Difference between revisions of "689/A Raven in the Snow"

Latest revision as of 07:48, 28 September 2014

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
For the most part, things have been progressing normally around the keep after the céilidh. The celebration had been quickly and efficiently cleaned up by the villagers, and work had resumed afterward, though perhaps not quite at the same grueling pace. Now that the majority of the houses were made ready for the winter, and just enough food stores were in place to feed them until the next harvest, some of the urgency has been taken out of their work.

It's left time for less important tasks that had been neglected, such as the repair of curtain walls, roads, and other less urgent but still important infrastructure. Indeed, the stonemasons have turned much of their attention to the keep, too, patching up the places which were still sporting gaping holes, such as the second and third floors; storage rooms that had not had their walls repaired, though the guest rooms had been a priority.

It also leaves time for the keep's lord to indulge in things that are not poring over ledgers, helping with the construction efforts, or any other work-related tasks.

This afternoon, with the sun low in the sky, Bedivere can be found out in the middle of the keep's courtyard, where a barren patch of ground forms a nice open area, under the arching boughs of the monstrous oak. He has a broom in hand, and he's patiently sweeping the debris from it. Leaning against the oak itself are a few practise swords, wooden, sanded and polished to a gleam; most likely by his own hand.

The weather is cool, but not quite as miserably cold as it has been. Although largely clear, the sky does have a few ragged strips of high-altitude cloud cover, and as it filters through the oak's branches, the light is the rich gold of late afternoon.

Saber (346) has posed:
     The days since the céilidh found the King of Knights busying herself with a number of tasks not quite as vital. No longer wearing the same clothing as the labourers and carrying heavy planks of timber and other supplies to various construction sites, the petite blonde now donned the simple dress of one of the townsfolk; a plain woollen tunic over a skirt of the same, the only indication of possible status being that the tunic had been dyed a deep royal blue while the skirt bleached to a simple grey. It had been cause for some confusion, as the colour had royal connotations, though the villagers had merely assumed that it hadn't carried quite the same weight in the lands of their erstwhile lord and lady.

     Now that the more urgent work had been completed, the Servant Saber was found making a number of rounds visiting the townsfolk and checking up on their welfare, making lists of necessities and even a few conveniences. Though as friendly as they had been, she had caught a number of whispers and glances her way. She kept her composure, masking her worry; it hadn't seemed as if they had lost respect for the lord of the land, but the glances were oddly disturbing. And for some reason, Arturia felt as if she should be embarrassed, even as she hadn't understood what it was they were gossiping about.

     She made an effort not to allow it to worry her; there remained a great deal of work to be done. Some potential improvements had been low priority in lieu of preparing the village for the coming brutal – if natural – winter, such as the introduction of electricity. It could possibly help to mitigate the cold through alternate heating sources as well as provide lighting, but the question of how to generate the necessary power had come up from those Union allies who had offered their aid. Already there had been talk of a greenhouse, an idea the jade-eyed knight fully supported. While perhaps it was too late into the season to begin construction, it was certainly a welcome project for the next year.

     But for the moment, the diminutive knight made her way back up to the keep with the lists and various notes she had made. Busying herself with mulling over them in the makeshift office seemed like a suitable distraction from certain awkward issues.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Much as the king, the marshal had been busying himself with relatively minor tasks since the céilidh. Most of these were inventories of supplies, and taking note of what needed ordering, what needed to be imported, and what could be produced locally. Very little of the materials fell into the lattermost category, to his disappointment; either the resources didn't exist, or the only knowledgeable craftsmen were dead.

Notably, he had not been in the company of the King of Knights for much of this. Indeed, rare is it over the past few days that they had been seen in the presence of one another – and when they have been, the two have barely dared to make eye contact.

That probably set off the rumour mill.

Clouds of dust are set up as the knight carefully tends the courtyard. While there are castle servants who would jump at his request to do it, he takes a certain pride in doing such things himself. Many times he couldn't see to such tasks in Camelot, for fear that doing them himself would have eroded his credibility; the division of labour and social class had been much less forgiving, there, and his reputation had already been suspect.

Now, free to do such things to his heart's content, he seems pleased to listen to the harsh scrape of the bristles and the calming, almost dance-like pattern of stepping around the broom and guiding the dust and debris off to one side... at least, until a familiar face crests the hill.

"Ah–my lady." Bedivere blinks somewhat owlishly at the sight of Arturia, finally faltering in his sweeping. "I was not expecting you."

That much is obvious. His face flushes a little, and he abruptly drops his gaze, looking away. "All is well in the village, then...?"

Inga has posed:
The wise-woman from Uppsala had gone back to Kingsmouth for a bit to check on the place, finding it sadly unchanged. The people were still holding off the undead and various other nasties of the place, and they were all still trying to work out what was happening. After re-charging her wards, she'd done away with a few zombies then headed back to Dún Reáltaí. No one else was staying in Kingsmouth at the moment, why should she remain? Until their next plan of action, Inga may as well be of use to someone and here, her work seemed to be appreciated.

She is arriving at the keep as well after the long walk up the hill, quietly grumbling to herself about how she is great need of a horse. If she were to acquire one, she wonders if she would be able to bring the creature through Agartha...wouldn't be much use, otherwise. While it took her a long while to get there, she's not too much worse for wear when she arrives–save perhaps the blood that splatters her blue dress, the elbow length sleeves (cut from full length) likewise coated in crimson drying to a dark, rusty red-brown. Inga's snow white hair is loosely plaited, a few strands escaping to blow loosely around her face. Undoubtedly a bit messy, but otherise she looks healthy, a flush to her cheeks and a brightness in her eyes as she ambles toward the courtyard with Bedivere's oak, eyes fixed on the reaching branches as a small smile curves her lips. Her hand tightens momentarily around the staff she leans on, also made from oak.

She's aware that Arturia is ahead of her, having seen her ascending toward the keep before her–she hadn't called out because Inga was much slower and hadn't wanted to make the woman feel that she had to wait for her. She'd get there when she got there. Inga is somewhat surprised to see that Arturia is still in the courtyard–but ah, there's the reason. Sir Bedivere is doing his best to pretend he isn't the lord of this castle and is sweeping the courtyard. Inga sighs slightly, shaking her head, though her smile grows.

Now, the question is should she stick around and be amused at their awkwardness, or should she leave them be?

Well, it wasn't much of a question, really.

"Hail my Lady, my lord," she greets, approaching. She's already forgotten about the blood.

Saber (346) has posed:
     Some of that rumour mill Arturia had caught snippets of, albeit in whispered fragments she hadn't been quite able to piece together. Perhaps if the subject had been someone else rather than the two of them, she might have been able to tie those fragments together and assemble some sort of coherence. But in the thick of it as she was, she remained oblivious.

     There was, however, some concern on her part aside from the embarrassment. Their behaviour might not have been what was expected of a properly-married lord and lady. Was the ruse up? Had they finally found out that their relationship was not precisely what they had assumed it to be? She had been the one to suggest to Bedivere that they not correct the villagers on their preconceptions; the idea of a stable noble family would be good for morale, and to know the truth might similarly crush it. The people needed every last scrap of hope they could find, and she had refused to take that away from them. Perhaps, in the spring, once the danger of frost had passed, they could reveal the truth. But for now, Saber felt they needed to believe the not-quite illusion.

     That was not made any easier once she reached the courtyard. Naturally, the hard-working marshal was there, diligently sweeping debris and busying himself similarly with minor tasks. The two were that similar of disposition...though for the moment, that made things intensely uncomfortable.

     "M-my lord," she stammered a bit, her head turned just slightly and conspicuously avoiding eye contact. The flush of her cheeks didn't seem to help matters, either. "A-ah...yes, they are hale...I have been surveying the villagers to discover if there were things they needed..."

     She was babbling a little, of course, uncharacteristically flustered as she was.

     So off her balance was she, in fact, that the otherwise keen Servant failed to hear the wisewoman's approach, even jumping a little. Still, it was quite the convenient – and necessary – distraction.

     The flaxen-haired knight made a bit of a show of clearing her throat. "Ah..greetings, my lady," she said, turning around and facing the approaching Inga, though frowning slightly at the blood. She wasn't injured, Saber hoped? "How fare you?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The silver-haired knight contents himself with leaning on his broom, although he seems wholly unable to look Arturia in the eye. Curious, given how he usually behaves with such confident calm, and how comfortable he ordinarily seems in her presence; a familiarity born of many years of loyalty and duty. Yet now...

Bedivere clears his throat awkwardly, looking down a little more. The movement causes silvery hair to spill across his face, hiding her from his sight, and hopefully hiding the damnable, betraying flush he can feel spreading over his cheekbones.

"Good, then. If they want for nothing, I have performed my duties to them, as a lord ought. So long as they are made ready for the winter, and I can be assured they will survive it, I am content." It might be wonderfully calm, but for the fact that he can't seem to look her in the eye. His gaze drifts off to the oak, which in turn gives him the opportunity to see and hear Inga's approach.

"Wisewoman." He dips his head in respectful gesture; at least the red's gone from his face by then. "I..."

He trails off, frowning. "By the Good Lord, what's happened to you?"

Inga has posed:
Inga looks between them, eyebrows rising. Certainly, they couldn't have always been so awkward around each other. If they kept up this sort of behavior, the villagers would never see the heir they are so sure is coming! Inga sighs inwardly, unsure what to do with the two of them. "I am well enough, thank you," she replies to Saber, bowing her head some. Bedivere then calls attention to the blood on her clothing and it is her turn to look embarrassed. She looks down at herself briefly, but quickly schools her features once more, waving off his concern. "A clash with the undead while I was in Kingsmouth. It is always messy. Please forgive my appearance," she says. There isn't really much that can be done about it until she could change. It isn't so bad, really...the arms of her underdress are the worst. They look as though she'd been dipping her arms into pools of blood. Not entirely unlikely.

Inga looks between the pair of them then and slowly shakes her head, letting out a sigh. "I could ask the same about what has happened to you both–did one of you do something untoward while you were drunk on mead?" she asks, a sly smile appearing. Inga is rather used to saying what she wants and getting away with it.

Saber (346) has posed:
     Even if the marshal had been able to look her in the eye, he would have found that Arturia could not in turn meet his. Gone was the usual confidence of the stoic, seemingly unflappable King of Knights, replaced by averted eyes, stammering, and blushing. She might have almost appeared to be another person entirely.

     "There are a few minor conveniences I have been requested to look into," she replied, regaining enough of that famous composure back enough to affect a businesslike mien. Or to at least refrain from stammering. "The introduction of sugar has been quite popular...I think perhaps my stipend will be more than enough to pay for a supply until proper trade can be established. But there is no want for what is needed for the winter."

     It was almost as if she was deliberately avoiding the topic of the earlier festivities. Which was precisely what she was doing.

     Saber might not be so grateful for the distraction in a short while, but for the moment, she was more than eager to change the subject or focus on someone other than her equally-awkward marshal. "Ah, I see. I had worried that you were injured in some way," she replied with a hint of relief. "By all means, if you have need of a place to clean yourself, our doors are always open to you."

     And then, she was suddenly not so sure that Inga was the right person to distract her. With a muffled squeak of protest, Arturia was unable to hold down the resulting blush. "N-no, nothing of that sort..."

     In other words, it wasn't exactly unwanted attention...

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Good." This, to the matter of supplies. If Arturia's deliberately avoiding the topic, so is Bedivere. "I will put my stipend towards it, as well. The combined sum should be enough to provide aught which they should need, for the winter, even for luxuries such as that." For indeed, sugar had once been a luxury, used only sparingly, both in the preparation and preservations of certain foods. He looks out to the village, eyes distant for a moment. "I might say such would be useful if there were fruit trees, but as there is no harvest..."

Although Bedivere balances the broom upright, he almost handles it like a weapon more than a simple tool, though there's no aggression in his posture. It seems to be more subconscious habit than anything else; natural grace born from years of self-discipline, and wariness that may take some time yet to fade... and perhaps a sudden case of nerves.

"You look like you have just fought your way single-handedly through a war, Wisewoman." The marshal arches one pale brow, still frowning a little. "Are you certain you require no assistance in Kingsmouth? If you are facing such creatures... but do not be concerned. There is nothing to forgive. Perhaps I am told I stand too much on ceremony, at times, but I do not expect it of my guests. Aye," he agrees unconsciously with Arturia, "I had worried some ill fate had befallen you, and aye, if you have need of someplace to—"

He's about to say something else, and that thought flies away on wee gossamer wings when Inga asks her next question. Bedivere's mouth falls open for an instant or two in an expression of what can only be horror.

Half a second later he remembers to close his mouth.

And his face is, quite suddenly, scarlet.

"N-nothing of the sort!" he insists, nearly dropping the broom in his haste to wave both hands in a gesture of refusal; a quick snatch of it midair keeps it from clattering to the dust. "No! We–we are fine, do not concern yourself with—with—" Oh, Lord God have mercy on him, what have they gotten themselves into?

He's not entirely sure, but he's pretty dead certain that he's never drinking mead again.

Inga has posed:
Inga shakes her head, waving her free hand dismissively. "No, I am quite fine–and don't worry, it is mostly my blood," she replies. Wait, what!? "Yes, I would be greatful for a bath. Perhaps with some essential oils..." she says, looking dreamy for a moment. Inga adores a good soak.

"I will perhaps accept your aid in Kingsmouth...once there is something to be done. I believe we will be doing more investigating soon, and we welcome anyone with combat ability. The draug continue to grow in numbers, moving out of the fog...tch, it is very unpleasant, and I cannot handle going far from my wards on my own," she admits with a sigh. "I will let you know, certainly, once I have spoken to Riva and Wuyin. They may have some leads to pursue.

Then Arturia and Bedivere confirm that they have made no progress on their....tension. Inga sighs heavily. She uses ever scrap of willpower not to roll her eyes. "Pity, you had the perfect opportunity," she comments, shaking her head.

Hopeless, the both of them.

Inga moves over to take a seat by the tree to rest her legs, pulling the waterskin from her belt. "It was a lovely celebration by the way, the feast was superb, the company excellent...and the entertainment," she adds, smiling. "Who was that you were fighting, my lady? You are both very talented warriors," she comments. She'd seen evidence that night of what Bedivere had told her about Arturia–that she was now something more than human. She'd seen peerless warriors in her time, but still nothing quite like what she'd seen since coming through Agartha.

Saber (346) has posed:
     Nodding, Arturia made some notes, though she lacked the precise skills of the marshal she had appointed, or those of her long-departed brother. Nevertheless, she did possess some abilities in the more mundane aspects of governing a kingdom. Much would be deferred to the lord she had appointed, but for the moment, logistical matters were a necessary distraction. "Likewise, there has been some interest in synthetic fabrics, particularly insulated ones, to protect against hypothermia and frostbite. Perhaps some might be available in donations, especially second-hand clothing...." To anyone listening, the absolutely *mundane* nature of their discussion might have bored the listener to tears. And yet, to the king and knight, there was refuge in it. But perhaps, that too was obvious.

     It was Saber's turn for her jaw to drop at Inga. "Yours? Are you certain you are hale?" She didn't seem entirely convinced at the reassurance, but the petite knight seemed resigned enough to accept it. "There is a communal bath on each guest floor, and plumbing of the current era has been installed."

     Arturia smiled slightly in contentment thinking about it; hot baths had been a comfort that she would rather have not done without.

     At the offer of help, the King of Knights did not seem so much as put out. In fact, she nodded her agreement; truly, the two were of one mind when it came to helping others and lending their sword whenever there was need. That he seemed to speak for her sometimes appeared rather mundane, in fact, as if they had been engaging in that for years. Which was all the more reason that the villagers had made the assumptions they had; without the proper context of their traditional working relationship, one could easily assume a different sort entirely. "Then we shall await word on the situation," she replied with her usual bearing and confidence.

     And in the next moment, that confidence and bearing crumbled so easily. "O-opportunity?" For what? Or did she not want to know?

     Fortunately, the wisewoman gave her an out. The jade-eyed knight visibly relaxed at the change of subject. "Ah. That was Psyber, proprietor of Heaven or Hell. I have worked for his firm in the past, which solves cases which are supernatural in nature."

     The half-angel was something of a tricky person to try to explain. "He is...how best to say it...an immortal. He has been around for at least a millennium. In that time, he has honed his skills considerably."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The fact that the blood is mostly Inga's earns an owlish and slightly bewildered blink from the marshal. Isn't the reassurance supposed to be that it doesn't belong to the person it's splashed all over? He's no healer, but he has some experience with terrible wounds, and he's pretty sure that the amount of blood on her person (and not in her veins) means she should be falling over right about now.

Bedivere tries not to look quietly horrified at that while she continues on.

"Ah, I am not certain of what oils we may have on hand. I have not taken inventory of what few meagre supplies were left, but there are storerooms in the keep that are unaccounted for, and whose supplies were largely undamaged. I had not had the time to take inventory of them, but now that there is not such urgency to finish repairs, I believe I will do so sooner or later." Bedivere's eyes seem to grow distant, flicking away from both women as he considers. "I will see if some can be found of those storerooms, later; you are of course welcome to what you will, if I should find anything."

His mouth thins at mention of the problems that plague Kingsmouth. "Indeed. I should be happy to assist you in any way that you require. And I am certain my king, as well, should be happy to. I mislike tales of such a place where the people suffer so. If anything can be done to alleviate it... I am also willing to bring supplies, if such things are needed, once the issue of the more hostile elements is addressed. Please convey my wishes to Dame Banari; if she has any use of my skills, I should be happy to offer them for the good of Kingsmouth's people. Aye; we shall await word."

Perfect opportunity? For what? His expression goes a little blank at that afterthought, even tilting his head a little at her obvious exasperation. She may not have rolled her eyes, but to someone with such honed perceptions as Bedivere, she might as well have. Had he said something wrong?

Half-dragging the broom, Bedivere follows over to the tree, sitting down on one of the prodigous, gnarled roots; thick around as a man and rather useful as a bench. "Ah. I am glad you enjoyed yourself, Wisewoman." He averts his eyes. "Ah, but the céilidh was not my doing, truly; it... was the people."

He falls silent, letting Arturia describe her opponent. He himself settles for looking down, rather than at her, content to study the monstrous root of the oak, and the way it seems to burrow through the hard ground of the hill as though it were mere sand. Maybe Inga was right about this tree; he's certainly never seen anything so monstrously huge, and yet... there is a comfort about it, as though it really were protecting this place. He rubs a thumb absently along the wood, frowning thoughtfully, as though he were completely zoned out of the conversation... or just distracting himself.

Inga has posed:
Inga's brow furrows slightly. Ah, they did not know about her healing ability. "Ah, I am well, truly. That...sounded sort of strange, didn't it? Heh. If I had gotten close enough to the undead, I would have certainly cleaned up before coming back. My blood is not...tainted," she comments. "I heal very quickly you see," she said, replacing the waterskin and drawing her knife. Time for a demonstration! Inga, quite casually, extends her arm and draws a thin line of blood across it. Crimson rises quickly to the surface and Inga wipes it away with her other sleeve so that they may see the way her flesh is already beginning to knit back together before their eyes. In only a few moments the cut has completely healed, nothing but a small smear of blood to show for it.

Inga sheaths her knife, expecting their expressions will be at least almost as shocked as hers had been when she'd first discovered this ability. But it should ease their fears about her getting hurt, she hopes.

The explaination of Psyber earns a heald-tilt and a furrowed brow. "More creatures from the Christian faith, hmm?" she comments, a bit troubled by it. "Tch...seems this world is rife with immortals," she adds. By the gods, who had she ended up among them? "I cannot imagine living so long..." though she might have to.

Inga looks back to Bedivere, nodding. "Thank you, I will tell her. Save your supplies though, your people will need them to get through the winter...though I suppose with the...portals and what not, it is not so difficult as it used to be. Baffling, really. Anyway, I have some oils of my own. Your baths are fashioned in the way of the Roman baths? Well, that is very nice...." Perhaps she should invite Arturia to bathe and they could have a little talk about the very obvious situation. Woman to woman. Hmmm...

Loros (303) has posed:
"Immortality has a strange bent these days," comments Loros as he strolls into the courtyard. He's wearing a mix of fashionable and functional. Button up shirt under leather vest - with his tie on. The pants are more durable and looser than modern fashion. "Some, time ignores. Others are like the half-angel." Smoke trails behind him - this time from a pipe rather than a cigarette.

Leaning against the wall of the courtyard, he watches all three for a moment and then shakes his head. "Wisewoman, I think I have to agree with you. I probably -should- have hit him with a curse that can only be broken by True Love's Kiss. Alas, it is now too late. Guest rules and all that." He shrugs his shoulders, spreading his hands wide. "What can one do?"

Chuckling to himself, he reaches up and plucks his pipe from between his teeth to blow a ring of smoke. "As for trade... I have a few things tucked away here and there. Salt, for one."

Saber (346) has posed:
     Admittedly, Arturia's experience with the wide variety of supernatural and Things Which Should Be Fatal was somewhat greater than Bedivere's; over the past five years in the multiverse, she had witnessed a great many things which would have been impossible in her own world, or at least strange. When Inga gave her demonstration, in fact, she seemed reassured. "Ah, I see. Regeneration," she mused. "Even in our own world, it is, while not unheard of, quite rare. There are, however, other worlds where it is somewhat more common."

     She smiled faintly. "But it is good to know you are unharmed, my lady."

     Her eyes remained averted, even as she added to Bedivere's comment. "Aye, the soaps on hand are rather plain in nature...they have been enough for us, but perhaps the villagers might have some interest in some creature comforts..."

     But as much as her first priority remained with the people, she thought perhaps she should look into something similar to what she had used while she had been living at the Tohsaka manor. She did, she had to admit, become rather fond of scented soaps and shampoos, particularly rose and lily, and he seemed to have liked that...

     It was her own fault her face started heating up again, letting her mind wander down that path.

     Her dignity – what little of it remained – was given a brief respite returning to her sometime employer and ally. "Yes...I do not know the details, but one of his parents is...or was...a messenger of God."

     Strangely, the knight seemed rather blasé about the fact. She had her own theories on the matter, but she refrained from expounding on them. "Or some similar version within his universe. Suffice to say, the multiverse is a rather...challenging place."

     As to immortality, she tilted her head slightly. The way she vaguely recounted the nature of the Grail War also seemed strangely flat, as if she was deliberately distancing herself. "Aye...in theory, a Servant such as myself could exist indefinitely, given a proper supply of mana. However, our purpose rarely extends beyond a fortnight. I have merely been fortunate to have escaped such."

     Saber became more animated – albeit with her usual reserve – as talk turned to the baths. "Indeed...there appeared to be the structure for it, and that was what we were accustomed to in Camelot, therefore it seemed the most logical choice."

     This time, she didn't jump at Loros's appearance, though the little blonde was on guard. The wizard was honourable enough, but she was not entirely certain what it was he expected to find there...

     ...and then she found herself staring, uncomprehending. What on earth was he talking about? Curse? True Love's Kiss? Saber was not entirely certain she wanted to know.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Leaning back on his branch, the marhsal lays the broom across his lap, regarding both the King of Knights and the Wisewoman through violet eyes. He seems calm for the moment, now that the conversation is focused on matters that aren't horrifically embarrassing. In fact, he's about to say something else when Inga draws her knife and casually passes it over the inside of her wrist and arm.

Bedivere's expression is best described as 'horrified.' He sputters for a moment or two even after the wound's mended itself, unable to cobble together his thoughts into something approaching coherence. All he can do is stare; although his eyes have an almost slanted quality to them, they are, at the moment, nearly round.

He remembers to shut his mouth a second or two later, blinking owlishly. Well, he doesn't really think she was lying, but even that practical demonstration is hard for him to believe.

"W-witchcraft," he says, a little faintly.

Before he can comment on immortality or supplies, his attention is instead seized by something else. He senses Loros' arrival more than he sees him; although there's very little supernatural about the marshal, his perceptions are honed to a razor's edge. His abilities are perfectly normal – simply very highly trained. His head whips around just in time to spot the Wizard, who gives his curious observation as he strolls into the courtyard.

Speaking of witchcraft...

"Master Loros." Bedivere inclines his head politely, although something about his regard and his posture are guarded. As well they probably should be, in the Wizard's company.

The silver-haired knight stares somewhat blankly at his observation. In fact, he's so content to avoid the topic that he glosses rgiht the hell over that bit about True Love's Kiss, shaking his head as though he were clearing water from an ear. "Er. Yes. Actually, salt is always useful. If you have a quantity you would be willing to part with, perhaps something could be found to make an offer worth your while... though I am no merchant. I am trained in logistics, not in the mercantile value of things."

When Arturia returns to the topic of immortal creatures and Servants, though, Bedivere finds himself unconsciously rubbing at his left hand; specifically, the red mark – a sword, wrought in graceful and elegant knotwork. It is intricate, for a command seal; perhaps representative of how well they work as a team, and how close their bond outside the purview of a Master and Servant. He doesn't even seem to be aware that he's rubbing at the mark.

Still going to ignore that bit about curses and Love's True Kiss, though. In fact, he joins Arturia in staring very blankly at Loros again.

Inga has posed:
Inga turns as she hears Loros. From what she knows of him, appearing out of nowhere is probably in character for him. Still, she smiles and bows her head lightly in greeting. "Wizard Loros," she greets, a brow rising. A curse? To be broken with a kiss of true love? Inga cannot help but laugh. "That might solve a few things," she comments, but leaves it at that. Indeed, Brehon law as Bedivere calls it. Her people had not called it as such, but it was very much a part of her culture.

The wisewoman turns toward Arturia, pursing her lips. "A messenger...I see," she comments. Inga believes herself to be something similar–even before the Buzzing. It has simply grown more complicated. "Mmm, regeneration. It was quite shocking to me how quickly I heal. It makes working my magic much easier, I must say. Without these abilities, we could not fight as we do in Kingsmouth," she explains further. She thinks the Bees must somehow also protect them from the Filth that had infected Staren. It was rathher fortunate he'd found someone to remove it, though she was a touch insulted he hadn't asked her.

Inga looks back to Loros for a moment. "Ah, you have salt? I should have purchased some...lets see," she says, pulling open one of her pouches, reaching in, wondering what she might have to trade. "I have some fresh yarrow, a bit of dill, oil of mugwort, a crow's foot–a very good charm, that...Ah, some dirt from the graveyard... "

Inga looks up then to see Bedivere's horrified face. She blinks, her own eyes widening. The woman looks sheepish then, closing the pouch at her waist. Woops, her witchiness had been showing. Prepared for his opinion of her to take a turn, Inga straightens her shoulders, wrapping her dignity around herself once more. "Well, yes. You knew what I was," she informs him.

Loros (303) has posed:
"Actually, I -am- short on graveyard earth. You are welcome to come by my tent later and we can haggle over things," Loros replies to Inga, before shooting her a grin with a mischevious glance at the other two. "I know, I know. It would, but one hopes they'll figure it out."

Popping his pipe back between his teeth, he puffs on it thoughtfully. "Witchcraft, Sorcery... and Magecraft." A finger is waggled in the direction of Sir Bedivere's hand. "The bit you react to is when it is abused, or used for dark and sinister purposes. So, I am guilty. Wisewoman Inga here less so."

Pushing off from the wall, he starts a slow walk around the courtyard, headed in a counter clockwise direction. "As far as trading for salt... given the mead, I shouldn't think the village has some honey to trade."

Saber (346) has posed:
     Now it was Arturia's turn to look sheepish at Bedivere's horror, however subdued the expression was. "Ah...well, you see. My tutor was a wizard, as perhaps you already know, my lady." Conspicuously, she refrained from speaking his name out loud. "He was a rather..." she paused, hunting for an appropriate way to describe Merlin's trolling, "Well, suffice to say, he took great delight in pranks and making our lives as interesting as possible."

     Interesting, she said. There was a Chinese curse of a similar nature.

     "My marshal is somewhat wary, for that reason." Not that Loros was helping much in that matter. While not of the same mischievous bent – not obviously, anyway – that habit of appearing out of nowhere was liable to make the violet-eyed knight even more on edge. On the other hand, she did have to agree with his explanation; it was essentially the abuse which made him fearful. Merlin might have been benevolent – though Arturia wasn't entirely certain of that – but he was nevertheless fond of using magic specifically to amuse himself. And usually at the expense of others. "Transforming into a dragon is not especially a good work, no," she remarked dryly under her breath.

     She stared blankly first at the wizard, then Inga. Solve? Solve what? Under normal circumstances, she would have silently 'asked' Bedivere if he had any clue what that was about, but at the moment, they were far too embarrassed to use their usual near-telepathic level of communication. A pity. He was always so keen-eyed.

     On the subject of Psyber and abilities, the Servant tilted her head slightly in her version of a shrug. "I do not believe that Psyber is employed in such tasks, however. I am uncertain what his greater role is, other than what he perceives as doing good works." She wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but whatever the case was, it seemed to annoy their wizard guest from time to time.

     Saber went to speak, but found her voice strangely lacking again. It was probably better that she not mention anything regarding mead. In fact, she was fairly certain Bedivere had completely sworn it off now.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Thankfully, for as unsettling as he might find witchcraft, the marshal is adept at landing on his feet, for the most part. He recovers quickly, though he still seems just a bit uneasy. At least he's no longer gawking at the Wisewoman of Uppsala quite as blatantly as he had been, and when she chides him on his distress, he only shakes his head, bowing it in the manner of one chastised.

"You are right. Forgive me. Such things are not common in our lands, and those I know are..." He doesn't have to say the name, thankfully, because Arturia says it for him. There's an almost superstitious refusal for any of the Knights of the Round Table to say Merlin's name. He must have had quite the hold on them. "Sufficed to say, those I have had experience with were not half as gracious as you, Wisewoman. Or even you, Master Loros," he adds, with a faint inclination of his head in Loros' direction.

Half a glance is cast toward both when they set to haggling for a moment, though his eyes flick back to Loros at mention of honey and mead. There's a bit of a twist of his mouth. If Arturia looks his way, she might note easily the intent of his expression: If I never hear of that accursed beverage again, it will still be too soon.

His eyes flick back to Arturia, though as before, they drop away before he can actually meet her eyes. He's content to let conversation fall away of Psyber – someone he doesn't know particularly well, and finds himself slightly distrustful of, just as he is with anyone else he doesn't know well – before turning back to Loros and Inga, flicking between the two as though thoughtful. True, they both indulge in the use of that thing he seems so uneasy about, but...

Really, is he any different, now? Had he remained in Dál Riata, he would have been trained in something not entirely dissimilar to the Wisewoman's talents, or a few of the things closer to the surface that the Wizard may know. Certainly, the Wizard may sense that he has potential, raw and untapped, and that is in all likelihood the sole reason why he bears that mark on his hand. Only a magus can become a Master, although perhaps the magicians of the bygone days were a bit more potent – even untrained, there is perhaps more latent power within Bedivere than a magus of the modern era. He simply has no notion of how to use it, or perhaps even that it exists beyond what he uses it for.

He finally shakes his head, almost looking a little melancholy. "Forgive me. You are both guests in my hall. I did not mean to offend... and you are right." His mouth twitches; a faint, lopsided, and vaguely self-depreciating smile. "I hardly have room to offer criticism. 'Tis no secret... certainly you had known what I was, Master Loros. I trust you have some experience with the War of the Holy Grail, then. And you," he adds, to Inga. "That is not a talent I am accustomed to seeing in any mortals such as I. Something lends you power. The gods, I suppose... the Old Gods, not the likes of that—" He gestures, toward the church downhill Jeanne has been working to rebuild, "—the gods the forebears of some of my people might once have followed."

"But this mark sets me apart," he murmurs. "I indulge in the very thing that I have reacted so poorly to – so please, accept my apologies for my rudeness, and my hypocriticism."

Inga has posed:
Inga nods to Loros, a small smile appearing. "Certainly. You are likely to have a few things I am finding it difficult to acquire elsewhere," she comments to him. She has plenty of graveyard dirt, she'd been collecting it in Kingsmouth. It was one of the ingrediants for her good wards. Nothing beats a bone fence, though.

Inga looks to Saber, nodding her understanding. That she did not speak his name is noticed. "Yes, I have heard stories of your tutor," she informs her. Ah, to meet Merlin would be interesting indeed! A prankster? Heh...that held with what she had heard of the man that had become legend by her time. As had Arturia. Looking at her now, it was difficult to merge what she'd imagined in her mind and the woman before her. The woman. A delightful twist.

When Inga looks back to Bedivere she tries to keep the hurt from showing in her eyes–the fear that she would be rejected now that he knew more of what she was. Inga is accustomed to respect, and indeed expects it. In her time she had been respected and feared. A woman with power, with a gift from the gods. But a person needs more than respect. Friends had been scarce indeed.

She looks a bit taken aback when he begins to applogize, profusely. She lifts a hand as if to tell him its quite alright, it is forgiven–but he just keeps on talking. Inga lets that hand fall and listens until he is finished. Perhaps if he had pressed it, she might have pointed out that he was clearly more than a man without any uncanny talent, but he reveals the knowledge himself. She can see that he is uneasy with it. That, she can understand.

"You are forgiven, of course," she says, her eyes softening. "Heh...the old gods. I suppose they are that, to many," she replies. There's a spark in her though, still burning from meeting another wizard, one who claims to know a valkyrie. Oh yes, she must visit Chicago. Her gods, he says, are alive and well. Not forgotten. "What you saw, the healing, I did not have this until the Buzzing. It is the same for Riva," she continues, shrugging lightly.

"Heh, perhaps I should indeed go bathe....where is your tent wizard Loros? I will stop in once I've cleaned up," she asks.

Loros (303) has posed:
"It rather depends on the dragon, but in my case... no. Not so much." And then the lady Arturia mentions her wizard, and Loros actually scowls and whispers, "Half-trickster, half wiseman, and which half depends on the one telling the tale." Then the scowl vanishes into a smirk as he half bows at the two knights. "Of course, I could always volunteer for the post. I can promise my idea of interesting would be a change from his." Loros seems just as reluctant to say the Name as either of the two knights.

Exhaling a cloud of smoke, he reaches up with his fingers and shapes the smoke into a smokey manifestation of a castle on a high mountain before passing a hand through it to swipe the shape away. "Some experience? Of a sort. The War was won.. and then the Darkness poured forth, and I cast my spear into that festering evil, to taste of the magic and the rules that made it so. So yes, I have some inkling." He sighs softly. "You are, of course, forgiven. I admit to a degree of poking at it just to see how you would react, and for that you have my apologies, Sir Bedivere." Pausing for a moment, he taps a fingertip against his chin and grins around the stem of his pipe. "And should you find yourself in need for raw mana - or mayhap a book or two - then we can Deal." Chuckling softly he huffs and puffs as he takes up his slow circling again.

"My tent? Out on the edge of the woods, the wilds. I'm fairly certain I unnerve the villagers, for all that one or two have come to ask the strange man for a reading of the cards, or the odd charm." Holding a hand out level in front of himself, he curls his fingers slightly as a wavering mirage of his tent hovers over his hand for a moment. "It's hard to miss." Curling his fingers into a fist, the image vanishes. "As for gods... there are old gods, and then there are Old Gods. But frankly, it's a reasonably nice day, so I shall say no more on -that- matter."

Saber (346) has posed:
     If there was one thing which might have been a good act of the white-haired wizard – at least by proxy – it was getting Arturia to at least look in Bedivere's general direction again. "Aye, indeed," she agreed, jade eyes flicking, however briefly, to him. "I remain rather put out that he merely wished for someone to entertain him on the way to request Excalibur and Avalon from the Lady of the Lake." An annoyed furrowing of her brow broke through her otherwise placid expression as she crossed her arms; even after all the years, that little 'adventure' was something which continued to annoy the knight-king.

     "Something of both," she explained to Loros. "How he managed to be both at the same time remains a mystery I try not to think on too deeply."

     She almost sighed at Bedivere, though; the poor dear looked absolutely mortified that his fear of Emrys had spooked him when it came to the strange magic, natural talents, or even technology of their allies. Fortunately, all were equally in agreement over Not Speaking the mischievous wizard's name, lest he suddenly appear and try to drag Arturia and Bedivere off on some 'adventure' to amuse him. She had work to do here, real work, and hunting for some magic artefact which could grant infinite alcohol tolerance was not something she felt inclined to waste her time on.

     Though, that depended on whether or not anyone planned to hand Bedivere a tankard of mead ever again.

     And it was just as well Emrys wasn't there. He would have half a mind to offer them bath salts in lieu of the necessary pure variety. Would he truly have done that? Why yes. Yes, he would. Arturia was certain she had heard Morgause's angry tirades all the way from distant Orkney.

     She allowed the silver-haired knight to speak about their new bond as Master and Servant, once that had caused him a great deal of discomfiture on a number of levels. More than the magical aspect of it, the idea that he held command seals over his king had been, she imagined, a horrifying prospect.

     She continued to hold her tongue on the old gods versus Old Gods, save one. "Whether God or a god is old or not is somewhat of a matter of perspective," she said, closing her eyes with a placid expression on her face. But then, she 'shrugged' again, and regarded Inga thoughtfully. "Ah, so Lady Riva has this, as well. Most unusual."

     At the mention of bathing again, she nodded slightly. "If you have need of anything, please, do not hesitate to request it of me."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
No doubt Bedivere himself is not quite what some might have expected of the famous knight who had cast Excalibur back into the lake. For one, that seems to be the primary attribute that legend remembers him for; he was among the first of Arthur's knights, and also the last. Curious, although not untrue, he has decided. His loyalty is remembered, although perhaps not to the extent that he had shown, but that Arturia's deeds are remembered is enough for him.

No; what puzzles him is that none of the books, or at least the one Loros had given him, had seemed to make mention of his appointment. Nowhere could he find trace of some record that he was the Marshal of the Realm, or the Left Hand of the King; it was also mysteriously silent on the subject of Caliburn, or the final battle against the Saxons, a thing he remembers all too well. While he has no particular investment in remembrance of his own legend, it's simply an odd discrepancy to him.

Neither does it seem to recall half of the little details that he had remembered through the years; little things, oddities and quirks and minor details of life in King Arthur's court.

There's little doubt that he himself is the likes of what Inga or others may have expected. The knights seem universally described as paragons of masculine virtue; gallant, gruff bearded men riding up to the rescue of a lady, a-horse, to sweep her off her feet and return her to safety from whatever had threatened her. Paragons of chivalry, all, and ready to accept any challenge in the name of chivalry.

Instead, he is an almost feminine-looking man, soft-spoken and slow to extend his trust. He was among his brothers the least warlike and perhaps the most suspicious, constantly seeking ulterior motives in others, nearly paranoid for the sake of his self-appointed duty of protecting the king. He trusted no one but the king herself, although he had never been able to tell her that until recently. More still, he was not of Albion, a foreigner among Arthur's court, and 'Bedivere' was not even his rightful name.

The silver-haired knight finds himself rubbing his jaw thoughtfully, as Inga muses on the nature of the gods. His eyes are a bit distant, lost in thought; thinking back perhaps to the worn pages of the book Loros had given to him. What exactly was the Wizard's purpose in that...? Was there any purpose at all?

He's listening, though, and he watches Loros warily when the Wizard explains something of his knowledge of the War. That he doesn't trust him is a foregone conclusion, and one that Arturia would know well – he trusts his brother-knights, but only because he had served alongside them for nearly twenty years. His mouth is twisted in an expression of somewhat dubious contemplation as he listens.

When apologised to, he merely bows his head, eyes closing and exhaling in a soft breath, too soft for a snort. "There is nothing to forgive, Master Loros. As for your offer, I thank you kindly, but I do not think I will need strike any bargains with you. I have all that I require."

No doubt Loros can take that as he will, and will certainly do so regardless.

Those violet eyes turn back to Inga, and he dips his head in respectful gesture. "Indeed. If you should require anything, you need only ask. And the offer remains, if you would prefer guest quarters maintained for you in the keep, for those times that you should like to remain here. We are not wanting for space. Indeed, I find the keep itself over large." He shakes his head, faintly. "I am not accustomed to so much space. Perhaps Camelot's citadel was large, but it was also quite crowded."

In other words, his quarters looked like a closet; certainly not what should have been granted to such a high-ranking Knight of the Round.

Inga has posed:
Inga raises a brow, watching Loros with his magic. The illusions he creates are impressive and she has no idea how it is done. She knows ways to change what a person sees, but it is done quite differently. "Tch...so much is still so strange to me," she says quietly, almost to herself.

Inga looks between Loros and Bedivere and Arturia. Is he offering to be the...well, the court wizard? She's almost jealous for a moment. Of course, she has to remind herself that her journey will likely lead elsewhere. Sobering.

Back to Loros, she nods. "Mmm. I am perhaps less threatening to them," she comments. Tricky situation. She looks off toward the church, wondering if she could believe that all faiths would actually be accepted there. It goes against everything she knows about Christianity.

To Arturia, Inga nods. "Mmm, there is at least one other," she responds. She had not seen Wuyin lately. Hopefully, he is doing well. Bit more enigmatic than Riva. "And thank you my lady, you've been very kind, as have you Sir Bedivere," she comments, turning her eyes back to him. "Yes, I do think I will take you up on your offer of a room here," she decides, smiling. "I would be pleased to have a place to keep my things that doesn't reek of the undead and the rotten things that come from the sea," she adds with a small laugh.

Inga looks back to Loros. "I will be by later then, I'll bring what I have and perhaps we could trade a few things," she comments. Inga then makes her excuses and walks slowly into the keep to have a bath and rid herself of that certain fish-men aroma.

Loros (303) has posed:
"As you wish, Sir Bedivere."

Loros smiles faintly. They never need anything he's offering, until they do. Desperately. The one thing the Pact Mage has learned in his long existence is patience. "Well. I will not promise not to drag you along in search of long lost artifacts touched by holiness and righteousness. They have many uses, but are inclined to... bite, I suppose." He grins at Arturia. "However, if I do contrive to drag you along, it will not be for the sake of my own amusement alone."

Glancing back at Bedivere, he regards the young man for a moment. "That's not the only version of the tale, you know. There are many others, fragments and bits of even older stories with different characterizations, versions of events... even names. Why, in some of them, you're not even British." Taking a long pull on his pipe, he frowns down at it when it fails to draw.

With a sigh, he whacks out the ashes and starts the process of refilling it. "In any case. If you won't have me as a magus, don't hesitate to make use of my services as a purveyour of things you can't get easily through the winter snows." Packing down the last few leaves, he snaps his fingers, setting the end of one alight, which he then uses to light his pipe.

"Particularly medicine."

Saber (346) has posed:
     If Bedivere was not what anyone would have expected, that was multiplied significantly when it came to King Arthur. The reactions had almost always been the same; the shock at the revelation that Arthur Pendragon was in fact Arturia Pendragon. But then, if the people of Britain had been carefully kept from the truth, it was hardly surprising that future generations were none the wiser. No, what had stunned the King of Knights was that chivalry – the foundation of the Round Table – had somehow lived on. What had been even more astonishing was that the sacred virtues were even found in faraway lands, and even other worlds of the multiverse entirely.

     Wisely, Bedivere declined striking further bargains – Psyber had little need to warn her to be wary of the wizard – though as far as Saber was concerned, she already owed Loros a boon. Though he had bestowed health on the ailing knight of his own will, she nevertheless took kindnesses shown to her knights and people seriously. There were times when the path of chivalric knightly virtue was not such an easy nor simple path to follow...but then, if it was, no one would praise them as heroes.

     She nearly sighed. And the wizard knew quite well that she was as bound by codes and honour as her legends made her out to be. It was at least some small comfort that he was as bound to old laws as she was.

     Inga need not have felt jealousy over the prospect of a court wizard; Arturia was not about to remake Camelot in this place, even if she had the means to do so. No, here was merely knight and king's chance for a better life, one where they could freely serve the people with no need for masks or deception. Though Bedivere still looked to her as his king, he was the appointed lord of the land. she was more than merely content with her new roles...as embarrassing as one in particular could be.

     When Inga excused herself, Arturia rendered her customary respectful half-nod, half-bow. "Take care, my lady. Rest well." Come to think of it, a bath seemed quite an agreeable idea, once she was finished with her tasks.

     It was not long at all before Arturia eyed Loros warily. As to be expected, the wizard hinted at a great deal of knowledge, though the Servant was certainly uncomfortable at how specific those hints were. First knowledge of the nature of Masters and Servants – and the fact that he could identify a command seal – was more disturbing than knowledge of her true identity. And now, the hint that he might know of Bedivere's true heritage? She suspected Merlin knew, thought the old fox avoided hinting at it. Just how much did he know? That mistrust was enough to put the otherwise relaxed Servant on guard.

     Of course, he also knew what they valued most. Medicine for the people during the winter was far more precious to them than gold or silver. And if the Union was unable to bring them the necessary supplies in time...

     "Indeed," she replied as non-committally as possible. "We shall keep that in mind."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Farewell, Wisewoman." Bedivere inclines his head politely to Inga as she takes her leave, though he watches her go for a moment. "A room will be made ready for you, and one of the castle servants will deliver to you the correct key."

He is a soldier, or was; he knows the sign of injury by sight, and he can tell that her laboured gait is abnormal. Perhaps the hot water might ease some of that old pain. Once she's gone out of sight, his eyes turn back to the courtyard gathering – that is to say, himself, the Wizard, and Arturia.

When Loros confides that there are tales in which he isn't even British, the knight blinks owlishly. The way he tilts his head away from Loros indicates a certain discomfort, even as his eyes settle on the Wizard, as though intrigued. He wants to ask more, but that's an old, old habit of his, to hide himself away; to scrub all traces of his foreign origin. Yet he's obviously interested, and obviously struggling against that interest... obvious, perhaps, to the two in whose company he's in – one for his years and sharpness, and the other for her closeness.

"We have no need of a magus, but we shall keep you in mind for that, at the very least, Master Loros. And you remain a guest in my hall, as well." It would be bad form to kick a guest out, no matter how creepy they are, or Kagenashi would have found herself in that position a long time ago. "Your offer is generous. There are indeed important things that are sometimes more difficult to come by, here, although I fear we most likely do not have the sorts of things you may be looking for, in exchange..."

Bedivere doesn't deal in chicken teeth or newt tongues or grave dirt, sadly.

Indeed, he himself seems a bit on guard, too. Although he was easily marked as foreigner in King Arthur's court, with his pale complexion and his height, his violet eyes; such a thing seemed much less noticeable outside of that place and time. How would he have known?

Although his expression is calm, perhaps Arturia can read the tension in him; the line of his neck and the faint set of his jaw. How does he know?

"Indeed. Your offer is most generous, considering our... situation." That is to say, the war between the Confederacy and the Union. "Although I follow the ancient laws, I had best watch myself," he adds, with a faint and slightly self-conscious chuckle. "If I continue attracting guests from your side, and offer them lodging out of necessity, Master Loros, I should hate to be accused of treason."

Loros (303) has posed:
"I think you shall have few more. I do not know what drew the fox-spirit here, but in my case, it's my interest both in mythos and to be quite frank, in honorable knights who take on far more than they should."

At the mention of not being able to pay him, Loros waves it off. "No worries. You can always owe me a favor, with bounds set by yourself as to what you will and will not do." Glancing at Arturia, he smiles faintly.

"For now, however, I fear I risk wearing out my welcome. So I leave you both with a final bit of freely given advice." Taking his pipe out of his mouth, his smile fades, and he takes on an almost solemn mein. "The advice of a very very old man who's seen far too much pain - do not spend too long dancing around the Truth. Because it can be a very fleeting thing." With that, he bows deeply to both knights. With a final snap of his fingers he bursts into lavender flames and is consumed. Leaving nothing behind save for a hint of starlight that fades in a moment.

Saber (346) has posed:
     If there was one good thing to come out of their shared discomfiture regarding Loros, it could be said to be that it had overcome Arturia's and Bedivere's current discomfiture in each other's presence following the evening of the ceilidh. This time, she didn't miss his internal question of how he could know of the silver-haired knight's hidden heritage. That he was of the Dal Riata had been clear enough within Camelot, even as the British knew so little of the kingdom to the north. That he had hid it so well – effectively assimilating into the culture which would come to be known as Welsh – was distantly reflected in the later legends where none knew that he had been anything other than native Briton. And then, in the later legends where they were a blend of Angles and Saxons nearly to a man. Upon learning that aspect, Arturia was uncertain if she should have been offended or not, to have even her history assimilated by the invading barbarians.

     Regardless, there was no accounting that she had found where the truth of either of them had ever been uncovered. Bedivere would no doubt catch her slight, puzzled frown. I don't know. It had to be even more irresistibly curious for him, to not know just where the truth could have been recorded. But just as her marshal did, she cautiously retreated behind her mask, suppressing further questions. They would, doubtless, come with a price. And Loros's smile at her was not even necessary to remind her that she was already in his debt, self-imposed or no.

     Her own smile at the marshal's comment was drier. "Quite. I should like to know what it is about merely two humble knights serving the people that makes us seem so interesting."

     Before the wizard left, however, the advice he provided was more of a riddle to the little king. Jade eyes blinked owlishly just before the departure in lavender flames. Dancing around the Truth? Arturia had been soul-searching for a very long time, and had even abandoned her wish upon realising that Camelot was best left buried. What more Truth was there? She suppressed another sigh; even had the wizard not departed for the day, she had a feeling that any further explanation would not be forthcoming.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Only the fox-spirit knows what drew her here, although she seems to take some pleasure in my discomfort," Bedivere states, resting his hands over the broomstick across his lap. He glances down at the tool, rolling the haft between his fingers and studying the grain of the wood. "I have tried asking her, but she is no more straightforward than..." He almost said 'Merlin,' and stops himself, shaking his head mutely. "Sufficed to say, I do not know why she is here, or why she chooses to stay."

The unspoken implication is that he can't cast her out, no matter how much he might wish to. Certainly that speaks to his honourable nature, given how uncomfortable she's made him. Yet he would not dare breach Brehon Law, not with as sacrosanct as he holds it, nor would he dishonour himself before his king.

"I will think about it, though in fairness and honesty, I have been cautioned not to deal in Favours with you." Bedivere inclines his head politely, eyes closing for a brief instant. "Nor do I blame such advice. I appreciate your generosity and your civility, for it is a rare thing to find in one's enemies. I will show you hospitality, as befitting the Ancient Laws, but forgive me when I say that I do not trust you." His half-smile is crooked; almost sardonic. "Then again, the same could be said of many. I have never extended my trust easily." The smile fades. "Something in your eyes tells me not to trust you... but I fear you already know that, no matter how carefully I might have tried to hide it. You See," he says simply, with such a specific emphasis that there's no mistaking whatever arcane quality he means.

In fact, he seems to go just a little cold when Loros smiles to the king. Jealousy? Probably not. Protective, though, perhaps. Even so, he rises, half-bowing to the Wizard. "As you wish, then, Master Loros. If you have other matters to tend to..."

His head tilts faintly at that advice, although his expression never changes – guarded, almost wary. For once, he neither flinches away from it nor dances around the matter, instead studying Loros with such solemnity and weariness that, for a moment, it may be clear to the Wizard that some unspeakably weary, wounded part of him knows that all too keenly.

But the moment is lost, and he bows his head in respectful gesture... or perhaps acknowledgement.

Loros is gone before he can even offer any parting words, a wisp of lavender flame swirling up and out; momentary starlight, and then nothing. The knight finds himself exhaling, releasing a breath he hadn't even realised he'd held.

That weariness seems to fade after a moment, and when he looks back to Arturia, he seems to sense something of her puzzlement. The silver-haired knight merely gestures down the hill. Perhaps that advice had shocked some of his self-consciousness loose; reminded him what he had very definitely lost, once.

"You and I," he says simply, in a tone of such weariness that it seems the Wizard must have stirred up some definite food for thought.

He looks to her, then, something tired in his eyes, despite the restored vitality Loros had bestowed on him. "Wasting time. Second chances."

He even looks to her eyes, without flinching away.

And then his gaze slides off, back to the village. He sighs, slumping back down onto the branch he'd been sitting on earlier, leaning his broom up against the large, twisted root. "I have misgivings about him. He knows much, and things he should have no way of knowing." Bedivere shakes his head, faintly. "But how he knew that I come of Dál Riata stock... how could he know such a detail? None of the books I have heard tell of even suspected... perhaps it matters little, here, but it is the method that concerns me more than the information itself. How does he know...?"

Saber (346) has posed:
     In truth, there was another reason besides Brehon Law that they could not cast the nogitsune out, as enraged as she could make Arturia when she pushed just the right buttons. Kagenashi had returned a few times injured: not only from their battle against each other in Azuma, but a second time following serious injuries against Shizune. If she was genuinely seeking shelter in their keep, the Virtues demanded that they, as knights, offer her succour. As much as she seemed to take pleasure in being a thorn in their side, their own chivalry once more worked to their personal disadvantage.

     Being properly honourable could occasionally be its own form of punishment.

     She had barely enough frame of mind to at least nod respectfully just before the flames spirited the wizard back down to his temporary abode, in spite of the momentary confusion he had left in his wake. When Bedivere gestured down the hill toward the tent, it took a moment for her to realise what it had meant. But the fact that he met her eyes without flinching away likewise jarred understanding for her in turn. Wasting time...wasn't that what they were doing, after being given this miraculous second chance?

     Though not tired, Arturia was much more subdued, perhaps she even seemed weary on her part. "Yes...you are right," she agreed, jade eyes hooded.

     Though that did raise the question: what should they do now, at the crossroads they now found themselves at?

     For the moment, however, the immediate question concerned Loros and his mysterious and hauntingly accurate information. "I have, as you know, faced him in battle. Knowledge is not the only thing he wields effectively."

     The petite knight crossed her arms and closed her eyes, immersed in thought. "But perhaps his knowledge is the most dangerous weapon he can wield. I know of no recounting of our legend which reveal the entire truth, yet he would seem to know of them. But I know not of how he would have come across it."

     Her eyes opened, regarding her marshal gravely. "My own identity is of lesser concern than how he could know of Camelot's other secrets."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
With his shoulders hunched and elbows resting over his knees, Bedivere's posture seems tired, but there's a brightness in his eyes that suggests otherwise. He keeps his eyes on Arturia, watching silently as she puzzles through the matter. He himself has no notion of how deep that rabbit-hole might run. Nor is he certain he wants to know – the kinds of secrets that Loros trucks in are not the sorts of things that sit well with honourable folk like he or his king. Somehow even he can sense that.

That Loros can lay such secrets bare, so easily, makes him uneasy. Very nearly as uneasy as their resident fox makes him. Both of them are equally dangerous, in his eyes, and equally deserving of his suspicion and unease.

How is it that they've begun to surround themselves with such unscrupulous characters in this place? Honestly, Dún Reáltaí has attracted Confederate guests like honey attracts flies...

Leaving aside the broom, Bedivere pushes himself to his feet, walking slowly over to stand beside Arturia. He folds his arms, looking down across the village. Further distant, the form of Loros' tent can be seen, though it would take sharp eyes to spot it from such height. He frowns as he considers it; briefly, he can almost imagine the scent of the sweet incense-smoke rising from it.

He sighs, heavily.

"Aye. I believe such." Knowledge often comes hand in hand with power, if Merlin was any clue, and there was no mistaking that Arturia's tutor was equally adept in both spheres. "And I agree with that, as well. I know of no recounting that claims I was of the Dál Riata. None. I took measures to ensure that such was not known." He shakes his head, looking grave, and a touch unsettled. "I did not have so much as an accent... did I?" Those violet eyes flick back to her, worried; as though seeking reassurance. "Had I not hidden something well enough...?"

Sighing, he shakes his head again, as though to dismiss the entire matter. "Yet... he is right. We are wasting time. I am sorry for avoiding you, my lady." He doesn't quite look at her; eventually, his head eventually bowing and shaking softly. "This time is too much a gift to be squandered so."

Saber (346) has posed:
     Perhaps the two knights would have been far safer had they eschewed the Virtues and their honour as knights and cast aside Brehon Law. But then, they would not be the people they were. They would never have so much as lifted a finger to aid Dún Reáltaí and in turn find a true home and a lasting peace within its walls were they not knights on the path of chivalry. To become a target deliberately, to lure evil away from the defenceless and innocent...that too, was a part of being a knight.

     And perhaps, that might work to their advantage, in the long run. There was a saying, as she recalled, which went something along the lines of "Keep your friends close and your enemies closer" which might well have been applicable. While she hardly trusted their Confederate guests, the petite knight had to admit that it was probably strategically advantageous. Yet, that consideration did not make her feel any more at ease, given the wizard's oblique hints at what secrets their past contained.

     She frowned slightly before shifting her gaze back to him as he sighed, shaking her head. "No, nothing. You mask was, as mine was, flawless," she reassured him. "None ever discovered the truth of my sex, and I have found nothing to hint that you had been anything other than Briton."

     Another slight frown marred her features. "Though, I suppose that does not matter now. There is no need to hide it...not here."

     That frown fell from her face when next he spoke, giving way to a thoughtful expression. "I am sorry as well...I was not certain what I should have done, and so I simply avoided it."

     A soft sigh escaped her lips as she cast her eyes downward. "But yes...to waste this second chance seems blasphemous. I have no wish to repeat the mistakes I have made in the past, not when I have no need to."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Casting out the more questionable of their guests may indeed have been advantageous to the knights, but it would have compromised everything that they stood for. No matter how detrimental his path may be to him, Bedivere simply cannot forsake the virtues he has until now lived by.

Even under direct threat, he stands firm in his virtues and values. Others have been able to wound him deeply for this, as with the Confederate bard, who had almost mortally wounded him when he refused to bare steel on her. To bare steel on his host would have dishonoured him, as well as his king, whose court he is still a representative of.

Faint as the expression is, Bedivere frowns when she reassures him that he had not let slip any details. Although it seems unlikely that he had, he still seems to feel a little better for having that reassurance. If there was anyone who would have known, it was Arturia; putting aside their closeness, her perceptions are as nearly as keen as his own, if not equal. "If you say so," he concedes, but he still sounds uneasy. "I do not know how he could have found out. There were no written records. And I swore my vows as a man of Briton, not of Dál Riata..."

"I suppose it matters not, now. You are right, though it is easier to hide it, here. There are none to know that I look foreign." He half-smiles, the expression lopsided and a little self-depreciating. "It is a minor detail in this place." The smile fades. "That is a piece of harmless trivia, as far as I care to admit; I am more concerned to find out what other things he may know of. But I would not ask him directly. I have no wish to bind myself to him unnecessarily... already we have been warned of entangling ourselves too deeply with him."

He shakes his head. "In any case... it is a waste of our time to discuss such troubling matters on such a crisp evening." Taking up the broom in one hand, he glances back to her, and this time his half-smile seems to have none of those melancholy notes to it. "I should like a cup of tea after being out in this cool air. Would you please join me..." There comes a short pause, and he gives a slightly awkward smile, "my lady...?"

He'll brook no further argument, though, on the way back into the keep, and discuss no more those troubling topics – it is indeed a good evening to enjoy a cup of tea, and good company. They can worry about other, darker things... but later.