Killer: “... i need you to stop saying weird shit.”

Dust: “does it creep you out?”

Killer: “duh!”

Dust: “then no.”

Killer: “fuck you.”

Horror: Growls.

Killer: “... unfuck you.”

Dust: Smirks.

Killer: “... stop doing that.”

Dust: “doing what?”

Killer: “smirking. it makes your face unbearable to look at.”

Dust: “i don’t like seeing your face at all, but you don’t hear me complaining.”

Killer: “you do it every time you see me!"

Dust: “i could have done it more.”

Horror: “enough… you two.”

Killer: “dust started it! you just take his side because he’s your mate!”

Horror: "shush."

Fairy!Cross, killer, horror and dust💜❤️🦋

They all belong to @fairy-verse and their design is by Lunnar-chan

The ASK where Dust's childhood is briefly talked about.

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──

Cross’s childhood was spent being quite sheltered, and even more so after his mother’s death. His father was, and still is, quite determined to ensure that his faerling is a strong and capable knight. Cross never understood why he wasn’t allowed to play as much as the other faerlings, or why his mother never revealed how her and his father met, but then again, he wasn’t one to pry once he understood that his questions wouldn’t be answered.

The time before his mother died is thought back at with fondness.

He spent a lot of his childhood going back and forth between the valley of summer and the mountains of winter. His mother would have him the most, before her death, and she’d ensure that he didn’t overheat on the days where the sun hung so high, Cross thought it had a personal vendetta against him. After her passing, Cross would permanently move into Error’s Mountain Halls to live with his father. It was… claustrophobic. He learned to manage, but even to this day, he prefers to stay outside.

He doesn’t speak much with his father.

He was so immensely proud the day he received his tiara that not even his father’s ever-scowling-face could dampen the mood. He’d puffed up at learning that Error had designed it.

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──

Horror had a remarkably normal winter fairy childhood. He learned how to fly within a massive lantern nest, which had then quickly followed by him plummeting outside and into the great halls for a proper tour. His mother hadn’t been pleased. His father had laughed loudly before snatching him up to bring him back to the nest. Smithing classes were attended and mastered at great speed. He learned how to forage for food, how to preserve it, how to fight and defend himself and others. He learned how to show no mercy to all big folk Error deemed deserving of death. He was growing up to be the picture-perfect winter knight; a fairy anyone would desire for a mate.

…

His parents would be proud of what he’s accomplished now, despite the horrors he’s faced. He doesn’t know it, doesn’t believe it to be true, but they’d be happy for him. They’d be happy that their little faerling lives a peaceful life with a mate that he loves above all else in this world. They’d be happy that he’s still alive.

He once had a very pretty tiara that his parents had worked quite hard on to perfect. It must have fallen off when he’d been trapped with the other fairies in the cave-in… probably.

…

He’s too afraid to go back and look for it. He can’t return to the Mountain Halls, he just can’t.

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──

Killer’s childhood was full of light. As a young faerling, he spent much of his time in his mother’s embrace, rarely leaving the nest due to the strangeness of his SOUL. His parents weren’t quite sure on how to shield it in the beginning of his life, so the first years alive he rarely left the immediate perimeter of his nest. He had become quite restless by the time his parents managed to use their magic to change the shape of his SOUL into that of a flower, and he was more than eager to get out and explore the world he’d been born into.

He was a young faerling. He’d only wanted to see what those strange creatures walking through the forest were. Why were they carrying spheres made of glass with string encircling them? They made such twinkling, pretty sounds. He’d only wanted to take a closer look. He hadn’t meant to be seen, hadn’t meant to be pursued, hadn’t meant for his mother to come screeching and getting caught instead.

He’d hidden beneath a raised root until they were gone. He cried. He cried a lot, until his tears went from shimmering pearlescent to black, until his SOUL shuddered and threatened to shatter. He stopped once his father found him.

He didn’t cry once he found stardust in his nest a month after receiving his tiara, the scent of his father slowly fading away. He had expected it, after all. A fairy rarely survives after losing their mate. It was only because of him that his father had gone on for this long. But now he was a grown fairy. He didn’t need his parents anymore. He left the nest and let the forest reclaim it; his tiara resting upon the very pillow he’d been given upon birth.

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──

Lust’s childhood was one of sweetness and tenderness. He was immensely coddled by his parents, adored by his friends, and hated by the big folk. Lust isn’t a spring fairy that often feeds on the blood of the folk, but he simply cannot help himself when a pretty maiden or a handsome knight comes wandering past the trees in search of either wonder or wealth. His teeth were put to good use in his earlier years.

As a young faerling, he quickly understood why his kin had such quick speed and agility, because on two occasions he was nearly caught in well-hidden fairy traps. His parents had ensured that he didn’t fly too close. The scolding he’d received after was enough to teach him to be more careful. After that, he instead chose to spend his time chasing after birds and riding atop deer and unicorns. He may have been told that big folk blood is something that he should prioritize to feed upon before winter, but Lust… Well, the more he grew, the lazier he became whenever hunting was involved. He likes to sip on dewdrops. He likes to eat pollen, nuts and fruits. He’ll gorge himself before winter, but… if he awakens in January, famished… Well, he’ll find a lonesome human or monster to snack on.

His tiara was designed by Ink and made by one of the finest winter fairy smiths at the time. He’s very proud of it. It reminds him of the sun… and yellow flower petals.

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──

Reaper’s childhood is full of snow. It’s dark. It’s cold. The nest he was born in wasn’t made within a lantern. It was outside, in an exposed alcove. His mother did all she could to keep him warm by shielding him from the winter storms. Reaper can remember how soft her wings had been. He can remember how gentle her voice had sounded even as the storms shrieked in the night. He can remember everything eventually growing clearer, as if someone had spooked the firstborn fairy of winter so badly, he’d frozen in shock. He can remember seeing the stars, and then… Something crawled out from the very air before him; pulled reality apart until… Until…

“… Papa?”

He’d given him his gift. He’d given him the touch he was meant to be born with. He’d left him, like he’d once been left upon his birth(?). He’d taken his mother with him, even as she’d shuddered and become covered by a veil of ice from just him holding her close. Reaper's not quite sure what he looks like. He’d seen him, but… the sight had been incomprehensible, like tattered silken fabric changing shape in the wind. There’d been a smile, perhaps warped, and white teeth. There’d been eyes, uneven and thin and curving. His touch had been so cold it stung and felt like death, but then it stopped hurting, and it was tender. He’d spoken to him in a voice like thick mist and growing gloom. He’d cradled Reaper.

Then… he, and his mother, was gone.

Becoming an orphaned faerling, Error had, somewhat begrudgingly, allowed him inside the Mountain Halls. An empty alcove had been filled with furs for him, and there he grew up alone. Adult fairies would occasionally show pity and teach him some of the things he needed to know, but they rarely lingered for long. It only took one time for him to touch someone for all to realise that he was dangerous. His touch had hurt, had made their bones cold. It’d made ice crystals form, and they’d feared death by prolonged exposure.

Everyone kept their distance after that, but they didn’t banish him.

His tiara laid resting on his favourite furs within his alcove nest on the day he became a fully grown fairy. He doesn’t know who made it, but it had faintly smelled like his mother. He’d gone looking for her, searching every nook and cranny within the Mountain Halls, but… his mother hadn’t really been allowed inside after his birth, had she? By the time he realised he had to look outside, it was far too late. There had been no trace of any fairy left in either the snow, or the wind.

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──

Despite the horror and the shock of other fairies with young faerlings, Geno’s parents had no trouble with taking him out of the nest at an early age. He was hardly old enough to form proper memories by the time his mother took him with her to the forge. He spent many days being mesmerised by the hot, glowing weapons and armours made by her hands, and even more so as she took her with him to where his father worked. Precise and steady were the hands of Geno’s father, and he watched as he crafted glittering trinkets and pierced the ecto of young and older fairies alike.

Some would say that they’d had it coming, that their recklessness of bringing their faerling everywhere would eventually doom them, but they hadn’t believed that anything bad could have happened. Geno had been strapped to their chests at all hours outside the nest. It was completely safe… until the one single second he’d been put down because his father needed to adjust his armour. It’d been cold. It’d been windy. Geno had seen something flickering between the snowflakes before something went ‘whoosh’ and blinding, agonising pain caused him to cry out in shock.

He’d still been young. No one had seen who’d delivered the blow. It’s like the blade had materialised out of thin air and vanished just as quickly. All his parents knew is that Geno lay upon the ground, gasping as iridescent blood ran like rivers across his form. They screamed and sat beside him but dared not disturb him; afraid of worsening his suffering. He was dying. He’d not yet become a proper fairy. He had just been a small faerling.

It’d truly been a peculiar sight to see the firstborn fairy of winter descend from the snowy storm, only for everything to grow still. The snowflakes, the wind, the chill, all paused in time. Error’s wings had glowed icy blue. Shimmering strings enveloped Geno’s tiny soul, and then… the bleeding froze in time, just like the winter storm.

“Prepared to lose today, Crossy?”

“Wishful thinking on your part, Killer, but I’ll humour you. Come at me.”

“Heh, gladly.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Artwork by @aoi-kanna

XTale Cross by Jakei95

Killer by Rahafwabas

There’s a sudden growing chill in the air; the warmth being chased away despite its long stay; the weather changing again and for the worse for those not built to withstand the cold.

Horror shuddered and Killer had only a short moment to feel bad before the grouchy summer fairy pinned him with a heated glare. Apparently, should a summer fairy force themselves to stay awake throughout the days in winter they tend to become extremely fussy and bad-tempered, not that Killer was surprised in the slightest, but Dust was always easily annoyed when anything involving making Horror uncomfortable was concerned, so really, he should have seen this coming.

“Don’t like… to think about it,” said Horror, making himself busy by sorting dried fruits and pickled vegetables. “Bad memories.”

“I’m sorry for bringing it up, Horror, but isn’t there anything you can recall from The Mountain Halls? You’ve lived longer than me and have experienced more winters. Are any of them anything like this one?” asked Cross, occasionally glancing towards the rounded window as the winds began to pick up, howling in wailing cries outside.

“Unpredictable,” said Horror, wings twitching and threatening to unfold out into their great might. “Always… unpredictable. Moody… easily irritated, but…” he raised a hand towards his empty socket, stopping only due to Dust grabbing onto his arm. He huffed, sniffing in agitation. “Kind to us. Kind to all winter fairies; pretty, like a snowstorm… seen from within a… a warm nest.”

The wind gave a particularly sharp wail, and Cross glanced outside again, seeing snow coming down.

“Ah, look at that,” said Killer, shuddering slightly, but still smiling. “Everything must have returned to normal, then. All is good, we can go back.”

“No,” said Horror, releasing a tense breath before picking up Dust, holding the petite fairy close, soothed by his colder body against his own warm one. “Snowstorm… it’s…” He furrowed his brows, grimacing, bulging eyelight now a sharp pinprick, “unusual.”

“How can a snowstorm in winter be unusual?” asked Killer, making a face though taking a cautious step back as Horror growled, massive form suddenly seeming malicious and dangerous, clawed phalanges holding protectively onto Dust; warming him as best he could. The petite fairy only laid a hand upon one of Horror’s, lending him support the best he could.

“Winter fairies…” Horror gritted his teeth, frustrated at his lack of quickness with words the more agitated he became. “We can feel… Feel the magic in the snow. It is… not good. Uneasy.” Horror’s wings unfolded, coming around both him and Dust. “Angry… fearful… Evil.”

“Evil?” asked Cross, now growing concerned. He couldn’t feel much of the magic that accompanied Error’s ice and snow during winter, probably a defect due to him being a hybrid, but even he could tell this growing snowstorm was strange. Something was abnormal about it, and if it was linked with Error’s emotions, then nothing good could be behind it.

“We’ll have to get to The Mountain Halls before the storm becomes too bad,” said Cross, heading towards the door, hearing Horror thump behind him as the giant of a fairy hurried to start a fire, still holding onto Dust.

“Out? Into that?” asked Killer, not at all liking the idea. “I’m a hybrid of autumn and spring, Cross. A sunny winter’s day I can handle, but this? Nu-uh. We should wait.”

“Out of the question,” hissed Cross, grabbing onto Killer’s arm. “Something is wrong. We need to reach Error’s Mountain now. No objections.”

“I object—”

“Stop being faerlish!”

“Hmpf.”

“Haste,” said Horror, eyelight shrinking as the door opened. “Fly… with haste.”

“I’d only been tasked with making you check if anything was wrong with Error, and I only agreed to come with you because, as you probably remember, when I went to pick you up it was unusually warm outside,” said Killer, already shivering as he passed the threshold.

“It will be warm within The Mountain Halls. If you stop complaining, we’ll be there soon enough,” said Cross, both annoyed and worried, though refusing to show both.

“Or only once my wings freeze and fall off,” said Killer, complaining, the door behind him shutting with one great thud, locking them out from the warmth of Horror’s Hollow.

Artwork by @bones-on-skin

Killer by Rahafwabas

Strange fairies may be, but stranger still are the shadows who come from beyond the veil, and those whose appearance may frighten most of all could, in truth, be the answer you seek.

There was an eeriness that could never be chased no matter how many lanterns or torches were strung up within the halls of Error’s Mountain kingdom, and yet it never chased away stray travellers or common visitors, for the chiselled walls and curved archways urged one to approach; to explore the unknown and see where the flickering lights came from. Shadows may dance upon the tall walls or within hidden corners, but instead of chasing you, they waved you to them.

Killer, to this day, could not deny the intrigue that filled him as he flew through corridors, into narrow chambers, through icy crevasses, and finally into the great mountain hall itself where the ceiling stretched too high to see and strange roots hung from various heights, all holding onto intricately crafted lanterns that housed nests for the winter fairies. From those lights of green, blue, red, purple, and pink flickered across the walls nearby, vanishing into the darkness of various chasms that led to different parts of the kingdom, all so plentiful Killer couldn’t possibly explore all of it in his lifetime.

“Have you ever been lost in here?” asked Killer, flying beside Cross as he glanced down, seeing but a faint, thin stream of light from far below; the lava river from which many fairies would use as a guiding light to the different mines. Killer repressed the shudder which threatened to break through him, recalling the story told about Horror and how many fairies must likely fear the same happening to them as they mine away in narrow shafts and low chambers.

“Not so much anymore,” said Cross, approaching the smithing alcove to the western end of the great hall. Clanks and hisses grew in volume the nearer they came, and he smiled but for a moment as he recalled all the projects he’d worked on there; the armour, swords, tiaras, and the likes he’d created. A winter fairy, even he as a hybrid, could not help but feel proud of their creations. “I stay away from darkened corridors and silent chambers. You’d be surprised by how many winter fairies have grown strange from staying in them for too long, or from getting lost…” said he, glancing up and catching sight of a darkened shadow amongst shadows emerging from a hidden alcove, empty sockets catching his eyelights. Shuddering, he cast his gaze away, slowing his flight before landing upon solid rock.

Another fairy, one which stole Killer’s attention completely, approached with lazy steps. Iridescent blood, partly congealed with but a few droplets dripping and trickling, glittered from a ghastly gash going from his collarbone and to the opposite hipbone. It made Killer openly gape in shock, though Cross was quick to click his mouth shut.

“Come to finally complete your forgotten tasks, Cross?” asked the fairy, not even acknowledging Killer in the slightest.

“Not yet, Geno,” said Cross, dragging a hand across his face. “We’ve come to check up on Error on behalf of Nightmare.” Geno’s face didn’t change, though his eyelights lit up with curiosity. “Have you seen him at any point throughout this winter?”

“No,” said Geno, seeming uninterested. “Our firstborn does as he pleases. It’s not for us to pry into what he does.”

“Perhaps not,” said Killer, cutting off Cross before he could speak. “But this winter has been unusually warm and irregular, and the beloved firstborn of autumn is highly concerned, so wouldn’t it be in your best interest to assure that your winter queen is safe and sound?”

Geno didn’t fall for the bait, face unchanging. “Error has lived for millennia and will be here long after we are gone,” said he, staring Killer down. “We may ponder and scheme all we like, but he may do as he pleases, and we are only required to soothe and support whenever he desires it. If he wishes to be alone, then who are we to argue with him?”

“Ugh,” Killer moaned, rolling his skull and shifting his weight. “Is your laid-back attitude the reason for why you haven’t tended to that death wound of yours?” he asked, earning a heated glare from Cross and a sharp hush.

Geno only smiled, and Killer felt a prickle at the back of his neck, prompting him to glance behind him to see a moving shadow disappear into a chasm, howling faces disappearing into the dark. Shuddering, he returned his gaze to Geno who still smiled at him, his own eyelights having clearly seen the shadow too, though they were knowledgeable and unafraid.

“Ignore him,” said Cross, sighing and pushing Killer onto the ledge of the alcove, readying himself to take flight once more. “I’m sorry for bothering you, Geno. I’ll let you continue with supervising the smithing progress.”

“Take care of yourself, Cross,” said Geno, keeping the hybrid stuck to the spot with a stare alone. “And don’t feel discouraged. You’re doing well with this task you’ve been appointed. Keep at it and you may receive the answers you seek.” And nodding to release him, Geno turned, silken wings shimmering beneath the torchlight, so uncannily like Error’s that it made Cross pause for but a second before leaving.

“I always thought Nightmare’s underground kingdom was the most magical and unnerving place I’d ever seen, but this place takes every honour imaginable,” said Killer, catching spying eyelights peeking out from hanging lanterns and shadowed chasms and passages.

“Winter fairies are born of a different making than other fairies, Killer,” said Cross, approaching a darkened lantern which hung by its lonesome, further down where few others hang on elder roots, all far away from each other. “We may be similar to autumn fairies when it comes to a certain distinctness and strangeness, but we are first and foremost knights and warriors, and to be fearless in the face of a mighty troll or the vicious big folk, we must be conditioned to handle that which is abnormal and terrifying,” said he, landing upon the platform before the lanterns crooked door.

“None here seem that warriorlike, though,” said Killer, following Cross into the lantern, the interior cast in darkness before purple crystals lit up at their presence, casting the space in a magical glow. It was sparse, one corner dedicated to nesting with its fullness of wool and fur, with the rest of the space decorated with but a few hanging weapons and sitting baskets of dried fruits and meat.

Cross chuckled, and Killer glanced at him, seeing him smile.

“Not all winter fairies are similar to the ones you see patrolling the borders, Killer,” said Cross, taking a breath and releasing it, shoulders relaxing. “Some are born with great might and presence to stand up and fight beneath the sky, others are born with perseverance and patience to do nothing but smith their whole lives.” Trailing clawed gauntlets across an ancient sword, one much too delicate for Cross’s strength, but well cherished with memories Killer couldn’t even begin to imagine attached to it. “But some are born with the winter’s deathly touch and silence, and they struggle in the shadows, keeping away that which tries to creep its way from beyond the veil and into our territory.”

“The veil?” asked Killer, remembering the riddles Lumin often spewed that made his skull swim. “Why would anything wish to come from there? Isn’t there some untold harmony between us and it? I mean, we’re fairies; some of the strangest things existing in the world, right?”

“In our world, yes,” said Cross, looking at him—nay, behind him. “But there are stranger things that have found their way into our home, and we need knights and warriors that can protect us from them, or else we may face the chance of living a fearful life forevermore.” Approaching, he summoned his sword, his face hardening. “And I may not be one of them, but I am not a coward,” he hissed, taking Killer by the shoulder and pulling him back, turning him around as he did so. “So, tell me, why are you in my nest?”

And standing beyond the threshold of Cross’s ancestral lantern home, a shadow loomed, tall and slender with wings decorated with howling faces, screaming their woes from beyond the veil. A hand with phalanges much too long reached out, turning upwards in either greeting or peace. Empty sockets stared back at them, much alike Killer’s, yet all too different.

“Our firstborn…” said the shadow, voice an ethereal echo that both awed and unnerved Killer’s soul. “His soul darkens; grows colder by each day passing.”

“Our firstborn?” asked Cross, voice harsh and mistrusting. “My firstborn, perhaps. Not yours.”

“Mine, too,” said the shadow, partly hidden face smiling sadly. “Half of me, as he is half of you.”

“Cut the crap!” said Cross, shouting and glaring heatedly. “What do you want? You do not belong here, so how dare you—”

“Lower your sword, Cross,” came the voice of Geno, and he stepped out from behind the shadow, a beacon of white light in contrast to the dark by his side. “It’s unnecessary.”

“G—Geno?” Cross stammered and stared; shocked.

“Nightmare save us,” said Killer, flopping down upon his bottom, smile crooked and confused and delighted all at the same time. There’s been too much excitement, too much happening, yet he felt ready to tackle it all despite the weakness of his knees, if only to have one hell of a story to tell Nightmare later.