nano excerpt day 10: writing my way to revolution
nb: i totally forgot to cross-post this yesterday, so here it is now at the most ridiculous time of the night.
nb2: again, there are a lot a lot of italics that i'm just--not going to hunt up right now, so if you'd like the full-on, subtly-written-through-visual-cues version, please click on this link.
so, when i started writing tales from the glittering venery--actually, when grey and tove first appeared in my drawings with no names and a lot of issues--it was going to be kind of a darling little fairytale with some sort of fairy court battle that sent grey and tove in to exile, but over the course of the election, this project has become an intense piece of trauma writing that has sharply shifted into a revolution of the scioncy against the paternalistic kyriarchy of the previous generations of the venery (who are also being influenced and manipulated by other parties).
hence, we have the scioncy coming to the beginnings of revolution.
As the Scioncy of the Four Courts of the Glittering Venery—despite Aedeir actually not be a Scion but, yeah, whatever—Grey, Tove, Killian, and Aedeir received regular intelligence reports from their respective courts, and in a turn that Aedeir was completely flummoxed and amazed by, Grey, Tove and Killian actually, actively shared their information with each.
And with Aedeir.
It wasn’t that the Courts of the Glittering Venery were antagonistic to each other or at war or anything so crass and questionable, but the Courts of Miracles, Dreams, Calamities, and Nightmares existed in ever-tenuous, precarious ally-ship. But, here were these kids who had been shoved into positions of power that they hadn’t really wanted, were never expected to have, or had never expected to rule alone taking their fortunes—or, misfortunes, it was a matter of perspective after all—and were turning them into a chance to become actual friends, they were creating a community, and a community that they stretched to include Persis and Ione, Cassius and Zoii, that they did everything they could do to include Otello, Harry, Bob, and Murphy and strove to hear and respect—hell, even Mad March, when he was willing to deign inclusion was included—because these precious children believed that the historically least valued, least protected populations of their Courts deserved to be valued, deserved to protected.
That people were people were people, and that people deserved inclusion, deserved respect.
Given enough time, Aedeir is fairly certain that these kids might actually manage to include all the disparate, expatriated denizens of the Venery in the Euigilans Somnium.
Again, Aedeir thought about change.
It was a thing that could really happen.
Aedeir had hope.
Hope was a thing with feathers.
It might be the time for things to finally be different.
Aedeir felt like she was constantly holding her breath waiting for that last sign.
It was going to come. Aedeir knew.
Aedeir had faith.
Yet, the news from the Courts was—not good? There were strange bits and pieces that spoke of infiltrations and attacks—strange enough for places that needed a pocket-globe, an energy-manipulator, and the cooperation of a tetchy as hell sentient ‘tween spell—but strange because it meant that these occurrences would have had to have been plotted and coordinated from inside the Courts.
The Court of Nightmares seemed the only Court that was currently safe from the attacks, which—of course—made it seem like Aedeir or someone one in Aedeir’s court was somehow involved, but due to the nature of Nightmare, Aedeir could be certain that whatever or whoever was acting as the catalyst for these events, they were not from the Court of Nightmares.
It wasn’t how they worked.
They weren’t a subtly and intrigue kind of Court.
(That they left to others with their more insidious tendencies.)
However, Aedeir had inklings of who might be the originator of the attacks.
The Watercolor Guild.
And, yes, they did, in fact, sound that absolutely ridiculous, but they were also deadly dangerous.
They hadn’t always been called The Watercolor Guild, but in their most recent iteration, they had actively chosen such a prosaic name that would seem innocuous, would sound like tiny little old women painting plein aire landscapes and other biddy type art and waxing rhapsodic about Thomas Kinkade.
They had wanted to sound harmless, but they were anything but harmless.
They’d been around thousands of years, and they were so not harmless.
And, to make matters worse, they had a militant group of hunters who did their bidding, killing, maiming, and destroying all they could who had even a wiff of the Venery to them.
Ironic when—once upon a time—the Hoods had been one with the Venery. Not that either The Watercolor Guild or the Venery remembered that. Not that the Venery at all remembered that The Watercolor Guild existed.
Aedeir thought that, sometimes, this was precisely why Aedeir was Aedeir: to be institutional, instructional memory, to remember those things that no one else wanted to remember, to never forget.
And, Aedeir sure as hell had never forgotten The Watercolor Guild.