A Modern Magic Mirror

[Moira ap Eiluned]

Moira had found it oddly amusing for the first hour, getting such an extreme reaction from people. Especially the Redcap…who knew he had such an interesting Treasure? It made her smile a bit, to remember. She’d never been one to side with Machiavelli on the feared versus loved debate, but just for a little while it was nice to be able to actually compare it.

Now, however, it was just annoying. Worse, there was a very real chance that this could be permanent. When the possum refused to back off, had attacked, she’d hoped that he would realize that he was outclassed and display the better part of valor. When it became obvious that he was a rabid possum without his species’ good sense to play dead, she couldn’t stand by and let him die. She had to play the hand that was dealt, keep him alive and able to end the situation quickly and cleanly. When the Banality descended on her…

She’d known the cost, known that she was in no shape to ward it off. Her vast pool of Glamour was virtually empty, drained by so many Flicker Flashes and Treasure activations. She’d felt it hit, and opened herself, letting the madness of the Dreaming rip the banality out rather than permitting it to stain her. And she’d realized as she did so that there was a very good chance that it would be permanent.

Adapt, adjust, overcome; in this, technology was her friend. Once she’d realized that the effect was abated by separation, and nullified when no part of her voice or image was present, Moira went into action. She was thankful she’d asked Junior to help her clear out her room earlier that evening; now all that was left was a large table, a study chair, her computers, a recliner for reading and lots and lots of bookshelves arrayed with all of her books. Plenty of room to get things set up.

Amazon.com was her very best friend; she ordered a small refrigerator, a camp stove, propane, a set of folding trays, an electric tea kettle, an extra-large monitor, an Android tablet, a small ornate picture frame and a plane of plexiglass. Thanks to the wonder of overnight shipping, she was able to start set up the next evening. She turned one corner of the room into a mini-kitchen – no life was complete without hot tea and cold pop, after all. Add in the ability to store and reheat the Boggin’s delicious stews and fresh-baked bread, and no one could ask for more. The rest she cobbled together, making herself a sort of high-tech “magic mirror”....


By Wednesday morning, an ornate carved wooden frame hangs on the outside of Moira’s door, over the small window in the door through which the doctors once viewed inmates. Matted and framed within it is the tablet, the glass of the frame replaced with plexiglass drilled with a few tiny holes near one edge. The webcam is turned on, showing her the hallway outside and letting her hear those present, but not transmitting in return. Instead, it shows a Notes document, where Moira types in her answers to any queries from those at her door, and also reads the text aloud on a three second delay.

[opossum]

*I know she helped, didn't she? Yes. She suffered the most from that. Damn. Owe again. Again again. Always owe! What did she suffer? Hmm, that? Okay...what can I do? think. Metaphor. No, Umm...hmm, Make...get can't make. But CAN get! I can get something, Not, not get, find. I know what to find. Perfect. Ugh..expensive, got lots of money though, sure. Not enough payment for what she has. No, but good to start. Always good to start!* Pyral's thoughts always a myriad of ideas swarming and peddling at each other for top dog.

Finally, something. A knock on the door, smelling around the house. *Where'd she go? Can't hide in here, Everything's findable, Nothing is against me in the rules of hide-n-seek.*  He scampers about with a package, simple brown box, taped shut, Name scrawled across the front ~ARIOM~ It read. A knock at her door, the tablet? He sniffs at it a few times...places his face against the plexi-glass, squints one eye and looks into the camera. He softly HMmmms to himself before shrugging, and scurrying off after the package is set before the door. *Done deed.* He leaves before any words can be said through the little tablet.

Within the box sits a rather basic tea-pot. Well, more like it WAS basic. Spent some money, spent a long time. A broken tea-pot, shattered to pieces. Every bit collected, And glued back together with nearly molten gold, saudered and heated and put back into place. The myriad of cracks running along it's surface perfectly held back together into it's original shape. Now inlaid with gold to hold it together, and re-glazed with a soft red sheen. Taped to the side of it, it bears a message,"Broken? Nothing's really broken, Just scattered. Collect the pieces, put them together. You'll get something back. Now it's better, works the same. Cracks are a memory, but sometimes they make it whole when put in the right order."

 It's signed with a bloody red paw-print stained at the bottom.....it...it's actual blood it looks like.  With the words written in a tiny claw read "#9 The world is an illusion." Followed by "#3 Appearance is a lie."

[Moira ap Eiluned]

It's the middle of the night when Moira literally trips over the box. Her sleep schedule was all messed up at this point; if it wasn't for Leslie stopping by for chats, she'd have no sense of what was happening outside at all. Who knew that Leslie would be the only one to actually seem to care? She'd been napping when Pyrol made his delivery, so her late night potty trip became rather more literal than she'd anticipated.

She catches herself, lightning reflexes turning the act into a jump, spin and crouch...landing gracefully and staring suspiciously at the brown box.

Suspicion gives way to curiosity, and, her previous intentions forgotten, she picks up the box and goes back inside her room. She unwraps the box, and pulls out the teapot. She stares, confused, at the oddly lovely teapot, its fragmented webwork of gold under red, then detaches the note from the side and reads it. Then reads it again. And again.

No, no, there was absolutely NOT a lump in her throat. And it was certainly the questionable handwriting that was causing her vision to blur slightly, and nothing whatsoever like tears.

She'd never been good at reading people, or deciphering pooka-speak. But this time it seemed poignantly clear. The damned pooka was saying thank you. What did it mean about her life, that someone giving her a thank-you gift was bringing her so perilously close to weeping?

She'd done her duty to the Realm and its people -- even the annoying ones who didn't follow orders meant to save their marsupial hides -- and she'd expected, as always, for that action and the attendant sacrifices to be taken for granted. And it seemed as though it had been. When she'd asked Gwen to merely replace the Cantrips she'd used, Gwen had asked to be paid in components. Typical pirate, of course; stupid, stupid of her to expect an Unseelie to help when it was really needed without milking it for all it was worth.

So this...the teapot, the message...it was so ridiculously sweet and thoughtful and lovely and utterly, completely unexpected. And so, so, so very welcome.

And the quiet sniffling as she put on water to boil was certainly from the steam that, okay, hadn't actually started yet, but she was absolutely, positively holding to that story nonetheless.