Found these gems... XLCS had 'em originally

Introduction (from the end…)

On a chair by the hearth on a chill winter's eve, an elderly friar sat rocking and quaffing from an old dented pewter tankard he had carried with him along countless leagues, through too many battles. His staff, chipped and worn from travel and norseman's blade, robes mended and washed too many times to cover the jabs of Lurikeen daggers. Long he sat hunched there, and long he drank - his age too difficult to tell in the flickering warmth of the coals.

This hearth was like no other, surrounded by a boisterous tavern whose lively patrons boasted of deeds and comradery of days past. It had a life of its own, the heavy ale-laden air. Clinking mugs and shuffling wood benches and chairs. Planks that creaked and spoke softly to the tapestries and paintings on the walls. Pictures of men and women revered in this small town called Glastonbury. Whispered at times, boasted from the watchtower at others. Scorned by nobility, admired by fellow peasants.

"Yes, indeed..." the old friar said to himself. He raised his voice for all to hear, breaking the din of a dozen conversations.

"Let us come forward now, an' tell th' tales of this motley band, o' th' Glastonbury Irregulars!"

"Oi, th' ol' fart is at it again, eh?" a farmer leaned toward his company and spake. "Last night he flew int' a grand yarn abou' takin' on armies o' monsters an' giants! Har!" the farmer exclaimed as his companions laughed.

The old friar looked around now, among the faces of the crowd. Blurry they were, and there were no friends he could see.

"They have gone now, back t' their villages and forges and farms an' trapping... but they're no' gone! Th' Irregulars live yet!" the friar bellowed half-heartedly.

"Is there not one among ye? One last Boar who would push forward now and tell us o' th' courage found in common hands, of th' Irregulars...?"


[OOC: The following are pretty much raw stories as penned on the Glastonbury Irregulars message boards, from early 2002 to mid-2003. They represent only a part of a rich history of roleplay, for what you see here in black and white pales in comparison to daily conversations and interplay, and especially the fine people behind each of the characters.]

- Excelsius
Former Holy Crusader, Wanderer, Crimson Cloak… and now Glaston


A visit to the Laughing Lion Tavern
« on: Feb 7th, 2002, 12:08pm »

Aimless wandering is often the most profitable sot of travel because it d to unexpected pleasant encounters. It was just such and occasion when Xaviera happened upon the Laughing Lion Tavern after vespers. In truth, it was actually during the office of vespers that she found the tavern; awareness of canonical hours was not one of Xaviera’s strengths. She swept in, sat down by the cozy fire, and put her feet up.

It wasn’t long before one of the serving women came over with a puzzled look on her face. “Good sister, while this is a respectable establishment, we are not accustomed to serving daughters of the church. Perhaps you would like some tea? We also have a very nice rabbit stew available this eve.” Xaviera glanced toward the tavern door when she suddenly became aware of Glastonbury Abbey’s bell marking the sixth canonical hour. She swore under her breath.

Returning her attention to the woman who was waiting patiently for a reply, “I’ll have the stew and mulled wine.” If you don’t have wine bring me mead, and if you don’t have that I’ll just drink this whiskey I took from some poor misguided cutpurse who was in need of Church guidance.” She tilted her head slightly to the right side and smiled. “I think I’ll drink this whiskey now. When you bring the stew fetch some mead or wine along with the food.” A look of shock danced across the woman’s face but she managed to nod and move off toward the kitchen.

Xaviera called after her, “if you can spare a large, strong, needle and some heavy thread, I’d be most grateful.” She dumped a bag of ears onto the floor in front her and began sorting through them. After taking a long drink from the flask she gestured toward some of the tavern goers staring at her from across the room. “You’d think there be a better way to collect a bounty on bandits than shearing off their ears but if that’s how Sir Dorain and the his hunter want it…so be it.”

The other patrons were still staring at her; some seemed amused, others perplexed, a few looked scandalized, another group appeared interested. “Oh for the love of Gaawd, it’s not like the Abbess has come for a visit.” She then took another sip from the flask and went back to sorting the ears.

Xaviera


Bowar stammered into the Tavern singing that same stupid song he always did. Loud and obnoxious he acted as though he owned the place, ... like he always did.

'Come trowl the brown to me,
Bully boy, bully boy,
Come trowl the brown tome;
Ho! Jolly Jenkin, I spy a knave in drinking,
Come trowl the brown bowl to me.'

"Oh geez Bowar will you give us a break already. How many times you going to sing that blasted song?!' said the barkeep, more than a little annoyed.

"Someone has to liven up this sorry lot" slurred the drunken armsman, in no need of another drink but approaching the bar with a fist full of coins nonetheless.

"Eh?" suddenly realizing what the sister is threading together Bowar stopped and turned back "What a fancy necklace you are making sister. I did not realize the church approved of wearing human flesh"

Grinning Bowar sits down with a grunt beside her "Mind if I take this seat?" he questions, but Xaviera knows it was more statement. "I don't suppose you are the lass who drank herself silly in a farmer's hay loft the other day are you? Best be a bit more cautious or you are bound to raise some eyebrows. Word spreads quickly in Glastonbury.... Now let me ask, what brings you here?"

Bowar


After taking a good look at the armsman who had plopped down beside her, Xaviera reminded herself to thank Zenob for secretly spiriting her out to taverns in Camelot. A slightly inebriated warrior was no longer cause for alarm. She put the needle down and tilting her head to the right smiled warmly at the fighter.

“In truth, the Church does frown on the use of human flesh for adornments, much more appropriate for Welsh Hobgoblins and similar creatures. I, on the other hand, have found it convenient to string these bandit ears together when turning them in for the bounty. It makes it much easier for Sir Dorian’s hunter to count them up and issue the correct number of writs.” She then paused and leaned in toward the fighter before continuing.

“Would you like a wee taste of whiskey?” she asked, and dangled a flask before the armsman. Bowar, with an amazingly deft movement for one who had been drinking, gently took the proffered bottle and raised it to his lips. Xaviera’s eyes took on an amused look. “Terrible but very stimulating don’t you think?” The warrior nodded and took another, longer, drink. “By the way, my name is Xaviera. You may call me that if you wish or sister or Sister Xaviera…and you are?” He paused between sips long enough to respond, “Bowar.” She nodded, “Oh that passed out friar,” she pointed to a brown heap of arms and legs on the floor, “is looking for you. Poor man, doesn’t seemed accustomed to strong drink, a pity really.”

“Now where were we? Oh yes, I never drink myself silly so you must be mistaken on that score.” Again, she tilted her head slightly to the right side while opening her eyes very wide. “Why I am here? It could be that as a good daughter of the church, I’ve come to convert you from your wicked ways.” She snatched up one of the unstrung ears and dabbed at some whiskey that had trickled onto Bowar’s chin. “Then again, I might not be what I seem at all. Perhaps, I am the daughter of a nobleman travelling in disguise through fair Albion.” Xaviera sat back as the serving woman returned with the requested stew and mulled wine.

Taking the bowl and the mug, she swung her feet back up and rested them on the small table before her. “Of course, it could be that by chance I came upon this delightful tavern, found it inviting, and decided to stop in for some food. Not to mention there is always the chance that one might meet some of the local patrons; charming…talented, people such as yourself, Bowar.”

Xaviera


"Charming? Talented?" a voice boomed up from the back, as a man walked up the stairs from the cellar behind the bar.

"Clearly ye don't know the boss too well..." Sixtus grinned at Bowar's frown; the armsman hated being called the boss. Topping off his mug of stout from the keg in the corner, he moved to a stool at the bar and sat facing the table Xaviera and Bowar were sharing.

"Well I can't say I can imagine a noblewoman dirtying her fingers stringing ears together. Ye can't be such a "good daughter" of the church, either, if ye go around slicing ears off corpses for a few coppers... and if ye were looking for people as charming and talented as Bowar they can be found in most alleyways throughout the land." Bowar grumbled something, and Sixtus just smirked at him.

"That leaves a few options... either ye came in looking for food and warmth, or ye are sizing us up. I would guess the latter, as ye seem to have slain quite a few bandits by that pile of ears."

The serving girl brought out the stew and wine and placed them before Xaviera, who started to dig out a few coins to pay for the meal. Sixtus waved the girl away.

"That one is on the house... dealing with Bowar is payment enough! At any rate, enjoy the stew, and I'll see about taking care of this friar who can't hold his ale." Sixtus chuckled and walked over to the table Winslow had been moved to.

Sixtus Anticetus


Xaviera smiled sweetly at her intriguing new companion. Bowar had slumped a bit lower in his chair; whiskey and a warm fire tend to produce a congenial stupor over time.

"Well what I may or may not be is of little consequence in the grand scheme of things. Now as for my interest in this tavern and the colorful characters that seem to frequent it, let me just say that the Lord's interest extends to the smallest sparrow."

After two more spoonfuls of stew, Xaviera prepared to take her leave of the Laughing Lion, for the moment. "Thank you for the food and drink, most enjoyable." When she passed by the place reserved for Winslow, she reached into her coin purse and placed a few silvers on the table. "Perhaps, you can convince a minstrel to give Bowar some lessons, since he seems so fond of singing."

Smiling she made her way to the door and paused, "May the Lord bless all who enter here and hold them safe when they go forth in the service of God, King, and Country." Xaviera then pulled the hood of her cloak up and disappeared into the night.

Xaviera

Of snow and flames, tears and blood
« on: Feb 12th, 2002, 5:50pm »

Sixtus sat beside the fire in the Laughing Lion, well after dark. The wintery winds rattled the shutters, which were now closed tightly over the windows to protect against the snowstorm.

Though he always drank, the paladin hardly ever had enough to get drunk. Tonight, however, he had been drinking in silence as if trying to extinguish a fire within his chest. Now he sat with a slight scowl on his face, seemingly oblivious of anyone else in the room. The barkeep, having already closed up, came and sat next to Sixtus on the bench.

"You know, paladin, I've always wondered why the hell you are in that business. You've filled in for me here before and always seemed happy in doing it... and yet you always pick that greatsword up again and head off with a frown on your face. That, and you're hardly what I would call a model priest, even for one who wades into combat."

Sixtus seemed to ignore the man, but looked up slowly after a few moments and stared at him.

"Why, ye ask?" Sixtus paused and stared off into nothingness for some time, and the barkeep thought perhaps he should just leave the paladin alone. Before he could get up, Sixtus spoke again.

"When I was twelve, my father and I were out chopping wood on an eve much like tonight. A winter storm was coming in and so we were doing our best to build up the wood we'd need to stay warm while we waited it out. The sun was just beginning to set when a man in a hooded cloak walked up from out of the snowy haze. My father must have seen my expression change, and he turned to see what I was staring at. The man threw his hood back, revealing a painted face topped with spiky hair... a celt, and deep within our homeland! My father raised his axe to defend us, but before he could take a step towards the invader, an arrow pierced his neck and he fell to the snowy earth."

The barkeep sat speachless, his mouth agape, as Sixtus continued to tell his story. His voice was completely emotionless, but the firelight reflecting off his eyes told a different story.

"I can still see my father, his axe partly raised, as that arrow struck him in the neck. A moment of shock on his face, and then he crumpled to the ground amid a shower of ruby droplets. I was too frightened to act... I remember slowing stepping backwards and just starting at the celt as he lowered his spear at me. A second figure joined him, slinging a bow over his shoulder and drawing two slim blades."

"My mother grabbed me from behind and started pulling me towards the house, screaming for someone to come and help us... not that any lived near enough to hear her though the gusting winds. The celt with the spear leapt over the pile of wood my father and I had just recently chopped, and struck at us... but he was a moment too slow and my mother yanked me through the door and into the house. She barred the door, but I was still in shock and only stood in the middle of the room, watching the larger celt with the spear approach the window. Using the butt of his spear he shattered the glass and was about to leap through when my mother smashed the lantern we kept near the door over his head. The oil inside sprayed all over the area and instantly burst into flames."

"The celt cursed in some tongue I couldn't understand and pulled back from the window to douse the flames on his arms. My mother turned back to push me into another room, but first one and then another arrow struck her low in the back and she stumbled and fell. She looked up at me and whipered "Go!" and then collapsed into the spreading pool of her blood. I started towards the rear of the house, only to be caught by the first celt, who tripped me with his spear as I tryed to run. Rolling over, I looked up at him, and he only laughed at my fear. He raised his spear and struck, but right before the spear reached me a shape smashed into the celt and kocked him aside. It was this that saved me... the spear was knocked off its course and pierced my side instead of my heart. Looking up I saw my father, the arrow still in his neck, wet and sticky from his own blood; he had struck the celt with his axe and pushed him aside."

"The celt lunged at my father and drove his spear through my father's abdomen. He cried out and grabbed the spear, then turned towards me and yelled, "Go! Run!" To the very end, my father held tight to that spear and would not allow the celt to pull it from his dieing body. With a last look I ran from the house and into the snowy woods. By now the entire front half of the house was ablaze, and I could hear the distant cries of the townsfolk coming to help. I can remember how warm my blood felt as it ran down from the wound in my side, but I don't know how long it was before I passed out. When I awoke the villagers asked me what had happened, but they never learned from me... traumatized as I was, it was six years before I would speak again."

Sixtus Anticetus
Cicero DeSonius
Sandore


Empty Summoning
« on: Feb 12th, 2002, 5:56pm »
<present>

Xarielle trudged through the woods, pulling her robe up to avoid snagging on every bush and root. Her heartbeat quickened as the cool dark of the forest sent a chill through her thin frame. The undergrowth grew thicker still, until it was a web of nettles, twisted roots, and gnarled shrubs. The young sorceress tripped over a dead tree, falling to the earth. She groaned, resting there for a moment. Xarielle took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of sweetly decaying vegetation. She smiled.

There the cabin stood, in its classic state of overgrowth and dissarray. Xarielle pushed herself up off the ground and gently opened the door. The twigs and leaves followed her inside, still clinging to her hair. She looked at an old lamp just inside the doorway. A small bit of oil still sloshed about in the bottom. Taking some stones from her pocket she struck a spark. Warm light immediately filled the room.

"Ahh Zelanith, I have never missed ye until now." Xarielle sighed, picking up a ring that rested on the mantle. She strode over to the crooked bookshelf and removed a thick tome. She inhaled once, twice, then sneezed dramatically, raising even more dust. The sorceress snatched the lamp and stepped out into the deepening night.

The trail was overgrown, Xarielle alternately lost and found it several times as she strode onward. The tome grew heavy under her arm. Xarielle looked upward, but the sky was obscured by the trees. Then, as if stumbling into daylight she emerged. It was not so much a clearing she entered, as a place devoid of underbrush. Moonbeams filtered through the trees, casting a pale glow upon a trio of stones. Their tops were broad and rounded, as if three huge toadstools had left their heads on the ground.

Xarielle blew out the lamplight, and moved to the center of the stones. She placed the book on the ground before her, and reverently slid the ring onto her finger. She also pulled a scrap of cloth, from the folds of her robe. It looked to be a bright blue against her mulled red shift. She placed it out in front of the book.

The sorceress opened the cover of the book. The pages appeared to be black, but the words glowed as if they were threads of silk scrawled across the parchment. She traced the script with a pointed fingernail. Her lips moved, but she said nothing. Xarielle's head rose as she noticed the moonbeams slowly shifting across the stones.

"There is no time..." she muttered. She began to read aloud from the page. The words were not those used to form speeches or sentences, yet they were not unfamiliar to her. Her tongue curled and her lips moved inward and outward, together and apart. Her voice droned on, unfaltering, unbreaking even as she turned page after page. Her voice rose in pitch and volume and still the pages turned. Finally, she yelled out into the night "Orec!"

Xarielle fell forward on her hands, staring at the motionless scrap of cloth. A harsh cackle, carried by a cold wind rose up from all around her. "You said you missed me child?" An apparition strode forward from a break in the trees. A wrinkled hag's face lit up in the moonlight. "You're far too weak to play with such things." the ghostly crone chided.

"I was wrong, I don't miss you. And I'm not weak any longer Zelanith..." Xarielle hissed, standing up.

"Is that so?" The crone stepped forward, brushing a yellowed fingernail across Xarielle's soft pale cheek. "Then why am I here instead of this.... Orec?" Zelanith's essence threw its head back and cackled. Xarielle reached her hand up to push Zelanith away, when she noticed the old ring glowing on her own finger with an amber light.

"No, I don't need you!" she screamed, pulling the ring off and throwing it on the ground. She ran back and lit the lamp once again. She jogged back along the withered path, the grating laughter fading in the night.

"You do need me, and you will be back."

~ ~ ~

Xarielle flew into the Laughing Lion like an ill wind. She left mud and dirt, twigs and leaves, across the tavern floor. She flopped into her chair by the hearth, biting her bottom lip. A barmaid walked over, "Lady Xarielle, can I get ye some tea?"

Xarielle straightened in her chair, wiping away an ill-concealed tear. "No. I need some mulled wine, now. And my writing materials." she hissed.

"Ye don't have to get snippy... Even a finger wiggler needs a drink now and again." The woman cocked her head looking at the sorceress. "An' you most of all by my reckoning."

Xarielle sighed, muttering a grudging thanks as the parchment, inkwell, and pen were placed in front of her. She wasted no time putting the pen to parchment. Xarielle didn't even notice when the wine was served.

Xarielle
Friendly Interloper

A public apology to the Sisterhood from the Glastonbury Irregulars
« on: Feb 13th, 2002, 5:12pm »

Bowar bowed slightly so that Danae could fasten the clasp of his cloak.

"How do I look Danae?" Bowar questioned.

"Like a peasant trying to fit in with nobles" Danae smiled.

"Good, I will not hide what I am" then pointing at the gathered crowd inside the doors of the hall he added "See them there, dressed in their royal purples and reds, and bearing the isignias of the majestic eagle, the powerful dragon or kingly lion. They will not let you forget their noble station, not ever. They despise us, I can see it in their eyes. They despise everything we stand for. And they especially despise where we came from, us lowly peasants who toiled in their fields only months ago. Well I will not let them forget my common birth. They force me to play this little game of theirs but no matter my words, when they look upon me they will constantly be reminded I am not one of them... that I represent the people they so desperately want to distance themselves from."

Danae managed a quick smile and pushed him off. And so it was that Bowar, once a pig farmer of Glastonbury, walked through the noble gathering to make his public apology to the Sisterhood for the words of one of his members. His walk and posture were equal to that of any man or women present but his garb stood out. Amongst the royal purples and reds, silvers and black, strode Bowar in the deepest of brown painted plate mail. Dents and scratches covered the surface and no attempts to fix them were apparent. Even his cloak, bearing the walking boar on a checkered field of brown and biege, stood as a reminder of his lowly birth. Bowar relished in the confused glances and upturned noses the garb produced but he contained his smirk. He did not wish to slight the Sisterhood, for whom he had high regard, but he would not pretend to be anything more than he was.

Bower stepped onto the platform and cleared his throat as he addressed those who had gathered.

"I come before you now to publically acknowledge the words of my man Frederyck, in regards to one of the most honorable Sisterhood, were made without claim and were most improper. He shamed you all publically with this comment and their is no excuse for that. The Sisterhood has done nothing to deserve this slight and on behalf of the Irregulars I offer my sincerest apologies. I wish no ill will between our respective guilds and it would truly pain us to find we can not ammend this situation.

On his behalf I will say this though, we here in the Irregulars are all mere peasants. Such insults and worse are commonly thrown around between our members and I fear this young lad may have forgotten his place. A man unjustly accused of murder and treason surely can not be totally accountable for the words he spews in his duress. Surely his head was not on straight and while I do not ask you to excuse him I do ask you to be lenient with him. So while it may be acceptable for us peasantry to speak this way to one another we must not forget our place amongst you noble lords and ladies. We must show you the respect you deserve and be aware of our station at all times. There is no excuse then for what he did but again, please remember the situation that aroused them. I beg of you all to hear his apology and listen to the sincerity in his voice. The lad truly regrets what he did."

Bowar


Watching from the back of the gathering, Xaviera heard the sotto voce slights and jests made at Bowar's expense.

"He bears himself well enough," she thought. Xaviera let a small sigh esacpe, she knew that It would matter little to the nobles that he came here to make amends. All they would see is a peasant, be amused, and more to the point, resentful of what he represents to the common folk.

Just as Bowar finished his apology, she slipped quietly out the back.

Xaviera


A Father's Tale
« on: Feb 11th, 2002, 10:04am »

A Father's Tale

Cellach pressed onward. He could hear the Welshman's ribs beginning to crack under the force of his mailed knee. The village chieftain must have been a strong warrior in his day, but the years had taken much of his former strength and the shattered pelvis and broken jaw had sapped the remainder.

"Do you accept the One, True God? Or will you condemn your soul to eternal damnation" He screamed, hot spit spraying down on the Welshman's broken face.

The Welshman could summon little more than a bloody gurgle.

"You stand at a precipice, dog! Your life is forfeit, your body broken."Cellach eased a bit, allowing the Welshman to take in air. "You can repent and accept the Mercy of God and His Holy Church," then reapplying the force, "Or burn in the eternal fires of Hell! Which is it?"

The Welshman shook his dead, defiance in his eyes.

"Very well, Pagan" Cellach lifted his hammer up above his head, "When you get to Hell, you tell them Cellach sent you!" and with a practiced stroke, planted the spiked pommel squarely between the Welshman's eyes.

Cellach stood up, over the broken chieftain, and surveyed the Welsh village. The fires had died down now, and only a few of the larger wood beams still smoldered. The sun was low in the west, throwing tall shadows about the ruins and bathing the scene in an eerie orange glow. Truly this was Hell on earth.

He walked to the three Welsh corpses he had set aside earlier. Only three. This was the worst one yet. Only three souls saved. Only three souls freed from their heathen chains. Only three souls sent to God. In some villages, he was able to rescue a dozen souls, or more. Once he had even left the women and children alive after they converted en-mass. He produced a vial of Holy Water and began final rites.

It was getting dark, and soon the wolves would come. Cellach was not going to let His faithful have their bodies torn apart, but there would not be time for 3 separate graves. He piled the corpses into one, deep hole. Their earthly forms would have to be content with one grave, and the wolves would have to be content with the rest of the village. Cellach prayed. He prayed that their spirits would find salvation, and that the Mercy of God would forgive the heathen deeds they did in life. He knew their souls were in His hands now. With aching muscles, but an easy heart, Cellach buried the three newest members of his Welsh congregation, and engraved God's holy symbol into a charged plank for a grave-board.

Missionary work was hard... but rewarding.

A Father's Tale (Part II)

It was almost midnight by the time Cellach reached the trading post. It had been a long day of proselytizing and conversions, and there would be even more missionary work tomorrow. He was thankful that at least he had a place to stay for the night, even if it was in a smugglers' den. At least these smugglers paid lip service to the Church. It was, after all, the King's laws they were breaking, not God's.

Cellach nodded to Thomas as he entered the trading post grounds. It wasn't much of a compound, just a fortified, two-story house, with a short pier. Thomas wasn't much of a guard, either. Cellach hadn't spoken to him at any length, but from what he gathered, Thomas was once an armorsmith. Something must have driven out of Camelot, because he now just sold what armor he could accumulate, from trade or otherwise. Thomas had a good eye though, and could spot trouble from a mile away. Cellach was thankful for that, Wales was no place to be weary, especially at night.

Passing out the cursory benedictions, Cellach tread though a sea of half-sleeping outlaws making his way to the ladder, and his small, second-story room. Normally reserved for their ringleader, Cellach was able to rent it for the exorbitant price of 10 silver a night. As far as he was concerned, this was still a bargain, was much safer than sleeping lightly among the rogues below. The tithe Cellach extracted from the Welsh was usually 20 or 30 times that, and could be more if he paid a visit to the ancient burial stones. There the Pagan dead rise to seek the flesh of the living (often bringing their burial-treasures along).

To his surprise and outrage, Cellach found someone sleeping in his bed. "Eh, you! Wake up!" He nudged the occupant not-so-gently with his boot. "I've payed good money for this room and I won't have your filthy arse sleeping in my bed."

"Cellach?" the man sat up, fumbling for a lamp. "Dia duit!"

The voice carried Cellach back to a different time, a different land. "Flannigan, you bastard, what are you doing in Wales?" he asked in stunned disbelief.

"I could ask you the same thing, brother." Replied the stranger, whose green eyes now shone clearly in the lamplight. "Conas tá tú?"

"Don't call me that, I'm not your brother!" barked Cellach, "And don't speak to me in that pagan tongue. I thought I made it clear that I never wanted to see any of you, ever again."

"Aithníonn cíaróg cíaróg eile, Cellach." The stranger smiled. "There's no denying your flesh and blood. It's been what, five, six years, give your baby brother a hug." He stood up, arms outstretched.

"Titim gan éirí ort, Flannigan!" Spat Cellach. "I'd sooner hug a Welshman. Now get out," he pointed at the trap door in the floor. "And take that Hibernian stink with you."

"It's father," said the stranger, sitting down and growing quiet, "He's dieing."

"He's been dead to me for years." Replied Cellach, turning away from the lamp.

"Surely you don't mean that, Cellach. He still loves you. You are his eldest son..."

"I am, was, his ONLY son!" Cellach interrupted. "You have no right to call him your father."

"I don't want to argue with you, Cellach." the stranger packed and began to put on his boots. "He just wanted me to find you, so that he could see you, one last time before he passed. He misses you terribly; these last years have been hard on him. I know you will probably never forgive him for taking my mother, but surely you can find the mercy in that stone heart of yours to grant a dieing man his last wish? Would you not do as much for a stranger?" The stranger drapped his cloak around his shoulders and began for the trap door. "Isn't Forgiveness a Godly virtue?"

Cellach lost himself in a flood of memories. It seemed an eternity had passed since those happy, childhood days in Hibernia. Maybe God had punished the old man enough. "Wait." He said, closing the trap door. "Wales is dangerous at night. We'll go in the morning."

"Thank you..." The stranger unclasped his cloak.

"But you sleep on the floor." The cleric interrupted, pointing at the far corner of the small room. He flipped over the straw mattress and threw on his cloak and saddle blanket for sheets. "And prayers first." Cellach set up a small, traveling shrine and they both kneeled before it.

After prayers, candles were extinguished as they returned to their respective corners. Not a word passed between them until dawn.

Cellach


Nightfall in Wales...
Nightfall in Wales...

Cellach stared across the campfire at the bandit minstrel tuning his lute. It was a remarkably mild night for Wales this time of year. As the musician began to play, Cellach drifted off into self-contemplation, loosing himself in the swirl of the cheap brandy he sipped from a wooden cup. His father's death and final request were still fresh in his mind. He needed to go, needed to finish what was started generations ago. Why was he spending his time with these scoundrels? Was the reward truly worth the risk to his good name?

"Father," Dylan, the cutthroats' leader called out. "Will ya lead da lads ina prayer uh thanks ta God Almighty... and His plentiful blessin's!" He held up fistful of pearl strings and golden chains looted from the last Welsh village the band had visited.

"Very well," Cellach stood up, and took his place, among the circle of raiders. Some planted their longswords in the ground and kneeled before the crossguard, others simply bowed their heads. He knew most of these scum couldn't care less about God or the Church, but their leader had them well trained. Dylan actually was a religious man, not that it stopped him from robbing, murdering or any other assorted villainy; he was just sure to make regular confessions at the chapel in Swanton Keep. A converted Arawnite, Dylan was also part Welsh, a quarter part by Cellach best guess. This, however didn't seem to stop Dylan from slaughtering Welshman, and in fact seemed to fuel his, often unreasonable, bloodlust. Cellach had grown quite fond of the bandit leader over the course of this last campaign; indeed they were not so very different.

"We gather this night to give thanks to you, Almighty God..." Cellach spoke the prayers with little passion. He understood that these "missionary" excursions into Wales were little more than an excuse to pillage the countryside and bring their spoils back to the whorehouses of Albion. It was a game of charades with willing participants in all courts. The mercenary scum were just as willing to raid in God's name, as any other. Cellach was willing to use their steel to extract what few conversions he could from the locals, along with his sizable "tithe" of the spoils. Even the heathen Welsh seemed complacent in their own slaughter, rarely mustering any organized resistance to oppose Cellach's death-squad. These prayers were just another form to observe, another ritual in this litany of blood, another pirouette in this genocidal grand-ballet.

He did not feel sympathy for the pagan Welsh, they were not deserving of that; they weren't really "people" after all. It was just the constant slaughter that took its toll. The crack of bone and bubbling hiss of spurting blood had lost its novelty in Wales. The countryside was bleak and barren; gray-brown moors with little more than tombstones and gnarled trees to differentiate one hill from the next. The only color came from the blood that flooded wherever the band went, and even that turned brown-gray all too quickly. Cellach had grown sick of seeing gray and brown, brown and gray; the sky, the clouds, the horizon, the lakes, the hills, the valleys; all an indistinguishable mass of brown and gray. Cellach finished the prayers and reclaimed his patch of dirt under his twisted, old, oak tree.

"Sometin' troublin' you, Father?" Dylan approached, limping from an ancient wound. "Yer prayers tonight had not der usual zeal."

"Nay, I just grow tired." He answered, ashamed that he'd let his mood slip into the service, "I've been to long in Wales. The stink is getting to me."

"Ah, I know what ya mean, Father" the old captain blasted the contents of his nose into his cloak. "The moors do release some powerful foul vapors wit da set'n sun."

"It's not just that, Dylan," Cellach felt he could share his mind with the grizzled old veteran. "I am beginning to feel our mission is Wales is futile. Sure, we can evict the heathens from this land, but never for long. We extract a toll in blood and gold from any Welshman we find, but still they come. And even save what rare souls we can, the Welsh breed more for their demon-gods. What good does our work here do Albion if our own lands fall to outland invaders. Would our efforts not be better spent fighting the Celts, Norsemen and their monstrous allies? They are the threat. Even now, my brethren in the irregulars are probably in siege around some Hibernian fortress, or matching polearms against some trollish horror."

"Yah, but ya trains well here, lad." Dylan grinned, revealing half a mouthful of rotting and misshapen teeth. "Why when I first met ya, yer was just a wee pup, ya could barely swing dat hammer without hit'n yerself and anyone wit'n arms length. Weren't ja just a lowly acolyte when ya first came ta Wales?"

"Curate." Cellach corrected.

"Aye, and now yer some 'Ecclesiastic' wit a seat on two 'ak-u-men-ick-al' councils, aye? All from yer missionary work in Wales!" The mercenary looked the priest over. "And that fine suit o' mail yer wear'n, I'll take it our tithe didn't go to waste?"

"No, and I had quite a sum left over to add to the Irregulars' coffers." Cellach waxed pensive. "But we cannot hope to 'win' in Wales. The crown sees no reason to send soldiers here to annex the country, and what few guards did come became bandits." Stopping himself, "No offense."

"None taken, lad," With another grin. "So, where's yer outfit fight'n now, Ireland?"

"Aye, that's what I hear. But I did not go." Cellach looked down, ashamed. "I should be with them, but I have made a vow, never to set foot in Ireland, unless it is at the head of an army. You see, Dylan, I have some history there, and have seen far too many good, God-fearing people perish in that forsaken land to add myself to the toll. I will return only when we can muster enough force to take territory, and the will to hold it! I have already broken that vow twice, but each time was able to return home on my own two feet. I will not tempt fate again."

"Ah, I hear some news from da front too. I hears it that that nobles from both armies joust about, or ignores one another on da field to raid each others baggage trains." The old man spits. "Such is nobleman's war. Dat's why ya'll find me in Wales, do'n da Lord's work and get'n rewards for it, in dis life and da next."

"Maybe you're right Dylan. Orec has already paid the price for charging out into battle unprepared. He was gripped by his own demons. Consumed by his father's shameful cowardice, how could he act differently; I cannot blame him..."

Their moment of silence was broken by the howl of a cold wind.

Cellach continued, "No, Dylan, I think this will be my last campaign in Wales, at least for the foreseeable future. With my new rank in the Church, I think I can begin to exert some influence. Soon, hopefully soon, I can present my case to the Archbishop. The nobles are now fully in control of the war, and I see nothing good coming of it. Already there has been mumbling about the Crown's discontent with the Irregulars, hushed plots and poisonous whispers envelop the court. It seems that armed peasants are beginning to be taken seriously as a force, and maybe as a threat. I hope to present His Holiness with a plan for a release for all this tension."

"A release?" The captain questioned, "What do you mean?"

"A Crusade!" Nodded Cellach. "What better place to keep armed peasants than on enemies land? They would not need to be fed, as they could forage, and if the season permitted, even plant crops. They would no longer make the Crown nervous, as they would be hundreds of leagues away. What's more the king could open his prisons, offering clemency, while the church could offer absolution, to any who joined the Crusade. The Crown could rid itself of 'riff-raff' once and for all by sending them into the frontiers. If the Crown would be so generous as to offer small land-grants for homesteads in conquered territory then they needn't worry about their undesirables ever returning. A good plan, don't you think, Dylan?"

"Bah, it'd never work, Father Cellach. The Crown's too greedy!" the old man paused, "But if ya can convince the Church, maybe ya'd have a chance, at least to build that army ya'd spoke of."

Cellach looked down at his holy symbol, and then to the Boar emblazoned upon his shield. "Maybe," he though, "Just maybe..."

Cellach

A Note arrives for Bowar and Sixtus
« on: Feb 13th, 2002, 12:13pm »

It had been a long day and now she was angry. "Threaten me, how dare he, threaten me," she muttered under her breath, "then he thinks a simple apology would be enough to set things right, to remove the mantle of suspicion he, a knight, chose to wrap himself in."

"I must not lose sight of my purpose." Xaviera hunted for parchment, ink and a quill. Zenob had suggested caution should rule when discussing the events that took place in the cathedral catacombs and about Camelot. Yet, she had told Sixtus that one of the members of his company was possibly at risk. Now she was angry with herself and became critical. "Why did I ever bother to involve myself with that wandering, overeager, cabalist? Some pampered son of a wealthy Avalonian family no doubt, judging from the expensive clothes he wore while poking about in the depths of Mithra's Tomb." She sighed and shook her head, "how many times did I come upon him and bring him back before the soul fled the body?"

She tore herself back to the task at hand and began to write.

”Good Sirs,

I fear that one of your company may be at risk; pulled into some plot involving the safety of Albion. It is not possible for me to judge the exact nature of this business, be it for good or evil, at this point.

Last night a knight of peculiar temperament led Tanaburs down into the cathedral catacombs. As you know, this is sacred ground and one does not expect to see knights and cabalists skulking about the place. I confronted them and this knight, if he is indeed one, became agitated and hostile. There have been many strange and dangerous goings on about the palace of late. Royal guards have forsaken their oath and turned their cloak; I realize this must seem like a wild claim but I assure you it is true.

It seems to me that Tanaburs is a tad naive and perhaps led a sheltered life. I base this observation on my encounters with him in the Tomb of Mithra. I am concerned he is being led astray by this man and may suffer some grievous harm or mischief. I followed this knight and I have learned his identity or at least the name some call him by; it is Raicus. He wears a cloak adorned with what appears to be two crossed romanized swords upon a red and white checked field. His shield bears the same device.

The Lord is concerned with the tiniest sparrow.

Xaviera”

She placed the note in an envelope and wrote the names Bowar and Sixtus upon it, turned it over and struck her family signet ring into the sealing wax. She then went in search of one of the new postualtes to deliver it. "Esperanza, I require a service of you." "Yes, sister?" Xaviera thrust the sealed envelope into her hand. "Take this down to Glastonbury and deliver this note to the tavern keeper of the Laughing Lion." The young woman's eyes grew wide. "Sister you mean for me to enter...a...a" "Yes, to enter a tavern. It won't kill you and it's not a sin to merely go inside. Now off with you."

Xaviera returned to her cell, threw herself down on the bed and prayed her skull would stop hurting. She had forgotten, until last night when Sixtus' voice boomed in her head, that her nursemaid had once explained it might be possible to speak to another through thoughts. "Bloody hell," she mumbled, "why does it have to be so loud?"

Not much later, a slightly shaking postulate from the abbey handed the tavern keeper of the Laughing Lion a sealed note.

Xaviera


Bowar rubbed his forehead, the weight of recent events clearly draining him.

"This is all we needed" he said as he handed the note to Sixtus "What do you think friend? How do we handle this situation".

The warrior did not wait for a response as he dropped his head into the table with a thud.

"I think I need a drink. This is beginning to be all too much for me".

Bowar


Xaviera went to Lady Winchell to report the strange encounter in the cathedral catacombs of the previous night involving Raicus and Tanaburs. After explaining the evnets that led to her discovery of the two men in the crypts, she brought the tale to a conclusion by noting:

"This knight, if he is indeed one, threatened to do me harm and accused me of spying on him. As you know it was my day to attend to the maintenance of the crypt. I believe he would have drawn his sword against me if the cabalist had not restrained him. I had provided aid to the man in the Tomb of Mithra and he spoke of this and the knight seemed somewhat mollified."

Lady Winchell looked thoughtful for a moment, "Xaviera, do you know the names of these men?" "The cabalist is Tanaburs of the Glastonbury Irregulars. I followed this knight and I have learned his identity or at least the name some call him by. It is Raicus.

"Raicus, are you sure?" The words were said with such intensity that Xaviera involuntarily took a step back . "I am sure that was the name spoken." Lady Winchell began to pace, "Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Xaviera. I'm sure you know about the controversy surrounding this upstart band of peasants...the Irregulars, concerning the death of Lady Winterborne, insults to the members of the Sisterhood, and charges of spying." Xaviera nodded. "Raicus, a most noble knight and defender of the Holy Church is our shield in time of trouble against enemies from abroad and within." Lady Winchell emphasized the last word.

As she turned to leave, Lady Winchell placed a hand on her arm. "One moment Xaviera, there have been reports of a daughter of the Church visiting a certain tavern in Glastonbury. Have you ever heard of the Laughing Lion?" She tilted her head to the right, "The Laughing Lion? An odd name to be sure...it almost sounds like a name from one of the stories my nurse would tell me..." Lady Winchell's tone became more direct, "enough prattle, girl. Have you been to this establishment, yes or no?" "Yes, I have been to the Laughing Lion Tavern in Glastonbury." "If your mother were alive, she would be appalled and ashamed. A lady cannot be seen in the company of such scoundrels. I forbid you from ever setting foot in that establishment again. However, since you seem to be developing a fondness for wallowing in the muck, report to Sister Deane at Vetusa Abbey and tell her you are to tend the pigs for the next week."

"As you say so shall it be," Xaviera dropped a graceful curtsey to Lady Winchell. "I was led to believe that the Lord is interested in the tiniest sparrow. It would seem that the Church," she paused and smiled, "is only interested in sparrows of noble birth."

Xaviera


Sixtus took the note from Bowar and read it over, scowling slightly. As soon as he was finished reading he motioned towards the fire with it; Bowar nodded and Sixtus cast it into the flames.

"This is the second warning Xaviera has given us. At this point her motives remain a mystery to me, and I must say that her chance encounter with us in the Lion seems less and less a coincidence. The question I want answered is why is she helping us? She knows Racius is involved, and she must know the power he has within the higher courts. So why risk the contact with us?"

Bowar sighed and took a long pull from his flask before responding.

"I've no idea... and at this point we can't even assume that she is helping us. We'll have to speak privately with Tanaburs to confirm this though."

Sixtus nodded solemnly.

"If it does turn out to be true, Tanaburs can no longer be trusted... at least not toally. I would not think him a traitor to his friends, but who knows what leverage Racius may have over him?"

Bowar nodded, and put his head back down onto the table with a thump.

Sixtus


Requesting and Audience
« on: Feb 19th, 2002, 1:47pm »

Arguyle walked up to the gates of the Glastonbury Irregulars camp and knocked thrice on the sturdy wood. He then turned and looked out onto the field and saw birds landing and snatching worms, farmers in their fields and children playing among the tall grasses. It took him back to a time when he was but a young lad and had not yet chosen his future.

His mind drifted to a time some 22 years ago....


The laughter of the children could be heard throughout the village of Humberton. We small boys were playing a game known simply as "Stones". We would stack the bones of long dead cattle into piles with the skulls on top. Then we would take turns tossing stones at the skulls to see who had the best aim. As you missed they were eliminated from the competition. If you missed too soon the sting of the gibbing of your friends would hurt more than the disappointment of no longer being in the game. Those that made it to the next round would take 5 paces back and throw again. We would continue this until there was only one boy left. That boy would be known as the King of the Stones for the rest of the day. Twas quite an honor to hold that title.

I had been lucky to make it into the fourth and final round but to my chagrin I was up against a lad that had been the King of the Stones for a longer period than my young mind could remember. His name was Arnold MacTiernan. Not only was Arnold the reigning King but he was also the town bully. As I stepped up to the line to toss my stone I could hear Arnold in the background yelling insults to try and distract me. He called me plowboy and hayseed trying to draw on my disdain for my families peasant status and anger me. However, I was deep in concentration and would not be distracted by the ramblings of a chawbacon such as himself.

I took a deep breath, focused my eyes on the cow skull 30 paces ahead of me and drew back to throw my stone. Just as my arm came forward I heard Arnold say, "HAR and your mother be a whore!"

My concentration was shattered but I somehow kept the stone from leaving my hand. I turned toward Arnold with hatred in my heart and fire in my eyes and I raised the hand holding the stone. I readied myself to toss it at his head. He knew that he had no hope of engaging me before the stone left my hand and he began backing away putting his hands up around his head. Then suddenly I saw a man in beautifully shining armor step in front of me. My first thought was that he was a Guardsmen but then I saw it. The emblem of the Church of Albion embalzoned on his chest.

The man kneeled down in front of me and removed his helm. It was Sir William Mansfield and he was a Knight of the Round Table. He was known throughout the land as a fair and fierce Paladin. He looked at me and smiled and said, "Lad, do not throw that stone in anger at that boy. He knows not the folly of his ways. Have mercy on him I ask you. Turn and instead toss the stone at that skull. Take that which is most valuable to him. His pride. Let the Lord be your guide in all you do and you will never go astray."

I blinked and turned. I focused and I threw. The stone soared straight as an arrow and struck the skull squarely, knocking it from its perch. The other boys cheered as the skull fell and Arnold looked to the ground dejectedly. He knew that to strike the skull from this distance was no easy task and that he would have to throw truer than ever he had.

In the end Arnold missed the skull and I was, for one day at least, no longer a peasant boy. I was King! And Arnold bothered me no more.

That night I lay in bed and I thought of the words of the Knight.

"Let the Lord be your guide...."

Blink..

"Let the Lord be your guide..."

Yawn..

"Let the Lord be your guide..."

Sleep overcame me and I dreamed of Dragons and Damsels and of being King of the Stones. But mostly I dreamed of the Church.

When I awoke I felt as if I had been bathed in the Light of God. I knew what I was to do so I raised from my bed and set off for Camelot.

Hours later I arrived, a lad of only nine years, and I found my way to the Church of Albion. As I entered I was awestruck by the beauty of the stained glass and the sheer immenseness of the building. I saw a Priest and I ran to him.

"Father, may I speak to you?", I asked.

"Yes my son. I am Father Michael. How can I be of aid to you?", he replied.

"Father, I...well...I come to server my Lord God. I come to become a Knight."

The Priest looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. He then smiled and called to a young cleric.

"Brother Joseph, please show this young man to his new room and contact his parents of his whereabouts and our intentions to train him."

"Yes Father", replied Joseph.

As we walked towars the sleeping quarters Father Michael called out, "Lad, what is your name?"

I stood tall and I answered, "I am Arguyle MacFadden."


........the sound of the metal window in the gate grating against the wooden from brought him back to the here and now. He whirled and saw a gnarled old man peering at him through the window. The old man spoke in a creaking voice.

"Lad! I say what be yer name?"

Arguyle faced the man squarely and said, "I am Arguyle MacFadden of the Order of the Red Lions."

"What be yer business here with the Irregulars. We have no trouble with the Crown again I trust. Bowar had straightened that out so if'n ye be here to cause trouble just turn yerself right around."

Arguyle chuckled and said, "No my good man. I am not here to cause trouble. The exact opposite I think. I have a note that I would like to have delivered to Bowar."

The old man looked at him sideways for a moment and then replied, "Well....if'n ye ain't 'ere to cause more trouble then ye kin give me yer note. I'll see it delivered to Bowar meself."

Arguyle handed the note over to the man. It was sealed with a wax emblem resembling a rampant lion. It was simply addressed "Bowar of the Irregulars".

"I thank you for your attention to this matter good sir. It is very important," said Arguyle.

"Very good. I'll care fer it. Now unless ye have more business ye should be leaving."

With that the old man slammed the window shut and Arguyle was once again alone.

He walked to his horse which was hobbled not far away and removed the hobbling cords from its feet. He sprung into the saddle and spurred his horse in the direction of Camelot.


Later that afternoon Bowar was given the note by the old man at the gate. He recognized the seal as that of the Order of the Red Lions and wondered what these men wanted with him.

He opened the note and read to himself.


Bowar,

I would like to request a meeting with you if possible. I feel that the Irregulars have too long been, shall we say, separated from the rest of our soldiers here in Albion. I know your disdain for the nobles of our land but please meet with me and hear me out. I think it is time that the Nobles and the Commoners, I do so hate that word, come together in defense of Albion. You and yours have proven your mettle time and again on the field of battle. I pray you will not stand alone any longer.

Please meet me in Cotswald Village on the morrow. I pray that 7pm CST will be good for you. I fear that anything earlier may prove impossible for me.

Lord High General Arguyle MacFadden
Order of the Red Lions
Paladin of the 24th Circle
Riddle Master of Albion”


Winterborne's report
« on: Mar 2nd, 2002, 5:11pm »

<<a>>


M'lady Triss,

Under the auspices of The Sisterhood, I bore the blackened cape and armour of a rogue and followed Rembrandt and his company into Llyn Barfog. As suspected, they were within the camps of the renagade Soldiers upon the borders of Wales and the Avalonian village. I witnessed Rembrandt and his cohorts parlaying with the soldiers and the Lieutanant...I knew something was afoul! However, much to my surprise, it seems the Lieutenant and Rembrandt came to some sort of disagreement where then the renegade soldiers took to raise arms against the Knight of the Crest. Rembrandt and his 'knights' they quickly took flight to seek solace in the Avalonian village.

I continued my duty, still bearing the cloak and armour and followed the Knights of the Crest into the nearby village, where it seems that they had a small caravan waiting near the docks. Within the caravan, they were placing casks of oil and pitch, harvested from the blubber of the dred Afanc's eggs found along the shorelines. This lead me to believe that perhaps they were indeed planning to raize Cornwall Station with the rich firewood found in Barfog. With this evidence, I returned to my room within Snowdonia to rest for the eve and sent word immediately to Racius's investigator Albricht to head to Rembrandt under the banner of joining his cell in hopes of setting a trap.

I rode hard back to Cornwall Station the following morning to meet Albricht and seek the capture of Rembrandt and his Knights. As planned, Albricht had worked his way into the Knights of the Crest's cell and arranged a meeting while I gathered the Sisterhood to spring the trap upon them. We gathered into a small group, bearing arms and bows and barged into the Cornwall Station en masse and took to the upper quarters of the Station. We had sucessfully captured Rembrandt and from there, I shackled him and took him to the ruined tower three leagues from the Station.

Lo, I was unable to get much from him, despite M'lady Tiewin's interrogation tactics. But then, as the sun set the ghosts of the tower began to rise! Quickly, fearing for The Sisterhood's life, I took to arms to defend them. During the melee, Rembrandt was able to escape into shadow and fled back to the Station! We gave chase, with the aid of our minstrel Ashondar's spell of haste, and quickly caught up to the Knight. Much to our surprise, there was a cadre of the Knights of the Crest's number along the road! We all took to arms and accusations, but my investigations were cut short after Rembrandt drew forth a poisoned blade and struck me within the stomach.

My memory is hazy after that, as I awoke in the summoning tower just east of the Catacombs. Still dazed and weakened, I send you this letter. I have many theories about this, but I am assured that Rembrandt was the man I saw within the Guild of Shadows conspiring with the political anarchist Meril and the Glastonbury Grifter. I knew that Rembrandt's face was familiar, identified two weeks ago after the first attemped assasination upon my life following the meeting with Lord Racius Lutheran in Camelot. I fear a dark alliance within the Glastonbury Irregulars, a shadow-cell of select individuals whom conspire with other 'knights' loyal their anarchic ways. Both camps used the same poison, drawn from the lilac of the Black Mountains upon their blades.

There is insurmountable evidence now that further reinforces my theories. As to what I will do now, I do not know but rest assured that the Knights of the Crest will never find peace within Albion as long as I still breath air. I shall await your further instruction, M'lady...

Regards,
Winterborne
Fifth House of Snowdonia


<Albricht's Report>

Adding to milady Winterborne's current report, not only was Rembrandt's mind on burning down the station, he, several times during the night hinted at his ties to the Renegade Soliders of Wales. Not only him, but the antics of his allies in the Crest further back our evidence that there is a dark cloud surrounding their true intentions.

I have been chasing this man ever since the first assault on milady Winterborne, although I had frankly failed to learn his identity uuntil the other night. By manipulating Jardane into telling me their side of the story, I was able to make contact with Rembrandt, and that was the beginning.

While meeting in Cornwall station, Rembrandt revealed many thigns to me he probably shouldn't have...his personal motivations, and a bigger picture. He even tried to manipulate me into thinking the Sisterhood was the real root of evil, and a high ranking guild in this circle of terror.

While Winterborne and her ladies rode, I stalled him by overthinking the plan to burn down the station, in which he repeatedly stated his willingness to kill innocents to get his message to Winterborne.

Even if there were no evidence to support his ties to the renegades, this was enough to put him to trial.

Winterborne and her riders arrived, and busted through the room I had chosen upstairs, and apprehended him. I left and met them again at the broken tower deeper in to Cornwall, where the questioning began. Dispite threats, Rembrandt hinted at his ties, and his motivations. Being present, there was more than enough evidence to convict for treason against the Crown of Albion.

After a surprise attack by a group of undead, Rembrandt fled, but we caught him near the treeline, where I loaded my crossbow, and held it to his neck. After a bit more questioning, Jardane and Rembrandt's cronies showed up to his rescue, knocking my bow from my hands, and pushing us back. Winterborne and I were wounded in the process. My wound was merely a scratch, but the wound inflicted upon Winterborne by Rembrandt was the identical poison used upon her in the assault in Camelot.

This is the final piece of evidence I needed to conclude the Crest's involvement in the attempted assassination of Winterborne, as well as conspiring to sack Cornwall Station. There is also little doubt in my mind that many members, if not all of them, are tied to the Renegades in some way.

Beware, there is a larger force at work than we had expected.



-----signature-----

Albricht Whitethorne
Glastonbury Irregulars


Bowar nodded to Enuru and thanked him for bringing news of the events to his ears.

"I am losing control of the situation" the warrior replied as he slumped into a chair "Something must be down. When I first heard the different tales of this Winterborne I sluffed her off as a pawn, perhaps even a mad woman. It seems I underestimated her."

Clenching his jaw as he slammed a mailed fist into the table.

"Damnit! I thought by pulling away from Camelot we could lay low and escape these "games!" Bowar rose again, his face flushed with rage "Gather the Irregulars Enuru, we can not hide from this any longer."
Bowar
---
Trolfriend's Namequest
« on: Feb 23rd, 2002, 4:17pm »
Sitting back down at his cousins' table with his tankard, Trolfriend stared into the abmber liquid as if it held the secrets of the universe... indeed, there were those that professed that it did. As the revelry continued around the table, the small band of cousins and brothers pulled slightly closer together, as if to protect their kin.

"Och, ye skinny lad - do yer think that were wise?" Dragonwulf asked this in a tone that implied both sympathy and incredulity. "I mean, gettin' up like tha' in fron' o' God an ther Irregulars an' talkin' o' yer Ma an Da? Na' ter mention th' incident wi' those bloddy buggers..." He spoke in a hushed tone, so as not to draw attention to his criticizm of his cousin.

Wulfling place one of his massively gentle healing hands on Dragonwulf's shoulder. He did not say anything, just looked at his cousin with his deep, bicolored eyes. He was the quiet one of the group, speaking ony as much as necessary. He brother, however, was not beholdin' to any such dogma.

"Dragon, ye righteous bastid son of an elfwhore, do ye na' see how painful this is fer him? Do ye na' see tha' he is hurtin' enough fer all o' us?!?" Earthwulf sighed, exasperated at his sahadow-like cousins' thickheadedness. "Troll, what is it ye be needin'? Can we help ye in some way?" All three looked expectantly at the pale Cabalist.

"As I stated, family mine, I have work to do. I had a vision last night, a vision that was more than a mere dream. I was struggling in my sleep, and when I awoke, I saw an emerald golem standing before me. I was drained of power, and I knew I had brought this creature forth, e'en though I could not possibly do so, for such magik still lies beyond me. This golem was unlike any other I had seen or heard of," the student of Dark Arts paused for a long drink, then continued staring into his cracked earthenware mug.

Minutes passed before he spoke again. "Aye, this golem was different. It had the face of my father, and it spoke to me. It told me to seek out my Father's fate, and when I found it, I would find my true name. It then said that when it returned to the earth, there would be a gift for me to take, one that would be important in my search. Then is crumbled, as do all golems, eventually, and in its dust I found these."

He reached into he pouch, pulling out two emeralds, one the size os a gold coin, the other the size of a copper. They glowed faintly, s glow that eminated from within the stones. The larger was cool to the touch, while the smaller was warm.

As he handed the gems to his cousins to inspect, he asked "Will you aid me in my quest?"
Over a month had passed, and the cousins found themselves huddled together under a small outcropping of rock, high in the mountains. Between the freezing rain and their fear of discovery, no fire was present. One of the horses had already been lost to a wandering dragon, while another was injured when the thin trail gave way beaneath her.

Thunder cracked overhead, raging with Thor's fury here on the borderland. It was as if the evil northern gods could sense their presence, and were eager to alert their minions to the presence of the intruders.

"The old woman told you it was up here, Wulfling, the secret of the stones. Still, cousins, I cannot see any end to this misery, nor enightenment about the stones. If ye wish it, we may turn back," Trolfriend pulled his cloak tighter around his body.

The woman had appeared as if from nowere two days after they left Glastonbury, riding north to the lands of Midgard. Stopping to rest on the edge of a forest - a forest that was closer to being a bog, in truth - Wulfing had stepped off into the twilight to give thanks once again to the Goddess, when a crone appeared before him.

"Many pardons, Mother," Wulfling began, his deep, giant voice resounding with kindess and geltle ease. "I dinna see ye there. Might I ask who ye be? An apparition? A spirit? A voice o' th' dead? Or be ye The Goddess hersel'?" As these words passed his lips, he gasped, for if it were true... he fell to his knees.

"Up, Boy!" She tilted her grizzled head back, cackling furiously. " I have news for ye! I be Zelanith..."
"Zelanith? I have heard tell o' ye', but it be only spoken in whispers an' rumor. Do ye na' be th' Patron o' Xarielle, or somesuch?" Wulfling had been indeed puzzled, for this woman - this apparition - came fromnowhere and was no one he had ever had truck with before. Even Xarielle he knew only in passing, in a few pleasant encounters in the guild hall and tavern.

"Bah, laddie, d' y' thin' I na' knoe yer thouts? I read em like y' wer an primer fer th' kiddies. This be na abo' yer precious guil', ner abou drinkin er e'en th' upstart which ya said i wer patron o'. This be abou' th future... th' future o' yer clan, an' th future o' th' Irregulars." She cackled hideously, mournfully. "I dinnae knoe whyfer i wer th' one chosen ter give yer this message, fer I care na abou' ye, but I were chosen an so here it be. Lissen well, younun, fer i'll na be repeatin' mesel': Go to the North Mountains, where th' win blows hard an th' cold eatcher bones like achil snackin on swttes. Go there t' th lair o' th' Black wyrm in th' lan' o' th' Norsemen, an ye shall fin' th answers t' those acurrsed stones. Pah. I leve ye ter this!"

With that, she was gone.

Wulfling awoke from this half dream, only to ralize that it was better to be in the Dreamworld at the moment than here huddled against his lumpy cousins. Hopefully this storm would blow itself out before too long.

"Och. I ha' ter go drain me willie, laddies. keep the plce warm an' toasty fer me, an order me another meade," said Dragonwulf wryly. The tavern - any tavern, for that matter was hundreds of miles from their precipice. Dragon sauntered down the path, oblivious to the cold. Nothing hurt him, these days, save the suffering ofthe innocent. Nothing, he thought, could ever hurt him again, not after the death of his family.

Shaking the memory from his head, he unbuttoned his trousers, letting fly a strong yellow stream over the cliff and with the wind. In that moment, he realized he was not alone. In one swift motion, his blade was outand his body whirling towards the hand that had barely touched his shoulder. The point of the knife was put firmly inbetween the visitor's 10th and 11th ribs, poised to puncture the liver, if need be.

"Dragonwulf," boomed the deep, resounding voice of the figure before him, "Sheathe thy weapon." The man added, with a touch of humor, glancing at the still exposed groin, "And thy blade as well!"

Dragon could not believe his eyes. Quiclky, he did as he was told, then stammered "But... but... it can't be! You - you're dead!"

Orec just grinned at him.

Earthwulf

A note arrives for Xarielle
« on: Mar 11th, 2002, 1:20pm »

Her face hidden by the hood of her cape a woman enters the Laughing Lion Tavern and quietly walks over to the tavern keeper.

In a voice that could be described as barely a whisper, the woman hands the tavern keeper a sealed note. "Good sir, would you do me the service of seeing that this note reaches Xarielle and none other." A gold piece accompanies the note into the man's hand. As he examines the seal on the back of the envelope, the woman disappears back into the night.

”Dear Xarielle,

Although we have met only once briefly, I need to talk with another woman I can trust, which excludes all of the members of the Sisterhood. This must certainly seem like an amazing statement. However, since the night of the wedding of Willoe to Verronica, the other sisters all seem to be acting terribly odd.

I cannot find any trace of my dearest friend Alexxa. No one has seen her; no one has heard from her; no one knows anything about her. Maybe I am going mad but I see her in my dreams and I know she is not dead but she is not here either. It makes no sense. Perhaps I am mad.

There may be more than a little danger involved should you choose to meet with me. It is not necessary for you to come alone but what I must say can only be said to another woman.

Respectfully

Xaviera de Monfort.”


Xarielle reads the note with a raised eybrow. Snatching a quill and parchment from her shelf she pens a quick response. The witch seals the parchment with her own mark, that of a rat perched atop a boar's head. Xarielle hands the letter to the Tavern keep. "Should Xaviera return this way, make sure this note is placed in her hands."


”Dear Xaviera,

I am intrigued, and have been ever since word reached me of the events regarding Alexxa. I always felt they deserved more examination but I assumed it was being handled within the house of sisters. I look forward to meeting with you and delving deeper into these matters.

Sincerely,
Xarielle Aruspex”


Xaviera slipped quietly into the Laughing Lion and approached the tavern keeper. In a quiet voice she asked the man if her correspondence had made its way into the hands of Xarielle. He nodded and slid a folded note toward her. She snatched it up and read Xarielle's reply. A feeling of hope surged briefly through her. She thanked the tavern keeper and went directly from the Laughing Lion to the stable master in Glastonbury to secure a horse for the trip back to Camelot.

About three miles from Glastonbury the air was shattered by the power of three clerics casting spells designed to harm and not heal. The ground before the rider and horse was ripped apart. The horse died instantly. The rider was first stunned and then flung into the ditch that bordered the road as the last of the spells landed.

A moment later four women approached the dead horse. Two watched the road in opposite directions while one searched the horse's saddlebags. The fourth glanced down at the body from the road. They departed after the one searching the horse produced a cloak and shield marked by a distinctive fleur-de-leys.
Sitting on a bench in the square near the Cathedral the cleric pondered last night's events.

She was not sure where she had been for the past few days but her armour and cloak suggested hard walking and fighting. She had a vague memory of being knocked off a horse but couldn't recall why or by whom; just a flash of light, the sensation of being thrown, and then darkness was all that she could remember.

Last night she found herself, without understanding why or how, at the siege of a keep on a small island. Some of her countrymen battling the heathens and barbarians seemed familiar but she could not recall why nor could she remember any of their names. Alone among the army she did what she had been trained to do...heal those still alive and raise the fallen whose spirits had not yet departed. Her memory did not fail when it came to understanding which spells to cast and when.

Most of the night, for her, involved running back and forth between two bridges that had to held so the siege could go on; the outer door had fallen but the inner one still held firm and time was rapidly becoming the enemy. Her last clear recollection was standing at the near end of a bridge as a group of heathens swept across it toward the island.

Other than knowing that she had been trained to heal, the rest of her life was now a mystery. It seemed she needed to find people who could help her recover what had been lost. However, knowing where to find such people was yet another mystery that needed to be solved.

Xaviera


Jonn on his own
« on: Mar 14th, 2002, 3:38pm »

Brother Jonn looked over the hill at the wargs running around. He had been tasked with killing a goblin Mystic, and now it's spine was in his pack, along with the gear from 6 others who had been foolish enough to to try and aid him at various times in the fight. He knew he had been lucky, if all of them had attacked,at once instead of piecemeal, he would have been in trouble. But his enemies had not coordinated their atack, and now they were dead.

He now looked at the wargs in the valley, and realized he could not leave this vale in htis fashon. He would thin the ranks before returning to Ludlow with his prize. If he took out enough of the large wolves, he may even rate some new training.

He bagan to stalk the creatures. taking them out singly or in pairs depending on how healthy they looked. Finally he knew the time was getting close to when he would have to depart for Camelot , when he saw a wolf at the base of the hill, alone. It was among the healthier ones that he had been attacking. Taking his staff in hand, he leaped on it, and cracked it in the ribs, causing it to yelp in pain. Suddenly another warg that had been hidden until then leaped out of the grass, and attacked him while he fought it's kin.

Jonn was feeling confident, he was in good health and was fully rested. He was dealing with the first warg, knowing the second would also soon fall to his staff, when he was beset by a third wolf from behind. Becoming worried, he began to wonder if he had overstepped himself and was about to learn a hard lesson in humility.

His thoughts were answered in the worst way. A forth and fifth wolf joined just as the first one was dispatched. Now fully aware of his predicament, Jonn cast his haste spell, and called upon saints vigor, as now only these blessings would save him. Running would do no good, there were too many attacking him.

His staff whirled about him, striking his foes left and right, like a bolt of wood smiting from above. Yelps were heard as one after another of the wargs were stuck, but they in turn were taking their toll on him. He could feel his health drain away as he was bitten over and over again by the evil animals.

The second wolf went down, then the third. He faced his forth and fifth asailants, his Haste having been expended. He did not expect to survive this fight, but like any true Defender of Albion, he would not go down without a fight. Gripping his staff with sweat and blood wet hands, he continued to fight on. There was no let up or time to catch his breath, only endless teeth and claws striking back at him.

The fourth wolf went down it's back broken, and now it was just him and the fifth wolf. He was barely hanging onto his own life, and feared he would die in vain. Another hit and he would probably be another grave in the hills of the North Black Mountains.

He struck the final wolf, and hurt it terribly. It howled with pain. The death blow came at him, and Jonn felt he was about to die, when he backed and tripped on the body of one of the dead wargs, causing him to evade the killing blow barely. Jonn summoned his final reserves, he brought his staff down on the warg, cracking it's skull and killing it.

Jonn wanted to collapse then and there, but knew it would be foolish, with so many enemies around. He hobbled away, leaning heavily on his staff, not even having the energy to heal himself. He knew he had earned the right to further knowledge in Camelot.

(OOC It pretty mush happend this way, only I hit the next season with the death of the 4th wowarg, causing the 5th to go gray on me. I have no dobt that if I had not gained at that moment, I would have probably been killed, as one hit from the warg would have killed me. Next time I will make sure I do not attack in the middle of a spawn area. 4 pops in just a couple seconds, I was almost sick. I love Haste and Vigor. I never have had to use them to save me like this before, but am I glad I had them. )

Brother Jonn
Slightly more humble and very thirsty memeber of the Glastonbury Irregulars.


MacMystery
« on: Mar 15th, 2002, 2:16pm »

Earthwulf rounded the corner to the forge. It had been a gloriuos day, and with the newfound coin in his urse, he intended to seek out a new weapon, for his scimitar was becoming worn and bent. It was twilight, the time he was told to meet Macheath for a bit of conversation, and perhaps a lesson in the finer points of metalwork.

Arriving a bit early, he walked over to the street vendors, order a roast potato and a pot of that Turkish mud they called coffee. None of the others in his family could understand why he drank the stuff, but to him it was the nectar of the gods. He sat down in front of Mackie's stall, and watched some of the street urchins scampre about, playing their battle games. "Och, ye shall experience tha' all too soon, we uns," he thought, but smiled at their anctics all the same.

Macheath wasn't there... a bit unusual, mayhap, but everyone has other business at times. Earth was in no hurry. He could wait.

*******************************************

Three hours had passed, and still no sign of his friend. Earth asked around, but no one in the neighboring stalls had seen Mackie in a week. Finally, the concerned mercenary broke in. The stall was in disarray, tools and straw strewn about, along with other evidence of a great struggle. There were smatterings of blood around, and a finger in the middle of the floor.

The eldest of the Wulf clan stooped and picked up the finger, complete with a ring. The ring was engraved with a crest of some sort, one that he had never seen - yet often heard about. The crest, like the finger, like much of the spilled blood, was not human.

Earthwulf

A song for ye drunks
« on: Mar 26th, 2002, 8:14am »

I heard a minstrel singin' this, and thought it were appropriate for ye... If ye can find one that knows this, get 'em ta sing it! ((OOC credits at the end))

I'm gonna dive into a dive I've dove into before...
gonna haunt I've haunted, like, a million times or more...
A familiar joint where gettin' drunk's the only point
To frequent this place with any frequencey at all.
Countin' on a remedy I've counted on before,
Goin' with the cure that's never failed me...
What you call the disease, I call the remedy
and what you call the cause I call the cure...

((----Another Drinkin' Song, the Mighty Mighty Bosstones))

I couldn't hear this song without hearin' Jonn singin' about his lil' brown jug... <laughs>

Buford
Cleric


I may have to learn this one. Add some more songs to my repertiour.

(( I have more emote quickbars than i do healing and fighting, does this mean I RP too much?))

Brother Jonn
Will revive for drinks
Drinking, Singing, Hitting Friar

For the boar and Glastonbury!
« on: Feb 5th, 2002, 8:51am »

So bravely went they to the pass,
Elorian, Macheath, and Cad.
To Odin's Keep their path did take,
Aye! - the longest walk they had to make.

Through valleys and o'er hills,
through raging blizzard,
our fine friends struggled on this day;
Ice Lizard's and Goblins deftly avoided,
as to Hibernia's Keep they made their way.

Into one more valley did they plunge,
and then began to climb,
a slope so steep it gave goats pause for thought;
our band pushed on as though it were naught.

When finally to the keep they came,
they saw the green banners flapping in the sun;
but enemies of any hue,
sadly they saw them none.

Macheath he ventured a little too close,
the banner design to admire;
sadly he gave not too much thought,
for the Master Hunter perched much higher.

Strike one, strike two,
and down he went,
this young highlander's blood bravely spent;
running down the uncaring hill,
his body toppled forward,
and then lay still.

Elorian stiffened as if in shock,
then raised his swords to the heavens, and cried,
"For the boar and Glastonbury!"
before charging the foe,
and striking mighty blow after blow;
his madness carried him for some time,
before he finally succumbed and died.

A foolish gesture, yes to be sure,
but one born from a warrior's heart so pure;
so noble he looked as he went to attack,
the boar of Glastonbury gleaming on his back.

Cadeag stood, rooted to the spot,
his bow unused, his arrows unshot.
Tears of anger tumbled down his ashen face,
inside he burned with ire;
shouting,
"For the boar and Glastonbury!"
he raised his bow,
and prepared himself to fire.

The broadhead arrow sang away,
a mage did reel in shock,
before righting himself and casting a glare;
then destroying the scout without a care.

"For the boar and Glastonbury!" echoed in the hills,
for some time after the band did go,
and many Hibernians trembled a'bed in fear,
glad they had not been there to face this foe.

Let all that face Albion,
understand and know,
thy path will be hard to tread;
When ye hear,
"For the boar and Glastonbury!",
then will you know,
the true meaning of worldly dread.
Cadeag Ethelwulf
---
Face down the warrior chewed the ground,
Listening to his friends' brave sounds --
"The boar and more," they cried, and charged!
The ground beneath their feet soon marred

By blood not blue, but passing true.
But when 'twas done, and all was through,
Three lay dead on loam supine
Beneath the snow-bowed trees and sky.

Mackie's face was sad and long
For fighting weak the Irish strong;
"A waste of life! A foul mistake!
A dim, disgusting fool I make."

Such bitter thoughts ran through his mind
As he lay still, dead limbs entwined
With Irish soil and bitter roots.
He'd found but death where he sought loot.

But later, when he sought his friends,
He found Cadeag had made amends.
A mighty song of roaring thunder,
That took their pain and made it wonder.

"Nae so bad," the warrior thought,
"When Cadeag recounts, I feel not
As though me life were spent in vain.
He's gone and cured me warrior's pain!"

And saying so, he drained a glass,
Saluting Cadeag's versing mass,
And toasting fine companionship.
What else could epic make of slip?
"Devil in a Kilt" MacHeath
---
A simple tale
« on: Sep 16th, 2002, 12:10pm »
In a keep to the north
Stood the defenders to a man
In preparation for a fight
In defense of the land

The leaders in conference
The talk of plans
Discussion abound
In the defense of their lands


Edeor and Glavian
For the Knights of their command
Eshnar and Treyden
For the Brotherhood they did stand

Lynx and Moryan
For Vivium and Banders that was their steed
In the shadows Stood Hargrim
For Liam's was his deed

Then there were the Friars
Faces of stone
Excelsius and Trithik
For the Hero's of Glaston

The plan was outlined
Everyone had a job to be done
All were accounted for
But the Hero's of Glaston

But what of the Irregulars?
Excelsius asked
Are we not included?
With what are we tasked?

The keep is yours.
Edeor replied
Hold it fast.
And let not the enemy inside.


Around a fire
Off on their own
Sat the Irregulars
The Hero's of Glaston

The Captains approached
And told of the plan
The irregulars all nodded
Almost to the man

When the morning came
The defenders gathered
To say their farewells
To friend that mattered

Hands were shook
And tears were shed
For no one knew
Which friends would be bled?

The Defenders marched
The keep was alone
Just a few guards
And the Hero's of Glaston

The irregulars prepared
Weapons were checked
Of what was to come
None knew what to expect

It was some time later
The horde appeared
Upon the keep
It had steered

The irregulars made ready
They manned the walls
From the captains
The orders were called

Frederyck and Amys
Let arrows fly true
To make sure
The horde got its due

Glithereon and Gayle
Though duelists they be
Pulled their bows
At anything they did see

Mare and Nura
Readied their components
And tossed spell after spell
Upon their opponents

Danae and Lorric
Kept the walls clear
Never letting any of the horde
Get anywhere near

Gustovian stood on the walls
His armor shining bright
And weapon at ready
For the upcoming fight

Excelsius, Trithik, and Jonn
The friars three
Cast spell of mending
When their staffs were free

Deadus and Nazia
The warriors