Far Future Snippets - Fighting Off the Medieval Stalker

With 15% of the vote, Arthur once again wins the Far Future Snippet vote. (You came so close, Gwen!) This Camelot MC Mark 2 having a less fun time with the High King than their previous counterpart from last month.

"How many times must thee be put down, woman?" Aglovale shouts, barely managing to keep his own sword free from the rising waters. From ankle to calf to knee, it swells.

Shadowed humps of bodies lay all around, burbling weakly even as the murk of the marsh slowly sucks them down into their unseen depths. The wraith of the woman floats up, headless, entwined in smoky mist and the dark tattered sweep of her cowl. Her head lays several paces away, golden hair glinting beneath the water like a tangle of hornwort and sea ivories.

Even now she still stares at the king who stands before you, back turned to the troops scattered behind him, his bright red mantle seeping into ever-brackish waters as his bared blade continues to sing through the air. The eyeless gazing of a body that should be dead, the blank eyes of a disembodied head that is still alive.

You plod forward, step by ponderous step, desperate to reach his side even as the marsh mud tries to drag you into its sludgy embrace. The great two-handed weight of Marmyadose lies heavy within your hands even as it faintly shimmers in the blood red light of the setting sun. A wild keening rises through the bare boughs of the half-dead forest that surrounds you.

You taste blood upon your tongue.

Tristan commands, his voice still a lyrical crooning hymn even as it grows roughened with wear. It has been such a long fight. And for a brief moment, all is quiet around you. The banshees have been silenced once more.

"May it all be in vain, thine accomplishments undone and turned to ash; thine virtues shall be thy undoing, until even the memory of what thou tried to achieve is lost!" the witch condemns the High King, who still remains out of her reach, even as you struggle to stand by his side. A voice grown too jagged by death to resemble her once dulcet tones.

The waters swirl around, too pure and clear to ever belong in the brine of this bog. Without turning to you, Arthur reaches out a steadying hand as a current snags at those tendrils of golden hair, snatching the head away beneath the departing tide. The Lady of the Lake has her now.

The wraith collapses inward, nothing more than shadows and vapors that evaporate with the wind.

And with that, Annowre is gone.