Fey Tales: Offerings of Magick

By Alexander Savoie

Fey Tales: Offerings of Magick explores the possibility of otherworldly interaction pulling from ancient folklore and mythology pertaining to fairies and fey throughout the ages, delving into vile acts such as child murder, torture, abductions, rape, conspiracy, and plotting throughout the cycles of human ages. Inspired by the writing style of H.P. Lovecraft, Fey Tales creates a new mythos using characters from ancient folklore and its own reasoning behind the foul nature of these ancient creatures.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alexander Savoie
• Release date: Jul 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9798543762608

Alexander Savoie

Alexander Savoie is a business owner, husband, father, and lover of horror fiction. He was raised in a small town holding a population of about one thousand people outside of Beaumont, Texas and spends most of his free time writing and creating content for people to enjoy. Growing up he spent most of his time entertaining himself and his friends and family, there being truly little to do in his hometown

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The writing style of this book was inspired by the writings of H.P. Lovecraft.

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Special thanks to my wife, Kelli, who puts up with the superfluity of hours I spend at my desk working on projects such as this.

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The actions of the creatures in this book are based on their origins in folklore and mythology.

I

THE FLIGHTLESS FAERIE

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The year was 1858, and the universities were opening to more than those who could prove their life’s practice as an Anglican. I knew this meant if I could prove my knowledge of all the basic academic conditions that I would have a prospect of gaining entry. That self-driven accomplishment of education within the metropolis of limitations that I was raised within would pay off if I could just get a chance. I wanted so painfully to take the examination, but I simply did not have the savings for it, although my scores during my life at the orphanage were exceptional.

I had no family to help support me and I resigned at my position at the paper mill in London, where I barely made enough for scraps, much less enough for university tuition. The only sanctuary I had ever known was my shut-in life at the orphanage over in Bloomsbury, and ever since they forced me from living those last long two years, I rarely had a shelter over my head. I often contemplated the idea of being a thief or a mugger, and I had a revolver that I had wrestled out of the hands of a hesitant man who had once tried his hand at robbing me of my boots. A shot was fired during the struggle and it only had 5 shots left in it. In the end I didn’t have the guts for it, though, my conscious and heart held too heavy to do such a thing to another human being, and so the revolver stayed hidden on me simply for my own protection.

Instead, I wandered the snowy streets, tightening my worn and often loosening belt and rubbing my tattered gloves together to stay warm as I passed the shanty gatherings around unlawful fires that roared within the alleyways. Those laughably exclusive groups of homeless men and women that huddled around their makeshift hearths of which I knew I would never be welcome.

I wasn’t sure what to do next, or where to go, so I just continued to wander one day at a time. Those streets were always so busy in London, the carriage drivers yelling at pedestrians who carelessly walked across the snowy cobblestone in front of massive horses that could trample them by simply walking straight, and the crowds of people trying to avoid each other in the compact streets. I especially loved the compact streets, the towering brick of the buildings gave me an odd sense of security as I dawdled about in my fruitless searching of some manner of worth. And the flames of lanterns hanging about the carriages and illuminating the steps that rested along the rows of front doors entertained me a kind of silent theatre around the crowds strolling down the sidewalks. I was peckish, and had waited to eat because I was so very spent with standing in line for soup among the mass of my impoverished and starving working-class countrymen.  

Staring at a sign of a tavern I finally gave in as I found the pun of the name, The Flightless Faerie morose and headache-inducing. I opened the heavy door and entered the stale air of crowded conversation and smell of ale, although the aroma of food was overwhelmingly masking at the time in my malnourished state. Walking past a rowdy party of drunken seamen I sat down at an empty table in a lonely corner of the tavern. The fireplace was a stretch from me across the arrangement of heavy wooden tables, yet it was so unbelievably warmer inside that it made me drowsy and tearful. I had not realized just how tired I was until I felt the warm air brush against my face after sitting in an actual chair, the rest I gained nightly minuscule due to the fact I had to sleep very lightly while being on the streets of London. What little I had to spend was worth it on the food, I couldn’t help but be ungrateful in my situation still and wish I had the money for an overnight room.  

What’ll it be pauper? I chuckled at the heavyset woman whose breasts were a hair away from busting out of her ill-fitting clothes, who decided to immediately berate me instead of greeting me because of my clothing and poor hygiene. I could see her staring at my shaggy hair as it slightly covered my eyes in my retaliative gaze, its greasy black shine surely showing off how badly it needed to be washed. I can afford it. I’ll have some fish then, and some water. She stared at me so intensely I felt she may have gone cross-eyed, You’ll pay first! A pound. I paid the lousy woman and she scurried off with her continued attitude. It was miserably asinine how people treated another living person just because they were not dressed equivalent or better to themselves. If I hadn’t been used to it, I’m sure it would’ve saddened me, but at this point in my life I found a sense of entertainment in self-deprecating humor. 

You’d think it were a crime to be poor. I looked over to a strange looking elderly man, dressed fairly well to be in a tavern within this district of London, and walking over to me using a boastfully decorative cane. He waved his cane at the woman who had just left my table, Bring some vegetable soup! This odd, old man was already tickling me as he sat down in the seat next to me at my table, I thought about how better his entertainment would be than the flames of the lanterns I often found myself looking for when I was in need of company or distraction. My name is Reynard, young man, you look like you’ve had it rough. 

I believe it is, sir. He looked at me curiously, A crime to be poor, that is. It may as well be in this city. He reared back as he caught on to what I was saying, Ah, yes, industrialization! Still rearing back in his seat, he threw his arms in the air making his response unnecessarily theatrical, A true dream for the rich! Are you staying here tonight, or will you be leaving after your meal? I could use the company and talk tonight before I must go off to bed, if you have the time. I didn’t realize I was making such an expression until after I had finished my sentence, but the depression was written all over my face, I think not tonight, I’ll be off after the meal. Reynard looked at me with an almost terrifying smile. He was so strange looking, he reminded me of a hound with his sharp features and large, winged ears, Nonsense young man, stay here tonight and entertain a curious gentleman, it’s on my wallet tonight, as is the vegetable soup. I’ve already eaten. I really had to think about what he said, the thought of staying in this tavern overnight made my eyes want to fill with tears and I had to fight the feeling as I wrapped my head around his kindness. 

I suppose I would be a fool to decline that offer, my name is Joseph Savoie. Reynard smiled a long grin again, Savoie? You do not sound French. You’re not an orphan, are you? I took the question more aggressively than it was meant to be, as the nature of it had a more lucrative, inquisitive arrangement than I had any knowledge of. But, I very much wanted to stay within the warm sanctuary of these walls and so I humored him, I do not know my family, I was raised in Bloomsbury, since I can remember. 

I could see excitement in his face, was this man truly getting off at my misfortune? I was almost upset at the level of epicaricacy of this man before he explained himself, There is a story of a man, a Savoie, from France. He and his father wrote great tales of ancient creatures found throughout the ages. In his father’s work they are described to have that same thick black hair, brown eyes, and aquiline nose you possess. I believe it’s even mentioned they are as well rather short compared to their acquaintances. His work is supposedly in a library in Paris. I’m willing to bet this is your lineage, I have an intuitive knack for this sort of thing. Though, from my understanding he disappeared sometime in the Renaissance after writing his work, I think whatever lineage he had was untraced as I never read anything further from their family. Fascinating literature, though. It may be none of my business but whatever you’re doing here doesn’t seem to be working. Couldn’t be much worse in France. Who knows, you may find family there. I couldn’t help but laugh, the idea was preposterous, and I continued to humor the old man, And how in God’s name is a man like me supposed to make it to France? He looked at me with a great look of concern on his face, and then that awful grin returned that made me uneasy, It just so happens I have business in France, biblical translations I’m supposed to make in Paris when I’m done with my work here in London. I’m a professor of some renown, as it happens. And like I’ve said, I’ve always had a sort of aptitude for helping figures make their mark. Come with me, I’ll pay, just make it worth my while and find that family of yours. I am rarely wrong about a hunch like this, just make sure to put your name on the binding of a book that I can read before I die. To see that lineage of literature continue, would be extraordinary. 

Who was this man? He wasn’t dressed like he was made of gold, yet he definitely carried himself as if so and threw his wallet around like a member of the elite flashes a new pocket watch about as he makes a speech. He made me uncomfortable, but the opportunity was far too intriguing and rare not to consider, That is an incredible offer, professor, but you will understand if I have to sleep on the idea? Of course, my boy! 

His over excitement being exceptionally interruptive it attracted the attention of other patrons and looking up at them I noticed the tavern maid approached us with the food, and then his voice grew serious, I would think you a fool otherwise. Hot cod, the soup, and your water. I’ll add the soup to your bill, Reynard His