Roland wrings out the water that is pooling on the hem of his clothes.
Roland: Rain again …
Roland: Hmph … Where is everyone?
The trail left by their attacker had disappeared.
And his fellow knights had disappeared along with it.
Roland: Hm?
Hoof beats tramp across the mud nearby.
He holds his breath and listens.
The figure of a knight appears in the distance, causing Roland to draw his sword defensively.
???: … Roland?
Roland: Oliver! You nearly drove me out of my wits!
Oliver: Haha …
Roland mounts his horse, and the pair ride side by side in the rain.
Oliver: So—
Oliver: Was it really Ganelon who suggested a festival of jokes? He doesn't seem the type to enjoy comedy.
Oliver: Then no sooner than our comrade had called himself "Roland," he was struck dead in the attack …
Roland: It is as I said, there is great power in a joke.
Roland: They can inspire morale while marching or on the eve of battle.
Roland: I can remember many a time when a well-timed joke has done much to lift the spirits of a weary band.
Oliver: …
Oliver: If I may speak out of turn, my friend. I feel I must tell you something.
Oliver: Roland, bosom friend, I think perhaps your jokes serve only one purpose.
Oliver: To inspire a timely retreat.
Roland: I regret only that my love for comedy as yet outstretches my talent.
Oliver: You should know, I suspect a traitor among our fellowship. If they plan to strike again, their next move will be in Paimpont Forest.
Oliver: They will not make the same mistake twice—we must move with haste.
Oliver: Regardless, I'm heartened to see you are safe—may our Lord continue to protect you, Roland.
He reaches out to pat his friend's shoulder.
But in a flash, Roland draws his sword and swings in a fierce motion towards Oliver's ear.
Oliver: Dn it!
The blade catches the arrow mid-flight, cutting it in twain.
Roland: Ride for the forest. We'll talk about the rest later.
Hearkening to his liege's orders, Oliver bends down, grasping the horse's belly with his legs, and spurs it into a gallop towards the forest.
But a second arrow reaches them first, piercing the destrier's leg and spilling both horse and rider on the ground.
Oliver falls hard on his leg and lays stunned on the ground.
Oliver: —!!!
Roland: …
Attacker I: It's Oliver!
The attacker grins and raises the sword in his hand.
Attacker I: His head won't be as valuable as Roland, still …
The lumbering figure's shadow engulfs Oliver's body.
Roland: Careful—
Roland rides swiftly, holding high his Everlasting Sword. With a single stroke, he cleaves the shadow in two.
A short, stiff cry gives way to the sudden wash of warm liquid that spills out over Oliver.
Attacker II: Dn it …
Attacker II: Why are you retreating?! There are but two of them!
Attacker II: Ulch—
There is a sudden coldness in the attacker's throat.
His vision begins to spin, a dizzying sensation as he falls to the ground.
Attacker II: …
From the ground, he sees his own headless corpse slouching off the back of his horse.
Roland: Quick, Oliver, take my hand—
The salt from the blood is stinging his eyes. Oliver forces them to open.
In the blurred vision, he catches sight of Roland's figure and reaches out his hand toward him.
Oliver: They'll be expecting us to move forward, further into their ambush. Don't follow the path they're driving us towards … Go around!
Roland grasps his comrade and hoists him up onto his horse.
Roland: Not to worry, young Oliver. I'm no fresh squire.
The horse carries the two knights deep into the forest.
The rain grows heavier, and its rhythmic tapping gradually swallows up all other sounds.
Roland: Ah, this little cave here will serve as an able refuge through the rain.
Oliver: A cave? Perhaps you should check inside for wild beasts first …
The pain still keeps him from seeing straight.
Roland: No need to fret. We'll be safe in here. Come now. Let's see about your shoulder and leg.
They stash themselves in the hollow cave, lying down on a bed of damp green moss.
Roland draws his long sword and severs the shaft of an errant arrow still clinging harmlessly to his armor.
Oliver: Did you hear those hooves, not far in the distance?
Oliver: Almost twenty men were chasing us—every one of them equipped with armor, swords, and a cordon of arrows.
Roland: But we're still alive, Oliver.
Oliver: … So? There is danger here, Roland—it's not just about our immediate crisis.
Oliver: Someone wants you to die here.
An eerie silence falls over the forest, as if the rain has hushed itself.
Roland: Oliver, look.
Oliver: What?
Roland: There's an Arachne.
Oliver's neck goes rigid.
It is a venomous spider critter, one that prefers to nest in damp, dark places.
He looks slowly in the direction of Roland's gaze—
Roland has folded his hands together, shaping them like a spider, crawling through the air.
Oliver: …
Oliver: Ro-land!
Oliver cannot stand it anymore. He slams his fist down hard on the ground.
Oliver: How many times do we have to tell you—these jokes of ours are not funny!
Oliver: Our foes number twenty at least, likely more with reinforcements … And there are only the two of us!
Oliver: Tell me how you manage to conjure these horrid jokes in a situation like this?!
Roland: I thought you needed something to raise your mood.
Oliver: It's only managed to raise my ire!
Oliver: Roland, my liege ... allow me to suggest what we should do now …
A plan is forming in his mind, one that seems to ease his pain.
Oliver: They know that you were to reach Brittany today.
Oliver: But they didn't know that I would ride here to receive you.
Oliver: If the worst should come to pass, you may be able to escape by wearing my cloak …
There is a second flash of genius on his face.
Oliver: Yes—
Oliver: This could well be our best opportunity to expose the traitor …
Though the traitor's identity is not difficult for them to guess. He has known the answer for a while.
Roland: It is a sound plan, young Oliver. But I refuse it. If I should do as you say, then only one of us can leave.
Oliver: A plan that lets one of us escape is better than both of us dying here.
Roland: …
Oliver: Don't tell me you're going out there by yourself.
A familiar trumpet sounds far in the distance.
Oliver: Enemies!
Roland: Friends!
They shout in a clashing unison.
Roland: Did that arrow hit your ear after all? That was clear as day the sound of Lady Oder's trumpet call!
Oliver: A trumpet is just an instrument. Anyone can blow it.
Oliver: Besides, what if Oder has been captured? What if the attackers and Oder simply have the same sort of trumpet?
Roland: Forget it then. There's no use arguing about something you can hear with your own ears. Besides, if not Oder, who else would blow a trumpet like that?
Roland: She's your sister, and still you cannot recognize her?
Oliver: That may be her, yes, but is it not prudent to consider the other possibilities?
Oliver: Indeed, I dare not question His Majesty's decree, but seeing you, our Lord Margrave, reduced to hiding in a cave, I must admit my fear for the future of Brittany.
The Margrave?
It dawns on him.
Roland: You have the right of it.
Oliver: Great, then we do as I suggested …
Roland: Knight Oliver, I order you to stay here.
Roland: Once the danger is gone and you are able, you are to travel to Brittany and relay what has happened here.
Oliver: …
Roland: Should events transpire that lead to my death, I will recommend that you succeed me as the Margrave of Brittany.
Roland: Don't worry. I'll pen a letter to His Majesty, listing a few of the reasons for "making Sir Oliver your trusted Margrave." I'll use all the most colorful rhetoric at my disposal.
Oliver: …
Oliver: I think you've confused our situation for a fairy tale, my Lord Margrave.
Oliver: Suppose you die out there, Roland, on whatever fool heroic you're planning, and I survive to present your letter of recommendation to His Majesty's Court ...
Oliver: What do you earnestly think they would do if I were to show up in your place?
Roland: I'm very sure, after reading through my glowing recommendation, they would grant you the title of Margrave of Brittany.
Oliver: …
Oliver: I see now why His Majesty so appreciates your honest nature, Sir Roland.
Oliver: But think seriously, surely they would start to wonder why I decided to ride out to meet you.
Oliver: And the why-fores and whens of how you died, and how it came to be that there was no one else around to witness your death.
Oliver: If I were then to present a letter of your recommendation, how would it be received?
Roland: You are suggesting they would think you forged the letter. Perhaps even that you orchestrated this ambush.
Roland: You think too poorly of His Majesty's Court. The Paladins of Charlemagne are good and just.
Oliver: Roland, you can't just split people into simple categories of "good" and "evil."
Oliver: People are complicated, and men of power more complicated still—you should know that far better than I do.
Oliver: Besides …
He falls silent again.
The weight of the accusation bore on him, to accuse one of their brethren of treachery, he hesitates to continue.
Roland pats his shoulder.
Roland: Go on.
Oliver: The traitor must be one of the other Paladins, one of your brothers in Charlemagne's court.
A sharp stab of pain throbs in his shoulder. Oliver takes a deep breath before continuing.
Oliver: It is Ganelon of Mainz.
Roland breaks into a grin.
Roland: That's reassuring, Oliver.
Roland: You finally learned how to make a joke.
Oliver: …
Roland: Oh … Don't misunderstand. There is weight to your speculation.
Roland: But, it's a matter of proof …
The trumpet sounds out once again, now much closer than before.
Before long, a party of knights emerges from the surrounding forest, led by a woman.
Oder: Oh—Sir Roland, how did you end up here?
Oder: Don't worry, old friend. My men made short work of your would-be assassins—we even managed to seize them alive, the lion's share at any rate.
Oder: The both of you look worse for wear; we must make for the castle quickly.
Oder: But first … A question!
Oder: What did the blanket say to the bed?
Oliver: …
Roland answers without missing a beat.
Roland: I've got you covered.
Oder: Aha! Precisely! I've got you covered!
Oliver: …
The rain washes down the narrow streets of the castle town.
The smells of blood from the butcher shop, of ammonia from the tannery, and the reek of old sweat that had long lingered there are swept out by the arrival of the rain.
But no pleasant scent of earth and stone greets her. The reek of fish clings on in wet weather, as bits of fish covered in scales float on the puddles over Oder's feet.
Oder: We need someone charismatic to lead the interrogation. May I propose the Knight of Astorford?
Oder: Should he fail to win them over with charm, then we must rely on Lord Reynaud to break them.
Oder: But to have these two noblemen come to interrogate such a prisoner …
Oliver: There's no need to involve them, my lady. We have our own manner of guile to make the brigand talk.
Oliver: For now, let us take Roland to rest. I believe the journey has finally caught up to him.
Roland, at last exhausted from his journey and battle, begins to slump in his saddle. The voices around him grow fainter.
Until all sound blends into the patter of the rain.
He closes his eyes, and darkness swallows everything like a tide.
*thud, thud, thud*
Oliver Fog : Oof!
An-an Lee: Whoa …!
The two of them barge through the door and tumble into the sunlit room.
APPLe: Oh! You have some visitors.
An-an Lee: Ah, Sir Knight, so you've been in your room this whole time!
An-an Lee: Hmph, then all that fuss about the lights was just old circuits. Ms. Vertin should hire an electrician!
A Knight: There's no need for concern. Someone is here, as they have been for some time.
APPLe: APPLe can attest to this. We preferred to use just the sunlight in this room, as it created a very dramatic lighting effect for Mr. Knight.
APPLe: We're holding a bit of a storytelling session.
A Knight: Quite so. Someone was just in the middle of a story about Sir Roland ... However, Sir APPLe here seems to believe that one's storytelling skills are lacking—
A Knight: Someone has been attempting to portray the figure of a knight named Roland in order to immerse the audience in the moment.
The knight's gauntlets spread and lower on both sides, approximating a theatrical bow.
A Knight: Someone is pleased that you happened by.
