1964-06-22 - Tragedy at the Commons
Summary: Mystery Hill, New Hampshire. A place of dubious provenance to the Puritans and dismissed widely as a glacial creation by scientists. The Mystic community knows otherwise. It's the most important intersection of ley lines in the American northeast. In the hours before the longest day of the year, it was the site of a human sacrifice to poison the transatlantic energies. Now the ley lines, the lifeblood of freeflowing magical energy for all, is very much *not* accessible to anyone in the Northeast. That freeflowing energy isn't there to fuel spells. For wards. For happy free-spirits worshipping Gaea to dip their toes in. The knights of Caerleon spontaneously remember themselves when they wake. Avalon's calling. Time to fix the problem…
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johnny-storm dane-whitman maximus tigra delphyne strange wanda 


The Block House sits in the northwest corner of Central Park. To all those afflicted by the curse on the Park, however, this marks a tower on the mighty walls of Caerleon, the City of Legions. It's the one place in the walled city's powerful defenses where anyone can gain a remarkable view over the outlying rivers and patchwork of fields. From the heights, the view over the Midsummer festival is unparalleled. Celebrations last long into the night. Merchants and farmers are gathered in the countryside for age-old rhythms. They drink and they dance, jumping over fires and feasting. Bonfires glow like orange fireflies.

To mark the advent of Midsummer, everyone in Caerleon ceases to work. The Queen's Court performs its own private vigils in the stone-walled keep perched in the heart of the city. Any courtier, peasant, or knight not specifically called is free to go where he or she pleases. There's a quiet tradition of going to the Block Tower to toast the sun and drink a cup of ale. With sundown approaching, better hurry…

Maximus is fully embracing of his knightly self. Things are good here…even if his Kingly ambitions are not realized, its still good. He has a cool sword, a good horse, that noble house that he's totally planning on getting a fat butcher for, but…tonight? Tonight he needs ale and to toast from the Block Tower. He had a coke on ice a few moments ago, but now…now its well and proper ale, in a mug with only the slight hint of a swoosh on it. Wearing noble attire, not armor, he can be recognized by his ebony ringlets, easy grin, and his blue doublet. His pants are more like leggings, and totally showing off his legs.

Johnny as Gawain will be, when he remembers it, the weirdest thing in his life, and that's saying something. Its not that Gawain doesn't have an ego, he does, he is Sir Humble-Brag, in fact. Its that he's *chaste* and *honorable* and soft spoken and so completely unlike Johnny Storm, and yet, strangely, he fits. He serves his Queen and yet, as there is no call for his duty this eve, he makes his way towards the Black House. Clad in armor with a red tabard and the golden, fiery sword over his chest, he goes forward. Watchful, alert, quiet. Sober. Dear god he's so very sober, and not just from the lack of strong drink.

Delphyne, aka Ser Daphne, doesn't seem to notice nor care about her physical appearance. Really, to her (and everyone in Caerleon) she appears unchanged, her black hair with green streaks flowing freely as… for once, she has on a courtly dress, befit a lady more than a knight, as it is a celebration of sorts. The woman seems a bit out of place without her armor, as she seems to be looking for someone specific on the way to the Black House, eyes darting back and forth.

Sir Gareth is dressed casually, namely trousers, tunic, boots and such like. Being a knight, he has his sword, of course. He makes his way towards the Block Tower, cloak billowing slightly as he makes his graceful way along, looking forward to some ale and the sunset.

There's one assistant on hand at the Block House to hand out drinks, a squire with a mop of pale hair assisting with pouring drink and doling it out. Space is at a premium up there, but he gestures for people to squeeze against the rocky walls to leave more room. Everyone can have a drink from the keg. "Blessings of the summer on you," gets repeated for everyone.

When Dane woke, he knew it wasn't just a normal dream. Aside from the clarity and that he remembered every last detail, he could feel it pulling at him. Or rather, something was. Something in Manhattan. 'The main park wall'. Getting dressed, he heads out back toward the stable. Not that he needs to actually saddle Aragorn as the winged steed appears next to him fully barded when he touches his pendant and utters 'Avalon'. Checking his sword and armor, he mounts the horse and they fly toward Central Park.

Nothing like a pseudo-heart attack to start off one's morning. Having fallen asleep in one of the highbacked chairs in the downstairs living room of the Sanctum over the diary of one of Cortez's monks (gods below, the man is such a boring writer and pays no attention to the important aspects of the native culture), Strange wakes with a sudden hoarse inhalation and clutches at his chest. Beneath his sternum, his soulfont, the well from which he draws innate power through force of will — it spasms and feels to dim. Something is lost — something is calling him beyond the barriers of the mansion — beyond even the reaches of the state. The ley lines shift in discomfort and it runs pinwheels of sparks up his spine.

Thus, the first Gate into the Park. Intuition of the Sorcerous sort leads him here and he's quick to spot the gathering about the Block House. The crimson Cloak flares behind him as he's quick to stride over. The overlay of the other reality, in which the Bright Lady calls him her own and he last tusseled over a black cup, tugs strongly at his mind, definitely against his druthers. This proves to make him particularly short-spoken, broadcasting his voice to be heard by all.

"You're all here for the same reason, I presume. You felt the call. However, we need to be elsewhere." Another Gate, scintillating in gold, opens upon a place farther north, home to a hill full of mystery and livewire home to a convergence of leylines that clamor for his attention. "Everyone through, let's go." With that, Strange strides through it.

Maximus is beckoned and answers the call, even if Strange's teleporting suits him poorly at the moment. "Its all your fault we miss the toast…" he really seems already there, in most ways. He looks at Dephyne and raises his hand towards her to get her attention. "Come, come!"

"I know my duty." says Gawain to the bard with a slight inclination of his head as he steps through the portal and into what lies beyond. He moves immediately to take up a position to guard the transit of the others, lifting one arm— flame erupts around that arm, a shield of liquid fire so hot that arrows would vaporize if they hit it. He stands ready! "I do not understand the nature of the call, though. Does anyone else?" He doesn't bother summoning his sword, not yet at least.

Ser Daphne blinks and smiles warmly towards Agravaine, extending her hand towards him as she advances towards him with a bit more haste, her eyes reflecting the warmth in her smile as she catches up to him. "Ser Agravaine, I was hoping to see you here." She glances around, "Though, I suppose it would be unlike you to miss a party as grand as this one, wouldn't it?"

Gareth had just reached the Block Tower, just gotten a flagon from the assistant, just returned blessings to him, and was -just- about to take a drink when Strange shows up. He listens, frowns, sighs, glances at his ale, and then sets it down, untouched. "This is not how I like to start one of these adventures," he says, without elaborating on whether he means his lack of armor, or his lack of ale. He'll then go through the Gate.

It only takes Aragorn about fifteen minutes to get to the park and Dane inspects the grounds as the horse circles in the air. The gathering of people is obvious at this hour so they glide toward them, his hand straying to the hilt of the Ebony Blade. As soon as it closes on the sword, the 12th century panorama springs into focus though with some concentration, he can look through it to the underlying reality. As soon as the portal opens, the distant call becomes stronger. "Through the portal." he tells Aragorn and the horse and rider fly through it a moment later.

Caerleon's own curious megalith, Stonehenge, is visible for miles on the plain. Not all outlying realms and petty fiefdoms sworn to the High Queen are so blessed.

The other side of the Gate opens upon a primeval forest of mixed pines and oaks. Shadows cavort under the tall trees even though dusk hasn't set. An iron tang disrupts the pleasantly heady loaming. Under the canopy, the archaeological oddity sticks out like a sore thumb. Granite carved with grooves boast no plant save an enterprising lichen. On the bare knob lie odd stone arrangements and unmortared rocks gathered into low beehive structures, like manmade caverns. Breaks in the tree cover converge in lines on a stone slab presently soaked in blood. Not an insect or a bird stirs anywhere in earshot.

The particularly sensitive — Taliesin, Dane, Gareth — can taste the wrongness and feel the sluggishness. Aragorn is simply the most unhappy of steeds, snorting displeasure.

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Upon stepping through the Gate, the Sorcerer, psyche shaded heavily to Pencerdd, is quick to step to one side to allow the filtering of quest-mates into this new region. Once all are through, the rent in reality collapses.

His eyes narrow as he recognizes the metaphysical smear of spilled blood in the immediate area. The shadows cling with a light clammy weight around him as he carefully begins making his way through the eerie collections of stones. Manmade? Touched by another dimensional being entirely? Regardless, he slows as he spots the glint of heavily-clouded lighting off the slab. The tang of Blood Magic is strongest here.

Beneath his boots, the ley lines ache.

Maximus turns a quick and frowny look on Talesin. One hand goes to his hip and the other points, accusing, "This plac eis /terrible/, Bard. Why did you bring us here? These stones all feel wrong and…I just know there are going to be skeletons…probably snakes IN skeletons…ugh."

Gawain of the flames looks increasingly tense as he takes in the blood and the signs, "I do not like this, I do not like this at all." And he extends his sword arm out and suddenly a sword of pure flame manifests into his hand. Both sword and shield are, relatively, cool, burning simply like red, liquid fire. "It is some foul, unholy sorcery that you have brought us to, bard, or I am Sir Fool of the Duck."

Ser Daphne frowns a bit, "Fortunately, I do come prepared…" She reaches down, hiking up her skirt in an almost scandalous manner… to reveal a sword strapped to her leg. Drawing the blade, she lets her skirts fall back to their more modest lengths, and looks at Agravaine, "I suppose our talk will have to wait, then?" Her eyes flash with amusement towards her fellow knight, before she turns back to Taliesin.

After passing through the gate, Gareth almost immediately draws his sword, finding the wrongness of the place to be an almost palpable threat. A very soft growl can be heard from him before he controls himself. He approaches the slab hesitantly, stopping a few feet from it. "It's human, I'm afraid," he says, nose wrinkling.

As soon as they pass through the portal, Aragorn's hooves touch ground and he comes to a halt, snorting his displeasure. Dane, his soul linked to the Ebony Blade, doesn't need to ask why. Removing his hand from the sword, the overlying medieval scene turns transparent, superimposed on reality. This does nothing to reassure him and he draws the blade, his other hand patting the horse on the neck to calm him. No immediate threat evident, he looks over the ones who came through, recognizing them from when his spirit traveled back in time. And now it's come full circle with their spirits traveling forward in time. "We meet again, my friends." says the Black Knight. "This is the work of Morgan Le Fay. It is up to us to stop her, once again."

The blood on the slab is not all wet. In places the liquid dried to tacky puddles. Other gore shines dully under the fading sun. The human body contains a considerable quantity of liquid, especially when cleverly directed by grooves in the stone ground that convey it away from the slab where some dastardly, heinous act was committed. Still, no evidence of a visible body anywhere.

Nor snakes lurking in skeletons in the beehive stone structures, though they're spread out fairly widely. One may be gloating just for Agravaine.

Turning from the unsettling sight of the swathe of tacky crimson atop stone, it's the Pencerdd who replies quietly to Gareth: "I hoped not, but your confirmation tells me more than I would have known otherwise." He claps a scarred and friendly hand on the rounding of the Knight's shoulder briefly before completely facing the others. A…flying horse. Well — it was never impossible, not when one travels across dimensions with the ease of a firefly's dance.

"It's decided unholy, yes, and the work of Le Fay." His eyes flick from each face in turn before he gravely nods. "Blood magic dulls the ley lines. I have the suspicion that should I attempt to touch upon its influence, things may get riled. Be on your guard."

Where he stands, Taliesin kneels, and presses one hand flat to the ground, be it stone or grass. Closing his eyes, he slips his Mystical senses down into the earth, searching out the ley lines and impressing feather-light metaphysical fingertips upon them. He intends to take their pulse, seeing as he counts reality proper as his patient.

|ROLL| Delphyne +rolls 1d20 for: 1

|ROLL| Wanda +rolls 1d20 for: 17

|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 17

|ROLL| Wanda +rolls 1d2 for: 2

|ROLL| Johnny Storm +rolls wanda=1d20 for: #-1 INVALID ARGUMENT

"Sir Agravaine! Behind you!" Gawain spins, and he swings his sword— but the advantage of having a magical sword of fire is its shape is not precisely defined as needing to be sword like. In the swinging, the sword elongates into a whip which he flings out towards whatever stands behind his fellow knight. He doesn't expect to do great harm, only primarily to distract.

Ser Daphne looks around, "This feels… cold. Very cold." She shivers, unable to help it, as she glances around, "Too many small places to hide, tactically this is a poor place to stand." Her eyes narrow, as she spins, holding her blade in a guard position to whatever Gawain has seen, hoping to fend it off.

The fiery whip doesn't exactly crack so much as crackle. Its heat banishes some of the sluggish chill settling around Sir Daphne and Agravaine, leaving wisps of steam rising past them. Faced by the comparatively blinding brightness, the shadowy figure emerging from under the trees instinctively flinches back and manages not to be stung by the plasma. It — he — wears a belted tunic and loose trousers of a serf, though his shaved pate and painted face mark him as a savage of some kind, and most definitely not Pict or Gael or Dalriada, the more common barbarians that afflict Britannia's shores.

He says something, words long and rolling and soft. They mean absolutely nothing to the knights, but he clearly seems to be alarmed.

Of course things will get riled. If they weren't riled, well, they wouldn't have to be here, would they? Nobody every heard of the Unriled Knights after all. No, Gareth and the others are here for the Riled Life. He moves a few steps away to have room in case of trouble, and gives his sword a few quick swings to limber up. He turns his head a fraction, curious what's going on, but not wanting to give up the ability to watch his own sector. "Try not to start a fight if we can avoid it!" Strangely dressed person showing up where a blood ritual's taken place, almost certainly not a future friend. But Gareth would like to be wrong about that.

Aragorn turns to present Dane's sword arm toward the intruder but when there doesn't seem to be an immediate threat, he rests the flat of the blade along the horses neck so he can release the hilt for a moment. "Do not attack, he seems to mean no harm. What do you do here?" he asks the Indian, the looks around them as well before clasping the sword hilt again.

With chin nearly tucked to his chest, the Pencerdd remains kneeling and strives to slip his searching Sight deeper…and deeper still into the ground. It's as if the ley lines have retreated, barnicled away — but all against their will. The presence of them is eratic still somehow, slippery like an eel that refuses to be handled despite concurrent attempts to grab at it. About them, crystallized energy shards outwards that inflicts a prickly tartness and chills so cold as to burn. He wrinkles his nose in distaste as he withdraws his Mystical powers and comes back to the present..

…just in time to realize that someone else has come to inspect what clinging clamminess hangs about the stones. Looking upon the Native American with Sight-brightened eyes proves to answer a few questions while raising a briar-patch more in the process. Not quite a ghost, but…animated nonetheless, death incomplete.

Gawain doesn't press the issue: but a guy hopping out of darkness behind them at the site of human sacrifice? He's wary. The flaming sword is, once more, but a sword at his side, and he stares intently.

Ser Daphne holds her sword in a guard position, glancing at the man that was approaching with a wary eye, "State your intentions, ser!" She doesn't attack, just in case whoever this is might be friendly.

"Kon:ne's. Khenon:oyata. Onekwenhsa'a ken:thon, onekwenhsarowa:nen." The man puzzles over the question. He stares back at them unblinking with those matte, dark eyes. Agravaine may barely be moving ahead of him, and the others are asking things he seems to be puzzling over. "A:keke'?" He gestures past Gawain and Dane at the stones. "Katonhkaria'ks." A slower cluck of his tongue follows, and he reaches out as though to pinch at Agravaine's arm. Armour. To the bard, at least, it's clear those fingers are going for a sleeve. "Iaha:sko a:share tanon sera'wistohtshi…."

"Does anyone recognize his language?" asks Gareth. "It means nothing to me." He lowers his sword as it seems the stranger is more interested in talking than in fighting, at least. "Hebrew, even?"

As he listens, Dane lowers the sword to half guard so it's less threatening. "I don't recognize it. It may be the language native to this area." He glances over at Taliesin, since language is the realm of the bard.

Taliesin watches the actions of the newcomer with the buzz of suspicion in the back of his mind. Woven into his own tunic is a bastardization spell of the Allspeak known to the Asgardians and even as Agravaine's armor is inspected carefully by the Native, he brushes his palm across the ties of the tunic beneath his throat.

The spell activates and a flexion of air pressure against his eardrums resolves in time to suss out the thoughtful murmur of,

"…so much blood here. A nice big spill of blood. I ought to eat it? I am hungry. Get the knife and peel it." It translates for his ears alone given the spell.

The sharp inhalation by the Pencerdd should be adequate warning. His quick murmur follows: "He isn't friendly. Draw back, calmly." Ignoring the bite of the ley lines into his Mystical senses, he raises his hands about his waist. Despite the drag on his abilities, he's game to attempt a shield about the entire group, even if it brings him to his knees.

Gawain inclines his head, frowning. "My instincts should be trusted." he notes to his fellow knights and bard and such. He backs away slowly, holding sword ready, extending the shield so that it is not simple and round, but a full tower shield. The shield burns bright yellow.

Ser Daphne advances as well, eyes narrowing as she says, simply, "Get away from Sir Agravaine, NOW." She sounds a bit more fierce than she might otherwise, chill or not, as she tries to ensure that she is between this stranger and Sir Agravaine, blade held at the ready.

Alas, it seems Gareth wasright in his expectation that the stranger found near nasty magic workings would, in turn, prove to be of the nasty sort himself. He doesn't know what Taliesin noticed to lead him to give warning, but Gareth certainly trusts him, and brings his sword up on guard once more.

The man isn't armed with anything but his bare hands. Bare hands that close around the arm of Agravaine, and no doubt the knight would be terribly offended… that others suggest backing away slowly and doing so! Especially as the frost turning his lips blue as the feather that usually adorned his helm and the sprinkling of icy glamour bleeds over metal, cooling its surface to a pale, matte finish. He is not letting go. On the contrary, he pulls back the shivering, stunned knight.

And uses him as a shield, bastard.

The pressure of Dane's knee urges Aragorn forward and the sword comes up again. "Where there is one, there is often more. Be on guard in case we are surrounded." Guiding Aragorn forward, he levels his sword at the native. "Release him." Even without a common language, it should be very clear as is the threat.

With a flick of his wrists, Taliesin begins murmuring beneath his breath. It's a quick rattling of Words in a language not born on this continent. All around them, the intrusive chill begins to battle against the warmth of spring incarnate. The riffling of the Pencerdd's aura pushes outwards, fights back against the malaise, and hopefully grants relief for the immediate persons in the vicnity. It's up to others to convince Agravaine's current keeper to, frankly, knock it off.

Gawain at least has nothing to fear from cold, for when cold starts to touch him, the air around him shimmers as he calls the heat from his body to envelop him. He was about to send this heat out, but when the bard sees to this he nods to him, and begins edging sideways along, eyes focused upon the fiend. He swings his sword again, once more letting it slide into a whip to try to strike out and hit the foul thing.

|ROLL| Delphyne +rolls 1d20 for: 12

Ser Daphne hisses, "Get away from him, creature!" Suddenly she lunges with her blade, the intruder bringing up Agravaine to shield from her strike… only that was a feint. Instead, her blade angles most carefully, slashing across its arm to cause it to release Agravaine. With her other hand, she grabs Agravaine and hauls him behind her, saying, "You need a better quality of dance partner." What that means, she doesn't clarify, eyes narrowed at the stranger.

The stunned man isn't usually one to tolerate grabby hands. Agravaine normally doesn't tolerate the peons touching him, period. He stumbles as Daphne seizes him, struggling to throw off the gelid cold running up his arms. Where the woman pulls him, the metal creaks and groans alarmingly. Puffs of steam fly up from the clash of the plasma fire whip curling around to strike the Native American thing, the man opening his mouth much, much too wide to reveal sharp teeth and a gaping darkness. He screeches something back and is far more concerned about the fire than the sword, though that inflicts a cut that doesn't bleed.

The fire on the other hand? That makes him smoke.

|ROLL| Dane Whitman +rolls 1d20 for: 10

As soon as Agrivaine is released, Dane taps Aragorn's side with a heel and the horse leaps forward as the knight swings. The blade flashes forward toward the creature's neck but as soon as it comes into contact with it, it almost flinches in Dane's hand as it begins to frosts over before starting to 'thaw' again. Powerful magic. "A creature of Morgan's no doubt. Gawain, put it out of its misery."

The furious bursts of white in the air where the Ebony Blade strikes into the man's bloodless skin hurt the eyes. Snow blindness, for those looking too close. Shards of dried blood and gore fly into the air.

A moment of indecision seems to seize the Pencerdd as he watches the separation of demi-paralyzed knight from the creature with too-sharp teeth. The unseen war in the air current continues, sun-warmed essence of life brutally beating at the skin-prickling cold suffusing their surroundings.

"Get Agravaine to me, I should be able to reverse the frost's touch!" Taliesin raises his voice to be heard in the ensuing melee, overtop the creature's screeh and hectic action.

|ROLL| Wanda +rolls 1d20 for: 9

"So shall it be." replies Gawain to the Black Knight. Stalking forward, the shield vanishes even as the sword burns from red to yellow, and finally to incandesent white: burning nearly as hot as the sun he plunges the sword towards the foul sorcerer's chest and wills the fire to spread. He relies on others to help Agravaine to the bard, at least for now.

Ser Daphne doesn't hesitate at Taliesin's call, half-carrying half-dragging Agravaine over towards the bard. She glances over at Taliesin with concern, "Please do so… who would annoy me greatly if it weren't him?" A faint smile creases her lips, as she glances at Agravaine, then back towards the burning creature with a satisfied expression.

It was difficult for Gareth to find an opening against the strange foe they faced, especially with their friend as a shield. He held back, not wanting to trip the others up. He sheathes his sword and scoots forward to lend Daphne a hand. "I would hope that someone would step up to the call," he quips.

Agravaine all but crashes to his knees, the blueness of his mouth and the pallor of his skin a danger of itself. Eventually words will come to him, but not at the moment.

The bloodless creature takes the sword to the chest, and the blows of the flame and slicing edges without any sound except low, weirdly harmonic ululation. No blood pours out. No cut trims ruby when flesh parts. It burns the white and when Gawain ignites it, the forest briefly becomes as starkly lit as a desert at high noon. The white magnesium fire burns hot, hot enough for eyes to go dry with afterimages, and the coppery body to melt away in the surging afterglow.

Which leaves a bloody altar behind them and a shaking, shivering fellow for them to worry about. The air smells thickly of chemicals and scorched loam.

As the fire brightens, Dane looks away so as not to blind himself. Throwing a leg over Aragorn, he dismounts and gives the horse a pat on the neck before stepping over toward the altar. Gawain is dealing with the creature as only he can and Taliesin can use his magics to help Agravaine. Stopping before the bloody stone, he raises his sword, shifting it to an overhand grip. "Morgan. Witch. Begone." he says and brings the sword down hard, stabbing it into the stone. His entire body goes rigid as the sword sinks in but he refuses to utter a sound. He's most successful.

|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d100 for: 28

|ROLL| Wanda +rolls 1d100 for: 2

The sword drives into the stone, in a way no mundane sword of any make should. Darkness splits the granite, one of the harder stones, and sends fissures running through the body as Dane wills that blade further, deeper, with all the anger and skill he can bring to bear. Blood sizzles on the dark metal. It wants nothing to do with the blood.

Gareth and Taliesin, assuredly, feel the mad fluctuation in the atmosphere, the pops in their eardrums outright painful. If the meltwater drain on their power was bad before, this is a migraine blossoming out of the blue through a static electricity snapping and popping around their skulls. It goes without saying this is bad. Horrendously bad.

Curling up a shoulder, the Pencerdd looks away from the dazzling brightness to save his vision. When the indication of stillness follows, and nothing else bullrushes them from the choking shadows of the trees, he straightens and carefully eyes their surroundings. Indeed, nothing indicative of danger save for the ever-present muted, uncomfortable buzz of ley lines to his Mystical radar. Like the burring vibration of a dry-winged cicada, it prickles on and on in his psyche.

For now, it's ignored. They're grounded, at least, and not writhing like tail-crushed rattlers. Long legs take him across whatever distance remains from the frosted Knight and he gives Agravaine a dispassionate doctor's once-over.

"He'll live," comes the murmur, even as one palm impresses itself upon the chilled metal, heedless of the temperature. Taliesin can risk this for the coating of summer-warmth about his skin, glove against frostbite and quick to travel into the metal for its conduction. If anything, the knight with the blue-feathered helm might shiver for a little bit longer while the heat retained by the metal acts to draw the glamour's cold from his skin. Movement in his peripheral gives him cause to glance over and see the sinking of the sword into the bloodied stone's top.

The backlash that follows is appalling. Clapping hands to the sides of his skull, the Pencerdd thuds to his knees in time for a dribbling of blood to flow from his nose. The groan curdles in the back of his throat before a snarled curse follows, the very Words themselves clanging with aborted application. "…seven hells, you IDIOT!!!" He squints at the Knight. "You moved the damn ley line!!!"

And won't that have interesting implications, including a continuous migraine until the Pencerdd can find a way around it.

And let it be said, migraines are the joy that shares! Everyone gets a migraine as they stand in the bloodied site of a sacrifice at America's Stonehenge. Yay!

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