Blood of the Sword

"Well, well; we can't have a party without the star of the show. Would you like to go look for him, milady?" Kean said, putting his hands on the table in preparation to rise.

She considered it briefly. "No. Gabe doesn't like being the center of attention anyway. Besides, it's not as if I was his nursemary and needed to keep watch on him. He'll come back when he's ready."

She was only half-lying. Gabe really did hate being praised or complimented, but she suspected he needed a moment alone to sort out his day. She took a bite of mutton and carelessly wiped her mouth on her sleeve. "Tell me something of Eire, will you? I should like to see it someday."

----------

"Gabriel," Morgan smiled easily. "I told your father I'd find you; they can hardly have a feast in your honor without you, you know." She put her slender, though wrinkled, hand on his shoulder in what was meant to be a motherly gesture. "Would you mind if I gave you some advice? Your sister... she feels alone. I don't mean your parents intend it that way, of course - dear Guinevere always loved you both more than life. But loneliness can do strange things to people, even people we love. And Blair is desperate for a share of your glory. Why," she laughed softly, "I thought her glare nearly murderous! But you must try to look past it, dear; for your father's sake."

She looked full into the young prince's face. "I won't say she didn't mean what she said. But it is hard for a woman her age to have no chance of bettering herself in life - she will not inherit a throne, as you will. Blair feels that keenly, I think, and she is jealous, jealous enough to ruin this night for you." The Lady paused for breath, letting her words sink in.

Blood of the Sword

At this point, Gabe all but fed up with people telling him what to do and what not to do. In addition, he'd just been forced to say goodbye to someone very special to him, so needless to say he wasn't in any mood to listen to this woman. However, his aunt was an elder and therefore she at least deserved his attention.

The Prince stood silent throughout Morgan's monologue and while his understanding of Blair grew so did his temper. In his humble opinion, his sister had been given nearly everything he had ever wanted. Full, one hundred percent access to mom and dad. To heck with knighthood, glory or the throne. He'd have given all of those up just to spend more time with his parents. If Blair was only searching for advancement or possessions, then he subconsciously labeled her as a shallow, ungrateful person.

"Frankly, my dear. I don't give a darn what Blair thinks," he was now resolved to completely ignore his sister for the rest of the night. "Thank you, for the advice." With that, he walked past his aunt and made his way back towards the hall. It only took him a few minutes, but he soon arrived. Once he did, he immediately took his seat and refused to look at anyone else at the table.

Blood of the Sword

Morgan watched as her nephew's expression darkened.

"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a darn what Blair thinks." His brown eyes had a glint of steel in them as he spoke. "Thank you for the advice." With that, he walked past his aunt and made his way back towards the hall.

She watched him go, allowing herself one small smile of triumph. So easy. He's too much like Arthur. She turned and directed her attention to the wall in front of her. It had been so many years since she lived in Camelot... Where was the catch?

Morgan glanced left and right, ensuring there were no prying eyes to see her. Once satisfied, she flicked the fingers of her left hand in a peculiar twist. A small glowing orb of light flashed around her hand, illuminating the wall. Her right hand found the catch and she pressed hard on the old wooden knot. A moment later, a door swung open to reveal a hidden passage, built long ago in case of a seige. Carefully, the Lady le Fay stepped into the damp tunnel, her hand still lighting the way. Behind her, the heavy door swung shut with a solemn creak.

Blood of the Sword

She considered it briefly. "No. Gabe doesn't like being the center of attention anyway. Besides, it's not as if I was his nursemary and needed to keep watch on him. He'll come back when he's ready."

She was only half-lying. Gabe really did hate being praised or complimented, but she suspected he needed a moment alone to sort out his day. She took a bite of mutton and carelessly wiped her mouth on her sleeve. "Tell me something of Aere, will you? I should like to see it someday."

"Ah, the Homeland. I suppose 'tis only fair seeing as I'm the ambassador and all."

He stopped for a moment, looking back at his memories before talking again, in a slight wistful tone.

"Green rolling hills cover as far as the eye can see, the occasional peat-land. Low mountains of grey rock inland and tall cliffs where the sea has worn them down. Caves honeycomb them, leading to hidden chambers and coves. Villages dot the countryside with trails of smoke raising from chimneys, especially in the mornings when people start their fires. We have no grand forests like you do here, but we have some fair sized ones non-the-less.
Tis a lively country in it's own way, even if it might not seem so at first glance. You just have to know where to look."

That last comment whispered undertones of something else but the Irishman made no attempt at continuing that line of discussion.

Blood of the Sword

Galahad pictured the place Kean described in her head and saw a place largely untamed and ripe for adventure. She smiled. "It sounds grand. You must have been sorry to leave it."

As she listened to his lilting accent describe his homeland, she managed to taste nearly every dish on the table in front of her. When he finished, she set down her drinking bowl and said brightly, "Are you staying long? If the King does not have too close a claim on your time, you could come to Joyous Guard for a day or two, if you enjoy jousts and the like. I should like to see what manner of fighting they have in your land. Gabe and I often--"

She cut herself short, realizing that Gabe might not have time for such a visit. Frowning, she glanced at the royal table again, and saw to her surprise, the prince had returned. He looked grim. She tried to catch his eye and force him to smile.

Legends of Erandor

Nolen frowned in disappointment. Evidently, that particular drunk was no fun to play jokes on. Well, I have what I came in here for; I may as well find Celyn and see what she's up to, he thought. Languidly, he got to his feet and traipsed out to find his teacher.

----------

Celyn Tamare had seen many illnesses in her lifetime, but never one so strange and sudden as this. The man who lay on the ground was literally green in the face and wracked by hacking coughs.

"A pain to ease, a hurt to heal,
Let this man sleep through his ordeal."

The man's eyes closed, as if he wanted to sleep, but a moment later, he was wide awake again. She shook her head. This did not bode well.

Blood of the Sword

Lancelot felt as if he had been to countless feasts that all resembled this sumptuous gathering in one fashion or another. Served upon platters reserved for only the most pinnacle of occasions, it was not entirely unusual to catch the fervent gazes of peasants observing ceaselessly the ornate platters allotted to be used when gracing the royal dais with sustenance. All those seated in subsequent descending order also received the treatment of a near monarch; ornate goblets heralding the lion of Camelot with unabashed vanity. His fingers, calloused on the tips and browned from wear in the suns of summer, traced subconsciously the plated rim of his flagon. He had assumed this seat beside the prince only moments previous, after their conversation was halted by the impending entrance of Gabe's parents and respectively; the king and queen. Flaxen haired Galahad, his blood and daughter, stood beside him, a figure of beauty but further the youthful determination that he, at times, regrettably admitted he had bestowed upon her.

Azure irises found themselves memorizing the silhouette of his child that so resembled the precious wife he had been forced to part with. Vexation and frustrated affection flowered in his breast as he thought of matters of pride and rebellion concerning Gala. A sigh demoralized the swell of personal inclinations that threatened to distract him from the coming events. The exchanges between arriving relations and the princess did not much catch his notice, except when the slightly lower toned words of Gawain chimed and he spared a fraction of interest.

As horns blared the arrival of the kingdom's rulers Lancelot's focus was riveted. All in the hall stood to pay homage to the entrance of such figures of imminence, and though the crimson fluttering of hefted banners might have awed less intense beings, his eyes remained upon them their entire movement toward the thrones. He inclined his head in recognition of status, but the smile upon his visage was not entirely pleasant in manners of its creasing connotations. Flames, as burning as the fires of purgatory and still cold as iced winter, flared in the depths of his captivating orbs. They were dismantling in their raging feeling; their silent snarls of hatred. He spared laughter to seamlessly align himself with the cascading ripple of similar sound, but no fraction of cheer warmed it.

"Well, I'm not always late. But when I am, I am." Quipped Guinevere, "Lets eat!" she concluded, taking her seat promptly.

This momentary flash of unrestrained expression softened with refined facade as he took to his own chair, lithe form lightly sprawling, boots extended beneath the cloth of the table. He was once more the picture of accustomed knighthood; stern wisdom and bravery, the beloved man of tales. The food was brought, heaping in steaming piles upon the trays he had times before beheld, yet polished and cleansed to perfection for this most important moment. Down descended the hearty vegetables and slices of meat, chicken appearing to be the first of this. Lancelot would indulge in the Norman finery as long as it was harvested upon the labor of their own backs. Let them toil and he would enjoy, for if they wished to feed him, so be it. Yet he had seen many the exotic flavor of repast, ranging from gnarled herbs spiced with unknown scents, to roasted boar that had been caught by the risking of many lives. It was with the Saxons he had beheld this true portrait of toil for such needed means, and come to appreciate their foreign customs more so than those of his birthing country.

“I’d like to propose a quiet toast, with the people that know Gabe best,” Arthur said with a smile. “Son, words cannot express how proud I am of you.”

Yes, Pendragon. Be proud of the son you never trained. Of the boy molded in my ways.

Over the rim of his flagon Lancelot cast piercing cobalt irises, boring into the the king's skull with vehemence. Yet upon his visage was the smile of pride, a muscled hand gripped Gabriel's shoulder briefly, wordlessly congratulating him. Compliments were of little use, and he knew the nature of them when received by the prince's ears. He had always bestowed compliments in a much different fashion; an expression, a touch. They would know by his countenance when he was proud.

A flurry of conversation, color, action. They danced in his mind as he seated himself once more, mind afar in a distance country. The courts of the Saxons were wild; visceral. Fires crackled in sconces and pits, ivy adorned the walls, and the portals were hewn of rough, felled wood. He returned to reality as the steward announced the entrance of one whom he had sometime been expecting.

The Lady Morgan Le Fay. Elegant yet unique, the woman spared no recognition, sweeping inward with gown rippling behind her in exotic hues. Astonishment enraptured the hall, and he spared face for a simulated expression that resembled such, but when greetings were made he inclined his head as if he had known her. Activity ascended around him as Gabe pipped into a chivalrous offer of the sacrifice of his seat, but quickly countered in his gesture was he by Gala. Quick, alert orbs met her profile and he allowed no emotion to tarnish the stone of his visage. He watched her, stiffly, as she left the dais and honored group, but not quickly enough, for the Princess Blair met the processions with a cutting remark.

Fury and winter. A Pendragon, with a sharp tongue.

The comment clearly affected the younger Du Lac, for anger flushed her beauty and sent her to a place at a different table, housing peasants and lower dignitaries. This did not entirely please her sire, yet he made no immediate statement. Gabe's response was one he had not entirely expected, but due to the current circumstances, he did not find it shocking. The royal left, sweeping from the hall and Lance sighed into his wine, raising a brow at Morgan as she stood a chair away.

The woman stole herself beside the king's ear, whispering there words that weaved some proposition. Agreement was reached, and she too departed. Lancelot breathed out, then, in the cascading tide of such, said a select few complimentary and explanatory words to the rulers, and strode in the direction of his daughter. From appearance, it was truth to see that she had engaged in a calming conversation with a foreign visitor, and to this he was not in objection.

"Pardon my intrusion. Greetings, friend." He cast scrutinizing blue eyes to the fair-haired man, a pull of a smirk creasing his aged face. "I am Lancelot Du Lac." No arrogance laced the title, for in Norman prominence he ne'er took too great a satisfaction. "It appears you have become acquainted with my daughter." The knight swept a brimming goblet from a tray passing his ear, and he tipped it to the unknown being. "I came here to speak with Lady Galahad, but I have no desire to disrupt you." Fingers slipped over her shoulder, squeezing. "I would have words with you after this banquet." He murmured, then, with a pointed goodbye, moved a few paces away.

Blood of the Sword

"Pardon my intrusion. Greetings, friend."

Galahad stiffened at the sound of her father's voice, although he had certainly said nothing but what was courteous. A practiced smile spread across her features and she turned her head to acknowledge her sire. However, he seemed to be more interested in McLeod currently.

"I am Lancelot Du Lac." No arrogance laced the title; it was a simple statement of fact. "It appears you have become acquainted with my daughter." The knight swept a brimming goblet from a passing tray, and he tipped it to the unknown being. "I came here to speak with Lady Galahad, but I have no desire to disrupt you." Fingers slipped over her shoulder, squeezing. "I would have words with you after this banquet," he murmured, then, with a pointed goodbye, moved a few paces away.

Galahad clenched a length of her green dress under the table, her spirit stubbornly determined not to get up and go find out what he wanted. That would be what he wants me to do, she thought defiantly, although part of her certainly wanted to find out why he would have left the royal table. Well, he can just wait! I've had about enough of bowing to others to keep the peace for tonight! She turned back to McLeod and smiled naturally. "Sad, isn't it? My own father calls me 'Lady' instead of 'Sir'. I'll be his age before I get called by the right title." Her expression showed this was more jest than fact. She scanned the room, looking for bright colors. "Do you suppose they'll have a jester or a couple of tumblers?"

As the banquet hall settled back down from Morgan’s unexpected appearance, Gareth Llewdyn entered among a long line of servants coming in to assist the others. The last time he was in this hall, he was a little boy, too long ago to remember clearly. He hadn’t planned on returning any time soon, but the castle staff had been so desperate for help that they had recruited anyone standing nearby and still breathing. He’d thought being a lowly stableboy would keep him safe from this kind of thing, but even the grooms had been commandeered as servers and dressed up in bulky tunics and hats with long fluffy feathers. Gareth could feel the hat and its feathers slipping off his head even now and with a sigh, he reached up to fix the ridiculous thing.

One of his fellow stable hands who’d done this several times before and was not fazed in the least, nudged Gareth with an elbow. “Bet you never thought you’d be here, did you?”

“No,” he said honestly. “I really didn’t.” You don’t exactly picture coming home after ten years sneaking into a feast as a gussied-up stable boy with half a dead ostrich on your head. He rubbed the back of his neck. The velvet itched.

He dragged himself away from his thoughts to try and pay attention to whatever it was Errol was saying. “…you should have seen his face, and so anyway you’ve been assigned to serve the dais.”

Gareth stared. “What?” Errol simply looked back at him with an annoyingly smug grin and nodded. Gareth fought the urge to plant his head in the nearest wall. “Oh, for the love of…why aren’t they having someone with actual experience at this serve the most important table in the hall?”

Errol snorted. “Please,” he said almost under his breath. “As if any lad in his right mind would want to run the gauntlet up there.” He jerked his head meaningfully towards the dais, where most of the royal family sat in a stony silence that even Gareth had to admit was rather unnerving. With a shrug of his shoulders, Errol stepped forward and shoved a pitcher of ice water into Gareth’s hands. “You’re the new guy; you get the honors.” He smirked, picked up a flagon of wine and vanished into the crowded banquet hall.

Gareth stood there for a moment before heading quickly for the dais. There was nothing for it but to get this over as quickly as possible and draw no more attention or recognition than any of the other servants. He glanced swiftly at Eri out of the corner of his eye, but she was preoccupied in cutting her meat. Relaxing slightly, he bent forward to fill Gawain’s goblet.

At that moment, Gawain, unaware of Gareth’s presence behind him, flung out an arm in a sweeping gesture. Gareth ducked to miss the arm, but Gawain’s hand hit him on the rebound as his toe caught on the leg of the chair. The combination knocked him off his balance and before he could recover, he stumbled forward and found himself dumping the pitcher of icy water all over Gawain and Princess Blair.

Blood of the Sword
One moment Gawain was saying something to Blair, the next he was doused in icy liquid. The veritable wave of water launched up and over the pitcher and landed conveniently on Gawain's lap.

He lifted his hands out of the puddle, drops falling from his fingertips as he did so. He looked up at the servant who'd lost his balance, a young boy whose shock was evident all over his face. "You--" His tone was full of vitriol, but he stopped short and bit his lip. "Never mind."

A glance to his right proved that Blair was soaked as well. He turned back to the manservant. "You've just soaked the princess. Very smooth move."

_________________

Servants weren't supposed to catch Blair's attention.

But this one did.

Splashes of water had hit her and soaked through her dress with their shocking coldness, and at first she'd gotten angry. This evening has just gone from bad to worse, she thought.

But then she looked up and saw the server boy. It was something about his eyes. They looked like the sea and yet held a strange familiarity and warmth.

They also held nervousness and fear at the moment, but she saw past that; she saw that he had stories. Whatever was in this man was worth finding.

She held up her hand. "Gawain, it's all right. It's hardly a spill." She bit her lip. "Though... you look a little... soaked. You might want to go change."

Gawain inhaling deeply, irritation tightening his features. "I think that would be a very good idea. Thank you, Princess Blair." He stood, holding a napkin in front of his pants where the water had spilled, and then exited the banquet hall. Blair resisted the urge to laugh, then turned to the server boy, hoping this might open up an avenue of conversation. "Really. It's no problem."

This is Eden

Hali Royce was blissfully happy. She loved the rush of the wind, the sensation of sheer speed, as her motorcycle sped along the highway leading into Centreville. The added bonus of her "superpower" made riding that much more interesting - everything that moved gave off a little blast of what she called "sight stuff". Searching for a thrill, she switched gears and turned the accelerator even further, exceeding the speed limit by much more than any police officer would allow.

I'm flying, she thought gleefully as the road whizzed by.

She slowed down as she approached the city limits, anxious not to get pulled over, and began taking in the local scene. Behind her dark helmet visor, her blue eyes scanned the sidewalks for a diner or cafe. She needed some time away from him, just to think and not be overheard.

After a few minutes of zig-zagging down side streets, she spotted a likely little sidewalk terrace next to an older brick building. Turning the brakes, she slid smoothly into a street parking space between meters, cut the engine and hopped off. A middle aged waitress smiled at her as she slipped into one of the patio chairs and took her helmet off.

"Need a menu, honey?"

"Yeah, thanks." Hali ran her fingers through her hair to tame it and set her helmet under her seat. After a few seconds in the warm morning sun, she took off her leather jacket, too.

"Not too many of those things around here," the waitress chuckled, indicating the Shadow 750. "You're not scared of falling or something?"

Hali smiled ironically. She'd been riding since she was six, and fixing the bikes since she was a teen. "Nah. You get on that bike and you're like Peter Pan."

"If you say so! Here's your menu; you wanna drink?"

"Um, yeah; coffee'd be great."

This Is Eden

Jason Walker yawned, as the dawn's first rays came through his window. He glanced out the window, and groaned slightly; he'd been planning to get up an hour ago. Oh well; this way, he'd take the time to get a head-start on his chores, so maybe he'd get his chance to go hunting after they were done.

As Jason sat up and slid his way to the floor, he glanced across the room at his brother. Kyle was still sound asleep, and has his pillow curled around his head to block out the sunlight. Jason was willing to bet he wasn't even conscious of what he was doing; Kyle had perfected the art of staying in bed as long as humanly possible. Not that Jason was all that different when he was 15, nearly a decade ago, but he was certainly glad he'd grown out of it. Sunrises from out in the woods were a beautiful sight.

Jason crept out of his room, noticing no other movement in the house as he went. Well, his mother wasn't awake yet, so he couldn't ask her about what he needed to do before he could head out. Well, he remembered that she'd been complaining to his father about the state the windows were in, so that seemed like a good enough place to start. He walked down the stairs, leaving his family's living quarters and entering their shop below. Jason knew that the next thing his parents would want him to do would be to make sure all their product was still stocked, but--windows first. Almost immediately after leaving the steps, he turned to his right, and opened up a closet door, grabbing the cleaning supplies he needed.

Jason walked out front, glancing up and down the building as he did. Aside from the windows, the rest of the front was still in good condition--minus a few leaves that he should probably sweep up. The wooden sign proudly read, "Walker's Essentials & Prints"--though, if you looked closely enough, you could tell that the "& Prints" had been added later. The shop had started as a general store, and had been so for about five years when his mother realized that Centreville had no form of a print shop, despite a growing need. Jason was only 7 at the time, but he remembered full well that his mother seemed to take that as a challenge--and, of course, set about to change that. It had taken nearly a year of rearranging the store, ordering the equipment, and otherwise preparing, but she'd made it work--and it had turned into a profitable venture.

But, enough reverie, Jason decided. He wasn't the only early riser in these parts, and he wanted to make sure the store was in good shape before any of them came his way.

This is Eden

Teaching college students was decidedly not what Dr. L. Lawrence Temple had in mind when he moved to Centreville. That was before he had seen the disgraceful conditions of the lab he would be working out of, funded by the 'good people' of the Northern Scientists and Computer Programmers organization; the men's dorms at his old college had been cleaner and better organized.

To buy better equipment, he needed additional money, and the university needed a replacement teacher for its Introduction to Computer Programming course. Which was why he was now in a room half-filled with loud, distracted freshmen, nursing the beginnings of a killer migraine.

"If I could have your attention - " His voice was drowned out in the din. With a sigh, he brought out a whistle and blew a single, shrill note.

Instant silence.

"Please take your seats," he said. There was an edge to his voice that told the students the 'please' was merely a polite nothing. "I am Dr. Temple. I will be your teacher for this semester, by which time hopefully Professor Curtis will have recovered enough to take his usual place."

Clasping his hands behind his back, Lawrence walked over to the desk. A barely-disguised sneer passed across his face as he studied the textbook provided for the class. "If you would open your copy of HTML and You to page four .. "

~~~~

When she was a kid, Christine's father always made sure she arrived on time, whether it was to a birthday party, a doctor's appointment, or the first day of school. He valued punctuality as much as he valued wearing clothes - its presence was merely proper behavior, its absence a mark of mental illness, bad behavior, or stupidity.

Christine's mother had never been on time. She once said that being on time everywhere implied you had nowhere better to be and nothing better to be doing.

Crossing the campus grounds four minutes after her first class started, Christine hoped the professor saw things more like her mother.

She dug into the pocket of her teal sweater, looking for the sheet of paper that would tell her where she was supposed to be going for her first class. The only thing worse than being late into class would be walking into the wrong one.

Thanks for writing with us, folks! We've got new writing threads coming out sometime soon. Stay posted in Ditto Town for further updates!