The western sky was set afire as the sun, swollen and red, bled away over the horizon. Into its light trudged a weary, motley group. At its head, his lacquered armor cracked, stained, and pitted, walked Sir Ian ap Gwydion, his hair matted with blood and darker fluids, his shield-arm tied in a makeshift sling. A few steps back, Lady Slyssha the Pale ( Read more... )

Ian was enjoying his new house, the one Alison had bestowed. It was a trust, and a sacred one, but it was also a place of beauty. This morning, he was enjoying the beauty of the garden from a patio, breakfasting on a bagel with ample cream cheese and a cup of coffee (he'd decided to try going native).

Hopping the pond was never restful. In the current climate of terrorists and Republicans, American customs was less forgiving than ever about well-traveled gentlemen, however white their skin ( Read more... )