The Fae Who Regretted Everything (But Mostly Gerald)
(A tale of glamour, goat cheese, and poor life choices in Ravenwood)
In the heart of Ravenwood, where the fog rolls in sideways and birds judge you from the trees, lived Thistledrop, a Fae of immense magical power, zero tolerance for bullshit, and extremely high cheekbones.
He used to be legendary.
He once taught a banshee to sing smooth jazz.
He once sold invisible wine to a drunk ghost.
He once seduced a selkie during a lunar eclipse and only cried twice.
But then came Gerald.
No one knew exactly what Gerald was. Some said goblin. Some said cryptid. Others said “Oh gods, it’s coming this way.”
He'd latched onto Thistledrop during a botched potion class that involved fermented moon-milk, a cursed kazoo, and a sentient cheese wheel named Bob.
Bob is now in therapy.
Gerald, however, is thriving.
"Whatcha doin'?" Gerald asked for the 73rd time that morning, hanging upside-down from a branch, wearing a crown made entirely of mismatched socks.
“Trying,” Thistledrop snarled through gritted fangs, “to hex this rock into exploding.”
“Ooh. For stress relief?”
“For pest control.”
The rock shuddered. It began to hum in low C. Bob the cheese wheel rolled by and sighed.
Gerald clapped. The rock exploded. Gerald gave it a name.
A flock of glow-bees dive-bombed the pair. Gerald declared himself their queen.
Thistledrop muttered something extremely unprintable in ancient Sylvan and added “bee-induced trauma” to his growing list of personal tragedies.
He used to be legendary.
He once taught a banshee to sing smooth jazz.
He once sold invisible wine to a drunk ghost.
He once seduced a selkie during a lunar eclipse and only cried twice.
But then came Gerald.
No one knew exactly what Gerald was. Some said goblin. Some said cryptid. Others said “Oh gods, it’s coming this way.”
He'd latched onto Thistledrop during a botched potion class that involved fermented moon-milk, a cursed kazoo, and a sentient cheese wheel named Bob.
Bob is now in therapy.
Gerald, however, is thriving.
"Whatcha doin'?" Gerald asked for the 73rd time that morning, hanging upside-down from a branch, wearing a crown made entirely of mismatched socks.
“Trying,” Thistledrop snarled through gritted fangs, “to hex this rock into exploding.”
“Ooh. For stress relief?”
“For pest control.”
The rock shuddered. It began to hum in low C. Bob the cheese wheel rolled by and sighed.
Gerald clapped. The rock exploded. Gerald gave it a name.
A flock of glow-bees dive-bombed the pair. Gerald declared himself their queen.
Thistledrop muttered something extremely unprintable in ancient Sylvan and added “bee-induced trauma” to his growing list of personal tragedies.
