Thread: In the Shadow of Camelot: A Femdom Arthurian Tale (Closed)

Urien was dead. The King of Rheged had taken violently ill a week prior. He'd been confined to his chambers, to be visited only by the most trusted and renown physicians. Several different diagnoses were made, every treatment and method of healing tried, failed, and tried again. Nobody could stop the swift decay of his body as the mysterious disease swept through him practically overnight. It presented like no other illness anyone had ever seen. But the King's food was diligently tested for poison. And he had been in the Queen's chambers that night, so if anyone had harmed the King, surely she would have witnessed it. None of it made any sense. It was a blessedly quick death. Urien suffered, but for no more than two days. Then he was gone, after a particularly horrfic fit of painful and debilitating seizures. It was no way for a King to die, an undignified mess and nothing but a shell of his former self, driven half-insane by his agony, but at least it had not been more prolonged. It was all very unfortunate. Rheged grieved the loss of their great King, and the young Queen was in private mourning. It was rumored that she was too heart-broken to face her people - oh, certainly , how very sad it was that she would never be spoken down to by her husband again. How dreadful that she would no longer endure the acrimony of his bratty children who rejected her as a mother. How terrible that she would never again experience the joy of laying under an old man while he took his pleasure like a dog in heat ... But after a day of this so-called lamentation, she had addressed the court publicly, as regent queen, and informed them that she would traveling to Camelot to pledge the kingdom's allegiance to the young King Arthur, a young man whose succession was certain to be a rocky one. During her absence, Urien's eldest son, Lowen, would occupy the throne. She would much rather see him there than herself. There were more important issues at hand now. The time had finally come to shed the skin of obedient, stifled Queen and take the reigns of her true destiny. They were less than a day from Camelot now. A messenger had been sent ahead, so as to cordially warn King Arthur of their impending arrival. Morgana was ever the sober and modest widow - this was not meant to be a celebratory vacation after all, but rather a solemn journey weighed with unimaginable grief and sorrow - but inside, she was positively teeming with excitement. She could hardly wait. She had so many ideas, so much to do. But first, she would meet her young brother for the first time since she'd looked into his tiny, round face as an infant. She would get to know him, not only as her King, but as her kin. She would take her rightful place at his court and reap the benefits. Morgana was a widow at twenty-four, but her life was beginning, not ending. They had stopped at a small castle in southern Wales for the afternoon, wishing to rest now in order to travel by night and arrive in Camelot by morning. It didn't matter - she couldn't sleep. There was a knock at the door. Morgana, who had been laying on the bed, staring at the stone ceiling, sat up and called, Enter. The heavy wooden door opened just far enough for a small young woman to slip inside. My Lady , the girl said it with a sort of breathless reverence that made Morgana's lips twist into a smirk. The maiden's curtsy was broad and sweeping, and her sweet golden head bowed to avoid her mistress' eye. Locks of curly blonde hair fell forward onto her darling chest, which was clad in customary dark grey linen. Morgana wanted to twist the soft hair around her fingers, or even give it a firm tug and watch the girl's mouth fall open in a gasp as her eyes watered in pain. Perhaps later. The blue dress, Morgana stated, and the maiden - Elside was her name - straightened up and walked across the chamber to fetch said dress. Like every garment Morgana owned, it was a beautiful creation. Rich fabric of the deepest navy blue composed the voluminous skirts and body. The hem was embroidered with silver thread in feminine, swirling floral patterns, and sturdier stitching across the front. It was well-structured and had a rather low-cut bust, toeing the line of modesty. The sheer, light blue sleeves would fall delicately on her slender arms and be secured by shiny silver cuffs beautifully made in the shape of ravens at the elbow to keep the fabric from billowing in the wind. Similarly, an ornate silver belt cinched the dress at the waist, ensuring that her comely body was shown off to it's potential - Morgana had never been one for drab, loose-fitting garments of grey or white. No, her days at the convent were long over. Now she was very much a creature of luxury, and she lived in a sea of expensive lengths of dark purple, green, and blue - had enough precious jewelry to drown herself in - drank from only the finest gold goblets and off only the shiniest silver platters. A moment later, Elside was helping her queen into the dress. Her nimble fingers laced up the back tightly, and clasped the cuffs and belt on her arms and waist. She adjusted the hem so that it laid just so brushed long dark hair and laid it in loose waves across Morgana's white shoulders gently placed a circlet of silver on the top of Morgana's head and attached an opaque veil, that rested over her hair and ran to the middle of her back. The effect was just right. The darkness of the dress was appropriate to her grief, the hints of silver made it nearly ethereal, and the white veil was almost innocent and made it clear that her intentions were pure. My Lady, you are a vision, Elside whispered in the same genuine awe she always did the girl was so earnest it almost hurt. She did so adore Morgana - but then, everybody did. She couldn't wait to greet Arthur. Surely he would take one look at her and damn their relation. It was difficult indeed to look upon the lady and not at least admire her physical beauty. She was stunning. Her skin was perfectly smooth and pale, and her black hair and expressive light green eyes gave her an air of alluring darkness, as did her often enigmatic and aloof demeanor. She was taller than most of her maidens by a few inches, though she had still remained a good head below the bulky, intimidating frame of her deceased husband. She had a lovely shape to her, accented well by her gowns. Icy and silent though she usually was in Rheged, Morgana had somehow demanded the respect and love of her constituents anyway. Though she'd never been quite as popular as the previous Queen, and she had not won the affection of Urien's children she'd never desired that anyway, the people loved her. The royal procession finally arrived at Tintagel Castle mid-morning. The wind was howling, but it quickly reduced to a calm, pleasant breeze. However, the trees beyond continued to sway in the harsh gusts. It was curious, as if Tintagel had been placed inside some magical bubble, protecting it from the elements. She was helped off her handsome grey mare by a servant, and when her feet touched the ground she sighed. Lowering the hood of her heavy, dark green cloak, she looked around. Impressive . I assume our message was received? she inquired of the man. Yes, My Lady. And when will the King see us? Right away, My Lady. I will go announce your arrival myself. Wonderful, Morgana said, smiling just a bit. Just a few minutes later, she was inside court and being introduced to her long-lost brother. Her smile, now, was quite sincere and she didn't bother to oppress it. She was bearing great news, after all. Even if her husband had just died, she was allowed to look a bit happy for that. The Lady Morgana, Queen of Rheged. That was her cue. She curtsied deeply, but kept her eyes on his face. Oh, what a very handsome face it was... Sire, she said slowly, almost as if she wanted to relish in the pleasant taste the word left in her mouth. She stood up again, and clasped her hands loosely in front of her. I have come to pledge my kingdom's fealty. This was not King Urien's first intention, but as the decision was ultimately left to me, here I am. I - like Your Majesty, I'm sure - am not desirous of tension, conflict, or war. She paused, then, and frowned, her beautiful face suddenly full of sadness. This way, perhaps, something good may come of my husband's death.