821/Dreary Autumn

Dreary Autumn
Date of Scene:	18 October 2014
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	Mizuki decides to have a proper conversation with someone she had previously only met in passing, and in so doing indulge her curiosity over precisely what manner of person the Lord of Dún Reáltaí is.
Cast of Characters:	183, 482

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Welcome to the Fortress of Stars, Dún Reáltaí... although most days, it's difficult to see how it might have earned that name. Nobody seems to remember or care what name it had been before it was rescued from its ruin.

The area itself is a broad, open plain of gently rolling hills, currently barren of even a hint of vegetation. Most of the hills are little more than bare earth, although the colour of the soil suggests that it might someday be fertile again. A single hill rises from what is more or less the heart of the valley, tall and somewhat misshapen, more of a cliff on its eastern side, and a more gradual slope to its west. A ruined curtain wall encircles the base of this hill, and a ruined village lies within the bounds of this wall, crawling up the west-to-east slope up the base of the hill. Halfway between foot and summit is an open market square with a crumbling dusty fountain, with more new-looking buildings in mediaeval style clustered around the open space, including a large building that looks like an inn.

Higher up the hill, the buildings become sparse again, falling to ruin. A fallen-down gate lies at the top of the hill, and the curtain walls are only partly crumbled around an inner courtyard at the top.

An absolutely massive, barren oak tree dominates one side of this open courtyard. Its roots are not quite sunk into the ground, and they're large enough to form almost bench-like protrusions under its monstrous, spreading branches. The ruins of building foundations are strewn at the outer edges, but one of the buildings – what looks like a church – is more or less restored. The castle keep itself, a great tower five storeys in height, rises beside the tree. It looks like a motley patchwork of stone, repaired and set back to standing upright more. Its timbers and the glass of its windows are both new.

In all, it's a place that seems to have had the life crushed from it; and only now, with care and attention, does it seem to be coming back, with ongoing reconstruction efforts. This place suffered a disaster of some kind – but now it looks forward to the future, weary as the land and its people may be, and cautiously seems to be set on picking itself up out of the ruins and continuing forward.

The day is dreary, and it makes Dún Reáltaí seem even more drab than it is. The lack of vegetation doesn't help, nor does the driving rain against the darkening sky outside, threatening to become a thunderstorm.

Inside, the great hall is warm, lit by firelight from the single, enormous hearth that dominates one side of the room. The other side is lined by a long table and matching benches. In here, the patchwork nature of the masonry is even more noticeable, where great holes had been sealed up in the ceiling and walls. Tattered banners hang from the new timbers supporting its ceiling, and over the hearth, a rusted, crumbling greatsword hangs; trophy from some battle no one remembers.

Yet there is life in this place. In spite of the rain, there are a few servants bustling about the castle, and down in the village, taking care not to let themselves get too wet as they go about their business.

Sir Bedivere of Dún Reáltaí – for that is how he introduces himself, any more, rather than being of Camelot, or the Round Table; things dead and gone – has obediently spent the day inside. In fact, the lord of this place can be found in front of the hearth, sagged in one of the big chairs in front of the fire, with a blanket pulled halfway over him, dozing. He had spent most of the morning on an errand that he wouldn't tell his guest or fellow residents about, and it had involved borrowing a horse and riding for a foreign world. The object of his quest is visible atop the table on the other side of the room – a single potted plant, one immediately recognisable to anybody from Camelot.

Lily-of-the-valley, a pretty little flower that had once been common as weeds in the fields. This time, though, it's not a cut arrangement that will inevitably fade, but a potted plant, carefully cared-for and slowly coming out of its droopy, wilty appearance in the warmth of the hall.

He wasn't expecting any visitors, but then again, the Left Hand of the King sleeps lightly. Truth be told, putting aside his exhaustion, he knows he's going to be scolded for leaving in such weather sooner or later... but for right now, it's a welcome rest, however light it is.

Mizuki (183) has posed:
Dreary days simply are not that for Mizuki, in all truth. Just as many poems and tales are told of rain and snow as there are of any sun, if not moreso, and to a person who lacks a biology that constantly drives for homeostasis, things like 'wetness' and 'coldness' are a fair bit more consequential than they might be for most. So she takes absolutely no issue with simply flying past the city, finding for herself a panoramic view of crumbling inns and forlorn streets, all of which are caught in the rapture of misty clouds above.

It would be an outright lie to say that she isn't already happy with herself for choosing to come. Though initially she had the idea of visiting a specific person, she has been satisfied in short order by the atmosphere. Once upon a time, she occupied days of her time attempting to paint ruins just like these, and even if this place is gradually being resurrected, it certainly retains much of its melancholy aura. Priscilla's world has much of that, too, and in spite of herself she continues to find herself in places of such charge. Tis the fate of a whimsical and melodramatic author with the freedom to traverse the air and time, of course; when you have few troubles to occupy your life, other pursuits must. And for her, that pursuit has become this exact variety of exploration.

She notices the castle immediately - even in all its modesty, how could one not? - but elects to alight at the foot of the tree first. She places a hand at its trunk and stands still a moment, closing her eyes and engaing in no small amount of melodramatic reverie. 'How long have you been here?' Her mannerisms would seem to ask, "And what sorts of stories have you to tell?" But alas, it is not within her capabilities to read the minds of flora. Were she only so lucky, though, she would have far more to ramble about to any sentient (and animate) enough to listen.

And speaking of such persons, one comes in to being soon after. Or, rather, she appears; whether or not she has just manifested is certainly debatable. A bespectacled, brown-haired girl appears in complete silence, tip-toeing up to the lady's side. She greets her with the same reticence, acknowledging her with a bow of her head. "Well, I did come here with a purpose, no?" She grins. "Best not to put things off for too long. Come, come." The girl smiles and nods, and the pair take off, on foot this time, for the door of the keep.

Thankfully, there are no obstructions there, either; rather, she is met with the comforting, warm glow of a fire somewhere further off. Mizuki enters in an almost reverent silence, inspecting each incongruity in the castle's walls as well as any tapestries or torch stances that might decorate them. Certainly, it has been some time since she has been to a 'conventionally' medieval setting. There was Ivalice, but that was hardly mainstream human history. Even the regions of her own home that have similar architecture are hard to call pure strain, so this is, however ironically given her manner of dress and other traits, a bit of a departure from her norms. Though it is very much a pleasant one, mind, and a reserved smile adorns her countenance for the length of her walk to Bedivere's position.

... and of course, the man is asleep. She frowns faintly. She can't in good conscience wake him knowing the trying work that has lightly defined his evening, but then she isn't inclined to leave either. So she makes a bet with herself: if, in time, her presence in the room alone does not stir him, then she will bite the bullet and jostle him back to the world of consciousness. Otherwise, she shall delight in knowing that her facade of politeness was accepted by reality. Though, part of her motivation for doing this is to see the look of surprise on his face when he does notice her, so it is hard to call this proper etiquette at all. Alas, the poor knight; so giving with his own grace, but so seldom is that requited by the rest of the world.

For now, though, she is occupied by the presence of a certain flower on the other side of the room. Though she couldn't encapsulate all the reasons why in word alone, seeing that here is a bit... sobering. It completes the poetic image that she had been forming in her mind's eye until this point, to be sure. So while she patiently awaits the man's awakening, she softly steps nearer to run a finger over one of its petals. In the meanwhile, the girl who had come in with her remains in a corner, looking around fervently, writing away. Even as she does so, though, not a sound emanates from her being.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The oak tree in the courtyard offers no answer, although perhaps there's a hint of a tingling sensation when touched. Something about this towering sentinel speaks of power, latent, like a sleeping dragon. The Wisewoman of Uppsala had said that it was a guardian, and so it seems to be, dreaming its slow dreams as the world marches past beyond it. One wonders how it must have escaped the ruination of the land around it, or whether it still lives. Only time will tell when spring coaxes forth its leaves. For now, its dark wood will not yield its secrets.

Despite the reparations of the walls, and the tattered banners hanging from the roof supports, there are no tapestries to speak of hanging from Dún Reáltaí's walls. Most of them were likely cast off from the walls, given to rot where they lay, and discarded. The walls are largely barren, though here and there are sconces for torches, some of them occupied and lit to provide light. A few candles are on the great hall's long table to offer what light they can.

Slowly, violet eyes slide open to half-mast.

He knows without looking that there is someone in the keep. It is not Gawain. Gawain has all the talent in stealth of a raging bull. Nor is it Jeanne, who would announce herself. Loros would not come without asking, for he is also bound by the ancient laws. And he would know immediately and without doubt if it were Arturia.

For a brief instant something cold and frightened passes into those eyes, and he reaches for a sword that isn't there before straightening. Bedivere does not appreciate surprises. He straightens, as though aware of his error, and casts off the fur-lined blanket to climb slowly and wearily to his feet. He moves with the grace of a warrior, but it's tempered by the stiffness of one recovering from injury. Linen bandaging can still be seen beneath the short sleeves of his homespun tunic, and just beneath the line of the tunic's collar. His entire right shoulder seems to be wrapped, and his right arm moves strangely, as though he couldn't quite feel it properly.

He stands there for a moment, regarding both young women with thinned lips and his head tilted faintly, as though he were considering what to make of them. His brow furrows slightly, head tilting in the other direction, as though he couldn't quite decide what to make of them.

One of them is studying the lily-of-the-valley he had 'acquired' for Arturia, and she has a most peculiar expression on her face.

These two are... puzzling.

"May I help you?" he finally states, sounding uncertain. His voice is soft, gentle; more so than one might expect from a man. Indeed, there is a certain softness to his features, his face clean-shaven; pale lashes somewhat long. Some might mistake him for a woman, and in some ways, it's easy to see how they might. Yet the lines of his throat are wrong, and his shoulders are broad, among other subtle tells – he simply doesn't bother to project a more masculine air. He never had need of it then, nor does he now; there is no one here he need prove himself to. He seems to be speaking Welsh, rather than the English that seems common among many Elites, and his pronunciation is meticulous enough to suggest eloquence, and a certain degree of formality.

His arms fold over his chest, though the gesture doesn't seem defensive. "Who comes into this hall, unannounced...?" The question isn't angry; merely curious, head still canted just slightly to one side while he studies the two young ladies. His expression suggests a certain displeasure, perhaps, but it isn't directed at them – merely himself, for lowering his guard so much. These two seem vaguely familiar, somehow; but what if it had been an enemy slipping past his guard...?

Mizuki (183) has posed:
Still not entirely in a spirit fitting a humble visitor, Mizuki delays a moment before turning to Bediverse when addressed, electing instead to give the modest floral arrangement a lingering glance. The girl in the corner, though, has the tact to briefly cease the haphazard scrawl she is effecting upon the pages of her massive tome - truly, so massive that one so frail should not be able to hold it - and offer the knight a gentle wave of her hand. In time, though, Mizuki does turn to face him as well, laying her palms flat at her sides in a fluid gesture of greeting. A curtsey. Then she rises and stands straight again, folding her hands at her waist.

"Good evening. I hope you'll pardon the intrusion." Some recognition of their trespass, at last. Though, may he help her? She shakes her head at his first question. "Though, no, I do not require any aid as of now. I am but a transient and a wayfarer, here to indulge my wanderlust. If I am intrusive, then feel free to treat me as you would any phantom." She widens her grin faintly. "Indeed, I shall have about as much impact upon this place and your person while I visit." Her enunciation is not so different from Bedivere's own, in earnest, though there is something decidedly different about the hints of its undertones. Its surface of calmness and gentility clearly belies something far more... chaotic. Presumptuous, even, though somehow not unpleasantly so.

At the knight's own folding of his arms, hers meander to her back, locking themselves in place. She takes a few gradual, easy steps forward afterward, bringing herself within a more comfortable speaking distance. And then he broaches... something else. How to introduce herself today, she wonders? Certainly not through some cliche. So much lies in the impressions, the nuance; care must be applied in copious quantities if indeed she wants to leave the desired mark. So how to turn a peaceable trespass such as this one into something even more benign, or better still, friendly?

Oh, yes. Yes, she has just the thing.

"I know you, Sir Bedivere, and we have met before. I certainly assign no blame to the fact that you do not remember me, however; it was an ephemeral first meeting, and one even I do not well remember. But even so, I was curious of one thing." She gives a flutter of her lashes. "Have you been able to make any good use of my gift as of yet? The tea set, if you recall; a bauble in return for the success of your missions here. Though I am not in the least aware of your accomplishments and dealings, I nonetheless believed they deserved reward in some form."

She elects not to tease him for his 'demure' mannerisms for the time being. Though she is most certainly vividly aware of their existence, she more appreciates it than anything. It saves him from the overbearing air that so many others, male and female, seem to posses. An attitude of the unassuming, and the subtle, is one of the expressions of humility that she appreciates the most. So, she will simply have to tease him about other things.

"Ahh, have you considered what you are going to do with this castle, when its mending is finished? I'll have you know, though I've no commendations to show, I fancy myself quite the interior decorator." She conceals her mouth with a flowing sleeve. "If ever you need assistance, do let me know. I am fairly easy to reach, all told." Teases over things like like that, in fact; things that come completely out of nowhere, and have no relevant connections to anything, are her speciality.

The less conspicuous young lady off in the corner continues her writings soon after, but gives Bedivere a glance and a smile every now and then should he take notice.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
It takes a few seconds for that introduction to strike a chord. While her appearance is only vaguely familiar to him, it's the voice that triggers his memory. He's heard that voice before, although it takes him several more seconds to realise exactly where. He's also still in the process of waking fully.

"Ah. Forgive me, Lady Mizuki. I remember you, now." Bedivere inclines forward in a formal bow, though his expression still seems faintly troubled. It isn't like him to forget things, but that night had been a long one, full of many strange happenings, and a full drinking-horn of mead. That last one in particular had not treated him kindly. "It has indeed. And think not of reward. I deserve none, for I have only been fulfilling my duties."

Trust him to be modest, and exemplify the virtue of Generositas. It's as natural to him as breathing; something he doesn't even think about, although it's less of an affected behaviour, and more that he simply doesn't have the same sense of self-worth as many others do.

"This castle?" He blinks somewhat owlishly at her teasing, but apparently he doesn't consider it such. "Ah. I should have clarified to the Union through my reports, if I did not. It is only a temporary position; temporary guardianship while I rebuild, and until this land's rightwise guardian may resume her post... interior decorating?" This time, his regard is a little blank. "I had not thought of such a thing. There is no need for it, not when we have had such a struggle merely ensuring that the people have enough food to last them the winter."

Shifting his weight, he seems not to know quite what to make of this guest and her boldness. His eyes do flit to the corner every so often, regarding the young woman writing furiously in her tome, but other than an acknowledging dip of his chin, he doesn't call her out.

"Hm. Is that why you've come here? Or is there something else? I am sorry to say we have no need of such talents, although I do not doubt your word." Bedivere considers for a moment. "May I interest you in a cup of tea? You have come here as a guest, after all, and I would be a poor host indeed if I did not at least offer."

Mizuki (183) has posed:
Mizuki shakes her head and her hand in a simultaneous, placating manner. "Don't fret. It's not as though I've taken any offense. Indeed, if I were to grow uncomfortable at the minor indiscretion of being glazed over by one's more prevalent and pressing thoughts, or worse, to begrudge someone for such, I do not wish to contemplate how I would react to more genuine evils. Quite violently, I should think." She smiles, bowing her head gently once more more as he does. "Still, I do so appreciate your graciousness. Such a rarity it some days seems!" She's certainly one to talk, isn't she? But then, hypocrisy has never kept one from commentating on their own iniquities.

At the next dismissal of his contributions, though, it is her turn to cross her arms. "Come, come. If there was not compensation in some form for your duties, no matter your wherewithal nor your dedication, it would one day wear at you. There is some practicality in accepting it, therefore. Ah, and as per what I've said before: even if, to you, it feels just another fulfilment of some vocational obligation, remember that the people you have lent aid to see it as far more." She smiles, picking up her gaze just slightly. "But none of this is to say that I don't value your reservation of the matter. Truly, this world could use more souls so principled."

Her expression quiets some with the next words out of his mouth, however, the gentle slopes at her mouth's corners inverting their slope. Regardless of their impact, though, she continues to nod her head. "Mmm. I must beg your pardon. I am unused to such struggle as that faced by the people here, and I fear my suggestion of decoration might has come off as a bit... flagrant, in light of the situation. I pray you and those you protect will forgive me, if so." An uncharacteristic moment of frankness occurs here in which she lowers her gaze in some demonstration of repentance. As she says: without awareness, but not without a conscience. "Though, you have my most sincere hopes that this throne will find its rightful ruler in due time. So that your efforts are not in vain, and so that things may regain some measure of stability. Preferably toward the beginning of the Winter to maintain, or with some luck, bolster morale."

At the last bit, though, her expression relaxes, a warm grin again overtaking her countenance. "In all truth, no; I've come here for no real reason at all except one. One that may test your humble nature to hear, in earnest." She brushes aside her bangs. "I came to see you, and this place, because each of you interest me. I am a capricious being with far too much time on my hands, and as such I am able to indulge such whims quite readily. Really, the truth is no more convoluted than that." And at the mention of tea? She would immediately nod. "I would be delighted. Perhaps we can even make use of that china I gave you, hmm?" Completely without regard as to whether or not 'china' has lost its meaning given the time period from whence he comes, of course.

Responding to the conversation almost immediately, the tiny girl from before meanders closer to Mizuki, eventually shutting her tome and hugging it to her chest. She ways in place with a smile, mouthing a 'thank you' to Bedivere. Why she does not simply say such things may baffle him, though.

And on the way, she would be sure to pester him more. As she is wont to do, she attempts some tactful challenges of philosophy, and personality. "So do tell, if I may be so bold: why is it that you serve this king of yours, and their respective populace, beyond your attentiveness to 'duty'? You are certainly dedicated, but you are no automaton, and I would very much like to know what drives Bedivere, the person, rather than Sir Bedivere, the knight."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"I thank you for your... oversight, Lady Mizuki." Graciousness is an expected quality of any knight, and in truth, to forget someone so thoroughly is an embarrassing breach of etiquette. He looks genuinely regretful about his moment of forgetfulness. "It was not intentional, and certainly it is no excuse, but I fear things have been quite busy here in Dún Reáltaí. As you can see, there is still much to be done, and a great deal to be rebuilt."

Her insistence on compensation of his duties, however, earns a bit of a blank look. The notion that a lack of reward would gnaw at him would be hilariously inappropriate to anybody else who knows him, and facing that observation himself just seems to puzzle him, a little. He's never done anything for the sake of reward, and in fact he's made tremendous sacrifices with no hope of gain. Why would he even want to?

"They do, but it is nonetheless an obligation. A knight must exercise the Eight Virtues, and I would be remiss in that, if I had not done what I could to offer aid here." Bedivere shakes his head. "I did not do so for the thought of reward or personal gain. Nor has any of my service to the Union been for such; or even my service in Camelot..." He seems almost uncomfortable at the indirect praise, actually.

To her apology, he shakes his head. "Think nothing of it. As to that, it will. I serve here only as a bargain; that when the criminal who had allowed this neglect to come to pass is apprehended, and brought to the rightwise guardian of this land, she will resume her post. He is to be brought before her on the winter solstice, and I suppose my time here will be finished, then." He tilts his head, faintly; almost an understated equivalent to a shrug. "I do not know. It will depend on what Lady Alaia will have to say. Ultimately, it is her decision, for this place is her protectorate, I am to understand."

When she gives her reason for coming, his expression shifts into something a bit more... wary.

"Interested in me?" He seems almost confused by that, as though uncomprehending that anyone would actually take an interest in him, personally. Well, perhaps Arturia does, but... that's entirely different, and not something most people are given to know about. Not unless one happens to see them in the same room together for more than five minutes, anyway; it seems easy enough for most to pick out... "Nonsense."

Yet the dismissal is not given with any particular aggression; it's no more than a simple, neutral dismissal. He's already moving to retrieve the china from the kitchen, with a gesture of 'wait here.'

When he comes back, it's with the tea set, and steam drifting from the spout of the teapot. He sets the tray down on a small table before the fire, gesturing for both young women to take a seat. He himself pulls up a chair, although he does so with his left hand – it momentarily bares a strange, red mark; intricate knotwork in the shape of a sword. A curious thing to have a tattoo of, and a curious shade for a tattoo. Indeed, it is not; and if she has any sense of the supernatural, that mark is definitely otherworldly.

He settles into his own seat, regarding Mizuki somewhat dubiously. "Hm." What drives him? He frowns, as though he hadn't really thought that over. In truth, he hadn't. He doesn't question the chivalric virtues. He simply lives his life by them. "A knight must live by the chivalric virtues, and I would be neglecting several if I did not fulfill my duties here."

Past that...

He looks over to the fire, looking almost troubled for a moment.

"...I cannot tell you," he says slowly. There is a reason why he served his king, but that isn't for anyone else to know. No more than those who have figured it out, anyway. His head shakes faintly. "Sufficed to say, it was expected of me to uphold the chivalric virtues, as a Knight of the Round Table, and I would not suffer to neglect them, either. I do not serve for reward. I serve because it is the right thing to do." Those violet eyes turn to Mizuki. "If I see someone suffering, or in need, then I give them what aid and succor I can. I would expect no less in return, were I the one in need. Would you not do the same? It is simply how the world should be, even if precious few actually behave such..."

Mizuki (183) has posed:
She nods to Bedivere as he further justifies his forgetfulness, waving her hand gently downward in what she hopes will be the final necessary gesture of her 'forgiveness'. "You need no excuse, earnestly. All is well." And with that, she lets it rest. If she didn't, that would probably go in circles the whole night long. It isn't entirely about whether it offended her, she realizes, but how the act of forgetting someone he ought to remember is dissonant with his virtues. She can allow him that without further resistance, so long as she is certain that he will not eat himself alive for it. She's... fairly confident that he won't, anyway.

Then more about rules, obligations, and expectations. She could ramble for hours of her opinions on these concepts, but they would likely be lost on the knight and only damage his opinion of her. So, with a sigh, she lets that go too. If he won't accept compliment, then perhaps one day she will have to demonstrate to him the sheer profundity of the positive reverberance that his actions have. Bedivere does not seem the sort to be swayed easily by words alone, so she isn't going to try, but even if it's only once she would like for him to see the face of a mother that he saved, a city that he protected, and feel genuine pride. Perhaps when all is said and done in this city she can allow him to see the same view that she did on her way in. Surely, that would stir his heart to some degree.

... or so she can hope, at least; as much as she may hold respect for his mindset, it is one that she cannot in any capacity share. She isn't in the best position to understand him.

The talk of the criminal's punishment and his time to leave doesn't garner much from her, either, the woman instead just nodding along. But at the end, she does offer a small something; a suggestion. "Before you leave this place with some other knightly goal in mind, or some other commitment to your virtue, I might recommend that you take some time and study the outskirts of this place. I saw it from the sky, you know, and I can attest to its beauty. Far be it for a stranger such as I to make requests of you, but if I may make but one: stop here and there to see the value in the world you are protecting. It warms the soul on days when its spark has grown cold."

'Nonsense,' he says. That earns a stealthy smile from her, and would have earned a giggle if she was not currently attempting to restrain herself. Afterwards, she simply waits patiently for him to return with the cups, saucers, and pot. And when he does, she greets him with a renewed smile, having a seat moments before the tray is placed on the table. The other girl delays a bit, at first looking uncertain about the prospect of having a seat but eventually caving. When she does, though, a bit of her back would sink into the chair – certainly a bizarre phenomenon if it were to be noticed, but she does fairly well in hiding it. That is, aside from a small sweatdrop to Mizuki.

The lady reaches take a cup, but stops briefly. She squints in the direction of Bedivere's hand, but again abstains from comment. That... is no sort of holy mark, if her intuition is right, and considering who Bedivere is that might be a sensitive subject indeed. Curious, though, how such a quiet man seems to be finding so many ways to make her watch her own behavior. Smile~. Only makes him that much more interesting in her eyes.

She reaches for the handle of the pot first, trusting that that would be his preference anyway, and pours herself a glass. Retrieving a tiny silver spoon from a concealed pocket on her dress, she adds some cream to the brew and stirs, her attention by then drawn to Bedivere's reply to another of her questions. Yes, yes, the virtues; she has heard quite enough about those for one evening, but she listens on nonetheless. Her patience is rewarded then by further omission, but even that omission is something. She nods, grinning. It satisfies her enough to know that there is a reason, even if she is not so privileged as to learn what that reason is.

She's just beginning to recline in her seat when a sudden, inexplicable rise in the energy behind Bedivere's voice calls her back to attention. A question for her this time, it seems. Setting aside her glass, she folds her hands in her lap and contemplates his words. By the look on her face and the closing of her eyes, these thoughts are likely quite deep.

Her eyes reopen and, following a brief exhalation, she begins. "As I have said before, I am capricious. Fickle. Oftentimes I will see helping others to be a preferable alternative to not helping them, but I am more wont to observe. I see value in all experience, you see; I am just as content to observe a kingdom's burning as I would be to sacrifice myself for its longevity. Allowing one kingdom to burn may save countless others in the future through some unintended correlation, yes? The 'butterfly effect,' they call it." She brushes aside a lock of hair and steeples her fingers. "In a world like that, where contributions made with good intent can sow dark seeds or vice versa, I see equal value in all action, and inaction. Moreover, one person's suffering can give us the historical knowledge needed to prevent the suffering of ten others in the future. Certainly, none of this justifies the single person's suffering and I would not wish it upon them, but I value all such opportunities for observation."

She slides forward in her seat, taking her saucer and cup in hand again. Then she allows herself a sip before continuing. "I am not bound by any such codes as you are, primarily because I see equal value in suffering as in happiness, and life as in death. There is no meaning in things beyond the meaning we assign to it, but that is precisely why I am compelled to care about other people. There is no force in this world more well-equipped to instill meaning for, or to show kindness to other sapient beings than other sapient beings." She rolls a free hand. "And that is also precisely why I so admire people like you, who are capable of assigning such value to abstractions and ideas of morality. I can do no such thing. I find all such ideas beautiful, but never could I internalize them in a way that would allow me to feel compelled to certain actions, or goals, in any consistent manner."

She exhales again when she has finished, staring into the fire herself now. "... you must pardon my windedness. Rare is it that I find appropriate times to share these things. Even less often do I feel that it will be in any way relevant to the other person, but in this case," She turns to look at him more fully, "I thought it might interest you to know that someone whose beliefs are so contrary to yours, but is simultaneously capable of levelling with you, exists in this world."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Sadly, Bedivere is exactly the kind of person to punish himself over a minor slight, be it real or imagined. Part of it is the fact that his personality is so deeply associated with the chivalric virtues, and part of it is the fact that he has a genuinely humble, modest outlook. His sense of self-worth is abnormal; he assigns very little importance to himself, particularly where others are concerned. So, while he wouldn't mind being forgotten, himself, it's an inexcusable oversight if he should happen to forget someone else thus.

It's not logical, perhaps, but it's the way he's always been. Trying to convince him otherwise would be a monumental task, and one most likely doomed to failure from the beginning. Still, he listens to her advice with his head canted slightly to one side, looking thoughtful. It isnt' that he doesn't think his contributions aren't worthy; he just doesn't have a high opinion of himself as a person. Certainly, he knows that there are those grateful for his intervention – Arturia has spoken of them praising the lord and lady that had saved this place from complete ruin. He takes great pride in what he does, though; in his duties as a knight, and in fulfilling those duties.

"I shall take that into consideration," he concedes. "In truth, I do not know where I will go, after this. I pray the Lord God will show me the way, and there I will go, to do His work, and the work of a Knight of the Round Table." Bedivere sighs, shrugging faintly, though only with his left shoulder. The right he seems hesitant to move, as though it were in slight pain, or were stiff. It's healing, but slowly. "A consideration for another day. It is not yet midwinter..."

If he notices her glance at his hand, he neither comments nor draws attention to it. That would only invite conversation, and while he's not actively hiding that mark, it isn't something he seems interested in talking about.

Ever mindful of etiquette, he waits for her to prepare her own tea before deftly pouring his own cup. He adds little to it, though; just enough cream to take the edge off the heat, then cradling the cup in long-fingered hands. One might not even think he were a knight if not for the calluses of swordplay on his fingers; the delicacy of his hands are more indicative of a tailor, or some other intricate profession. Aside from his strict moral codes, one might not necessarily think of him as a knight by appearance alone, especially in the commoner's clothing he seems to prefer.

At least she doesn't take his refusal personally. There are few he would tell his reasons of service to; virtually none, although some have learned by inferrence... but he does not speak of that to many. Indeed, if there are any.

When she explains herself more thoroughly, he listens, but the almost wary manner he watches her suggests he doesn't necessarily agree with that. How can he agree with that? Preventing suffering is practically in his blood, and he can no more let someone suffer than he can wish such a fate upon them... there are exceptions, of course, but it's just not in his nature to let that kind of injustice stand. Of course, it would also depend on the context. Perhaps he might after all. Although as dedicated to the chivalric virtues as any of his brother-knights, Bedivere has always been in some ways more reserved than the others.

His eyes drop to the tea in his hands, although he's still listening closely to what she has to say. It seems strange to him that she would bother to come here, knowing what she does about him, if she had such little regard for chivalry.

"If you want my honest opinion, it does not matter to me what you think of the chivalric virtues." He smiles, faintly, but it's not an expression of animosity; instead more one of acceptance. "I will continue to abide by them regardless of anyone's opinion. If there is an opportunity to show kindness, I will show it. If someone needs to be saved – I will save them. I can no more stop that than I can stop breathing... it is a knight's duty and expectation to be merciful." His head shakes, softly. "But do not mistake my behaviour as rote. I behave this way because that is my will."

"There is nothing to pardon," he comments after a moment, eyes lifting to Mizuki again. "In all honesty, it is of no especial interest to me, for as I said, I will continue to behave so, regardless... but you are welcome to remain here as long as you please, for you are a guest of my hall." He regards her thoughtfully. "Still, I do not know what else to tell you, other than to hold them close if you find them beautiful. Yet it seems you cannot. A shame, truly."

Mizuki (183) has posed:
"Your Lord will show you the way, hmm?" Mizuki tilts her head faintly, giving the knight an almost mischievous grin. All the while, she continues to stir her teacup, less for any practical reason and more as a quirk of her idle hands. "So many God fearing sorts I've been running into lately, it seems, and all of them manage to be such endearing people. You see, Bedivere, this is very reason why I find you interesting – there are so many egocentric sorts in this world, such as myself, that can occupy days and days at a time musing upon the workings of their own minds, or what they would like to do with themselves. Less often are there people such as yourself that instead think constantly of how they may give themselves to their worlds, their Gods, and their people. It is refreshing in its own right to be exposed to viewpoints like yours. Makes me feel as though my being is slipping into some unseen, beauteous collective of souls hidden just beyond the mural of reality..." She gazes ceilingward. "Quite refreshing, really."

She does eventually take notice of his hesitance to use his right arm, however, and this she does see fit to comment on. "Are you wounded, Sir Knight?" Well, of course he is, but without that perfunctory business it would be far more awkward broaching the topic. It's an obviously rhetorical question, though, as she speaks on seconds later. "It does not appear too serious, and I would not wish to make you feel awkward by having one so distant fret over you, but please do tell me if there is any way in which I may help you allay the pain. Or speed its recovery somehow; I am not exactly gifted in the healing arts, but I may be able to come into contact with someone who is so inclined. And it would be no inconvenience to them, either – aiding the hurt is their duty in much the same way as protecting others from it is yours." Slowly but surely, she's getting a feel for how to approach him about these things.

Now, luckily she hadn't been expecting to get very far in elucidating her views for him. They are not commonly accepted even by those with more liberal moral models, and she did not think that one so grounded and principled as Bedivere would come to corroborate them in the least. His is the viewpoint of the knight, and hers... well. In this period, it might be likened to that of a budding tactician, or a pragmatic ruler, but beyond that her words might be quite foreign. Nevertheless, though, she listens to his response with surprisingly rapt interest, bobbing her head in acknowledgement every now and again.

"And I would have it no other way." Her smile is not one meant to invoke animosity, either; rather, it seems even more warm than it had been before. "Were there not people like you in this world, nations would fall to pieces. You are the stability that ensures the radical and nuanced ideas that alter your world may be tempered by caution. Moreover, as I have said, I greatly respect that one can be so dedicated to specific virtues; indeed, I can know no such loyalty, myself." With that, she turns her eyes to the fire, resting her head against the back of her seat. That last remark, though - the one about not behaving by rote - is something that causes her eyes to widen, and her head to turn. The fact that he even recognized that insinuation in her wording was... well. It impresses her, somewhat, and makes her smile widen yet more. "... so you do. Even more interesting that you have grown to believe this way on your own will, and not by some programming since youth..." She closes her eyes a moment, and allows for a pause. "What a delightful man you are."

Her eyes remain closed and her eyes clear and calm as he reiterates his convictions, but still invites her to stay. She's about to respond to that, but then he goes so far as to lament her own inability to behave in the ways she so respects, and... well. She raises an expository finger. "I cannot because my preoccupations lie elsewhere. Though it may not seem like it, I do have goals; goals so lofty as to create heaven on Earth, and to prevent explosive arguments the likes of which humans are so oft drawn. All this I pursue in no physical sense, though, but a cerebral and psychological one – I believe quite fully that the 'utopia' is not a place, but a state of mind. Or at the very least, an interplay between each. My mission, then, is to unlock the secrets of that mental equilibrium through exploring the perspectives of others." She sets her teacup aside, folding her hands at her knees. "So you see, even now, I am working toward my self-endowed mission by peering into the universe constituted by your steadfast belief."

She sees fit to traipse into less loaded topics afterwards, though, taking her teacup in hand and giving it a look of inquisition, and interest. "I really must ask, though: what variety of tea is this? I really do like it, and the multicultural selections I frequent do grow old after a while. It certainly could not hurt to add some of this brew to my reserves."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere makes a soft sound, caught between annoyance and confusion. If there had been any hint of warmth on the knight's face, it falls away when she draws attention to his piety. As one of the chivalric virtues, it's a concept he holds dear, and a concept that's led him through some of the most difficult times in his life. When Camelot had fallen, and his king had been slain, it had seemed the only thing left he could do was pray for guidance.

It had not been very satisfying, for the only thing he had been able to do was to place one foot in front of the other, and continue on in spite of having lost everything. His spirit had been broken, and it had taken all that was left in him that his faith not be broken as well... but... he had never outright neglected his faith. Even when he had been grieving, he had turned to it. To have it made light of is almost an insult, let alone blasphemous, in his eyes.

Still... her words don't seem to be mockery, as she continues. He seems to relax a little from his unconscious tension, although he doesn't relax completely. Rare is it that he lets his guard down entirely; for twenty years, he had taught himself not to trust, to remain on his guard and suspicious of others. Somehow it had become a part of his personality, and now he finds he has difficulty in laying that aside. At least it seems not to be personal, his slowness to trust; he's cordial enough, within the limits of such. Only one person has the privilege of seeing him without his guard, though, and for the moment she is not here.

He tilts his head, regarding her with a kind of puzzled curiosity when she speaks of how refreshing it is to be around personalities like his, though, as though he doesn't quite believe her. Is it always her way to use this many words; to be talking, talking, talking like this? True, he can sometimes speak much if he feels a great need for it, but it almost seems as though she speaks for the simple pleasure of hearing herself speak. At the same time, though, there is a genuinity to her words.

In truth, he's not quite certain what to make of her. Perhaps the closest thing he's encountered to something like her is Merlin, but even Merlin had not quite fit his perceptions of Mizuki.

When she comments on his wounds, he blinks a little, as though he'd forgotten the fact himself. His right hand clenches into an unsteady fist before he relaxes it, but there's no mistkaing the tightness around his eyes when he does. It pains him.

"It is minor," he says in a dismissive tone. In spite of the bandaging that covers his right shoulder, he's not necessarily lying. If it were anyone else he might fret and consider it a serious wound, but he doesn't view himself through the same lens. His sense of self is fundamentally damaged, somehow; he doesn't factor into his own chivalric virtues. Fifteen years of faithful service in Camelot was a noble thing, on paper, but it had been slowly killing him. The five years of suffering after Camlann had certainly done him no favours. Bedivere shakes his head. "I have already spoken to a number of healers. Do not trouble yourself on my account."

Although he seems not to speak very much, the way he speaks and the words he chooses speaks for him as much as the absence of words.

There's something vaguely insulting about the way she describes him, but it isn't enough for him to single out. Delightful? That's not usually the kind of word reserved for people. What kind of person is this Lady Mizuki? He finds himself wondering instead what she is, period; there are plenty of subtle clues that suggest to him she isn't altogether human. He also finds himself questioning whether he might want to call for Arturia... Master or no, that would be a sign of vulnerability, and he wouldn't like to trouble her, or to insult Mizuki so if her intentions really are benign.

She's part of Heaven or Hell, and the Union. Even if he isn't certain whether or not to trust in her character, he can at least trust that she wouldn't attack her own ally. So far as he's aware there are severe repercussions for such foolishness.

"There are eight," he says softly, on the virtues. "Exercitium. Fides. Fortitudo. Generositas. Humanitas. Ingenuitas. Militia. Pietas. Every Knight of the Round Table is expected to live by these virtues, without exception, and so too is our king, whose behaviour is not exempt from such things. Indeed, the king's behaviour most of all is expected to adhere to these virtues, for the king sets the example by which knights are to behave; just as the knights set the example for the people."

He exhales softly, though his nose, as his eyes flick over to the fire. His gaze seems to grow a little unfocused as she commends him for adopting the virtues of his own free will. "That is correct. I was not a native of Albion, as many other of the knights were. Indeed, I did not learn of them until I travelled to Camelot in my youth. My homeland was far distant from Camelot. Not so far that there were not others who did not travel from there to Camelot, but far enough that it was not commonplace."

When she speaks on her goals, he looks up, and something in his expression seems to fall. For a brief instant, there is clear pain in his eyes, unquestionably at the notion of creating Heaven on Earth... but it passes quickly, drawn back beneath the mask. The Knights of the Round Table and their king had tried for that dream, once, and they had failed. Perhaps they have a second chance in Dún Reáltaí, but it does not erase the tragedies of Camelot, or ultimately, the slaughter at Camlann.

Still, her viewpoint is an interesting one, and one that, to some degree, resonates with him. Even as broken and ruined as this land is, its people seem to be happy. They look to their lord and lady with openness and trust, expecting them to be watched over fairly and justly. Even this place has hope, not because every aspect of it is perfect, but because its people believe it can be something great; that it can serve as a proper home...

This is not his homeworld, in truth, but she would know that by the reports. Dún Reáltaí is a temporary situation, and also a world unconnected to that from which he hails, or even that from which his king hails as a Servant; as far as he can discern, unconnected to anyone that he knows.

...Tea?

"Tea?" He seems taken off his guard at the unexpected, and slightly non-sequitur, question. "I do not know. I was not the one to procure it, but if you have a preference for it, I will give you some to take with you, when you leave, and find out what particular variety it is." Tea is still a little new to him, and he's still learning his way around the subtle nuances of it. In truth, Arturia had been the one to find this, so he's not entirely certain. "I find it relaxing."

Mizuki (183) has posed:
In her silence, she has all the time in the world to contemplate the changes of his expression. That first one, the loss of warmth; it inspires a frown from her in kind. She had thought herself tactful, in truth. Faruja is surely as pious as this Bedivere, and she has yet to kindle his ire through her references to the fact. Still, with him, she had broached the topic well after they had become well-acquainted. After their opinions of one another had had time to cement. Perhaps she has been careless in some of the things she has said. Perhaps treating this man as another object of her transient curiosity was a grievous mistake. As the conversation continues, some of the knight's constant apprehension rubs off on her, her hands curling around the armrests of her seat, squeezing them for some modicum of comfort.

It's a fleeting sensation, but it's almost as though, with every additional word, she is digging herself a deeper grave. At the least, she sees no further need to comment on what has already been said, and at the most she will speak very little from here on. Some people enjoy her verbosity, but this man... well. In truth, she admires people like him. The quiet and the stoic are people that, more than anything, inspire a sort of admiration in her, so all she has said about him being 'interesting' have been more than coy remarks to prove her own inhumanity and hubris. Her form of authenticity is confusing, to be sure, but as mysterious and misleading as her words may continually seem, they do not seem dishonest. Though he likely cannot place what, there is a characteristic difference between her words and the words of people who are callous and self-absorbed to their cores. The greatest proofs of the existence of this subtle dissimilarity are the more sober look on her face, and the almost mournful lowering of her eyelids. Whether or not he would make anything of that, though, is uncertain.

In light of all of these thoughts, next she speaks her tone is noticeably more reserved. Quiet. "I had thought as much." She gives the knight a nod, and a passing glance to his hurt arm. "You have my wishes for a swift recovery, then." Truly, she stands to gain absolutely nothing by extrapolating on the need for rest, or some other medical cliches; regardless of his lacking sense of self-importance, she trusts that any good soldier knows when they must withdraw to ensure future success. She won't insult him further with such banal remarks, or herself for that matter. Concerned she may be, but words are an exceedingly poor vehicle for demonstrating such at times.

She turns her gaze to the fire for another spell, folding her hands in her lap. The dance of the flames across her face might give some subtle hint that his earlier assumptions based on her inflection and tone had not been incorrect. Her pallor is deathly pale, so much so that the bronze of the fire cannot stir it to life. A living doll, one could almost claim, and certainly a woman so young would not normally feel at ease sneaking her way into a castle uninvited. There is much 'curiosity' to her character indeed, and perhaps even enough to merit some questioning. Certainly, she would not mind being asked; she seems to enjoy droning on about herself and would likely relish any invitation to do so. Or she would have, at least, before her mood grew quiet.

She's rather grateful, really, when the knight gives her distraction in the form of discussion regarding his virtues. She turns from the fire to listen, frowning at first, but gradually shifting her mouth into some semblance of her earlier smile. To him, it would be obvious that it is forced, and might even carry some sentiments of apology. If he happens to notice this, it might help to convince him that she is not here to effect upon him or this realm any harm; someone who could be so impacted by the opinions or feelings of single man like this clearly lacks the disregard needed to usher in any sort of mass destruction. Mysterious, yes, but there is a person underneath the veil of words and omission.

"The behavior of a ruler sets an example for their subjects, yes. Principles become ingrained over time, and their expectation helps to shape kingdoms, and people. They have been, and likely ever will be, necessary components in societies." Ever distant on the subjects, though; she makes no concessions whatsoever to suggest she believes as he does even in her more somber tone. "If you would again indulge a question, is there any virtue to which you feel particularly aligned, or do they all hold equal prevalence in your mind? It would make sense if the latter were true." She lifts her teacup to her lips again, likely finishing the quantity she initially poured for herself. She doesn't move to pour more for the time being.

Likewise, she sits in silence as he explains his history, and how he came to internalize the principles of knighthood. She keeps her eyes focused on him all the while, but chooses not to comment again. He might get the impression that she finally noticed her own noisiness.

She doesn't respond when he suggest the possibility of her taking some tea with her - she would likely feel a pang of guilt if she were to do so now - but does when he says it is 'relaxing'. "It is. Tea has been popular throughout history in places I have explored for its calming qualities. It is quite the holistic sensory experience, too; a marriage of incense and flavor. Long have I found solace in its delicate, versatile nature." She falls silent again afterwards, bowing her head slightly before she regards the flickering flames yet another time, relaxing her posture and closing her eyes. He might worry that she might fall asleep there, even, with how placid her expression seems to be.

In the meanwhile, the other woman - the brown-haired one which the knight might earnestly have forgotten was there - gives yet another soft smile. She flips to a blank set of pages beside the one with which she had previously been occupied, and writes something else, sliding it toward Bedivere. Though initially written in English, the pen strokes would reorganize of their own accord to transform into something he could better understand. And when they do, it would read thusly:

Forgive her, if you can. She doesn't mean to be overbearing; in fact, it embarrasses her very much. It's just in her nature to ramble. If he should read it, she would follow up with a gesture akin to a sweatdrop. Then she, too, would turn toward the fire, looking restful.

Yes, a bizarre pair if ever there was one.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The knight seems to sense the young lady's sudden shift in mood, although he's not studying her with any particular eye to her reactions. It's much less obvious than that, more a matter of those subtle tells all taken together, and subconsciously analysed. He knows how to read people and listen for those cues – the twitch of the pulse at one's throat, shifts in vocal inflections, body language that many aren't even aware they're using. In truth, he was a far better politician than even he had ever let on. He knows how to read people, and that will always be a most valuable skill.

It's possible that she doesn't mean any harm. In fact, it's more than likely, considering she's both an ally of the Union, and personally acquainted with him, however distantly. Yet even if she had sought to come here with mischief in mind, that very status as allies is a certain guarantee of protection. The Union doesn't take kindly to infighting amongst its allies.

Bedivere sighs.

"Forgive me," he murmurs at length. His smile is apologetic, and weary beyond the physical. "I am slow to trust. Too slow, perhaps. I meant no insult. We both allies of the Union, and you have come here before with peaceful intent."

He considers her words on the virutes, and seems to mull over his answer carefully. "No," he says, slowly. "There are no virtues I hold above others. In truth, they are all to be taken in equal measure, and that is what I strive to do. It is the duty of any knight to conduct himself, in all matters, in accordance with the Eight Virtues; but it is especially true of the Knights of the Round Table, of whom I am counted still." Even if the table is sundered and Camelot no more than ruins in the modern era, that doesn't change what he is; he will never stop being a knight, just as he will never stop serving his king. He smiles a faint, bittersweet smile. "Not everyone agreed with that, but I fear even Camelot, for all that we sought to create a realm of equality and fairness for even the most lowborn, had its share of small-minded and greedy individuals. In truth, I am glad to see such virtues represented in many of the Union's number."

He gives a brief inclination of his head; an abbreviated nod, when she explains the tea. "I am no stranger to it, although it was perhaps not used so recreationally in Camelot. It was a medicinal tool, more than anything else, and not always taken hot." His eyes drift to the teapot, drooping to half-mast. "In truth, I had never had anything so sweet as this. Most medicinal teas I am familiar with are very bitter."

Quiet she may be, but the knight had not forgotten Mizuki's mousy companion. His eyes immediately flick to the corner when he senses movement, watching as she flips to an empty page, and jots something down for him. He blinks owlishly as he takes the page, squinting as the pen strokes slither across the page, serpentine; rearranging themselves into something that looks a bit like Irish. It isn't quite Irish, though; archaic by modern standards. Funny, that... weren't the Knights of the Round Table predominantly Welsh? Then again, he had said he wasn't a native of Albion. Perhaps he's from Ulaidh; what would later become Ireland.

He only shakes his head, as though to silently say that there's nothing to forgive, offering the note back to the young woman.

"If you will pardon me, I should rest. You are correct; I am still wounded, and it does me no favours to sit and brood before the fire. Stay as you please, and for as long a you wish, for you are guests of this hall." Bedivere inclines his head, even as he climbs stiffly to his feet, offering a bow that draws a slight wince out of him. "If you should wish to stay, there are guest quarters on the second floor, and any servant of the castle will show you to them. You need but ask."

He turns, then, back to the long table on the other side of the hall. The small, potted lily-of-the-valley is carefully taken in his hands, and he offers a faint half-smile and a respectful dip of his head. "Good eve."

He excuses himself to the stairwell, climbing up to the fifth floor where his quarters are. On such a dreary day, rest sounds like a welcome thing. He perhaps overdid it a little, leaving to acquire this small, leafy gift; no doubt Arturia will scold him for the effort he went to, but he's by far more interested in the smile she might show at the thought of it.

A little touch of home, and of life, in a hall that still seems so grey; something to raise spirits in the dreary autumn weather.

"Ah." He pauses, several steps up, and half-turns to regard Mizuki and her companion. "Help yourself to the tea. It is in the kitchen, through that door. Take what you please with you."

And with that, the knight is gone.