alainn_aislinn: (Muse)
The object of art is to crystallize emotion into thought and then give it form. Delsarte

I could not think of a better description if I tried for a thousand years. How strange that a human can encapsulate such a truth into such a few words. The emotion is theirs, though I can heighten it, then there I stand, the crystallization, the focus, the prism it shines through, molding it and them. The form is what comes from our merger, and what lasts. A moment in time captured for eternity. You will never know all that went into it. You will never see me, see our toil, see the magic. But you will see what stands there, and you will gasp in amazement, and praise his genius for calling it into being. And I will smile, and I will agree.

Genius is rare, and I will not waste my time with anything less. Because I could heighten the mediocre to goodness, and goodness to greatness, but only genius can be crafted into timelessness, and the cost is worth nothing less than immortality in return.
alainn_aislinn: (Distraught dreaming)
Name of Muse: Aislinn
Fandom/Type of Muse: Original Character - Mythology
Link to muse profile page:
Mun name, nickname or handle: Bria
Best way to get a message to the mun: email bria.ferguson at gmail dot com
Do you use AIM or any other IM? AIM -- ladyofbrileith
One hundred words about the muse that everyone should know:

Aislinn is a Leanan Sidhe. The Leanan Sidhe are the fairy muses of Ireland. Some see them as benign, but most link them to the legend of the artist who dies young, burned up, and that's what we've gone with. She provides inspiration that spurs talent into genius, often beyond imagining, but she feeds on the creative energy the artist expends on their enterprise. Slowly, the artist is drained, eventually dying as the creative energy of a lifetime that would have eked out, possibly just in mediocrity, flares and flashes and then is gone. The payoff, of course, is that the work is generally work that will last forever. It is legend that most "great" artists were possessed of a Leanan Sidhe, especially those that died mad and young. (i.e. Byron. *g*)

She can draw energy from sex as well, as it is the ultimate creative act, capable of producing life, and as such, she is very sensual and very sexual, though her preferred method of feeding is through creative works and she only uses sex for food when starving or when asked by her partner (which they sometimes do, as it is a very intense, linked, physical and emotional experience when she chooses to indulge).

Part of her is very proud of what she is, fiercely so. She sees herself as nature's balance--fostering genius, but making sure it doesn't overwhelm the world. But another part of her hates that she is a killer at heart, and wants something softer, something just hers. To love without knowing that her love will kill her lover, and to be loved despite everything she has done.

She doesn't make friends easily, but once she does, she is very loyal and very protective.

Prompt only, or available to roleplay? VERY open to RP -- in fact, she really could use some more frieds. :-)
Posting tag: aislinn
Link to memories or tag page showing RotM posts: Tags
Memories (Very incomplete. Tags are a better way to find)
alainn_aislinn: (Distraught dreaming)
She started it up again when I came home with Devin. It was "too bad" I'd birthed a half-mortal whelp, but at least it showed I could breed. I swear to Danu, that was the term she used. I'd proven myself as a Leanan Sidhe, crafting several masterful artists who spanned five decades, and now it was time. All would be forgiven, she told me, as if I had committed a mortal sin in bonding with him, though I think she might have meant Devin, not Byron.

Jewels were woven through my hair, and she went so far as to paint my lips. She dared not use a crown, but a diadem pressed into my forehead with an emerald I swear she spent half a day making sure matched my eyes. My dress was emerald green as well, silk and shadows, and it showed as much as it hid.

Dinner came and she paraded me through the room to the dais like a prize calf at a country fair. Midir was not amused, though his eyes softened when he gazed on me. Pity I am sure, and I could not meet his eyes. He gave leave for me to take my place at Aurelia's side, conveniently, for my mother, next to Ionatan. She drifted away with a warning look.

He looked. He had always looked, from the time I was a child. I would rather have been safe by Fergus' side, but he was on Midir's right and far from me. There were touches, as always, sliding through the silk with only the public place saving me from more, and through it all, her approving smile and hard eyes that said not to misstep.

Dinner ended, finally, and I paid my dues and the next morning I took my son and I left Bri Leith. I didn't go back for fifty more years, until I had found a way to tell them--her and him--no, and make sure they listened forevermore.
alainn_aislinn: (apple?)
What person in your muse's life, either by canon or in roleplay, has most affected their personality in your writing of them?

Byron. Without a doubt, Byron. In her own canon, she met him at 16 and stayed with him for twenty years until he died. By Sidhe standards, she was a baby then, not even a teenager, and still a child when he was gone, but those were the most formative years of her life. He was her first love, and her first kill, and that shaped her indelibly for the rest of her life.

While the work I'm doing with her spans two centuries, first with Byron, then later with her son, and even with her popping up in Midir and Keelia's novel, the fact is she never recovers fully from Byron's death. She never expected him to die by her hand, as it were. Her mother warned her about it, told her fully what she was, but she, with that firm belief of youth, was sure that he would live. That they would be different and their story would go another way.

When he died, she couldn't believe it, and the guilt nearly destroyed her. It changed her, hardened her, left her much colder, more sardonic, and very much more reserved in how truly she is capable of loving.

In RP, as well, he has shaped her, though in a different way. In their RP world, she has been his muse all her life, tied to him in his Immortal state. While there is far less guilt there, his madness has twisted her up and made her just about as crazy as he is. They're too close and too dependent and she doesn't know how else to form a relationship. It is not an exaggeration to say that he has been her entire world, and only now with the Doctor--either of them--is she finally learning to take a stand and become an autonomous being separate from Byron, which is both interesting and terrifying to both muse and mun.
alainn_aislinn: (Distraught dreaming)
Never ever discount the idea of marriage. Sure, someone might tell you that marriage is just a piece of paper. Well, so is money, and what's more life-affirming than cold, hard cash? Dennis Miller

It isn't something meant for me, for all my mother's goals and machinations. A moment, a prince, a kiss, a time of love, a ring of eternity binding two hearts...Though she, of course, meant the prince literally and the hearts were a sideshow she never intended me to care about or need. But what I am...the thing I am, and the things I isn't a dream they make available to me easily.

I could marry a mortal, only then they would die, young and mad and aching for my touch, for an eternal glimpse I could never have. I could marry an Immortal, I could have twisted him to it long ago, but what would that bring but madness and despair. Loss, in its own way, just as bitter and sharp, and always with the knowledge between us of what I am and what he is and how they never can separate, and never be free. What sort of life would we have, if we twined them closer together than already they are?

There is no one so foolish as to bind themselves to me that way, and none I would curse so. To love...I would mean it, you see. I always do. I love. I feel. I grieve. I want...but I poison everything I love, and drive it away. I twist it all up and turn it 'round on itself, and I could bind him to me that way, with promises and pleadings, but he would hate me in the end, and promises mean so little in the vast stretch of eternity.

I could not bear to trap him so, tied to me by honor and vow and chains of gold. I love him too much to condemn him to the rest of his lifetimes with me. So there are promises, and perhaps, sometimes, I beg for them softly in the night, the assurance that now, here, I have not done so much to drive him away. Not yet. Now, still, he can say things like “never” and “always” and mean them with everything that is good and pure in him. When it changes, when it turns, when it sears itself through me and the hatred echoes back where once there was love, or worse, when indifference chills the air between us...I would have him free to go, hearkening only to whispered words in the dark, in the heat of passion, with no formality to be broken.

A lover is so much easier to send away let go than a wife, and that is how it should be.

I am content that it is so. Most days.
alainn_aislinn: (Muse)
Based on this picture.

Byron stared at the building, head tilted back. His mouth was open like a fish, and Aislinn fidgeted, wanting to poke him. She fidgeted while he stared, sighing a little in relief when he finally turned his eyes back to her.

"Well?" she asked with a hopeful smile.

"What were you on?" he demanded.

"What do you mean?" She gave him a troubled look, the smile fading.

"Did you get into my stash?"

"No!" Aislinn made a face. "You know I can't abide those poisons."

"Aislinn, think carefully. What exactly did you do to the architect?"

She thought, and shrugged. "I don't know. He was having trouble coming up with ideas, so we watched movies."

"What movie?"

She felt heat flood her cheeks. "The Wizard of Oz..."

Byron closed his eyes with a pained look on his face.

"What?" Now it was her turn to be demanding.

"Do me a favor, my love?"

She gave him a suspicious look. "What favor?"

"Confine yourself to writers and musicians from now on." He looked at her, outright pleading. "Stay away from architects."
alainn_aislinn: (I can't do this alone)
Treat your mind like a bad neighborhood - don't go there alone. -- Anonymous

Things get twisted and tangled up sometimes. She wonders, then, if it is hers or his, or some conglomeration of them all. If it is true that she drives men mad, then surely the opposite side of the coin cashes in on the deal, and she takes herself along with them. She cannot tie herself so closely, strapping her body and mind up against Icarus as he flies without the searing heat burning her as well. There are no wings to spread and carry her back up as she spirals down, and no matter what she was before, she knows that he has made her his in psyche, in soul, in the crumbling walls of sanity that do not hold up against the winds and rages of time.

She hides it better than he, usually. She smiles brighter, she finds delight in the simple things like sunshine on flowers that call to the part of her nature that wants to dance through fields and worship in the Goddess' grace. She laughs. She teases. She twirls her net of seduction, simple and sure, around those who wander close enough to be caught. She loves without the reservations, feeling too much without the filters he has erected.

They are not the same, and yet, they are in the way that heads are the same as tails--two parts of a whole and neither can fulfill its purpose without the other.

But she will not look too closely at what it has made her. She cannot bring herself to walk the twisted paths, swirling through mist and moonlight and cobwebs and ending in a plummeting abyss. She is expert at self-denial and ignorance, dancing in shadows and calling more to her, until there is a brighter mind, clearer, sharper, with paths of strict order that she finds she wants to walk, and it is two in one, because when he lets her in, she must do the same, and through his eyes, she sees the shadows in hers, the mist that hides and that even his light cannot fully penetrate.

She sees enough to frighten her, in places she never dared go before, but nothing there, and nothing in his shining order can help her in answering the question of what comes next.
alainn_aislinn: (Let me love you down)
Disce quasi semper victurus, vive quasi cras moriturus. - Learn as if always going to live, live as if tomorrow going to die.

So many of them follow this tenet, and it is good. They are as hungry as I, always reaching, searching, wanting to learn, wanting to find just one thing more to pull into themselves, absorb, mutate and use to give birth to something new, something brilliant. They embrace life to the fullest, reaching higher toward the sky, and sinking lower into the depths. They are flame and I am the moth, always drawn and circling. How can I not be, when they shine so brightly? It’s as if they know consciously the bargain their subconscious wrought, even when they will not acknowledge the fantastic bits of it all. They always grasp for more knowledge, more beauty, as if it will sustain them, and then they fling away parts of themselves throughout their worlds, because they know so well that it will not.

There is something marvelous in their doomed beauty that I have never been able to walk away from. I don’t know how any of my kind ever could.
alainn_aislinn: (Mysterious ways)
"Racism isn't born, folks, it's taught. I have a two-year-old son. You know what he hates? Naps! End of list." Dennis Leary

I suppose it is a sort of racism. It certainly is among the other creatures, but even between us, it lingers, in looks, in glances. Even among our own "species" we are Other. When hierarchies are based upon species, how can it be anything but a form of racism. We can call it speciesism or whatever, but in the broader scope of things, we are all Fae. Sidhe, pixies, gnomes, leprechauns, nymphs, the spirits of the trees and rocks and the rest. We are all Fae, all born of the magic and Dana's touch.

But the Tuatha de Danann are special, set apart from the rest, at the top of the order. While the other Fae are touched and blessed by the Goddess, we are her children. Blood of her blood, the first of us born of her union with the earth, a perfect blending of Earth and Divine, and this makes us the leaders of those born solely of the Earth, with just the breath of the Divine in them. They haven't the blood. They haven't the Power.

But Power is where the racism among us begins. Because while the Tuatha de Danann are all children of the Goddess, we are divided into our own races. The Daoine Sidhe. The Bean Sidhe. The Leanan Sidhe. We co-exist in palaces. We all reign at the top of the social ladder and the strata that define Faerie. Some of us, such as my father, are accorded the status of Kings and Queens of the Sidhe in our own right. But we are Other to each other. Subtle variations, each of us claiming some superiority over the others, based upon variations in the way the Goddess' blood expresses itself in us.

The Daoine Sidhe are the politicians. They lead, inevitably. They go to War. They defend. They lead the hunt. They are the craftsmen and the inventors. The Bean Sidhe exist mostly in their own sphere and keep to themselves and really want little to do with any of us, pleased to be the harbingers of Death and follow the Morrigan with mournful delight. And then there we are, trapped between worlds. The Daoine Sidhe can exist solely in Faerie, never needing to leave but to win a bride or a child to keep the bloodlines strong, but the Leanan Sidhe must walk among mortals, even if briefly. We are as connected to them as the Bean Sidhe in our own way. While we can inspire our own, and inspire the artisans of the Daoine Sidhe; while we can be the artisans of the Sidhe, creating our own works of beauty to exalt the beauty and the delight of the Sidhe; we still need them, the mortals, the humans. We need their energy, their creative force. We need it to live, to thrive.

And this makes us somehow less than in the Daoine Sidhe's eyes, who need nothing from anyone. Oh, they remember, when we were the seers. Our kind still may choose to serve as priests to the Sidhe, energy radiating out from those seeking to connect with the Divine to feed their need, but there are too many of us now to all fill that function, and not enough of them to keep us all fed. So we disperse among mortals, some of us for long periods of times walking this worlds, others just for visits to the chosen.

And all of this sets us apart. It makes many of the Daoine Sidhe watch us with suspicion. We do not have their magic. We do not have their Power. We cannot control the weather or make the seasons change. We cannot conjure anything we wish out of the air, using only the elements around us. We cannot change our shape at will. We cannot fly. We can only cast simple glamours, perform the simple magics that certain humans with sensitivities can as well. Magics learned by the Daoine Sidhe as children, and them something stops us, blocks us from doing more, even though we know how. But we can slide between worlds easily. Barriers cannot keep us out. We can walk dreams and slide into minds and connect with people in ways the Daoine Sidhe cannot. We connect with the Divine spark inside each being, can manipulate the soul, can enhance the connection, can bring nirvana and pure bliss and an intimacy of experience they cannot hope to achieve without us.

We work together well, usually. But always there is that moment, those looks, that touch of suspicion of those different than us. One of us manipulates one of them; one of them exiles one of us and tensions flare and war is threatened. It is learned, surely, this uneasy truce.

But learned or not, it is always there, even as we feast together, dance under the stars in Her name, make love, make children. Always. I don't know if it always has been, but I cannot see any way that it will ever be truly gone.
alainn_aislinn: (apple?)
It can't be coercive. It can never be coercive, or it doesn't work right. I mean, I suppose I could just rip things out and take what I please and nevermind the rest, but that's not my purpose. There are some who wouldn't care, some who seek nothing but their own survival and strength. They want power. They want life, and it matters not how they gain it.

I'm not them. I do not want to take what is not freely offered, what is bargained for, after I have fulfilled my end. Oh, if they try to back out, I will take it by force if need be. I won't lie about that. But it had to have been offered before, at least once. After the bargain is struck, it's not coercive to keep them to it, force them to pay up for what was given. It's only fair, after all. But that's not coercion.

You offer. I offer. We agree of our own volition to make a bargain. You achieve your wildest dreams of success. I live.

Sound fair enough?


alainn_aislinn: (Default)

December 2007

2345 678


RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 25th, 2017 02:42 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios