A Light in the Dark: A King Arthur/Warhammer 40k Imperial Knights Story

MysticKnightJoe · Jul 27, 2021

Closing his eyes and sighing gently, Bedwyr let the clean winds of his homeland chill his unhelmed face for the first time in three long years. King Pellinore's old armor, refitted for his own taller frame, felt lighter than ever on him, Drynwyn at his side comfortable.

He was on a white horse, a beautiful mare liberated from the stables of a cruel lord and gifted to him by Vercingetorix. His helm was also a gift, and so was the simple prosthetic, designed to grip a shield and little else. It was mainly worthless in normal life, but it allowed him to joust, which was truly important.

Three years. It had been three bloody years since he had set foot on the land he knew as his true home. The first year fleeing from the monster prince Vortimer, the second baptized by a brutal improvised becoming that bound him to Bedrydant, the third marked by fighting and killing alongside Vercingetorix, Hywel, and Derfel, who had earned the name Cadarn as Bedwyr had earned the name Bedrydant.

A clopping of hooves woke Bedwyr from his revere. He opened his eyes, and smiled as Sir Palamedes approached. They had survived their becomings on the same day, which meant something in this world.

Palamedes was wearing his plumed helm, his dark face only slightly visible. He didn't look pleased. "It has been a long trip," said the other knight.

"You have never been on the soil of Graymere, right?" Bedwyr asked easily.

"No," Palamedes admitted. He sighed, and his voice was grim, showing his conflicted nature. "Sir Sagramore is still angry with this decision."

Bedwyr flinched. He and Sir Sagramore's friendship had become strained in recent months. Ever since he had announced a desire to return home at last. "He still believes I am abandoning Claire?" He gripped his reins a little tighter. "He knows I swore an oath that I would free her."

"Well," said Palamedes, "I think he thought that meant you wouldn't leave until you did."

"He didn't have to come with us," Bedwyr insisted, knowing it was a hollow point. "He could have stayed with Vercingetorix."

"He doesn't trust Vercingetorix." There was what made it pointless. Sir Sagramore wouldn't stay with a warlord he didn't trust without men he did around him, but the idea of returning home without his sister was inconsolable. In the end, he had followed Bedwyr home. Palamedes took a deep breath. "He's getting worse, you know. The rages."

Bedwyr took a deep breath. "The Chaoslands were bad for us all," he said firmly, "that's one reason I decided to return here. Not forever, we will return to battle there eventually, but we need to gather ourselves, rally aid, and see friends and companions again."

"I hope you are right." Palamedes didn't sound convinced. He managed a smile. "I'm glad to be off ship at least, so is this fellow." He patted his horse's flank.

Bedwyr laughed brightly. "Well, my friend, let's say we let them stretch their legs after so long!"

He set his helm back on his head, and with Palamedes at his side, they rode off across the path. The familiar scenery, from such happier days, whipped by as the wind sent the horsehair plume on his helm fluttering and his red cloak billowing like a cloud.

They passed several peasants, who watched with some nervous tension as two strange knights thundered by. It almost struck Bedwyr how peculiar that was. Knights when he had been here last had always been greeted with some degree of respect. But the simple joy of riding, not worrying about having to fight and kill for a moment relaxing his heart and soul.

The clopping of hooves and the jingling of their armor almost drowned out the sound ahead, certainly Bedwyr didn't notice what they came upon until they could just about see it.

One knight had another bent over their knee. The knight had a purple-dyed plume shaped like a mohawk on their helm, and their shield was marked with three black keys. They had their sword in hand, and was engaged in spanking the other knight again and again with the flat. The cracking sound and the agonized yelps of the tortured man rang out over and over with every rise and fall of the knight's arm.

Bedwyr stared in shock at the dishonorable treatment. An instant later, anger replaced shock. "See here!" he barked.

The knight stopped, and looked up at the two riders. They shoved their victim off their knee to sprawl in the dirt and rose to their feet, sheathing their sword and glaring up. "What's it to you?" Their voice was husky and rather feminine.

"Treating a fellow knight in such a fashion is an insult to dignity and honor!" Bedwyr called down. "Let him go this instant."

The injured knight, clearly more embarrassed than truly hurt, had staggered to his feet and rushed away as fast as his armor would allow. He vanished into the woods, having not spoken a word throughout.

The knight with the keys snorted as he ran. "Coward is already free I say." She, for Bedwyr was vaguely sure the knight was a woman, put her hands on her hips. "Some people don't deserve dignity, One-arm."

"Well," Bedwyr said, having not minded the name One-arm. He'd been called such before. "I don't know the man, but a knight deserves dignity, even in defeat."

"Ha!" boomed the lady knight. "You shouldn't stick your nose into other people's business. You'll look like an idiot otherwise."

Bedwyr held back an irritated growl. With a practiced motion, he leaped down from his saddle, making sure his shield was set. He had a feeling he knew where this was going.

The lady laughed. "Oh? Are you going to come down and teach me a lesson, fool?" She set her stance, sword drawn, shield set. "I assure you, blaggard, you will be the one on your ass after this!"

Palamedes backed his horse away, giving the two combatants room. He hadn't tried to dissuade Bedwyr, understanding this would be settled without death.

Sizing up his opponent, Bedwyr came to the simple conclusion that she was over-eager, shifting forward and back subtly and sword gripped a shade too tight.

They circled each other, neither saying a word. Without a word or sound, Bedwyr lunged forward, striking out with his blade.

The blow was deliberately slow and clumsy, and his foe easily blocked it with her shield, deflecting it away with a loud crack. Bedwyr slid back and away, and with a cry, his opponent sent her blade up and down towards Bedwyr's helmed skull.

Bedwyr smirked. She had over-extended. With a click and an exertion of his stronger-then-average right shoulder, he swung his wood-and-metal arm up, shield intercepting the brutal blow.

The resulting vibrations sent the woman's arm rattling, and Bedwyr took her momentary distraction to strike at her leg, hitting the greaves with a loud clang.

She yelped and staggered, driven instantly off-balance. It was Bedwyr's turn to move aggressively. He slid forward, striking again and again, even in heavy armor moving like a dancer.

The woman knight cursed as Bedwyr struck her sword-arm, and with an expert flick of his wrist, sent her sword flying to impale point first into the dirt.

An instant later, she slammed straight into him, a desperate, brutal attempt to get him off his feet, her shield slamming into his with a resounding clatter. Bedwyr staggered, and heard something give with a crack. His old prosthetic, his right leg, damaged several months ago in a fight with a mutant-cauldron born, finally broke in a key way.

The foot spun until it was horizontal under him, and unable to hold himself properly, Bedwyr fell to the ground with a thud. He groaned, the woman hunched on top of him. She was panting and sweating heavily. "Yield," she managed, "it has been a long day. I want to go home."

Bedwyr let go of his sword, more than a little irritated with himself. "I yield," he muttered.

She stood up, and retrieved her sword. "I hope that will teach you to not pick fights," she said irritably, "Idiot."

Bedwyr wondered suddenly why this woman seemed so familiar.

"Well, get up, the fights over!" she said irritably. Then she looked down. "Oh."

Palamedes leaped down from his horse, and helped Bedwyr to his feet, sliding one arm over his shoulder to help balance him. Bedwyr shook his head. "Bad luck, the thing just took its last hit."

The woman took off her helm, revealing a sturdy face with a sweat-soaked mop of red hair. Bedwyr's heart almost stopped. He knew her. She had changed in subtle ways, but she was ultimately unmistakable. "Cei!" he gasped.

She scowled. "That's Sir Cei to you, ass."

Suddenly, Bedwyr was laughing. He awkwardly tried for a moment to take off his own helm, eventually having to accept help from Palamedes. It came free at last, and Bedwyr let it fall to the ground.

Cei's expression changed almost instantly, from angry scowl to stunned amazement. "Bedwyr! It's you!"

"That's Sir Bedwyr to you, ass," Bedwyr mirrored with a broad grin.

Icipall · Jul 27, 2021

MysticKnightJoe said:
Closing his eyes and sighing gently, Bedwyr let the clean winds of his homeland chill his unhelmed face for the first time in three long years. King Pellinore's old armor, refitted for his own taller frame, felt lighter than ever on him, Drynwyn at his side comfortable.

And we're back with Bedwyr.

MysticKnightJoe said:
One knight had another bent over their knee. The knight had a purple-dyed plume shaped like a mohawk on their helm, and their shield was marked with three black keys. They had their sword in hand, and was engaged in spanking the other knight again and again with the flat. The cracking sound and the agonized yelps of the tortured man rang out over and over with every rise and fall of the knight's arm.

Well, this is something.

MysticKnightJoe said:
His old prosthetic, his right leg, damaged several months ago in a fight with a mutant-cauldron born, finally broke in a key way.

Damn, what a bad luck.

MysticKnightJoe said:
Bedwyr wondered suddenly why this woman seemed so familiar.

Ah, it's Cei.

MysticKnightJoe said:
"That's Sir Bedwyr to you, ass," Bedwyr mirrored with a broad grin.

Hah!

zang269 · Jul 27, 2021

MysticKnightJoe said:
Three years. It had been three bloody years since he had set foot on the land he knew as his true home. The first year fleeing from the monster prince Vortimer, the second baptized by a brutal improvised becoming that bound him to Bedrydant, the third marked by fighting and killing alongside Vercingetorix, Hywel, and Derfel, who had earned the name Cadarn as Bedwyr had earned the name Bedrydant.

Ah, a timeskip. I was really confused for a second.

baud · Jul 28, 2021

MysticKnightJoe said:
the second baptized by a brutal improvised becoming that bound him to Bedrydant

so Pellinore's dead or invalid, if Bedwyr is using his weapons and armor

MysticKnightJoe · Aug 1, 2021

Gripping it tight, Bedwyr wrenched his right foot heart, wincing as metal creaked and screamed. Finally, the foot was forced back into place. He tried to move it, and groaned as it didn't react.

Cei sat nearby, watching with a guilty expression. "I'm sorry," she muttered, so it was almost inaudible.

Bedwyr set down his foot, testing it. It would at least carry him, which was presently all he wished anyway. "Not your fault," he said, "thing was starting to fall apart anyway. I hope Sir Ector has a replacement."

"He should!" Cei declared. "When he learns it is a matter of my mistake, he will insist on it." Her eyes flicked to Bedwyr's cruder arm prosthetic. "Not sure if he will have one that reaches the shoulder though, people don't tend to survive losing limbs up there."

"Don't worry about it," Bedwyr said immediately, "I'm used to this thing by now."

"Right," Cei said. She clearly wanted to ask, but managed to hold her tongue.

She looked exhausted, Bedwyr realized, hair matted with sweat, and she almost seemed to slump into her seat, as if at any moment she would lie back and fall asleep. "So, what did that fellow deserve to get such a punishment?" he asked.

She snorted. "Everyone has gone games mad, that's what he did." She gestured irritably. "He is a knight of Benioc, they are riding through on a diplomatic mission here. King Ban is meeting with King Geriant. But of course his wanna-be jousters are challenging every knight they can to fights. That asshole was set up at the crossroads, challenging every fellow knight to a duel and bullying peasants for whatever he decided he needed at the moment. I got sick of the bastards of Benioc." She smirked, clearly proud of that turn of phrase. "And so I rode out to deal with them. I have had six jousts today, and won every last one of them."

"Well, that explains why you seem so tired," Bedwyr said.

"Why are they doing this?" Palamedes asked. He was standing a somewhat respectful distance away, a little unsure of his position here.

"That tournament coming up, to decide who gets to be High King," Cei sniffed, "it is all rot anyway, not like the winner gets the title. Everyone is sponsored, so everyone is fighting for the opportunity to give their lord the title High King. Seems most have taken it as some kind of opportunity to show off."

Palamedes frowned. "Seems to me like you did much the same, riding out and fighting everyone."

The glare from Cei made the other knight sink back. "Whose this idiot, Bedwyr?"

"My good friend Sir Palamedes," Bedwyr said, a shade protectively.

Cei mopped her brow. She had the decency to look a shade embarrassed. "Sorry, Sir Palamedes. It has been a long day, and being told I wasted it is understandably a bit of a sore point."

"No offense taken," said Palamedes, "been a long day for me and Sir Bedwyr as well." He smirked. "Some jerk picked a fight with him."

Cei laughed. At last, she looked like the girl Bedwyr had known three years ago. "So how is everyone?" she asked after a moment. "I heard that Blaise and Melissa got back a couple years ago." She took a deep breath. "And that they had Pellinore with them."

Bedwyr flinched. "We decided it wasn't safe. I'll check on him soon, I hope he is doing better." They had barely been able to keep him stable for a year, it may be too little, too late.

Cei made a face, a mixture of anger, sympathy, and pain. "Father hasn't said much about it, though he has visited as often as he can. Poor Aglovale though, he is beside himself. Course his siblings refuse to go. Their father is dying and they still only think about their petty grievances." She spat irritably.

Shaking his head, Bedwyr patted his friend on the shoulder. "For now, I'm just pleased to know he is still alive. Do you know anything about Blaise and Melissa?"

"Melissa has stuck around," Cei says, "creepy little brat. Blaise vanished around the same time as Myrddin."

"Myrddin is gone?" Bedwyr asked.

"Aye. Couple months ago he declared that Wart and I didn't need him as a tutor and just up and vanished into the woods. No one has seen hide or hair since. Wart is beside himself still."

"Why wouldn't he need a tutor?" Bedwyr asked.

"He isn't a child anymore, none of us are. He's my squire now. I don't exactly take him anywhere, he is liable to do something stupid to try and prove himself, and I don't want to explain to Ector why he got trampled to death by some asshole from Benioc."

Her face told Bedwyr a somewhat different story. Cei didn't want Wart getting hurt on her account. "How is he doing, in general?" he asked.

"Moping around," Cei sniffed, "Myrddin put this idea in his head that something amazing was going to happen to him. But all he is is a squire, and he just has to get used to that."

Bedwyr did feel sorry for Wart, though he suspected that even squires would see plenty of action soon enough. "Any other news?" he asked.

"Gawain visited a bit. He's Sir Gawain now of course, Prince Gwalchmei of Orkney and Lothian in truth. Brought his sister with him." Cei snorted. "Irritating brat, infatuated with Wart for some reason. Wouldn't stop following him around. Agra Vain she was called. Gawain is doing well at least. Riding around proving himself one of the strongest knights in the realm and getting popular with maidens, apparently."

"Certainly sounds like him." Bedwyr chuckled. "I'm looking forward to seeing him again."

"We will at the tournament," Cei said with a smile. "Though we will be rivals, you know. He'll be fighting for his father, King Lot. We will be fighting for King Geriant."

"Fine by me," said Bedwyr, "we will face each other in the tournament, and afterwards meet in friendship."

"I certainly hope it goes that way," Cei muttered. She got to her feet. "I don't think anyone will become High King without a fight, Beddie. We might have to fight Gawain seriously."

"While we fight among ourselves, the Chaos Lords gather power," Bedwyr hissed, "any conflict here is a possibly fatal waste of time."

"Preaching to the choir," Cei grunted. She stood for a second, then said easily. "I am starving, I haven't eaten since breakfast. There is a good inn past the crossroad, serves a damn fine goose. Why don't you gather the rest of your fellows, and we will catch up further over food and drink."

Bedwyr felt his own stomach rumble lightly. "Sounds great to me." He rose to his feet, and ignored the utter stiffness of his broken metal foot. "I shall see you there."

Cei began to walk away, towards her waiting horse.

"Cei!" Bedwyr called after her. "It was good to see you again."

His friend turned and smiled back at him. "The same to you, Sir." She sprang up onto her horse, and a moment later was gone.

"Bit intense, isn't she?" Palamedes asked.

"She always was," Bedwyr admitted, "she is a good person at heart though. A true friend."

Palamedes watched as Bedwyr mounted his horse, to make sure he didn't need help no doubt. Bedwyr managed it with only marginal difficulty. "I do hope everyone else likes her," Palamedes said as he easily leapt into the saddle. "She seems like a bit of an acquired taste."

Bedwyr easily turned his horse back towards camp. "Well, as long as we don't get into another fight, all should be well enough." He grinned. "Besides, it will be over good food, and none of us have had a really good meal in ages. I think that will soften everyone up."

Palamedes laughed, and with a call was off like a flash. "Race you!" he called.

Bedwyr smiled. Everyone, it seemed, was in a competitive mood. Must be in the air. He kept pace with Palamedes, not pushing. He was home, no reason to be in too much of a hurry.

Icipall · Aug 2, 2021

MysticKnightJoe said:
That asshole was set up at the crossroads, challenging every fellow knight to a duel and bullying peasants for whatever he decided he needed at the moment. I got sick of the bastards of Benioc." She smirked, clearly proud of that turn of phrase. "And so I rode out to deal with them. I have had six jousts today, and won every last one of them."

Impressive.

MysticKnightJoe said:
"That tournament coming up, to decide who gets to be High King,"

The big, special tourney is coming.

MysticKnightJoe said:
"Gawain visited a bit. He's Sir Gawain now of course, Prince Gwalchmei of Orkney and Lothian in truth. Brought his sister with him." Cei snorted. "Irritating brat, infatuated with Wart for some reason. Wouldn't stop following him around. Agra Vain she was called.

Poor Wart. And it seems we have female Agravain.

dermenscha · Aug 2, 2021

MysticKnightJoe said:
He was home, no reason to be in too much of a hurry.

"LOL Wart is gonna try to pull this sword from a stone."

MysticKnightJoe · Aug 7, 2021

The woman shuddered lightly in her sleep, her eyelashes quivering but not quite opening. Her soft olive skin rose and fell with her gentle breaths. She looked so truly gorgeous under the fading moonlight of dawn.

Sir Gawain certainly thought so. Any temptation to touch and stroke his bed partner to wakefulness was overridden by a simple desire to take in the view. Besides, he thought, it was very early and he suspected she wouldn't appreciate being awoken.

Gawain knew this for a fact, as it was unusual for him. He was a deep sleeper and late riser, even after a rather busy night. He disliked the dark, and loathed the moon. Under a dark sky he was just a normal, mortal, man. He'd seen the future long ago, and knew that he would die alone and in the dark. That profound fear, he believed, was held by every human across the universe, but what he had seen made it all the more powerful within him.

Her eyes fluttered open suddenly, and she rolled over to look up at him. "You should have woken me up, Sir," she said.

"We aren't in a court, Ceri," Gawain said easily, "you don't have to call me Sir, just Gawain or Gwalchmei."

A mischievous little smile, one of the things that had instantly attracted him to her, as she said, "Oh, but I like calling you Sir."

"Do you now?" Gawain asked. He moved closer, and Ceri leaned forward in welcome to his kiss. They had time before the morning.

"Prince Gwalchmai!" The door slammed open. Ceri yelped in surprise and embarrassment, and pulled away.

The other knight was a powerfully built man, head shaved bald and mustache long and bold. "Prince!" Sir Lamorak roared. "Enough of this!"

Gawain sighed, rolling over and glaring at his fellow traveler. "Now Sir Lamorak, I'm not entirely sure what you mean by that?"

Lamorak grew white. "Deflowering every maiden from Orkney to Rhegad, that's what!"

Ceri grew past her shock to cover a giggle.

Gawain rose from the bed, stretching himself out. "I assure you, Lamorak, that is quite the exaggeration."

"Put some clothes on," Lamorak said, trying his hardest to not look down. "We leave now, we have wasted too much time already."

"Now what pray tell is so important?" Ceri asked as Gawain pulled on his pants.

Gawain answered, "Myself and Sir Lamorak are visiting the court of Rhegad, a diplomatic mission to see King Owain and Queen Morgan." He smiled at her. "We are only a few days away, and there is no real time limit."

"May I remind you of the tournament in Londinium? The one we will be attending for King Lot?" Lamorak crossed his arms. "There is a time constraint, Prince."

"I do apologize, Ceri, it seems we will have to cut this lovely night short." Gawain thought for a second. "Unless, you wish to come with us to Rhegad."

"Absolutely not!" Lamorak snapped. "What reason could she have to come to court anyway?"

"I happen to be a bard, sir," Ceri said with a sniff. She seemed less offended than amused. "I am afraid Gawain that I must decline. Already people are gathering at Londinium, and I must go as well."

"A pity," Gawain said. He kneeled, kissing her hand. "Thank you for a lovely and pleasurable night, Ceri. I hope we meet again in Londinium."

The woman smiled, eyes glittering. "I hope so as well. Perhaps we can have more nights such as this, in time."

Gawain rose back to her feet. He gave a look to Lamorak and declared, "Well, I will have to leave swiftly, or I will stall far too much for Sir Lamorak's taste."

With that, both knights left the inn, Lamorak always watching his princely charge. They went out into the early dawn air, chill and quiet. The streets were still empty, no one having awoken.

"Must you embarrass yourself," Lamorak grumbled, "she was just a common bard."

Gawain shook his head, smiling. "You weren't in the common room when she played the Ballad of Macsen Wledig. How one can hear such a song, sung by such a beauty, and decide she is common I can't imagine. Though perhaps you would find a way, Sir Lamorak."

"Women hold no interest for me," said the man firmly, "and even if they did, I wouldn't go about bedding any I found even remotely attractive. What do you even intend to do beyond this, Prince, marry her?"

"Perhaps I will," Gawain said cheerfully.

Lamorak snorted. "You are truly the grandest fool on this planet, Prince." He stormed ahead until they reached the stables, both their horses, sturdy warhorses, well-groomed and ready. "You say that often, that you will take a woman to wife. You realize you can only have one, right?"

Gawain swung up onto his horse. The gray whinnied proudly, raising up in anticipation of the ride. The beautiful man was the image of princely dignity. "I have no idea where you get these ideas, Sir Lamorak," he declared brightly.

Sir Lamorak was about to answer, hotly and perhaps ill-favorably, but he was interrupted by a rumble from above. The sky lit up suddenly, and a shadow passed overhead, all the while the same thunder-like sound and sensation ripping through the town.

Gawain only had to make a quick move with his legs, and his horse was out on the streets, his eyes locked upwards towards the source of the sound. Lamorak stumbled close behind.

Amid the cries of alarm from guard and citizen, and the howling of dogs, the rumbling thing drifted overhead, then vanished into the treeline.

"Emperor help us!" Lamorak hissed. "Are we being invaded?"

As Lamorak's mind was filled with images of an assault from distant space, Gawain could only consider that here was an adventure, and something that King Owain certainly couldn't fault him for if it made him late.

"Where would our armor be, Sir Lamorak?" he asked.

"I sent our trucks ahead," Lamorak admitted, a little abashed. He had to speak loudly, over the suddenly awoken town. "I didn't expect an attack, you know."

The Prince sighed. "Very well, we will have to make due with our swords and our bare skins." With a little grunt, he tapped his horse lightly, and hurtled toward the forest.

Lamorak made an oath that would make a ganger blush, and followed his charge with a sense of pure irritation at the impetuousness of young men.

Icipall · Aug 7, 2021

MysticKnightJoe said:
Her eyes fluttered open suddenly, and she rolled over to look up at him. "You should have woken me up, Sir," she said.

"We aren't in a court, Ceri," Gawain said easily, "you don't have to call me Sir, just Gawain or Gwalchmei."

Fufufu.

MysticKnightJoe said:
Sir Lamorak was about to answer, hotly and perhaps ill-favorably, but he was interrupted by a rumble from above. The sky lit up suddenly, and a shadow passed overhead, all the while the same thunder-like sound and sensation ripping through the town.

And with that, the two stories converge.

MysticKnightJoe · Aug 12, 2021

If Prydwen had sounded like it was about to die, just barely surviving the passage through a warpstorm, the nameless little ship they had commandeered seemed to be an inch from falling apart throughout the atmospheric entry.

Diane flinched. "Am I the only one who thinks that it sounds like the screws are coming loose?" She felt a kind of horrid fear. There would be nothing they could do, if the fragile framework of metal and prayer gave way, they would die the same way thousands of unfortunate died.

It had been several hours since they had escaped Prydwen, and they hadn't looked back as they hurtled towards the closest world. Anything else would take days, if not weeks, especially with limited navigation. She darted a look at the back, where Isolde and Orgeluse were still desperately tending to the tech-priest's horrific wound. They had managed to stop the blood from flowing, and had bound it up as tightly as they could. But it was clear that they didn't have much more time.

Orgeluse, arms soaked with blood and promethium, walked up to her side, pale and shaking. "Avalon," she said softly, "this planet is called Avalon. Center of Subsector Prydain, the Throneworld of Macsen Wledig."

"Are you sure about that?" Diane asked.

"Just seems to be how today is shaping up," the adept replied morosely. She gripped the arms of the chairs tightly. "The look of the place matches up. A Feudal world that produced some of the strongest knights in the galaxy."

"Anything else you know about it?" Diane asked, mostly in an attempt to distract herself.

"Their local beliefs held strong, evidently, even with the Imperial Cult holding sway," Orgeluse said softly, "some records say that is what led to Macsen Wledig. The local mind of the planet tends to center on these local warrior-heroes. There were other rumors, there was an investigation into tales of "hill-people" and an isle that appeared and vanished. Some kind of xenos influence."

"But nothing came of it?" Diane asked, a little pointlessly. If something had come of it, no doubt Avalon would presently be nothing more than a barren rock.

Orgeluse shook her head. She was still pale, and the rocking vessel made her squirm uncomfortably, but she kept speaking, "The ruler of the Planet, the High King, was called Vortigern which apparently means "Great Leader" in some local dialect."

"What about Pendragon?" Diane asked.

"That seemed to emerge with Macsen Wledig," Orgeluse admitted, "and for obvious reasons, we have no way of knowing what happened during or since. Macsen Wledig is long dead, so we can't say much on it."

And what if he isn't? Diane almost asked. They had already heard word of some of his Battlefleet still in the void, still investigating incoming ships. Five thousand years and more outside the storm, who knew how long it had been within. It could have been as little as five years or as much as fifty thousand. Wledig could still be alive, ready to invade the instant the storm fell, or an entirely new, divergent, civilization could have emerged. It was a chilling thought.

The ship rumbled again, hitting an especially rough bit of turbulence. "Brandaine!" Diane called to the front. "Where are we landing?"

"No idea," snapped back the guardswoman. "I'm trying to concentrate, I haven't exactly had much training on these things!"

"Dear me, the Heaven Dancers sure are clumsy in heaven." Dagonet opened a single pinkish eye and grinned rakishly. "Perhaps they were somewhat foolishly named."

"You are free to try and pilot it yourself you mutant freak!" Brandaine yelled back.

"I have told you, it is a medical condition, not a mutation. Though perhaps I shouldn't expect you to know the difference."

Brandaine made a sound that was clearly her grating her teeth together. "Diane, please kill him."

"That would require me getting up and trying to walk," Diane said, "and I don't think I can do that without vomiting."

"Ah, saved by the weak stomach of a navigator," sighed Dagonet.

"For now," Diane snapped irritably.

"Another five minutes of life is as sweet as a glass of the finest wine, so I shall take that as the gift it is, Lady Diane."

The ship rocked and spasmed once again, stealing any response in fear of biting off her own tongue. They pierced through the cloud, and suddenly, the landmass they rapidly approached became visible.

"We are through," Brandaine sighed, clearly relaxing. "Should be smooth sailing from here. We are approaching an island landmass. By the Throne, the mainland looks like it has been burned. I can see it from here."

"Gramarye and Galla," said Orgeluse.

As the ship stabilized, Isolde found her way beside them. "So they are at war?" she asked softly. "Or were?"

Instead of answering, Brandaine answered, "I see signs of civilization. Feudal world, castles and towns. I'm going to try and land away from one. Hopefully we won't be noticed."

"Hopefully we won't get shot out of the sky!" Orgeluse squeaked.

"By what, a ballista?" Isolde asked with a sniff.

"It's a Knight World, My Lady, not a mere Feudal World. The Throne World of the Subsector, famed for the strength of the warriors it produced," Orgeluse listed. She shivered lightly. "I did some research into this, as part of learning about this part of the galaxy. I never thought it would be actually relevant though."

"You can never really know what may be useful and what may be pointless," Dagonet said sleepily. "Did you ever learn the local language? No matter how much time has passed, I have a pretty good guess that most people in that world don't speak Gothic anymore."

Orgeluse shook her head. "Why would I learn a language no one has spoken in five thousand years?"

"We will endeavor to avoid people as much as we can," Diane said calmly. If they had to spend their whole lives living quietly, hidden from others, she would do that.

Brandaine swore suddenly. "Just flew over a damn village. So I really hope we can be sneaky here!"

Softly, Isolde said, "I don't want to avoid people. Even if the common people only speak the local tongue, the noble class should know gothic right? Why don't we land by one of their castles?"

"Because we don't know what anyone here is like," Diane snapped. At Isolde's fearful look, she sighed. "We will see. We don't know what this planet has become, Isolde. We have to make sure we don't walk into a den of predators."

With a clunk, the ship finally set down. Brandaine stumbled back to the rest. She looked grim. "I landed far away from the village. Hopefully if they send anyone, we will be too deep in the woods for them to be able to send people on foot. Hopefully, they won't be able to navigate properly." Every one of her hopes sounded decidedly hollow, and her hand was locked on her pistol.

Diane shivered. Well, they were known to be here. All they could do was survive. "Fuel?" she asked.

"We are empty," Brandaine admitted. "I had to land, otherwise we'd have fallen like a stone." At the frightful looks she changed the subject quickly. "How's our tech-priest doing?"

"Stable, I think," Isolde said quickly, "but that's why I think we should try and get help. I don't think they will live, no matter what we do. We need to find proper medical attention."

Diane had to hold back the urge to snap. They wouldn't find proper medical attention here. They would find dangerous heretics, locked behind a warpstorm of who knew how long. Instead, she took a deep breath.

It was Brandaine who spoke, gruffly and directly. "We will look into that, Lady Isolde, I promise. For now, be sure to keep them stable." She stomped over to the hatchway. "I'm going to head out, make sure we are in the clear. The rest of you stay put." With that, she fumbled with the pad and the hatch creaked open, and alien air seeped into the ship.

It was a fine morning, and the fresh air made Diane want to sigh. It had been so long. "Can we at least go outside to take in the air?" she asked.

"Fine," Brandaine muttered. "Just don't make any noise." She stormed out, hand on her pistol and body stiff.

Dagonet sprang to his feet. The voidborn stretched and yawned. "Only my snores, I think," he said blithely.

Diane sighed and left the ship, followed closely by Isolde. She tried to keep her emotions under control, as she took in the first sight of the planet called Avalon.

Icipall · Aug 12, 2021

Interesting what the limited info they have about Avalon.

MysticKnightJoe said:
"We will endeavor to avoid people as much as we can," Diane said calmly. If they had to spend their whole lives living quietly, hidden from others, she would do that.

Yeah, good luck with that.

MysticKnightJoe said:
Hopefully if they send anyone, we will be too deep in the woods for them to be able to send people on foot. Hopefully, they won't be able to navigate properly."

I doubt any of you have ever set a foot in a forest, unlike the feudal people you're trying to hide from.

baud · Aug 12, 2021

MysticKnightJoe said:
"That would require me getting up and trying to walk," Diane said, "and I don't think I can do that without vomiting."

can't she just open her third eye and blast him that way? But nice retort anyway.

MysticKnightJoe said:
As the ship stabilized, Isolde found her way beside them. "So they are at war?" she asked softly. "Or where?"

Should be were, no?

MysticKnightJoe · Aug 14, 2021

Sir Gawain found that everything had gotten rather involved in the hour or so since the ship had flown over the village. He and Sir Lamorak found themselves joined rapidly by a small army of frightened villagers, most armed with some kind of weapon and all in a state of fear.

The Mayor, a usually jolly and kindly fellow named Rhys, called for order, and so a somewhat clumsy warcamp was formed at the immediate border of the forest. Gawain and Lamorak found themselves even more the talk of the town then they already were, with full expectation they would lead the expedition.

Adding to the general rabble was the fact that a small army of children had vanished into the woods, apparently inspired by some spirit of adventure to find the ship. Gawain could admire that, though he also had strong empathy for the fear of their parents.

Gawain moved through the camp, Lamorak at his side, smiling at anyone who acknowledged him. In the bustle and hustle, even a knight and prince could fully fall under the radar.

Mayor Rhys was talking to a local forester, a gnarled troll of a man who carried a longbow and a sharp hatchet. Rhys interrupted his talk to bow before Gawain. "Sir Gawain. Er, Prince Gwalchmai. Which do you prefer?"

Gawain smiled reassuringly. "Either will do, Lord Mayor." He gestured to Lamorak. "Myself and Sir Lamorak tried to ride our horses towards the ship, but we found ourselves stopped by the forest and hills." He chuckled tiredly at the memory. Not his finest hour. "Village children outran us and spread into the hills. Mocking us as they went.

Lamorak spat and muttered, "Brats," under his breath.

The forester smirked. "Aye, horses ain't much use here." He had a thick accent, rough and strange, as if he rarely spoke to other humans. "The childs are led by my own grandson. He knows the woods as well as I do. He'll find them right quick."

"Damnation," Lamorak snapped, "they could be Chaos Space Marines or Cauldron-Borne! Those children could be being slaughtered as we speak!"

The forester nodded. "Aye. Such is the danger. Plus there is the draig."

Gawain held back a worried grunt. A draig was a lizard-like super predator, that could be as large as a bear, and with Chaotic corruption could inflate to the size of a small castle.

Nervously, Rhys rubbed his hands together. "Well, perhaps it will handle our problem for us? Kill the invaders." He didn't sound very convinced.

Shrugging, the forester scratched his stubbly beard. "Maybe, maybe not. If the thing has been Chaos-touched, it is possible the invaders could take control of it. It could also be that they aren't hostile, and then we'd be leaving potential allies to get eaten."

Lamorak turned on Gawain, already starting his argument. "Prince, we can't just…"

"There is a draig, Sir Lamorak," Gawain interjected gently, "we can't simply let it run wild. You know how they get when they get a taste of human flesh."

"Too well, my lord," admitted Sir Lamorak, "but we should at least wait until our full gear arrives."

"There is no time," declared Gawain, flashing his most dazzling smile. "We have to move now!"

"I trust you will lead us, Sir?" The mayor asked nervously.

"Not at all," the prince said magnanimously. "I don't know this region as your people do. If this were Orkney or Lothian, I would agree with you in a second. I am perfectly happy with following local advice in this regard."

The mayor blushed. "Oh, well, thank you, Sir."

"Not at all," said Sir Gawain. He patted the hilt of his sword. Well, battling a draig and who-knew what else on foot would be no easy feat. He looked up at the sun. At the very least, the sun was rising. He was, after all, the strongest during the day.

**************

Brandaine swore violently as she almost tripped, staggering and only just managing to keep a grip on her lasgun.

"It seems they don't train the Astra Militarum like they used to," Dagonet whispered, thankfully low enough that only Diane could hear. She tried very hard to ignore him.

Staggering forward, slashing almost randomly with her dagger at low-hanging branches, Brandaine looked decidedly embarrassed.

"Maybe you could help her?" Isolde suggested nervously. She was hugging her coat to her, looking around the wild forest with naked fear in her eyes. None of them had experience with forests, especially not untamed wilderness like this, but she had the added aspect of being utterly sheltered from any uncivilized land.

Diane smiled at Isolde, nodding agreement, and stumbled after Brandaine. She had to stoop to avoid the branches above her.

She caught up to the guardswoman as she hacked through a thick branch, yelping as it hit the top of her feet as it fell.

"I thought the guard got training in traveling through hostile terrain," Diane said as she approached.

Brandaine took a deep breath. "I was taught on Anguish. My homeworld hasn't had forests in thousands of years, much less this nightmare." She waved her knife angirly. "If we manage to get our ship refueled, I say we go somewhere more civilized!"

"That's a big if," Diane said diplomatically. They would have to get used to these wild lands, if they were going to avoid people.

Brandaine only muttered in response. She hacked through another branch, this time managing to avoid it as it fell. "Just stay back," she grumbled, "you are too easy to spot."

Not wanting to argue, Diane let Brandaine storm ahead, making enough noise to draw every creature from a mile away. Humans as well, no doubt.

It was as Brandaine was raising her dagger for another strike, when a stone came out of nowhere and struck her on the wrist with a sickening crack. The guardswoman yelped in pain, her dagger falling from instantly nerveless fingers. She reflexively clasped her left on her injured hand, her face growing pale with pain and the realization that she had just made a fatal move.

A dirty little boy, about twelve years old, melted from the woods, sling whirring over his head and the smuggest grin on his sun-tanned face. He said something in the local tongue, that was full of the braggadocious swagger only the very young could really manage.

"You little shit!" Brandaine snarled. Her uninjured hand dove to her pistol at her belt, but she cried out as the next slingstone hit her on her other arm. This at least wasn't accompanied by a crack of bone.

The boy made a sound that, Diane was certain, was some kind of local animal. Several return calls came back.

She rushed forward. She didn't want to hurt the child, but she would grab him and make sure he stayed down. He had a hunting knife at his belt, but so far seemed content with his slingshot and childish daring.

Diane barged out of the undergrowth, arms spread wide, ready to jump on the boy and hold him still. She yelled in gothic, "Get! Leave us alone!"

She didn't have to attack as it turned out. At the sight of her, the boy's pallor went from youthful excitement to immediate terror. He screamed a word in his language, "Cawr!" And without any further hassle, turned and vanished into the trees, the only thing that signaled his presence the word repeated over and over.

Diane ignored that, she was fairly sure that meant something not complimentary, but she had to focus on Brandaine.

The woman was gripping her injured wrist, face screwed up in pain. "A little boy," she snarled, "what kind of little boy attacks a guardswoman with a frigging slingshot?"

"Just be thankful he didn't aim for your neck," Diane advised. She checked the wrist. Even she could tell that the bone had been cleanly broken. "These people probably all learn how to fight and navigate through the woods, from when they are small children. That boy has been hunting game in these woods since he could walk, no doubt."

"We should head back," Diane said, "Orgeluse and Isolde have some talent at setting bone, I think."

With a little groan, Brandaine muttered, "It hurts like hell. If I see that kid again, I'm going to tan his hide."

Diane hoped they didn't, hopefully the boy would spread the word about the woodland 'cawr', and everyone would know to avoid it. Feudal Worlders were a superstitious lot, after all.

She offered an arm to Brandaine, but the guardswoman ignored her and walked on her own back towards the ship. Refusing to show weakness, the other woman stomped forward, by her hacked trees.

As they walked, they suddenly heard a scream from ahead.

"Isolde!" Brandaine yelled.

They began to run, Diane still needing to hunch. The screams continued, and they were joined by a strange, horrifying, growl. Her heart pounded with terror and worry. What else was in this wood, aside from strange wild children? Another roar made her start to run faster. They were in a wild land now. They had made a mistake. A terrible mistake.

Icipall · Aug 15, 2021

MysticKnightJoe said:
Adding to the general rabble was the fact that a small army of children had vanished into the woods, apparently inspired by some spirit of adventure to find the ship.

*Sigh* Kids being kids.

MysticKnightJoe said:
The forester nodded. "Aye. Such is the danger. Plus there is the draig."

Gawain held back a worried grunt. A draig was a lizard-like super predator, that could be as large as a bear, and with Chaotic corruption could inflate to the size of a small castle.

So that's what the local dragons are like. Shit.

MysticKnightJoe said:
She caught up to the guardswoman as she hacked through a thick branch, yelping as it hit the top of her feet as it fell.

Heh.

MysticKnightJoe said:
"Just be thankful he didn't aim for your neck," Diane advised. She checked the wrist. Even she could tell that the bone had been cleanly broken.

Ouch.

MysticKnightJoe said:
They began to run, Diane still needing to hunch. The screams continued, and they were joined by a strange, horrifying, growl. Her heart pounded with terror and worry. What else was in this wood, aside from strange wild children? Another roar made her start to run faster. They were in a wild land now. They had made a mistake. A terrible mistake.

The draig found them.

baud · Aug 16, 2021

Icipall said:
The draig found them.

or worse

MysticKnightJoe · Aug 20, 2021

Sir Gawain, Sir Lamorak, and the forester were making their steady way through the forest, moving with varying degrees of skill through the dense growth. The forester moved like a ghost, sliding neatly through as if he was on clear ground, his longbow drawn, strung, and ready.

Sir Gawain, somewhat unused to the terrain, was giving it his best, hand on his sword, body tense and ready. Sir Lamorak shoved a branch aside, grumbling irritably. He was armed with a hunting-spear as well as his sword.

The forester held up a hand. "Quiet," the old man rasped. He waited until Gawain and Lamorak caught up to him. "I hear something, hard to pick it out with you thrashing about."

Gawain had thought he and Lamorak had been fairly quiet, really. Still, he decided to not belabor the point. This was the forester's court, his realm. One didn't challenge such a man in his own realm.

The forester turned his head to the side, listening. "A boy," he says slowly, "crying a word."

"Is he under attack?" asked Lamorak. He started to lower his spear, readying for the charge or the set of his feet.

"He is crying 'giant'," the forester answered. He strained a little more. "Aye, giant, over and over."

Lamorak swore softly. "Astartes?" he asked.

"I suspect the boy would be dead if he came across an Astartes in these woods," said Gawain. Still, he joined Lamorak in sliding his sword Galatine half out of its scabbard, ready to draw it fully, set it alight, and slay any attacker.

"The boy is running," the old man said, "I can hear his footsteps from here. Something spooked him, at the least. We will move to intercept him, if anything is chasing him, we will catch them there."

They continued to follow the aging forester, who still had his bow out. Gawain strained to hear, and eventually did hear the cry of "Giant!" ringing through the woods. He heard no answering attack, no thundering boom of the boltgun or scream of the Astartes' infamous Singing Swords.

The boy darted from the forest, eyes wide with fear, continuing to ceaselessly cry, "Giant!" over and over.

Gawain stopped the boy easily, grabbing him by the arm. "Now lad! Calm yourself! Where is the giant?"

The boy stared up at Gawain, darted a look at Lamorak, then settled on the forester. He took a deep breath. "Grandpa!" he gasped.

The old man leaned towards his grandson, eyes cold. "You are in all kinds of trouble, boy. What were you thinking rushing out like that?"

The boy puffed his chest, defiant despite Gawain's firm grip on his arm. "We could have taken them!" he sniffed. "It was just some dumb lady in a blue uniform. She was hacking through the trees like an amateur. I hit her wrist with my slingshot and called for the others. We'd have taken her out easily I tell you!"

"Then why didn't you?" asked Lamorak gruffly.

"Because the giant showed up!" the boy cried. "She was tall and skinny and pale as death. She was going to grab me, and drag me to her cauldron to cook and eat!"

"Did you notice anything else about her? Be specific, boy, think."

"She had some kind of wrapping around her forehead," the boy said after a moment of thought. "Probably to hide some kind of grotesque feature like...like...a third ear or something!"

Lamorak looked over to Gawain, frowning. "This could be quite the fight."

"I don't fight women unless I have no choice, giant or otherwise," said Sir Gawain. He considered for a moment. "If nothing else, we know we don't have to worry about Astartes. They are all men, or at least had started as men. And they have no pity, no hesitation. The boy would have lost his head if he faced an Astartes."

The poor boy swallowed, rubbing his neck. "Oh," he squeaked softly.

Gawain chuckled, ruffling his hair. "Run along lad, tell your friends to leave the woods and return to their mothers and fathers. We have this under control now."

His retainer gave him a look that clearly asked, "Do we?" which Gawain ignored. He was under the sun, of course he had it under control.

"Right," said the forester. "We kill a giant then." He got to his feet. "I ain't so soft towards ladies as you seem to be, Sir." He cocked his head, and frowned. "Hrm. There is something else. I don't hear the birds."

A roar rang through the woods, one that shook the men and the boy down to the bones.

"Draig!" the forester growled. He shoved his grandson back, towards the camp. "Run boy, run! Your sling won't do shit here!"

The boy didn't need to be told twice, and an instant later was gone, hurtling through the woods.

Gawain drew Galatine, its weight a familiar comfort. As they moved, he gave it a few balanced strokes, readying himself for battle.

"I take it," the old man said gruffly, "that you have killed plenty of draigs, Sir Knight?"

"This will be the first, actually," replied Sir Gawain.

"Wonderful."

****************

It was nearly as big as the ship itself, its fang filled maw chomping fiercely on the stern, its claws gouging at the surface metal. It had scales that gleamed in the sun like steel, limbs thick as tree trunks, flaps of skin on its sides that may, perhaps, allow it to glide.

"A dragon," Braindaine hissed, "that's a frigging dragon!"

Diane whispered back, "There is no such thing." There was no heat in her voice. How could she deny what was right in front of her eyes?

The monster reared back its head, its throat bulging. It hunched over the car, and with a gurgling growl, vomited forth a stream of boiling slag. The stench of melting metal filled the air. So did terrified screams from inside the ship.

Daine looked over the field. There were no bodies or signs of blood or struggle. Hopefully, everyone was inside the ship. The dragon was using every opportunity to crack it open, like a schola-boy opening a can of nuts, to get out of the fleshy treats within.

Shaking with barely restrained fear, Brandaine leveled her pistol, one-handed, at the creature. With a pain-shrill warcry, she pulled the trigger.

A beam of ruby light blasted over the dragon's head, just scratching one of its horns. It stopped. It had a long, fierce, lizard-face, its eyes blood-red and mad with animal fury. The horns that sprouted from its skull were those of a stag's, Brandaine's shot had scorched off one of the tines.

Diane waited for Brandaine to fire, but no more shots came. She turned her head, and she looked in horror at what was happening to the guardswoman. She was stock still, gun pointed at the creature. Her eyes were wide with fear. Paralyzed with terror. A Commissar would blow her brains onto the forest floor without hesitation.

The monster's throat bulged once again, its head reared up. Diane had seen what that meant once before. She grabbed Brandaine's injured arm. The woman yelped in agony as her fingers gripped her wrist. It did the trick, shocking her out of it so that Diane was able to move her away more easily.

Boiling slag struck where they were but a moment ago, and the tree unlucky to be in the way was immolated instantly. Diane could feel the sheer intense heat of the stuff, even far enough away so that it would simply kill her. "That thing's stomach must be like a geothermal event!" she yelled, shrill with fear.

Brandaine took several desperate pot-shots, only one striking home, blowing a scale apart. The monster only roared louder, leaping off the ship, which rocked wildly. Diane could see that the metal, strong enough to resist the rigors of space flight, had been scoured brutally and parts of it had started to slowly melt.

There were still screams coming from it, which meant that their companions still lived. How long that would last was difficult to decide.

The dragon took massive strides towards the fleeing companions. Its throat bulged again. This time, Diane could see the lower belly of the creature as it glowed, containing the extreme heat of its geothermal slag with the Emperor-only-know what process of its unknown biology.

"Right!" Diane screamed. Once again, she felt the sheer heat of the dragon's breath as it just missed them. This time she saw as grass and trees were instantly burned to blackened ash. There was no way this thing could belt out magma forever.

The dragon seemed to realize this as well, for its belly stopped glowing, and it started to lumber after the fleeing women. Maybe it wouldn't be so instant as a stream of magma, but its claws were as long as broadwords, and its fangs, intact for all its heat, gleamed like metal keen and deadly.

"We have to fight it, we can't keep running," Brandaine gasped out.

"You can barely aim, and my mace isn't going to cut it!" Diane hissed back.

The guardswoman was silent for a moment. "Maybe if it starts eating us, the others can run while it is distracted."

Diane wanted to argue. They'd be nothing but a mouthful to the monster, hardly something it would take its time on. But she realized that Brandaine was right. This was the end. They might as well take the opportunity to try and buy some time.

So she and Brandaine stopped, turned, and faced the charge of the reptilian horror. They barely had time to prepare as the thing bore down on them, by the time they turned, it was already half-way to them, and gaining rapidly.

Brandaine, barely having time to aim, didn't bother. She opened fire, beams of ruby energy pounding into the dragon as it rumbled forward, the thing shaking off every shot, though Diane could see that it did in fact cause some injury, scales blasted off and flesh scoured. Whether it was serious injury or not barely seemed to matter, the thing's mad red eyes were full of such killing intent, Diane was fairly sure it would rip them to shreds whether it died an instant after the fact.

She gripped her mace, holding it for the maximum force she could swing it, with her inhuman body with the strength of three ordinary humans. She thumbed the rune, and the mace sparked to life. It was insufficient before the dragon's bulk. But she would strike its skull as hard as she possibly could.

A horn rang out, close, loud, and clear. The dragon stopped suddenly, as if confused, and an arrow struck it just above the eye. Instantly, the weapon splintered, the head shattering apart. It had been tipped with some lesser metal, iron or steel, that couldn't penetrate the thick scales of the beast.

The dragon turned and roared towards the direction of the offending projectile. Another flew right into its open mouth, and this time stuck deep. Clearly, it was little more than a pinprick to such a large and powerful creature, but nonetheless, the red eyes went berserk with fury. Forgetting the two women it had been chasing, the thing lumbered toward the forest line. Its belly was starting to glow.

A man, powerfully built, bald, and gruff, rushed to their side. He was armed with a spear and a scowl. He barked something in the local tongue.

"What?" Diane asked, stupidly.

The man barely hesitated, roaring in thickly accented gothic, "Move, giantess!"

Charmless grabbed Brandaine by the arm, eliciting a yelp, and yanked her towards the treeline. Diane followed, not wanting to argue.

The man looked up and swore loudly. His voice was full with enraged exasperation.

Diane turned to see what the local warrior saw. Her eyes widened.

Charging at the dragon was a beautiful young man, who looked like he had lept right from a storybook. Tall, blonde, well-built, and gleaming like a God in the sun, he was running full tilt at the still distracted monster. In his hand was a sword, alight with power. Diane had never seen a Power Sword before. Gripped in Prince Charming's hand, it looked like the sword of the God-Emperor himself.

The rough man roared something that Diane suspected meant "Idiot!" and shoved her and Brandaine aside to rush forward and throw his spear. The weapon clanged hard against the scales, and the thing barely seemed to notice. It did, however, notice Charming.

It swung, slashing out with massive claws. Such was its ferocity, that no doubt the young man's head would go flying from his body. Diane closed her eyes, but instantly opened them again as Brandaine made a shocked, impressed sound.

The young man had dived under the attack with stunning dexterity. Not even losing his footing or stride for an instant, he lashed upwards with the fiercely glowing sword. Scales that had held against lasbolt, spear, and arrow parted instantly before the ancient might of the warrior's blade, and in a gout of boiling black blood, the dragon's clawed hand went flying.

In its agony and rage, and determination to kill the beautiful man, the dragon made a fatal error. It shoved its maw right up towards him, in range of that terrible blade.

The dragon's mouth opened wide to snap the hero in half, but that was of course what a truly bold dragon-slayer would be waiting for. With a loud cry, the hero swung his bright warblade, sending teeth and blood flying everywhere. Not resting on his laurels, the warrior darted forward, ducking beneath the dragon's suddenly flailing head. Behind him, slag spewed forth in reflexive agony. The Prince's flowing cloak was scorched at the very end, but he barely seemed to notice.

The dragon tried to force itself down and after the small and deadly irritation beneath it, its ruined mouth foaming in its rage. But the young man, possibly an expert at the dispachment of dragons, had reached its blind spot.

"I'm going to kill him," the man beside Diane groaned in gothic, as if forgetting people right beside him could actually understand. "If he survives this I'm going to kill him."

The sword was unshrouded by the massive shadow, it lit up the young man's handsome face and fierce smile as he impaled the dragon's neck on the blade. Once again, scales and flesh parted before the ancient technology of the power sword. The sword lodged straight into the creature's throat, sealing it up. The thing began to thrash in rage, gurgling. Its throat glowed as it tried to fire off more slag, its remaining front claw lashed and spasmed, but the young man was already rushing out from the shadow, leaving his sword in the beast's throat.

The beautiful man swaggered over to his companion and the two women. Behind him, the dragon spasmed one final time, then lay still. The sword held firm, undamaged from its ordeal.

The other man was glaring at the man. "They only speak gothic, evidently," he growls. "The plan was to distract the thing and drag them out, Prince."

He is a Prince, Diane thought stupidly. An actual Prince Charming.

The Prince shrugged, smiling in a heart melting way. His accent was also quite thick. "That was before I saw more were in trouble then just these two. The dragon had to be slain, and I was the only one with the ability to kill it."

Brandaine muttered, "I could have killed it." She had a shamed look on her face, like she was facing the barrel of the Commissar's gun.

"Perhaps, milady," said the Prince. "But facing a dragon with only two is a difficult endeavor, so I don't think anyone can judge you too harshly."

The bowman emerged from the treeline, a gnarled troll of a man, his weapon unstrung and slung over his shoulder. He watched the conversation, then walked over to the dragon, muttering something in the local tongue.

The Prince nodded in the woodsman's direction. He turned his radiant face back to the two. "Now. Business, I'm afraid. Who are you two, and why have you come here?"

[In related news I have seen The Green Knight, and so should everyone reading this fic.]

Icipall · Aug 20, 2021

MysticKnightJoe said:
Lamorak swore softly. "Astartes?" he asked.

"I suspect the boy would be dead if he came across an Astartes in these woods," said Gawain. Still, he joined Lamorak in sliding his sword Galatine half out of its scabbard, ready to draw it fully, set it alight, and slay any attacker.

Right, the only Astartes they'd have any experience with would be Chaos ones.or the facsimiles local sorcerers have created.

MysticKnightJoe said:
"I take it," the old man said gruffly, "that you have killed plenty of draigs, Sir Knight?"

"This will be the first, actually," replied Sir Gawain.

"Wonderful."

Look on the bright side, you get to see a knight slay his first dragon.

MysticKnightJoe said:
Diane waited for Brandaine to fire, but no more shots came. She turned her head, and she looked in horror at what was happening to the guardswoman. She was stock still, gun pointed at the creature. Her eyes were wide with fear. Paralyzed with terror. A Commissar would blow her brains onto the forest floor without hesitation.

Great, just great.

MysticKnightJoe said:
Charging at the dragon was a beautiful young man, who looked like he had lept right from a storybook. Tall, blonde, well-built, and gleaming like a God in the sun, he was running full tilt at the still distracted monster. In his hand was a sword, alight with power. Diane had never seen a Power Sword before. Gripped in Prince Charming's hand, it looked like the sword of the God-Emperor himself.

That's Gawain!

MysticKnightJoe said:
The young man had dived under the attack with stunning dexterity. Not even losing his footing or stride for an instant, he lashed upwards with the fiercely glowing sword. Scales that had held against lasbolt, spear, and arrow parted instantly before the ancient might of the warrior's blade, and in a gout of boiling black blood, the dragon's clawed hand went flying.

In its agony and rage, and determination to kill the beautiful man, the dragon made a fatal error. It shoved its maw right up towards him, in range of that terrible blade.

The dragon's mouth opened wide to snap the hero in half, but that was of course what a truly bold dragon-slayer would be waiting for. With a loud cry, the hero swung his bright warblade, sending teeth and blood flying everywhere. Not resting on his laurels, the warrior darted forward, ducking beneath the dragon's suddenly flailing head. Behind him, slag spewed forth in reflexive agony. The Prince's flowing cloak was scorched at the very end, but he barely seemed to notice.

Good job, Gawain!

MysticKnightJoe said:
The beautiful man swaggered over to his companion and the two women. Behind him, the dragon spasmed one final time, then lay still. The sword held firm, undamaged from its ordeal.

Quest Complete!

MysticKnightJoe · Aug 25, 2021

The inn Cei had invited them to was a fine place, large, well-lit, and presently emitting gentle music and delicious smells. Bedwyr felt his hunger acutely, it felt like he hadn't eaten well in a long time, certainly not in such warm and friendly circumstances.

His whole band was beside him, aside from Gowther, who still disliked cities and crowds, and Sagramore, who hadn't even responded to the invitation. Ganieda was, perhaps, the biggest attention drawer with her goat's eyes and cloven hooves. Beside Bedwin in his ragged priest's robes, she was downright out-of-place, though her own uniform marked her as a novitiate damsel.

"I hope they have stew," said Palamedes, "good hot stew with beef and carrots."

"I hope they have a laundress," said Bedwin, fiddling with the sleeves of his robe. "Who can clean my last set of robes."

Ganieda flashed a rapid series of signs at the young priest. All had learned her sign language, and all understood it as, "It looks more like you need a new one."

Bedwin's robe was torn, covered in muck and blood, and the dye had faded into more of a dark pink. The Aquilla had fallen off and had been sewn back on several times, and currently hung a bit eschew. The uniform would quite likely get him flogged, if he were still in training. But Bedwin had declared himself a fully ordained priest a year ago, and the implants at his temples showed another fact, that he was a knight in truth.

Cei stormed out of the inn suddenly, eyes fierce. She barely seemed to notice the rest, so stormy was her irritation.

"Hello Cei," Bedwyr said nervously.

"We are going somewhere else," the woman snapped, "Benioc's men-at-arms eat there, and one of the knights of that pit of vipers. Sir Boar or something. I won't be able to even look at him without wanting to punch his face in."

Bedwyr shook his head with a sigh. "Is there really a reason to be so confrontational?"

"Of course there is!" Cei hissed. "Sir Boar or whatever is the base-born son of King Ban, who is the loyal subordinate of King Meliodas, who's been running around with that cursed sword the Queen of Shadows gave him talking about ruling everyone with an iron fist."

"Base-born?" Bedwyr asked with a raised eyebrow.

"He is his son by some soldier-woman," Cei said with a bored wave of the hand. "Like Chulwch, that son of Uther you told me about. Can't ever inherit, but can leverage it into a bit of power, even a mount."

"I've heard of Sir Bors," said Bedwin, using the man's proper name, no doubt. "He is said to be a pious and decent man."

Cei sniffed. "They say that about King Tewdrig as well, and he's kept up burning anyone his twisted brain says deserves it."

Bedwyr wondered how much political rumor he had missed in the past three years. Something to speak with Cei about, once everyone was settled down. Still, this all felt more than a little absurd. "Cei," he said gently, "I am sure that we can at least have a meal in peace. We will sit away from Sir Bors and his men, we won't bother him, and I doubt he will bother us."

Cei shot a disgusted look back at the inn, then grunted, "Fine. But don't complain if we get into a fight, ok?"

Bedwyr looked down at his still broken foot. Ganedia had done a slightly more thorough job of keeping it steady, two tight metal bindings and quite a few silent prayers. He didn't quite trust it in a fight. There wasn't going to be one though, he was just being paranoid.

Cei gestured them in, frowning. She followed them through.

Inside, the inn was as hospitable and warm as it looked from outside. An aging bard plinked out an ancient song on a delicate harp, and several young women in tight dresses rushed about with drinks and food.

There was only one table set up, and it was crowded with men-at-arms in the blue of Benioc, the sea-eagle prominent on their tabards. At the head of the table was the lone knight, Sir Bors. From a distance, Bedwyr could make out the sturdy, honest face of a man in his early twenties, his nose flattened from an old fight. His hair and beard were straw-colored and only added to the fact he looked more like a farmer then a knight.

Cei studiously ignored them, and led the company over to their own table. They were decidedly less packed in then the soldiers from another land, numbering less than their score and ten.

Palamedes' wish for stew was granted, with it being ladled out from a massive cauldron. Bread and cheese was also provided, and plenty of mead and ale.

It was nearly pleasant, but Bedwyr could feel eyes on him from the moment they entered, which only intensified as they sat down. He didn't need to look, not with Cei giving him a rather pointed "Told you so!" look.

The warriors from Benioc kept to themselves, thankfully enough, but Bedwyr could feel their strange building irritation through the evening. Drink was flowing freely from kitchen to table, and Bedwyr felt his own head start to go light.

"Someone is coming up to us," Ganieda signed, Bedwyr only barely catching the movements in his tipsy haze.

Cei's gaze grew truly fierce as the clearly drunk soldier went over to the set. Her hand reached to her sword, and on an impulse, Bedwyr caught it before it could grasp the hilt.

The man grinned stupidly, leaning over the group. "Didn't realize that Dumnonia had gotten so desperate. A one-armed cripple, a patchwork priest, some kind of mutant freak." He made a gurgling noise in his throat, clearly only just managing to hold back his gorge. "And the bitch knight herself, Cei."

"Come closer, I didn't hear that," Cei snarled, "you have more puke in your mouth than air!"

Bedwyr darted a look over the table. Tension was building rapidly the more the drunkard talked.

"If this is what you have to bring to bear, you won't last in the tournament," the man sneered. He turned to his fellows, roaring, "I have all my money on our Sir Lancelot, isn't that right lads!"

Bedwyr found himself calmed to see that the general reaction to this drunken blabber seemed to be stunned shock and horror. There was some scattered response, but it was muffled and intensely awkward.

Sir Bors was up and moving already, expression grim. He seized his man's shoulder and said in a deep, strong voice, "I believe you should sit down, before you shame yourself further."

The man-at-arms stared at the knight for a second, then seemed to sober as he realized that his superior was quite angry with him. He grew quite pale, and allowed himself to be led away by the bigger man. After a moment, he suddenly hunched over and emptied his guts on the floor and Sir Bors' shoes.

Cei burst into laughter. "Well!" she cried. "If Sir Lancelot holds his guts in like you, we won't have anything to worry about!"

"Lady Cei," said Sir Bors. He managed a thin smile. "If you continue to run your mouth and insult my brother, I will have to fight you, and that would be a poor end to the evening, regardless of who wins or loses."

She lifted her mug. "Then I will hold myself to simply insulting drunken fools!"

"You have the right to that," Sir Bors said calmly, as he led the man away. "But pray remember your station, Lady."

Bedwyr let out a deep breath. "He seems to be a decent man. It was good of him to calm that down." He turned back to the stew.

"A pious and decent man, as I said, Bedwyr," Bedwin said cheerfully.

Ganieda signed, a mischievous smile on her face, "Kind of handsome as well."

"You will have to teach me the damsel's hand language," Cei muttered suspiciously.

"Something we will work on," said Bedwyr with a smile, "all my friends know it, so you and Wart shall learn it soon enough."

Cei blinked, then flushed a little from more than the drink. "I'd like that," she said softly.

The door slammed open suddenly, drawing everyone's attention instantly. Standing in the doorframe was a knight in armor, face hidden behind a high and proud jousting helm. The sea-eagle of Benioc was painted on his breastplate, and at his side was a sword, pommel gleaming in the light of the inn.

"Oh shit," Cei growled, her good humor evaporated. "It's Sir Lancelot."

Icipall · Aug 25, 2021

MysticKnightJoe said:
"Of course there is!" Cei hissed. "Sir Boar or whatever is the base-born son of King Ban, who is the loyal subordinate of King Meliodas, who's been running around with that cursed sword the Queen of Shadows gave him talking about ruling everyone with an iron fist."

"Base-born?" Bedwyr asked with a raised eyebrow.

"He is his son by some soldier-woman," Cei said with a bored wave of the hand. "Like Chulwch, that son of Uther you told me about. Can't ever inherit, but can leverage it into a bit of power, even a mount."

Complicated, I see.

MysticKnightJoe said:
The warriors from Benioc kept to themselves, thankfully enough, but Bedwyr could feel their strange building irritation through the evening. Drink was flowing freely from kitchen to table, and Bedwyr felt his own head start to go light.

Always a bad combination.

MysticKnightJoe said:
Sir Bors was up and moving already, expression grim. He seized his man's shoulder and said in a deep, strong voice, "I believe you should sit down, before you shame yourself further."

MysticKnightJoe said:
"Lady Cei," said Sir Bors. He managed a thin smile. "If you continue to run your mouth and insult my brother, I will have to fight you, and that would be a poor end to the evening, regardless of who wins or loses."

Seems like a reasonable man.

MysticKnightJoe said:
The door slammed open suddenly, drawing everyone's attention instantly. Standing in the doorframe was a knight in armor, face hidden behind a high and proud jousting helm. The sea-eagle of Benioc was painted on his breastplate, and at his side was a sword, pommel gleaming in the light of the inn.

"Oh shit," Cei growled, her good humor evaporated. "It's Sir Lancelot."

Didn't realize he comes when called!

dermenscha · Aug 25, 2021

MysticKnightJoe said:
"Oh shit," Cei growled, her good humor evaporated. "It's Sir Lancelot."

"Oh shit, it's Sir Lancelot" is one of those phrases that, despite not making its way into the original canon, any proper telling of the Knights of the Round Table must include ten or twenty times.

MysticKnightJoe · Aug 29, 2021

Sir Lancelot, the most famous and allegedly the strongest of the new generation of chivalry, cut a noble figure as he entered the inn. In his gleaming plate, he looked too regal for the place. Several of the serving women started to titter excitedly.

The famous knight swaggered forward, the clang of his metal boots punctuating his entrance. Bedwyr felt a threat emanating from the warrior. He had had this same feeling many times across his recent military career. Sir Lancelot wasn't just geared for battle, he was about to engage.

"Oh Emperor please don't come to us, don't come to us," Bedwin hissed beside him.

Ganieda signed to Bedwyr, "Something has crawled up his ass."

Bedwyr only gave a quick gesture, to remain steady. He watched Lancelot closely.

Sir Bors rose to greet his half-brother, gesturing to his table and saying, rather loudly, "Brother! Sit and sup with us, the food and drink here is quite good!"

Lancelot stopped. He didn't even turn to his brother. "I am not here to drink among common men, Bors. I am here to avenge injury to our knights." He raised a hand, pointing at Cei. "Lady Cei!" he boomed.

Cei took a massive bite of chicken, chewed for a moment, and replied, mouth full, "What do you want?" Before swallowing.

"You have made mockery of my fellow knights over these past few days," Lancelot declared, his clear, beautiful, voice ringing through the inn hall. "Is this how the daughter of Sir Ector shows hospitality?"

Cei barked a laugh. "Hospitality? That requires some mutual respect, Sir. Your knights have been galavanting around, pestering everyone for fights. I simply met them and bested them."

"Such is their right," Lancelot replied, cold as snow. "Your knights of Dumnonia have been doing much the same."

"This is our land!" Cei barked. She pounded the table with her fist. "King Geriant rules here, not King Ban!"

Sir Bors was up, his nose a touch red from drink. He walked up to his brother, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Brother, please. Come, sit and sup with us, it is too fair a night to fight."

Lancelot reached up, and shoved the hand away. "Your breath smells of mead, Bors. It is most unbecoming of a knight."

The color drained from Bors' face. "Yes, you are right, brother. I was celebrating a successful diplomatic mission, but I will endeavour to drink less from now on."

"Sure, successful," said Cei with absolute irony. She waved her hand to Lancelot. "Move along, Sir. I've duled seven knights today, and bested each one. I'm too tired to play anymore."

Bedwyr decided it wouldn't help matters to bring up that the count was eight, and Cei had only won against him by bad luck.

However, the rival knight only chuckled. "Really? I have won ten duels this day, and I feel as fresh as when I first awoke. Perhaps your stamina needs work, Lady."

There was a cracking sound, as Cei gripped her mug so hard, she caused a fracture to spread on it. Mead spilled free and all over the table.

"Temper as well, it seems," said Lancelot.

Bedwyr found himself on his feet suddenly. He was glaring at the armored man, his one eye fierce. "I think, Sir, your brother is correct. You go to your table, and we will stick to ours."

Lancelot turned his attention to Bedwyr, his eyes not quite visible beneath the rim of his helm. "And who are you?" he asked.

"Sir Bedwyr Bedrydant, of Armorica," Bedwyr answered.

"I have never heard of you," Lancelot said bluntly.

Bedwyr shrugged. That wasn't something he minded, really. He could see Cei quivering with rage on his behalf however. "I wouldn't expect you to," he said easily, "I am not a famed knight, just a knight."

"A knight," declared Lancelot, "should have more pride."

"I disagree." More heat was put into those two words then he intended. He quickly tried to backtrack, and lowered his tone. "Humility is the highest virtue of a knight." He noticed that Sir Bors was watching him appraisingly.

"I trust your strength of arms is a match for your humility, Sir."

Bedwyr kept himself level. "I have survived this long." He felt a little cornered. "Sir, are you trying to pick a fight with me?"

"You'd hardly be worth fighting," Lancelot declared, "a no-name warrior from a destroyed nation. There would be no honor in it."

Bedwyr smiled at that. "Well then, in that case I shall return to my drink in peace. May you continue to walk with honor, Sir Lancelot." He started to sit back down.

"By the God-Emperor," Sir Lancelot said, sounding a touch scandalized, "you do lack manhood, don't you, Bedwyr?"

"Hah!" barked Cei. "I lack it entirely, and I am quite with him here. It is getting late, the time for duels is past."

Bedwyr barely noticed Cei. The insult to his manhood didn't phase him. That mattered little to him. What did was the lack of the honorific 'Sir' in front of his name. He had fought, bled, and killed for that title. He had earned it. "I care not," he growled, "if I am seen as a man, a boy, or a woman by you, Sir, but I am first and foremost a knight. I insist you call me by the befitting title."

Lancelot's expression was hidden by his helmet. It rendered him inhuman, an entity of force. "Then prove it."

"Don't think he'll leave until someone fights him," muttered Bedwin into his ear. The priest shook his head, and rose to leave. "I'll fetch your lance."

"So be it," Bedwyr sighed. He glared at Lancelot. "The joust then?"

The greatest knight in the world didn't answer, he turned and left the inn, his brother at his heel. Sir Bors sent Bedwyr and Cei an apologetic look.

************

The throughway was quickly cleared of people to make room for the two knights. Children peered through windows excitedly, their parents not quite being able to hide their own curiosity.

Bedwyr sat his horse, facing Lancelot and trying to bury his nerves. He had never been in a proper joust before. His false arm, specially designed to handle his shield, felt instantly insufficient.

Sir Lancelot, of course, was sitting his horse with absolute confidence and skill. He called, "The short!" And Sir Bors hurried over with a spear on the small end of the spectrum.

Bedwyr took a deep breath. He knew this meant that Lancelot really wasn't considering him much of a threat. He took a deep breath. "Bedwin, my long please."

Bedwin stepped forward, and held up Bedwyr's longest weapon, fully a foot and a half longer than Lancelot's.

Lancelot chuckled insolently. "Such a large weapon for a small warrior."

"Feel free to change your spear to match the length," Bedwyr said calmly, "I wouldn't want it said I took an unfair advantage."

"I say you shall need the handicap," answered Lancelot.

Cei cupped her hands over her mouth and called out, "Kick his ass, Bedwyr!"

Ganieda signed something even more foul, but equally supportive.

Lancelot's horse was the pinnacle of breeding, a gorgeous grey with beautiful eyes and powerful limbs. His seat was as perfect as the horse, and his lance was held with utter delicacy.

Bedwyr had a sudden, rather cruel idea. Really though, Sir Lancelot was bringing it on himself. He deliberately fumbled with his lance, pretending he couldn't quite handle it.

Lancelot lowered his spear, and his mount began to move.

It was a risk, Bedwyr knew, but overconfidence was an easy weakness to exploit. He pretended to struggle as he started his horse to trot. He let his lance waver as it came down. Perhaps Sir Lancelot would think him drunk or weak.

The result either way was more than Bedwyr could hope. Under normal circumstances, Lancelot would be able to compensate for the length of his spear. He'd be prepared for the early hit. But here and now, the arrogant man was caught by complete surprise when suddenly Bedwyr shifted his aim into the expert stroke, the moment of impact sudden, brutal, and unexpected right in the center of Lancelot's shield.

Bedwyr's lance cracked apart, and Lancelot's shield evaporated from the sheer force of the blow. The finest knight in the world hurtled from the saddle with a cry that mingled confusion and pain. He landed on the earth with a thud.

There was no silence in the aftermath. Cei let out a loud whoop that carried through the town. "You got the bastard!"

Lancelot forced himself to his feet, grabbing his horse's bridle. "You cheated," he snarled, "you pretended to be drunk."

"If you desire a rematch," Bedwyr said calmly, "I am willing. I apologize, but overconfidence is something that one can take advantage of in combat. No matter how good one is, one must always remember that you can run into someone who, for whatever reason, can best you."

Lancelot got back into the saddle with some effort. His helm was eskew, and Bedwyr could make out dark locks beneath the rim. He could also see the man's eyes, dark blue and filled with anger. "We will meet again in Londinium, Bedwyr One-Arm. We will have our rematch there." With that, he turned his horse and rode away.

Cei burst into laughter. "Sore loser!" she called after the man's back.

Sir Bors rode up to Bedwyr, a frown creasing his honest face. "That is the first time I've seen my brother thrown, Sir. I am impressed."

"It was just a trick," Bedwyr argued calmly.

Sir Bors eyebrow rose. "If you insist." He bowed in the saddle, first to Bedwyr, then to Cei. "I shall see you in Londinium, I trust. For now, I bid you all farewell, may the Emperor Protect." Sir Bors followed his brother out of town.

Bedwyr leapt from his horse, and was greeted by Cei, who clapped him so hard on the back he almost stumbled. "I knew you had it in you!" the woman crowed.

"That was your fight, Cei," Bedwyr said, a touch reproachfully, "I had no interest in battling that knight."

"But you did! You unhorsed the greatest knight in the world!" Cei declared. After a moment, she said quickly, "not that I couldn't have, myself, I'm just tired from a long day and have had a little too much to drink. I'll unhorse him at the tournament."

Ganieda signed the near universal sign for "Doubt it", but Cei ignored it in favor of clapping Bedwyr on the back again and leading him back towards the inn.

Bedwyr looked back at the retreating forms of Sir Lancelot and Sir Bors. Their men were following and he noticed several angry glares. Sir Lancelot sent a look back that made his blood run cold. He sighed. The tournament was going to be painful, he knew.

Icipall · Aug 30, 2021

MysticKnightJoe said:
"Oh Emperor please don't come to us, don't come to us," Bedwin hissed beside him.

MysticKnightJoe said:
Lancelot stopped. He didn't even turn to his brother. "I am not here to drink among common men, Bors. I am here to avenge injury to our knights." He raised a hand, pointing at Cei. "Lady Cei!" he boomed.

Oh boy.

MysticKnightJoe said:
"I disagree." More heat was put into those two words then he intended. He quickly tried to backtrack, and lowered his tone. "Humility is the highest virtue of a knight." He noticed that Sir Bors was watching him appraisingly.

Well said, Bedwyr.

MysticKnightJoe said:
Cei cupped her hands over her mouth and called out, "Kick his ass Bedwyr!"

Missing a comma.

MysticKnightJoe said:
The result either way was more than Bedwyr could hope. Under normal circumstances, Lancelot would be able to compensate for the length of his spear. He'd be prepared for the early hit. But here and now, the arrogant man was caught by complete surprise when suddenly Bedwyr shifted his aim into the expert stroke, the moment of impact sudden, brutal, and unexpected right in the center of Lancelot's shield.

Bedwyr's lance cracked apart, and Lancelot's shield evaporated from the sheer force of the blow. The finest knight in the world hurtled from the saddle with a cry that mingled confusion and pain. He landed on the earth with a thud.

Hah! Good job, Bedwyr.

dermenscha · Aug 30, 2021

MysticKnightJoe said:
Sir Bors rode up to Bedwyr, a frown creasing his honest face. "That is the first time I've seen my brother thrown, Sir. I am impressed."

Bors, you are too pure for Lancelot.

Why is he Lancelot's brother here, instead of his cousin?

MysticKnightJoe · Aug 30, 2021

dermenscha said:
Bors, you are too pure for Lancelot.

Why is he Lancelot's brother here, instead of his cousin?

Just some shifting around of dynamics

Coho · Sep 6, 2021

Always Late said:
Honestly, If this guy started wandering 40k proper I could see him arranging a small baggage train of doctors and medical supplies. Because so much of the harshness around the Imperium is worsened because hygiene and access to healthcare is nonexistent below nobility levels. If the Guard are involved, he's going to learn to be a surgeon.

A polite way of complimenting someone for an unfortunately poor trait.

Momma Morgan don't raise no fools. Traitors, maybe, but not fools.

Honestly i have to challenge the statement on health in 40k, the Sisters Hospitallar are by far the most numerous of the Sororitas and despite acting as nurses most everywhere they are stationed leave the Schola with medical skill to match a modern Seasoned Doctor of our era.

The failures of 40k medicine stem from the sheer complexity of what you're dealing with. On one hand you have a psychic virus that spreads via thought and one of it's stages is to turn its victims into murderous psychopaths. You're biggest supplier of effective medicine is known to be corrupted by a genestealer cult and are inserting their own DNA into random batches, and then the actual Nids keep spreading a biomass eating microorganism that will evolve to counter almost anything you do, and your pretty sure the night shift nurse is a Ork im a dress, and all you know how to do is brain surgery with a near 100% success rate, how to heal a body back to perfection, and cure cancer within 24 hours without resorting to surgery, you're entirely under qualified....oh and a Noble wants you to move his soul into the body of a hot young thang they found at 7. Tootles.

A Light in the Dark: A King Arthur/Warhammer 40k Imperial Knights Story

Defender of Holy Terra

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Defender of Holy Terra

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Defender of Holy Terra

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Defender of Holy Terra

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Defender of Holy Terra

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Defender of Holy Terra

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Defender of Holy Terra

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Defender of Holy Terra

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Defender of Holy Terra