Difference between revisions of "4603/Apples and Cordwood"

Latest revision as of 01:49, 10 November 2016

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Dun Realtai's autumn wavers between pleasantly brisk and downright horrible. Today it leans more towards the latter, with wan sunshine and a breeze that has less of the knives in it that it usually does. Leaves clatter along the breeze and crunch underfoot, forest boughs stretching over the path that leads to Wisewoman Inga's cottage.

  Resting over Bedivere's shoulder is a woodsman's axe. He isn't wearing his armour today, instead clad in the manner of a peasant, with rough homespun cloth in shades of grey and brown. Looped about his neck is the scarf that Arturia had woven for him, and at his left ear as usual is the blood-red stud on its brass setting. Soft, supple boots complete the ensemble.

  The knight is alone today, unaccompanied by the Black One. She'll hear a polite tap at the door from his left hand as he waits on the stoop.

  Probably he could get started, but it would be rude not to announce himself, wouldn't it?

Inga has posed:
The scent of apple pie baked with plentiful cinnamon wafts from the cottage, mingling with the wood smoke that rises from the chimney. There's a pile of wood in a shed nearby to where Jodis is housed, and while it has some wood prepared its certainly not enough to get her through the month. Perhaps it was possible to come up with a spell of some kind to chop wood, or perhaps even keep a magical fire burning witout it.... but where's the fun in that? Inga is old fashioned. Inga may also enjoy making men chop wood.

Today, Bedivere has volunteered to play lumberjack /and/ bring tea. Both services are quite welcome. She'll have apple pie waiting.

When she hears the knock, Inga moves to open the door, smiling up at Bedi in greeting. She's garbed per usual, but more casually, her overdress a soft fern green, her hair in two braids over either shoulder. "Sir Bedivere, woodsman for the day. Welcome, and thank you for coming. No Black One?" she inquires, raising a brow. They seem attached at the hip.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Sweet apple and cinnamon are a welcome treat, and the knight pauses to inhale deeply, eyes flickering closed for an instant. It's one of his favourite scents. The scent of the sweetbrooms that grew in Dál Riata, the pungent aroma of horse, and the subtle smell of Arturia's hair are also up on his list of favourites... but apples are a secret love of his. It'd been one of the few sweet foods available to the everyman in Albion. While most varieties of fruits were rare, requiring costly import from sunnier climes, apples could be grown in the cool, temperate climate of Camelot's fields.

  He'd nicked one or two from the kitchens, here and there; sometimes for himself, sometimes for Arturia's favourite steeds, and whichever horse might be his at that particular time.

  Bedivere affords himself one last deep inhalation before the door opens.

  "Wisewoman." He's standing there with a faint half-smile, looking more the part of the bard from the northlands than an appointed official. Lordly trappings had never appealed to him very much. "Ah, he is here."

  Bedivere pauses, fumbling at his belt, and produces a small pouch that positively wafts the scent of strong, black tea. A furry little black head pokes its way out of the pouch opening; a bat's tiny head, golden eyes aglow as the Black One looks up to Inga.

  <This one could not resist a trip down the hill.> The little bat wrinkles its nose at Inga, bright eyes smoky gold instead of black. <Although this one could leave, if you prefer.>

  Bedivere pulls the pouch from his belt and unties the pouch from his belt in one motion, a practised flick of his wrist undoing the bindings. He turns it upside-down over an open palm, shaking the tiny bat out -- where he lands on Bedivere's hand with a bit of flailing from those inky-black wings -- and offers the bag to Inga. "Tea, as promised. I do not think he left any hair in it. Come to think of it, I am not certain whether he even sheds."

  The Black One doesn't offer any enlightenment, merely sniffing disdainfully.

  "I am ready to begin," Bedivere adds, indicating the axe on his shoulder, "wherever you keep your firewood."

Inga has posed:
The lovely smell only grows stronger when she opens the door. Baking is a sort of magic, and another that she is quite proficient with. A certain smell calls up memories, emotions, pulling up the past to give it new life. Inga is also fond of apples, for similar reasons. Apples are quite important in Norse mythology as well.

Inga smiles brightly to Black One, almost giggling at how small and adorable he is as a bat. "You are most welcome Black One. I do not suppose you have a form that enjoys eating apple pie?" she asks.

Inga takes the bag of tea and brings it to her nose, inhaling deeply. "Mmm... that is lovely," she says. "Well, if you get started I will brew this up and make us a pot," she says, pointing over to the pile of unsplit wood. "I'll have to order more. Perhaps I should have installed a furnace in this place," she says, shrugging. If it gets unbearably cold she can always go to the apartment, though it might not be much better in Chicago.

Inga extends a hand. "Would you like to keep me company for a few moment Black One?" she offers. If he accepts, Inga will place the little bat on her shoulder and bring him inside.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  <Naturally.> The bat clambers from Bedivere's hand, form flowing like smoke into the shape of a shaggy wolfhound, exactly the type that would have accompanied Irish landholders and kings alike; like the kind that Setanta slew with a hurling-ball. The hound tilts its head, eyeing Inga with those smoky gold eyes, perking folded ears. 'Better?' the look seems to say, although the Black One says nothing.

  Bedivere, meanwhile, inclines his head in acquiesce. Shouldering the axe, he turns to make his way toward where she keeps the wood; the sound of chopping comes not long after, along with the occasional muted grunt of effort from the knight.

  <Certainly.> The click of claws follow Inga into the cottage -- much too quick for her to try and take his bat form into hand, already changed. There's a short pause. <Why?> The Fair One eyes the Wisewoman as though speculatively. <This one hardly thinks that you need assistance brewing tea, a thing this one is reasonably certain you do on a regular basis.> The Black One doesn't smirk. It's still audible in his tone.

Rhapsody (325) has posed:
The knight was followed!

Nothing malicious was meant by it, it was just that Rhapsody had been sleeping a _LOT_ the last week. After her little song to the village earlier in the week, Rhapsody was basically waiting for some news. As no news has come, and she had roused to get something to eat, the dragon caught sight of Bedivere from a window and decided to go see what he was up to. She hadn't realized she'd end up running into Inga, and maybe more. Likely Bedi's black-fume friend would notice her arriving before she even had a chance to knock. Maybe!

Inga has posed:
Inga blinks at Black One changes so fluidly, slowly smiling. She is impressed. Delighted, even. It is, frankly, just /cool/. She leads the way inside, and for a creature now a dog, it is filled with interesting scents. Not just the pie and the fire burning, but all the herbs hanging to dry, soap from the bathroom, the lingering scents of the people that live there and various guests.

Inga starts to make tea, putting the kettle over the fire to boil. "I thought you might like new experiences, new places. I suppose my cottage isn't extremely exciting...but if you would rather watch Bedivere chop wood while I make tea..." she shrugs, looking into the fridge. "But, while you are in this form, I happen to have a bit of steak..."

Inga looks up suddenly, blinking. "Oh, another is coming this way," she remarks, getting a brief vision of Rhapsody following Bedivere. Ah well, there's a whole pie to be eaten. Company is more than welcome.

Back to Black One. "I am curious, can you change into anything you desire?" she asks. Naturally, she is curious as to the limits of his shapeshifting. Can he be humanoid? Can he be very large? Say, as large as a dragon or a whale? Witches are as curious as cats, and luckily have magic to help them out of the trouble curiosity gets them into.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The dog is definitely checking all the scents, sniffing overtime at the sudden plethora of things to smell. Perhaps he has sharp senses in all of his forms, but when it comes to the realm of the olfactory, a dog's nose just can't be beat.

  <This one does not care either way.> It might be a slightly insulting statement from another human, but the Tylwyth Teg consider such things differently. For him, the fact that he doesn't care isn't meant hurtfully; it's simply a statement of fact. He's honestly apathetic whether going or staying.

  The Black One licks ink-dark chops in answer to Inga's mention of steak. Meat's been a rare treat around the citadel. Bedivere is not very carnivorous by nature. Where a noble of any other place might favour a diet heavy in red meat, the knight eats more like a peasant -- more of a vegetarian leaning, and gladly so. Many noblemen had eaten so poorly they ate themselves right into sickness.

  Unfortunately it means he doesn't get steak all that often.

  No, no distractions, only steak now. Except Inga goes to look out the window, to which the Black One swivels ears back with an unhappy sound somewhere between canine growl and whine.

  Meanwhile, out in the yard, Bedivere brings the axe down and neatly splits the length of a chunk of wood, both halves falling away from the heavy blade. Splitting logs is not particularly difficult, and such a tedious, repetitive task is actually calming in its own way. He doesn't mind such 'menial labour' at all. He's not at a good angle to see Rhapsody just yet, though.

  Yeah, the Black One notices Rhapsody approaching. He doesn't care. Inga offered steak. That is at the moment priority one.

Rhapsody (325) has posed:
While two head inside, and Bedivere stays outside, Rhapsody is able to close the distance that Bedivere had gained as the dragon wandered through the still, somewhat unfamiliar, area. Realizing the knight has his back mostly to her, "Good day," she greets at distance, offering a wave if Sir Bedivere glanced up as a result. Well, at least the sleeper had awakened (and not leveled the entire area). "I didn't mean to follow, I just wasn't sure where everyone had gone."

Inga has posed:
Inga smiles almost smugly. She'd thought Black One would want some meat. She doesn't know how Bedivere manages. Vegetables are all well and good but people need protein! No wonder he's so pale...

Inga puts the steak down on a plate for Black One, continuing to prepare the tea. Now, she prepares two cups. She paused by the cuppboard for a moment, then grabs a fourth. Perhaps a premonition, perhaps just a precaution. Either way, the tea and the pie are both finished. Inga pulls the pie out of the over then pours water from the big iron kettle into a more delicate teapot.

As Black One is assumably chowing down, Inga limps back to the door to call out. "Bedivere, Rhapsody, the tea and pie are done. Come in," she says, waving them over, acting as if she'd expected Rhapsody all along.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The way Bedivere whirls with the axe brandished suggests that he did not hear Rhapsody at all; in fact, there's no recognition in his eyes at all. He certainly knows how to wield an axe, too, for the way he holds it suggests he knows how to do damage with it. For a fleeting instant Rhapsody is presented with a man haunted, almost frightened, before he seems to dredge her face up from the depths of his memories.

  Inclining his head in a way that suggests he's covering his nerves, Bedivere puts aside the two-handed woodsman's axe, leaning slightly on the haft. "Various places. There is much to be done before winter. Including, aye, preparing cordwood." He's wearing simple homespun -- rough linen in greys and browns, and soft supple leather boots. Wound about his neck is a slightly clumsy hand-stitched scarf the same colour as the mantle of his cloak, definitely hand-made.

  He reaches up, frowning thoughtfully and tugging at the stud in his left ear. "Hm. Preparations, yes." Something seems to trouble him, something clouding his expression for a fleeting instant; it's gone, then, replaced by that faint half-smile of his. "I trust you are feeling better. It is good to see you up and about."

  Inside the cottage, the Black One manages a faint wag of that plumed tail, and his eyes are locked on Inga. She mentioned steak and he's going to hold her to that. Yes, indeed. He follows her up until the point that she lets go of the steak, and then he falls on the cut of meat with all the hunger of a wolfhound starved through a lean winter.

  Outside, Bedivere beckons for Rhapsody. "Shall we go in?"

  He leaves the axe, brushing splinters from his tunic and pushing the door open. "Ah, thank you, Wisewoman." That half-smile turns just a little shy, a little awkward. "I have always enjoyed apples."

Rhapsody (325) has posed:
For a long moment, the dragon isn't sure how to respond to... whatever that was. Something about the familiar lord of this area was -very- different for a moment. Then it passed and all seemed to be back to normal. "Ah, yes, certainly.." she'd finally reply before heading in, likely to enjoy some team and be fairly quiet the rest of the night.

Inga has posed:
Inga raises a brow very slightly at Bedivere's bashful smile. What is embarrassing about liking apples? Who doesn't like apples!? Still, she tucks that bit of knowledge away in case she even pisses him off and needs to make ammends somehow. These are good things to know. "There is nothing not to like about apples, certainly," she replies.

Once everyone is seated, Inga cuts and distributes the pie and serves the tea before sitting, a hand moving to her lower back to briefly rub out a kink. She looks to Rhapsody and blinks, wondering why she looks a bit spooked. Strange. She looks to Bedivere and raises a brow in silent question.

A piece has also been cut for Black One, for when he's ready for dessert. Just appeasing the local fae, per usual!

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The knight shrugs, faintly, in response to Inga's puzzlement. He had thought nothing of his momentary slip. When others get past his formidable powers of perception, he tends not to react well. He doesn't like surprises; they tended to be deadly to him, in the heyday of Camelot. It might be that he doesn't even think of his momentary slip to Rhapsody, and so he doesn't understand Inga's confusion.

  "Certainly not." Bedivere allows himself a soft chuckle. "My horses over the years have agreed with that opinion."

  He settles himself on one of the chairs, although he does so stiffly. It's almost certain that he'll pay for chopping firewood later, but he doesn't mind doing a favour to Inga. She's in no shape to do so herself, and Harry Dresden is not always a constant presence in Dun Realtai to do the wood-chopping for her.

  The black wolfhound settles himself at Bedivere's side, nearly as tall as the man's elbows while seated on his haunches, and he licks his chops in sober anticipation.

Inga has posed:
Inga laughs lightly. "Jodis certainly enjoys apples as well," she says, sliding a piece of pie over to Black One. "Be sure to have a good soak in the baths after chopping wood, will help you from getting sore," she advises, not so much mind reading as reading his stiff posture.

She looks to his scarf and smiles slyly. "A gift from Arturia?" she asks. She makes a mental note to offer Arturia some knitting lessons.

"So, I take it our ah...young Arthur hasn't met Arturia yet? I certainly hope not for I very much wish to be there to witness it."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The faerie hound delicately takes the piece of pie by its corner, swings it over to the floor, and proceeds to noisily devour it. Don't worry, he'll clean up all the pie filling spattered about the flagstones. It's far too delicious to waste. That would be a tragedy.

  "I intend to," Bedivere concedes, with a grimace. He's not planning on doing anything more like this today. Not only would he be scolded for it, but his body would probably make him regret it. He's not particularly old -- but those years are hard-lived, with too many of them spent forcibly burning the candle at both ends; and too many injuries suffered over the years, where he had to sacrifice rest and healing for appearances.

  Leaning back, he looks down at the scarf, brows arching. "This? Oh. Aye. A Christmas gift from her, actually." He strokes at the fabric with a knuckle, as though just now noticing it. "I quite like it." It doesn't matter that some of the stitching is lopsided, or that the subtle pattern of its weave might not match up exactly. It was made by her, and so it's pretty much up there with 'sacred relic of God' in terms of stuff he pays reverence to.

  The Black One doesn't say anything. He's too busy bolting down pie.

  "The young lord? No, not as of yet. At least, I do not think so. My lady and I have been occupied with autumnal preparations. We are into the equinox, and so time grows short until the winter arrives." His expression turns somber. "I would have those preparations finished before I am ready to leave."

Inga has posed:
The wisewoman nods, eating her own slice of pie and enjoying the tea Bedivere brought for her. "It is very nice. My needles and loom has been busy as well. Its always a struggle to keep everyone warm, and I don't need as much sleep as I used to so..." well, the evidence of Inga's craftiness are in the living room. Lots of wool both spun and unspun, finished hats and mittens and socks, a couple of blankets... "I'm going to give out hats among the villagers I think. There are a few I think will need them."

"Speaking of going away...let me know if I can help in any way," she says. She'd offered to come with them, that over still stands.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Despite impeccable table manners, the knight eats quickly, like one who takes regimented military meals. He can pack away an astonishing amount of food in one sitting, and he does it with a speed that belies a man accustomed to eating and sleeping where one can, and then meeting the enemy in battle as the need arises. The Saxons didn't exactly wait until after meal times.

  His eyes slide about the room, noting the various craftwork as it's pointed out to him, but he doesn't stop eating his slice of pie or drinking his tea. "I'm certain your efforts are appreciated, Wisewoman. They are by me." He inclines his head. "I shall. Your company would be welcome, so you may wish to see to your affairs here, as well."

  Inga is a sensible sort of person, and she knows well how to deal with the Ever-Living ones. She would be an excellent ally to bring along, and she's knowledgeable about the old ways, too. "I suspect that Miss O'Suilebhain would also accompany me whether I like or not, so you may wish to make arrangements so your cottage is well-kept in our absence. I expect we will be away from home for the winter."

  The Black One is still silent. Nom nom nom.

Inga has posed:
Inga looks thoughtful, looking around the cottage. "Yes. I will see to things. I think I would like to accompany you...if I will not be in the way," she adds. Hopefully, there will not be many horrible battles or...running...or...excessive stairs. "I am sure I can find someone to look after the cottage and the animals," she says, already making a list of people in her mind.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "You will not be in the way. Your skills will no doubt be useful, and necessary, as will your diplomacy with the Ever-Living Ones." Bedivere inclines his head, studying inga thoughtfully through those faded violet eyes. "We will have need of that if we are to succeed. And I do not intend to accept failure as an option."

  There is a core of steel to this seemingly broken and fragile man; this gentle soul who would not have even taken up the sword if not for love. A steely smile flickers across his face. "Wisewoman. I cannot promise that it will not be dangerous. That would be a lie, and I do not tell falsehoods. But your company would be much appreciated," he adds, with a dip of his chin. "I thank you."

  And with that, he will enjoy an evening of good company, tea, and apple pie.

  ...So will the Black One. Nom nom nom.