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 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.

… 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.

She is alone now, but something indescribable in her bearing makes it seem she expects not to remain so for long.

If you climbed the steps up to the door and looked inside, you would see her dressed in a simple flowing white gown, and smiling to herself in clear-eyed contentment.  But something silent tells you not to, so you don’t.

After some time, she steps out to the balcony holding a dark glass bowl.  Leaning out a little over the edge, she takes silk thread and a needle, and a bowl full of smooth white pearls: freshwater moonlight, each gleaming and unique.  With a careful knot between each one, she threads the pearls into a precious string: delicate but strong, silk of spinner and pearl of nurturer.

The great swollen moon glides across the dark sky… stately, effortless.

The Lady’s long string of pearls trembles all the way from her fingers to just over the waters of the firth, a long way below, as she ties more and more gleaming gems of nacre onto it.

Another twitch and twist, and the end of the thread drops down and touches the water, which rushes up it, as if longing to reclaim the oysters’ treasure. Then the leading pearl drops in as another is added to the top… and the long string now links the Lady to the waters.

She goes on threading, tying, spinning, for much of the night. Her deft fingers only ever pause to brush strands of twilight hair from her eyes, and once, across the silver locket at her throat.

The bowl at her side is deep with pearls. She will not be finished creating this for some time…

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.

Here I am bidding a sad adieu to Caledon.

Here I am looking at the airship I am to step onto and wondering… is that designed for ramming?!

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…

<3  ~Darkling

Now I have Time Lag.  lemme go back to sleep.

((thanks to Retropolis for the postcard )

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…

Well hallo there… what a terrible time for me to leave the door open, mm?  Now you can be shocked with me, at how much more… space… the tree of my Tardis has grown.  Stretching herself, pushing herself further out into the infinity of the void… I suppose she must be feeding now on the light, the energy out there… see it?  The first time I saw that light, untempered, it near drove me mad with fright.  But now, seeing it through this growing treeglass and leaves… it’s quite pretty, don’t you think?

Oh… oh, are you mortal?  Dear dear, perhaps you’d best not look.  That out there is the Schism, the vortex of Time and Space, and it’s really not conducive to a restful psyche… there, yes, best to look at me.

She smiles reassuringly… and you find yourself reassured.  No, this is no dangerous place, you think.  At least… you think you are thinking…

“I have taught my Tardis to grow… but will she listen to me when I ask her to stop?”

The Banshee walks down the hallway, fingers trailing along the wooden wall, as if stroking a cat.  She comes to a low wall and a staircase spiralling down, and stands there with you, pointing beyond, to the… window?… in the near distance.  It seems to be glass, twisting like the wood, in a multicolored floral pattern.  Beyond the glass, you can just make out more of the strange shifting view: like a multitude of stars streaming from blue to red shift and back again, like cosmic energies dancing.  Even at this distance, even through the thick glass, it feels unnatural, or a part of Nature not meant for mortal eyes.

See?  She grew me a window.  A window in a Tardis, who ever heard of such a thing!  I do actually like to look out it but… I like looking at dangerous things.

She focuses on the glass for a few moments, and it darkens just slightly.  She frowns a bit, clearly not satisfied with the result.  Then, she looks down…

And down there, it is even stranger.  Darker, and the floor is a soft moss.  I do like it but… I like it too much.  It is too perfect, can you believe?  Water, even, a little pool.  But so like what I’ve wished for… somehow it makes me suspicious.  No, I’ll not bring you down there today, not until I’m sure the fish are safe.

She beckons, and you follow her back into the console room.  She stops suddenly, and looks down, focusing on one long root that has quested up through the floor, and now curls just at the edge of the console platform.

The Banshee looks at you, tense, eyes sharp.

Oh dear, dear.  Was that here when you walked in?!

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…

He seems so fragile while he sleeps. So vulnerable his body, so tenuous his breath.

Sometimes I feel it will drive me mad, knowing so keenly of my darling husband’s mortality.  Sometimes I find within me a little whirl of panic at the thought that some day, he will be gone.  Some day, Time will have its’ way and take him from me.  His skin which I love so dearly will grow cold, his eyes which sparkle into my soul will grow dull.

Times like these, I play with wild ideas that I know are foolish.  I think, perhaps if I work at it, I can brew a potion that will keep the years from aging him, an infusion that will protect from all ills.  I think, if my magik fails, then surely my Blood would not, surely my Blood would change him, warp him, kill him then resurrect him as forever cold and close to me.  Crazily, I imagine myself powerful enough to protect him from Clan and Ancient and The Beast itself.

Of course, I know these times I am half-mad with fear, and that any plans that might come of it are foolishness at best, and dangerously destructive at worst.  The only thing that can keep love from fading is memory… and that, too, is imperfect.

I never did wish to be taken out of the cycle of life and death and rebirth.  Given the choice those centuries ago, I would have refused… wouldn’t I?  I suppose I cannot be sure; even knowing how pleased I am, most days, to find myself still alive, would I knowingly go through the agonizing transformations again?

Probably I cannot know for certain.  What I do know is, I will not be responsible for putting another soul through all those awful centuries of darkness and danger: not beloved, not enemy, not anyone.  So much of who I am now is due to Fortune, whom we all know is fickle.  If tested, She is not likely to roll the dice kindly a second time.

And so I find myself again watching over him as he sleeps… he, who is so precious to me, I rarely speak his name.  He, who is so dear to me, I fear to sing of, that Fate notice him and tie tangles into his future.  The habits of centuries work prudence in me, to quietly protect all that I hold dearest.

I tell myself, be wise.  Do not fight Time for him, or Time and Fate might conspire to twist him and his life into something horrific.

But oh, what will I do when I am truly tested?  When his blood is spilt or his breath ragged… would I stay wise?

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…

The Lady sometimes called The Banshee speaks with a soft lilting accent that suggests Ireland… and a great many other places as well.  Clearly a traveller…

Greetings… I am Darkling, Marquise of West Speirling, in Caledon.  I am… a woman of mixed blood, and of magik.  I am learning science and of the old Gallifrey, while helping to build the new.

Later, the Lord Cardinal mentions there are a few notable ancient Gallifreyans that concern him and the House.  He turns to her and asks,

Who is The Jinn…?

The lady looks long at Oolon, then to Terry… then her gaze wanders up, into space, as she composes her thoughts and self…

Well.  Regardless of what else might be said of him… my own experiences have been quite positive, if mysterious…
Put simply, were it not for The Jinn, I would not be here among you today. He saved my life, many centuries ago, and by saving mine, allowed me to save my family. Were it not for him, I would not still be able to breathe this sweet air, or walk with my face turned to the sun.  It is from him that I inherit the triple helix, though I am not his descendant.
What I do know of him is that he is not mortal, claims to be a Time Lord, if not obviously a renegade (like so many of us here have been labeled at one time or t’other), and possesses a TARDIS.  He seems to know of Oolon.
He… feels… very old, and walks in shadow, his eyes, shadow. He is… curious about some of us.  He can change his shape at will.

She takes a deep breath, and if you are perceptive, you can see there is a deep inner conflict nearly hidden in her eyes…

Beyond that, I can be sure of nothing about him.  I feel a curiosity about him, and a… sympathy with him.  I know of long experience, however, that one must be cautious of one’s perceptions of an Ancient.

Still… should yeh meet him, I would encourage yeh to treat him with respect as well as caution.  And… if yeh would be so kind… do remember me to him?  I still have many, many questions.  And tell me, please tell me if yeh see him.

The lady with purple hair drops her gaze, carefully holding her tongue on more controversial speculations… for now.

Miss Lightfoot, Oolon’s companion, looks angry at these words.  The two fey women exchange uncomfortable glances, but keep silent on whatever else they may think, or know…

A bit of an awkward meeting… but at least we all looked fantastic! wearing our robes by To~A~T.

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)

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.

The metal beast goes on touring the hall, its’ eyestalk swinging round and round in no relation to the movements of its’, er, body… its’ plunger-like limb twitching and twisting at nothing at all.

In short, the beast looks like it has not seen her, and in fact that it is utterly mindless.

The Lady disappears behind the pillar again, and there is the sound of rummaging, of metal canisters knocking hollowly together.  Then you hear a stream of gas hissing forth first softly, then sharply as it is ignited.

She reappears, goggled and grinning in sadistic glee, armed with Miss Ordinal Malaprop’s not-to-be-used-as-a-weapon Cutting Torch.  The torch is lit, glowing like the slice of an angry star.  Staying low to the ground and on the other side of its’s eyestalk, the Lady silently follows the monster as it wanders this way and that, carefully getting closer… and closer…

Finally, she judges herself close enough, stands up tall, and raises the torch above her head, snarling as she strikes!

Later, reclining on the couch off to the side of the hall, she praises Miss Malaprop’s skill at creating a Dalek-opener, and at her own skill in its’ use.  A shame no one was there to agree with her.