[b]Constance, Tristan[/b]

Sir Harold nods, blows his nose into a small kerchief, then nods again. "Lady I, it's not my place, but you...give us all hope. Hope that there will be more tomorrow, in spite of all we've done. In spite of..." He gestures vaguely with an arm. At the castle, the snow, the kingdom, the country. A country of oathbreakers, fearful of what it could be. 

"I would that it had been different" he says after a pause. "If I were thirty years younger, I'd demand you grant me that king's blade of yours and I'd ride off to right our wrongs. As it is, it's not mine and never was meant to be. I'll be glad enough that I could offer you a clean castle and cloth enough to make your dress. Yes, that will be enough to leave me satisfied, whatever may come of all this."

He leans back and lets you, both of you, return to your work. 

Tell us of the finished dress with its scales and its moltings. And of how it reassures you, of how you reassure each other as you prepare for Robena's return.

[b]Robena[/b]
Despite your exhaustion and your stubborn horse, you hunt with endurance and bravery. Liana, for her part, pulls out a small golden harp, made to fit in the crook of her arm that she can set the reins and grasp the harp at once and pluck with her other hand, absurd as that may seem. 

Where before there were trumpets and hounds braying, she offers a gentle yet persistent song that nevertheless drives the white hart before you once it presents itself, never allowing it to rest. 

[i]Hear now of our hero, on gallant horse riding
Our foreign foes felled, she returned to her land
Now hasped in her harness, though mendicant mottled
She rides to her ruin, knowing not where she goes[/i]

Her eyes are looking to you, Robena, and though she plays the role of pure maiden in this hunt, there is nevertheless a knowing in her eyes that says much of the preparations of these knights for your coming. Yet her eyes are wide, and worried, and fear that you will spurn her, and she sings on.

[i]Our king came to Camelot, and thence took his throne
In war never wanting, he took him a wife and a child he sired
But bearing his blazon, all burnished and bright
He defied death and found it wanting

No new generation was near to his knights
He kept them from Camelot, drove them away
He feasted and fought, always fearsome with fury,
keeping the cold and calm away with ever grander building

the king his death did fear
so flung his youth away
He clung to visions dear
Of time held all at bay[/i]

She looks at you again and clears her throat. The hart skips behind a tree, the dogs are chasing in hot pursuit as forest leave rustles in sudden quiet. The hart cannot be allowed to rest. "You've perhaps heard that part or something like it from Constance, but you may not know the next" Liana says, striking another chord. 

[i]Perchance a prophecy came forth in which the king partook
When an heir to Excalibur emerged, his reign would end
Only a proper heir, pure and puissant,
chosen by the Lady of the Lake in her largesse
[/i]

She looks again to you, Robena, and sighs.

[i]Though cunningly wrought, the prophet's words,
Neither heir nor hero neared on the nonce
False friends followed a mad king fuming in her furor,
till death in dishonor did her doom declare

What hero cannot hear
the calling of the land?
A father that I fear
who holds his grave in hand[/i]

And in the chill of her song, the hart comes at least to bay, cornered by a small pool where it had hoped to drink and catch its breath but it is instead beset by you. Roll to take bold, decisive action and end this hunt.