Prologue
A young woman with hair blacker than night and eyes greener than grass sits upon a large stone chair on a pedestal in a dark earthy tomb, a cave of sorts, lit only by candles with blackened iron holders and wooden torches in the hallways. An old man with bright red hair and scars on his face kneels at the feet of the woman, clutching his hands together and trying not to make eye contact with the woman. Both wear long black cloaks made of a rough lumpy fabric. The woman’s is a fitted dress with a leather belt at her waist and a black cloak, and the man’s is just one large gown that sits over his shoulders. Neither wears shoes.
Murtough: My Lady, please we must be rational about…
Morgana: Rational! Rational? When we relied on rationality alone I was left for dead Murtough. We must act when he least expects it. I cannot sit here on the outlands of the world with the knowledge that Arthur Pendragon sits upon my throne! He will pay for his insolence.
Murtough: But m’lady you are not yet strong enough.
Morgana: I will be. I merely need a little time.
Murtough: Of course m’lady.
Morgana: And blood.
Murtough: m’lady?
Morgana: I cannot regain my full strength until blood runs red in Camelot. When I achieve that, my powers will return.
Murtough: How?
Morgana: Really Murtough, have you never heard of the old druid sacrifice? (Murtough shakes his small head rapidly, eyes wide in both admiration and worry. Morgana leans forward from her stone throne and whispers into Murtough’s ear) Well, (she rises and walks lazily down the steps of her earthy prison.) Before the druids became who they are today, they used certain… practices, in order to increase their powers. They would sacrifice a human every year to a beast, a beast born from fire and wicker.
Murtough: I have never heard of such practices m’lady?
Morgana: You wouldn’t have done, these are ancient, as old as time. But they work. I knew something was wrong when I awoke after the battle. The time had changed for one, ten years had passed with me dead in them, but now, another 10 later will be the time when I arise again, and ascend my throne. You always wondered as to how I remained alive as did I, but yesterday I found this. (She presents to him a huge old book, born in some sort of leather, the spine made from bone. She opens it and points to a painting. A woman lies dead on a platform and on another a man lies beside her with a dagger through his heart. An older woman reads from a book and a rip is formed in the background as a fiery beast claims the soul of the man in exchange for that of the woman.)Someone saved me. Brought me back. But it took them ten years to find out how. Now we will use this same spell to return my powers to me in full.
Murtough: But to call back all that power will take…
Morgana: A lot of sacrifices. And that is exactly what we will use. The death of Camelot’s population should be adequate.
(Cry of the Celts by Ronan Hardiman begins quietly, getting louder.)
Murtough: But m’lady… a massacre of that kind would mean….
Morgana: Or do you not wish your queen to be well again!” (Morgana turns to Murtough and bites her tongue at him. He immediately falls at her feet, hands shaking and breathing heavy.)
Murtough: m’lady knows I serve only her. For there is no one more beautiful, more noble, more worthy of the crown. It is the crown that does not deserve m’lady.
Morgana: Better. This spell book, you must claim it. (She points to the old woman in the picture.) And we will strike when the time is right. This time, we have two Arthurs to destroy.
Murtough: Yes, my queen. I will use all my power to bring this to you, at once.
Morgana sat once more upon her iron throne and Murtough quickly backed away, his old yellow hands clasped at his thin withering mouth.
(Scene fades away at a grin on Morgana’s face.)
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