Which Changeling Are You?

[Wade Wilson]

OkCupid.com: Take Which Changeling Are You?

The Courtless
"We only have ourselves."

My mother killed her little son,

My father smiled when I was gone,

My sister loved me best of all;

She buried the family one and all.


Once there was a girl, who had no father or mother. All alone in a shack at the end of the village dwelt her godmother, a wicked and cruel woman, yet with just an ounce of heart. This woman wasn’t really a woman, but a disturbed Fae who made her keep amongst the living by spinning, weaving and sewing. The old woman took the miserable child in and put her to work on the loom.

So the years went by and the child eventually mastered the spindle, with it she drew fine lines of thread strong as wire. You had to get it right; else old mother Fay would cut off a finger as a lesson. The girl lost many fingers, but her thread was powerful and she fashioned replacements soon enough.

Eventually she also mastered the shuttle even when her fingers were slick with blood. She had to get it right; else old mother Fay would rip her hair out and make her weave a tapestry from it. Many tapestries later, the girl mastered both arts, and fashioned herself the most beautiful head of hair.

Eventually, she mastered the needle, and hardly noticed when she stitched through her finger tips. You had to get it right, or the old mother Fay would leave you with open seams. Many stitches and many cuts later, the pincushion girl was the most beautiful in the land and also the cleverest.

But she didn’t remain a docile creature, and she was slowly becoming her own master. One day, she would need to be rid of the old tyrant of a creature. The old mother Fay had taken to sleeping at all hours of the day, but try as she may the maiden couldn’t bring herself to challenge her.

One day as she was spinning, the solution came to her.

“Spindle, my spindle, haste thee away,

And here to my house bring the woodsman I pray.”

The spindle sprang out of her hand, out the door and she saw it dancing merrily in the country, drawing a golden thread behind it. Before long it vanished from sight so she took the weaver’s shuttle in her hand, sat down to her loom and began to weave. Soon she began singing another song.

“Shuttle, my shuttle, weave well this day,

And guide the woodsman to me, I pray.”

Immediately the shuttle sprang away and out the door. Before the threshold, it began to weave a tapestry which was more beautiful than the eyes of man had ever yet beheld. Lilies and roses blossomed on both sides and on the golden ground in the centre, green branches ascended, where all kinds of creatures frolicked. In the leaves, brightly colored birds sat, lacking nothing but song. As she held the needle in hand, she sang another song.

“Needle, my needle, sharp-pointed and fine,

Prepare a crime to anger this woodsman of mine.”

The needle leapt out of her fingers and flew everywhere quick as lightning. It threw down the flowers, it turned over the pots, the windows were broken and the door was knocked open. The maiden took herself and began to unstitch the seams that held her together. Very timely were her arts for the woodsman gasped in awe outside, but in dismay when he entered the threshold.

“Who has done this to thee!” She pointed a severed limb at the door to the cellar where the treacherous lazy mother Fay slept.

Old mother Fay, was quite surprised when an axe split her head from her shoulders.



Courtless are a mixture of this and that. They were isolated from the other changelings, so they had to improvise and find what worked for them. Many were abandoned and many more had no choice in their time in the realm of Faerie. They learned incomplete lessons in Pride, Avarice, Wrath and Desire, as such their body reflects this. Many are as incomplete or replaced with parts not entirely human or fae.


Courtless are like mannequin or dolls, covered in stitches. This is alright as each line or scar is a reminder for what happened and how they fixed that problem.

They found it difficult to escape the lands of the Fae because they didn’t know better. They thought the realm of Fae was all there was. To escape they had to dream of normalcy, they had to dream of something besides sick humor and pain. They had to overcome what they thought was their lives, dream of something better. As such, they were born into the impossible; which is why, coming to reality was possible.

Look back on the tale of the wooden boy – who only wanted to be real. He knew no better, he knew not what was evil and not what was good. He was a fool, but a lucky and crafty fool. He knows better now.

 

[Costrin]

Beasts
"Life is lush, so is death."

Your result for Which Changeling Are You? ...
Beasts

"Life is lush, so is death."



Open the door, my darling dear,

Open the door to true love here!

Mind the words that you say,

Else find your heart ripped away!





On the end of a long journey, a man took shelter from a storm in an empty palace. As he left that morning he took a rose from the garden. The owner of the palace, a faerie in the guise of a terrible monster, captured him and dragged him towards punishment.



“You picked a rose from my garden.”



“It was only a flower for my daughter!” The man wept.



“I shall now pluck your heart.”



The man begged for life, for he had a daughter whom he loved very much. So, the beastly creature demanded that the daughter come to stay with him.



The man agreed with no intention of sending his daughter to the creature. When he finally reached his home, he found his daughter, lying cold on the steps. He found her as dead as the wilting rose in his hand.



In truth, the Fae took her and replaced her with a fake dead girl. The Fae treats the lovely daughter well but she certainly may not leave. One day she loses all hope for escape and agrees to wed the ever advancing beast. There is no ceremony, just an agreement, a veil and a wedding night.



On that wedding night, he lays with her and she becomes like him - a Beast. Forever; her memory and thought washed away in the flood of sensations. She is marked with the tyranny of now.



Love’s first kiss redeems everything in stories. The Frog becomes a handsome prince. The Beast is a loving man.



It’s a lie.



To kiss the Beast surrenders your mind to instinct. It’s a double-edged blade. Beasts live for spontaneity; they have a simple joy of living that is lost on all others. Colors are bright, sounds are rich, smells are heady and tastes are vivid. Theirs is a lesson in Desire and Wrath. They were shown a need to reign in their lusts and shown the results of their childish rants. Now they deal with the turmoil of feeling too much.



To love the beast is to become the beast. Memory, self-control and consciousness are lost. The animal is amoral. The animal is incapable of true thought.



The road to humanity through the wilds of the Hedge was arduous. They had to claw back their minds as well as their souls. The beast must turn against a life of lush experiences – long enough to chew, rake, and fight through the briar and bracken. Beasts live in a paradox. On the one hand they’re moral and conscious – yet fight and love their infusion of animalistic behavior. They are all that is human and animal. Civilization and wilderness.

 

[Moiety]

Wizened

"Fool me once, my bad. Fool me twice, you're dead."

Look to the shoe it is too small!

there's blood from cutting her foot to fit.

Prince, Prince, Look again!

She can't stand, she can only sit!



There was once on a time, a Fae princess who was extremely proud, and thought herself, extremely clever. If a wooer came she gave him some riddle to guess, and if he could not find it out, he was sent to her work shop to sew beautiful clothing for her. She let it be made known also that whosoever solved her riddle should marry her and have the riches of the Court.



At length three tailors fell in with each other, the two eldest of whom prized themselves great artists of tapestry. The third was a little useless but clever and thought he may have luck.



They all three lined themselves up to the princess, claiming the wisest of them had understandings so fine – it could be threaded in a needle. The Fae Princess smiled.



“I have two kinds of hair on my head, what color is it?”



“If that is all,” said the first, “it must be black and white; like cloth that is called pepper and salt.” The princess shook her head and waited for the second.



“If not black and white, then its brown and red, like my father’s coat.”



“Another slave for my closet,” mocked the princess, “let the third answer, for I see he knows for certain.”



The little tailor stepped forth boldly and said, “The Princess is Fae, she has a silver and a golden hair on her head, those are the two different colors.” The Fae turned white as sheets and nearly fell with terror, she had firmly believed that no man on earth could discover it. When her pride returned she said, “Thou hast not won me yet by that; there is still something else that though must do. Below in a stable is a troll with which though shalt pass the night, and when I get up in the morning if thou art still alive, thou shalt marry me.”



She expected, however; she should thus be rid of the tailor, for the troll had never left any one alive who had fallen into its clutches.



When evening came the tailor was taken to the cages. The troll set upon the little fellow with a welcome of its claws: “Softly, softly,” said the tailor, “I will soon make thee quiet.” Without a care in the world he revealed some nuts and cracked them and ate them. The troll was seized with a desire for some as well. The tailor felt and handed him a handful of pebbles. Try as he might the troll couldn’t crack the nut.



The tailor thus began to amuse himself on a violin. When the troll heard the music, it too wanted to learn. The tailor smiled at the beast, “Light enough for a child. Look with the left I lay my fingers and with the right I stroke it with the bow, merrily it sings a song.”



“If thou hast a talent for it I’ll give you lessons, but you’re claws are terribly long, I must cut them.” Then the tailor fashioned a thumbscrew upon the trolls hands and left it on tight and snug. “Now you must wait till I come with scissors.”



When the Fae Princess heard the troll roaring fearfully in the night, she believed nothing else but that the tailor was dead. But in the morning she realized with dread, she must fulfill her promise, made in front of the entire Court. She, who thought herself so wise, had been had by someone who knew not his wisdom.




Wizened are practical and talented. They are products of a capricious and giving faerie. These Fae brought help and wealth to the needy individual. However; when offended they remind us of our place. The Wizened were kidnapped by such faeries and have endured this strange malice. They were trained by unreliable faerie taskmasters and have become tireless workers carrying tireless spite. Theirs is a lesson in Desire and Pride.



Their escape from the faerie realm was fought using cunning and viciousness. They were bribed, chained and ensorcelled. They were threatened, cajoled and tricked. They escaped through a labyrinth of tasks which required multiple attempts before they broke free.

Many wizened make a point of rising above their Pride and Desires if only because it got them there in the first place.





COMPARED TO OTHER TAKERS

96/100 You scored 80% on Desire, higher than 96% of your peers.
24/100 You scored 40% on Wrath, higher than 24% of your peers.
4/100 You scored 0% on Avarice, higher than 4% of your peers.
76/100 You scored 80% on Pride, higher than 76% of your peers.

 

[The Outsider]

Fairest

"There is beauty in death."

Thou, queen, art the fairest in the land;

but o'er the hills, in the shade

a beauty lays to bed,



she's lovelier by far - so take her head.



This story concerns a breathtaking young man who dreamed of the love of a beautiful girl in his village. One night he made a special cake from a recipe he learned from his grandmother, and he waited in the dark for a faerie to come and take it.



The door opened; a dark tall faerie came in. He said to the faerie, “Not for you,” but his arrogance failed him; he shouldn’t have spoken to her. So he sat and waited a little longer. The door opened again; a loathly hag stepped in. The hag reached out her hand for the cake, but the young man slapped her hand away and said with anger, “Not for you.” His wrath got the better of him; he shouldn’t have touched her. So he sat and waited a little longer, and the door opened; a lady of unearthly beauty and grace stepped in, and he could say nothing, so stunned was he.



And the lady said, “For me,” and took his cake.



She stayed with him after that, this lady. She granted his wishes but somehow they were always twisted. He wished for money, and soon he married an ugly old woman, in the hopes that she would die and leave him nothing. The old woman proved healthier than he could imagine and was cruel and mean. The youth turned to his Fae lady again and wished the old woman dead.



True to her word, the Fae lady brought the plague to the town and the old woman died – so too did the young man’s sweetheart. He gained the mean old woman’s riches – but his love was dead – and so he wished himself dead and fell into a deep slumber.



He awoke in his coffin, buried six feet under, and as he began to beat upon the wood in his face, he heard a sweet, melodic voice say, “For me.” If anyone were to dig up his coffin, they would find nothing but dried leaves and stones.



This is the way of the Fairest. They take what and whom they will take, and they will have their fun first. They are to be loved and admired and they have right to treat that love how they will. The few who try to rise above that pettiness are something to be admired. They won their beauty very fairly.



Their flight from through the Hedge was the hardest to accomplish. The world they were a part of was hedonistic and very, very enchanting. It was a beautiful world filled to the brim with pain that was sweet and cruelty that was pleasant. They were surrounded by creatures thousands of times lovelier than anything on Earth. They had to focus all of their being on remembering what it was to be plain and to walk among the ordinary.



So, those who do leave are those with enough sense of self to abandon ecstasy, to love themselves and practice poetic justice. Theirs is a lesson in Pride and Wrath. Their dreams are filled with hellish beauty. Radiant blossoms become drenched in blood. Hair from a lover’s face becomes strands of barbed wire slicing their smiles away. And when they wake they don’t quite know if their screaming in anger or bliss.


I loved that test. Beautiful pictures, and great atmosphere throughout.

 

[BlackCat]

The courtless, same as the OP.

 

[redacted]

Ogres

"You blame blood or gold. We blame only ourselves."



Poor Top-Off my best friend,

I knew ye well till I had a bite.

My favorite dish named; Half-Done,

A relished friend named; All-Gone.



The tale goes that there was once a troll, a beast who dined on human flesh and carved knife-handles out of their bones. Business was good and the troll decided that he needed assistance in his workshop.



One night he stole into a village and took away three sons of a shoemaker. He worked the three in his workshop on drill and lathe and chisel and awl for long hours.



Everyday at dawn he beat them and fed them on scraps of raw flesh. One night, the eldest took one of the knives he had made for the troll and crept in upon him while he slept. But the knife shrieked out loud and would not kill the troll, and the troll awoke and cooked the boy in a pie and forced each of his brothers to eat a slice before he beat them so hard that they were all purple and aubergine.



The second son made a pick so that he could open the lock on the door of the troll’s workshop, and at night he crept to the door and picked the lock. But the troll was waiting behind the door and so he chopped him up and cooked him in a stew which he fed to the youngest son, before beating him so hard that his teeth lay on the floor and his mouth was caked in blood.



The youngest boy worked so hard and so well in the workshop that the monster could find fewer and fewer reasons to beat him, and the knives the boy made were beautifully carved and the troll found that he could sell them for more gold than he ever had before.



One day, the troll came into the workshop and he leaned over the boy’s shoulder as the boy carved the knife handle, and the boy pointed out a detail of the carving. The troll craned closer to look and quick as lightning the boy turned his hand and stabbed the troll in the eye. That was the end of the troll.



The boy wanted to run away, but he turned back and saw that the workshop was now empty. So, he didn’t leave. He ate the troll’s food and slept in the troll’s bed. And now he dines on human flesh, and carves knife handles from the bones.



Business is good. One day soon, he will need assistance.



Changelings who identify as Ogres understand this story. It informs them of who they are. They know that abuse creates abusers, that the victims of brutality can sometimes become brutal themselves. By definition, the Ogres are those changelings who have been shaped by unthinking violence and brutishness defines them.



This is not to say Ogres can’t be gentle, honorable or possessed of restraint. It’s harder for them, but they have a lot of practice.



Ogres found it difficult to leave the hedge because they had to escape vicious captors, through locked basements, chains and manacles, regular beatings and a healthy fear of those beatings. They inevitably had to become as hard as their fae monsters in order to fight their way away from it all.



Ogres must be exceptional to have come so far from something so low. Theirs is a lesson in Wrath and Avarice.

 

[RenaiReborn]

Courtless.

 

[redsox44344]

Ogres

"You blame blood or gold. We blame only ourselves."



Poor Top-Off my best friend,

I knew ye well till I had a bite.

My favorite dish named; Half-Done,

A relished friend named; All-Gone.



The tale goes that there was once a troll, a beast who dined on human flesh and carved knife-handles out of their bones. Business was good and the troll decided that he needed assistance in his workshop.



One night he stole into a village and took away three sons of a shoemaker. He worked the three in his workshop on drill and lathe and chisel and awl for long hours.



Everyday at dawn he beat them and fed them on scraps of raw flesh. One night, the eldest took one of the knives he had made for the troll and crept in upon him while he slept. But the knife shrieked out loud and would not kill the troll, and the troll awoke and cooked the boy in a pie and forced each of his brothers to eat a slice before he beat them so hard that they were all purple and aubergine.



The second son made a pick so that he could open the lock on the door of the troll’s workshop, and at night he crept to the door and picked the lock. But the troll was waiting behind the door and so he chopped him up and cooked him in a stew which he fed to the youngest son, before beating him so hard that his teeth lay on the floor and his mouth was caked in blood.



The youngest boy worked so hard and so well in the workshop that the monster could find fewer and fewer reasons to beat him, and the knives the boy made were beautifully carved and the troll found that he could sell them for more gold than he ever had before.



One day, the troll came into the workshop and he leaned over the boy’s shoulder as the boy carved the knife handle, and the boy pointed out a detail of the carving. The troll craned closer to look and quick as lightning the boy turned his hand and stabbed the troll in the eye. That was the end of the troll.



The boy wanted to run away, but he turned back and saw that the workshop was now empty. So, he didn’t leave. He ate the troll’s food and slept in the troll’s bed. And now he dines on human flesh, and carves knife handles from the bones.



Business is good. One day soon, he will need assistance.



Changelings who identify as Ogres understand this story. It informs them of who they are. They know that abuse creates abusers, that the victims of brutality can sometimes become brutal themselves. By definition, the Ogres are those changelings who have been shaped by unthinking violence and brutishness defines them.



This is not to say Ogres can’t be gentle, honorable or possessed of restraint. It’s harder for them, but they have a lot of practice.



Ogres found it difficult to leave the hedge because they had to escape vicious captors, through locked basements, chains and manacles, regular beatings and a healthy fear of those beatings. They inevitably had to become as hard as their fae monsters in order to fight their way away from it all.



Ogres must be exceptional to have come so far from something so low. Theirs is a lesson in Wrath and Avarice.

# You scored 80% on Desire, higher than 96% of your peers.
# 99/100 You scored 100% on Wrath, higher than 99% of your peers.
# 97/100 You scored 100% on Avarice, higher than 97% of your peers.
# 50/100 You scored 60% on Pride, higher than 50% of your peers.

 

[Vasilisa]

Your result for Which Changeling Are You? ...

Fairest
"There is beauty in death."​

Thou, queen, art the fairest in the land;
but o'er the hills, in the shade
a beauty lays to bed,

she's lovelier by far - so take her head.

This story concerns a breathtaking young man who dreamed of the love of a beautiful girl in his village. One night he made a special cake from a recipe he learned from his grandmother, and he waited in the dark for a faerie to come and take it.

The door opened; a dark tall faerie came in. He said to the faerie, “Not for you,” but his arrogance failed him; he shouldn’t have spoken to her. So he sat and waited a little longer. The door opened again; a loathly hag stepped in. The hag reached out her hand for the cake, but the young man slapped her hand away and said with anger, “Not for you.” His wrath got the better of him; he shouldn’t have touched her. So he sat and waited a little longer, and the door opened; a lady of unearthly beauty and grace stepped in, and he could say nothing, so stunned was he.

And the lady said, “For me,” and took his cake.

She stayed with him after that, this lady. She granted his wishes but somehow they were always twisted. He wished for money, and soon he married an ugly old woman, in the hopes that she would die and leave him nothing. The old woman proved healthier than he could imagine and was cruel and mean. The youth turned to his Fae lady again and wished the old woman dead.

True to her word, the Fae lady brought the plague to the town and the old woman died – so too did the young man’s sweetheart. He gained the mean old woman’s riches – but his love was dead – and so he wished himself dead and fell into a deep slumber.

He awoke in his coffin, buried six feet under, and as he began to beat upon the wood in his face, he heard a sweet, melodic voice say, “For me.” If anyone were to dig up his coffin, they would find nothing but dried leaves and stones.
​

This is the way of the Fairest. They take what and whom they will take, and they will have their fun first. They are to be loved and admired and they have right to treat that love how they will. The few who try to rise above that pettiness are something to be admired. They won their beauty very fairly.

Their flight from through the Hedge was the hardest to accomplish. The world they were a part of was hedonistic and very, very enchanting. It was a beautiful world filled to the brim with pain that was sweet and cruelty that was pleasant. They were surrounded by creatures thousands of times lovelier than anything on Earth. They had to focus all of their being on remembering what it was to be plain and to walk among the ordinary.

So, those who do leave are those with enough sense of self to abandon ecstasy, to love themselves and practice poetic justice. Theirs is a lesson in Pride and Wrath. Their dreams are filled with hellish beauty. Radiant blossoms become drenched in blood. Hair from a lover’s face becomes strands of barbed wire slicing their smiles away. And when they wake they don’t quite know if their screaming in anger or bliss

 

[Tyrinth]

Darklings

"Dreams can let you down."



Turn back, turn back, young maiden fair,

Linger not in this murderous lair.

My darling, this is only a dream,

Hush my sweet, no need to scream.





There are things a person must do and things that a person must not. This story begins with a hill, somewhere not far away. They say that the Invisible Throng congregate there, four times a year.



The rules are simple. From sunrise to sunset on that night, the people must not speak of the Throng, and from sunset to sunrise of that night – they must not leave their homes.



Consider the young man of courage and curiosity, who would rather see the faeries for himself. He tells his sweetheart, the sweetest girl in fifty miles, that he wishes to see the faeries that morning. She recoils in horror and says that he must not speak of it.



It’s too late; for she has spoken of them too. She weeps and says that she will not go with him. She retires that night and prays most fervently for her love.



The young man of courage and curiosity hides at sunset on the mound, in a tree. He sees them, as they swoop from the sky in hundreds, and without warning they descend upon the tree and sweep the young man of courage and curiosity away – taking the tree with them. One hour before dawn, the sweetest girl in fifty miles hears the voice of her sweetheart at her window, begging to be let in. She goes to the door and steps outside to embrace him – and she too is gone.



One day, the young man, still of great courage but no longer of great curiosity will escape. Upon his return to the empty home of the sweetest girl in fifty miles – he realizes something.



His sweetheart never will return. She’s theirs forever.



Darklings know consequences keenly. Many were stolen as a consequence of doing exactly what they were told not to. Theirs is a lesson in Pride and Avarice. They were shown humility and punishment for having goals and having a need to slake their thirsts. They now deal with weighty decisions.



They cling obsessively to the solace of the night. They love the quiet as a consequence of having lived in a world where whispers and deadly promises echoed to their ears.



Darklings found it difficult to escape the lands of the Fae because their way back was hidden. To escape they had to live and thrive in the shadow along with all who crawled there. They were forced to use their curiosity that got them there in the first place – to overcome the fear of making another mistake. They – dealt with their fears.

 

[Thursday]

Fairest