Date: Saturday, April 29th
Time: 9:00pm RST
Location: The cliffs, southwest of Dockside (RDI—Southern Glen)
https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/b3/3e/28/b33e285c05bd5a3de23db860018c84fc.jpg
Rhy'Din city's eternal pulse is spurred on this night by something else. A primordial beat that resounds in the bones and sets the blood running. It can be felt in the air one breathes, the earth beneath one's feet, skimming across uncovered flesh at the nape of the neck and the tips of one's fingers. It beckons the populace to leave the city walls behind, if just for the night.
The sounds and sensations grow louder in unison, revealed to be the report of numerous phantom drums the further from the city's southern exit one travels. The darkness of the forest is illuminated by the faint red-orange glow of firelight, spreading from a focal clearing in the distance. Along the way, short stacks of oak, ash, and birch pallets burn steadily, just the right height for leaping, arranged in such a way to lead one on.
Burning rubies strung on spider silk sew their way through the trees, casting their heady, passionate light upon the travelers below. Miniature flames rest in crimson glasses, attached to thicker branches, flickering in time with the drums. Musicians and vocalists traverse the canopy of foliage with ease, their faces and hair painted red, allowing them to blend in, seamlessly, with the dark and primal lights. The treeline falls away, too abruptly to be brought about without supernatural assistance, several yards from the edge of a cliff. Beyond its craggy edge, the ocean is a great mass of black nothing, lapping at the beach with its own lazy rhythm.
http://hivewire3d.com/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/1600x/040ec09b1e35df139433887a97daa66f/1/1/11103-unseelie-throne-main_1.jpg
The pyre of oak, ash, rowan, birch, hazel, willow, hawthorn, holly and alder that will be the evening's bonfire stands tall upon a spit of rock jutting out over a one hundred foot free fall, dead and dark until the May Queen and Green Man set their torch to it. Her dais and throne, hewn roughly from the fat trunk of the same oak tree, rise east of the pyre. Fresh willow garlands and swags loop the head- and armrests, a pillow of woven ivy form a cushion for comfort.
A large gathering of cut tree trunk rounds stands uneven at the throne's right hand side, laden with red pillar candles, and trays upon trays of food and drink. Most mortal, some of Faerie, and the goblets of fey wine are never in short supply to refresh the evening's royalty. Gatherings of the same displays of decadence are scattered throughout the clearing, always well supplied and maintained by unseen hands.
https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/d9/86/cb/d986cb63b8bb50991536c66dc084a15f.jpg
A stone's throw from the throne's left side, two birch trees tangle together in full bloom. Their dripping flowers are hung with pieces of clear quartz and silk ribbons, forming an arch over an oak altar standing upon a blanket of moss. A single, white pillar candle waits, unlit, between two lit tapers, in the center of an ivy runner, at the ready for any couples wishing to make public their declaration of unity and commitment.
Those looking to split away from the evening's festivities are given the choice of braving the forest in search of one of several modest sized tents fashioned of lichen and birch bark, or encouraged to follow the string of garnet torches that guide a "harmless" trek down the cliffside to the beach. Once closer to the ocean's waves, one notes the eerie, cyan glow of the foam lapping at the sand. The revelry from above reaches even down this far. Warnings scratched upon the rock and filled in with the juice of red berries read: "Do not follow the blue lights."
https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/6a/8d/12/6a8d12036fa0d734b1ccf206d3cdae92.jpg
Beware ye, wallflowers and idle lurkers, lest you be dragged by the hand and made to dance around the flames by any number of red painted nymphs. They can be seen demonstrating feats of naturally impossible acrobatic skill, gravity and flexibility to rival even the most seasoned performers throughout the clearing. Whether it's the shyness and uncertainty tied to the truth of one's feelings, fear over the season to come, or guilt over the one that's past, there is no room for it here, tonight. They beckon with their twig-thin fingers and sinuous bodies, their red skin gleaming with the fever of their dance, perpetually in sync with the drumbeats overhead. Their mission is to promote harmony, loss of inhibition, and the hospitality of the Fae in light of this year's earlier tragedies. But there is a cruelty to their good cheer. A serrated edge to the brightness of their smile, a chill to their ruby tinted gazes. For while this is a time of new beginnings and fresh starts, Mother Nature rarely forgives, and She never forgets.
((Written by the amazing Crispin!
Get in the mood by listening to the music for the evening here and post those polyvore sets below.))
https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/b3/3e/28/b33e285c05bd5a3de23db860018c84fc.jpg
Rhy'Din city's eternal pulse is spurred on this night by something else. A primordial beat that resounds in the bones and sets the blood running. It can be felt in the air one breathes, the earth beneath one's feet, skimming across uncovered flesh at the nape of the neck and the tips of one's fingers. It beckons the populace to leave the city walls behind, if just for the night.
The sounds and sensations grow louder in unison, revealed to be the report of numerous phantom drums the further from the city's southern exit one travels. The darkness of the forest is illuminated by the faint red-orange glow of firelight, spreading from a focal clearing in the distance. Along the way, short stacks of oak, ash, and birch pallets burn steadily, just the right height for leaping, arranged in such a way to lead one on.
Burning rubies strung on spider silk sew their way through the trees, casting their heady, passionate light upon the travelers below. Miniature flames rest in crimson glasses, attached to thicker branches, flickering in time with the drums. Musicians and vocalists traverse the canopy of foliage with ease, their faces and hair painted red, allowing them to blend in, seamlessly, with the dark and primal lights. The treeline falls away, too abruptly to be brought about without supernatural assistance, several yards from the edge of a cliff. Beyond its craggy edge, the ocean is a great mass of black nothing, lapping at the beach with its own lazy rhythm.
http://hivewire3d.com/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/1600x/040ec09b1e35df139433887a97daa66f/1/1/11103-unseelie-throne-main_1.jpg
The pyre of oak, ash, rowan, birch, hazel, willow, hawthorn, holly and alder that will be the evening's bonfire stands tall upon a spit of rock jutting out over a one hundred foot free fall, dead and dark until the May Queen and Green Man set their torch to it. Her dais and throne, hewn roughly from the fat trunk of the same oak tree, rise east of the pyre. Fresh willow garlands and swags loop the head- and armrests, a pillow of woven ivy form a cushion for comfort.
A large gathering of cut tree trunk rounds stands uneven at the throne's right hand side, laden with red pillar candles, and trays upon trays of food and drink. Most mortal, some of Faerie, and the goblets of fey wine are never in short supply to refresh the evening's royalty. Gatherings of the same displays of decadence are scattered throughout the clearing, always well supplied and maintained by unseen hands.
https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/d9/86/cb/d986cb63b8bb50991536c66dc084a15f.jpg
A stone's throw from the throne's left side, two birch trees tangle together in full bloom. Their dripping flowers are hung with pieces of clear quartz and silk ribbons, forming an arch over an oak altar standing upon a blanket of moss. A single, white pillar candle waits, unlit, between two lit tapers, in the center of an ivy runner, at the ready for any couples wishing to make public their declaration of unity and commitment.
Those looking to split away from the evening's festivities are given the choice of braving the forest in search of one of several modest sized tents fashioned of lichen and birch bark, or encouraged to follow the string of garnet torches that guide a "harmless" trek down the cliffside to the beach. Once closer to the ocean's waves, one notes the eerie, cyan glow of the foam lapping at the sand. The revelry from above reaches even down this far. Warnings scratched upon the rock and filled in with the juice of red berries read: "Do not follow the blue lights."
https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/6a/8d/12/6a8d12036fa0d734b1ccf206d3cdae92.jpg
Beware ye, wallflowers and idle lurkers, lest you be dragged by the hand and made to dance around the flames by any number of red painted nymphs. They can be seen demonstrating feats of naturally impossible acrobatic skill, gravity and flexibility to rival even the most seasoned performers throughout the clearing. Whether it's the shyness and uncertainty tied to the truth of one's feelings, fear over the season to come, or guilt over the one that's past, there is no room for it here, tonight. They beckon with their twig-thin fingers and sinuous bodies, their red skin gleaming with the fever of their dance, perpetually in sync with the drumbeats overhead. Their mission is to promote harmony, loss of inhibition, and the hospitality of the Fae in light of this year's earlier tragedies. But there is a cruelty to their good cheer. A serrated edge to the brightness of their smile, a chill to their ruby tinted gazes. For while this is a time of new beginnings and fresh starts, Mother Nature rarely forgives, and She never forgets.
((Written by the amazing Crispin!
Get in the mood by listening to the music for the evening here and post those polyvore sets below.))