Difference between revisions of "4358/The Horses of Dun Realtai"

Latest revision as of 15:34, 12 August 2016

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Down below the stone spire the village of Dun Realtai crowds around, there is a flat open plain; though taken mostly by cropland, some of it has been cleared into grazing ground for livestock. In fact, much of it has been reserved for horses.

  It isn't clear where he went for them, or to what lengths he had gone to trade for them, but the Steward of Dun Realtai had left in his knightly regalia with Kepas at his heels, and returned with more than three dozen horses.

  They had all been led in procession to the stables, calmed by the knight's careful treatment of them, divided up and turned out to pastures. Fencing had been erected by a team of workmen, supervised and even assisted by Bedivere personally, wooden posts driven deep into the ground and rungs nailed securely. Lean-tos had been raised as well, although not many; crude and very much temporary shelters against the elements for the time being.

  Bedivere had been the master of horses in Camelot, and he had been unquestionably good at what he did. Although it wasn't necessarily his purview to take such a personal interest in Camelot's herds, he had kept careful lineages and instigated a meticulous breeding program to control and improve Camelot's war horses, importing stock from as far away as the northlands. His knowledge and skill in such endeavours had been noteworthy, and for as much as his detractors had grumbled, he /had/ known his way around horses; both in technical knowledge and in practical use -- he had seemed capable of coming to an understanding with even the most wild, savage, and mistreated of animals. He'd also been responsible for acquiring such animals, and his ability to trade and haggle were an underestimated but formidable skill he'd had... and still does, apparently.

  It's probably no surprise that since he returned with those horses that he's spent a lot of time with them, when he hasn't been dealing with his other responsibilities at Dun Realtai. Now, in the deepening evening, that's where he can be found today -- dressed in plain homespun, out in a single empty paddock with the big, black, savage-tempered stallion he'd picked out as the foundation sire of the herd. Probably the worst-tempered of the lot.

  He's standing next to the big horse, one hand over its shoulder, the other around to let the horse sniff at his hand. They're roughly in the middle of the paddock, and despite the warm, still air of a summer evening (and the occasional flicker of fireflies), the horse has one ear turned back in clear agitation.

  Bedivere is moving closer and closer to its shoulder, as though he were getting ready to spring aboard before the horse has any reservations. But carefully, carefully; one wrong move and he'll ruin all his careful progress...

  At the very edge of the paddock, Kepas is sprawled, a huge white mass up against one of the fenceposts, his skull head tucked down neatly on those long runner's paws. The lights are out in his eye sockets -- sleeping, perhaps? -- but every so often one of those folded white ears pricks, listening. The fae-hound is more alert than he looks.

Saber (346) has posed:
Yesterday, the erstwhile lady of the land -- no less than the Once and Future King of Britain -- had been somewhat surprised when her former marshal led what could have only been a herd of practically half-wild horses into the village corral. Of course, they had discussed the need to improve the village stock and planned to do so, but Arturia hadn't expected the sort of trade they'd gotten. That Bedivere had been able to wrangle them, however, was not surprising, not for a former master-of-horses.

     What was equally not surprising was that the appointed lord had returned with the nostalgic smell of horses permeating every bit of clothing. Not that the jade-eyed knight minded in the least, but a change of attire would be required -- with the horse-scented ones to be sent with a servant to be scrubbed -- in the event of company. Regretful, really; it reminded her of her childhood on Sir Ector's estate, so for the time being she enjoyed it while she could. Fortunately, no formal company was on their meticulous agenda, and the people hardly considered a dust-covered lord smelling of horses and sweat to be a problem. Dun Realtai was not Camelot, where an aloof, regal air had been necessary. No, the people of their new home had more need of practical community leaders than inspiring royalty.

     As such, Arturia was dressed in equal simplicity, an undyed tunic and trousers with a leather belt and thigh-length boots, her hair bound in its customary braid fastened with a simple blue ribbon. Her nearly silent movement as she made her way out to the corral was effortless, both from years of training as well as her otherworldly nature, perhaps unsettling to some.

     The knight king stopped just shy of Kepas, who seemed to be napping -- insofar as a fey hound made of witer gales could be said to nap -- reluctant to disturb him. Instead, she came to rest her arms on the fence in what was for her a languid posture, watching. Likewise, she made no move to disturb Bedivere in his work, nor the stallion he was attempting to soothe.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "Saa." Even at distance, the steward's voice can be heard as he tries to calm the blac horse. It huffs a breath through its nose, both ears flicking back momentarily as though it were reconsidering letting the knight get so close to him. True, Bedivere had saddled and ridden him once, already, but that was more an issue of necessity, and when he'd bought the beast climbing aboard had necessitated a fall or two.

  Now, he's hoping for a more easy and comfortable reintroduction; a lasting bond that will allow him to ride this horse whenever the need arises, instead of throwing himself astride and hoping he doesn't get thrown off.

  He's too damned old to be falling off horses... and even though he's not old, his /body/ is, mistreated beyond its years. Wounds leave their marks on him much longer than they ought, and it takes him much longer to recover from them; something doubtless noticed by his brother-knights, and absolutely noticed by his king. He's no longer under twenty winters, and it shows.

  The stallion is given a gentle pat on the neck, and he draws up closer to the horse's side. He's half-smiling, murmuring to the horse to soothe it, but he's also keeping a watchful and somewhat tense eye on the horse's body language. No biting, no kicking... he's going to have to be careful. This horse could cut him to ribbons if it really wanted to, either by teeth or by slashing hooves.

  It's over in an instant. A quick twist to one side, a brief spring, and Bedivere vaults astride the great black charger, leaning low over its neck to soothe it--

  The horse's ears flip back, it arches forward like a striking serpent, and just as quickly, Bedivere is tossed from his seat on its withers and laid flat on his back.

  A cloud of dust rises from where he lands; backing its ears and flicking its tail in disgust, the horse trots to the far side of the paddock, whickering as though in scornful laughter.

  Kepas picks up his head and yawns, unimpressed, and Arturia would find there is... not a cold nose being shoved into her hand, precisely, but the smooth lines of Kepas' skull, cold as a wet nose might be, but otherwise dry. Those yellow lanterns are looking up at her -- despite having no real direction, she might still have the sensation of being watched by the creature, tail wagging faintly.

  Out in the field, Bedivere coughs, lifting an arm and letting it thump back to the earth, raising another small cloud of dust.

  "That... could have gone better," he wheezes, faintly.

Saber (346) has posed:
The fey hound was rewarded with a fond smile and a proper petting before she turned her attention back to the paddock. The otherwise unsettling appearance of the creature was completely offset by his personality, which was as typical for a normal flesh-and-blood dog as could possibly be. Arturia was often reminded of one of her beloved hounds, Cavall. Even in his sillier moments...or perhaps /especially/ in his sillier moments. And if he was possessed of the same intelligence as a normal dog -- or the same sort of rapport that dogs and humans had for millions of years -- surely he would have sensed her fond feelings for her past companions.

     Turning her attention once more to the corral, the flaxen-haired knight frowned in worry as the stubborn beast unceremoniously threw off the mershal. That had been a clear sign of the stallion's ill temper; she couldn't even remember the last time he had been thrown back in Britain. She had half a mind to deliver to the creature a terrible scolding, but her betrothed came first.

     Leaving Kepas's side and lithely vaulting over the fence, she walked briskly over to where Bedivere had been thrown, offering her hand up. While she was loath to treat him as if he was fragile, falls were not something he could simply shrug off any longer. "Are you all right?" she asked with the worried frown he was surely now well-acquainted with.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  When Arturias rewards the fey-hound with proper petting, that whiplike tail wags more enthusiastically, jaws parting and icy mist spilling from them. Maybe those fond sentiments towards animals are the reason why he had gravitated towards her. Animals always seem to have a sense for that kind of thing, and even though he's not really an animal, much of his personality seems to be based on one. He is a thing of element and magic both; animal and mystery and the Otherworld.

  "Oh, yes." Bedivere stares at the sky, eyes half-lidded, but he makes no move to get up or accept the hand offered him. He winces a little and elects to stay down. "I just thought I'd give myself a different perspective on a summer evening sky, you know."

  Over by the fence, Kepas circles as though to head away before turning and leaping over the fence, trotting at Arturia's heels. Once she reaches Bedivere, he throws himself onto the ground, panting silently. Even more mist spills from his jaws.

  After a few seconds Bedivere takes her hand, hauling himself to a sitting position with a grunt and a wince. "Spirited. I like that. I'll not be riding him any time soon, though, not without earning his trust." He looks to the horse, now contentedly cropping grass at the far end of the paddock, ears swivelling backward. "But riding him is not my aim. He will be the foundation sire, but I will need him accustomed to my presence." Bedivere frowns thoughtfully. "He would be a killer, I think, were he treated carelessly... I see it in his eyes. I suspect he was mistreated in his colt days. An unspeakable shame, for he is a fine creature."

Saber (346) has posed:
In all likelihood, it also helped that the petite knight was used to strange and unusual creatures; the hound's otherwise fearsome appearance was not something which gave her pause. His own behaviour only served to cement the image of an otherwise normal canine to the Servant. At this point, she simply could not see him as anything else and treated him as such. Fortunately, he seemed pleased enough with it.

     In turn, Arturia was already well-accustomed to the knight's dry wit, even before they had made Dun Realtai their home. While it had not been as open -- one could never be too cautious around hostile, plotting nobles -- the occasional remark did not escape her notice. It was not unusual for Kay to grumble in her general direction over verbal pranks spoken with a completely straight face.

     "Well," she replied with equal dryness and a straight face. "It was a good thing then, that he threw you /forward/ rather than behind, else your pillow might not have been quite so pleasing."

     In other words, good thing for him that this 'different perspective' hadn't come with a helping of horse manure. But he was joking, which meant his injury wasn't a serious one. Nothing that couldn't wait until later for her to check, if there were aches later into the day.

     Once Bedivere was sitting up, she turned her gaze toward the stallion with a critical eye. That she would be able to ride him due to her Servant abilities went without saying, though she decided against it for now. Using such an ability might cause problems in the long run. "It might become a problem should we procure others," she noted. "He shall be territorial, that one."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Drawing his legs up, Bedivere reaches up to rub at the back of his neck, watching the horse with some resignation. A shame that such a fine animal had been so mistreated, but that was probably why he had gotten away with such a bargain. No one would want an animal like that around in its current state. Too territorial, as Arturia points out, and too prone to violence. He's lucky he hadn't gotten away with worse injuries.

  The Steward of Dun Realtai sighs, letting himself flop backward, raising a bit of dust and a few loose pieces of grass. He sighs and folds his arms behind his head. "I'm getting too old for this..."

  Old is a relative measure, but he had abused himself in the days of Camelot, working too hard and too often to sustain himself. Even if Camlann had never happened, if Mordred had never lifted the standard of rebellion, the marshal would not have lasted more than a few years further. He would have become careless, and then he would have been cut down; or he would have gone to sleep, one night, and not woken the following morning. The strain had been tremendous, and only through an exceptional constitution, and exceptional stubbornness, had he wrung so many years out of that kind of strain.

  By the time he looks up again, Kepas has planted himself beside him, and the horse is still over at the far end of the fence. "It already is a problem," he points out, sighing and letting his eyes slide closed. "If I do not keep him separated, he will attack the others. Aye, even the mares," he adds. "He is damaged, and if I am to have any hope of success, I must try to heal his broken pieces. It is a cruelly abused and twisted, broken horse that will attack his own mares."

  "He accepted me to ride home, though how, I'll never know. This horse is a killer, though it is hardly his fault... I suppose I've a soft spot for lost causes." Bedivere's mouth twitches in a rueful half-smile. "Elsewise, I never would have been in Camelot, I think. I was my own lost cause, in the beginning, falling for a king; fool that I was." Heaving a sigh, he stays where he is. It's too nice a summer evening to be bothered to get up. "Ah, well. Days bygone. I've a number of mares, thankfully, and I should be able to establish several distinct bloodlines... if I can ever trust this stallion."

  He half-opens one eye, glancing up at Arturia. "Have you a name for him, my lady?"

Saber (346) has posed:
The fact that he did not have worse injuries was a testament to both Bedivere's skill in riding as well as his way with handling even the most difficult of animals. In time, the stallion would warm up to him, though it would be a long, gradual, and difficult process. Particularly so, given the creature's likely past. It was a good thing she had not accompanied her lord on the trip, as she was not certain she could have refrained from glaring at the previous owner; even her most hated enemy had a proper regard for beasts.

     She frowned again; Bedivere was right, the stallion had clearly been abused. She could see no whip marks at a distance, but that was not to say that there were none. Even under the care of the pale-haired knight, such things were not forgotten.

     She makes no reply to his offhand comment, knowing full well that it was not the amount of years which had made him so. Her pursuit of the elusive utopia had exacted a heavy toll on them all, though he had paid an even greater price than most. The familiar guilt plagued her; though she now knew the depth of his devotion and the underlying reason why he had sworn fealty to her to help her pursue her dream, she had failed to bear the burden on her own as she had intended. She had long realised she had never been capable of carrying that burden alone as the king, but her mistake had been in the belief that she had simply not been strong enough. Now, she had come to realise that it was a burden that no one could carry alone. Becoming more than human would never be enough. And yet, once she'd had that epiphany, she had found that Dun Realtai had become more like the utopia she had envisioned.

     Bedivere spoke again, bringing Arturia out of her musings once more. "Perhaps I can calm him, at least long enough not to attack the others," she considered. "The Riding skill has limits...it would not be a permanent solution, but perhaps he would begin to learn that he is safe here."

     After all, if he permitted Bedivere to ride him this far, then the beast was not a lost cause. and on that subjet...

     "Well," she replied with a slight, knowing smile toward him. "Not all causes thought to be lost are truly, would you not say so?"

     Cautiously, she approached the stallion, though she made no move to attempt to mount him, merely standing close by, showing neither aggression nor fear. "Once, there was a stallion who accompanied me into battle," she spoke softly. "I called him Hengroen. What should I call you?"

     Naturally, she didn't expect a response, at least not to her actual words. But that did raise the question of what to name him. "That might requre some deliberation," she admitted.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The horse would return to its gregarious nature, but those scars would take some time to heal. Often, the worst sorts of wounds are those that cannot be seen, and such seems to be the case for Bedivere's chosen lost cause.

  "Such scars run deep," the silver-haired knight muses. The worst wounds are those that can't be seen, and this horse has plenty of those. Unable to ride the horse and interact with it in any meaningful way, there's no doubt that the horse's previous owner simply wanted to foist the animal off on the next person to come along. "Yet I saw not a mark on him."

  He sighs, standing up and dusting earth and grass from his tunic with a few well-aimed swats. Once he's gathered himself, he folds his arms. One rises to tug at the bloodstone stud in his left ear, considering the stallion on the far side of the paddock thoughtfully. It's a gesture of contemplation and some concern; one of the few such gestures he had allowed himself even in Camelot. No one else had really understood what it had meant, since he had never changed his expression, but perhaps Arturia had learned to read it as hesitation.

  "Try as you might, my lady. Mayhap you'll have better luck than I." Backing away to the fence, he settles atop the highest rung; Kepas pads after him, throwing himself down at the knight's feet with clear nonchalance. "By all means. But keep your distance if he turns ugly. He moves faster than he looks."

  The horse raises its head abruptly as Arturia approaches, immediately dropping the grass it had been cropping to show its teeth. Its ears turn back so hard they flatten against its neck, the whites of its eyes showing. One wonders how Bedivere had managed to coax the creature home -- it doesn't seem to like much of anyone.

  In fact, it goes so far as to take a step toward her, huffing a breath and showing its teeth, grunting in clear threat.

  "Mind his teeth, my lady," Bedivere offers from the fence, tone low and warning. "Hengroen he is not; even my Swift-Arrow he is not."

  Kepas seems entirely unconcerned, skeletal jaws lolling open, icy mist rolling from his maw.

Saber (346) has posed:
Though physical abuse was the most common form of mistreatment, it was tragically far from the only sort. For all appearances, the beast's abuse seemed to be of a different sort other than whipping.

     "Neglect, and perhaps witholding of food as well as vocal abuse, I should think." The words themselves would not have meant much, but she found that many horses were intimidated by loud and harsh noises. Finding warhorses not bothered by the din of battle had always been a great deal of work.

     "Indeed," she agreed, sourly. "I imagine your seller must have been quite pleased to receive something for him, in addition to being rid of him."

     Sea-green eyes flicked back to her former marshal for a brief moment, silently noting his gesture of uncertainty before her gaze turned back to their 'lost cause'. "It will take time," she half-mused, half-reassured him. "But I believe that he will come to trust us, gradually."

     That moment was a long ways off, however, as she calmly stood her ground and regarded the agitated stallion. Perhaps had she been mortal and without the residual effects of her years bearing Avalon, she might have felt a flicker of concern for her personal safety. As she was now, however, she had no need to fear even a threatening beast. But what /was/ of concern was his trust; her position was more than simply precarious. One wrong move, and permanent damage would be done. Indeed, if he became so aggressive that he would even attack mares...well, neither she nor Bedivere wished to consider the necessity of what would have to be done with him.

     "Now now," she chided gently but firmly. "None of that. You have to be a part of the herd for this to be your territory. There is nothing to fear now, this can be your home if you allow it."

     Slowly, so as not to alarm him, she lifted her arm with the palm of her hand turned upward. It was highly doubtful he would venture forward enough to blow into her hand, but the offer itself was intended to reassure him, her stance not challenging but neither was it fearful or backing down.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "Neglect, aye, and other things." The onetime marshal rubs his jaw as he studies the horse, though he moves a little stiffly. Being thrown from a horse is not something he's had to suffer through very often, and it's even less enjoyable now that the wounds and trials of Camelot weigh more heavily on him.

  He rubs absently at a shoulder as he watches her approach the unruly horse. Though he remains perched on the fence, there's a tension in his posture that suggests he's ready to vault over the other side if the need arises, either to escape or to assist Arturia.

  The black horse seems fully intent on standing his own ground. Stubborn and willful, much like the two knights whom he's dealing with, it looks as though he might be inclined to attack when Arturia ventures a pace or two closer. Indeed, Bedivere tenses astride the fence, narrowing his eyes slightly at the horse's ill temper.

  Neat, pointed ears flick uncertainly at the tone of her voice. Perhaps he's accustomed to harsher tones or shouting, or perhaps he simply wasn't expecting the petite knight to address him with such gentleness. He shifts his weight in place, not quite dancing, a gesture of obvious indecision.

  From the fence, Bedivere nods his approval, though he still looks nervous. "Easy, milady..."

  The horse flicks an ear before turning one of them forward, and at about the time she raises a hand, the horse squeals, jerking his head up and turning on his heels, galloping to the further end of the pasture with enough haste to kick up clods of grass.

  Bedivere quickly dives over the side of the fence, because the big black stallion is now charging straight at where he's sitting, and he'd rather not be sitting there when the horse arrives. Kepas scurries over the fence with shocking agility, sufficient to put a squirrel to shame.

  Landing with a thud, Bedivere settles for staring up at the sky again, sighing. It seems he's fated to keep landing flat on his back, today, so he might as well stay there.

  "I think," comes his reedy observation from the ground, "that the Good Lord is trying to tell me something, today, in His wisdom, and it is to stay off my feet."

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia eyed the knight again as he rubbed his shoulder, her frown betraying her concern. While it was true that perhaps she worried a little too much over him, the fact that the hard years were rapidly catching up to him was more than slightly concerning. She might not treat him as if he was glass -- Bedivere was surprisingly resilient, especially for a mortal -- but she was not about to permit him pushing himself the same way he had in Camelot. Thankfully, he was no longer of the mind to argue.

     Not that she expected much trouble from the stallion, but she preferred to deal with this herself rather than risk Bedivere being seriously hurt. The creature could take his rage out on her; she had the preternatural strength to weather it.

     As expected, the stallion stubbornly held his ground. But he was far from the only stubborn one in Dun Realtai, a village populated with stubborn people and led by a lord and lady as equally obstinate. But so too were they patient, perhaps now because they could afford to be as much as it was simply their nature not to rush a situation. There was no need to force the wilful steed into obedience, especially with their long term plans...or more importantly, their vision for Dun Realtai as a haven. While a simple beast could not understand such lofty human ideals, they would remain true to themselves by upholding them. Their home was to be a haven for even simple creatures.

     Yet, Arturia had apparently moved too fast even then. The steed finally yielded ground at her languid gesture, spooked enough for Bedivere's hasty and -- what was for him -- inelegant retreat. Kepas's own retreat, by comparison, appeared effortless; further reminder of the creature's true otherworldly origin. Not that she would be able to see him as anything other than their lovable, silly dog. Then again, that might have been why he continued to stay with them and return their affection.

     Sadly, such affection would be a ways off with the spirited steed. Yet, Arturia had taken a liking to him just as Bedivere had; even through his abuse, his spirit had not been broken. That strength drew her to him. She followed, but much more carefully this time, deliberately projecting her calm, stoic demeanour but careful not to corner him. Moreover, her immediate concern had been turned back to the former marshal. "That may be for the best," she told him, regarding him thoughtfully. "I had been meaning to encourage you to rest, and so perhaps this would be a good time to do so. A bath, and an early dinner, I should think. That is, if you have no wounds to tend to, first." Ones that she would tend to, she implied.

     She turned her attention back to the wayward stallion; the time to lead him back to the stables would be soon. And Arturia would rather that a hapless stablehand be spared from his wrath. "Come, it shall be time to come inside soon. Be on your best behaviour, and perhaps you shall be rewarded." They did have apples...it might have been a good idea to have taken one before she made her attempt. On the other hand, it might have been too soon to offer the obviously suspicious beast a treat withoutb gaining his trust first.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  For the moment Bedivere appears content to lie sprawled over the grassy earth, staring at the sky and keeping half his attention on Arturia. That the horse wouldn't leave any lasting mark on her, he has no doubt; his concern is more with doing no further harm to the beast than has already been done. Perhaps buying the black stallion was a mistake, but he had been unable to simply leave the creature.

  Heaving a sigh from the sun-warmed earth, Bedivere shuts his eyes and keeps half an ear out in Arturia's efforts at gentling the unruly horse. He'll jump in if he feels she's at any risk. Just... not yet. Maybe his urgency might even stir Kepas into moving faster -- the hound seems to have a preternatural sense for what his master wants. He's almost reminiscent of Cavall, if Cavall were much larger and more intimidating. They see Kepas' playful side, but Bedivere has also seen the more threatening side of the otherworldly hound; the wrathful guardian.

  Meanwhile, the horse raises its head, laying flat its ears again as it regards Arturia through wide eyes. He circles slightly to one side even as Arturia approaches, scraping at the turf with one hoof, lashing his tail. The creature at least hasn't been neglected in terms of fodder -- aside from a very slight showing of his ribs, his coat is in good health and his eyes aren't cloudy. On the contrary; those eyes are bright.

  "Mind you, my lady," Bedivere murmurs in warning from the far side of the field, not quite bothering to get up. He's just going to lie there and stare at the sky for a little while, because ow.

  Kepas has his head up, though, watching intently. Or so one would presume, those yellow lights fixed in his empty eye sockets.

  Once more the horse seems to show uncertainty, flicking its tail in the face of Arturia's advance. Ears swivel back before pointing forward once more and, somewhat reluctantly, the horse takes another step or two toward Arturia, before reaching out his nose and snorting with a distinct lack of aggression.

  Bless that supernatural riding skill. The horse doesn't get /too/ close, but it seems more inclined to listen, at least.

  From over on the other side of the paddock, Bedivere makes a soft sound suggestive of the sentiment of, 'Well I'll be damned.'

Saber (346) has posed:
Had Bedivere voiced any misgivings about buying the stallion, he would have met with Arturia's disagreement. If someone was so eager to be rid of him, then surely his new home was an improvement. Now what remained was convincing the beast that he had nothing more to be agitated about. None would harm him here, and even if he could not be reassured, then at least he could live out the remainder of his life in relative peace with enough to eat. Though they would have to isolate him if he couldn't be rehabilitated, it could be said that, at the very least, the stallion had been effectively rescued. The flaxen blonde would certainly not criticise her former marshal for that.

     But the otherwise good condition of the beast made her wonder just how he had been mistreated. Likely, they would never know.

     The knight-king maintained her patience and famous stoicism, neither rushing nor cornering the agitated stallion. Though she made no sound to acknowledge Bedivere's warning, she came to a standstill, waiting to see what the uneasy beast would do. Challenging, though he hasn't charged or even so much as reared...yet.

     Yet, it seemed her patience was rewarded when the stallion takes a chance enough to draw closer. Once more, she held her hand out to permit him to blow into it should he choose to. It should, at least, reassure him that she had no aggressive intentions towards him, nor even an attempt to ride him. Just her presence, nothing more.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Although he's been watching for a few minutes, the marshal once more allows himself to flop backwards onto the turf, listening to the battle of wits between horse and royalty. If this were any other situation, he might intervene and take control of the situation just to prevent any casualties... but the truth of the matter is that the horse can't hurt Arturia nearly as much as it could hurt him.

  Bedivere is mortal. Arturia is not... and he's aching after the devil-beast already threw him once, so he's content to stay by the fence and watch their battle of wits from a place of relative safety. Kepas, sprawled outside the fence beside him, thumps his whip-thin tail on the grass.

  The fey-hound has laid his skull-face onto his paws neatly, like a living greyhound, those yellow lanterns in his otherwise empty eye sockets tilted slightly toward Arturia. He's watching, and it may be that he's smart enough to intervene if he has to. As a creature of the Otherworld, a cantankerous stallion won't be a threat to him.

  Ears flicking uncertainly, the black stallion draws a little closer, inching forward with suspicion writ on every line of his body. His ears flatten against his neck entirely when he stretches his neck forward, but Arturia is rewarded by a blast of hot breath against her hand -- he's testing her, taking her scent, which is a step above being run away from or attacked.

  "What do you think, hm?" Bedivere glances over his shoulder at Kepas. He's not a very good conversationalist, though -- the fey-hound only seems to make noise when Dun Realtai is threatened, and is otherwise silent as a ghost. His jaws fall open in utter silence, panting like a happy hound.

  The silver-haired knight sighs. "I suppose it hardly matters to you..."

  "It's easier to stay on him with a saddle already in place," Bedivere murmurs wryly, knowing his voice will carry to Arturia. He also knows if he pitches it any higher, the horse will startle again. "Getting the saddle off, though... that was a devil of a time. I wouldn't let the stablehands risk it. Saddling him again must needs wait until we've gentled his angry heart, I think."

  "But it looks like you're well on your way to that." Running his hand through his hair, he pauses, picking out a few bits of grass from it and flicking them aside. "Put in a kind word for me, hmm? 'Tis rare indeed that a horse refuses to listen to me... aye, my lord of the herd," he adds, pitching his voice to the stallion. "You're safe, here. Why, you've the King of Knights herself to look over you, hmm?"

Saber (346) has posed:
In the back of her mind, Arturia made a mental note to sort through some of the apples which had already been harvested. Some to set aside for their wilful new addition, others for apple tarts for the beleagured lord. Though content to simply rest for the moment -- in itself a very good thing as far as she was concerned -- it had indeed been many years since a horse had thrown him. Hopefully, he wouldn't think this meant he was losing his touch. And the stallion was certainly stubborn...he had simply met his match in a Servant with a Riding skill second only to a Rider.

     And though an angry horse would hardly be enough to hurt it, she had to admit that it was rather pleasing to be watched over by her Left Hand and their strange but -- in his own way -- loveable fey hound.

     In turn, the stallion's hesitant trust was not betrayed; Arturia made no move to attempt to ride him. At least, not yet. No, her Riding would ensure that she /could/, but the beast might not trust her once she dismounted. What knight and king intended was to earn his trust. Hopefully, they were closer to that now than when Bedivere first brought him.

     "While I would have no issue simply riding him as he is now, I do not wish to risk losing his trust once more," she replied quietly, her tone deliberately soft so as not to startle the stallion. "Perhaps eventually, he will be able to be saddled, but I should think it is not yet time."

     She risked a small smile at her appointed lord, however. "He will learn to trust you soon enough. Of that I have no doubt."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "It will be long before he is ready for that, I think," Bedivere muses, voice pitched just as quietly as Arturia's. "I would not soon risk it. A halter to lead him, perhaps, but no more than that."

  His tone can be soothing when he wants it to be, and soothing distressed animals had always been a knack of his. Many of his political detractors had grumbled that he'd gotten along better with animals than the people around him; stony and cold in his reception to people, and considerably warmer to the animals in his care.

  He had always treated his soldiers well, better than many of Camelot's generals, but people had complained about the lack of emotional connection with him -- he had been cold and unfeeling on the surface, although his actions made it clear that he strove to minimize losses. That hadn't been enough, though.

  Those violet eyes are fixed on the far pasture, though, watching the great black stallion's every nuance and movement. Even Kepas seems a little more alert, sitting up instead of lounging against a fencepost, folded ears pricked forward.

  For his part, the stallion merely waits, tense, before apparently deciding that Arturia is no threat to him. For the moment, anyway. Drifting a few paces away, he lowers his head to crop at the summer grass, flicking an ear occasionally to show he's still watching, but otherwise ignoring her. No squealing, no flight or fight impulses -- apparently simple patience is enough to overcome his insecurities.

  Bedivere looks thoughtful as he watches all of this unfold; it may be that he's also wondering what happened to the poor animal to make him so spiteful and angry towards man.

  Pushing off from the fence, he gestures for Arturia. "I'll not put him in the stable, tonight. The weather will be fair, I'd wager; mayhap in the morning I'll take him, but I'll not risk taking him near the other horses for now. Best keep him alone, I think."

  Kepas just lets his jaw fall open and wags his whip-thin tail. Some days it's hard to tell just how smart that creature really is.

  "Shall we return to the citadel, my lady?" Bedivere draws up halfway to where she was, offering his arm. "The Black One will be fine, for the time being. I'll see that he's given water, and if the weather should turn, I'll see that he's given shelter."

Saber (346) has posed:
Restraining her usual gesture of thought to keep her arms at her sides, the pale-haired knight would nevertheless recognise when her thoughts turned inward. "I think that I may be able to lead him without...perhaps until he becomes accustomed to the presence of the stablehands." It was entirely possible to do so, for her. Of course, the beast would need to acclimate to a halter eventually for the hands to be able to handle him when necessary. Or even Bedivere himself, for that matter.

     Naturally, Arturia had not been fooled by her Left Hand's aloof demeanour, one wholly like her own. Though their reasons for it differed, they were too similar not to recognise their respective masks for what they were. His kindness towards beasts and his careful regard for his men spoke more of his character than the metaphorical armour. She was truly grateful that the people of Dun Realtai could see what she did.

     When the stallion cautiously returned to grazing, Arturia was satisfied with the progress. Though he remained wary, the beast was at the very least relaxed enough to return to his meal. When Bedivere gestured for her, she left the stallion behind to return to her knight's side. That in itself might further encourage the horse to trust them not to abuse him when his guard was lowered...or at least lowered more than usual.

     The slight smile returned to her face as her gaze turned down to Kepas. "A reasonable day's work, do you not think?" she asked the fey hound as he wagged his whip-like tail before turning to Bedivere. With a similar smile, she accepted his offered arm. "Aye, though other work remains to be done. A shelter should suffice until he can accept a proper stable. Were the season closer to winter, I would have greater cause for worry." The stallion wouldn't have liked it, but the brutal weather would have meant bypassing her resolve to not employ her Riding, at least long enough to lead him to an isolated stable. She had to admit the timing could not have been much better than it had been.

     For now, however, apple tarts and tea awaited.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The former marshal is quiet as he regards the king, watching as she works through the issue herself. He knows when she retreats into herself and turns her own thoughts inward; just as he knows that she can recognise the same signs in him. He has a habit of folding his arms, but instead of clasping his chin between thumb and forefinger, he tends to curl his forefinger, resting it over his upper lip; or simply splay his whole hand along his jaw. He might stroke his beard, but he has never favoured one; a subject of some ridicule in Camelot.

  It used to be a subject of ridicule among the Saxons, too, until they saw him in the battle that lost Caliburn; until they saw him raging the battle-rage. No more was he ever spoken of as a 'beardless boy.'

  The black stallion does raise his head as Arturia moves away, whickering so low the sound could almost be missed. His ears flick back for a moment, disconcerted by the sudden movement, but he neither pursues nor shows any real sign of animosity. She's far enough away that she's not a threat to him.

  Bedivere is watching the horse thoughtfully when Arturia returns to his side. No whip-marks, no sores from ill-fitting tack, no scars or blemishes on an otherwise glossy black hide. This horse was well cared for in its immediate past, and that makes it even more of a mystery.

  It's possible the animal was mishandled or abused in his colt days, and that made for a long string of owners ill-equipped to work with the high-spirited animal; it's possible the last man that Bedivere bought the stallion from was not the one who had wrought such great harm. He hadn't seemed the type.

  Jostled out of his reverie, he glances down, following her gaze to the horse-sized, dog-like creature. The instant Arturia's attention is turned away, Kepas nudges forward, headbutting her from behind with the flat of his head. It might be endearing if he weren't a nightmarish-looking creature, white as winter and silent as a ghost, with a literal skull for a face, glowing yellow lights in his empty eye sockets in place of eyes.

  Honestly, Bedivere's stopped seeing him as some kind of nightmare-creature. He behaves exactly like a derpy hound dog, and it's hard to be intimidated by that.

  "Aye. I would not soon force him into a stable, in any case." The silver-haired knight shakes his head, frowning at the black horse. "I expect he would do more damage in the effort than would be done by the wind and weather... he is strong, and he is magnificent. Fine traits in a war-horse and a foundation sire." He grimaces. "Terrible traits in an adversary."

  Taking her arm, he turns toward the keep, but his pace is leisurely and unhurried. There's daylight yet still, dusky though it may be. Kepas pulls himself to his feet, padding along silently behind them for all the world like a loyal hunting hound.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "Hmmm." It's a thoughtful sound, quiet. "We shall see. My hope is to breed back a heavier horse as we had in Camelot. Mayhap they've something to be desired to the eye for a saddle-horse, but they are enduring, and there is feed aplenty in these lands. They'll have need of the extra weight; the winter here is too cold for light horses, I think." He had been the master of Camelot's stables, once upon a time, and he had been very, very good at what he did -- personally taking control of breeding and managing Camelot's stock of war-horses, using meticulous lineages to promote particular qualities and traits over others. His authority over the cavalry had been another reason for their sweeping success against the Saxons -- their horses had been finer by far than the Saxons' poor-quality stock.

  "I've a mind to part several of these mares, and give them as gifts to those we know," he ventures, tone light. "I should like to present one to Wisewoman Inga. It would make travel through the village easier for her. I should also like to offer one to Miss O'Suilebhain, when she stays here." That would be Eithne Sullivan, and he seems stuck on using the old form of her name. "Hm. I would say Sir Gawain, but... I am dubious, about that." He glances to her, leaning into her a little as they walk. "What say you, my lady...?"

Saber (346) has posed:
Shaven faces were, in truth, quite common among the Round Table Knights. At least, when they had access to reasonably clean water and razors. Though not required by way of the Eight Virtues that Arturia had insisted upon, such a practice had carried over from the Roman occupation and it had become ingrained into the popular mindset that a shaven face was a sign of cleanliness and orderliness. Certainly, there was the occasional scruff, the inevitable 'Five o' Clock Shadow' when one's hair simply grew too fast, but such had been acceptable. Yet, the Knights had tacitly agreed to maintain the tidy 'Roman' appearance, and few had ever grown much past the end-of-the-day scruff.

     Of course, such habits tended to be the source of ridicule among the Saxons even as they had been bested first by the Romans and later by the Britons. One method of mild 'torture' had been to shave the rough beard of a captured Sea Wolf, who never seemed to know how to react. Information was sometimes given up out of the resulting confusion.

     Though the stallion would not remember this moment when she simply left without intruding on his space further, it would, with patience and perhaps a bit of luck accustom him to the idea that nothing would threaten him now. She would not push further than necessary.

     The knight king glanced back a final time, frowning thoughtfully. No, if he showed no signs of abuse other than his obdurate and excitable nature, that abuse was likely well into the past. But it made caring for him difficult at best, and few were able to properly handle such a demanding charge. She found herself wondering how many hands the beast had changed since then.

     The flaxen-haired swordswoman would have seen the fey hound far differently were it not for his outright goofy behaviour; she was accustomed to nightmarish and otherworldly appearances, but treating Kepas as if he were a normal greyhound would have never occurred to her. He would have been treated with the same reverance -- he /was/ the ethereal servant of the guardian of the land, after all -- but in a far less familiar manner. As it was, the puppyish headbutt earned him a scratch on one of his skull ridges. "Aye, I have not forgotten you," she reassured the fey creature before turning her attention back to her former marshal. "I am inclined to believe he is more used to being kept out to pasure. A stable would perhaps be too enclosed and would likely agitate and unsettle him."

     As they made their unhurried way back -- Arturia would certainly not complain about a leisurely stroll -- she observed the late afternoon skies even as she listened intently. "Hm. Though perhaps it would be prudent to breed a small stock of smaller horses. Many visitors are not so acquainted with riding, but I would prefer to lessen the impact of more modern machines outside the borders of the village proper."

     Though she herself had little issue with modern vehicles, the Tylwyth Teg beyond the village would likely not agree with her. Travel via horse was likely the most the Fair Folk would tolerate.

     On the subject of gifts, she smiled and nodded. "An excellent idea," she replied, though the corners of her mouth quired slightly as she considered her nephew. "Sir Gawain seems to have a...certain fondness for motorised vehicles. It might be too soon to say."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Even if he had wanted to sport a beard, the silver-haired knight had always been somewhat sparse in that regard. His hair has also been so light tha it would not have been seen unless it were the kind of thick, luxurious beard favoured by the Saxon chieftains, and he had preferred to simply shave everything off. It felt tidier, and it was easier to keep clean.

  Bedivere had always been fastidious as a cat when it came to his own personal hygiene. Cleanliness was much better than the modern era seemed to think -- Bedivere himself had been single-minded in his pursuit of cleanliness. How much of that was natural tidiness and how much was an obsessive effort to scrub the literal blood from his hands, however, was hard to say.

  The horse does not watch the King of Knights leave, but maybe he'll remember this peaceable meeting. If he has enough memories of that, he may associate some positivity with the two patient knights trying so hard to rehabilitate him. Maybe, after all, he may be a lost cause, too far damaged to help. One can never know.

  One can never know, either, how many times he had changed hands because of his damage. At least here he will change hands no longer, even if it turns out that they can't save him from those scars.

  When scratched like a familiar hound, Kepas wags his tail madly, jaws falling open in a silent doggy grin. If not for his skeletal visage and his freakish size, he might have been as humble and trusty a hound as old Cavall.

  "Aye, I have to agree with that," Bedivere murmurs, leaning on her a little. It isn't because he's feeling tired or weak, but just out of simple companionship. "Never mind that a building would must needs be reinforced to withstand his rage. Iron banding around his stall, or even good steel..." Bedivere reaches up and rubs at his jaw with his free hand, buthis half-smile is wry and a little sardonic. "I only hope that someday he will trust me. Ah, my lady, his paces are beyond belief. He has such spirit."

  He blows out a breath, a contented sigh as he pulls her closer, matching his pace to hers. There's nobody else out here but the horses, scattered about various paddocks here and there. It seems that Bedivere had separated them and driven them into smaller groups, matching type with type. Lighter and smaller horses are mingled with the same; the biggest and heaviest mares have their own paddock. Then there's the Black One; he is, out of necessity, given his own paddock, nearly out of scent range of the others.

  He walks along beside her, though gradually he pulls her a little closer, resting his head over hers as they go. She still smells of that rose-scented shampoo, and he still approves of that; finds that it suits her. "Aye, but I would ask that he not ride his mechanical steed through here. They ruin the turf, for one. He can be... somewhat careless, for two."

  A brief glance to the left and right confirms they're alone, and so he leans down to press a kiss to the top of her head, gently. He doesn't say anything -- just a simple gesture because he can, along with a chuckle so quiet it could be missed. She, however, likely wouldn't. She knows him; he can no more hide subtle tells from her than she can from him.

Saber (346) has posed:
It had been just as well that the young man from Dál Riata had come to Camelot; that Roman influence had meant that the full beards favoured by the Saxons had never been en vogue. None would have questioned his masculinity when even Lancelot had ever sported more than the inevitable stubble from being out on the many missions the King had employed him on. Even those knights from lands far beyond Britain had adapted to the Roman style; Sir Palomedes had gone so far as to shave his not long after he had sworn fealty to the tiny but imposing King of Knights. In that respect, the pale-haired knight did not stand out as an exception.

     Nor was his dedication to cleanliness considered a strange quirk, though some had found it almost to the point of obsessiveness. Nevertheless, knights were expected to uphold as tidy an appearance as possible, expected to present themselves as shining examples to the people. Arturia had intended them to be examples of righteous living, even if such a thing was not possible for everyone. They were to be inspirations...if not something to aspire to, then at least something to look up to and trust the protection of. Though the lustre of a well-maintained shield would not add to its defensive strength, an otherwise insignificant thing inspired the people's trust.

     Yet, Arturia had always suspected that in the case of the Left Hand, it had not been a simple matter of physical cleanliness. She did not, however, press the point.

     Whether the yet-to-be-named stallion gradually learns to trust them or is too irreparably broken to only trust her with what little he had granted, either outcome was acceptable to the petite blonde. If nothing else, he now has a comfortable home to live out the remainder of his days, even if she hopes to one day earn more of his trust, enough to live alongside the rest of the herd peacefully.

     She knew better than to underestimate the mighty fey hound at her side, but it was simply impossible to treat him with anything other than affection when he acted the way he was. Perhaps it was simply an act and he enjoyed the attention too much to return to the mysterious ways of the Otherworld, or perhaps some part of him truly was born from earthly canines. So long as he enjoyed her attention, Arturia would be more than willing to indulge him.

     "He will be all right where he is until the weather turns," she reassured the tall knight. "It might be that he prefers the open...not unlike a steed in the wild, now that I think on it." Her eyebrows raised slightly when she came to another possibility. "I wonder if perhaps he was taken from a wild herd long ago. That would explain some of his mistrust, as well as his uneasiness within an enclosure and his strength."

     At his side, he would not be able to see her slight smile as he drew her closer. Though she had always been rather distant out of necessity, closeness had tended to make her uncomfortable with anyone other than her foster family. Yet with Bedivere, she did not so much as tense up, even leaning into his embrace.

     After a moment, the jade-eyed knight sighed at mention of her boisterous nephew. Her own Yamaha V-Max remained in its makeshift garage, something she lovingly maintained but only used for excursions into the more modern parts of the multiverse. "He...can allow his enthusiasm to get the better of him, I fear."

     His soft chuckle was answered with one of her own, content that he was able now to show that much. Far from the coldness of Camelot and the consuming flames of Camlann, it would seem that he had finally found peace, contentment, and a new purpose. And best of all for her, he was once more at her side.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Bedivere was sufficiently cleanly that even on campaign, out in the midst of wilderness, he would keep himself clean-shaven. If he didn't bring a razor with him, then he would use one of his sidearms, well-honed to a sharp bite. Even Arturia in all of her study would be hard-pressed to think of a time when he might have neglected that morning or evening ritual.

  Only once -- after the battle that lost Caliburn, when he had been unconscious for several days and incapacitated for many more. Thankfully, his hair is very pale, so pale as to be lost in the pallor of his skin unless he were to let it grow for much longer than that week or two in which he couldn't physically handle a razor. Still, it had been enough to show that he probably could have sported a neatly-trimmed, short beard if he had ever wanted to.

  When it came to his acceptance of Roman custom, Bedivere was curiously split, in those first days in Camelot. He preferred the Roman style of clean-shaven jaw, yet he wore his hair long, like the Dál Riata and other Celtic regions, braided or partly braided in the same manner they might prefer. Once in a great while, he'll wear it down for the sake of convenience; a detail that Arturia hasn't minded so much.

  For the most part, though, his habits are thoroughly Roman, at least those he had adopted as the Welshman he had molded himself into. Even putting aside his Welsh persona, he had found sense in many of those customs, and so he adopted them.

  He had always presented himself as cleanly and tidy, which only underscored his precise and methodical nature. Yet Arturia might have seen him return home to Camelot with raw hands -- during her lonely nights spent watching him on patrol from her window, she might have seen him unclasp agauntlet once he was alone, when the air was still; rubbing at the chafed and raw skin. It was a rare occurrance, but probably noteworthy to her; he rarely if ever had removed his armour in her presence, save in battle, if a piece had been crushed beyond its ability to be worn.

  "Most like," the silver-haired knight offers, reaching up to rub at his jawline thoughtfully.

  He might like to stable the Black One, once autumn settles over the valley, but even Bedivere isn't foolish enough to try that. That horse would throw itself at anybody who tried to control it, he can gauge that much, and that horse would tear the offender apart. More damaging than that would be the psychological damage, and the loss of trust such a forceful action would incur. Bedivere sighs toward the watching stallion, looking momentarily at a loss. Time is all they can really depend on in this matter. "Aye, he could have been. A spirited fellow, and mayhap one an inexperienced owner could not handle conveniently; rather than work with his fine spirits, they had tried to stifle them."

  It's unfortunate, and disappointing, but perhaps the Black One might trust again, if he were given time and gentleness. If he were showed kindness, instead of an expectation of punishment.

  Much like the King of Knights, Bedivere was slow to trust, and part of that inherent trust included the ability to let people close to him. Even in the courts, he had never allowed anyone to stand too near him, except to stand beside the king. Even then, when they had not known each other so well, he had been at ease enough to allow her into his personal space. No one else had ever been afforded such trust except his brother, and even then, the two had been more aloof once they had achieved knighthood.

  Ironic that the thing he loathes so much is the thing that brings him so much comfort -- when it comes from Arturia, anyway.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "Better not to allow him," he murmurs into her hair, eyes half-closing as he considers. If they let Gawain take his motorcycle through, he'd tear up fields, leave tire-marks everywhere, and scare the daylight out of the villagers. "It will be quieter that way. Much quieter. I prefer the quiet," he adds, letting his eyes close. "I have lost my taste for loudness and bustle; many years ago, I think." Dun Realtai, then, is a godsend.

  He doesn't move to set off just yet, though, content to stand in the sunset with his arms around her, head resting over hers. That unruly lock of hair tickles at his nose, but he doesn't mind too much, save to snort it out of the way. "May we linger a moment, my lady? I should like to return home, but the evening is so nice." He draws back enough to smile down at her, a little shyly. "Though, it is much nicer to share it with you, my love. Ah, God be good, sometimes I still cannot believe my blessings."

  Really, there's only one that he cares about, and it's the woman at his side -- once a king, once the person he would have gone to the ends of the earth for, and nearly did. Now, though; now she's so much more than simply his proud and remote king.

  Something catches the corner of his eyes. Bedivere squints slightly. A passing villager, so far out that he can't even make out the person's face or identity... but they stop, facing the knight directly, before moving on. They'd definitely seen him there with Arturia, that much he can somehow tell...

  At first, caught between his sense of duty and his personal feelings, the misconception had been embarrassing; Bedivere had not known quite how to reconcile the two halves -- because while part of him wanted to be truthful and correct the false assumption, another part of him hadn't minded so much. It still doesn't, in fact.

  Hesitating, he tightens his arms around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. His voice lowers until it's no more than a low murmur. "Even if we've not quite gotten around to correcting the villagers' misconceptions... I do not think I mind, so much, my lady. It is... it is nice, to linger like this. And I do not think I mind so much that they think of us as... such." His smile flickers a little, hesitant. "I think I should like..."

  He had given her his harp; that alone had been sign enough of his regard for her. Yet it seems he lacks the courage to make formal the assumptions the villagers have made.

  He is still not so brave, yet; he has not yet found such courage in him.

  Bedivere has been through battles straight out of nightmare, caught in unfavourable odds that should have killed a lesser man. He has faced down entire lines of roaring Saxon savages, and met them blow for blow. He faced down his own countrymen after Mordred had incited them to rebellion, and while he had been despairing and enraged, he had not been afraid.

  The idea of making plain his feelings /too/ blatantly to Arturia is still more terrifying to him than any of those things.

  Maybe he's finally starting to come out of his emotional shell, and learning to express himself more willingly. Or... maybe he's just a little shaken. He had dreamt of Camlann the previous night. Those old familiar nightmares might not have been every night any more, but they had still been a presence, and may well always be with him, for the rest of his days. Still, whichever it is, it seems like he's been slowly, slowly listening to her request to him to be more open with her. He had been forced to be secretive for so long that he had almost forgotten what it was like to be earnest with other people.

  "Forgive me," he murmurs into her hair. "I speak too boldly."

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia had liked to think that Britons had adopted only the better parts of Roman customs. They valued cleanliness -- a bath was no simple luxury, but a necessity -- while bloodsport was considered barbaric. Though the Empire had controlled the lands for years, that grasp had been tenuous even at the height of their power, and they remained Britons at the core. Lip service had been paid to the Emperor, and so long as the taxes flowed, their backwater island was too much trouble to more strictly enforce Roman ways. By the time Arturia was born, even the lingering presence of Roman troops had become a rarity. As the Empire spiralled into decline, Albion was left to fend for itself.

     What had once been a modest fortress became, under her birth-father's hand, a sprawling castle, the seat of the Pendragon clan, and the throne of Britain. When Arturia ascended that throne, she had sought to make it something more. Her dreams for Camelot would have made it into a shining beacon for the people and a utopia where they would be free from violence and suffering. In some ways, she had succeeded; that forgotten Imperial outpost became a symbol throughout the ages. Still, she had failed to make it into the elusive utopia, believing that a better and stronger king could have done so.

     Dun Realtai was likewise not the utopia of her visions, but now she realised that such places depended as much on the people themselves as their king. What they had created here was -- though no paradise -- a place largely freed from violence and suffering. It was the most important part of her vision, she had come to realise.

     And here, in Dun Realtai, if ever Sir Bedivere had returned from a far-off battlefield with raw hands from constant wearing of armour, the petite knight was now free to fuss over him and tend to his wounds.

     In all fairness, Arturia would be satisfied whether or not the Black One learned to trust them or not. He was, like her, stubborn. And she of all people would respect those proper boundaries, having been accosted on more than one occasion regarding it. Sakura and Bedivere had likewise respected her obstinate nature rather than attempting to force change or simply obeying her out of respect for her rank. Perhaps that was why they had been the ones successful at actually changing her. And perhaps that was the key to changing the stallion's cautious and hostile nature while retaining his spirit.

     A light, soft sound almost like a short chuckle rose in her throat. "I think that perhaps I have lost some of my tolerance, as well. I much prefer little more than the noise of the village square during the day." Much of her faction business took them out into places such as Boston, but Arturia found that she much preferred Dun Realtai's relative quiet.

     The jade-eyed knight turned her face up towards him, reflecting his smile. "Aye, I hardly mind. It is quite a pleasant evening...the sunset is beautiful here." It reminded her of the better times in Britain, when the sun began to descend below the rolling hills and fields, turning everything to an elusive, magical gold. Years ago, such a sight would have filled her with melancholy and homesickness...but now she had a true home and the companionship of her love, and such a sight only filled her with peace and contentment.

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia had been divided ever since she had learned of the misconception of the villagers regarding the two knights. While she valued honesty and wished to never again mislead the people as she had by hiding her true gender, their assumptions had been of a benign and beneficial sort when there was little else for them to have hope in. Per her own beliefs, she knew she should clear up the misunderstanding and make no excuses for failing to correct them...but at the same time, it was not /entirely/ a misunderstanding. There had been some truth to it, and soon enough it would be a complete truth.

     "Well, they were not entirely mistaken," she admitted. "I do not mind, either...though perhaps before..."

     She flushed slightly. "They will be rather perplexed, I should think. But I hope they shall not be too upset."

     Bedivere was hardly alone in his bashfulness. It had been a good thing they could understand one other in the absence of words, considering that words always seemed to fail them. And fortunately no words were needed when he dreamed of the fires of Camlann, when she remained a silent presence with her arms around him as he shook from the horrors long since passed. Their past had left them with scars and pain that would always remain, but with patience, they would heal.

     "Not at all," Arturia reassured him. "We are no longer what we once were...though we remain knights, I am no longer your king. What was proper decorum is no longer necessary..."

     She paused for a moment before continuing. "Nor is it something I wish for."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Although most of those who came after the Romans were fiercely independent in their own cultural ways, many more adopted those Roman customs they found use in, such as a clean-shaven appearance; and, as with Romans, the necessity of bathing. Bedivere had always taken it a few steps further, scrubbing obsessively after a campaign. His hands had always been scrubbed raw, as raw as from wearing his armour everywhere.

  Part of Dun Realtai's charm was its tough, independent people. Gone was the high-maintenance aristocracy with their power games, replaced by a populace as resourceful as they were resilient. They did for themselves, and Bedivere couldn't appreciate that more. It was nice not to have to manage politics on top of the actual restoration efforts -- those alone were daunting.

  It was the silver-haired knight's hope that the Black One could be turned around. In spite of his violent nature, he is a fine animal; worthy of a king, certainly. With such an intractable temper, though, it's difficult to say where the wind may blow with that one. Any mistakes would set back potential months of progress, ruining his fragile trust. At least now the horse doesn't charge at them when they enter the paddock.

  "The sunset is beautiful anywhere here, but better still in the present company." Bedivere allows himself a faint half-smile. "Mayhap they'll be perplexed, but I do not think it will upset them overly." It's a little embarrassing, but they're a sensible sort of people, for the most part.

  He's silent for a moment as she reassures him, and maybe chides him, just a little, for his subdued sort of mortification.

  Tilting his head, he shakes his head as they walk, making his way directly through one of the fields -- wheat stalks hiss in the breeze around them. "Then I shall endeavour to remember, when I can, though I cannot promise to remember at all times. Such old habits are passing difficult to break," he adds, casting her a brief but meaningful look. It'd been his neck on the chopping block to keep those secrets, and adhere to those hidebound protocols.

  He manages a bright smile, though, settling an arm around her as they walk. "To tell you the truth, my lady," he breathes into her hair, as though enjoying a good private joke, "neither do I."

  And so it is the knights go, back up the hill to their home -- a word that still strikes Bedivere as odd when he thinks about it... in all, though, he is content with that. Beyond content, even. He couldn't ask for more.