Difference between revisions of "4521/Debt Unpaid"

Latest revision as of 23:06, 7 September 2016

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Dun Realtai's autumns have a tendency to be cold and wet, with alternations between flurries of rain and clear, cold skies. Today seems to be one of the latter days, although the clouds marching on the horizon promise rain later in the evening, and a lot of it. Thunder growls ominously in the distance, and there is a sharpness to the breeze that hadn't been there before.

  Right now, though, the courtyard is cool but tolerable. Not many servants are about this afternoon, which leaves Bedivere free to use the open space to practise. A wooden rack is set up, full of wooden practise weapons, and a stout chunk of wood that was once a trunk has been placed as a target dummy. Chips of bark and wood lie strewn about it, suggesting he's been using it for quite some time; perhaps even since breakfast.

  At the moment, there's no sign of anyone else. He's content to go through his maneouvres, wearing his plate armour and wielding a wooden longsword. Not quite the secret weapon that a light spear is -- but still dangerous enough in his hands.

Saber (346) has posed:
There are times when the land seems to want to remind Arturia that, while it is now her home, it was not Britain. Her homeland saw more than its fill of rain -- especially in the spring and seasons -- but it was rarely the deluge that she had learned was a Dun Realtai staple. That the lands were not the lush rainforest it would have been otherwise was a testament to the destruction wrought by dark magic. The Tylwyth Teg, she reflected, must have been equal parts out-of-sorts and livid.

     Yet, the fields themselves reminded her of her childhood home, with its copses, glens, dales, and the thick forests beyond the borders of the fields. At times she half-expected to see the familiar estate beyond a particular thicket, and a young Kay grumbling over his daily chores or Sir Ector tending to their horses. At least, when the weather was not reminding her where and when she was. With the weather as clear as it was now, she was subtly reminded of that part of her past that she truly missed.

     Of course, she held another reminder of the time and place in her hands, keeping it away from a similar reminder. The tsukumogami Bedivere had brought back by accident from Azuma -- what had once been a priest's gong -- continued to try waddling on stubby legs, its hammer mutely thumping on its 'shell'. There was a light scoring on it; the handiwork of Kepas. She had just retrieved the beleagured creature from the fey hound's teeth, scolding him mildly that the tsukumogami was not, in fact, a chew toy. On her way, with the puppylike fey hound padding behind her happily, she passed by the training grounds, pausing to observe the knight in his exercises, the gong-creature still in her hands. Well, admire, really.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Despite a superficial resemblance to Albion in the summer months, Dun Realtai is its own bizarre microcosm of weather. Summers are warm and mild, with occasional storms. Spring, fall, and winter are pure savagery, though, and cold enough to tax even the modern touches that had been integrated into the village.

  Winters regularly see storms that can dump up to ten to fourteen feet of snow overnight, and those brave enough to shovel snow are kept inordinately busy throughout the season. They're not always that bad, of course, but it snows tremendously more than it ever did in Britain.

  Whether that's from being overseen by a being like Alaia or not is up to fate, though.

  In the meantime, life goes on. Bedivere is about to follow through on another stroke of his practise sword, but checks himself mid-swing with a grunt. Bound as they are on a supernatural level, he can sense Arturia's approach, looking up. Although his expression never changes, there's still a trace of warmth in his eyes--

  --which quickly turns to amusement, as he sees what she's carrying, and the way Kepas is padding after her so intently. The fey hound is as silent as he always is, and the only sound he makes is the click of his claws against the cobblestones.

  Bedivere sighs in mock exasperation, straightening and planting the tip of the sword to lean on. "Again?" he asks, tilting his head as he regards the tooth-scored gong. His eyes flit between the hound, the gong, and then turn back to the hound again; he rubs his chin speculatively. "I wonder if Kepas could chip a tooth on that gong."

  Something rustles in the shadow of the oak's branches, high above. A few leaves drift down over Arturia's head; suspiciously close to her. Well, /something's/ up there. Bedivere seems unconcerned, though, as though he doesn't even notice the leaves.

  "Hm. I'm not certain what we would do to distract him from the gong, unfortunately." If it were a real hound, he might suggest something bitter or spicy to deter him, but Kepas doesn't even seem to eat. He'll take table scraps happily enough, but he doesn't really seem to /need/ food.

Saber (346) has posed:
Naturally, that preternatural link works both ways; as a Servant, Saber was able to sense her Master as long as he remained within a reasonable distance. Had he gone to the fields or left Dun Realtai altogether, she would have known. They had never been able to surprise each other no matter how silently they moved, but now such a thing was impossible. Arturia knew it would not be long before he acknowledged her presence, which would unfortunately interrupt his practice.

     "Forgive me, I did not mean to interrupt," she apologised as Bedivere stopped.

     The knight-king tilted her head in her gesture suggesting a shrug, her sigh betraying her. "Kepas seems rather fond of him, in his own way. Though I wonder if perhaps he does not quite understand the tsukumogami is a living thing, or else he believes he does not mind it."

     With another sigh, she examined the scoring. "Fortunately, I believe these will buff out," she mused, turning to frown slightly at the hulking creature, who merely answered her displeasure with what would have been happy panting in a normal canine, his jaws hanging open, suggesting that there would otherwise be a dog's tongue lolling out. "You are fortunate he is as durable as he is...or perhaps that is why you torment him so?"

     The flaxen-haired swordswoman was distracted from her musings, however, at the rustling above her. If that had not gotten her attention -- as unlikely as it would have been -- the leaves landing in her hair certainly would have. Plucking a few out of her hair, she turned her sea-green eyes up towards the source. Yet even as she does, she continues with their conversation. "Simpler, mundane dog toys would interest him, I fear."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The pale-haired knight shakes his head as she apologises. When he's with her, his expressions don't seem to carry the reservation they usually do. There's warmth to it, even if it remains understated. "It is nothing to apologise for, my lady."

  "I think he would protect it, if it came down to it. Perhaps it's simply his way of showing affection... thank the Lord he does not do the same with us," he adds, apprehensively. "I think such a show of affection would be permanently crippling to the, ah, victim."

  He leans closer, squinting at the scratches and scars criss-crossing through the gong's surface, rearing back just in time to avoid its flailing hammer-tail. "Hm. I believe so. My sword has seen worse, and I was able to scour it clean." Actually, Toph gave both his sword and his armour the metalbending treatment; both are as bright and strong as they were when they were newly-forged.

  These days, he certainly cuts an impressive figure in that armour, now -- any weatherbeaten quality about him no longer comes from that armour. There are no battle-scars to be seen anywhere in it, save the mended parts of the waistcloth, or the holes clumsily patched in his cloak. For all his delicacy, Bedivere is not a very precise tailor.

  As leaves settle in her hair, Bedivere glances up, shielding his eyes and frowning. "Aye, I can only imagine what he might do with a stick. Shred it to splinters, I would reckon. It would not hold his interest for long." His words are distracted, though, attention fixed on what's above--

  Something shadowy and indistinct leaps from the boughs, landing lightly between the two knights, and leaving another few leaves to drift down towards Arturia's hair. A cat, by the look of it, sleek and glossy and black as smoke. Its eyes betray it; no mortal creature can cast light from its eyeslike this one does, a warm and smoky gold.

  Its tail switches once, in the arrogant way cats have learned to master.

  <This one knew it sensed something strange, and now this one finally knows what it was.> The voice matches the eyes, husky and smoky, and clearly not human, accented with the same kind of lilt as Bedivere's voice when he speaks his own native tongue.

  Those gold eyes turn to Arturia, like searchlights, before turning haughtily to Bedivere. <This one is waiting for an introduction,> it adds, imperiously.

  Bedivere, for his part, looks a little bewildered, remembering to close his mouth and blinking in evident confusion. "Oh. Um. Yes." He reaches up to rub at the back of his neck, awkward.

  "My lady, say hello to the, ah, to the Black One."

  <Charmed, this one is sure. My, my. You positively /reek/ of the Otherworld, don't you?> The cat pads up to Arturia, standing up on its hind legs as though for a better look. <And you are...?>

  So busy has the púca been in exploring and mapping out its new home in the past week, it seems, it hasn't thought to introduce itself to the King of Knights...

Saber (346) has posed:
"Perhaps not," Arturia admitted. "Alas, I cannot go unnoticed through no action of my own. Regardless, I did not wish to interrupt your training."

     She considered Bedivere's musings, her head tilted slightly with a slight thoughtful frown. "That may be so," she agreed. "I would have hardly expected the more fierce side of his nature had I not witnessed it for myself...by all accounts, Kepas is..."

     A derp, plain and simple. It was definitely within the realm of possibility that this was affection, for him. And while Arturia could withstand some chewing on, she agreed with the marshal that he refrained from doing so with organic living things.

     However, talk of how to better entertain the fey hound was soon suspended with the arrival of an altogether different manner of fae. Even as the 'cat' landed, Arturia knew precisely that this was simply the form it chose to take. It was no simple housecat, even if it imitated the mannerisms flawlessly.

     The knight kept her face cautiously in the impassive stare she was known for, which was not as effortless as it seemed. She intensely disliked rudeness -- as her past frequent and violent arguments with the King of Heroes could attest -- but at the same time, she could not simply rail at one of the Fair Folk when it was the people who would suffer from a perceived slight. Moreover, she valued courtesy even when those she occasionally dealt with did not. By her own standards, it was only proper that she herself act in accordance with her own virtues.

     Bowing slightly, she hailed the fae. "Greetings," she answered simply. "I am Arturia Pendragon."

     Still, she could not help the slight narrowing of her eyes at his observation. Not that she would have been able to hide her ture nature even were she inclined to do so, but the way he phrased it was more than a little rude. "I am a Servant," she explained more stiffly than she intended to.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "I do not think you would have gone unnoticed regardless of this." Bedivere taps at his left gauntlet with his right, its metal plates ticking softly at the gesture. He half-smiles. "Some habits cannot be turned off so easily. Observation was too vital to me, for too many years, for me to simply stop doing it." Regardless of that, the degree to which he notices her and things about her is uncanny.

  He glances over his shoulder to where Kepas now paws at a pile of leaves, which are miniscule by comparison to the size of his paw. They shatter and crunch, and his claws dig furrows into the dust. Though the earth is dry, it seems wet just beneath the surface where he's dug.

  Yep. He sure is a derp.

  "Completely without dignity," he finishes for her, with a sigh. "Had I not seen that, I would not have believed it, either." Bedivere's expression turns thoughtful. "No doubt you've noticed by now. That was the only time I have ever heard him give tongue. I would not like to hear him, if danger is the only thing that motivates him to 'speak.'"

  That howl was a bone-chilling sound; the stuff of nightmares. Even the villagers had shied from their own derpy guardian spirit when they had heard his serious side, and the bloodthirst in his cry.

  Meanwhile, their uninvited guest widens his kitty eyes at the introduction, looking by all accounts shocked at the name offered to him. Even his whiskers bristle in convincing surprise, tail standing straight out for a moment.

  <Hoh? This one was not expecting to meet with the King of Britain. You are full of surprises,> it asides, glancing back up to Bedivere. The pale-haired knight only shrugs, awkwardly, as the Black One turns his eyes back to Arturia. He seems genuinely interested, now, more than arrogant. <Interesting. Most interesting. Small wonder my cousins are so interested in this place. Your name is known to this one,> it adds, bowing as best a housecat can. <Forgive this one's rudeness.>

  It's eyeing her when it straightens and settles on its haunches. <This one is not certain what a Servant is, but this one would estimate that you have far more than one foot in the Otherworld as the Warrior of White--> Here it indicates Bedivere with a flick of its tail, <--is known to be. No, you are more firmly planted in the Otherworld, with perhaps a foot in this world.>

  "He's a little rude," Bedivere sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck, "but he is a good companion, and he has sworn to me his loyatly. As it turns out, I did not rescue a war horse; I rescued a púca."

  <And this one remembers the kindnesses paid it, even if this one was out of its right mind,> the cat adds, lurching forward and twining around Arturia's ankles in deceptively cat-like manner. <The Wizard Merlin broke this one's bonds, and returned this one to sanity. This one offers its gratitude.>

Saber (346) has posed:
The jade-eyed swordswoman returned the half-smile with a faint one of her own. Even keen observation fails, as rare as that failure would be, but the bond between Master and Servant did not. "Yes, the bond makes what was once improbable now impossible."

     A rare sound made its way past her lips...though perhaps not so rare now, since coming to live in Dun Realtai. She chuckled and shook her head at Kepas, this being yet another silly moment in a stream of silly moments. "Ah, well. Most times, he lacks dignity." Not that she would have him any other way.

     In truth, Arturia had not been certain her name would have been recognised. It was a dangerous thing to give one's name to one of the Fair Folk, setting aside the danger of giving one's true identity at all, if one was a Servant. Still, in her case, her name generally smoothed things diplomatically when it came to the Tylwyth Teg due to her long relationship with them and their part in her legends; not all had been Merlin's doing. It did have its dangers, such as when she namedropped her friend, Vivienne, to the Winter Court when she accompanied Harry Dresden on one of his cases. While it hadn't ended badly, it could have gone better.

     But then, there were many of the Fair Folk who would not have known of her legend and her pact with them. It came as a surprise that this one did. "I appointed Sir Bedivere was my Left Hand, as Sir Lancelot was my Right. I chose him in part for his discretion," she explained.

     Well. Rudeness was easily forgiven by her if one finally remembered one's manners. Deference was something she could do without, but simple manners at least made for civil conversation. She would even talk with demons who were polite...though when one had a part-time job in a demonic version of Boston, that much was a given.

     Arturia politely bowed in turn. "In truth, I did not expect as much, given the nature of so many different worlds having become one," she admitted. "As for the nature of a Servant, it is true I am closer to the Otherworld than not. My existence is that of a familiar; I am no longer human in the strictest sense of the word."

     She raised one pale eyebrow at Bedivere. A púca...that had been unexpected. She turned her attention back to the fae as it, in a very catlike gesture, rubbed against her. Merlin restoring someone to sanity was at once expected and yet, more often the opposite was true. He tended to drive others crazy. Still, she wouldn't deny that he was capable of some good from time to time. "Then, he has my gratitude, as well," she answered sincerely.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "I do not think that creature had dignity, when such was being handed out." Bedivere casts a skeptical glance to the fey hound and his game of leaves. "If it is a ruse, it is a very good one. Why would someone go through the trouble to create a creature like that and give it such mortal mannerisms, though, I wonder?"

  There's no telling where the Black One came from, but it must have been some variant of their own lands. If not Albion, than perhaps Eire; or some place on the outskirts of Dál Riata territory. He recognised Merlin, and he seems to recognise the name of Arturia Pendragon.

  The cat moves as though to leap forward -- and instead, flows smoothly into a different shape, surging around its edges like smoke, and in the blink of an eye there is no housecat, but an enormous war horse, as they had originally seen the Black One. Yet his eyes remain the same, smoky gold and luminant; coat the glossy black of coal. He's enormous in this form; taller still than Bedivere and able to carry two to three riders without much trouble. Perhaps not outside the realm of natural equine possibility, for the very largest breeds -- but on the freakish end of the scale, all the same.

  Arturia will find a velvet-soft nose pushed in her general direction, and the hot breath of a horse as his nostrils flare. That black tail whisks in evident contentment.

  <This one called home the green hills and grey seas of Eire,> the Black One reports dutifully. <Not so far from Albion that your name was not known, this one might add. But this one is uninterested in finding those hills again; this place is much more interesting.> After all, things /happen/ here! And it has such delightfully bizarre visitors from time to time.

  Bedivere folds his arms, eyeing the Black One sidelong. "Master Merlin was the one who noticed something strange. At least, something Otherworldly. I had thought his behaviour strange; and I've the bruises to prove it--"

  <This one does so apologise for that-->

  "--when he would not accept a rider. He came with me willingly enough when I purchased the lot of horses, but he would not take a saddle after that--"

  <--And this one still refuses those foolish human contraptions or taking cold iron into this one's mouth, /bleahh/-->

  "--and so Master Merlin concluded that there must be something about the creature. He knew right away, of course, once he examined him." Bedivere smoothly ignores the púca's constant interjections. "From there, it was a matter of freeing him from the form that had entrapped him."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  <This one at times found it necessary to hide. This one was captured not far from here. Beyond this land's borders, there are a race of giants, or perhaps jotun, this one does not know, who seem to think it great amusement to capture creatures like this one for to do their bidding.> The horse somehow manages to make a face, flicking its ears back and curling its lip scornfully. <So this one hid. But this one must have hid for too long, and this one could not return to the proper form.>

  Bedivere shrugs at Arturia's pointed look. "Aye." Yep, that's more or less the story, at least as much as he's heard it.

  <But you, however, are known to this one, King Arturia Pendragon. This one remembers the sundering of Golden Sword of Victory. And this one remembers the thunder of war over the hill of blood at Camlann. This one was not there, but this one heard from others.> Those smoky gold eyes hood as the Black One moves his head, regarding her from a slightly different angle. <How did you come to be here? This one was to understand the Faerie Queens took you into their vigil.> Somehow he gives the impression of frowning, despite his horse-face. <This one thought you were there, still.>

  Bedivere shrugs elabourately. He'll let Arturia tell that one, because the details are still confusing to him.

Saber (346) has posed:
Alas, she had no answer to that question. Adding such things seemed frivolous, if one was simply creating guard dogs and servants, but perhaps Alaia intended something else for this particular pseudo-hound. Her task had to have been a lonely one. "Perhaps she intended him as company, at least in part." Although that did raise the question: was she lonlier without the derpy icehound?

     Similarly, she had no answer for how the fey cat recognised both the King of Knights and her tutor/advisor. Some variant of their island homelands, she considered. Given the nature of the multiverse, it seemed most likely. And she was proven correct when the púca shifted forms, now in what was for her the more comfortable equine one. While she was certainly familiar with cats -- a few had been kept on Sir Ector's estate as vermin control while nobles in Camelot kept them as exotic pets -- she did have some preferences. But having no desire to return to what was once home...that she certainly understood. "This place seems to draw many visitors both mundane and ethereal, yes. I am not altogether certain why, aside from its status as a recognised haven. It is...preferable to Britain, for me."

     Arturia made no comment on the interjections, waiting until Bedivere finished his explanations. "It was a deep enchantment indeed, for it to have escaped my notice. But it is not so surprising; True Magic remains the only form of magic to have an effect on me. Nevertheless, I regret that I was unable to sense it earlier..." Her gaze fell on the Black One. We would have been able to free you that much sooner."

     In the same way, she was also not surprised that the fae was confused on the matter of her presence. "In truth, my body remains with them. So you are not mistaken."

     The knight-king shook her head slightly. "In truth, I do not know how to return...when my spirit was summoned to the Holy Grail War many years into our future, there was but one way: to win the Holy Grail. Yet now that I am no longer a part of that war, I simply exist as I am now. A spirit, and yet not. I am neither dead, but neither am I entirely alive. I exist in a place between the two while my body remains in Avalon."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "Mayhap she did, or mayhap all of them were as Kepas is, before they were corrupted into the bloodthirsty beasts we had put down." Bedivere reaches up, tugging at the stud in his left ear in thoughtful gesture. "I've a feeling they were more like Kepas, and intended as such. Something that would not frighten the villagers, perhaps, despite their grim visage..."

  Both dainty ears prick forward as Arturia explains herself. <So it would seem. This is a good place. This one has tasted of its fruits, thanks to the Wisewoman's generosity.> In other words, Inga fed him an apple, because Inga likes horses, and because Inga is smart and knows the Fair Folk like flattery. <It is a place of magic, even if its balance is not what this one once knew.>

  <Do not fault yourself.> Those ears flick indifferently, as the Black One raises his head and tilts it in curiously human-like gesture, studying Arturia from one golden eye. <If it is powerful enough to cause even one of the Tylwyth Teg to forget themselves, this one does not think you would have sensed it. This one does not think anyone but one of the Learned One's calibre could have sensed it.> That would appear to be his term for Merlin.

  It's true. Mostly. The 'Learned' one just happens to also be really obnoxious.

  Bedivere regards the war horse with some speculation. "Curious. You know, then, that her body remains with the Faerie Queens? That it is in Avalon?"

  <Of course this one does.> The horse snorts; a blast of breath warm enough to fog in the crisp autumn air. There's also a wisp of smoke coiling through it; yet another giveaway to the horse's true nature. <This one did not see her directly, but this one heard from others. Word travels quickly among the Tylwyth Teg.>

  He turns his gold eyes to Arturia, brow furrowing in that unnerving way horses sometimes do. <This one is confident the Faerie Queens are taking adequate care of your body, in the meantime, although this one is confused by this split.>

  <Hmm.> The faerie horse tilts his head the other way, and though his face never changes, one might get the impression of a thoughtful frown all the same. Turning his head, the Black One studies her from a slightly different angle. <This one is not certain. But this one knows you are also with the Faerie Queens. This one thinks you could return, but this one has also heard of the severity of your wounds.>

  A hoof scrapes at the dust, digging up moist earth. Water pools in the indentation from below. <Think you to return to the world of mortals, King Arturia Pendragon?> The Black One turns, then, pacing a slow, deliberate circle around the King of Knights, studying her with the kind of intensity that would make a lesser person uneasy. He doesn't seem to intend any malice in it; he's merely studying her very closely. <This one does not see any clear reason why, but this one thinks it would be possible.>

  <This one is not certain of the way, but this one thinks you would need to return to your body. But this one is also reasonably confident that before you woke, your wounds would need to be healed. And this one also knows that you are seized on the cusp of death, mere heartbeats before your heart should fail.> The horse finally comes to a stop near Bedivere, switching its tail with a dry rustle of horsehair. Bedivere absently reaches up and rests a hand at the púca's arched neck. <This one thinks you should require something to mend your wounds before you were to wake, or this one thinks you would return to the mortal world, only to leave the mortal coil.>

  <And wouldn't /that/ be an irony.>

  The Black One lowers his head, tilting it to fix Arturia with one smoky gold eye. <This one is willing to help, if that is what you wish, King Arturia Pendragon.>

Saber (346) has posed:
That, Arturia surmised, was the most likely explanation. "I believe that you are most likely correct," she agreed. "For all their fearsome appearance, it would have been prudent to make them seem more as mundane canines are for the sake of not disturbing the villagers too much." As Kepas did with the hunt, that is. But for all that, Arturia was not the only one to be unable to see Kepas as anything other than a derpy hound, albeit with some unsettling features.

     As per her usual, Arturia downplayed whatever hand she had in shaping Dun Realtai. "The winter guardian is most generous, and the appointed lord of the land has more than lived up to my expectations of him. None could have done so well."

     Yes, Bedivere, she will never stop praising you no matter how embarrassed you are over it.

     It wasn't a wrong way to describe Merlin; the derwydd had been the educated class of the various tribes and kingdoms across Albion and its neighbours. But Merlin was as capricious as any of the Tylwyth Teg, and he would doubtless bring that point up at the most inconvenient of times. "I fear that you are correct," she admitted. "My tutor is capable of a great many things regarding magic. Even some which is not native to our reality." That part, for her, was perhaps the most disconcerting.

     "Had the Tylwyth Teg possess no knowledge of me, they know well of Vivienne and Morgana," she explained to Bedivere. "I am known to some simply due to my association with them. That knowledge of my sleep on their isle is not terribly surprising."

     She shook her head at the Black One. Just as Kepas's appearance did not dissuade her from thinking of him as a mundane hound, the equine appearance of the fae did not dissuade her from thinking of him as human...or rather, a being similar to a human. Intelligent, in any case. "I fear there is little they are able to do," Arturia slowly admitted with a nod. "Indeed, without Excalibur's scabbard, my wounds are too grievous to recover from. I believe they have placed me in a form of sleep while my soul is here, though I do not wish for them to be burdened so indefinitely."

     In the past, that had meant undoing her reign and finally accepting her death, but much had changed in five years. But even then, she had no way of knowing how to return. Yet, it would seem the púca had considered that.

     Flaxen eyebrows raised slightly in muted surprise. "I had not considered it feasible," she mused. The circling didn't seem to bother her, but she had dealt with a certain insufferable Fifth King of Uruk, after all. "Though I am certain that the particular point in time exists, finding our way there through the many different worlds would not be possible in a multitude of lifetimes. And there is the point of finding Excalibur's scabbard, yes. Without it, such a journey would be for naught."

     jade eyes flicked to Bedivere, recalling their conversation not long ago. "It was something we had considered," she confessed. "With my role in the Holy Grail War long since past, there is little need to remain as I am."

     What surprised her the most now was the offer of help. The Tylwyth Teg were mercurial, even if they respected her friendship with the Lady of the Lake and her trust in Merlin. "I would be most grateful," she replied. And then, because the Fair Folk never worked for free even for friends and allies, "What is it that you wish for in return?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Bedivere eyes the fey hound sidelong, but he doesn't speculate further. Whatever purpose there was in designing him as he is, it was served; he is as he is, and that seems to suit the villagers just fine. They don't fear him unless he's on the hunt, in his aspect as a predator and stalker rather than a benevolent guardian. Rightly so. Were the creature not entrusted directly to him, even he might be uneasy in those times, too.

  "Indeed, Lady Alaia is most generous in allowing us to remain here." The pale-haired knight folds his arms, to the quiet clatter of steel plates settling. He snorts at the praise, as though to say, /Must you do that every time?/ To the rest, he only shakes his head. He wouldn't know. Dealings of the Fair Folk were not his area of expertise in Camelot, and while he's more experienced, they're still hardly his expertise in Dun Realtai.

  <The Learned One has proven that well enough,> the Black One comments, flicking an ear indifferently. <This one supposes it had hidden a little too well.> The observation is almost sheepish, if a proud creature like the Tylwyth Teg could be so.

  When Arturia looks to him, Bedivere's own gaze slides sidelong to hers, pale violet meeting jade. Something about his expression is guarded, though, almost uneasy. It's one thing to have an ally among the Tylwyth Teg; it's another entirely to have that ally poking about in one's personal business.

  The Black One eyes Arturia with those golden eyes, canting his head very slightly to one side in speculation. <Perhaps it would not be. But perhaps it would, if you had a guide to lead you there. Or, as it were, a hound on the scent.> He flares his nostrils, tail switching. <This one was not present for the making of the Golden Sword of Victory, but this one is familiar with its smell, its aura. This one is reasonably confident it could find it... given something to track. If you, Arturia Pendragon, can find one shard of the Golden Sword of Victory, this one will help you.>

  "Indeed," Bedivere confirms, quietly. "There is no reason to remain as a Servant, since neither of us have any intention of seeking the Holy Grail."

  <Most interesting.> The Black One tilts his head the other way, as though he were focusing on Arturia differently. His tail switches, horsehair rattling softly as he steps closer to close his eyes, and... rest his face right in front of her, like a horse wanting a pat. Or, maybe it's a gesture of respect. It's a little hard to tell this capricious creature's mannerisms, sometimes; and hard to tell how deeply-ingrained the behaviour of his shapeshifted forms may be. <This one had not expected that. Humans are strange.>

  He sighs when she asks for a price in return, a horse-like sound, fluttering her hair. <This one would remain in Dun Realtai and serve you. You know well the Tylwyth Teg do not forget kindnesses paid, and though this one does not well remember its time of confinement, this one remembers there were kindnesses paid it by you and the Warrior of White.> He flicks an ear toward Bedivere to indicate the silent marshal. <That is all this one has desire for.>

  There's a short pause.

  <This one is certain that it wished to ask for more, considering this one is risking its own existence in so doing, but this one cannot remember what this one actually wants. Shall we call it a favour, then?> The horse's head tilts just slightly, only far enough to fix Arturia with one luminant eye. <Before you panic, King Arturia Pendragon, this one will not ask anything malicious of you, nor will this one ask aught that cannot be done, or given. This one has no use for the mercurial whims of others of its kind.> That tail switches again. <This one is a much more practical sort,> he adds, almost smugly.

Saber (346) has posed:
Bedivere's quiet displeasure was met with the faintest of smiles. It was almost a smirk, really. He was even worse with praise than she was, but she could accept it with grace when necessary. Besides which, it was all true. There had never been a time when she questioned her decision to appoint him as Dun Realtai's new lord.

     As much as Arturia would prefer privacy, the details of her life had been laid out with the coming of her legend. While much of it was fantastic fiction, there were parts where the accuracy was unsettling. While she had been traditionally taciturn regarding her legend in general, there was little avoiding it when there were still more than a few who came to her and demanded all the fine details. At the very least, it provided her with ample opportunities to expound on the Eight Virtues.

     Moreover, she was not altogether convinced such a quest was prudent. True, the return of her humanity was something she had idly wished for, but she remained uncertain about where to even begin. And there would, at some point, be a need for intervention from the Tylwyth Teg. Better to have one which was at least somewhat sympathetic and practical, and probably wouldn't have an unreasonable request from them in return.

     She answered Bedivere's misgivings with a glance he would likely be able to read as a shrug and an unspoken thought: /We do need allies and guides in this, if we are to carry it out./

     "Quite true," she agreed with the Black One. My swords -- indeed, much of my armoury -- was crafted by the Tylwyth Teg. It would be impossible to restore them without their help." Unsaid was her last order to Bedivere: return Excalibur to the Lady of the Lake. Unsaid for quite obvious reasons, as he continued to blame himself for her failure.

     But it was no longer something she dwelled upon. This was as much for him as it was for her, she had realised some time ago. She would no longer wield the powers of a Servant, but she would be truly whole again. It was a fair trade, though not one that some would agree to. Then again, most Servants had nothing to return to, having already lived out their mortal lives with their bodies long since dust.

     Arturia nodded. "A favour, then. Very well. If this is agreeable, I will accept your assistance," she replied with all her regal stateliness. Only after the moment passed did she smile slightly. "And I thank you."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The former marshal has always been uncomfortable accepting praise. Although he was capable of accepting it with a modicum of grace in years past, the death of the king has only made him that much more uncomfortable accepting praise. He had failed her, and he has never let himself forget that... or forgive himself for it. One might wonder sometimes if he ever will.

  Still, the Black One either doesn't notice, or tactfully ignores the knight's social stumble. There is no percentage in dwelling on it, not when there are far more interesting things to discuss.

  Bedivere doesn't directly look at Arturia, and this lack of directness is probably what signals his reluctant agreement. Although they saved the Black One, and the púca is in their debt, he doesn't have any desire to entangle himself in matters of the Tylwyth Teg any more than he has to. It's foolish. Not only is it foolish, but it's dangerous. This one is relatively benign, but on the whole, his cousins among the Otherworld are not.

  <Yes, the Golden Sword of Victory, and the Sword of Promised Victory. And forget not the scabbard...> The Black One turns, pacing in a tight circle as one deep in thought. Dust raises from his massive hooves. <Yes, it might be possible, with that. Even this one has heard of its power. So, it is done. This one will assist you, then.>

  And with that, the púca flicks his tail once, turns, and heads down the hill at a leisurely trot. He leaves behind a very bemused-looking Bedivere, who looks to Arturia, shrugs, and shakes his head, as though to say, /I don't understand those creatures at all./

  Once it's clear the Black One is off to explore or bother Merlin or whatever it is a bored púca does, Bedivere sets aside his practise sword (he'll probably collect the lot of them later). He looks after the horse-like creature with a frown. "I shall begin planning for this, ah, expedition, but later. There is some time yet left to us before we may leave. I must speak with Lady Alaia, but it is not yet late enough into the autumn to call upon her."

  With a shrug, he offers his arm to Arturia; the perfect picture of a gentlemanly knight, except the warmth in his eyes. "Well... I suppose that is that, for the moment. In the meantime, would you care to join me for dinner, milady...?"

  As though she'd say no.

Saber (346) has posed:
It seemed that, when it came to praise, the tall knight was doomed to a life of discomfort. For too long, Bedivere's selfless dedication had been taken for granted...and in some cases, even disparaged. Perhaps some thought him /too/ loyal to his king, too rigid in his upholding of the Eight Virtues, neither of which were flaws in her mind. Or perhaps he was too flawless in his picture of knighthood, his example shaming those who sought shortcuts or easier ways of living. But now he was finally recognised for his efforts, and Arturia had no qualms about reminding them.

     She did, however, treat his concerns with the proper amount of gravity. No, the Fair Folk were hardly trustworthy even for the best of them. They held fast to certain unbreakable laws...but those laws were not those of humankind, far beyond their understanding. Any similarities were superficial, at best. But the fact remained that they had need of the púca's help, who most likely knew they did. It was akin to handling fire: never completely safe, but necessary...at least when one was planning quests which involved them. That they would need to maintain constant vigilance was a given. Then again, constant vigilanc was the way of knighthood.

     There were times when she could at least understand a little of the Fair Folk. In some ways, they were much more practical than humans, with little need for mortals' social niceties and manners. Though Arturia followed them, she was at the heart a practical person who would honestly do away with the more elaborate and unnecessary ones given the choice. That habit -- along with her distance -- only fuelled the fires of rumour that she was not human. Some even believed she herself might have been fae...or half-blooded, at any rate.

     Once the Black One departed, she tilted her head in her habitual shrug. There was little to understand about the Tylwyth Teg...or perhaps she understood all too well, having kept the company of the likes of Merlin for so long. Perhaps she was simply acclimated to certain ways. "As troublesome as it may be, we can ill afford to refuse potential allies, as mercurial as they are wont to be."

     That said, the familiar smile returns, reaching her jade eyes. "Aye. How could I refuse?