Realms of Myth
A walking paradox of the sort best loved by the Celts, Lady Bizarre sways and minces along easily despite being possessed of curves generous enough for a fertility goddess, for an Earth Mother as women once were loved in the ancient days is what she once was. Hair dark as coal at its roots rises in waving locks up into the air above her head like flames, through all the shades of chocolate, auburn and chestnut, through the fiery reds to golden strawberry then to brightest golden blonde, all clad in twining spirals of ivy wrought of gold and gleaming emerald enamel. Her magnificent curves are clad in swirling layers of diaphanous silk that surround her like a cloud of shadows, together coalescing into a mysterious and impenetrable darkness where they converge to emphasize more fully just how feminine she is. Painting the edges of the shadowy veils of floating silks jewel tones flash and slide, glisten and glimmer through the full spectrum of the rainbow, and the flashes of brilliant-cut stones wink and tease, daring the unwary to come closer.
Mercurial in joy and bubbling with laughter, with a sharp tongue and worse bite for those that cross her, there was never a time any who dwelt in the hoary groves of the ancient Forest of Easton could not remember her in residence there. Although the holy pool there is now given to willowy, lovely Rhiannon and her sweetly singing birds, that pool belonged to the one now known simply as Lady Bizarre in ages past. None are around any longer, have not been for many centuries, who knew the name of the goddess she once was who cared for their ancestors, who dwelt there before (her daughter, if truth be told) Rhiannon was even conceived of. Bizarre gave birth to so many of the other mother goddesses that now are so well known.
But the gods and goddesses are no longer free to live in the wide world, no longer free to know their charges and care for them directly as their shepherds, as once they did.
Into Spirit they gradually passed, and the last and strongest of them hold on still, but none more tightly that she who is now known as Lady Bizarre. Sometimes on the great Quarter Days or Cross-Quarter Days she might be glimpsed in Easton the Green, but only in the wildest depths of what have largely been transformed by a river of centuries into a park or chase for the pleasure of druid-kind and the more civilized lords they serve. The wild Celts are all long dead, at least here in the realm of Shanria. Now it seems she is most at home in the misty dells and fog-veiled greenery of the lush rolling hills of Færie.
The five kingdoms of the still keenly Celtic neighboring land of Enladdis might still carry a shadow of memory of the goddess the Lady Bizarre once was, a breath of comforting nostalgia, but She knows all too well those days were gone. Enladdis is as a fly caught in amber, preserved in all its ancient Celtic glory in the undying hand and power of an elfin queen who has proudly denied the encroaching tide of the Light for more than 1000 years.
Of all the lands Lady Bizarre knew in that trackless wilderness of Spirit, of Færie, she favors the elusive and fabled Isle of May best. It retains a soul of romance and adventure that is all too rare in the current day, enough to make pirates and mariners of all stripes both curious, afraid, and long for its fog-shrouded shores. There was no knowing when it might appear, or where – whether in the Page Sea or as far away as the wide, wild Sea of Turmoil.
In small ways she keeps up with the times, bearing witness to the changes, the slow growth of civilization, the spreading out of the cities and towns, or in the styles of art, architecture, music, even reveling in some. She is made of equal parts of Light and Shadow (Dark, to be honest) but, when at last she created her residence on the Isle of May, it was far more for the Light, and her house there – Brilliant House – shows it like no other could.
But like so much in Færie, the Lady is not so frivolous and gay as she might wish to appear, or perhaps it is so, but only by turns, and the brilliance of her light makes the dark periods all the darker by comparison. Something about the dwindling course her history has taken gnaws at her. She is not content to live in Færie and yearns for the olde days and the Olde Ways. Like so many of the fey, she would take the World of Flesh back again, turn back the hands of Time.
Betimes she takes an interest in the affairs of the mortal world. Like any of the the fey, she is able to visit as she likes, usually moving between in the same manner and with the same habits as the rest of the folk of Faerie, for to do otherwise is to fight what her own basic nature has become. In this way she has been known as a “fairy godmother”. She laughs at the delicious irony and grimaces at its bitterness by turns.