In Keltia, you are one of the heroes of the Dark Ages in the time of Arthur, when Britain was still a land of legends. Take part in the great battles sung of by the bards. Travel from the court of kings to the boundaries of the Island of Beli the Great, perhaps even enter the mists of the Otherworld. Maybe you will witness the end of the time of legends and the arrival in history of the greatest hero of Britain that will ever be: Arthur Pendragon.
You may be a clan warrior, a druid, a bard or a mage. Myrddin the Elder may guide you to search for the forgotten gods, hidden treasures and conspiracies to foil, taking you to the darkest forests, the mists of enchanted isles and haunted cairns. The bards will sing of your feats for centuries to come.
It had been three days since Berwyn ap Eus had found himself surrounded by a dozen Saxons. The prince had been in the fields that bordered two shepherds who had a disputed about grazing rights on their lands. Did it really matter? Was it worth it. The Saxons had come over the hill and raised the buildings and stole away with most of the sheep. The two shepherds were dead, more than likely, but Berwyn was spared. Did they know who he was? They must have. Berwyn had never bothered learning Latin, Greek, and certainly not the Saxon-language. They spoke to him, but he understood nothing save when they clasped him in brass irons around his wrists and ankles. For three days he had barely any water and no food. He was starving. Thankfully it was summer, else he would have froze to death as he was left attached to the trunk of a huge tree. He was going no where. The midges bit his neck and caused nothing but anguish. Would they ransom him? Would they sacrifice him? It was unclear. He sat and waited for his fate, hoping his brother and father would send a rescue party. There were only twelve Saxons, and his people knew the Dark Forest as well as anyone. The Dark Forest, a large wooded area with several small lakes within. The Saxons had used it as a staging ground for many attacks against Hyllr, but the few people that lived in it were loyal to his father and if they were to find him, they would either set an attack or at the very least inform his father. King Eus had to be wondering where he was by now ...
This thread is for @Wbweather only
"Kings have no friends, only subjects and enemies."
Berwyn leans back against the gnarled tree trunk feeling the course bark against the back of his head. Slowly he surveys the area for what must be the thousandth time since being chained here. If his father or brother did not come soon, then he would have to find a means of escape. His strength was waning. He did not think in another day or two he would have the energy to even attempt it. He pulled against his shackles, the metal bands cutting into his chaffed wrists. It did not feel like it would break, even if he had twice the strength of the strongest man in his fathers teulu.
He needed water, his throat was parched. Food he could gather in the forest if he could manage an escape, but his thirst was killing him.
"Water. Please, spare me a drink of water." He called out to all and no one in particular.
"Do any of you speak Brythoned? Enough of this waiting. Tell me what you want from me and let's get on with it."
He watches the Saxons closely looking for a response, hoping to gain some insight into their thoughts through their actions. Hoping someone indeed speaks some of the local language.
The Saxons look down at Berwyn without any sort of understanding in their faces. The men have a small fire going, which Berwyn thinks is rather dangerous. It hadn't rained in two weeks, and the brush was dry and ready to go up in flames. They were cooking a bird which smelled next to paradise for the young prince.
One of the Saxons, a man with a thick, black, beard grabs a big stick and waves it at Berwyn. The man puts a finger over his lips in a clear sign that he wants Berwyn to be quiet.
"Kings have no friends, only subjects and enemies."
Berwyn stares with hatred ant the bearded man, but keeps him mouth shut for the moment. Had any of the men spoken Brythoned, he might have tried to engage them in a conversation. Obviously, that wasn't going to happen. He scans the camp looking for anything he can use to aid him in his escape. He looks again at the fire, his stomach growling uncontrollably at the smell of the seared meat. How easily the fire could spread. If he had his hands freed, he might welcome the thought. The flames of a raging forrest fire would alert his father's teulu to his location. Unfortunately, chained to this tree, he would just share the same fate as the bird the brutes were shoving down their filthy gullets.
How to get free? He could keep taunting the men. Most likely that would just earn him a boot to the head, but perhaps they might unchain him and give him a chance...
That was not a reasonable plan. There were still 12 of them against him. They had bested him once, and he had been full and hydrated at that point. Maybe he should wait until dark when the men fell asleep and then engage whoever was keeping guard.
He worked again at his bonds seeing if some way he might force the mechanism.
Wondering if there is any use in performing an strength test to see about breaking the lock, or an agility test to slip his wrist free.
The chains are thick and heavy, but the shackles are nothing special. They were old, very old, likely some sort of spoils from sacking an abandoned Roman town or villa. The Roman's had plenty of slaves, Berwyn knew from what his father had told him. They were rusted but Berwyn wasn't sure he could break them with his brute strength alone. Either way, doing so now would catch him a beating or worse.
When Berwyn makes not more noise, the Saxon goes back to his dinner.
"Kings have no friends, only subjects and enemies."
Berwyn decides to wait and watch for now. Once the night sets in and the Saxons start to sleep, he will look for a chance, possibly to attempt to break the shackles, if no other opportunity presents itself. He begins experimenting to see just how much use he has of his hands.
How tightly is Berwyn bound? Can he move his hands together or pick up an object from the ground?
Berwyn's shackles are held together by a three foot long chain, giving him some maneuverability. He has been playing with a small stick, here and again, mostly to pass his boredom.
Dusk starts to fall when the Saxons seem interested in something. They stand up, looking toward a part of the forest. Berwyn's keen eyes spot someone approaching, but as the fire illuminates their faces it does nothing but causes the prince's heart to sink deep into his chest. More Saxons.
And yet, in front of them is a tall, beautiful woman. One side of her head is shaved, while the rest of her yellow-brown hair is pulled over and hands to her shoulder. She has a tattoo of a vine on the side of her head that is shaven. She nods with a smile to the rest of the Saxons but walks directly over to Berwyn. The woman is wearing an ankle long dress, but split up the front for riding and movement. It was clear she wore leggings beneath it. The sleeves were rolled up over her elbows and tied in place by leather straps. On her hip she wore a seax, the sign of a Saxon warrior.
"Looks at you," the woman says in heavily accented Brythoned. "You are my prisoner now," she announces with an even larger smile.
"Kings have no friends, only subjects and enemies."
Berwyn meets her eyes with his, unblinking. For a moment they try to read eachother's thoughts although there is little hidden in Berwyn's glare. The woman is more perplexing to him. Who is she and what is is she wants? Is she truly the leader of these savages?
"Who are you and what what use do you have of me, woman? Is it Saxon custom to kill their captives by depriving them of water and food? Is that the only way Saxon men can defeat one of the Corieltauvi?"
He smiles at her defiantly, waiting for a blow to fall.
The woman stares down at Berwyn, thinking for a few moments before responding as she translates everything slowly. "They defeated you with weapons, did they not?" She stands back up and walks over to the fire, taking up a plate and what remains of the bird. She then pours from a clay pitcher into a cup and makes her way back over to the prince.
"I feed you, yes?" She pushes a piece of bird toward Berwyn's lips even though his hand are free enough to feed himself. His stomach groans in longing.
"Kings have no friends, only subjects and enemies."
"I was outnumbered 12 to one and and was attacked unprovoked. Tell me what you want from me?"
He smells the meat and his stomach growls. His youthful pride is stronger than his his desire for the food however, and rather than eat from her hand, he replies, "I will not let you feed me like a child when I can feed myself. Leave me the food or take it away, I care not. I assume you know who I am, although I do not share the same advantage as regards you."
