Wardwood Mule
As the immobility gradually dissolves from the people in the courtyard, a number of soldiers first stagger and then sprint from the ruins to give pursuit. Shots are fired into the darkness. But the soldiers soon return like dogs with their tails between their legs—the shadows beyond the walls are empty. Meanwhile some guests climb to their feet, rub their eyes, and stare around in bewilderment. Others start shouting; and still more begin to struggle toward the exits in a blind panic.
Most movement in the courtyard ceases when the Queen rises. Her stag blinks his golden eyes and stands with her, as does Llyr, and soon the three descend from the dais surrounded by a dozen of the Queen's personal guards, all of whom look pale and shaken; none of them, it seems, had been apprised of the possibility that they might need to defend their sovereign against a mad spirit. As the procession makes its dignified approach toward the crowd—perhaps more slowly and more dignifiedly than strictly necessary—the Queen has the look of someone desperately trying to reconfigure a well-planned speech at the very last minute. She glances at Llyr several times, and her expression is not entirely friendly when she does so. Finally she murmurs something to him rapidly under her breath.
"I did," he replies. They are closer to the guests now. Though his voice is also pitched low, it's more audible than the Queen's, and people on the outer fringe of the crowd might be able to hear him. "I am sorry I didn't tell you."
The Queen looks around at the dead architects and soldiers and raises one hand as if to place it across her mouth. She appears to remember at the last moment that she is in public, and folds it neatly in her other hand instead. She asks Llyr another quiet question without looking at him.
"Gwyn suggested I remember the death of Annwn—another spirit," he says, "and also wished me good luck."
The name clearly isn't familiar to the Queen, but she doesn't have time to ask Llyr any more questions; they stand before the guests now, very close to where the last soldier was slain and Gwyn was shot. One of the guards discreetly moves the body out of the way as the Queen's eyes sweep across the guests and settle on one of the dead architects, whose hands are frozen around the ceremonial shovel meant to be used in tonight's groundbreaking ceremony. She stares at it until another one of her guards realizes the directive and hurriedly rushes to retrieve it. There is blood on the handle, and he hesitates to give it to her, but she wrests it from his grip and holds it in front of herself like a talisman. Quite possibly this is the first time she's ever touched a shovel in her life.
"I have failed you," she pronounces clearly, and a whisper ripples through the crowd. This statement would have amounted to treason had it been spoken by anyone but the Queen herself. "I will not do so again." Then, regal in the face of the guests' stares, she raises the shovel to plunge it into the soil.
At the last second, Llyr tips his head toward her and seems to say something under his breath.
The Queen stares straight ahead for a fraction of a heartbeat, her lips pressed into a thin line; finally she takes one calm step to the side, as if she meant to do so all along, and plants the shovel there instead, dislodging patches of moss in the process—for this is exactly the place where Gwyn's blood spilled onto the ground.
After the Queen has awkwardly tossed aside the dirt, she summons her guard again. He takes the shovel, only to replace it with a small knife and a scrap of silk. The knife gleams coldly in the fairy-light. The Queen wraps the silk around its handle and then offers it to Llyr, who takes it gingerly, as if it has been sitting near a fire and might burn him. Expressionlessly and in one swift motion, he uses the knife to make a cut across the back of his wrist. His blood drips into the hole; almost immediately more green moss froths out of it to spread across the moss already there. For the briefest of moments Llyr's glamour falters: his face takes on the same eldritch proportions as Gwyn's had before, and his teeth, slightly visible behind his parted lips, are all as sharp as needles. But the spectacle vanishes almost instantly, leading many who witnessed it to wonder if they really saw anything at all.
"You need not fear another such attack from Gwyn, at least not soon," Llyr says, casting a dispassionate glance toward the nearest dead soldier as if examining a plate broken at a dinner party. "Our abilities are greatly heightened on the solstices and equinoxes, and glamours of that magnitude are very rare indeed; moreover, Gwyn will require some time to recover."
The moss has now formed a mound over the hole, and a tiny sapling is beginning to emerge from the very center of it. Its bark is silver-white in color. Where seams and knots form in the bark they are traced by pale blue lines, faintly glowing, that anyone who has seen the Ward-tree will recognize instantly. A suspicious mutter winds through the guests as people try to decide whether this vision is real or simply another fantastical illusion. More than a few guests have taken to eyeing Llyr with open mistrust; even several members of the Queen's guard look as if they might not defend him particularly eagerly in the event of another unexpected attack.
"The magic of this tree will prevent any Wolf from entering the Warden grounds here," the Queen says, her voice cutting through the mutterings like a scythe through wheat. No doubt this is something Llyr has told her and something she cannot possibly be certain of herself, but her tone brooks no argument. "I believe," she goes on, with the briefest of glances at Llyr, "Gwyn's blood at its roots will make the enchantment more powerful. The tree will not, however, guard against Gwyn himself; for that the new structures will be heavily fortified with iron, to weaken any spirit who attempts to enter. Oldcastle was said to have been a haven in the Great War, and so it will be again in the war to come."
The war to come. The silence in the courtyard is so profound that one can actually hear the strange creakings and rustlings the sapling makes at it grows, for as the Queen spoke, the tree had been expanding all the while. Now it has reached the height of a man's waist and finally seems to be slowing down. Its blue lines and whorls glow faintly in the dimness while rust-red leaves, the color of old blood, unfurl from the tips of its branches…
This is the event's last meta update!
You are welcome to continue making new meta threads until April 7th (though you can finish up ongoing meta threads indefinitely).
After the Queen's pronouncement many characters remain within the ruins to gossip; others return to their reserved quarters in Oldcastle; and still others, though few in number, walk to the dark, quiet Wood in search of answers they likely will not find... Keep in mind that the Queen has more or less made an official declaration of war against the Wolves, so this might be something for your characters to discuss!
You are welcome to continue making new meta threads until April 7th (though you can finish up ongoing meta threads indefinitely).
After the Queen's pronouncement many characters remain within the ruins to gossip; others return to their reserved quarters in Oldcastle; and still others, though few in number, walk to the dark, quiet Wood in search of answers they likely will not find... Keep in mind that the Queen has more or less made an official declaration of war against the Wolves, so this might be something for your characters to discuss!
