Crispian pulled on his breastplate, tugging at the straps to fasten it tight. Tannir hovered in the background, keeping well clear of the young Lord he had served faithfully over the last months. His worried look rarely strayed from the young warrior, but he was cautious about meeting his eyes, for something burned there, he did not want to face.

“Advise any who come that I’ve gone to the hunt with Chaplain Darnyk, boy,” Crispian snapped as he clasped his cloak in place. Settling his shield in place after securing his sword, he stepped toward the door. “And I am sorry if I have been difficult since…that night,” he said quietly, yanking the door open and swiftly leaving.

The lieutenants and sergeants of the Defender’s guild did not look at him as he strode through the building. They all had heard of the loud shouting at night, and the vast amounts of ale, that had plagued the young Centurion. He acknowledged salutes and little else as he left. His usually calm face was grim and it was clear that something naggered at him.

On passing out of the Defender’s, into the sunshine for the first time in almost nine days, Kerriann stood in his path. She towered over him, her arms across her chest. “Lord Crispian, you have slighted Tatyanna,” she said, accusingly.

“Don’t call me lord,” he muttered and continued on, leaving the Paladin behind him.

The gate warders nodded as he exited the east gate, a vague salute being returned.

Darnyk was already at the horses. His friar’s robes were in neat order and he radiated calm as always. “Where to hunt, Crispy? I’d like to check out the Barrows again. I hear the Tomb Wights are being pesky,” he mentioned with a glint in his eye.

“I don’t care where,” Crispian pouted, “just somewhere that I can kill something.” He swung up onto his horse and turned his back on Camelot. He could still hear the laughs of that mad bitch as she had been dragged away. Tears were in his eyes as he followed the friar out on to the road.

The clear breeze of riding did little to ease the mire that filled Crispian. His thoughts, his feelings, his wants had not been his to master over this past week. He could not clear his head to think right. The joy of battle was gone; the peace of humility denied him. He found himself contentious with friends and short with allies. However, the worst of it all was how he found himself noticing things – looking at them in a different light than before. Tannir’s smile and grace of movement had become so difficult to bear. Ilya’s dark colorings, and his laugh.

As he rode, he unstoppered a wineskin and drank deeply, pressing a hand to his eyes to clear such images. And the laugh came…cackling through him.


[mod] +300 rule.

 

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Secaran handed him the tightly rolled scroll without a word. Ayslyn's gaze flicked between it and his friends serious face. He raised an eyebrow. "Bad news I take." Secaran offered the scroll again, not responding. Ayslyn sighed, heavily, and opened it. Slowly he read, his lips soon pressed in a thin line, then in an outright scowl. He checked the signature. All of his people were reliable, but the one who had sent this was among his most reliable. This was no mere flight of fancy. He crumpled the paper in his fist. "Another good soul lost in the dark. Someone needs to show him back to the light."

 

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more! more!

(ooc)


hrmm....

Ayslyn watched the parapets from his perch high in one of the trees. The moon rose full and bright. Not the best night for this sort of thing, but he couldn't be too picky. Some time just after midnight he saw the signal. Someone with a Bullseye lantern was scanning the area around the castle. Suddenly the beam of light was shuttered twice in quick succession, then a moment later three more times. To anyone not looking for a signal, it would seem that the wind had caused the wick to flutter. With a grin, Ayslyn dropped out of the tree, swinging from branch to branch until he reached the ground.


He dashed from tree to tree, shadow to shadow, as he approached the wall. For a moment he had to wait, pressed against a large oak, while two sentries passed him in their patrol. Soon enough though, the wall stood before him. Castle Sauvage, Gateway to the lands of Albion. Slinging his bow over his shoulder, he scampered up the wall with all the speed of a manic squirell. As he crested the parapet, he came face to face with a highlander. They stood there, regarding each other for several moments until Ayslyn grinned. "Asten," he said as he haunched down on the parapet.


"Ayslyn," the highlander replied with a smile. "Ah gotcher message. Tis more then a li'l risky mehtin laik this."


Ayslyn nodded, "I know. But I had to confirm your report."


Asten frowned and nodded. "Aye, Ah though tha may be why ye came. Tis true ah fear. Lair Crispian has fallen into ah mighty bleak spell. He stays fer days in his rooms. Oft thar is a terrible racket comin from em. His temper is hair short, and tis said tha he seeks comfort in tha bottom o' an ale cask."


Ayslyn scowled as he absorbed all this. "And all this came about since the D'vena woman was deposed?"


"Aye. Ah do nae know what she did to tha lad, but et has messed him up somethin fierce."


Ayslyn nodded slowly. "I'm sure it did. Was it known whether she dabbled in magic or not?"


Asten frowned. "Thar be a hunerd rumours abut that wench, each more fantastic then tha last."


"I thought as much. Oh well. Something must be done for the lad. I can't stay any longer tongiht. It would be bad for both of us if we were seen together. I shall be back though." Ayslyn stood as Asten nodded and looked about. They were, thankfully, still alone on the wall. By the time he turned back, Ayslyn was gone.

 

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Battered, the duo emerged from the Barrows. The tall friar clad in an enchanted leather jerkin scowled. "It's mauve," he said, plucking at the front. "We should go to Camelot so I can buy dyes, but after I have changed into my old robe. So no one sees me."


Crispian, doffing the barrel helm Ronal had given him, scowled. "I hate it when they enamel these grey." He slung the barrel-helm from his shield as he started to walk off, a skin of wine already filling his hands.


Darnyk hid the grave look he gave his friend as he followed. He keenly took in everything Crispian had said or done these last hours during their hunt. Other than a taciturness more than normal, he seemed recovered.


The trip across the plains to West Downs was short, and horse from there to the City shortened the trip more. (Comment - writing in horse routes where I want them!) They passed through the east gate and Darnyk made directly for the tailors' shop.


Crispian moved as in a daze, avoiding the Defender's Guild completely. His steps wandered through the city, until he found himself deep in the Shadowed area. A run down tavern spilled light into the street, but even that was muted, diffused. He stumbled in, greeted by the reek of ale, sweat, and stale smoke.


Two gold coins dropped on the counter. "A room," he said quietly to the innkeep, a saracen with a bad scar and worse teeth. A sneer spread on the small eastern's face as he pocketed the coins.


"Take your pick," the man said, nodding up the hallway. "The rooms are the same, but the choices aren't," he completed with a wicked chuckle.


Resignedly, Crispian mounted the stairs, which creaked under his weight. He walked the narrow, dim hallway, peering into the chambers to either side. After some hestation, he selected one -- a run down room with a cot, a stand on the side with pitcher and basin. Lounging on the cot, clad in a thin shift, was a lean youth, muscled from work and blank of expression.


With a bleak expression, Crispian allowed the lad to start to undo the straps of his armor. A look of haunted pain settled in place on his face.


And below the castle, in deepest dungeon, a laugh erupted that echoed an insane joy and amusement. It echoed in the darkness, filling the void with its mad volume, and ripping through the mind of a young warrior-lad.


"Appetitio depravatio amatorius," she intoned, her voice a broken, dried croaking. Making the sounds pained her, but the cost she felt was worth it. "My hate drives my revenge, little boy! I hurl my rage at thee, for hate-sake alone!" she barked as she pictured him, as he had come to her those two nights. To aid that bastard Carrington and the pig-farmer! Let what he used to decieve her be HER revenge!


"Appetitio depravatio amatorius. Inversio aeternum expers incantamentum," she gasped in a pained voice, setting her revenge beyond the casting, exacting a price that could be lessened, but never fully paid.


And delight coursed through her. The first joy she had known in weeks.

 

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Crispian woke in the dark of the night. Something was wrong. The boy at his side slept deeply, almost unnaturaly so. Suddenly, he realized his wrists and ankles were bound. "I apologize about the ropes," a voice said wryly. Someone lit the candle on the table. A tall elf sat calmly in the single rickety chair, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "The young Crispian that everyone knows and loves might have calmy chatted with an unarmed elf," he gestured toward the unstrung bow and pair of dirks that lay across the room from him, "But I couldn't be sure that this one would." He grinned.


"Who are you?"


The elf grinned again. Scetching a quick bow from his seat, "Ayslyn Greenwillow, one of Rhiannon's Chosen, and a champion of justice," he chuckled, "Sounds pretenious doesn't it. Oh well, can't be helped. You are Crispian Pontiff, Senechal of the West, and leader of the ST. Crispin's League. You are brother to Jashen, Lord to Tannir, Friend to Arguyle, Moryan, and countless others. You are a young lad who has lately shown some very disturbing changes of character. While a touch too serious, you were always jovial, and fiarminded. A lad that many of the Defenders looked up to. Recently however, following the capture of the Lady D'vena, you have fallen into a rather heavy funk. You have acquired a rather nasty temper, and your tastes in companions seems to have turned from pretty young lasses toward strapping young lads like him," he nodded toward the boy. Crispian felt his face grow hot. "Oh, wipe that look off your face boy," Ayslyn snapped, "There is nothing wrong with it. It is only wrong when one or the other is forced into it. And you needn't worry about the lad waking up while we are talking. He'll sleep quite soundly for some time. Though I wager his head will feel like a swollen melon when he wakes. I didn't have time to prepare anything gentler. Brew this into a tea and have him drink it. It will help." He tossed a small pouch onto the bed. "So! Here I am to help. Let's talk." Ayslyn looked at Crispian expectantly.

 

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Crispian swallowed heavily. Eyes closed tightly for a moment as his body tensed and he sat up, wrapping a portion of blanket around his waist in modesty. His head tipped downward, hands dangling between his knees.


"ou could have just killed me. What can you know of D'Vena?" He looked up at Ayslyn, who raised an eyebrow at him, graceful arching of it in almost humor. "Or all the rest? Elves and all of Hibernia split from Albion when Arthur King died."


He stared at the elf, resting so casually across from him, almost close enough to strike. Ayslyn looked utterly unplussed in the least.


"Wise people keep many eyes in many places, as you should sure know," the elf said with a hint of humor. The coloring of Crispian's cheeks confirmed his suspicion.


"Well, yes," Crispian said, feeling stupid at the simplicity of the statement. "Since D'Vena, things have changed," he paused gauging the reaction of the elf, and looking for the wine jug he had set near the bed. It rested beside Ayslyn, who just quirked an eyebrow again and shook his head.


"It's the darkness that's the worst," Crispian said quietly, voice low in the darkened chamber. "When it comes, it is so compelling, so," his voice broke, "hard to fight." Jaw clenched and chin trembled. "It's like a calling, then an urging, a demand," he paused, tears welling and then rolling from his eyes.


Ayslyn sighed softly, fearing the depth of this latest working of D'Vena's, and the wounds it opened, or deepened.


No longer able to even look at the elf, Crispian let his eyes roam the faded, grey-wood walls. "I have no...no focus...no reason anymore. I just go, from place to place or mood to mood. And I ache, and hurt." He snapped eyes onto the Elf, Ayslyn, and his grey eyes smoldered. "And I crave...things. And I hate, more than ever before."


Chest heaving deeply as his breathing deepened, Crispian's face twisted into a snarl. "And what can Ayslyn Greenwillow, one of Rhiannon's Chosen, and a champion of justice," he spat the last title out, "do about this? or this?" he indicated the sleeping lad with a fierce jerk of his chin. He snorted derisively, "Or are you part of the cause? I've heard tales, about people like Brianen and what Hiberian can do."


He almost continued, but the look from Ayslyn stopped him cold in mid-sentence.

 

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"My intentions here are to save a good soul," he glared at the young man. "It is why Rhiannon brought me here. It is why I can not rest." His hand flitted to his chest. Even through the armour he wore, he could feel the ring. He decided to switch tacks. "And I know more than a little about darkness. How old do you think I am?"


Crispian looked confused. "I know little of elves."


Ayslyn grinned. "Modesty. Maybe they were right. Guess then."


Crispian picked a number. "200" He knew that elves were long lived.


Ayslyn arched an eyebrow. "Were I anyone else, you would be right. I am, all told, over 1000 years old," he held up a hand to forestall Crispian, "Oh this body is only 200. I was originaly born in a land VERY far away from here. I lived there, grew old, and died. And for the work that I did there, fighting the evil that walked that land, I was," he paused, "rewarded by Rhiannon with a special honour. I was sent here, reborn in this form, to continue my fight," he closed his eyes a moment and sighed, "In the land I came from, I was, as a young man, a rake, more than a bit of a scoundrel at heart. Law mattered little to me, so long as good prevailed. I knew more than my share of women, flitting from one to another like a butterfly in a field of flowers. Until I met Esme. She was beautiful and kind, witty and funny, and against all odds, in love with me. Though she wouldn't admit it. It took me a long time to convince her that I had changed my ways, and would remain loyal to her," he shook his head sadly, wrenching himself from his memories.


"Anyway. Here there are but three dragons. Where I came from there were scores. I made a name for myself hunting the most evil of them. I and my friends were quite good at it. It's a lucrative occupation as well," he grinned, "We built a city in the heart of a massive forest. Esme and I were married. Everything was perfect for a time. Unfortuately, the rest of the dragons took our hunting them amiss and struck back," his eyes closed in pain as he remembered that day, "They attacked the city. Esme helped to defend the walls. We drove them back, but she was killed. Turned to ash in a breath of primordial flame. After that, I went mad. I went on a killing spree. Nothing remotely draconic was safe from my wrath."


"Rhiannon forgive me, I enjoyed it." he moaned, almost too low to hear.


"The only thing that brought me back were my friends, and my children. They helped to restore me. That is the help that I offer to you. You must learn to live with the rage, and there is no crime in that," he waved at the boy, "unless it is not your choice. Which in this case, it isn't," he hold up a stone, thick as Crispian's thumb and perfectly spherical, polished to a smooth sheen. He tossed it to Crispian, who caught it. Despite the warmth of the night, the stone pulsed with cold. "A gift from a friend of mine. You are under an enchantment. Find a cure, with your friends, or learn to live with it, again with their help. Those are your choices. Either way, Esme and Rhiannon both think you are worth saving, and I agree with them. Should you need my help again, I shall return. Just remember, there are dark forces in the world, and those of us aligned with the light need all the help we can get." He rose, and lay a thin bladed knife at the edge of the bed. "I'ld release you myself, but I fear that D'vena's curse might make things complicated," he hefted the jug of wine, "And you'll find no truths in the bottom of this." He placed it on the table along with a ring. "If you wear this, my people will know that you are looking for me. Good luck lad. You are in for a rocky road, but the destination is more than worth it." He slipped out of the room and into the night.


*******

Later that night, a number of letters arrived at the same time, each sealed with green wax, stamped with a willow. Arguyle, Moryan, Jashen and others broke the seals and read


Young Crispian needs you.


-A Friend.

 

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Grabbing the knife, Cirispian sawed at the bonds, freeing himself. Naked, he spread toward hallway, looking for a sign of the elf, but there was none. He was just gone.


Crispian sat and stared at the stone for some time. The cool weight in his hand was comforting, but disturbing. The elf's, Ayslyn's, gift was yet another oddity, a quirk of this event, this passage.


He pondered the gift, then slipped it over his head to hang against his chest. He considered the wine jug, and the sleeping lad. With a sigh, he settled back onto the cot, curling into the warmth of his chest, and slept.


Deep under the castle, the laugher awoke. The sapping power she had been feeding on was less. She hissed at the treachery of it, but still felt something from the tendrils that remained. With a twisted smile on her lips, she drifted to sleep.

 

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