The grassy fields between the newly formed palace and the edge of a dark wood make for very excellent exercise grounds. There, Aurelius, in the absence of his Mistress Charge, is exercising his guard, his voice raised high over their own, centaurian cries at punctuating intervals, giving sound to every spear thud that merely strikes against the air...
     The sea runs full, its waves meeting the shore in turquoise and gold, driven by the trades winds of East and West. Soon, full and billowed sails will appear on the horizon, dotting the ocean with incoming trade. The South wind moves with the North over the territory, creating between them a temperate blend, front systems competing, each holding the other in balance and in making for a hospitable, fertile climate...
     And of its general? What of him?
     Huw the Hunter, as most know him, stands in his full and rightful face, his curved horns, his multitudinous robes (that hide his cloven satyrical feet), and maps upon maps and messages already received from his scouts upon the frontier. He is reading intently.

     There is the galloping of hooves upon the plain, the rhythm the uneven gait not of the domestic horse but the wild, unshod with metal. Here, there is no road. Here, there is no need for steel or fairy silver horseshoes...
     A figure is mounted on the horse's back, as easily as if he were centaur himself. No cap on his head now, though the dark brown and grey and green streaked cloak he wears streams out behind him, caught by the wind as if it were a banner. The streaking woodlands - when Mad Peter sits in the saddle, no man can budge him if he does not wish to be budged. He could've made himself famous as a jouster, if he'd chosen. But those days are past on Earth, and it is from Earth that he has most recently come. There is the smell of it about his person, clinging and not yet dispersing. What news?
     The hoofbeats are a courtesy given to the kingdom and the guard, for when he wishes, his steeds will make no more sound than if they were made of mist, ghostlike wraiths of fog and condensation to confuse archers so that he might go about his business unmolested. Now the hooves begin to slow, the rider straightening from his horse's neck. It is a parti-colored mount, brown and white splashes painted upon its body. A mare...
     He prefers mares, finds them more tractable...
     Mad Peter reins in the steed with a pat to her neck, then comes to a halt, cupping a hand to the side of his face as he calls out. He's sure he's been seen, sure he'll be intercepted - best to be intercepted easily than run to ground. Centaurs don't play around at warfare. "What ho, Old Autumn? The Borders of Chaos grown tedious, so you've gotten yourself caught up with women?" He's grinning as he calls it out, nonetheless.
     Now to see if they let him live...

     Several of the centaurs would love to retort, but their steely-faced, woman-eschewing commander shall have none of it. He stills their exercise only so far as to let the messenger continue unimpeded, and certainly without danger of being impaled. And partly, too, out of respect, spears raised in a show. Centaurs do not play at ceremony either.
     It is Aurelius himself who turns, his gaze on the new arrival...
     But it is Huw the Hunter's voice that booms out after as he glances up from his place near the palace -- a grand structure, that -- as he looks up from his maps and his reports. "The Borders of Chaos have always been tedious, old friend, so I am well-equipped, therefore, to deal with women! What brings you to ... " Well, what the devil shall we call it anyway? "... our birthing world? Do you bring news, gossip, tidings good or ill?"
     He steps away from the maps, a crooked smile making its way across his mouth. There is a look to Aurelius, a nod and a gesture. A friend. Aurelius turns his gaze from you, Mad Peter, and with a raise of his hand and his voice, the centaurs return to their exercising.

     "You know how it is, always." Mad Peter nudges the mare forward again, at a quick canter towards you, satyr general, pulling it into a halt at the moment that he's already sliding from the saddle. It isn't showing off, not really - he's in a sense as much part horse as any centaur, even if two-legged about it.
     "I go here, and I go there," Mad Peter continues, slapping the horse's flank and steering it to pull at grass on its own. "People talk, people tell me things. And I, why, I have heard such things that I felt I ought come to speak with you, and to see whether you would still acknowledge me, now that you have risen to such lofty heights." He's grinning as he talks. He's full of shite, he knows it. "Or if you leave all your former friends behind in the dust, now that you are ... caught in a tangle, even if not entangled ... with a queen and - how did you last call him? The Old Blowhard? I hope to talk to him as well," he adds, almost as an aside, "though one at a time, one at a time. In truth, I have a message for you, separately and both."
     Arms fold over his chest. It is an open field - very bad for leaning. He will have to settle for slouching particularly well. "From," Mad Peter adds, "the Holly King, of Avalon's fair woods..."

     "His Eminence the Blowhard is currently doing just that, doing what he does best," Huw intones. "A little employment is good for me. A lot of employment is good for him. And how could I leave my old friends when every time I turn around, they're here. It's good to see you," a hand comes out and pats your back. You are two wild things, you and he.
     "So now that you are here... your message. From the ...Holly King? Now... He is Old Autumn. I am only one of his many... admirers. By necessity. What does he want?"

     Eyes close as the message is called back up. A memory like a steel trap - steel traps have nothing on him. It takes a special sort of mind to hold onto a message while riding through Hell, another man's or his own...
     "He has me take a word to his neighbour, that he gives the Queen of the Unnamed Kingdom his best wishes for her empire building, and he shall look forward to seeing the work she has been doing once he receives an invitation." The silver-strewn blue eyes open, looking to you with an eyebrow slanting up quizzically again. "That is the entirety of the message, though he has news which he bids me convey along my route as well, to ... not still wagging tongues, as if they ever could be stilled, but to give them something else to look at, I suppose."
     A hand runs along his leathers, tying here, tugging there, readjustments being made. "The more general message is that by the next full moon, the kings and queens of the territories surrounding his own, that is, Avalon, shall be called in a council of witness, to see the crowning of his son - emissary messages and invitations shall be sent, and then the Oak King shall return." There. Mad Peter nods, satisfied. "Those are the messages. I'll have to tell His Blonde Brilliance as well, and make some inquiries as to his personal life. I talked to ap Owain a bit more than I usually do... and now it's your turn, and then his."
     His hands cease their wandering, settling in at his waist, at his belt. "So," Peter demands, "the last I heard, you'd given up on teaching my cousin's heir - never did hear much about it, but then, I wasn't so interested. And now ..." Now you have taken an oath, which never my cousin did persuade you to do. What is this? "Now I find you poring over maps and charts for something new... While it's good to see you, I'm half wondering if you and the Western Prince haven't both gone mad. Either that or you've tapped into something good and didn't share with me. Which is it?"

     "Hmmm," Huw notes, a single sound conveying a hundred thoughts, "... a rather tame message. Compared to the one they sent together just a mortal days ago. Quite the display. In your rounds, you should check to see if there are any immaculate conceptions from it. Do send word if that is the case... "
     There is laughter, "Well, your cousin ever had so many more admirers. I rather got lost in the shuffle," a wry curve of his mouth. "She made me an offer... and seeing what she was already assembling, I thought it best not to refuse. And," a soft admittance, "...in part because I never served your cousin half so well as I should have. There is a time to shirk responsibility and a time to take it up. And from what I have seen beyond our borders, now... now is that time, my friend. So... here I am..."
     He gestures to the burgeoning kingdom around him. "She did this in one day," he notes. "And... that the Oak King shall be invested, I have been told of this. She is to marry, Mad Peter. And marry exceedingly well." He says not more than this, not yet. "I've tapped into hope," Huw adds. "Hope that we may strengthen not only ourselves but the fight against Chaos outside of these borders. I think she is part of a great resurgence, speared onward by the Kings you mention. She has... allied herself with both."
     Huw turns, whistling loudly. O Western Wind, when wilt thou blow? You've got company, you great... Pause. Gust you...rumors "He'll be along in a moment, I'm sure. So, do you still think me mad?" He cuts a grin.

     The eyebrow cocks up again, that habitual gesture which is so much himself. "I have been hearing rumors. Even the Holly King said that copulation was a word, as opposed to merely entanglements." Peter's amusement is also bemusement. Most kings do not say such, or ... not to him. "Immaculate, though? With ap Owain involved?"
     There have been conceptions aplenty attributed to that one. Never have they been without his direct and presumably enthusiastic involvement...
     A hand goes to the back of his head, scratching in the thick mane that grows down to the back of his neck. "My cousin had many admirers," Peter agrees, "and a few enemies. I need to speak with you about that as well." The humour falls away of a sudden, and he hitches up his sleeve. Around his forearm is tied a red band. Red for blood, red for vengeance. "I have blood-sworn to avenge Isabel. And it seems to me that while you may not be interested in joining my hunt," and Hunt, for he is a member of that Wild Hunt, as one of the best horsemen there are, "I think it may occur to you that it holds still ramifications for your own service, and She to whom you now have sworn. But later for that. I will take it up with Hwyll as well."
     The head is nodded, shaken in an equine fashion, then settled into place. "One day?" Mad Peter looks around, turning a full circle slowly. He lets out a low whistle. "I'd ask how, but I'm guessing even if you did know, you wouldn't tell me, unaligned as I am. She is more impressive than I'd heard. But then," he smiles slightly, "some of those from whom I've heard have reason to distrust her. You should keep an ear to the rumors, old friend. You know how they can tell you which way the ground is shifting underfoot."
     He looks up to the sky a moment, then back to you, rubbing the back of his head again. "So far, what I see here looks a bit mad, even if not Chaotic. You, her general - an interesting choice to ask. I'm surprised she was so shrewd. Hwyll, as ... well, the Holly King seems quite sure he is not in her bed ..." Which is almost more shocking than all the rest. "Is he losing his touch, or is the Holly King simply, ah, mistaken? One doesn't press a king on such matters. And she has allied herself with two kings, and is marrying well." The eyebrows quirk. "Are you trying to tell me that she has more brains than did Isabel? Of course, my cousin was not the marrying type. But still. And," quickly said, with an eye to the sky, now, "does Hwyll know?"

     "Such was the nature of it. Doors to a temple in Avalon threw themselves open. The entire kingdom benefitting. If that's the word." It's a word, to be sure. "But it was of ...sufficient strength?" Huw curls a smile. "...that stray maidens wandering by could have full bellies because of it. In that way, yes, immaculate." He cackles at the term, and at the Judeo-Christian overtones.
     There's an exhale that follows that jesting sentiment, a drawn look and a grave twist to his mouth. "I will do all I may from this office, Peter, you know that. While I may not be able to assist in the actual vengeance, I may be able to help you with loaned scouts. We can discuss it in more detail... over wine, I think."
     "But, I will not keep you from your business with the Viceroy," Huw tacks on, glancing toward the ocean and the rising waves. "We can continue that in privacy. As for rumors, of course. But that is really more the Viceroy's purview than my own." A slant of a grin claims his mouth again. "Though you know, I do have sensitive ears. We know how the worlds move, do we not, old friend. I have been much impressed with her. I will say ... it was difficult in the beginning, all raw power with little understanding, even compassion. But she has grown. In such a short time, my friend, she has grown. You may find she much reminds you of a queen of olde."
     Huw laughs. "Hwyll? Ah, I think he wanted her bed at first, as he wants every bed he ever sees. But ... no... he is not there. You may lay that rumor to rest. Nor am I bedding her. She has men enough, do you not think? With two kings? I do not know if they make beds big enough for such politics. We shall see."

     "It's astounding enough that ap Owain's found himself paired off with just one woman, let alone like this. I don't know much about it, though of course there's the Oak Queen's ire to be considered." Peter's tone has shaded from joviality to gruffness still, as if the dark thoughts have curdled like blood. "I assure you, there is ... I have personal reason to speak with Hwyll - a commission for him, in fact. If his current work does not occupy him too in entirety."
     The Messenger, seeking a favour of the Prince of the West Wind? Something odd is up...
     He's never been known to take sides in politics, never sworn any oath or allegiance save to Isabel. He is Mad Peter, the Rider Between Worlds, who goes where no other may dare, gaily, freely, and thus far - safely and successfully. And there is his other Job, less frequently called upon, as one of the lead riders of the Wild Hunt. What could he need from a prince, so fully has he eschewed the trappings of titles...
     "I'll speak with the ... Viceroy, aye," Peter agrees, expression clearing a bit with amusement, "and twit him a bit for finally committing to one woman - ha! Even if it is out of her bed. And ask him about a word of caution the Holly King gave me, concerning your ... liege." An odd thought, to think of you two swearing your allegiance. Does she require you bend your knee to her? Do you do so willingly, or do you humour her? And neither of you in her bed. Though perhaps it's easier for you to respect her that way.
     He doesn't say his thoughts aloud; they are not his business, they are curiosity, and this is too much a meeting of business, even if some personal business, and not simply of old friends. "I meant, does he know - well, I don't know myself. I only suspect. While he was with Isabel, while ap Owain was, she - well, it's all beyond the pale now." With Isabel herself.
     Turning, the admitted bastard shelters his eyes to look at the waves, a glance given to centaurs at work. "You've obviously been working hard for her," Peter comments. "I would tell you to contact those unemployed in the Hunt, but now is not the time to do so. I'll find you after the Big Blow's done telling me how important he is now, eh?"

     "I cannot tell you of the Holly King's mind, nor of the Oak King's either. Nor of the ...caution?" He is now curious of that. He does not ask. Not yet. "But... we will discuss it over wine, hmm? A cuppa between old mates, runners of the Road. Wild yet, even if one has taken a single employment. For now." Nothing's forever. And Aurelius may make a fine general once the army is established and he and Fiona trust one another.
     "Meet me in the shelter of the vines on the other side of the palace. I will have wine, food, nymphs. We will speak more of the...cautionary words, your mission, and what I may be able to yet do for you. For I did care for your cousin. As I have come to care for her offspring..."

     Golden and turquoise waves spread against the dark stone of the coastline, and from the spilling froth the Western Wind lifts, like Aphrodite's Younger Brother. He takes his habitual form, the fairy prince in armor and a cloak of sea foam. "Well, bless my little onesies and twosies. Mad Peter, it has been a while. I'd ask you what brings you to the Unnamed Kingdom, but isn't it obvious?" He glances around and then looks to you both.
     "Huw..."
     "Hwyll..." said in all too easy reply. The banter of Ages in a cordial beginning. "I will leave you two to discuss your business," Huw continues. "I detest politics... Peter, shady grove, the girls will be waiting..."

     "Aye, I will meet you then." There's a slant of a grin for the idea - nymphs, wine, food, in any order at all, they are all notions, Ideas which Peter can appreciate. The slightly shaggy head ducks in a nod, expression darkening for a moment at the mention of Isabel, it's held in the eyes but it's a storm brewing for all that, and then he turns back to the waves.
     "Onesies and twosies?" An eyebrow slides upwards, humour threatening the sobriety of his features far more than the sudden ... appearance might have done. "As for why I have come, it's on account of a message for you and the one that you serve. Well, at least, that's the official reason, there's also an item on my own account, but we'll come to that after the rest, as a good messenger ought."
     A hand is lifted to Huw, a smirk twisting his lips at the age-old battle which is not actual battle between two friends. "Aye, Autumn. I will find you - and your nymphs - when I've done. So, tell me, Hwyll," he swings round to the Viceroy, still by far the smallest of the three men (more than jockey-sized, for all that).
     "How is it that you have been ... captured ... penned up and pinned down ... by a single woman's service, and, as I hear tell, been rebuffed? I colour myself shocked - shocked. You're slipping..."

     "Tsk... does it always have to be about sex? Can a man not have a noble pursuit?" Is he going to be able to continue this with a straight face? "Just because I offered myself as a consort to Hafwen at the time of her most dire need -- and enjoyed it thoroughly -- does not mean I do not still care for her. I do, very much. But a man has to look after his prospects, not just his pants."
     Captured. Penned up. Pinned down. Hwyll smirks. "Captured? No... contracted. Penned up? No, in charge. Pinned down? You'll have to ask Griselda about that. She does like to be on top. So what," he exhales, "I took a regency. Not just a boy-toy position in a queen's bed but something that'll pay," he says, rubbing fingers and thumb together. "Besides, I'm not a man who fears commitment..."
     Hopefully no one within earshot of that was eating or drinking anything, else there'll be choking and hacking noises erupting across the kingdom at that blasphemy.
     "Did you come here to abuse me or to deliver a message? If I'm to be abused, I at least want the abuser to be female and myself happily naked and tied to a bed..."

     "Thank you for that image," Peter drolls out, a hand going to his chin and rubbing across. There is no stubble. He just shaved... "The only man who I'm interested in picturing in the saddle," he cracks himself up, "is me. But if Griselda's free later on, feel free to send her over. She can try and test my pwca secret."
     That once a man or woman mounts a pwca, they can't dismount until the pwca allows...
     Could quite exhaust the girls if it's true...
     "In truth, I think it's as well for you that you've found a position to take, old friend." Peter grows briefly serious, looking to you and folding his arms over his chest. "Things are Changing again. Not just in this patch of territory, but everywhere. If this ... queen," for however reluctantly, he must admit Isabel is dead and there is a new queen that reigns here, "is as powerful as Huw and you both seem to think, I would prefer someone with a mind to the future and an ability to weather that change be involved. Rather than, say, one of your... opposite numbers."
     Even here, there could be Darkness and Corruption...
     He glances from side to side, then quirks eyebrows up at you. "I have things to relate to you and I am breaking old habit, as Huw can attest, and delving into both opinion and conjecture," Mad Peter says bluntly, "and to such extent, we should speak confidentially. The message, first, though. From Davydd ap Owain, once the Oak King, now the Holly King, then - he asked I take word to his neighbor - that's you and her - that he gives the Queen of the Unnamed Kingdom his best wishes for her empire building, and will look forward to seeing the work she has been doing - once he receives an invitation. As well, a message offered to all upon my route while I ride it..." Two messages for the price of one. "...By the next full moon, the kings and queens of the territories surrounding Avalon will be called in council of witness, to see the crowning of his son. There shall be emissary messages and invitations sent, and the Oak King shall return."
     There. Peter nods, satisfied. "Those are the messages. Now ... let me bend your ear a bit."

     "My pleasure," Hwyll beams and with an extended arm he gestures for you to follow him. "This sounds like a serious matter, so I shall treat it as seriously as I might." That's a debatable point. "Though, on the matter of Griselda," Hwyll smiles cat-like again. "I am sure she'd be game for an... honest wager. Give her good odds and... let things go as they may..."
     Hwyll leads you, quickly with the wind at your back, into the great palace, as of yet unfilled with teaming courtiers, princes, lovers, husbands, children or dogs. It is as empty as it shall ever be. And as confidential. "Things are changing. Not just here," Hwyll notes. "It is why I have been able to assemble who I've been able to assemble." He pauses and pivots toward you. "There is more at stake than most of the Kith and Kin recognize or understand."
     "It is kind of the Holly King to give me greetings, though I'm sure he meant the entire message for the Queen of this Yet To Be Named Wonder. The Holly King and I ... well, the wind moves through the trees," Hwyll waxes on. "I am not surprised that the trees find it noisome." He leads you to one of the thousand ornate chambers and doors -- or so it seems in the thousands -- and within is what shall be the throne chamber when the Queen is crowned here. The windows face the sea, the sky yet at twilight. This is a twilight kingdom. Perhaps it shall take its name from that.
     "I am sure we shall send an emissary to attend. An Oak King doesn't grow on trees, after all." He titters a moment and then composes himself again. "So... you were saying. My ear is bent toward you, you have the whole of my attention..."

     "For the moment. You are as constant as the wind, after all." Peter's amusement grows and then dissipates as he turns his attention back onto other topics. More serious topics than some ...
     "The Holly King did say one thing which I wonder about, but unrelated to my ... business." The Rider of Earth's Spine settles down on his haunches in the great marble and stone palace, eyes focusing and narrowing in on details, a shoulder lifting and falling in a shrug. His sleeve is pushed back so that you can see the red cord that is bound around his arm - tied there by himself with hand and teeth, perhaps, or by another - lover, brother in arms, confidante, someone. "I have sworn blood vengeance for Isabel's death, Hwyll. And I have been giving some thought to it. I have come to some conclusions."
     Will he share these conclusions? Of course; in part or in full, he would not have brought them up if he were not to share them. "The many kingdoms, allied and otherwise, they have done nothing in pursuit of justice or recompense or even simple Knowledge for my poor cousin's death. She was allowed to suffer unaided; that, while I detest it, I could perhaps almost forgive. But once dead, they did nothing."
     Peter straightens, folding his arms over his chest, that wiry tension bristling through his form, making something dark rise behind the glassy surface of his eyes. "They did nothing even after her death, my friend. Her kingdom was vacated even as she lived, robbed of its resources, until it stood deserted. Her other towers were left to fall to ruin as she did, until only her own tower remained more or less inviolate. And once she was dead - nothing."
     He paces a few steps forward, then turns and heads back to you. It is more emotion given than he usually shows; usually, he is water, fluid, rippling, letting nothing concern him for long or deeply. This ... is different from that. "I have considered this matter. I have weighed; I have measured. Enemies I would have expected no aid or action from, but her allies, they stand wanting. I have decided."

     He inclines his head, and he listens. Your recriminations, accusations, perhaps he feels some of the sting himself. Is he also one who stood by and did nothing? What you are given is the face not of the Hwyll he has become but the Zephyr that existed before the Hwyll, who blew across fields of fauns and satyrs (yes, he was annoying Huw even then). "I stand here accused," he notes softly. "Perhaps we all should be. There has been ... increasing chatter about her murderers," the first time it's been mentioned in the plural. "But as with much... most matters in the kingdoms... without a high king there has been ... no organization. No decisions. They sit, they talk for what must be years on the mortal plane..."
     He looks to the sea. "This is not to excuse it, of course. It simply is the way things are. There is no unified voice, Peter, only the cacophony of millions. So... what would you ask of me? I, one of her lovers, who... has yet come up empty handed in discussions of her slayers. I ... have found the information ...wanting as well..."
     He peers at you with stormy eyes. "What matter of the Holly King... what did he say that makes the Herald wonder? Now... I'm wondering," Hwyll notes, fairy features returning.

     "I accuse noone without either evidence or a Word, you know that." Peter's voice is steady, and he comes to a halt again, one heel planted firmly in front of the other. The red cord is still visible about his bicep, the glitter in his eyes still there as well. It bespeaks of dark thoughts, even if not aimed at you, Prince of the West Wind.
     "Instead, I have come to you with a message. One which I cannot carry, in fact - instead, I must ask you and your brothers to carry this missive."
     A message that the Messenger cannot or will not carry...
     "The message is thus." Peter turns and begins pacing again, slowly this time, deliberately, steps carrying him past you with tedious monotony. "I have recalled myself to the Hunt in honour of my cousin, Isabel the Fair, the Queen of the Seven Towers. She has departed this world most unkindly, her death hastened by the malice and planning of others. With me go my brothers; the Wild Hunt shall ride no more."
     He stops on that, turning towards you, arms falling to his sides. "Until the murderers of Isabel have been found and turned loose, we shall not ride at any's word or call or command. Those who did the deed and those who planned it and those who ordered it are not safe from us. And until they have been harried to the earth and the blood price paid three times o'er - once for kinship, once for fealty and once for Justice - no Huntsman shall ply any trade for any, be they common or noble alike. So!"
     He smiles faintly, but it's a sharp smile, slanting across his face and then gone."Let the word be sent. We shall in our own halls be, and Mad Peter shall take no message nor commission from any until Isabel's killers join her. May her arms open to accept them; she was ever more forgiving than I."
     He tips his head back, eyes closing, then gives his head a thorough, shaggy shake and exhales in a grunting sigh. When he reopens his eyes, it is almost - almost as if he had not spoken at all, and he speaks lightly enough to the next. "As to the rest, my friend, why, the Holly King warned me not to accept any apples from your Queen's hand. Something spoken of generosity, something spoken of mischief, but in any event, should she offer, I ought not accept. As I find her not present, I do not think that it will be a difficulty, and just as well, for I dearly love apples, as what son of a pwca would not?"

     "An odd message. I will ... give it to her... and see what she makes of it. The Holly King isn't particularly known for his sense of humor," he's not very familiar with the mortal version of him, rather, "... so I can't imagine it is a joke," such a droll finish. As if such things were beneath such kings. "Maybe he's afraid of that old pwca legend," Hwyll smirks. "It would be enough to put any man to ... question his abilities. Fortunately, I am not a man."
     But lest you think he has forgotten the gravity with which you spoke...
     His hands clap together and he calls out to his brothers: "Eurus! Auster! Boreas!" When one brother calls, in such a way, one brother who now by virtue of his role here is set as if a king of winds, the others do not put him off. They fill the chamber with storms, which are sure to come at the simultaneous meeting of East, South, North and West. In the center of this ...hurricane arrival, yourself.
     "My brothers we have a charge. A message to bear East, West, North and South. The message is this: Mad Peter of the Wild Hunt says thus: I have recalled myself to the Hunt in honour of my cousin, Isabel the Fair, the Queen of the Seven Towers. She has departed this world most unkindly, her death hastened by the malice and planning of others. With me go my brothers; the Wild Hunt shall ride no more. Let the word be sent. They shall in their own halls be, and Mad Peter shall take no message nor commission from any until Isabel's killers join her."
     "Bear it now over all the kingdoms and do not tarry. Else you may find you get more messages to carry." There they are, the Princes of the Winds in their seasons arrayed, and at his word they disappear, your message reverberating through the palace, beyond it o'erhead, and in the every wave that hits the sand.
     Hwyll remains a moment longer, looking to you. "I must away and bear your tidings. Since you're... on a break... you may as well enjoy the full tables around you. And if you and your brothers require sanctuary, I am certain I may provide it." The hall is filled with a sudden tornado, a funnel that dissipates in the very next moment. And then you hear his own voice join his brothers...

     There's a faint, sharp smile again from Peter, the glint that others have bespoken of as madness echoing on in his eyes. "I thank you. Though I ask who would sanely or insanely dare to attack us, we, the few? We are fewer in numbers than in some years past, but we are not yet gone, nor will we be. We do not speak for those with no voice - but we are the knife hand of those who cannot find justice anywhere else as often as we are the hand of the lawmakers'. But should it come to such a pass..."
     He will remember. And then you are gone, and he remains, one hand balled into a fist and brought to his lips.
     "Isabel. You are remembered, even if not yet avenged. Your blood lives on in your descendent and heir," Peter says aloud to the empty stones. "But will it be enough? Will people remember?"
     "Will they recognise what I have always known..."
     Another great shake of his head, and Mad Peter withdraws into his own skin, the darkness suppressed for another momentum. He turns; he has a date with a nymph, a satyr, and a cup amidst the vines.

Posted by rowan at January 08, 2005 03:55 PM