Got caught up with thesis research this past weekend. I'll have a Mordred post up this week.
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Bit of an odd post. I considered attaching it to my first Blue Beetle post, buuut I thought I'd wager the reaction to something like that being a stand-alone. Is it too weird? Does the formatting hurt your eyes? Lemme know!
So, given it some thought and I'm really struggling to find my feet this time around with Strange. I won't drag it out, I'll have to drop for now. Sorry guys.
Plot to make Mordred Sorcerer Supreme intensifies.
Howard the Duck is clearly just the Dragon for the real mastermind behind the Pet Avengers.
I have a beginning and events I'd like to build up to, but nothing concrete and rigid. It's like writing chapters out of order (or planning chapters) and just filling in the blanks.
This is pretty much what I have for the season. One arc, three chapters, with the major events driving them mapped out. But how they unfold, who all in involved, is all subject to whatever works.
So are we allowed to bounce off ideas in the OOC thread? Or is that to be kept somewhere private?
I think that a couple of us expressed a desire for more collaborative arcs between characters this season, so sharing of ideas would be encouraged (I would think) so to enable greater cooperation.
“The minstrel boy to the war is gone
In the ranks of death ye will find him
His father’s sword he hath girded on
And his wild harp slung behind him”
- Thomas Moore
"Life Is But A Dream" [ Part II ] [ The Minstrel Boy ]
In the ranks of death ye will find him
His father’s sword he hath girded on
And his wild harp slung behind him”
- Thomas Moore
"Life Is But A Dream" [ Part II ] [ The Minstrel Boy ]
| GHOST CASTLE
| The Dream Dimension | Present Day
The rooster's call came early.
The old man struggled to move from the bed, his joints stiff and body aching as he stirred about the small, monastic room that was shuttered away in the oft forgotten and rarely beheld part of the castle that contained the servant's quarters. In gown and robe, the bearded figure emerged to shuffle through the stone-hewn halls in the dawn's breaking light.
An imp suddenly leapt from out of the shadows, pouncing from the rafters above as though to give an old man a heart attack. A gruff harumph accompanied the patriarchal scowl. The hellspawn was awake and bounding through the inside of the castle with enough noise as though he were a stampede of elephants. A second harumph accompanied the motion of straightening his robe, as the man continued on toward the kitchen.
He found the side door open there. No doubt left by the same spring-heeled devil who had bounded from the walls. Grumbling to himself, the old man set out two loaves of brown bread atop the simple farm table that occupied one side of the kitchen for the servant's use. A tankard of beer was drawn, as the man settled his old bones atop the wooden bench. Letting go a heavy sigh, the man drew a long draw on the tankard, easing into the morning.
The imp returned. The harried form of a young Briton, breathless and bedraggled, his raven black hair plastered against his scalp. A knee-length shirt shifted about his wiry frame as he came through the door in his bedclothes, arms full of oranges plucked from the trees. As the man watched, sipping on his beer, the boy drew a knife and labored at juicing the ripe fruit.
Decanting the orange juice into a wooden cup, the child stumbled over to collapse atop the bench beside the old man. "Bore da," the happy hellion managed, in a breathless bit of greeting in a form of Gaelic that those today might yet recognize in Wales.
"Hmph" the old man guffawed, even as he lowered his tankard and broke bread. "Good morning, indeed," the old man uttered gruffly, before opening his mouth and tearing off a chunk of the dark bread. The two ate in silence after that, pulling apart their meal with their hands as chamberlain and page ate in the shadow of the castle lord's larder.
"Take the horses down to the river," the old man uttered finally, as he finished the bread and started the task of picking the crumbs from out of the matted beard. Leaning down closer to the boy, the man inhaled sharply and tacked on the seemingly obligatory, "And throw yourself in while you're there."
The boy's dark head turned up to give the man a look that was confused at first, then quickly sparked realization and shot a look at the chamberlain. Between chomping down his bread and slurping on the sweet fruit juice, the black-haired imp was shortly finished with his breakfast as well.
And then it was time to move again.
The chamberlain's voice spun the child around right as he'd reached the threshold. "Don't forget your chores here," the old man proclaimed.
The boy had tried to pivot, except that he still had too much momentum pulling him toward the door. Inartfully, the boy's bedgown twirled as he spun back on one foot -- only for the other to slide out from under him. Crashing to the floor, the child popped back up as though no worse for wear.
Which was when the magic happened.
Bringing his arms up, glowing mandala-like forms seemed to circle and weave around his hands. An auld, eldritch energy seemed to flicker in the air, as the child stretched forth one arm and waved his hand toward a collection of mops, brooms, and buckets in one corner.
"Etamina!"
It was a word, nothing more. Yet, the inanimate seemed suddenly imbued with life as the child spoke. Brooms sweeping on their own.
His father's legacy was that of a king.
...but his mother's blood made him capable of so much more.
| THE HOUSE OF SECRETS
| The Dream Dimension | The Year of Our Lord 537
It was late into the witching hour when there rose such a commotion as to rouse the dead.
Stirred to wake at this most uncivilized time of the night, the Caretaker harried from out of the bed chamber in a fright. A candle was held aloft, the flame flickering atop the fragile wick as the bedclothes-clad man padded in bare feet through the fortified manor house. The eldritch glow of the candle’s pale light was cast along the walls as the man hurried across the upper floor to the narrow stairwell.
As he arrived at the landing, the man held the candle above his head so that it’s light cast a pallor of illumination across the threshold. The door to the great hall hung off its hinges, as though thrown open by some inhuman force.
An ill wind seemed to pass through the room, sending gooseflesh crawling through his skin.
Turning, the shadows on the wall betrayed a small form lying atop the table in the banquet hall. As the Caretaker moved closer, the candle light shone on the prone form of a mere boy. A Briton by the look of him, clad in the colors of a patron. He was page, then. Or possibly just starting to squire.
Blood strained the white parts of his tabard, turning dark the red portions. All too soon, it became apparent that the child suffered from a grievous wound. The Caretaker’s hand stretched out toward the boy, as though to feel his flesh, but hesitated just a moment before.
The child was dead.
“Where did I go wrong?”
Raising his head up, the Caretaker panned the candle around to sweep it’s light further down the length of the table. That was when he saw her. A woman with raven black hair. Gown torn, tattered, soiled, and bloodstained as though she had been through some horrific ordeal. She was brooding, pulling and twisting at her hair anxiously with one hand.
It was then that the Caretaker realized the resemblance between the woman and the boy. “Woman,” he uttered, addressing the wraith-like spectre in the chair. “Why are you come here?”
The hand stopped, still holding to the lock of hair, even as her eyes -- baleful, wrathful eyes, aglow with hellfire -- turned up toward the Caretaker. The man was taken aback a step by the sheer force of the lady’s gaze.
Then she spoke, her tongue sharper than a thousand daggers, each word tipped with sweet poison as she commanded, “I would speak with your master, servant.”
“Think twice, then Morgana.”
An odor like brimstone accompanied the sudden proclamation, as the Caretaker’s candle moved to shine a light on what appeared as a column of smoke, amid which an English Gentleman was seated in a smoking jacket and pipe in hand. Holding the smoking pipe out, the smoky figure seemed to indicate the prone form of the dead child as he said, “See you not the fruits of your labors?”
Pulling her fingers through her hair, the lady paused a moment to collect herself. When she had, the green-eyed monster stared down a being that many would have described as the Devil himself. “My labors have brought you the greatest story ever told,” the woman stated flatly.
For his part, the smoking spectre of Morpheus seemed to incline his head in some quiet acquiesce of the lady’s claim. “And what do you ask in return for this story?” the Lord of Dreams demanded in reply.
It was then that the lady cast down her eyes. Perhaps a trick of the candle light, or else it was a singular moment in which the woman appeared human. For a long, icy silence she merely stared over the body of the child that was laid atop the table as though awaiting the gravedigger. “My son’s wound is beyond my power to mend,” the lady remarked, glancing back up at the smoke-clad figure of the gentleman. More pointedly, she added, “But not yours.”
Morpheus brought the pipe to his lips, inhaling a long draw of smoke, which he savored for a moment before he spoke. “If this story of yours is as enamoring as you believe it to be,” the Lord of Dreams conceded, before he paused to make clear his point, “But only if, and the story will not favor him.”
The woman betrayed no singular emotion, yet her presence was that of a dragon’s that was embroiled in Perdition’s flames. “You would make Merlin the hero of my tale?” the lady tossed back haughtily.
Morpheus smiled. A twisted, beguiling gesture devoid of mirth. “Nay,” the Lord of Dreams spoke, saying only. “Arthur.”
The lady’s fingernails were drawn like talons across the table. Curls of wood carved up as she raked the surface in the only outward sign of petulant indignation. In the stillness, she seemed to be weighing her options. Or whether she had any. It was with regard to the latter that she seemed deflated of ego and asked only, “Have we a bargain?”
The Cheshire smile that the Lord of Dreams boasted only became an even more enigmatic gesture. “Always a pleasure doing business with a lady,” Morpheus declared, as the form of the English gentleman seemed to collapse into the column of smoke. As he disappeared, the smoke traveled forward to envelop the form of the boy, which seemed to disappear as the cloud passed over it. Until the smoke had cleared and both were gone.
First post written, second post in progress.
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