The Story Teller went back into his office and sat down in the $3000 office chair and drummed his fingers on the leather blotter. He enjoyed the comforts of the age, but there were hints of age and other times. The pen he used was a quill in a silver inkwell on the corner of there desk. The cushion on his chair was medieval tapestry. The statue in the corner was from ancient Persia. His tea cup was probably at least 1000 years old. He opens the drawer and pulls out a small golden box and opens it. They had cell phones, but sometimes the old way was best. He opened the box and took our a small bit of metal burnished to a reflective sheen. He peered in it as one would a mirror. "Are you there?"
It wasn't so much an image which appeared on that bright and shining piece of reflected metal the Story Teller spoke to. It was more of a ripple of motion which seemed to move /through/ it, swirling in gentle waves like a fish swimming beneath the surface of a stream. It was about three seconds before a crackling of something static and tinny resonated softly like the a distant cacophony of thunder and metal echoed. The arrival of something horrible and glorious; a voice called forward, speaking deceptively soft, but still echoed with power resonating beneath it. "I am."
The Story Teller hesitates. He doesn't hesitate often, but it's also not often that he has need to to make such a request. It is not something he does lightly. "My son," he says gently, the appellation falling from his lips easily, "I need you to do something for me. I need to speak to you."
The hesitation noted with an air of calm rather than expectation as the ripples across the piece of burnished metal ebb into a gentle roil of patience. They do not pick up again until the voice returns, sending pulses of scattering designs through the otherwise solid object. "I'm at your call, Father." Formal and eternal, there is no pretention in that voice as he returns the term of endearment. The rumble of sound murmurs with respectful, round syllables to the Story Teller. "What is the issue?"
The Story Teller leans back and watches the metal swirl and pulse. "It's Fekete Peter...the Troublemaker. He's free. Come to me. It has been a long time anyway, and there are complications." He touches the metal with a finger gently. "Stymphal, I can trust only you with this."
The piece of burnished metal is solid beneath the touch of the Story Teller, but like non-neutonian substances, it is solid and liquid all at once, rippling out from that point after the fact in recognition and reply. Waiting for those ripples to fade to the edges of that object before the voice responds, heard, felt and visible, "Too long." He agreed amicably with the palpable rumble of sound humming in the background. "As you like." Short, sweet and to the point, he waits a moment longer, present in that object and listening for any further notation, the soft roiling motion on the surface of the object remaining.
The Story Teller, who at once has no name and many names' takes back his finger and picks up the metal. Carefully opening the gold box, he replaces it. Some missions deserve to be discussed in person. The box goes back in the drawer. The being stands up and awaits the arrival of Stymphal...Stymphal... He smiles softly.
There are moments that showmanship counts and there are moments where its simply unnecessary. The majority of the Story Teller's office lacked metallic surfaces; elegance is written in good hard woods. The Story Teller's office is a realm he is familiar with, however, and soon after the box is settled in place a whisper of sound is audible. Ther shifting of tides and prickle of magic wound and well-known by the Teller. No secret kept from him, the ripple of arcane is notable if only in the tang in the air, and soon it becomes visible as well in the careful disturbance of light objects in the room, as if from a gentle breeze. Within the center of the space before the desk dust seems to gather en masse, catching rays of light in a lightly metallic hue. Slowly at first and then much quicker, the dust collects and the condenses with remarkable swiftness into the form of a man. Unmistakably humanoid but every inch of his statuesque form and clothing bronzed from the soles of his shod feet all the way to his seemingly sightless eyes and bronzy back-swept hair. Dressed in unmistakably dated clothing by mortal standards, one still couldn't note a specific date in particular with nondescript pants, boots and vest resting on his shoulders. Harmless seeming. No weapons visible, but a hum of power and confidence draped upon him like a cape. As a large statue brought to life, he blinked and gently bowed his head in tendered respect, "Father." Tone humming in low, palpable through the air.
The Story Teller stood patiently as the being appeared before him. He could be patient with some, those who deserved it. Others tried his patience. But this one was different. Stymphal never vexed him. Stymphal always delivered. As he waited for the dust to swirl into the form of a man, he picked up his pipe. After the nod of respect, some emotion pulled his lips into a smile. "It has been a long time, Stymphal, my son. Have you enjoyed your respite? You deserved it. Come with me." He heads to the balcony. This time, he looks out from a highrise over a city, "I am sure you remember Peter?"
For as weighty as the shining man seemingly composed of bronze should have seemed, gleaming in muted metallic tones, Stymphal was surprisingly quiet as he followed as a respectful, but near distant to the Story Teller. There were no rustic sounds of metal grinding against metal or anything so tawdry; he was as seamless and wonderful as any creature made of flesh and bone in that fashion. "I have enjoyed it, but there is only so much one can do until the ease of relaxation turns into idle monotony," The thrum of sound from his throat vibrating the air in mild waves as he spoke amicably to the man he addressed so familiarly but respectfully to. Suggesting in no uncertain way that his respite was growing tired on him. He was ready and agreeable toward whatever the Story Teller had in mind. Stepping out onto the balcony, his chin lifted mildly in answer to the coasting breeze above the city, his feet slowing to a stop at the Story Teller's side. His form no taller (perhaps even a couple inches shorter) than his host. Mention of Peter caused a twisting of his expression in disfavor, pupilless eyes turned onto the Teller. "I remember him. If I'm not mistaken, he was not sentenced alone."
"Arnyek made his own bed. I gave him a choice. Peter, no. I am not ready for him to be free. He has no appreciation for what he did. And in any case, it is not his decision to come and go. It is mine, and I am not ready." The Story Teller shows some very human like anger in his voice when he speaks of Peter. He gestures to the city in front of him. "He is here. I want you to bring him to me, but there is a problem. There is a human involved." The Story Teller looks at the bronze man, assessing him with his calm expression. He squints a little as the light glints of the bronze man. "Bring them all here."
Those moments of telling anger didn't seem to surprise Stymphal. That doesn't mean that it wasn't worth noting, however, as his attention stilled on the Story Teller, so personally wound up in the capture of this particular being. And yet, he didn't comment on it, or at least he didn't comment until his task was set before him, murmuring a slow and resonant, "I understand." Two simple words, four syllables, and yet he seemed to speak beyond the acceptance of his task. He remembered Peter. And if he didn't know outright the reasons for his confinement, he certainly had his tautly drawn suspicions from all he'd seen of the ordeal. Including the personal investment the man he endearingly called 'father' had in it. "Shall I speak with Greta on the details?" Recognizing the emotional output in the Teller's tone, delicately offering that alternative to making him speak on the subject any further.
Something heartwarming was on the way, which could be annoying. Borderless, glowing, and dressed in the /finest/ and very modern English cut suit, in a frosty blue, with a black shirt and a skinny tie made out of...well...probably wishes and dreams or some nonsense, but it mostly looked like ivory silk. Bare feet poked out the bottom of his pants and his wings were invisible while in flight and dragon-fly shaped translucent blue when they weren't. His eyes were a dark blue, his skin a dusky light brown, and his hair slicked back black, and short. Because...everyone knows the Blue Fairy is Italian. An Italian named Carlo.
The Story Teller was eternal. He has looked the same for centuries, eons, except for the occasional change in clothing and hair cut for amusement mainly. Despite his look, he embodied youth. Things took energy from him and grew. He was called father by more than just Stymphal, though there was something additional in the tone by which the Story Teller called Stymphal "son". But every so often, when his his barriers were lowered, when he was angry or sad, and everyone can become angry or sad, even the Story Teller, every so often, he looked old. Now he looked old and worn. "Yes, you can talk to Greta. Don't eat her cookies..." He smiles a little and then freezes for a moment as though listening. "Someone is coming."
'Someone' could mean anything. Anything from Carlo the Italian Blue Fairy to King Goldemar the Kobold to Fekete Peter himself, having grown bored with wherever he was and come to taunt the Story Teller. Caught in a moment of candid exchange between the two 'men' -- as with many creatures with the will to turn incorporeal, Stymphal had not been assigned a true gender, but simply preferred that of a man--the figure with the buffed and glowing bronze skin took pause...and then seemed to shatter into a shower of metallic dust. The majority of which blew away, but an animated tendril separated from the rest of the mass and drew swiftly toward the Teller. Swiftly swirling around him and wrapping around the man's right wrist to reform to that of a bronze torque bangle; nondescript swirls like the wind inscribed on the surface, surrounding a single feather quill. Stymphal lay in wait.
Carlo arrived as a manifestation of blue and gold light, bobbing through the corridor because that pleased him, then in and out of random rooms, and finally into the Storyteller's chamber. The glow grew bigger at the edge of the Storyteller's desk until finally he took form in the bare-footed figure of Carlo, leaning casually, ankles crossed and hands also crossed and laid on one leg. He cocked his head and smiled. Despite being called the blue fairy, and an experimental century where he dressed like a woman for better PR, Carlo was /all man/. "Is thas a bad time?" Accent...thickly Italian. He reached out to try to pat the Storyteller's cheek, "You luk /awful/, my friend. So /tiiired/ and weaaary..."
As it had been noted, the Story Teller had patience, endless patience for some. Carlos was not one of those 'some,' however, and the Story Teller stiffened. One, two, three. He relaxed again as he breathed out a long breath. "Carlos, have I not told you...more than once! To let me know when you are coming? And of course I look old. I /am/ old. As for it being a bad time, yes it is. I am conducting business. What brings you out of your happy place? I haven't spoken with you since the affair with toy maker. I hope that went well. It was most unorthodox." His tone of disapproval could be noted, but he did not appear ready to throw the fairy out. He /had/ been known to throw beings out of his office before.
"I have come, " here Carlo lifts one finger and shakes it loosely in the air, "because of a very peculiar wish." He arches his brows. "And believe me, the boy is deserving. /Crippled/. Kind-/hearted/. Generous. He has raised $200,000 for research for child illness." He squints his piercing eyes and makes an 'mmf' sound as he relishes in the worthiness. "But you know this is a /curious/ wish. A wish that would you affect /you/. " A tilt o f his head and a slight hunch of his shoulders, "I am reluctant to simply /graaant/ such a wish without some-a.../discuss-i-on/."
The torque hugging the Teller's wrist remains quiet and entirely unremarkable while Carlo speaks with such flourish over this new boy and his odd wish. Occasionally the mass of the piece of man-jewelry may shift slightly, making its presence known to the Story Teller, but otherwise? He is silent for now.
The old man approached the desk and sat, touching the torque lightly and then taking up the pipe again and this time lighting it. He gestures to the chair across from his desk. It was not as nearly as comfortable as his chair. Then he opens a drawer and takes out a ceramic bottle and two small ceramic shot glasses. The liquid in the bottle looks like gold. He remembers details. From this bottle he is able to pour any number of different drinks. This one is for Carlo. Far be it from him to be a poor host. Especially when this was a distraction from the matter with Pelznickel. Now that he had the bronze man on it, he was a little calmer. "Talk, Carlo, and please remember I am extremely busy. How can this wish involve me? Send the child to Disney World and be done with it."
"I am-a extremely com-fort-a-ble where I am." At the 'weird being' conventions, he's totally the one that wears his name-tag on his pants instead of on his left breast like /everyone else/. "The boy wishes /lucid dreams/." Carlo widens his eyes and pinches all his fingers together and blooms them open as he says the word 'dreams'. "To live-a life...a /free/ and /pungent/ life when he sleeps, in control of his own dreams. But." Carlo frowns and speaks more seriously. "He would be /off-limits/ to /you/." He points upwards. "DIS-ASTER! You remember. Those with many lucid dreams...dangerous."
The touch against the metallic surface, much like the piece of metal earlier, ripples very mildly as an echo, but does nothing otherwise. Undoubtedly listening. Amongst any other number of things
The Story Teller shrugs as the fairy stands, but he still offers him the golden liquid. "Carlo? What exactly are you asking? I am not going to have my Gardeners avoid one boy just to allow him to dream he is not crippled. Perhaps for one night, but I cannot give him free rein. Human's all get a taste of their dreams. They usually leave enough for some pleasant memories...or horrid ones. Who is this child that you would grant him this wish?" The Story Teller gives Carlo a penetrating look. I feel that there is something more than to have me allow him to keep his dreams one night."
Carlo's eyes glitter brightly. "It is but-a one boy. If I give him his wish...he could become a Crafter. He could. In time." Like playing with fire, allowing a human to craft their own dream. "You know that you will need one eventually."
"I know I will need one? Hmmm maybe. Who is this boy and is he worthy of this? He would need a minder. You know that Peter Pelznickel begin this same way..."
Carlo stands up entirely, glancing at the bracelet for a moment. "I am not a minder. I grant wishes to the worthy who look to the bright stars and pour out-a their heaaarts. Give the boy one night...and see what world he makes. Then," Carlo lifts his chin, "you will know."
"His name is Klaus." He can communicate in some telepathic capacity or some such way of understanding so that with only that name, the Storyteller knows which of the billions he is talking about.
The Story Teller drinks his shot glass full and takes a puff on the pipe. The smoke swirls around his hear, resembling for just a moment the Black Gardener before it dissipates. "Klaus." Yes, the Story Teller knows which one this is. "One night." He presses the intercom button. "Greta, find Rustin and have him call me." There is an acknowledgement and he removes his finger from the button. "There. Consider it done, though I don't see what you wish to prove from this."
Carlo walks backwards, ball to heel of his bare feet. He spreads his hands and starts glowing. "We will seee. We will see..." And then he's incorporeal and soon enough, gone.
Whether Stymphal acknowledged any glance from Carlo or not, there is no sign as he remained silent and patient, literally at the Story Teller's left hand. Not three seconds after the blue fairy vanishes does the torque dissolve and wind away, back to the floor and around the desk.
"I wish he would not do that. He knows I do not like that, and he is very lucky I am a kind and generous soul." The old man speaks to Stymphal as he materializes again. "What do you make of that? I do think his heart is in the right place, but I wonder about his priorities." He pauses, "So...son, do you understand what I want /you/ to do?"
Reforming to his humanoid form once more, winding from the ground up and appearing poised and attentive. "The wishing and dreaming fae are too generous. Too tender hearted. It's long been my opinion, Father. Long before Peter." True or not, he was a creature who did not often like to express his opinion unless directly asked. But directly asked, he was! "Bring the escaped here, and whoever it is who assisted. Is that all?" As if it were his afternoon coffee order.
The old man smiles, "Thank you, Stymphal." He takes another puff on his pipe and picks up a ledger of some sort.
