Difference between revisions of "2412/For the People"

Latest revision as of 07:17, 9 June 2015

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
It's a fine summer's afternoon in Dún Reáltaí, with the plains restored and greenery carpeting the valley as far as the eye can see. Trees dot the waist-high wild barley and wheat, mainly oaks and other natives one would expect to find in the British Isles. The weather is warm enough to suggest summer, but not as extreme as some regions; the valley is temperate, and that reflects in the coolness of the shade, and a refreshing breeze that winds its way through the vast, gentle valley every so often.

Crops have been planted, and the summer wheat is ripening in the fields. There are a number of them surrounding the stone spire that the village of Dún Reáltaí stands on; villagers work them as necessary, though the hot afternoon finds most of them under the shade of trees, or seeing to other tasks.

Today, the lord of the village is riding the fields, surveying the crops and taking note of their progress. He's dressed in blue steel chain, hauberk and leggings gleaming in the sun, with pauldrons of reinforced dark leather. The gauntlets are also leather, but they're articulated with blue steel plates. At his hips is a scabbarded longsword, just a few scant inches longer than the norm for such weapons. He wears no shield and appears to bear no other weapons. He also wears a heavy cloak, white and much-mended, mantled in a soft blue-grey and fastened across his shoulders by a silver chain. He's astride a big white horse, the kind bred to pull ploughs; massive and muscular and about as placid as the day's languid summer weather.

Mostly he's involved with speaking to the villagers every so often, giving them words of praise and encouragement here and there. It's another typical day in Dún Reáltaí.

Saber (346) has posed:
It stood in stark contrast to many other scenes in the multiverse at any given time, the peace of a recovering land. It was, at times, nearly indistinguishable from the peaceful countryside of Britain away from the capital, and Dún Reáltaí had become known among more than a few as a place of peace, respite, and recovery. It had not been merely the land and its native people who had been healing old wounds of both the body and spirit, and not only weary travellers who had sought the hospitality of the remote keep.

The lady of the village was one of those on whom the land was working its magic. Though the people remained unaware, her scars ran deep. She was the King of Knights, the founder of chivalry, and the king who had witnessed the destruction of her kingdom even as she reached out for the utopia she had tried to bring to it. But one might never know, as humbly-dressed as she was currently, not much differently than the villagers. Otherwise simple garments had been dyed blue and decorated with embroidery and given to her as gifts, the only possible sign of her true status. It seemed that, for all their own insistence on proper modesty and humility, the grateful people were nearly insistent upon gifting them at least in small ways.

Likewise, her tasks were equally as simple, helping with what work could be done in the heat of the afternoon, speaking with the villagers frequently.

Archer of Brown (664) has posed:
An elderly rider on an Appaloosa enters the village from the far end, the horse walking slowly to afford its rider time to survey his surroundings. This certainly looks like the right place – it looks right out of a painting, in fact. A servant of his state and country, the rider takes a moment to admire Dún Reáltaí as his horse slowly makes its way down the bend. Having the ability to ride here is a luxury that most Americans don't have, he notes – not because of this place's location, but because of the fact that he's on horseback at all. Memories of his lessons as a young man drift around him, and he smiles in the warm summer air.

The old man drops the reins ever so slightly and clicks his tongue. His horse reads the cues and picks up into a trot, moving down towards the village proper. It's a ride of perhaps a few minutes, but it's such a lovely day that Mason almost wishes he could tarry longer. A lot of love has gone into taking care of this place, and the village radiates a strong sense of home. He rides past the well in the center of town, waving kindly to a blacksmith hammering away at an anvil. His tie blows gently in the breeze, his senatorial lapel pin gleaming in the sunlight.

The castle is a majestic sight, off in the distance, but perhaps he might make a small detour into the fields. His grandfather owned a vinyard, and though it's not exactly the same as these vibrant fields, the pull of nostalgia is strong enough to guide him off-course. Mason closes his eyes for a moment and leaves Connecticut, America, and the Grail behind. If he listens, he can hear laughter – his, and his cousin's. Running through the upright yields and laughing as they try to find each other. Grandpa Jack calling them in for promises of lunch and, maybe, a few choice grapes.

As luck would have it, there appears to be a figure clad in armor atop a horse, not too far from here. Perhaps it's one of Arthur's knights, he figures. Smiling as warmly as the balmy breeze, the old man bids his horse to slow up as he approaches. Mason addresses Bedivere. "Hail, sir Knight," says the senator. His steed, by comparison, is black and white of coat, with a spotted pattern on the rump. It was meant for riding, not labor, and appears to be the result of skillfully planned breeding. "My name is Albert Mason. I am a Senator of the United States, a servant of my country and the fair state of Connecticut."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The sound of hoofbeats immediately seizes the armoured knight's attention. A chuck of the reins neatly pivots his horse, which moves more sprightly than one might expect of a plow-beast. His hand doesn't quite stray to the hilt of his sword, but it's clear that he's watching the interloper very carefully. In fact, the regard of those pale, almost violet-coloured eyes is very nearly suspicious.

Those violet eyes practically bore into the man when he's hailed, mouth thinning into a hard line of clear suspicion. Half a glance is cast back to where the lady in blue is, before he glances back to the visitor, finally raising his head slightly in acknowledgement and greeting.

"Hail, and well-met. I am Sir Bedivere of Dún Reáltaí." Yet he does not welcome the man as a guest; a deliberate and calculated play on his part. Until he knows more of this man, he will not formally extend the ancient laws of hospitality – not until he's able to infer more about the man's character.

He glances again to the fields. My lady. A visitor. Come. He says nothing, merely plucking at the bond between Master and Servant as one would delicately pluck a harp string.

Saber (346) has posed:
Saber could only sense the presence of other Servants; Masters were no different than other human beings by comparison. Busied with her tasks, she had not been aware of Mason's approach; there were no alarms as there had been at the Tohsaka mansion which would flare to life in the presence of anything other than a human without noticeable magic circuits. Such a thing would have been impractical at the very best, not only on account of consuming far too many resources and that the Tylwyth Teg would most certainly object. Instead, she could only rely on her own senses.

It was only when she heard the subtle call of her own Master – as much as that title personally embarrassed him with regards to their true relationship – that she sensed the subtle shift in the winds of prana. But there was no cause for alarm as of yet.

Presently, the petite blonde appeared at his side from the direction of the fields behind him, her face in its customary neutral expression. The jade-eyed knight had no need to shift her eyes to Bedivere to know that while he remained calm, he was also suspicious. In his traditional capacity as the Left Hand of the King and therefore responsible for her personal safety, he was rarely anything but completely alert. True relaxation had been something Arturia had to nearly force on the knight.

At his side, however, she remained equally apprehensive and alert. She did not yet speak, simply waiting.

Archer of Brown (664) has posed:
"Sir Bedivere, it's a pleasure to finally meet you in person." The public servant nods courteously at the knight, placing his hand over his breast and bowing gently. "I've come here to seek an audience with your king, as we discussed." The old man's grey tie flutters in the wind. "Is she available at this time?"

The arrival of the young lady beside the knight doesn't go unnoticed by Mason. "Good afternoon, my lady," he says cordially to Saber. "I won't occupy much of your lord's time." Lovely young thing, she is – the blue eyes kind of remind him of his granddaughter. He's nearly forgotten that he's in a medieval village, talking to a Knight of the Round table. For a moment, he's back in Connecticut, telling stories to Tiffany. She'll be quite a powerful mage, with her father's crest. It's a shame she'll have to get pulled into all of this, at some point. Well... she won't have to, if he can win this War. If he could just win this War, he could make a world without so many outisde forces, so many hands seeking to pull in one place or another.

"Is there something we can assist you with?" Mason's smile towards Saber is grandfatherly – more so than he himself expected.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The knight sits a little straighter in his saddle at the acknowledgement from Mason, but his eyes are no more welcoming than they were before. Truthfully, his voice is almost feminine in its gentleness, and there is a certain softness in his features; one would figure him for a poet or an artist before an armoured warrior of the king.

Those eyes remain cold, though. It's simply in his nature.

"You wish to speak with my liege?" Bedivere glances down to the lady by his side, and though his expression never changes, there's a certain ease that comes with her presence, a slight loosening of those armoured shoulders. He looks briefly to Mason, and then casts a pointed glance to the lady at his side. It is not my secret to give. I will await your answer.

At Mason's offer of help, the portcullis seems to close behind those violet eyes. Bedivere loses any hint of warmth he might have had, and stiffens slightly. "No." The answer is given quite clearly. "Thank you. We have matters well in hand, here."

As to the matter of his liege, he simply looks at the lady again – but curiously, he looks to that woman, over a foot shorter than him, so delicate-looking – as one would look at a superior. There's obvious deference in his posture, as though awaiting an answer from her. How strange.

Saber (346) has posed:
At the request, her eyes darted to Bedivere's briefly. I do not see the harm in it, I did not intend to... she began to 'reply' to him in their subtle way of not-speaking, reading the thoughts of the other in such a way that would only be possible for two who knew each other almost completely. Only, that train of thought was interrupted by quite a surprise.

It was certainly a first. Arturia had been essentially 'trapped' in the form of a girl no older than fifteen summers once she had claimed Caliburn, but from that point on she had been locked away behind the image of the ideal king. While there had been rumours and gossip about the young king's age at first, she had proven her leadership defending Britain against the Saxons, and that gossip abated. And though being mistaken for a girl of the age she had been before then was not in itself surprising, it was the Sentor's particular demeanour which threw her off. Perhaps the effect had been intentional, perhaps not...but regardless, a fleeting owlish expression betrayed her.

By comparison, she understood that such treatment was, as far as the marshal was concerned, an insult. Or course, Mason had no way of knowing, and the knight subconsciously understood this, but he had been so used to having to defend her honour that it was nearly instinct. He couldn't help it. After a moment of stunned silence, she laid a light hand over his upper arm, shaking her head slightly. It is all right. He meant no insult.

The little blonde moved only slightly away then, enough to draw herself up to the proper regal bearing to receive an audience. "Forgive me. I am the one called Saber. I believe we spoke earlier, Senator."

Archer of Brown (664) has posed:
Mason blanches. "No, no. I should apologize for my familiar manner. You... reminded me of someone." The senator clears his throat. "But, you're right. We did speak earlier, Your Majesty. I've come to make a request of you, regarding a matter of grave importance." The old man dismounts his horse, feet hitting the ground with a groan of effort. Archer's Master is beyond his prime, it seems – the rigors of age have begun to catch up to him. Mason leans on the animal for support, retrieving from a notched loop in its saddle his familiar cane. Today, he is without his gloves, and so, as he approaches, his Command Spells are visible on the back of his hand.

Another grunt from him, as he takes a knee before the knight and his king, eyes locked firmly on the ground, head bowed in respect. "First, please accept my apology for any insult conveyed. I'm an old man who sees the past everywhere, even as I work for a better future. I'll also preface my request by asking if you're aware of a man named Sasaki Kojirou." Perhaps it's just superstition, but even the man's name seems to make the summer afternoon just a little less enjoyable, to make the shade seem a little too cool. "I ask, because without your help in an upcoming engagement, he may have a serious chance at claiming a Holy Grail. However you may feel about me, Your Majesty, that is something I feel the Multiverse must prevent."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
If anything, the pale-haired knight's countenance seems to grow colder at the familiar tone adopted by the senator. Of course he has no way to know that this delicate young woman is the very king of legend, but instinct overrides all else. Indeed, he seems to be working himself up toward a cold and dismissive comment when a delicate hand lays over his forearm.

Slowly, he lowers his face, not quite glaring at the senator. He makes no comment, apparently calmed by that touch, at least enough that he won't say anything that he might later regret. No response is given to the king's silent comment, as though he were still convincing himself that her assessment is true.

He doesn't look happy, though, lapsing into silence as he regards the senator with obvious suspicion – and at the mention of that name, something in the knight's face seems to go very, very cold at the mention Kojirou Sasaki. His voice is little more welcoming than the ice of a glacier when he finally speaks again, smooth and quiet and terribly, terribly cold.

"He has breached the ancient laws, and made himself an enemy of this place." In fact, his enmity of the swordsman seems to override his displeasure at Mason's familiarity. "We will help you. Tell us what must needs be done."

Bedivere's eyes slide briefly to the king at his side. Although his expression remains cold, there's something in it that suggests the idea of Kojirou gunning for the grail is deeply disturbing to him. He must not be permitted to claim the Holy Grail, no matter what it may take.

Saber (346) has posed:
Even from her position behind the regal mask, Arturia appraised the Master of Archer of Brown. Participants of an entirely different Holy Grail War and possibly with different rules, she had made it a point to refrain from becoming entangled in it. Mason had seemed an honourable enough man and Archer of Brown had perhaps been the first Archer she had encountered who properly minded his manners, but she had deemed it for the best to not involve herself, her Master, or her home in it.

"That is not necessary, Senator," she attempted to reassure the elderly Master. "Though I am the King of Knights, such matters little in Dún Reáltaí. Here, I am merely the lady of these lands. Please...rise." That was probably the easiest way to dispense with needless formality. She did, however, maintain her poise; that was something she couldn't simply turn off like a switch.

"Yes, I have been informed of Sasaki Kojirou," Saber replied, her eyes most definitely flicking to Bedivere. "He has not visited Dún Reáltaí since the winter, but it was clear that he may pose a danger even to this place, if left unchecked."

She was certainly cautious regarding the mysterious swordsman after she had retrieved Bedivere from the snow-covered drifts beyond the gates. It had taken considerable effort to heal the marshal of the wounds Kojirou had inflicted on him. She didn't correct Bedivere for offering their help. He had no need to. King and knight were of one mind, even if Bedivere was not her Master. She would have obeyed, though he had no need to command her.

If his wish is merely to fight, no good can come of him laying claim to the Grail, she agreed. "It is as my marshal says. We will help you."

Archer of Brown (664) has posed:
"Those aren't the only laws he's breached," replies the Senator as he rises at Saber's bidding. "He's forcibly entered our Grail War, by means of stealing the Command Spells of Caster's Master." His posture wobbles slightly as he leans on his cane, but its construction holds firm. Dusting off the knees of his trousers, he continues. "We were told at the start that the Grail isn't strong enough to support a Saber-class entity, so that leaves Assassin, Berserker, and Lancer at risk of being stolen by Kojirou. Rider is... a different case, shall we say. He may be the only Servant in the war that can fight Kojirou on even ground, but his Master fights too conservatively to risk leaving his manse."

"There's also the... nature of Grail Wars in general. Every skirmish, every battle, brings the risk of endangering innocent lives. With help from some friends, I've devised a plan." He looks from knight to king. "I'll make myself an irresistable target for the other Masters. They'll come to a location of my choosing. Kojirou will come, too, looking to make himself an army with which to claim the Grail. Your Majesty, that's where you come in." Mason rests both hands on the diamond head of his cane.

"You see, Kojirou doesn't believe any Elite which has helped me thus far is a threat to his victory. He may be right, after all – it'd take a swordsman on par with his famous rival, Musashi, to best him. I believe that one of your Knights," he says, nodding to Bedivere, "Or you yourself could defeat him, or at least hold him off until the other Servants have been dispatched."

"More than that, I believe your Order are the right people for the job. I considered posting an advertisement among my peers in the Syndicate, but martial skill isn't everything. I'd much rather have the help of you or one of your knights than a sellsword who may or may not care about innocent life. If I hired someone like that, I wouldn't be any better than Kojirou. In other words... might doesn't make right."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere's expression seems to grow even more stormy, and he flicks a brief glance toward his companion, something approaching anger sparking in those mild eyes of his. He will create a living hell with a wish like that. It will twist his desires beyond any hope of compensation. I know not what manner of scale it may take in the multiverse, but any scale would be disastrous. We cannot allow that to happen.

"No." His eyes turn back to the senator, and though his expression remains cold and impassive, there's a tension to him that crackles like electricity, or fire barely restrained; an intensity and purity of purpose. "That is not surprising, that he would disregard laws. I have some small insight to his methods, though I do not confess to understand them. But I understand his love of battle, for that is all he feels he has, from what I have gleaned."

He shifts in the saddle, and the movement is distinctly uncomfotable. His gaze slides away from the old senator, brows furrowing in an expression almost angry. "I cannot hope to defeat him. When last he was in Dún Reáltaí, it was I that he sought to cross blades with, and it was only the will of the Lord God that I survived at all." He shakes his head. "He is monstrously powerful, and there is something... wrong... about him. Together, perhaps we might stand a chance, for we were once a force to be reckoned with in battle, and feared by many who would defy the king's will and bring ruin upon Camelot." His mouth sets in a hard line. "It is a tremendous risk to us, and we have no will to involve ourselves in another War of the Holy Grail, but..."

"Your cause is just. We will help you, to the best of our limited abilities, that our intervention might prevent further catastrophe." The pale-haired knight closes his eyes and sighs. "We cannot turn our back on the possibility of harm to the innocents of whatever place he might manifest his desire. And it is our duty to protect Dún Reáltaí, for there is the possiblity that he might come here, and bring with him his War."

Lifting his gaze, he regards the old Master in silence, eyes intense as a hawk's. The moment stretches on enough that the intensity of his regard might even be uncomfortable for Mason, as though the man were somehow staring through his very soul.

After a moment the pressure eases, and he looks away, sidelong, to Arturia. Although he says nothing verbally, Mason might get the impression he's almost asking permission for something. Should we inform him of the identity of your Master, my lady...?

Saber (346) has posed:
Sea-green eyes narrowed dangerously at the information that Kojirou had interposed himself on their Grail War. Her own personal feelings towards Heaven's Feel itself aside, for another Servant to do so into one already in progress was an insult. It chafed her sense of honour, that much was apparent.

Her eyes lingered on Bedivere. I am in agreement. It would seem that we have been pulled into this War in spite of efforts to remain out of it. It was a foregone conclusion once Kojirou had inserted himself into that War. How many hells would he unleash upon the multiverse to satisfy his bloodlust?

Mason certainly knew how to play to the sympathies of the Round Table, not that it was especially difficult to do given that their order had become legendary for its ideals of protecting the people. When there was a just cause – and this was undeniably one – they could not refuse. Neither their chivalric code nor their own personal natures and beliefs would permit it.

But she doubted that the Senator was merely spinning them a thread. He was correct in that his associates in the Syndicate wouldn't necessarily care one way or the other about preserving as much life as possible. But magi were not known for their compassion, regarding the humans outside their insular arcane world as their inferiors and only caring about a great loss of human life in its potential of exposing the existence of magic to the modern world. Therefore, the surprise was naked on her face when the Senator spoke openly of not only taking pains to prevent the Holy Grail War from claiming innocent lives, but what seemed not entirely unlike a plan to end the War once and for all.

However, there was one part of that plan to which she needed to object. "I am afraid that I cannot permit Sir Bedivere in direct confrontation against him," she replied. "I will be able to face him, with support from my Master."

She sensed blue-grey eyes on her, and, upon turning to meet them, read the question in them. I believe it would be for the best.

Archer of Brown (664) has posed:
Mason stares back at Bedivere, uncomfortable but willing to succumb to scrutiny. His eyes convey a confused mix of emotions in a way that only humanity truly can. Chief amongst them, however, is urgency. The old man is very aware of the passage of time, and seems to know he doesn't have much of it. Those eyes have to do something, they have to create, they have to leave something good behind, lest they waste the time they have left. The question is, what needs to be done? What magnum opus remains unfinished?

Saber's voice rouses Mason from his silent exchange with Bedivere. "As you wish, Your Majesty," says the old man with a nod. "I am indebted to you, for your assistance. If you want to help, then I'll provide you with the location I'll be hiding in. Allow me a simple spell to show you..." He rises, turning his back on Saber and Bedivere, raising his cane aloft and allowing the light of the sun to catch in its diamond head. He speaks.

"As above, so below."

The light twirls and shifts inside the cane, then beams triumphantly forth from it, displaying for the three figures gathered an image in Mason's mind, projected on a screen of golden light. It's a summer home, a beautiful old thing situated in the middle of a forest, with access to a running stream and a field of wild strawberries. "The Mason family's summer retreat. To the uninitiated, it's a family reunion." A porch swing rocks gently back and forth, two children talking and laughing. "To the rest of us, it's that and more. We discuss who should inherit our Crest, discuss the progress of our research, and debate ways to benefit humanity with that research. This year's reunion has come and gone – and the nearest city is five miles out."

Mason taps his cane against the ground, dispelling the image. "I'll be hiding here, waiting for the other Servants to come after I've made myself a target. From there, Archer can defend me while you engage Kojirou, your Majesty."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Apparently the old man passes whatever test it is that lies in Bedivere's violet eyes; he eventually gives a subtle nod, and some of that menace seems to fade.

He looks on, to his credit standing his ground at the "witchcraft" used to illuminate the location that Mason intends to conceal himself in. The home certainly looks quaint, although not in an architecture familiar to the knight. Such expansive structures were beyond the means of many in the sixth century.

Bedivere's eyes flick back to the King of Knights, as though he were debating with himself for a moment. It's in his nature to be honest, but all of that is promptly thrown out the window when it comes to dealings involving the War of the Holy Grail. He is an inherently cautious creature by circumstance rather than nature; he has broken himself of natural trust so thoroughly that it's taken Arturia months just to teach him how to trust again.

As though receiving some unspoken signal, he looks back to Mason, reaching for his left gauntlet and pulling it off. He flexes his bare hand once or twice – hands that look better suited to a harpist or surgeon than a warrior – and turns it, showing the back of it to Mason.

There is a trifold crest burned into the skin, one that Mason would find very familiar. It's a sword, but formed in graceful, elegant knotwork in the Celtic style. It is a command seal; proof of one's status as magus and Master.

That might come as a surprise to the old man – and the fact that it's his left hand, rather than his right, that bears the crest.

Bedivere's eyes hood slightly, and he ushers a whisper of energy through the circuits he's only so recently begun to explore again. Knotwork practically erupts from the crest; the bright cyan of an activated crest, but rather than the circuit-like design of many modern magi, it's in the same knotted style of Celtic or Viking art, elegant and almost maddeningly intricate.

"I will support my king, as her Master," he murmurs gently, "but I will not engage Kojirou Sasaki directly. He is beyond my own strength, for I am not a Servant, but a mortal, and a Master."

Saber (346) has posed:
"It is our sacred duty to protect the people, by whatever means we must," she replied to Mason's gratitude. "It is the first and foremost among the responsibilities of a knight."

Her head turned slightly to regard the hill to her right, leading up to the village and keep at its crest. "And we will do what we must to protect our home. If Sasaki Kojirou is not stopped, he threatens Dún Reáltaí as well."

She could understand that urgency quite well. Caliburn and later Avalon had stopped time for her, but there was never enough time to lead her people into utopia. She could never hope to reach it, yet there was that urgency to defy the world and fate itself to grasp it with her two hands.

Her eyes were drawn back to the image of the summer retreat where Mason planned to lure the swordsman. It hardly seemed the sort of place one would think of for what they plotted, peaceful in a way not unlike Dún Reáltaí. In reality, she knew that it could be a deathtrap for anyone bearing the family ill will. Humanitarians the Masons appeared to be, but hey would be foolish to trust other magus families to refrain from the usual underhanded tactics.

She felt Bedivere's eyes on her again, seeking reassurance. The knight-king moved closer only a fraction, enough to reach with her left hand to lightly touch his right. A deceptively subtle gesture of reassurance, but speaking of the truth that their relationship was not merely one of superior and subordinate. The touch did not linger, however, and her hand fell away as he moved to remove the gauntlet on his left hand, the one bearing his Command Seals.

"Sir Bedivere will be acting as my support, as well as my tactician. In addition, we will no doubt require surveying the surrounding lands to form our plan of action."

Archer of Brown (664) has posed:
Mason raises an eyebrow at this unexpected development. Reversal of roles notwithstanding, it's not very often that the Master of a Servant introduces himself right in plain sight. Mason dispels his surprise with a clearing of his throat. "I have to admit, I didn't expect that," he says to Bedivere. "Here. I'll write down directions for you."

The old man reaches into his blazer, the little US flag lapel pin shining in the bright summer sunlight. He produces a piece of stationery and a black fountain pen, writing a set of directions down. "Assuming you enter our world from the warpgate," he says, "This is what you'll do. Our nation's capital has tightened its security in recent years, so try not to make too conspicuous an entrance." He jots down a few more notes. "If you'd prefer to head to our summer home in advance to scout out the land, I also included some landmarks you may want to visit on your way there." He smiles, and offers the note to Bedivere. "Watch your step around the creek," he advises. "Lots of loose stones."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The knight replaces his gauntlet, covering the command seal once more. Flexing his fingers into it, the articulated plates clatter softly at the movement, and he drops his hand to resume his grip on his horse's reins. His eyes remain fixed on Mason.

"All is as my king says." He isn't one for speaking too much, but there's a certain finality to his words. Once committed, he will see this through to the bitter end, whatever it may be; even if he's uncertain about the potentiality of facing Kojirou Sasaki in battle again. "I ask only that you allow me free rein to manage the tactics of this, as that is my specialty, and I have had some experience with Kojirou Sasaki, which has given me some small insight into how he operates."

He shifts his weight in the saddle, considering. "It will also be necessary to survey, yes. If I am to use the territory to our advantage, I must know its nature."

The note is taken and studied, but eventually he grimaces, passing the note forward to Arturia instead. "I am sorry; I cannot speak or read English well." He is, in fact, speaking the archaic Welsh of the kingdom he once served; and his native tongue is stranger still to foreign ears. "My king will handle those details, for as a Servant, she is fluent in the language."

"Sightseeing will wait until later," he adds, solemnly, turning that raptor-intense gaze back to Mason. "First we must see to this matter. Stopping him is of the utmost importance."

He doesn't see it, but Arturia would no doubt understand the unspoken part of that statement. And I do not trust him.

Saber (346) has posed:
For Arturia, remembering the tactics Kiritsugu employed during the Fourth Holy Grail War came easily. She was rarely in the close presence of her true Master, while Irisviel served as a decoy Master. It was, she had to admit, a solid plan given his methods. But at this moment in time, keeping that secret wouldn't have been especially advantageous.

And in some cases, it proved to be a boon. Bedivere wasn't a Servant...but he wasn't a man of the modern era, either. His skills had been legendary enough for him to be summoned as a Servant in his own right. Few would be foolish enough to confront him directly...without even knowing indirectly would prove to be even more dangerous when confronted with a mind as keen as his. His king couldn't help but be a little smug when thinking about that.

Yet, they needed to remain cautious; it was little wonder the marshal dared not relax his guard. There was still a great deal of planning and preparation on the part of the knights.

Saber accepted the note when Bedivere passed it to her, though she frowned slightly for a fleeting moment. Fortunately, he wasn't incorrect in that she could read it, but it was a common multiversal language. He really needed to become more fluent in it, albeit once Kojirou was dealt with.

Saber nodded, accepting the pale-haired knight's lack of trust. Perhaps at times he might have overreacted, but under the circumstances, she relied on those finely-honed instincts. She had made him her Left Hand in no small part due to that. I shall trust your judgement, as always.

Archer of Brown (664) has posed:
Senator Mason nods. It's so strange to think of the nature of language – Bedivere can't read Enlgish. Of course he can't. In his day, it didn't have near the prominence it does today. "Free rein? You have it, Sir Knight, with my blessing. Carry the symbol on the back of that paper with you, and you can move as you like on the premises." The symbol is drawn in marker – the Golden Rectangle discovered by Pythagoras, illustrated in da Vinci's Vitruvian Man.

"Kojirou may bring Caster with him. If he does, please be aware that Caster's identity is none other than Baron Samedi, one of the Loa. His Noble Phantasm allows him to use music to summon the rest of his family to fight for him."

"Geographically, the property is flat and wooded. There are some areas of uneven ground, particularly near the creek, but for the most part, it provides quite a lot of cover from prying eyes. The front lawn and the path in are free of trees, but everything else is full of them, especially as you get further from the house itself. For defenses, we've installed illusions for non-Elite enemies, and for those on par with mages and Servants, we have alarm systems. Some of the trees bear carved marks corresponding with the elements as outlined by Thrice-Great Hermes. Anyone bearing the Golden Rectangle can channel prana into the mark to summon an elemental of the corresponding element. Finally, there's a handcrafted lens on the roof, disguised as a weathervane. ...did you ever, as a young man, use a magnifying glass to amplify the rays of the sun? Channeling prana through that device will have a similar effect, on a much, much larger scale."

Mason retrieves another bit of stationery from his pocket and draws another Golden Rectangle, so that both knight and king may have one. "In the coming weeks, there'll be a press conference." He slides the cane back into his horse's saddle slot, then leans against the animal for support as he mounts it once more. "I'll be speaking at that conference. I'll be shot, and moved to a 'secure location.' That location will be leaked to the organization running this war, and they will, in return for my transgression, provide that information to the other Masters. At that point, Archer will contact you both by radio. Sir Bedivere, Your Majesty... I appreciate your time this afternoon, and hope that we can one day meet under better circumstances."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Flexing his fingers fully closed into the gauntlet, Bedivere resumes that impassive outlook, as though he were donning a mask. It's one that he's worn for many years through the reign of the king, one that had helped her as much as it had hurt him. His ability to weather pain, though, had also been a blessing in disguise for her; for his very loyalty to her had been a source of agony, and his strength in fortitude had been greater even than any strength of arm.

His eyes are placid once more as he glances between the Servant and the foreign Master, although his eyes linger for just a second or two more on the former. While he has enough mastery of the language to understand the note, it doesn't come clearly or easily, and he has to struggle to understand it. Better to pass it off to her, rather than look like some uneducated hayseed from the kingdom's hinterlands... however true that might have been, once upon a time.

Then I will continue to pray that my judgement remains sound, my lady. He bows his head, very slightly, to the slightly woman beside him. It is critical now more than ever that I remain sound of judgement and mind, if we are to go against the likes of Kojirou Sasaki, and I only pray that we are a match for his monstrous strength and cunning.

Sighing quietly through his nose, his eyes flick back to the note he had given over to Arturia, narrowing, as though he could see that sigil even from the saddle. Eventually his eyes turn back to Mason. "I shall keep that in mind, Senator."

"Music?" That brings the knight to smile. It is a queer expression, cold and wintry, yet almost eager. He seems genuinely amused, too, and Arturia would no doubt understand why. Fledgeling filidh though he is, it's still a heartening thing to hear, for music is in his blood. The Baron would not find an easy opponent in him. He is far older than the creatures of the southern marshes; hearkening back to an era when music truly was magic, and magic music. Perhaps he is no match for a Servant – but this lends him some small opportunity and advantage. "I welcome him to try."

To the terrain, he only shakes his head, waving a hand in clear dismissal. "Worry not of describing to me the terrain. I can offer you no tactics until I have seen it for myself. A description will not suffice; I will be certain to investigate as soon as I am able." He reaches up and tugs at the bloodstone stud in his left ear, thoughtful. "I will perhaps disguise myself as a traveller of the multiverse, one with no specific allegiances or era of origin."

He blinks somewhat owlishly at the reference to a magnifying glass used to focus the sun. "Senator Mason, my childhood was involved with learning my letters and my sums, and learning how to wield a blade against every disadvantage that I could have held against such a vocation. I had nary the time to do such a thing, nor would anyone but Master Merlin carry such a costly artefact on their person. That is a question better served to posit to Master Merlin himself. He is here himself, if you should have a care to speak with him, some time, although I do not recommend it, for he is..."

Violet eyes skitter over to Arturia, uncertain. How exactly does one sum up Merlin in one word, anyway? There are so many delicious adjectives that could encompass the king's old tutor. He sighs, unhappily, before shaking his head. "I suppose it isn't important. In any case, we will await Archer's contact. Good day, Senator."

He'll wait in the saddle, still as a statue, until the old senator has ridden back out of sight. Only afterward will he incline his head faintly to the king, as though a silent beckoning for her to follow – to return to the castle, and retire from the summer heat for the day.

Bedwyr of Dún Reáltaí will have much to think about, in the coming hours and weeks.

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia's face remained a deceptively placid mask. We shall prevail, she insisted to the violet-eyed knight.

For the first time in a long time, her inner voice was certain, unwavering, confident. His loyalty need not be the cause of agony, but of pure strength for them both. We shall, and we must. Our strength is in our chivalry and our bond. None can hope to break it.

While she no longer had access to the infinite knowledge of the eras of each potential Servant which could be summoned, Saber could nevertheless recall many of those legends. On the other hand, Bedivere wouldn't recognise the name at all. But though there was more than enough to put the fear of 'witchcraft' back in him, the Caster was now faced with a magus trained by the ancient filídh and would have taken his place among them had he not chose to become her knight instead. Perhaps the ground was not so tilted against him, after all.

Not drawing attention to themselves would prove to be somewhat on the difficult side, given their respective appearances. Fortunately, there were ways of hiding in plain sight, as she and Irisviel had done in Fuyuki City all those years ago. "We have means of blending in so as not to attract too much attention," she reassured both men. Unfortunately, it would mean Bedivere would have to wear a tie again.

By contrast, the petite blonde understood the reference well; Sir Ector had such a glass in his possession, though her own discovery of its properties had come by accident. But she imagined such a thing would have been difficult to come by in distant Dál Riata, and the knight had little need of such a thing once he had come to Camelot.

As for Merlin, she could only shake her head. Her mercurial tutor defied rational description. "It would be for the best not to seek his counsel. He can be...infuriating." That was probably the most adequate word she could some up with.

"As do I, Senator," Arturia replied by way of farewell. "The Lord God as my witness, we shall not fail."

Once they had seen him off, she needed no more indication to follow back to the keep. It would seem there would be much to ponder.