[b]Robena and Tristan[/b]

Not to be outdone, Lady Sandsfern slams down her own beer. The others in the bar are watching your gathering with awe. Most probably expected one or both of you to crawl off to a room to lie down, or at least to sprawl out on a couch by the fireplace after a fight like that. That you're just sitting at the bar, having drinks, your passion no less dimmed by the exertion seems to have truly awed the patrons. Meanwhile, the barkeep busily fills more mugs and begins her washing, seeing that she's going to sell quite a lot of her stock tonight.

Sandsfern herself is quiet. Her face and the brightness in her eyes says that she has much to say, but if you glance to her, for the moment she offers only a nod and a look to Tristan as to Robena's outstanding offer.

Tristan, what do you say?

[b]Constance[/b]

Merlin stands and gathers his hat. It's not graceful, and Cath Palug glares at him the entire time, but he nevertheless comes to you and, placing his hand over your own, opens the box. Inside it is a vial of water, purest blue. Beautiful and so pure that you wonder now whether all the water you've had for the past year, at least, hasn't been tainted. 

Then, right here in the road, with Cath Palug pointedly ignoring him while she cleans her side, he tells you a story:

[hider=Merlin's tale]
Maybe you know a little of what it is to be Merlin. To be never quite human. To have everyone always looking [i]to[/i] you, placing their hopes and their fears on you. To be Merlin is to have been alive a very long time and seen the world change and change and change again. To have seen the standards of Rome advance and recede and the tides cleave off land you once knew and carry it away into the sea.

Merlin knew your grandmother, Constance, and saw the sword you hold handed off among your family. A hero's sword, wielded and then returned. There were heroes to fight the Romans, heroes to fight the Saxons, heroes for raiders and heroes in a long-forgotten age when swords were a new idea that could be worked and sharpened in the cold. 

When Uther Pendragon was a child, Merlin had a vision that he would aid the old man. You've heard this myth before. Two great dragons locked in combat, one red and one white. The white dragon, representing the Saxons, appears victorious in several attacks, repelling it and hurling it to the ground, biting it viciously. Until the red dragon, representing the Britains, rises up and drives the white dragon from the grounds of their battle. 

Only, that's not the story Merlin is telling you. It's the one all the bards say, but the story he's telling is a story in which the white dragon, sensing weakness, pressed its advantage and struck down the red dragon before it could fight back. Or would have, had not Merlin intervened. Foolishly, he stepped between them and was bitten, the white dragon's teeth sinking deep into his ribs and only then the red dragon did as it was meant to and rose up and pushed away the white dragon and drove it from the cave in which they fought. 

See now, the penalty for hurling oneself upon fate's hand. For Merlin is wounded and scarred on his chest, and his intervention now keeps Uther Pendragon alive. Uther Pendragon, who with Merlin's counsel united the kingdoms of Britain as high king. Uther Pendragon, whose child is to be the greatest king yet has gone missing. Uther Pendragon, who despite all Merlin's efforts has felt the touch of the grave and banished his servant for his failure. Uther Pendragon, who killed so many whose ghosts have yet to be laid to rest and upon whose touch the land withers. 

This is the oldest lesson of Britain, one you already knew. As the King, so the land. 

But you did not know that Merlin was holding up the king, or had been. That his sudden rapid deterioration was his own mad doing in banishing his magician to find him a cure. That his magician knows full well that there is no cure to age and that his foolish play to intervene on the side of the Britains has thrown the story into chaos. That perhaps there is no destined wielder for the sword you hold. 

Merlin has wandered the land with Cath Palug, who is apparently quite irate at Merlin for ruining her planned fight with the future king Arthur. He's been looking for Arthur, then when that failed, looking for you Constance, and that sword you hold with its promise of heroes.

And now you, Constance, have seen your realms burning and Merlin has no answer for your vision but a sad nod and a deep stare. He didn't find you to pass along his wisdom. He found you to force you to act. He found you because you need to decide what to do with that sword you're holding. What to do in a realm where there may not be a hero and Merlin isn't willing or able to be the one that everyone looks to for what to do. 

You have to decide what to do with a vial of pure water from your grandmother's lake, that sprinkled on the handle of your blade Excalibur could allow it to be drawn once more. 
[/hider]