Difference between revisions of "642/The Mysterious Motorcyclist"

Latest revision as of 01:44, 22 September 2014

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The region of Dún Reáltaí is a rolling plain, still covered in patchy snow and boasting a few dips and hills. For the most part, it remains level, with a few streams that cut through the valley floor, and distant, fog-shrouded mountains ringing the massive valley. It's a picturesque region, or at least, it would be if not for the frost-burnt, barren earth.

Where the snow's melted, it's revealed barren earth, almost blackened, where the vegetation has died. If not for the unnatural winter, it would have been grassy plains, good for farmland and the keeping of livestock, but at present nothing seems to grow here.

Rising above the plain, near the heart of the valley, is a single hill. It is a rather large hill, and atop it is a rather large castle keep, at least five storeys high by the look of it. Rising beside it is an unnaturally massive oak tree, which almost clears the keep itself; a monster of a tree that, while dormant with its branches bare, has nonetheless survived whatever calamity visited this land.

The western slope of the hill sports a village crawling up its sides, its base encompassed by a crumbling curtain wall. Its main boulevard climbs the hill in gentle switchbacks, making its way through half-repaired houses, the crumbling infrastructure of less important buildings, and a ruined market square, whose cracked and crumbled fountain bears no water.

There are a goodly number of villagers out and about, mostly busy with repairs. If asked as to the whereabouts of their leadership, they'll point up the hill, where Dún Reáltaí's central keep looms.

The keep itself is in various states of disrepair, visible from the outside; while the uppermost storey is more or less repaired, the floors between the first and fifth are in obvious need of fixing, with holes and portions of the wall that are simply gone. Fortunately, the presence of scaffolding around it suggests it's receiving those repairs, though there's nobody on it – it looks like all available manpower is down in the village.

Almost.

There's one figure in the courtyard, here, a single tall man with a broom, sweeping out the dust and the debris. Sir Bedivere of Dún Reáltaí does cut something of a noble figure, but he's hardly dressed in the manner of nobility. Indeed, he wears commoner's clothing, and the rough homespun cloth of his tunic and leggings, combined with his particular choice of tool, practically screams 'commoner.' Surely this is not the vaunted lord that all of the villagers are pointing visitors towards...

Yet it looks like he must be. He's the same man that had arrived in the tundra, with the silvery-blonde hair, the violet eyes, and the single redstone stud in his left ear. In spite of his common clothing, he has a very fine-looking mantled greatcloak thrown over his shoulders against the chill, its mantle a soft blue-grey, the cloak itself white. It's lined with grey fur from some unfortunate series of beasts or another, too, and fastened at the front with steel chain and a cross hanging from the chain-anchor on each shoulder.

At present, he doesn't look like he's expecting visitors.

Rider of Blue (567) has posed:
    The roar of a rather powerful motorcycle in low gear was intensely audible from the keep's courtyard, as the helmetted and leathered figure of that mysterious servant tore across the rolling plain of Dún Reáltaí's village. The motorcycle weaved here and there, dodging the occasional villager, before finally deciding to go up one half-finished wall and using it as an impromptu ramp. The Evil Kneivel-wanabe quickly increased the throttle, flying off the wall and catching some significant air time up towards the keep.

    As it turns out, this put him and his passenger landing quite neatly behind the lord of the keep, the motorcycle landing at a screeching parallel. This also had the side effect of tossing up a good amount of the dust and debris that Sir Bedivere was sweeping, not that the driver of the motorcycle seemed to care as he swung himself off of his mount. A casual salute was given to Bedivere as he approached the man, muffled voice still somehow having a sort of grand quality to it as he spoke.

    "Not very appropriate clothes for a ruler now, are those?" he quipped, dusting himself off. "Still, it seems that every little bit counts. You and this keep been through a bit of a rough patch, havn't you?"

Sieg (566) has posed:
    But as happened to be the case before, Rider of Blue is not alone. This time around Sieg is actually a hell of a lot more nervous than he was before, because Rider is doing some show-off stunt shit and he really doesn't have the body for it. He's holding onto the servant TIGHTLY and doing his best simply not to freak out. The impacts vibrate through his bones and the whole experience is just incredibly jarring to him. When they finally come to a halt, sweeping up behind Bedivere after doing some ridiculous thing with a half-finished wall, Sieg is incredibly grateful for the opportunity to dismount and stand up straight again.

    He's dressed more or less as before, except perhaps a little better bundled up for the weather. Today his hands are covered in gloves, so his command seals are not visible anymore. A black-and-white checkered scarf is wrapped around his face when his helmet comes off. For the moment, he leaves it on the back of the motorcycle.

    Even if Rider didn't want to stop for a while, Sieg would really have to. He feels like he's going to be ill. Looks a little bit like it, too. More pale than usual. He looks between Rider and Bedivere then.

    "If someone is in charge," He asks, "isn't it up to them what's appropriate to wear?"

    Sieg wouldn't know. He's only ever had this one set of borrowed clothes.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Thankfully the sound of motorcycle engines isn't as foreign a sound as one might think in the area. Two Servants frequent this stronghold, though one tends only to visit from time to time, but their presence has done much to allay the villagers' concerns about those new-fangled machines.

Even Bedivere doesn't react as suspiciously as he once had, although he can't say he enjoys the experience of riding them.

Thus it is that he looks up, blinking somewhat owlishly at the sound of someone approaching. Gawain hadn't mentioned a visit this afternoon, and he knows, intrinsically, that it is not Arturia. Her motorcycle is gone; she had left to do some work for the Union, after he had promised he wouldn't overwork himself. It's likely she wouldn't return so early, unless she had finished much earlier than expected. A possibilty... but he knows it isn't her.

The knight frowns, drawing up his broom and standing straighter, shielding his eyes. Although it's bitterly cold out, the sky is leaden, and the ambient light of an overcast sky makes it a little easier to see into the distance.

He's not very good at telling the motorcycles apart, but he's fairly certian this isn't the one that Arturia favours.

Bedivere frowns, wielding his broom like a weapon as he spins on his heel to face the motorcycle that's suddenly upon and around him, holding it as one would hold a polearm – and the way he holds it suggests a certain skill. If this weren't a Servant, he might be able to do serious damage even with such a paltry tool.

And then he coughs before he can assume a true defensive stance, lowering his broom as he waves a hand to clear the dust. So much for that careful sweeping.

Again he blinks somewhat owlishly at that salute, canting his head slightly to one side in a gesture of wary puzzlement.

...Ah. The rider in blue leathers, who had been on the tundra.

One silvery-blonde brow arches as Bedivere cocks his head, studying the Servant carefully.

There's no mistaking the red tattoo of a command seal over the back of his left hand – Sieg's observations had not been mistaken. It forms a sword, but instead of the angular or sweeping marks of most, it bears the intricate loops and conjoined lines of Celtic knotwork.

"I prefer not to flaunt my status. In any case, I am a commoner by birth, and my status as master of this place is only temporary." As before, his voice is low, almost feminine in the softness of its tone. He frowns slightly, though it isn't an expression of hostility. "One could say that. These people have suffered much. The least I can do is to help them restore some of their livelihood to them."

At least his cloak screams 'fine craftsmanship' and 'high status,' even if his clothing otherwise leaves much to be desired. If that's his cloak, whoever or whatever he is, it's somebody in a position of prestige.

Those violet eyes sweep to Sieg, regarding the homunculus keenly; he might have the sense that the knight is sizing him up carefully, as he had before. There's no hostility, though; merely curiosity. Aside from Mordred, whom he hadn't even known was a homunculus until relatively late into that time, he has little experience with homunculi.

"A certain show of status is expected from those of high rank," he offers, to Sieg. "I prefer not to indulge in that nonsense. I will not wear velvet and cloth-of-gold while these people starve. Actually, I would not wear such a thing anyway." He shakes his head. "I prefer simpler things. Ah, but where are my manners? Welcome to Dún Reáltaí." The multiverse seems to translate it as 'The Fortress of Stars,' and he turns on his heel, gesturing with his broom for both to follow him. "Come in out of the cold. Be welcome in my hall as guests."

Into the great hall he goes, waiting for them to follow as necessary.

The great hall is in slightly better shape than the village, its holes patched and the roof supports new timber. A fire burns in the giant hearth on one side of the equally giant room; long benches and tables line the other side. Tattered remnants of banners hang from the ceiling, though there isn't much telling what colour they even used to be. A rusted, irrepairably damaged greatsword hangs over the hearth, a sad trophy from some forgotten part of Dún Reáltaí's history.

Bedivere regards both Master and Servant for a moment, before shaking his head. "Wait here."

He'll slip into the kitchens behind the great hall, then; returning a moment later – with a bottle of wine, for Rider, and a steaming cup of tea, for the homunculus.

These are left on the table, and he himself taskes a seat, flipping his cloak out of the way. His eyes settle on both Master and Servant, watching them with... what isn't quite suspicion, but neither is it open trust.

"You seek the Grail," he finally says at length, thoughtfully.

Rider of Blue (567) has posed:
    "Ah, wine! Truly, the start to good times and pleasant conversation." At that, the blue rider finally was convinced to take his helmet off, revealing...a face with rather sharp features, and strawlike hair of an almost greying nature. The man rubbed his gloved hands together, before sampling the goods. In lieu of asking for a glass, he reached simply for the bottle, claiming it as his own and tipped it back. "Not bad. Not bad at all! Better than what I was expecting, at least." he said, before placing his boots up on the table.

    At the matter of the grail, he frowned, his flippant nature taking a slight hit. "Yes. Well. A fool's quest, no doubt, but I have some particular reasons for why I seek it. Though, as you may or may not already know, it's less a quest and more a contest. A deadly one."

    Another swig of wine was taken, before the man's eyes fell to Sieg. "The grail is the key for a lot of things, but it is my ultimate goal to claim it, no matter the cost. After all, if you are aware of a Servant's nature..."

    A grin. "We are ephermal, are we not? We are those from the past, we who have already left our mark on the world, brought back for the sole purpose of attempting to brain each other. Regardless of what we do, there is only one winner, and it is probable that we will simply fade away, leaving nothing. Though..."

    The man's eyes flicked to Sieg. "Some manage to find a way."

Sieg (566) has posed:
    "Your command spells have a nice look to them. You and your servant must be in harmony for them to manifest like that." Sieg observes, having gotten a look at Bedivere's hands while he was revving up to Not Be A Lancer. He doesn't seem perturbed by this, nor does he seem to consider it especially valuable information. His own command spells had an abnormal look to them, when they were visible. Amorphous, not like a being embroiled in madness but rather like one that has yet to decide what it is yet. Like a primordial soup in the form of command spells.

    Fitting of a homunculus.

    Getting a better look at him now, Sieg is fairly obviously a homunculus. It's the red eyes that give him away. You simply can't look at him and see a normal human in that regard. Beyond that he has a fairly distinctive and regal look, though it could be described as buried. In terms of physical stature he is approximately the same size as Mordred is, perhaps fractionally shorter, but he's more bulky than she is by comparison. Less lean, though. Where Mordred is lean and relatively toned, Sieg looks like he's only just gotten meat on his bones to begin with.

    In a year's time it's easy to imagine him growing to be enormous, but the appearance that he has now suits him as well. A little Prince, if an odd-eyed one. It's not hard to draw the parallels between him and a slightly younger Mordred.

    "I see... but if a leader is meant to dress in a certain way, then doesn't it follow that a leader who dresses with little finery for the benefit of his people is greater by far than a leader who dresses in 'velvet and cloth-of-gold' when it is not needed or helpful?" He asks, as they begin the walk into the fortress itself.

    Once they are inside, Sieg becomes fixated on the sword over the mantle. He could fix it, he is sure. Maybe not make it brand new, but a bit of reinforcement and it could at least look more presentable. The thought is shaken from him when Bedivere returns bearing refreshment. He blinks slowly, taking the tea that is offered, but...

    "Um."

    "What is this?" He asks, staring at it.

    The homunculus is knowledgable about the Grail War, and when something is identified by word he can reference it like a dictionary exists in his head. But, with a strange new thing in front of him, apparently it's not so easy.

    Clever and cunning, but no common sense at all.

    With regards to the Holy Grail, Sieg seems unaware that Saber is being referenced. He blinks back at Rider, wondering what he means. His eyes drift to the floor, thoughtful. "I... don't want the Grail. My wish has already been granted. Jean helped me, so I'm helping him." He seems to be referring to Rider here as Jean. It's the equivalent of calling him John Doe, so it doesn't help much. Though the pronounciation he used might be a clue.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"I fear we have little and less to offer, and this was imported from elsewhere. There are no vineyards here, and no harvest this year. Pardon me," the knight adds, vanishing one more time into the kitchens.

When he returns, it's with his own cup of tea. He may be feeling better, owing to recent gifts, but it's still miserably cold outside. There's a storm on the way.

"A fool's quest? Interesting." Bedivere regards the Rider of Blue with a faint tilt of his head, violet eyes thoughtful. "You do not strike me as a fool, Servant, for all your flamboyant displays of confidence and aggression on the tundra, some days past. There is something different about you, but I expect that is the same of any Servant."

His eyes lid to half-mast as he considers.

"I do not know that it is true of your world, but be cautious if 'tis the Grail you seek." There's something weary in his gaze when he fixes it on the Servant. "I mislike the idea of power on such a scale, readily attainable by human hands. The Good Lord did not make us with such strength and power at our beck and call. Well, save perhaps Master Merlin," he muses, but shakes his head and continues. "Such strength cannot be trusted. Perhaps there will be nothing to come of my misgivings, but..."

The knight shrugs and shakes his head.

He studies the Servant again, finally dipping his head in a faint nod. "I am aware of a Servant's nature. I know you and your Master have observed this about me." He holds up his left hand, baring the knotwork command seal. It is, as Sieg observes, artful and tightly coherent – a strong bond between Master and Servant, reflected in the proof of his status as a Master. "And I know that you sensed what I was relatively early on."

To Sieg's puzzlement, he looks to Sieg again, frowning. "Have you not had it before? I suppose that is understandable. I had not had such a kind myself. It is tea," he says simply. "I thought it better to give you something warm after such a chill outside. There is a storm coming, soon, and I fear it will be a wrathful one. Dún Reáltaí is not a region for the faint of heart."

That homunculus does seem to have heart; again, that hint of glory that seems to hang over him like a shroud. Incomplete, and unformed, yet there is something immediately noticeable to Bedivere's perceptions. Bedivere finds himself staring again, studying Sieg. There are similarities to Mordred, when he looks hard enough, but... no. There's something to him that Mordred could never have; a nobility, however shrouded and buried it seems to be, a singularity of purpose for something greater than simple bloodshed or self-satisfaction. This homunculus has none of her crudeness or coarseness.

Rather, he seems... unfinished, somehow.

Curious.

If anything, he seems to flush as his brain catches up with something Sieg had said about finery on the way into the great hall. And the pale-haired knight... flushes, a little, ducking his head as though he were embarrassed; or receiving a left-handed compliment. "Perhaps," he murmurs. "I... do not consider myself much a leader. As I said, it is but a temporary situation."

He shakes his head, though, looking back to Rider. "Ah, forgive me. I have not introduced myself, have I?" He inclines his head, preferring not to stand up to bow, but it's a respectful gesture all the same. "I am Sir Bedivere of Dún Reáltaí. I welcome you both as guests in my hall, and bid you to stay so long as you require."

That name may or may not be familiar to the Servant... although Dún Reáltaí is a new addition.

Bedivere regards them both somewhat curiously; almost expectantly. He gave his name, so honourably, they should give theirs! Or, you know, something he can call them by aside from 'hey you with the red eyes' and 'hey you with the motorcycle.'

Rider of Blue (567) has posed:
    Glug. Wait, was that a quarter of the bottle now? In any case, the Rider in Blue placed the bottle down, chuckling as Bedivere commented on his foolish qualities, or lack thereof. "Something different? I think not. Simply another fool chasing another quest, but then again, what else is a fool supposed to do?" he quipped, grinning at his host. As the conversation turned to the Grail itself, however, the man's expression turned serious. Well, just a little bit, anyway.

    "Well, I don't think God ever meant for us to fly now, did he? Or go faster than sound itself. Or make empires. But it seems we are a contrarian and obnoxious bunch, and will simply do something for the sake of proving him wrong." he stated, before shaking his head. "Besides, I don't have anything else to do with my time, so why not?"

    At Sieg's confusion, the man pointed at the cup. "It's tea, Sieg. It's warm and should taste good, unless our host has suddenly decided that any leaf can be considered 'tea'. Though, if you don't like it, you should ask for milk and sugar." Glug.

    "Hah, even temporary leaders should carry themselves with status! It gives the people something to look up to. To unite around. To give them something that they're proud of! A banner, a flag, a symbol...it matters not, as long as they can be proud of saying 'I serve this person!'

    The man had actually left his seat and raised his bottle, apparently lost in something before being brought back to earth by Bedivere's question.

    "Ah, my name? It's...Jean. Jean Dupont."

Sieg (566) has posed:
    "If the Lord did not make us with the power to create such miracles, then something did. Or else there would be no basis for the Grail War, or Heroic Spirits, or even the magecraft of the modern day. All of these things were accomplished by human endeavor." Sieg answers Bedivere, plainly displaying the discrepancy in his knowledge between things relevant to the Grail War and things relevant to the world at large. He raises his cup of tea and tries to drink it like water, which immediately proves to be a mistake. Though he doesn't choke, he makes a strangled noise and sputters a bit in the aftermath, having very clearly burned his mouth.

    No common sense.

    Afterwards he says, "N-no... I've never had anything like it. I've had water, but when I was made they only gave it to me through an IV drip." Something that Bedivere isn't familiar with, most likely. He makes a motion with his hands, like running a line to one of his arms. It's probably not a very good explanation.

    The homunculus remains silent at Bedivere's objections concerning his leadership, but a look of wonder passes across his face when the knight offers up his name. The one that he offers up in turn is a small one.

    "They called me homunculus, but the name that I was gifted is Sieg. I have no lands or titles." It's not a lie, but it's not true either. Siegfried does have claims, somewhere out there. He just hasn't read enough of his story to know of them. As soon as he's introduced himself, though... he starts rattling off information.

    "Bedivere. Bedwyr of the Perfect-Sinew. Knight of the Round Table. Potential containers include Saber, Rider, and Lancer. But... you're here in the flesh." The homunculus looks utterly bewildered at this.

    Sieg's thoughts are derailed by something. He looks at Rider, and then back to his cup of tea. "L-leaves?" He asks, getting entirely the wrong impression from the very start. He sniffs at it uncertainly, even though he's already had far too big a gulp of it by now.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although he hasn't touched his tea, Bedivere remains at his seat on the bench, eyeing his two guests somewhat warily. While it's true that he's welcomed them as guests and thusly invoked Brehon Law, that doesn't mean he isn't going to try and gather more information.

If they should prove hostile, it would be beneficial to know what he can, although he has doubts that he could survive an assault from the Servant. The Master he could likely disable quickly.

Hopefully, they'll remain peaceable. Wine seems to have done much to improve the Servant's favour, and... well, the homunculus seems to be struggling with the tea, but at least it's keeping him occupied, mostly. With some luck the poor lad won't have too tough a time of trying to drink that stuff. He's obviously never had it before.

Rider has his attention, primarily. He is both the most obvious potential threat, and he also seems to be, in many ways, the more knowledgeable of the two.

"Perhaps." Bedivere's answer to the Servant is a little doubtful. He's still not wholly certain where he stands on such a thing. On one hand, he's inclined to regard it as a blasphemous 'quick fix.' On the other, even Arturia had believed in such a thing, and striven for it with all her being. "I would not personally seek it unless I had great personal need, and I... do not."

That begs the question of why he bears that mark on his left hand.

He does blink somewhat owlishly as Rider neatly demolishes over a quarter of a bottle of wine by himself, and seems to show no sign of so much as being tipsy. Well, it isn't as though Bedivere was going to drink the wine, but that's going rather quickly, isn't it?

Rider's criticism pulls him back out of his thoughts, where he had most likely been trying to think of where in the mostly-emtpy cellars he might pull another bottle. He eyes the Servant, once again dubious.

"Aye. But I am no lord. I would not be so presumptuous as to fly my own colours. Besides, this place is not mine," he insists, almost plaintively. "'Tis a temporary arrangement. I am a commoner by birth, and a servant of my lord, and it would be unseemly. Besides which, I do... not have any device of my own." That is to say, he has no heraldry, which is somewhat odd, if he has any sort of status at all. "Although I was granted the right to land and arms, I did not accept them."

Jean Dupont. The name is mulled over, briefly, but he has no familiarity with French names, and no way to know that it's simply a false name. He can suspect as much, though, from what he had been told of the Grail War.

"Then I am honoured, Master Dupont." Rather than the more literal title of a Grail Rwar's roles, it's a simple term of respect that he uses. After all, he's not certain this one is truly a knight, or worthy of 'Sir,' but he's fairly certain that there's something authoritative about this Servant. His bearing alone suggests it. "I do not know that name, but it is good to have something to call you by."

More practically, it seems there are many Servants who come after his own time, and with he himself being but a mortal, he has no automatic knowledge of them. Even if he knew the man's true identity, it would grant him no recognition.

He glances then to Sieg, canting his head slightly to one isde. "This much is true. But I am still uncertain. I have relatively little experience with this Grail War, and have only recently been introduced to the whole affair."

And then Sieg attempts to drink a cup of hot tea like water, with about the expected results one would expect from it. Bedivere sighs. "Slowly," he cautions. "'Tis hot." He'll ignore the unhelpful explanation for now, because he has no idea what Sieg is talking about. At all. The few times he's needed medical treatment, he'd been unconscious while he was in the Union's facilities, thankfully; and Arturia had made a point of whisking him away back home to a more familiar setting to recover.

"Well... just drink it slowly, lad," he says, gesturing toward the cup. "It's not meant to be taken too quickly, in any case; 'tis meant to be savoured. Especially on so cold a day as this."

That look of wonder seems to earn nothing but confusion from the knight. He cants his head slightly to one side, regarding Sieg unhappily. These two, this Master and Servant, are incredibly confusing in some regards. Had his deeds survived into legend, as Arturia had hoped of her knights? He had hardly done anything worthy of song or story. In fact, the idea that his deeds are recognised seems to make him uncomfortable, if anything; he reaches up with his left hand, tugging at the stud in his left ear in what seems an unconscious gesture of discomfort.

Bedivere makes a likewise uncomfortable noise when Sieg manages to name him, flawlessly, even with that stupid sobriquet he's hated for years. But... something more interesting. Saber, Rider, and Lancer? Interesting to know. He lets his hand drop, the long fingers of both hands curling around his teacup.

"I am mortal," he confirms. Those violet eyes fix on Sieg, suddenly focused; the homunculus might get the impression that he's being studied very, very carefully... and intensely. "You seem passing familiar with my identity and my deeds. What else do you know of me?"

Rider of Blue (567) has posed:
    "Oy, Sieg. You mean...oh. Okay." Jean had blinked at Sieg's little description of Bedivere, and his eyes had gone to him, then Sieg again, then the man finally just shrugged. More wine went down the hatch as Jean considered Bedivere's words. There was a bit of a pause before the bottle slammed onto the table.

    "Birth does not mean anything! If you lead, the men will follow. If you do not, what will happen? It is true that someone else may rise, but that does not seem to be the case, is it not? It is irresponsible to think of yourself as 'no lord' when you, for all intents and purposes, are! Responsibility and power are two sides of the same coin, you see. Unless you would rather the people flounder about with no purpose until some other person with a glint in their eye decides they want to be the person with the fancy hat, and all the transition pains that entails, well, feel free to keep on your current course."

    Glug.

    "Er...sorry, I seem to have gotten a bit carried away. I think you seem more interested in what Sieg has to say, anyhow."

    Bedivere may have got the impression that he was using swigs of wine as punctuation, considering that the bottle was disappearing at an alarming rate.

Sieg (566) has posed:
    "I don't know 'you', exactly." Sieg answers Bedivere, his expression a little distant. He takes a seat wherever he can, sitting back and staring down into his tea. He goes on, "I'm familiar with the Grail War, and by extension familiar with the heroic spirits that can be a part of it. It is the only thing that I can be said to be good for. I don't know anything else. I could name some of your feats and make educated guesses about the armaments that you would use if you were a servant. As a master, you..." He considers Bedivere, sipping at his tea and looking him over properly.

    "... Would not be a liability like most would, but you're not as good at supporting your servant as a magus would be." He concludes after a moment. "But knowing who you are, finding out more wouldn't be hard. There's lots of places where you can find out about famous people once you know their identity. That's one of the big deciding factors in Grail Wars: Information warfare. If one person knows who their enemy is, and the other side doesn't, then only one side really knows how to fight the battle."

    "In the interest of being forthright," Sieg adds, "your association with the others also gives me a good idea of who they probably are. But I don't think that's really a problem." He looks towards Rider. "Jean, even if we disregard their cordial treatment of us so far, most of them are still unlikely to be enemies in an immediate sense, and it would be against their codes of conduct to challenge an enemy at such a sharp disadvantage as they had us at. I think our first meeting must really have been a fluke."

    "Um... except the one who charged us immediately. I'm not sure who she is, but she's not like the rest." Sieg meanders aloud, looking down into his teacup again.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The silver-haired knight doesn't so much as flinch when that wine bottle is slammed against the table. Everything else on the surface jumps, but there almost seems to be no reaction from the castle's lord. His posture never changes. Something goes distant in his eyes, though, as though he were thinking on something else even as he listens to Jean's words.

"The difference is that I serve the people," he points out, softly. "They do not serve me. I lead. I simply do so without the pageantry that so many other lords seem determined to show. I do not need a 'fancy hat' to rebuild and restore what these people have lost. Nor do I need such to defend them. I choose to lead them, but I do not choose to flaunt my status before them."

He swills the dregs of his teacup, cocking a violet eye toward the bits of leaf at the bottom of the cup. "It is not enough to strut and crow of purpose when your people are starving and homeless, with winter approaching and no grain in your stores. I simply do not consider my life more valuable than theirs." He looks back up to Rider, still mild in the face of the Servant's outburst. "What is a leader without his people? They are a kingdom. Are they not?"

Bedivere doesn't look way, even as Rider punctuates his statements with several hearty swigs of wine. He'll definitely need to think on where he had seen another bottle of the stuff...

His gaze flicks to Sieg, then, jostled from his thoughts of cellar stores. At first he doesn't say anything, merely studying the homunculus, as though he were trying to reach some kind of decision about the boy. He's some kind of magus, to be certain, and probably Rider's own Master... but beyond that he's not certain what to think.

"I see. So you are more familiar with the process, than the individuals. Ah, no," he agrees. "I am in truth a poor Master. I am not even a magus, and I have no interest whatsoever in the Grail. But neither does my Servant." Curiously, 'magus' is not the word he uses; it is 'fili,' and it seems to imply a more subtle blend of meaning – bard, judge, advisor, lorekeeper. And again, as before, the term 'Servant' seems to leave a sour taste in his mouth for some reason. "But I had little choice."

He instead cocks an eye toward Sieg, studying him somewhat flatly as he describes finding how easy it would be to find more information. He almost squints. Had he really done enough to be considered legend? By the Good Lord, his service had not been worthy of that. He had done too little...

Instead, he nods faintly when Sieg describes the nature of the Grail War's informational warfare. "That is so. And that is why I do not reveal the identities of my Servant, or those who have come before, whom you have already met. They are not my secrets to reveal. We are understandably somewhat... wary... even though we are uninterested in the Grail. Other Servants do not always take our words in the honesty they are meant."

In other words, there is some concern that other Servants may not believe that, and jump them for a shot at the Grail. Bedivere isn't interested in wearing that particular target on his back.

His eyes flick back to Sieg when the homunculus points out the fluke nature of their meeting.

"Indeed," he murmurs, draining the rest of his teacup. "Speaking technically, you were not within the borders of Dún Reáltaí's land, and we would not have been violating Brehon Law in attacking you. Yet we did not."

His expression turns sour when Sieg mentions the one who charged in.

"Ah. Yes. Forgive her her bloodthirsty nature. It is, unfortunately, her way. I will not reveal her identity, but her very nature sets her apart. I expect it would not be difficult for you to come to that conclusion yourself, given time."

Rider of Blue (567) has posed:
    "A leader serves, yes. But that is the thing! If you think the trappings and the grandeur serve no purpose, then you are very much mistaken. It is what inspires men to live and die for, to do great things. You inspire the people, to give them a vision. In any case, you don't seem to have any such ambition, so maybe I'm ah...how do you say? Barking up the wrong tree?" The wine was tipped up, before being put on on its side, completely empty.

    "Another dead soldier, his life given. But in any case...I think I require a walk. Sieg, I'll be outside! Or I'll find you. Either or." Jean stood up, running his fingers through his hair. "Good wine requires fresh air, even in this colder climate. I think you're right though, we wouldn't really be enemies. Though this means...hmm. Eh, forget it. Not worth getting you involved, really."

    PThe man placed his gloved hands in his pockets, deciding to saunter outside for a walk. Where would he go? No-one knows! But probably not too far from Sieg, as the boy would probably need a ride home. Wherever home was for the night, anyway.

Sieg (566) has posed:
    "I know the information that would be provided to a master in the Grail War. It's not trivial information, but it isn't comprehensive, either. There's more information available on popular legends than there is on obscure ones. You're not the most popular, but just by being a part of King Arthur's story you get more attention than most." Sieg explains, very carefully. He's not going to claim directly that he is Rider's master, but at the same time it's untrue to say that he is not a master. It's a complicated situation, and it's better if Rider looks like he has a master on hand anyway. Truthfully, the homunculus could provide Rider with the kind of mana support he needs to pull off his bigger nonsense, but that isn't something that has been asked of him yet, so there is no inherent connection between them, magically speaking. A proper magus would be able to detect this, though it doesn't necessarily indicate a lack of a master-servant relationship.

    There are, after all, Servants who only use their masters as anchors rather than as batteries.

    As regards the identities of Bedivere's servants and those who accompanied him, Sieg shakes his head. "Your secrecy is understood, but to continue being forthright with you, it's pointless now. Knowing that they're all Grail Cycle servants is enough to comprehensively understand your capabilities, and the particulars of your methods of operation are telling. Only three servants from your pool could have the ability to obscure their identity, and one of the three is too distinct to be mistaken for either of the other two. I'm sure I would know who the bloodthirsty Saber was by her attitude, arms, and relationship with you lot, but some effect is preventing me from making the connections. Probably her Noble Phantasm."

    This is as much for Rider's benefit as it is for Bedivere's, and it is all stated before Rider decides to leave. He looks up towards HEROIC SPIRIT EVEL KNIEVEL as he declares his intent to go outside. Sieg inclines his head, "Yes, sir. I won't keep you waiting for very long." Hardly the sort of relationship that a Master and Servant have with one another.

    But it would be rude to keep him waiting, and too much of an imposition on Bedivere besides.

    Sieg stands, holding his now-emptied tea cup. He raises it, "What can I do with this?" But quickly continues their prior conversation after receiving instructions. Regarding Mordred, he has this to say: "I don't know who she is, but I can tell that we're the same. We were made by somebody else, and not meant to have our own lives. I don't trust her, but..."

    "I can't help but like her, and she makes me feel hopeful." A strange sentiment to have, about the Knight of Treachery.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"That is where you misunderstand." Bedivere looks to Jean, eyeing the bottle as it's tipped over and set down sideways, completely drained. Well, it's a good thing the knight has no real interest in wine, or he might have been disappointed. For all he knows, that's the only bottle in the keep's empty cellar. "I do not seek greatness. I seek only to fulfill my duties, and right now, that is to help these people to survive and rebuild. Mayhap you are, Master Dupont."

He has his doubts as to the quality of the wine. Then again, maybe some choice bottles survived the initial siege. Who knows? While he can recognise a good vintage, he hadn't exactly gone looking for it. He has no interest in actually partaking; he prefers to have his wits about him.

Bedivere merely shakes his head, even as Jean gives his observation. "I do not seek enemies, either. So long as you can be trusted to behave yourself within these walls, I bear you no remorse, and you are welcome as a guest. If you and your travelling companion require lodgings, you are welcome to them; there are guest quarters on the second floor, or in the village."

Maybe it's a little naive of him to allow them to stay, but he had invoked Brehon Law. Besides that, if the strange Master and Servant pair had meant any ill will, they would have acted by now. Somehow he has his doubts that the Servant would hold anything back. He just seems like that kind of man.

"Farewell," he offers simply, dipping his head in respectful gesture to the departing Servant.

Violet eyes slide back to the homunculus, then, considering his words with evident interest.

If he senses anything of the bond or lack thereof between his guests, the knight says nothing of it. In truth, he's not even a true magus, as he had said. He is indeed an anchor; a mutually agreed-upon role between himself and his own Servant, though he is loathe to acknowledge that connection. Even speaking in vague terms of it seems to bother him quite a bit.

However, that bit of information about Mordred's secrecy does bring him to arch a silvery-blonde brow. So, the Traitor Knight is capable of concealing her identity? That's good to know. Were he more magically attuned, he might have discovered that for himself, but he has no training. He has potential, and plenty of it; but he is a knight, not a magician. In most ways he would probably prefer not to be involved in any of this, but... it's not for his sake.

"Be that as it may, they are not my secrets to reveal," Bedivere says patiently. "It is not a matter of secrecy; it is a matter of honour. It would be dishonourable of me to reveal to you those secrets which are not mine to reveal, would it not? You may ask them, if you like. I have no doubt that they will be here, at some time or another, for they are known to pass through this place as it please them."

"Leave it," he says simply. "Do not trouble yourself over it. I will see to it."

Pushing himself to his feet, he frowns when the homunculus seems to express some kind of kindred feeling toward the Saber of Red. Something darkens in his regard; something cold in his eyes.

"That may be so. But I suggest that you not trust her too deeply. She lusts for the spilling of blood, and you..." He stands up straight, folding his arms and studying Sieg thoughtfully. "I do not think that you enjoy that. There is something about you that I cannot place. You make me think of something, when I look at you, sometimes, that I cannot quite put to words. A... well, it is not precisely a nobility of spirit, but perhaps the suggestion of that..." He sighs, taking up Sieg's teacup and his own, shaking his head in dismissal. "No matter. And perhaps it is only my imagination. Whatever the case, I advise you step cautiously around her."

"Perhaps you are both homunculi," he murmurs, regarding Sieg with what seems to be some measure of sympathy, "but that is where the similarity ends. I should not like to see you hurt by her."

It would be just another reason to want to shove a sword into Mordred's gut, and he would really rather not fall back into the desire for vengeance. It's an unhealthy road.

"Run along after your Master, unless you wish to stay in from the cold for a time. Whatever the case, I have things to attend to, myself. Farewell, Master Sieg."

With that, the violet-eyed knight takes the cups back into the kitchen – though after a moment, he comes back for the empty wine bottle, too. He's soon gone, then, perhaps vanished into the cellar to take some manner of inventory.

If those two are going to hang about, he's going to have to stock up on the wine...

Sieg (566) has posed:
    This matter of leaders is above Sieg's head. He's offered what he can, and that's all there is for him to contribute. It isn't as if he's lead anyone or anything. He barely managed to save himself, and arguably, he failed even in that. He shakes his head when Bedivere's attention returns to him, "I'm not telling you to spill all of your secrets. But being really dodgy is a waste of energy. Then again..." He looks back towards the doorway through which Rider disappeared, "I can understand just keeping your mouth shut out of obligation, too." He allows Bedivere to take his cup without complaint.

    With regards to Mordred, he says, "I know that she's not trustworthy. She was too quick to come fight, and too disappointed when it all got calmed down. She's not the kind of person that I think I would get along with, but it's not like people like me have many heroes to look up to. Most of us don't survive long enough to have our own legend, if we're even strong enough to try."

    "You're right, though. My only goal is to live." He confirms, putting his hands in his pockets. Perhaps in imitation of Rider. "Thank you for the... tea? And the conversation. This is the first place we've been able to stop where the people were interested in other people."

    "Bye, Sir Bedivere." Sieg turns and leaves, casting a passing glance towards the rusting greatsword over the mantle on his way out.