[IC] Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

[Thanqol]

Spar one opponent long enough and it is their ghost you fight in every battle.

Lady Sandsfern's approach to battle is pounded into every one of Robena's thoughts and reflexes by endless repetition. They have dueled with swords, maces, bar stools and fists, on horseback and on foot. They have rehearsed the same forms under the gaze of Venitian swordmasters and embarrassed themselves in mounted archery before the same Turkic nomads. In each battle the instincts that guide Robena are those carved by Lady Sandsfern. In each battle she triumphs because her opponent is either a lesser version of her mistress or a lesser version of herself.

Robena fights as the mountain - reach and control and solidity and plate, the raw arithmetic of strength. Sandsfern fights as the fire, always in motion and always brilliant. They balance upon a knife edge, and with any balance that fine it is the simple, stupid trivialities that define victory. In this case it is that they are in a cramped tavern with no room for maneuver and so it is just a matter of time before Alitel runs out of space to retreat.

To besiege a castle, though, is a brutal thing. Even with better resources and a stronger army one must beware constant sally, and each step of progress is paid for with sweat and blood. Each step is paid for with a kick, each falter in her block is paid for with a blow to the head, again and again she takes hits with nothing to show for it in return. Her arms ache and her head thrums and she's conscious of all the pain for she has to do all of this appallingly sober. There is no joy in this part of the fight. It is just pain on the promise of victory, and if that vision of victory wavers even for a moment then it is just pain - and will collapses.

But then the back of Alitel's foot touches the back wall and it is time for her to return a strike.

Her punch lashes out like a thunderbolt, just past Alitel's head and smashing into the wood of the tavern wall so hard that it makes the entire building lurch and the timbers splinter. Lady Sandsfern freezes in place with Robena's arm right by her head, smile holding as sweat trickles down her face. Robena, hand heavy on the wall next to her, looms down above. How could she be grim now? Blood is far too noisy to permit cold thoughts.

"Looks like you still need protection," said Robena, "my lady."

[Great Labour: 8]

[Anarion]

Constance

“Me?” The man barks out a laugh that makes his whole body shake with mirth as he drags himself to his feet. “Perish the thought, I could think of no one less suitable than an itinerant magician cast out from his noble court. No, not me. But...I’m less convinced that it’s not you, at least temporarily. Do you really think that a sword of such nobility has but one destined wielder and a single name? That you are the first such seeker?” He laughs again, this one sharp enough to cut your heart.

Did you know your grandmother, Constance? The one who was a witch of a grand lake. Did she ever talk to you of her life, or tell you stories of the sword you bear?

Robena

The lady Sandsfern was thorough. Your body aches in every muscle, some you had forgotten you had. The last time you felt like this was after a long massage in the baths of Constantinople, and there is nowhere here to melt into a pool of hot water to relax. But the victory is yours and the lady Sandsfern’s respect for your prowess.

“I guess I do” she says. “Your protection in particular” and there is a smirk on her face that shows just one fang and promises much later. She steps over to the bar, where the tavern keep is giving her a dirty look while handing out a pile of silver to...is that Tristan, the monster slayer you met in Lostwithiel? Wasn’t he going on a hunt when you left, what’s brought him here?

Regardless, the lady Sandsfern hands the tavern keep three coins of gleaming gold and the woman’s scowl turns to a grin. “Come back for another match anytime my lady, beer on the house” she nods happily, and the lady Sandsfern beckons you to join her.

You ought to greet Tristan first, then you can tell your lady your story over drinks.

Tristan

It seems you’ve won your bet. It was quite a match, Robena withstanding blow after blow like a great boulder more even than a bear until she cornered the bright-haired lady (Sandsfern, her name was, didn’t she have a keep near Lostwithiel that had been burned down in a fire?). Have you ever seen anyone else fight like that?

The tavern keeper doesn’t really have eyes for you, though she gives you a sheepish grin as reward for your victory along with the coins before turning her scowl to Sandsfern. A scowl that turns right around as you see three gleaming gold coins brought out to pay for the expenses. The lady takes a seat next to you, and the other patrons start spreading back out to a few other tables, a couple slipping out for the evening as well. Robena seems to be coming over as well, and you may have much to catch up on given your adventures.

[Count Numbers]

Like that? No. The ones that trained Tristan were more about cutting and deflecting and dodging. That kind of brutal, unrelenting endurance? Strength and stance that raw and ruthless?

No. Never like that.

He does nothing to hide his admiration for it as Robena approaches.

"I thought of you, during my hunt earlier." He greets her with a raised glass. "That solid knight I saw at the jousts. What we managed to track was a badger, the size of a team of horses - and it could burrow just as fast. I thought... I could kill it, if I could get enough shots into it, but I'd have needed someone like you to stop it getting under me. I don't think anyone else could have held it long enough."

He offers her the other drink. The silver she's won him has more than paid for it.

[Thanqol]

The drink is drunk. There are no answers to be found in a full mug.

Robena slams it down as she sits down next to him at the table. "Tristan," she said. "Monster slayer. I understand what you are saying, and I will help you slay your beast if you help me slay mine."

The zeal that burns in her eyes lets you know that her quarry is fierce indeed and she has been wronged indeed. This is a fire you will be descending into if you agree. But how can knights relate to each other if not by this?

[Tatterdemalion]

Your grandmother. You remember her as she was, unbidden: tall and unbent, unbowing. Watch the thread as it runs between her fingers. She is always working this magic in one form or another. She changes things from one form to another: flax to thread, thread to cloth, cloth to wonderful things. She does not tell you her secrets; you learn them through observation, with red fingers and long afternoons without words. She changes other things, too: beneath her house is a cellar, and not everything in the barrels came from the wood and the fen. Your grandmother! The sudden blue of her eyes, like the sky after a storm; the heavy curls of her golden hair; the set of her lips like the fold in stone. If she were here, she would be treating with this man as an equal, reputation or no.

But what you learned of the sword, you learned in the shapes of the silences.

"...your disguise is excellent," you say, and you cannot entirely hide the flush of embarrassment. "I come all this way to look for you, and here you are by the side of the road. And Cath..." Your eyes flick to the innocent-looking cat, licking one paw as if it is the most natural thing in the world to be doing. Ah. Now here's a beast of legend indeed. "Well. Well! Go on, get up," you say, your childhood accent slipping into the words, lilting light. "We have things to talk about, you and I. Kings and crowns and visions."

[Count Numbers]

"Of course," Tristan agrees without hesitation. He would have agreed just as readily, even without her promise of help in kind. "What is it?"

[Thanqol]

"To drive the knights, sheriffs and retainers of King Uther Pendragon from the duchy," said Robena. Ah, simple treason then. At the least she does not consider it within her power to ride on London to confront the king directly.

[Anarion]

Robena and Tristan

Not to be outdone, Lady Sandsfern slams down her own beer. The others in the bar are watching your gathering with awe. Most probably expected one or both of you to crawl off to a room to lie down, or at least to sprawl out on a couch by the fireplace after a fight like that. That you're just sitting at the bar, having drinks, your passion no less dimmed by the exertion seems to have truly awed the patrons. Meanwhile, the barkeep busily fills more mugs and begins her washing, seeing that she's going to sell quite a lot of her stock tonight.

Sandsfern herself is quiet. Her face and the brightness in her eyes says that she has much to say, but if you glance to her, for the moment she offers only a nod and a look to Tristan as to Robena's outstanding offer.

Tristan, what do you say?

Constance

Merlin stands and gathers his hat. It's not graceful, and Cath Palug glares at him the entire time, but he nevertheless comes to you and, placing his hand over your own, opens the box. Inside it is a vial of water, purest blue. Beautiful and so pure that you wonder now whether all the water you've had for the past year, at least, hasn't been tainted.

Then, right here in the road, with Cath Palug pointedly ignoring him while she cleans her side, he tells you a story:

Merlin's tale

Maybe you know a little of what it is to be Merlin. To be never quite human. To have everyone always looking to you, placing their hopes and their fears on you. To be Merlin is to have been alive a very long time and seen the world change and change and change again. To have seen the standards of Rome advance and recede and the tides cleave off land you once knew and carry it away into the sea.

Merlin knew your grandmother, Constance, and saw the sword you hold handed off among your family. A hero's sword, wielded and then returned. There were heroes to fight the Romans, heroes to fight the Saxons, heroes for raiders and heroes in a long-forgotten age when swords were a new idea that could be worked and sharpened in the cold.

When Uther Pendragon was a child, Merlin had a vision that he would aid the old man. You've heard this myth before. Two great dragons locked in combat, one red and one white. The white dragon, representing the Saxons, appears victorious in several attacks, repelling it and hurling it to the ground, biting it viciously. Until the red dragon, representing the Britains, rises up and drives the white dragon from the grounds of their battle.

Only, that's not the story Merlin is telling you. It's the one all the bards say, but the story he's telling is a story in which the white dragon, sensing weakness, pressed its advantage and struck down the red dragon before it could fight back. Or would have, had not Merlin intervened. Foolishly, he stepped between them and was bitten, the white dragon's teeth sinking deep into his ribs and only then the red dragon did as it was meant to and rose up and pushed away the white dragon and drove it from the cave in which they fought.

See now, the penalty for hurling oneself upon fate's hand. For Merlin is wounded and scarred on his chest, and his intervention now keeps Uther Pendragon alive. Uther Pendragon, who with Merlin's counsel united the kingdoms of Britain as high king. Uther Pendragon, whose child is to be the greatest king yet has gone missing. Uther Pendragon, who despite all Merlin's efforts has felt the touch of the grave and banished his servant for his failure. Uther Pendragon, who killed so many whose ghosts have yet to be laid to rest and upon whose touch the land withers.

This is the oldest lesson of Britain, one you already knew. As the King, so the land.

But you did not know that Merlin was holding up the king, or had been. That his sudden rapid deterioration was his own mad doing in banishing his magician to find him a cure. That his magician knows full well that there is no cure to age and that his foolish play to intervene on the side of the Britains has thrown the story into chaos. That perhaps there is no destined wielder for the sword you hold.

Merlin has wandered the land with Cath Palug, who is apparently quite irate at Merlin for ruining her planned fight with the future king Arthur. He's been looking for Arthur, then when that failed, looking for you Constance, and that sword you hold with its promise of heroes.

And now you, Constance, have seen your realms burning and Merlin has no answer for your vision but a sad nod and a deep stare. He didn't find you to pass along his wisdom. He found you to force you to act. He found you because you need to decide what to do with that sword you're holding. What to do in a realm where there may not be a hero and Merlin isn't willing or able to be the one that everyone looks to for what to do.

You have to decide what to do with a vial of pure water from your grandmother's lake, that sprinkled on the handle of your blade Excalibur could allow it to be drawn once more.

[Count Numbers]

"There's a hunting party of them here, tonight. We've been working together, to hunt a questing beast that is chasing my badger. But-" Tristan considers his words carefully, "There is something wrong with them. With everything. I can't say what, just that I've had to be very dishonest while dealing with them. King Pellinore, if you know of her? She expects me to hunt with her tomorrow, as well."

[Thanqol]

Robena nods. It's a distant nod, a dangerous nod, perhaps not as cursed as King Pellinore but hardly normal either. This is the motion of someone who has rewritten half of the details of your sentence mentally so she does not have to give her heart time to speak. "Then we shall start with them," she said. "Whatever their goal only evil will come of their success. Come, let us confront them."

She stands, the motion heavy with expectation. Lead her to her target.

[Tatterdemalion]

“I have to go home,” you say, Constance, as much to yourself as to Merlin. There the sword waits, undrawn, hidden well. Because now you know, don’t you? All this time, you thought that you were nothing more than its caretaker. That one day you would return it to Merlin’s care, that if anyone were to choose the wielder, it would be him.

But it’s you. It’s always been you. The weight of your responsibility crushes your shoulders like the Sicilian mountain. Excalibur, in this moment, does not seem to you a prize but a terrible burden. Who would take it up? The matchless blade, the blessed scabbard? You think of Robena and then mistrust yourself. She is strong, but does she have the inner strength to bear that blade? Has she been made unsuitable for Britain by her travel abroad? Would that weight destroy her like you fear it would?

No, there is only one way to settle this, isn’t there?

There must be, as always, a contest. A challenge. A rescue. And a terrible foe. One that only the pure-hearted champion could defeat.

“No,” you say, to both of you. “I need to find a dragon.”

[Count Numbers]

Tristan shakes his head. "I'll help you, I swear it, but not with them - at least not tonight. They were kind and generous to me, and to turn on them without provocation? Dishonesty has been hard on me enough without outright betrayal. I would not have you know me as someone so fickle with the trust given to me. Besides," he races to add faster than Robena can interrupt, "Her quest is likely a doomed one, a reckless reading of prophecy. One of Merlin's."

Tristan is still convinced that Merlin is unimpeachable, a conviction like bedrock. Either the prophecy is a trap for Pellinore, or her accomplishing it is for the common good, no matter her personal allegiance and culpability. In either case, it's a waste of risk and resource.

[Anarion]

Tristan and Robena

"Merlin?!" The Lady Sandsfern's scoff is quick and incredulous. Whatever her loss to Robena, it has not seemed to dim her energy nor the lustre of that fiery hair, and you'd swear there is steam coming off her as she breathes disdain. "You'd give that two-bit charlatan the time of day? Please. Even if he could make a true soothsaying as opposed to sending the woman haring off for his own reasons on a flimsy excuse, how would you know whether his prediction wasn't precisely meant to lead them to combat this day?"

She turns and puts a reaffirming hand on Robena's shoulder. "Sir Robena called to drive Uther's retainers from the land and you say to her 'here's a party of them in front of your nose. Like as not cursed. Ah, but they were kind to me today, so not them, never mind, why did I even mention them?' Is that the truth of it or are you just showing your cowardice, boy?" Sandsfern's eyes burn with passion and her voice cares not one whit who overhears you. Perhaps she invites the confrontation with her challenge.

How do you both respond?

Constance

"A dragon?!" Merlin's eyes go wide and he coughs, once, twice before recovering himself. "Dragons got us into this mess and you want to find another one? Sea and stars woman, are you entirely cracked?" The black and white fur rises on Cath Palug's back and she hisses in your defense, and indeed you have not been spoken to with such disrespect in years. Not since you were a small child found by your family by a shattered pot of honey with a sticky hand. But then, perhaps that's the point and Merlin seeks to throw you from your course with his outburst. Does the wiley old seer know more than he's letting on? Perhaps you ought to press him. Or at least call him on his disrespect. Cath Palug seems liable to back your next move if it comes to it.

[Count Numbers]

"Here I am, standing my ground before the mountains I saw hurl each other seconds before, and you think me a coward?" Tristan asks, amused. "What of this: Her knights seem more afraid of her than loyal - though they are loyal. If you can convince any of them of your rightness - even one! - before trying to murder Pellinore, then I fight with you tonight. They are not the ones sworn to Pendragon. If you are to be about the bloody business, anyway, than that is the mercy I can give for the kindness given. Any you convince is one less to fight you, as well, and maybe one to fight alongside you."

This, he thinks, would work. Not on all of them, probably not on most of them. But if Sandsfern and Robena are vanquishing evil, then it would be enough that any close enough to it would recognize evil for what it is. And, he is convinced, it is the only means he has to save any of those knights from the purpose he feels sloughing off Robena in waves.

He will not be peer-pressured into indiscriminate massacres. Merely discriminate ones.

He says nothing about Sandsfern's slights against Merlin. He does not want to look a fool for disagreeing purely out of faith, though it's a faith that goes down to the marrow in his bones. He has not yet learned what it is to be disappointed by heroes.

[Thanqol]

"Ah, so this is why I return to find England in such a state," said Robena. "This is why I return to find castles burned and filled with bones left to rot 'neath the falling rain. This is why I return to find cursed knights who fight to kill, heedless of safety or sanity, beneath a tournament flag. This is why I return to see the shadow of fear in the eyes of the common folk, why laughter halts and joyful girls have grown to be haunted women. Because, it seems, that even though chivalry is dead, courtesy," she almost spits the word, "is enough to keep the blades of the people's defenders sheathed. Of course you have no quarrel with Pellinore. She treated you kindly, and what is mere England in comparison?"

Her hand tightened around the haft of her axe.

"And now I am asked by a coward knight to explain to other coward knights what chivalry means? You would have me debate them to the side of righteousness as the Greeks do? How about this? If they are such cowards as you make of them, and they love you as much as you say, then you convince them to throw down their swords and stand aside before they face the ruin of my axe."

[Count Numbers]

That... hurt.

But if Robena is right that chivalry is dead, surely that means it's more important than ever to be what we want the world to reflect back on us?

"It was not fair for me to ask that of you." He apologizes, looking at Robena's eyes and not her axe. He does not rise from his barstool, yet. "Thank you for letting me try myself, after insulting you with such thoughtlessness. I had planned to-" he does not want to go into his spirituality now, not to a knight with two feet planted in worldy matters, "take a moment of peace before joining with them again. If you'll wait at least that long, only the time it would take for a loaf to bake at the most, then I will. I will do all that you ask and more. Today has dulled my sharpness, and I would appreciate the moment to hone myself. I would go right now if you ask, but I will be less effective for you."

[2d6 - 6, 3 +1 Strong = 10]
Tristan takes a steak knife from behind the counter, where it is to be cleaned, and pauses only to wipe the point of it with his shirt before hurling it at the dartboard on the far wall, getting as close to a bullseye as is to matter. More importantly, the knife stays parallel to the floor without falling.

"Only less." Tristan finishes his beer.

He wouldn't be stabbing anyone in the back, this way, would he?

Mostly because they're likely to try to start stabbing him as soon as he makes the case, but then it would be self-defense. While tactically unadvantageous, it is ethically sound.

He hopes this isn't a second insult, but more than anything else he wants to ask this place if it will tell him what Pellinore really is, what he couldn't see before. He wants that even more than he wants the time to prepare himself to make such open threats.

[Tatterdemalion]

“Not one of the old dragons,” you say, hastily. “Not one as old as stone who bears the world on his back.” Not one like the White and the Red, princes of the earth, vast-coiled. The ancient dragons of Britain are great and terrible, things that signify grand matters. The White and the Red are so dreadful that even you would shudder to think of Merlin darting between them, daring to turn one’s crushing jaws aside.

“We need one of their dragons,” you continue. “Creatures of greed and vice, concentrated into something that takes and takes because it can. Coin-counter, maiden-thief. A creature for sermons and noble deeds; a creature that could serve as a test. If I surrender myself to one, then whichever knight dares to overcome it... they would have strength enough and virtue enough to overcome Uther.”

Virtue means nothing to the dragons who have lain beneath the green downs since the kindling of the sun. It means everything to the worms of the church. And if you were to become part of that sermon and story, Constance... your presence would change it, even as it changed you.

[Anarion]

Robena and Tristan

The lady Sandsfern keeps a comforting, warm hand on Robena's shoulder. The heat of her, the life, the strength can be felt even through your armor and your padded jacket, and it brings back memories of travel with her on the road. Of times when you would get in far over your head and the Lady Sandsfern would delight as few could in the impossibility of it all and the freedom to simply act. What has it been like since you've lost that connection?

Though her touch is for Robena, her gaze is, for the moment on Tristan, and it is measured and thoughtful. The look in her eyes is worldly, a woman who has seen the skills of knights and knows few enough with a steady hand and a quick enough eye to make the throw that Tristan just made so smoothly. You can see her eyes flash and her brows furrow as she updates her calculus as to how much the man in front of her fears death in combat.

Her look passes in an instant, and she offers you a fanged smile, Tristan. "Very well, I've known many a religious knight all across the world. I do not think my dear Robena is in such a rush that you cannot have a moment for ritual and contemplation while she and I catch up on old times."

Constance

"Damn fool. You'd offer yourself to a dragon hoping to be saved? What then, when no knight comes save to meet their end in fire while the people starve?" Merlin scowls and his hair flaps loosely as he sets his feet to start into a rant. "What then if the dragon takes the sword and hides it? Or merely kills you and secrets away to their lair? Even if you assume a knight comes to save you, what if they can't draw the blade, will you waste your grandmother's magic on such a soul?" He's speeding up, gesturing widely with his arms while ignoring Cath pressing at his leg. "And what, do you expect me to tell all the world of your contest while you're imprisoned, hmm? And what if Uther or his knights are your savior? He's mad, but that doesn't mean he's not destined! Or what if the dragon turns out to wield the sword, have you thought of that?! And all that's assuming you can even find a dragon. Why the only one I know..."

Merlin stops suddenly, giving you a coy look that makes you wonder whether he isn't playing you directly into this decision from the start. But he says nothing more and waits for you to persuade him. It seems he does know a dragon. What will you do to win his support?

[Tatterdemalion]

“No, please, do continue,” you say, matching his look. You’ve heard rumors — of course you have! But you’d prefer to hear what Merlin is willing to share. Doubtless he has more information, or at least is better able to winnow rumors into truth and embellishment and falsehood. “The only dragon you know? One that’s a creature of vice, destined to be defeated by a true-hearted hero?”

[12 on Good. Merlin must answer the question Constance is pressing to him, as well as the question: how may Constance assure him that she is capable?]

[Count Numbers]

Tristan orders two more beers, and bobs his head gratefully to Sandsfern. "I'll meet you back here. If you are not here when I am back, I will wait."

He carefully takes his beer out to a spot where no smoke from chimneys may be seen, no campfires and no sounds of people. Just the bugs, and the triumphant hooting of the owls that feast on them.

[Talk to the other world: 2d6+1, 3, 2 +1 = 6]

But Tristan is rushed. He has not taken a moment to calm himself before asking. This is the height of rudeness. You come to talk with, not to interrogate. He has not taken the time to calm himself before he asks, has not done his breathing with Robena and Sandsfern waiting for him.

Worst of all, he has come with blood in his thoughts. With so many having such firm convictions that Pellinore needs to be slain, and no evidence presented to him. A need for the world to show him its evidence.

At the last moment, he realizes how grave this insult is. He has not even been careful to wash his hands.