4584/Though She May Be Old and Worn

Though She May Be Old and Worn
Date of Scene:	22 September 2016
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	Bedivere asks for Amalthea's help in an endeavour he's planning.
Cast of Characters:	482, 395

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Autumn is in the air of Dun Realtai. It brings with it a crisp bite and a swirling of clattering leaves wherever it goes. The fields and crops are fallow for the season now, bare earth lending a desolate feel to the outermost farmsteads.

  Out further beyond that lie the beginnings of the woods. Made up of trees familiar to Europe, they're elm, oak, yew, and rowan; a thick tangle of whispering leaves, deer trails, and the occasional beaten earth road.

  It's down one of these that hoofbeats thunder past.

  Sir Bedivere of Dun Realtai crouches low over the neck of his glossy black steed; ash-blonde hair whipping, white cloak snapping behind him like a bright banner. Where he's going, it's hard to say. The roads aren't very clear this far out from the dun and the land seems untravelled. Deer scatter before him, and smaller creatures flee through the underbrush from the relentless thunder of the Black One's hooves.

  It's not until deep into the woods that the knight slows, straightening, reaching out to pat the horse-like creature's neck. <Was that sufficient?>

  "Fast enough to serve," Bedivere assures the faerie-horse. "Faster than any steed I have ever ridden."

  <Very well. If you plan to go through with your plan, this one will assist you. If swift running is what you need, you shall have it.> The horse cants its head, eyeing Bedivere with one smoky gold eye. <You do plan on going through with it, yes?>

  Bedivere thins his mouth into a hard line. "Aye."

  The horse sighs and shakes its head in an exasperated, disconcertingly human-like gesture. <Mortals.>

  "Lady Amalthea should be here soon. I sent her coordinates some time ago."

  <Unicorn. Feh.> The faerie pronounces it 'yoo-nee-corn,' and curls his lip in scorn. <Self-righteous milksops, the lot of them, so aflutter over whether someone is virtuous or not virtuous that they can't-->

  "Hush," Bedivere warns. "Keep your opinions to yourselves. And might I remind you that she does not like the Fair Ones?"

  The Black One swivels his ears back, curling his lip again. <What is there not to like...?>

  "Keep your opinions to yourselves," the knight repeats, lower. "Something good to eat if you cooperate with me."

  <I cannot be bribed. Unless you plan to give to me some of the Wisewoman's apple pie.>

  "Done and done. Now quiet. I should like to hear when she arrives."

  The Black One sighs in mock melodramatic exasperation; the gesture looks just as strange on his equine form as a shake of the head.

Amalthea (395) has posed:
    Deep in the woods there are bound to be things. Fey spirits and sidhe, old, beautiful, and terrible things that Bedivere would know not to cross or how to best evade, as per the stories and tales of his time. There are probably few who would dare make such journies alone. Few mortals anyway. But an immortal, timeless and ancient, even if not of the local stock, would be most brazen to tread through territories not their own.
    Amalthea is that damned brazen.
    There is a curse from deeper in the woods, vile, foul, vicious and most biting. A crass snarl of something unkind and malevolent wishing the utmost ill will to the victim of its fury. And then all is still. It is moments later when the unicorn does arrive, not in her armored knightly form, but in that of her quadrupedal mode, armor worn as silvery barding and cloak worn around long neck like an elegant scarf. She leaves no hoofprints as she treads without a sound, for hearing a unicorn in the woods is akin to listening for silence in the black of night. She paces leisurely, head held high, looking as though such monstrous obscenities could never have come from such a regal silvery beast.
    "God damned oakmen." She hisses venemously to herself anyway.
    Lady Amalthea is here now, though. A fact she makes blatant with a dip of her head. "I am here."
    And then. Then she looks to Bedivere's steed. Long, hard, and silent, she turns her head to an almost bird-like angle to peer at the Black One in stone silence from her good eye, before she snorts. "You would have to listen quite intently, Sir Bedivere. To hear a unicorn's arrival." Added almost playfully.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Horse and rider look up at the sound of a distant curse, and both of them blink owlishly. It's shockingly crude. Since there's no sign of any other creature at all but the unicorn that comes trotting with head high into the clearing, logic suggests the unicorn is the source of all that foul language.

  Bedivere is actually impressed, in a distant sort of way. He'd led soldiers on campaign, and he knows how foul a mouth can get. Taking up such malevolent crudeness was a way for his men to let off steam; it was easier to let them, since enforcing their good behaviour only would have made them resentful.

  Still, he hasn't heard language like that in a very long time. Before he can comment on it, both almost-horses stare each other down. Where Amalthea stares the Black One down, the Black One slowly swivels his ears back.

  Bedivere ignores the potential animosity.

  "Thank you. As to whether or not I would hear a unicorn, I would not know. I have never seen such beasts in my own world." Of course, it wasn't for lack of wanting to see one. Christianity had decided to adopt the creatures as a symbol for the Son, and so no doubt a devout Christian like Bedivere would consider seeing a creature like that a blessing and good omen indeed.

  He shrugs. "They were rare, as rare as dragons. Besides, they would never reveal themselves to me. I am no virtuous maid, though I at least strive to be virtuous, and to uphold the Eight Virtues in turn." And he is, as far as a unicorn would be concerned with the definition.

  A slight twist from the Black One's broad back turns the horse to the path, beckoning to the silvery unicorn. "Walk with me, please? I asked you here for a reason; if this were an ordinary social call, I would have offered you Dun Realtai's full hospitality."

  "There is a favour I would ask of you."

  When Bedivere says it, it has meaning. He and Amalthea are both aware of what such a thing means, among worlds where there are anything like the Fair Folk. The word itself has weight; it almost seems to have an audible capital letter.

  And it is not something he would ask lightly.

Amalthea (395) has posed:
    The 'horse' swivels its ears. Amalthea knows the gesture when she sees it. She knows NORMAL horses do not take kindly to unicorns, either, but in a different, and far more jealous way; usually even shying back. She stares. She stares right into the Black One's eyes without flinching. Until the knight speaks.
    Her gaze is drawn from fey thing to Man, now, expression as placid and serene as though that moment just then had not happened at all. "I have told you. You know now." She points out. "But you need not be virtuous nor maidenly, it seems. I have come to you, have I not?"
    This is ignoring the fact that she is not of Bedivere's world, she continues in a lazy drawl, "There were times when I was young and new, when I came to any maiden that called my name. Though they would recoil from the sight of me when I drew near. I never quite found a maiden of my own until these recent years. So I always cared little for such things. You are virtuous enough, and friend to me, and that is all that matters."
    Indeed all that matters as Bedivere makes for the path, she trots into place at his side, still soundless and furthermore acting like she hadn't cussed up enough to remind the old knight of his men. "I will walk. And I will listen. But I for you my favor is given freely, I will not hold you to arcane contract and guiling twisted words of promise." Yes. She knows the weight indeed.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Bedivere ignores the animosity between his noble steed and his noble friend, because there's no way he hasn't noticed the way those two are staring at each other. Maybe if he doesn't give it any of his attention, it won't become a problem.

  "I did not even know of anyone who had seen a unicorn, in Albion or Dál Riata. As I said, they were vanishingly rare... perhaps they hid themselves well, or perhaps they were truly extinct, or close to it." Reaching up, the knight tugs at the stud in his left ear, almost uneasily. "Many of the aristocracy sought to hunt them, but turned up nothing. I do not know."

  He sighs, faintly, sliding from the Black One's broad back in mid-stride, clapping the leather-padded palm of his gauntlet on the pooka's shoulder. "Be off with you. Go see if Miss O'Suilebhain needs anything," he adds, before the pooka can pout about being left out.

  The horse turns, loping off for the citadel with his ears swivelled back. Yep. The Black One is totally sulking.

  Once the creature is gone, Bedivere turns, hesitantly reaching out before laying his gauntleted hand on the base of Amalthea's neck -- so light it could be missed, ready to snatch his hand away if she protests.

  "Thank you for that, my friend." His voice is weary. "I would ask your advice in something, and your assistance in an endeavour of great import to me."

  What could he possibly consider so important?

  "How much do you know about my king?"

  Well, that's sort of out of left field.

Amalthea (395) has posed:
    "It is a joyless world. One without unicorns." Amalthea notes, in passing of mention of their supposed extreme rarity. "Though. If there are fey here there is magic yet enough in the world for there to be unicorns, I think." Mulled lazily. IF there is animosity from Amalthea's side, she does not display it, there are more important matters at hand than her personal feelings for the fair folk and their ilk, and she has at the very least that much respect for Bedivere to not make issue of the moment.
    "Bells and banners." She says then. "The only way to hunt a unicorn is to make the chase so wondrous they grow curious and come to their hunters." An idle tidbit she would not tell one she did not trust.
    Still. The Black One is sent away, then. And it earns almost a snort of amusement from the unicorn; shifting slightly. She allows the contact, little more than a soft hissing vent of steam escaping from a seam in her plating at the shoulder when Bedivere touches her. There are few beyond members of her direct family she would allow this.
    "I knew that one." She finally speaks. "I knew that one almost as soon as I stepped out of the forest coming to meet you. Since then there has been no movement that has not betrayed it. A pace. A glance. A turn of the head. The flash of the throat as they breathed." She whispers.
    "They were all my spies."
    She chuffs.
    "You would do well to be wary climbing upon that steed. Though your judgement is keen and sound, far too many pooka have been known to fling their riders to their death on simple flight of fancy."
    That aside her ears flick up, her head turns to better peer at the knight, one whom she considers peer despite his mortal trappings. "Your king? I know she is one you cherish above all else, who listens to your wise council, and upholds her virtues with strength and honor." But she knows this perhaps may not be the real topic, as that deep blue eye twinkles with mirth. "Or perhaps do you mean the new, young king who is among us, barely yet even a man and thrust into the nightmare of rulerhsip of a land that refuses to recognize his right?"
    This is where she pauses, a slight shift almost 'shrugging'.
    "Stories and tales mostly. Differing, varied, and not one the same, many of them contradictory. Why I recall one version of the tales that misnamed a certain knight of ill repute after you rather incorrectly."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "I will not deny that it was a cold world, but I could not have seen the joy in it then." Bedivere shakes his head, some of his hair falling over his face. An idle gesture clears it away. "I believe they are still there, somewhere. If there are dragons and pooka and kelpies, I believe there are unicorns, too."

  And he does. He seems undisturbed by such 'folklore,' considering his Christianity. Then again, he's shockingly tolerant for a man of theearly Middle Ages. Maybe being the outsider in Camelot's court gave him a broader perspective for such things.

  "Hm. I saw many hunts that raised an ungodly racket, to be certain, but they were banging copper pots and sheep's-bells." Bedivere sighs, tone bland. "Going about it backwards, unsurprisingly. Small wonder they caught no more than colds and hangovers once they had descended upon the wine casks..."

  Shaking his head, he continues on in silence. After a moment he lets his hand fall away; he is skittish and slow to trust, and he dislikes physical contact -- he has drawn steel on even friends before for startling him from behind, and while stoic in the face of a great many things, he has always shied from touch like a whipped hound. Once he lets go of her, he folds his hands behind him, sword claterring quietly at his hip.

  "I saved that one's life," Bedivere affords, glancing back to Amalthea. "That one owes me a great favour indeed. And he is too desirous of Master Merlin's respect to directly harm one in Master Merlin's auspices." He smiles thinly. "Thank you, my friend. I know what manner of flame I handle."

  "And at the risk of sounding boastful, there were no better horsemen in Camelot than the king's chosen marshal."

  He looks after the direction the Black One had left in, expression grim. "I take your meaning, but I think he is genuine. He came to this place a broken beast when I led him from the horse trader. There are a race somewhere here beyond Dun Realtai's bounds which twist and enslave the Ever-Living Ones, from what he has explained to me. He hid himself as a mortal creature to spare himself from a life of servitude, but he forgot himself. Master Merlin sundered his enchantment and returned him to his wits. He has made it clear that he is in debt to both myself and Master Merlin, and the Ever-Living Ones do not make light of debts... particularly debts unpaid."

  A shrug of his shoulder resettles his cloak about himself. Scarlet touches his face, and he keeps his eyes rigidly forward. "I speak of the first of them. She whom I cherish above all others. I..." Bedivere licks dry lips and tries again. He seems genuinely anxious; a strange thing to see in someone otherwise so calm and stoic. "You know that she is a being called a Servant, yes?"

  "In most cases, Servants are summoned to participate in these Wars of the Holy Grail, but only after their deaths. Their spirits are transferred to the Throne of Heroes, remembered in legend, shaped by humanity's perception of them. Yet my king is... not... she is still alive."

  There's a slightly haunted look to his eyes, even though he doesn't look directly at Amalthea. "I failed to save anyone, at Camlann. But worst of all, most unforgiveable of all, I could not save her. Yet now I am given a chance to save her. To complete the duty and the vow that I failed in." He swallows, throat dry as well. "If I can find where she rests, where Avalon watches over her... if I can find a means to mend the grievous wound she has suffered..."

  "I think it would work. And she wishes to return to being a mortal, instead of a being with the better part of both feet in the Otherworld." His brow furrows. "I've an idea of how to begin..."

Amalthea (395) has posed:
    Amalthea listens. She said she would, even as she scuffs the ground with a silvery hoof. "Then they exist. Because you believe in them." Simple as that, she leaves the topic of unicorns with that cryptic statement, chuckling lowly at tales of the failed hunts, and the ensuing battle with mighty headaches the next day.
    She dips her head. "Then that would do it. A life debt and a little bit of luck in knowing the old trickster, a crafty one you are, Sir Bedivere. The best rider having a mount like none other at the round table. Bravo. But you did him as much cruelty as a kindness, in putting him in your debt. Fae deals and oaths are a two way path, loath as the ever living may be to admit it. Still..."
    She narrows her eye, head shifting to that bird-like angle again to better peer. It's like she stares not at the man but into him for a long moment. "Aye, I know she is. And I know of the Grail War. Believe me, I count myself among the lucky to not yet be pulled into that quagmire of blood and misery and--"
    And a bomb gets dropped.
    Apparently, Saber is still alive.
    Amalthea's response is kneejerk, ill-thought out, and spur of the moment. As anything occurs in the presence of an immortal being: it just happens. There is no way of predicting it, and no way of stopping it once it begins. She opens her mouth...
    "Horseshit, you're pulling my fucking horn."
    There is a pause after that. The unicorn clears her throat.
    "You are speaking in jest right?"
    No. No he clearly is not, and that much becomes apparent as the reactionary outburst is silenced and Bedivere tells the somber tale of Camlann and his failure, weather true or perceived. She scuffs the ground and closes her eye.
    "If you find her, you believe that..." Yes, she already knows what the knight believes. No, she does not think she can dissuade him from it, even if she had good reason to give.
    "Take me with you."
    It is no request.
    "For laughs, for luck, for the unknown. Take me with you. This sounds much like a quest for you and only yourself, Bedivere. But take me with you."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "A great many things exist, if we only took the time to look at them. Just because we cannot ordinarily see them does not mean that they are not there." Bedivere makes his observation in a soft and almost wistful tone. He had always wanted to see a unicorn of his world, unworthy as he may consider himself... but the Rocket Knight is the next best thing.

  Even if she's a little crude sometimes.

  "Speak of it to no one," Bedivere implores her, violet eyes earnest. "I am still not yet prepared to undertake this endeavour, but I have every intention of doing so. I have spoken with her of it, and she will accompany me as well. We will have need of dealing with the Ever-Living Ones, and so I will also need the assistance of the Black One. He approves of our plans, and has already agreed to help us, with no strings attached."

  He's silent through Amalthea's outburst, and while he doesn't chuckle, there's a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. It would be a chuckle in anybody else. It never ceases to amaze him that such a virtuous and valourous beast is so... /crude/.

  But no, there's not a trace of jest in his tone.

  "I do. And Master Merlin does, as well. I have spoken with him of it, and there is no greater authority of our world on matters of magic and the Otherworld. He believes it can be done, too, provided there is a sufficient catalyst to mend the mortal wound she suffered at Camlann. She is being held in stasis at Avalon, the Blessed Isle, and watched over by the Faerie Queens; suspended mere seconds before what should be her..." He swallows, throat dry. "Before what should be her death."

  "The relics she once held in life would save her. Avalon, the scabbard of Excalibur, is a powerful healing relic. And Caliburn, the Golden Sword of Victory, the blade that was broken and lost when the king struck out in wrath and vengeance... if we might find the shards, and if we might convince the smiths who forged it to mend it anew..." His expression is solemn, but longing. "They would save her. They would restore her to what she is, and should be... she would live again as a mortal. She would see Dun Realtai as she is meant to see it; would feel the wind in her hair for true, and she would no longer be dependent on my inadequate reserves of magic, as /filidh/ and Master."

  He smiles, faintly.

  "My friend, I would be honoured to have you at my side. I did not ask you here to convince you to stay behind. I asked you here that I might convince you to accompany me." Bedivere's smile is awkward. "Please accompany us. We would be honoured to have you and your sword at our sides."

  Once more, he reaches up to lay a hand over her neck, the touch as hesitant and feather-light as it had been before.

  "Thank you. But I must be off. It will not be until the winter months that we depart. I must arrange matters with Lady Alaia, and I must prepare Dun Realtai for the winter, in the meantime." The hand at her neck gives a faint pat before he withdraws it. "Thank you, my friend. I do not deserve an ally such as you, but I am grateful for your loyalty nonetheless."

  His hand slips away, and he turns, shucking off a gauntlet and sticking forefinger and thumb into his mouth, issuing a piercing whistle before putting the gauntlet back on.

  Distant hoofbeats thunder; and no sooner has the Black One's coal-coloured hide flashed past than Bedivere neatly swings himself up onto the pooka's back -- a frighteningly adept trick, in light of his plate armour. He must be an accomplished horseman indeed. "Farewell!" he calls over his shoulder, white cloak and ash-blonde hair flying behind him, the Black One's tail a banner of glossy black. "I will contact you again when the time comes!"

Amalthea (395) has posed:
    Crude is one way to put it, yes. But Amalthea's upbringing was not the norm for her kind. It was rough, a life of pain and embittering loss and violence that lasted for centuries before her lot had fallen in with the ilk of knights, kings, and heroes. Only now is she seeming to ease into an even newer role than she did when taking to knee and accepting knighthood. It may just be why she's been endeavoring to be more... Proper, of late. But one can never take old tricks away once they have been taught to an ancient dog like her.
    She'll always have her crass moments.
    "I give my word I will tell no soul." She promises first and foremost, before she dips her head in a nod. "If Merlin believes it, it must be so." She saus at first before that endlessly deep eye upon him again. "The Pooka?" She does sound mildly surprised there, but then lets it drop. "Then he will have no quarrel from me." She says after a time, giving a mildly hesitant pause.
    "But you better make sure he doesn't give me any lip."
    It's. Well. It's a start. And she doesn't even go into the topic of the fey queens. Good enough for now.
    "It sounds as though you have a plan already set ahead. You won't be needing me for that, then." She murmurs. Then it's time to go. Bedivere saying his farewells. Though she allows the touch again, she does not hold him for longer than necessary. "I am here. It means I feel you are deserving, and that's all that really matters. Make your preparations. Yes, call upon me when time comes."
    She does not move after that, granting the knight one last vision of something old and legendary standing by a forest. And then she's gone. And all that's left is a forest; like any other.