Saturday Night's Alright For Commenting: 5/21/2016

"Arthur was mesmerized.  The shining sword felt as light as a feather and yet stronger and more powerful than any weapon, word, or conviction he had ever known.  In truth, it was almost a presence unto itself, calling out to him through the darkness in a still, small voice that could be heard by no one else on earth.  Slowly he turned the magnificent blade back and forth in his hands, admiring every detail, every glimmer of otherworldly brightness, while the grim despair that had held his soul captive gradually melted away like snow at sunrise.  He felt as if he were just waking from a long and terrible dream – a living nightmare during which he had been trapped deep within himself, locked away like a prisoner in his own mind.  The world he had known before seemed dull and grey, and all he now looked upon was richer, brighter, and saturated with colors so vibrant that it almost burned the eyes to stare at them for longer than a few moments.  His newfound vision reached through time and space as well, showing him the proud faces of his mother and father at the hour of his birth, his whisking away to Armorica by the gentle hand of Nimue, and Merlyn’s glorious stand against the dark spirit who sought to slay him in the cradle.  Finally, he knew who he was.  And more importantly, he knew what he must do."

"A flash of lightning illuminated the all-consuming night, and Agravain watched as the mist rose up and began to coalesce into a single entity whose serpentine form and enormous, bat-like wingspan suddenly blanketed the starless skies. The creature writhed and twisted, bursting forth from the womb of Hell into this mortal world, and Agravain shook with horror as layers of sallow, cadaverous skin began to stretch across its reptilian body. Finally two eyes opened, filled not with light but with darkness visible, and the monster shook the earth with a thunderous, bone-chilling roar. The White Dragon had come."

"A profound, seething hatred filled Maleagant’s icy gaze, and he chuckled softly to himself, motioning to the other riders in his retinue to lower their weapons and retreat a few paces. Gwenivere watched with great apprehension as Lancelot drew the battered sword he had pilfered from the tower guard and turned to face his enemy, jaw set in determination, ready and waiting for a confrontation that could only be satisfied through bloodshed. A haunting stillness fell over the lonesome forest clearing, and while the early morning sun had already begun to stretch her glowing fingers through the trees, coloring the dreary landscape with patches of pink and orange light, there was no chorus of songbirds to announce the new day, no comforting commotion made by fishermen or farmers hard at work in the fields – only the eerie quiet of inevitability and the foreboding promise of death that weighed heavily upon the waking dawn. At long last, Maleagant broke the silence, lifting his war hammer skyward and letting out a terrifying battlecry as he spurred his mighty destrier into a gallop and rushed toward Lancelot with a sneer upon his withered lips."