it's that time again [giftpost]
--so we'll assume Mordred hunts people up as necessary, over the course of several short winter days.
Gawain first (Gawain first always) -- finely-sewn pouch for his belt, plus that damned shutter on the kitchen window mended, finally. Ignore the bruised fingers, please.
For Agravain, with all due affection and solicited with some amusement, a measure of Sagramore's horrible apricot brandy. For the younger and more sensible brothers, striped socks.
Combs for his sisters' hair, picked up at the fair earlier this winter; autumn leaves of cat's eye and citrine for Ragnelle; flowers of pink crystal for Lyonors, of aquamarine for Laurel; a snaking silver dragon for Lynet. Likewise for his cousin Morvydd, red garnets and gold beads, in twining patterns.
Clarissant's is something different, a strange spiky tangle of vines, dried and withered stiff.
A pashmina shawl, that modern affectation, for his mother in sober black, bordered in silver. For Morgan nothing. We are still not speaking.
For Melehan likewise, if he's still about, a new winter cloak, dead-black and sparingly embroidered. (Possibly russet_goddess now has a favor to call in.)
For Cywyllog, most unpretentiously, a little wooden flute of the sort boys carve to amuse themselves, albeit with a bit more than a boy's skill and care; wound about with silk ribbons in changeable blues and greens, long enough to braid in her hair.
Sagramore gets dirty Latin poetry, in a nice inconspicuous brown slipcase.
For Draco a curious object of polished wood, of no particular shape though it's pleasing to the fingers, small enough to fit in a pocket. It is not, as such, bespelled -- Mordred has no such skill -- but it has about it all the well-wishing that a witch's son in his ignorance can bestow.
Peredur: likewise, except that his is a plain cross, threaded on a leather thong for the neck or the pocket as he pleases.
Cimorene: socks again, and a little ceramic pot marked "FEVERFEW", for her future use.
Young Athena, when next he runs across her, has another carved toy, a wooden ring threaded with three smaller rings, polished smooth past any splinter to threaten a small finger. (He doesn't quite dare give Telemakos anything. The kid very likely bites.)
For Zara, very simply, a basket of gingerbread, lidded crock of cider, and accompanying note: For you and your friend, whoever he is. It's Christmas, so shut up. Love.
And for his other longsuffering spouse, last but never least, a good sturdy leather knapsack, also containing a note: In the spring.
Gawain first (Gawain first always) -- finely-sewn pouch for his belt, plus that damned shutter on the kitchen window mended, finally. Ignore the bruised fingers, please.
For Agravain, with all due affection and solicited with some amusement, a measure of Sagramore's horrible apricot brandy. For the younger and more sensible brothers, striped socks.
Combs for his sisters' hair, picked up at the fair earlier this winter; autumn leaves of cat's eye and citrine for Ragnelle; flowers of pink crystal for Lyonors, of aquamarine for Laurel; a snaking silver dragon for Lynet. Likewise for his cousin Morvydd, red garnets and gold beads, in twining patterns.
Clarissant's is something different, a strange spiky tangle of vines, dried and withered stiff.
A pashmina shawl, that modern affectation, for his mother in sober black, bordered in silver. For Morgan nothing. We are still not speaking.
For Melehan likewise, if he's still about, a new winter cloak, dead-black and sparingly embroidered. (Possibly russet_goddess now has a favor to call in.)
For Cywyllog, most unpretentiously, a little wooden flute of the sort boys carve to amuse themselves, albeit with a bit more than a boy's skill and care; wound about with silk ribbons in changeable blues and greens, long enough to braid in her hair.
Sagramore gets dirty Latin poetry, in a nice inconspicuous brown slipcase.
For Draco a curious object of polished wood, of no particular shape though it's pleasing to the fingers, small enough to fit in a pocket. It is not, as such, bespelled -- Mordred has no such skill -- but it has about it all the well-wishing that a witch's son in his ignorance can bestow.
Peredur: likewise, except that his is a plain cross, threaded on a leather thong for the neck or the pocket as he pleases.
Cimorene: socks again, and a little ceramic pot marked "FEVERFEW", for her future use.
Young Athena, when next he runs across her, has another carved toy, a wooden ring threaded with three smaller rings, polished smooth past any splinter to threaten a small finger. (He doesn't quite dare give Telemakos anything. The kid very likely bites.)
For Zara, very simply, a basket of gingerbread, lidded crock of cider, and accompanying note: For you and your friend, whoever he is. It's Christmas, so shut up. Love.
And for his other longsuffering spouse, last but never least, a good sturdy leather knapsack, also containing a note: In the spring.