That was something else he’d been experimenting with of late. He had the ability to sense and seek out portals and gates into the Nevernever, the ‘trods’ upon which mere mortals were not priviledged to walk. There was one near his home and one near this place, he’d had no difficulty in making the crossing… though a spider-creature of the Nevernever had sought to make an issue of his passing. A fist to the eye(s) had convinced the wee beastie otherwise.
It was about his fists that he found himself before the brick wall of the crumbling ruin of yesteryear. When he had struck the Sycorax he held nothing back. It was different from the prize fights he used to do for money. He had called upon every ounce of strength, skill, and power he possessed. He had thrown the punch with every coil of muscle from the very souls of his feet to the deadly crest of his right fist’s knuckles. The creature that had shrugged off a rifle bullet had been knocked for a loop. He came here to find out something about that punch. Something he needed to know.
Conor took off his light jacket and took a moment to warm up his muscles with a bit of shadow-boxing. Then, he slipped on a pair of his fighting gloves (these were not the good ones, just an old smelly training pair). Then like some kind of petulant suburban brat that had been grounded by his parents… he punched the wall. Nothing. Twice more he slugged the bricks. Nothing except for the tingles of bruising in his knuckles. Then he closed is eyes and went back in his mind to that place of rage and anger. This time, he let go of his Fae magic and let fall the Glamour that kept him appearing as a mere mortal.
His eyes glowed blue, his hair turned as black as a raven’s wing, and his skin began to shimmer as if infused with moonlight. His breathing altered as he called upon the power in his blood. Ancient blue lines began to appear in his skin – echoes of the ancient warpainted emblems of Celtic warriors of centuries past. Like a martial artist he threw slow testing “punches” at the bricks, just barely touching the wall with his glove. One, two, and then the wind up. With a shout he let everything go and roared with fury as his fist made contact with the bricks one more time…
…and then went through the bricks with a thundercrack and cloud of stone dust.
The section of wall he had struck was pulverized as if he had been hitting it with a sledgehammer all morning. Stunned though he was, he came to his senses quick enough to call upon the magic in his blood again. This time the Glamour awoke to re-conceal his fae visage. Once more, Conor the Irishman, not Conor the Sidhe Lord stood amidst the rubble of South Dallas.
“My Lord, why do you conceal your magnificent true seeming?” a melodious high pitched voice asked from to his left.
Startled, he looked to see who had been watching. Surrounded by a merry coppery glow was Hosphyria, the Dew Drop Fairy that Mac (the BBQ shop owner) had sent to fetch him some several weeks ago. She was perched like ‘Spiderman’ on the edge of a broken brick, surrounded by briars and weeds that were growing wild in the shadow of the fallen building.
“Good evenin’ Ria,” Conor said with a smile. “The night finds ye well I trust?”
“It does my Lord. I am hunting wild breads and pizzas in their native environs. They shant escape me another night.” She fluttered her wings merrily as she spoke. The word pizza came out more like ‘PEEEEET-zaaaas’ as she spoke it, the avarice in her voice completely evident.
“I was preparing to make my grab upon one of Clan Pepper O’Knee’s kith… yon ravaged by a portly human whelp… when I sensed old power and came to see.” At this point Hosphyria stood upon her two dainty feet and bowed deeply at her waist. “It seemed familiar, and now I see it was… and is… my heroic Lord Conchobhar.”
Conor smiled and acknowledged his Gaelic name. He took off his right glove, holding out his hand, palm upwards. Hosphyria flew prettily to it and alighted in the center of it with a curtsey. “Flattery will get ye everywhere my dear Ria. To answer yer question, I conceal one o’ my seemin’s… aye. I don’t yet know if it is… or isn’t… my true one. But if ye call me Lord then let me take upon myself an auld custom… I shall provide the feast this night. I too feel a great hunger upon me and am feelin’ a might generous.”
Hosphyria turned a brilliant shade of shining copper and her pearlescent smile took up fully a third of her face, “TRULY!?!?!?” … her voice held at least three question marks and exclamation points. No less.
Conor nodded with a crooked smile that matched hers in charm, if not in intensity. “Truly Ria, and as we dine, we shall speak you and I. I should ask ye questions about the state o’ things ‘round these parts an’ I shall pay fer knowledge, with the bones and flesh o’ Clan Pepper O’Knee.”
Conor needs to raise an Average Skill before he can again raise his Performance, so I’m going to raise Lore. Mainly because I think I roleplay that he has more than Average anyway. So, via Hosphyria this should bring the stats in line with the roleplay. I’m also changing his Aspect “THE COLLEENS ARE GONNA BE THE DEATH OF ME” temporarily to “GOT HIS FOOL HEAD IN THE CLOUDS” representing his deep infatuation with Alex Kross.