Eire of Hostility

  *

  On a whim, Saraid directed her fae-bridge to open to a recent location. She stepped out at the dead tree line, just beyond the walled borders of Crios' holdings. As she'd hoped, there were harpies beyond their master's domain as well, still feeding on the carcass of her giant peacock steed. Over twenty of them had gathered. Their claws were bloody, their faces smeared red, and their beige tunics stained with gore. Saraid was happy that so many had joined in the feast on unclaimed land; for what she had in mind, all of them were welcome.

  One of the harpies noticed the beautiful dryad standing in repose not far off, and soon most of them were glaring at her. "Ah, lady Saraid," said the white-haired gatekeeper from within the group, "your present was delicious. Have you with your lofty standards come to frown on our lack of table manners? Or maybe the lack of cutlery draws your condescension? We'd be glad to give another demonstration of how we can do without forks and knives." The other harpies tittered and licked their bloody lips.

  Ignoring the obvious threat, Saraid softly said, "With all of your touted intellect, can harpies bestow curses? No? Perhaps I can give a demonstration of my own." While the harpies gave curious looks both to her and each other, Saraid took a deep breath and loudly announced, "For all harpies that can hear my voice, I afflict you thus: unless the intent of another is to harm you, your cohorts, or your master, any foul words you might offer to any creature will cause you racking pain. To give a second attempt at the same target of your ire will be debilitating. A third foolish attempt to verbally harm the same target will be the literal death of you.

  "In balance, should you have a true word of consolation or appreciation for any other besides yourselves - in essence, kindness - then beauty shall come to you in small doses. Your hair may straighten and shine, or your plumage may become a magnificent pair of wings, or your countenance may even become alluring. Beauty in all of its forms, that which you despise, has become your judge. Let it be done and so."

  There was an uncertain pause as the harpies felt a breeze of glamour pass through them. The gatekeeper stood straighter and scowled at Saraid. "Do you think that your pathetic words -" The harpy suddenly seized up, then doubled over and then screamed with pain as she helplessly fell on the peacock's carcass. The others backed away in alarm as the gatekeeper groaned and writhed with her stained wings wrapped around herself.

  Still flinching from the pain of that scream, Saraid quickly made another portal; the harpies would soon realize that they could still attack a target without insulting it. With one foot on the fae-bridge, she looked at the crowd of nervous harpies and said in parting, "Ladies, you still have the option of cutting out your own tongues to avoid a painful, lingering death. That, or embrace that which you hate. Farewell."