Far Future Snippet - First Meetings

And with 15 votes, Arthur wins the Far Future Snippet vote for May.

This is the POV of the fourth and final Camelot MC from the flashback sequences. The past three previous Arthur snippets have demonstrated POVs from the other three Camelot MCs available.

The procession winds its way past hill and dale, across fields and meadows, up and down mountain passes, and through forests with ancient trees whose boughs pressed ever closer. The grumble of churning wain and chariot wheels, the faint thunder of hooves upon stone, mark the progression of the entourage as it slowly, slowly, ever so slowly crawls its way across the lands.

Your haunches smart from remaining seated for such a long while as your conveyance bumps over every single crack, pit, and pockmark that mars the ancient Roman road. No embroidered cushion might contend with the ravages of decennia of such neglect.

It comes with some relief as the bevy of attendants, gaggle of stiff-limbed lords and ladies, and storm of men-at-arms and knights finally grind to a hectic halt. The old dame at your side continues to nod, napping away in her seat since mid-morning, not even noticing as she nearly topples to the side as the coach comes to a standstill.

You disappear amongst the flurry of activity as the procession prepares to make its glorious entry into Caerfyrddin. Banners unfurling, drapery and curtains tied back, and armors hastily polished as nobles and knights alike pretend to be on parade and not half dead.

There shall certainly be a reckoning once this comes to light, but for now you scurry off into the welcoming shadows of the nearby forest, shifting between tangled tree limbs and lightly dancing across thickets of moss and lichen. Magic hangs in the air.

Magic hangs heavily, indeed, as you stumble across the clearing, a young lad seemingly of your own age stripped down to naught but his underbreeches and the soft curve of muscles that reveals as he bathes in the creek that cuts across the glade.

He turns to calmly regard you, a slant of sunlight through the canopy above picking out the red-gold strands of his hair and the blue-green of his eyes. Like enchanted lapis serpentinus, sparking from within.

It seems you are not the only one who has snuck away today.

#  "Prithee, let not my presence halt thy ablutions," I say while continuing to rather gleefully eye him.

# "Hail and well met, good sir. May this day find you well." The formal greeting comes unbidden to my tongue.

# "Hail and well wet, good sir. May this stray find you swell." ... Wait. A verily not proper greeting comes unbidden to my tongue.

# I simply point in feigned horror at some imaginary beast over the stranger's shoulder and scamper off into the underbrush instead.