451/A Knight Among Knights

A Knight Among Knights
Date of Scene:	02 September 2014
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	Michael Knight visits Dun Realtai, where he has the opportunity to meet knights of a very different sort than himself...
Cast of Characters:	346, 482, 543

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The valley in which Dun Realtai is settled is a vast snowy plain, with gentle rolling hills. Curiously, the weather here is incredibly cold, almost tundrid; as though severe winter has come early to this place. Still, no snow falls, and the sky is a crisp, clear autumn blue. Despite the bleak sunlight, the sun is indeed warm, or at least warmer than the cold breeze.

Recently assigned as the lord of this estate through events entirely beyond his control, Sir Bedivere of Camelot has coped as well as could be expected. The people had lost everything when they came under attack by rogue elementals and the subverted power of a winter-witch, and when he had brought Union allies to offer relief to the villagers, the winter-witch -- who had actually been protecter of this place, whose control had been usurped by a jealous mortal wizard -- turned around and gave the place to Bedivere to safeguard until her powers returned.

He's still not quite certain how that happened.

Even so, the repairs have been coming along nicely. Much of Dun Realtai's village sprawls on the hill the castle sits atop; a broad cobblestone avenue runs up to the keep itself, and villagers bustle about the village to the sounds of construction and work-songs. Hammering and sawing are audible throughout, ringing out through the cold air.

The lord of the keep, however, is not in the keep today. After a sleepless night of nightmares full of fire and blood, he had decided not to report to the villagers to help them with their tasks; his king would scold him for such self-neglect, and he found himself too tired to do any literal heavy lifting. Instead, he had balanced the ledgers and ordered necessary supplies.

Now, this afternoon, the former Marshal of the Realm can be found lying up against the castle's curtain wall, just outside the castle's bailey-yard, overlooking the village where it runs up to the gates of the castle. He wears his heavy plate armour and his mantled cloak, and in one gauntleted hand he has an apple, crunching on it distractedly as he watches a cluster of villagers attempt to raise the mainframe of a house all together.

He's exhausted, actually, and the shadows under his eyes betray that fact well, but he would be loathe to return to the keep. These people and this reconstruction is his responsibility, and if he can't work on it directly, he'll at least be here to lend some support to the villagers.

...Even if he's probably going to get a lecture on it later.

Michael Knight (543) has posed:
Warble, warble. Warble warble.

One red eye sweeps left and right, left and right, surveying the land as its body, a sleek black thing of elegant and lethal curves, comes roaring from the warpgate. This machine, so out of place here, is host to a man with the most satisfied grin on his face. "/This/ is playing hooky, KITT," he says. Noting the snow, he presses a button on the bright, multicolored display before him. The wheels of this strange, self propelled cart grow small spikes, which help it cling to the ground even in its slick and slippery state.

"Oh, dear. I like this!"

Michael laughs. "Me, too, buddy." With KITT's assistance, he deftly avoids wildlife and other obstacles, even at the sprightly pace of one hundred and twenty miles per hour--nowhere near KITT's top speed, but one's perspective of 'normal speed' does tend to change when one's car has a turbine engine. "Hey, looks like some kinda medieval society... is that a castle in the distance?"

Saber (346) has posed:
     At first, the villagers were likely surprised at the sight of an otherwise petite, dainty-looking girl no older than 15 summers hauling large cross-beams along with the other labourers. Dressed in similar work clothes with her hair tied up in its customary braid-encircled bun and bound with a blue ribbon, the Servant Saber of the Fourth Holy Grail War was doing precisely that. But by this time, the once-bewildered townsfolk were already used to the strange strength of the girl, not to mention the other recent additions to the land to include their new lord. Unbeknownst to them, it had been she who had received the winter-witch's request and assigned lordship to one of her knights, the one most suited to the task: Sir Bedivere. As much as he had squirmed under the idea out of feelings if being inadequate for the task, she had full confidence in his abilities...and Arturia Pendragon was an excellent assessor of abilities.

     Setting the plank down, she frowned thoughtfully, looking out to the horizon. There was no magic specifically to be felt, but the shifting of the winds told her /something/ approached. Her marshal should be informed.

     Fortunately, it was not a difficult thing for the King of Knights to find her marshal. Bedivere might still curse the day Tohsaka Sakura had relinquished her command seals -- the mystical tattoos linking her to her Master and hence to the physical plane -- but the link was quite the boon for improved efficiency. And it was just as well she had something to inform him of; if he was overworking himself /again/ as he was wont to do, there was perhaps a mild lecture in the offing.

     And when she approached him, the exhaustion was apparent. She frowned her concern, but did not so much as comment on it. Knight and king had a rather elaborate method of nonverbal communication. Instead, what she said out loud was, "I believe that something approaches, my lord."

     Not exactly the correct way for a king to address a knight, but there were reasons involving the townsfolk and the element of hope. But for now? Business.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
That stretch of wall seems to be the marshal's new favourite place, like a cat sunning itself. Not that he's lazy, necessarily. Indeed, he would be working if he had any way to do it without attracting attention, but Arturia Pendragon's perceptions are almost as keen as his. If he pushes himself too hard, she'll know it.

Sighing, Bedivere takes another bite out of the apple, crunching on it thoughtfully as he watches her among the villagers down below. A lot of them had been spooked at first, watching such a petite young woman hauling full-sized timbers around as though they'd been no more than dowels... but they came to appreciate that strength when they saw how much of a boon it had been to their reconstruction efforts.

Something dark on the horizon catches his attention -- not because he's specifically looking, but because he still has the instinct to scan the horizon every so often. He had done so often from Camelot's citadel, looking out to sea, for that was where death had come from -- in the ships of the Saxon raiders. He had made a point of scanning for them, and several raids had been averted because his keen eyes had spotted sails on the horizon before anyone else.

Frowning, he narrows his eyes, squinting to the snowfields. It's bright with the sun glancing off them like that, and that might be why he spots the distant form of KITT churning through the snow -- an anomaly; something dark against the endless white.

It seems he's not alone in his perceptions, either; he glances over when he notices the King of Knights approaching. The bright side to those command seals is that it's very, very hard for her to sneak up on him now. "I see that." He frowns slightly, regarding the distant KITT thoughtfully... and something near his right eye twitches a bit when she addresses him by that title. /That is hardly proper,/ the gesture seems to say. Still, he's distracted, reaching up to rub at his jaw with his other hand. "Should we ride to meet it, my king?"

Ah, but maybe that won't be necessary. Whatever it is, it's coming closer.

"And moving at great speed," he murmurs, voicing half his thoughts. With a grunt, he pulls himself to his feet, a little slowly and stiffly. "What do you suppose that is...? It seems to be approaching the gates." Violet eyes cant sidelong to the King of Knights. "Friend or foe?" he murmurs, resting a hand over the hilt of the sword at his waist.

Michael Knight (543) has posed:
The black Trans-Am nears the castle with every passing second, the whine of its turbine audible as it grows closer. In the distance, one can easily make out its black shape in the vast field of white, now that both figures are watching it. The sunlight gleams and reflects off of the windshield as it hugs the winding, well-worn roads usually reserved for horse drawn carts and foot traffic. Michael can just barely make out two shapes near the castle's exterior. "You see what I see, KITT?"

"Indeed. Magnifying image..."

Michael looks away from the road, his companion's incomparable calculations and electric reflexes allowing him such a luxury. His eyes scan the car's built-in monitors. "Wow, looks like a bona fide knight and..." Huh. "A peasant girl? Wonder what she's doing all the way up at the castle." He's quiet for a moment. "Let's say hi."

The car begins slowing down the closer it gets to the castle. In truth, Michael could even accelerate if he really wanted to, and just use KITT's Emergency Brake System, but that'd probably send too showy, or even disdainful a message. So, he slows to eighty, then sixty, then forty, coming to a gentle, quiet stop at the gate within the next few minutes. The car's red eye sweeps back and forth, that warbling sound now audible to Bedivere and Arturia.

Saber (346) has posed:
     Indeed, Arturia most certainly noticed when he was pushing himself too hard. It was difficult enough keeping him to light duty and fussing at him to not overwork even then. She did have a devastating weapon in her arsenal to encourage him to mind his health better, but she refrained from overusing it. Not only would it lose its effect, but she really didn't enjoy making him unhappy.

     She could see the distant vehicle better from a higher vantage point. It might have been...a car? But she could not quite make out the precise shape from that distance, even as keen as her preternatural senses were.

     The jade-eyed knight stifled a sigh at his complaint. /The villagers might overhear/ she reminded him, almost lightly scolding. Normally he would have been far more careful...but then again, it was not Camelot where they'd had to construct elaborate masks over their true selves. They could afford to be a little more lax. /You are their lord, now./

     Out loud, she agreed. "Aye, I should think so..." she frowned again; the gleaming black form -- was that a hint of red? -- approached at a speed she had only seen once before...

     No. Not even the Mercedes Irisviel had driven so /interestingly/ could reach a speed like that.

     "We might have no need. By the time we so much as reach the stables, it will already be at our gates."

     Her assessment proved quite correct; she had barely finished speaking before the Trans Am came to a smooth halt. And blinked; her knowledge of the era was somewhat limited, but in the year that she had been summoned to... "That...appears to be an automobile from approximately ten years from when I was summoned. but what would such a thing be doing in a place such as this...?"

     She frowned again; if it was hostile, it likely would have attacked by now. Still, better to be safe than sorry.

     In one instant, she had been wearing her work clothes, and with a flash of wind and magical energy, she was dressed in the armour and dress she had always worn in Camelot. "Let us see what our impromptu guest seeks," she commented to Bedivere, once again in proper kingly mode.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The armoured knight sighs, slumping almost imperceptibly when chided over his discomfort with the title. Likely that'll never really go away. He is humble and modest by nature; to think of himself as a landholding lord chafes. /Very well.../

If it's a modern vehicle, it is if nothing else impressive. It has to climb a fairly steep hill to reach the castle gates, and it does so without complaint, though villagers scatter apprehensively at the vehicle. Still, it doesn't seem to be threatening them so much as passing through, and so they don't sound the alarm or call for their lord and his nonexistent army.

"Mn." He frowns when she confirms he wouldn't have time to reach the stables. Even if he were hale and taking the road to them at full sprint, he wouldn't have time to saddle a horse and race for the gates in time. The vehicle is already climbing the hill.

He cocks his head instead, studying the slowly-approaching KITT and folding his arms over his chest; his plated gauntlets clatter quietly as he settles his fingers over his forearms. Half a glance is cast sidelong as the blue and silver armour is summoned, and his head drops in respectful inclination.

Peasant girl, indeed. He strides forward through the slush in the courtyard, up to the vehicle slowing to a halt before the gates. Is that red thing an eye? He can't help but feel like it's watching him.

"Hail, stranger."

Perhaps the most notable thing about Bedivere's voice is its /softness/. A casual listener might even mistake him for a woman by tone; and by appearance, as well -- despite the heavy armour and mantled greatcloak, the lines of his face are soft; his fine, silvery-blonde hair is worn long, and there's a softness to his eyes perhaps unexpected in what would otherwise be a hardened warrior.

Right now, though, his aspect is one of wary solemnity. He rests his hand on the hilt of his sword, but he does not draw the weapon; nine-tenths of any war, he had learned, was the show of threat even if it was threat he did not possess -- to let that implication do the fighting for him. Let this stranger think twice if he comes here without good intentions.

"I am Sir Bedivere of Dun Realtai, and I am steward of this land. What business have you in this place?" He will not invite the stranger as a guest, invoking the unbreakable Brehon Law -- not until he's determined his intentions. That red-eyed car makes him extremely leery, and he has no doubt that at least Arturia can pick up on his nerves.

Michael Knight (543) has posed:
The driver side door opens.

Out steps Michael Knight, standing at six foot four. He wears the clothes of a modern world, though by the standards of most such worlds his are rather outdated, having just exited the era of bell bottoms and flared collars. Some of that influence still remains, however subtle. Though his clothes and his car set him apart from these people, his face and demeanor stand on common ground.

His is a smile of nobility, more so in appearance than experience--perhaps he comes from a noble line, but the proud stance of landed gentry is not in him. His face, framed by brown curly hair, looks equally at home here or on the tapestry of some minor lord's wall. "Sir Bedivere? Really?" Doesn't look like a sir... He spares his car a look as if it were a sapient being, almost like sharing a joke, and then looks back at the now-armored Arturia and Bedivere. He shuts the door. "Don't suppose Merlin or King Arthur are around..."

"Oh, where are my manners? I'm Michael Knight, and this..." He smiles. "This is my noble steed, KITT."

The AI seethes, unable to scoff without reinforcing the idea that he's a horse. "Hail and well met," the car introduces itself. "We are but travelers and keepers of the peace. We have no quarrel with you, Sir Knight."

Michael shoots the car a surprised look. Given that it's a talking car, his is probably not the only surprised look, but he nonetheless remarks, "Where'd you brush up on your fancy talk?"

"I thought it'd be appropriate."

Saber (346) has posed:
     Saber had indeed not been mistaken by the softly whirring red 'eye' -- something she was certain was not a feature of an ordinary vehicle of its type -- the horizontal flash of red between the headlights. Moreover, she could recall nothing of the sort which had been imparted to her upon her summoning. If it was a machine of war, she would have been able to identify it as such...at least, in her own universe. Most curious.

     However, she did not regard KITT with the same leeriness, but a mild curiosity. While Bedivere had been a recent arrival in the multiverse, Arturia had lived in it for the past five years and had acclimated even without the help from certain magical aspects of her reality.

     The petite blonde stood silently at Bedivere's side, close to a full foot shorter than the tall silver-haired knight, not yet speaking as she assessed the situation as her marshal did, though seemingly unarmed. There was little knight and king missed when they worked in concert.

     Saber did indeed pick up on that uneasiness, as well as the fact that he tactically did not invoke Brehon Law. Similarly, she did not give her name for the moment, not even her designation as a Servant, though she might have twitched at the mention of 'Merlin'. /Dear Lord God above, I should hope not./

     At least, not until the car spoke.

     In all honesty, she was more surprised by the /courtesy/ of the AI, rather than the fact that a somewhat old-fashioned car in 1992 was equipped with what could have only been a computer. But such politeness was rare, and they identified as keepers of the peace, which was *always* a good way to start off a conversation with Saber. "Well-met, Sir Michael, Sir KITT." Why yes, she just called the /both/ of them 'Sir.' But what was perhaps even more weird was her introduction.

     "I am Arturia Pendragon, Servant Saber of the Fourth Holy Grail War," she introduced herself with a half-nod, half-bow.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The Lord of Dun Realtai is a tall man, but he stands at or perhaps an inch above six feet high. His broad shoulders and armour certainly paint a more imposing image, but his features otherwise give him a certain androgyny. Still, he doesn't seem to mind the blatant questioning of his identity or gender, bearing it with the same silent dignity he had born worse insults with in Camelot.

Whatever the case, though, he does not seem someone to be taken lightly. His height and solidlty of build suggest a life of hardship; honed by grueling training and the ceaseless wars that had ravaged his era.

Armour clatters quietly as he shifts his weight, cocking his head slightly and regarding Michael and his machine somewhat dubiously.

"I am Sir Bedivere," he confirms, softly. "I would be introducing myself as Sir Bedivere of the Round Table, or of Camelot, but the Round Table is sundered, and Camelot lies in ashes. They are no more, and has not been for some five years. I am to understand most know me as a member of the Round Table?" He looks away, thoughtful; seeming almost troubled. "While I had not thought my deeds worthy of legend, it would appear it is a commonality shared across many worlds..."

He also twitches, very slightly, at the mention of Merlin. /The Good Lord have mercy on us, anything but that./

His attention snaps back to Michael and KITT, frowning at the car when it speaks. Yes, sir, that's a bit creepy... but the knight nonetheless seems to consider the vehicle's words.

He falls silent as Arturia introduces herself, silent as she introduces herself as Arturia Pendragon. Those violet eyes turn to Michael; half-closed in thought, they're partly obscured by pale, almost silvery lashes. He seems to be studying the man; sizing him up, perhaps taking the measure of his morals. Apparently, he reaches a decision.

Armour clatters quietly as he shifts his weight, tucking his right arm over his stomach and inclining forward in a formal bow. The change in him is almost tangible; less suspicious, and more the dignified lord of the land -- appearances, perhaps, for the few peasants that are watching from the shadows. His face is wholly hidden for a moment, bowed respectfully; hair fallen across his features for a brief moment.

"Then as Lord of Dun Realtai, I welcome you to my hall as guests, Sir Michael and Sir KITT." It is done. Even if the stranger were to attack, he has invoked Brehon Law; but he is an excellent judge of character. "Be welcome, and stay as long as you please, though I fear we have little in the way to offer of hospitality. Dun Realtai has suffered much, and we are still rebuilding."

Michael Knight (543) has posed:
Michael Knight quirks a brow. /Arturia/ Pendragon? Not Arthur? That's weird. Of course, he doesn't say that it's weird, because that'd be really rude, but. It does hang him up enough that his interest is visible. Belatedly, he offers a bow to both Arturia and Bedivere, the gesture not practiced in the least and kind of shaky to boot. Evidently, it's not a common display in his world.

"I am afraid I have no knowledge of you or your land," admits KITT. "History was not deemed a pertinent subject to my operation."

Michael interjects. "Me, on the other hand, I was taught about you guys in school. I'm sorry to hear about Camelot, but if it makes you feel any better, you guys are... probably one of the more popular historical subjects being taught in schools. They tell stories about you, too, about Excalibur and the Lady of the Lake, and all that good stuff. So, it's really kind of an honor to be invited like this."

He looks at Arturia with patent curiosity, running a hand through his hair.

"Michael, you're staring."

"...sorry. I wasn't expecting King Arthur to be a kid. Or a girl, for that matter."

Saber (346) has posed:
     The legendary status of not only her, but her knights and even her enemies had not been something Arturia had particularly discussed in-depth with the Left Hand of the King. While he had been glad to hear that his king was certainly not forgotten, he had been incurious about his own considerable legend. But then, among all her knights he had exemplified the virtue of modesty most of all, and even the villagers were more than a little puzzled as to why their new lord had been acting as if he had been assigned to the task to serve /them/. Even for the less-astute, the first thing which was noticeable had been his calm, followed by an almost painful modesty.

     By contrast, Saber carried herself with a regal air and the deliberate, practised grace which had come from years of projecting the image of the perfect king to her people. Her expression was nearly the same as that of her marshal; calm and for the most part impassive. And when she had first arrived in the multiverse, Saber would have never given her true identity away, suspicious of allowing that information to be used against her. The Union had seemed honourable enough, but she was still reluctant to trust and generally only revealed it to someone out of a sense of honour. She remained cautious, but had since abandoned the almost paranoid over-caution. Moreover, with the greeting, it was only proper.

     At the mention of her former kingdom, Saber shook her head slightly. "It is all right. It has passed...and as knights we have taken upon ourselves new duties, to aid the people thoughtout the multiverse in what ways we can and adhere to the virtues of chivalry."

     Her expression remained impassive even at the mention of their legend -- as Bedivere was, she was modest and fighting with some internal issues of her own -- but finally that mask faded into the faintest of smiles at the former police officer's bafflement. "You would not be wrong. I disguised myself as a man in order to rule Britain."

     She nodded back to her lieutenant. "It is as my marshal has said, you are welcome as guests here."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The marshal remains silent all through the reaction of their guest. Even his armour makes no sound, for he makes no movement; still as a statue. His air of quiet, combined with that intense stare, might even be unsettling to some... but that's just his way. He spoke rarely, and remained observant, hearing and seeing things that many had missed. His hawk-eyed perceptions had served Camelot well.

He tilts his head very faintly when Michael relates that their lives had been a subject learnt about in schools. The mere notion of it is a little strange to him, surreal in a way he can't quite articulate. The more humble part of him almost wants to protest that nothing he had ever done was worthy of legend or remembrance; he had only served his king, and fulfilled his sworn duties--

Something in the knight's mien changes at Michael's last observation, and something in those violet eyes goes remarkably cold.

"Do not refer to her so," he states sharply. There is an edge of steel to that soft voice, although Bedivere does not move an inch. "You are a guest on my lands, but you will address the King of Britain with due respect..."

He exhales through his nose.

"Forgive me," he says quietly, looking away. It's something of instinctual behaviour to ensure that Arturia's dignity remains unsullied. He is protective of her; nearly overprotective, and does not suffer slights real or imagined against her honour.

His eyes linger on the village for a moment before flicking back to Michael and KITT.

"As my king says, we have taken upon ourselves new responsibilities in the wake of Camelot. It is our duty to serve the people, and these people are in sore need of succor and protecion, and so that is why we are here. Dun Realtai is not of our world, although I suppose if one looked at it sidelong, it could well have been." He allows himself a faint smile of his own. "Perhaps it may seem strange to folk of your era, Sir Michael, but it familiar, to us. And it is home."

Michael Knight (543) has posed:
Michael Knight ... looks scolded, legitimately so, when Bedivere sets out to defend Arturia's reputation. "No, no, you're right, Sir Bedivere. Don't apologize. It's rude to talk about anyone like they're not there, especially a king. I'm sorry, your majesty. Hope my misstep doesn't reflect too badly on me."

It does of course make sense to him that, if King Arthur weren't really a man, she'd have to disguise herself. That time period wasn't exactly known for its open-mindedness--and yet here he is, recovering from calling someone a girl like it was some kind of insult. He runs a hand through his hair. "Anyway, thank you both for having us in your home. I'm not sure how I'd say it in your, uh, manner of speaking, but if you guys are looking to help the multiverse then you're alright in my book."

Without any further ado, he gives... no. Maybe he should bow first. He bows! And then he heads past the gate and into the castle courtyard. KITT quietly follows behind.

Saber (346) has posed:
     In the past, Arturia would have reprimanded the somewhat overzealous marshal....but then, she would probably not have needed to. He was still touchy over the events of Camlann, not to mention still struggling with adjustment to the modern era and the multiverse in general. It might have made the knight jump a little when she rested her hand lightly on his arm, a gesture she certainly would not have made when she'd had to maintain rigid impartiality. "Sir Bedivere, it is all right...it is a very common reaction, especially given my own hand in it..."

     She /had/ been the one to agree to hide her gender when Merlin had suggested it, after all.

     But she was more that a little grateful that Michael appeared to be an understanding sort...more than she could say for some of her allies as of late. She faintly smiled again, shaking her head. "Please, do not worry. I have suffered true disrespect before...this is nothing of the sort." And she certainly had; there had been certain other kings she had faced during the Holy Grail War who had not been shy in the least about insulting her way of the king.

     "Indeed, it is," the flaxen-haired king agreed. "There have been some improvements from the current era..." Yes, such conveniences as indoor plumbing were easily taken for granted and yet terribly missed once they were gone. And there were some signs here and there that the village and castle were not /quite/ as far back in time as they first appeared; some rolls of modern insulation stacked beneath the overhand of a roof here, some crates of canned goods on the side of the Inn there. "However, for the most part, the people preferred to do things in a more traditional way. It has been little trouble to us, as we are from a similar era."

     As Bedivere and Saber led the way in, she shook her head with the similar faint smile as before. "It is all right, the intent is the same, regardless of how it is expressed. But, we simply perform our duties as knights...truly, we expected no gratitude nor accolade...though, the regard is welcome, all the same."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere passes the oak, glancing back to his guests. Some part of him still bristles slightly, as though annoyed at the mere thought of referring to Arturia with such disrespect, but he says no more on the subject.

He does glance over sharply when an arm is laid over his arm, regarding the king somewhat hesitantly for a moment. "That does not excuse disrespect... but very well, my king." The knight finally sighs, dropping his gaze, though his brow is still slightly furrowed.

Steel-plated sabatons clank in rhythm as the silver-haired knight walks on, crunching in the courtyard's patchy snow and bare earth. Much of the snow has melted and left behind patchy earth. A single massive oak grows a short distance from the keep, casting the shadows of bare, grasping branches over the southwestern quarter. It's a monster of an oak, a little over half the height of the five-storey keep; in summer, it's bound to cast ample shade for the weary traveller.

As they pass through the door of the keep's vast open great hall, the doorway of which is probably wide enough to admit even KITT if it were careful, it's clear that the castle itself must have suffered some grievous calamity. Much of the stonework is repaired, but it has a patchwork quality about it; older, darker stone overlaid with much paler masonry, and the scent of fresh, new timbers where they've been put up as reinforcement.

Bedivere turns sharply, cloak swirling about his ankles as he goes -- enough to show, briefly, that he's wearing both a sling and a splint on his right arm. Come to think of it, his plate mail looks fairly battered, too. He looks like he's been through the wringer somehow... bu that doesn't stop him from fixing a cup of tea for his guest or his king. When he returns to them, he offers the cup to Michael. Maybe it's a peace offering after that misunderstanding earlier.

"You would thank us for having you in our home, as you just have," the tall knight responds, with the faintest hint of a smile. His head tilts slightly at that second statement, though, frowning. "Of course we look to assist others. Am I not a knight of the Round Table? And is my lord not the King of Britain? It is our duty to assist where we can." There's a short pause. "Please, be seated, if you wish."

There are long benches and tables that span the great hall; slowly and stiffly, Bedivere eases himself down into one, gesturing for Michael to do the same. "As my king says, it is welcome, but that is not why we do what we do. It is our sworn duty to be the sword and shield for those who have none, and to act as servants of the people."

Michael Knight (543) has posed:
The Trans-Am opts to stay in the courtyard, capable as he is of communicating through Michael's watch. The decision might lack the personal touch, but he prefers not to drive into buildings that aren't garages--Michael's more aggressive stunts not withstanding.

Michael takes Sir Bedivere up on his offer, and accepts the tea that's offered to him. He's not much of a tea guy, but he figures he ought to accept if Bedivere and... Arturia decided to break out the tea set on his behalf. "Thanks, Sir Bedivere." Knight takes a seat at the nearest table.

The loner sips it chastely, feeling very much out of place here. The tea cup is one thing, but his attire (pants that seem a distant cousin of bell-bottoms, leather jacket, unbuttoned red shirt with a huge collar typical of his time) coupled with the surroundings creates no small amount of cognitive dissonance. He runs his free hand through his perm and chuckles. "So, uh, I don't suppose you guys have met a Robin Locksley? A Saint George?" He snaps his fingers, trying to think of more figures of legend. He's got to know if they're real... "A big jerk in green armor named Bercilak?"

Saber (346) has posed:
     While she wouldn't have minded KITT's presence, Arturia could certainly respect the politeness. And at least there was the communication watch; something interesting in and of itself.

     Arturia carefully suppressed a sigh while keeping a straight face at Bedivere's insistence upon the protocol of their time; his acquiescence would have to do for the moment. And really, she couldn't honestly fault the knight, as he was performing the same duties he'd carried out for his two decades of service. Neither of them could simply change so easily, not after years of rigid hierarchy in a court boasting more than a few hostile elements. Not to mention some other, more recent entanglements...

     But some things hadn't changed, and even modern protocol seemed to insist she seat herself first. She wasted no time in doing so with a practised regal bearing, if for no other reason than to allow the two men to follow suit without having to wait for her. As much as she wanted to fuss at Bedivere for exerting himself, the idea of the king acting as hostess would have doubtless horrified him...or at least ended in sputtering and a drawn-out argument about who should have been carrying out that particular duty.

     That certainly wouldn't have appeared proper or professional...though fortunately for their dignity, 'arguments' between the king and her marshal tended to be non-verbal, carried out through glances and glares as the one already knew what the other was going to say. And sometimes, even that was not necessary; Bedivere would have known she was yielding the duty of host to him...for now.

     Saber tapped her chin thoughtfully, trying to recall the fragments of legends the Holy Grail imparted to her upon her summoning. "I have yet to encounter Robin or the good Saint...though in the multiverse, it would be entirely possible."

     On the other hand, the mention of the Green Knight drew a faint smile. "Ah, well. That would be more of a story for Sir Gawain to tell. He visits this place as well, from time to time."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"I have not met a Robin Locksley. Nor a Saint George. There is only a Saint Jeanne that I have met. She is a guest of Dun Realtai, and helping to rebuild the church." Bedivere tilts his head thoughtfully, shifting his weight with a faint grimace of what seems to be pain. Blunt trauma, maybe. He frowns at the last, thinking for a moment...

Bercilak? He tilts his head faintly at the unfamiliar name, thinking for a moment and narrowing his eyes. "Ah... ah," he adds, understanding dawning over slightly angular features. "You speak of Sir Bertilak, do you not? Yes, I had known of him, although I had not been acquainted with him myself. That is indeed a story for Sir Gawain to tell. He is also a guest of this castle, although he comes and goes as he pleases."

Half a glance is flicked toward Arturia. It is possible his look implies that if they were alone, he would be frowning and possibly even sulking over her taking on such a lowly duty as playing the part of hostess when clearly her loyal knight is better suited to such a task. Certainly, there are no tasks beneath his dignity... but as far as he's concerned, she shouldn't be troubling herself with such a thing.

"What of you? Your surname is 'Knight,' is it not?" Those violet eyes turn then to Michael, fixing on him in reserved curiosity. That seems to be Bedivere's way -- more restrained even than the king seated beside him. "Are you then affiliated with an order of your own, somehow...?"

Michael Knight (543) has posed:
Michael Knight says, "Well, I'll have to grab Sir Gawain sometime and ask him all about it."

Knight sips his tea in an approximation of how he's seen Devon do it. Pinkie up! He watches the injured Sir Bedivere and listens politely as the Knight of the Round asks him about his name. "Well, that's a long story, but it's not one I mind telling--especially since you guys have been so nice. Knight isn't my original name. The man I used to be, Michael Long, was declared legally dead. This isn't my face, and these..." He wiggles the fingers of his free hand. "Aren't even my real fingerprints. It all goes back to 1972, see. Ever heard of the Vietnam War?"

"I served. US Army, 5th Special Forces Group. We were already in the process of pulling out, and we had less resources to use, less boots on the ground. I was running counterintelligence when I got picked up and put in a P.O.W. camp. I got plugged in the head leading a breakout, and Uncle Sam gave me a metal plate right here," he traces a finger along his forehead and the side of his face. "And an honorable discharge."

"After I got back to the states, I signed on with the Las Vegas police department. Maybe I didn't get enough people shooting at me, I don't know. Anyway, me and my partner were tailing a couple of suspected industrial saboteurs..." He peers at Bedivere. "Like... spies who steal trade secrets from merchant guilds, I guess you could say. We were about to bust them when my partner got shot by one of their thugs. I chased them into the desert and they got me right in the head. This metal plate saved my life. This old man finds me, of all things, takes me to his estate, and has surgeons put me back together. By that time, I was ready to just quit and live a quiet life, but Wilton Knight had plans for me."

"So, to answer your second question--about whether I'm part of an order? Kinda. It's called the Foundation for Law and Government, and it was Wilton Knight's last gift to the world. He knew how bad things were getting--if the police can be bought, who protects the little guy? So he used his money to put together a project to help with that. Experimental approaches to law enforcement that don't rely on the current, broken system."

Michael looks at his watch for a moment, then casts his eyes upwards at Arturia and Bedivere with a smile. "FLAG has other programs beside KITT, but he's the first one they've finished. I wasn't even the original pilot they had in mind for KITT... I guess I just made a good impression on the old man.""

Saber (346) has posed:
     Saber tapped her chin thoughtfully; the peculiarities of the Holy Grail War, while not especially a secret within the context of the multiverse, were nevertheless tricky to explain to the uninitiated. "They are personages well after our time," she explained to Bedivere before regarding Michael thoughtfully. "I take it that you are in possession of a radio? There might have been some discussion of beings known as Servants, among which Sir Gawain, Lady Jeanne, and myself are counted," Conspicuously, she left out the pale-haired marshal. "Though I am uncertain how much of our nature and our circumstances have been revealed. I can attempt to answer them, if you have any questions."

     The Servant frowned slightly at the grimace; once they were done she would have to see to those wonderful Union painkillers. Given Bedivere's propensity for not being able to sit still so long as there was work to be done, it would have to be the drowsy variety. How he managed to overwork himself even on light duty remained a mystery.

     Or, perhaps not. He'd earned his position through a combination of that kind of hard work, devotion to all eight of the Chivalric Virtues, and tactical genius.

     But the glance she flicked briefly to her marshal indicated that, were they alone, she would already be well into Fussy Mode, or perhaps even some light scolding. Really, it was hardly anything she hadn't managed to do on her own in the five years in the multiverse. King or no, she could handle small tasks than you very much.

     Naturally, Bedivere might still be catching up on the events of the millennium, so perhaps he might not have gotten to the Vietnam War just yet. But Saber, as a Servant, was certainly familiar with important events. "I am familiar with it, yes. It ended in the year 1973, according to the calendar now used, if I am not mistaken?"

     The jade-eyed knight listened to the former officer's tale, nodding thoughtfully. "A most impressive record...and it is good to hear that many of the virtues of chivalry have been remembered, even throughout different worlds." The idea of corrupt police forces made her frown slightly -- even if she had been in the multiverse long enough to know of them, it still met with her firm disapproval -- but on the other hand, there were those willing to stand between the dark forces in whatever form they took and the people. Arturia never tired of such tales, and her smile reflected that.

     "Adherence to the Eight Virtues -- chief among them the will to protect the people -- in whatever forms they take are what define a knight, or a knightly order. I would recognise this FLAG as such, speaking for myself."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
While listening to the visitor's tale, the marshal adjusts the lie of his cloak, shifting his arm as carefully as he's able. Although it's clear that he's not gravely wounded right now, he must have been in the recent past to have been bound so. There's a slight wince when he resettles the sling, though he keeps his attention on the tale, for the most part.

...Most of it is gibberish, and that probably shows pretty clearly by the slightly glassy quality of his stare. He looks briefly to Saber, almost as though in entreaty. Servants are given an understanding of the modern era. He, unfortunately, is not a Servant.

He makes a slight noise that might be one of politeness or acknowledgement, but it seems he can't manage much more than that. Bedivere also patiently ignores the look given him from Arturia. Oh, he certainly saw it, and acknowledged it, but he's not going to give her any more ammunition just now.

"Certainly," he agrees, for he does understand that much. "A knight is a servant of the poeple, rather than existing for the people to serve him. There are many who had forgotten that, and considered the people resources to be used. It is not so. And a knight must be a paragon of good behaviour. He must not become corrupt. It is good and honourable that you are standing against such a thing, Sir Knight." Bedivere bows his head in clearly respectful gesture. "I, too, am glad that such things have survived the years."

Michael Knight (543) has posed:
Michael Knight smiles sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. The kid in him is practically bouncing off the walls at being given such praise by a couple of frickin' /knights./ The loner clears his throat and hides his bashful expression behind the last few drops of tea in his cup. Tea isn't his... well, cup of tea, but it's good for concealing dorky displays, he supposes.

"That's when the U.S. officially pulled out, anyway," he says in response to her question regarding the war. He frowns and sets the cup down before him, falling silent for a few moments. His brow furrows, giving him a thoughtful expression. The silence is thankfully short, as KITT interjects through Michael's watch.

"My lord," he says in the parlance of the King and her knight, "It is true that Sir Knight and myself have heard tell of your 'Servants' through the radio. Pray tell, by what means are Servants set apart from Men?" The capital M is implied--meaning mortals, not males.

Saber (346) has posed:
     Arturia's return glance reassured Bedivere that she would explain it later; it wasn't as if she could stop and explain over a thousand years of history to the poor knight in a matter of minutes. But she came to the conclusion that she would have to sit down with him at some point and get him more up to speed on things, if for no other reason than communicating more efficiently. A textbook of world history, perhaps...hopefully, she would be able to find something in Welsh, or even Irish. Both languages had changed somewhat over the years, but they would at least be somewhat legible.

     It was just as well they refrained from one of their usual silent 'arguments', which would have involved even more subtle glaring and the implication of a form of address Bedivere intensely dreaded. Luckily, she had no need to remind him of his status...not /yet/.

     But it just might, as talk turns towards the nature of Servants. Saber folded her hands in her lap, compromising nothing of her proper posture even as she shifted slightly. "Servants are...the best way we can be described is that we are beings of pure magical energy...the life-force of the world, as it were. Upon death, certain heroes ascend to a plane of existence known as the Throne of Heroes, yet are able to be summoned back to the material plane as Servants by Masters chosen by an artefact better known as the Holy Grail."

     Here's where things got a little messy and more than a little confusing. "There would appear to be many different accounts of this artefact, but in our world, it is capable of bestowing any wish, no matter how impossible. Seven Servants are summoned during each successive War for the Holy Grail, each of a specific class in accordance with our legends: Saber, Archer, Lancer, Rider, Caster, Berserker, Assassin. I myself am a Saber."

     She paused briefly to sip at her tea before continuing. "Our purpose is to battle one another until only one Master and Servant pair remain. The Holy Grail then bestows their wish upon them."

     And in the five years since her own War ended, the Wars in the multiverse didn't always follow that pattern. But she would let Jeanne or Jack or even Mordred explain their own version, as Saber remained somewhat in the dark of what that War entailed. "However, where it concerns Servants within the multiverse, the War seems to largely be halted for whatever reason upon Unification. Thus, many have either considered it on hold or, as I have, abandoned it completely, and simply devoted ourselves to our original ideals. As we are no longer mortal, or human, we have certain advantages and disadvantages. We possess strength and speed greater than a mortal human being, yet we are dependent upon a Master to sustain our existence on the material plane, as well as a source of magical energy."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Those violet eyes flick from Servant to crime fighter, as though Bedivere were watching some kind of strange, arcane tennis match. While he's able to understand some of the converstaion, there are nonetheless details that elude him; things he has not yet had the opportunity to learn about. It may be that he's thinking of the same thing as Arturia -- catching himself up with some manner of textbook.

Surely there must be something written in a variant of Welsh or Gaelic that he would understand. In the Union's library, perhaps?

His gaze turns to the wristwatch when KITT asks his question, blinking somewhat. It's no different from hearing someone's voice through the radio, but it's a bit strange to know that this particular voice issues from a vehicle.

He'll leave that question for Arturia, though. She's far more qualified to answer it. Through her explanation he remains silent, violet eyes sliding back to Michael, studying the man with a neutral expression. Few details are missed by the marshal; perhaps the other might realise that he's being scrutinised carefully. Not necessarily suspiciously -- but it's a thorough study.

"Indeed," he murmurs, at the tail end of her explanation. "Although I imagine there are other Servants who have elected to carry on their wars even through the Multiverse, I have not yet heard of such Servants or Masters. It would be difficult within such scope." It's probable that there are those out there who would relish such a challenge, and those who wouldn't care about the collateral damage... but not those within Dun Realtai.

He drums his fingers on the table's surface, almost restlessly, considering Michael again as though he were attempting to understand some great mystery.

"Servants are also free to contract with other Masters; those who had not summoned them," he adds, nodding in Saber's direction to indicate her. "My lord has contracted with various Masters in her time within the multiverse. It is not unheard of. It is also possible for a Master to lose control of a Servant, by whatever means."

"They are then free to either destroy their former Master, or strike a new contract, depending on their whims. However, the one unifying trait is that Masters are always magi." Curiously, the word he uses is 'fili,' and it seems to imply more of a bard than a magician. "They always have some skill in witchcraft."

Pushing himself back to his feet, he rises stiffly, mouth setting into a thin line of pain. "Excuse me for a moment." He'll retreat to the kitchens, then -- and return a few minutes later, slowly and stiffly, with a basket and what appears to be rolls. As well as three more cups of tea; basket carefully balanced from his sling-confined right hand, and the fingers of his left deftly looped through the teacups' handles. Quite impressive, really.

He sets these down -- ignoring whatever incidental looks he might get from Arturia -- and serves the other two their rolls and fresh tea; lastly setting a roll and a cup out for himself before easing down, stiffly and painfully, back into his seat. Perhaps, as he does, Michael might notice the tattoo on his left hand -- at least, it looks like a tattoo. It's red as blood, an elabourate set of Celtic-style knotwork that forms the image of a sword, point facing his fingertips.

"The other thing to bear in mind of a Servant is that they are not always forthcoming in regards to their identity. During the War of the Holy Grail, it is a common tactic, I am told, to obfuscate one's true name. Knowing one's legend is a means to defeat one's enemies, for one then knows their weaknesses."

Michael Knight (543) has posed:
Michael Knight says, "Hey, thanks, Sir Bedivere." Knight takes a roll and, reluctantly, a second cup of tea. "One day I'll have to take you to a game or something to make up for the..." Royal treatment. Hardy har har. "Well, the hospitality." He does note the knight's tattoo, and indeed, throughout the encounter he occasionally casts a return glance to Bedivere. His scrutiny isn't nearly so detailed as the knight's, however.

"How often do Servants go up against their Masters?" It seems to him like Masters might have an unfortunate habit of going a little bit power hungry--just based on the fact that there's apparently a precedent for 'destroying' Masters. "I'm guessing you've had to have run into some, uh, less than kind sorts over the years, your majesty.""

Saber (346) has posed:
     As much as the jade-eyed knight did not especially relish the idea of Bedivere hurting himself over his role as a proper host, the simple fact of the matter was that he did, at least, need to feel useful. While she did not like the idea of him being in pain, she would simply have to bite the proverbial bullet and allow him to at least perform simple tasks so long as he didn't overwork or overextend himself. Or kill himself in the process.

     And so, the Marshal of Camelot and Lord of Dun Realtai was safe, for the time being.

     She remained quiet as Bedivere elaborated further on the Holy Grail War -- Heaven's Feel -- with sharp accuracy. It had been a considerable amount to adjust to, even for someone marginally familiar with magic, and the keen mind of the violet-eyed knight remained as sharp as always.

     Saber smiled again, nodding. "Though it is true that we are bound by old laws to offer hospitality, it is simply the proper thing to do," she admitted. "I shall look forward to a 'game', then." Idly, she wondered which of the games in question this meant.

     "In truth, a Servant opposing his Master is a rare occurrence. There have been instances when I would have expected such, and yet, it did not happen. The Lancer of the War I was involved in, for instance."

     Arturia's expression darkened; the memory was still bitter over her first Master's handling of the situation and the stain upon her own honour by proxy. "My Master at the time had arranged a situation where Lancer's Master was forced to order Lancer to commit suicide. He was unable to resist, and such a breach of chivalry on behalf of my Master shames me to this day."

     Her next example was likewise distasteful, but for another reason entirely, and her expression was even darker. "However, a clever enough Servant can manipulate a more favourable outcome. I do not understand how it was accomplished, but the Archer of the same War had changed Masters...I believe his second Master had murdered his previous one. I have no doubt that Archer was in some way responsible for that."

     As if to wash the taste out of those recollections, Saber took another sip from her teacup, her expression composed again. "More often in the multiverse, Servants simply lose their Masters or are separated from them, and form new contracts soon after Unification. This is what had occurred with Lady Jeanne and Sir Gawain. And perhaps Jack, as well."

     As for dealing with less-savoury types? She had dealt with more than a few. "My first Master was not chivalrous by any means. Yet, his wish was noble. It was necessary to remember that, many times, when I disagreed quite emphatically on that point."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"A game?" The violet-eyed knight tilts his head faintly, though he doesn't inquire further. It may be that Bedivere is sharp of mind, but he's weary and in pain, and he's not inclined to learn new things while feeling so under the weather.

"As my lord says," he murmurs in response to Michael's thanks, "we merely act in accordance with Brehon Law. Hospitality was held sacred no matter what realm of our world one happened to be in -- Camelot, Pictland, Dál Riata; they all held the laws of hospitality in the highest regard."

He sips his tea as Michael asks his questions, leaving the answers to Saber. His biscuit and tea are excellent things to focus on while she does, though he does cock a violet eye toward them, watching and listening.

His tea and biscuit are both finished by the time she finishes her explanation, perhaps as much a product of forgetting dinner as it is from the cup being small.

"Thankfully, my lord has since found better Masters with which to strike a contract; Masters who understand chivalry, and the need for all to conduct themselves with dignity and honour." He bows his head slightly, eyes flicking briefly to Arturia; he says nothing, nor does he smile, but there's a slight warmth in his regard before he returns his attention to Michael.

There's a slight wince as he straightens. "However, I am sorry to say, the hour grows late. I am weary, and still healing from numerous wounds. You are welcome to remain in Dún Reáltaí for as long as you wish, Sir Knight, for you are a guest in my hall. There are quarters on the second and third floor that you may be shown to, if you ask for a servant. They are here, sparse as they may be," he adds, with a hint of amusement. Many of them are involved in the reconstruction, but a few of the quiet servants do linger near the castle. "They will show you to your quarter, if you wish to stay the night, and you are welcome any time."

He pushes himself to his feet, stiffly, grimacing. "Good eve to you. I had best take my leave, now." Bedivere does turn, pausing, to issue a formal and respectful bow to Michael. "May the Good Lord watch over you, Sir Knight."

With that, he makes his way slowly and stiffly to the stairs, clutching his side as he goes. Perhaps he no longer has a sword wound to split open, but his ribs are still protesting that they were cracked and probably fractured not too long ago, and he'd better not overdo it.

Fortunately, he no doubt has Saber's help after she's excused herself -- carefully but insistently fussing over him and helping him up the stairwell.

Once they're out of sight, anyway.

After all, the marshal does still have his dignity, as a knight.

...Mostly.

Michael Knight (543) has posed:
Michael Knight offers respectful bows to the lord of the realm and her faithful knight. "Thank you," he says. "I'll take you up on that offer, gladly." He's never stayed the night in a castle before--wait till Devon hears about this! He stands as Arturia and Bedivere leave, and once they've done so, goes to find a servant (lower case 's') for directions to some accomodations.