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Ten minutes later
Sir Gareth and Taliesin the bardd show no signs of recovering their wits, not in the least. 'Tis easy to pass off their state as exhaustion after a long day's travel overland, difficult at the best of times in good weather and dry roads. Not much of a road links the north to the south, except the paved Roman one, which delivered the Aegis of Caerleon out of the turmoil at the besieged Castle of Maidens. Sir Bercilak gathers them onto the straw bed and takes his leave. To 'think,' said he. A very disturbed tone would imply his thoughts are deeply tangled.
Sir Agravaine alone remains in the dark, low chamber their coin bought, a candle glowing warmly in the lantern and the midnight chalice concealed beneath his shield. It has done nothing out of the ordinary except exist, made from four distinct objects totally separate from one another, and smell faintly of water.
*
Agravaine finally pulls the shield off to look at it. "This is supposed to be a key." He murmurs. But, calmly, he does see if there are patterns on its surface that give any clue as to why the lady of light would have them assemble a seemingly evil chalice.
*
The shield slides away and the ominous sheen of amethyst light rises off the gorgeously crafted cup. It's not solid black or horned in any fashion, but something of intense delicacy with a larger basin forming the cup and the long stem suitable to present it. It fits the world they live inside, albeit the Brythonic stylings are entirely appropriate for Caerleon. If one were very, very wealthy.
And more importantly, to the calculated eye behind the blue-feather cap, it's made of a metal not likely found in any great quantities on earth. That much the scientific brain in the age of faith, not reason, can quantify without even touching it.
*
Agravaine puts on his gloves to handle it, and he tests, with just one gloved finger, if anything happens when he touches its base. "A key…a door? Maybe…it can teleport us…like the knight did."
*
ROLL: Maximus +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 69
*
The cup weighs much more than its small size would imply. Being entirely created of a dense extraterrestrial metal will probably do that. Hints of fine violet radiate off the liquid black surface, a shimmer that collects in the aura of light around it. And when he touches it, Sir Agravaine might feel the weight of the world banished from his shoulders for a time, a lifting that doesn't come instantaneously but with a breath and then another, leaching away the heavy burden of not quite seeing the world the same as everyone else.
Possibly. There is a clarity there, an undeniable sense of perception brightly rendered.
*
Agravaine knits his brows as the cup does something to…calm the fluctuations in his mood. That's really the major issue with him, as he's fully capable of being jealous and treacherous without the insanity, but the insanity makes him so fully unpredictable. He lets out a slow breath and then he ventures with two fingers, then finally runs all of them up the stem and cup's edge and runs a finger around the rim, exploring.
*
The black cup has barely any water left in it, not after being tipped upside down, dropped on the ground, and buried by a shield. But a magic chalice is a magic chalice, regardless of whom holds it. When he carries it, Agravaine is sure to discover the calm following with proximity. The longer he stays in touch, the deeper the smoothing of those wild fluctations in the sea of his thoughts.
*
As wondrous as the chalice makes him feel, he can understand why Ber didn't want to let go of it. But there is still the mystery he is trying to figure out. He tries flipping it so that the rim of the cup is down, looking for any writing that might indicate how to…use it. Agravaine is still an engineer and he has never felt so focused.
*
The starmetal he holds doesn't have any obvious writing on it. How on earth the starmetal was shaped in the first place has to be puzzling to the engineer's brain under a knightly exterior. Too hard to be handled by most tools, industrial or black steel, far too dense to be simply cut. The polish is near perfect, the seams absent. Whatever joints would have been there from a wooden bowl and a larger stone one connected by a ring and a pin are not presentat all: thus, it probably has to be magical, and its magic of a provenance powerful enough to melt enchanted items together. The base holds a simple shape of a crescent moon and the wavering light radiating off the metallic finish throwing weird shadows.
And the unquestionable sense of going west.