The High King speaks

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The whispers of the night remain coy and sweet. They carry my essence wrapped in their arms. Closely guarded by storms fueled from their jealously. King of All Faerie as well as Lord of the Host has graced my brow. Ridemaster of the Great Hunt is a frequent moniker applied when the spirit moves. Guardian of the Mysteries is an apt description. To those most favored - I become the Great Teacher. Only those deemed worthy will obtain the name I have chosen to answer to. It will fall readily from the lips of the keepers while they protect the secret of my true given name.





Come listen, my lovely. Listen closely while my own arms surround your fair presence. Perchance you will hear Finvar on the trembling lips of the sweet maid or man I leave before the sun arises on the morrow. Will your feet tremble in your shoes? Anxious to leave these whispers behind? Ever fearful - never living - never knowing... Finvar?

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This is a journal for role playing at __lightning__.


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