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There are knights, and then there are knights. Sir Gareth is a knight, of course. He's the sort of knight that people wish there were more of, in that he's a fundamentally good person, who takes his vows seriously. While traveling through the woods, he came across a nobleman's retinue along the same path in the midst of being waylaid by three knights whom people would wish there were less of, the sort attacking and pillaging for their own ends. A ransom was sought here, and a beautiful heiress was in danger of kidnapping, but a lance charge by Gareth unseated their leader, throwing their men at arms into disarray. He lay about him with his sword, dispersing them into the woods, the other blaggart knights following while shouting insults of cowardice. Gareth then cheerfully escorts the retinue out of the forest to safer areas.
*
Those knights men wish there were less of tend to be like rats. They grow into a veritable colony of ragtag souls just out of sight, and removing the infestation can be a task too great for one person alone. The sorry state of affairs so close to Caerleon might be unthinkable, and in earlier times, it was. Even recent seasons haven't shown so many brigands and ruffians turning on their vows for personal gain, and the season has apparently been good on those fellows. Their armour is better than some, and a fresh cloak, obviously stolen, is much higher quality than what Gareth himself might have much of the time. Maintaining gear and a horse is, after all, not cheap.
The harried retinue gives their thanks and looks to the distant walls of the city of legions with great hope and urgency. They are more than glad to be on the road at speed, having escaped their brush with death. Promise to pass word on soon turns into a cloud of dust as the sun treks low towards the hills in the west, a rumpled line clothed in dim forest and legend. Gareth himself is left to his own devices, while his horse grazes opportunisticially on a few paltry shoots of grass that escaped the chill. Already the clouds are drawing in, bringing a drift of mist and mizzle, that chilly drizzle accompanied by a shrouding fog that conceals everything out of sight past a few yards.
*
Gareth pauses at the edge of the forest to watch them depart, making sure no one pursues them out of its shelter. He stretches a bit, armor jostling, and he looks up at the weather thoughtfully. He interrupts his horse's meal by nudging it back into the edge of the forest so he can set up a camp where there'll be some shelter, both for him and his horse. It's a simple camp he'll set, with a small fire, and his first priority will be tending to the horse that serves him so loyally.
*
The longer he takes to find a camp, the more Gareth swims about in the growing mist. The trees emerge from the grey wall in looming trunks, silvered and wet, their leaves absent given the late onset of spring. Still, the horse doesn't seem terribly bothered, whilst its ears prick now and then to sounds too low for humans to hear. Once the fire is set, grudging from wet tinder and windfall, its pale flames don't throw the usual coppery sheen. Instead the edges crisp a faint violet, and the heart shimmers closer to a pale sunset pink. The horse lowers its head to munch on oats, if any are provided for its dinner, and completely disregards the matron of about forty walking into the campsite itself.
*
The mist is a bit oppressive and adds a otherworldly atmosphere to his camp that he's not entirely comfortable with, though it's not the worst camp he's ever set. Oats will be provided for his horse who will also get a thorough rubdown and inspection, and only then will he tend to himself. It's then that he notices the eldritch appearance of the fire, and then crouches beside it to light a twig, to see if the flame stays strange when taken from the fire proper. It's almost immediatley forgotten at the sight of the woman arrival, and he rises quickly to his feet. "Madam, these woods are not safe. Please share my camp and meager hospitality."
*
The equine isn't running away, which speaks something to the woman's presence. She wears a pale robe and veil over her dark braids, which probably amounts for why she blends in so well. Simple leather boots shoe a few traces of mud, and the rounded contours of her petite body mean she's clearly not armed, nor a skeletal peasant. Her dark eyes crackle with a warm smile carving crowsfeet out from gaze and lips alike. The flame on the twig stays the same strange shades of lilac. "Indeed, they are replete with many risks. Yet thanks to you, brave sir knight, may not a woman take shelter for a short time unassailed?" Her hands are shown to him, bare and open, her fingers a touch rough from spinning or some appropriate craft. Giving a slight nod, she touches her veil and pushes it back, showing more of her face, and the worn moon painted or marked on her brow. "I thank you for your hospitality, sir. I bid you greetings as Viviane of Avalon." Which, without doubt, marks her as a priestess, and her age probably makes her senior, somewhat.
*
Gareth's eyebrows go up at sight of the moon and her identification. "You honor me and my camp," he says to her with a bow. "Please be seated. I'm afraid I don't have elegant fare to offer you, but it will at least be filling," he says as begins to set up his cooking utensils. "And if this eldritch fire heats as well as a normal one will, then it will also be hot. And forgive my manners," he adds, standing to offer a bow. "I'm known as Sir Gareth."
*
The whisper of her clothes adds to the murmur of rain plinking onto the soil. "Such luxuries are not needful," says Viviane. She nods to his name, clearly unsurprised. "I should be a poor guest without sharing what I have to offer. Nourishment for the soul," she adds. It's plain she carries no bag, nothing which might have a stock of withered winter apples or preserves, or cheese. Taking a seat upon a fallen log, she renders it a throne worthy of, at least, an aging woman whose knees pop when she sits. "Do you not fear being beset by raiders or wolves or the like? For assuredly this place is rather isolated, close though it is to the Roman roads."
*
He adds a small log to the fire, slowly building it up now that he has a guest, and a female one at that. "Few luxuries are needful, and some make us the worst for having them. Nourishment for the soul?" Gareth asks, wondering what she means. He puts some dried meat and vegetables into a pot to begin to boil up a simple stew, watching as she sits with a dignity few can match. "With all modesty, they should fear beseating me more than I fear them," he says matter of factly. "I did, in fact, one party of raiders earlier, and they may yet be around, hence my warning and invitation to you. I dispersed them and do not fear them myself, but a woman by herself, well, they would not treat you courteously, I fear."
*
Entrusted with such honesty, the woman gives a soft laugh. "I have spent many a journey feasting on rainwater and hazelnuts. I assure you 'tis no hardship on me to leave your provisions for your travels in good stead." Viviane pulls her cloak around her a little more, though the water isn't bothering her much. The wool of her garments is well spun and woven, allowing little to penetrate. "Wolves hunt as a pack with all the skill and cunning of men, I hear tell. It would be no easy fight, that, yet you are verily sure of your aptitude." As so often young men are, though this fact goes unspoken, and her tone accuses nothing. The shadows sink into the crevices of her wrinkles, softening and blurring the remnants of youth faded with an earlier season. "What calls you forth to these woods?"
*
"My emblem is a tiger, and I've yet to see a tiger that had to struggle to deal with wolves," Gareth says, and one can almost see the pride of a feline in his words. "And yes, wolves are cunning, but unles they're starving, mad, or otherwise desperate, I have found them content to stay distant. All the more so with a fire at hand," he adds. He studies her when she pauses, wondering what she would have looked like in her youth. "Nothing in particular," he admits. "I'm a knight-errant. I travel to see where I'm needed, or where I can do good."
*
Viviane holds out her knotted, age-spotted hands to the fire, extracting warmth from its unusual flames. All the same, they burn just like any fire ever known to man. "Pray you aren't left licking your stripes," she chuckles, her voice still bright and mellow for all her white hair hangs stiff from under her veil. "Not all wolves be so deterred by flame, not as they once were. Neither may we rely upon the wisdom handed down to us. For the wolves use tactics nary seen, and stray through villages when once they would never leave the wood. It is a worrisome state of affairs that a barred door no longer withholds the night. Have, perhaps, you observed such in your travels, Sir Gareth? Have you felt the bleak touch of the black courts of the faerie, stirred as they have not been in many generations? Do you see the red eyes in the night, or hear the unearthly cries over the hills? The folk about here may not yet, but those further afield do, and they tremble. They ask where be their shield against the dangers."
*
Gareth laughs softly, acknowledging the point. He goes quiet again to listen to her words, realizing that she's doing more than seeking reassurance during an ominous evening. "I have noticed some of what you say. Foul things are afoot, and it feels like darker times creep upon us. That's why I'm here, trying to right what wrongs that I may. I know not if there's some greater force behind it at all, but I do what I can. I cannot shield everyone at all times," he admits sadly. "So I hope ot find myself where I can help those in greatest danger."
*
The elderly woman smooths her robe to fall to the floor. "'Twould seem all too likely there lies some greater force. The world hangs suspended between the forces of destruction and darkness, and creation and light. One gone unchecked indeed harms the other, requiring that we maintain a fragile balance. Something unforeseen knocked the world askew, and now she slides into peril. In times past?" The sigh of the aged looking upon their juniors from the safe perch of hindsight envelopes the space, the firelight even quieted to a dim sheen. "We have not our great champions venturing out to address the dangers. They do in pieces, but none raise a standard to guide them. Whence Caerleon takes note, I fear it shall be too late, with the armies at their walls, and a tide already flowing too fast to turn. What would you do, sir knight, had you the blessing of providence with you?"
*
Gareth smiles slightly at talk of balance between light and darkness. FOr his part, he's not interested in keeping them balanced, but then again, he's also just one knight. "There are others like me, who ride out in errantry. We'll bring back news of what we see, and help to rouse Caerleon against the dangers without," he promises. "What would I do?" he asks. "I don't know," he admits. "I don't know where I would be most needed, or where I could be most effective, or how. I would ask providence to guide me in that way, point me where I can do the most good, or where I'm most needed."
*
"Two nights hence, shall there be a meeting. Those called to the defense of Caerleon already move across the land, coming by boat and horse or foot. It shall be a small affair, for the greater bulk of their numbers cannot risk themselves so." The girl tips her head forward, her lustrous chestnut braids shining in the weird light of the fire, her face smooth as a porcelain ewer. "You, sir knight, may find more forces at your back than merely providence. Those who would help must help themselves. I cannot take you there in the twinkling of an eye, but I can show you the way. Now where did I put it…" Patting about at her robes, she lifts up her spindly arm and sighs at herself, stifling a laugh. Then she pulls forth a blue feather, like something taken from a jay rather than a bluebird. At least in terms of length. "Here we are!" Viviane isn't much older than sixteen, still slim and girlish, her bright eyes bird-like in their glossy darkness. "Take this. It will act as a symbol of sorts that you carry favour from Avalon. Someone is bound to fuss."
She huffs an unladylike breath.
"There always is. Then you look them right in the eye and say the Lady of Avalon sent you, and if they get all bothered again, you tell them Viviane instructed you. Though bridle some of that heroism, sir, and have a jot of realism under there. Your trials shall not be easy upon this path which you are set. To restore balance, you shall have to face trials and enemies in the shadow who want no such thing to pass. Those who assemble will be blessed to go forth and uncover a relic blessed by a wise man for times such as these. Bring that to the field, and the darkness cannot prevail."
It might be particularly odd to hear a girl speaking so, but she smiles anyways.
*
Gareth briefly marvels, as he seems to go from talking to an older woman one moment, to a rather younger one, barely more than a girl, the next moment. A trick of the firelight? Possibly, but the fire is a marvel of itself. Clearly he's become involved in something mystical here. He reaches out for the feather and looks it over, then pulls out a small bit of cloth to carefully wrap it in. "If such trials were to be easy, they wouldn't be worth facing," he says calmly. "I fear I may have come across as a braggart, which I certainly intended no such thing. Challenges are to be faced, and where possible, overcome, but as much of our character is revealed in how we respond to those that we do not overcome as in those that we do. I certainly hope to overcome these challenges, and shall do my best to do so," he promises.
*
Absolutely no trick of the firelight. The middle aged woman and the elderly one occupy the identical space to the fresh-faced flower of a maid wearing the same garments, belted around the waist, her brow marked with a crescent moon rather than its gibbous or full form. Viviane looks back at him without an ounce of fear. The feather is light and pretty, a scrap of colour rare in nature. "Some things may be easier than meets the eye, and other challenges that appear simple never are. What else is life?" Her laugh is a touch too loud, and for pretty as she is, she hasn't the refined manner of a daughter for sale and show. Too much spirit in there by far. "I like you. Try not to die before you get there. Should you see wolves with eyes of red and maws wreathed in smoke, do not make your stand, run. A touch of wisdom, as you will have it. Nourishment for the soul, as I promised. Now, do you have that bowl? I'm famished."
*
Definitely eldritch events this night. The three faces of this woman, something about it is familiar to him. He laughs gently when she bids him to try not to die. "I promise you, I shall do my utmost to stay alive until I get there, and afterwards as well. I'm not yet ready for my heavenly reward," he grins. The grin fades at the talk of those wolves. "Red eyes and smoky maws. Well, for my horse's sake, then, I shan't confront them." He then prepares a bowl of soup for her with gallant manners, if humble implements and dishware.
*
When he turns around with a bowl, there is none there in the mist shrouded camp but his horse. On the other hand, it seems perfectly happy to try and stuff its velvety muzzle in Gareth's offered bowl with a friendly whicker.