Jarl-of-the-North

Guinevere had immediately left the arena, Mordred trailing close behind as they tried to keep up with the King. Arturia had been the first one out, but she likely hadn’t gone far. Indeed, it was Mordred who saw her first; she had immediately run off, giggling like mad as Guinevere moved to keep up. The tent Arturia had entered was deceptively small, not one would expect a Knight to have, let alone a King. As soon as Guinevere managed to get Mordred to calm down a little more, they had entered; Arturia was halfway out of her armour, but still had enough on underneath to hide her gender, dressed in a tunic of deep blue and beige trouser

After what felt like forever - though in truth had only been a half hour at most, the coach stopped the carriage, and moments later opened the door for them. Guinevere gratefully took the hand he offered her with one of her own, the other holding her daughter’s, “Stay close to me, Mordred.” When Mordred’s saw the festival for the first time, her eyes widened in awe, jaw dropping slightly. There were countless wooden stands as far as she could see, carrying with them a whole variety of shapes, colours and spectacles she couldn’t describe swirling all around her at once. The festival itself had only just started,

Ser Agravain was a man who never knew any true peace of mind. With a self assured gait that seemed more coldly confident than haughty, armour of dark, mottled grey that seemed to border on black, the same black as his swept back hair, and a face that didn’t seem capable of showing warmth even if he were to try, Agravain wasn’t someone others approached on principle. Rather, he was a man approached when he was needed – and that was how he preferred it. He wasn’t like his siblings – especially not Ser Gawain, who reveled in the glory of being a Knight and performed his duty with a gleaming smile on his face no ma

Merlin never really was one for silence. There were times where he could appreciate it, but it was never his first choice. Silence usually accompanied boredom. Not always, but usually. Though a quiet field of flowers was a beautiful scene indeed and noise would probably spoil the ambience, he personally felt sound to be a source of comfort. Sound meant the world was moving forwards. To Merlin, silence meant static. It implied that the world had come to a halt of some kind, despite the fact that he knew that only in the most exceptional of circumstances would such a thing be possible. He knew that… but dear God Almighty, it would not

Merlin could feel his teeth slate against each other as his eyes fell upon the infant in Lancelot’s gentle grasp; though his outward expression was one of idle curiosity, he could feel the telltale hints of irritation beginning to build up in his stomach. Of all the things that could have happened to change the future he had charted out all those years ago, this was not something he had anticipated in the slightest. Merlin had known about the baby for years, of course; really, how could he not? He had known how Arturia’s rule would begin and how it would end, and everything in between; his clairvoyance had shown him everything,

Whereas the first snowfall had only just started descending on the land the night before, it appeared now that winter was fully arrived when the four chosen Knights had set out to find Morgana’s destination. Twice, they had been forced to take a detour, the main roads too heavily covered with snow and ice to be a safe route for their horses, combined with a close confinement through snow covered trees that was wearing even Merlin’s patience thin. The next day had the opposite problem, with the sun shining so brightly on the fresh snow that they'd resorted to tying strips of layered cheesecloth across their eyes to ward off snowbl

Fate is a rather fickle thing. All it takes is one minor change to alter the entire course of history. The claims that one might make that you cannot alter a river, no matter how many pebbles you toss into the roiling waters? They could not be farther from the truth. If anything, reality is more fickle and subject to change than anything else. Change the painting hanging in a room, and what might have been a pleasant night with a conversation piece could be reduced to a vicious argument that destroys a friendship.   Should that special someone opt to walk through the gardens instead of past a pair of men, and what would have been a quarrel