A game of hide-and-seek is as fun for any child as the rain decides to fall whence the clouds are fat and dark, and Roland was ne’er one to pass up a chance to play. Even in the mire of the crowd of human bodies; slow, bulbous persons with sharp melodies playing behind their eyes, or the tiny, vulnerable thing with a thought to become a warrior pass’d in the coming months a’fore thee.

Roland roams as he hath always done: bare-footed, his hair unbrushed, his clothing loose and resembling those of the appropriate poor as he Goes through the eons and the centuries unchanged if naught only from the fabrical fashion, and for the minds honed to explore these fashions. His is a grinning jester of a man, with pointed ears only seen by those who Know, and by no one else.

     News of Garth’s genius and magical prowess had reached Scythe long before the man’s ship ever arrived in the Northern Wastes. The former Archon was prepared. He had taken stock of every tome in his possession, had ensured the other would have adequate lodgings, and warned the Oracle of his arrival, though the stone proclaimed to already be aware of it. All there was left to do was wait.

“Well,” Garth starts, fighting the urge to laugh. He could talk about this sort of thing for days, little did Will know.

“I’ve been world-jumping since I was a child, and every world I’ve visited has been real to me. I’ve spilled blood on soil in places that shouldn’t exist. I’ve pushed past boundaries I was taught hold the world together. So if you’re looking for reality, I think that wherever you are, wherever you feel your body around you and earth beneath your feet, you’ve found it.”

His expression softens, and he shrugs. “I think if this world is merely an illusion, there are much worse lands that a god could have created than good old Albion.”

Will looked around, staring up at the sky and then at the horizon. His experience with world-jumping was limited to the worlds like these, that lay beyond the demon doors scattered around Albion. And, he supposed, one might be able to consider the Sanctuary as a separate world, but anything he had experienced was wildly dwarfed by the experiences Garth held. 

“That’s an interesting take on it,” he said, glancing over at the man. He wondered what other worlds were like----true other worlds. If they had wild people, or didn’t have people at all; if the sun burned cold and the moon hot; if perhaps they were wilder than anything he could ever imagine. 

   It’s only when he hears the voice, floating to him from some great distance away, that he realises he’s been staring blearily at a tree for some time, swaying gently on his feet.

    Sleep had abandoned him nearly a week ago, leaving feverish todash dreams in its stead that increased in intensity the more time passed. He is drawn and disheveled, his lines jittery like static electricity as they dance over his skin, and reality and the realms beyond are starting to blur in a way that was seriously uncomfortable.

    “A logical assessment,” he murmurs to what he assumes is the mirage of Will.

        Will frowned at the older man, his brow furrowing together with worry. What brings the most worry to him is the way that his markings show themselves along his skin, dancing and jumping like lives wires. He moves closer to him, slowly reaching out with gloves fingers to take his arm, the cool metal of his gauntlet pressing against him shortly after. 

          The landscape grows colder and colder, but the howling wind is nothing compared to the howling in Mordred’s body, the rage of having been pushed aside, the pain of knowing he is second in <can calah>’s thoughts.

     -- He doesn’t know when he started calling the mage ‘can calah’. The name-phrase sits comfortably in his mind as if it had always been there, the only name the shaman man has or needs. The name <lady rose> calls him makes no sense to him; has no vibrance, no truth.

But <can calah> is absorbed, entire, by <lady rose>. There is no room between them for him. He stalks them to the crumbling village, snapping his teeth at the dim sound of stirring dragons in the distance, keening quietly and clawing at his throat when he feels the hum of the portal in the College, the portal that some dragon-blooded little saviour had brought there with no ken of its power. He stalks them to the crumbling village, where they pause and consider.

In-doors, Mordred understands, and his spirit quickens. Clarity bleeds in. Yes. In-doors. Take me, <can calah>. Leave me and I will... I...

<can calah> turns to look at him. It is like the tug of a leash. Mordred emerges from hiding, shivering violently with cold his body feels but his mind disregards, and creeps towards his guardian.

“I have RULES for you.” He says it with such arcane emphasis that there is no other way to interpret it. “You will follow them. If you do not, I will cast you from me. If you then persist, I will kill you.”

He doesn’t want to believe <can calah>. <can calah> doesn’t want to kill him. But he looks into <can calah>’s eyes, and recoils from the resolve he sees there. <lady rose> is strength. Mordred knows that now.

     “You will not touch Sparrow unless given leave.      You will not touch anything unless given leave.      You will remain within my sight and reach.”

Mordred moans, reaches out to beat at him with hands that can barely form fists in their nearly-frostbitten state. <can calah> grabs onto him, keeps him still, pegging him in place with a hard glare.

“Attend me, wretched child. I will give you food, I will give you shelter, and I... will do my best to give you the rest. As long as my RULES are followed. What say thee, son of Los?”

The tears of frustration and helpless fury freeze on his lashes. “Mordred hears you very well,” he rasps, even as he tries to wrench out of <can calah>’s grip.

“You are cold,” <can calah> says, and his voice is different now, and Mordred stops struggling. This voice does something different to him, quiets him, and he latches onto it and drinks deeply, swooning. “Come in out of the cold, son of Roland. I will give thee rest.”

    People visited the Academy often since it had been re-opened to the public, but no visitor was quite like the one that waltzed through the doors one snowy afternoon. He was tall, his skin dark and contrasting with the bright swirls of blue that pulsed a dull light, and he carried an air of ancientness about him, an air of wisdom and knowledge.

    Xiro noticed him instantly. After all, he was a little hard to miss. What would a Hero be doing here? He certainly looked out of place, even if he didn’t feel so, and the teacher had to wonder where this man had come from and what his purpose might have been. Luckily, the door of his office was situated in such a way that allowed him a good view of the goings on in the Academy, and so he could keep tabs on the other without actively following him about.

    This man was powerful, though; that much was obvious. He could feel the will energy rolling off of him in waves, as vast and deep as an ocean. It was rare for a Hero so strong to exist, especially in these times when Heroes were so few. It struck him as entirely possible that this stranger could sense him and his power, too, and that was when he accidentally caught the Hero’s eye.

    There was no doubt in his mind that the other knew very well that he had been watching him. Possibly the entire time. 

    Well, shit.