Nightmare or Prophecy?
Summary: Guin receives a visitor in her dream, who leaves just before it becomes a nightmare. When she finally wakes up, she flees.
OOC Note: Some of the speech early in the log is purposely gibberish. Those words or phrases which are decipherable have been placed within dashes --like this--.
The Grand Hall of the Royal Palace of Lyonesse is the picture of decadence. The perfectly polished stone is interspersed with gilded, framed paintings of the nation's past: its previous golden age, the mages' influence, the Great Flood, the exile and death of its people, the raising of the lands, fighting of the undead, and, finally, the crowning of Queen Guinevere amidst an ecstatic public and great prosperity for the land.
The Queen is upon her Throne, an empty, larger one beside her for the future, husband, the King she has not yet decided upon. The hall is packed with guards, commoners, and nobility in some sort of ceremonial garb. Something is off, though. Every one of the people, even those who are notable, have a body part missing or are out of proportion. All but the Queen herself. Horns blare to indicate the beginning of the event.
He wasn't there a moment ago. But a Balthazar, his robes a rich brown, shapeless things to help push the adrogynous image, are fine enough to blend in with the nobles. His hair is loose and long, slightly curled. It is through this hair that he runs his slender fingers and looks around at the strange dream.
Guinevere is too focused upon the proceedings to notice one more person, however oddly he may have arrived. A herald steps forward and opens a scroll, reading to all present. "Templerat remevi nisi aedificeo, --Her Royal Highness-- tibi storerrimus usis --courtier-- ebrians ac destrerint impudunt." A hush falls over the crowd as a dashing man of middle years appears, dressed in the finest clothing imaginable. Behind him are a pair of servants bringing in a large gilded chest of what must be gifts for the queen. He dramatically recites a self-written poem:
Pedestremus rigene ego
Cuistis superatus morpha
--Bird in flight-- sicas ac
Corroboricus!
--Love-- queles est
Rapacex, vacent, --honor, and duty--
--This day-- sum parabilicus epum --wife--
The crowd suddenly looks expectantly at Guinevere, an air of anticipation as all hold their breath for her response. The young woman, suddenly dressed in rags rather than finery, looks bewildered, frightened, and thoroughly confused.
Balthazar drifts quietly through the crowd. Around his head a ring of runes glows. Or they might be runes. It looks like an entire line of such things crammed into too small a space, to crowded to make out fully. His brow furrows.
One of the Graal Knights lining the hallway begins to look familiar. Slowly, his face ships until it is that of Sir Owen, although he is missing an ear and his head is too large for his body. He smiles up at her, his expression encouraging, yet sorrowful at the same time. She focuses on him, shaking her head briefly. Looking around for help from someone, anyone, she then spots Lord Lucius of Karm amongst the crowd. Instantly, her dress returns to its former grandeur and she sits up straighter. Her face seems to grow a bit younger, similar to a girl just of marriageable age. He solemnly nods to her, then motions toward the man awaiting her response. With a frown, she looks to face him. But, thank the Unicorn, something else catches her eye. A glow of runes has her head canting. Slowly, all turn to spot what the Queen is staring at. She speaks at last in a clear, aristocratic voice that is far louder than it should be able to manage. "Mage, are you new to the kingdom?"
The voice does little to clear up any questions of gender that might arise around Balthazar. The mage bows slightly. "I have never been in your realm before, High One," comesthe answer.
Guinevere nods slightly, as though having expected such an answer. "Come," she commands, emerald eyes shining too brightly to be natural as they focus upon the visitor. "The law of the land states that all mages must report to the Crown upon entry into Lyonesse. Were you aware of this?"
Balthazar plays along. "I was unaware of this," is the response. The robed figure makes its way towards the shining might of the queen.
There is a moment of silence, after which it seems the response has been accepted. "What is your purpose here?" Guinevere asks. The people in the crowd stare at the mage in a mixture of awe, fear, and hatred. However, it seems they are frozen; movement and speech have ceased entirely in the room, except for the main pair.
The runes continue to float around Bal's head, like a crown of twisting light in colors the mind has trouble holding on to. "Observation, High One," comes the response from Bal in dulcet tones. "Merely to behold."
Guinevere's eyes continually shift to the runic glow, then snap back to the androgenous mage's face. "To what end? Observation must serve a purpose." Suspicion is heightened by how clearly uncomfortable she is with magic in the room.
"Observation serves only one purpose, High One. To learn." Bal bows his head, the red-gold curls spilling about his features to briefly obscure them.
Suddenly the room is nearly empty. Only a few Knights, guards and periphery servants remain. Additionally, Lord Lucius is nearby. Sir Owen is suddenly standing beside her Throne protectively, keeping a sharp eye on Balthazar. One of the girls in livery seems rather small to be in service. She has the body of a girl of about seven or eight years, yet the face of Baroness Izett at her current age. Guinevere purses her lips, then asks, "What is your name, Observer?"
"I am a Dokimastis," Balthazar provides, though it sounds more title or rank than name. He leans now against a staff; he didn't have it a moment before, but he's a mage. Or maybe it's just a matter of dream magic. "Would you have something else from me, High One?"
"What, praytell, is a Dokimastis and what does it do?" Guinevere's tone becomes inquisitive, rather than challenging now, losing much of its imperious nature. The sudden appearance of a cane is noted, but for some reason does not alarm the Queen.
Bal stands there a moment, perhaps parsing the local language and finding an appropriate word. "A Tester, if you wish. Someone who travels to find students; those youths who might have a spark of desire and talent to learn the ways of magic."
"And you test by observation? Or do you choose those whom you will teset by first observing them?" Guinevere stiffens a bit now, but doe snot close off communication just yet. Rather, it is Sir Owen whose eyes flash and hand tightens about his sword. Although Lord Lucius has not taken a single step, he is suddenly closer to the speaking pair, looking on with interest.
Balthazar is not moving in any way that could be called threatening. He loosk relaxed, calm. "I cannot answer you, High One."
Although her Knight begins to unsheathe his sword, Guinevere gently motions for him to stand down. "If you are honor-bound not to answer that question, I will accept this. However, I insist you reply fully and honestly to my next inquiry: are you here because you are testing, or considering testing, me?"
Balthazar's smile is bright, the teeth straight. "You are too old, High One."
Guinevere laughs, a loud, brash, raucous sound that is reminiscent of one born into the lowest levels of society. "Well, thank the Unicorn for small favors." At that, the Unicorn, the actualy deity, suddenly appears surrounded by a bright white light and seems to smile at the Queen. He caresses her cheek with his horn, then vanishes. In a much better humor, Guin asks, "Then whom?" Young Izett looks hopeful, but the Queen glances over and snorts derisively. "She already knows magic, although most certainly she wishes to learn more. Take her if you wish. Truly."
Balthazar smiles. "I am in this room for no one particular." His head bows once again. "I would not take your Court, High One."
Again silence falls. At length, Guinevere nods. "So be it." The words reverberate, then suddenly the scene returns as it was before the disturbance. It unpauses, and all wait for the Queen's response to the suitor. Suddenly, there is a commotion. Bercilak, Duke of Wealde and uncle to the Queen, bursts into the room in a rage. Dangling from his shaking fist is a chatelaine, identical to the one Guinevere was known for wearing before being crowned.
"Sweet dreams," might seem like such an odd reply, but it's the one Balthazar gives. He steps back and after a moment, the runes that glow around his head shift and alter, the sentence stretching to fill an extra space, untangling itself. Then the mage is gone.
With the man gone, Guinevere's full focus is upon the matter at hand. Brow furrowed lightly in confusion, she asks, "What is it, Uncle? What has happened?" Bercilak glares, his eyes literally containing flames. "IMPOSTER!" The declaration makes the crowd gasp and grow furious. All guards and knights brandish their steel, ready to cut down the traitor. In the blink of an eye, another figure is standing beside the Duke, hooded to protect her identity.
As for Guinevere, her shock prevents any order of execution. "What is the meaning of this?" she demands, her voice less certain than before.
"She doth be the True Queen of Lyonesse!" The shout of the Duke rings throughout the lands, far beyond the Palace walls. The suitor is suddenly gone, as is his chest of gifts. Lord Lucius only watches, while Sir Owen seems ready to slit Bercilak's throat. It is only Grand Master Harold's sudden appearance beside him, with a hand on the Knight's shoulder, that prevents such gore.
The hooded figure removes her hood, the entire cloak disappearing when she does so. A victorious, twisted smile is curving Izett's lips as she quietly says, "Surprised to see me, Guin?" The crowned woman gasps and looks over to where young Izett had been only a moment ago, but only empty space remains. Guinevere's locket suddenly opens and magnifies for all to see. The personal crest of the last High King of Lyonesse remains on the outside. Within, however, it is quite obvious that the drawing is of a woman who looks precisely like Izett. The woman laughs wickedly, during which she ends up on the throne, with Mordred in the throne beside her and Lucius standing in the position of her personal Knight. Harold has receded to the background, shaking his head in disappointment at Guin. Owen has disappeared entirely.
Guinevere finds herself on her knees, in filthy rags, before the monarchs. The entire room is laughing at her, including those she had thought her friends. The woman in the locket is cackling, as is a formerly disgraced and disowned knight whom she had helped kill during her quest with the Graal Knights some time ago. Even Gran makes an appearance to loudly hoot and holler at her granddaughter's misfortune. With tears streaming down her face, creating streaks in the dirt upon it, Guin looks to Lucius. "But I thought... how could you...?"
Lucius sneers. "Did you truly believe I could ever love one such as you? You were born a street rat and you will die a street rat." He then looks upon Izett with immense love, bordering on worship.
---------------
Guinevere wakes up with a start, hand shooting to her locket, shift soaked in sweat. Her chest heaves as she sucks in air. She gets up to twist her hair into a bun and tie it with the nearest ribbon. Moving to her armoire, she sheds the wet garment and tosses on the first shift she grabs. The only clothing pull atop it is her hooded cloak, which she tightly clasps before hiding herself within it.
Moving through the hall with riding boots in hand, silently opening and closing necessary doors as she goes, the lady's maid makes her way outside. She stomps into the boots on the soft ground and makes her way to the stables. After readying her mare with the usual tack as well as a saddlebag filled with dried food and a canteen, she grabs the thick chain with heavy iron weights on either side -- the weapon in which she was trained. She mounts the horse and takes a lantern from the outside of the manor.
A slight whinnying may be heard by those who sleep lightly and are close enough, and perhaps some guards or servants who witnesses pieces of this activity will tell the baroness when she arises in the morning. But for now, hoofprints are all that remains of the blonde or her mare for the night, as they make their way through the gate and rush out into the night without a word as to when they may return.
OOC Note: Some of the speech early in the log is purposely gibberish. Those words or phrases which are decipherable have been placed within dashes --like this--.
The Grand Hall of the Royal Palace of Lyonesse is the picture of decadence. The perfectly polished stone is interspersed with gilded, framed paintings of the nation's past: its previous golden age, the mages' influence, the Great Flood, the exile and death of its people, the raising of the lands, fighting of the undead, and, finally, the crowning of Queen Guinevere amidst an ecstatic public and great prosperity for the land.
The Queen is upon her Throne, an empty, larger one beside her for the future, husband, the King she has not yet decided upon. The hall is packed with guards, commoners, and nobility in some sort of ceremonial garb. Something is off, though. Every one of the people, even those who are notable, have a body part missing or are out of proportion. All but the Queen herself. Horns blare to indicate the beginning of the event.
He wasn't there a moment ago. But a Balthazar, his robes a rich brown, shapeless things to help push the adrogynous image, are fine enough to blend in with the nobles. His hair is loose and long, slightly curled. It is through this hair that he runs his slender fingers and looks around at the strange dream.
Guinevere is too focused upon the proceedings to notice one more person, however oddly he may have arrived. A herald steps forward and opens a scroll, reading to all present. "Templerat remevi nisi aedificeo, --Her Royal Highness-- tibi storerrimus usis --courtier-- ebrians ac destrerint impudunt." A hush falls over the crowd as a dashing man of middle years appears, dressed in the finest clothing imaginable. Behind him are a pair of servants bringing in a large gilded chest of what must be gifts for the queen. He dramatically recites a self-written poem:
Pedestremus rigene ego
Cuistis superatus morpha
--Bird in flight-- sicas ac
Corroboricus!
--Love-- queles est
Rapacex, vacent, --honor, and duty--
--This day-- sum parabilicus epum --wife--
The crowd suddenly looks expectantly at Guinevere, an air of anticipation as all hold their breath for her response. The young woman, suddenly dressed in rags rather than finery, looks bewildered, frightened, and thoroughly confused.
Balthazar drifts quietly through the crowd. Around his head a ring of runes glows. Or they might be runes. It looks like an entire line of such things crammed into too small a space, to crowded to make out fully. His brow furrows.
One of the Graal Knights lining the hallway begins to look familiar. Slowly, his face ships until it is that of Sir Owen, although he is missing an ear and his head is too large for his body. He smiles up at her, his expression encouraging, yet sorrowful at the same time. She focuses on him, shaking her head briefly. Looking around for help from someone, anyone, she then spots Lord Lucius of Karm amongst the crowd. Instantly, her dress returns to its former grandeur and she sits up straighter. Her face seems to grow a bit younger, similar to a girl just of marriageable age. He solemnly nods to her, then motions toward the man awaiting her response. With a frown, she looks to face him. But, thank the Unicorn, something else catches her eye. A glow of runes has her head canting. Slowly, all turn to spot what the Queen is staring at. She speaks at last in a clear, aristocratic voice that is far louder than it should be able to manage. "Mage, are you new to the kingdom?"
The voice does little to clear up any questions of gender that might arise around Balthazar. The mage bows slightly. "I have never been in your realm before, High One," comesthe answer.
Guinevere nods slightly, as though having expected such an answer. "Come," she commands, emerald eyes shining too brightly to be natural as they focus upon the visitor. "The law of the land states that all mages must report to the Crown upon entry into Lyonesse. Were you aware of this?"
Balthazar plays along. "I was unaware of this," is the response. The robed figure makes its way towards the shining might of the queen.
There is a moment of silence, after which it seems the response has been accepted. "What is your purpose here?" Guinevere asks. The people in the crowd stare at the mage in a mixture of awe, fear, and hatred. However, it seems they are frozen; movement and speech have ceased entirely in the room, except for the main pair.
The runes continue to float around Bal's head, like a crown of twisting light in colors the mind has trouble holding on to. "Observation, High One," comes the response from Bal in dulcet tones. "Merely to behold."
Guinevere's eyes continually shift to the runic glow, then snap back to the androgenous mage's face. "To what end? Observation must serve a purpose." Suspicion is heightened by how clearly uncomfortable she is with magic in the room.
"Observation serves only one purpose, High One. To learn." Bal bows his head, the red-gold curls spilling about his features to briefly obscure them.
Suddenly the room is nearly empty. Only a few Knights, guards and periphery servants remain. Additionally, Lord Lucius is nearby. Sir Owen is suddenly standing beside her Throne protectively, keeping a sharp eye on Balthazar. One of the girls in livery seems rather small to be in service. She has the body of a girl of about seven or eight years, yet the face of Baroness Izett at her current age. Guinevere purses her lips, then asks, "What is your name, Observer?"
"I am a Dokimastis," Balthazar provides, though it sounds more title or rank than name. He leans now against a staff; he didn't have it a moment before, but he's a mage. Or maybe it's just a matter of dream magic. "Would you have something else from me, High One?"
"What, praytell, is a Dokimastis and what does it do?" Guinevere's tone becomes inquisitive, rather than challenging now, losing much of its imperious nature. The sudden appearance of a cane is noted, but for some reason does not alarm the Queen.
Bal stands there a moment, perhaps parsing the local language and finding an appropriate word. "A Tester, if you wish. Someone who travels to find students; those youths who might have a spark of desire and talent to learn the ways of magic."
"And you test by observation? Or do you choose those whom you will teset by first observing them?" Guinevere stiffens a bit now, but doe snot close off communication just yet. Rather, it is Sir Owen whose eyes flash and hand tightens about his sword. Although Lord Lucius has not taken a single step, he is suddenly closer to the speaking pair, looking on with interest.
Balthazar is not moving in any way that could be called threatening. He loosk relaxed, calm. "I cannot answer you, High One."
Although her Knight begins to unsheathe his sword, Guinevere gently motions for him to stand down. "If you are honor-bound not to answer that question, I will accept this. However, I insist you reply fully and honestly to my next inquiry: are you here because you are testing, or considering testing, me?"
Balthazar's smile is bright, the teeth straight. "You are too old, High One."
Guinevere laughs, a loud, brash, raucous sound that is reminiscent of one born into the lowest levels of society. "Well, thank the Unicorn for small favors." At that, the Unicorn, the actualy deity, suddenly appears surrounded by a bright white light and seems to smile at the Queen. He caresses her cheek with his horn, then vanishes. In a much better humor, Guin asks, "Then whom?" Young Izett looks hopeful, but the Queen glances over and snorts derisively. "She already knows magic, although most certainly she wishes to learn more. Take her if you wish. Truly."
Balthazar smiles. "I am in this room for no one particular." His head bows once again. "I would not take your Court, High One."
Again silence falls. At length, Guinevere nods. "So be it." The words reverberate, then suddenly the scene returns as it was before the disturbance. It unpauses, and all wait for the Queen's response to the suitor. Suddenly, there is a commotion. Bercilak, Duke of Wealde and uncle to the Queen, bursts into the room in a rage. Dangling from his shaking fist is a chatelaine, identical to the one Guinevere was known for wearing before being crowned.
"Sweet dreams," might seem like such an odd reply, but it's the one Balthazar gives. He steps back and after a moment, the runes that glow around his head shift and alter, the sentence stretching to fill an extra space, untangling itself. Then the mage is gone.
With the man gone, Guinevere's full focus is upon the matter at hand. Brow furrowed lightly in confusion, she asks, "What is it, Uncle? What has happened?" Bercilak glares, his eyes literally containing flames. "IMPOSTER!" The declaration makes the crowd gasp and grow furious. All guards and knights brandish their steel, ready to cut down the traitor. In the blink of an eye, another figure is standing beside the Duke, hooded to protect her identity.
As for Guinevere, her shock prevents any order of execution. "What is the meaning of this?" she demands, her voice less certain than before.
"She doth be the True Queen of Lyonesse!" The shout of the Duke rings throughout the lands, far beyond the Palace walls. The suitor is suddenly gone, as is his chest of gifts. Lord Lucius only watches, while Sir Owen seems ready to slit Bercilak's throat. It is only Grand Master Harold's sudden appearance beside him, with a hand on the Knight's shoulder, that prevents such gore.
The hooded figure removes her hood, the entire cloak disappearing when she does so. A victorious, twisted smile is curving Izett's lips as she quietly says, "Surprised to see me, Guin?" The crowned woman gasps and looks over to where young Izett had been only a moment ago, but only empty space remains. Guinevere's locket suddenly opens and magnifies for all to see. The personal crest of the last High King of Lyonesse remains on the outside. Within, however, it is quite obvious that the drawing is of a woman who looks precisely like Izett. The woman laughs wickedly, during which she ends up on the throne, with Mordred in the throne beside her and Lucius standing in the position of her personal Knight. Harold has receded to the background, shaking his head in disappointment at Guin. Owen has disappeared entirely.
Guinevere finds herself on her knees, in filthy rags, before the monarchs. The entire room is laughing at her, including those she had thought her friends. The woman in the locket is cackling, as is a formerly disgraced and disowned knight whom she had helped kill during her quest with the Graal Knights some time ago. Even Gran makes an appearance to loudly hoot and holler at her granddaughter's misfortune. With tears streaming down her face, creating streaks in the dirt upon it, Guin looks to Lucius. "But I thought... how could you...?"
Lucius sneers. "Did you truly believe I could ever love one such as you? You were born a street rat and you will die a street rat." He then looks upon Izett with immense love, bordering on worship.
---------------
Guinevere wakes up with a start, hand shooting to her locket, shift soaked in sweat. Her chest heaves as she sucks in air. She gets up to twist her hair into a bun and tie it with the nearest ribbon. Moving to her armoire, she sheds the wet garment and tosses on the first shift she grabs. The only clothing pull atop it is her hooded cloak, which she tightly clasps before hiding herself within it.
Moving through the hall with riding boots in hand, silently opening and closing necessary doors as she goes, the lady's maid makes her way outside. She stomps into the boots on the soft ground and makes her way to the stables. After readying her mare with the usual tack as well as a saddlebag filled with dried food and a canteen, she grabs the thick chain with heavy iron weights on either side -- the weapon in which she was trained. She mounts the horse and takes a lantern from the outside of the manor.
A slight whinnying may be heard by those who sleep lightly and are close enough, and perhaps some guards or servants who witnesses pieces of this activity will tell the baroness when she arises in the morning. But for now, hoofprints are all that remains of the blonde or her mare for the night, as they make their way through the gate and rush out into the night without a word as to when they may return.