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[b]"Life Is But A Dream" [ Part I ] [ [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w_l7DYM173g]Mordred’s Lullaby[/url] ][/b][/center]
[color=skyblue][b]|[/b][/color] [b]THE HOUSE OF SECRETS[/b]
[color=skyblue][b]|[/b][/color] [sub][b]The Dream Dimension | [i]The Year of Our Lord 537[/i][/b][/sub]

It was late into the witching hour when there rose such a commotion as to rouse the dead.

Stirred to wake at this most uncivilized time of the night, the Caretaker harried from out of the bed chamber in a fright. A candle was held aloft, the flame flickering atop the fragile wick as the bedclothes-clad man padded in bare feet through the fortified manor house. The eldritch glow of the candle’s pale light was cast along the walls as the man hurried across the upper floor to the narrow stairwell.

As he arrived at the landing, the man held the candle above his head so that it’s light cast a pallor of illumination across the threshold. The door to the great hall hung off its hinges, as though thrown open by some inhuman force. 

An ill wind seemed to pass through the room, sending gooseflesh crawling through his skin. 

Turning, the shadows on the wall betrayed a small form lying atop the table in the banquet hall. As the Caretaker moved closer, the candle light shone on the prone form of a mere boy. A Briton by the look of him, clad in the colors of a patron. He was page, then. Or possibly just starting to squire.

Blood strained the white parts of his tabard, turning dark the red portions. All too soon, it became apparent that the child suffered from a grievous wound. The Caretaker’s hand stretched out toward the boy, as though to feel his flesh, but hesitated just a moment before.

The child was dead. 

[sub]“[color=plum]Where did I go wrong?[/color]”[/sub]

Raising his head up, the Caretaker panned the candle around to sweep it’s light further down the length of the table. That was when he saw her. A woman with raven black hair. Gown torn, tattered, soiled, and bloodstained as though she had been through some horrific ordeal. She was brooding, pulling and twisting at her hair anxiously with one hand.

It was then that the Caretaker realized the resemblance between the woman and the boy. “Woman,” he uttered, addressing the wraith-like spectre in the chair. “Why are you come here?”

The hand stopped, still holding to the lock of hair, even as her eyes -- baleful, [i]wrathful[/i] eyes, aglow with [b]hellfire[/b] -- turned up toward the Caretaker. The man was taken aback a step by the sheer force of the lady’s gaze.

Then she spoke, her tongue sharper than a thousand daggers, each word tipped with sweet poison as she commanded, “[color=plum]I would speak with your master, [i]servant[/i].[/color]”

“[color=silver]Think twice, then Morgana.[/color]” 

An odor like brimstone accompanied the sudden proclamation, as the Caretaker’s candle moved to shine a light on what appeared as a column of smoke, amid which an English Gentleman was seated in a smoking jacket and pipe in hand. Holding the smoking pipe out, the smoky figure seemed to indicate the prone form of the dead child as he said, “[color=silver]See you not the fruits of your labors?[/color]”

Pulling her fingers through her hair, the lady paused a moment to collect herself. When she had, the green-eyed [b]monster[/b] stared down a being that many would have described as the Devil himself. “[color=plum]My labors have brought you the greatest story ever told,[/color]” the woman stated flatly.

For his part, the smoking spectre of Morpheus seemed to incline his head in some quiet acquiesce of the lady’s claim. “[color=silver]And what do you ask in return for this story?[/color]” the Lord of Dreams demanded in reply.

It was then that the lady cast down her eyes. Perhaps a trick of the candle light, or else it was a singular moment in which the woman appeared [i]human[/i]. For a long, icy silence she merely stared over the body of the child that was laid atop the table as though awaiting the gravedigger. “[color=plum]My son’s wound is beyond my power to mend,[/color]” the lady remarked, glancing back up at the smoke-clad figure of the gentleman. More pointedly, she added, “[color=plum]But not yours.[/color]”

Morpheus brought the pipe to his lips, inhaling a long draw of smoke, which he savored for a moment before he spoke. “[color=silver]If this story of yours is as enamoring as you believe it to be,[/color]” the Lord of Dreams conceded, before he paused to make clear his point, “[color=silver]But only [i]if[/i], and the story will not favor him.[/color]”

The woman betrayed no singular emotion, yet her presence was that of a dragon’s that was embroiled in Perdition’s flames. “[color=plum]You would make Merlin the hero of my tale?[/color]” the lady tossed back haughtily. 

Morpheus smiled. A twisted, beguiling gesture devoid of mirth. “[color=silver]Nay,[/color]” the Lord of Dreams spoke, saying only. “[color=silver]Arthur.[/color]”

The lady’s fingernails were drawn like talons across the table. Curls of wood carved up as she raked the surface in the only outward sign of petulant indignation. In the stillness, she seemed to be weighing her options. Or whether she had any. It was with regard to the latter that she seemed deflated of ego and asked only, “[color=plum]Have we a bargain?[/color]”

The Cheshire smile that the Lord of Dreams boasted only became an even more enigmatic gesture. “[color=silver]Always a pleasure doing business with a lady,[/color]” Morpheus declared, as the form of the English gentleman seemed to collapse into the column of smoke. As he disappeared, the smoke traveled forward to envelop the form of the boy, which seemed to disappear as the cloud passed over it. Until the smoke had cleared and both were gone.