by Cpt._Funkotron » Sun Dec 10, 2017 7:29 pm
OOC: This was pasted from a google doc, the formatting didn't carry over, and I am not reprogramming that back in with BBCode, so sorry if it's a little hard to read.
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Early February, 487.
Castle Ebble.
Leiryn inhales. He raises his longbow and draws the string back to his jaw in one motion, takes quick aim, and lets fly. The arrow strikes its target dead center. He breathes out, fogging the air in front of him. He wraps his cloak tight and trudges across the snow-covered courtyard to retrieve his arrows and start again. The squire can hear his lady-knight's cries of agony from the keep above. He's set about clearing his head the only way he knows how.
Nock, draw, loose.
The babe's a month early, the midwife reckons; hardly ever good news. He hears Arcadia scream again. She’s looked in a poorly state for three days now. First it was her skin, gone white as bone. Then it was her eyes, bloodshot all over. Then it was her veins, black webs streaked across her arms and legs.
Nock, draw, loose.
Lord Amig’s been in an agitated state, walking circuits between the keep and the hall all morning, before being forced to settle down by cooler and younger heads. He and his remaining sons Alnor and Lycus are half fallen into another barrel, last Leiryn saw of them. More screaming.
Nock, draw, loose.
They were right to be on edge. Yesterday a roman priest, a british monk, and a heathen druid paid visit to the keep at the Amig’s summons. None of them very pleased when they saw the other two. They’d all had just about enough of the whole affair when shortly after arriving, Arcadia, terrifying as she looked, leapt up from bed with uncharacteristic vigour for a woman in her state and chased all three of them out with a sword, before she could be carefully restrained.
Nock, draw, loose.
She isn’t quite so strong today. Her cries sound like they’re getting weaker.
Nock, draw, loose.
Nock, draw, loose.
Nock, draw, loose.
Nock, draw, loose.
He can’t hear her anymore, and he’s out of arrows. He crosses the courtyard again, glancing up at the keep. He pulls the arrows free of the target, but something catches his attention in the corner of his eye. He looks up.
Is that...smoke?
So it is.
From the Second-floor window.
The bedroom.
Quite a lot of it as well.
The midwife shouts something down to the guards, and they start running down the motte, spreading the alarm with them. Fire. Leiryn throws down his bow and arrows, and sprints to the keep.
The midwife emerges from the doorway, weak on her feet and in the midst of a fit of coughing, at the same time that Leiryn reaches it. She tries to say something, but he rushes past her without trying to find out what, drawing his cloak across his face, bounding up the stairs.
What the woman meant to say was that “The Lady is on fire”. She would be half right, but for that the lady is the fire. When he finds her, Arcadia’s whole body is alight, wreathed in flame, from the inside and out, as if her blood were of lamp oil. But she is not dead. She does not appear to cook, only that her skin grows red, and then darker in shade. She writhes, silently, wordlessly, arms splayed out, thrashing her head against the backing wall, feet kicking into the mattress, fire spreading all around her, black smoke spewing out of her mouth and nose, her eyes clamped shut in pure agony.
Leiryn comes a simple truth quickly. Whatever in hell or has taken hold of her, she is beyond his help, or anyone else’s.
And then he finds himself sitting on the side of the snow-laden motte, covered in soot, with something in his arms, and no memory of the intervening minutes. He looks down, and the face of a newborn child greets him, peeking out from its swaddling. Unusual for a newborn, its eyes are open. Practically unheard of in a human being, its irises glow red. Leiryn is nearly catatonic, otherwise he would be unnerved. He turns his head to look up the hill. Where the keep of Castle Ebble once stood proud, now there only lies a heap of smouldering rubble.
“Lady Arcadia!” shouts one of the guards. “I think she’s still alive!”
“What the hell are you talking about man?” demands Sir Lycus, climbing the hill with Alnor and Amig in tow.
“Look, sir!”
Leiryn finds himself carefully climbing to his feet and following them.
In the center of the rubble, is indeed Arcadia, her flesh undeformed but blackened like charcoal. Her fingers slowly move. Her eyes are shut, her mouth and nose still emanating narrow wisps of smoke.
Alnor approaches her, horrified and bewildered at once. He reaches out a hand to touch hers, to feel if her heart still beats, and no sooner has he done so that Arcadia of Winterstream disintegrates and collapses into a pile of ash.
Alnor screams and curses to shake the mountain tops. His brother Lycus comes to pull him back, hugging and dragging him away.
Sir Amig, wearied with age, dulled by strong drink, and stricken with shock, falls to his knees and laments. “A curse! A vile curse has been laid against my house! Who could I have given such grievous offense?”
“Who has magic enough to have done this?” asks Lycus.
“There’s only one man in all Britain” spits Alnor through gritted teeth. “And he sits at Roderick’s table!”
“You wouldn’t dare accuse the archdruid without proof...without reason!” says Lycus.
“Reason enough, you saw well as I that he and Roderick spoke at length, suppose they are now allies! They must have di-”
“Be silent now, Alnor” interjects Amig, tiredly, and wary of those who might overhear. “If Merlin Emrys means us so ill, and brings death such as this-this-this, wicked magic, to his own people, then Britain is lost. Hope is lost. I cannot believe it...and I certainly will not have let you humiliate this house further by bandying our affairs about.” He swallows, and seems to grow more steady. “Arcadia is dead. The keep burned and so did she, along with the child, this is all that will be spoken.” There seems to be silent agreement, and for a moment, all is quiet.
“But the child didn’t perish” says Leiryn, who no one had noticed up until that point. “It’s right here, seems to have been unharmed.” They turn to look at him, confusion crossing all their faces at once. He closes the distance to show them. One of the guards crosses himself and spits, the general reception is not much better.
Leiryn again finds himself in new circumstances with a gap in his memory, kneeling by a body of water, a bundle in the crook of his arm, a rondel in his other hand. He quickly surmises what he is there to do. He looks into the child’s burning eyes, and he knows the truth. When he dreamt of Arcadia on the night of Beltaine, and she of him, somehow this child came of it. His child. He breaks into tears. The baby breaks its strange silence, and coos. He looks at his daughter again, in a new light. A sense of duty begins to overtake him. He sheathes his dagger, and holds his infant daughter tight, wrapping his cloak around the both of them, and rising to his feet.
Amig and his sons will not take either of them back. Amig and his sons can all hang. Leiryn still has friends. They will be her friends now as well.
Several hours later, after a hard gallop, they come to Barleyfield Hall, the home of his sister Llewella, and her husband Sir Bleddyn. He goes first to the chapel to escape the cold, and comes face to face with a pair of old friends.
“Leiryn? Is that you?”
“Garr you old goat, what are you doing here?”
The old Gallic priest falls into a coughing fit. “Enjoying the holiday”
“He’s sick, ‘e ‘is, thought’d be best to keep ‘im close to proper ‘ealin’ folk, outta them woods” explains Gladys, giving him a hug.
“What’ve you got there, m’boy?” asks Garr, pointing to to the bundle.
Leiryn’s face darkens. He takes a seat, and explains to them everything that has happened. When he has finished, Garr nods solemnly, a deep understanding hiding behind his eyes but not escaping his lips. “I will tell you what I know, but first you must trust me.”
“I do”
“Give me the child.”
“Why?”
“I thought you trusted me”
Leiryn hesitates, but then puts his daughter in the priest's arms. She immediately begins to wriggle and squirm, for the first time in its life, the baby shrieks terribly.
“Take it back!”
Leiryn does, and she calms.
“It’s as I feared” says Garr, catching a breath.
“What is?”
“This…” he waves his hand in his direction ”It isn’t the work of Merlin...the druid is many ill things but never has he been a broker of demons, because my boy, that is what this is, this child, demonry, in case you had been wondering.” He rises and begins to pace as he explains. “Demons cannot give life of their own, see, you need a soul to do that, thus they cannot have children. But they can create more of their kind by corrupting the unions of mortals. They send succubi, demons in the form of beautiful women, into the minds of men and there lie with them in their dreams, taking their essence, and then transforming into incubi, the form of handsome men, entering the dreams of women, I need not tell you what happens next. When the time comes, the woman invariably perishes, and the child is born a cambion, a fiend. That is why she recoils from my touch. I am a man of god and that...is a thing of hell.”
“What’s to be done?” interjects Gladys.
“I have heard that baptism, if performed early enough, can cleanse the soul of a cambion before the devil takes complete hold of its nature. It’s worth trying. Gladys, bring me water.”
When Gladys has gone, Garr pulls Leiryn close.
“Listen to me very carefully. If the sacrament does not take, the child must die. It cannot be allowed to mature. You must slit its throat, do you understand me?”
Leiryn nods dejectedly.
“Good. There isn’t a moment to lose. Give me a name, any name.”
“Carys” suggests Leiryn, after his mother. Garr pats his shoulder comfortingly.
“Good choice.”
No one had ever heard such shrieking as when Garr poured the consecrated water over the head of young Carys in the name of the father, until he did it again in the name of the son, or yet the third time in the name of the holy spirit. Eventually, her temperament eases, and she lies still. Then she begins to cry again, not horrifically as before, but like any healthy baby girl.
Just as a collective sigh of relief goes out, Llewella, the lady of the house, appears at the doorway, heavily pregnant, wanting to know just what the hell is going on. She is brought up to speed, and in not so many words happily welcomes her brother and niece into her household, without consulting her husband, currently at court.
As far as anyone can know for now, Carys is merely a foundling orphan that has been taken under their care. In time, she will need to be thought of as the daughter of Amig and Arcadia, heir of Winterstream Manor, but never the daughter of Leiryn. It is a most delicate matter, because if Carys is known to be the daughter of Amig, he must surely claim parental custody, and in his current mind he may be liable to have an accident befall her as a precaution. But if she is not known to be the daughter of Amig and Arcadia, then Carys has no sort of future at all. She would be unable to claim her inheritance, or become a knight like her mother. Untold woe betide her if she is known for what she is, a bastard and a cambion. Garr carefully and tactfully explains this, and everyone agrees.
“I won’t pretend to have any answers, m’boy. What comes next belongs to you” says Garr.
Just then, Leiryn stands and gathers his things.
“Where are you going?”
“No matter what else happens, no one will ever take the word of an ex-squire over a hero lord. Perhaps a knight, but given the circumstances I won’t ever be one unless I get noticed.”
“Well then what will you do?”
He belts his sword on, dons his cloak, takes his bow and quiver over his shoulder, and replies heading out the door.
“I’ll get noticed.”
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March, 487
Castle Salisbury
(Persidius and Bleddyn)
At court, the feasting and merriment has gone on more or less unabated. All preparations have been made for the journey north. It is decided first to pay visit to the Duke of Lindsey, notably absent from the last battle, and resistant towards the king’s prerogatives for some years now. Uther and the privy council are confident that a personal conference will see the right of things. Merlin leaves such ‘trivial’ matters to other men. Instead, he entertains the youth of the court with smoke and lights, and spends the rest of the time eating like a bear.
In local news, Bleddyn has had his first born son, an event he quickly visited home for, at the time making acquaintance with an unnerving fosterling that the Priest has taken in.
Everyone at court has heard of Amig’s great tragedy, how a cracked brazier set the keep on fire, and claimed the lives of his wife, the valiant Arcadia, and their newborn child. Roderick sends Sir Rufon and Sir Elad to inspect the damage personally and send his condolences, unable to divert himself from his hostly duties. On their report, Bleddyn hears Uther remark
“You see Salisbury, this is why masonry is the future. Timber must be one of the worst things to build with, too much damp it rots, not enough damp it burns.”
“True, sire. I’d been looking into rebuilding a few of the old forts in brick and mortar, but the man I had overseeing it was caught up in some bad business and I had to retire him” replies Roderick.
“Well if the barons can stop making miseries of themselves and the saxons all go fishing in a hurricane and drown, we’ll have to embark on a building spree, or perhaps just one great castle somewhere. A stone one, naturally.”
A late arrival, Sir Alnor, son of the glorious Amig, is welcomed into Roderick’s entourage with open arms. The day of departure draws near.
------------------------------------
The city of Hantonne, to the Southeast, on the river Test.
(Eliver, Terwynn, Elspeth, Miles, Leiryn)
About a hundred knights have answered the Prince’s call. Some have been in the city for a few weeks, taking in the amenities of the busy port, some have only just arrived. They stand huddled along the riverbank. The admiral, an indomitable cambrian by the name of Gwenwynwyn ap Naf, regards them all with his one good eye atop a ship’s prow. Madoc stands amongst them and speaks.
“My friends, we do not embark this day for wealth, women, or glory. We embark this day to burn the ships of the enemy, and give peace to our shores, to our people, and keep those mongrel dogs on land where they belong. Do not concern yourself with setting the fires, the sailors will have the handling of that business. But when the saxons come to stop us, then will be your moment, to show them what men are made of in Logres!” A cheer goes up.
“Get to the boarding, Admiral, I trust you to get things in order.”
The man nods.
A young man in a mail shirt with a bow over his shoulder rides up to the gathering, the Prince first mistaking him for a messenger.
“Do you bring news?”
“I bring myself, I want to join the raid.”
“What is your name?”
“Leiryn ap Laingrin, sire. From Salisbury”.
“Not a knight then?”
“Not yet, sire”.
Madoc smiles. He looks over to the admiral. “Do we have room for one more?”. He’s met with a shrug. “Very well Leiryn of Salisbury, I think some of your countrymen are huddled over there. You’d best follow their lead if you know what’s good for you”.
Leiryn joins them and they board together. Word has not yet reached Hantonne of Arcadia’s fate.
OOC: Leiryn will henceforth be played by KleinerKiller