4991/At the Lake

At the Lake
Date of Scene:	06 January 2017
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	Eithne studies a kelpie, and gets some company.
Cast of Characters:	Eithne Sullivan, Inga, 482

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Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    The winter in Dun Realtai is unbelievably harsh. Even a sunny day is freezing cold, with snow and slush clinging to boots and soaking through long hems. Even Eithne wears a pair of thick leggings underneath her woolen skirt and leather jacket. It shouldn't be warm enough in such weather, but she has yet to find a temperature that can best it. Thanks, Ma!!!

    The mud at the edge of the pond sucks at her rubber rainboots. Occasionally she shifts her feet just to keep from sinking too deep, because her enemy is craftier than a regular horse and it can most likely swim better than she can. There is a plastic bag in one hand, full of something red and fairly unpleasant.

    She's been staring out at the grey water for thirty minutes by now. Planning.

Inga has posed:
When Inga heard of Eithne's intentions to leave the warm safety of the cottage to go try to get a peek of the kelipe, Inga reluctantly followed. Trudging through the snow, slush and mud was beyond unpleasant, her boots completely caked with mud that had hardened over them. They used to be black-no longer. The wisewoman is also dressed for the cold weather, probably more so than Eithne, wrapped in her warmest, fur-lined cloak, a wool hat on her head and thrummed mittens on her hands. She sits on a rock nearby Eithne, able to stay quite still and nearly silent, even without a spell. Moving though, she'd need a charm to not be noticed. Moving like a hunter is not in her skill set.

"Eithne," she says quietly. "What are you thinking?" she asks, a note of anxiety in her voice. She half expects the girl to go wading in.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    She's quite often foolhardy, and terribly stubborn once she gets an idea in her head. Inga sometimes has reason to worry about her housemate's decision-making processes!

    But she's not making any move to go beyond some invisible line in the mud, just watching the water. "Hmm?" The wind blows her curly hair across her face as she turns to look at the wisewoman, and Eithne swipes it away with chilly hand. "Inga, it's cold! What're yeh doin' out?"

    Turning away from the water, she trudges back to the safety of the rock. "I'm watchin'," the Scion explains in a conspiratorial voice. You never know when fae might be listening, after all. "Were yeh worried that I might go fer a swim?" she asks, a wry smile curving the corner of her mouth.

Inga has posed:
Inga smiles slyly. "It is cold, yet here you are, and less prepared for the weather than I," she says, gesturing with her mitten-shrouded hand to Eithne's leather jacket, lack of gloves or a hat. "To answer your question, obviously I am out because I was checking on you. Indeed, I think you might do such a crazy thing as that," she says, smile still present. Good natured-teasing.

Inga looks back toward the lake, reaching up to bring the long braid of her white hair over her shoulder. "Any sign of it then?" she asks. She's well aware of Eithne's kelpie obsession.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    That smirk turns into a full-fledged grin, wide enough to see the gap of her missing tooth. "I might've in the summer," she has to confide. "But I don't really feel like it today." Eithne certainly doesn't /look/ cold, despite her clothes. "Not a good day to start jumpin' into strange bodies of water to wrestle a creature that outweighs me by seven hundred pounds and eats human flesh."

    What, like that would be fine if it were summer?

    "I saw it peek out of the reeds twenty minutes or so ago. I tossed a bit of meat into the water but I can't see if it took it." She finds a seat on a different stone close by. "Nothin' wrong with feedin' the wildlife, yeah?" she grins.

Inga has posed:
Inga eyebrows rise, amused. "I dare say there isn't really a /good/ day for that, even if the water were warm, yet I know you may eventually attempt it," she sighs. Is this what it is like to have a child? A teenager?

Inga sighs again, shaking her head. Surely this is what it is like to have a child, not approving of what they want to do but helping them to do it anyway, because it makes them happy. "It is not likely to appear just because you want it to. You must lure it with magic or with cunning--better yet, both," she says, then gestures to Eithne. "Come here."

Inga pulls off one of her gloves, then reaches for the knife she keeps at her belt. She pricks her finger hard enough to draw blood enough for two staves to be drawn. "I do not know that this will work on one of the fae, but it is worth a try. It likely will not come because, quiet even as we are, it knows we are here. This spell might help," she says, reaching out to draw a sigil in blood upon Eithne's brow.

Then, her own.

Funny, Inga seems to be more difficult to see now. Eithne would know she was there if she concentrated on seeing her, but the eye wants to slide away--the mind wants to forget. "Throw the meat again, if you have more of it," she suggests, speaking quietly. If Eithne did not already know where she was it might be difficult to pinpoint from where her voice had come.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    Well, sort of. This is what having a half-tamed animal is like. It plays nicely, and it likes you, but... it is its own creature.

    "If the water was warm it'd be more comfortable. I regret that yeh've never really seen me fight," she sighs patiently, but watches with peaked interest as Inga cuts herself. For most of the Drowned Ophelia debacle, Inga had been 'occupied'. "Though I'll admit that cunning isn't really what I'm known fer."

    Eithne's eyelids lower as the wisewoman dabs blood on her forehead, a dribble threatening to course down the side of her nose before the cold winter air thickens it. She looks better with red on her.

    "No tellin'," she nods, but opens the bag to draw a half-thawed chunk of meat from it. She doesn't have to wind up, just underhands it - the tidbit sails through the air, landing in the water with a 'SPLUNK'!

    Somewhere, Sheela is offended that he isn't being fed offal too.

Inga has posed:
"Indeed, I was rather...upside down the last time you had to fight in my presence," she says, frowning slightly. An unpleasant memory, that. She's glad that it is done with, all that well and truly over. Hopefully. "I'm sure I will get the chance to see you fight. I have seen it in your wyrd, if not in the present," she replies.

Would it be strange to say 'blood suits you?'. Blood suits Inga as well, stark against her pale skin and hair.

"Well...lets wait and see. I can try a ritual to try to summon it, but..." she shrugs slightly. She's not sure it would work. Inga works with land spirits and what not frequently, but mostly just leaving them offerings to gain their blessings. Summoning a kelpie? Who knows.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    It had been a bit scary. Not because Eithne is afraid of being hurt, but because there had been a chance that the black tears could've... Well. She'd have still cared about Inga, even if she were an avatar of Viking metal! "Harry was the really impressive one. That Pyrofuego bit was brilliant." Eithne throws her hands apart to mimic the explosion of flame, the plastic bag rustling. "Bwoooosh!"

    They're both cut from the same cloth. Eithne hasn't ever really met anybody before, besides her father, who understands her quite as well as Inga does. And the child that she was and the creature she is now are still more and more different. If Eamon Sullivan ever comes back... what would he think, she wonders.

    "Nah, let's let it be. I saw a program on television once, where yeh make a creature associate yeh with good things by feedin' it treats. Let it come to me if it wants."

Inga has posed:
Inga nods. When Eithne mentions Harry's display Inga actually blushes at the memory. "Yes. I have...never seen him quite that angry before," she responds sheepishly. Bloody man. Making with all the feelings.

She laughs though, at Eithne's impression.

Obviously, Inga feels likewise about Eithne. She's fiercely protective. Should she tell Eithner about Arthur? She might have threatened him juuuust a little bit. She's warming to him, though. She knows Eithne is perfectly capable of setting the boy straight if she needs to.

Inga looks to the lake again, nodding. "Indeed. I am in agreement. If we stay a while and are patient...I think we could catch a glimpse," she smiles. "If not, ah well. We've had a nice chat, at the least," she adds.

Inga pulls something else from her belt. A wineskin. She uncorks it and takes a sip before passing it to Eithne. It's mead, of course. "If we're to be out in the cold, we need something to warm us at least." Drinking age shminking age. Enya is grown, she can handle a bit of mead.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    She grins without one whit of shame. "He's a good man, I think~" Inga is lucky! And so is Harry. And so is Eithne, to be able to live the life she does.

    Not-so-secretly, it warms her heart that Inga is totally willing to curse Arthur if he gets fresh. Eithne had kinda-sorta tried to behead him. She was mad, okay?

    "I certainly wouldn't call it an hour wasted," she hums, kicking her feet back and forth contentedly. If the kelpie shows up, it's fine. If it doesn't, that's fine too. A certain sassy crow flaps down from one of the castle walls, hopping toward the two young women expectantly. "Aha, I knew yeh'd show sooner or later," Eithne tells him smugly, and tosses a tidbit to her pet before accepting the wineskin with her clean hand.

    She lifts it in a toast. "Thanks Inga. Slainte!"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  <Water-horses are notorious cowards, and it will not come because it has no reason to.>

  The voice that greets them comes from behind and slightly to Inga's left, and it had crept up soft and silent as a shadow. The Black One's eyes glow before its body seems to shimmerinto view, hooves digging divots in the wet sand as it paces out from around the stone.

  <Spare your silly charms and spells. This one knows they will not work.>

  Ears flicking back, the colossal black war horse raises its head, muzzle tipped slightly skyward in a shockingly human gesture of disdain. Yet there is a rider on his back -- the silver-haired knight and lord of the Dun, armour newly lined in fur, heavy-mantled white cloak similarly trimmed and pulled around himself.

  It seems the Black One has deigned to wear a caparison; for warmth, perhaps, if nothing else, and a saddle over that, because the Fae don't appreciate steel against their hides.

  "I was wondering where you had gone, but I suppose I should have known." Bedivere half-smiles. "'Tis weather fit for neither man nor beast. You should both be in."

  <You waste your time, O Master,> the Black One laments, breath fogging as it sighs through flared nostrils. <They are waiting-->

  "I apologise for the rudeness of my steed," Bedivere adds, with a bland sigh. "It may be better to simply ignore him."

  The Black One proceeds to flip his ears back and sulk a little.

Inga has posed:
The wisewoman smiles back. "He is. Most certainly," she replies, remembering again their recent encounter with Arthur. And his question. She can't stop a wicked little grin from appearing at the memory, nor a flush to her cheeks. It's cold, alright? It's definitly the cold.

Inga smiles as the crow appears, reaching into her pouch again. She has some meat on her as well. Usually does, for some reason or another. Things do not go bad in there, it seems. She tosses a bit to the crow. She likes crows. Similar to ravens, and ravens are of Odin. "We'll draw all manner of creatures if we continue to throw meat around," Inga laughs.

She takes the wineskin back and raises it as well, "Skol!" she toasts.

She drinks, then narrows her eyes as she hears Black One's voice. She reaches up to smudge the blood charm on her brow, dispelling the magic. "You reason that the kelpie will see through my spell, Black One?" she asks. She is not pleased with her magic being called silly, but he is fae. Sometimes he has poor manners. "Simply keeping Eithne company," she comments. Bedivere will see her now. She smiles to him in greeting. "Good day my friend--yes, it is thoroughly unpleasant out here, but I've come all this way and mead makes it a bit more tolerable," she adds with a slight shrug of her shoulders.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    "Nobody asked yer opinion, did they?" Eithne calls back to the fae, without nearly as much petty malice as she is capable of. She still remembers holding it as a tiny wee bat and how adorable it can be!

    Inga removes the charm and Eithne scrubs the mark from her face as well, carelessly. "Don't be rude," she chastises the Pooka. "It's fine if it doesn't want to show itself today. It's too cold to try fightin' in water anyhow."

    Sheela gulps down one piece of meat, and then squawks happily - Inga is his new favorite person, and he hops up onto the rock beside her. Then down to the ground, then back to the rock...

    "I'm not cold." That's not anything special, she's got a nice warm jacket! "But what're yeh both doin' out here in the cold?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Sliding off the black horse's back, Bedivere's sabatons hit the wet sand with an equally wet squelching sound. It's thoroughly unpleasant, and hefinds himselfimmensely grateful that there aren't any holes or leaks in them. That water looks dangerously cold, if the air is any indication. Winters in Siberia are kinder.

  "Good day, Wisewoman." Bedivere sketches a bow, reaching up to adjust his cloak. He's also wearing a scarf, which looks clumsy and hand-knit. A gift from Arturia, some years past, but a functional one; and one that he treasures. "Miss O'Suilebhain. I've no need of mead; I don't intend to linger for too long." Speaking of Arturia, she'll yell at him if he dallies out in this horrific cold.

  He gestures out towards the lake. "Putting aside the crudeness of my steed--" The Black One snorts, switching his tail in obvious irritation, "--I could not say. I fear my own skill in such matters is fledgling, at best. Perhaps more an issue than matters of the otherworld, it is from my observation a canny creature, given to more caution than most of its kind."

  Striding over, he stands near the rock Inga is perched on, looking out to the water and narrowing his eyes. "Like as not it knows we are here. It has watched this place, ere long; it knows who lives here, and what their patterns are, and when they draw too near the lake. Thank the Lord none have been taken, yet, to my knowledge. But I will rest easier when it is driven off or convinced that Dun Realtai is off-limits."

  "I am reminded," he adds, tilting his head and regarding Eithne, who seems bizarrely unaffected by the bitter cold. "Lady Alaia has given her blessing, if you should wish to subdue the creature, under the stipulation that I and my king are present, as stewards, in the event that aught should go amiss."

  ...Might be that the Fae can be tiny and adorable at times, but he's still a smarmy jerk.

  <Patrols.> The Black One's tone suggests his care for this activity is less than zero.

  "Patrols," Bedivere confirm. "Everything seems to be in order. I was on my way back to the citadel, if you should like to join me. I do not see Jodis, so if you prefer to ride, Wisewoman, you may use my steed."

  <Pah.>

  "It would be a breach of hospitality to leave her there," Bedivere says, serenely.

  </Bah/.> The Black One curls his lip scornfully, ears swivelling back, but he doesnt' argue. Inga would absolutely make it back home in one piece without being thrown off. Probably. Maybe.

Inga has posed:
Inga and Eithne both seem to have supernatural qualities that help protect them from the harmful effects of such cold weather, but to her knowledge, Bedivere does not. He's the one that needs scolding. Luckily, Inga knows Saber is up to the task and may perhaps takes some pleasure in it. So, she'll leave it to her.

"Ja, the creature likely knows we are here. But Eithne has made an offering, likely on several occasions. That may eventually bring it around. Patience is key," she replies.

What's the deal Black One? He's rather grumpy today! What about all those apples she's fed you, hmm!?

"Indeed, I did not want to bring Jodis out in this cold so I left her safe and warm in her stall. At cost to my feet I'm afraid, but I'm sure they'll be fine," she comments, looking down to her boots. "Worry not, I have other transportation. I'll be heading out of Dun Realtai to Chicago to meet Harry," she explains.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    Too bad she can't check to see if he's wearing the socks she gave him, but Eithne believes in Bedivere to not be an idiot that goes out into the cold without proper preparation. That's kind of her job. But the scarf, though perhaps clumsily-made, is cute. It must be a gift, she supposes, because why else would a royal wear something less than the best quality? Not flashy, but ... substantial. Long-wearing. Something like that. She looks down long enough to frown and scoop a squawking Sheela up into her arms. "Behave, you," she murmurs to him. Such sassy creatures around here! "Thanks! I'm concoctin' a strategy as we speak~"

    "Yeh know I'm perfectly able to go out on patrols as well, right?" she reminds Bedivere in turn, accidentally cocking her head at him in time with her pet. "I know yer the responsible sort, but yeh've also a responsibility to stay healthy." Is there no end to the number of women who would fuss at him???

    If Inga's going to Harry's place, then Eithne can spend all evening being lazy in front of the hearth and read in her pajamas! ...Not that she couldn't do that already, but if she's alone she can wear the extra special (sorta scanty, sorta frilly) set she quietly bought for herself. And roll around on the rug for a while. "Tell him I said hullo, would yeh?" she grins.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Despite his middling talent in otherworldly arts, there are no techniques that Bedivere knows of to shrug off the effects of cold weather. Fortunately, he does have a passing good knowledge of how to layer his clothing most efficiently to shut out the cold and wet.

  "Of course it knows. It isn't stupid. In fact, I consider it quite cunning," Bedivere muses, looking out toward the water again.

  He hasn't seen it of late, but he hasn't made a point of looking. Reports still reach him of the white horse standing fetlock-deep in the cold, nearly-frozen water, staring at the citadel or the town itself. The knight will rest much easier once that thing is less of an unknown quantity, be it subdued, driven off, or dispatched.

  Bedivere folds his arms.

  The Black One probably doesn't like the cold, and isn't apathetic to it or inured to it as his human associate is. Maybe the almost-snow has him grumpy. He'd rather be inside by a fire instead of traipsing around in the slush.

  "I see. Very well, then." Bedivere inclines his head. "Please give Master Dresden my regards, if you would be so kind."

  Sighing, Bedivere cocks his head to regard Eithne, the gesture almost bird-like despite its inherent exasperation. "Why is it that everyone assumes, no matter the outcome or how carefully I conduct myself, that I will be struck down by the most pernicious of maladies the moment I set foot beyond the threshold? I am not made of spun glass, Miss O'Suilebhain, despite the fact that I do not bear divine ichor in my veins or a Servant's categorical superhumanity. I have survived where countless others have fallen, like it or no. Is that not enough?"

  He even outlasted /Gawain/, for crying out loud. Doesn't that entitle him to at least a little bit of respect?

  "Besides," he adds, mildly. "Lady Arturia is quite capable of badgering me into remembering to take proper care of myself, in the rare occasions that I do not. I have no need of hearing it from three different sources."

  His poor dignity. It lives under a rock in a permanent state of terror.

Inga has posed:
Inga smiles and nods. "I will, of course," she replies to Bedivere.

To Eithne, she asks, "You'll make sure Jodis is warm and fed?" she reminds. Eithne doesn't really need to reminder though. She knows Eithne can hold down the fort well enough. It's quite convenient having her there. And pleasant.

A small laugh in Bedivere's direction. "It is only that we've seen you sick with some frequency--not any more than a normal person, but we have grown a bit unaccustomed to normal, haven't we?" she says with a grin. Multiverse, strange place.

Speaking of strange, Inga pulls a glowing orb from her pouch. "Well, I will take my leave. Pleasure to see you Bedivere, Black One. Take care Eithne, and let me know if anyone comes from the village needing my services while I'm out."

With that, she activates the agartha conduit and disappears in a flash of golden light.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    Eithne returns his gaze, mild as milk, though she doesn't quite speak up until after Inga's had her say. "Probably 'cause yeh keep doing just that, as she said. Nothin' shameful about it - nobody doubts yer dedication or yer loyalty. But we're more than willin' to help as we're able to. Besides, wouldn't it be good fer me to get out now an' then?" The worst she could possibly do is spook the villagers by riding her bicycle too fast through the town!

    Or, you know, destroy part of the countryside fighting a wandering monster. Whatever.

    "Right! Same with the ducks an' pigs." She's not at all a poor hand to have around a small farm; her unnatural hardiness makes Eithne good at manual labor. "Byyyyye~" Aaaaand she's gone.

    "I'll capture it one way or another. It'd be terrible if it came out on land and tried to eat someone. I suppose I'd have no choice but to kill it then." She... actually looks a bit distressed about it.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  <Fare thee well, Wisewoman.> The Black One apparently manages to sprout some manners in the eleventh hour, raising his head and whickering out loud to Inga as she takes her leave. That she does so through the Agartha Conduit doesn't seem to bother him at all.

  The silver-haired knight inclines his head respectfully as Inga excuses herself, and he might stare a little bit at that conduit.

  Just a little bit.

  Bedivere glances back to Eithne once they're left alone beside the shore of a half-frozen lake haunted by a man-eating horse spirit. The ambiance of the place should be enough to send most sane and rational people running screaming. He may not be much in the way of supernatural, but Bedivere is by no means a normal person; no more than the other crazies who live here.

  Dun Realtai is just full of the bizarre, abnormal outliers, isn't it?

  "Well, for what it may be worth, the creature has not yet attempted to drag anyone into the lake. I suppose I have caution to thank for that. The lake is forbidden to most people. It's simply too dangerous to let others stray too close." Bedivere gestures with one gauntleted hand to the reeds poking just above the surface, brown and grey in their dormancy. "If one can see into the reeds, the kelpie can see them... and it moves far more quickly than any human."

  He tilts his head in facsimile of a shrug. "I will not ask an eye for an eye. Until it actively attempts to do harm, I will not order it slain. Subdue it as you will, when we are prepared to, however. I will rest easier when it is honour-bound not to do harm in this place."

  <Do not think of her so cavalier.> The Black One turns slightly, head lolling to one side in a very un-equine and slightly creepy-looking gesture. <This one has spoken to her but once, enough to know that those of the water and those of the land fare poorly together. But know that she is proud. Call into question her pride, and it will fare poorly for you, Daughter of the Morrigú.>

  The Black One lowers his head slightly, fixing Eithne with the smoky gold of one eye. One can almost see the texture of smoke drifting across the surface of it. <Be cautious; that is all this one would advise. And do not think of her as a dumb animal. She is as intelligent as this one, wild and free.>

  <She is a creature of the water, and water is her element.>

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    She's been through Agartha once. It wasn't good, and it wasn't bad. Maybe the Buzzing doesn't care much about what it can't speak to - there's too much ichor in her veins for honey to sneak in as well. Much the same, the shore of the marsh doesn't bother her. It's just a haunted pond. What's to be scared of?

    Bedivere reminds her of the bargain she'd made with him and Arturia. "I've been watchin' the reeds. I saw it earlier," she tells him, glancing again towards the dead stalks. Sheela has already pecked the bag of meat the rest of the way open and is gorging himself on leftover scraps. She turns her blue eyes - a strange hue - onto the Black One and listens to him speak with a solemn expression. She meets his golden eye, unafraid.

    The pink line of her mouth slowly thins.

    "That's what I've been doin' wrong," she muses, tucking a blood-smeared hand underneath her chin. "I was looking at her as a predator first an' not a true fae. Too many stories, maybe..." Eithne looks a bit troubled, and turns to look out over the water. "I wasn't lookin' at her as a person." And she'd already been called out for it once, too, though not in such precise terms.

    She turns back to face the strange duo, boots squishing in the mud. "I was wrong. Yeh've done me a great favor by remindin' me, <Ceann Dubh>."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  <Oh, yes, she is there.> The Black One turns toward the reeds, ears pricking and tilting his head in that odd manner again. <But she is hidden from even this one's eyes. Well-hidden, oh yes, of that this one has no doubt. But she cannot hide forever, and not from this one. The Tylwyth Teg know their own kind.>

  For his part, Bedivere watches the reeds, but there doesn't seem to be anything to see. He isn't foolhardy enough to go poking at a cornered kelpie with a stick, literal or metaphorical, and so he returns his attention to Eithne. Any smarmy commentary from the ethereal war horse is stoically ignored.

  "It would be wise to remember its nature, yes. It is of the Tylwyth Teg, and not any mortal predator. A mortal predator would be by far easier to address. Driving it off or dispatching it would not be half so much a challenge as this. No; this is a thinking creature, a creature accustomed to healthy fear, respect, and mayhap even worship." Bedivere reaches up, rubbing at his jaw absently, the leather pads of his gauntlets cold. "I do not know that I would consider this creature malicious, but it certainly does not... ah... 'play by the rules' that you and I are accustomed to."

  Meanwhile, the Black One radiates smugness. It doesn't have to show any particular change in body language or anything. It just does.

  <This one is pleased to be of service, Daughter of the Morrigú.> His head lowers, turning to regard Bedivere once more. <In the meantime, if this one is not mistaken, the Once and Future King will be looking for you, mortal, if you do not return to the citadel soon. The shadows grow long and the hour grows late.>

  In other words, Arturia's going to go looking for him, and she's going to blow a few gaskets in sequence if she finds him out here on the shore of the lake.

  Bedivere clears his throat, mildly. "In any case, I should be returning to the citadel, soon. If there is nothing more that you require, we will be on our way." One brow arches, faintly. /Does/ she need anything else? He'd be a poor host if he didn't ask, after all.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    Mortal predators she's used to. Whether they wear fur or scale or skin... it would be unwise to think she hasn't done a bit of hunting on the streets of Belfast after her mother had come to find her. There's something about hunting wicked people that Eithne likes so much more than chasing down some poor animal.

    Shaking herself out of her reverie, Eithne crosses one ankle in front of the other and drops a fair rendition of a curtsey. "Please don't let me keep yeh. It's cold outside an' the dark's coming soon, as yeh said."

    She was very wrong. She's struck with the desire to run until her lungs ache... maybe after she's fed and put up the animals. "I'm absolutely fine. Have a safe trip back to the keep, yeah?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The silver-haired knight inclines his head in polite gesture, though those faded violet eyes are fixed on Eithne, muted curiosity in the arch of one brow. Everything does not seem quite alright with her, but he'd learned a long time ago not to question her strange moods.

  It would be just a little hypocritical. He himself is given to strange moods and brooding, every so often; a man with unseen scars like his could hardly be faulted for it. No doubt Eithne, too, has her moments, and her scars that cannot be seen. So he lets her wear her strange mood, her strange desire to run and push herself to her limits.

  "As you wish, then, Miss O'Suilebhain." The knight lowers his head, touching his forehead in a gesture of respect. The Black One stands quietly as Bedivere vaults astride the great destrier. How he does so in plate armour is anyone's guess, but it probably comes from years of experience, and half a lifetime wearing armour in that same style. He was one of Camelot's finest horsemen, and it comes as no surprise, even seeing him interact with a creature like a pooka.

  The Black One tilts his head, curling his lip back and showing yellowed teeth to Eithne in a sort of weird, creepy horse-grin. <Do have fun.>

  With a flick of the tail, the pooka wheels in the wet sand, kicking up saturated sand as he throws himself across the shore -- all the power and speed of the world's finest war horse.

  Too bad it's paired with the personality of the world's biggest jerk.