2462/The Knight-Errant

The Knight-Errant
Date of Scene:	15 June 2015
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	Bedivere finally has the opportunity to meet one of Dun Realtai's newer guests, Project MORDRED, a knight of a very different place and era than his own native Camelot...
Cast of Characters:	482, 804

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
At first blush, Dun Realtai isn't so different from the place once called Camelot. The trees, plains, and vegetation that carpet its lush hills are all of the same sort one might have found in the British and Welsh countryside. Perhaps the only real appreciable difference is warmer, slightly less rainy weather, making for a pleasant summer afternoon.

The sun hangs high in the sky, this pleasant summer afternoon. While the light is certainly bright, it isn't quite as overwhelming as some places, lacking the ferocity of a desert's glaring sun.

Today, the land's steward can be found out in the fields, far from the farmland and the stone spire on which the village is built. He's riding a plain brown farmhorse, a massive beast that looks like it should be bearing armour rather than the plain-dressed man astride its saddle. Bedivere hardly looks the part of a lord or steward; wearing rough homespun linen in plain colours instead of the trappings of nobility. At his hip and banging against his shin with every one of the horse's steps is a longsword, but beyond that, he carries nothing in particular that would set him apart from the land's villagers.

Well, aside from his curiously pale complexion, anyway, which none of the others appear to carry. His hair is a blonde so pale it seems almost silver, worn long, half-pleated in a single braid and cuffed in bronze for the remainder to hang loose. His eyes are a soft blue-grey, distinctly violet in hue, and in spite of their seemingly sleepy regard they roam constantly.

Curiously, if asked, villagers would direct anybody looking for the land's lord in this direction – but this plain-dressed man is the only one about for quite a ways, alone in the fields.

Project MORDRED (804) has posed:
Almost certainly someone would have informed Bedivere that MORDRED is staying as a guest. To assist the desire to avoid appearing overly futuristic, Glare-NT has been hidden in a cave, and MORDRED has adopted a simpler dress. Something that fits with what people in this region would expect a visiting nobleman to wear. He's taking a ride on a purchased horse, a lower end warhorse, but he rides tall and proud. The shield on his back holds the same Heraldic design as Glare-NT, and a simple undecorated longsword hangs from his hip.

As he approaches Bedivere, he brings his horse to a gentle halt, and raises his hand in a polite wave. "Good day!" He greets, apparently quite comfortable addressing the locals. A discerning eye might notice little details like the fact MORDRED's clothes have small modern conveniences like zippers hidden away, and the fabric is mostly synthetic replications of natural fibers.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Sadly, the warhorse probably came from some other area, on the outskirts, perhaps; travelling merchants, most likley. Possibly ill-gotten gains, hastily sold. Traders do pass through the area with some frequency, perhaps knowing that the people here don't have all of the things they otherwise might. Dun Realtai itself has no such breeding programs, at least not yet, still recovering from whatever disaster had assaulted it. A practised eye would notice that even the crops are still new; the land has not been worked for very long.

Fortunately, ploughshare horses are massive, strong enough to carry an armoured knight if the need should arise, and placid of temperament.

The rider out in the fields blinks, turning, and it probably speaks to his suspicion that his hand rests on the hilt of his sword in the same movement.

"Ah." A visitor; someone unfamiliar. Dressed as a nobleman, it would seem, and Bedivere tilts his head, calculating. From where? Outlying lands? Those have not yet been surveyed, but surely Dun Realtai must have neighbouring kingdoms, although Dun Realtai itself is not a kingdom so much as it is a small city-state. He frowns, thoughtful. The clothing doesn't seem quite right, though. Something about that fabric suggests it isn't hempen or linen; it isn't even cotton.

His hand remains on the hilt of his sword; a seemingly subtle gesture, but for him, one as plain as somebody screaming. It's a plain-looking hilt, very plain, and very old and well-used. Perhaps this is low nobility, at best, or one of the burgeoning middle class? Or perhaps simply an upjumped peasant, given a sword as a token of service to the lord of this land?

His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, but at least he doesn't seem openly hostile; merely uncertain and a little suspicious. "Good day. I have not seen you in these lands, before... to whom do I owe the honour, good sir?"

Project MORDRED (804) has posed:
"I am a guest of Saber, good sir." MORDRED starts, and he makes no move for his weapon. "As such, I am bound by the laws of hospitality, and there is no need for you to draw your weapon." MORDRED makes no attempt to reach for his, in fact he makes a subtle point of keeping his sword arm far away from the hilt, running it through his hair, though he maintains a respectful distance. "I am a Knight Errant from a different realm, my name is MORDRED." There's no emotion in his voice or face, just plainly stating the facts.

"I do not yet know how long I shall be staying, but I am grateful to have a change of scenery. Though different from what I'm used to, it's quite pleasant here." He makes a point of studying Bedivere, perhaps committing him to memory. "And to whom do I owe the honour, good sir?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
A guest of Saber's? Although it seems just a touch reluctant, the hand eases away from the sword, both returning to the horse's reins. The stranger in the noble's finery is given another look, this time more of scrutiny than suspicion. Of course she would have invoked Brehon Law; she is by far more trusting than he is. Maybe he'd better talk to her about that, some time...

"I see." His voice is soft, gentle; so much so that if he were spotted from a distance or perhaps spoken to from a distance, he might be mistaken for a woman. Up close, though, his shoulders are just a little too broad, and his build just a little too solid.

Half a glance is cast back out to the fields, as though searching for something, before he returns his attention back to MORDRED. Something in his expression flickers at that name – his expression very nearly sours, but he consciously checks himself, and his face remains neutral. "Mordred. I see. There are yet those who have borne that name. No doubt you have spoken to her, then, and she has bade you welcome with open arms to this place, as is her nature."

"I am Sir Bedivere, of Dun Realtai. I am the steward of this land." He inclines his head, down and slightly to one side, a gesture of both respect, acknowledgement, and accord. "As you have already been made welcome by my king, then I bid you welcome as the steward of this place, and invoke the ancient laws, and welcome you as guest in my hall."

This guy? A steward or lord? He looks like a freaking peasant... but when he draws himself up in his saddle, some of that sleepy-eyed regard seems to fade, and in the place of what would have been a peasant, the man carries himself with the unmistakable bearing of a knight. "We were once of the Round Table of Camelot, as you may or may not have been told, but we are now bound to this land. Stay and be welcome here, then, for as long as you wish." He even manage a smile, although it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "It is a place of rest and recovery, for those who have need of such."

Project MORDRED (804) has posed:
"I have spoken to her, she has defeaten me in a friendly duel, and I have also spoken to her son." MORDRED himself remains polite and neutral, and then adds what is intended to be reassuring. "The quarrel I have with my father does not carry over to her, as far as I am concerned. Though certainly similar in certain respects, she has done far more to earn my respect than my father ever did, and she has had far less time." There is a somewhat angry undertone there, but it seems connected to his father, not to Saber.

"This place is very pleasant, I sincerely hope it will remain that way." There's a faint smile, and he seems genuine. "Please, do not let the apparent similarities between me and Saber's son sour any relationship we may one day have before it has even started." All of this is spoken in polite, soft tones, as MORDRED directs his horse to ride parallel to Bedivere, on the side where, if a fight should break out, Bedivere has the inherent upper hand.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere regards the visitor with such a blank, neutral expression that it has to be a cover for whatever his reactions really are. His face is like a mask; a well-practised mask. So, he's already spoken to both Arturia and Mordred, those of his own world. That's some reassurance, as no doubt Arturia would have treated the matter with sufficient caution. Hopefully. Maybe?

He tilts his head slightly as MORDRED and his horse fall into line beside him, and that MORDRED falls in on the right side, where he would draw his sword, is not lost on him.

"Forgive me." The words are spoken with a sigh. "I am not inclined to trust. It seems we must hail from similar circumstances, if not a similar world – for your material of dress is not familiar to me, though the manner is similar enough. I served long as the Left Hand of the King, and Marshal of the Realm of Camelot. I was my king's military leader in times of war; the one to whom even generals ultimately answered. And, as Left Hand of the King, the protection of my king was also within the scope of my duties. I am suspicious still, for it is my duty here still to ensure her safety."

He knight looks more the part of a bard or poet than a warrior, when it comes down to it, but he probably wouldn't lie about something like that. Probably? He seems to be pretty serious-minded, almost somber.

The silver-haired knight looks forward, briefly. "You are correct. It is not right of me to hold that against you, for your circumstances are different." He glances slightly to one side, regarding MORDRED from the corner of one violet eye. "Well, come; let us return to the castle. I had been intent on making my way there, in any case. We are still surveying this land, and I have completed my survey of this region, for the time being."

Project MORDRED (804) has posed:
"That does seem familiar to me, the left hand while L4-NC3-L07, or some similar name for your version, is the right hand." These names are somewhat strange, of course, but MORDRED does not comment on the specifics. He merely keeps riding onwards, "And I do not begrudge you your caution. It is wise, even though I'm certain it wouldn't have mattered if you hadn't been. There is no harm in doing your part in protecting your liege."

MORDRED is a fairly young man, tall, and a good approximation of the classic standards of masculine handsomeness. Rugged without being musclebound, a strong jaw without having a square jaw. If he was an actor, he'd be able to play just about any protagonist in an action movie based on looks alone. "I stored Glare-NT in an out of the way cove, it did not feel appropriate to store it somewhere it would disturb the view. If you come across my Armour, you should be able to recognize it by my Heraldry." He taps his shield once. "It's black, and quite large. It cannot be used by anyone but me, so rest assured that its presence there shall not pose a danger to the dun."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Aye. Sir Lancelot was the Right Hand of the King." He raises a brow at that strange designation, but otherwise doesn't comment on it. "He was more directly involved in Camelot's intelligence, espionage, and other sensitive matters. He was a master at disguising himself, and if there were information to be gathered, it was from he. I did my fair share, but I could not leave the king's presence; more distant matters, or potential problems, fell to Sir Lancelot."

He smiles, but it's a melancholy expression. "He was also a master at arms, far stronger than I alone. Quite popular among the ladies, as well... and a favourite of the crowds at the tourney, a master with jousting lance or sword. Quite often the winner, as well. I should have liked to cross swords with him, at some point, but my duties would not permit me. I stood at the king's left hand during the tourneys necessity and protocol stated she must preside over."

"Aye, I noted your device, although 'tis not familiar to me." His eyes flick to the shield, briefly; dismissively. "I would respond in kind, but I have no device of my own." A high-ranking knight such as he, without a device? Strange. "I refused to accept land or title in my service to the king, for it would only have been a distraction from my service."

His horse snorts and shakes its head, loppy ears flicking, prompting him to reach forward and absently pat the beast's neck. "The citadel is not impenetrable, but I would estimate that, properly defended, it would be close. It is atop a spire of solid stone, so its walls cannot be tunneled beneath, and its foundations cannot be sapped. Still, I appreciate your keeping it well away from the villagers. They would not appreciate such a thing in their midst; they have been through trial enough, and they are suspicious of such strange things from beyond the multiversal bounds." A hand flicks westward, briefly, toward where the land's solitary distant warpgate lies.

Project MORDRED (804) has posed:
"The Device is that of my father's, blemished to mark me as his eldest son and heir. Though he would deny me the right to carry this heraldry, his stance is not supported by law nor tradition." MORDRED starts to explain his device. "At the heart is the ancient sign of Earth, the heart of his realm, and the seat of his power. Dexter chief is the ancient sign of Venus, ruled by his vassal and wife." The tone of his voice makes it clear this wife is not his mother.

"Sinister chief is the ancient sign of Mars, ruled by the slave-king L4-NC3-L07, a loyal ally who came to my father's aid when all hope seemed lost." He points towards the empty places below the center, "Dexter base should hold the ancient sign of Jupiter, but the Jovians are divided whether my father is their best bet or if it is just to follow a man of his character, and they have yet to come to a collective decision. Sinister base should hold the ancient sign of Saturn, but the Saturnines came to the conclusion they could not trust him not to take their wealth to fuel his relentless warmongering." Though MORDRED speaks without emotion, it's not unlikely that he is somewhat biased. "Justice cannot come to the solar system while my father yet reigns."

Having finished discussing the specifics of heraldry and why some signs are missing, MORDRED mentions the defenses, "Just out of academic interest, how well are you defended against an assault by air? I have no interest in assaulting, but when you discuss the dun, this sounds like the obvious path of attack."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"I see." Although he takes in the explanation of the state of MORDRED's world, he doesn't seem interested in commenting on very much of it, mostly because the majority of it is incomprehensible moonspeak. Possibly literally! The man is speaking a language that the multiverse is translating, but Bedivere still doesn't understand but one word in ten.

The tone of his acknowledgement probably says that he doesn't understand at all, the poor thing.

"It sounds as though your father has none of my king's righteousness. I am sorry to hear that." He reaches up, rubbing at his jaw; beardless, though his features and something in his eyes suggest he's older than he might otherwise appear. "An assault by air...?"

He looks up, as though to gauge that for himself. "There are a number of Servants here in this castle. Not serving-folk, but creatures of great power, from legend. You have met two of them already," he adds, somewhat cryptically, for he doesn't know if Saber revealed that truth or not. "To repel an attack by air would not be difficult for them, I think. There is also Master Merlin, who is a magician of great renown and power, who would come to this place's defense... and creatures of the land itself, although I cannot promise their aid, for I know not if they would heed my call."

The Fair Folk are something of a wildcard, still, and beyond that, there's no telling what sort of them may inhabit this place that haven't yet revealed themselves.

He shifts in the saddle, considering. "In all, I do not believe it would be successful, although it would cost us to defend from such a vector. Such an attack would be repelled, but only with difficulty and cost, I think, in both structural integrity and lives."

Project MORDRED (804) has posed:
"Please accept my apologies, I forgot that the differences may cause to some difficulties in understanding." MORDRED grows quiet for a while, apparently thinking. Eventually he settled on the simplest explanation he can come up with, "The names I spoke of are all different realms, by law all are vassals to the High King, and my father, John Arthur. claims that title, and is supported in it by the lords of the realms represented in our heraldry. The specifics are probably not too relevant, and I think I'd have to go into much more detail to have the politics of it all make sense to someone who doesn't know our history and traditions."

He looks upon the citadel, thinking about how to handle it. "Unfortunately the fortification was not designed with air assaults in mind, I may have some ideas for strengthening its defense, but you would be justified in questioning my reasons, so I will not volunteer them unless you request them." He slowly picks up the pace, "It's an interesting engineering challenge regardless, it shall be fun to think about."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"It would be better not to waste your breath explaining." Bedivere holds up a hand; his smile, while slightly sardonic, is nonetheless a good-natured expression. He knows well his own limitations when it comes to understanding technology beyond the level of his era. It might as well be witchcraft. "More for your benefit than for mine, I fear. Such things are beyond me, and it sounds as though there is sufficient drift in the politics of your world and mine that it would take far too long to explain in a way that I would understand. I am political-minded – it was a necessity, as Left Hand of the King – but only in the context of my own era's politics."

Setting his heels to his horse's ribs, he speeds his own steed along, eyes lifting to Dun Realtai's stone spire, and the branching oak tree at its crown, nearly obscuring the citadel itself. Perhaps that tree is also something to do with the Fair Folk. It looks ordinary, if monstrously large, but papearances mean nothing when it comes to the otherworld. "Hmm." A thoughtful sound. "I will ask you, if I feel it necessary, but you are correct. Perhaps if you have proven your motives, I may ask it of you. But for the nonce, you are still too new here, I think, to be trusted."

He makes a mental note to bring up the issue of aerial defenses to Arturia. That this stranger is poking at it so much makes him suspicious... as she would no doubt anticipate.

"Have you your noontide meal yet? I welcome you to join us, if you have not. My king is returned to the keep, no doubt, by this time; I do not doubt that she will be anticipating my return and report."

Project MORDRED (804) has posed:
"Thank you for inviting me, I would love to share it." MORDRED answers, and he lets both prior topics drop when it seems they are done. "Do you expect your lord's son to be present as well? Saber seemed to wish me to make acquaintance, but I have yet to have the opportunity." Yes, he's talking about the other Mordred, though he dances around the specifics of the topic. "I must admit I am not certain how fruitful such can be, or even how wise it is of your lord to set me on this path, but as it is her request, it would feel disingenuine for me not to honour it in return for the hospitality I have been granted."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"It is my pleasure." Bedivere shakes his head, though his eyes remain fixed forward on the path ahead. "You have shown yourself to be courteous, and respectful of the ancient laws. It is my duty to repay that by conducting myself as a proper host."

Unfortunately, any sort of warmth there might have been leaches out of his tone when the stranger brings up the Other Mordred. Something goes cold and hard in his tone. "I do not expect her to be there, no. She is not unwelcome here, but neither do I appreciate seeing her unless there is great need. While once she might have been a knight worthy of the Round Table, her betrayal saw the destruction of the Round Table, the slaughter of its knights to a man, save myself and Sir Lancelot, and the death of my king."

"It will take time to mend those bridges," he says, more softly, as though conscious of how sharp his voice had grown. "I am still not certain if there is aught to be done for those ruins bridges, myself, though it would please my king if I were to concede. But I do not know that I can. I lost everything, no thanks to Sir Mordred's rebellion. My home, my brother-knights, my purpose, my family, my love..." He shakes his head. "It will yet take time for me to forget that pain."

He falls silent, eyeing MORDRED for a moment, though what emotion he might mean by it is hard to say. The practised blandness of his regard conceals any particular emotion that might be read into his expression. "My king does not believe in lost causes, and takes it upon herself to right wrongs where she sees them. Far be it for me to judge you, Sir Knight, but I am compelled to speak honestly: It is my duty not to trust; I sacrificed that long ago, for the survival of my king and kingdom. So long as you remain in these lands as my guest, I and my servants will be watching you."

Project MORDRED (804) has posed:
"It is your duty not to trust, and given the parallels between your history and mine, you have even less reason to trust me. I understand fully that you would not, and though I regret that this must be the case... I can do little but act in the manner of someone worthy of your trust, and hope one day you may see me differently. I do not blame you for your suspicion, but I cannot alter the details of my creation." Creation, not birth. "Solely the path I choose to take." He chooses not to speak of the other Mordred again, except for an apology. "My apologies for reopening old wounds, I did not know."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
There's not really much to say in response to that, is there? The knight-errant has certainly hit the nail squarely on the head. Bedivere rides in silence for a moment, either choosing not to respond to such a blatant statement, or perhaps mulling over his words more carefully.

"I am sorry to say that regret will not change things, or Camelot would have been set aright long ago." He casts an oblique look toward MORDRED, regarding him for a moment from the corner of an eye.

It's an interesting reversal of roles – where he had once held the olive branch of Camelot and his king the sword, now his king holds the olive branch; and he, the sword. Funny that things should work out that they would each hold the opposite.

He sighs, but then checks himself, blinking. "Hold. 'Creation?'"

Project MORDRED (804) has posed:
"My mother made me out of the flesh of my father." MORDRED summarizes, very succinctly, and with the tone of a man who doesn't wish to go into detail on the topic. "Regret does not change the past, nothing can, but it may yet change the future. It is my sincere belief that it will, though I cannot predict the extent to which it will, I am neither profit nor seer."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The pale-haired knight casts the knight-errant an appraising glance. He knows well the tone of a man who doesn't want to talk about something. It's a tone he himself has taken, on more than one occasion, in his life. As a foreigner in Camelot's court, there was a great deal of curiosity – and scandal – focused on him; as much, perhaps, as poor Sir Palomedes, the Saracen.

Where the distant Middle East was no more than a myth to the people of Camelot, their neighbouring kingdom in northerly Dál Riata was much closer and more of a reality. It was a kingdom, rumour said, of magic and mystery, witches and warlocks and corrupt kings. Some flew to that whiff of scandal like a moth to flame, decrying the Left Hand of the King as a magician of some kind, who had twisted his king to suit his purposes.

He had held some private amusement over their partial correctness – though descended of the filídh, the bards and seers of his home, he was not one of them. His training had been interrupted; he had abandoned that pursuit to instead serve Arturia as one of her knights.

His eyes turn forward again, and he sighs. "Perhaps. You are no prophet, and no seer; you are no filidh, and I do not sense the awen about you... we shall see, then, what the future holds. The Lord God will reveal our paths to us in good time, as is His way."

"In the meantime, if you will pardon me, I must go make my report to my king." He inclines his head. "Join us, later, for our meal. I will look forward to it, Sir Knight." That's a more comfortable name than his true name, even if it's a little awkward and non-specific. "Fare you well, then, to the gates. A servant will show you the way."

With that, Bedivere kicks his horse into a heavy trot, although it takes a few seconds for the massive horse to reach proper speed.

Unless Mordred chooses to keep pace, the silver-haired knight will soon be gone, wending his way up the hill of Dun Realtai's spire, and to the castle above.