[center][color=silver][i]“The minstrel boy to the war is gone
In the ranks of death ye will find him
His father’s sword he hath girded on
And his wild harp slung behind him”[/i]
[sub]- Thomas Moore[/sub][/color]
[img]http://baku-panda.org/images/UOU_Mordred_banner1.png[/img]
[b]"Life Is But A Dream" [ Part II ] [ [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jCM37xVfCXk]The Minstrel Boy[/url] ][/b][/center]
[color=skyblue][b]|[/b][/color] [b]GHOST CASTLE[/b]
[color=skyblue][b]|[/b][/color] [sub][b]The Dream Dimension | [i]Present Day[/i][/b][/sub]

The rooster's call came early.

The old man struggled to move from the bed, his joints stiff and body aching as he stirred about the small, monastic room that was shuttered away in the oft forgotten and rarely beheld part of the castle that contained the servant's quarters. In gown and robe, the bearded figure emerged to shuffle through the stone-hewn halls in the dawn's breaking light.

An imp suddenly leapt from out of the shadows, pouncing from the rafters above as though to give an old man a heart attack. A gruff [i]harumph[/i] accompanied the patriarchal scowl. The hellspawn was awake and bounding through the inside of the castle with enough noise as though he were a stampede of elephants. A second [i]harumph[/i] accompanied the motion of straightening his robe, as the man continued on toward the kitchen.

He found the side door open there. No doubt left by the same spring-heeled devil who had bounded from the walls. Grumbling to himself, the old man set out two loaves of brown bread atop the simple farm table that occupied one side of the kitchen for the servant's use. A tankard of beer was drawn, as the man settled his old bones atop the wooden bench. Letting go a heavy sigh, the man drew a long draw on the tankard, easing into the morning.

The imp returned. The harried form of a young Briton, breathless and bedraggled, his raven black hair plastered against his scalp. A knee-length shirt shifted about his wiry frame as he came through the door in his bedclothes, arms full of oranges plucked from the trees. As the man watched, sipping on his beer, the boy drew a knife and labored at juicing the ripe fruit.

Decanting the orange juice into a wooden cup, the child stumbled over to collapse atop the bench beside the old man. "[color=skyblue][i]Bore da[/i],[/color]" the happy hellion managed, in a breathless bit of greeting in a form of Gaelic that those today might yet recognize in Wales.

"[i]Hmph[/i]" the old man guffawed, even as he lowered his tankard and broke bread. "Good morning, indeed," the old man uttered gruffly, before opening his mouth and tearing off a chunk of the dark bread. The two ate in silence after that, pulling apart their meal with their hands as chamberlain and page ate in the shadow of the castle lord's larder.

"Take the horses down to the river," the old man uttered finally, as he finished the bread and started the task of picking the crumbs from out of the matted beard. Leaning down closer to the boy, the man inhaled sharply and tacked on the seemingly obligatory, "And throw yourself in while you're there."

The boy's dark head turned up to give the man a look that was confused at first, then quickly sparked realization and shot a look at the chamberlain. Between chomping down his bread and slurping on the sweet fruit juice, the black-haired imp was shortly finished with his breakfast as well. 

And then it was time to move again.

The chamberlain's voice spun the child around right as he'd reached the threshold. "Don't forget your chores here," the old man proclaimed.

The boy had tried to pivot, except that he still had too much momentum pulling him toward the door. Inartfully, the boy's bedgown twirled as he spun back on one foot -- only for the other to slide out from under him. Crashing to the floor, the child popped back up as though no worse for wear.

Which was when the magic happened.

Bringing his arms up, glowing mandala-like forms seemed to circle and weave around his hands. An [i]auld[/i], [b]eldritch[/b] energy seemed to flicker in the air, as the child stretched forth one arm and waved his hand toward a collection of mops, brooms, and buckets in one corner.

"[color=skyblue][i]Etamina![/i][/color]"

It was a word, nothing more. Yet, the inanimate seemed suddenly imbued with life as the child spoke. Brooms sweeping on their own. 

His father's legacy was that of a king.

...but his mother's blood made him capable of so much more.