Difference between revisions of "606/A Test of Character"

Latest revision as of 01:44, 22 September 2014

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Welcome to Dún Reáltaí, the Fortress of Stars. This broken-down keep has been under steady repair from the patient guidance and determined efforts of one Bedivere of the Round Table, who had through a variety of misadventure, become the lord of the keep.

He didn't particularly want to be, but Sir Kay had never Unified, another name on the list of the Battle of Camlann's casualties, and the idea of entreating Saber to wear the mask of the king again – even Bedivere couldn't subject her to that, and so swallowed his distaste and accepted the position.

Unfortunately, Bedivere did not reunite with his king on equal terms. He is not a Servant as she is; merely a mortal, and a broken and weary one at that. In spite of his tireless efforts for the people, his natural limits can only carry him so far – battles against various Confederates have all but ruined him, and he is still healing from his ordeals at and after Camlann. He hasn't been in the best of physical condition, and there is an undercurrent of worry among the village folk... mostly hoping that their good protector doesn't croak before the winter ends.

Today can find the lord inside the castle's expansive great hall, a cavernous chamber with its vaulted heights stretching away into shadow. A fire crackles in the hearth, and the pale-haired knight is perched on a stool in front of it. Clutched on his lap is a worn-looking harp; and every so often his long fingers play over the strings, coaxing a quiet and largely aimless melody from it. His gaze is far away even as he stares into the fire; dwelling on distant days and other places. He does not wear the trappings of the Marshal of the Realm, his heavy plate armour and chain hauberk, but instead wears the clothing of a commoner; rough homespun and, perhaps incongruously, a plain, modern-looking sweater over that, layered against the chill.

If he can't work, as he had tried to get out in the morning and been summarily glared at by Arturia, he can at least rest... and it's too cold outside to do so at the foot of the great oak in the courtyard, for there promises a storm come in a few days, the skies leaden and ominous.

Loros (303) has posed:
Looming and forboding skies are appropriate in this instance. Outside the gate to the half ruined keep, a withered and stooped figure approaches. Leaving heavily on a staff nearly as gnarled and twisted as he, the old man wrapped in black rags is in fact the Wizard Loros in disguise.

Making his way to the gate of the keep despite the faded purple rag bound over his eyes, he raises his staff and knocks once. Twice. Thrice.

Within the keep, the first knock thumps normally. The second echos oddly, and the third reverberates like thunder in the distance, although it -could- just still be knocking. Unless one were really and properly listening for oddness. And then the weathered and weary figure waits, leaning heavily on his staff.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The harp pauses as one of the notes fouls. That first knock is perfectly normal, but the second seems overly loud; and the third rings the hall like one of the brazen church bells that had once hung in Camelot. Frowning, the pale-haired knight sets his harp down carefully, pushing himself to his feet.

...Although not old, he himself moves like an old man, body language suggesting that he is still considerably stiff and sore. He does not limp, at least, though the way he carries his right arm and shoulder suggests recent and still-healing injury.

The door opens, and Sir Bedivere of Dún Reáltaí blinks somewhat owlishly.

"Ah?" A soft sound of surprise – his voice is gentle, almost feminine in its soft inflections.

A long moment passes in which Bedivere stares at the old man, as though not quite comprehending what he sees there in front of him. Well, perhaps not that he doesn't comprehend the old man's presence, but... well, he just seems so strange. How had the stranger knocked so hard? He looks so frail.

"F-forgive me," he finally manages in that soft voice. Stepping aside, he ushers the old man in, frowning. "Please, come in. Warm yourself by the fire. What brings you to Dún Reáltaí? This land is off the beaten path, as it were... and the weather is poor, this eve."

Loros (303) has posed:
The Old Man almost starts to speak as the door is opened, and then the offer of a seat at the hearth is made, and he smiles a gap toothed smile. "...Ah. A well mannered and gracious lord. Few of those about in these dark and terrible times." Moving very like the gnarled old man he has changed into, The Wizard makes his way into the castle. Still, despite being blind he moves with the assurance of one who can see his path.

"For how I came to be here... well. I wander, and my wanderings found me at your door, an I would see who seeks to repair this lonely place, and take the measure of such a man."

As the pair make their way back to the great hall and the fire therin, he observes his hosts movements with hidden eyes. Eyes that perhaps see more than most.

"If you have any to share, let us break bread and share a measure of salt, for I would most like to be a proper guest in your house."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"A lord is held to higher standards than the people he watches over." Bedivere cants his head slightly to one side, studying the old man with one faded, violet eye. He doesn't quite frown. "I am glad to offer you the hospitality of Dún Reáltaí, though I fear it is much reduced. This land and its people are still rebuilding..."

At that, he does frown, as though made uncertain by such pointed motivations. Why would this old man come from what seems to be so far away? To go by his garb, he's been travelling for quite some time... and presumably, he's come from a long ways off, by the look of the wear on his staff and his clothing. Rags, practically.

Then again... perahps there is more to this land than even he and Arturia yet know. They've not had the opportunity to explore, yet, with the snow lying so heavy, and the weather threatening to turn so foul. More than that, they've been busy rebuilding; racing to beat out the first snows.

"We have little, but I offer you what we do have." Bedivere inclines his head graciously, but he still looks a little curious, and cautious. "We have other stores, as well. A moment," he adds – but pauses, turning to glance at the old man over his shoulder. "Please, seat yourself before the fire. I will return shortly."

And then the knight hastily takes his leave. He isn't long, though, true to his words, and returns a moment later with a few slices of buttered bread, and a bit of salted boar meat. Balanced in his other hand is a steaming cup of what smells and looks like black tea, prepared straight.

"Here." These are set on the long table closest to the fire. Bedivere himself takes up his position by the fire again, retrieving his harp and balancing it over his lap. "Tell me of your travels, if you would... once you have refreshed yourself, that is."

Loros (303) has posed:
The Old Man chuckles softly as he takes his seat, as Bedivere leaves the room. Once the man returns with food and drink, an age spotted hand carefully tears off a chunk of bread, a bit of meat. The are carefully consumed, followed by a sip of tea. Then, almost formally, he speaks again. "I have shared of your bread, and you have shown yourself to be a fair and compassionate host. I swear to treat myself as your guest, with all the obligations and bindings thereof." That declaration is followed by a long wracking cough, finally doused with a sip of tea.

Settling into the chair, he turns his blind face to the fire and grips his staff in both hands. "My travels... are not something I care to speak of. Long and far I have wandered, and that is enough said about that." One hand uncurls from the staff and gestures slightly at the flames. "I am more interested in the specks of light and warmth kindled in the shadow of darker tidings."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"And I welcome you formally as a guest to this hall, and may Brehon Law be upheld by guest and host both." Bedivere bows his head in respectful gesture, though the words seem equally formal. Nothing changes in the air, but there's an odd finality to them. If the old man meant him any harm, it would have happened in the first few moments, surely... "We have little, but what we have is yours as much as mine."

He tilts his head at that reluctance to speak of his travels, tilting his head. Left hand rising, he tugs absently at the redstone stud in his ear – only one of them, in the left. Perhaps of more interest is the tattoo-like mark on the back of his left hand. Intricate Celtic knotwork takes the form of a trifold mark in the shape of a stylised sword. Curious... and perhaps familiar.

Bedivere's hand settles around his harp when it falls. Once again he seems almost puzzled by the old man's statement.

"Aye...?" His expression smooths, though perhaps more from conscious effort than anything else. It wouldn't do to unsettle his guest, would it? "That is good, to focus on such things."

His eyes hood, and he looks down to his harp. He has the air of someone weary; a weariness more of the spirit than the body. "Forgive me; I have not introduced myself. I am Bedivere of Dún Reáltaí, and it is my hall that you have entered." Although, most likely, he doesn't lend the impression of nobility or a lord – at least not by his mode of dress. His behaviour, on the other hand.

"But pray tell... what darker tidings do you imply, if I may ask...?"

Sir Gawain has posed:
Outside, the roaring sounds of a motorcycle may briefly be heard as it closes in to the keep, before the sounds die off all together. Stepping up to the door, Sir Gawain knocks to allow his presence to be known, a loud but rapid knocking, before opening the door. The knight is clad in a black jacket, a long-sleeved gold undershirt becoming visible as he removes the jacket and folds it over his left shoulder, a bow of respect to both Sir Bedivere and the Old Man. His smile is large, warm, and friendly. "Greetings, Sir Bedivere, welcomed guest.".

His outfit is a bit more modern than most of those from around here, straight from the 1980s. He approaches, making a gesture to show that he's about to sit, as he yawns loudly.

"I am Sir Gawain, of the Round Table of Camelot. Well-met!"

Loros (303) has posed:
Another gap toothed smile is shared with the recent arrival. "Well met indeed. And what I imply is..." He sighs, and gestures at the cloth wrapped around his eyes. "I am a Seer. I can see the threads of Fate that tug and pull at you. Not clearly, not perfectly. But I see a War, and a Prize. And a shining Silver Lady." He chuckles softly as he rocks slowly from side to side in his chair.

"And you may call me Sorol, since it would be rude not to share something of myself." Shaking his head slightly, he smiles. "In truth, my knock upon your door was something of a... test. Of character. Of heart."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
A war, a prize, and a silver lady? That brings the knight to swallow harshly, as though his throat had suddenly gone dry. Perhaps they're incredibly generic terms, but Bedivere is somewhat of a superstitious man, prone to believing in such things. He's yet to see them proven wrong.

"Is that so?" His response is given quietly. "I see. Well-met, then, Master Sorol."

Enter the Knight of the Sun, in his usual manner, which is to say about as subtle as an anvil... but Bedivere finds he doesn't mind, this time. This old man is a guest, but something about him is unsettling.

"Ah, yes, please allow me to introduce Sir Gawain of the Round Table, of Camelot; and once my brother-in-arms. He is a most honourable knight, and has occasion to visit Dún Reáltaí from time to time."

His fingers pass over the strings of the harp, almost experimentally, but the sound is so soft that the crackling fire nearly drowns it out. It's more something to do with his fingers, it seems. Or perhaps nervous gesture. It's a simple tuning-run more than an actual melody.

"Is that so?" he murmurs, canting his head slightly to one side, studying the old man calmly through a veil of silvery-blonde hair. That seems to be part of him, that calm; almost preternatural – but nothing supernatural. Merely the result of a lifetime of conscious effort and training. "What manner of test, then, would you ask of me...?"

Loros (303) has posed:
Master Sorol shakes his head, chuckling again. "You already passed. The test of hospitality, the test the Beast of myth and fable failed, to his despair and eventual redemption." He peers at the silver haired young man again, through covered eyes. "Not that any laid curse on you could share the same release as his, for what curse can hold against what you already have?"

Turning to Gawain, he bows in his seet. "Well met, Sir Gawain. I shall not ask whom you Serve." There is a slight emphasis on that last word before the old man turns his attention back to Bedivere, regarding him thoughtfully.

Fingers run slowly up and down his staff, tracing shapes and carvings hidden in the gnarls and twists of the wood. "But a test passed must be rewarded. So another test of you, my young Master - what is it you desire?"

Sir Gawain has posed:
Gawain tips his head to 'Sorol'. "I agree, well met, Master Sorol. A seer..?". There is something super familiar about what Sorol is describing, but Gawain just can't figure it out.

"Ah, you do not need to ask. I serve my king, Arturia of Camelot, as well as my Master, Psyber of Heaven or Hell.". Gawain, you should totally learn when to keep your mouth shut. But this old man seems harmless! And Gawain's usually not one to keep secrets, anyhow.

"..A test deserves a reward? I do not believe, if I may say, that is always the case. Sometimes things are done simply due to the code of chivalry, out of the kindness of one's heart. But, Sir Bedivere, do not let me stop you from requesting anything from him.~". Sir Gawain flashes a warm, mischevious smile at Bedivere.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"I see." Bedivere's response is thoughtful, if slightly troubled. His fingers dance over the harp strings again, though softly, not enough to interrupt the conversation. Perhaps he believes in the matter of seers and prophets, but that doesn't mean that he trusts such witchcraft. It makes him nervous.

His eyes flick over to Gawain in silent reproach. While he wouldn't deny a question asked fairly, giving away information for free is probably one of the stupdiest things to do by the marshal's book. He always knew how to tread cautiously over that line, as the Marshal of the Realm; sometimes omission of information was necessary – and it was not a breach of etiquette, either.

Honestly, he wishes Gawain had kept his mouth shut about that.

He tilts his head and favours Gawain again, this time with a flat stare, and he holds it just long enough to possibly make the Knight of the Sun uncomfortable in that cold, calculated way he used to do in Camelot – the more familiar mask of the stoic, and perhaps even inhumanly cold, marshal.

Yep. He's pretty displeased with Gawain right now.

Eventually, those violet eyes return to the stranger.

And then the pit of his stomach drops out, a little. There's no mistaking the emphasis placed on that title, or the way that the old man seems to know beyond the shadow of a doubt precisely what it implies. Never mind his greeting to Gawain...

Bedivere swallows again, and considers the old man's offer. There is a brief moment where he thinks seriously about it, and what he might serve to gain from this meeting. After all, had he not passed the test?

...But that is not his way, nor would it be true to himself.

"There is nothing you could give to me that I do not already have." Bedivere smiles a soft, almost sheepish smile down at his harp, even as his fingers pluck the strings absently. It's a tuneful melody, soft as it is. Much as the silver-haired knight, though, it seems somewhat melancholy. "No, thank you kindly, but truly, there is nothing that you could offer me that I do not already have. You are a guest in my hall, and I do not demand gift or tribute from those who find their way here. I am not that manner of lord... truly, I am no lord at all save in name only. I was less than a commoner in Camelot. And so I remain. I am content with that."

Loros (303) has posed:
Master Sorol listens to Bedivere, head tilted to the side.

"And you believe every word. You -mean- every word of it. Another Knight, True and Right. Twice I have met the like, and all the same... In denying the need of anything at all, you become entitiled to everything."

Levering himself to his feet, the old man nearly stumbles and falls before he catches himself as Gawain speaks. "Psyber, hm? I should have known. You have the same sense of taste." Reaching up, he gathers a hand over the bandage over his face before tugging it down and off - to reveal his eyes. Only they are not eyes. They are instead windows into a vast starry expanse, a vision of the vastness in the night sky trapped within eyesockets.

His voice grows stronger as his posture straightens. "You ask for nothing, so I give freely. And my gift to you is thus," the tone of his voice changes, and the final word is spoken in the Language of God, the Truespeech that spake the Universe into being in some legends.

<HEALTH>

And the very backlash of speaking that word shreds the rest of the illusion, leaving Loros standing there. Although he's still dressed in rags.

Sir Gawain has posed:
Oh god, Sir Gawain knows when Sir Bedivere is displeased. He takes a deep breath, staring back at Sorol. "..What are you saying?".

Gawain moves a bit uncomfortably in his chair. "You know my Master? ..What does that mean? Well, yes, we're both styl-".

Sir Gawain stops as Sorol speaks...and uses his Truespeech on Bedivere. He quickly leaps to his feet, but he does not summon his blade, lest he break Brehon Law. "What did you do?!".

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The silver-haired knight doesn't so much as move, but his unease regarding the stranger is clear. His fingers have stopped playing over the strings of the harp, and he clutches the instrument to his side, watching the old man. His expression is calm and somewhat bland. Perhaps that in and of itself is reason enough that Gawain would sense his discomfort.

It was the mask he had worn so often in Camelot. Surrounded by a subtly hostile court of petty nobility, and considered a foreigner for all his faithful service, he had never fully been comfortable there.

That same sense of needing to watch himself, and watch himself carefully, is coming back to him here. He's less concerned with the evident familiarity with Psyber, though; it seems like the director of Heaven or Hell has quite the reputation, which often precedes him. No, his concern here is that this old man is–

–precisely what he had suspected; which is to say, more than meets the eye. Bedivere tenses when 'Sorol' reaches up to whisk the blindfold from his face, revealing eyes that are not so much eys as a starry void.

That is incredibly creepy, he decides, though he's still struggling to present a calm front.

And then
    Truespeech.

Bedivere blinks a few times, looking left, then right, as though confused. What had just happened? What... did that stranger do–

There goes the illusion, too.

The Left Hand of the King frowns thoughtfully, but he doesn't so much as rise to his feet.

"Peace, brother." Bedivere's statement is quiet. "I am hale. I think..." His eyes turn back to Loros, troubled and thoughtful all at once. "What did you do...?"

Loros (303) has posed:
Loros inclines his head to Bedivere with another chuckle. "I gave you a gift. And spoke one of the Words. A knight should be in good health and fighting trim, and I could see that you are not. It is no ward against future injury, which no doubt you will take upon yourself. Because what else could a true Knight do?" He pauses, his face twisting into a slight grimace. "And I'm not leaving you with an IOU like the -last- one. She still hasn't redeemed it."

The staff spins once in his hands, ending up more a cane - and his clothing changes as well, becoming his usual sharp suit, even as the bandage in his hands becomes his trademark hat, which is replaced at a jaunty angle. "As for why?" A finger is pointed at Bedivere's hand. "Some prizes only a True Knight should ever face. And I prefer the world intact."

Throughout this speech, both might notice one fact - the eyes of The Wizard are still those starry gates. "I thank you for your hospitality. And Sir Gawain? Brehon Law is the only reason I didn't smite you with the fury of one of the Fallen. Good day."

The cane raps once. Twice. Thrice on the floor. The first is a normal tap. The second echos with eerie and dread reverberations. And the third is the very crack of Doom as the Wizard steps through the Door thus opened, into a cooridor of many such doors. It shuts behind him, and is gone.

Loros (303) has posed:
There is one last remnant. On the floor, in black chalk, is the words, "Tell Psyber I said hello as well, and I'm still prepping for game night."

Sir Gawain has posed:
Sir Gawain has been informed of Sorol's true identity over the radio..and is slightly grimacing at the moment. "As long as that is all you did..". He doesn't sit down, just staring Loros down.

"It is also the reason I did not slice you down where you stand when you did that.". Sir Gawain's grimace is tight, very very unpleased by Loros. After Loros vanishes into the Escher madhouse realm, only then does he lighten up and turn to Sir Bedivere.

"Brother, are you alright? ...I now understand why you don't like magecraft that much.. Other than..him.". Sir Gawain takes a deep breath to calm down, before sitting back down by the fire. He will not let it go to waste!

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere clutches his harp a little tighter, as though it were not an instrument so much as a shield. The words are enough to cause a prickling at the nape of his neck, a subtle, insidious, and wholly unpleasant sensation. It's the same kind of sensation he used to feel when the battle-instinct warned him that there was danger close at hand.

"So you did, and I thank you for a gift freely given." The knight inclines his head, though there is a wariness in his regard. He makes no effort to hide it, now that Loros has shown his true colours, and he swallows harshly before his gaze drops to his left hand.

Too late he realises his mistake. The Wizard knows of that great battle royale between Masters and Servants, it would seem... though perhaps it isn't the same mark that Arturia had borne under her other Masters. Bedivere's mark is more artful; perhaps less obvious in style than those shared by the Emiya magi.

Yet it is still obviously a command seal.

Controlling his nerves, Bedivere inclines his head again in respectful gesture. "You are welcome to it, Master Loros." The statement is given warily, but truthfully. He would not forsake Brehon Law even for an enemy; wouldn't even dream of it, like so many others of his era. It binds him, absolutely – even to his own detriment, as Magatha Songsteel had found out when she had attacked him. "Any are welcome to visit Dún Reáltaí, provided they pose no threat to its people or their hosts. I would not dare forsake Brehon Law, for the man who does is lower than a criminal, and less trustworthy than an animal."

His eyes flick sidelong to Gawain, concerned for a moment at that unsubtle threat of Loros'; it's a pointed signal to Gawain not to do or say anything... stupid.

And then with the rap of a cane, and the roar of the Otherworld, the Wizard is gone.

Bedivere is left clutching his harp on his stool, but he looks anything but calm and collected. Actually, if Gawain looks closely, he might notice that the marshal's hands are trembling, ever so slightly, in spite of his calm expression.

"I am hale..." He seems to be trying to convince himself of this as much as Gawain. "I am hale. I think." Finally, he allows himself a shudder, grimacing. "You see, then? It is an ungodly, unwholesome thing. I do not mind the wisewoman, Lady Inga, but Master Loros..."

Yecchh, his expression seems to say. No. Just... no.