There are times when things move so fast that the world feels as though it could turn full roundabout in the blink of an eye. But those are rare times. Most often, the world moves at the pace of seasons, and the land, even sickly though it may be, does not change in an instant, but over long slow time as work and toil cannot keep their pace. So the summer storms give way to the harvest, meager though it may be. There is no war to be had, and the hand upon shaft is the scythe swishing through the fields. There is not enough. Of course, there is never enough, and belts will be tight. A hard year for the old and the young. Then there is an early chill by late October, and then the snow. It comes first in flurries that do not stick but merely offer an unending sense of damp. Later, by late November, it comes properly, thick and heavy, blanketing the land and hiding its colors. Icicles dot the rafters, and the paths are perilous. There is darkness, and the brief light of the holidays as candles and wreaths fill the halls, and then into a new year met with hope, but also with dread. 

*****

[b]Constance and Tristan[/b]
But perhaps let us look back a moment. On that fateful summer day, there were harsh words, and a parting upon the field. Constance, you were in no doubt from what you'd seen that King Pellinore was dead, your champion lacking, and High King Pendragon beyond your reach. You pronounced King Pellinore departed, only her doom lingering in this world. You offered what ceremony you could for the burial, as was your right and duty. Robena had left the field and the Lady Sandsfern did not linger long after. Pellinore's knights paid you begrudging respect (they do not think well of your lady, but they do of your station) and when you were done and the eulogy complete, Mort followed you, no longer bound by his oaths to his liege. 

Tristan, ever the lady Marianne's loyal servant, remained with Constance, observing the ceremony and paying what respect he could, though he knew in his heart that Pellinore was lost long before Robena's axe met her neck. It is a sadness to the world that one such as she, her humanity long-buried, nevertheless supported several loyal knights of good bearing and earnest belief. Theirs was not the fault of their master, though neither did any save Mort depart their service and most returned to Camelot after all was done. 

So you both returned to Marianne's castle of Lostwithiel, where Tristan made himself useful and found a hunting party to drive off the badger. It went without much fight. It seems that the questing beast was no longer near, perhaps itself mourning Pellinore's loss, and so the Badger returned willingly enough to the murkier forests. Constance and Cath Palug brooded, for there was no champion to save Britain as she imagined it.

It was in this manner that the messenger found you both in the castle yard, Constance distracted and Tristan training nearby. The messenger wore greens, but not those of Lostwithiel, rather a long cloak of verdant green like the color of sunlight through thickset leaves. She did not speak, but placed a note in Constance's hands. A short letter that bade her come to the Forest Sauvage as quickly as she could, that her counsel was requested as to the Knight's Doom. 

She took you, Tristan, as bodyguard because you understood the things that you and she might face, and she took the cat that she called Cath and who would not deign to be held by anyone but Constance. She took Mort as well, for her had become her page and waiting man, knowing no other cause to which to give himself. And she took three fine horses, if begrudgingly at her Lady's insistence, and you set out for the castle. 

It is now the new year and you have just arrived at this foreboding place. But there was a young page at the entrance dressed in finery of that same verdant and he beckoned you to come rest your horses and enter the hall of this snowy castle. 
[hider=Castle]
[img]https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/51aKbeJMnNL._AC_.jpg[/img]
[/hider]

Now, you stand in a grand hall (if not so grand as either Lostwithiel or Camelot for its remoteness). Thick woven tapestries of linen line the walls, vibrant scenes of great animals: stags, foxes, boars, wolves, and bears. A noble lady sits upon the throne, pale and stern, her green dress with it slow flowing sleeves speaking of skilled seamstresses. She sits upon the high seat alone, you might have expected a partner, but all her attendants and advisors stand behind and below her, only a small handful. 

"Lady Constance Nim, I bid you welcome. And welcome to the guests you have brought as well. Please accept the meager hospitality of my home, though it is indeed too meager even to have a proper name beyond the forest in which it resides. Please, tell me of your journey and what I may do to make you comfortable before we talk of more serious matters."

Tell us then, what you gained from the passing season and what you hope to find here, and then we will turn to the business of Robena's doom.

*****

[b]Robena[/b]

You stalked from the field, your death already upon you, your oaths completed. Whither then, for the next months? Surely not back to Lostwithiel? Did you seek solitude or company? The times may be dire, but that merely attracts the more mendicant travelers, and one more pilgrim, even one with a fine horse, is not so remarkable among them. 

Wherever you were, the messenger in the verdant cloak found you after the turning of the New Year, at least two weeks after she met with Constance and Tristan. She did not speak, but handed you a note. Yours was written in a strong and flowing script and offered only this: 
[i]If you yet have your honor as a knight, you will come to face your appointed fate
There is a castle deep within the Forest Sauvage
Follow the King's road from the South, then stay by the river and turn West when the trees grow so thick that you can no longer continue North and you will come upon it.[/i]

You have not yet arrived, but as you follow your appointed path, tell us how you passed the season and how you appear within the forest.