The autumn leaves scattered around the paths of the gardens sit damply to the sides of the well-maintained beds. Most of the green has gone, the morning frosts tempering it out of the plants as it does every year. The world is turning solemn, barren, and cold. Foreboding to some perhaps who aren't accustomed to the grey of Wales.
     There is, however, still a spot of colour in the garden. Or, more precisely, colours.
     Peeking up from behind a substantial easel with a board of some kind mounted on its legs for decoration of some kind is a chaotically hued wool bonnet. Knit cap, really, complete with puffy ball in a cacophony of bright shades the likes of which embarrass school children everywhere.
     The girl wearing it doesn't seem to be so self-possessed, however. And despite the odd adornment, manages to bear some form of elegance in her slicker and boots as she keeps to the side of one of the paths with a brush in hand, fully absorbed in paining whatever it is that she's got her sights on for the day. Careful strokes against the watercolour paper clipped onto the board as precise as they are natural.

     There is the sound of a vehicle coming up the drive. The harsh melody of the race of a high performance engine and the low rumble of white rock being crushed beneath tires. The engine then dies and the sound of a car door opening and closing is herald to the sound of footfalls coming up the steps.
     Perhaps the master of the castle is home? He does driver a nice sporty Jaguar after all. But did he even leave last night? It's hard to keep track of these eccentric fellows that live in castles. Of course the rich baritone voice that grumbles as it crests the stairs betrays that it is decidedly not the master of this castle. "It's still early. Lazy sod probably isn't even awake yet."
     You would recognize that voice most likely. Saw what you want about Lowe, he makes an impression. That and his pretentious business cards have a phonetic pronunciation of his name spelled out on them. Dressed as he normally is comfortable but not completely inelegant, he also bears a bundle beneath his arm. Something long that has been rolled up in either a kitchen doormat or a horse blanket. Sharp eyes notice the easel and the woman painting at it. In an absent gesture he brushes his long hair so it covers his ears and makes his way towards the young artist.
     "Ahhh fair Miss Gwendolyn. Found another castle to paint I see." Lowe says, being diplomatic. At least as Diplomatic as Lowe is likely to get. "I don't suppose you know if the Master of the castle is about?"

     For a moment after the new arrival speaks, one could perhaps get the impression that the hat attempts to hide itself behind the mounting board. It isn't, however, at all successful as it just makes it seem like there's a floating puffball working its way around the garden.
     Discovered, obviously, she looks up with blinking surprise from her work. And while to most people it would probably pass as genuine, she has that telltale air of too much innocence as compared to her normal expression.
     Or was that someone else's expression...?
     "Oh, Mr. Lowe, how lovely to see you." Again with the innocence. She doesn't seem to be shying away any longer, for what it's worth, as she turns to continue with her painting once more. "I haven't seen Arglwyddiaethu Llewellyn today, no, sorry. The housekeeper said he's normally not out of his rooms until evening."

     Most people would just say, 'ahh thank you good day.' Lowe is however not most people. at your use of Davydd's proper title Lowe cannot help but smile. That crooked lion's smile he's wont to show, "Ahhh old Welsh titles make me so tingly..." He says with a shake of his head.
     He starts to look wander around your easel, walking a wide circle like he's stepping off a perimeter. "Well since he's not around perhaps I can ask you..." Lowe says his baritone flowing like dark bitter ale now. "You haven't seen anything strange around here today?"
     Now normally, strange is in the eye of the beholder, but Lowe, polite fellow that he is, provides and example. "Such as a wrinkly little old man that looks like he has a seriously bad skin condition or small child like creature with a greenish cast to his skin?"

     She continues to paint, glancing every few moments over at the castle absently, though she doesn't seem to need to find her place. The building itself is drawn in with dark pen strokes into the background. Lines forming stones which form walls and form turrets and windows. The brush adds colours into the lines, though not always actually in them depending on the part that you actually look at. The whole contrast between black precision and ethereal painted blurs of shading is magical in its own way.
     Before the glamour of it even shows through.
     The image is alive. Flowers bloom in the subtle turns of the colours, despite the vines that are empty in the other image. Glowing as a translucent layer over the surface. The castle herself glows where the paint has touched its surface in a coppery shimmer that contrasts the ruddy hues of the masonry in the flickering paint covered reflection to normal view. It is, in a word, Arcadia.
     Unconcerned about the view afforded of her work, Gwendolyn shrugs a bit under her jacket, "Sorry, no. I've mostly kept to myself today. Though there may have been, I'm not sure. It's a big castle."

     It is a sight that Lowe does not see until he rounds the easel fully. His attention is elsewhere, distracted. He's searching for something or something that got out and was perhaps not supposed to. But when those dark eyes fall on the painting they become transfixed. And for a moment a man that has not been at a loss for words in well over fifteen hundred years falls silent as death.
     When he finally finds his words he turns away sharply as if forcing himself no to look, hoping you did not see the lone tear that rolled out of the corner of his eye. "Where did you see that? Why are you painting it?" He asks... almost demanding.. as if not forgetting for a moment that she will not understand that question. "I'm sorry you must have started painting the castle at dawn. I um.. didn't recognize it caught in the light of sunrise..." No it's not a very good lie but it was the best he could do on short noticed.
     His true purpose comes crashing down on him then and pulls him back into reality. "If Davydd is not home then the biggest source around here is going to be...." There is suddenly a light laughter almost hidden within the wind. When it finds you ears it sounds as if it could belong either to withered old man or sprightly child, as if it is both at once. "Oh shit."

     The silence doesn't seem to bother her. There's even a chance she thought the odd gentleman had decided to go off in search of his query on his own. But, when he speaks, her eyebrow goes up as though the poor man before her is obviously daft. The castle right there in front of her where she's painting that he seemed to miss, apparently? About to speak for a moment her lips part briefly before snapping shut again as she seems to determine what she thinks is the cause of the tone, "Look, I have the permission of the owner to paint -this- castle. As often as I like, as a matter of fact. If you've got a quarrel with that feel free to take it up with him when you see him. But until notice from him I'm inclined to continue."
     At the change of subject, she gets that confused look again, finally setting her brush down on the box in her hand which holds her paints, "Are you quite well?"
     Mentally. Which she apparently seems to think is a rather rhetorical question.
     At the hint of laughter she looks down the path and then up the other side curiously, as though trying to determine what it is that is causing such a strong reaction.

     That chuckling is defiantly growing more shrill as the wind carries it. Lowe shakes his head and curses beneath his breath. He starts to back up towards your easel dark eyes looking throughout the garden as if trying to pin down the source of the laughter. Then with a fluid motion the bundle under his arm is unrolled to reveal a sword sheathed in a rosewood scabbard. The scabbard and a corner of the mat are gripped in one hand while his other wraps around the pommel and with a loud metallic scrap that rings a note dissonant to the laughter the sword is freed of his scabbard.
     "Hold these." Lowe says releasing the scabbard and small door mat as if expecting you to grab them or not really carrying after all if they fall. The laughing grows louder and soon one can pinpoint it behind a blossoming hedgerow. A high pitched voice speaks in a sing-songy manner, but it's bearing is apparently to lazy to rhyme.
     "Oh the black lion he does hunt, but his claws are dull and his fangs are blunt. Catch this wily old man he won't. Of glamour he has but a little... but right here I can take all I need." Lowe's hand grips around the sword tightly for a moment, leather wrapped handle creaking before his grip loosens, "You suffer from delusions of Grandeur old man. I'm not so impotent that I can't put a little woodland rotter like yourself back in your place. Do this the easy way and I'll only make you squirm a little."
     He looks back to the girl then... for the most fleeting of moments concern in his eyes, "Gwendolyn... just stay there... in a few minutes this will just be a passing dream."

     With the unveiling of the sword, Gwendolyn's blue eyes widen again, "You are insane."
     When the rug and rosewood are handed off in to her arms she holds them just past her wrists as though she isn't entirely sure what else to do with them, elbows at her sides as she blinks over at the shrubbery and the sing-song sounds that come from it. "He doesn't sound very nice, I'll grant, but he's probably just trying to irk you somehow."
     Neither, however, does she seem inclined to get between the dark man and his hedgerow. Which is something, at least.
     Glancing back over to the gentleman next to her again she seems to feel as though she should at least attempt to get him to see reason, "There are security men walking through the gardens during the day, if he's some kind of vagrant I'm sure we can ask one of them to see he leaves the estate."

     "The security guards aren't here anymore." Lowe says gravely. Just what in the hell does he mean by that? With a stride like a lion closing on his prey, Lowe starts to stride across the garden to the sound of the voice, "Listen up old man.... you're really starting to make me not like you..."
     At first his only answer is cackling. "I like the girl... she makes lots of brights for me drink it... I'll have to taste her nectar... However black lion... your age is showing...." And with suddenly vines and hedges and all manner of wild life seem to move with a sinister purpose, as if some malevolence has giving it the power of movement. None more so than the ivy growing along the wall of the castle.
     Cracking like a thousand whips the ivy vines snap out and wrap around Lowe, pulling him with such force that he's lift up into the air, even as his sword clatters to the ground, and slammed against the castle wall. Mortar dust and stone crumble form the impact and fall around him in a soft grey cloud.
     "'Ello luv!" comes that high pitch voice, almost lecherous in it's intent. Perched atop your easel in a feat of balance that should be impossible, is a small old man that could not be more than four feet tall, and most likely a few full inches less than that. His eyes a vibrant green and his skin covered with many flaky growths that look like moss covered bark. "What pretty little thing you are. Give an old spriggan a taste." His wide mouth turns up in a tooth grin that seems to dominate his entire face. "I knew a Gwendolyn once... she was a sweet, sweet peach she was..."

     "Really, don't you think it'd be best if..." Cut off by the continuation of the conversation, she seems confused by the mention of her in the equation, having been keeping to herself most of the day.
     Still holding the scabbard and mat, Gwendolyn's eyes widen as the landscaping comes alive and hurls Lowe at the castle wall. Focussed on that exchange, she doesn't see the little man make his way over to the easel. Or perhaps there was no way to 'see' him in the split second it takes for him to close the distance.
     Whirling towards him when he speaks, she takes a step backwards, adding another foot between herself and her work. Just as suddenly, however, her surprise turns into a glare, "Get off my easel."
     In one fluid motion, she pulls the scabbard in her arms into her right hand and swings firmly at the sprightly man balanced nearby, hitting him with great force squarely in the temple with the solid wooden rod. The unsuspecting little creature goes flying off into the nearby bed of hibernating plants with a yelp, nearly knocking the painting over.
     The rug is held in her free hand absently as she takes on a more combative stance, facing where she's tumbled the woodland sprite, "And I don't care for peaches."

     It's not unlike hitting a baseball of a tee. . . and the little man-creature lands without and of the preternatural grace that he used when perching on the easel. "You got spirit. . . I'll give you that. . . just like the other Gwendolyn.... I'll enjoy making a meal of you."
     The little creature snaps to his feet and creaking and groaning like an old tree bent in a hard wind he starts to grow... and grow . . . and grow. Soon what was a small annoying creature towers nigh on nine feet and it's skin is hard, rough bark. That smile toothy and filled with wooden that have become as jagged thorns. Long knobby hands look as if they could rend stone into powder. It's voice is no longer high pitched, but deep and malevolent, rumbling as if it originates from deep within it's oak breath. "What a tasty bit of Glamour you'll be Gwendolyn!"
     The Spriggan has perhaps made one mistake however. Even as the heavy gauntlet of glamour is dropped the bar is raised and the Spriggan has thrown so much around for a the moment it's as if this little patch of garden has stepped to the Otherside. How strong, how fast can Lowe be under the light of such glamour? The short answer is as strong and as fast as he needs to be.
     A low snarl is followed by the sound of wines snapping like over taught wire. And with a mighty lunge Lowe leaps across the garden landing at wear his sword fell. In a graceful motion it is scooped up and he cross the path in a flash, landing a heavy hack into the creatures leg and sending it stumbling back. "That name will never pass your lips again, you filth!"
     There is a fire in Lowe's dark eyes and his long hair flies wildly in the swiftly mounting wind until it looks almost as if a mane of black. As the raven locks flow you may see a glimpse of his pointed ears. Mad he may be but for a moment he shines with that dark brilliance that made Saxon, spirit and fae alike all cower from him. The Vanguard of the Unseelie Court.

     "What did you expect? A fainting princess?" Gwendolyn asks the thing even as it grows in front of her. Unfortunately, even a stout rosewood scabbard won't really do for that particular exchange.
     However, Lowe's sudden transformation into a knightly warrior seems to have the opposite of the expected effect. That, for some reason, makes sense. At least he's not talking about picking up his name at 'raves in Copenhagen' or whatever it was. Really.
     The glamour laden air seems to have some effect on her as well. Rather than the sometimes-nervous-artist that normally graces her skin, something intangible shifts about her as well. Her cap is knocked off with the tousle and hair that was shoulder length now seems to reach down to her hips in the eddies of energy, shifting from its ebony curls into a flaming auburn when the light catches it properly. Her posture lengthens, no longer modern but ethereally ancient, the air around her heavy with a decidedly regal presence.
     Reaching over to grab one of the iron planting spikes out of the ground next to her, it extends nearly the length of her arm after it's ripped from the ground, wielded easily in one hand like a rapier. Now to the side wooden menace with Lowe's attack, she moves forward to jab the point at the joining of the thing's hip and waist near her shoulder, driving it in a good six inches with the lunge.

     Actually a fainting princess is exactly what he expected. He certainly wasn't expecting her to pluck an iron spike from the ground and turn it into a rapier and impale him with it. He snarls and tries to twist away from Gwendolyn hoping her rapier will be wrench from her grip before she can withdraw the blade. However blades of glamour often slip easily from the wounds they make.
     Lowe for his part smiles, he has many questions to ask, but he cannot help but find amusement as the would be hunter has become prey. The Unseelie warrior also takes the moment of the spriggan's divided attentions to drawl his blade back and murmur a spell beneath his breath. You may recognize some of the Gaelic words. Something about Morgaine's kiss being cold as death. A blue and silver flame wreaths the blade of his sword and with a powerful lunge, buries it to the hilt in the massive creatures Chest.
     What follows is a bellowing of pain and agony as a small dusting of eyes grows away from where the sword is buried starts to grow outwards slowly claiming hard oak in a cold embrace an inch at a time. Those knobby hands try in vain to get a good grip upon the hilt to pull it free but they only succeed in fumbling in vain. Lowe for his part steps back and gives Gwendolyn a gracious bow, "Milady, care to do the honor's and dispatch this wretch? The spell won't be enough to kill him but I wager he'll soon be as brittle as old glass."

     Gwendolyn, in turn, dips into a briefly elegant flourish of a curtsey. Her rain slicker takes on the lines of an ancient gown, brushing at the ground around her feet as it shifts gracefully in the air at the turn. All this before she spins the makeshift rapier in her hand and drives it point first down into the forehead of the tree-man in one even stroke.
     There's a preternatural howl that streaks through the air at the impaling blow, chilling in its pitch. All over the hills, villagers will likely mention the odd pitch of the wind at precisely that time of the day. Some whispering about the hill folk and their sacrifices. Others the ghosts of the marshes and moors.
     The creature itself crumbles into a dusty frost over the vines of ivy in the bed that it inhabits, the spike left sticking out of the ground in much the same manner it was earlier, if now unencumbered by foliage.

     Again... Lowe is at a loss for words. "Quick... look at your painting again." He says even as the Glamour starts to subside. "And perhaps tell me where you learned how to do that?"
     Lowe says this in the same tone that one asks for a glass of water, making it sound like this sort of thing happens every day. . . make no mistake though, his eyes are on you in a much more discerning matter. Watching you carefully as he kneels down to scoop up his scabbard and his rug. He waits quietly for your answer as his sword his sheathed and he rolls it up in the rug, remaking his little bundle.

     "I told you that you didn't have to save me." Gwendolyn says in a dulcet voice with an accent that isn't the one that modern-Wendy ever sports herself. Instead a mixture of the ancient with soft melody on the wind.
     Then, as the chimerical energies fade out from the area around you with the death of the spriggan, she blinks. Hair is black again and clothes are clothes. And an entirely modern Wendy looks over at the spike in the ground, back over to you, and then down at her right hand.
     "Bloody hell." With a grimace she brings her other hand over to her palm and presses at the skin just past her wrist briefly before starting over towards her easel again. Which just happens to be where you're picking up your bits and pieces.

     Even as he hears that dulcet voice in his ears, Lowe is preparing a spell to make you forget. He gathers some of the frozen shards of the former spriggan in his hand cruses them to a fine dust... but when it comes time to utter the words of the spell none come. Instead he opens his hand and the dust spills silently to the ground.
     "I see that I indeed not need to save you." Lowe says, still watching Wendy with a discerning eye, "In fact you handled yourself quiet well . . ." There is more to that sentence but is left when he notices your holding your wrist.
     "Are you quite alright?" Lowe asks as he stretches leans forward to gather up the book with your paints and brushes before stretching to his full height to offer them to you.

     She reaches into her pocket to pull out a handkerchief and shake it out with her other hand, glancing over again, "I was on the fencing team in school."
     Putting the cloth over her hand she takes the offered paint box and takes it over to her bag to set it on top, turning away for a moment as she busies herself with the mundaneness of that task, "Fine, that stake must've been hot from the sun or sommat."
     She's not quite as settled as she might seem, however, from the tone of her voice. Less confident than her earlier words at your arrival and not quite as well placed.

     Just nods as you tell him the stake must've been to hot. "I didn't mean where did you learn to fence..." Of course he'd like to see the school that teaches leaping thrusts like that. He lets his protest remain at that however.
     "Well then, Miss Gwendolyn... you've had a busy day. . . I think some rest would do you good." Lowe says in his calm baritone. "Perhaps I can persuade you to come by my castle tomorrow? I have a.... well business proposition I'd like to discuss with you."
     Those dark eyes settle one you, meeting your blues. Imparting not only lack of ill-intent, but trying to convey that perhaps. . . you really want to come and hear what he has to say.

Posted by rowan at January 06, 2004 04:46 PM