4373/Testing Limits

Testing Limits
Date of Scene:	01 August 2016
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	Sir Bedivere invites Eithne Sullivan to a sparring match, to gauge where to begin in teaching her swordplay, and gets more than he bargained for.
Cast of Characters:	482, Inga, Eithne Sullivan, 639

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Most of Dun Realtai's village follows the slope of the stone spire it's built upon -- a rather fang-shaped hill that juts straight up from the plain, solid stone throughout. The west face is a slightly shallower incline, and it's there that the road winds up to the citadel on the top of the hill; there is a gate before the inner bailey, a gate before the outer bailey, and a gate at the foot of the hill, joined to the curtain wall that surrounds the village itself.

  It's out on the plains themselves that the steward has called Eithne Sullivan, inviting her to come test herself against him so he can determine where to begin her lessons.

  She'll find that the knight is waiting -- but this time he does not wear the simple clothing of a peasant, but the hardened steel armour of a high-ranking knight. He also has on his cloak of office, white as snow with a mantle of blue-grey, heavy and formidable-looking. The open clearing he's chosen is in the shade of several great oak trees, though none of them are the truly gargantuan size as the one that sprouts beside the citadel (and that one has just a whiff of magic about it, /some/how).

  A rack has been set up with practise weapons in it, and a plain brown farm-horse is tied nearby, cropping contentedly at the grass; Bedivere himself is in the midst of the clearing, running himself through his swordplay stances and keeping half an eye out for the Scion of the Morrigú.

Inga has posed:
During her rounds in the village today, she heard as she was leaving that Sir Bedivere had been spotted in full knightly gear. Girls swooned, boys envied, sometimes the other way around. Inga couldn't deny a little curiosity herself, so instead of heading home to her cottage she walked to the plains where the gallant Bedivere had been spotted.

She walks slowly into view, leaning on her staff as she walks, dress billowing slightly in the breeze. It isn't a terribly clean dress at the moment, mud around the hem and various other fluids (blood definitly among them) on her apron. Her long braid is pulled over her shoulder, starting to come free of it's leather cord. She stops within shouting distance, raising a hand in greeting. She wouldn't want to disturb him, and would be happy to simply observe.

Bedivere was a picture in his armor and cloak, she must admit. Generally he isn't her type...but the outfit suited him. Lended him a more traditional masculinity.

Be better with a beard though.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    Eithne likes Dun Realtai rather much for a place that she's still getting acquainted with. The air's clean, everything grows easily. With summer school out and this her most important/well-paying job for now, she's happy to spend plenty of time here. And since she's been offered lessons in swordwork, she's going to take Sir Bedivere up on them.

    The sword she's carrying over one shoulder is nearly as long as she is tall, and it's barely a sword... it's more like a sword-shaped slab of iron. It's got to weigh forty pounds! And she's not wearing armor at all.

    Oh, there're practice weapons?! ...Oops. "Sir Bedivere, Inga, hullo! I didn't know yeh were going to come to practice as well~" With the practice weapons available, Eithne stabs her weapon tip-first into the ground and lets it stand like a flagpole. God knows it's not going to get any duller...

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The knight draws up short, although instead of steel, he wields a sword carved of wood and sanded smooth. It looks to have the exact same dimensions as his usual weapon, slightly longer and slightly narrower than most conventional knights' blades. Tall as he is, Bedivere has impressive reach, and a longer blade extends that further. A lighter blade means he can underscore his natural agility -- even with his heavy plate armour, he moves with impressive speed.

  A hand is raised to wave at Inga. He can see her, although he's not going to bother shouting across the glen; he beckons for her to come closer if she wants to.

  He turns as another figure approaches -- because while Eithne doesn't look behind her, he can see Kepas trotting down the path, long claws scratching in the dirt with every stride. The Otherworldly hound is otherwise silent as the grave, despite the icy mist of his breath billowing from his open jaws. There's not even a sound of panting.

  "Miss O'Suilebhain." Bedivere inclines his head respectfully.

  Rhiannon doesn't get as respectful a look. He's eyeballing that thing she calls a sword with obvious apprehension. Is that really the thing she's going to be fighting with? That's not a sword by any stretch of the imagination. That's a chunk of iron.

  It's eyed even more when she thrusts it point-first into the earth, and he tosses her the longest, broadest practise sword he can find from the group -- the closest approximation to her blade he can find.

  "I admit I've a preference for single-handed blades, but I've the theories of using a two-handed blade, at any rate." Bedivere gestures with the tip of his own blade. "Strike when you are ready."

Inga has posed:
Inga nods and covers the rest of the distance to Bedivere and now Eithne. She still stays a bit away, as it is fairly clear they will be fighting.

Inga looks at Enya, looks at her walking stick, then looks back at Enya. She raises an 'you must be joking' brow. "Ha ha. No, but I would not mind observing you. It is not every day we are all graced by the gallant Sir Bedivere in full armor. I needed to use the smelling salt on many a young lady down in the village, their imaginations run wild," she says, smiling teasingly to Bedivere. She can never resist a bit of harmless teasing. "Thought I would come see what you were up to...now I see. Would you mind if I watched?" she asks, mentally wondering what she has for snacks in her bag. There's probably a bottle of mead...or did she drink that already?

Inga Finds a good place to take a seat, looking to the chunk of iron Eithne apparently wields. Interesting. She imagines it doesn't have much finesse. Well, she settles her staff down beside her then reaching into her pouch, looking for snacks.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    Yeah, yeah... Eithne nods back, despite his lack of respect for her beloved sword, but looks behind herself to see what Bedivere is looking at. OH IT'S THE PUPPY <3

    "I forgot that yeh said there'd be practice weapons. Sorry!" She catches the sword he tosses to her and gives it an experimental swing or two. "Ugh, it's so light... like it's not really there." She likes her own sword! It feels real! It mostly bisected a fridge once!

    She just kind of stares at Inga when the woman waxes poetic about the sight of ~the handsome sir knight in his shining armor~. Do people really act like that, fainting because they saw someone handsome? "I don't mind!" she chirps, settling her heels a little more securely into her boots. She's got on yet another version of the outfit she favors, a dark short-sleeved shirt over a thigh-length denim skirt. No armor, no padding... And she seems perfectly comfortable, going up against a man in full armor too! "Let's see, are we forgettin' anything?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The wooden sword lowers just faintly as the silver-haired knight casts Inga a dubious look. He's not quite glaring, but the sentiment comes close. "Wisewoman, please." His tone is one of wounded dignity. "You exaggerate. I trust they are a more sensible people than that. Surely they must know..."

  He was about to say surely they must know his heart already belongs to another, but he bites the words off, flushing a little. Frowning, he shakes his head. It's still considerably awkward for him to talk about something like that so openly.

  Especially when he's wearing the same armour he had worn in Camelot's halls, where secrecy had been of critical importance.

  Bedivere quickly turns his attention back to Eithne.

  Besides, if they really are pining for him, those ladies will have to pine evermore. His heart belongs to another.

  Kepas meanwhile pads up to the gathering in his usual silence, throwing himself down beside Inga and panting, jaws open in a skeletal doggy grin before laying his head down beside her, as though begging for pettings. It might be a little weird; his head is entirely skeletal, smooth bone curiously cold to the touch. Where his skull flows into his neck, skin and fur seem to gradually appear, before it becomes the smooth, sleek coat of a greyhound from his neck down. He does not have eyes, but empty eye sockets; in their depths are pinpoints of yellow light bright enough to cast shadows over the contours of his skull. The rest of him is like a greyhound in form and function, sleek and spare, except for the part where he's about the size of a draught horse.

  Despite his rather dramatic appearance, he seems to act like a derpy puppy, most of the time.

  Bedivere, meanwhile, allows himself the faint flicker of a half-smile. "Aye, I know. 'Tis not like my own blade. But I am not as you are, or as my king; I am but a mortal, and I am not in my prime any longer."

  Huh, he doesn't look that old. Forty, at most... but he also looks older than he actually is, living a life that involved burning the candle at both ends for entirely too long.

  He eyes her when she gives all indication of being ready, but he doesn't comment but to shake his head, settling into a ready stance. Where she's all eagerness and the promise of motion, he is still; quiet as the glass-faced lake on Dun Realtai's northeastern face. "Not to my knowledge, unless you've something to remember. Strike when you are ready, Miss O'Suilebhain."

Inga has posed:
Inga laughs softly, almost apologetically. "I tease you--but only a little. You do strike quite a figure," she says, managing to do so non-flirtatiously. Simple compliment.

Inga does manage to find some food in her pouch, and it is suspiciously fresh in appearance. She would sure like to know how the Bees do that. She has one ham sandwich for herself, and one for Kepas. She smiles when the giant skeletal-faced dog settles beside her, reaching over to stroke his skull affectionately and without any reservations. "Who's a good dog? Oh yes it is you~" she says, running her fingers gently over the curves of bone as she watches Bedivere and Eithne get down to the business of training. It should be interesting to watch. It raised some bittersweet memories.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    'Surely they must know...'? Eithne doesn't know quite what to make of things like that. Sure, she's /read/ historical romances (they tend to be uninteresting until the parts that involve stabbing or the like), but as usual, she's mostly clueless about what someone else is really feeling.

    Sir Bedivere /is/ awfully pretty. Maybe he likes men? Maybe he's secretly a woman after all?

    Whatever it is, it's probably not her business, Eithne decides, decoding his reluctance to finish the thought out loud as reluctance to speak about it at all. "Don't stick one foot in the grave just yet, yeah?" she challenges instead, wrapping her hands firmly around the sword's hilt. Even if it feels like a toy in her hands, she knows that she has to be careful to pull her blows. Her strength is great enough that a careless, undodged blow might really injure him...

    Not that she believes for a second she'll get a lucky strike in. In fact, Eithne's rather prepared to go home sporting some bruises.

    "Right then. Call me out if I do somethin' unchivalrous, all right?" This is tossed to both Bedivere and Inga as she raises her sword in salute. "Let's go~!"

    Bedivere is still, waiting for her action. Eithne doesn't waste time sizing him up, since she knows he's more skilled than her - her only advantage is in her ability to take blows and the fact that his armor may weigh him down. Left foot forward, she strikes out at his guarding arm, a test blow to see his reaction speed.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Bedivere doesn't seem to have a retort for Inga's observation, but she might see from where she's sitting that he's flushed red enough for it to show at the tips of his ears. He very emphatically does not consider himself to cut any sort of figure, and historically, he's been poor at taking praise of any kind with a straight face. (He especially takes it poorly when it comes from Arturia, and turns even redder.)

  Kepas, meanwhile, rolls over until he can regard Inga upside-down. How he can actually see her without a direct line of sight is anybody's guess. One has to wonder, then, how exactly the creature sees the world. Is he capable of normal vision, or is it more akin to a sensation of the energy and magic around him?

  Whatever the case is, he's not pondering the nature of his own existence. He's wriggling upside-down in the dirt, wagging his tail so hard it thumps the ground and raises dust and little bits of grass with every downbeat.

  And then he remembers there's a ham sandwich, there. He seizes it, tosses it into the air, tilts his head back, and dispatches it with a single bite. Down it goes, although it vanishes once it reaches the flesh-and-blood of his gullet. That does raise the question of whether the strange creature even /needs/ to eat...

  Kepas manages a totally undignified play-bow, tail wagging enthusiastically, before rolling over again before Inga. Never once does he make a sound, curiously; silent as a ghost, as seems to be his way.

  Bedivere, observing the tableau, just sighs and shakes his head. He's tried to bait the creature into acting intelligently. Kepas seems to occupy this bizarre space between 'scary smart' and 'specially stupid.' It's never quite clear which the creature falls into.

  But right now, he's got bigger fish to fry. Eithne's coming at him and she's got a very big training sword and it's going to hurt a lot if she hits him with it. Not that pain's ever been a deterrent to him, but Arturia's going to make his life misery incarnate if he hurts himself in doing this.

  He's watching all of the details; how she holds her sword, how she balances its weight. She handles it with the air of someone unfamiliar with such a weapon, and that works to his advantage.

  It is very possible that Eithne would have the raw strength to kill even the remarkably resilient Bedivere, but all of that raw strength is undone by his finesse and skill. He's trained with a sword most of his life, and with a light spear for even longer. He was also Arturia's chief aide-de-camp and tactician, and the man whom her generals answered to. Tactics were his specialty, and he won many a battle on sheer ingenuity where a straight contest of strength would've -- should've -- been a loss.

  On the other hand, she has a practise sword and she's swinging it around like it's a twig. This is going to be terrifically painful if she lands a blow on him.

  For a moment it almost seems like he might not move, but at the last possible second, he raises his arm and whirls his sword around, both hands on the hilt, until it's perpendicular with Eithne's. The blades ring together with a harsh CLACK of wood against wood. By the grimace he wears, he feels the impact all the way up his shoulder.

  No sooner do the swords touch than he whirls it again in an effort to shove her blade away, and then strike at the midst of her rib under her sword-arm. It's a lightning-fast manoeuvre, comparatively; wearing that much steel /should/ slow him down, mortal as he is... but he's spent the better part of twenty-five years honing his technique while wearing that kind of armour.

  Apparently that armour doesn't slow him down a whit.

Inga has posed:
Inga, while eating a ham sandwich replies to Eithne; "I don't know about chivalry, the training I've seen is all about the quickest way to kill the other person before he kills you." "Generally you shouldn't damage someone overmuch in sparring but...well I do happen to be a healer so I say have at it," she adds with a wave of her hand--the non sandwich holding one. It then returns to petting Kepas. Who is adorable, somehow.

She probably shouldn't share the mead with the dog...

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    Eithne hasn't been a Scion for very long. Before she saw her mother again, she'd never held a sword in her life! She considers herself to be doing all right for someone with a little over six months of after-school adventuring under her belt!

    The toy sword she's holding, however, is crimping her style a bit. It doesn't have any appreciable weight, so her balance is off. It moves faster than Rhiannon, but her own reflexes aren't keyed to it yet. The sharp 'CRACK' of wood meeting wood is, at least, very satisfying; she grins in delight when he meets her swordstroke. Her sword is easily diverted by his next maneuver, her arm extending further than she can undo in time to guard her ribs from his counterstrike. She can't do anything more than barely twist in place, taking the tap slightly more toward her back than he'd intended to hit. "Oof!"

    Judging from her grin, it doesn't seem to have hurt her. Like, at all. "Good one! That's a point fer yeh, then!" She's apparently keeping some sort of score...?!

    She gets her sword back up, held at the ready. "Yer faster than I thought, especially with such heavy armor." She'll just have to get faster~! There's not much finesse to the rain of blows she levels at him, pushing forward - one, two, three in fast succession, simple horizontal swipes to test his defenses.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "Training is as nothing without chivalry," Bedivere calls. Although he pitches his voice to carry to Inga, his tone never loses that gentleness. "One must always bear in mind the Eight Virtues, or an aspirant warrior is no better than a brigand; a highwayman. It is the Virtues that define a knight, as much as a knight must define the Virtues!"

  He takes that stuff pretty seriously.

  "Still, I would prefer not to require Wisewoman Inga's skills in the first place." Arturia would yell at him. Not that she needs very much encouragement to do that when it comes to matters of Bedivere neglecting his own health. He simply has no regard for his own personal safety, especially when the safety of others is in question.

  Kepas, meanwhile, looks appreciative of the attention. A Scion of the Morrigú is rushing at his master with every intent to bludgeon the tar out of him, but he couldn't care less, because he's being paid attention to and petted like a common everyday hound. Silly mutt.

  A point? She's keeping score? Bedivere allows himself a fleeting half-smile, not much more than a twitch of the corner of his mouth. He may dislike actual combat, but a sparring match is an entirely different matter. Raw and untried as this girl is, she's got strength and real potential, and this might actually be a challenge for him.

  "I was the Left Hand of the King," the silver-haired knight answers. "No doubt that title means little to you, but it means that I practised, sometimes for six hours a day, sometimes at the cost of sleeping at night. I trained for many years to do what I may do -- I don and remove my armour myself, with no squire's aid; I move in it as though I were not wearing it."

  Bedivere huffs a breath, ducking under the first blow, parrying the second. The third he turns aside, but not far enough; her strength overpowers his defenses, and her practise sword crunches down onto a pauldron with enough force to partly crumple the steel. He takes the blow with a grunt, but otherwise shows no sign of pain.

  He's probably hiding it.

  No sooner has she withdrawn her stave-sword than he's reaching forward. Yet he isn't moving to strike directly at her, but to strike at where he /thinks/ she'll be -- specifically, at the inside of her sword hand's wrist, the better to try and disarm her with. The blow leaves him overextended, though, and if she's quick she can probably get a good tag in on his unguarded ribs.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    "The Eight Virtues...?" she trails off, because she can't remember them off the top of her head. "I know there're Eight Noble Truths, but I'm sure they aren't all the same things." Mainly because she's pretty sure one of those is 'desire causes suffering', but afterward she forgets most of them.

    He deflects her blows easily, though the last one is a bit too close for her comfort. The metal of his shoulderpiece dents and Eithne swears under her breath, wresting her practice sword back into line with her body. There are sure to be cracks in the thing by now...

    So when she lunges forward to press her attack, Eithne merely swats at him. Still, she falls into the position he'd expected, and her wrist takes the blow meant to disarm her.

    She doesn't give an indication of having felt more than a chiding tap. "Yer gonna have to swing harder than that!" she grins, and grabs for his closest wrist with her free hand. If he's caught, she'll tug him HARD in the opposite direction - enough to move the armor, with him still in it. "I may not know the exact title, but I can guess what it means!" Though, even Eithne knows that armor's supposed to require help... to think that he doesn't even need it!

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "Aye, the Eight Virtues," Bedivere confirms. "Militia. Exercitium. Fortitudo. Fides. Generositas. Pietas. Humanitas. Ingenuitas." He snaps off each one with intimate familiarty; many Knights of the Round Table had striven to incorporate all eight of them, and so too had Bedivere.

  "A knight is expected to uphold all eight of these, and to exemplify them in his every word and deed." They are Latin, but the general sense of them carries through nonetheless: Courage and military spirit, practise and proficiency, courage in the face of hardship, loyalty and trustworthiness, charity and generosity, charity and sense of duty, courtesy and kindness, and modesty and nobility of character.

  He shakes his head at her mention of the Eight Noble Truths; they are, although the same in number, most likely different teachings. He knows them only as the Eight Virtues, the eight codes by which all knights of his age were expected to act and even live.

  "It means that I can fight on your level, even if only for a short while. You are impressive, Miss O'Suilebhain," he grunts, setting his teeth momentarily. He can keep up with her, and dance toe to toe, but like fighting with a Servant, it costs him. "I am impressed. Temper that with skill, and you will make a truly frightening opponent for someone. But you hold your sword wrongly, almost as though you expect it to fly away if you did not grip it half so tightly."

  Bedivere's armour clanks as he's summarily seized by the wrist and hauled sideways, not just knocked off-centre but veritably /dragged/ off-balance. He doesn't drop his sword, instead twisting sideways to try and stab at Eithne's unprotected side, at the arm that's got his off-hand by the wrist.

  It's not as fast as he'd been before, though. He's tiring; the stiff way he moves is suggestive of old wounds, perhaps.

Merlin (639) has posed:
    From afar on the breeze, there's a strange whisper. It's not quite clearly understood, and doesn't seem to come from anywhere...but perhaps all around, as if the very air itself were a speaker. Only Enya would be able to understand Merlin's message, and it's up to her to take him up on it. "If you kick his ass gently," the mystical missive maintains, "you'll get a raise." Motivation is a fantastic thing, and well it seems Merlin has his own plans for the student-warrior-maid.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    Even if the root words are easy enough to tease out, she'll never remember them all if they're in Latin!!

    But, he thinks he's fighting at her level? "Hardly," she snorts. "Yer way past me - if it weren't fer my mother's blood in my veins I'd be a lump on the ground by now!" He doesn't seem to be the type to avoid fighting her just because she's a girl, at least. Hadn't a few kids on the playground been surprised~! He tags her side, and it seems that the stabbing motion gives the blow a little more force - this time, she actually winces a bit at the blow to her ribs.

    "I half expect it to!" she complains with no real ire. "It doesn't /weigh/ anything. Imagine yeh were holdin' a sword made of, of..." she struggles for a moment to think of something suitable. "Of /paper/." But even so, she adjusts her grip, trying to hold the practice sword less like a club and more like Bedivere's holding his. ...It still feels like the sword's going to fly out of her hand or snap in two at any moment. "Ma really knew what she was doin' when she gave me Rhiannon," she sighs, glancing fondly at her greatsword.

    And then, the whisper of a tricksy wizard reaches her ears...

    "Did yeh know," she asks conversationally, failing to stifle a smirk, "That yeh've got treacherous little birds on yer property?"

    And with that, Eithne tosses the sword away... lowers her shoulder, and charges right for Bedivere's center of mass. "YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"

    And if he doesn't dodge in time, she's going to grab him by the sides of his armor and lift him over her head like a trophy.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "A true swordsman must adjust," Bedivere huffs, eyes locked on the hand that is in turn locked around his wrist. "Even if one's practise weapon is dramatically lighter than the weapon he takes with him into war, he must learn to account for that." Her grip is like a vise, and he's going to have some bruises if he can't figure out a way to snatch his arm back. Never mind that being held onto is destroying his sense of balance. He can't strike effectively if he's teetering off to one side.

  He grunts, even as she adjusts her grip a little bit. On the sword, unfortunately, and not his wrist. Violet eyes flicker between her sword and her eyes, trying to figure what she's going to do. It's not like reading a seasoned swordsman, though. She's unpredictable.

  "Oh, aye, I know." Bedivere frowns, then, even as he manages to snatch his hand away, dancing backward and briefly rubbing at his wrist, practise sword balanced awkwardly. His articulated gauntlets clatter quietly at the movement. The frown turns to a bit of a scowl. "Master Merlin," he barks to the air, "I would /thank/ you to mind your /manners/, particularly with Dun Realtai's newest guest."

  Sighing, he looks up and oh dear lord there's a daughter of the Morrigan charging straight for him and belting out a war-cry as she does.

  Quite suddenly he's looking at the world from a dramatically different angle. Why is he looking up at the boughs overhead? Oh, because Eithne's managed to seize him and lift him overhead like a sack of flour. Bedivere yelps, all of his limbs flailing in concert, but she has him in such a way that he can neither twist nor get himself down.

  "I yield!" he finally cries, ceasing his struggles, because all that straining has begun to ache something fierce. "I yield, Miss O'Suilebhain! Put me down!"

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    He's not in the air for more than a few (too many, certainly) moments. Even if he hadn't yielded, Eithne doesn't think it's a very good idea to keep one's employer held up for long. Bedivere is lowered gently to the ground, set back onto his feet with more care than such a roughly-mannered girl might be expected to.

    "It's probably against chivalry to pick up yer opponent," Eithne frowns after a moment's contemplation, tapping her lower lip with her index finger. "Damn."

    The poor practice sword, which has suffered overmuch this afternoon, gets picked up and examined critically. "I think I cracked it," she pronounces with a sigh. There's a long, thin line running down the length of it - a good blow will finish the job. "Sorry, I'll take it out of my pay. And yer shoulder armor, too." Everything is so delicate!

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The silver-haired knight hastily retreats a step or two from Eithne when he's put back on his feet, checking his armour as he goes. Everything seems to be in order, but he looks shaken after that, and it takes him a moment and a dry swallow of his throat to regain his composure.

  It's a rarity that Bedivere is bested in pure strength -- not because he is particularly strong, but because he is particularly quick, and quick-witted, and he does not like to let people close enough to do so. He does not like to be touched; he is scarred beneath that armour, terribly scarred, and in more ways than one.

  Still, he finds his voice, even if it takes a second or two to smooth and level.

  "I do not believe there are any extent rules about /lifting/ your opponent," Bedivere offers, uncertainly. He's still a step or two well out of her range, and moving a step or two away from that. He /really/ doesn't like to be touched. His eyes follow hers to the practise sword, and he offers a faint shrug when she proclaims it's damaged. "No matter. There are others, and we will have something made for you that is suitable." Sturdy enough that she won't break it, too, as the unspoken implication goes.

  He shakes his head. "Worry not of my armour. It has been through much and more; I know of someone who is capable of repairing it, as best as it can be repaired. Miss Toph, of the Union, has a talent for shaping steel. I will make a request of her; like as not she will wish to see this place again."

  That done, he turns for the rack of practise weapons, gathering up the pieces and taking them to the horse tied nearby. The saddle has a sling-like implement along the horse's flanks, reinforced for carrying things, and the long weapons and pole suppotrs of the stand are loaded into the slings alongside the horse's sides, before Bedivere climbs onto the saddle himself.

  "I must return to the citadel, for the time being." He manages a faint smile, if a slightly wan one. "Thank you for the match, Miss O'Suilebhain. I will consider what I have observed; in a few days' time, I can begin to determine how I might teach you. Two-handed blades are not my specialty, but there are things you may yet learn even from a twig such as these." He pats the wooden weapons at the horse's side. "Good eve, then, Miss O'Suilebhain." He nods to Enya, and then to Inga, too. "Wisewoman."

  With that, he urges the horse on, turning it back toward the road to the citadel, at a smart trot.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    It doesn't take a genius to see it. The way he steps back, the way he takes a moment to get his voice back under control. The way he stays out of her reach now.

    Eithne's shoulders drop a scant inch, but she doesn't follow when the knight turns to retrieve the practice weapons and return to the citadel. She screwed up. She wasn't careful and now everything's ruined. She was happy and everything...

    'We will have something made for you.'

    The girl looks up from her self-chastisement to watch Bedivere gather things up. He's still willing to teach her? Even though she scared him, he's still...? "T-thanks," she manages to call out after him, biting her lip till it threatens to bleed. Hope is a dangerous thing with wings, isn't it? Or was that bees...?

    She's going to have to make a plate of brownies.