"Only for you, Isabel," Peter mutters to himself, striding from the living structure of the Tree Tower in the Wild section of faerie, on the border between chaos and order. "It's not just any fickle female face that I'd ride into Hell for. Literally, or otherwise." He goes to where his steed's tied, lifting each of the horse's hooves quickly to check the silvery metal shoes, then goes to the saddlebags and checking the contents.
     "Rowan berries and elderflowers, wine and water - not together, thank whoever, that'd be a sin in and of itself - wild honey, nine pieces of silver sewn up in silk... a cloak of ash and sorrow, three white beeswax tapers... flint and steel. Venison steeped for nine days in extract of monkshood and wolfsbane, a bag of faerie gold on the left and mortal gold on the right, pitch, oil, and a lamp." Peter pats himself down absently, satisfied with his garb and weaponry, then begins leading the mount away from the encampment.
     Clicking his tongue softly, the rider mounts. "Right, then. It won't be the first time we've gone into blasted places, but this one'll be a bit different from our usual mission." He feels for Isabel's package in his cloak, then draws his sword, slashing a pattern in the air, riding forward through the gash he's cut in the empty space, bringing him to the very edge of the border. "Which way lies Hell from here... which way lies regret and good intention, I suppose. That way."

     Look for the yellow brick road. That's the expressway to hell. But if you want to take the scenic route, then good intensions will get you there...
     As many bright ribbons lead from Tir Na Nog to dreams to heaven, there are as many whirring vortices of grey and black matter that lead to the steppes of Hell. Your ways are old ways. The ways of the nine-headed beasts and the three-headed dogs, the ferrymen and pennies on the eyes. There are faster ways. People fly to Vegas every day, don't they?
     Well, Vegas is only a dim reflection of Hell's own playground. Its casinos no match for the pleasure palaces and monuments to greed that exist on the other side. Pick a vortex, any vortex. Everyone's a winner...
     "Are you... sure you want to do this?" comes the voice behind you. The soft, dark voice of one who knows the answer to his question before he asks it. Huw stands cross-armed, clothed in the very earth at the sleeping season of autumn. Autumn, apart from Winter, knows these ways best of all.
     "I can go with you as far as gates... the nine-headed hydra and the sons of Hercules..." After that... you're on your own. His power is not at its height. It's not his Season...

     Scenic routes are all very nice, but Peter isn't in it for pleasure. Not his own, not really - this is a working vacation, so to speak. He pauses, tugging lightly on the reins of his horse, glancing over and down to Huw. "Want? My desires don't really count into this, we both know that. Where Isabel beckoned, even strong men bent their knee to her beauty - but she was my cousin, and my friend. I will honour her memory as she requested, and complete my oaths."
     He nods his gratitude at the offer. "I will gladly accept your escort as far as you are willing to go with me," the rider declares, wry-humouredly. "The faster this is done with, the happier I will be - no sane man rides willingly into Hell's maw, no matter which face it presents to us. I am Mad, perhaps - but not mad enough to wish to linger."

     A gloved hand comes up and the One Who Travels The Ways Between The Worlds smiles, "All but one." No, he never bowed nor did he bend his knee. Autumn should have, by rights, been the consort to Winter. It just never worked out that way. But the smile is quick to fade. He nods. "But e'en so," Huw says seriously, "... loyalty is a treasure. I will come with... "
     He rides no horse, but drags the world behind him as he moves. Tall and dark, brown as the leaves of autumn, the soil. "You may have to bargain your way back. Do you have the usual gifts and trinkets? Who are you going to see?" That usually makes a difference.
     Huw gives the horse a pat on its blood-red neck. Moss growing upon his cloak of the world as he stands still...
     And Isabel was a Summer child, sure as sure. Peter smiles, but it's tinged with sadness, and almost a hint of savagery. "I only hope that those responsible for her leaving us all will find the true fruit of that loyalty, someday soon."

     "Yes, trinkets aplenty, diversions, distractions, and bribes." The rider leans forward to pat one of the saddlebags, which jingles musically, then straightens up again, with a glance to the carpet. He is no emissary of seasons, only a rider, neither Sidhe nor Pwca but a bit of both. The mare bends her neck under the pat, reaching down to pull at some grass and chew meditatively.
     Peter frowns a moment, as in thought. "I am going to see one known as Andrealphus, if the name means anything to you at all. It has something to do with your little former charge..."

     "I try to keep my distance from darkness that deep. Even I, lover of shadows as I am..." Huw narrows his eyes at the name, then shakes his head. "I don't know of that name. But it does not surprise me that my former charge would be consorting with demons of high hell." His mouth curves in a dark, wicked smile. "She has a whole host of fiends she calls friends. Worst of all, Hwyll..."
     "I heard that!" blows the wind...
     A gloved hand makes a wave. Go away, blowhard. Huw unfolds his arms and turns about, heading for the edges of the fairy reality, even to the edges of the known realms. "We will dive directly into Chaos. You better keep your seat on the mare." A pause, and Huw looks over his shoulder to you. "I wonder if we shouldn't tie you there..."

     "The two of you and your constant rivalry." Peter shakes his head mock-sadly. "I do not know if she consorted with him, but he, apparently, consorted with her... enough so that my lady declared him worthy of some token of her esteem." He grins, lifting a gauntleted hand in salute to the breeze, then shifts in his saddle.
     "Tie me to my saddle, and what then?" He sounds amused. "I am part Pwca, old Earth. When I put myself to saddle, no force can dismount me until I am willing to be dismounted, just as if I were to be ridden as I ride, no rider could dismount without I give my leave. But you know Chaos better than I. What must be done, let it be done quickly."

     Huw was not very attached to the idea. Merely a suggestion. Speaking no more of it, he turns toward the swirling darkness. Soon, there is but one streak of illumination: the naked blade of his vorpal sword. It gleams an unearthly, immortal blue-green...

     It's a wry but not yet wearied Peter that's suddenly found himself alone in the middle of the blasted heath. Well, alone save for his mount, and his wits - but the rider would be stripped bare of all cloth before choosing to be without his wits.
     "Hell?", he asks aloud. "Or just something that looks rather like it... hm. How one walks into Hell, willingly or otherwise, they say the paths are no two alike. I suppose we may as well begin with the classics, then." No Christian, good or bad, he - but he has some knowledge of mortal religions, by now. He smirks slightly to himself as he considers his options.
     "Murder, well, no - gluttony... not enough to eat here to whet the appetite of a sparrow. Sloth, Pride, Avarice, Wrath... none of these will do. Greed - a difficult thing to muster, for a huntsman." Peter pulls the mare into a walk, talking aloud as he considers. "That leaves - what? Envy,
and Lust..."

     Now... what was that saying...
     Ah, oh yes... there it is. If Mohammad may not come to the Mountain, then the Mountain will come to Mohammad. Hmmm... you do not look like one who might go by the name Mohammad. But the Mountain comes, nonetheless...
     The very air shivers. No. No, that's not it. Better to say it shudders. As if in ecstacy. The ether rippling, wave after wave of unbelievable pleasure -- pleasure granted, and the Pleasure that is Promised to the heart that burns. And does it burn for you, though mortal you never were...
     Whatever this... place was before you called its name, it changes wholly as you utter it. Rivers of honey. A basiclia of gold and beryl, mother of pearl and a million sparkling gems. Floating pillows of silk...
     And upon them, rising amid the shuddering air, a maiden for each pillow, bare as newborn babes, but nowhere near that innocence. They smile, and from their perfect, opening mouths, the slip of perfect and pierced tongues. Instantly, there is the seeking of fingers upon their own bodies. The irresistable urge to satisfy themselves. And they speak to you. Cooing. Purring. Laughing. Moaning.
     And from this shuddering air, this pink and orange sky of a thousand most beautiful sunsets, there is a voice. Airy. Sweet. Luring. "You've come a long way. Would you care for something in a virgin? Red, dark, light or roseate. There is a flavor for every taste..."
     Lust. Most definitely Lust. And he does not show himself. And yet, he reveals Himself most lewdly.

     Eyes widen, then narrow, one hand immediately sliding to his sword - the one made of metal, not the one joined to his body. "I thank you," Peter says politely, though with an almost grim wariness, "but I've come on business, not seeking pleasure for myself. While it pains me greatly to refuse such lavish hospitality, my only desire is in discharging my obligations."
     Such formal language - but he has no idea who it is he's dealing with, not really. No more than a name, and no certainty if the one who addresses him, unseen, is the bearer of that name. Pulling back on the reins and steadying the red mare under him, Peter asks aloud, "I would crave pardon, but who is it that addresses me? Messenger though I may be, I fear my powers of observation not up to the task of deciphering, though, ah, your companions are quite beautiful indeed. Quite ... beautiful." Though he might not be mortal, he is far from oblivious to such charms, eyes sliding down to bared flesh here, pierced tongues there, before lifting in search of the bodiless voice.

     "Here upon the outer fringes, there could, indeed, be worse things to see." The voice seems amused. "Obligations. Yes, such seriousness must bring you out of Chaos and straight to me. Many are not so... direct?" There is laughter, and in the shuddering, sparkling air, several of the maidens collapse to their floating cushions, sighing with momentary and fleeting completion.
     A beautiful man appears walking alongside a river of honey, flowers everywhere -- roses, poppie, honeysuckle, passion flowers -- a golden apple in his beautiful hand. His features are...out of this world. Perfection. To look upon him, no matter one's preference for pleasure, is to know Lust. To understand it. Viscerally. In the gut. No... lower. His hair is platinum, a champagne sheen of waves to his shoulders. His eyes are gold, molten. His heart-shaped face. His perfect mouth. He is dressed all in white. Oh, does he not look like an angel? Like we think angels are?
     Each maiden he passes quivers and calls his name, collapsing in that momentary and fleeting completion, moaning. Andrealphus. And though they collapse, their fingers cannot stop. Impossible. They merely begin climbing the next crest to the next orgasm.
     "You will forgive the theatrics. I was in bed," a quick, beautiful smile. "Well, when am I not, I suppose. So... tell me about this ...obligation." He stops before you, the air shuddering, quickening. It gives him a golden, honeyed aura. He is quite tall -- taller even than the sidhe who are legendary for it. "It is not everyday that I receive guests from Your Plane...."

     Peter's eyes narrow further - it isn't easy for one such as he to be astonished, but even life among the fringes and courts of Sidhe and faerie has not got this sort of display of ... excess. "It is rare I get accused of a surfeit of seriousness," the rider says lightly from his mare's back. "But I suppose it is warranted, this once."
     He places one hand on his saddle, and slides sidelong off the horse, dropping to the customary position on one knee, bending his head with a degree more awkwardness than usual. Dealing with once-mortal princes and kings, he knew what to expect. Here, though... He ignores any residual stiffening in loins or limbs alike as best he can, digging fingernails into palms. Business. Isabel.
     "I am Peter, sometimes called Mad Peter, for my paths are not those of other men's. I have ridden here at the request of the Lady Isabel, Queen of the Seven Towers, now dead this past fortnight - to fulfill obligation placed upon me at her dying wish." He cannot shuck himself of formal habits - the more unfamiliar this situation, the better to rely on the little he yet knows. "As you would appear to be Andrealphus, it is to you that I have been bidden to ride... if you are he."

     A platinum eyebrow lifts. "I am He. Andrealphus, Prince of Lust... Angel of Love," he says, of his former moniker. Well, sort of former. How he approaches Lust is, afterall, his business. "I am the quickening of the loins of God. The moan of His Will that was the first... thrust of Creation. Whenever a beast kills and copulates. Whenever a Man or Woman want of Love, Want of anything... I am with them." So much for formality.
     There's a beautifully lecherous smile as you go to your knees. It is how he prefers men, to be truthful. Well, to be perfectly honest, it's how he prefers women too. He lifts the apple to his mouth and takes a bit from it. The girls behind him, there have to be twenty at least, cry out in soft sing-song moans. A unisoned twitch. A group climax. Courtesy of the master.
     He tips his head back slightly. "Lady Isabel, Queen of the Seven Towers," Andrealphus mulls, as if trying to place her. And he probably is. Could he have known, cloaked in mortal clay as he was, that Drancy was possessed by her spirit? "May her soul pass to the land of milk and honey," Andrealphus proclaims, "...and unto the very feet of the Universe's Creator. I wish her peace in her passing." Very angelic of him. "But I made no obligation with one of that name. Nor do I bind mortals or immortals alike in any sort of ....contractual coitus. I prefer a good shag and a blowjob. It's enough for me. What did she... say about me? And this obligation..."

     The gets a dark flush out of Peter, something he didn't think, about this many years, was even possible. He rises quickly to his feet, trying not to show any signs of being ill at ease.
     I am by far more used to war, and battlefields, and armies of men, than any perfumed bowers - let alone such as these...
     Oak-blonde hair's pushed away in a quick gesture as Peter answers aloud, "My cousin did bid me find you, and informed me that you had some contact with her descendant and heir to her throne... that you did consort with the lass, enough so that my lady had decided to grant some token of her esteem unto you."
     He finishes speaking with a quick little gesture of one hand. A Pwca is made to be ridden, preferably by bare, nubile flesh of one sort or another, though it end in the rider's drowning. Perhaps there's a reason for him to suppress his heritage in the messenger's art... "I know only that, and that it comes as no surprise to those who know her," he says wryly, "that she would be consorting with you, for her friends are many - and according to one who knows her, many are fiends. But I digress. Will you allow me to make delivery, and be gone back to my own lands?"

     The rise and fall of female voices. It sounds strangely like the sea. And maybe that is what the sea truly is. Teaming with life. With creation. With volcanic fire and a million strange, copulating beasts. There is only a soft smile for discomfort. Your interest is palpable. He knows what you Want. He can grant you any of your heart's desires...
     He is, as they say: willing, ready and able...
     "Ah!" Andrealphus says suddenly and he beams, resplendent. The maidens cry out again. Still their fingers do not stop. "Yes... yes," he says, placing the woman now. "And it is I who, truly, should be granting her a wish. For her descendant...a little girl... helped me when I wandered the world, lost and shattered in my faith. Yes, of course, Peter," Andre says, making a motion with his hand -- and another cushion appears, this one for him, "... please... convey your message. And out of my gratitude, I will make certain you are escorted saftely back to Your Plane..."
     As he sits upon the large, purple-red cushion, a young woman rises from it, her hands snaking around his waist. Another wave of his hand, and a cushion appears behind you, floating just off the ground. Yes, there is a woman on that one too, young and honey-haired. "Have a seat," Andrealphus grandly states. "And deliver your charge..."

     With a cautious, half-suspicious glance at the girl, Peter settles onto the cushion, pulling the edges of his cloak around himself. "I thank you for your courtesy. I do not know what passed between you and she, though to best of my knowledge, the maid is yet alive."
     Good gods, what did Isabel's little descendant do? To restore the Prince of Lust's faith cannot be something... no, I'll not think of that, not now, at least. But I'll have something to mention to Huw, and to Hwyll, aye...
     "To Andrealphus, once known as Dei or Amadeus, greetings and salutations." He begins reciting the spoken part of the message in a smooth voice, gaze focused on the far-off place he recalls - his cousin, lounging back upon her deathbed, still inhumanly beautiful but gradually frailer, as though fading from existence entirely. "I apologize for the lack of proper titles, but it has cost me much to discover so much as a proper name and place for the delivery of this message - said task of which I entrust to one whom I trust more implicitly than I trust even myself."
     One arm lifts, hand upon his knee, as though to incidentally block off any attempted arm-sliding on the part of the pretty blonde's. Dalliance is all well and good, but ... not while one is in Hell, speaking to the Prince of Lust, and most certainly not while on duty. "You have known my many times great grand-daughter longer and perhaps better than many, and indirectly, have shaped her into becoming the woman she now is. As such, I feel there is the matter of debt between us, and I would not have my death fail to see that balance left unaddressed. As such, Peter, my faithful, has brought a small gift - tribute, if you like, or gift alone - and words in my own hand, to be given to your own hands and none other. I pray you receive them, though there can be no compulsion."
     "I remain in death as I was in life, Isabel of the Seven Towers, thief of kings, and queen of faerie realms." A little dig at those who had her slain, and for a moment, Peter's eyes flicker, though his voice remains even as it returns to normal. "Thus did she bid me, and thus do I relate."

     The blonde behind you giggles. Such music! Symphonies have not been written that equal it. And just for you, she speaks the fairy tongue. Suggesting that you fall back and let her give you a message of her own...
     There follows fire so dark and yet so sweet, a feeling as much as a sound, as Andrealphus rattles off something in a language you do not know. Demonic or Angelic. Or a combination of the two. Whatever it was, the blonde lowers back to the cushion with a whimper. Even the orgasmic moans of his all-virgin chorus soften to a hush -- just the sound of their bodies moving against silk. They all bite their tongues. And Andrealphus rises.
     Now, most would begin cowering just now. To see him so seriously rise, when the young woman behind him was just about to free him from his pants and stroke him. And yet he stands. Her arms fall away, powerless to hold him in place.
     Amadeus. God Loves. I chose that name deliberately. Not out of my love of Mozart. He holds out his hand, the half eaten apple disappearing. "I thank you for the message." His fingers uncurl, his palm is open. He is ready to receive...

     Grey eyes widen, the pupils flaring with gold flecks as faerie blood asserts itself for a moment at that sound, and for a moment, the man in him must struggle with the beast. Beads of sweat appear on Peter's forehead, and he rises so hastily that he nearly disrupts the cushions on the floating chair.
     "Of course," he agrees, voice steadied only by will, and by the feel of his sword pressing against his side. "I have it right here."
     He reaches into his cloak, drawing out the small, silk-wrapped box, wax-sealed parchment sticking out from the edges where clasp and hinges do not meet, and carefully, he attempts to place it in the Prince's hand without even gloved flesh coming into contact with Andrealphus' own. "It is yours."

     There is the curl of a smile at your observance. Aha... you learn quick. His touch would send you spasming to your knees, buckling to the honeyed ground. It is enough to stand in his aura. The girls all start cooing again, like little doves. Unable to help themselves...
     Andrealphus looks to the little package. Gently he brings it closer to his sunlight gaze. And he begins unwrapping it. Slowly, but steadily. If the box had a soul, it would feel the unwrapping like the removal of garments. Ravished...

     It wouldn't be politic, exactly, to turn and flee, and it wouldn't be honourable. Peter does, however, step back towards his horse, putting one hand on the mare's neck for comfort's sake.
     The silk falls away easily, the crimson of it a stain upon skin, almost luridly colourful. It is different from the others Isabel sent in its bright splash of pigmentation. And the box underneath is smooth, cherrywood glowing in the available light, carved with tiny delicate flowers and boughs and berries - the nine towers in their representative forms. A clasp, but no lock, and the lid's easily lifted, letter inside, and inside, a silver chain with two rings dangling from it.

     The box is lovely, the wrapping exquisite, the jewelry beautiful, but it is the letter Andrealphus opens. Or rather, the air seems to open it, as it unfolds without the aid of his hands. His gold eyes move over the words, drinking them in, every language accessible to him. He has a talent with ...tongues...as it were...
     There is giggling from the pillows as a few of them bounce in their floating. Some of the girls are...joining one another. Atop the floating silk cushions, stuffed with swan down and brilliantly colored, girlish arms begin to entwine girlish figures. Laughter and sighs. Chiming like tiny bells. Well, he said they were virgins. He didn't say they had never experienced pleasure.

     Written in a gracefully feminine calligraphed hand, the letters loop in and around themselves with artistry. The ink is a silvery-green, and seems almost wet to the touch from its appearance.
     To Andrealphus, the pleasure of whose acquaintance I have never made, nor ever shall :
     I apologize for the unseemliness of this - it must seem to you somewhat unusual to receive letters from one whom you do not know, nor, likely, ever have even so much as heard of. I do not write on my own behalf, however, but that of my many-times distant grandchild, Fiona Arundel, who I believe was going under the name of Drancy at the time you made her acquaintance.
     I write to you not as a supplicant, but to both thank you and curse you at once - for how, in matters of the heart, can one be entirely without the other? Not my own heart, but my dear Fiona's, for you were of certainty the first to touch her heart so deeply, that your hooks have yet set into her tender spirit. I believe, however, that you know this already, and I do not write in order to preach, as some Christian minister at a pulpit, though the image amuses me greatly, for which I must indirectly owe you thanks.
     In more sobriety, then : you had the opportunity to take from her much of herself - of her mind, of her body, of her heart, of her soul. For whatever reasons of your own, you refrained, and for that, I thank you. It was both cruel and kind, and I do not believe she has ever recovered, though she did spurn the one who bears the name you bore then, believing him to have changed, or if that be lacking, then herself to have changed. In any event, once it was not you, she ended all desire thus, and her choice in men, like my own, remains both impeccable and disastrous.
     I give to you, thus, no great magics, for I suspect any such charms would be meaningless to a man of your persuasions, if you are what I suspect. Rather, a gift from her, unknowing, and a gift from myself, now uncaring in death's embrace. The one ring you will find was my own, crafted by one who both loved and desired me when I was very young and pretty, cast in faerie gold and to keep it from melting away should I travel, cooled in his own life's essences. Its only power is that the bearer's emotions are clear to the one the ring is given to, if passed from flesh to flesh : I give it out of sentiment, not need.
     The other ring you will find is not mine, but was Fiona's. From a gentler, though no less stubborn age, and lost when first she swore to eschew all of the heart's delicate pleasures and pains, it seemed somehow appropriate to me that the very symbol of her maiden years be given to you thus.
     I hope that this gift pleases you, but alas, if it does not, I have no more gifts to give, nor power to alter thus from the grave. Take it, then, and remember Fiona bravely, for it is in her honour that I do honour you.
     I remain in death as in life, Isabel
     The rings are easily determined, which is which. One is clearly faerie gold, the butter-yellow glint of its artisan's crafting delicately faced, whereas the other is plain, almost gawky in contrast - a typical class ring such as are sold the world over, in a simple style - plain band save for a half-defaced year, and a red stone in the top of the white gold.

     There is a soft laugh at the notion of a curse. For how much more cursed could he be, Fallen as he is. But the letter is folded and then immolated in fire that is not of this earth, or any. The very ashes chime. The words she wrote, in her script appears across his skin. Her words are recorded now elsewhere, in a book older than your kingdom.
     The rings are too small for him. Too small for most. He will make them a gift to someone special sometime. A special reward for doing a wonderful job. Well... the fairy ring may have that fate.
     The ring belonging to the Last Human Virgin, at least the only one he knows, will be held in ... special regard. But for now, both are closed up in the box, and Andrealphus looks at you. "You have safe passage through Chaos and are free to go, Mad Peter..." A pause. "Unless you'd like that virgin now..." The blonde behind you giggles. "One for the road? No expense," meaning your soul, Andrealphus offers. And then he smiles. A smile... not of Lust...
     But of Love. In the Highest. Pure. For that moment... simply Itself.
     "You will find the nine-headed beasts will be busy, and all of Chaos will be copulating madly. Stars will be born of it, and new worlds. And you will pass unharmed..." And then the beautiful man disappears with his gifted treasure. And all the maid but one float and sail upon their pillows toward the basilica of beryl and gold and mother of pearl. All but one that is.
     Tempting... isn't it...

     Oh, very tempting, and well, noone can say that he did not fulfill his duty, can they? Peter licks his lips for a moment, the temptation flaring gold in his eyes. He is, after all, a creature of passions - and it is not unheard of, for kings and princes of all stripes to offer messengers who are gladly received the opportunity to partake of their hospitalities.
One might almost say ... it's one of the rights and perks of being a messenger in the first place ...
     "Thank you, m'lord," Peter says suddenly, decisively. "I would like to accept, but I fear I'd be shagging and running, which is hardly fair to the lady," even if she isn't quite a lady, "when I've got other messages to be delivered. If a night's a night the same here as there, though..."
     Skirting lines, that is, but he can't quite resist.

     ...The very sun is smiling, and the light of it beams around the blonde's golden head. She is beyond lovely. She is an ideal given form, curvaceous shape, full breasts, abundant hair...
     "Remember where you are, Mad Peter..." The sky says. Orange and pink, and explosion of color that hues the blonde's skin like a blush. You are in Hell. What difference does feelings make? They have nothing to do with Lust. "Now," the voice chuckles again, "...don't be crazy... enjoy her..."
     Yes, the gifts that Princes may give. The young woman crooks her finger at you, laughing sweetly symphonic again...
     Yes, Mad Peter. It is one thing to be Mad. It is another thing to be stark raving nuts...

     The faerie rubs his eyes for a moment. "Bloody hell," he mutters, not referring to the place. "I'm as mad as my name implies. But you only live once, no matter how long..."
     A decisive step forward, then, and well, even if he isn't human, he's only male. He reaches for the woman with a quirky grin that any number of maids had cause in centuries past to recognize.
     "Don't suppose you've got a fetish for pointy ears, have you? I hear some girls go quite mad for that..." That's the last audible words out of his mouth, as he sinks down onto female flesh. The messenger, it seems, is quite prepared to accept princely hospitality - Hwyll and Huw hadn't better be waiting up.

Posted by rowan at June 21, 2003 11:53 PM