1287/Winter's Rider

Winter's Rider
Date of Scene:	07 January 2015
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	On hearing reports of frightened villagers, Sir Bedivere himself takes to the village to investigate the cause for alarm. He finds a Death Knight of Azeroth for his trouble, and invites her in as a guest to uncover more information...
Cast of Characters:	482, 679

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although Dún Reáltaí is not a kingdom, many have begun to look to its lord like a small kingdom might regard a benevolent king. The villagers here are tough and independent, but they are also resilient, and attentive – they have done well for themselves under the careful guidance of Sir Bedivere of Camelot, or at least the man who had once called himself Sir Bedivere of Camelot.

These days, he calls himself Sir Bedivere of Dún Reáltaí – and sometimes, even simply Fionnlagh, though few seem to reserve the right to call him by that name. Most notably, the lady of the castle.

Today, the snow has been falling steadily. Drifts are piled high, to the point where some might be alarmed at the piles building up on the roofs, but they're angled enough to shrug off the heaviest loads.

Yet word has dragged the good Sir Bedivere out from his bed, prompting him to wait in the village square. Someone disturbing has been spotted in the castle grounds.

That might explain why he stands astride a borrowed horse, dressed in full plate armour – but not the old armour that had been his mark of service to the king. He's clad instead in a new set of armour, resplendent in blue steel and dark brown leather. It's simple in design, a chain hauberk augmented with heavy leather plates, and pauldrons and gorget of leather. He also has articulated gauntlets, with blue steel plates over the tops of the hands, and brown leather padding over the palms and fingers. On the whole, it looks lordly, but not regal; its subtle hues and colours and simple design pleasing to the eye. It seems Santa Claus has an eye for aesthetics as much as practicality. Slung over his shoulder is the cracked, but still functional, war-horn from Camlann. Before leaving the castle, he had promised to sound it if he was in danger – and use a command seal, if necessary. Unlike some, he treats every unknown Elite seriously, acknowledging that such unknown factors could be lethal threats to him.

The horse, a great big bay farm-horse, huffs a breath as snow settles on its flanks and in its mane; swishing its tail and stamping a great big broad hoof against the cracked flagstones and snow of the empty market square. Snow falls in eerie silence, and the knight reaches forward to pat the restless animal.

Bedivere's face is a mask, a composed mask; an expression that some familiar with him might attribute to the Left Hand of the King. He's all business, right now. Something has his villagers frightened, and he intends to see what the problem is.

Meanwhile, the approaching figure that seems to be cause for such alarm has had a runner sent their way – inviting them to the market square, and not to do anything sudden or suspicious, for they are being watched.

And it's true. A great, draught horse-sized figure stalks alongside the procession, just out of sight; Kepas, for once all business and not at all awkward or puppyish, but a guardian and a dangerous creature, eerily silent as he slinks between buildings. He watches, and he ensures the traveller and the villager escort stay on course toward the market square halfway up the hill, but he does little more than that, taking pains to stay just out of sight.

Ivraala (679) has posed:
"Disturbing" seems to be the right word. The figure that's unsettled the village tonight is mounted on a horse as well, but the large creature is clearly abnormal. Frigid blue eyes glow beneath its helmet of forward-curved horns, a set of layered dark armor that continues all along its body. Its skin is a sallow purple shade, decaying below the knees into white bone wreathed in cold blue flames. Frigid breath huffs from its mouth, every sound it makes made into a ghostly mockery of a horse's voice that sends a chill down the spine of those who hear it. Its dark rider, however, is even more foreboding.

The shadowed figure is female and humanoid; that much is clear. That is also where any normal appearance ends. She is easily about seven feet tall, her skin a dark shade of blue marked with even darker tattoos of winding, interlacing patterns along her forearms that pulse with a cold glow. Her long legs bend once, then twice, only to terminate in cloven hooves, and a lithe tail drapes behind her, decorated with a silver band and glowing purple crystals. A raised hood shrouds most of her features, but two horns curve back through it, the same shade as her skin, and her eyes glow with a blue-white radiance. More lights shine under the hood from purple crystals attached on a string from one pointed ear to a thin tentacle draping from behind her ear, one of a set of four that rest down her shoulders and chest. Save for her stomach and most of her arms, however, her body is covered by a dark, elaborate armor encrusted in several places with glowing blue gems. As if that weren't enough, the greataxe resting on her back is a clearly dangerous weapon, bristling with spikes, decorated with skull motifs, engraved with glowing blue runes and seeping a frigid mist from along its blade.

The escort is regarded with a silent narrowing of the imposing figure's eyes in wariness, but she nods when invited, wordlessly riding at an easy pace behind the escort as they return to the square. Snow has gathered on her and her mount, but neither of them seem to care: indeed, the air around them seems even more frigid than the surrounding weather.

The dark rider comes to a halt a long distance away from Bedivere, tugging at her mount's reigns and drawing out an eerie chuff as it plods to a stop. She lingers in silence for a few moments, her gaze kept lingering on Bedivere from afar as if she is considering her course of action. Even at this distance, something feels innately wrong about her, as if she were a direct opposition to every aspect of life itself.

Finally, she speaks. Her accent sounds Russian, almost, though she pronounces her words clearly and frankly. Little emotion is behind them, save for basic courtesy. There's certainly no warmth in her speech. "Archenon poros. Forgive me; it seems I have disturbed your village with my presence. It wasn't my intention to do more than pass through." A pause, then: "You are the lord of this land, I take it?"

That strange term, archenon poros, is clearly not from any language of humans, but its meaning comes out as "good fortune." Her native language, it seems: the rest of her speech comes in English, and while she's well-spoken, her pronunciation doesn't make it sound natural to her compared to those first two words.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Sadly, it isn't much of an escort; just a single frightened peasant in what ragtag clothing will protect him from the weather, armed with a hunting knife and a slightly tarnished pitchfork. It's safe to say the terrified man is no Elite, and is only here to bring the visitor to the local leader.

Snow drifts down from leaden skies; in a somewhat anachronistic touch, modern gas lamps on tall posts illuminate the square. The sallow yellowish light clearly illuminates the fog of the horse's breath, as well as Bedivere's.

He wears no helm, and the hand over the hilt of his sword raises to finger the war-horn, briefly. Although he hadn't wanted to bring it, he had ultimately relented at Arturia's suggestion; a concession to put her at ease, for she had still not been fully alert. More than that, he had wanted not to give a warlike impression, though one could never be too careful, and if the situation could be resolved peacefully he would have preferred that. The armour was only a concession made to safeguard his own health. He's spent too much time bedridden as a result of injuries lately.

And the sword... that nameless sword of his rarely leaves its scabbard, but it is there, if he should have need of it.

When the dark rider reaches the square, Bedivere's horse backs its ears until they lie flat against its neck, and the whites of its eyes are briefly visible. It takes a step away from the deathcharger, tossing its head as though it were trying to rear; but a quick cinching of the reins keeps its head down, and Bedivere leans forward to whisper something soothing into its ears.

His eyes never leave their visitor, though thankfully he has his steed under control by the time she approaches closely enough to speak.

That accent... it sounds familiar. Slavic? Vikingr, perhaps? No, not with that body. Whatever she is, she's obviously no human. Bedivere is not above staring for a moment, and he can feel another flutter of unease. Whatever this creature is, it isn't right. It isn't natural or godly or even remotely right.

But none of that shows on the marshal's face. His expression is calm, and so is his posture, both hands now loosely about the reins.

"Good eve to you." Although his shoulders are broad, his voice is gentle, so much so that it might even be mistaken for a woman's, taken with his long hair and somewhat slender figure, even obscured by his blue steel hauberk. "So you are the one who has my people so frightened."

"No. It is I who should be asking for your forgiveness, traveller. These are a suspicious people, and they have been through much." He raises his head, but his eyes never leave her, wary as a hound watching a boar's lair. "Please, forgive them their superstitions, for they were wronged by the Otherworldly not so very long ago."

Yet his expression never changes. No smile, no warmth to speak of; just wariness in those violet eyes. He remains for a long moment, snow falling gently around both of them, as though considering his options.

And then, while the villager hastily backs away and lets himself into a nearby building – the sound of something barring the door can be heard – Bedivere wheels his horse, heading uphill toward the castle.

He glances briefly between the buildings – ah. There's Kepas, silent as a ghost, the yellow lights of his eyes winking in and out of the falling snow and shadows.

"I am indeed the lord of this land. I am Sir Bedivere of Dún Reáltaí, and that is where you have arrived. But do not let us speak in the cold like this. Come with me. I can offer you a place more comfortable to speak. Your horse will be seen to at the top of the hill."

Notably, he does not invite her as a guest; not while he's still deciding whether or not she's going to plant a knife in his ribs. Or winnow him down a bit with that fearsome axe.

Ivraala (679) has posed:
"They should be wary," the dark woman replies solemnly. "There is no need for forgiveness. I would be concerned to meet someone who neither knows nor cares of my nature."

Her head turns to watch the villager's retreat, her gaze lingering on the barred door for several more moments. She doesn't seem offended or angered by it, however. In fact, she hardly seems to care at all, as if this is something she expects to encounter in this sort of situation. Soon enough, Bedivere calls her attention back to him, lifting her head in that impassive stare.

"Thank you, Sir Bedivere," she replies, nodding briefly. "I am Ivraala, a Knight of the Ebon Blade under Highlord Mograine. I haven't heard of Dún Reáltaí before, but my travels have brought me far lately. I suppose such things are to be expected." A light kick of her hooves against her charge's sides sends it plodding forward again behind Bedivere, burning hooves crunching against the snow but never melting it away.

"My Deathcharger can be dismissed," she continues, looking around her at the snowed-over village as they ride forward. "You will not need to trouble yourself with it. Or me, either; I have no intention of harming you or your village, so long as no harm is threatened against me." A pause, before her next words are tinted with a faint note of resignation. "Such words are minor comfort from a Death Knight, I understand. You don't need to hide your wariness."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"And I have not heard of the Ebon Blade, or anyone by the name of Highlord Mograine." Bedivere tosses this over his shoulder, head turned just far enough for his words to carry over the crunch of his horse's hooves on the snow. He turns his eyes forward, though he watches her from the periphery of his vision.

He smiles, but it's a hard expression little warmer than the wintry air around them. "Now that is an ominous title. What brings you to this place, so far off the beaten track? I cannot help but wonder of your purpose here. This place is well out of the way to most. Surrounded by tundra, plunged into winter... though I suppose I would believe it if you had lost your way in the blizzard."

"No harm will befall you for as long as you remain here. Although Dún Reáltaí and its lands are technically territory of the Union, they are under my jurisdiction. I am of the Union, that much is certain, I welcome all to visit, so long as they can abide by the Laws of Hospitality. In its most basic form, it is a thing of beautiful simplicity: Levy no harm against your host, and your host will levy no harm against you. To break these laws is the worst of crimes, and no man will be welcome in any land who does."

He sighs, a plume of fog. "So you need not trouble yourself. You will not be harmed. And even if any here harboured ill intent, I do not think they would have the courage. These are but simple farmers and craftsmen. There are no knights, here, save for a few of my guests."

And, it seems, their leader. That armour is too nice to be just a mercenary's, and he conducts himself too well; too articulately, and seems to command too much respect from those frightened peasants to be anything but.

"I would hear more of this Ebon Blade, and your Highlord Mograine, if it please you." He frowns. "And what do you mean by that; 'dismissed?'"

Ivraala (679) has posed:
Ivraala's eyes narrow at Bedivere's unawareness. How far from Azeroth must she be if those names are completely unknown here? This place must be much larger than she thought at first to find herself in a situation like this. Though, it seems, that is also to her advantage; while the people here are certainly not enjoying her presence, at least they're more open to welcoming her than some.

"I was wandering," she replies, "searching after a target that fled from me. An undead creature, though apparently it hasn't come here. I suspect you wouldn't be so cordial if it had." She shrugs slightly, snow falling off her spiked pauldrons to tumble to the ground. "I am certain it has gone far from here, in any case. I took to surveying the landscape instead when I knew I had lost it."

The Death Knight listens to Bedivere's laws, and while she doesn't smile herself, a quiet sound of understanding comes from her. "Your laws are like those of the draenei. My people. I haven't been among them in some time, but I haven't forgotten how I was raised, either. As for your question..."

Ivraala trails off as she slips off her mount's saddle, standing instead on her own two hooves in the snow. A moment is taken to pat the Deathcharger on the side of the head, and in the next moment, it's consumed in a whirlwind of fog and shadow. When the burst dissolves only a second later, the undead steed is gone, and Ivraala walks calmly after Bedivere. "Returned to its home for now," she continues evenly. "The Deathchargers of Acherus do not belong to our realm. They may return to where they came from freely, to be called upon when we require them again."

It doesn't seem to strain her at all to walk at the same pace as her horse was a moment ago, tail swaying behind her, arms hanging at her sides. A slight frown settles over her features when she speaks again. "As far as the Ebon Blade and Highlord Mograine...have you heard of the Scourge, Sir Bedivere, or has your village been spared from it? To speak of them requires knowledge of the Scourge first."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Observation is a terribly useful tool. Without even needing to ask, he can learn the name of her people, or whatever it is that she calls herself. Draenei, apparently. That's likely good to know. Also good to know is that she pursues some manner of quarry, and that it's likely unliving.

And then she slides down from her saddle, dismissing the steed in a whirl of snow and fog. Although he keeps his expression bland, he's quite certain that must be some manner of witchcraft. Then again, so too is the steed, and so too is its rider. None of what he's seen is normal.

Some part of him is slowly acclimating to that fact, here in the multiverse. Where once he would have gawked, court training be damned, he can now keep an even expression and hide his surprise.

"I see." He tilts his head, faintly, regarding Ivraala with a calmness that almost seems to border on a sleepy regard, but his violet eyes are still wary. Pretty words, those, but it will take more than stories of a past to earn more than his caution. Well-meaning as he may be, he is slow to trust, and he must put the welfare of his people first.

To the matter of the Scourge, he looks down, regarding the Death Knight carefully.

"Some once called the Saxons the scourge of the seas. But I do not believe that Saxon raiders are what you speak of, and it was in a land far away from here; so far I do not know where it is any longer." There is a significance to her term that speaks of something more cohesive than the sea-wolves out of the north. "Hold, though, for we are nearly to the castle. You may continue there."

He slides from his own saddle, handing the reins to an awed-looking stableboy, who seems torn between admiration of Bedivere and terror at Ivraala.

Pushing open the door to the keep, he holds it open for the Death Knight to enter.

...But he cannot take her into the hall and refuse hospitality. With a faint sigh, he shakes his head as he holds the door. "Be welcome in Dún Reáltaí as a guest of my hall, Death Knight, though I ask that you give me no cause to regret such an offer."

The knight waves Ivraala over to the roaring hearth. It's a single long installment down the wall, keeping the great hall warm and bright; there are a few chairs and a few small tables before it, and it's before one of these that he signals for her to have a seat. He unbuckles his sword, leaning it against the chair and seating himself.

No shield. Either he's very confident in his swordplay, or he doesn't care.

A gesture signals the lurking castle servants to work; a silent order for them to be ready to fetch something from the kitchens. When one of the women returns, scarcely a moment later, it's with a tray laden with cheese, bread, butter, and both tea and wine; depending on Ivraala's preference. The tray is left on the table; before which Bedivere steeples his fingers, regarding Ivraala seriously. His expression is neutral, but his eyes are still troubled; uncertain, perhaps, of what to think of her.

"By all means. Please continue, Dame Ivraala of the Ebon Knights. I would hear more of this Scourge."

Ivraala (679) has posed:
The looming draenei remains silent as bidden while they approach the keep. She's only given pause when the stableboy comes by, staring at her with such clear (and certainly justified) terror. Her expression doesn't change as she watches him, but she does offer a brief nod, as if to assuage his concerns somewhat before she enters the keep.

A moment is taken to dust off the remnants of snow on her armor before she enters, more out of courtesy than her own comfort. When she steps inside, she pulls her hood back, letting her face be more clearly seen. Light blue hair tucked behind her right ear and descending over the left side of her face, stern features that are not lacking in a graceful beauty, the silver earring in her right ear connecting that strand of glowing gems to a silver band around one draping tendril. Her expression grows slightly less frosty, at least, when Bedivere welcomes her. "No such cause will be given, if I can help it."

Her hooves clop against the floor, echoing through the hall as they walk to the hearth. The fire's warmth doesn't seem to affect her much, though. That frigid aura lingers around her axe's blade as she unlatches it from her back and rests it against her own seat, collecting frost on the floor around where the head touches. Her uneven breaths still emit swirls of fog as she takes a seat in front of the fire, legs stretched in front of her and crossed one over the other. Her hands fold over one another in her lap, the tattoos along her arms still gently pulsing with a chilling energy. Her glowing eyes cast their stare around the hall as the servants begin to work, and only once the tray of assorted food and drink arrives does she turn her attention away from the impressive structure to stare at it.

It's an unusual look she levels at the food. Her brow furrows, tendrils briefly curl, but otherwise she simply...stares. Eventually, Ivraala looks back to her host, and speaks without even making a motion for the tray in front of her.

"The Scourge," she begins, the name spoken with a deep-seated distaste, "is the enemy of all that is good and living in the world. It's an army led by a man known as the Lich King, who has risen legions of the dead and the defiled to consume light and taint life. His forces are many, but one particular class of his soldiers are the Death Knights. Those who fall in battle against him are brought back to life and forged into warriors for his cause. Determined and skilled shock troops, if you will, who carry the cold of death and the plague of the unliving with them to bring down even more of his targets."

The draenei frowns slightly, her tail curling over her lap and swaying in a dim expression of agitation. "The Highlord was one such soldier, as was I. Our connection to the Lich King was severed, however, and we were granted our past memories and ideals with the freedom to return to our old lives. As...much as we could, at least," she adds with a faint tone of resentment. Her fingers drum against the back of her other hand, and after that moment's pause, she speaks again, clear and practiced. "The Knights of the Ebon Blade are those Death Knights that were freed and wish to fight against the Scourge. We cannot return to what we were, but as we are now, we may still make something of what is left of our lives. Or so we hope."

Her head tilts slightly to one side, a vague gesture of curiosity coupled with the distant stare she gives Bedivere. "Does that answer your questions clearly enough?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
When reassured that the guest will not betray the host, the lord of the keep simply casts the Death Knight a long, measured look. It isn't suspicious, nor angry, nor even afraid; it's simply searching, as though to reconcile that reassurance with the reality that stands before him.

Eventually he shakes his head, reaching up to adjust the lay of his cloak where it's gathered about his neck, though he watches Ivraala closely as he does. He takes in every one of those details. He listens to her, watches the way she moves – she's a warrior, there's no doubt, and in a match between them as he is now he would fare poorly. He files away the sound and weight of her armour – it would not hinder her in a battle. He regards the cold of her presence – winter come to a land of winter, it seems. And, finally, he regards the look she gives the tray, filing that detail away for later. Had he offered insult? She's ignoring it, though, explaining herself before he can query her on that strange reaction.

He folds his hands fastidiously over his lap, settling those violet eyes on her in a level, almost raptor-like stare. He is listening. And as she explains the provenance of the Death Knights, he can feel something rather like ice creeping down his spine, though his expression never shifts.

Once more, he studies her as she questions him, head tilting down just faintly. His eyes never leave her.

"Satisfactorily," he comments, in that gentle and measured tone. "If what you say is true, the Knights of the Ebon Blade would be welcome here, for the Scourge does not sound something I would like to see in this land. Too much death and suffering has visited this place already."

He steeples his fingers, resting the side of his face against one forefinger, violet eyes hooded as he regards Ivraala. "So you are a splinter faction of this greater Scourge, then, and you have taken it upon yourself to fight against the master you once served. Were you not... as you are," he comments delicately, "I might suspect your loyalties. But the Scourge..."

"So. You are dead." His eyes flick to the tray of food and drink, briefly, before flicking back to Ivraala. "I am sorry if I have offended, in that case. Although I have seen no sign of the Scourge, I have also not experienced any others of your Order, either. You are welcome to remain here for as long as you have need of rest, or perhaps to gather your bearings." The corner of his mouth twitches; it might be a half-smile in anyone else. "Lord God knows that unification is a confusing affair. I was lost for five years."

Ivraala (679) has posed:
Her armor is certainly flexible, and it seems not to hold much weight with how freely she moves in it. Something else is clearly off about it, though: while Ivraala herself is clearly undead, her armor seems to be...something else. Something even more foreboding that would inspire any normal person to stay away from it, and certainly not wear it. It almost feels like its own living entity, even if it doesn't move - is it breathing, too?

"There is no offense," Ivraala replies, still as cool as ever. "The dead still eat, though it is not exactly necessary. Our meals in Acherus were mostly rotten remains and maggots. This is a regal feast by comparison." She pauses, then, glancing back at the food for a moment before a hint of melancholy slips into her tone. "...please forgive me for not accepting your gift just yet, however. Some things...still take some getting used to again."

Those cold eyes look back up at Bedivere once more as she continues, her composure regained and her posture straightened. While she clearly holds a melancholy and solemn air about her, matching the gloomy appearance she creates, she doesn't seem to let it color her demeanor very much. She's far from upbeat, but not stagnant, either. "Your welcome is greatly appreciated, though I have no need of rest. I can't tire, after all, whether I wish to be able to or not. Besides, I doubt you or your villagers would appreciate my presence for very long, or any of the Ebon Blade. You already face winter; I would only increase the burden, and I have nothing to offer your situation in turn, unless you wish for something to be harmed. But you have never met the Scourge yourself, so I doubt we have mutual enemies at the moment."

Those last words draw some curiosity through her gaze again. Her tail flicks, briefly swinging the purple crystal that dangles near its tip on a string, but otherwise she remains unnaturally still in her seat. "Unification? What exactly is that? It sounds like a grand event, especially to leave someone as keen as yourself uncertain for that long."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Though silent, those violet eyes linger on the Death Knight as she explains some of her condition. It had been a calculated risk on his part to offer food and drink. While he had suspected that she might not be alive, given the deathly chill and the wrongness about her, he hadn't been able to prove it before she confirmed his suspicions. Such a gesture could have backfired on him; as it is, perhaps he's lucky that Ivraala's personality seems more forgiving than her appearance would suggest.

Still, he spoke honestly. It wasn't his intention to insult or offend; simply an extension of hospitality, as is proper and expected by guests of one's host.

"My villagers are a good deal more independent than some might think, and a good deal more resilient than they may seem. Perhaps they shy from new visitors. Caution is good. But they will not trouble you so long as you remain here." He wraps his hands around his own cup of tea, eyes hooding. "Still, if you do not wish to remain, I will not trouble you to stay any longer than you feel necessary."

She asks about unification, and he raises a pale brow. His left hand rises, tugging absently at the red stone stud in his left ear.

"Perhaps I had better start at the beginning. I am to understand that there are many, many worlds joined together. It is a 'multiverse,' made up of many countless worlds, all joined together. When one world joins the multiverse, it 'unifies.'" He glances to Ivraala, as though to ensure that he's not losing her with his explanation. "My apologies. It is confusing, and perhaps a bit fantastical, but it is the truth. Your world has unified, and with it, your fate is now joined to that of these greater worlds, for good or for ill."

His hand lowers, fingers drumming absently against his armoured thigh, the leather pads of his gauntlets making quiet ticking sounds against the blue steel mail of the hauberk. "Hm. Ah, perhaps I am not explaining it so very well. I do not understand it well myself. I do not know the reason for why certain worlds unify and others do not, and I suppose that only the Good Lord knows the reason, but there it is." He shrugs an armoured shoulder, clanking quietly, reaching up to tuck his cloak more securely about himself. The hearth-fire may be roaring, but he's obviously still cold. "Truly, Dún Reáltaí is not the land I hail from. I have not been able to find it."

"The reason for my delay was... well, I did not know my world had unified. I had become lost in a great weald, but I had taken it for a weald that I knew well, although I knew something was wrong when I was still there after a fortnight's time." His eyes slide away from Ivraala, pensive; perhaps, if she jumped to conclusions, he might even look a little troubled. "I had fought in a great battle, and it was necessary that I bring word of the outcome back to my capital. But I never found my way out of that weald. I was wounded, and I was not myself, so even if it had been a great event I do not think I would have noticed." His eyes turn back to Ivraala, but they skip over her and turn instead to the fire in the hearth. "Ah, but forgive me. It is a long story, and one only tangentially relevant to what was asked of me, nor do I need burden you with my troubles. They are behind me, now. Sufficed to say, unification is not always some grand event, I am to understand, but sometimes a subtle thing, easily missed. If I had looked up at the night sky, perhaps I would have known, for the stars are all wrong."

He sighs, waving a hand dismissively. The gesture seems at ease and surprisingly animated, for how reserved he had been; for him to relax in her presence is probably too much to ask, so it's not outside the realm of possibility that he's simply a very skilled actor. Certainly he seems cunning, and observant, two qualities that would not run amiss in a mediaeval lord.

"Still, I thank you for your information on the Scourge. I will order additional watchers on the walls, what walls remain unbroken, and hasten repair of those that have fallen. I do not think this Scourge is something to be taken lightly, from what you have told me." He shakes his head. "Perhaps you did not intend to, but you have done my people a good turn by telling me this, and if it should come to defending ourselves against them, I will certainly owe you a debt."

Ivraala (679) has posed:
Ivraala listens in silent patience as unification and the Multiverse are explained to her. Her expression doesn't change; that same impassive stare lingers on Bedivere for the entirety of his uncertain explanation, until she at last chimes in herself. "It is not very confusing. I'm already used to many worlds. I have traveled between three, myself: Argus, then Draenor, then Azeroth. Now here, I suppose." She shrugs at that, plated armor rattling with the motion before she looks over to the the fire again still with that same idle stare. "Of course, those were very obvious. This is different, but...not exactly new, I suppose. I am used to life drawing me from one place to the next, and so I will understand this new situation too."

Perhaps this is the least surprised anyone has been toward unification in a while. Certainly less so than Bedivere himself, by the look of things, though at least that means she shouldn't have much difficulty getting used to the Multiverse in the future.

Her gaze remains on the burning fire as Bedivere continues, listening with a quiet, brooding thoughtfulness to his story. It brings a frown to her face again, a slightly more severe expression than what she had before. Not a frown of irritation, however, but one closer to...sympathy, maybe? It's difficult to tell, with the way her emotions rarely seem to be anything more than subdued.

"Your home is lost, but it seems you've made something quite grand out of your situation, regardless," she replies in a soft murmur. "Such is the way of the draenei. Endurance, perseverance, making the most of what situations are presented...all good qualities for one in your position. Perhaps you will be gifted for your fortitude with a return to your home."

The draenei takes a deep breath, releasing it in a quick sigh that sends more fog swirling past her lips. Her head lifts to let her regard Bedivere again, the crystals draping between her ear and tentacle jingling against one another with a bright chime. Possibly the most cheerful sound from her all night. "It is not, no. Many have already fallen under its power, and it just as willingly slaughters the innocent as it does hardened soldiers. I will pray to the Light, if it still listens to me, that they do not find your village. And if they do...then I will pray for your success against them."

With that, Ivraala pushes herself to a stand again, uncrossing her legs to return to a firm purchase on her hooves. Her tail swishes almost restlessly behind her, swinging with it the purple light of the crystals that decorate its tip. "Forgive me; I come bearing grim words in the depths of winter, and certainly not a comforting presence alongside them. I have my doubts that your village will fall under any risk, in any case, and you certainly don't owe me anything. The lone ghoul I was chasing will likely be lost by now, and hardly a threat if it should wander nearby. In the meantime, however, I feel I shouldn't trouble you or your hospitality further."

She pauses for a moment, lips pursing together and one hand coming to rest on her hip as she considers whether or not to continue. "...though I will thank you for greeting me as you have. Such openness is rare, these days, and I'm grateful for any of it."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Are you, then? That makes things much easier." Bedivere arches a brow, regarding the Draenei with some interest. "There were two worlds, where I am from; there is the world we live in, and the Otherworld. But mortals do not belong in that place, and those with sense do not seek it out. It was easy for me only because I did not know of the existence of other worlds beyond mine and the Otherworld for years later."

He falls silent as she makes her observations about his situation, and something melancholy seems to settle into him as well. "If that is what the Good Lord intends for me, then that is what I will be content with... although I do not have very much reason to go back there. Camelot is no more." Smoke and ash. There might have been a handful of souls scattering when he rode back up the hill, but he did not remain optimistic about that. "Perhaps. But I am bound now for this place, for good or for ill."

He bows his head slightly at her well-wishing, although he still watches her from the corner of his eye, wary. "I thank you for the warning, for if it does draw near, we would do well to prepare ourselves. I will share this news with my fellow knights." Ah, so he is a knight, although that much was likely obvious. "You have possibly done me, and my people, a service."

Listening, he watches her as she stands, and after a moment he does so as well, albeit with more stiffness than Ivraala. When he's back on his feet, chain hauberk rattling quietly with a metallic slither, he regards the Death Knight thoughtfully.

"Forgive me if I speak too boldly, Dame. But it seems to me that regardless of your situation, you are still seeking to do good." He tilts his head, faintly, both a gesture of acknowledgement and concession. "I will grant that your Ebon Knights must surely be in search of similar goals. But may I offer you an alternative option to think about? Although you be not as you once were, I believe that the Union would welcome those with goals like yours. You may perhaps consider speaking with them, once you have concluded your hunt."

"You are right. I do not owe you anything. But you are a traveller, and it seems to me that you would not have stopped here, were you not in need of something." He offers a faint smile; so faint it might be missed. "Rest here for a time, if I may ask. Perhaps the body is willing, but the spirit is weary, I think; if I may speak so boldly. You will be provided for as generously as any guest of my hall: Food, drink, warmth, entertainment. And if you should choose not to accept my offer, then I would ask that you return here again some time. I should like to speak more of the Scourge at another time."

He moves to the side of the hall, reaching for something that looks suspiciously like a harp bag; retrieving from it a battered old harp, and though old, the instrument is obviously well-cared for. Settling back in his chair with the small harp over his lap, he shucks off his gauntlets and runs long, slender fingers delicately over the strings.

"The hunt will wait. As you said, the creature will be no threat to any, now; lost in the blizzard, and if any of my people should come across it, they will raise the alarm." The knight offers a faint smile. "Stay, if even only for a little while. It is somewhat rare that we receive visitors, in the dead of winter."

Ivraala (679) has posed:
Bedivere's observation gives the towering Death Knight pause. She stands there in silence as he speaks, but the frown on her face shows that it's more uncertainty making her silent than anything else. Her tail lashes behind her; her free hand drums its fingers along her plated thigh. Even after he takes his seat again, she doesn't speak, lingering wordlessly and restlessly in pensive consideration for several long moments.

When she does finally speak, it comes with a long sigh like a chill winter breeze. Her gaze shifts back to the fire again, and when her accented voice comes through, it's with a note of uncertainty and resignation. "...you have opened your home in greeting to me. That's an offer that I would be willing to accept in the future, though now, I believe I should not linger for too much longer. There are certain matters that will not permit me to rest for very long, but you have my word that I will return when time allows."

Ivraala's head lifts again, meeting Bedivere's eyes with that eerily glowing stare. Her tail's restless motions have calmed by now, letting the long appendage drape down behind her in rest. "You are correct that we still seek to do good, despite our situation. At least some of us, myself included. There still stands the matter, however, that everything about me and those in my position stand in the way of doing so, and such opportunities are rarely available and more rarely recognized. Perhaps the extent of it can be told to you in the future." Her brow furrows slightly at that. "As for the Union...if it's anything like the Alliance, yes, it might be a good idea for me to speak with them. If you are a good representation of their rank, then I will have to consider it at some point, if I am to concern myself with even more worlds beyond my own."

A softer sigh falls from her, then. Her arms cross over her chest as the harshness fades from her expression, and while faint, it seems some of the chill is lessened in her voice. "You and I seem to have some things in common, sir knight. You say that you've lost your home, Camelot. There is little left of my own worlds but rubble now, thanks to the efforts of a force greater and older than even the Scourge. People my kind trusted, once, who eventually caused our destruction. I wish for those places to be what they once were, but that is impossible now. We all must forge on through the path the Light shows for us." Finally, something a little brighter in her voice comes through those words: a hint of optimism, as brief and flickering as it may be. "It may be good for both of us to speak further in the future, not only of the Scourge."

A light, rueful smile tugs at the corner of her mouth as her hand comes to rest on the butt of her greataxe in an idle, relaxed gesture. "Forgive me. The body died quite some time ago, but the spirit is stubborn and finds little peace in rest these days."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Then you will be welcome here as a guest, when that time comes." Bedivere bows his head over his harp, though his violet eyes remain fixed on the Death Knight. Although he may have invited her in as a guest, thus obligating himself to Brehon Law, he is still not quite certain what to think – merely relying on his instincts. They've rarely failed him, though. "This place will not be going anywhere; not if I have anything to say about it."

He matches that glowing stare measure for measure, although the slight downward tilt of his head suggests that he may perhaps be more unsettled than he might otherwise reveal.

"It is an alliance of sorts," he acknowledges. "A very broad alliance, composed of a great many people. Myself, my brother-knights, my king... and many, many others, many whom I am proud to know and fight alongside. Perhaps you might consider it. They can perhaps help you do much good, as they have helped me."

He tilts his head, slightly, at her observation of similarities.

"Hm. As you say, perhaps we are cut from a more similar cloth than we might think. Aí! The Lord God works in mysterious ways, the priests are fond of saying, and that is never truer than in the multiverse." His fingers play over the harp-strings, a whisper of sound. Reluctantly, he sets it aside, rising to his feet with a metallic slither of his hauberk's chain. "As you wish, then."

Rising, he gestures for Ivraala to walk with him to the front door. "Come. At least allow me to escort you out. It is the least I can do, as host. I should not like to be accused of any breach of Brehon Law." He'll accompany her, armoured sabatons clanking with every step. When he glances back to the Death Knight, there is clear understanding in those violet eyes, and maybe just a hint of melancholy. "There is naught to forgive. I understand needing to move. Leave, if you wish, but my hall will remain, if you should like to return." He seems to hesitate for a moment as he opens the keep's oaken door, dipping his head and smiling an almost sardonic half-smile. "May the road rise up to meet you, the wind at your back, and may you rest in the hollow of God's hand, Dame Ivraala."

Ivraala (679) has posed:
"I admit that I could use whatever help could be offered to me," Ivraala replies, hoisting her large weapon and placing it on her back again once she's sure the gesture won't be taken the wrong way. It never hurts to be cautious. "I will see what comes of my search, and see what I can do for this Union. Perhaps the next time we speak, it will be as fellows of the same company."

She follows him to the door, hooves clopping against the floor at a steady pace as they make their way out. The tall draenei bows her head in thanks once the door is opened, but she doesn't leave immediately. Instead she turns to Bedivere to address him one more time, and while she lacks a smile or any clear warmth, she at least seems more comfortable than she did when she first arrived. "I'd like to return, I think. If the world were filled with people like you, I believe it would be a much better place for all. In the meantime, however...I will take what generosity I can find. As soon as I am assured of some peace, I will come back, and, Light willing, we will be able to enjoy the passing time."

With that, the Death Knight lifts her hood back over her head and steps back out into the frigid night. Her arms spread once she comes to a halt in the courtyard, fingers outstretched, hands emanating a strangely bright darkness as she lingers for a few moments. The snow at her feet is whipped into a gentle turmoil by the winds that start around her, swirling and dancing around her form until she casts both her hands forward. In the space in front of her, a dark portal opens and erupts upward, bringing with it an unearthly, bone-chilling whinny as her Deathcharger bounds back into being. Ivraala immediately climbs onto its back, taking up the reins in her hands before looking back to Bedivere with a grateful nod. "May your days be long, Sir Bedivere, and your hardships few. I hope you and your people are at peace by the time I return."

With that, the draenei steadily rides off down through the village, moving at a steady pace until she passes the village's walls and finds herself back in the snowy plains. There, without looking back, she pushes her steed into a swift run, vanishing back into the cold night she came from.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Sometimes assistance is all that is required." Bedivere inclines his head as though in acknowledgement. "A cry for help does not always go answered, but I think it is better for all when it does. Even the highwayman does not always rob out of darker motives. Sometimes he is only desperate to feed his family in the face of a harsh winter. I would recommend thinking it over. Perhaps the Union may do right by you, as they have done for me."

He watches impassively as she summons her unliving steed, looking the creature over with the expert eye of a horseman. In life, it must have been a truly impressive specimen, strong as an ox and stubborn as a mule, but with all the zest and spirit of the finest saddle-horse. Pity such an animal was given such a cruel fate. Does it, too, suffer like its mistress? Or is it unaware of its suffering?

Those violet eyes flick to Ivraala when she speaks again, startled from his line of thought. "You do me too much honour," he murmurs, with a faint smile that seems more self-derisive than anything else. "Truly. But I thank you for your consideration and your kindness. I am certain if you had ridden into many settlements such as this, aye, perhaps you might have been met with hostility and suspicion. I am not a naive man, as naive as my words may sound, but I prefer more peaceable solutions. Everyone has a story. Sometimes, all understanding between two seemingly disparate parties takes is to know each side of that story."

"God willing," he says, in response to peace and return, spreading his arms in peaceable gesture. "I am certain He led you to this place for a reason, and perhaps He may lead you back. I can hope so. In spite of your fearsome countenance, Dame Ivraala, I believe that you are not what your appearances may lead one to believe. As with many things, in this world and in others." Again, that flicker of a crooked half-smile, which falters only at the unearthly cry of the Deathcharger; he doesn't quite flinch, but something twitches in his face at that horrible mockery of a horse's voice.

He watches her ride off, until even his keen eyes lose sight of her amidst the swirling snow. He waits for a few moments more, the warm light of the fire cast over the keep's front entrance, before easing the door shut. More slowly and stiffly than he had allowed himself while the Death Knight was in his hall, he grimaces, holding his right side as he makes his way back to the fireside. The winter is doing his wounds, new and old, no favours; but he would be loathe to show any vulnerabilities before a stranger – or such a fearsome one, whose story he has yet to confirm.

Yet those words were not just pretty lies. He does prefer peaceable endings. Bedivere slumps into his chair, taking his harp back up again and absently running his fingers over the strings. A stranger always has the potential to become a friend, and friends can become allies. And in this land of uncertainty and strangeness, allies are always good to have.

And, just perhaps, he saw a little of himself in that proud and suffering Draenei; himself, before he had been found and saved.

Bedivere lets his breath out in a soft sigh, scooping up his harp as he stands again. He should reassure Arturia that he's still alive and that his corpse hasn't been stuffed in a convenient snowdrift somewhere. More than that, he's tired and in pain, and sleeping for another ten hours straight sounds like a good idea.

With one last look to the keep's front entrance, the lord of Dún Reáltaí ascends the stairs to his quarters, harp tucked under his arm.