tenderness for weakness. This Court will protect what’s theirs, with all the desperate, selfless love of a rabbit defending its kits.

Their aspects are:

Verdancy, the lush, chaotic exuberance of life

Water, flowing freely and falling softly

Growth, the nourishing and strengthening of every little thing in need

Far from neon, exhaust, and just about any kind of company besides the trees and creeks, the Spring Court has retreated to a mound hidden away in Wystan Hollow - a beautiful nature preserve, an hour outside of Nashville. Better leave ‘em to the wildflowers. They’re not much for visitors, these days.

Fancy taking up the mantle of Spring? If you’d like to lord over April showers and May flowers, just send a songbird our way.

Summer

Much of this Summer Court arrived with Queen Titania, leaving behind their cherished hills in Cornwall. Emerging triumphant from every contest for the throne, she led her faeries off to what she hoped would be a future as bright as their golden past. They arrived in the late 1860s, around the tail end of the Civil War - back when The Bygones weren’t by and gone but raging. Fresh to the fight and primed for battle, Titania gathered courtless summer fae to her cause and came out of the fray with a firm hold on her new kingdom. She has ruled the city’s summers ever since, bearing both of her court’s resplendent crowns.

These faeries burn hot, eternally: their determination is ferocious, their pride brilliant, their passions blazing. They’re quick to argue and fight, but just as fast to light up with a laugh, or tumble headlong into that heady, summertime sort of love. Their rage is a hell of a thing to behold, but so long as you’re on their good side, the Summer Court is always fired up and eager to play. Just don’t expect them to slow down for anything.

Their elements are:

Heat, scorching one moment, soothingly, lazily warm the next

Light, an incandescent beauty that drives fears away and lifts the spirit

Vigor, that vital, thriving spirit, charging fiercely ahead

In an act of boldness that would baffle most of the Fair Folk, the Summer Court has established themselves a mound right in the downtown core. Midsummer Records is a buzzing business and a wondrous hive of faeries, hiding in not-quite plain sight behind Titania’s masterful glamours.

Autumn

The bulk of Nashville’s Autumn Court hail from Connacht, Ireland. They arrived at the side of Queen Medb, clinging to those immigrants who fled the Great Famine, and wound up in this neck of the woods by way of Irish and Irish-American soldiers shipping out to serve the Union. But the faeries of fall found war, too. Wearied by their travels and heartaches, but stalwart, Medb had her season’s children fighting under her banner by the mid-1860s. Autumn’s Queen would become one of the mightiest voices for peace, instrumental in the treaties that brought those bloody days to an end. Now as then, her court stands united in strength and serenity.

Autumn is a resilient, thoughtful season, more prone to patience and practicality than the rest of their brethren. These faeries certainly know how to savor; they love a hearty feast, clever, intricate pranks, and sprawlingly epic tales, all jarred like sticky pots of jam to tide them through the cold months ahead. However, this Court can also be as changeable as the rustling, red-gold leaves - and must not be taken lightly. Raise their ire, and you’ll see how brutally “fair” their sense of justice can be.

The domains of fall include:

Earth, rich and generous, hard and stony, at once cradle and tomb

Fruitfulness, the hard-earned bounty of harvest, joyful and indulgent

Decay, the sickly sweet end that come to all things, in time

Though there’s no replacing the mighty green mounds of Ireland, Medb’s Court has found a new home in the thunderous, beautiful depths of Rumbling Falls Cave. When they venture above ground the Queen holds regal sway in a creaking old barn on the edge of town, and leads her Court’s carousing on a winding path of farmer’s fields, Irish bars, wishing wells, Kildress Cemetery, and a host of beloved trees and stones.

Winter

Blowing along at the heels of Scottish and Irish-American settlers, the Winter’s faeries were the first of Nashville’s Quarter Courts. They were also the first to take up arms against the spirits of this place - the ones who belonged to the crags and coves the fae tried to take for their own. By the time Autumn, Spring, and Summer began to rise, the Winter had torn its way through human decades of sleepless, maddening war. All that bloody desperation made them cruel, covetous. Unwilling to yield a scrap of what they’d bled for, they were soon lashing out at season and spirit alike. It was years more before an uneasy truce was forced. Since then, the rest of the faeries around here have let The Bygones truly be… but Winter has held a grudge, and kept their disdainful distance. No-one’s complaining. See, without Winter’s brutality, every grove and hillock these Courts have claimed would have come at much, much higher cost. Fact is, the Winter is owed. And the Folk do hate to be reminded of their debts.

This Court is infamously cold, frigidly majestic, and tenacious as their last, late, murderous frosts. Like Summer, they’re warriors; only, they care nothing for battle-glory. These faeries fight to survive, by any means necessary. They’re known for slyness, ingenuity - of a lamentably selfish bent - and a spiteful kind of hunger, the sort that takes special pleasure in destroying what others have built. Even in their better moods the Winter Court’s more malicious than mischievous, delighting in cruel tricks and deceit. Unrelenting and unkind, they’ve earned every bit of their nasty reputation. 

The powers of this season are:

Entropy, the world’s way of unravelling to disorder and destruction

Cold, snaps of freezing breath and howls that chill to the marrow

Darkness, fearful uncertainty, looming and obscuring

There’s plenty of tales whispered about the Winter Court, their taste for suffering and ruin. No surprise, then, that they rule from the remains of Fortress Rosecrans, near the blood-soaked battlefield of Stones River. It’s just such a wonderfully nostalgic atmosphere. Don’t you think?

Seems that Winter could use a master. If you’re ready to shiver some bones, have a whisper at the admins.

Medb

True Name: Yes Face Claim: Gina Torres Nickname and Aliases: Medb is only how she’s known to her equals and the bold; some among that number may also speak to her as Autumn, or Mab. To her courtiers and other spirits, it’s My Queen; Your Majesty, Your Grace, or Your Highness will also do. To mortals when she chooses to walk among them disguised as a human woman, she introduces herself as Maeve.  Date of Birth: Unknown Apparent Age: Ageless beauty Actual Age: Unknown Gender: Fay gender is often nebulous, but Medb has long embodied and been worshipped and perceived as a deeply feminine figure. She/her pronouns. Kind: High Fae Calling: Ruler of the Autumn Court 

Distinguishing Marks: In High Fae form, she almost always has the wings of a hawk, though her other features may vary. In disguise as a mortal, the faint traceries of some birthmark or tattoo can be seen about her shoulder blades and back. Children or the magically inclined might have the brief taste of over-ripe fruit in their mouth when she passes by. Or they might sense a lazy warmth and a strange heady almost inebriated sensation of dizziness. Most mortals who glimpse her will remember only her beauty, and that only vaguely.

Her dark brown eyes glitter with amber sparks, and – only when she’s truly furious – the same crackle at her fingertips. The sharp tang of a thunder storm, the stench of rotting fruit and meet, and the sound of angry wasps overwhelms the senses of anyone who have the misfortune of earning her ire.

Personality: Medb embodies all the contradictions of autumn. She is warm as the midday September sun shining on a bountiful harvest; cool and unknowable as the moon luminescent in the Samhain dusk; sweetly melancholic as decaying fruit; lethal as Amanita mushrooms.

She is capricious, as all her kind are, but she is inclined towards a sense of justice and seeks peace and balance. She is proud and fierce and does not suffer fools but she also has a sly whimsical sense of humour.

She is not without compassion and she watches the mortal world with curiosity but also a certain distance – suffering will not move her to intervene, for all things suffer, even in this time of waning, her own kind, let alone the fragile creatures of the mortal world whose destiny has always been to wither and become death.

Her season is that of death and transformation. And in this time of dying magick she is torn between a bittersweet embrace of the death she sees slowly enveloping her people and the hope that transformation and rebirth of one kind or another might be possible.

History: 

Medb came into being as an embodiment of Autumn and fertility and death and sovereignty over the green Isle that her kind ruled over as gods when the world was full of magick and the Fair Folk were vibrant with power and the belief of their mortal subjects was full and heart-felt.

For centuries Medb presided over the abundance and decay of Autumn in splendour and power. Sickness, hunger, wars, family feuds might sweep through the mortal land from time to time but the turning seasons also bought bountiful harvests and babies who grew to blossoming adulthood and marriage celebrations that lasted a fortnight – and through it all, the mortals feared and respected the Fair Folk, the bright and the beautiful, and thus she and her kind flourished and frolicked and feasted.

Even when a new God’s followers invaded their Island and brought new beliefs to the mortals, still they worshiped her and the other Quarter Kings and Queens. Still, they believed. They took in the new God but they wove the substance of their true gods and goddesses all through the new faith and the Fair Folk cared naught. In truth, few of the Fair Folk even noticed the arrival of Christianity and most of those who did dismissed it as simply another mortal ephemeral folly.

It was a visceral shock when magick and the mortal’s belief in Medb and all the Fair Folk began to wane and grow thin. The mortals’ bodies grew thin too, and their spirits even thinner – subjugated by conquerors who stole not only lands and harvests but children and the right to sing their songs and tell their stories. Medb’s mortal subjects and their belief in her were being crushed and stolen from her.

The Fair Folk fought back, but too late, oh too late! Deep they had slumbered in their mounds where the passage of time warped with their own capricious nature, and carefree they had trouped through the green woods. In their age-old arrogance and contempt for the petty dramas of fleeting mortal lives, this enemy had taken them by surprise. Their powers faded as their mortal subjects weakened and broke.

Medb, unlike many of her kin, began to see that the fight was in vain. Death comes to all things – and for the first time she considered that might stalk even her and her kind. Still, she was a Queen and she must tend to her peoples’ welfare even in such impossible times. She watched her mortal subjects choose to abandon their fight, abandon their green Isle and feel to another land far across the sea. It is not an option she or any of her kind would ever have conceived of. It is…wrong. But it is also…hope? The mortals, they believed that life would be better in this New World and deep in their hearts, their stories and their songs, they still carried the kernel of belief in the Fair Folk like a seed to plant in new soil. Perhaps their escape could be the Fair Folk’s escape as well.

It is pain, pain like nothing Medb or any of the Fair Folk had ever experience or could ever have imagined, to uproot themselves from Ireland’s rich dark soil, even poisoned as it is by a crop never meant to grow there that withers and rots stinking in the ground in a terrible corruption and parody of the decay natural to Medb’s season. But they did it. Some of them. They followed their Kings and Queens and Medb followed her mortal subjects to the ports and into the foul, unclean holds of barely sea-worth vessels, captained by the corrupt and wicked. Above decks the air was bitter and burning with salt spray and below decks the mortals succumbed to fever and thirst and starvation, their emaciated bodies too weak to do more than lie in their own filth, the lucky ones on wooden bunks and the rest helter skelter on the floor of the vessel. And with each mortal death, the Fair Folk faded and weakened further. But some survived the long voyage and so too did Medb and others of the Fair Folk.

The New World is cruel too. But Medb’s people, mortals and Fair Folk alike, are tough and resilient and they carve out lives for themselves in these unfamiliar wilderness and shanty-towns. There are other inhabitants – both mortal and spirit. This, none of the Fair Folk had anticipated, though they surely should have. There are so many others, some friendly and some hostile. Some native to this land, and others refugees like the Fair Folk. Fighting and skirmishes erupt, wars are waged, and truces brokered. Medb is among those who call for peace – she cannot abide the wastefulness of such slaughter when they are all already so weakened and their numbers few.

The mortals wage war too – a war that splits and ruptures the new land they’ve found themselves in. The mortal blood seeps into the soil and in the desperate heat of battle, belief thickens just a little. Irish soldiers clutch trinkets and pour a libation on the ground for the Fair Folk. The Kings and Queens make their home in one place where that call, that pull of belief, resounded loudest – land that becomes Tennessee.

Magick still declines and the mortals are fickle and peace in the mortal world brings weakened belief. But still, there is enough. Enough for the Fair Folk to endure. Medb’s court may no longer glow resplendent as of old, her powers may falter, but Autumn comes to this land too and when the leaves of unfamiliar trees turn crimson, she wears her crown and wields her scepter and holds court as she has always done.

Time never ceases to turn. Everything gets louder, faster, brighter. There is beauty and filth, there is riches and rot, there is – a home. Even in the waning of her people, even in their slow fall from grace and power, there is home and kin and the rhythm of her season. She will rule over each Autumn and walk these new glittering streets for as long as there are still stories for children, for as long as the drunk in the corner of Jeb’s pours out a measure on the floor, for as long as some farmer remembers to leave just a few fruit on the tree in offering for a good future harvest, for as long as some remember to pay all accounts and debts by Samhain, for as long as some shout “seachain” when they toss the dishwasher out of the door into the night – even if these things are insubstantial muscle memory. Still, in all these things the thread of belief still vibrant and powerful no matter how worn and thin, sustains.

But for how long?

Family:

A beautiful younger sister, who she adored, died on the voyage. Medb does not speak of her.

In the New World, yearning for the sister she had lost, she chose once to have a child, but it was born a changeling, imperfect and damaged, and there was nothing she could do but abandon it to the mortal world. She also does not speak of it, but she yearns for it still and recently has begun to consider that the old ways may no longer serve them, that as magick fades from the world even the faded imperfect magick of changelings might be…needed? But then, she dismisses this as wistful and weak.

Sexuality and Relationship Status: Panromantic, asexual, polyamorous. She has had many rich and complex relationships – romantic and platonic – that she allows to drift closer and farther and dance in the winds of change, growth and decay like autumn leaves

Other Ties:

Sol - Medb’s path has often intersected with a certain black dog. Unlike many of her brethren she has a fondness for the creature. It’s a beautiful thing he does and if death must ever come to her or to all the Fair Folk, well, she hopes as gentle a guide will be there for them.

Wanted Connections:

The other Quarter Court Kings and Queens.

Possibly her changeling child.

Autumn Court subjects, allies and enemies, including and especially: the fairies of her court, the cabbage fairies, the farm brownies, pucas, etc.

Elemental solitary fairies and spirits of earth.

A small host of lovers; fay, spirit, and mortal, past and present.

First Nations allies and equals including: Selu and Kanati, the Yunwi Tsundi, and others.

Likes: The strange blackberries of the New World when they’re so ripe that they explode in the mouth and there’s the musk of mold hidden just behind the sweetness. The warm smell of meat and grease flooding out of an anonymous diner on a cold grey afternoon. The full red harvest moon shining over freshly mown hay fields. The swirling headlights and garish flashing neon of the city at night in the rain. The delicate beauty of a spider’s web and the neat precise way the spider wraps its next meal to keep it fresh. Dislikes: The sterile empty sharp stomach-lurching smell of modern hospitals. Fields left fallow and empty. Styrofoam cups and plastic bags and six pack rings and all the things that fail utterly to decompose. Dishonesty. Hobbies: Walking unseen or unremarked through the glittering cities, squalid slums and humble farm-houses of her mortal subjects, or rarely, dazzling those she favours with a smile that shines with more beauty and terror than such minds can quite understand. Lingering in places of death, decay and transformation and revelling in the power of her season. Watching over the small moments of red leaves spiraling down to the black dirt, of the slow desiccation of the corpses of small furry creatures, of plums turning wine-ripe and rotting. Skills: Leadership, the crafting of precious gems and finery, the tending of gardens and the harvest, the easing of death. Places: The Autumn Court’s mound, in which they slumber and dream away the other seasons, lies within the great cavern that mortals call Rumbling Falls Cave. Marked as dangerous and closed to the public, few humans venture there though Medb’s fay tend their glamours and barriers to ensure that even the stray daredevil sees and senses nothing but a faint chill and prickling skin.

In the waxing of Autumn, Medb’s Court troupes forth and riotously parties through all the Irish pubs and bars of the city, through the farms and markets full of the bounty of the harvest, feasting and revelling in all the rich abundance of the season, visiting and renewing all their sacred spaces.

In Autumn’s Great Hall, an ancient abandoned barn on the outskirts of Nashville, Medb holds court in as much dusty splendour as the waning of her and her court’s powers permit. She settles disputes, reaffirms old alliances, holds to account boons given and favours owed,

Other spaces sacred to the Autumn Queen and her court include: St. Dunstan’s Catholic Church, a very old and very large hawthorn tree in the middle of a corn field, an ancient abandoned barn on the outskirts of Nashville, wishing wells throughout the city of Nashville, a ring of tiny standing stones placed by a child in an suburban Nashville yard beneath an oak tree, a number of rag trees scattered through the suburbs and farmlands, all the old cemeteries, and many other small and large places of lingering power and magick. Pets: Einin, a massive Red Kite – larger and more beautiful than any mortal Red Kite – who came with her from Ireland. It rides upon her shoulder or circles far above and returns to whisper in her ear. And Una, an equally out-sized copperhead snake, who sometimes coils around her upper arm in a cuff or about her neck like a necklace.

Known Magic: She draws her powers and a raw elemental magic from and of earth, decay, fruitfulness. Glamours, healing, some enchantment and telepathy are in her purview as is the ability to sense another’s magic-working. Magical Items: Apple shaped scepter carved from amber. Crown woven of dried grass, sticks, briars and flowers from the Old Country.

Rumors: The Fairy Queen lives woven through Irish and English literature and oftener than not, it’s Mab, Medb, Maeve, or some other linguistic derivative they name. It’s her and it isn’t her in every Queen of a dangerously beautiful underworld. It’s her and it isn’t her in the garish and tarnished modern remnants of the rituals of Samhain. It’s her and it isn’t her in older tales of goddess of sovereignty and the land corrupted by Christian monks and twisted into smaller roles. Her silhouette flickers in and out of focus in so many stories and it’s hard to know what fragments are her and what fragments are of her sisters of other Courts and Seasons. Rumours of her are like a broken mirror – shards of it glitter in the strangest places but it will never again reflect her face whole and entire and magnificent.

Here in Nashville, Medb presence is felt in strange and little ways…

She is certainly most strongly felt in Autumn and in the spaces and rituals of Autumn.

Also unsurprisingly, the Irish pubs and churches and communities feel her presence the most.

The dying often feel her presence. She is especially drawn to women who have died in pregnancy and to still born children – that contradiction of death and fecundity at the same time.

She is often known to those who live in the street as Our Lady Maeve. She bestows blessings of golden coins and easy deaths upon them.

Within the Fair Folk she is known as one of the most powerful they still have. She’s also known as an arbiter of peace. Lately she’s been withdrawn and thoughtful and there are worries and whispers that she may be the next to…disappear. Others say that instead, she’s working on a salvation, some majestic return to their old powers.

Writing Sample:

It is not yet her season, but sleep eludes Medb. In this mood, the beauty of her boudoir fails to soothe her. Instead, twisted about within sheets of silken glamour, she feels the crunch of dead leaves against her skin. She should sleep, she knows this, allow the erratic passage of time to roll over and through her slumber and conserve her strength – as all the Fair Folk must do now. Most of her court sleeps around her – their myriad forms curled in hammocks and green bowers, perched on gilded roosts and nests – but she is restless. Restless as a young thing, restless as those precious few young ones they still have.

Medb’s faithful Una and Einin are awake as well… Una’s red-golden scales shimmer as she boils and uncoils about her mistresses’ arm. Einin’s feathers rustle as he grooms himself, perched on the great carved knob of her bedpost. Impatience seizes her and she swirls out of bed and with a gesture wraps herself in the garb and guise of a human skin. A Queen may indulge her whims and fancies and tonight she shall not resign herself to boredom. She slips out through the towering majesty of the Autumn Court’s caverns and halls and into the sultry night. The Summer King and his people’s revels will be in full swing now, but she will not join them.

Una glides along the ground beside Medb and Einin soars on the warm updrafts above her. She breathes in the smell of fruit ripening and she knows that soon it will be her season with all its attendant responsibilities, but for now she is free and follows her whim to the great glittering city the mortals have built here. Such bright lights and cacophony of sounds. Such filth and beauty. It is all such rich excess – it still surprises that her mortal subjects should be capable of such. They are so fragile, so weak, and so ephemeral, but this city of theirs is a thing of delight and wonder.

Currents of love and loss, growth and decay, swirl over Medb’s tongue and she is so thirsty for it all. She follows her thirst to a bar, and laughs softly at that. Warm golden light spills out of the windows and she is content to watch and lean against the cold stone walls. She casts a golden coin in the cap of the old homeless man she shares the corner with and he smiles up at her, grateful as the penitents of old.

Men spill out of the door and she smells beer, onion rings, bloodlust and the thrill of the fight. They watch the rough fisticuffs for a moment, Medb and her familiars, but something more potent is in the air and they drift onwards.

Streets away they watch paramedics wrest a pregnant woman from a wreck of molten metal wrapped around a lamp post. The paramedicas are all lightning quick efficienciy and they move flawlessly around her without ever breaking stride when she moves closer and lingers by the dying woman. For a mortal, she is beautiful, and as she whispers, “Mother, help me,” Medb allows her to see her as she brushes the scarlet curls from her face – a small benediction. She can smell the dog already and knows he’ll be here for her soon so she leaves her.

There is a heavy weight upon Medb, always now, questions she must answer, a slow death to embrace or transformation to fight for, but she sheds that tonight like Una sheds her skin. She follows the taste of magic. Loses herself in the swirl of the city until time’s flow matters little. They watch it all – Medb, Una and Einin – and it is such a pageant, oh! The stories repeat, yes, but always with some differences, some new twist. They always end in death, of course, but death has its own beauty and Medb has her own kinship with it. Though whether she can accept its embrace is another thing entirely. And there, those thoughts intrude again. There are responsibilities that cannot be shirked and already she begins to feel the tug deep in her bones as Summer begins to cool and her seasons begins to rise with the moon. There are ancient duties she must attend to and the little passion plays of these trifling mortals must continue without her.

When Medb returns to her boudoir, her servants have begun to stir and hurry to attend to her. They dress her in splendour and she, as always, crowns herself before her mirror. It is a mere glamoured echo of the one her aunt stood her before when she first placed this wreath of flowers and brambles upon her head, but it suffices. They have all learned to live with less. These caverns are beautiful in their way and as their glamours wink on one by one there is something akin to the old finery and luxery.

Rumbling Falls Cave, Van Burren County

The Autumn Court’s mound lies within and aslant to the majestic and beautiful Rumbling Falls Cave. The Trooping Fair Folk slumber within, in dusty faded splendour, on our side of the Veil but nestled deeper and distinct from the human world.

When their people fled the famine in 1847, Medb and her fellow Quarter Court rulers joined them in the New World, leaving behind the green mounds they’d dwelt in for so long. When they came to Nashville, Medb and her court discovered the caverns. Some of her troop feared that the faint scent of great spirits that had once lived there – perhaps gods of the people we know of only as Middle Cumberland Mississippian - was an ill omen, but Medb decreed that the traces of old power clinging to the walls of their new home were a blessing. That scent mingles now with the sweet musk of fruit and decay. It also clings to a small clay statue that Medb once returned with from her wanderings in the deeper caverns; this relic has since been set in a place of honour.

During Spring, Summer, and Winter, Medb, Queen of Autumn, and her court reside there, dreaming away the days and conserving their powers until their season awakens them.

The Rumbling Falls Cave is part of Fall Creek Falls State Park, and is the second largest cave chamber in the United States. Although the park’s inn, conference centre, cabins, and natural beauty bring many tourists, the caves themselves are marked as dangerous and closed to the public.

“Come Fairies, take me out of this dull world, for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame!” - W.B. Yeats

Long past are the days when you and your retinue roved the hillsides, singing and dancing and holding your secret, luscious markets. Long, long past, and far away. Even in the old lands, deep in the ancient mounds, you were fading - chased into the dark by a time where few would bother to leave cream on the stoop or carry dry bread in their pockets. An age where mortals had all but ceased to fear of your moods and mischievous games. As your last believers loaded up their belongings, and left… what could you do, but follow? Better that than staying to wither.

But this new world was already teeming with spirits. Some had been born to the soil, woods, and winds your tattered Courts tried to claim. Others, like you, were trailing after their faithful, seeking someplace to survive the march of time. Somewhere rich in the deep, sweet magic that humanity seemed so keen to forget. Nashville was one such place. Desperate to carve yourself a new home, your meagre hosts battled for what corners you found. Precious blood was shed, blood that could not be spared. Truces were made, hateful though they might be, and new halls were raised, trees and wells and streams claimed. But your believers, the victims of your jokes and attentions? Those lovers and supplicants you blessed so generously? They, mere humans, grew old and died. The memories frayed, the stories went untold. Soon, your Courts were dusty and decrepit once more, and your newborns - pitiful. Weak. Ugly. Mortal. Changelings, to be cast out, left to the mercy of those thankless creatures above. And so your hosts dwindled, divided.

Now, some of your number call, desperately, for change. Others cling to the old ways, bitter and resigned. Every once in a while, one of you manages to lure somebody astray. A new lover, or slave, mortals tricked into dangerous promises. Even if your power’s not what it used to be, you have the dregs - more than enough to astound and intimidate the average human. And if that’s not enough to convince them to play along, there’s your honor. Those who know the old stories might trust in that, the legendary honor of the Fair Folk. Still… it’s not so easy as it used to be. And you can’t go getting up to too much mischief. Simply must consider the will of your Quarter Kings and Queens, masters of the seasons’ Courts: Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring. Their word - well, it’s not law. Not like it was, once upon a time. But it resonates. And they’ve bowed to the new order of things, the rules of this city. Rules we’d all best abide by, if we’re to share the shadows in any kind of peace.

There are many, many kinds of fae, fair and not so fair. While they may be unique in shape, strengths, and weaknesses, there are certain traits all have in common, from the greatest to the least.

Supposed immortality. “Supposed,” because almost all of the eldest Folk - those most powerfully linked to the magic of our earth - have reclused themselves to deeper, stranger places as they and that power began to fade.

Supernatural healing. A faery will heal quickly and completely, unscarred, from any wound delivered by a normal weapon.

A gift for glamours, illusory magic used to disguise appearances. How convincing and complex the glamour is depends on the caster’s ability and what’s being disguised. Making stones take on the glint of gold is simpler than a High Fae obscuring their true shape, or hiding themselves from human eyes. Glamours are a difficult brand of magic to master, and many will not stand up to touch or close scrutiny. Only the most powerful fae and the domestic faeries are able to use their glamours to achieve true invisibility.

A vulnerability to iron. A grievous injury from an iron weapon will kill a faery. Contact and minor wounds will leave terrible burns that only a skilled healer can hope to remedy, but they will scar. The most effective iron is that which has been traditionally forged, by hand. Among trooping fairies, the iron-burned, being “imperfect” - in the sense of both physical beauty and being bested by a crafty human - are often rejected by their Court.

Salt will also burn faeries, though not nearly so badly as iron. A faery can heal completely from a salt burn, unlike an iron burn.

If you make your own bread, and decide to go travelling in faery territory, carry a piece. This is a minor ward at best, and will only work for the breadmaker themselves. The bread won’t harm a faery; it’ll just make sure any mischievous sprites out looking for a victim will leave you be.

The Folk have a fondness for nature’s creatures, and the feeling’s mutual, even among the more malintentioned Fae. Animals are drawn to faeries, finding their worldly magic to be soothing, their games good fun.

A liking for human food, especially that which is offered or stolen. Dairy products, baked sweets, and alcohol are most preferred.

Faeries also enjoy the scent and taste of human blood, though the High Fae, for one, would be loath to admit such a thing. If the blood is drawn and consumed correctly, there is a very dark kind of magical sustenance to be found in it. Still, there are few members of the Folk who’d go so far as to harm a human simply to indulge this predilection. But, those few… well, it’ll take a hell of a lot more than bread and salt to escape them.

In addition to these powers, the Fair Folk are known to have a penchant for making powerful, dangerous promises, and, when pleased, rewarding mortals with gifts.

Promises Go careful, when you enter an oath with one of the Folk. They’ve been known to inspire the artistic and magically inclined, and can be generous with their blessings; but those silver tongues can easily manipulate the unwary into poor bargains.  Please them, and you’ll bask in their favor. Fail to honor your agreement, and they will take vengeance. Maybe right then and there, or tomorrow, next month, a year from now, on your very deathbed… when, and how, exactly, that’s up to them. Guess you’ll just have to wait and see what kind of havoc you’ve earned.

Faery Gifts Many fae keep secret hoards of whatever they consider “treasure,” be that gold, jewels, books, bones, shells, butterfly wings, feathers, or what have you. The older a faery’s collection is, the more magic these items will have accrued. Tempting though they may be, think twice before helping yourself to such a trove - the owner will come for what’s theirs. Slighted faeries aren’t known for their mercy. Conversely, please a faery, and you may be rewarded with a trinket. Those lacking a sense for magic might mistake a pixie’s favorite beetle carapace or fox claw for garbage, and throw away the gift; this will earn the giver’s ire. Recipients wise enough to recognize a faery’s present will be blessed with some boon or luck so long as the object is in their care.

Types of Fae

Faeries are commonly divided into three categories: the Trooping or High, Solitary, and Domestic fae. 

Trooping Faeries Born bound to one of the Quarter Courts, the trooping faeries are those who have murky memories of godhood; the High Fae. The eldest tend to be reclusive, embittered and tired. The younger generations are more likely to venture forth, protecting the sacred places of their Court and fooling with the occasional mortal. They are expected to present themselves to their Quarter King and/or Queen whenever the host is summoned, reporting on their activities and congregating in the Court’s sacred places. In the old days, a market or procession on human lands might follow; today, such things are rare indeed. But the Fair Folk still indulge in their revels, complete with feasting, dancing, and music of unearthly beauty.

In addition to the usual faery qualities above, the High Fae demonstrate:

An affinity for elemental magic. This manifests either as a general, weaker ability in the elements most associated with their Court, or a particular, greater strength with one of those aspects. The Summer’s elements are heat, light, and vigor; Spring’s verdancy, water, growth; Autumn’s earth, decay, fruitfulness; Winter’s entropy, cold, and darkness.

Sensitivity to the presence of magic, especially fae magic. This is a vague awareness that magical work has recently been done in a given place, or by a certain person. The faery would also be able to sense the “spirit” of that magic - good, bad, protective, aggressive, etc. If they’ve worked to hone this skill, and the magic’s distinctive enough, they may be able to recognize a familiar caster’s “signature.”

The Folk are fond of stories and relics, appreciating the magical resonance that an old, loved thing acquires - and recognizing the stain that terrible deeds and cruel souls leave behind. Some display extrasensory abilities that reflect this attachment, such as retrocognition and psychometry.

A faery who breaks from their host, or is cast out for some grave (or petty, depending on the King/Queen) offence cannot simply join another; in this time of thin blood and weak magic, it’s rare for a Court to risk angering any of the others. An exiled faery is banned from the halls and sacred places they once called home, and will, traditionally, at least, not be approached or spoken to by members of their old Court. Whether they chose exile or had it forced upon them, their loss is great; they’ve left behind not only their immortal family, but their strongest tie to the old magic the Folk need in order to thrive in this unbelieving world. They’re often drawn to human Practitioners, eager to bask in the glow of their charms and spells. While magic users are typically secretive, guarded individuals, a disgraced faery isn’t a bad friend to have; anyone with the favor of a fae tends to be a little lucky, and their magical knowledge can prove very valuable. If they can be convinced to part with it.

The trooping faeries all consider themselves members of the High Fae, which is not a singular species so much as a class. They are each unique in appearance, ranging from humanoid to animal to things entirely other.

Solitary Faeries These faeries have chosen to live without bowing to a Court or rule of any kind - they’re, well, free spirits. Whether indifferent or outright disdainful of the Courts, kings, and queens, a solitary faery is unlikely to bother with their trooping brethren. Too much pomp and pageantry. Still, many of these fae share their cousins’ delight for revelry and mischief. They’ll happily dance with only the forest’s creatures for company, and slip into human homes and shops to snap up their favorite treats, or pull their hilarious pranks. The victims rarely get the joke.

Solitary fae who prefer wild and abandoned places will gleefully torment any human who crosses their path, especially the boastful and impolite. Some may be helpful, if the mood strikes, and you’re as respectful as you are pitiful. But fae are changeable creatures. And mortals are such fun to play with, aren’t they? A lost traveller following fae directions might get home in half the time, or wind up hip-deep in bog. Or stuck in a crevice they must bargain their way out of. Or, if their supernatural acquaintance took a liking to them - with a handful or two of gold. Really are taking your chances, here.

The solitary faeries also include some of the most malevolent fae. Contemptuous of those who glean sustenance from human offerings and belief, these creatures feed on the dark powers of fear and blood. Even other fae are reluctant to approach them. They’re thankfully rare, these days. But they linger, in the shadows. And they hunger…

Solitary faeries include the leanan sidhe, will o’ the wisp, kobold, hödekin, bean sidhe, red cap, púca, kelpie, asrai, selkie, píast, and others.

Domestic Faeries While other faeries might sneak into a human abode now and then, just for fun or a tasty snack, the domestic fae have taken a liking to living alongside people. These are the sprites most skilled in the complicated glamour of invisibility, an ability they’ve perfected in order to go unnoticed in human households. While some will happily do work of one kind or another, others are happy to sneak about filching things, making messes, and playing wee gags on the family.

Domestic faeries include the leprechaun, nisse, bannik, brownie, domovoi, cluricaun, fenoderee, killmoulis, and others.