#avalon.plot

[avalcnrp]

“For I have promised to do the battle to the uttermost, by faith of my body,  while me lasteth the life, and therefore I had liefer to die with honour than to live with shame ; and if it were possible for me to die an hundred times, I had liefer to die oft than yield me to thee; for though I lack weapon, I shall lack no worship, and if thou slay me weaponless that shall be thy shame.”

The close of the feast of the dead had come at last, in the great hall of Pendragon Hold the knights and nobles of Avalon were gathered together to break bread one final time before the long winter swept across the land. Outside snow already began to fall, an unusual sign this early in the year but one that some whispered would mean a bountiful spring. From casks below wine flowed through the night, outside the gates a fire raged and spirits were high. Even Arthur was present, sitting on his throne with Queen Guinevere on one side, and Excalibur upon the other. 

Only Maolmórdha Fáelán and her children abstain from celebration, refusing to drink, or eat, and attending the ceremony only because tradition demanded it. It is Fergus Epos of the house of paladins that speaks first, his tongue loose from wine as he splatters cold stone with scarlet lacquer. A gold chalice could not contain the arrogance that swirled within, and as he spoke he lamented the Fáelán’s considerable losses - and how each should mourn the future of their once great and noble house. Overhead an eagle cries in mourning, remembering the child that she also lost. Maolmórdha opens her mouth to speak, but is interrupted by the loud slam of the doors to the great hall as they swing open.

It is Gwydre, King Arthur’s sole heir who appears, dragging behind him a man by the root of his hair. “Father,” he proclaims, eyes set upon the only person in the room who truly matters. Gwydre has the look of innocence, but any who’ve fought beside him know there is nothing further from the truth. People say he is too young to inherit the throne, but they forget that Arthur was almost half his age when he took the seat of Camelot. Silence falls across the throne room, broken only momentarily by the berserker Ruairí Caerwyn “- what is the meaning of this?” Battered and beaten, Gwydre’s captive is tossed to the ground, landing effortlessly at Arthur’s feet. He is not dressed in any finery, but the clothes of one who had sweat and worked tirelessly through long days. 

“This one works in the kitchens,” Gwydre threw a small leather bound satchel in front of the man - his eyes widened with fear as the herbs landed in front of him. Anyone could see how the parcel was marked: runes filled with warning. This was a resource of the druids, a dark one. “Aconite. He wished to poison the king! It’s a marvel you aren’t all dead already. Tis’ a swift death, but painful.” Gwydre swaggered about the man who could not have been beyond his twentieth year, Gwydre drew his sword next and placed it upon the servant’s throat before he stopped to stand between the cook and the king. “First it turns your face to stone, working its way through your blood and bones as your limbs are petrified; it twists you, contorts you, until at last it reaches your chest.” Gwydre lowered his blade, his sword aimed at the cook’s chest. He turns and there is mischief in his smile, they are in a room full of people but he speaks only to the king. “Shall I kill him, father?”

Silence falls across the court, Arthur is a paramount, surely he would never let such a crime go unanswered, but neither could anyone possibly count on the word of a man whose lips were red from either blood or wine. Arthur rose and issued a single command, “Move aside, boy.” 

Excalibur leaves its scabbard and in every corner of the room it sings through the dark, taking in all the light as even torches flicker in its presence. Arthur raises his sword but Ser Brunor comes to stand between them. He wears the coat of his father, murdered by wolves long ago. “Arthur- my King.” He steals the words that are on the lips of every knight who kneeled before Arthur’s blade. “This man is innocent, can you not see it on his face? Look at how he cowers, this druid is no threat, and did even one of us find ourselves ill?” Brunor addressed the court, talented, bright, ambitious. Brunor’s family is not as powerful as it once was, but they are a proud one.

Fergus Epos spoke first, “More likely he was laying in wait,” the paladin pointed out, “hoping to kill us all when we were asleep - or when we were too drunk to notice.” Fergus had grown up alongside Uther, he’d been a second father to Arthur when the boy was still growing into a king. “Kill him your grace, and punish this impudent knight for speaking out on this assassin’s behalf.” 

“No!” Brunor bellowed, though Arthur only pressed forward, weary, eyes like a milky sea as his feet labored and dragged with every step. “Sire-” Brunor said, he drew his sword. “I cannot let you harm this man, he’s innocent!” A clamor erupted through the hold as every sword in the keep found its intended hand, though Arthur only raised his own. 

“Do you accept the consequences of this man’s actions?” Arthur asked, his brow pointed and curved. The razor sharp tip of Excalibur’s blade bit the stones where it met. Brunor did not waiver, or shake. He instead stood firm, resolute. 

“I do, now please. Let him go.” Brunor pleaded and Arthur nodded, his hand fell and waved dismissively at the cook. He got up from the place where he fell and hurled himself towards the door, towards the cold, towards the waiting bitter snow that piled outside the doors, welcoming him with open arms.

A moment of silence passed across the hold, a heartbeat of stillness. Then a great clash of blade upon blade as Arthur swung his great sword with but a single arm, bringing Brunor to his knees as the knight braced the flat of his sword against the palm of his hand. 

“Let all who look upon this day see,” Gwydre spoke, “for they who wish to die for the pleasure of a crowd, whose lives amount to the sum total of their sins, under the grace of God, and the almighty above. Look to the dead men, the corpses, the slaughtered sows, the rot of pious men, and reap what you sowed.” Arthur’s strength was unmatched, his body turned and pivoted unnaturally - born to fight as Excalibur swung wildly from his palm. Not as a sword but an extension of his arm. Brunor’s magic died upon the edge of his blade before at last his sword broke and scattered across the stones. A knight in his prime, one of the greatest upon the table, and even now he stood no chance against the greatest of kings. Arthur raised the fabled sword that seals the darkness above his head, shock and fear dot Brunor’s face as he kneels in the broken place where his blade scattered. The throne room erupts, knights and nobles alike rush to stop the man who has taken this all too far.  Gwydre speaks over them all, grinning beside his father’s throne.  “Let all who look upon this day see: the justice of the once and future king.” 

Brunor’s head rolls across stone long before anyone can reach Arthur, he looks to the crowd, to the shock that befell them each. “Who among you would take his place?” The king asked, silence punctuates the distance between the greatest warrior of Avalon and all the rest. This is what it means to be a Pendragon, and to hold Excalibur in your hands. “The celebration is over.” Arthur says at last when none answer his demand, “Be gone.”

OOC INFO BELOW THE CUT

Wow, wild. 

Anyways, Ser Brunor is dead now. They are no longer open for application. For now.

Ser Brunor held lands North of Maum in the Hartwood, he was a bitten wolf whose father died in the same attack that turned him.

The festival is over, word about what happened will probably spread very quickly. The cook disappeared and hasn’t been seen since, feel free to assume whatever previous connections you’d like. His name was Doyle ó Murchadha.

Arthur is not taking any visitors right now. 

The event has ended so please, no new starters for it. You are welcome to to continue any other threads, but everything from this point on must be ‘post Brunor-gate’ and take place sometime after his execution. 

[avalcnrp]

There often by him he would see, when noon was hot on leaf and tree, the king of Faerie with his rout came hunting in the woods about, with blowing far and crying dim, and barking hounds that were with him; yet never a beast they took nor slew, and where they went he never knew.

Deep in the Hartwood, the Dowth has long been protected by the druids who keep the sacred rites. The kings of old haunt this place, and the archdruids who came before Merlin have all found peace within the crystal caverns. Catacombs below stretch for miles, uncharted and varied, it was here that druid traditions state the Fomorians were driven deep below the earth - but that is not the only place where these caverns lead. It was here, after all, where the fey first emerged when they landed in Avalon so many years ago. They were the second citizens of the realm, and they were also refugees. 

Under the cover of the first night of Samhain, figures descend upon this place. Cloaked in shadows and wielding long forgotten magic, the druids who have long protected the Dowth never stood a chance. Blood stained the quartz walls and were thus tainted as they began the task of calling to the Outlands - to the forbidden place - to the realm where no stories ever come from. Of her court, Titania is the only one who still holds any memories of the place that came before, another secret she kept buried. 

Through the night and the following day they spilled their horrible spells into the earth and repurposed the pathways for their own reasons, and on the second night, they came through. Entrenched in cold and shadow, they are the forgotten ones. A trio of three, their heads adorned with antlers twisted like a cruel crown. A pack of hounds the size of wolves are their companions, hungry and ravenous. The druids who called to them were the first to die, a small meal for the troupe of long-starved warriors. Winter precedes their every step, the earth weeps at their touch, and with every tread the world grows more silent.

They are the wild hunt, and they have come to Avalon at last. 

OOC info below the cut:

Oh, spooky!

So the wild hunt has come to Avalon, yay!

This also means that winter has come very soon, so snow will start falling immediately and in a couple of weeks it’ll be a winter wonderland. 

Wild animals will become much more aggressive, domestic ones too so keep your puppers on a leash folks!

The Dowth has always been protected by druids, and only some have been able to find it. But now its defences are down and anyone can happen across it.

[avalcnrp]

“How peaceful to be a tree!  Trees had only to grow. Trees had no hearts to confuse and complicate things. Trees could not love kings and still disobey them.”

Flanked  by the heads of the four noble houses, King Arthur himself lights the first bonfire atop the inaugural mound in the shadow of the Lia Fáil, dusk falls across the realm and the Oíche Shamhna has officially begun. Arthur’s son and only heir, Gwydre carries his torch, and Queen Guinevere leads the first of the old songs. Children born at this time are said to be gifted with sight, they see the ghouls that come crawling from their graves and the small fairies that emerge from their sacred mounds. Hymns to the Old Gods accompany prayers to the new one as traditions muddles together.  Masks are worn because for so long as the sun is absent from the sky, the veil remains thin enough for creatures of the Otherworld to pass over. This tradition marks the beginning of a three night festival observed all across Avalon, it begins with Samhain Eve, the Oíche Shamhna, and concludes with the Lá na Marbh, the feast for the day of the dead. 

Trickery abound, mischievous faeries, troublesome spirits, and ghosts from the seasons that have past creep across the veil. From the inaugural mound King Arthur’s procession of knights, nobles, and other members of court lead the way back to the city. Atop the mound a sect of observers keep the bonfire burning while others are lit along the way, the most prominent of which in the noble quarter in front of Pendragon Hold. For three nights and the two days in between these fires are burned and incensed to aid satiating the spirits that would come through. In the households of the city other traditions are watched, fires are often kept, but nothing is more prominent than the preparation of food. These nights mark the end of the harvest season once and for all, the shortening of daylight, and the second half of the year when the world grows cold. Spare food is left out, often in small morsels outside a door, or tossed into a heart or bonfire pit. A gift for the faeries or hungry spirits who’ve been starved for the past year. 

From their graves the ghosts who have departed over the past year are able to pass through the veil to visit those they knew in life one final time. Some seek their loved ones for the opportunity to hold them one last time, others seek vengeance for a wrongful death. Faeries are common, but only come out at night. Invisible to any born outside the festival of Samhain, they are capricious and are known to play tricks that range from harmless fun to downright dangerous. They can affect the potency of a druid’s spell, imitate the face of a ghost, distort a moroi’s tether, spoil the waters of a kelpie’s lake - and a host of other things. Bits of food, especially treats are known to appease them. Masks confuse them as well as they do not perceive shapes as others do when in the mortal world, everything is held through the lens of the veil and when faced with a masked individual they will often assume it is just another fairy. 

Across Avalon these traditions are honoured, but none is greater than the festival at Camelot. For so long as Arthur has reigned he has believed that there is strength in numbers and it is at times like this that he calls together any in the realm who wish to partake in the festivities. The theater troupe performs for the crowds while bards and courtesans alike provide entertainment through the long, cold night. 

The festival concludes on the final night with the Lá na Marbh, the feast for the dead is the grandest of the traditions. Mementos and keepsakes that people have been holding onto that represent a tether to someone they’ve lost in the last year are tossed into the fire. Any leftovers from the feast are thrown in as well. Every year the king is present at Samhain, but this year he has been absent and has not been seen since the lighting of the bonfire at Oíche Shamhna.

ooc info under the cut:

In game the festival will last for three nights, but for players the event will last ten days. It is fine to continue pre-existing threads, but please do not start any new event threads after November 25th.

King Arthur is hosting each of the four great noble houses in Camelot and has invited everyone from across the realm to attend, this is to give everyone a fair reason to entertain the festival for a night or two. 

Wearing a spooky mask at night will keep your muse from being bothered by fairies, spirits, or ghouls!

Spirits who’ve departed since the previous Samhain may wander from the grave to pay those they knew in life one final visit before undertaking their final journey to the other side. 

Since the veil is so thin, spirits and fairies can have adverse effects on people who neglect to wear their mask! ex. You may lose your way walking a road you’ve crossed a hundred times,  you may find yourself in a drunken stupor despite not having drank at all, or you might found yourself turned into a dog for the duration of the festival. Remember, fairies are capricious, they may leave you alone, or they might just ruin your life for a good laugh!