Difference between revisions of "4377/The Glory of Rome"

Latest revision as of 20:53, 2 August 2016

The Glory of Rome
Date of Scene:	01 August 2016
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	Nero visits Sir Bedivere at his behest, along with a few other recurring friends and residents.
Cast of Characters:	482, John Rizzo, 880, Inga, Eithne Sullivan, 639, Sir Gawain

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Dun Realtai is the name of a region, a village, and a castle all in the same. Fortunately, it's not very complicated, because there isn't anything else in its immediate area that shares that name. The village is built on a fang-shaped stone spire, its shallow western face sporting the village itself, climbing toward the citadel at its summit. Curtain walls surround it, and gates protect its entrances.

  At the very top, the five-storey citadel is ringed by its own inner curtain wall, its courtyard separated into a concentric inner and outer bailey. At the inner bailey, beside the structure itself, is a giant oak tree to dwarf any ordinary specimen -- it must have magic involved in it somehow to be so gargantuan. Its boughs almost completely shade the fortress itself.

  The inside is designed like any early mediaeval hall. A vaulted ceiling gives way to a great cavernous chamber, mostly empty but for long wooden tables and long wooden benches, two long and massive hearths along the western wall, and regular columns where they're needed for structural support.

  At the central table is a scattering of papers, an inkpot, and a quill; seated at it is Sir Bedivere himself, the pale-haired steward of this place. He's wearing his full knightly regalia, heavy steel plate armour and mantled white greatcloak; the hall, thankfully, is cool and dim.

  There's a bizarre, draught horse-sized creature flopped beside one f the dark hearths. Nobody seems to pay it any mind. It looks like a giant white greyhound with a skull for a head, and in place of eyes, it has a pinpoint of yellow light in each eye socket. Without moving its head its eye-lights occasionally flick up to regard Bedivere, before darting back down to his paws.

  The knight himself merely tends to his writing and ledgers, waiting for his guests to arrive.

John Rizzo has posed:
Like clockwork, sundown heralds the arrival of John Rizzo, the man who, in Bedivere's own words, was puzzling. Or was it vexing? Of course the knight isn't alone in that opinion. His every sentence, fraught with strange slang, seems designed to confuse. But now that he's here in person to make an introduction to his new teammate, perhaps some of that confusion can be cleared. He parks his car outside the gated wall, and the slamming of the door sounds throughout the quiet realm. Whump. The redhead, dressed in his rumpled, messy Sunday finest, makes his way to the castle itself.

So, this is the kind of place a knight's paycheck gets you? Not bad. He doesn't mean to skulk, but after having done it for so long, an old habit dies hard. Left and right, he looks, peering at quiet homes and taking the measure of the village at night. Eventually he makes it to the courtyard, then enters the castle proper. He doesn't bother to hide the sound of his footfalls as he enters--better to appear as if he was invited. Coming to a stop before the quietly working night, he shoves his hands into his pockets and announces his presence.

"Hey, bo. It's Rizzo. Came over just as soon as mass was done." He makes a show of looking around, uttering a low whistle at the sleeping animal. "Nice digs, sir knight."

Nero (880) has posed:
     Nero is, familiar enough with Dun Realtai, having come and gone from these lands quite a few times by now. And of course, she arrives not in physical form, but as an incorporeal spirit. Through the lands, through the village, past the castle gates, the Emperor drifts right into the castle hall and to her apparent destination, where finally, in a swirl of prana, blue and white becomes red and gold, as the Servant makes her appearance just a bit after John had arrived.

     "Mhmhmhm! Behold! I, Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, have arrived as promised!" An arm is thrust outward. "And now, you may rejoice as your existence has become that much brighter for it!" That hand is then pressed to her chest as she smiles proudly. "You are free to sing my praises now! I shall allow it!"

     ...Yep. That was Nero. Ever the loud, boistrous one. Like a fireworks display that stubbornly refused to end, she /existed/. Much to the chagrin of other people, no doubt.

Inga has posed:
Inga was visiting today, having been invited, and a standing invitation to use the roman baths. So, she had decided to spoil herself with a good, long soak after a long night helping with a particularly difficult birth down in the village.

Stifling a yawn, she arrives into the main hall wearing a long black dress with an a-line skirt and a belt around her waist. Short sleeves, for summer. Her hair has been intricately braided, which likely means she found someone near the baths willing to help her with it.

She walks into the hall, walking stick clacking against the floor just in time to catch Nero's entrance. She blinks, then observes with some surprise that John Rizzo is also here, and with no surprise at all that Bedivere appears to be working. "Good evening," she greets. Two Christians she actually likes in one room, what a day. And a...something! Yes, certainly something. The voice is familiar from the radio. A Roman, if she recalls.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The distant sound of a car door being closed does reach the marshal, but he doesn't look up from his writing. This place is quiet enough that a sound out of place like that is self-evident. Since he's expecting guests, Bedivere can only assume that the strange conveyance must be one of them. It seemed that many of the Union's number were from worlds more technologically advanced than his own.

  Why that is, he couldn't say, but he's come to accept that alongside other quirks of life in the multiverse.

  Rizzo's inspection would yield up a few interesting details. First of all, very few structures in this village looks like they're older than a year or two. What things do show age are incorporated into newer structures. Something flattened this place, once. It looks like it's been reconstructed whole-cloth from the rubble. Secondly, a lot of the materials are the kind of thing one might expect from an early mediaeval settlement, but there are touches here and there that are markedly not -- electric lighting, simple but quiet power generators, and modern insulation to shore up structures from cold and heat.

  When the foreigner lets himself into the central keep and makes a show of looking around, Bedivere looks up from his writing with a look of bland expectancy. He doesn't even need to say 'yes, can I help you?' out loud; it's clear in his expression... but the foreigner's clothing marks him immediately as one of his awaited guests.

  "If you are to be a guest of this hall," he says, "I would thank you to speak like an ordinary person. I can hardly understand you. And if you are going to call me anything, I have a name; I will thank you to use it. 'Sir Bedivere' is acceptable." He gestures then toward the bench. "Sit. I will have refreshments brought."

  Hardly has he settled his first guest when the second arrives. To his credit, Bedivere merely watches blandly as Nero announces herself with her usual bluster. Finally, he exhales quietly through his nose, closing his eyes for a few seconds and rubbing at the bridge of his nose with one leather-padded gauntlet. As he's gathering his composure, a castle servant discretely drops off a selection of refreshments, both food and drink, for the guests to choose from.

  "Sit," he adds, to Nero, tone clipped.

  His eyes dart to the door one more time as the familiar clacking gait of the Wisewoman catch his attention. He nods to her in greeting. "Wisewoman. Be seated, if you like."

  The knight himself is Christian -- Rizzo might have to look closely, but there are cross ornamentations on the chains that hold his cloak in place, one cross at each shoulder. Then again, if he knew the legends in any measure, it wouldn't be surprising. That host of King Arthur's was famed in many different worlds as much for their piety as their other knightly qualities. The details may have differed, but that trait seemed to be a constant.

John Rizzo has posed:
Rizzo eyes Nero as she enters, raising up a hand to shield himself from the lightshow. He straightens his tie after the fact. "Sorry, sister. I got my rejoicing quota out of the way at St. Dominic's."

     Inga arrives, and Rizzo turns to face her. "Good to see you, Inga."

     He takes a seat when bidden by his host. "Don't throw an--" Rizzo chuckles. "Don't get upset," he says. "I'll try and reign in the slang. If you're worried about who's normal, I'd ask what the deal is with miss congregation-of-one over there." The detective jerks a thumb towards Nero. "No offense," he adds after the fact.

     "I appreciate the hospitality, Sir Bedivere, but I doubt you're used to breaking bread with vampires. The house mead's just gonna turn to ash in my guts. I figured I'd warn you before I hacked up a lung all over your stuff."

Nero (880) has posed:
     Nero smirks John and crosses her arms over her chest. "Foolishness! One can never rejoice enough! In fact, I would even go on to say that people should rejoice more! Rejoice for the gifts that I am imparting to them!" What gifts though? She didn't get to say as right around then, Bedivere told her to sit.

     Which she does, with a flump into a chair and a crossing over of the legs, the Emperor's smirk remains constant. "Indeed! I offer my commendations for your arrangements, Sir Bedivere!" There is a look around, and then Nero begins stroking her chin a bit, eyes settling on Inga for a moment or two and acknowledging her presence.

     "However! If it were up to me, I would have included more columns in the design! Yes! And then I would add a wing specifically dedicated to the arts!" She spread her arms as she spoke. "A grand theater where all who come may witness the beauty and greatness of myself, and to a similar, but perhaps lesser degree, others as well!"

     Nero no, you don't own this place.

Inga has posed:
"Thank you Sir Bedivere, for your hospitality," she says, taking a seat nearby at the table. She winces slightly as Bedivere scolds Rizzo. She's not entirely sure that he can help the way that he talks, though she sympathizes. She has a difficult time understanding him a good bit of the time as well, and he never really offers explainations for his strange vocabulary.

Anyway, something is going on and she supposes she may as well find out what. Witches are nosey, as a rule.

Inga smiles and nods to John. "You as well, John. I hope you have been well?" he's certainly the most pleasant blood-sucked she's ever met. If she knew he was coming she'd have warned Bedivere of how to prepare to be hospitable. It's a pretty clean castle, probably very few rats. For a moment, she contemplates if there is a chicken in her bag, then marvels that it is even a possibility for there to be a chicken in her bag. One of those moment when you step back, look at your life, and wonder just how it got so ridiculous.

Inga looks to Nero, tilting her head slightly. Silently, she watches the woman, her eyes slowly going out of focus....interesting.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Setting aside his quill, the knight closes the ledger he had been half-heartedly writing in, neatening up those tools of his trade and setting them off to one side. No sooner has he done so than he makes brief eye contact with another servant, who quickly takes them and trots up the stairwell with them, to whisk them off from prying eyes. Or maybe just to make room at the table.

  Bedivere adjusts the lay of one of his gauntlets, though his eyes are on his guests as he does. If he wore glasses, he might give the impression of watching the others over their rims; he doesn't, though, and so his regard is just cautious.

  It's nothing personal, at the end of the day. He doesn't trust anyone.

  "I would thank you for the effort." That is to say, for Rizzo to reel in the slang. It's hard enough for him to deal with a lot of people from the modern world, and the multiverse does not always see fit to translate things like colourful metaphors and colloquialisms. He himself speaks in an ancient form of Welsh, but since his speech is generally on the literal side, it's rare that he gets lost in translation.

  Settling his hands on the table before him, he taps one finger against the scarred wood, the tiny plates of his gauntlets ticking softly. "As for Emperor Nero, I can offer no excuses. I find her ostentatiousness an annoyance, but one that I am willing to overlook, for the moment. Besides," he adds, sighing. "I fear that asking her to be more modest would accomplish nothing."

  He eyes Rizzo, then, more thoughtfully. A vampire?

  "I see." To Bedivere's credit, there's not so much as a flicker of distaste across his face. He's accustomed to dealing with a very strange variety of people and things in the multiverse, or at the very least, he's very good at hiding his reactions. He gestures toward the bench. "Then be at ease. If you can think of anything else that you might require, name it, and I shall see that it is procured, so long as it is not blood."

  Nero, however, is given a bit of a flat look.

  "I have invited you here," he says, words cold and measured as he splays his hand over the table before him, "and I allow you in my hall as a guest, but do not make me regret that decision. It is poor form and a breach of Brehon Law for a host to dismiss one of their guests from their hall. But I would consider it. You overstep your boundaries. I do not like to lean on my status, but I will brook no arrogance on your part. You are not the master of this place. /I/ am. And I have won that trust of the people through ash and blood."

  Exhaling through his nose in clear exasperation, he settles back into his seat, not quite glaring at Nero. His personality is one of self-depreciating modesty; he is the literal polar opposite of Nero's self-aggrandising arrogance. That the two might butt heads over that is probably inevitable, but he seems to be tolerating her, for now, barely.

  ...That might change if she keeps tromping all over good taste, though...

  His eyes flick over to Inga -- she knows John? -- but he lets Inga speak.

John Rizzo has posed:
John runs a hand through his vibrant red hair, uttering a biologically superfluous sigh. This knight has some kind of patience. He casts a glance over to Nero, and decides to humor her. "I know some guys who lived in Rome. They say it was a pretty nice place until everything went south." If that's true, it would explain why he isn't going through the usual stages of shock at sitting down to eat with an emperor and a real knight of old.

He then turns his attention to Inga. "I'm alive," he says. "Little homesick, but nothing doing there--" He corrects himself and gives Bedivere an apologetic glance. "Sorry. No changing that, I mean." He slouches in his seat and gives a shrug of his shoulder. "Mostly just surprised at the warm welcome. After Sir Bedivere here, there's only one other guy I need to visit. Just to make sure there's no, uh... misunderstandings."

"Speaking of, Sir Bedivere, I'd never ask you to do that for me. I don't drink from humans, which is why I was asking about permission to hunt on your land on the radio the other day. I get by on animals, and I'm gonna keep on doing that until someone finally puts me in the ground."

Nero (880) has posed:
     Nero's smirk endured even in the face of John's comment about Rome, and then she laughed. "Ah ha ha ha! Did you now? Well that is fine! For Rome certainly did not go south in my time!" She thrusts an arm outward in her usual imperious manner, "And even so, Rome will never die, even if the physical form it once had is gone!" She spreads her arms again. "Rome, is everywhere!"

     This girl, this girl...

     Bedivere cuts in then, raining on the parade like the Bedivere he is, and the Servant puffs her cheeks up and crosses her arms. "Bah! Very well, Sir Bedivere! I shall refrain from supplying you with my extraordinarily genius design plans. For now!" Oh boy. Well, either way, she came here to answer questions, not to remodel the place. Though give her the chance and she just might.

     Speaking of that... "I believe you had some questions for me to answer?" Nero asks soon after, taking a glass of red wine that was poured and lightly swirling it as she spoke.

Inga has posed:
Inga looks aware from Nero and to Bedivere, nodding to him. "Yes, we have met previously, though this is a much better place to meet I think John will agree," she adds with a smile. "The hunting here is good I am told," she continues. "You have known people from ancient Rome? Vampires I assume. They must be quite savvy to have stayed alive for so long."

Inga looks to Nero. "I do not believe we have met. Inga Freyjasdottir," she introduces, bowing her head respectfully.

After that's settled, she'll keep quiet a while.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Hypothetically, the blood of livestock could be gotten, but there's no telling whether it would be of any benefit to Bedivere's vampiric guest. He seems to mull that over as he studies Rizzo, some detached part of him honestly curious about the logistics of that. How /does/ that work...?

  He's supposed to be a good and devout Catholic, but in matters of tolerance, Bedivere has always been a bit of an odd duck, and a good deal more tolerant than his fellows. Maybe it came of being a foreigner in Camelot's court.

  "I would offer the blood of livestock, but we've little to spare, and I do not know that it would be of any help to you." Bedivere spreads his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "I fear I am not familiar with the ways of vampires. We did not have such in or near Camelot; our troubles were more of the Saxon sea-raiders, and the infighting that plagued us. It was not through any external threat that Camelot ultimately failed, or mayhap we would have had no trouble."

  Hmm, so that was the reason why he had asked about hunting. "With that in mind, I would not be averse, but I must still ask that you take sparsely. Perhaps the forests may have regrown, but it is a delicate balance I strive to uphold." Rubbing thoughtfully at his jaw, he considers Rizzo thoughtfully. "For the time being, I would ask that you only take small game. The deer and other large animals are still slow to return. I would also ask that you hunt with the tools of this era, rather than more disruptive weapons, such as firearms of the modern era. I do not wish to frighten away the larger game, slow as they are to trust."

  "I will teach you to use a bow, if it please you," he adds. "I am no master, but a shortbow requires no lifelong experience to wield efficiently."

  His eyes snap to Nero, face like a mask, which means he's probably suppressing honest-to-God annoyance. "You shall refrain from supplying me with /any/ design plans." Fortunately, he has no intention of giving her the chance to remodel, or even set so much as a bench out of line. He is, however, starting to wonder if asking her here to talk to her was a good idea. If he goes out scouting one day he might come back to a remodeled castle.

  Arturia would make sure nothing terrible happened, right?

  "I did." He settles into his place, levelling those mild, violet eyes on Nero; despite the bland colour, there is a hawk-like intensity in them as he studies her. "I do not know that you are familiar with the era from which I and my king hail. We come after Rome, by some several hundred years; Camelot, indeed, was built upon the bones of a Roman stronghold."

  "I am merely curious to know what life was like, truly, in that which came before." He's betting her account is going to be completely biased and pretty awful in terms of veracity, but she was still there, and hopefully that's worth something. "Much has been lost to history, and little survives to tell of daily life in that time." Bedivere considers for a moment, shrugigng; the gesture carries a certain fatalism to it. "I suppose the same could be said of my era, truly."

John Rizzo has posed:
"Rome was the first city big enough for vampires of different lineages to gather in," he says. "If you're unlucky, you run into one from back then. They're alive in the sense that they're up and walking, in some cases, or sleeping in others. Whatever was human in them died a long time ago." He frowns as if remembering an unpleasant taste, drumming his fingers on the table. Eager to change the subject after drudging that memory up, he clears his throat and listens to Nero. She's certainly... optimistic, he'll give her that.

When Bedivere speaks up, he listens intently and nods graciously. "Livestock would help," he says. "But I can do small game in the woods if that'd frighten your people. Maybe I'd even prefer the small game," admits the vampire. "I don't want anybody to think I'm coming down to collect my offerings, y'know. I just need a little bit here and there to patch me up, help me wake up in the evenings and give me enough to help out when we have our, uh... y'know. Military engagements."

"It's your land," he says on a final note. "I'll play by whatever rules you need me to--bow, small game, whatever you say. Usually I hunt with my hands but that might be a bit of a trick in a forest as opposed to a city street or a sewer." There's a pleasant image. John skulking through the sewers, searching for rats in the darkness.

Nero (880) has posed:
     "Indeed, I am familiar with your era, Sir Bedivere." Nero nods, settling down and having a sip of her wine. She nodded approvingly at her glass, apparently satisfied with the vintage. And then she glanced aside at John, lips curling into a smirk once again. "Indeed. What do they call them these days? Dead Apostles?"

     She looks aside, having another short sip. "Shambling corpses of the dead, feeding upon the living with no recourse. Disgusting." But the Emperor does not dwell on the topic. Instead, she focuses on the inquiry posed to her by Bedivere. 'What was Rome like?' Nero actually pauses at this question. And rather than immediately bluster like she usually would have, her expression turns somewhat thoughtful.

     "...Founded by the Romulus III, the Roman Empire began humbly, but quickly became one of the most powerful nations in the world of it's time." She smiled and puffed her chest out then, looked awfully proud. "We were considered the modern standard for what all people should aspire to like like. With advancements in medicine, building, schools of thought, education for the common man, and of course, the arts, Rome was the place to be, indeed!"

     Another sip, and then she continues. "Many emperors, such as myself, went to great pains to improve Rome, and to leave our mark upon the Empire. Great building projects, passage of progressive laws, justice, order, decency, many a man strove for these things. And Such thoughts became the backbone of our great nation!"

     She calmed down then, and spoke at a less excited clip then. "But if you wish to know of the common man, then I can tell you that most of the common folk lived in multi story complexes that housed many. With communal baths, and toilets aplenty. And with running water, thanks to our ingenious aqueducts!" She spread her arms. "But there is always time for play! With ball courts, relaxation spas, and of course, robust festivals to celebrate the arts, and the great people and events that have passed us by!"

     My, she was painting an awfully rousing picture of the once great nation, wasn't she? ...But she wasn't wrong.

Inga has posed:
Inga looks thoughtful. "Yes I suppose 'alive' was not the right word to use there," she comments.

Inga then looks to Nero. "Now, there is no need to be rude," she says, helping herself to a glass of wine. "Please excuse me, I left something in the baths," she says, standing and limping out of the room for a bit.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Although he settles in his seat, the silver-haired knight still assumes an attentive posture, showing that he's still listening without interrupting either of his guests. He sits somewhat hunched over at the table, elbows resting on the scarred tabletop, hands folded, chin resting at somewhat of an angle over laced fingers. His eyes are hooded in thoughtful regard, shadowed by ash-blonde hair. He adopts such a position easily in spite of his armour.

  Some might mistake him for sleepy-eyed, but there is little that escapes Bedivere's perception. He is listening, and he is also watching, as John Rizzo and Nero exchange pleasantries and explanations. He also listens as they address him more directly.

  Privately, he hopes that her statement of disgust is directed at the Dead Apostles, and not at the other guest of his hall. He'll give her the benefit of the doubt, for now.

  He completely ignores her pride about Rome. He's not interested in her self-aggrandising; he's interested in the nation behind it. It takes some of his vaunted patience to sit through all the puffing and preening to actually get to that. She gets there in the end, though. It just takes her a while. A long while. He has the good graces not to look bored while he's waiting, waiting, waiting...

  She's finally getting to the part he's actually curious about. He, though technically aristocracy, considers himself no more than a common man. He had always viewed himself as such, and the Roman measure of the average citisen is what he's curious about. How close, he wonders, would the gap between Rome's and Camelot's commonfolk be?

  That sounds somewhat familiar. Multi-family housing is a logical enough extrapolation, from what he's found in books about old Roman ruins, and from what he'd seen from personally visiting those ruin sites through military campaigns -- some Roman sites had been ignored and bared to the elements, and their original layout preserved.

  Bedivere rubs his jaw thoughtfully. "Yes, there were baths in Camelot's citadel, a holdover from its Roman roots. Contrary to what many records seem to think, we were not unwashed and did not dislike bathing..." In fact, he spent many an hour scrubbing away dried blood after battle; if necessary, in half-frozen rivers. "I suppose history is written by the uninformed, which is why I wished to learn."

  "Still... I am surprised that the common man would have access to the latter points of your list." Bedivere arches a brow. "Was slavery not practised extensively in the Rome of your mortal day...?"

John Rizzo has posed:
"No," says Rizzo to Inga, raising a hand. "Don't stick up for me, Inga. Nero is right." It seems whether Nero meant the remark to be taken that way or not, John not only took it that way... he agreed with Nero. There must be some serious self-loathing going on. Perhaps that's why he's hesitant to accept the aforementioned gift of livestock? He casts the emperor a knowing glance, and seems as if he's going to say something, but Inga's departure stays further commentary. He nods at the wise woman.

He then gives a different sort of look to Bedivere. His eyes shift from the knight to the emperor. It's an uncomfortable topic, this one, and Rizzo's no scholar--but he's pretty sure that Bedivere already knows the answer to that question. The grift here is seeing how the emperor gives that answer. Or if she gives it at all.

Nero (880) has posed:
     "Mhmhm! Indeed. Communal bathing was a thing many partook in. The rich, the poor, it did not matter in the least. Cleaniness was godliness, as the saying used to go! People bathed often, and it was a time when individuals would meet to discuss a great many things while taking their mind off of other matters. Or perhaps bringing their attention to them."

     Nero trails off from there, and sips at her wine a bit more, appraising the taste yet again. Indeed this was quite fine. "I am glad to know that our traditions, if at least part of them, carried over into the future." But then there is the question of slavery, and the Emperor regards Bedivere, and John with an arched brow. "Of course there was slavery." She says without a hint of concern. "There were quite a number of slaves in each city throughout the empire. Slaves served in a qide variety of fields, from doctors, teachers, physicians, chefs, accountants... As well as more unskilled labor."

     She shrugs. "There were quite a number of intricate laws pertaining to slavery, but suffice to say, there was difference between citizens and slaves." It seemed like that was about all she was going to say on the subject. Swirling her wine about a bit more, the Servant settled her gaze on Bedivere. "Did you have any other inquiries? I imagine you do." She says, smirking a bit in the process.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Sir Bedivere offers no comment regarding Rizzo's nature. That he agrees with such an unflattering picture of his kind is unexpected, and his surprise shows by way of an arched brow. Even with that he remains silent, merely observing. Such is the way of the marshal, observant but not necessarily engaging, and perhaps he makes something of a poor host for that. It had always been his way to observe from the background, and for he himself to quietly avoid the notice of others. Maybe that's why he's so painfully modest and uncomfortable having attention paid to him.

  His eyes flick sidelong to regard Nero, listening to what she has to say in relative silence. Where she is all boisterous energy and an endless stream of words, he is the opposite -- unassuming and easily overlooked; silent unless he feels strongly enough about something to comment.

  Thus far, he feels no urge to comment, merely taking in the details and seeing where the wind blows. Nero might notice his regard is a little frosty when she talks about the slave classes, though; a subtle tightening around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. Hmph. At least she's not extolling them as subhuman animals or livestock; that, at least, earns a few grudging points of... not quite respect, but at least not animosity. Shifting slightly, he rests his face against his laced fingers, upper lip pressed to the steel of his articulared gauntlets.

  He sighs through his nose. When he speaks, it's through his laced fingers. "What did the common man eat? What did the aristocracy eat? While I have found much and more information about wine, and other drink, I have seen comparatively little of food. I suppose because it has not survived, as with much else..."

John Rizzo has posed:
"As with much else," agrees Rizzo. He crosses his arms and leans back in his seat. "That's the problem with history. It's written by the winning side. Nobody cares enough to save anything after some civilization gets stomped into dust. They lost, so why would anybody take the effort? It's only hundreds of years after the fact that anybody appreciates what we might've had."

He turns to Nero. "Did your Rome's upper crust--ah. Sorry, Sir Bedivere." He rubs his chin and tries to think of a different way to phrase his question to Nero. "How much influence did the vampires of your day have on Rome's, uh... nobility? The ruling class, you know?"

Inga has posed:
Inga returns as inobtrusively as possible, taking her seat and returning to her glass of wine. Mostly she drinks beer or mead, so the red wine is a nice, exotic change. "Mmm, this is very good," she comments, nodding to Bedivere. She'll try a bit of the food as well. To be a good guest, of course.

"The influence of Rome never really made it to my part of the world, but I have heard about it from those who had traveled. I learned the language some from a priest taken on a raid. He was given to me for a while, before her earned his freedom," she comments, eyes distant. "He was nice enough once he stopped crossing himself in my presence," she adds.

Nero (880) has posed:
     Nero regards John's question first, seeing fit to answer it before Bedivere's. "I am afraid that I cannot say. During my time ruling, there was no knowledge of Dead Apostles having place among the nobility. Secret or otherwise." She huffs through her nose in amusement. "Of course, since such a matter is secret, I am certain there may have been some number of them. And yet, I cannot claim to know."

     Looks like that was her answer for now, at least. The Emperor looks to Bedivere next, downing the rest of her wine, and then setting the glass aside to be refilled by a servant. "Now then, you wish to know what the common man ate in Rome, did you? As well as the aristocracy? Very well." She closes her eyes, and then launches into it. "The commoners typically did not have kitchens in their homes. Perhaps a simple brazier for basic cookery but most ate from food stalls, merchants, or restaurants. The most common dish was Puls. A grain pottage that could have vegetables, meats, and cheeses mixed in. Some may consider it a luxury however..."

     Nero crossed her arms and looked upwards. "The common man, and the military preferred to eat bread in order to get their grains. Families prepared their dough at home, and then baked it at a communal oven. Meats such as beef, pork, and fish too, and milk were also part of the commoner's diet. There was also honey, olive oil, and other such things." She smirked as she launched into the next bit. "The aristocracy had more...intricate affairs, you see? They would have dinner parties in which guests are entertained, and a great many dishes were prepared. From the most common, to the most luxurious. Of course, Puls was included."

     She spread her arms a bit. "They would have chefs and trained staff on hand to facilitate these events. It would always be quite a rousing thing, I must say." The Servant closed her eyes then. "Farming was also considered the pride of the nobility, and as such, they grew their own vegetables with great care, and served extravagant salads with their dinners."

     And with that said... "What do you wish to know of next?"

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    There's a faint shuffling noise from one of the side doors. One of the maids is listening in! Is that allowed?!

    But closer inspection will reveal it's just Eithne, eavesdropping on a history lesson (in her 'uniform', which is just a dark knee-length dress with an apron on top). So that's what Romans ate...! Before she can get in trouble for lurking (because she's already upset Sir Bedivere once this week), she creeps quietly into the hall. John in particular gets a friendly wave - Eithne didn't know he was visiting!

    "Sorry to interrupt, but would yeh mind if I sort've... sat in?" she asks. "I'd like to hear more..."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "Rare it is that there is an account written by the losing side," Bedivere muses. He regards Rizzo thoughtfully. "Such would have happened if we had not held the line against the Saxons. They would have burned and pillaged the whole of Albion, until naught remained but corpses and ash." Sighing, he shakes his head, the motion weary. "Alas that there had been no negotiating with them. They understood only one thing, and that was strength."

  Fortunately, the king in her wisdom had prepared for that eventuality. Knights of the Round Table were expected to be paragons of virtue, but they were expected to back up that virtue with military skill. They were valuable military units as much as they were the idealistic foundation of what the aristocracy /should/ have been.

  "Yet it was the same for us, as well," he adds, looking to Rizzo. "I wondered what had become of Rome's ashes. So too had others. Yet we did not have as much in the way of complete records to study the remnants. Truly, there are aspects of these modern eras that I cannot but marvel at, and one of them is this 'archaeology.' To comb through the ash and ruin of civilisations bygone, and learn from them... it is fascinating."

  He drums his fingers on the tabletop, the leather pads of his gauntlets tapping softly. His eyes flick briefly to the doorway. Even if the others may not notice Inga's return, he does. His eyes never seem to rest in one particular place; always looking, always studying.

  "Mm." Bedivere allows himself a half-smile at Inga's story. He can well imagine a priest would not stop crossing himself in the presence of the northmen. To hear the villagers' tales, they were built up to be ungodly monsters who drank blood and danced on the bones of their slaughters. "Still, I am surprised that you know any Latin. I suppose we learn something every day."

  To Nero's explanations, he tilts his head, very slightly, although he offers a slight nod to Rizzo. "Much the same, in Camelot; such a thing would never have been tolerated by the clergy. I am a deal more... flexible... in such matters than the church, but such a thing also would have been a threat to my people, and I would have dealt with them accordingly. It would have depended upon the situation... but I know of no such things in Camelot's upper echelons." His expression darkens, briefly. "Alas, but the monsters among the aristocracy were all too human."

  "Hm. So. That is not unlike what we ate, although olive oil was a luxury, and honey was generally withheld as a valuable commodity. Did you know? It is very useful as a topical treatment for burns. As only the monasteries were in the business of producing honey, it was rare and expensive, and not generally used save when there was need of it." He rubs his jaw, considering. "I stil find it strange that it is so freely available... but I digress."

  Shifting his weight, he considers her descriptions carefully. "When my men were on the march, which was unfortunately often, we would eat whatever dry goods we could bring with us, or what could be found afield. Boiled oats was a company favourite." His grimace suggests that no, it was not. "Fruit was a rarity, but vegetables were common. Meats were favoured by the aristocracy, and often overindulged. Fish was eaten by all, but who ate what type of fish depended upon what type of fish it would be..."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "I did not prefer meats, myself. They were too costly, and too rich; I often did not feel well after eating so much. I ate only enough to uphold my image as aristocracy. Certain sacrifices were needed." He rubs at the side of his face. "Wine, smallbeer, ale... the water was rarely safe to drink."

  When she asks for the next topic, he considers, drumming his fingers on the table in thought. "I do not know. Have you any questions for me...?"

  Suddenly, an Eithne! Bedivere beckons for her to join the others, gesturing for her to have a seat at the bench. "Miss O'Suilebhain." He uses the ancient form of her name, notably; it sounds subtly... off. "By all means."

John Rizzo has posed:
John spends a time listening to Bedivere and Nero both, leaned back in his seat, eyes distant. He looks towards Eithne when she announces her presence. "Hey, kiddo. Good to see you. Come on and take a seat. It'll be good to have someone younger than 90 sitting at the table, right, folks?" He glances from Bedivere to Nero. "We were just talking about glory days, Latin, and food."

     "Y'know, my parents insisted I learn it. Not just for prayers, but really learn it. I didn't get much use for it, until after..." He clears his throat, having once again led himself towards an unpleasant memory. "Y'know what I miss the most? Steak. There used to be this place in Chicago called Joe's. Dunno if it's still around, but..." Mm. "When I made detective, my boss took me and bought me a filet mignon. Still can't believe he blew that much money on me, but I think that was the best cut of meat I ever had in my life."

     He rubs his chin. "Junk food, too. I'd love to be able to drop a few bucks for some glazed donuts or a bag of greasy chips. Or a philly, with green peppers, onions, and so much cheese you have to eat it over the table so it doesn't drip on your clothes." He drums his fingers across the table. "Yep." Sighs through his nose.

     "Better times."

     "I got a question for you, Bedivere. Your king was Arthur, right? Did Excalibur really exist? Was it the real thing? Something, uh... y'know. Out of the ordinary, and not just a really nice piece of metalwork?"

Inga has posed:
Inga smiles when Eithne works up the courage to peek her head in. "Eithne! Nice to see you," she greets. They are becoming a regular group lately. This is good. Inga needs to socialize.

The wisewoman looks to Bedivere, she frowns gently. They had held out against the Saxons then...but it didn't last. It was heroic, a great story...but the Saxons had won. In her time, they rules the majority of that land, the Britons holding onto a small portion. "History does repeat, doesn't it? I'm told my people came to Briton--invading as the Saxons once invaded, and for such similar reasons, but similar peoples who worshipped similar gods," she says, shaking her head. It's a little mind-blowing.

"I'm quite proficient in Latin, actually. I cannot read or write it but I can speak it well enough. The priest, he decided to stay with us. Became a blacksmith," she replies. If she knew Bedivere's thoughts, she would not be pleased.

Inga glares momentarily at Rizzo. "I am NOT 90..I was brought through time, I am not old," she explains. Except someday she /will/ be old...sigh. Inga motions for Eithne to come sit by her.

Nero (880) has posed:
     "Indeed." Nero narrows her eyes, for once, agreeing wholeheartedly with Bedivere on something. "In my time, the monsters were entirely human." There was no need for supernatural Dead Apostles and other types, when there was evil in the hearts of man. Inexorably so.

     Bedivere's account of Camelot's food is met with an amused smirk. "Is that so? Boiled oats? My, your companies surely must have lived in the lap of luxury on the road, hm?" And yet, one could immediately tell she meant not a word of that, judging by her tone and her expression. But it turns a bit thoughtful when the knight asks if she has anything she wishes to ask in turn. And Nero pauses, tilting her head a bit.

     "Hmm. Well, I do have one inquiry." There's a pause. "...What were the arts like in your day? Theater? Painting? Sculpting? Stories? Were such crafts continued to be honed even after our great nation faded away?" Of course Nero would ask about art. OF COURSE. There was nothing else more important to her than beauty and the arts that encompass it all. She had to know.

     Eithne is given a glance and a smirk after. "A newcomer? Very well, let it be so! Come! Sit! Open your ears and your mind to knowledge!" Really?

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
"Hullo! Thanks fer lettin' me in on the fun~" Eithne settles down in a chair near Inga, booted feet resting comfortably on the stone floor. While the Britons had been invaded, they'd later invaded her own lands, but even the Tuatha de Danann had displaced the Fir Bolg, who had displaced the Nemedians, who had displaced... Well. It just goes on and on.

She raises an eyebrow at Nero's sardonic inquiry about foodstuffs. There's nothing wrong with oatmeal!! ...If it's got milk and raisins or such on it, which Bedivere's men likely didn't carry. Hmm.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "I am not so old as that." Bedivere speaks from behind his hands, eyes hooded as he regards the assembly before him. "It may be that I hail from an age long past, to compare to most folk of the Union, and an era considered archaic... but no, I am not so old as that. I am but thirty-four winters."

  He actually looks older, but that may be the shadows beneath his eyes, and the slight gauntness to his features. Bedivere has the look of a man who's lived a hard life; a life spent burning the candle at both ends, with accelerant sprinkled on the wick.

  Although his eyes nearly close, he's still listening, and he still watches the gathering through slits of pale violet.

  "I learned it because that was required of those who attended the church. Mass and other services were given in Latin. If one expected to understand, one learned the language, even though it had no other use outside the purview of the church. It was, in its own way, a useful tool in the bordermarches, as well. If there were no other common languages, one could yet speak Latin and be understood," he explains. Other languages might drift, but since Latin was something of a dead language, it didn't change as the others did.

  He half-smiles at John Rizzo's description of the delectable delicacies he can no longer enjoy, but the expression is melancholy. It's unfortunate, and if he had a way to help the man, he might. No one deserves to be tormented like that, living only with memories.

  Once upon a time, he lived that way, too, in a different sort of way.

  He arches a brow at the question, but he doesn't answer right away, seemingly sleepy-eyed regard settling on Rizzo curiously. Did Excalibur really exist?

  "Excalibur? Yes, it existed." He closes his eyes, remembering the great sword, that gleaming and golden symbol of mankind's hope. "Some accounts appear to think that it was the same blade drawn from the stone, but Caledfwlch it was not. That blade was lost after a decisive battle, but that is a story you would need ask my king. I was not present for Caledfwlch's loss; I presume that at that time, I was busy bleeding out," he relates, somewhat wryly. "But it did exist. It was shaped in the fires of the Tylwyth Teg's forges in Tír na nÓg." The Otherworld, in so many words; home of the Fair Folk, the Fae.

  He looks to Rizzo. "It is in my king's keeping even now." Wait, didn't he throw it back into the lake, according to legend? How does that even work?

  "Mm?" He tilts his head to Inga, fixing her with one cat-slitted eye. "They invaded, but we held the line. At great cost, perhaps, but we held the line against them, lest they run roughshod over Albion. Even in Dál Riata we had seen their kind, although mayhap they were not so violent, there. Or perhaps, more accurately, tribute was paid... in any case, I am fluent, too, in Latin; but that is a product of where I have come from. IT was necessary. And I am certain he made a valuable addition to your village, Wisewoman."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  His eyes flick, half-lidded, back to Nero. He's silent, but there's no mistaking that there's a vague sense of agreement at her observation. The worst of monsters wear human shape in his experience. It seems even a world and an era away, in ancient Rome, the same could be said. There is something depressing in that observation.

  "No," he responds, seriously, "we ate poorly, and often we suffered for it. Although I had authority to seize product from the lands we passed through, I would not betray the commonfolk so, nor rob them of their livelihood. Their lives were difficult enough." He shakes his head, faintly. "If we had boiled oats, that was indeed luxury for those such as we."

  To the rest, he considers. The arts? "There was theatre, although it was not at all times approved by the church. So too was there painting, although perhaps it was not idolised as it was in your Rome. Artists were few but skilled; our arts were in more practical fields, such as woodworking, or metalwork." He considers, silent for a few seconds. "Stories, though... ah, there were stories." Bedivere allows himself an indulgent smile. "Dál Riata had bards to rival the finest of Albion. We had stories, in the northlands; story and song and poetry that even you might have found approval in, Emperor."

John Rizzo has posed:
"Wow," says Rizzo, looking from Bedivere to Inga. "Guess I overspoke. I'll be 91 this December, just so everyone knows. Sheesh." Ahem.

"You say your king's still got Excalibur? Ring a ding... I'd kinda like to see that sometime." With all the talk of monsters and human failings, the idea of seeing Excalibur seems a much brighter one in comparison. "I mean, being a creature of legend and/or fable myself I guess I shouldn't be surprised to see some truth in fiction, but... wow. How do you like that."

A prompt, blunt question for Nero. "You like John Coltrane?"

Inga has posed:
Inga smiles to Enya, then takes a sip of her wine. "It seems all of us ancient people or at least people from ancient times are reminiscing," she says to Enya. Inga, who is only 22 damn it! 22 and holding...

Inga looks to Bedivere, laughing slightly. "I learned so I could understand all the curses I assumed he was throwing at me...but after a while we developed a sort of friendship.

At Johns mention of donuts and Chicago, Inga smiles softly. "I should go get donuts in Chicago soon...and have a beer at Mac's. It has been too long."

Back to Bedivere, she nods. "But eventually the Saxons did settle. Without the superb leadership you all provided...well. The past and the future are in quite a tangle in this conversation--which honestly is fitting," she says, swirling the wine in her glass a little.

And with that, Inga goes quiet, staring into her wine with a faraway expression, following some thread of another into the tangled web of wyrd.

Nero (880) has posed:
     Nero looks faintly disappointed at Bedivere's initial answer, before bucking up, and making the best of it. "Hm! I see! So there were fewer, but more skilled artists in your time! I suppose I can accept that, if the quality of material produced is greater than it was in the past!" Whether that was truly the case, one couldn't say, but Nero nodded to herself, satisfied with her own conclusion.

     Mention of songs, poetry and stories of the past earns the steward of Dun Realtai a broad smile from the Emperor. "Hm! Very good! I am pleased to know that these crafts were not entirely neglected in the times that come after I! Such a case would have been a dreadful tragedy!" She then takes the time to take a sip from her second glass of wine, savoring the taste for a bit. Talk of Excalibur oddly didn't seem to enthuse the Servant. Perhaps being a spirit from the Throne of Heroes lessened the impact and majesty of knowing Excalibur existed. Certainly, if she beheld that golden light of victory, Nero would sing it's praises to the moon, but it's existence? Hm.

     John is turned to then, and she smirked. "One of the pioneers of jazz? What foolishness! Of course I partake in his work! Indubitably so! Mhmhmhm!" The blond ruler laughs. "The modern age is quite a time! History has already passed, and now I, having returned to this age, may partake in all of humanity's advancements! Ah ha ha ha ha!"

     Nero please.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    "Yer hardly what I'd call ancient," Eithne murmurs back to Inga. "It's just the hair and the witchiness that fool people." Like she's one to talk about witchiness!

    Oh - stories and music, at least Eithne can get on board with those! "Arts like that are still important in Ireland - most of Europe, really. My Da used to tell me stories when I was a little girl, the same ones I suppose we've been telling fer a thousand years or more." And a few others far more recent, but nobody here is interested in hearing about Eamon Sullivan's exploits during the seventies and eighties. There's a Polaroid somewhere of him and Eithne's mother holding matching submachine guns and mugging for the camera...

    "I liked hearin' about Cu Chulainn, an' the Fianna... though my favorite story was probably about Fionn mac Cumhaill and the salmon of knowledge." She'd like to gain all the knowledge of all the world too, especially if she only had to bite her thumb to get to it! "Of course, he told me fairy tales too, like Snow White." She twirls a lock of inky black hair around one finger and grins.

    John Coltrane... hmmm. She glances between John and the mysterious blonde woman that laughs a lot. "He played jazz, right? The kind that sounds like everyone's playin' a different song at the same time?" Eithne is so, so ignorant.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "Excalibur is still whole," Bedivere confirms. "It is indeed in her possession."

  Wait, back up the truck. Why is he using a female pronoun for a male king? Maybe he misspoke, or maybe he's talking about something else. The man has thus far seemed to be pretty spot-on and focused, though, so it's hard to imagine him meandering so far afield.

  He shrugs, faintly. "I do not know if she would show it to you on a whim, but I suppose it would do no harm to ask. It is worth asking; I do not think your request unreasonable, or disrespectful." Yep, definitely using the wrong pronouns. "I believe she would be more inclined to show you, in that case."

  He raises a brow at Inga's motives, though it's not without a half-smile and a chuckle that's more of a breath than a laugh. "I see..."

  "Mayhap our Saxons were different. I do not imagine them settling, not until they have scoured the people of Albion from the places they consider theirs." His eyes hood a little further. "I tried to negotiate with them, although there were few others who made the effort. They would hear none of it. A shame." He sighs, shrugging faintly. "So much bloodshed and lost lives could have been averted, had they but listened. My king would have treated with them, and treated them fairly, had they not harboured such love of war... and if some of our own knights had not thirsted for glory and to prove themselves in battle so."

  He considers Nero for a moment, before adding, "Aye, and there was the art of glassmaking, besides. The churches held that in their purview, for the most part, but oh, the beautiful windows they would raise." Bedivere half-smiles, wistfully. "I believe most of them are lost, now... but they were beautiful in their colours, when the sun touched them..."

  Hah. Witchiness. He half-smiles to Eithne. "Aye, I know those tales, too; the Fianna and Cúchulainn... Fionn mac Cumhaill."

  John Coltrane, however, earns a blank look.

John Rizzo has posed:
"That's called bebop, Enya." He chuckles. "Which is part of jazz. Chicago was, and still is, the place to go for jazz. At first I didn't like it, but I warmed up. Especially when Coltrane, Miles Davis, and Sonny Rollins hit the scene. Usually I like the faster numbers but that's not always the case. Eddie Higgins, Bill Evans, Stan Getz... those guys can really crank out some mellow tunes." He smiles at Nero. "Drop by the office sometime and take a dust at--" Pause. Glance at Sir Bedivere. "Take a /look through/ my records."

"And you, Sir Bedivere. I go to a place in San Fran called St. Dominic's. They have a candlelight mass there at 9. They have these huge vaulted ceilings and great, big stained glass windows. Join me sometime. Can't say if it'd measure up to what you're used to, but I'd be a bad guest if I didn't make an offer to show you the town."

Inga has posed:
When Eithne addresses her she snaps back, looking up as if startled. She blinks several times, shaking her head. "Ja, and the walking stick, and the limp...." she goes on. "The witchiness hmm?" she laughs lightly at that. She pulls the long white braid over her shoulder. "It was not always white. It used to be a pretty shade of blond, like ripe wheat in the fields. Then it just..started growing this color," she says with a shrug. "Usually it does not happen until much later....alas, it worked out well enough. It really helped with my reputation," she offers with a shrug.

Inga looks back to Bedivere. "Perhaps so. Some difference. No doubt they invaded...but from what I have heard, they intermingled with the Britons eventually, establishing kingdoms...and when then later invaded by the Danes. Is it not so in the world you come from?" she asks. "There are so many different version of earth...it is difficult."

Back to Eithne, she smiles. "Oh, that is a good story. I have heard that one," she responds, sipping her wine. She'll try stay in the moment.

Which is a little more difficult when John is talking about things she has no knowledge of. Alright, she /vaguely/ knows what jazz is. It is music. Noisy music. She looks to Bedivere, because at least she knows he will be lost too and they can have a bit of solidarity in being fuddy-duddies.

Nero (880) has posed:
     "Hmmmhmmm, glassmaking, you say? Intriguing. I assume it is more than mere glass." Nero downs some more wine, and then considers this. "Multiple colors, struck by the light... fascinating." Indeed, she would love to see the finest examples of this stained glass. But it was all lost? "...A shame."

     There's a shake of her head, and then she looks toward Eithne, listening as she recalls tales of Ireland. Indeed, she was aware of the stories of Cu Chulainn, and the like. Mostly due to bullshit from the throne of heroes, but heeeeeey. Her unintentional manging of jazz is overlooked for now. After all, this wine was quite fine! Oh dear, was Nero getting tipsy? Pah! Never.

     Nero regards John, and smirks again, speaking spiritedly as usual. "But of course! Fine music is always welcome with me! I shall peruse your collection at an opportune time then." Indeed. It has been decided. Your fate has been sealed. The pact made. There is no backing out now. But...that is for later.

     The Emeperor finishes her second glass of wine, and finally stands. "Indeed, but for now, I believe that I have fulfilled my promise to you, Sir Bedivere!" Her smile is broad as she sets the glass down. "I thank you for your hospitality, and in return, I have decided that I shall impart upon you a gift to show my appreciation!" Her green eyes twinkle mysteriously. "Do look forward to it."

     And with a sweep of her arm, Nero turns away, and vanishes into a swirl of prana particles. "And now, I shall take my leave!" Fwoosh. The Roman Emperor is gone. Just like that.

Merlin (639) has posed:
"Ah, a shame." The wizard finally made his appearance, bringing a set of small steaming bowls and spoons. "She left just a moment too soon, it seems, and missed out on the chance to partake something wonderful." Merlin settles in with his tray of bowls, smiling at the rest of the group and especially the Order of the Rose girls. And Bedivere too, even. "I heard talk of oats and porridge and decided to put together a small treat. Have you ever heard of it, Bedivere?" He motions to one of the bowls that has steaming oats in it...and...some strange, dark brown dots through it that seem to have melted.

"They are called chocolate chips, and I do so wish we had them in our time. Do try some." And with that, the wizard settles in to listen to stories of jazz and other things - and enjoy his oatmeal, because really it's good for you despite how good it tastes.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    "...she?" Eithne frowns a bit. Maybe she needs to rethink her theory that Bedivere's king is a ghost, or perhaps a zombie. Maybe he was reincarnated as a girl! Is that what Bedivere meant by 'the king is dead, long live the king'??

    She may be giving the knight a rather curious look.

    At least some things seem to be mostly universal - namely, ancient stories of ancient heroes! People will always want heroes to look to for strength and entertainment...

    And perhaps people will always look to wizards for /trouble/!!! Should she bother to blame Merlin for spooking Bedivere yesterday?! Instead, maybe she'd just better blame herself and "Bebop? Oh, I've heard of that... I think I like big band the best. At least I know who Benny Goodman is." One subject seems safe...!

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The talk of modern jazz is mostly glossed over, simply because the knight has no frame of reference. Music of his age relied on instruments that are obscure, at best, and no longer in existence at worst. Perhaps some close analogues could be found in the traditional folk music of places like Ireland, but for the most part, the art of the bard has died out over the years.

  He rubs his jaw in consideration, perhaps intrigued by tales of St. Dominic's. "I would be honoured," he affords, inclining his head politely to Rizzo. It's a touching gesture, considering how necessarily distant from such things a vampire must be. Churches probably aren't Rizzo's favourite place, are they? "Camelot's cathedral was not expansive, but it served its purpose. Likewise, the church here is not expansive, either, but it serves."

  Inga only earns a shrug. It's okay, he's just as lost as she is. Solidarity in being old souls. The modern world has passed them by, and they may never catch up.

  "Glass-making," Bedivere confirms to the emperor, with a nod. "I do not know the technique, but I know that the end result was breathtaking. They say that in Wales and in England, there are still cathedrals with old stained-glass windows, not unlike what Camelot once had... these are newer, but they are not dissimilar in style, from what pictures I have seen in books." The knight half-smiles. "I suppose a picture is nothing as visiting it oneself, though."

  "Aye, that you have," he confirms to Nero, eyeing her from behind his gauntleted, interlocked fingers. She's getting tipsy, and the last thing he wants to deal with is a tipsy emperor. He almost mutters a subvocal prayer when she decides to excuse herself. Her promise of a gift, though, leaves him a bit more leery.

  Oh dear.

  He looks up as she vanishes, but apparently she's really gone, for he lowers his face again, adopting once more his slightly hunched and thoughtful posture, lower half of his face resting against interlocked fingers, not minding the cool steel of his gauntlets.

  An ash-blonde brow arches as suddenly Merlin comes onto the scene, bearing oatmeal and chocolate chips. It arches a little higher when he offers some to Bedivere. "I will try it." Dubious? Maybe a little, as he accepts a spoon.

  "She," he offers to Eithne, with absolutely no explanation whatsoever as he takes a bite of his oatmeal, which is probably not poisoned. Maybe. His vagueness can't be maddening at all. He's quite confident about it, though, so he must know what he's talking about. He doesn't know what Eithne's talking about, though, so he goes back to zoning out, just a little bit; deciding, perhaps, if he actually likes chocolate chips or not.

Inga has posed:
Inga looks up, smiles and nods to Merlin. He brings food! "Good evening Merlin, I will take some. Chocolate /is/ amazing," she comments.

All this talk about Bedivere's king and Inga just smiles knowingly and says nothing. It was a surprise for her and she will let it be a surprise for them. More fun that way.

"I fear I know nothing about modern music," and yes, to Inga early jazz is modern. Music was drums, a flute perhaps, maybe a stringed instrument or two. Singing. That was music. Now there's just so many /things/. So many sounds.

"There is naught stopping you from seeing the churches and their glass. I have been to London in...well, I do not know what year it was, but it is...now-ish. That's where we get tacos," she nods sagely.

John Rizzo has posed:
"C'mon, kid. You aced your history paper because a vampire came and gave you a lexture. A vampire who also happens to be an oracle and a telepath. You're a witch, Inga's a wise woman, we're sitting down with a knight of the round table, a Roman emperor just told us she was good to drive--and you have trouble swallowing King Arthur being a girl?" He chuckles. "Try to keep an open mind about this Multiverse stuff."

"Oh." He looks to Merlin, then stands up and offers a hand. "I don't think we've met. John Rizzo, private dick." Oops. Sorry, Bedivere.

Inga has posed:
Inga blinks, looks to Rizzo. "You're an oracle...?" that's her thing!

Then she almost spits out her wine, again, when he says 'private dick'. She just. Cannot.

Merlin (639) has posed:
It's with no small sense of irony that the fantasically good looking blue-haired man in robes with all the oatmeal takes Rizzo's hand. "It's a good thing there's normal people like us to keep all these legendary people company." There's a momentary wink at Inga when she confuses Swallow with Breathe, but at least it wasn't super-effective. His attention turns back to Rizzo.

"Merlin of Camelot, sir. A pleasure."

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    So it /is/ she! And yet, her ability to accept strangeness is brought into question...!

    "That's not what made me-- I don't have a problem with the king bein' a girl!" Eithne protests, even as she's stirring the chocolate chips into the oatmeal. Mmm, melty chocolateHrimfaxi (talk) "It's that nobody ever told me before! Or... maybe it's just in this world?"

    She's got the spoon halfway to her mouth before she remembers to add, "And I'm not a witch." Nomf!

Sir Gawain has posed:
Merlin should have known better. Not only oatmeal, but /chocolate chip oatmeal/? He was certainly going to lure in unwanted human garbage disposals! The sounds of trotting into the hall can be heard, as a big black dog walks into the room. This dog is Florence, Gawain's mutt, and faithful companion. Rumor has it that Florence shares Gawain's bed with him, and keeps pushing him off it.

Also, Gawain is currently riding atop the dog, as if it was a steed.

"Sir Bedivere! Lady Enya! Wisewoman! Person I haven't met before- wait this is familiar, Merlin! Chocolate chip oatmeal!" The Knight of the Sun grins cheerfully as he steers the dog skillfully towards the oatmeal, grabs a bowl, nods his head in thanks to Merlin, and then seats at the table. His seat still being his dog, who seems to be enjoying the attention, and also not being bothered because Gawain has Riding B. "So, what are you all talking about? I was teaching Florence how to become a backup steed when I smelled food!"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Bedivere's spoon freezes halfway to his mouth as he hears the click of claws on the floor. His eyes flick to the hearth, but Kepas is still sprawled there, yellow lights winking into being in what would, for anyone else, be opening their eyes. He looks as puzzled as his master, though, perking one folded ear as though in curiosity or indecision.

  Nope, he ain't got a clue.

  A second or two later the sound resolves itself as the click of more mortal claws, and in comes one of the largest mastiffs Bedivere has ever seen, and perched astride the dog is none other than the Knight of the Sun who is, as usual, bereft of dignity. The marshal sighs, ignoring Gawain's bizarre entrance in favour of answering the questions levied at him.

  "Mind yourself, Master Rizzo; and mark my words. Master Merlin is skilled at what he does, and what he does is mischief." The warning from Bedivere sounds tired and unenthusiastic. He can warn people all he likes, but that doesn't mean that it's going to do any good. Merlin is going to do what Merlin is going to do. He's also going to quietly pretend he did not hear Rizzo introducing himself as whatever that was, and that he multiverse did not conveniently translate that into exactly the wrong sort of term.

  He might be flushing a bit at the impropriety of it, though, and focusing his attention inordinately on his bowl of oatmeal.

  "You will find out in time," he asides, to Eithne, even as he finishes up the last of his oatmeal. "She is eager to meet with you, but I fear our duties in Dun Realtai have kept both of us busy. Had Emperor Nero not sought a meeting, I expect I would be working still." Of course he would. It's Bedivere. "However, we must also ensure that we do not overwork ourselves. We are neither of us what we once were, in Camelot; my strength is... not so boundless as my brother-knight in his enthusiasm." He allows himself a flicker of a sardonic half-smile. Gawain's good cheer is legendary.

  "Speaking of which, I should not like to leave you all, but I should see how she fares, and mayhap take my rest for the eve, as well." Pushing the empty bowl aside, he stands, though it's with the unmistakable stiffness of someone who has been wounded and ill-healed; a little extra stiff, perhaps, after sparring with Eithne. That girl can swing a sword. He offers a smile to each person present, even though it's the usual reserved, quiet sort of smile he always wears. "Good eve, and God keep you all. Stay as long as you please; you are all guests in this place. Should you wish to spend the night, there are guest quarters. Merely ask any servant of the castle, and they will direct you."

  With a faint bow, and provided no one else stops him, he excuses himself, turning to make his way slowly and stiffly up the staircase at the far end of the hall.

John Rizzo has posed:
Rizzo gives Merlin a firm, brisk handshake before bidding Sir Bedivere good night. "God bless, Sir Bedivere. Good night."

Rizzo directs his attention back to Merlin, then Gawain. Bedivere is going to bed, and that means... "Wow, you folks know how many times I had to close my yap because of that guy? Great host, but it really makes for tough chinning when you can't let fly with the lingo." A glance to Enya. "Know what I mean?"

"Anyway, nice to meet you, Merlin. And you," he says, looking over to Gawain. "The name's Rizzo, John Rizzo. Private dick," he says again, the words echoing down the hallway to torment the bedward Bedivere some more. "Sir Bedivere back there said I should come give him the buzz about doing some hunting on his land, so, here I am."

Merlin (639) has posed:
The handshake is returned. "Sir Bedivere is Steward of the lands, and has seen much in his time. As much as his body has taken a toll, his mind does as well. He may refuse the title but he is Lord of Dun Realtai and its people in all but name. Its troubles become his troubles, it seems. Please don't hold such against him; I suppose any high official taking such a personal hand in their lands might well be so worn."

Gawain is nodded to in greeting, and Florence gets an ear scritch and a little bit of non-chocolated oatmeal. Treats are good for dogs, because dogs are love and always have been. Then his attention turns back to Rizzo, and he nods. "I see. I imagine he won't mind too much, as long as one is careful, though there are dangers in the land that you should be aware of. Most especially, approach a saddled, unridden horse slowly. If its hooves are backwards...be elsewhere."

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    Oh, it's that particularly sunny knight again! And this time he's riding a dog. ...That giant boar /is/ awfully tall to bring inside, she supposes, chewing her mouthful of carbohydrate-rich goodness. She swallows hastily and stands up as Bedivere gets up to leave. He's still moving stiffly, after all... "Sleep well!" she calls after him before returning to her seat.

    "He /is/," she nods vehemently at John from behind the wizard's back. "I was sparrin' with Sir Bedivere yesterday and this one-" she gestures at Merlin, "-dared me to kick his arse 'gently'. So I don't think much of it an' pick him up till he yields, an' then--" He'd been shaken to the bone and had kept his distance from her afterward. "An' he didn't care fer it," she ends lamely, unwilling to make Bedivere sound cowardly or callow when he's not here to explain himself.

    "...Wait, are yeh talkin' about the kelpie?!" she exclaims, shooting up out of her seat again. SHE WANTS TO SEE IT

Sir Gawain has posed:
Florence smiles happily at Kepas. It's just another dog! Well, also he's slightly unnerved by that creepy smile, but still, he seems friendly enough! "Oh, I know you!" Gawain says to Rizzo, grinning. "Sir Gawain, Knight of A Lot Of Things! It's a pleasure to meet you!" He extends his hand for shaking, before returning to facing the rest of the table and eating the oatmeal. Florence enjoys the oatmeal, and apparently Merlin; despite being a dog, he apparently is not a good judge of character.

"I've heard of the legends of this kelpie!" Sir Gawain exclaims, turning to Enya. "It drowns people! That's all I've heard. If you plan on fighting it in noble battle, I will be at your side! As a good knight always shall be!"

John Rizzo has posed:
"Nah, I don't have a beef with him. Seems like a right number," says Rizzo of Bedivere. "I was actually expecting this to get gummed up real fast once I used the 'v' word, but I didn't even see his sword hand move. Real stand-up guy, that Sir Bedivere." He listens to Merlin's advice. "Got it," he says. You don't need to tell the vampire to watch out for other mystical creatures twice!

"Wait. Kelpie?" Rizzo looks for an explanation from Enya, Merlin, or Gawain. "Maybe I'm the right guy to play that thing some chin music. Can't drown what doesn't breathe."

Merlin (639) has posed:
    A laugh. "I emphasized gently. Enya has...an inner strength of sorts that would be enough to defeat Bedivere soundly. I daresay she could give Gawain a serious sparring match," he adds, with a thought. Perhaps the two of them would enjoy clashing - or rather, breaking - practice swords over each other's heads. Might make an enjoyable diversion for the village. "He is, as I said, a little worn down by time. I didn't quite expect her solution to be so...uplifting, I suppose."

    My Little Merlin: Puns Are Magic.

    "The one and same. It is a dangerous beast, and deeply capricious." This to Enya, who...probably could deal with the creature, but one does not simply 'deal with' the fae. They tend to dislike being so dealt, and can be...creative and vicious in their way. Their morality is not ours, and..." He shakes his head at Rizzo and Gawain. "Attacking it would be, at best, pyrrhic. No doubt either of you could strike the beast down, but it is not guaranteed to be permanent - and it would turn the Tylwyth Teg against us. It is as a thunderstorm. Be aware of it, avoid its path, and rejoice after it has gone."

    And imagining the crestfallen face on Enya without even looking, he thinks a moment and then smiles. "But perhaps, like a thunderstorm, it can be viewed in awe from afar." Meanwhile, Florence, that golden judge of character, gets more scritches behind the ears. Who's a good glorious puppy? You are. And when Kepas comes over for his own love and attention, well, that's just fine. Merlin has two hands.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    Wait wait wait--! Both Gawain /and/ John want to try and beat it up?! She holds her hands up in front of her to try and forestall any heroic attempts, empty oatmeal bowl forgotten. At least she doesn't have to explain it all by herself... "He's right. Sir Bedivere asked me not to try an' tame it, though I've always wanted a kelpie. It'd stir up the Unseelie against Dun Realtai an' that'd be dangerous fer the normal folks that live here!" One day, though... one day she'll have a kelpie. And she'll braid its mane and read to it and feed it plenty of livers. <3

    Despite being morbid and somewhat creepy, Eithne is still a teenage girl. She wants a pony.

    "He means my mother's blood," she admits to them after a few moments. "My ma's the Morrigan. Er... think war an' death goddess, likes crows and cattle." Most folks don't know her unless they're pagans or history buffs. "I didn't know he was gonna be upset that I ended the match by holdin' him over my head," she complains earnestly.

Sir Gawain has posed:
Sir Gawain thinks for a moment. They do have a point. A kelpie is a dangerous creature, after all, and will anger the Unseelie. However, that isn't enough. "No! As a heroic knight, I cannot let this be! The Kelpie can no longer drown people! And to do that, we will have to recruit it to our side, via a battle that creates friendship, like all those cartoons I watch that I can't understand!" Sir Gawain is suddenly fired up. Florence is still distracted by Merlin, who has all the puppy love right now.

Continuing his zeal, Gawain shouts to the others. "Am I not a knight? Are we not the Order of the Rose? If the Unseelie comes against us, we defend the people! We protect them! We don't give up our crusade because someone might get angry! We're /heroes/, so we need to act like them! Who is with me?!" Florence barks. Well, atleast Gawain has his dog as support.

John Rizzo has posed:
"Fae? You mean, like, fae, fae." Rizzo chuckles. He puts a hand on Gawain and pats his shoulder. "Easy, killer. We can go on a witch hunt when it tries to drown someone. We go off looking to dust this thing for something it hasn't done yet and we're no better. Besides, you got innocent people to protect with or without stirring up a bee's nest. You really wanna give this thing the bum's rush, you gotta do it subtle. Make it think that leaving is it's own idea." That's vampire politics, people. And speaking of vampire politics...

Enya claimed she wasn't a witch. He knows what he expects to see as far as Merlin and has a decent idea of what to expect when he looks at Gawain--but his curiosity begs him to take a look at Enya's aura to see if that's true. Activating his gift of Auspex, he peers at her aura.

To everyone else it looks as if he's just peering intently in Enya's direction for a moment. That done, he looks towards Merlin to ask a question. "Speaking of. Are the ones here basically change and creation personified? 'Cause if that's the wire, they're not gonna get within a city block of me. Apparently they don't like us too much. Maybe once I start coming here to hunt it'll sniff me out, get spooked, and breeze?"

Merlin (639) has posed:
Excitement and discretion. Wonderful! This group of three might just do well with each other. "Mr. Rizzo is correct. While it does pose a potential danger...it isn't a threat yet. It is a lion in the savannah; as long as it is left alone it will usually leave you alone." There's a nod to his question. "In so many ways, yes. Though there may also be something equally surprising, that such a creature may well decide to be curious and come visit. I would point out..." He shrugs. "Your 'aspect' of that does not seem to preclude my presence, and your power..." He wasn't sure what to make of it, but vampires weren't quite a thing back in their time. At least, not the literal ones. "If it does not drive me back 'a city block' as you say, it may not be so reliable in the future. That said..." Merlin pauses, wondering. "I will see what I can do about at least arranging a viewing, if not a meeting. Let me confer with Sir Bedivere, and perhaps with the Teg. If we approach it cordially and carefully, perhap we can at least have a 'storm-viewing' party."

A momentary image pops into his head that a little telepathy can't help but send to Enya. The image of a cute, backwards-hoofed little junior pony kelpie with a strange mark on its flank; perhaps a scar or a tattoo that resembles a cloud shape and a jagged, bright streak below it. 'Thunderbutt' says the pony's image.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    Nonononono, somehow Eithne just knows she's going to get blamed for the factional war that's sure to result from Magical Knight Pretty Gawain newfound enthusiasm for befriending water monsters. SHE JUST GOT THIS JOB!

    At least John and Merlin are there to talk some sense into the Knight of the Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. She's so busy trying to stare a hole in Gawain's forehead that she doesn't notice Rizzo staring a hole in her aura.

    For him and him alone, there's green like leaves, black like crow's feathers. The creak of tree limbs, the fresh scent of grasses and flowers, the reek of old blood pooling in the dirt, the cry of metal as it's forged into blades. For everyone else, there's just Eithne.

    Eithne, who gets the most /ridiculous/ picture in her head and sputters out a "WHA-" before choking back horrified laughter.

Sir Gawain has posed:
No. This is not acceptable! Gawain tries to rise but is too comfortable on his dog, so just slams his hands down on the table for effect. "Subtlety? Waiting? That is not knightly! You don't wait for them to hurt people! You investigate beforehand! You make sure it doesn't happen! I'm not saying we kill or hurt it, I'm saying we befriend it and make sure it'll never hurt anyone!" Gawain isn't angry, but passionate. There's a burning fire in his eyes. "Besides...if we don't tame it beforehand..."

"How the heck will Enya be able to ride it, huh? If someone doesn't ride the kelpie, nothing is worth living! Therefore we'll tame it! Recruit it! Give it lots of snacks and belly rubs! Make it one of us! We'll teach it a better life than drowning people! The life of knights! Because that's what we do! That's what we did! We fought monsters! We saved people! And we didn't think about what would happen long in the future, we thought about /now/! What we can do for people /now/! We act now, not later, we change things now, not later, and we deal with the consequences /now/, not /later/!" It's almost like Gawain's eyes are actually on fire, if you peer into them. His mind's probably not going to be changed on this. He knows what he wants to do. Merlin will almost certainly recognize this look: this is Gawain's knightly passion, his faith that no matter what they do, no matter what happens, it's the right choice, and they /will/ win. After a minute, he stops passioning to eat more oatmeal. Damn, this is good.

Difference between revisions of "4377/The Glory of Rome"

Latest revision as of 20:53, 2 August 2016

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