Blue Moon, You Saw Me Standing Alone... (Open)

[The Woman]

(OOC: This has been moved from the other forum.)

The Woman


Posts: 4

Joined: 26 Apr 2003

Posted: Sat Apr 26, 2003 3:57 pm

The isolated keep rose from a windswept hill. It was modest, built
from the plentiful timber which surrounded it, the tree stumps still
raw from the blade of the woodsmen's axes, the sap which had once

flowed as life's blood, beaded up and drying in the sun. The growing
number of felled trees, spoke of plans to expand and perhaps fortify
the few huts which had sprung up upon the hillside. Goats nibbled at
grass which grew amongst the rocks as their kids bolted and played
about them, hunters headed into the wood in search of game, a well
was being dug by men whose muscles strained in the morning light,
animal skins were being stretched by their wives in a sunlit
clearing, while their children armed with baskets searched for
berries, roots and herbs under the tutelage of a wizened man, a
village in the making.

Beside the door to the keep, a woman knelt in freshly dug earth,
it's smell rich and damp. Her hands packed the soil about the roots
of newly moved roses, which she had discovered growing wild in a
patch of brambles. Her arms and hands bore battle scars of her war
with the tangle of thorns which had attempted to dissuade her from
moving the bushes from their home, their sting stoically ignored.
The woman rose finally and stood back admiring her work, wiping the
dirt from her hands upon her brown linen skirt, which already bore
evidence of her toil. She tucked a few stray strands of bronze and
ebon hair behind slightly pointed ears, smiling as she foresaw the
roses thriving in their new home, their canes heavy with fragrant
red blooms.

It was this smile she turned upon the elderly man who approached
her, a smile of pure and simple joy and he could not help but return
it.

"So this is what you have been about. I was waiting for you. Did you
forget our meeting?" His voice was gently chiding.

"Not so much forgot, as tried to avoid." The woman replied, the
smile slowly fading as her attention was taken from the roses. "I
suppose I can not avoid it forever."

"No My Lady, you can not. Come, let us walk." He offered her his
arm, which she took, her slender hand resting lightly upon it, soil
embedded under her fingernails.

They walked in silence for a moment, his steps slow, his robes
hiding his aged, swollen joints.

"This is necessary. It is the only way. To remain isolated will not
aid you, it will only harm you in the long run. To remain adrift
with no purpose, no goal,"

"No memory..." She interrupted.

"Precisely."

Her green eyes stared at the ground as she put one foot in front of
the other. How green the grass was. That stone, how it glittered
when the sun hit it. Surely this was all she needed.

"This place, as was the other, is an oasis in a tumultuous world. A
world which you cannot keep out forever. War rages about us.
Religion and politics fuel it. Somewhere, someone knows who you are,
knows your name, knows your history. Should they find you before you
know these same things, they may destroy you. I should not wish to
see that happen. I have grown fond of you these past months, you are
as my blood."

The woman kept her eyes upon the ground. He accepted her for who she
was, when even she did not know who that was, her history lost,
locked somewhere in a hidden part of her mind. Healers told her she
may never remember. One foot in front of the other, her small steps
in keeping with his stiff ones, they walked on. "I am afraid."

"I know." Was all he said.

"I am afraid of who I once was. What if..."

"What if you do not like what you discover? You may not, but you
will not know unless you seek it out."

She halted, firmly grasping his arm with both hands, turning to look
at him. "This plan of yours. How will I know?"

He gazed upon her, his eyes warm. "You will know in your heart.
Follow it."

"The chance for error is great..."

"There will be no error. By acting you will take control. Your path
will be long and there will be many twists and turns, but it will be
your path. You and only you shall walk it, you shall decide which
direction to take."

He patted her hands.

"The announcement has gone out, there is no turning back. It is time
to prepare."

Her eyes grew large, as large as the buck beyond them, as he got
wind of a hunter and bolted. The old man recognized the look and his
large, gnarled hand curled firmly over her two small ones, as if to
keep her too, from bolting.

"There is much to discuss. They will want to know of your dowry,
your lineage, your religion, to know your name."

Her name. She shook her head, eyes still wide. "And if they know me
by another name..."

"Then we must be prepared. A plan must be made, even whilst knowing
that the best laid plans oft go astray. Let us go and sit by the
fire. My old bones have had enough excercise. We shall talk and
prepare."

The woman nodded and the two slowly made their way back to the keep.


About the country the word went out. The Duchess of Fenton was
looking for a husband and entertaining suitors. No one had heard of
a Duchess of Fenton before this time. Speculation about the
mysterious lady became a favored topic of discussion where ever
people gathered. Who was she and who would she marry?

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The Woman


Posts: 4

Joined: 26 Apr 2003

Posted: Sun Apr 27, 2003 8:19 pm Post subject:



The afternoon spent talking with the old man had done nothing to
quell her anxiety and her nerves belied her as she paced the hall.
He had said that she would gain control through action, but she felt
as if all had spun out of her hands, that her fate was cast to the
winds which beat against the walls of the keep.

She spurned the idea of marriage. She wondered if she had always
done so. She entertained no romantic notions. Awakening from her
injuries with no memory of who she was or where she had come from
certainly would dash any romantic tendencies of anyone, she was
sure.

There were times, of course, when she was curious as to whether she
was married, whether she had known the touch of a man, whether she
had felt love. Somehow, she didn't think so. Deep within her, the
notion didn't feel right, she could not see herself opening up to
someone, becoming vulnerable. Perhaps that was simply because of all
she had been through, perhaps not.

Still, she did not like this plan. She did not relish the idea of
entertaining a bevy of men looking to add to their estates or their
heirs. She preferred to look at it as a business proposition, for
she certainly had no intentions of sharing a marriage bed with
anyone or giving up her freedom or her belongings. She had no
intentions of marrying at all.

She had not told the old man this and wondered why. Was it her
nature to be secretive?

She would go through with the fest of course. The people were busy
about their preparations for it and would be disappointed should she
cancel it. The old man was correct. She would establish an identity
and a reknown through his plans, perhaps even discover her true
identity.

Then there was the big topic of religion. She had no idea which god
she worshipped above all others. The man had spread rumors that she
would take the god of her betrothed as her god. Somehow this did not
seem right to her. Surely, one, if one truly believes, should put
one's faith above all else?

She put her hands to her temples, stopping her pacing in front of
the fire. It was too much to think about when there were no past
thoughts to base a decision on, all would be based upon others
opinion. Her intuition would have to be sharp to see through the
religious biases to the truth.

She squeezed her head, closing her eyes, still seeing the flames
dance upon her eyelids. If only she could remember.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*****~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

While the woman paced the hall of the keep, riders rode with
invitations to people whose names and faces the woman did not know,
or perhaps, did not know, she knew.

Quote:
The Duchess of Fenton cordially requests the pleasure of your
company at a Fest to celebrate the rise of the Blue Moon.

The Fest will begin with the new moon and will end with the
waning gibbous. Feasting, frolic and merriment await you.

Upon the full moon, a tournament will be held, to consist of a
joust, sword play and archery. The champions will be
celebrated at a feast that eve.

During this time, the Duchess will entertain all suitors for
her hand in marriage, be they of common or of noble lineage.

All guests and their companies are bade to set camp upon the
Duchess' lands and to respect the spirit of the occasion.

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Owain d'Othe


Posts: 2

Joined: 27 Apr 2003

Posted: Sun Apr 27, 2003 10:08 pm Post subject:



Duchess of Fenton?!?

Owain took a closer look at the map which had been rolled up with
the invitation, leaning over it as he stretched it out fully upon
the table. He studied it, shaking his head.

What is this? There is no parcel of land named Fenton in that area.
He muttered under his breath bringing his thoughts to life.

He pounded his fist upon the map, then straightened a frown upon his
face, the map curling back into a scroll as it was released.

For years he had envied Hughego's lands, coveting them, wishing them
to be his own. He had plotted and schemed and without all out war,
the lands were always just out of reach.

What has the old man done?

He leaned forward again, knuckles resting on the polished oak. He
bent one knee, shifting his stance slightly as he thought.

What has Hughego done? Last Owain had heard, the dottering fool had
gone on a religious pilgrimmage of sorts. Had he returned? If so,
Owain had not heard of it.

Or...

Had a usurper simply marched into his lands while he was away and
claimed them as her own?

Either way Owain was determined to find out. Those lands should be
his and by all that was holy, he would have them.

One way or another.

He picked up the invitation again. The Duchess will entertain all
suitors for her hand in marriage, will she? He mused.

Well my dear Duchess, I shall either expose you for the usurper you
are, or I shall win the lands by bedding and wedding you.

I WILL have that land!


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The Woman


Posts: 4

Joined: 26 Apr 2003

Posted: Sun Apr 27, 2003 11:22 pm Post subject:



She heard the old man’s shuffling feet behind her. Her hands dropped
from her head and she turned to face him.

"Would you have some wine child?" He asked her.

She nodded and moved to accept the glass he offered her. She tilted
it to her lips, taking a long swallow.

"Have you decided upon a name? What shall we call you?" He asked as
he slowly sank into a chair.

She took another mouthful of wine, gulping it down.

"Yes. I have." She drained the glass and set it on the small rough
hewn table beside the man’s chair. Stepping to the right of the
fireplace, she reached past where the poker stood propped against
the stone and took up a sword sheathed in a worn ivory scabbard. She
turned to the man and held it out for him to see, the workmanship of
the carving accentuated in the glow of the flames.

Her voice trembled. "This was found with me. Look."

The old man leaned forward and took the sword from her, laying it
across his legs. "Ahhhhhh…." His aged fingers traced the carving
lightly. His rheumy eyes looked up to hers.

She laughed then, a soft, mocking laugh.

"Do I dare? It could be mine. Do I look like a wolf?"

They both looked at the name, which was artfully carved into the
yellowed ivory.

Lorenthia Wolf

The woman read it aloud, letting each syllable roll across her
tongue and over her lips. "Lorenthia Wolf...This will be my name."

Last edited by The Woman on Sun Apr 27, 2003 11:43 pm; edited 1 time
in total

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Aidan


Posts: 12

Joined: 28 Mar 2003

Posted: Sun Apr 27, 2003 11:40 pm Post subject:



Thevisen walked into the great hall carrying a parcel as I threw
another bone of meat to the hounds on the floor.

I had tried in vain to get the surronding countryside to resemble
what I remembered of my homeworld. This endeavor as many had left me
by the way, and the keep of the Crusaders was indeed nothing like
the home I had left. It was something entirely its own.

Thevisen approached and bowed...

"My lord, a missive from the Duchess Fenton."

The Duchess Fenton?

Taking the parcel in hand I opened it immediately...

Quote:
The Duchess of Fenton cordially requests the pleasure of your
company at a Fest to celebrate the rise of the Blue Moon.

The Fest will begin with the new moon and will end with the
waning gibbous. Feasting, frolic and merriment await you.

Upon the full moon, a tournament will be held, to consist of a
joust, sword play and archery. The champions will be
celebrated at a feast that eve.

During this time, the Duchess will entertain all suitors for
her hand in marriage, be they of common or of noble lineage.

All guests and their companies are bade to set camp upon the
Duchess' lands and to respect the spirit of the occasion


Placing the note within the folds of my tunic I smiled as I stood
and placed a hand on Thevisen's shoulder.

"It has been many days since we have left the confines of this
place, and I fear it shall be many moons longer still before the
Crusdaers are again riding the hills of this world. Yet, and
invitation from a lady to a tournement can not be turned down can
it?"
Thevisen nodded in agreement as the smile crossed his face..

"I believe you will be sending a note as well as making preperations
for your departure?"
"Yes, we will leave tonight, call Gracchus to my chambers he will
take dictation and see that the missive I wish is delivered to the
Duchess Fenton this very evening."

In my chambers I began selecting the finest silks and trousers for
the entertainment as well as the best riding cloths I owned. Taking
great care I layed it all out for myself on the great bed when I
heard the knock at the door..

"Enter"

A grey haired man of about sixty came suffeling into the room
carrying a parchment a scroll and a staff. His robes were of the
finest gold, and his sachel at his side, one knew it contained great
magic.

"My lord, I understand you have requested a missive to be sent to a
lady friend of yours, I am ready when you are sire."

"Yes Gracchus, I am ready....



Quote:
Duchess Fenton,

It will be y dubious pleasure to attend the festivites of the
Rise of the Blue Moon. I fear that having recieved the
invitation late due to rampaging orks in the ajacent
territories, I have taken the liberty of replying with this
instead of just arriving and announcing my arrival then.

I trust this note to find you in good health, and that the
preperations go well. I am anticipating a grand time, and look
forward to our meeting.

Aidan Feargahal,
Retired GM of Crusaders of the Realms
AGM of War TAO


That is all Gracchus, see that it is delivered this very night."


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Porckie


Posts: 15

Joined: 31 Mar 2003

Posted: Mon Apr 28, 2003 12:52 am Post subject:



OOC: Thanks for the invite mister The Woman sir.. I hope I'm not
too silly, if so I can change it And delete the other post
please..I'm slow

It was a quiet morning. In fact, this particulair morning was so
quiet, one could wonder if it was indeed a morning. Although the
opinion of many a sun-worshipper would contradict this statement,
the fact remained that everyone in the lands of Mur was asleep and
therefor quiet. There was ofcourse a simple reason for all this, be
it that this reason can be defined as utterly silly...

During the annual 'greasy-colossus-toss-us-games', held only a day
ago, the world's biggest men and especially women, blessed with
slippery hands, had been throwing citizens around town. Mister
Blonkie, champion three years running, actually managed to throw the
groceriesalesman into the royal henhouse. This green-grocer collided
with the royal cock, causing it to plummet down a well. And this may
be against popular belief, but falling down a well does not cure
people, on the contrary, one might catch a cold. And that was
exactly what happened to the royal rooster, now unable to wake
everyone up, due to an overdose of snot and a fractured neck...

The quiet morning changed into a silent afternoon, as suddenly one
could hear the cheerfull whistle of an amused delivery-man. His
joyfull tune was accompanied by the somewhat mournfull sounds
comming from a mule's nostrils. The reason for this melancholic
sniffering was tied to the mule's backside: a car full of bricks
with notes attached to them. Tipping his hat to every dormant
organism he met, the delivery-man made his way to Castle Repellent,
the castle of lord Porckie. The man smiled and took one of the
bricks in his hand. He took aim, thanked the gods for the abundance
of mailboxes, and threw the rectangular stone away...

Meanwhile, inside Castle Repellent, we find our hero, lord Porckie,
in his yellow pyjamas under three woolen blankets. He's still fast
asleep, but luckily his open-mindedness allowes us to take a peek
into his dreamworld...

The sky was filled with floating spoons, twirling around a large
bowl of radiant yoghurt. Underneath this nutritious spectacle, we
find our hero on a piece of grass, having sexual intercourse with
something that appears to be a naked nymph. It was, ofcourse, a
french poodle pretending to be a naked nymph, but one must admit she
was doing a rather good job. Not that it mattered to Porckie,
afterall, his eyes were closed. He groaned, enjoying the pleasures
of canine flesh as suddenly...

*BOINK*

An odd sound came to the dwarf's ears and suddenly the rocking that
had pleasured both body and mind was replaced by an incredible
weight lying on his pelvis area. He opened his eyes, only to close
them one-tenth of a second later. He could not believe it, on top of
him sat an aroused hippopotamus. Pressing his lungs, he managed to
get the right ammount of air for a horrid scream...

"Ayeeeeeee!!!!"

He opened his eyes again, sighing in relief as he noticed the
abundance of any herbivorious aquatic mamals. Yet the pressure on
his pelvis area had remained. Rather annoyed, Porckie called for his
trusty advisor, mister Floppy. The magic mushroom came as soon as
his wings could carry him. Looking quite worried, for as far as this
is possible for one of the funghi species, mister Floppy inspected
his master's state. He soon found the source of his master's groin's
gripe: a red brick with a note attached to it.

"Well sir, it appears you have been invited to a a fest, a
tournament and a wedding. "

" Gee..I guess I'm lucky they didn't send three seperate
invitations. ", said Porckie rubbing his affected crotch.

" Indeed. "

"Does it say anything about free food? "

"No Sir.", said the flying mushroom."But", he added, seeing the
disappointment in his master's eyes," it doesn't say anything about
paying for food either... "

"Right.. prepare the imperial beast of burden! "

"You mean the donkey? "

"Yes..."

"No can do sir."

"Why not? "

"Well..you remember offering mister Blonkie a ride home last night?
"

" Yes..."

"He accepted it."

Moments later, master and mushroom stood in the courtyard. The
funghus was in a miserable state, having a chair tied around it's
head. The dwarf, however, appeared jubilant, as he put his fluffy
cushion in place. As he sat down, he grinned, petted the mushroom on
the head and off they wen't!

They passed sleeping guards, hibernating hay-beatles and some sort
of stain which looked like a donkey ran over by a medieval
steamroller, which, in a way, it was. Gaining hight, Porckie started
flailing his arms to express his joy.

As time passed, both wings and arms got tired. Catching a glimpse of
what appeared to be Duchess Fuston's lands, the mushroom let out a
sigh of relief and rested his left wing for a bit, causing him to
tilt, which, in turn, caused Porckie, the dwarf, to plummet...

*BOINK*

A collision with the ground is never a soft one, especially when one
drops from a mushroom and lands on his buttocks. The dwarf, who was
lucky not to hit any of the wooden huts, seemed dazzled by the blow
on his posterior, which caused him to ignore the presence of three
startled hunters, of which one was making a great impression of a
hare running towards some sort of keep. Porckie made a fist, turned
to the sky and started to scream...

" You! Short-sighted, kidney-gobbling, good for nothing mushroom!
It's no wonder you things grow in animalshit! You may look like a
thingie, but that doesn't mean you can act like an ass!! "


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Slevin


Posts: 19
Location: Somewhere in NC. Dunno where, but there's corn.
Joined: 10 Apr 2003

Posted: Mon Apr 28, 2003 2:35 am Post subject:



:::Slevin stood at the window in the small and simple chamber that
was his study staring at the small parcel of land which he was now
content to call his own. While his eyes stared at the fields and the
few serfs tending it, his mind dwelled on the parchment with the
broken wax seal sitting on his desk. But more than the parchment,
his mind lay on the suit of armor and now dulled sword sitting in
his armory. A small, smooth rock passed quickly from hand to hand as
Slevin stood thinking of things he had thought to have been left
behind. While outwardly silent, his mind raced back and forth in an
argument that had already been decided, even if Slevin didn't know
it yet:::

I don't fight anymore. I put away my armor and my sword and took up
the robes of a scholar. Life has been good without the constant
warfare that I left behind.

Admit it. You hate every moment of this. It feels like I’m sitting
and waiting. What's worse, up until now I haven't even had a clue
what I’ve been waiting for. Well here it is, the end to all of this
worthless idleness...

Assuming I have really been waiting, I very much doubt that it's for
something as silly as a tournament and a possible marriage.

Fine. It's not THE end to the waiting. But it is AN end. Isn't that
good enough? And besides, no one said you had to get married, or
even that you had to win the tournament. Just go and fight until you
get bored. Drop out at the semi-finals if you want.

No. This is crazy. What makes me think I even want to fight anymore?


Tell me... What is it you've been playing with since you read that
note?

:::Slevin blinked in surprise at the thought before looking down at
the small object in his hands. It was the whetstone he'd carried
throughout his many years of fighting. When he'd hung his armor up
he'd taken to using it as a paperweight, but now he found himself
holding it without even remembering when he'd taken it off of his
desk:::

All right, but that doesn't prove anything.

No, not in and of itself. But haven't I been having dreams? What
about those nights I've woken up with that old familiar feeling og
having received a godly vision rather than a simple dream? How often
have the servants had to pretend I was just up for a midnight snack
when I awoke from sleep-walking standing at the door to the armory?

The only reason I never walked in my sleep before was because I was
always too damned exhausted from battle, always recovering from
wounds. Something that I haven't had to deal with for years!

Just answer the question...

:::Slevin sighed deeply and pocketed the whetstone. It had been a
long time since he'd traveled, and there was going to be plenty to
do at the fair other than fight. The letter had spoken of feasting,
frolicking, and merriment after all... Slevin made up his mind and
called for his personal valet, quickly ordering him to pack his
horse for a journey. He would not wear his sword or armor, but what
would be the harm if he brought them along?
Just in case....
As Slevin rode out from the castle with the hood of his robes thrown
back the sunlight fell warmly upon his face, eliciting a smile.
Somehow the sun seemed brighter, the clouds whiter, the sky bluer,
and the grass smelled sweeter than it had in a long time. Without
even realizing it, Slevin began to hum an old marching song to
himself:::
_________________
My mind finally left me the other day.
I don't think it's coming back this time.[/color]


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BetAtor


Posts: 1

Joined: 28 Apr 2003

Posted: Mon Apr 28, 2003 3:40 am Post subject:



He looked down at the letter in his hand, and read it once again.

Quote:
The Duchess of Fenton cordially requests the pleasure of your
company at a Fest to celebrate the rise of the Blue Moon.

The Fest will begin with the new moon and will end with the
waning gibbous. Feasting, frolic and merriment await you.

Upon the full moon, a tournament will be held, to consist of a
joust, sword play and archery. The champions will be
celebrated at a feast that eve.

During this time, the Duchess will entertain all suitors for
her hand in marriage, be they of common or of noble lineage.

All guests and their companies are bade to set camp upon the
Duchess' lands and to respect the spirit of the occasion


He returned the missive underneath his robe, and walked towards the
Keep.

It's nice enough, I suppose, He thought.

The smell from the land around him made him slightly ill. The way
the wind wafted the smell of the flowers right towards him was quite
annoying. He had come from a dry land, where only the strongest
plants or creatures survived. His teaching had been done within a
confined tower. Then, most of his adult life had been spent on the
sea, and in the deserts. This shift of lifestyle was still new to
him, and he was sure he would adjust to it, someday.

He looked at the few tents that had already sprung up, and even took
notice of a strange sort of winged mushroom that appeared to throw a
dwarf off it's back, letting the creature fall towards the
unforgiving ground. Yet, all the dwarf did was yell at the winged
mushroom. He seemed to have hardly have noticed that he should have
been severely mangled, much less even alive.

Bet Ator blinked a few times, and turned towards the grounds again.
He pulled a small black object out of his gray robes, and inspected
it closely. His bright green eyes searched along the edges, and
seemingly found what they wanted.

He threw the object onto the ground in front of him. Pushing the
long dark blonde hair away from his face with one hand, he waved the
other nonchalantly in the direction of the black object. As soon as
his wave finished, there was a bright flash of blue light. When the
light faded, there was a rather good-looking red tent in front of
him.

He reached in the tent, and pulled out a chair. Setting it in front
of the tent, he crouched down onto it, and pulled a pipe from within
his robes. He took a long pull off the pipe, and began to relax.
There seemed to be no one to check in with, nor any guards to hassle
him.

He simply smiled.


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Lyssia


Posts: 4
Location: In Maxim withdrawal
Joined: 28 Mar 2003

Posted: Mon Apr 28, 2003 9:58 am Post subject:



(OOC:Thank you for the invitation, it's good to be rp'ing as Lyssia
again.)

Lyssia looked down upon the invitation once more, the words dancing
before her eyes as though they had taken on a life of their own.
Even in the shade of the half-built fort on the edges of the desert
the heat was still enough to sap the energy from any living
creature. As the Sidhe woman read through the delivered letter she
wondered if it was not the heat affecting her, making her see things
that she did not understand. A Duchess of Fenton? Did she know this
woman? Had she known her once and now the desert sun was robbing her
of the memory of that time? She searched all the corners of her mind
but found no trace of a memory relating to this woman, I have lived
for many an age and yet I do not believe that I know this Duchess,
she muttered to herself. So why would she request my presence? I own
no lands, and I am most certainly not a man to ask for her hand in
marriage, rarely is it that I speak with those of noble birth, she
frowned at this mystery before her.

The Sidhe sorceress spoke truly, her realm had long ago been
destroyed by her own hand in a fit of madness. Now she was no more
than a guest in the lands of the fanatical seeress Ebony, a role
that she was more than happy to fulfil after long ages of dealing
with politics and power. Occansionally Lyssia would travel the
lands, hiding her true nature, her face, her name, even her race,
for the Sidhe were a dying breed and the appearance of one was often
remembered. But when the sorceress travelled it was with some
purpose in mind and never to attend feasts or celebrations.

She held the invitation in her hands, a temptation to rip it up and
forget this Duchess swelling within her breast. And yet...yet
something held her back, made her eyes return to the page and her
thoughts rest upon each word. Who are you?, she asked almost
urgently of the invitation, as if it might develop a tongue and tell
her the answers that she sought. Do I know your name? Would I
recognise your face from some other time? Why now do you reach out
to the desert and invite me to a land that I do not know? Talk of
feasts and competitions would have no hold over the sorceress, but a
mystery, a puzzle, now that was another matter. Here was a woman
that she knew not, here was one who had invited Lyssia to her home,
here was a mystery that piqued the Sidhe's interest.

Saddle a horse for me, she said to the officer who had read the
letter over her shoulder. I think perhaps that I should best attend
this gathering, to watch if nothing more. It may be that there are
things to be learnt as this so-called Blue Moon rises. Things to be
learnt indeed, but not for the good of Ebony's desert lands, but
rather for the good of the sorceress's own curiousity.

The desert warrior took a step back, his dark face blank and without
expression, one hand as always upon the hilt of the curved sword at
his waist. The Vision-Seeker, may the Lord bless her, has not given
you permission to go to this feast, you may not leave these lands
unless she deems it is to be so.

Good captain, you know as well as I that I will leave as I choose
to, that I have before on several occansions departed these red
sands without asking Ebony's consent. I will do so again if I feel
the need, helped or hindered by you it makes no difference. Surely
you realise that it would be best to let me go to this gathering, to
strengthen relations between these lands and those of the outside
world. The words fell from her lips as she continued to speak in a
honeyed tone of how going to this feast might aid the desert realm.
Better that the captain thought that she would be going for the good
of his homelands than to satisfy the questions that swan about her
thoughts.

Very well, you shall go, but I will send word to the Vision-Seeker
to tell her of this. It may be that you will find yourself bought
back here before too long if she decides that it is not in the best
interests of the faithful for you to attend. He turned smartly on
his heel and left, hopefully to prepare Lyssia's grey mare for the
ride ahead.

----------

She had ridden for several days, mainly alone through roads that she
barely knew and through realms to which she could not give a name.
Few had thought to stop her, after all what threat was a lone woman
upon a horse? Even those who bothered to give her a second look soon
banished her from their minds. She was plainly dressed in a robe of
dark blue, a weather-stained cloak of a darker shade wrapped about
her form. Only the circlet of silver and black about her head might
have given them pause to wonder at her, and that she kept hidden
beneath the hood of her cloak. Those that saw her guessed only that
she was a simple traveller, one perhaps who had a need to visit
family in some other part of the lands.

It was better this way, she told herself, better that none know her,
better that she did not leave even a trace of herself upon their
thoughts. There had been other times when she had gone about the
lands in such a way, but that was long ago, before the darkness had
fallen upon her. In those journeys she had not been alone, instead
Kara had always been by her side, lifting her spirits whenever the
road seemed dangerous. For a moment Lyssia wondered where her
companion now rested, where those firey wings now scorched the sky.

But there was no time for such thoughts to distract her, she had
other matters to attend to.

Before her she saw the keep which, if the peasants she had spoken to
were to be believed, was the home of the Duchess of Fenton. So this
is where you settle yourself my dear puzzle, a fine home indeed.
Pulling on the reins slightly she slowed her mount's speed to a
walk, after all there was no need to go acing up to the place. No
she would go slowly from here on, watching all about her carefully,
the lands were still dangerous and who knew who else the Duchess had
invited?

Lyssia smiled a little as she looked up towards the keep, Who else
will be vying for your hand my lady? And will you really marry one
of low birth if he proves himself worthy? Now that would be a sight
to see, she had to admit that at least. The faces of the noble born
lords would certainly be a picture to behold if they were beaten to
the lady's hand, and her lands, by some unknown peasant who could
not trace his heritage back more than two generations. Perhaps that
alone would make the journey worthwhile, even though the idea of a
woman auctioning herself off to the highest bidder, as it seemed to
the Sidhe, was distasteful to her.

With soft movements of her heels and reins she guided the horse
forward, Time to see who else has answered the invitation.
_________________
Hlasta! Qyetes Hfirimain


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Nchalis


Posts: 3

Joined: 24 Apr 2003

Posted: Mon Apr 28, 2003 11:45 am Post subject:



The headache had not gone away.

I looked in the pool of clear water hoping that seeing my face would
remind me of who I was. It didn't.

I was undeniably attractive. The pool of water explained the looks I
had been receiving as I walked through scattered settlements that I
seen upon leaving the forest. The keep was the only visible sign of
true civilization for miles so I decided to head towards it.

I looked at my temples as if I could see my head pulsing. I
couldn't.

The long hair was thick and clean. The color was something between a
brown and blond, more like dark honey then anything else. My eyes
were a clear gray and half way between oval and round.

I stood up from the pool still at a loss to how to proceed. I had no
posessions and no visible means of support. I had looked around for
some work I could do since the headache did not seem to be waning.
Nobody seemeed interested in their farms all the talk was over some
duchess and her wedding.

If nothing else there would be free food at the keep...


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The Woman


Posts: 4

Joined: 26 Apr 2003

Posted: Mon Apr 28, 2003 1:08 pm Post subject:



The mood in the settlement was one of festive anticipation. Though
work had increased, none complained for the people had the festival
and tournament to look forward to.

Trees were steadily felled to make a clearing in the western vale in
which to hold the tournament and to provide a camp area for guests.
It was unknown how many guests were to be expected, so it was likely
that the clearing would not be large enough for all to set their
tents. Those who came late would have to find suitable sites under
the cool canopy of leaves the wood provided. The timber would not be
wasted. It was dragged away to be used to fortify the keep, work
which would be done gradually as time permitted.

Stores of game, goat cheese, and preserves grew steadily. The
meadery was a hive of activity. In addition to common mead, melomel
(mixed with the juice of brambleberries) and rhodomel (made with
honey perfumed with attar of roses) was mixed and crocked. The
settlement had no hops, so ale could not be brewed. It was rumored
that ale had been ordered, but would not be in quantities to keep
both guests and residents happily refreshed and intoxicated. The
people would take no chances though. What this settlement lacked in
size, despite it's humble appearance, they were determined to make
up for in hospitality, rustic though it may be. The people were
determined to make the Duchess and themselves, proud.

The children were bade to add the pleasurable task of dandelion
picking to their list of chores. Those flowers which did not end up
in the wreaths surrounding their brows, were thrown into crocks with
other ingredients, to ferment. The wine would not have time enough
to mature, but it would be drinkable by the tournament. The children
skipped through the wood and vale adding the sunny yellow flowers to
their baskets along with various herbs for tisanes and teas.

The well was finished and was the cause for much celebration. No
longer would they have to make the long trek to the stream for
water. Everyone gathered about as the first bucket was drawn, a
great cheer going up as it rose. The bucket was passed from person
to person, each taking a ceremonial sip. The water was declared
clear and sweet.

After the days work was done, the women gathered by candle light to
stitch the banners which would fly from the roof of the keep and
poles set at the tournament site. Their nimble needles plied through
freshly dyed linen, they finest they could weave. There was no silk.
They gossiped as they sewed until the candles sputtered and died and
their eyes were dry and grainy. They were proud of their skill with
needle and thread.

A vulcan was hired. He set up a shelter from which to conduct his
business in the clearing by the tournament site. Weapons and armor
would surely be needing repair, horses would need to be reshod, his
services would be in demand. It was hoped he would remain after the
tournament. The people went out of their way to make him welcome in
an effort to this end.

Beside the vulcan's smithy, other stands went up. Only the evening
meal would be served in the hall. Food and drink would be provided
in the clearing to the guests and their companies at any time of day
or night, whenever hunger or thirst struck. Shifts were assigned, so
that when the first guests arrived, the stands were manned and
stocked almost immediately. The fare was simple, but it would be
plentiful and readily available. For this the people determined to
be reknowned.

When the first guests arrived, they were greeted warmly by the
people, for there was no guard, or gatehouse through which to pass.
Direction was given to the clearing and aid whenever requested. All,
commoner and noble alike were treated with welcome and respect.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*****~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The woman's nervousness grew steadily with the preparations. It was
with trembling hand that she received the first reply to the
invitations...

Quote:
Duchess Fenton,

It will be my dubious pleasure to attend the festivites of the
Rise of the Blue Moon. I fear that having recieved the
invitation late due to rampaging orks in the ajacent
territories, I have taken the liberty of replying with this
instead of just arriving and announcing my arrival then.

I trust this note to find you in good health, and that the
preperations go well. I am anticipating a grand time, and look
forward to our meeting.

Aidan Feargahal,
Retired GM of Crusaders of the Realms
AGM of War TAO


This was real. They would come.

She swallowed and read again. Aidan Feargahal. He sounded very
important, very powerful. There was another from an Owain d'Othe,
and another and another. All names unfamiliar... of course... Did
she know Aiden Feargahal, Owan d'Othe, the others? Did she have the
social skills to interact with these people?

More replies followed.

She attempted to keep herself from dwelling on her plight, by
keeping busy, helping the people with the preparations. When the
first guests arrived, she did not rush to greet them, instead she
went about the work she had busied herself with as usual.

From a hilltop, the woman looked out over the vale already dotted
with tents, people milling about. A shiver of dread prickled up her
spine. She took her gaze from the sight as she adjusted her veil and
pulled her long gloves up higher over her sleeves reaching into the
apiary, moving slowly, raising the rack containing the honeycomb
slowly, the reason she had come to this spot. The bees buzzed lazily
in the sun, their drone soothing her, calming her.

For the moment the fest and her plans were forgotten. Dressed in
plain brown homespun skirts, with her apron, gloves and veil, she
looked a simple peasant about her work. She hummed a tune
unconsciously, completely engrossed in collecting the honey.


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Nchalis


Posts: 3

Joined: 24 Apr 2003

Posted: Mon Apr 28, 2003 1:53 pm Post subject:



The food was good and the people were free with it. Perhaps this
crazy idea would pay off after all. The headache had not lessened
but the body can get used to anything. Despite the searing pain I
barely noticed it anymore.

I wondered if I should present myself to someone. What a laugh that
would be. I wouldn't even have a name to give them. Perhaps I would
be picked out of the crowd based on looks.... I thought about what
story I would give but had none. Still this place seemed as good as
any to stay. The food cost nothing.

No matter how much I tried to think about myself I could remember
nothing. Not even flashes of thoughts to give reminders. My mind was
blank except for the never ending headache.

Perhaps the duchess retained some sort of mage that could diagnose
the problem... Of course that would require presenting myself. Still
I longed for the pain to be gone.

Mind made up I began heading for the keep. Eventually someone would
notice and ask me what I was doing there....


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Owain d'Othe


Posts: 2

Joined: 27 Apr 2003

Posted: Mon Apr 28, 2003 9:55 pm Post subject:



Owain sent a brief reply to the Duchess' invitation. It was curt and
stated only that he would attend. He added no flowery prose or
social niceties.

The next morning he rode out, with two man servants and his squire
accompanying him. As he crossed the borderlands separating his land
from Hughego's, or what used to be Hughego's, he vowed once more
that this would be his.

It was rich with timber and game. The hill was a perfect spot for an
lookout tower and the vales, once cleared, would be fertile
farmland. If this Duchess did own the land, if Hughego had
bequeathed it to her...

Owain glared, as he stared straight ahead, his black steed's trot
steady, his thoughts racing.

Owain would vie for her hand if the Duchess owned the land, but
matters would be much easier if he could discredit her and prove her
a usurper. Even if Hughego had given it to her perhaps there was
still a way. Hughego was old. It might be easy to convince people
that he was addled and had been taken advantage of... he could raise
the people to drive the woman out...or... another scenario... kill
Hughego. Slip something into his spirits....the woman could go
missing...or not kill him but sicken him, then take care of the
woman and be the one to nurse Hughego back to health. Hughego would
be so grateful as to pass the land on to him.

Busy with his plotting, he reached his destination in what seemed
minutes and not hours. Others had already arrived and set camp. The
tournament field could be seen. He noted the smithy and the food and
drink stalls.

Riding in ahead of him, he saw a lone female figure. Could it be
her? Surely a female guest would not travel to such an event alone.
He spurred his mount forward and trotted up beside the woman.

She was wearing a dark blue cloak, the hood pulled forward about her
face. Owain jerked the reins of his mount and kicked him lightly to
make him dance as he spoke in his deep baritone.

Greetings Lady. Do I have the pleasure of meeting the Duchess of
Fenton?

He fixed a smile upon his swarthy face, his finely trimmed black
moustache and goatee accentuating his strong square jaw. His brows
were thick and almost met over, what he liked to think of as
cleverly knowing eyes... behind his back, others called them sly. He
knew he presented an impressive figure, his red cloak flung back
over his shoulders to show off his fine black attire which fit his
muscled body well.


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Porckie


Posts: 15

Joined: 31 Mar 2003

Posted: Mon Apr 28, 2003 11:03 pm Post subject:



OOC: Weee..I'm not too silly!

" What the hell are you looking at? "

Porckie, still quite enraged over the unfortunate meeting between
ground and bum, pointed his finger at two inquisitive siblings. As
their eyes grew larger, the two children tried to hide behind a
flower. But, seeing as this particulair flower, a dandelion, was to
the children like a sparrow to Darden's buttocks, this had little to
no effect at all. Still quivering, one of them managed to open it's
toothless pie-hole...

" It..it... talks! "

" It sure does. ", said Porckie, beaming with renewed confidence.

" But..what is it? ", spoke the other, still covering a part of her
left nostril with the dandelion.

Porckie frowned,"It is a dwarven male. And the only reasons the
obvious outline of my gender is lacking, are your undevelopped
feminine charms and sheer inattractiveness. "

" The spherical banana talks silly. "

" Silly eh? I'll show you silly!! "

Porckie looked around for something that could act as a projectile.
On his right was a tree, on his left he saw some plants. Determined
as he was to throw something in the innocent faces of his insulters,
he began to pull out the plants. After he wrapped his hands around
the base, he started to tug. The plant's sudden departure from the
ground caused Porckie to topple over backwards, naturally hitting
the tree with his head. The children laughed and their amusement
grew even further as they noticed the dwarf was holding poison ivy.
The dwarf screamed in agony and the two brats, still wearing a
radiant smile, ran away.

" Curses!! Children...blah.. they are the sole reason why men like
me started wearing sheep's blatters during fornication. And why, for
pete's sake, did they call me a.. 'spherical banana'? "

Lying against the tree, Porckie tilted his head, looking for the
source of this seemingly inappropriate mockery. He bit his lip as he
noticed that he was still wearing his yellow pyjamas.

" Ohh...blah. "

[center]********************************[/center]

The story continues......

[Christoph]

“Summon my brother.”

The speaker looked up as she spoke, her eyes moving from the missive in her hand to the rigidly attentive messenger before her. He nodded once, formally, in acknowledgement, and then with an about turn marched quickly towards the great oak doors that functioned as the hall’s entrance.

“After that, rest.” Her eyes were back on the paper now, and her voice soft, but she knew nonetheless that the man had heard her; just as she knew that this messenger from outside her realm would not only recognize her brother, but be able to find him. Such things were commonplace with her now, and beyond even her recognition; this letter, however. This letter was different.

She rose. Her attendants followed her movements with their eyes as she strode quickly into her private chamber, an offshoot of her great hall; this was the only visible sign they gave of the curiosity they felt over the actions of their mistress. Her chamber was almost never entered during the day; never when she had affairs still to decide, and their were three of her subjects waiting for judgement outside the hall. None of them knew for certain what exactly she kept in that room, but all had heard tales of the unearthly glows and eccentric sounds that oft times emanated from within.

Out of sight now, she allowed a frown to cross her face. “Fenton…” she breathed lightly, savouring the word, then said it again, tasting it carefully. “Fenton…” Her frown deepened. She had never heard of a Fenton, certainly never of a duchy by that name, and that had her worried. The missive that lay still between her fingers was an invitation from a lady that she had never even heard of. Not all that worrisome on its own… except that Aimee Kehlsivahd, mistress of the forest realm of Culdaca and so-called gray faerie, was not used to receiving correspondence that was in itself the first sign of its owner’s existence. Questions were rebounding in her mind as she approached her chamber’s central pedestal; whether this woman was a threat, whether their had been war or if she was a usurper, why Aimee had not heard of such, if magic were involved, if so what type… her thoughts tapered off quickly as she lay her hands on the shimmering green orb that rested atop the pedestal. The missive fluttered, no longer needed, to the floor.

“Fenton…” Aimee breathed for a third time, and allowed her power to seep into one of her most precious artefacts. The farsight began to glow, colours swirling and spiralling, dancing to a music that defied the laws of reason. Aimee’s eyes widened as her gaze unfocused; her breathing stilled, then stopped, as did her heart. Her pupils dilated, their gray quickly descending into an almost invisible dot in her eyes’ centers, leaving her gaze milky. Her body ceased to function; ceased to be a vessel; ceased to be, as far as her mind was concerned. She allowed herself to be sucked into the verdant maelstrom of the farsight, joining in the dance of the lights until she fell beyond them, through…

Her vision exploded upward. The Soulwood was below her, her keep; a living castle formed in the forest’s heart, where the two rivers of Culdaca joined. Her vision sped swiftly to the north, guided by her will; objects flickered in the background of her psyche as she sought any trace of a land called Fenton. Her sight veered sharply east, then north again; voices babbled incoherently as she passed over a city; lightning flashed, her only knowledge of a storm before it was gone. Then, with a start, she soared to the earth, the dull babble of voices dissipating until only one remained, and then, finally, her sight came to rest upon the voice’s owner: A woman, apparently at least part elven judging from the point to her ears, with hair the colour of bronze and a figure that most men would find attractive. Aimee hovered in front of her momentarily, regarding her carefully, then soared into, through, her head, into her mind.

Moments later, she slammed back into her body. Her heart once again pumped blood throughout; her breath came once more, albeit now in ragged gasps. Slowly she collapsed, the only support preventing her from falling being her hold on the pedestal. She swallowed, then swallowed again, removing the dry, sticky taste from her mouth that always accompanied the farsight. Eyes closed, she focused her energies, lending some of her inner strength to her outer being for a time. Her breathing calmed; her muscled hardened; she stood, and the dignity so present in her outside hall once again masked who she was. Later, when she could rest, she would work through the magical exhaustion her near-disaster had caused; for now, it would have to be belayed.

She had managed to garner some information. The woman harboured no hidden agenda against her; no dark plans that could threaten Aimee or her forest. Her name was Lorenthia Wolf, although the layout of her mind around that object implied that it was not her given name, not her soul’s true name. Aimee could have found out more if she’d continued to skim the surface of the woman’s thoughts, no doubt, but she had instead delved into the woman’s past, her memories, in an attempt to learn of her origins – and had hit, instead of the wellspring that usually occupied that portion of a mind, a hole. Where memories, old hopes, subconscious drives should be there was instead an impenetrable chasm of nothing, a nothing so intense that it had almost pulled Aimee’s consciousness into it through its mere proximity. Aimee was reminded again, quite poignantly, of the first and foremost rule of her craft – caution. In truth, she was lucky to have been able to avert her dive into that chasm; and even that had taken most of her formidable strength away. It would take her days to recover, weeks probably before she could use her farsight again. On the whole, however, such was preferable than the death that she would otherwise have received.

Aimee walked, graceful as always, out of her chamber, her eyes seeking out her brother, her mind oblivious to the outside world as it pondered its newest question: that of what could have severed someone’s ties to their memory so completely, and, more importantly, why.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Christoph trotted his horse up to his stopped guide, his curiosity evident on his face. The weathered man before him, the messenger from the Duchess of Fenton, acknowledged the unspoken question with a smile before answering.

“I welcome you officially to the lands of Fenton, and her grace the Duchess,” he said, then, as an afterthought, gave a somewhat extravagant half-bow from his saddle. He flourished beyond him, waving Christoph past. “Behold…”

Christoph surveyed the scene before him, emerging from the slight forestation into a sun-laden meadow. Fields of grains greeted his view, and, strategically placed atop a hill not far from him and his band, Christoph spotted what must be the governing keep of the farmland before him. “Obviously not as extravagant as you’re used to, of course, but all the same, it is home.” His guide said the last with a touch of pride. Christoph agreed with the first sentiment heartily, but minded not at all. This keep had something the Soulwood had never offered him: the absence of his sister.

“I like it.” He offered to his guide, and, to an extent, friend; the two had managed to break most of the barriers of their class difference on the long trek. “You’re right; it is somewhat homey. Welcoming.”

“I’m glad you approve,” his guide said heartily, then added with the smallest twinge of regret, “I’m afraid I must leave you now. I shall announce your arrival; further arrangements for you will be made as necessary.” He paused a moment, considering, then added, “If you run into any trouble here, though may the gods forbid it, you can count on my help. You’re a decent enough sort, for a noble. If you ever feel need for me, through danger, threat, or boredom, just ask for Hilton. I can’t offer much, of course, but whatever I can would be at your service… friend.” He extended a hand, in parting, and Christoph shook once.

“Friend,” he agreed, and then with a final turn of his horse his guide departed, and Christoph was left alone to his entourage and his thoughts.

A brief look backwards decided him against trying to find conversation there. Most of his servants had been ‘cleansed’ by his sister, their emotions dissipated to allow for single-minded devotion and protection, and weren’t capable of real communication even if their nearness didn’t turn something in Christoph’s stomach. Of those that weren’t, one was his ‘squire’ Gar’Pohl, in truth Christoph’s trainer and personal bodyguard, and the other was the dryad Cassiopeia, failed weather mage and his advisor – albeit against his sister’s recommendation. Both were half-asleep, lacking Christoph’s stamina, and while they would act pleasant due to Christoph’s status, he knew that inwardly all they wanted was to be left alone.

Which left his thoughts. As he led his band along the weaving road toward the keep, he tried to reason out once more exactly why he was there.

Aimee, his sister, was the main reason of course. Christoph would never do himself the arrogance of assuming he could read her, but he had nonetheless gotten the sense that she was very ill at ease. Something about this Duchess scared her, he was sure; and that, in turn, scared him. Aimee was dangerous when she was scared, that he knew with a certainty. So that was reason number two for going; it got him out of the danger zone that would be the Soulwood right now. Number one, of course, was because Aimee willed it, but he was one of the few people that she let decide things for their own (blood and all) so it was still his decision.

Reason three was his curiosity. The festival and tournament mentioned sounded interesting, food always promised to be good at festivals, which was a plus, and this mysterious Duchess who was apparently itching to become someone’s wife. The last intrigued him not because of the prospect of marrying her, but because of his love for puzzles – she promised to be a puzzle of great complexity, and Christoph dearly hoped that she lived up to his expectations in that regard.

Marriage would be his sister’s favoured outcome, though. She was always looking for any excuse to extend her dominance, and had already attempted to marry her brother off several times – once almost successfully, as Christoph would have been more than happy to marry the Baron of Grahts’ daughter before… his mind shied away from the subject. Christoph shook his head to clear his thoughts of Ketrin. No, marriage was definitely out of the question. He mentally vowed not to allow himself to be wounded in such a way no matter how the sounds came fast now from Ketrin’s chambers as he stood outside, tears of anger and pain just beginning to form as he turned away … no matter how persuasive the Duchess proved to be.

Christoph breathed deeply. He would control this; she didn’t deserve to haunt him. He glanced about for distraction, and found it in the form of a peasant woman a small ways from him. She was collecting honey from a local apiary, her hands filled with honeycomb. Reflecting that it would probably be to his benefit to gain some knowledge of the local populace, he waved a signal to his men-at-arms to halt off the road and begin setting up camp; they were close enough to the keep. That done, he approached the veiled woman in her simple brown clothes and dismounted. “My greetings,” he said, gaining her attention. She gave him a look that he found difficult to read; interpreting it as annoyance at having been called from her work, he hastily spoke again. “My apologies if I’m disturbing you, but I’ve just arrived in the area. I’ve come for the festival,” he added, feeling some explanation necessary. “I was hoping you’d be able to tell me somewhat about these lands – this is the first time I’ve even heard of Fenton, to be honest, and I’m feeling somewhat at a loss. I don’t suppose you’d care to share a bit of the land’s history with a curious foreigner, would you?” he asked, wearing what he hoped to be a charming smile. His question was honestly asked, too – one of the few things he had in common with his sister was a thirst for knowledge, although in Aimee’s case the thirst came more from a desire for power than it did curiosity.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

~Christoph

[Lyssia]

The lands that she rode through seemed rich and well tended, fertile and full of life, quite different from the desert lands that had now become her home. Oh there was life to be found in the sands as well, but it hid itself well, it was the only way to survive in such an apparently inhospitable place. But here life flourished and did not hide itself, here it had no need to worry about the harsh sands, the burning winds or the foul sandstorms that plagued the desert and yet at the same time protected it from outside eyes.

The duchy of Fenton was not at all like the red desert, no if anything it reminded her more of her former home, of the lands she had once claimed as her own. There had been life there and it had been in abundance, forests thick with nature's bounty, the ocean heavy with its burden of fish. Though that place had not looked like this, still the feeling had been the same, the way it invaded her senses was too similiar to be ignored.

Ah but this place was not her home, it was not the ruined city, these lands still lived, Gyppeswyk's did not. The dark memories of that city drew themselves upon her mind, seeming to weigh down the Sidhe woman far beyond her years. She knew that she was far from free of that dead place, that it would continue to be her sad burden till she had fulfilled her debt to that place. Many were the souls that waited for her within the city's old borders, waiting for her to return and complete the vigil for them that was required.

Greetings Lady. Do I have the pleasure of meeting the Duchess of Fenton?

She looked up, a little surprised that someone had seemingly spoken to her in this unfamiliar land. The sorceress let her gaze look over Owain d'Othe, supposing that he would be thought a handsome creature by women interested in such things. For a moment she did not reply, merely examining him, perhaps trying to gauge if he would pose a threat to her immediately. She had lived through too much not to be at least a little wary of strangers. Finally she shook her head, grey eyes leaving him and looking ahead instead, I am afraid not m'Lord, I am no duchess, and I would guess that the lady in question is as much a mystery to you as she is to me. No I am not her, rather I am Lyssia, a sorceress, once of the city of Gyppeswyk, now a guest of the red desert realm, she bowed her head slightly in greeting.

Several days ago I recieved an invitation from the Duchess, requesting my presence here for a feast. Though I have never met the woman I'll admit that her letter intrigued me, rare it is that a stranger seeks me out. My curiousity demands that I seek out this woman and discover her motives, alas my race never could ignore a puzzle like this, she said, half-laughing.

Lyssia turned once more to look at the lord, her features more apparent now, the shadow of her hood no longer cast so much over her face. They were the features of a fae, of the Sidhe, deep grey eyes silently speaking of the secrets that the soul within might hold. And what of you m'Lord? Why is it that another who does not know the Duchess accepts her invitation?

[The Woman]

The old man had sent three maids and three footmen from his personal staff, to the Duchess' keep for the duration of the festival. The woman had not had time to hire or train her own as yet and until now, she had had no need for them.

The old man stood just inside the heavy oak doors, which had been thrown open to air the hall. The maids had finished scrubbing the planked floors and were now busy strewing the floor with a sweet smelling pot pourri of herbs and spring flower petals. The men were moving two long heavy tables into place. Outside was a wagon filled with benches and chairs waiting to be brought in.

It would do, thought the old man, eyes searching for flaws, but he could find none. The keep was the hall and the hall was the keep, it had no other rooms. The woman slept at the rear of the long hall, opposite the doors, two cleverly placed, carved wooden screens hiding the straw pallet covered with furs which served as her bed. On the long walls were four fireplaces, two on each wall to provide both light and warmth. Over the two furthest from the door, stags heads had been hung. The walls over the two nearest the door were empty.

He walked to the west fireplace. The sword the woman had showed him, was once again propped next to it. He took it up and held it up, to view how it would look over the fire. He nodded in satisfaction.

You. He called to one of the footmen, who ceased what he was doing immediately and hurried to the old man's side. The old man handed him the sword. See that this sword is hung, this side facing the room, there, over the fireplace.

Yes Sir.

The rest of you. Be swift. Some guests may not wait until this evening to approach the Duchess. They may well be on their way to present themselves as we speak.

The old man walked towards the door. He had not seen the Duchess since his arrival this morning. No doubt she was trying to avoid the inevitable, as she was want to do. He stood on the stoop gazing out to see if he could see her coming, but he saw naught but the footmen unloading the wagon and peasants busy about their work. He turned his eyes in the direction of the campsite, now looking to see if any guests were on their way, as he had said to the servants. It did seem that once a thing was spoken it would come to fruition and he had no doubt that someone would crest the rise at any moment and she was not here to greet them.

[center]~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*****~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~[/center]

“My greetings.”

Startled, the woman almost dropped the screen, but instead gripped it more tightly. The bees hovering closest to her, buzzed loudly, distressed with her almost indecipherable sudden movement. Alarming the bees further would not be in either her's or her visitor's best interests. She turned her head as quickly as she dared, annoyance in her green eyes, which quickly turned to alarm as she saw him and heard his request.

“My apologies if I’m disturbing you, but I’ve just arrived in the area. I’ve come for the festival. I was hoping you’d be able to tell me somewhat about these lands – this is the first time I’ve even heard of Fenton, to be honest, and I’m feeling somewhat at a loss. I don’t suppose you’d care to share a bit of the land’s history with a curious foreigner, would you?”

She was amazed that he, who looked to be a noble, would speak to a peasant, for that was undeniably what she appeared as, and her alarm turned to surprise before she could regain her composure. She was thankful for the veil, which she hoped had hidden her reaction. If it hadn't perhaps he would simply think her flustered with being approached by the upper class.

She lowered her eyes, as if in respect as she lowered the screen to it's resting place, before turning to face him, once more thankful for the veil. She bobbed a curtsey.

Greetings Sir. Welcome. She didn't know what else to say. If she talked too much he may remember her voice later, should they chance to speak again, and know she was the simple peasant collecting honey. She was supposed to be a duchess. As she thought the word, her demeanor changed slightly, her posture straightening, her eyes raising to look upon his face. She noted the charming smile and his other features as she quickly took them in, before realizing what she was doing and looking downwards once more.

I beg your pardon Sir. I do not understand what it is you wish to know. These lands belong to the Duchess of Fenton, whose invitation you have accepted and on whose behalf, I welcome you. I really must not tarry long. Mistress will be wondering where I have gotten to.

The woman almost cringed. A peasant would not say she could not tarry to a lord. A peasant would stay until dismissed. Perhaps he would not notice.

[Slevin]

:::Slevin rode slowly through the sparse wooded area toward the increasingly loud sounds of industry. Slevin was accustomed to hearing the sounds of axes at work on trees where lumber mills were situated, but to hear so many of them in tandem with the sounds of instruments and laughing children? Surely he was getting close to the lands of the Duchess. In truth, he was almost disappointed that the ride was almost over. Solitude has a way of growing on a man, he silently reflected to himself.

Before long Slevin emerged from the woods into a vast clearing. The smells of all manner of fairground cooking wafted over to him, eliciting thoughts of the simple traveling rations that had served him on this journey. Smoke from assorted cook fires drifted lazily into the clear blue sky while children chased each other around laughing loudly and generally garnering the bemused smiles of adults busy with their own versions of fair-day merry-making. From off to Slevin's left a voice called out to him:::

Greetings traveler. Where is your lord, that we might greet him properly?

:::Slevin hid his slight surprise at the statement and looked sheepishly down at the simple traveling clothes he'd changed into days before. Between the clothes he wore and the mule toting the armor and other necessities tethered to his horse he supposed he really did look like little more than a mid-level servant delivering his masters armor. Slevin quickly decided that for the moment, such an impression suited him just fine. He turned his briefly side-tracked mind back to the minor functionary before him and made his response:::

Greetings to you as well, friend. He's probably waiting for me wherever the good Lady in charge of these lands is housing her visitors. Would you be so good as to point me in the general direction?

:::The man graciously pointed Slevin in the direction of a cleared area set a bit differently from the actual fair grounds. With a friendly warning to "Hurry, lest you anger your master." the functionary departed from Slevin's presence to return to whatever duties awaited his attention. Slevin rode off to the campgrounds, taking note of the slightly less organized feel that was common to various independent parties staying in one area. The soldierly instincts in him rebelled against the messy make-up of the grounds. Slevin quickly found a spot toward the far edge of the clearing reserved for the guests and set up his own humble tent with a practiced speed that pleased him

With his immediate priorities seen to Slevin turned toward the armor before him and regarded it, noting it's good physical condition being marred by the dirt and dust it had collected. Slevin rummaged through his pack in search of a rag before realizing that he had none with him. No worries though, rag sellers were common sights at fairs. And besides, this would give him the opportunity to gauge the dispositions of the locals. Slevin stood, brushed the grass from his pants, and walked off toward the fair:::

[Owain d'Othe]

Owain calmed the dancing of his mount whilst he listened to the sidhe sorceress, who identified herself with the one name, Lyssia, as if that was name enough. It served to identify to him that she was a woman of power. Only those who could wield great might could get away in today's society without title and declaration of the lands over which they ruled. Thus he decided in a split second, that Lyssia, was worthy of an invitation to any social function which included himself on the list, for he liked to think that he was on the rise amongst the more powerful of the land. Besides that, this Duchess must have some reason for inviting the sorceress to the Festival. He himself had little use for sorcery, it made him uncomfortable in it's unpredictability. Give him cold hard metal anyday.

But to the matter at hand, he reminded himself. Lyssia did not know the Duchess either, although she did not say outright, that she did not know 'of' her.

Owain smiled and nodded at being caught out. "Well met Lyssia. I have not made the acquaintance of this Duchess either, as has been painfully proven by my faux pas. I apologise. Let me introduce myself. I am Sir Owain d'Othe, Lord of the lands adjacent these, the County of Assalie. At your service."

He bowed his head and made a little flourish with his hand, then lifted laughing eyes to meet hers emitting a bursting laugh, mocking himself.

"Introductions over, I must answer your question. I too am curious. Curious as to who owns these lands now. They once belonged to Duke Hughego and I had heard nothing of this Duchess until I received the invitation. Yes, I am curious." His voice grew very serious and cold the longer he spoke.

As if he suddenly remembered his social graces, he spoke again, "But you travel without escort Lyssia. Should you need anything during your stay, please call upon me. My servants are yours and my blade as well. Should you wish an arm to rest your hand upon into dinner this evening, I would be pleased to offer mine."

To befriend the sorceress might not be such a bad idea, one never knew what or who one might need in any given situation.

[Lyssia]

(OOC: I'll be away for a few days as of tomorrow but I will post when I get back next week.)

He was a warrior this one, or at least that was how it appeared to the sorceress, one accustomed to the chaos of thrill of the fight. Perhaps because of that he would make for a useful ally in these strange lands, after all she had no knowledhe of whether or not this duchness meant her guests harm or not. For all Lyssia knew this woman might be planning some wickedness, drawing in people with her unexpected invitations and then putting some black plan into action to see that they did not return from whence they came. There were those in the lands who were not beyond such things and so the Sidhe would be on her guard till more of this 'feast' was revealled as truth. Until then she would watch her back carefully and it would not hurt to have the trust of one who knew how best to combat the more physical threast of the world.

Besides even if all her fears were for naught, it would not harm her to at least have a familiar face too look out for in the times to come.

It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance Sir Owain, Lyssia replied, her voice soft and low. Truly you must be blessed if you claim the lands adjacent to these as your own for I would imagine that they are as fruitful and pleasant as the duchy. I can think of many who can only wish that they owned such a fertile tract of land in their realms. In her years she'd met more than one poor noble, their title worth more than all their lands put together, several of them would have given their eye-teeth to get their hands on even a small part of Fenton. The sorceress wondered if the Duchess might not regret introducing herself to the world in the days to come. Now that more people knew of this place's existance it might soon find itself under the scrutiny of those seeking to extend their borders. Somehow Lyssia doubted that the duchy was quite ready to defend itself from the determined attacks of interlopers.

Owain's serious words of the previous owner were not what the Sidhe woman had expected to hear when she had first decided to accept the invitation. How unusual that this Lord Hughego would give his lands over to an heiress that you, his neighbour, had not heard of. Quite a little puzzle this Duchess of Fenton weaves about herself, it shall be most interesting to meet the woman herself. An odd hand-over of power to an unknown, the mystery of the land teased her with each new part of itself that was revealled. What would possess a lord to keep his heiress a secret? Or had Lord Hughego not 'given' contol of his lands at all, finding them instead stolen from his grasp? Whatever the truth was it would most certainly make her visit to Fenton interesting.

As Owain spoke of her lack of an entourage Lyssia looked down, fixing her gaze upon the mane of her horse. His words dredged by images of bleached bones shining in the sun as the sea crashed against the cliffs nearby. She had once had people who would have accompanied her on a trip like this. Back then though she had been a very different woman, less serious, less concerned with the troubles of the world. Lyssia of Gyppeswyk would have accepted the Duchess's invitation without fear of duplicity on the part of her hostess. But that part of herself, the more care-free side of spirit, that had died back in the city on the night of the storm, along with every other soul within its walls.

The memory of the white bones clawed at her thoughts, only slowly letting her be. I...I thank you for your offer kind sir, she said at last, I shall most certainly keep it in mind if I have any need in the days to come. She took a breath to calm herself, finally able to brush away the last images of bones from her thoughts. My apologies, it has been a long trip for me, but I would de delighted to rest my arm on yours at dinner this eve. Though I trust that neither of us shall find that you have need for your sword.

[Christoph]

The woman’s eyes widened slightly in a quickly erased expression of surprise upon seeing his face fully, before lowering in respect to his station. Slowly, she lowered the screen she’d been holding, then with another gesture of formality she curtsied. Eyes still lowered, she finally responded to his query.

“Greetings Sir. Welcome.” Christoph cringed inwardly; this was going badly. He didn’t really wear ‘nobleman’ tacked to his chest in bright letters, but he might as well for all the difference it did; even if you glossed over his clothing, his horse, and the entourage setting up camp a ways from him, there was still that habitual stance or aura of nobility that most peasants could almost smell clinging to the air around him. Already she’d avoided eye contact, made a gesture of obeisance, and quite clearly placed a capital ‘S’ on the honorific ‘Sir’; and he was reminded again, quite poignantly, that while he might not give a damn about one’s class, most people gave one about his. It was an unfortunate but undeniable reality of his station; if he’d been given a choice, he would have chosen the merchant class instead. Merchants never really had to worry about such things the same as others; they had to make the proper gestures, of course, but they could converse on an equal level with members of all classes and stations, save those lords whose arrogance forbade it – and really, they weren’t worth talking to anyways. Of course, Christoph had no such choice. He was bound by blood and his sister’s will to his lot in life, frustrating though it might be.

“I beg your pardon Sir. I do not understand what it is you wish to know. These lands belong to the Duchess of Fenton, whose invitation you have accepted and on whose behalf, I welcome you. I really must not tarry long. Mistress will be wondering where I have gotten to.” The woman’s words cut into his inner lamentations and confirmed his belief of her character. While there were many peasants that leapt at the opportunity to converse one-on-one with a nobleman, being treated almost as an equal for a period of time, there were still more who, for reasons he could not surmise, feared the concept, almost as if they relished their lower status.

“My thanks, then, for giving me what help you could,” he told her, keeping the air of formality the peasant woman seemed to treasure. “And I commend you on your devotion to your mistress; she is truly fortunate to have such a dedicated servant.” He knew that the story was a façade, in order to get away from the unwanted attention of the incomprehensible upper class; the woman had been in no hurry before he’d arrived. He understood the deception, too; however, that didn’t stop him from driving any thorn of guilt the woman might feel for it deeper by praising her for it. Understandable or not, the lover of knowledge within him hated being deceived.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

~Christoph

[Bet Ator]

He watched the arrival of so many powerful people that one could have sworn that peace talks were on. He smirked at the thought, thinking that it probably wasn't so far from the truth. He could sense the danger behind a few of the newcomers, and the innocence that blared out of others. It was an interesting mix, something he was much more accustomed to than this blasted fine weather.

He continued to smoke his pipe through out the day, and watched the crowd silently. Every once in a while, a child would try to raise enough courage to come close, but then would simply scamper off. Most seemed to be obsessed with what two young ones had called a "spherical banana". Bet had gleaned that they had meant the dwarf that had crashed from the sky.

But, at this point, he had a few select nobles that he was keeping an eye on. They interested him, profusely. He had wished t use his magic to listen in to the conversation but, there was something about two of them that stayed his hand, as it where, before he attempted such a thing. In one man he sensed a power near him. A power that wasn't emanating from the man but, someone who was close to him. A family member, perhaps, a lover, or maybe just a close friend. Why he couldn't find this other one, he was unsure of. They probably were not attending the celebrations, yet. Though, he thought they might make an appearance some time. The other was a Sidhe sorceress. He could not quite measure her power, and he dared not force a conflict without good cause, especially since she had yet to take any notice of him. That was quite alright, though, it just meant that he was successfully masking his power.

That was something he felt was very important at this festival. Too many people that would most likely hinder his curiousity, or even throw him out. He scowled. He hated being thrown out of anywhere before he was ready. He had been bored before he had gotten the invitation. Now, he had something to occupy his time.

Something that he felt would be worth his patience.

He reached down beside his chair, and pulled an apple out of what seemed to be nowhere, and began to munch on it thoughtfully.

[The Woman]

“My thanks, then, for giving me what help you could and I commend you on your devotion to your mistress; she is truly fortunate to have such a dedicated servant.”

She stood there looking at him for a moment, astonished. She had been dismissed. It had been so easy and now she was dismissed. That was what she had wanted, for she had not wanted to meet her guests in this manner, yet it rankled.

She had felt a rapport with this gentleman who would deign to speak with his inferiors. She, obviously, did so herself and helped the people in her new home as often as she could. She was not sure if this was good or bad, or if they respected her for it. What had she done before? Had she given orders? Had servants and peasants been told to be invisible about her?

With a start she realized she should take her leave. Fumbling, she adjusted the large wooden bucket she carried and bobbed a curtsey.

"Yes, Sir. Thanks be to you Sir." She shifted her weight from foot to foot, hesitating, then with a last stolen look at his face, she turned in the direction of the keep, her pace quick. The bucket was heavy with honeycombs causing her posture to be lopsided with the weight of it, her gate slightly limping in compensation. She hoped he wasn't watching her.

The woman chided herself quietly. He thought her a peasant. He would not be watching her.

The sun was warm. It was a fine day. A group of children were running towards the camp area, laughing and telling each other about flying mushrooms, talking bananas and magicians who pulled apples from the air. She smiled at their fantasy.

As she reached the rise, she could see the old man upon the stoop of the keep, most likely looking for her. She had been holding the bucket handle, with two hands and released one to wave at him. He raised his in return. Was that a look of relief upon his face? He had most likely thought she had run off.

The woman stopped. She had forgotten, despite carrying the bucket all this way, that it was filled with honey and needed to be taken to the beekeeper's hut. The encounter with the lord had flustered her more than she had cared to admit to herself. Calling to a young lad, who was helping to unload the chairs from the wagon in front of the keep, she told him to take the bucket to the beekeeper. Then, she stripped off her gloves and removing her veiled hat, placed them inside the crown. The old man offered her his arm and she took it, looking up at him as he began to fill her in on what had been done in her absence.

It did not occur to her until she was within the keep, to hope that the lord had not followed her...but why would he? She was being foolish. She turned her mind to the matters at hand, preparations for tonight's meal and meeting the first of the guests.

[Mantella The Merc]

The two men sat in the private room of the inn at a small round table. The one of them had a very profession look about him. The black leather armor he wore was neat and polished. His long brown hair was clean and well brushed. His mustache and goatee were neatly trimmed. He looked professional, and he was a professional. A professional of all professions... a mercenary. Despite his appearance his attitude seemed to be quite the opposite of the professional. He leaned back in the rickety wooden chair with his booted feet propped up on the table and his arms folded across his chest. He looked across the table with a smirk on his face.

His would-be employer seemed far from amused by his nonchalant attitude "Have some respect for those above you."
His cold harsh voice quickly snapped back. "Have some respect for those more skilled than you."
The well dressed and certainly wealthy man was quite taken aback by the response he received "Let us get on with business." He spoke with a clear smooth voice which seemed quite suited to speaking, and he had the inflection of a well educated man. It crossed the mercenary's mind that perhaps he was a priest, or perhaps had been. It was the mercenary's habit to analyze the people around him in such a fashion and he often found it in his benefit to do so. His musings were brought to an end when the other man continued his speech, "A noblewoman has risen out of nowhere recently," he said, sliding an invitation over the table to the mercenary. "I have reason to believe she may not be who she says she is. I think she may be an old aquaintance of mine. You are to go to this place and send me a description of her, if I find her to be who I think she is, then I will have you kill her. It may be in your best interest to pretend to be a suitor to get close to her. But you are welcome to use what ever methods suit you. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly. How much?"
"Turn over the invitation."
The mercenary did as he was told and the figure neatly penned on the back surprised him a bit, although his surprise did not show itself. He was a skilled mercenary and the prices he demanded were high, but this was even more impressive.
"I accept."

With that their meeting was concluded and they both departed. Mantella went over to his own room at the inn. Grabbing his belongings he made ready to depart. Across the back of his belt ran a number of small square pouches all buttoned shut, and at the front there was one other pouch, a bit larger bag, pulled shut with a drawstring. At his hips he carried a short sword and dagger, and across his back was slung a bastard sword. Save for the large sums of money the surprisingly wealthy mercenary had in banks spread all over the countryside, all his worldly possessions hung from his person.

Stepping out of the inn the bright sun shown down on him. The round wide brimmed hat atop his head cast a dark shadow, shading his eyes, and hiding them from the world. His boots stepped onto the dusty road, and with a slightly limping gait he started on his way towards the estate of the Duchess of Fenton.

[Mantella The Merc]

Mantella was never one for riding horses, he preferred to keep his feet firmly on the ground and so, as was usual for him, he walked to the Duchess's estates. The trip was long and uneventful, or as the mercenary saw it boring. It was made even more so by his slightly slower mode of transport. Fortunately he made up time walking through the nights, the mercenary often went without sleep and doing so had little effect on him. It was a handy skill to have in his profession when being constantly alert was often necessary.

After several days of travel he finally neared his destination. Off in the distance he could see smoke rising into the air, a clear sign of nearby civilization. He was certain it was the very place he was seeking. Not wanting to arrive at the festival, which was sure to crowded with nobles of all sorts, looking unprofessional, Mantella took the chance to stop and clean up at a small stream. It was not that he really cared what any of them thought of them, but he did always prefer to look his best when he had the chance. He took his time in cleaning himself up, washing himself in the stream and wiping down his armor and boots with a damp cloth. They had collected quite a bit of dust from the paths he'd traveled. And after running his sharp dagger along his cheeks and jaw, save of course for his goatee and mustache, he was once again on his way.

The place that created him upon his arrival was not really to his likely it was bustling with activity, and worse yet people. The mercenary did not like to be around lots of people, especially not so many noblemen, but he would put up with anything. As he further surveyed the area he saw all sorts of vender stalls set up, and others being set up. Among them he saw no inns, a slightly distressing fact, Mantella always liked a place he could go to be on his own, of course there was still the woods, and they were of course free, so he would not complain. In fact they would be his first stop for the trip. He meandered a ways into the wooded area near the field of tournament. Once he felt he gotten far enough away that he felt the goings on at the large clearing would no be a disturbance, he chose a tree. Hoisting himself up into the chosen, keeping to the lower branches, not one for heights. There he left the bastard swords. It was a cumbersome thing to carry about and it was also no way to great a duchess, with a sword strapped across your back. The short sword and dagger at his waist would certainly not be an issue but a third blade was pushing it.

Done with that, he dropped back down from the tree and started off towards the keep he had spotted upon his arrival. That was surely where he would find the woman he was seeking.

[Owain d'Othe]

"Lyssia, there is no need to apologize. You have travelled far and long and I do you a disservice by detaining you. I am sure you will wish to set camp and prepare for dinner. Tonight, we shall meet our mysterious Duchess and learn more about her. Until then." Owain bowed his head graciously towards the sorceress.

He turned his horse, cast about a quick look searching out his men, who had been instructed to set camp. Finding them, he urged his mount forward, leaving the sorceress behind.

His camp was on the western edge of the camp ground, near the trees. He dismounted, handing off the reins to his squire. He stood, hands on hips, legs spread and took a look about. The area was already abuzz. It seemed that the Duchess' invitation had been quite readily accepted. He would check out his competition in the tournament beginning tomorrow at first light, for he was sure that there would be much practising.

Across from him he noted a man sitting eating an apple and nodded to him. To the north was another camp, but he saw no one about it. They must have gone off to the fair stalls.

He looked to the sun, which was beginning to hang low in the sky. There was not much time until dinner and he still had to wash up.

[The Woman]

A crier rang his way through the fair ground and into the camp area, his voice melodic as it loudly announced dinner would be served with the sun's setting within the keep and that the Tournament Registrar would be accepting entrants names for all events in the arena upon the morrow. A crowd of children followed him, making it look a colorful and festive parade, as they danced and skipped about him.

Within the keep, the table was laid with large pewter plates and tankards, while the fires were being lit. The food, carried from the kitchens of the peasants who had prepared it, with the exception of the game which had been cooking outside on spits over open firepits, would be brought in once the guests had arrived.

The old man stood under the sword by the fireplace, nearest the doors, sipping some mead, ready to greet the arrivals, for the Duchess was not yet ready.

She was dressing at the rear of the long room, behind the screen which separated her sleeping area from the main hall. Her long gloves and beekeeper's attire had been tossed in a corner, along with the skirts she had been wearing and now she struggled into another skirt. She had no lady's maid.

The skirt was was not made of silk, nor was it dyed. It was the finest spun linen the women of the village could make. They had done their best to elaborate on the homespun fabric by embroidering in the same straw coloured threads a scrolling pattern upon it. The wimple* she would wear lay upon a small table.



* Wimple a pennant, streamer, a veil

1. A covering of silk, linen, or other material, for the neck
and chin, formerly worn by women as an outdoor protection,
and still retained in the dress of nuns.

To clothe with a wimple; to cover, as with a veil; hence,
to hoodwink. ``She sat ywympled well.'' --Chaucer.


From Webster's Revised Unabridged Dictionary (1913) [web1913]

[Mantella The Merc]

The call of the crier caught Mantella's attention as he was already on his way to the keep. Looking to the West he saw that the sun was already beginning to make its final decent. It would no be long now. Continuing the walk that he had already began, for he would certainly rather wait for the start of the meal inside, than in the bright light of the setting sun. Not to mention he hoped to get a good seat, near his target for dinner.

Mantella stepped in through the heavy doors of the keep, his boots tapping loudly on the wooden floors to the uneven beat of his limp as he walked. The fire light glistened off of the emblem of a silver hawk emblazoned on the mercenaries armor. The blue sapphire that was the hawks eye shone brightly above the rest. Anyone with much knowledge of mercenaries knew of the famous Silver Hawk, Mantella. Of course those who knew of such matters were usually the most unscrupulous and immoral of society. Mantella doubted there would be much of that element present at the festival, and if there were, they would surely think twice before revealing the identity of the feared mercenary.

His hat was still tilted down; its wide brim hiding much of his face, and the same flickering fires that sparkled on his emblem cast stray strands of light under the shadow his hat, giving glimpses of the secretive man's visage to those around him. There was something unsettling about his man. Perhaps it was that his eyes could no be seen. After all the eyes are so often considered reflections of the owners, and it is naturally to be suspicious of one whose eyes go unseen. But there seemed to be more to it than that, there was just something evil about him.

The darkly dressed man looked about the hall. As of yet he saw none who looked to be a duchess, all that came to his hidden eyes were the likes of servants and peasants carrying about food, and preparing for the feast.

[Porckie]

OOC: Ooo...-here- you are.. :P Blah..was waiting for you people on the maxim forum.. *smirks* I'm hungry...

IC:

" I'm hungry "

Porckie stood alone, deserted and cursed with a strong desire for food. Carressing his tummy, he started searching his pockets for something edible. This task was completed as soon as the dwarf remembered his pyjamas didn't have pockets. The sausage he thought he had found slipped from his hands and his cheeks wen't bright red. It was at this moment that mister Floppy, the magic mushroom descended and caught his master with his hands down his pants...

" Excuse me sir..but this hardly seems the time or the place to... "

" Shut up!! "

" Right..well...err.. are you alright? "

" Alright? I am wearing my yellow pyjamas! You could have said something. "

"I thought it looked rather formal sir... "

" Formal? There's atleast 3 buttons missing and my spleen is showing!! "

" I'm sorry sir.. "

" Oh great... the regrets of a fungus of burden. You know, there is a way you could make up...I am rather hungry... "

" Err... you're not planning to eat me..are you sir? "

"Do I look like a masochist? "

" Well..yeah. "

" Shut up!! Look.. I need food, nourishment, comestables..."

" Alright sir.. you know.. there is a Bakery nearby... "

" Ooo!! What do you propose mister Floppy? "

" Well..err.. if you go down on all fours and stick your bum up, you kinda look like bread.. "

"Oh stop it... there's no way I will stick my bum up in front of someone who spends his life stuffing his 'mixtures' in dark holes! "

" Err.. "

" I've got it! I will disguise myself as baker and steal some bread! "

"Good idea.. but what if they get suspicious? "

"I'll.. I'll.. hit them on the head with...this! "

*BOINK*

Porckie was so caught up in looking for something to hit a baker with, he couldn't distinguish body part from bludgeon. Thus he toppled over backwards, holding his own leg quite firmly...

" I think one would prefer something which is not attached to one's body. How about a stick? "

Porckie got up and nodded as he picked up a sturdy twig from the ground. The dwarf followed his mushroom towards the bakery...

" Here we are, sir. "

" Very well.. now place yourself on top of my head. "

" I beg your pardon? "

" My disguise! You make an excellent bakers hat... "

Sputtering, mister Floppy landed on the dwarfs head. Porckie then approached the bakery and sneeked in through the backpassage. As they passed the big furnace, Porckie's eyes appeared to pop out of their sockets as he caught a glimpse of all the pastry. No doubt this would be for tonights feast. They admired the steeple-high cakes and richly-decorated sandwhiches. Before they could determine weither it was realcheesespread, one of the bakers assistants ran in...

" What the hell are you doing!? "