Difference between revisions of "584/The Wisewoman of Uppsala"

Revision as of 20:50, 14 September 2014

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although construction has been marching on at a fairly rapid clip in the village, the rest of the estate has been somewhat neglected. The lord of the land has placed priority on restoring the homes of the villagers before any other work is done; excepting perhaps the repair of food storage facilities, or stocking them.

To that end, the castle keep is still a little patchwork-looking, and there are parts of it that are even from the outside obviously not yet repaired.

This evening finds the former Marshal of the Realm of Camelot perched beneath the oak tree that many of Dun Realtai's people have begun associating with him – a monster of a tree beside the castle keep, its branches a broad spread, currently bare.

The sound of a pipe chanter is audible through the courtyard – an oddly relaxing sound, and expertly played, though the song that plays is somewhat melancholy.

Bedivere himself had extended the Wisewoman of Uppsala an invitation to visit any time she might like; although a witch, he has no especial problems with such individuals. After all, Arturia had relied on the counsel of Merlin, a known wizard, and a skilled one at that.

As usual, it seems, he's dressed in the clothing of a commoner; mantled greatcloak thrown over his shoulders for warmth.

Although the sun is on its way down, the innermost courtyard is lit by a ring of torches, which lend it a warm, inviting light.

Inga has posed:
Inga was many things–but most of those things could indeed be filed under 'witch'. Of course, Inga prefered wisewoman, spakona, spaewife, volva...any of those terms were more familiar and seemed to carry less negative connotations. Still, a person is what she is, and she's not for a moment not felt pride in it.

After having been brought her supplies, the woman got to work in the village, visiting around the various homes to see who might be in need of her services. She'd administered many an herbal brew, bandages a few wounds, set a broken finger, and even given out a charm or two for those daring enough to ask. One woman was close to having her first child, so Inga had made her a charm and given explicit instructions. Perhaps she would even still be around when the child was born.

Now, she's returning, her staff in one hand and a basket filled with food and other various supplies she'd accepted as payment for her services. Spotting Sir Bedivere, she pauses a moment, then heads in his direction. No danger of her sneaking up on him, certainly. "Hail Sir Bedivere," she greets, a small smile forming.

She looks up at the tree then, nodding appreciatively. "This tree—it guards this place," she observes, leaving little room for arguement. "Your people were quite generous, mind if I sit? I'll certainly share. There's an excellent cheese," she says, lifting the basket slightly.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The chanter's tune abruptly stops.

"Wisewoman." Bedivere is polite enough not to call her as a witch, for that word has much more negative connotations both in the time and place he comes from, and the multiverse itself. He tilts his head, glancing up at the wisewoman from his seat at the tree's roots, back leaned against the trunk.

His arm's out of the sling, today – he seems to be healing nicely, though that doesn't much affect the shadows still under his eyes, which speak of an exhaustion greater than simply weariness of the body.

"Please. Sit."

The chanter is waved vaguely, gesturing towards wherever it is she might want to. The roots are large, almost large enough to use as a bench in some places; even he wouldn't be uncomfortable sitting thus. It's cold out, but maybe he'd just come out to take some fresh air – even he can't stand being cooped up in the castle for too long.

It is possible he'd promised Arturia he wouldn't stay out too long. The last thing he needs is to catch cold while trying to get some fresh air. He's fairly certain that she'd never let him hear the end of it.

"What brings you to the keep? It is quite a trek from the foot of the village to the top of the hill." His faint half-smile is almost apologetic, but it fades. "This tree? It was here when I was entrusted these lands... I do not know about guarding this place, but it is certainly an astonishing tree. I am not certain even Camelot could boast any so large. But... perhaps it does." There's a feeling of peace, and safety, beneath its boughs – or maybe that's just wishful thinking on Bedivere's part. "Truly? You have my thanks, Wisewoman."

He looks to her, studying her in open curiosity. "You said you were a wisewoman, of Uppsala. So you are a witch, then... but have no fear," he adds, hastily. "The nobility of Camelot may have taken a narrow view of such things, but I am no noble. I am Sir Bedivere of the Round Table... but in truth, I was a foreigner in those lands, and I did not adopt their ways, in those regards..."

In other words, he wasn't a xenophobic fool afraid of that which he didn't understand. Quite the opposite, as Arturia might attest – his lack of fear and his desire to understand things had saved more than a few delicate situations, at some point or another.

Inga has posed:
Inga bows her head to him, acknowledging his status without going overboard. She's accustomed to respect, herself. "Thank you kindly," she says, moving to take a seat on one of the larger roots, smiling as she leans her staff up against the trunk the places her hand flat against the bark for a moment. "Mmm, the spirits are active in places such as this. Treat this tree well and it will continue to provide blessings," she advises. "A sacrifice or two would certainly not go amiss."

In regard to the long walk, she nodded, stretching her legs some. "It is, but so long as I take my time...I knew I'd make it eventually. I wished to come up to let you know I had seen to the people. Nothing too terrible, I think everyone will make a full recovery," she informs him.

Inga unpacks the basket then, pulling out a large chuck of cheese. She breaks off a piece and offers it to Bedivere. She keeps a chunk for herself and takes a bite, reaching up with her other hand to pull her cloak a little tighter. The cold isn't so bad, but chilly enough. She's obviously used to worse.

At mention of her being a witch, she smiles slowly. "I suppose that is how many people would describe me. Sad, I think, that suddenly a woman who has knowledge and power is scorned," she replies. "I am not afraid, and I will do my best not to offend any here, since you have offered me your hospitality. I know that you keep with the laws of such," she continues. It is obvious by her tone that she finds this admirable and right. "And I am sure none in your household would insult you by trying to harm me."

Inga takes another bite of cheese, a pale eyebrow rising. "Are you not a Christian then?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Think nothing of it." Bedivere shakes his head, eyes half-closed. The gesture seems almost dismissive. "You are a guest in my hall, and such is little enough to provide." His mouth quirks in a half-smile. "Thank the tree, if you must thank someone or something. After all, it is under its boughs that we shelter, and upon its roots that we seat ourselves," he adds, patting the trunk.

"As to the people... you have my thanks, and theirs as well. Any kindness shown them is a kindness done to me." He ducks his head in grateful gesture. "You have my gratitude, Wisewoman, for I know you had other burdens which you are obligated to carry, and yet you stayed to offer your assistance here all the same."

The cheese is taken along with murmured thanks, and he breaks himself a smaller piece to eat as he listens to her tale.

"You are learned, and if there is one thing men with power fear, it is a woman who is as learned and capable as they. I had seen that at work even in Camelot. It is for that reason that my lord was obligated to keep her secret, and we her lieutenants to keep that secret for her, as well." He shakes his head slowly, eyes dimming as he thinks back to those days. "The people would never have accepted a woman-king."

He lifts his gaze to her, silvery-blonde brows arching – his hair isn't quite white or silver, but the colour of blonde is so pale that it seems to have a silvery cast, even in the warm light of the torches. Thankfully, it looks to be more a product of peculiar colouration than a sign of age; like a very light platinum blonde, tempered here and there with strands more smoky or blonde.

"Christian? Yes." He seems to accept her status as a witch with no especial aggression. If anything, he's shown her nothing but hospitality and respect, and it seems genuine enough. "But I was not always so. The people of Dál Riata were not always Christian, and there were many of us, particularly the filí, who followed the old gods."

He leans back against the tree's trunk, eyes half-closing as he regards the nearest flickering torch. "I suppose I had always been less concerned with such things, and more concerned with carrying out my duties. It is true that I follow Brehon Law in the matter of hospitality, and hosting guests, and I do not think that anyone here would intend you ill. Indeed, I had heard rumour that there were many who were grateful to receive the services of a wisewoman such as yourself. I do not think such things were uncommon here, once..."

"If I guess correctly, and I think that I do, the winter-witch who guards these lands... she was a wisewoman herself, when she was mortal. No, please do not concern yourself with that. So long as you are here, you need not fear any retribution. I am Christian, and I believe in our Almighty Lord..." His sudden smile is lopsided, almost shy. "But perhaps I am not as zealous as many others would have been, in Camelot. My perspective is somewhat... unique."

Inga has posed:
Inga touches the bark of the tree again, smiling peacefully. It is a good place, she can see why he likes to sit here. Thanking the tree seems a fine idea, in truth. Inga reaches into one of the pouches tied to her belt, pulling out a small polished stone. She places it beside the root where she sits, a little gift for the spirits.

The woman looks back to Bedivere, listening to the explaination of Arthur's exploits. "Mmmhmm, I was very surprised to hear it–yet it makes a strange sort of sense," she adds with a smile. "It was uncommon where I am from for a woman to be a warrior or leader, but not unheard of, and the women I did know who took up the sword or axe were more fearsome than most of the men," she comments, her gaze becoming distant as memories play through her mind. "It's rather brilliant, what she did. I would enjoy hearing more of the story. I admit, I do not know much. I've only heard of the warlord Arthur and his knights. Of Merlin the druid and his power...about the war against the Saxons, the clashing of the old gods and the new...only vague tellings," she admits with a sigh. "But we told tales of Merlin. As it was uncommon for women to be warriors, it was likewise quite uncommon for a man to know magic," she explains.

When he confirms that he is Christian, she does frown slightly, but nods in acceptance. "I see. I...in my time, the Christians committed many crimes against the Saxons. They're gods are much like ours, we feared a great deal that the Christians would continue north," she explains, clutching her cloak just a bit too tightly.

"Filí...like the skalds, yes? People of learning, storytellers, keepers of knowledge–by the gods everyone writes these days! I wonder if no one can remember otherwise," she comments.

Inga takes a breath, considering Bedivere for a few moments. "Christian or no, I think your ancestors would be proud of you. You seem as though you are a good leader."

Inga waves in dismissal to his protest about the winter-witch. "Tch...I was happy to come here. In truth...it has been very nice to be in a place that feels like home. Everywhere else I have been....well, it has been very...interesting," she says, obviously trying not to complain, though her expression is one of obvious pain and homesickness. "The worlds I have seen...they are strange. Strange and terrible," she adds quietly, thinking of what Kotone showed her of her home world. So much death...so casually, so quickly. She can't repress a shudder remembering the vision. "As for this winter-witch, perhaps that is so," she nods. When she was mortal. Inga shifts a bit at this thought. What would they be calling her in a few years, she wonders?

Inga stands then and moves closer to Bedivere, peering down at him suddenly. "You don't look well. You need to eat more meat–as you a no longer holding court I assume you will not protest to my seeing to your needs. I have herbs you should drink to strengthen your blood," she instructs, sitting again. "I will send the brew with one of your thralls. You should drink it thrice daily, and if you protest I will be sure to have a word with your lady," she says this with a wry smile and a knowing twinkle in her eye.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"It was what needed to be done. And it was done at great cost to herself, and all who served her. We, too, knew that it was what needed to be done. If there were any who could save Britain, it was her." He leans back, absently rubbing the pad of his thumb against the smoothed wood of the chanter, smiling a vaguely self-depreciating little smile. "I can only tell you my own. And I fear it is far less interesting. What I know of her story, I learned after I arrived."

The smile fades. "No warlord, but the King of Britain, Rightwise Born, she who pulled the blade Caliburn from the stone and anvil in the churchyard... but I was not there for that. I did not join the court until perhaps six months after she had drawn the blade."

Bedivere's gaze drops away, and for a moment he seems as though he were mulling over what to say. There were many reasons why he had taken up the path of a knight-aspirant; it is a complex matter, and a private one as well. He thins his lips.

"I... wished to join her court, for she sought to serve the people, rather than that the people serve her." It's not a lie, though perhaps Inga might sense that he's not necessarily telling the complete truth. He frowns, slightly. "But we did not press north, so perhaps that is where our worlds differ? At least, I do not think you are from my world. Then again, perhaps you are... the multiverse is a strange place."

"We sought only to defend ourselves, in Camelot's early days; we only fought to repel Saxon attack and to keep them from preying on our people." He reaches up, tugging at the redstone stud in his left ear. "In truth, my people may have claimed a little Saxon blood, as well. But even I was appalled at their acts on Albion's shores. I had seen some of what they had done, when I became Marshal of the Realm, the King's Left Hand..."

"Like the skalds," he confirms, ducking his head and regarding her curiously. He had not heard much of the skalds, but he knew enough to understand that they served a similar purpose. Perhaps they were the equivalent of magi in those distant northern lands, too. "Poets, judges, storytellers, keepers of lore, musicians, advisors... if I had not travelled to Camelot, I would have been one, myself. I am the son of a fili, of a lineage of fili. My brother Ceallach – ah, Sir Lucan – would have been a warrior, either way, I think." Ah, so perhaps Bedivere – Bedwyr – is not his name, either. Certainly he would not have borne a Welsh name in Dál Riata. "I can write, too, and read, but that is because I needed to learn such things to serve my king. I can read and write Gaelic, and also Welsh... but I did not know Welsh so well when I travelled to Camelot. It took much time and effort for me to sound as though I had lived there all my life... but it was necessary. My people were not looked upon kindly. The nobility of Camelot feared the filí..."

He quirks his brow, looking almost puzzled for a moment. A good leader? The pale-haired knight flushes, dropping his gaze; hair falling across his face. "Ah." Yep. He's still terrible at accepting compliments. "Thank you, Wisewoman."

"Yes. They are," he murmurs in agreement. "I have seen many worlds, too, and yet this is... this is home. Even Camelot was not so much a home as this, though I lived and served there some twenty years."

The wisewoman's shadow falls over him, and he looks up, blinking somewhat owlishly. "Hm–?"

And then he opens his mouth and closes it, like a landed fish. Once more he tries to say something, and then the witch breaks out the big guns.

"—gh," Bedivere says unhappily, flushing. "I-it is not like that, we are not... she is my king, and I her vassal; she merely did not wish to inherit another kingdom after Camelot, and..."

Methinks the man doth protest too much. And with far too much blushing involved, too.

Inga has posed:
Inga nods, holding her staff again, running her fingers over the grooves of the runes carved into its surface. "Perhaps the story changed in the years since...or perhaps it is a story from a slightly different world. I've heard that was possible," she replies. One of the many things that had blown her mind a bit. Then, near everything Staren says has the tendancy to confuse her. "Caliburn–I had heard the sword was named Caledfwlch. If I may...what was the year? Back on your world? Or ours as it may be..." she adds.

"I had heard that Arthur had managed to fight off the Saxons, against the odds. That he defeated Aelle and kept the Saxons out of Britain for years. Of course they—" she stopped then, unsure if she should continue. If it was the same world, than she was from their future, surely? What a strange turn!

Inga clears her throat. "It sound similar to the skalds, but also to the gothar," she replies. "I was raised among gother-the god-people. We kept much of the lore of our people, performed the religious rites....ah, but I was a touch more than that, too," she adds with a small smile.

At his flush, she can't help but laugh. "By Freyja I have never seen a man blush," she says, poking a bit of fun. "You need not explain yourself to me. I am one of Freyja's chosen and I can see well enough how it is between you–really I thought it quite obvious," she adds with a shrug. "I do not know why you deny it. Life is short, and often difficult. There is no time for denial," she advised. "But it is not my business, I suppose.

Inga sighs quietly, leaning sidewayss against the trunk of the big tree. "Home...where I am, it is not home. It is where I was lead however, and I was brough there for a reason. Once we've solved that problem...I do not know where I go from there," she admits. She isn't sure she will ever go home. "This is your home now, I can see...were you not able to go back?" she asks, hesitant. She's afraid what the answer will be.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Those faded violet eyes turn to the staff, regarding the runes carved into the surface. At one time, he might have known the names of those runes, but that knowledge was lost to him when he chose not to join the ranks of the filí. He chose instead to learn how to govern the kingdom, and to lead its armies; how best to follow the orders of his king, and to silently act for her in ways she could not for herself – the open Left Hand of the King, bearing charity instead of the sword.

He thins his lips, thinking back. "Aye. Caledfwlch. The very same. Ah, let me see. My lord pulled Caledfwlch from the stone and anvil in the Year of Our Lord, 517. The Battle of Camlann took place in 537. And by my best estimates, I must have joined the multiverse in 542, five years after the Battle of Camlann, if the numbers my lord has told me are true..." He looks away, pain crossing his expression, fleeting but sharp as the flash of sun on a blade. "It is the Year of Our Lord, 542, I believe, if not 543. I cannot be certain..."

"It is true also that we fought a hard battle. I remember well that battle, in the rain, for they had tried to surprise our lines by night. Over half my lord's host was laid low." His gaze seems to dim again, eyes lidding. "I was grievously wounded, and borne back to Camelot... I do not well remember the end of the battle. I remember only fighting desperately." He frowns, as though trying to recall some hazy detail. "Aye. It was a hard battle. We should have lost it. I am told my efforts were instrumental, but... I do not recall much of what happened. I remember a great rage... I remember throwing myself into the enemy line. And then I remember nothing."

N-never seen a man blush? That only seems to cause him to flush even more of an impressive shade of scarlet, dropping his head and his gaze, looking chagrined at having attention drawn to it. Ugh, how awful... still, what she says is wise. And, it's also true.

Bedivere sighs through his nose. "I-is it that unusual?" he mumbles, almost aggrieved. "And that obvious? Ah, by the Good Lord... but... ah." He reaches up, pinching the bridge of his nose in a gesture of exasperation. "It is still... new... to us, this... this..." He gestures helplessly with his free hand. "We were king and knight, in the court of Camelot, and we were no more; though we had always been close, and always understood one another perfectly. Yet I watched her fall. And I laid her to rest, after the Battle of Camlann; for I was the only one to survive. Yet now that we have found one another in the multiverse again, I..."

"I..." He sighs again, defeated. "I fear I am not making much sense."

Home?

Those violet eyes level on the wisewoman again, and there's something a little bittersweet in them. "Home? It was not Camelot, if that is what you mean. I was a foreigner there, and I never would have been made welcome. Yet neither was it Dál Riata, for that was missing something, as well. No. Home is here... it is Dún Reáltaí. This, truly, is home... both for my king and I." He smiles, gently, though there's something melancholy in the expression. "Even if it had been, there would have been nothing to go back to. Camelot was in ruin. My king was dead, for I had buried her, and only through the multiverse has she been brought back to me, though she be not mortal... there was nothing for me there. And I do not think I would have lasted long, with no king to serve, no home, no brother-knights... I was all that was left, do you see?"

"So no. That was no home to me. My home is here." He pats the oak trunk he leans against, fondly. "I have all the more reason to see that these people survive, and flourish. Perhaps they are grateful that I have taken to their own interests, and well-being – but they have welcomed my lord and I, as well. And they have given us the one thing we did not have, and could not find – a home."

Inga has posed:
Inga swallows hard. 543. It is very strange to think on this, that if they're from the same world she is from a future time. Uncanny. Was it really such a shock? She knew people now who were almost certainly from the future–or rather, she was from the past. Time is not so linear as she once thought. A difficult lesson to learn, as lessons usually are.

"I believe it was 793 by the Roman calendar...when I followed the buzzing and stumbled into Agartha," she informs him. "Strange, but if we were from the same world, I'm from the future–but not as far as some. Riva, for instance. We are...kin in a way. Both chosen," she says. She isn't sure how much more she can explain. It's been a long day. A long month.

As Bedivere describes the battle, and his frenzy, Inga nods knowingly. "The battle-fury. I have heard this many times from warriors. The Odin-fury. Most often they can remember little, just a blur of battle, the feel of their blood and the sound of their heart like drums," she replies. As for the rest? Inga does indeed look confused. "Dead? But she was found again?" she's certainly no draugr. Or was she like their Christ? He implied she was no longer mortal...

"Home..." she repeats, closing her eyes for a moment. "It was home, the only home I'd known...I was respected, I had a purpose. It was all I ever expected," she replies. She opens her eyes again, rolling her shoulders. "I do not know that I'll ever get back there–or that I could. This is a journey I am on, and when undertakes such a thing one does not just...go home. If you do, you are quick to realize how much you've changed–that it can no longer be your home," she replies.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere turns his eyes on the distant village, half-closed, as he listens to the wisewoman's words. He almost looks as though he were letting himself drift, but there is a focus to his gaze that suggests he's listening quite intently. That puts her some two hundred fifty years into what should have been his and Arturia's future, yet she does not seem so far removed. He may not have guessed that if he hadn't been told. Certainly, she isn't so outlandish as some of the other people he's met, like that boy he had offered to train... or that fellow with the talking mechanical steed.

"Chosen?" The violet-eyed knight tilts his head at that, curious, but he has the good grace not to pry for the specifics on what chose them. He'll let her explain on her own terms, if she chooses to. Neither does she seem to draw any recognition from the term 'Agartha,' for the knight still looks quite blank at that. "I see. Aye, I have met the lady Templar. I am impressed with her abilities. In truth, she had helped to secure this place, and so she will always be welcome within these walls."

He sobers at mention of the battle-fury, and for a moment, he almost looks uncomfortable. It wasn't something he had consciously done, nor had he ever remembered well the details afterward. Perhaps Camlann was fixed more firmly in his memory, for he had not fought to exhaustion. Indeed, all through the battle, the call of his war-horn had sounded from below the hill – desperately, he had tried to rally help to her location, for their enemies were clever, and knew that they made a deadly fighting team so long as they were together... and separated, they were more vulnerable.

"Aye." His gaze drops again, head shaking softly. "But I remember nothing of their blood, and the beat of no heart but my own. I do not remember what happened, though I delivered my report to my lord afterward. The first time, I was cut down; my wounds laid me low, and I was expected to die from them. It was when Caledfwlch was lost to us. I was not there to see it, but I am told my lord struck the chieftain's head from his body, when he begged for mercy, for he had slain so many of our people without remorse. Some say that the blade met the chieftain's backplate at precisely the angle to shatter. But..."

But he doesn't believe that any more than she does. Caliburn was used in anger, and this unchivalrous act destroyed it. He had heard the story later, after the fact, for he had been busy bleeding out when she had done this – at the time, the peasant-soldiers he had commanded and stood with had been struggling to lift him up and bear him back to Camelot.

"It happened again, in Camlann, but I remember well that battle." His voice sinks, and he seems to somehow diminish; head and shoulders bowing. "I cannot forget that battle, no matter how much I might try. I do not think I was in so much a wrath as I was when Caladfwlch was lost. I became separated from my lord, and I was trying to rally at her position... but there were none left to hear the call of my horn."

His eyes lid, gaze distant; lines of pain and sorrow under those tired, shadowed eyes. "Truly... that battlefield was Hell. She was atop the hill, and I had tried to reach her, but the rebels knew not to let me pass. They knew if we were side by side, again, it would be their blood on the hill. She fought with her 'son,' Mordred, a homunculus... 'twas the Traitor Knight who laid my lord low, and who sought to raise the rebel host, and burn Camelot to the ground, for Mordred was jealous that she could not be recognised." 'She?' He squeezes his eyes shut. "I bore my lord away from that place, when there were no rebels left for me to cut down. I laid her in a boat, and I cast her off the shores of the lake. She bade me return Excalibur to the Lady of the Lake, though it nearly destroyed me in doing so, for it meant..."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
It might have been of some use to a future king, perhaps, but that was never the reason why Bedivere had wanted to save it. Returning it to Nimue meant admitting that his king was no more – and he could not do that.

The soft-spoken knight smiles a sad, pained little smile.

"She was dead. I am certain of it. I could feel no breath and hear no heartbeat when I laid her in that boat. Even in my grief, I could sense that much." His voice is pained, quiet as it is; it's obvious that the subject is one that still cuts him deeply. "She is more than mortal, now, and has been returned to me as the Servant Saber... I am not certain how best to describe them. She is the same I had once served, yet she is capable of things no mortal can ever be capable of, now."

"There are seven Servants, in the 'modern' age of our world, I am to understand; called forth by seven magi—" Curiously, the word he uses is filí, not magi, for that is what they were in his homeland, "—to fight for the Holy Grail. I do not know that it is truly the vessel that bore the blood of Christ, but it was an artifact capable of granting a wish. But it was tainted. My lord has since abandoned pursuit of that relic, for she has no more need of the wish she would have asked of it." He won't say what, though; that's her wish to reveal. "She has instead elected to remain as she is, and abdicate from the war, and live on as a Servant. There is much good that can still be done, with her power, and in any case, we are focusing our efforts on Dún Reáltaí."

He sighs, leaning back against the trunk, as though exhausted. His eyes gradually drift closed; but it seems less a physical weariness than the simple weariness of having dredged up those painful memories.

"Camelot was not my home, though I served there for over twenty years. I was never welcome there. I was a foreigner, of Dál Riata, and I would never have been trusted, no matter how loyal my service or how welcoming of its people I would be." He sighs through his nose, eyes opening to half-mast. "They did not understand the battle-fury, and thought it witchcraft when my actions resulted in victory when Caladfwlch was lost. They thought my victories in tactics were witchcraft. And I was paler than any of them; my very appearance set me apart... and I was ever alone, there, nor could I ever truly be myself. Camelot was never home to me."

He gestures, as though to indicate the keep and the village beyond. "/This/ is home. It has been a long road, but I give my thanks to the Good Lord that I have found the end of my road. Even if there had been something to return to... you are right. It would not have been the same Camelot. And certainly, I do not know that I could have borne it, without..." Without Arturia there. It would have been empty; a hopeless sham of the vision she had striven so hard to create. "I wish you good fortune in seeking what must be yours."

Slowly, he lifts his gaze to the wisewoman, regarding her levelly. "But know this, Wisewoman. You will always have a home here, if you wish it. If you cannot find that place in which you belong; if you have roamed the multiverse only to find that you cannot feel comfortable anywhere else – you will always be welcome in Dún Reáltaí." He smiles, a little sadly. "I understand what it is to be one apart, and one alone, and it is my hope that this is a place where that need not be suffered through."

Inga has posed:
Nor does he seem outlandish. Life hadn't really changed so much in that 250 odd years. It was still recognizable, still familiar. Not like Kingsmouth. Even without the fog, the undead and the draug from the sea it would be an alien world to her. Cars, guns, electricity, the lack of farms and livestock–and perhaps most painful, a people that no longer worshipped her gods, the only place of worship a Christian church. That had been a sour brew to swallow.

"Mmm. It is difficult to explain. I am only beginning to understand it...but Riva and I were chosen by...they are called The Buzzing. Surely messengers of the gods, for they dwell in the World Tree–they call it Agartha, though I knew it as Yggdrasil. The Buzzing are...bees, but so much more. Servents of the gods, as I said, and they bring both power and wisdom to their chosen–strange power. Magic, battle prowess...but it is different from what I knew. I was taught, obviously, the ways of magic...but once I was brough through the world tree I heard the voices of the gods more stongly and my magic...well, it has grown more powerful. More...overt?" she shakes her head, struggling with this. "The others were chosen for their own time, but for some reason I have been brought more than a thousand years into the future for some purpose. Always, I have known I would serve the gods...but I never knew the path would take such a turn. I came out in a place called Kingsmouth. It is on a continent far, far to west of Britain. I'm told my people discovered it centuries after my time. The place is under some sort of powerful curse. It is unlike anything I have ever seen. The dead walk the streets...monsters come from the sea....the whole town is covered in a fog. I assure you, it is a terrible place. The people who still live have a few safe havens, but it is clear we are meant to solve this problem," she explains, pulling her cloak tighter around herself.

A small smile appears. "Riva is extraordinary, isn't she? She reminds me of someone I once knew, a shield-maiden. Riva has such a plain...goodness about her," she comments.

Inga listens then, her eyes focused on him, reading not only his words but the pain those memories bring. She's grateful at least that it does not trigger a vision. She's had quiet enough of that, after Kotone. Much of what he says confuses her. Servant? She has a feeling that word is not being used in the way she is used to. "Servant...a Servant of your god?" she asks, trying to understand. It is an interesting story, for certain.

Given that the conversation has grown rather heavy, it seems a good time to reach into the basket again and pull out a bottle of ale she'd been given by one of the villagers in thanks for setting his broken finger. She uncorks it, takes a sip, then offers it to Bedivere. "I think we both need a drink just about now, wouldn't you say?" she asks, smiling softly.

"So, you say that Arthur is no longer mortal...it seems to be you must be something somewhat...apart, as well. Twenty years you say you served? You do not look nearly old enough for that to be true. There seems something uncanny about you," she comments. "As for the berserkergang, yes...it is a spiritual sort of thing. Did your people have a god of battle? That sort of battle-rage is well known to mine."

"Heh, your coloring is strange....not that I am one to judge," she says, pulling her bone-white braid over her shoulder. "My hair was not always this color however. It was once the color of wheat. When I was younger, a river flooded while I was washing. I nearly drowned. My hair is been white since," she explains with a small shrug.

Inga has posed:
Inga takes a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment, quite moved by the offer of a home. She leans forward to take Bedivere's hand and give it a gentle squeeze. "Thank you. I appreciate it. In truth I think I would feel more comfortable here than I would elsewhere....but for now, I am pulled back. I have to unravel the many mysteries of Kingsmouth–and I think I must try to bring the gods back to the world," she adds, her voice hardening sligtly. She can't abide knowing Christianity took over, that no one remembers the old gods. Indeed, Inga thinks that is part of the problem in that place. It is her own mission, and it will not be an easy one she thinks–but she will see the gods worshipped again.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
There is a familiarity about the wisewoman, too, that sets the knight somewhat at ease. Where most would be bristling in the presence of a seeress and a witch, the reality is that she is much closer to a fili than not. Perhaps she might lack musical knowledge, but that isn't so difficult a thing. The people of Dál Riata had ever been more accepting of such ways. Perhaps, too, there is a bit of northerner blood in Bedivere himself. It would certainly account for his colouring.

"Interesting," he comments, regarding Inga with his head tilted slightly. A messenger of the gods, taking the form of a great hive of bees? They had often been prescribed certain meanings and auspicions throughout history; and such creatures had even been worshipped in the distant times before Rome. "I had not heard of such a thing, though I am familiar with the concept of the World Tree. Aye, Sir Gawain is another such knight of the Round Table, and he was brought forward some fourteen hundred years to fight as a Servant... so that is where the 'modern' era is, approximately, in relation to the time of Camelot."

"It sounds a wretched place," Bedivere comments, tone one of honesty. "If you have need of a blade in such a place, or protection, you need only ask. I had not involved myself, for I had need to heal from my wounds, but I am growing stronger by the day, and I shall be ready for active service once more not long hence." He frowns, mouth thinning into a line of displeasure. "It sounds as though those people, too, are in need of protection."

Extraordinary? He had not met the Templar for very long, but she seemed to be a good sort. Bedivere had always been a keen judge of character; such a skill had been a necessity as the Left Hand of the King. He inclines his head briefly, a faint nod. "Aye. She is a good person. And she fights well," he adds, gesturing vaguely. "When we fought to secure this place, she had lent her assistance..."

"Not precisely. Servants are... it is not a servant. There is a distinction, though I know not the full depth of what." Bedivere gestures, vaguely, trying to find the right words. "They are more like... familiars, of a kind, though far greater. No, they are the servants of the magicians—" Again, he uses the term filí, "—who call them forth. It is complicated. And I am not certain I fully understand. But that is what my lord is become." He lifts his left hand, baring a red tattoo-like marking over the back of his hand, an intricate, elegant Celtic knotwork that forms a stylised longsword. "I serve now as her anchor to the physical world."

He watches as she breaks out the ale, regarding it dubiously, like a snake one rather expects to bite them. "No. Thank you. I do not drink spirits, but thank you kindly for the offer." He shakes his head. "I dislike compromising my wits so."

"I?" Bedivere's expression shifts oddly; not quite a grin, but one almost puzzled and uncomfortable. "No, no. Not I. But for the mark I bear that binds me to my lord, I am wholly mortal. I am thirty-four years of age." He smiles, a little melancholy. "Though, perhaps I may look older still. Some of them were hard years..."

He shakes his head. "I was the only survivor of the Battle of Camlann. It is my suspicion that my world must have unified after that point, for I spent five years lost and wandering the weald of Camlann; though, only now, I suspect it was not Camlann, but the multiverse itself." He shrugs, faintly. "Take it as you will. I include these five years of wandering, for even then there were duties I was compelled to return to Camelot to fulfill. My lord's death did not release me from service, though perhaps some may have chosen to do so. I could not."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"So... some fifteen years I spent at court, and then five in wandering. Approximately twenty years of service." He considers, eyes unfocused for a moment as he thinks back. "I was perhaps just under fifteen when I first travelled to Camelot, and became a knight-aspirant... ah, the years are long, and I do not well remember them any more."

"My lord is certainly not mortal, and you will know this if you ever see her in battle. She can do things no living man or woman should be capable of doing. I am only mortal." He smiles, a little embarrassed. "In truth, I dislike battle. As the Left Hand of the King, I had always taken satisfaction in my martial skills, for they were necessary, even if I did not have any love of battle... yet here, it seems I am no more skilled than a knight-aspirant once more. I am shamed to say that I have lost every engagement I have been involved in."

It is what it is, though, and he doesn't seem too concerned about it. He survived, and that's the critical part.

He tilts his head. "No. Indeed, it is un-Christian to be warring so, but we were forced to defend ourselves or be overrun... such a rage was known well to the Saxons, too. I am told they were shocked to see me cutting into their lines as I did, though I do not well remember it." Bedivere's expression softens, turning thoughtful as his gaze slides away, off to the side. "Actually, come to think of it, the only times that I felt such a rage..."

Were the times he felt Arturia to be in direct danger, but he doesn't say that part out loud. Instead, he reaches up to rub at his jaw in contemplation, looking vaguely troubled. He finally shakes his head, though, dismissing the matter. He'll have to think on that, later, but now isn't the time.

"Aye, it was strange within Camelot, too. Most had a darker cast, as Sir Gawain, or even my lord herself. I was always this colour, though perhaps my brother and my cousin—" Again, a flicker of pain at the mention of them, for they had not survived the ravages of Camlann, "—were not half so pale." He reaches up, idly tugging at the stud in his left ear. "My colour had always been more akin to the very raiders we fought against, and it brought no small amount of suspicion in Camelot's court."

The pale-haired knight sighs, quietly. "In truth, I had been under suspicion from my very appointment as marshal. I do not believe any were ever satisfied with my appointment, for there were many who would have used such a title for their own gain. Yet I could not address these detractors, for I would not be the cause for doubt cast on the king's reign. Instead, I merely served, and showed by example."

"Mmm? Curious." He tilts his head at her story, studying her closely. "You are lucky. Floods are terrible things. I do not know how to swim, myself, and prefer to avoid deep water... though—" he chuckles, plucking at his hair a bit, "—if such a thing happened to me, I do not think the difference would be appreciable..."

He flinches back a bit when his hands are taken, clearly not expecting the sudden contact, blinking a bit as he regards the grateful wisewoman. "Ah–please, do not think of it. But that offer will remain for as long as you feel it necessary. Consider this a place of rest that you may return to when you need not be present in Kingsmouth..."

Inga has posed:
Inga nods. "It must have been very disorienting for him–and for you too. I know I have been trying to acclimate...but it is difficult. So much of what I have seen is....disheartening," she replies. This is clearly an understatement, given the haunted look her eyes acquire. "I do appreciate the offer, perhaps once you are fully recovered. You must let me puts wards on you however, these things we fight...there is a unique danger. We think there is some kind of....sickness, that is infecting the people. A filth," she explains. "Heh, some very interesting people have come to help. We've been investigating. The town has a long history of the occult it would seem, and near everything we uncover simply opens a new mystery," she sighs.

The explaination of what Arthur is continues to go over her head. Familiar? Like an animal...but could a person be a familiar? "I see...well, I do not really," she admits with a small laugh. "But I will accept that it is complicated. A familiar to me is an animal given certain spiritual powers. I suppose if a human could be made a familiar..." she shakes her head, brow furrowing. "An interesting thought." Inga examines the tattoo, nodding. "Ah, so she is more a spiritual being...ascended in a way? Your spirit anchors her?" she asks, trying to puzzle through it. "It is no wonder you have such a bond."

Inga blinks as he refuses the ale. Oh goodness, a tea toddling knight. A brow raises in amusement. "A couple of sips would render you senseless? Your blood must be light indeed," she jokes. Well, she takes another sip. It is good ale, and she's had so little of such things recently. The others are always drinking abominable sweet drinks in metal containers she just cannot abide....and eating 'tacos'.

"Tch, I commented because you look quite young. You certainly do not look four and thirty–youe face is fair as a boy's" she replies. "But perhaps it is the mark that binds you to your lady, that some of her magic bleeds into you," she continues. This seems logical enough.

Inga nods though, understanding well enough. "I have seen things I could never imagine, seen people do such deeds...things so beyond my ken I don't know I'll ever understand. Have you experienced guns? Bombs? Cars? I can't begin to understand how these things work, and whenever anyone tries to explain I only grow more confused! I have seen these things used to great effect," Inga gives a self-depricating smile then, "I think a few might think me simple." The looks on their faces when they realized she couldn't read!

"Mmm, you are very fair. I have known a few with similar coloring in my place, and the Saxons are undoubtedly a kind of kin...I can see that it would be suspect. Do you know your parentage? Perhaps there is Saxon blood in you," she offers. "I know you must hate the Saxons for what they did...they did not have such an easy time of things in their homeland either. I heard their home was rampant with famine and disease, their livestock dying, their crops rotting, families starving..." Inga shakes her head. "I don't excuse them for what was done, but ah...life is always complicated, isn't it?"

Inga winces, remembering her near drowning. "It came on so quickly. I was standing in a calm river, washing my hair. We were on the road to visit a local chieftan where I was to stay and provide prophecy. If not for the warriors sent as my guards I would have indeed drowned that day," she responds.

Inga has posed:
Inga smiles, releasing his hands. "It is appreciated. I think I will certainly take you up on the offer. Kingsmouth is where I must be, but I cannot spend all my time there. This is a welcome respite." Inga takes another sip of the ale, then recorks it and adds it to her basket. "It is unfortunate we cannot get the people away from Kingsmouth–they cannot travel as I do. Agartha is not a place for...for others," she adds. She isn't even sure what to say. Mortals? She doesn't exactly want to wave around that apparently, her and the others are basically immortal. She's yet to actually experience death and the return, but if Riva and Wuyin say it is so...Still, she'd certainly rather avoid it!

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"For Sir Gawain? It was not so disorienting, for him. Servants by their very nature are afforded an understanding of the era in which they are summoned to, so both Sir Gawain and my king were not so lost as I had been." Bedivere smiles, a little lopsided; just a little self-depreciating. "It has been a struggle, but there are many wonders of the modern age that may improve the quality of life of these people. For all its confusion, and for all its incomprehensibility and nonsense, it is not without its benefits."

He sighs, a little helplessly, shrugging and shaking his head. "Perhaps you had best speak with my king, then, and ask her to explain. She is more knowledgeable in the War of the Holy Grail than I am. There are still many aspects I do not understand myself. Ah! Yes. Precisely. She is now more a being of spirit, and I am to understand the very world itself seeks to dissolve such things, for they should not normally exist." He holds up his left hand again, baring the command seal. "This mark binds her to me, and I to her, that she might continue to exist. I must supply her with a certain degree of spiritual energy, though I am a poor magus—" The word he uses is once again fili, "—with minimal training, for I had forsaken that path when I travelled to Camelot. Yet I still had the potential."

"I am glad, now, that I did." His smile turns a little less self-depreciating, and a little more genuine. "Truly, it is a wonder and a blessing."

"Ah?" He blinks somewhat owlishly at her teasing statement over the ale, frowning. "No, it is not that. I am simply not in the habit. I could not afford to compromise my judgement or my wits, as Marshal of the Realm, and I do not care to now. Truly, I still cannot wrap my mind around how sweet and clear the water is, in this modern age..."

It's a pretty fair bet that if he ever did drink ale or wine in the past, it was about eighty percent water. Fortunately, the alcohol would have killed any bacteria in the water, and it would have had the added effect of diluting the alcohol itself! A win-win situation for the hesitant marshal.

He snorts softly at her observation of his age.

"It is true, I prefer to remain clean-shaven." He shrugs, gesturing nebulously with long fingers. "It is a little unusual, but 'tis simply my preference. Ah, but it is not because I am a Master. I always looked like this. Indeed, I look better than I had. When I first joined the multiverse, I was much more haggard in appearance than this. I am shamed to say that for those five years in the weald, I neglected the virtue of exercitium, and allowed my condition to deteriorate."

If his story has any truth to it, it's probably no wonder that he did, and more a wonder that he didn't just give up on living.

"Still... perhaps it does." He cocks a violet eye to the mark on his hand, frowning thoughtfully. "I do not know. I do not think I have any way to know, either. Yet such would not surprise me, for the very nature of Servants seems a complicated matter. I am not inclined to complain, however, if it means that I might serve my lord once again." Or to afford themselves the closeness they never could in Camelot, but he's not quite conquered his nerves enough to say that part out loud. "Perhaps I might have returned to Camelot after my lord was slain, but I fear there was little I could have done. It would not have been the same, without her," he comments quietly.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The foreign terms draw a slightly blank look from the knight. "Ah... not in particular, though I am familiar with what a 'car' is, I do not know how it works, nor do I trust it. And my lady and Sir Gawain both ride 'motorcycles' instead of horses. But I prefer to spend my time here, for there is much work to be done. Truly, I have a distaste for these strange worlds. I... have something of an aversion to great noise and chaos, after the Battle of Camlann... I cannot bear to be in such loud places."

"Aye, I know my parentage. I am the son of a fili, and he the son of a fili, and so it goes for many generations. But before my grandfather, I am not so certain... perhaps my father's-father's-father was not of Dál Riata blood... but you mistake me, milady. I do not hate the Saxons. Not especially. Perhaps I was wroth with those who chose to attack. I was not angry with them for who they were, but for what they did. If they were in need of aid, they might have approached us peacefully, and avoided so much of this bloodshed." He sighs, shaking his head a little, reaching up to clear some of his hair from his face. "But I suppose such hunger would drive even the most peaceful man to desperate measures."

He falls quiet when she recounts her near-drowning, and even he can't help but shudder a little at the description of such a great wall of water. While he's not precisely afraid of such things, he has a strong dislike of any water deeper than his own height for pretty much exactly that reason. In spite of hailing from a seafaring culture, he himself never learned to swim. Thankfully, the skill wasn't particularly necessary in Camelot, but some part of him worries that it may be necessary here.

Frankly, he'd rather not bother with learning...

"You would be welcome here," he say simply, smiling in the wake of her gratitude. "Your services have been appreciated, but even if you did nothing more for these people, you would still be a welcome guest. If you prefer, I can arrange to reserve guest quarters for you in the keep itself. Or, if you are more comfortable in the village, I am certain a room can be added to the inn for your exclusive use. I do not know which you would prefer." His expression falls a little. "I am sorry to hear that the people of Kingsmouth cannot be removed from such a dangerous situation, though... aah, Lord God, there are so many who need helping in this multiverse," he sighs. "So many."

Pushing himself to his feet, he dusts off debris from his tunic, offering another faint smile to the Wisewoman of Uppsala. "However, I should not keep you for much longer. I do not doubt that my lord will be looking for me, that I might come in from the cold, for she worries about me..." He can't help but flush a little at that, shifting his weight almost uncomfortably, nearly fidgeting with the pipe chanter he still holds. "Even so, you are welcome to seek me out any time, for it is good to speak with someone from a more familiar time."

Inclining forward in a formal bow, he holds his position for several seconds, respectfully – a gesture of honour, even though she might be considered a witch by any other standards.

"Good eve to you, Wisewoman. May your gods keep you safe." With that, provided he doesn't encounter any resistance, the pale-haired knight will turn and make his way back to the keep.