[i]I could hear the baying of the hounds, echoing clear across the moor – and I was running, footfalls pounding out a steady cadence against the coarse ground below.  There were flames – flames in the distance – and somewhere between the scent of ash and fumes lurked the cloying stench of death.  Decay.  Figures appeared now upon the further hill; eyes glowing orbs in the darkness, fingers taloned claws: branching horns upon their hideous heads, and they bore down upon me even as I drew my weapons, gave a final cry and hurled myself into the fray...  A great light from above.  The rattle of thunder.[/i]

(And I surged from my bed with a wordless cry, axe already between my fingers – arm cocked as if to throw – and there in the doorway the little serving boy.  He makes as if to speak, then his eyes go wide – from the snarling expression still wrought across my face, to the axe held aloft in my hand.  I cough, slowly the lower weapon as I drag knuckles across my sleepy eyes.)

“Apologies, boy.  What is it?”  The boy does not respond at once.  Eyes still wide, features seem caught between the decision of whether to flee or to stay – but eventually he takes a breath, steps a little further into the room and summons up the courage to speak:

“Sorry to trouble you, m'lord – but there's a man down there.  Says he's to see you, m'lord.”  (He goes quiet again, large brown eyes remaning locked upon the weapon still in my hand – though it is resting upon the coverlets, now.  No longer the same threat.  I follow his gaze.  Quirk my lips into something like a smile and release the weapon, swivel about and plant my feet upon the creaking wooden floor before pushing from the bed.

“Not to worry, lad – I mean you no harm.  Just... some men you'd be better careful trying to wake.”  The boy nods vigourosly a few times, eyes still wide as he begins to step back from the door – gaze now fixed upon Arian's half-dressed form, running now over the ugly pattern of scars and welts that lace their way across his back and abdomen – the Knight, for his part, merely bends over to scoop up a loose fitting smock from where it had been left – crumpled – from the night before.  Pulls the linen tunic over his head, wraps a belt about his waist and then shoves the axe through a loop.  Gives a nod.

“Lead on.  Let's meet this fellow, shall we?”  The boy gives a wordless grunt, scampers off toward the crooked wooden steps leading to the inn below – the only light to be seen is that of his little lantern, amber glow pouring from between the slits in the tin visor.  It is only halfway down the stairs, however, that the boy drags together a few words to speak again:

“But... but... I hadn't reckoned you for a Knight, m'Lord – my father was most awfully displeased with himself too, to discover it.. I've...”  Another stutering pause.  The light falters as he rounds the corner, steps down the landing and continues on:

“Been wanting to ask, though – you've kilt men, then?  Kilt them -dead- like, Sir?”  Arian does not respond – just gives a noncommital grunt – and not until they reach the entrance to the common room below does he turn to the boy and speak.

“Two things, boy, to keep in mind – and if they are the only two things you ever remember, it may well be enough.  Firstly: “ here he raises his forefinger, eyes narrowing a bit as he continues: “One must never – under any circumstances – ask a lady how many winters she has seen... and secondly:” here he raises his second finger, eye brows raising a little as he gives the youngster a baleful stare: “Secondly, one must never ask a man about those he has slain; only a braggart will tell you... and only a fool would ever ask.”  With that, he sweeps wordlessy by and steps into the dim light of the room beyond.

The inn is a quaint little place – and though small, a cheery fire still rages in the hearth even at such an ungody hour.  Few patrons remain; a trio of drunkards sitting in the corner, one of their number already snoring away, head lying upon a puddle of beer in the middle of the table.  The other two drinking quietly, seemingly having reached that stage where enough is enough, and yet one merely waits upon the other to admit that it is finally time to retire for the night.  A pair of men playing at dice.  The inkeeper, wearily mopping up the mess of a bartop.  

And then the stranger – dressed in the royal tabard, face drawn and wearied.  Boots spattered in mud.  He turns at once to Arian as the man emerges, eyes him up and down with a dubious frown before stating:

“Sir Arian...   Hydd, yes?”  The knight merely nods, then plucks at the silver medallion about his neck – pulls it out briefly for the man to see.

“You have found him.  What of it?”

“Word from Camelot.  You are needed.”  And without further comment, he extends a length of scroll – then turns toward the inkeeper and demands:

“A room for the night, fellow?”  Frowning, the man shakes his head.

“Nah.  Sorry, m'lord – we're full up this eve'.  Unless you're keen to sleep in the stables...”

But Arian – after no more than a few moments of scanning over the scroll – simply shakes his head and remarks:

“No, not at all goodman.  He can have my room.  I shall not be needing it any longer.”  And with that, he turns and sprints back up the rickety old steps – taking them three at a time – calls out to the drowsing boy as he rushes past: “Ready my steed, boy – and be snappish about it!”

(It takes no more than a few moments for me to ready myself.  What few possessions I have already packed in my saddlebags, and all that remains is to pull on my traveling clothes, strap on my sword belt and sling the roundshield across my shoulder.  My maille and helm I leave packed away – they won't be needed, I think, on the road from here to Camelot.)

[i]And so, with the sun low at his back and shadows long before him, Sir Arian finally rides beneath the great gates of the fortess city.  Camelot.  City of kings and heros.  It would be intriguing to see, no doubt, just what need the Lord Regent had of them.  And who else would be there to answer the call.[/i]