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DerynifanK

March 17, 2024, 03:48:44 PM
Happy St Patrick's Day. Enjoy the one day of the year when the whole world is Irish.

Ghosts of the Past

Started by Bynw, November 21, 2017, 09:26:09 AM

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Laurna

#465
The command to sleep had brought a quick oblivion in the middle of the night. Hours latter, however, pain and light-headedness had woken Sir Washburn, even before the sun chose to lighten the sky overhead. As he woke, he wanted to swear to the world about what an awful nightmare he had. But then he breathed in a mouthful of the fur that he lay on, and he felt the throb in his upper arm; he knew then his circumstances were all too real. He almost moved, but for a warm touch upon his shoulder and a cowled figuar that leaned down over him holding him still. The translusent figure held up a finger to his lips as warning to stay silent.  Wash blinked rapidly in a shock at the new stranger and found himself looking only up at the sky.

This haze over his mind had him hallucinating. How long did this drug's influence last?  Thinking back, the last drugged wine he had partaken was little more than half a day past. Merasha took most of a whole day to get Deryni abilities back in place. Shields would come first. Then the ability to sense the surroundings. Very last would be his Healer's Ability. Yet Healing was the one thing he needed most at the moment. In his pain, he was also experiencing a burning sensation.  He had to Heal that cut in his arm before he came down with a fever. But how? As yet he didn't even have his shields available to control. 

Wash dozed again, awakening this time to the lighting sky blurring out the stars overhead. Dawn was coming.  Again he felt warm hands encircling his left arm. He happened to open his eyes  to again see a profile of a man in a deep grey cowled robe leaning over him. There were no words spoken, but a sense of conversation filled him. You must Heal yourself. Above all other concerns. Heal yourself! spoke the eyes that twinkled like a pair of dawn stars. And again Washburn blinked, the figure was gone and the pair of dawn stars really did light the sky.

Heal? How was he supposed to do that?

With all the focus he could muster, he set himself down deep into trance. Did non-Deryni really have this kind of focus. Well, yes, the priests often meditated and used self-hypnosis, this was not unheard of.  Could he do that? Even without his power, could he convince his body to Heal more quickly just from the will of his mind.  Anything was better than the fever he knew was lingering inside the wound.

Self-hypnosis Healing...
((Washburn disadvantage roll, looking for some human  power-of-suggestion for self-Healing. Rolled = 6  Verification Number: 85kbpzbqnl))

Perhaps he was making it up, but the pain in his arm did subside back to a tolerable level. He once more looked over at his shoulder and the ghost of figure smiled down at him. The smile was one of reassurance; He was not alone in this. Not entirely alone. With some sense of relief Wash fell asleep again.
May your horses have wings and fly!

Bynw

The Scholar rises just around dawn and checks the surroundings. Once he is certain things are clear as the Wards did not alert him of any intruders during the night. He gets ready for the day's work. Allowing Washburn to sleep and wake naturally. He dresses more like a warrior than a scholar in the early morning light. Then he prepares and eats his own food before preparing the drugged food for Washburn.

Among the Scholar's provisions are several wineskins, each with a different colored cap. Red, blue, green. He also has a satchel containing powders, herbs, and other apothecary items. By the time Washburn awakes the Scholar is busy with a mortar and pestle. Grinding and crushing a mix of dried and fresh plants along with a powdered substance all mixed with a bit of wine. Making a thick blue syrup within the mortar.

As Washburn awakes, the pain in his left arm is all but gone. The blood loss hasn't been great or life threatening and seems to have stopped again. Fortunately the wound wasn't that deep. 

He can feel that the restrictive controls have been released but most likely able to be tripped with a mere thought from his captor now working on whatever substance is within the mortar. His normal speaking voice is available to him, but still unable to scream. And he can move his limbs.
President pro tempore of The Worlds of Katherine Kurtz Fan Club
IRC Administrator of #Deryni_Destinations
Discord Administrator of The Worlds of Katherine Kurtz Discord
Administrator https://www.rhemuthcastle.com

Jerusha

The old tinker settled his account for his lodging before retiring for the night.  Well after midnight, he slipped outside with his tinker's garb tucked inside his saddlebag.  He was now dressed as any common soldier with a dark leather cap that completely covered his pale blond hair.  His father's sword hung at his side secured by a plain leather belt.  He stopped by the tinker's cart and hid the clothes inside.  He refilled the bag with several items and removed a sturdy bow and a quiver of arrows from their hiding place.   Satisfied, he made for the soldier's barracks.

It had not been difficult to slip into the soldier's barracks and find a vacant pallet for the night.  With so many old faces missing among the soldiers and new ones who had entered during the attack, he was not worried that one more new face would be noticed. 

At first light the soldiers that made up the queen's guard we up and readying to depart.  The new soldier in the dark cap helped to bring in their morning ration of ale.  No one noticed the powder he slipped into one of the tankards.  He didn't care which one of the queen's guard drank it, so long as one of them did.

The unfortunate fellow that did was taken ill shortly afterward.  He made a mad dash to the garderobe, where he relieved himself from both ends.  When the condition showed no signs of abating, the captain of the queen's guard called for a replacement soldier.

Does Iain successfully use his powers to suggest that Cedric is chosen?
Jerusha   !roll 2d6
14:18   derynibot   2, 5 == 7
Success!

The captain of the queen's guard hardly noticed the touch of the soldier's hand against his own as he took the empty tankard from him.  Nor was he aware of the suggestion that was planted in his head.  He turned at once and noted the man who appeared to be well-seasoned and capable. 

"You there," the captain said.  "What's your name?"

The soldier in the dark cap snapped to attention.  "Cedric Archer," he said crisply.

The captain looked him over, head to foot. "Bowman?"

"Aye sir, and a good one, if I may say so."

The captain gave a disdainful snort.  "That remains to be seen, but you will do.  Grab your things and meet us at the door."

The soldier in the dark cap bowed and hastened to obey.

The soldiers escorted the Queen of Meara through the cheering crowds lined up along the street as she and her party departed from Ratharkin.  Sir Iain Cameron rode at the rear of the procession, holding the lead of the pack horse as befitted the newest recruit. 
From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggity beasties and things that go bump in the night...good Lord deliver us!

 -- Old English Litany

Laurna


Kelson, King of Gwynedd, obviously hadn't much sleep, for his curt focused call, seeking out where Brendan had got off too, was received sharply at dawn. If Kelson was angry with Brendan for spending the night at Portal-side than at least he tempered his reprimand when he heard that neither Brendan nor Jamyl had attempted to follow the leads they had managed to discover.  Grudgingly, Kelson could not fault Brendan's loyalty to both family and crown; the earl was doing what he could do under the restrictions given. So saying, after hearing what gains had been made, the king gave his permission for Brendan to continue his search and to make what portal jumps he deemed "Safe". Laird Seisyll had been in the king's presence at the time of the call. Having learned that his son was involved, he begged permission to return to the Portal site to assist. Kelson agreed. 

The Rapport with the king ended; Brendan sighed with some relief. He had expected far worse punishment. 'Course if he messed this up, Kelson would not forgive him. Brendan suspected Seisyll would have a greater reprimand for his son when he arrived. Jamyl seemed well aware of that and perhaps that was why he was willing to take the first portal jump before his father got there. 

"No, I think not." Not willing to take on Siesyll's wrath on himself, Brendan continued. "This time, I think we should go through together. I'll jump us there and jump us back out if we must, your sword will be at the ready to deflect any attack that may come. Even if the portal's not trapped, there is no telling who might be guarding it."

"Agreed," Jamyl said, pulling his sword out of his scabbard in a flourish and then pulling his dagger out to hold in his off- hand.

Brendan smiled, "That is not how Duke Nigel taught you?"

"No, it isn't. This is how uncle Sextus taught me."  The steal whisper in the swirl of air as both weapons swiftly spun in arcs of displayed proficiency.

Brendan shook his head, "Enough. Just make the moves count if we need them." With that Jamyl gave a slight bow, stepped onto the Portal stone and formed a Rapport allowing the older lord to control the jump.  The jump was barely a fraction of a heart beat.  Proof first that Brendan's disarming of the riverside portal was a success and that this new Portal did indeed seem to be free of  traps.

They arrived in a dark place with no window or light. And no sound, at least not, at first. Jamyl cast out for anyone near.

((Jamyl Casting out for anyone in the new portal location. 5 or 6 he can sense if anyone is there.
!roll 2d6  @derynibot  4, 1 == 5))

Just maybe, Jamyl thought, I should have gotten more sleep last night.

We both should have,  Brendan returned in full Rapport. Lets not mess this up.

Jamyl raised a violet colored handfire above the fist that held his dagger. The light, dim at first, grew in brillance to reveal the space they stood in.

They were in a wine cellar. Diagonal racks lined one wall; each niche filled with a sealed, corked bottle.  Feeling at ease that they were alone, Jamyl stepped off the portal and picked up the nearest bottle proving it a quality Finna red. He whistled softly. The opposite wall were stacked with earthen jugs of mead, the markings of Cassan. The Duke's private label. "Didn't think Dhugal sold this to just anyone? "

"He doesn't!" Brendan exclaimed. He looked at a larger wooden barrels labeled as Torenthi ale. Markings he was sure were not for sale anywhere in Gwynedd. Most the other goods in the cellar were of better quality than was generally let out in market. "Black market." Brendan finally announced. "Their using the Portal to bring goods into the city." Brendan turned back to the Portal placing both hands upon it attempting to sense would he could from it. Beside the jumps he had just made there had been several others.  Could he get enough time to work out where from and to. "Go up the steps, be cautious now. Look to see if you can identify which building this is. You know this city better than I."

Jamyl took one step up on wooden stairs, they gave a creak. And then a growl. No the growl came from under the stairs. A growl that intensified with his next step up. Two eyes came around the banister rail; large gold eyes that shown in the hand fire.  Fangs beneath a long nose snarled at the young Arilan.  Four feet leapt to the stair's bass, cutting Jamyl's retreat back to the Portal. Forced upward, Jamyl retreated up the steps.  The huge head of a black colored Norse Dane barred his teeth and growled at Jamyl, even as the huge paws followed the young lord up the steps.

"Could use some beast mastery here." The young Arilan requested, keeping his sword pointed at the huge dog's chest.

"Don't have that." Brendan said, while pulling forth his sword and coming up behind the beast as stealthily as he dared.  The dog was not fooled, he was well aware of both men. When Brendan came too close, his head swung around and gave a warning growl. The dog's head was near the height of Brendan's chest, his head bigger than a man's.  "A big one, this!" he stepped a pace to the side and the dog returned his advance on Jamyl. The Dane's growl turned to a threatening bark. That was when Brendan's off-hand palm against the beast's back. Even as Brendan suggested sleep, the door above them opened.  And a flare of shielding from the newcomer announced the man's heritage and startled both men. "Stay your tricks and your sword's if you wish to leave this room alive!" Ordered the man in the doorway. "Lokil! Come!"

Brendan pulled his hand away fast. Indeed, this God of a dog, Lokil, had not taken the suggestion to sleep. In the second he had touched the canine's mind, he had felt a shielding against such intrusion. 

The dog gave one last warning growl to Jamyl who flattened himself against the wall and allowed the dog to pass him by.  When the huge Dane reached the top steps he turned and stood guard before his owner, teeth again barred.

"Who are you, what business have you here, If you're in with the Black Tigers, I have no more business with you."

"We're King's men, here on the King's business." Brendan shouted up from the cellar floor. "King Kelson, ordered us here to follow a perpetrator. If you know what is good for you, you will answer our questions."

The man at the top of the stairs took a defeated step back. "Show yourselves," he demanded.

The Earl of Marley's blue hand fire burst lit the room like the sun, showing his full height, his scarlet red hair and his heraldry tunic. No one in Gwynedd would mistake him for any other man than the one that he was.

"My lord, forgive me!" came the voice at the top of the stairs. He bowed to his knee. The two lords would have taken advantage of the situation had it not been for the dog that kept his stance taught.

Brendan came half up the stairs. "Let us in to the building proper, we have questions that must be answered."

"Aye, my lord, I am nothing but a boarding house keeper, come in. Lokil!" the man stood and called the dog away. He and the dog stepped back from the door, into the full of a store room and then out the far door into the kitchen.  He pointed the dog to lay down by the kitchen hearth. "I don't normally have Lokil in the cellar, but I didn't want that man coming back.

"What man?" Brendan asked seeing the good-wife kneading the morning dough at the far table, three children scurried about the kitchen. One brought a bowl of raw meat for Lokil to eat. The dog scarfed the food down with jaws that could rip the tough meat with pleasure.

"Tis him you are after, isn't it. Seemed like a worldly fellow at first. Knew of the Portal which you have found. Not many know of it."

"How did this man know of the Portal if you didn't show him. And who are the Black Tigers."

"I don't deal with that sort, not for years!" snapped back the building owner with a hiss. "There an offshoot of the Nosairi out of Constantinople; most people who have heard of them... well they'd be dead." That was not quiet true, as Prince Albin had told stories of his youth as having encountered a faction of the Nosairi. Brendan kept that little bit to himself.

"My lord," pleaded the landlord. "I am a businessman. I run this boarding house the best and most honest way that I can. What I inherited from my grandfather, I did not continue with. Most of the goods you saw in the cellar have been down there for decades. I don't run that kind of business. Not at the risk of my wife and kids."

Brendan was truthreading the Deryni landlord, he was telling the truth as far as it went. "What you have down there is worth a fortune."

"Aye, and most likely to to be thrown in the stocks for it. That is how my pappy died. Hard to move such goods without questions asked." There was some truth in the man's words and some lies as well. Brendan was sure the man did have a buyer for his goods once in a great while.

"We're not here for black market trafficking. You said a man used your Portal. Within the last day, I presume. Tell me about him, who was he?"

"He was a learned man out of Saint-Sasile, an educational establishment in Torenth and he was a patron from the Forcinne states. All he said passed my truth reading."

"I am sure that it did." Brendan said calmly. "His name?"

"Count Los 'Meaux of the Forcinne. He stayed here once before a few months ago. He didn't use the Portal then.

"No? Likely he came having learned it was there and wanted to discover his signature for himself. Why have you not trapped it?"

"Like I said, no one has used it in decades, it wasn't necessary."

"Well it is necessary now!" Brendan bit back. "If you want to keep from the dungeons, you will comply to the king's will in this," Brendan threatened. The landlord cowed as he approached. "Show me this man, i must know what he looks like."

Submissively the landlord bent knee before the earl. The good-wife gathered her children into her skirts and everyone held their breath in answer to Brendan's sharp tone.

Brendan was not too kind to the Landlord as he place his hands on his head and garnered the images of Count Los 'Meaux. He had stayed here for several days waiting. Brendan guest just what he had been waiting for. For his brother to return to Rhemuth.  "Show me his room.'

"Yes, yes, immediately." The man pulled out his keys and lead the way up the stairs.
May your horses have wings and fly!

Laurna

#469
The rain was heavy, dampening the sails. Water ran down the canvas in a constant waterfall; sheets of rain splattering against the wooden deck. The wind was high and the captain was ordering the sails to be lowered before the tension drove the little vessel nose down into the sea. The squall had come up fast, it sometimes did that on the Southern Sea. They were half way between Orsalis and Coroth, neither shore closer than the other, and if they didn't get that sail down, they would be driven all the way to Furstanan and on to the rocks that guarded the head of the twin River deltas.

The gaff-rig vessel was a two master. Multiple stanchions held the masts on all sides, ropes and halyards held the boom, the gaff and the sails taught. The Mizzen sail had come down with nary a fuss. The small crew of eight, with hands slick with rain, caught the lowering luff of the sail and then the gaff head pole came down with ease; lashing the canvas up in rolls between boom and gaff, all was away quickly and secured to the deck.

The squall continued on. The chop of the seas grew higher and the little vessel began to swing violently to and fro.

Squire Washburn loved the sea. He was fifteen, taller than the rest of the crew by inches, raised in Coroth where the sea was your love. He had crewed a time or two with Captain Robert Kerby, mostly to learn, always for enjoyment. This little boat, The Dolphinia, was made strictly for running messages across the channel to the isle of Orsal and back. It was a tiny skiff compared to the majesty of the  Raffaela. It didn't leave harbor all the much and didn't have a crew of its own. Just who ever was available to skipper it when it was needed. And this time Captain Kerby was on shore and volunteered for the day task. Washburn had happily volunteered too. The messages they had brought to the Hort of Orsal had not been answered until late in the day. When they left the docks of Orsalis, they could see the dark clouds far to the west. But they were sure the three hour run would get them home before it over took them. This time Kerby had misjudged.

"Get that mainsail down, before it sinks us!" howled the captain in the fierce wind. He and another man were doing all that they could just to hold the tiller and the rudder as the chop wanted to spin the boat around. Halyards where loosened, men held the tailings, barely, in their hands against the pulleys. The head gaff, a long beam longer than the mast was tall, had to be lowered on all ends as one, or a tangle of ropes would commence. And indeed even as the men were ordered to release the peak halyard, the rope jumped off its track.  The low end of the gaff came crashing down, the upper end dropped half, then snarled up, mid-way and would come down no further. The canvas, now a billowing dangerous luff, viciously slapped back and forth threatening to shove an unwary man overboard.

"Cut that damn Halyard!" yelled Kerby. The mast runner was up the mast in short time, his knife in his teeth. Washburn was brace just below him at the base of the mast, feet spread wide on the shifting deck, one hand firm on a rope around the mast and the other holding ropes taught around the free lower edge of the gaff-pole to keep it from twisting away into the stanchions. The other four men were attempting to reef in the sail, which seemed an impossibility in that moment.

The man above sawed at the rope then whistled in warning. The rope cut, the gaff dropped, straight down as best as  Washburn could hold it. Suddenly the ship's keel cried and the vessel floundered in the seas without the drive to go forward. The man nearest Wash slipped on the slick canvass now puddled on the deck, With a skull breaking fall he hit the side rail and teetered there, near overboard. Wash leaped at the man, grabbed an arm, the deck swayed the man's feet slipped further and he tumbled to the water's edge. Everything wet, Washburn leaning hard over the rail to hold the man up. Then suddenly his feet slipped too. Then both men were in the sea.  With a gulp of sea water Washburn and the seaman he still held slipped under the waves.

A calm of body and mind filled the Corwyn squire in that moment.  What he saw then was nothing short of the Sea Goddess of ancient times. A great golden shell opened before his eyes. Within it a lady, as stunningly beautiful as ever he did see, she rose up and moved in a graceful dance.  A glistening white pearl she held up in both hands, teasing him in a seductive way. Indeed he smiled as she smiled.  She tossed the pearl in the air and he kicked upward up to catch it. With his free hand raised high, he felt other hands grabbing his. He and the man he still held were pulled up on the loving deck of the Dolphinia. Racking with  coughs and gulping several breaths his chest ached, but his mind could not help but replayed the sumptuous beauty of the goddess that had saved him.

With a cough matching his dreams, Washburn awoke to the new morning. Strangely, he felt free, even though the tension proved his hands still tied. The visitations of the goddess in his youth and the saint in his dreams this night, he knew to be nothing more than his imagination. But strange how the mind plays when all hope seems lost. Because hope is eternal, just waiting to be grasped. Once you have caught it, you must hold it tight to your heart. Washburn had always been a man to see the good in the world. After a dunking in the sea and saving of the man he never let go of, he knew he could do anything if he believed in it enough.

Stretching limbs out as best he could, the Lendour knight sat up straight and arched his back,  face up to the sky. Then he settled in a sitting position, his tied ankles crossing, his knees out. The rope was taught around his boots. But though he hoped his captor would not  notice it, he felt the rope stretching and loosening just a little with the pull.

The man next to him was watching him on and off. Never stopping the stirring and crushing of a substance that was blue.

"I don't think I dare to ask what that is," Washburn said with a deep breath.  He looked at all the things his captor had brought out. "You seem to know much about herbs and drugs. Though you have changed out of your robes, I suspect you truly are a learned man. Certainly there are better, more honest ways to ply what you know?"
May your horses have wings and fly!

Bynw

#470
"We call it Blue Fyre," he answers Washburn anyway as he continues to work. "Something we came up with just within the last 30 years or so. It took centuries of research. Going over ancient documents scattered across the Eleven Kingdoms and into Byzantyun and beyond. But it was worth it in the end. I follow in the footsteps of my forefathers, just as others do."

He pauses sets down the mortar.

"Merasha and other drugs like it, take away a Deryni's power.  Turns him into a human for a time. Hours, days, even longer if the drugs are constantly given. Useful by the ancient healers to heal certain ailments and of course to prevent our kind from using their powers against others as the need arises."

The Scholar faces Washburn, and weaves his tale. "Blue Fyre on the other hand. It enhances and expands a Deryni's senses and power. The power blossoms and you can See everything and do anything. It is hard to describe it really. The words just don't exist. If the Humans knew that such a substance existed they would hunt us all down."

"I have tasted it myself a few years ago. I was contracted to hunt a very dangerous Deryni in Torenth and needed the power it granted to me. I know how to make it, part of my order's training. And as a young boy I saw it used, in fact the first time it was ever used."  He looks off into the distance, not focusing his eyes on anything as his mind recalls the memory.

"Grand Duke Teymuraz's army was invading Gwynedd in a bid to take back the throne from the accursed Haldane's. They met with strong resistance in the Duchy of Corwyn. The battle was horrific on both sides. Men dying everywhere no matter which master they served. It was a bloody and costly battle. But then he came, the Deryni Duke of Corwyn, puppet of the Haldane, your father Alaric Morgan himself. He challenged Teymuraz to a duel arcane to end the fighting. I was not privy to the terms of the duel itself. I was young, just past my age of majority, in the company of others, nor more than 15 or 16 at the time. We were too far away watching the battle to hear the terms of the duel. But we saw the Wards spring up in the field. And we knew it was time. What I didn't know then, was that Teymuraz's youngest son had been secretly dosed with Blue Fyre. My order knew what it could potentially do, but there was no way to find out without testing it. So they tested it on him, without his, or his father's knowledge or permission. And the Wards faded, and the victor was Morgan and not Teymuraz. His son used his fury with the Blue Fyre running through his mind and veins. And Morgan's victory was short lived as Teymuraz's son took out his vengeance against the Duke of Corwyn. In a powerful blast of magic, well beyond his years and skill. No one has ever suspected him because it would be beyond the abilities of a 12 year old child, even a Deryni one."

He finished his tale and took a drink of wine from one of the wineskins, to quench his thirst and moisten his lips from his long tale. "From that point on we knew that it worked. Unfortunately we later discovered the dangers of using it. Pain, sometimes madness, and the craving for more of it unlike anything else. So we use it very sparingly when we have great need of it."

Without any sort of preamble, he pours the blue syrup from the mortar into a wineskin and caps it with the red top. And then gives it a good shake to mix the Blue Fyre with the wine.

"Eat your food now. We have a lot to do today."
President pro tempore of The Worlds of Katherine Kurtz Fan Club
IRC Administrator of #Deryni_Destinations
Discord Administrator of The Worlds of Katherine Kurtz Discord
Administrator https://www.rhemuthcastle.com

revanne

Seamus showed his efficiency in gathering the captains of the other boats onto the quayside before Dhugal had too long to sink into melancholy. The men had continued to pour into Ballymar while he and Richard had been absent in Rhemuth, and now fully eighteen of the twenty ships that he could boast were ready to go to sea. Only two lacked a full crew, other than the Rose of course, for she was lacking the eight men who had gone to their deaths with Richard, for the more he thought on it, the less it seemed that any could have survived the inferno that had been described.

Dhugal bit his lip, he could not take his frustration out on the boats' captains, much as he would have liked to give them the benefit of all the profanity in his vocabulary. His thoughts went to Kelson and how he was having to subdue the man within the king: he must do the same. Once they stood before him, he called Seamus to stand with him facing the others.

"In the absence of your Captain General, " he paused and raked them all with his glance, his voice tightly controlled, noting that not one of them dared to meet his gaze, "and I do not want to know how many of you knew what was in his mind. He was, in however misguided and stupidly brave a fashion, acting against the enemies of our lord the King. However,  I would take it kindly," and here his voice became dangerously soft, "if you would be so good as to inform your Duke the next time one of you has the urge to become a hero."

He took a grip of his emotions. He had had Seamus summon them to give his commands, not rake them over the coals. Enough time had been wasted and before anything else he needed to find out what had actually happened in Loch Mhor before daybreak. And Seamus needed to be recognised before them all as Captain General. If Richard's actions had had little or no effect, other than to get the boatload of them all killed, then before the day was out Seamus might be commanding a fleet that needed to engage with enemy boats before they could even think of fulfilling the king's order to take vitally needed loyal men to Laas.

"In the absence of your Captain General," he repeated, "Seamus Graham will take on his authority and role, and you are to obey him as you would obey me. With obvious reservations, which I trust that I do not need to belabour. If, by the mercy of God and the prayers of all the saints, Richard Kirby should be returned to us, then he will take up his customary authority and you all, including Seamus, will be subject to him. After I have finished with him, that is."

Dhugal's smile as he said this was grim, but it was at least a smile and some at least of those standing before him dared to relax their own lips a little. With a less strained tone of voice he continued,

"We cannot know what we will find in Loch Mhor, nor how many, if any, of the enemy boats have managed to leave on this morning's tide. There is no  time to tell you why I can so certainly call them enemy boats, but there is no doubt that that is what they are."

He spoke directly to Seamus.

"Take ten of the fastest boats, led by the Rose,  and go to Loch Mhor. If there are enemy boats there that have been damaged, board them and subdue their crews. If the boats are seaworthy take them in tow, otherwise leave them to rot. Any crew that will not immediately submit to being taken prisoner are to be killed. If enemy boats have escaped from the Loch, then pursue them; the crippled boats are going nowhere and can be boarded later. I will leave it to you to give the necessary orders. For the rest, we must wait on what you have to report. See to it."

Seamus drew his sword to the salute and turned away. The gathered captains already knew which were the fastest boats in the fleet. In the long years of peace there had been ample time and a relaxed enough mood for races between the boats on festival days, and they were already tensed for action. There would be little time before they were away.

Dhugal watched Seamus go. It would have been helpful to have established a rapport with him, and with his border heritage and gifts it should have been relatively easy. As seafarers commonly did, Seamus wore a medallion around his neck dedicated to one of the saints who took a special interest in the protection of those at sea, perhaps St Nicolas, or the Stella Maris herself, our Lady, Star of the Sea, and he could without difficulty have attuned it so that they could communicate. But when he went to call Seamus back, he found that he could not. Though his loyalty was beyond question, the man was clearly still in awe of him, verging on outright fear, and the abuse of Deryni power Dhugal had witnessed in Rhemuth had left a sourness in his belly which made him revolt at the idea of using his authority to force the issue. (( 1+4+2=7, 68rbzp25j1. So much for relatively easy :-( ))

There was nothing that Dhugal could do on the quayside and he knew that he should return to the castle to talk to Mirjana. But even the thought of what he had to tell her caused his gut to tighten, and he feared that once he began to confide all the pain and horror to her, the control on his emotions that his status as a Duke and as a Deryni demanded of him would break down. Instead he watched the ships as they prepared to leave and one by one turned into the ebb tide which would draw them out of the harbour. There was little wind on this calm summer morning, the offshore wind of the hours of darkness which must have aided the skiff that Richard had taken had dropped. There was no way of knowing whether the strange easterly wind which the master-at-arms had spoken of was blowing out at sea, but here there was little to aid the ships, though the skill of the captains would use what little there was. It would be a long wait.

He walked to the end of the quayside, and then continued along behind the harbour wall to the little chapel of St. Nicolas. There was enough of his father in him for him to find great comfort in knowing that they had not died unshriven, and he knew that it would matter to Kelson too. He pushed open the door of the little wooden chapel, barely more than a hut, with a roof supported by beams which by the look of them had once been used at sea. If possible, the smell of the sea was stronger inside than out, and as he looked he realised that there were offerings laid in front of the altar, stones worn smooth by the tide,  shells and even pieces of dried sea wrack. All given, he thought, in thanksgiving for lives rescued from the sea. And perhaps too for the lives not saved, in supplication for their souls.

He had been remiss not to have come here before, though it belonged very much to the common sailors. He had been careful to make sure that the families of those lost at sea were cared for, or that those injured were taught another trade. But their loss had never truly touched him. He shook himself mentally; there was a limit to what a man could feel guilty for and he was no priest. His duty lay with men's bodies, not with their souls. But there was real pain for him in Richard's loss, and guilt too,  and as humbly as anyone else who ever entered the chapel he knelt and prayed.

Sanctuary though this was, he could not remain there for long and finally he crossed himself and got to his feet, wishing, perhaps absurdly, that he had brought a tribute to lay in front of the altar. The gold coins, which were the only small things which he had with him, would be a glaring act of presumption in the presence of the other simple gifts,  though he resolved to make sure that a few of them made their way to the priest.  He bowed deeply to the altar, then turned and left, picking up his sword from the porch as he did so.

He walked back along the quayside;  he could put off returning to the castle no longer. Thanks to his failure to establish a rapport with Seamus, and that now seemed to him more like cowardice on his part than consideration, it could be many hours until there was any news. He allowed his eye to idly scan the horizon, though without any conscious thought of what he was looking for. Richard and the small sailing boat which he had used were hardly going to come sailing into the harbour. He was chiding himself for folly when he thought he caught a movement on the hillside. Yes, there it was again. If it was that watchman coming down before the end of his watch again, he really would have something to say to him. Or, given that it was now full morning and long past the time for Prime, perhaps his watch had validly ended and he was coming back down for a well earned rest. His replacement must have gone up while he was in the chapel. He really must stop trying to find people to shout at.

As he looked more closely he realised that the movement was not on the path which led to the watchpoint but on the path which led around the lower shoulder of the brae. It was a rough and difficult path which led around to the rugged slopes surrounding Loch Mhor but by no means impassable, though it would take a local to know the beach in the tiny inlet where it led down to the water of the loch. Watching intently and focusing his gaze he soon saw that there was more than one figure, but for a while he could make out no more, and he wished fervently that he had brought one of the spy glasses with him. Eventually the path wound near enough for him to have a clear view and it was at that point that he became aware that most activity on the quayside had stopped and everyone was looking in the same direction.

"What the...?" Thankfully he realised in time that he had spoken aloud and finished the expletives within his head. Here were Richard and his crew strolling along a hillside path as though on a feast day expedition. (( 123, Richard dies, 456 he survives. 1d6 5! Miracles do happen. Tjzmzpjcq2. )). By now several of the farsighted amongst the sailors had come to the same conclusion and a ragged cheer went up. Dhugal breathed a prayer of immense gratitude but he could not bring himself to join in with the celebrations, his emotions had been too wrung and whatever else they had been - and they had no news yet as to what precisely had been achieved -  Richard's actions had been both foolhardy and a breach of discipline.

An unnatural silence fell as men realised that their Duke was not joining in the celebrations, even the usual low murmur of conversation as the morning's tasks were undertaken was stilled. It would take another half an hour for the walkers to reach the point where the path joined the road to the quayside, just before the road to the castle split off, and Dhugal simply stood and watched, seemingly oblivious as the captains chivied their crews backed to work. Only when they were near the end of the path did he walk towards them and stand a few paces down the path which led to the castle. While he waited he had considered returning to the castle and letting Richard come to him; indeed part of him had wanted to send soldiers to arrest him for insubordination but that would have been sheer folly. No, better to hear what Richard had to say at once and give him his due deserts. The trouble was he could not for the life of him decide whether those should be reward or censure. Perhaps it was possible to combine both?



God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
(Psalm 46 v1)

Jerusha

Kelson Haldane, King of Gwynedd, looked up as the young man was announced.

"Your Majesty, Lord Darcy Cameron," a moment's pause as Robert said something to the guard, "Heir of Isles." Darcy shot a look at his brother's squire, who bowed to the king and remained discreetly by the door. 

Lord Darcy did not look completely at ease as he moved forward and stopped before the long table the king sat behind. The king noted the man's strong likeness to his brother, Sir Iain, especially wearing the Isles tunic.  He was not quite as fastidious as his brother; several strands of pale hair escaped his border braid.  He whisked them away from his face before stopping and bending down on one knee. 

"Your Majesty," Darcy said.  Not knowing quite what should come next, he waited, his pale blue eyes cautious.

"Rise, Lord Darcy, and stand at ease before Us." 

Darcy rose and stood before him; not exactly at ease, but not at attention.  Kelson had the impression that the young man was not quite sure what to do with his hands.  Darcy decided to clasp them behind his back.

"Lord Darcy, it is time you learned what has happened to Lady Aliset and to Sir Washburn."

"Thank you, your Majesty, I have been most eager to know."  Darcy looked at the king squarely, giving him his full attention.

Kelson watched Darcy carefully as he told him what had happened, including the questioning of the prisoners, though he did not go into excruciating detail.  If the man exploded and went charging out to find Lord Jaxom, the guards at the door would stop him.  He watched the tension build first though the young man's shoulders; the hands that had been clasped behind his back moved to his sides, each fist clenched into a tight ball.  He watched the initial hot anger that flashed in his eyes change to cold, penetrating hatred that likely encompassed Oswald as well as Jaxom.  Kelson wondered if he should have posted an additional guard.

"I will kill Jaxom, and Oswald when I find him," Darcy said when the king had finished.

"You will not," Kelson replied firmly.  "Jaxom was foolish, but he was not responsible for what he was forced to do.  Oswald is Ours to deal with as We see fit.

"Lord Jaxom presumed too much with Lady Aliset and put her in grave danger!" 

"We are fully aware of that." Kelson kept his voice firm with regal authority behind it.  He watched Darcy take a deep, steadying breath. 

"It seems to me it would be difficult to bend a man's mind so," Darcy said after a moment, not willing to concede Jaxom's non-complicity.

"It is not that difficult for a Deryni; you can probably do it yourself. But don't try," Kelson added dryly.  "The fault lies in the motive, not the ability.  All my squires' have had controls set so they cannot inadvertently divulge what they should not."

Darcy looked shocked.  "Robert O'Malley too?"

"Most certainly.  And consider the fact that Admiral Kirby was used badly as well, perhaps even worse, being driven to attack a duke he had served faithfully for years.  Yet I gave him my full pardon, knowing he was not to blame."  Grey Haldane eyes looked directly into pale Isles blue. "I don't expect you to pardon Lord Jaxom, but I will have your word that you will not exact revenge on him."

Dice roll.  1,2,3 Darcy will refuse and suffer the consequences.  4,5,6, Darcy will pledge his word.
Jerusha   !roll 2d6
20:20   derynibot   1, 4 == 5
Atta boy, Darcy!

Darcy did not lower his gaze from the king's.  For a moment he stood his ground, a little too long a moment than the king liked, when finally, holding his palm upward to the king, he said, "You have my word, and I shall keep it."

Kelson realized he had been holding his breath; he nodded.  "I accept your pledge, freely given."

Darcy bowed in acknowledgement.  After he straightened, he asked, "What of Lord Jaxom?"

"He will apologize to Lady Aliset in Our presence.  Since I have your oath," Kelson decided he could be a little less formal, "you will escort her and Duchess Grania at the proper time.  He and his men will then join Prince Javan's forces and depart for Meara when all has been readied." Kelson thought it best to deflect Darcy's attention elsewhere, for the moment at least.

"Lady Aliset shared an image of a fortress stronghold with Prince Javan while at Arx Fedei," he said. "Prince Javan passed it on to me in his report.  I think we can safely assume it's somewhere in the Ratharkin Mountains, based on some additional information.  Do you think you can discern at least its approximate location, based on your skills as a navigator?"

"I will do my best, your Majesty," Darcy replied.  "Out of habit I studied the skies as we made our way down from Culdi and through the mountains.  There is a reasonable chance I can get us close."

King Kelson wondered if "I can get us close" might be a bit prophetic.
From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggity beasties and things that go bump in the night...good Lord deliver us!

 -- Old English Litany

Laurna

#473
Washburn could not help but stare at the red-capped wine-skin in horror. Unable to immediately piece together all that he had just been told from the few memories that were spared to him, he brushed the story aside like it had been told from a court jester spouting off a fanciful tale.  Then he looked into the eyes of his tormentor and he recoiled at the joy seen in their depths.  "There is no chivalry in stories full of lies nor in substances that alter the body or the mind." The knight declared. "I'll have none of your evil tampering." Wash swore under his breath. He looked away from the food near at hand with disgust. He could not even remember the last time he had eaten. Certainly not in the last day, might be even two days the way his stomach ached. He remembered sharing ale with good companions under a warded dome, that had to be days and days ago. He recalled having eaten some since, the long day in the saddle to get from where ever it was they has spent the night before riding. Where had that been? No idea!  Then his party had arrived in Rhemuth... Certainly he would have eaten then...?  Nothing came to mind. There had been those hot meat pies shared with friends, Father Collumcil, Darcy and Lord Jaxom. He stomach turned at the betrayal of that man, just like the betrayal of the food that sat in front of him. No longer hungry, he decided he would rather starve.

Seeking anything else to think on, Wash considered all of the Scholar's tale and how he could denounce it. "Most of what you say, is not right." He looked over at the scholar as he mixed some other batch of herbs. 

"Ah, but it is true, all of it." the man said watching Washburn shake his head in denial.

"No, no, not possible. My father did die in a battle, much like the one you describe, I was just a child then.  But my pa was a lowly knight, aye one of the best with a sword, I grant the, for I aspire to be like him, like Alaric Morgan. Aye a proud simple name that. Not the name of a duke! Bah! You are a spinner of tales and lies. There are no lands in my name and none that I can think of in my father's. He died in that battle, I will grant that, but to be slaughter by a drugged twelve year old? Not possible!"

The scholar started to hum a merry tune, quite pleased with himself as he stirred his herbs. "Tell me of you're family."

"What is to tell, you seem to know more than I. Pa died in battle, Maman..." Wash thought for a long moment. "She is a beautiful woman..." was all he could think to say. "Two sisters both married well one to a prince the other...." again wash shook his head, why could he not remember. "Your drugs are cruel." he finally blurted out.

"Any brothers?" the scholar asked genuinely interested.

Wash hesitated for a long time. Something was wrong, he could not  place his mind around it. The faces of many friends passed his inner eye but no brothers. "I am thinking, Not." he finally said very quietly.

"Why do you lie and tell me my father was a duke? Why do you tell me this man Grand Duke Valarian struck him down with magic.... Grand Duke Valar.... GDV" Revelation dawned and Washburn's eyes went wide. "You are selling me to this man who killed my father! You plan to sell him a sip of your blue fire too, so you can see just how he did it, as he does the same to me!"

Washburn looked wildly around him for any escape.

---------------------------

((Here is how I came up with how to respond to the Sholar/Feyd. I rolled some dice. I don't know if I quite followed my orriginal concept. scenes take on a life of their own once you start to write them.

08:48Washburn   Washburn remembers his father went to war and remembers he did not come home. But does Washburn remember who his father was. Does he remember that he was Alaric Morgan?
08:49Washburn   All memories of the Name Duke of Corwyn have been removed, so when Feyd's story begins about Grand Duke Teymuraz and the Duke of Corwyn, Wash has no reaction to that because he feels he has no connection to these people.
08:50Washburn   However, Feyd then says, "Your father Alaric Morgan." I need to know what reaction Wash has to this. This is complicated.
08:53Washburn   I am going to do this a odd way. I am going to sum up two dice 2d6, with four possible outcomes.
08:55Washburn   the sum equal to-- 2,3,4=Wash does not react, he does not recognize the name Alaric Morgan and he flatly denies that this is his father, Feyd is lying to him.
08:57Washburn   5,6= Wash does not react he does not recognize the name Alaric Morgan, but he considers what Feyd says.
08:59Washburn   7,8,9= Wash does not react but he does recognize the name Alaric Morgan, he wonders if his father really was the Duke of Corwyn, and in his confusion he decides it best to play along with the Scholar.
09:01Washburn   10,11,12= Wash does react to the scholars story, he recognizes his father's name, he still does not remember he was the Duke of Corwyn and he becomes angry because he knows something is wrong and this man before him is playing him for a fool.
09:02Washburn   This should be fun. I am afraid to roll.
09:03Washburn   what do you think Bynw/anlarye?
09:05Washburn  I don't even know which way I want this to play out. I am hoping this will give me an idea of how the next scene should go.
09:05Washburn   And yes I am stalling
09:05Washburn   lol
09:06Washburn   and no one's here to see it.
09:06Washburn   ok Here goes
09:06Washburn   !roll 2d6
09:07derynibot    5, 3 == 8
09:07Washburn   Ok I can deal with that.

OK, so I did take it a little bit from the third option toward the last one, but that is just how writing tends to go where you are last thinking.))

May your horses have wings and fly!

Bynw

"Oh my dear Washburn. I am not selling you to the Grand Duke. I am merely delivering you to him. He already owns you. You are his assurance of victory for his Mearian rebellion." the Scholar tells.

"His Grace doesn't know that Blue Fyre exists and as such I am not going to tell him either. This mixure is not for him. It is for you. Your salvation if you wish to take it."
President pro tempore of The Worlds of Katherine Kurtz Fan Club
IRC Administrator of #Deryni_Destinations
Discord Administrator of The Worlds of Katherine Kurtz Discord
Administrator https://www.rhemuthcastle.com

revanne

Once they drew close Dhugal could see how weary and drawn Richard and his men looked. Far from the casual strolling that his resentment had accused them of, most were limping, one badly and needing to be helped along, and others had hurts which had been roughly bandaged. But they were all there, and all alive, and though the healer in him was insisting that all else except tending to their injuries could wait, there were questions that needed answering first. Not even waiting to acknowledge their bows as they drew level with him and stopped, he threw at Richard,

"How the hell did you get out alive?", and even he could not tell whether there was exaltation or anger in his shout.

Richard took a breath of profound relief, this at least was one question that he could answer easily and provoke neither anger nor hurt in his listener.

"It was none too difficult your Grace, though truly I believe that God and his saints were with us. The hardest part was leaving the harbour against the incoming tide, but after the heat of yesterday the offshore wind just after midnight was strong and once it caught the sails we were away." Dhugal's impatient glance told him that  he could leave off the details of their journey round to Loch Mhor.

"Once we had rounded the point we furled the sails and allowed the flood tide to draw us in. The full moon gave us enough light to see the ships moored there, but as long as we kept in the shadow of the brae with the moon just setting behind us, they would struggle to see us. You mind the shingle bank which juts a furlong or two into the loch? We drew out of the tide just behind it, dipped the arrows in the pitch, and set them alight before firing them into as many sails as could be managed before they gathered their wits and came after us. We maybe should have stayed longer and done more damage but I was fearful of what they would do to us if any of us were caught so we turned her head back into the tide, there's a powerful current there with a spring tide on the flood, and let God and the tide do the rest. She hit at least one boat broadside and ricocheted into maybe a couple more before the barrels of pitch went up in a sheet of flame."

"And St Michael himself came down in the flame and carried you to safety?" The irony in Dhugal's voice could not disguise his admiration -and maybe even envy? - and one of the sailors found courage to step forward with a bow and say,

"Coracles, yer Grace, afore the tide took her and then paddling like he..., very fast," he corrected himself lamely.

It had been well done and less foolishly than Dhugal had feared and the men at least deserved nothing but their Duke's full approbation. One last question before he dismissed them and he and Richard turned to their reckoning.

"I doubt that you were able to see what damage you had done?" Somewhat to Dhugal's surprise Richard could answer him readily enough though he looked downcast.

"Not as much as I had hoped, your Grace. We didn't stop to count them while we were still afloat," Richard dared a smile but when Dhugal merely raised his eyebrows he continued, "but once we were safely a piece up  the path that leads up around the brae, by which time it had begun to get light, we stopped to take tally. Three of them were listing badly and had already begun to take on water, I'll stake my guess that they are already on their way to the bottom. Eleven more will be sailing nowhere for a while yet, but with work they could be seaworthy again. That leaves sixteen that were already making their way out of the loch on the turning tide, the flagship amongst them."

((Now for the complicated bit.
Assuming 30 ships from Tolan
First 2d roll- total equals those damaged beyond repair/sank
Second 2d roll - total equals those unable to sail away but seaworthy after repair.
The difference between both totals and the original number of 30 is those that escaped at least relatively unscathed from Loch Mhor.
    1:  2 + 1 = 3
    2:  6 + 5 = 11         1ml4h0k920))

Dhugal was reckoning in his head, "In which case Seamus may have met with them and either be in pursuit or be giving battle as we speak. He'll be outnumbered nearly two to one but I have no doubt he has no more sense than the rest of you and will not allow that to stop him. We can only wait; with all the watchers we have along the cliffs we will have news, good or bad before long. I've no doubt they took all the folk of any rank off with them and left the ordinary sailors to their fate. Well, if they have no quarrel with us, we've none with them and if they are willing to change their loyalty and have it tested there is room and enough for them here."

And that was why Dhugal was so loved, thought Richard. Even now he was taking thought for ordinary folk, even those whose masters had made enemies of them and then abandoned them. He had no fear that there would be any consequences for those that had followed him. Dhugal was too good a lord to lay blame where it did not lie and indeed was most like to reward their loyalty even though he disapproved their actions. The ducal wrath would be for him alone, and that was as it should be.

Richard looked his Duke full in the face for the first time and said solemnly, "I'd be grateful your Grace that when you carry my report to his Majesty you tender my deepest apologies that I was not able to do more damage to his enemies."

Dhugal knew that they were skirting near the heart of it, that Richard still believed that he had reparation to make, but he had no intention of discussing such a sensitive topic, one that moreover touched the King's own feelings very nearly, while the sailors stood nearby. Addressing them directly he said,

"You have our thanks, and that of his Majesty for your bravery in his service, and for your loyalty to your captain general. You have our leave to go, get your hurts tended to, then you are relieved of any duties for the next four watches or until the order is given to set sail."

The sailors bowed and backed a few respectful paces but there was a marked hesitancy in their movements, and not what might have been expected from men just given leave to spend the rest of the day sleeping in the heather rather than toiling in the hot sun. Dhugal saw that they were torn between the unquestioning obedience to authority bred and beaten into them and their love and respect for Richard which made them unwilling to leave him. Moved rather than angered he dropped his formality and made shooing gestures at them with his hands,

"Off with you. I'm not going to eat him, just roast him a little. Go!"

Hurriedly the men bowed again, turned and went, abashed but reassured. Dhugal knew full well though, that all eyes on the quayside would be upon the two of them.

"Just what did you think you were doing? Och, it's turned out well enough, but I couldn't know know that when I stood on yon quayside at first light this morn, wondering when the hell you had got to! You thought it all through carefully enough, I'll grant you that, but you must know that in deliberating acting behind my back you are guilty of gross insubordination. Things are bad enough without you setting a bad example, not to mention leaving poor Seamus ill with terror at having to confess on your behalf."

That visibly hit home and Richard's voice as he replied sounded cowed,

"I felt bad about that, but what else could I do?"

Dhugal clenched his fists tight by his side and only managed barely to control his voice.

"What else? How about telling your intentions to me, your lord, and I thought your friend? If you knew how close I have come to having you clapped in irons!"

Richard dropped heavily to his knees in the roadway. Dhugal winced at the sound of flesh hitting hard stone and gestured him urgently to rise back to his feet but was ignored.

"Your Grace must do as he sees fit, and I will submit, as I should have submitted myself to the King's justice in Rhemuth. If what I have done can act as some reparation for my treachery , then so be it, but if not I will pay the penalty."

It was just as well that Richard was on his knees, for otherwise Dhugal thought that he might well have hit him.

"You committed no treason in Rhemuth, but you are coming damn near to committing lese-majeste now. Kelson told you himself that you bore no guilt, that the treachery was committed against you and not by you, he touched you in absolution and still you refuse to believe him. And just how did you think that you would have been helping him by getting one of his most trusted servants killed? That's you, if you fail to recognise the description!"

It was Dhugal's use of the king's first name that got through to Richard, for even to a trusted friend Dhugal never made free with the privilege he had. He realised for the first time that his refusal to believe the pardon so freely given, then the ridiculous fuss he had made about allowing Dhugal to take him through the portal must appear as a lack of trust in those to whom he professed to owe allegiance. In the dark of last night he had convinced himself that he and he alone must make this act of reparation, now he saw it for the arrogance it was. No wonder Dhugal was angry with him. And his dramatic act of self-abnegation had not helped any. He was in any case beginning to regret it. The stones were sharp beneath his knees and his legs were beginning to seize with cramp. Unless he stood soon he would face the humiliation of collapsing on the ground.  He made a cautious move as though to stand, but this time Dhugal made no move to extend permission for him to do so, forcing him to ask,

"May I rise, now, Your Grace?" He tried, though he feared he failed, to keep the pleading out of his voice, but the answer he received was a stark,

"No, not yet, I think."

But then Dhugal smiled for the first time, and with a warmth which lit up his eyes and he added,

"Not until your courage and loyalty have received their fitting reward. I've chastised you long enough, probably longer than you deserved, for the shock you gave me. And I will have it understood that though I trust you utterly, you are under my command"

As he spoke he drew his sword and pressed his lips to the cross of the hilt. Exhausted as he was Richard thought for one horrified moment that he was about to be run through and he was scarcely less horrified when he understood Dhugal's real intention. Knighthood was not for such as he, but reserved for the nobility. He started to protest but his words were overridden by Dhugal, sounding exasperated again but this time with an edge of humour in his voice.

"Did no-one ever teach you not to argue with a man with a sword at your throat? It's not normally done like this I grant you, but these are not normal times." His tone wavered for a moment and his throat constricted as he thought of Washburn but with an effort he put that aside and smiled again down at Richard. "And after all you've kept the vigil and had the bath if in rather unorthodox style." A memory surfaced and he laughed, "I would never have thought that anyone could argue more than my father did at his knighting, but you are running him a close second. I thought you had had enough of kneeling. Besides,  I rather think that our less than discreet onlookers have noticed that I have ceased to berate you and I daresay they will want to congratulate the new Sir Richard.  Shall we get on?"

((When Washburn watched Dhugal and Richard enter the royal council chamber his thought generously accorded Richard an honour to which he would never have presumed to aspire. Dhugal is now about to remedy the omission))



God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
(Psalm 46 v1)

Laurna

#476
"My Salvation?!" Wash blurted out. "A substance that could drive me mad? Are you mad? Not ever!" the knight yelled out, at least the tones of his voice were harsh even if his volume was low.

The man before him merely shrugged his shoulders, "Like I said, you can take it or leave it. After I am paid, I move on to the next business at hand. I care not that you will become the key that changes the world from the prosperity that it once had. When I hand you over, you will be his fully, to control as he choses. You won't even know how many lives will end trying to save you. Or how many friends you will betray. Valarian owns you. Do not make the mistake of thinking otherwise."

"No one owns me!" Washburn said defiantly.

"Raise both hands!" the scholar said in a low commanding voice. Almost instantly both of Washburn's tied hands lifted above his head. The knight's eyes went wide as he tried to bring them down. "Very good" the scholar said with an air of calm, "I control you and I don't even own you. Need more proof?" he smiled broadly as he gave a new order. "Lower your hands down to your throat." Washburn's hands did as requested even as he strained to resist. "With your thumbs sense your pulse. It is strong and fast, isn't it? Let us make those stop, press down hard.., Harder! Your to  press tell you feel no pulse at all. Yes, just like you tried to choke me out yesterday." Washburn's mouth opened trying to breath, he face flushed and his eyes bulged as his head began to swim, his own hands crush the arteries that delivered blood flow to his mind.

"Enough! Relax! You are truly your own man and no one owns you!" came the sarcastic words of his tormentor. He ignored Washburn's wracking cough, flushing face and vile hatred.

"That felt good, yep... to me... it most certainly did. Now we are even." He waited until the knight's coughing eased and the color subsided from his face. "Unlike what we just did, Valarian won't be playing a game, I will assure you of that. Sir Washburn Morgan, I really do like you, so I figured I should give you a chance for revenge for your Father. That is what this is for." He waived the red caped wineskin. "Just before I turn you over to him. You can have this. Then when Valarian touches your mind to take my controls, you can... well..." The scholar reached up and touched Washburn's forehead. A play of images seen at a distance relayed from one mind to the next. Bodies everywhere, gored and bloodied, a battle scene. A green and blue veiled dome in the distance. Two boys on horseback watching to one side. Two other young men a bit older than the boys watching on the opposite side; both pairs waiting anxiously. The blue of the veil dissolved. The younger two boys looked on in anguish. The green veil eased away and a single man, tall and blond, in deep green tunic with a griphon of gold on his chest stood there. Then the youngest of all the boys cursed a word and flicked his hand and something like lightning struck the victorious man. Washburn's father fell to his knees reaching out to touch the two older boys who raced toward him. Suddenly the vision was gone. "You can respond like that..." said the scholar's words as he backed away from the knight. "You can bring your father's killer to an end and you can have your revenge."

The younger Morgan's eyes brimmed with tears, tears for the man who had told him to never be complacent to always be aware. He knew that even with memories missing, he had never been shown this scene before.  Family had kept this from him because he had been so young.

"You will let me do this magic?" he said in disbelief. "To the man who killed my father, the same one you have a contract with?"

"Oh, by then that contract will be done and paid. He and I will have no further ties."

"I will have my revenge and then I will be free?"

"Free is a relative term... you will be free of this torture and this life you are living now," the scholar said with a shrug.

"You mean Valarian's men would kill me! I am not afraid to die for the right cause."

"You might die, but likely not. You would still have the blue fyre running through your veins. With your skills you would most likely get away."

"If it is that easy, than I have no qualms, I will get my revenge for my father!"

"Good, I glad you think that way. Just one more thing. A little thing..." the scholar's lips went wide barring straight white teeth. "Since I don't know how long after I turn you in and I get my pay that you will actually be brought before the Grand Duke Valarian. He is a busy man with his rebellion in full force, you must know. It could be a day maybe even two days before he seeks to touch your mind. You must have enough of the Blue Fyre in you to last long enough to do the deed right. You must drink the whole wineskin at one time. I can set a trigger to keep you from using the power until the time is right."

"And..." Wash felt a shiver run down his spine.

"And Valarian will die. It is simple."

"Nothing is ever that simple." Washburn said, feeling like he was selling his soul down the river stix.

"Because I like you, I won't lie to you. That much dosage and that much power, simply put, it will drive you mad. I have seen it happen many times.  There will be no coming back from that. Not even a Healer will save your mind. You will be locked in your hate of Valarian for what is left of your life. But that life will be short, so it really matters not. What matters is that Valarian will be dead and the rebellion will die with him. You will be a hero. Sung in songs for years to come. Did you just lie to me when you said you were not afraid to die for a good cause?"

The scholar looked so very pleased with himself.  That is until suddenly Wash threw off the rope around his ankles, he had been untying the knot as they spoke. He leaped upward determined to attack the scholar, but found he could not. Instead he yelled,  "My answer is NO! I choose to escape now and find my own way to take my revenge on both of you." He jumped back toward the low point in the wall and the beam that he had missed the night before.

((Washburn disadvantage roll 1d6, Washburn leaps for the low point in the wall, garbing for the beam above. success on 6. Rolled =6 Verification Number: 6ncz22dlv5))

This time Washburn with his feet free had the control to leap high and grab the beam with both hands. Like scaling cliff-sides that he did for the fun of it, he pulled himself up to the top of the wall. He looked down the far side of the wall and saw a short cliff with harsh spiky rocks strewed everywhere at the base of the wall and a moat beyond. Calculating fast could he make that jump to the water.

((Washburn disadvantage roll 1d6. Calculating fast, can Washburn push off and jump to the moat. A 1,2,3,4 he hesitates to try. 5 he jumps the rocks below, 6 he jumps to the moat. rolled= 1 Verification Number: 3z3hf62tt7))

Washburn hesitates, the moat is far and the rocks are precariously dangerous. He poised to jump anyway, when he heard the word of power that froze him in his place atop the wall.

"STOP!"  the scholar said with his full force into that word. "Not again? Don't you ever learn?" He stood and stared at Wash who was froze in a position posed to jump down from the wall. The knight's eyes went wild, trying to calculate his next move. "Get down from there on this side before you fall to your death on the outside.

Body disobeying Washburn's mind he handed himself back down to the inner ruined floor. But not before he saw someone on the road beyond the moat. Did that person see him? Wash tries very hard not to think of anyone, but the scholar who is ordering his every move.

((Standard test 2d6. Did the passer by see Washburn standing on the wall. 5 or 6 yes.rolled= 6 + 6 = 12 Verification Number: 3rj7f1z322. WOW! YES! My first double sixes ever!))

"Your like one of those jungle cats." His captor was saying. "Rich men try to tame them and leash them, but they can't rid them of their need to prowl.  I've seen those cats walk for hours in small spaces. Their owners periodically giving them something to pounce on so that they don't pounce on them."

"You're a bundle of tense muscles aren't you. Very well. Walk, walk around those boulders, pay very close attention to not trip on the debris, do that until I tell you to stop. Maybe that will wear you out some and prove to you that you have No Control over this situation. I decide how this will play out!"
May your horses have wings and fly!

Jerusha

The young man walked down the road quickly.  He would catch if for sure from his uncle for being late to the fields, but it would be worth it.  If the rumours were true that there would be war in Meara soon, he would likely be ordered out with the other archers in defense of the kingdom.  He had gone to see Lilith one more time,in case the war came soon.  She had admired his strong arms as he had held her before leaving.  Smiling, he relived the memory again.  He enjoyed her flattery.

A shadow on the road caught his attention.  Looking up, he saw someone standing on the ruined wall far up above the moat.  Sweet Jesu, it the man jumped he would surely die!  The man on the wall froze for a moment and then dropped back inside. 

The young man quickened his pace even more.  He had no need to become involved in such strange goings on.
From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggity beasties and things that go bump in the night...good Lord deliver us!

 -- Old English Litany

Jerusha

Darcy Cameron followed Robert to the king's map room.  He was glad there was something productive he could do to try to take is mind off Lord Jaxom.  His emotions were in a turmoil; the need to honour his pledge to the king warred with his need to beat Jaxom to a pulp.

The room opened off from the main library.  Several large tables were arranged to catch the best light with a few stools scattered around for use.  There was no need to ask for a map of the area Darcy needed to study; several maps of northern Gwynedd and Meara were already laid out on the tables.  Map chests lined the walls.  Calipers, straight edges with distance marks and scraps of parchment were strewn across a smaller table.  They were the only ones in the room now, but Darcy had the impression that others had worked here late the night before. 

Darcy selected items from the table and moved to stand by one of the maps. He adjusted the map to his liking and closed his eyes.  The image of the mountain fortress, but more importantly the stars in the pre-dawn sky, snapped into focus.  Now, if he could compare it to the images in his memory of the sky as they left Culdi....

Will Darcy's eidetic memory allow him to find the position of the fortress.
Jerusha   !roll 2d6
11:52   derynibot   5, 2 == 7
Success on 4,5, or 6.  Yes!

Robert pulled up a stool and watched as Darcy seemed to shift between the drawings on the map and the images in his mind.  Sometimes Darcy used the calipers to measure between points on the map, but often he held them up vertically, as if measuring an angle only he could see and adjusting them accordingly.  He used little markers to plot points on the map, gradually working his way south and west of Culdi.  More angles and measurements were plotted until finally Darcy placed a final marker on the map.  It lay on a norther peak of the Rathark Mountains. 

"Make sure nothing is moved until I do a quick sketch on parchment," Darcy instructed.  He found what he needed on the small table and returned to quickly sketch a copy of the position on the map, adding measures of latitude.  Robert thought it was remarkably accurate.

A few more notations and Darcy was satisfied with his work.  He didn't need the parchment; the position was cemented in his memory, but others might need it.  He looked up as Prince Javan entered the room.  Robert stood quickly and they both bowed to the prince.

"Success, Lord Darcy?" Javan asked.

"I believe so, your Highness," Darcy responded.  "I won't say it is the exact position, but I was fortunate that the image his Majesty shared was recent enough to not skew the star positions too much.  I doubt that there are too many fortresses to choose from at this location."

Prince Javan extended his hand to take the drawing."  I'll give this to his Majesty."  He studied Darcy for a moment.  "King Kelson has sent for Lord Jaxom to be brought to his withdrawing room.  Wait here for a bit and then you and Robert may proceed to the Queen's Tower to escort Duchess Grania and Lady Aliset to the king."

Darcy bowed in acknowledgement.  He needed to have this done and over with, hopefully without ending up spending the night in the king's dungeons himself.  Lady Aliset did not need further trouble.
From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggity beasties and things that go bump in the night...good Lord deliver us!

 -- Old English Litany

Bynw

"I grant you the freedom to move about, and you repay that kindness by attempting to kill yourself. You would die unshriven on the rocks below. So you will now sit here. You will eat and drink what I have provided. And you will allow me to continue with my work."

With that the Scholar sits back down himself and fumbles through his provisions. Producing a small spool of Corwyn Green thread. Setting that aside, he begins to unravel the red thread around the wineskin containing the Blue Fyre. "Can't have a Morgan with a red capped wineskin now can we."
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