OK, just before this case I hope people are not heartily sick of the project and space it is taking up on the forum. I know it is hard to catch up with each case, but given the whole 30 days 30 items format we used last Year (even if I only statted 23 Saints in the end) I can't really avoid that If it is a problem yell and I'll think of a way of reformatting things. I've also drawn heavily on the Stonehenge Tribunal so far, but most of the cases could work anywhere. Tomorrow we shall move to Provence! Today we are in Normandy though...
Case 9: The Return of the Primus
It had been an exhausting couple of days at Tribunal. Firstly, everyone had gathered and exchanged stories and news, and vis trading and betting on the Tournament had kept the first day filled with frenetic activity. Then yesterday there was the Hermetic Tournament - well we all know how that went, and the visiting Iberian team who carried off first prize certainly earned our respect for their innovative (some would say insane) tactics. Today has been an anti-climax - more of the usual disputes over how far grogs had run in a day, and whether vis supplies were actually within the required range of various covenants. The usual rows about feudal relationships between covenants, and the usual gossip about the ridiculous situation at Fudarus, where the two claimants to the title of Tytalan Primus continue to fight it out, supported by their purple and green factions. Now the cognac has been served, the finest foods delivered, and the magi are about to discuss some other trivial matter that the Queasitors could have ironed out a long time ago -- a charge that by raiding a faerie forest a certain Breton minor covenant caused problems for their sodales on the Contentin peninsula.
Then strode in a magus no one recognised, arriving just after sunset, and walking in from the west so the crimson light of the dying sun shielded his approach from curious gaze, until he was within the circle of chairs, benches and ornate thrones. The strangely robed mad, in fashions clearly from some foreign land jumped cross legged on to a tree stump, and stroking his long black beard scrutinised carefully the assembled magi. TA his side clanked a sickle, beautifully engraved with a strange script, and covered in the finest beaten silver.
At last, after continuing directing servants for a few minutes, the Presiding Quaesitor deigned to pretend to notice the newcomer's arrival.
"Some of us are clearly late arriving. Perhaps you are a foreigner, come to witness our proceedings?"
"No" replied the strange magus, "I am a native of this Tribunal."
"Very well" the Queasitor responded "would you mind telling us your name then?"
"Llewelyn of Branugurix" responded the magus. "Has the voting started yet?"
And he smiled, and raised a silver tumbler of honeyed mead to his lips, as if enjoying some very private joke. "I assume as a member of the Order I may speak and vote?"
Well does he? How do you all react?