(Soft scent of flowers upon the quiet air, and I knew I had arrived well before the city spires appeared upon the further rise: I found myself murmuring quietly beneath my breath, even as I urged my steed on down the winding trail to the city below:

“Rings of flowers in her hair;
Never seen, a maid so fair:
Measure once, her graceful step;
Swaying life – such...”

And then I felt the words leave me – thoughts, for a moment, lost in another time:

[I]...Roses, covering her face – and she laughed.  Sprang away from behind the bush, turned to me and looked – eyes flickering from beneath dark tresses of unruly hair.

“So slow!  Not a stag, but a hog.  Hog lord, we shall call you!”  And then she was off again, darting through the garden greenery, words trailing away in a stream behind her: “Catch me if you might, oafish pig!” And I ran, of course.  But the briars snagged at my cloak.  And the branches whipped in my face.  And by the time I had come to the little pond at the garden's centre she was already gone, whipsering away down the hill like a quiet wind.  I panted.  It was hot.  Leant over the water – stagger back as I see the dead whites of those lifeless eyes staring back.  Roses, indeed, covering her face: red seeping in streams from some unseen wound.  But when I reach to the water she is gone – and I blink, stand with a start as a voice bursts out near at hand. [/i]

“I said, Sirrah, what business have you in Camelot?”  And the face was not exactly kind – grim, dour frown with heavy hand now resting upon the hilt of his weapon.  The others, too, shifted uneasily nearby.  Hands inched toward bows.  Fingers tapped upon spearshafts.   Arian blinks several times, then coughs – straightens in the saddle and extends both hands palm outward, annoucning even as he scrabbles for the medallion about his chest:

“Sir Arian Hydd, goodman – Knight of the realm.  Called forth on urgent errand to Camelot.  Regent's bidding.”  The guard squints, brown eyes narrowing as he eyes the silver stag held aloft in Arian's hand.  He puckers up his lips, spits in the dirt nearbye before grunting in acknowledgement:

“My apologies... Sir.. please, the city is yours.”  Still, the gaze that follows Arian on his way beneath the city gates is more than a little suspicious; not, perhaps, that the guard could be blamed: a few days hard ride had done his appearance little good, and were it not for the impressive horse between his legs, or the ornately ornamented sword at his side he might have appeared no more than any common thug.  (I did not blame the man, at any rate – and couldn't help but wonder how long I'd been sitting there, lost in thought, before I came to – figured it was best not to know, and instead chose not to look over my shoulder as I tucked the medallion away, wound my way along the ancient city streets toward the gates of the fortress looming above.  

It was much as I had rememberd it, from years since past – and indeed, in all likelihood it were me – not the city – that had changed in the time between.  Quite a crowd had already begun to gather by the time I arrived, though – as I scanned the faces around me – none I recognised.  Not yet, at any rate.  Save Sir Delwin – though it had been many years since last we crossed paths.)

Swinging from the saddle, Arian lands amidst the swirling drape of his mud-streaked cloak with a soft crunch of the cobbles at his feet.  He hands the reins to a boy nearby – tosses him a copper coin with a deft flick of his fingers – then strides toward Delwin.  He offers the man something like a smile, inclining his head by way of greeting before offering his hand in a firm clasp, announcing as he does so:

“It does me well to see you again, Brother – my apologies I could not come... hmm... better appointed.”  And with these words he steps back, gives a faintly self-conscious glance toward his disheveled traveling clothes, then proceeds to fall into line with the rest of those waiting before the great gates.