Difference between revisions of "4405/Into the Wilds"

Latest revision as of 04:46, 10 August 2016

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Autumn is slowly beginning to creep in on the region of Dun Realtai. Despite the warm and generally summery weather, the nights are increasingly cold, with a bite to the wind that suggests the winter will be harsh. To hear gossip around this place, the winters are always monstrous. Snow piled as high as the buildings, and wind cold enough to rob the breath from a man. Siberia might seem warmer.

  Now, though, the weather is still reasonable. With shadows spreading long through the trees, the evening breeze has a bit of a bite to it, only a minor portent of what's to come. Leaves rustle in the wind. Dust motes dance in the sunlight streaming through the boughs.

  There is a clearing down the track and away from the village. It lies far enough away that prying eyes would not see and unwelcome ears would not hear, but close enough that if there were any trouble, it would be a simple matter to get to or from the village and its citadel.

  It's here that Sir Bedivere has come, tying a horse to a nearby tree, and two shortbows and a quiver full of blunted arrows set to one side, a series of crude wooden targets at the far end. The knight himself sits on the edge of a tree stump, shoulders bowed, elbows resting against his knees and hands left to dangle before him. He is a patient man, and does not mind waiting for however long it takes John Rizzo to arrive at the coordinates he'd sent.

John Rizzo has posed:
John is punctual--at least, as punctual as a vampire can be. When the last motes of sunlight fade away and the night truly sets in, he can be seen trudging through the forest. His worn, beaten loafers crunch at the ground, snapping twigs, packing snow, and grinding pine needles into the frozen ground. His slacks hardly seem appropriate for the weather, nor does his dress shirt or his tie. The biting wind causes it to sway, as well as his rumpled trench coat, which remains unbuttoned. Hands in his pockets, he stomps through the wilderness until he finally arrives.

     "Sir Bedivere," he says, navigating around the uneven ground and occasional exposed root with ease in the darkness. The vampire gives a small, informal wave, then casts a glance to Sir Bedivere's steed. "Nice ride. That thing have catalytic converters?" He knows that the knight asked him not to use any slang, but he can't resist a small jest at Bedivere's expense. Rizzo straightens his tie and flips up the collar of his trench coat.

     "Sorry to keep you waiting. Woke up as early as I could, but the traffic was murder, you know? Some kinda event going on downtown, everybody and their brother had to be there." He looks over at the targets in the distance, nodding, then takes note of the shortbows and the blunted arrows. "You really went out of your way for me, huh? I appreciate that. Here." He reaches into his coat and provides Bedivere with a wooden stake. "Just in case."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Bedivere adjusts the lay of a gauntlet as the autumn breeze rustles his cloak and hair, sending a few drying leaves on their way. Winter won't be far behind, he guesses, watching the leaves clatter out of sight. Early, and harsh, as they've always been in this place. Thank the Lord for modern insulation and efficient heating. It's the only thing that keeps these people from freezing to death when the winds whip down from the far-distant mountains, howling across the valley.

  Armour clanks softly as Bedivere picks up his head, looking over at the crunching approach of the person he had invited. There isn't much that those faded violet eyes miss, and the way John crashes through the underbrush is easy for him to hear, even lost in his thoughts as he seems to have been.

  Oh, and there is his guest of honour for the evening. It's almost getting to be too dark for him to see, but it isn't quite to that point. As John approaches, he retreats to the horse in question, retrieving a length of iron from the saddlebag, where it had been tied into place along the horse's side. Once he unfolds the jointed piece of iron, it becomes a collapsible iron brazier, which he sets off to one side, away from the targets and the archery station. A sizable armful of branches are dumped into its open basin, and he rummages at something in a belt pouch, producing a piece of flint and a striking stone, sparking the brazier to light.

  There. It might not be cold enough to warrant it, and it might not be dark enough for John's perceptions, but that should help /Bedivere/ see a little better.

  Once that's done, he brushes bits of tinder from his gauntlets, eyeing the vampire as he shakes them out. His regard is reserved, but that has nothing to do with what John Rizzo is. Bedivere is reserved around everybody, in equal measure, and he inclines his head faintly in greeting.

  He, perhaps because he doesn't know what a catalytic converter is, ignores the jibe.

  The wooden stake is accepted, and Bedivere tilts his head at the implement, frowning. "What is this for?"

  Camelot didn't really have any outstanding tales of blood-drinkers. Maybe Merlin could enlighten him if the wizard were around, but the troublemaker is probably skirt-chasing in the village as the last townsfolk head home. The old goat.

  He shrugs and offers the stake back. What a strange man.

John Rizzo has posed:
John frowns at the sight of the brazier. He knows what's going to happen, but that knowledge doesn't make it any less pleasant. The vampire sighs and tries to steel himself. When the fire sparks to life and briefly rushes upwards, he flinches like a wild animal, nearly taking a step back. Controlling himself, he sighs and allows Bedivere to take the stake.

     "We need to get you to read Dracula," he concludes. "Stoker wrote it based on his knowledge of vampires to try and protect humanity. He didn't get all the facts straight, but there's some good things to know." He raises an eyebrow at Bedivere. "I was trying to give it to you so you could drive it through my heart and paralyze me if you had to." If Bedivere thought he was strange before, he must really think so now.

     "Not that I expect things to go wrong out here," he says. "But you know the Adversary will take any chance he can get to mess up something good." At least the two men can find common ground on matters of faith? Rizzo puts it on a nearby tree stump, knowing better than to press the issue. Bedivere doesn't seem to want anything to do with it, but it's there if he needs it.

     Rizzo moves past Bedivere to grab one of the shortbows. "I'm not exactly Robin of Locksley at this stuff," he warns. "Think you're gonna have to show me the right way to hold it so I don't put my eye out." The horse seems a little skittish when he approaches. Evidently used to this type of thing, Rizzo sighs and grabs some arrows as if he were grabbing a handful of chestnuts at the farmer's market.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The silver-haired knight blinks owlishly, first one eye and then the other, like a man faced with a riddle he doesn't understand. Bedivere frowns a little as he tries to puzzle it all out, but he simply lacks the basic knowledge. The blood-drinkers were not a presence in Camelot. Much more powerful things stalked the earth when man was young; that age was much closer to the age of the gods.

  Even magic itself was more potent. Magecraft of the modern era is no more than a shadow of what magic, true magic, had once been.

  "I am not familiar with it, or with a 'Stoker.'" Bedivere shakes his head. "As to what you are, such creatures were not common in Camelot. I can think of no instances of blood-drinkers in either Camelot or in its lands beyond. Mayhap the Saxons may have had stories of such things, but I did not pay them any heed." There's a flicker of something at the corner of his mouth, too fleeting and subtle to be called a proper smile. "I was quite taken with planning how to stop them from slaughtering my king's people."

  Interesting. So he did not particularly consider the people of Camelot 'his' people. Perhaps this Bedivere came from somewhere else, despite such long-standing involvement in the Matter of Britain, or even earlier Welsh sources?

  However, John's next words prompt Bedivere to turn, tilting his head.

  "Know this, John Rizzo." His voice is soft. "I may yet be a mortal man, but I have at my disposal defenses that you can not even begin to guess. There are those here of significant power who are my allies, and if I should feel threatened by your transformation, I need only call them, and they will appear."

  There is in fact a castle full of crazy superhuman people, and he is in fact an exception to the general rule. Any of them would come running for his sake, if he were serious enough in calling them -- it isn't like him to request aid, so they would take his call seriously. The ghost hound is another ally, too, and seems to have a supernatural sense for when his master is in danger.

  He takes up one of the bows, testing its string; he was going to offer it to John, but John helps himself. "Aye." Something darkens in those fade, mild eyes when John mentions the Adversary's habit of lousing things up. "I am well and familiar with that. Tell me, John Rizzo," he says, and his voice is mild, "are you familiar with the story of Camelot?"

  Robin of Locksley also draws an apparent blank. Robin Hood came much later, after the fires of Camelot had burnt themselves out; long after even the ashes of Camlann had drifted into the wind and been driven away.

  Bedivere takes a few arrows, demonstrating for John how to hold them -- nocking the split end of the arrow against the string, and pinching the end to draw back, bent arm barely clearing his breastplate. "Hold thus," he orders, "and draw your string straight back. Do not neglect your grip on your arrow, or you will not be able to release properly. Draw too far and you will lose your strength of arm. Draw only as long as you must before releasing; it is difficult to hold a shot indefinitely, although I do not know how your strength compares to that of a mortal."

John Rizzo has posed:
Rizzo prepares to do as he's told, haphazardly stuffing the arrows head-up into the pocket of his slacks. That's an... unusual quiver. "Good," he says confidently. His own death at the hands of allies seems to be a theme with him. Is he seeking to die, or just accepting? Perhaps the truth is stranger than either option, but Rizzo won't go into that. "I'm real flattered you're so accepting of me, but I can't have you or your friends hesitating just because... huh. Maybe that's the real curse," muses the detective. Not eternal life, but eternal loneliness?

     He reaches for one of the arrows and nocks it in his shortbow. "I know a watered-down version of the side that history left behind," he says. The vampire watches Bedivere's stance, his knees, then observes his upper body and tries to mimic the stance. "I could probably disappoint a historian if I had to write an account. You were there, though." Rizzo corrects his grip when he sees it demonstrated by Bedivere, then begins to draw. focusing on one of the closer targets first.

     His vision might be excellent in the darkness, but he seems to want to let his right elbow rise when he draws. He releases the arrow and it barely makes the trip to the target, plinking ineffectively against it. "Right now?" he asks. "No more than yours. I can make myself strong enough to knock a hole in one of these trees with a right hook, but it takes time to wind up."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  It seems Bedivere came prepared, and has a small quiver at his hip, banging against his scabbarded sword. That he brought the blade is significant, perhaps; he expects trouble, although he would be loathe to draw it against one he had invited as a guest. He, like his other fellow knights, adheres strongly to Brehon Law -- the complicated, ancient laws dictating proper behaviour between guests and hosts; those who broke them were considered lower than even murderers, all but blacklisted from society.

  The knight glances to the vampire, sidelong. "Do not mistake my lack of threat for complacency, John Rizzo. You are not the only dangerous thing in Dun Realtai. There are Confederates, too, who visit this place often. For a time, there was a nogitsune who called this place home, for whatever inscrutable reason she has had." He rubs his jaw, frowning thoughtfully. "Though, I have not seen her in some time. Mayhap she has moved on to greener pastures..."

  "I do not think you would reave through us as badly as you might think, John Rizzo. Perhaps we did not have blood-drinkers in Camelot, but we have faced many threats in our lives, and have also faced many in the multiverse, as well. We do as we must." Bedivere smiles thinly. "If you should lose control of yourself, have faith in our ability to strike down that which we consider a threat to our lands... and my home."

  He, however, will not be the one doing the striking. He gave his word that John Rizzo is a guest, and so it shall be.

  But that does not preclude, say, Sir Gawain, or Arturia, from driving the threat out.

  Bedivere nocks another arrow and raises his shortbow, squinting one eye shut as he takes careful aim at the target. Archery is not one of his strengths, precisely because he is not strong; he lacks the endurance to draw over and over as a battle-ready archer would be. It's a means of defense and a way to hunt, but it lacks any practical applications for him beyond that.

  Holding his shot for half a breath to steady himself, he releases. The arrow hisses across the clearing and buries itself in the target's outermost ring, quivering.

  "Aye. I was there." He nods, looking back to John, and wincing very slightly as the arrow yaws wide, clattering off the painted wood. "It was not the gleaming pageantry that these books of the modern era describe," he says, shaking his head. "They were years of blood and snow. Many times, it seemed the Saxons would finish Camelot before its reputation could be established. We were constantly outnumbered by the sea-wolves."

  He looks across the clearing to the target, but he doesn't line up another shot yet. "That is still more than I can do. Perhaps my brother-knights, such as Sir Gawain, are now more than they were in life, but I am but a mortal."

John Rizzo has posed:
Rizzo watches Bedivere draw and shoot. "Oh," he says, more in realization of what he was doing incorrectly than in regards to anything Bedivere said. Not to say that he wasn't listening, but that he is determined to do something right when he sets his mind to it. This time, he draws back, keeping his elbow level, aiming at the same target. Furrowing his brow in concentration, he releases. This time the arrow flies with that signature, nimble, quick sound. It lands firmly in the bottom rung of the target. Still needs some work, but a solid improvement.

     Rizzo frowns. "Sorry to be so gloomy," he says. "I'm not used to working with other people. Even Marcus, the guy that runs my business in the day, took some getting used to." He reaches into his pocket and grabs another arrow, nocking it and correcting his aim. Releasing it, his shot lands closer to the center, but the knight can see even in the darkness that Rizzo isn't satisfied. "I dunno that I deserve all this."

     One thing that Bedivere will note is that John doesn't hold his breath when he shoots. The vampire is forgetting that part--even though he appears to breathe regularly, it doesn't seem to be something he pays much attention to. "I'd do anything to be mortal again," admits the vampire with a sigh. He looks Bedivere in the eye after admitting that. "You're probably gonna hear me get all wistful a lot, so feel free to give me one on the chin with that gauntlet of yours if I start sounding like a broken record. Uh. Sorry, repeating myself."

     "I know what you mean, though. About the pageantry. ABout painting things prettier than they are. I was 22 in 1957. I remember my best friend Benny's dad, the guy I idolized, the textbook good cop, looking the other way when the neighborhood punks were throwing rocks at a bus full of black kids shouting 'go home' and some other words that ain't Christian. And nowadays you've got people saying those were the good old days." Rizzo scoffs, shaking his head.

     "So what was the Saxons' problem with you and your friends?" He attempts to make another shot, which again pulls low. "Huh. What am I missing here?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "Pay it no mind." Bedivere draws an arrow from his quiver, but he doesn't set it to the bow right away. Instead he rolls it between fingers, the wood ticking quietly against the steel plating of his gauntlets. "Aye, I am what many even among the Round Table considered 'gloomy,' but my reasons are different than yours." At least, last he checked, he hadn't been drinking the blood of his enemies, even if the Saxons spread those tales after they'd seen the battle-rage upon him.

  He lifts his chin slightly, raising his bow and nocking an arrow, drawing it back as far as he can and releasing. It thunks into the wood two stripes away from the centre, quivering.

  "My king made reforms when she took the throne." 'She?' "They were not popular, and the aristocracy chafed at having their privelege and self-importance revoked. If that were not enough, the Saxons were active up and down the coastline..." Bedivere trails off, rubbing at his jaw thoughtfully. "I believe many 'modern' eras refer to them as 'vikings,' regardless of where in truth they came from. They slaughtered wantonly, pillaged what they thought they could use, and put to the torch that which they could not."

  He shrugs, clanking quietly. "I do not know what spurred them. Perhaps their land could no longer support them, and so they turned their attentions elsewhere, to take what they needed."

  John asks what he's missing, and Bedivere leans in with a frown. "Straighten your arm. No, your bow-arm. It must be rigid. Ensure that your wrist is straight, or you will strain it before too long. Yes, straight at the shoulder, too; and when you draw, draw straight back. Do not veer to either side, or up or down. It must be as a straight line." He nocks another arrow and demonstrates, even though the plate armour obscures the lines of his arm somewhat. "Then -- release."

  Thunk. The arrow buries itself not far from his first, in the target's outermost ring. Not a great shot, but he made it pretty clear archery's not one of his strengths, literally or figuratively. Give him a javelin, and he might be able to do some damage...

  "In any case, I do not know. Negotiation was difficult, if not impossible. I treated with Saxon groups on many occasions, acting on my king's authority. They would hear none of it. Never was I attacked during such parleys, but it would not have surprised me." Bedivere shakes his head.

John Rizzo has posed:
"Vikings," he says. "Huh. Call me uneducated but isn't Inga one of them?" Then again Bedivere did say the Saxons were called vikings regardless of where they came from.

     Rizzo grabs another arrow and nocks it, this time following Bedivere's advice fully. He releases, and the arrow lands a little closer to the mark, in one of the inner rings. He nods, then retrieves another one and makes a shot again, inching a little closer. Rizzo's a quick study for a dead guy! With some practice he could probably shore things up and be a decent shot in his own right. "Little different than I'm used to," he admits. "But I appreciate you doing this."

     "Your king sounds like an impressive lady. I bet in her day she couldn't be anything less. Women didn't exactly get a fair shake in mine. Can't imagine the way a woman king went over back then." He lowers the shortbow and examines its construction, heightening his vision with his dark gifts. He releases a sigh as everything in the night suddenly becomes clearer, more detailed, slowly looking up at the target. Rizzo reaches for another arrow and finds his pocket empty. "Got any more of those things, Sir Bedivere?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "Vikings," Bedivere agrees, though slowly, with a dubious cant of his head. That seems to be what the modern world uses to refer to the Saxon sea-wolves that he remembers. Nothern savages. He shakes his head, though, at Rizzo's question. "No. She is not of the same world that I hail from. Perhaps she is of Saxon blood, I could not say..."

  Besides which, he's not quite prepared to write off an ally that has done so much for him.

  Leaning back a little, he gives a satisfied nod as the arrow thunks into one of the inner rings. A much better shot; adjusting his posture has helped correct some of the problems he'd had with the first few shots. The sooner John can be a dependable shot, the sooner he can feed himself; the sooner he can put those dark instincts back under control. In short, it's beneficial for anybody in Dun Realtai that the vampire doesn't get cranky.

  "You are welcome. The sooner you are able to feed yourself, the less you will be a threat to the people under my protection." He shrugs, faintly. "At least, insofar as I can see."

  He glances over his shoulder, thinning his lips. "They did not know their king was a woman. Merlin employed a certain degree of enchantment over her, just enough to turn their attention aside from that matter. To blunt their suspicions. I knew, from the first, when I looked at her; but I would not breathe a word of it to any living soul. Some few of us knew, as it turns out; Sir Gawain had worked it out for himself, as did Sir Lancelot, the Right Hand of the King."

  There's a clatter as Bedivere offers a few arrows from his quiver, holding them out for John. "Neither did they remember that it was I who organised the tactics of my king's armies; it was I who held back the Saxon lines. There are aspects of that tale that you have no way to know about; aspects we blunted, and obfuscated; kept deliberately secret. I did what I could to dispel suspicions, for those I thought might suspect the truth of her gender. I suppose my mere presence gave them reason to turn their focus elsewhere. As I was a foreigner in Camelot, I was worse even than a commoner; that I had been given such a position, so lofty above the aristocracy, was reason enough for them to cease their focus on my king, and to waste their time slandering my reputation."

  "I did not give them the idea, originally, but that is my following of their logic, I suppose." He shrugs, pauldron clattering quietly. "It was a den of wolves, it was; comparable even to the Imperial politics of Rome, in its day." He smiles, faintly lopsided. "So I did what I could to protect my king from those wolves, in my small ways."

John Rizzo has posed:
Rizzo accepts the arrows, again putting them into the pocket of his slacks. "I'm used to sewers and alleys," he says. "But there's... certain disadvantages to those, and I don't mean the smell." He focuses on the target one more time, sighing with resolve and steeling himself. His hand lingers by the waist of his pants, reaching for an arrow and finding one. The vampire straightens his posture, keeping his arm level, wrist straight. All a straight line, just like the knight said. His heightened vision helps him draw a line to the target.

     Exhaling, Rizzo lets the arrow fly, watching it soar and strike inches away from the bullseye. It's an excellent shot for someone who picked up a bow as of tonight for the first time, but the vampire frowns with dissatisfaction. He draws again, committing the proper form to memory, and makes another excellent shot. The nearest target is riddled at this point, the other ones Bedivere set out all but abandoned. A disappointed grunt from Rizzo heralds his return to the conversation at hand.

     "Rome," he says dismissively. "If you gave me the choice I'd pick your place over there any day of the week. We owe a lot of stuff to Rome. I hear surgery, indoor plumbing, and the arts mentioned a lot. I'm thankful for that." The vampire nocks another arrow, making another decent shot and another disappointed grunt. "Not so thankful for all the baggage it gave the rest of the Western world."

     "Everybody wants to be the next Rome, but they overlook the slavery, the debauchery." Rizzo lands another arrow in one of the inner rings. "The sin. Don't let Nero fool you with the sales pitch, Sir Bedivere. Not that I think you would--you're a smart guy."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Bedivere's eyes flick sidelong, looking to the target in the same instant as John releases the bowstring. The arrow hisses through the air and thunks into the target, quivering, as the previous shots had done. The knight glances back to John from the corner of his eye when the vampire implies disadvantages, but he doesn't ask -- not because he knows what those disadvantages are, but because John seems disinclined to describe them.

  Rome? He glances up at that, arching a brow and holding his shortbow with an arrow loosely strung.

  "Nero would not fool me at anything." Bedivere snorts, looking up to watch John land another series of excellent shots. That the man has picked things up so quickly seems to come as little surprise to him. The man /is/ supernatural, after all. "I know from whence we came, even if we of the Round Table maintained certain Roman ways. And I know Rome was not the bastion of glory it is so often held up to be. Slavery, debauchery, blood-sports..." He gestures, somewhat irritably. "She tries too hard to convince me of something that ought not be convinced, let alone by me."

  Drawing, Bedivere makes another shot, three rings outside of centre. His performance is not what it could be; this time not because of the physical, but because it's too dark for him to see very well. Even the torch only helps so much. Look at that flickering light just right, and he's momentarily blanded.

  He finally shakes his head. "Of course, neither was Camelot a bed of roses, for all that my king tried so hard to instill a greater purpose. The aristocracy was of the old ways, a product of those who came before, and unable to relinquish their power." Something darkens in his expression as he aims another shot, but doesn't release. "Perhaps the only difference is that assassination became a much more difficult solution, because those engaging in these games of power had need of preserving their public honour... even if they were unscrupulous enough to cast it aside in private." Bedivere releases the arrow; it hisses to the target, thunking into the second to last ring. "But I prefer not to speak of it. Itdoes no good; the people involved are long since dust, and people appear happy with their memory of the 'golden age' of Camelot."

  Lowering the bow, he unstrings it, carefully coiling the string and stowing it in an oilskin cloth; both are set carefully into the barrel he had taken his arrows from. "If you will excuse me, there are yet matters I must see to tonight; the hour grows late, and I would complete my duties before I retire for the night. I will leave you to practise, in the meantime; you may keep the bow, if you wish."

  "Once you have acclimated to its use, I will have a bow that fits you properly commissioned. I believe there is a fletcher and bowyer in the village."

  Untying the horse, he vaults onto the saddle, settling in with a creaking of leather. "Good evening, John Rizzo. Lord God keep you."

  With a snap of the reins, provided John doesn't move or speak to stop him, the silver-haired knight is soon lost to the shadows between the trees.