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Sir [[Padern]] pushed through the sticky substance. It was like walking in jelly. He thus emerged, with his broken horse, covered in vile goo, to another world. They sky was dark, a motley of purple, green and yellow, like an old bruise. There was no sun, nor moon, nor stars, but a sickly, weak light as from a dying sun, came from the heavens, leaving all in a deep dusk. The place stank like a charnel house, as a thousand old battles, the abbatoir of Satan himself. Belephoron neighed warily. Sir [[Padern]] found himself next to a swollen oak, a bloated, black thing, with gnarled roots and blood red leaves. There was a ridge ahead, and from the other side came the sounds of battle: clash of arms, cries of the dying and wounded, brazen trumpets. A green flash lit up the sky, and a roar, like that of a charging dragon echoed through the dead air. The screaming increased beyond the ridge. "Belephoron, I don't think we're in [[Logres]] any more" quoth Sir [[Padern]] cynically. He was talking to his horse, having temporarliy mislaid his faithful squire and bowman in the dark castle with the sticky gate. "Who goes there?" said a raspy, low voice out of the shadows of the Vampire Oak. Sir [[Padern]] turned, and saw it: a gnarled being, grey, naked, with bulging, lidless eyes, and a [[spear]] with five points in it's blood soiled hands. "A knight of [[Logres]]" answerd Sir [[Padern]] quietly. "I care not whence you came! That matters not in this forgotten place. Whom do you serve! The Black King or the Lost Queen? Speak quick, or I will slay thee!" The thing was angry. "I know nothing of these two, I am sworn to a great [[Lady]] of [[Logres]]", said Sir [[Padern]]. The being gazed upon him with an unblinking stare, then shrugged. "Then you will have to make you choice. All here must slay and be slayn, that is the Rule of the place." "The Battle yonder ridge started five Eons ago", added the unblikning one, in an effort of small talk. Sir [[Padern]] gazed through the gloom. He clearly had managed to find a worse place than the one he had left. It seemed to have turned into a knack of his. He laughed, and turning, saw that the sticky gate were nowhere to be seen. He was getting used to this. How long had he been lost on the Other Side? An year? A century more likely. There was an explosion far of, and he heard harsh voices screaming beyond the ridge, but rather near by: "[[Wotan]]! [[Wotan]]! [[Wotan]]!" He sat up in his saddle. What was this? There was a change in the air. It grew hotter, yet more still, and the heat touched his heart. [[Saxons]]? [[Saxons]]! He turned to the twisted spearman. "Whom do those [[Saxons]] serve?" "The [[Lady]]", said the being quitely. "Then", said Sir [[Padern]], and his voice was hollow and strange, like it came from out of some long forgotten world beyond the Pale of even [[Faerie]], "then I serve the King". And he drew his [[sword]], his hate burning like a funeral pyre in his heart, hotter than ever before. The being laughed, the laughter of a mad butcher before the stroke of the hammer, and it stood up, flexing its sinews, waving it's [[spear]]. It's eyes had turned red, red as blood "So be it! Then I will kill thee, or you me!"
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