Lancelot had been eager to get done about his business and return to his love. But his fervor was altogether cooled by the sight of the moon—full, yellow and shining with intermittent light as clouds of fog passed in front of it. His once-eagerness converted itself into an almost religious transfixion. He leaned against the trunk of a tree with his pants down, looking like a classical Greek nude—in fact, a lot like Endymion, being adored from above by Selene, and after he had been granted the ability to stare back as he slept.
There was something about the moon! The fey worshipped it more than any other celestial body—exulted in its pull on the tides, in its mysterious but predictable waxing and waning, much akin to the cycles in a woman’s life; in particular, her monthly courses.
But, Lancelot snapped out of his moon-fixed trance eventually, and pulled his chauses back on, and became a British medieval knight again. While he had been transfixed, he had been touched by a very chivalrous ideal that he had claimed to understand, but really hadn’t fathomed so deeply until that moment: the divinity of women. Alanna was divine, as sacred as the honeyed moon, he reflected reverently.
In light of his reverence and respect, a certain question arose in him: had he indulged in Alanna too much? He was under the impression, from the teachings of courtly love, that a knight had to suffer for every bit of love from his lady—and in fact, often he suffered for naught. Even if they were married, there would be long bouts of separation.
Lancelot almost felt too fortunate. It was only moments like these when he was ever away from Alanna—and really being away meant that he was only off by a few yards. And since they had realized that they were married, he had been with her every night (and sometimes during the day, he conceded with blushing ears). He had to wonder: did there ever come a point when a married couple overstepped their bounds and slipped into debauchery? One could still be chaste in marriage, or at least, have sex in moderation—in hopes of keeping the platonic bond the most important part of the union. But he was concerned—perhaps they were exulting in their physical bond overzealously?Surely, it had to be sinful to be in such carnal bliss all the time…
And then, he had a rare touch of pagan reverence, too, reverence for the Goddess. He didn’t want to ever use Alanna; to exhaust her body. Never did he want to cater to his pleasure any higher than hers. And somehow, it seemed that there ought to be a time for a lady to be alone, to have an interlude from a man breathing over her. He must not be like the fog—always passing over her, whether she was waxing or waning in spirits, in times when femininity should be untouched. Nor should he be akin to a dog, and always give in to his urge to howl at the moon, unthinking, that perhaps she would like some quiet nights.
He returned to the clearing in a much more pensive mood than when he had left. He was somewhat relieved to see that she was occupying herself with a chore instead of waiting in bed for him. Ah, but she was so darling whatever she was doing! Sharpening their blades in the middle of the night, lit so warmly by the fire. Her expression was well-known to him: the look of concentration as she went about a task that no woman but herself ever bothered to do. But she was clearly happy doing it, as well. And, of course, he couldn’t ignore the fact that she was wearing nothing but his tunic—a charming new habit of hers that drew his eyes without fail.
He sat across from her, a somewhat self-conscious smile on his face as he hunched his back and leaned his elbows on his knees. “How fortunate we’ve been to have such temperate nights, aye Alanna? And hardly any precipitation…” He mumbled some more about the weather, and a little bit of rudimentary astronomy, but Clarric was merciful enough to give a loud snort to save Lancelot from boring his wife.
Lancelot bowed his head and chuckled softly at himself. He wondered if he would still relapse into awkwardness at times, even when he was an old man and had been married to Alanna for years. He lifted his head and rose from his seat, crossing the distance he had set between them. He sat snugly beside her, their sides touching. He kept his hands on his knees as he briefly eyed the weapons she held. Then his dark eyes returned to her face and his reserve melted away.
“Alanna—how I love you,” he sighed, his brows upturning in an expression of the ardent pain of love. “These nights, Alanna…” He shook his head in awe, as if not believing he had been so worthy of such bliss. “I want to understand more of how you feel as a woman. As a man, I feel I am insatiable for your sweetness. But as a woman, Alanna, are there not times when you would like… peace? If you want me to leave you be, you only must say so and I will sleep alone. Like… when you have your courses. You see, I want to respect you, Alanna, and praise you and honor you. You are more important than I am. I am your servant—your humble squire-not-yet-knight, Lancelot du Lac. Let us forget that you were once my squire. I am now your servant, Dame Ladyknight.” He plucked the swords and sharpening stone out of her hands and set them aside. He then slid off the log upon which they sat, and hugged her knees. Then he dropped even lower and rained lavish kisses upon her feet.
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Beyond the Lake (King Arthur) IC
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Re: Beyond the Lake (King Arthur) IC ( )
by daughterofdon on Tue Nov 18, 2008 2:17 am
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daughterofdon - Member for 4 years
Re: Beyond the Lake (King Arthur) IC ( )
by Jadeling Hawkins on Tue Nov 18, 2008 2:53 pm
When he had first come forward, Alanna had been puzzled and somewhat disappointed with Lancelot's sudden need to discuss the weather. But she settled herself comfortably close to him just the same, and politely entered in the conversation with him. But quite suddenly, he launched into an entirely different topic, and soon Alanna's cheeks were deeply flushed as she looked down at her husband, who had just declared himself her servant. But surely it was not so! After all, was it not the woman who was meant to serve the man? Then again, they were hardly a typical couple, so it followed that they would not have typical boundaries...and it touched her more than she could express with words that he would vow such devotion, even to place her so far above his needs and wants.
"Lancelot, my sweet husband!" Alanna laughed softly, retrieving him from her feet and placing a tender kiss on his brow. Her cheeks were still warm, but she was becoming accustomed to such openness between them concerning such private matters. She lovingly brushed her fingers across his, exhaling softly for what seemed to be the thousandth time as she treasured the warmth that lingered between them like an ever present pool of sunlight. "I accept your love, and your honor, but I must insist that there be no servants among us. Let us be partners in life, darling, and only swear to serve one another equally."
Thinking back to his first hinted question, Alanna smiled and kissed his cheek sweetly. "I sincerely doubt that there is any woman, scullery maid, dame, or queen, more respected by her husband as I. And I sincerely believe there is no woman, scullery maid, dame, or queen who more dearly loves her husband than I. Perhaps there shall be times when I wish for...privacy, some nights...But I dare say I have not experienced one yet, and I have certainly not found a time when I would not at least prefer to be in your arms. Rest assured, sweet, I will let you know if that time ever comes!"
Alanna mused for a moment on his point about the difference between men and women. She knew that it was generally assumed that men were the more lustful creatures, and that women received less pleasure from the more carnal acts than men...but as of her new personal experience, she had found that a woman was perfectly capable in meeting a man's desires. Or perhaps it was, again, simply due to her being so different from other women? Were the women who dressed prettily and spent their days staring out windows and awaiting the return of their husbands less willing to share their beds with them? It was a puzzling thing, and one that she was not overly interested in attempting to pry out of a noble woman when she got the chance.
"I suppose there may even come a time when we have both had our fill of love making, when we are older...and if that time ever comes, I shall still be content just to be your wife. But until then, so long as we remain faithful to one another, and cherish each other as devoted spouses in the Lord's eye...I see no reason why should abstain, given that we are both willing..." Alanna shrugged, blushed once more, and added pointedly, "...Which I am, my Lord."
Then, feeling somewhat silly sitting above him, Alanna slid off of her seat and snuggled up to her husband's side once more. She assumed that, given his start to the conversation, he was more interested in speaking than in expressing physical affection. So she wrapped both of her arms around one of his (attempting not to focus on how pleasingly muscular it was) and breathed happily as she thought of something further for them to discuss. Her thoughts at length returned to her ponderings on their future at Camelot.
"Lancelot, my sweet...how do you wish me to present myself when we venture forth to Camelot? Shall I stay as I am, blade at the ready and wearing your altered clothing?" Alanna's mouth shifted in a wry smile as she fingered the tunic that she was wearing. "Or do you wish me to present myself as a proper lady? I assume Mennah may have some clothing I might borrow...And if you wish it, I could set aside my sword while we are in court. What do you wish?"
"Lancelot, my sweet husband!" Alanna laughed softly, retrieving him from her feet and placing a tender kiss on his brow. Her cheeks were still warm, but she was becoming accustomed to such openness between them concerning such private matters. She lovingly brushed her fingers across his, exhaling softly for what seemed to be the thousandth time as she treasured the warmth that lingered between them like an ever present pool of sunlight. "I accept your love, and your honor, but I must insist that there be no servants among us. Let us be partners in life, darling, and only swear to serve one another equally."
Thinking back to his first hinted question, Alanna smiled and kissed his cheek sweetly. "I sincerely doubt that there is any woman, scullery maid, dame, or queen, more respected by her husband as I. And I sincerely believe there is no woman, scullery maid, dame, or queen who more dearly loves her husband than I. Perhaps there shall be times when I wish for...privacy, some nights...But I dare say I have not experienced one yet, and I have certainly not found a time when I would not at least prefer to be in your arms. Rest assured, sweet, I will let you know if that time ever comes!"
Alanna mused for a moment on his point about the difference between men and women. She knew that it was generally assumed that men were the more lustful creatures, and that women received less pleasure from the more carnal acts than men...but as of her new personal experience, she had found that a woman was perfectly capable in meeting a man's desires. Or perhaps it was, again, simply due to her being so different from other women? Were the women who dressed prettily and spent their days staring out windows and awaiting the return of their husbands less willing to share their beds with them? It was a puzzling thing, and one that she was not overly interested in attempting to pry out of a noble woman when she got the chance.
"I suppose there may even come a time when we have both had our fill of love making, when we are older...and if that time ever comes, I shall still be content just to be your wife. But until then, so long as we remain faithful to one another, and cherish each other as devoted spouses in the Lord's eye...I see no reason why should abstain, given that we are both willing..." Alanna shrugged, blushed once more, and added pointedly, "...Which I am, my Lord."
Then, feeling somewhat silly sitting above him, Alanna slid off of her seat and snuggled up to her husband's side once more. She assumed that, given his start to the conversation, he was more interested in speaking than in expressing physical affection. So she wrapped both of her arms around one of his (attempting not to focus on how pleasingly muscular it was) and breathed happily as she thought of something further for them to discuss. Her thoughts at length returned to her ponderings on their future at Camelot.
"Lancelot, my sweet...how do you wish me to present myself when we venture forth to Camelot? Shall I stay as I am, blade at the ready and wearing your altered clothing?" Alanna's mouth shifted in a wry smile as she fingered the tunic that she was wearing. "Or do you wish me to present myself as a proper lady? I assume Mennah may have some clothing I might borrow...And if you wish it, I could set aside my sword while we are in court. What do you wish?"
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Jadeling Hawkins - Member for 5 years
Re: Beyond the Lake (King Arthur) IC ( )
by daughterofdon on Thu Nov 20, 2008 10:08 pm
Soon after Mordred made invitation to his aunt, he suddenly feared that he had made a horrid mistake. He dreaded to spend any more time alone with his aunt, after the tumultuous goings-on that seemed to always pollute their private relations. But he would not so dishonor her by retracting his invitation. His solution was to advertise of his sudden trip to Rozeshire to all of the knights of his order. None were so interested except for his cousin Ywain, who wanted to spend more time with his mother, and had never been to Rozeshire.
Mordred tolerated his cousin during their time traveling. Mostly Mordred was quiet, and made little reply to Ywain’s innocent conversation. Really, there was nothing they had in common besides blood and occupation. And really not even occupation—Ywain was much more akin to being a soldier, and following the militaristic orders of his superiors. Mordred was far more interested in acting as his own man, as knights were free to do in tourneys. He would abhor to fight under Arthur’s banner in war, surrendering his free will to the commands of his father-king-general. He did not do well with being a subordinate. He knew that Morgan shared his aspiration for self-determination. He was sure that he was the son that she never had.
Even though, Ywain did clearly love Morgan, Mordred could see in the way the tall, young knight looked upon his dark mother. ‘Just like a puppy,’ Mordred mused to himself with sour amusement. ‘He does not realize what a bitch his mother is.’
That eve, they made respite in Hertford, where the Count of Hertford was pleased to host the Queen of Gore for a night in his castle. It was hardly an unusual night for Mordred. He ate and drank and then went to bed with one of the Countess’s ladies—a widow. The next day he was in right order to complete the short trip to Rozeshire.
“I don’t believe it—it does smell like roses here,” Ywain observed cheerfully as they approached the outer fortification of the castle. “Mother, do you not like roses?” He seemed to always be asking her such questions about her likes and her dislikes, as if he really did not know her very well, and was compromising for their obvious differences. Mordred let a derisive grunt escape his throat.
They hailed themselves to the gatekeeper, and were let in after the portcullis was raised. Then they were met by the seneschal. Mordred came forward and told the seneschal that he wished to meet with Sir Armand.
He knew that Armand could not speak, and that had kept him from making extensive conversation with his old friend for the past two years. Not to mention that Armand had spent an increasing amount of time away from Camelot, visiting Rozeshire and seeing to his own duties of lordship in Getonsberg. But finally Mordred had had enough—he was preparing to give the younger knight a heartfelt monologue about why he should not marry. And for once he saw it as a good thing that Armand could not make a verbal reply—the more Mordred would be allowed to go on uninterrupted.
Mordred tolerated his cousin during their time traveling. Mostly Mordred was quiet, and made little reply to Ywain’s innocent conversation. Really, there was nothing they had in common besides blood and occupation. And really not even occupation—Ywain was much more akin to being a soldier, and following the militaristic orders of his superiors. Mordred was far more interested in acting as his own man, as knights were free to do in tourneys. He would abhor to fight under Arthur’s banner in war, surrendering his free will to the commands of his father-king-general. He did not do well with being a subordinate. He knew that Morgan shared his aspiration for self-determination. He was sure that he was the son that she never had.
Even though, Ywain did clearly love Morgan, Mordred could see in the way the tall, young knight looked upon his dark mother. ‘Just like a puppy,’ Mordred mused to himself with sour amusement. ‘He does not realize what a bitch his mother is.’
That eve, they made respite in Hertford, where the Count of Hertford was pleased to host the Queen of Gore for a night in his castle. It was hardly an unusual night for Mordred. He ate and drank and then went to bed with one of the Countess’s ladies—a widow. The next day he was in right order to complete the short trip to Rozeshire.
“I don’t believe it—it does smell like roses here,” Ywain observed cheerfully as they approached the outer fortification of the castle. “Mother, do you not like roses?” He seemed to always be asking her such questions about her likes and her dislikes, as if he really did not know her very well, and was compromising for their obvious differences. Mordred let a derisive grunt escape his throat.
They hailed themselves to the gatekeeper, and were let in after the portcullis was raised. Then they were met by the seneschal. Mordred came forward and told the seneschal that he wished to meet with Sir Armand.
He knew that Armand could not speak, and that had kept him from making extensive conversation with his old friend for the past two years. Not to mention that Armand had spent an increasing amount of time away from Camelot, visiting Rozeshire and seeing to his own duties of lordship in Getonsberg. But finally Mordred had had enough—he was preparing to give the younger knight a heartfelt monologue about why he should not marry. And for once he saw it as a good thing that Armand could not make a verbal reply—the more Mordred would be allowed to go on uninterrupted.
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daughterofdon - Member for 4 years
Re: Beyond the Lake (King Arthur) IC ( )
by Applepoisoneer on Thu Nov 20, 2008 10:25 pm
Morgan had no interest in Sir Armand, although she admitted that once he was seen, even momentarily; she was quite sorry he was being married away. Although she supposed she'd taken advantage of that assumption that men would be faithful, Sir Armand did not seem the type to stray from his pledge to some young maid.
It amused her a bit that this man appeared to talk less than Mordred. An interesting switch from Ywain's chatter. She found that she didn't mind his questions, they were simple enough to answer and she truly did love the boy. She knew that however the world might crumble, at least Ywain would still love her... in his lucid hours...
That brought on the whole shame of their fate, which she pushed away with a shake of her head and a sway of her looping hair. She looked tenderly upon her son a moment, studying his child-like facination and tried to convince herself that he was, in fact a man and no longer hers, her babe.
Sentimentality never seemed to last long with the great Queen of Gore; for she delt it a final blow and sent it to the pit of her stomach. It behan to dawn on her that Mordred had some sort of alterior motive for his sudden trip to Rozenshire and she was mentally questioning whether it was of any interest or not. She assumed not, but watching the little slips of scenery was at least relaxing if nothing else.
It amused her a bit that this man appeared to talk less than Mordred. An interesting switch from Ywain's chatter. She found that she didn't mind his questions, they were simple enough to answer and she truly did love the boy. She knew that however the world might crumble, at least Ywain would still love her... in his lucid hours...
That brought on the whole shame of their fate, which she pushed away with a shake of her head and a sway of her looping hair. She looked tenderly upon her son a moment, studying his child-like facination and tried to convince herself that he was, in fact a man and no longer hers, her babe.
Sentimentality never seemed to last long with the great Queen of Gore; for she delt it a final blow and sent it to the pit of her stomach. It behan to dawn on her that Mordred had some sort of alterior motive for his sudden trip to Rozenshire and she was mentally questioning whether it was of any interest or not. She assumed not, but watching the little slips of scenery was at least relaxing if nothing else.
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Applepoisoneer - Member for 4 years
Re: Beyond the Lake (King Arthur) IC ( )
by daughterofdon on Fri Nov 21, 2008 12:11 am
Equality! How noble she was! Lancelot’s eyes softened as he looked upon Alanna with her lovely blushing cheeks, while his brow still tingled with the memory of her kiss, and his ears still retained the pleasantness of her small laugh. How many times had he heard his name from her lips? More times than he had counted; and each time his heart squeezed ever the more tenderly.
“Very well. If you wish us to be equal, than we shall, lady,” he granted with no further resistance. He was still inclined to humble himself—perhaps not to the level of servant if she didn’t wish it. He had feared that they were not equal, in at least the way they were regarded by others. There were certain things that made him superior in the eyes of the general society: being of nobler birth and lineage, and of the male sex (and acting appropriately for his sex as well), and more obviously the knight, or even the physical truth that he was larger than her. He still strived to make it so that such differences did not serve to make strangers favor him higher than his wife. But he need not explain all that to Alanna, and so he pledged equality, and cherished her resulting smile and kiss to his cheek.
Then she reassured him that she felt respected by him, and that if she ever did wish for solitude in bed, she would be sure to convey it to him. So reasonable, so loving and warm… he thought dotingly as he looked up at her, from where he was kneeling on the ground.
He quietly admired her as she seemed to ponder over something, and then his ears perked when she spoke on the matter of the frequency of their lovemaking. Yes, when they were old and feeble, perhaps they would not be so ardent. But, in the meantime, when they were in the sweetest flower of young adulthood—and newly-married, too!--there was no better time. Lancelot felt himself warm throughout as Alanna so pointedly expressed her willingness. If such had been affirmed by her eyes exclusively, he would have surely taken her in his arms right then. But, somehow, the use of words made him somewhat shy, and so he did not make any immediate advance.
He eased some when she lowered herself to snuggle close to him. As she held to his arm, he placed his hand on her bare knee and listened to her question. A knowing expression came over his face with the realization that this issue finally had to be addressed.
“Hmmm…” he thought for a few moments, stroking her knee. “Alanna, you know that I do not wish to say one or the other. I would not want to say, ‘put away your sword and do not wear your unfeminine attire,’ because I want you to remain true to yourself. And you have gone on for a while wearing such garments, and the results have not been completely disastrous. Besides, I do not think what you wear is entirely unfeminine nor unflattering, and I do rather like…” He trailed off, as his fingers began to flirt with the hem of the tunic she wore.
“But,” he tilted his head to enhance the opposing argument. He also retracted his fingers from her hem and returned them to the relative safety of her knee. “I also do not see why you cannot wear a gown every so often. I worry that the sight of your legs in chauses—which are so shapely, dear…” he augmented his statement by quickly running a hand down the spanse of her limb. “…may arise in a scandal if the court of Camelot is especially conservative in the dress of its ladies.”
He lowered his dark brows as he contemplated his decision. “So, this is what I wish, Alanna: when we arrive in Rozeshire, I want you to dress with your tunic and sword, and we will gauge the reaction of a court to such attire. I will also ask Sir Armand how he predicts King Arthur and his retinue may react to your wardrobe. And then, perhaps, it may best that when we finally introduce ourselves in Camelot, that you wear a gown you borrow from Mennah. Camelot may not be ready for a lady like yourself, Alanna, and we should prepare for such a reaction. Still, even if you are wearing a gown, I think you should still wear your sword belt, and keep your sheath attached to your hip. Just so you may have your sword at the ready, if you need it. And to give hint to the nature of your prowess, and let all know that you are a ladyknight not to be trifled with. What say you, my wife? Is this fair for the attiring of your beauteous body?”
An amorous glint entered his smile as he shifted closer to her and moved his hand to her supple hip. His eyelids were lowered, giving emphasis to his black lashes. But his eyes flashed open once more to alertness and his fingers froze on her hip. “Ah, lady, forgive me—is there anything else you wished to speak of?”
“Very well. If you wish us to be equal, than we shall, lady,” he granted with no further resistance. He was still inclined to humble himself—perhaps not to the level of servant if she didn’t wish it. He had feared that they were not equal, in at least the way they were regarded by others. There were certain things that made him superior in the eyes of the general society: being of nobler birth and lineage, and of the male sex (and acting appropriately for his sex as well), and more obviously the knight, or even the physical truth that he was larger than her. He still strived to make it so that such differences did not serve to make strangers favor him higher than his wife. But he need not explain all that to Alanna, and so he pledged equality, and cherished her resulting smile and kiss to his cheek.
Then she reassured him that she felt respected by him, and that if she ever did wish for solitude in bed, she would be sure to convey it to him. So reasonable, so loving and warm… he thought dotingly as he looked up at her, from where he was kneeling on the ground.
He quietly admired her as she seemed to ponder over something, and then his ears perked when she spoke on the matter of the frequency of their lovemaking. Yes, when they were old and feeble, perhaps they would not be so ardent. But, in the meantime, when they were in the sweetest flower of young adulthood—and newly-married, too!--there was no better time. Lancelot felt himself warm throughout as Alanna so pointedly expressed her willingness. If such had been affirmed by her eyes exclusively, he would have surely taken her in his arms right then. But, somehow, the use of words made him somewhat shy, and so he did not make any immediate advance.
He eased some when she lowered herself to snuggle close to him. As she held to his arm, he placed his hand on her bare knee and listened to her question. A knowing expression came over his face with the realization that this issue finally had to be addressed.
“Hmmm…” he thought for a few moments, stroking her knee. “Alanna, you know that I do not wish to say one or the other. I would not want to say, ‘put away your sword and do not wear your unfeminine attire,’ because I want you to remain true to yourself. And you have gone on for a while wearing such garments, and the results have not been completely disastrous. Besides, I do not think what you wear is entirely unfeminine nor unflattering, and I do rather like…” He trailed off, as his fingers began to flirt with the hem of the tunic she wore.
“But,” he tilted his head to enhance the opposing argument. He also retracted his fingers from her hem and returned them to the relative safety of her knee. “I also do not see why you cannot wear a gown every so often. I worry that the sight of your legs in chauses—which are so shapely, dear…” he augmented his statement by quickly running a hand down the spanse of her limb. “…may arise in a scandal if the court of Camelot is especially conservative in the dress of its ladies.”
He lowered his dark brows as he contemplated his decision. “So, this is what I wish, Alanna: when we arrive in Rozeshire, I want you to dress with your tunic and sword, and we will gauge the reaction of a court to such attire. I will also ask Sir Armand how he predicts King Arthur and his retinue may react to your wardrobe. And then, perhaps, it may best that when we finally introduce ourselves in Camelot, that you wear a gown you borrow from Mennah. Camelot may not be ready for a lady like yourself, Alanna, and we should prepare for such a reaction. Still, even if you are wearing a gown, I think you should still wear your sword belt, and keep your sheath attached to your hip. Just so you may have your sword at the ready, if you need it. And to give hint to the nature of your prowess, and let all know that you are a ladyknight not to be trifled with. What say you, my wife? Is this fair for the attiring of your beauteous body?”
An amorous glint entered his smile as he shifted closer to her and moved his hand to her supple hip. His eyelids were lowered, giving emphasis to his black lashes. But his eyes flashed open once more to alertness and his fingers froze on her hip. “Ah, lady, forgive me—is there anything else you wished to speak of?”
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daughterofdon - Member for 4 years
Re: Beyond the Lake (King Arthur) IC ( )
by daughterofdon on Fri Nov 21, 2008 1:09 am
Elaine walked with Marrik back to the clearing. She found that she was not without physical effect from hearing the truth of his past. Her knees were weak and her limbs trembled. And she was numb to the prospect of seeing Lancelot again. But, to her relief and mild surprise, it appeared that Sir Lancelot and his wife had already cleared out. She couldn’t possibly blame them, of course, although it stung her somewhat that they would entrust her wellbeing to a man that they obviously despised and feared as a danger to innocent lives. But never mind that—she knew better than they did that she would not be harmed by Marrik.
She took a few shaky steps into the clearing, and stooped when her eye caught a bit of blue sitting on the ground. She stooped to pick it up, and figured what it was: a piece of Sir Lancelot’s surcoat. Unbeknownst to her, it had been a remnant of what he had torn (to bandage Alanna), and which had been dropped while his surcoat was being mended. She folded the piece, and then placed it in her purse. She would keep it, hoping that it would be the last she would ever see of Sir Lancelot. But proof enough that she had indeed met him.
Before she rose from stooping, she caught a sudden movement in a brushy shrub at the edge of the clearing. At first she thought it to be an animal, but then she looked with widened eyes and beheld a man—nay, a group of men! And they were clearly of the aspect of criminals! Upon being spotted, the several rogues jumped out of hiding and lunged at her.
“We have her! The Princess of Corbenic!”
She screamed shrilly, and tried to run, but pitifully soon did they grasp her arms and pulled her off her feet. She still struggled and screamed, but alas it was to no use against the strength of the men. Two men hastily carried her off, the brush scratching against her and tearing at her dress. They bound her with such quickness—such deftness, as if they had performed countless other such abductions, and strew her roughly across a horse’s back, in front of a burly rider. The horse whinnied as its rump was slapped, and it was off, and all Elaine had a good sight of was the ground as it bumpily sped past. She cried and cried—but was subsequently kneed in the jaw by the gruff rider. Having bit her tongue, and aching sorely about her jaw, she halted her screams, but then sunk into despair and began to whimper and sob quite violently. This was the first time anything like this had ever happened to her! She had heard of other princesses and noble damsels being abducted, but the speed of her own kidnapping was absolutely horrifying.
While Elaine was abducted and carried away, three other rogues stayed to outnumber Marrik and rob his sword and steed. “A lusty piece of flank!” one said of Skorm. They drew their swords and flew at him all at once, with no adherence at all to fairness.
She took a few shaky steps into the clearing, and stooped when her eye caught a bit of blue sitting on the ground. She stooped to pick it up, and figured what it was: a piece of Sir Lancelot’s surcoat. Unbeknownst to her, it had been a remnant of what he had torn (to bandage Alanna), and which had been dropped while his surcoat was being mended. She folded the piece, and then placed it in her purse. She would keep it, hoping that it would be the last she would ever see of Sir Lancelot. But proof enough that she had indeed met him.
Before she rose from stooping, she caught a sudden movement in a brushy shrub at the edge of the clearing. At first she thought it to be an animal, but then she looked with widened eyes and beheld a man—nay, a group of men! And they were clearly of the aspect of criminals! Upon being spotted, the several rogues jumped out of hiding and lunged at her.
“We have her! The Princess of Corbenic!”
She screamed shrilly, and tried to run, but pitifully soon did they grasp her arms and pulled her off her feet. She still struggled and screamed, but alas it was to no use against the strength of the men. Two men hastily carried her off, the brush scratching against her and tearing at her dress. They bound her with such quickness—such deftness, as if they had performed countless other such abductions, and strew her roughly across a horse’s back, in front of a burly rider. The horse whinnied as its rump was slapped, and it was off, and all Elaine had a good sight of was the ground as it bumpily sped past. She cried and cried—but was subsequently kneed in the jaw by the gruff rider. Having bit her tongue, and aching sorely about her jaw, she halted her screams, but then sunk into despair and began to whimper and sob quite violently. This was the first time anything like this had ever happened to her! She had heard of other princesses and noble damsels being abducted, but the speed of her own kidnapping was absolutely horrifying.
While Elaine was abducted and carried away, three other rogues stayed to outnumber Marrik and rob his sword and steed. “A lusty piece of flank!” one said of Skorm. They drew their swords and flew at him all at once, with no adherence at all to fairness.
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daughterofdon - Member for 4 years
Re: Beyond the Lake (King Arthur) IC ( )
by Protoman X on Fri Nov 21, 2008 1:30 am
Marrik did not flinch when they were ambushed. The old Marrik would have had all the rogues dead in an instant. Although, the reformed Marrik was still as formiddable as ever, he was hesitant, and at the moment, without his weapon.
"You have one chance... release the girl... and walk away!" he said, not even bothering making eye contact with them. Basically treating them like the trash they were, knowing it would serve to his advantage.
As expected, his warning was returned with laughs and jeers. Marrik didn't flinch. As the first blade was swung to his throat, he said solemly, "You were warned." he caught the attacker's wrist and slung him at another. Just because he was best known for his skill with a sword, didn't mean he couldn't fight without one. He was even able to snatch the blade of the one he threw just before letting go.
To Marrik's advantage and to the last poor fool's misfortune, it was a longsword, the very weapon Marrik wielded best. The rogue attacked, but was cut down quickly by Marrik's superior swordsmanship, "I did warn you." mused Marrik, tossing away the sword he had used, it was poorly made, but served its purpose.
Marrik dashed for his preferred weapon, whistling for Skorm all the while. In a moment, Skorm was hot on the trail of the others, and actually caught up in mere moments.
"Release her!" ordered Marrik, knowing they could hear him by now.
"You have one chance... release the girl... and walk away!" he said, not even bothering making eye contact with them. Basically treating them like the trash they were, knowing it would serve to his advantage.
As expected, his warning was returned with laughs and jeers. Marrik didn't flinch. As the first blade was swung to his throat, he said solemly, "You were warned." he caught the attacker's wrist and slung him at another. Just because he was best known for his skill with a sword, didn't mean he couldn't fight without one. He was even able to snatch the blade of the one he threw just before letting go.
To Marrik's advantage and to the last poor fool's misfortune, it was a longsword, the very weapon Marrik wielded best. The rogue attacked, but was cut down quickly by Marrik's superior swordsmanship, "I did warn you." mused Marrik, tossing away the sword he had used, it was poorly made, but served its purpose.
Marrik dashed for his preferred weapon, whistling for Skorm all the while. In a moment, Skorm was hot on the trail of the others, and actually caught up in mere moments.
"Release her!" ordered Marrik, knowing they could hear him by now.
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Protoman X - Member for 4 years
Re: Beyond the Lake (King Arthur) IC ( )
by daughterofdon on Fri Nov 21, 2008 1:53 am
Ywain watched as Mordred was led inside the Great hall of the castle by the seneschal. He stayed back in the open courtyard with Morgan. Mordred’s most recent snort of ridicule, as well as his extended coldness and reticence, had not gone unnoticed to Ywain, who had largely feigned an ignorance to remain on civil terms with his cousin.
“Mother,” Ywain turned to Morgan, catching her hand in his. A clear frown was on his face, a most striking difference from his usual unassuming smile. “Does cousin Mordred not like me? What have I done to inspire such indifference from my dear kinsman? Mother, I worry for Mordred. He seems… unhappy. Malcontent. And yet he smiles so often, but not one of his smiles is mirthful.”
He could not say the same for Morgan, although occasionally she seemed to share some of Mordred’s looks. But she was also capable of expressing tenderness, as he had witnessed just a few moments as they stood outside of the portcullis.
----
Mabuz had been, amazingly, enjoying himself in Rozeshire. His time there was not even ruined by the presence of Mennah and Armand. Although he could initially barely stand to cross paths with one or both of them, after days of the practice, it became almost tolerable, and he became much better at smiling and nodding politely when he would have much rather preferred to avoid their eyes and hide behind a tapestry.
But there were new joys in the new acquaintances he made. For one, he had grown even fonder of Lady Clarisin and her son. He tried to see them as often as he could, and if Liam was along, he would borrow Aurora from Maraud and Roryn and take much delight as he watched the two toddlers play, while engaging in conversation with the young mother. He kept his romantic affections for her to himself. He had learned from his brief experience with Mennah that such feelings were not wise to disclose too quickly. And in this situation, it was even more complicated with Clarisin already having a child, and the father being none other than Sir Armand.
He couldn’t help but be wildly jealous when he was told that Armand was spending time with his son. If Mabuz were to be honest with himself, he would admit it that he would have preferred it if Armand spited his son, and refused to engage with him. Could it be that Mabuz wished that he could lay claim to the sweet little Liam—as a dream for the future? That he could act as the foster father for the poor child who had been turned away by his own despicable father? That selfish fantasy would be altogether impossible if Armand turned out to love his son anyway.
This was the sort of thing that Mabuz was pondering as he walked out into the courtyard that morning. He was well distracted in his ponderings, however, when he turned a corner and spotted a familiar dark-haired woman. Not Clarisin—this lady was far older and taller. It was Morgan le Fay, who Mabuz had met once or twice before when she had visited the Lake in his youth. He had no particular qualms against her, but he was struck with surprise to see her arrival. He halted in his walk, and looked across the stone way in a curious gaze. He wondered if she would even remember who he was. He really had not spoken to her much at all.
“Mother,” Ywain turned to Morgan, catching her hand in his. A clear frown was on his face, a most striking difference from his usual unassuming smile. “Does cousin Mordred not like me? What have I done to inspire such indifference from my dear kinsman? Mother, I worry for Mordred. He seems… unhappy. Malcontent. And yet he smiles so often, but not one of his smiles is mirthful.”
He could not say the same for Morgan, although occasionally she seemed to share some of Mordred’s looks. But she was also capable of expressing tenderness, as he had witnessed just a few moments as they stood outside of the portcullis.
----
Mabuz had been, amazingly, enjoying himself in Rozeshire. His time there was not even ruined by the presence of Mennah and Armand. Although he could initially barely stand to cross paths with one or both of them, after days of the practice, it became almost tolerable, and he became much better at smiling and nodding politely when he would have much rather preferred to avoid their eyes and hide behind a tapestry.
But there were new joys in the new acquaintances he made. For one, he had grown even fonder of Lady Clarisin and her son. He tried to see them as often as he could, and if Liam was along, he would borrow Aurora from Maraud and Roryn and take much delight as he watched the two toddlers play, while engaging in conversation with the young mother. He kept his romantic affections for her to himself. He had learned from his brief experience with Mennah that such feelings were not wise to disclose too quickly. And in this situation, it was even more complicated with Clarisin already having a child, and the father being none other than Sir Armand.
He couldn’t help but be wildly jealous when he was told that Armand was spending time with his son. If Mabuz were to be honest with himself, he would admit it that he would have preferred it if Armand spited his son, and refused to engage with him. Could it be that Mabuz wished that he could lay claim to the sweet little Liam—as a dream for the future? That he could act as the foster father for the poor child who had been turned away by his own despicable father? That selfish fantasy would be altogether impossible if Armand turned out to love his son anyway.
This was the sort of thing that Mabuz was pondering as he walked out into the courtyard that morning. He was well distracted in his ponderings, however, when he turned a corner and spotted a familiar dark-haired woman. Not Clarisin—this lady was far older and taller. It was Morgan le Fay, who Mabuz had met once or twice before when she had visited the Lake in his youth. He had no particular qualms against her, but he was struck with surprise to see her arrival. He halted in his walk, and looked across the stone way in a curious gaze. He wondered if she would even remember who he was. He really had not spoken to her much at all.
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daughterofdon - Member for 4 years
Re: Beyond the Lake (King Arthur) IC ( )
by Applepoisoneer on Fri Nov 21, 2008 8:39 am
Morgan held Ywain's hand close to her breast and looked with fleeting concern at her son. "Mordred is himself my pet. He takes this world with a grain of bitter salt that seems to give him a bit of wisdom." Her smile was greatly shadowed by inner thoughts. "Not too much, but enough to make him worldly. He is in good health and we should not worry so." She kissed his hand and held his arm a moment, keeping his close to her; more for her own comfort than his. Morgan was not duely worried about Mordred, but seemed to fret a little over the flimsy amount of time that she and her son had spent together. It had become clear that their time together was being ill-spent; and with such a short quantity, quality was everything.
Morgan sighed morosely as she could think of nothing for them to engage in and allowed the sentiment to die in her palm. Like a seed left to wither in the sun. Soon enough, she could feel her old vices and tempestous nature flood her and sway her back into more shaded waters.
Morgan sighed morosely as she could think of nothing for them to engage in and allowed the sentiment to die in her palm. Like a seed left to wither in the sun. Soon enough, she could feel her old vices and tempestous nature flood her and sway her back into more shaded waters.
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Applepoisoneer - Member for 4 years
Re: Beyond the Lake (King Arthur) IC ( )
by Jadeling Hawkins on Sat Nov 22, 2008 1:01 am
"Papa!"
Armand started at the sudden shrill cry. Liam had somehow wandered off to a corner, to fetch a new bit of fluff or a bauble or some such nonsense to introduce to the play with Aurora and the fake animals, and Armand had been distracted by the arrival of a steward who had news of visitors. The play with Aurora and Maraud present seemed to be easier, though Armand could not help but worry that Maraud would turn and report to Mennah if he showed that he was enjoying Liam's presence too much. But now he whipped around away from the steward whose message was only half delivered, and spied little Liam racing over to him with large eyes bright once again with the threat of tears. Oh, but how often children seemed to be weeping!
"Papa, look!" Liam wailed, his baby voice tight with emotion. He was thrusting his chubby little wrist up towards the tall knight, but Armand could see nothing fundamentally wrong with the limb. Armand blinked, uncertain, and glanced to Maraud for some clue. Unbeknownst to him, Liam had trundled along in the corner and scratched his wrist against a rough section of the wall. It was no grave injury, but to a child of Liam's age it could either be laughed away or bewailed over for hours to come. The reaction of the adult to whom he had been entrusted made all the difference. "Look, Papa, look!"
Armand cleared his throat, looked again at the pale flesh of Liam's wrist, then awkwardly dropped to one knee to examine it better. Perhaps he had been bitten by a spider? Or had pricked himself on a nail? Surely, something had occurred to earn such a howl! But once Armand was closer to Liam's level, the boy could only sniffle and begin to feel woe on his behalf that his injury was receiving such scrutiny. There was but one last chance for the matter to be ended on a pleasant note.
"Kiss!" Liam insisted, both of his red lips pushing forward to form a pout as he shoved his wrist insistently to Armand's face. Armand blinked, pulled back, and stared at the babe in question. He glanced at Maraud, uncertain, but Liam emit a single little sobbing breath and repeated with more demand in his tone, "Kiss!"
Armand cleared his throat, looking down at the small hand and arm that were so dwarfed by his own rough hands that now enclosed them. But the wobbling of Liam's lips and the moisture in his eyes proved too much for Armand's battle-hardened heart. He bent his head and placed a quick kiss to the imaginary wound, feeling certain that such a remedy would never work in a practical situation, then patted it for good measure and looked to Liam to be sure that all was well. Liam beamed, offered a babyish 'thank you,' and happily hopped back over to play with Maraud's daughter. But before Liam could fully pull away, Armand caught hold of the tiny hand and halted him. Liam protested, giggling, thinking it was a silly game. But Armand's rugged face was very nearly white beneath its untrimmed jaw.
"One moment, Liam," Armand whispered, though none could hear. He continued to hold onto the minute limb, gingerly folding back the poorly made and oversized sleeve of it to stare at the soft underarm there. After several silent moments, during which Armand almost tenderly ran his thumb over the spot which so captivated him, Liam grew tired of the game and complained to be released. Armand blinked, the color eased back into his face, and he allowed Liam to bounce back over to his playmate. But he continued to stare after the boy with an expression that was entirely foreign and new, almost gently lost, on his face.
"My Lord?" The Steward, long forgotten, caused Armand to blink and slowly look back over to him. "Your guests..."
Armand nodded, rose to his feet, and quickly swiped one lightly trembling hand down his face. He looked to Maraud apologetically, motioning to Liam and signifying that he would return before the children became bored. He began to leave, but was caused to stop as Liam looked up and protested the sight of his retreating back. "Papa! Where r'you going?"
Armand halted, turned quickly and took a single large stride towards the infant that had begun to follow him. Liam stretched out his arms to be picked up, but to the boy's great surprise Armand swept him up into a tight hug much more quickly and enthusiastically than he had ever done before, being so hesitant to cause ill feelings in his lady (though Liam knew not that this had been the reason). Liam giggled as Armand's roughly shaven cheeks tickled his soft baby ones in three quick kisses, but then he was placed back on his shaky baby feet and Armand was gone. Confused, but happy, Liam toddled back over to Aurora and retrieved the cow.
-----
"My...My Lord, your guests are over this way!" The steward protested as Armand took off in long strides down the incorrect hall. Armand did not seem to hear him.
"Mennah! Mennah, I must speak with you!" Armand hollered, feeling once more one of the rare moments of thanks that none save his sweet betrothed could hear him. "MENNAH!!"
But before he could reach the room where Mennah (and her frustratingly present large cousins, who had somehow managed not to push Armand's fragile temper past its breaking point yet) rested, however, Armand nearly ran smack into an unexpected face. Unexpected but certainly not unwanted.
"Mordred!" Armand exclaimed, though he knew once again he went unheard. Then he laughed, and this he knew was somewhat audible, if much less booming that it had been years ago. "Mordred! My brother!"
And Armand strode forward with his great arms open, the largest grin on his face since Mennah had agreed to be his wife. He threw his arms around Mordred and clapped the fellow knight on the back, his laugh continuing to fill the room even in its weakened state. A man such as Armand the Bold had but three manners of acquaintances throughout life and outside of family: brothers, lovers, and enemies. And Mordred, being such a similar yet strikingly different soul, was of the first group. Perhaps only due to circumstances, for surely the two could have made great enemies. Perhaps only because they had common enemies within the court. Perhaps because they were similar in age, or in (formerly) their appetite for women, or because they were both undeniable when in true battle. But whatever the fires that had forged it, Armand considered his friendship with Mordred fiercer than he considered his devotion to the king...and Armand had frequently risked his life to preserve the king from insult.
"Brother!" Armand repeated, and though the words were lost they were still visible on his lips as he pulled away from the fierce fraternal embrace. "How have you come to be in Rozeshire? Surely you have not left the King's parades to throw rice at my wedding?"
This was all a great deal to try and read off of a man's lips, particularly when he was speaking so quickly and silently and excitedly as Armand was. But he tried to make due with symbols from his hands, as he had done in the sadly brief moments when he and Mordred had met since Armand had lost his voice in combat.
Armand started at the sudden shrill cry. Liam had somehow wandered off to a corner, to fetch a new bit of fluff or a bauble or some such nonsense to introduce to the play with Aurora and the fake animals, and Armand had been distracted by the arrival of a steward who had news of visitors. The play with Aurora and Maraud present seemed to be easier, though Armand could not help but worry that Maraud would turn and report to Mennah if he showed that he was enjoying Liam's presence too much. But now he whipped around away from the steward whose message was only half delivered, and spied little Liam racing over to him with large eyes bright once again with the threat of tears. Oh, but how often children seemed to be weeping!
"Papa, look!" Liam wailed, his baby voice tight with emotion. He was thrusting his chubby little wrist up towards the tall knight, but Armand could see nothing fundamentally wrong with the limb. Armand blinked, uncertain, and glanced to Maraud for some clue. Unbeknownst to him, Liam had trundled along in the corner and scratched his wrist against a rough section of the wall. It was no grave injury, but to a child of Liam's age it could either be laughed away or bewailed over for hours to come. The reaction of the adult to whom he had been entrusted made all the difference. "Look, Papa, look!"
Armand cleared his throat, looked again at the pale flesh of Liam's wrist, then awkwardly dropped to one knee to examine it better. Perhaps he had been bitten by a spider? Or had pricked himself on a nail? Surely, something had occurred to earn such a howl! But once Armand was closer to Liam's level, the boy could only sniffle and begin to feel woe on his behalf that his injury was receiving such scrutiny. There was but one last chance for the matter to be ended on a pleasant note.
"Kiss!" Liam insisted, both of his red lips pushing forward to form a pout as he shoved his wrist insistently to Armand's face. Armand blinked, pulled back, and stared at the babe in question. He glanced at Maraud, uncertain, but Liam emit a single little sobbing breath and repeated with more demand in his tone, "Kiss!"
Armand cleared his throat, looking down at the small hand and arm that were so dwarfed by his own rough hands that now enclosed them. But the wobbling of Liam's lips and the moisture in his eyes proved too much for Armand's battle-hardened heart. He bent his head and placed a quick kiss to the imaginary wound, feeling certain that such a remedy would never work in a practical situation, then patted it for good measure and looked to Liam to be sure that all was well. Liam beamed, offered a babyish 'thank you,' and happily hopped back over to play with Maraud's daughter. But before Liam could fully pull away, Armand caught hold of the tiny hand and halted him. Liam protested, giggling, thinking it was a silly game. But Armand's rugged face was very nearly white beneath its untrimmed jaw.
"One moment, Liam," Armand whispered, though none could hear. He continued to hold onto the minute limb, gingerly folding back the poorly made and oversized sleeve of it to stare at the soft underarm there. After several silent moments, during which Armand almost tenderly ran his thumb over the spot which so captivated him, Liam grew tired of the game and complained to be released. Armand blinked, the color eased back into his face, and he allowed Liam to bounce back over to his playmate. But he continued to stare after the boy with an expression that was entirely foreign and new, almost gently lost, on his face.
"My Lord?" The Steward, long forgotten, caused Armand to blink and slowly look back over to him. "Your guests..."
Armand nodded, rose to his feet, and quickly swiped one lightly trembling hand down his face. He looked to Maraud apologetically, motioning to Liam and signifying that he would return before the children became bored. He began to leave, but was caused to stop as Liam looked up and protested the sight of his retreating back. "Papa! Where r'you going?"
Armand halted, turned quickly and took a single large stride towards the infant that had begun to follow him. Liam stretched out his arms to be picked up, but to the boy's great surprise Armand swept him up into a tight hug much more quickly and enthusiastically than he had ever done before, being so hesitant to cause ill feelings in his lady (though Liam knew not that this had been the reason). Liam giggled as Armand's roughly shaven cheeks tickled his soft baby ones in three quick kisses, but then he was placed back on his shaky baby feet and Armand was gone. Confused, but happy, Liam toddled back over to Aurora and retrieved the cow.
-----
"My...My Lord, your guests are over this way!" The steward protested as Armand took off in long strides down the incorrect hall. Armand did not seem to hear him.
"Mennah! Mennah, I must speak with you!" Armand hollered, feeling once more one of the rare moments of thanks that none save his sweet betrothed could hear him. "MENNAH!!"
But before he could reach the room where Mennah (and her frustratingly present large cousins, who had somehow managed not to push Armand's fragile temper past its breaking point yet) rested, however, Armand nearly ran smack into an unexpected face. Unexpected but certainly not unwanted.
"Mordred!" Armand exclaimed, though he knew once again he went unheard. Then he laughed, and this he knew was somewhat audible, if much less booming that it had been years ago. "Mordred! My brother!"
And Armand strode forward with his great arms open, the largest grin on his face since Mennah had agreed to be his wife. He threw his arms around Mordred and clapped the fellow knight on the back, his laugh continuing to fill the room even in its weakened state. A man such as Armand the Bold had but three manners of acquaintances throughout life and outside of family: brothers, lovers, and enemies. And Mordred, being such a similar yet strikingly different soul, was of the first group. Perhaps only due to circumstances, for surely the two could have made great enemies. Perhaps only because they had common enemies within the court. Perhaps because they were similar in age, or in (formerly) their appetite for women, or because they were both undeniable when in true battle. But whatever the fires that had forged it, Armand considered his friendship with Mordred fiercer than he considered his devotion to the king...and Armand had frequently risked his life to preserve the king from insult.
"Brother!" Armand repeated, and though the words were lost they were still visible on his lips as he pulled away from the fierce fraternal embrace. "How have you come to be in Rozeshire? Surely you have not left the King's parades to throw rice at my wedding?"
This was all a great deal to try and read off of a man's lips, particularly when he was speaking so quickly and silently and excitedly as Armand was. But he tried to make due with symbols from his hands, as he had done in the sadly brief moments when he and Mordred had met since Armand had lost his voice in combat.
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Jadeling Hawkins - Member for 5 years
Re: Beyond the Lake (King Arthur) IC ( )
by daughterofdon on Sat Nov 22, 2008 1:35 am
Morgan’s words did nothing to comfort Ywain. Indeed, she did not answer the root of his question, and yet seemed to affirm a special fondness for her nephew by calling him her ‘pet.’ But because she emphasized her own affection for her son by deeds, Ywain felt soothed. Had his first military campaign inspired Morgan to show more of her love? He was not accustomed to her kissing his hand and holding him close.
He gently pat the hand that she placed on his arm. But his face fell when he heard her sigh in such low spirits. He opened his mouth to say something that might please her—or even to question what so troubled her as to pull such a deep sigh from her breath. But the darkening look on her face dissuaded him from speaking.
Anxious, he turned his eyes to the side for a moment. There, he noticed something cheerful: a bright orange tabby cat, lolling about the castle walls. He met eyes with the feline, and it promptly flicked its tail amiably and walked over to his feet. How easy it was for him to make friends with cats he came upon!
“Ah, mother! What a charming tomcat this is. Do you remember that little kitten that we used to keep when I was little?” Ywain was uplifted with the memories of stroking the soft white fur of his beloved childhood pet. Still holding to Morgan’s arm, he drew her down with him to sit on their knees and pay homage to the friendly animal. Ywain lifted his hand to pet the cat, which he immediately retracted with the pain of shock.
“Gah!” he gasped, reeling away from the orange tabby. “That animal is unnaturally hot to touch!” He looked to the creature—which was still standing before them in a non-threatening manner—and back to his offended hand, which was glowing red from where he had touched its fur. He winced sharply as the pain of the burn was fully realized, and a fat blister was forming on his palm. With his uninjured arm, he pulled Morgan back to her feet, and removed her from the cat.
“Don’t touch that beastie, mother. Its fire-red coat has the power to burn!” He looked in outrage and fear upon the cat, which mewed gently. “Does anyone lay claim to this cursed cat?” he looked around and called out to anyone who could hear. Then he pulled upon the hilt of his sword, his face uneasy. “I hate to do it, but this creature is clearly a threat to any unsuspecting man, woman or child.”
He gently pat the hand that she placed on his arm. But his face fell when he heard her sigh in such low spirits. He opened his mouth to say something that might please her—or even to question what so troubled her as to pull such a deep sigh from her breath. But the darkening look on her face dissuaded him from speaking.
Anxious, he turned his eyes to the side for a moment. There, he noticed something cheerful: a bright orange tabby cat, lolling about the castle walls. He met eyes with the feline, and it promptly flicked its tail amiably and walked over to his feet. How easy it was for him to make friends with cats he came upon!
“Ah, mother! What a charming tomcat this is. Do you remember that little kitten that we used to keep when I was little?” Ywain was uplifted with the memories of stroking the soft white fur of his beloved childhood pet. Still holding to Morgan’s arm, he drew her down with him to sit on their knees and pay homage to the friendly animal. Ywain lifted his hand to pet the cat, which he immediately retracted with the pain of shock.
“Gah!” he gasped, reeling away from the orange tabby. “That animal is unnaturally hot to touch!” He looked to the creature—which was still standing before them in a non-threatening manner—and back to his offended hand, which was glowing red from where he had touched its fur. He winced sharply as the pain of the burn was fully realized, and a fat blister was forming on his palm. With his uninjured arm, he pulled Morgan back to her feet, and removed her from the cat.
“Don’t touch that beastie, mother. Its fire-red coat has the power to burn!” He looked in outrage and fear upon the cat, which mewed gently. “Does anyone lay claim to this cursed cat?” he looked around and called out to anyone who could hear. Then he pulled upon the hilt of his sword, his face uneasy. “I hate to do it, but this creature is clearly a threat to any unsuspecting man, woman or child.”
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daughterofdon - Member for 4 years
Re: Beyond the Lake (King Arthur) IC ( )
by Applepoisoneer on Sat Nov 22, 2008 12:41 pm
"Ywain, lower your blade dear. You act far to quickly." Morgan soothed, lightly touching the hand that had been injured. It made her feel almost a little giddy to see her son burnt by a cat, for it wouldn't be long until he found another and forgot about this one. Although it's burn was quite peculiar.
She raised a hand to it and crossed her fingers. Tiny blue sparks fell gently from what seemed to be the air between her hand and the cat. "Has been magicked," she mused nad hummed a little laughter. Whom could or would conjure such a firey and innocent looking animal.
She raised a hand to it and crossed her fingers. Tiny blue sparks fell gently from what seemed to be the air between her hand and the cat. "Has been magicked," she mused nad hummed a little laughter. Whom could or would conjure such a firey and innocent looking animal.
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Applepoisoneer - Member for 4 years
Re: Beyond the Lake (King Arthur) IC ( )
by daughterofdon on Sat Nov 22, 2008 9:38 pm
Mordred grinned and was glad to see Armand, and most surely returned the larger knight’s brotherly embrace. But he felt that it had to be one of his quietest reunions with his good friend. He found it impossible to be boisterous in his greeting when all his companion could do was mouth and gesture his ecstatic emotions. And what a true shame it was to hear Sir Armand’s once-bold laugh—a laugh that would carry through the noisiest of taverns—now reduced to the weakest of chuckles. Mordred had heard that the knight’s muteness was attributed to a throat wound he received in a duel. How Mordred would be delighted to slit the throat of the knave who had caused such a cruel disability!
Still, it did Mordred’s cold heart well to be greeted with such fellowship from an old friend.
“Armand—my knightly brother indeed!” Mordred reciprocated, his face brightening considerably. “You look well, my friend. Still the boldest and heartiest knight of the Round, I see! I would like to see a contest of strength between you and Sir Lamorak. Do you know that that puppy is boasting the title of the ‘best knight of the Round Table’? After he defeated those thirty-some knights at a tourney—a gross exaggeration if you ask me. I can’t wait till someone knocks him off his high horse,” Mordred smirked.
While he discerned his name and ‘brother’ on Armand’s lips, he could not quite figure the rest of what Armand said—although the gestures certainly helped. And Mordred could naturally infer that he was being asked about his sudden decision to come to Rozeshire.
“Perhaps I should have sent a herald first—but I hadn’t the patience,” Mordred said. “I had been wanting to pay a visit to my good friend, and I was especially disappointed that you weren’t present at last week’s feast, when the King returned from his successful Saxon campaign—which I trust you have heard about.” Mordred’s eyes narrowed some, as he became suspicious that Armand was not keeping up to date with court news.
“And then I was informed by my dear brother that you were getting married,” Mordred divulged with an incredulous expression on his handsome face. He paid special emphasis to his last word, looking Armand in the eye poignantly for a moment.
“Armand!” he threw his hands out in question, a chuckle and smile floating above and disguising his reproach. “Armand—you lusty rascal! What is this? Why marriage? What has so changed the mind of such a gay wolf as Armand the Bold?”
Mordred allowed Armand no time to make a wordless reply. His expression lost its mirth and a critical hardened his face. He lowered his voice: “If this lady is carrying your bastard, that is hardly an excuse to marry her. Tell me—what knights of repute do you know of that have married the mothers of their bastards? Not one—not even the knights sworn to chastity. It’s shameful! And the lady, most likely, cannot offer proof that the child is even yours. Even if she is not a common slut—you should not let her hold a child against you, Armand. Dare I say it’s her own fault? I have never known Armand the Bold to coerce ladies who are unwilling. As I say—it’s her own burden; not yours.”
He halted in his speech, and sniffed the air as a foul stench came to his nose. And, as if in perfect timing to prove his assumptions, there came a most beauteous woman hurrying towards them, carrying not one, but two babies. One of them was crying and red-faced—seeming to be origin of the stench.
“Ah, pardon me, Lord Armand. I was only on my way to the nursery to… ah, well… Aurora has soiled herself. But I will keep Liam with me—I just wanted to alert you, milord,” the lady said to Armand a little breathlessly. Mordred quickly observed that she was a fairy, and was reminded of the detail that Gaheris had told him, about Armand’s betrothed being a fey woman. She was gorgeous, Mordred could not deny—but he was absolutely outraged that Armand would accept the two children as his own--especially if the woman was a promiscuous fairy! One of them—the dark-haired boy—was clearly the child of another man, since neither the mother nor Armand had such black hair.
“Lady!” Mordred addressed her before she could make leave. Maraud turned to him with a look of surprise. She, of course, recognized him for who he was—from her visions. She bit her tongue from blurting his name. “Yes, sir?” she answered tentatively.
“Lady—I regret that we cannot meet on better terms. I am a dear friend of Sir Armand. But make no charade about it—you may carry one illegitimate child of Sir Armand’s in your arms—but the other cannot possibly be his!” Mordred pointed accusingly.
Maraud opened her mouth in confusion. “I am not sure what you mean, Sir. One of these babies…”
“Slut!” Mordred interrupted her, spitting the word like bile. “How dare you impress these bastards upon Sir Armand! I take no pity upon a whore who tries to snag a knight in marriage!”
Maraud’s mouth dropped open in outrage and shock. “Sir!” she huffed in one affronted breath. “You are entirely mistaken! I am not trying to snag Sir Armand at all. Nay, only one of these babies is mine, and her father is a man that I am most devoted to--not Sir Armand!”
Mordred could not part with his pride and admit to acting rudely to an innocent woman. Instead of apologizing, he made a face of disgust and waved her away. “Go off, woman—the child’s stench offends us!”
Maraud cast him a look of deep loathing, as Aurora’s cries grew shriller. Then she turned away with an insulted jerk of her head and left briskly, holding tight to both babies and shaking her head with disbelief. Sir Mordred was even more horrid than she could have imagined!
Still, it did Mordred’s cold heart well to be greeted with such fellowship from an old friend.
“Armand—my knightly brother indeed!” Mordred reciprocated, his face brightening considerably. “You look well, my friend. Still the boldest and heartiest knight of the Round, I see! I would like to see a contest of strength between you and Sir Lamorak. Do you know that that puppy is boasting the title of the ‘best knight of the Round Table’? After he defeated those thirty-some knights at a tourney—a gross exaggeration if you ask me. I can’t wait till someone knocks him off his high horse,” Mordred smirked.
While he discerned his name and ‘brother’ on Armand’s lips, he could not quite figure the rest of what Armand said—although the gestures certainly helped. And Mordred could naturally infer that he was being asked about his sudden decision to come to Rozeshire.
“Perhaps I should have sent a herald first—but I hadn’t the patience,” Mordred said. “I had been wanting to pay a visit to my good friend, and I was especially disappointed that you weren’t present at last week’s feast, when the King returned from his successful Saxon campaign—which I trust you have heard about.” Mordred’s eyes narrowed some, as he became suspicious that Armand was not keeping up to date with court news.
“And then I was informed by my dear brother that you were getting married,” Mordred divulged with an incredulous expression on his handsome face. He paid special emphasis to his last word, looking Armand in the eye poignantly for a moment.
“Armand!” he threw his hands out in question, a chuckle and smile floating above and disguising his reproach. “Armand—you lusty rascal! What is this? Why marriage? What has so changed the mind of such a gay wolf as Armand the Bold?”
Mordred allowed Armand no time to make a wordless reply. His expression lost its mirth and a critical hardened his face. He lowered his voice: “If this lady is carrying your bastard, that is hardly an excuse to marry her. Tell me—what knights of repute do you know of that have married the mothers of their bastards? Not one—not even the knights sworn to chastity. It’s shameful! And the lady, most likely, cannot offer proof that the child is even yours. Even if she is not a common slut—you should not let her hold a child against you, Armand. Dare I say it’s her own fault? I have never known Armand the Bold to coerce ladies who are unwilling. As I say—it’s her own burden; not yours.”
He halted in his speech, and sniffed the air as a foul stench came to his nose. And, as if in perfect timing to prove his assumptions, there came a most beauteous woman hurrying towards them, carrying not one, but two babies. One of them was crying and red-faced—seeming to be origin of the stench.
“Ah, pardon me, Lord Armand. I was only on my way to the nursery to… ah, well… Aurora has soiled herself. But I will keep Liam with me—I just wanted to alert you, milord,” the lady said to Armand a little breathlessly. Mordred quickly observed that she was a fairy, and was reminded of the detail that Gaheris had told him, about Armand’s betrothed being a fey woman. She was gorgeous, Mordred could not deny—but he was absolutely outraged that Armand would accept the two children as his own--especially if the woman was a promiscuous fairy! One of them—the dark-haired boy—was clearly the child of another man, since neither the mother nor Armand had such black hair.
“Lady!” Mordred addressed her before she could make leave. Maraud turned to him with a look of surprise. She, of course, recognized him for who he was—from her visions. She bit her tongue from blurting his name. “Yes, sir?” she answered tentatively.
“Lady—I regret that we cannot meet on better terms. I am a dear friend of Sir Armand. But make no charade about it—you may carry one illegitimate child of Sir Armand’s in your arms—but the other cannot possibly be his!” Mordred pointed accusingly.
Maraud opened her mouth in confusion. “I am not sure what you mean, Sir. One of these babies…”
“Slut!” Mordred interrupted her, spitting the word like bile. “How dare you impress these bastards upon Sir Armand! I take no pity upon a whore who tries to snag a knight in marriage!”
Maraud’s mouth dropped open in outrage and shock. “Sir!” she huffed in one affronted breath. “You are entirely mistaken! I am not trying to snag Sir Armand at all. Nay, only one of these babies is mine, and her father is a man that I am most devoted to--not Sir Armand!”
Mordred could not part with his pride and admit to acting rudely to an innocent woman. Instead of apologizing, he made a face of disgust and waved her away. “Go off, woman—the child’s stench offends us!”
Maraud cast him a look of deep loathing, as Aurora’s cries grew shriller. Then she turned away with an insulted jerk of her head and left briskly, holding tight to both babies and shaking her head with disbelief. Sir Mordred was even more horrid than she could have imagined!
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daughterofdon - Member for 4 years
Re: Beyond the Lake (King Arthur) IC ( )
by Kohananinja on Sat Nov 22, 2008 10:13 pm
Pyro the fire kitten, looked up curiously at the two guests who stood before him. It wasn’t often humans would attempt to touch him, for all in Rozeshire were aware of his fiery fur. He usually roamed the castle halls in winter, keeping chambers warm, but it being spring, there was less need for him. He simply helped in the kitchens as of late, and had taken a stroll before meeting the two. He meowed up at the human who had burnt his hand touching him, and turned around towards a corridor. He then meowed up at them indicating he wished them to follow. His mistress would be able to heal his wound, so he intended to lead them to her.
Mennah handed Aeron back to his mother Alice as they prepared to leave the chamber. It was time for her to head to the kitchens to prepare the menu for this night’s meal, and Alice, having a passion for the kitchen, had insisted on coming. It was after leaving the Solar that she heard Armand’s voice calling out to her. Her face instantly lit up with happiness and she rushed to meet him. Someone, however, had beaten her to him, and stood in the hallway clasping shoulders with Armand. Armand and the man he called Mordred, couldn’t see her or Alice from that angle, so she decided to wait until after they finished their chat to alert them to her presence. It couldn’t be a bad one, after all Armand had called him a brother and indicated he might be a guest for the wedding, and once this was confirmed she could have a room prepared for him, and welcome him into her hall.
His words however changed her mind. The man was of the most offending of impotence, and apparently not very bright either. He’d rudely mistaken Maraud as herself and even had the gall to call her a slut! Well by God not in her hall! There was only so much a woman could be expected to take before reaching her breaking point and she’d far since reached it.
She stepped into view of the knights, her curled hair whipping about her shoulders from an unnatural wind that had formed. Mennah was livid, and her temper had flared like that of a raging storm. Her normally warm light green eyes had hardened and darkened to a point of frightening beauty, like the water before the storm hit. As if to emphasize this, a harsh gust of wind exploded and slammed into Mordred, nearly shoving him into the wall.
“No Maraud please stay, I’ll not let you be insulted like that.” Mennah said walking closer to her beloved and Mordred until she was but half a foot from them. She sent Mordred a deadly look, not quite a glare, but one that coveted her outrage.
“You will apologize to Lady Maraud this instant Sir. She is a dear friend of mine, and if you so much as utter a foul word against her again, I don’t care if you were kin to the High King himself, I’ll throw you from my gates myself! And be assured I am quite capable of doing so.” Mennah said her voice fierce. Ironically she did not know how true her words were, for Mordred truly was kin of the High King.
Mennah handed Aeron back to his mother Alice as they prepared to leave the chamber. It was time for her to head to the kitchens to prepare the menu for this night’s meal, and Alice, having a passion for the kitchen, had insisted on coming. It was after leaving the Solar that she heard Armand’s voice calling out to her. Her face instantly lit up with happiness and she rushed to meet him. Someone, however, had beaten her to him, and stood in the hallway clasping shoulders with Armand. Armand and the man he called Mordred, couldn’t see her or Alice from that angle, so she decided to wait until after they finished their chat to alert them to her presence. It couldn’t be a bad one, after all Armand had called him a brother and indicated he might be a guest for the wedding, and once this was confirmed she could have a room prepared for him, and welcome him into her hall.
His words however changed her mind. The man was of the most offending of impotence, and apparently not very bright either. He’d rudely mistaken Maraud as herself and even had the gall to call her a slut! Well by God not in her hall! There was only so much a woman could be expected to take before reaching her breaking point and she’d far since reached it.
She stepped into view of the knights, her curled hair whipping about her shoulders from an unnatural wind that had formed. Mennah was livid, and her temper had flared like that of a raging storm. Her normally warm light green eyes had hardened and darkened to a point of frightening beauty, like the water before the storm hit. As if to emphasize this, a harsh gust of wind exploded and slammed into Mordred, nearly shoving him into the wall.
“No Maraud please stay, I’ll not let you be insulted like that.” Mennah said walking closer to her beloved and Mordred until she was but half a foot from them. She sent Mordred a deadly look, not quite a glare, but one that coveted her outrage.
“You will apologize to Lady Maraud this instant Sir. She is a dear friend of mine, and if you so much as utter a foul word against her again, I don’t care if you were kin to the High King himself, I’ll throw you from my gates myself! And be assured I am quite capable of doing so.” Mennah said her voice fierce. Ironically she did not know how true her words were, for Mordred truly was kin of the High King.
Last edited by Kohananinja on Sat Nov 22, 2008 10:36 pm, edited 2 times in total.
Life means rolling with the punches, and knowing when to throw a few of your own
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Kohananinja - Member for 4 years
Re: Beyond the Lake (King Arthur) IC ( )
by Applepoisoneer on Sat Nov 22, 2008 10:28 pm
Morgan thought a moment, then concented to follow the cat. Getting stiffly to her feet, she beckoned Ywain to do the same. Her intuition told her there would be no danger, but this did not stop her from raising her defenses a little.
She found the little cat to be quite the charming thing; so very intellectually differant from a lot of the familiars or conjured beasts she'd encountered. Her own ravens seemed to be dull compared, no pun intended of course. She brushed her skirts off before looking behind her to see if Ywain were comming and ducked into the hall.
She found the little cat to be quite the charming thing; so very intellectually differant from a lot of the familiars or conjured beasts she'd encountered. Her own ravens seemed to be dull compared, no pun intended of course. She brushed her skirts off before looking behind her to see if Ywain were comming and ducked into the hall.
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Applepoisoneer - Member for 4 years
Re: Beyond the Lake (King Arthur) IC ( )
by Jadeling Hawkins on Sun Nov 23, 2008 1:05 am
Armand had chuckled as Mordred announced, with apparent shock, his knowledge of Armand's engagement. And the mildly amused expression remained on Armand's face as he folded his arms and listened to the lecture. He had expected Mordred to be surprised...in fact, he had suspected that he would be displeased. The amusement twitched slightly on his face as Mordred suggested a bastard being the cause of his will to marry. Nay, Armand had proven that an illegitimate child would not draw him to wed a woman. Quite thoroughly, in fact. But while Armand would have not even bothered to throw his glove at a man, going straight for his blade, if such a man were to insinuate such things about his beloved, sweet, innocent Mennah...Armand was merely amused by Mordred's misconceptions regarding his betrothal. After all, how could he have known?
And then Maraud came forward, with both of the infants he had left her with in her arms, and one of them (he was proud to note that it was not Liam) wailing and smelling horribly. He nodded to her in acknowledgment, but suddenly things became an entirely new level of awkward amusement...as Mordred mistook Maraud for the mother of the bastard that he wasn't marrying her for. Armand, laughing, tried to wave Mordred down, but it was too late. Burying his face in one large hand, Armand shook his head and laughed and tried to apologize to Maraud all at once. "Oh, Mordred...Mordred, my friend! Lady Maraud is not my lady! She is but the lady of another man, and a good friend and mentor to my betrothed! And a friend to myself, as well! Lady Maraud, forgive my friend, and forgive me, and I thank you for keeping Liam by your side. Ah, peace, Mordred! Peace!"
All of this of course went unheard, and it was difficult to portray so much with hand gestures when he was red in the face with laughter and attempting to convey his apologies to Maraud. He positioned himself between Mordred and Maraud in hopes of keeping things peaceful.
But all of his thoughts of peace and humor at the matter evaporated when he felt a harsh wind, saw Mordred nearly knocked off his feet, and heard Mennah's unusually angry voice.
"Mennah! Mennah, my sweet, By God's good graces calm yourself. This is a matter of grave misunderstanding, nothing more." Armand quickly moved to take Mennah tenderly by the shoulders, his eyes crinkled with pleasure of seeing her and good humor. He held one hand out to Mordred, and explained quickly, "This is Sir Mordred, Dear Mennah. He is my oldest friend and dearest companion. He speaks brashly, but does so only out of misplaced love for myself. Please, Milady, soothe your temper...and if you will, convey both my welcome to my brother of arms and my apology to Lady Maraud."
And then Maraud came forward, with both of the infants he had left her with in her arms, and one of them (he was proud to note that it was not Liam) wailing and smelling horribly. He nodded to her in acknowledgment, but suddenly things became an entirely new level of awkward amusement...as Mordred mistook Maraud for the mother of the bastard that he wasn't marrying her for. Armand, laughing, tried to wave Mordred down, but it was too late. Burying his face in one large hand, Armand shook his head and laughed and tried to apologize to Maraud all at once. "Oh, Mordred...Mordred, my friend! Lady Maraud is not my lady! She is but the lady of another man, and a good friend and mentor to my betrothed! And a friend to myself, as well! Lady Maraud, forgive my friend, and forgive me, and I thank you for keeping Liam by your side. Ah, peace, Mordred! Peace!"
All of this of course went unheard, and it was difficult to portray so much with hand gestures when he was red in the face with laughter and attempting to convey his apologies to Maraud. He positioned himself between Mordred and Maraud in hopes of keeping things peaceful.
But all of his thoughts of peace and humor at the matter evaporated when he felt a harsh wind, saw Mordred nearly knocked off his feet, and heard Mennah's unusually angry voice.
"Mennah! Mennah, my sweet, By God's good graces calm yourself. This is a matter of grave misunderstanding, nothing more." Armand quickly moved to take Mennah tenderly by the shoulders, his eyes crinkled with pleasure of seeing her and good humor. He held one hand out to Mordred, and explained quickly, "This is Sir Mordred, Dear Mennah. He is my oldest friend and dearest companion. He speaks brashly, but does so only out of misplaced love for myself. Please, Milady, soothe your temper...and if you will, convey both my welcome to my brother of arms and my apology to Lady Maraud."
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Jadeling Hawkins - Member for 5 years
Re: Beyond the Lake (King Arthur) IC ( )
by Jadeling Hawkins on Sun Nov 23, 2008 2:03 am
Alanna reacted much as a newly married young woman, one who was so deeply in love, might be expected to as Lancelot spoke to her. She sighed happily as he spoke in his delightfully deep voice, shivered with want at the feel of his hand on her knee, and nodded with unabashed approval at whatever it was he had to say. His solution to her dressing habits seemed perfectly acceptable; indisputable and sound in every way. And she happily told him so as he requested her opinion.
"Very fair, Sir, very fair indeed," Alanna breathed sweetly as she blissfully shut her eyes and awaited the kiss she was certain would come. But it didn't, and Lancelot instead inquired if she had any more to discuss with him. Alanna opened one eye, using it to give him an amused look, and in answering reached up and tugged him to her lips.
-----
There were a great deal of moments, in fact there were few otherwise, when Alanna had found herself wishing that her honeymoon with her beloved Lancelot would not end. She desired that they would be ever free to wander the woods and have their fill of one another without worry of interruption or criticism from the other members of the world. When she could almost deceive herself into believing that they were truly alone, truly free. But their time as a couple in solitude would only have to make way for their time as a couple within the world, within the courts that he so desired to be a part of. And besides...Armand and Mennah would be enjoying their own celebration soon, and the newly weds simply had to be there to join them in it!
But as Lancelot and his delirious new bride sat astride their steeds just outside of Rozeshire's reach, with the scent of roses embracing them and the distant sounds of outside life happily ringing throughout Lady Mennah's domain, Alanna took the time to breath in deeply and cherish the last few moments of their honeymoon. She gazed over at Lancelot, so handsome and chivalrous and brave in his appearance. She adored the tawny look that the sun placed on his darker skin, and the way the light curls of his hair brushed against his ears and made his eyes stand out so vividly. She exhaled slowly, committing the sight of him as a free man to her memory. In that single instant her love for him, every bit that she had felt over the last few weeks, expanded within her chest until she felt it would burst. Alanna glanced back over towards Rozeshire, then turned to her husband and smiled almost teasingly.
"May I have but one last kiss from my husband while he is still solely mine, Sir du Lac?" Alanna fluttered her lashes prettily, something she generally saved for jest while discussing the manners of a typical maid, and leaned expectantly so far out of her saddle that it was surprising she did not fall out.
"Very fair, Sir, very fair indeed," Alanna breathed sweetly as she blissfully shut her eyes and awaited the kiss she was certain would come. But it didn't, and Lancelot instead inquired if she had any more to discuss with him. Alanna opened one eye, using it to give him an amused look, and in answering reached up and tugged him to her lips.
-----
There were a great deal of moments, in fact there were few otherwise, when Alanna had found herself wishing that her honeymoon with her beloved Lancelot would not end. She desired that they would be ever free to wander the woods and have their fill of one another without worry of interruption or criticism from the other members of the world. When she could almost deceive herself into believing that they were truly alone, truly free. But their time as a couple in solitude would only have to make way for their time as a couple within the world, within the courts that he so desired to be a part of. And besides...Armand and Mennah would be enjoying their own celebration soon, and the newly weds simply had to be there to join them in it!
But as Lancelot and his delirious new bride sat astride their steeds just outside of Rozeshire's reach, with the scent of roses embracing them and the distant sounds of outside life happily ringing throughout Lady Mennah's domain, Alanna took the time to breath in deeply and cherish the last few moments of their honeymoon. She gazed over at Lancelot, so handsome and chivalrous and brave in his appearance. She adored the tawny look that the sun placed on his darker skin, and the way the light curls of his hair brushed against his ears and made his eyes stand out so vividly. She exhaled slowly, committing the sight of him as a free man to her memory. In that single instant her love for him, every bit that she had felt over the last few weeks, expanded within her chest until she felt it would burst. Alanna glanced back over towards Rozeshire, then turned to her husband and smiled almost teasingly.
"May I have but one last kiss from my husband while he is still solely mine, Sir du Lac?" Alanna fluttered her lashes prettily, something she generally saved for jest while discussing the manners of a typical maid, and leaned expectantly so far out of her saddle that it was surprising she did not fall out.
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Jadeling Hawkins - Member for 5 years
Re: Beyond the Lake (King Arthur) IC ( )
by Protoman X on Sun Nov 23, 2008 6:40 am
It was a good thing Mennah stepped in when she did. If not, Roryn would have put an arrow right in Mordred's ugly mug. And with his speed and accuracy with the bow, such a deed was far from impossible. He stood by Mennah, almost laughing at Mordred's ridiculous helplessness against Mennah and her magic.
"I agree with Lady Mennah. Sir Mordred..." yes, Roryn had heard of him, "...owes my Lady and my daughter an apology." he reached for his bow, "Unless he prefers an arrow shot through his tiny little heart!" he said a threatening tone that was very much unlike him and his usual cool and stoic mannerism.
Armand was mouthing something to Mennah, and Roryn knew what, for he could read lips fairly well. But he didn't care if Mennah calmed herself, for he would not until his Lady was given the apology she deserved.
"I agree with Lady Mennah. Sir Mordred..." yes, Roryn had heard of him, "...owes my Lady and my daughter an apology." he reached for his bow, "Unless he prefers an arrow shot through his tiny little heart!" he said a threatening tone that was very much unlike him and his usual cool and stoic mannerism.
Armand was mouthing something to Mennah, and Roryn knew what, for he could read lips fairly well. But he didn't care if Mennah calmed herself, for he would not until his Lady was given the apology she deserved.
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Protoman X - Member for 4 years
Re: Beyond the Lake (King Arthur) IC ( )
by daughterofdon on Sun Nov 23, 2008 3:13 pm
Mabuz had been standing on the outer edge of the courtyard, and had guiltily witnessed Sir Ywain be burned by Pyro. He could have shouted for the knight to retract his hand. But, Mabuz had a natural prejudice against all knights he came upon, and did not mind seeing one suffer a mild burn in his ignorance. He would have left, if Ywain had not been ready to draw his sword and slay the innocent creature.
“Halt! That is Lady Mennah’s pet! Do not harm him!” Mabuz called forth and rushed to the little circle that comprised of Ywain, Pyro and Morgan le Fay.
Ywain was reasonable enough, and after hearing the disapproval of both his mother and this green-skinned stranger, he quickly sheathed his sword. He had seen his mother sprinkle her blue sparks upon the cat, discerning that it was charmed. Ywain knew the magic of his mother, and was not very alarmed—although he was still slightly suspicious of a creature with such a scorching temperature.
“I’m sorry, sir. The Lady’s pet has burned me—unintentionally, I’m sure. I will not slay it, but I would like to speak to his owner, and perhaps convince her to take some precautions about letting her precarious animal out in the open, where he might scorch unsuspecting visitors,” Ywain said to Mabuz. The pain in his hand was growing, and so he did not wear his characteristic smile when he made new acquaintances. When he turned his head to look again at the cat, he noticed that it was leading his mother away to a corridor. Morgan beckoned him—Ywain followed.
Mabuz decided to trail along as well, since he didn’t trust this knight to navigate safely through the castle. “No one has ever been harmed by Pyro before,” Mabuz informed Ywain with somewhat of a condescending air. “Did you not feel the warmth emanating from him?”
“Yes, of course, I am not insensitive to temperature, sir,” Ywain replied. “But I have come upon many cats, especially in the seaport cities, and I have found some of them to have extraordinary body heats. In fact, I once owned a white kitten who would sleep with me in my bed in my home in the mountaineous region of Gore, and quite possibly kept me comfortable and warm through the coldest winter nights. But you must understand, good sir, I was not expecting to be burned by this friendly orange tom! I merely attributed his emanating warmth to the thickness of his fur.”
Mabuz couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the blabbering of this knight. Really, what sort of fool could talk at such length about the body heat of felines? Then he noticed the bright gold lion standing rampant upon the knight’s red surcoat. It would more appropriately be a kitten.
Ywain caught up to Morgan and touched her sleeve with his uninjured hand. “Mother, have you any thought where this odd beast is taking us? It is hardly an excuse to claim that one was invited inside a home by a pet cat.”
“Halt! That is Lady Mennah’s pet! Do not harm him!” Mabuz called forth and rushed to the little circle that comprised of Ywain, Pyro and Morgan le Fay.
Ywain was reasonable enough, and after hearing the disapproval of both his mother and this green-skinned stranger, he quickly sheathed his sword. He had seen his mother sprinkle her blue sparks upon the cat, discerning that it was charmed. Ywain knew the magic of his mother, and was not very alarmed—although he was still slightly suspicious of a creature with such a scorching temperature.
“I’m sorry, sir. The Lady’s pet has burned me—unintentionally, I’m sure. I will not slay it, but I would like to speak to his owner, and perhaps convince her to take some precautions about letting her precarious animal out in the open, where he might scorch unsuspecting visitors,” Ywain said to Mabuz. The pain in his hand was growing, and so he did not wear his characteristic smile when he made new acquaintances. When he turned his head to look again at the cat, he noticed that it was leading his mother away to a corridor. Morgan beckoned him—Ywain followed.
Mabuz decided to trail along as well, since he didn’t trust this knight to navigate safely through the castle. “No one has ever been harmed by Pyro before,” Mabuz informed Ywain with somewhat of a condescending air. “Did you not feel the warmth emanating from him?”
“Yes, of course, I am not insensitive to temperature, sir,” Ywain replied. “But I have come upon many cats, especially in the seaport cities, and I have found some of them to have extraordinary body heats. In fact, I once owned a white kitten who would sleep with me in my bed in my home in the mountaineous region of Gore, and quite possibly kept me comfortable and warm through the coldest winter nights. But you must understand, good sir, I was not expecting to be burned by this friendly orange tom! I merely attributed his emanating warmth to the thickness of his fur.”
Mabuz couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the blabbering of this knight. Really, what sort of fool could talk at such length about the body heat of felines? Then he noticed the bright gold lion standing rampant upon the knight’s red surcoat. It would more appropriately be a kitten.
Ywain caught up to Morgan and touched her sleeve with his uninjured hand. “Mother, have you any thought where this odd beast is taking us? It is hardly an excuse to claim that one was invited inside a home by a pet cat.”
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daughterofdon - Member for 4 years
Re: Beyond the Lake (King Arthur) IC ( )
by daughterofdon on Sun Nov 23, 2008 4:42 pm
Maraud had not yet left the hall when Mennah stepped forward, bringing a gust of wind with her. Mordred turned his attention to this sudden entrance of a lady he could assume to be none other than a vengeful goddess. He had never seen an angry woman look so frighteningly gorgeous! He coveted her immediately—but of course, he was directly punished for the thought when a supernatural wind came up and pounded against him, quite nearly picking his feet off the ground. When it passed, he steadied his wind-tosseled self by leaning a trembling hand against the wall he had nearly been blown against.
“What the Devil!” he cursed, his eyes flaring at the beauteous young lady who had apparently conjured such a wind to strike him. Then, after she bid the insulted fairy to stay (which she did, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction to see Mordred tossed about by a powerful wind gust), she walked up to him and Armand. In fact, she was all of six inches away from them—quite a confrontational distance for a lady to place herself next to two knights! Mordred looked down at her, his black eyes burning with both rage and lust. He was further enflamed by the naked emotion clear in the lady’s wrath-darkened eyes. He had seen such looks from ladies before, but none so deadly—and none so brilliantly enthralling.
Then, his eyes narrowed obstinately when she demanded that he apologize to Lady Maraud. It was clear from her threats that she was the titled Lady of Rozeshire. His nostrils flared when she made mention of him being kin to the High King. Ah, but she could not possibly know.
Mordred looked to Armand, who had certainly been good-humored through Mordred’s diatribe and mistake with Maraud. It quickly became clear, from Armand’s silent mouthing to the lady and the way he placed his hands on her elegant shoulders—she was his true betrothed. It suddenly occurred to him that Armand was not marrying because of a child—but because he had fallen in love with such a goddess. Mordred could hardly blame him; the young flower was breath-taking and fiery. No doubt such a virtuous harpy had resisted to be bedded out of wedlock, and so Armand had resorted to marrying her—the only way he could have her. Mordred had felt such desperateness himself on a few occasions, but he knew that passions cooled, but marriage was binding. He still felt the duty to save his friend from throwing away his bachelorhood, although his task all of the sudden became much more difficult. Surely Armand would not listen to reason if he was so in love with such a proud vixen.
But before Mordred could devise a plan for thwarting the impending union, there was another vengeful spirit that suddenly appeared to challenge him: a huntsman, unlikely to be a knight from his attire, but still fully armed. He announced himself to be the lord of the fey lady and the father of her pungent daughter. And he was threatening to shoot an arrow through Mordred’s heart.
“Oh, Roryn!” Maraud sighed, sounding much like a relieved lady who had been proven innocent by her beloved champion. She stepped closer to the grouping, still holding the babies. Aurora was still tearful, but her cries had shrunk considerably in volume—most likely because she was startled silent by the wind Mennah sent about. And quite pleasantly, the wind had also blown away much of her offending odor.
Mordred stood poised a moment, neither complying nor rebelling. He considered pulling off his gauntlet and challenging the woodsman to a duel. But such a venture would unnecessarily distract him from the dire task at hand: convincing Armand that he was making a horrid mistake. How much pride would he lose if he apologized to the fey lady and her blubbering child? Not much, and it would be an incident that would probably not be well-remembered.
“Fine, sir, I will comply,” Mordred uttered finally. He took a step towards Maraud and bowed icily. “Lady, forgive me for my mistake. I do not believe you to be a slut or a whore, and I mean no insult to your child.” He glanced mildly at Aurora, who hiccupped tearfully and moodily buried her face in her mother’s breast. Maraud held the children more tightly and glared disdainfully at Mordred, although she accepted his apology with a nod of her head. Mordred then returned his dark eyes to Roryn and concluded, “And I apologize, sir, for insulting your wife and daughter.” Lastly, his gaze stopped on Mennah. “So, I assume that you are Sir Armand’s bride-to-be. Well, milady, I will only apologize for mistaking your identity if you apologize for sending a gust of wind against me. That was your doing, I’m assuming? Otherwise you best shut the window the sends forth such powerful drafts. If such a force could knock a grown man off his feet, I would hate to see the power it would have over those infants.”
Maraud, in the meantime, slipped closer to Roryn, while still holding the babies. “Dear!” she whispered happily to him, stepping on her toes to give him a kiss. “Will you come with me to the nursery? Poor Aurora, she was so upset…” She handed Aurora over to Roryn’s arms. Then she cradled Liam better, and beckoned Roryn to follow away from the confrontation between Mordred and Mennah, and to the nursery.
“What the Devil!” he cursed, his eyes flaring at the beauteous young lady who had apparently conjured such a wind to strike him. Then, after she bid the insulted fairy to stay (which she did, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction to see Mordred tossed about by a powerful wind gust), she walked up to him and Armand. In fact, she was all of six inches away from them—quite a confrontational distance for a lady to place herself next to two knights! Mordred looked down at her, his black eyes burning with both rage and lust. He was further enflamed by the naked emotion clear in the lady’s wrath-darkened eyes. He had seen such looks from ladies before, but none so deadly—and none so brilliantly enthralling.
Then, his eyes narrowed obstinately when she demanded that he apologize to Lady Maraud. It was clear from her threats that she was the titled Lady of Rozeshire. His nostrils flared when she made mention of him being kin to the High King. Ah, but she could not possibly know.
Mordred looked to Armand, who had certainly been good-humored through Mordred’s diatribe and mistake with Maraud. It quickly became clear, from Armand’s silent mouthing to the lady and the way he placed his hands on her elegant shoulders—she was his true betrothed. It suddenly occurred to him that Armand was not marrying because of a child—but because he had fallen in love with such a goddess. Mordred could hardly blame him; the young flower was breath-taking and fiery. No doubt such a virtuous harpy had resisted to be bedded out of wedlock, and so Armand had resorted to marrying her—the only way he could have her. Mordred had felt such desperateness himself on a few occasions, but he knew that passions cooled, but marriage was binding. He still felt the duty to save his friend from throwing away his bachelorhood, although his task all of the sudden became much more difficult. Surely Armand would not listen to reason if he was so in love with such a proud vixen.
But before Mordred could devise a plan for thwarting the impending union, there was another vengeful spirit that suddenly appeared to challenge him: a huntsman, unlikely to be a knight from his attire, but still fully armed. He announced himself to be the lord of the fey lady and the father of her pungent daughter. And he was threatening to shoot an arrow through Mordred’s heart.
“Oh, Roryn!” Maraud sighed, sounding much like a relieved lady who had been proven innocent by her beloved champion. She stepped closer to the grouping, still holding the babies. Aurora was still tearful, but her cries had shrunk considerably in volume—most likely because she was startled silent by the wind Mennah sent about. And quite pleasantly, the wind had also blown away much of her offending odor.
Mordred stood poised a moment, neither complying nor rebelling. He considered pulling off his gauntlet and challenging the woodsman to a duel. But such a venture would unnecessarily distract him from the dire task at hand: convincing Armand that he was making a horrid mistake. How much pride would he lose if he apologized to the fey lady and her blubbering child? Not much, and it would be an incident that would probably not be well-remembered.
“Fine, sir, I will comply,” Mordred uttered finally. He took a step towards Maraud and bowed icily. “Lady, forgive me for my mistake. I do not believe you to be a slut or a whore, and I mean no insult to your child.” He glanced mildly at Aurora, who hiccupped tearfully and moodily buried her face in her mother’s breast. Maraud held the children more tightly and glared disdainfully at Mordred, although she accepted his apology with a nod of her head. Mordred then returned his dark eyes to Roryn and concluded, “And I apologize, sir, for insulting your wife and daughter.” Lastly, his gaze stopped on Mennah. “So, I assume that you are Sir Armand’s bride-to-be. Well, milady, I will only apologize for mistaking your identity if you apologize for sending a gust of wind against me. That was your doing, I’m assuming? Otherwise you best shut the window the sends forth such powerful drafts. If such a force could knock a grown man off his feet, I would hate to see the power it would have over those infants.”
Maraud, in the meantime, slipped closer to Roryn, while still holding the babies. “Dear!” she whispered happily to him, stepping on her toes to give him a kiss. “Will you come with me to the nursery? Poor Aurora, she was so upset…” She handed Aurora over to Roryn’s arms. Then she cradled Liam better, and beckoned Roryn to follow away from the confrontation between Mordred and Mennah, and to the nursery.
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daughterofdon - Member for 4 years
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