The warm breeze of early summer ripples the forest green pennants strung atop the keep walls of Lostwithiel like emerald waves upon the ocean. The high season of campaigning is going to begin next week and the Duchess Marianne has determined to host a tournament to honor her brave knights, entertain the common folk, and perhaps attract a few new followers to her banner.

This could easily be the most festive day of the year. Visiting knights saddle their horses with blankets and armor in the brightest colors of their house and the entire keep market is alive with the buzzing and murmuring of goods being traded. You can hear a mixture of delight from the merchants and low grumbling from the peasants who are, to a soul, convinced that they are being cheated in every deal but nevertheless pleased to find a few special objects and new tools to take home with them.

Everything would be perfect, save that some of the knights are giving sidelong glances to their squires and watching their surroundings more keenly than you'd expect. And that perhaps a few more of the peasants and laborers are looking a little gaunt coming out of the spring. Small reminders that the roads are less safe than they were and the harvest less bountiful.

But for today, they need not pay such troubles any heed.

Constance and Robena
Constance has been tasked with blessing the turning of the seasons to welcome the coming of summer. Robena, you have been tasked to accompany her and act as her honor guard, a high honor within the keep celebrating your welcome return. Your own match in the tournament is scheduled for later in the day and you'll have time to prepare for it.

Constance, how did you spend the past season and what's the fae rumor that's worrying you as you make small talk with Robena?

Robena, how did you spend the past season and what gives you confidence for the day? Oh, and you may wish to seek information on your opponent, who you know is called the Azure Knight but have never met before.

Nin and Tristan
Some of the supplies for the evening's feast have not arrived and you've heard ill rumors from a few of the peasants arriving most recently. It may be that the roads are worse even than people are willing to say, and the court has tasked you with looking into the matter quickly to ensure that everyone arriving for the tournament is well-fed. Tell us who you seek in town for information and how you start the...hunt let's call it.

Nin, how did you spend the last season and how has it prepared you to journey this summer?

Tristan, how did you spend the last season and what do you look forward to doing this summer?

Spring has meant four hours a day of archery practice. It's been a productive season; If the winds are gentle, he can't miss a bullseye from fifty paces now, and his muscles have grown to take the strain. Practicing while wearing armor has been an added challenge from previous years.

In summer the humid nights will make for good practice at working in the darkness - learning to hone his eyes to see without the aid of torchlight, to shoot and fight in it, to better see using his ears and nose.

It also means sleeping through the muggy days instead of enduring them, heavenly.

When he's not training, he's preparing in other ways, trading labour for lessons from any traveller who has a skill worth learning. Lessons in sewing and in stitching wounds, the administering and treatment of poisons, knowledge in common law and uncommon lore. Anything and everything he can do to make use of the time his body heals in. For summer? He plans for more of the same.

He's a tight little ball of youthful ambition, Tristan. He doesn't know when the time will come for him to prove himself, but he knows it can be measured in days. Taking breaks from his training fills him with needle-pains in his stomach and an unbearable itch in his limbs. One lesson that hasn't stuck is learning how to chill out.

All work and no play makes Tristan a sharp tool and a dull boy.

He's chomping at the bit to take to the woods with a hammock and a pack of provisions and make ambush. Or if the threat is more than he can take, to stalk the threat to its hideout and bring the news back to the stronghold. But Nin is the specialist here, at tracking and trailing.

He stomps down his impatience as he takes to Nin's side, but he's still vibrating with enthusiasm to be helpful as best he can. These are the moments he lives for.

When Nin came to this land years ago, it was in a traveling carriage drawn by a single pair of young goats. Since then, she's mostly left the carriage parked near the edges of town, in favor of traveling on foot or goatback. It still serves as her home, however, and she's managed to make it quite a comfortable home too.

The two goats have since become a small flock. The younger goats aren't quite like the two she started with—not quite like the goats of her homeland—because naturally she's had to breed them with local goats. But they're still very fine goats, if she's allowed to say so herself.

The past few years, her flock has grown, and this spring she's spent herding them around the countryside. Keeping an eye on her herd, keeping them safe and on the right path is a good way to spend her days and also gives her plenty of opportunity to explore the lands. There are few places a goat can't wander, and Nin follows to keep them safe.

She's also begun selling them and their products on the market, not that she intends for it to become a living on its own, but trade is a good way to ... keep an eye and an ear on what goes on in the local community. You get to know the kinds of people who tend to know other people, and at the market you hear a lot of things if you only keep your ears open.

That's what she's been doing, and if anyone knows about supply routes and missing supplies, it's surely the traders at the market.

What has she already heard?

*

Tristan is impatient to get out of the city and hunt something, Nin can tell (it's not hard to tell), but hunting is mostly a waiting game. It's about lying still and listening, observing, waiting for the right signs.

Right now they need to find the right trail to follow, and that starts with missing supplies. If she hasn't already heard something that'll put her on the trail, someone among the traders will know what she needs to know.

Do you remember playing with her, Robena? Her laughter bubbling up into a delighted shriek as you chased her through the rushes? The gap between her teeth when she grinned, holding up a well-armored gentleman snapping his pincers helplessly at the two of you?

She’s different now. Of course she would be. But you must have stared longer than you meant when you saw her emerge from the mist on the Low. She wore a wreath of large black berries and jaunty river-lilies, and when her boatman pulled the boat ashore she offered him her hand like it was a sacrament.

And now the two of you are here, in Lostwithiel, and she still seems out of place. Or is it Lostwithiel that is out of place? She walks barefoot and her shoulders are straight and proud, and the crowd parts before her instead of causing her to dart here and there. How could the vivacious young girl you remember become something like this, a pillar of the old faith hung in garlands, taciturn and stately?

Then a child darts away from their sibling, clutching a toy, and runs into her. Hard. Constance sways dangerously, like a willow tree, and the toy (a simple doll) goes flying. People nearby gasp, and the mother (who had been haggling too intently to keep track of her child) starts making frantic apologies to the Woman of the Low.

Then Constance squats down, one hand outstretched to keep her balance, and waves the child over. (They are young enough that their gender is entirely “sticky face and grubby hands”.) She pulls a berry free from her wreath and pushes it into the child’s hands, then whispers in their ear.

Awe-struck, the child toddles back to their mother, holding that berry like it’s a precious jewel. And Constance, rising elegantly, smiles. It’s like day breaking on the hills.

Then she looks at you and her smile cools. What have you done wrong?

***

Composed face. Be the one they expect you to be. Everybody’s looking up to you, Constance. A daughter of giants and a wise woman of the woods doesn’t smile like a silly girl at every handsome knight that crosses her path.

When the little darling ran into you, you nearly crumpled into the arms of this burly, grim, intriguing knight. One who definitely is not interested in things like “tea in a sacred garden,” before you get ideas. She’s here as your escort, nothing more. Keep that in your head, daughter of giants!

It is your duty, your obligation to be a stone axle around which the world can turn. You call upon the seasons to remember their ancient oaths, to show their most pleasing faces, and to receive sacrifice. A boon for a boon, a song for a song. (And thank goodness you have not been called upon to beg from them a life.)

You danced the maypole by the shores of the Low, this past season; you buried gifts in the earth and called on it to remember and reciprocate; you fanned the flames and sang the night through to bring Spring to high waxing. And now you are here, confident, focused, not offering your fruits (such as they are) to a strange knight.

A bark; you jump. Just a dog, excited by the attention he’s getting from passers-by, rolling around by a stall. Not dozens of dogs baying and barking and howling, off in the distance at twilight, deep in the Treffwood.

Is it a rumor if you have heard it? Or is it still a rumor if you have not seen it, despite watching the tangled branches carefully, half expecting to see a flash of panthers’ spots, a serpent’s neck?

The Beast of King Pellinore is here. And it will be your responsibility to stand between it and the people of Lostwithiel, if it crosses the threshold, if it bursts forth from the Treffwood to tear up crops and frighten oxen and devil the countryside.

There is nothing like it in the rolls of beasts, and you are not prepared. So all you do is keep your eyes peeled and watch the woods by twilight, listening to that far-off calamity of hounds.

All of Europe can be seen upon her boots. All of evil's monsters can be seen in her scars. They say that learning to see the faerie realm is a matter of perspective, and so it is with Robena's beauty. Look at her one way and all you can see is the weariness and the fruits of battle. Look at her another and there is strength and nobility shining like the full moon through the clouds. She wears silence more heavily than her bearskin cloak, and when she speaks it takes a long moment to realize that that pleasant, strange accented curl of air had meaning beyond the mere beauty of it.

Her voice is silver. It should be a growl, it should sound bitter or weary or old beyond its years. Instead it's the voice of a singer, a voice she did not have when she screamed and fled from the snipping pincers of a crab, threatening to tell your mother, the duchess - even the king if necessary - about your crimes. Where did she acquire such a voice, such a musical rhythm? Did she bargain for it from a faerie, was it a gift from the Lord for her virtue, was her throat healed by drinking holy water from the temple-fount of Jerusalem? If ever there was a voice for speaking to the hills of England, this was it.

The words come into focus only belatedly and after much effort.

"You've... grown," she said.

She felt like she should apologize. Whatever she'd done to snuff that radiant smile. What had it been?

"I'm glad to see you again, Constance," she said, for she was still too sincere to let doubts still her tongue. "When I saw the tower... I was worried about you."

*

As you well know, I have spent many seasons in travel. I mark experience towards a Right of the Wider World, and I return with news from afar. Tell me what it is.

As for confidence? Within one of Apricot's saddlebags are contained stones and minor relics from the Temple of the Exsanguination in Jerusalem. I have carried those holy souvenirs across a continent, through storms and frost and werewolves and river fordings. No hand or spirit was able to part me with those pieces of the Holy Land, although many tried and tried desperately. Just this morning, in preparation for the festival, I hauled the whole wretched sack into the church and turned it over to the priest, receiving in turn his blessing and his gratitude.

I have not yet laid down all my burdens, nor have I resolved the heaviest, but this one at least is done.

Tristan and Nin

The traders think that there's some beast or pack of beasts that came out of the forest that's disrupting trade. You two are known as hunters for Duchess Marianne and you can see that they're trying to answer you in a respectable sort of way. One woman, her long hair braided up in an intricate knot who's selling pelts, steps up and offers that it's probably a pack of wolves come from the forest and roaming the fields amid the tall wheat because they couldn't find food elsewhere. Wouldn't be surprising for them to go for travelers at night if they're starving, or at least the goods they're carrying even if the travelers themselves can fend them off.

This is...sketchy at best. Sure, a cart full of dried meats and cheeses might attract wolves, but most fruits and grains aren't of interest to them, and it's rare indeed that armed men and a good fire wouldn't be enough to deter a wolf pack, even on the brink of starvation. It also doesn't help that several of the other merchants are giving the pelt seller sidelong glances as she offers the story. If you had to guess, they're hoping to be taken seriously and holding back from more wild tales and rumors because they don't want you to think that they're superstitious or mad.

This is probably enough to go on, if you don't want to push them, you could search the paths for signs of attack, try and track whatever "wolves" there are into the fields. But then again you might be able to get more information if you press here.

Robena and Constance

You're beginning to draw something of a crowd. Most of them seem to be whispering at the sight of Constance. You've lived here for some time, but you're often seen only from afar dancing in the fields or the forests, carrying out special rites and living a far off life. Now you've given a special berry to a child, who is holding it tightly as though you handed her a diamond. As you pass shops, they try to make you small offerings, if you'll take them. A little jar of amber honey, a piece of carved wood for a door with a design of flowers running up the sides, a fresh-baked sweet bread with little seeds scattered over the top of it. You can take them if you'd like, they are your due, or refuse them all out of kindness. If you take selectively, it will be viewed as a sign of your favor towards those whose gifts you accept.

Robena, you recognize that some of the goods on sale are based on designs you've seen before. You've been hearing news of traveling peoples landing their ships and offering a variety of goods, even venturing several days inland. Some of the rumors you've heard are a bit darker, that perhaps they are not offering goods, but raiding and kidnapping, and the designs taken from them are made by those who admire their strength rather than fear it. Similar tales have been heard in many places, and may be coming here soon.

Mixed with these are a few whispers of "the bear knight! I hear she's favored to win the tournament!" but these are fewer by far.

You're able to talk freely though. Barring the gifts, the people keep a respectful distance from Contance and her escort. Oh, by the by, where are you going? Where is the blessing for the summer held?

Sure, they "could" go looking for "wolves" and just see what they find, but Nin has never been one to walk into something well-knowing it's not what she's told it is. That's how fools walk into traps, and Nin is not a fool. Even if these people aren't trying to make her walk into a trap (let's give them the benefit of the doubt), if there's one thing Nin can't stand, it's being lied to or not being told the whole story.

So she scowls, not that you're likely to tell the difference, because she's always scowling, but perhaps you can say the scowl darkens a little as she listens to these stories and looks around at the merchants. As always, it only serves to make her look kinda cute.

She takes careful stock of the people here (Wary: 1+5+2=8). What is her best way forward with these people? Who is in control here? Basically, who is most likely to give her some real answers if she presses a little more?

Conceal. Don't feel. Don't let it show. Breathe in deeply. The world around you is huge and loud and overwhelming. You cannot allow yourself to be this disoriented. She's behind you; she can see the stiffness. You're as frail as a twig ready to be snapped, Constance, you always have been. This knight, she was from the tower that ran by the river.

You remember Lady Sandsfern, don't you? You made a game of spying on her, half-wild river-child that you were, fresh from your mother's side. You made the rivers and fens of the Low your secret kingdoms, and above them all the tower was a constant landmark.

You don't know what happened to that tower; you were away, anointing the secret faces of the sun in a rough cave, the way your mother taught you. And then you stayed away because you were still young, and afraid, and if you did not approach that fire-ruined axle of your youthful roving, you wouldn't have to admit that it was not a forever. That things could fall apart if you didn't look after them.

So you didn't dig for secrets.

And you still don't remember the knight's name.

So instead you allow yourself to grow distracted, accepting gifts with the poise and grace that is expected of you: a soft benediction of sky and earth, the touch of your hand upon theirs, and then carrying it yourself instead of letting the knight do it for you, because then you would have to acknowledge the knight, and show your weakness to her, and that is what you are not allowed to do. You are a daughter of rivers, a daughter of giants, intercessor between mankind and the worlds seen and unseen. You do not forget names and sheepishly admit to being too afraid to pursue the truth.

(You have to take the gifts. It's part of the bargain. It's who you are: you are the person who accepts the need of the people, the need they have to change the minds of the winds and the rain and the wheel. The need to say to yourself: I did something. I did what was expected of me. I gave a gift, I will receive a gift. And there is truth to that, but even more truth to the fact that your acceptance of the gift is as much for their sake as it is for yours.)

Ah, right. You're here already. This isn't really the right place, but it is your job to mediate the practical necessities of the keep market with the old traditions. And, besides, don't all traditions start somewhere? So you've made this the right place. There's an idol that's usually kept in a storage shed to keep the amiable peace between her and the young priest who advises the Duchess, made in the shape of the wheel and the disc. Burnished metal shines in the sunlight, hammered crudely into shape by your own hands (and the blacksmith was honored by the visit, never mind that you had to swing the hammer with both hands and a war cry to rally your strength). It is hung with charms and flower wreaths made by children and lovers, and it is here you will bid farewell to spring's rain and new growth and welcome lordly summer.

Oh. Right. You can't carry the gifts offered to you (and by proxy, the world you all must live in, the land that loves you all, and the great wheel of the seasons) and carry out the ceremony. There's dancing that everyone has to join in, and cutting open fresh fruit (in a gentle echo of older, cruder traditions), and you must prostrate yourself before golden summer and thank the season for accepting your hospitality, in the same manner one thanks their liege lord.

So you have to do it.

You have to talk to the knight.

"Here," you say, and hand her the gifts. It is a process that involves carefully passing them from one set of arms to the other. "Hold these." Where are you supposed to look? You try staring directly at her breastbone, then decide that it's more natural to look at her face, then decide staring directly into her eyes makes you seem confrontational, so you-- don't drop the honey!

You fumble it and, worms below, the noise that comes out of you as you bend half over to catch it! You stop it from cracking open on the cobblestones, but only after making an absolute fool of yourself. You stay there, for a moment, your pulse hammering and your cheeks white hot with dismay.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Be their druid, their firm center point. Be their tower that will not burn.

"Thank you," you say, and pull out a simple kerchief (another gift from another time, put to good use). Each gift goes in, and then, there, a simple knot makes it easily portable. "Thank you," you say again, foolish, trying your hardest to be who you have to be. And then you make the mistake of looking at her face.

Tristan is eager and brash, but he is also curious and superstitious himself - until now, he'd assumed the matter was brigands to be disarmed and disabled. Their hesitation gives him pause, but Nin immediately sets herself upon that task for him. This gives him a chance to slip away, and find her again soon.

[Weird 1+5+1 = 7 = I ask one question of the other world]

He has hunted in this place, and he has left an offering of berries and water after every success. He is familiar to this place, now. Nin can talk to the people about what they've seen; Tristan is going to find a quiet place of prayer closer to the forest, where he will bring two cups of beer: One placed in offering, and one for himself. He closes his eyes and he counts his breaths as he drinks.

He will have communion with the spirits and listen to what they have to say about the threat, what has disturbed the woods here.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Just as he was taught.

It is cold justice to be used as a beast of burden. Ten thousand wordless equine grumbles are finally soothed with some small measure of justice as the bread is stacked atop the apples and the leg of ham and the blackberry preserves and - oh!

With strength and balance so impressive as to draw a gasp from the entire crowd, Robena shifts the entire great weight piled upon her to one arm in an instant. She bends down with the speed of a viper and her hand closes around the honey-jar - and around Constance's smaller and more delicate fingers. For a moment they're caught there, half-bowed, hands entangled, making the mistakes of looking into each other's eyes.

"Thank you,"

"You're welcome,"

Words that may as well come from bystanders for all they communicated that strange electricity that in this moment existed between them.

Robena stands tall again, drawing another appreciative murmur from the crowd as she once again hefts the entire weight of the gifts without any loss of balance. Those arms can hold a shield of metal steady through the horizontal waterfall of a horse in gallop and so they hold all of the river-daughter's gifts steady. Perhaps were Constance herself to climb as she did as a wild-faced child and sit atop that bounty the knight's arms would still not tremble - or at least, not from the weight.

"You are happy here?" she asks, again bystander-words borrowed from the tongues of those who might speak without tangling their tongues. "No evil has beset you or yours?"

Constance and Robena

The crowd is gathered, the gifts put to the side. The sun is nearly at its zenith and square is cleared for the ceremony. Robena, you are in place to ensure nothing untoward happens. It is...unlikely that anything untoward will happen, but there is something unusual.

The young priest who advises the Duchess is in the audience (Constance, you know her name is Cerwen, Robena you probably do not). Although you are newly returned Robena, you have already heard her preach at least, and so would recognize her as a priest by the fiery red hair, which she keeps long and loose over her brown robe, a sort of open challenge to many of the druids, though the small golden cross at her neck makes no doubt of her preferences. She is frowning and looking at something in the square with concern, and she presently strides forward ahead of the crowd.

She speaks in a low, hushed tone, but an unusually educated one as she approaches the two of you. Constance, you recognize her from counsel "My apologies, I know we had made our arrangements, but I am...concerned at the state of things. The harvest is liable to be poor this year, and I wonder, perhaps, if you would permit me to join the benediction. I could offer a blessing alongside your own, a small change to the ceremony of course. I think it would do the people great good."

Three points. First, you two have a moment for a few closing words before the priest strides forwards to talk. Second, she's not looking at either of you, she's looking at the ground as she's speaking, and the soil at your feet doesn't look particularly healthy, so it would be fair to say that she has a point. Third, what she's asking would deny you your right, Constance.

How do you respond?

Tristan

You slip away in the stream of pilgrims carrying your beers to one of the streams not far from the keep walls. It's not difficult to take a moment, there are many travelers on the road, but even a moment or two walking off the path leaves you quite alone. The air feels low and heavy without being wet enough to mist and the ground drinks the beer you lay upon it heavily. It seeps deep into the earth and you see small cracks form in the dry soil, as though opening from below, and a small beetle is thrown out and scampers for the nearest bit of grass to hide under, scattering the little pill bugs that were already there.

Nin

Depends what you mean by "best" exactly. Fastest would be to just walk right up to the pelt merchant. She's already talking, it's obvious she knows the rumors, just confront her directly, invoke the countess and demand that she speak the truth. You're absolutely in control here, even with Tristan slipped off somewhere. The question is really about how you want to play this longer. Your accusation carries a lot of weight and you'll embarrass the merchant if you take this route, as well as make the others hesitant to speak with you in the future because you'll look like someone dangerous to their good standing in the castle town. Especially if you react to what you hear with scorn after demanding it. If you're less concerned with speed and more with your relationships here, take a moment to look over the wares, maybe buy something, make small talk and let them disperse a bit. Ask the pelt merchant more quietly what she really saw, reassure her that you're interested in information and that you will not scorn her no matter what she shares with you.

Nin is the listening type, less of a talker, and while she has authority here, she's never been used to waving it around. So she just nods at the pelt merchant when she talks about the wolves, as if her scowl is reserved for the wolves and not the lie, then ask her about her pelts. She spends some time letting the merchant show her various pelts and picks out one that she fancies while she waits for the other merchants to return to their own work. She lets the merchant do most of the talking while she listens and studies the pelts.

When she feels like they've become sufficiently casual, and there's no one else paying close attention, she quietly brings the conversation back on topic. "I got the feeling there was more you wished to tell me, in private perhaps, about the roads. Did you see something else? I am only looking for information, you understand; you have my word that what you tell me will stay between you and me."

"Thank you." Tristan bows his head. He takes a fallen leaf and makes a larger shade for the scattered pillbugs with it. "Thank you too, little ones. Sometimes the message takes a toll on its messenger."

He stays until he's finished his beer. He is in a communion with the woods here, not a transaction. Leaving as soon as you have what you want is disrespectful. It's rude. So he savours his beer and thinks for a while. Listens, and breathes. He collects the cups, and bows his head again when it's time to leave.

Then he's off like a shot back to Nin, a thoughtful grimace. This has all the hallmarks of a Sign that'll be more obvious in retrospect.

He considers the common themes. Something large being driven from its home, trying to move into someone else's? Conflict brought by displacement... The solution might not be bloodshed, then. Find where the threat came from, and learn why it can't go home. Or maybe just put up more of a fight than the pillbugs did.

Nin's still talking when he gets back. He'll wait for her to finish before he intrudes. If he's needed, she'll ask.

He stands away from the stall and bouncing on his feet instead, resisting the urge to do pushups. Or chinups. Or- He hasn't fired an arrow today! Is his knife sharp? When's the last time he stropped it? (Yesterday.) Could he light a fire right now, if he needed to? (Yes.) Does he know?! (No.)

He is waiting very patiently for Nin from a reasonable distance, so as not to bother her.

"Tybalt is fine," you blurt out. You do not explain who Tybalt is, or how he thinks himself lord of every sunbeam, and how he got into a fight with a badger early in the spring but now is well recovered. No, you have a priest to deal with. You don't think of Cerwen as a bad person, or a serious adversary, or anything silly like that; you are aware that she is doing her best to understand the world, to do what is right, just like you do. Her saints and prayers and Mary are a different side of a coin, and a monastery is a different sort of coven. Insofar as you are rivals, you are like two players in a game of strike-the-ball.

But this is what you are for. This is yours, and you dig your heels in on instinct and lift your chin. "And you expect me to yield on your say-so, Cerwen? Really?" She's playing from the wrong script; this is how you approach a Father Abbot, not a child of the Old Blood. So you gesture meaningfully at the bundled gifts in the knight's arms.

You don't actually mind yielding. Much. But here she is, encroaching on your rites, and it's not like you interrupt her while she's talking to her Mary and Child. The absolute least she can do is acknowledge the rules that you play by. You offer a gift. You make a request. And you let the Lady of the Low act on your behalf.

Play along, Cerwen. Bend a little like a reed, and the two of you can call upon the Christ-Child and the Wheel of the Year together, asking for mercy side by side; or she can cling to her pride, and watch it break upon the rocks of stony majesty. She'll blink first; you know it.

Antioch was ablaze when she arrived. The city burned from within and without, and all the sky and the land were alight.

Massive braziers filled with smokeless fire heralded the positions of the Shah's army, and forever on it stretched. A quiet landscape of hills and olive groves was by night rendered an inferno, and the watching beasts of the zodiac were snuffed by the flaming comets of oriental siege works. In the night the fire seemed like a living thing, like the waves of the ocean that cast themselves upon walls of stone and desperation. The Empire of Eagles would fall, proclaimed those fires, and a third great temple would be built upon the sacred mount of Jerusalem.

She hadn't wanted to fight - her knees had trembled and the screams had echoed in her ears and she'd wondered how any dared to stand when the fires of Sekhmet raged. She had been a creature of many fears, but it was there beneath the walls of Antioch where she'd obtained the chief among them: the fear of burning.

She'd tried as best she could to talk Alitel - Lady Sandsfern - out of joining the battle. They were here as pilgrims, not as warriors. No oaths held them to the Empire of Eagles. There was no need to divert away from Jerusalem. Her pleas had been weak, and Alitel had scorned her for what she correctly saw as her cowardice. And so they'd stood together atop the walls of Antioch - Robena trembling, but Alitel's eyes filled with brilliant fascination as she watched the ocean of fire come towards them...

Robena's left hand twitched. Beneath her glove the skin was raw and creased with the memories of that battle, and it needled her still.

But now she is here in the land of milk and honey, watching two priestesses natter how to best bring the harvest and bounty. No sermons screamed from the mouth of berserkers who wore fire as a cloak, no reference to light and pain and rebirth, no black pyramids to be built in honour of Emperors to wait out eternity. For a moment it's all unreal. That these could be matters of religion! That a harsh stare and folded limbs might suffice for holy dialogue! She had wondered if she had been naive as a child, unaware of a mad evil that had surrounded her in her younger years as it did in her later. But all here in England, blessed land, seemed removed from that world.

Again the wave of nostalgia comes over her and again she learns that never more shall she wander.

Nin and Tristran

"I don't wish anything" the merchant snaps, but then immediately looks apologetic, Nin. "Look, I just, my friends go hunting all the time, and they swear on their grandmother's graves that what they saw was some kind of demonic beast, tall as two men stood on top of each other. It sounds like tall tales even as I'm saying it and I don't want to believe it. But that's what they said and what we've all heard. Some kind of huge beast, red eyes and long fangs and claws, big loose hair hanging along the coat. No wolf pack, just one big terrifying thing wrecking carts and stealing the food. Some folks have even said they saw it burst out of the ground like it was lying in wait with a trap or something, and they're starting to say it's part of the land itself and it wants its food back. We don't deserve it anymore."

Well that's enough to do the trick. You both know that it's probably some kind of demonic animal, and something that digs. Giant wolf maybe, certainly possible. Some kind of cat or weasel, maybe a mole could be possible. The real trick with something like this is figuring out the why of it. You could solve the immediate problem by just finding a way to lure it out and kill or capture it (capture would be real tough, there may not be a cage that can hold the thing in the whole keep). But the why is how you make things better, make sure it doesn't just get replaced in a month of two.

Constance and Robena

Cerwen looks uncertain. She knows your traditional role, Constance, and this is your castle and your bodyguard standing right there surrounded by your people. She could try for a power play here, but she'd be risking everything. If the crowd didn't go with her, if Robena stepped in, if other knights interfered, she'd have given up everything she tried to earn here. She's not that kind of person and she doesn't want to have that confrontation, at least not for a very long while even if things go very badly.

So, instead, she nods slightly and then walks over to Robena. "I offer a gift, to the Lady of the Low!" she calls out loudly, taking off her golden cross. "The sign of my god, in concert with the old gods! Let her bless the fields on all our behalfs!" And then, Robena, she takes that golden cross and walks right up to you and puts it around your neck to emphasize her point. She doesn't quite leave the space either, instead she's going to stand with the bodyguard, just a tad to the side and out of the way, and let you get started Constance.

So, go ahead Constance, bless the summer and the fields.

To Robena, she says, simply, "do you two know each other?" A clear tip off she didn't grow up in the keep even if you thought your memory was playing tricks on you, Robena.

Nin considered this seriously, showing no sign that she thought it was a tall tale. When the merchant was done, she thanked her. "Whatever this is, you've helped us avoid its trap and given us a chance to find out why it's here."

She leaves and finds Tristran waiting for her. The fact that he'd slunk off hadn't escaped her notice. "Learn anything?" she asks him.

Tristan thinks about it. "I think so. The land had something to say about it, anyway. We shared beer, and a large beetle crawled from the dirt and scattered the smaller bugs nearby. I think that means we shouldn't look for where the thing is now, but track it to where it has come from. Another interpretation I made is that it might mean we need to defend ourselves better than the surface bugs did, but I think it less likely."

He massages the muscles in his hands as he thinks. "What do you suggest? I can only find where a thing has been, I have never had to find where a thing is from. Though," he goes a little red in the face as he realizes how it sounds, then steels himself to say it anyway, "If we do find it, we could try asking?"

Nin raised an eyebrow. "Both our sources say we're looking for a creature that burrows, that much seems to be clear. Whether it can also talk ... I'd prefer to know before testing it face to face with the creature, but you're welcome to try if we do run into it."

She thinks for a moment. "Tracking it to where it came from may be harder if we don't know where it is now. We have to start somewhere, and even a burrowing creature ought to leave signs of its passage. If we can find it, then we can observe it, learn its behavior, and maybe follow it or its trail back to where it came from."

There is always sacrifice. Gifts must be repaid: the spoils of the earth, the bounty of the rivers, the rains and the sunlight and the winds. If you do not give back, you become entitled, selfish, rapacious; but by giving back you satisfy... something. Maybe you really are fulfilling ancient pacts with the living soil and the turn of the seasons, but deep inside you there's doubt, isn't there? That if you really were, it'd do... something. The crops would spring to life if you sacrificed enough, the rains would come if you screamed until your voice was hoarse and bloody, that you could do something. That you could grab the wheel and make it turn.

But you don't. You don't know that. Maybe your rites are true and potent. Maybe you just carry them out because if you don't give back to the world that feeds you and clothes you, you'll all stop being mankind and start being something else, something with iron in its heart. And for all you know, perhaps the blood of the giants that Brutus fought, those ancient natives whose overthrow was great and terrible, it is becoming less and less with each generation. You are less than your mother, the Bristol Avon, and if you ever have a child to pass on the old blood, she will be less than you.

Doubt gnaws at your heart like a worm in rotten wood, but you carry out the steps anyway. What's important is that what's done is done. The summer and the sun and the earth don't care what's in your heart, not like the God whose death you now wear around your neck. (And the Christians dare cluck at the oldest ways of blood dashed on the stones, as if they do not mark themselves with sacrificial death, one and all.)

You turn the wheel. Sunlight glints as you put your shoulders and your back into it. It's painful going, but you don't let the knight step forward. No daughter of giants should need assistance. Not in this. Drums echo from the walls of the keep, the tramp and trod of dancing feet is all around you, and you turn the wheel. From your lips the welcome drips: Lordly Summer, be welcome. Infuse our crops with your light, and allow us our rain in neither excess or want.

(Does he listen? Or must you suffer because it reminds everyone that their life is not free? Is the Risen Christ listening? Does he command the sun to stand still for his prophets? The metal is hot under your palms.)

When the children hand you the fruit, you take your flint knife and cut the flesh open, squeeze them in your hand, let the hot earth-blood drip down. Where it strikes the ground, it is dark and sticky. The little ants and flies will feast. It is better for it to be fruit that is offered up; it was not always so. But if wine can be blood, so can this. In little pots on either side of the idol, smoke curls up, cloying and thick, corn-heads withering into ash: let this be your share, fire, and let this be your share, sun-that-kills. Keep us far from disaster. We remember where our life comes from, and where it will return. (And even the Christians agree that one day you will be dust; they simply disagree on what happens afterwards, and whether you may come back in different shapes and forms. How sad, to imagine that everyone will come back just as they were, all at once.)

And yet doubt gnaws at you. It may be that Summer's answer will be cruel, despite everything you are doing. You cannot march up into heaven and demand his cooperation. You cannot promise these people who look up to you that because they made the offerings, they will be rewarded. It may be that the answer is that the sky darkens yet and the sea rises higher. It may be that night shall be thrice night over you, and the sky an iron cope.

But this is what you can do. And this is what brings them hope. And perhaps because you carry out the rituals just as they have been done for generations, perhaps the tide will turn yet. And so the wheel turns, and the wheel turns, and still the wheel turns.