adventure to The Port
The Banshee sits on a couch of plush purple velvet, studying three colour photographes. She peers closely at each one, like a vacationer searching for a clue to a mystery, or a spy knowing she must’ve missed… something…
At her feet lie a stack of useless photographes… over-exposed, under-exposed, or blurred in strange ways. Only three seem undistorted:
the Flowers over the Fence
The wysteria
it rooted in the neighbor’s yard
and grew over the fence into ours.
It was so beautiful
so new and questing and vital the vines, so lush
so delicate and trembling the blooms in the sweet summer breeze.
Then they did something to it to kill it
something over there, across the fence.
Was it cut? I cannot see, and don’t know them well enough to ask.
So slowly it died.
Now it hangs there, shrivelled
but I cannot bear to pull it down
because it is still pretty, even in death
and reminds me of when it was beautiful.
Don’t trust another to grow your flowers.
I think I shall plant my own.
a string of Precious
… then something falls into place, and this inner alignment just clicks. Love and chemistry, heart and spirit and mind. Click. And so the path is opened…
Looking up into the great old spiderwebbed tree, you can see that the house lights are ablaze. Every gas lamp pulses with flame, and every window shows candles dancing to music you cannot hear, not from down here. The great wooden treehouse might seem in peril of burning, were it not so thoroughly soaked by the rain.
The Lady of the house and of this land has moved from room to room sparking this light. A shift of the wind brings you the purifying scent of burning sage.
Photographes From The Future, part one
Your hand, holding the postcard, twitches in just the right way, and three photographes (surprisingly sharp, and colorized!) fall out from between the…
But wait. a postcard has only one page. How were these inside it?
In any case, they are all captioned on the back, in violet ink…
Here I am about to step off of my 19th(ish)century timeship and into the 23rd century.
a postcard from The Future
The Lady moans miserably, curled up on the velvet couch. She steadies an icepack on her pale brow.
She holds a postcard out to you, and says very softly, her eyes closed,
Come in… come in. Here, I wrote this to you, on my music-raiding trip to the 23rd century…
Having a great time in the future! Wish you were here…
Now I have Time Lag. lemme go back to sleep.
((thanks to Retropolis for the postcard 
)
a Tardis still growing
The Banshee paces, her shoes echoing hollowly across the intricately carved wood floor, her hair and skirts swishing darkly. All around her are walls of twisted wood, with the occasional little waterfall of green leafy vines. The light is strange: very bright, unnatural, shifting. If you hold very still, you can hear, under the electric hum of the console in the other room, the faint, slow creaking sound of the wood, indeed the tree that you are inside, growing.
She seems delighted and disturbed, moving from one wall – laying her hand on it – then moving to an opposite wall, and exclaiming as she looks up at how tall it’s got. You step off the old persian carpet, and your footfall is heard; she stiffens, then turns, with agonizing slowness, to look at you. For a moment, her eyes! but no, it must have been a reflection of the strange light.
She smiles, slow, and you wonder if perhaps you shouldn’t have wandered in here…
Watching him as he sleeps
She writes her words in darkest purple ink, a little looping script that tends to sharpen into points when you least expect it. Holding her leatherbound journal over the tree stump that usually hides it, you feel more than a bit like a voyeur… but still, you read…
addressing Arcalian, first meeting. New Gallifrey.
We are on New Gallifrey, gathered around the table in a circle, all of us wearing Arcalian Green. Though the table possesses no head, still all eyes are focused on the Lord Cardinal Oolon, called The Sputnik. He asks for introductions, and one by one, we attempt to condense the centuries we’ve lived and what they’ve done to us into a handful of words. We all speak, and then it comes to be my turn…
found out by the TARDIS Press!
A peaceful morning cuppa…
Enjoying the Morning Aethernet o’er Irish Breakfast (with feyrie additives) tea
… is interruped by a shock! A discovery that The Press has found my private journal!
So shocked I nearly swallowed my new cog piercing!!
The Banshee stalks about, storming angrily! Hair and glances flung all round!
Who found the hiding place of my sekrit journal?! Now the press speaks of it! Scandalous.
Yeh! Did ~you~ tell them of the tree stump where I hide my journal?!
Holds up the aethernet to you, rustling the pages:
~~ TARDIS Newsroom ~~
PICK OF THE BLOGS: in the Darkling Grove, listening with the trees
(near the bottom)
Darkling Stalks a Dalek
A terrible beast, like a giant malicious pepperpot, wanders aimlessly around the great marble hall, the sounds of its’ wheels echoing on the high ceiling. It makes no reaction as the tall pillar wheezes and grinds its’ way into existence in the center of the room. The young Lady steps out, looking lighthearted until she lays eyes on the metal beast. Her whole body startles at the sight, and, alarmed, she flings herself back behind the pillar. With comedic slowness, she peeks around the other side of the pillar, one long purple ringlet falling between her eyes.
Granted Right of Tardis
She steps out from behind a tree mismatched to this forest, then startles as she sees you. As the Lady drops her gaze, flushes and fidgets nervously, you realize you have caught her at… something? But at what? The sight of an aristocratic banshee stepping away from a tree in the midst of this tangled wood should not be strange, but expected…
Ahhh… and then, as the twitterings of the birds quieten for a moment, you hear that soft hum, not from lips but from a Machine. It is subtle, but you are sure you hear it… strangely soothing, but unmistakably, it is Teknology!
She murmurs a greeting… then, with exaggerated languor, stretches her arm out to something on the other side of the tree’s trunk, something you cannot see… there is the unlikely sound of a door slamming shut, then the hum is gone.
Oh! ehm… well, hallo there. Beautiful day, is it not…?
She feigns innocence and looks up at the leafy canopy arching overhead, at the sky… then sees that your gaze is still lingering on the tree beside her, whose branches are just a bit too still, whose leaves a bit too shiny. The Lady sighs, pulling a couple of leaves from her hair as she contemplates your face. She comes to a decision… then breaks into a smile, her eyes sparkling in delight. The Banshee steps closer to you, and speaks in hushed, conspiratorial tones…
a trip to 21st century California
You have heard this sound before, this mechanical wheezing, this strange cosmic grinding. This sound is the herald of adventure. No one notices as the kiosk advertising flights to tropical climes fades into view, as the sound reaches its’ climax. It quietens with a thunk, as if Time and Reality have slotted heavily into place.
A youngish-looking woman with long purple hair steps from behind it, dressed in watery green silks and pulling a large suitcase behind her. It takes you a few moments to recognize the Muse; she has made great efforts with her appearance to blend in to her surroundings, just as her strange transport has done.
As she falls into step behind a group of brightly-clad vacationers, she pulls a small device out of her luggage. For a moment, she forgets herself, and holds it like a book. Then she seems to remember what it is, and holds it to her ear.
She speaks into it quietly, with a drowsy satisfied smile as she walks past windows showing great jet aeroplanes.
If you were standing close to her, this is what you would hear…
… and then-
Well. I did land eventually.
I flew across time and space, chaos and control. It was quite a reasonable madness, to fly in the face of what I thought was prophecy. To save the life of one mortal man, my favorite of them all: my darling husband.
He’d been exploring in distant lands, not that distance means much of anything to someone so ridiculously magikal as myself. I’d tried to escape facing Fate… not that Fate meant anything to one so fundamentally rebellious as myself.
So what if the cards always came up Death for him? So what if the stars said he wouldn’t survive me? I had to try.
“What are you doing here, sweetie?” He said, when I landed in a flurry of dark feathers. “I am glad to see you, but truly… I can fight off this angry tribe of pygmies with my boot knife, quite on my own.”
“That may well be,” I replied, kicking one machete-wielding screamer into a nearby thornbush, “but wouldn’t you rather let me fly you to your zeppelin and tend your wounds?”
Of course he said yes.
abyss above
She wanders out of the thump and growl of the club, out into the thick night painted with gleaming crimson lines. She looks up… up… into the great black vastness above, at the dim twinkle of tiny jewels piercing the sordid haze.
The feathers rustle like little twists of wind as her wings unfold. She leaps–
– or was she pushed?
escape
You have heard that strange, grinding sound before. When the big blue box appears, you are hardly surprised, except that one has not been seen in this part of the forest. Still, there it is, and there is the lady you recognize: the banshee, the muse, lurching from the blue doors to a tree stump, her long hair curly and tangling in her haste. She thrusts one pale hand into the stump, pulls out a little leather tome, then scribbles in it, with phoenix feather and ink that gleams violet black. She replaces the book, then dives back into the blue box… but not before catching your eye, and flashing you a little mischievous smile.
The blue box makes those sounds again, like exhausted machinery grinding Time under its wheels. And then they are both gone.
But the tree stump remains, with its’ hidden prize…
