|
      |
Two nights ago, a riot broke out in the lower merchant quarter, and a prince sought aid to locate his daughter, Isolde of the White Hands. Her rescue party discovered no mere bandits stole her away but something far deeper, something that smacks of an uprising against danger.
A night past, a man fell unconscious, seizing, to the floor of the knighthood's favourite tavern and spoke to an underworld force daring to strike where no one has in living memory. Coincidences? Hardly.
The gibbous moon hanging in the sky paints a smudged silver disc in the surrounding clouds, a break in the persistent rain allowing nocturnal travelers a better chance to see their footing. Important, given after dark, the city shuts its gates and travelers take to their beds or campsites, if not so fortunate to reach Caerleon. Argent streaks poured down the River Esk turn the broad meanders into an eldritch sight. Seven arched spans mark where the Roman road spans the languid waterway, a bridge frequently tramped by all coming in and out. Beyond the bridge, another path turns northwards into the wooded moors, and the overlook on the slopes is rather pretty. It's here that all have been called, they who feel the stirrings of Avalon's beckons.
*
The dream that Sir Percy had was clear; he was to go to a particular bridge. If the sense was that it was urgent, he would wake fully, dress, and saddle his horse, otherwise he would wait until daytime to set out for this bridge if it's not terribly far.
*
It was quite the strange night for Sir Gareth who now travels towards a bridge he was directed to. He's armoured up, playing it safe, and has a blue feather tied to one arm, in the manner of a knight wearing a lady's favor at a tournament. He keeps a careful look around him as he lets his warhorse pick its own pace, but while he's attentive, he doesn't seem on edge, just alert.
The song of the bluebird and a three-fold presence guides him through the darkness. Moonlight is a welcome illumination and given how it tarnishes all with its light, Taliesin in his blues becomes a figure in hues of celestine, star-grey, and silvered scarlet-cloth. His mount plods on, not necessarily sleepy, but somewhat fae herself for her champagne coloring; only her points and longer mane and tail remain somewhat shadowed. The mandolin hangs upon his back, strap crossing his chest courier-style, and he lacks weaponry — at least, visible steel weaponry. The doeskin-gloved hands rest lazily on the reins between his legs and he idly hums a tune, something somber and lazily-lilting, not too far from a lullaby.
Ahead, the bridge sought out that crosses the River Esk in flows of liquid mercury below the construct. But ah…clearly he's not the only one expected on the spot. Steel-blue eyes faintly brighten towards frosted-violet as he takes a count of who is present. Clip-clop, with quiet confidence, he approaches the bridge, choosing to still his tongue…for now.
*
It seems that the Lady Tywyll has found herself a new mount. At some point Chill, tired as she was from having been ridden toward the camp, was exchanged for a black mare, something far more in keeping with the aspect of the darkly garbed young woman. She carefully adjusts the white masks she wears, red lips pressed together to form a faint line as she stares at the road ahead. Shadows follow in the lady's wake, arching out to her as she rides through them and seeming almost to wave as she passes. It's a subtle thing that most people would never notice for its primary effect is that she almost disappears into the scenery when she rides through a patch of shadow. And it's the middle of the night. One would be forgiven for not noticing that she is on her way at all.
*
Not until the riders reach either end of the bridge will a glamour finally drop, revealing to them a woman in a grey cloak on an oversized black destrier that puts even the finest warhorses in Caerleon's stables to shame, one that bears neither saddle, pack or bridle to speak of. It's attended by a placid donkey. Her veil does little to conceal twin, heavy chestnut braids hanging past her waist or the rider is no spring chicken. A woad tattoo smudges her brow, not easy to spot. Lady Viviane pets the mare's arching neck, and beckons them closer. At least the warhorses are trained to endure one another's company; a riding palfrey may not. "Come now, there be little time to initiate a journey under the bright lady's sanction." She sketches a circle with her hand, and glances up to the moon.
Clouds stream on a westerly wind, running ahead of the companion stars of that celestial court. She does not swing down from her mount, but rather points the horse's nose through some unspoken signal to the northern road. "Forces gather outside Caerleon, wise that you realize the balance went askew. They would thwart thee at every turn. With regret we must begin without first partaking of the Blessed Isle's shores. Tonight, I call the bright lady's blessing upon the good knights of the Aegis and set you with your task to reclaim a sanctified gem brought by the greatest druid of Britannia." Her voice pauses for a moment as she scans the road ahead for trouble.
Viviane looks them all over, one by one. "To obtain it, you require a key, for he shattered the treasure into four. With the blessing, you shall be able to see the enchantment for what it is and sense any of the four slivers in the vicinity. Where you must head, even I do not know. Your road leads you north through the Celidon Forest. Would any of you turn back?"
*
As this seems to be the Lady from the dream that told him to come here, Sir Percy spurs his horse forward a few steps, "Partaking of the shores?" He was warned not to drink from the River. Are the two the same? Sir Percy may be wise and he may be devout, but he might not be the sharpest tool in the shed. That, or he just wants absolute clarification. "I shall not turn back," is declared, as if that might help obtain the answer he seeks.
*
Gareth's horse flicks its ears at the massive destrier, and the knight can't help but admire the black beast, wondering what it would be like to charge atop that creature. That Viviane rides without tack is hardly surprising at this point. He pats his horse's neck, reassuring it that he has no plans to trade up. "Turn back?" he asks lightly. "When we've only just arrived? Perish the thought."
*
Very good. The Pencerdd brings his mount abreast the others and seems…pleased by the whole thing. A masterful veil and he gives the Lady a respectful nod of his head. It all seems doable, even if it means going through the depths of the Celidon Forest, famed as it is for various (and sometimes nefarious) reasons.
"The good Knights of the realm won't. Good men. Consider me a capable ally in your endeavors, gentlemen." His smile is bright and winning in the moon's wan light.
*
"To be safe, sir, perhaps you should consider not drinking from anything with shores whatsoever in the interim," Tywyll responds to Sir Percy in a cool, quiet voice as she approaches. The diminutive Spymistress of Caerleon adjusts her black cloak so that it drapes across her shoulders in grand fashion, and drops her head. Cropped blonde hair is revealed, as well as that white mask that hides her face from her hairline to the upper outline of her red painted lips. She's a silhouette that simply trots out of the shadows atop her mare.
"I'll not turn back now, my Lady," Tywyll calls out then, grasping her reins with gloved hands to draw her mare to a stop that has the horse circling in the midst of the path. "I've only just heard the stories of a hundred good men with a hundred good families and I promised that they would be heard and recorded. That means seeing this to a conclusion first. Which reminds me," the young woman continues, orienting herself toward Taliesin as she does and lifting her left index finger. "I've need to prevail upon your skill with song weaving when you've time to spare, sir. For now, however…"
Tywyll takes a deep breath and surveys the road ahead, her brilliantly blue eyes staring coldly out at the world. How can they not, when her expression is always a placid mask? "We had best be off before more of the world is buried in the sleepless dead."
*
Maximus is along for the chaos, and feeling somewhat pensive, so he's less talkative than usual. He's riding his big, black steed, seated in it casually. When the lady offers to have them be enchanted to go be heroes, he nods faintly, imperiously, and then flips his curly black hair, which is damp and glistening.
*
Percival's puzzled tone gets a clear answer from Viviane. "Visiting Avalon. It shall have to wait until the danger of evil on the land is passed." She raises her hands together and starts to weave invisible threads, hands delicately poised in a dance to those unable to perceive the spell. Motes of moonlight float around her and the fragrance of apple blossoms and pennyroyal strengthens. "Raise your shields or your hands as each of you pass, and know the favour of the Bright Lady."
As spells go, it could not be any gentler, like passing through a curtain of light that settles around each in a shining indigo web. As it vanishes, a certain sense of purpose settles over each person, an intuitive sense of direction.
*
Sir Percival murmurs a quiet prayer as he and his horse move forward through the spell. He lifted his shield as instructed and he waits not far on the other side for all the others to come though. Even though he is not terribly familiar with the others, they are all on this quest together and that is enough for them to now be his trusted companions and he will treat them as such. Only once they have all passed through does he consider the landscape before turning his horse towards the East.
Gareth nudes his horse into motion, lifting his shield with a tiger rampant on it to receive the blessing. He glances about in each direction after receiving the spell, experimenting with the new sense of where things lay. "Amazing," he murmurs, vaguely wondering at a mental image of a cat's tail twitching.
*
The dirt road cutting north counts as a road as it enters the lightly wooded fringes of the Celidon Forest, a place of broad elms and oaks, and just as many evergreens. Peasants and knights alike have many names for sections of the forest — The Blackwood, The Queen's Grove, The Royal Green. Beyond those areas tended by foresters, the woods are effectively wild, supposedly populated by stags, wolves, bears, ex-knight bandits, and faerie princesses who grant wishes.
Rolling hills stipple the route to the east, gentler than their northern path. Soon enough there isn't more than a rutted deer trail going east, used by the odd traveler and few carts. The Celidon here is dark, giving almost no sight of the moon overhead. And despite being a spring evening, no insect breaks the hush, nor even a howl. It's quiet, too quiet.
*
The gentlest nudge of his heels sends Taliesin's mount walking sedately forwards. He watched the spell unfold via the Sight and recognizes its origins in compass-like nuances of suggestion. He passes through the blessing in its hues of deep-woad with both hands upraised in specific formations (Lady Viviane might know them well enough) and once beyond, joins the two Knights. It seems the direction is easterly, like the cutting winds.
*
Once the spell is given Tywyll bows her head. Then the girl is off toward the east, letting out a sharp shout in her native Welsh and then setting her mount to a canter as she wheels toward the east to follow the gentler path through to the Celidon. As night is settling in over them in earnest and the darkness encroaches the girl leans her head back and takes a deep breath. Blue eyes are amethyst in the darkness, a subtle change that is nevertheless very visible if one actually looks at the girl in question.
"The moon is beautiful tonight," the girl murmurs as they ride beneath a gap in the boughs. Not that one can tell given how oppressively dark the shadows are rendering the world around them. "Or perhaps the lack of moon? Hm." It seems that Tywyll, ever calm, is in a particularly good mood as the path guides the procession forward into the wild and dangerous wood.
*
Maximus follows when he's not paying attention, becoming one with the group, more or less, but when he suddenly /realizes/ that he's let himself be so human and mortal, he straightens, and says such a gem as, "It is the darkness that has cause to fear this company, mixed as it is, rather than we who should fear it." Like…wisdom of an a-hole. He looks over to Taliesin in the failing light. There's a weird look in his gaze, two pinpricks of light in his steel eyes proving a bit of…thoughtful mischief in his daydream.
*
Percival turns to take in the dour knight and he offers, with a gentle smile, "I am not afraid. This place seems peaceful and welcoming, does it not?" He continues to keep pace with the company as they move through this new landscape, his eyes taking in as much of the sight as he can.
*
Little light penetrates through the winter canopy, too densely barred by branches and shaggy pines. Without the aid of a lantern, they are bound to be nudging against one another or knocking into the close set trees that impede any kind of straight path. Horse hooves strike the dense leaf litter of many a season, muffling noises further, and their whispers even feel loud and distorted. Somewhere off to their collective left a craggy bit of rock pokes out from the soil, overlooking a placid, still sheet of black water that's very hard to see. Lady Tywyll alone seems to possess any sense of unimpeded orientation, and it's her judgment to avoid a swampy, sticky patch of soil the path cuts directly through which may stop some poor warhorse going up to its hocks in sucking mud.
*
As they travel, Gareth begins to look a little unfocused. He glances this way and that way, head tilted back slightly, nostrils flaring as he sniffs at the air. "Sir Percival, do you remember when I smelled something at the tavern? I smell something similar here," he says, trying to divine what direction it comes from.
*
Mingled in the group as probably the most obvious in scarlet-cloth and with a paler mount, Taliesin is serenely…on alert. The Celidon is nothing to be underestimated. Still, moral is high if the rest of the group can manage such light-hearted comments. His leg bumps against the heavily-armored stirrup of Agravaine and he nods in unspoken agreement to the knight's comment as he glances over. Well, now…that's…different.
"Indeed, good Knight. That we should be a light in darkness is a noble task." His murmur is pensive.
Regardless, his metaphorical hackles rise and he quickly looks around even as Gareth notes an odd scent. What faint light filters through the canopy gives him little chance to clearly discern any nearby object, but…wait a second. What he first construed to be a toppled tree, half eaten by nature and time, might be…oh no. Oh gods. His eyes, lambent as they are with his own powers, widen and clearly give away their glow. It looks too much like a dead horse for his own comfort!
His reins draw tight and the mare sidesteps beneath him, likely jostling others including Agravaine. His voice is low and tight. "On your guard!"
*
A faint wooden clunk radiates from nearby.
*
"This darkness isn't natural. It's… Darker. The moon should provide some light," Tywyll speaks up in a voice that is near a whisper as the group makes their way around the marshy mess just ahead of them. "This forest is concealing itself. Protecting our treasure, mayhaps?" She tilts her head slightly and listens intently to the woodlands as those amethyst eyes scan the darkness. "We can hardly proceed like this. I would say to stop for the night, but… It might not get any brighter during the day. I might be more powerful like this… But there's precious little I may do for the rest of the procession other than- watch."
Tywyll lifts a hand and it is a split second before she realizes it can't be seen. "We've- yes. I see it as well." She takes a deep breath. The girl is unarmed but seems to have no fear as she moves toward the front of the group- and pauses, guiding her horse toward the nearby noise to try to find out more. "Our biggest foe is still the lack of light…" Not that it seems to apply to her.
*
Faded and soft, a chuckle comes from the dark.
*
Childish laughter ripples high as a bell.
*
A thin, sharp barb flies out from the darkness and slams into the tree nearest to Maximus, narrowly evading jabbing him in the flank.
*
"There are children laughing at us, by the way! I hear it clear as a bell. AHHH, and shooting at us!" Despite it making it so he can't see…pretty much at all, he does grab his helm and put it on. "Quick, Taliesin, use your Virgin Miracle Powers to protect us from this foe!"
So says Agravaine!
*
"I remember," Percival offers to Gareth. He tenses then as his sense of peace is disturbed with such news and Taliesin's quiet warning. His sword is drawn and held at the ready even as he loops his reins on the arm with his shield. He listens to the others, but at the chuckle and laughter, he calls out, "Show yourself, creatures! We have no desire to harm you, but we can make no promises if we cannot see and parlay!" When the shot is fired he continues, "Again, we mean you no harm. We ask that you let us pass in peace!" To the others in the company he offers, "Perhaps we choose the direction poorly." If they could see, he'd start off in another.
And he then offers calmly, "I don't think that one gets magic powers for Celibacy."
*
Another flicker of thorns erupts from the gloom. Thorns or barbs or two inch long, fine quills that slam very satisfyingly into human flesh, it really doesn't matter. Another fan sprays out in front of Percival, causing his horse to neigh in alarm, albeit very muffled alarm. Fine, thin canes rise out of the leaf litter and snake about, lashing at equine legs and hooves, tugging at any loose cloaks and tabards as more of those needle projectiles fire at them.
*
The bell-like giggles only escalate.
*
Sir Gareth finds himself unhindered by the darkness, though almost wishing that he was, given how wrong things look to him. "This isn't right," he murmurs to no one in particular. His hand was already moving for his sword when Taliesin cried out, and he quickly draws it forth. "For Caerleon!" he cries out, despite Percival's attempt to parley. Fortunately he doesn't hear anything about virgin power.
*
Despite his mount practically dancing and squealing beneath him, Taliesin attempts to defend his pride, under attack just as the band of intrepid adventurers happens to be.
"Whether or not — ACK! — the ladies like me MORE — DAMMIT — should not be under discussion, WHOA-NO!!!" The mare rears back, having been slapped by a lashing cane in the forelegs and the Pencerdd goes flying into the dimness beyond the group. His landing impact is muffled for the mulch of the forest floor and he's quick to his feet despite shortness of breath. Leaves cling to his hair and clothing and instinct leads him to try a witch-light. It swirls into being above an outstretched hand, but it's like water through a sieve — the werelight is grey, pale, weak, and even has the terrible metallic odor of freshly-spilt blood! With a grimace, the Bardd flicks away the light, but not before it's made him a target.
Two-inch thorns spray at him and he takes at least four to the arm still held out in denial at his powers stymied.
"AUGH!!!!" The pained cry surely resonates above the chaos of fiendish giggles and stamping hooves.
*
"Have you not heard, good Sir? Women get powers for celibacy. Men are expected to be virile and fruitful." Tywyll's tone contrives to be carefully even and calm as she speaks but then she is pulling sharply on her reins. The sharp, needle-like thorns fly out of the trees and litter the ground just in front of her. Some of them seem like they might strike true but just barely manage to miss both horse and rider, skittering into the dark. She uses her knees to guide her mount in behind one of the nearby trees and then quickly hops down from the mare's back. "Shh… I-it's okay…" She's breathless, her voice quavering, but she keeps her mount under control. Somehow.
Shadows coil around Tywyll as she alights upon the ground. She has her empty hands out at her sides for the moment and stops to consider the tree in front of her. Then the small woman is springing, almost seeming to walk on the darkness, and quickly heads up along the tree. Her right hand reaches for a branch to hall herself up as an item appears in the left. A long knife, so black it seems to absorb light rather than reflect it along the blade. "If need be I will drop this entire tree into the wood!" She calls in a sharp tone.
Periodically Tywyll looks to the figure approaching through the dark. More on hem as they close.
*
Anything lumbering through the forest at speed, like a terrified horse, ought to crunch branches and leave clots of sodden leaves splish-splashing on the ground. There are none. Muffled hoofbeats become silent after far too short a time, and the equines' shrill whinneys sound ever so distant, from the bottom of a particularly deep well. Even the quills and spikes, ranging from half an inch to two inches long, collide with flesh and wood and dirt far quieter than they ought to.
*
Shadows lurch and stretch out, and another presence might possibly go unseen in the noir horror around them. When is one of those trees not a tree? When its 'branches' rake serrated, curved claws along the ground from its stooped shoulders, leaking a blighted darkness that drips in oily, acerbic splotches. A thick layer of hoary fungus coating the bark proves more of a coat, in fact, as the monstrous thing lifts a segmented trunk and shambles over to Lady Tywyll. It helps not a little she has seen it far longer than others. It's just as hideous up close, eight feet tall with a dreadfully long armspan.
*
Percival's horse is spooked, not by the darkness, but by the quills that come shooting out of it and the snake-like vines coming out of the ground. Rearing up, it throws its rider off and runs away. Smart horse. Sir Percival manages to somehow execute a flip in order to land mostly on his feet…or at least, not on his face. Nothing seems to be broken, but there is a hiss of pain due to some of those quills finding the chinks in his armor.
*
Others fall from their mounts with far more grace. Agravaine…does not. He is in full armor. He falls like a metal-encased man, and backwards, too, when the horse rears and throws him, then it goes riding off into the dark. And the knight lands with a muffled groan on his back. His arms fall out to the sides in an L shape, and mud clings to him, making there be almost a 'seal' against him sitting up again. "I know what I'm talking about…hnnnnnn…" he groans again, unpleasantly. The worst part is that his feather has snapped on his helm. Do you know how long it took him to find a pure white feather to be dyed to a pure blue?! With the right volume and bounce? When he manages to get up…there will be hell to pay.
*
It never occurs to Gareth that his horse would betray him. Fall in battle, that's certainly a possibility. But for his warhorse to panic and toss him in battle is, well, literally unimaginable. Nonetheless, it happens, the mighty steed bucking and tossing Gareth from its back before fleeing in terror. "Oh f—" fortunately for his sense of dignity, the curse is cut short by the impact and clamor of his ground. His sword dropped in the impact, he draws a knife. "If my horse suffers because of you, you will regret it!" he roars, be at the beast or whatever drives it. "Have at thee!"
*
Whether it was luck or sheer serendipity, the end result is that the strafing of the thorns cause him to drop to one knee. The first globule of muddy glop misses him entirely. It's the impact against a nearby trunk that makes him glance blearily up.
"OH GODS!" Leaf litter flies everywhere as he sees the three foot-tall miniature tree menacing him and gets to scrambling back towards the group as a whole. Screw this noise, he's got to get some protective cover first if he's going to cast anything!
*
Nyx is staring at the thing as it comes closer to her. That incredibly distinctive weapon is clasped in her hands right now. She climbs a bi t higher as it is bearing down on her. The girl is shaking a bit but her own body weight is nothing compared to her apparent strength so she hangs easily by a single hand. It swipes at her and she lets out a sharp, abrupt cry stabbing into the shambling tree monster… The dagger vanishes, all at once. "Their- magic…" Feeling foolish Nyx takes a deep breath.
The blonde quickly leaps to another branch, narrowly avoiding the next assault. Another of those knives appears to hand though now it isn't pointed at the monster. Moving quickly around her tree she swipes her preternaturally sharp blade at a point just above her head. There's a crack and a groan as the top section of the trunk splits apart. Nyx shoves, with her shoulder. Half a tree goes crashing toward the shambler in front of her, a cacophony of shattering wood following as it impacts the ground.
*
The shambling tree beast goes to ground, given its stiff body hardly allows for rapid dodges or acrobatic feats like Sir Percival. Alas, those tremendously long arms can still inflict their presence by swiping and flailing about. Those within seven feet or so of it risk a real chance of being blindly knocked over.
And there goes part of Percival's armor. That's annoying, especially since the small…shrubbery-thing, still seems to be attacking. "I think…we should leave. We have obviously come the wrong direction and have angered these forest-folk." He's trying to be conciliatory here! That, and he isn't sensing the magic sliver here. He's not afraid to bow out of a fight if there is no reason to continue.
There's a frown as he hears the woman and then the sound of the crashing tree, "Enough! We have trespassed onto their lands! It is not our place to attack or destroy it. Come, let us leave." It's not the direction they seek.
*
The petite spriggans, on the other hand, have no reason to stop throwing thorns at people. They dart from tree to tree, giggling in their high, bright voices and shake another volley of thorns at people. Noble as the knight's intentions may be, they go after Sir Gareth and Taliesin the bard gleefully.
*
Gareth is able to dodge one spriggan's attempt to goop him up, ducking down behind his shield, and then chasing it off with a slash from his knife. "Well, Taliesin?" he calls to the bard, working his way towards him to try to protect him from the shrubberies. "Can you communicate with them somehow?" He doesn't want to back down after getting bucked from his horse, but it may be the best.
A turtle on its back in the mud is in a similar predicament as Agravaine. He jerks about here and there, but cannot dislodge himself. Thankfully he's fully armored, so the thorns and such are just going tink tink tink in a disconcerting but not harmful manner. "Help me up, and we cannot go back, we run forward, if anything! Once I get my sword, though, that creature is FINISHED!" Bold, brave, apparently!
*
"Yes…give me a moment!" His voice is tight for the pain of muscles pinned near to bone and torn cloth turned dark with blood. Clutching his wounded arm to his chest, Taliesin dodges between trees, headed towards the group with single-minded purpose. A glint in the near-darkness catches his attention and he braces himself in a controlled slide through the leaf litter. His free hand flashes out and grabs at the top of the breastplate of Agravaine's armor. His voice grits even as he gives a few good yanks, maybe loosening up the suck of the mud to armor.
"Agravaine, now is not the time for tortoise-like behavior — AUGH!!!" A well-aimed spray takes him diagonally across his shoulders, pinning the drop of his scarlet-cloth cowl nearly to his skin. He drops to his knees, curling in upon himself, and pants roughly.
Management. It's all about management. Inhaling as much as he can, and gathering in as much inherent willpower as he can muster in this moment, the Pencerdd bellows in a language likely unknown,
"BY THE LIGHT OF THE BRIGHT LADY, CEASE YOUR MADDENING ATTACKS!!!"
*
The gargantuan tree knocked over by Lady Tywyll may be more of a threat than the giggling spriggans who run behind the blighted elms and blackened, sickly pines. Taliesin's shout and Percival's efforts to cease their obnoxious ways doesn't go terribly far, but they peek out and keep laughing in that high pitched chiming voice. With their blacker-than-black eyes, they embody a strange sort of mischief.
The tree, however, is happy to gouge deep claws and send Lady Tywyll's horse thundering off opposite to the others, and its dull, glowing eyes spark dangerously. It hasn't a mouth, per se, to respond with, but the thing swipes at the lot. No, he's not going patiently into that good night.
*
Percival frowns and sheaths his sword, "I will not fight these Fair Folk." He looks to the others, especially Agravaine, who was insisting they move forward. "This is not the quest set before us. I aim to complete that quest and since it does not include random acts of violence, I am leaving." Or allowing himself to be captured/shot at more. With that, he starts to head back in the direction they started…he hopes.
*
Gareth does a quick double take at seeing Percival leaving them, but says nothing. "I don't think it understands you," he says to Taliesin instead. When it swipes, he'll move forward to block with his shield, seeking to protect bard and turtl—downed knight.
*
Maximus is up! And not stuck in the mud anymore. "I feel the pull, the guide, and it is forward, and we will not succeed in our quest unless we press onward! Fight the fae or not, but do not turn back!" Agravaine, then, steps himself as a metal shield in front of Taliesin, snaps his sword from the ground, and then calls out to the bramble beast, "YOU!!! Are challenged!!" He's always had a gift for drawing attention to himself when he wants to, and he tries that same mental trick here.
The bramble beast stops trying to shove aside everything in its path and turns those terrible glowing eyes on Agravaine. It nearly creaks as it stands in front of him, peering at the knight's sword. Then at the knight with the wonky, bent feather. It cannot shout to him nor cry out, but the spriggans make one collective "Hnii!" giggle and go silent.
It would appear that challenge is accepted.
*
Still kneeling upon the ground, Taliesin tucks his arm to his chest and looks up through muddied hair. Someone's leaving, he can't tell whom at this distance, but they need all the swords on hand to at least stop the attack of the larger of the demonic dryads.
"The little shrubberies do, it's that…that giant, rooty bastard that isn't listening!" He bares his teeth in pain and primal defense. The grandstanding of the Knight he just aided from the muck can't be missed and the Pencerdd lets out a ragged groan of frustration. "Agravaine, by the gods, I will flay you in my next round of playing, I swear by the strings on my mandolin!" Which may or may not be missing one of said strings or mayhaps have a few broken for the rough landing he had not long back. "Nnnngh! Bring it down!"
A wooden clunk echoes somewhere nearby.
*
Agravaine makes a good show of it, advancing upon the creature. He lifts his sword, "Oh…there will be a song, my good bard…of THIS!" He jerks the sword out to the side, pointing at the dark woods, "Begone before the might of Agravaine! We will pass your land and offer you no harm!" Directing the creature, neatly, out of their path, so that they can just…carry on.
*
The sense of their proper direction swings after the tree shambling off.
A challenge is issued, and apparently accepted. Gareth stands a little more easily, though certainly stays at the ready. "Calm yourself," he tells Taliesin. "'tis a fine act of chivalry." And now that he has a moment, he starts looking around to see if he can find where his sword fell.
*
The moment the shambling tree-being reaches a certain distance from them, Taliesin realizes that the draw towards whatever they seek has flared up within his mind. He peers out from behind the two Knights and grits his teeth as he gets to his feet.
"No, dammit, it's in — nnggghh!!! — it's in the creature! Can't you feel it?!" The Pencerdd winces and points a blood-swiped scarred hand towards the thing moving off into the gloom. "Bring it down!"
*
The tree was on its way out of the grove, shuffling along at a loping shamble with its claws. Then it halts and shuffles back a step or two. Agravaine has made his will known and the bard overlays that, and the beastly
*
Agravaine frowns, not that anyone can tell through his helm. He does noisily turn so he can look at Taliesin, then turns back towards the creature. He makes a 'come hither' gesture. "Are you ready?" He asks of those nearby, gripping his sword and waiting for the critter to get close enough to fight.
*
Gareth still has found his sword, but his knife is sharp, at least. His off hand flexes around the straps of his shield in an unconscious desire to slash at it like the tiger the shield bears. "Ready," he answers softly.
"Then DO SOMETHING!!! I've got the shrubberies under control!" Taliesin eyes the little giggling fiends with slitted glowing glares. "And when we're done with that walking stick, you and your kindling might be next!!!
Again, an unknown language, snarly with implied threat. Just wait. Just wait."
*
Its a lot less fair…when the enemy doesn't have control over its own self. That's probably why Sir Agravaine doesn't exactly advertise his entire skill set. However, even he cannot totally take pride in a victory that isn't one. So, when the shambling mound is near, he does release it, and then attacks it with the brutal skill of a noble, rich, has-nothing-else-to-do-but-train, guy.
*
With both Knight harrying the creature in professional speed and utilizing deadly steel, it leaves the Pencerdd to shift his focus from the shrublings to the creature itself. The sense of alignment to the Mystical beacon has become numbed, indicating that, indeed, the sliver they chase is buried within the being itself.
His shaking hand forms a sign of summoning as he aligns the sight of his incantation upon the moss-covered, flailing living tree. The corners of his vision begin to pulse in time with something within its core. Around him, the dim air cyclones with displaced energy; leaves blow back even as he snarls Words that echo low and thrum through the surrounding woods.
With a wicked-sounding CRACK, a literal sliver is pulled from the inside of the creature and flies to his blood-stained palm. He grasps it before curling in upon himself, the woods around him blurring for the dizziness of power and lifeblood drain alike.
Punched out from the grand heart of the horrific beast, a slender chunk of wood no longer than a man's middle finger appears in an explosion of splinters. The dark hue differs from the blighted shadows tainted upon the surface of the ambling tree fae, and the spriggans collectively scream at the noise. Their high-pitched cacophony hurts the ears as they flee through the woodland, the darkness easing back with their departure. Run away to laugh and mock again another day…
The hoary forest giant crashes to the ground, landing with a resonant thud. Cracking branches sound nothing so much like bone being splintered over a thigh or staved in by a hammer.
Weakly light returns through a receding veil, hints of colour restored anew to the less than monochromatic landscape. And all those battered and bludgeoned, stabbed and pincushioned might find cause for relief, the faintest glow crawling over them from the feathery tokens received from the Lady of Avalon. Their cares are eased some, wounds healed, for now.
Except for Sir Agravaine's plume, no fix there. His dyed feather doesn't pass muster and remains broken, at a cripple-dicked angle that sticks out from his helm in the most embarrassing way.