4576/Lazy Afternoon

Lazy Afternoon
Date of Scene:	21 September 2016
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	A few guests and residents of Dun Realtai meet on an autumn afternoon.
Cast of Characters:	Eithne Sullivan, 1048, 639, 482, Inga

---

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    She'd thought she was going to die.

    Most people get a little more worked up about that sort of thing, but Eithne is a strange girl. Also, her mother is a death goddess, so her perspective's a little weird. She'd woken up in a nice, comfortable bed though, and not as dead as she's previously assumed.

    She's found that for the most part, death ends suffering. Aches and pains and broken bones and split lips don't generally carry over. Nobody dead could be this sore (probably).

    Instead of her makeshift bed at Inga's place, she'd woken up in a bed in one of the castle's spare bedrooms. Maybe it's just where Merlin thought best to put her. Eithne is fairly certain she heard his voice at some point... A good (if tender) scrubdown and a change of clothes later, she feels better.

    Though the weather's already cool, even for the beginning of autumn, she'd gone down to the garden to soak in the sunlight for a bit. The sight of all the plants had cheered her immensely, and she's come into the usual gathering spot in a much better mood. The fire is lit, so she settles nearby it, bare legs stretched out to better appreciate the warmth.

    At least her clothes are clean now!

Young Arthur (1048) has posed:
Having recovered from his wounds, Arthur has gotten back to practice at arms. So at the crack of dawn he grabbed himself a wooden blade and spent an hour just hitting a training dummy, increasing the pace and power of his strikes until at one point he finds himself shattering the dummy's head.

After that, he sheepishly heads back inside, and there he comes across Eithne. He offers a small bow, "Good morning, lady hostess." Why yes, he's assuming she's Bedivere's wife. "My apologies, I appear to have been overly enthusiastic when going through my morning exercise."

Merlin (639) has posed:
    Merlin sees all, knows all. He has wizardy ways of keeping watch. And he is /most/ amused.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The young king would not have noticed his host leaving the citadel in the early hours of the morning. Bedivere maintains his habit of rising before the sun, making his patrol rounds and generally squeezing as much work into the span of daylight hours as he can.

  Thus it is that Bedivere is... not present inside the citadel. Neither is the pooka known as the Black One anywhere to be seen; Bedivere must be out riding with the pooka for his steed. Fairy-horse, some of the villagers call the creature, but that's not really true. He is many things; the guise of a noble steed is but one of his many shapes.

  So it is that when Bedivere /does/ hike back up the hill, he's on foot in his polished armour, mantled white cloak billowing behind him. It's a rare dry autumn day in Dun Realtai.

  There is a tiny black bat hanging from the mantle of his cloak, and its eyes are the same smoky gold as the Black One. He doesn't seem to notice the bat at all.

  The door swings open in silence on oiled hinges as Bedivere eases it open and closed. He looks up, frowning.

  Lady hostess?

  "Arturia...?" His call is soft; his frown puzzled. He doesn't sense her close at hand, so why would the young king be asking after the lady hostess--

  Wait a moment. He hasn't /met/ Arturia yet.

  Bedivere looks to Arthur, blinking owlishly. Even the bat on his shoulder has a slightly puzzled look about it, muttering in a tone as though through the side of its toothsome little mouth. <This one does not think he is referring to-->

  "I do not think so." Turning, he eyes both of his guests with a slightly blank look, gaze turning from Eithne to Arthur and back to Eithne again. The poor man looks somewhat baffled. "Was my lady through here just now? I do not think she is about, yet..."

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    The lady of the castle seems a strange one. She's wearing a soft black sweater over a short pleated skirt, legs bare from mid-thigh to toe. (SCANDALOUS) And she's just lying around on the rug like a savage!! (EVEN MORE SCANDALOUS) Also, she looks like she lost a fight very recently. (not quite so scandalous)

    "Eh?" Arthur's voice in the otherwise empty hall brings her back to reality from a daydream. Lady hostess? "G'morning," she greets the young king, waving a hand lazily. "Didjeh break somethin', or get injured?" He doesn't /look/ hurt, but it's not like Eithne would know! She's just opening her mouth to explain that she's not /actually/ the hostess when Bedivere pokes his head in.

    "Sir Bedivere," she smiles, and tucks her skirt a bit more securely between her thighs in respect for his delicate sensibilities. "Yeh've a visitor!" She points, quite helpfully, at Arthur. "I'm not the lady of the house," she explains cheerfully. She's soooooooo waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrm~ "I'm a maid."

    She has yet to see the ~*bat*~

Young Arthur (1048) has posed:
Arthur blinks as it's made clear to him that Eithne is not the lady of the manor, and he bows to Bedivere in apology. "My apologies, sir Bedivere. I thought the maid was your lady and wife. I can see I was mistaken, please be assured that I meant no insult."

He's actually blushing a little, whether that's from embarrasment or Eithne's choice of clothing... well, probably both. He's a teenager, after all. "I hope that I did not cause offense to either of you with my assumption."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Now that he's gotten into the citadel itself, Bedivere takes a moment to look between his guests, piecing the situation together by context. It's a skill he'd put to very good use in Camelot, but it's not something that he's always able to do in the multiverse. There are just too many variables; people just behave too strangely to his sensibilities.

  Take that cheerful berserker scullion over there, for example, wearing an absolutely scandalous skirt with...

  Actually, that doesn't bother him very much, because he tends to turn a blind eye toward a lot of things introduced by the multiverse. Like modern sensibilities in dress. Or technology like radios.

  "What?" Bedivere shifts his weight as Arthur speaks up, armour clattering softly.

  And then Arthur gets a treat. Or at least Inga would get a treat, if Inga were here, because she loves nothing more than mortifying the pale-haired knight. Bedivere flushes so scarlet that there's absolutely no mistaking it, and with his pale complexion, there's not a shadow of a doubt of his mortification.

  "I--what?" To his credit he keeps his voice from going up an octave, but he doesn't necessarily keep it level. "N-no, that is not--no, she is not my--my /wife/. I--I do not have a wife, I had never taken--"

  He can /feel/ how hot his face is flaming, and it's getting worse.

  There is a quiet little snicker from the tiny bat hanging at his cloak.

  No, he's not really insulted; just mortified. Somewhere Inga is giggling her Viking arse off. Probably. Maybe.

  Clearing his throat (which just sounds like the height of awkwardness when he does it), Bedivere adjusts a gauntlet that doesn't really need adjusting. Yes, his face is still flaming. "None at all," he offers, inclining his head. "Do not worry yourself. My lord, may I introduce you to Eithne O'Suilebhain?" It's actually O'Sullivan, but he pronounces it in a tongue that is distinctly archaic. The form of Irish is one Arthur might recognise, from Dál Riata, far north of Camelot -- an ancient Scots-Irish kingdom that, like Camelot, faded from history.

  "She is a guest here in this place, and also a maid, as she has said. I asked for her help in maintaining the castle, as she was also looking for employment. A tidy arrangement for both parties." Unclasping his cloak, which causes the little bat to scramble over to sprawl over one of his pauldrons, he hangs it by the fire, settling down with a grunt before the blazing hearth.

  Warmth sure is nice. Once he's thawed out a little, he looks over to the others. "How fare you today, Miss O'Suilebhain? And my lord...?"

Merlin (639) has posed:
    Inga is going to /have/ to hear this bit of gossip. Also, the giggles won't stop.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    ???

    She looks at Arthur as he apologizes to Bedivere, gazing blankly. Insult? What, is she not good enough or something? Knights are so weird, Eithne quietly reaffirms to herself.

    "Oh, yeh've gone and given him a fit," she observes, streeeetching out and rolling over onto her stomach on the rug. "He means that the King and he are," Shacking up. Living in sin. In Flagrant Derelict! "a couple, but not on paper."

    She pillows her chin on her crossed arms and kicks her feet slowly in the air. "Call me Enya." She's not going to correct him on the proper pronunciation of her surname, because it's not /that/ important. Moving just enough to check a bruise on her forearm, Eithne settles back into her New Favorite Spot. "I'm doin' all right. All my bones are mended now. Tomorrow I'll be right as rain. And yerself? Did yeh overwork again today?"

Young Arthur (1048) has posed:
"I see." Arthur still blushes a little, and doesn't quite look at Eithne unless he's addressing her. "It's a pleasure to meet you, miss O'Suilebhain, or Enya if that's what you prefer." It's the same kind of Irish that Bedivere uses, the accent well-practiced. The boy has had language lessons, apparently.

"I fare well, wish I could say the same for the practice dummy in your courtyard. I was somewhat overenthusiastic in my practice this morning." And when Eithne adds the bit about relationships, he just looks thoroughly and utterly confused.

Merlin (639) has posed:
    Grumble grumble. "I would have said 'like bunnies' myself...but I suppose they're still young. Hmpf." Merlin is never satisfied...

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Poor Bedivere is struggling to maintain his composure in the face of this onslaught against his dignity.

  At least Eithne decides not to voice the more questionable aspects of her assertion. She puts things delicately enough that it doesn't make the knight any worse, although it doesn't make him any better. His face is the colour of Sir Mordred's blood red standard.

  So he does what comes naturally, and that's slump onto a seat, groan, and drop his face into his hands. Perhaps the only saving grace is that Arthur seems to miss the implication, and doesn't go to the dead wrong conclusion, either.

  Huffing a breath, he straightens, composed once more. "Pay it no mind. The target dummies are constantly in need of replacement. There are a number of them available, and they are no match for many of the Elites who stay here." Bedivere waves a hand somewhat dismissively. "I have been known to break them on occasion." After a lto of use, anyway.

  <Ohhh? You don't understand?> The Black One sounds delighted at this opportunity to sow mischief. <The king in question-->

  Bedivere gives him such a withering look that the pooka actually shuts up, to the tune of a tiny click of teeth.

  "In any case," Bedivere continues, with a wan half-smile that suggests it's more to fix his composure than because he's actually pleased, "I am glad that you are finding Dun Realtai to your standards. Camelot this is not, but there is something about this place that I hold far more dear than I ever did Camelot."

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    Kick, kick~ So lazy. "Ah, yeh broke one too? Certainly there's a thrivin' cottage industry in these parts, building new ones fer us!"

    She hears a familiar groan and turn her face a bit to look at Bedivere. "Are yeh feelin' all right?" He's such a delicate sort, after all... She worries sometimes, even though he's certainly made of sterner stuff than normal men. Eithne watches him for a few moments, until she realizes--

    there's a ~*bat*~

    "Awwww, how cute! Oof--" The dark-haired girl pushes herself up off the floor, despite the sudden and regrettable lack of the fire's heat, and pads over to the little black bat. "Hellooooo," she croons at it, blue eyes bright. She reaches out with a fingertip to introduce herself. "Nice to meet yeh as well~"

    She realizes, after a moment or two, what she hasn't heard yet. Turning just enough to spot him, she looks at Arthur expectantly. "I didn't ask, sorry - what's yer name?"

Young Arthur (1048) has posed:
"As mentioned, Camelot needs to be rebuilt before it can be where I hold court, so this is much nicer than Camelot." Arthur answers Bedivere, pretty much ignoring all the other teasing and the like, he figures it's not important and that if he needs to know, he would be told. No point prying, after all.

He pauses when Eithne mentions she doesn't know who he is, and quickly turns, "My apologies, Enya. My name is Arthur Pendragon, I am a visitor to Dun Realtai for the time being." He bows in apology, "I hope you will forgive me for my lapse."

Inga has posed:
Having fallen asleep there the previous night, Inga woke to find herself in a guest room, tucked in, and some clean clothing send for. She has no idea who she has to thank for that, but it was a pleasant surprised. She hadn't realized she was so tired. When had she slept last? She couldn't remember. Sleeping wasn't something she simply did every night without fail anymore. Electricity is magical.

Inga makes her way into the hall wearing her usual style of dress, black today over a white underdress, pinned at the shoulders with her usual silver brooches, wearing her mjolnir necklace and a strand of amber beads. Her hair has been braided and appears to be still wet, for Inga can never resist the baths while she is here. There's nothing quite like a good long soak.

She had heard their voices upon approach, so Inga isn't surprised to see people gathered in the hall. "Good morning everyone," she says, flocking immediately to Eithne and giving her the look-over, considering she'd assumably been injured. "How are you Eithne? You appear to have all your limbs at least," she comments.

Inga then nods respectfully to Bedivere and Arthur. Then, she looks for breakfast~

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The knight huffs a sigh, glancing sidelong in some irritation at the hired help. The hired help is getting awfully comfortable over there, and awfully happy to poke holes in his composure. Hmph.

  Yes, there is a tiny bat. The tiny bat looks up as Eithne approaches, and the Black One tilts his head, glowing gold eyes settled on the Scion.

  <This place is full of surprises.> If the bat had eyebrows, they'd be arching. Instead, he hunkers up a little bit, sitting up as best as a bat can, balanced against the delicate vanes of his wings to study Eithne. <You smell like death. If this one didn't know any better, this one would think that you were bound, somehow, with the Morrígu.>

  It actually sounds a little uneasy. Morrigan is respected and given a wide berth by the lesser faeries, it seems, at least those of Bedivere's world.

  "Peace," Bedivere murmurs to the bat; to Eithne, he flicks a hand in dismissive gesture. "This is the Black One. He is a púca and he owes me a debt. Try not to antagonise him too much."

  "This too needed to be rebuilt." Bedivere twists at Arthur's assertion, pointing to a distant corner of the roof. Dark worn stone mixes with crisp, bright stone; the two different stones form a patchwork of old and new. "Dun Realtai was no more than a ruin when I arrived here. I saw to the protection of its survivors, and the reconstruction of their homes and livelihoods. Only this past year has there been enough yield from the harvest to sell or trade."

  Hard times, in other words. This place has seen some pretty dark days.

  He studies Arthur for a moment, before chuckling. "Peace, my lord. You need not be so formal, here--"

  Oh. Suddenly Wisewoman. Bedivere looks up, arching a brow. "Good morn, Wisewoman." He looks a little bemused as she immediately falls into the Mother Hen act with Eithne. It amuses him, because Arturia tends to do the exact same thing if there's so much as a whiff of injury about him. "Aye, and she's still alive," he asserts to Inga, somewhat dryly. "If you are hungry, ask of the servants. Breakfast is long over."

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    "Ah, don't worry about it," the Scion tells him cheerfully. And then she processes what he's just said. "...Oh, another one?" Huh! And this one looks to actually be male... Isn't history strange, after all? She smiles, assuming that Bedivere has already introduced the Arthurs. Er... Arthur and Arturia. He didn't go all weird when she mentioned Sir Bedivere and the King, and in her experience uptight men tend to go snippy about that even faster than uptight women, so he /must/ know by now that the King is a lady.

    See, it all makes sense.

    She has the good grace to hold still for Inga's inspection. Summary: one broken leg, healed. One fractured arm, healing. Lots of bumps and bruises and scratches and scrapes: healing. Split lip: healing. "I'll fix the rest once my mana grows back," she nods, as if it's the most normal thing in the world. Maybe in Dun Realtai it is. "Cousin Merlin showed me how." Though if Inga wants to speed the process up (or provide PIE) Eithne's certainly not going to make more than a token protest.

    She's far less dead than she'd expected to be, even if she's a bit stiff. She offers her hand to the bat, if he'd like to crawl out onto it. If not, she won't hold a grudge. Bats are very small, and people are very large. "I'm her daughter," she nods simply. The Black One-- "Oh, the horse in the pasture," she realizes, and grins. She's missing a tooth on the left side, but that predates her scuffle with Princess Adele. "I'm glad to see yeh feelin' better. --I will not!" she humphs at Bedivere, puffing out her cheeks.

Young Arthur (1048) has posed:
"Good morning, Wisewoman." Arthur greets Inga as she comes in. The young man looks up to examine the stonework when it's pointed out to him. "Interesting, perhaps I'll have to ask you for advice when the time comes." The comment of not needing to be so formal is met with a blank stare.

Enya's claim that she's the Morrigan's daughter makes him raise an eyebrow. "According to folktales of questionable merit, the Morrigan was King Uther's mistress. I've never put much stock in that claim, however. Interesting to see the child of legitimate dalliance of such nature."

"Well, I was just coming in to apologize for breaking the dummy. I have much lost practice to make up for. If you have need of me, you can find me in the training court." Arthur bows quickly, and heads back over there.

Inga has posed:
Inga returns that arched brow with one of her own. "Yes Bedivere, I can see that she is alive," she comments with a chuckle. Sir Obvious? "I am hungry, so I shall do so. Than you once more for your hospitality. I'm afraid I was more tired than I realized last night," she adds, a bit embarrassed. "I am not the only one that was especially comfortable," she adds, glancing to Black One. Eithne has not met him yet? Interesting.

Inga nods after inspecting Eithne. She seems to be healing well enough. "Well then, I'll leave it be," she says. Then blanks for a moment. Slow blink. Cousin Merlin!? Oh gods. "Well, ah, very good. I do not know if the way I heal can be taught--though I would like to find out. If you have any desire to learn a bit of blood magic, well....the offer is there." Sadly, Inga doesn't have pie on her at the moment...that's at home. Apple pie, and it is fantastic.

Inga smiles to Arthur. "You are looking better today Arthur. I am glad you are settling in," she says, taking a seat to wait for breakfast.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The fact that Bedivere accepted another King Arthur so readily probably says something about how long he's been in the multiverse. Most people would be gaping at one King Arthur, let alone two; and never mind the fact that one of them is a woman.

  He does eye Eithne sidelong when she mentions Merlin having taught her something. It still makes his skin crawl that those two spend time together unsupervised, which means that Merlin is probably filling her head with all sorts of useless nonsense.

  Somewhere in there might be useful tuition, but Bedivere's pretty sure most of it could be safely chucked out the window.

  The Black One, meanwhile, crawls onto the hand carefully. He tests each step with those needle-sharp little claws, and the way he tilts his head this way and that to study her suggests an intlligence that far surpasses that tiny, adorably fuzzy little head.

  Perched on Eithne's palm, the Black One looks up, smoky gold eyes studying the Scion intently. They actually glow, enough that they cast their own soft light. Definitely not mortal, whatever it is.

  Ah. Pooka.

  <The horse in the pasture. But this one is not a horse,> the Black One insists, wrinkling his tiny nose and showing needle-sharp teeth. It's hard to look dignified in such an adorable little form. <Nor is this one a bat. This one is indeed one of the Faerie Host.> There's a short pause. The bat actually shrugs, which looks very awkward when one is winged. <This one does not remember its name. So, the Black One will suffice. It is true enough.>

  "I feel fine," Bedivere protests, a little wanly. His dignity might be whimpering under a rock, but he's more or less healthy. Whatever hurts he might be feeling are old and long past the opportunity to heal; the price of fifteen years of pushing himself to the bleeding edges of his limits. "But thank you."

  She will not antagonise the pooka, she insists, and the pooka actually smirks. How he manages to do so with a bat's muzzle is hard to say.

  "I will be glad to offer advice, when the time comes, but you may be better served asking of my stonemasons." Bedivere half-smiles to the young king. "I am no architect. I merely made clear to them what I wished to see in its completed state, and they saw to it."

  He tilts his head. "Aye, she is." And he has absolutely no desire to see what Eithne looks like through the eyes of the Otherworld. It's probably terrifying. He's very, very careful not to look at her when he's actively using his fledgling arts. "Think nothing of it. Good practise," he calls to the retreating boy, by way of parting.

  Off he goes, possibly to break another series of dummies. Ah, well. That's par for the course, here. Most of the people who stay here and use them are Elites. Bedivere's own broken dummy only came after months of hard use. He had just happened to hit a weak point in the wood.

  Inga, meanwhile, gets his attention next. Bedivere only shrugs, armour clattering softly. "And I tell to you the same I tell to the young lord. Think nothing of it. You are a friend, as much as a guest, and I would not dream of telling you to fend for yourself."

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    "Technically, I suppose Ma's been a lot of men's mistress," she hmms to herself. "There's the Dagda, an' she wanted to be Cu Chulainn's, and then there was my dad, and..." Not to mention all her half-siblings. And the others. But hey, blood magic sounds like something she'd be good at. She's got a lot of blood! And she can use other people's too, if she runs out.

    How practical!

    "I'd love to learn some," Eithne nods. Wait till she tells Ma! (Her father doesn't even know she's a Scion, better to keep the news about creepy occult rituals to herself on that front.)

    She gathers the little bat gently in her hands, giving it a safe 'cup' to sit in. "Yeh were just horse-shaped, then," she nods, understanding. Pookas are a species she knows about. "It's been a long time since I met a pooka. Let's be friends, shall we?" If it helps, she's clearly endeared by the tiny thing. Look at its little fangs and its /ears/ and its wing membranes and its tiny finger bones!! It's /precious/.

    "It was Cousin that brought me home last night, wasn't it?" she asks, turning her head toward Bedivere. "I don't remember much after Adele floored me."

Inga has posed:
Inga smiles to Bedivere. "I will bring you a pie--as I already owe Eithne one," she comments, ordering eggs. She's definitly in the mood for eggs.

When Arthur has left, Inga looks to Bedivere and Eithne. "So...I haven't missed the meeting, have I? How is the young Arthur settling in?" she asks. "And does Arturia know about him yet?"

Then Eithne goes into how her mom gets around... but, well, gods will do that. "Well then, I will see what I can teach you," she adds with a smile. That will be fun. She hasn't had anyone to teach in a while. "And who is this Adele..?

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "As I recall," Bedivere murmurs thoughtfully, "Cuchulainn would have none of it, and the Morrígu never forgave him that slight. But it has been a long, long time since I had heard tales of the Hound of Ulster."

  He does eye Eithne a bit sidelong when she jumps right on learning blood magic. Yeah, that doesn't raise red flags at all. Okay yeah that totally raises red flags. He'll have to have a chat with Merlin.

  <This one was concealing itself, but this one remained hidden for too long, and began to forget what this one was supposed to be.> The Black One sniffs disdainfully. <The Learned One--> That seems to be his name for Merlin, <--assisted this one, as did the Warrior of White.> That seems to be his name for Bedivere, which is even more strange.

  The little bat seems to consider her question, settling in her hands. He's fuzzy and quite warm, warmer than a mortal bat should probably be. It's like holding a coal that still has the faintest trace of warmth left in it.

  <Very well.> The Black One sounds smug, because he has her wrapped around his tiny little wing finger-vane and he knows it.

  Bedivere glances up, considering; he reaches up to tug at the stud in his left ear in familiar thoughtful gesture. "I cannot be certain. While I know that Master Merlin was preparing to leave for you, he did not leave until after I retired for the evening. My lady did not hear of him leaving, either. I would presume so. Master Merlin does not make preparations lightly."

  "Oh? Thank you, Wisewoman. I know my lady will appreciate that." It doesn't matter if it's sweet or savoury; Arturia loves any kind of home-cooked cuisine.

  He tilts his head faintly, studying Inga speculatively. "He is settling in well, although I do not expect he will be at ease any time soon. The lords of Albion loom heavy in his mind, and while the virtues insist that I offer him what assistance I can, my instincts tell me not." Bedivere shakes his head, tugging at that stud again, restless. "It is better for him to walk his own road; it would have no meaning if I showed him the path. It may not be the path the Lord God meant him to walk, and who am I to interfere with that?" A short pause, and he shakes his head. "No. My lady does not know of him yet."

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeah piiiiiiiiiiiie!

    "There was a meeting?" Eithne asks, carefully carrying the bat over to the rug and having a seat. Yeeeeeeeaaaaaaaah waaaaaaaaaaarm~

    Despite the aches and the amount of blood she'll be washing out of her other clothes, Eithne feels all right. She considers finding her way down to the kitchens to make her own breakfast, but... well... In the end, she asks a different servant for breakfast. She's not going to feel too bad about it, since she's always happy to move furniture or do other heavy lifting if they ask her for help. Hot cereal, pork sausage, milk, and fruit will do her good.

    "He did say he was going to come and get me, but I was down awfully soon after that." She doesn't sound bitter about it, at least. "Adele Rozenbach. The princess that's been creating all those weird creatures that make me feel really weird to kill." She leans back, rubbing a fingertip between the Black One's ears. "I want a good fight. These things fight like it's their job, and as soon as I break one all it wants is to die." It's unsatisfying!!

Inga has posed:
The wisewoman nods, looking thoughtful. There's a great many things swirling around in there, most of them troubling. "I suppose he is not like me...his road goes both ways? He can go back?" she asks, though it's unclear if she is asking Bediver or if simply thinking out loud.

Tea arrives, and Inga takes a sip then stared into her cup for a time. "Times like these...I wonder about my...responsibilities. I wonder if I should...reach out and influence the wyrd. Do I have a responsibility--do we?--to tell him...how it ends?" she asks, looking up to meet Bedivere's gaze. Her eyes dark, intense. "I saw it--the end--when I first met him. I saw the battle...and I saw you--entrusted with that blade," Inga sighs, looking away. "But paths opened up as soon as he found himself here. The wyrd is not set. What would happen, if he knew the stories? For surely he will find out eventually."

Inga, with the heavy talk. Over tea and eggs.

She looks to Eithne, frowning. "I haven't heard of her...tch, I am terrible with staying up to date on the goings on of the multiverse. I should try to be better about that. Perhaps next time, bring me with you. I could at least prevent some of your injuries," she offers.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Once Eithne settles herself on the rug, the bat makes a point of climbing up over her hands and settling on one of her shoulders. He does it carefully, so he doesn't settle on something that's going to start bleeding on him. Of course he's fastidious. One of his forms is a cat, after all.

  "Aye, I was after speaking with King Arthur, and seeing that Dun Realtai's hospitality was acceptable. It would seem it meets with his approval." He knew it would, but trust Bedivere to worry. He is a professional worrier. "For that, I am glad."

  "Hmmm. Perhaps you will find what you seek. The multiverse provides many strange things, after all." He half-smiles as he pushes himself to his feet, unclasping his cloak and folding it over an arm. "Well, if you will excuse me, the hour grows late. I should not like to be late for dinner with my lady." She'll badger him for working too hard. As usual. "God keep you." Yes, unlike a lot of the people hanging around the dun, like Inga or Merlin, Bedivere is devoutly and stubbornly Christian.

  With that, provided nobody stops him, he'll make his way upstairs. He can at least fit in some paperwork in before Arturia mother hens at him and makes him take it easy...

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    "If his world's Unified before the fall of Camelot... before even the /rise/ of it..." She thinks about this while settling back down onto the rug, and even while her breakfast is brought to her. The little bat's tiny claws tickle a bit~ It makes her smile. That smile only gets larger when her breakfast arrives, and Eithne tucks in - leaving a saucer of milk and a piece of muffin set aside for the Black One. She's going to drink soooooooo much milk over the course of the day, it's not even funny.

    "I feel like we've got a responsibility to tell him. If we didn't, and he finds out we know and didn't tell him, he'd resent us." She tears off a bite of sausage and chews thoughtfully. "Mm. Maybe if we go through enough timelines, enough cycles of knowledge, eventually /one/ Camelot might prosper. If it's always meant to fall, it will, and us interfering won't have changed anything. We can't imagine that we know anthing of what fate has planned - well, except fer Inga." Eithne nods respectfully to the woman. "An' she at least served me tea an' a snack before we fought. She's a polite monster. I don't think she'd be angry if yeh came along."