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It's raining again in Caerleon, not entirely a surprise given the spring breaks over the moors and the lowlands. Few people happily go out of doors, and when they do, they don cloaks if they have them or plain, roughly spun cloaks to try and stay dry for a time. Largely they are unsuccessful. In the lower merchant district, chimneys belch smoke and news travels fast on the wind that some kind of barbarians have taken up residence in the nearby forest. The queen's court is of course snug in their fastness, but the artisans, merchants, and peasants come to trade speak in tones hopeful and fearful. Some say the ruffians are little better than bloodthirsty curs, ravaging the countryside. Several say they're Gaels or Celts, and ought to be burned.
Some say they're neither of the sort, but a ragtag band bring hope after a grim, lean winter.
Whatever the case, those of relative means might be looking for a warm belly of stew or a good pint of stout. Cheap taverns offer piss-poor swill and a shiv to the back. The upscale places aren't the sort even a knight affords much. The Old Sea Wolf stands apart, a snug, two-storey building in stone, and given the glow in the windows, it's clearly a place of choice today.
*
Maximus is travelling with the Bard, making complaints about his newest song. "I do not care if it is supposed to be a comedic song, /I/ can tell its about me, so I do not like it." He pops his chin up, defiant against the rain, on his wet, big, huge, black, slick…horse.
*
It's a pity that the queen can't just declare by law that the rain may never fall until after sundown. But that's not how conditions are. Sir Gareth sits at a table at the Old Sea Wolf, enjoying the warmth inside, courtesy of the fire and many other bodies within. An empty bowl of stew is pushed back form in front of him, and he leans back in his chair with a tankard of ale, letting his thoughts roam.
*
The Old Sea Wolf, by its very nature, embodies a certain snugness. Modest in scope and unassumingly appointed, it sits among the other red-roofed buildings and somewhat apart. Heavy lanterns hang from large wrought iron hooks anchored in the panelled wooden beams supporting a low ceiling, casting a dim glow over the place. Booths seating four apiece frame the room's periphery, generously spaced apart by half-walls decorated with yellowing contracts, worn cloth flags, and aged documents stamped with foreign seals. The bar makes an irregular island in the center of the room, surrounded by cracked leather stools. Rows of scratched, clean mugs hang upside down from a wooden rack, and never mind there are at least five kegs on yon island for the barkeep to tap. That man with greying hair and impressive whiskers isn't Thor Odinson, but a distant descendant — at least by looks! — Sir Geraint.
*
The rain does little to mute the approaching claps of a shoed horse as a massive, noble steed approaches the Sea Wolf at a measured gait. White with black spots, wearing silver barding lined in gold, the Cursed Knight known as Sir Nathan Summers casts his lone gaze across the town. People close shutters or attempt to step outside his sight in passing. He is not known for being cruel, but his justice is unfailing. Crimes many a peasant do not know exist lingers within his mind, and he is nearly fanatical about the betterment of order. Two swords are sheathed at his side, both ornate. He is a massive figure, six foot eight, made more imposing by the custom, incredibly heavy steel armor upon him. His left arm is even more reinforced, considerably more bulky in comparison. He wears no helmet, one eye scarred and possibly blind. Dismounting beyond with a great thump of displaced mud, he ties his horse up carefully before pushing inside. He has not eaten or drank in many an hour, and wishes to be done with the deed as quickly as possible. There are things to be done.
*
Sir Percival isn't much to patronize taverns, but it's raining, cold, and a nice hot bowl of stew sounds like it might be just the thing! He stables his horse with the stable boy before making his way into the tavern, glancing around before pulling the cloak back from his head. Sir PErcival is fairly young for a knight, and while many noblewoman have pined over him, he seems to give them no attentions other than what would be considered chastisingly polite. Some have said he is almost more of a Priest than a Knight…until tales of his battle prowess are told.
He glances about before finding a table and flagging down someone so he can get a bowl of stew or soup…whatever's hot.
*
"As I've told you before, good Knight, the Muse spares no one. You made yourself fair game by simply existing." A belling laugh follows, a splash of joy in the grey rainy weather full of mucky puddles and overcast clouds. Astride his once-again-found mare, pale-dun with her cherrywood mane and tail, Taliesin hides beneath the scarlet-cloth of his shepherd-hood and a rain-slicker of sorts. It doesn't keep him entirely dry, but thank the goods for well-woven wool undershirts and leggings. Traveler as he is, he minds his boots as well and thus, his toes remain dry. His mount is soggy but seems complacent to deal with the state of being. "You'll feel better after a hot bowl of stew and a drink. I always do. I need to speak with Sir Geraint anyways."
Stabling the horses is easily done and the Pencerdd enters the place as if he owns it — except he doesn't, but confidence is half the solution to most problems he encounters as Master of the Word and Arts. Immediately, he makes his way over to the centralized bar with the grey-bearded man in question.
"Excuse me," he says, absolutely butting in to any conversation going on between anyone else and the barkeep. "Geraint, take a moment and speak with Sir Agravaine. We found Lady Isolde safe and sound, but he can give you the details if need be. I'm on the path of the bluebird; she sung and I heed her call." There's a subtle emphasis and twinkle in the Bardd's eyes even as he turns away from the bar. With quick strides towards the back halls of the place, he pauses and calls back to Agravaine, "Don't drink too much, good Knight! You'll make yourself fair game." Another sharp grin and he's gone. Literally. Gated out without anything else to add.
*
Sir Geraint handles the kegs behind the central bar. His serving staff — two men, likely sailors — circulate around the place carrying trenchers of bread and bowls of soup. Slabs of the roast of the day, proclaimed to be mutton, roll out from the kitchen as fast as they can cut them. Seats are rare enough. The barkeep himself gives everyone and everything the same gimlet look, faintly squinting, and works on the pours of a frothy stout and a lighter ale for those children who can't handle their spirits. The man doesn't look happy, but he rarely does, and he scowls at the door just daring fate to throw him something more. Like, say, Sir Agrivaine. Fire crackles in the hearth and he watches all who come and go. Percival earns himself a faint nod. It's permission enough. "Wine?"
The aging man has a moment of peace and quiet before Taliesin drags in, Agrivaine at his side, and his keen eyes narrow all the more. He scowls at the reference to Lady Isolde, a healer of no little repute and, according to gossip, missing for all of two days. "Her father won't like that. Good if Llydaw doesn't rise in unrest."
*
Agravaine heads into the bar to speak with Geraint about a drink, and notices the aging, pompous old bag of justice, Sir Summers, nearby him. Ohhhh, they are NOT cut from the same cloth, these two. Still, clank, clank, clank, he approaches with confidence, shield on his back and sword still at his side. He drums gloved fingers on the bartop. When the drink comes, he takes it.
*
New arrivals get brief lookings over from Gareth. Sir Nathan is, of course, an imposing figure, but Gareth is more drawn to Sir Percival, knowing the latter's reputation. He rises from his table, starting to step over towards him to offer a greeting, when Taliesin and Companion enter rather…impressively. Gareth watches this with a slight grin of amusement, and watches Taliesin depart. The grin fades to a thoughtful frown as his gaze falls upon someone sitting at a booth, and he steps over to him. "Excuse me, Goodman," he offers politely, "but are you well?"
*
When Taliesin slithers within, he will find the imposing form of the Summer Knight only a couple meters away, having yet to make any particular move beyond his assessment. At least, the Summer Knight is what people call him to his face. Tales of his cursed fate have hounded him since before his recent incarceration. Supposedly he knows what one thinks, can smell sin and deception, and the very strength of his conviction can rend the land and an opponent asunder. Of course, they know each other. The Royal Bard would hardly not recognize the Queen's pet rabid dog. That does not mean they remotely /like/ each other. Heavy footsteps literally rumble the wooden floor, brushing aside a man who might be large compared to any other. The insult makes him turn in momentary preparation to shout, yet then his mouth claps shut and despite broken inhibition of alcohol, he returns to his revelry with no comment. Agrivaine will need to circumvent the mild annoyance of the Cursed Knight to get to Sir Geraint. He did cast a gaze to the sickly knight, but Gareth's approach makes what little care he had vanish. The drunken antics of a knight disgust him, but few measure his high standards. "What is this of Lady Isolde?" he asks. "Was she unwell?" Unsurprising that Nathan continues to orient himself following his time in the dungeons, but he still sounds vaguely upset at himself. "Ah… but regardless, Sir Geraint. I care little for taverns, but it is for you I stop at this one. No tales to speak, unless you wish to hear of rats which scurry and the wails of the forlorn."
*
Sir Percival gives a friendly smile to Sir Geraint and gives a nod, "Aye, and my thanks to you." Wine should be fine, in moderation. Better to drink than most water, sadly enough. He then looks over as the Bard and Knight step in and he looks about ready to stand but the Bard is out before he can make much of a move. Ah well. He then looks back to the tavernkeep and the Knight as they discuss Lady Isolde. One hopes that they will keep the discussion polite or he may have to step in.
As he watches, he then notes the man in the corner who seems…not well. Even as another steps in, he likewise moves in closer, "Good sir, how can I help you?" Not that he's a healer by any means, but Sir Percival has been known to have even a comfortaing presence. A glance is given to Gareth, "Do we think they would have simple broth?" That might be easier for one seemingly so infirm.
*
As Taliesin ducks out into the rain, the door stays shut a few minutes. Smoke filters through the tavern, an old friend helping to muffle the conversations. "I suppose you had something to do with Lady Isolde not returning to her father," Geraint grumbles to Agrivaine, tapping one of the kegs to pour out a short ale. The barkeep's mouth thins a little, especially what with the scrutiny of the Summer Knight leveled on him. "She was thought to be waylaid in her travels. Apparently 'tis not the case, and a party sorted it out at her lord father's behest. Not a pack of ruffians abducting her after all, as some would have tell."
Geraint hesitates for a moment, no more, catching wind of something. A knight approaching another patron is nothing new, but the one in question hasn't done much to draw attention to himself. Another flagon of a decent sack wine is to follow, right as Percival rises. "Dornar… Bloody…"
The words don't come out as the traveler in the booth stiffens and convulses. He chokes out something in a mumble and promptly tilts sideways, hitting the floor unless caught. White foam forms at his mouth as he kicks, muscles rigid, body shaking. No man's quite that well built without being a soldier, and the quality of the arms in the booth mark him as a knight. Not likely a good one, but one nonetheless.
*
Agravaine starts to answer to Geraint, "Yes, but we have a mission…a task to root out some /evil/ pervasing through this land…and…" He takes his mug and looks over when he hears a thumping sound. "My word! I believe that man has been poisoned! And in YOUR bar!" He rises swiftly and draws out his sword, looking for anyone nearby the soldier that he can blame about it.
*
"I'm not sure—" Gareth starts to answer Percival, when the man in the booth suddenly stiffens and drops out of his seat. Gareth quickly catches the man, and when he starts spasming, Gareth pulls him away from the booth to try to give him room. "Good Lord," he says in horror. "This man's a knight!" He nose wrinkles and he looks intent. "This doesn't smell like mere poison," he says to Agravaine. "There's a stench of evil here."
*
ROLL: Wanda +rolls 1d10 for a result of: 1
*
Agravaine's choices are slim: a number of known knights of the realm, two sailors serving food, Geraint himself. To be sure the accusations leveled against the bartender cause all conversations to go completely flat, and the hissing reverberation of steel from at least one booth implies a weapon is coming free of its sheath. The craned heads of at least six other diners turn on the accusing knight, giving concerned looks to Gareth and his deadweight burden.
"What we'd give for the lady's white hands now," comes from one.
*
Sir Percival pulls his other gauntlet from his hand (one was already off as he was preparing to sit and eat), and one hand is set upon Sir Dornar's forehead and then one over his heart. There are some quiet words murmured — prayers, no doubt, in Latin, asking for this knight of the realm to be healed of his illness. He isn't Lady Isolde, but Sir Percival has his own reputation.
This is why it's such an odd thing for him to be in a Tavern anywhere!
*
"…?" Perhaps Geraint should pick his words more carefully, as a hand settles on Nathan's blade when the implication that Agravaine had some ill tidings with Lady Isolde is muttered. All things considered, the Summer Knight is not unkind to the retired barkeep, and if he has ever caught smell of sin or lies, he has made no mention of it. Then again, the ultimate goal of Nathan is absolute justice. "I see. I am glad she is well…" His head turns along with Geraint's, to observe what is going on. "Dornar…?" Is that the afflicted knight? Nathan strides over towards the fallen figure, and then speaks loudly. "Say you had no hand in this to me, or through your silence prove your guilt." Supposedly, he will know any falsehoods. A single soul trying to sneak away right now will likely end in what caused his mosty recent incarceration…
*
Sir Dornar's seizures pluck him as stiff as a bowstring left to dry from a state of damp. He jerks and kicks, his solid boots thumping against the ground while Gareth and Percival collectively give him room on the swept floor. His milky eyes stare blankly out, rolling about in their sockets, and the froth spluttering at his grimacing lips is hardly good. All that eases somewhat with the intonations of the foreign language, though the faintest pressure pushes against the atmosphere, dispelling some of the apprehension. His agonized, spasmodic movements quiet and his diapphragm loosens, the heave of his chest loosing a rush of pent-up air into his lungs. He coughs and splutters, going limp on the floorboards. "Nnnghhh…"
*
Agravaine narrows his eyes. "He has been cursed…by a spell. The only way to save him now…is to consecrate this form and bleed the cursed humors from him." He looks around the bar. "Who here is the cowardly wizard responsible for this? Or witch? Show yourself before knights of the realm and fight against a true blade!"
*
Well this has quickly escalated. Gareth briefly glances at Percival as swords are drawn and accusations thrown. He steadies Dornar as best he can when the stricken knight stiffens, and then he sighs when the knight passes. "I believe it's too late for that," he says, laying Dornar's head and closing his eyes before bowing his head for a quick prayer. "I think it ill-advised to speak poorly of Sir Geraint," he then says as he stands. "Nonetheless, perhaps you could ease Summer's heat?" he asks the grizzled barkeep.
*
Geraint knocks his gauntleted hand against the bar. "Keep your tongues 'twixt your teeth unless you care it nailed to the door. I shall hear no accusations further upon any. Riots enough in these days without seeing the honour of the realm at odds with itself." He steps out from behind the bar, slapping aside a damp rag used for a towel, clean but worn fabric gathering in a heap. His tread tramps a heavy basso beat not unlike the clappers of the deepest bells, and squints down at Sir Dornar, a man going to fat a little round the waist and clearly in his later thirties, declining form there. A choice Cornish curse blights the seafarer's speech, and then he gestures to help lift the man. If no one helps, he'll manage alone.
"Poison and taint of evil? This is the rat's doing." Could be the Summer Knight spoke truer than he knew. The barkeep swings around to look at them. "The Great Rat. Fat on stolen wealth, he's been shaking down businesses for months. Daren't think he would even think to come here and try. Using one of ours."
*
"SILENCE." Nathan states this with a near roar. Air literally billows in all directions, and a crackle of strange radiance sizzles across his silver armor. There may have been the slightest hint of blackness, however, wreathing his damaged eye. How many might have caught the motion of his drawn sword is unclear, but even with eyes fully upon him the motion would have been as quick as a striking adder. "I am a Royal Knight of the Queen. This matter is a crime on her majesty's soil, and I have rank in dealing with it!!" Of course, when the culprit is mentioned by Geraint, his attention turns there. "The rat?" He spoke no lie. "Might he have agents, still in this room? I can root them out."
*
"He's not dead," Percival looks to Gareth and then to Geraint. "I will help you with him…he should be carried gently," as he starts to come to after the seizure. "Have you a bed he could rest in?" is asked of the Tavernkeeper before he looks to the others. "He still isn't completely cured…this is beyond my meager skill," nevermind that he may have saved the man from death for now.
He stands then and looks to the Summer Knight, his demeanor calm, "We are all knights of the realm, good Sir. I think all of us would seek to bring the one to justice who has sought to harm one of our own."
*
Maximus isn't going anywhere NEAR that body, that's for sure. He sheathes his sword and says, softly, "The Rat. He may call himself King Rat, but…he's no King. Do you have any idea where he hides, barkeep? Or any of the rest of you? I would /burn/ that body, come to think of it. Far from here. And wash yourself, fellow Knight," he says to Percy, "because you may already have the infection on your fingers."
*
A giant rat? Well, now. How appropriate that Gareth's emblem is a cat. A tiger to be precise. "It's not often I'm happy to be wrong," Gareth says to Percival, stepping out of the way of him and Geraint unless they need another set of hands to carry the stricken knight. "I think if we bring the Rat to justice, we'll be able to help Sir Dornar."
*
"…The Hag.." mumbles Sir Dornar. Not dead after all, though his blind eyes and the foam flecking his beard and mouth yet aren't something he is going to wipe away with any ease. He heaves in another weak breath. "Tavern. He keeps… there… Below… Us…"
*
A long sigh leaves Nathan. "King Rat. Big Rat. Great Rat. He has many names. Were he an easy foe to root out, I would have done it long ago." Indeed, he is so elusive that the Cursed Knight turned something of a blind eye. His harm did not seem excessive, compared to the time it would have taken to find him. There were other targets, easy, fat, complacent. Does that mean that this man's death is due to his negligence? "It is important we find why this man was targeted. Perhaps he is a clue, to find the true face of this 'Rat'."
*
ROLL: Wanda +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 72
*
Sir Percy starts to look at his hands but then he looks to Sir Dornar as the other speaks. "Save your strength, good Knight. We will try to heal you of this evil." But he looks back to the others, "I believe we have our first clue. I suppose we are to go beneath the Tavern?" He looks to the Tavernkeep. "I trust, good sir, that you had know knowledge of this?" Because he always looks for the good in others first…before presuming they may be guilty.
*
"I keep no cellar, so should there be a tunnel beneath the Wolf, I would be newly come to that knowledge," Geraint practically spits the suggestions out, angry enough to be spitting tacks. "You might take your lot over to the Hag and burn it to the ground for all it matters, save there is probably one soul undimmed by sin in there. Means you have another time for it. He needs a healer sent for. I'll see it done. Pity on the lack of the Lady Isolde but…" He shakes his head. "Too convenient. Sick man and she's lured past. Someone aimed this."
*
"Not this tavern, friends," Gareth says. "The Hag is another tavern. We need not fear that Sir Geraint has been sheltering rats in his cellar." He picks up his sword from where he had leaned it against his table and then puts on his cloak. "Shall we see about rousting this rat from his nest, then?"