[snapshot]

[illgotten]

The trouble with feather-borne crackplots, of course, is that feathers get everywhere, blown on the lightest breeze, even when they're not carried awhile in the pockets of unsuspecting children

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[cywyllog]

It's about this time that Cywyllog is making her way back to the cottage, and wondering how many more times she will walk this way before it is the last time, when she spots the boy. And stops in her tracks.

Softly, "Melou?"

[illgotten]

The boy blinks at her uncertainly, glances behind him. "...No."

[cywyllog]

She tries to hide her disappointment, but quite possibly fails miserably.

"Oh. Forgive me, then. Are you lost?"

[illgotten]

"I think so." In a somewhat small and apologetic voice.

[cywyllog]

"All right," she hesitates, then takes a small step toward him. "How about we start with your name."

[illgotten]

"Mordred," the child says, a little diffidently, "my lady."

[cywyllog]

Well, fair's fair she supposes.

"Lady Cywyllog," she replies with a small smile. "There is a house not too far from here where you might be comfortable."

[illgotten]

He bites his lip. "What is this place?"

[cywyllog]

"Well, no one is entirely certain. People just seem to show up here without knowing how or why."

She pauses briefly. "The house is rather nice, though."

[illgotten]

Forgive the witch's son if this sounds just a little bit dodgy. "Yes, my lady. But I ought to go home now."

[cywyllog]

She wouldn't blame him if she knew that's what he thought.

"I do not think you can," gently.

[illgotten]

He backs up a step. "I can. I'm not tired."

[cywyllog]

"No, I meant..." she sighs. "You cannot get home from here. There is no way. It is magic, I believe."

[illgotten]

Now he's definitely wary. "Whose?" watching her closely.

[cywyllog]

She frowns, magic not being her favourite topic. "I do not know. No one you know, though."

[illgotten]

He frowns further. "I don't know you."