1308/Owl's Wisdom

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Owl's Wisdom
Date of Scene: 11 January 2015
Location: Dun Realtai
Synopsis: Merlin may be wise like the owl whose form he sometimes uses, but the cunning wizard is not always willing to part with that wisdom...
Cast of Characters: 482, 639


Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
After last night, the lord of Dún Reáltaí had spent his time resting, unable to use his arm very well after nearly losing it to Monohoshi Zao, the great curved sword of Sasaki Kojirou. He'd probably endured a lecture from Arturia about being reckless, too; although it had been less a matter of rashness and more a matter of pride and honour, to him.

The evening finds the lord of the castle not in his quarters, and not in the great hall, but in the stables a little ways down from the great hall. The stableboy is in the corner, watching with wide eyes as Bedivere visits with one of the horses, a big golden draught-horse, resting its head on the knight's good shoulder. Bedivere himself is chuckling low as he speaks to he horse in soft tones; absently patting the enormous animal's neck.

Although he had few opportunities to do so in Camelot, he was a fair hand with the horses; his calm nature meant the animals were at ease in his presence, and he was an expert horseman besides – not to mention that he had always harboured a soft spot for the animals under his care, be they war-horses, falcons, or hounds.

Tonight he wears the commoners' clothing he so often favours, and bandages are visible around the base of his neck on the right side; likely wrapped around his shoulder, too, which hangs limply in a cloth sling around his neck.

Better losing the use of his arm, he'd reasoned, than his head. Tendons and muscle will heal; losing his head... well, perhaps there were some who could survive such a thing in the fantastical world of Wales' rich folklore, but not him.

Merlin (639) has posed:
A soft swish of feathers and the lightest rustle of a piece of wood are all that anyone would hear - if they were even close enough. Bedivere is the only one who is; the stableboy is on the other side of the horses to see or hear things.

For Merlin, it was a shame that Loros wasn't a gambling man. Merlin loved to wager on the underdog, and in a fight between a mere mortal and a spiritual servant, it was typically a foregone conclusion. But Bedivere had that ability to be just stubborn, smart, and amusingly in love enough to overcome and survive.

A great horned owl perches on the timber above the knight, luminous eyes focused intently on the bandages at Bedivere's shoulder. After a few seconds, it shakes its head and sighs, fluffing its feathers out for a moment. It doesn't spook the horse; a simple illusion keeps the equine beast from panicking. But it does manage to chide Bedivere anyway, the beak and tongue of the owl forming the world's most perfect "tsk tsk" at the knight's sorry state of affairs.

"I am amazed each day at how you manage to keep your head, Sir Bedivere." The owl shuffles a little, then stares at him. "I suppose you are hearty enough, however, despite such a wound. But such is to be expected from a Knight of Camelot after all." There's still an amazing amount of disdain in the owl's voice. "Though I suppose I should be less put-out with you than that."

With a flutter of wings the owl settles to the ground, and between blinks of Bedivere's eyes Merlin himself stands there, tall and proud. "And I suppose the good Lady Arturia has...already upbraided you for your midnight excursion. A shame it wasn't for a maiden but you might well already have such a thing..."

His lips purse for a moment, before he glances away from the knight. "Well in hand."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Violet eyes slant up to the rafters at that soft sound. Perhaps anyone else might not have paid it any mind, but Bedivere's skills of observation are honed more finely than most. He notices things that most overlook; has made it his habit to take note of such things. Subtleties; both patterns and the disruptions of patterns.

And an owl flying into a building is certainly a disruption. They're normally timid creatures, preferring to stay away from humanity, putting aside the odd bird used for falconry by lords after something different. So, the knight of Dún Reáltaí is hardly surprised when the bird chides him in a most human voice. He recognises the pitch and timbre, too, ahtough there are few indeed whom it could be; Merlin is at the start and the end of that very short list.

He gives the draught horse a friendly pat on its massive neck, not bothering to turn or face Merlin; when he glances to the owl, the warmth seems to bleed from him into something more akin to resignation. Dealing with Merlin is always wearying.

"Round Table," he corrects, automatically. "You know I did not come from that place. I am of Dál Riata. Or perhaps Dún Reáltaí. Anyways, it is no affair of yours to concern yourself with, so I do not see your point."

Nor does he seem surprised when Merlin returns to his proper form. "Yes," he sighs, "she has. Not that it is any business of yours."

He reaches up to clear the horse's forelock from its eyes, chuckling when the beast drops its head, huffing warm breath into his face. "Perhaps it was foolish, to risk my life over a thing as trivial as a sword. But..."

But unlike most knights, he had kept the blade he'd wielded as a knight-aspirant. Though lightweight and less strong than the heavier blades most knights had struck upon winning their spurs, Bedivere preferred a lighter sword. It took almost obsessive amounts of grinding and sharpening to keep its edge, but it was a gift from the king, after all.

"That blade has served me well," he murmurs, with a fond smile. "And she..." And Arturia had personally presented it to him. "I could not suffer having it sundered for such a battle as that. No."

Merlin (639) has posed:
"The Round Table, yes, inasmuch as it was a symbol of Camelot and Arturia herself." Merlin nods, letting his gaze slide over the horse. It is a beautiful animal, and one proud of its place and duties as far as it knows them. It's a simple life, but one the horse enjoys in its way, and Merlin simply nods.

"Take no offense where none is offered, Sir Bedivere. I do not speak ill of your ability or your honor, merely offering a term of respect." The wizard inclines his head slightly in salute. "I might well, however, question your decisions not to turn away the request for a duel. A contest is one thing, a true battle is another."

Merlin turns back to look at him. "You risk much more than merely your life or a sword. Yes," he adds, raising a hand, "you did come up with a truly unorthodox solution and managed to retain hold of your life. But you allowed yourself to be maneuvered there, and that disappoints me."

"You must remain alive for these people. Dún Reáltaí needs a leader, do not forget. And you cannot count upon Arturia herself to follow in your stead." His eyes drop to Bedivere's hand, taking in the command seals on it. If Bedivere were to fall, Saber would follow very, very soon after. "Would you leave them," he asks in a suddenly highly amused tone with a gesture to the stableboy working in the corner, "to Sir Gawain's wise and thoughtful rule?"

Now there's a scary thought. "I can only wonder what kind of culinary horrors he might call for were that to happen," Merlin adds with a smirk. "Not to besmirch your brother in arms, but...let us say that his talents lie virtually entirely upon the field of battle, compared to your own more widespread abilities."

And then Merlin's mien changes, adopting a more curious note. "Enough chiding, though. You are still recuperating, after all. What did you learn from the swordsman? His body...he is a Servant, yes, much like Gawain or Arturia. But there is more to him, there is a magic I the likes of which I have never before encountered. What did he say?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
A symbol of Arturia herself? That much is true, and so the pale-haired knight bows his head as though mollified. He lets out a sigh, still focusing his attention on the horse; stroking its soft muzzle as it rests its head over his shoulder, so calm its eyes droop to half-mast. So do the knight's, but less from relaxation and more from consideration.

"My apologies." The words are quiet, quieter than his usual tone of voice; which is certainly a feat for him. "Perhaps my nerves are somewhat strained after last night. As for that, I knew he would have his battle. It was a calculated risk. If things did not go as I had hoped, then it would ahve been the safest place to be; rather than a place of his choosing."

He reaches up, absently rubbing at one of the horse's ears; chuckling as it chuffs warm breath into his face. "You're right, Master Merlin. I do risk more than that. Isn't it strange? I never would have been lured to such a thing, before... sometimes it almost seems as though I am not in control of myself." He sighs. "When I knew he was targeting my sword..."

Well, even Merlin no doubt heard the knight's roar of rage; such a violent sound, from such a quiet man.

"I do not know what came over me. No, do not smooth ruffled feathers with humour of Sir Gawain and his culinary failures. You are correct. I was not thinking, and I can no more afford not to think here than I could in Camelot." With a final pat, he turns away from the horse, squinting as it whuffs into his hair, sending silvery strands flying; he reaches up to fix them almost distractedly.

"I learned he is a Heroic Spirit, but he is not like any I have seen. Did you see the scars on his skin? They appear to... move. And they are even in his eyes." Bedivere reaches up with his marked left hand, indicating the corner of a violet eye. "I learned that his name is Sasaki Kojirou, although I do not know who that is. And I learned that there is no joy in life for him but battle."

"Most importantly, I learned that he is a dangerous man. Yet he is not without honour, of a fashion, either."

Merlin (639) has posed:
Merlin raises an eyebrow. "Were your nerves not strained I might well wonder if you had been replaced. You fought a Servant to a draw, in the end result, had it been any mortal man you would have walked away without a scratch. So perhaps a little bit of abject terror is acceptable even in a knight." Prod, prod. What is dignity, says a wizard, but a miserable pile of ego?

"I did hear it. I must have you along on a journey someday, Bedivere; I did not know your singing voice was quite so...attuned. It would be excellent traveling entertainment." Serenity shines its gentle light upon Merlin's face, the look of one who knows he is trolling all too well.

Targeting the sword, though, that is an interesting thing. The rest of Bedivere's explanation gets an interested raising of an eyebrow, and Merlin nods carefully. "My attention was otherwise occupied at the céilidh, and there was no way to approach the duel. I was not exaggerating with my assessment of the sword-wielder's danger to the room. Just as this Sasaki Kojirou can cloak his presence even from me, he is excessively aware of what is around him."

Merlin shrugs nonchalantly. "The blackness upon him, even to his eyes..." He ponders, thinking. What kind of magic, some sort of...body enhancement? For a spirit? That tint, and that killing aura Merlin had felt, belie one possibility. "There is a curse upon him, a very foul one. I daresay it may give him some of his power, even as it manifests in that way. And as I am sure you are aware, it is very difficult to do such a thing to one as strong as a Servant without their wish. It is something he wanted, something..."

Blue eyes close in thought. "The name is entirely unfamiliar to me, though perhaps your allies from afar may discern more. A man who quite truly lives by the sword, one who finds no joy in life as you say, may well have signed a deal with your very devil himself in life. And now he is reincarnated in that form?" A fascinating thing. "I wonder who might call forth such a creature."

Merlin opens his eyes, staring intently at the knight now. "And you say he has honor, in his way. How terribly interesting. Bedivere, might I ask one simple favor of you?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Abject terror?" Bedivere regards the wizard calmly for a few moments, so flat it might seem as though he'd taken offense. Finally, the corner of his mouth curls into a half-smile. "It would reflect poorly if anyone knew that the Left Hand of the King felt such fear, of course."

In other words, that was an extremely apt description.

"Singing voice, bah. Do not toy with me, wizard." Bedivere frowns, and though his regard loses a little warmth, he still doesn't quite glare at Merlin. "The filídh of Dál Riata, those are bards. Real bards; real singers. Do not even compare me to them in mockery." He should have been a filidh, himself, but he chose a different path in life. Or rather, that choice was made for him the instant he'd laid eyes on the king. "But you are right, aye. He was aware of his surroundings." Aware like Bedivere; is the unspoken statement, and the thought of someone out there who pays as much attention to the environment as Bedivere does – that's worrying.

Another tactician, one who would inadvertantly do harm just for the sake of a meaningless battle, is extremely worrying.

"A curse..." he murmurs, thoughtfully. "Perhaps. Something feels... wrong. It almost makes me sick in the heart to look at those tattooed scars, wizard. And I do not balk so easily." He sighs, reaching up and rubbing at his forehead with his good hand. "Perhaps they may answer that question, yes, of who he is. As for why he would do that, or who would call him forth in that state... that I do not know. That I am not certain I want to know."

The knight frowns, canting his head slightly. This man is one who had caused no end of small troubles in his time, and one whom Bedivere had never fully trusted. Yet in the wake of a creature like Sasaki Kojirou... well, even a troublesome ally is still an ally, and Merlin never meant Bedivere or Arturia any harm. Not openly, anyway.

"Name it."

Merlin (639) has posed:
The half-smile is enough, and Merlin simply nods; there's no reason for /him/ to tell such things. And if the stories he's told the children of the village today about the unflappable knight who dueled the stranger in the moonlight aren't entirely true, well, that's not his problem. Bedivere could use some fans to absorb his ideals. And listen to his singing.

"I suspect his strategic acumen is nowhere near yours. He only finds joy in battle, hollow though I suspect it may be. Planning and command would not be his way. A wandering Black Knight, seeking duel and perhaps death itself by the blade. Especially after being brought forth again." Merlin considers further the way to treat this...what was his name, 'Sausage Cassock' perhaps.

Merlin lets his hand reach out to the horse as Bedivere explains. The fur of the beast is smooth as he pats its shoulder, before looking back to the knight. "That is something deeper than the filidh in you that senses that sickness. The same thing that gives you the bond you have with your king." And that's something that's piqued Merlin's interest much more; no mere knight and bard would have such an ability.

When Bedivere acquiesces to the favor, the wizard smiles. "He will return for another spar. If not you, then Gawain or even Arturia. Do be sure to let me know when that happens."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"A black knight... an apt description," Bedivere muses, leaning back against the wall, rubbing at his jaw with his good hand. "In more ways than one. Much like a black knight, he seeks only battle, and thinks of nothing beyond it. A worthy challenger, but... I cannot understand such a way. He confesses to feel no joy in anything but the crossing of blades."

He doesn't even like battle; Bedivere, for all his tactical skills and martial prowess, harbours an intense dislike of fighting. Were it to him, he never would have taken up arms. He would have remained in Dál Riata and become a filidh, perhaps travelled to Ulaidh. The chances of his having returned to Albion would have been slim to nearly none.

"Mm." He looks up to the horse, even as Merlin pats the golden stallion. He's taken a fancy to the beast; perhaps he might see if the farmer who owns him would be willing to sell. A knight must have a steed, after all, and as a lord, it is poor form to keep borrowing one. Merlin's words catch at his attention, though. "Deeper than the filidh? I am no filidh, Master Merlin. You know this. Perhaps I have enough to support my king, but that is all. No more than that. You have seen how difficult even that is."

"Unless you know of something you will not tell me of," he adds, narrowing his eyes. "Though why you would be interested in the family of a filidh in distant Dál Riata, I know not. You would have been occupied with advising and tutoring my king at the time..."

Wouldn't that be horrifying? The son of the Otherworld, perhaps, like brave Cúchulainn had been; son of Lugh of the Long Hand, or one of the other divine host? To Bedivere, who so mistrusts the Otherworld, it would no doubt be horrifying to him. But he knows his parents; he knows from whom he descends. His father looked like him, although perahps not so fair-haired; in the right light, his mother had traces of his violet eyes...

Didn't she?

For a brief and quietly breathless moment, he can't remember what colour her eyes were.

Bedivere's expression falls a little; a clear sign of distress to such an otherwise stoic personality. That, somehow, semes more distressing to him than the fact that he nearly had his head struck from his shoulders. Perhaps he's still in some sort of shock, and his priorities still aren't straight...

The silver-haired knight shakes himself, physically, as though to cast off the strange paths his thoughts keep attempting to wander in.

"As you wish, if he does not corner me out of hand as he did before. I did not even hear him approach," he adds, voice definitely troubled. No mortal man had been able to get the drop on him in Camelot; so trained were his senses. Servant or no, it distresses him that someone could slip past his guard by escaping his senses.

He swallows. "And I would ask one more favour of you, Master Merlin." He looks up to the wizard, silent and solemn.

Merlin (639) has posed:
The question still echoes in Merlin's mind. "I do wonder what prompts someone to accept such power. And to such a life. I rather imagine it must be the same thing...and I wonder what man of honor might make that choice." A black knight indeed, especially if he truly was honorable in his past life. "Though how that curse may have tainted such honor, I must wonder."

"The filídh have some small way with magic, you yourself know it. Perhaps not at a level that would be considered a wizard by any normal definition, but there is something of the fey among them nonetheless." What Bedivere considers, Merlin doesn't know for sure - but he can imagine. "A fine people, and one very quick to song and dance. 'They knew how to party,' to use a more modern phrase. Quite so," the wizard muses, thinking of times long past. Maybe even around the same times Bedivere is thinking of.

"My time with Arturia came and went, as did I. Where I came and went, and who with, is of no particular matter. But there is more about you than you might be truly aware. I understand you've been sneaking off to Loros' tent from time to time. Continue that." Merlin sees all, knows all, Bedivere.

"Speak it."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"He has some sense of honour. He must. Why would he have bound my wound? After he had been the one to deal it? It does not make any sense to me, elsewise." Bedivere shakes his head, expression soft but thoughtful. "I do not know, but he must have been an incredibly honourable man in life. He holds to that still, even amidst such darkness and taint."

Would he cling to that, he wonders, if he were ever corrupted so? If he were called bcak as a Servant, and he were twisted from his original purpose so, would he remember his honour? His long years of service? Would he remember Arturia...?

"Of course I have." He snorts. "Was it not your idea to seek tuition with him? Although by the time you suggested it, I had already been doing so for some time."

He lifts his left arm; all it takes to activate his magic circuits is a small concentration of will. And perhaps Merlin, as a wizard, would see what really represents them. Unlike the modern magi of the Tohsaka family, Bedivere's circuits do not take the angular, almost circuit-like designs. Rather; they seem more like the same knotwork as his crest, intricate and symmetrical, some blend of graceful Celtic knotwork, and reminders of the heavy, equally-knotted design of vikings' dragons and serpents; a blend of Gaul and Saxon.

Potent, perhaps, for one who had turned his back on the art of the filídh. Less, perhaps, than a magician of the modern era... but so much more potent; so much more intricate and bright.

Bedivere lets the light go, deactivating the circuits. Perhaps they aren't so many as a modern magus', but they are of superior quality.

"I can make no promises that I will not be undefeated." His words are quiet as he looks to Merlin, and something in his expression seems almost pained. "Lord God knows it is not my intention to surrender without a fight. But you have seen the things that we face in this multiverse, wizard. I am no match for such. If not for Sasaki Kojirou's honour, I would be dead even now."

"I ask that you watch over her if anything should happen to me. The townsfolk will live, if they are deprived of me. Someone else will see to them... the Union will care for them if it must, for it is technically given over to Union supervision. But she..." Arturia, that is, though he need not even speak it. "If I cannot be there to look after her... please do so for me." He looks to Merlin, mild violet eyes serious.

"She will need looking after, if anything should happen to me." Just as he would, if anything happened to her – a firm hand, perhaps, to prevent him from doing anything foolish. Or suicidal.

Merlin (639) has posed:
The idea of one of Camelot being laid so low, taking such a curse as Sausage Cossack's own, is troubling. But it is something Merlin will waste no time considering - Bedivere has allies that can search, perhaps, if the man is from the realms of the multiverse. The worst possible outcome is no outcome at all, in which case Bedivere would be in no less danger than he is already. Oh well.

"Promise instead you will not accept foolish challenges, and put yourself at risk of death without reason. And I swear to you that Arturia will remain under my care, for as long as needs be." The wizard's voice is firm but understanding.

And then in a blink there is an owl before Bedivere once more, the transformation happening for that moment when the knight's eyes are closed.

"Which I am sure should not be long. Calling forth a Heroic Spirit," the owl says with a long look at Bedivere, "should easily be within mine and Loros' purview. Fear not." And the owl gives the knight a freakishly smug smile before silently launching into the night.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere leans against the wooden wall, wounded arm drawn up against his chest in its sling, good arm hanging down. For a moment it might seem like he weren't even paying attention to the wizard's caution, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply the scent of horses, straw, and timber.

"Aye." He listens, though. He can no more turn off his perceptions than Arturia can shut off her regal bearing. He gives a soft sigh. "You are right, Master Merlin. It was foolish of me to accept that duel, honour or no. But I am a Knight of the Round Table, and I cannot refuse a challenge issued me... and since I did not know the measure of him at that time, it is possible that my refusal could have endangered the people, or any of those I consider my allies here in Dún Reáltaí."

His eyes close. "Rest assured I will not accept any further duels from him unless he leaves me no choice, or ambushes me; in which case he will be driven from Dún Reáltaí with all due haste."

When he opens those violet eyes, there is an owl smirking at him. How an owl smirks, he couldn't say, but there is an undeniable sensation of smugness from the bird. The pale-haired knight's brows furrow.

"What—"

But before he can fully voice his question, Merlin is gone.

Bedivere sighs, question unspoken, before turning to file back to the castle. No doubt Arturia will want to fuss over him, and tend to his wound personally. Well, even if it means being upbraided again, he doesn't mind so much. That much he will accept from her, for even that is a gift.

The stable's door latches quietly behind him.