The Heirs of Britain - Game Thirteen

 

The Heirs of Britain

Session 13: 484, The Hand of Death

__________ Session 13: 484, Shrewton Manor __________ 

Lady Diane and Sir Elvorix are wed at the latter’s home of Shrewton Manor. The wedding is lavish and gay, funded by the traditional peasant levy. As a friend of Diane’s, King Uther himself, with his glorious entourage, attends the wedding! He of course takes Elvorix’s rooms, and everything else that he deserves.

The tall Roman receives many gifts; moreover, Sir Cedifor, whom he defeated in a duel in London, 479, finally pays his debt.

Prince Madoc approaches the groom, who talks easily with his friends Sir Iwan and Sir Vandagild.

"Well! What spy we here!? My eyes deceive if here not be the three young Wolves of Logres!" he smiles, joining them with a drink in hand.

The name sticks, and thus we are known. The Wolves talk, and the Aquitanian Vandagild reveals a personal gift; gold rings of camaraderie for each of Sir Elvorix, Sir Iwan, and Sir Vandar, in thanks for their daring and valiant efforts in helping him escape the Forest of Gloom. Handsome Sir Iwan, characteristically shy, is a little overwhelmed; he soon avoids the boisterous masses keeps to himself. He quietly gifts Elvorix a respectable sum of treasure for his wedding

As the guests continue to arrive, the young Roman’s new standing with a warden of the King affords him some privilege: He enjoys some warming drinks with Uther and his son, Prince Madoc. The King thoroughly enjoys Elvorix's cellar, his cheeks rosy and his tongue loose. Indeed, the excess of this indulgence is not of a kind commonly seen by the king… He is a little more jovial than usual, and he steps with a care-free bounce; he seems amenable to many things. Undeterred, Sir Elvorix continues to tap such casks of fine Aquitanian wine as he now has; a wedding gift from Sir Vandagild.

As the feast proper begins, Sir Elvorix gathers the attention of those gathered: With inspiring words he raises toast to the King Uther, the Earl Roderick, the Prince, and the Wolves of Logres! He pulls Lady Diane in close and supplies her a passionate kiss. A round of cheers fill the hall!

Soon Sir Vandagild is drunk, adding passion to this: He tells the gathered courtiers the glorious tale of the past year: From Summerland Hijinx to the Black Dogs and Hag of Imber; From the loss of Iwan to the Discovery of Sir Pellinore; From the Knight of Names to the Demon Beaver of the Bridge; from the Priest-among-Priests Father Perticus and, finally, to their escape, and the courage and loyalty of the Wolves of Logres and Sir Vandar. His wine-fuelled expressions are timely and powerful; moving and frightening and exciting at the proper moments! The story is well told, and the enraptured crowd cheer their healthy escape! To note: the Aquitanian carefully omits Elvorix’s terror’d flight before the Hag’s lair; this is no time for shame and cowardice; he cheers for the Roman’s wedding and hospitality, calling for more Aquitanian wine! Servants roll forth more barrels of the ruby nectar!

__________ Cadellian Reunion __________

Sir Cadel is here! The man is looking better; a little less grubby, his clothes stitched where required. He has taken a bath. The humble knight is characteristically awkward and does keep to himself for the most part, but pays proper respect to the bride and groom. Sir Elvorix shakes his hand firmly, and is glad he came; he tells the man to enjoy himself! Sir Vandagild approaches, glad to see the man for which that great adventure was undertaken. Cadel was glad to hear the story in full, and is happy that Vandagild is alive and well. He delivers his thanks and well wishes with eyes locked on Vandagild’s, a testament to the shy man’s sincerity.

For his part, Imber is on track to recover. He needs more laborers, and some hardware, but morale improves among the villagers and work is getting done. Noting his lack of wife, Sir Vandagild offers to fund a steward for the man to help in the recovery, should he needs assistance. The generous offer is politely and graciously dismissed; everything should be well now that the Thing is gone: Cadel signs a Hail Mary; God-Willing it does not return. Vandagild echoes the sign, and breaks easily into an impassioned rant about the Fey menace and their wretched, evil ways; Cadel patiently endures. Soon enough, Sir Cadel tells the younger man that the “Wolves of Logres” are welcome whenever they wish for a drink or visit; but please feel thee no obligation to come and check on me. Sir Vandagild nods, and apologises for any perception of questioning the man's competence. A friendly hand on his shoulder, Vandagild invites Cadel to meet the charming Lady Catrin, and his children. She is very keen to meet Cadel, the man for whom such was risked…

__________ More Wine! __________

As the day progresses, Lady Diane tugs gently on Elvorix’s wrist.

“My dear, though oft I drink with our most Gracious King, nought have I seen him like this,” she whispers, glancing surreptitiously toward the swaying Uther.

Moreover, the court too feel some need to match his efforts; an unprecedented amount of wine is being consumed this day.

“I have shared word with yon Pantlers and... well. We will truly run dry of wine afore time, even considerate of Sir Vandagild’s gift!”

Elvorix pauses only a moment, before replying confidently: “Well, more must be fetched! Nay, this night will not be the one in which the King is told the wine is exhausted!”

Diane nods; she’s not seen the King in want of wine before; she isn’t sure what will happen.

Sir Elvorix approaches his neighbour Sir Cynon, the Lord of Chitterne; the man is known for his generosity, and he stands near. The man is happy to help, though the year has not been fortunate for his harvests. He assents to the request, only begging that the Roman return a favour one day. Sir Elvorix, not one for misty debts, offers him a Libra instead; this Cynon accepts happily. The man sends his squire with Elvorix servants to fetch the fine barrels and ensure correct proceedings. Until they arrive, the Roman makes efforts to slow the dispensation of wine; this leads to some accosting of servants, but little else. Fortunately, none of this is blamed on the host.

__________ Rowdy Roddy Roderick __________

Soon Elvorix’s attention is given to his Lord, Earl Roderick; he has not forgotten! He makes effort to improve the relationship between his Earl and the King! Of course, this wedding was organised somewhat behind Roderick's back, and the situation requires some delicacy: Alas, Sir Elvorix, normally reliably courteous, lacks this. 

The Earl takes the offer as a sign of disrespect. Moreover, perhaps a little loose with drink and confident with his new status, Sir Elvorix accidentally refers to the Earl by name, a touch too casually.  

“My Lord” the Earl states firmly, with a hard stare.

“Remember that,” he adds, “when next we speak. Forget not who thy Lord is.”

Elvorix apologises; stammering out for explanation some twisting of party courtesy versus formal courtesy…

Sir Vandagild, unaware of the Earl's now dark mood, approaches the Earl with mirth: He still manages the courtesy well, and the two men shares news and disposition. Earl Roderick is glad to see the Aquitanian safe, adding that he enjoyed the story. Sir Vandagild asks for an opportunity to go Falconing or Hunting; he has been practicing his skills with his lovely and talented wife! The Earl is keen, and offers positive intent but no promise: He cannot be sure what the future holds, and challenges brew.

Sir Elvorix, still wary, watches the Earl cautiously. Roderick moves to speak with Sir Edar, a man with whom Elvorix still shares no love. He spies from the Earl a dissatisfied rant, and suspects it about his own behaviour…

Meanwhile, Vandagild finds Sir Iwan near a wall, sitting patiently. They talk some, and the Aquitanian reaffirms his Oath to Sir Iwan to have his own children help Iwan's with whatever Fae Trials await them at age. Prince Meliodus, too, is present! Vandagild learns that the chirurgeons were able to save the Prince’s noble squire from the Black Dogs’ wounds, and they have been resting a time at his home in Lyonesse. Vandagild introduces his growing young family, enjoying the presence of such a fine knight. Later, Vandagild spends some time drinking in friendly manner with Prince Madoc; they enjoy the simple companionship of comrades-in-arms. The Aquitanian is enjoying the eve greatly; his first in a great time, and his first since his trouble in the Fae Forest.

The Earl is among the first to leave.

__________ The Carousing King __________

Sir Elvorix sits with the King and his courtiers long into the night, drinking greatly and enjoying the time. He learns in the conversation that Lady Diane's family used to have lands in Sussex; these lands sit now in Saxon hands.

King Uther laments the Saxon menace: “Lo! What not would I do to smite that filthy smile from... Aella's face! Ugh! And such stupidity of name! Stupid fucking Saxons! Laying upon their children such names as befit only the dung of an ox. My heart would swell true, could I but bring men South, yea, and lay waste unto their abject hovels, and burn them, and grind them deep into this holy British earth! Rid this land of them, for good and for long, I say! And I say it true!”

He drinks deeply of his glass, wiping his face with the back of his arm.

“Alas, I have not the men,” he sighs, dejected.

Elvorix offers some ideas; perhaps other petty kingdoms might help us against the Saxons? They may join us to help fight the Saxons instead of other Britons?

Uther shakes his head, “Fighting with those other lands is the means by which I claim strength! And yea, such battles as these do secure and hold such borders as we now have! Dead, I will be, and in boney ground, before damned Cornwall comes hither to aid me, or those so-called Kings of Cambria.”

“We did save the Prince of Lyonesse!” Elvorix suggests, “Mayhaps such a debt me charm him to our side?"

“The prince of Lyonesse? M.. Mehh… hh… Meliodus? Hrmph. Heard he doth well handle a blade."

Elvorix assents, gesturing to the Prince across the room. 

The King nods his head "Huh. I do wonder then to know; what horse can yonder Prince muster, and what foot?"

The Roman offers to fetch said Prince; Uther holds up a hand; Now is not the time. The King declares that he is not in a stately affair. Thus, Sir Elvorix offers himself as an envoy for future opportunities; Uther tells he will keep it in mind.

The Roman says he’s glad to be of any assistance planning for the future, and with righteous fury for the demise of the Saxons; he spits. The king too spits, and grumbles with frustration.

“So! Do thee tell me, Sir Elvorix; were I, King Uther, to bring men to Sussex, yea, and to slay those beasts, what ought I…. nay, would YOU do? Were you given charge, Elvorix, what would you do? To navigate their cursed, dense forests with our noble cavalry?”

The conversation wheels around strategy and tactics... What a great fortune! Sir Elvorix has been thinking long and hard these many nights, with no wife to keep him busy until this very night, his eves are spent dreaming of strategy to drive Saxons from British soil! Fueled so by his rage for Saxons, he has been mulling on this plan for some time: He now has a chance to tell it to the King Himself!

With fervour, he tells the King precisely what he has devised!

The plan is a poor one, alas; the King entertains the story, but he is not enthusiastic. The plan is bold, and feverishly delivered, but it has little strategic or tactical merit. Nonetheless, Uther mulls over the idea: Invade Sussex? It appeals to him. He will act, he says, if he deems it necessary, and if it is in his and the Kingdom's interest. 

__________ Dynasty Despair! __________

Sir Vandagild commissions the finest goldsmith in Londinium: Three like rings are crafted of gleaming aurum; a trio of hunting wolves lope freely across the plains of Briton, in joyous pursuit of their prey. He gives one each to Sir Iwan and Sir Elvorix, keeping one for himself. A fine garnish for the Wolves of Logres!

Meanwhile, Sir Iwan's study of letters causes his secret missive to yield: ‘Come disguised, meet a servant named Annest, who will arrange with you to speak with Lady Eleri’, it reads. He carefully folds it and keeps it close.

At Winterbourne Gunner, Vandagild’s father-in-law, the Pictish huntsman Sir Golistan arrives. His son, and Vandagild’s squire, Uvan safely returned, he nonetheless worries for the safety of his family. The strong ties between the two families mean Vandagild’s trials are a great stress to him. He opts to spend the winter, to "Keep an eye on things” and make sure his family is safe. Vandagild minds not; though both men stress for the safety of Catrin and Uvan, and each bears scars from the others steel, they nonetheless share a warm history.

Golistan eats and drinks greatly during the winter, to no little expense. He keeps close to Lady Catrin, his daughter, heavily pregnant, watching carefully for her care.

Soon, God brings forth the child; the sixth of the pairing and first daughter. The labor is long, pained, and excessively sanguine. The screaming babe is pushed into the world by the hardy and courageous Catrin, but the effort has broken her. Nearby, Vandagild paces, Golistan drinks, and Uvan fidgets; the anxiety of wait builds as little news comes, and long hours pass. Soon only the crying babe can be heard. A priest brings the news to the uneasy men. The Aquitanian rushes into the room as Catrin flirts with consciousness; memories blur of the next moments.

Hope; Disbelief; Despair; Heartbreak.

He grips her weak hand; wishing, urging words, whispered softly but with the full force of his heart, reach her delicate ear.

The sound of an ancient stone, clattering to the floor; dropped helplessly from a cold hand.

The drone of holy prayer is a solemn, unremitting rhythm.

Wails; throaty cries; shattering furniture.

Anguished silence.

A priest’s gentle, dulcet baritone: Lady Catrin rests now with God in the Kingdom of Heaven.

A healthy baby girl is born; she takes the name of the witch: Llyria.

__________ A Family Broken __________

Golistan, ever suspicious, is cold. The Pict declares that Vandagild has been cursed by his close encounters with the Fae of Gloom. Vandagild does not deny it; he is grief alone. The mention of Fae and their curses thrusts a spear of rage into the cauldron of his emotion.

Through the Aquitanian’s irresponsibility and ill fortune, Golistan has lost a daughter. He explains it thus: In those woods, something unnatural happened; you have brought a taint back to Salisbury. That curse has claimed his daughter. The Huntsman rescinds Vandagild’s squireship of Uvan; the Aquitanian briefly wonders at the legality of this, but he says nothing; a sad nod is his response.

So determined, Sir Golistan wants little to do with the Aquitanian. He takes his own son and leaves the manor; Uvan shares an apologetic, compassionate look; he grips arms with his mentor and friend, but both know Golistan will need time. Vandagild apologises for bringing the curse; he promises them both that he will seek a priest (Father Perticus, he wonders?); for he will see this Fae Curse rid. He speaks also to Sir Iwan, who also bears some dynastic curse from that horrid beaver.

Alone, he cries. Heavy, shameless, shuddering.

__________ Moving On __________

In late winter, Sir Vandagild stands in his shirt, looking mournfully over the broad, icy banks of the river Bourne. Whipping winds flick snow and cold about him, his long, tangled hair unkempt around a pale face; small ice clings to his cheek.

In his hand, a small stone. He clutches it tightly, his heart a swirling, uncertain thing. It is smooth, cold: The druidic stone of mysterious Llyria of the Wodewood; a charm for the health of babes. The woman foretold of five healthy sons; she said nothing of daughters; she said nothing of a dead wife. The stone kept his sons safe; but he can help not to think it somehow related to the death of his Love, Catrin.

He looks at it long, his face pained and aggrieved. Around his throat, fastened delicately, rests Catrin’s necklace; he gifted it to her in Londinium. Fresh tears freeze under his eye. He hurls the stone into the river.

Returning to the manor, he summons his steward: A monument is to be erected; a testament the triumph of Christianity over the Fae; he hopes this will ward the insipid Fae, and help rid him of the curse that afflicts his family. He returns to his children and holds them close. They play with small, wooden toys, he smiles weakly.

His friend visits: Elvorix has a cousin; a page, Atticus. A good boy, he tells. Roman. The younger begs a lord to squire to, and Vandagild is now absent the latter. The Roman believes not the rumours of Vandagild’s curse. The oath is made.

Winter passes, and the first, icy drips of melting ice shine like diamonds among the sunlit trees of a Salisbury sunrise.

Sir Elvorix has made efforts to impress his Loyalty to Roderick to the court. Sir Iwan has been training hard, as usual; he has quietly become the finest swordsman among the Wolves of Logres: Sir Vandagild is the finest horseman; he rides alone in the woods, galloping hard among the frozen trails he once rode with Catrin.

__________ 484: Spring Muster! __________

The Wolves receive missives; we are summoned to muster at Sarum. The young knights are among the last to arrive; as we enter the gate, the whole Bailey is stacked with knights, men-at-arms, and their entourages. We learn from the Earl we are to muster at Lindsey, and Lindenpool, to relieve the city of Eburacum in the Kingdom of Malahaut. The latter is a very Roman city, once among the largest in the north. Their ruler still considers himself staunchly Roman. Sir Vandagild thinks his name is King Mark; he is wrong, Elvorix tells him. Within Logres, he is known as the Centurion King. Within Malahaut, he is called Legatus Augustii. His knights he calls Equestrians; the traditional Roman title.

The Saxon Kingdoms to north, Nohaut and Deera, have attacked and are laying siege to that great city of Malahaut. The Centurion King has requested the aid of Logres, promising substantial reward for their aid. Vandagild is overjoyed; at long last, we will once more shed blood to help Britons kill Saxons, rather than for infighting and politics. And the muster is massive this day; anticipation grows!

Iwan notices the heraldry of the gathered knights, recalling the contested manors on the border of Summerland. Those men, on the border of those fae-touched lands, must have been recalled for this muster to be the size that it is; either that or Mercenaries have been bought. The handsome knight shares this. Sir Vandagild, in response, looks for an opportunity to ask among the muster for news from the Summerland border, but there is no time; the Earl, at conclusion of his mustering speech, orders his men to mount up and leave at once.

We ride north. The Aquitanian asks the nearby knights his inquiry; alas there are none from the Summerland border nearby.

A nearby knight chuckles; “Why ask ye, Sir Vandagild? Plan ye a raid on Summerland? Split some Fae princess in twain with thy hateful blade?”

“Maybe,” Vandagild’s laughs back, “I truly have little doubt that foul swamp is a nest of those treacherous elves.”

"Hogwash!" says the knight.

“Not so! I tell thee true: Those deceitful demons did steal my squire, and brought death to my wife with nefarious curses!”

The knight is sceptical; “Hmph. I think thee deceived, Sir. But God’s grace with ye!”

__________ Villains of The Vale __________

The army of Salisbury reaches The Vale; Levcomagus. The city is slightly smaller than Sarum but has grown rapidly in recent years under the stewardship of Sir Blains. Before us, six men stand in the road, Blains’ banner held aloft. The column stops. The Earl rides forth with some men; blades are drawn and shouting issues as Roderick confronts the men; but they are not intimidated by the great Salisbury muster. After time, the column turns around. 

Withdrawn to Salisbury, the column halts once more. Sirs Godifer, Golistan, and Hywell are called out of column, and into a large tent with Roderick. Hours pass. A page approaches Sirs Iwan and Vandagild; they are requested in the tent. Attending, the discover within a hastily constructed War Room: The Earl stands with 10 men: Sirs Amig, Elad, Godifer, Golistan, the Banneret Hywell, Sir Edar, and more men we know not.

As we enter, a tail of conversation reaches our ears: “… to stick with such enemies we know! At least we can be assured they intend to cut our throat, and we can treat them thus!”

“Bedegraine was too far,” adds Amig with a sigh.

Godifer’s passionate addition: “Let us not underestimate the Vale, nor Ulfius' preference for that upstart brat!”

The two young men enter; Sir Golistan turns, and double-takes on Sir Vandagild.

The Pict quickly turns to Roderick, thrusting a finger back at the young Aquitanian: “What purpose hath he here? I tell thee, he is cursed! We can little afford a cursed man in these proceedings; Nay, such Doom he wears, he will bring upon this whole army!”

The Earl raises an eyebrow, sighs, and nods. He turns to Vandagild and waves him away with little conviction. The Aquitanian bows and leaves without argument.

Sir Iwan now stands with the senior men. Sir Godifer straightens his clothes, and a silence settles on the room.

Sir Elad breaks it with his gruff tones: “Well. We lament the lack of contact from the Centurion King; perhaps it we find now the moment to secure an alliance with-” a sharp cough from the Earl brings silence.

Roderick speaks: “Prithee! Keep thy focus. We have invited the young knights... err, knight,” a glance to Golistan, “for a reason.”

“Sir Iwan; fought ye with us in Bedegraine, and fought ye well. And thou hath accompanied our Glorious King on his Parley with Cadwy of Summerland. Do I speak truth?”

Iwan nods.

“Well. I hope thy wisdom from such adventures, untainted by the gossip in these flabby walls,” he says, looking around, “will prove useful in helping us resolve such tricky matters as face us hence.”

The gathered councillors summarise thus: Sir Blains is holding his border firm, and threatens war; he gives us not passage through his lands. And he may have teeth, sharper still with the favour and backing of Duke Ulfius. And the Duke himself grows quite ambitious. We must attend muster, but our passage is thrice blocked. We can go South to Noviomagis, but Aelle will likely see our movement and strike our rear while we campaign north. We can march west, through Summerland, but it may be seen as an act of war, particularly as we still hold contested manors on the border; but who knows how they will respond. Or we can force our way through the Vale, risking a fight with those men, and certainly escalating that conflict. Either way, the risk is great.

Bickering ensues; more men believe we should confront Blains; A second large group suggests we pass by Sussex. Only Godifer speaks for marching via Summerland. Roderick asks Iwan his opinion.

The young knight thinks a short time; if anything he favors the Sussex route Sussex. Though there are many Saxons (he thinks them related to dogs, and thus they breed with inhuman fertility), he feels we will soon battle them in any case. 

He asks the Earl; would the King let Blains attack Salisbury in response to the King's own summons? Roderick, raising his hand to silence the ongoing quarreling; agrees that is a key question. Alas, if the answer were simple there would be no problem. Marching past is, of course, no cause for war, but Blains would not explain it as much. He only need lie that we pillaged or stole in our passage, and the conflict spirals from there. Sir Iwan, apologising for interrupting summarises thus: Your word against his; and likely with Duke Ulfius putting his word in favor of Blains.

Iwan recalls last year: At Castle Brown, King Uther told Roderick and Blains to settle their problems on the field if need be. Troubling. He changes tack, asking about Summerland. He learns that Salisbury’s diplomats are turned away without seeing the Hermit King of Summerland. Their dishonourable raiders continue to strike out; we only hope that Uther has requested the same muster of them as he has us.

Sir Iwan relates his impression of King Cadwy; he seems willing to let the King’s muster travel through his lands without bloodshed. And marching past Sussex would surely lead to our lands and families being raided; our armies bled from behind.

In finality, the young knight Iwan agrees with the diplomatic Sir Godifer; the Summerland route seems wisest. It will allow us to reach muster as quickly and safely as possible, and the conflict is already established. The risk of long-term injury is modest. The risks of Sussex invasions, and escalating trouble with Blains, is too great.

His conclusion leads to a new chorus of dissent and argument. The Earl thanks Iwan, reminding him that everything he heard in this council is private; he is stern on this. Should Roderick hear of this spreading, he will not take it kindly. Iwan swears on his honor, word, and name: Nothing here will be repeated. Iwan is dismissed.

Soon later, the Earl gives the order again: Mount up, back to Sarum, the army marches west, through Summerland.

__________ The Road to Parisium __________

We soon reach the Summerland border. The manors there are defended at a minimum; beyond that, the foetid swamps of Summerland. The army marches within. No disease or harassment befalls us; we meet Summerlands on the road but they harry us not, and give the marching force its due berth and passage. Relief is felt by many.

Farther north, for several days. The Salisbury muster finds, protecting the southern edge of Lindsey, a great fort. The bastion is surrounded by the rest of Uther's force, and the King himself. The men of Salisbury are late, and are thus not greeted warmly. But the latest are the folk of Cornwall and Duke Gorlois; indeed, the old Duke and his men are absent! Again! We hear that the King has been cursing Gorlois' name under his breath among his court...

The united force, the best and greatest of Logres, marches north without Cornwall. Through Bath, Corinium, Leirstown, and to Linden Pool. At this latter fort, great standards in the Roman style greet us, a golden eagle atop each, marking the boundary of these proud lands. North once more, to meet the Centurion King; north, to relieve the siege Eburacum. 

Over the journey, the Wolves of Logres, being in the same Eschille, spend time mostly with each other. But yet some others become regular companions: Sir Elvorix spends some time with his neighbour Sir Cynon, Lord of Chitterne. Sir Iwan rides alongside his father-in-law, Sir Brannoc, and his old Mentor Sir Myles. Sir Vandagild has found Sir Cadel, who has few other friends, and is grateful to spend time with the generous Aquitanian.

__________ War, She Comes! __________

So arrayed, the men ride a narrow path through thickly forested lands, approaching the city of Parisium.

An eruption of shouts! A booming roar from either flank, thousands of violent voices, and a crash of steel on wood! Saxons!? Horses rear, and men spin to and fro; blades whip free of scabbards! Orders are shouted, but the scene erupts into chaos. A horde of Saxon warriors thunders from the woods into the thin, unprepared column! Javelins and arrows rain into the disordered ranks of knights and men! The Wolves of Logres each turn to Sir Amig; the rough man shouts gravelly orders, and they turn to face their many foes! 

Trumpets blare: Some order retreat; some to stand; mount-up; charge… yet more gruff, Saxon shouts from behind! Surrounded!

Sir Iwan, lance held high, watches in horror; time slows as a heavy javelin whips in past his eyes; he follows it doomed flight as pit plunges into the chest of the man beside him; punching through the tabard and maille, sinking through the centre of his chest. The impact knocks the man backward, falling slowly from his horse. Iwan sees his face: Sir Brannoc, his wife’s father, who helped secure Father Perticus for their Fae Adventure. The man twists, falling face first to the churned earth. He hits the ground hard, awkward and twisted; he writhes, reaching weakly for a moment, and is still.

The handsome swordsman blinks away the shock, and pulls into formation beside Sirs Vandagild and Elvorix with Amig, just in time for the Saxons to crash into the line! A thick swarm of the burly, blonde men is a wave, crushing inexorably from the treeline, their long weapons poised to wreak havoc on the Britons. From among the nearby foe, the familiar, disquieting rhythm of a fevered chant punctures the chaos of the met battle: Wo-Tan, Wo-Tan, Wo-Tan... 

Roderick's banner is ahead in the British Lines.

Sir Amig yells to his men: “Fight through! Fight through, damn thee! To Roderick! For Salisbury!”

Alas! The forces of Logres are sorely disorganised, surrounded, and terribly beset! No man's leadership could succeed here; it is the best Amig can do to get his men to formation in time; his eschille braces as best it can: A dense horde of ferocious Saxon infantry slams into the shocked line, Wotan Warriors swarming among the light javelin infantry... Each slings a hail of heavy missiles, which thud and crack against the British armour and shields.

Elvorix and and Vandagild are hit with heavier javelins from the Wotan; Iwan and the luckless Aquitanian are struck again with lesser missiles each: Light wounds amount from the barrage. Sir Elvorix, impassioned with rage at the sight of Saxon monsters, hefts violent slashes at the hulking warrior before him; alas, the footman's own fury and spearmanship are the greater; the long weapon crushes past the Roman's shield, ripping through the mail and opening a broad wound in his flank... Meanwhile, Sir Iwan glances to see his fallen father-in-law still in the reddening earth; his passion builds, adding fire as he thrusts his blade into his attacker's shoulder! The hunter, Sir Vandagild, aims his blow perfectly, slashing a clean blow into his attacker's head; alas, the robust Saxon stumbles, his eye gashed clean in two, but does not fall!

Sir Amig, too, roars with rage: "Come on men, grind these Saxon Dogs into the dir-!" the call cut short! His ferocious blow is parried, and as he shouts with rage, a great Saxon spear punches hard through his open maw and out the top of his skull; the blow flings his helmet into the air and rips his mangled head from its perch; the man’s limp body, rapidly drenching in his own blood, slips from his saddle with a clattering thud. Woe!

__________ A Desperate Defence! __________

Sir Vandagild, filled with hatred for this treacherous and brutal foe, shouts for the remaining knights to stay firm! Their efforts have cut a path, and the beleaguered warriors and are closer now to Roderick. Alas, in the chaos of the ambush, and with the traumatic death of Sir Amig, the Aquitanian struggles to bring order to the struggling men around him. Still, they press forward, fighting through a new swarm of wretched Saxons: Two groups of interspersed Saxons, some are clad in vibrant blue cloaks; these wield well-wrought armaments, and fight with skill and discipline.

The Wolves let their passion guide their arms; Sir Elvorix sees Roderick’s wavering banner before him; a chance to save his Lord! Sir Iwan summons wrath for the revenge of his fallen family; Vandagild fights for the safety and glory of his companions.

"For Roderick!" Elvorix roars; he leaps his horse over a stumbling Saxon; the impetus of its descent lends wrath to his well-aimed blow, slashing his long blade full through the collar of a blue-cloaked warrior; the tall blonde man drops, red blood streaming behind him. Dissuaded by Elvorix's furious assault, no Saxon can find a home for their treacherous blades!

Sir Iwan slashes about him; the blue-cloaked warrior times a rapid thrust, but Iwan catches the weapon with his sturdy shield, snapping the trapped shaft with a quick twist of his sword! His broad, warding slashes keep the other encroaching Saxons at bay…

Success is not shared fairly, however: Sir Vandagild defends from his blued-foe with skill, but the Saxon spear snakes through his shield and mail; another light wound. But Lo! The Aquitanian’s split attention pays dividends: A Saxon warrior is caught by one of Vandagild's prudent, powerful thrusts; his blade opens a modest wound in the man's chest!

The men’s success nets them opportunity; the crippled eschille rejoins the steady, reliable command of Earl Roderick! Alas, the Saxons have the disarrayed force surrounded on three sides; only the north is open. The battle is not going well. The army's signallers are blowing the call of retreat; anxious, staccato blares. Worse, the Saxons have split the British forces: Pockets of men fight desperately for survival. Earl Roderick heeds the call, and wisely orders a retreat.

Vandagild leads the Wolves onward hunting to find a breach in the endless line of foes. There, he spies! Javelineers, undefended! He leads the knights through the chaotic melee; A barrage of crude Saxon missiles weapons whips forth in unison; once more, the luckless Aquitanian bleeds, a glancing blow that rips his thigh shallow. The knights then hit home, cutting into the unarmoured Saxons and spreading red ruin on the road-side; with vengeance and vice do they ply their sanguine trade.

With that breach, the eschille is clear, cantering free of the terrible killing-field. Earl Roderick leads his decimated forces through the gap, north once more toward Parisium; Around us, several more groups of knights ride free of the butchery. Many more do not. No infantry are among the free. The men search ahead, scanning for signs of the King’s banner, hoping he still lives; They ride north to meet him, and any other men of Britain  that still draw breath... 

__________ The Wizard at Mount Damon __________

The grim remains of the mighty Logresian army camp atop Mount Damon; many wounded men groan, and others search among the disorganised mass for friends and family. Officers careful recover what is left of their men, trying to come terms with what has just happened. The King lives, and he is an avatar of rage in his war-tent.

Sir Vandagild, searching for lost comrades, spies an old man approaching the King’s camp. He carries a long staff, and is swathed in heavy robes. Uther emerges, and is clearly happy to see him. The barons around him, too, seem invigorated, and they gather to hear him speak. After a short conversation, Uther gathers the decimated forces of Logres.

He orders a night attack, this very evening, on the celebrating Saxons in Parisium.

“Worry thee not for thy tired arms and torn flesh; the Wizard, Merlin, will see thee fit and healthy for the battle to come! Victory and vengeance will be ours!” he declares, gesturing dramatically to the man beside him. The wizard holds aloft his enchanted staff, and it glows impossibly at the tip: as the light bathes the gathered men, wounds heal and vigor returns! Blood stops running and cruel rends are sealed. A great cheer goes up!

Vandagild stiffens, his face twisting; he steels himself against the wave of Fae energy washing over from that unknowable rod. His wounds still bleed, though some, alas, are lessened by the eldritch light. In shock and dismay, his eyes flicks to the gathered men about him, cheering and smiling at this treatment. Do they not see this Fae sorcerer for his truth? So easily they accept his deceptive powers and suspicious schemes? He spits, and storms to his friends.

“Harken thee, Iwan; Elvorix! This Demon casts its spells on thee, and with glee and gratitude ye stand? Know thee well the deception of the demons of Fae! Let not thy freshened wounds distract; knoweth, do thee, that no man stands there beside the King, but some twisted Fae, driven only to seek what suits its own evil designs! How can thee tolerate the touch of mischievous, wretched sorcery from this demon in human form?” Vandagild storms these words; but his friends respond weakly, grateful only for the healing and promise of victory.

The Aquitanian shakes his head, and marches furiously to the Earl.

__________ Aquitanian Abhorrence __________

Sir Vandagild approaches Earl Roderick in a rage; “My lord! I beg of thee a moment to speak!”

The Aquitanian’s face is a rictus of hatred: His dead wife’s necklace still hangs from his throat; the woman he loved, dead at the hands of a Fae curse that yet lingers; a curse befallen him searching for his trapped and lost friend, squire, and brother-in-law, Uvan; a curse oozed forth of the foul deception of the Demon Beaver and Knight of Names; and yea, the boy himself was lost while they hunted for another wretched demon, which did stalk the hardy, honest folk of Imber; a quest embarked not days gone from their dishonorable and wicked treatment at the hands of the Fae-touched rogues of Summerland. Yea, Sir Vandagild has exhausted his patience and love for the Fae. His heart yearns only for their destruction.

Thus, he tells Earl Roderick similar.

“My Lord, know thee well my trials this past year, and my grief at the hands of demons and Fae alike. I tell thee now of how the Fae entreat - with familiar, honeyed words they will bait thee. Yea, delivering fine phrases like the courteous words of good men; but yet, t’is only a lure! Their wretched, evil nature will soon reveal itself! This Merlin-creature seeks to lure us so!” he thrusts a sharp finger toward the bearded demon.

“To a trap, my Lord, to our deaths! Its demonic nature breeds only a selfish, twisted morality. We escape barely, where many friends did not, from the savage blades of the monstrous Saxons… and with poisoned kindness he washes us over with despicable sorcery? Hoping, no doubt, to build our confidence thus to ride once more? Once more into the slaughterhouse of the Saxons?! Nay, I say! He will make them ready for us. My Lord, more than any in thy court do I know of such wiles. The King must be warned. Be it my Lord’s will, of course.”

The Aquitanian is not finished.

“This enchanter wishes the slaughter finished, my Lord, and with secret, foul hope wants for all these good men of Logres dead this night at the hands of his Saxon Demon Friends! Ask thyself, I beg of thee: How came he to this place, at this time!? He rode not beside us, the good knights of King Uther! Of this we are sure. And yet here he is; striding right upon us, right at the site and time of this secret ambush? How knew he of this fight, my Lord!? And why for did he not warn us! Yea, my Lord, each dead man yonder falls on this demon’s conscience! I declare it true! This Unholy cretin knew of this ambush, yea, for he marched hence with the Saxons, scheming our death with those wretched men! And here, now, he plots only to secure our demise, my Lord; his magical “cures” serve only to deceive, to bid us once more return into the teeth of the Saxon Dragon and thus end the line of good British Kings once and for all! I beg of thee: Trust him not, my Lord; and warn the King of his treachery!”

Roderick is patient. But with a new battle looming, he has much to attend; his patience wears thin.

“Sir Vandagild: Merlin is a friend; of mine and of King Uther. I have heard thy concern. I expect thee to ride with us; I have little more patience for desertion” he says sternly, glancing toward the tents of Elvorix. He holds the Aquitanian’s gaze; he does not invite further discussion.

Vandagild looks back, pleadingly, then bows respectfully.

The Aquitanian has no fear of dying in battle. Indeed, he can think of no finer way of earning his passage to Heaven than dying beside Elvorix and Iwan, against the inexorable Saxon scourge, so twisted and manipulated by the unholy forces of nefarious Fae. He steels himself.

“Of course, my Lord.”

So dismissed, he seeks Atticus, to hone and maintain their arms, and a priest, to smooth the pavement for his passage to God. He prays for his children.

__________

Image 1. www.etsy.com/au/shop/BabylonSilver

Image 2. “The Battle of the Teutoburg Forest in 9AD”; fresco on a school wall by H. Knackfuss (1890). Norddeutsches Schulmuseum, Friesland.

King Arthur Pendragon 5.2

The Tetrad of Conclave: Chronicle Two

 Chronicle Two: The Conclave’s Embrace.

The First Born: These things are gods. From the many, a Conclave emerged; of five. Five, who chose, from all that birthed wetly from below, the first folk. Chosen, by wim or wit, as wards and favourites. Harken thee:

In the wild places abode DEIS: Woodmother; The Meadowing Bear; The Slumber and Storm. Drawn, by tranquil urge and formless spirit, to the fertile dens of beasts and berries; there she found the first of us. Brown; pink and beige; blunt and hairless; they squirmed stoutly, inapt and misplaced. Forth, for these, she apprised queer fungus. Forth, hence, she drew these folk; from the savage and serene she bade those who yet lived; unto the realms of stone and river she led.

There dwelleth AESTIEN: The Witness; Black Mountain; The Sword and Noose. Eternal eyes catch first the timid nomads’ foray; disturbance uncalled. But some truth he sees, with both eyes focused. He feared not their gentle mitts; feared not for havoc upon timeless rock. But no mere beasts, nay; of these tender wretchlings he spies in the heart: Order and edifice. With long purpose descendeth he; a glacier of stone. He gave unto this fated band the disc and the trigon.

Too, here, his sibling LLOD: The Wolves and the Water; The Courser; The Flood. With trickling laughter, in greying time, does it coax AESTIEN to change. The hunter it did hunt; little did it think of the folk; and it thought of them little. To hunt with, or for, it rode. Still; some followed it to the waters. To others it sent rains; their drenching amused; or floods; their bubbling howls too. But of meat it knew, and the folk learned of it.

At times, the wild sisters of folk were called by DEIS; these joined LLOD’s hunts, for some liked not the incursions of their new children. Some learned again the taste of them, and came unruly to the plains. They lolled in peace with full bellies; nests there they wrought.

The folk cowered, and did bleat; they dare not flee to the wild places, nor the realms deep and wet. Dark things preyed, as they do; and some light. AESTIEN, obstinate, took no pity; but lo, long purpose waned with the fortunes of folk. Though anguished so, he thus ruptured, and unto caves he bade the wretched. Dry nests, from whence some requital for the unmalicious mischief of LLOD and DEIS might issue. The hammer, vengeance; smite order from twisted things.

But fear swayed; no foray. How might resolve persist? Not when fates are so fell.

A Priestess of Austre (Art by Midjourney)

Hence, here cometh AUSTRE: Mother Mercy; Amber and Rose; The Dawn. A gale and zephyr; argent and pure she flies, all yonder at once. Her blood the rose of dawn and ruby of dusk; all dark things rend; yet here unwavering gallantry prevails. A tender hand cups trembling cheek: With kindness this, furnished unto the folk; this, to take forth; face the wild; the dark; the hunt. This to cower not in caves; this to bring love. But with mercy step forth: Her spear and shield cold silver, not burnished gold.

Last to conclave; drawn far on fragile wings was NOVH: The Willing Heart; The Covetous Crow; Frost, Fire and Fervor. Long hath he spent, distant from closest hearts; now returneth he. Cold winds disturb little; here rest the chilled ashes of long spent fires. He knows what AESTIEN sees not; sought by heart from these wailing folk, the raven heeds. All tinder and spark; bare throats raw; call thee, thrice, for the bellows of black wings. Bring close thy face; blister upon the burns of thy desire.

So furnished; step forth the folk. Limb and life spent free; the sanguine rush of reclamation; bring fertility to the field; fire to the foe; form to the flailing. Take heart, the young. Yea, heed that given freely; yea, heed that hidden keenly.

The Heirs of Britain - Game Twelve

 

The Heirs of Britain

Session 12: 483, The Hunters and the Hunted

__________ Session 12: 483, Castle Brown, the Court of Sir Galehaut __________ 

A rasping, baleful snarl rips the air; the great Saxon Cat, a bundle of tensed muscle, crouches threateningly in the corner of the hall of Castle Brown. Clad in short golden hair, a ridge of the wiry stuff stands bolt upright along its spine. The feline’s face is a twisted snarl…

The King, Uther Pendragon, sits in his throne nearby, his guards armed before him.

But it is the young knights, the modest and skilled swordsman Sir Iwan, and the towering Aquitanian Sir Vandar, who corner the beast. Sir Elvorix, the cunning Roman, rushes forth to fray, his dining blade to hand. He steps over the grand table, trying his best to look big and mean! Scanning quickly, he spies a ceremonial sword on the wall; its edge is no razor, but it is sturdy and steel.

Snatching it from the wall swiftly, he flanks the cat with a bellowed threat; “Back ye foul creature, back I say!”

Beside him, Vandar’s heart is a blacksmith’s hammer. He risks a glance at the cause: Not the beast before him, but the woman behind. This threat to the Lady Elaine, met this very evening, brings fiery blood to rush to his long muscles, and inhuman haste to his limbs. His great, new love for her overwhelms, and thus, clad in no arms but his gallantry and finery, he rushes to battle with the ferocious beast!

As Sir Iwan prudently claims a spear from a terrified guardsman, the other men engage! The speed of the cat stuns Sir Elvorix; in a blink a ripping claw has torn his arm; the shredding strike sends his blunted blade skittering across the stone hall! Distracted, the cat cannot slip a chopping, overhand strike from Sir Vandar, who hacks with his hefty limbs at the vicious monster; feline blood sprays wide!

Alas, overconfident, the Aquitanian swings again, powerful but wide; in the brief opening the Saxon Cat is upon him! Its claws plunge into his broad trunk; but its terrible maw latches deeply into his neck and shoulder! The bite is savage and the impact ferocious, the tangling foes tumble struggling to the reddening stones, bathed in their shared blood! Gasps and screams from the gathering courtiers; Vandar’s wound is brutal! Few men would survive it, but mighty Vandar fights on, unto death if she calls, thinking only to keep harm from Elaine…

But yet, the noble Sir Iwan is here! In a moment, his purloined lance thrusts deeply now into the creature’s lean, muscular flank! The creature snarls and twists away from the prone Sir Vandar, but Iwan will not relent! He stays on the beast, twisting the embedded weapon! It weakens; blood pools and torrents; some failing snaps and helpless slashes mark its final moments; the cat writhes weakly on the spear’s blade!

Vandar, roaring, barely conscious, lurches to his feet and, two handed, rips his blade down through the ailing beast's neck; the air is treated to a shower of blood, and sparks from the stone beneath! Without a thought, he claims the fanged trophy and flings it at the feet of his seated King in one fluid movement. The lofty man’s gaze leaps to Elaine; she stands, concern heavy on her face, but she is unharmed. Alas, the young knight’s own blood rushes like the great river of London; his neck is punctured deeply; his clothes are wet to the knee with the leaking of his own life. Iwan, unburdened by such passion; rushes to aid the taller man; but Vandar brushes him away. In two long steps, the Aquitanian is before the king, at kneel. The silence in the hall is punctuated by the rapid dripping on the stone beneath him; he is joined by Iwan and Elvorix.

A slow, single clapping begins in the hall: It is the King’s own hands.

"Hah! I've not seen so fine an end to a play as that, in... Well, I might say my entire life!"

King Uther points at the three men, his eye following.

"Well done, knights! I am sure I know not what the… Intended outcome was…” he looks down to the side, to the now sheepish Castellan and Host Sir Galahaut, “but that was a fine display of martial prowess and camaraderie! The three of you work finely together!"

He raises his glass: "A toast! To the three slayers of the Saxon Beast!"

Glasses are raised around the hall, and a great cheer erupts! Thrice, the thrilled voices call!

__________ The Power of Love __________

So dismissed, Sir Vandar raises his hand from his wounded neck in gratitude; a spray of blood erupts in pulses; he stands, weakly and searches for Elaine…

Many of the gathered folk offer drinks to the trio. Elvorix, with polite smiles, departs to find a source of skilled medical aid, while Sir Iwan quietly returns to his table.

Vandar struggles unsteadily back toward his seat; a wet, red trail marking his passage. He pushes through the gathering crowd, eyes only for Elaine. Holding her eye true, he kneels heavily at her feet, gathering her soft hand in his own sanguine grasp. Her face is a beautiful mess of concern, shock, and adoration…

She speaks breathlessly: "Sir Vandar, that was… Quite brave! I know not what to say… I..."

“Worry not, dear lady; I know what to say, truly: I love thee."

He holds her emerald gaze, as a halo of black emptiness closes in around her face.

The Aquitanian’s paling, silver eyes turn lost, and he collapses forward; gently at first, but he is vast and caught in oblivion. Elaine clutches to hold him upright, but is soon at seat on the cobbles, the ashen-faced man atop her lap. A ruby tide climbs steadily across her exquisite skirts…

Sir Iwan, unwounded and glorious, returns to his table Near the Salt; he sits carefully across from his unattainable paramour, Lady Eleri. Beside her, slung casually in his own seat, rests her arrogant and ignorant husband, the Banneret Sir Statirius. The modest young knight catches Lady Eleri’s glance; her eyes swim with adoration.

Still, Statirius reaches forth, clasping the young knight's shoulder firmly; “What a show! Hah! Truly! Such a well-struck blow, Sir Iwan! Doubtless, I wish I might have fought beside thee, but of course I had to protect mine own Lady. You understand, I trust.”

Sir Iwan is a picture of composure.

“I am sure thee knoweth well a valorous blow when seen, Sir Statirius”, says Iwan.

“Indeed! I've seen mine own share, bringing battle to the Saxon raiders in my vast lands. Of course,” he replies with feigned modesty “I would not, in normaler times speak such of myself, but, you see, I am quite the warrior…”.

He speaks thus at length, seemingly incapable of reasonable modesty. He suspects nothing of Sir Iwan’s heart, and seems to genuinely enjoy speaking with, or at, the young knight of Pitton Manor.

For his own part, the impressively well-collected Sir Iwan would happily murder this man. At the first polite convenience, he excuses himself to share a drink with one of the many folk offering them.

Sir Elvorix returns to the hall; the King’s physicians follow hurriedly behind him, rushing to a nearby table upon which Sir Vandar now lies. The Roman sits beside the larger man, letting his arm be tended, as the skilled chirurgeons work quickly to save Sir Vandar.

Soon bandaged, and attended still by eager courtiers, the roman is back to the feast, so abandoning Lady Heled (Sir Sulian’s sister, who he had earlier promised to attend). The promise does not slip his mind; he just figures the Saxon Beast, and his glorious melee, is sufficient a distraction that he can get away with it. He goes to Lady Diane's table; there is no seat, but Lady Diane unmaliciously bids a man to “Fuck off” to make room for the wounded Roman. Sir Hywell, the Banneret, and several other senior knights sit nearby.

Diane, a flirtatious twinkle in her eye: “Well now Sir, look at thee! Only just engaged, and already thou doth make quite the name for thyself!”

She smirks playfully, and punctuates with a quick kiss on Elvorix’s cheek.

The Roman tells proudly of his own quick thinking to claim the hanging blade, though he wishes it was kept sharp.

Sir Hywell nods, “Yea, yea. I can claim not that I would have thought of such a tactic. Quite brave of thee.”

So accompanied and admired, Sir Elvorix spends some time awash in the joy of being the life of the party.

__________ Never Meet Your Heroes __________

Soon, servants address Sirs Iwan and Elvorix: Sirs Sigurant and Arnoullant request thy attendance in their chambers. Iwan keenly attends; Elvorix clears himself of eager courtiers and follows. Sir Vandar is also visited by a servant with a pitcher of wine, offering him the same. The handsome Aquitanian rests in an infirmary but is conscious, and no longer a crimson fountain. He is slightly aggrieved that he, in his terrible state, is not attended personally. Nonetheless, he accepts: He carefully rolls to his feet, and walks gingerly through the halls of Castle Brown. The journey to the chamber pains him, and fresh stitches are pulled; his new garments, clean and white, gain fresh clouds of red. He holds clear in his mind his love for his cousin Sir Vandagild, whose life rests on the success of this meeting, and for Lady Elaine; so driven, he suffers the pain with reasonable regard.

He joins his companions in a hall. A head of some great monster is mounted high within: A twisted, mannish visage, mouth agape full of a serpentine tongue and rows of razor sharp teeth. It has a full head of hair, and a rictus of rage. Vandar knows the creature: It is a Manticore! Truly an incredible kill! Iwan speaks: What a fine trophy, if only one could be so lucky to defeat such a monster! Vandar nods his agreement; Elvorix walks onward.

Before long, they reach the chambers of the two great hunters. Within: Tall, handsome pillars hold a high ceiling; the room is furnished in tremendous finery, and an enviable bookshelf lines on full wall. On the right, a dinner table with several polished and cushioned seats. The beautiful giants, Sirs Sigurant and Arnoullant, occupy two of them, sharing a jug of wine.

The black-haired Sir Sigurant speaks: "So,” he sips, “I hear thee have looked for me.” he gestures casually to Sir Vandar, "The decrepit one in particular; is this true?"

Ignoring the slight, ashen Vandar responds: "Yea, indeed Sir Sigurant. But I had hoped not to sustain such a wound to achieve it."

The famous man nods; "Indeed, we all hope not. Come, come, sit; have my husband pour you wine!"

The sorely wounded Aquitanian does, in gratitude and relief; his companions join.

Sir Arnoullant, the taller of the pair, yea taller still than Vandar, circles the table; in his strong hands a fine pitcher delivers ruby wine to each man’s goblet. He is stunningly handsome, flowing golden hair framing smooth, masculine features; he moves with a grace and strength uncommon. As he passes behind the young knights, his perfume warms them: he smells delicious. Creamy and soothing, gently spiced, like some perfectly subtle dessert; this wafts kindly from his sturdy form. The knights mention it not.

Sir Vandar sips the nourishing wine, and praises the Manticore trophy from the hall.

Sir Arnoullant, from behind the group, sighs wisftfully, his voice deep and magnetic: "Aaahhh… yea. Siggy and I did bring battle to that beast that in the misty mountains of Cambria. That was… Hmph. It was uh… How long did we toil there? Two moons? Yea; that was, in likelihood, our third quest in those strange peaks, to find that very beast. We are very proud to have it.”

“And fairly,” follows the Aquitanian, “Good Sir Iwan here did rightly say how lucky we might be to earn such a trophy.”

Sir Sigurant: “Indeed, so lucky would thou be! If ye have any such ambitions, I wish thee good fortune.”

“My own immediate ambitions are much smaller,” Sir Iwan, “I must slay some smaller fiend. though I know not its awful name, it is a Hag in the Fairy Forest near Imber.”

“Imber?” Black-haird Sigurant inquires; “Never heard of it.”

“A small village, of little consequence” tells Iwan. He explains how he lost Sir Uvan, and Sir Vandagild, and thus seeks the particular skill of these men to help find and rescue, or avenge them.

A silence fills the room; the two great men share a look as Arnoullant returns to his seat.

Sigurant: “For us to help? In what regard?”

Sir Iwan continues: “I was told that thee were the only knights who might find their way in those cursed forests; I do not wish to lead more knights within, only to best lost so. Thus we need thy help to navigate our cause.”

“A Hag, in A forest? And a knight and his squire?” Sigurant is sceptical.

Iwan explains that we were forced to retreat from the deadly grove; this causes Sigurant’s eyebrow to raise.

Iwan covers; “There were many black dogs, plus the Hag itself; we would have fought on, but our withdrawal was as much for Sir Meliodus' sake; his squire was mortally wounded, and he himself; we had to find safe ground to save the squire’s life.”

Elvorix adds, “Prince Madoc fought too with us; he can confirm the tale; If ye trust us not, surely thou must the crowned Prince!"

The hunter thinks for a moment. 

“So. The two of thee, and this man's cousin, went to a forest with two princes to find a hag? Which you promptly found, and fled from?”  He does not look impressed.

Vandar interjects; “The second Prince was found within the Hag’s Grove, this Meliodus of Lyonesse, wounded and sorely outnumbered; these men had honest mercy for a wounded knight!”

The two men laugh openly at the thought of Sir Meliodus getting lost and so beaten.

Unspoken, Prince Madoc’s past words rush back to the memory of the men: “Sir Sigurant is a prick.”

__________ A Gambit Pays Dividends __________

Vandar tries to re-explain the story properly, but the two men are too busy enjoy the fantasy of Meliodus' bumbling.

Elvorix, with some frustration, interrupts: He openly suggests that ignoring the plight of fellow knights of Salisbury is cowardice!

There is a moment of silence.

Sigurant places his goblet down: “Be careful what words thou uttereth, Sir knight. Asketh thee for our help. And we are no lords of Salisbury.”

Arnoullant interjects dismissively: “Hear this; Siggy and I are men of many pursuits. One Hag be not the end of Logres. It befits us little to simply…” he sighs, and he too places his goblet down, “Truly, in all likelihood this hag of yours is already gone.”

Elvorix shakes his head, sighing with exasperation; he ploys his cunning.

As he starts to stand and turn, under his breath: "Meliodus said you wouldn't help, I knew it".

A brief, tense moment: Arnoullant starts to stand; but Sigurant puts an arm on his shoulder, urging him back to his seat.

Arnoullant bites back proudly: “Meliodus knows not his ass from his head! I tell thee again; it is most unlikely this Hag is still there. With three of you, plus Meliodus trampling around... These monsters are temperamental, and witty. Too witty by far to let thee retreat alive and hence dwell in that same lair.”

Elvorix: “Indeed, Sir! We expect it not where it was, which is why we need thy help to find now where it stalks!”

When asked, the Roman explains the location of Imber and the forest.

Sigurant sighs: “The Forest of Gloom. Known for its desolation. Yea, perhaps that is why the Hag does dwell in that dismal place…”

Iwan mentions the days dragging unnaturally.

“The last time we hunted the Forest of Gloom was, what, ten? Twelve years whence? It was similar then. Unnaturally empty. Interesting that a Hag would take up residence there. Perhaps it found safety in its solitude?”

Arnoullant nods at this from Sigurant, who continues.

“Thy cousin, thy friend; was he lost in that same forest? And how didst thee find the Hag?”

Vandar, proud for his family, and thus of Vandagild's skill as a hunter, explains it.

Sigurant replies: “He followed Meliodus' tracks, and thee with him?” he nods with some admiration.

“Ok. We can accompany thee; yea, to the forest, and to lead thee within. But this fight is for thee and thine; it is not ours. Once within, it will be up to the three of thee to achieve thine own quests. If the hag is gone, I advise thee not to search for it; risk not getting lost.”

The Roman explains that our first goal is to find Sir Vandagild and Uvan, and the second is to kill the Hag: “If we find it, we are Honour-bound to deal with it; but the priority is our friend. Logres can't risk losing such an important son of our country.”

Sigurant nods; “Fine. As thee know well, we hath recently returned from a hunt. We can not leave yet”; he looks to his Husband, then continues; “We will set off in a month; if your friend can live this long he can live a little longer. And if he can not then... Well, it is of no consequence either way.”

Sir Elvorix mentions the strange twists of time in that place and, with confidence, declares that if anyone can survive in the forest alone it's Sir Vandagild; he's quite the hunter!

Sir Vandar then recalls that strange period, several recent months wherein he had forgotten entirely of Vandagild. And then, stranger still, when all at once the three knights remembered him once more, suddenly and entirely. He tells of this.

Arnoullant's eyebrow raises in interest; ‘Hm. Well. Lose not hope for thy friend just yet.”

“Hope was never lost”, Vandar replies.

The companions are granted hospitality in Castle Brown until they set off; each seeks his Lord’s permission where required. Vandar is permitted to recuperate there by Baron Duach, and to hunt for his cousin; there are no more wars to be fought this year, and the Baron respects the dedication to one’s family.

__________ An Enmity Boils… __________

The next day, Elvorix prepares for his meeting with Bishop Roger.

Sir Iwan begs time with Earl Roderick. He learns that the King has decided on the marriage of the Lady Ellen, heiress of Wynchbank: Her hand will go to Earl Roderick! The Earl seems very happy about this. He also learns that the miscreant Sir Blains, steward of Levcomagus, is very upset; he stormed from the hall with several knights in tail. While waiting to speak with Roderick, Iwan spots a verbal fight between Roderick and Blains; among the barbs flung: Betrayal, cowardice, and dishonour at Bedegraine; Such tricks that Roderick played to win Ellen's hand; among others.

However, a daring new accusation is slung: Earl Roderick accuses Blains of hiring the men that ambushed his caravan! They almost come to blows at this, the dispute only simmering by a formal decree from Uther: There will be no fighting in his court. If they wish to settle the dispute, they may do so on their own lands. Sir Blains departs with his men, seeking counsel with Duke Ulfius as he does. Earl Roderick remains; he has been heirless for too long, and he is keen to start planning his wedding.

Iwan, shortly thereafter, approaches to confirm his permission and intent to Quest for Vandagild. Alas, after the conflict with Blains, Roderick is now unhappy. But, the Earl is committed to honouring his earlier word of permission; he wishes he could have more of his knights at home, given the recent circumstances and Uther’s decree, but he will honour his word. Next year, however, he will require every knight’s full service. Sir Iwan thanks his Lord, and resolves to spend the next month searching for Sir Meliodus, with little luck.

__________ Soldiers of God __________

Sir Elvorix searches legal texts in the castle chapel for some precedent to help with his meeting with Bishop Roger; he is able to find a passage that supports the use of church resources to combat demonic practices. He brings this text to the meeting hence.

Bishop Roger, a portly man, is dressed very finely; indeed, moreso than most of the Lords at the castle.

"Ahhhh” the Bishop begins nobly, “are ye the man who doth seek a Demon in the forest?"

"Yea, Sir: A Hag in the Forest near Imber. I dared hope a representative of the faith helpful in the quest to slay this foul creature, and sanctify its cursed lair."

"A serious issue!"

“Yea, verily. And, hence why I came to thee. I presume thou haveth many fine men of cloth trained in the art of exorcism."

"Yea, of course. But, Sir Elvorix, the church is quite overburdened, what with heresies popping up hither and yonder, and yea, the ever present threat of the pagans... Surely thou doth understand..."

Elvorix assents, but argues that the proven presence of this pagan witch, verified by the Crown Prince Madoc, is of paramount importance.

He produces his text; “See here, I beg of thee; the church is tasked with the protection of the land through Holy means!”

The Bishop mutters under his breath "Father Matthew and his tomes..."

Elvorix interrupts: “Prithee help us, your Grace! We need only one man!

"The life of a man in our sacred order is valueless, Sir Knight. Simply Priceless! But thou doth speak true: The Church does have a role to play in this."

“Thank thee, your Grace. I have also spoken with the Castellan Sir Brannoc, and he hath pledged a Knight to protect this priest; we know truly the value of such a man!"

“Yea, yea, I have heard this from Brannoc also...” he sighs, “Very well, Sir Knight. I will lend thee the service of Father Perticus. You will find him... around here. somewhere. Tell him that I bid him to aid thee. God bless thee, Sir Elvorix: Rid the lands of this abomination."

Elvorix bows in gratitude: “The evil in this land will not last another season!”

“Be sure to remember the generosity of the church the next time the tithes are due, yea?”

“I always pay my tithes in full”, the Roman replies, bowing, “perhaps a little extra may come available next time.”

The companions collect Father Perticus; he is a STANDARD PRIEST; he has little to share and is clad in a modest brown robe. They soon, too, find Sir Kentwyn, the Knight of Sir Brannoc's pledge. So bolstered, the party ventures forth.

__________ Ingress to Imber __________

The prescribed month passes; Sirs Galahaut, Arnoullant and Sigurant do not spend time with them in the interim. Sir Vandar heals well, but he still suffers from his morbid injury. Truly, the savagery of the wound would have killed most men on the spot. For his trouble, the handsome man suffers a gnarled, ugly scar on his neck and jaw. A man of letters and fan of Golistan’s fae tales, Vandar nonetheless avails himself of the hunters’ well-stocked library; he favours the tomes that describe hunts in the Faerie Forests.

The troupe sets off: The three Knights, Arnoullant, Sigurant, and the handful of squires, with Father Perticus, carrying books and ointments, and Sir Kentwyn, his guard. The ride is uneventful. The handsome monster-hunters camp with us, but do not seem keen to socialise. We reach Imber after several weeks, where Sir Cadel greets us once more warmly; his lands have somehow deteriorated further. We learn, however, that the attacks have ceased and he is beginning to rebuild. He wonders why we have returned; we tell him. He is disconcerted; he hopes they find Sir Vandagild, and offers them hospitality and luck.

We proceed to the forest edge, once more where the river splits the trees.

Sir Arnoullant scans the grove for some time; speaking with Sigurant at intervals. They take a hunting dog and, from a small pouch, sprinkle powder over the dog; it smells potent, almost like sulphur. They released the treated hound into the forest: it does not come back. Arnoullant takes us all near nightfall, leading us onward through the dark. We see little but trust to his skilled huntsman’s eye.

Once more, the journey is sorely tedious.

But Lo! As we proceed at length, we see the sun begin to rise; but not in a fair and truthful place; it rises in the West! Creeping dishonestly from its dark lair beyond the horizon, it claws its way skyward in a most uncommon way. The young knights are shocked; sharing troubled glances but speaking little. The strange shadows shorten as we ride, and soon the sun settles in its familiar unsettling place. So shines the troubled sun in the Forest of Gloom.

__________ A Testing Trail __________

Sir Arnoullant asks if this looks familiar: Iwan says he thinks it does; Elvorix says the time acted strangely, the sun didn't move backward, but it did hang in that same spot. The Roman adds that it was a long trek; it will be some time before we reach the fallen log or horse carcass. The two famous hunters converse, ask if we are confident heading forth.

Elvorix raises an eyebrow: This is only shallow in the forest; we would hope for more help finding signs of Vandagild's trail, or the Hag itself. He turns back to Father Perticus, mounted on his Sumpter: Does he know much of where the Hag may be hidden? Perticus admits he has never seen one in the flesh; but he knows from tomes and scrolls that if it lingers, its presence can be felt from quite a distance: Such creatures corrupt the very lands they live upon. Perticus starts to talk of the sun’s strange behaviour, but shudders mid phrase, and does not finish his sentence.

Sir Elvorix is out of his element, he wishes for the expertise of these folk he hath brought with him.

The new growth of this strange place continues to confound; an extra layer of herbs occludes any trail, but such paths can be discovered beneath the greenery. Sirs Elvorix and Iwan both talk awkwardly of their lack of trailsmanship. Sigurant rides forth, speaking, sighing: He would hate to see them all languish in this forest, and leads them farther in.

Elvorix warns about the fate of Melodius' fallen horse farther down the trail; Sir Sigurant laughs; “We can ride better than Melodius…”

Curious about the obscuring herbs, Arnoullant makes a decision: He orders the four knights to clear it, and hence make clear the trails he seeks.

Elvorix refuses; “Nobility such as we should not fall to such tasks!”

Arnoullant shrugs; “take us much time as you wish.”

Vandar sighs; he wishes only to make progress and find his cousin; he dismounts, and orders his squire to help also. This scrounging takes some time: and it is Sir Kentwyn who shouts first that he finds something! Men gather to see.

Sirs Vandar and Iwan note the tracks that he's seen; the soil looks dry and hard, but the tracks look very well preserved. Indeed, they look as well imprinted in the ground as fresh tracks, but very dry. Like a mud puddle, somehow? Arnoullant nods, rallies on the track, and we progress!

We travel for a long while, and soon the familiar density presents itself; Arnoullant and Sigurant hesitate a moment, but continue on horseback, as do their squires. The others all leave their horses, once more leaving squires behind to guard and attend the fine animals. The journey continues to be long, and exhausting. Sir Iwan is sorely fatigued by the slog through the dense and oppressive vegetation. By the grace of God, the impending sense of dread from the last trip is absent. But soon enough, the knights find the fallen tree; which Iwan declares he recognises.

Once more, the famous hunters ask if this is far enough.

Sir Vandar, searching nearby, asks for aid to find Vandagild; his trail is different to this one, and we know it not!

Sir Arnoullant looks at Vandar: This land is desolate, there is nothing but tree and stone. He gestures dismissively to the indistinct trees, this is all there is; what you ask is to find a needle in a haystack! 

“That needle is our cousin, our friend, and also our task, Sir Arnoullant.”

The larger man sighs.

“Well. Given how fondly you speak of thy cousin’s hunting abilities, I can tell thee what I would do in his quandry, and we ought best hope that thy cousin hath done the same”

He points through the trees.

“Yonder; a stream. A small one, down that way. It's the only uh, "landmark", nearby. If I were he, I would follow yon stream and seek shelter nearby. That's where I would start. The stream should lead to something larger, and then larger still; one’s best hope is where the waters gather.” 

Vandar thanks the famous hunters for such advice as they have offered, and tells him he will find him when we succeed at our quest. The hunters depart, wishing the remaining knights luck.

__________ The Discarded Grove  __________

The three knights, with their priest and his guard, descend the slope to Prince Meliodus’ slain horse: The undergrowth has wrapped tightly around the corpse, flattening it, almost dragging it into the earth. The horse looks quite similar to when eyes were last lain upon it: It is clearly not a year decomposed, but is very dry. Its chest is sunken and hair brittle; its dead flesh crispy and morbid. The stream persists beside it.

"At least we have some food, hah” Vandar quips, to little cheer.

The knights approach the Hag’s wretched lair, the clearing uphill. The feeling of dread as they approach is clearly gone; the stench remains, but much milder; it suits the pile of rot and death more truly, and lacks the evil amplification of the Hag’s magic. Still, it sticks in each man’s throat as they close.

Stepping within, the almost perfectly circular shape of the lair has deteriorated; saplings grow at the edge, and shrubs encroach. The grass is still dead, but less sickly. The corpses too, are still dead. Each is older, drier, but otherwise similar.

The Hag's tree, centrally, has changed. Previously blackened and ichorous, it now lacks the robust, fleshy-red mushrooms that lined its rotting bark; these have now retreated to some lichenous coating on the cracking surface; several branches have also fallen from the cursed boughs.

No hag or dogs beset us.

Sir Vandar inspects the bodies, hoping to find trinkets or signets to identify the fallen; he hopes to bring something back to the families of these poor knights and folk. The best hope comes from the shields; cleaning them of growth and grime, the heraldry becomes clear. Sir Elvorix looks over each one; he does not recognise the heraldry exactly, but recalls that he saw these banners in Summerland! We take them, and hope to return them to the folk of those strange lands.

As he works, Sir Iwan bids Father Perticus to begin his work; here dwelled the foul creature, and though the dreaded aura of its foul magic has dispersed, no doubt some unholy touch remains. The knights keep watch as Perticus reference his tomes, gently searches among his tools and offerings, and begins his cleansing rituals…

__________ Kicking Ass and Taking Names __________

Sir Vandagild paces within his tower-prison; frustration and anger ebbing with each step. His squire and brother-in-law, Uvan, son of Golistan, sits heavily on the single bed in the corner. The knight chews grumpily on some morsel of the ever-present feast that endows the table. Vandagild bids Uvan keep the bed; he sleeps well enough on the floor, and the younger man is no doubt used to that nest.

Thus, Vandagild paces, and seethes. He still carries wounds, though they heal steadily, so he eats greatly of the food, hoping to build his strength. He schemes of ways to free himself, and bring battle to the knight outside. Some great time of many sleeps passes like this, though the passage is difficult to trace; the sun moves not. Sir Vandagild acquires a taste and preference indulging in the fine and nourishing as this cursed tower provides.

After weeks, perhaps months, the Aquitanian is once more perched at a window, glaring with malice at the mounted demon outside. He strikes the glass once more, with little hope; he knows it will not break, protected by some fae or demonic power. He idly consumes pinches of fresh, ripe pomegranate. His target: The Knight of Names, he calls it; some deceitful knight of the unseeliest of courts, clad in flowing plates of mysterious turquoise, astride some mighty great charger. In its right hand, a long lance, the blade awash with a similar blue hue; in its left, a shield, white, and covered in the scrawled names of the many victims of his dishonest chicanery.

But Lo! The Aquitanian squints thorough the thick, cloudy glass; another approaches, from across the sturdy bridge! Another Demon Knight, it seems, similarly clad in curious plates; behind it an entourage of tall, angular folk, in fabulous finery and outlandish dress. This second demon is coloured all in black, and it approaches the Knight of Names formally; there is some brief discourse, before each knight spurs its enormous mount at the other! Alas, the ruddy window obscures the finer details, but they battle long and hard! Still, their movements are… obscure. The longer he watches, the more Vandagild is sure these fiends are not human. Their ranging, agile movements remind more of that wretched Hag than the honest combat of men.

Evenly matched, the battle persists for a great time; each having struck solid blows, the battle ends on foot. The Black Knight gets the better: The Knight of Names stumbles, clearly exhausted from the hours of fighting, and struck sore by the former’s long blade. Advantage is consolidated, and the shadowy foe slips quickly, like a dancer, to exploit; the point of its blade slips into a gap near his struggling foe’s neck, and with a heavy, jilting heave, it plunges deep. The Knight of Names falls, and is slain. The Black Knight cleans and sheathes its blade; an alien hand pulls the White Shield from the corpse, and then two hold it aloft, high above its head. The Black Knight turns, so, to its entourage, who bow in deference and admiration. He leaps once more atop his mount, and leads his foul pack away.

Uvan, now pressed tightly against Vandagild’s shoulder, watching too this wretched parody of knightlihood, utters his confusion. Vandagild turns from the window, and to his friend to speak; but Lo! A great rumbling sends each man clambering for hold; the tower itself cracks, the clatter of falling stones a vanguard for greater chaos: Apart, it comes! The roof falls in, the table shatters and food is scattered; vast blocks of unearthly stone fall around the tower, exposing the open air above! Each man dives for safety, and is unharmed!

The destruction takes only seconds.

Sir Vandagild checks Uvan; who is dusty but unhurt. The lock on the thick wooden door is now loosened; the Aquitanian shoves it and reaches through, but alas, it is still blocked from the far side; great piles of stone impede! Glancing outside, the great bridge too is fallen, crumbled whole into the river. The path, stopping abruptly on either side of the broad waters, is the best evidence that ever a bridge there was.

The window, no longer protected by unholy magic, is breakable; Vandagild hurls a brick through. It is small; only Uvan can fit out, the benefit of his smaller Pictish heritage. The squire looks about from outside, and shrugs his shoulders.

"There many stones blocking this door, Vandagild…" he does not sound hopeful.

Nonetheless, there is only one course; the tower is still too tall and sheer to climb. Uvan steels himself to shift rocks, and Vandagild takes a table leg to start levering from within. The two young men work for such time as they’re able; they have no more source of constant nourishment, but can snack on the dusty ruins of the fine morsels within. After time, the door slowly starts to give way; Vandagild can almost fit through! Uvan works mightily!

Vandagild’s keen eyes spot something encroaching; some small creature from the river!

"Quickly Uvan, crawl inside!"

He does. The men arm, and wait inside.

__________ The Strange Demons of the Forest of Gloom __________

A small face pokes through the gap, perhaps 3 feet up; brown fur, long whiskers and rapidly searching eyes. A beaver, but shaped like a man. Vandagild trusts it little. It slips into the room; the creature is clad in loosely fitting finery. Vandagild assumes it stolen from some poor noble’s son, no doubt eaten by this demon.

"Excuse me, are you the owner of this tower", the thing asks in rapid phrases.

It is very fast; it darts effortlessly around the room at the speed of a blink. As it speaks, long, sharp teeth, are revealed. Each is the length of a decent blade. The creature glimmers with Fae magic.

Vandagild replies slowly, with great caution: “That is unclear. I know not the laws of inheritance in this land, nor whose land upon which this tower stands. The last owner was slain, and my squire and I now dwell within.”

“Excellent!” comes forth the swift reply, “Just splendid! This is now the tower of my new court! I will move my court here. And what a fine court we already have, looking at the two of us.”

Vandagild’s eyes narrow. 

“I am not of thy court. I have a fine court already.”

“Nonsense! You are my courtier, and you’re in my court!”

“Not so. I am leaving for my own court.”

“Leaving? No no no no nonono, you’ve only just arrived!”

Vandagild is silent a moment; his rage builds. 

"Nay. It is ye who hath only recently arrived. I have been here for some time, though I wish it otherwise. And now I am leaving, hence these rocks are shifted”

Alas, the demon is, of course, insistent, ignorant, and miscreant: “I will let you stay, as part of my court. But we need some improvements!”

It continues to dart impossible quickly around the room. Vandagild rests a hand on his pommel.

“Wait here!” it bids the two men, darting outside; they have little choice.

The men share a glance of concern. The beast returns promptly, however, with two large fish.

“Viola!” it declares, in a mockery of the Aquitanian tongue, “food enough already!”

“I want not thy fish, beaver. Move thee aside, so I may heft these stones.”

“You know, I've grown quite fond of you; you simply have to stay, my courtier, my friend!” the beaver continues to declare falsehoods, though its tone is sweet and amiable.

“I hope I can call you friend, friend! I must insist you stay in my court” it utters charmingly.

It smiles a menacing smile, full of razor sharp teeth and barely-hidden malice; “One would hate for there to be a horrible gnashing of teeth. I will fetch more fish.”

Vandagild tells Uvan to be ready; he loosens his blade. Uvan softly asks if this is a breach of the creature’s hospitality; for he feeds us and claims this tower.

Vandagild stares at him.

“This be not his tower, Uvan. It is a demon; it can claim no hospitality. This fiend is a monster clad in pretty lies, and I will deal it as such” he states firmly, hefting his shield to hand.

“And we eat not these cursed fish, if fish they truly be. This fiend of malice wishes us his captive, and I wish it not. Lo, it comes!”

The creature returns, two large fish once more flopping desperately in its evil maw. It blinks rapidly within, staring uncertainly at the armed Aquitanian before him.

The fish drop wetly to the dusty floor.

Vandgaild levels his blade at the monster: “Defend thyself! Thou be’est deceptive and evil, and I like thee little!”

The hunter swings a rapid blow at the demon, and Uvan thrusts with his own blade… but the creature is like some demonic cat, darting impossible from the blows! It gnashes terrible teeth into both men, opening modest wounds; their man-wrought armour holds not against the beast’s cursed fangs!

The beaver darts back, and spits more trickery, dripping heavily with undoubtedly feigned insult; “I try to help you, and you respond with such violence! I will not help you again!”

The demon turns to escape, but Vandagild kicks forth a loose stone, tripping the monster! Leaping to advantage, Sir Vandagild's blade cuts a broad wound into the nefarious cretin’s flank! It screeches, and clambers to its wet feet, evading more heavy cuts and soon darting outside!

Vandagild swears, checking the injuries of the pair to little gain; “Valiant effort, Uvan. Good man. Quickly now, keep thy watch, and I will heft these stones!”

The hunter keeps digging, but soon, the horrid monster darts forth from some secret flank, biting his makeshift, table-leg-lever in half!

Vandagild is patient. He fetches his hunting bow, and notches an arrow. The beaver, it seems now builds a dam to replace the bridge; it darts impossible quickly, shunting logs and material into place. Vandagild watches carefully, picking patterns of movement.

He waits.

Soon, the beaver stands still, observing its own work. It spies him not.

Leaning from the doorway, the hunter notches, draws, and looses an arrow! It flies true, but the wretched demon spins in a blink, hearing the heavy crack of the bowstring; it is gone before the arrow plunges into the wood where it stood!

Hopeless!

The demon beaver of the Forest of Gloom has the men under siege!

__________ Despicable Faerie Games __________

Elsehwere, Sir Iwan leads Sirs Elvorix, Vandar, and Kentwyn, who hangs back with Father Perticus. The latter has completed his tasks, and the group have journeyed for some unknowable time, eating too many fish for any man to be pleased by.

Here they spy this: A half-built dam, the apex acting as some damp and clumsy bridge; it joins two paths through the samely forest. On the far bank, a half collapsed tower.

Not yet seen: A seething Sir Vandagild, and a patient Uvan, chewing on some dusty pastries within; an arrow, embedded in the dam wall; and a rather wounded beaver, in slashed and bloodied finery, being evil somewhere nearby.

Sir Iwan speaks first “A dam? Who so builds a dam here?”

Sir Vandar grunts, “A beaver?”

Sir Elvorix says nothing, instead flushed with hope at the sight of the tower; surely Vandagild would seek shelter there, were he in need? He reaches the dam, and starts to cross the damp top, which is unsteady and slightly submerged.

The evil faerie-beaver quickly makes itself known, rushing atop the dam from lair unknown; it carries a heft log, biting it cleanly in half; “No no, there is no more room for guests! And beside, there are bandits and brigands within!”

“People dwell within? Have thee prisoners, then?” Elvorix demands of the diminutive menace.

“Prisoners? No no, I have claimed the tower, and they assaulted me! Brigands, I say!”

Sir Elvorix shakes his head, and strides forth across the makeshift bridge.

Once more, like a flash, the demon strikes, snaking past Elvorix’s slashing blade as faewrought fangs cut effortlessly through the Roman’s maille and leg!

Vandar and Iwan draw their blades, but alas, there is no room to reach melee atop the dam!

Sir Elvorix steadies himself; “Right! One Beaver stew, cometh right up!”

Atop the dam, the Roman tries to press forward, but at each step the demon strikes! He fights valiantly, but the monster’s inhuman speed and irresistible gnashing fangs are too much! The Roman collapses, bleeding from a number rapid, slashing bites from big, sharp, pointy teeth!

Vandar rushes beside him, grabbing the sinking man quickly and dragging him back to the shore. Iwan quickly his friend Elvorix’s side. Father Perticus is summoned forth, who attends the tall Roman’s many gashes; the latter soon flutters back to wakefulness, and snarls at the amphibious devil.

With little regard, the despicable monster continues its foul construction.

“Harken thee, beaver! What manner are the men in yon tower? Have they arms like these? One of a height with this poor man thou have savaged, the other smaller?” Vandar asks, restraining his own fury.

The beaver is elusive with his words, describing the “brigands” in his own terms; but the description matches.

The beaverfiend tells them to speak no more to it, for it has taken unkindly to them and has had a terrible day. He bids them silence, lest there be another great gnashing of teeth.

Vandar persists; “Nay, beaver! No brigands be those men; they do dwell inside yon tower, and thus the have the claim of it! Whosoever holds the castle owns the castle. Thus, you besiege it! Tarry not with thy honeyed words; admit thy evil! Deny it not!”

Elvorix says, nursing his own great wounds, shouts angrily from the bank; “Bah! You are a mere beaver! Beneath us!”

The tower Aquitanian continues; “Those men are my family, beaver! Thou hast my family besieged within! I will not leave here ‘til they walk free, with me, from these cursed lands and return to our own!”

The beaver pauses a moment, before darting up to squat wetly before the men; “You wish to rid me of the bandits? Fine. I offer you a chance to earn them. It is custom to offer three tests: A test of Wit, a test of Wim, and a test of Will.”

Vandar narrows his eyes, knowing well the deceptive ways of the faerie. Elvorix growls, but is in little shape to contest the matter.

Sir Iwan steps forward, and replies calmly; “Give me thy first test, beaver. Let us get this matter over-with.”

The beaver is clearly joyed to be part of this new game; it bounces a little in barely suppressed pleasure.; “The first test of Wit: A riddle!” he declares, pausing a moment for drama.

“When young, I’m sweet in the sun; when I’m middle-aged, I make you gay; old valued more than ever. What am I?”

The knights talk for some time, deliberating many options. They discuss the merits of “Youth”, and “Memory”, but find they fit imperfectly. Sir Vandar, knowing well the grapes of Toulouse, offers Sir Iwan the answer: Wine! Correct! The beaver takes some steps back along the dam.

“The second, a test of Wim: If I am to hold court in these lands, you must give me name which is suitable to the proper native lords of this realm.”

The knights look uncertainly at each other. Of these this realm? This river? The Forest of Gloom? Salisbury? England? There are no Lords of this realm, for no men live here. Mean he the realm of man? The knights are for a time confounded.

Sir Iwan, with consultation and confirmation from his companions, at length announces the following: "Then I name thee, Lord Cadwy, Beaver of Caerbannog!"

The beaver looks away thoughtfully for a moment… “Yes! I think that name will do."

It steps back farther.

He looks once more to Sir Iwan: “You have Wit, and you understand Wim. You may cross into my court… if you WILL.” He says, with unusual emphasis…

“But but but! Be warned: If you do, there will come a day when your first-born son will be called upon to pay a very heavy price. Choose now: Will or Won't.”

Iwan considers this deeply; he has come so far for Sir Vandagild, his good friend. The price this beaver asks is steep; but perhaps that problem can be solved in other ways, in its own time…

The handsome young knight stands tall, shoulders back, and confidently declares: “I WILL, Lord Cadwy of Caerbannog”

The Beaver smiles, it’s awful, bloodied teeth taking centre stage; "Very well! You have Wit, Wim, and you Will. You are free to enter my court, and retrieve anything you will from there. As much as I'm happy that you passed my tests, I would be lying if I said this was a pleasant encounter.”

Iwan mutters the same.

“Very well! I will let you take what you wish from my court. If you're still here when I get back, there will be a terrible gnashing of teeth! But worry not, I will give you plenty of time.”

__________ Rescued and Reunited! __________

An overjoyed reunion! Vandagild is full of gratitude, and spares no time sharing it. He is sad to learn that his friends did not slay the monster, but pleased that he may one day have a chance to do so. He embraces his valient friends and lofty cousin. The group spend some time catching up on the missed events. Learning of the beaver’s tricks, and Iwan’s riddling is disconcerting to the Aquitanian.

“I believe I hath offered that creature my son” Iwan says dispassionately.

Vandagild swears, both profanity and an Oath; he promises that he, and his sons if necessary, will aid Iwan’s family with whatever trials come from this. Vandagild clutches Uvan warmly, learning that his lovely wife Catrin, Uvan’s sister, is well, and his fifth son healthy and hale.

Soon after, Sir Vandagild produces Sir Pellinore's whistle, and blows it; a clear tone emerges. The others raise questioning eyebrows, and the Aquitanian explains the source. Soon thereafter, the rumble of hooves, and a dog tethered to a steed. Sir Pellinore! He is still filthy, his armour almost rusty; green moss grows in his beard He rides forth to us, darting from the trees and slowing his steed as he approaches.

Sir Vandagild introduces the cursed man to his companions, and thanks him for coming. Pellinore shows some concern about the bridge, and asks what happened to it and the tower. Learning of the fateful duel, worry creeps onto his face.

Vandagild offers the tall man hospitality at his court, he owes him much and would love for him to meet his family. He declines, looking deeper into the strange Forest of Gloom, clearly pining for his hunt for Glatisant. Pressing further, Vandagild asks if he has any words or gifts for anyone at home? He would make such journeys as necessary to aid him; but the man asks nothing.

Father Perticus once more plies his healing skills on the injured; to the gratitude of the wounded men. Each gathers such belongings as he has, and they set off, led by the mounted Sir Pellinore and his faithful hound.

“Feel thee welcome to keep that whistle, what-what”, Pellinore calls back to the Aquitanian, “If once more ye find thyself in these lands, do thee blow it freely.”

“I thank thee once more. I hope one day to hunt with thee, but I first have family and loyalty to attend. Have thee some of your own?”

Pellinore smiles, and replies: "Why think thee I am here."

They walk onward, and depart the Forest of Gloom.

__________

 

Image 1: Leopard, 12th Century, Folio 8 verso from the Aberdeen Bestiary, University of Aberdeen

Image 2: https://www.123rf.com/photo_175735892_an-old-monk-in-a-dark-cassock-with-a-book-bible-in-hand-medieval-engraving-.html?vti=odtkewcczhlg9rodbu-1-80

Image 3: https://pikeknight.wordpress.com/2012/12/17/the-life-and-times-of-mr-quack-quack/evil-beaver/

King Arthur Pendragon 5.2