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6/13/2025, 1:48:12 PM
>>95862457
When we finally besiege the castle and tear the maddened wraith Uther has become from his throne, still screaming prophecies of doom at us, the patterns continued to reassert themselves with a twist. Under my guidance, Morgan became high queen of Britain-stabilising the black energy of the isles and using her fae heritage to bid the True Ancestors into cooperation with the grateful peasantry. No mage of flowers ever lent us his blessing, but God handed me down magecraft knowledge that after passing on to her, was used to reconstruct the sword Excalibur Morgan into a battle-Bounded Field ready to spring from every English body of water. In weeks fairy magecraft fulfilled all the functions of modern convenience, pumpkin carriages flying through the sky and bubbling potions curing all mortal ills. She had her duty and her revenge, and that was enough.
By contrast, Artoria rode to the borders. Knight-errants disliking peace, scattered gods of far lands, and restless spirits alike rallied under banner under one cause: To destroy all of Britain's enemies, not as king or knight but as the approaching storm itself. A divine disaster on a constant path of conquest, that razed the Pict lands and crushed any lord that voiced dissent at the queen. There was dissent between the sisters. Artoria demanded that Camelot of the Farthest Shore spread across the world while Morgan insisted we consolidate the British texture.
And amidst all this, I was forgotten.
That was, in hindsight, another rift between the sisters. Each blaming each other for the lack of accolades I received while fighting an endless battle against Space Outer Gods. But I had never asked for any.
I was too busy raising our sons.
I'd mentioned before this world had a tendency to throw off predictive models and manifest miracles. Mordred being born of fae/witch womb was one thing, but Agravain was a genuine surprise.
5/7
When we finally besiege the castle and tear the maddened wraith Uther has become from his throne, still screaming prophecies of doom at us, the patterns continued to reassert themselves with a twist. Under my guidance, Morgan became high queen of Britain-stabilising the black energy of the isles and using her fae heritage to bid the True Ancestors into cooperation with the grateful peasantry. No mage of flowers ever lent us his blessing, but God handed me down magecraft knowledge that after passing on to her, was used to reconstruct the sword Excalibur Morgan into a battle-Bounded Field ready to spring from every English body of water. In weeks fairy magecraft fulfilled all the functions of modern convenience, pumpkin carriages flying through the sky and bubbling potions curing all mortal ills. She had her duty and her revenge, and that was enough.
By contrast, Artoria rode to the borders. Knight-errants disliking peace, scattered gods of far lands, and restless spirits alike rallied under banner under one cause: To destroy all of Britain's enemies, not as king or knight but as the approaching storm itself. A divine disaster on a constant path of conquest, that razed the Pict lands and crushed any lord that voiced dissent at the queen. There was dissent between the sisters. Artoria demanded that Camelot of the Farthest Shore spread across the world while Morgan insisted we consolidate the British texture.
And amidst all this, I was forgotten.
That was, in hindsight, another rift between the sisters. Each blaming each other for the lack of accolades I received while fighting an endless battle against Space Outer Gods. But I had never asked for any.
I was too busy raising our sons.
I'd mentioned before this world had a tendency to throw off predictive models and manifest miracles. Mordred being born of fae/witch womb was one thing, but Agravain was a genuine surprise.
5/7
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