[Cured of her allergies, Morgana is frowning as something occurs to her. From a place in the open, she addresses the Plane at large.]

It has been near a year in Camelot since--since that experiment with the candies we were given, and what we became.

Our hosts have taken some action since, but is it a near-anniversary for anybody else? I can't help but feel wary that there may be some new trick intended and wonder if there is any way we can defend ourselves against it.

[She may or may not be having strange nightmares that feel a little too prophetic for her comforts.]

[Also there were pickles in these nightmares and that is why she is not going to mention them.]

[Morgana is in black. Evil witches wear black. It's a thing. She stands in the forest, and with the magic spells she learned from Eithan, she is systematically destroying the trees, grass, and flowers.]

[Why? Because she is a witch. Because she wants to see it burn.

Because she fears that a witch can be nothing but corrupted.]

[Oh, and as a warning, her destructive streak does not apply solely to scenery. Let the powerless beware: she doesn't mind taking lives.]

[ooc: Morgana's consequence for eating candy is to become the corrupt, evil, destructive witch that Uther insisted came from all magic. She won't necessarily kill everyone who comes to talk to her, but if you want the thread to come to that (or violence and fighting) it most certainly can. Always Chaotic Evil Witches are all for it.]

[It is clear Morgana came in a rush. She is in her nightdress, her hair uncombed, her fingers and wrists unadorned, with a cloak thrown quickly around her shoulders. She had to leave for the Plane before anyone realized there was a fire in her room. She had to find a way to fix it before they found out, because now she knows.

Morgana sits at the edge of the forest. And though she is in disarray, when she puts her inquiry to the Plane, her voice is strong.]

I need to know about the magics found in different worlds. I need to know how they are taught and how they are brought under control.

[Morgana is done with the uncertainty, and she is not willing to have a weapon that she doesn't know how to control.]

[With Gwen's arrival, the acquitting of this is more urgent. Morgana stands at forest's edge, a sword in the ground before her. She will not be taking 'no' for an answer.]

Gemini Saga, I would speak with you. Come forward.

[There is no getting out of conversations if she says there isn't.]

[Morgana is trying to read in the library by candlelight. She does so for some time, paying little mind to the candle as the wax builds up and dulls the light. Until it goes out entirely.

Annoyed, Morgana looks to the candle—her eyes flash gold—and then the candle is lit again. For the briefest moment Morgana looks satisfied, before surprise and fear move in so fast that she starts and knocks the candle over, spilling wax everywhere as it sputters out again.]

It must have been...

[And now she doesn't even have any matches.]

[Morgana is healing from her battle wounds against the clock soldiers, but the maze itself has made her warier of the Plane. Still, she needed to ask this question, to clear it up for Christine, certainly, and for Arthur, and for herself.

So, in her battle armour and sitting most unladylike on a table, she asks her question.]

I have lately been transported between the worlds. I do not know the hand that did it, but it was magic or science well beyond that found in my world. Each time, I was brought to some person from this place.

Have any others lived through this? Is there any pattern to it, and any way to control what it does?

[You know what today needs? Today needs a Lady of Camelot, freaking the hell out, trying to talk herself into being calm.]

[In Valdemarian.]

What kind of magic...

[It's hard to go about daily life in entirely the wrong language. No wait, make that the wrong languages, because when she speaks again as she walks to the woods (it's familiar, okay?) it's in Latin.] At least these are real words.

[Like a fairytale heroine, Morgana walks through this strange land with her red velvet cloak wrapped tight around her. She takes careful and nervous steps across the floor, trying hard not to think of what isn't beneath her feet, and under her cloak is the faint outline of a hilt. Morgana stops at the edge of the forest, near a silver tree. It seems the most sensible place to make her appeal.]

[She speaks to herself at first, quietly, her hands drawn together as if she wants to wring them but is just barely holding back. She talks to herself first, nervous.]

I don't know any kind of magic that could form this. Even the Sidhe, surely . . . Perhaps those children were—but this cannot be Avalon. No apples even on this unearthly tree.

[The glass floor reminds her of the crystal shells that hold the stars and planets up in the sky. It's terrifying. But still she must speak.]

[Morgana gathers herself, and her almost-wringing hands become clasped together, controlled. She straightens up and lifts her head.] Sorcerer or Sidhe or whatever other being you may be, you will not convince the king of magic's goodness if you continue to wield it against him and his family. Should any ill come to my guard or to me, there will be retribution. You hurt yourself and all your people by such action.

Speak to me. I want to help. I too would see magic given its old place as partner and asset to Camelot's throne.

Please come forward. It's clear I could do you no harm even if I so desired.