As my colors proclaim to the observant, informed and awake, I am The Blackthorn of the Light Fae Elders, the voice from over the water sent among our brethren under The Ash to select a new key, which is ironic, given the shifting sands and flowering potential all around in these parts. Though it is the humans that dub them 'helicopter seeds', the 'spiral wing' analogy is - not inapt, considering the convolutions of such proximity to deeds, and beings, of great moment and puissance.
This Ash must needs be subtle in the contortions and rotations of the guiding hand they seek to place on events, and the deployment of the Succubus says to me that her allies lack this - seasoning. Nonetheless, for a plethora of cause, she will bear watching, not least because of the barkeep's protective stance. As I was Guy Duchamps, he was more, far more - a fact on which I would wager my lifeblood. Much has its roots here, and so more may yet emerge, however unwillingly.
Turbulent times, it appears, await these - backwaters, and the vanguard may not be where, or whom, it seems, I fear.
Trick: I've seen . . . more than I care to contemplate, but the current Blackthorn, Duchamps, is as, well, tricky as they come. He's a career politician, but only after a half-dozen others, careers, I mean, and he's been on the front lines long enough, he knows when he's being lied to.
Bo: I never liked this guy, because it seemed he wanted to like, or later hate, me for all the wrong reasons. Not sure what the better ones would have been, for hate at least, but anyway.
Kenzi: This guy turned out to be the Fae version of a used-car salesman, or maybe snake oil.
Dyson: There are few I fear, but I'd never engage Duchamps without true need.
Aife: Unsettling, being unsettled.
The Morrigan: How do the Light ever find their way back to the moral high ground, after all their pointless rolling around in the dirt, pulling each other's hair?