[ Guinevere casts a critical eye across the spread weighing down the long table before her, one hand resting ever so lightly across the top of a high-backed chair. All around her the sounds of revelry clash and clatter noisily: her head spins and her ears ring with the sounds of everything she isn't. Stone and mortar weren't meant to hold her. These high walls are nothing more than a cage, and inside it she feels like some wild beast torn in cruelty from her land.
She needs some air.
Guinevere turns her back on the merriment and moves to exit the hall, pausing only briefly at the end of the table to pour herself a generous cup of water. Woad though she may be - a barbarian to most - she moves with the grace and poise of a queen, snowy and sombre with her chin held high and her gown rippling from her shoulders. She would not wish her Roman Arthur here, nor any of his stolen men, yet despite her stubbornness she can't deny that some part of her aches to see a familiar face. Any kind of reminder that home awaits across the the veil.
Oh, yes. Guinevere is familiar with Druidic practice. She's followed Merlin since she was a child, listening to prophecy and soaking in magic as old as natural as time itself. True, her own calling may be to fight, but this is a language she understands ...
In a manner of speaking.
After taking a left, then another left, Guinevere finds herself stepping out onto a quiet balcony. While she can still hear the sounds of the feasting she has more room to organise her thoughts; to close her eyes against the unease and clasp at her bow with her free hand.
Good.
At the very least she can take a measure of comfort in her aim. ]
Guinevere ➴ King Arthur
[ Guinevere casts a critical eye across the spread weighing down the long table before her, one hand resting ever so lightly across the top of a high-backed chair. All around her the sounds of revelry clash and clatter noisily: her head spins and her ears ring with the sounds of everything she isn't. Stone and mortar weren't meant to hold her. These high walls are nothing more than a cage, and inside it she feels like some wild beast torn in cruelty from her land.
She needs some air.
Guinevere turns her back on the merriment and moves to exit the hall, pausing only briefly at the end of the table to pour herself a generous cup of water. Woad though she may be - a barbarian to most - she moves with the grace and poise of a queen, snowy and sombre with her chin held high and her gown rippling from her shoulders. She would not wish her Roman Arthur here, nor any of his stolen men, yet despite her stubbornness she can't deny that some part of her aches to see a familiar face. Any kind of reminder that home awaits across the the veil.
Oh, yes. Guinevere is familiar with Druidic practice. She's followed Merlin since she was a child, listening to prophecy and soaking in magic as old as natural as time itself. True, her own calling may be to fight, but this is a language she understands ...
In a manner of speaking.
After taking a left, then another left, Guinevere finds herself stepping out onto a quiet balcony. While she can still hear the sounds of the feasting she has more room to organise her thoughts; to close her eyes against the unease and clasp at her bow with her free hand.
Good.
At the very least she can take a measure of comfort in her aim. ]