Fairies?

[PennyThompson]

That's quite poetic, to the point where I expected more rhymes.

For witches, it really depends on the witch. Like Baba Yaga I consider a fairy, but Circe, I do not. Circe, in addition to being from Greece, also just seems far more human to me.

The line between some gods and fae is pretty blurry. Like The Morrigan.

I'm not sure if you read my Dandelion Greene story yet or not, but it has a couple of characters that are mysterious and inscrutable, and may or may not be human, fae, god, or something else entirely

 

[NuclearFairy]

I'm not sure if you read my Dandelion Greene story yet or not, but it has a couple of characters that are mysterious and inscrutable, and may or may not be human, fae, god, or something else entirely

I'm still getting caught up on reading stories. Which is not helped by the fact that I sometimes get bitten by the writing bug midway through a page that I'm reading.

 

[StillStunned]

Everything that guy writes is a chunk lol. Used to love him though

I listened to the entire Memory, Thorn and Sorrow series on audiobook a few years ago. It took a while to get through.

 

[KindredFlame]

Something I am playing with.

Before the White Christ, before the saints and their pale churches, she was known by different names. Some called her the Great Mother of the Earth, but only in her winter aspect, her barren embrace. Others, the Dark Moon Weaver, for her power waxed and waned with the silent orb in the sky, reflecting its shadowed face.

She was the final furrow, the deep, cold earth where all things returned, the grinder of bones and souls into the rich, dark soil from which new life inexplicably sprang. Like Mother Holle, she sorted the good from the rotten, but her sorting was absolute, irreversible. Like Baba Yaga, her hut was a place of transformation, her methods as blunt and inexorable as the turning of the seasons.

 

[KindredFlame]

I know I am going to get slated for this by the forum police, but this is all I got. It needs a lot of work if someone wants to work with it. Original inspiration and thanks go to Statius https://forum.literotica.com/members/statius.6622859/

A witch, so yeah a faerie creature. Cannabalistic too. I always think of her as formerly, pre Christian days, as an earth goddess, crone form, associated with the moon. And the cannibalism, which I've never found in a story as actually happening, as a symbol of Death and burial. Reminds me a little of Mother Holle. Always wished there were more stories about that one, too.

The gnarled roots of the ancient oak formed the very bones of her dwelling, a hut that seemed less built and more grown, a part of the forest floor itself. Lichen clung like ancient thoughts to its warped timbers, and the smell of damp earth, bruised herbs, and something else – something profoundly old and elemental – hung in the air. This was the domain of Morwen, the Crone, a being whose memory stretched back further than the first felled tree, further than the first whisper of a human prayer.

Before the White Christ, before the saints and their pale churches, she was known by different names. Some called her the Great Mother of the Earth, but only in her winter aspect, her barren embrace. Others, the Dark Moon Weaver, for her power waxed and waned with the silent orb in the sky, reflecting its shadowed face. She was the final furrow, the deep, cold earth where all things returned, the grinder of bones and souls into the rich, dark soil from which new life inexplicably sprang. Like Mother Holle, she sorted the good from the rotten, but her sorting was absolute, irreversible. Like Baba Yaga, her hut was a place of transformation, her methods as blunt and inexorable as the turning of the seasons.

Tonight, the moon, a sliver of bone in the velvet sky, cast long, distorted shadows across the forest floor. A chill wind whispered through the branches, carrying a scent that Morwen knew intimately: the scent of fading magic, of a life drawing to its close.

From the deepest part of the whispering woods stumbled a faerie creature, a sprite named Lyr. Lyr was a being of pure, shimmering joy, born of a dewdrop and a sunbeam. Its wings, once iridescent as a dragon-fly’s, were now tattered and dull, its light, usually a beacon, flickered hesitantly, like a dying ember. It had strayed too far, laughed too loudly at the wrong shadow, and now, the forest, in its ancient, indifferent way, was reclaiming it. Mortal ailments of grief and weariness had taken root in its ethereal form, and its magic, its very essence, was slowly seeping away.

Lyr, disoriented and cold, saw the faint, otherworldly glow emanating from Morwen’s hut. It was not a welcoming light, not a hearth-fire, but a deeper, older luminescence, like the phosphorescence of rare fungi, or the light from a deep-sea creature. Drawn by a primal, irresistible pull, a final instinct for succour or perhaps simply for an ending, Lyr drifted towards it.

Morwen emerged from the root-door, her form like a silhouette against the dim glow of her inner sanctum. Her hair, a tangled mass of grey and white, seemed woven from moonlight and cobwebs. Her eyes, deep-set and ancient, were like polished stones, reflecting nothing, yet seeing everything. Her hands, gnarled and strong, clutched a staff of twisted blackthorn, its tip crowned with a single, unblinking raven’s skull.

Lyr whimpered, a sound like autumn leaves skittering across frozen ground. It saw her, sensed her, and a flicker of fear, quickly overshadowed by profound exhaustion, passed through its fading light.

Morwen regarded the sprite with an expression that was neither cruel nor kind, but simply… knowing. "So, little light," her voice was like the rustle of dry leaves, the grinding of stones, "the thread has run its course."

Lyr tried to speak, but only a faint, airy sigh escaped its translucent lips. It lifted a trembling, luminous hand, as if in appeal.

"Do not fear," Morwen continued, taking a step closer, her movements slow, deliberate, like the turning of the earth itself. "There is no escape from the cycle, only passage. And I am the final passage."

She reached out a hand, not to grasp, but to gesture. Lyr, weak and resigned, felt an irresistible pull, a deep, resonant hum that vibrated through its very core. It was the call of the void, the lure of the ultimate return.

Morwen led the faerie into her hut. Inside, the air was surprisingly warm, thick with the scent of loam and old magic. In the center of the earthen floor stood a great, smooth stone basin, dark as river mud, and beside it, a pestle as tall and thick as a man’s forearm, carved from a single piece of ancient yew. These were her tools, not for cooking, but for transformation, for the breaking down of form into essence.

"The earth demands its own," Morwen intoned, her voice taking on a low, droning hum. "The light must return to the dark, the vivid to the still. I am the earth, little one. I am the grave and the fertile ground."

Lyr, now barely a wisp of itself, seemed to understand. Its light pulsed one last time, a final, despairing gasp of beauty, before it settled, like a falling star, into the smooth, waiting basin.

Morwen did not tear or rend with teeth and claw. Her cannibalism was far older, far deeper than that. As Lyr lay in the basin, its form began to soften, to dissolve, not into blood and gore, but into pure motes of light, a shimmering, phosphorescent dust. Morwen picked up the heavy yew pestle. Slowly, methodically, she began to grind, not a physical body, but the very essence of the faerie. The light in the basin swirled and compressed, becoming a concentrated, swirling nebula of power.

She hummed, a low, ancient melody that resonated with the very pulse of the moon. This was the ultimate burial, the most profound return. Lyr's joy, its sorrow, its magic, its brief, vibrant life – all were being meticulously, ritually broken down, not to be destroyed, but to be reabsorbed, integrated into the primordial soup of existence.

When the light in the basin was no more than a thick, swirling, luminous liquid, like moonlight distilled, Morwen lowered her head. She did not drink with her mouth. Instead, she inhaled deeply, her ancient lungs drawing in the vital essence. The light flowed into her, not through her throat, but through her eyes, her skin, her very being. Lyr’s essence merged with Morwen’s own, a surge of vibrant, faerie-light energy that was instantly transmuted, transformed, and settled deep within her.

She felt the surge of life, not as a meal, but as a renewal, a strengthening of her eternal connection to the cycle. She was the deep earth, enriched and made fertile by the return of what had sprung from it. She was the dark moon, absorbing the light of the stars. She was the grave, yes, but also the womb, the keeper of the cycle that demanded everything be returned, to be broken down, to be reborn.

When it was done, the basin was empty, clean. There was no trace of Lyr, save for the faint, lingering scent of dew and sunbeams in the air. Morwen stood, her eyes glowing with a renewed, profound depth. She was heavier, richer, more ancient than before. In her, Lyr’s essence would rest, woven into the very fabric of the earth, until the time came for another dewdrop to catch a sunbeam, for another faerie to take flight.

Morwen returned to her resting place within the roots of the oak, an embodiment of the silent, inexorable laws of nature. The wind continued to whisper through the trees, carrying no sound of Lyr, only the ancient, unbroken song of the forest, the song of eternal return.

 

[KindredFlame]

Well that 2nd paragraph is mine from this very thread. I posted that to NuclearFairy.

It was you are correct I started with your work and expanded on it. I found it very difficult to start from nothing so to encapsulate the feelings you put into the idea and the concept of the characters I used it within my idea. I should have asked first. I do apologise for not doing this.

 

[KindredFlame]

Just lead with it in quotes and put the original posters name

Just put it in quotes next time and the original posters/ writers name, and yes always ask permission. The lack of quotes around it leads one to believe you are taking it and claiming it as your own. We're good, but if you publish it like this please remember this. Other than that I do like the rest of it and it's a huge compliment to me that something I wrote Inspired that.

I think it needs to be taken further by someone far better than me. Hence me risking the wrath of the forum police by posting the work so far on the thread. I can not recall who mentions Baba Yaga but it is also in there. Or was that John Wick.

 

[KindredFlame]

I have been working on your paragraph trying to expand on it, I am not sure I have made it better.

The gnarled, serpentine roots of the colossal ancient oak did not merely support her dwelling, but formed its very armature, an organic, subterranean embrace that cradled the hut as if it were a precious, petrified seed. This was less a construct of human hands, and more an extrusion of the living earth itself, a structure so deeply integrated into the forest floor that it seemed to breathe with the slow, deliberate rhythm of the soil, its dark timbered walls emerging like the boughs of a lesser tree or the exposed ribs of some long-forgotten woodland giant. It was an osseous structure, a dwelling whose very bones were the ancient, twisting sinews of the forest itself, a natural cavern shaped by time and growth rather than plank and nail.

Lichen, in shades of silver-grey, velvet-green, and russet-gold, clung like ancient thoughts to its warped timbers. Each delicate patch, a miniature, verdant tapestry, seemed to chronicle forgotten epochs, the slow, patient crawl of years etched onto the wood like a secret language. The timbers themselves, smoothed by centuries of wind and rain, their grain polished to a sombre sheen, exhaled a faint, earthy fragrance that mingled with the heavier, more potent aromas within. The air inside was a heavy, intoxicating brew: the rich, loamy scent of undisturbed humus, a promise of decomposition and rebirth; the pungent, almost acrid perfume of bruised herbs – mugwort and yarrow, hemlock and nightshade – their medicinal and magical essences coiling through the space. But beneath these, a deeper, more elusive aroma lingered: the mineral tang of ancient stone, the electric, pre-storm ozone of primal magic, and the undeniable, vast emptiness of time itself. It was the scent of the forest's dreaming, of forgotten seasons and unwritten histories, a profound and elemental presence that seemed to resonate in the very marrow of one's bones.

This primal sanctuary, humming with an unseen cadence, was the inviolable domain of Morwen, the Crone. Her memory wasn't merely long; it was a boundless ocean, stretching back further than the first sapling dared breach the soil, further than the first fell axe echoed through the primeval woods. She recalled the grinding of glaciers, the shifting of continents, the slow, patient unfolding of the world before humankind had even formed its first, crude thought. The brief, flickering span of human prayer, of human history, was but a fleeting sigh against the vast, silent tapestry of her remembrance. She was not just old; she was a living chronicle of existence, a whisper from the very dawn of the world, carrying the weight of eons in the lines etched upon her face and the silent, knowing depths of her eyes.

 

[000zing]

This thread is distinctly bad for one's elf.

 

[UsuallyPresent]

I also suggested that the witch's name should be changed to Babe Yaga.

Rather than flying around in an iron cauldron, she rides her iron dildo.

 

[UsuallyPresent]

xxxecil has his Faeophobia series on Lit, which is creepy-good-ick. Not my personal cuppa, but - impressive writing none the less, IMO.

There are plenty of other fae and fae-like tales in the lit archives. Alarune, nymphs, sylphs, etc etc etc - lots of mystical kinda-humanoid nasty fuckers (in several interpretations of the words) out there. As usual the search.literotica.com page is your friend to see what others've done - keywords to try include but are NOT limited to: fae, faery, fairy, alarune, nymph....

More mainstream tales like the Iron Druid (celt spellworker who deliberately warped his magic to make his touch deadly to the fae) are out there too, or Harry Dresden (won't give spoilers except to note that he starts the series with a true bitch of a faery godmother) among many others.

 

[KindredFlame]

I see everyone is a critic

 

[000zing]

But I wouldn't mind tinkering with a belle...

 

[UsuallyPresent]

I see everyone is a critic

Hey, I didn't criticize - you saying I'm nobody here?!?

 

[KindredFlame]

Hey, I didn't criticize - you saying I'm nobody here?!?

It was a joke

 

[KindredFlame]

BIG QUESTION, HOW DO I MAKE THIS SEXY, OR SHOULD I?
Been working through each paragraph and I have not found a way to make sex or erotica into the story just mysticism.

 

[UsuallyPresent]

It was a joke

So was mine.

 

[KindredFlame]

 

[NuclearFairy]

BIG QUESTION, HOW DO I MAKE THIS SEXY, OR SHOULD I?
Been working through each paragraph and I have not found a way to make sex or erotica into the story just mysticism.

It doesn't need to be sexy. Not all of the stories in sci-fi/fantasy have sex in them. And in my opinion, if it doesn't come organically, it's best not to force it.

 

[UsuallyPresent]

BIG QUESTION, HOW DO I MAKE THIS SEXY, OR SHOULD I?
Been working through each paragraph and I have not found a way to make sex or erotica into the story just mysticism.

The classic pairing for an earth goddess is a sky god. So talk about the winds blowing, vibrating her tree-home and tickling her unexpectedly. Maybe talk about a water god or goddess trying to get her attention, and the threesome they experience in a giant storm - rain and wind, roaring as both stroke every bit they can reach while her foilage blows away and her core becomes visible to her would-be lovers.

Alternately, you could pull a Norns/Fates type approach, talking about how each 'generation' (not to human scale, but to the scale that divines live at) grows up from maiden to mother to crone, how each romances her world, what tickles their fancies, what they look for good or bad.

You could go eldritch horror and have the world-tree of her home grow in, tentacle/root trapping and penetration, drawing out her essence as it pushes its own in to replace it. What comes out at the far end? How do both change?

You've got an incredibly rich set of imagery you can springboard off of, it really depends mostly on what you want to do. Do you want to embody a specific myth or mythos? Do you want to mangle one for some purpose? (And yes, boggling the readers' minds is certainly one potential purpose!) Do you have an idea for your own mythology?

You can do all that (from the last paragraph there) so clean a nun'd miss the potential kink to so filthy that self-same nun might jump in and yell, "YOLO!"

 

[000zing]

Getting peri silly around here.

 

[NuclearFairy]

The classic pairing for an earth goddess is a sky god. So talk about the winds blowing, vibrating her tree-home and tickling her unexpectedly. Maybe talk about a water god or goddess trying to get her attention, and the threesome they experience in a giant storm - rain and wind, roaring as both stroke every bit they can reach while her foilage blows away and her core becomes visible to her would-be lovers.

Alternately, you could pull a Norns/Fates type approach, talking about how each 'generation' (not to human scale, but to the scale that divines live at) grows up from maiden to mother to crone, how each romances her world, what tickles their fancies, what they look for good or bad.

You could go eldritch horror and have the world-tree of her home grow in, tentacle/root trapping and penetration, drawing out her essence as it pushes its own in to replace it. What comes out at the far end? How do both change?

You've got an incredibly rich set of imagery you can springboard off of, it really depends mostly on what you want to do. Do you want to embody a specific myth or mythos? Do you want to mangle one for some purpose? (And yes, boggling the readers' minds is certainly one potential purpose!) Do you have an idea for your own mythology?

You can do all that (from the last paragraph there) so clean a nun'd miss the potential kink to so filthy that self-same nun might jump in and yell, "YOLO!"

I once read an oddly sweet romance between a cicada reborn as a dragon, and a magical tree that was determined to sacrifice herself to save the world. There were several scenes with the dragon drinking the nectar from her cleft and the wind moaning through her branches.

 

[KindredFlame]

I once read an oddly sweet romance between a cicada reborn as a dragon, and a magical tree that was determined to sacrifice herself to save the world. There were several scenes with the dragon drinking the nectar from her cleft and the wind moaning through her branches.

I am totally over my head in this mysterious and mystical world but I think it’s called symbolism. But wtf do I know?

 

[NuclearFairy]

I am totally over my head in this mysterious and mystical world but I think it’s called symbolism. But wtf do I know?

Life is a journey, and the universe is our classroom. You'll figure it out, I'm sure.

 

[KindredFlame]

Dumb blonde here.