4444/A Challenge

A Challenge
Date of Scene:	20 August 2016
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	Nero drops in on an ill Bedivere, to brighten his day with the glory of Rome.
Cast of Characters:	482, 880

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Autumn in Dun Realtai is a dreary season. The wind has turned unseasonably cold, ripping browned and curling leaves from the trees and scattering them across the valley. Wind catches at doors and windows left open, snatching at the hair and cloaks of travellers. When it isn't raining, one can smell approaching rain on the wind; when it is, the rain is cold and driving, enough to send even the most stout-hearted in search of shelter.

  Today is one of the latter days. Rain drives against the citadel, and on the upper floors it can be heard hammering against the glass windows. In the great hall, it's a comfortably distant drone, while the hearths blaze and throw their warmth and cheer across the shadowed hall.

  Sir Bedivere is seated in front of the fire today, with a ledger in his lap and a quill in hand. He seems to be making some kind of architectural sketches. He's not wearing his knightly regalia today, commoners' clothing, homespun linen faintly scented of Castile soap. Over that, he's got a patterened sweater in earth tones, possibly from a more modern world.

  He also looks like death warmed over, pale and gaunt, with shadows under his eyes. While not expecting any company, he's learned to expect people wandering through by virtue of Dun Realtai being the place it is.

Nero (880) has posed:
     Nero always seemed to come and go from Dun Realtai whenever she pleased. And one could never tell when or where she was going to show up because it always seemed like whether or not she made a show of announcing her glorious presence, or simply appearing out of spirit form, fell to a roll of the dice.

     Naturally, this day appeared to be the latter. No way was the Illustrious Roman Emperor of Old going to be caught walking through the rain like a commoner that forgot their umbrella. Certainly, she could procure one from somewhere or another, but no. Today, she simply decided to just drift on into the citadel incorporeal. Through the village, past the gates, into the courtyard, then into the halls.

     And there was the man himself. Sir Bedivere...looking like he just came back from the underworld. It is with this that the Servant chooses to make her sudden appearance. With a whorl of prana particles, she appears from in front of him, a step or two away. "Why, if it is not Sir Bedivere!" Her voice booms through the great hall as Nero crosses her arms, looking all smug and confident as usual. "What in my name has happened to you?" Yes, her name. Because who needed God?

     "Why, I would say that you look as if you have fought your way through the undeworld, in order to wrest your king from the clutches of the vile dragon Vortigern!" And then Nero presses one hand to her chest, the other held outwards as she spins a dramatic tale. "The shadows cling, the envoys of darkness attack at every turn! And yet, you cannot give up hope! Never will the flame die! For it is that very flame that alights the hearts of the people! And yet, the toll is heavy upon the body! You wonder if you can make it? But no! You must make it! For there is no other option!"

     ...Nero please.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Having been formally recognised as a guest of the hall, Nero has been let to come and go as she pleases. If it came down to it, though, it's a trifle difficult to stop a Servant in their incorporeal form. Enforcing that sort of thing might be an interesting exercise.

  It must speak to how often this sort of thing happens that, when Nero appears with her booming voice out of the aether, the quill does no more than skitter briefly across the page; a brief blot easy enough to overlook. He just sighs as she does her usual thing, showing up and making demands and comparing herself to divinity.

  Honestly, he's almost starting to get used to this.

  "What are you even talking about?" He squints at the mention of Vortigern. His voice is too husky; haggard and raw around the edges. "Vortigern was a king, not a dragon, who ruled well before my king's reign. And the dragons of our homeland were not the savage beasts they may have been in your Empire. They were our guardians, our protectors; they certainly would not take a king prisoner."

  Why is he even bothering to correct her?

  "Regardless of whatever it is you're blathering about, I went on patrol in the rain, no more and no less. There were improvements made to Dun Realtai's defenses against flood, and I had need to ensure that they have held. There will be much more rain than this before the season is over." Bedivere gestures out towards the rest of the village with his quill, loosely. "If you visit here with any regularity through the coming months, you will be as sick of the rain as we before winter is come."

  Hm. He seems to be working on something round. It seems to be placed in the great hall, by the diagram. A table? A round table, not unlike that celebrated table of old?

  He does look up after a moment, though, arching a brow and eyeing Nero. His mouth twists in a half-smile, slightly sardonic. "Will you take wine or water, Emperor? Or would you deign instead to drink tea from a barbarian's hall?" Not that the cold really bothers her. That aspect, at least, must be nice... but still not even remotely worth the trade, to him.

Nero (880) has posed:
     Correcting Nero was your first mistake, Sir Bedivere. "Tsk tsk tsk! Sir Bedivere! Let not logic and fact cloud your mind! What you must do is open it!" Nero spread her arms, as if indicating the entire world, and then beyond. "Open your mind, let your imagination flow freely! Grasp that which does not exist! And then grasp that which does exist! Make it all yours!"

     But really, what is she talking about?

     "Tsk tsk, so you wandered out into the darkness, the vile shade of the underworld casting it's shadow upon your form..." The Servant crosses her arms and shakes her head in pity at the steward of Dun Realtai. "And in the end, your body could not handle the strain under such forces. Alas, Sir Bedivere! Alas!" That may have been her way of saying, 'You went out into the rain and got sick? Weak!'

     But what IS he working on? The blonde girl steps over and then around to his side to peer at the parchment. "Hm! And what might this be? Some manner of round table?" A grin forms, "Are you perhaps aiming to restore the glory and honor of the round table for the myriad universes to behold anew?" Oh no, she's drawing conclusions again. "Why, Sir Bedivere! I did not think you had it in you! Such ambition! I am most pleased! Indeed! Ah ha ha ha ha!"

     And then she heartily claps his shoulder, laughing all the while. The mention of tea, wine, water, gets a brief concession from the Servant. "I shall partake in your commoner's tea then! Perhaps I will be impressed!"

     It was true that the cold really meant nothing to her. She could walk outside in much less and be fine. ...But that just crossed the threshold of common decency. Not that our dear emperor seemed to know what that was already.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The pale-haired knight sits patiently through that entire diatribe about things that don't exist. As Nero gets more and more involved in her nonexistent narrative, Bedivere's brow furrows ever more. None of this makes any sense, despite his best efforts to wrangle some kind of logic from it. Does she live completely in her own fantasyland, completely disconnected from reality?

  Yeah, probably. That's a dumb question to ask himself. He already knows the answer.

  After a while, he can only stare at her in disbelief, and it isn't until she asks him about his current work that he realises she's shifted mental gears.

  "This?" He looks down at the ledger's page. "Glory and honour? No, merely the assembly of a force of Elites willing to defend this place. It will be no Round Table; that is gone, and given unto dust. But if we are to have a force of Elites who share in the charge of defending Dun Realtai, than we must be as equals. Hence," he adds, tapping the page with the feather end of the quill, "a table that is round, but not necessarily the storied Round Table."

  He pauses, squinting sidelong at Nero. "Since when have you bothered listening to our stories, anyway? We came well after Rome; Camelot, indeed, was built upon the bones of a Roman stronghold." He gestures toward a far ceiling corner. "Patchwork stone, much as Dun Realtai's citadel is."

  Or do you have knowledge of it merely through your nature as a Servant?" Bedivere tilts his head, regarding her thoughtfully. "Indeed, if one of your opponents had been summoned as a Knight of the Round Table, you would have had need of that context..."

  When she deigns to partake of filthy barbarian refreshments, he snaps his fingers, sending a servant to the kitchens for something suitable. The young woman returns a moment later with a selection of tea, wine, and water; Nero is left to choose whatever she prefers. Bedivere himself settles for honeyed tea, which he lifts before his face, inhaling the steam and sighing. It's worth it just for the temporary relief of breathing clearly.

  "I suppose I will regret asking, but what brings you to Dun Realtai on such a wretched day?"

Nero (880) has posed:
     Nero smirks and steps back, finally, after all this dramatic posturing, deigning to have a set, across from Sir Bedivere. Flump. She crosses one leg over the other, and then nods. "I see! So not THE round table, BUT a round table of equals. Those of whom shall defend this place should the time ever come!"

     One can almost see the sparkles in her eyes, and all around her. "I approve! What a wonderful, fantastic, rousing notion!" She spreads her arms as she makes that exclamation, clearly all too easily excited at the dramatic potential. She really did seem to see everything in terms of plays, acts, beauty, and dramatic potential. Sigh. What was one to do with this girl called Emperor?

     But when Bedivere asks of her knowledge about their stories, Nero merely smirks and crosses her arms. "Mhmhmhm! It is true that I came before your time, however! As a Servant, I am imparted with knowledge of other legends! Camelot is one such legend. After all, who does not know the story of Sir King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table?"

     There is a pause.

     And then she supplements that with, "Additionally, I have partaken in much literature, in orer to fully immerse myself in the times of King Arthur, back when I was penning my bestseller, Forbidden Knights!" Bedivere never read that, did he? Definitely for the best. The servant is sent off, and returns with a selection of beverages to partake in. The Roman Emperor foregos the wine this time, and settles for tea and honey, much like Bedivere. She did say she would try the tea.

     Cup held in both hands, warmth traveling through her palms and into her body, she gazed down into her scant reflection in the surface of the liquid, then her gaze turns over to the steward of the land.

     "Ah! Why have I come here, you ask?" A biiiiig smile spreads across Nero's face. "It is quite simple! I had come to deliver my gift to your king, but as it appears, it is raining quite harshly, so instead, I forewent it, and came alone with the express purpose of illuminating this place with my grand presence!"

     Sip.

     "You are free to rejoice as you see fit!"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Bedivere tilts his head when she confirms that it is not to be The Round Table, but A Round Table, for there is a great difference between the two. For a moment he's almost inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt... at least until she dashes right off into another round of theatrical nonsense. His eyes hood as he sighs. This may be a few moments, so he's better off letting her get it out of her system, sipping at his tea and very possibly ignoring her exclamation.

  "So it is a Servant's sense, and not any true familiarity with the legend. Pity, that." Maybe he might have considered an actual conversation, but it's a little silly to expect that out of the self-aggrandising Emperor. All topics would invariably lead to Rome, much as roads once did. "I suppose such would be expected."

  He has no doubt that all of them were remembered by the Throne of Heroes, and if such is the case, that would be a lot of Heroic Spirits to go around. It's only natural that Servants participating in a Grail War of any sort would be appraised of their opponents... at least, given a general overview of their legends.

  Part of him wants to comment so badly about her bestseller, because he's heard the odd description from an enamoured Gawain, but she wouldn't listen anyway.

  "I wonder, sometimes, if it's possible to even hold a normal conversation with you," the knight grumbles under his breath, eyeing Nero in clear exasperation. "Every other breath it's illuminating this with your grand presence, or bringing the light of Rome to that. These theatrics are well and good before an audience of your own people, but I am not your vassal, and more importantly, /I do not care/. Trying to hold a conversation with you is /exhausting/ with this nonsense. You are no more to me than another Servant with another identity--" Here he holds up a forefinger, "--and you would earn more respect from me by employing a little restraint every so often. May I ask you to at least make some effort, at least as long as you are in my hall?"

  Not that he expects her to listen to that, either, but there you go.

Nero (880) has posed:
     Of course, one does not simply 'have a conversation' with Nero. Rather, oone is swept up into a storm of words, battered senselessly, and then tossed out unceemoniously, wondering what in the world just happened after it all. Such was the way of the Roman Emperor. In all things. "Mhmhm, never you mind that! After all, the fact that I am here is more than enough."

     Of course. ...Of course.

     Nero has another sip of her tea, finally stopping to appraise the blend, rather than wax bravado for a moment. "Hm! I must say, this tea is quite adequate. Perhaps I shall have more of it from now on!" Thank the lords for that at least. It would have been a much bigger headache if she spent even more time complaining about the state of Dun Realtai's tea stock on top of everything else!

     "A normal conversation, you ask?" The Servant pauses mid sip, and eyes Bedivere. "Are we not having a normal conversation right at this moment?" This was normal to her, huh? Still, she sets the cup aside and smiles pleasantly, arms crossed now. "Ah, but Sir Bedivere, you ask me to show restraint, but I am already doing exactly that!" Her arms spread. "But alas, if my restraint is not restrained enough for you, then perhaps I shall have to make a second attempt!"

     Nero closes her eyes and falls silent. Nothing happens. Nothing, nothing, nothing....nothing... And then her eyes open once again. And her characteristic confident smile and somewhat playful glimmer is vanished. Instead, the Emperor's features become stone cold, professional, proper. Her mouth is slackened into a neutral line, and she turns that gaze upon Bedivere plainly.

     "Perhaps this manner of conduct is more to your liking, Sir Knight?" She asks in a much, much more calm, collected tone. One that doesn't fit her image at all.

     Is this also acting!?

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "Good." Bedivere seems pleased with the fact that the emperor can enjoy that barbarian tea. It actually comes from someplace other than Dun Realtai, imported from a more tropical climate somewhere in the multiverse. "Very good. I had begun to wonder if anything here would meet with your approval, or if you were simply being contrary."

  All because he wouldn't let her build a statue out of him. He hasn't forgotten, but he sure hopes she has.

  He inclines his head, very slightly, when she pauses mid-sip to eye him. "A normal conversation," he replies, raising his own to meet her stare eye to eye. "No, I would say we are not. Ordinary folk are not often given to such relentless self-aggrandising." The ones who don't live in padded houses, anyway.

  Nero changes like a switch flipping, and he doesn't so much as bat an eye at her when she speaks to him in the same cold, professional way that his king had once addressed him in Camelot. The resemblance is uncanny for a moment; Bedivere eventually inclines his head forward. "Much better."

  ...It may be he knows how much she hates restraining herself, and he's doing this for his own amusement. He always was a deadpan bastard back in Camelot, and he wasn't above the occasional gallows humour deadpan joke.

  "Now, I have a question, of Rome; something I happened to remember hearing mention of, in my earlier days in Camelot." He curls his fingers around his teacup, leaning forward. "Septimania. Was this city in the bounds of your Empire? I have heard the name mentioned in passing turns of phrase; from what I have been able to gather from that, it once boasted a horse-fair like no other, for it was always used as a comparison even to the greatest horse-fairs of Albion." One finger taps restlessly on the teacup. "I suppose it could have been something else, lost in the mists of time, if not that city... but I am curious; you were there, so naturally, you would know."

  He's not mentioning her conduct. It is possible that Sir Bedivere is waiting to see how long she can keep it up before the ego comes roaring back out again.

  ...It is possible he may be enjoying himself, just a little, at the expense of Nero's ego.

Nero (880) has posed:
     Nero has not forgotten about that statue! Know, Sir Bedivere, that one day, there will be a statue of you placed in the main plaza of the village! One day! ...One day. But that day is not today. Or tomorrow. Or perhaps next week. Or even next month. But...

     ...One day.

     Nero valiantly maintains her utterly unfitting calm, folding her arms in her lap like an actual noble lady as she gives the steward of the land her attention. "Septimania? I believe that city was situated in the western province of Gallia." Nero intoned calmly, a hand rising to rest at her chin in thoughtful manner. "Yes, I recall now. The grand fairs of Septimania. It was quite a spectacle indeed. People from all over would bring their prized stallions to compete and compare. To ride, share in the joys of their trusted partners, and perhaps forge new friendships in the process."

     Nero had some more tea poured as she explained the general overview of the event with a restrained, calm air. Stirring honey into the tea, there's a pause. "I am certain you would have been right at home with such festivities, Sir Bedivere. After all, they did not celebrate the people, but the horses. It was their deeds, abilities, and lives that were at the forefront of those days."

     She hasn't cracked yet, but there were a few points where she had to stop herself from making it more theatric than it needed to be. The Servant occupies herself with a sip from her cup, exerting willpower to keep this act up!

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "Aye, Septimania. That was it. Ah, Lord God, what a horse-fair that must have been. Would that there were a Septimania near here to visit," the knight murmurs, rubbing at his jaw thoughtfully. "The breeding stock is acceptable, but unremarkable. It could stand improvement..."

  That is to say, finding horses of generally decent confirmation who aren't half-wild scrubs like the horses in the barns. Or violent killers, like the Black One in his lonely paddock.

  Sipping at his tea, Bedivere keeps his eyes fixed on the emperor. She's doing well, all things considered. He's never seen her speak normally without injecting her ego into it, either in topic or in delivery. Here, she's wearing a stone-faced mask that almost rivals the one he'd worn in Camelot.

  He cocks his head very slightly to eye her.

  "Did you know, Emperor? I was Marshal of the Realm, in Camelot. Not only did this mean I had the authority of my king's armies, but I was also personally responsible for its cavalry, too. I took a personal hand in much of it, selecting good breeding lines and ensuring that their good traits were continued." He sighs; shrugs faintly. "It seems the history books have forgotten this aspect of my service, and often confuse me with Sir Kay, who was Camelot's seneschal."

  "In any case, I have long experience with horses, and often found them better company than men." Folding his arms, he watches her reactions. "I thought to begin breeding a cavalry for Dun Realtai. The people there are no match for Elites, but if they have mastered a standing cavalry, there are no brigands or highwaymen that may yet threaten them."

  Raising the cup, he sips at the remainder, letting the steam curl about his face. "We did not have such a fair in Camelot. A pity; it would have been interesting, I think. Perhaps because the quality of our horses was so generally poor. I imagine in Rome..." Something in his eyes seems to light -- Nero must have been right in her assessment. There's more life to him speaking of horses than there is on a good day in most circumstances. "In Rome, you would have had access to the horses of the east. Only once or twice have I seen such exquisite creatures; Sir Palomedes owned such a horse, and were it not for the all-consuming nature of my duties, or the staggering cost, I should have liked to own such a creature myself."

  "There were some such breeds in the lot that I acquired abroad. I gave one such to Wisewoman Inga. Having such a companion should make her travels throughout the village easier by far."

  He considers his teacup. "Ah, but Septimania. I should have liked to see that. So. The humble horse had such exaltation even in your vaunted empire, hm...?" One brow raises, very slightly. She's going to explode trying to keep quiet, isn't she?

Nero (880) has posed:
     Nero chuckles in a subdued way, rather than her usual raucous laughter. "Indeed, in these times, I have come to find that the stock of horses are more and more muddled than their purebred ancestors." There's another sip of tea, and then the cup is set down into a saucer in the other hand with a clink. "While certainly, the mixing of genes can lead to some extraordinary results, the prevalence of.. less impressive specimen." Indeed.

     The act was maintained. She wasn't quite stone faced, but it was proper, level, and calm. And most importantly, the volume was kept at reasonable levels. Which is what really mattered here. Okay, maybe not, but it was a factor. Nonetheless, Nero has her eyes on Bedivere, head canting slightly aside as he spoke of his horse caring tendencies, then straightened as she nods. "So I have come to understand, Sir Bedivere."

     "History has a way of being muddled at the years pass. True that the people that come after us could simply keep more accurate records of their forefathers, and yet, forgetting the past and moving onward into the future is a very human trait, no?" The Servant's lips curl upwards just slightly into a small smile.

     "That you prefer the company of horses to men speaks volumes of your own character, Sir Bedivere. While I certainly cannot fault you for finding yourself at that fact."

     She gazes down into the reflection of herself in the teacup, and then towards the fire. "After all, I myself am quite familiar with the evils of man. In all forms. But despite that..." Her gaze settles back onto Bedivere, a small smile adorning her face still. "I find that human beings are my favorite animal to observe." There's a faint chuckle, and then the Emperor raises her cup, having a slow sip.

     "Indeed, a standing calvary would prove to be a boon to the mundane defenses of this land." There is a clink as the cup is lowered, a frown adorning the Roman Emperor's features. "While they would be no threat to a passing Elite that wishes harm upon your lands, they certainly should be capable of turning aside a band of brigands or perhaps lesser creatures of supernatural origin."

     Nero is quiet as Sir Bedivere continues on and on about the nature of horses, festivities, and recent horse related happenings, nodding all the same and letting him keep the floor, as uncharacteristic of her. A bead of sweat ran down the side of her face. She REALLY REALLY wanted to break out and express herself! But...

     ...This was a challenge! And she would not lose! And even still, Nero found ways to inject parts of herself into the conversation. "Hm. Sir Bedivere, if I may be so bold; Have you not considered holding your own horse-fair at some point? Certainly, you may look fondly upon history, but do remember that your eyes must stay a course forward as well. Perhaps you can do so in respect of the past? Hm?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "It was easier to maintain stock once the breeding lines had been established." Bedivere sighs, shaking his head. "All that work is lost, now, I suppose. I was the only man to survive Camlann; even if the horses had survived, there would not have been enough to restore the bloodlines. I maintained several different bloodlines associated with several different traits."

  It's a little depressing to think of having lost that work. His duties as the master of cavalry was one of the few he had actually taken some pleasure from. Bedivere pauses, long enough to sneeze and huddle a little more before the fire.

  "It is a human trait, I suppose." Bedivere sighs, pale eyes hooding. It's a little depressing to that people so readily forget the important things, though Camelot hasn't been forgotten yet. "And I suppose that it does. I had always preferred the company of the hounds, the horses; the falcons. They, at least, did not carry knives."

  Anybody else from the kind of era that Bedivere hails from might be deeply insulted to be compared to an animal... but Bedivere has seen enough to know better. He only inclines his head, faintly, not quite enthusiastic enough to be a nod. "A cavalry, aye. I've the best experience with cavalry tactics. That, indeed, was what won our battles against the Saxons, though there were often many more of the sea wolves. Our horses. I think a cavalry would be more than enough to turn away the lances of brigands, or if any lesser creatures of the Otherworld should become aggressive..."

  Half a smile curls the side of his mouth. Oh, yes, he can see what kind of strain the emperor is under, compelled to stifle herself when what she really wants to do is make a theatrical production out of everything.

  Bedivere can't help himself. He laughs, and while it's not particularly loud, it's one of the louder sounds Nero would ever remember the soft-spoken knight to make. It takes him a moment to recover himself, slapping a hand on his thigh.

  "As you were, emperor. As you were. I can see how taxing this is on you. Pray take something away from this exercise, though. Sometimes, it is good to keep a variety of expression for yourself. Your audience will appreciate a little restraint, now and again. Drama loses its flair when it is employed too often, no...?"

  He looks thoughtful, though, studying her. "Although I wonder if perhaps it came about as a survival skill, to use against the very politicians you ruled... to discourage them from questioning any aspect of your legitimacy of rule, as their Emperor..." Much like his affected coldness, or Arturia's, to silence the concerns of their petty aristocracy.

Nero (880) has posed:
     Another bead of sweat runs down Nero's face. Her lips quiver as she maintains the mask. Or tries to. She lifts her cup to her mouth to stay her dramatic urges. Resist. Resist. Stay strong. Stay on target, Nero! Don't do it. Dooooon't do it!

     See, now Bedivere is laughing at her! It's not really loud or raucous, but considering who it was coming from, it may as well have been! Nero's cheeks turn a bit red at that point as she endures the steward's merrymaking at her momentary expense. But this was a challenge! And she would rise to it! She can do it! She can win! She can-

     "PWAH!" The moment Bedivere says she can let go, Nero does so with great gusto, letting out a huge breath and leaning over as if she were under some form of great mental and physical strain. "Finally! At last!" But... but she does manage to avoid immediately turning on the theatrics. There's a small huff and a nod. "Hm! Very well! I suppose that in the future, I shall take care to vary myself as to keep people guessing!" No...No that wasn't the point. Nero stop. You were doing such a good job too.

     But then comes to questioning of her political situation in life, and her brows furrow. "Hmph. You speak of those doddering old fools in the council? Indeed, I went through many pains in running the empire under their constant foolish, misguided prattling." So she says. "It was necessary to make it so that they could not oppose my rule at any turn! And so I became greater than they could have ever hoped to become!"

     So she says anyway.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "I did not think you could hold it for so long." Bedivere sighs, but it seems more of an amused gesture this time. He might as well try to change the course of the sun, and tell it to raise in the west, instead of the east. She might be completely full of hot air, but that's just her way. "Still, your effort was admirable."

  Bedivere pretty much ignores her initial outburst. Something else caught his attention in what she had said. He narrows his eyes thoughtfully, rubbing at his jaw. "I see." His voice is husky, thanks to the cold, but even that low affirmation is clear. "In that, then, we are not so different. Save where you adopted the bombastic air of the melodramatic, I built a mask of ice." He smiles, faintly. "That is, I suppose, understandable. I had no shortage of knives pointed at my own person, for such was the real nature of Camelot's court and aristocracy, no matter how wistfully the tales look back upon it."

  He considers, drumming his fingers on the teacup. "I am curious. The Roman countryside... places not unlike Albion. Did you have native spirits like the Sidhe, or these creatures of the Otherworld, too...?"

Nero (880) has posed:
     Nero nods, setting the teacup and saucer aside as she then recrossed her arms. "Hmph! I am an individual of endless talent. Of course I could hold it!" She says that, but she really was about to almost break there. Being stoic and subdued did not fit Nero's image or worldview at all. It was suffocating! How do these knights and kings do it?

     But nonetheless, it would seem that the two shared a modicum of understanding in this. "I see. Of course. We have taken different paths, but the reason for the paths taken are similar." She nods, appreciating that much. "In that respect, I suppose I do understand somewhat why you have become who you are." She was no stranger to knives now.

     Questions of the Roman Countryside earn Bedivere a curious glance from the Servant, and she tilts her head a bit. "Indeed. We had our share of mages and spirits in Rome. Though it was not something the common man knew too much of, or were terribly involved in." She scoffs a bit, looking back at the past. "The aristocracy in particular were home to a number of magic manipuating individuals across the empire."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "So. Rome, too, had the equivalent of the filídh." Bedivere tilts his head, lacing his fingers around the teacup in his hands. He pauses to draw in a breath, inhaling steam and letting it go slowly. The two topics seem unconnected, but... "That is why I learned to shy away from knives. My king's aristocracy wished for her to choose a marshal from their number."

  "She chose instead a commoner of foreign blood. Worse yet, though mercifully only Master Merlin was aware of it, their marshal was a commoner, of foreign blood, and the son of a filidh." His lips curl in a sardonic half-smile. By the way the word carries meaning with it, it's somewhere between an advisor, bard, poet, and magician.

  He half-smiles, but the expression carries a cold and unpleasant edge to it. "I must imagine that the ambitious among your court were no better. Any excuse to have a leg up on their fellow man; any excuse to put themselves forward at the cost of everyone around them... yes, Camelot's aristocracy were no different. Because they had old bloodlines, they wanted power for themselves, never mind how unfit they may have been for the position."

  Truly, she chose the best for the job. While some like Lancelot were brave and courageous, they sought glory at the point of a sword. Arturia needed someone more peaceable. Gawain was eager and enthusiastic, and outstandingly straightforward, but Arturia needed someone with restraint and cunning, able to think outside the box. Most of all, while Arturia didn't recognise that she needed it, she needed someone who would understand her, beneath that regal mask; someone who would carry out her will without the commands even being spoken.

  Bedivere shakes his head, slightly. "Those filídh of ours in Dál Riata, though, we were not the magic-wielding barbarians Albion expected. They were bards, poets, lawgivers... advisors to kings. And yes, they too were magicians. So, then, they were the bored aristocracy, in your Empire? No honour in such a profession, hm?"

Nero (880) has posed:
     Nero sniffed, none too impressed with talk of Roman aristocracy. But equally unimpressed with the parallel drawn to Camelot's own aristocracy. "Indeed. Ambitions ran high. Conspiracies were plentiful at nearly every turn." The Emperor crossed one leg over the other again, after having remained proper for all that while earlier.

     "Whether or not those conspiracies came to actual fruition depended upon the ambitions of their mastermind, and believe me when I say that there were many who sought power for their own gain. Not even family spared one the right to attempt to rule in something akin to peace." Such was the nature of Rome's politics during her time.

     "Thus, it becomes painfully clear why the wealthy held sway in the backroom dealings of the empire. For through their bloodlines, arcane powers coarsed. And such pedigree filled such people with pride. Pride, and a sense that they should be allowed to rule over those they consider to be their lessers." Nero chuckled and shook her head.

     "I trust that grappling with such people at your back was not uncommon in your own lands?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "They were. I am thankful they did not discover the secret of the king's gender. I do not think Camelot would have survived; they would not have consented to rule from a woman. Another king would have been chosen from among those wolves, and it would have been one wholly unsuited to the task." Bedivere shakes his head, slightly. "Camelot would have run itself argound well before Sir Mordred could raise the banner of rebellion, had that been the case."

  He leans forward, elbows braced against his knees, basking in the warmth of the hearth. "I believe you, Emperor. There were many and more who sought the same of my king. It was the duty of Sir Lancelot, her spymaster; and I, her marshal, to protect her from those efforts. There were instances when I myself was made target, as well, and I am certain Sir Lancelot has had his fair share of the same."

  "It was not uncommon at all, except it was the opposite in Albion: Witchcraft was banned by the church, hated and feared as a tool of the Devil, and though it is perhaps blasphemous to say so, I do not think it so black and white as that." He holds out his left hand, where the top bares the red knotwork sigil of his command seals; a momentary effort of will sends energy coursing through his magic circuits.

  In the same breath, matching knotwork lights up along the skin of his left arm, intricate and luminous, some of the marks wending their way up his neck, half-looping around his left eye. Even his eyes themselves seem faintly luminous. "I could hardly allow the people to discover that the rumours they held of their marshal were not half wrong." A gesture, and the light dies; his eyes return to their normal colour. He chuckles. "I turned my back on that, but it was... necessary, here, to learn the arts I had forgotten." That is to say, someone had to be Saber's tether.

  "But they were not suited, regardless. Authority should never be given to their like; they would do great damage before their careless ruin could be stopped." He shakes his head, returning both hands to his tea cup. "In truth, I was not at all suited to become a knight. For the necessity of dealing with such people, grappling with their knives at our backs... that is why I learned to do so. To serve her, because I would accept no less than that."

Nero (880) has posed:
     "Mhmhm! Truly you are the King's right hand in all respects, are you not? Opening your mind to any prospects that will allow you to do your duties." Nero chuckled, finishing her latest cup of tea before setting the cup aside for good. "I am suitably impressed by your unwavering dedication, Sir Bedivere. Truly so." And somehow, it was clear as day that the Emperor was not being sarcastic or making some snide remark this time. She really meant it.

     At that point, however, she stood up from her seat at the fireplace, and stretched her arms above her head. "Hrrmmmgh!" And then she relaxed. "Well! I do believe that I have spent enough time here. It about time for me to check and see how my Praetor is faring!" Ah, yes. Nero didn't talk much about Kyra these days. Sometimes it was hard to remember that she DID have a Master after all. She was a Servant still!

     "And so, Sir Bedivere, I bid you good evening, and perhaps when next we meet, you will have defeated this nefarious villain addling your body with sickness!"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "Left. I was the Left Hand of the King," Bedivere affords simply, in a wry tone. "The honour of the right fell to Sir Lancelot; he was the Right Hand of the King. It was to him that the business of spymaster fell to, and he did it frighteningly well. I had on occasion seen him disguised as myself, to fool Saxon chieftains in the field, and the resemblance was... uncanny, to say the least."

  All except the eyes, but some didn't pay attention to such insignificant details.

  He looks ahead to the fire, but the distance in his eyes suggests he isn't seeing it. After a moment his head shakes. "Still. I thank you." There were few with such dedication as he, but in the end, it wasn't enough to save anything. It wasn't enough to save her. He says nothing about his silent protest, though, even going so far as to offer a faint half-smile. In general it's a slightly awkward expression; good-natured as it is, there's still a hint of pain just beyond the surface.

  Camelot will always be a difficult subject, for him. But he thanks her, because he knows when she's speaking to him in earnest. He pays attention to the subtleties, and now he's seen her when she's acting.

  "Indeed." Half a smile flickers across his face, a little less pained than the last one. Arturia's bound to be looking for him by now, too; to make sure he's taking his medicine, and fussing over him as though he has pneumonia instead of a simple cold. "I can understand that. Go, see to your Praetor. And please give her my regards for me, if you would be so kind. Remind her that she is welcome here at any time, as much so as you are."

  He inclines his head, though he doesn't get up to see her off.

  Not without a cough, and a bit of a huddle closer to the fire. "Nefarious, indeed," he murmurs, chuckling under his breath.