Mordred gets a trump call on the evening of his curse.

"Mordred.."

You see Paolo, hunched over a table set with four swords.
The swords burn with the combined primal lights of
Pattern, Chaos, Abyss, and something else, something
you don't recognize.  His face is illuminated by the
light, and you see that he is straining, sweat flowing
down his brow, as he leans hard on his arms.  The place
where he stands seems to be in an open plain, for the
sky above him is streaked with fast moving, ochre coloured
clouds.

The four swords seem to be attempting to intertwine.

"Abandon New Camelot.  I have prepared..another place for you."

His voice echoes hollowly, with a resonance suggesting that
there are multiple voices speaking through him.

> Mordred's eyes widen. He tries to say something relevant, but all that
> comes out is: "Um."
> 
> He swallows, and says, "I... I had already given it up for lost in every
> way except legally. What do I have to do?"

"You must..live.  Live.  Leave that place.  It is lost...lost.."

The clouds double their speed above him, even as the light bursts
more brightly in his face.  Sweat continues to pour down his face,
and the hollow outlines of his skull flash with the pulse of a
racing heart.

Bring..the rose..and go to the..lady..it is your token..your..proof."

> "Which lady?" asks Mordred. "Aria? Cat? Dara? Catherine? Morgaine?
> Swayvanilla? Someone else?"

Breathing harder, you see the slimmest traces of a brief smile.

"You have chosen someone I know..to favor with roses..and she has
listened to the..message..you have given her..go..to her..GO!"

Paolo looks up and catches your eye.  Through the connection of the
Trump, you feel a vaccuum-like pulse of energy attempt to grasp at
you, pulling you forward.

The light grows even more intense, and Paolo cries,

"GO!  WE CANNOT HOLD..GO!"

The many voices in Paolo's cry echo hollowly in a howling dispair, as
the Trump goes 

dead.

> Once Belial brings Mordred's things, Mordred is going to hellride to
> Paolo's estate to see Catherine, the rose pinned to his chest. He'll rest
> only as often as absolutely neccessary, given his weakened condition.

You set out on your hellride, and are immediately set upon by numbers of
winnowy wraiths, spinning from the changing sky like falling cobwebs,
solidifing into geleatinous strands. They have voices of loss, and cold,
and poisonous vapor that speaks of a lonesome death, and they reach
out to you with hands that remind you of the look on Paolo's face when
the trump went dead.

> Mordred would ride harder, lashing out at them with Excalibur.

If you strike one, you find that it burns holes through your sword
in the fashion that acetone burns styrofoam.
 
After avoiding the first of them, riding through landscapes that writhe
and lurch as you shift through shadow, you find fields of razor grass
strewn with the broken corpses of white armored winged men, their wings
bound up in the wraith's fibres, eyes still smoking blackly.

Angels, they seem to be.

None of the wraiths catch up to you, although on a number of occasions
on your long, long ride, you feel that they are drawing close, only to
screech off at the distant sound of vast, beating wings bearing down
from a distance.

As you get closer to Amber, there is a final, desparate attempt by
the wraiths to catch you, but they seem to be distracted by some other
danger, and ultimately withdraw from you, leaving the last part of your
journey in relative peace.

When you arrive in Firenze, you find yourself at the edge of the
diBenedetti estate, nearly unconscious, and your last memory is of 
falling into the hands of three surprised-looking guards in diVinci-style 
Vatican guard outfits.