Difference between revisions of "4327/Good Help's Hard to Find"

Revision as of 02:17, 20 July 2016

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
It's late evening in the realm of Dun Realtai. The region is mostly a vast plain, with gently rolling hills and little in the way of variety in its elevation. So it must come as a surprise, then, when the road out from the warpgate leads to a dramatic, upthrusting spire of stone in the midst of the plain. Clinging to the less steep western face of the spire is a whole mediaeval-styled village -- although keen eyes might pick out that it has such things as modern insulation, plumbing, and other subtle but appreciated touches of modern life.

When a stranger comes up through the warpgate riding a strange contraption, she's identified as a visitor to the steward -- and anybody she asks will point her to the castle that caps the top of the spire. The lake, alas, is not visible from the western face -- it's northeast of the spire itself, and just out of view.

It's a five-storey citadel hewn mostly of bright, new stone; interspersed with older, more worn stonework. An outer bailey, neatly groomed, leads to an inner bailey; mostly turf and some dust in its central clearing. Rooted beside the castle is probably one of the biggest oak trees many visitors have ever seen -- its massive, strong boughs easily dwarf even the citadel, and it reaches well over the top of the fifth storey.

There's a feeling of magic about it, although what specifically, it's hard to say. It almost lends a feeling of being watched as visitors file past.

The door will be opened by a doorman, wearing a crude chain hauberk and wielding a crude, iron-tipped wooden spear.

Inside is the great hall -- a vast, cavernous chamber that spans the length of the citadel, its length running northward. Great tables are set up in the centre, lined with benches; almost the entirety of the western wall is taken up by two massive hearths, currently cold and unlit. Over them hangs the ruined, twisted, rusted remains of what was once a broadsword fit for a giant.

At the lord's table in the centre of the room, raised above the other two tables, a single figure is seated. It's clearly a knight -- clad in battered plate mail, mostly gleaming in spite of its obvious damage. Clasped over his shoulders is a white mantled greatcloak; the hall, thankfully, is cool enough even in summer to warrant such a garment. He himself is tall and somewhat lanky, with a gentleness to his features that almost suggests feminine features. There is a solemn quality to his eyes, a soft and faded violet in colour. His high cheekbones are not overly strong, but suggestive of a bit of foreign blood somewhere in the mix. His hair is long, somewhere between silver and ash-blonde, tempered with the odd smoky strand and the occasional white one. Two narrow braids circle the side of his head, meeting at the back where it's all drawn into a bronze cuff, tooled with distinctly Celtic design; triskelions and whorling motifs.

At the moment, he's bent over a scattering of parchment pieces, occasionally jotting a note down on them with a suspiciously modern-looking pen. Despite wearing articulated plate gauntlets, he seems to have no difficulty doing this.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    Her bike will do speeds approaching seventy miles per hour depending on how hard she pushes it. Eithne loves it very very much, but it would be SO much more fun to ride a horse! Maybe even a soggy one. Look, she's a teenage girl.

    She pedals into the citadel at a much more sedate pace, the summer breeze feeling very good to someone who spent all day cooped up in high school with people she can't relate to. The sun on her back is warm, and that tree in the center of the settlement makes her want wings very badly, so that she could see it from above or explore its branches. But, she'd been asked over to speak to the knight - who is actually the local lord, or so she understands! - about...

    Actually, she's only kind of certain what it might be about.

    She leaves her bicycle parked outside the door to the great hall; it's too heavy for most folks to think about stealing, but it had cost her a LOT of money for someone working part-time!! She doesn't want to lose it. Eithne smoothes her wavy hair down out of habit and approaches the knight's table with the surest stride she can manage (it helps that she's a fairly certain person most of the time).

    "Hullo, Sir Bedivere?" she greets him, hopping up onto the raised bit of floor to join him - but doesn't sit down. "Enya Sullivan. Yeh asked fer me?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The knight looks up as the door booms open. It takes him a moment to focus, raising one brow in silent question; maybe he's expecting one of the castle folk to run a message or pester him, or maybe he's expecting it to be his visitior... and it proves to be the latter. That must be Eithne Sullivan.

Bedivere rises, turning to face his guest. He inclines his head, neither shallow nor deep. It's a gesture both of respect and reservation. He's sizing her up, that much is obvious; her warrior's instincts would tell her as much. She's younger than he would have thought, but not so young as to be at any unnecessary risk. Dun Realtai is a reasonably safe place; even the non-Elites here are reasonably safe... most of the time.

"I did. Thank you for arriving quickly." In person, his voice is gentle, though not so gentle as to be mistaken for a woman's -- though one could easily arrive at that conclusion, with his long hair and gentle features. "I believe you mentioned, once, that you were available for certain tasks? I suppose it must sound like a waste of effort, asking an Elite and Union ally such as yourself for such a thing." There's a flicker ofa half-smile, somewhat sardonic. "The truth is, Dun Realtai is still recovering from calamity, and in many ways it is still sorely understaffed. Would you be interested in working here...? You would of course be offered fair recompense for your efforts."

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    'Certain tasks' makes it sound sketchy!! But Eithne fancies herself a good enough judge of character, and with the added assurances from other Elites on the channel on the subject of Bedivere's character... He's surely harmless enough to someone like her. "Aye, I did," she nods, smiling. "Elite or not, there's never shame in askin' fer help when yeh need it, is there? Plus I still have to pay my rent - and I don't dislike working. So it turns out that we can help each other, yeah?"

    "What sort of work are yeh offering? I have school during the days but I'm free most of the rest of the time." She seems at ease with the conversation, as if she's had it several times over. "I suppose cleaning and such, since that's what I put up posters fer? Though I'm available fer more... general quest stuff too," she amends, putting her hands on her hips.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
To ask anyone around the settlement, the knight who stewards this land for them is a man of impeccable character... and they don't even know who he is or where he had originally come from. If they did know, it would come as no surprise that a member of the famed Round Table would be thus. If Eithne is familiar with those legends, the name would indeed be familiar. It's an unusual name, and an old one, even among the Knights of the Round.

"Indeed." The knight eases himself back down onto his bench, the motion stiff enough to suggest old injury. He waves a hand to the bench in front of him, a silent beckoning and invitation to have a seat. "Cleaning, for the most part; that is what your services were advertised as." He rubs his jaw, thoughtful. "Though it is not unreasonable that there may be odd jobs to be done, hither and yon."

'General quest stuff' brings Bedivere to arch a brow, silently prompting her for an elabouration.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    She didn't much bother asking around - you can't really trust the people living underneath someone's rule (she has a slightly incorrect idea of how things work in Dun Realtai) to speak candidly. So she let the Union channel speak for him instead!!

    Following his silent invitation, Eithne seats herself across the table from him and rests her hands on the tabletop. It's heavy wood, and she wonders briefly how many hands have rested on it like this over its lifetime - and what kind of cleaning solution would be best to use on it. "It's most of what I do, yeah," she nods. This close, there are a few pale freckles peppering her nose and cheeks, and her hair is shiny like a crow's feather. "And, well... yeh know. 'I have this monster that wants killin' or I need this thing from a faraway place and can't go myself'," she clarifies.

    Oh, that reminds her--!

    The air around her seems to grow intense. "Wait. Is there really a kelpie in the lake?! Can I see it?!"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Quite a lot of hands have touched the table, to go by its scarred surface. There's even a crack or two along its broad surface, but weathered enough to suggest great age, and the wood has a definite patina suggestive of soot. Probably from the hearth. It looks as though it's hewn from oak.

"Good. We have some need of help in the castle itself. You may of course ask the townsfolk if they have need of such things," he adds, to the matter of her questing, "but I do not." No, he's usually the one they ask for that kind of thing. He /is/ a knight. Contractual obligation, and all that rot. He allows himself a thin smile. "Perhaps I would have your help, some time, though, have I ever tasks that need doing..."

He blinks, tilting his head and eyeing her in that stern, questioning way he has. It's a little like being eyed by a bird of prey; a gaze suggestive of attention, intensity, and scrutiny all at once. "Mm? Yes, there is an each-uisge in the lake. The wretched creature has been there for some months, now, but I dare not incite its kin." He thins his lips, though whether at the situation or her enthusiasm, it's hard to say. "You see, this land once belonged to the Ever-Living Ones. They are here, still."

"I do not come from Dun Realtai; I am original from Britannia." Another brief smile flickers across his face, thin and sardonic. "As some are well aware. It seems my reputation, such as it were, precedes me among those of the Union. In any case, I am made steward of this land on the somewhat precarious promise that I will remain just that -- steward, and not warlord, as my predecessor was. They were quite adamant on that point." He shakes his head. "Perhaps you may see the each-uisge as you pass by. The lake is northeast of the village."

"But until I have decided what is to be done about the creature in a more meaningful sense, I beg of you not to interfere with the creature. Do not interact with it, and in fact do not draw too near it. It has not harmed any of the village, yet, but I would give it no encouragement in this matter."

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    There's really no way for a modern girl to ask about quests and not sound naive (or just... simple), but Eithne knows that she's a long way yet from being strong enough to kill a Titanspawn on her own... and what other way is there to gain strength than by working for it? "I'm sure I'll find something to keep me busy," she agrees, glancing down to smoothe her hands along the grain of the wood as if she were reading Braille.

    "I know a little bit of the legends of Arthur... though I admit, I sometimes have a little trouble remembering which name belongs to which knight," Eithne admits, "Since I haven't read them in a long, long time. But by 'Ever-Living Ones', yer talkin' about the Sidhe, aren't yeh? And a kelpie - a each-uisge - means Unseelie." She rests her elbows on the table, folding her fingers together in thought. "I carry iron on me, but it's best not to provoke them. I thought there was only the one, not that there would be more!

    Eithne sighs, and it's just like a normal, non-divine girl that's accepted something unfortunate. "I suppose I won't be tryin' to tame it after all, then. That's too bad, but if doin' so would'd upset the other Sidhe an' put the townspeople at risk it can't be helped." Oh well...! "Still, I suppose if I'm very quiet and only look at it from afar it'd be fine? I just won't go near the lake at all. Anyway - how much of the castle needs cleaning? How many days a week? How much do yeh pay?" Bam, bam, bam - sudden business questions! What a flighty girl.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Fortunately for Eithne, she's not talking to a very modern person. She's talking to a man from the sixth century, yanked from his native sixth century into a conglomeration of worlds where timelines don't have much meaning. Anything and everything exists side by side, here, it seems. Perhaps somewhere out there, there's even a Camelot that has not fallen to ash and ruin.

Considering he doesn't have a Servant's innate knowledge of the timeline in which they'd been summoned, he's been doing pretty well. It's a wonder he's even learned to work his radio.

"If they are aught like those I have heard from other worlds," Bedivere muses, one eye closing in contemplation, "then it does not matter, for they will not be correct, anyway." Wait, what does he mean by that? "There are elements the histories and legends have not been entirely accurate with. In that, I have fulfilled my duty."

One wonders exactly what he means by /that/.

"I was among the first of King Arthur's knights, and I joined the Round Table in its earliest days. I believe Sir Kay and Sir Gawain were among the few who were present before me; the king had not been long coronated when I became a knight-aspirant. According to most accounts, though, I am the knight who returned Excalibur to the Lady of the Lake, after the king was felled by Sir Mordred at Camlann..." He grimaces. Despite his soft tone, there's a shadow of what seems real pain behind his words, and he sighs. "Although it seems I am more remembered for my reluctance to carry out this task, rather than that I had done it."

Both eyes open, and he regards Eithne thoughtfully. "I am. The Sidhe, the Fair Folk, the Ever-Living Ones, the Unseelie -- they have many names, but they all describe the same beings. The Tylwyth Teg. Yes, there is a each-uisge in the lake, and I would prefer not to bait such a creature. At best it may be a mere annoyance, but at worst its Otherworldly allies may choose to interpret bothering the creature as a provocation." He sighs. "I intend to speak with the Sidhe who holds dominion over this land, and consult her opinion on the matter. Perhaps you may accompany me, then; it would afford you a glimpse of the Ever-Living Ones, in any case."

And maybe a look at the kelpie, or something more involved, depending on what that spirit allows them to do. Whatever the case turns out to be, the water-horse can't just /stay/ there.

"Tame it?" Bedivere lifts a brow. "Hm. No. I would recommend against it, at least until we have had the opportunity to speak with Lady Alaia; it is under her dominion that his land falls, in its most technical sense. However, she cannot be here to oversee the land in the summer months, and so she has appointed me steward of this place; a decision that my king has supported." Wait, what? /King Arthur's/ hanging around here, too?! "You may look, from afar. I see no harm in that, so long as you do not catch its attention."

To his credit, the silver-haired knight doesn't look bewildered at the sudden stream of questions, merely tilting his head and considering each one in turn. "There are a number of unused storerooms I would have your assistance in clearing out, as I am to understand you are considerably stronger than you would appear to be; barring that, the remainder of the castle requires upkeep. As many days as would be comfortable, to you."

Wages? "Ah. About that. My king will assist me in deciding a fair wage, as I am unfamiliar with the monetary exchange between more modern worlds and this." So, King Arthur /is/ around, or so it would seem. "Nor have we any coinage of our own, quite yet; Dun Realtai is still finding its footing. When first I was appointed steward, this land was devastated. Much of the citadel itself was simply gone." He waves an arm to indicate. He smiles a thin, mostly mirthless smile. "In a fit of irony, I named it Dun Realtai, for there were more stars in the sky through its roof than timbers."

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    Fulfilled his duty? Then, was it his job to obfuscate the real happenings of the story of Arthur? But... why? Eithne frowns as if realizing she has been /directly lied to/, because if you can't trust centuries-old hand-me-down legends that have been adapted hundreds and times through dozens of languages, what /can/ you trust?!

    Much of what Bedivere says swirls past her ears - more names she doesn't know or can't remember correctly - but moments later her brain catches up to what might be the important part.

    "But... I thought yeh said King Arthur was dead? Is it a new king then?" What ruler could inspire loyalty after Bedivere had served Arthur himself? He doesn't /seem/ to disdain his new boss, whoever it may be...

    "I am," she grins, because she is and it's fun watching grown men gape because she's outperformed them! "I have to work around summer school and my other jobs but I can contribute around here," Eithne nods. She can do more work faster than most people, as long as it's not fiddly or delicate! "We can figure it all out later after yeh've spoken about it, then. And if this was devastated, yeh've done a damn good job of getting Dun Realtai running again."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"The king is dead," Bedivere intones, solemnly. His head inclines as he speaks, a gesture of both acknowledgement and confirmation. "Long live the king. And I, Left Hand of the King, and Marshal of the Realm, had attended the last moments of the king, and paid proper due, and performed what final rites needed be done."

What a confusing knight.

He opens both eyes, mild violet gaze fixing on Eithne. "That is correct. The king is dead, slain by Sir Mordred at the Battle of Camlann, bled to death at Badon Hill, and with him went the hopes and the future of Camelot, put to torch by Mordred's rebels." Something cold flickers behind those eyes, but no sooner can it be noticed before it's gone. "Many fine knights were also slain that day. I alone remained of the king's host."

As to the rest, though, he only shakes his head. "Mayhap it would be better for you to meet the king; it is... complicated, and much difficult to explain."

That can't be good.

Resting his elbows on the table before him, he laces his fingers, resting his chin over the smooth plates of his gauntlets. "Education is most important," he states, earnestly. "To that end, I will do aught I can to aid you in that. I am willing, too, to educate you in what matters may be useful to you here, if any should interest you." It probably entails such topics as knighthood, daily life in a mediaeval village, and all that rot.

He rises, cloak swirling at his ankles as he does. "Your tasks will largely be relegated to cleaning, but I may have you help me in preparing a number of storage rooms. There are also repairs that must needs be done, still; like as not I will have you assisting me directly in that, or working with a crew of overseers. Is that acceptable?"

When she compliments Dun Realtai's state of affairs, he smiles thinly. "So too does my king say. Thank you."

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    The king is... for real?! Eithne's complete and utter lack of understanding has to show on her face. And after a moment's thought, she comes to a realization--!

    The king must be a ghost!!!

    "Oh," she nods, as if suddenly everything has become clear. That's fine, she's a teenage necromancer (and princess by technicality). If anybody is qualified to work with undead royalty, it's her! "I see. Don't worry, I understand."

    Even better though - he'll help her learn things? /Now/ a real spark of excitement leaps into her eyes. Among other things, she's always wanted to learn how to make her own soap... "There're a lot of things I'd like to learn about, an' a lot of things I'd like to practice. Would yeh be willin' to help me find a sparring partner fer swordwork at some point? An' I'd be happy to help with repairs, of course~"

    He stands, and so does she. It's probably a signal that means the interview is nearing its end. ...She's not always perfectly on point when it comes to 'unspoken rules'.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Tilting his head slightly to one side, the silver-haired knight looks puzzled for a brief instant. Her instincts must be truly good to grasp the issue so early on, or perhaps she has the wrong idea about the whole situation. Experience tells him it's probably the latter.

The Good Lord only knows what's rattling around in that head of hers.

With an inward sigh, he resolves to introduce her to Arturia, and settle the matter once and for all... later, when all three of them have the opportunity. Now is not the time for such a social call.

"I do not think that you do, but that is not important, for the moment." He shakes his head. "Best you go, then, back to your home. I will see that quarters are made ready for you, in the castle, for those times when you may wish to remain here, in the meantime."

"Certainly." This, he offers, to her request to learn swordplay. "I will spar with you myself, if you wish; it would be beneficial to the both of us, I would think. There are others here, too, who would perhaps be willing to offer such to you." He inclines his head, then, at her offer to help with repairs. "It would be sorely appreciated."

Collecting his papers, he turns, then, though he pauses to look over his shoulder, regarding her from the corner of an eye. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Eithne � S�ileabh�in." Something about his voice is different -- he's speaking Irish, instead of the old form of Welsh he had been using. But it's an ancient mode, and though perfectly understandable thanks to the vagaries of the Multiverse, it may sound a little strange to Eithne's ears. "I hope you will visit again. Mayhap my king will be free to meet with you, soon. Meantime, there are others here you may do well to meet, such as Sir Gawain, and mayhap Sir Mordred."

"Good Lord watch over you. If you will excuse me, I've work yet to be done for the day. Stay as long as you like," he calls, even as he starts to climb the staircase at the far end of the hall. "When you wish to leave, the castle folk will show you out."

And with that, provided the girl doesn't stop him for anything else, he'll take his leave.