Ah, the simple things in life.
Such things are easy to come by but so hard to appreciate!
Take for instance, one lithe, slender figure, laying casually on a branch that looks far, far too slender to support even the weight of his fae form. Granted, in this state he reaches nearly six feet, and while he may look like light and fragile is actually anything but. Clothed in multiple shades of green, he could almost be mistaken for another part of the foliage from the ground, were it not for the ethereal fae wings that shimmer at his back, just visible as the sun's rays catch them.
Right now, he's watching a pair of birds on the branch above, taking in the subtle intricacies of the mating dance they are going through, watching the male strut his stuff, watching the female pretend not to be interested. Were he not so enraptured, he might have laughed softly, watching this interplay. Even so, the smile on his lips is clearly visible for any to see, were they wanting to look.
He can be a trickster, true. Legends, myths and stories had reviled him for his ability to trick, tease and trap those who were unwary of his wiles and ways. To bring about the downfall of those who treated him and his kind with ill intent and behavior, for refusing to respect them as they should be. Wandering travelers led in circles by false lights, milk curdled in its bottle for forgetting to offer his people some when they had watched over and protected the homestead, simple little tricks to frustrate the unwary and remind them of their duties.
Other stories, just as bad, all true. Wives seduced and led astray, left hungering for more of his touch, in whatever guise he came to them in. Whether they were old women or daughters just over the cusp of womanhood (he did have some principles, after all), they had all been fair game, objects of desire to satisfy a momentary longing, the warmth of flesh against flesh, passionate cries and whispers in the night. Or in the brightness of day, for that matter - either way was just as good.
But there is the other side not so often revealed in prose and story, the Spirit of the Wood, the force of nature and lover of all that is good, caretaker of all life. He finds joy in the green, the growing, the fertile - whether it be animal or plant - all of these things are what sustain him, what give him life. Without them, he would be nothing.
And so this day finds him in the low branch of a young oak, living and growing and green, watching as the birds above him dance the dance of life, as the pretty female is plied and charmed by the male's good looks and bright plumage, a peaceful little smile on his lips.
Such things are easy to come by but so hard to appreciate!
Take for instance, one lithe, slender figure, laying casually on a branch that looks far, far too slender to support even the weight of his fae form. Granted, in this state he reaches nearly six feet, and while he may look like light and fragile is actually anything but. Clothed in multiple shades of green, he could almost be mistaken for another part of the foliage from the ground, were it not for the ethereal fae wings that shimmer at his back, just visible as the sun's rays catch them.
Right now, he's watching a pair of birds on the branch above, taking in the subtle intricacies of the mating dance they are going through, watching the male strut his stuff, watching the female pretend not to be interested. Were he not so enraptured, he might have laughed softly, watching this interplay. Even so, the smile on his lips is clearly visible for any to see, were they wanting to look.
He can be a trickster, true. Legends, myths and stories had reviled him for his ability to trick, tease and trap those who were unwary of his wiles and ways. To bring about the downfall of those who treated him and his kind with ill intent and behavior, for refusing to respect them as they should be. Wandering travelers led in circles by false lights, milk curdled in its bottle for forgetting to offer his people some when they had watched over and protected the homestead, simple little tricks to frustrate the unwary and remind them of their duties.
Other stories, just as bad, all true. Wives seduced and led astray, left hungering for more of his touch, in whatever guise he came to them in. Whether they were old women or daughters just over the cusp of womanhood (he did have some principles, after all), they had all been fair game, objects of desire to satisfy a momentary longing, the warmth of flesh against flesh, passionate cries and whispers in the night. Or in the brightness of day, for that matter - either way was just as good.
But there is the other side not so often revealed in prose and story, the Spirit of the Wood, the force of nature and lover of all that is good, caretaker of all life. He finds joy in the green, the growing, the fertile - whether it be animal or plant - all of these things are what sustain him, what give him life. Without them, he would be nothing.
And so this day finds him in the low branch of a young oak, living and growing and green, watching as the birds above him dance the dance of life, as the pretty female is plied and charmed by the male's good looks and bright plumage, a peaceful little smile on his lips.