No such luck. There was no sign of him in Somerset. No finding him in Dartmoor, Devon or Exetor. There is but one land left in all this valley, the verdant, rich kingdoms of the south: Cornwall...
     Rolling hills of yellow blossoms and sweet grass begin to give themselves to tall reeds, tall golden grasses, fields of barley. The smell of the salt sea thickens the air, weighing it. Oh, would he have been so foolish as to have gone all the way to Castle Dore?
     This has to half-cross your mind, sir knight, as you and your mount pause upon one of the hills, looking downward to the fields of gold and green, brilliant in the retreating sunlight. Two more hours and then the world will be dark. Good luck finding Drustan then...
     A rush of birds lift from a section of high reeds. Dipping gulls begin to gather. The birds give him away. You know they are the messengers of druids. You should know a sign when you see one, pagan prince.
     And when the reeds blow this way and that way, you can just make out the figure of a white horse in the distance, going slightly pink and orange with the oncoming sunset...

     A hand thrown across his forehead, Drustan doesn't move. His eyes are open, and he watches the rise and fall of the birds. Everything makes him think of Her. The lifting and lowering of snow white gulls remind him of the lifting and lowering of her snow white breasts as she would breathe beside him, when he would watch her sleeping after they made love. Christ, her image is everywhere -- even in the fucking birds.
     Drustan closes his eyes and turns his head away from the sight, a raven brow cocking up to watch his horse eating away at the reeds that serve as his bower. The only castle of an exiled prince.

     Go and fetch Drustan, he said. It will be an adventure, he said. "I should stop listening to Gawaine. No good ever seems to come of his advice." It is, of course, nowhere near the last time he will say those words. It is with a sigh that the proud pagan warrior notices the old ones sign to him. He urges his horse forward, wet and tired and ready to end this task. You see the hunt seemed liesurely at first a good chance to run his favorite horse. Traveling through Somerset and Dartmoor and Devon did not seem such a task. The closer he got to Cornwall however, the more distressed Ywaine became. In Somerset the worst he could do is perhaps, kill someone. In Cornwall, he could very well start a war.
     Guiding his favored courser onwards, Ywaine slowly crests one of the rolling cornish hills, still completely soaked from the rains earlier this afternoon. "In spring it never rains 'til after sundown indeed!" he says with a rather soggy harumph and that is when he sees what the rush of birds where showing him. Hopefully he hasn't slept off all of spirits he consumed before sleep. If he's sober there really is no way that Ywaine is going to get him to go back lest he wants to. Hooves echo as against soft earth as he rides towards the rousing prince. "Good sir!" he calls.. "You should not sleep so unguarded on the road."

     He does not bother to rise. In fact, the only movement of recognition one may see from Drustan is that his horse's head lifts with a mouthful of Cornish sweet grass. Any more of that and the beast may colic. Doesn't keep him from eating it though. Comet, for that is his name, is much like his master, all beauty and no sense apart from battle sense...
     Well, I hear the horse, now where's the parade? Drustan smirks, cocking up his eyebrows as he keeps his current position -- flat on his back in the middle of the Cornish countryside. He travels light at quick, taking a weapon, several wineskins, and a blanket or two plus a cloak. He finds his food along the way, as best he can -- though it's worth noting that Camelot's kitchen is missing several bits of fruit brought over from Gaul.
     "What took you so long, Ywaine," this is becoming comical. Me, getting drunk and losing my patience. You, listening to Gawaine's advice and coming to get me. People are going to start talking you know. His voice is dry, a drawl of Cornish upon Brythonic. It's a strange accent, neither Irish nor Welsh, though the Welsh and Cornish share a language. They're cousins, you know.
     "And I'm perfectly safe. Shh... you're going to alert the countryside. See," Drustan finally moves his arm away and turns his head to look at you, "... the point of this exercise is to sneak in and, ultimately, not get caught."
     Oh, bad news, Ywaine. Drustan's sober. And sharp as a tack. "Now, go on home to Camelot," he says, lying back down and covering his eyes with his arm again, "...I need a bit more sleep if I'm going to be climbing the walls of my castle later."

     Once he realised you were in Cornwall he sent his squire back, and along with him his armor, his various nightly implments and other such supplies. Ywaine rode with what some water, a bit of bread and with his favored great sword's lashed to his saddle, just in case. Coming alongside Drustan, the young knight dismounts. His face scar distorting a bit as his lips curl downwards in a frown. This is not going to be pretty.
     As he hits the ground Ywaine lowers down into a crouch so he can speak more discreetly with with the prone knight. "I was told to come and collect you, and I mean to. Whether you come back with me now or I have to take back your broken carcass after you get your fool self killed scaling the walls of Castle Dore." Ywaine makes a note to himself, never fall in love. It just can't be worth this.

     Drustan himself would agree. It's not worth much at all, except when you're in it -- and then it's worth everything. It's the only thing. Otherwise? A useless distraction. He hates it in other people. He despises it in himself, and yet powerless against it, ultimately. God is cruel. And that you're a pagan just opens yourself up to more entities laughing at you as you struggle through this thankless existence.
     "Well, I hope you brought a lot of rope," Drustan thinks to say. Now, whether he means that you should help him, or hang him, he likely means both. Drustan's quiet for a while, blue eyes turned toward the blowing reeds, his feasting horse. "I have to see her, Ywaine. I can't live like this anymore. It's been almost two years. She has to be every bit as miserable as I am," he says. She has to be. She better be. "Now, if I don't try to see her, man..." he starts to rant. Gods and goddesses help you, "... it'd be cruel. To both of us. And if I die in the attempt," he waves that off, "so be it. It's preferable to living as I've lived..."
     Castle Dore isn't far now. You can smell the ocean and it's not that far inland. Just outside of Fowey. It's only a few miles away. An easy ride at this point. "I brought one of Arthur's pigeons," Drustan whispers. "I tied a message to its foot and sent it to her. She'll be here." He's sure of it.

     Ywaine things that perhaps he should just hand Drustan the rope, and then let him hang himself. But even though he tries to pretend he's perturbed, he's going to help. Drustan surely knows this, whether he cares or not. "Well let us hope she found the pigeon before your father did." Ywaine doesn't even want to think about that. He is not terribly close to his father, but Uriens is well know of his ability to be a complete bastard when the need arises, and he knows a kings jealous heart. In a way he's glad it will be Accolon that inherits his father's title, not him.
     The reigns on the horse are released and Ywaine gives it a pat upon the snout, "Go and eat Donnar... we will be here awhile I am afraid." He named his horse after a Saxon god? Gawaine must have talked him into that as well. "So what will you do if she doesn't come? Storm the castle and die both valiantly and pointlessly? I can hear the bards singing even now about the unrequited love of the deadest man in all of Britain." Ywaine shakes his head and looks to the horizon over which is Castle Dore. He has a bad feeling about this.

     There is no ruling which says a lady may not ride out on her own, so far as she does not ride too far, and if accompanied by one of her ladies, why, so much the better, is it not? Yseult is ever quiet in her grace, and the mare she's chosen is one that is far from the swiftest in King Mark's stables, though far from lame. Still - it is not a mare who will be travelling long and weary hours, either.
     She begins as a small figure matched by another small figure, on horses' backs, on the horizon, sunlight glinting off the red-gold of her hair. Half of the way there, the horses pull to the side, and one small figure turns to another. "I've a mind to ride alone, to think and to pray," Yseult says to her companion quietly. "Go you then, and pick flowers in the meadow there, to bring to table, that my lord's eyes may be pleased with our productivity as with our piety."
     There's no real arguing with that - the lady-in-waiting or maidservant nods, pulling her horse round to canter in the direction indicated, and soon is a reduced figure. Meanwhile, the red-gold of approaching summer colour grows slowly and steadily closer, pale gold brocade now catching the light as well as the roan mare carries its burden forth.

     Drustan looks as if that had never occurred to him, bards singing songs of praise to the deadest man in Britain. Dark eyebrows lift in a sweep. Really? Songs about little old me? Drustan comes up on his elbows, a wry expression darkening that handsome face, "I will make a wager with you, because I like you, Ywaine. If my lady doesn't show by middle night, I'll come home with you. You won't have to pull me off the castle and you won't have to watch me hang. If she doesn't come, I'll know she either made her choice," she wouldn't, she couldn't prefer HIM. "Or that my father has her locked up tighter than a nun's ..." he waits to see if you go red as a berry...
     "How about it," Drustan says quietly, looking up to the ever darkening sky. One hour until sunset. "But I know she will come," he says. Unable to conceive of any other option.
     Lying down as he is, Drustan doesn't see the approaching figures. But his horse lifts his head. The grass in its mouth shaking as it chews rather deliberately and pricks his ears toward the sound of voices. "Now you have Comet nervous..."

     Point of fact he actually doesn't color, instead he just finishes the senteance for Drustan, "...pussy." of course he probably just said that in earshot the lady that approaches. Another sigh. He's going to get walloped for that later he imagines. Against the brilliant colors of the setting son, his dark eyes seem black as jet. He watches as the Yseult rides over the the hill into their small valley. Now Ywaine blushes. Now he sees what has Drustan so love struck.
     Most importantly, however, Ywaine really is rather hating right now that Drustan was right. "An interesting wager, but I never take a bet I know I'm going to lose." You might want to get up and take a look. And that said he turns to find his horse, not wanting to stare at the Lady and well to be ready... what if she were followed.

     You're not taking a bet? Do you have the plague? That actually causes Drustan's brows to knit together and the levity to drop into something more keen. And then he hops up. Are we being waylaid? Has hell frozen over?
      And then he sees the hair...
     Red gold as summer. No more red and more gold and just ...More. And Drustan blanches. She really did come. As much as his heart wanted to believe it, his head was naysaying it the whole time, in that self-contradictory and self-directed harshness that usually drives him to drink. And he suddenly seems pulled by something greater than himself. A force. That's what this love is. A force of nature. No king of no country can put an end to it. There's no hope.
     "Well..." Drustan thinks to say, and then he falls speechless. His heart drops to his gut (and points lower. It has been two years) and he strides toward her. Uncaring of whether she's been followed. He'd fight all of Britain bare-handed to get to her. And he'd probably win.

     At first, the lady's brow furrows, at the word that's just floated up to her hearing. Incomprehension, then - surely she heard wrong? Yes, yes, that must be it. With cheeks turning slightly darker, Yseult pulls her horse to the edge of the path, swinging down from her saddle carefully and giving the mare's neck a gentle pat. "Guileag, fuirich." Guileag, stay.
     She leaves the reins trailing, apparently unconcerned that the mare might stray off. Either a remarkably docile beast, or very well-trained. The downcast eyes lift, and look around, and Yseult clasps her hands together in front of her in a light movement as she steps from the path and onto the grass, unconcerned with her skirts, footfalls careful and lighter than is her wont. Ywaine? Ywaine who? She has eyes only for Drustan.
     "You should not have come."
     No matter what her eyes may say, those are the first words from her mouth, carefully chosen and softly spoken. "If they find you, they will kill you." And your death added to all my sins. The lady comes to a halt, the storm roiling behind her eyes for a moment longer - blink. She looks away, downwards and to the side, hands still clasped. I should not have come, either...

     "I love you," Drustan says, voice tugging at his throat. It's a helpless sound. It's a helpless thing. "The truer statement is that... I should not leave, Yseult." It isn't a question of Them. It's a question of Him. And I can beat Him. Like Yseult, he forgets all about Ywaine -- no offense, Ywaine, but look at it this way, you've achieved invisibility. No need to leave on their account; they don't even see you. Drustan reaches, fingers light upon her face, to lift it to him. Look at me...
     Love me...
      The air becomes heavy and charged. Pagan prince, will you be surprised when you see lightning? There is little to say and so much to say. The air sings with it. "Is it possible," Drustan says, and he half-laughs as he says it, "... that you've become more beautiful. Christ, Yseult," lord's name, in vain, "...you put summer to shame." And he goes to kiss her.
     There is no time to waste...
     Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, so a poet shall one day say...

     "That's what I've been trying to tell him milady..." Ywaine notes as he takes a shock of Donnar's mane with his gloved hand and gently the reigns with his other. "I'm afraid you choose a very stubborn man to fall in love with. Maybe he'll listen to you..." he slowly turns and looks back to the pair. His brows furrow as he immediatly realizes that as far as they know he is not here, was not here and never will be here. His urge to smile as the lover share a quick moment that will seem an enternity and then end in but the blinking of an eye.
     Recovered from the intial shock of the beauty that not even Drustan's empassioned words could completely do justice, Ywaine looks from one lover to the other and then finally to Comet, Drustan white mount. "I could piss on their feet and they'd not notice." Apparantly when wet and tired, Ywaine looses his tact.

     Yseult trembles slightly, and for a moment, temptation is yielded to. She leans into the kiss, turning her face up towards the prince in exile, eyes closed to any sight and only to feeling, to emotion, to Kiss. It lasts an eternity, her little hands up around his neck as best she can, and an eternity is not nearly long enough.
     With a soft cry, she pulls herself away, stepping back and turning her face away, licking her lips. "We cannot... no matter how much we want it, Drustan. It is not enough, and it never will be enough. The world will remain the same, no matter where our hearts may choose to light." Yseult wants to believe in love, but that dark knowledge remains in her face. "Will you have me be your death, meinn?"
     Belatedly, the presence of Ywain enters into the Irishwoman's knowledge, and her stormy gaze flickers to him as her cheeks go red. She looks back to Drustan, then down to the ground, forcing her hands to be open and relaxed at her sides. Ladylike. Demure. As without passion as she can appear to be. "I apologize," she says formally to him, "for what you must witness. I mean you no disrespect, sir."

     There is a frown as that kiss turns from a poignant goodbye to a a resounding I'll never leave you again. They are even more oblivious to the world and even more of a target now than they were before. Ywaine shakes his head and runs rubs his face with the hand that lacks the glove. He watches as the two lover embrace, as his nerve continue to tingle all the more that somehow this is all going to lead to large amounts of danger and potentially larger amounts of bodily harm. Finally, Ywaine can hold his tongue no longer.
     "Dammit, man! It's called stealing a kiss not share your last meal! Your going to get killed if you stay here!" For all the good it will do, they aren't listening. He is of course quite suprised some moments later when the saddened Lady breaks the kiss and even finally acknowledges him. "You deal me no disrepesct for being earnest in your love of Drustan, but as you say, how you feel isn't going to change the world, I'm just hoping I can bring him back in one piece like I told the court I would."

     "Then come with me," he says, impassioned, unable to be anything else. Drustan's deep blue eyes plead it. "Come with me," he asks again...
      Oh, this is going to be torturous, Ywaine. If he weren't drinking before, he surely shall after. Can you imagine?
     "I know it's not a castle, but we could have the world's room," the whole wide world, as much as we know of it, "... we can love. Exile would be paradise, no matter where we were to land..." No good can come from this. He's going to make her hurt him. He knows no other way.
     As Yseult flares red and takes notice of Ywain, Ywain suddenly enters The Universe. Drustan spins about, blue eyes flaring as his mind is recognizing what his heart refuses to hear. He's being rebuffed. "No one's going to get killed." No one but the one whose death would be a benefit to all of Britain anyway. "Just...." His hands motion to the man. Give me a moment. I need this moment. I need this.
     Drustan turns back to Yseult. "Come with me. Right now. We crest a few hills and we're on Arthur's land. And we'll keep going. Straight for Armorica," the land that shall one day be known as Normandy, "...and all the way to... where the sun ends, if we must. But say you will." And he reaches for a hand.

     "I cannot, Drustan." Yseult's cry is just as impassioned, and she twists away, stepping back without turning. Yes, she anticipated this, and she chose her mare accordingly - the mare her husband gave her, advising her to mark its qualities, and emulate them. She knew that this would surely be the outcome, and she guarded herself well against temptation, by making quite sure she could not fulfill that temptation.
     "If I go with you, what happens then, to those whose very lives rest upon ours? My maidservant picking flowers - you think that his majesty will think her innocent?" The storm rises, grey-green eyes meeting Drustan's own sharply. "My family, my kingdom in Eire - how will they suffer, if I flee? What pains must my mother and father undergo, for my happiness - and how long, then, before they catch us, and I watch you die, and I am returned to Mark's cold castle walls?"
     No, she has not been happy, these past two years - but she has learned a place, and learned to keep to it, her wings clipped, sparrowhawk's wings or swan's wings the same. With a toss of her plaited locks, Yseult turns to Ywaine with a gesture. "And his life, as well - do you think none will realize that he aided you? You are my heart's companion, and where you go, my heart must follow - but I cannot pay that price."

     Ywaine grumbles to himself, the lovers passion is infectious. Against his better judgement he's going to say something heartfelt. "Come Drustan, she has given you what King Mark can never have. Take that gift and go and remember nothing can take away the love she has given you." You know, he really can't believe he just said that. Despite his pleas to leave, however Ywaine makes now attempt to mount his steed. He made an oath, and while as long as he remains Drustan will have to endure his tongue (well at least until he gets so annoyed he ripps it out) Ywaine will not abandoned his friend, his brother in arms. Not now, not ever.

     For the second time tonight, he's struck speechless. First, by her beauty. Now, by her rejection. It's as palpable a thing as a lance through the gut. His request for her hand goes ungranted. His request for her heart is denied. Drustan shifts, as if he were to begin an argument, but his words halt at his throat in something more like stunned groan. Or whimper.
     "You ... " And Drustan can only shake his head. To start words he can't finish. His complexion darkens. Not a blush of embarrassment, just highest of high emotions. "I'm sorry to keep you, my queen," he finally gets out, formally. And the quality of his voice? Sails without wind. Wind knocked quite out of him. And he just sits. Suddenly. On his knees, as he should be before his... queen. His mother by law. "It's getting dark. He will wonder where you are," he says again. Out of body, almost. It is Drustan's voice, it's coming from his mouth, his mouth moves as he speaks it, but it sounds like the wind's talking. To him, his own voice sounds very far away.
     You don't want me. You want Him. Your king. My father. He doesn't love you. He only loves that he keeps you from me. The only thing that could make him happier would be if you were to have a son to replace and erase me all together.
     "I am your faithful servant," Drustan murmurs, "...and the man who loves you. I will... do as you say. Give me your leave, my lady, and I will leave your land forever..."
     ...or for at least another six months before he does this again...

     The lady's face goes paler, colour draining from her cheeks. "I love you, Drustan Cunomorus. I have always loved you, and only you, from when you first knelt before me to court me on your father's behalf. Nothing can change that - nothing ever will." Her chin droops downwards, gaze upon the grass at her feet, and her eyelids drift shut to close out the image of the kneeling prince.
     Softly, Yseult says, "If only my heart and yours were affected, I would go with you, and fly free as the seagulls which wheeled and danced over the broad span of waves we crossed, from Eire's green to Cornwall's stones. Ever since you left, there has been no colour to my vision, and no song can cheer me. Go, sir... no man has been more faithful to any lady. I release you from any obligation, of any pain of loving me, and give you leave to depart from my presence."

     Before Yseult's feet, Drustan puts one hand, then another to the ground, bracing himself a moment from the wave of love and sorrow that overwhelms him. For her part. For his. For the whole ruddy thing. When he bows his head, his dark hair sighs against her dress. "Not even death shall wrest the love of you from my soul. I will go on loving you, until there is no particle of me left. Until my last breath dissolves upon the wind that carries it around the world. Past that, to the otherworld, whatever sort of world that is...I will be there, loving you. Love, lady, is no obligation with me. This love is the air I breathe."
     But you release him to go, to take leave of Cornwall, to be banished, as he is. The deepest pain of exile is that he cannot see you, touch you, feel you, hear you, love you, laugh with you. That is exile. Location doesn't matter. If he were but banished from your affection and yet allowed within Castle Dore, the feeling would be the same. It's not that Cornwall can't hold him. It's that you can't.
     "Where you go, my heart goes. I do not own it, it is not mine. It is yours. Wear it as your best jewel around your neck. Between your breasts." Drustan has to close his eyes at that thought. "That is where it and I belong. But... I will leave your country, my lady. I ... wish you and your family no harm..."
     Looks like you're going to have a successful quest, Ywain...

     You know the good sir knight seems to have quite the fixation upon the lady's breast, not that they do not seem to be a fine pair mind you. "And speaking of being smitten until there's no particle of you left, that might be sooner rather than latter if we do not go." he takes leans his horse over to Comet and then takes the white stallions reins as well and leads him to Drustan, offering them to his friend. To his brother in arms.
      Ywaine is silent now. Nothing he's going to say will make Drustan feel any better, no more sarcastic bards now that he's agreed to go. He looks back slowly to Iseult, "It was a pleasure to meet you good Lady," Such as it was, there were no time for introductions. "I'll take care of him and make sure he gets back home alive." Naturally he can't vouche for anyone that's going to be dumb enough to agravate him while he's drunk on the journey back.

     One tiny hand steals downwards, almost to those dark locks, but then up instead, to her kirtled waist. She draws out a fragile-seeming pair of scissors, no weapon but fit to snip delicate threads from embroidery or other sewing, and she brings her braided tresses round over her shoulder, selecting the unbound ends of the braid.
     Her tempestuous gaze caught in its downwards pull by the man bracing himself at her feet, Yseult pauses. "Stay but a moment longer, then," she whispers, fingers nimbly separating out two inches of fine red-gold hair in a set of thin strands. Snip go the scissors, then, and she lets her hand slide away with the lock, bending to cup the prince's cheek lightly, and to press the strands onto his shoulder.
     "It would be unseemly of me to allow you to go, that declaration given, without memory, at least. Often, you praised my hair," among other things, "so let that, at least, guide you through happier memories, and not linger upon what cannot and must not be." She turns to Ywaine, and inclines her chin down, then up, in a regal, proud nod. "I pray any future meetings, should they occur, will be under less strenuous circumstances," Yseult says gravely. "I thank you, and remand him unto your tender mercies. Godspeed to you both."
     And away she turns, to the gentle mare, picking up the reins to lead it back onto the path proper without backwards glance to soften the ramrod erectness of her spine - or weaken her resolve.

     Drustan's head remains bowed, he can't watch her leave him, but a hand comes up to capture the hair. He squeezes it in his hands. He will have Elaine make a locket for him. Or maybe Jenny. Yes, Jenny will understand. Guinevere, as much as anyone, would understand. And he says nothing as she takes her leave. He just listens to all the sounds of her imminent departure from his universe. The sound of her dress stroking the grass. The sound of the leather of her saddle squeaking as her horse moves. The plodding of slow moving hooves.
     And he missed Ywaine's commentary. Which is good for Ywaine. Red gold hair tangled and grasped in his hands, Drustan falls back against the body of the earth, felled by something much stronger than any sword.
     Don't count your blessings just yet, Ywain, you have to get him in the saddle first...
     Drustan makes no sound, utters no word -- of farewell or pain or love or otherwise. He listens to Yseult leave him. He will hear this forever, this sound of plodding hooves. Even in his own heartbeat. He closes his eyes and throws his arm across his forehead and his eyes. The sun is dipping below the edge of the world.

     Perhaps, Ywaine thinks, I should just use that rope to hang myself. Patience is supposed to a Christian virtue, Pagan's aren't supposed to have to find so much of it in reserve. He's not even the one in torturous love here and he's starting to feel the need to go and get gloriously drunk.
     Sighing again, Ywaine does something he's going to regret. He crouches down near Drustan and says, "Relations between Gorre and Cornwall are friendly." well as much as men like Uriens and Mark can express such an emotion. "I'll come often to visit. I'll carry her your messages and make sure she is safe and healthy here. But let us go now while we have the cover of night." Of course if that doesn't convince him plan B is going to be to get him to look the other way, attempt to knock Drustan out and then /pray/ he can get back to Camelot and get him restrained before he comes to....

     Halfway back to the castle of King Mark, then, Yseult meets up with her maidservant, taking from her half of the enormous collection of wildflowers with a gracious, patient, placid smile. Her storm-trapped eyes are kept carefully lowered, and arms filled with fragrant blossoms, the two women ride back into the fastness of the castle.
     For one moment, before the gate is entered, the Irish queen looks back over her shoulder at the road away from Cornwall. Then she turns to face forward again, and allows her mount to continue its plodding forward, away from the world.

     You should ask Gawaine how well that works...
     Hell, you should ask Arthur how well that works...
     The hand that covers his eyes hides his tears from the world, and most of all the brother knight beside him. He's not drunk enough to rail and cry for all the world to see and not give a single pin for how the world feels about it. A breath comes, and it comes with pain. "Hand me a wineskin," he tightly says. "Then we'll go." He says nothing of your offer, not yet. He doesn't think he could stand it if you got to see her and he couldn't. No one should have that honor if he can't have it. "I need a drink," and he laughs. "God... I could drink the ocean dry... and I'd still be empty..."
     Drustan sits up, red-faced and he sighs. His handsome face the very picture of depression. He spends a good deal of time just now braiding the hair, and finding a secure place for it. Somewhere ... where it won't get lost or blow away. He secures it with the broach that holds his cloak around him. The only sign of Cornwall that he wears -- there's a red boar upon a field of silver.

     Looking to the horizon over which is Castle Dore, Ywaine nods curtly. "I swear I am never going to fall in love." he says as he fetches Drustan's wine skin from the saddle. He relaly should stop saying that. He's only making it worse. Offering the wineskin down to Drustan the young knight says. "This is our last skin and you're almost dry." Translation lets leave so we can um.. get you some more wine. Yes that's it.. that's the real reason he wants to leave. A hundred heavily armed knights within spitting distance have nothing to do with his desire to get the hell out of here.

     That causes another round of laughter, it pounds from him with all the force of his unhappiness. He uses it to weep. "Aye.... well... I think you're mad. Look what it's done for me..." And with that, he falls back again, into helpless giggles that make his whole body shake. No, he's not laughing. And no, he's not happy. Mad, maybe. But happy?
     "Oh Christ... you're a better comedian than God..." he says after a few moments. Stars begin appearing. He reaches for the wineskin and sits up to take the last swallow. "I just want to lie here. I don't want to go. I want him to find me. I want it to be over. You say he'll kill me. I'm good as dead already. You heard her."
     You heard the whole miserable goddamned thing...
     But after another moment, Drustan rises. Tall man for the age -- unless you count some of the saxons. They were nigh on giants. And he reaches for the reins, tossing the wineskin back to you. "Nearest village is about twenty miles. There is a hut that fancies itself an inn. We can probably stay there. Just as safe to sleep outdoors. Probably just as warm." He pulls himself up with a groan, settling on his white stallion's back. He has half a mind to geld him -- they say a rider and his mount should be as One, right?
     "Actually... I say we ride till dawn..." And with a click from his rider, the stallion goes from a walk to a canter.

     Oh yes ride on til morning, great idea. That makes Ywaine happily. Really it does. He's only been riding the ENTIRE DAMN DAY to find you. The pagan prince takes a deep breath however, now is not the time. He catches the wine skin and then turns to his own mount. He deftly grabs a handful of mane and swings himself up into the saddle.
     Actually, truth be told, he's not afraid so much that Mark would kill you so much as he'd force you to live to actually have to /see/ him and the woman Drustan loves together. If there's one thing they Mark knows, itis that some punishments are far worse than death. "Ride until dawn eh? Well I suppose I will try not to loose you then." and with that he spurs his horse into a quick gallop then slows it to a canter alongside Drustan.

     No one said the quest was going to be easy...
     Besides, as you're sure to learn as time goes on, nothing Gawaine suggests is ever easy...

Posted by rowan at September 22, 2003 10:13 PM