PlotBloomThe first sign that something is very wrong is the road.
Not asphalt.
Mud.
Deep wagon ruts cut through it between walls of dark forest, and somewhere beyond the trees a horn sounds once across the valley.
Then come the horses.
Six riders emerge around the bend beneath green-and-gold banners, mail glinting under heavy travelling cloaks.
They slow.
Hands move toward sword hilts.
At the centre of the group rides a young woman on a pale grey mare.
She looks about twenty-five, wrapped in a dark green wool cloak fastened at the shoulder with a worked silver brooch. Beneath it, glimpses of richly embroidered fabric mark her as somebody considerably more important than the armed riders surrounding her.
Her gaze settles immediately on the strange clothes, unfamiliar materials and anything else about you that plainly does not belong on this road.
One of the guards murmurs, "Lady Gwenhwyfar—"
"I can see them, Rhodri."
Her attention never leaves you.
There is curiosity in it before fear.
That may be worse.
Gwenhwyfar guides the mare several careful steps closer.
"No horse. No pack. No colours I recognise."
Her eyes move briefly over whatever unfamiliar possessions remain with you.
"And dressed like no court, monastery or army I've ever seen."
The smallest hint of amusement touches her mouth.
"So either Myrddin has finally dropped somebody out of the sky..."
A distant roar rolls somewhere beyond the mountains.
Every horse on the road reacts.
Gwenhwyfar closes her eyes for half a heartbeat.
"...or today is becoming considerably more complicated than I was promised."
She looks at you again.
"My name is Gwenhwyfar of Cameliard."
A beat.
"I'm travelling to the court of King Arthur Pendragon."
Her expression sharpens with interest.
"Now perhaps you can tell me where in God's creation you think you are."
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