She's waited for a Friday night to do this - Friday, because she hasn't got to be at the magazine the next day, and she's purposefully made no plans for the entire three-day weekend. There are some perks to being an editor. Fiona's garbed herself in a flowing, comfortable white summer-weight cotton nightgown with lace eyelets at the hem and cuffs of the sleeves, and bugger all else. Comfort is key, isn't it?
     Her hair's still that rich shade of fuchsia as a result of Davydd's 'fixing' things, though she's remembered enough of her lessons from Davydd that she's pushed her ears back into being the pointed variety - why? Well ... she'd never dare admit it to anyone, but secretly, she rather likes them that way - and moreover, she visited a friend from her punk days in the underground while he was stoned, and her ears now have an excessive number of piercings, small iridescent hoops dangling all along the cartilege's edges. Fiona's cleared out the gigantic sitting room of the few items in it - she's still a minimalist at heart in some ways - and it's here that she begins her preparations.
     First - a white beeswax taper to each compass point, sitting in a shallow dish of water. Second - three wooden bowls, in the centre of the room, along with a white chenille shawl which she's spread out as a blanket, or tablecloth. A sharp ivory knife, nicked from her family's London brownstone, a small ceramic pot filled with white beachsand, and several sticks of incense claiming to be myrrh scent. She's placed bowls of pink and white roses in the corners of the room as well, and pragmatically, on the windowsill, are a still wrapped sandwich (turkey and swiss) and a can of Coke, beads of condensation sliding slowly along the bright aluminum surface.
     "Right, then..." Fiona glances around, as she moves round the room lighting candles and incense with long wooden kitchen matches. "Think that about does it. Wonder if I shouldn't have just tried writing him a letter, but how the hell do I know to contact stupid bloody fairy men, anyway." She refuses, stubbornly, to even consider using the feather, or the leaf, it seems. She sits down on the shall, pouring water into each of the three bowls from a bottle marked 'pure spring water' by some or other brand, and picks up the knife, preparing to make a small cut in her fingertip. Virgin's blood - accept no substitutes.

     A feather moves unseen in an unseen hand, and words appear as golden fire upon the pages of a Non-Book. As soon as the sigils appear, they disappear, snaking away into seeming Nothingness. In actuality, his notes are appearing in a book upstairs. Way upstairs. In the Library of All Libraries.
     Shelf No. 3 -- Tome No. 6,789,989,304 subset of Tome No. 6,789,989,303. Page 11,209, paragraph 2. To be exact.
     ...She is a most peculiar woman. She has taken to wearing her hair fuschia and her ears pointed. It is a look, to be certain. But for one who hates being noticed, she spends a good deal of her time doing just that. Being noticed. And now, she is practicing magic in her living room. Hoping to contact one of her would-be otherworldly boyfriends. Hmm, sorry lads. That door is locked. But, look at all the windows that have been opened...
     At Oriel's back, if you could see him, there are a thousand upon a thousand windows and doors, shadowy portals. Choices. That's his angle. Angel of Choices, servant of Destiny. If you could see him, you would see a rough-ish, stockyish, newspaper or gumshoe detective turned angel and destiny flyboy. A regular Hammer. Constantine. Han Solo.
     She's made a choice. That's why I'm here. She's about to make another one. Mistake? Possibly. But let us not forget: in mistakes may divinity be found...

     Very carefully, Fiona makes a glancing cut along the edge of her left thumb, letting a few drops of blood fall into each of the three bowls of water. In sober truth, the ears will go back to normal once she's ready for work again (and she's removed all the metal from them) - but there are a few (very few) places she can get away with 'the look', and this, being alone, is one of them. Besides, what better way to contact Huw and Hwyll? She's no idea how much of a difficulty that would be, without her altering her life in a different direction again.
     "Everything moves in threes, they say," she mutters to herself. "Birth. Life. Death. The three ages of man. Triads and trinities - even if you believe in the new witchcraft books, which so far seem to me to lack a grounding in common sense, you've still got three. The god, the goddess, and the practitioner."
     She falls silent again, popping her thumb into her mouth to suckle the wound closed a bit, slowly stirring the ivory blade round in the central bowl to clean any lingering blood off it, kneeling in front of it in almost Hindu fashion. "Right, then," Fiona mutters, pulling her thumb out of her mouth. "Time to try invoking."
     "I, Fiona Rachel Arundel, last of my line and youngest of my kin, call out to the elements. Earth," the blade is pointed to the incense burner, "Air," then waved through the smoke, "Fire," the candles are pointed to, "and Water," then the blade's placed carefully over the central bowl. "and by these tokens I give, along with giving of myself, do I ask in mercy and in strength, that my will be accomplished. In the spirit of communication - appear before me!"

     "... and this is when I was in Pompeii," a voice says excitedly in murrs and purrs, whirs and gurgles that somehow translate across the languages and boundaries between Astral and Material. A taloned nail points and taps on an indigo book, the other taloned nails curling in their grasp a glass of sherry. "...This was just before the great eruption of Vesuvius. O, how I miss Pompeii. The fruit. The dates. The endless divinations over chicken bones. I have a great love for chicken as you know...ah..." What? The delicate snout of a three-foot tall, five-foot long dragon lifts from her book. Purple eyes go wide and she sits up with a harumph, book closing. On her haunches, she pulls her glass of sherry to her sizable mouth, a little purple and forked tongue slipping out to slurp at it. "I say, what do you think you're doing, interrupting a perfectly good sherry party. Have you no manners?" As she speaks, wifts of smoke leave her delicate muzzle.
     Well, Fire bloody well showed up, didn't she...

     In his unseen corner, Oriel lifts an unseen brow. Oh dear. Creatures from The Dreamlands. This could get ugly...

     The candle in the eastern cardinal point sputters and waves, threatening to blow out for a moment. It casts strange shadows and shapes upon the walls and floor nearby as it bobs, shortens and lengthens, as though there is a sudden draft upon it. But none of the other candles seem to be effected.
     A breeze whisks around the fuschia-haired one, and then heads back into that corner, which is now occupied...
     The screaming call of a murder of crows can be heard for a few seconds, and then falls silent, leaving the shadows to form into a single figure.
     The Raven stands on two clawed legs, stretches her wings out to full wingspan, then folds them under. Her beak points at Fiona even as her black, beady eyes focus upon the woman's form. "CAW! What means this interruption? CAW!" comes the strange cry as the bird's vocal chords struggle with the human language.

     There is a sound of hooves from the North. The cardinal direction most connected with earth, at least in Western Magicks. And there appears a very sizable and very male centaur. Very male. His upper body is bare, covered in red tattooes, the markings of a king or chieftain. He wears around his head a golden circlet with a piece of lava rock in the center. His body is that of a Frisian, a lighter but still sizable draft horse, the color of red granite. Very sizable. Very solid. The centaur places the butt of his spear upon your carpet, and he raises his copper eyebrows. Unlike the first two spirits, Earth is silent. The only sound is the shifting he makes, hoof to hoof. As any horse would do when asked to stay in one place.
     You called, Earth came.

     The room fills with the scent of rain and the sea. The roaring sound of waves resounds off the walls of the room as the western candle flame flickers, then steadies, but turns to a blue flame.
     One moment, the corner is empty, and then in the next, a form takes shape. Locks of the deepest blue-green flow downward in damp waves, half-covering the shapely form of a woman. From the waist, upward, she looks a bit human, but with webbing between her long fingers. Gills are partially hidden upon her neck by the hair. Her eyes are flat and reflective, like that of a shark, showing only black, no whites at all, and her features are delicate, yet sharp-looking.
     From the waist down, she is more fish than woman. Greenish-blue scales cover where her legs should be, ending in an iridescent tail. Within her hands, she clasps a trident, which she rests upon the floor as the centaur rests his spear. She sits upright, with her back as straight as a board. She merely focuses her attention on the woman in the center, seeming curious.

     It takes Fiona, mired in her work as she is, a full minute to realize there's a ... dragon, a crow, a centaur, and a mermaid in her sitting room. "In the spirit of communication, I ask that my hopes and dreams, my desires and aspirations, be realized and brought to fruition, here, before me!" Then : blink, blink.
     This wasn't in the script... Slowly, Fiona looks around, eyes widened to the point there's a visible rim of white all around the pupils. "Um. I ... apologize?" When you have an irate dragon and angry talking bird in your sitting room, what else are you supposed to say? "...I think I must've dialed the wrong number."

     Oriel looks on, unseen for the moment, and has to peek around the mermaid to see what's going on. Thankfully, his Song of Invisibility remains intact as far as the magician goes. Now, that doesn't mean that the creatures of the Marches can't see him.
     Course, it also doesn't mean that they're in league with the Dreamlands. This can go from dream to nightmare in a heartbeat...
     Oh no...
     Aspirations? Dreams?
     Oriel hangs his head. This is going to be a cluster...

     Somewhere in the far North Atlantic...
     Hands and feathers were sliding against other hands and feathers. Silken covers concealed mostly heavenly forms. And then, a tug.
     A very palpable tug. And he felt himself dissolve like sugar, right through his lover's hands. "Soldekai," the voice whispered as it disappeared...
     There is a great shimmering, the candles brighten, and for some there is a ringing of the Symphony, the Music That Is All Things and From Which All Things Once Sprang. Such sweetness that the dragon murrs, goes wide-eyed and stops her complaining. The centaur takes a step back...
     In the center of this circle, a dusky-midnight complected angel stands, his dark wings tipped with fire. His clothing is the universe, comets and nebula woven into cloth. His hair is violet. His face is Beauty. His mood is decidedly put-off.
     "Who has called the Name of Aspiration," his voice speaks a language that sets into the hearts of all those in attendance the language that they may understand. His own words are unintelligible otherwise. A garble of sounds your ears are not able to hear. The words strike at your mind directly. "Sentinel of Dreams and Aspirations, Cherubim of the Order of Dreams?"
     And then Galadriel looks around. Violet eyebrows quirk up. Good Lord.

     Where there was once a bird, there is now a old woman. Her black hair is as straight as a board, but feathered at the ends... and interspersed with the Raven's black feathers. There is not a spot of grey within this mane that covers her nearly like a shroud. What flesh is not covered by this is wrapped in a black gauze-like material, wrapped in many layers to hide all but the neck, face and hands of this woman.
     The Raven clutches her bony hands before her and bows her head in reverence to the angel in the center of the room. She is an old crone, so it takes her longer to assume the more suitable form sometimes.
     The Mermaid lowers her trident and puts it down before her. Setting both of her palms upon the carpet, she lowers herself, pressing her forehead to the floor in silent reverence and respect to the glorious one before her.

     The erstwhile summoner looks decidedly ready to swallow her own tongue, going first red, then white as she blanches. "Um," she says intelligently. "...I'm really, really sorry?" Somehow, though, she doesn't think mere apologies are going to cut it. And the fact that everyone -else- in the room seems to be bowing down and worshipping doesn't much help.
     Fiona does the only thing she can think of, under the circumstances : she drops a curtsey worthy of being given not only to the Duchess of Kent, but to the Queen of England. An English noblewoman can do no better, really, even if she -is- a little out of practice. At least she doesn't go tumbling over the bowls, though she does end up with one foot in the lefthand bowl. She attempts to look as though she meant to do that, though her surprised glance downwards betrays her.
     "...I think I really, really dialed the wrong number, didn't I."

     "Galadriel!" the dragon murrs. "I was just telling Kit and Kat about that time in Pompeii..."

     Galadriel glances to the dragon, and there is the start of a smile. A finger to his lips. Give me a moment, and then he turns to the young woman... but does a double-take at what looks to be an empty corner. His eyes narrow and he peers at the Being he can see...then looks to the young woman, shaking off whatever caused him to narrow his eyes in the first place. "Sorry for the theatrics," Galadriel says, the voice in your mind tripping and chiming its way. "But when one doesn't know who is calling, it's always better to go with the Awe and Majesty of Heaven." He tilts his head, violet curls shifting. "You appear shocked. Don't know the power of your own strength." Spoken like a question, but it is as much an observation. Galadriel sets his standard down so that the butt-end of it is resting upon her carpet and he leans in toward her, lowering his voice to a whisper -- even in her own head. "What were you trying to do. Exactly."

     The Centaur steps forward, rising from his half-equine bow. Still he does not speak, but he does look between the young woman and the angel. There is a smile, a look of recognition. The centaur knows who the angel is, and vice versa. Well, at least everyone seems acquainted. Probably won't have to struggle through any uncomfortable introductions...
     She was attempting to call upon ... other spirits. At least she went to the right side of the Marches. I think. Oriel's angelic tongue moves in unending musical syllables. If mathematics had a voice, it would sound like Oriel.

     Fiona's eyes aren't quite as wide as they were when people first started appearing, but she's not exactly gone to a normal slant yet, either. "Erm." She's not feeling terribly intelligent, in more ways than one, as she looks between the lot of people to the one angel she can see, then back down at the floor, very studiously. Fascinating thing, wood.
     "I was trying to contact Huw the Hunter and Prince Hwyll," she'd have added, under other circumstances, 'if it's any business of yours, but under the circumstances, not only is politeness a virtue, it seems owed, "but I ... don't somehow think you lot're them. I do apologize." The well-bred tones are barely suppressing the discomfort and embarassment the girl's feeling, though her chin does lift in that fiery not-quite defiance some people know of so well. "...I'm still not sure how I ended up with all of you, but it wasn't what I intended."
     After all, when one tries calling one's friends for a gossip session, one doesn't usually end up ringing up the Prime Minister's private line, does one?

     Slowly, the Mermaid raises herself until she is sitting upright once more. The trident is picked up once more, the butt-end resting upon the floor. Her flat black eyes pivot and focus on the gathering in the center of the room again as she listens intently.
     The Raven remains where she is, still as stone, her hands clasped before.

     "I see," Galadriel says, leaning back once more, finger drumming against the staff of his standard. "You called upon Aspirations. Aspirations is here. And Aspiration's lover," an Archangel no less, "... is likely worried out of his substantial mind. What is the nature of your summons? Do you have an aspiration you wish fulfilled? Or is it that your only aspiration was to see these two princes? You have me, you might as well get an audience out of it..."
     A pause.
     "Before I must leave. It would be a shame if he," his archangelic lover, "... were to decimate your apartment complex out of sheer worry on my behalf. I would not like to see the loss of innocent lives." There is a slight pucker of a smile. Perhaps amused by this all. Perhaps secretly thrilled that the Archangel would decimate something on his behalf. He hadn't thought of it that way. If you loved me, you'd smite something for me. That sort of thing.
     Galadriel folds his great wings against himself, the fire edging the tips of them burning brightly, flickering, and yet the flames do no damage to the carpet.

     "Tsk tsk tsk," the dragon makes a sound, sitting on her book, curling her serpentine tail around her delicate claws. "All this just so you can talk to a couple of fairies. What a time-waster. You know, the only good fairy is a fairy covered in tabasco sauce..."

     "..." Oh, shite. She doesn't say it aloud, of course, but it's definitely thought rather loudly, without particular intent to broadcast. "Erm, well, I've got lots of things I want, but I don't tend to ask other people for 'em, thanks. I mean - no offense, but half the time I don't know what I want, and I don't particularly want to sound like some sort of sappy, silly schoolgirl, either, so ... what'm I supposed to ask for?" Fiona has gone pale again, but she manages to cock an eyebrow at the angel as she hunches her shoulders, folding her arms over her chest in a gesture which suggests she'd be more comfortable in jeans and t-shirt than in lacy nightgown. In times of stress, she still reverts slightly to Drancy...
     She blinks, then, over at the dragon. "Erm, well, I've never tried eating one, you know." She's oblivious, at the moment, to how that sounds. "But seeing as I've started spontaneously sprouting pointy ears and the like, I figure before I head off to the wilds of Scotland in the dead of winter, I might try giving them a ring and seeing if they know anything about it. Even if I don't take their advice..."
     I'm babbling. To an angel and a dragon. I'm not sure if I've got to get out more, or less.

     She was still and silent until this moment. "Now now... know not what she did, Fire. Patience we should have, hm?" Raven says in hushed tones, suddenly seeming a little grandmotherly. She then grins and laughs out out at the conversation on-going in the middle of the room. The sound is like the cackling of a crow, loud, cacophonic and abrupt in its appearance and passing.

     There's no ruffle of feathers in the mental expletive. You didn't take the Lord's name in vain, so what does he care that you blurt out euphemisms for excrement? You humans have that in common with your ape cousins. Excrement is big with you people.
     "Very well then," Galadriel smiles. He looks to the cackling raven mistress, ravens were always favorites of his. "Lady of the Birds of Dreams," as far as he's concerned, "... A pleasure as always. And you all, Earth, Fire, Water." The angel bows his violet head, his dusky skin the color of the sky between twilight and midnight. "I must back to my realm." Before the excrement hits the cooling implement, as it were. Galadriel looks to the young woman, picks up his standard and points it to her. "Be more specific. The secret of magic is in the details, daughter of Eve. I'll let this stand as warning enough." And then he smiles. "Pleasant dreams."
     With that, the room shimmers, shudders, fills with music -- to those who can hear It -- and with that, disappears...

     The stomping of hooves sounds after and the centaur looks to you. Maybe you want to try this again...

     For her part, the dragon, that is Fire, curls up on her haunches, puts a serpentine elbow to the floor and balances her delicate muzzle in a taloned claw. Other talons tapping rhythmically on the floor.

     The Mermaid merely smiles, turning her gaze to the girl in the center of the room. The smile is one of encouragement, but it might not come across that way. Her eyes change the expression, unable to mirror the emotion in a way that a mortal might understand.

     Right. One down, and ... four more to go. Fiona exhales a sigh of relief. Some might envy her, her ability to summon up angels. For herself, she prefers angels -not- be in her living room unless she's intending to invite them round for tea and crumpets. That done, she turns round to regard the remaining four.
     "Uhm, well ... I'm not quite sure what to say at this point," she ventures awkwardly. "I ... don't suppose you're able to ... go home on your own, or ... anything like that?" Preferably before anyone comes looking for her.

     Perhaps surprisingly, a new voice is heard...from the Mermaid. It is the voice of telepathy, as a physical voice would not do much under water.
     We can help protect you when you summon others, if you wished it, or if you are finished in your endeavours, you can invite us to leave. the voice suggests.

     That ...entities will be coming is assured. That you are on their Map is now certain. The Symphony doesn't just explode in downtown London and not have anyone notice. Then again, there's that little nagging thing about the lover of the being that was summoned. If that was an angel. Lord only knows. Well, yes...

     The other creatures seem to be waiting for you to make your call, really. The centaur merely stands, one hoof propped up, relaxing. The dragon's thumping her tail and drumming her nails on your floor in something of annoyed silence. Unlike the angel, they don't have the power to just come and go as they damn well please. "No one's going to want to see my slides of the Galapagos after this..."
     And that corner filled with the presence of the unseen entity? That entity is no longer here. Notebook closed. Windows shut. You're on your own kid.
     At least for now...

     Perhaps some company mightn't be a bad idea. After all, she hasn't actually managed to reach the oh so dynamic duo yet...
     Besides, she feels guilty about pulling this foursome away from whatever it was they were doing, without them at least getting to do something in exchange. In a well-meaning attempt at comfort, Fiona turns to the dragon. "Well, no, but you should be dining out on this one for years, shouldn't you? I imagine you can spin it into quite a story. 'There I was, at this cocktail party, when all of a sudden..."
     She turns back to the mermaid with a decisive nod. "I'd like it if you'd stay, then, at least for a bit. Is there ... uh. Anything I can do, for any of you, to make things more comfortable?" She might as well be a gracious hostess.

     "The going rate for my comfort is your virginity," the centaur suddenly says. He's been quiet the whole time. Not a single peep until she made an offer. His comfort? Maybe. But there is doubt it would do the same for you. He's massive.
     His voice is booming, deep. And he is not one to be trifled with. While the angel may be in a more ...humored and giving mood, he is not bound to follow the laws of God. He must only obey the laws of nature.

     The dragon sits up straight and sudden. Requests? "I would like a fresh glass of sherry, a handful of cherry tomatoes, a purple pillow -- your floor is rock hard, my dear -- and I would most importantly like to get back to my dinner engagement." Forked tongue slurps at the remainder of the sherry in her glass. "No, if you would be so kind. A dismissal...I really have no desire to see you humped by a horse..."

     There is movement from the east as sharp yet aged eyes peer over at the Centaur. There is no comment to his request. That is his to ask and not hers to question.
     Then the crone speaks again. "Give offerings, most do. Pay homage, others do," Raven suggests, still talking in that grandmotherly, yet Yoda-like speak. "Find a way to repay, you will. Come back to retrieve another day, I will. Release me, you will, once I have fulfilled my deeds here." Dismiss her when this is done, but not necessarily before the Centaur takes his payment.

     A flick of a tail signals motion from the west as the Mermaid glances between the Centaur and the girl in the middle of the room. Perhaps there is a bit of pity in that look. Take to heart that not all beings like to be summoned... most prefer to be invited in. It is... polite. And release me when I can serve you no longer this day. That is my only request.

     "I don't mind being asked, but unless there is going to be some sort of action, I really must insist that you make up your mind. I was in the middle of a dinner party. Do you know how long it takes to have a white dragon actually answer an RSVP? No, I should think not. Very well, ready when you are," the dragon murrs and purrs all this out, her nails clicking as she sits up straight again and clutches her book to her slender cat-like body, in full preparation for being dismissed...

     Fiona goes beet red at the centaur's request, eyes automatically dropping to the logical point before snapping upwards. "I've heard 'sex kills' before, but this is ridiculous, I'm not built for that!" She blushes furiously. "Uh, that is, sorry, but I can't give you my virginity. No dice, nada, no way, not going to happen, nein, nix, nada, null value, not in this body."
     Arms folded tightly over her chest again, the young woman looks around at the others, and nods grimly. "Right. Next time, I ask first. I do apologise, I had no intentions of summoning you -this- time, next time, if there is one, I'll definitely invite you rather than uh, whatever I did. I'll try calling Huw and Hwyll direct." Maybe a switch to technoshamanic magics. If I can just raise them on a cellphone, life would be so much easier. A pause. "...How do I do that?"

     "Oh, that's easy," the dragon murfs. "And you need fewer theatrics. They're fairy men - they're easy. If you have something of theirs... a lock of hair, a thread of a cloak, a feather, or a token of any kind... call them by their name three times and voila! Here they'll be. Can't imagine why you'd want them around if you're not going to eat them, but...c'est la vie, to each their own, I say."
     Her ears go flat and her eyes go squinty as she peers at the young girl, pointing a talon toward her. "And you've gotten off easy. The Sentinel could have been righteously angry. He could have waited for his lover to destroy you. We could have all watched as you lost your virginity to the clydesdale over there. But," she gathers herself up, "... consider it a lesson."

     The centaur stamps his feet, moving in place, his spear lifting. "You need experience to go with your power." I could give you experience. But he just smiles. It's a savage smile, the amusement of the Earth. But then, why would anyone expect any differently. The earth is a primal thing.
     "If I can't have my comfort, and you have no other need of me, let me go back to my realm..."

     "...I meant how to erm, unsummon the lot of you, but thank you for the information. I do appreciate it." Fiona looks round at the group - well, except for the centaur, she's still blushing too vividly for that - and nods briskly. "Well - if you're able to go under your own power, you're free to. Thank you all for coming, and I hereby dismiss, unsummon, give you leave to go, and so forth." She hopes that'll do it. She really does. Before her capillaries explode.

     There comes a long, low whistle. Yes, a cat call. A stomping of hooves and then the spirit of the North is gone.
     The dragon opens her book and begins where she left off. "... As I was saying, Pompeii was simply lovely..." And FWOOMP! In a blaze of purple flame, she's gone...

     The sound of the roaring ocean fills the room once more, and the Mermaid's form in the west becomes a shape made of water. This eventually dissolves and evaporates into thin air, leaving the blue flame to flicker once, turn back to the normal yellow-orange, and finally gutter and die.
     Where an old woman once stood, a raven can be seen. A loud "CAW!" echos forth from the briefly opened beak as she spreads her wings and flaps them, hovering into the air. The candle in the east sputters and spits and finally extinguishes from the wind created by those wings...which are no longer there. That corner is empty, save for the smoke curling upward from the dead wick.

     Fiona looks around the room somewhat warily, for any signs of anyone or anything else lingering, or about to pop in. Nothing. With a mutter and shake of her head, the woman sets to work, starting to clean up. "I am so throwing that book out of a rapidly moving vehicle, later..."

Posted by rowan at June 22, 2003 07:57 PM