770/To Friends!

To Friends!
Date of Scene:	08 October 2014
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	Inga arrives in Dun Realtai to help Arturia tend to Bedivere's wounds, and Harry also drops in for a visit. In so doing, Bedivere is reminded that he has something in the multiverse more precious than any silver: Friends.
Cast of Characters:	206, 346, 482, Inga

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
In light of his recent injuries, Sir Bedivere of Dún Reáltaí has been taking life about as easily as one can reasonably expect him to take it.

Truthfully, he looks frightful after his brush with those steel-rending birds of nightmare. His cherished suit of heavy plate armour and chain hauberk were wholly ruined, and he was fortunate indeed that he himself was not ruined with it. Although beaks and talons had shredded through steel like wet paper, it must have been enough to stop them from shredding through skin with just as much ease... although they had still taken a grievous toll on the man, evidenced by bandaging everywhere, much of it blood-spotted.

Today, Bedivere is in the great hall of Dún Reáltaí. Although the day is clear and sunny, the sun offers little warmth, and the wind carries a wintry bite to it. A fire roars in the hearth, and the silver-haired knight has pulled a chair in front of the fire, where he sits with a battered, wire-strung harp over his lap.

His clothing is simple, as befitting a commoner rather than a lord; simple leggings of hempen homespun cloth, and... well, he had a shirt, but after the blood managed to seep through the bandaging, he decided it was foolish to keep replacing the shirt. It bares all of his bandaged wounds in full, and displays just what kind of wringer he'd been put through two days ago – a terrible one.

The worst among them is his right shoulder, which has a portion of it that's simply... gone, and wrapped thoroughly in linen bandaging. The severity of it reflects in the way he moves his right hand, somewhat unsteadily and with obvious weakness; less a matter of strength, though, and more that he simply doesn't have the capacity to move a particular way, as though tendons were severed.

For now he seems content to sit in front of the fire and pluck absently at the harp's strings, though he seems a little melancholy. Shirou had given him much to think about, and not all of it is pleasant. Besides which, this is a good place for his guests to arrive, for he is expecting at least one...

Inga has posed:
Ah, Dún Reáltaí, where she doesn't feel like quite as much as a stranger in unknown lands. Here, her usual clothing doesn't look strange. The homespun wool of her dress is a rich shade of read, trimmed elegantly with woven bands of color from a tablet loom. Over her good cloak is wrapped a fox fur, helping to keep out some of the chill in the air.

She's brought all the things she thinks she might need, though by the sounds of it Sir Bedivere is going to need healing of the magical variety and likely a lot of it. That was what promised to be quite interesting.

Inga enters, likely with Harry, her staff in hand as she crosses the floor, taking in the sight of Bedivere. Immediately, her eyes widen. "Hail Sir Bedivere," she greets formally, then; "You look like carrion," she adds with a small sigh. Even bandaged, she can see how hurt his is. What's underneath is sure to be impressively grisley.

Saber (346) has posed:
Doubtless to his embarrassment, the one who had tended to him and carefully tended to his wounds was none other than the King of Knights. It had been a task he had protested over, as such a task was beneath her station in addition to his insistence of his unworthiness, though none in the village gave it even a second thought. It was, after all, the proper role of a lady; the townspeople remained in the proverbial dark about her true status.

Not that Arturia minded. She had not truly acted in that capacity for over five years, becoming the Servant Saber to fulfil her wish and willingly submitting to all the War for the Holy Grail entailed. But that War had since concluded with the Grail destroyed, and the Unification shortly thereafter seemed to have changed the natural time-line. Since then, she had gradually acclimated to the new reality, forming bonds and eventually giving up that initial wish. Camelot was forever lost to her, but in time she had come to accept that, diverting her attention from altering history and devoting her sword to the cause of the people into the future. The world, it seemed, still had need of knights.

For the moment, however, Saber was content to act the part of the lady of Dún Reáltaí. That had been somewhat awkward; she had never been educated in the duties of that particular role. She knew how to be a knight, how to be a king...but the gentle aspects of a noblewoman had been strange to her. Fortunately, the people didn't seem to have a specific ideal of what someone in that role should be. She simply tended to the knight she had appointed lordship over the lands – as was proper – and everything else had apparently fallen into place as far as the people were concerned.

Currently, Arturia was once again playing that part, acting as a proper hostess with a tray loaded with a teapot, cups, a small pot of honey, another with cream, and scones. Not long before Inga's arrival she set to work, emerging dressed in commoner's clothing not entirely unlike Bedivere's. Knightly Virtues aside, king and knight were simply of a more modest disposition, yet another way the two were eerily similar. Or, as the villagers had assumed, a lord and his lady.

"Greetings, Lady Inga," she hailed, setting the tray down on the table nearest Bedivere. "I trust you are hale?"

Fortunately for the marshal, she had already fussed at him considerably the evening prior. Today, it was Inga's turn.

Inga has posed:
Inga bows her head to Arturia as the woman arrives with a tray of tea, her mind boggling somewhat still that they seemed to do most of the work around here themselves. A castle like this needs servants. The cleaning and cooking kind, not...the other kind. Inga knows however who Arturia is an shows the proper respect. "I am well enough–certainly in better shape than some," she comments, glancing back toward Bediver. Kotone had been very injured too she'd heard, and Harry had been dealing with The Filth and...well, it has been a busy few days to be a witch.

"I've come to see to your wounds. Is there somewhere more comfortable? I don't suppose you want to greet any more surprise guests while I'm poking about at your injuries," she comments, reaching up to remove her cloak. Time to roll up those sleeves and think about getting to work. "If you could send down to the kitchens for some hot water please?" she asks Arturia. There are servants somewhere, right?

Harry Dresden (206) has posed:
And from somewhere behind Inga, Wizard Dresden shuffles in as well. He's not looking too keen himself, though instead of missing major pieces of himself, the Wizard's eyes are a little sunken and it looks like he hasn't slept in a few days.
He's mostly quiet though as he watches people bustle around. A hand is lifted in greeting to Saber and Bedivere. "Hey."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although Bedivere carefully cradles the harp with his right arm, it's clear that his hand isn't moving very well. His finger move stiffly, and they seem to twitch if he tries to move them in a particular way. That might explain why he's only using his left hand to dance over the strings. Maybe that explains that hint of melancholy, too. He can't play the harp the way it really ought to be played until the damage in his shoulder heals.

"Good eve, Wisewoman." The silver-haired knight greets Inga quietly, although his voice is never particularly loud. He manages a faint smile, one of those reserved expressions used for the sake of being polite; but like his voice, it seems like there's something somehow missing from it. "It is good to see you again."

Her description is taken in weary silence, but his expression suggests he's inclined to agree with her. He feels kind of like carrion, today, and he's feeling better today than he has been.

Glancing back, he hears rather than sees Arturia, but after a moment she crosses into his view. Although he doesn't say anything, he somehow manages to convey his annoyance at her demeaning role. A king should not be serving tea to one's guests... but they've been over this, many times, and he has no more to say about it that hasn't already been said. Instead, he gives a brief, weary sigh... which might be a sign of gratitude, too. He's always appreciative of tea.

His eyes turn back to Inga, and then he blinks owlishly when she starts treating Arturia like some kind of hostess. There is a certain irritation even in that mild gesture... but he's not going to argue. "Here is fine," he comments simply. His own bed would be more comfortable, but he's loathe to leave the warmth of the fire behind. As to more guests, he simply shakes his head, carefully putting aside his harp. "I do not mind."

"Master Dresden," he offers, to the wizard. "You look terrible," he says, politely. "What in the Good Lord's name has happened to you?"

Harry Dresden (206) has posed:
Harry snorts, pulls over a chair and sits down next to Bedivere. "There's a piece of malevolent crap crammed into my head and it keeps trying Make A Deal. Kinda hard to sleep like that. Ah jeez that fire feels nice." Harry's body slumps a bit into the chair and he sorta half collapses.

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia was well aware of Bedivere's annoyance, as much as they had been over it; one of those few times where the two argued. Yet, as she had insisted, it helped to reinforce the image of a proper lord and lady, and servants were a little hard to come by at the moment. She had been in the modern world long enough not to think twice about such things. It was not as if her role as a Servant was conducive to being waited on and foot. Even the king of Heroes, who insisted on being the one true King in the world, was forced to tend to himself.

At Harry's entrance, Saber nodded politely. "Greetings, Sir Harry. I encourage you to rest while you are here," she commented, nodding to the tea and scones.

The flaxen-haired knight frowned slightly, though not at Inga's order. "What few we have are currently occupied with cleaning, so I shall not disturb their work. Hot water, you said?"

hat's right; Arturia was going to go fetch it herself. If bedivere was already unhappy about her 'demeaning' herself, he was certainly not going to be any happier.

Inga has posed:
Inga is surprised by Bedivere's reserved reception–he must be feeling truly awful. He must have lost a great deal of blood, it is understandable. Still, it difficult to see him so meloncholy. Hmm, maybe he and Arturia had had a fight? Inga glances toward Arturia for a moment, but if she meets her gaze Inga merely tries to give her a reassuring look. She would take care of him.

Inga moves up to Bedivere, hesitance gone as she pulls herself into healer mode. "I will be as gentle as possible, but I will warn you...this is likely going to require magic," she tells him, standing before him and leaning her staff somewhere off to the side. She begins to gently remove the bandages on his shoulder first, for even from afar she could tell it was bothering him most.

Inga glances over to Harry, letting out a worried sort of grunt. "....nightmares?" she asks simply, sure she already knows the answer. "Keep the charm I gave you against your skin, that will make it most effective," she adds. The whole thing is deeply distressing to her, but she won't let it distract her from the task at hand.

Upon revealing the wound, Inga keeps her expression carefully blank. "Actually my lady, I do not think it will be necessary. Whoever tended the wound has managed to keep it well cleaned," she says, flashing a small, knowing smile in Arturia's direction.

"Tch...whatever it was most certainly did a number on you. If not for my...new skills, I do not know that I could have restored full fuction to your arm," she comments, examining the severed tendons as she delicately plucks out the stitches. She pokes about gingerly for a moment, shaking her head. It is fascinating. "I would have attempted to reattach these...but...well, this is where it gets messy," she informs him.

Inga rolls up her sleeves and pulls the knife from her belt, bringing the blade to her arm until blood is drawn. Now wet with crimson, Inga flicks the knife outward and the blood flows from her own wound, defying gravity as it is drawn by her magic, shifting into a fine red mist that she directs to surround Bedivere. "This will speed up your natural recovery...I may have to do this a few times, as the damage is significant," she explains.

Hopefully she doesn't pass out herself before this is through.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The silver-haired knight sighs, and the sound carries a note of resignation. King and knight have gone in circles over this, and while it was once his duty to safeguard the king's pride, such things are no longer necessary here. Old habits are hard to break. No, despite that point of contention, king and marshal seem entirely comfortable in one another's company.

He blinks somewhat owlishly once he's faced with the wisewoman. Ah, some part of him had probably resigned himself to the role of magic in this. He had taken terrible wounds, and he knows the relative severity of them. If this were Camelot, he might have had to resign himself to never lifting a sword again.

Bedivere gives no sign of pain beyond subtle signs. The muscles of his jaw work, his teeth creak softly in protest, and his breath leaves him a little more sharply as Inga sets into the wrappings over his right shoulder. Yes, actually, it's excruciatingly painful... but in typical fashion, he tries not to show his vulnerability. This, for him, is showing a lot – details that won't escape Arturia's notice. Better to do this, though, than to court infection. That would be worse.

Exhaling slowly through his nose, his violet eyes turn back to Inga. They've gone a bit more grey than usual, and his skin seems a bit more pale. He's handling the whole thing reasonably well considering how much it looks like it must be hurting him.

"Birds," he explains tersely. "Supernatural. They cut into steel like paper. If I did not shield Lady Houken, it would have been her death—ghh," he hisses, stiffening as she plucks at the stitching and the poking and probing. That is excruciatingly painful. "Ah, Lord God have mercy!"

He can even ignore the bloodletting for a few moments, because he's busy trying to hold his tongue. Or maybe trying not to bite through it. "Do what you must," he says simply, and there is a pleading note to his tone. Just make the pain stop, it seems to say. He's survived horrific wounds before, such as the battle in which Caliburn was lost, but he had spent much of that unconscious. The king had ordrered her chirurgeons to ensure that he remembered nothing of the worst of it. When he had come to, he had been able to function, at the very least.

Saber (346) has posed:
Indeed, the fact that Arturia and Bedivere could even argue – subtle though it was – spoke volumes about how comfortable they had become in their new life. There was no need for the masks and walls they had carefully maintained around themselves in Camelot...though that fact continued to be the source of much embarrassment and flushed stammering.

Likewise, that they were no longer in Camelot was a blessing with regard to the wounds he had sustained recently. He had barely survived the final battle against the Saxons, though the king had been unable to betray her deeply-buried fears over losing him. even then, Bedivere had been a little more special to her than simply as a knight, or even her marshal. Now, she no longer had to force herself to be impartial. And to her, his pain was as clear as day.

"There might yet be something for the pain from the previous time you were previously injured," she noted tersely, though she doubted that he would accept, as they had been holding them in reserve in the event one of the people had need of them. But even then, the knight hardly liked dulling his senses artificially, even when there were no unfortunate side-effects.

At Inga's compliment, the girlish king nodded slightly. "I have had some basic training in such skills...Sir Ector insisted that we learn how to survive on our own, should it become necessary..." She kept her recollection short, however; the sage had work to do.

Arturia did not so much as wince, her impassive mask firmly in place. She had seen blood magic before, though the various equivalents of magi tended to tap directly into the mana existing in the environment itself. The jade-eyed knight did, however, frown deeply at the sudden cry of pain; so uncharacteristic it was that it was obvious to her just how much pain he was in. Never mind that he wanted them or not, Arturia was going to insist on the analgesics. The healing was absolutely necessary but the pain...not so much.

Harry Dresden (206) has posed:
Dresden grumbles at everything, but smiles at Saber. "I intended to. Inga... uh, she's been keeping an eye on me and is under orders to do Something Drastic if it looks like I've lost the Fight or whatever. I mean, I'm totally not going to lose, but... you know if I do."
He shuffles a bit against his neck and grumps. That silver pentacle has two neighbors now. A silver hammer and... something Bedivere would recognize. A welsh style twined gold ring set with an opal. Hmmmm.

Inga has posed:
His palor is to be expected from extreme blood loss, though it still worries her. This is largely a learning experience for her as well. She's never used this magic on someone so wounded–who didn't have excellerated healing as it was. Inga winces slightly as his obvious pain. "I could give you milk of the poppy for the pain," she offers, but she knows he will refuse. The man doesn't even drink alcohol, milk of the poppy would knock him on his knightly behind. Which might be for the best. But men by and large are stubborn as aurochs, and Bedivere is likely no exception.

As he wound is already closing, she has to open it up again, letting more blood flow freely. She casts it outward once again to renew the spell before setting her knife down. She dips her fingers into her wound, then brings them up to begin to draw a series of runes with the fluid upon Bedivere's flesh. Her lips move now in a chant, galdr as it was called in her time. Inga blends the old ways with the new powers given to her by the Bees, watching the wound as it begins to heal. Severed muscle and tendon grow toward their seperate halves to begin to make him whole once more, magic excelerating his recovery. It likely feels extremely strange, though the magic does seem to carry a certain numbing effect that makes it bearable. Else, he'd likely pass out from the pain and shock.

While she is trying to concentrate the majority of the the healing on his shoulder, other wounds would be reknitting as well, if a bit more slowly since the shoulder was her focus.

Once more she cuts into her arm, recasting the spell, beginning to look pale herself. Just how quickly could her body replace blood, she wonders?

"So gravely injured, protecting another. The gods see you," she says quietly, a soft smile appearing.

Inga sways a bit on her feet, looking toward Saber. "That is good, everyone should know some small bit at least," she comments, before turning her head toward Harry. Whooa turning so quickly was apparently a bad plan. Her head spinning, she reaches out to lean a hand against the back of Bedivere's chair, catching herself.

After a moment she straightens, blinking several times to try to clear her swimming vision. "Something drastic, yes. It will not be necessary," she replies, an edge of steel to her voice.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Silently, Bedivere curls his left hand into a fist, so tight that he can dimly feel the nails biting into his palm. It still pales against the pain of his wounds. In fact, he doesn't even seem to be aware that he's doing it.

"No," he gasps, his own voice just as terse as the king's. "None of that. I will be fine—ghhh!"

Brave words, at least until Inga starts to reopen the wound. The silver-haired knight screws his eyes shut, mouth twisted into a line of agony. When he fought in the night-raid against the Saxons, the battle in which Caliburn was lost to them, he had remembered comparatively little of it. The rage had carried him; he had, for a short while, lost his mind. Only after the battle had he been told of his impossible deeds, or the impossible wounds he had fought through. He had felt no pain, then.

No such luck, this time.

Bedivere raises his head, chin held high, but only as though he were trying to escape the screaming pain of his right shoulder; he stifles a small, helpless sound of agony. True, he has sustained terrible wounds in the past, and he had often refused any kind of analgesics to dull the pain... but he had been young, then; this is after many years of a hard life, and five years of neglect after Camlann.

"No," he snarls, mouth twisting. "No milk of the poppy. It won't–it won't be necessary. You will finish soon—"

Oh, but it's a temptation, even for him. It's a great temptation.

His left hand snaps out to catch Inga, since he can see her stumble in the corner of his vision, but there's no need. She catches herself on the chair instead.

"You will be fine," he adds, to Dresden, though his voice sounds awful; haggard, and taut with pain. "You seem–you seem strong-willed, Master Dresden."

Harry Dresden (206) has posed:
Harry grumbles a bit, but gets up and out of the chair to shuffle over to Inga, holding out an arm for the Seer, offering a firm place to stand. "I'll beat it, I know I will. I've fought worst than some world-corrupting super goo. You look like crap though and... uh, poppy milk or whatever you're calling it might help, buddy."
A look at Bedivere and then to Saber, and the Wizard smiles. "Besides, you can't be looking like a big nerd to your king, now can you?"

Saber (346) has posed:
Even among men, Bedivere was fiercely stubborn...as stubborn as his king, in fact. After his battle with the bard, the marshal had been so seriously wounded that he was unconscious for days...though much of that had been from constantly drugging him enough to keep him under for over a week. Prior to the gift of Health, Saber had been drugging his tea when the pain had gotten to be too much. It would seem that she would have to be employing those underhanded tactics once more.

Fortunately, the blood magic seemed to work some numbing effect in lieu of forcing undiluted wine down his throat. At least, for the moment.

This time, it wasn't Bedivere whom Saber was helping to steady and sit down in the nearest chair. "I am in your debt for your sacrifice," she told the wisewoman softly. Arturia was going to owe a lot of people a lot of boons eventually, wasn't she? "Any kindness rendered unto my knights is rendered unto me."

A barely audible sigh escaped her lips, more of a suggestion of one though her gesture than an actual sound. "Aye....it is the sacred duty of a knight to defend those without defence, the people whom are unable to defend themselves. Sir Bedivere has always been first among the Knights of the Round Table to take this Virtue to heart." As much as it always made the pale-haired knight uncomfortable when she so openly praised him, as far as Arturia was concerned, it was simply the truth.

Jade eyes caught a glimpse of the ring on the chain around Harry's neck as she regarded him thoughtfully. "If need be, it is possible for me to order you not to lose." She said this with a straight face, joking in much the same manner as her marshal did. Now that she made jokes, having been in the multiverse long enough to permit herself to reveal that the stoic king did, in fact, possess a sense of humour. Though she did blink owlishly at the term Harry used. There were still some things about the modern era which escaped her understanding.

Inga has posed:
Inga takes a deep breath, her sense of equilibrium returns. She straightens, nodding to Bedivere. "Yes, I am almost finished," she informs hims quietly.

Inga lays her hands over the blood-drawn runes, taking up the chanting once more as she channels her anima into the patient's body. There is a sudden smell of warm honey over the tangy, metalic smell of blood. An interesting perfume.

Just then, she is quite sure she is finished. At least for a time. Inga is tired, her head spinning. It will take a little while before she can perform those spells again. Luckily, Harry has stepped in and she unconsciously leans toward him–right now he seems like he'd make a fine chair. Between him and Saber, Inga finds herself sitting and grateful for it. Falling flat on one's face isn't very dignified.

"That...should bring you well on your way," she says, a little breathless. "Try to move your fingers–there will still likely be pain but you should be able to do it," she instructs.

Inga closes her eyes a moment, letting out a slow breath before she responds to Saber's thanks. "There is no debt, I am happy to help. You've already pledged to help us in Kingsmouth, and you've given me a place to stay here when I need it. What sort of guest would I be if I did not offer my services?" she says with a tired smile. She reaches over to touch Saber's arm, leaning closer to whisper; "If you need to drug his tea, I can provide something."

To Dresden, she raises a brow. What's a nerd? "Yes, you will win. We will get that thing out of you," she says, determination plain even through her fatigue. This is a woman on a mission, a thing to be fear. Even by super goo.

Saber (346) has posed:
Rather than respond directly when Inga whispered to her, Saber simply nodded. Yes, the womenfolk were plotting against him.

"I had best prepare some things for you all to rest...it would be a breach of hospitality to neglect you."

And for the moment, the little blonde disappeared back into the kitchen following another nod to Harry, the plan already in motion.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Such fierce determination had been a survival skill in Camelot. There were many who conspired against the Marshal of the Realm, jealous that a foreign-born commoner had won a position coveted by blooded, landed knights. His political detractors had done everything in their power to tear him down, but he had shrugged off even the most mortal of insults with a calm expression, words that he would have been within his right to bare steel over. He had shown by example that he would not be cowed, he would not be swayed, and only death itself would stay him from his duties. It had taken a stubborn refusal to accept defeat to thrive in such an environment.

More than that, his stubborn strength of will had seen him through twenty years of torment, and five years of living hell. If he had not had considerable willpower, he would not be the lord of Dún Reáltaí, because would not have survived to this day. For five years, he had endured a personal hell that even still leave their marks on him, although those marks cannot be seen. A man with a lesser will might have been driven mad by enduring that.

Sometimes he wonders if he is mad, still wandering Camlann's weald, or dreaming.

"I merely do my duty," Bedivere gasps, too preoccupied with maintaining his dignity to speak too much against Arturia's praise. "As I have always done. It–it is nothing."

Still, his mouth twists as an odd sensation reaches him. The scent of honey? All he had been able to smell was the sharp, hot-copper scent of his own blood, a thing he is well-acquainted with. This new smell makes no sense to him, though.

As for Bedivere, he pushes himself against the back of his chair, every line of his body an unconscious show of pain. Yet he obeys, flexing the fingers of his right hand, even as his mouth twists sharply at the pain. It's more than he had experienced before, though. There had not even been pain – simply an absence, or perhaps a faint tingling. Pain is good. It reminds him that things are in working order.

"I am in your debt," he gasps, taking a long moment to catch his ragged breath. "Ah, Lord God have mercy," he hisses. Bedivere is pretty tough, despite his slightly effeminate looks; but even he has to draw his limit when somebody goes digging around a hideous wound like that. At least when Caliburn was lost, he had been unfeeling through the rage, and then largely unconscious.

His senses are sharp, though he doesn't comment. If anything, he might be asking Arturia to drug his tea tonight, just to let him sleep through the pain. Still, he nods to Arturia as she excuses herself, hissing through his teeth as he tries to relax against his chair. "Debt or no debt, I thank you, Wisewoman. I... fear I may well have lost the use of that hand, otherwise."

Bedivere shudders, faintly; it's clear he's trying to stifle it, but he can't quite mask it completely. Dresden, however, earns a blank look. "What is a 'nerd?'"

Harry Dresden (206) has posed:
Harry shuffles back into his chair next to Bedivere, letting the nurse and patient have their treatment time.
He tugs a blanket over himself and murmurs. "A nerd is something uncool. Uh. Not dashing. Uh." He's trying to find the right synonym.

Inga has posed:
If Inga was less exhausted she's have a lot to say about how unbearably humble Sir Bedivere is. By the gods that must drive Arturia mad! But she undoubtedly loves him. If they ever get around to actually admitting their feelings for eachother she imagines Arturia will have to put up with even more 'oh, I'm not worthy of you!' She would do it though, Inga has no doubt. That is how love is, she's told.

"You are welcome Sir Bedivere, and yes I think that quite likely. Give me some time and I will cast the spells again. I won't me much use to you if I pass out on you," she replies, cracking a smile.

She may have slipped Saber a small bottle of liquid before she made her exit.

Conspiring!

Inga looks over to Harry, her expression questioning. Yes, what is a nerd? Oh. Well, then. Minutes too late, she laughs lightly. "Yes, he would not want to look like a nerd in front of his lady," she replies. A little teasing is good for his health.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere stares somewhat blankly at that explanation, which seems to make absolutely no sense whatsoever to a man from the Dark Ages of Earth's history. Eventually he seems to decide to gloss it over as unimportant, because there's obviously some kind of communication breakdown going on.

His attention turns back to Inga, though he looks about as drawn and pale as she does. Fortunately, king and knight are perfectly well aware what each means to the other – they're just reluctant to let the outside world know that, no matter how carefully they might think they're hiding their feelings. Indeed, the king's humble nature is just as much as Bedivere's own. Their personalities are similar in many ways – and in many ways, they share the same blind spots, such as a stubborn inability to just accept praise.

"It is fine," he says, and his voice sounds about as haggard as he looks. "Do not trouble yourself for my sake. What you have already done is more than enough. With rest, it should suffice. And I will see if I have treatment left from the Union's facilities if I have need of it." He's not too proud; the pain is breathtaking, and when it comes to ensuring that he still has the functionality of his right arm, he's not about to take any chances.

He still stares a little blankly at the Wisewoman. Apparently he's just not computing what it is a 'nerd' is actually supposed to be.

Harry Dresden (206) has posed:
Harry... just sighs a bit as he sees Bedivere in pain, and murmurs. He scoots his chair a bit to face the Knight's and looks at the handsome fellow. "Okay, look at it this way, Bedivere. I was joking, it was a joke, but it didn't translate well, I think. I was mildly poking fun at a friend. Don't worry about it." A snort, and the Wizard slumps in the chair.
"Hahah. Look at the two of us. Proud bulldogs of our world in chairs in front of a damn fire. I suppose that's gotta happen once in a while."

Inga has posed:
While Inga is still nebulous on all the connotations of the term, she is fairly sure for some unknowable reason that Sir Bedivere is, indeed, a nerd. She grins, then just shakes her head. "Sir, I am absolutely in no mood to listen you being stubborn and refusing more care. I tell you I will see to it again when I've recovered, which should not be so long. I'll spare you any more pain this evening however and just bid you rest," she replies. You do not want a wisewoman on a rampage! She is sure Saber is in agreement with her and Inga is not afraid to pluck that chord if she needs to.

It isn't pleasant to see a person in pain, especially someone you care for, but Inga at least has a background in such things to steer her on. She's sure now that he will be fine, but gods know he'll run out again to protect someone else and if his body is not in top form because he's still a bit hurt? It could mean the difference between life and death. So, he'll be getting more healing and she is not afraid to lock horns with him about it.

Inga sits back in her own chair, crossing her arms beneath her chest. "Two? Have I gone invisible?" she asks. "As for bulldogs, I'd say your more like aurochs...as I don't know what a bulldog is," she continues. She's imagining a dog that's the size of a bull. She's seen weirder things.

A wineskin is pulled from her belt. She uncorks it and takes a sip before tossing it to Harry. She knows at least he'll take a drink. "Mead," she explains, before he asks.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere manages a slightly twitchy smile at that reassurance. Ah, now the wizard is speaking in a more familiar language. Funny how they can both speak English and not understand one another. Well, except for the part where Bedivere's actually speaking an ancient mode of Welsh. Actually, in his distress, he's slipped into Gaelic – a language that the Wisewoman might have some loose familiarity with. Of course, the multiverse translates such things, but there is an almost musical lilt to the knight's voice that wasn't present before.

"Heh. I am no bull, nor dog, and I know not what a 'bull-dog' is, though I have been called a baseborn cur in my day, and a bastard as well." He pauses to grimace, briefly, baring his teeth as he settles more comfortably into his chair. "But I do not mind this opportunity to rest before a fire, truly. I would not have had such an opportunity in Camelot. And the castle there... it was much more cold, and damp; infection was a constant worry. It was not my wounds that must have concerned the king, so, when Caliburn was lost; it was the infection..."

Hmm. There must be a story there, and he must not realise he hasn't told these people of the Battle of Caliburn. Aoko has heard that tale, but not some of the others. He flexes his right hand again, briefly ignoring the pain, or perhaps focusing on it as though to reassure himself that his arm works again.

"Besides which... this is home. I do not know that you are aware of my tale, Master Dresden, but 'home' is a thing I have never had the luxury of having. I am the first and last of King Arthur's knights. But I was not born of Albion. I was a foreigner in the courts, and save by my king, I was never made truly welcome. When I was elected Marshal of the Realm, the highest authority of Camelot's armies, there were many who were made jealous that a foreign-blooded commoner should have been given such an office. That never truly faded."

To Inga's scolding, though, he just sighs. "Very well, then." If you can't beat them, then agree with them and hope for the best. If it were Arturia, he would probably be giving her a 'yes, dear' answer right about now. Funny how they've fallen into those patterns without even realising it. Small wonder the townfolk have mistaken them for something they aren't... it's not so far from the truth.

Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, he tries to find some position that doesn't set his partly-knitted wounds to complaining.

The flask of mead is given a very long, and extremely dubious, look.

Harry Dresden (206) has posed:
What, you mean the flask Harry is happily taking a swig from. A big swig too, as he listent to Bedivere, and sighs... and hands the flask back over to the Seer.
And rubs at his face.

"I'm an orphan. Mom was a wizard, a troublemaker, apparently worse than me if what I've heard from the Council was true. She ran off from everything and married my father... who was a magician. Not a wizard... a illusionist. A jester. Just some fellow making ends meet by doing paties and small touring stuff."
A look over at Inga. She's heard most of this. "When I was six, Dad died. I got turned over as a ward of the state. Sent off to foster homes, I bounced around the system until the point I manifested my abilities. I was turned over along with another girl into the care of a wizard who betrayed us and tried to enthrall the both of us after spending 4 years beating the rules of magic into us."

He cuts off the story there and grumbles. "We're both common born, Bedivere. The hounds, the curs, and that's why I like you and that's why you're right for Saber because you get what loss and sacrifice are."
On second thought he takes the flask again and takes another drink.

Inga has posed:
Inga notices the shift in the music of his voice, observing with a small smile. Reverting to his mother-tongue. It means he is at least somewhat unguarded. Good, for he should relax. Anxiety is no good for healing.

Inga breathes out quickly through her nose. "I've seen many men and women die of festering wounds. We did our best then..." Inga trails off and looks to the mead. "If only I knew then what I knew now–that I should have been pouring the alcohol on them rather than into them," she comments. A small joke, and truth. Seems someone has at least explained germs to her. "The bards still tell stories of that battle," she adds quietly. Inga and Bedivere are both from what is essentially the distant past, but he further back still. A very queer feeling for Inga.

Her eyes turn toward Harry, warming. She takes the mead back and takes gulps another couple sips down. It is strong stuff, as Bedivere well learned. She represses a giggle as she catches him eying it dubiously, as if he might get drunk on the fumes. Inga happily passes it back to Dresden for another drink. She sort of awkwardly gives Harry's arm a reassuring pat. Yes, she's heard this before–Seen some of it.

And since they are all swapping low-born birth stories, Inga supposes she'll speak up as well. "I was left out in the forest to die by my parents for being born disformed," she comments.

Inga's eyebrows rise a little at Harry's last words. Oh, right for her hmm? Will Bedivere blush!?

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Mm. I was not actually from the land you now know as Wales," Bedivere says, eyes hooding. His voice lilts in the almost musical cadences of Gaelic. He doesn't need to partake of the mead. Even if it might be useful to dull the pain, he has no wish to compromise his wits, nor does he have any wish to act the fool in front of these people whom he otherwise respects. It would be a disservice to them. "I am from the kingdom of Dál Riata. You know it now as... I believe the map said Alba, 'Scotland,' and Ulaidh, 'County Ulster,' in 'Ireland.' I am from the northern region, from Alba, a different land entirely."

Maybe the exhaustion of the pain is loosening his tongue, or maybe he's just appreciative of having somebody to speak to about it. "It had been no secret that I was foreign in the king's court, but I did not speak of where I had come from, or whom I had been born to. I am the son of a filidh. You might know them as 'bards,' but that is not the full truth of what they were." Curiously, 'filidh' is the same word that he uses when he speak of magi. "They were also advisors, judges, musicians, poets... and they were magicians, too, aye. They were highly respected, and the wisest among them were advisors to Dál Riata's kings. Although the filídh were afforded status, they were not nobility, and no higher-ranked than the peasants who worked the land. We were content with that," he explains.

"I was to become one, and I was never trained in the way of the warrior. I was trained in language, in music, in poetry and history, and so many other things older even than my people. My father, and my brother, and my cousin, travelled to Camelot. We had goods to bring to market, and my father accompanied us, because he was curious about the newly-coronated King Arthur." Bedivere leans back, grimacing at the twinge through his shoulder. "That was when I first saw her – she was riding through the market square with her entourage; just returned, I learned later, from a victory against the Saxon host. I knew from the first I would serve no other master."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
His eyes hood. "I am sorry to hear that you did not well know your parents, Master Dresden. I knew mine. I was sorry to leave them, but I knew that to return to Dál Riata would have been a terrible mistake. I stayed – as did my brother, Ceallach, and my cousin, Cathaoir. You would perhaps know them instead as Sir Lucan, and Sir Griflet, for those were the names we took when we elected to remain in Albion."

"My father was wise, as was my mother, and my father's brother. I grew to miss his counsel... but the three of us, my brohter and my cousin and I, we never forgot where we had come from."

Where was he going with this? Oh, yes. "Perhaps I am a hound. Cú Artur, aye," he chuckles. Arthur's Hound. "Although that would be doing a disservice to Culann's Hound... I should not be so presumptuous. My king and I, our lives have been lives of loss and sacrifice. But, it has been necessary, and we would not take that back, not for anything. We sacrificed, that our people might not have to."

Oh. Wait a minute. His brain catches up to something Harry said.

"...oh," he says, very softly, flushing nearly as red as the fire. Looks like Inga gets to see him blush again!

Coughing and clearing his throat somewhat awkwardly, he looks to the fire, and his colour seems to return once Inga reminds him of that battle. "Aye. It was a night raid. My brother-knights were quelling other Saxon raids, in distant lands, and there were few of us who remained to meet the threat. My king and I, perhaps three other Knights of the Round Table, and the knighted nobility. And, of course, our peasant-soldiers, bravest and most numerous of all. So many were lost."

"I fought as I had never fought, but I remember nothing of it. Isn't that strange? They say the rage took me, but I remember nothing of it." He shakes his head, frowning. "I delivered my report to the king, but I could not remember what happened after the standard-bearer was cut down..."

Silence, for a few seconds, and he lifts his eyes to Inga. "I am sorry you did not know what it was to have a home, either. But there is one for you here, if you should want it. My offer still stands."

Harry Dresden (206) has posed:
A snort from Harry, and he sighs. This story is something he knew in the broadest terms from Le Morte de Arthur and other stuff and more directly from the Fae Courts but...
To hear it from Bedivere himself is something else entirely. The Wizard snaks that flask again, taking one last little sip, before passing it to Inga nad onwards hopefully to Bedivere. Though he knows that one is a fool's errand.

"And she's got a home in Chicago too. It's not nearly as peaceful as here, but... well." A shrug. "It's not the worst I can offer. Heck, there's even some nice parks I could find with nearby housing so..."
He chuckles and holds out a hand to Bedivere and one to Inga. "So here's to us. This may be a gathering of proper knights. But three curs elevated to better things in pursuit of Honor. I think that's something to shake on."

Inga has posed:
Inga is keeping a mental tally of how many times she's seen Bedivere blush. She marks off another with amusment.

She has heard about his family and about Dal Riata before, but it is always soothing in a strange way to hear someone else living speak of places she has actually heard of in a way that does not make them sound like ancient history. She nods along with the story, maintaining that the fury that took him was god-given. "The gods, whichever gods, gave you their fury to see you past it. You were meant to live," she replies with such surity.

Inga looks a bit embarrassed and the offer once more for a home, though she nods graciously. "I did have a home, it was just...not a home as you think it I suppose. I grew up in...ah, a nemetons, as the druids would have called it. I had plentiful food, shelter, the best education..." and lonelines.

Inga waves this off, glancing toward Harry as she mentions a home in Chicago too. Now, it's her turn to flush. She's a very uncomfortable with the fact that she's been staying at his home and no idea what sort of implications that might mistakenly have.

Inga clears her throat, accepting more mead. "I do appreciate it, both of you. It is good to know I have a place to stay," she says. Home is a picture in her head, a feeling. Maybe she is beginning to find it...but its just not there yet.

Harry extends a hand to them both and she takes it, brows rising. Maybe he's a little drunk. "Shake...on?" she asks, confused. "Don't shake the patient," she adds.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"I have not seen it, yet. I fear that these 'modern' cities do not agree with me very well," Bedivere adds, with a slightly weary note to his voice. There's too much going on in those places. It's a literal case of too much input for a man easily overwhelmed by sights and noise. While once he might have been able to cope with it fairly well, he's lost his taste for such things after the Battle of Camlann. "I will visit them if I must, but I prefer not to seek them out."

The mead is offered a little warily, and in the end, Bedivere only shakes his head mutely. He's not really brave enough to give that another try, and he'd rather not disgrace himself in front of his friends or his king. The last time he was drunk, he was horrified to learn the details.

"Aye." He does offer his left hand, though, carefully; momentarily baring the elegant knotwork of his command seal. Shaking hands is something he's learned that the modern world prefers, rather than an embrace; a gesture more commonly employed in the king's court. "I can agree on that."

He withdraws his hand somewhat gingerly, settling in his chair. Inga's self-assured statement does seem to give him pause, as though he might like to argue the point, somehow, but doesn't know what words to use. In the end he simply looks thoughtful, as though he were mulling it over. It's something to think about. He was meant to live, for it certainly looked as though he would die – yet he survived, against what seemed all odds. Even the nobility had been whispering about his survival, as though it were some black witchcraft that had sustained him, rather than sheer dumb luck (or the king's extremely dedicated chirurgeons).

"Thank you, my friends." Bedivere smiles that soft, subtle smile, almost a little shy, looking to the fire. "I... had not had friends, before now. Not really. Even among my brother-knights, I was forced to remain reserved..."

Inga has posed:
"The big cities are quite jarring," she agrees with Bedivere. "But if that is where I must go, then that is where I must go. I have a feeling I'd best try to get use to it," she adds with a small smile

Another sip of mead and she is feeling the slow, heady warmth spread through her limbs. The combination of the alcohol, the exhaustion and the warm fire is making her very sleepy. "Friends...yes," she says with a tired smile.

Inga leans back further in the chair, her eyes closing. Seems she's going to fall asleep right there.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere doesn't answer the matter of the big cities. If he has to be there out of duty, he will be there, but he won't enjoy it. He has no reason to seek out that kind of disruption, and quiet places like Dún Reáltaí are, on the whole, far more preferable to him. More importantly, this is home. He will never be as comfortable and unguarded anywhere else as he is here.

"Aye. Friends," he agrees softly, with a half-smile. Both the wizard and wisewoman look as though they're fading. With some effort, and a low hiss of pain, Bedivere forces himself to his feet. He wavers a bit, but finds his balance with a little less trouble than he had before. "Please, though, excuse me for the evening. I should return to my bed, and rest properly." Arturia will fuss at him if he doesn't. "Stay the night here if it please you both, for I have no wish to turn you out, and you are welcome as guests in my hall. Anything that I have here you are welcome to."

"Good eve," the knight murmurs quietly, lest he wake them – they both look like they've reached their limits, and it sounds as though sleep will do them both wonders. "May you rest well."

With a wince and a groan, the knight makes his way for the stairwell, slowly and painfully easing himself up its five coiled flights to the top floor... and the promise of a comfortable, warm bed.