Knight of Darknes, contines, part three

The reading began here, spilled into here and is now as follows:

Chapter two...

Glastonbury Abbey was a cesspit of human filth and debauchery...
Lady Miriam: "All those sixty year old women drinking tea and eating tea cakes in the tea room..."

But back in the day when Avalon and Camelot had been part of the human world, it'd been a marvel of engineering and beauty. The ribbed vaulting of the nave had been painted bright colors and gilded until it shone like the very sun. The stained-glass windows had been a riot of color that caught every ray of sunshine before spilling it in brilliant rainbows against the stone floors.
The Anthropologist: "Why must you rape our culture?"
Pillywiggin: "I'm sorry to say that that's probably what the medieval people would have been doing to their stonework. Painting it bright, tacky colours."
The Anthropologist looks hopefully at the Chronicler who confirms this.
Lady Miriam: "It's the Lysergic acid common in the bread those days. Makes them do things differently."
(The Chronicler: "Though the real question is when were the days of Avalon and Camelot? Where exactly did she sneak in a King Arthur and why is it not pre-Norman Conquest?"

The monks who'd called it home had taken great care to keep up its beauty.
(The Chronicler notes that they loved it so much they ran the biggest King Arthur scam in history: the discovery of King Arthur's grave.)

In the original plan, only Camelot and Avalon were supposed to have been taken behind the veil to conceal...
The Anthropologist: "Yes, we've heard that already. Last chapter."

But Damé Fortune wasn't always kind...
The Chronicler: "Is that the medieval embodiment of fortune based on the goddess Fortuna or the blue guy, Dah-may For-tune-nah?"
The Anthropologist: "It says here that if you mispronounce his name bad things will happen."
The Chronicler: "Why is he a dude? The medieval mind made her a chick for a reason."
Cathed: "Merlin's a chick, now."
Azrael: "At this rate of gender-swapping, Arthur's going to be an old lady."

... numerous men and women had been caught in the middle of this battle and been trapped here, out of time...
Lady Miriam: "So it's like having a group of Medieval re-enactors in a box."
The Anthropologist: "So ever six months they'll dress up in silly clothes and hit each other with sticks?"

Banned by accident from the realm of Avalon, their only choice now was to live in Glastonbury or to venture into the lands of Camelot...
Yet with every passing year, their neutrality dwindled, and the inhabitants were beginning to look more and more like the twisted souls who called Camelot home. It was a shame really.
Pillywiggin (summoning the Dark Lord): "Make it stop..."
The Chronicler is really surprised that Merlin and company with all their magic haven't done something about this in the last seven hundred years.

To the left was the curtain of light and color that delineated Avalon. To the right was the dark gray world that was Morgen's Camelot...
... For those who lived in Avalon, the darkness was something to fear. It was said that any who dared to venture to it would be consumed by it. To live in darkness was to surrender all that was good inside you. The Dark was a vicious mistress who demanded the sacrifice of morals and decency...
The Anthropologist: "Considering the binary alignment system, you'd think they'd have done something besides sitting in the middle being trapped in this ridiculous hell. On one side you have the shiny beacon of Goodness and on the other you have the evil sinkhole of Evil. Not really a tough choice."
Azrael: "Maybe they're old and want to sit there and complain... Back in my day, we didn't have the unattainable city of everlasting beauty and grace and goodness hovering over our shoulders."
(The Chronicler notes that the Dark is feminine.)

And just like the inhabitants of Camelot, they, too, despised those who lived in Avalon...
The Anthropologist: "I'm not surprised. We've established they're utter fucks in the first chapter."

No, [Merewyn]'d lived in the land of Mercia as a princess. More beautiful even than Helen of Troy...
Azrael: "The face that launched two thousand ships."

...[she] had been forced to watch men kill one another just for a chance to see her smile.
She'd hated every minute of it.
Lady Miriam: "Poor you."
(The Chronicler wonders why the men weren't busy in all the nunnery-brothels that Mercia was infamous for in the 9th Century)

And when her father had told her that the time had come for her to marry a man who saw nothing more than her beauty [...] With magic-with-a-k...
Pillywiggin: "Can we shorten it to Magic K?"
Cathed: "Special K..."

...she conjured one of the Adoni—an elfin race so cruel that even demons feared them.
The Anthropologist: "She summoned drow. Why did you summon drow?"
Azrael: "And there was only one way to make drow more stupid... to call them adoni. Like Hebrew for Lord, but singular."
The Chronicler: "Because Adonai would be blasphemous."
Azrael: "Or maybe it's just Adonis without the s?"

She'd traded her beauty for freedom, or so she thought [...] Now she was in the abbey, hidden behind a wall with her mistress—the very being who'd stolen her beauty and enslaved her.
Cathed: "I'm getting the feeling that they wouldn't be fail demons this time, which is good. Screwing people over with contracts is what demons should be doing."
(The Chronicler wonders why she couldn't have just joined one of the nunnery-brothels Mercia was so famous for. Yes, the Chronicler is really amused by Merica's nuns.)

All of the Adoni were beautiful, but even by their exceptional standards Narishka stood out. Petite and curvy, she was what every man dreamed of touching and what every woman dreamed of being.
The Anthropologist: "This is the stupid neutral land. No one wants to do that."

Except for the blackness of her soul, which was only matched by that of her heart...
The Loinfire Club is beside itself with giggles and is completely unable to actually snark this statement for a long time.
The Anthropologist: "What exactly is the difference between the soul and the heart in this system? And how does she know? I mean, does the doctor check when you visit, right after blood pressure and pissing in a test tube, they say: "And let's have a look at your heart... yes, it's still pretty dark. Are you taking that medication I've been prescribing?"

Cathed (melodramatically): "Oh! My Soul is not a slut but my heart wants sex!"

She hated her limping gait [...]Turning, the man cursed and screwed his features up in distaste as he saw her hideously pockmarked face and matted hair.
The Balance: "Drink! That's a skin and a hair comment."
The Anthropologist: "But an original twist... I am hanging onto it."

Then he, too, shoved her away, into a table where a group of men were dicing. This time her collision caused drink to spill all over the man whose arm she bumped.
Pillywiggin: "Hag bowling!"

Cursing, he rose from his chair, twisting a circular dagger on his index finger as he glared his hatred at her.
The Anthropologist: "What exactly does a circular dagger look like? A pizza cutter?"
Azrael: "She probably means the dagger-Frisbee-like-things? Chakras?"
Lady Miriam: "No, that's something else completely."
The Balance: "Shouldn't that be a Chakram? What Xena uses?"
Azrael: "Maybe they actually mean sharpened CDs..."

Her jaw went slack. Not from fear, but from speechless awe. The newcomer was tall and lean with the greenest eyes she'd ever seen in her life...
Cathed: "It's Harry Potter."
The Anthropologist: "I'm really not sure that's a compliment.... Wow! That's an interesting colour. It's like grass green by greener. Could you just stand there whilst I get out my wallpaper chart?"

As clear as a scrying crystal, they seemed to glow from a face that was so perfectly sculpted he should be...
The Anthropologist: "Scrying crystals are transparent. And his eyes aren't transparent."
Watcher: "Not very attractive if you can see through to the back of his skull."

Cathed wants cookies and there is a brief digression here in pursuit of them. The Chronicler rather guiltily admits to having eaten all the cookies.

His curly black hair brushed against his shoulders in a haphazard manner that said he wasn't one to be overly concerned with his looks—as did the whiskers that darkened his tanned cheeks and accentuated the slight cleft in his chin...
Cathed: "Oh! Swoon!"

"That's Varian duFey you're attacking, Hugh. Think long and hard."
Azrael: "Long and hard... That's just ridiculously dodgy."

Merewyn snapped her jaw shut at the name that was legendary among the evil beings who called Camelot home. [...] That he'd sold his soul to the devil or Tuatha Dé Danann so that no man would ever be able to defeat him in battle. That he'd killed his own brother just so that he could learn Adoni magick and feed his own powers. But even worse, it was said that he knew magick so black that even Morgen feared him. [...]
And by the evil twist of his lips as he watched Hugh like a man eyeing a fly he intended to kill, she could believe every one.
Azrael: "Wow, she's gullible."
Luca: "She's the heroine."

Varian taunted in a deep resonant tone that went down her spine like warm velvet.
The Chronicler: "Him taunting his enemies really shouldn't be sexy."
Lady Miriam: "It's a medical complication. It's definitely meningitis."

Rumor claimed Varian duFey used the entrails of his victims as laces for his boots and armor...
Azrael: "You'd think you could just check that really easily."
Cathed: "Excuse me, sir, could you just stay still for a moment so I can see if your boots are laced with entrails? They aren't? I thought that was a stupid rumour..."

Hugh spat on the ground before he sheathed his dagger at his waist and retook his seat?
The Anthropologist: "What sort of a sheath does a circular dagger have?"
The Balance: "A circular one."
Cathed: "Maybe he has a CD wallet. Then he can carry all 36 of his daggers out at once..."

And as his gaze fell to each one, they looked away nervously before they returned to what they'd been doing...
The Anthropologist: "His gaze is in charge now. They've completed the dominance ritual. We've proven his gaze can take on an entire room."

To her complete shock, he handed it to her, and if she didn't know better, she'd swear his face actually softened as his gaze met hers...
Cathed: "Wait? Soften? I'm not sure that suggests their gazes are compatible."
Pillywiggin: "Maybe she's a fag hag."

"You'd best be on your way, lass. A little more carefully this time."
The single word that acknowledged her as a woman and not a hag went through her with a giddy rush. It'd been centuries since any man had looked at her with anything other than complete disgust in his gaze.
Lady Miriam: "He doesn't hate me... maybe he'll shag me!"

Countless centuries since one had called her anything other than "hag," "crone," or some other insult.
The Balance: "You! Some other insult! Get over here!"
Azrael: "There's nothing more demeaning than lazy hatred."
Cathed: "Surely she needs to leave a two second pause just to make sure he doesn't throw in the 'hag' at the end..."

He'd already forgotten her, but she would never forget him or the kindness he'd shown her.
Lady Miriam: "Kill it with knives."
Pillywiggin: "And then fire."
The Anthropologist: "It's useful that the heroine's standards and expectations of a relationship are artificially lowered before the book starts, or else she'd never be able to put up with the hero."

He liked to keep his eye on the crowd at all times.
And speaking of, he found his gaze traveling over the angry patrons to find the gnarled crone he'd saved.
Cathed: "He calls her a crone in his internal monologue... Oh! He only insulted me in his mind! He's so considerate!"
Pillywiggin: "Gaze come back here!

Scarred by the pox, she had a lazy eye and an overly large nose. Her lips were twisted and swollen, and given to so much moisture that she was constantly having to wipe them on the back of her hand.
The Chronicler: "I recognise this story! It's Loathly Lady plotline! Chaucer does a version of it... very popular and with proto-feminist overtones."
The Chronicler summarises the story.
The Balance: "So what it's saying is that women want what they want."
The Chronicler: "Yes. Essentially. But it's saying they want things. They want to make their own decisions."
Azrael: "So, heroine not appearing in this book."
The Anthropologist: "That's not just reading wiki article, it's clicking on the links at the bottom of the page. I'm getting increasingly impressed by the levels of research."
Lady Miriam: "Don't be."

If not for the fact that she was here in Glastonbury and was so obsequious, he'd think her one of the twisted graylings who served Morgen.
Azrael: "Don't worry, her hump'll swing around to the front. And she'll be all pretty soon."
Pillywiggin: "But this is almost Dragosh levels of ugly."

Varian looked back at Dafyn, who eyed him with malice…and that cut him soul deep. Centuries ago, Dafyn, who was a large, stout man with round, whiskered jowls, had owned a small tavern in Glastonbury...
Azrael: "You have all the flange in time travel, but the barkeep is still fat with whiskers. Nothing ever changes in these parts."

But as Varian had grown to manhood, he'd often found himself back in the tavern, spending time with Dafyn...
Azrael: "Like any other teenager. Not really surprising given how boring the rest of the world is."

Until the night the veil had come down and Dafyn had discovered himself trapped on this side while his family was still in the human world.
Cathed: "Oh woe! I am forever trapped in this pub! How tragic! I must drink!"

The pain, grief, and bitterness of that had ruined a good man, and now Dafyn, like all the others here, would kill him if he had a chance.
The Anthropologist: "They ran out of beer."

Varian opened the small leather purse at his waist and pulled out twenty gold marks. "There was a man murdered outside the abbey last night."
Azrael: "Are you finally setting your tab? It's been several centuries..."

"Bracken was leading them."
The Anthropologist: "That name means something and is easy to spell."

That name actually gave Varian pause. Bracken was one of the more lethal MODs Morgen commanded—though the term "commanded" was used loosely since the MODs had eaten their last master, the god Balor.
Lady Miriam: "They ate Balor! How can you eat a God?"
The Anthropologist: "Unless you're Christian? Then you do it every weekend."

At the end of the day, there was no doubt that they could kill her easily enough, but the last thing the MODs wanted was to be turned out to face the wrath of the entire Tuatha Dé Danann. That particular group of Celtic gods were known for their viciousness.
Pillywiggin: "I'm not sure they don't mean it in the Christian sense."
The Anthropologist: "Maybe the Egyptian sense, then?"
Lady Miriam mumbles about how it was Lugh who killed Balor.

"Hi, mum," he said before he turned to look at her over his shoulder.
Narishka was still as beautiful as any twenty-year-old human woman.
The Anthropologist: "She went on the Atkins."

Her golden blond hair was worn in braids that she had coiled around the crown of her head in an intricate design and fell in loops about her shoulders. Her flowing black gown barely covered her ample assets as she offered him a cold smile.
The Anthropologist: "She's your mother! Stop ogling her ample assets!"
Cathed: "He so has Mummy issues..."
The Chronicler: "I suppose he has to find her hot because it's technically Heroine's beauty he's looking at."

He reached behind the counter to grab a jug and goblet before he poured himself a potent drink.
The Loinfire Club reach for their potent drinks.

"Ah yes, you prefer to make your bed with our enemies."
(The Chronicler notes the first of many, many more sexual innuendos involving him and his mother.)

"A strategic miscalculation on my part."
"Hmm…" he said, not believing that for a moment as he set his goblet down. His mother never made those kinds of mistakes.
The Anthropologist: "But she just did. She just said so."

Tilting his head to one side, he frowned as he saw the twisted crone in his mother's shadow.
Cathed: "He's still calling her a crone in his head."

Lots of evil mother angst ensue.

He glanced back at his mother's cold gaze.
Cathed: "Her gaze is cold. He should really give it a jacket, poor thing."

She feigned an innocent pout. "Can't I simply be missing my boy?"
The Chronicler: "Why is pouting so common in romance novels?! No grown woman should be pouting seriously."
Cathed: "You're evil! We've established that. You've been oozing it since page one. Moving on..."

"And just how many centuries has it taken for you to discover this deeply buried maternal instinct? Oh wait, I better get a jackhammer to cut through the granite so we can find it, huh?"
Pillywiggin: "Not as witty as you hoped."

Never once in his life had his mother ever touched him with affection.
The Anthropologist: "Unlike Merlin."

And unless she'd seriously snapped a wheel...
Azrael: "His mother has wheels, now?"
Cathed: "She's actually a robot."

"Yeah. Of course you do. But it's a few centuries too late, mum. You two witches should have used your powers to see that little Varian wouldn't come back to the flock. Ever...
The Chronicler: "I'm glad he's resolved the Evil or Not suspense for all of us so soon. Now can he stop bloody angsting about it?"

...You told me on the day you left me at Camelot that you had more important things to do than play nursemaid to an unruly brat."
The Anthropologist: "All of us have better things to do than put up with this guy."

"What I did was regrettable—"
The Balance: "Regrettable hyphen."

...Well, not proud that you fight for that bitch and thwart Morgen's plans, but proud that you don't hesitate to kill those who get in your way. You are evil at heart, just like us...
The Chronicler: "But good guys kill to. This isn't a setting where killing is evil. It's like D&D, so her point is?"

...You can have all the coin you wish. You can have the most beautiful women—even virgins...
The Chronicler: "You too can sleep with women who don't know what to do and lie there terrified by your manly glory."
The Anthropologist: "Surely the most beautiful women are statistically less likely to be virgins..."

...Though it will probably take some searching to find those at Camelot, but…Whatever it takes to win you over, we will gladly cede."
The Chronicler: "I think she's offering the most beautiful women and the virgins separately."

I need no help with women, and I personally like what I do.
Pillywiggin: "Virile."

"So instead you'd have me serve Morgen, killing indiscriminately? Still hated and still worthless?"
Cathed: "I see where this is going!"

He narrowed his eyes at that statement, which told him much. "So what exactly did you learn from Tarynce's torture?"
The Anthropologist: "Ooo... alliterative."

Completely unabashed by what they'd done to the poor man, she actually answered.
The Chronicler: "He is rather hypocritical considering his relish of torture earlier."

"There are other grail knights. Five more to be precise. We must have their names."
Pillywiggin: "Because more than that is boring."

Oh boy! Let him sign up for that…not
The Balance: "He is, in fact, a fifteen year old girl on MySpace."

"This is Morgen we're speaking of. Morgen who threw the entire universe out of order for her own selfish gain, murdered her own brother and who has no love or respect for any living creature. Uh-huh. You would really trust her?"
(The Chronicler notes the morality presented in this book.)

She lashed out and grabbed his arm in a grip so tight, it managed to hurt even through the armor.
Azrael: "Wow. She's strong."
The Anthropologist: "He's wearing chainmail under his leathers. Maybe it's the hair catching on the links. That can really hurt."

Her eyes flamed to red as her grip tightened even more
Pillywiggin (marking in the book in a satisfied manner): "Eyes and fiery!"

And then she tried to zap herself out of the room.
Varian laughed at the stunned look on her face.
Luca: "How many centuries has she been living there?"

...but for the fact that he knew her brain was already concocting some way to fuck him over.
Cathed: "Dirty...

The latter would never happen, so that left him with Morgen throwing everything she could at him. Night and day. Day and night. Eternally.
The Balance: "It's not all about you, you know."
Cathed: "Is that like the name of the brothel next door?"

... All he needed now was for Bracken to gouge out his eyes and swallow them.
Pillywiggin: "Is that a medical complication or an eye comment?"