The Cursed Blood, стр. 53
A month later Madam Mildred Maxine Del’Cove—Aunt Milly—Gramps, and I were all stepping unhappily into a portal and walked out groggily into a grand and fully Darkling owned castled and walled in tudor-esque town in the North Cliffs of Scotland overlooking the sea. I’m pretty sure if any mundane’s ever got into the place they would think they’d stepped into a huge fantasy film set or a renaissance festival of some kind.
Honestly, the place looks like something out of a fairytale (because it is) with countless towers and battlements and cobbled streets that are all alive with a riot of color, noise, and smells. Massively bearded Dwarfish tinkers worked metal with comically large hammers on anvils. Half Elves and Fey human traders called out wares from colorful carts, tents, and stands.
Fruits, vegetables, fabrics, and even gems of every color and description, fish both alien looking and run of the mill and items of boasted magical origins (some more questionable in authenticity than others. I believe I even remember one old slightly mad looking grey beard trying to peddle what he claimed to be magic lamps with genies in them).
There were Fey of all kinds both kindly and not living their best lives amid the laughter, drunken singing, haggling, chopping of fish, braying, grunting, and clucking of livestock, sizzling of meats on grills, arguing, and even a troop of rude wicker brooms pushily sweeping the streets all by themselves. There was even an old A series Ford repurposed into a flower stand, bike messengers zooming about and a troop of street magicians playing bagpipes. In short, it was enough to leave the unindoctrinated in quite a dizzying befuddlement.
A troop of richly blue cloaked and plume helmeted Darkling guardsmen with gauntleted hands on their sheathed swords eyed us coldly, black eyes narrowed to suspicious and angry slits. They marched by in shining breastplates, chainmail, and gold trimmed tabards bearing the embroidered crest of four snarling wolves defending a crown of white roses in shining silver thread.
“You lot just HAD to pick Camelot,” Gramps sighed as he lugged two huge, leather suitcases, Manx at his heels sniffing the air excitedly.. Some hurried, grumpy denizens of the market grumbled uncouth admonishments in many languages complaining about tourists and us being in the way as they shouldered and pushed their way through and past our tiny party.
Gramps’ flannel shirt, jacket, faded jeans, muddy work boots, and aged patina worn leather shooting hat pulled down low over his face really couldn’t hide his nature. A few more passersby eyed the very distinctive black jeweled sword belted at Gramps’ waist and gave us a wide berth, making a point of trying not to look at us, burying their nose in scrolls, lists, or just whistling and strolling by as quick as can be. One who did stare after him was so distracted he ran comically into a sidewalk lamp.
Aunt Milly arched a brow irritably at him as she eyed his attire and tutted under her breath haughtily. “I would think you of all people would enjoy a trip home, Artur.” She snickered coyly and winked. “Besides, where better to hold a council on this magical mess we’re all in than in a city ruled by Darklings?”
“This place hasn’t been home in a very long time,” Gramps retorted coldly as he guided us to the inn where our VIP reservations had what Aunt Milly had assured were the best rooms in the town waiting for us. “Be that as it may, it’s the safest place in all Feydom. You’ve said so yourself many a time.”
“I actually said it used to be the safest place in the world.” Gramps stared back over his shoulder at the gallows and dark stained many notched headsman’s block set up on a huge wooden platform in the town square center and shuddered. “Things have changed since my time.”
“So, I see,” Milly sighed as she stepped on a small squishy pile of stinking, fly circled manure with her designer shoes and eyed the troop of brooms angrily. “Can’t even walk on the streets without ruining a perfectly good pair of Armond’s. My Armond’s, Artur. It’s an affront to civilized society. Has this place no sense of sanitation and such?”
As a point of interest, “Armond’s” are a ridiculously expensive and exclusive line of Feyish footwear (think Prada and such made with Minor Drake scales, Minotaur leather, Basilisk hides, and even a golden fleece or two) designed by Hugo Armond. A brilliant chauvinistic pig of a toad-munching Satyr with a talent for five things—collecting rare magical antiquities, making ugly shoes everyone mysteriously can’t get enough of, seducing women, pissing people off, and surviving assassination attempts.
I’ve even heard there’s a long running centuries old pool with a rich stake in gold betting on when the horny old goat will finally get offed. I may or may not have a bit of a stake in it myself.
Hugo is a bit of an obsession of Aunt Milly’s. Personally I’d rather stick an ice pick in his eye than have to listen to him endlessly prattle on about himself again.
Unfortunately, he likes me and can at times, be irreplaceably useful (which is a lucky thing for a being who can ruin a great day as easily as the urge to take a vicious crap can ruin that nice clean feeling one gets after just stepping out of a nice warm sudsy shower). As he’s one of the oldest Fey I’ve ever known and has an uncanny knack for being just valuable enough to stay comfortably in the good graces of just the right Fey to scrape by, extraordinarily comfortably and profitably I might add.
But once again I find myself having to say that’s a story for another time.
Gramps eyed his sister-in-law and smiled evilly. “In