Arthurian Cultivation

We looked upon the entrance to the hidden realm through a narrow slit cut in the rock. The stone bunker Bors had fashioned allowed us to spy on the Divine Cultivators below. Gaz and I hid in there with him, trying to understand our opponents. Gawain and Lance were off scouting with the two spirit beasts, a task that would take a long while as they dared not get too close.

The realm hid at the bottom of a wide basin, surrounded on all sides by mountains. The broad plain was still plunged into shadow despite the sunrise being hours past, with the high mountains blocking the light. In this gloom, we watched our targets.

"That's a lot of soggy-looking God botherers," I said, watching the huddled masses trying to shield themselves from the wind and snow below. Their camps were sloppy, squalid affairs, and the cultivators gathered around fires. Each figure was a tale of woe. Many sported bandages and haggard faces, their formerly white raiments now a litany of misfortune told through various stains.

The only part of their camp that stood out was a marble statue. Twice the height of a mortal, the stern armoured form loomed over the camp, hand resting on a sword planted between its feet. Runes decorated every flat inch of marble, inlaid in gold. The statue served as a pillar of a powerful runic array, the glamour within marking it as a shining beacon of power.

"Looks like they've taken a beating. Do they not have a single Earth gifted? Even an ice gifted could form some better shelters?" Bors muttered.

"I'd bet good money that they can't spare the glamour," I remarked, watching the strange ethereal border across which the snow seemed to fade then reappear some feet distant. I could taste the power of that spell.

"What do you mean? Oh fuck!" Bors swore as just beyond the border of their runic trap, a beast loomed out of shadows within. A snout, which in size rivalled the great barrels of beer that could serve an entire feast, emerged from the gloom. An impossibly large silhouette emerged behind it.

Thinking of it as a ‘giant bear’ trivialised the enormity of it. Ursul was a mobile fortress of fur, muscle, and claw. The furry fort, sporting its one white ear, probed the hidden line in the snow. The invisible plane of force that trapped it was becoming clearer as great flurries of snow were kicked up by its breaths.

People in the camp began yelling. The cultivators were running around in a panic. To our great benefit, the order clearly labelled its different ranks. Among the twenty or so cultivators, most had their raiments trimmed in black, marking them as Paiges, Wood Rank. No more than five wore the silver trim of Squires. And I saw only two with the gold trim marking them as Iron ranked, Paladins in Divine Cultivator speak.

Some shouting followed and from a tent emerged one last member. He was dressed differently, wearing gold-trimmed robes. One of their foul Priests. Flanked by the two Paladins, he marshalled the group into a rough square, and the lesser cultivators knelt before him and began to sing. A score of reedy voices rose up as the Priest conducted a makeshift service.

"What are they doing? Having a sing-song to keep their spirits up or something?" Bors asked.

"Powering the runes. That kind of choir singing is how they funnel their power."

"Sounds like a sack of drowned cats."

"The sound is wrong." Gaz, our resident expert on sound glamour, listened for a few moments more. "It’s empty. The glamour’s been completely drained from it. It feels ugly and soulless."

"Makes sense, they empower their voices to create a slow and steady release of power, and the priest then captures it and collects all their glamour. Probably to keep the runes going. The priests tend to leave some of the glamour in the sound so it can go up to heaven or some such nonsense. If they’re draining it dry, they must be desperate."

"That’ll be why they’ve not got their defences up, and their camp's shit. They’re throwing all their power into keeping Ursul in check," Bors grunted.

"Seems like it should be easy to disrupt then?" Gaz's face was scrunched up in pain as the singing reached a fever pitch, the sound clearly bothering him. I also loathed it. Robbing the glamour from it robbed the music of its ‘humanity’. The sound had no more purpose than the sound of raindrops or the whistle of the wind. While nature could be beautiful, the order present in this dead sound was discordant. It did not belong.

"Why don’t you block that out, Gaz? Thanks." I relaxed as Gaz deadened the sound. "Look, it should be possible to disrupt them but there’s no way this pathetic bunch are keeping that beast at bay. There’s going to be at least one Saint here."

"Saint?" Gaz asked.

"Steel ranked, Knight Lord," Bors grumbled. "That’s well beyond our capabilities."

"But it’s clear that Ursul is beyond their ability to handle. Otherwise, why are they trapping him rather than dealing with him?" I countered. We all settled into silence. For the next hour, we watched the camp. We saw people come and go, and there were at least two other camps we could see hints of. From the layout, I assumed there were four different camps sitting upon each of the cardinal directions, ours was the most southerly.

"How quickly do you think this rune array would go down if it stopped being charged?" Gaz asked me after a while, breaking the silence.

"No idea, I’m not an expert on runes." The two men looked at me, as if waiting for the punchline of a joke. "What, it’s not like I know everything. I know how to make like four types of rune arrays."

"Thinking about it logically, you kind of do know everything," Gaz scratched his chin. Before I could argue, he held up a hand. "Look, we’re all here for a purpose of some kind. So you might not know everything, but between us we must know something that will help us out. Otherwise, why would ‘she’ send us here?"

"Dangerous thinking, sounds like we’re fated to succeed. That’s lazy, you’ll end up thinking like Gawain if you do that." Bors leant against the wall, watching the tiny figures below.

"I’ve been meaning to ask you, why is he treating me like some noble scion? All this Sir Taliesin this and that? Been weirding me out."

"Gawain’s from House Lothian," Bors said. I nodded, that did make sense.

"I’ve heard of them, but I've got no idea what it means for us," Gaz chimed in.

"House Lothian have a massive chip on their shoulder about being a traitor to the Quilverns, having faith in the Lady," Bors explained, which only bred more creases on Gaz’s brow.

"Bors, how did you get that out of the story of the Stag and the Silver Lake?" Bors blushed and began to stammer out a response. "Ignore Bors, I don’t know why that’s what he’d tell you. Seems like time for a quick tale?" I offered, and Gaz nodded, and we tried to get comfortable. In the small cave, Bors raised some seats for us three. I was about to sit when I frowned, sensing an odd glamour.

"I’d like a seat that won’t explode, Bors."

"Dammit, thought I’d get you." He grinned, but did make me another, this time using just earth glamour. I didn’t need my lute for this. It was typically told as a poem, but that would take two days to recount correctly.

"It’s the end of the Age of False Kings. Constantine Quilvern sits upon the throne of Albion, his family reduced to only his son Uthar. He is fearful, unwilling to impart his power to a son he worries is weak. While the many false kings are slain, he sees traitors round every corner and expects poison in every gift. To try and ‘toughen’ up his son, he heads out riding with his most trusted vassals, the Lothian, on a grand hunt. In the depths of the woods, he, his son, and Gwalchmai Lothian, his oldest friend, stumble upon a noble white Stag. Its fur radiant as the moon, but that is not the greatest prize. Atop its brow is a set of fourteen pointed antlers made of purest Mythril. All can tell the beast is something of the deepest fae realms, its eyes clever and its hooves swift. The Stag dashes off before they can mount a single attack, and all three throw themselves headlong in pursuit."

"They hunt the stag across the realm, through the paths of the fae. A week they hunted the beast, and each day is a tale in itself. These trials are overcome, and the men close in on their prey. Finally, the Stag pauses to drink at a lake of aching beauty. The water is silver that matches the elegant horns, and the water’s edge is lined with trees with leaves of purest gold. Uthar and Gwalchmai are stunned into silence, but King Constantine, focused on his quarry, readies his spear, knowing this strike will be the one to end it."

“He pulls back but is tackled to one side by Gwalchmei. The stag runs. The king’s fury is epic. Who is this man to foul his hunt? It is said he pulled his blade, ready to strike the errant Lothian down in that moment, finding the man kneeling already before him, offering his neck. Uthar darts between them before the blade can be swung. He pleads with his father to spare his life, to see the truth behind his actions. The King pauses, looks about and realises the mistake he nearly made, then falls to his knees and offers his apologies.

Rising from the silver water in a form of such honest beauty that all three men felt their hearts sting, she admonished Constantine for his bloodlust, yet praised him for his commitment and strength. She pronounced Uthar a noble heir to the throne for his intelligence and bravery to stand between his father and his retainer who sought only to protect him from such mistakes. To Gwalchmei, she spoke of his unwavering loyalty and wisdom in seeing the truth of the matter, praising him for the strength to sacrifice himself to stop his liege’s mistake. All three returned with boons from the Lady, but each was changed.

King Constantine passed on his title, following the Fae paths that take mortal men beyond Mithril. He slipped into legend. The freshly crowned Uthar, who’d often struggled to live up to his father’s ideals, carved out a new path that represented the values the Lady had commended him upon. Gwalchmai Lothian pledged his house to be servants of the Quilverns and the Lady herself. They would act as the guardians of the Quilverns and give respect to the Lady who guided them.

Every five years, the Quilverns and the Lothian arrange a grand hunt to honour that memory. It is said that occasionally the greatest of hunters will see the Stag and know they live up to the words of the Lady herself.

“Alright, now it makes more sense. So they basically worship her?”

“They do, and that’s why I mentioned betrayal, you smug git.” Bors waggled a finger at me. “They don’t tell people often that they see her as their saviour. The King had every right to kill them for betrayal. Old Constantine had killed entire houses over less. Then the Lady steps in and tells the King to rein it in and stop being such a bloodthirsty oaf. Despite that, they did betray him, striking their King. The ‘betrayal’ is a spur they dig into themselves. The Quilverns trust them completely. You won’t get him to not be a suck-up. As far as he’s concerned, you’re some kind of chosen one, meant to carry out her will.”

“Great, another thing to worry about,” I said, leaning back against the wall of our small hide.

“Could be worse. Can you imagine if the Lady had given you a message for him? You’d have been all but dragged back to Albion, I bet.” Gaz said, and I shuddered. I didn't like to entertain that idea.

“So, how does the story compare to your experience with the Lady? Any stags? Mythril or otherwise? Didn’t have to nearly murder your oldest friend over a simple misunderstanding?” Bors grinned. I was pleased he was bothered by the same aspect of the story that I always was. Seriously, who tries to kill their oldest friend without even asking for an explanation?

“I just danced.”

“You danced for the Lady? I’m starting to think Lance isn’t talking shit when she said you were flirting.” Bors clapped me on the back and laughed.

“It's not my fault if I’m effortlessly charming. And yes, I danced, but you have to understand I wasn’t dancing for her. It was for me. I was celebrating my freedom. I had just broken through to Bronze as well, so I felt incredible. I threw everything into that dance just to feel my body move. I wanted to create art that was for me, not part of some plot to distract the Harkleys. It just so happened I had her attention. She popped right out of the water and started clapping.”

“Must’ve been a surprise?” Gaz asked.

“I nearly shat myself.” The three of us laughed, then settled in, waiting for the scouts to return.