1386/In the House of the Most Holy

In the House of the Most Holy
Date of Scene:	21 January 2015
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	Jeanne d'Arc and Sir Bedivere have a chat within Dun Realtai's newly-restored church.
Cast of Characters:	482, 536

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Thanks to the careful guidance of Jeanne d'Arc, the church within Dun Realtai's inner bailey has come together piece by piece. Much like the rest of the citadel and village, the stone is a patchwork of old and new, suffused with the scent of fresh timbers. It's hardly a masterpiece of architectural cunning, but it serves its purpose humbly, much like the other structures of the region.

Late into winter as it is, the snow outside is piling up such that the villagers are constantly forced to dig and shovel to keep it from locking them into their homes. The other buildings are also cleared, such as the citadel itself, or the church and stables, with banks of snow piled high on either side of the path.

Tonight, the sky is surprisingly clear of clouds, and breathtakingly cold. Stars burn cold in the darkness, and the moon shines down from on high, almost bright enough to read by.

The chilly night finds Sir Bedivere inside the church, knelt before the altar. His head is bowed, hair fallen across his face, though not quite facing the floor. Those violet eyes are fixed on the altar, half-closed, as though he were watching some sort of waking dream; or perhaps in a prayerful trance.

He's wearing the blue steel chain mail that was given to him by an anonymous admirer through the guise of Saint Nicholas. Or, perhaps it really was the saint? Whatever the case, it cuts an impressive figure – the steel a blue hue, a long hauberk and leggings, with brown leather pauldrons, gorget, and articulated plated gauntlets to protect his hands, as well as plated sabatons over his feet. Over it all he wears his mantled white cloak of office, trimmed in fur and reinforced to lend a little extra warmth.

Lordly, but not arrogant enough to be kingly. Something the people can look up to – perhaps he's taken the advice of others to heart, for once.

In any case, he's hardly too deep into prayer, and likely wouldn't mind being approached.

Jeanne d'Arc (536) has posed:
The church is a place of solemn beauty. It has always been a place like a second home, one where someone can walk in at any point and feel at peace even when their soul is burdened. As such, even during the night, it is lit up and the area nearest the altar is warm, as it provides a area to pray, or for those that are passing through and need some comfort in the cold of the Dun Realtai. That is what the church is there for, after all.

Jeanne d'Arc had gone on a trip back into the castle itself for a brief moment, then had taken a quick walk around the perimiter of the church just to make sure the repairs are holding. When that is done, she gives a satisfied nod and heads into the church itself. She is wearing her normal outfit as Saber of Black - the mail and long, warm gear is really one of the best outfits she has for dealing with the current weather. She approaches the altar, recognizing the figure kneeling there with ease.

Weighing her options, she ends up kneeling next to Sir Bedivere, her violet gaze resting on the altar first as she silently whispers a soft prayer before re-focusing her attention.

"Good evening." Her voice is soft, out of respect for the place they're in.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
After a few moments, the knight's eyes slide almost closed. He raises his head, looking up to the candles atop the altar, burning brightly, their light warm and inviting. It's certainly a peaceful place, where travellers can lay down their burdens and open their hearts and spirits. Even in the dead of night, the doors are unlocked, as though in silent invitation.

"Most Holy." Bedivere bows his head, and this time he does let his eyes close. "Good eve. Your work here is most impressive. The style is different, but... it reminds me of Camelot's chapel. I spent many an eve before that altar, too."

A few moments pass in comfortable silence, before his own eyes slant sideways, regarding the Maid of Orléans obliquely. His eyes are also violet, but a much more subdued and faded, as though time and trial have leached the colour from them. There are shadows beneath his eyes, although not too severe. He offers a faint smile.

"I take it you have been keeping yourself busy, of late. I hope the people are not too demanding. In truth, I did not know what was expected in regards to their spiritual needs. Though," he murmurs, "when I saw the cross over the ruined church, I suspected you would be a fitting match. I remember seeing such crosses, in Ulaidh..."

Jeanne d'Arc (536) has posed:
"It reminds me of the chapel at home." Jeanne says, with a small smile. "That is the main influence, I think, as ... that has always been one of the biggest places that has had a effect on me." Next to, you know, where she was trialed, executed, and martyred. "So that is a French influence, really." She closes her eyes, a similiar smile crossing her face.

"I am truly honored to be the one who you entrust the spirital needs of your countrymen, and, you know, yourself and everyone else that resides in the keep." She opens her eyes, then, glancing over at him again. "It is my duty, as well, but it has ... it brings me joy."

It's strange that she finds a joy in it, but there is a honesty and a warmth to her voice when she speaks of doing so that means she's rather serious about this, all things considered. "Are you fairing well, Sir Bedivere?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The knight makes no move to get back to his feet, content to stay on his knees. It may be that he simply doesn't register the ache of hard stone beneath him. He's endured plenty of pain throughout his life, and this is a minor complaint by comparison, especially to the wounds that had nearly taken his life. There's a clean, honest pain about kneeling before the altar.

"And I am honoured that you choose to stay and see to the spiritual needs of Dun Realtai." He allows his own small smile, reserved as his expressions so often are. "One can rarely claim to be visited by a saint. I am glad that such a duty brings you joy, for you are well-suited to it. And it is well-suited to you. I wish I could make such a distinction about my own calling as you do yours by example."

When she asks him how he fares, the knight simply shakes his head. The movement causes some of that silvery hair to spill over his shoulder, threatening to fall from the bronze clasp it's bound by.

"Hm. I can hardly complain. The people here are healthy and would appear to be happy. Dun Realtai has not been threatened by anything. My king, too, is healthy and happy, and other matters also remain well in hand." He smiles, faintly, but the expression seems off, somehow; almost melancholy. Gradually, he looks down until his eyes are fixed at the base of the altar. "I should be happy. And I am. Truly. And yet..."

He glances over, not quite looking at her directly. "How familiar are you with the tale of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, my lady?"