999999/On Berserk Buttons

On Berserk Buttons
Date of Scene:	21 July 2014
Location:	Caverns of Prophecy (CP)
Synopsis:	Magatha Songsteel summons Sir Bedivere of the Round Table to the Caverns of Prophecy to discuss a few things. She's expecting a fight. Honour demands that he doesn't fight. This meeting of the Unstoppable Force and the Immovable Object ends about as well as expected.
Cast of Characters:	181, 482

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The Caverns of Prophecy have a certain grandeur to them, their mountains rising above even the breathtaking wonders of the great Olympiad Peaks. The twisted core of stone that forms its central mountain is an accretion of several towering peaks, making for a truly bizarre configuration, both imposing and difficult to scale. It takes true endurance to reach the top, and so the Caverns themselves are not a travel destination for the faint of heart.

In spite of his heavy plate armour and gear, Sir Bedivere has come, as he said he would -- if only to convince the other half of this occasion that this is a complete waste of time.

Bedivere takes no horse, as no horse could manage such a path as this; and his measured footfalls and the clanking of his armour are not only audible across the thin air of the mountain range, but they echo.

The sound, he decides, is somewhat lonely. Loneliness is good. Having to be in close proximity with Lady Songsteel is /not/ good. Aside from the fact that she's made a hobby out of getting under his skin, she's one of the enemy, and he's loathe to fully trust even the people on his /own/ side.

That might explain why the knight does carry a longsword at his left hip. It's quite long, in fact; several inches longer even than a single-handed blade. Stuck through his belt on the other side is a simple dagger, forged of a single piece of iron, covered in a crude scabbard. You can't be too careful.

He's panting by the time he reaches the entrance to the crevasse entrance of the Caverns themselves, bracing a plate-gauntleted hand against the side of the mountain and sagging for a moment to catch his breath.

...She really could have picked a more conveniently-reached location.

Psalm (181) has posed:
What greets him is... well.

Miss Songsteel is not here in her Harvest Day finest, nor in something skimpy and revealing.

She's here in a rather imposing coat of crimson red chainmail, with powerfully bold red and maroon highlights and affectations along the bits like pauldrons and other decorations. She's also wearing the tabard of House Deneith, and carrying a greatsword which looks like it honestly should be a bit too big for her.

There's also a dinette table with wine and ice.

And Magatha smiles. "Hello, dear. You made it."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
By the time Bedivere straightens, reaching up to swipe the cloth sleeve of his tunic over his forehead, his eyes take in a rather puzzling sight.

There in front of him is Magatha Songsteel, Bard Extraordinaire, along with a dinette table and a bucket of ice, with a bottle of wine sticking out of it. But she's not wearing the same she had worn at the Gaelic-style festival, either. In fact, that looks rather like armour.

So, Faruja had spoken truly. She came here for a fight.

Thoughtfully, Bedivere reaches up, absently tugging on the red stone stud in his right ear -- unlike at the ceilidh, the left one seems to be missing. He frowns slightly; when he drops his hand, it rests on the hilt of his sword, though he makes no move whatsoever to draw. Just a reminder that the weapon is there.

He tilts his head faintly at that term of endearment, and his frown deepens a little.

"I have no wish to fight you. At the same time, I have no desire for wine." He raises both arms, to fold over his chest. His head tilts in a gesture of wary puzzlement. "So. I am here, my lady, having wasted much time in climbing this mountain. What do you want of me...?"

Psalm (181) has posed:
"Oh. It's not wine." Magatha smiles warmly. "It's the infused waters of the Caverns. Chilled, and dusted with juuuuust a pinch of residuum. Gives it a little extra kick." She circles the table, eyes on Bedivere as the bare fingertips poking from the gloves of her gauntlet caresses the neck of the wine bottle. "Vintage about 3 hours ago, really. I hope it's given the magic time to properly take hold. I have to admit potions and alchemy were never my strong suit."

Those green eyes light up. "But if you didn't want a fight and you didn't want wine, why did you come, Bedivere? I only wanted to partake of a drink, honestly, but a little bird told me that... Bedivere is so straight laced, he'd much rather have a warrior in front of him rather than a bewitching lady."
She cocks a hip, her curves managing to show thorugh the sturdy mail. "Wouldn't you agree?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The Knight of the Round blinks somewhat owlishly, violet eyes turning to the bottle as she describes the contents. Infused waters of the Caverns, dusted with residuum? Neither of these things are very meaningful to him. That there is magic involved is probably the death knell; there's no chance in hell he's going to drink it, now. Not that he would have anyway. He'd never been overly fond of wine. There had always been too many duties to see to in Camelot; he had never been able to afford to compromise his judgement or his even temper.

"I came here to convince you that this is folly," he offers simply, eyes snapping back to Magatha. His voice is calm and even, words carefully enunciated and clear; accustomed to speaking to nobility and kings. "I had the distinct feeling you would not listen over the radio."

He frowns when she adjusts her posture, but his eyes remain locked on hers; violet to green.

"I will not raise my blade against a lady, however vexing I may find her forthrightness." That frown stays right where it is. He is a creature of chivalry. Even though Magatha is on the other side of the war, it's a difficult thing for him to temper. "And this bird of yours has spoken falsely. I do not drink wine. Will you cease this foolishness, and leave me be?"

Psalm (181) has posed:
A little grin, and Maggie sighs. "How is this foolishness, Bedivere? We are in an auspicious place, full of the Knowledge of Time. The Waters here give those who partake glimpses of what is and was and what will be. They are ancient from so long ago. Like the Phase Rock and the Rookery, these places are so full of history, blood and honor that... don't you feel it in your bones, young man?"

The wind starts to kick up in the room, as she plants a hand on the hilt of the greatsword at her hip and the other around the neck of that bottle. "History, bloody and joyful, awful and awe-inspiring, all of the fullness of what we are and could be in this place, an immortal point in the Multiverse."
Are her eyes glowing now?

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Aye. I imagine the Caverns of Prophecy are so named for a reason." Bedivere folds his arms, violet eyes flicking to the shadowed beyond the bard and her table. They linger there, as though considering the dark pools thoughtfully. "Knowledge revealed, even though it be beyond the eyes of mortal men, beyond the means of most to see..."

The corner of his mouth quirks in a half-smile, and the expression seems almost melancholy. "Some things are not meant to be known," he says softly. "Three brothers mine left Camelot and sought after such. They left to places unknown, in search of the Holy Grail, that they might attain it, and the knowledge and vitality within. Two brothers mine never returned; of them, only Sir Bors ever returned."

"I never learned what became of them. I can only assume that such was beyond what we were meant to know."

His right hand lowers to rest on the hilt of his blade. He'll defend, since she's starting to look a little ominous, but he was apparently quite serious about not striking a lady.

"That may be so, good lady, but it is not mine to know." He bows his head, though his eyes are still fixed on her, wary. "I am but a humble servant; I seek but to uphold the knightly virtues. Modesty is among them -- such things as these pools provide, I am not meant to know."

Psalm (181) has posed:
Psalm pfffffs a bit and sighs. "So serious. So stoic. So modest."

She saunters over towards Bedivere, fingers tapping along the pommel of the Gleamsong. "Death comes for us all, Bedivere, you should know that better than others. You and your King." The humor has drained slightly out of her voice, as she murmurs. "That it came on a Quest is confirmation that worthy quests are worthy for the right reasons some times, and that not all quests are attainable."

She stops just in front of Bedivere, and murmurs. "If you do not intend to drink nor flirt, and simply wish to wax philosophic, I should point out that perhaps I chose... poorly... my partner this evening."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
That gauntleted hand tightens over the hilt of his sword, ever so subtly, when the bard paces even closer. Bedivere says nothing, merely watching her with solemn and wary eyes. There's even a hint of reluctance in them.

Chivalry dictates that he must not attack a woman, even if she bears arms. A knight must not raise his hand against a lady. Yet honour would dictate that he must not refuse a challenge issued fairly; to do so would be an insult to the one issuing the challenge.

What is he to do?

"I did not wish to be here at all, save by your summons," Bedivere points out calmly. "Yet courtesy demands that I respond, even if it is not my wish. Perhaps you did choose poorly. I am a knight, good lady, and one who takes his duties most seriously. I was once Marshal of the Realm, and I could not afford to be lax in those duties. And now that I serve the Union, I can afford even less to be."

He raises his violet eyes to look her in the eye, calmly. In spite of the gentleness and placidity of his regard, there is a note of steel to it. "Perhaps you did choose poorly, good lady, but we all make poor decisions now and again. I have no intention of lingering longer than I must." He shakes his head. "I appreciate your civility. 'Tis not a luxury often given in times of war. However, it is best I take my leave. I do not wish to fight you over this territory, and there are other duties I must attend to."

Provided she doesn't stop him (which she probably will), he'll turn to go -- perhaps foolishly turning his back on her, that blue-mantled white cloak flaring with the motion.

"Perhaps we will meet again."

And with that, provided she doesn't try to stab him, he'll move to walk out.

...That was probably a dumb thing to do.

Psalm (181) has posed:
"BEDIVERE OF BRITTANIA."

The words suddenly ring out in the chamber, backed by something dark and vicious and malicious. "You dare turn your back on me, knight? You weak-spined, fool-hardy, soft-skinned lout. You aren't fit to challenge me in the first place, civil or not. I ask you here to partake in something and you don't even have the bloody common decency to make proper excuses. Are you just that dull or did your time traipsing past the grave of your Master leave you feeble-minded? Turn and fight me or turn and drink but if you walk out of this bloody chamber I will rain hell upon all that you find happy."

Uh. Mad. Mad is the operative word here as the Vicious Mockery rushes out of Psalm in a unbroken stream of ANGRY. "DRAW YOUR BLADE." The Gleamsong Edge is already in hers, sharpening as her terrible beauty starts to manifest once more.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The knight stops, stiff-backed, when his name is thundered in the close confines of the chamber.

He stands in silence as the Vicious Mockery spills out of the bard in an unbroken line, and stands even as the words rake at his being as though they were physical blows. Although he flinches slightly, he stands with his back stiff and his hand still on the hilt of his blade.

What Magatha doesn't know is that he has borne a lifetime of insult and slander in the service of his king. There were many who disapproved of Arturia's choice of marshal; who questioned how she could choose this pale-haired Dál Riata foreigner over the old blood of Camelot's nobility.

Never once had he ever lost his temper at even direct assaults to his honour. Not once, outside the field of battle, had he ever even raised that gentle voice of his.

So Bedivere stands where he is, though his head tilts incrementally to one side, as though to address her.

"Lady Songsteel," he says in that soft voice of his, "I am a Knight of the Round Table. I would not sully my honour by drawing my blade on a lady. You have meant well to me, or so it has seemed to me, and I am appreciative of that. But I would not stain my honour by attacking you."

His voice lowers until she might have to strain to hear it over that unnatural wind. Were Arturia here, the king would know that her most loyal knight treads dangerously close to losing that ironclad calm. Magatha apparently addressed one of the few things best not addressed with Bedivere.

"But do not ever -- /ever/ -- insult the final service done my king." That dangerous undertone leaches from his voice, but his back remains to her. "You know not of what you speak, so I will forgive you for that, this time."

Bedivere closes his eyes, inhales deeply, and lets the breath go, seeking that calm centre again.

Chivalry, he chides himself, even if she might have trod upon dangerous territory. How could this otherworldly bard have known what that final service had cost him? Or that it was the just thing to do, in lack of anyone else to do it? Even his own blood brother had perished in the attempt to assist him.

"And pray let me correct you your misunderstanding. I am no longer Bedivere of Brittania," he adds, softly. "That place is lost to me."

Psalm (181) has posed:
"BOTHER."

The anger turns to something else as the soft words come out, and Magatha's green eyes waver a bit. But the Gleamsong holds steady.

"Bother all of that. If your final service for your King... your QUEEN was so important then see me as more than some wilting gods-damned lily, you arrogant lout." A ragged breath.
"Draw. Your. Blade."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere remains on the threshold, and his head bows slightly when Magatha expresses her anger. It's not really a curse, but it's given in the same spirit and scathing tone as one.

"I am sorry that you feel that way." The voice is soft again, as though in direct contrast to the bard's thundering fury. His head tilts slightly as he considers her words on the king.

For a long moment he seems uncertain as to what to say, thoughtful. "King," he corrects her. That dangerous note creeps into his voice again; tone even more faint than usual. "My lord King Arturia was no queen. She sacrificed evrything to be King to her people."

"Pray do not insult that sacrifice," he ads, even more softly.

Oho.

Psalm (181) has posed:
Nope. Nope nope nope.

If you're expecting insults any more, or words out of Maggie, uh. Nope.

There's a dull, sickening POP in the air as the Bard simply changes her point of existance to right up in Bedivere's path, her comparatively tiny fury manifesting as she KICKS at the Knight's hips and belly, trying to force him back into the Cavern. "DON'T YOU DARE."

And then the Gleamsong comes around, aiming for the Knight's middle, the blade literally singing a bareful note as it swings thorugh the air.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The knight startles, eyes snapping wide as the angry bard is very suddenly in front of him, and he finds himself both kicked in the gut and slashed in the same instant. Perhaps some part of him expected retribution, but more in the form of a slash in the back; not this witchcraft.

Being kicked in the gut is especially unpleasant when one wears plate armour. The plating over his stomach protects him from sharp implements, but blunt trauma is made that much more unpleasant; indeed, maces and morningstars were the bane of Camelot's plate-wearing knights.

Gleamsong clangs off the plating along Bedivere's side, and while it doesn't find anything to cut, the impact is nonetheless a monstrously strong blow, and it's going to leave a monstrously strong bruise later.

He staggers back into the cavern by way of 'it being the only direction away from Magatha,' coughing and clutching at his side.

But no; the knight simply squares his shoulders, willing away the pain. He has borne worse.

"I will not violate the Laws of Hospitality by raising my blade against you, good lady." His voice is a little strained, because holy shit that actually does hurt a lot, but he keeps it as even as he can. "Chivalry demands that a knight must not raise his hand against a lady in anger. I will not draw."

Apparently he's kind of stubborn, too. And takes this 'chivalry' thing pretty seriously.

Psalm (181) has posed:
"FINE!"

Maggie snarls, and stalks over to the table. She picks up the bottle, takes a hefty, heady drink of the waters within... and then smashes the heavy end against a wall of the caverns. A twisted, arcane snap of magic along with the breaking of the glass, and the magically infused water mists in the room, threatening to dose both the combatants. She points the shards of the bottle at Bedivere. "Do i need to GLASS YOU. Is THIS what is REQUIRED?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The silver-haired knight does not so much as flinch when that bottle is thrown, nor when the glass smashes against the rock wall. Gleaming shards tumble down from the point of impact, and the water stains the rock where some of it seeps in, at least before that snap of magic compels it to flow elsewhere.

Violet eyes dart between the bard and the broken bottle.

"I cannot break the Laws of Hospitality," Bedivere repeats softly. His wariness reflects in his voice. Though he hasn't drawn his sword, he does take a step back, clearly uncertain.

This obviously upsets her a great deal, but he is loathe to break those ancient laws. Terrible things happen to those who do. Although they aren't geasa, they might as well be for the people who believe in them -- there is no dishonour like breaking the Laws of Hospitality and spurning one's hosts.

The stoic knight shifts his weight, looking clearly uncomfortable. On the other hand, she looks pissed off enough to dismantle him piece by piece if this anger continues to carry her.

What's a knight supposed to do?

Psalm (181) has posed:
Maggie really has... no answer to that, as she stalks forward. Another trace dose of the waters swats into the pair, and Maggie's fury is... tapering?

Those green eyes cloud faintly, as her breath shallows out. "You speak of Hospitality when a woman, a knight, a warrior stands before you. I am Magatha Browndoe Sunspinner Songsteel, dear knight. I am the Psalm of House Deneith, and I am Dragonmarked of Sentinel. I carry the power of the arcane arts, command legions, I LEAD PEOPLE. I am no king no queen no royal. I got where I am by force and might and skill and guile and you SULLY this. BECAUSE I AM A WOMAN. BECAUSE I... BOTHER. I was silly!"
A blast of energy shatters the wooden kitchenette. "So I called it a DATE. Have you never used guile? Made excuses? I wished to see your mettle and you... you..."

More desperate. "Draw your sword."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The knight's eyes flutter half-closed; his nostrils flare at the mist from the pools as it drifts too near his face. It has a strange smell and taste to it. At once the stuff has a sweet taste cool as spring morning mist, and yet sharp as fire and steel.

He is neither magician nor magus, so it has little effect on him, beyond a lingering sense of strangeness. It is an otherworldly feeling; as though he did not belong in this place or this era. Which is, one supposes, true enough. This is not Britannia, nor Camelot.

Bedivere cocks his head, faintly.

"So. It is a matter of personal honour, then? I can accept a duel of honour. And as you request, it would not be a violation of the Laws." Bedivere still seems reluctant, though with a whisper of steel and leather, he slides his nameless sword halfway from its scabbard. He sighs as he does. "Ah, God preserve me, I do not do this with joyous heart..."

He does not flinch when the wooden kitchenette explodes, though he does side-step slightly to avoid a piece of the wreckage.

"I have not," he says solemnly, to her askance of whether he'd ever taken the devious path out of something. "As Marshal of Camelot, I was expected to adhere to the highest standards of chivalry. I would no sooner break those than I would invite dishonour upon my king."

"However, you are insistent upon this, I can see." Even now he sounds reluctant. "Please forgive me."

And then he /moves/.

Someone wearing plate armour should not be able to move that fast. Bedivere kicks off from the ground, streaking forward in a lunge of silver and blue, bringing his sword around -- but he does not seek to let the steel bite into her, instead turning his wrist at the last moment to try and bash her in the head with the pommel.

Psalm (181) has posed:
There's a strangled, happy cry as battle is finally joined, even as Maggie bringsthe Gleamsong Edge up and into the blow to keep her sull from getting cracked. She skids back on her heels though, and hisses out. "There's is nothing to be forgiven, other than reluctance. As fun as it is making you blush, Bedivere, to be disregarded is..." Her jaw sets, and she turns in place, sweeping her blade sideways. It's with the flat that she attempts to strike Bedivere. There's nothing graceful there, a baseball-bat swing, backed by a rush of chilling magic.

"And why not joy?" She tries to follow up the jarring blow with a thrust. "War and conflict is just as much a base of the mortal condition as love and hate. We all strive and grind up against one another."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The cutting edge of that massive blade gleams as it's swung around, and though Bedivere brings his own nameless blade up to block it, it's simply not heavy enough to turn aside the blow. The impact shivers up his arms, momentarily numbing him, even as Gleamsong Edge crunches into the plate armour at his side.

He takes the impact with bared teeth, the breath hissing out of him. It's the only show of pain he gives, other than to hunch over slightly; even though the desire to curl up in a ball after that is pretty well overwhelming.

"There is no glory in war." Bedivere's voice is strained, but he forces the words out anyway. He wavers slightly on his feet, trying to bring his blade up to turn aside that thrust, but he's too slow and too disoriented after that crushing blow. "War slaughters, and it takes, and it makes animals of good men."

He can't help but wince as the thrust manages to skip through the gap in the plating. This time there's a wet sound as it bites into his side, neatly slicing through the tunic he wears beneath the plate. This time he does stagger, coughing wetly. Yep, that feels like it hit something mighty important.

"I do not disregard you," he insists, wetly. "You are skilled. I will grant you that. But one's ability to swing a blade is not the measure of one's person. I place far greater honour in other pursuits."

His free hand darts down to check the wound, slipping through the plates. Apparently he's not happy with what he finds, frowning.

"War and battle... these are not the answer." He forces himself forward, this time raising his own blade. A feint, a second feint; lightning-quick strikes at each of her sides, trying to test her defenses.

And then he simply snaps out a sabaton-plated foot to try and kick her in the stomach as hard as he can. He doesn't really want to hurt her, but he'd really love to take her down before she does something unfortunate (and probably painful) to him.

Psalm (181) has posed:
This time it's Maggie that goes sprawling, as she tumbles back into a stone outcropping and goes ass over teakettle. As much as she leads from the front, Bedivere's put her out of sorts with the Wall of Righteousness.

But she can be heard grumbling as she gets back up to her feet. There's a knot forming on the side of her head where her head struck some rocks. "And yet that denies people their emotions, Bedivere. Life is pain and trying to shield people from that is... noble. But It Can't Last." The Edge sharpens again, and Maggie's form flutters faintly. The feint that Bedivere just used is returned, this time in spades as the Bard's form mirrors out into a series of images.

But the trained ear could pick up wich one of those blades was actually singing, as she comes in for a strike. "WE DIE, BEDIVERE! ALL OF US DIE."

And then there's a whisper in Bedivere's ear, as that attack connects. "Now /hit me like you mean it/."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
It's nothing personal. It really isn't. Bedivere holds himself to higher standards than perhaps anyone in his native kingdom, save perhaps his king. He had always striven to follow those ideals, even at great cost to himself. Just because he finds himself in a strange new world, that doesn't mean he'll break those vows. Such conduct is a reflection on his king, in a roundabout sort of way; and he would not dishonour Arturia by letting himself go like that.

Besides, the idea of turning his back on those vows he had taken so solemnly; the conduct he had held all his life... it's reprehensible to him.

He doesn't answer her regarding emotions, but something flickers through those violet eyes that suggests that her words do touch something in him. He had always sealed away his emotions, even as he tries to do here in the Multiverse. In Camelot, it had been a survival skill, as it tends to be even here.

"Some emotions are best denied." Bedivere coughs wetly, frowning as he considers the cut. It feels like it went deep; every movement brings a burning beneath his ribs. "They are base emotions, and they do no more than bring dishonour. Think you there is glory in taking a life? Such a thing can never be returned."

He staggers slightly, looking left and then right as there are suddenly lots and lots of Magathas all trying to stab him lots and lots of times. His blade raises in a desperate bid to defend himself, teeth bared; even as his other arm drops to try and staunch the open wound.

While he hears the bladesong, he seems to be moving a bit slower, fatigue wearing on him. He had already been tired from hiking up the mountainside, an arduous climb even for the most hearty, and now he can feel the blood seeping from him, too. The greatsword crunches into his side again, this time wrenching a cry of agony from him. Aw, not the same spot!

"Agh--! My lady, put up your blade and cease this foolishness! Aye! We all die, but we need not hasten it along--!" Once again he lashes out with his blade, testing, testing; but this time he simply grips his blade two-handed, swinging the flat for the side of Magatha's head -- like her swing, much like a baseball bat's, with all the force in it he can muster.

Psalm (181) has posed:
When one is a bard, one needs to be able to properly sing and have your hair flowing in the breeze and be a wonderous glowing example to your people.
When one is fighting a trained and lethal swordsman, one should wear a helmet.

Maggie's just about to say something about life lived when she's soundly knocked upside the head and falls over onto her side, her sword clattering across the rock floor of the caverns. There's blood seeping from her hair now, crimson on crimson as she staggers back up to her feet and wills the blade back to her hand. An unsteady, rough step forward, and the woman's green eyes refocus, slowly on Bedivere.

"And some emotions are worth using, worth releasing, worth letting out, lest they devour us whole." A ragged unsteady step forward, as she reapproaches the knight, and murmurs. "I envy you, Bedivere. You have someone worth protecting. Worth fighting for. My honor and my magic and my love for the Narrative for Life is my rock and it is not nearly as steady as your adorable king."

Her boots scuff, as she sucks in a breath and /SINGS/. It is arcane and twisty and lryical and wonderful and awful all at once, wracking the caverns with sudden and random visions of both of their lives.

A glimpse of Maggie happy and smiling with the SAO folks.

Stupid nattering salamanders crowding around Maggie.

The first death of Arthur Lowell.

And then an image of Maggie's lonely wizard's tower with her big comfy chambers with her manuscripts and books and war plans and conctracts.

And then the scuffing of feet gets louder as the woman comes in for an equally unsteady series of slashes at Bedivere.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The flat of the blade rebounds, and Bedivere has to use both arms to wrench it aside, before the momentum takes him off balance. He wavers on his feet again, sword dropping until the point drags on the stone; the steel coaxes a spark or two as he steps back.

He merely stands there, breathing heavily, watching her with wary violet eyes.

Although he's listening to her, he can't help but turn his head, spitting something dark. His eyes never leave her even as the blood spatters on the stone ground.

And then she Sings.

Bedivere staggers and drops his sword, folding his arms over himself as though in defense even as he finds his retreat halted by a rock wall. The images are seen, and noted, though he has no means by which to reference them. This is not his life, not his memories; and he rejects them, desperately.

So busy is he trying to shut them out that her blade finds him easily, one blow crunching again into the side of his armour to a cry of pain; the next biting into the pauldron of one shoulder, denting the steel in a shower of sparks, though not enough to cut through it.

Bedivere drops his battered shoulder, attempting to ramp into Magatha with his other shoulder -- tackling her to the ground might be a good way to end this, or at least buy himself enough time to figure out a more efficient means of knocking her out. Battering her about the head and neck with the blunt bits of his sword doesn't seem to be working.

What a miserably stubborn woman.

"Perhaps," the knight rasps. "But not all are to be shared." He twists to spit blood again (not on Magatha, thankfully), and bares slightly bloody teeth in a grimace. "Aye. She is steady. I would die for her--" If that shoulder-check didn't work, he'll try to ball a fist and slam it into the vicinity of Magatha's stomach, with as much force as he can muster. "But I suspect--I suspect you already know this. Please /stop/," he rasps, pained. "I do not want to /fight/ you."

Psalm (181) has posed:
And Maggie, already likely concussed, sort of crumples at the last of that, flopping over on her side as she coughs up some blood of her own, wincing and kicking one leg at the stone floor trying to get up. "Ngggff fffhhnn ghhh." She's lost her breath, it would seem.

She may be a warrior, but she's picked a fight with a fellow who's a more competant swordsman than herself, and he's effectively putting a stop to her avenues for magic. She manages to get to a sitting position, and holds up a hand. "Hnnng jggghh, sttt okkkk." Another cough, a wet hacking as she leans up against a rock, and lifts her sword with the other one. Well, sort of raises her sword.

"Don't fight, d-don't flirt. Useless." Wait, is that a smile?

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Upon seeing the bard crumple, the onetime marshal staggers back, bracing against the rock wall and just sort of... sliding down onto his rump, like a string-cut puppet. His tunic is stained almost black beneath the steel plates, though it's more easily scented than seen; the familiar coppery tang of fresh-welling blood. Any warrior worth their salt would know that smell.

He doesn't grace her incoherent responses with a reply. Mostly because he has no idea what she's trying to say. His fast-muddling mind can't really piece words together out of that.

"Aye," he breathes, gaze dimming, though his eyes don't quite close. His free hand comes up to clutch at his wounded side, and he frowns a bit at both the blood that seeps between his gauntleted fingers, and the thin trickle of red from the corner of his mouth. That greatsword must have bitten deeper than he'd expected.

The knight exhales; a long, tired breath, as his head bows forward, hair falling to hide his face.

He doesn't answer. He's just going to take a minute or two to breathe, and see if he can do that without hurting like hell.

And maybe make a mental note never to piss this woman off ever again.

Ow.

Psalm (181) has posed:
Maggie manages to get a proper breath in her, and lets out a sigh. Okay, that's working again, good.

Then she hums a clear note, followed up by a little series of lah~s. Okay that's working.

A look over at Bedivere, and... and she Sings. This time... it's something soothing, like a lullabye. A delicate sensation as that nasty gash in his side seals itself up, the blood seepage stopping.

And that effort seems to drain the rest of the energy out of the girl, her eyes going faintly glassy.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere's eyes dim, and they're just a bit above closed. He's been wounded before, almost mortally, but that never stops it from being inconvenient and painful. Or a thing he would prefer to avoid completely. While some of the Round Table like Sir Gawain were eager to prove their honour by seeking glory in battle, the sword had always been the very last of Bedivere's options.

"...hn." The sound is quiet, and even though the bleeding finally stops, he's still exhausted. That damned trail to get up here is ridiculous, unless you have wings, and who on earth has the power to fly like a bird?

Oh. Right. Multiverse.

Those eyes finally drift closed, and his head sags the rest of the way down. He listens for a moment or two more, but his weariness and the aftermath of those wounds were taxing on him. He does not have the benefit of supernatural powers; he is nothing more than a mortal man, unlike the now-otherworldly king he serves. A point that Mordred had mocked him over, and one that he now begins to see the reason for.

Hindsight is twenty-twenty, or so they say, right?

He'll just... wait here for a few minutes to gather his strength. He's not sure he has the energy to hobble back to his feet. Just the idea of it makes his concentration dim. He doesn't even notice when he stops registering the sound of the dripping Pools.

That's probably where Saber will find him, unconscious, his sword several feet away from him and bearing brand new notches in its edge.

Psalm (181) has posed:
And Miss Songsteel just slumps a bit. If she notices Saber coming up to retrieve her knight... she doesn't move.