Aurnia let her feet dangle in the lake as she let the boat float across the lake. The rest of her was laying in the boat, her long dark hair spread around her, as she watched the air around them create swirls in the fog. A friend had come to Avalon after being poisoned with a very specific poison that could only be cured herbs that are well hidden in the woods that surround the island.She turned her head towards her old friend, Merlin, her eyes the usual big brown.

"Merlin, would you say that healing Claudia is a celebratory moment?" she asked, it had been a while since Avalon had thrown a festive banquet and Aurnia was itching to dance under the moon again with the living music. She didn't need to explain this to Merlin because he knew her too well to know that she wanted to throw another banquet again. She kicked her feet back in forth, letting the water run through her toes and creating small ripples in the lake.

It wasn't sunny out on the lake because of the protection spell she put up a long time ago to keep Avalon hidden from unwanted visitors. The fog was a yellow hue from the blazing sun hidden behind the thickness of the fog. The water below them was a deep blue meaning that they were still out pretty deep and still had a couple minutes of gliding across the undisturbed waters. Aurnia moved her eyes back to the sky and the swirls they made in the fog.

Lancelot sat confidently on his charger. His armor and his helm appeared to glow in the misty yellow light. It was no magic on his part. He had simply polished them that morning. His mount, Bermethue, was a fine gray stallion. Steam spurted from his nostrils and he tossed his head. He was ready to charge.

So was their opponent. The knight was anonymous, covered head to foot in armor. His steed was black and shrouded in a caparison. He signaled Lancelot that he was ready to begin and Lancelot returned the signal. They galloped their chargers down the tilt with lances raised and shields up. Lancelot struck true and unhorsed the knight on his first try.

There followed a chorus of clangs like a dozen pots and pans falling at once. A murder of crows cawed loudly and flew out of the trees. The knight had fallen from his horse and landed in pieces. A stable hand, who helped Lancelot practice, took the reins of the black horse and lead it away. Another came to gather the fallen pieces of armor. He looked at Lancelot a little in awe.

Lancelot had long outgrown practicing with quintains and ring targets. His main opponent was an uninhabited suit of armor, which was made animate by the magic of Avalon. The ghost knight was a worthy opponent and could fight without tiring. They could not speak, these empty knights, but Lancelot suspected that they were the spirits of knights past.

It would take some time for the servants to piece the armor back together again. Meanwhile, Lancelot dismounted and removed his helm. His practice field was secluded in the forest that surrounded Avalon. He led Berm to the shore of the Lake and looked out over the mist. Most of the island was shrouded, but he could hear the rushing of the falls and see the light that gleamed at the topmost tower. He did not even know the purpose of that light. He inferred that it was something sacred. And for those things that were sacred, he thought it best not to ask about.

Guinevere was once again stood by the window in her bed chambers, casting a wandering glance over the flowery plains which surrounded Camelot, the sun was high in the sky with little cloud covering the vast blue above, it certainly was a beautiful day. The slight breeze played around Guinevere's long golden hair and she was thankful for the cooling relief of an otherwise unbearably hot day, especially in her extremely restricting garments, the tight corset and yards of rich materials made it somewhat unbearable in summer. It was times like these she envied the men, seeing them in their loosely fitting clothing with out even a second thought and it wasn't considered a scandal or abomination, hell, she had seen plenty of men's naked torso's around Camelot on days similar as today.

Leaving her room she wandered down the endless coridoors until she finally made it outside, feeling he stoned path crunch under her foot and the smell of summer air mixed in with the aroma of the near-by ocean brought a small smile to her beautiful face. Stopping at a blooming flower she bent down and gently broke it's stem before bringing it to her nose as the sweet aroma flew through her senses and larger smile grew and she continued walking, idly twirling the flower around with her fingers.

She suddenly became aware of her surroundings when she heard the clashing of metal and the burly laughter of men, looking up Gwen found that she had stumbled upon the knights practicing ground, rolling her eyes slightly she took a seat on a slight hill and lay back feeling the sun on her face made her smirk slightly and close her eyes, this was purely heaven.

He had been letting subtle dampness of the opaquely yellow fog moisten his face as he stood erect on the bow of the small water craft. He heard the off-hand inquiry made by his “former” teacher, for though he was and accomplished magician in his own right his magic was still very much dwarfed by hers. This of course never made him feel in adequate or belittled, only that it was the truth resulted by her having centuries to perfect her craft. In response he turned to her and offered his signature half-smile while cocking an eyebrow giving him a quirky look, “Since when is anything that the revered Lady of the Lake does not a celebratory moment? I swear you’ll look for any excuse to either throw banquet or attend one,” he chuckled.

He watched her as she relaxed her graceful form within the crafty letting her feet graze the water. There once was a time when he would have thrown himself at her, begging for her affections to satisfy his naive fantasies of romance, but that was almost a lifetime ago. These days he was only her loyal companion and she his occasional mentor. “I’m sure Lancelot will be glad to see us, that boy loves you to death you know. I do however get the sense that he is simply itching to do great things.” The smile faded a little as the conversation turned to slightly more somber tone, “He is a man now. I wonder how long he will be content before his thirst for adventure brings him away from the island…”

Merlin shook his head thinking better of his comment not wanting to bring down the mood with sullen topics, “Bah, look at me ramble, you’d think I’m going old and senile. Besides we have more pressing matters to attend to. Like cake and biscuits! And cake-biscuits!” his jovial side returned. One thing he picked up from Aurnia is that though she had lived more than twice most men she seemed to retain a strange innocence about her. Were Merlin in her shoes he though he would go mad or in the least cynical and cruel if he lived that long. He supposed she merely adopted the philosophy of enjoying life for the moment; it wasn’t as if she had a deadline to meet or tasks that could wait another fifty or so years, so Merlin would remind himself that she would rather not be bothered by the day to day somber details of mortals.

Rather it would better that she crossed those bridges as they came or when she so chose, after all according to her prophecies they would have their hands full soon enough.

Artorius Castus Pendragon, or rather, "Arthur" as he was known looked up into the window of Guinevere. He had never seen a maiden so lovely, so enchanted as she. He had mulled over the thought of her many a time. Delusional daydreaming and wishful thinking it would seem, to play a more pivotal role in Artorius' life, much smaller would it soon be beckoning to come be. Arthur, a lowly squire yet, prince of castle Pendragon seat of principalities, at least, for now. So little he knew about what was to come beyond his affair with lady Guinevere--that he was often left downtrodden as he was now; sweeping up excrement.

He thrashed the wicker broom this way and that, hoping to get a chance at Sir Lancelot's time. He was a squire, not Lancelot's but of an older man of ill repute. He often beat women, raped wenches but his vast wealth kept many from doing anything accordingly to discipline him. So, line a soured milk, he got worse with age. He bedded many women, spoiled many of them as well--with his illegitimate heirs. Arthur despised him, but he was desperate to learn of knighthood, and his father's kingdom was not well endowed as to hire the services of the likes of Sir Tristam nor Lancelot. Instead, Artorius was stuck with--Duc de Puce--The Pig. A glutton of a man.

Maleagant

The warm winds blew from the eastern channel, curling about the keep of Bamburgh Castle, caressing stones already bathed in morning sunlight. The scent of the sea, the strong bite of salt and fish, carried with it to make a cat curled on a window sill stretch and begin to purr.
Maleagant, Jarl of Bamburgh, glanced up at the cat and smiled, reaching out to rub the furry white belly with thick scarred fingers until purring filled the room like a rumbling storm. He laughed softly as the feline finally attacked the fingers, claws and teeth sinking into the skin enough to serve as a warning and he withdrew his hand.

“As feisty as her master.” Came a voice from the doorway. He turned his head, brushing a length of brown hair from his eyes as he did. A younger man stood just inside the door, leather armour worn over broad shoulders, a round shield at his back and a spear in hand. “My pardon my Jarl, but you have a visitor.”

“Who is it?” The Jarl asked as he stood, stretching his own shoulders, keenly aware that he was no longer the fighting man he used to be as his back ached with his movement.

“A young man who comes with news from Camelot.”

Maleagant’s aches faded at once and he nodded. The wind that blew through his open windows suddenly seemed warmer still as he saw the face of his visitor. The man was a Dane by all accounts, one of the many merchants who plied the waves and in exchange for a few coins and safe harbor, would tell the Jarl all he needed to know.

“My lord.” The man said in Danish, bowing his head slightly.

“Dagny. Welcome.” Replied Maleagant as he gestured to a chair, calling for food and drink to be brought for them.

“Thank you.” The merchant sat, gazing about the room, marveling as he always did at the simple tastes of so powerful a man. There were no fancy hangings nor golden items, rather the Jarl preferred strong oak furniture and simple comforts that made the room seem imposing without overwhelming a visitor.

The drink arrived almost at once and both men drained a horn before the merchant began to speak. “The old king is ill, or that is the rumours I have heard. His son, Arthur, is a fool of a boy with his head in the clouds. He has been apprenticed to The Pig though he spends much of his time following a young girl about like a moon eyed doe.”

Maleagant nodded slowly. “The old King is sick you say…” He turned and gazed out the window that revealed the long rolling hills of his domain. “We must help him along then…”

Aurnia shook her head at the thought of losing her boy, technically Lancelot wasn't her son, but she liked to think so. Merlin was far off, when she first brought him to Avalon she did sense that he would go to do great things, she just wished that it wasn't so soon.

She sighed, closing her eyes, "You're right Merlin," she said, "He will be on adventures soon." She sat up and looked towards the general area she knew her young Lancelot was practicing his jousting. She had noticed him more and more lately looking out the windows of Avalon towards the outside world. She had never forced him to stay, though sometimes she felt that she had made him too soft, so when she looked sad at the mentioning of him possibly leaving that that would suede him into to staying. She had always tried her hardest not to have that look, but she learned that being his mother (even if not his mother by blood) it was impossible not to seem sad.

They hit land with a soft bump, Aurnia got out, her feet stepping in the shallow water and her blue dress lightly floating on top. She walked onto land, her silver cloak trailing behind her. After a few moments of the silence of the forest she turned back to Merlin, her seemingly somber face back to its usual cheerfulness.

"Now shall we find those herbs?" she asked.
___

Morgan walked out from her cave, striding towards the dirt road that passed through her forest. Recently she had heard that the king had grown ill, though she knew it all had to do with her spell she sent him. A merchant had passed by her and using a little womanly power, she convinced him to send to the king a bottle of wine she had specially prepared for him.

Today she was hoping to start her journey to Camelot, so that while the kingdom is weak from having a sick king and no ruler yet, she could easily take over. She carried a leather bag on her back filled with poisonous herbs, potions, cursed trinkets, and other black magic items. None of what was in her bag was essentials for traveling because she knew how often this road was traveled on by merchants, and knew that she could just easily steal anything she needed and find someone's home to stay at for a night.

"The kingdom will be mine soon," she muttered to herself as she got to the road, "And soon all will be controlled by the Black Master." The Black Master was Morgan's name for an evil spirit that she served, the one that all her sacrifices go to, the Druids in Avalon called him the Demon King, and all Christians called him the Devil, though being as insane and far gone into black as she, she "knew" that he liked being called the Black Master best and found other names insulting and peasant like.