Blodwen Rowlands

She spends more time outside than in, lately, drifting along the lakeshore or through the trees, a living ghost among so many others here at the ends of worlds. At night, the dark, dry-blood red of her gown seems nearly black, and the grey gauze veil over her hair and her lower face gleams coldly in the light of moon and stars. In the day, of course, everything is clearer. Only her eyes remain always unchanged, ice-blue and glinting with diamond brightness.

She has no need to return indoors, and for the moment she prefers not to. It's calmer this way, at least for now, while the gift she's been given continues its work upon her. Blodwen's all too well aware of the changes that have taken place and which are still slowly occurring. She can't quite recall, but she thinks she dimly remembers something like this happening once long ago, uncountable years and ages distant, when last she turned from a mortal life.

For some reason, though, it seems to all be so much more painful this time.

In her inattention, she strikes her foot against a stone. Blodwen hisses in a sharp breath at the jolt and moves past it, continuing along the faint path that she's following, her thoughts already twisting inward once more.

Behind her, the rock crumbles into gravel and dust.



[OOC: Note on appearances; note on abilities and weaknesses.]

Much of Blodwen's current seeming is illusion of a sort, but it's not the standard kind of illusion that someone with powers, etc., could immediately see through or reveal by breaking a spell.  However, there are some clues to her deeper nature and the source of her new power that might be observed by someone with the power/ability to break through the top level of illusion, as follows:

Dress, obvious:  The dress she wears is long-sleeved and floor length, in cut and fit much like a simple shift dress with a high cowl neck and a loose sash belted at her hips. The shade is a deep, rusty red, very similar to the color of dried blood.

Dress, hidden:  It's made from funeral cerements.

Veil, obvious:  The gray gauze veil she wears is light and airy, almost translucent.  It covers her hair and the lower half of her face, but hides neither - if anything, it merely softens and blurs what's veiled.  (Her eyes are not covered.)

Veil, hidden:  The thicker woven strands of its weaving are cobwebs, and the material itself is dust blown onto their sticky strands.

Form, obvious:  Blodwen looks very much in face and body as she did when last seen in the bar. (This does in fact mean that she can be recognized by those who know her.)  Her hair is the same medium brown, her eyes are still blue, etc.

Form, hidden:  Her true shape is the gaunt, wasted figure that she was left with after her long imprisonment in the clay statue, and her hair is bleached straw.  (Her eyes, however, are the same.)  N.B.: This deception can only be broken by touch after the top level of spell has been pierced, as she has crafted dust (and possibly other things) into an actual physical semblance.

Scent, obvious:  Blodwen now wears a distinctive but subtle perfume.  It's hard to identify all the elements, but there are hints of spice and sweet fruit mixed with a touch of earth.  It's a complex and lovely scent...

Scent, hidden: ... until one manages to discern that the spices are things like myrrh and cloves, used to preserve decaying corpses, the fruit is too-ripe and rotten in its sweetness, and the earth is the dust and dry ash of tombs.

It begins with dust.

Fine gray powder sifts through the near-invisible crack that was created when the clay statue shifted. What starts as a trickle soon becomes a steady stream, flowing outward from the crevice to form an ash-colored drift.

Blodwen watches intently. Aside from its being a visible sign of weakness in her prison, not to mention being the first new thing she's seen in over a year, she finds that focusing on the dust soothes her pain-wracked vision. The bland gray hue of the dusty mound leaches all brightness away, dimming the light and casting a shadowy haze into the surrounding space.

A hoarse sound of relief escapes her dry throat-- and is unexpectedly met with a response.

The strange gray dune lurches, drawing itself inward and upward until it matches her height. There it remains, in one place and yet still moving, twisting around and over itself in a shapeless mass as it pitches and yaws back and forth in front of her. The constantly shifting dust is not silent, either; the powdery grains scrape against each other over and over in a droning, monotonous whisper.

Several seconds pass before Blodwen realizes with a shock that the buzzing drone has words; that the amoeba-like form is, in fact, speaking to her.

~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~
"It has been a long time since I have found one such as you," it hisses. "A very, very long time." Gloating satisfaction oozes from each sibilant word.

"Obviously you haven't been looking very hard," Blodwen snaps back, nerves and temper together edging her tone like a blade. "Right here have I been, dear, and for all this time, too."

The dust-thing chuckles. "To be sure. You are still. But now... so am I."

It's the significance of that point which holds her silent as she considers it.

"Who -- what are you?"

The faceless figure leans toward her, and as it does an unseen wind stirs the dust of its shape and blankets her with the ghastly, fetid stink of charnel houses and death, of gangrene and corpse-mildew.

"I am Corruption."

Speechless, choking on the foul reek of its breath and the stench of its body, she can do nothing but listen as it continues.

"I am the rot which devours all things," it tells her. "The worm at the core of the fruit; the disease that poisons from within; the doubt which savages, the greed that consumes. I am the corrosion that erodes strength, the festering of mold and the crumbling of rust; I am putrefaction and decay. Where I exist, nothing lasts – and I am everywhere. Not even the craft of a god could bar my way for long."

She gasps in a breath, immediately wishing she hadn't.

"I know what you have been, Angharad North, Blodwen Rowlands, White Rider. It is what you are now that interests me." The figure shifts, and suddenly her own withered, gaunt face stares back at her.

"Mortal woman made immortal power, then turned mortal once more, and finally left here to decay undying," it croons, its rasping voice thick with the rancid sweetness of overripe fruit. "Your very existence calls to me like no other, and the strength of your hatred is wondrous.

I have come to bring you a gift."

~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~

In the end the offer is simple; her choice, even more so.

Soon the clay statue is left empty, its hollow eyeholes dull and dark once more.

A gray-shrouded figure stands before it and watches for some time before reaching out and touching it with a skeletal finger.

Seconds later, nothing remains where the statue once was save only a pile of dust.

Come back soon, Nick had asked, and she had murmured something innocuous and left as soon as she could.

She hasn't returned.

As the passing days stretch into weeks and the weeks to months, the woman known elsewhere as Blodwen Rowlands and here as Anghared North walks the shore of the cold dark sea near her own small cottage, and wonders.

Many there are that would call her foolish, she knows; who would scoff at the very idea that Nick Carraway could ever be a danger.

And yet.

And yet, she also knows all too well how it is that a person might be able to seem nothing more than sweet and kind for years upon years, and still ever waiting for the moment in which to strike. Of course she knows how it could be done, this woman who was once the wife of John Rowlands as well as the White Rider, and who helped to raise the boy Bran Davies from an infant, all the while plotting his downfall and that of the Light entire.

Certainly she knows. Who better?

And after reading the story pressed upon her, Blodwen finds it all too easy to believe that Nick Carraway -- who despite his easy manner and sweet smiles, is evidently well-acquainted with secrets, madness, and death -- might well be more than he outwardly appears.

Puck thought we should meet. Puck, who bears her no affection at all-- and with good reason, oh yes, and who she despises in turn. Could it be some trick by the fae?

Why would I be talking to a bird - unless it's ... a parrot. A parrot. Like (Lleu Llaw Gyffes) Peach, perhaps.

What do you think of the name Arthur? A rock goes flying into the water as she hisses a bitter curse against the name of Arthur Pendragon -- and his son Bran as well, for good measure.

I'm getting a sentient wolf pup. Such clever creatures, oh yes -- including the one known as Bleiddwn, Gwydion's son.

Too many coincidences, and she likes them not at all.

We both have complicated pasts... I'm willing to help you move on.

But to what?

She walks silently away from them all as the last light fades from the sky.

(This one has her life and her potential. What do you have now, White Rider?)

She knows the answer, and it is bitter as ash on her tongue.

She has nothing. Not even her oldest name.

Her plans are slowly being laid in place as a particular day draws nearer, and it is to that end that she is walking through the edge of the woods this early evening.

Her white cloak will stand out against the trees, she knows; therefore, as she starts into the forest, it is the green kirtle that she wears, and the form of Anghared of Northgalis.

Besides, passing so may buy her peace and time both, given certain recent events.

The light is beginning to fade as evening draws closer, and the paths in the forest are growing shadowed.

Despite this, the gleam of a white cloak can easily be seen moving through the trees and away from the bar.

Her knitting has been set aside this evening, but the woman known to some as Blodwen Rowlands remains busy nonetheless. The sound of metal grinding on metal is distinctive and grating-- were there anyone to hear it, here in the security of her new room in the House of Arch.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. She works diligently, filing down the rough edges of the metal. There is no trace to lead back to her, even though both file and iron scraps have been stolen. She had simply waited, a snowy owl watching from a nearby tree, until the dwarf had gone inside, and had then swooped into the forge. A moment to shift her form, another's work to seize the things she needed and bundle them into a packet, and then a more burdened "Galatea" had flown unsteadily back through the portrait.

Blodwen taps the file over white silk and then continues her task. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. It all comes down to pressure, really-- apply the bit of force here, just so, and watch the pieces fall scattered and broken, lying ready to her hand.

It works the same way with power, she'd learned uncountable years ago. And as it works with metal and magic, so also with people. Even the Wild Magic can be predicted, if not easily controlled.

The reactions to her very presence-- so-predictable anger and rage, hatred and despair and helpless fury-- were just the beginning. Coyote's death may have closed certain doors, she thinks, but the stores of rage and revenge that now resonate among so many, fueled by her continuing actions and purposeful antagonism, are rich and open to her; sources of her own new and growing strength, even in this green season.

Scrape.

She sets the file aside and gathers up her work, wrapping it carefully in white silk and concealing it within a pocket of her white cloak.

And oh, but she is smiling.

After Puck's helpful announcement and the events that led to her being locked up by Mordred, Blodwen settled into the Milliways cells for a comfortable two-week stay.

Or perhaps not that comfortable.

It begins late in the evening of her incarceration when she makes Arithon's acquaintance once more. The Master of Shadows is politely snarky, utterly unconcerned with her state of being, and absolutely unhelpful. Blodwen, in turn, sweetly promises future conversation and perhaps even to teach him a lesson some day.

Tim Hunter continues the trend of unhelpfulness. Baby's creator, it's with his visit that the cell becomes notably colder and darker and damper than anyone else's. (Be sure that the White Rider takes note of the inequitable and unfair treatment.) He attempts to garner an invitation to visit her in her new stronghold, and then is dismayed by the recollection that she possesses one of his wishing rings -- a gift of power, freely given. Unwittingly, as he leaves, he gives a second gift by acknowledging that he is bound by her rules, but only the future knows what that may bring.

Alanna comes in looking for a missing practice sword and finds a surprise instead. They have a very interesting question and answer session about the rules of the bar and past events, as well as past conversations.

Mel Fray is the next security member to drop by, and Blodwen is very interested in the changes to her state of being since they'd last met-- enough so to offer pointed advice on the difference between what one is and who one wants to be. What Mel thinks of that is not immediately evident.

Later in the afternoon Bernard Wrangle stops in -- with Anthony in his arms. Blodwen is fascinated by the baby, seeming to find him very endearing, which is something of a surprise to Bernard. Their discussion touches on events, interpretations of events, judgements, impartiality or its lack, and then takes rather an unpleasant twist when Bernard informs her of what happened to Wellard-- and flatly accuses her of lying in the process. Matters end on a rather tense note, with Bernard warning her never to speak to Anthony again as he departs. As for Blodwen, she's come to a few conclusions about the bar and the Tonks-Wrangle family now.

Jack Green visits, bringing the feel of spring and of the Wild Magic with him. Blodwen's not really all that pleased to see him. In this case, opposites do not attract.

Sharpe is next, and very displeased at his own enchantment as well as what's happened to Wellard. Blodwen refuses to admit anything, and eventually Sharpe stalks off.

Cordelia Vorkosigan is evidently interested in solving the mystery of the woman as well as the Rider of the Dark, but Blodwen is anything but willing to trust one who's Light's liege, or even to speak to her much. Especially her. Eventually, however, some questions are answered and some stories are told-- and Cordelia very nearly ends up promising her help by the time it's all said and done. Oh dear.

Oats is next to wander by, on his mission to offer comfort and prayer to the poor souls in need in the cells. Unfortunately for him, he wasn't really expecting the woman who is the White Rider, and by the time he leaves he's in rather a lot more doubt than he had been when he entered.

Gwion had heard the news from Merriman, and deliberately came seeking her. She, in turn, was not expecting him-- but the conversation started well enough, and then moved into a discussion of promises and their importance. Blodwen asked Gwion if he meant what he had said before, and then asked him for something -- a song. He extracted a promise from her, and then discounted her word as untrustworthy. She... did not react well. There will be fallout from this one for some time, folks.

It's only the beginning of the downhill slope, though, as Coyote's the next one to stop by. Baby's barriers get a practical test as tempers rise and Coyote swears vengeance and pain upon the White Rider-- rules or no rules.

From Wild Magic to Light -- it's Merriman's turn to visit. The Oldest of the Old Ones is stoically himself, and Blodwen is quite herself as well. Barbed words and poisoned verbal arrows are traded freely between these two ancient enemies.

The next visit is something of a surprise, as a new member of security checks up on Blodwen. In contrast to others, Steph is polite and even kind -- bringing her blankets against the chill and knitting, so that she'll have something to do with her time. Very kind indeed, and you can be sure that Blodwen will remember her.

The pleasant mood doesn't last, as a scared but determined Danny Fenton comes in to scold, insult... and threaten. The White Rider is coldly dismissive, but she does take very careful notice of his manner and his boasting both.

The next visitor, though, is a visitor she's seen before -- elsewhere. Raven comes to the cells to see Blodwen, keeping a promise of his own. There is discussion, then anger, and finally a warning and something of wisdom. (Ow.)

Puck's next, and this pleasant little chat is full of light-hearted barbs and subtle malice, as well as hints that Blodwen has no intention at all of forgetting what the fae has done and can do. Say it with me, folks: this can't be good.

Another pleasant interlude, if bittersweet, as Mordred comes by to check on Anghared.

Matters are far less pleasant when Mercer stops in, having found out some interesting facts from Puck. Once again, Baby's barriers get a test of their strength as he warns her not to harm anyone in the bar, and then loses his temper and tries to get through the cell to her. She finds this very interesting indeed.

Next comes a pair of visitors -- Mistress Mary Lennox and her guard, Iago. Blodwen is sweet and nice and attempts to convince Mary that it was all a misunderstanding, but the little girl isn't buying. She is, however, very upset by the time she leaves -- having failed to get Wellard's bracelet back, among other things.

The next set of visitors is another pair: Bran Davies, with Moiraine Sedai as near-silent observer and advisor. This conversation goes very well for Bran, who maintains poise and temper both -- and is rather disturbing for Blodwen, who finds that all her usual tricks seem to have little or no effect. She folds first, signaling the end of the conversation, and Bran departs in quiet triumph, with Moiraine having observed it all.

Even more of a surprise is the next visitor: one Machu Picchu, better known to most as Peach -- but once known as Lleu of the sure hand, a name which has rather a great deal of meaning for outwardly-Welsh Blodwen, the woman of white flowers. Stories have interesting resonance at Milliways, and the one being told between these two here is very unexpected indeed. [Still in progress.]

And finally, making an entrance of his own, the Black Rider stops by to visit with his colleague. This is proceeding pretty much as expected ... at least so far. [Still in progress.]

The sky above the mirrorglass ground is pitilessly bright, a blinding cloudless blue broken only by the shadows of birds—some of which soar in unending circles, some of which flutter and dance and call, shrieking to one another with a harsh cacophony of pure sound as they fill the air with noise and song.

Where they have come from, and why they are here, who can say? Some things are mysteries, with answers that may never be known.

(other birds will be hostile to you - it will be their nature - wherever they find you)

At the heart of the courtyard below stands the palace of emerald and jade glass, its towers spearing the air in jagged shards. Beyond the high barrier walls, the gray-white fog warbles and howls with a mad wind-filled scream of its own.

(the wind that blows round the feet of the dead)

Amid this brightness, the woman once called Blodwen Rowlands is nowhere to be seen.

(you are never to show your face to the light of day)

Not all things need be visible, however, in order to make their presence felt.

Untouched by human hand, the doors to the palace swing open. A soft, mocking laugh floats across the open space, cutting through the birdsong with a chiming like a silver bell from the glass walls and mirrored ground, leaving a lingering malice stretched through the air like the deadly threads of some creature’s web.

Slowly, the sky begins to darken.

It is a hawk that first breaks apart from the rest, a small, bright-eyed (merlin) falcon that arrows across the sky in a soaring arc away from the thickening smoky clouds and toward the gate at the edge of the courtyard. As it dives, a reflection falls from the palace-glass, tinting its feathers with a velvety bottle-green.

The crack of its bones breaking as it hits the mirrorglass ground—that deceptive image far closer than it had seemed—is very loud. The hawk flutters once, keening wildly, and is still.

A flicker, and where the hawk had fallen the body of a wren lies instead, still and unmoving on the glass, dusty-brown feathers stirred by the wind through the tall gates. After a few moments, light footsteps can be heard, and then a shadow falls across the small, still form.

Blodwen looks down at the bird—a wren no longer, but a white-feathered corbie, with a small cruel smile.

“Did you think to taunt and harass me here in my own land, my own castle, dear? Did you think to use that old tale against me, even here and now?”

“I am not truly she who once was, and they are all long gone in any case, cariad, but I still remain – and it is I who am shaping the story now.” The soft musical voice is half-lilting, half-mocking. “And it is so very tired that I am of being bothered by birds, but there are some that can be useful, oh yes. You will see.”

A circling eagle’s form—and yet an oddly bright one, for what eagle ever had feathers of red and gold and blue?—soars upward and vanishes into the last of the light as the clouds thicken further, and then out of that sudden blackness a shrieking clamor of rooks storms the sky, swooping in a malevolent flurry of wings upon the remaining birds. Feathers float down from the battle, torn from sparrows and cormorants and even a few night-dark ravens’ feathers, a small unkindness among so many.

In the shifting shadows, a parliament of golden-eyed white owls – as white as the cloak the Rider wears-- can be seen perching on the wall, watching in fierce silence—and in the next moment, just as silently as they had appeared, they are gone.

As suddenly as it began, all is quiet. No wings blot the sky; no feathered shapes swirl above. All the birds are dead or vanished-- save one.

Dazed in the aftermath of the storm, a single lost robin flutters toward the ground untouched. Smiling, Blodwen stretches out one pale hand towards it, offering the shelter of a perch on her finger, murmuring, “I knew a robin prince once, dear; come here and be safe, and so beautifully you will sing for me, I am certain of it.”

As it settles nervously into place, she strokes its feathers and turns toward the castle, not deigning to look down at the fallen shape at her feet.

The crunch of a wing breaking under her foot is shockingly sharp in the eerie stillness.

Carrying the robin, the White Rider walks away, vanishing into the darkness of the emerald palace.