quote:Originally posted by Vee: "...and Imra worked her way in differently than I intended, but there they are." Imra always was a pushy broad wasn't she?
This is an amazingly wonderful merging of Legion and Arturian lore. Bravo! Well done, Kent! Can't wait to read more!
thanks!
al feedback is welcome, so post, everyone, and say 'hi!'
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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His greeting was as gregarious as it was insincere. Rokk smiled, trying to hide his wince.
"Greetings, Uncle Lot."
"Salutations, King Lot, Son of Auley," offered Sir Brandius. "Is that-?"
"-My wife, Morgause, my kinsmen." Lot interrupted. "Your mother's own sister," he said, emphasizing this to Rokk.
"My lady," Rokk took and kissed her hand, as she kneeled before him.
Standing, she spoke. "I have not seen you since you were a baby, nephew. And to think we all mourned for naught for a peasant boy all those years ago - a complete stranger! My heart is gladdened all the more that you are here, alive, and a fine young man!"
To Rokk's surprise, she took the liberty of hugging him. "Long may you reign!" she said afterward.
May I be dead before night, Rokk translated. Too many had warned him that his kin were likely responsible for his attempted poisoning as an infant - not that he recalled, of course.
"Are my cousins here, too?" Rokk asked. He'd heard much of his heroic kinsman Gawaine, and a measure of good word of his brothers as well.
"The youngest two are back in Lothian, too young for such a long journey. Agravaine you will meet at tonight's feast, while Gawaine is running an errand. He will be back for the coronation," Lot replied.
And what sort of errand? Rokk wanted to say, but thought wiser of it.
"How goes things, lad? Is king-craft all you thought it would be?" Lot said, slapping the youth on the shoulder, following his wife's lead in assuming family privilege with the high king.
"Meetings and politicking and verbal arm-twisting," Rokk answered, fairly candidly. "I will be at war with one half of Britain if I try to please the other half, it seems."
Lot turned coldly serious. "Truer words you've never spoken in your lifetime, I wager, and I never lose my bets. Promise them nothing. Listen to the factions, but avoid choosing between them like your life depends on it. It may."
All four stood silently. Rokk was for the first time impressed that Lot seemed sincere, honest - and helpful?! Brandius, too, appeared to be taken aback, and eyed Lot with uncertainty. Lot continued his gaze, perhaps wondering if he'd said too much, while Morgause looked from one to the other, before finally speaking.
"Perhaps there will be better opportunities to give counsel, husband. Our nephew no doubt has more dignitaries to meet before the feast," she said.
"Bishop Vidar!" Rokk suddenly remembered. "I must beg your leave, my uncle and aunt."
"Beg nothing. You are the king," Lot laughed as Rokk and Brandius departed.
The old Roman garrison that had suddenly been turned into the high king's convening hall was crowded enough that Reep could observe much of this exchange merely by standing still. In the hall candlelight, he looked like just another messenger reviewing his orders.
While initially annoyed that he'd lost his opportunity to brief his father and foster-brother, word of Gawaine's "errand" caught his suspicion.
This matched what the young Druid had told him, and he liked it not one bit.
[ December 26, 2005, 04:34 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
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Gawaine pulled his reins, ordering his steed to a stop. In a move smoother than his rough-and-tumble appearance would suggest, he dismounted with one simple, fluid motion - even as the horse had not finished its halt.
The robed figure before him was clearly a female. A noblewoman, perhaps, or a priestess.
"Greetings, Sir Gawaine," the lady spoke.
"And to you," he smiled. Looking around, he continued. "I'd imagined there would be a larger contingent to meet me. You are brave, to meet me here alone. I dare say there are some knights who should not be so trusted."
"But not you?"
"It is true that some would include me among such knights, yes. But you have naught to fear from me," he said, stowing his sword on his horse and removing his helm.
"I apologize if my disfigurement ills you, my lady."
"You are a warrior. You need not explain," she answered. Through her veil, Gawaine imagined that she smiled. "I have the blade," she said.
She opened a small chest, and from it removed a thick wad of cloth. She slowly unraveled it, and deep inside was a small hand blade, dazzled with gems and decorated with a strange bonelike substance Gawaine was not familiar with.
She opened a second package, which contained a small scabbard for the blade.
"A Druidic ritual blade recovered from the ruins of Anglesey. Hundreds of souls still cry for vengeance. Can you hear them?"
Gawaine indicated he could not. The one voice that haunts me could drown them all out, he thought.
She approached, handing blade and scabbard to him. "I trust you know what to do with this?"
"Oh course," he involuntarily smiled.
"Will you require any poisons? I have--"
"-Nothing I need," the knight sneered. "If Beren wants poison, he can procure his own."
Gawaine rode off, not a bit satisfied with himself. He spurred his horse on, racing across the fields and eventually alongside a river. He pushed faster and faster, as if he was seeking to outrun something.
He again pulled the reins, coming again to a stop, and he and beast sat at standstill beside the river.
After a while, he dismounted, pulled of his helmet, and wiped moisture from his eyes. He took the blade and scabbard, and tossed it into the river.
"Druids, find your own vengeance. Mother, find your own assassin. The 'Dark Stranger' will use me not! I'll be party to none of it!" he shouted.
A swan on the river spied him cautiously.
He collapsed on the bank, and stared at the glistening blade. Poutily, he stood, and waded into the river, kicking his feet, so silt and pebbles would cover it.
But as he did so, he had the strange feeling someone was watching.
You've done right, love, a female voice told him.
Reassured as to who - or what -was observing him, he rode on, eventually making camp beneath a large, ancient oak tree. For once, sleep came easily.
But several hours behind him, the lad who had actually been watching him had retrieved the blade from the waters.
[ December 26, 2005, 04:36 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
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Mysa awoke halfway though the night in a start, half expecting thunder and lightning to besiege the shack.
But all was quiet.
Looking around, she saw her escort fast asleep. She smiled at the irony.
The third member of her ensemble had not yet returned, it appeared.
Donning her cloak, she went outside. The first hues of blue were hugging the eastern horizon.
The woods were oddly silent. No creatures stirred, no insects chirped, nor did any breeze caress the forest canopy.
Do I yet dream? Mysa asked herself.
You do, a voice told her.
"Imra."
[i]Yes.
No one was in sight, though.
"Where are you?"
Verulamium, en route to Londinium.
"You've left Avalon?" Mysa couldn't believe it.
I'm escorting Jeka. She's to marry the high king. My time on the Isle may be done, but I still perform my duties.
Mysa felt a rebuke among her words. The dreamscape was shifting.
"Imra, I'm sorry. But I just couldn't-"
You and the gods may know your reasons. I truly don't care. You were needed. You failed us. We've adapted without you, Imra replied, now standing beside her.
They were on the Tor, overlooking all the hilly isles collectively called Avalon. It was a bright summer day, as it had the last time they met face-to-face.
"What was expected of me, no one should do. It was wrong!" Mysa exclaimed. Imra's reaction was one of pity.
Poor Mysa. How long must you make yourself the victim? Do you ever hear your own words?
"Do you!?" Suddenly it was Mordru questioning her, and the Tor erupted with soot and ash. All of Avalon was running and hiding, finding no safety from the wizard, who was suddenly sapping all of Avalon's magicks for himself.
A giant, he was almost as tall as the Tor itself. But someone within the Tor, an old legend reborn, was breaking out. One last hope.
"One last hope," Mysa told herself, waking in a cold sweat.
It was morning, and her escort was awake, roasting a small fish over the campfire.
"Bad dreams?" he asked.
Mysa shuddered. She'd never had her sister or mother's gift of sight, yet she knew there was truth to what she'd seen.
"If only they were that simple," she answered, holding herself and rocking forward and back. Sometimes she would yearn for Avalon's insulation, but she never before feared for it.
[ December 26, 2005, 04:42 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
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"I'm telling you, Bishop Vidar made many strong points." Brandius was on the verge of anger.
"Britain is a land of Romans, Celts and even Picts, of fisher, farmer, tribesman and city-folk, and believers in Christ, followers of the old ways, and even Druids and cults of Isis. I mean to be king of ALL Britain, and to rule all with justice," Rokk countered, trying not to shout at his foster-father, the only father he had ever truly known.
"Then do so, but do so as a Christian king of a Christian land!"
"I cannot and will not rule a man's conscious." Rokk maintained.
"And just who put that nonsense into your head?" Brandius was now red-faced.
"You did."
Brandius stood still, perplexed.
"What of Luornu?" asked Reep.
"Hrmp?"
"Luornu's... situation? If you're suddenly so devout to Vidar, what about her?" his son continued.
"Well, obviously I can't.... Lord, what's become of me?"
Rokk's eyes narrowed. "Vidar is very... persuasive, isn't he? Even I had a hard time debating him, while you ate up every word."
"I suppose he's a credit to his faith," Brandius managed.
"The faith you taught me was of a humble carpenter teaching justice and brotherly love. That carpenter in Vidar's church would be smiting the vendors and wagerers, if you see my analogy."
Brandius looked bitter. "What are you saying, boy?"
"Reep and I have been discussing... unusual gifts, be they from devils or from God. I think Vidar has an unnatural gift of persuasion," the young king said.
"You're accusing the top clergyman in Britain of sorcery, then? Strong words for a new king against a trusted and respected man," his foster-father countered.
"You never cared for him before," Reep said.
"Shall we fetch Luornu for him, then? Or Father Marla? If I recall some of your conversations, I'm sure your new friend Vidar would be interested," Rokk added.
"By damn, what has that fiend done to me!" Brandius said, pummeling his head. "He's a menace."
"Indeed. But whilst bedeviled, you did say one truth. We can't just accuse the church's highest holy-man with hexes and sorcery, especially when the likes of Mordru and Beren are about," Reep offered.
"Aye, for now, this stays with us. Reep, keep an eye on him, if you would. Father, you need to see Beren, and seek a potion or charm against Vidar's spell. Mayhap you can pose as one charmed, and earn his confidence," Rokk concluded. "T'is a wonder I was unafflicted. I shall-"
He stopped himself.
It suddenly occurred to him that Mordru was responsible for his immunity. But how did he know that? Was Mordru pitting them against Vidar? Or did it go deeper? "I shall see Mordru."
Reep and Brandius looked skeptical, but deferred to their king's judgment.
[ December 26, 2005, 04:44 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
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The road to Londinium was crowded, but not so much that Sir Garth failed to recognize a friend.
"Sir Thomas! It is good to see you again!" he cried, fastening his horse's pace to catch up.
"Good day to you, Sir Garth," Thom managed, with a small amount of attempted good cheer.
Garth saw the red around his eyes and somber look. "What ails you, friend?"
"I have met my heart's desire, and she will be mine never."
"Have hope, friend! Love is truly a wondrous thing! Your love-"
"-Has married my father," Thom shot back, with a snarl. "I had the duty to escort the lady Nura from Eiru. T'was love at first sight for us both.
"Yet duty prevailed, and I took her back. To Cornwall. Where my father now calls her his bride," he continued. "What fool am I."
Garth knew this was not the time to encourage Thom with tales of the maidens awaiting them in Londinium. No, the young man needed something to fight. Or someone.
Garth slapped a glove across Thom's face.
Thom looked dumbfounded.
"I challenge thee, Sir Dour of Illheart, to reclaim thine honour in a duel!"
What madness is this? Thom's face read.
"Come on! En garde!"
Thom was about to yank the reins and pull away.
"What? The legendary Sir Thomas fleeing a challenge?" Garth mocked.
Their fellow travelers were all watching with rapt attention.
Thom smiled grimly, and dismounted. Garth followed suit.
Thom began the duel half-heartedly, but Garth gave him no quarter, batting him with the flat of his sword.
Murmurs in the growing crowd triggered Thom's competitive edge, and he gave back as good as he got.
The duel would last two hours, and end in a draw. Garth's ploy had worked, and Thom's attentions were driven from his miseries, at least for now.
Tales their audience retold would soon portray the isle's two best warriors as pure equals and good friends, who fought from sunrise to sunset just to test each other.
[ December 26, 2005, 04:46 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
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Her conveyance was dark, and the road was bumpy. The glow of faerie dust gave enough light to examine her treasure, however.
She lay down upon it, half expecting to be scorched. But no, it was cool to the touch, and contained no metal whatsoever. That pleased her. "That's right. I have touched it before. I picked it up, silly!"
The embedded gems were each bigger than her head. She stretched out her arms, and was barely wider than it's upper end. She could also balance her feet on its long, slender body.
"They could tie me to this like they say happened to the one-god that the scowlers worship," she laughed. "It's the right shape."
The bumping came to a stop, and her conveyance was thrust around without warning. She was thrust around, eventually landing on her petite wings.
And then the top opened. She could see Mysa's head looming above her.
"Saihlough? We're about to enter the city. Please keep quiet," she said.
Saihlough giggled. Most folks who beg cooperation from the fae regret it, but she liked Mysa. She'd try not to me toooo mischievous.
As Mysa was passing the city guard post, the little pixie exclaimed, "Dubhghall!"
The guards looked at Mysa. "Just a sneeze," she told them.
Finding a quiet spot, she again opened the bag. "What did you say?"
"Dubhghall!" answered Saihlough. "He's the dark stranger!"
[ December 26, 2005, 04:47 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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"There's something strange going on, son, and I don't want you being ensnared by sorcery. If our new king can only count on one peer to be of keen mind, I want him to be you," Derek countered. "Now drink."
"Why is this potion not sorcery? Surely its maker is demon kind?"
"That is not a 'magical' potion. It is an elixir, made from herbs, roots and minerals that each have natural properties," said the Morgnus' guest. "Combined, their properties help strengthen the mind against-"
"-It still sounds like magicks," countered Dyrk. But drink it he did. "Gah! I think a potion would probably taste better."
"Wash it down with some wine, son," Derek gestured for his servant to bring more wine. "Would you like some, Branius V?"
"Call me Querl, please. and yes, I would like some wine."
Dyrk had swigged his down and thrust his chalice out for more. "One to get rid of the taste, and another for health," he said. "Tell me, B-, er, Querl, why do you look as you do?"
"A hereditary ailment common in my village. We are a rather isolated outpost, Colu, settled by Athens at its height. Lost and left alone, we have continued the scientific inquiries of our forbearers. The rather unfortunate drawback to out isolation is a rather jaundiced complexion, I'm afraid."
"Sorry I asked"
"Dyrk! Querl is our guest," Derek reprimanded. "And friend," he added, toasting the Greek lad.
Querl accepted the honor, but Derek could see something was bothering the lad.
"What is it, son?"
"Well, we've seen the effect of Vidar's influence on the mob this afternoon. While he has obviously long been a charismatic figure, it seems to be a recent development, this mind-magnetism. I'm trying to theorize how it came about."
"Magic," Dyrk answered.
"Well, that explains it all." Querl's sarcasm was not lost on Derek, at least.
Suddenly, something caught the scientist's eye. "My flask of formula is much emptier now than before I poured Dyrk's serum," he commented, eyeing the wine-servant. "No, not him..."
"A pitcher of water left alone will sometimes lose its volume," Derek offered. "Perhaps the same-?"
"-No," protested Querl. "It's almost as if someone entered unseen, while we conversed, and took-"
"Look!" he blurted. "A footprint on the carpet!"
"Ow" Dyrk uttered, as Querl grabbed at his sandal without warning. Checking his own, Derek's, and the servant's, none had any such mud.
"I told you," Dyrk continued. "Magick."
[ December 26, 2005, 04:49 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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"Near as I can tell, the fewer people around, the stronger his influence."
"Go on," Rokk said.
"There are definite similarities between three incidents. Your and father's meeting with him, Wynn and Zendak's meeting this very morn, and an... incident two days ago, when two men attacked some Pictish merchants in the street, calling them 'heathens' and such," said Reep.
"A small riot ensued, and the men later swore to the city guard that they had no idea why they did it - they'd only been riled up after talking to a monk at the marketplace. The monk-"
"-Matches Vidar's description," Rokk guessed.
Reep nodded and continued. "There's more. Sporadic incidents of one or two religious fanatics running amok ever since Ambrosius' death - all churchgoers or other frequenters of the Basilica Forum area of the city."
"And now every nobleman in Britain is gathered here in Londinium. All ripe targets," Rokk grimaced.
"Also of note," Reep continued. " Vidar's sermons are getting more and more rabble-rousing. I think he's trying to use his abilities on larger groups, but not generally succeeding."
"How small a group does he need?"
"I would guess two to five, depending on the wills of those involved. Luckily, nobles are a fairly stubborn lot. I'd say two or three of those." Reep considered his interruption of Vidar's meeting with the two kings confirmation of this theory.
"Do Wynn and Zendak stand with us, then?" Rokk asked.
"As is Sir Derek and his retainers," Reep confirmed. "And Beren and the Druids."
Rokk turned to Brandius. "Spread the word to those you trust, father. No one is to accept a private audience with Vidar. No groups of less than... five, to be safe."
He read his stepfather's concerns on his face. "We can't accuse Vidar, of course, but we can't risk losing allies. Who knows who he's already talked to."
"The local lords and nobles. Those of the trucial kingdoms, too. And Mekt of Benwick, I'd wager," Reep said. "Many of the other nobles are still gathering from the farther lands."
"Then luck is on our side," Rokk said. "We have time-"
"-To tell each arriving noble not to trust the man who's going to place a crown on your head?" Brandius posited.
Reep nodded at his father's words.
"Then what do we do?" Rokk demanded.
The three men stood in silence.
"Announce a plague. Quarantine the city?" Reep suggested.
"And when there is no plague?" Rokk countered.
"Have him be 'summoned' to Rome," Brandius offered.
It can't be that simple, Rokk thought, but he could not poke a hole in the plan. Especially with time against them.
He looked up and saw Reep's devilish grin.
"Send for Father Marla, father," Rokk said, now grinning as well. "T'is a shame the good bishop shall miss my coronation."
"Reep, you may have the face of a priest, but we'll need to garb you as well," he continued.
I must send word to my kinswoman, Thay. Her husband, Senator Festus, will see to it Vidar is handled properly, Brandius thought.
Rokk was elated to find the solution to the Vidar problem, and it now appeared that his sole headache was juggling nobles long enough to be coronated.
The following day would bring its own headaches, however.
[ December 26, 2005, 04:52 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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Gawaine had to dismount to chase his foe through the crowd.
"Stand aside!" He shouted at the various merchants, minor dignitaries and sight-seers hoping to catch a glimpse of their young king.
Gods. Has every country family in all Britain brought their homely daughters to Londinium in hopes of catching the high king's eye? he thought, dodging between peasants of wide girth.
His quarry had struck down just such as peasant girl, calling her a "godless heathen peasant harlot." They were in the quickly growing pavilion and tent city growing up outside Londinium's walls for the coming festivities, and thus beyond city guard eyes.
"Halt!" He called to his quarry, without success.
The varlet cut an entry into a pavilion, and ducked in. Gawaine followed, chasing him out through the proper exit way, with both hunter and prey startling the merchant family dwelling inside.
Out in the makeshift 'streets' between rows of tents, the chase resumed, with bystanders stepping aside with haste.
All but one, that is.
Airborne, Gawaine's chin hit the sandy ground first. He collected himself to face his attacker.
"You."
The warrior wore a green helmet and tunic over his armor. He spoke not, only raising his sword.
Gawaine stood and matched his move, bitterly recalling the cost of their last encounter.
After a few moments of sizing each other up, his opponent faked a thrust. Gawaine reacted poorly, and his foe scored first blood, a gash along his arm.
I am allowing my anger to think for me, he realized. This is no blundering Khund I face.
Rejoining the battle, the two locked swords. Each struggled to find an edge, and while a mighty kick from the northerner dislodged them, his silent foe quickly recovered.
"Why are you here?" he shouted. "To plague me? Or do the Dark Stranger's bidding? speak, villain!"
The man in green again stood, resuming combat stance.
The two barraged each other with bladework, neither able to score a decisive blow. The sound of horses led the knight to flee, from one tent and through three more. Gawaine gave chase, only to run into a crowded makeshift market square.
"Gone! Damn him. He'll yet pay," he vowed. "For you, my love. He'll pay."
He followed the sound of the horse to another clearing between pavilions, where Rokk and a red-haired peer had beaten his original quarry.
"Well, thanks for that," he murmured, approaching.
"I say the scoundrel should die!" he heard Rokk's companion say.
"Mayhap. We shall hear his case on the morrow. I suspect t'was yet another case of sorcery that made him do it. There's been a veritable plague of people acting as not themselves."
Sorcery? Aye, I have heard as much about as much from the events of three days' agone. My cousin is wise to not rush to judge. I'd have yet killed the man, Gawaine thought. He is a fair man.
Realizing he'd been avoiding meeting his cousin, Gawaine approached, ready to remedy this.
Rokk turned. "Ah, guard captain. Haul this man to the stockade. I shall deal with him after my coronation. Come, Garth." He quickly turned away, arm over his fellow's shoulder, continuing the conversation as they walked away.
He let the city guard follow Rokk's command, dwelling on the meeting.
Do I regret not trying to befriend my kinsman earlier? Perhaps. Yet I cannot blame him for keeping good company in the legendary Garth, either.
Retracing his route back to his steed, the young knight decided to was too late to regret his jealousies for Rokk or Garth.
He vowed that he must stop the Dark Stranger himself - and prove his worth, to himself and his king.
And let no green knight stand in his way!
[ December 26, 2005, 04:54 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
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"You know what we need? I've heard of an Ulsterwoman with the strength of twenty, who stands a full head taller than the tallest Northman. They say she fights off Khund and Northman alike - with her bare hands!" Thom joked, taking a swig of his ale.
The three lads laughed.
"With an army of such, I can well afford to worry less about keeping the local kings happy," Rokk laughed. "While my upbringing was Roman, who teach that war-craft is solely for men, I have learned much about the warrior-women of the Celts. Perhaps we can recruit this Ulsterwoman."
"Nay," said Garth, whose face showed which of the trio was trying to be serious. "I have seen the warriors of Iberia fight from horseback. Not the mangy ponies we have here, but beautiful, magical steeds from the warmer lands, bred by people who have made an art of it.
"Give me gold and leave to purchase, say, 40 of these, and I in turn will create a fine fighting force that will prove themselves worth 4,000 foot soldiers," he said.
"Forty Ulsterwomen will be cheaper. I know, I've had a few," Thom jibed, and even Garth had to join his friends in roaring at this.
But not the one you wanted most, Garth responded in his head, but did not wish to renew his friend's melancholy.
"What if we put 40 Ulsterwomen on 40 horses?" Rokk posited.
"Mares, I hope. I wouldn't trust an Ulsterwoman around stallions," Garth shot back, outwitting the other two, for once. He relished finally earning his friends appreciative laughter.
Rokk looked up from his ale, only to see Reep waiting impatiently.
"A moment, my friends. I must speak with my brother," he said, departing the table.
The two walked down the hall, whispering until they exited into the courtyard.
"Well?"
"I have confirmed Vidar's departure, yet we have three new reports of strange behavior. Perhaps I was not wrong in saying a plague was about," Reep reported.
"Perhaps. Sir Derek brags about his new retainer, a silentist, I think he said. Supposed to be quite knowledgeable about medicine and nature, yet believes not in magicks. I'd like you to see what he may say," Rokk said.
"Ah, the scientist. One of the Druids has mentioned him," Reep said. "I'll go to him at once."
"Good." Rokk sensed something else was on Reep's mind. "What else?"
"Well, the Princess Guinevere of North Cymru has arrived. She's staying at the convent."
Rokk felt his legs quiver under him, and let out a long breath. "I'd sooner face a Khund horde single-handedly than contemplate marriage to a lady I've never seen. I swear, old kings are worse than village crones with their match-making."
"Ah, but a match by village crone can't secure the loyalty of all the western and northern kings," Reep reminded him.
Rokk thought about Luornu. He missed her. "Has-?"
"-She'll be here, too, probably by evening," Reep guessed the question. "She's traveling with Father Marla."
"Good," he said. "I trust that's all?"
"Well, no. There's a woman who claims to be your sister here to see you."
"My sister?" Rokk couldn't believe it. "I have no--- She must be a madwoman or a liar!" He was slightly angry at the prospect.
"Beren vouches for her."
"The Druids again! Perhaps I give them too much of my ear. I shall see what Morgause thinks. Even her lies can be more transparent than a Druid's truths!" he exclaimed, storming off.
[ December 26, 2005, 05:01 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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posted
Notes on parts 11-20: 11: Sometimes when writing, a character will write something themselves that totally surprises the writer. Lot does it here with his advice. BTW, Did anyone catch the very first cross-continuity hint of this section? 12: I initially had story-structural issues whether it was a lad or lass that picked the blade out. But in the end, it didn't really matter, as I opted they were all traveling together (another section hopefully made it obvious with who they traveled). Gawaine's disfigurement should be explained before I get to the Notes for 21-30. Other parts of his story might also receive at least partial explanations by then, too. 13: I know dreams are a cheap and convenient way to foreshadow, but this bit wrote itself. I'll try to keep it to a minimum in the future, or keep it "off-camera." post-14: Oops! I skipped Rokk's talk with Mordru. I'll have to reincorporate it into their next talk. 15: Lancelot and Tristan were supposed to be instant, good friends. Hence, Garth and Thom. Eriu is Ireland, in case you hadn't guessed. (For the really geo-challenged, the Ulster of #20 is northern Ireland.) 17: This was NOT the debut of the footprint-person. 18: Festus was an actual Roman senator of that time (even though the last Western emperor was already history). 16, 19, 20: They are what they are. Or are they?
[ December 26, 2005, 05:03 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
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She sat very still on the chair near the fireplace. She didn't even look at him right away, slowly, sometimes almost imperceptibly turning her head, as if imitating his opening of the door.
He tried to smile, but knew he must be looking very sheepishly.
"So. You must be. My-. The lady Mysa." He winced. That couldn't have sounded any more awkward if he'd tried.
"Gwydion," she whispered, and a face that had struggled not to tremble now warmed into a smile. "It truly is you."
"I'm sorry, but I don't remember you."
"No, you wouldn't. I'm not surprised. You were a babe of less than two years."
They both spoke simultaneously, then stopped short, each bending over to yield the conversation to the other. Mysa, with more years at personal politics, eventually coaxed him to speak.
"What was our mother like?"
"She was tall. Red-haired, like me, but much more beautiful. Truly a woman two kings would make war over," she said, proudly.
"You must have hated Ambrosius."
Mysa was taken aback. "Why, no. I admit, as a girl, when being punished, I would tell myself that my father would have treated me better, but in truth, both were sons of Rome, who had no use or care for daughters. Uther - your Ambrosius - did try to like me, I recall. To please my mother. Our mother."
"It still rings odd to my ears to hear Ambrosius, last of the Roman commanders, to be called Uther the Pendragon by the Celts." Rokk was warming to her.
"Oh, he was the Pendragon. He stood down his soldiers, and traveled alone to follow the old rituals of Avalon, to truly be high king of all Britain. Willingly. And all the peoples of the Old Ways embraced him. The Celts. The Picts. The Faerie."
"The faerie?" Rokk was genuinely surprised. "There truly are such beings?"
"Oh, yes. Some are closer than you might believe," she smiled.
"So, I, too, must go to Avalon to win over these peoples? Like Amb- uh, Uther did? Is that why you are here?"
"No. I am here to reunite with my brother and congratulate him on his coronation. Uther made the pledges for himself and his line to come. You need only to renew that pledge, if you choose. But that's for you to take up with Beren. I," she paused for emphasis, "Would like nothing more than enjoy the company of my long-lost brother."
While by no means ugly, she was not nearly as appealing as many of the nobles' daughters were. But her charming smile and friendly green eyes did make Rokk somewhat regret that she was kin.
They talked into the night, mostly with Mysa telling family stories he was too young to remember. With the aid of wine, she recalled and sung his favorite lullaby as an infant.
"I remember!" he said, the last few vestiges of doubt fading. "I remember..."
And he did remember. A young red-haired girl holding him, cradling him, singing that song... a red-haired woman tending him while he was sick and hurting... the same woman rushing out to greet a man on horse.
"Ambrosius," he whispered, recalling the face. NO! It's got to be a lie, he thought, imagining that same face with 20 years added to it.
Mysa, who was holding him and singing softly, lost in her own memories, immediately noticed him stiffen up. "Gwydion? What's wrong?"
"It can't be true," blurted the young man, wiping the heavy tears from his face. "It can't!"
For the second time that eve, he stormed out, with the intent of forcing truth from newfound family.
[ December 26, 2005, 05:05 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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Mysa gently made her way through the garrison halls. She had not yet been introduced to the staff and guards as the king's brother.
Would that he still believes that truth, she thought, given their conversation's ending. The thought of little Gwydion not only rejecting her - but thinking her a charlatan - hurt her deeply.
She crossed the dining hall, in order to continue her search in the western wing.
"Mysa of the Faeries," remarked a man sitting alone in the almost-dark hall. The fire was burning low, and he moved so little he almost blended into the support columns.
"Who is there?" she called. What man in Londinium would taunt her by her childhood nickname?
The man stood, somewhat wobbly. Clearly he was drunk. Mysa considered running, or calling for help, but her recalled her uncertain status inside the king's walls.
He stepped closer, and she got a better look at him. "Lancelot?"
He laughed. "That was Kiwa's name for me. I am Garth. Pleasesed to meet your acquaintance," he mocked, and bowing, almost fell over.
Mysa couldn't help laughing at him. "Lanc- Garth, you are drunk!"
"Yes I am," he said, as she helped him steady himself. "But in the morning I'll be sober, and you'll still be," he looked her in the eyes, "beautiful."
Mysa, flattered by the youth's desires for her, again laughed. "Come, my boy. Let me help you to your bed."
"We can't go to my bed," he slurred his words.
"Why not?"
"Itsa barract. A barrits-- a playsh where men sleep."
"And you are a man, yes?"
"But you're not." As his words were sinking in, he sloppily tried to kiss her. She evaded his mouth, and used his unbalanced state to step away while he grabbed for a column to support him.
"You think I'm going to share my bed with you?"
"Mysa. I've adored you since I was a boy." He reached out for her, one arm still holding the column.
"You're still a boy."
"Yeah, but." He started laughing for reasons that escaped her. "But I'm a biiig boy now."
"Goodnight, Garth." She started to walk away when the sentries could be heard coming down the hall.
I've done worse, she thought, realizing there was nowhere to hide. She sat on the bench and pulled Garth close to her.
The sentries passed without pausing, speaking only to comment on Sir Garth's ability to draw ladies from out of thin air.
After they were gone, she considered asking Garth to stop. But it had been too long since a dashing young man had nibbled her there, caressed her theeerre.
Ohhh.
[ December 26, 2005, 05:06 PM: Message edited by: Hey you ]
From: Vancouver, BC, Canada | Registered: Dec 2003
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You're really enjoying writing this Kent aren't you? It shows! This is fantastic, probably my favourite thing on the board right now, more, more, more!
-------------------- "Tempus Fugitive" the final part of the Adventures of Dream Boy series, set in the Three-Boot Universe. Read it only in the Bits o' Legionnaire Business Forum.
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