Difference between revisions of "4310/Duel at Dun Realtai"

Latest revision as of 02:28, 13 July 2016

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
It's a summer day over the fields of Dun Realtai. Out here beyond the orderly geometry of farm fields, a light wind blows over a slight plateau. Wild barley and wheat cover the hills, a waist-high ocean of gold rippling in the wind. Most of the ground here is clear of rocks, branches, and other debris that might present a hazard for footing; it seems Bedivere's been here and prepared the land already, bringing with him a draught horse to carry a rack of practise weapons.

Those have been set up on one side. Now that the area is ready, Bedivere waits beside the rack, absently testing the heft of a smooth-sanded wooden sword. It looks a little like his own, if less battered. He's wearing the same armour he had favoured for the Round Table, which is just as battered and time-worn as his real sword, albeit still serviceable.

Every so often he looks up toward the distant spire of Dun Realtai, where the village juts up above the plain. Maybe they'll come from that way; the warpgate lies past it on the other side, so he should be able to see his opponent and spectators as they arrive. That's the idea, anyway.

Merlin (639) has posed:
    No, he isn't Gandalf. No beard, much sexier (even if it is Ian McKellen), and quite a bit less nattily dressed, Merlin sits back on the cart full of weapons. He does, however, enjoy a magical pipe, letting his mind relax while he focuses on little cantrips like making magical runes out of the smoke.

    It's certainly more interesting to the wizard than the pile of weapons in Bedivere's arms rack, though he can respect the Steward's preferences. Were it not for Bedivere's skill with the blade, his position as a Knight of Camelot would have never been no matter what his intelligence. And like magic, such skills must be maintained...and perhaps Merlin is making sure the good Steward is still able to perform his duties. Who knows what dark clouds the mystic might see...

    ...when he's not enjoying his girly magazines, at least.

Mordred (12) has posed:
    "It's important to enjoy summer before winter rolls over and freezes the whole place up again, isn't it?" comes Mordred's voice, inches away from Bedivere's left. The Servant materializes out of blue and red wisps of mana, not subtle in the slightest. She doesn't like being dematerialized very much, but she really can't deny how useful it is to get around. Faster than walking.

    Despite the heat, she'd come in her full armor, sans helmet; not time-worn in the slightest, thanks to the nature of Heroic Spirits. The pristine red and silver plate is as it was the very first day she ever stepped foot in Camelot and impressed upon the Knights her worth.

    Her attention wanders over to Bedivere's horse and the practice weapons. She'd expected the use of real weapons, but this might make things more fair for Bedivere all around. Mending the bridges between these two had been hard enough as it were, and who could blame Bedivere. 'Lowering' herself to his level might allow better bonding than not.

    "So, has Father been the one keeping your sword skills sharp? I'm sure he has difficulty staying still too. He was never very good at that." A gauntleted hand wanders towards one of the larger practice swords, trying to match the size of Clarent as closely as she can.

Reinhardt Wilhelm (1010) has posed:
    This seems to be going on JUST IN TIME for a metal giant to arrive, and I don't mean the truck that's parked just outside the village.

    Thunderous footsteps are heard, and the ground trembles gently with every step taken as Reinhardt approaches the makeshift arena. With him is Brigitte, a tall, boyish looking young woman with freckles and brown hair. She wears a rather tomboyish, practical outfit and carries some tools in her belt. "Whoa, looks like we came just in time for something huge. That's BEdivere, right...?" She asks, motioning towards the knights squaring off.

    "Aye, that's him. Not sure who the girl is, however." He mutters to her, respectfully quiet to the duel at hand.

    They aren't sure whether or not to stay, but Reinhardt can't help but watch this regardless.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
It is possible that Bedivere is deliberately ignoring Merlin lounging around nearby.

The normal reaction most people have to somebody appearing right beside them and conversationally talking to them is to jump out of their skin. Bedivere has spent most of his life as a pretty normal, if freakishly enduring, dude. His foray into the world of the magician is a relatively recent thing, and he's still a fledgling magus at best.

...All that to say, Bedivere predictably jumps right out of his skin when Mordred materialises next to him, dropping his practise sword, and glaring once he's gathered up his composure (and his weapon) again.

Pulling her punches a little might earn some brownie points with the onetime marshal. It also might have the convenient side effect of Bedivere not being dead by the end of it! Two birds, one stone. Or sword, as it were.

"She has," Bedivere confirms, falling into a defensive posture almost instinctually. "When not, I have fallen back on my allies among the Union, and the enthusiasm of Sir Gawain, as well." There's a flicker of something that might, /might/ be a half-smile across Bedivere's face; blink and it's gone. Staying still? "No. She has never been good at that. But I am hardly one to talk, either."

Even in the dead of night he was a common sight on the battlements, carrying his warhorn in one hand and a lantern in the other, ever vigilant against the Saxon threat. His mild, violet eyes settle on Mordred. "And you? Or have you been content to sharpen your claws against the multiverse itself?"

Mordred (12) has posed:
    "Really? You always seemed to enjoy the book-keeping more than the fighting. You've never struck me as particularily competitive or impatient to get your hands on a sword. Nothing like Father, Sir Lancelot or Sir Gawain." Though one couldn't deny Bedivere's ability to keep guard, maybe his role as marshal had colored Mordred's view just a bit. Bedivere was loyal and busy, but she couldn't see him rushing ahead of the frontline out of want for a challenge.

    Finally selecting one of the larger blades, probably meant to be wielded with two-hands, Mordred gives it a few test swings, trying to feel out the balance of the wooden sword, one-handed. "Oh, me? Yeah, that's probably a good way to put it. My new master isn't inclined to break the law, so she'll often send me to restore it. It's not the same as being a knight, but it's been nice to get back in line. A bit nostalgic."

    She walks half of a circle around Bedivere as she speaks, taking up position a good few meters away from him when she finally stops, readying the sword in front of herself. She seems to spend a moment to analyze the situation, more than she usually does. A wooden sword won't survive Prana Burst, so that's right out. She's only using the bare minimum necessary so that her noodly body can move nimbly in that armor. Few people know it, but the truth is neither Mordred nor her father naturally have the strength of Servants, and they use Prana Burst for it. That's why they're so costly to summon and maintain, even as Sabers go. Given Bedivere's proximity to the king, though, odds are high he knows, and he's already figured out the handicap this puts on Mordred. No cheating by being a Servant here.

    With her free hand, Mordred taunts Bedivere to approach, giving the signal that it's on him. "Though, haven't you ever wondered what you'd be like a Servant? The part where you die first aside, it's not devoid of advantages."

Merlin (639) has posed:
    Merlin simply watches without comment as Bedivere ignores him as hard as he can. Unfortunately, the side effect of this is that the Steward has to pay even /more/ attention to be sure he's ignoring the wizard properly. Well, such is life; letting Bedivere stew in his own silence is more than sufficient.

    The swirl of mana is sensed almost before Mordred appears. It gets a glance from the wizard's ice-blue eyes, and a small smile of welcome. Well, that and more; even if she's in armor Merlin can't deny that the progeny of Arturia is attractive. How strange that that etheral, androgynous, and rather beautiful face should grace so many - not just Arturia and Mordred, but also this Nero as well.

    Maybe Merlin would have to find a Saberface of his own. If Bedivere can have one, why can't he?

    Meanwhile the two of them draw their choices, and Merlin settles in to watch. For a moment, it's not hard to imagine they're in Camelot once more - just two of the sword, who know each other well, and both seek a little exercise. Maybe he should keep score...

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"That is because I do enjoy the bookkeeping more," Bedivere points out. "Drawing a blade has always been my last option. Or did you never notice? I suppose your attentions were elsewhere, most days, but even with the Saxon invaders, I preferred not to draw steel unless we were given no quarter and no opportunity to do otherwise. I regretfully admit that the Saxons gave me many such opportunities, and never seemed to learn otherwise."

Brute force was the only thing they seemed to understand, with their plundering and slaughter. Bedivere fought best when he could win his conflicts before ever drawing his sword, but he could fight with the best of Camelot's knights when it came to it -- although not because he was particularly strong. Indeed, most of them would have overpowered him in a test of straight power.

No; he was cunning, so cunning that his stratagems almost trod the limits of chivalrous conduct, and quicker on his feet than many wearing so much steel. It had saved his life more than once.

He fought best when words were his weapons, though, and where Gawain or Lancelot sought to prove themselves by strength of arm, Bedivere had always seemed strangely reluctant to even draw his sword... for when he did, he meant it.

When Mordred picks out a heavy two-hander, Bedivere thoughtfully eyes the rack a few moments. There are all manner of practise weapons there -- axes, swords for both one or two hands, a crude flail or two, and even a few spears. His eyes linger on the axes and spears for a moment before he places his sword back, selecting a similar one with slightly different heft.

He tests it absent a few times while Mordred puts herself into position. His eyes are grave and serious when she taunts him into an attack, and he seems to study the situation, too.

"No," he answers, truthfully, "but I can tell you that I would make a poor Servant in many categories, and I expect I would be a mediocre Saber, at best." Huh. What an odd answer, for a Knight of the Round Table.

Nero (880) has posed:
     "Mhmhmhmhm!"

     Came the ominous(to everyone else), imperious laugh of a certain Roman Emperor. But there is no one present! At least, not immediately. But then, in a shimmer of white magic particles, the red and white form of Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus appears. With an all too entertained grin on her face, she stands off to the side, arms crossed as she eyes the proceedings.

     "And so! I have appeared!" An arm is swept out dramatically as the Saber Class Servant speaks. "And with my appearance, so can this glorious clash of wills and steel, earnestly begin!" If it were possible for the girl to actually sparkle, then she just may have done that at this very second, smiling broadly as she let silence fall for just a moment.

     "Now! Sir Bedivere! Sir Mordred! Let us see today which of you shall rise up and become the one true knight of knights! Ah ha ha ha ha ha!" And after having an obnoxious laugh, Nero produces a small notepad, and an Aestus Estus shaped pen from literally nowhere, poised to take notes of the action like an eager reporter.

     Or perhaps a trashy fanfic writer.

     Hey, Forbidden Knights II wasn't going to write itself!

Merlin (639) has posed:
    "There is a reason that you, Sir Bedivere, were Marshal. Without offense to you, Sir Mordred, but skill with the blade is not always skill with a /thousand/ blades. An army requires a forger to build - and unlike a sword - keep its strength. But do not lose sight of his skill for his standing. He is no Gawain, but he is no squire either."

    It's without offense, merely observation. And a nod to Bedivere's skill nonetheless; perhaps the worn warrior's not nearly the duelist and battler that Gawain is - but really, could anyone imagine /two/ of them?

    "Perhaps a Rider might suit you more...you always did enjoy the horse."

    Oh. Speaking of scoring, there's Nero - and Merlin would have to say, certainly the best of the Saberfaces simply for assets that Arturia herself lacks. And there's a strange energy from this emperor, one that tickles Merlin's half-incubus senses...something oddly...

    ...lustful. Maybe. Is it battle or is it something else?

    Just what /IS/ this she's writing? Merlin's /got/ to know. Maybe it's just sketches for her statue of Bedivere. "Emperor. Might I suggest a better vantage point for your...observations?" He pats a spot on the cart next to him. The invitation's obvious.

Mordred (12) has posed:
    "Savages and barbarians were never renowned for learning much. We didn't see eye to eye with the Romans on many things, but they had the same ideas when it came to wandering bands of warlords without education or manners," Mordred answers, crudely, a coincidental response given the appearance of one of Rome's great emperors. Green eyes look in her direction, distracted from Bedivere for a moment, before the manner Nero conducts herself in prevents the other Saber from accidently calling her Father.

    "A wizard and an emperor as our audience. I guess we're right back into our old comfort zone. We're just missing festive music and peasants throwing a festival in honor of our jousting." Mordred wasn't a people person, but she didn't really mind the festivities that seemed to spawn wherever knights went. Duels and jousts for the eyes of the king and his wizard were pretty much the norm there.

    Mordred gives a bit of a cocky smile and huff at Merlin's words, with reason. "I won't pretend I have Sir Bedivere's quick wits at directing the flow of a battlefield, but I did inherit some of my Father's charisma." It's right there on her stats sheet. Charisma: C-, see? "Or need I remind you of Camelot's final moments? Shameful an act as it is now, when I put my heart to it I can turn five hundred swords against the other five hundred, lacking the ability to govern a thousand like Sir Bedivere can."

    Since Bedivere didn't take the taunt, and Mordred's patience is renowned to run dry quickly, she takes to the offensive, making a quick three-steps charge at the marshal, sword thrust forward like a spear. The bastard prince doesn't have skill and flourish, but her ease at swinging huge weapons savagely always made up for it.

    "You should consider it! No one lives forever. One day you might find yourself in a Grail War of your own!"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
By this point Bedivere is deliberately ignoring Merlin, and also deliberately ignoring the arrival of Nero, who is at this point no more than a distraction to him. He's going to need all his concentration if he doesn't want Mordred to punt him face-down in the dust.

Could also be because his personality just doesn't suit itself to Nero's grand theatrics. Bedivere's about as unassuming and quiet as they come.

He's half-listening to Merlin, though. A Rider wouldn't be unwelcome. He is an accomplished horseman, though history would later not remember him for anything but casting Excalibur back into the lake.

As he likes it. He put his head down and he did his duty, over the years; he expected no more than that.

The sword is flipped around, spun in an easy circle at the wrist. He's not only capable as a swordsman but talented, as any Knight of the Round was expected to be; as legend would remember them. Actually, legend remembered him with other weapons in hand, too, but for right now the longsword seems to be his preference.

"I have never jousted," he says, simply. "Surely you noticed I spent the entirety of such festivities in my place, at my king's side. I suppose I could wield a lance if there were a need for it, but I do not have Sir Lancelot's or Sir Gawain's familiarty with such a thing."

His eyes snap up when Mordred makes her move, and he's moving before she's even completed her lunge. Not necessarily because he knows where she's going to go (he doesn't). Rather, he's going to be turned into paste if he doesn't get gone, because that is a very big sword, even if it's only made of wood. Only doesn't count for much when the person wielding it is orders of magnitude stronger than the person being hit by it.

Alas, he's only mortal, and the blow smashes into a pauldron before he can fully throw himself out of Mordred's way. He takes the blow with a grunt, inwardly chiding himself for moving too slowly. Even as he's struck down and literally swatted out of the air, he's aiming a surprisingly vicious blow at Mordred's sword arm, lashing out two-handed with his own practise sword like a baseball bat.

"No," he huffs, even as he lands in the wheat (it doesn't soften his landing very much) and picks himself back up, spitting dust. "This life is the one the Good Lord granted me, and when it is my time, it is my time. I have no reason to rely on such witchcraft to extend my own life." He frowns, back to circling warily, whether or not his blow landed. The nice thing about fighting Mordred is that she's about as subtle as an anvil that someone lit on fire. "I do not have any reason to seek death out. It will come to me in time. I have no illusions otherwise."

Nero (880) has posed:
     Merlin is heard, and his offer is considered, Nero looking over the cart. "Hm! Very well." She decides, wandering over in that direction, and then hopping on to have herself a seat. Her smile is still broad as she scribbles into her notepad at a rapid pace.

     A glance over the shoulder should reveal to Merlin....well, it was basically a sensational account of what was going on before heer eyes. With added details such as 'longing glances' 'fiery exchanges' 'struggling between duty and desire' and other such utter nonsense. It was like she wasn't seeing the same thing everyone else was. Or maybe she was just using them as material for her own fantastical versions of themselves.

     Oh boy. Let not the combatants ever see this.

Merlin (639) has posed:
    Festive music, Mordred says. What a wonderful idea. A simple snap of his fingers conjures forth a lyre, which rests by Merlin's side and begins to play softly on its own. Something jaunty, of course, worthy for providing a bit of ryhthm to this particular little bit of swordplay. And maybe something that Nero can add saucy lyrics to!

    As for her comment of five hundred swords against five hundred, well...Merlin nods slowly. "That may be the case...but those days, and those ways, are long behind us by now." Right? Everyone's a slowly reconciling big happy family. Literally. Hey, doesn't that mean that Bedivere's going to be Mordred's stepfather one of these days?

    Oh he can't /wait/ to pass that on to Nero later.

    Meanwhile, Bedivere's ignoring him well - good. Focus your attention, swordsman; Merlin's seen enough duels and spars to know what's needed. It lets him spare his attention for Nero, settling a conjured pillow for her seat. It wouldn't do to be unchivalrous to a lady, WOULDN'T IT BEDIVERE? See, Merlin is being good. And so he turns his attention to the emperor, admiring what that red outfit shows off as well as taking in the careful account of the epic duel.

    There's a gentle whisper in her ear.

Mordred (12) has posed:
    Luckily for Bedivere, the Servant's strength is very controlled. It's not too much higher than the Knights were famous for in life, and no doubt the king has gotten him used to sparring with a Servant by now. Insofar as you can ever be prepared for that.

    It's smart for Bedivere to aim for her arms; like her Father, the area between her gauntlets and shoulders is critically unarmored, though unlike the blue Saber the prince has those gigantic pauldrons. Instinct kicks in, in the second it takes for Mordred to recover from her own strike.

    Committed to her thrust already, she uses her free hand like it bears a shield, relying on the heavy armor of her gauntlets to cover, crudely, the section of arm Bedivere aims at. It's not foolproof; the wooden weapon clangs on her armor and might even dent it, but by the rule of a sparring match she has to consider her hand injured. Whether Bedivere could really have cut through the gauntlet and wounded her critically doesn't matter.

    Though Mordred can appreciate Merlin's musical contribution, one of those days the other shoe will drop about Bedivere's relationship with the king. That's going to be something.

    "You say you live but you don't seem to enjoy yourself still. It's one thing to follow chivalry to your deathbed, but the wizard's right. Those days are gone. It's a big world out there now. There's room to be a knight AND live a little. When people celebrate, you should be joining them, not watching from a perch!"

    She waits for Bedivere to have picked himself up, as it's wrong to strike someone when they're down. "I don't think we get a say in whether we become Heroic Spirits or not after death. I didn't ask for it, but here I am. You might have to accept the eventuality." Most heroes would probably enjoy the idea of such an afterlife. It's no surprise to the tiny blonde Bedivere doesn't.

    She makes another slash, horizontal and wide this time. With the same motion she takes one large step forward, trying to shoulder-check the marshal if he remains still or dodges in the wrong direction.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"I will accept the eventuality, if it should happen, but you speak as though I should seek it out. And that I will not do." Bedivere shakes his head, even as his eyes remain fixed, watching the Traitor Knight's movements like a hawk.

Even if his body is a wreck and his reflexes aren't what they used to be, his instincts are still sharp. His ability to anticipate is what's saved him all these years, and it's what allows him to even entertain the idea of fighting a Servant now.

"As to that... I have participated plenty. I am only telling you that I have never jousted up until now, and these people do not know which end of a lance to hold." He allows himself a faint half-smile. "I have thought about holding a joust here, to instruct them; it would also be a good opportunity to train them, and to prepare them to raise a standing army. I cannot always be here to guard them; my duties with the Union sometimes take me far distant."

He manages to jerk himself aside from the slash, which is a feat in and of itself; but he's not fast enough by far to actually move himself out of the way. The shoulder-check is enough to send him back into the dust -- but he rolls with the momentum, heaving himself to his feet in the same motion.

This time he doesn't strike with his sword. At least, not at first. He takes a funny little hop-step forward, and then lashes out a leg to take Mordred out at the ankles. Just in case that doesn't work, he'll snap his sword out, with the intent of whacking Mordred a stinging blow on the wrist of her sword hand; wooden blade whipped around sharp enough that it ought to be felt even through armoured plating... but the catch is if he's quick enough to pull it off. She has supernatural speed on her side -- he does not.

Nero (880) has posed:
     Merlin, you monster? You want to get Nero to sing? And ruin us all?

     Very well.

     The Emperor starts humming along to the music while writing and observing the duel. She doesn't pay any mind to the wizard's observations. Anyone can look upon her form and be amazed. People aren't seeing through, after all. She's letting them see! It makes perfect sense! Gaze and be enraptured.

     Or something like that anyway.

     That sensational account of the epic duel reads something like: 'And he swerved, blade barely sweeping past his cheek! A thin line of blood is drawn. And a few stray strands of hair follow. Those beautiful locks that he has maintained every day... And yet, it is nothing to the raging flame before him! Such perilousness! He cannot help but find himself entranced by his fellow knight! But this duel will decide their fates! He steps in and counters! Fire and Ice collide! Wills and steel clash! And yet, deep in their hearts...'

     Suddenly, there's a whisper in her ear.

     Nero pauses.

     Nero looks aside at Merlin.

     Nero griiiiiiins. "Mhmhm! Very good, Sir Merlin!" Taking in the whispered words, she furious adds another section: 'Their armor glistened with the sweat from their bodies...their eyes steeled for the trial ahead of them. Duty? Honor? Desire? Passion? Which would reign supreme? Only time would tell!'

     Oh no.

Merlin (639) has posed:
    There's a moment in the fight that Merlin considers actually intervening - instituting a pause, specifically, and then adding a little bit of vigor and sapping away the kind of fatigue he might feel at his age. But then Bedivere would, probably rightly, whine that it wasn't his doing that let him fight properly. Ah well, fair is fair, and perhaps it's a buckethead tradition to fight an uphill battle. As long as Merlin doesn't have to drag the Steward ass-over-literal-armor-teakettle backwards to the keep, he'll enjoy the fun.

    The lyre continues playing softly, magically matching volume with the humming emperor. Merlin, of course, gazes - it is, after all, there to be seen, yes? It's not his fault, really. He was just born that way. Or something. "Quite right. One should strive for accuracy in ones writing, yes? Which is quite fantastic, I might add, and matches your own beauty moment for moment."

Mordred (12) has posed:
    "That's the problem, you think about what to do for so long! If we left it up to you alone to prepare a feast it'd take you days to pick the food, days to pick the entertainment, days to pick the decorations around the room, days to pick the guests, until the season's over and the momentum's lost. Life isn't a war campaign! You have to grab it by the reins and..."

    The kick to Mordred's ankle makes her fall to one knee, letting Bedivere's foot slam into her armored skirt instead. It dents, as expected, though unlike him she has the benefit of her armor restoring itself after combat. His follow-up strike with his sword proves more effective, what with the Saber kneeling and not having the luxury of movement here.

    By pulling her sword and sword arm back inward all the way, the blade slams into her pauldron. In a real fight that might have dislocated the shoulder or worse. She's taking Bedivere lightly. Maybe a bit too lightly.

    At the same time the marshal's blade connects, Mordred swings hers out again for a wide, close-up slash to his stomach, not with enough strength to pierce his armor (the wooden sword would break first, anyway) but surely with enough to knock him back and give her a moment to get back on her feet from this unfortunate position.

    "Seize it, without thinking. That doesn't mean be reckless, but a little bit of indulgence now and again, cutting loose and having some fun, it does the soul a lot of good!"

    Matters of armies and training Dun Realtai's residents can come later; Mordred'll probably offer to help with that, though she's only a teacher in the sense she knows how to fight, not how to teach.

Nero (880) has posed:
     "Indeed, you are most correct, Sir Merlin!" Nero agrees happily giving the wizard a glance aside and a nod before looking back to the epic duel between knights. ...What accuracy were they two talking about again? It certainly couldn't have been literal accuracy because nothing about what's in that book is accurate to the two dueling before them. Oh well!

     She continues to hum along in idle silence while writing, only stopping to respond when spoken to. Such as when Merlin compliments her appearance. being as easy to please as they come, Nero's smile broadens ever more and she stops, a hand rising to her chest in a haughty manner. "Mhmhmhm! But of course! You have a good eye, and fantastic taste, Sir Merlin. To be able to ascertain the true beauty that lies beside you! I am pleased!"

     Merlin no. Don't feed the fire.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere takes the blow to his gut with an 'oof,' because even though it isn't strong enough to punch through his armour, it still hurts. Staggering back, he coughs a few times, mostly to make sure everything's still in working order. Bit like getting hit by a truck, Camelot-style.

"Actually, I took a great deal less time than that to prepare the feasts and jousts in Camelot," Bedivere points out. "Arranging such events took less time than moving troops from one point to another. Although, I will be frank; I did arrange a few, but it was Sir Kay who arranged many of the fetes." The silver-haired knight allows himself a lopsided half-smile. He was more skilled than I at arranging a festival ground; I was much better at creating a training ground."

"I have." He looks offended, but not quite, stepping back to circle Mordred warily. "Merely because it has not been where /you/ can see does not mean that I have not done so," he points out, with a faint hint of amusement. "You were not always the most observant of knights, I fear."

Merlin (639) has posed:
    Mordred's battle cry, carpe diem. Merlin is more than happy to indulge, in this case taking in the mock battle between Mordred and Bedivere as much as he is taking in Nero. Well...almost as much. But still, go Bedikins! Or something.

    "Now, watch their footwork. Bedivere is cagey, and known for his creativity and - you see." The kick sends Mordred down, although they've both scored on each other. "It's the eternal duel, the fires of passion versus the coolness of mind, and the clash between them..." He thinks a moment, then points at her notebook. "Forges the strongest of feelings," Merlin grins.

    A pat on Nero's knee. "Though I don't seek to usurp your skill with the pen, my dear, I merely offer ideas that I revel in your acceptance of. And in your beauty, as well! May this day remember such a presence." Pat pat pat.

    "And now," Merlin adds with an eye to the competition, "it seems Bedivere is playing with his opponent. Needling Mordred like that can only...feed the flames, as it were." And with that Nero gets an exceptionally saucy wink.

Mordred (12) has posed:
    "In my defense that stuffy helmet really doesn't have the best field of vision," Mordred replies in good humor, not letting Bedivere get to her. She'll take this over hostile jabs anytime; this is more lighthearted, less... well, it's less 'Bedivere hates Mordred'. He has every reason in the world to, but the tiny blonde does have a very short temper and doesn't like seeing her efforts to mend bridges go to waste.

    "Good, though! I wish you'd get a bit less serious, but I guess we're taking this in baby steps. Maybe you need to find yourself a lady to court, you know? You'd go well with a princess or queen, with how much you like books and tabs. You've all but made yourself the king of this place, even if you keep denying it."

    Mordred rises, taking a moment to adjust her footing. The truth is Bedivere hits harder than she thought he would, and she should probably have kept Prana Burst going full-bore. Well, she's not going to go back on that now. This is actually a challenge, and she enjoys that very much.

    "Sir Kay knew how to party. He was also kind of grumpy and rude. I wonder what happened to him. Near as far as I could find every version of our story people wrote give him a different end. Not that there's much accuracy in them, hah."

    Not one to lose an advantage, Mordred continues pressing the attack. This time she makes use of that speed of hers, coming in with a rapid and savage flurry of slashes, seemingly in random directions-- with each hit dodged or parried by Bedivere she'll press more and more, her skill decreasing as she puts more and more strength into the blows. Superior swordsmanship might see Bedivere through the first few waves of slashes, but there'll come a time when Mordred is swinging too hard to parry safely. He'll have to find an opening, because she's unlikely to tire.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"And that is why I eschewed them," Bedivere comments blandly, though in spite of the banter, his eyes are locked on the Servant.

Most knights preferred to play it safe and wear a helmet into battle, especially the stronger and more protective types, like great helms and full helms, but the marshal had been notorious for refusing one. It was dangerous, but the visibility it afforded him was unparalleled. The risk was well worth the reward, in his mind; he couldn't have commanded the battlefield half so well if he hadn't been able to see it.

Probably lucky a stray arrow didn't kill him at some point. Or an axe in the head. The Saxons weren't in the habit of taking prisoners.

At Mordred's advice on who to court, he makes a sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh. For the stoic and impassive knight who had been as cold and seemingly emotionless as the king, it must be a little bizarre for Mordred to see. He's still grinning.

But he won't enlighten her. Let her discover that for herself, unobservant clod that she is; he's hinted to it on more than one occasion and she still hasn't picked up the hint. Huh... he probably couldn't get her to understand even if he bludgeoned her upside the head with it.

Besides, it'll be that much sweeter when reality does finally hit her.

"Sir Kay spent much of his time frustrated and dealing with the entitlement of the aristocracy," Bedivere admits, waving his free hand somewhat dismissively. "I can hardly blame him for his curtness, and he was also never one to suffer fools very lightly. Unless one spoke to him with a specific purpose in mind, he often had little time to spare. I myself spoke little to him outside the scope of our duties; but even so, there was much overlap between our respective purviews."

He circles, but his eyes are locked on her, intent as a bird of prey. As soon as she launches into her flurry of blows, he's moving almost before she raises her sword arm to parry and turn aside her blade. He's forced to wield his own sword with both hands to do so, but for the first half-dozen or so blows, he can; past that, he has to rely on fleet feet to dodge.

Weaving himself around that blade with admirable tenacity, he studies her, finally seizing his chance. As she raises her arm to strike at him with a diagonal downward blow, he snaps forward like a spring uncoiling, lashing out with his blade to target her arms again, grabbing for that weak point in her armour like a mastiff seizing a bone. He's no fool; riding weak points into the ground is going to be his only opportunity to win at this.

Teeth bared in exertion -- he's pushing himself well beyond limits he ought not fool with, for Mordred is not so careful with him as Arturia is -- he chuckles nonetheless. "And so your true colours show themselves. Subtle as a greataxe, you are. But your strength is -- gh! -- admirable, even if untempered by any skill."

Mordred (12) has posed:
    "I find it hard to believe you two were that close, your personalities were total opposites!" Mordred manages, between swipes, probably a word or two at a time. She lost sight of many of the knights when she prepared her rebellion; she couldn't say how many fell at Camlann, how many left, how many died elsewhere. She was too busy throwing a fit and trying to murder her father, and getting killed as a result. It tends to make it hard to pay attention to other things.

    Ramping up in intensity as she goes, Bedivere opts to parry until he can't, and then starts weaving between slashes with agility only a hero of old could have. 'Mortal' he calls himself. Honestly, she's not sure people from her time have any right to that word, compared to modern humans.

    His own strokes reach Mordred's arms between her own strikes; in particular he gets a clean hit on her off-hand, serving to declare the limb 'cut off' for the remainder of the mock duel. It's a bit harder to catch her swinging arm, but grazes on the armored gauntlet and pauldron still show damage. In a real fight, capitalizing on that would give Bedivere a big edge.

    Mordred stops, backing away for a moment to catch her breath, still grinning like an idiot. She lets her off-hand (the left) fall limp to her side. "I can't help it, it's what I was made for." Made, what an odd term. Does Bedivere know Mordred isn't human? "And it's a lot more fun, too! There's just something about cutting loose and hacking and slashing through that feels so much more satisfying than playing like I'm holding a rapier and trying to impress nobility. I can do it, but I'd rather enjoy myself!"

    Luckily she only needs the one arm. She cheats, just a bit; her foot slams into the ground, heavy boot digging in and then kicking forward. It sends a large piece of earth and stone towards Bedivere, carved right out of the ground by the Servant. It's not too threatening, even a wooden sword could dramatically cut the projectile in half.

    But Mordred dashes to the left of it, trying to blindside Bedivere with a vertical slash from his left while he's busy dealing with the chunk of ground.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"I would not say that we were close, necessarily, but we had an understanding." Bedivere likewise responds between parries and dodges, managing a few words at a time. He grunts, letting a particularly vicious strike bounce off his shoulder, crumpling the edge of his already-battered pauldron.

He jerks himself aside from another vicious blow, one that probably would have done worse than 'dent his armour.' Another he takes with a grunt, wooden blade thwhacking into his armour and biting into his side. "Sir Kay saw to the duties of the citadel, and I saw to the duties of the armies. Oftimes those duties overlapped. I would have need of requisitioning supplies, or manpower, in pursuit of the Saxons. Or, later on, to pursue your men."

He snorts as Mordred backs away, but it's clear that the exchange took a lot out of him, too; he's panting, stance a little too wide as he droops a bit and catches his breath. There are shadows under his eyes that were never there in Camelot, or at least better-hidden; there's a stiffness to his movements that suggests poorly-healed injuries that weren't there when they were all mortals together.

He eyes her a moment when she gives that odd turn of phrase, but he doesn't call her on it. It's doubtful he knows. He had never looked too deeply into the matter, although part of him still kicks himself for that oversight. Once the business of adultery had befallen Lancelot, the spymaster's duties had also fallen on Bedivere, and it had been more work than one man could reasonably uphold.

Certain things had been neglected for the sake of the big picture. Digging into the past of Mordred had been forced to wait, mainly in favour of dealing with Mordred's rebellion itself. Bedivere's hands had been full, towards the end, trying to stave off skirmishes from the rebellious host. He'd also been busy trying to make sure morale didn't fail completely in the Arthurian host. It had been flagging dangerously low towards the end, there.

Readying his blade, he sidesteps, shaking his head. "Rapiers are tools of the nobility. Give me a longsword any day, although there are other weapons I can yet wield, too." Really? He never had anything but a sword in Camelot.

The sword had always been his favoured weapon, and unlike other knights, he had always wielded the same one he had been granted in his training -- whetted and honed and overworked until the blade was long, narrow, and just as battle-scarred as its master. Someday, that thing is going to snap like a cheap toothpick.

His eyes flick to the weapon rack, as though weighing his options even as the Traitor Knight hucks a chunk of stone and sod at him. Bedivere yelps, electing to dodge rather than dramatically slice it in half; because even slicing it in half means there's debris to deal with, and--

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
--and his dodge takes him right into the path of Mordred's two-handed sword as it crunches down from the left, and when he tries to parry the blow on instinct, it cracks against his wrist with enough force to bring even Bedivere to cry out in pain.

The wooden sword is sent spinning from his grasp, and instinctively, Bedivere kicks off from the broken earth and leaps straight backward. It's a purely defensive and instinctive maneouvre, meant to put as much space between him and Mordred as possible in as short a time as possible.

Coincidentally, it puts him by the weapons rack, and he snaps out a hand to grab something, anything, to defend himself with.

His hand closed on the smooth-sanded haft of a spear, a long and wickedly-pointed implement carved from a single piece of branch.

There's an odd sort of confidence as his hand closes on the weapon. Without any thought whatsoever, he seizes it with one hand, passes it to his off-hand, and then seizes /another/ from the rack. What is that fool doing with two spears? Those are the most impractical of weapons to dual-wield, unless you happen to be Diarmuid ua Duibhne, and that Bedivere is not--

One hand jerks forward. Bedivere neatly casts the spear with all the accuracy and speed of an arrow in flight -- but not for where Mordred's weapon hand is, but where it will /be/ once she follows through, because he isn't stupid enough to think she's going to sit still while he's disarmed. Anticipation and forethought are the only weapons he really has against the preternatural speed of a Servant.

Backing away, he keeps the other spear before him in defensive posture, ready to ward off her weapon.

But...

Where in the /hell/ did he learn to do that? Not once had he never so much as /touched/ anything that wasn't a spear in Camelot, let alone have more mastery over that than the sword -- and make no mistake, Bedivere's mastery with a sword was nothing to sneeze at.

In the meantime, he's watching Mordred with the intensity of a hawk, violet eyes fixed on her every move, waiting and holding that spear with every appearance of confidence and surety. Well, there's no mistaking /that/, anyway; he definitely knows how to use the weapon...

Mordred (12) has posed:
    "That makes a lot more sense than trying to picture you two as friends. 'An understanding', that's... so you," Mordred answers, though whether she's being mocking or just observing a fact is hard to tell from her tone. "But you're right about that. Rapiers have no place on the battlefield. A rapier hidden in the breastplate for close combat while you wield an actual weapon will go much further." The player always found it odd for all their talk of honor, knightly training manuals would recommend doing just that because swordfights inevitably ended in wrestling more often than not. They weren't anime enough about it.

    Recovering from the attack on Bedivere only takes a second, since he didn't try to aggress her in return. But as she pushes for Bedivere's new position immediatly, and predictably too, the 'mortal' is rearming himself, and even chucks a spear right at her.

    There's something to be said about Instinct. No, not the sense, the Servant skill. As she charges forward, Mordred sees the potential outcomes of the action before it even completes, her mind's eye trained like her Father's.

    In one strand she charges straight for Bedivere, whose spear nicks her good arm and takes it out of the fight. In another strand she adjusts her charge left, and takes the spear to the heart instead. That's worse. In yet another she leaps up instead, avoiding the spear and coming down with a slash at the same time. Bedivere's spear gives him greater reach, and he intercepts her falling. In the final strand she confisers, she halts and ducks, and the spear grazes the side of her head. She can live with that.

    The Servant abruptly stops and ducks, the arm's height spear catching the side of her head as predicted. There's blood, insofar as Servants can be considered to bleed, the first instance of it visible today to Bedivere.

    When she gets back up, she whistles in admiration. "You have NOT been slacking. I didn't know you to be a spearman at all." Weapon triangle disadvantage or not, she won't let it discourage her. "That didn't look like beginner's luck either. How long have you been hiding that eagle eye for?"

    She needs to consider her approach carefully. The greater reach of the spear gives Bedivere more zone control. If she had Clarent it'd be different, but this is a wooden sword. If she swoops low, it'll give her higher odds.

    "But I like a challenge! The only trait of Sir Lancelot's I could admire, after what he did to Father!" Pot and kettle, and all that, but it makes sense Mordred hates him. Two traitors won't necessarily get along.

    She takes a careful few steps towards Bedivere now, careful not to lunge right into his spear. She's going to swing as low as she can afford, to smack the spear right out of the way with a wide horizontal slash, and make a return slash immediatly, mirroring the first, and pressing on if he parries or avoids rather than counter, always aiming to strike the spear before the marshal.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The former marshal arches a brow at that assertion, but whether Mordred means insult by it or not is hard to say. Apparently Bedivere's content to let it lie. He let a lot of things lie. Men were able to say to him things that would get their throats slit by anyone else; his patience in the realm of personal insult has always been nothing short of absurd. Yet, if someone were to insult the honour of the king...

There were a few instances of that. Most of them ended in the marshal reprimanding the offenders with shocking coldness and a marked excess of force. One man had been punched so hard with an armoured gauntlet his jaw had been broken, and he had been escorted from the throne room, bleeding. Another had had his shoulder dislocated when he'd tried to spring away from the furious marshal. Those instances were the few times that Bedivere had ever showed emotion, and there was no mistaking that the rage he'd shown was very much real.

Of course, he would become wroth with those who insulted the Eight Virtues, too, but not as badly as those who directly insulted Arturia's honour and dignity. He would accept any insult to himself, and some of the people in the court had said some cruel and hurtful things -- it had not seemed to bother him. But the instant they insulted Arturia, all bets were off; he would allow no one to gainsay the king, not when they already questioned her judgement.

Yet for all his zeal, he would reprimand his victims in a way that made it patently obvious that it wasn't necessarily a personal connection that he upheld, but more toward the notion that one must respect their king.

Flipping the spear around and spinning it artfully in one hand, Bedivere handles the weapon with a casual surety and grace that he's never shown for the sword. His swordsmanship has always been utilitarian; and he's always treated the weapon with a certain formality. Yet the spear seems to be much more fluid, now -- it moves as more an extension of his arm than a sword ever had.

That's pretty good, considering what a good swordsman he was in Camelot... although that was more a product of his tactical mind than his sword arm. Even the more mediocre among the knights could overpower him, physically.

Bedivere half-smiles at Mordred's praise, even as he circles her the other way, searching for an opening, surveying the damage of his thrown weapon with a certain satisfaction.

"I suppose you knew that I was not from Britain," he offers simply. "Few spoke of it, for I did not confirm my origins among the court. Our king had enough concerns to field with a contentious and inconstant aristocracy. I would give them no more fuel to the fire."

Quick as thought he flips his spear around, automatically positioning it to counter Mordred's horizontal swat; although he doesn't lose his weapon, the impact shivers up through his shoulders, numbing his arms for an instant. The second and third blows follow; wooden sword furiously clashing against wooden spear.

He sidesteps, but the fifth blow slips past his guard, biting into the armour at his side, causing both steel and marshal beneath to groan under the impact. Even with Mordred pulling her punches, that /hurts/.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Dancing back, he makes every effort to open up more space and put some distance between himself and Mordred. Getting in close is where his weakness lies -- with a spear he limits himself, sacrificing the closest distance for the ability to attack at middle and long range.

Of course, he can always just chuck it if he gets into a bind. Spears are wonderfully versatile weapons and are just as effective to throw as they are to stab.

Studying, he shakes his head faintly, although his eyes never move from her. "I come from D�l Riata, and while I did not hide it, I did not confirm it." There were a lot of rumours about that northern kingdom, sprawling across the North Channel, half in northeastern Ireland and half in southwestern Scotland. Many called it a den of witchcraft, for many warlocks and witches came from that place, and their druidic filidh, or bards, were potent magicians in their own right.

Small wonder he didn't talk about it at all. Arturia's detractors would've had a field day. Bad enough she ran their kingdom into the ground by forcing them to adhere to a moral code they didn't want, but then she goes and appoints some backwater foreigner /warlock/ into the highest military position in the realm?

Bedivere smiles a thin little smile. "All my life," he comments simply, in answer to her question. "The spear was a common weapon of D�l Riata. Most of our warriors were trained in its use. It was in fact awkward for me to use a sword, at first. I had some training as a warrior of the northlands before I came to court." He feints sideways, and then comes from the other side, aiming a razor-sharp slice at Mordred's side. Ah, now comes the death of a thousand papercuts. His favourite strategy. "And the Saxons were astonished that one among us could fight them on equal footing. They did not think we softened southrons could muster their battle-rage."

Modred probably had heard /those/ stories too; a silver-haired demon on the battlefield, when Caliburn had been lost, raging and reaving his way through Saxons and roaring like a lion. Those incidents were rare, but the nobility who hated Bedivere most remembered those battles with fear and superstition. There were probably plenty of those in Mordred's camp, too; Arturia had made it clear she wasn't going to sack the marshal just to satisfy a few snot-nosed nobles.

"Tell me; have you trained with the spear?"

Mordred (12) has posed:
    "To be honest I never paid much mind to where the other Knights hailed from. Father didn't. What mattered to him was that we came to Camelot. He really knew how to present the perfect image," Mordred says, with a bit of nostalgia in her tone. It's no secret by now her rage stemmed directly from her admiration. That Bedivere was a land of warlocks and heretics didn't matter to her in the slightest. And really, why should it? Half of the legends they spread about the Knights were... well, you know. Magic swords, dealing with the elemental spirits, slaying dragons, enchanted armor, fate and destiny mentioned every other page. They didn't need Merlin around to be overly invested in the magical to begin with.

    It does explain Bedivere's skill with the spear, though.

    "I wouldn't know what that's like. I didn't get any training. I just knew how to fight because that's all Mother needed out of me." The word 'Mother' is spoken with bile comparable to how she used to say 'Father' before Psyber grabbed them by the heads and smacked them together until things fixed themselves.

    "But I'm surprised to hear you revel in such things. Sometimes you almost manage to come across as a real person! I wonder where you hide that pride the rest of the time." Crushed under the stoicness and loyalty, she'd guess, two heavy anvils over an underdeveloped dwarf.

    Bedivere's feint results in Mordred taking the bait, and the tip of the spear grazing the side of her breastplate three or four times with each blow she falls for, trying to inflict on Bedivere that one swing that'll ground him without success. The narration says 'graze', really, but were Bedivere only wielding a real spear...

    "I've been killed by one, if it's the same time," Mordred says lightheartedly, leaping back out of reach of the spear and pointing at her spleen. "And you're close enough to striking the same spot I can tell you might just be as good as Father was with his'." More, maybe, but it's hard to gauge skill this quickly. "More seriously, a bit, but mostly jousting and cavalry lances, which you'll agree don't wield the same way at all."

    Tackling Bedivere in his comfort zone isn't working out so well. She needs to end it, otherwise he'll dance around her blows and inflict death by a thousand cuts indeed. There's a surge of mana, Mordred's wooden blade suddenly glowing a bright red as fire-like lightning arcs across the long blade. It seems like a very poor idea, since already the wooden weapon is starting to fray under Prana Burst's stress.

    Impatient, she goes full-bore with it. She charges for Bedivere, with the full strength and agility afforded to her by her Class Container, a good fourty ish times peak human. As expected, it's less of a charge than a flash-step, the Servant blurring and functionally reappearing in front of Bedivere, having pulled her sword back already.

    She thrusts for his side, making sure even if she connects at full strength it couldn't possibly lethally injure him. There's just one problem. Under the pressure of the thrust and Mordred being an impatient and cocky prince, the wooden blade turns to dust in her hands before it can reach Bedivere, broken by the mana and air pressure alone.

    That leaves her completely open.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"I did not care, either, so long as they had honour, and could follow my orders. Others could not stop talking of such things." There's no hiding the scorn in Bedivere's voice; there had been no love lost between him and the corrupt, soft aristocracy. In an effort to keep their fickle loyalty, Arturia had taken pains to appear as impassive and impartial as possible.

Unfortuantely, even those sacrifices had been for nothing. It was not possible to please them, Bedivere had always felt, and it was the commoners that had truly mattered. They had been more real to him than the aristocracy had ever seemed, even if being upjumped to Marshal of the Realm had made him one.

"I do not revel," Bedivere points out, somewhat peevishly. "I am merely relating why I have competency in a weapon few knights chose to use."

They preferred the heavier cavalry lances of war, and the blunt-headed jousting lances of the tilting yards. Slender spears, or even the kinds of javelins once favoured in Imperial Rome, were not common weapons of the typical knight. Unless wielded beyond mortal skill, such weapons couldn't find the gaps in that heavy armour. No; they were more common in places like D�l Riata, where warriors wore no heavy armour. They relied on skill instead of armour to protect them.

"Perhaps I can train you." It's a serious offer, although it's given somewhat reluctantly. Hey, he's trying. Offering something like that is a good way to bridge the yawning chasm between them. He might be a little rusty, but it's still something. And his definition of 'a little rusty' is wildly different from most. Bedivere has always been hard on himself; and now, in the multiverse, the baseline for his skills is whether or not he can keep up with something like a Servant.

Speaking of Servants, Mordred ribs him about his pride. The silver-haired knight snorts. "Out of sight and out of mind, where it belongs." Maybe that was just drilled into him by way of his position between rock and anvil, or maybe it's a lot simpler than that. Maybe he genuinely views himself as unworthy. His self-loathing streak is as bad as Arturia's, if not worse; the king going and dying on his watch did a number on his psyche. "But just because I do not speak of it does not mean it does not exist. Even I have a certain satisfaction when I maintain my skill, you know."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
There's a certain satisfaction in his eyes, too, when that feint succeeds. She's too impulsive, and he can see where she might mistake a feint for a true strike, instinct or no instinct; he's trained himself to take a much longer view of things, and to treat a battlefield or a sparring match as a game of chess. It's the only prayer he has at surviving life, the universe, and everything.

That, and probably being too stubborn to die. If /Camlann/ didn't kill him, then there's probably nothing that can. Probably. Maybe. Right?

Shifting his grip on the spear, he studies Mordred carefully as she points out her lethal wound. "Aye," he relates, a little more cold and wary. "Your king has a wound to match that, and one I doubt she'll soon forget." Certainly not one he'll soon forget. He still has nightmares about that thrice-damned and bloodstained hill.

Before he has time to consider that any more, Mordred's moving. Correction; Mordred /has/ moved; by the time he can even perceive it, it's clear into the past tense. And she's thrusting her sword at him--

A few bits of charcoal, sawdust, and powdered ash drift out of her outstretched hands.

The two are probably, for a second or two, staring at each other dumbly.

And then the knight closes the distance, puts up his spear, and reaches over to flick the spear sidelong, smacking Mordred soundly across the back of the head with the butt end. It's not a hard blow, definitely not enough to even hurt, but it's enough to illustrate that she just did something stupid.

"And that is why you must be patient. Had you bade your time, you would not have destroyed your own weapon."

Retreating to the weapon rack, he stands with the end of the spear planted, leaning on it a little as he waits. It's as much to catch his breath as anything else. "Another sword...?"

Mordred (12) has posed:
    Any and all replies go out the window with Mordred's ego; she'd answer his offer about the training, normally, rib him about his lack of pride being just a tad unknightly, as if nothing else a knight should be boastful of his deeds to further the reputation and glory of the crown he serves. She'd probably have something to say about the wound she inflicted to her Father too. She didn't really mean to, is the truth. It was a curse. Her Mother must have known if it came down to it Mordred might be slain or hesitate.

    It all goes out the window because Bedivere whacks her behind the head, after a rather humiliating moment. Impatience is a flaw, who could have possibly guessed. She ends up on the ground face first, and by the time she rises and wipes the earth off her face and out of her hair with a healthy and violent headshake, she-- just kind of starts laughing.

    "No, toss me a spear. You won, fair and square, so I'll bow and accept you have things to teach me. I'm a bit pissed at myself for doing that but I'd never tried using that with something made out of wood. I won't be doing it again, lesson learned."

    A wave of blue and red magic washes over her, healing her injuries and mending the dents in her armor. Or, rather, superficially doing that. She's still injured and a bit exhausted, a Servant's self-healing mostly serves to cover and close wounds, unless the master is nearby.

    "Let's see how you fare as a teacher, now that you've proven you can be a warrior the same as all of us when you want."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere leans on his spear as he waits for the Traitor Knight to come to that acceptance, but a practised eye would see that he does so warily. No doubt he expects her anger to boil over, because that's what Mordred does. Maybe he did come down a bit hard on her, but those make for the best lessons. The best that /he/ remembers are those that stuck because he had been so humiliated at his own failure.

Word had never got out about it much, but he had actually been a miserable failure when he'd still been just a knight-aspirant. He had been terrible at fighting, to the point where he had even considered going home to D�l Riata, despite seeing Arturia in the market square, and swearing to himself that he would serve the king no matter what the cost to himself.

Then he learned to be more cunning and devious than the other guy, and the rest is history.

Still... that Mordred laughs it off so easily is a surprise, to go by the slight arch of a brow. He shrugs, reaching behind him and seizing another practise spear, tossing it to her in the same motion. Catch!

"A role I had expected to fill, though I had little opportunity to teach once I was appointed marshal." Bedivere smiles thinly. His appointment as Marshal of the Realm had been a surprise to everyone, but none so much as he himself. It also left him hopelessly busy until the end of the kingdom. He can't remember very many nights where he'd slept a full seven hours, or days where he hadn't been up before the sun.

He paces a circle around Mordred, eyeing the Traitor Knight critically. His own spear inches out, poking and prodding her into some semblance of a ready stance. Once she moves the way he wants him to, he nods in satisfaction, the single bloodstone earring at his left ear clinking softly.

"Good. That's the way. A spear is not a sword. I suppose that is evidently obvious, but I mean more than its appearance. You cannot fight the same way with it. A spearman is at his best in the middle and far ranges, where his foe cannot reach him." Bedivere holds his spear at arm's length, demonstrating. "He can attack, and he can avoid retaliation at the same time."

"But it is not so simple. One cannot charge into battle and expect to beat his enemy down as one would wielding a two-handed blade. It takes cunning to seek the gaps in your enemy's defenses, and it takes patience to wait for the opportunity to strike them."

Mordred (12) has posed:
    To be honest the fact Mordred doesn't boil with anger is equal parts to her master's credit as it is to Psyber's, Arturia's and even to some degree Bedivere's. Her rage has largely been tempered, and while she still plays host to what is functionally a god of rage, that'd led her to finding ways to control it she can also apply to her every day life.

    She's still impatient and short-tempered, but not so much as to be unstable in a friendly mock battle setting. Bedivere would have to say some very hurtful and crude things to trip her up.

    She catches the spear, immediatly holding it correctly. Just because she'd never used one seriously doesn't mean she hasn't picked the basics up through observation. Bedivere does have to correct her stance anyway, but her grip is sturdy.

    She follows instructions, at least, and that's more than could have been said of her a year ago. "A spear also excels at harassment, doesn't it? Batting shields aside and prodding, never giving a chance to approach. Couldn't I use it aggressively and push on my range advantage?"

    It's an odd concept, for a Servant. At the speed they move range is almost never a concern, unless fighting a Lancer. For anyone else, the gap isn't usually that hard to close, and even a bow is only useful for the first strike, because once your position is given away a Saber can and will reach you. Or that's how she feels, anyway. She might overestimate her abilities just a bit.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
While he can be very focused and pointed when it comes to pressing the attack, going out of his way to be cruel simply isn't in Bedivere's nature. The only exceptions he'd ever shown were the instances in which Arturia's honour were attacked directly, and then, his cruelty and wrath had been rightly earned -- and carefully engineered.

His was not the bright flame of Mordred's anger, or the cold ice of Arturia's, but something more in between. He had been capable of shocking premeditation, but hedidn't use it unless it was something he felt rightly earned.

It is not rightly earned when Mordred goes to such lengths to mend the chasm between them all. She's trying, in her own crude way, and even Bedivere has to respect that.

Carefully, he studies her posture and makes a few last-minute adjustments, poking her carefully with the blunted spearhead to demonstrate. Finally he seems satisfied, considering her question. "It could," he admits, after a moment's thought. "And an aggressive spearman may be a successful one, so long as he tempers his aggression with observation."

"And a spearman must be more agile." He whips his spear around, bringing the haft clashing against Mordred's with a resounding /clack/. "You cannot block a blade as you can with a sword. Your weapon is inherently weaker at that point. If you try to block, you will find your weapon broken, or worse."

Mordred (12) has posed:
    "Comes with the territory of your weapon being made in large part of wood, doesn't it? This is a poor man's spear, though. Wood is great for your infantry because it's easier to produce and repair, but a real knight should have a steel spear, shouldn't he?" That might rub Bedivere the wrong way, but it's not by intent. Mordred views a wooden spear the same way she'd view being told to ride into battle with leather armor and a pony instead of a horse. It just feels off.

    "I get it, though, a spear's not a shield and it's not a sword either. You're better off dodging than trying to use it as either. That means it excels at dealing with shorter, weaker weapons and shields, but anything big and burly might break it. Right?" Basic battlefield lessons. Any knight would know their way around weapon choice, even if they don't around weapon use.

    "That reminds me. Where'd Father get his spear, anyway? Everyone knows where he got Caliburn and Excalibur, but that spear, I've never heard him talk about it. Not in life, not here... though I guess it's because he doesn't have it as a Saber, huh?"

    She doesn't know if Bedivere knows, but it's worth asking. The man has been around her Father since... well, since before it all started, really. Few know him better.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Aye, that." Bedivere folds his arms, nodding as he eyes Mordred. The stance looks better, enough so that he doesn't try to nudge her into shape any more. "But poor iron can be no better. Find a weak point in the metal, and it will snap sure as soft wood. Better to avoid the blow than to ruin your weapon upon it; most spears were never designed to take such a shock, not even a war lance."

He tilts his head, faintly. "Aye, maybe. But mind that the infantry is the base of your army, and the commonfolk who fill those roles the backbone of any kingdom. The aristocracy is naught without either."

He turns, pacing, as though he can't stand not to be moving any longer. "Correct. They are a weapon of skill, not a weapon of strength; and they necessitate that their wielder is fleet of foot rather than enduring. Well, yes, enduring, but in a different manner."

"Ah. Rhongomynyad? The Cutting-Spear? I do not know where the king's spear came from, but I had heard in my homeland of the weapon Luin of Celchar mac Uthercair. So great was its lust for battle that it must needs be quenched in poison before battle, for it would destroy its handler otherwise. When cast, it would slay nine at a throw." He frowns, thoughtful, rubbing at his jaw. "If that is indeed her spear, I am uncertain of where she obtained it, or if it is the same as Luin of Celchar mac Uthercair."

He shrugs. "Perhaps you should ask her yourself." He half-smiles, just faintly. "Perahps /I/ should ask her myself. I am made curious, now."