Quote the Raven, ?Nevermore.?

The Sluagh had far made their reaches into the human world. The tales of ghost stories and those who continued to haunt the Irish-born families with Sidhe blood running through their veins were carried on the wings of the dark-fey born dreams. Those stories collided with the mists of the Isles as well as the sea mist itself.

Sidhe blood-lines had been outlawed. It was too many complications with keeping the human population clear and free from the tricks of the Fey -- even if they had it coming to them. Most of the traps had been set for the ones so pure of heart, but yet lacked the imagination to believe in their ancestors to still be roaming around. It wasn?t just the ancestors told in stories, held in pictures or held in their hearts -- but the ancestors that created the world of magic, who introduced the blood-lines to that Irish luck -- and in the end, began the Irish tradition of always praying to the Irish ( and Celtic ) Gods.

Though, they still continued to bump in the daylight -- and in the reflections of the moonlight. They still had their own hold over the certain blood-lines of Humans that, for centuries, had been theirs to control -- and play with. They still a certain tang in the air, the way it would get sour once their world was interrupted. The way the electricity ran through the lay lines of the world map -- jumping to result into absolutely nothing at all by the certain aura given off by the famous Fey like creatures. Children cry when something doesn?t feel right, when the energies around them are bouncing like a rubber ball in a rubber room. They can sense the certain fear peaked and they know exactly who is staring at them. They can see the shadows of the former living creatures -- and the dead-like souls who now have a certain title to uphold. They can smell that darkness seeping off into the daylight, cautiously blocking out the good energies from the ones who need it most.

The ones who can see the Sluagh, Sidhe and the sister blood-lines can also retrace the lines to the Unseelie Court. The court of darkness, of nightmares; of fears, and of torture; of cruelty and un favoritism even amongst family. The court of killing and of mass graves; of dancers who flutter while wearing the skins of the deceased; the priests who are ashened with the ashes of the remains but continue to coax it onto their skin, rubbing the dead sins into their snow-pale flesh. The court to whom the Headless Horsemen call home -- the Pale Queen with a heart formed of ice and eyes created solely to watch torture rituals. The home of the damned. The home of the troublesome and destructive ( oh course, using those behaviors on the mindless Humans ). The Court to where the Wild Hunt contains many corpses coming back to be hung for display, the voices and screams of mothers while children are plucked out of their beds -- and downed for the sake of eating the purest of Flesh. Where virgins are sought for only to be ripped apart. Where the Unseelie takes the mind captured and rarely ever lets go.

Quote the Raven, ?Nevermore.?

Mirror calls. Irish folklore. Myths. Creations of storybooks.

If only they had been made up along. Ghost dogs of the Great Hunts. Dogs who had multi-colored wings, and who also became something more then just a mans ( or womans ) best friend. Protectors of the Fey and ruthless to those who ran dry with rancid thoughts. The women who had screams in high pitches that cracked mirrors, glasses, windows ect. The cries of the wounded souls for vengeance on their ever-dying hatred. The Isle of the Dead carried its screaming victims across the trade winds of all the great countries. The small men who wore green and protected gold -- or what about the springs of ever-lasting life. What about the ancient tale about the stone, what if moved, opened the gateway to the land of Fey. Magicks and spellbound words; worlds created from illusions and mystics; and those men and women who never aged.

If only it had been all a fairytale.