(Untitled)

[theravenboy]

Not long ago, the Circle of the Light took to a room in the west wing of the castle; night and day, in rotating shifts, the Old Ones focus on holding the damaged spells that guard the Summer Country. Half of the Circle, including Merriman and Will, is currently on duty, and the other half sleeps. Bran looked in on the Circle this afternoon, but

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[wolflord_andain]

Bran's scent is on the wind in this place, the very feel of him somehow imprinted on the earth.

Galadan follows the call, heedless of the imprint of his own passing, the burning, writhing Wild that follows him wherever he goes, the tang of his own power that even the strongest shielding will not entirely hide.

He is hunting, and there is little on his mind but his target.

Such are the hazards of wolf-shape, at least when his blood is high, body yearning for the kill.

[theravenboy]

The land speaks to Bran all the time; it usually says Pendragon, and sometimes Bran. Beware! the Summer Country whispers now. Intruder!

Bran jerks his head up, fully alert despite the blazing headache, and starts cataloguing his options. He's quite alone; few men and women walk abroad in the country these days. He's not wearing a sword, and he left the harp and hunting horn in his chambers. Bran is sure Will and Merriman hear the same call he does, but they're busy with their work and might not come at once.

Bran reaches down into himself, summoning what strength he can, and hurries forward towards the front gate of the castle. He doesn't run; he'll need all his power when he encounters the visitor.

[wolflord_andain]

He will, indeed, for even so far from his home, so far from Fionavar (so far from Time itself) Galadan is still a force not to be treated lightly.

He is running at a good clip, now, distance devoured by his relentless stride.

There is the castle, there is the gate, and there--

There is the one whom he seeks.

Galadan does not howl, he does not want to attract any more attention than may be helped, but his red eyes flash fire as he looks at the albino boy.

Fire, and the promise of swift and violent death.

[theravenboy]

To a mortal onlooker, the young man approaching the gate might seem odd, but not supernatural: a white-haired, white-skinned young man in a black shirt and black trousers, standing tall and unsmiling as he faces the wolf.

But Bran has called up all the magic that remains his to claim, and let his consciousness recede behind it. The Wild Hunter stares out of Bran's golden eyes.

[merrimanlyon]

Only when the intruder is well and truly gone does the power of the Light fade from around the Old Ones. The urge to find something to lean against, some measure of outside support, is nearly overpowering.

Merlion rakes a hand through his hair, an impatient gesture masking both exhaustion and tightly-controlled fury. All clear, is the silent message he sends to the others of the Circle. For the present. Hold fast for now.

When he finally speaks aloud, addressing Bran, his voice is quiet and rough. 'Are you unharmed?'

[theravenboy]

Bran's been leaning forward, breathing hard. He straightens. "Yes. Iesu mawr. What was that about?"

[sign_seeker]

Will shakes his head, not in negation but as if to clear his head, and cannot quite hide the way his eyes tighten at the too-sudden movement. He shoves his hair off his forehead absently.

"Wild Magic, all through..."

"I don't know. He should not have been here. Been able to come."

[merrimanlyon]

'The natural defences of this land are not what they could be at the moment, I fear,' Merlion says, gritting his teeth. 'It is a mercy that matters did not escalate further. What precisely happened?'