768/The Heretical Bowman of Dun Realtai

The Heretical Bowman of Dun Realtai
Date of Scene:	08 October 2014
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	Shirou practises archery by way of firing swords from a magically reinforced bow, and Bedivere shows up to find out what all the racket is.
Cast of Characters:	482, 560

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Emiya Shirou (560) has posed:
Archery practice is indeed the name of the game.

Shirou's in the courtyard, by a makeshift archery range. OR by the main one if there is one. If not, well, grabbing some bales of hay and stacking them up is cheap and easy.

Shirou's outdoors in the crisp cold, wearing his usual local outfit. But he's standing many, many paces away from the hay bales and crudely drawn bulls-eye targets. And lodged in one of those targets are... four or five... 'arrows.'

Calling them arrows is more functional than anything else. If they're fired from a bow, they're arrows. But these arrows gleam metallic. They are swords, and also arrows. Estocs, altered and streamlined, with their guards reduced to a state barely better than ornamentation and a notch in the grip for the string.

The bow he is using for this insane task is not exactly of local make either. It is simultaneously Projected and Reinforced, if a bit crudely, in order to handle the strain, but it is a bow of his modern world - a composite bow with highly articulated pulleys and gadgetry, with synthetic materials for string.

The magus materializes a new Estoc.' it warps and distorts into an identical state like the otehrs, and he calmly mounts.. takes several long moments aiming... and fires. A simple exercise that he repeats several times.

One cannot really call this too irresponsible, as those are not Noble Phantasms and the worst they can do is break into metal pieces.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
There are still plenty of structures that haven't been rebuilt within Dún Reáltaí's keep. These include the barracks, the kennels, the stables, and the aviary. the outer bailey, the yard in front of the barracks one level down from the castle keep itself, has room for an archery range; but at this point, it's by far easier to set up bales of hay in the inner bailey, at the very top of the hill.

The cold is indeed crisp. The ground is wet from recent rain, and the sky is clear as a bell, with that crisp blue that only autumn can bring. In spite of that, the sunlight is on the weak side, and offers comparatively little warmth in light of the gentle breeze. although it doesn't blow too hard, it carries the bite of winter in it; a herald of the winter to come, perhaps.

Down comes Sir Bedivere from the keep itself. He looks a little better today than he did the previous evening, some of the colour returned to him. there are bandages visible even under his heavy commoners' clothing. Some of them are spotted with blood. Much as had been the night before, the wounds are not restricted to any particular place, and there is an especially large bandage that winds over his right shoulder, where one of the nightmare-birds had ripped it right down to the bone.

He moves slowly and stiffly as he comes to a halt in the courtyard. It's just in time to have a look at what exactly it is that Shirou's doing, and to get a good look at the 'arrows' lodged in the targets.

...That is not how swords are supposed to be used.

Bedivere blinks somewhat owlishly at this display as Shirou fires another estoc, setting a small drift of hay to floating from the point of impact. The bits of straw are snatched by the cold breeze and sent tumbling.

The silver-haired knight stares at the display in front of him. To his credit, he does not gape, but to go by his expression, he does seem a bit flabbergasted by this extremely unorthodox use of swords. In truth, he would never think about using them in such a way. Aside from the impracticality, he has not the strength of arm to hurl a blade like that, and the strain would tear apart a normal bow. Even a modern bow lacks the fortitude to be used for such a purpose, evidenced by the Reinforcement that prevents it from coming apart at the seams.

Bedivere sighs, his good shoulder slumping a little. "Well, Master Shirou, I can always trust you to find new and different ways of defying my expectations."

Emiya Shirou (560) has posed:
The strain of this is already causing wear and tear on Shirou's bow. He's fired about a dozen... and the bow has been creaking and groaning badly. They can't handle repeated use like this.

But you only need a few arrows at most to fell a target, right?

At Bedivere's approach, the redhead lowers his weapon and the altered Estoc to look over. "B-... Sir Bedivere?" Oh, so he did come down. Shirou makes a face though...

"Hrmph. You were the one who suggested I try to outsmart and outmanuever an enemy instead of blindly charging at them." ... And this is his answer? Sword arrows?

With a friendly warmth in his gaze Shirou ambles over. "How are you feeling? Any better at all since yesterday?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"I was thinking more of melee tactics when I gave to you that advice," Bedivere admits, shifting his weight and reaching up to rub at the back of his neck. He does so with his left hand, and though it still hurts to move, it isn't the blind agony of his gouged shoulder. In fact, his right arm is almost useless. "I suppose this applies. I would not personally expect an archer to be raining swords upon his enemies. Had I know you preferred archery, however, I would have taught you differently... I have some knowledge of the bow."

He tilts his head, regarding the archery targets. In spite of the unorthodox technique, it seems the young man is a good shot with those swords. Most of them appear to be on-target. Better yet, the courtyard isn't in shambles from this.

"Hm?" He glances over at Shirou's approach, brows quirking in an expression almost concerned. "Ah. Yes, I am hale. As hale as can be expected after what happened, that is to say. I have been resting, and my lord has been tending my wonds." The last is given with what almost seems to be an embarrassed tone. It's hardly proper conduct fitting one's king, and he considers himself hardly worth the trouble. Yet it is the conduct that a lord might expect from his lady, and that's exactly what the village folk seem to think that king and knight are.

Bedivere shifts his weight uncomfortably. "My armour is ruined, however, and I am fortunate my sword has not suffered a similar fate. I will have need of commissioning a new set, for I cannot forsake it entirely. I have not the talents and skills that so many of the Union's Elites would appear to have; I am but mortal, although I suppose that is evidently obvious by this point." He sighs, shaking his head. "Troubles for another day, in any case. I will be here, resting for some time and healing, before I take on any more tasks for the Union."

He gives a low chuckle, although it's little more than a breath through nis nose. "Ah, but forgive me my meandering words. What of you, Master Shirou? I am to understand you took injury in that battle, as well. How fare you? You seem quite healed, by my estimate..." He sounds almost puzzled at the observation.

Emiya Shirou (560) has posed:
"If I knew whatever weird power is healing me, I'd share it in a heartbeat." Shirou declares in a somewhat guilty tone while his eyes wander over Bedivere's wounds. The magus sighs a bit, showing a twinge of Exasperation and consternation.

"It has to have something to do with the keep here. Even a nasty stab heals in a day or two if I rest here. I don't like walking around without any problems while you're stuck like that... why this place only heals me, it just seems unfair." Becasue Saber also is here is why, but who'll ever figure out that connection?

"un. Homurahara - my school - has an archery club. Despite this weird magic... and I guess I've always liked swords... I'm not too bad with a bow. It was just a sport an exercise before this... I guess it's not much compared to people who really use them to hunt and fight. Even swordsmanship in my time's just used for sports and competition." And yet, for whatever reason, Shirou's chosen to use these archaic weapons to fight with..

He rubs his own arm though, where he was being climbed up on by the illusionary burning man... "You and Saber get along so well, just trying to approach is difficult." He remarks in a lightly joshing tone. "She's really good at dressing up wounds... that got me by surprise." Well, for all Bedivere's embarassed by it, Shirou's simplemindedly praising it.

He apparently has little idea of trying to analyze how medieval political image works. Now, japanese schools, sure...

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"I do not know. It must be some intrinsic quality of yours, though, rather than the keep. No one else appears to have the same kind of connection that you do." Bedivere rubs his jaw thoughtfully with his left hand, momentarily baring the red command seal. "Perhaps this land is atop a leyline? I do not know. A mystery to solve another day, I suppose. do not concern yourself over me. I have suffered far worse than this. I will heal."

His head tilts, but he doesn't seem to be particularly disapproving of archery and swordsmanship taking such a background role in the modern era. At least the arts are remembered in some form.

"Is it?" Bedivere's pale brows quirk when Shirou confesses the difficulty in approaching him. "I did not intend to lend that impression, Master Shirou. You can always come to me if there is aught that you need, or even if you simply wish to talk. I am sorry for that, then, to have lent the wrong impression. It was a necessity, in Camelot. I was among the highest-ranking of the Knights of the Round Table, yet for all that, I was not actually born in Albion. I am from Dál Riata, which was a kingdom farther to the north."

"My people were of Alba and ULaidh – ah, I believe you know them as 'Scotland' and 'Ireland,' now. And it is true, I also have some Saxon blood in my veins, for all that they were the bitter enemies of Camelot for many years. I was viewed with no small amount of suspicion... and so it was necessary that I project a certain aura of... hm. Strength, yes, and confidence." Bedivere shakes his head, faintly. "Yet we work together well, because I served as the Left Hand of the King for twenty years."

"My lord and I know how one another think; we are similar in personality, and we are capable of communicating without words, for each knows how the other thinks. That, too, was necessary in Camelot. Orders need not be spoken, and we were a devastating force together on the battlefield, for we did not need to speak our directions to know what the other would do. Although my duties were technically as her military advisor, tactician, military logistics, and the one to whom her generals answered," he explains, "I also consider myself her bodyguard, and I am perhaps the one whom she spent the most time with. If there were social functions she must needs attend, I was there to guard the king. If she met with an enemy in parlay, I too was there to advise and to guard."

He smiles, a little faintly. "I suppose it is only natural that it must seem strange, that we work together so well... but I was the first of her knights." His expression falters, just slightly. "And I was also the last of them."

To the matter of dressing wounds, though, he shrugs his good shoulder. "She is skillful in many things. Her training was a bit different than most, and she learned from Sir Ector many useful skills that many knights would otherwise not. She knows to bind a wound, to find shelter, and to survive in the wilds; to wield a sword in her right or left hand, and a quill as well. These were not things that I learned, I am shamed to say, and while perhaps they were not so relevant when she was king, my lord has nonetheless remembered this training. And," he adds, dipping his chin briefly toward the bandaging covering his left shoulder, "put it to most excellent use."

Emiya Shirou (560) has posed:
"...Huah?" Shirou regards Bedivere incredulously, but the explanation is so sincere that he can't even try interrupting. He listens politely, though his eyes go slightly askew.

"Nah... not you. You and Saber and together." What the heck's that supposed to mean? "... maybe it's just her." He begrudgingly admits. If anything Shirou's been nothing but friendly towards and even admires Saber, but he's not had much opportunity to speak with her past their original meeting.

"... though I'm surprised you got even this far if people were that worried. Yeah... I can see how much Saber trusts you." But Saber went and explained how things weren't so great in the end... that Dún Reáltaí is a second chance. Simpler, without as much consternation...

He face twitches. "... You're not the last. That's like saying everything's over. Look here... there will be more, won't they?" He's trying to be positive. "... maybe the last of Camelot's knights. But Dún Reáltaí's just getting started!" He contests, trying to cheer Bedivere up a bit.

"... Oh, right!" Suddenly remembering something, Shirou straightens. "Your armor got all messed up because I wasn't quick enough to escape the fire, so I found a possible replacement. I doubt it'll look as knightly, though. There's a smith who'll make things out of monster hide. A woman named Ysabel took a group hunting a giant wyvern-like creature called a Meraginas. The thing's hide is pretty tough. If you want a suit of that all we need is the measurements."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"My lord and I together? I do not know what you mean by that." Bedivere tilts his head a little, brow furrowing. "But you are free to speak to either of us at any time. You are a guest here, and while I will not formally accept you as my squire, you are... as close to that which I would come." In other words, there is a certain degree of trust that he would not otherwise afford most people. Shirou seems to have his head screwed on mostly straight, and while he does need guidance, the potential is there. "You are from another era and a different time, but I believe you might have made a fine knight, in Camelot."

His head shakes. "As to that... it is something of an embarrassing misconception. My lord rarely has need of her ceremonial armour, and wears no crown. The people of Dún Reáltaí do not know that she is my king, and so they have come to the conclusion that she is my lady. Ah, that I am lord, and that she is my, ah, wife." His face flushes at the mere thought of it. It's mortifying, but it is what it is, and he'll hear it from the people sooner or later.

"We have not seen fit to correct their misconception, as it would seem necessary for their morale that we present the image of a stable noble family, just as it was necessary in Camelot to present the image of a stable royal family, as my lord had need of with Lady Guinevere... though this is by far less complicated," he adds, looking away. It was still regrettable the way that turned out. Another gentle part of his soul had died during the conclusion of that mess; it had put to death a good young woman, embittered and driven mad a fine knight, and splintered the kingdom irrepairably. "It is for their benefit, and once the winter is behind us, we will tell them the truth."

Sighing, he shakes his head. "Regardless of misinterpretations, you are correct. I served my lord for twenty years as the Left Hand of the King and through the worst of Camelot's ordeals. Although she has been forced to do terrible things in the name of the king, I trust her absolutely, and I know that trust is returned; ever have I served her faithfully, and ever shall I in times to come. I am her Left Hand, her marshal; her first-and-last knight. So it was, and so it shall be."

He frowns a little, regarding Shirou thoughtfully when he expresses his distress at endings. "Perhaps. But it is the truth," Bedivere says, gently. "They are none of them truly alive, Master Shirou. They are constructs of magic. They left their mortal lives behind, and for them, it has been centuries, even if it was but five short years ago, for me. I am the last of Camelot. But you are right – Dún Reáltaí is a beginning." He looks to the keep and its patchwork of old and new stone, and he even smiles, a little faintly. "More importantly, it is a home; something that I have never truly had. Camelot was no home to me. And it is a home to her, as well, for it was no more home to her, in spite of her reign. No," he corrects himself, shaking his head, "because of her reign."

Shifting his weight, he falls silent as Shirou brings up the matter of the armour. That Shirou takes direct responsibility for it seems not to really register, though, to go by the way he cants his head and stares blankly at the red-headed magus. What? While it's admirable to take responsibility, sometimes the ways in which Shirou seems to both make and connect the dots is a little... well...

"Ah? Is that so?" For a moment he looks surprised; a completely unguarded expression. "I–I am touched, Master Shirou."

And then, slowly, painfully, he tucks an arm over his stomach and inclines forward in a formal and respectful bow.

"You have my thanks. I shall see to it that you receive them."

Emiya Shirou (560) has posed:
Shirou ponders on that, though the face he's making while doing so is... vaguely disapproving. It's not his business. he knows that. But as a human being he can't help but wonder on it regardless, and his gut answer is AUGH.

The boy's angrered every time he thinks on the things he's being told. It's not fair. She must've workd so hard. She and the others at the table... most of them. For it to lead to this...

"... I hate how heroics so often leads to tragic ends. It's one thing if it was just a story... but the real people who went through it are right in front of me." The magus declares solemnly. "... I wasn't born then... and honestly, if I was the results probably wouldn't change. But at the very least, I'll do what I can to make things here better. You can come to me too if you need anything. Besides tinkering, extra muscle and some cooking there's not much I can offer though." His words have turned softer, picking up on Bedivere's regrets.

"... Something like that should never have to happen again." And yet there's a depth to his words... he's probably not talking just about Camelot.

"... ah. Taht settles it... yeah. It just needs to be a home too. Yeah, I agree with waiting until after winter." He seems to be brightening in mood after that sudden realization. ".... Okay! Well, maybe you'd better look at it. Some of the stuff I saw Ysabel wearing... it doesn't have that knight in shining armor feel to it. The people might look at it funny."

Seems Bedivere's concerns are jogging his own dense thoughts.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"No," Bedivere agrees, softly. "It is not right. It was not right, then, and it is only partly right, now."

The knight sighs, reaching up with his left hand and rubbing at his jaw in contemplative gesture, eyes hooded. His gesture seems somehow weary, but not necessarily from a physical sense. "But do not concern yourself overmuch with it, young master. What's done is done. It is, in many worlds, no more than the distant past. Much of my king's sacrifices were the direct result of her secrets, and they were secrets necessary to the very foundations of Camelot."

"Heroics... and that is the problem,there. We do not consider what we do heroic. We only seek to fulfill our duties, and to act in accordance with the chivalric virtues. We seek no reward." Shaking his head softly, the knight shifts his weight. He might sit if the ground weren't damp. Instead, he folds his arms, perhaps against the chill of the wind; although his clothing is thick and warm, he misses his mantled cloak. Perhaps he can at least have that replaced. "But you are right."

"Dún Reáltaí is for us a home, and a chance of redemption of the failed dream... my king sought utopia for her people, but we could not achieve it in our lifetimes. At the very least, she could not, before..." Before she perished, but he has not the heart to say it. There's something so incredibly haunted in his eyes at that reminder – more than the grief of a faithful knight; something that lends some credence to the villagers' misconception. It passes, but he seems a little more subdued once it does. "Dún Reáltaí is our second chance, and our home, aye."

He looks up and out to the village, where even now people can be seen toiling, applying finishing touches to their homes or attempting to return the market square to some semblance of order. Bedivere smiles, softly.

"It is only a temporary position, but I am glad to have had this opportunity. These people are not unlike my king and I, young master. They have been broken, and abused, and they have despaired and lost much... but they are yet given a second chance, to piece their lives together again." His violet eyes flick back to Shirou, and he smiles that faint smile again. "And that is why I will ever cherish this place. It is a home, but not simply for these people. For my king and I, too; we who have searched so wearily for such a thing... even if we did not know we were searching."

Shifting his weight, he regards Shirou with his head canted slightly to one side. "Aye, we will wait until after winter." Of course, the irony is that the villagers aren't that far from the truth – even if knight and king stubbornly refuse to acknowledge such a thing openly. Everyone else can see it, no matter how much they might try to hide it. there's no hiding such a bond. Even Bedivere's command seal betrays it – ornate and intricate, far more so than many others, despite his lack of training as a magus; reflective of the unbreakable bond between Master and Servant.

"Mm. I should like to see to it, then, when you've the opportunity, and please pass my thanks on to this Lady Ysabel, as well. As for that, well, perhaps they are more tolerant than you may think – but yes, I should like to see it, first, I think."

Emiya Shirou (560) has posed:
"Temporary...?" Shirou blurts this out stupidly, as he hadn't thought of it before now. Temporary? Really?

"Is someone else stepping up to it later?" He doesn't bring up all of the dreadful stuff when he can avoid it. Why remind Bedivere of the awful, or make insensitive comments...?

"What will you do later, if this is just temporary?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Temporarily," Bedivere agrees. "The proper guardian of this place is a winter-spirit, a winter-witch. We have made an arrangement. In exchange for the use of this land by Union forces, and her permission to remain here, we are to bring to her the magician that has wronged her. She is regathering her strength from this magician's ill-considered actions."

"She will then resume guardianship of this land, to the best of my knowledge, for that is the role she has carried for several generations, I am to understand. She was once a resident here, but she struck a bargain with the World, and became rather more like a nature-spirit, or perhaps one of the Tylwyth Teg, the Ever-Living Fair Folk... ah, but in any case, those are her terms, and I intend to abide by them, for that is what I agreed to. A knight is only as good as his word, after all, for that is his pride more than any weapon or armour."

"As for what I will do, I do not know." Bedivere shrugs his good shoulder, and for a moment he looks almost crestfallen. The fleeting smile that flickers across his fcae is subtle, and a little bittersweet. "I will be honest, though; I am tempted to ask her a favour, that I might remain here, and my king as well. We have both grown fond of this place. If it is not meant to be, I think I should be sorry to leave it behind."


"Even so..." Drawing himself up, he stretches a little, shifting his weight. "For now, though, I should be off. I have promised my king that I would rest, and so rest I shall. It was good to take some air, though, and I am always glad to speak to you. Call if you should have need of anything, Master Shirou."

With that, the silver-haired knight will hobble back in the direction of the keep, provided Shirou doesn't move to stop him. As nice as it is outside, it's cold, and resting in front of the great hall's hearth sounds like a good idea.