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Mordred kept his castle alive. Though the halls with their high ceilings and deep shadows sometimes fell quiet, it was never for long, as the clanking of patrolling guards's armor broke the silence. He wanted his keep to be constantly vigilant. The people inside had to be safe, for where else in this world could they feel that the sword at their back was not meant to harm them but to protect them? And then there was his mother. Any injury to her was a guilty mark against him, because her safety was entrusted to him and his men. His own life was of importance as well, but Mordred knew he could double - nay, triple - the soldiers in the keep and he would still not sleep soundly at night. Sentinels on every wall would not set his mind at ease.
No, the castle was not the soft-bellied prey that Oberon and Puck might have felt as they tore deep into the heart of Camlann's keep. They had precautions against these things. On Mordred's huge table of maps and enchanted gadgets, a large stone wrapped in mithril tentacles carved in the likness of vines was bewitched to glow strongly when the fairy kin were near. If he hadn't been so intent on the project at hand, he might have even noticed it himself before the guard burst into his study and breathlessly informed him that the guard armory was...well, it was something and he ought to come see for himself. The iron gave it away. "Fairies never touch iron," he explained grimly aloud as he surveyed the damage, already feeling the fire of betrayal and violation building in his chest. "Of course. Spread through the castle! Find them if they are here. Use only iron weapons."
Selecting the nearest sword for himself, a heavy and pockmarked affair cast in iron, he strode out of the armory and gestured for the first five guards to follow him down the right. Sorting through the various amulets in his waist pouch with one hand, he finally found the right one - a smaller version of his upstairs - and held it aloft to follow the dully glowing light. It grew stronger as they neared the storerooms. "Secure the passageway at either end. One of you run to get the others for support."
He drew close to the storage room door and pulled it open by himself, blade drawn and ready.
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Laughing and weaving his slight but dangerous magic, following Oberon's lead, by the time the two of them finished, the storeroom looked more like some twisted forest than anything else it might have been. Trees reached high to the rafters, outstretched limbs clutching at the creeping vines that hung there now like dark garlands. All around were shrubs of various unpleasant plants; nightshade, poison oak, monkshood, elderberry, and the lovely but deadly oleander and jasmine. In Puck's mind it greatly resembled the finer aspects of Oberon's bower and he was enchanted by their own magic.
He spun in wild circles with Oberon as their magic coaxed the plantlife fuller, thicker. Laughing and laughing, a free, almost innocent sound, nearly mad with the mischiefmaking, Puck didn't notice the sound of approaching guards, didn't notice at all when the door they'd entered earlier opened and there stood the King of Camlann himself, ready for battle.
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"You shall nothing," Mordred growled, his knuckles growing white as his grip tightened on the hilt of the borrowed sword. The scene before him registered in his mind with horror. These were the store rooms for the winter. One more lay just below, but the majority of their remaining food lay up here. The entire keep - nay, more than that, the entire city - had to get through the rest of the winter on the food in storage here. Their very lives depended on it. And now what was it? Fodder for a garden, a bountiful mess of vines and trees and deadly flowers. Inedible and offensive to his eyes.
And everyone knew that Camlannans valued their weapons almost as much as the food they ate to survive.
It wasn't just any fairies facing him, either. Mordred and his men had brushed paths with Puck often enough to know the little monster's face, and there was no mistaking the long face and the strange, darker shroud about him, as though the very shadows of the room were attracted to his form. Oberon, King of the Unseelie Fairies. "Is this how you treat a fellow king? Is this your diplomacy, your favor in return for the trade I have brought your kingdom and the peace we have kept between us? Have you any idea what you've done?" His voice rose and grew in volume, charged with rage.
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Mordred knows a little about the ways of the fae. He knows of their arrogance - and has put more than one Camlannan unseelie to the end of his blade for it - and their tricks. It is difficult enough to trust a fae at their word, but impossible to trust an unseelie; he knows better than to stand there waiting for them to pull their next trick out of their sleeve. He hardly expects to catch these two most powerful fae now, but he also doesn't want them to leave without tasting Camlannan iron. They're within his reach should he lunge or step forward. "Your so-called diplomacy," Mordred spat, "isn't to my taste. Poison is the blood of cowards." And then he -
He was intending to step forward, planning to swing hard and fast for Puck's chest to leave him a wound to remember, but the world around him gave a sudden jolt, as though time itself had skipped a step. He saw a dark, thick cloud where his enemies had been standing, and then a strong limb wrapped itself around his torso and another around his ankle and another and another - all from behind.
Then time jolted again and his vision, having taken barely a breath, was over. The Sight, a particularly strong throb of it if he'd been able to notice more than one thing. A fight was upon him.
Instead of moving forward, he twisted back to slash instinctively towards the thing he knew was going to take him by surprise if he didn't deal with it. Fairy-magicked vines. Hacking at them, he did his best to keep them away, holding the jeweled amulet high to cast its strong green light in his path. He felt pretty confident Oberon and Puck be gone by the time he had finished dealing with the vines so that he could turn on them in earnest, but he wasn't willing to call his guards in here to help. Mordred was a strong enough fighter to defeat the vines on his own, and he knew that if his guards saw the damage to the storage rooms themselves, he would have a much bigger problem on his hands to deal with later.
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