It's always the same. The moon is honed down to a slim blade and the tree line rises in the distance like some great monster. The forest as concept, the great Jungian Other from which all fairy tale horrors come. It happened once, in this moment that's always the same, this moment that's as much a sliver in your psyche as it is a place in the world you know, and you dream of it so often that you wonder if it was ever real. The howls come first, a distant baying that chills you to your bone, hunting calls that drove your ancestors to their caves, that drove protean man to master fire, that drove them in this very moment you're now experiencing.
But they aren't what you need fear.
It's the One that holds their chains. For they might mount you, might breed you, a pale whimpering breeding bitch pinned beneath their bristling frames. They might rip you to shreds with as much effort as it would take them to look at you. And they will. When you cease to amuse Her, they will.
But they aren't what you need fear.
Is there something almost mournful in their cries? A thought comes to you, and there's no source for it but the certainty that it's true. That they were once like you.
But they aren't what you need fear.
The Fey Thing. The Silver Huntress. The cruel, pale Sister-Self of Artemis to which not even the notoriously debased Greeks could admit.
She has no form but that which you fear, for She is merely a reflection of the dim light which casts long shadows. When moon pours through the shades and casts the coat rack as skeleton, that is Her. When you stand in dark bathroom and whisper hoarsely to the mirror bloodymarybloodymarybloody, it is neither the darkness nor the reflection you fear. It is the crack of light beneath the door and the terror to which it lends these things.
They whisper that She craves beauty, a demand of vampiric appetites or a reflection of Her coarse jealousy. A Lilith cast from Eden. But they make these excuses for solace, to make of Her a thing they can understand.
She hunts because She hunts. She takes because She takes, and you will be Hers when She chooses to claim you.
The howls echo in your dreams and you wonder if they were ever real. You wonder because you daren't know. Daren't know that they're a brand. Her name seared in Your mind.
You stand before a great, dark wood, the moon a sliver against a starless sky.
Name: Nemain, Third Face of the Triple Morrigan, Slaver-Empress of the Spaces Between, Queen of the Daggered Moon, Consort of the Serpent That Slumbers and Favored Bride of Malice, Hound-Mistress of the Wyld Hunt, Jester-Regent of the Autumnal Court Who's Domain is Delirium and Denied Vice (the Kindly Ones love their titles)
Race: The Gentry, also referred to, out of fearful deference, as the Fair or Gentle Folk
Type: Manifestation of Fear and Taboo Desire
Place of Origin: Ostensibly the Feylands, though She can be found wherever humanity gathers. She manifests most prominently in places of psychological and emotional unrest: war-torn regions, asylums, and rare anomalies like Shokushu, where the veil between What-Can-Be and What-Clearly-Is is paper thin.
Gender: Androgynous, with a predilection towards femininity
Age: Indeterminate
Height: Variable. She most often appears taller than the average female, ranging about six foot.
Weight: Variable. Most often willowy or svelte.
Eye Color: Variable. Frequently black, golden, silver, red; often without a visible iris or pupil.
Skin Color: Variable, often pitch dark and indiscernible from the shadows or ivory pale
Skin Texture: Smooth like cold marble
Tail, Wings, Cocks, or Tentacles: Prone to manifest but contingent on her own whims or the anxiety of her victim
Motivation: Capriciousness
Psychological Profile: She is as much a concept as a being, and dissecting her psychology is understandably problematic. She seems, in this realm at least, exclusively driven by the need to hunt, to debase. Imagine the child burning ants with his magnifying glass, and then imagine the profile they would ascribe to him. An angry god. She is not angry because She needn't be. Tom and Jerry aside, is the cat angry with the mouse? Mortals are trinkets, playthings, and She thinks little of them apart from their value as delightful diversions. The greater a challenge they present her, the more She finds them of interest.
Personality: She sometimes displays acts of benevolence, but mistaking that for compassion is a dangerous mistake. Mortals are cattle at worst, pets at best, and any acts of kindness she shows are the results of caprice or whimsy. She is incapable of sympathy or compassion. If she has a passing curiosity, she will explore it, even if it means skinning you alive in your dreams or trading you to the most depraved whore-stalls of the goblin market in exchange for a glittering bauble.
Behavior: She stalks the collective dreamscape, peering in to the dreams of others in search of a self that piques her curiosity. Once she's intruded into your dream, she will infect it like a virus, finding root in some small anxiety and slowly blossoming, until your fantasies are completely distorted, a parasite hunting you through your mind, subverting your memories and fantasies to Her will.
While she once stalked the world, the rise of rationality has left her with little access to the physical realm. She still holds domain over one night in the lunar cycle. When the moon is but a slim blade, She stalks the wilderness, the full extent of Her will unleashed upon regions of unspoiled wilderness.
Capabilities: Human understanding of what can and can't be greatly limits her capacity to affect the real world, but she exerts the most control in realms like Shokushu, where the consensus is less certain.
Dreamweaving: Her presence regularly seeps into the slumbering world. When you have nightmares of being chased by a faceless person or hunted by a vicious beast, that is Her. She can't find great purchase in the dreams of most people. Their will and the certain rationality of the world around them is simply too great. The students of Shokushu, particularly those with existing mental weaknesses, are significantly more vulnerable. When she finds purchase in your dream-state, she'll slowly and methodically subvert it to her mercurial whims. Your worst fears grow and manifest form, and each time you dream of Her, Her presence grows stronger. If She takes a shine to you, and you fail to subvert your authority over your fantasies, Her presence grows until sleep becomes a terrifying prospect, until She begins to find a foothold in your daydreams. She is generally capricious, inclined to drift from one soul to another after growing bored, but woe be the girl who She finds fascinating. Rare instances are known to develop into full-blown psychosis, with some girls developing methamphetamine addictions out of fear of falling asleep and others devolving into near schizophrenics, their gibbering physical selves just a reflection of their psyche, slaves to the force of nature that's claimed their mind as Her domain.
Subliminal Hypnosis: Cases of victims acting out suggestions from their infected dreams are rare, and almost certainly symptoms of Her presence rather than calculated intent. But there are instances of girls waking from a particularly lucid dream to recite cryptic prophecy, etch out bizarre symbols, or paint surreal landscapes they were never thought capable of, only to remember nothing afterwards. And then there's the rare rumors of the girls who walk from their bed on the night of a shallow moon and then walk nude into the dark wilderness, never to be seen again.
The Wyld Hunt: For one night of every lunar cycle, when the moon is at its slimmest, She stalks the wilderness of Shokushu in full form, with Her hounds a Her side. Most of the students know subliminally to not wander outside the safety of the dorms after dark. Woe be to those who resist their intuition.
Wild Hounds: She is often accompanied in Her hunts by a pack of hunting beasts that corner and fatigue Her prey. Usually these creatures number from 2-4, and while their forms are prone to change to fit Her whims and the fears of Her victims, they most commonly appear as massive dogs, black enough to blend with the shadows and with eyes that burn like fire, roughly six feet in length and thickly muscled.
Weaknesses: She wields substantial control over the dreams of the individuals she inhabits, though those of strong willpower and clever minds can elude her hunt and turn their dreamscapes against her until they can awaken. There are additionally a number of folk traditions designed to ward mortals against the Fair Folk. Unfortunately, the value of many of these are questionable. The older remedies and wards are more inclined to be effective.
History:
Not exactly what I'm going for, but I think it conveys the general mood. Plus it's purty!
