The warband that lead the King and his men made sure to give the muddied Lord a hard case, often jerking the ropes forward with mighty force of their tree-trunk built arms into the dirt path of their horses. As they neared the end of the road that had lead to their raid, they cut off, moving towards the treeline, through murky swamplands that would come up to the Majesty's knees, at best. Slowly, they trudged, before the sound of distant drums and blasts of mighty horns could be heard. Celebration, but music of unknown culture. Further they moved into the trees, weaving along the birches, until there it was, before them. The Raider's Camp.
Approaching a large, haughty made wooden gate, crafted of mere spear-tipped logs that jurted outwards and tied together with thatch and rope, five more of the brutish foreigners looked to the approaching party, before cackling and throwing their arms out, speaking quickly and loudly in amusement. The gates were lowered to the dirt, before the line of prisoners were moved inside. Tents were already in place, shoddy curtains of Camelotian make, likely stolen from the villas about the kingdom they had struck, hung dirtied over tall, carved logs where many a man and woman, even some children, drank from curved horns and hefty mugs, laughing and rough housing. However, this brutish spectacle was not as spectacular as what was along the riverside, no. Large ships, easily larger than Frankish gliders, were docked onto the beaches. The heavy, thick oaken planks were nailed together with massive spiked and staples of iron, curving out-and-up. The prow of the ship did not end in the custom sense, but extended upwards and curved into a fetish of sorts. A raven, with wings out-stretched, glared with only a single eye, carved into the wood with precision and care. The sails were not left bare, but remained out and proud, brilliant cardinal cloth that was painted once more with the monocular avian, in distinct runic curves and intricate design unfit for such savage sailors that rode these mighty ships. Along the hull, shields, round and strong, proudly marked with colors of red, green, blue and yellows, outlying with more of the foreign designs to the natural Camelotian script.
It was not long before the slavers tugged the ropes once more, to force the line of prisoners before them, keeping the King in the middle. They knelt before a great tent, more Camelotian cloths sprawled over to make a war canvas escape. Inside, another, though this one clearly held importance. The brutes behind the chained prisoners gave a bellow in a foreign tongue, which caused the long, brown-braid-haired man to turn. As he faced them, he raised his chin, walking out of the tent, a large bear pelt dragging behind him, clinging to his shoulders by the paws, the flesh of the head pulled back to reveal his full, grisly visage. A long, deep scar, that traversed his brow, under his eye, and to his cheek twisted, blueish-black in color to contrast against his wind burned, dark skin. His lean figure twitched as he entered the sunlight, blue eyes glistening, as he looked down to the King and his servitors, before his bearded chin twitched. His right arm stretched out, pulling a crude axe from his belt. Slowly, he allowed the rough, cold iron press under the King's chin, putting enough pressure to cause the Lord to look up towards the supposed leader of this raiding party. Draped only in that Grizzly pelt, as well as heavy leather boots and hide pantaloons that carried a coat of ringmail, the Viking stood bare of chest, exposing his lean yet muscular form to the Camelotian prisoners. He tilts his head back to its apex, before giving a snort of amusement. It would be noted, the encampment was now silent. The skin-drums beat no more, nor did the horns blast their devilish bellows. All the roughhousing and chatter had dropped to an eerie silence. The camp had gathered around, at least three-hundred or more men, women, and children from what the King and his men could see. The Bear-Cloaked Man raised his head to look towards the people, before letting out a loud snort and raising his axe, face twisted in a sick grin as he hollers in a loud tone
"Skål!"
The camp hoot and holler at the proclamation, raising their frothing mugs and cackling, before returning to their business. The Bear-Cloaked Man now tilts his head down to the King, before snorting and turning back to walk into the tent. The slavers who had captured them force them to their feet once more, seperating the rest of the captured from the King, and moving the Lord to an iron cage within the War Tent, where some nobles were chained to the walls, stripped of clothing and beaten to near senseless drooling. The Bear-Cloaked Man stood, hands over a table as he muttered to a woman with long, braided blonde hair. After the hushed discussion, the woman leaves, and the man turns his head slowly to look towards the chained King. He had not been bound to the wall like the other noble's, but forced to his knees all the same. With a flick of his hand upwards, one of the guards roughly snapped the gag from the King's mouth, before walking off, leaving only the Ruler, the Raid Leader, and the wind.
The man looks down to the King, before his jaw slacks.
"Men tell me you sat in important home. An Earl, mm?"
His dialect was rough, and deep was his voice, like thunder. His tattooed form twitches as he crosses his arms, perking a furry brow expectantly towards the Lord of Camelot.
Approaching a large, haughty made wooden gate, crafted of mere spear-tipped logs that jurted outwards and tied together with thatch and rope, five more of the brutish foreigners looked to the approaching party, before cackling and throwing their arms out, speaking quickly and loudly in amusement. The gates were lowered to the dirt, before the line of prisoners were moved inside. Tents were already in place, shoddy curtains of Camelotian make, likely stolen from the villas about the kingdom they had struck, hung dirtied over tall, carved logs where many a man and woman, even some children, drank from curved horns and hefty mugs, laughing and rough housing. However, this brutish spectacle was not as spectacular as what was along the riverside, no. Large ships, easily larger than Frankish gliders, were docked onto the beaches. The heavy, thick oaken planks were nailed together with massive spiked and staples of iron, curving out-and-up. The prow of the ship did not end in the custom sense, but extended upwards and curved into a fetish of sorts. A raven, with wings out-stretched, glared with only a single eye, carved into the wood with precision and care. The sails were not left bare, but remained out and proud, brilliant cardinal cloth that was painted once more with the monocular avian, in distinct runic curves and intricate design unfit for such savage sailors that rode these mighty ships. Along the hull, shields, round and strong, proudly marked with colors of red, green, blue and yellows, outlying with more of the foreign designs to the natural Camelotian script.
It was not long before the slavers tugged the ropes once more, to force the line of prisoners before them, keeping the King in the middle. They knelt before a great tent, more Camelotian cloths sprawled over to make a war canvas escape. Inside, another, though this one clearly held importance. The brutes behind the chained prisoners gave a bellow in a foreign tongue, which caused the long, brown-braid-haired man to turn. As he faced them, he raised his chin, walking out of the tent, a large bear pelt dragging behind him, clinging to his shoulders by the paws, the flesh of the head pulled back to reveal his full, grisly visage. A long, deep scar, that traversed his brow, under his eye, and to his cheek twisted, blueish-black in color to contrast against his wind burned, dark skin. His lean figure twitched as he entered the sunlight, blue eyes glistening, as he looked down to the King and his servitors, before his bearded chin twitched. His right arm stretched out, pulling a crude axe from his belt. Slowly, he allowed the rough, cold iron press under the King's chin, putting enough pressure to cause the Lord to look up towards the supposed leader of this raiding party. Draped only in that Grizzly pelt, as well as heavy leather boots and hide pantaloons that carried a coat of ringmail, the Viking stood bare of chest, exposing his lean yet muscular form to the Camelotian prisoners. He tilts his head back to its apex, before giving a snort of amusement. It would be noted, the encampment was now silent. The skin-drums beat no more, nor did the horns blast their devilish bellows. All the roughhousing and chatter had dropped to an eerie silence. The camp had gathered around, at least three-hundred or more men, women, and children from what the King and his men could see. The Bear-Cloaked Man raised his head to look towards the people, before letting out a loud snort and raising his axe, face twisted in a sick grin as he hollers in a loud tone
"Skål!"
The camp hoot and holler at the proclamation, raising their frothing mugs and cackling, before returning to their business. The Bear-Cloaked Man now tilts his head down to the King, before snorting and turning back to walk into the tent. The slavers who had captured them force them to their feet once more, seperating the rest of the captured from the King, and moving the Lord to an iron cage within the War Tent, where some nobles were chained to the walls, stripped of clothing and beaten to near senseless drooling. The Bear-Cloaked Man stood, hands over a table as he muttered to a woman with long, braided blonde hair. After the hushed discussion, the woman leaves, and the man turns his head slowly to look towards the chained King. He had not been bound to the wall like the other noble's, but forced to his knees all the same. With a flick of his hand upwards, one of the guards roughly snapped the gag from the King's mouth, before walking off, leaving only the Ruler, the Raid Leader, and the wind.
The man looks down to the King, before his jaw slacks.
"Men tell me you sat in important home. An Earl, mm?"
His dialect was rough, and deep was his voice, like thunder. His tattooed form twitches as he crosses his arms, perking a furry brow expectantly towards the Lord of Camelot.
Conrad glanced at the room taking in the appauling treatment the prisoners received, rather too brutish for his own taste. One thing was burning witches but torturing nobles for the sake of being so was hardly an appealing thought.
He looked at the leader answering in the man's language.
"I am Conrad Tydfil of Camelot.. I was the king, the ruler of my people." informed Conrad weary, he was offended to have been lowered to the lower status of an earl but restrained his disgust rather well
Merthyr jumped to his feet alarmed to hear that.
"Sir Mordred, we are returning to Camelot at once. The lady Morgana will be most distressed if she finds that her own maid is missing, rumours of sorcery will spread even further that maidens are vanishing from the castle otherwise" gawked Merthyr wide eyed.
"Not to say an unmarried woman's presence, accompanying the crown prince will fare appaulingly for my own honor and reputation and infuriate Morgana all the more so. I already was made to court another damsel at the feast to her displeasure, I will not have her maid at this party and journey without Morgana's clear permission." refused Merthyr listing every issue found so far
"We are few, we cannot ensure your safety either and to make matters worse, I need my armour. The journey we are going to embark on is perillous, I definitely need a better sword, and full armour as does Lancelot.
Sir Mordred, please, return us to the lady Morgause to be reprimanded for running away, or, should we earn pardon through a duel, that we may be knighted to serve your lordship and the kingdom better, as well as stand better chances of surviving this journey" decided Merthyr having checked the swords Lancelot had stolen and found them heavily lacking in sharpness, in strength and endurance, good enough for a city guard behind heavy walls but nowhere enough for a journey into Mercia
He looked at the leader answering in the man's language.
"I am Conrad Tydfil of Camelot.. I was the king, the ruler of my people." informed Conrad weary, he was offended to have been lowered to the lower status of an earl but restrained his disgust rather well
Merthyr jumped to his feet alarmed to hear that.
"Sir Mordred, we are returning to Camelot at once. The lady Morgana will be most distressed if she finds that her own maid is missing, rumours of sorcery will spread even further that maidens are vanishing from the castle otherwise" gawked Merthyr wide eyed.
"Not to say an unmarried woman's presence, accompanying the crown prince will fare appaulingly for my own honor and reputation and infuriate Morgana all the more so. I already was made to court another damsel at the feast to her displeasure, I will not have her maid at this party and journey without Morgana's clear permission." refused Merthyr listing every issue found so far
"We are few, we cannot ensure your safety either and to make matters worse, I need my armour. The journey we are going to embark on is perillous, I definitely need a better sword, and full armour as does Lancelot.
Sir Mordred, please, return us to the lady Morgause to be reprimanded for running away, or, should we earn pardon through a duel, that we may be knighted to serve your lordship and the kingdom better, as well as stand better chances of surviving this journey" decided Merthyr having checked the swords Lancelot had stolen and found them heavily lacking in sharpness, in strength and endurance, good enough for a city guard behind heavy walls but nowhere enough for a journey into Mercia
The savage's brows indeed rose at such a proclamation. His bearded chin brushes along his chest, lips pursing as he snorts loudly, throwing his head back and giving a single-toned cackle, before suddenly falling to a knee and forcing his face into the face of the royal-blood, head tilting. His nostrils flare as he looked over the man, letting his hot breath brush across the face of the royal in twin torrents, clear of hygienic care and fresh with the smell of meat and stale liquor. His tongue, almost sanguine red, slithered between his yellow teeth as he licks at his lips.
"You speak our language, 'King'? How intriguing."
His scarred brow line bends down as his nostrils flare, chin twitching.
"The plate-wearing nancy that we captured with you. The boy. He is... A prince, then?"
He questioned, referring to the Knight that had been captured alongside the King and his men. He used the head of his axe to slowly scratch at the side of his thick, vein pulsed neck, tilting it to the side as the light from the mouth of the tent dances off of his blue-black war paint.
"You speak our language, 'King'? How intriguing."
His scarred brow line bends down as his nostrils flare, chin twitching.
"The plate-wearing nancy that we captured with you. The boy. He is... A prince, then?"
He questioned, referring to the Knight that had been captured alongside the King and his men. He used the head of his axe to slowly scratch at the side of his thick, vein pulsed neck, tilting it to the side as the light from the mouth of the tent dances off of his blue-black war paint.
"Don't flatter yourself, in Camelot, I keep my friends close and my enemies closer to learn all there is about them, about you, chieftain Hafr Gaerrarsson" assured Conrad
"As for my escort, he is not my son, he is my knight, a very loyal knight, Sir Tristan de Lyones" corrected Conrad
He looked at the man with defiant, cold, steely eyes, not about to give the man the least pleasure from the painful wrists, or learn the weariness this humiliating journey had inflicted upon him and his men so far
"As for my escort, he is not my son, he is my knight, a very loyal knight, Sir Tristan de Lyones" corrected Conrad
He looked at the man with defiant, cold, steely eyes, not about to give the man the least pleasure from the painful wrists, or learn the weariness this humiliating journey had inflicted upon him and his men so far
The Viking canted his head upward, chin to the roof of the tent as his eyes danced over to the chained noble's at the King's right side. His nostrils twitched as he keeps his tongue pinched between his teeth. A brow perks as his lips twitch at the corners, allowing for a long and thin-lipped grin to play upon his crimson-stained lips. He reached back behind him, picking up a chalice, taken from the same Castle that the King had been abducted in, and poured a brown-black liquid from a jug, to fill it to the brim. As opposed to the sweet, ravishing smells of the red wines that royals were use to, the silver chalice boasted a strong and bitter scent, one that would cause nose hairs to curl. The man tilted his head, eyeing over the King as he downed the liquid in a single swig, before throwing the chalice with little care across the room, allowing the elegantly crafted silver to dirty in the muddied ground.
Outside, there was an uproar of laughter, and upon inspection, a nobleman had been stripped of all clothing, bare, and was being forced to run across the hot charcoal of the dying center fire, whilst the crowd around him laughed and threw their drink at him. Insult to injury.
The Bear-Cloaked Man clenches his chin.
"How much would the land pay for their gilded-haired King and his pompous, plate-slicking boy whore back? Surely a hefty price."
He chuckled, keeping his attitude cocky as he snorted once more, brushing the strands of hair that excaped the long, single braid back behind the leather clamps.
Outside, there was an uproar of laughter, and upon inspection, a nobleman had been stripped of all clothing, bare, and was being forced to run across the hot charcoal of the dying center fire, whilst the crowd around him laughed and threw their drink at him. Insult to injury.
The Bear-Cloaked Man clenches his chin.
"How much would the land pay for their gilded-haired King and his pompous, plate-slicking boy whore back? Surely a hefty price."
He chuckled, keeping his attitude cocky as he snorted once more, brushing the strands of hair that excaped the long, single braid back behind the leather clamps.
Conrad knew exactly where the conversation was going and replied accordingly
"No one pays anything for corpses or maimed bodies, regardless of one's birth rights" informed Conrad as a matter of fact.
"As for ransom of those able bodied, if you write to prince Merthyr Tydfil he will ensure your demands are met" replied Conrad knowing that much to be true
Curiosity was compelling Conrad to gaze outside at the ill treatment of the nobleman but, protocol and his position of authority over his loyal men ensured Conrad stayed focused on the conversation, staring at the man at all times
"No one pays anything for corpses or maimed bodies, regardless of one's birth rights" informed Conrad as a matter of fact.
"As for ransom of those able bodied, if you write to prince Merthyr Tydfil he will ensure your demands are met" replied Conrad knowing that much to be true
Curiosity was compelling Conrad to gaze outside at the ill treatment of the nobleman but, protocol and his position of authority over his loyal men ensured Conrad stayed focused on the conversation, staring at the man at all times
"No." She looked around. "I'm am not going back without the truth. I am a magic wielder and have my own protection." She stared the men down, clearly not giving up. "Whether you join me or not is your destiny, but I shall go. None o you can stop me."
"She has a flower that we can use to find Guinevere," Taff put in, knowing Amber wasn't going to give up so easily once she'd made her mind. "And her magic would be indispensable as well, I'm sure."
"It would be unwise to continue on such a dangerous journey without your Lady Morgana's permission," said Mordred in a polite tone. "And we'll need... far more preparation than grabbing some swords and running into the woods." He began making preparations to head back to the castle at the soonest opportunity.
Taff knew none of this would stop Amber, so he turned to her and suggested, "If you come back to Camelot with us, we can all get leave to go, and this time with an armed escort. We'll make better progress together than each on our own."
"It would be unwise to continue on such a dangerous journey without your Lady Morgana's permission," said Mordred in a polite tone. "And we'll need... far more preparation than grabbing some swords and running into the woods." He began making preparations to head back to the castle at the soonest opportunity.
Taff knew none of this would stop Amber, so he turned to her and suggested, "If you come back to Camelot with us, we can all get leave to go, and this time with an armed escort. We'll make better progress together than each on our own."
She nodded. "No tricks?" She held her hand out to him to shake, making a deal that he would not forsake her.
"No tricks." Taff reached out and shook her hand, smiling.
Merthyr nodded at Amber
"You have my word of honor, if your liege lady allows you to join, I will personally appoint Lancelot your guard and he is of the best knights in the realm." nodded Merthyr satisfied
"But lady Morgana must be told, must be aware and give her consent, you belong to her at her service, you are not mine to decide where you can go and when... servants are bound to their lords as the three of us are now bound to Sir Mordred" explained Merthyr calmly
"You have my word of honor, if your liege lady allows you to join, I will personally appoint Lancelot your guard and he is of the best knights in the realm." nodded Merthyr satisfied
"But lady Morgana must be told, must be aware and give her consent, you belong to her at her service, you are not mine to decide where you can go and when... servants are bound to their lords as the three of us are now bound to Sir Mordred" explained Merthyr calmly
"I am aware." She smirked. "Let us hurry."
Lancelot looked up at Amber half hopefully
"One thing Taff doesn't do ever... is lie" declared Lancelot
"Is it true then that you have a flower that can guide us to my sister? Is Guinevere alive? can you tell how far? does it sense if she is wounded?" asked Lancelot clearly worried and blurting out all the questions one after another, ever so grateful that Merthyr and Mordred were coming to help in his quest for his sister and king Conrad's rescue, hastily making his way back to the capital city and Camelot's castle
"One thing Taff doesn't do ever... is lie" declared Lancelot
"Is it true then that you have a flower that can guide us to my sister? Is Guinevere alive? can you tell how far? does it sense if she is wounded?" asked Lancelot clearly worried and blurting out all the questions one after another, ever so grateful that Merthyr and Mordred were coming to help in his quest for his sister and king Conrad's rescue, hastily making his way back to the capital city and Camelot's castle
"It is true. The flower leads us to her, no more and no less. It glows the closer you get, but maybe if I amplify the powers it could." She smiled and placed a hand on his shoulder. "We will find her."
The Warlord remained slouched to the balls of his feet, a necklace of carved bird skulls clattering together in a morbid choir. His stout, autumn colored beard swayed with his head movements as he inspected the man over, before finally his deep and curious voice purred from his throat, as a crocodile's chitter to the prey
"Mmmmmm.... And you're sure they hold the... Power? To grant me my demands?"
His tongue once more pinched between his teeth as he, once more, reached back for the jug of bitter stenching ale, stirring it about before taking a long glutch from the mouth of the jar. His deep, glacier-tinted eyes that matched the long scar about his grisly mug glint, brows afurrowed over his optics as his pectoral muscles spasm.
"Your golds and silvers are of little interest to me. I want something more."
He unsheathes his axe and looks over the chipped and blood-dirtied edge for a moment, pondering, before placing the head to the captivated King's chest, pushing some.
"Something else. Something more."
With that, he returned his arms to slouch over his knees. Outside, a few boys, draped in the same pelt-hide cloaks as the men and women of the savage camp, peek beyond the confines of the tent flaps, peering and giggling as they watch the interaction of Leader to Leader.
"Mmmmmm.... And you're sure they hold the... Power? To grant me my demands?"
His tongue once more pinched between his teeth as he, once more, reached back for the jug of bitter stenching ale, stirring it about before taking a long glutch from the mouth of the jar. His deep, glacier-tinted eyes that matched the long scar about his grisly mug glint, brows afurrowed over his optics as his pectoral muscles spasm.
"Your golds and silvers are of little interest to me. I want something more."
He unsheathes his axe and looks over the chipped and blood-dirtied edge for a moment, pondering, before placing the head to the captivated King's chest, pushing some.
"Something else. Something more."
With that, he returned his arms to slouch over his knees. Outside, a few boys, draped in the same pelt-hide cloaks as the men and women of the savage camp, peek beyond the confines of the tent flaps, peering and giggling as they watch the interaction of Leader to Leader.
She had apparently remained silent for quite some time, for she had hardly registered the words of others in the room.
"Aww in so ever glad you ask, that blade...that is the blade Excalibur. The king maker, the legend crafter."
She spoke simply.
"It only appears when a true king has reached a time in his life, where he can be great."
"Aww in so ever glad you ask, that blade...that is the blade Excalibur. The king maker, the legend crafter."
She spoke simply.
"It only appears when a true king has reached a time in his life, where he can be great."
"It comes at bad timing indeed, Merthyr is missing, Conrad is captive and you already are a wonderous queen... why then have that sword wasted in such matter" sighed Gawain shaking his head at the absurdity of it all.
Merthyr had followed Mordred and Amber and Lancelot and Taff back inside the gates, ever so relieved to be back home, a sense of security breathable in the air. Perhaps the captive dragon beneath the castle did indeed watch over the city.
He sent Taff to fetch his armor and let Mordred take up some rest and speak to queen Morgause about Merthyr's knighting and Lancelot's, the jousting and duel long overdue, except he had forgotten one minor detail, Lancelot belonged to Sir Prodius of Orkney and the man did not take it kindly to what he clearly saw as theft of property, lunging his sword forward no sooner his eyes set upon Merthyr amiccably patting Lancelot and Taff sending them to the kitchens for provisions and his own rooms for the full armour.
"You thieving rat... I will teach you not to steal from others" barked Prodius swinging his own sword as quickly as his well trained wrists allowed
Merthyr was caught off guard, surprised even to see the furious knight, the lord of the realm come to attack. At first he used what he had to hand, the rusty sword that Lancelot had stolen but Prodius steel soon made dents and bent the blade out of the fury and force he was attacking with.
Merthyr did his best to push people back and away from the enraged man.
"Whoa whoa, calm down, we only went to the woods and are back already" tried to appease Merthyr playing mostly defensive by ducking out the way, leaning back, leaning sideways, stepping backwards and overall scrambling out of the way. Likewise, he would use his sword to parry and protect the civilians from stray strikes.
He looked wide eyed as Prodius quite literally broke Merthyr's blade, continuing his attack despite his opponent's disadvantage. They were standing at the courtyard, if Merthyr ran for cover, the man could easily attack peasants... not even the guards dare approach or get close, the man giving Merthyr chase, no retreat, no quarters, no reasoning nor rest.
"I will cut off your hand you thieving bandit..." spat Prodius lunging and thrusting forward.
In his desperation, Merthyr saw a sword stuck by the rock, all but a couple of steps behind him.
Without a second thought, he placed his hand on the handle, pulling it out with ease before Prodius got there.
The sword struggled a little at first but was removed with ease and easy flow. Merthyr quite liked the feel to it, swinging it a couple of times before retaliating against Prodius, the blows aggressive, controlled, smooth and constant, quick enough to knock the sword handle out of Prodius and disarm the man at last.
"Go to the tavern and calm yourself down" advised Merthyr removing Prodius sword and leaving the lord knight disarmed at long last, it was clear Merthyr had the greater skill and was by far the better warrior
As soon as the danger was passed, he looked around the courtyard to return the sword, but the rock was nowhere to be found.
"Does anyone know who this sword belongs to? I am NO thief!" demanded Merthyr questioning the peasants who had gotten excited if weary, yet the silence was deafening. No knight and no lord had been able to remove the sword thus claim it before.
"Well... if its owner does come to seek it, point them to my presence" sighed Merthyr now feeling like a proper thief in broad daylight, sliding the blade into his belt and coming to catch up to Mordred and Lancelot and Taff to see the queen,to see Morgana and get armour and provisions, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of the hand.
Merthyr had followed Mordred and Amber and Lancelot and Taff back inside the gates, ever so relieved to be back home, a sense of security breathable in the air. Perhaps the captive dragon beneath the castle did indeed watch over the city.
He sent Taff to fetch his armor and let Mordred take up some rest and speak to queen Morgause about Merthyr's knighting and Lancelot's, the jousting and duel long overdue, except he had forgotten one minor detail, Lancelot belonged to Sir Prodius of Orkney and the man did not take it kindly to what he clearly saw as theft of property, lunging his sword forward no sooner his eyes set upon Merthyr amiccably patting Lancelot and Taff sending them to the kitchens for provisions and his own rooms for the full armour.
"You thieving rat... I will teach you not to steal from others" barked Prodius swinging his own sword as quickly as his well trained wrists allowed
Merthyr was caught off guard, surprised even to see the furious knight, the lord of the realm come to attack. At first he used what he had to hand, the rusty sword that Lancelot had stolen but Prodius steel soon made dents and bent the blade out of the fury and force he was attacking with.
Merthyr did his best to push people back and away from the enraged man.
"Whoa whoa, calm down, we only went to the woods and are back already" tried to appease Merthyr playing mostly defensive by ducking out the way, leaning back, leaning sideways, stepping backwards and overall scrambling out of the way. Likewise, he would use his sword to parry and protect the civilians from stray strikes.
He looked wide eyed as Prodius quite literally broke Merthyr's blade, continuing his attack despite his opponent's disadvantage. They were standing at the courtyard, if Merthyr ran for cover, the man could easily attack peasants... not even the guards dare approach or get close, the man giving Merthyr chase, no retreat, no quarters, no reasoning nor rest.
"I will cut off your hand you thieving bandit..." spat Prodius lunging and thrusting forward.
In his desperation, Merthyr saw a sword stuck by the rock, all but a couple of steps behind him.
Without a second thought, he placed his hand on the handle, pulling it out with ease before Prodius got there.
The sword struggled a little at first but was removed with ease and easy flow. Merthyr quite liked the feel to it, swinging it a couple of times before retaliating against Prodius, the blows aggressive, controlled, smooth and constant, quick enough to knock the sword handle out of Prodius and disarm the man at last.
"Go to the tavern and calm yourself down" advised Merthyr removing Prodius sword and leaving the lord knight disarmed at long last, it was clear Merthyr had the greater skill and was by far the better warrior
As soon as the danger was passed, he looked around the courtyard to return the sword, but the rock was nowhere to be found.
"Does anyone know who this sword belongs to? I am NO thief!" demanded Merthyr questioning the peasants who had gotten excited if weary, yet the silence was deafening. No knight and no lord had been able to remove the sword thus claim it before.
"Well... if its owner does come to seek it, point them to my presence" sighed Merthyr now feeling like a proper thief in broad daylight, sliding the blade into his belt and coming to catch up to Mordred and Lancelot and Taff to see the queen,to see Morgana and get armour and provisions, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of the hand.
She rolled her eyes at Merthyr as he pulled out the sword. "You idjit." She mumbled as she watched him.
Mordred found Queen Morgause quickly, speaking with Sir Gawain.
"Your majesty, my apologies for the intrusion," he said, nodding towards Gawain. "I am here to request that Merthyr and Lancelot be knighted; Merthyr has proven himself worthy to be a knight, and Lancelot as well."
"I'm sure Sir Prodius would agree," he lied, unaware of what was happening with Merthyr and Sir Prodius at that very moment.
"Your majesty, my apologies for the intrusion," he said, nodding towards Gawain. "I am here to request that Merthyr and Lancelot be knighted; Merthyr has proven himself worthy to be a knight, and Lancelot as well."
"I'm sure Sir Prodius would agree," he lied, unaware of what was happening with Merthyr and Sir Prodius at that very moment.
"Sir Mordred... come stand at the balcony... he may be knighted if he actually lives long enough to reach the throne room... the way these two are going, who needs enemies having this!" urged Gawain who had caught the beginning of the altercation, inviting Mordred and Morgause to come to watch too, his eyes gawking as Merthyr effortlessly took the sword off the stone without the least impediment. A sword Gawain had tried and tried to remove with all his strength and might to no avail, yet Merthyr held and dislodged it as if he had been wearing it in the scabbard.
By the time the fight was well over his eyes gazed upon Morgause.
"I am inclined to agree with Sir Mordred, he was appointed to oversee Merthyr's and Lancelot's punishment after all,if he deems them redeemed and ready, I too will stand by the decision they be knighted too" nodded Gawain trusting his friend Mordred
By the time the fight was well over his eyes gazed upon Morgause.
"I am inclined to agree with Sir Mordred, he was appointed to oversee Merthyr's and Lancelot's punishment after all,if he deems them redeemed and ready, I too will stand by the decision they be knighted too" nodded Gawain trusting his friend Mordred
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