iron he

A golem of sorts fashioned from iron to go fight nixies and pixies and fairies that had been twisting in through the gateway left open by some irresponsible fabulist who went and kicked the bucket not long after performing the feat.

Funny, they called him Bolton, and they tried to explain him away as some kind of mysterious quantum entangled thing, but he was most definitely supernatural. Meister Barnacle had studied under someone who claimed to know Faustus back in the day, but though he was no shyster, was quite likely full of shit.

The fair folk were escaping through a diminuitive dream, and then they were following in the footsteps of Puck and Titania, and the less degraded fragments of the distant lands of old.

Bolton was supposed to hate everyone and everything that he hunted but he had a horrible feeling that he was just a foreign invader brought into catch and kill and solve the problem of a breed of insects. Once he had solved the problem currently troubling them he felt they would turn on him.

Tides of faery, and tides of blood. The strange places that could be turned into battlefields, and for a moment, before you recognised what you were looking at it might look like a field of butterflies or a field skinned in stained glass.

Who got inured to this? Shouldn’t a machine built for murder come with that software ready loaded? Ah, but magic was adaptive, and chaotic, and fluid, and it sloshed around inside him, and that fluid was honeyed in the sun of the brightness of these beings.

Stood atop Badon Hill he stopped. He took his hammer and he crushed the hand that killed the most. And he sat down and his empty eyes did not fill with tears, but they strained to dream some ghostly misery under a broken three quarter moon. He waited to see what might come his way.

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