Multiverse Crisis MUSH - User contributions [en]

User:ForwardObserver

2017-07-11T05:09:31Z

ForwardObserver:

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4743/A Fair Bit of Weather

2017-04-16T05:44:52Z

ForwardObserver: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2016/11/03 |Location=Dun Realtai |Synopsis=Saber, Sir Bedivere, and Inga enjoy a brief Indian summer in Dun Realtai. |Cast of Characters=346, 525,..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2016/11/03
|Location=Dun Realtai
|Synopsis=Saber, Sir Bedivere, and Inga enjoy a brief Indian summer in Dun Realtai.
|Cast of Characters=346, 525, 482
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Summer in Dun Realtai had given way to the chill of autumn, though there were the periods of warm, dry conditions and clear skies. Such days were eagerly welcomed by the populace, when much of the harvests had already been gathered and stored, permitting a short respite in their busy lives. Children played games in the now-dormant fields while the adults looked on with cider or summer ale in hand. It was not the festival of a few days prior, but rather a time to enjoy the weather before the winter drove them into their now comfortable homes. It was easy for even the perpetual workaholics to stop and take advantage of it.      One such workaholic was the lady of the land, the once-king of Britain entrusted by Dun Realtai's winter guardian with care of the land and its people. She and the lord she in turn had appointed had taken to the task with vigour, their ceaseless dedication born from both their natural need to work as well as a wish to help the downtrodden denizens of the ravaged land. Even when much of the work had already been accomplished and the pair reassured the villagers that they were more than welcome to break from their work, they would more often than not be found still attending to their own. It would hardly do for them to set poor examples for their charges when the defining principle of their rule was that leaders were not above the common folk.      Yet, this day was as close to a holiday as a day could be without being an annual festival, and there was nothing in the way of work which could not be accomplished once the pleasant weather had passed. Thus, Arturia Pendragon rested in what was a casual manner for the always-proper King of Knights, seated beneath a tree situated between the village proper and field bathed in gold, a wodden flagon of mulled cider in one hand and a book in the other. She was dressed in modern clothing today, in a grey cable-knit turtleneck sweater, blue jeans, and black leather boots, her heair bound up in its customary braid-encircled bun. The feyhound who had become a constant companion for the lord and lady lay curled up at her feet, and to judge by his posture seemed to be similarly resting casually. Perhaps even napping, if such a creature even needed to. It might have been an affectation, but for all the world the ethereal hound was little different than a normal greyhound but for the obviously otherworldly features. 

:'''{{#var:525|Inga (525)}} has posed:''' Samhain had been a festival to remember. It had been rather perfect, in fact. It wasn't a holiday they had at home, but it almost seemed like it could have been with mead and cider, a bonfire, and the spirits lingering close. A very pleasant day indeed, and it seems another one today. Inga had been surprised to find that it was fairly warm outside when she left her cottage and headed down to the village to make her rounds, her usual basket packed with the usual remedies and treatments some of the people in the village needed on a weekly basis. Turned out to be a good day for it, as most people are enjoying the weather and relaxing before winter truly grips the land. Inga has her cloak slung over the saddle behind her as she walks Jodis toward where Saber was relaxing with Kepas. Beneath she wears a blue sweater with winding cables and a long grey skirt, still managing to look old fashioned despite wearing more modern attire. She smiles, surprised to see Saber there. "Good day Lady!" she calls, raising a hand to wave. 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:'''   Now that the fields are fallow, they make excellent practise arenas for activities that need a lot of space. Practising with throwing spears is a good example, and that's what the land's steward is doing today. Specifically, he's practising his spear-throwing from horseback, with a number of wooden targets set up. Some are high, some are low; some are big, some are small, and they're all varied to provide challenge.   Bedivere has had his familiar armour augmented with fur lining in preparation for winter weather, and his cloak billows behind him as he thunders down on the range. The hooves of the Black One are the size of dinner plates, and they kick up bits of straw and sod; to go by how his head is thrown up and his tail flung behind him like a banner, he's enjoying this wild ride.   The knight moves with practised ease, a case of javelins buckled to his hip. He retrieves them one at a time, flinging them with impressive strength of arm... and impressive accuracy, considering how fast he and his steed charge past the targets. A javelin is left quivering in his wake inches from the centre of the target.   Gradually, the Black One slows to a rolling canter, and finally a slow trot; fallen leaves are kicked up as he slows to a halt, squinting to gauge his work.   <This one thinks you are out of practise,> the Black One points out primly, prancing in place and tossing his head. He wears a halter (grudgingly) but no bit (because screw that noise, having iron in his mouth); he wears a blanket and saddle, but they're minimalistic even by the standards of Bedivere's time, made more so his armour isn't chafing the creature than for the rider's comfort.   Bedivere's grimace suggests he's thinking something along the lines of 'frigging faeries, why do these things keep flocking to me.'   So he does what comes naturally, and ignores the faerie's jibe, glancing up toward the tree where Saber's reading her book. Everything seems to be fine, and in fact that looks like Inga arriving, so he turns the Black One about and wrenches the javelin from the target before starting back over toward the tree.   "Pride is a sin," Bedivere points out. "I think mayhap you had a little too much attention yesterday."   <Nonsense. This one hails from the hollow hills of Eire and-->   "Shush," Bedivere says, serenely.   For once, the pooka actually shuts up, ears flicking disdainfully as they return to the others.   "Good afternoon, Wisewoman; my lady." Bedivere offers a nod to each, a half-smile for the former, and an actual smile for the latter. "A fine afternoon for a ride--" The Black One snorts and Bedivere ignores him, "--and just as fine for a day off from one's duties. What brings you up the hill, Wisewoman...?" 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Saber looked up from her book, smiling slightly before closing it, setting it aside, and greeting the wisewoman. "Greetings, Lady Inga," she replied. "I hope the day finds you well, particularly with the pleasant weather."      It would be a waste of a perfectly good Indian summer for their usual tasks, but injuries and illnesses were an unfortunate reality even with the subtle modernisation Dun Realtai had undergone. She hoped that there weren't too many -- ideally none at all -- that demanded Inga's attention. Even the medical staff needed the occasional break, especially on a day with agreeable weather.      Her smile became subtly brighter at Bedivere's arrival. "Good afternoon, my lord," she replied before sea-green eyes flicked to the towering black-haired fae. "And to you as well, Black One." Even if the Tylwyth Teg weren't extremely particular about proper protocol and manners, Arturia was never one to be rude. At least, not unless one was an ancient Mesopotamian king who had enjoyed making her life miserable. "It seemed a waste not to enjoy the day while it lasts."      Tomorrow would in all likelihood be cold, wet, and otherwise miserable, though such days were not without their benefits when there were solid and leak-proof rooves overhead, warm hearths, and hot spiced drinks. But the rare fair days were ones to enjoy to the fullest.      "Indeed," she mused with a soft chuckle. "It has been quite a while since I have taken the liberty to be truly idle...perhaps I should ride as well if the weather continues later into the day." 

:'''{{#var:525|Inga (525)}} has posed:''' Inga watches Bedivere with some amusement, hands Jodis' reigns resting lightly in her hands. The horse hardly needs much direction. They have an understanding. Jodis carries Inga, Inga gives Jodis all the apples she could possible want. It is a good deal. Inga dismounts, sliding down from the saddle slowly and a little awkwardly, but she manages, before turning back to Arturia. "It does--and it finds most of the villagers well too. Just my usual patients, but even the elderly are feeling better today," she comments with a smile. Inga smiles to Bedivere in full, even if he only has half a smile for her. "Good day Bedivere. Oh, I was just going for a ride after making my rounds in the village. I am pleased to report everyone is doing fairly well," she informs him. "It is good to get some sun while there are still a good number of hours in the day." "And greetings to you, Black One," she says, reaching into her pouch for an apple. She tries to always have a few on hand. Of course, if Black One gets and apple Jodis must as well. "You should my lady. Tomorrow will not be so pleasant," she says, sure of it. 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:'''   The pooka snorts, breath fogging in the chilly air, but he does toss his head up and perk his ears as though in greeting to Saber. He at least acknowledges her entanglement with the Otherworld. One imagines it's the only reason why he's polite to her.   <Greetings.> There's a hint of smugness in the pooka's tone, and he carries his head and tail high with each step. Apparently the dry weather has him in high spirits.   Bedivere shifts on the minimalistic saddle, resting the javelin against his leg. "Aye. I won't have an opportunity to ride, tomorrow, or the next day. There's a storm coming. The wind rises, and the clouds always race across the plains quickly, here."   "You should, my lady." The silver-haired knight's eyes are practically sparkling, at that. "I would enjoy nothing more than a ride across the plains with you. Ah, Lord God, I forgot what it was to feel the wind in my face like that."   <Do try to contain your enthusiasm.>   "Hush. You enjoy it as much as I."   <Well, when you put it that way...> The pooka flicks an ear as though indifferently.   "You are getting on well with Jodis, then, I trust?" Bedivere's gaze turns to Inga's horse, with the delicate face and large eyes; the silky mane and dappled coat. A fine beast, and one to command a king's ransom had she been to the horse fair in Camelot. "She certainly looks healthy." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' The smile never left the petite swordswoman's face as she answered. "That is most welcome news. It would seem this weather was much-needed for more reasons than a simple respite...though that too is welcome."      After the hell the people -- not to mention Alaia and the other native fae -- had been forced to endure while the previous lord had unleashed tainted magic on the land, mild weather and a day of rest were more than deserved. Particularly so for the elderly and infirm.      Alas, the next day would not be as pleasant, if the previous years were anything to go by. "Quite so," she agreed. Perhaps she should take one of the new mares and do a little exploring. "It will rain, I should think...and bring with it a chill unsuitable for spending time outside."      While rudeness typically rubbed Saber the wrong way, she seemed to tolerate it to a certain extent with the fae. In truth, it was not really fair to hold them to the human standards she held even Servants to, as they had once been human themselves. But the fae existed outside the World in a way even beings worshipped as deities were not, and their perspectives were wholly different. But even then, the Black One wasn't especially rude. Arrogant by human standards, perhaps, but hardly infuriating. "I trust the days have been agreeable for you, as well?"      Considering just how much fun he'd obviously had on the ancient eve of a new year the Britons had observed before the coming of the Romans, that seemed a safe enough question.      As Bedivere observed the same weather patterns as she had, Arturia nodded with a faint smile. Truly they had more than adapted to their new environment and lifestyle. "I believe that I shall, then. Perhaps after lunch."      The knight-king suppressed another smile at the pooka's feigned indifference. "Ah, well. If you find yourself at a loss for other entertainment, perhaps you could join us?" she offered in a way that the Black One wouldn't be forced to sacrifice his pride. 

:'''{{#var:525|Inga (525)}} has posed:''' Inga reaching up to smooth Jodis' mane, smiling softly. She is a beautiful creature. "She is doing quite well. I have a nice stall build for her now and she seems comfortable there. I will see how she does when it truly gets cold, but it should be warm enough. It must be quite convenient to be able to shapeshift," she says with a smile toward Black One. He'll be turning into a cat and curling up beside the hearth before long. "Well, we could indeed go for a ride I think...surely you could ride with Bedivere upon Black One for the time being," she suggests with a too-innocent smile. Were they comfortable enough with their relationship for such just yet, she wonders? And would Black One consent? 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:'''   Thankfully, the troubled history of Dun Realtai is now years past, and neither the people nor their steward seem too inclined to dwell on it overmuch. It's just a nice autumn day like anywhere else in the multiverse, as long as you don't go too far past the mountains. (Then, beyond the ranges, it's just snow. Forever.)   "Take any horse you please, my lady. I have no specific plans for any of them in particular." Bedivere waves a hand, as the Black One looks up to watch a tree losing the last of its leaves, feigning indifference.   At least, until he's addressed. The Black One turns his head and tilts it at the same time, ears flopping a bit as he regards Arturia. <Well enough. This one has been in worse places.> Much worse, probably; he has scars, even if they can't be seen by mortal eyes.   "Good. I look forward to it."   <Of course this one will,> the Black One scoffs, to Arturia. <There is no finer steed than a pooka. Those mortal nags cannot compare.> Not even Jodis, descended of ancient desert blood.   "Is that so? Good, good. If ever you require better lodgings, however, do not hesitate to stable her with the others, on the low plain. I am having the stables reinforced to withstand the snow that will inevitably fall." He glances over his shoulder, to the distant structures in the southern fields. "I suspect they will be buried for some of the winter, and we will have to remain vigilant about digging out the doors."   Shifting in the saddle, Bedivere leans over. "What are you reading, my lady...?"   The Black One, meanwhile, stares at Inga. His stare is pretty inexpressive but she might still get the impression of a droll look that just says, 'really?' <This one can carry up to three. The Once and Future King weighs no more than a leaf, and the Left Hand is hardly more.> Hmph. 
}}

5150/A Visit to Dun Realtai

2017-04-16T05:37:01Z

ForwardObserver: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2017/03/18 |Location=Dun Realtai |Synopsis=A new guest arrives in Dun Realtai, and two fated kings finally meet. |Cast of Characters=346, 1048, 6,..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2017/03/18
|Location=Dun Realtai
|Synopsis=A new guest arrives in Dun Realtai, and two fated kings finally meet.
|Cast of Characters=346, 1048, 6, 525, 482
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Spring had come once more to Dun Realtai, and though the curse which had plagued the land several years ago was now a distant memory, the climate remained bitterly cold well into the year. Crocuses and other tough spring ephemerals had emerged, blooming cheerfully even through the blanket of persistent snow. The observance of Calan Mai was less than two months away, a holiday not native to the area but brought from the mysterrious, distant kingdom their lady had once ruled as king. Bonfires would be lit, and a festival would be held which welcomed any and all regardless of multiversal faction. Yet, such an event might seem further than the first day of May, with the last vestiges of winter clinging to the land.      Even still, the people of the village were of good cheer; several years had not been enough for their memories of what would have otherwise been the death of their homeland to have faded. They still remembered and annually honoured the dead which had been claimed when the former lord had gone mad in his quest for the power that dark magic promised. Now, one would never have known they had narrowly avoided such doom, with the village rebuilt and its sustenance restored. But there were subtle signs that it had been through the intervention of Elites; the quaint lamposts throughout the village only simulated firelight, LEDs having been installed in their place; structures with the convincing appearance of wood, plaster, and thatch in fact made from composites and similarly modern materials; transparent aluminum made to look like hand-blown glass. In all, there was great care taken to both improve the lives of the villagers through modern means while affording them the confort of the familiar.      For more modern visitors, it might nevertheless be as close to stepping into the distant past as they could hope for.      Conversing among them, as if she was simply another one of the village commoners, was the lady who held joint stewardship over the lands. Over a thousand years ago, she had been the king of a nation, but had long since yielded her dream of undoing her past so that a better king could have taken her place. Now, she lived as close to her original dream as was possible. Dun Realtai was not a utopia -- nothing could be -- but it was as close to what she had wished for her people as could be achieved. It was truly a land she could call home...and she hoped to make it a home or a safe haven for others, as well. 

:'''{{#var:1048|Young Arthur (1048)}} has posed:''' And visiting is a young man, barely more than a boy, clad in a red tunic bearing the heraldry of house pendragon, on top of which a cloak in imperial purple, and atop his head rests a simple gold band. Unlike his local equivalent, this young king is not yet king of a nation and his dream yet lies before him. A fairer, better Britain, where his people shall be protected from threats within and without. Perhaps he may never realize this dream, but he is still young, and today he is taking a break from managing his tiny realm, one that he hopes to one day expand to cover all of Britain, to visit his home away from home. As such, he dismounts his horse and takes off his crown as soon as he gets into the village itself. The blond teen waves cheerfully to the people of Dun Realtai, an aura of natural command surrounds him, something about him just makes it easy to follow him. He hasn't met Saber yet in all his visits here, circumstances conspired against a meeting. 

:'''{{#var:6|Tomoe (6)}} has posed:''' It was Spring in many places in the multiverse such as Dun Realtai, she had chosen to get away from things for several reason. The Villiage does have at least a few shops and certain items she might be able to buy here like wild game or other such things. It was nice to get away from such thing she'd flown a ways out side the town and ends up landing. She'll walk in no need to make a panic or startle anyone. Though the local population here was indeed used to Multiveral guests at least. She seeme dto be in good spirits a she made ata lazy pace ofr the town. She makes note of some of the upgrades and hummed curious they were using small things that wouldn'y disrupt life but would help in many ways. She did also see the bondfires burning she had not been involved in the freeing of these people. She was however ware of it as the towering Salamander woman made for the gathering of people. She did see one thing the people here were happy and that was more than a lot of people had in the multiverse. "Greetings!" She calls out as she gets in ear shot of the locaks who are out and about at the moment. She really did need to catch up with those who lived here after all. THe GU did have a castle of it's own and it needed repairs and other work done. There might be diplomatic things which might be of benifit to Haven and Dun Realtai. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Dun Realtai was becoming quite the multiversal hub, something which had surprised villagers who thought of their otherwise sleepy little village as a backwater. If it had been a part of a greater kingdom long ago, no one remembered. What was most likely was that the land had split off and unified with the greater multiverse, cutting it off from its capital city. Thankfully, it had been self-sufficient for long enough that no one had noticed a change.      Only now, it had become a destination for the jaded and weary, or those seeking a safe haven...or of course, merely those who wished to "get away" from the hustle and bustle of more modern settlements. It was never so busy that the lives of the villagers had been harmfully disrupted, but having all sorts of new trade had opened up a great many avenues they had never before dreamed possible. Many more shops had been constructed recently since the initial restoration, and part of the wall had needed rebuilding to accomodate for the newer expansions. Fortunately, it was well-short of becoming an ugly sprawl.      Some looked up with a mild curiosity at the new arrival, though more greeted the young king from a distant land with familiarity.      For her part, Arturia looked up from a bolt of woolen fabric a weaver was showing her. Her smile was subtle, but friendly all the same.      "Greetings," she returned. "Welcome to Dun Realtai."      She was slightly puzzled at the young man, dressed more finely than the average villager and yet in an otherwise similar manner, as if he belonged here as well. And the villagers appeared to recognise him...perhaps another multiversal visitor she had been unable to meet earlier?      "Greetings, as well," she hailed the young man. "I have not had the pleasure of meeting you previously, I believe." 

:'''{{#var:1048|Young Arthur (1048)}} has posed:''' "Greetings, miss. I am Arthur Pendragon, rightwise born King of all Britain, and a friend of Sir Bedivere of Dun Realtai, among others. To who do I owe the pleasure?" He makes a polite bow to Saber, and the bag on his back reveals the hilt of an exquisitely carved sword, contained within a smooth block of fae stone. Despite all their differences, perhaps Saber can recognize the blade, or feel the connection this stone has to the secret island of Avalon. Then there's the other stranger, and Arthur greets Tomoe as well. "Greetings, did you get it when I introduced myself, or should I repeat myself? It's no worry if I must, but I hate to pointlessly repeat myself." 

:'''{{#var:6|Tomoe (6)}} has posed:''' Tomoe bows a little but as Saber and the Young king make themselves known to her she smiles a little bit. "Thank you, I'm former Union Vice Guild Master of the GU I'm Tomoe to the Multiverse at large. I haven't been by here since the multiveral glitch and it seems everyone is doing well here. I admit I'm curious about a place like this myself." She looks to Young Arthur and laughs a bit at what she thinks at least is a joke. "I know how that gets some times people get wrapped up in the oddest things." 

:'''{{#var:525|Inga (525)}} has posed:''' It would appear that the local wisewoman was also in town today, her usual basket in hand, making her rounds to those who are sick, injured, or simply in the need of a little company and advice. She's exiting one of the village houses where a new baby has recently been born. She's still speaking with the mother as she tries to get out the door. "Yes, it is totally normal for it to be green--just wait until she's taking solid foods! Get more rest while she sleeps alright?" comes her voice, carrying across to where Saber and Arthur are meeting. Inga looks over, blinks. Oh, its Arturia and Arthur, how nice! And Tomoe as well! Wait, its Arturia and Arthur! Have they met yet!? Is this THE MOMENT!? Walking stick in one hand, basket of what is now eggs in the other, she crosses toward them. "Good day!" she calls. She had to see this. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Saber's otherwise subtle smile appeared to freeze on her face, her sea-green eyes widening a fraction. Overall, the expression was the equivalent of a normal person's jaw dropping with eyes practially popping out of her head. Similarly, she recovered much more quickly than another in her position might have. Nevertheless, it took a moment for her to gather her wits. While she had been quite aware that there were multiple versions of her wandering somewhere throughout the multiverse, it was quite another to meet one of those duplicates face-to-face.      But he wasn't a duplicate, was he? Not particularly. It seemed the legend of King Arthur might have been greater than each individual version of the Once and Future King. It was a humbling thought...not that Saber wasn't already humble towards her place in the multiverse. Indeed, her sole source of pride was her position as the King of Knights, which was just as much a responsibility.      "I am...Arturia Pendragon, the King of Knights," she replied slowly. "I was the King of Britain long ago, but no longer. Now, am simply the Lady of Dun Realtai."      Well now...this might be a tad awkward. Fortunately, Tomoe was there to helpfully distract.      "It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Tomoe. Welcome."      And look, there's Inga. "Good day, wisewoman," Arturia greeted. "It is good to see you." 

:'''{{#var:1048|Young Arthur (1048)}} has posed:''' And then in turn it's Arthur's face that shows shock and surprise. Sure, he'd known in theory that this Sir Bedivere has a king of his own, but he'd expected ... well, a man. Probably one a good bit older than him at that. Not a girl only a few years his senior at best. Perhaps that's his fault for assuming, but regardless, this was not something the young king had seen coming. "It is my pleasure to finally meet you. Sir Bedivere speaks well of you, though..." He takes a moment to gather his thoughts about this, "... he had neglected to mention a few details that I believe would have been prudent to know. Had I known who you were, I would not have been as blase about this meeting as I am." Still awkward, but the boy seems to have had good teachers at least, and perhaps a natural gift for this kind of thing, because he recovers remarkably quickly. "It is nice to meet you as well, Master Tomoe, and a good day to you, Wisewoman, I hope all is well?" 

:'''{{#var:525|Inga (525)}} has posed:''' Inga bows her head to Arturia and then to Arthur. "Good day Lady Arturia, Lord Arthur. Greetings Tomoe," she says with a smile. So, it is their first time meeting. She can't imagine what that must be like. She doubts she's important enough for there to be multiple versions of herself. "I am well, and all is well. I regret that I have been recently spit up on by a baby, but alas," she comments with a shrug. She'll refrain from any friendly embraces. Oh, the wyrd must be a sight with the two of them close together. Inga can't help but release her control and take a peek. 

:'''{{#var:6|Tomoe (6)}} has posed:''' Then it dawns on her too what is happen she will be polite she won't say a thing on just what may be happening with the two Pendragons. Then there is the fact her father's online alais is Pendragon too. she watches the paur for a moment smiling at Saber as she introduces herself. It feels strane to be meeting her after all these years. "It is good to meet both of you and hello Inga it's beenb a while." She semes to be in good spirits and she now thinks for a moment. "BAbies tend to do that I admit. As for things here I admit I was curious Inga if there are any merchants active in the town right now?" 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:'''   There is a familiar figure heading around the corner from down the hill, accompanied by the steady clop of hooves. Pale hair and pale skin, as well as the solid steel of armour, are suggestive of the Steward of Dun Realtai; the horse he rides is a pale blue roan, with dark mane and tail and a skittish way about it. In fact, it dances in place once he tugs the reins as he approaches the group on the commons.   A smile is spared for Arturia -- perhaps one of the few times he shows open warmth -- and an upraised hand in greeting to the others. "Hail, friends," he calls, before he's quite closed the distance. The horse gradually slows to a halt, ducking its head and snorting softly. "I hope I am not interrupting...?" 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Even now, regardless of the long years king and loyal knight had known each other and the eventual budding of their relationship, a light dusting of pink coloured Arturia's cheeks. "Ah...he is among my most faithful of knights, a paragon of the Eight Virtues, and has long supported me when few others had. I owe him much more than I can ever repay."      Then again, she had repaid him in what might have been the best way possible, but that was something which was better expressed by seeing the two together.      Her expression sobered a bit after a moment. "It is not surprising, that he withheld some details," she admitted. "For many years, it was of the utmost importance that no word of my true gender reached beyond those few who knew of it...among those who were privy to that secret were my closest knights: Sir Bedivere, sir Lancelot, Sir Gawain. As was my mentor, Merlin."      She shook her head. "Worry not...for my part, I am not offended. Indeed, such things are apparently common in the multiverse."      Likewise, she wasn't offended by Inga's consideration. She had certainly been spit on by far worse things than babies, but the healer would likely prefer to be cleaned up first. "It would seem that there is no shortage of a need for your services," she quipped with a slight smile.      And as if to prove the point that there was further meaning behind her words to the young Arthur, her smile became subtly brighter at Sir Bedivere's approach. "If I amy be so bold, I do not believe so," she answered. "We were merely in the middle of introductions." 

:'''{{#var:525|Inga (525)}} has posed:''' Looking at the wyrd of two King Arthurs was a risky endevour, but Inga could not resist the urge to experience it. Curiousity kills the cat, they say. Inga's eye's widen, her pupils expanding painfully wide as she lets the wyrd pull her along on its tide--ripping her in two directions simutaneously. It is like being cut in half, while still being aware of both sides of yourself as one goes left and the other goes right, thrown through the warp and the weft of the tapestry of fate like a cosmic rollercoaster ride. Of course. It's Camlann. Of course it is. Can't blame anyone else for it this time, she'd opened herself up to it. Inga lets out a pained sound. Blood drips from her nose and her ears. Then over she falls. 

:'''{{#var:1048|Young Arthur (1048)}} has posed:''' "I cannot blame him, if your Britain is anything like mine, 't would be a complication of serious note." Arthur admits with little concern, "The lords of Britain have issue enough accepting a bastard as young as me, had I been the fairer sex, I do not see how I would not feel compelled to obscure this fact like you have." Arthur sounds understanding enough, at least. "As soon as the land thaws, I must be off to war. Lord Caradoc grows ever more impudent, and I cannot tolerate his pretence any further." "Hello, Sir Bediver, speak of the devil and --" Then the Wisewoman keels over, and the young man rushes to try to catch her before she hits the ground, "Does anyone here know medicine? Or what has happened to her?" 

:'''{{#var:6|Tomoe (6)}} has posed:''' Then comes an unexpected person to the gathering and Sir Bedivere wshows up and Tomoe freese like a deer in head light? King Arthurs and Sir Bedivere? She's trying to nto explode oe try to hide. Okay keep control Tomoe but given how her avatar works she's already turing a bit red. It could get very much worst a bit more she listens as the tales are told and she attemps to not ahem make an idiot of her self. "There's stories of Sir Bedivere back home...along with the rest of the knights." As the soul surivor of the round table who made certain Exalibur was returned to the Lady of the Lake. She though seems to be starting to trip up as she's turning bright red now. She looks to Young Arthur for a moment and Inga keels over. Tomoe is distracted and races to the woman's side to help Young Arthur. 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:'''   If the silver-haired knight notices the dusting of pink over Arturia's face, he is tactful enough not to draw attention to it. Is that a hint of a smile? Surely not. In fact, it's soon forgotten as he begins to follow the conversation. Bedivere's mild, violet eyes flick from one individual to the next as each speaks, piecing together what he'd missed.   Such ability to pick up on context and conversation had made him a fine informant to the king. Once upon a time, he might have even been capable of acting as spymaster, if Sir Lancelot had not performed the job to such exacting standards. Bedivere had possessed one important advantage over his contemporary, and that was the ability to perceive without being observed. Few had known just how much the relative outcast of the Round Table had been aware of.   Bedivere clears his throat, a sound so soft that it could be missed. It's a quiet prompt to Arturia, as though to check and make sure everything's been alright in his absence. That sound is all she'd need, too -- their ability to communicate with one another without words borders on the eerie.   His soft gaze flicks to Inga, then, one brow faintly quirked in worry when she--   Oh. Well, that's not good.   "Young lord." Bedivere inclines his head to Arthur, politely, but he does not leap from the saddle. He wouldn't reach her in time and Arthur's already there. "It is the awen," he proclaims, solemnly. "Give her a moment. I believe she will pull through. She is quite accustomed to this sort of thing, no matter how terrible it may appear to the outside."   But he glances to Arturia, just to be sure. 

:'''{{#var:525|Inga (525)}} has posed:''' Inga is limp as a doll. Her eyes are open, staring into nothing. Unblinking. She doesn't move besides a bit of involuntary twitching in her muscles. She seems sort of...well... Dead. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Some things were apparently common across the multiverse, it would seem.      "Indeed...there was a great deal of unrest when I ascended the throne, as well as afterwards," she admitted, albeit vaguely. "Alas, for our kingdom, such was a constant."      Even before their current closeness, knight and king understood one another so well -- being proverbially cut from the same cloth -- that many times words themselves were redundant. It was a skill worth more than gold in a treacherous court, to be able to convey important information with a mere significant glance. Effortlessly, she caught the intended clearing of his throat and glance, nodding in turn, a slight bob of her head, signalling that all was well...at least for the moment.      The flaxen-haired knight-king nodded at Tomoe. "Yes...many of my knights inspired legends of their own through their noble deeds. Some are more celebrated than others, but they were all dedicated to the chivalric code and the Eight Virtues...it is my hope to find them again some day, and bring them here. Though I do not wish to recreate the Round Table, such as it was..."      She didn't have the chance to finish, however, when Inga collapsed. Arturia frowned; such a collapse was always a concern when it happened, but it was a frequent enough occurence.      Even if she seemed dead.      "It is the awen, yes," she agreed. "Nevertheless, she should be moved to a more comfortable setting, and one where she will not strike her head should the vision turn violent." 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:'''   Although Bedivere looks uncomfortable at the wisewoman's plight, he doesn't seem inclined to start towards her. Such visions are a commonplace occurance, and such a reaction to them is even more so. He has seen her roll her eyes back until the whites were shown; to twitch and spasm as though lightning itself had struck her.   He does not speak on Camelot.   Instead, he glances to the wisewoman, expression one of both concern and resignation. "No. Do not concern yourselves. This is not an uncommon occurance, and the best we can do for her is to see that she is comfortable; there is naught I know of that will bring her from it before she is ready." A subtle gesture brings his horse to sidestep closer to Arturia, but surely that was just the horse shifting its weight, right? "Hopefully she will wrest herself from it soon, before she harms herself."   He looks back down the hill from whence he'd come. Lights gleam in the furthest district of the town, electric lamps rather than torches of flame, and a few people are still finishing up their business for the day. It's a peaceful setting.   "Shall we continue to the citadel? If the two of you can reach, I will take her before the saddle, and carry her if I must." 

:'''{{#var:6|Tomoe (6)}} has posed:''' Tomoe does think she gets what Saber is getting at maybe just a chance to live without having to worry about poltical matters, bandits monsters and who knows what else. She could be wrong but she's focused on Inga who is dead and Tomoe starts to panic a bit she does recall Inga's very good at getting better, it's slipped her mind she pauses as Bedi does not seem to be bothered about this whole state of affairs. She's looking a bit paniced at the moment until she pauses at Bedivere. "Wait wait, she cna respawn...?!" The poor Salamander is looking stunned at this moment though what she's going on about? Who knows given her world of origins. She looks from Saber, to Arthur, to Bedi and then to Inga nad wait is that an actual sweat drop by her head for a moment? It might just be so. 

:'''{{#var:1048|Young Arthur (1048)}} has posed:''' Arthur picks up Inga and accepts the words of his fellows, even though he's weirded out by it. The young man may not look it, but there's a lot of strength in that thin body of his. His horse is nearby, so if none object, he'll lift her into the saddle and keep steady while the proud beast walks. "My issue is such, there are twelve great lords. Of them, only Lord Hector, the least of them, has sworn fealty to me. I must submit the others before the realm breaks out in what will surely be the bloodiest war since the Romans came." "She has powers great and mysterious, I know not the extent of them, but if Lady Arturia and Sir Bediver claim we should not worry, I would believe them." He answers Tomoe. 

:'''{{#var:525|Inga (525)}} has posed:''' Inga is gone for several moments. No pulse, no breath. Nothing. Arthur can lift her onto the horse with ease, she's not especially heavy at a whopping five feet tall. Once they've begun to ride, Inga suddenly gasps like someone who's been drowning, quickly hyperventilating to fill her lungs with sweet, wonderful air again. After a few moments, she squints her eyes shut and covers them with her hand. "That...was a terrible idea. Damn you and your pasts and futures, the pair of you," she groans. Oh, and Bedivere is here now. She opens one eye to look to him. Groans. "And you as well," she adds. Her brain still hurts. "And when did I get on horse?" askes the now grumy wisewoman. Awen hangovers are a thing, apparently. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' It was just as well Bedivere did not speak on Camelot; though many were eager to hear the tales, it was a subject Arturia preferred to leave behind. Her country and her kingdom were long gone; what existed for her now was the future of her adopted country and her betrothed. Both were miracles that she had no intention of squandering or taking for granted. If there were more quests to be had, they would be for the benefit of her new home and at the side of the man who would be her husband.      Instead, she diverted her attention to the wisewoman in the grip of the awen. "I believe that would be best. We can better host you both as well...tea, perhaps?"      In the universe from which Arturia and Bedivere hail, the younger masculine Arthur's strength would have been possible through magic, just as Saber's was. Her frame would have never been able to heft even a small sword for very long, much less one of Excalibur's weight and length, without the blood of ancient dragons that Merlin had infused her with in her mother's womb. Was something similar responsible for the boy's strength...or was it something else entirely, such as a great force of will such as Bedivere's?      She left such questions for later, however.      The Servant decided not to ask about what in heavens "respawn" was, but Tomoe's confusion was clear enough.      "It is a deep trance," she explained. "She is seeing either the past or the future through...well, in our world, such insight comes from the leylines of mystical power which flow through the world. The seer-poets of Britain enter such trances, as well."      Fortunately, Inga awoke not long afterward. At her words, she sighed, suspecting just what it was the wisewoman attempted to peer at. "Yes...perhaps I should have cautioned you concerning my end," Saber said plainly, yet no longer as disturbed thinking back to that tragedy as she once would have been. "It is not a pleasant thing to have seen." 

:'''{{#var:6|Tomoe (6)}} has posed:''' Tomoe nods to Young Arthur she seems to be calming down a good deal now she sees that Inga is back for a moment as she looks to her then back to Young Arthur she takes another deep breath. "I'm the last person in the multiverse to be talking about strange insanities ain't I?" she muses before she falls in step with everyone else she does not press about Camelot she can get that could be a sore issue. "Ah, ya I ... forgot about that. I been busy with trying to work on the castle the GU cleared out recently. So I have been a bit distracted by that and generally finding work to pay the bills now I don't have a union paycheck anymore." 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:'''   The silver-haired knight keeps watch over the wisewoman, but she seems to be in good hands once Arthur takes custody of her. He watches as Arthur goes about transferring Inga to his horse, but once she comes to, his gaze flickers back to her.   "I would especially recommend not doing that again, especially at the moment," Bedivere tells her, in a mild tone of voice. Inviting a third instance of Camlann, along with the pain and suffering of its sole survivor, would be both foolish and disastrous. "You would not like that."   When did she get to be on a horse? "The young lord took you into his custody, at our behest. We were in the process of taking you somewhere more comfortable," he points out, settling in the saddle and encouraging his horse into a slow amble to keep up. "Most likely, up to the citadel."   Tea sounds pretty amazing, actually; his horse is slow because it's having to muscle its way through snow up past its knees and hocks. Bedivere is likewise not one hundred percent dry. Spring is always a bit slow to visit Dun Realtai. The valley and its spire-hill somehow manages to catch the worst of all storms.   Silence falls for a few seconds, broken only by the crunch of his horse's broad hooves churning through the snow, or the whuff of its breath. He shakes his head, but the gesture seems to be one of agreement with Arturia's explanation rather than contention. "Thankfully for us, she did not try to see it with all three of us." Camlann times three, plus the agony of its sole survivor, would not be a pretty way to pass the day. That's a lot of concentrated misery.   Tomoe's explanations are largely glossed over, because he has no idea what's being discussed.   ...It's probably better that way. 

:'''{{#var:525|Inga (525)}} has posed:''' Inga seems steady now, though she still has a pained expression, a crease of the brow that indicates the strength of her current headache. "I've seen it before," she tells Arturia, "though not from your perspective," she adds, glancing meaningfully to Bedivere. Inga sighs quietly. "This time, I saw the past and the future...at the same time, for two people who's wyrd is...Odin's bones, it is hard to describe, but it just about tore me in half," she says quietly. She reaches up to wipe the blood from her nose with her sleeve. "Tea. Alright. I left Jodis in the village, but I can come back for her. She's well looked after in the meantime." Inga looks back to Bedivere. "If such can be controlled I would very much like to avoid it--it is not always possible to do so. This time...well, I believe I had to know how the fates of two seperate people who are also...the same in ways...I had to know what that would be like," she explains, then scoffs. "Painful apparently. But wisdom often is," she adds with a slight smile. 
}}

Homeward (Revan)

2016-04-27T21:55:37Z

ForwardObserver: Forgot to edit some formatting

{{Cutscene Header
|Date of Scene=2016/04/25
|Location=The Ebon Hawk
|Synopsis=After the near-death of a friend and the subsequent brief lapse into the Dark Side, Lowri Revan-Shan makes the difficult choice of returning home, to a person who would not want to let her go again.
|Cast of Characters=414,
}}
 Death was something Lowri Revan Shan was well-acquainted with. She had witnessed single deaths and genocide, those of strangers, enemies, and friends. She had even been the cause of more than a few, both in her forgotten past as a Dark Lord and the more recent one beginning on the Endar Spire where she awoke with her false memories for the first time. And while she knew that they all rejoined the Force eventually, she had constantly fought for the hope that the ones she saved would have long, fulfilling lives with few regrets. Of course, that was not always possible, but that wouldn't stop her from trying. And no amount of platitudes would ever make it easier for those left behind. The only one she had found to be even halfway adequate for the grieving was the reassurance that their souls were now free from suffering, and that they were never truly gone because the Force united all. But even knowing this was of little comfort when a person lost a friend or loved one, especially when the one lost had been young and had barely experienced anything of life. No amount of objectivity could really ease emotions which couldn't be controlled in the same way as the muscles of the body. Lowri supposed that this is what the Jedi feared so much: that part of being human -- or being alive, actually -- wasn't as controllable as physical movement. A person could learn how to control his or her reactions or dull themselves to emotion, but such things never truly controlled which emotions were stimulated. Even the traditional Jedi way of denying them was merely something applied to the surface. Lowri couldn't help but feel anger over the wanton slaughter of a peaceful farming settlement. She couldn't help but feel a kind of warmth when her friends had accepted her despite her dark past. She couldn't help but feel grief over the heroic sacrifice made by a friend and impromptu student. The Jedi couldn't help but wonder how much of the Code was truly meant to protect the innocent from a loss of control by someone strong in the Force and how much was simply to guard sensitive hearts from feeling things such as grief, regret, and loss. At the moment, she couldn't truly blame anyone for either motivation. The pale-haired Guardian had not felt as helpless as she had for years, doubting herself in a way she hadn't for a very long time. When she couldn't even save someone she cared about, was she capable of saving anyone, really? It hardly mattered that he had made that choice willingly to save both friends and simple bystanders, or that the creature they faced was something that even seasoned heroes seemed to only be able to slow down. She should have been able to ''stop it''. Then there was her loss of control. The last time the Guardian had been that enraged, she had been facing down a Dark Lord of the Sith and a former friend. She had since committed herself to abandoning that path, even if she refused to abandon being human in the process. Guilt assaulted her; whatever that creature had been, whatever motivations it might have had, she had retaliated in the most evil of ways. She could never regret her attachments, nor could she insist that they only led to the strong emotions which the Jedi claimed were pathways to the Dark Side, but she could regret her loss of control and the results. But then, how could she not have? Lowri sighed wearily, pondering all of these thoughts and paradoxes as the Ebon Hawk navigated the familiar Hyperways. She needed to be somewhere far from the Union, from future galaxies. Far from Paragon City. There was really only one place she could go. ============================================================================== As she stood in the doorway of the flat they shared on the station, she didn't need the Force to register the shock roiling off of him; to her it was as plain as day. The man looked weary from the duties and responsibilities of his rank, the familiar scruff on his face already sporting a few white hairs from both age and stress. He was the only one who could fill the proverbial shoes that he did, but there was a cost. Yet, even those tired russet eyes widened in astonishment the moment she appeared. She probably looked every bit as weary as he did, and the small touch of the Force he possessed was not what would have clued him in to her state of mind and her emotions. They were close enough at this point that he could read her as well as any datapad. She was troubled. "I'm home," she announced softly with a wry smile that wouldn't fool him for an instant.

Homeward (Revan)

2016-04-27T21:53:08Z

ForwardObserver: Created page with "{{Cutscene Header |Date of Scene=2016/04/25 |Location=The Ebon Hawk |Synopsis=After the near-death of a friend and the subsequent lapse into the Dark Side, Lowri Revan-Shan ma..."

{{Cutscene Header
|Date of Scene=2016/04/25
|Location=The Ebon Hawk
|Synopsis=After the near-death of a friend and the subsequent lapse into the Dark Side, Lowri Revan-Shan makes the difficult choice of returning home, to a person who would not want to let her go again.
|Cast of Characters=414,
}}
 Death was something Lowri Revan Shan was well-acquainted with. She had witnessed single deaths and genocide, those of strangers, enemies, and friends. She had even been the cause of more than a few, both in her forgotten past as a Dark Lord and the more recent one beginning on the Endar Spire where she awoke with her false memories for the first time. And while she knew that they all rejoined the Force eventually, she had constantly fought for the hope that the ones she saved would have long, fulfilling lives with few regrets. Of course, that was not always possible, but that wouldn't stop her from trying. And no amount of platitudes would ever make it easier for those left behind. The only one she had found to be even halfway adequate for the grieving was the reassurance that their souls were now free from suffering, and that they were never truly gone because the Force united all. But even knowing this was of little comfort when a person lost a friend or loved one, especially when the one lost had been young and had barely experienced anything of life. No amount of objectivity could really ease emotions which couldn't be controlled in the same way as the muscles of the body. Lowri supposed that this is what the Jedi feared so much: that part of being human -- or being alive, actually -- wasn't as controllable as physical movement. A person could learn how to control his or her reactions or dull themselves to emotion, but such things never truly controlled which emotions were stimulated. Even the traditional Jedi way of denying them was merely something applied to the surface. Lowri couldn't help but feel anger over the wanton slaughter of a peaceful farming settlement. She couldn't help but feel a kind of warmth when her friends had accepted her despite her dark past. She couldn't help but feel grief over the heroic sacrifice made by a friend and impromptu student. The Jedi couldn't help but wonder how much of the Code was truly meant to protect the innocent from a loss of control by someone strong in the Force and how much was simply to guard sensitive hearts from feeling things such as grief, regret, and loss. At the moment, she couldn't truly blame anyone for either motivation. The pale-haired Guardian had not felt as helpless as she had for years, doubting herself in a way she hadn't for a very long time. When she couldn't even save someone she cared about, was she capable of saving anyone, really? It hardly mattered that he had made that choice willingly to save both friends and simple bystanders, or that the creature they faced was something that even seasoned heroes seemed to only be able to slow down. She should have been able to /stop it/. Then there was her loss of control. The last time the Guardian had been that enraged, she had been facing down a Dark Lord of the Sith and a former friend. She had since committed herself to abandoning that path, even if she refused to abandon being human in the process. Guilt assaulted her; whatever that creature had been, whatever motivations it might have had, she had retaliated in the most evil of ways. She could never regret her attachments, nor could she insist that they only led to the strong emotions which the Jedi claimed were pathways to the Dark Side, but she could regret her loss of control and the results. But then, how could she not have? Lowri sighed wearily, pondering all of these thoughts and paradoxes as the Ebon Hawk navigated the familiar Hyperways. She needed to be somewhere far from the Union, from future galaxies. Far from Paragon City. There was really only one place she could go. ============================================================================== As she stood in the doorway of the flat they shared on the station, she didn't need the Force to register the shock roiling off of him; to her it was as plain as day. The man looked weary from the duties and responsibilities of his rank, the familiar scruff on his face already sporting a few white hairs from both age and stress. He was the only one who could fill the proverbial shoes that he did, but there was a cost. Yet, even those tired russet eyes widened in astonishment the moment she appeared. She probably looked every bit as weary as he did, and the small touch of the Force he possessed was not what would have clued him in to her state of mind and her emotions. They were close enough at this point that he could read her as well as any datapad. She was troubled. "I'm home," she announced softly with a wry smile that wouldn't fool him for an instant.

3764/Clenched Teeth Teamwork

2016-04-27T21:37:13Z

ForwardObserver: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2016/02/04 |Location=Void - Debris Field |Synopsis=Called by a Jedi temple to ward off a Sith intruder, Jedi Revan and Kyle Katarn bring Maya and M..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2016/02/04
|Location=Void - Debris Field
|Synopsis=Called by a Jedi temple to ward off a Sith intruder, Jedi Revan and Kyle Katarn bring Maya and Mairead Sandilands, only to end up working together. There they find revalations about themselves and their actions through the Force...
|Cast of Characters=19, 414, 778, 940, 951
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:951|Nima Kairn (951)}} has posed:'''     Deep in the Void, amidst the innumerable wrecks of ships both long obsolete and beyond the cutting edge, there were places where a person could make a home. There were still planets, of course, however little they were inhabited. One of these few planets in this part of the Multiverse happened to be one of those places with a small number of inhabitants; a world in the Outer Rim of grasslands and occaisonal mountains.     The planet Lothal.     On it's surface, only a couple thousand kilometers from the planet's north pole, a large mountain range dominated a area covered in snow. Not far from one of these mounds of rock is a Imperial Fury-class interceptor taking up space in one of the valleys. Closer still was a hooded and cloaked woman meditating as if these rocks held answers to something.     Which... they do. The ancient Jedi temple held underneath had long since been mostly emptied by the Galactic Empire's forces after the Jedi had been destroyed. That said, it still remembered... and as the Sith tried to find her way inside, it began to send a resonance through the Force, calling out to any Jedi that yet lived... 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      The Force always seemed to follow those who were sensitive to its pull no matter where they were in the multiverse. This seemed to suggest that, as some philosophers had argued, it was indeed an intelligent presence, actively guiding those who could hear its call. Sometimes, even those unable to. Lowri Revan Shan could be in another universe entirely, one without a Force presence, and yet she could still hear its call...just as she did now.      The Ebon Hawk blasted out of the multiversal gate connecting this version of the galaxy to an adjacent reality, setting down in a clearing near the ruined temple. It wasn't especially difficult to sense the presence of other Force-sensitives, particularly those strong in it. They would likely find their Dark Side presence within.      "This looks like our stop," she quipped to her passengers. "Shall we?" 

:'''{{#var:778|Kyle Katarn (778)}} has posed:'''     The Force whistling in Kyle's ear was all the convincing he needed to join Lowri on this off-the-cuff mission of theirs. His sense is as keen as hers, as the soldier turned Jedi joins her aboard the Hawk. There's not much conversation of note to be had on the way, they're both focused too much on the mission.     He follows Lowri down the ramp, already searching for macro-binoculars on his belt before scanning out on the temple. "This the place? Seems like it's hiding in plain sight from where we're standing." 

:'''{{#var:940|Mairead Sandilands (940)}} has posed:'''     is looking out the window of whatever this ship is and is amazed at seeing space, "Oi this is amazing. Me family and friends would be jumping with joy at this," se mentions as she looks around. "How fast are we a going?" she asks as she looks at the ship before turning her face back to the window and at everything. To her, thi sis amazing, as she has never been on a ship that is traveling through space.     "And I though me IS was amazing. This ship beats it hand down....." and she looks at Revan with a child-like smile as she follows the others and lands on the ground and smiles, "Dance with me Emerald Lady," she states as her IS Academy Uniform phases out and is replaced with emerald green armor with navy blue trim and golden yellow highlights. She looks around as she summons Ivar, her beam bow and looks. "I'm gonna go high and scout," she states to the group. 

:'''{{#var:19|Maya (19)}} has posed:''' Maya did not know the name of the planet Lothal eixsint until today but here Maya is. She was prone to looting things but she also got certain things were best recovered to those who knew how o deal with them. So here she was tialing after Kyle and Revan as she makes ready to get off. "I am ready to go." 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      The former Sith Lord couldn't help but grin at Mairead, while T3 swivelled his head curiously before resuming his maintenance patrol of the refurbished freighter. "I'll send you a datapad after we're done here," she replied. "It'd take to long to get into everything about the Ebon Hawk. Not too shabby for second-hand," she commented with a bit of cheer as she stood from the pilot's seat, affixing her twin lightsabers on each side of her belt before making her way to the ramp with a salute to Maya.      "I imagine our friend is poking around in there," she replied to Kyle, frowning slightly as she regarded the temple as they made towards it. "No explosions...so whoever it is probably isn't interested in purging Jedi history. Might have a more intellectual sort on our hands."      She nodded to Mairead briefly. "Goes without saying, just be careful. Even the more diplomatic of Dark Siders are dangerous. And whoever it is already knows we're here." 

:'''{{#var:778|Kyle Katarn (778)}} has posed:'''     "She might actually be more dangerous than the usual psychos we fight." Kyle points out. "Some Sith like purging our records, this one might end up using our own writings against us if she gets ahold of anything vital down there." He's pretty grim about this, having wished to be able to visit this world's Jedi installations without having to deal with Sith poking about. "Hopefully we can talk her down from taking everything and running, she seems willing enough to compromise on some issues at least." 

:'''{{#var:951|Nima Kairn (951)}} has posed:'''      As Revan's ship comes to land, Nima Kairn smiles very slightly under her hood. The area was a beacon to the Light Side of the Force, tis true, but it was empty now, forgotten. She can feel the touch of new life, Force-sensitive life, coming to approach. Her holocommunicator beeps; once it's out and set on the ground, 2V-R8 appears. He'd probably look a lot more harried if he weren't a droid.     "Master, the Breaker's scanners have picked up another ship entering the area... Should we retreat?"     Nima smiles softly and shakes her head. "Nonsense. This is perfect timing. Kindly tell Khem Val to come and join me in case our visitors are less than friendly."     So while everyone was busy trying to scout for ambushes and the like, Nima remains where she is, even when the huge Dashade makes his way to his master's side. The beast grips his massive vibrosword with eager anticipation, his fang-lined mouth gnashing. the monster rasps.     This is what causes Nima to finally stand. That, and the fact that she could feel her opponents coming closer. "Do try to refrain from antagonizing them. We need them to open the path for us, after all." The Dashade growls quietly.     When everyone finally arrive, Nima turns to regard them silently, still shrouded and cloaked. When they're close enough, she raises a hand in greeting--and warning. "Stop there if you please, Jedi. Know first that I intend no harm to you, so long as you cooperate with me." She motions towards the mound of rocks behind her. "Lord Vader's Galactic Empire has tried to strip this place, but I believe there are still artifacts of worth in there. Things that should be preserved, no matter their origin. You agree, yes? Then work with me and help me to save them." 

:'''{{#var:940|Mairead Sandilands (940)}} has posed:'''     Nodding, Mairead smiles, "Aye, I will be careful," she comments to Revan as she takes flight, the thrusters on her IS activating. Once she is high enough up, she looks around as she spins, and spots something and zooms in, "I am getting something, looks like something or someone is just sitting there," she comments. "And as I do not know what ye or her can do, I will not move forward. Hopefully, she is polite like she was on the radio," she adds as she knows the only thing she has that will reach are her missiles, but she only has a limited number, but her IS can get more, it will just take time.     Moreover, she is more curious as to this planet. "I am on another planet... Me mum and father will not believe me...." and she is super happy, like a kid in a candy store happy, and she is only 17 and probably the shortest, being 5'6. Decending down, she looks and stops behind the group, and watches as she looks at the puppy. "She seems nice," she mentions to hem. Mairead is not Force Sensetive, so she has no idea just how strong the Jedi and Sith are..... 

:'''{{#var:19|Maya (19)}} has posed:''' Maya rifle is ready but she's not leveld it yet, it would look strange alien and possobly primative by the standards of the other's world, but those who can use the force might sense part of maya'a rifle is /alive/. Maya seems to be a bit uneasy as they come face to face with someone whose using the darkside. Her green eyes are wasy as she sizes Nima up for the moment. She's clearly wary but there's no fear in her. 

:'''{{#var:778|Kyle Katarn (778)}} has posed:'''     "We're not here to fight, Nima Kairn." Kyle says, hands nowhere near the weapons holstered on his hips as he approaches. That said, he's eyeing Khem Val warily while he speaks. "I think maybe a brief truce is in order, maybe even a compromise in who gets what out of this." He suggests, tone diplomatic as possible.     He glances to Lowri for a moment, before continuing. "It's not worth causing a fight over what amounts to museum relics anyways, don't you think? We'd be better off just pooling our resources in figuring this place out together instead of fighting over it like a bunch of scavengers arguing salvage rights." 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      Pale eyebrows raised slightly at the Sith's rather unorthodox invitation before Revan smiled. "Oh my," she quipped with an almost musical lilt. "This was certainly unexpected."      However, she sighed inwardly. Now she found herself wishing she had help onto Ajunta Pall's sword as a potential bargaining chip...but then again, the ghost of the ancient Sith Lord had warned her about how dangerous and insidious the thing was. It was probably for the best, and the fact that the Force hadn't warned her against spacing the evil thing seemed to confirm it.      "True enough," she agrees with Mairead. "Rather unexpected, to be honest. Usually these things begin with violence."      Her mismatched eyes flicked to Kyle briefly before returning to the rather unusual Sith apprentice before them. "Well, this sounds quite interesting~," she quipped with an oddly friendly smile. "For my part, I'm game. What do you propose?" 

:'''{{#var:940|Mairead Sandilands (940)}} has posed:'''     Looking at everyone, Mairead listens as she blinks and asks, "Um, I do not see a temple....I see a mountain," she comments as she scratches her head with her right hand as she looks. "What is so special about a mountain?" she asks in her Scottish accent towards everyone. 

:'''{{#var:19|Maya (19)}} has posed:''' Maya has her own feelsing on this, but it's not her world she'll keep a wary eye on the darkside user she does not say anyhing but she's clearly watching her intently as if trying to size her and her motives up. She does however keep with kyle for a moment and she smirks at him. "My people are Scvangers, but we don't tend to fight or kill over salvage. It's bad business, in the long run." 

:'''{{#var:951|Nima Kairn (951)}} has posed:'''     Well, this was going better than expected. Unlike the Jedi from her galaxy, it seemed these guys were willing to play ball. Under her hood, Nima lets out a small sigh of relief. Whether she could take this many in the first place was debatable, even with Khem Val at her side. Better that this was done peacefully. As a means to facilitate what trust she has with them, she slips off her hood, shifting her lekku so that they're hanging in front of her shoulders. "I am surprised at you Jedi myself, but let us not stand on stereotypes."     Khem Val seems far less than pleased, but he gives a grudging nod to his master before turning his red-eyed gaze on the others. The meaningful look he sends Kyle would probably make a lesser man's stomach turn. It's pretty clear what he eats, after all.     Nima seems to brush off her companion's distaste and moves forward lightly, keeping her hands folded at her stomach. "Your eyes will decieve you, child," she tells Mairead. "They already have. Unfortunately, the temple knows what I am all too well. Only a Jedi can open the path ahead. With that in mind..." She steps aside and motions Kyle towards the rocks.     Stretching out with the Force would bring the Temple to answer; if he's willing, it would just take a simple effort from Kyle to suddenly make the whole giant rock begin to corkscrew upwards for several dozen feet until a dark passageway rises to the surface to greet them. 

:'''{{#var:778|Kyle Katarn (778)}} has posed:'''     "The Force is capable of much more than you might think." Kyle asides to Mairead, before he begins to make his way towards the 'mountain' itself. This is something he's seen in ancient writings before, but never face to face. It's breathtaking, but nothing compared to what comes next.     He focuses deep, raising his hands towards the rock before reaching out towards it with the Force. After a moment of effort, with but the Force and his will alone, the rock begins to corkscrew its way higher and higher until it reveals a hidden pathway from deep bellow, a sacred and hidden temple used long ago by Jedi long since passed on to the next form of being.     "I'd hurry, dunno how long I can keep this up." He mutters, only heading in when everyone else has gone first. 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      "The ancient Masters were rather creative," she commented to Mairead with a slight grin. "Using natural features was something they were quite fond of, even when it wasn't necessary to hide something. "      Revan hadn't missed the Dashade before, but now she was openly curious. As disturbing as the creature could be for Force-sensitives, curiosity always seemed to overrule her better senses. "How interesting," she quipped, her smile never wavering. But they /did/ have something of a job to do.      Letting Kyle handle the first part, the Guardian headed inside, remaining deceptively cautious. Even if their new-found Sith acquaintance was being forthright, it wouldn't be an ancient temple without its fair share of tests and traps.      "I'm a bit of an oddity when it comes to Jedi," Revan admitted with a smile, waving her hand slightly as if to wave her strangeness away. "But that's neither here nor there. Is there anything about this particular temple that you know of?" 

:'''{{#var:940|Mairead Sandilands (940)}} has posed:'''     Blinking, Mairead backs up, ".... What type of magic is this?" she asks as she has never seen a mountain corkscrew before. Lookign at everyone, she is freaked and scared. "I .... I um......" and she looks at Maya and th eothers as she gulps and all would pick up on the fear she has. . o 0 (Oh this scares me,) she thinks as she watches Revan head in and blinsk as she follows the Jedi.     Lookign around, she realy wishes that Emerald Lady had a flashlight or something, but she looked around as she tried to see what this place was. "Should we even be here?" she asks as she looks over her shoulder. 

:'''{{#var:19|Maya (19)}} has posed:''' Maya says "The force can be used to beffled the mind." Maya seems to be speaking from experiance on this She however is looking about now as if she expects something else. She looks back to Mairead for a moment longer. "It's not really magic persay. My magic is forcing my will upon the energy of creation, this is ... something else. Look better we recover things here then they rot or be destroyed. My world losing portions of it's past cost us dearly a decade ago." She gives Nima a bit of a look over for a moment. "We'll see how this goes." 

:'''{{#var:951|Nima Kairn (951)}} has posed:'''     As the mountain begins to rumble upwards, Nima turns around and approaches as well, with Khem following close at her heels. Watching the entrance reveal itself is quite the spectacle indeed; once it's up and open, the twi'lek goes inside with an unhurried pace. Before they get too far she does reach under her cloak to draw her saberstaff's handle, but she doesn't ignite the weapon, and even makes a small show of it to Revan and the others so they would know she has armed herself.     The path is incredibly dark at first, winding down and down for several minutes of walking. The further they go down, the lighter it gets, though it's still quite gloomy. "Indeed, the old Jedi could be clever," she says to Revan. "Unfortunately, they are also fools. Judging by the construction..." She reaches out to run her hand along the wall beside her while she looks closely. "This was made roughly a thousand years before the coming of the Sith Empire. Perhaps more, perhaps less. It is difficult to know without proper historical records, all of which have been seized by this galaxy's Emperor. I do not know what we will find, but there are always nooks and crannies that pass beyond view."     The Sith, of course, can feel the fear and sense the thoughts of Mairead, and turns around with a dry smile and a similarly dry tone. "Beware, child. Fear breaks your peace. After all, emotion is a tool of the Dark Side." She even wiggles her fingers to emphasize herself. Spoooky. To Maya, she chuckles. "Your understanding isn't so far off. In this case, it is the energy of life. All life... and the things that life contains, 'good' or 'bad'."     When they finally reach the bottom, what greets them isn't particularly majestic. A large, empty stone room with many columns, each with designs and words artistically chisled into them. Even to those who aren't Force sensitive, this place radiates a distant, forlorn power. Nima inhales the musty, dank air deeply and begins to move towards a door illuminated by light, but the moment she does...     There's a faint sound of grinding gears and metal off in the dark, causing Khem to turn around and growl. <We are not alone here,> he grunts. Turns out, he's right. The temple wishes to refuse the Sith entry--and so from the dark corners of the room, many ancient droids shamble forwards. All of them are armed with either vibroblades or blasters. For her part, Nima doesn't wait for them to attack. She ignites her lightsaber and charges for a group of the droids.     As soon as she moves, the rest start to fire, seemingly uncaring of who gets caught in the crossfire! 

:'''{{#var:778|Kyle Katarn (778)}} has posed:'''     Kyle listens to Nima's history lesson. Even if it's slightly biased, he can't deny he appreciates having a perspective from someone more familiar with this ancient stuff. Then again, Lowri might help balance this out with her own take on things if the lessons get too heated. "Fools, but you can't deny their craftsmanship."     He's seen temples before, like on Russan or Korriban, both Jedi and Sith alike no less. It's never a dull moment in places like these, and Kyle is quick to draw his lightsaber when guardian droids appear with wepaons in hands. "No choice but to engage, let's bail her out!"     His lightsaber jolts to life with a blue glow as he leaps into the fray, saber deflecting blaster bolts before slashing at the braincase of one of the droids with a neat, swift stroke. 

:'''{{#var:940|Mairead Sandilands (940)}} has posed:'''     Mairead looks at Nima and she blinks, "How do ye know I am scared?" she asks as she loosk at everything as they decend. Silently to herself, she is praying as she walks and wonders why she is doing this. Once on the bottom, she looks and sniffs, "Gah, its dank down here," she commeemnts as she waves her hand over her face. Looking, she blinks as she hears noise and then sees the things and steps back, more scared, "Wha...what are those?" she asks as she sees Nima move and blinks as Kyle talks.     Looking, she sighs and brings her bow up, drawing it back and takes aim. Once she is set, she releases the energy string and beam bolt flies out for one of the droids's head. "How many of these things are there?" she asks as she draws her bow back again and takes aim on the same droid and releases another bolt for the body. Hopefully these old droids do not dodge.     As she fires her two shots, she is hit in turn fromt he droids and a three digit number appears infront of her. . o 0 (375/400 on shield energy.... Might have to get closer,) she thinks as she readys another shot. 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      The tall white-haired woman didn't appear to take offence to the comment, shrugging. "Age and experience can lead to wisdom, but they can also lead to stagnation," she replied cryptically. Perhaps she spoke from personal experience...? "That can be said of anyone, however."      She seemed to listen even as she studied the walls with a critical eye as they passed, and whatever thoughts she had she hid well. But then she smiled again. "Ah. Perhaps from the early era of the Republic, then? Not quite as stark as Korriban...not that the Valley wasn't without its charm."      Rather than frown with disapproval at the Inquisitor, the Guardian's smile never seemed to waver. "Ah, but in truth it is only allowing emotions to rule you, rather than rule your emotions," she quipped. "After all, when you're gripped in a panic, it's just a little difficult to move and form strategies effectively, wouldn't you say?"      Nevertheless, Revan was mildly surprised at her understanding of the Force. Not that the Sith couldn't be philosophical, but too many saw the Dark Side as a shortcut to power. The truly dangerous ones understood the true dual nature of the omnipresent power. "You could call it the soul of our very universe," she added. "It flows through everything...even things generally not considered alive. It flows through the very rocks and trees of every world in our galaxy."      Unfortunately, whatever deep philosophical debate the two might have been able to have -- which admittedly Revan would have been more than happy to entertain -- was rudely interrupted by the sort of ancient defence droids she was well accustomed to. "Ah well," she sighed. "It wouldn't be a proper ancient temple exploration without millennia-old murder droids," she quipped as she drew her lightsabers. "Such a nostalgic feeling.~" 

:'''{{#var:19|Maya (19)}} has posed:''' Maya shrugs for a moment. "The Emperor was very keen to exterimate any force using tradations from what little I know." Maya doesn't feel fear here, but she's clealrya ware that Nima could be dangerous. "What I draw upon is simply is, how you employ it is what matters." She moces aheaed but pauses for a moment as they get the warning they are not alone she sees the droids and she opens fire on them. Her rifle spits out solid slug rounds with a road amd sends shell casings everywhere as she moves to engage them. Her off hand however is holding a card that's got a blue fire leeching from her body into it. 

:'''{{#var:951|Nima Kairn (951)}} has posed:'''     Mairead's emotions and thoughts are pulsing like a beacon, turning Nima's smile into a wry one as she turns around again. "I know many things. You'd do well to learn to guard your thoughts. Were I a less scrupulous Sith..." She lets the implication hang. And really, she's not wrong--a more violent Sith might've torn her mind to shreds, or at least tried.     The Inquisitor nods along with Revan's observations, but eventually pauses to get a good look at the other woman. She's been to Korriban?... "Stark it may be, but the artifacts that continue to be pulled from the tombs to this day are fantastic. Wonders of the ancient Sith... provided you don't run into one of their ghosts along the way." She should know all about that. Though at least her spirit ancestor had been willing to hear reason...     Thankfully for everyone involved, there's a lot of cover here, what with all the pillars. Of course, with each blaster bolt and vibrosword swing, they were destroying precious history on the walls. Not that the droids seem to care. Kyle's target clearly can't defend itself against the lightsaber; braincase and head melt under the lightsaber's assault. Another two jump him from behind one of the pillars, one with a vibrosword trying to impale the Jedi onto a pillar, the other using another pillar as cover to fire from.     Mairead's bolts find their targets; these droids are far too old to dodge and evade properly, and they both drop. That said, if she wants to get closer, now's the perfect time! Three droids are coming, two armed with blades while the other shoots from afar. Maya gets much the same treatment. It seems that while these droids aren't very cutting edge anymore, they're willing to swarm to get their work done.     Revan doesn't attack quite yet, but that doesn't stop the droids from taking potshots at her. Two blaster wielding droids in cover and a third charging with a blade! That'll teach her to stand still in a fight... right?     Nima and Khem, meanwhile, are working fairly well together. The Deshade ends up getting tagged by a couple blaster bolts, but he snarls and viciously cleaves the heads from two blade wielding droids in front of him. Nima focuses more on those who are distant; the air fills with static energy as she reaches out with her hand to blast a stream of lightning at a distant droid, frying the poor thing. A couple blaster bolts fly her way, but she deflects them both and throws her lightsaber at the source. The saberstaff cleaves through both pillar and droid before returning to her.     Good news, though, their numbers are getting thin! 

:'''{{#var:940|Mairead Sandilands (940)}} has posed:'''     Looking, Mairead sighs as she thinks and the bow phases out and a hilt phases into her right hand. With a thought, the hilt ignites like a lightsaber, but it is more a beam blade, broadsword size and she rushes forward and has her shield up, takign hits and keeping an eye on her shields strength. . o 0 (325 ..... 320) and she sighs, "Those blasters have some power," she mentions as she gets in close and puts her IS' features to use.     Emerald Lady is a close-quarters Is and this allows Mairead to move fast and the beam broadsword is swung at the main body of one of the vibrosword units, while she pivots and swips form shoulder to hip of the other. She is still taking hits from the last droid, and she moves behind a pillar to use as cover. "Loch Rain," she says outloud as a shotgun phases in and the beam weapon phases out. For now she waits to move as she looks around. "IS everyone ok?" she asks. 

:'''{{#var:778|Kyle Katarn (778)}} has posed:'''     Kyle's senses don't fail him, as he sees the sword wielding droid coming a mile away. His free hand reaches out towards the charging droid, before he sends it flying off with a simple Force push. The droid will be shoved up against a pillar, and should that be successful Kyle will push again, this time grinding the droid's chassis against ancient stone with enough force to shatter concrete alone.     Then he dives behind a nearby pillar, using it as cover as he draws his blaster, training it upon one of the droids firing upon him before squeezing off a shot or two, the hefty pistol kicking in his grip. 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      The mismatched eyes closed with the same oddly cheerful smile as Revan held a single finger up. "Ah, but at least some of the killer droids and old ghosts are gone, right?"      Not that she had anything to do with that, nope.      As for the droids attacking her? Things are about to get very unpleasant very quickly.      Instead of attacking with her lightsabers directly, she simply extends her arms forward and unleashes what could only be Force Lightning, something more than capable of frying even ancient circuits. Worse still, the bolts chain, striking one droid even as the electrical bolts leap to the closest droid over.      Out of the corner of her eye she catches the work of the Sith Inquisitor -- an Assassin, given the double blade -- and makes a few mental notes. Her smile turns a little dangerous then. "Hmmm," is the only thoughtful sound she makes as she suddenly leaps at a droid which somehow evaded the lightning strike, a signature move of a Guardian. Which...don't typically talk like a distorted mix of a Consular and Inquisitor and use the Force Lightning of the latter.      This might be the /weirdest/ Jedi ever seen. 

:'''{{#var:19|Maya (19)}} has posed:''' Maya wonders how long these droids have been with out maintance, the fact they are still operational at all is a testiment ot thier quality and the skill used in making them. "I prepare to avoid such things, they tend to swallow souls." Maya quips back to Nima as she keeps fighting she sees there's a lot of them and her rifle opens up, a bit revealing aome sorr of energy weapon mount which fires a heavy concentrated beam Maya rakes across the droid formations as she tries to keep them out of Melee. Oh May does not like melee at all. 

:'''{{#var:951|Nima Kairn (951)}} has posed:'''     The team handles itself well against these ancient automatons; as each go down, they are not replaced, and the room grows slowly quieter with each droid that falls. Eventually all was still except for the last twitches and sparks coming from the ruined droids. Everyone was fairly impressive... but Nima watched Revan's display with the most interest, bordering on awe. Such a display of power was incredible... and completely against the Jedi Code. As she recalled, even the use of Force Lightning was banned...     Mental note: WATCH THIS WOMAN. In her she just might find something truly intruiging...     Once everything is clear, the Inquisitor deactivates her lightsaber and scowls at the ruined colemns. "Such a waste," she laments quietly. Still, no time for sadness. Immediately, she turns towards the lighted door. "Khem, stay here. The rest of you come. Beware... This temple's true defense isn't droids or weapons. It is far more insidious." And then she's in, and the dark beyond the door swallows her.     Everyone who follows will soon find that they've lost everyone else they came in with, and the door shuts definitively behind them. They must walk along the paths alone... Supposedly. Nima's pace is unhurried and she isn't concerned... until she hears plaintive cries over the sound of a lash. She turns immediately... to see herself, younger, tied to a pole as a cruel master left scars that would never fade upon her back. "Your illusions have no power over me," she hisses darkly, but slowly her eyes begin to change color, taking on a sickly yellow hue. But it's when the torturer took her off of the pole and started bringing her to a small outbuilding. What will happen there... "NO!" She roars, raising her hands, hatred and rage coursing through her veins as she desperately tried to destroy the thing that haunted her. Lightning explodes from her hands, but there's nothing there... 

:'''{{#var:951|Nima Kairn (951)}} has posed:'''     MEANWHILE...     Kyle's path is similarly quiet and uninterrupted for a time, but eventually he'd start to hear something. Talking, it sounds like. Something about overgrown Tyranian monkey-lizards. Eventually, he'd stumble into a chasm. It's too wide, and the ceiling too low to safely jump across. There was Tavion... and Jan underneath her. "On second thought, Tavion," came a familiar voice from everywhere. "Kill her." The Dark Jedi is only too happy to comply. Jan cries out to Kyle in fear and horror, only for her head to be brutally, mercilessly removed by Tavion's blade. Yet again, he failed to save her.     Revan's trial isn't so gory. Suddenly she's walking beside Malak again, the younger Jedi's face terse. "We have found it, Master," he says. And so the source reveals itself--only it doesn't. A black, malignant cloud in the vague shape of a man is in it's place. Malak tries to strike at it, only for him to fall to his knees as his mind is shattered. It feels as if the darkness turns it's gaze upon Revan, and it begins to force it's will against hers, breaking her down again...     Mairead's passage is peaceful... until it isn't. Slowly the sound of buzzing fills the cave, growing louder and louder with each passing moment. Bugs. Lots of bugs... they come out of the walls and ceiling, from the floor, thousands of biting insects and vibrating wings that cover her like a hot, buzzing blanket... 

:'''{{#var:940|Mairead Sandilands (940)}} has posed:'''     Mairead sees the Force Ligthning and just blinks and jawdrops as she is hit in the side of the face by a blaster shot form a droid. It was her own stupid fault cause she has never seen the Force used and to her it is all magic. The shot did knock her back to stop being amazed to being sore (275) pops up as she looks and cocks the .60 cal shotgun and takes flight as she heads for the droid firing on her. Seeing it, she pulls the trigger and fires off a round at the droid.     After hitting the droid, she lands and rubs her cheek, which has a small bruise. "Oww..... That hurts." she mentions as she looks around. "Is that all of them?" she asks as she cocks the shotgun again and waits looking around. As she hears Nima, she loosk at the others and gulps, "what's in there?" she asks simply as she looks at the darkness and closes her eyes as she says a prayer to God and does the sign of the cross before she walks and she murmurs to herself Psalm 23 as she enters.     "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his names sake ...." is the last thing heard as she is swallowed up in the darkness and she stops as she looks aorund and walks on down the path. "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me." she continues as she looks around as she hears noise... "Oh lord, ye are with me..." she says with her scottish accent and starts to back up, but hits the wall and tuns as they start crawling on her, "Get them off .... GET THEM OFF!!!!!" she screams as she covers up and summons Loch Rain and begins to fire off the shotgun as fast as she can. Tears are rollign down her face as she is freaking out and once she is out of rounds in the shotgun, she rushes forward as the IS's thrusters fire and Emerald Lady knows Mairead is in trouble.     IS' are AIs that are linked to their pilots, and so Emerald Lady does what she is to do, protect Mairead and so there is a flash as an energy shield appears around Mairead and this shhield can keep things form Mairead as the IS moves, only the triple digit number is counting down. (274 ..... 265 ..... 250) and the count is dropping in groups of 12 to 15 digits as the shield draws upon the IS's own power systems. Right now the IS is working to get Mairead to a safe place and is actually forcing Mairead to flee form the bugs... 

:'''{{#var:19|Maya (19)}} has posed:''' Maya says "I have bad feeling about this." Maya however contiunes onward with the group lowering her rifle at this point. Maya pauses for a moment at Nima. "They seem to." Maya would be heading back she knows it's best to leave somethings be but if the temple is throwing another test at her? She was about to have to deal with such a test. For her however it wasn't her old fears it was naother fear. A man, clad in biotech armored appears before her, a darker shade of blue hair and way of carrying himself that would remind one of an Imperial Moff or Sith Lord. "Your just like me. You will see it sooner or later, that's how it ends." Maya pauses staring in shock, is this a trick of the multiverse. "Your dead, you died in Selena's arms's Doskais." The man smirtks, there's no doom or gloom but a dmaned blade is slung across his back. "Am I? You seem to be on the path I was just furhter. Your better then them, your of Kyra's own blood. You are no mortal and yet you deny this fact." Maya backs up and she mutters something in a lanauge that's never been spoken in this world before. <<You are a ghost, a shadow, of a man who repented..." "You speak the tongue of Babylon well enough but you know what your fate is, sooner or later you will need to size control, the very power I set half the world on fire to try and obtain. You can only run from what you must be for so long Decendant of Marduk and Kyra." 

:'''{{#var:778|Kyle Katarn (778)}} has posed:'''     Kyle whistles in surprised awe at Lowri. "Didn't know you could still do that." He admits, eyeing the remains of droids torn apart by that storm of lightning. He's not even aware that it's a Sith power, all he's known about it is it was something he saw a Jedi do once or twice. Admittedly, they were Dark Jedi but you get the idea.     He's been through these trials before, mostly when he was searching through old ruins or going through his trials to earn back a lightsaber on Yavin IV's temple. It doesn't prepare him for a brush with the past, though, as he hears himself up ahead. "What the Hell...?"     He jogs further down the cavern before he finds himself seeing himself held at bay by a massive lizardlike humanoid.     And then he hears Dessan give the order. All he can do is reach futilely before screaming in horror as he sees the woman he loves decaptitated just like that, dropping to his knees, "NO!"     It's practically on reflex, even if some part of him urges him to press on knowing it's an illusion.     It still feels like the first time, and hurts like it too. 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      "They don't really swallow souls in our galaxy," Lowri explained as she gave a good shove through the Force to the droid closest to her. "But they do tent to hit pretty hard, so caution is a good rule to follow!"      Her smile for Kyle was not much different. "I try to keep up with my skills," she quipped before her expression dropped, becoming serious. She couldn't help but echo Nima's regret. Though her talents tended towards those of the Guardian, her mindset was quite solidly that of the Consular. Revan would have been perfectly content to simply study the mysteries of the past and of the Force...but evil demanded to be fought, and she made her choice long ago. "No use dwelling on what's been lost," she said with an uncharacteristic seriousness as she moved forward...      ...Only to stop as the group are enveloped in their personal nightmares.      Revan inhaled and exhaled slowly. Just knowing this was an illusion wasn't enough. Her persistent regrets over Malak and the horrors they had faced beyond the Outer Rim were not things which could simply be dismissed by endlessly reciting the Jedi Code. Not when what she had dragged Alek and their followers into led to unimaginable tortures.      Her scream reverberated on the rock walls, as forgotten memories suddenly surfaced, along with all the pain of their torture. It was impossible to tell what was physical and what was the anguish of knowing she was the one who lead them all into the pit of hell. 

:'''{{#var:951|Nima Kairn (951)}} has posed:'''     Trapped in her illusion, the Inquisitor steps forward slowly to the body on the floor. She'd hit nothing--she knew that. But the body remained until she roughly kicks him over. The man groans in pain, only to be silenced when Nima ignites her lightsaber and stabs it 'through him'. "You cannot make me change my decision!" she snarls. "I have chosen the dark path. I will not be pushed from it by mere conjuries!" And so the man fades...     Desann's lips twist into what might've passed for a smile normally as Kyle goes to his knees. "Look at you, broken and wailing. Your future lies in the Dark Side, Kyle. Accept it and join me.. Or join the remains of your partner." And to rub salt in the wound, across the chasm Tavion thoughtlessly kicks at Jan's corpse until it's finally sent into the deep black below.     Unfortunately for Mairead, the onslaught doesn't end. Every blast kills hundreds of bugs, but thousands more take their place. Not even the thrusters are fast enough to keep them away. They bite and crawl about, feasting on her absolute fear. Even if she makes it back to the door, it refuses to budge. Not even a blow from a gun seems to dent it...     The vile cloud of black energy makes a noise roughly similar to laughter as it forces it's will against Revan's crumbling own. <You will return to the lands of your birth,> it whispers in her mind, like vile tendrils of oil in her brain. <There you shall make war. You are the vanguard...> And deep within the blackness came the mask... Revan's mask. The cloud moves forward and tries to force the mask on her, seal it so she could never take it off again... 

:'''{{#var:778|Kyle Katarn (778)}} has posed:'''     Kyle's heart races, both in grief and in fury. It'd be so easy to just give up on the light, but at the same time...     "No." He says coldly. "You can kill me, but you'll never destroy me. I've lost Jan once before..." His lightsaber springs to life. "She'd never let me fall, not even from losing her." Shaking still, Kyle forces himself to stand before assuming a fighter's stance, lightsaber raised in hands as he stares a defiant glare at Desann's apparition. "And I'd never forgive myself if I sank to your level." 

:'''{{#var:940|Mairead Sandilands (940)}} has posed:'''     Looking as they start biting her and she screams even louder and hits a wall, "Gotta get them off.... gotta get them off," she repeats as she starts batting them away as fast as she can. "Help me....." she says as she keeps at it and looks. "Please lord help me...." she adds as she looks around and works to get them off. As she bats, they keep coming back; more and more and she cannot do much and slowly she sinks ot the ground. "Please make it stop. please make them stop," she says as she cannot bat the insects away any more.     Emerald Lady is still holding the energy shield, which she drops as the numbers read (210) and the shield drops as Emerald Lady cannot do anything right now. The IS sits and inside Mairead's mind a voice is heard 'Face it.' and Mairead looks for the voice. 'I am with you. Face it.' the voice says again as the IS speaks to her. 'You are not alone.' she says as Mairead looks and nods, "O...ok," she says as she slowly stands up. "I ha..ave to face this...." she states as she looks at the insects and closes her eyes as she puts her hands together, and begins to repeat Psalm 23 over and over and over as she prays for strength that she does not have.     After this, she is gonna be on edge for a while due to this scare.... That is almost certain. 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      The worst part of the nightmare was just how seamlessly it integrated her into itself. Where other Jedi might be tortured with visions of loss of control or the deaths of comrades, she was tortured with the Dark luring her back into it as if she had been born from it. Revan had chosen the Light, but her philosophy was Grey...and her path had been born from the Darkness. And it was the Darkness which promised her answers, a way to save the galaxy. How that could be defied all logic, all Jedi and Sith understanding of what the Force was.      Just blindly reciting the Jedi Code was useless...but perhaps the more useful parts could help.      "There is no emotion, there is peace." That was one of the worthless parts. Her attachments with her friends -- both in her home galaxy and in the multiverse -- were a strength.      "There is no ignorance, there is knowledge." Right, that was a good one. Knowledge was a beneficial thing, and even the dark secrets could be revealed to someone wise enough not to be influenced by them.      "There is no passion, there is serenity." That one was a bit on the proverbial fence. /Controlling your passions while being in love, *that's* what they should teach you,/ the voice of one of the wisest Jedi she had ever known had said. She had yet to find anything to contradict that sense of balance between emotion and peace.      "There is no chaos, there is harmony." Another marginally useless one. Chaos was the natural order of the universe; but the sentient mind sought order. They key was to strike a necessary balance.      "There is no death, there is the Force." Finally, she came to the important part. Death was inevitable, yet the Force was what bound the very universe together, something the Sith Code also recognised. Which in turn lead to what would have shocked everyone.      "Peace is a lie, there is only passion." Like the first part of the Jedi Code, this was rubbish. Passion itself was a force of nature, destructive and in need of proper control. Peace was possible, if one understood the natural order.      "Through passion, I gain strength." She would have substituted "attachments" for "passion"; she had only been able to get as far as she had from the strength her friends had given to her. She never would have even made it off the Endar Spire if Carth hadn't saved her ass. /Carth.../ she thought, though she forced herself not to fall into despair thinking about him and how much she missed him.      "Through strength, I gain power." Now we were getting to the heart of understanding. Strength by itself was useless.      "Through power, I gain victory." Ah, now we were approaching actual wisdom. Just being powerful meant nothing.      "Through victory, my chains are broken. The Force shall set me free." At last, the place where the Jedi and Sith Codes connected: true freedom and wisdom in the Force. Everything came down to that, trusting in the omnipresent power which guided everything, the source of all knowledge and wisdom...and perhaps even human emotion. The Force....      Her hand came up suddenly to force the mask away. "That is a part of me," she admitted. "But that isn't all of who I am. I...I am part of the Dark. I can't deny that. But I am the Light, too. I..."      And at last, Revan admitted the truth to herself. "I am Grey. I am the place between the Light and the Dark." 

:'''{{#var:19|Maya (19)}} has posed:''' Maya stares the phantom before her down she looks at him her green eyes narrowing. "I am that but I am also Maya the junker and wanderer. That is whom I have chosen to bem thats who I'll always be. I know what I am but that does not change Who I am." Maya stares the Phantom down. "You are by blood and combat the Empress and you still refuse to claim it? You could change their culture for the better." "At what cost in blood? The price is too high and I'm aware of my own failings, I'm unfit to rule." The Specture pauses for a moment looks at her and doesn't say a thing as they fade away in a mist and Maya's eyes snap right open at this point. "Very well, but one day you will have to face the further costs of your linage..." "When the time comes I will, but today is not that day and you insult the man who found repentance for his sins before he died." 

:'''{{#var:951|Nima Kairn (951)}} has posed:'''     And so, all faced their trials alone. Nobody was there to aid them in their suffering, and yet everyone found their own way of moving beyond the horrors that they were witnessing to grasp at the calm serenity. They seized hold of courage and truth against their torments... All but one. They passed the trial of this temple, at least. All it took was a blink, and suddenly the world was shifting, changing...     Opening their eyes would reveal that they were once again in the room of many colemns, Khem Val leaning against one of the pillars as he stared hungrily at all three Force sensitives. In fact, they hadn't moved from where they had been standing after the last droid had fallen. Probably pretty confusing for the people who didn't know the Force!     "A test to show the perils of the Dark Side, to show the events that would cause someone to fall," says Nima, and her voice is dripping with anger and sarcasm. Even though things have changed, her eyes still glow yellow. "Congratulations--you have all passed. I didn't... but I think this place understands now that I will not chain myself to the Light so easily. Khem! Follow." She starts off for the lighted door again, the Deshade following quickly afterwards. This time, when she walks through, the darkness doesn't immediately eat her like last time. The path is clear.     It's also a lot shorter this time. There are rooms for training and meditation, but everything has been stripped bare. That said, there's a small sense of something calling... leading to a storeroom deep in the complex, half-buried in debris from an explosion. Without hesitation, Nima seizes hold of the Force and starts roughly pulling the rubble away. "Aid me," she grunts to the others. With all of them together, it should be cleared fairly quickly and safely.     Inside are a pair of geometric shapes stuffed into the dark corners of the room. One is blue and gold, made into a cube. The other is red and onyx, made into a pyramid... 

:'''{{#var:19|Maya (19)}} has posed:''' Maya Snapes out of it and takes a deep breath as she looks over at Nima for a moment. "So you chain your self to the Darkness? I see." Maya doesn't comment further as she moves ahead into the place, she notices the place has been stripped, she pauses at Nima nad moves to get her back into moving it, she'll even end up using one of those strange cards to sememingly control and fling some of the wreckage out of the way. "What ... are these....? Kyle? Lowri?" 

:'''{{#var:940|Mairead Sandilands (940)}} has posed:'''     Looking around after opening her eyes, Mairead blinks and stumbs back and leans agaisnt a pillar and just looksa round. She covers her face and starts to silently sob as what she just went through. "If that was a test," she starts. "I do not want to go through another one," she finishes as she sighs and is now not in any good shape. She looks at her hands, and they are shaking slightly as she stands up fully and wraps her arms around her. "Wh....what kind of a test was that?" she asks them as she follows the others through the door and looks as she helps moving the rubble as best as she can.     Her face is red, mainly around her eyes, she steps back, "What..." and she looks at Maya as Maya got the question out before she did. "What Maya said," she asks him as she looks at the two objects and thennotices the number to her left, (210) and she looks. "How did it get that low?" she asks herself as she does not want to think about the hell she just went through. 

:'''{{#var:778|Kyle Katarn (778)}} has posed:'''     What the hell? Kyle looks in confusion as the apparitions of Desann, Jan, and Tavion just disappear before he realizes the obvious. "...oh."     His lightsaber switches off, and Kyle frowns. Was he really still so fragile regarding that whole mess that the mere reminder was enough to get him on his knees again. How easy would it be for him to go over the edge if Jan had died for real, would he have still been caught on his warpath across the galaxy looking for Desann?     It doesn't matter, he supposes. The illusion was just that, Desann is still dead, Jan's alive, and Tavion's irrelevant now. Kyle sighs, shaking his head before he eyes Nima. "I think that much is obvious." He says to the Sith calmly, after a moment is spent to recover his composure. "It's a test of the spirit Mairead." He says, regarding the Scottish girl for a moment in a neutral tone. "The way of the Jedi is a long and hard one, not everyone can stay on the path." 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      Lowri shook her head slightly, as if to clear the last of the illusions form her mind. Eventually, one grey and one deep blue eye focused on the Sith. "I'm not so sure about that," the Guardian admitted. "I doubt it would have allowed a Grey Jedi to pass if it was so simple."      For the first time since she had left Telos, she admitted it. She was not, as she had insisted, a pure servant of the Light...at least, not the way the more rigid Jedi defined it. Jolee would probably make some sarcastic comment at this point, if he only knew.      But that was all she said on that particular matter, she began peeling away rubble through the Force. "Basically," she added to Kyle's reply. "Many times, the Dark lures you through your own personal regrets. Even the best and purest of intentions can lead to evil actions. The key is to realising what path you're on."      When she finally laid eyes on the artefacts, however...      "...Well," she quipped, eyebrows raised slightly. "Roll me in Bantha fur and call me a Wookie. This is quite the surprise." 

:'''{{#var:951|Nima Kairn (951)}} has posed:'''     Maya's snide comment doesn't earn much but a quiet shake of the head from Nima. "Through victory, my chains are broken. The Force shall set me free," she quotes simply. "I am free from all of my chains. All of them." For a moment, she feels the scars on her back twinge in pain as the memories of her past freshly churn in her mind. "I am a slave to neither Sith nor Jedi. Whether or not you agree with my path isn't my concern."     Mairead's not really looking so hot, though. In what might be a crowning moment of surprise, the Sith moves to her and places a comforting hand on her shoulder. There's even a small, comforting smile on her face. "Be at ease. Once you are gone from this place, you won't have to return. What you saw is your own business."     Grey Jedi. Khem Val makes a loud noise of what might be disbelief. A glare and a silencing motion from Nima stops him before he says anything unwise. "What is important is your will, woman. The titles are all finery and dressing-up. Though at least you had courage enough to admit it."     Once they've gotten inside the room, Nima immediately goes for the red and black pyramid, lifting it carefully, studying it with a look of marvel on her face. "Finding a Sith holocron by itself is a treasure. Finding it and the other..." Well, shit. Now was the time to start dealing. Did she really feel like alienating these people so quickly after meeting them?... "These items are of great value and should be preserved. I have the sense that you won't allow me the Jedi's holocron even if I could better store and catalogue it. You should let me have it... But I know you won't. Call it my payment for your help, I suppose."     The holocron is slipped into a pouch dangling from her belt with extreme care, and she starts making her way towards the doorway. KHem follows close after, of course, but both stop at the doorway as Nima spends a moment thinking. "We will see each other again, and it is likely that we will be on opposite sides. In those times I will endeavor to destroy you if I must. In other times... we'll have to see what shall come of this, I suppose. Say hello to your Masters for me."     And with that, she brings her hood back up to cover her head, a spectre of darkness in the dank and dark tunnels of this Jedi ruin. To leave, and return to the stars... 
}}

3149/At The Crossroads

2015-10-09T01:12:07Z

ForwardObserver: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2015/10/04 |Location=Dun Realtai |Synopsis=Rin and Saber agree to fill each other on the details of their respective timelines and the Holy Grail W..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2015/10/04
|Location=Dun Realtai
|Synopsis=Rin and Saber agree to fill each other on the details of their respective timelines and the Holy Grail Wars thereof. With the need for a safe and private haven to discuss matters, the King of Knights invites the Tohsaka heir to Dun Realtai.
|Thanks=
|Cast of Characters=346, 821
|Tinyplot=
|Tinyplot2=
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      The heat of summer had given way to autumn's cool breezes in Dun Realtai. Intermittent clouds fill the skies, blotting out the sun only to give way to it again, carried by the brisk winds. The trees, given life once more, signalled the coming of winter through leaves of red, orange, gold, and the remaining green, the grasses in the outlying untamed fields a similar dusty gold. The harvests had been gathered and the fields prepared for the changing season, especially the harvest festival to come.      The air in the village itself was possessed of a calm sort of energy, the people grateful for the plentiful harvest, now able to enjoy the fruits of their labours. Visitors were met with a mild curiosity and warm welcome; it seemed the townspeople were quite used to offworld visitors. A few even pointed out the village bathhouse with its thermal mineral springs; apparently a popular attraction with many of those offworlders. Fortunately, there were helpful directions to where the caretakers of the land resided, pointing up at the keep overshadowing the village, completing the look of a proper medieval European castle town. The only signs that the lord and lady had come via the multiverse were subtle hints here and there; some of the 'wood' of the buildings was in fact composite, the lanterns lining the streets were LEDs. Thankfully, there seemed to be little else in the way of technology.      The path leading up to the keep inclined up into the inner bailey past outbuildings for various purposes, though some were still in a state of gradual rebuilding, not unlike the walls surrounding the village. It was as if the village had been attacked by some great creature once, and had fallen into disrepair that was only now being restored. The heavy oak doors of the keep, however, had been carefully tended to.      The inside of the great hall only added to the ambiance of a place out of time; torches lined the walls, and the LEDs in the iron chandeliers were cleverly hidden. A rusty broadsword adorns the large central mantle, though none seem to know what battle it commemorates. There are only two banners on each side: one of three crows or on an azure field, the traditional heraldry of King Arthur, in the honour position on the right. The other is less familiar; a stag argent on an azure field, holding the trappings of the king's marshal. For the knowledgeable, it shouldn't be difficult to figure out whose heraldry it was.      As for the King of Knights herself? 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Arturia Pendragon seemed for all the world as if she was one of the native peasants, dressed in a brown leather tunic, leggings, and boots, her flaxen hair bound in it its characteristic braid-encircled bun. The only sign that she was something else entirely was the practised regal grace with which she carried herself, more of a habit she could not undo. When the doors to the keep open, she was directing one of the castle's servants to bring rolls of towels up to the guest floor. Turning her head, she moved to greet the castle's latest guest.      "I thank you for coming," she greeted Rin with a characteristic faint smile. "I welcome you as a guest to Dun Realtai."      Though the magus might not understand the significance of being accepted as a guest, according to ancient law and chivalry alike, no one was permitted to attack her...or even Archer, should he make an appearance. The only condition was that they in turn abide by those laws. 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''      Moving through the humble yet somehow welcoming village and fields, a woman in a red longcoat and a man in a matching red shroud - the most recent visitors to Dun Realtai - moves through the halls with perhaps the slightest hint of trepidation from the woman, her outward expression being one of contented fascination.      He wasn't sure how often this place had a new arrival, but Archer was willing to bet that Tohsaka Rin wasn't quite so concerned with that as she took in every detail of the rustic world, the technophobe seeming almost in love with her surroundings. "Just look around you, Archer - this is proof that the world doesn't need even /half/ all that garbage it carries around. Magic and science can do fine enough on it's own."      "You do realize technology stems from science as well, don't you Rin? Besides, the lights and some of the buildings are made from artificial materials."     Rin in turn gave something of an off-handed shrug. "Everyone has imports from now and again - there's always a deficit somewhere that outside resources are needed for. The /point/ is that they don't drown themselves in redundant crap like the rest of the world has."      ... That at least was actually something Archer couldn't refute entirely. Not with how often humankind nearly destroyed themselves. Still, he was never one to just hand over a victory - "Technology is just another method of adaptation, Rin. Lifestyle and choice determine how much one can function with or without it, and not because there is any overt flaw in the technology itself."      "Yeah, right" Rin snorted. "Don't give me any of that 'it's the people and not the tool' crap - I've never met one single piece of technology that could give better results then hard work and skill. Most people just forget that."      "Most people know the difference between the 'enter' button and the 'delete' button."     Fuming, the mage gave a muted 'hump' and went back to looking at the landscape as they approached the keep. "The /point/ is that these people are a good example to follow after." A few moments of watching the scenery gradually restored her smile as she gazed appreciatively at the town on their way to the keep. "Our world could learn a lot from them."      This time, Archer said nothing and simply shrugged... though that was as much of an agreement as he would ever give her openly. 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''      As they entered the castle's Great Hall, Rin smiled at the sight of Saber, though Archer could again see the telltale hints of anxiety. Granted it was better controlled then their first meeting in Paragon City, but Archer knew that if he could see it that Saber certainly could.     Even now, after having had time to prepare, Rin was still worried about how Saber was going to react.     Archer himself, if he was honest, understood that all too well. He didn't know how much of the Grail War's functions Saber was aware of, though he managed to take his mind off that by seeking out any threats and scrying the area silently. He took special interest in what seemed to be post-battle damage strewn throughout some areas, the building in the middle of an ongoing restoration effort.     Like he thought - this place wasn't exactly free from danger... though it was likely safer then most with Saber here. Still, he'd refused to let Rin just match off on her own, even to meet someone they might be inclined to trust.     Or it could have just been that she didn't trust Archer enough to leave him in Paragon City where Emiya Shirou was still rooming, the boy seeming to have decided on keeping a vigil over the tormented city in case of more disasters.     In fact, the only reason he wasn't in astral form right now was because Rin had insisted it would be 'rude' to Saber, opting to respect the Knight's code of chivalry as they were as of now guests in her house. Granted, Archer didn't think she was wrong in this instance - Saber's character as he remembered it made hard to believe she'd readily use such underhanded tactics.     However, after the last Grail War, Archer had opted to not take chances on the idea that Saber was incorruptible... bitter a thought as it was to have.     As they entered the main hall, Rin once again gazed up almost admiringly at the architecture, before giving a small bow to the flaxen-haired Servant of the Sword. "Thank you for having me, Saber" Rin replies, giving an appreciative smile. If there are any chairs present, Rin takes a seat while Archer lounges against the wall... though he seems to again give a half-smile and wave to her, outwardly-offhanded it may look. "I... hope you'll forgive me for bringing my Servant. Last I knew, Emiya-Kun was in Paragon City, and after what happened in the woods there I figured it best that he and Archer don't have much chance to have contact yet."      Translation; I don't trust them not to kill each other. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Another of the castle's servants appeared at Saber's side, and the Servant turned to her, addressing her person to person. "Bring a tray of scones, a pot of green tea -- the blooming one -- and three cups, please." Yes, she was actually offering hospitality to Archer. If she had any particular dislike of the Servant, she hid it extremely well.      Turning back to Rin, the jade-eyed knight shook her head. "No, it is not an unreasonable thing. I am not the only Servant who resides here on a permanent basis."      Though there are long tables and benches throughout the hall likely used for feasting occasions, there were several large chairs of damask fabric next to the blazing hearth which Rin might find very much to her tastes, suggesting they were a gift from another multiversal version of the magus. A low table was placed in the centre, onto which the servant returned and deposited a tray laden with scones, a small tub of butter, and a clear pot with a dried flower appearing to 'bloom' inside the steaming water.      Saber thanked the servant, then waited until Rin seated herself before claiming a chair in turn, pouring the tea for each of them and setting the cups and saucers on the table. "Shirou is learning," she observed. "It might be some time before he accepts everything, and I fear I have not informed him of everything. While I have not avoided such topics, he has committed himself to training and into putting that training to use."      The Servant appeared to stifle a sigh. "Perhaps /too/ much, in fact. Yet, he is coming to understand what chivalry truly means, and it does not involve throwing oneself headlong into every situation." 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''     Archer raised his brow slightly, tilting his head as he watched the servant scurried off to fetch them refreshments. For the most part, the bowman had been rather quiet, seeming rather contemplative, though after a moment he he seems to give a shrug and approaches the table, taking a seat and a cup of tea.     Much of his surroundings - the fields, the town, even some of the castle - reminded Archer of things he had seen before. To be precise... much of it reminded him of images long forgotten through the ages. The glimpses he'd had of Arturia's past life, long ago in the Fifth Grail War.     Yet... in spite of those phantom images of the world of Camelot, Archer couldn't help but notice the clear differences between then and now.... the foremost being how openly expressive she was compared to what Archer knew of her rule. She was less guarded, not seeming included to uphold the the mask of the emotionless king that the Saber of the Grail War had seemed to place such importance on.     She seemed... happy. At peace.     That in turn caused a small smile to slip across Archer's features, though it was quickly masked by one of complimentary acknowledgment as he sipped his tea. "This is a very good blend. Ill have to try this one sometime."     Rin, for her part, seemed at ease as she graciously took one of the cups, noting that the scent reminded her of a Chinese flowering tea - Shirou's influence? Or just an amalgam of influences from the Multiverse in general? "I can understand" Rin replied, an undertone of sympathy in her voice as she speaks. "I did much of the same at first when I initially encountered Emiya-Kun in the Grail War. He was just... well, innocent would be the word I'd guess I'd use. And there was a lot that I would have rather he not known that he found out in quick order... though now I think I'm somewhat glad he did."     She also gives something of a bemused look as she gazes down at her tea for a moment. "And... well, he's kind of hopeless to look at on his own. Or at least he was when first starting out. Not that it ever stopped that jerk over there from needling him every chance he had." At this last part, Rin shoots a rather pointed glare at Archer, who in turn disregards her expression entirely to sip his tea lightly.     Sighing in exasperation, Rin shakes her head and, after a moment, a more serious expression crosses her features as she looks back at Saber, emerald-green eyes meeting cyan-blue. "Anyway... all things considered... I guess it best to start from the top." She takes a breath for what she believes may be a hard conversation. "Saber... exactly how much do you know about the Grail War? It's functions? The reason it exists or was created? And do you..." another pause, biting her lip for a second as she hesitates. "Do you know about... about the corruption inside it?" 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Archer's suble compliment earned a smile from Saber in turn. "Thank you. I would like to believe that I have learned some things from my teacher's exacting standards when it comes to tea." Sea-green eyes flicked to Rin, a sign of just who her teacher had been.      Though her expressions continued to be subtle, the Master and Servant pair would be familiar enough with her mannerisms -- and Archer with his glimpses into her past -- that she was indeed happy. If he had seen dreams other than her life in Camelot, perhaps the white-haired Servant might have seen her life under the tutelage of Sir Ector, and how this life was in many ways a mirror of it. The part of her mortal life when she had been truly happy. Yet, there was something else, some unknown element which had been missing even in her childhood that she now had. What that element was, however, remained unseen.      "Ah...yes. He is rather raw. His training under Sir Bedivere has done much to instil discipline in him," Saber agreed on the subject of Shirou. "My marshal is truly ruthless where training is concerned. I do not believe that even I could be quite so relentless."      Someone more brutal than /Saber/? The man must have been a miracle worker. With a tilt of her head which indicated a shrug, she continued. "At the very least, should he be able to return to his version of Fuyuki, his objective will be to properly end the Holy Grail War. He now knows little good can come of it...if any." It might have been surprising to hear such conviction from the King of Knights when it came to destroying the Grail, when she had been so driven to claim it to save her kingdom. But to see Dun Realtai, perhaps it was not such a confusing thing that she had finally accepted Camelot's fall...and possibly recreated something of her dream in this small village in the multiverse. What might be of greater surprise was that she seemed to know what was wrong with not merely the ritual, but the Grail itself.      She followed Rin's glance, and perhaps what might amaze them both, a slight knowing smirk crossed her deceptively girlish face. "You should not be so hard on him," she quipped. "While I think that each side of Emiya Shirou cannot accept his other half completely, with time, each side might come to accept the other." So she /did/ know Archer's identity.      She looked pointedly at the tall Servant. "You've come to resemble Emiya Kiritsugu in many ways," she mused cryptically.      Turning back to Rin, the flaxen-haired knight nodded. "Indeed." Folding her hands in her lap, Saber began what she knew of the Fifth Holy Grail War. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      "As you know, I came to the multiverse from the end of the Fourth Holy Grail War. My Master, Emiya Kiritsugu, killed Archer's Master -- Kotomine Kirei, who had been Assassin's Master previously -- and then ordered me to destroy the Holy Grail with his remaining Command Seals." That he had needed /two/ to issue that order was a testament to her overwhelming strength of will. "Yet, I did not disappear completely. Somehow, its destruction coincided with my timeline's Unification. I briefly returned to my own time, but when the Unification occurred, it had torn open the fabric of time and space, wherein I found myself on Njorn Station."      "I was rescued by a knight of a land called Ivalice. I owe much to Lady Agrias Oaks...I would go so far as to say that she saved me. She warned me that the Archer from my own War -- the King of Heroes -- was hunting me and destroying many worlds in his wake." Her mild expression twisted into a look of undisguised revulsion. "Gilgamesh had become obsessed with me during our War for some reason. I sought him out to put an end to the threat he posed to the multiverse, challenging him to a single duel. That was when you -- or rather, other versions of you appeared."      Saber seemed to stifle a sigh. "The Tohsaka Rin I eventually befriended convinced me not to bear that burden alone, and the Heroic Spirit Emiya who had contracted with her managed to force Gilgamesh into a temporary retreat."      The Servant shook her head. "I did not speak with Archer a great deal -- he had pursued his own path in the multiverse -- but Rin brought me to her home, where she, Shirou, and Sakura explained the events they experienced in the Fifth War. I learned that Shirou summoned me through the artefact that Kiritsugu had used to rescue him from the fire that the Grail's destruction had inadvertently caused. It was the scabbard of Excalibur, Avalon. It is why he has the healing capacity he does, though only in my presence. The Shirou you met in Paragon City possesses it still. I have insisted that he retain it, though I cannot always be present and have instructed him to not become overly dependent upon it." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      After a brief pause to sip her tea, Saber continued her recollection of events. "I learned why Kiritsugu had ordered the destruction of the Holy Grail. Somehow, he had learned the truth of it before the end of the War. I cannot fault him for doing so, though had he trusted in me, it might have been possible to avert the Great Fire. When I was told that we had succeeded in destroying it in the Fifth War, I cannot help but consider that the Fifth War could have been prevented entirely."      The petite knight did nothing to stifle her sigh. "Nevertheless, what has been done cannot be undone without a cost greater than what was already paid. Rin, Shirou, and Sakura had made a comfortable life for themselves...Sakura abandoned the Matou family and rejoined Rin as her sister, though a great many problems remained."      Blue-green eyes bored into sky blue ones. "I trust you know of the Matou family crest which Sakura carries. You -- the Rin I know -- has worked tirelessly to discover a method to remove it, though none of her efforts have produced acceptable results. Moreover, the threat of Gilgamesh remained, and so to effectively combat him, I accepted a contract with Sakura."      The thought might chill Master and Servant to the bone; Saber had contracted with the younger Tohsaka willingly. Yet, she remained untainted, and therefore something must have been quite different in the multiversal events. "We were able to drive Gilgamesh away...where he wanders know, we have been unable to follow. But whatever he plans, he has not ravaged worlds to seek it. Perhaps he will emerge again, but we are now prepared."      Saber took another sip of tea. "There have been some incidents where Sakura had nearly lost control, and it...affected me. I learned some time later that there had been yet another timeline where she had become tainted, tainting me in turn, and that another Rin and Shirou were forced to destroy this corrupted version of myself. Though I had given up the Grail itself upon Unification, we had since resolved to destroy what Grails prove to be corrupted." 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''      To say that Saber's words were a surprise was a gross understatement, both to Master and Servant. For one, Rin took note of the fact that Saber was glancing at her when speaking of the tea, though she seemed not quite sure of the meaning.     She then expressed surprise at the idea that someone out there could be a harsher trainer then Saber herself had been - of course she recognized the name of Bedivere; he was one of the few knights that survived Camelot's collapse and the last person to see Arturia alive if the legends held true. But to think he could be a teacher that even /Saber/ would call relentless was nothing to scoff at.     Archer on the other hand gives something of a bemused smirk. "So even you required outside help in making the boy into a competent swordsman? Though I suppose that's to be expected - he can hardly be called anything but hopeless."     The next surprise comes when Saber shows her resolution in denying the Holy Grail, though the Master and Servant both have more subdued reactions. Archer's brow raised slightly when listening, curious as to how she found out about the Grail's defect then if she never partook in the Fifth War... and wondering if it was because of this world - reminiscent of the idyllic kingdom she would have wanted - that she had apparently forsaken it for. Rin simply gave an affirming nod. "Yes... I believe you couldn't be more right on that count." 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''     However... the biggest shock - the one that not even Archer can suppress - is when Saber comments on 'each side of Emiya Shirou.' Rin goes ridged, eyes wide as she casts a glance at Archer, eyes reflecting a long-unspoken suspicion.     She'd known. The look in her eyes showed her that she's /known/ for a long time who her Servant was... but she'd always hesitated to ask. Always kept from making the connection openly, waiting to see if there were other ties to confirm it on it's own.     Was it because she didn't want to be wrong when she eventually asked him... or was it because she didn't want to be right?     Archer's reaction was even more noteworthy, if only because of how unflappable he seemed to usually be. When Saber made her notation, in turn looked as if he had been struck by lightning, staring in what can only be described as pure shock at Saber for barely a fraction of a second, his expression unreadable as something filtered into his gaze.     After a moment though, it slipped back under the mask, eyes narrowing more when she brings up Emiya Kiritsugu... and, somewhere under that mask, a torrent of bile seems to pour in and fill his hollowed heart.     Like Kiritsugu. Saber had compared him to Kiritsugu.     The man he had inherited this broken, twisted dream from.      ...      ... "heh... I've known that for a while now."     The mask changing abruptly, Archer brings a hand to the bridge of his nose and chuckles, what seems to be an almost eerily bitter, disparaging smile present on his face as he does so. Rin watches him in surprise and muted concern, having not expected such a reaction.... however, it is buried by a more open expression of anger. "Archer... why didn't you ever /tell/ me?"      A few moments go by before Archer acknowledges her, his eyes seeming to hold an even more hollow expression then she'd seen him show before - a glimpse into the core of who he was. Finally, he shrugs somewhat, hiding it easily simply by closing his eyes. "It was unnecessary."      "Like hell is is!" Rin almost spits this out, looking about to curse him out-     But she is smoothly interrupted when he levels her with a long, hard stare and responds simply; "Does it matter? Can you honestly tell me that you never suspected - no... that you did not already know? After all... did you think it coincidence that the boy could endure having my arm if he did not share more then just a physical similarity?"     Rin's teeth clamp shut, grinding silently. Finally... she takes a breath and looks him straight in the eyes. "You're not him. I don't care what comparison is made - you may have the same starting point, but you're /not/ him."     Archer's smirk seems to somehow become darker, as if the self-loathing for that part of him is once again leaking out. "No. I am not him... nor is he me. And if things go well... he never will be."     That statement - the admission behind them - is enough to crack Rin's composure fully as she stares at the Servant with more loathing then she ever had before, as though she was somehow betrayed by him...     Or rather, that the betrayal is in who he is... and who he will be, so to speak. 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''     As the pair listen to Saber's explanation - Rin using it as her distraction from Archer finally having admitted to her who he really was - they show different reactions at several points. Archer's brow furrows several times, eyes periodically narrowing - and with the mention of Sakura, widen slightly once - while Rin's breath hitches several times during the story's reiteration. However, one notable discrepancy comes from the mention of Gilgamesh... namely that there isn't any overt recognition of the name from Rin. She knows it to be the name of the King of Uruk in Babylonian myth, but she doesn't display any familiarity with Gilgamesh having been the Forth War's Archer.     Archer however seems to know the name and the Servant behind it, giving the barest of slight smirks upon hearing that he - or the version of him Saber had met previously - was the one to drive Gilgamesh back... though he seems to become somewhat irritated at the notion that Shirou knows about the relic inside of him. Rin looks back in obvious shock, nearly tipping her teacup over - "Y-your scabbard's /inside/ of him?!" She blinks in amazement as the pieces come together, bringing a hand to her chin as her mind works feverishly. "Of course... /that's/ how he was always able to heal so quickly, even from Berserker's slash." Then... rather comically, her expression becomes one of annoyance. "And that's how he summoned you for the war...?" she groans, cupping her head in her hands as if having been spurned by fate. "He just got /lucky/ enough to have the perfect Catalyst??"      "I wouldn't call being an orphan twice over the circumstances of a fortunate life, Rin" the bowman interjected.     "Well, you'd apparently know, wouldn't you?" Rings rebuttal is rather curt, still obviously at odds with being forced to accept who her Servant actually is.     While Archer hides it better, both Master and Servant are left concerned when the details behind the Sakura that Saber knows are revealed... and Rin in particular seems slightly crestfallen that after learning another version of her had succeeded in saving her that Sakura had still become victimized by the Matou's ambitions. "So... so she's alright then?" Rin finally asks, seeming tentative. "Sakura... she's aright in that world? I mean... I haven't seen or sensed any presence. Is she still your Master? Or did..." she hesitates, almost afraid but steeling her resolve after only a short moment. "Did something happen?" 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      It might have seemed similarly surprising that Saber seemed to take Archer's sarcasm in stride. "It was not so much that I required help as that Bedivere volunteered to teach him. In Camelot, he had refused to take a squire for several reasons. Here, he was free to do so, and we both saw his potential. It is a learning experience for the both of them."      She had noted his sour expression, apparently used to the ways in which he hadn't changed from the boy he once was. "It may be somewhat ironic for me to say this, considering that I found it difficult to forgive him for a long time. However, do not be overly judgemental with Kiritsugu. His was the most noble wish of all the Masters of the Fourth War. I think, perhaps, his mistake was failing to see how you had looked up to him. He did not understand that you worshipped him as a hero."      She paused slightly, because the next bit of information might change things even more drastically. "Moreover, Kiritsugu is here...though not the one who became my Master. We have warned him in advance of the truth of the Holy Grail, so he will not need to sacrifice his wife and daughter to set the world at peace. The Shirou you have met has met him, as well...he knows now that Kiritsugu was noble, in his own way...but flawed. And he is learning that he should seek his own dream."      In other words, he was already on the path away from becoming a Counter Guardian. It also helped that Shirou had become, in essence, a superhero in Paragon City. He didn't need a distant dream; like Saber, he already had one. But maybe that was a part of Dun Realtai's mysterious magic.      As for the observation of a 'wife and daughter... "His wife was a dear friend of mine," she explained, her expression turning into a smile tinged with sorrow and loss. "Irisviel von Einzbern. Kiritsugu had made an arrangement with the Einzbern family to act as my Master while Irisviel posed as a 'decoy' Master even as she was to become the vessel for the Grail. It might have been that Irisviel had somehow made contact with him as the Grail began to possess her. She might have been the one who informed him. And..."      Her expression was undeniably sad. "They were forced to leave their daughter in the care of the Einzberns. I believe you have met her...Ilyasviel von Einzbern." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      "I would not say that it was luck, precisely," Saber admitted. "Kiritsugu believed that the Holy Grail ritual had ended with its destruction. He had no way to know that it had only been partially-destroyed, nor that there would be a Fifth War after he passed away."      She sighed softly at their bickering. Some things never seemed to change even across universes. "Suffice it to say that you should trust each other more," she chided. "Rin is not simply a magus without peer. For all her appearances, she is possessed of a rare nobility of spirit and, dare I say it, kindness. Yet, she understands what it means to harden oneself in order to achieve a necessary goal." As embarrassing as this revelation might be to the Tohsaka heiress, the way in which Saber spoke was clearly one of respect and loyalty.      But then her smile became openly indulgent at the questions regarding Sakura. "She is fine," she reassured Rin. "She is somewhat busy due to her commitments to Mobile Six, though Sol ensures that she does not overwork herself too greatly. I have chided her on more than one occasion of her propensity to do so." The way she spoke of this mysterious 'Sol' suggests that they were more than simply friends. Then what about Shirou?      As to the question of her Master, Saber shook her head. "No. We remain steadfast friends, but she had relinquished her Command Seals to Bedivere after we had been reunited." That fact might have most certainly given them pause; one of her own knights, her /Master/? That in turn would indicate another strange twist: Bedivere was not a Servant himself, but fully human, and a magus to boot. "Sakura is...well." she paused with a slight cough of...embarrassment? "As you know, she is a bit of a romantic." 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''      Archer seems to take note of this, tilting his head in what seems to be a half-dismissal. "I suppose that explains his persistent sense of chivalry in the face of abiding by things such as common sense. Though it also explains the boy's power somewhat if he has been training under one of your knights."      At Saber's request to not judge Kiritsugu so harshly... Archer's bitter smile seems to deepen, looking Saber in the eyes this time as steel-grey meet sea-green. "You need not worry about that, for it is not Emiya Kiritsugu who made the mistake of imparting a flawed ideal. No... the fault lies in Emiya Shirou's inability to recognize anything else but that one dream... and in incapable of ever letting go of that flawed misconceptions about the kind of man he idolized was unless forced to." This last bit might be seen as worrying... as it indicates that, somewhere down the line, Archer had in fact succeeded in seeing one incarnation of Shioru abandon the path of a hero entirely.     Moreover... even now, he still refuses to acknowledge himself as Emiya Shirou. And listening to Saber talk seems to actually compound this somewhat. "When I first met him... I saw him fall into the same pattern as before. He rejected me instantly... and at every turn, he shows the same failings." His expression seems to turn into a more serious, eyes closing as he speaks almost generally to both Saber and Rin. "For the moment, he is living out his so-called 'dream', saving whatever lives he can... but at most the recent battle of the Shivan War, I saw the cracks in that armor. His inability to justify his ideals in the face of how killing the Shivan lord, seen as a hero by his own people, would doom those on the failing side to the very hopeless life that he is saving others from."     Archer pauses for a moment, and when he speaks again how voice is somewhat lower - and it sounds almost like the resignation has been mixed by the very same resolution that had always fueled Emiya Shirou, twisted and inverted in the direction it originally began in; "He does not yet realize that no matter what he does, he will never be able to save everyone... and the more conflicts he sees, the more the path he walks will arc back onto the one I have walked. That is the inevitable conclusion of the Hero of Justice." 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''      This time, neither Rin nor Archer are surprised to hear about the connection between Kiritsugu and Illya, both having become aware of it in their past - Archer's in life, and Rin shortly after her war ended. However, they do display surprise between them at the revelation that Illya's mother was the previous Einzbern Grail Vessel, though Archer controls his far better... even as the information eats at him inside.     Illya's mother had not only died in the Grail War... but she had been part of Angra Mainyu's vessel. In other words... she had been part of the tainted chalice that spilled black mud across Fuyuki... and started the fire that sealed Archer's fate.      Hearing Saber's recounting, she closes her eyes and sighs to herself sadly, knowing this was likely were Saber's knowledge of details was more scarce. "That wasn't all that survived, Saber. Kotomine Kirei lived through the war's end as well - or he did in my world at least. It seemed the Grail's mud linked him to it with an artificial heart, tying his life to the Grail... and basically ensuring he'd live a long, healthy life so long as the Grail remained intact." Rin's words hold undisguised scorn in them, the very thought of Kirei outliving all the people who died in Fourth War seeming to sicken her to he point of righteous fury... especially when she remembered what her world's Emiya had told her about Kirei's connection to the Fire from years ago. "In fact he was the one that took over as the Grail War's church-appointed moderator."      "And as Gilgamesh's Master" Archer added in, noting how Rin glanced at him somewhat accusingly for apparently knowing details that she did not. "He also maimed and nearly murdered the Master of the Fifth War's Lancer after manipulating her into joining, taking her Servant as his scout."     Archer pauses, seeming to take a moment to consider what he's about to say. "Also... it seems Kotomine Kirei was actually the one who caused the fire that destroyed Fuyuki. He touched the Holy Grail after Emiya Kiritsugu left him for dead, giving into his hate for humanity and wishing for them to end - a wish that manifested in the fire. However, Emiya Kiritsugu's actions are perhaps the only reason the fire was limited to Fuyuki instead of consuming the entirety of the world, only one part of a single city being destroyed. In that, Emiya Kiritsugu still made the correct choice in the end... and saved the maximum number of lives."     Even as he says this though, Archer's words and expression are as embittered as ever, with Rin seeming to gaze at him in sympathy now that she knows who he is. 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''      Of course, what lightens the mood is when Rin hears her sister is alright, a genuinely relieved smile crossing her features. Even Archer's brooding atmosphere seems to break slightly upon hearing that Sakura is still alright... though Rin tilts her head in half-curiosity hearing about a 'Sol.' "Who's 'Sol'? Is she a... friend?"      "In all likelihood... 'Sol' might be the person she is closest to. Her current caretaker, perhaps" Archer quips offhandedly, with Rin blinking in surprise at the idea of someone else other then Shirou being Sakura's effective guardian. "It appears the Emiya Shirou of that world is even closer to my path if he has left Fuyuki for the world ahead."     However, both recoil rather visibly in shock when hearing Saber's quip of Sakura being a romantic... as well as Saber's apparent embarrassment. This, combined with the comment about one of her Knights now being her Master, causes the two to stare at her as they work out the connection.      Archer of course figures it out rather quickly... and he seems to have marked trouble at the idea, staring with a mix of half-confusion, half-disbelief in his eyes while his features only make him look lightly stunned.     On the other hand, Rin's expression becomes more dubiously mischievous. "Ohh~" She eyes Saber almost like a cat about to pounce upon a canary. "And what possible reason could my sister have to encourage romance to a chaste knight such as yourself? Moreover, how does making one of your Knights your new Master figure into that?"     At last, Archer's own expression seems to break, placing a hand to his forehead as he sighs in exasperation. "Well... I suppose can imagine worse outcomes." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Saber suppressed her sigh this time. While she was not terribly surprised that Archer retained much of his bitterness, it was not something she could remedy. The multiverse might, in time...but for the moment, all that bitterness, resulting from having his eyes truly opened, remained. "He is learning," she reassured him...or rather, tried to. "Already, he has no need to become a Servant. And he understands now what Kiritsugu had sacrificed for the chance to achieve his own dream. He understands /true/ chivalry now, not the shell he had believed in. He has been consistently drilled in the Eight Virtues as much as his combat and magus training. Chivalry is not simply believing that everyone can be saved. It is a personal code of conduct that, heedless of the rest of the world's fleeting morality, is a rock upon which the people can look up to. It is understanding that while others may act without honour, a knight must conduct himself in a way befitting the Eight Virtues." Apparently, she believed in her ideals as strongly as ever, even if she had relinquished her Britain to the mists of the past.      This time, she did nothing to repress her sigh. "He rejects you because of your methods," she insisted. "It is true that there are necessary sacrifices, but it must be a last resort. He will understand, in time." She stood then, her face carved from stone. "I indeed understand that there are occasions where such a sacrifice is necessary. Here is my proof of that."      Silently, the Servant stood and turned her back to the pair. Before they could question what she was doing, Saber undid enough of the lacing of her tunic to shrug part of it off her shoulders, exposing the nape of her neck...and the stylised black sun poised above her back. It was at once beautiful and yet terrifying. "This is the mark of one who aided in the destruction of a being called a Yozi," she explained. "They are beings which are entire cities, sometimes an entire universe, in themselves. This was what the Confederate leader Viridian Sunrise had become. There had been entire nations within his body, many of the people within innocent. To protect the multiverse itself, we were forced to destroy him...and we were unable to evacuate everyone in time. This mark is for my hand in its destruction. Every life, every being....I hold all their memories. Should I die and return as another Servant, this mark will remain. It, and those memories, cannot be destroyed."      Shrugging the tunic back over her shoulders and retying its laces, Saber returned to her seat. "So, there is a price to pay even for pragmatism. That is a lesson Shirou will learn quickly enough. The sacrifice of one's inner code is but one price to pay. There are many others."      Saber nodded, apparently not surprised by the revelation that Kotomine had survived in their timeline, as well. "Yes, the Rin I know had told me as much. Though she was surprised to learn of what I knew; he had been a protege of your father, Archer's first Master. Irisviel, Maya, and I...ah, Maya was Kiritsugu's assistant...met with Tokiomi, Kotomine, and Archer after the defeat of Assassin and Caster. We agreed that Kotomine was to abandon the War and leave Japan...however, he had betrayed his mentor and became Archer's Master. As you are no doubt aware, it is likely that Kotomine was responsible for your father's death, claiming his Command Seals. As you note, the Grail's taint had apparently preserved him and Gilgamesh both.      However, Saber's face at last registered shock at the revelation of the Fifth War's Lancer and his Master, as well as that he had caused the Fire. "I had not heard that, no" she admitted before her expression darkened. "It does not, however, surprise me that he would do such a thing, only that I had not heard of it previously. He is a dangerous man, it goes without saying." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Her expression softened. "I shall give this news to Kiritsugu, when next we meet," she replied. "we are cooperating to effectively destroy the Grail of his timeline without causing the Fire. This one, at least, is one we can save, without the need to sacrifice so many."      The mood, thankfully, shifted to a lighter topic. "Sol is, essentially, her sweetheart. The term 'boyfriend' is the appropriate term, I believe?"      Her eyes flicked to Archer. "For some time, yes," she commented. "But he and Rin have made a comfortable life together, helping the Union from time to time but for the most part ensuring the Clocktower maintains something of a soul...along with Lord El Melloi II. I was glad to learn that, even after the death of his Servant, he survived." Apparently, a much more deserving soul had also survived the Fourth War.      It would seem that at least Rin's counterpart had been able to claim the red-haired magus for her own. And at the Clocktower, no less.      As for Saber's own new romantic life?      The jade-eyed knight coughed again. "Ah...well. There is something of a story to that...but it did not merely appear out of the ether." In other words, the two had probably shared unconfessed feelings all the way back in Camelot. That should put a decidedly more complex and interesting twist on her legend.      But then, the multiverse itself seemed to bend and shudder as the seemingly impossible happened. The stoic, proud, and regal Once and Future King of Britain.../laughed/. A soft, even delicate laugh, but unmistakenably a laugh nonetheless. "She...Sakura...when I brought him back to your home...she thought he was Guinevere."      And then Rin might see her sister in an entirely new light. 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''     Archer's response seems somewhat delayed, his gaze directed to the teacup in his hands, looking at the reflection in the surface of the liquid... ever since Saber revealed Emiya Kiritsugu's existence.      It wasn't enough that the boy was here? /He/ had to be here, too?     However... after a long minute, Archer let out what sounded like a disgruntled scoff as he returned his attention to Saber's words, his smile now having a hint of reproach in addition to the original embitterment. "Chivalry means little if you do not have the strength to make it practical. After all, if you become the sole pillar that people rely on... it becomes far too easy to associate all failings with that sole pillar as well. You of all people should know that."     His voice at the end of this prior sentence does not sound like an accusation, though. Rather... it sounds more like an ernest belief, underscored with a touch of sympathy. A notation to her fallen kingdom. Rin however instantly expresses her disapproval - "Archer...."     But the bowman ignores her and presses on - "Furthermore, honor means little to the dead... and to those who have lost those they care about. If a hero's duty is to protect everyone... how is it that honor can be seen as more valuable. After all... what value does something as paltry as honor have compared to a human life?"     It is a rhetorical question, as logically the only thing that could equal a human life is another life... but not all lives are truly equal, are they? There are some in more important positions then others... and Archer suspects that both he and Saber know that. 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''     However... when Saber exposed the Mark on her neck... both Master and Servant freeze, twin hisses of shock escaping their mouths. Archer's however is even more notable, the Counter-Guardian wincing as he gazes at it.     Wrong. It was... wrong. The entire existence of it, just viewed from here, was completely and utterly /wrong./ It was more then just a simple brand - it was as if it had been distilled from the souls of untold thousands... if not millions.     And it would never leave her. What added to the horror of the aberrant marking - what made it all the more wrong - was that it was branded into her essence. It had burnt itself into her Akashic Record.     Saber's words confirmed the meaning of this - what it meant to Saber... and for the first time in perhaps a long time, Archer had been truly rendered speechless.     She'd been put through the same... no - what she had been put through... was possibly even worse. She would never forget what she had done - never escape the echoes... but Archer at the very least did not have to carry the memories of every soul he had ever slain.     That simple fact - that single truth - cut Archer deeper even then the sight of Saber Alter had. The knowledge that she really /was/ so very much like him - in one world, she lost her beliefs... and in another, she was dammed by them. It twisted Archer's insides apart, his hands clenching and teeth gritting audibly at the sight.      .... "Idiot."     The bluntness of the words surprises Rin, the magus staring at her Servant as she is left shocked by the actual emotion she can see on Archer's face, his sympathy and sorrow and even what seemed to be admiration for her strength.... now intermixed with not just reproach but anger and pity, a stewing bile behind his eyes that. "You really haven't changed at all. You made the correct choice... you took the path that ensured the most lives were saved... and yet you still don't seem to think about your own safety at all. It's no different then the boy."     Archer's facial expressions turn to steel... but his eyes seem to hold a deep-seated bitterness... and a pure sorrow that the woman he'd long regarded as a precious existence was now tainted by a curse similar, if not superior, to his own. "Do you really think taking on that curse makes it better? Do you really think your paying that price will change anything in the end? That living with an endless misery and eternal burden on your shoulders will make even one shred of difference the moment you are gone?" And then the line is crossed - "Wasn't that the same mistake that destroyed your kingdom in the first place-?"      "ARCHER!"     Rin's voice is like a sudden thunderclap, the magus standing up abruptly as she slams one hand down on the table, anger splayed across her features. "If you say one more word... I'll gag you with a Command Spell."     Archer stayed stock-still for a moment... then he glanced back at her with what looked like skepticism. "You'd waste one so callously?"     Rin in turn held her gaze with the Servant, staring him down as she almost threateningly raised her left hand up. "What do you think?"     A tense moment passed between the two as they traded glares... but, after what could be mistaken as an eternity, Archer finally backed down, silently taking his seat once more. Rin in turn, looking somewhat more haggard then before to perceptive eyes, sighed and sat down as well. "I'm... I apologize for my Servant's actions. There's no excusing what he just said. Let's... let's get back to the topic at hand."     All throughout, Rin casts periodic glares at Archer, though the Servant seems convinced he spoke the truth... and his glances to Saber now carry traces of more clear remorse. 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''     As they returned to the matter of the Grail War, Rin knew what would come would likely be the explanation into the missing pieces that Saber did not have on the war. Her face also twists up in slight anger at the mention of her father and Kirei, both she and Archer seeming aware of this bit. "Yeah... I'd sort of figured by this point that that bastard fake-priest had something to do with my father's death. And it got even worse" Rin sighed, actually sounding more venomous then she had with Archer. "Kirei was responsible for a lot of how my war ended out. But... maybe I need to prefix it a bit. For starters... what do you know of the legends of Angra Mainyu? The Persian God of Evil?"      Rin, for Saber's benefit, reaches into her coat and draws out a small book that she slides across the table to the golden-haired Servant - a record on the details of Angra Mainyu. "Whatever the legends say of him... the truth was that, in the end... he started out as a random human villager. Just a boy at that." She closes her eyes and sighs somewhat sadly, remembering Illya's recounting of it in her world. "One day, the village picked that boy at random and declared him the source of all the world's evils, just so that they could have something to blame. They carved every curse in existence into his skin and subjected him to every evil in history... then executed him as having been it's source."      "The nature of heroes is to be ostracized" Archer continued, adding his own say in the matter. "They are rejected as inhuman, even as their existence preserves the world around them. The villagers who persecuted him at random believed that there is evil in all humans, existing from the moment they are born as an innate part of their base nature."     Archer then crosses his arms and closes his eyes, his expression seeming to hold minute contempt - not just at the villagers but to humans in general, seeming to view the rest of humankind in the same light. "Believing it impossible to free themselves from malice simply by living righteously and cleanly, they concluded that the only way to ensure the 'good' of humans stayed prevalent was to force 'all the evils of the world' onto a single being as the sole cause of any and all human evils After all, if one person embodies all evil in the world, then, 'logically' speaking, then all other people cannot be evil no matter what." He gives a bitter, almost disappointed smile at the so-called 'logic' behind Angra Mainyu's creation. "That was the simplistic, child-theory they all invested in. An ordinary person with no unique talent, transformed into exactly what they wanted and needed... and in doing so, becoming qualified as a Heroic Spirit by losing all sense of self."     For Saber, who has revealed she knows the truth of his identity... the comparison Archer seems to subtly be drawing between Angra Mainyu and Emiya Shirou is unspoken yet palpable in the tone of his words... as is the unspoken comparison to how Saber's brand might be seen as similar in a way.      "To put it bluntly..." Rin continued. "... /that's/ what was in the Fuyuki Holy Grail. Angra Mainyu itself. The avatar of all the evils of the world... with the Grail as his vessel." She doesn't yet say how it got into the Grail though - Rin is giving Saber the chance to process this. 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:''' When the conversation does reach it's more lighter phase... Rin is left floored by the news, gaping openly. "B... b-b-b-b-boyfriend?!?! S-Sakura went out with someone that wasn't Emiya-Kun?!"     This shocked response also serves as the rather abrupt revelation of just how things ended up in her own timeline.     But even that isn't as shocking as what Saber says next, with both Rin and Archer, as was becoming common in this meeting, reacting with pure surprise. Archer went ridged, momentarily seeming to have a thousand-yard stare forced upon him before he closed his eyes and clicked his tongue in what sounded almost like exasperated disgust. "You're kidding..." He places a hand to his temple as if soothing away a headache, the implications far too much for even him to take on.     Sadly for Rin, the news comes right as she has taken a sip of her tea to try and regain her composure from hearing about Sakura... which in turn causes her to inhale half the cup and subsequently spit it back into the cup in a fit of sharp coughing. "L..life... t-togeth... WHAT?!?!" Her expression is pure, undiluted shock. "M-m-me... a-and Emiya-Kun?! TOGETHER?!?!"      "Believe me, my sense of propriatorey outrage far outclasses yours, Master" the Red Knight deadpans, though his more subdued and dismayed-looking expression, eyes closed and arms crossed, is a stark contrast to Rin's headed, discomposed look of pure embarrassed shock, her cheeks and ears going scarlet-red.      "MY ASS IT DOES!!" the Magus all but screams, bolting up and leaning toward the Servant with one hand on the table to push her forward at him more. "You think I'd like the idea of ending up with, at best an outright /IDIOT/ or at worst a twisted /JERK/ as my boyfriend?! There's thousands of guys out there in the world - why on earth would I end up with YOU?!"     At this though, one of Archer's eyes opens up and he gives an amused, mock-questioning smirk. "Me? Don't you mean Emiya Shirou?"     Rin rather comically chokes at this, blinking a few times before quickly backing away at him when the double-meaning in her words dawns on her. "O-of course I meant Emiya!! I just got so pissed off that I lopped you in with him for a moment - like I said, you may have the same source but you're not him! Besides, I think I /do/ have a right to blame you if you came from the same starting point as him since you are at least connected to this!" Much to her frustration though, Archer continues regarding her bemusedly as she spouts what sounds horribly like a nonsense argument, but Rin is so flustered by how badly she worded her prior tangent that she has been put on her back heel.     Not that Archer had any intents to mirror what one of his alternate selves had apparently done. Close as he was to Rin... he didn't quite see her in that sort of romanticized light. Or at least he didn't any longer. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Saber frowned slightly, but rather than argue, she presented something of an agreement. Her ideals, it would seem, were tempered now with practicality and a faith in the people she now govered. "I do. Which is why Dun Realtai relies not merely upon its lord and lady, but the people to bear their own weight. They fought as best they could against the tainted ice hounds of the winter guardian which had been corrupted by their previous lord, but they could not hope to overcome them on their own. The Union forces simply levelled the battleground, and even after they had been driven off, the people refused to charity unless they were allowed to reclaim their lives with their own hands. All we did was to direct that effort, and to bring what we could of the current are to assist with that. They held no contempt of modern vaccines, but they refused to permit machines to rebuild their homes."      It would seem that Saber had found a tough, independent, and self-reliant people who were more like her. Non-Elites to a man, but their spirit was beyond impressive.      Her answer to the question might likewise surprise the two. Though her fire and pride were as present as they always had been, there was a strange sort of calm as she made her case, tempered by something...or some/one/. "Honour is for the living," she stated simply. "Living is more than merely surviving. To reach a dream such as utopia, the people require something to believe in, something to reach for. The code is intended as a symbol of hope, a reassurance that there are indeed those who would stand between them and the darkness, and even the corruption of the rst of the world. The nature of the world is to trample the weak and defenceless, and it is the Eight Virtues which serve to tell them that there are those who would stand against that. And perhaps, become the defenders of others just as they were defended. That is what it means to be a Knight of the Round Table."      But not all lives were equal...or rather, some lives would take from others for their own gain. "There are times when those forces are other lives. That, too, is part of being a knight. To defend others means to put the sword to evil, no matter what form it may take. What we have created here is a land of peace...but we shall soon train knights from those willing to take up the sword to defend that peace. Dun Realtai is not a utopia, but it is nevertheless what I had dreamed for Britain, and more. I will not yield it to those who would destroy it."      And there it was, the old determination of the Servant who defied fate itself to save her country. Only now, it was directed at a new home, a new people. Woe be unto the fool who harmed even a one of the villagers.      "Hm." It was a mirthless, self-mocking hint of a laugh aven as Archer called her an idiot and Rin ranted at her. She understood, even sympathised. "Perhaps. But as you well know, Archer...it had to be done. One universe was set to collide with another, and to save one meant to destroy the other. One universe to save billions of others. I made that choice so Sakura would not be forced to." That might have chilled them even further; Saber had gone on that terrible expedition to save her Master from having to endure that same horrible brand? "I would make the same choice again, if it meant saving Sakura from the need to go. She has already endured more than enough for a lifetime." Perhaps ironic, given that Saber had endured more than one lifetime of sacrifice and showed little signs of slowing down. But her dedication to her previous Master remained steadfast.      "It is all right, Rin," she reassured the magus with a sad smile. "I was hardly alone on that expedition. Psyber, Sarah, Sol, Arachnia...we all bear similar marks on our bodies. We all share that curse. Whatever beings placed that curse upon us, it permits Viridian Sunrise and the people of his inner universe to live on. It is terrible...yet, not." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Her sigh was, rather than resigned, actually relieved. "So you see, Archer...you need not worry. And I am not merely saying so to keep you from it. It is a greater burden than most, but truly, I am all right. Moreover..."      Master and Servant were both observant, their attention to detail more than simply impressive. Therefore, they would easily have noticed when she lifted her hand to touch something on her right ear, a bright red jasper set in bronze at her earlobe. However, her left ear remained curiously unadorned, as if it was an incomplete part of a pair. Interesting. "I do not carry this burden alone."      Her smile became a serious expression. "The point is that there is always a cost, be them ideals or pragmatism. One is for the living, the other for survival. I merely ask that you consider the difference between merely surviving and truly living."      She was, however, more than happy to return to the Grail War, strangely enough. Her furrowed brow indicated some familiarity. "Little, I fear," she admitted. "I have, however, been informed of an 'Avenger' Servant wandering about. He challenged my marshal to a duel...wishing to test his blade against strong opponents, I was informed. But he bore markings...something to do with a tainted Grail, though the details are unclear, I am afraid."      The petite blonde picked up the book with another frown, her disapproval of the actions of the villagers clear as day. "Their error was in choosing a human to bear that burden," she insisted. "There is only one capable of enduring that price, and it is not a mere half-divine such as Gilgamesh. Only God Himself can choose such a thing, and even then He calls us to follow Him and deny our sin." King Arthur was, after all, one of Britain's first Christians, beliefs that held fast as much as chivalry. Or perhaps /because/ of the code she had invented.      Saber shook her head. "Regardless, that explains a great deal about Gilgamesh and his mad obsession. He had claimed he was able to endure it where a mere human could not...he was not tainted as another Servant would have been, but he was not entirely unaffected."      This time, her sigh was weary as she considered what Rin had revealed. "It was a cursed thing from the start." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Once more, the conversation turned towards levity, which might have been something Master and Servant alike needed, in light of the terrors and hearkbreak they had faced. Saber covered a grin with her hand; she had seen similar reactions even in the Rin she had known when it came to their relationship.      "You have been quite the positive influence on him," she assured. "He has been tempered both by trials and by wisdom which should come with age. Likewise, the Rin I am familiar with has reassured us that she will not permit him to become a Heroic Spirit. He has had to content himself with becoming a magus in service to the Union. I can assure you that your tutelage has been quite ruthless."      Was that a grin she was attempting to hide? It couldn't be...this was Saber. Or could it? She had certainly changed a great deal over the past five years in the multiverse. 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''     As Archer and Rin listen to Saber speak, the former seemed to regard her somewhat more passively, though he still seemed dissatisfied... or perhaps it was simply his nature to be the cynic. In that, it could be said that more of Kotomine Kirei had been imprinted upon the Red Knight then Emiya Kiritsugu. "In the end though... they still rely on you. Even now they look up to you, as your life holds value to them as one of their protectors. Do you really believe it will last forever?"      "It doesn't have to" Rin finally speaks up. "Nothing lasts forever, anyways. But they'll be able to survive and endure without her. That's the difference - she's not just holding them up... she's showing them how to be the foundation for something else" she finishes, smiling somewhat as she recognizes the method. "It won't last forever... but it will last the test of time. That's more then can be said for a lot of cultures."     Archer retains his cynicism though on the matter of honor - "As you said... honor is for the /living./ However... those that do not have their lives - those that give up their lives for others... honor holds no purpose for them."      "There's a difference between having no honor and having no decency" Rin snorts, once again glaring at the Servant.     However, even Archer found himself taken aback when Saber made her claim as to what Dun Realtai meant to her... and for a brief moment, he was reminded of why he had found her so beautiful the first time he'd met her. The way she had symbolized not just a cold determination... but a purity of heart that a broken person like him could never truly comprehend. This time he doesn't have a retort... and though his gaze still has the ever-present cynicism, there is now a somewhat softer edge to the normally-hard steel in his eyes. 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''      The atmosphere only deepens - along with an audible gasp from Rin - when Saber reveals she had made the choice in order to spare Sakura... and suddenly, the antagonism Archer displayed seemed to have been largely smothered. For a brief moment, his shoulders tremble once as emotions he has not felt for ages past surface just for one split second.     "Saber..." Rin's voice is almost crestfallen, sending apologetic and dismayed all at once. She looks down at her tea for a long moment, closing her eyes. "I'm sorry you had to go through that. But, still... thank you for doing that. For saving my sister. You're right... she's been through enough."     Then... at long last, Archer closed his eyes at this... let out a sigh... and then looked back at her, his expression holding exasperated amazement... and, perhaps if one looked hard enough... a feint trace of the admiration that a young boy had held for the knight in silver armor upon their first encounter. "I see" he finally replies. "If that was the case, I suppose you are not entirely at fault for it. In the end... perhaps there was nothing to do for it."     However, the ever-present reproach - and, somewhere under it, concern and a sense of partial knowing - resurfaces far too quickly. "But at the same time... I wonder if you realize just how heavy that burden can become... when it is all you have left. Eventually, you must realize that you will leave Dun Realtai behind, as, like Rin said, nothing lasts forever." At least he was calling her Rin again, showing that he seemed to have put their prior clashing behind him. "When you have nothing but that single burden throughout an eternity... and must carry it alone when those around you no longer exist... I fear you might not be so steadfast in accepting the cost that was paid."     Rin in turn looks at Archer not just with surprise but with solemn sympathy - it's the most ernest she has ever seen the Servant of the Bow... and the most empathetic. For the first time she knows of, he is actually being openly concerned for someone else. The conversation ends at that point, Archer's concern for Saber showing that, in spite of his dissatisfaction with her burden, he has at least seemed to accept it... and that is more then most have ever gotten from him. 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''     Rin furrows her brow upon hearing of another Avenger in the world, making a note of it as being something to look into. "Markings... that sounds like Angra Mainyu's curse. He had the sins of the world carved into his skin, so maybe... maybe the Servant you met is tied to him somehow?"      "Anyway... as to how he ties into the War. Well... you rememeber what Archer mentioned earlier? That the nature of his contradiction - the fact that he was effectively someone who gave up all he was for the sake of humanity, unwilling as it was - made him qualified to be counted as a Heroic Spirit?"     Pausing a moment, Rin steadies herself for what she is about to tell Saber. "That in turn made him qualified to be summoned as a Servant... the /Einzbern's/ Servant, to be precise. You see... in the Third Hold Grail War, the Einzberns, embittered by their inability to claim the Grail in the last two Wars, stopped caring about the prize and just wanted the satisfaction of winning over the other two families - the Tohsaka and the Matou, known back then as the Makiri." Archer's brows narrowed at this, the mention of the Matou not sitting any better with him then it did with Rin, though his was, as always, more contained. "The Einzbern Family subverted the rules of the Heaven's Feel and summoned an irregular-class of Servant - the Avenger-Class, which replaced the Berserker-Class for the Third War" Rin continued. "That Servant was Angra Mainyu, the first and only true Anti-Hero to be summoned in the Grail Wars. The Einzberns summoned him believing that he - the figure bearing the six billion curses of humanity who was crowned 'king of demons' - would be the monster beyond even a Berserker, capable of slaughtering Master and Servant alike to win the Grail."     Rin crosses her arms at this, closing her eyes as she continues to recount what Illya told her in the Grail War. "But, because he had no real fame nor legendary exploits, he did not have a powerful form nor overtly-powerful Noble Phantasms. Ultimately, the Einzbern's gambit collapsed humiliatingly fast as Avenger was slain within the first four days."     At this... Rin's expression becomes more bitter and remorseful. "But... that ended up being the absolute worst outcome." 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''     Having explained who summoned Angra Mainyu, Rin proceeds to explain what happened to the Grail. "Based on what you said about Illya's mother... I'm guessing you know how the Grail System works? That the 'Holy Grail' is actually just a repository of mana that is created from the distilled prana of the seven Servants, collected in the vessel as they die?"     Upon hearing Saber's reply to this, Rin presses on - "When Angra Mainyu returned to the Grail... normally that should have been it. But instead... his innate nature cause what you could call a 'black miracle' to occur."      "You see" Rin started, "Angra Mainyu's existence as the avatar of All the Worlds Evils - a being that had literally been born because his people 'wished' him to be such - was recognized by the Grail as being a 'wish.' "     Taking the moment to give an expression reflecting how ironic she finds the situation, Rin continues after shaking her head and giving a bitter smile. "In simply being absorbed into the Grail, Avenger was the one who claimed it, with the 'wishes of humanity' for the existence of a singular evil for which to blame all their sins upon being acknowledged by the Holy Grail when his soul was taken into it. The Grail effectively declared Angra Mainyu the 'winner' as a result and it's entire function changed - it shifted toward serving as the womb to incarnate Angra Manyu into the world as the 'ultimate evil' humanity had 'wished' him to be... and subsequently, it's purpose became to gather up the prana needed to complete his birth."     Sighing, Rin looked Saber in the eyes again at this point... with a somewhat apologetic look reflected in them. "That became the purpose of the Grail in the Fourth and Fifth Wars - to simply collect the prana needed to bring him to life. So... in truth, you were half-right, Saber. The Grail was corrupted from the start of the Forth War onward... but before that, the Grail might have actually been capable of the miracles it was supposedly able to bring to life. Maybe if you'd been the Saber for the First or Second War..."      "Not that it could likely have actually changed the past" Archer interjected, much to Rin's annoyance. "If anything, the most the Grail could have likely done was send your consciousness to an alternate reality where you never made that choice, as opposed to actually turning back the hands of time." 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''      As Archer and Rin recover in their own ways from Saber's revelation on how the Shirou and Rin of another timeline had become lovers - Archer's being to practically retreat behind his mask of unflappable sardonic calm, while Rin sat back down in her chair trying furiously to will the blush off her face.      Listening to the influence she had on Shirou though, Rin's efforts collapse again as her ears once again go red, seeming to be on the verge of breaking into a nervous sweat. "W-w-well I'd sure as hell /better/ have been ruthless on him! T-that idiot needs someone strong enough to keep him in check. Especially if he's still running around trying to be a hero in that world!"     Archer, arms crossed, glances between the two women as he takes note of Saber's smile, inwardly surprised but outwardly keeping his own sarcastic grin present.     She really had softened in the time she'd been summoned here, hadn't she? 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Saber nodded to Rin. "That is precisely it," she agreed. "In truth, our leadership has provided predominantly stabilisation, organisation, and a vision for the future. Furthermore, my own role has been one of support and mentoring. Truly, it is Sir Bedivere who has shaped this land into what it is. I had simply appointed him stewardship after the winter guardian requested our aid to help her people, and mentored him in a lord's duties. Our prosperity is a combination of his guidance, the aid of our allies in the Union, and the hard work of all."      The flaxen-haired knight's response might have been a little on the dry side."I would suppose that it depends on which of the dead you ask," she quipped, smiling slightly for a moment before her expression became neutral once more. "But to save lives themselves is not enough. Those who have been saved have a need for hope, some way to rebuild their lives and their civilisation. For Camelot, that meant setting ourselves apart from the rest of the world and its corruption. In some ways, we are anti-world; because others are greedy, we observe Generositas. Where other nations blaspheme, we hold fast to Pietas. We hold Ingenuitas sacred because others are arrogant."      The fact that she had switched from her native medieval Welsh to Latin for each indicated that these were of special significance. But each were translated by the multiverse with multiple meanings. Generositas meant both generosity and charity; Pietas meant not only piety but also loyalty, responsibility, and a sense of duty; Ingenuitas meant nobility of character, candor, and modesty. There were, in truth, closer to twenty-six Virtues she had codified in chivalry, but the Latin allowed for Eight which embodied the spirit of what the Round Table had meant.      "In truth, the campaign into Annu occurred before..." she hesitated, albeit briefly. "It was some years before the campaign to rescue Dun Realtai, before Bedivere had been found." She shook her head. "In truth, he would either accompany me or insist that I not go. And if I did not have my Left Hand at my side, I would not. I refuse to force him to endure such a thing again, even before the considerations of our friends and Dun Realtai." So it seemed she did have consideration for those she might leave behind...or at least one person in particular. And that person might have endured things terrible enough that he was now among the first of her considerations.      She really /had/ changed, hadn't she? 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      The expression of the King of Knights was grim. "That may be so," she mused. "I have little but rumours and the report from Sir Bedivere, but these lead me to conclude there is some manner of a tainted Grail within him." She shook her head. "However, I cannot say for certain."      What Rin told her of the Third War had the Servant honestly surprised, her eyes wide. "It would seem that the Einzberns in this era were as equally ignorant as we were," she mused. "I am certain Irisviel did not know..." Her eyes hooded as she came to a realisation, as if certain pieces of a puzzle had finally fit into place. "However, Jubstacheit von Einzbern must have known. When we rescued Irisviel and Ilyasviel from the castle, there was some indication..." A faint sigh escaped her lips. "I believe that I understand some of what he had said then."      Then, her expression turned grim. "That Anti-Heroes could be summoned...that would likewise explain Caster's presence. Gilles de Rais, knight of the Holy Maid of Orleans. He was obsessed with Lady Jeanne, and he believed I was she. His methods were..." It should not have been possible for her expression to become more grave, yet somehow she managed. "He was a true monster, in a way that even Gilgamesh was not. A Servant such as Caster should never have been able to be summoned."      The Avenger class. Saber had only heard of such a thing from the arrival of Sasaki Kojiro. How it came to be had remained beyond her understanding...that is, until Rin revealed its origins. Soberly, she nodded. "It would seem that they continued this 'strategy' into the Fourth War. It was curious had employed an assassin of magi to act as a Master. I suspect the patriarch assumed that Kiritsugu had abandoned his humanity completely rather than having buried it." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      It might have been difficult to believe that things could have possibly become worse from that point, but Saber had seen first-hand just how badly a situation could spiral downward. The little blonde nodded. "Yes. Moreover, as the vessel becomes filled, that vessel's strength wanes as her personality is essentially 'overwritten' through that prana. Eventually, she is replaced in entirety by the will of the Grail itself."      Though she had understood some of the aspects of it, what was suddenly made clear to her was just /how/ Kiritsugu had found out. "A 'black miracle'..." Her gaze appeared to turn inward, though her eyes widened in shock. "Kiritsugu. The Grail itself must have warned him of the cost of his wish. It had taken Irisviel's form and warned him."      Sea-green eyes refocused, looking sharply at Rin, then Archer. "His wish had been to end all wars, all conflict. With the Grail being tainted by the World's Evil, even that wish would have been twisted. It would have come at the cost of nearly the world's population." She muttered under her breath -- a curse half for another, half for herself. "/That/ was what Gilgamesh had been seeking. He intended to allow that wish to destroy the world and recreate it to his liking."      She seemed to deflate slightly, with equal parts weariness and relief. "That we were never able to realise the completion of the Grail has been an unexpected good...perhaps one of few to come of it. The waste of lives over the realisation a corrupted, tainted wish, however..."      Her eyes first flicked to Rin, then to Archer as he interjected. "Though it was not corrupted, it was never intended as an artefact to grant a wish. This was one of the truths the King of Heroes 'graced' me with." Her distaste for the arrogant hero-king was palpable, yet she was forced to concede he had made some very good points. "It was intended as a way for the Master winning the War to open a doorway to the Root. The Master uses his remaining seal to command his Servant to commit suicide, filling the Grail and opening this doorway. The 'wish' aspect of it is from the belief that the Root is capable of granting a magus infinite knowledge. If there is a wish to alter reality, it is likely from being able to possibly re-write the Record." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      As Rin flailed hopelessly and Archer reasserted his sarcastic mask, Saber merely smiled. "His wish and his dreams have been refined, somewhat. The elder Shirou understands his importance to his family and friends, and that to save others one must make difficult choices and possibly end lives. For now, he and Rin remain in London, studying and perfecting their magecraft. Shirou has not had the same sort of tutelage as you have, therefore, he has some ways to go."      Her smile was sweet, yet contained an almost frightening sort of feeling to it. "Otherwise, he would have needed a knight to hammer a certain amount of common sense into him." 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''      As their prior conversation on the merits of Saber's rule over Dun Realtai seems to have satisfied Rin... and somewhat mischievous. "You make it sound almost like being the king and queen of a storybook fantasy. Archer on the other hand remains contemplatively quiet, seeming to take particular note of the Servant of the Sword's complementary notations to Bedivere as he raises one brow somewhat questioningly.     Contrary to before, Archer doesn't seem to really disagree with the idea that the world is a flawed place that people are better off living apart from. At the same time though, he does give his typical shrug and smirk, though this time there is a more nihilistic edge to it. "The 'dead', you say? Well, to put it bluntly... it would be people like you and I. Those who have sworn away their happiness for the sakes of others... though by the sound of it, you've come to realize how it hollows one out until nothing remains."     He closes his eyes in thought for a moment at this point. "Unpleasant as it is to liken myself to him in any way, it is perhaps the one trait that the boy and I share - namely that, so long as he devotes his entire existence toward his path so zealously... he will never be able to strike the balance you seek. He has no-one to serve as the counterbalance... and so long as he walks that road as such, it will consume him... and ultimately, his path will fall in step with mine as a result. Even if he has deviated for the moment, his ideals are too firmly rooted in the same origins to truly change."     Rin, gazing at her Servant, seems almost to pity him slightly as she catches on. "In other words... you're just saying Emiya-Kun needs someone to lean on?"     Archer regards her impassively, one eye opening to look at her in a somewhat offhanded motion - but his expression has softened somewhat. "I suppose you could put it that way... though in all honesty he is better off not following such an easily-twisted path. He is too naive to survive his ideals being compromised, let alone breaking and betraying him entirely. He must learn what those he leaves behind experience to truly understand... for because he has no value on his own life, he cannot reciprocate the value others place on his."     Thus, when Archer looks at Saber... he seems somewhat happy that she has found a form of oasis, though it is buried deep beneath the iron and steel. "After all... there was a time when the King of Knights would never have compromised her ideals for one person." 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''     In regards to the Grail War, Rin bits her lip anxiously, bringing a hand to her chin. "It'll need watching, then - I've seen first hand what a vessel of Angra Mainyu can do and I..." she hesitates, the memory obviously unpleasant for her. "... and I don't want to see that unleashed on the world."      "It's unlikely that Irisviel knew what had happened in the Grail, though Jubstacheit most certainly did know about Avenger - after all, he was the one who recounted the story to Illya. At the very least, he must have suspected... though his greed for the Grail likely overrode his sense of caution in trying to find out for sure." At this, Archer seems to slip slightly, his regarding the young homunculus as 'Illya' instead of 'Illyasviel' implying a familiarity with her.     Both he and Rin also express relief at hearing that both the wife and child of Kiritsugu were rescued in at least one alternate timeline, Archer's expression being a faint smile while Rin's is a more open one with a sigh of relief. "That's good... at least in one timeline, they came out alright." Archer;s mood seemed to lighten even more, subtle as it was, when hearing about Kiritsugu, though it does harden again somewhat at the reminder of why the elder Emiya was in the Fourth War.      "Yes... the Grail's corruption allowed a number of normally-impossible events to occur" Archer mused as they discussed the Fourth War, seeming to take interest in Saber's description of the previous Servants. "In my own war, there were a few irregularities - for one, Jubstacheit was able to subvert the Grail System in order to have Illya summon Heracles as the Berserker-Class Servant... and do so at least two months before the Grail War." His expression hardens slightly, the subject obviously not one he likes.      Rin in turn seems to be repulsed just by the thought. "Even for a Grail Vessel... to be supporting such a Servant on her own with no aid from the Grail's prana supply or the Heaven's Feel system..." she clicks her tongue in disgust at Jubstacheit's actions, unable to comprehend what kind of physical pain Illya must have had to endure in the time between the summoning and the actual War... not to mention the strain of summoning such a powerful Servant as the prana-intensive Berserker without the Grail. After all, Rin herself had experienced not-insignificant pain just in summoning Archer.      "Other irregularities surfaced quickly" Archer continued. "Medea of Colchis, a witch of betrayal, was recognized as a 'tragic Hero' by the Grail to be the Caster, and the gorgon Medusa, a monster of ancient Greece, was recognized as the same for having become a monster in defense of her sisters, becoming our war's Rider. Caster also bypassed the Grail system to summon a Servant of her own - a nameless spirit who assumed the identity of the Japanese hero Sasaki Kojirou, even though he himself was simply a placeholder. He was recognized only because of how his mastery of the blade enabled him to perfect a dimensional-refraction, making him close enough to the hero of legend to be summoned in his steed." 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''      Rin nods, though she takes the time to continue with her own recounting. "Yes... though the circumstances ended up being different in my war. The Grail..." she pauses, seeming uncertain... then closes her eyes, looking as if she's not sure she wants to continue.     Archer quickly interjects, though - "You aren't betraying Sakura with this, Rin. If anything, she would likely be glad you cared enough to try and help saver her in other timelines. Besides, the past is done." His voice is firm and somewhat inflexibly assured, but the words themselves are said to help her.     Rin, after a moment, lets out a long sigh. "You don't have to remind me, Archer" - though there is a slight hint of gratitude in her voice. Finally... she pulls another docket - a more formal series of notes - from her coat and slides them across the table to Saber. "These are the notes Kotomine Kirei took when... when he examined Sakura. According to him... she'd actually been implanted with..." she hesitates, then pushes onward, "with the fragments of the Grail, or rather the transformed Grail Vessel. The fragments of Irisviel's corrupted magic circuits after she had been... reconfigured into the Grail." She sighs, knowing that what Saber reads will likely only increase Saber's hate for the priest.     For contained is a record of not just Sakura's status as a forcibly-made artificial Grail Vessel... but of the exact nature of the crest worms that served as her Magic Crests and /how/ they were implanted... as well as the history of things she had suffered in her life, the fake-priest's account of every last sin and trauma she experienced being sadisticaly well-detailed, as was to be expected of someone like him.     There is also, in the part detailing the Grail fragments... a notation of Kirei that is actually a private memoir Rin had discovered.     The memoir itself being a recounting of how he had strangled Irisviel von Einzbern to death in the Fourth War, in order to force her body to transform into the Grail, having noted it ironic that 'in bringing death... I have indirectly blessed another with the capability to birth the sum of humanity's wishes.... and the answer to the question I have sought for so long.'     This 'sum of humanity's wishes' is undoubtedly Angra Mainyu, based how Rin's notes described it, and it paints Kirei as the reason behind who Rin's own Grail War became an event she holds no found memory of... but it does not say what 'answer' to what 'question' he had that was apparently the motivator for his twisted actions. 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''      As Rin desperately triest to reassert control over her emotional state, Archer listens with bemused, if not somewhat reluctant, interest in how Emiya Shirou turned out in another lifetime. Rin for her part seems somewhat flustered and surprised that she ended up being such an influence on Shirou, though she fidgets in place slightly - a sight that Archer again suppresses amusement at as it shows that the girl has not changed drastically from the girl who fought in the Grail War.     Hearing of Shirou's tutelage, Rin shorts and crosses her arms, looking somewhat off-put - though anyone that knows her can see it is merely an act to ward off embarrassment. "Of course he has a ways to go. When I first met the idiot, he was using his own nerves as substitute magic circuits without even knowing! I don't know how on earth he even survived as long as he did like that."     Hearing Saber's final notation, Rin and Archer both look at her for a moment, with Archer's bemusement once again surfacing at the sight of how some aspects of Saber were still completely unchanged. Rin for her point voices rather adamant agreement - "A certain amount? Try any at all! The first day of the Grail War, he walked right into a battle between Archer and Lancer! If I wasn't there, he'd be dead!"      "Technically, he already was" Archer interjected, Rin seeming somewhat agitated that Archer is being so up-front about this. "The boy didn't even get more then ten steps before Lancer impaled his heart. Our war's Lancer, C� Chulainn, carried the cursed spear G�e Bolg, which, as I'm sure you know from the legends, leaves injuries that do not heal normally. So this impulsive girl-" he gestures to Rin, who is silently fuming at the remark "-actually went as far as to waste the most powerful gemstone in her collection, a keepsake from her father no less, just to regenerate his heart and save his life."      "I-I did it for Sakura's sake!" Rin shot back, though she looks slightly more somber then she does embarrassed. "I mean... she was the one closest to Emiya-Kun - and the idiot going missing or dead like that would have drawn attention on her and probably me too! It would have drawn other Masters and Servants on us if it became some kind of public investigation into everyone he knew - what was I supposed to do?"     Archer gives a shrug as an answer, not bothering to point out that, with how flustered a defense as it was, she inadvertently admitted in a roundabout way that it had been for /both/ her and Sakura's sakes that she saved him. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Possibly the the amusement of both, Saber's fine control over most of her reactions cracked. "I-I would not say that, precisely," she stammered, her face flushing. The latter alone might have been amusing enough on its own. It certainly didn't help that the people still thought of the two as a married noble couple, a misconception the two decided against correcting for the sake of keeping their spirits up. Now that the danger had passed, they were free to do so...but it never seemed to be the right time. More importantly, the villagers hadn't been entirely wrong.      "I feel I must correct you on one point, however...at least as it pertains to our world. The multiverse itself boasts many of the dead other than Servants, they are as diverse in nature in death as they are in life. Be that as it may, I am not yet dead. I formed my contract as I lay dying. In essence, the time in my world appears to have stopped at the point of Camlann's end due to Unification."      She paused to allow that point to sink in, lightly sipping her tea before setting the cup back down. "I am, in truth, alive."      On Archer's second point, she sighed. "To become the ideal King Britain had need of, there was little other choice; all others were unacceptable. However, that kingdom has fallen even in my own time. Though I regret many things still, it is better that it remain as it was regardless of my own failures." Once, she could not bring herself to discuss such things openly; the wounds were too raw. After all she had been through in the multiverse and all the friends she had found in it, Arturia could finally speak about why it was she had sought the Holy Grail. Her voice was still coloured with a note of sorrow for the loss, but it was as someone moving beyond her grief.      The Counter Guardian might find her subtle poke somewhat annoying, however. "I would also say stubbornness," she quipped, hiding a smirk behind her teacup. "Though perhaps that is a trait which is not so uncommon." Her eyes flicked to Rin. "It seems that he does best when he has someone to remind him of those he would leave behind, who can likewise scold him when he has need of scolding. Yet, now that he is in the multiverse, there are a great many people he has befriended, and so the effect has been considerably multiplied.      But at Archer's next observation, she shook her head. "There is no longer a need to become something other than human, to give up everything for the sake of becoming a perfect king. The people here have little use for such things." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Saber nodded, letting the matter of a possible container for Angra Mainyu go. She would need more information, and the guardians of Dun Realtai were already vigilant against his reappearance.      Flaxen eyebrows raised slightly at the more familiar diminutive name for the young Einzbern homunculus, though she remained silent. In itself it was perhaps not so surprising, but Archer seemed to believe that keeping everyone at a distance was the best policy. It had been one she herself had believed, though not quite so much at this point in time. "Kiritsugu had discovered his designs for her. He had already begun his 'tutelage' by the time we were able to rescue them. Already she had started to believe that her sole purpose was to fight and win the War."      Her expression appeared to change slightly for a fleeting moment at the mention of 'Berserker,' but the moment passed. "He will stop at nothing to obtain the Grail," Saber observed. "That much had been made clear when Kiritsugu led the assault on the castle. I do not know the extent of what was done to her, though their lives have been somewhat extended due to Avalon's presence."      Right, there was that little detail. "My Master had given it to Irisviel before the War," she explained. "She possesses it still, but I have not sought to claim it as its effects likewise stave off what defects exist in homunculi which shorten their lives." One might get the impression that she values Ilya's mother a great deal. That would assuredly not make her regard Kirei with any less contempt once Rin revealed the full extent of his actions.      After a curious glance at the blue-eyed magus, Saber picked up the notes. Looking them over, her expression darkened, though not surprised at first as she read and listened. "Yes...Gilgamesh had hinted that fragments of the Grail had somehow been implanted in Sakura. I had wondered how that had happened..." The Servant shook her head. "Sakura had wished to...explore the former laboratory of the Matou estate, though Rin and I refused to permit her to do so. She feared I would become corrupted should I accompany her, but neither Rin nor I would permit her to go there alone. Whatever answers we would find there would not have been worth the cost. Yet, she was certain that these fragments had been implanted there."      The surprise came when she learned of Kirei's hand in it. Sure enough, it did nothing to lessen her hatred of the false priest, or of the Matous. "I see," she said after a long pause. "I...would like to show this to Sakura...my previous Master, that is. Perhaps it will bring her the closure she has sought for so long."      Straightening in her chair, the petite knight-king sighed, more of a hint of one than an actual sound. "I have my suspicions," she admitted. "He seemed...empty, when I first encountered him. I believe that his corruption was in part Archer's doing. As you know, he was first summoned by Tohsaka Tokiomi, later to become Kirei's Servant. I am certain his hand was in the priest's fall. He was always corrupt, I believe...but I have no doubt that it was the King of Heroes who nudged him along his path." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      At first, Saber's answer was a slight shake of her head. For a long moment, she was silent, her face retaining its classic stoic calm. She had seen Rin flustered before, certainly. On the other hand, this was a whole other level. Inwardly, the Servant was more than a little amused; she could only imagine Sakura's reaction to it. Then again, the Sakura she had known had given up on Shirou, wishing him and her sister happiness before moving on. Not, however, without gushing each time she had mistakenly believed that her Servant had 'found her own happiness.' At least the violet-eyed magus had hit the correct mark eventually.      Not, however, without considerable embarrassment on both their parts.      Eventually, she chuckled softly. "Of course, " she quipped. "However, it might be of some comfort that he will not be that way forever, regardless of which path he takes, whichever versions of him stumble into the multiverse." 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''     Rin rather quickly picks up on Saber's flustered reaction, her smile becoming more and more playful. "Well, what /would/ you call it?"      "It must be quite the... interesting partnership" Archer denoted. "You had said Sakura mistook him for Guneviere, correct?" However he then shrugged bemusedly - "I suppose though that it would not be impossible, seeing as two of Camelot's most famed historical figures were both female."     While Rin blinks her eyes in surprise, Archer himself seems unsurprised. It seems he knew that detail - "In technicality, perhaps... but your physical form is still that of a Servant. And as a result of your split ties to the world of the living, you are an incomplete spirit that cannot dematerialize as a normal one can."     Rin is rather quickly left cross - "Oh, come on! First there was an Assassin /before/ the one I saw, then it turns out there was a Servant from the Fourth War - my father's Servant at that - who I didn't know about, and now Saber was actually a projected spirit displaced from her time period?? Not to mention your little... tie to Emiya-Kun you never bothered to clear up. Just how many secrets are you going to keep from me?!" However, Archer seems to disregard her, instead taking another sip from his tea - much to the magus' irritation.      "I am not denying that" Archer replied, closing his eyes as he listened to Saber's recounting of what Britain's King needed to be. "I am merely pointing out that there are indeed paths that require such actions... and the path the boy walks mirrors your own. He may depend on others more then you did, but he is no more capable of reciprocating any true affections they have then you had been in your past." He takes another sip from the teacup, before looking Saber in the eyes again. "I did not mean to say you made the wrong choice for the situation. Only that I do not believe you were prepared for the reality of all that came with it back then... and perhaps now you need not carry such a pointless burden."      Archer seems to quirk his brow slightly at the comparison to both being stubborn people, with Rin sharing Saber's smirk as she likewise sips from her tea. Rin herself is ultimately the one to speak here -"He's better then when I met him in my world, at least. He's not quite so willing to just charge in with a sword, and he seems to have a lot of the basics for reinforcement down - he didn't even have that much when he and I first joined forces."     "Perhaps" Archer half-conceded the final point, still seeming somehow weary in spite of appearing to agree with her belief - a contraction that would always stem from how he followed and yet hated his twisted, ingrained ideals to the end. "But sometimes the path of saving others - anyone - requires one to be anything but human. Not just to become a King... but to become the existence known as a 'hero' at all." 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''      "Emiya-Kun mentioned that he knew what happened to Illya-san, and that he wanted to save her when he got back home" Rin remarked, seeming to let a smile form when hearing the rest. "I'm glad though that one timeline's version of her was rescued. She deserves to be with her family... though I hadn't thought that when I first met her." However... Rin's smile seems to hold a more bitter nostalgia - a hint as to what the fate of her world's Illya was. "Bossy, stuck-up, self-entitled, always clinging to Shirou and wining like she was his owner or something." As Rin speaks, Archer's smile widens slightly, mentally comparing Rin to her own description of Illya and wondering if she knew how many of those traits she actually shared in somewhat.     Archer and Rin both take interest in the revelation of where the Avalon Kiritsugu had ended up, seeming relieved. Rin though sighs and takes another sip of her tea, while Archer in turn replies - "That's good. If it's your scabbard, it ought to extend both their lives a sizable period of time if they split the energy between it. In fact..." Archer glances at Saber meaningfully "... if you continue to visit them regularly, or at least make occasional contact with them, the scabbard's absorption of your prana may add to their lifespans for as long as you yourself continue to exist. And, should you leave this world, the energy within would be enough to grant them decades at least before it ran out, provided they avoided magecraft or fatal injuries." It is here that Archer shows how familiar he has become with the scabbard's abilities due to having had it's record within him longer then any other item in Unlimited Blade Works - the first Noble Phantasm his mind ever recorded into it. 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''      When discussing Sakura's implantation with the Grail fragments, Rin's demeanor becomes far more solemn. "Yes... the actions her family forced on her were... beyond monstrous. Zouken - Sakura's adoptive grandfather and the Matou head of house - fused the fragments to the central crest-worm embedded in the nerves of her heart... which also contains Zouken's /soul/."     Her expression becomes more serious and straightforward at this - "You saw in Kirei's notes how it spoke of a 'central' crest worm that was embedded near Sakura's heart? That's Zouken - that's his soul-container... living inside his own granddaughter like some miserable parasite." Rings voice is especially, almost dangerously venomous at this point, her disgust for Zouken perhaps matching her hate for Kirei. "That was how he always kept such a close eye on her, and how he could agitate her magic circuit and start opening the connection to the grail without her consent - the bastard used her..." she pauses, worried how Saber will take this next part - "... and in your case... may /still/ be using her... as the container for his spirit, while any bodies you see of his are just remote-controlled puppets created from merging corpses with his insect-familiars.     Rin's expression becomes a touch more embittered at this point, fists clenched idly - "And so long as the core crest-worms - the same ones that both hold his soul and the Grail fragments - are embedded near Sakura's heart... he's /always/ going to have a way to try and force the change on her. The question is whether he'll be strong enough to do so. And if he isn't... if someone else finds the connection, like Kirei did when he examined her..." she trails off, leaving the implication here unspoken, sighing before looking back up at Saber. "Even the Grail in her world being dismantled might not be enough - if someone knew what she was, they could try to use it to connect her to the Grails of other worlds, or build a new one and use her as the vessel for it. They might not succeed, and it might not even be possible to do... but some people might be stupid or greedy enough to try anyway."     At Saber's request, Rin becomes much more tender in her reply. "Of course. You can keep it or copy it - I have a transcript of it. For posterity's sake more then anything else." She looks somewhat more melancholic here, expression downcast. "Besides... I don't want to just forget what I left her to. For so long, I'd lived thinking that the Matou would treat her like she was a priceless treasure - how else would a magi family treat their sole heiress? I thought she was being respected... but instead..."     She takes another deep, though somewhat anxious breath to expel the emotions welled up by the memory, once again taking up her tea. "Well, in any case, the past is past. I just care about giving Sakura the future she deserves... her and Shirou both. They deserve a happy life." Archer, conspicuously, is silent at this, though his eyes are closed in some form of remembrance - possibly recalling his own internal views on his world's Shirou and Sakura. 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''     When Kirei is brought up, Rin's expression is once again venomous and filled with spite. "Empty doesn't even begin to cover it - that bastard fake-priest had no soul or heart anywhere in him... and to think he was my Guardian and teacher for a decade of my life. I really do hope he's rotting in-" she pauses, thinking on her words and then scoffing as she reviews them. "On second thought, no - Hell's too good for him. Not even Purgatory would want him, and even the angles would want to personally toss him in the bed of thorns outside the damn gates and let him tangle himself in them like the eunuch that the is. God himself would want to watch him bleed out and see the birds feast on his dammed eyes and I swear that if he even comes within a hundred kilometers of Heaven's periphery then there is /no/ justice in either the afterlife or the world!"     Archer for his part regarded Rin's bile-filled speech with silent agreement... though he did bother to remind Rin of one important thing - "Very astute, Rin... though I doubt many who share a faith would be quite so descriptive."     Rin, for her part, does blink in confusion... then rather quickly freezes up when she remembers, rather abruptly, just what the faith in Camelot had been. She looks mortified, then quickly becomes concerned - "Saber, I... um..." she bowes her head in a gesture of apology. "I didn't mean any offense. I just... ah... sorry." She seemed to be rather apologetic - a gesture not unlike the kind Emiya Shirou would have offered. Archer, watching her, wondered how much of that Rin was aware of. 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''     After regaining her calm through some short breaths, Rin regarded Saber with a more thankful air at her description of the alternate Shirou, though still seeming somewhat reluctant, having not quite wrapped her head around the idea of her and Shirou actually being together. "Well... I guess... I guess that much is good. I mean he's still a hopeless idiot, but at least there's someone I can trust to look after him... I hope" she mutters. "I mean... is that Rin any different from me? What the heck happened to make her fall in love with Emiya-Kun of all people?"      "You already care for him quite a lot, Rin" Archer pointed out, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. "In fact, last I checked, you were practically regarding him as a brother-in-law."      "There's a difference between being family and being lovers, you idiot" the magus bit back, though she once again had a faint hew of red splashed across her face. Taking a moment to recompose herself - again - Rin looked back at Saber with a more relaxed, if not slightly informal look, the repeated shocks having frayed her senses somewhat. "Anyway... as I'm sure you gathered, my world's history is somewhat different. In my Grail War, Emiya-Kun fell in love with Sakura. He and her are still together, living with Taiga and Rider - Sakura's Servant... Medusa." She pauses between the last bits, unsure of whether or not Saber was familiar with the tall, sultry and silent Servant that Sakura was contracted to in the Grail War. Archer had mentioned Medusa as being the Fifth War's Rider, but he hadn't specified the Master... and now Rin was waiting to see the reaction. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      With another embarrassed cough and a persistent blush, Saber attempted to explain. "One of the duties of a king is to delegate the responsibility of governing the land to competent lords. At the very least, such as it was in Britain. I felt that by entrusting Sir Bedivere with governing Dun Realtai, the land would recover far more quickly than had I assumed direct control. Mine has always been a task of oversight, and while Bedivere's skills had applied to matters of my army, its tactics, and its logistics, I had full confidence he would be able to apply those skills in a civilian fashion. I was not wrong."      For the first time since she had first invited them to the keep, Saber held something back. Her purpose in appointing the Marshal of Camelot had been twofold: she not only had absolute faith in his abilities, but also the hope that in committing himself to its revival that he would be able to move past Camlann.      By the time she had managed to get her composure replaced, it crumbled once more. "Ah, well...you see..." she stammered, her blush heating up again. "That is, he is...rather fine of features. Once one takes a second look, it become impossible to mistake him for anything other than a man, but his face is..and hair..." In other works, he's as properly hunky as any of the other knights, he simply has an uncommonly pretty face and long, beautiful hair. 'Bedwyr of the Perfect Sinews,' indeed.      "It is true," she admitted. "I retain both the strengths and weaknesses of a Servant. Yet, as you note, materialisation is a feat I am incapable of as a still-living spirit." she paused, her eyes flicking to Rin. "I believe that we have likely divulged what we know," she replied. "And...knowing what I do now, I trust that it was in part to protect you, as misguided as it was."      "It is so," Saber might surprise Archer by agreeing with him. "I am not certain as I have been however, that it is necessary in the current era, nor especially beneficial." As for not being prepared...well. It was true: she had not been. "Nothing can truly prepare one for such a such a life of sacrifice," she admitted. "It had been necessary then, for Britain. But no longer."      The knight-king offered Rin another one of her headtilt-shrugs. "It has been equally beaten and scolded out of him, for the most part, she replied. "It has at once been Bedivere's uncompromising training as well as consistent reminders over the Union's radio. Lady Riva in particular has been most helpful in pointing out such errors, chiding him when he has plunged himself headlong into a given dangerous situation."      What remained unsaid was that some of those same people likewise scolded Bedivere for an almost equal level of neglect over himself. It might amuse or disturb them to see the similarities between the knight and his 'squire.' 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      The jade-eyed knight nodded, her mien as calm as ever. In spite of her usually-tight control over her reactions, a flicker of conflict crossed her face. "That may be," she admitted. "Yet, I have learned that 'hero' is not so narrowly defined as is is in our world. Just as being a knight demands sacrifice, so too does becoming a 'hero'. But I have come to see that it is possible to remain human while following those ideals. The greater multiverse, it seems, favours those who retain their humanity.      "Hm." A slight smile graced Saber's face once again. "Admittedly, such things do give one hope. Though we cannot change what has happened in our respective pasts -- not without terrible cost -- the possibilities remain of changing other timelines. It would seem that we are capable, at the very least, of averting tragedies yet to come. Kiritsugu, Irisviel and Ilyasviel have the chance, at the very least, to become simply a contented family. Though it has yet to be determined, their future is not doomed before it even begins."      To hear her speak now was a sharp contrast to what she would have said during the Fourth or Fifth Wars, constantly fighting fate. It was as if she had learned that, rather than fighting fate head-on, shaping it and nudging it in subtle ways made changing it truly possible. If not for herself, than for others. The King of Knights could not save /every/ Irisviel, every Ilya, every Sakura. But she /could/ try to save those she was able, and she would not hold back when such opportunities presented themselves.      "I need not travel far to visit them," she informed the pair with a smile, though a slightly more knowing one at Archer. As with all the versions of Shirou -- Servant or human -- he had harboured Avalon within him for nearly all his life. "They have taken refuge in Dun Realtai...the Church in the village, to be precise. Irisviel and Ilyasviel are in nearly constant range of my prana field. Should they remain here, then yes, they could live as long as any human being." It was why Kiritsugu had brought them to Dun Realtai, and not simply due to its status as a known refuge and neutral territory. They would be in Saber's presence almost daily. Not that she minded in the least...and that too, she suspected Kiritsugu knew as well. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Under any other circumstances, either Archer or Rin might be able to find some satisfaction at the utterly shocked and horrified face Saber now wore, her calm demeanour falling away entirely. Considering this was Sakura they were currently discussing, any such potential gloating was vastly eclipsed by the seriousness of the situation. Zouken might have been a lucky man; between a handful of magi and Servants, perhaps the only thing which prevented them from ripping his very soul to pieces was that the proximity of his vessel risked Sakura's life if they attempted to remove it. There were not many people Saber hated with such ferocity that she would slay them on the spot, but Zouken was one of them...and not only for what he had done to Sakura, either.      "I have yet to encounter him directly," she confessed grimly. "It is possible that he is in hibernation, or simply waiting for an opportunity to present itself."      "That 'someone' would be Gilgamesh," she told Rin gravely. "The King of Heroes knew who she was...or rather, what she carried within her. She told me that he had made certain threats, that he intended to use her to rebuild the Grail with one of those still existing in the multiverse."      Her face twisted into a look of utter revulsion. "Even if it was not possible, it would greatly amuse him to try."      The Servant nodded, tidying the notes before setting them back down on the table. "Your counterpart might have a better chance of removing it once she obtains these," she reassured the magus, pausing for a moment before a slight smile graced her features once more. Though warm, it contained a determined steel to it. "We have more than even the Clocktower at our disposal. There are many in the Union who are experienced in such matters. We shall find a way to save her. That I promise you."      She considered something for a moment before another smile alighted the girlish face. "I shall have to introduce you to Captain Harlaown, then," she quipped. "She has been responsible in large part for bringing her out of her 'shell', as it were."      Rin could find out about the mothering and hairbrushing parts later. /Much/ later. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Saber's expression during Rin's tirade was neither impassive nor reproving, rather, it was surprisingly sympathetic. "What you had endured far surpasses what I had," she admitted, though her face hardened at her next words. "I cannot bring myself to forgive him for what he had done to Maiya and Irisviel." The two women had been the closest things she had to friends until Unification.      The Servant shook her head slightly. "It is all right," she reassured her. "It is a failing of Pietas, on my part...but I fear cannot bring myself to forgive him. He had done too much, destroyed too much...no. Though I would feel naught but relief for his passing and I leave his judgement up to God, I do not think there is room in my heart to forgive a man such as him."      Nor could she forgive Matou Zouken or Caster, for that matter. A part of her was concerned at how she had condemned such men, but the righteous part of her demanded justice and an end to their evil. After all, good and evil could not coexist.      As Master and Servant began bickering again, the petite knight his her smile behind her cup again. Not for very long, but just long enough to conceal her smile before pouring more tea. "I would say there are only the most superficial differences between the two of you," she observed. "It is uncertain how our respective timelines diverged as they did...what might have seemed as an insignificant decision at the time altered its flow irrevocably. But whatever the case might be, there has always been one common thread. At the end, you all become family in one way or another." Were the Tohsaka sisters and Shirou tied to each other in some way through vastly divergent fates? Even the Servant was unable to say.      The petite blonde frowned slightly in thought. "I believe Sakura had mentioned that she had been the Master of a Rider in the Fifth War..." She sighed softly. "She continued to blame herself for her Servant's death for some time. I, however, have never met her, not even in the multiverse." 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''     Rin seems to visibly enjoy seeing Saber squirm, though she seems to understand why Saber trusts Bedivere as a comrade, their ties as Knights of the Round Table being only one thing to connect them. When hearing Saber's description of Bedivere though, Archer closes his eyes and actually shakes his head - he has figured out all too quickly what the case might be between the two. Rin has as well, but she is more intent on getting Saber to slip up and admit it, a more openly teasing smirk on her face now. "Fine of features, huh? That's rather big praise coming from the King of Knights. Now you've got me curious." She gives a mock-inquisitive look, a hand cupping her chin as if debating something. "Maybe I ought to meet him sometime? See for myself?" Her undertone rather heavily suggests mischief, though Archer doesn't stop her because he knows she won't go through. One of the things Rin always got a kick from was teasing others.     In that, she might sadly have been more like her mentor Kirei then she'd admit, though nowhere near as depraved.     Rin gives a simple, gracious nod at Saber's words, affirming that they have shared the more important details of the Fourth War and the Grail's Nature... though she gives a more thankful, yet slightly uncertain smile at the idea that Archer was simply trying to protect her. The Servant gives a simple shrug... and perhaps surprising, confirms it in his own roundabout way - "She is my Master. Protecting her is my duty so long as I am bound to her... besides, I feel I could not leave her in such a pitiful state, entering adulthood in the modern world when she can barely even master a mobile phone."      Rin's face quickly turns beat read at this - "Easy for you to say!" she all but explodes, face twisted in righteous fury. "You must have had decades to master the satanic things, and you've lived through the next few years so you probably know what they'll do before I ever can, so of course you'd have an easier time of it, you jerk!"     And so as that phase of the conversation ends, Archer can't help but take amusement - inwardly at least - in the situation, shaking his head and giving a final word on the matter - one that leaves Rin spluttering in anger; "Geez... I have such foresight as you say and yet you react like that? You really are a troublesome girl, aren't you Master?" 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''      Archer in particular seems more sympathetic to Saber's words as he listens, though somewhat surprised inwardly, that she agreed with him. "Little can prepare one for the contrition of a faulted dream... and some still will cling to it even when it is beyond saving. Others have no choice but to do so. However, your choice was not at fault" his gaze hardens a bit, the nihilism visible again in his eyes for a moment before they close again and he crosses his arms. "Heroes are an existence that are ostracized from normal humans by the very nature of their existence. It may not be necessary in the now... but it may be in the future." He sighs though, shrugging again as he returns to his tea, now almost gone, ending his side of the conversation on a final note - "Still, I suppose that is the past... and it is not an event that can be changed. At the very least, you seem to have made peace with it. For the time being."     Rin seems to relax somewhat hearing that Shirou is in relatively safe hands thus far, as well as that there were people willing to hold him back. Archer though remains skeptical. "It has not stopped him from being rash at times. In the most recent battle of the Shivan War, I watched him charge up into the enemy's fortifications in a mad rush - wielding a replication of one of your knight's blades; Excalibur Galantine, I believe?" He crosses his arms and scoffs - "The fool had a hole punched through his torso from their final attack. If not for your scabbard it would have been mutual destruction... but again, what does that matter for one who holds no value on his own life if it saves just a single other person?" His retort serves as an answer to both Saber's comment about Shirou and on the merits of a hero being nothing more then a dead-man walking. Rin for her part stares at Archer in shock and concern for Shirou... but it quickly melts into barely-suppress agitation that Archer apparently watched this happened and didn't try to help him. 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''     Rin seems to agree rather openly with Saber's stated belief - "Yeah... I know we can't save all of them, but..." she gives a somber, yet more hopeful smile, "But I'd like to think that I can be there for my sister at least a few times where I couldn't before." On the other hand though, Archer, while he agreed with the idea in concept, seemed somewhat disgruntled by Saber's acceptance of being unable to change a set event even though it had been what he was earlier pushing her to acknowledge.     Was that because she didn't see it his exact way? Or... was it because it meant he was now the only one who still focused on escaping his own? Granted, because of how different the current Emiya Shirou in the Union was from his own timeline, there was far too much of a difference between their identities for Archer's long-desired double-paradox to take place if he were to kill the boy... but at the very least, if there was one thing he wished to do, it would be to ensure the boy /never/ took his path.     This time, both Archer and Rin react with surprise to hear that the Emiya family not only lived nearby but almost practically on their doorstep... and that the pair had to have passed this homestead on the way to the castle. Archer for once does seem rather visibly stunned that he could have walked right by where Kiristugu was residing... then his gaze narrows as he seems to contemplate this even further.     Emiya Kiritsugu... the progenitor of his fate. The man who had given him this twisted, unachievable dream.     Archer would be lying if he said black thoughts didn't form in his mind - that he ought to confront Kiristugu now that he had a chance to... though he truthfully doubted there was much point, as it seemed the elder Emiya had become just as consumed with regret and disillusioned as he had.     Still... even then, he might at least be able to take some validation in the belief that he was not wrong in his conclusions that this dream of theirs was twisted.     So he does not speak. Instead, he simply keeps his thoughts to himself while Rin spends a few seconds with a surprised expression, then gives a more pleased smile. "That's good to hear. I'm sure Emiya-Kun is happy too - if anyone needed a family to look out for them... it's him." 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''     As the matter of Zouken comes up, Rin's expression becomes more deadly serious. "If he was on the edge, it wouldn't surprise me at all if he's gone into hibernation in order to sustain himself. He was nothing if not hard to kill." Rin's words however reveal that, in her timeline at least, Matou Zouken did in fact die and could be killed.     Both Rin and Archer's expressions become as grave as Saber's when hearing of Gilgamesh's threat, Rin in particular becoming almost dangerously aggravated. "If this 'Gilgamesh' is still out there and so much as /tries/ it, I'll kill him myself - to hell if it's not my timeline."      "It certainly would suit his ambitions" Archer mused, showing he'd been somewhat aware of Gilgamesh's intents for the Grail. "And he is likely arrogant enough to believe he can succeed. I would ask why he has not been hunted down, but I suppose it's because you don't wish to antagonize the sleeping giant as it were."     Rin, hearing Saber's suggestion, nods in agreement. "Yeah, of course. That's probably for the best. I mean, we - my world's Clocktower - never really had much reason to study it further since Sakura..." at this, Rin once again hesitates, the memory of what her own sister had become still unpleasant even now. "Well, suffice to say that she managed to remove the worms in our timeline during the Grail War's final day, but... the circumstances weren't exactly ideal." She doesn't mention how, yet - they've already gone over so much... and in all honesty, Rin herself needed time to acclimatize to everything she'd heard. Saber might be better off then her visibly, but even the flaxen-haired Servant would need at least some time to assimilate some of what Rin had told her.     Archer, having taken a mostly observatory stance on the conversation, seemed more contemplative at this point     Still, when Saber makes her promise to save the Sakura she'd met... Rin gives a deeply thankful smile, nodding in affirmation.     Already... she may have saved one timeline's Sakura and was one the way to ensuring another's would be saved.     Granted... it would never truly erase the fact of what her own sister had become... but it was a start, and better then she could have hoped for.     The mention of a 'Captain Harlaown' makes the magus quirk her head, while the Servant raises one brow in an inquisitive gesture. Clearly the pair seemed curious at the very least... though Archer inwardly couldn't help but feel that Saber was hiding something.     Once again, the Servant of the Bow feared the Servant of the Sword had perhaps picked up a bit of Rin's mischievousness. 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''     Nodding in a somewhat more subdued but grateful gesture, Rin took a deep breath to expel what remained of her revulsion at the, in her world at least, long-dead priest. "If it makes a difference, I personally wouldn't begrudge anyone for it. Heck, I'd consider it a duty of the faithful to think of him as the scum that he is."      When Saber describes the bond between the alternate Rin and Shirou, it is Archer who comments first, seeming amused. "In other words, it is the eternal fate of my Master to suffer through meeting Emiya Shirou across all of time." He glances at Rin, smiling as though having heard a wonderful joke. "And here I had thought you were overreacting when you complained about your family's hereditary curse."     Rin's brow twitches rather visibly at this, the multiple revelations she had been given alongside the Servant's quips having progressively worn her patience thin. She half-looked, half-glared at Archer, before forcing the most courteous smile she could muster. "Yes... though it appears I was wrong about the cause." Archer's brow rises inquiringly, to which Rin closes her eyes and tilts her head as if talking about the weather.     "It appears my curse in life is being burdened with Emiya Shirou... in /all/ shapes and forms. So now that I know that... maybe I should go straight for the jugular in fixing it, then?"      ... Staring at his master in subdued concern, whether she serious, is lumping him into that statistic... and deep down, resists the urge to sarcastically quip where /this/ Tohsaka Rin was when the Servant had been planning to kill Emiya Shioru, feeling that setting her of would be a bad move on his part.     Regardless, after she is satisfied that she has crowed Archer back into submission - the Servant having returned to his observatory silence, more out of ease of connivence then anything else - Rin returns her gaze to Saber, seeming to smile a bit, if not more awkwardly then before, at the idea of them being destined to be a family... though she expresses sadness over how that Sakura blamed herself for her Rider's death.      However, when Saber admits to having never seen Rider, Rin gives a small exclamation and reaches into her coat for something, quickly withdrawing what looks to be a booklet of some form.     More proof that this Rin was more sentimental, Archer noted to himself - the Rin he remembered hardly ever bothered to carry something like a pocket-album.     When Rin finds the photo she is looking for, she passes it over to Saber, revealing it to be a picture of Sakura in her school-uniform's blouse and skirt hanging over the shoulders of a tall, fair-skinned bespectacled woman in a sleeveless black blouse and jeans with seemingly ankle-length mauve hair, the most catching feature being her eyes - an ether-like grey with square pupils. Sakura looks surprisingly happy while the other woman seems more surprised, anxious and somewhat embarrassed by what appears to be a surprise photo.     Another oddity worth noting is the absence of Command Spells on Sakura's hand in spite of what Rin says next - "The woman in this photo with my Sister would be Rider" Rin explained. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Saber let the matters of Bedivere and Shirou go for the time being. The pair already knew what this version of Shirou was up to and Bedivere they would likely meet soon enough, possibly marvelling either that some legends were true -- at least as far as his appearance was concerned -- or else that a mere mortal could possess such incredible martial prowess...or else worry that he was not unlike an older and wiser Shirou. "Yes...perhaps," she replied with a soft cough. It was a suitable reply for everything.      Rather than being reminded of Kirei, the knight was reminded of Fate. That might be more troublesome; the fallen priest she could handle. It was the Midchildan mage and her dreaded hairbrush which had felled many a dignified personage. Saber had not been the first and would be far from the last subject of Fate's mothering tendencies.      In another timeline, it might have been that Saber would have grudgingly come to accept Iskander's insistence that the past should not be changed, and that a king must never regret. Yet inwardly, she doubted that a single Holy Grail War would have been enough time to accept at least half of what Rider had insisted was truth. In the multiverse, it had taken her five years to truly accept the past as it was an move on. It had been a combination of friends, love, and something to actually move on /to/ which had made her realise that. And while she would always regret -- she would never completely agree with the King of Conquerors on that point -- she accepted Camelot was no more. But she now had that choice to return to ashes or build anew and fight evil. Ultimately, she had chosen to remain.      "I will speak with Kiritsugu," she replied after a thought-filled pause. "His network of information is impressive, so I am certain he has information on the Matou family. If the Sakura of his timeline has not yet been given to them, then perhaps it is possible to prevent her from being given to them. In not, then little need hold us back from taking her from them forcibly." The fire in her eyes returned; though saving this alternate version would not affect the life of her previous Master, at least one would not know the terrors that the ancient and corrupt magus family would inflict upon her.      Perhaps it was a point of semantics, if events had not yet happened, if they did not yet belong to the past, Saber saw no need to refrain from working to prevent them. If Archer had been able to read her thoughts, would he be amused or worried that the stubborn and prideful King of Knights had come around to his way of thinking, at least in part? 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      The knight-king had certainly been full of surprises today. She answered their initial shock with a nod. "He knew we would harbour mother and daughter, regardless of the outcome," she replied. "I am likewise certain he chose this place rather than one of his safehouses partly due to my presence. But...I do not mind. Similarly, his goal has changed, and he now has more at his disposal if we are to destroy the Holy Grail completely and efficiently in his world without destroying the city in the process. Though I cannot condone his methods in their entirety, I will nevertheless support him in his new wish."      It was indeed a long way she had come from the bitterness and anger over his final command at the end of the Fourth War, before she had learned what the magus killer had tried to do.      As if she heard Archer's thoughts, perhaps knowing Shirou as she did and what might have led him to seek the path to becoming a Counter-Guardian, Saber added a point. "His dream was not wrong. It was not unlike my own, in its way...though what I dreamed only for Britain, his encompassed the world and all of humanity. However...in this world, such a wish is impossible. The darker aspect of humanity prevents it...but the lighter aspect is what allows places such as Dun Realtai to exist. The world and even the multiverse will never know a lasting, all-encompassing peace, but there are places of peace where those who seek it are free to gather. As such, there will always be a need for knights and for heroes to stand between them and the hungry darkness."      She extended her arm in a sweeping gesture, indicating her new home. "Search this village. It is not the ungrateful you defend, Archer. It is people such as these, those who would fight back against that corruption, who would make their world into the utopia we would both wish for them. And perhaps this land will not last, whether from invasion we cannot turn away or corruption and complacency from within, but it will leave its mark not just on the world, but on the multiverse. It will become what others desire for their homes, inspiring them to create their own." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Regardless of whether or not her effort at an inspiring speech had an affect or not, there was still the matter of that darkness of which she spoke. In this moment, that evil took the form of Matou Zouken. "If the opportunity presents itself, I will not stay my hand. To prevent the suffering of others, he must die."      The Archer of the Fourth War was similarly someone who could be afforded no mercy, for he would afford none. "The King of Heroes was the fifth King of Uruk and the first hero-king of mankind," Saber explained. "He was the first hero to become a Heroic Spirit acknowledged by the Akashic Record, and his treasury contains the progenitor of every Noble Phantasm ever created. However, the most dangerous of Noble Phantasms in his possession is an unnamed sword which he calls 'Ea'. Its power...were I to describe it, I would have to say that it destroys worlds, be they Reality Marbles or this one."      She sighed, a clearly weary one as she recalled each of her battles with the savage hero-king. "Fortunately, his power is only matched by his arrogance. He rarely uses such power, only on those occasions he believes his opponent is unworthy."      The flicker of unhappiness on her face reflect that she would have very much liked to end his threat permanently. "We have searched...I could not permit a threat to my Master to exist. However..." Another sigh escaped the Servant. "Sakura pleaded with me not to pursue him further." Rin and Archer had doubtless encountered the violet-haired magus's 'puppy dog eyes' enough to knoe Saber hadn't stood a chance. "She feared my search would become an obsession. Perhaps she was correct. Wherever he roams now, it is well beyond my current reach."      Yet, the expression of the King of Knights was determined. "When we are able to remove this tainted crest from her, much of the danger will have been averted," she mused. /When/, not /if/. Determined as always. "Some will remain, though the worst of it will have passed." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      When the discussion turned once more to Emiya Shirou and Rin's pseudo-complaint, Saber merely smiled. It may or may not have held a certain mischievousness of its own. "It would appear so," she quipped. "It is, however, a necessity. As you have so eloquently stated earlier, he is in need of someone to look after him in each reality."      The photo draws her eye, an expression of curiosity crossing her face until she notices the lack of Command Seals. The curiosity then turned to surprise. "If she is no longer a Master, then who would be Rider's now?"      Unsaid was that this Rider unknown to her seemed alive and well, which had meant that at least one version of Sakura had been able to save her. Perhaps the Sakura she knew could find some solace in that. 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''     Rin seemed to take Saber's reply as a sign of her choking, which made her smile almost victoriously, if not playfully. Archer though saw it as more a strategic retreat - after all, even the King of Knights had to admit that some battles were just not worth the pains of winning them... Rin's teasings being one of many things this category encompassed.     The pair watch as Saber quietly contemplates much of what has been said, both letting her have her time to think. When she comes around to the matter of informing Kiristugu, Rin decides to add to it - "I remember Sakura told me her uncle, Kariya, died around the time my father did in the Grail War... and that he'd promised to save her from the Matou." Rin gives a somewhat solemn sigh. "He sounds like the only member of the family who was decent... and if so, he'd probably entered the Fourth Grail War as the Master for the Matou Servant in that war... and died trying to free her." Her face twists in disgust though at the end - "Not that Zouken would have likely upheld any deal like that if he'd really invested so much in Sakura."     Archer witnessed Saber's response, seeming to contemplate on how willing she was to interfere in other timelines if it meant saving those she cared for... or averting tragic choices. As he did, he gave something of a small, inward smirk.     Their beliefs on /what/ needed to be changed were at odds... but their methodologies weren't vastly different. Then again, they never had been, had they? After all, Saber's original wish had been to change a choice she regretted in her past... a wish Archer could sympathize with all too well.     He likewise seemed to be more passive to the idea of Kiritsugu having changed... though deep down, some part of him writhed for a reason he himself almost could not discern in hearing just how much the pair had apparently synchronized in their mindsets over time.     Rin however had one final word to say on the matter - this time crossing her arms and looking somewhat serious... if not a bit amusingly so, given what she says; "When you say hi, tell him I'd like to have words with him at some point about the mess of a pupil he left me. I don't care if this one didn't get that far in his life - nothing excuses the absolute pathetic excuse for teachings I had to suffer through correcting in his steed." She pauses, before adding one last line - "Oh... and tell him his son's doing alright on my end of the world - or... universe - as well."     Archer in turn pressed a hand to his temple, though his small smile showed how amused he was, regardless of whether Saber even replies - even now, Rin was nothing if not persistent in her grudges. 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''     Upon hearing Saber's words, Archer again crossed his arms as he closed his eyes, this time seeming to be visualizing something... and as before, he seemed impassive but the cynical undercurrent remained. "You mistake my intent, Saber. It is not the dream - not truly. Rather... it is the reality behind it.There is nothing wrong with wishing to save others... but there is fault in placing it above all else. In having nothing for yourself at the end of it all. To truly take the ideal to such an extreme... you must have no selfishness of your own... and have no reward for what is done. Not even happiness or satisfaction. Even in an isolated world separate from the parallels, a dream such as this is impossible to make /reality/, no matter the power given to you."     Returning to his tea, Archer takes another sip, rendering it almost empty at this point - just a final sip's worth at the bottom of the cup. "In reality, being a 'hero' need not mean you be the hero of everyone. Being the hero of at least one person is enough... but those that do not believe such will be dragged down by their ideals and down in them the more they try to save. Save others endlessly without reward, and you will instead foster distrust as to what the motivation is... and they will brand you as inhuman and turn on you all the same. Emotionless... and ostracized." He gives a mirthless chuckle, as if having heard an ironic joke at some point. "The Emiya Shirou of my Master's world came to accept that as truth... and in doing so, he turned away from my path completely."      Opening his eyes, Archer looks at the Servant of the Sword with something of a contemplative, though still resolved gaze. "In short, it is not Emiya Shirou's dream that I fault. It is the pointless desire to try and make such a dream reality. As you yourself said, it will never be possible to create a peace that is either lasting or all-encompassing, and certainly never will be accomplished together." He then gives a mock-sarcastic smile as he shrugs. "But, in spite of being aware of this contradiction between wishful desire and really, I myself can never escape the cycle. I myself am locked upon this path... and if any wish to try and pursue that same endless road, I see no reason to be merciful in showing them exactly where that path will lead." He tilts his head in a slightly more knowing gesture - "Surely you of all people can understand the desire to prevent a mistake before it is made? Even if it does not erase the ones you yourself have caused... the error is at least prevented in at least one timeline." 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''      "Don't even wait for an opportunity" Rin mutters coldly. "If need be, just make the opportunity yourself - so long as that bastard dies."     Hearing Gilgamesh's description, Rin blinks as she compares the abilities to Archer's somewhat, though she considered Archer to arguably be more versatile. The tale of Ea seems to chill her, especially when Archer interjects - "Yes... the sword that could split Heaven and Earth according to legend - a blade that rends space-time with it's attack. However, I know for a fact that if need be, Avalon should be able to defend against even that weapon. Perhaps if you'd had it on you at the time of a possible encounter, you could overcome him." He gives a mock-sympathetic, partly-patronizing smirk at this - "Though that sadly means you would endure having to look after the boy so long as he carries the scabbard within him."     In spite of scowling at the news that Gilgamesh apparently couldn't be tracked, Rin sighed as she expelled the tension - "At least we know what to look for, just in case. Don't worry though - if we do meet him... I don't intend on letting him walk away cleanly."     Afterword though, she couldn't help but smile herself though when Saber expressed Sakura's concern - "My sister's pretty hard to say no to, huh? Especially when she's concerned about someone. Still... it's nice to know she's at a point where she can be cared for herself. So... thanks." She then fidgets in place for a bit before awkwardly making a final request on the matter "And... if you get the chance... tell her I said hi. Or rather... one of me did." After that was said though, she ran a hand through her hair in light exasperation. "Geez, I still can't get over this whole 'multiple me's' thing - I know the theory, but it's still really strange to go through."      "How do you think I feel, Master" Archer quipped from the side. "Dealing with /one/ of you is enough to warrant a lifetime's worth of worry."      "You think I'm any happier learning there's more of /you/ out there to give every other me a headache?!" the Magus's temper once again flared, leading Archer to simply diffuse it with a shrug.      Returning to the discussion of Shirou, Rin sighs tiredly while Archer makes his reply - "I could not have said it better myself."     However... this brings up something Rin had not yet asked, and she looks at Saber cautiously before she says it - "Speaking of Emiya-Kun... exactly how much of all of this does he know?" 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''     When Saber brings up the matter of Sakura's missing Command Spells, Rin hesitates for a moment - only a brief one. Unlike the Rin that Saber knew, she had not known the Knight-King in her world for long before the Shadow had tainted her, though they had gotten along well enough. Archer instead has to speak up briefly first; "You lose nothing by telling her, Rin If anything, given the circumstances, she would assist more readily if she knew."      "I know that" Rin replied curtly, glaring half-heartedly at the bowman." It's just..." she sighed, knowing she couldn't dance around her periodic anxiety with Saber forever - this wasn't the black warrior that nearly killed Shirou.     This was the Servant he trusted with his life - and still did to a good degree. And Saber in turn was being honest with her... so she ought to return that trust.      "Truthfully... this photo was taken by Emiya-Kun some time after the Grail War ended" Rin explained. "Sakura expended all her Command Seals in the War... but her pact to Rider still exists - strongly enough to continue fueling her with prana. That in turn..." Rin takes another breath... and a moment to reassure herself she could trust Saber with the secret she'd kept from everyone, the Clocktower especially, for the past four years.      "That in turn is because, due to the fact that she so directed to the Grail in the War, her circuits, now akin to 'scar tissue' created by the Grail to replace the Crest Worms, have basically mutated into a connection with Akasha itself." Rin closed her eyes, letting out a breath. "My sister's no longer just a Grail Vessel - she is, quite literally... a living, breathing Holy Grail; a human prana collector and prana battery that rivals, if not surpasses even the Grail Vessels like Illya."     ... she still held back.     She still held back the details of how it happened.     Archer furrowed his brow at this, noting that even now Rin seemed unwilling to consider Saber 'family' the way she did Shirou, as opposed to a 'trusted friend.' It would probably take time before that changed as well. After all... first meetings could only do so much. Rin did however fix Saber with a look that was almost pleading - "You can understand what that means, right? What it would mean if anyone on my world from the Association knew there was an existence like hers out there? What they would do to make her into another lab experiment like her Grandfather did?" She then gives a more disparaging sigh, her unspoken plea of confidentiality on this matter all-too-clear. "Your Clocktower may have changed, but... well, mine's still the same as ever. In addition, if you remove the crest worm from the Sakura you know... you have to be sure it's /before/ she is activated as a full Grail Vessel - after that... she might never be able to disconnect. She could live a normal life, but she would always carry the risk of being found out... and used." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      At the mention of the magus who had attempted to flee the claws of the Matous, an earlier flicker of sorrow returned to Saber's face, yet it fled just as quickly. It would seem she knew something of that Master, but whatever her connection to Matou Kariya had been, it would seem that the Servant was not yet ready to discuss that point with them just yet.      As for Emiya Kiritsugu, Saber merely nodded as the matter of her first Master was settled for the time being. Though her face remained impassive, one might get the feeling that the idea of Rin reading Kiritsugu the riot act was an amusing mental image. "I shall...make your displeasure known."      It was a dream Saber had known all too well, having believed that there could be nothing of the human being behind the purpose of the King. It had been necessary to become an empty vessel into which the people had poured all their hopes and expectations into it. She had known that from the beginning, casting aside both femininity and humanity to become that symbol. In the end, she had cursed her own weakness, the subtle cracks in the vessel that were the remaining parts of her that were human. It had been ironic; she had been accused of being inhuman, but it was her human weakness which had led to the downfall of Britain.      Or so she had believed, and it was not until she and Sir Bedivere had led the expedition to fend off a pack of giant corrupted ice hounds from a tiny village that she had learned that there were places with no need of such a king. When a people had the determination to carry their own dreams, to forge their reality with their own hands, there was no need to become that vessel. It had been incredible, really. The people of Dun Realtai had been plagued with afflictions just as those of Britain had been, but they had refused to give into to despair. The Union had fought off that which they could not on their own and provided succour, but they had done the rest. That was when the last piece had fallen into place for her; the dream of utopia was one which could only be achieved -- or close to it -- when all constantly sought it. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      A 'hero' however, was another matter entirely. Whereas she only acknowledged one true path of the king, Saber believed there was more than one path of the hero. Although, perhaps it was not so different; grand dreams demanded a burden for more than one person to carry. "There is more than one of 'hero'," she answered. "Already, you are familiar with the 'super-heroes' of Paragon City. It is not the responsibility of a single person to save all, but that of all the city's 'super-heroes'. A lone hero cannot save everyone even in one city...but many can save that much more."      Setting her teacup down, Saber continued. "What I am saying is that such a burden must be shared. It was my mistake that I did not as the King...though I did not believe that it would have been permitted, as there could be but one King. However, there can be more than a single Hero. Not only in individual places such as Paragon City or Dun Realtai, but across the expanse of the multiverse; the Union fights together and shares that burden. One can, at least, try to save as many as he can, so long as he does not do so alone."      With a barely audible sigh, the knight-king retrieved her cup. "That is the other lesson we attempt to drill into Emiya Shirou, the reason we give for disciplining him when he, as you said, 'runs off to get himself killed.' To do so displays a lack of faith in one's allies, a breach of the Fides which makes a true Knight."      It was an answer Archer might not be entirely satisfied with, especially since that drive to 'go solo' remained in the Servant, but becoming a Knight instead of a Hero was another path away from that of the Counter-Guardian.      Rin's belief that her Archer was more flexible wasn't wrong. Gilgamesh was not particularly skilled even with his overwhelming power; if a battle came down to skill alone, even the still-mortal Sir Bedivere could easily best him. Then again, Saber was rather biased on that particular matter.      She was, however, briefly surprised that Avalon was capable of withstanding it. "I see..." she mused before she considered it. "Hm. Perhaps that is not so surprising...the nature of Avalon itself is otherworldly. It would simply refuse to acknowledge such an attack, even if it could otherwise destroy a world."      As for looking after Shirou, the knight offered one of her headtilt-shrugs. "He remains a squire...when he has completed his training, then he should have less of a need for it. Moreover, the training of squires is but one of a knight's duties." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      The comment on Sakura's nigh-irresistibleability was met with a barely audible sigh. "I quickly learned that if I did not wish to distress her, I could not act merely as her protector," she admitted. "Captain Harlaown initiated the two of us into Mobile Six to train us in how to work properly as a team...at times she scolded me for acting in my capacity as a Servant as opposed to a partner. It was...difficult, but Sakura was the happier for it."      The little blonde remained quiet through the argument resulting from alternate versions, having already been through that when she had first Unified. To discover that there were other versions of the King of Knights had been disconcerting at the very least. It was only when talk had turned to how much Shirou knew that a slight grimace flickered across her face. "Not a great deal, in truth," Saber admitted ruefully. "He knows the truth of the Grail War -- at least that there is a chance that the Grail of his reality is corrupted -- and will seek to end it should it begin in earnest. I have told him of the Fourth War, though what I know of the Fifth is second-hand. I do not know how much of it is applicable to his situation."      Saber paused for a moment before she continued. "I believe that, as someone who has participated in at least one version of it, you are the best person to do so. Nevertheless, I regret the wounds discussing it shall reopen. Forgive me." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      The one true shock of the day for Saber came at the revelation of the true extent of Sakura's abilities, sea-green eyes snapping wide. When she had first contracted with the younger Tohsaka, she had been astonished at the incredible, almost limitless pool of prana she could draw upon. Though the Servant had remained cautious about her use of Excalibur, she found that she had the potential ability to call on the extend of its full power however much she wished. Yet, it had come at the cost of the terrible crest within her, tainted with a darkness that could manifest when Sakura was in enough distress and despair. Saber had experienced that taint temporarily during their battle against the Witch Charlotte. The prana from Excalibur had not been its characteristic blinding light, but an engulfing red-tinged black of anti-light. More disturbing was the change within her; the all-consuming need to /destroy/. The moment passed when the Witch had been defeated, but it left Master and Servant on an almost paranoid level of caution.      Yet even that level of power was eclipsed by a direct link to the Root itself.      "You were right to exercise such caution," she reassured Rin after a lengthy pause. "The Clocktower they are with now is...it remains a somewhat dangerous place. Lord El Melloi II is a good man," she had to admit Rider had been a positive influence on him, "But there are many magi who are as ruthless as ever. I have accompanied them to London many times, but I remain away from the Association itself. Were it discovered that a Servant remained after what was supposedly the final War -- even one from another reality entirely -- it would cause Rin a great deal of trouble."      The Servant shook her head. "I thank you for informing me of this. I will need to warn them of those potential consequences...though they are not in the danger they once were, I cannot permit further potential harm to them." 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''     Archer saw the flickering of emotion on Saber's expression, but he didn't push it - with everything that had already been discussed and revealed, it was unlikely they could ever cover every topic in a single day. They all needed the time to absorb all they had learned today.     Rin in turn seemed satisfied by Saber's reply, both to the war and to Saber's promise to inform Kiritsugu.      At the mention of Paragon City's 'heroes', Archer seems to scoff - "And how exactly do the Crey figure into that belief?" It is a rhetorical remark, but not exactly an unfounded one - "Do they not stand as a testament to what happens when those ideals are diluted and distilled for the 'benefit' of others?" He closes his eyes and sighs again. "Perhaps you can find it possible to share your burdens with others... but even you must know that it is not the case for everything."     After all... sooner or later, Saber and Archer both would likely return to the Throne of Heroes... and after that, they would both have to carry their burdens alone.     Archer had seen a world where the King of Knights, without anyone to support her, fell so deep into her despair that everything about her was tainted and defiled. And with that image in mind, it was so very much harder to fathom that anyone's beliefs could ever be unbreakable.      On the matter of Shirou, Rin simply crosses her arms and gives a shrug - "Well, I guess he'd need Avalon more then anyone else if that's the case - I admit he's come far, but he's hardly on the level of any 'knight' yet, much less a Heroic Spirit." Archer gave a simple nod of consent as he crossed his arms, his lack of confidence in the boy all too evident even now.     Rin smiles though hearing about Sakura's tendencies, giving a smile in response - "Yeah... Sakura's always been happier with a partner then with a familiar or anything more formal. She works better with an ernest friend at horsed then as the Master of a dutiful warrior." She gives a more thankful expression at this - "So... well, thanks for being that for her. I can bet it might have been hard at times... but it really is what she needed."     Rin seems to express full agreement at the idea of being the one to inform Shirou of the Grail War's particulars... though she inwardly felt somewhat guilty, knowing fill well that she may very well tell Shirou more detail about the war then she had told Saber. Namely the particulars of their battles and how the war ended, smiling sympathetically in response to the flaxen-haired Servant's apology. "No - I think that's the best path, too. Because it involves Sakura and she's Emiya-Kun's friend, it's only natural that I be the one to tell him the full details."     Rin nods in affirmation, letting out a tired-sounding sigh at the remembrance of the Clocktower's politics - time with a family had only made the magus more and more exasperated with the policies of the Association, and worrying about Sakura only made it harder. "Exactly... and here I have to work under them closely while maintaining that secret".     She didn't mention Shioru, though - bringing up that he was the only working example close to the Third Magic in existence in her world would have brought up the uncomfortable topic of /how/ Shirou had ended up in an artificial body.      Archer in turn seems to regard the matter more candidly - "It may also be for the best that you find some way to keep Sakura in protection until you know the circumstances of the Crest Worms. Stable or not, it may be best to exercise caution on all fronts." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      "Crey would be the evil we stand against," Saber evenly pointed out. "Darkness takes many forms, some more blatant than others. Evil does not require endless treasuries nor tainted crests, nor does it have need to flaunt its power. Some is far more insidious, masking itself with a veneer of 'good' while committing its atrocities behind it." Though she had begun mildly, by the time she had finished speaking of Crey as a metaphor, the scorn was evident in her voice, anly dissipating when she spoke of the heroes again. "More importantly, there are many heroes who stand against them. Crey will not last forever...perhaps that is at least one benefit of the transient nature of the multiverse."      "And perhaps there are times when we must be alone," she continued. "That, too, shall pass. When we are summoned, we require an anchor, a Master. Our solitude ends with each summoning." Her eyes flicked to Rin; even if he preferred to act alone, he was not /truly/ alone, the glance seemed to indicate.      The matter of how to handle Shirou settled for the moment, the Servant turned towards that of Sakura...or rather, how the Clocktower figured into matters. "It may be necessary that your Sakura join the Union, at least as a provisional ally. It will afford her some protection should they discover the nature of her abilities...the Association is well-aware that the Union possibly knows even more than they regarding the War and the nature of Servants in particular from exposure to so many differing timelines. It is a matter of policy that while it will not interfere with such Wars as an organisation, neither will it tolerate actions against its members. Any attempt at retaining a member would be considered an act of war."      That led her train of thought to consider another point, especially when Archer mentioned placing Sakura under their protection. "On that note, as I have extended hospitality to you, that protection is likewise granted by Dun Realtai for as long as you are a guest. While under normal circumstances that would simply indicate protection under our roof, the Law has...changed somewhat due to how Dun Realtai has evolved. Not only will you have the protection of the Union once you leave this place, but the protection of those who are likewise guests."      She paused; Archer might have a difficult time grasping with this particular point, and perhaps Rin would, as well. But theirs was an ancient culture which sometimes defied some modern ideas of alliances. "That similarly means you are afforded some protection from various members of the Confederacy, as well. It would depend upon the situation, naturally -- some of Dun Realtai's members find ourselves on opposite sides of the battlefield -- but there are situations when we fight at each other's side." For all intents and purposes, it almost sounded as if Saber had managed to recreate the Round Table. 

:'''{{#var:821|Archer (821)}} has posed:'''     Archer appears to smile bitterly at the term 'transient', seeming to interpret the phrase in a different light - "That in turn begs the question; how much of what is done will truly last before all is said and done? As I said before, /nothing/ will last forever, be it good or evil... and by that very same certainty, nothing will ever leave a lasting mark." Rin seems to glare at him for this, though Archer eventually shrugs and gives a dismissal of the matter at last - "Well... not like I in particular have any choice on the matter but to follow that road regardless. Master or not, that will never change. You need not worry about my efforts to uphold this 'Union's' standards... though I ask you not be surprised if I take a harder line in doing what is necessary to keep what little peace exists."      "And me too" Rin states, though she says it to the Servant of the Bow as much as she does to the Servant of the Sword - "Saber's right; so long as you're summoned as a Servant, you won't be doing anything alone." Then... her smile becomes somewhat mocking - "After all, you can't expect me to let some twisted-up jerk like you go running around with free rein, right?"     For a brief moment, Archer stares at her in surprise, though it is quickly subdued and hidden as he gives a bemused, and perhaps slightly amazed smirk as he runs a hand through his hair in mock-exasperation - "Geez... I could say the same for you. You really are a stubborn, troublesome woman, Master." Rin however takes the quip more in stride, seeming to recognize it for what it is this time - a gesture of acknowledgement.     However, while Saber's offer seems to catch her attention, the matter of Sakura makes Rin far more hesitant, seeming to flinch before finally shaking her head determinedly. "I'm sorry... but I can't do that - have Sakura join, I mean. I understand your reasoning, but... she's been through enough. I don't want her getting caught up in whatever I get into out here." While her voice reflects that she knows why Saber is making the offer and appreciates the gesture, it also contains a rather firm resolution. "My own circumstances are another matter, but... having her involved isn't something I want to let happen. She's got a normal life now - or somewhat normal, at least."     However, taking a final sip from her teacup, Rin sets the glass down, stands up and approaches Saber, her mouth pulling upwards into a small smile. "However... if the protection you're offering as part of Dun Realtai extends to them as a matter of course... then I'd be honored to take you up on it on my own behalf. Besides... this place is far less noisy then London is this time of year, and the gateway station is easier to access from here then it is back home. Plus I can keep a closer eye on things. So with your permission"     Archer shrugs offhandedly, though his response shows his support - "Well, it makes tactical sense I suppose, having an ally that neither faction can touch if things become tense somehow. It's a fairly straightforward choice, and rather easy at that given the benefits." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      "That in turn raises the question of whether to take the trouble of living if one is only to die eventually," Saber countered evenly. It seemed she had gotten quite good at not rising to his bait and being able to debate her points calmly rather than becoming insulted. Though that, perhaps, had more to do with who was saying it rather that what was being said. "Just as one continues to live even if he is to die eventually, if it is to be a cycle which merely repeats, then there must be times of peace and prosperity for humanity to continue. Otherwise, what purpose is there to civilisation?"      She tilted her head slightly, meeting his smirk with a bland expression she seemed to have picked up from her marshal. Bedivere had worked wonders for her sense of calm. "But it is not a cycle, is it? Not truly. Mankind was never able to cure certain diseases until the previous century, and even Gilgamesh does not possess lights which could be lit for decades yet require no magic to do so. No, even when a great deal is lost, there is still much that is gained. Perhaps from a certain perspective it might seem that merely one step is taken forward while two are in reverse, but from another, the opposite would be true." In other words, Archer's pessimism was colouring his perspective. Not that he hadn't had more than ample cause for it, but Saber had opted for the stance of a realist, one who did not deny the awful sides of it but was neither blind to the good as well. Yet, it might have been that she had always been that way, the current state of affairs allowing that trait of hers to become apparent. She was, after all, rather practical in spite of the loftiness of her ideas.      Hiding a smile behind her teacup and closing her eyes, the Servant pretended not to notice the back-and-forth between the two. After all, dignity was important, and a smug 'told you so' would ruin the moment. However, she sighed with some resignation as Rin remained firm on keeping Sakura out of the Union. "Then, the indirect protection of Dun Realtai shall have to do, if you so choose."      She had almost expected Rin to refuse that, as well; though a recognised safe haven and neutral refuge, Dun Realtai was still a part of the multiverse, and a mediaeval fortress at that. She couldn't fault Rin in the least, but Saber was uncertain that they could effectively protect this alternate Sakura if she didn't have some form of connection, a casus belli if the Association was determined to turn her into a prized laboratory rat. Yet, she was in for a pleasant surprise.      Setting her teacup down and standing with a smile that matched Rin's, Saber nodded. "Of course. The hospitality of Dun Realtai extends to her, and to her Servant."      Though her posture never seemed to lose its regal bearing, Arturia seemed to straighten even further, as if she was about to issue a decree. Which was precisely what she was about to do. No matter what the Association or even the multiverse threw their way, the Tohsakas and their extended family would have protection that no Clocktower magus could hope to comprehend, or to match. "Then, by the power vested in me as the Lady of Dun Realtai, I formally extend the hospitality and protection of Dun Realtai." 

}}

2487/Yoda's Arrival.

2015-06-22T16:03:36Z

ForwardObserver: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2015/06/19 |Location=Planetary Plains |Synopsis=Yoda arrives in the multiverse. |Thanks= |Cast of Characters=414, 516, 606, 642, 675, 711, 796, 820..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2015/06/19
|Location=Planetary Plains
|Synopsis=Yoda arrives in the multiverse.
|Thanks=
|Cast of Characters=414, 516, 606, 642, 675, 711, 796, 820
|Tinyplot=
|Tinyplot2=
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:820|Yoda (820)}} has posed:'''     A streak of orange light can be seen across the skies of the nearby farms in the Planetary Plains this afternoon. It punches through atmosphere and white cloud, eventually cooling so that the flaming line of red fades into naught but a grey dot.     This grey dot is a relatively common sight: a simply space pod that is twisting and turning in the air as gravity starts to take hold of it proper. As it falls faster and faster, reaching terminal velocity in mere moments, it catches a few gazes from onlookers below. It... well, it didn't appear to be slowing down! The local farmers watch as the pod disappears over the horizon, gone from view. But they can still hear the thunderous crash of it hitting the ground at near full force. BOOOOOM!     Right in the middle of a perfectly formed crater, some fifty meters wide, is the space pod. The hunk of metal is steaming and creaking from its voyage, dented and bruised from the rough landing. Fingers crossed there are surviving occupants! 

:'''{{#var:796|Sarah Rogers (796)}} has posed:'''     Sarah Rogers pops out out a nearby warpgate just in time to see the pod coming down. She follows the trail through the sky, descending as she goes, and looks for fires along it's path. If there are any she immediately alerts the local authorities over the open frequencies.     Once she's reached the pod, she circles slowly around it, looking for any identifying marks and signs of life, "Hello?" She calls out carefully, "Is anyone alive in there?" She risks going in a little closer, trying to figure out how hot the thing is before touching it. 

:'''{{#var:516|Ferham (516)}} has posed:'''      Receiving the distress call, Ferham had doubled back toward the super expansive planetary plains as she had teleported nearby earlier. Finding the crash site was deceptively difficult, and relied on some quick math and triangulation of where the site had apparently been. A single light streaks across the sky as if to follow the downed craft, finally crossing over the farmland as the winged woman slows down to a cruising speed, rapidly descending to the crash site. 

:'''{{#var:606|Jimmy Wen (606)}} has posed:'''      "Hey, man. Hey!" There's a decidedly city-slicker looking fellow on the side of a dirt road. He waves an arm at an old man in a pickup truck, flagging the driver down.      "Can I help ya, son?"      "I wanna see what that crashed thing is. You headed that way?"      "Nup. Sorry, young fella--"      "How about for two hundred?"      "/Dollars?/"      The hitch-hiker smiles and waves a pair of Benjamins temptingly. "Right here, cash, in your hand. You don't even have to drive me right up to it. Best business opportunity of the year, just waiting for you to take it."      "Hop in."      Jimmy Wen hands over the money, and the old man takes off. It's a quiet ride, only lasting a few minutes. The truck's a recent model--recent enough that after a few minutes of cruising, the radio starts playing static. The wizard pretends to look at something else while the driver fiddles uselessly with it. "Here's fine," he says as they arrive roughly a hundred feet or so. "Thanks, old timer." The bills stare up at him from the front seat, and he idly wonders what a car radio goes for these days.      Jimmy ambles up to the lip of the crater and gawks. 

:'''{{#var:642|Landon al Cid (642)}} has posed:'''      Landon al Cid, Prince of Ramuh, has been pretty concerned with, well, with the war going on in his own homeworld lately, to the exclusion of a lot of multiversal activity. But distress beacons are something a little bit different. At a bit of prodding from Cirra to get him to do what he already wanted to do anyway, Landon snagged one of the many vehicle summon matrixes he had access to, had Cirra climb aboard, and headed off through the warp gate in a conjured jet.      It's Landon's belief, after all, that when people need help, you should help them. When people are crying out for assistance, to ignore them is almost as bad as actively hurting people. It's the taciturn acceptance of pain that Landon struggles against, and the desire to see a better world.      The two-seater conjured jet touches down near the edge of the crater. Landon deactivates the whole affair, and the jet goes clear, turns into a series of lines in the shape of a jet like a technical drawing, and then folds up into a small ball. Landon tucks the ball into his armored pocket, offers a hand to Cirra, and starts moving up the crater. 

:'''{{#var:820|Yoda (820)}} has posed:'''     The pod itself is /very/ hot, a result of having passed through the atmosphere. For a regular human it would burn, but there are plenty of non-regular humans in these parts! There are no visible markings on the ship, not even a title or sign of allegiance. It's blank, the thick hunk of durasteel now resting with no decorations.     Suddenly, a humming noise sets in from the pod and the internal mechanisms of the craft begin to stir. Something hisses as pressure is released, before the hatch slowly opens. Once it is completely open, the figure of Yoda is revealed. It's a slow walk he makes from the pod, leaning heavily on his gnawed-looking walking stick as the diminutive green figure squints at first, eyes adjusting to the afternoon sun. His pointy ears raise and lower as he takes in the area.     "Mmmmm." 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      Even when she wasn't performing escort duties for the former Imperial ship, the Rogue Shadow, or keeping various and sundry villain groups from wreaking havoc in Paragon City, or even trying to figure out how to protect her own galaxy, Lowri Revan-Shan always seemed to be working anyway. The busy life of a Jedi, seems.      Leaving the Ebon Hawk to her robotic retinue to continue its escort of the Rogue Shadow -- and hopefully her friends there could catch some more sleep -- the Guardian took a slightly less-flashy way in via swoop bike to follow the signal. The locals, she figured, would probably appreciate the lack of freighter descending on their fields.      Pulling the hoverbike to a stop at the lip of the crater and dismounting, Lowri peered down at it before her mismatched eyes lifted back to everyone else at the edge. "Well, knocking's right out unless you want to burn your hand off," she quipped even as she extended her senses towards whatever life-forms were in the pod. Sure, if it was hostile and Force-sensitive, it was definitely going to know she was there. But she had to risk it if whomever was in there was in danger, and it was part of the job to help people out.      Sometimes, staying on the Light Side of the path could really be a bother...but if it was easy, it wouldn't have been so tempting to fall from it. 

:'''{{#var:796|Sarah Rogers (796)}} has posed:'''      Okay this small green being doesn't seem to be an immediate threat, Sarah alights about midway down the crater for a closer, but not too close, of a look, "Hello.. ah.. Sir? Many people heard your distress call. What can we do for you? Do you need medical attention?" She tries to peer past him to the inside of the pod. "Do you have any other passengers?" Could anyone else even fit in that thing? 

:'''{{#var:516|Ferham (516)}} has posed:'''      Thankfully, Ferham shared no human frailty and was able to approach the pod a bit closer, though she was still cautious lest it issue hostile passengers or for whatever fuel it used to combust. As it's doors begin to open Ferham takes a step back, her thigh-high booted legs balancing against the uneven and heated terrain.      "I'd be careful, the gasses that are being emitted can't be healthy for an organic," Ferham peers over at Serah, who seemed to be curiously exploring around it. Upon noticing the small, green-skinned figure, she blinked. "Greetings, are you injured? are you in need of medical care?" she didn't wave or make any other gesture, not wanting to frighten whoever it was. 

:'''{{#var:675|Cirra Constantine (675)}} has posed:'''     Part of Cirra's motivation was to keep Landon out of Galandia for a while, it makes finding him by assasins much harder. The other part was to hopefully see him cheer up a bit. When the blue and white jet lands and begins fading away, the Judge and bodygaurd lands on her feet lightly from the backseat.     She looks over the crater at the pod, then watches as the pod opens and a little green man steps out. She looks at Landon, "What is it science fiction used to write hundreds of years ago, little green men from Bahumat?" 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      Well. The pale-haired Knight definitely recognised the race to go by the vague form she could make out, not to mention a /very/ strong connection to the Force. "Master Vandar...?" she ventured, peering through the steam until she could see and sense more clearly. No, this was definitely not one of her old Masters, but doubtless a Master nonetheless.      It was probably best to err on the side of being polite...at least today. Revan could be a horrible troll, but it seemed that this moment was likely a good time to eschew her usual mischief and snarky comments. "Greetings, Master," she hailed, folding her hands into the sleeves of her robe and rendering a proper bow. "As it's been noted, we received the distress call." 

:'''{{#var:642|Landon al Cid (642)}} has posed:'''      "Something to that effect," Landon agrees wryly, "Or little green men from the Core."      Landon moves forward, carefully. He's always had something of a Thing about nonhumes. It's hard to remember that they're people after a life of them not existing. But Landon is as tolerant and open-minded as a person can *get*, so what little Thing he's had has mostly just been a niggling weirdness in the back of his mind.      "You seem unharmed," Landon calls, knee atop the crater, arm draped over his knee, "But if there is anything we might do to provide assistance..." 

:'''{{#var:606|Jimmy Wen (606)}} has posed:'''      Jimmy quirks an eyebrow above his aviators, reaching into his pocket for something. He pulls out a candy bar, unwraps it, and takes a seat on the edge of the crater. The little green man is, of course, interesting, but he's in no hurry to get blasted by whatever mojo or gizmos he's packing. Wen takes a bite out of his candy bar, and shouts a greeting towards Ferham. "Heya, Ferham!" 

:'''{{#var:711|Corona Arclite (711)}} has posed:''' Corona Arclite took a few extra minutes to respond to the distress call. Mostly because she took a few extra moments to make sure she had her tools and supplises, just in case. Because there was a space craft to either repair, or possibly salvage, afterwards. Or hit might hit something else on the farms needing to be repaired. Afterwards though, it doesn't take her long from the warpgate and her steampunk cruiser pulls up alongside the crater. The vehicle looks like an oversized tri-cycle, with the front wheel replaced by a treaded unit and huge truck like back wheels. Some exhaust steam is still puffing out of the dual exhaust stacks even as Corona stands up to lean over the bull-skull decorated handlebars. "Whooo wee! Looks like that was one hellubva rough landin'. Any signs of a survivor yet?" 

:'''{{#var:820|Yoda (820)}} has posed:'''     Yoda's eyes remain fixed on Sarah initially, slightly narrow as they're still adjusting to the bright sunshine. Clearing his throat, the cloaked green figure shakes his head. "Single passenger, I am." He replies. "Worry not, for I am unhurt and safe from injury." Though he does lean on his stick just a bit more, perhaps for dramatic effect. Both of his three fingered hands wrap about the nubby head of it, clenching it tightly as he leans forward just a moment.     As others begin to close in around the scene, Yoda's ears twitch at the sound of 'Master', before a steadier glance is given to Revan. Then to the others.     "Off course, I seem to have drifted. And attracted a crowd." There's a slow sounding, bemused sounding 'heh' that escapes his lips, before he shakes his head. "Please. Describe, someone can? What system is this?" 

:'''{{#var:796|Sarah Rogers (796)}} has posed:'''     Sarah steps back a little and looks at Revan hopefully, she seems to know a little more about what's going on, "I'm not sure if this planet has a proper name beyond 'Earth Prime' and that's becoming more inaccurate all the time.. It's complicated." At least this creature seems friendly and unhurt, if a little odd, "Can you talk uhm.. forwards?" She asks awkwardly 

:'''{{#var:516|Ferham (516)}} has posed:'''      "You're on the planetary plains sector of the multiverse, welcome," Ferham is pleasantly surprised the creature is not only intelligent but also civilized, noting the clothes and cane it bears. "Oh, Wen, how did you get here?" she frowned a little, noticing the man greeting her from the edge of the crater. "Little bit far from the city for you, isn't it?" she smiled a little and took a step back to get a bit closer for conversation. 

:'''{{#var:675|Cirra Constantine (675)}} has posed:'''     The little green fellow asks where he is, and Cirra responds by lifting one hand and motioning Landon forward. "This is going to require diplomacy. Thats your field of expertise, oh Prince." 

:'''{{#var:711|Corona Arclite (711)}} has posed:''' "Complicated is puttin' it lightly," Corona sides to Sarah, followed by the foxgirl hopping off her ride. "Let's just say the world is pro'ly a whole lot bigger than y'all ever knew possible, an' leave it at that fer now. Wouldn't wanna overwhelm the fellar on the first meetin'." Speaking of the green fella, people seem to be regarding him with some amount of importance, so she follows suit, removing her brass-lined stetson with one hand and tipping it polite-like forward as she bows. "Corona Arclite; machinest, metalworker and in general tinkerer, at yer service." It would be imporper to not make an appropriate introduction. Only 'bad' cowboys are that rude. 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      While Master Vandar had spoken in more straightforward Basic -- at least, how the multiverse seemed to translate it as for her -- Lowri was at least familiar with the speech patterns. "That's straightforward, generally," she explained to Sarah before turning back to Yoda.      "This is..." and then turned back to Sarah. "Where are we again?"      And then back to Yoda. "We're...basically out of the galaxy we knew. This place isn't anywhere in any recorded system. We're in what amounts to a collection of different worlds, universes, and realities. Although, the Force would seem to follow us wherever we go." 

:'''{{#var:642|Landon al Cid (642)}} has posed:'''      Well, there's really not much for Landon to say. Other people have said it already. "I think that others have this covered," Landon admits. 

:'''{{#var:606|Jimmy Wen (606)}} has posed:'''      "Hitched a ride," he says. "Don't want my car getting dirty from all the back-country driving." He munches on the candy bar, finishing it off, then wipes his hands and slides down the edge of the crater to get a better look. Nearly losing his balance at the conclusion of his slide, he clears his throat and straightens his lapels as if it didn't happen. 

:'''{{#var:820|Yoda (820)}} has posed:'''     "Listen backwards, your solution is." Yoda replies with a small smirk to Sarah, his crinkly green nose wrinkling just a bit. "Multiverse? Hrm." The small Master considers this information, unsure exactly of what it meant. Still, his lips seem to purse in thought, continuing to look about at the guests who have assembled. When some further explanations are made, especially from Revan, Yoda closes his eyes and seems to concentrate. What he feels he doesn't quite explain, but the look of worry and sadness that comes across his face isn't hidden.     Finally, he speaks again. "Yoda, my name is. Appreciate everyone's help, I do." The look of sadness passes, his lipless mouth curving into a crooked smile. "A solid tasting soup, I would very much appreciate. Move on from this place, shall we?" 

:'''{{#var:711|Corona Arclite (711)}} has posed:''' Corona Arclite puts her hat back on. "Gettin' ya somewhere a bit more comfortable for some vittles pro'ly is a good idea." She looks back to Yoda. And down to Yoda. She's not use to having to look down to people. Other than Target. Then looks over to the pod in the smoking crater. Well it wasn't a full ship, that's probably a good thing. "What about yer li'l capsule there?" 

:'''{{#var:796|Sarah Rogers (796)}} has posed:'''     Sarah looks at Revan and shrugs, then points at Ferham, "She said it was the Planetary Plains Sector, sounds legit to me." She says with a sheepish grin. "I'm Sarah, Rogers." She says as she turns back towards Yoda, but also for the benefit of everyone here she's never met. She relaxes visibly as the little green guy seems to have a sense of humor. That's always a good sign! "There's a place to eat that you can get to just by thinking abuot how hungry you are and finding a door. One of the more helpful quirks of this place." 

:'''{{#var:516|Ferham (516)}} has posed:'''      "Indeed, some of the things you will see here are difficult to explain, but this is essentially a kind of megacontinent, many other pieces of land were drawn here, this is where you are now," Ferham nods to Serah and Yoda. "Hitched a ride? Oh I see, you didn't want your vehicle becoming dirty, how quaint," Ferham turned a little to look Jimmy Wen over. "Guess offering to brush the dust off my boots is a bad idea, huh?" she playfully smirked and fanned her wings out.      "Well if he's not hurt and knows people here I think there doesn't need to be a rescue," she gestured to the small green man. 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      The worry and sadness didn't go unnoticed -- to say nothing of what she could feel through the Force -- but Lowri didn't comment on it. Instead, she simply smiled faintly, her eyes closing briefly.      "I'm Revan, Guardian of the Jedi Order. Though I prefer to go by Lowri Shan, now." Generally, it might not have necessarily been prudent to give her 'real' name out, considering that she still wasn't sure /when/ Yoda was from, but something told her it was for the best. Not that her real name was recognisable anyway, thank the Force for small miracles.      "Ah...yes, I'd agree," she commented, glancing around the surrounding area. "As for soup...well, I would say the Multiversal Bar and Grill has to be the only place outside the galaxy which serves what we're familiar with. That's the only place I've asked for Tionese and haven't been stared blankly at." 

:'''{{#var:820|Yoda (820)}} has posed:'''     Yoda turns to face the capsule when Corona queries it, his eyes looking at it for a drawn out moment, before he just shakes his head. Everything he does appears to take a few seconds longer than it should, apparently! "Leave it, we can. It holds little importance on its own." Curiously, he seems to look at Sarah with an air of wonder. "Magical door, hrm? Stepped into a truly different place, I have."     Daring to take a few more steps forward, Yoda leans heavily on his stick that is gripped by his right hand as he sort of limps across the dirt kicked up by the crater. "Revan?" Yoda pauses at that name, before waving a hand to dismiss any idle thought.     "Mmm. Very interesting, this all is. Lots to catch up on, I seemingly do. Come. Visit this Bar and Grill, we will." Another look goes around to everyone.     "Appreciate, I do, that everyone has come to see me. A warm welcome this is. It will not be unforgotten." 

:'''{{#var:606|Jimmy Wen (606)}} has posed:'''      "Bar and Grill's pretty good, from what I hear. Haven't been there yet to try it, but I'd like to. Down for visiting it if you are! The name's Jimmy Wen, by the way. I'm the resident method master, so you should call me if you need anything--and I do mean anything. I have very competitive rates, priced for all levels of venture capitalists." He looks over his shoulder at Ferham. "Speaking of--name your best offer on the boot shining deal." 

:'''{{#var:711|Corona Arclite (711)}} has posed:''' "Iffen y'all say so," Corona replies with a shrug of her shoulders. It's just a small escape pod type craft, if Yoda says there's nothing important inside then it's not really big enough to be worth the parts, either. Her tail flicks a few times as she trods down from the crater ledge, and slings herself back up onto her chopper. "Iffen anyone needs a ride outta here, bike's got room for two." 

:'''{{#var:796|Sarah Rogers (796)}} has posed:'''     Sarah furrows her brow, "The only door I see around here is the one in your pod, and I'm not sure if we can all fit through there." She looks at Ferham in particular, with those large metal wings. "I'm still fairly new though, are there other tricks we can use to get there?" 

:'''{{#var:516|Ferham (516)}} has posed:'''      "Lets talk about it over drinks, if you like?" Ferham turned to Jimmy as her wings slid out wide to either side of her. "I just hope you don't mind being carried," Fer then promptly reached and, utilizing superior Reploid strength would just pick Jimmy Wen right up and hold him in her arms, in a sort of daring reversal of the handsome prince and fair maiden. Right now the maiden was doing the carrying. "Hold on tight, alright?" she grinned and kicked off the ground with one leg, as if she was going to toss a three point shot in basketball--except she'd just keep on going, up up and awaaaay.~ 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      Had Yoda actually recognised her name? As much as she was inclined to dismiss that as a coincidence or a misreading, Lowri had learned not to assume things when it came to the multiverse. "It can boggle even a Jedi mind, Master," she replied instead. The Bar & Grill -- and answers -- awaited. 

}}

2493/Wisdom of the Masters

2015-06-20T05:11:00Z

ForwardObserver: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2015/06/20 |Location=Faraway Galaxy <FG> |Synopsis=Lowri Revan-Shan invites Yoda on board the Ebon Hawk. |Thanks= |Cast of Characters=414, 820 |Tin..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2015/06/20
|Location=Faraway Galaxy <FG>
|Synopsis=Lowri Revan-Shan invites Yoda on board the Ebon Hawk.
|Thanks=
|Cast of Characters=414, 820
|Tinyplot=
|Tinyplot2=
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      A year ago, the Prodigal Knight had learned to simply roll with whatever punches the multiverse had dealt her. Admittedly, the first had been the hardest; learning that the universe she had kn own was suddenly much larger. The second was that time had little meaning in that universe, and that she could easily encounter persons from what was her distant future. Her own introduction had been via a Jedi Knight who, for all his own unorthodox methods was much more in line with her own patterns of thinking.      The Council, Lowri imagined, would have had a collective cardiac arrest at the sight of Kyle Katarn.      But for the Jedi once known as Revan, it was a pleasant surprise...at least once they had learned that neither was a Sith. Or in her case, no longer one.      It had been quite the adjustment to learn about the multiverse, but Lowri had unlimately embraced it. It had meant that her destiny was not set in stone. It might have been that the Force had knwn what was about to transpire, and her faith in that myserious power remained absolute. Especially now, after the arrival of a rather unique Master from that far future.      The Force, even in the multiverse, had led her to that distress call and to the Master of the same race as Vandar. He certainly wasn't one of the Masters who had taught her -- not that Revan could remember -- but the Force had led her to one who might guide her. She was far from a Master herself, and thought he had insisted that he was no longer one with the dissolution of the Council, the Force seemed disinclined to agree. She willingly offered what she could, including the sanctity of her ship, the Ebon Hawk. As a Jedi, what could she do but extend an invitation to the Master from her distant future to Master Yoda?      For now, she simply waited, tending to her droid crew and observing the navigational charts, should Yoda choose to join her. There was much to discuss, and the Ebon Hawk was more than able to make planetfall and take on new passengers. And it wouldn't take her long to return to the side of the Rogue Shadow, a ship whose company she seemed loathe to retreat from for very long. 

:'''{{#var:820|Yoda (820)}} has posed:'''     Moving around the Multiverse was simple once you knew how. All you needed to know was what doors to use, the correct warpgates and BAM. Away you went. Unfortunately for Yoda, he was still very much learning this system of traversing and as such, had to get the hired help of some Union affiliated Officers to just 'nudge' him in the right direction of where Revan could be found.     Adopting a brand spanking new hoverchair, a gift from the Union, the small green figure with his brown robes slowly approaches. He hovers a good four feet in the air, and with both of his three-fingered hands resting in his lap, he takes a moment to look upon the Ebon Hawk. One of his hands lifts to scratch his chin idly, before he proceeds to board.     His strong place in the Force would no doubt let the fellow Jedi know that he was here. So it was just a matter of finding him!     Once on board properly, Yoda lowers the hovering chair to the ground, where he stands up with the aid of his walking stick. A slow exhale escapes his lips as he limps forward, heavily favouring one side. "Hrm." 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      There were few times when Lowri suppressed her natural tendencies to smart off. The arrival of a Master with that kind of strength in the Force was one of those times. "Welcome, Master Yoda," she greeted at the docking bay at his arrival, her hand folded in a proper bow. "I'm delighted that you were able to accept my invitation."      And she meant it. Through the Force, the wizened Master would no doubt be able to sense the lingering darkness she deliberately and constantly fought to keep at bay. The strong sense of justice that could so easily be warped into Dark. And yet, her concern was for Yoda, to accilate him more easily into the multiverse. "This ship is a little on the minimalist side, but the autokitchen still functions adequately." There was a hint of her irreverent smile at that before it faded. "Anyway, I know you have questions, and I will do my best to answer."      After all, Revan /did/, she did not try. 

:'''{{#var:820|Yoda (820)}} has posed:'''     Yoda's walking aid taps against the Hawk's metallic walkways as he makes his way along to the autokitchen, wisened eyes glancing about constantly to take in everything. Ships weren't really his thing, but ... "Learn a lot about someone based on where they live, you can." Yeah, that. Long, green ears twitch and rotate and the various noises, before he slides up onto one of the chairs provided in the kitchen.     Everything he does seems to be at effort. Heck, he appears to have issues catching his breath just from the walk. And it was only ten feet or so! Once settled though, his breathing returns to a more normal, resting rate. His eyes then close, hands resting in his lap. Taking in a big long breath, he exhales slowly.     Then, slowly, they open.     "Thank-you for the invitation, I do." Looking to Lowri now, his gaze settles upon the female. Old features appear to look straight /through/ her for a moment, his head tilting in just a smidgen of curiosity. "Have something to tell me, you do?" This is more a question, really. May as well air any grievances before he gets started. Lots of people felt the need to just rant to Yoda when they got his undivided attention, he found. But this was the Multiverse. Things could be different! 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      For her part, Lowri was accustomed to being scolded...perhaps. Not that she really knew, given that she her earliest unhampered memories were ones arguing with a particular captain of the Republic military. That Yoda had perhaps been the first Master who hadn't spoke volumes to her. Second, if one were to count old Jolee Bindo, which she personally did, and in her mind made that two. The old Consular had said he wasn't there to judge her, which had eased her mind considerably. Yoda certainly wasn't...not that she would blame any of the Council even of her own time. Whatever they had done, she would always be grateful for her second chance, regardless of the circumstances.      Mildly yet affectionately shooshing Tiny out -- the giant Insecticon which she had accidentally tamed -- to go perform some much-needed maintenance on the freighter, the Guardian seated herself once the old Master was settled. "It's home, for the moment. She's seen a lot of action, but it seems her work is far from over...not unlike some," Revan commented vaguely.      She could certainly appreciate getting straight to the point. "I think it's become clear that time has no meaning when it comes to the multiverse," Lowri replied. "And, given your stature, I think it's fair that I answer any questions you have first, Master. I have plenty of my own, but...well. I'm a Jedi again, so it's only proper I answer first to the Masters." 

:'''{{#var:820|Yoda (820)}} has posed:'''     Yoda bows his head in a slow nod, agreeing with the sentiment of starting first. Made sense!     "Start, I will." Yet, he doesn't. Yoda just looks at Lowri carefully, old eyes taking in every feature. It's not so much a creepy stare, more a look of someone trying to recognise someone. It's not engineered to be an uncomfortable pause, though it could well feel like that for the female host.     "When you live as long as I, there is much to be learned." He begins. "Spent many days in the archives, I have. Learning from past mistakes and trying to better myself and the Order." He wrinkles his nose. "Surprising, it is, to learn your name is Revan. While not well versed in many tales from the Old Republic, studied I have, the key points. Of that in particular, Revan and Malak. Their rise and..." His eyes narrow a bit. "...fall."     "Revan, you say your name was. Lowri, you say your name is. Trying to forget, you are, the name of your past. But impossible." The short Master raises a green hand to wave and dismiss such a notion. "I sense much fear in you. Much darkness." His tone is almost apologetic. Disappointed. "Impossible to forget, it is, a part of yourself." Yoda takes another breath, exhaling slowly.     From here, he falls into silence. He doesn't ask for it verbally, but the demand still hangs, building tension in the air. He wants an explanation of who she is. What she is. How she is. 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      Most of her allies in the Union and even some opponents saw the almost silly side of the former Dark Lord, the one who hid her true strengths behind a smile. Others saw the pain she hid, the secret love she had for a man who had kept her on the Light Side and whom she had left for his sake, to hunt the evil she had hunted before her fall. But few had seen even beyond that...as Yoda had.      Of course. With that kind of strength in the Force, very little was hidden.      Revan chuckled softly. "One never truly stops learning, asking questions. That's true wisdom, isn't it?"      The former Sith Lord folded her hands in her lap, her mismatched eyes closing. "The part of me who wants to simply be 'owri Shan, Jedi Knight' is glad to have been forgotten. But the other part wishes I wasn't, so that others could learn from my mistakes."      Grey and deep blue eye opened to regard the green-skinned Consular before her. "You're absolutely right, Master. There's much darkness in me, both before and even now. My friends and loved ones have looked past it, but I can't. I can't know that I won't fall again, and more than anything, I want to protect them. Even as I hunt for...whatever it is that was behind the Mandalorians."      She smiled again, but it was tainted with sorrow. "I can't forget who I was. Even after I chose the name the Council gave me, I can never truly be Lowri Shan. Deep down, I'll always be Revan." 

:'''{{#var:820|Yoda (820)}} has posed:'''     Yoda sits and listens patiently, his head tilting just a smidgen as she regales the diminutive green creature. Once she finishes, his lips purse together in thought as he considers and ponders. "Wary, I am, of acknowledging someone who has much darkness within. Outvoted, I was, about young Skywalker. Now... the darkness has taken over, and it is Vader before us. Worried, I am, that Revan will come back into being." He certainly tells it how it is!     "But." He begins. "Not willing to discount Lowri, I am. Help, you need. Help, if you want, I will give." It's a decision he came to remarkably quickly, that much is sure. Perhaps this is all something that he meditated upon previously? "Fix past mistakes, I cannot. But... fix future mistakes, I will. Tell me, Lowri." Yoda leans forward at this moment, curious.     "Becoming Lowri. How did you do this?" 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      Admitredly, that wasn't exactly what she wanted to hear. But on the other, that was what Revan felt she /needed/ to hear. "Thank you, Master. Yes, I left behind everyone I loved because I was afraid Darth Revan would return. The multiverse has different versions of us, and a droid I made from a reality where I was never truly redeemed told me what happened in his version. The Revan there reclaimed her status as a Dark Lord and killed everyone I loved and became the Sith Empress with Bastila as her apprentice. I can't risk that happening in my reality, so I left them behind. I couldn't place them at such risk."      Her smile, so usually cocky, was tinged with the burden she carried. "I know the Jedi eschew attachments, but they're what kept me from falling again. Even if I lost them, the thought of their sorrow was what kept me from taking that path, even when it felt righteous. But yet I can't risk them, not with that possibility."      But her smile faded into a rare neutral expression. "I don't really know about who Vader was before, though. Maybe there was something..." She paused to shake her head before she continued. "I have a friend who is terrified of him, what he's become. He's certainly Sith, but he's as cunning as I was, but as ruthless as Malak. I don't know, Master...there must be a way. Even Malak turned from the Dark even as he was dying. If there's something that can get through to Vader..."      Revan let the words die on her lips. She knew that sometimes there was no hope for someone on the Dark Side. But she had been redeemed, and that noble part of her believed in the possibility of redemption.      It seemed she might not be alone, and Yoda would sense the blossoming of hope in the Jedi. "My circumstances were a little odd...the Council wiped my memories. But even then, I had friends who helped me, guided me...especially a man who kept me on that path. If there's something that can redeem Vader like that, I'm personally willing to try anything."      And she meant it. 

:'''{{#var:820|Yoda (820)}} has posed:'''     "Lost to us, Vader is." Yoda is quite firm on that, his fingers clenching just a bit in his lap before they relax. "Focus on what you want to achieve, you should. Not on others." Shifting slightly in his place, he simply shakes his head again as she speaks, perhaps to confirm his initial statement. "Reborn you were, Lowri. Choices... make up our life, they do. Made the right choices, you did. Make the wrong choices, Vader did."     Shifting again, the old Master moves to slide off his seat. "A tour of this ship I would like." His tone has lightened considerably, as if he's moved on from the previous conversation already. He wouldn't have a beat of it! "This ship... has a nice smell, it does. Mreh heh heh." A chuckle rumbles out from his throat, a faint smile on his mouth.     "Later, should you feel the need, control and wisdom I can share with you." 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      Yoda was most likely right...Juno and Galen seemed to confirm it as well, though Kyle was vague about how Skywalker had defeated his father. Still, a part of her hoped that if /she/ could be saved, someone like Vader could be...even with all he had done. After all, her hands were hardly clean, yet Carth had found it in his heart to forgove her...and even vow to love and protect her. And he had...until she left to protect him.      On the other hand, she couldn't simply ignore the suffering of others. That lead to her downfall in the first place, but how could it be wrong? "Maybe, Master....but I always wondered why it was we were instructed to help the people, yet at the same time be removed from their suffering? Why was it right to help them? Why did the Force give us these feelings, if not to empathise with those who suffered?" Revan, it seemed, was right back to what had led her down those paths; her own compassion was what could so easily corrupt her.      Fortunately, she had enough of a distraction. "Of course," she replied, smiling as she stood. "It's a humble ship, but she's served us well."      Revan bowed again, though with a humility she hadn't had before her rebirth. That, perhaps, was what set her on her new path, aside from those attachments. "Of course, Master. I've learned to take wisdom anywhere I can." 

}}

2439/Many Faces

2015-06-13T17:57:12Z

ForwardObserver: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2015/06/12 |Location=Dun Realtai |Synopsis=Project MORDRED and Saber have a friendly duel near Dun Realtai, with a little bit of an audience. |Than..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2015/06/12
|Location=Dun Realtai
|Synopsis=Project MORDRED and Saber have a friendly duel near Dun Realtai, with a little bit of an audience.
|Thanks=
|Cast of Characters=12, 346, 662, 714, 804
|Tinyplot=
|Tinyplot2=
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Summer had finally returned to Dun Realtai after a supernaturally long winter, once the natural spring season was allowed to run its course. Many of the trees of the tangled forest beyond the lakes seemed dead, though the air which had once been hauntingly silent was now filled with the buzzing and chirping of insects. Life was slowly returning, though it would take some time...and more than a little assistance from its new caretakers and their allies.      Much of the surrounding moors had yet to recover, as well. Some small weeds had managed to take root, the very first signs of life of a ravaged land, but for the most part it remained barren and uncultivated. In the distance, the green of Dun Realtai's fields and forests stood in stark contrast, three banners subtly stirring in the wind from the parapet of the keep, though difficult to make out the devices from this distance. The figures of villagers could be glimpsed in the fields among the cereal crops, in the pastures tending to livestock, or along the roadways into the village seated on the hill. The village itself was surrounded by the rubble of what had once been a protective wall. Some of the sections had been rebuilt, but the condition of them hinted at what could only have been something large indeed which had destroyed them. In all, almost a scene out from the distant past of Britain's countryside.      Which was why it was all the more odd with what sped out from the ruined gates along the half-ruined stone paving of the road. Even more strangely, the villagers either paid no heed to the armoured Yamaha V-Max or even waved to its rider, who waved back to them before reaching the heath where the road seemed to crumble away into gravel. Yet, this did nothing to slow the motorbike down, its petite blonde rider having no more trouble with it than on the road. In fact, how was such a tiny person able to steer a machine of that bulk effortlessly?      The leonine roar of the motorbike's engine faded to a dull purr as the rider pulled it to a stop in the middle of the heath before dismounting and straightening the black gloves on her hands. Or his, perhaps? The rider was dressed in a tailored three-piece black suit and tie with a soft grey dress shirt and brown loafers, with long flaxen hair pulled back into a low ponytail. Too feminine to truly be a man but yet too masculine to be a woman, the rider simply waited patiently for...something. 

:'''{{#var:804|Project MORDRED (804)}} has posed:''' At the same time, from the opposite direction, a big humanoid machine. Sleek black, with heraldic designs indicating the eldest son of the high king of earth on its chest. Glare-NT avoids the issues of rough terrain through the simple method of not touching the ground, thrusters keep the big machine flying smooth towards the point of indicated meaning. Once it arrives, and lands with a gentle 'thud' the chest opens up, and MORDRED unbuckles himself before jumping out and to the ground. Once there, he bows. No kneeling, however. "Your majesty." He greets, then rises up straight again, a subtle sign that although he might acknowledge Saber's royalty, he does not acknowledge her to be -his- king, nor does he acknowledge her as being much superior in social status. "I have been told I would be informed about Brehon Law when I'd arrive, and I would also insist on making sure we're both operating under the same rules when it comes to our duel." 

:'''{{#var:714|Sanary Rondel (714)}} has posed:'''      Hearing of the pending duel between MORDRED and Saber, Sanary's shows up as promised in case any medical work needs to be done afterwards. Not that she really knows much about the more scientific aspects of healing or how to fix mechanical suits, but whatever works works. Plus, she did promise to bring curry, conveniently stored in a heavy paper bag inside a larger plastic bag for support (and handles).      Sanary, much like Saber, is also dressed in her own three-piece suit, colored purple instead of black, and wearing a simple black eyepatch with her hair tied back into a low ponytail. If not for her voice being recognizable by some, it might even be hard to tell by appearances alone that she's... Well, a she. Unlike the cool and collected Saber, however, the healer's looking significantly more... Sweaty. It'd be hard not to, considering how she had hiked over to the designated location in a goddamn suit carrying a bag full of curry and eating supplies.      "Shoulda... Ditched the vest... ! Uh. H-hey, there." She takes a moment to wipe her forehead off with a handkerchief before offering MORDRED and Saber a formal bow. "Hope I'm not late or anything... Ah. Sir Bedivere, right? Have either of you see Lady Saber around yet?" 

:'''{{#var:662|Fake Avenger (662)}} has posed:'''      This is what he lived for.      'Lives' is no longer the proper term to describe the entity that wears the name Kojirou Sasaki, and hasn't been for a very long time. Even in the early days of his second life, he didn't truly live. He was naught but a gate guard for the most important gate in the world, standing on a battlefield against Heroes and Titans with naught but a blade in his hand. He had no ability to leave that stairwell, and, in truth, he had no real desire. He was but an insubstantial wisp, content to play out the short week of his existence and then fade away, as if he had never been in the first place. He was a ghost who existed, and nothing more.      And then...      And then...      Well, that doesn't really matter. A thousand years later, and the thing that calls itself Kojirou Sasaki still doesn't really live - it exists, dwelling on the Earth like a lost soul that has no sanctuary, without joy, without sorrow, without all the pieces that make a man a man. The Avenger-class Servant's one and only vice, that which he delights in, that which still stirs the echoes of the soul, is battle. His life was spent in pursuit of it; his death was spent in pursuit of it; and now the insubstantial wisps of his existence are stretched through the multiverse in hopes of finding those rare few opponents who might show him something beautiful and different enough to give him the respite he seeks.      As people gather to watch MORDRED and Saber fight, Avenger simply appears. Reality seems to stutter around him; one minute there is nothing, not even footprints in the dirt, and the next, the purple-haired swordsman in the purple kimono exists, leaning against a nearby rock, the black-and-red markings along his body seeming to twitch and writhe forcefully into new patters.      Kojirou pushes off the rock with the grace of a ghost. His feet barely touch the barren landscape as he glides over to examine the motorcycle with a cursory, and frankly sort of pretend, interest. He's seen them before, but the tenets of bushido require politeness.      The monster straightens, that mysterious, distant, unearthly smile on his face. Then he bows in classic Japanese style, and moves out of the way of the battlefield without a word. 

:'''{{#var:12|Mordred (12)}} has posed:'''     Mordred-- the Servant, Saber of Red-- does not make a grant entrance, but rather materializes next to Avenger, appearing out of blue and red wisps of mana and thin air otherwise. She's been to Dun Realtai a number of times, and what with Bedivere's vows, and her own when she swore she would start behaving better and even help Arturia rebuild the Round Table of that was her wish, it's not like she's entirely unwelcome or a stranger here.     But since Bedivere and Arturia are collectively better leaders and people-persons, most of the work she would have helped with, if any, is physical labor. God bless being a Servant for that.     As she appears, the five foot tall midget of a knight dons a pair of shorts, with a blue and gold sweater, a really cool blue and gold scarf, and a baseball cap on her head. For all intents and purposes she's a slightly tinier, slightly younger Saber.     She proceeds to hand a rose to Avenger.     It has no petals and still has its thorns.     Presumably there's a message in that. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      The expression on Saber's face was otherwise neutral as what could only be a mecha arrived, save for a light touch of curiosity. Though not unheard of in the multiverse, it wasn't every day the diminutive knight saw one..especially not in the remote and deliberately low-tech Dun Realtai.      It was just as well MORDRED didn't kneel; she honestly would have been uncomfortable. Even the Knights of the Round Table rarely did, save for a very special occasion. Moreover, she wasn't his king. Instead, she smiled and bowed herself, one arm over her torso in a proper formal bow. Apparently, she was pleased at being of equal status, knight to knight. "I greet you, Sir Mordred. Though the ancient laws of Albion are rather complex, it is the Law of Hospitality which is observed. Once Hospitality has been extended to a guest, we as the hosts are forbidden from committing violence against a guest. Similarly, the host is forbidden from violence against his guests. No unreasonable demands may be made of a host; a host must provide food and lodgings appropriate to his or her station."      She inclined her head slightly. "If, after our duel, you have need of respite, we are obligated to extend it to you. However, I must insist upon the Law of Hospitality; these are a people of peace and have been through much."      She blinked slightly in surprise, as if she had been assuming that /of course/ they were going to be held to the same rules. "We are knights, and so we are equally bound by the sacred virtues of chivalry, is that not correct?"      And then Sanary arrived...and thought she was Sir Bedivere. Somewhere, the marshal was likely horrified and would have been flailing hopelessly had he been directly present. "Ah...greetings. I am Saber. Sir Bedivere is attending to other matters." And probably pacing at the idea of her current outing. Poor Bedivere.      The arrival of Servants was not something she could ignore even as they arrived. She bowed politely -- in Japanese style, no less -- but the expression in her jade eyes was distrustful, apprehensive. The Saber of Red, by contrast, drew a hailing wave. 

:'''{{#var:804|Project MORDRED (804)}} has posed:''' MORDRED's face turns into the vague hint of a smile. "Yes, I would assume that we would be bound by the same rules, and I am familiar with codes of hospitality and chivalry." He straightsens himself fully, though with no apparent intent to intimidate. The man is tall, but relaxed in his formal stiffness. "I'm merely not sure if the duels you're accustomed to employ the same rules, given that, well..." He glances towards Glare-NT, "I've been led to believe you do not duel in anything like what I would call 'Armour.' I wouldn't want to cause any ill will due to an innocent mistake in differing rules of engagement when it comes to duelling." He looks to see the others arrive, and smiles at each of them. He only addresses Mordred, "Sir Me, I presume?" He bows lightly, slightly less deeply than he bowed to Saber, but the difference is nearly imperceptible. It is however, intentional. 

:'''{{#var:714|Sanary Rondel (714)}} has posed:'''      Sanary realizes her mistake the moment Saber starts to speak, but hearing it straight from the woman's (not man's!) mouth somehow makes it worse. "Wait, you're.. Oh! Shi-uh. Sorry. You looked like-I mean. Er." Flustered by the whole thing, she takes a moment to take a deep breath before stepping back to offer Saber another bow.      "Sanary Rondel. Great to finally meet you in person, Lady Saber." The bow and the greeting are well-practiced, at least, even if she had been a little messed up earlier. She turns to Mordred with another bow for good measure. "Good seeing you again, too, MORDRED. I.. Uh. Don't think I actually met you in person yet, either."      Hefting the bag a little while glancing over at the servants, she stares at Avenger and Saber of Red for a moment before raising a hand in greeting. "I'll be over there, then. Once you're done with the fight, I'll come in and take care of the injuries. And food." She wiggles the bag once, then scurries over to get out of the dueling area before greeting the servants with another bow as well. 

:'''{{#var:662|Fake Avenger (662)}} has posed:'''      Kojirou takes the rose in between its thorns without much effort. Servants with even low Agility could probably grab it without trouble. He fiddles with it for a moment, contemplative, apparently not noticing the apprehensive stare of Arturia, or Sanary's hand-wave. The rose finally elicts a laugh, almost half a minute later, as if Kojirou is only just now getting the joke.      It is not a pleasant laugh. It isn't *unpleasant*, either; not menacing, nor deep, nor angry, nor any particular shade of emotion at all. It's just sort of there. It's a human laugh, but it's a human laugh with all the joy sucked out of it - a sort of 'oh, ha ha, that's clever!' without actual appreciation for the sentiment. He fiddles with the rose a moment longer, then discards it to the ground and clears the duelling area. He does not seem to take any particular interest in the food. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      A faint smile broke through Arturia's neutral mask. "Your manners are most impressive. I would imagine that your chivalry is similarly so." Her smile shifted slightly, bordering on the wolfish. Oh yes, she was pleased, indeed. "However, there is no need to hold back on my account."      The wind seemed to kick up around the short suit-clad girl until blinding light enveloped her for what seemed not even a moment before she was no longer clad in her suit, but her blue-etched battle armour and blue dress, her hair bound up into a braid-encircled bun fastened with a blue ribbon.      The smile remained. Saber might not be the same level of stab-happy that her homunculus 'son' was, but there were hints about where the Saber of Red got her thirst for a good challenge came from. "I look forward to matching my sword to that of another knight."      Her smile for Sanary was softer, gentler. "Well-met, Lady Sanary. But there is no need to apologise. My appearance is intentional." What she said next was likely not going to calm the healer, though. "Lady Yari speaks most highly of you."      And naturally, if she brought food, she was already on Arturia's list of Good People, Confederate or not. "You have my gratitude," she replied with a smile.      From her distance, she almost pitied Kojirou, even as she knew how dangerous he was. All he existed for, it seemed, was the battle. It was entirely unlike her own enjoyment of the friendly match she was about to partake in now, the test of strength, skill, and wits.      With another bow, Saber summoned Excalibur, rendered invisible within its Bounded Field of the Wind King. "I am ready." 

:'''{{#var:12|Mordred (12)}} has posed:'''     "Yo, Sir Me," Mordred confirms, returning the bow unusually politely for how she typically speaks. She doesn't hold herself quite straight, and definitely not with the stature of a knight, but for a brief moment there she looks like she belongs. Might be her short size and lack of armor.     Sanary gets a grin. "Aww yeah, food. Now you're speaking my language. Let's raid a buffet after this." Between her and Arturia, it's going to be a devastating, powerful blow to a restaurant.     Avenger laughing it off and then not stating interest in food earns a mild frown, but oh well, neither the time or place for this. But then it's time to rumble, and Mordred follows Avenger to the sidelines. She regains her grin and smile at the sight of Saber getting ready for a challenge-- because it's true. Flor all Mordred is a bloodthirsty savage when she unchains herself, she got it from somewhere. Saber's got a mean, mean competitive streak. This'll be good.     Besides, seeing the Armour in action is cool too. 

:'''{{#var:804|Project MORDRED (804)}} has posed:''' MORDRED's smile broadens, still faint but now more than a mere hint of a smile. "Thank you, Sir Saber, or is it Lady Saber? I can accomodate whichever you'd prefer." Glare-NT kneels, allowing MORDRED to enter it easily. After it closes, but before MORDRED is done preparing himself for battle, he answers Sanary. "I saw you were with Lady Gorgon last night, while I was across the hall, but otherwise, no. We had not yet met prior. I look forward to your cooking, I'm sure it will be delicious." MORDRED finishes strapping and takes a few steps back, allowing for some room between himself and the strange and unfamiliar version of his father. The Monofilament Broadsword on the Armour of Peace's hip is drawn, and held with the tip pointed at the ground. One sharp edge towards Saber, ready to lash forwards at an instant's notice. "As am I, let us commence." MORDRED gives his opponent only a brief moment after this, almost immediately moving forward. A quick jab, careful not to leave any openings, testing Saber more than anything else. An exploratory strike, nothing more. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      "Merely 'Saber' will suffice...though many seem to prefer 'Lady Saber', but I do not object to either. In truth, I would prefer what is most comfortable for you."      As was proper, she waited until Mordred had settled into his Armour properly. Doing otherwise would have been a disgrace. Besides which, it was hardly the long ritual of donning physical armour of her era...at least before becoming a Servant and being able to summon it at a moment's notice.      Dropping into an en garde stance with her two-handed sword behind her, she was ready as the Armour moved forward, and just in time. Mechanical armour could be unwieldy in her experience, but this version was surprisingly fast. And he didn't leave openings, either. Oh, he was very good.      Instead of parrying, Saber blurred into motion, too fast for the naked human eye, evading with a smooth motion more appropriate for a dancer than a fighter. Nothing fancy, but much more graceful than the usual warrior. Even as she evaded, she tested his defences with a jab of her own. Even if he left no openings, could she make one?      Saber couldn't keep the grin off her face. This was definitely going to be fun. 

:'''{{#var:804|Project MORDRED (804)}} has posed:''' Human eyes, assisted by inhuman sensors and an inhuman mind. MORDRED's motions aren't as fast as Saber's, and he's put on the defensive right away; but, he is fast enough that forcing an opening is tough. He doesn't parry this first jab either, instead he jumps, flipping around in mid-air before landing opposite his previous position relative Saber. If his face was visible, people could notice a look of pure joy. Alas. it's not, and he doesn't speak. As he lands, he takes advantage of gravity to assist a downwards strike. This time, he makes no attempt at a soft landing, creating a small crater as the ground creaks to accomodate that mass. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Nope, it wasn't going to be that easy. But then, Saber would have been disappointed if it had been. Relying on the strength and speed of one's mechanical armour was common enough, and the Servant could easily best an opponent who did. Mordred, on the other hand, was obviously skilled and canny enough to know better. Other than her spars with her own knights, the last time she had faced such a skilful opponent would probably have to have been Lady Agrias. At this rate, she was going to regret when it was all over.      The Armour was fast, and she was a little surprised at how quickly it went airborne...and with an amazing amount of agility, no less. In fact, she had to employ more than a little of her own to evade, leaping out of the way and somersaulting backwards to avoid being cratered.      Saber wasn't especially effective at range, though, so she needed to close the gap. Using a partial release of Wind King to propel her forward, Saber shot forward with a last-minute pirouette to build torque, lashing out with an arcing horizontal strike. 

:'''{{#var:804|Project MORDRED (804)}} has posed:''' A Knight who relies on solely his Armour would stand no chance against the High King, MORDRED is well aware. The Armour is dumb, the Knight ought to be smart. Still, the next attack is unexpected, and MORDRED's response is late as a result, his monofilament broadsword manages to deflect it downwards in the nick of time, barely preventing Excalibur from digging into his armour. MORDRED uses the speed of his opponent's strike to assist his own high torque move, thrusters barely lift him off the ground and speed up a three sixty degrees turn, the massive blade barrelling towards Saber as the rotation finishes. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      The hearts of men become overconfident when wielding powerful weapons or within armour which seems unbreakable. As far as Saber was concerned, it was a testament to the knight's temperance and wisdom, not to mention his skill as a warrior, that he understood the need for skill and control. Not to mention suppressing overconfidence.      The Sword of Promised Victory was successfully deflected downward, another impressive manoeuvre. He could think fast on his feet.      She was also glad that the Mordred who had been born from her was watching. She could learn a thing or two about technique. The Saber of Red /probably/ wouldn't apply it, but at least she could learn.      Especially at the manoeuvre the male Mordred pulled off. Her eyes widened slightly even as she moved by instinct. It would have been insane for an un-Armoured human to attempt what Arturia did, but one of the advantages of the Saber-class was their strength.      Even while she evaded what she could, the Servant nevertheless would have gotten a good blow at her back if she hadn't parried the monofilament broadsword. In spite of her strength, it was nevertheless a struggle, gritting her teeth even as she held it at bay for her counterstrike.      Using that momentum, she turned under the blade itself in a spiralling motion before spinning again, following the natural motion into a diagonal strike downward. However, it wasn't as fast as her previous one, and avoidable if he thinks fast enough. 

:'''{{#var:804|Project MORDRED (804)}} has posed:''' And though MORDRED thinks fast, he's just a fraction of a second too slow, a moment of hesitation as he is torn between two moves. In a real fight, it might not have been much more than a scratch, but it was a hit, and it penetrated armour. There is no way for MORDRED to pretend otherwise, the cut is there to see, leaking small drips of coolant fluid. "First blood goes to you, Sir Saber." MORDRED concedes, and immediately arrests his motion, returning his sword to the sheath at the Armour of Peace's hip. "You are a very capable swordsman, I am glad to see your skill matches your reputation." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      It had been a quick match, though longer than many true battles. In truth, her match against Lancer -- Diarmuid Ua Duibhne -- had probably not lasted much longer. Not before Rider had come barging in to offer places to both of them in his Peerless Army. It had been more than just a little insulting at the time, but the years had worn off that sting a little.      But even still, it had been invigorating. Dismissing Excalibur, Saber bowed as before, though her grin was plain to see. "It pleases me that I did not disappoint you," she replied. "You yourself are a swordsman of no small skill. I should be honoured to cross blades again with you sometime."      Straightening, she believed that she had her answer. "I welcome you as a guest to Dun Realtai." 

:'''{{#var:804|Project MORDRED (804)}} has posed:''' MORDRED leaves Glare-NT again, returning the bow once he has his feet on the ground, his face showing undisguised joy at the duel, even though he lost. "Thank you. I'm glad to hear my practice at arms has not been wasted." He looks towards the food brought by Sanary, then snaps his gaze back towards Saber "And I accept your hospitality. It's good to have company, my home gets lonely at times." He takes a good look around the place, the dun. "It's not the kind of place I'm used to, and I don't know if I'll stick around for long, but I could see myself spending some time here. It looks lovely." 

:'''{{#var:714|Sanary Rondel (714)}} has posed:'''      Sanary's legs were still a little shaky as the duel came to a sudden end, the healer having a great deal of trouble just following what was going on. She had taken her suit jacket off and held it over her shoulder while watching the exchange with rapt attention, setting the bag of curry and other edibles on the ground beside herout of safety for the food stuffs.      "S... So. Uh. Did either of you follow any of that?" She casts a quick glance at Modred and Kojirou, still looking somewhat excited over what she had just witnessed. She's winding down, at least, and she eventually scoops up the bag of food before starting to head back to the dueling area.      "Great work out there! Even with swords, that was /really/ impressive. All that fast movement even with the size of... EVERYTHING." Grinning broadly, she adjusts her eyepatch before glancing between MORDRED and Saber. "Should probably practice wit hmine more... Anyway. Either of you need healing? Or..."      Sanary raises the bag. There's a faint smell of bread and spices coming from it. "Ready to eat?" 

:'''{{#var:662|Fake Avenger (662)}} has posed:'''      Kojirou's eyes slowly track to Sanary.      "Yes," Kojirou replies calmly, then turns his gaze back to the two duelists.      It's over. It was a brief flash, a brief moment - a moment of such surpassing brevity that he almost didn't notice it. Not the strike, of course - no, Kojirou was perfectly aware of the strike, of the spiralling evasion, of the careful slash, of the parry; Kojirou could not help but be aware of the fight.      But the joy of it was so pathetically fleeting, so brief, he could not help but find it falling short. Some part of him - some dark pulse in the back of his still mind, unrelated to that which had taken up root in him - wanted to see more blood.      Kojirou's eyes sink shut.      Hah hah. More like me every day.      The ever-present smile fades to a brief frown. It's just as distant, and strange, and detached as his other expressions are.      Kojirou plays the fight over again in his mind. The motion of Excalibur narrowly missing the armor; the parry of the massive blade; the spinning dodge, the counter-strike. Kojirou plays it over and over, trying to retain the instant of joy, the instant of revelry, the flow of blood and the art of the sword.      You wanted them to die.      Kojirou's frown deepens.      Admit it. You wanted to see somebody die. It's okay. I won't judge you.      Kojirou's eyes open, and his smile returns. But it seems, again, strained, as if something is intruding on the peace he always carries with him.      "You were slow," Kojirou informs MORDRED thoughtfully, "You leaned upon 'first blood' and did not take risks to win. You thought, and did not act."      His eyes track over to Arturia. "You are rusty. When we fought, you dared, took risks. You dove into the lion's maw and plunged forth from the other side, defying expectations. Again, you leaned upon 'first blood' like a crutch. You wasted motion and allowed him to control the range of the duel because you knew that it was not to death."      Kojirou's eyes slide skywards, the distant smile on his face. "Is that," he asks no one, "What you wanted to hear?"      Getting there. You admire them too much.      Kojirou chuckles again.      One day I'll break you of that admiration.      "I very much doubt that," Kojirou continues. It probably sounds like a continuation of 'what you wanted to hear.'      Give me time. We have all the time in the world.      Kojirou shrugs. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      "Not at all," Arturia replied, still grinning. "They are quite impressive, in fact. Too often those with powerful weapons and armour rely on them too much and neglect their skills. It was most delightful to see that you have not neglected those skills."      She turned her face back to the village and keep, her smile becoming softer, indulgent. "We have sought to make this place into a haven, a place of respite. It is a neutral ground where any may come and go regardless of affiliation, as long as its sanctity is respected. All who have been guests have behaved impeccably, so I have no reason to change our ways."      Saber shook her head. "I do not believe so. You are free to enjoy the hospitality of Dun Realtai, Lady Sanary," she replied, dismissing her armour and standing in her three-piece suit once more. It demanded no small amount of willpower not to dive into the food immediately, particularly given how it smelled.      "Then, shall we..."      Unfortunately, good times were cut short by Kojirou making her paranoid. He had met her before last year's autumn ceilidh, battled her? Her eyes widened as she stiffened, her expression carved from stone. "It was an honourable match between knights," Saber explained, keeping her voice even and paranoia out of it. "There is no purpose to killing for the sake of killing, especially when such strength and skill is useful."      It /sounded/ as of he had been addressing them, but she wasn't entirely sure. It could be that Kojirou was simply mad...or something else. 

:'''{{#var:804|Project MORDRED (804)}} has posed:''' MORDRED seems uncertain who exactly some of Kojirou's comments are aimed at, but he doesn't mention it. Instead, he simply says, "Fighting until first blood necessitates different strategies from fighting until death, or even from fighting until one side yields. In such a duel, I would be willing to take wounds if I believed it would allow me to inflict comparatively more harm upon my enemy." He starts to walk towards Sanary as it seems clear that food is where things are headed. "This was not one such duel however, though it is similar in many respects, and strategies that take into account its rules will differ from strategies for duels that allow you to keep fighting after first blood." MORDRED keeps up his stance towards Kojirou, "I understand that you do not like duels that go merely until first blood, and that is your right; but your advice would not lead to better performance in this case." His gaze settles on Saber. "My father is a skilled Knight, and Calibur-N is an impeccable design. I need every edge I can get if I am to defeat him in a fair fight." There's an undercurrent there, a bit darker. It's clear from his tone that fight won't be until first blood. "But that is something for the future. Let's enjoy Lady Rondel's cooking, it smells delicious/" 

:'''{{#var:714|Sanary Rondel (714)}} has posed:'''      Kojirou's remarks draw a long stare from the one-eyed healer, although instead of annoyance or anger...      Sanary just slumps bit. "/That/ was slow? Damn... I really need to train more, then." The idea of moving even faster than Saber was moving is already quite a stretch for her, but... Well, maybe if she trains her eye enough? She could at least track movements like that better in the future.      "How do you all train to get so fast and good at following other people moving that fast, anyway? Every time I fight someone fast, best bet for me has just been to hit them harder than they hit me." She chuckles lightly for a moment, patting herself on the chest lightly. "I mean, it works sometimes, but... Gotta improve so I'm not just using the one strategy, right?"      Still, the food's not going to eat itself, and the healer seems more than prepared for it even out here! Pulling a small bundle, she unrolls that into a thin, yet fairly large blanket suitable for picnics! That, or she just stole one of the bedsheets from the Pleasure Palace.      Either way, it's large enough to provide adequate space for the paper plates she starts setting out, then bread, and several quart-sized containers of... Brownish-orange substance. Judging from the smell, that is probably the curry. There's also a box of plastic spoons and forks along with a few sets of slightly higher quality, but still plastic chopsticks.      "Fudou? Yeah, Fudou recommended trying something different with the potatoes this time, so it should look better than the usual. Dunno how it'll taste, but.. Yeah. Let's eat!" 

:'''{{#var:662|Fake Avenger (662)}} has posed:'''      Kojirou's eyes still seem incredibly distant as MORDRED and Saber speak to him. Then...      "You pick up a sword," Kojirou observes, "And put blade to blade for the sake of testing each other. How will you test the metal if you cannot see its breaking-point? What you saw is not what you are - it is what you are when you hold back for the sake of 'first blood.'"      Kojirou waves his hand thoughtfully in front of him. "What you want to see is not that. What you want to see is a display of your skill. What you want to see is the naked truth, the glory of your art taken to its highest form, where live and death are but a hair's breadth apart."      He pushes off the rock and folds his hands into his sleeves. "What you displayed was a dance. A fine performance, but not a fight. Not a duel. And not a worthy test of either of your skills. I can tell simply from a glance that you are more skilled than you displayed. I hope that you will show me the full depth of those hidden skills when we fight."      "If you do not attempt to kill me," Kojirou continues, "You will probably die."      With that, Kojirou starts to drift away. He pauses, as if realizing something, then turns and bows to Arturia again. "Thank you for permitting me witness." Then he straightens, almost mechanically, and vanishes, reality hiccuping around him as the black twitching of the strange tattoo/scar/things fades away. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      The Servant found herself nodding in agreement with the knight from the stars. It was a form of training, and the tactics were entirely different than on the battlefield against an enemy army. Still, it was somewhat closer to the battles between fellow Elites, which likewise necessitated a change in strategy. But this itself was both sport and learning experience, and both knights relished the challenge merely for the sake of challenge.      Arturia didn't frown in disapproval at the hint of a far more serious match of Mordred against his father, however. Her expression seemed closer to something which might have seemed like regret. Yet, she didn't so much as speak, simply observing through slightly regretful eyes.      "In all fairness, my lady, Servants have abilities well beyond those of mortals. And Sir Mordred's Armour likewise exceeds those limitations. However, no ill can come of the proper application of Exercitium. One must continue to train to exceed one's potential."      Oh yes, Sanary is definitely on her Good People list. But before she seated herself with her practicesd regal elegance and opted for the chopsticks, there was still the issue of Kojirou. "It was merely a sport. As my fellow knight has said, it is your right to find such things not to your liking, but such as not the purpose of this match. But I am assured that, given a more absolute situation, Sir Mordred would be more than up to the demands. it is not unlike strong drink; some is enjoyable, but too much defeats the purpose."      Hard sea-green eyes bored hard into the violet of Kojirou's. "But rest assured that when we face one another, I shall not be so restrained."      Yet, for all her seriousness, she bowed in return. She was still unfailingly polite, after all. 

:'''{{#var:804|Project MORDRED (804)}} has posed:''' When he notices the regret in Saber's eyes, MORDRED looks away. He can't in good conscience not look away. He takes advantage of the discussion of speed, "In further fairness, Glare-NT does have sensory assistance, and that I have been training all my life to be the best Knight I can be. Consistent combat practice is part of that." MORDRED expands upon Saber's explanations of exceeding limitations, and turns to sit down and look at the food. He closes his eyes and and presses his hands together, his lips moving in a quiet murmur. "Bon appetit." He starts to reach for a set of utensils and a plate. 

:'''{{#var:714|Sanary Rondel (714)}} has posed:'''      That information about Servants helps Sanary feel a little better. Sort of. "Huh... So I'd just need to become a Servant, then? And then I can use this Exercitum while... Training?"      She's pretty sure she's mixing her terms up there. It doesn't worry her too much, though, especially since her attention is drawn back to Kojirou right when he does that reality-warping disappearing thing. She does a double take at the sight of that, her light sheen over her eye disappearing briefly as she cuts off the flow of magical energy to it before powering it back up again just to make sure she isn't seeing things.      "... Gotta learn how to do that, too." Turning to to MORDRED next, she squints at him closely between turning to Saber, then at Mordred. "I mean, I'm pretty confident in my strength, but I don't have anywhere near that speed yet. Or..."      She pauses, then stares right at MORDRED with an amused snicker. "Servants are a lot prettier than us, aren't they?" 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      In all fairness, the story of Arturia and the homunculus created from her was vastly different than that of a knight from the stars who grew up in exile. Their differences in gender, Saber suspected, were only the start. But if there was a way to prevent something of that tragedy, she was inclined to at least try.      And it would seem there were other travesties to avert.      "I...would not advise becoming a Servant," Saber replied. "One is never guaranteed a Master who is honourable, for one."      On the other hand, she could discuss the Eight Virtues all day. "Exercitium is one of the Eight Virtues of chivalry," she explained, becoming more animated. "Training and the honing of skills is a lifelong endeavour for a knight, who must perform daily drills and maintain a fitness of form. Even if one is not a night nor even seeks to become one, the Virtues are useful for..."      Prettier...wait, what? "Pardon?" Arturia asked with an owlish blinking of her eyes. She was still not quite used to being considered feminine or conventionally attractive. 

:'''{{#var:804|Project MORDRED (804)}} has posed:''' The story of John Arthur and the clone created from him is indeed quite different from that of Arturia and her relatives, but there are undeniable similarities, and perhaps the Arturia can change MORDRED's tragic fate. Only time will tell. "Do you have an equivalent to MerGN-A here as well?" His question is phrased neutrally, carefully avoiding showing any emotion when he names the Emergent he sees as his mother. MORDRED is fairly close to the ideal of male attractivness, but that aside, he deflects the question with a simple statement, "We are warriors, what matters is not how good we look, but how well we fight." He then starts eating, it appears he is truly hungry, as his share disappears quickly. "This is delicious." 

:'''{{#var:714|Sanary Rondel (714)}} has posed:'''      Perhaps luckily or unluckily for Sanary, she had never grown up with the stories of... Well, anything, really. Who had the time to indulge in stories when there were pigs to raise and bandits to drive off? On one hand, it gave her a blank slate to work with and to absorb all sorts of information coming her way. On the other hand, it left her somewhat naive to things that would be more obvious to others even with her fledgling education.      "Oh... You don't get to choose? Damn. I mean, Souji's been a pretty good boss, but I don't think I'd go as far as calling him a Master or anything..."     She listens to Saber speak of Exercitium intently, a slow nod being given every now and then before chuckling to herself. "Sounds like Yari, alright."      What draws an unrestrained laugh from the healer is the combination of both MORDRED's and Arturia's reactions to appearances. "Well, that's not completely true. If you look good, it might make someone hesitate or get distracted in a life or death situation. Hell, I thought Lady Saber here was a cute butler when I showed up before."      "... It's not fair." She droops just a bit, but doesn't let it get her down too much. Not when there's ego-stroking from MORDRED complimenting her cooking! "Is it? This is one of the few things I've learned how to make and not make it... Er. Awful, so I've been practicing a lot lately." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''     Arturia squinted slightly in concentration; the alien name seemed somewhat familiar. "There is someone with a similar name...Morgan le Fay. She is my half-sister...though my son and I are not on the best of terms with her. It is she who created Mordred from my...'dee en ay', I believe it is called?"      She sighed softly. "Though perhaps it is unimportant...most likely, she had been dead for over a thousand years."      That lack of knowing the stories likely worked to Sanary's advantage, actually. Too many people had expectations of King Arthur and the Round Table to necessarily square a tiny blonde girl who looked no older than fifteen with the image of a manly warrior-king. "A Servant is called from the Throne of Heroes. When a hero dies, he ascends to the Throne. During the Holy Grail War, these heroes are summoned as Servants to fight one another until only one remains. The final Servant is then ordered by his Master to kill himself to complete the filling of the Grail. The magi believe that once this is accomplished, the Greater Grail may be summoned and open a pathway to the Root of Existence."      Yeah, Heaven's Feel sucks.      She smiled fondly. "Lady Yari is a most noble person, with a strong sense of chivalry...or close to it, in any case." There were quite a number of Confederates she was personally fond of even without the presence of her magic-created clone. Inwardly, however, she worried about them; chivalry and honour seemed to be things that organisation merely tolerated and only for as long as it suited their goals. And the new Mordred seemed to be added to that list.      "Indeed, this is most excelle..." And the flailing commenced at Sanary's description of her as 'cute'. Sputtering, the otherwise elegant King of Knights flailed slightly with her chopsticks in hand. "I-I...y-you must surely be mistaken, am assuredly not...my Lady Sandary is much more than I, surely..."      So much for dignity. 

:'''{{#var:804|Project MORDRED (804)}} has posed:''' "Yeah, that sounds familiar." MORDRED says flatly, without emotion, when the rough story of Morgan le Fay is revealed. And then he latches onto the changing topic, "That sounds like an interesting scenario, though I wonder what the Root of Existence has to offer to justify the procedure. It must be significant if so much death of otherwise uninvolved people is deemed justified to achieve it." There's an eager curiousity there, a honest desire to learn on naked display. "If someone hesitates because of the appearance of his enemy, then I question his skill as a warrior. Queen Valerie la Guin is one of the most beautiful women in the solar system, and also one of the most deadly." This is said with absolutely no inflection, a mere statement of fact. "Between her and L4-NC3-L07, I don't know who would win. Both are terrifying to behold on the battlefield." 

:'''{{#var:714|Sanary Rondel (714)}} has posed:'''      Saber's recounting of the history of the Holy Grail War draws Sanary's complete attention, her eyebrow raising slowly by the time she gets to the end of general procedure of the war itself. She opens her mouth and closes it, taking a moment to eat some bread dipped in curry before sighing. "That sucks. Do you still have to that now? Because... Wow, that sucks. I don't even know if whatever reward it gives would be worth it unless..."      She pauses for a moment. "... Unless it works like the Dragon Balls. Then you could undo all the deaths and still get something out of it." The gears are starting to turn, but just how far will that go?      Not too far, apparently, since her attention is redirected by the flailing. Is Saber... Embarrassed? Oh, this is too good a chance to pass up. "Not a mistake at all! You've got a really nice face, beautiful hair, and a great..." She pauses to look Saber over, taking note of her suit before reaching out to pat her on the shoulder reassuringly.      "I know your pain. But you still look great even without... You know." Granted, Sanary's wearing a chest binding under that suit, but still. Unity in numbers! "Don't you think, MORDRED? Hmm.. Think she could give your Queen Valerie a run for her money?" 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      The drop in the more 'refined' language made Saber raise her eyebrows...and yet, that might have been something closer to what her own 'son' needed. "I think perhaps the one who has truly suffered at her hands would be my son. I think that you would be a good friend to her. In many ways, we are mirror images of one another, and I think perhaps she could do with a friend."      For all her seeming aloofness and the female Mordred's coarseness, Saber seemed to genuinely care for the homunculus created from her.      "The magi of our world seek knowledge simply for the sake of knowledge," Arturia explained. "To be a magus is To Know. The Root is all that the world was formed from, and magi wish to return to it. I only learned of it recently, but that is the true purpose of the Holy Grail War."      She shook her head at Sanary. "I had believed it to be not unlike them, in truth. I sought a wish, and I made my behest to the world to allow me the chance to realise it. But both my first Master and I had not realised the true purpose of Heaven's Feel."      The names remained alien, but definitely familiar. "My queen, Guinevere, was no fighter. But she was beautiful and noble, and agreed to a marriage with another woman for the sake of the kingdom and to provide the image of a stable royal family. Sir Lancelot knew of the truth of my sex as well, and has always been a steadfast friend and exemplary knight."      And yes, Saber was indeed Embarrassed. "N-not at all, Guin was a true beauty, and men from as far away as Cathay came merely for the sake of a glance..."      The furious burning red complexion did absolutely nothing to help her situation. Not very kingly at all. 

:'''{{#var:804|Project MORDRED (804)}} has posed:''' "I'm not discounting that possibility, and I do need allies." MORDRED says calmly, deftly dodging talking about his mother again. "I can emphasize with the first for knowledge, I cannot emphasize with the lengths they seem to be willing to go for it." He sounds uncertain about something, and drifts back to the relatively comfortable topic of appearances. "Even if I did believe such things mattered, which I don't, it would be rude to compare so blatantly and directly. As such, I will not make any such judgments." 

:'''{{#var:714|Sanary Rondel (714)}} has posed:'''      That was news to her. "You have a son? Her... Ah. O-of course." Sanary's just a little confused, although it does fade soon enough as she offers Saber a reassuring smile. "Never hurts to have more friends. But if you're mirror images... How will I know which one is you and which one is her?"      There's a thoughtful look in her eye as Saber continues. "Mm... Who is your master, anyway? Er. Unless that's a personal question."      She nods in agreement with MORDRED, taking another moment to chew on more bread. "Yeah, it does sound very... Convoluted. Seems like it might have been easier for them just to look for more knowledge instead of having people fight for... Something that might not be knowledge."      Shrugging lightly, a mischievous grin comes over her face at the lady-king's blushing expression. "Lady Saber. There's nothing wrong with taking some time to look cute sometimes. How about... One day? You, me, Yari, and your son... Daughter? We all go somewhere to try another look for you. You too, MORDRED. Your face isn't bad, either..." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Arturia was aware of the deliberate evasion, considering her own familial issues. Her half-sister /hated/ her and blamed her for her father's indiscretions. Never mind that Uther had abandoned her to Merlin to deliver her to Sir Ector to be raised. Not that she had a single regret when it came to her life with the old knight, but to Arturia, Uther was no more than a distant relative. Her father, in her mind, was Ector.      She couldn't help it, really. Arturia laid a light hand over Mordred's forearm. "Our worlds and our histories are so very different. I know nothing of your mother nor your father. But I ask that you try to look beyond what things appear to be. Do not make the same mistakes I did."      With that, her hand fell away.      Saber turned to Sanary then. "I believe that Sir Mordred -- the one who shares my appearance -- is what many in the multiverse term as a 'clone'. She is more akin to an identical twin in most ways, yet she was created from me."      Her expression shifted only subtly into one of regret. "It is rather simple to tell us apart. Mordred is her own person. She is like me, but yet we are indeed different."      Strangely, the following topic was much more comfortable. Perhaps not especially tactically-sound...but then again, even most modern magi were smarter than to mess around with an actual Knight of the Round Table. If she wasn't his king, she'd likely be scolded, but this had its advantages as well. And it was hardly as if this wasn't common knowledge. "It is not," Saber replied. "Sir Bedivere is my Master, now."      On the matter of the folly of the magi, the Servant simply shrugged. "It would seem that some have exercised the wisdom in seeking it without such shortcuts," she replied, pausing to take a bite of a curried potato. After a moment of containing her bliss, she continued. "The Holy Grail itself appears to have become tainted, and certain magi have seen the folly in taking such shortcuts in lieu of their own studies."      That elegance was short-lived, however. "Ah...well. I do not recommend such for Sir Mordred, as she is...but I...well...."      Crap. Sanary wouldn't be the first, but poor Arturia simply could not acclimate to the idea that she might be feminine. At all. 

:'''{{#var:804|Project MORDRED (804)}} has posed:''' "Based on what I've heard and gathered, I would strongly advice reconsidering getting the other me involved in anything that could be construed as 'dolling her up.' The idea seems to have an adverse influence on her mood, and well..." And MORDRED looks uncomfortable with the idea himself, but he's too polite to mention that much. He changes the subject, "This is a nice little town you've built up, it's much more pleasant than Mercury Base." 

:'''{{#var:714|Sanary Rondel (714)}} has posed:'''      Sanary raises her eyebrow curiously as she glances from Saber to MORDRED, the concept of their semi-shared, yet completely different pasts being rather intriguing to the girl. Granted, a lot of it didn't make sense without any context to work with, but... Well, there were probably records of these things lying around somewhere, right?      "Oh... Uh. I know I heard that clone word once before. Twin, definitely. She seems like a nice enough person. Considering her... Uh. Parent twin?" The expression change doesn't go unnoticed, although the healer does have some manner of tact to avoid staying on that topic longer than necessary.      She does gag briefly upon hearing that Bedivere is Saber's Master, managing a light snicker even in between bouts of coughing. "Really? I would've guessed it was the other way around, the way he talks."      Turning to MORDRED, she laughs easily and devours the rest of her share of food. "Really? She was pretty cute, too, though. And you..." She pauses to stare at him. "... Maybe not cute, but the right outfit could work." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Saber's expression never changed, but she seemed to pale slightly. "Indeed..Sir Mordred...that is, my 'son', has a...well. She shares my form and my gender, but she possesses the mind and heart of a man."      A sigh. "She has always been an exemplary knight, it is simply that...I had wished she was less as I was. She always possessed the potential, but I wanted something beyond reaching for my own failures." Self-loathing was a go.      On the subject of Bedivere, her blushing was much more subtle...yet not without its own suggestions. Especially not with her fidgeting and blushing. "W-well...Sir Bedivere was a knight of my retinue, the Left Hand of the King, in fact. But as circumstances have played out, it became more beneficial that he become my Master...."      Saber pounced on the next subject eagerly. "Ah, well. It was a most fortuitous turn of events. Sir Bedivere had received word of a remote village under assault from frost demons, and we came to drive them off. Yet, what we foud was that the demons were in truth the corrupted servants of the land's winter guardian. She made a request of us that we capture the land's previous lord, who had turned to the dark arts and corrupted her familiars, and turn him over to her. We did so, and she was able to return to her lake for a proper rest to await the next true winter. Similarly, she entrusted us with care of the land. And we have been its caretakers ever since." 

:'''{{#var:804|Project MORDRED (804)}} has posed:''' "If my warnings have failed to dissuade you, Lady Rondel, then all I shall request is that you do not share this plan with Sir Mordred while I remain in the vicinity." MORDRED takes a look towards the buildings. "It's a few seconds past seven minutes prior to a daily matter I need to attend to. Please forgive me, but I shall have to take care of this matter. Would you mind if I spent the night here? It's so much nicer than home." 

:'''{{#var:714|Sanary Rondel (714)}} has posed:'''      Definitely best not linger on that topic for too long. Sanary stays quiet for a while before reaching over to give Saber a reassuring pat on the arm and a sympathetic grin.      And more curry. There's still a few unopened quarts left! "If you two want, you could bring the leftovers back home. I can make this again whenever I want to try it again, so I'll more than enough for myself."      Turning to MORDRED, she blinks slowly before letting out an understanding 'aah' and nodding her head. "Understood. Hmm... Yeah, I'll be careful not to bring that up around her, then. It was good talking to you finally, MORDRED." She bows her head lightly to him and gestures at some of those quarts juuust in case.      Then again, he could just grab them in the morning if he did end up staying here. Well, whatever.      The mischievous grin returns at that slight blushing, although the healer's probably done enough teasing for one day. "This really is a nice place. Yari's told me many great things about the place, and your hospitality's been amazing. If I didn't live where I did and if my old home wasn't... The way it it was, I'd invite you all over just to see it." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      The placid, regal demeanour never seemed to change, but one might have the impression that the King of Knight agreed entirely with the assessment from the knight from the stars. Her magical clone seemed to be allergic to anything feminine,or even the suggestion thereof. "Ah...yes. It would be prudent to...well. When it comes to my son, it would be best to consider her....well, a man."      Certain others might have thought calling her masculine an insult, but Saber knew better.      Yet, she seemed almost startled by MORDRED's request. "Of course," she replied. "Hospitality extends to necessary lodgings. There is a hostel on the second floor, as well as private quarters on the third, whichever is the most agreeable. And both share full communal baths." And what she meant by 'communal baths' were full Roman-style, mineral-rich heated ones. Decadent by some standards, though quite common in her era, and now available for any visitor to the remote keep.      "Our breakfast is typically at seven in the morning. And should you have need of anything, the servants of the keep will attend to it."      As for the curry... "It would be a shame to allow any of it to go to waste. By all means." Not that she and the other Mordred couldn't have devoured it between the two of them, but, manners.      The Servant smiled slightly. "Perhaps one day, then. If the respite we offer allos others to reclaim their homes and remake them into something similar, then we have achieved what we wished to achieve."      She smiled to the new guests of their growing community. "Be welcome in the Fortress of the Stars." 

}}

2373/Smash and Grab

2015-06-04T02:30:55Z

ForwardObserver: Removing extra pose

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2015/06/03
|Location=Faraway Galaxy <FG>
|Synopsis=The Empire managed to seize Juno Eclipse and the Rogue Shadow in the previous night's raid on Sienar Fleet Systems. Now, her allies and friends are determined to get her back.
|Thanks=
|Cast of Characters=20, 64, 414, 428, 522, 672, 731, 754, 794
|Tinyplot=Resolution
|Tinyplot2=
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:428|Juno Eclipse (428)}} has posed:''' The I.N.S. ''Emperor's Justice'' is a very large ship. Lictor-class ships, also known as Mandalorian Dungeon Ships, are versatile warships that can serve a variety of functions. Although Star Destroyers tend to make up the brunt of the front-line battleships, the Lictor-class vessels are respectable in their own right. Their primary function, however, is a lot more straightforward. They're called dungeon ships for a reason. These blocky, massive vessels are made and used to transport prisoners. Eight to nine thousand of them, to be exact. Fourteen hundred additional Imperials are also aboard such behemoth ships, serving as wardens and ship's crew. As a matter of security, much of the crew and wardens are droids. Today, the ''Emperor's Justice'' is trundling down the Hydian Way, from Core World of Corellia to the Outer Rim world of Mustafar. Its load of prisoners are to be left on that volcanic hell-planet, condemned to some miserable fate or another that probably involves dying horribly at some point. It's a very large ship, although only a third or so the size of the ''Executor''. The ''Emperor's Justice'' still has an incredibly solid design, with reasonably heavy durasteel plating over its hull, two tractor beam projectors, and ten quad turbolaser cannons, the better to fend off potential prison breaks. It may be a tough nut to crack for any saboteurs, but not impossible. It's big, it's slow, and it's seriously about as subtle (and ugly) as a brick. The prisoners are quiet, and the wardens are relaxed. Although there are a few high-profile prisoners, they're nothing serious. Rebels, traitors, and deserters, for the most part, with the odd smuggler or political enemy sprinkled in for variety. Of the nine thousand prisoners, eight thousand of them are kept in ordinary holding cells. Some of them are kept in special holding cells, such as captive Jedi, using technology that Force powers won't allow them to break free from. The Rouge Shadow has been stowed in the cargo hold, although its systems have been taken wholly offline. Some misguided soul even stowed the parts needed to repair the ship in the cargo hold, perhaps mistakenly thinking that the ship was bound for a destination other than the ''Emperor's Justice''. Seems the ship is ultimately intended for one of the many, many lava pits of Mustafar. Or some dumb grunt mixed up the paperwork. Juno Eclipse is also aboard this ship, somewhere, in the cell blocks. It's been a very long twenty-four hours for the former Imperial, hours that have left her feeling wrung-out and even more exhausted than usual. Dangling from locks around her wrists, feet not quite touching the floor, her entire torso is a long line of pain focused at her wrists; they've begun bleeding slightly where she's been tugging at and testing the mangalock cuffs around them. She stopped tugging about two hours ago, when she realised that no one's coming. There will be no grand rescue. She'll be brought to Mustafar, where prisoners and Jedi and other undesirables go to vanish, and that will be that. It was a good run, and she only regrets not being able to say goodbye to Galen. Juno hangs her head, trying to find some slack in the cuffs around her wrist, but there is none. She gives a half-hearted tug before going still, resolving to ride out the pain in silence until their arrival on Mustafar. Her head is pounding, and all she wants to do is sleep. The first order of business for any Would-Be Rescuers will probably be to take out the lumbering prison ship's ion engines. Then, finding a point to board would be ideal. There are roughly eight thousand prisoners on this ship, and they're looking for one. Crew and passenger manifests are another excellent thing to look for. 

:'''{{#var:672|Starbound Flotilla (672)}} has posed:''' The STARBOUND FLOTILLA is here. They are an FTL Jump away, tracking it with Seft's sensors. Their members are on edge, full of a tense sort of energy, the whole Core Fleet seems like a coiled spring. Every inch of them is a mad, profound force. Albert's craft is an ultramodern white sort of thing, loaded brutally with numerous energy cannons and missile launchers designed for fighters, plus heavy shielding. Biteblade's is about five different ships salvaged and welded together, with a tremendous fixed-forward railgun mounted on the top. George's and Moonfin's, respectively a modern gray chunky gunboat and a sleek blue shark-like craft, are made for maneuverability, sporting their own energy weapons on turrets or fixed forward. Pavo's yellowed stone-like pirate-temple-ship may be designed for boarding action, but it also works wonderfully as a zippy little runner too, scouting and darting about. Seft's large sensor array and heavier bombardment cannons mounted on what appears to be a mixture of a spaceship and a castle provide copious tactical data on movements and formations. Albert's craft is the main fighting force here, and as such, anyone wishing to engage in SHIP TO SHIP COMBAT will be aboard there, and will have full use of its subsystems to help in the battle. On the other hand, those wishing to engage in BOARDING ACTION will be aboard Pavo's craft. Those with their own craft were coordinated with; when the entire Core Fleet jumps in, all at once, charging their way to the craft. Albert has a few words for the group, relayed over radio, ship intercoms, and similar. "They expect us. Captain Eclipse was captured with the specific intent of controlling Starkiller. There is no question that they have a trap, and intend to spring it as brutally as possible. There is only one option moving forward. Spring the trap with such tremendous and brutal force that it would be impossible for them to compensate. You will board or you will cripple the craft. We will bring to bear a martial force of such magnitude that their only possible response is to relent. Spare no expense. Immobilize the craft first. That is our priority. Strike now, and without hesitation." The Starbounders are already opening fire. Biteblade, specifically, has the massive STARHUNTER railgun firing square at the engine, while Albert is trying to get a volley of lasers targetting shielding specifically, assisted by whatever data on the shields that Seft can get. 

:'''{{#var:754|HK-47 (754)}} has posed:''' How did the predecessor ever stomach organics in such high masses? That was what it kept asking itself, prior to returning for maintenance. That was why it had left them in charge here as it's response to any rescue attempts. And yet, they were never given any confidence of success by their elder. Striding down the hallway, two of the droids stalked toward the cell of former Captain Juno Eclipse, their shapes identical and uniform - steel-gray bodies, glowing yellow-gold photoreceptors, disruptor carbines slung to their backs and equipment belts around their waists. Their stride was in perfect synchronization - a pinnacle of coordination. Yet they were looked down upon by their progenitor. They were treated as inferior. They had been left in charge of a mission their progenitor rightfully should have been carrying out himself, if not for his recall to Dromund Kass - for he had become somewhat eager to report to the Master the details of the stock frigate he had encountered over Corulag. And so, in the absence of HK-47, his position was replaced by six of his successor units - his progeny - the HK-51. Moving in tandem, they saw another member of the Confederacy - Gaius Van Baelsar, according to their datafiles - and fell into step behind them as he was heading in the same direction as them, their target likely the same. "Greeting - We are HK-51, protocol and defense units for the Sith Empire. The two units before you will be serving as the personal defense sentries of the prisoner Juno Eclipse - we shall also serve as your escort, if you deem it necessary." The droids waited for conformation before moving forward— And that was when the alarms were triggered, and the droids began communing amongst themselves in the wake of their progenitor's predictions coming true, the other four units scattered across the ship taking action as they spread to the ships's central areas, intending to cut their opposition off. It was just as they - both their predecessor, and Vader - had said. The inquisitor had come for his prize. They would prove themselves worthy by neutralizing him... with lethal prejudice, if necessary. 

:'''{{#var:522|Gaius Van Baelsar (522)}} has posed:''' Gaius Van Baelsar is here for three reasons really. One: To get a good look at something far greater and grand then his own Empire could ever build – but maybe one day can once better relations are made with outside worlds. Two: To help make sure the ''Rogue Shadow'' and the like remain safeguarded – Then Three: To speak with Juno Eclipse aboard this massive Dungeon of a ship. While she was captured was good news, the fact of her execution is something he is silently against. However, this is not his empire and she was ''deemed'' a traitor. A traitor with perhaps no out or any way to clear her name. It was – a shame to him really. She was a fine woman, a fine pilot, and honestly after that time in bar betting over pod racers... he had come to deeply respect her. This brings the Garlean walking down the halls to where she was being held at, unless by some chance some Imperial stops the armored Legatus from continuing down that path. Which if they do, he'll perhaps only stare before doing told. If none was to stop him, he would go to her cell – to try and solve just what was going on. Though instead it seems he gets an escort of two droids, which he does not protest against. This is not his ship nor his 'people'. This empire has their ways, just as his has their own. Ways he will respect, even if he does not fully understand. Even if he can't change the fate Juno will face, he at least wants to hear the answers from her lips. Answer to why – it was bugging him to no end really. As for the ship, if extra guards are required a few of his own troops are down there acting on duty. Two Centurions really in their own armor and a few Troopers that are not as armed. The Centurions might fit in (though maybe by a long stretch), the Troopers – well, they seem a bit outclassed by all the technology. Though it seems someone has other plans and the ship goes on red alert. A sound and light show The Legatus know all to well from his own command on the Dreadnought. He comes to a halt in his steps and looks toward the emergency light. The red glow being reflected away from his dark armor and only caught in the edges of the gold trim. The crisp light doesn't even reflect on the void lens where his eyes should be seen, but do give an eerie contour to the white armor piece connected to the horned helm. Space combat was not something he was capable of and fighting in zero g was not something any Garlean was trained for. So long as the gravity stays intact, he and his few men will be fine. Though the attack does not stray the Garlean from his coarse. He'll let the Imperials deal with the problem and his men aid in protecting the cargo. Maybe this little distraction can allow him to get closer to where Juno is, given the droids seem to have zero interest in stopping him and if he does get to her cell in time. He will simply come to stop in front of it and look at her in dead silence with the alert going off around him. 

:'''{{#var:731|Galen Marek (731)}} has posed:''' If anyone knows Galen Marek, they know which ship he's on. Standing behind Pavo, he awaits the ship to get into position for boarding. One prison ship, guard droids, crew droids, and whatever forces the Empire has on board besides. Galen smirks. It's almost too easy for him to spring this trap. He knows what's waiting. Not exactly, but enough. Vader wants him, and Juno is the easiest way for him to get Galen. It was almost as though the black-clad Sith was psychic. Or at least observant. But what Vader wasn't counting on was the growing light in his heart. Vader wanted the darkness to take hold. At least, he had in the past. He suspects it hasn't changed, but perhaps Vader just wanted to kill him personally. Regardless, when he sets eyes on Galen today, he will not see Starkiller. Starkiller donned dark clothing and was incredibly vicious. Blind, almost, to the world around him aside from his target. Galen Marek dressed in white today, the robes set off with a bluish hood. His lightsaber rests on his waist, and his appearence is calm. They had Juno, but they would not have her for long. Despite his appearences, he would have to channel a bit of Starkiller today. He could not just let those who took her forget his anger, but he couldn't afford for it to cloud his mind. Not today. He would see to the end of the droid and the mysterious hunter, but he would not let the rage overtake him. That was Starkiller's claim to fame. Galen is still remarkably skilled, but he couldn't let the Dark Side win. When he ignited his lightsaber, it would not be out of anger. It would be out of love. He stares at the massive flying brick, watching as the fleet begins its assault. He tilts his head upward, face placid. He would await the command, and then the Empire would see to just what extent the former Inquisitor would go for his pilot. 

:'''{{#var:794|Darth Vader (794)}} has posed:''' Lord Vader is not present, and neither is his flagship the ''Executor''. The intended destination of the prison transport is one that he is uncomfortable with, even if the entire thing is a trap meant to snare Starkiller. He will never forget burning on shores of black sand on Mustafar, or the many tragedies that preceded that moment. Setting foot on that planet makes the fury rise in him, and overtaxes his respirator very rapidly. It is not the only one. Tatooine and Naboo are forbidden to him for similar reasons. Far, far away, Vader sits unmasked in his meditation chamber, working on installing the wiring on an astromech unit. The frame of a loader droid sits nearby. In the meantime, aboard the ''Emperor's Justice''... The minimal crew required to operate the ship is in place. Approximately three hundred and seventy members of the Imperial infantry, dressed in grey uniforms with domed helmets, are scattered about the ship at various posts. The only patrollers are old droids that move in pairs, by appearance seeming to be old remnants of the Trade Federation's vast droid armies. As for the prisoner cells... They are non-standard. There are approximately nine thousand cells composed entirely of hard-light energy projections, about a thousand of which are solitary confinement cells. This place was meant to transport Jedi prisoners to their final resting place. Each and every cell is filled with at least one individual. All male, with shaved heads. They seem abnormal somehow, as if they aren't quite human. Some kind of humanoid alien species, perhaps...? They have been maimed in the face, each and every one of them. Their features are scorched and warped, as if they've been tortured by burning and then nursed back to health. When the Dungeon ship is attacked, it puts up a fight. But it isn't suited to true battle – it fires back and lumbers on, but it's slow, and has no means of escape. One of the engines is shot out after a short exchange, though the rest continue to operate and carry it forward. Disabling it outright will be a task of unnecessary difficulty, but getting in and boarding should be almost trivial. 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:''' Lowri-Revan Shan found herself thanking the Force that she had answered that seemingly random distress beacon a few days ago. Not only was she able to fend off the Swarm and get Blurr to safety, but her new 'friend' had more than pulled his weight helping T3-M4 to repair the ''Ebon Hawk'' after the previous debacle. If time hadn't been of the essence, she would have enjoyed a brief respite in contributing to those repairs rather than let the droids handle the task, but there was an even more important task before her. Rescuing Juno Eclipse from the Galactic Empire. The ''Ebon Hawk'' was present together with the Flotilla, as she had been present when the ''Rogue Shadow'' was captured. Today, however, the freighter was merely going to wait, retreating out of the way once the ship made its drop and providing electronic warfare support if necessary. Revan would be accompanying the boarding party, rendezvousing with Galen and whomever else opted for the jailbreak. This was in part to lend her much-needed Force power against a Sith, but also to make sure Galen avoided succumbing to his rage. She had promised that to the other Juno, as well. The two needed each other...and no one had needed to tell her that. And it was becoming increasingly clear that Darth Vader was using the pilot as bait. Her job was to make sure he didn't fall into that particular trap. None of her synthetic crew were particularly happy with the idea of letting their master go without them, expressing that displeasure in their respective ways. "It'll be OK," Lowri reassured them with a faint grin. "I'm not doing this alone....even *I'm* not that crazy." Pulling in close to the prisonship in one of its blind spots – she would have to thank a certain someone for those schematics – Lowri opened up the hatch. But it wasn't the Jedi who boarded the ship. Rather, it was her passenger from yesterday, a certain young but powerful earthbender...who could bend metal itself. "Ready?" Revan cued before using the Force to hurl the spacesuit-clad Toph Beifong at the ship's underside at a speed that only a metalbender of her calibre could endure. Once that was done, the ''Ebon Hawk'' pulled back to another part of the ship, waiting for Galen's party to board. But first, some significant attire change was in order... 

:'''{{#var:428|Juno Eclipse (428)}} has posed:''' Footsteps outside the cell alert her to someone's presence. It's a heavy tread, which could belong to a number of people. Not Vader, though. No respirator. Slowly, Juno looks up to behold Gaius van Baelsar's intimidating helmet. She stares for a moment, face screwed up in an expression of intense concentration – and then she lets her head drop again. "Go away. Vader's already gotten his information out of me." Wardens are immediately in motion as the alarm klaxons begin blaring. The former CIS assault droids grip carbine rifles and other blaster firearms, although for the moment there's nothing they can do but mill around in anticipation, communicating amongst themselves in their uniform droid voices. 

:'''{{#var:20|Toph Beifong (20)}} has posed:''' Juno better appreciate this. Clad in a spacesuit, Toph can only swallow as she stands by the open hatch, knowing there's nothingness between her and the large bulk of metal that she feels. "As ready as I can get...!" she half croaks, then yelps as she is tossed through space. There's brief panic as she drifts, but she feels the metal coming closer....! And then she hits the hull, her gloved hands bulking the metal as she climbs, feeling for a safe place to tear open the metal and break in! This way they will be able to approach from several directions. 

:'''{{#var:64|Lou (64)}} has posed:''' The G-Flyer, a craft that would be vaguely familiar from the day of the fateful turn of Starkiller and Juno, is not exactly subtle with its own entrance. A slowly rotating, white circle appears projected in space close to the flotilla, spinning down as its circumfrence expands almost as if it were preserving angular momentum. Seemingly from inside it, the G-Flyer emerges, engine blaring at whatever speed is necessary to keep up, as whatever that half-mystical conveyance was closes behind it. It would be recognizable: the aeroshell's stylized lines and bold, blue color looking more like a Hot Wheels toy car than something fit for space. And yet, it comes loaded. A Lou field unit sits situated at the helm, alone for the day, but that just leaves her free to operate all of the ship's systems on her own. Her eyes scan over the holographic panels, more than the view screen, soaking in every bit of data the ship's scanners can bring her beyond her own sensors, and a quick tactical decision is made: Adding to the chaos, to make the boarding even easier. The G-Flyer possesses no obvious weaponry, but from a half dozen points along its frame, beams of prismatic light escape parallel to it, before abruptly bending and being directed towards the prison ship ahead, taking care to avoid friendly, or even semi-friendly, fire. It's all bluster, though if it happens to take out a few weapons batteries, all the better. The G-Flyer's otherwise not-so-subtle path has it cruising straight towards whatever opening other would-be boarders are approaching. Hopefully, it will be able to make a bit more graceful entrance than last time it attempted such a thing, but a bit of mayhem is within the Lou unit's calculations. 

:'''{{#var:754|HK-47 (754)}} has posed:''' As the warning klaxons sound, the droids are already forming up. Two of them enter Juno Eclipse's cell, one standing on either side of Gaius as they refocus on the captive, one of them taking note of Juno's expression at seeing the two identical machines. "Greeting - We are HK-51. Mass-production successor unit to the progenitor unit and high-assassin HK-47. We shall be your protocol and personal defense units for the duration of your stay aboard the ''Emperor's Justice''." "Advisory - We recommend you follow the express directives of Confederacy personnel while under our guard." "Unnecessary Addendum - However, if you wish to attempt escape instead... we shall be more then happy to oblige you with our response." Elsewhere on the ship, one of the HK-51 units had positioned himself in the most obvious point of entry for boarding forces - the central docking bay - taking up a sniping position with it's disruptor rifle from the cover of one of the crates. Another positioned itself at the main airlock, awaiting any breaching attempts. The final two made continual rotations through the vessel, awaiting news of an invasion so that they could move to reinforce the action site. They would not allow anything to pass - not so long as they still functioned. 

:'''{{#var:672|Starbound Flotilla (672)}} has posed:''' When the shields go down, Pavo darts in. She skims low to the surface of the ship, blasting TREMENDOUS amounts of teleportation energy square into it to breach it with a brutal spacetime force. Galen and other combatants ready to breach will be invited onto the teleporter, to have local space shunted brutally into the space of the ship itself, letting them get as close to the cells as possible. 

:'''{{#var:522|Gaius Van Baelsar (522)}} has posed:''' Gaius Van Baelsar stands there, even as Juno goes to meet his gaze. When she looks away and speaks, he only shifts his weight slight to face her more directly. He places up his hand to the HK-51 drones, "She will not attempt escape. She knows it would be futile under these circumstances." Gaius seemed rather sure of himself, or perhaps – trusting Juno to not push her luck even with possible intruders finding their way in. The Legatus turns his attention fully to Juno once more. His voice remaining neutral as he speaks. "He may have gained the information ''he'' wants out of you, but I do not trust second hand sources when it comes to our ears." "Even when from a powerful ally." Gaius remarks with a minor tilt of his head, his hands remaining at his sides with he crimson red leather-like cloth blending in at times with the flash of the lights. "Juno," Gaius says with his head lowered just a smidge. "Why do you betray the Confederacy? What could make you desire to become a traitor to those whom saw such great potential in you, potential even you yourself boasted in." It may be clear by this point in Gaius' voice that he does not have really any true clue on to what has been going on here. To him, she was one moment a grand ally, next a traitor that needs to be shot out back. It didn't add up to him and he there was many pieces missing that would explain the truth. "It did not have to be this way Juno. Your death is a waste." The Garlean explains with honesty in his voice. "It does not make sense for you to do what you have done. Are you truly a traitor or some misguided fool..." Not that he honestly would believe her to be a fool, far from it. She was an intelligent woman – but if this "Force" was as powerful as many declared it to be and she worked with the this man who held the "Force"... could he have twisted her heart to act in such a manner? Gaius for the moment also ignores his comms. He will not sway away from this cell, not until he hears Juno's explination – though he may be soon running out of that time. 

:'''{{#var:672|Starbound Flotilla (672)}} has posed:''' Albert wastes no time. There must be nothing left to chance. Arrays of missile weapons bristle with their payloads and immediately blast forward. They're not targeting the engines. They are targeting the communications equipment. Do NOT let this vessel call for help, that is his intent. Even now, Albert functions as the fleet's 'tank'; its wide shield provides cover for the others. Their target fires back and Albert takes the brunt of it, with shielding systems sparking and buzzing and melting aboard but the shield itself holding quite firm. 

:'''{{#var:794|Darth Vader (794)}} has posed:''' The exterior of the prison ship is predictably thick. If Toph wants to get in without venting the interior, which would probably be as much an issue for Juno as it would be for the Wardens inside, she's going to have to find an airlock to cycle through. Unfortunately, freestanding entry points just aren't very useful if you don't want everyone dead. There are access hatches here and there, though, to facilitate in-flight repairs. They're meant for droids, but Toph is small enough to get into them just fine. Navigation may be a bit complicated from there, though. Opening fire on the hardpoints the turrets are mounted to has mixed success. Some damage occurs, but the shields are pretty thick there and so is the armor underneath it. It's really easier to just avoid the emplacements, there really aren't very many of them. It's not like this ship is going anywhere fast. The Wardens are going about their business calmly. Attempted prison breaks are hardly unheard of, and they have a plan for this particular attempt. It's not as if it wasn't expected. Local communications frequencies start to go fuzzy and unreliable in response to Albert's bombing run. They don't seem entirely out of commission, but they're certainly not getting a -clear- message out. Strangely, there doesn't seem to be a call for assistance going out anyway. This is probably extremely suspicious. 

:'''{{#var:428|Juno Eclipse (428)}} has posed:''' The prisoner's eyes lift slowly, flicking from one identical HK-51 droid to the other. There is obvious recognition of their weapons, and she studies their expressionless yellow photoreceptors for a moment. Although superficially they might resemble PROXY, there is none of the droid's obsequious good nature in them. As their designation implies, they're killers. Juno doesn't deign to give them an answer. They don't deserve one. Instead, her attention wanders back to Gaius, even as she struggles to focus. She's tired, her wardens neglected to feed her or give her water, and all she wants to do is crawl into a hole and sleep for a very long time. Maybe she'll have an opportunity to do that on Mustafar before someone chucks her into a pit of boiling magma. She looks like hell, and that's probably a generous estimate. "Smart enough." Juno eyes the Legatus as though weighing her options, before she shakes her head and lets it fall again, disheveled hair hanging to hide her face. "I'm still confused... about those charges, you know. I wasn't aware that trying... to save my own life was considered... high treason. And I wasn't aware that anybody who turned... turned on the Empire for my sake... was affiliated with the Union, either." She grins. It's more a baring of teeth than an actual pleasant expression. "My hands were a bit... full... at the time." "I'm just... a misguided... fool. Nobody fights the Empire... and wins." 

:'''{{#var:731|Galen Marek (731)}} has posed:''' Galen steps into the teleporter, feeling himself transfer positions and suddenly there's a Starkiller on board the prison ship. To Starkiller, none of these prisoners mean anything. He's here for one prisoner among thousands. He can't save them all, and he doesn't want to anyway. Galen, however, sees this as an opportunity. If they had a trap, then maybe he could counter it with something else. [''Galen to Flotilla. Can you get someone on the cell controls? I want all of these cells open. I can try to override them, but I don't have time to do that while searching for Juno.''] He pulls his lightsaber from his belt, making his way through the cell block he finds himself in. He needs to find Juno and secure her safety before anything else. He's expecting combat, clearly, not knowing the extent of the trap they had walked into. As he ignites his saber, it's clear that something is different. Rather than a red blade, the blade is now a shining blue. He spots one of the burned prisoners, flinging his open hand toward the barrier. A wave of lightning bursts out, testing the barrier's endurance as he searches for the one he's here for. 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:''' The docking bay had a sudden nasty surprise when the ''Ebon Hawk'' lowered down from overhead, opening fire on the bay before pulling inside. However, instead of landing, the freighter hovered close to the floor. "T3, Ulaire...try to disrupt communications and operations as much as you can." Lowri turned her head towards the yet-unnamed Insecticon. "Tend to the systems of the ship, OK?" She wasn't entirely sure how much the large robot-bug could understand, but he seemed to accept the order. She shot a parting grin at her mechanical companions. "Stay safe, you three," she said before her face was obscured behind an old, battered mask. A dark figure dropped out of the ship before it turned and blasted out at full-speed for a safe distance. Of course, it was an obvious entry point...all the better to deflect attention away from the other boarding parties. Anything remaining after the ''Ebon Hawk's'' initial attack was now faced with what appeared to be...as Sith? Clad in a black tunic and hakama beneath deep maroon armour and a hooded black cape reaching the floor, the figure's identity and gender was even further hidden behind a mask of the ancient Mandalorians during the days of the Neo-Crusaders. Twin lightsabers in the figure's hands flared to life, bathing the bay in a violet glow. Possibly an intimidating sight for any remaining soldiers still breathing. 

:'''{{#var:794|Darth Vader (794)}} has posed:''' The lightning directed towards the energy prison doesn't really accomplish anything. These ships were designed to contain Jedi, and the ability to fling lightning isn't outside of the abilities of Jedi... even if it is quite odd. More alarming is the fact that this action appears to trigger a response by the Wardens of the facility. Towards the bridge of the ship, the Chief Warden dials back several adjustable levers and presses an emergency release button. All the energy cells deactivate... coincidentally this includes the one in which Juno is being held. But it also includes all eight thousand and ninety nine other cells. The maimed beings stirr, gazing about blearily... and in some cases, blindly. Some sort of neutralization effect that was built into the hardlight shields appears to lift, as well, and quite suddenly the feeling of moderately potent force sensitives floods the ship like a sudden tsunami. All of these prisoners are so mired in the Dark Side of the Force that they are insane. There is no coherent thought left in them, only a bestial sense of self-preservation. Galen had paused before the cell of one of these maimed beings, and it lingers for a moment, sniffing at the air and gurgling disturbingly. There is a momentary crackle, and an instant later both of the creature's hands are raised, projecting their own Force Lightning in his direction. The primary impulse that can be felt from all of these beings as they explore their surroundings is hunger, and it's little wonder. They look as if they've been starved. As all of this unfolds, the Wardens withdraw, leaving behind token forces of battle droids to take over the fight. There will be nearly no resistance to boarders. The problem isn't getting -in-. The problem is getting through this mess -and- getting out. 

:'''{{#var:754|HK-47 (754)}} has posed:''' The two droids stare at Juno impassively, those one seems to bob it's head in a somewhat bemused manner. "Chiding Query - And yet you fought not one Empire... but three. Surely you did not think there ''wouldn't'' be consequence to disobeying orders, much less collaborating with Union operatives? There was not much room for interpretation - but of course, organics tend to view things in such an abstract and nonsensical fashion. Mockery - I am sure that ''you'' must have felt you were doing everything right at that exact moment in time though." However, as the two guard droids were busy enjoying their prodding of their captive... the one overlooking the docking bay from it's sniper-position was reeling as it's logic circuits received a near-fatal shock, questioning if it's optical input was functioning properly. "Incredulous Statement - Master?! Impossible - Master, you have never left the Capital in the past eight galactic standard years! How can-?!" "Incredulous Response - You moronic factory reject!" the internal comm for the droid all but exploded as one of it's sibling units began barking at it. "That ''cannot'' be the Master! It is a deception - capture or exterminate it!" The droid knew better then to compact it's failure, swallowing down it's humiliation enough to draw a bead on the oncoming specter of Darth Revan and pull the trigger on it's disruptor rule. Already, one of the other two patrolling units in the ship was making it's way down to the hanger bay to reinforce - and upon receiving word that a second interloper was invading through the docking bay, the third of the six units began making it's way to the docking bay as well. Then the cells open up, and everything becomes much more complicated as the two back-up droids must wade through the congregating mess of prisoners. 

:'''{{#var:64|Lou (64)}} has posed:''' The shiny blue airframe (spaceframe?) of the G-Flyer cruises low over the turbolaser emplacements, as it makes its final approach, a stark contrast to the drab metal that likely sees little in the way of actual maintenance. This is intended to harass as well as make the medium-sized craft harder to track, rather than being part of an actual attack on them. It does get slightly rattled from being so close to one of the firing turrets, vibrations sent through the light weight materials. Rounding a corner, it comes upon the same docking area as Revan had just entered. Hopefully there's plenty enough temporary room for two, as the ship slows and begins to settle into place, even as the ''Ebon Hawk'' departs. Any cargo crates or equipment that happens to be in its way – well, that is also within calculations. The back hatch opens, and a young woman with bubblegum pink hair, and some obvious non-human features, emerges at a surprisingly casual pace considering the circumstances. Her own ship continues to be bound here, but she seems to pay this little mind. Instead, the concentric rings in the irises of her eyes adjust, seemingly telescopically, towards the figure of Revan. A quick calculation, despite the intimidating appearances, rates as 'friendly'. "I will back you up," she quickly asserts, "Please proceed with your intended pacification protocols." Reaching a hand to the small of her black, a bluish light emerges from a solid disc there, forming into a photonic rifle as it seems to become coherent mid-way between being readied. Assuming that any are left that haven't cleared from the path at the sight of Revan alone, Lou sends a volley of green laser bolts as warning shots just past them. There's something about the droid-like bits of her physiology that suggests the next won't miss. But, as her sensors suddenly detect a massive shift in energy on the ship as the cells open in concert, she gives another quick estimation, "Chances of complication in this operation have risen eighty-seven percent. Please continue with caution." 

:'''{{#var:731|Galen Marek (731)}} has posed:''' As the cells open, Galen's senses are overwhelmed. The Dark Side... he senses it EVERYWHERE, and it causes him to get blasted by the marred being's Force Lightning. He's knocked off his feet and into a wall, but as he bounces off of it he falls into a roll. As he recovers his feet, he channels more of his Force connection to blast the being with lightning before flinging his saber into its chest. He pulls the saber back with the Force, assuming his combat stance as he rushes onward. He can feel the darkness, oppressive and all-consuming, but he fights it, trying to sense for Juno. The blue saber in his hand hums as he runs, sensing for the light inside the darkness. He reaches out, trying any way to convey to Juno that they're here, and that he's coming for her. But, he can also use mundane means. "JUNO!" he calls, rushing through the ship. "JUNO! Where are you?!" He can sense Revan aboard the ship, but most others are buried under the Dark Side. The power it offers is tantalizing, and it would make things easier if he just tore the ship apart, but he doesn't. Unless he's attacked, he's just on the move. 

:'''{{#var:522|Gaius Van Baelsar (522)}} has posed:''' "For a woman who is so careful and calculative, odd that you would not have done your research." Gaius says after he listens to Juno. He crosses his arms over his chest as he looks down upon her. His stance shifts slightly, before he gaze moves over his shoulder. Then he looks to the HK-51 drones, as the prod her and he wishes he could quickly find a means to be rid of them, even if they do bring up a good point, but people do stupid things and if she was blinded by some information, unaware of what she ''honestly'' was getting herself into... ...Yet she was protective of what missions she had always taken. This pattern of behavior was odd. Including what she had to say in the end. When suddenly all the cells open and the captives seem to stir, the Garlean is quick to turn around and his hand reaches for the Heirsbane. While he may not have the force, it was clear that something was ''very'' wrong and by how these prisoners were behaving – it only reminded him of mad Tempered really; Men and women so consumed by the Primal's will that they had none left of their own. The Legatus turned to the HK-51s near him and motioned out to them. "Make sure none of these prisoners get near this cell and protect the edges of it. No harm is to come to Juno further until her trial." Though he was aware the drones could ignore his request of an order, but really with these things possibly getting lose, Juno could get killed before she even made it to where she needed to be. Gaius then looks over to Juno, "Juno—" There was a pause in his voice, a moment of hesitation, uncertainty perhaps. "—Move yourself against the corner of the wall. Keep yourself down." It seem the Garlean have every attention to make sure she remained safe with all hell breaking lose. 

:'''{{#var:672|Starbound Flotilla (672)}} has posed:''' That's enough of that. Moonfin and George's craft are darting in now, though Moonfin's craft is now piloted by Seft! Nothing – NOTHING – can be left to chance for them. Seft's craft immediately works on gathering more data and those two work on short-range engagements with various power systems that Seft might be able to detect. And, perhaps a bit unethically... As soon as Albert hears that the craft is full of horrible torture victims, he immediately fires upon a certain specific target. Any escape pod ports. Any escape shuttles. Anything that could let the people of this ship get away. What's more important is what's going on inside... Albert continues his direction; PAVO and MOONFIN are their boarding party. Their teleportation-based breach slams through the craft and deposits them inside. They have no stealth to speak of. Alerts will blare at their location. Pavo with her semi-powered mesoamerican-styled pirate armor outfit draws a one-handed POWER CUTLASS and a heavy LASER PISTOL in each hand, and Moonfin draws a two-handed POWER KATANA, closing two eyes and leaving his third eye open. Both of them have no objection to a slaughter. These are not the good members of the Flotilla. They split up and spread out, intending to engage anyone they encounter. They may encounter the HK UNITS that HK-47 has left behind, the SECURITY DROIDS, the DARK JEDI PRISONERS, or others; their primary objective is to thin the horde and clear a path for Galen to reach Juno. 

:'''{{#var:428|Juno Eclipse (428)}} has posed:''' Quite suddenly, there is no more power being fed into the magnalocks. Juno crumples to the floor like a string-cut puppet, the breath flying from her in a rush. For several seconds she can't do anything more than lie there, stunned, silently checking to make sure everything's still working correctly. Every breath hurts, but the pain reminds her that she's still alive. Her wrists are slick with blood; slowly and clumsily, she pulls herself to sit upright, reaching around to rub at one of them. She then turns to look up at one of the two hunter-killer droids, squinting slightly. The room swims a little as she tries to reorient herself. "You talk too much," she finally states, tone rife with disdain and irritation. "Shut up." Her attention promptly turns to look up at Gaius. "I did do my research," Juno snaps in response to the Legatus. "Vader laid a trap for me that I had no way to foresee, because that's what Vader does. He spins his webs and he lays his traps, and he lies. And just in case you'd forgotten, ''Legatus'', I'm a fugitive now, and a traitor, and a war criminal. The list goes on. I don't much care about the labels, but the reality is that I'm somewhat desperate—" The pilot cocks her head, faintly, as though she were listening to something. There's a voice that sounds familiar, and it almost makes her think it's... no, that's impossible. How would they get here? Shaking her head, she turns to look back at Gaius, a little bleary-eyed. She regards him suspiciously as he gives his instructions, gaze flickering briefly to the hunter-killer twins, and then to the Heirsbane. Wordlessly, and with an air of defiance in spite of her obedience, awkward for the long hours of hanging by her wrists, she shuffles into the corner and curls up miserably. And though she's no Force-user, she concentrates with all her might on that voice she had heard. It was Galen; there's no mistaking that. ''I'm here. Hurry...'' 

:'''{{#var:794|Darth Vader (794)}} has posed:''' Any HUMAN personnel that have been encountered and not immediately put down have gone into retreat. The Droids onboard this ship, particularly stupid and single-minded, fight to the death. Which is to say they get slagged in short order, until a point comes when there's nothing left on the ship but retreating Imperial personnel and an endless cascade of raging madmen. Escape pods begin to fire from each side of the ship as the human personnel evacuate, evidently not intent on being caught out in the open with the rampaging lunatics they released. A few of them who were farther out from the edges of the ship can be witnessed being overwhelmed... and cannibalized in short order. The escape pods that DO fire find themselves detonated in space, and after that the pods cease to fire and become hiding places instead of escape vessels. Galen Marek cuts down his assailant, and its death resonates through the force with alarming strength. It is as if they operated on identical wavelengths in the Force, and that point of destruction reverberated into Marek. Like a Knight cutting down a foe with a blade of metal, he is forced to experience a "shock" through the Force. One which none of the other beings here are subject to. The exterior defenses of the ship are becoming worn down now. A couple of the turrets have been disabled, and some of the others are clearly operating automatically now – they've lost their ability to aim properly. The ship itself is on autopilot, correcting its course clumsily as it limps along. Another engine is damaged enough to experience power failure, slowing the ship further... The prisoners, however, are the worst of it. Some of them merely bite, while others exhibit truly unusual force powers. They glare particularly viciously and start to induce a very gradual but extremely noteworthy measure of disentigration. A mistake is made. When Juno calls back to Galen with all her might, the prisoners in the surrounding cell block all stop and stare at her. Galen isn't the only one listening. 

:'''{{#var:754|HK-47 (754)}} has posed:''' One of the droids motions with it's disruptor in a rather threatening manner in response to Juno's quip, but it is forgotten when asked to guard the exits from the rampaging prisoners. Perhaps disturbingly so, the droids eagerly follow the requests of Gaius, both exiting the room with an almost sickengly-happy "Affirmation - Of course! Setting prejudice to Maximum!" The instant they step into the hallways, they stand together and activate their flamethrowers, dousing any and every unauthorized occupant of the hallway in thick streams of molten firespray - after all, according to the medical records of the prisoners, most had suffered severe burns. What better way to scare a scorched animal then with fire? In fact, the same scene is being repeated in other areas of the ship, as the other two droids on patrol burn their way through hallways of prisoners en-route to the hanger bay - however, one of them is stopped when it sees an alert flash on it's internal displays... and witnesses a pair of organics breach the ship with an unauthorized teleport. The instant it sees this, the droid activates an adhesive grenade, intending to glue it's targets to the floor and leave them to be picked off by the swarms of insane prisoners. The hanger bay is not much of a better scene, as the lone HK-51 droid is torn between shooting the oncoming and likely parallel version of Darth Revan, or the strange artificial female - and ultimately decides to try and wipe out both, lobbing an ion grenade in an attempt to stun the organic and perhaps cripple the seeming automaton. The last one, standing guard before the docking hatch, takes note of what seems to be metallic impacts - small ones, akin to footsteps - on the outer hull and approaching a docking port. However, the droid brushes this off as a minor concern and refocuses on the hallways and the single hatch in front of it, as no humanoid could likely fit through those smaller maintenance hatches anyway. 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:''' Revan had debated the wisdom of 'outing' herself and ultimately decided that the advantages had outweighed the disadvantages. With hostile parties already nipping at her heels, it was likely only a matter of time, anyway. And that calculation paid off. The HK units were in disarray the moment she appeared, which made dealing with them easier than it would have been. Deflecting the shots in a flurry of Niman-stance manoeuvres, Revan raised her right hand and hit the droids with a blast of ionised energy. "You're right, I'm not your master. She's dead." it still seemed that the HK units would hold her up – particularly once she heard Galen's particular problem over the radio – but fortunately she had backup just in time. The CAST would likely not be able to see it behind the mask without a special scan, but Revan grinned. "You guys really are amazing. After this is all over, I seriously need to visit your homeworld." Mission and beneath the Sith Lord 'disguise', she couldn't help it; revan would probably always be a robot fangirl. She did, however, have more than enough discipline to focus on her goals: catching up to Galen and rescuing Juno. Once their immediate opponents were dispatched, Revan made haste towards Galen's presence, confident Lou's satellite would keep up. And at the moment, he was surrounded by a very malevolent Dark Side force. 

:'''{{#var:428|Juno Eclipse (428)}} has posed:''' Scores of the crazed clones fall before the flamethrowers wielded by the various Hunter-Killer droids, but the prisoners seem to be too far gone to their madness to save themselves. In fact, some of them are so crazed that they throw themselves at the fire, like moths to a flame, screaming incoherently as they're reduced to cinders. The smell of burning flesh and cinders in the corridors is nothing short of ghastly. Even if the droids aren't capable of detecting it, it's bound to be a morale blow to Juno Eclipse's would-be rescuers. 

:'''{{#var:731|Galen Marek (731)}} has posed:''' >>>>>!<<<<< Galen's head pounds as the being dies, feeling the backlash of the death like he had struck the thing physically. The shock is enough to cause him to reel. And then it echoes again and again as the droids fight back. As the rest of the ship fights against the prisoners, he feels it. It resonates with him, and he can feel each death like a ringing through his Force connection. Whatever Vader had done to these things, he had done it well. His face pales as he makes his way through the ship. As prisoners move out, he uses the Force to shove them aside, trying to avoid fatal blows but still feeling the fights everywhere across the ship. He continues, but his face is contorted in agony, the ringing through his mind and soul almost too much to bear. Through all of it, though, he feels Juno. He tries to cling to it, but he knows these insane beings as converging on her now too. He calls out across the radio, telling his allies to not kill the prisoners, but the droids, and those not in his radio network... He can't stop them. And the shocks wear on him physically and mentally, his face losing all color. The only thing keeping his feet moving is the mission. The thought of reuniting with Juno. And the knowledge that he would one day make Vader pay for this. 

:'''{{#var:64|Lou (64)}} has posed:''' The warning shots had been aimed at the few human stragglers that still remained, or were aimed at adding more speed to their flight. The somewhat out of date guard droids, that somehow look almost as abused and disenfranchised as the rest of the ship, do not receive the same kindness, considering they actually fight back. Aiming to carve a path as best she can for Revan, any of her 'fellow' droids are a target of her rifle shots. With no access to their schematics, she only focuses on the more obvious weak points of their chassis, sparing precious little movement of her own as she paces forward steadily, terminator-style. Every so often, a bolt of returned fire grazes close enough to activate her personal shielding. It makes her flinch, in body language more than facial expression. Once their path is reasonably clear, she can once again engage in conversation, if one can count her droning, near-monotone as that, "The Guardians Colony is always open to tourism traffic, as well as visiting dignitaries." Is she really going into this now? She says this as she raises a fist to back hand a half-wrecked battle droid that was trying to rise up again, eyes never leaving the masked, robed figure. As Revan picks up the pace through the quagmire, she follows behind, slightly more slowly but just as deliberately. Some of the crazed prisoners begin to filter in on her radar, their erratic movements and actions betraying their lack of sanity, and she simultaneously takes notice of something on her radio frequency scannings, giving a grim prediction, "Use of non-lethal force will reduce battle effectiveness." Nonetheless, there's a certain tone of concession to her voice, that suggests she will cooperate if it is likely to do less damage in the long run. Mid-pacing, the blips on her radar closing in, she exchanges her rifle - returning it to photon form - for, well, basically two light sabers of her own, though noticably different than the local flavor, they still make a vaguely copyright infringing sound as they arc to life. 

:'''{{#var:522|Gaius Van Baelsar (522)}} has posed:''' Gaius watches as Juno does as she is told and hears something in the distance as well. His stance shifts a little as he his gaze follows where the sound may be coming from. "''We'' will discuss this further." Yet something is ''very'' off, as he notices some crazies that were ignoring them, suddenly looking their way! He also reaches up to tap his comm as the HK-51s do their job with murderous glee. Any signal he tries to get out to his men on here is not coming through. Which means either they are being jammed, being murdered, or ran like damn cowards— which means they are good as dead. This is one can not help but get a sickening feeling they too may been had. Though that is something he'll have to clarify later... IF he gets out of his alive. When a few of the crazies attempt to get past the flames, the Garlean opens fire with the Heirbane. The bullets aimed right for their skulls with piercing rounds. He can only take a step back to give himself a bit more room encase he needs to move and maybe even to keep Juno further protected. Though that smell is not one he is going to forget any time soon, but it wasn't the first time either. There was a click in his gauntlet as something was being moved into place. Long as the HK-51s could keep the main line back. He wouldn't need this. "Why did they become so interested in you?" He at last asks Juno. "What did you do?" Yeah. Gaius Van Baelsar had no idea what was going on. 

:'''{{#var:428|Juno Eclipse (428)}} has posed:''' Galen may not want to fight the prisoners, but the prisoners sure want to fight him. Scores of them advance towards him, practically stumbling over one another in their eagerness to seek out a target. In fact, they seem to seek out Galen specifically, those within his immediate area. He might need to use the Force to push them away if he doesn't actually want to fight against them, or disable and stun them with Force lightning. They're not going to stop, otherwise. Several of them attempt to claw at him with crooked fingers, screaming and gurgling incoherently. The noises they make are very disturbing; not because they aren't fully-formed words, but precisely because they're ''almost'' fully-formed words. Some of their faces are just too damaged and disfigured to facilitate speech, and for those that can, thier minds are too far gone. Creepy. 

:'''{{#var:20|Toph Beifong (20)}} has posed:''' It was a long trek through the walls of the large ship, and with so many people on the ship it was a bit hard to move around. Especially when the cells have been unlocked and there are people anywhere. There's one goal, and that's saving Juno. So the blind girl had done things a bit differently than she usually does; she's evaded conflict so far and focused on getting to Juno. With her bending it's easier to get through walls, she's a small and quick target, and the others are drawing attention. The moment she got close enough though, her seismic sense reveals Juno's shape, and she hurries on, determination as she tears through the walls and closes them after her. At least it's already noisy on the ship...! Gaius might not get a full response to his question however, as suddenly the ceiling becomes alive, twisting and moving with a loud protest! It's moving quickly too, but strangely enough shaping itself so it doesn't hit Juno. Down it goes, closing off half of the cell and creating a wall between Juno and her captors. From the darkness above, the former Imperial space pilot might recognize the voice. "Juno, up here! We're here to save you!" There's a small hand grabbing for hers, and then the floor underneath Juno ''moves'' to help her up to the level above. 

:'''{{#var:428|Juno Eclipse (428)}} has posed:''' Much as with every other living thing on this ship that isn't a crazed prisoner, crazed prisoners converge on Lou and Revan's position. They shuffle awkwardly, almost like what some worlds would consider zombies. They aren't dead, of course, unless one gets into the philosophical definition of what it is to truly die; because what they're doing certainly isn't living so much as surviving. As with animals pressed into corners, they must feel the need to defend themselves and survive at all costs, because their fight seems desperate. They lay into Lou and Revan with the force of a singular being that has nothing left to lose. This group seems more adept at using the Force, however rudimentary their tactics may be – mostly, they seem to be trying to Force-push Lou and Revan both into a wall, although their efforts are clumsy and extremely uncoordinated. Those that aren't focusing on their talents are trying to physically slam into both Lou and Revan, using main strength to overcome their lack of direction or finesse; flailing with limbs that have crushingly superhuman force, and trying to overpower through simple crowd crush. 

:'''{{#var:672|Starbound Flotilla (672)}} has posed:''' When thinning the horde causes problems, the Starbounders react appropriately. Moonfin and Pavo are only merciful in that they are purposeful; Moonfin, in his samurai-styled semi-powered durasteel outfit, functions as the tank here, but only so much. The sword he wields is no normal sword; the prisoners who attack them will find that his blade can deflect and block bolts and arcs of Force power and lightning, but even so, he can't come out unscratched. Heavy impacts and burning wounds strike him, denting and slagging armor, and the exhaustion he suffers with flashy blocks against the Force attacks gives him an intense battle fatigue. Galen asked the Starbounders not to kill. And so they won't kill. They will, however, dismember. And if someone cannot make fancy force gestures, they can't use the Force, from their vague understanding. Disarming these combatants involves a literal removal of limbs. They won't live long after this, but maybe the shock to Galen's psyche will be lesser. Or delayed. They are not, however, merciful in any capacity. They will kill everything between them and saving their ally, they'll just not do it immediately. They're charging, hard, towards Juno's cell, where obviously HKs, more clones, and similar, are going to to be defending. They know Toph can get to her, but she'll need defense! 

:'''{{#var:428|Juno Eclipse (428)}} has posed:''' Juno Eclipse notices the prisoners at about the same time the prisoners notice her. Her eyes widen as she suddenly comprehends what they're doing – they're ''reacting to her call''. But that's impossible. Why would they be able to notice what she was thinking, and what particular reason would they have to suddenly turn their attention to her? Their minds are gone; she can see that much through their uncoordinated movements and their animalistic behaviour. "What in the hell is Vader up to?" she breathes, softly, drawing herself up very slowly and deliberately to her feet. She staggers a little, but she can find her feet. "I didn't do anything," she snaps, tone one of command. "I thought about Galen. That's it. And they all seemed to notice. It doesn't make any sense. Legatus, if you want to get off this ship alive, you ''will'' give me a sidearm. ''Now''." She's even holding out a hand expectantly. Her expression is haggard; that stench is horrible, and the way these things behave is sickening to behold... but this is quickly devolving into a matter of survival. She can't focus on the unpleasantries. "I'm not going to shoot you in the back. Not that it'd do anything with all that armour. Hur—" Suddenly the ceiling starts rearranging itself into interesting patterns of twisted metal. Juno's head snaps up as she look to the source, eyes widening as it... parts around her. And isolates her, too. "Toph?!" She's already reaching for Toph's small hand. "Oh, stars, am I happy to see you! But—" She looks back to Gaius, torn. He's been decent to her, but at the same time, he's still a Confederate, and they're not exactly nice people in the best of circumstances. Most of them also want her dead, or something. Juno hisses through her teeth. "Get me out of here," she finally says, seizing Toph's hand. "But try not to hurt the Legatus," she adds, softening. "He was defending me against those – those ''things''." 

:'''{{#var:731|Galen Marek (731)}} has posed:''' The prisoners are intent on picking a fight with Galen, forcing the ex-Inquisitor to emit Force pulses in every direction. His white robes are stained with red as he's clawed and bitten, before the offenders are blasted away again. He stumbles, his vision blurring as he continues shoving the monsters away from him both with he free arm and the Force. Something's not right about these things, though. Why is he feeling their deaths against himself. Why are they so steeped in the Dark Side? Why are there so many of them? He has an idea, but it's impossible. They can't speak, and their minds are broken. He can't get the info he needs, so his guess is only that. If it was right, though, Vader would pay dearly. However, it does strengthen his resolve. His strength begins to return, and he pushes and rams his way through the hoard, flinging them away and behind him as he moves. There was only one explanation for these things that made sense, and it disgusts him even more than the smell. It was sickening that, not only would Vader do it, but to torture them to such a degree showed the Sith Lord's immense rage. He would break the respirator-breathing bastard. Break him to pieces. [''Galen to rescue forces. Juno reached out to me. I'm on my way there, though it seems like Toph beat me there.''] 'Juno! I'm coming!' he thinks, willing her to sense him. She had certainly reached out to him through the Force, despite her lack of mastery. Maybe she could receive as well. 

:'''{{#var:20|Toph Beifong (20)}} has posed:''' Toph grins when Juno responds and has no problems moving. She's all right! At least the Empire hasn't hurt her, which is indeed a breath of fresh air in this horrible place. "I wasn't coming here for a visit, no! We're breaking out of here, the Flotilla, Lowhri and your boyfriend are here! Plus some other guy too." When Juno asks her to not hurt Legatus, she can only assume that was the other guy in the cell with her. Toph arches an eyebrow, then shrugs. "I'll only hurt him if I have to. Which means that we need to get going towards the others. Come on!" Toph says, pulling on Juno's wrist to guide her along on this other level, hoping that there are less problems to face on this level. But she is ready to metalbend as much as she needs to save her and Juno's hides! She does pull out her radio though, signalling to the others and keeping them updated on the progress. [''I have Juno! We're on the floor above the main prison levels! She's unhurt, and we're heading towards you guys!''] 

:'''{{#var:64|Lou (64)}} has posed:''' The field unit is in for a slightly nasty surprise. It seems hokey religions and superstitions really do hold some merit. Internally, her algorithms are quickly number crunching, as her heavier-than-expected mass leaves the floor by awkward inches. The numbers all converge on one factor: WTF. The numerical equivalent of surprise doesn't register on Lou's face, even as she goes flying into a wall, and stays suspended there in the now slightly dented metal panelling, *something* inside of her body making a slightly audible, snapping sound, even if there's no superficial damage. More of that light flared, appearing to shield her from some of the brunt of the forcesmack, but the strength and desperation of the many outweigh the defenses of the few. It actually doesn't make the interior of the ship look much worse, for it, anyway. "Telekinesis," Lou chimes her spot analysis in a deadpan, a slight bit of static leaking in to her reverb, and she reaches back an arm to pry herself away from the wall, servos normally below the threshold of hearing whirring to life. "Such powers are in my databases. Attempting to compensate for inertial unbalance." That said, with her (thankfully light) internal damage, and the sheer willpower of the forming crowd, her movements against it are still visibly strained, almost like someone that is walking into a sudden windstorm. Both photon sabers remain firmly gripped in her black gloved hands, aiming to slash at any of the 'force zombies' that get too close to their loosely defined defensive perimeter. She is making a 'best effort' at making it deblitating instead of (immediately) lethal, but considering the circumstances she can't make many promises, and they might just have to settle for some mild dismemberment. Revan, though, has some impressive tricks up those billowy sleeves, alleviating some of that immediate pressure. "Understood," she finally has a chance to say, to Revan's moral explanations, "As a Guardian, I understand that position. I will do my best." Even though, by her calculations, these psychiatric 'patients' would probably be beyond help. If her pity processors were active, perhaps she would feel some for them, and the way they have been treated. She continues to stand by, while Revan parts the waters for Galen, as it were, batting back any of the prisoners that try to interfere with her. Body guard mode, activated. 

:'''{{#var:428|Juno Eclipse (428)}} has posed:''' Prisoners are sent flying like so many ragdolls, overwhelmed by Galen Marek's superior command of the Force. Most of them are slammed against the durasteel corridors with such force that they're knocked unconscious; through luck and finesse he manages to avoid snapping any of their necks. Some of them are bowled over into the ranks behind, tangling them up into angry gurgling crazy prisoners that can't seem to coordinate themselves beyond impotent flailing and gurgling. They don't seem to slow down. There are literal hordes of these things, thousands, by the look of the prison block cells – this ship was stuffed to the gills with these insane burn victims. They've all gone hopelessly, helplessly berserk. However, they're no match for Galen Marek's resolve. They lack that inner steel; that tempering through adversity. Their minds are broken and cannot even aspire to that kind of clarity of purpose. The prisoners fall in droves as Galen renews his purpose, flung away both into each other and against bulkheads. It's slow going, but Galen should be able to make his way down the corridor to where he needs to go – to that single bright, hopeful point he's fixating on. Sadly, he receives no response from his query to his pilot. She's too busy being dragged by Toph, baring her teeth in pain as her bloody wrist is pulled on with enough force to drag her. Yes hello, that raw skin is exceptionally painful! Even so, it's a small price to pay in exchange for sweet, sweet freedom. She'd begun to give up hope. "Legatus!" Juno barks over her shoulder. It's a risk, but she seems to be taking a lot of those, lately. What's one more added to the pile? "We'll talk again, if setting that record set straight's really what you want...!" She turns her attention forward again, laughing; the sound has a slightly hysterical edge to it. "Toph, I'm going to spoil you rotten when we get out of here!" 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:''' This was a familiar scene, certainly. "It was only just last week I was fighting zombies," Lowri muttered. "At this rate, I'm starting to wonder if there are some things which every world has." It might have been a bad time for idle conversation for anyone else, but the former Sith Lord had a rather bizarre sense of humour and a habit of quipping. "That's good to know!" the Jedi replied cheerfully even as she and the Lou-controlled CAST fought their way through. "I wouldn't want to be rude and end up causing a multiversal incident." In some ways, she could appreciate that cold effectiveness, even as she balanced it with compassion. "True, but we're the good guys, so we should at least try." As if to underscore that point, Revan attempted to use a Force Stun where she was able, knocking the poor souls out. Unfortunately, there were even she couldn't save everyone, cut down with precise strikes of her violet-hued blades. "It's a bit of a philosophical matter, especially in our galaxy. Neglecting to at least make an effort tends to be a back-door to the Dark Side." Even the weakest of Force sensitives could often sense intense emotions such as anger or pain. So when those strong in the Force felt it, such emotions could be overwhelming, particularly to Jedi who spent their entire lives trying to avoid them. For Revan, hearing Juno's call to Galen, as well as his pain as he was assaulted with the Dark Side and death energies, caused her to falter in her steps. The Guardian seemed to weaken, unsteady on her feet, giving the crazed prisoners enough of an opening to push the Jedi back into a wall. It was painful, but the fortuitous side-effect was knocking some sense into her. Regaining her composure and fending off more of the unfortunate crazed Force sensitives, Revan shook her head as if to clear the last of the effects before dropping back into Niman stance. "Shards...we don't have any more time to waste. MOVE!" With that, Revan unleashed a Force Wave to blow back the insane Force sensitives before boosting her speed to catch up to Galen. The Jedi could just make him out...though belatedly she realised that he might mistake her for an unknown Sith.... 

:'''{{#var:522|Gaius Van Baelsar (522)}} has posed:''' "If I give you a weapon, then it is possible they will label me the same." The Legatus hisses out toward her as he looks over his shoulder to Juno. "I ''want'' to... I do... but there is a picture not being painted properly and this all feels like a complete set—" He doesn't have time finish what he was going to say. There was a creek above him and he can only glance up then tsk under his breath, before having to get slightly out of the way of the smashing new wall. "Juno!" The Legatus barks out, before he goes to slam his fist into the new wall. It bends under the sheer force, but this is a prisoner ship – there is now way he can break though it. "Damn'it all!" The Garlean then looks up, but he care hear the ally forces moving in quickly. "HK-51," The Garlean then aims up and goes to blast a segment a bit more free in order to do what he needs to do next. "Can you upload ship schematics? If so, please send me those schematics now." The droid will only have a moment to comply, as the Legatus has no time to wait. Placing the Heirsbane back to his backside, he crouches down and then leaps up, taking hold of some broken metal thanks to Toph and then pulls himself through, before he shoves himself forward to the next ledge. Toph may hear the loud metal clang as the heavy armor is being easily moved by the man far ''faster'' then such size should be allowed. The magitek doing its work to allow this act of science and she may even pick up that the armor is a mix of ceramic and metal, with some normal reinforced steel. Though as Juno calls out to him, he can only rumble lowly before he taking aim with his wrist gauntlet. It was hard to say if he was complying to her request – but as he tried to say before she was taken. This was all ''wrong''. A few plasma shots sail for her and toph, but only a few. If one does hit, Juno or Toph may feel a sting, but – it was far from full power. He does watch as a few crazed ones come up behind him and he swiftly turns himself to pull around the Heirsbane to cut one in half, before firing a shot into another. They ''would'' get away. 

:'''{{#var:428|Juno Eclipse (428)}} has posed:''' The prisoners don't seem to register any surprise whatsoever when Lou is summarily slammed into a wall hard enough to leave a crater; nor do they show any surprise as Lou begins fighting back against the wave of Force. In fact, they don't seem to be registering anything at all but the blind need to forcibly strike down anything in front of them, lost in a miasma of almost animalistic hatred and aggression. They fuel the lingering miasma of the Dark Side, just as the Dark Side fuels them; a vicious cycle of insanity that cannot, it seems, be broken. Another wave of prisoners converge on Lou and Revan, but this particular group seems less adept with their Force powers than the last. They settle for using their superhuman strength, attempting to batter the field unit and the Jedi Knight with flailing limbs. Neither do they seem to be above the use of raking with their nails or attempting to bite anything that gets too close; for those who still have lower halves of their faces left, anyway. It's not pleasant, and not killing them means that the horde has time to overwhelm the two would-be rescuers... but it's not an impossible situation, either. They are Elites; while the majority of this horde might have been, somewhere, they are too broken to be anything more than a particularly dangerous distraction. They can be struck down with relative ease, unable to think for themselves. But man alive, there sure are a lot of them. 

:'''{{#var:754|HK-47 (754)}} has posed:''' One of the two droids pauses in it's extermination duties to acknowledge Gaius - "Affirmation - Uploading now. Addendum - As ranking Confederate on site, I shall acknowledge you as subsidiary Master of myself and my counterpart unit here." The other droid does not respond though, it is then activates the second charge on it's flamethrower, incinerating another wave of oncoming mentally-compromised organics. After the brief acknowledgment from Gaius, the droid that spoke returns to aiding it's counterpart, laying down disruptor fire. However, the appearance of Toph causes one of the droids to level it's rifle at the girl in a rather threatening manner - "Warning - Submit or be disintegrated, organic!" The droid in the hanger... was not doing as well - no sooner had it lobed it's ion grenade then it was abruptly hit with an ionized pulse, sending convulsing as it's internal defenses, weaker then those of it's progenator, were overpowered and the droid itself stunned... and promptly fell inner as it attempted emergency restart. The HK-51 dealing with the interlopers from the Starbound Flotilla is giving chase to it's own targets, though it engages at a distance so as to avoid being sliced apart. However, it does lob a grenade at the attackers. The droid by the boarding hatch finally has enough, breaking formation to try and reinforce it's fellows at the prison cell where the priority prisoner is being held. Finally, the last droid, en-route to the hangar bay to assist it's now-disabled counterpart, stumbles upon Lou and Revan, only hesitating a moment before tossing an Ion grenade and snapping to cover, charging it's disruptor. 

:'''{{#var:64|Lou (64)}} has posed:''' If they were merely infected animals driven mad, or non-sentient robots, perhaps now would be a good time for Lou to summon her SUV weapon and inflict mass casualties. Given what she's come to understand from her brief monitoring, as well as Revan's reactions, it seems like it would do more harm to those still sane than it would help. She signals a warning to the robed figure of Revan, still in her vicinity, "Multiple new contacts are appearing on my radar. The numbers are beginning to overwhelm my ability to track them." Not that Revan would know, but considering that it is Lou reporting this would be starting to any familiar with her specifications. That's a LOT of zombies. Perhaps more alarming is how calmly she intones the fact. With the situation continuing to deteriorate despite their best efforts, and the primary objective incomplete but progressing, it seems like a good time to begin securing their own escape. The tortured experiments have closed in, now; best effort gives way to basic necessity, as being kind to these crazed, ex-people isn't working. The ones that converge with brute strength clobber as best they can, with surprising tenacity and speed, quite literally having nothing to lose. A hexagonal-framed blue light appears at some of the glances, but one still bites onto her bare forearm. Not having much recourse, she slices into this poor soul, before kicking them away, bite marks leaking...well, 'basically' blood. She swings at a few more that get dangerously close. "I calculate that it is a good time to begin the evacuation part of the program," she deadpans, not even having time to retrieve her disinfectant spray, given the vengeance and flesh-hungry masses that continue to pour out of every cell block. " 

:'''{{#var:20|Toph Beifong (20)}} has posed:''' "Shhhh, don't let him know where we are going!" Toph hisses at Juno. Though she does huff a bit when she gets promises of getting spoiled. "I'll get back to you on that once we are safe! I can feel him following us!" No, Juno doesn't sound like she's all there with that laughter, but then again, who knows how the Empire has treated her? Gaius blasts through the door, and Toph winces as she feels the vibrations from him getting up into the vent, and she hears it as well. Ugh, that guy is ''heavy'' and armored. Perhaps if she could slow down she could focus on his armor, but she promised Juno... Ugh. She does 'see' how he takes aim though, and Toph instantly kicks her heel down, causing the vent to close up behind her and Juno, though not quickly enough as some of the shots make it through, and Toph winces as she pulls on Juno's wrist again. It feels bloody... "Come on!" When HK-51 speaks to her though, Toph frowns. Oh yes, she remembers the threats that were made. Including threats that would hurt her ''dad''. So her expression hardens considerably, and she reaches out with her free hand in the droid's direction... and uses her bending without holding back. "SUBMIT TO THIS, SCRAP METAL!" Then she picks up her radio to respond. [''Lowhri, taking the Fly Girl to you! Legatus is following us, but I'm doing what I can to slow him down!''] 

:'''{{#var:672|Starbound Flotilla (672)}} has posed:''' The Starbounders get the HK units' attention. At least one of them. An ion grenade goes at them, and the wounded Moonfin immediately moves to engage. Pavo seems to think he has it handled, and in a sense, he does; his blade moves to slice the grenade, setting it off. Somehow, he manages to also split the ''explosion itself'' in half, halving its damage against him and sending him skidding back. He firms up his grip on his blade and grunts with the pain of the explosion against his armored form, grimacing for only a moment. "Machine that dares to meddle in the realms and stories of men, I will show you your true place." He says, simply, to the droid. And then he rushes in, with a highly mobile defensive stance that's meant to close the distance and swiftly put him in engaging distance with the droid while deflecting dangerous projectiles that will punish the rush! It's also incredibly flashy, for no reason other than the fact that Moonfin insists on inefficient flashiness. 

:'''{{#var:794|Darth Vader (794)}} has posed:''' Meanwhile, aboard the ''Executor''... Lord Vader remains in his personal meditation chamber, tinkering with an astromech droid. His presence is not truly here, however. His body works by reflex, repeating steps that he has taken countless times to create a functional wiring grid within the chasis. His mind has begun to creep elsewhere, and his presence has begun to make itself known around the ''Emperor's Justice''. Pinpricks of shadow give way to the twinkling light of the stars as the burned prisoners are defeated or killed... but only for a short time. Just as he often stretched forth a gloved, iron hand as a gesture of power, so too can Vader stretch his consciousness out and seize control of a situation on behalf of his Emperor. The feeling of it is oppressive and disturbing, a cooling hatred that burns low, but can never be extinguished. Or perhaps, to the enlightened observer who knew Anakin Skywalker, it is more akin to a dim candle surrounded by darkness. The effect is the same, regardless of the metaphysical details of Vader's presence. This is some form of Sith Battle Meditation, and it is particularly unkind to those subject to it. The tortured, mad beings that were rampaging moments before pause what they are doing and begin to take a more rational course of action. They pluck blasters from deceased guards and droids and begin to move in groups. Escape pods begin to eject from the ''Emperor's Justice'' again, and this time some of them are empty. Simultaneously, the mad force adepts pile into adjacent escape pods and jettison them... but they do not follow a natural course for an escape pod. They rocket outwards and then change course, guided by the telekinetic powers of the entities within towards the Flotilla ships that attacked the Dungeon Ship. In the meantime, that same telekinetic power is beginning to be used to hurl the empty escape pods towards whatever enemy vessels happen to be convenient. INSIDE, Galen Marek feels a powerful tug on the hilt of his lightsaber as several of his foes attempt to take it away from him in concert... 

:'''{{#var:428|Juno Eclipse (428)}} has posed:''' Juno's head whips around, and she barks a particularly unladylike curse at the sight of Gaius hauling his way up into the tunnel and after herself and Toph. "Toph!" the pilot calls, voice a tone of warning. "Full throttle, or we're not going to get out of here!" Her head whips back around to Gaius, frustrated. "Give it up! If you take me back to the Empire or the Confederacy, you're taking a bloody ''corpse!''" Not having a weapon is extremely aggravating, and all Juno can do is throw herself bodily out of the way of those shots, growling as one of them manages to skip past the twisted tunnel and find a target in her knee. It's not full power, but plasma is still plasma, and it's still excruciatingly painful. Just not lethal, or inclined to disintegrate the thing it hits. Which is good. That would be a pretty terrible way to go. Fortunately, Toph forestalls any further shots, kicking up an obstruction. Face twisting into a scowl of pain, Juno tries to turn her wrist, blood-slicked fingers seeking Toph's own wrist to clamp on. It's hard to hold on; the blood makes it slippery. All she can do for now, though, is to hold on for dear life as Toph drags her through the tunnel. 

:'''{{#var:672|Starbound Flotilla (672)}} has posed:''' Pavo attempts to get Galen's attention! "Avast, matey! We got other business!" The cell area is getting way too crowded anyway. She's going to try to yank Galen off to one side after dodging around some more of those awful prisoners. Then she's going to pull out her MATTER MANIPULATOR, and use whatever data SEFT can acquire about the ''ROGUE SHADOW'S'' location within the ship to discern the direction to the CARGO AREA. "Need yer access, need yer know-how, need ye ta kill anyone stickin' their nose where it don't belong while I try to get it shipshape!" And then, abruptly, she sets the Matter Manipulator to DIG mode, and tries to dig through the ground and into the cargo area where the ''Rogue Shadow'' might be impounded. She's vulnerable! Galen will have to defend her! 

:'''{{#var:754|HK-47 (754)}} has posed:''' At this point, the general consensus among the droids was unanimous - this was ''not'' going well. The droid that had leveled it's weapon at the earth-bender did not even have time to fire before strips of metal suddenly speared it's body, then twisted sharply, warping it's frame in an instant - it's arms were turned inside-out and twisted behind it's back, it's legs undergoing a similar spontaneous inversion. It's torso bent inward and then spontaneously pulled open like a steel flower, it's power core flickering and sparking like a dying flame. It's head, vocoder leaking out garbled static amid the metallic scream of it's internal components being rearranged and pulled open, is suddenly, forcibly compressed into it's torso even as the later segment is pulled open. Then, what remains of the unit is shot backwards like a cannonball, exploding against the far wall as pieces of it splinter in all directions, with what's left being little more then a literal droid ''pancake''. The remaining HK unit under Gaius' command pauses long enough to see his counterpart's rather abrupt destruction, and, if a droid could express such emotion with body language, it would likely be quaking in abject concern. "Placation - Er, good organic. ''Niiiicee'' organic." His statement, even as he fires stream after stream of disruptor bolts at the oncoming lunatics, seems honest enough... though the fact that the droid can split it's attention between effectively begging for mercy and slaughtering insane organics is somewhere between impressive and disconcerting. But ultimately, the droid opts to take Juno up on her offer, opening it's wrist-compartnent and emitting a sound that should be all too familiar to Toph - the hiss of a gas emitter as cyanogen gas spews out of it's toxin-emoter unit. The HK-51 unit chasing the organic with the blade stops in it's tracks as the opponent enacts what seems to be a rather... ridiculously flashy style of combat. Not amused, the droid activates it's toxin emitters, spewing cynaogan gas - the same toxin it's progenitor HK-47 had used against the inquisitor and the earth-bender to great effect - as well as effectively poisoning all organics in it's way. The droid that has located Revan and Lou approaches from behind in the chaos, drawing a vireo-knife to try and disable the lightsabers of the false Sith, even while keeping internal weapons primed for dealing with the android-girl. The droid in the hanger bay, still offline, recovers it's disabled sibling, working to try and restart it. 

:'''{{#var:731|Galen Marek (731)}} has posed:''' Galen can see the crowds thinning around... a Sith?! No, not possible. They're battling against the mindless Force users. Perhaps they were like him, a former Sith, but no longer. One of the Jedi he sensed earlier, during the ill-fated betrayal mission? Who knows. "Hey, Sith-looking person!" he calls, his voice shaking slightly. He was exhausted and assailed on all fronts, but one thing rings in his head. Juno is with Toph. She's safe, and they were moving to take the Shadow back as well. "Help them get the Shadow back! I need to figure something out." He sends more Force pulses at the waves of Force-sensitive prisoners... And then they change tactics. They grow smarter, less rage-prone. He winces as his saber is being wrenched on, his hand gripping the weapon as though his life depended on it. Because it did. His fist smashes against zombie flesh, opening his hand after a moment and, bracing himself, sending lightning toward those attempting to steal his weapon. "No, Vader! You want my saber? Come and get it yourself!" he roars, not knowing if the man can hear him or not. He guesses not. "You sick bastard... What did you do to these? And how did you connect them to me?!" He sends more and more lightning out, no longer concerned with preserving their lives. He'd take the hits to his mind right now to free himself. He wouldn't let Vader take his weapon. He wouldn't give the Sith Lord a trophy. "Stop hiding in the shadows, you coward!" 

:'''{{#var:522|Gaius Van Baelsar (522)}} has posed:''' Gaius' HUD is updated as the HK-51 sends him the information. Which was a good thing, because Toph was trying to block him out. He activates the Magitek Shield to create a bubble field to fight off the closure – it will at least buy Juno and Toph some time to keep on the move. The shield starts to crack, splint as Gaius goes to throw his body into it with all full weight. It wasn't designed for this, but right now it have to work. Once his body slams into it, the shield shatters into wisps of light and the vent slams down where he was. He rolls out onto the floor, before getting back up on his feet. He studies the map sent to him and taps his comm. "HK-51. Can you override any blast doors or security doors? Maybe we can try to cut them off at any passes." If he ''was'' trying to help protect Juno it was now hard to say. If he ''was'' on her side, he was making it hard to tell. Though in truth, while he hated this, it was orders. He was the Legatus of the Garlean Empire, next in line to become Emperor of his people. If he faltered because of personal feelings or gut feelings, it would look poorly on him – and the rest of the Garlean Empire... he already had one massive failing in his life, another that was personal – he rather not add one more to that list. His steps quicken, before he is in a full run. He is moving far faster then a normal athletic runner as he tries to make up the distance. He doesn't respond to Juno. He doesn't even quip back, he just gives her dead silence in return. As he tries to make the turn, his boots screech across the metal surface. Its only when he can get proper traction does he move again, but comes to a halt when he notices the HK-51s on the trail and with gas. His hand grip tightens on the handle and he can only step back. There was nothing he could do further. His free hand also tightens up, before he spins it around and then slams it into a metal section of the ship releasing all of his anger with it. So many questions – and no real good answers. Even if he was to try and cut them off, it take to much time. He can only hope the Droid can follow through with the request or...or... Juno manages to actually escape before she is killed, because if she dies – so does the answers to it all. 

:'''{{#var:672|Starbound Flotilla (672)}} has posed:''' "Foolish." Moonfin says. He is fully poisoned by the HK-51, suffering a lethal dose, and yet keeps going. He intends to flashily kill the droid long before that matters. "Second Sea Hylotl Style: The Shark Devours the Blowfish." He skids on his feet, native durasteel screeching against foreign durasteel, and does a swirling circular strike, intended to dismember the arm with the neurotoxin as well as swiftly behead the robot. The arm with the neurotoxin is something he intends to leave intact as possible, in fact; he understands its potency, and with the time afforded to him by the poisoned state, he intends to rig something for the prisoners. He has to ensure this is dealt with to the man. 

:'''{{#var:794|Darth Vader (794)}} has posed:''' Before, the prisoners were easily dispatched. Now, standing united, they are able to combine their abilities to match that which would have overpowered them earlier. They divert their attention to defense, locking themselves into a clash of power with Galen, causing a shockwave to fire out into the surroundings from the combination of their abilities. The shouting from Galen does not appear to be comprehended. But a change of plans is evidently in order, because they cease paying him any mind. All of the clones, save those exiting the ship to pursue the Flotilla, cease paying anyone any mind. They all direct their attentions to the exterior skin of the ship, the points where the ''Emperor's Justice'' are thinnest... and they begin to push. The most notable points are near the jettisoned escape pods, where there is little more than a single airlock between the vacuum outside and the people within the ship. The screech of durasteel and transparent aluminum being pushed outwards and, ultimately, puncturing echoes throughout the whole of the ship. They're trying to tear the ship apart entirely, and they're already making noteworthy and alarming headway. There is a great hiss, then a howl of air as the ship begins to vent its oxygen supply. The prisoners do not care. The prisoners are being burned out, pushed to ignore their limits and to go on and on until there's not even rage and self-preservation left in them. Like lit candles subjected to all the force of a hurricane, the prisoners begin to gutter out and die, casting themselves back into the force and leaving great ripples in their wake. 

:'''{{#var:672|Starbound Flotilla (672)}} has posed:''' Albert already had firing solutions on those pods. When they go into a kamikazi mode, he becomes further frustrated. Biteblade begins to open fire along with him, lancing through pods with the railgun, but not everything can stop the assault. Though Albert's shields are heavy and his turrets are numerous, his ship is built to efficiently and quickly disable and kill ships, not to demolish the scrap that a pod might turn into after being blown up! His heavy shields overload, the ship sparking with explosions as the shield systems themselves blow out, and the heavy armor of the craft beginning to ablate. Albert himself suffers bruising and burning within, as his craft begins to rock and shudder, and consoles begin emitting overloads. He begins to pull back, letting Seft's craft, with its stony hull, take more of it, and beginning to need to retreat from the area. 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:''' She didn't like it. No, she didn't like it one bit. But there almost seemed as if there was no end to the insane prisoners, which could wear down even a Jedi Guardian. She had been saved, redeemed...she had even helped to redeem the spirit of an ancient Sith Lord...but it would seem that sometimes the Force willed that such poor people were put out of their misery to rejoin it. "Dammit!" she cursed, frustrated even as she had no other recourse than to try to end their lives quickly, becoming a blur of black, red, and violet as she cut down the insane prisoners before her. "Become one with the Force," she whispered like a prayer. Naturally, there was also another problem in the form of another of the later HK series. Swatting away a disruptor blast almost idly, she replied to the assassin droid in a cold voice that was clearly an echo of his master's. "Let your progenitor know that I have little tolerance of opposition." Not that she gave him much of a window to do so, blasting the HK-51 with an ionized wave. [''Got it! We'll get her out of here.''] Lowri didn't waste time – even fending off the Force-mad – radioing her ship. "T3! We need extraction!" she barked at the utility droid waiting for her signal. "Ulaire and...uh, Tiny might need to cover fire, so be ready!" The Force was certainly with them when she finally caught up with Galen. As if to demonstrate where her loyalties lay, the former Sith Lord released a torrent of lighting in the form of a Force Storm on a flock of the crazed Force sensitives behind him. "It's me," she said cryptically before turning sharply on her heel for the corridor towards Toph and Juno. [''I'll explain later, I promise.''] It wasn't long – thanks to some judicious use of Force Speed – to find the two. Not even waiting for their reaction, the masked figure barked out , in a voice both would doubtless recognise, "This way!" 

:'''{{#var:20|Toph Beifong (20)}} has posed:''' "On your feet, lily liver!" Toph barks to Juno. The woman is a trained soldier, right? So she should be able to push on through this stuff if she's given incentive, right? "We are meeting up with them now, and your boyfriend will punch me if I don't get you there safely! NOW MOVE!" Toph lets Juno grab her wrist, and she does her best to keep up a pace that Juno can move the best in. The familiar sound however makes Toph's eyes widen in horror, and she lets out a startled gasp. "... no!" The memories of how she felt yesterday, how her lungs were aching until the healers tended to her this morning are too easily remembered, and she makes a choice. "Down!" she warns Juno, then crouches down and slams her fist into the vents to get out and down. Anywhere to get away from the gas! And she seals up the metal after them once she and Juno drops down onto the level again. This means that they might encounter some of the other prisoners, but while they might be insane and dangerous, Toph is as determined as can be, not to mention motivated to protect the woman until she is safely reunited with Galen. A promise is a promise, and all around them is precious metal. Toph lets go of Juno in order to wreak havoc on any incoming forces, using the interior of the ship against them, creating as many walls as she can, not to mention tear off pieces of the interior and throw it at them. All while she leads Juno along and doing her outmost to keep anything from harming the woman further. But finally they meet up with Lowri, and Toph can't help but push herself harder, pulling Juno along. "We're coming!" she calls. Sure, Lowri might be in disguise, but it doesn't matter much to Toph. "Man, I bet you're a sweet sight for sore and seeing eyes!" It's time to get out of here! 

:'''{{#var:754|HK-47 (754)}} has posed:''' The remaining droid, seeing his query flee the gas in abject fear, takes the time to reply to Gaius' words on the comm and gives a short acknowledgement of "Affirmation - Enacting security override. Transferring full internal control to subsidiary Master Gaius." However, the overrides proved to be worth little as the vessel begins pulling apart. The droid instead decides to be pragmatic and focus on the next best thing - getting the ranking Confederate operative on the ship to safety. "Master Gaius, the force-users are tearing the vessel apart in an apparent self-destruct procedure! Immediate evacuation is recommended! The droid facing the aquatic-looking creature draws a vibe-knife, parrying the blade as best it can, suffering a deep gash across it's chest-unit and losing the tops of all it's fingers on the left hand as it alters the trajectory just enough to keep from losing it's arm. It staggers backward a step, before activating it's flamethrower - if it could not poison the creature, it would simply roast it. In the hangar bay, the HK-51 that has just arrived is in the process of restarting it's felled brethren - only for the entire vessel to shudder as the structural integrity began to give way exponentially. "Commentary ? Target the enemy ships. They will not be allowed to leave. If we are to perish, they are as well." And with that, they turn their weapons on the two vessels, focusing their fire on both the ''Ebon Hawk'' and the unknown vessel with aimed disruptor shots. The final droid, approaching the ghost of it's Master, only gets so far before it is hit by an ion pulse like it's sibling unit - only this time, in a corridor filled with insane organics, it proves fatal, as one of the organics simply starts tearing at the downed machine... and activating it's final response - "Self-Destruct, armed - detonation in 3.... 2.... 1.... And thus, a blast tears through part of the ship's inner deck, weakening the failing structural integrity of the ship even further. In short... it had all gone to hell. And only one of the droids at this point cared to try and escape, as it was currently with the ranking Confederate. The others, having no other recourse, opts that it shall be mutual destruction - if they do not survive, none will. 

:'''{{#var:64|Lou (64)}} has posed:''' The change in posture is immediately obvious. Mindless numbers are dangerous enough, numbers granted some measure of clarity - even if at the hands of a puppetmaster - are even more worrying. Lou's mask-like face again doesn't properly register the 'surprise' her algorithms are suggesting she might feel at this, but in a way it is also a welcome change to be faced down in proper combat, instead of being clawed and bit like a savage. "Unknown change in disposition," she factors, though as they begin actually arming themselves, and renew their attack in a more coordinated fashion, it is clear that it isn't for the better. Her normally ice queen positioning gives way to necessity, as she moves into more efficient combat maneuvers, that she likely copied straight from the battle data she took from some other, somewhat unwitting Guardian. The 'dance' takes her into the thick of the enemy formations. Coordinated, they may be, but they are still...puppets. A slave to some unseen force, instead of their own internal demons. A 'Force' that, even though Lou is less sensitive to such things than even most 'organics', as the HKs might say, can still be detected on some deeper levels. That surprises even her; genuine surprise, not the algorithmic 'this statistically should not be possible' kind. It is likely a good thing that Revan is dealing with the droid, and that a number of the maddened have turned their pursuits to other things, considering she pauses in her movements to consider this. When she comes back to realization, her sensors are blaring alarms. At this rate, they're going to tear the ship apart, with everyone still inside it. There's no more time left. A few more photon saber swings of opportunity, and she once again exchanges it for her rifle, pacing back towards the ship bay they had emerged from into the cell blocks earlier, taking shots at any HK droids, or the formerly crazed prisoners that might still be paying attention to them. "Withdrawing," she says, again with that static leaking into her voice. No pain shows on her face as she back steps, but she's visibly favoring one shoulder, and tries to cover everyone moving towards the exits. 

:'''{{#var:428|Juno Eclipse (428)}} has posed:''' Juno's eyes widen at the sight of that outpouring of gas from the droid. It isn't that she experienced the same chemical yesterday, but she can understand that it's something that shouldn't be mixed with the ambient oxygen. To go by those psychotic droids it's probably ludicrously lethal to overkill levels. She crouches as she's warned, but she can't help having inhaled a little bit of it; enough to irritate her throat and redden her eyes, coughing helplessly, but when Toph restructures her tunnel she's already surging back to her feet as she's released, turning and watching. Without a weapon it's all she can do. Finally, they meet with a mysterious figure that has a familiar voice. This must be Lowri, or somebody very good at imitating Lowri. "She is!" Juno agrees to Toph, leaning forward and low, practically running as she lets Toph drag her along, coughing and wheezing. "Time to go...!" 

:'''{{#var:522|Gaius Van Baelsar (522)}} has posed:''' Gaius suddenly hears something wrong, then he can fell his ears pop horrible as the pressure in the room changes, before he suddenly can feel the air moving rapidly. "What the..." The Garlean Empire never been into space – they only read of it and it was obvious in some ways, he was still not use to everything that could happen to a space craft ''in'' space. However there was something very wrong and he knew it. This was only amplified by when one of the HK-51's came up to him to voice the need of getting the hell out of dodge. "Understood. Lead us to an escape vessel and let us make haste. The mission is a failure, but we will recapture her." The Legatus will follow the droid to where safety is and he will need to silently evaluate everything Juno said and did today. 

:'''{{#var:794|Darth Vader (794)}} has posed:''' Following the venting of the ''Emperor's Justice'' and the mass suicide of the mad prisoners he was using as his pawns, Darth Vader withdraws his presence from the area. The few zombies that remain – and there are few of them – devolve into panic, but aren't intelligent enough to escape on their own. There are still some vital signs in the ship, hiding in the escape pods that haven't jettisoned... but many of those were fired towards the Flotilla as a distraction to begin with. In all, there are very few Wardens who remain. Very few indeed. There are no obstacles left, save for the depths of space itself. Darth Vader opens his eyes and looks down towards the astromech unit in front of him. Again, he had sensed a force sensitive that he was not familiar with. Who could it have been? He frowns slightly, turning towards his parts box and rifling among the droid brains that he had set aside for this project. R5 brains are easy to come by, but the little bastards are... well, they're little bastards. An R2 unit tends to be similar, but less unpleasant to deal with. And R4 units are just ''stupid''. Deciding that he needs more choices, Vader motions the chamber to return his helmet and opens a comm connection to the bridge of the ''Executor''. "Set a course for Raxus Prime and inform me when we arrive." He rasps, as the chamber prepares him to return to the confinement of his own suit. 

:'''{{#var:672|Starbound Flotilla (672)}} has posed:''' Pavo digs through the interior walls of the craft until she finally, finally reaches the cargo area. This is where she intends to steal EVERYTHING she can via her matter manipulator that's between her and the ''Rogue Shadow''. She's got her oxygen nanoskin, fuck vacuums! But she can't survive if the entire space station goes up here. She's going to tear her way through cargo, looting and smashing any opposition, until she can get in there! Hopefully Galen will provide access! Good lord, this is cutting it close. As soon as she and Galen are both inside, the latter will find out what 'hard ship extraction' means, because George and Seft (piloting Moonfin's craft) will, abusing their ship's relatively unscathed natures, suddenly slam their ships square through any exposed element of the cargo area, venting it to space and blasting out any obstacle that could impede the ''Rogue Shadow'' from barreling out of there. Pavo, presumably, will use the parts George stole at the production facility to forcibly rig up flight that might last a few minutes, and all three crafts will barrel out of there as soon as they can. 

:'''{{#var:754|HK-47 (754)}} has posed:''' The only HK-51 droid willing to try and evacuate, clearing out any and every last one of the remaining lunatic organics, guides Gaius to the nearest remaining escape pod, hacking into the interface system and overriding the pod access, gesturing for Gaius to enter. "Supplication - It lacks in overt space, but it carries a hyperwave transceiver coded with all the most recent and up-to-date comm frequencies for every Confederate-affiliated space-capable faction. We will survive - and perhaps, you could mention my efforts in rescuing you and salvaging something from this operation?" The remaining two droids in the docking bay continue to try and pelt the ''Ebon Hawk'' and the second vessel with disruptor fire, but annoyingly, the vessels seem to have an automated crew as they are forced to take cover when an underside anti-infantry turned pops out from under the ''Ebon Hawk's'' cockpit structure and begins firing at them. However, one of the droids notices there is activity behind it, moving to attempt an intercept - only to see the inquisitor, aiming it's rifle to try and snipe it's target with a final shot before the end. As a result, the ''Ebon Hawk'' ultimately disarms it's abandoned companion - literally, as the T3 unit manning the underside gun and the droid manning the gatling gun up top succeed in blowing off the arm of the droid, then it's leg, and then shredding it's torso to pieces. The only other droid is still locked in battle with the aquatic organic, sustaining another slash to it's body and losing half the mobility in it's left leg. 

:'''{{#var:731|Galen Marek (731)}} has posed:''' With Juno secured, Galen books it for the cargo hold of the ship on Pavo's mark. Following the Avian along her looting path, Galen nurses a few superficial wounds, sheathing his saber back onto his belt. However, the moment they're on the Shadow, Galen pales again and drops into the co-captain's seat. The mass death rocks him, his eyes fluttering closed. "He... killed them. He used them to assault me, attack us, and then he killed them...!" His eyes open, and they're bloodshot terribly. Those are the only color in his face, the shocks rocking across his Force connection in painful waves. He glares at the space in front of him, anger gripping him again. Vader... he was truly steeped in the Dark Side, perhaps more than anyone else. That was Galen's impression, his own light struggling against his personal Dark Side. The power and emotionless... it was hard to unprogram, but the thought of Juno helped him keep it at bay. She was safe, and they were escaping. It had happened. And now he had more motivation than ever. They had taken Juno, he and the others had gotten her back, and now Vader needed to pay for it all. He needed to find the Rebels, build an army to fight the Empire, but his former master was his personal target. Today's events would not be soon forgotten. 

:'''{{#var:522|Gaius Van Baelsar (522)}} has posed:''' Gaius looks at the pod and then back to the droid. "I will see what can be done about recovering you. Thank you, HK-51." He then gives the Droid a pat on the shoulder before stepping inside the pod, then making sure it is sealed. Should have brought some cards... 

:'''{{#var:20|Toph Beifong (20)}} has posed:''' Uh oh! Sounds like Juno inhaled some of that gas! Toph swallows nervously as she calls up the Flotilla on the radio. But luck seems to be on their side, and Toph allows herself a brief smile. Good. Juno will be safe! Toph hauls Juno with her up the ramp of the ''Ebon Hawk'', all while reaching out to use her bending on any of the nearby HK-51 droids, doing her best to knock one of them into the other and giving the others an opening to get away! 

:'''{{#var:672|Starbound Flotilla (672)}} has posed:''' Moonfin doesn't succeed in his effort to take the droid's head and arm, but there's some good damage there! Once again the wounded, now-poisoned fishman rushes in close, suffering a flamethrower assault this time! He parries flame. Flame! How does someone parry flame? It's not clear, but he swung his Power Katana through it and somehow deflected the entire jet of fire to light just one half of his upper body aflame, rather than his whole body. He is still, unfortunately, on fire, and that's just a fact. He's also slowing down due to the poison. Due to his immense quantity of training and the assistance of his semi-powered armor, this is less of an issue. He tries to choke out another fancy style name but can't seem to get the breath to do it! He has to end this FAST. What comes next is probably the most absurd tactic anyone's ever done with a flamethrower gushing in their face. With a swirling motion, he does another circular movement, and somehow, through some baffling samurai bullshit, guides the gush of flame around his body, circularly, to bring it back around towards the HK-51. He's not trying to strike with it. It's meant to be cover to obfuscate a desperate, impaling rush. One that might not even kill the HK-51, it just needs to stun it long enough for Moonfin to get an uninterrupted teleportation off! 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:''' The HK unit might appreciate the way that the alternate version of his master manipulated the droid's systems to work to her advantage...though not for long. "Watch it!" she warned the Lou-controlled drone as she evaded the self-destruct with some Force-assisted help, shielding the alien droid with the Force even as she evacuated. It was a good thing, too, as they were going to need cover fire very soon. "Right back at ya," was Toph's dissonant response from the masked figure. Combined with Juno's affirmation, it was definitely their familiar ally. "Called a cab, hope you don't mind." It was Lowri, all right. When the ''Ebon Hawk'' arrived in the hangar bay, the units firing on it were as equally unfortunate. A tiny tiny droid perched atop the hull, expertly firing her Gatling gun at whatever nipped at their heels while the newly-christened Insecticon shot off poisoned barbs from its tail-stinger. While the poison was ineffective against the droids, the darts themselves certainly weren't. The Jedi brought up the rear once the pilot and the metalbender had boarded, bellowing her order to the shinki and the Insecticon to follow her inside. "Time to go!" And much to Toph and Juno's likely relief, there are kolto packs waiting for just such an occasion. 

:'''{{#var:64|Lou (64)}} has posed:''' It's a good thing that Revan was there to help cover for Lou. Her line shield has taken an absolute beating from all this action, for one thing - she would have been wide open to the blast, if it had hit her fully. For another, her threat radar, while beginning to return to proper functionality, is still clogged with all the red pips everywhere. Over-reliant on it, at times, to a fault, she is caught off guard as the HK self-destructs. Again, thanks to Revan's intervention, it still slams into her, but to a more manageable degree. It does manage to knock off one of her pauldron parts, however, as well as her hat, exposing the horn-like antennae beneath, the garment careening over a walk way to be practically non-retrievable. "...my radome," she drones, for an odd moment a sense of loss manages to filter in to her monotone. With essentially all of the prison ship's staff, and residents, a non-factor, Lou regains her focus, retuning her threat radar, now that it can be marginally useful again. That menacing droid seemed to be on another level from the zombies and prison wardens, so it is mainly that type of entity she maintains scans for, even as she paces towards the ship bays. She is still unhurried and purposeful in her steps, a servo in one leg still whining its disagreement after that slam into the wall earlier, even as her expanded sensors relay that the block ship is essentially disintegrating from all of the abuse. Her rifle remains trained, though even the last few red blips are vanishing. Now it is basically a matter of beating the clock, and the HKs, out of here. Back in the docking bay, Lou gives one last glance over, perhaps doing a rapid head count, before she lowers the back hatch of her G-Flyer. No time for proper goodbyes or introductions, but the pink-haired robot girl does give a long glance as the door seals behind. Shortly after, the single, large engine flares with photonic energy, and the fine maneuvering thrusters engage, before moving to get the hell out of here. The G-Flyer could theoretically add some cover fire, but given the strength of its batteries are not tuned for this use, it is quickly calculated as unnecessary. 

:'''{{#var:428|Juno Eclipse (428)}} has posed:''' Using a combination of Toph's momentum and a grip against the entry hatch of the ''Ebon Hawk'', Juno swings herself aboard and into the ship. Thankfully, that means she didn't have time to stare at Ulaire or the Unsettling Friendly Insecticon. She'll probably get to meet those later. Right now her priority is to slump against the inside of the ship, coughing and hacking helplessly. It doesn't sound so good, but she didn't inhale enough for it to be lethal. Probably. "Thanks," she rasps, glancing up to both Revan and Toph while she catches her breath. It's heartfelt gratitude in spite of its brevity; something both women would be able to feel through their respective senses. She'll take advantage of the kolto packs, and promptly look for a crew cabin to collapse into. Whatever was done to her, it was probably exhausting. She looks shaky and unsteady, tired beyond measure, and harrowed as though she's been put through the wringer. The kolto does wonders for her abraded throat and her raw, bloody wrists, though. For this, she can almost forgive Revan for teaching her Pazaak... 

:'''{{#var:754|HK-47 (754)}} has posed:''' The HK-51 droid is indeed stunned by the move made by the aquatic organic, but instead opts to try and counter by activating it's carbonite launcher, spraying the supercooled fluid into the flames and sending jets of steam hissing and billowing out through the room - but it ultimately comes at a cost as it's hand is sliced off at the wrist, cutting through it's internal weapons and leaving the machine all but defenseless as on the second spin the blade slices through it's optics, blinding it. In desperation, it activates it's self-destruct, intent on trying to take the organic with it, it's lack of eyes allowing it to explode in peace believing it had taken it's target down with it. The final HK-51 unit aboard the doomed vessel, turning around to face the oncoming specter of Revan and the artificial humanoid, is suddenly thrown like a rag doll as the earth-bender upturns several strips of the bulkheads and rips the floor away so fast that it sheers off one of the droid's legs and tosses it's rifle away, leaving the machine stunned and helpless as it's opponents retreat aboard the smuggler vessel. 

:'''{{#var:672|Starbound Flotilla (672)}} has posed:''' Moonfin's blade assault comes to an end, launched back and partially encased in a gush of carbonite that immobilizes some of his lower body! Slowly, he begins to flash red while the machine's self-destruct sequence goes off. The countdown is a little desperate! It's only through the helpful hand of Seft, their robotic member, that Moonfin's ship manages to calculate the teleportation in time and get him out of there, just before the robot explodes. It's shortly after that Seft will do her best to teleport aboard the ''Ebon Hawk'' as all the ships pull out and book it away from the main craft. She'll be carrying an unconscious Moonfin, urgently in need of some medical treatment! Once everyone's clear – unfortunately that includes any of the Confederates who have chosen to escape – a burned and bruised Albert, still piloting a limping and injured SFS ''Vehemence'', manages to get all the system failures in order. With the remaining kamikaze threats dealt with, there is little that needs addressing. "Biteblade. This is Albert." He mutters grimly over the radio. "The VIP and objective materials are recovered. Counterattack ability is neutralized. Annihilate the rest of it. Leave only salvage." Biteblade will spend however long she's able to firing the massive STARHUNTER railgun at the compromised husk of a ship. Albert, apparently, wishes to make a statement that the Flotilla is entirely willing to use the same methods of utter destruction that the Galactic Empire will. Aside from chunks of salvagable scrap, they intend to leave nothing but a burned husk as their message. The prisoners inside were dangerous and the wardens deserved to die. Nothing can be left alive on the craft. 
}}

Welcome Home (Revan)

2015-05-24T19:28:31Z

ForwardObserver:

{{Cutscene Header
|Date of Scene=2015/05/24
|Location=Battle Rondo Arena
|Synopsis=Ulaire loses her match in the Battle Rondo, expecting to return to the MMS. But the Waffebunny is in for a surprise...
|Thanks=
|Cast of Characters=414
|Tinyplot=
}}
She had lost. Losing the Battle Rondo wouldn't have been a huge deal -- even if it would have been a mere disappointment otherwise -- except for the fact that Ulaire's current master was only temporary for the tournament. The Virtual Master Program was intended in part to help masterless shinki find prospective new owners, but not every shinki who participated was successfully adopted. The Waffebunny feared that if she didn't properly win the tournament, her own current arrangement would be likewise temporary. Having been turned back over to MMS, she hadn't been reformatted, though perhaps for her peace of mind she should have been. 'DEATHSTALKER 789' had been abandoned. As ridiculous as that name was, it was proof that she had been activated and belonged to a master. Even if he had only thought of her as a toy -- one that might as well have been sold at a yard sale once he was bored again -- she still had an owner, a function, a purpose. This temporary master was different. The Waffebunny could tell that the master who had requested her was looking at her not as a plaything, but as a piece of military hardware. The Vulcan Labs shinki were designed as testbeds for human soldiers, and in many ways that remained her primary function. And now, someone was looking for a shinki with that specific function. But not entirely. There was an odd expression that the Waffebunny -- renamed to the much more dignified 'Ulaire' by this temporary master -- couldn't quite read. It wasn't like a child looking at a fascinating new toy, but there was a strange sort of enthusiasm that puzzled her. Not that it mattered at this point: she had failed. She was certain her master wanted to see if she would be effective in combat...and she had lost. Grimly and with a heavy heart, Ulaire awaited MMS technicians to reclaim her and return to the shop, only to be surprised when her temporary master appeared, reassuring her that she should be proud for fighting so hard and that she had done very well. Her confusion must have shown on her face, because her master simply chuckled. With a demure and stoic face, Ulaire thanked her properly for the compliment and for allowing her to compete in the Battle Rondo, waiting for her temporary master to bid her farewell. Instead, a shock was waiting for the Waffebunny. "Well, come on. Let's go home." Home? But she had failed, she lost the tournament. "Oh, that? I only wanted to see what your capabilities are. And besides, shinki seem to really enjoy competing in it," her master replied with a grin, holding up a receipt of purchase...dated to the day /before/ the tournament. Ulaire felt like an idiot. She had been so wrapped up in her worries and abandonment issues that she failed to note the obvious. Hopefully, her new master wouldn't think too poorly of her for it. "Ma'am! Yes, ma'am!" she replied, following her new master with her tiny artifical 'hear' practically leaping out of her chest unit.

Welcome Home (Revan)

2015-05-24T19:27:47Z

ForwardObserver:

{{Cutscene Header
|Date of Scene=21015/05/24
|Location=Battle Rondo Arena
|Synopsis=Ulaire loses her match in the Battle Rondo, expecting to return to the MMS. But the Waffebunny is in for a surprise...
|Thanks=
|Cast of Characters=414
|Tinyplot=
}}
She had lost. Losing the Battle Rondo wouldn't have been a huge deal -- even if it would have been a mere disappointment otherwise -- except for the fact that Ulaire's current master was only temporary for the tournament. The Virtual Master Program was intended in part to help masterless shinki find prospective new owners, but not every shinki who participated was successfully adopted. The Waffebunny feared that if she didn't properly win the tournament, her own current arrangement would be likewise temporary. Having been turned back over to MMS, she hadn't been reformatted, though perhaps for her peace of mind she should have been. 'DEATHSTALKER 789' had been abandoned. As ridiculous as that name was, it was proof that she had been activated and belonged to a master. Even if he had only thought of her as a toy -- one that might as well have been sold at a yard sale once he was bored again -- she still had an owner, a function, a purpose. This temporary master was different. The Waffebunny could tell that the master who had requested her was looking at her not as a plaything, but as a piece of military hardware. The Vulcan Labs shinki were designed as testbeds for human soldiers, and in many ways that remained her primary function. And now, someone was looking for a shinki with that specific function. But not entirely. There was an odd expression that the Waffebunny -- renamed to the much more dignified 'Ulaire' by this temporary master -- couldn't quite read. It wasn't like a child looking at a fascinating new toy, but there was a strange sort of enthusiasm that puzzled her. Not that it mattered at this point: she had failed. She was certain her master wanted to see if she would be effective in combat...and she had lost. Grimly and with a heavy heart, Ulaire awaited MMS technicians to reclaim her and return to the shop, only to be surprised when her temporary master appeared, reassuring her that she should be proud for fighting so hard and that she had done very well. Her confusion must have shown on her face, because her master simply chuckled. With a demure and stoic face, Ulaire thanked her properly for the compliment and for allowing her to compete in the Battle Rondo, waiting for her temporary master to bid her farewell. Instead, a shock was waiting for the Waffebunny. "Well, come on. Let's go home." Home? But she had failed, she lost the tournament. "Oh, that? I only wanted to see what your capabilities are. And besides, shinki seem to really enjoy competing in it," her master replied with a grin, holding up a receipt of purchase...dated to the day /before/ the tournament. Ulaire felt like an idiot. She had been so wrapped up in her worries and abandonment issues that she failed to note the obvious. Hopefully, her new master wouldn't think too poorly of her for it. "Ma'am! Yes, ma'am!" she replied, following her new master with her tiny artifical 'hear' practically leaping out of her chest unit.

Welcome Home (Revan)

2015-05-24T19:25:32Z

ForwardObserver: Created page with "{{Cutscene Header |Date of Scene=21015/05/24 |Location=Battle Rondo Arena |Synopsis=Ulaire loses her match in the Battle Rondo, expecting to return to the MMS. But the Waffebu..."

{{Cutscene Header
|Date of Scene=21015/05/24
|Location=Battle Rondo Arena
|Synopsis=Ulaire loses her match in the Battle Rondo, expecting to return to the MMS. But the Waffebunny is in for a surprise...
|Thanks=
|Cast of Characters=
|Tinyplot=
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She had lost. Losing the Battle Rondo wouldn't have been a huge deal -- even if it would have been a mere disappointment otherwise -- except for the fact that Ulaire's current master was only temporary for the tournament. The Virtual Master Program was intended in part to help masterless shinki find prospective new owners, but not every shinki who participated was successfully adopted. The Waffebunny feared that if she didn't properly win the tournament, her own current arrangement would be likewise temporary. Having been turned back over to MMS, she hadn't been reformatted, though perhaps for her peace of mind she should have been. 'DEATHSTALKER 789' had been abandoned. As ridiculous as that name was, it was proof that she had been activated and belonged to a master. Even if he had only thought of her as a toy -- one that might as well have been sold at a yard sale once he was bored again -- she still had an owner, a function, a purpose. This temporary master was different. The Waffebunny could tell that the master who had requested her was looking at her not as a plaything, but as a piece of military hardware. The Vulcan Labs shinki were designed as testbeds for human soldiers, and in many ways that remained her primary function. And now, someone was looking for a shinki with that specific function. But not entirely. There was an odd expression that the Waffebunny -- renamed to the much more dignified 'Ulaire' by this temporary master -- couldn't quite read. It wasn't like a child looking at a fascinating new toy, but there was a strange sort of enthusiasm that puzzled her. Not that it mattered at this point: she had failed. She was certain her master wanted to see if she would be effective in combat...and she had lost. Grimly and with a heavy heart, Ulaire awaited MMS technicians to reclaim her and return to the shop, only to be surprised when her temporary master appeared, reassuring her that she should be proud for fighting so hard and that she had done very well. Her confusion must have shown on her face, because her master simply chuckled. With a demure and stoic face, Ulaire thanked her properly for the compliment and for allowing her to compete in the Battle Rondo, waiting for her temporary master to bid her farewell. Instead, a shock was waiting for the Waffebunny. "Well, come on. Let's go home." Home? But she had failed, she lost the tournament. "Oh, that? I only wanted to see what your capabilities are. And besides, shinki seem to really enjoy competing in it," her master replied with a grin, holding up a receipt of purchase...dated to the day /before/ the tournament. Ulaire felt like an idiot. She had been so wrapped up in her worries and abandonment issues that she failed to note the obvious. Hopefully, her new master wouldn't think too poorly of her for it. "Ma'am! Yes, ma'am!" she replied, following her new master with her tiny artifical 'hear' practically leaping out of her chest unit.

2308/Battle Rondo: Kiki vs. Ulaire

2015-05-24T05:24:29Z

ForwardObserver: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2015/05/23 |Location=Busou Shinki Battle Arena |Synopsis=It's the second round of the Battle Rondo: Kiki vs. Ulaire! |Thanks= |Cast of Characters=4..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2015/05/23
|Location=Busou Shinki Battle Arena
|Synopsis=It's the second round of the Battle Rondo: Kiki vs. Ulaire!
|Thanks=
|Cast of Characters=414, 737, 772
|Tinyplot=
|Tinyplot2=
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      Today, the Arena is packed with humans and shinki alike, owners and hopeful owners, as well as fans of the diminutive robot girls. It's Round 2 of the 2015 Battle Rondo, and the air is electric with anticipation of seeing the powerful little shinki in action!      CITYSCAPE      A shinki-scale city. Set during nighttime, with all the streetlights on and the buildings lit up in a majestic fashion, it manages to be both generic as well as invoke the image of many major cities. Most notably, it resembles a cross between New York City and Tokyo and contains landmarks from both, such as the Empire State Building and Tokyo Tower. Raised multi-lane highways cut through the city, while surface streets divide clusters of enormous skyscrapers into blocks and form an iconic concrete jungle. Enormous video screens and billboards hang on the sides of some buildings, advertising various real world companies.      Into this scene flies the Waffebunny model Ulaire clad in her black tactical armour, her rabbit-ear visor up in the crown of her head completing the 'rabbit' motif. For all her worry about her new potential adoption hinging on her performance -- or so she believes -- the shinki is calm and collected in flawless military bearing. She salutes the crowd crisply, her deceptively gentle face placid.      "Welcome, and thank you all for coming to watch this match! I'll do my very best, so please root for me!" 

:'''{{#var:737|Vivio Takamachi (737)}} has posed:'''     There's a twinkle of light in the night sky of the shinki city. A white object comes shooting down towards the ground, spinning fast as it approaches ground level. It's the Kyknos model Kiki, her wide wings wrapped around her.     Moments before crashing, Kiki opens her wings up fully, thrusters flaring as she halts her momentum. Softly floating the rest of the way down, her armored boots touching down on the ground.     Kiki turns to the audience, bowing to them, her wings curling as she does. She then summons her large sword from slipway, spinning around to point the weapon in Ulaire's direction. Kiki then smiles and says, "Good luck."     From the sidelines, Vivio cheers her temporary, possibly soon to be permanent, Shinki on. She jumps up and down in excitement, "Wooo! You can do this Kiki! Then we're onto the finals! Go for it!" 

:'''{{#var:772|Hiei (772)}} has posed:''' "Welcome to Round 2 of the 2015 Battle Rondo! It's your favorite resident catgirl announcer, finally back to her chosen profession, her destiny, her one true calling, Koto! I'm coming to you from this gloriously comfortable seat in the Busou Shinki Battle Arena." Koto is sitting off to the edge of the combat area, leaning on a small table with a microphone held up to her mouth. "Our fighters today are the adorably rabbit eared Ulaire! Just look at her, would you want to see a cute face like that get impaled? It'd be pretty cool, but I sure wouldn't, maybe! And then we have the adorably -winged- Kiki! With flight like that, she'll definitely be flying people into the air and dropping them to the ground! That's right, I've seen Dogma!" "And let me take a moment to thank the producers for putting on a tournament where there is no risk of mortal injury to the announcers?" 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      From her seat in the stands, Lowri smiles faintly, her arms folded. She was enjoying the matches far, far more than she let on, but there are some things waiting for the shinki regardless of the outcomes of her match. But those are a surprise! For now, she nods to the Waffebunny when she salutes.      Ulaire turns, saluting Kiki. "It's my honour to fight you today! Let's make this an excellent match!"      <COMBATANTS READY! 3! 2! 1! RIDE ON!>      And she's off! Blasting backwards for some distance, Ulaire grabs her Karotte P12 semiautomatic pistol from the Slipway, firing off a testing round. 

:'''{{#var:737|Vivio Takamachi (737)}} has posed:'''     Kiki studies her opponent carefully while waiting for the match to begin... Another ranged model. And this time she doesn't have the use of a maze of catwalks and machinery to maneuver around. Just a city block.     As the count down begins, Kiki shifts her stance, wings spreading out as she crouches, sword out to the side. The match begins and Kiki is off! Thrusters kick up and the Swan type rockets forward, trying to cover as much ground as possible to reach her ranged opponent. She doesn't even waste the slow down required to try and dodge Ulaire's first shot, the bullet digging into the Kyknos' admittedly heavy armor.     Finally closing the distance between the two, Kiki bursts past her opponent, sword coming up in a passing slash. 

:'''{{#var:772|Hiei (772)}} has posed:''' Koto suddenly perks up as she receives information. "I'm told that the bunny is called a... a Wafflebunny? What? Oh, no, a Waffebunny! And Kiki is a Kyknos! But wow, look at that sportsmanship by Ulaire! It's not every day that you see someone start a fight without trying to bite someone's face off. AND LOOK AT THAT, SHE'S ALREADY PULLED OUT A GUN! Now that's my kind of sportsmanship!" "I'd like to take a moment to remind you to buy semiautomatic laser rifles. When vibro blades just aren't enough for the rancor in your life... Oh, I'm being told that I'm not allowed to have my own sponsors and advertisements in this tournament. Sorry for trying to make a living!" "Here we go! She's trying to dodge those bullets, but they're doing their best to dig right down into that flesh. Will we see blood here?! Do these things bleed?! AND THERE'S THE SWORD! Melee versus ranged, this is going to be a slaughter!" 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      This time, the resident psychopath seemed to be the announcer. But that was all right, it took a lot more than some good-natured sportsmanship to crack that military demeanour. Assessing her opponent on the fly, Ulaire noted that her hit only did minimal damage to the heavy armour, yet in spite of the bulk, the Kyknos was fast. Fast enough to close that gap and land a smarting blow with a swift passing strike, no less. Luckily, the Waffebunny's own armour was designed to take a beating as well.      The lack of objects other than city block was a similar impediment to her, even if she tended to use the environment in very different ways than the melee types. Cover was always helpful to ranged support. Swapping the pistol to her left hand and pulling out the Karotte TMP in her right, Ulaire fired off a few rapid shots as Kiki passed, firing her thrusters backwards for some extra distance. 

:'''{{#var:737|Vivio Takamachi (737)}} has posed:'''     It's Kiki's segmented wings that give her such good flight with her armor. Each segment has its own thruster and is capable of angling separately from the rest of them! Though the armor is a bit of an issue, Kiki forced to slow down as she turns else she go careening off into the side of a building.     Kiki darts along the side of a building, Ulaire's bullets shattering windows around her. A few of the bullets find their marks, putting more holes in Kiki's armor but not yet doing and critical damage.     Planting her feet into a the side of the building, Kiki pushes off in Ulaire's direction, closing the distance once more. This time though she brings her large sword around in front of her, point angled in Ulaire's direction. Kiki charges the Waffebunny directly, trying to run her blade through Ulaire! 

:'''{{#var:772|Hiei (772)}} has posed:''' Koto seems even more excited now! "Oh wow! She didn't get chewed up by semiautomatic fire, she landed a blow! Kyknos? More like kick nose! But what -will- Ulaire do without any cover? I may be a humble, young, beautiful announcer in the prime of her youth, single by the way, but I'm sure that ranged tactics require cover! Or... or not! Ulaire just pulled out some sort of high tech Murder Gun, and is attempting to use its primary feature of firing pure murder to her advantage! And look at those thrusters, definitely trying to make some distance for the range advantage!" "Even with those angular wings and high speed thrusters, Kiki still has to slow down in this city environment if she doesn't want to prematurely entertain us all by smashing into a building! Oh! Is she!? No, no, she's just flying next to it. False alarm people! But boy, windows smashing, bullets landing hits on the Kyknos fighter! She's not bleeding yet, but if that Murder Gun has any say... Annnd Kiki's flying in Ulaire's direction with that BFS, Big F&#*$@ Sword! SHE'S GOING FOR THE KILL! WILL WE BE HAVING VIRTUAL RABBIT STEW TONIGHT?!" 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      The Waffebunny was not one of the flashier types with multi-thruster wings and bright colours, and even her animal motif was understated. This is the end result of a military hardware company designing shinki as a testbed for human soldiers. Her model /did/ appeal to young boys who idolised the Army, though they tended to name them things like 'DEATHSTALKER 789'. Ulaire was more than happy when her hopefuuly-soon-to-be Master renamed her to something that, while alien to her, was much more dignified.      And her amour was tough while being lightweight, something human soldiers and marines would prefer. With a lack of cover, she would simply have to use her high manoeuvrability to her advantage. Tracking Kiki's movements through the scope of her TMP, she waited until the last moment to twist impossibly, avoiding being impaled by a ridiculously large sword. Though she avoided being taken out of the fight early, the sword nevertheless scored her armour impressively, nearly cutting down to wiring.      Ulaire was a primarily ranged model, but not /entirely/. Using the proximity and her angle, the Waffebunny changed out her handguns for the Hagtand Army Blades sheathed on her backpack, letting the torque carry her into a double-swipe at Kiki's back. 

:'''{{#var:737|Vivio Takamachi (737)}} has posed:'''     The Waffebunny has switched to using blades! And is attacking Kiki's back! Which is mostly covered by Kiki's wings. Which also double as her shield, when appropriately transformed. Kiki's wings fold in, though not all the way as she doesn't intend to use her shield just yet. But enough that the blades scrape across the impromptu shield, not doing much in the way of damage.     Her opponent has switched to melee weapons... Kiki smiles happily as an idea pops into her head. Her thrusters kick up, pulling her away from Ulaire to gain some distance. As she flies, her blade splits down the middle, both halves sliding open to reveal an emitter beneath. A second grip folds out of the main one.     Spinning around, Kiki comes to a hover. Now holding her weapon like a rifle, she levels it in Ulaire's direction and pulls on the trigger of the second grip. The weapon humms with energy before beginning to spit bolts of purple towards the Waffebunny. 

:'''{{#var:772|Hiei (772)}} has posed:''' Koto slams one of her hands on the table, on the very edge of her seat! "Wow, is Ulaire about to snipe Kiki through the head?! No, it seems she's using the scope of her Murder Gun to track Kiki's movements! Wow, look at that twist, she avoided getting impaled by the BFS so narrowly! But with her armor cut down that much, it's only a matter of time before kidneys start flying all over the place! How many kidneys do Waffebunnies have? I don't know! I'm hoping five big ones! SHE'S GOT A KNIFE NOW! She doesn't only -shoot- murder, she carves it too! But can that double-swipe to the back actually penetrate Kiki's armor?!" "Ooh, the knife scraped across her wings, almost like a shield! Still no blood yet, but we're getting close! But what's this?! Kiki's kicking in the thrusters to make distance, but she's a melee fighter! What's going on here?! N-no... no way! Kiki's BFS is splitting open to become a BFMG! A Big F&$*^@ Murder Gun! She's firing it at Ulaire, a rain of purple death that'd make Prince blush!" 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      Ulaire's melee capabilities weren't lacking, but for all the damage she did, it might as well have been. She didn't stop to kick herself inwardly in the middle of a match, though, managing to dodge the brunt of purple-hued energy but for some armour scoring.      Back went the swords and out came the guns again, keeping steady as she fired off a torrent of bullets from both at the Kyknos while keeping light on her feet. That is, if she wasn't already airborne. 

:'''{{#var:737|Vivio Takamachi (737)}} has posed:'''     Kiki blasts off again, trying to stay ahead of the stream of bullets. But Ulaire's aim proves greater in this case, the bullets rattling Kiki's armor and blowing off chunks. Kiki's flight is briefly destabilized and she goes crashing into the side of a building.     Pulling herself out of an interior wall, Kiki drops to the floor and takes stock of her situation... A little banged up, some armor damaged, but she's still intact. Still, perhaps it's time to change up her tactics. Kiki's wings fold up, segmented parts sliding in and locking into place, forming a shield.     Rifle-sword in right hand, shield in left, Kiki makes her way through the building to a window overlooking the street below. Catching sight of Ulaire outside, she levels her weapon towards the Waffebunny. The two blade halves slide open further and the weapon begins to charge.     Finally Kiki pulls the trigger, a single large bolt of purple blasting out of the building with a spray of glass and streaks towards Ulaire. 

:'''{{#var:772|Hiei (772)}} has posed:''' Koto's eyes widen, and she stands up entirely when the beam misses. "Ulaire dodged the BFMG, at least as much as she could! Look at that scoured armor, ow! I bet there's some sizzling virtual flesh under there! Somebody call Sam Raimi, she's gonna need a reboot after that! But here come the guns, and Ulaire looks like she's just gonna shoot her way through her opponent's superior mobility! Get your splatter sheets and rain coats ready, who knows -how- high they've got the gore settings turned up for this!" "DESTABILIZED FLIGHT, CHUNKS OF KIKI'S ARMOR FLYING EVERYWHERE! AND SHE FINALLY SMASHED INTO A BUILDING! This match is definitely heating up. Kiki's pulled herself out of the wall and dropped to the floor. Uh oh, her wings are folding up, the segmented parts are sliding in and locking in place... a shield?! Shield in one hand, BFMG in the other! Kiki is ready to kick bunny and take heads! I can't get a good look... no, wait, there she is, at the window! Look at that blast, straight through the building! Nothing but glass and purple! Be very very quiet, Kiki's hunting wabbits!" 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      Her counter was successful, but Ulaire didn't dare let up. Even if she didn't have her future riding on the Rondo, she was programmed to be an ideal soldier, programmed with experimental tactics and manoeuvres for her original purpose as a test subject for the military. Even as Kiki was slammed through the side of a building, the Waffebunny switched on her laser tracker to help aim through the rubble, searching.      Yet, she couldn't find her opponent until the last moment, her shield up and weapon already releasing the charge. Firing up her thrusters, Ulaire flew back, though not enoughto evade the blast entirely. She felt a wire short out in her knee, hindering her mobility somewhat. But with her laser sight trained on Kiki, she sniped a single shot from the TMP. 

:'''{{#var:737|Vivio Takamachi (737)}} has posed:'''     A well placed shot! The sniper round blows away another chunk of Kiki's armor and also forces her to stumble back a step. Her base structure beneath is starting to show. She won't be able to take too many more hits before critical systems start to get damaged. Kiki ducks further inside the building, trying to avoid Ulaire's sight...     The next sign of Kiki is another window shattering on a higher level. But it's no bolt of purple that streaks out of the window. Instead it's a grapple spike, wire trailing behind it into the building and Kiki's left gauntlet.     If she can get it to wrap around the Waffebunny, Kiki will begin to real the line back in while trying to whip the other shinki around and through a wall. 

:'''{{#var:772|Hiei (772)}} has posed:''' Koto suddenly points after sitting back down. "Look at that, Ulaire has a laser to help her deliver even more targetted forms of murder! But that wasn't nearly enough to find her opponent in time. Wabbit season came early, and... look at that, she's hurt, Kiki's blast did some damage! Her mobility is definitely compromised... and LOOK AT THAT! Even with hindered mobility, she sniped a single shot from her Murder Gun! How long can they keep up this pace before the crowd tries to riot, out for blood? By the way, how about this crowd that hasn't been murdered as a result of the fight at all so far?! Let's have a hand for this amazingly still-breathing audience!" "Annnd a direct hit, Kiki's driven back by the Murder Gun round, and look at that, we can see some... is that virtual skin? So close, you can practically smell the blood! What's that, another broken window?! LOOK AT THAT! Some kind of spike on a wire, she really -is- hunting wabbits! I had no idea such an adorable winged girl could be so brutal! She looks like she's trying to wrap it around her, but I like to think she's trying to lodge it through her stomach and into the spine for an amazing fatality! FINISH HER!!!" 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      She seemed to be whittling away Vivi's defences, but it was death-by-a-thousand-cuts aside for the most part. Ulaire needed to up her game...      And the other shinki just upped hers. Too quickly to give her time to react, a grapple spike whips around the Waffebunny, binding her fast and dragging her right through a wall. Ulaire definitely heard something break, chunks of her armour crumbling off and exposing cable 'muscles' and wires. And it would appear that her advanced targeting array was offline. Time for some less straightforward tactics.      Instead of firing on Kiki herself, Ulaire manoeuvred to an adjacent wall, firing at the base and kicking it over, intending to drop it on top of the Kyknos. 

:'''{{#var:737|Vivio Takamachi (737)}} has posed:'''     What's that sound? Why, it's the sound of a wall coming down on top of you! There's a blast of dust and debris as the wall comes down on the surprised Kiki.     After a few moments, the pile of rubble moves as Kiki climbs out. Bits and pieces of her armor fall off as she does, revealing the skin-coloured structure beneath. Being hit by a wall was unexpected, but now Kiki has pulled Ulaire into a slightly better environment to fight up close.     The two halves of Kiki's weapon snap closed again, returning to blade form. The purple energy field then activates it. The weapon hums with energy as Kiki charges shield first towards Ulaire. She swings her blade, burning through a section of wall as it sweeps towards the Waffebunny. 

:'''{{#var:772|Hiei (772)}} has posed:''' Koto's suddenly sitting with a Mountain Dew strategically facing the camera, not actually drinking it. "The grapple spike whipped around Ulaire like an anaconda, and now she's getting dragged through a wall! BRUTAL! The brutality is amazing. If you can't actually see this, you're missing out! Oh wow I think those wires pass for muscles, this is ROBOT GORE!!! Bask in it people, it's guilt free! And now Ulaire is firing at a wall, kicking it over... yes, YES! She's going to SMASH Kiki with a wall! Will she bleed oil, artificial blood, some sort of lubrication substance?! Place your bets people, but don't bathe in it, it probably doesn't keep your skin young and beautiful like a -real- blood bath!" "Wow! Buried under a pile of rubble, but... she's still alive! Kiki's climbing out, armor's falling off, she's definitely... I SEE SKIN! YES! More exposure, the next attacks just might decide the tide of this battle. The BFMG has collapsed back into a BFS, which means she's heading back into melee... but what's this, the blade is charging with energy again?! She can use that purple energy in melee? Shield first, she charges in with murderous intent, and swings that blade, burning through a section of wall, trying to slice that rabbit clean in half! If I were Ulaire, I'd be laying chocolate Easter Eggs right now!" 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      With no preamble other than two halves suddenly snapping together and a forward charge, Ulaire found herself on the receiving end of a violet blade. Staggering back with a nasty gash across her chest that nearly exposed something which would have put her out of the fight completely, she felt some of her servos compromised. She won't be able to sustain flight for very long. Fortunately, they were on a relatively solid 'ground at the moment.      Her melee wasn't quite as effective strength-wise, but being up-close didn't mean that she had to swap out her firearms. Instead, she leans into the charge, bringing the TMP up into Kiki's torso and firing three rounds up close. 

:'''{{#var:737|Vivio Takamachi (737)}} has posed:'''     It's hard to move a large sword and equally large shield quickly, so it's no big surprise when Ulaire is able to get the gun in through Kiki's defense. She can feel the vibrations from each shot as the bullets rip into her body, sparks flying as wires are severed.     As troubling as getting shot repeatedly in the torso is, the fact that Ulaire is still in close gives Kiki another opportunity to strike! This time though, instead of swinging with her heavy sword, she brings her heavy shield around to smash Ulaire into a wall. 

:'''{{#var:772|Hiei (772)}} has posed:''' Koto looks back at the crowd for a moment, "The crowd appears to have been worked up into some sort of violent frenzy, though my producers are saying that this is called a 'wave', common at Earth sporting events. Sorry for not watching people kick a ball for seven hours! Also I've been told to remove my drink because my producers also find product placement on the part of the announcers unacceptable." "OOHH LOOK AT THAT CHEST GASH! Now -this- is the gore you came to see, people! That looks like an almost critical wound. Now she's firing her Murder Gun at point blank range, Ulaire is on a RAMPAGE!!! But with that nasty wound on her chest, could Kiki be setting up the stage for ripping her still-beating heart out and showing it to the warrior bunny?!" "But Kiki has to worry about those bullets currently tearing through her body! It'd be a shame if these things don't feel pain, but even if they can't, let's just pretend for our own entertainment! OOOOOHHH! She's trying to smash Ulaire into a wall. Did she go to the International Charm School of the Incredible Hulk?!" 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      Her current position left Ulaire more than compromised, and she knew it. The next attack was going to hit hard...and it did. Her rear tank was crushed against the wall even as her front was smashed with the shield, taking away more chunks of armour. In that position, it was nearly impossible to manoeuvre. Her options were severely limited. But one of those options was a very heavy one. Heavy, slow, difficult to handle...and hit hard.      Kiki might be opushed back from just the size alone as Ulaire pulled her STR6 Minigun from the Slipway. The name was almost laughable, as the 'minigun' was, in fact, a Gatling gun. And it was currently firing off a rain of bullets at Kiki. 

:'''{{#var:737|Vivio Takamachi (737)}} has posed:'''     Kiki's eyes actually go wide as she backpedals at the sight of the large gatling gun. Probably the weapon you least want to see pulled out in front of you! No doubt its bullets would rip Kiki to shreds should she give Ulaire an opening.     As the large gun spins up, Kiki quickly crouches and brings her shield up. Just in time too, as the bullets begin to spit out. Kiki's shield literally shakes as the stream of bullets pound against it. Even the heavy shield begins to crack under the assault as Kiki struggles to keep it in place. As she weathers the assault, Kiki realises she's going to have to act before her shield gives out.     Kiki's blade slides open again as it transforms into rifle mode. But rather than aim at Ulaire, Kiki aims straight up. Her weapon charges, then blows a hole open in the floor above. Next Kiki aims her gauntlet up, both grapples firing through the hole and digging into the ceiling above. The lines retract and Kiki is quickly pulled up onto the next floor.     Landing on the floor again, Kiki begins to run. After all, a single floor isn't going to be all that much protection from such a gun. She judges the distance based on when she last saw Ulaire and jumps. Raising her rifle she aims at the floor in front of her, another blast of energy blowing open another hole. Kiki then jumps, landing on the ceiling above said hole and brining her barely intact shield in front of her She pushes off, her remaining thrusters kicking in as she launches herself through the hole towards Ulaire below, rifle firing rapid blasts as she crashes into the Waffebunny. 

:'''{{#var:772|Hiei (772)}} has posed:''' Koto sticks her tongue out as someone takes away her Mountain Dew and instead pours it into a red cup for her. "Oohh her tank thing got crushed! Is that like a vital organ for her?! She can barely move, what could she possibly do in this state other than accept the inevitability of death?! WHAT IS THAT?! It's... it's... Ulaire's pulled out some huge... This is no simple Murder Gun, people. To describe this thing is to describe the hand of Death itself! The ease with which this thing is simply raining first class tickets to Hell down on Kiki reminds me. We should appreciate all of the contributions that the Human World makes to entertaining ultra violence by inventing things like this! We love you, humans!" "But now that Ulaire has revealed herself to be in possession of Death's Ticket Dispenser, things are looking rather dire for Kiki! She's trying to use her shield, but even that's cracking under that sustained fire! If she doesn't act fast, it won't hold for long! OH! BFS to BFMG action again. This is turning into a battle of efficient murder delivery systems. But what's she doing... she fired two grapples through a hole, into the ceiling! What's she planning to do by pulling herself up there?!" "Oh, she's running, using the floor as protection from Ulaire's continued display of ultra violence! But she realizes it won't hold for long, so now, yes, she's firing, blasting a hole through the floor! A last ditch effort as she jumps through it, using what's left of her shield, kicking on her thrusters, flying toward Ulaire and firing rifle blasts like some horrifying angel of death! There's no mercy here, they're laying it all on the line, this is absolute two-way slaughter!" 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      Utilising the minigun had been a desperation move, probably not a prudent one. But with many of her systems compromised and much of her armour taken out and running out of options, it was a gamble she took. But while it was somewhat successful, she was more than simply on the ropes. The Wafflebunny wouldn't be able to take another hit.      Her thrusters remained only partially operable, so when Kiki blows a hole in the ceiling and escapes through it, Ulaire could only manage short bursts to try to keep follow. But she isn't quite fast enough even as she runs at dead speed, or at least as fast as she can move with her servos heavily damaged.      A brutal attack rains down on her from the above floor, shaving off even more of her armour, her left arm only barely still attached by cables but for all intents and purposes useless. She can't use the minigun in that state, so Ulaire made one last-ditch effort, firing a rapid burst from the TMP in her right hand.      If this didn't work, she was done for. 

:'''{{#var:737|Vivio Takamachi (737)}} has posed:'''     After clashing with Ulaire, Kiki tries to get to her feet, but she's not quick enough as she sees Ulaire aiming her gun. No time to stand! Kiki gets desperate, kicking her thrusters into gear. They push her along the ground as bullets from Ulaire's gun whip around her.     Some of the bullets find their mark as Kiki brings her rifle up to fire as she skids across the floor. However, on pull of the trigger, the emitter shorts out. Kiki realises it's taken a hit!     Kiki adjusts the angle of her thrusters, pushing her up into a backwards roll that ends with her on one knee. She pushes off from the ground, looking like she's beginning a charge. However Kiki plants her foot into the ground and twists, going into a spin. Her arm goes up as she swings her weapon around, before releasing it and sending it spinning through the air towards Ulaire. 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      And that was it. She could see it coming, but she couldn't dodge. It was too fast, and with her mobility as compromised was it was, all Ulaire could do was make a futile effort to move. The blade slices her left arm had been completely off, and with most of her armour destroyed and her thrusters were completely offline, there was no more she could do. The Waffebunny struggled to remain upright, still managing to stand on her feet, but no further attacks would be coming from her.      <ULAIRE IS UNABLE TO CONTINUE! KIKI PROGRESSES TO THE NEXT ROUND!>      With the conclusion of the match, the simulated cityscape disappeared in a final burst of coloured lights, leaving the arena in its blank slate form and the two shinki back to their pre-match condition. Straightening, Ulaire stoically renders a crisp salute to Kiki. "An excellent match. I hope to face you again sometime."      The Waffebunny then flies off, hiding the dejection that her temporary Master wouldn't buy her after she had been defeated. But Ulaire was in for a surprise...one that would be the true prize for her debut Battle Rondo. 

:'''{{#var:737|Vivio Takamachi (737)}} has posed:'''     Kiki looks relieved by the announcement. Even more so as their damage vanishes and they return to top condition. It wasn't very comfortable!     At the salute, Kiki bows in return, "It was, thank you! It would be a pleasure to fight you again." Kiki watches the Waffebunny fly off, before turning to wave to the cheering crowd. She too then begins to head out of the arean.     In the stands, Vivio makes her way over to where she saw Ulaire's master. Approaching Lowri, Vivio gives a wave and is grinning as she says, "Hello! Your shinki fought well!" She then realises the two haven't official met. Vivio raises her hand excitedly, "I'm Vivio Takamachi! Kiki's temporary master! It was a good battle!" 

:'''{{#var:772|Hiei (772)}} has posed:''' Koto's sipping at her cup through a straw before she continues. "How either of them is still going is beyond me! They want this, they want this -bad-! Maybe these robots eat and they make them fight for dinner?! I have no idea, but WOW, look at that arm hang, Ulaire's arm is -literally- hanging on by a thread! She should rip that thing off and use it as a weapon before Kiki does! Now all she can use is her regular Murder Gun, firing with one arm, out of complete desperation! This fight looks like it might be over, people. But at this rate, they might start taking cues from a certain Black Knight!" "Kiki can't stand, she just kicks her thrusters into gear like a crazy person, dragging herself along the ground with bullets falling left and right! Did I see a finger fly off?! I don't know! Too many bullets! But she quickly shifts her angle, pushing herself up, backwards roll, now she's on one knee! What's next?! She's twisting with her foot on the ground, spinning herself... SHE'S THROWING HER BIG F$#@:3 SWORD!!!" "Ulaire can't move, she can't dodge, SHE IS GOING TO DIE!!! She tries to move, but it's futile, completely useless. Her life must be flashing before her eyes. Her arm is completely gone, most of her armor is destroyed, she is UNABLE TO CONTINUE!" She suddenly stands, then takes a bow. "That was an excellent match. It's been a pleasure to be here. Once again, this was Koto. And even though they didn't allow me any of my personal sponsorships, please feel free to check my Amazon wishlist and donate to my Paypal if you'd like to help support me in those months where there aren't any high profile tournaments to announce! Thank you!" 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      At the conclusion, Lowri stood up to spring her little surprise on an unsuspecting shinki. But not just yet, it seemed. "She certainly did. And yours too, I might add. Congratulations."      Her smile was friendly, and she did nothing to hide the fact that she very much enjoyed watching, even if Ulaire hadn't won. "I'm Lowri Shan. It's nice to meet you, Vivo. It was a fantastic match." 

:'''{{#var:737|Vivio Takamachi (737)}} has posed:'''     "Oooh, that's a pretty name!" Vivio smiles happily at getting to meet Ulaire's master. But! Now she has other things to do~     Vivio bounces on her feet happily, hands clasped behind her as she says, "I just wanted to meet and say thank you! Tell Ulaire 'thank you' from me too!"     Vivio grins and turns, though still looking at Lowri, "I'm going to go congratulate Kiki now. Seeya!" She waves back to Lowri as she dashes off to see her shinki. 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      Lowri grinned; Vivio could know, but Viivo had just said something that tended to warm her heart. It was not her true name -- that she was unable to remember -- but they were names she chose, names that honoured a dear friend and a reminder of her redemption. "I appreciate that. Thank you."      With a soft chuckle, the jedi nodded. "I will. And give Kiki my thanks and congratulations. I'll keep watching her in the next rounds."      With that, the Guardian made her own way down to let Ulaire know that she was no longer a masterless shinki. And hopefully, she liked the pineapple flavour of jellycans. 

}}

2207/Against The Wind

2015-05-12T11:20:20Z

ForwardObserver: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2015/05/11 |Location=Dun Realtai |Synopsis=In the course of his search, Hiei comes across Dun Realtai and its caretakers, the Servant Saber and Sir..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2015/05/11
|Location=Dun Realtai
|Synopsis=In the course of his search, Hiei comes across Dun Realtai and its caretakers, the Servant Saber and Sir Bedivere.
|Thanks=
|Cast of Characters=346, 482, 772
|Tinyplot=
|Tinyplot2=
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Dun Realtai -- the 'Fortress of the Stars' so named by its new lord in a fit of sarcasm when he could see the stars through the keep's dilapidated roof -- was currently enjoying a pleasant spring season following the brutal natural winter which had come on the heels of the unnatural winter due to the evil magic of its former lord. The presence of the winter witch Alaia, who was forced to assume control to protect the innocent people of the village, further exacerbated the problem. Once she was released from her burden, she was able to return to her lake and the natural cycle returned. Now, the land was slowly recovering, and the townsfolk busied themselves with the tasks of sowing the year's crops in the fields beyond the castle walls.      Unlike the nobles of the past, the new lord and lady were more involved than simply planning and overseeing the work and logistics. They certainly performed those duties, but to the amazement of the people, likewise lent their hands to the same rigorous work of preparing and sowing the once-infertile fields. At any given time, either one or both could be spotted among the peasants, dressed in much the same plain clothing as the villagers, helping to dig rows and irrigation. For the moment, only the lady was present, leaning slightly on a hoe as she examined a finished field. Though she was dressed plainly, her hair was bound up in its usual braid-encircled bun, which may have been one indication of her true status. But the other indication perhaps spoke louder; the tiny blonde carried herself with an obvious regal bearing even performing such supposedly low work. And those sensitive to the flow of mana would be able to feel that, unlike the villagers, she was not human...at least, not in the traditional sense. 

:'''{{#var:772|Hiei (772)}} has posed:''' Hiei frequently searches for his mother's Hirui Stone, so occasionally he remotely views a place that piques his curiosity for reasons he can't quite put his finger on. Well, here it's mostly the apparent sign that something violent may have happened in the past. He's obviously a stranger, and if one can feel -his- energy, he's as far from a human as possible, except in the way that he looks. Though he is wearing a fancy outfit at the moment, since his regular outfit was destroyed earlier in the day: http://i.imgur.com/S75DmPx.jpg He looks to Saber, seeming rather casual, then calls her across the field. "You, tell me what this place is." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      It was not the best of ways to make a first impression on the founder of the Way of Chivalry.      The Servant Saber turned her head slightly, a slight frown flickering across her face for a moment before the neutral expression returned. She had dealt with far worse insults to her station, but rudeness was not something she particularly liked.      "It is called Dun Realtai," she replied evenly, the mishmash of languages perhaps strange. For though the multiversal effect translated her words effortlessly, the actual words spoken were two similar yet wholly different languages. The name of the castle and village were in Gaelic, but other than that, the Heroic Spirit spoke an archaic version of Welsh.      And in spite of the yokai's brusque 'request', Saber herself was nevertheless cordial, as chivalry demanded. "Have you business here?" she asked in turn, sea-green eyes continuing to regard their newest visitor placidly. 

:'''{{#var:772|Hiei (772)}} has posed:''' "I saw signs of a past battle here, I wanted to see what kind of place this was." Hiei begins to carefully approach her now. Unlike most people, she can probably easily tell that he conceals a sword under his clothes. He obviously takes no particular measures to hide it, concealing it is simply the only way that his current outfit can be worn. "You don't speak like a common villager. I've clearly insulted you." he decides, taking a quick breath. "My name is Hiei." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Pale eyebrows lifted slightly. "It was some time before our arrival," Saber admitted. So, she was not a native of the village? "The creatures were dealt with some time ago, as well as the source."      Not moving from where she stood, the Servant observed the yokai, though she made an effort to not make it obvious she was appraising him. He was hardly the first of his kind to visit the remote village, though they were nevertheless rare enough to draw the mild curiosity of the villagers. Yet, they didn't stare, almost as if they were used to outworld visitors.      And then there were the native versions of the yokai who might be even more apprehensive. But for the moment, the Tylwyth Teg made no signs of stirring.      Was that an apology? It might not have necessarily seemed that way -- and she was silently thankful Bedivere was not present to demand she be accorded the proper amount of respect -- but to the King of Knights, it felt vaguely that way. She decided against being offended. "It was...merely that there are...more gentle ways of asking a question. But I do not take offence at being mistaken for a villager. I am a servant to the people." Not to mention she was dressed like one.      "Well-met," she answered politely. "I am called Saber." 

:'''{{#var:772|Hiei (772)}} has posed:''' "I am rather genetically predisposed to aggression, and being gentle does not come naturally to me. Human social norms tend to be a thing that I do not concern myself with, though I do try to treat warriors with some manner of respect. Assuming that they aren't arrogant and prideless wretches." Hiei seems to be assuming she's a warrior, perhaps by the way she carries herself. The same should be obvious to her if she notes the way he carries himself as well, ignoring the whole sword thing. He stares up at her when he's close enough, considering his ridiculously short stature. "Saber. A strong name." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      If she remained unsure whether or not Hiei was perhaps one of the Eastern cousins of her patrons, the fact that he admitted that human social norms were not something he could necessarily understand meant she was reasonably certain now. "You are of a yokai race, then," she observed.      Poor Bedivere. Fair Folk in general made him apprehensive.      But Hiei was off to a decent enough start, given how she abhorred arrogance. The Servant had certainly seen enough of it during the Holy Grail War. "Arrogance does not befit a knight," she replied, smiling slightly.      Saber shifted slightly, passing her hoe to her opposite hand. "In truth, it is my class designation as a Servant. But it is as much of my identity as any other part of myself." 

:'''{{#var:772|Hiei (772)}} has posed:''' "A knight? Interesting. So you embody all that is right and good with humanity." Hiei raises a hand to press it against his chest, looking down as if in deep thought. "My first instinct in the presence of someone like yourself is to spoil and corrupt, but I am not a creature of pure instinct. Humans have trouble comprehending the way that a youkai like myself thinks and acts." "I direct my instinct. Senseless slaughter bores me. I no longer find pleasure in killing someone without killing intent." He seems to find her interesting enough to open up a bit, at least, and blinks in sudden curiosity. "A servant? What exactly does this distinction mean to you?" 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      The King of Knights lowered her head slightly, in accordance with Ingenuitas, the Virtue representing modesty, candour, and nobility of character. "It gladdens me to know that what we have sought to accomplish would be remembered," she admitted. "Regardless of our end, we could but put all our efforts into becoming a symbol that the people could look up to. If I was at least successful in part, perhaps that was enough."      Wait...why was she referring to herself in the past tense?      She didn't so much as flinch at the admission -- after all, that was precisely what the King of Heroes had intended to do and never wasted an opportunity to tell her. "Yet, to control such urges is a strength of character. I know of others who likewise possess such instincts, yet they see no shame in indulging them." Her eyes became slightly distant, hinting that the disapproving frown was for someone quite specific on her past.      But the moment passed, and Saber tilted her head slightly in her version of a shrug. "In my country, there is a similar race known as the Tylwyth Teg, the Fair Folk. Their ways are not those of humans, but so long as they are not disturbed, they do not disturb us in kind."      Similiarly, talk of killing neither made her flinch. "A Servant is a being of magic, heroes summoned from various eras in time by a Master to battle one another in the Holy Grail War. We fight until only one Master and Servant pair remain, who are then granted a wish by the Holy Grail. We are, in essence, not unlike familiars." 

:'''{{#var:772|Hiei (772)}} has posed:''' "I am hardly what a human would consider good, I'm still a monster in the end. But there is a certain limit to things, ways, reasons, and situations where killing is beneath me." Hiei carefully reaches for her hand. He doesn't seem to be making a violent motion, he just seems to be trying to inspect it. "You would probably be a formidable challenge. But you are far from abhorrent, and you likely have no killing intent. Killing you under random circumstances would spit on everything that you've done." "I hardly care about the fate of humans, but I can respect one who thrusts all of themselves into a goal, and knows who and what they are completely. If I were to kill someone like you, I would want it to be a battle that your people tell stories about. No tricks and treachery that I might pull on lesser opponents." he explains this as if he wants her to -know-, in case it comes up in the future perhaps. "A wish... I wonder, is there a way that I could have a wish?" 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      "Perhaps," the jade-eyed knight replied. "Ones such as the Fair Folk cannot be measured by human standards. Nevertheless, there is honour, which is a virtue the both of us respect. Though I must naturally oppose that which threatens those under my protection, I recognise honour as one of the sacred Virtues of chivalry."      Taking her hand was a bit of a surprise, but she made no moves of aggression or even insult. Though small, her hands were calloused from the many years of wielding a sword...yet not as much as one might expect from a swordswoman of her calibre. "The ritual of the Holy Grail War demands that Servants kill one another to obtain the Grail," she admitted. "Yet, my own War has concluded, though I did not obtain it. However, there remains much for me to do. I do not fear death, but there are those I would leave behind. I can no longer forsake them."      In other words, she had nothing to lose during Heaven's Feel. Now she has everything to lose.      Saber nodded slightly; perhaps it was not the easiest thing to understand, but she felt as if she might. "The multiverse itself is something of a miracle. I failed to achieve what I had wished for, but in its place I was granted things far more precious, things which were only possible here." 

:'''{{#var:772|Hiei (772)}} has posed:''' "Fair Folk sound very much like youkai, in that they're varied. Though our attitudes are about as different as humans are from each other. There are youkai who eat human souls, ones who live in peace and never leave our home plane of Makai. Though I believe the ones predisposed to violence outweigh most others." Hiei listens, staring down at her hand, running his thumb over the callouses. "I don't identify with honor and chivalry as a human might, though if I unintentionally qualify as such things, it doesn't concern me enough to dispute it either." More or less, he's a tsundere and would never admit to being an honorable person. "There are youkai like you, paragons of good and righteousness. Though I believe it's less appreciated where I'm from." He looks back up at her, from her hand. "It seems like some manner of blasphemy, doesn't it? Creatures like us making contact without trying to murder each other. I'm fascinated that I haven't burned or been struck down by some self-righteous diety yet." He sounds mildly sarcastic and even a bit bitter about this. He carefully releases her hand, then turns his head and looks off into the distance. "It's a shame, about the wish. I could use one." 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' The sound of hoofbeats heralds the arrival of somebody else; but probably not one of the villagers. Only two or three people in the whole of Dun Realtai are actually horsemen, and that narrows down who the new arrival must be... though Saber would know well before the newcomer arrives. Much like the lady, the figure that rides up to the gathering is dressed in plainclothes, rough homespun; his tunic's been tied around his waist, leggings and boots stained with dust and mud. His torso is crisscrossed in scars both old and recent, tales of the life of a warrior. A few tools are lashed to the back of the horse's plain saddle, and their current state suggests they've just been used. In the crook of his arm is an old, worn harp of wood and wire strings; a harp bag slung over one bare shoulder. "There is more variety to the Ever-Living Ones than simple predilections or preferences of sustenance." The voice that interjects is a man's, but the tone is naturally gentle. So too is Bedivere's appearance gentle, features clean-shaven, and so pale as to suggest the blood of the northern kingdoms; hair a silvery blonde, eyes a pale grey-violet. He offers a smile that never reaches his eyes. "Yet they are all of them dangerous if treated with the improper respect." His head tilts, eyes guarded as he looks over Hiei; one warrior studying another. "You are not of the Fair Folk, yet you seem alike to them, to my eyes. Be welcome in Dun Realtai. So long as you engage in no hostilities and offer no threat to the people of this land, you shall be treated as a guest in these lands." He inclines his head, polite but still untrusting. "I am Sir Bedivere, steward and appointed lord of these lands." His eyes flick to Saber, but only briefly; as though he would dare not look away from Hiei for too long. "The southwestern fields are completed." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Indeed, Saber was able to feel the presence of Sir Bedivere as he approached through their link as Master and Servant...though that link -- or rather, the nature of that relationship -- was the cause of much embarrassment for the once-Marshal of Camelot. Her head lifted up slightly as she sensed his approach, her eyes slightly unfocused for a brief moment.      As if to preserve his sense of dignity, Saber refrained from comment on Hiei's not-quite refutation on his inner sense of honour. She could not quite hide the slight smile, however.      At least before it faded slightly, moving onto the subject of the more violent ones. "There are those of more malevolent intent," she admitted. "One such creature resides in one of the lakes beyond the village, though it has made no move to devour anyone, as is its nature. For the moment, the kelpie seems content to merely observe us."      As Bedivere arrived, her smile seemed to soften into something that, while subtle, was nevertheless fond. "Ah, that is good news. Progress has been far quicker than I anticipated."      Her gaze then returned to the yokai once Hospitality had been extended. She was mildly curious regarding the wish, yet she refrained from prying. 

:'''{{#var:772|Hiei (772)}} has posed:''' "I have no intention of tarnishing Saber's domain. Perhaps the two of us can fight under more appropriate circumstances one day." Hiei stares at Sir Bedivere when he introduces himself. "My name is Hiei. And I'm surprised that you don't simply slay it. I suppose it's so powerful that it would put the village at risk to do so." He looks between the two for a moment, considering the implications of their higher than normal villager status. "So then, you're some sort of married couple who rules this land?" he asks, keeping his same measured tone, as if it were a fairly simply question that isn't nearly as loaded as it actually is. 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' The knight's gaze lingers briefly on Saber, and although his expression never quite changes, there's something of warmth in his mild eyes. He allows himself the faintest hint of a smile when she does; these two, it seems, are more than simply Master and Servant. His attention is diverted momentarily, though, by Hiei's statement. "No," Bedivere answers, simply. He shakes his head in much the same manner as Saber, as though in place of a shrug. "The Fair Folk do not suffer aggression or intrusion lightly, and such would be seen as an act of war. While I believe it would be possible for me to dispatch such a creature, with assistance, it is the creature's allies that concern me. These people have no defence against such a variegated people, and I would not endanger them so. Until the beast threatens these people directly, I will take no action." Maybe it'll just lose interest and leave, eventually. Yeah, right. At Hiei's question, though, the knight stares blankly. For a moment it almost seems like he hadn't heard the question at all. "No." The answer is simple, again. Simple, except he's slowly flushing scarlet, which is incidentally highly visible against his pale complexion. "That is to say, she is my king, and I her knight. I served at her side in life, as Marshal of the Realm, and her chief lieutenant in war; I serve her now, here, as well." He's still red, though. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      As Bedivere explained the situation, the petite knight nodded slightly before she chimed in. "The guardian of this place tasked us with ensuring the peace of the land and the restoration of balance. We must treat the Tylwyth Teg with care, lest, as my marshal has said, they interpret our actions as acts of war. The land cannot sustain any further conflicts."      Unfortunately for their peace of mind, once the Fair Folk have taken interest in something, it was difficult at best to persuade them to turn their attention elsewhere. And they found outworlders very interesting.      Like Bedivere, Saber merely stared for a moment as if she hadn't heard the question before her own complexion similarly flared to crimson. "Our relationship is...rather complex. It is true that I am his liege, and he has served in my court for nearly twenty years. Similarly, I appointed him with lordship of this land. I merely...assist in matters of governing and logistics."      And still as red as her fellow knight. 

:'''{{#var:772|Hiei (772)}} has posed:''' "I can hardly blame a human for serving one of such pure conviction. The average human runs around aimless, slowly ticking away until death, chasing some false sense of meaning and purpose. Rare is the human who can bring their meaning and purpose to fruition and be remembered throughout history." Hiei does listen to Bedivere's explanation of the creature though, wrinkling his nose a bit. "I suppose the home of the Fair Folk is a little more organized than Makai. We're ruled by Three Kings, and that's mostly because they're the strongest. Nearly every single one of the youkai in their territories would betray them if they felt they had the power to do so." He does consider this for a moment, the Tylwyth Teg. "I'm not one for altruism, nor is this something that you will tell the Confederacy or I will kill the both of you. But if the Tylwyth decides to make trouble, I will attempt to enter its mind and calmly put it to sleep before there is a chance of war." In other words, under threat of death, he doesn't want anyone to know he's offering an act of altruism. He almost sounds like he's completely ashamed of it. "In exchange, I would like to come back to this land. There's something about it that sooths my mind." 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' The silver-haired knight regards the yokai for a moment, as though working out precisely how he's been insulted by this statement. Despite that, the knight seems calm, as though accepting of that insult. If Hiei is a yokai, and if these yokai are truly like the Ever-Living Ones, he can no more help his arrogance than Bedivere can help his chivalry. Even so... "Mind your arrogance so long as you remain in these lands, Master Hiei. I will tolerate a great deal of insult to my own person, but there are others here who will not, and I should not like to see any undue violence in this place." Although Bedivere's voice is mild, there's a core of steel to it. "Dun Realtai has seen enough of conflict." He shakes his head, moving on. "I know little of the Ever-Living Ones' kingship." Bedivere shifts in the saddle, glancing northeast, towards the distant lake. "I do not doubt that they would be ruled by the one possessed of the most strength, but also the most cunning." "No," he finally says, simply. "I thank you for your generous offer, but this is my responsibility to manage. You may come and go as you please, for I have extended hospitality, and so you are welcome in my hall as a guest in accord with the ancient laws. But I will not have you interfering with matters of the Ever-Living Ones when the peace of this place hangs in the balance. It is my responsibility, and it may be seen as an insult if I should delegate such responsibility, for they will sense another's magic at work." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Saber was almost of two minds on their newest guest. On the one hand, he sounded nearly identical to Gilgamesh, down to the inability to relate to humans...or, in Archer's case, 'mongrels'. But on the other, the arrogant Servant saw no reason to restrain his savage nature, believing that it was the right of the king -- the first of the hero-kings -- while Hiei was clearly more restrained and discerning of which opponents he chose. She could have a proper dialogue like a civilised person, so she was inclined to treat the yokai with the proper amount of respect.      "They are a diverse lot, from what I know of them, though I know only the little of what my tutor has taught me," she admitted. Merlin still enjoyed /not/ telling her a great many things. "Some recognise a High King, though others are more solitary."      She sighed softly. "My marshal is quite correct, however. I appreciate your offer, but it is for the best that we allow them to tend to their own matters, so long as they make no aggressive moves towards the people."      Her expression softened slightly on her next words, though. "That, more that anything, is the peculiar magic of this place. It is a haven, a place of rest. Though many different sorts pass through these gates with their own lives and wishes and desires, it offers rest, if perhaps temporarily for some."      Her gaze then turned to her loyal knight. "And for others, a much-deserved and more permanent respite." 

:'''{{#var:772|Hiei (772)}} has posed:''' "I thought I was complimenting you." Hiei admits, sounding somewhat sincere, though also acknowledging the fact that it apparently didn't come out as such. "As I told Saber, human social conventions are rarely a thing I concern myself with. Though I'll watch my tongue in this particular land, as a courtesy for the privilege of hospitality here." "A sense of calm is a rare experience for me." He reaches up to remove his white headband, and then a slit on his forehead opens up, revealing itself to be a wide eyelid hiding a large purple third eye. It clearly doesn't match his regular two eyes, nor does it show any particular emotion or movement. Though he closes his two regular eyes, and seems to concentrate with the third. "This land truly is some sort of haven. It's nothing like my home. If you wander into the forests of Makai with no combat ability, you will be eaten or murdered." He opens his eyes again, perhaps suddenly curious, and he asks Saber, "Are you still considered a human at all? I ask this purely out of curiosity, as I've never encountered anything like you." 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' "You were, but it was more of what one might call a left-handed compliment." Bedivere's smile is thin and wry. "You compliment me, even while you insult humanity in the same breath. There are those here who generally do not react well to the insult of their own people, for there are many humans here. And, perhaps, humans may not be as you think of them, for you are dealing now with many other worlds than your own. The rules are different in many places." Part of him hopes Gawain doesn't talk to this fellow; the Knight of the Sun is by far more passionate and less inclined to thinking things through. It would probably end with Bedivere cleaning up Gawain's mess, as usual. Harness jingles as he shifts in his saddle, carefully cradling the harp tucked at his elbow. He regards Hiei with what almost seems a sense of melancholy. "Mm. Aye. Such calm is a rare thing for many. You are welcome here as long as you abide by that which we have set forth." Again, that faint smile, although it doesn't quite reach his eyes. Perhaps he's unsettled by that third eye. In fact, he's very pointedly looking away from Hiei. The Lord God could only imagine what that thing looks like with his magic circuits active. He doesn't want to find out. He'll let Saber answer the question, though, falling silent. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Saber had seen many strange things even in her own world, and even more after Unification. But even if she had not, the little knight was very good at concealing her emotions. Thus, at the sight of the third eye, she seemed unperturbed by it. "I take no offence," she admitted, followed by another admission. "There are Servants...arrogant and insufferable...who try my patience and insult not only my path of the king, but my path of knighthood. The latter is unpleasant enough, but the latter is unforgivable."      She smiled again, faintly. Though not the same smile she directed at Bedivere, it was nevertheless a genuine one. "You have accorded a rare respect for both. For that, you have my gratitude," she said with a slight bow, her arm folded over her torso. It might be enough to overwhelm a poor tsundere.      She hadn't missed the comment about the Confederacy, however. "Worry not," she assured him. "There are others of your faction here, but what secrets they impart to us remain within these walls and between us. Morever, it would be a breach of chivalry to impart such secrets to others."      She nodded as Bedivere added his own thoughts, sea-green eyes flicking to him briefly. "Indeed. The people here are farmers and craftspeople, but they are a resilient, independent people. They are proud, and have insisted upon reclaiming their lives with their own hands. It is our honour to serve them, and I believe they represent the best of humanity."      The Servant considered the question with a slight tilt of her head. "I am...perhaps, an elemental spirit of humanity. I protect the people...and though that does not blind me to the faults of others, I believe as I did then that it is my duty. As a knight, as a king, and as a Servant."      "But more than that, while the other Heroic Spirits have died to become what they are, I alone remain the sole exception. I yet live." 

:'''{{#var:772|Hiei (772)}} has posed:''' "I see. A complicated state of existence." Hiei concedes, as it's clear he doesn't -entirely- understand, but he accepts it. He does, however, look to Bedivere, perhaps sensing his uneasiness on some level. "I'm looking at the land, all of it, with my Jagan. I was not born with it, it was something I gained to find something important to me. Consider the latter half of this a knightly secret." "Hmph... you chose the difficult path. I've seen supposed great beings come and go. Those who would drink the blood of thousands and consider themselves the greatest warrior of all time. And then they were simply cut down by my blade, another wretch who confuses the quantity of their kills for their own personal power." This largely seems to be a response to people insulting Saber's path. He slides his hands into his pockets, taking a deep, calm breath. "These people feel so confident in their easy kills, find righteousness in the things that they do, because they cannot resolve that they are no better than a creature like myself. But a human like you, and perhaps even him." He nods over to Bedivere. "You've overcome the violence and cruelty shown by so many human and youkai rulers, and those who would consider themselves to have power." A slow blink, and he turns his head in the vague direction of the castle. "While I have nothing against violence and cruelty, you chose the -difficult- path, the path of sacrifice, of personal rules to live by, the burden of the people on your shoulders. I never would, but unlike many others like myself, who believe themselves to have power, I know that it's simply because following your path would be too difficult." 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' "Few things are as simple as they appear." The harper-knight shrugs one shoulder in noncommittal gesture. "Such is the nature of the world, and the multiverse beyond. I would be surprised if anything were exactly as it appeared." To the matter of the secret, Bedivere only inclines his head in silent assent. He will keep those things indicated to him as secret, if only because he has given his word that he will. "All knights choose the difficult path," he comments, looking over to Hiei again, eyes lingering on some spot just aside from him. He still won't look directly at the yokai. "Our lot is one of loyalty and sacrifice, for we are servants of the people. Arrogance has no place in one's vows to adhere to the Eight Chivalric Virtues." He studies Hiei for a moment, thoughtful. So, he's had some experience with the bad sort of rulership. Maybe that's why he thinks so little of humanity. It's up to the knights, then, to show him that that isn't what humanity is like; that they can be capable of great goodness and great deeds. "Hm." A thoughtful sound. "At least you know of this limitation, and seek not to push beyond it, for that would be to the detriment of those subject to your rule. I respect that." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      "Our universe is rather...complex," the Servant admitted to both Hiei and Bedivere. "There are those who have dedicated their lives to exploring its mysteries -- the magi -- and yet one lifetime is not enough to do so. The Holy Grail War was intended, apparently, to offset that. Many Masters do not so much seek a wish as to find a pathway to the Root of all existence, where I imagine their questions would be answered."      Now that secret was something she understood very well. "Not unlike my own quest for the Holy Grail, it would seem."      "It /is/ a difficult path," she agreed. "I do not expect many to follow it because it is so difficult, and there are many who simply lack the strength and resolve to follow it. Or, they simply do not see the purpose...oft-times, those we try to save or protect can be ungrateful. Yet, we submitted to Chivalry because it was necessary, and because no one else would. All knights must follow this path of hardship and this conviction...it is no mere title to be bestowed simply by virtue of high birth."      And she truly believed her words and her convictions, that much was clear. And like Bedivere, she committed to set an example even for those who could not follow that path for various reasons. To set a righteous example so that the afflicted would be comforted...whatever that affliction might be.      "Yet, it is not only knights or those like them who know honour, or righteous rule. One need not be a knight to follow a difficult path. It is those who follow at least similar tenants, or hold a respect for our way, which earn our respect in turn." 

:'''{{#var:772|Hiei (772)}} has posed:''' "What exactly are these Eight Chivalric Virtues?" Hiei asks, suddenly curious about that now. "I tend to keep my own path to myself, as it is extremely personal. Despite my violent tendencies and death battles, most of my goals have nothing to do with these things." He continues staring away from them. It may be a thing of note that his third eye doesn't, well, blink, or do anything really. "Largely, my life is without true direction. Once I reach my goals, I have no idea what I'll do next. In the grand scheme of things, one could say that my goals are quite petty. But there is very little that one can do when most of what life has to offer are rage, violence, and isolation. Even most of my own kind grew to fear and reject me quite quickly." He starts to turn around, beginning to walk away from them, though it's not clear if he's actually leaving. He's more than close enough to respond to them. Perhaps there's some regret that he's been so open. 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Bedivere shifts the harp in the crook of his arm. His horse shifts its weight and snorts contentedly, swishing its tail. He hoods his violet eyes, and without so much as hesitation, addresses the question. His answers are in Latin, rather than the archaic form of Welsh he'd been speaking, but thankfully the translation effect affords them an approximate meaning. "Militia." Courage, bravery, military spirit, and willingly accepting difficult work. "Exercitium." Proficiency, skill, training, and practise. "Fortitudo." Strength, courage, and valour. "Fides." Faith, loyalty, honesty, and trustworthiness. "Generositas." Generosity and charity toward those less fortunate. "Pietas." Piety, loyalty, responsibility, and a sense of duty. "Humanitas." Kindness and courtesy to one's fellow man. "Ingenuitas." Nobility of character, candor, and modesty. "These are the tenets by which a knight must live, if he is indeed to be called 'knight.' All are expected to display these eight virtues in their daily lives. Some, of course, gravitate to some virtues more than others; rare are those who exemplify all of them in equal measure." He shakes his head, faintly. "Yet some is still preferable to none, for such values temper the selfishness and greed of the aristocracy." He blinks when the yokai starts strolling off, looking briefly in askance to Saber, brow furrowed in puzzlement. It seems Hiei's decided his audience with them is at an end. "Are you leaving? Farewell for now, then," he calls, just a little uncertainly. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      As was expected, Bedivere listed the Virtues without so much as a pause or hesitation. All of her knights had memorised them and followed them, but the Left Hand of the King was exemplary even among the Knights of the Round. In spite of how much he shrank away from praise and almost wilted whenever she spoke highly of him, Arturia was nevertheless proud of him, obviously so. he more than simply honoured her and credited their Order.      "Indeed, a man who fails to live up to these standards cannot be truly called a knight. And if he understands which of these is his weakest, he takes steps to strengthen it. For example, if he is disinclined to Exercitium, he practises his swordplay well beyond when others have retired. If he lacks proper Generositas, he gives twice as much in alms."      Saber tilted her head slightly, uncertain on her own part. Hefting her hoe, she followed a few steps behind, surveying the work that had been completed. If it was indeed regret she was witnessing, that was something she knew all too well. Her entire reason for becoming a Servant in the first place was her intense, overwhelming regret. And though Rider had insisted that the King could never regret, how could she /not/? The entire purpose of her life had been for the sake of the kingdom; she had sacrificed everything to protect them and lead them to Utopia. Yet, in the end, not only had she failed, but her kingdom ended as well. Everything had been reduced to ruin, and Camelot became something only spoken of in tales and poems in the years beyond. But even though she had relinquished her wish to save her kingdom by undoing what would eventually become her legend, she nevertheless found that there were entire /worlds/ in need of the sword of a knight.      "There is no simple, easy answer," she replied thoughtfully. "When one's purpose is complete...or one loses one's purpose...there are many others eager to take its place. My kingdom is gone. Fallen, lost to the winds of time. Yet I have found purpose here, in this place. There are many who still need the sword and shield of a knight."      Her gaze fell back to Bedivere. "And there are miracles which would otherwise be impossible which can be realised, things greater even than dreams. The impossible is now possible." 

:'''{{#var:772|Hiei (772)}} has posed:''' "Four out of eight aren't bad, I suppose." Hiei says, without being particularly specific, and without looking back. He continues to walk, his head lowering. "Knights are something else. One has to envy your sense of direction and purpose. But I believe I've overstayed and become too comfortable. I'll return in time. Remember, this was all confidential." Then he just sort of vanishes. Though perhaps they can follow his ridiculous speed, it's certainly well beyond the capabilities of the average human's perception. 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' "The man who fails to live up to these standards is no true knight." Bedivere only shakes his head, glancing over toward Saber. He offers no further commentary, though, frowning slightly, perhaps sensing her uncertainty. His eyes flick back to Hiei as the yokai takes his leave, frowning once again at the sudden speed. He wouldn't be able to follow without activating his Sight, and that seems like something in remarkably poor judgement, and so he leaves the yokai to vanish. He does reserve a faint smile for Saber, though, once the yokai's gone. "Miracles, indeed. Shall we retire for the evening, then, my lady? We have done all we can do for the day, I think, and the light will soon be gone." He offers his free hand, so she can vault up onto the saddle behind him. He doesn't do so without a last look over his shoulder, though, in the direction Hiei had departed. What a strange being. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      "For one who is not a knight," Saber replied, "It is not bad, at all. To follow even one proves too difficult for many."      Was there a smile in her voice? There might have been as she acknowledged the rather unorthodox farewell. "You have my word as the King of Knights."      Though she could indeed follow the yokai's impossible speed, she made no move to follow. Strange, but far from the strangest she had ever encountered. Not to mention far more pleasant than others, considering the sense of honour he tried to keep hidden.      The last vestiges of her reserve slipped away as she smiled back at her love. "I agree. Let us return home," she replied, taking his hand, vaulting easily into place behind him.      Fortunately for the both of them, from that position he would be unable to see the flush of her cheeks as they returned to the keep. 

}}

Enter the Prodigal Knight

2015-05-09T19:55:44Z

ForwardObserver:

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2014/03/14
|Location=Kothla, Deep Void
|Synopsis=Kyle Katarn goes investigating a newly-Unified world rife with Dark Side energies and spooky Sith ruins. But it seems that someone was already there...
|Thanks=
|Cast of Characters=414, 778
|Tinyplot=
|Tinyplot2=
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= It was a jungle world, not altogether unlike Dxun, the lush and untamed moon of Onderon, with its thick vegetation and wild beasts. At dusk, shadows rose up, obfuscating hidden depths between the trees. The jungle was hardly silent, nosy with predators and their prey. What faint illumination present was cast by the setting sun, and only one of the three moons had risen. Perhaps most ominous of all were the ruins that rose up beyond the jungle, marring the landscape with a palpable, ancient evil. At once grotesque and strangely beautiful, the dark stone cast its own shadow over the landscape, helped in no small part by the mountain it rested upon. A winding staircase at once beckoned and threatened the intrepid explorer, inviting secrets...and disaster. 
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= Dxun's not a world Kyle's unfamiliar with. He's also been getting blips from this unknown world as well. The Raven's Claw emerges from hyperspace, slowing to an approaching speed as it begins to make atmo, then moving planetside. In the cockpit, Jan and Kyle are tense, as they are whenever Kyle gets his 'feelings' again, those weird blips in the force that herald what tends to be something crazy. "You think this is a good idea?" Jan asks, regardless looking for a good clearing to land near where the temple is placed, a clearing for the ship to land. "Nope. But we're going in anyways. You know the drill, stay near the ship and ring me if something happens, otherwise I don't want a repeat of Artus Prime." Kyle says, unbuckling his seat's straps as the ship touches down and the canopy opens. "Got a bad feeling about this, all the same." "Get back here in one piece, alright?" A peck on the cheek, and Kyle's off as usual. The swoop stays where it is this time, affixed to a compartment on the underside of the ship, as Kyle hoofs it on foot. With his stamina and speed, he won't have trouble with making it towards the temple itself and back. What does worry him is the sheer WRONGNESS that's been gnawing at him since the ship made planetfall. Some of the jungle appears to have been cleared already, and recently. Someone has quite obviously been to this place recently. But if there is a clearing with a ship in it, it must be on the other side of the mountain. The /wrongness/ of the ruins only intensifies the closer one comes to it, and no vegetation at all seems to grow on the rocky cliffs, though whether that is from the natural ecosystem or the taint for the ruins remains to be seen. At the end of the stairway, two giant figures are poised as if standing guard over the doorway; they appear humanoid, though their features are obscured by both their height and whatever ravages the planet's climate wrought upon them. The door they guard had been closed once more, though the dust around them had been unsettled -- more proof of a recent visit. The door itself is covered with the strange glyphs of its architect's culture. Whether they provide instructions on how to enter or whether they indicate the function oif the ruins is only apparent to one who can read them...or one strong in the Force. What is immediately apparent, however, is that the ruins are filled with the Dark Side. "Sith temple." Kyle decides. "Still fresh too." He frowns, this place feels like Dromund Kaas all over again. He presses on though, he's no rookie, and this kind of taint is nothing he hasn't been exposed to before. Regardless, his every step is hesitant as he keeps a hand close to his lightsaber hilt, expecting a fight or worse as he produces a glow-lamp in hand. He eyes the glyhs, running a hand across one or two of them slowly. "Got a bad feeling about this before...now it's worse." He mutters.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= The door inexplicably opened as Kyle ran his hand over the glyphs; they seemed to respond to someone with Force abilities. It rumbles and with the grinding accompanying the movement of heavy stone, the twin panels part, admitting entrance into the dark maw beyond. Once inside, however, the hallway seemed to be illuminated with crystals mounted into sconces carved from the stone wall. Likewise, elaborate, decorative scrollwork was carved into the walls, at once foreboding and yet strangely beautiful, as if the culture appreciated some aesthetics. The floor itself was partitioned, formed from precisely formed panels, leading on through the faint light. The only sound seemed to be a faint rumbling beyond the walls, slightly overhead.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= Door open, and Kyle wanders in slowly. He narrows his eyes, glow-rod (Or flashlight, whatever.) shining through the darkness as crystals shine everywhere. "Hnnh." He continues to wander down the hall like this is a spooky house attraction. "This wasn't the best idea I've had, not going in alone anyways." He mutters. And then rumbling. He looks up and suddenly his heart sinks. "Shit." He begins to run as fast as his legs can carry him, sensing out with the Force every step ahead of him in the event of there being some sort of trap underfoot as well as overhead. He's a seasoned coolguy adventure, so naturally he's going through a mental checklist of deathtraps.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= Suddenly, spikes! Down from the blackness above drop what appear to be stalactites, rough-hewn from the same rock making up the corridor. They seem to project Kyle's movement, crashing to the floor in front of him, threatening to impale him with an earthen world of hurt if he's not careful. Fortunately, just before they drop, a soft chime issues from their origin, almost warning /when/ they'll drop, if not /where/. It will take not just the Force, but some forethought and careful timing to navigate the stalactite rain. And judging from the scattered broken stones nearby, someone else had already successfully navigated the trap, even if some are scattered among the bones of those who failed to. 
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= The lightsaber is unclipped from Kyle's belt, and he begins to get a little careful in his steps as he stops just before he's hit with spikes after hearing each chime. His lightsaber flourishes, and he slashes at each one that falls. "Nasty." He grouses in between dodging and slashing. His eyes look down at the bones at his feet. "Really nasty. Guess I wasn't the only one that tried to get in here before." he muses as he continues down the hall, methodical in evading the traps.
}}{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= Once the raining stone death was cleared, the high ceiling descended once more into a far more comfortable corridor. At least, for about fifty paces. The corridor again opened up into a wider, taller chamber. This time, the 12x12 tiles on the floor seemed to be missing, revealing the blackness of an endless pit below them. Whoever had been through the ruins before Kyle had successfully navigated the metaphorical minefield of collapsing tiles. On the other hand, it would still demand a good amount of balance to progress from tile to tile before reaching the other side, where the corridor narrowed once more, fading into what seemed to be a large -- yet trap-free -- chamber beyond, watched by smaller stone guardians. Unlike the statues outside, these were free from the fierce erosion that pummeled the others, and their facial ridges were much easier to discern. And beyond the two watchmen, was a presence strong in the Force... 
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= Kyle's only about to stop when he notices a massive void in the path. "Are you serious?" He protests aloud, shaking his head before he thinks for a moment. He rubs his chin, extinguishing his lightsaber before he begins to vault across towards where he notices the statues. His trek progresses across after he holds out a hand, hovering over one of the statues to form a bridge. "Sorry, fella, but I'm on a tight schedule." He says, leaping onto the makeshift bridge to amble across nimbly enough. He leaps off when he's clear, and he picks up that presence with a stumble in his step. "Whoa. I'm not alone after all..." Kyle thinks, heading towards the chamber.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= Thanks to Kyle's quick and unorthodox thinking, traversing the rest of the trap was fairly easy. Not so much for those who had gone before, whether they were Jedi, Dark Jedi, or the occasional unfortunate fortune hunter whose remains no doubt lay at the bottom of the inky blackness below. The short corridor beyond opened up into a much wider circular chamber, the walls carved with intricate glyphs and even entire scenes. On the far end of the chamber, a large statue stood ensconced in a nave hollowed out from the wall, easily towering over the previous statues. Its features were likewise more distinguishable; to those who had encountered them, the statue honoured a long-forgotten ancient Sith of the original race, possibly a ruler. But the source of a more immediate concern was at the base of the statue: cloaked figure who was very much alive. Seeming to be engrossed in the strange glyphs carved on the base, the figure has its arms -- clad in bronze vambraces -- folded over a bronze cuirass etched in maroon, pacing as it studied the ancient writings only moments before. The face was obscured in the shadows of the cowl, and a black cape fastened at the shoulders drifted behind it as it paced. Legs were hidden beneath a black hakama, making it difficult to judge movement, which lended itself to an almost graceful appearance. The faint light reflected off of silver cylinders at the waist; a pair of lightsabers were attached to rings suspended from the abdominal armour. At Kyle's approach, it stopped, turning to face him, and the light cast from the crystals within their sconces revealed that the figure's face was covered by a rust-and-black Mandalorian mask. The figure, whose intent was impossible to read through the Force, paused, as if waiting for something as it seemed to regard the new arrival. If there was any Light within that person at the foot of the Sith, it was nearly impossible to tell from the overwhelming Dark Side of the Sith ruins.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= It's times like this when Kyle Katarn wonders why he keeps doing this sort of thing to himself. He sees the dark-clad figure, eyes narrowing as his blaster pistol clears leather with the kinda speed a Wild West gunslinger would be wary of tussling with, the weapon trailing center mass. He gets a bad reading off of the figure, what with the Mandalorian mask and armor, the dark cloak, and the overwhelming feeling of darkness radiating off of him...her...whatever. "I don't know who you are or what you want here. So let's start there. Next, helmet and hood go off, so do whatever weapons you're carrying." He says, his off-hand gripping his lightsaber hilt tightly. "You only get one chance dealing with me, pal." 
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= The moment that Kyle drew his blaster, the figure's arms appeared to blur as only a well-trained Jedi or Sith could, drawing its lightsabers at the sign of the threat. The blades flared to life in the familiar snap-hiss, but the blades themselves were not the sort of hue typical for a Sith. Instead of an angry blood-red, the blades were deep blue, like those of the Jedi Guardians. if this was indeed a Sith Kyle was dealing with, it was either a recent fall, or a very unorthodox one. There was of course another possibility, but what would a Jedi be doing in such an evil place? The figure remained where it stood, standing perfectly still, as if studying him. That is, until he made his threat. The cowled head shook slightly. It's voice was hard to discern from behind the mask and from that distance; was it a man or a woman? "I'm afraid not," he or she replied. "It would be wise for you to leave, now." Was that a threat, a warning, or what?
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= Blue lightsabers. This one's packing blue. Kyle actually blinks a moment, remembering how Jerec and his cadre of darksiders used their old lightsabers before they themselves fell, or the ones stolen off of dead Jedi running from the purge. He even remembers using Yun's, when Qu-Rahn's was destroyed. But it's clear Kyle won't last long against someone this skilled in Jar'Kai techniques. Sparring with Revar made it apparent he was only holding out through sheer combat hardening and stubbornness. That said, Kyle's never one to hold back himself. He holsters the blaster before his lightsaber enters a two-handed grip, his stance recognizable as Djem So. His response ought to speak for him, as he focuses for a moment, then grits his teeth as he charges forth at the other force wielder, Sith, Dark Jedi, or whatever else this one could be. With lightsaber flourishing, Kyle slashes downwards when he's in striking distance, following it up with sidelong strike should the first be parried.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= The "Sith" doesn't seem phased by the sudden attack, bringing the left lightsaber up to bear into a parry. It was simple enough, yet even as he/she parried, the right lightsaber was already in motion to deflect the next strike, and the left one already bearing on Kyle in a downward sweep. However, for a trained Jedi, such a strike was able to be dodged or deflected, almost as if he was being tested. Moreover, the fluid motions were indicative of the Niman form, one that was less demanding in its training, yet able to be wielded to dangerous efficiency, as Exar Kun had proved long ago. Even still, a Sith would have surely countered with a much more brutal attack. Was this mysterious Sith testing him? Toying with him? Or was he/she actually reluctant to use lethal force?
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= Niman. Kyle's seen that style too, at least with the students around the Praxeum anyway. This is a pro, pure and simple, someone well above that level and possibly even more skilled than himself. He blocks the second saber, before backing off in order to let off a flurry of strikes of his own. His own style works best with redirecting force anyways, already beginning to press the assault in retaliation. "Ngh!" He's being toyed with, that's for sure, or perhaps being tested. Kyle can tell this much, the warrior better pick up his or her game if this fight's going to end quickly. Not that he's going to hold back himself, as he slashes towards the masked possible-Sith's ankles. "Niman too, huh? Not bad." He comments, before he then slashes upwards. 
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= The black-clad Force wielder still does not press the attack, but frustratingly parries with seeming ease and practised, almost feminine grace. Though the footwork below the hakama is hard to discern, it's clear that he or she has been relying heavily on it. A good place to start would be there. This must be a new Sith, because for all the martial skill, he/she hasn't seemed to master the art of monologuing in lieu of quipping. "Djem So.that brings back a few memories...I think. Hard to tell these days. Happens when you have your mind wiped, you know." With a sudden sidestep towards the right, the cloaked figure dropped the lightsaber in his/her left hand... ...And suddenly reversed the grip on it to swing it forward towards Kyle's face.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= To be quite honest, Kyle vastly prefers a Sith more suited for quips rather than entire rants about how they are gods among men and all that usual garbage. He was even braced for the monologue for the moment before the warrior speaks again. "Yeah. It's worked pretty well so far." he grunts, before he evades the blow and bats the cloaked figure's hand aside. "Nice try, but I -invented- dirty fighting in Skywalker's academy." He cracks a smirk before he backs off to let off a kick, displaying the sort of flexibility that would be better expected from an assassin than a soldier. All the same, Kyle's fast and he hits hard, that boot aimed right at the masked mug of his opponent before he whirls around quickly, lightsaber slashing at the cloaked warrior again.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= If the "Sith" seemed annoyed by the continued quipping, he/she certainly put up a good show, keeping the dialogue going. "It has its strengths and weaknesses like anything else" Seriously. this might get annoying for a seasoned Jedi Knight. Did this Sith even know who he was? And he/she made its point by blocking the kick with... ...Another kick? This was definitely not a conventional Sith /or/ Jedi, not above using the more mundane tactics that both sides frowned upon. From beneath the mask, the figure 'tsk tsked" softly. "Now, now...Master Vrook would say this was unbecoming a Jedi..." The figure, which seemed almost easygoing at first, seemed to intensify at the mention of the "Skywalker academy". "Is that a new Sith academy?" it demanded. "Tell me, and I'll think about letting you go. Oh, and don't think about trying to trick me; I was a Sith once too, you know." But before the figure could continue, Kyle's next strike got in while he/she was far too focused on closing into the mystery he/she was seeking. The figure evaded in enough time to avoid damage, but not enough to avoid having her mask knocked off. His/her body language suggested surprise for only a brief moment. Straightening, the now unmasked figure turned to glare at him, revealing the face of a relatively young woman with a right grey eye and left blue-violet eye...and no Dark Side corrosion whatsoever.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= "Can't say I know a master Vrook myself." Kyle retorts back, before he notices that blow of his being blocked with one from the other. He blinks suddenly, as he's the one being interrogated. "Sith? Former? When the hell are you from? First off, no, I'm not a Sith myself, that much is obvious. Second, that's none of your business, but we don't teach Sith teachings there, I'll tell you that much." He's hesitant about the whole Jedi Academy on Yavin thing, with how well this is going as a first-impression> His kick strikes true however, and he notices that this woman is NOT Sith after all. Her eyes are mismatched, but neither of them have the yellow markings of Dark Side taint... "Son of a bitch. You weren't kidding." Kyle says, lightsaber raised at the ready just before he senses other presences enter the chamber. "No, she was not. Neither of you are Sith, and you will DIE all the same for tresspassing on our sacred grounds." A guttural voice rasps, and Kyle's eyes dart behind the woman to spot two yellow eyes staring them both down, and a cloaked figure is joined by several other men and women in robes, toting lightsabers which emit red blades and that deep snarl of a Sith weapon igniting. Kyle eyes the Sith warriors as they circle himself and the pale haired woman, "Truce?" He asks, before suddenly he faces one of the bigger warriors, a Zebrak from Dathomir it seems, as he initiates a back-to-back pose with his foe-turned-temporary-ally. Pause. "Katarn, by the by. Kyle Katarn."
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= For a moment, the would-be Sith looked as if she was stunned and about to hit him with at least a dozen more questions. At least until they had company of the genuine Sith persuasion. "Dammit," she muttered under her breath. She frowned slightly, studying the interlopers for a split second before the first was joined by yet more actual Sith. "Works for me," she told him, apparently jettisoning their earlier "disagreement" easily enough. "Looks like we'll have a lot to talk about after this." If she wasn't confident, at least she knew how to make a good front. While surprised, the Guardian caught the toss of the radio, reserving her curiosity for a more auspicious moment in time. "Sure...I'm Lowri Revan-Shan. Lowri is fine..." Her eyes flickered back toward the closest Sith, dropping back into an en garde stance. "But you guys can just call me Revan."
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= "Great." Kyle's taking this better than the other Sith are at this point, their rage palpable as Revan introduces herself. "She is the traitor! The one who killed Lord Malak, and the one who slew our brothers aboard the Star Forge!" Yeah, Revan got a LOT of enemies out of that one. Kyle just shoots Revan a 'You too, huh?' look before he focuses back at the Sith surrounding them. There are eight of them in total, one of them carries a doublesaber, one dual wields, the others use standard sabers in varrying styles, one of them using Shien with a pair of lightdaggers even, with spiked hilts as though they weren't deadly enough as is. "Bring it." Kyle grins briefly, before the Sith charge, The one dual wielding regular lightsabers gets in range of Revan, while the oldest, and therefore the leader, engages Kyle with fencing techniques that Revan might notice are that of a Form II duelist. The twi'lek currently engaging Revan swings her lightsabers at the ex-Sith, snarling out in fury as she pounces like a jungle cat. 
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= The once Dark Lord of the Sith flipped the rest of the hood back, letting the thick platinum blonde braid fall down her back. Might as well free up some peripheral vision, since this fight was about to get a little more interesting. Revealing her name to them had been part of her ploy; sooner or later they had to drop some hint of her quarry. Revan just shrugged at Kyle, as if to say "What can you do?" She had made some friends and even some adoration, but she had expected that there were going to be a lot of unhappy people, too. And that was just the Sith Academy on Korriban alone. "I suppose an apology won't make things better?" she queried with a faint smile. Not that she expected an answer, naturally. And whatever personal angst she had on the matter would have to wait. Revan might have been less powerful than when she was at the height of her power as a Dark Lord, but she retained more than enough skill and power since her "rebirth" to take on a few Sith. The first few are dispatched easily enough, but the dual-wielding twi'lek was proving to be a little more of a challenge. Of course, the Guardian couldn't resist. "There's much more than even just power in the Light, you know it's not too late to turn back."
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= "Shut up." The twi'lek snarls, robes flowing behind her as she lets them go to reveal a form-hugging bodyglove of some sort, made with red and black, with light armor padding. She's not going it scanty like a certain lethian twi'lek obviously, and it's clear she's not settling for negotiation. "You don't have any idea who you're dealing with, or where you are for that matter!" She screams, her lightsabers flourishing, striking as one. "I will kill you, and then they will make me a Darth for having slain the traitor!" "Get in line!" Another, the massive zabrak with the double-saber growls, his weapon spinning like a circular saw as he swings at both Kyle and Revan. "If anyone's gonna be made a lord, it's me!" Kyle evades the strike while dealing with the old guy, casually decapitating another of the more unremarkable Sith warriors, then cleaving another. Soon enough it's just Kyle and Revan against the terrible trio, their leader inwardly sighing at the childish bickering of his subordinates. "How do you guys get anything done?" Kyle jabs, either at Revan or the old man as he evades another strike from the latter, parrying the followup. Despite himself, the elderly leader actually responds. "With a -lot- of patience."
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= The royal blue lightsaber blades became a blur of circular motions as Lowri deflected the twi'lek's strikes before slamming her with a Force Push. "So, why don't you tell me? What is it you're hiding, exactly?" Never let a good opportunity for information go to waste. She had to toss up a resistance shield to absorb the blow from the Iridonian, though once she did, she had the opening to give him a good swing with her right-handed lightsaber. Her response to him was an almost exasperated sigh. At least their superior had something of a sense of humour. "Sometimes, it just isn't worth it," Revan quipped. "Having to watch you back all the time gets to be a real pain. No real friends, no family...it's a pretty sad existence." She did like to wear opponents down mentally as well as physically. Why fight an enemy you didn't necessarily have to fight? 
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= "Tch. Sentiments. It's no wonder Malak abandoned you." The old man grouses, before he ducks as Kyle slashes overhead at the sith acolyte. "Your friend's style is unrefined, too focused on brute strength and-*URK*" "And you're too busy criticizing your opponents to actually focus, gramps." Kyle snarks, as he ekes in a good strike at the old man's side, a painful burn left as the Jedi sends his opponent back with a force push as well. Meanwhile, the twi'lek and zabrak continue their assault, the former striking low and the latter coming down on Revan like a torrent of rain. The twi'lek's blades strike out to trip Revan while the big guy's double saber thrusts at her to skewer the ex-Sith lord. "Arrogant bitch!" The twi'lek hisses like a snake, her blades arcing upward. "We'll slay you both and the Jedi Knight, just like all else who bypass the traps set here!" Kyle meanwhile ends up running out of luck as he takes a grazing slash to his stomach, then ends up on the ground as the Zabrak moves over to him. "Stinking Jedi." THe brute snarls, extinguishing his lightsaber and clotheslining Kyle to the ground. His boot raises, but he feels a blaster bolt burn through the boot and into his foot with a scream of pain before he stumbles back, a second shot rings out, and the elder falls to the ground dead with a smoking hole in his forehead. The big guy takes another two shots to the chest, but he seems to no-sell them as he slashes down at Kyle with his lightsaber, only for the blow to be blocked by Kyle's own weapon.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= "He fell prey to his own thirst for power, as the Sith always do," the tall blonde started to remark before Kyle got in his strike. Hopefully, he'd find peace, eventually. The dual attack proved a little harder to evade; as Darth Revan she could have simply called down an entire lightning storm -- at least, some vague memory of it, at any rate -- but as a simple commando-turned-Jedi, (if only in false memories) it proved a little harder. Even as she evaded the lower strike, the Zabrak's saber painfully scored her arm. Time for some more down-to-earth tactics. Revan dropped low into her knees, ducking under another swing from the twi'lek before driving her elbow had into her solar plexus in an Echani martial arts manoeuvre to take the wind out of her. "Unrefined, maybe...but it works," she commented dryly, finishing up with an even more undignified head-butt and a more refined swipe with her left lightsaber.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= Kyle's got the big guy's attention for now, and the Jedi stands up after sending the hulking Zebrak back with a force shove again. He leaps to his feet, leaving besides his blaster for the moment as he and the brute dance for a bit. Lightsabers clash against each other, until Kyle manages to sever the double-bladed weapon's hilt until the Zebrak has only one working end to use. He snorts like a beast, charging at Kyle with saber swinging. The Jedi easily evades that blow, ducking down before he calmly sends the Zebrak flying towards the wall with one last Force Push, then pulling over his blaster pistol to level it at the brute's head. He eyes the hold Revan has her own opponent in, raising a brow. "Echani? You're full of surprises, even for an ex-Sith." He allows a grin before he levels the blaster at the twi'lek. Flicking a switch of some sort, he fires twice before the Sith Assassin falls unconscious. Her last surviving comrade growls out, wounded by breathing and conscious. "Why spare us?" The brute growls, yellow eyes glaring at Kyle. "Should be killing us by now." "Maybe you two deserve a chance. The old man's not a Darth, but he was too set on his path. You two on the other hand can't be too old. Twenty-five at the least for you, your friend younger." Kyle explains, trailing his blaster at the wounded apprentice. His and the twi'lek's youth are apparent now, both Kyle and Revan have noticed. "...your point? They'll have us killed if we come back to our lords unsuccessful." "You're not going back to them." Kyle holsters his weapon at last, producing a credit chit and tossing it at the zebrak's feet. "That's enough for you two to get to the nearest station and grab some food." He says, kicking aside the damaged lightsaber. You got a ship?" "...yes." "Good. Get going." He nods to Revan to turn the twi'lek over to the big guy. "You're not needed anymore, the lady and I are old hands at wandering through ruins, it seems. There anybody else we need to worry about in the temple?" "No thanks to you, no."
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= As the Sith Assassin stumbled back coughing from the blow, Revan didn't give her the chance to recover. With an even swipe with both lightsabers working in concert, she disarmed the disoriented twi'lek, sending her lightsabers scattering in opposite directions with a flick of her wrists before Kyle blasted her into unconsciousness. So Kyle had been paying attention. That deserved some respect; even many Jedi were so focused on the internal that they tended to be oblivious to the external. Redeemed as she was, that tended to frustrate Revan a little. "Muscle memory," she offered the short explanation with a shrug and a slight smile. She scrutinised the Knight as he offered the remaining two mercy...admittedly, just as she would have done. Jedi didn't kill their opponents.but Jedi also didn't use blasters. Interesting. "Trust me, it's a life you won't regret leaving. You'd be amazed at what life has to offer away from the Sith philosophy," she commented, deactivating her lightsabers and returning them to her belt before she dusted off her sleeves. But in spite of her nonchalance, she offered a warm, genuine smile. In spite of her hardness of a warrior, she couldn't help but reveal her compassionate side. the Sith might think it soft.but her lightsaber would often say that she could back it up with some necessary hardness if one pushed the issue.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= The Zebrak scowls before he creeps over, picking up the twi'lek and muttering out, "C'mon, Hanaki..." He seems to do alright even with a wounded foot, hoofing it after crawling out of a hidden passage that might lead out of the temple. "So what's your reason for being here? Some kind of artifact or whatever?" He asks, scruffing his beard. "I'd also switch that radio on if I were you. Might be good to see what I mean by alternate timelines and universes if you just give that a shot first." He says, eyeing the room for a moment before he spots the entrance out. "So. How long you been since you got back on the wagon?" Yeah, we're going there with that analogy.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= Once the two remaining Sith had limped away, the other Knight sighed softly. Looked like she had some explaining to do...but how to keep it vague enough to keep anyone else from getting killed by getting embroiled in her campaign? She might not have recognised the Jedi who had become her de facto ally, but that hardly meant she was going to risk getting him embroiled in this mess. "Information," she admitted after a brief pause of consideration. He'd earned that much, at least. "The Council wasn't wrong...there was /something/ behind the Mandalorians. I intend to find out what it was." Of course, that was before he started babbling about timelines and universes. "I'm...sorry, but I'm not following you there." Revan might have had one of the more flexible minds of her era, but what he'd said made little sense to her. She studied one of the glyphs that she had been ruminating over before the interruption as Kyle asked her another question. It was a rather strange one; what jedi hadn't heard of the destruction she'd wrought? He should have known more than she did. "Three years, I suppose? You know about the destruction of Taris, I take it?" Even as she asked, she stopped looking t the glyphs long enough to study the commlink. It was definitely an odd bit of technology. "Just who does this communicate with, if I might ask?"
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= "Hm." Kyle listens, folding his arms. He probably could've done better with explaining what's going on, and he forgot his pamphlets at home besides. "Long story short, we're part of some sort of galaxy in a galaxy. A multiverse, seems like. All these worlds converging together via portals and...hell, I'll try and get someone to explain once that radio's on." He motions to the device itself, holding up a matching on in his hands connected to an ear-bud. His finger points to a button. "This is the synch button, it defaults to a broadband system. It's moderated, so behave." Beat. Revan begins to try the radio out for herself, before he rubs a temple trying to remember some things. "Mandalorians....man, we haven't heard much from them in a while now. There was a kid from clan Ramsair who helped get students and one of the teachers to the Praxeum, but otherwise, there's not much I know of since the clans went dark, Mandalore's still under reconstruction after a couple darkside whackjobs tried to take over and.." He wobbles a hand. "It's complicated. Taris, I don't know much. I've heard a bit about what happened there, but otherwise the planet's pretty obscure around my time."
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= The Prodigal Knight had, if nothing else, a flexible mind. But even this new knowledge was testing the limits of that flexibility. In the Force, many things were possible, but little of what the strange Knight said made much sense to her. Especially when she activated the comm link. She could follow each voice easily enough, but /what/ they were speaking about, not so much. "Something...is definitely not right, here," Revan commented almost helplessly.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= Looking at Raven, Kyle just rubs his temples. He feels like he's thrown Revan into the deep end, and with the multiverse, it's ALL a deep end really. Still, she needs to know what she's up against here. And Kyle's short on options for proof. So...damned if you do, damned if you don't. "Sorry." He says at last, shrugging before he wanders towards the quick-exit those two Sith took on their way out. "We'd better go before we end up going crazy with all the dark side influence this place has. Get to your ship, mine isn't far from here. We'll explain things once we meet up outside a gate." Suddenly Revan's ship will be picking up a friendly signal by the time she gets there, no doubt. "For what it's worth, welcome to the multiverse." He smiles over his shoulder, before heading on out with a lazy salute of sorts.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= Kyle certainly did throw her into the deep end, but if anything, she seemed to be enjoying it. In fact, it looked as if she hadn't been able to really enjoy herself like this for a long time. But...he did have a point about the ruins. "Point," she conceded. "It looked like a dead end, anyway." Which was visibly regrettable. Here she had hoped she was one step closer to the evil manipulating the Mandalorians, and even the Sith Empire she had once commanded...only, the glyphs revealed nothing, in spite of their architects. "Thanks," she said before heading back to the Ebon Hawk, and meant it. She probably wouldn't have been able to take the Sith on her own, not there. Even if this idea of a "multiverse" was more than just a little beyond her comprehension.
}}

2077/Roses in Dun Realtai

2015-05-04T16:36:34Z

ForwardObserver: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2015/04/23 |Location=Dun Realtai |Synopsis=A lost Elphelt comes upon Saber in Dun Realtai |Thanks= |Cast of Characters=346, 740 |Tinyplot= |Tinyplo..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2015/04/23
|Location=Dun Realtai
|Synopsis=A lost Elphelt comes upon Saber in Dun Realtai
|Thanks=
|Cast of Characters=346, 740
|Tinyplot=
|Tinyplot2=
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:740|Elphelt Valentine (740)}} has posed:''' Elphelt Valentine frowns as she walks to the village square of Dun Realtai, a map in her hands and a frown on her face. The oddly dressed Valentine sticks out her tongue in indignation as she once more pours over the warpgate connections map. One that she's holding upside down, and that's about four years out of date. In retrospect, buying a map of the Multiverse from Totally Trustworthy Trader Bob in Slum Urbania may have been a mistake. Hands falling to her sides limply, she lets out a dramatic sigh as she just slumps forward a bit in that slightly jilted mechanical way of every movement she makes. "This...this isn't Illyria, is it?" She laments to just about anyone in earshot, a note of despair and dissappointment in her voice. Even her cloth-ears on her bridal veil seem to droop. She's the picture of a maiden lost. With a shake of her head, she recovers however. Giving her bouquet a little hug, she stores the map inside of it as it poofs out of existance in a little burst of pink sparkles. Heading towards the Inn, she'll seek to bother some of the locals as she takes out a photo of a dark skinned woman, prepared to to ask the first person she's met if they've seen this girl! 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      It was a lovely spring day in Dun Realtai, with a light, cool breeze and clear skies. The ground, however, was somewhat muddy from the recent (and frequent) seasonal rains...or, at least, they had been seasonal before the unnatural winter, according to the native townspeople. Now, with the last vestiges of winter properly dispersed, the land seemed to be reverting back to its normal pattern. Now all that remained was restoring life to the land, a project already well underway.      The Servant Saber had been reluctant to leave, given the weather and an appointed lord with a propensity for overworking himself. But offworld supplies were still very much needed, which required a few trips to Njorn Station to bring back what was required. As necessary as it was, however, Saber disliked being away from home for very long.      She smiled to herself thinking about that. Dun Realtai was home...a /true/ home. Even Camelot had never truly been that for her, nor for Sir Bedivere.      Thankfully, the trip had not pulled her away from the tiny village for very long. Dressed in somewhat modern work clothes consisting of a flannel long-sleeved shirt, jeans, and work boots, Arturia returned with a few crates in tow, loaded up on a cart she pulled behind her. Once upon a time, the villagers would have started at the sight of a petite young woman pulling the load of a well-built grown man, but had since become used to their lady's curious strength.      What stopped her instead of exhaustion was the sound of an unfamiliar and very obviously lost voice. "No, it is not," she answered the confused young maiden. "This land is Dun Realtai. I think...perhaps your map is somewhat out-of-date." 

:'''{{#var:740|Elphelt Valentine (740)}} has posed:''' The bridal-bot shoots up straight as Arturia takes note of her, only to quickly put her hands in front of her and beam a cheery, if slightly goofy, smile to the woman. "Oh...oh! Yeah, of course it's not! How silly of me, I must have...taken...the wrong warpgate. Again. Hah hah hah." She trails off with nervous laughter, trying to brush it off with cheer and smiles. It might not quite work. She stands a little straighter, however, and soon there's a picture being thrust towards her of Ramlethal. "But that's okay! I mean, I get to see this cute little village! It's very homey, you know? Like the ones in the storybooks about medieval knights! With princes and princesses and brave warriors going out to save the kingdom, giving their wives scarves and telling them 'Hold onto this for me, my love, and I'll come back for you!' And then the knight goes searching for the magical artifact to save the kingdom, and his faithful wife waits for yeeeears faithfully until one day they reunite and rekindle their love!" Gushes the odd woman suddenly, hands on her cheeks, including that picture. She seems lost for a moment. Then she blushes horridly. She thrusts out that picture once more! "U...uhm. Uhm, have you seen this woman? Name's Ramlethal...about my height, deadpan voice, acts kinda like a robot, and uh, has these really big swords?" Asks Elphelt, holding up the picture. She then shakes her head a bit. "Oh! I'm Elphelt Valentine by the way! Nice to meet you! Do you need any help with those?" She points to the cart of crates, not once losing that smiling, cheery visage. It's a little odd perhaps, so much smiling hardly seems to strain her. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Saber was rarely thrown off her stoic or otherwise neutral composure...but then, without warning there was a very exuberant mechanical girl flapping away in embarrassment, gushing over fairytales, and thrusting out a picture of someone the knight had never seen. There was but one thing to do, one appropriate reaction:      Blink owlishly.      "A-ah..." she started, attempting to gather her wits about her. Fortunately, it didn't take long. "I am afraid I have not seen this person," Saber replied, shaking her head.      Once she was over her initial bewilderment, however, the petite blonde was able to offer a small, friendly smile. "Any help is most welcome," she replied. Even if she could handle it, it was only polite to allow someone to help if they were that enthusiastic about it. "Lady...Elphelt, was it? Well-met. I am called Saber." 

:'''{{#var:740|Elphelt Valentine (740)}} has posed:''' In the vast sea of reactions the very unique person that is Elphelt has received, owlish blinking is on the kinder side of things. She actually seems to beam a little brighter. There's also sudden pink sparkles as she just twists side to side, and rose petals float off of her bouquet as if on cue. Her femininity protocols are working overtime to work up such a display. The initial answer causes her smile to soften, and let out a tiny sigh. Less outwardly dissappointed this time, her face more accepting as though she's heard that one before. "Oh well. It was worth a shot! Uhh, just one thing? If you /do/ see her? Be careful. She's dangerous. And call me, okay?" She'll offer her personal radio number on a very, very flowery piece of stationary. Then she leaps up onto that cart, balancing on the side lip of the thing. Reaching down and whistling a bit, she stacks up a good five crates before leaping down, all without missing a beat. Aside from a light 'harumph' of effort, it seems this woman has her own stores of above-human strength, nevermind balance. "I'm always happy to help! Mister Kiske would always say 'Oh, that's okay Miss Valentine, I'll take care of it'. Or 'I'll have the maids do it'. Oh! Have you ever heard of him? King Ky Kiske, Third King of Illyria? Tall. Blonde. Good with a sword? Reeeeeally nice?" Then she's smiling right back. "That's me! Elphelt Valentine! That's an interesting name! Do you live here Miss Saber? This place seems so peaceful! Dun...Altai? Realtai?" She tests the name on her tongue. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      The extremely feminine robot was hardly the strangest being she had ever met. But she was more than a little surprised, somewhat off-balance in how to necessarily react. Preternatural senses were more than adequate to pick up on the mechanical sounds her body made, though Saber's rather archaic thinking tended to process such beings as 'metal elementals'. It was really the only way she could wrap her mind around living machines.      And they certainly were alive, as her introduction to Gakupo attested. Machines which merely mimicked life would not have had the creative spark necessary to write music. Arturia tilted her head slightly to one side, considering a possibility. The over-thye-top femininity struck her as showy enough for one of the robotic bards. "You would not happen to be one of the...I believe they are called 'Vocaloids'?"      When given the equally-flowery note, the jade-eyed knight nodded. "I shall do so. However, should you need assistance in dealing with this person, it is my duty as a knight to assist any in need."      Likewise, there was a decided lack of surprise at the Backyarder's strength. She did, however, shake her head slightly at the mention of this unknown king. "I am afraid I have not," she admitted. "Moreover, I have yet to visit a kingdom called Illyria."      As enthusiastic as she was, the Servant could hardly find it in her to be rude...or to do much besides smile pleasantly. "Yes, Dun Realtai has become a home for myself and others, as well as a haven for any in need. As long as the law of hospitality is honoured and obeyed, all are welcome." 

:'''{{#var:740|Elphelt Valentine (740)}} has posed:''' El perks up a little, blinking just a bit with those big green eyes. "Vocaloid? I'm...no. I'm a Valentine! What's a vocaloid? Are they artificial beings too?" Wonder and amazment lurks in her being! The thought of other artificial humans gets her quite excited! At the offer of help, Elphelt gives a little smile. "Thanks. She's...important to me, so I'd like to stop her without her getting hurt." Both pump into fists, and she bounces just a bit on her toes. "I'll make it up to you too! Come on, let's get these inside!" Then she's all but skipping along with her boxes in her arms! "So you're a knight? Where from?" She questions. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      The flaxen-haired knight nodded. "Yes, if I understand correctly, they are programs to create music on a computer. However, some have gained self-awareness and have had mechanical bodies created for them."      Saber smiled slightly. "The one named Gakupo is a part of the Union and is an occasional guest of Dun Realtai. Perhaps you shall be able to meet him sometime?"      Approaching the thick oak doors to the great hall of the keep, she paused to open them for Elphelt even as she continued. "However, there are quite a few other artificial beings, as well. However, I have yet to meet them personally."      The once-bare great hall now seemed to be a distribution point of sorts, with other boxes of already-organised seeds already stacked against a bare wall. They really should have a storage area built for the supplies they had been importing. "Over here is acceptable," she indicated before continuing almost absently. "Oh...I am from a land called Britain. However, it would seem that our era is a distant past for most of the multiverse." 

:'''{{#var:740|Elphelt Valentine (740)}} has posed:''' Color Elphelt fascinated. She very nearly loses her boxes over it, literally. "Ooh! Living music programs! Oh, so artsy! I love it! Man, they must have the best concerts! Gakupo, huh? I'll have to meet him for sure!" Are those tears in her eyes as Saber mentions the amount of artificial beings in the Union. Definitely. Sniffle. "I'm not alone anymore! And neither is Ram!" She shouts suddenly, before urk'ing, and trying to calm down. Finally, down the boxes go! El whistles a bit. "Yeesh, never knew farming need so much stuff." She peers at a few labels curiously. A nail goes to her chin, tapping as she ponders the name. "Britain? Never heard of it! But from the way you act, I'll bet it's full of knights and princesses, and noble warriors protecting innocent people from evil with their shiney swords of justice and peace!" She waves her bouquet around like some sort of sword here! The woman would be a hit with the kids no doubt. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Just before the crates come tumbling down, Saber caught one deftly, seemingly unperturbed. To underscore that point, the jade-eyed knight simply continued to smile. "I have heard some of his compositions performed here. Though artificial in means, I found the music to be pleasing to the ear." Which was generally the point, she thought...though there was apparently some music which was not meant to produce the same feelings. Still, she did admit that she was acclimated enough to the modern era to enjoy some vocaloid music.      "I have heard their voices over the radio, frequently. It should be a simple matter to meet with them," she replied with a light chuckle.      Setting down a crate next to the already-stacked ones, the Servant nodded. "Indeed, it does," she replied. "On a smaller scale perhaps not so much, but even for a small village, it requires much and a great deal of planning. Though, it would require less had it not been for the unnatural winter and dark magic which had destroyed the vegetation which was previously present. It required a concerted effort to restore fertility to the land."      The Backyarder was awarded with a self-depreciating chuckle. "Not filled with them, precisely....yet we did what we could for the sake of the people." 

:'''{{#var:740|Elphelt Valentine (740)}} has posed:''' "So cooool! I wonder if he puts out records. Haven't gotten any more music for the bridal express in a while." Comes the woman thoughtfully, suddenly grinning. Then she takes a breath, stamping down on another stream-of-consciousness rant, and smacks her hands together. "Alright! That settles it. I'm going to host an Artificial Human party! So all we Union members can meet! Oh, but don't worry! All the humans can come too, and...well anyone really! I'll get some cake, some punch, maybe a band! Ooooh! Oh! And maybe I can get Mister Gakupo to sing!" By now, she's forgotten all about boxes, at least briefly. Then she pauses. "Maybe I should have it at Njorun...hmmm...." DArk magic!? Artificial winters!? El looks absolutely horrified for a moment. "Oh no! Is everyone okay? Is there anything I can do? Uhh, I don't know much about farming, but I am a medic! Mister Kiske even let me take the certification test while I was in the stasis pod! See?" Reaching into her dress, she pulls out a nicely embroidered card. It reads 'Elphelt Valentine, Certified Medic of Illyria', with Ky's flowing writing underneath it. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      The Servant tilted her head slightly in what was her equivalent of a shrug. "Perhaps," she replied. "But it would be best to inquire directly whether he has any recordings. I fear that our own musical pursuits have been of the more...traditional sort." In other words, only someone like a Vocaloid would be able to synthesise an entire orchestra single-handedly.      She decided, probably wisely, not to inquire about the 'bridal express.'      For her part, Saber managed to keep up with the topic shift, though she was not entirely certain how to necessarily handle Elphelt's...exuberance. Not that it was a bad thing, but she wasn't entirely sure how she could respond or be of any particular help. Yet, she made the effort. "Ah, well..the station has the appropriate facilities for such a gathering. Moreover, it is easily accessible."      The King of Knights held her hands up slightly in a reassuring gesture. "Yes, they were all right now...the true winter has passed and we were able to prevent even a single soul from becoming lost to it. In addition, the previous lord had been dealt with, and we have been granted indefinite stewardship of the land. What remains now is the re-establishment of agriculture." Smiling reassurance, Saber added, "Assisting with supplies is of considerable help. You have my gratitude, Lady Elphelt."      Her eyebrows raised slightly at the card, however. "A medic? There is always a need of those skilled in the healing arts." 

:'''{{#var:740|Elphelt Valentine (740)}} has posed:''' Here, Elphelt sighs a bit. 'Traditional'. She turns around, peeking out and spying the village. "This really /is/ like going back in time." Comes the woman with equal amounts slight distress and a little wonder. Some people just can't get used to non-high-technology. Elphelt swats herself on the side of the head. "Of /course/! Oh, why didn't I think of that!? Perfect!" By now, the woman's practically skipping along as she walks over, plopping herself down gently on a box. It creaks a bit under that dress of hers. Here, though, she offers a bow! It's almost courtly! Then she trips over those big shoes of hers, and flailing her arms, tumbles to the ground. "Eh heh heh heh, welcome! I like helping people, and besides, I think stuff like this, well...makes my kind seem less like 'evil murderous emotionaless deathbots'. Eh heh." Cue another card! Like the previous one, it's all embroidered and generally pink and cute. It has a radio number! "Once everything's over in Illyria, I want to become a doctor. So, I consider this kind of thing practice. Call me any time, and I'll be here quick!" Grin! Then, the woman eep's as her radio goes off. Her face lights up! "Oh! There's another Ram sighting! Miss Saber, I have to go, but it's been nice meeting you! Let's go get our nails done together or go shopping some time, okay? Byyyyye!" Out comes that bouquet, and in a blast of pink hearts and sparkles, there's a rather large, rose-patterned bow-wrapped rocket. She hops in the front seat, and the thing blasts off in a spray of magical pink jet-power. Team Valentine is blasting off again! 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      The gynoid was awarded another chuckle. "There is some small amount of technology of the current era," Saber replied as she nodded to one of the lanterns suspended from the ceiling. In contrast to the torches along the wall, it was clearly lit with an LED. "We have simply decided that it was best for the people of the village of such technology was as non-intrusive as possible. Though we have dealt with the threat, we have no wish to disturb their lives further than is absolutely necessary."      When Elphelt took her spill, Saber moved to help rebalance her, though it was probably not especially necessary. Still, her chivalry demanded the effort. "Careful, my lady," she cautioned. Some might think of that as a malfunctioning machine, but Saber was incapable of that line of thinking, hailing from a time well before complex machines in the shape of people were even conceived. To the Servant, she was simply an awkward, enthusiastic girl.      "In truth, most of the artificial beings I have encountered have been indistinguishable from human beings in that regard. There are honourable and kind humans, as well as those capable of cruelty and evil."      Accepting the card, Saber offered Elphelt a small smile. "Then I wish you good fortune, and we shall call upon your services soon." After all, there was always some need of medical attention, even in a small village.      Once more, the Servant was reduced to wracking her brain for a good way to respond; the Backyarder seemed to have thrown her into the deep end of a swimming pool filled with pink strawberry champagne. "Ah. Indeed, it was a pleasure to meet you, my lady. Take care..."      Saber had seen a great many strange things which seemed to defy explanation, met beings and fought creatures which would be considered incredible even in her own varied world. But somehow, the sight of a gynoid in rabbit ears and a dress even frillier than hers -- bouquet in hand -- leaping astride an equally frilly rocket and blasting off into the sky was perhaps among the strangest things she had ever seen. Somehow, she doubted anyone would believe her if she tried to describe it. 

}}

2153/Jedi and Ninja in Paragon City

2015-05-03T22:48:22Z

ForwardObserver: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2015/05/03 |Location=Paragon City <CoH> |Synopsis=A wounded Yari meets Revan in Paragon City! |Thanks= |Cast of Characters=414, 691 |Tinyplot= |Tin..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2015/05/03
|Location=Paragon City <CoH>
|Synopsis=A wounded Yari meets Revan in Paragon City!
|Thanks=
|Cast of Characters=414, 691
|Tinyplot=
|Tinyplot2=
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:691|Yari Takane (691)}} has posed:''' Yari Takane /hates/ hospitals. The smell, the constant white of it all, and being unable to /do/ something useful gets to her easily. Thus it is that as soon as Yari has gotten permission to slink out of Confed Medical, that she's found her way to the rather active Paragon City. The ninja is decked out in civilian dress this time, a cute little sundress she picked up at a local shop. Thankfully /not/ one of the spandex numbers that seem so popular with the local superheroes. Yari can't understand that one. Her mission today? Gather intelligence and get the lay of the city. She honestly has no idea of any Confederate-leanings on either side, and so, Yari is crutch walking her way towards the various statues that litter the park. Her dark skin is /far/ paler than usual, given her recent injuries, twintails bobbing along as she pauses before the statue of one of the heroes. Miss Sparrowsong, a hero that stopped a major disaster in the city. Yari closes her eyes and smirks. "...At least one can't say that the warriors here don't go unappreciated." It's a little much for her, but Yari Takane can enjoy the sentiment of remembering the past and the ones who helped raise civilization up so. 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      From the onset following a sudden rescue mission, Revan had been impressed.      The technology was at once behind what she was accustomed to and yet significantly more advanced; there seemed to be holographic technology, yet many still made use of voice-only 'phone' devices. The transit system moved with almost glacial speed, yet interdimensional travel appeared to have been a long-accepted reality.      But most impressive of all was that class stratification was far less pronounced that what Lowri had seen throughout her own galaxy. While there were certainly divisions within the city between the well-off and the...less-than well-off, the City of Tomorrow did not relegate its lower classes below the surface of its towers of glass and metal. It had its flaws -- the glow of the War Walls was a constant reminder of the constant threats the city endured -- but Paragon City was a vast improvement over Taris, even before the Sith bombarded the planet into rubble.      And, of course, there was the decided lack of prejudice regarding 'aliens'. It was ironic, really; here was a city plagued by constant invasions by aliens, yet there were enough alien 'superheroes' that the populace seemed to regard them as no different than humans, either respecting their privacy -- or business when they were rushing to stop some bank robbery or other -- or else indulging a bit of star-chasing. And humans dressed peculiarly drew even less of a glance, enough that a woman dressed in Jedi robes went nigh-unnoticed.      Lowri had left her cloak on the Ebon Hawk, wearing simply what amounted to a black long-sleeved tunic, trousers, and boots, with her lightsabers fastened to her belt and her platinum hair pulled loosely back into a thick braid. Had anyone from her own galaxy seen her, they might have assumed she was a simple padawan satisfying her curiosity on the plaques scattered throughout Atlas Park. And read them all she was, entering the information she read into her datapad. It might seem odd that someone would take the trouble, but there she was, clearly enjoying herself. 

:'''{{#var:691|Yari Takane (691)}} has posed:''' Really, it's /nice/ to not get odd looks. Even in her country's capitol, human-centrism runs fierce and hot. Yari is just glad she got tossed in with Gaius' Legion, one of the more diverse ones. Paragon's heroes and denizens have barely batted an eye, one or two of the more vocal and outgoing supers having offered a flight to the local hospital, or else some healing. Yari, with a bit of a blush, is set down by a passing hero, a masked man resembling a mexican wrestler more than traditional superhero. "Ah...thank you." Comes the ninja, coughing and lighting her pipe as the big man laughs heartily. "All in a day's work, citizen! Enjoy your stay in the city, and please be more careful! Luche-man, AWAYYYYY!!!" Whooooosh! In a burst of super-powered flight, away goes the helpful Luche-man. Yari leans on her crutch, shaking her head. "...What an odd city." Sighs the Au Ra, before finally noting Revan. A glance goes to the lightsabers at her belt. Yari's head tilts in curiousity. Then she notes the data pad. Hmm. "Are you a tourist as well, Ma'am?" Comes Yari curiously, voice quiet but her overall demeanor sharp despite her uterly thrashed look. Military experience, perhaps? Yari offers a pipe, the woman already lighting another one as she juggles crutch, lighter, and pipes with tail and arm. It's a bit awkward. She doesn't ask her /real/ question, but between the occasional glance and Jedi senses, it might not be hard to pick up on Yari's real interest here. 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      The Guardian finally looks up from her engrossment, the near-white bangs falling away just enough to give the ninja a glance at the eye hidden beneath them, and the fact that it's a starling light grey rather than the dark blue -- nearly violet -- of the other. Yet while the mismatched eyes might be unsettling for some, her smile certainly was anything but; a friendly smile which could encourage some of her trustworthiness. It might even make some assume she was harmless, thought the lightsabers went a long way to dispelling that notion.      "I'm a bit obvious, aren't I?" Revan quipped with a soft chuckle. "It's nice to see another out-of-towner, if you catch my meaning. Enjoying the city so far?"      In contrast to her demeanour and banter, Revan scrutinised the Au Ra in turn, using mostly her natural powers of observation with only a light touch of the Force to sense some idea of motivation and surface emotion. Unlike some Jedi, she found gauging emotion to be even more useful than surface thoughts. Simply taking in details could tell a person just as much as simple Force powers, but the two of them in concert painted a more complete picture. An Elite as she was, possibly a soldier, injuries which seemed to be combat-related. And while the Guardian had yet to meet even the majority of people in the Union, she knew better than to make assumptions. The ninja could be unaffiliated, or a part of the opposing faction...the one aligned with the Sith. 

:'''{{#var:691|Yari Takane (691)}} has posed:''' Yari, like a good ninja, tries to blend in when she can. Here? She attempts to do so by mirroring Revan's smile. It's far more subdued, the ninja still far too young and inexperienced to pick up the subtle cues that so often give her away: it's difficult to take the soldier out of Yari after having lived the life for so long. It doesn't help that she never /quite/ seems to relax, muscles always tense. Someone probably needs a chiropractor. The lightsabers /definitely/ dispell the harmless notion. They capture much of Yari's attention, an equal mix of wariness and fascination. "This is a..." Pause. How to put it politely. "Colorful city. I've never seen one so shattered by war and strife, and yet is so filled with acceptance. I did a little reading into Paragon's history. There was an invasion. But these..." She flicks her own horns lightly. "Only get me the occasional curious or admiring glance." Yari finally gives a genuine smile. "I could get used to a place like this. Even if the local guardians are a bit...mmm...unusual." As for Revan being out of the ordinary? "You don't quite match the particular kind of 'colorful' that makes this city what it is. If I'd guess..." Yari turns, looking Revan over openly. "Military. Maybe ex-military. Those boots look a little well-trod. Probably a traveller of some sort. Am I warm?" Sometimes, being up front and truthful can be as potent as the best deception. Then she shrugs. "Sorry, I'm curious about people. I don't mean to intrude. Yari Takane." She pauses, rubbing her head, trying to remember the local greeting. There's a hand being offered. Then there's a little wistful sigh. "If I actually manage to grow old, I could retire in a place like this." 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      Blending in was a matter of either passing oneself off as a normal citizen or one of the city's superheroes and already-present inter-dimensional visitors. To her credit, the ninja blended in as well as anyone could have even as the Jedi appraised her.      Though her own memories of military service had been fabricated by the Council, she could still rely on them to point out soldiers and the like out to her. The Garlean had not only the professional bearing which stood out, but the inability to truly relax hinted at that even more. Not enough for the casual observer, most likely, but those false memories told Lowri otherwise. That was what stood out more than even the Centurion's draconic features....which, strangely, seemed to be more common.      "It certainly is, in more ways than one" the Guardian agreed with a slight grin, appreciative of the ninja's mental deftness. "It could be that being dramatically saved by all kinds makes them more accepting...or at least used to it."      A curious expression crossed Revan's face. "I'm guessing you're discriminated against in your own world?" she asked, her own insatiable curiosity getting the better of her before her expression was replaced by one of slight chagrin. "Ah, sorry. I ask too many questions, sometimes."      Pale eyebrows lifted in mild surprise. Those were some impressive observations. "I'm not sure one of these.../colourful/ uniforms would work for me," she quipped with a similar slight grin. "Heh...but I suppose you could say that. But I'm not the only one, right?"      Yari was awarded a soft chuckle. "I'd be a hypocrite if I admonished anyone on being curious," she admitted before the friendly smile returned. "It certainly is a nice place," Lowri agreed. "Peaceful, but it has character." 

:'''{{#var:691|Yari Takane (691)}} has posed:''' There's a small frown on Yari's face. She waves her hand. "Something like that. Humans hold most of the power where I'm from." Then, she shrugs. "But I'm lucky. There's a very smart, very forward thinking human that wants to change things. And I believe he's capable of it. I just have to endure until then." Comes Yari, a hint of optimism in her voice. Not only a soldier, but perhaps the idealistic kind. She shrugs. "Besides, if I hone my skills enough, that won't matter." Another shrug from the lizard. "I'm in a talkative mood after being in a medica. It's fine. Sometimes it's good to talk about these kinds of things. You have a good ear, anyway." Yari chuckles. "Not uncommon, or so I hear. When you're used to moving from place to place, it's hard to stop." A small sigh. "But I'm being /too/ talkative." One final glance to the odd devices on her belt. "I don't mean to pry, but what /are/ those?" She finally asks, tail flicking at the lightsaber hilts. 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      Though the other woman was, for all appearances, human herself, she nodded with polite sympathy. "That seems to be the rule for too many worlds, regretfully," the Jedi noted before she smiled again. However, a keen mind might discern that there was a great deal she was hiding, or at least obfuscating. While she projected amicability and understanding, there was something off about her reaction to that idealism, as of she had seen tragedies which might have been born from it.      "'That's good to hear," Revan replied in contrast to that sense. "Sometimes all it takes is one person with a vision to crate a better world."      Another light laugh, though there was something off about it, as if the Guardian was both amused, yet hiding something through it. Though whether that was her observations and scrutiny or something far darker was anyone's guess. "There's nothing worse than being laid up for a week. I can empathise. But I enjoy listening. Any chance I have to learn something, I tend to take. It can be a bad habit, I'll admit."      But that earned another grin. "True. And it's hard to /not/ be curious, especially when you're thrown head-first into a much larger world."      Then, she found herself in a position that she couldn't avoid; in fact, she probably shouldn't attempt to. Being a Jedi was essentially painting a deliberate target on one's back, a way to grab attention of the dark forces away from the powerless. It might not have been the most tactically-advantageous in every situation, but that came with the job.      Revan feigned mild surprise, pale eyebrows raising slightly. "oh, these? My means of defending myself. They're called lightsabers." 

:'''{{#var:691|Yari Takane (691)}} has posed:''' Yari clenches her hand, becoming slightly more animated. Or, at least, as animated as she can. Her tail swishes all the more. Though normally quite keen, it seems she misses that slightly off note on Revan's words and body language, too caught up in her own dreams to note it. "Exactly! One day, the only thing that will matter is skill and dedication! What you work for and earn determine your place in society, not what you were born as! Then maybe we can settle down and..." Gulp. Yari blushes for a moment, looking away. "Ahem! It's all about progress. With skill and determination, one can make their dreams come true." She nods to herself. Someone's /definitely/ idealistic, there. She palms it off by latching onto another angle of conversation. "Well it seems like you've come to the right city. Half the 'heroes' I talk to seem all too eager to talk about their home. I guess I don't blame them. Amazing it doesn't fall apart, if half of the rumors are true." Scowl! Just the thought of a bunch of lawless, worthless garbage tainting this admirable city gets her garlean blood boiling. She rubs her head a bit. "Ah. The Multiverse. I'll give you some free advice: don't think too much about it. I about drove myself insane the first week. And don't go eating any strange fruits." Shudder. Bad times, that. There's a little hiss of interest, Yari wobbling a little as she leans down a smidge to get a better look. "Light...saber? A magic sword, then? I can't see a blade." "Is that a common weapon where you're from? It must have a strange balance, unless the blade retracts. Is it really made out of light?" She might just sound a little bit like a kid right now, before this strange new concept! 

:'''{{#var:414|Revan (414)}} has posed:'''      As Yari became more animated, however, Lowri's chuckle became more genuine, or at least without the slight sense of off-ness. "That's a noble goal. If that kind of society already exists in some worlds, who's to say it's unattainable in others?"      The Guardian grinned. "You've got a pretty positive attitude," she commented before her smile faded a fraction. "Still, be careful. Sometimes even the best of intentions can blind a person to what they do."      Yet the moment passed quickly, and the slight smile returned. "There's a lot of culture and history here," Lowri agreed, though silently noting the scowl. "And you're right, most people don't seem to mind all the questions."      At the advice, however, the Jedi laughed softly. "Different realities is a little new to me, but I like knowing how it all works. Even if the answer isn't easy to come by, I don't mind." She paused, then added with what might have been almost a giggle, "I'll keep the part about the strange fruit in mind, though."      Once again, Revan chuckled lightly, unhooking the hilt on her left. "It's not magic, no. The hilt here..." she hefted the hilt, "Contains a crystal which channels light through it, forming a blade of energy when it's activated. There aren't that many substances it can't cut through. Right now it's shut off, so theres no blade."      The pale-haired Guardian shook her head. Once more, she would have to essentially out herself...but ultimately, she would need to regardless of the circumstances. "It's not very common. Lightsabers are the weapons of the Jedi Order."      And it wouldn't take a genius to connect the dots. 

:'''{{#var:691|Yari Takane (691)}} has posed:''' Yari crosses her arm. "While wariness has its place, if you don't believe in your dreams and those you work with, then you'll become nothing more than a living husk of a person. Passion is what keeps a person alive." Then she smirks. "...I try to be self-aware, anyway." She rubs her chin. "If you want to find out everything like that, it's going to take some time. There's too many worlds. It's a bit overwhelming, actually. But if you want to travel and learn about other worlds? You'll never get bored, at least." She chuckles just a touch. And then she's focusing on the light sabers. Her eyes are a little wide her, trying not to /drool/ at what one could accomplish with such a weapon. Then she squints. "It must have a terrible weight to it, though. Too easy to knock the user off-balance." A shrug. "But don't mind me. Jedi Order, hmm?" She looks up to the darkening sky. "Never heard of it. Have a nice night, Ma'am. You're fun to talk to, I hope we meet again." A little awkward bow, and she crutch-walks off! 

}}

Radio Frequencies

2015-05-02T01:12:59Z

ForwardObserver: /* Out of Character Frequencies: */

This page aims to list all radio frequencies which are either public or semi-private, based on voluntary listing. You can add them yourself, or send Homura an @mail with the listing information if you don't feel comfortable editing this page yourself or hate Mediawiki code.

Please note that whether or not a frequency is marked as encrypted or public doesn't make it any less impolite to just jump onto a frequency your character has no immediate tie-in to. If you have the slightest doubt about it, make sure to ask the owner whether or not your character can get on it or if it's alright to observe.

'''Freq''': The frequency.

'''Owner''': The current moderator of the frequency.

'''Enc''': Whether or not the frequency is encrypted, and how to get its encryption key, i.e. "ask owner".

'''Purpose''': What the frequency is for.

==All-Purpose/TP Frequencies:==
{| class="wikitable sortable" cellpadding="10" cellspacing="0" width="100%"
! style="text-align:left" width="5%"| Freq
! style="text-align:left" width="10%"| Owner
! style="text-align:left" width="5%"| Enc
! style="text-align:left" width="75%"| Purpose
|-
|| 06.08 || [[Milla Maxwell]] || No || Tales of Xillia-1 stuff, doubles as local cross-factional during scenes.
|-
|| 16.03 || [[Homura Akemi]] || No || Anyone involved, wishing to be involved, or planning to get involved in Madoka-1 scenes, whether random ones or TP ones, is free to have this frequency on. It will not always be used, but expect it to replace Union-IC when Unaffiliated or Confederate parties are involved, or when we have to discuss things and X-U isn't an option. You should only actually ICly know about/use the frequency once you've been told about it, though. (Attend a scene/be told/etc.)
|-
|| 95.5 || [[Courier Six]] || No || Mojave Wasteland general frequencies, also Radio New Vegas
|-
|| 413.612 || [[Summer Powers]] || No || Pesterchum Chat. Open to public. Codenames are used. Two words together, first one lowercased, second capitalized. profoundBadness and crowravenWolfmoon are examples.
|-
|| 66.6 || [[Psyber]] || Ask || Heaven or Hell backup radio. Will be utilized for smaller scenes featuring group members as well as splitting conversations off the main band.
|-
|| 11.5 || [[Elise Leroy]] || Ask || XCOM-1 'public' radio frequency, for allies not directly involved in XCOM day-to-day activities. Used for field ops also.
|-
|| 13.33 || [[Wuyin Tsai]] || No || The Buzzing. Lore drops from the Bees of [[Agartha]]. Receive /only/ except under exceptional circumstances.
|-
|| 8.33 || [[Wuyin Tsai]] || No || General TSW cast/world radio frequency. Information is generally available to whoever wants it, no permission needed to join. Used for anything happening on The Secret World or for conversations involving its cast or concepts therein.
|-
|| 13.37 || [[Chris Rothschild]] || No || Hacknet, a public frequency for techies, hackers, etc.
|-
|| 305.19 || [[Elliana Fairchild]] || No || Frequency for all cross-factional communications related to Elliana's various scenes, plots and TPs when J-IC isn't an option.
|-
|| 42.0 || [[Theo Morrison]] || No || Radio Free Nerdery. Public channel for casual talk from nerds of all stripes.
|-
|| 3.853 || [[Kirito]] || No || Radio frequency for Kirito's Node scenes (Abstractum TP).
|-
|| 192.9 || [[Eliot Ness]] || No || Radio frequency for Assassin's Creed: The Untouchables scenes.
|-
|| 7746.54 || [[Fuki]] || No || Radio frequency for Confederate Shinki.
|-
|| 45.55 || [[Serori]] || Ask || Radio frequency reserved for Dragon Ball Z characters and scenes.
|-
|| 4.97 || [[Mizuki]] || No || A frequency to share dreams, both the ones you have when you sleep and the ones you have when you're awake. Casual philosophy talk is also permitted. All of this is IC, cross-factional, and anonymous unless a person intentionally reveals themselves. The owner of the channel is common knowledge, however. Completely public.
|-
|| 53.13 || [[Sakura Kinomoto]] || No || Frequency for discussion related to the Deck of Light node.
|-
|| 80.8 || [[Goffard Gaffgarion]] || No || Frequency for those wishing to solicit Gaffgarion's services as a sellsword. Note: It's usually going to be Ladd answering unless it's specifically requested that a caller wishes to speak to Gaffgarion.
|-
|| 140.5 || [[Sir Bedivere]] || No || Semi-public radio frequency for the Knights of the Round Table, and residents as well as visitors to Dún Reáltaí.
|-
|| 442.2 || [[Quote]] || No || Public radio frequency for the Flying Island, particularly during the [[Cave Story]] TP.
|-
|| 9.999 || [[Landon al Cid]] || No || Multiversal radio frequency for interaction with Galianda and the Final Fantasy Act: Class theme members.
|-
|| 407.3072 || [[Optimus Prime]] || Yes || Private channel for active Autobots. Ask for encryption key.
|-
|| 16.37 || [[Snow White]] || No || Public radio frequency for the world of the Fables.
|-
|| 1994.0 || [[Emiya Kiritsugu]] || No || Public radio frequency for Fate/Zero Earth.
|-
|| 996.5 || [[Simon Petrikov]] || No || Public radio frequency for Mushroom War Earth.
|-
|| 22.2 || [[Eryl Fairfax]] || No || Public radio frequency through which people may reach the ReGenesis Corporation to buy from or trade with them.
|-
|| 756.980 || [[Gaius Van Baelsar]] || Ask || XIV Legion Private Channel. Ask for permission to join.
|-
|| 290.591 || [[Gaius Van Baelsar]] || No || General Public Eorzea/Hydaelyn Radio. Open to everyone.
|-
|| 969.001 || [[Admiral Merlwyb]] || No || Eorzean Alliance & Union Radio Service. Open to all Union and allies of.
|-
|| 756.900 || [[Gaius Van Baelsar]] || No || Confederate Dungeon Exploration in Hydaelyn.
|-
|| 579.001 || [[Gaius Van Baelsar]] || No || Primal battle radio frequency.
|-
|| 101.010 || [[Rainbow Dash]] || No || Equestrian IC radio frequency. Open to everyone.
|-
|| 19.85 || [[D]] || No || Scene radio for D's world. Open to whoever is present.
|}

==Personal Frequencies:==
{| class="wikitable sortable" cellpadding="10" cellspacing="0" width="100%"
! style="text-align:left" width="5%"| Freq
! style="text-align:left" width="10%"| Owner
! style="text-align:left" width="5%"| Enc
! style="text-align:left" width="75%"| Purpose
|-
|| 141.80 || [[Solid Snake]] || Ask || Snake's personal CODEC frequency.
|-
|| 9979.5 || [[Iria]] || Ask || Iria's communicator frequency.
|-
|| 723.98 || [[Rebecca Chambers]] || No || Rebecca's main communicator frequency. Can be used to request MedEvac if needed.
|-
|}

==WMAT Frequencies:==
{| class="wikitable sortable" cellpadding="10" cellspacing="0" width="100%"
! style="text-align:left" width="5%"| Freq
! style="text-align:left" width="15%"| Arena
! style="text-align:left" width="75%"| Purpose
|-
|| 900.1 || All || All-purpose WMAT IC chatter frequency.
|-
|| 900.2 || Devil's Hand || Frequency for listening to specific match commentary.
|-
|| 900.3 || Diablo Desert || Frequency for listening to specific match commentary.
|-
|| 900.4 || Gizard Wasteland || Frequency for listening to specific match commentary.
|-
|| 900.5 || Northern Mountains || Frequency for listening to specific match commentary.
|-
|| 900.6 || Spinach Wasteland || Frequency for listening to specific match commentary.
|-
|| 900.7 || Yunzabit Heights || Frequency for listening to specific match commentary.
|-
|| 900.8 || Tournament Stadium || Frequency for listening to specific match commentary.
|-
|}

==Out of Character Frequencies:==
{| class="wikitable sortable" cellpadding="10" cellspacing="0" width="100%"
! style="text-align:left" width="5%"| Freq
! style="text-align:left" width="10%"| Owner
! style="text-align:left" width="5%"| Enc
! style="text-align:left" width="75%"| Purpose
|-
|| 140.6 || [[Sir Bedivere]] || N/A || An OOC channel for the ''Fate/stay night'' cast, and those involved with the cast.
|-
|| 12.1787 || [[Landon al Cid]] || N/A || An OOC channel for the ''Final Fantasy Act: Class'' cast, generally used for app discussions so we don't swarm under E-Chardisc.
|-
|| 211.314 || [[Gaius Van Baelsar]] || N/A || An OOC channel for the ''Final Fantasy XIV'' cast, and those involved with the cast. Open to everyone and anyone.
|-
|| 1941.45 || [[Kongou]] || No || [[Kantai Collection-1|Kantai Collection]] OOC chatter.
|-
|| 30105.00 || [[Duke]] || N/A || [[Digimon:_Great_Demon_War-1|Digimon: Great Demon War]] - OOC Channel for chatter, character concept talk for the theme, plot discussion.
|-
|| 30105.00 || [[Revan]] || N/A || An OOC channel for the various casts of the ''Star Wars'' universe and those involved with the casts, and general discussion. Open to everyone.
|-
|| 4.28 || [[Demetrios Vasilikos]] || N/A || An OOC channel for City of Heroes/Villains/etc. discussion and cast chat. Open to everyone.
|}
[[Category:Index]]

Radio Frequencies

2015-04-30T23:06:09Z

ForwardObserver: /* Out of Character Frequencies: */

Flying North (Revan)

2015-04-19T06:04:17Z

ForwardObserver: Created page with "{{Cutscene Header |Date of Scene=2015/04/19 |Location=The Ebon Hawk |Synopsis=Having deliberately avoided the warpgates in her search, Revan returns to the multiverse, having ..."

{{Cutscene Header
|Date of Scene=2015/04/19
|Location=The Ebon Hawk
|Synopsis=Having deliberately avoided the warpgates in her search, Revan returns to the multiverse, having decided to throw her lot in with the Union.
|Thanks=
|Cast of Characters=414
|Tinyplot=
}}
Lowri Shan, the Jedi Knight known more broadly throughout the galaxy as Revan, tapped a finger idly on the console as she held up a datapad, reading the information relayed to it. After the galaxy had apparently become a part of the "multiverse," she had come across all manner of odd things, including a Jedi attached to some generally-altruistic organisation called the "Union" which might possibly have some potential answers. Sure, why not? All her current leads were duds, and it was as good a place as any to hunt for wandering Sith while lending a helping hand. And who knew? She had found that oft-times, in helping others, she helped herself. That is...if one could even call what she was doing 'helping herself'. Her entire raison d'etre for even being out in the dead of space on a battered, thoroughly-used, and allegedly cursed former smuggling freighter in the first place -- instead of home in a warm bed on Telos -- was for the sake of saving the galaxy. The galaxy I know, she corrected herself. Not that there was anything wrong with wanting to save the larger multiverse, of course...but the Prodigal Jedi Knight already had her metaphorical hands full. She doubted what remained of the Sith were going to idly sit back and accept the collapse of their Order, and that was only counting the one she and Malak had formed; a successor to whatever it was which evaded her memory, frustratingly so. Revan sighed, frowning. Every single lead had turned out to be a dead end, and perhaps if the galaxy she knew hadn't Unified, she would have found something by now. That was not a comforting thought by any means; the possibility that the hidden Sith Empire she hunted had similarly discovered that their universe was suddenly, infinitely larger and set out into the multiverse as she had. Or would have, had she not had those priorities of saving her version of the galaxy first. The former Dark Lord paced with a subtle but un-Jedi-like agitation -- not that she had been particularly good at blindly following the tenets of either Order -- that it was impossible to know whether she was putting the hoverwagon before the bantha. Had she been wasting her time avoiding the warpgates and searching the Unknown Regions of her native universe? Of course, the larger problem was that if the Sith had indeed found warpgates and conquered planets beyond their galaxy, there was no way to know. Perhaps she would have heard something over the broadband -- a quaint but useful little network, that -- in the event of such a conquest, but it was just as likely that whatever world they had subjugated lay beyond the knowledge of any of the various factions operating in the multiverse. Those she had made contact with hinted that there remained even more uncharted space in the greater over-verse. Not terribly surprising and actually rather expected, but no less frustrating for her efforts. Leaning back into the chair, the platinum-haired Guardian dropped the datapad onto the console, her mismatched eyes gazing out of the viewport. Yet, that gaze was inward rather than seeing the stars beyond. Just where was the Force guiding her? Even in meditation, its voice was oddly silent regarding the matter. With a sigh, she keyed in their next route, leading the Ebon Hawk through the nearest warpgate into Union space. She would simply have to trust that the Force would lead her where it was she needed to go; all she could really do for now was to keep flying into whatever it was that awaited.

2054/The Water Is Wide

2015-04-19T05:47:23Z

ForwardObserver: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2015/04/19 |Location=Dun Realtai |Synopsis=A weary Yari Takane visits Dun Realtai and has a brief chat with Saber, with some unexpected consequence..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2015/04/19
|Location=Dun Realtai
|Synopsis=A weary Yari Takane visits Dun Realtai and has a brief chat with Saber, with some unexpected consequences following the arrival of Sir Bedivere...
|Thanks=
|Cast of Characters=346, 482, 691
|Tinyplot=
|Tinyplot2=
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Spring had at long last come to the winter-plagued land of Dun Realtai, with the help of a certain tanuki. The last of the snows had melted away, and where once the land was barren and devoid of life, there were now flowering trees, the fiddleheads of woodland ferns, soft needles of grasses, and carpets of blue and white spring flowers. Light breezes brought with them the delicate scent of lilies-of-the-valley and bluebells, though still devoid of birdsong or other sounds of wildlife. Yet, there was the hint that they would return soon enough.      The day was pleasant, a perfect balance of sun and breeze, not too cold yet neither too hot. In short, it was not a very good day to simply remain indoors. Many of the villagers were already about, readying for the last of the early morning frosts to begin the breaking of the ground and the sowing of the crops making up their livelihood. Once more, the aid of the outsiders had not merely saved them, but improved their quality of life considerably. Even now, some farmers studied the plans they had been given to alter their crop rotations and field layouts, implementing techniques which promised to nearly triple their expected yields. The work would be as rigorous as always, but the people were far too proud and stubborn to accept having /everything/ done for them. New techniques and even crops they would accept...so long as the source of their pride -- their work -- was not taken away from them. Fortunately, their new lord and lady were from a similar world and era, and rather than trying to encourage the people to simply adopt new technology, merely gave them new tools to help them in their tasks. Likewise, they had not turned down the new steel tools which resisted the breakage of their previous ones.      Strangely, the lady of the land was not among them today as she usually was to help plan for the harvesting. Instead, the Servant Saber could be found seated beneath the great oak tree on the grounds of the keep, engaged in a very serious practise with a careworn lap harp. Her brow furrowed in concentration, plucking at the strings gingerly, frowning when she struck the occasional wrong note. it might seem almost comical with the amount of gravity she treated her practise with. But then, she had a very good reason to seek perfection. 

:'''{{#var:691|Yari Takane (691)}} has posed:''' Yari hasn't yet reached the cynical level of some of her superiors, and so the beautiful weather and hard-working people is something she can appreciate. Maybe a little too much as she uncharacteristically walks her way to the village. She's come dressed in the red dress and heels obtained during a shopping trip with some of her Multiversal friends, the garment flapping a bit in the wind. Every now and then, she'll greet a passing villager or two in her usual way: that stiff salute that she still can't quite get rid of. Yari makes little attempt to hide her passage. She might even be a somewhat common sight by now, given her distinctive horns, scales, and tendency to hog the baths whenever she has half a chance. Really, Dun Realtai is a place of rest, and with such disturbing news from Coerthas and her upcoming increase in responsibility thanks to her Legatus dealing with matters of the same, she's taken something of a day of absence. It's music that draws her into the Keep itself. Missed notes. Imperfection. She's no master bard, but her work and natural talents have always lended themselves to such things. Yari walks into the keep, barely avoiding a scowl at every missed note. "I didn't take you for a musician, Miss Saber." Pause. Blink. Her mouth opens, then shuts. Thankfully she's polite enough to not lay into the woman immediately. For about ten seconds. "You're using too much pressure. Be gentle about it. It's a string, not a sword. Here." If Saber will let her, she'll reach over, and very slowly strum a few strings like water gliding over rocks. No master indeed, but competent. It does help that she keeps using those claw-tips as 'picks' of sorts. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      The flaxen-haired knight had been concentrating so intensely on her practise that she quite uncharacteristically missed Yari's entrance. It would have been a disgrace and an unforgivable lapse in her vigilance had it not been for the fact that the place she now called home was a haven...not only for her, but for a number of others, not the least of which was the Centurion. Perhaps in technical terms they were enemies, but it was hardly the first time she was on amicable terms with someone on the opposite end of the battlefield.      Hopefully, this would not end up the same way, though fortunately neither of them were combatants in the Holy Grail War.      as it was, the Servant was slightly startled when she was addressed, looking up from her hands on the strings. "Ah...well, I begun learning not long ago, I had never had the opportunity before..."      and then, at her criticism, Yari would be treated to a rare sight. Though only a bare hint of an expression, a brief pout crossed Arturia's face. It faded into an almost exasperated expression, coupled with a sigh, when the Au Ra plucked a few strings. Though muted, for someone as subtle as Saber, it might as well have been obvious that she was frustrated. "It did not seem audible enough with a lighter touch. Yet stronger, and it becomes more difficult to play."      But the moment passed, and her expression dissolved again into mild curiosity. "I had not anticipated a visit, in truth. Shall I prepare some tea?" she asked, already making to get up from her seat. 

:'''{{#var:691|Yari Takane (691)}} has posed:''' Perhaps thankfully for all involved, the entire idea of a Holy Grail War as she's heard of the topic sounds tantamount to worshipping an Eikon in a very twisted and violent sense. Fighting others for something as ridiculous as a 'wish granting device' is the height of stupidity to the Centurion, distrusting all things primarily composed of magic and enslaving others as she does. It'd be a horrible day for the Multiverse if a /Garlean/ obtained the Grail. Even /with the admission of Saber being new to the craft, Yari's the picture of a stern tutor as she shows Saber once again proper posture for playing such stringed instruments. "Instruments like these need quick fingers, light touches, and a /flow/. Music has to build, like a stream slowly eroding the land around it. From a mere trickle, up to a roaring river. Don't try to suddenly change how hard you pluck. Slightly harder, slightly louder, until your every touch is as smooth as the lightest of flicks on the strings." Cough. Then she's standing up. Her tail wiggles a bit. "I don't want to distract you from your lesson, but if you're thirsty, tea would be nice." There's a wince here. As much as she had a fun time with Ferham and Sanary a night or two ago, the hangover was terrible. Then she smiles a bit, victory swelling from that little pout. REally, it was cute. "I try to make it a point to be noticed as little as possible. It suits me. How's the village? Seemed lively today." For now, it seems, smalltalk is the order of the day. Still, one brow is slightly tilted and her body seems slightly stiff. Could something be bothering the woman? 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      On the one hand, obtaining the Grail was luckily nowhere near worship, and it was dubious that it was, in truth, anything more than a magus's shortcut to the Root. Unfortunately, whatever had tainted it had turned it from a holy artefact which could arguably change destiny into a horribly twisted thing which would have granted wishes in only the most disastrous of ways. In some ways, it was not altogether unlike summoning a Primal...a Primal which had become so utterly corrupted that it would destroy most of the world with it's full activation.      Saber had already resolved to finding a more efficient means of granting her wish, and learning of its true status caused her to abandon Heaven's Feel entirely. However, that hardly meant that there were not other versions currently being waged, not the least of which was Gawain's. So far, she had been unsuccessful in dissuading him from fighting it further.      But for the moment, those worries were set aside. her expression was almost sour at the chiding. Here she thought she had improved since Bedivere had began teaching her. Then again, perhaps she was rushing things too much. "I shall take that into consideration," she replied diplomatically.      Standing, she shook her head with a faint smile. "It is no trouble. moreover, my first duty is hospitality, as the lady of this land."      As she led Yari to the Great Hall, she silently noted how stiff she seemed. Particularly harsh training, perhaps? "Mm. Indeed. The planting season shall begin once the last of the frost has dispersed. We anticipate it shall be within the next month. And the people are preparing as best they can....and with admirable spirit," she added, unable to hide the note of pride in her voice. Though they were not her people by birthright, in some ways, she had adopted them regardless. 

:'''{{#var:691|Yari Takane (691)}} has posed:''' There's a swift nod to Saber. "Good." One last stern glance, and then the lizard-woman softens a bit. It's easy to relax here, really, and so she follows inside. She'll find herself her usual seat, crossing her legs and leaning back slightly like some lounge lizardess. Stubborn souls has Yari grinning just a touch. "The Multiverse needs more hard workers. It's easy to go soft. And honesty the breeze is nice, some decent weather here would be very nice." Nevermind that she's all but salivating to see what kind of wines or beers that a fresh harvest can bring in. But Yari finally gets to the point, and lets out a sigh. Her tail droops a touch. "Has the Lord of this place always been so paranoid? I hate to be that blunt about things. And I can understand wariness. But to hear him tell things, he thinks I'm going to poison half the people here." Not that she /couldn't/, but she's not one to harm such a useful meeting grounds. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      It was probably a good thing, she admitted grudgingly, to have a more harsh opinion. Bedivere's ears were likely to be even more sensitive with his fili training, yet there was never a word of complaint. The marshal had nothing but gentle encouragement for her, which she appreciated, but in his absence she found herself increasingly frustrated with her efforts, striking the strings more harshly out of frustration than she should. And more than simply being soothed, she wanted to improve, to be able to play /well/.      All her effort was, after all, for his sake.      It was also just as well that she paused when she had, she had already been at it all morning. Surely a short break would do no harm, particularly for some tea and company?      Disappearing into the kitchens, the Servant returned shortly thereafter with a tray of tea and scones. Blueberry, a treat from another continent which she could easily see the appeal of. She seated herself after serving them both with the same practiced, regal grace which she could not simply turn off like a switch, so long had she lived her life projecting that image of perfection. "Yes, it is certainly a refreshing change from the previous weather..."      Well now, that was certainly a line of thought she had expected, eventually.      "Consider this," the blonde knight replied, leaning forward slightly to retrieve her cup. "Imagine, if you will, that your sweetheart was also your liege. You pledged your sword to her as your liege to act as her defender, to protect her from any and all threats great and small. In carrying out your sworn duties, you began to trust others less in your service to protect her from any perceived threat. Anyone who so much as whispered dissatisfaction is treated as a potential traitor, and with good reason; for her enemies were many. Her court was an intricate dance of treachery, and those who could not wheedle their way into her good graces sought out other scorned nobles, and it was only through your vigilance that she was protected from rebellion for as long as she was."      "Now, imagine that she was lost to you, and just when you had lost all hope and will to live, you found her again and renewed your pledge to serve her. When once you were merely vigilant, now, you are almost paranoid, baring your fangs at any potential threat to her person. Only now, she is no longer the liege you would follow to the ends of your world, but your feelings for her have not gone unanswered. She had longed for you just as you longed for her, and she in turn has pledged herself to you."      The blonde knight leaned back, settling into her chair. "I imagine that you would be constantly on guard for even the slightest threat against her. If you can imagine yourself in that position, you can understand where my marshal is coming from. Do not take it personally...it is easy for me to be so cavalier with my existence...not as a Servant, but as a warrior."      She smiled slightly. "Indeed, it is a poor warrior who cannot have confidence in his skills." Her smile faded once more into a more thoughtful mien. "However, I can afford to be more cavalier with my existence. Though I am not dead as other Servants, I am not truly alive, either."      The flaxen-haired knight shook her head. "That said, my marshal cannot afford to be so flippant. In truth, I am no longer able to simply treat him as simply one of my knights...indeed, I was never truly able. It was only because of the greater good of my kingdom...which has long since fallen. Now, I can protect him as he protects me. And now, these people are his responsibility, as well. I do not doubt that you would object to an order to, for example, poison the people of this village. I think that you would regret, and feel sorrow." Jade eyes bored directly into those of the au Ra, her expression neutral. "Yet, for your lord, you would do so, would you not? As a loyal knight, you would not disobey a direct order. Just as he would not." 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' There are footsteps heading towards the location of the knight and ninja, purposeful and brisk. Arturia would immediately recognise them; alone among the villagers, only the Knight of the Dal Riata has such a brisk and dutiful pace, even when he isn't committed to some task or another. The people here are hardy and dutiful, but he goes well above and beyond in his dedication to what he perceives as duty. In from the courtyard he comes, easing the door shut behind him and wearily hanging his mantled cloak on the peg beside the door. He's wearing his blue steel hauberk, but he looks dusty, as though he'd been riding; and he smells of horses. Bedivere doesn't seem to notice them, taking a moment to fastidiously stamp the mud out of his boots, shake leaves -- leaves, by God! -- out of his cloak, and generally clean himself up so he doesn't track things all over the keep. He, unlike many men, is as fastidious as a cat in his cleanliness. As of yet, he hasn't taken notice of his company yet; he knows Arturia is here, her presence a comfortable constant. Nor has he noticed yet that they're deep in evident conversation; ears still ringing, perhaps, from the wind skirling outside. 

:'''{{#var:691|Yari Takane (691)}} has posed:''' Yari, all throughout the explaination, finds herself first utterly happy that she has yet to be embroiled in her own nation's politics, and then sipping tea hastily as the stray thought of the Lord Legatus enters her mind. Shudder. The thought is brushed away. She has enough nightmares as it stands. The big picture of Bedivere slowly forms. A man, forced to deal with petty politics, rebellion, stife and a dance that in many ways sickens the duty-driven, boots-tothe-ground soldier that is Yari Takane. An assassination is one thing. Playing at treaties, assuaging some noble, it's all something that boils her blood. It shows in the tenseness to her features that she tries to hide in a teacup. Finally, she lets out a sigh. Even as one eye meets Jade, frowning, she realizes she's in a corner. If the Lord Legatus orders it, deep done, she knows she'd do it. And she'd loathe herself for hurting such people that she's come to admire and respect. But there's very little she wouldn't do for her country if it came down to her. Claws rake at the table before her. The truth, indeed, is painful if one faces it so directly. "...I think I've said this before, but I really hate politics. People like to say that war is worse, but..." Is it better to infight and backstab from within, or turn agression to others? It's a philosophical discussion Yari's feeling suddenly unprepared for. "I'll just hope, then, that the man I believe in really is what he seems to be." But then in strides Bedivere, and Yari stands utterly straight, knocking over her teacup. She's staring at the man, eyes wide in surprise. /Definitely/ not your normal reaction from her. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      For all of her pointing out that Yari's first loyalty remained to her own country, Arturia remained almost blase with regards to it, as if merely stating facts. Which, naturally, she was. There were no accusations, no resentment, no anger. An with good reason.      "I once sought to rewrite the entire history of my world for the sake of my kingdom," the Servant replied almost blandly. "The courseof future events would be forever altered, but my first duty, my first loyalty, was to Prydein."      The King of Knights was in a unique position to observe both war and politics...and many times, it was difficult to tell them apart. In trtuh, she hardly cared for them much, either. "Politics /is/ war, though of a different sort," she replied, cradling her teacup. "I despise the death that war brings, yet politics can bring about death and destruction in its own way. Yet, the battles require even more cunning, and they are rife with treachery."      Leaning back again, she once more turned a placid gaze back on the dragon-kin, her answer cryptic. "I hope that, for your sake, he is."      Even before she could hear the tell-tale footsteps and scent the horse he had been riding, the Servant could sense the approach of her Master through their preternatural link. Just in time for her to finish what she had been saying to the Centurion, too...that would have been rather embarrassing for him to overhear. "Welcome back..." she started with a faint smile, only to be interrupted by a teacup being knocked over. That, by contrast, was something of a surprise. "Are you hale, Lady Yari?" 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' It's the sound of a teacup that draws the marshal's attention, turning in the midst of shaking out his cloak, and staring somewhat owlishly at the two women. In turn, the more unexpected of the two is staring at him with the kind of focus that makes his skin crawl; the kind that sets a precise spot between his shoulder blades to itching. It's the instinct of danger, one that had saved him on the battlefield many a time. He stares at them blankly for a good ten seconds, before all the warmth seems to leach out of him. He doesn't trust Yari Takane, he doesn't trust the Garlean Empire, and he doesn't trust having a prominent member of the Fourteenth Legion here in the place he has taken stewardship of. "Centurion," he states, somewhat coldly. Arturia receives a more cordial incline of his head, but there's none of the warmth in it that he might show behind closed doors. "My king." An awkward second or three of silence tick by, broken only by the sound of distant wind, Dun Realtai's thick walls reducing it from a high skirl to a soft sigh. His suspicion is blatant, and he makes no effort to hide it, staring at Yari with slightly narrowed eyes. His hand rests on the hilt of his sword; although it seems a subtle enough gesture, to Arturia, it might as well scream his sudden discomfort and prickling suspicion. "...Why do you stare at me so?" 

:'''{{#var:691|Yari Takane (691)}} has posed:''' Yari briefly closes her eyes. For all that Saber is so blase about the whole thing, she can just be so frightening in an odd way. Since when were people so used to war, death, and betrayal? When did Yari herself become so numb to it all? "Then I suppose if I ever want to see my own dreams come true, I have to get used to even politics." She mutters, tail flicking about in intense dissatisfaction. She's always been a woman of action, the Centurion. Too much introspection makes her restless. There's a bitter smirk. "I've gambled a little too much for him to not be." It's a weak attempt at a joke, and even perhaps a bit naieve. But she has to hope that she hasn't fallen in with the wrong side of history. At first, she doesn't hear Saber, too busy awkwardly staring into Bedivere's shoulder. Another few, long, deeply uncomfortable moments? Her head tilts in a slightly irritated manner. Maybe she can understand the man, and his concerns now. But by the Emperor, he pisses her off by his very presence sometimes. "...Mister Bedivere. Bad week. Ignore it." She states bluntly, looking back to Saber. "I...no. I'll be in the baths. Excuse me. Thank you for the tea." She suddenly snaps a hard salute, soldierly mask slipped right back on, and she walks out in a textbook marching lope. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      "Politics is as much of a reality as war," Saber replied, though this time a hint of her hatred for them flickered across her face. "What I seek here, in Dun Realtai, is a land free of such things. There will always be disagreements, and some small amount of politics...but the sort which bring nations to ruin will not take root here." Here, the subtle fire of her determination and ironclad will surfaced, the hint at what an unfortunate enemy would face should they ever threaten Dun Realtai in any way.      Behind her neutral mask, Arturia suppressed a sigh. Though bound by the Laws of Hospitality, Bedivere would break even the ancient laws with no hesitation if he perceived her to be in danger. The Centurion already set him on edge -- honourable or not, Confederates were as much enemies as the Saxons and Mordred's rebels had been -- and if he felt she was enough of a threat to his liege, he would take leave of his usual calm and good sense in a heartbeat. It was his traditional duty to protect her, even more now that their relationship had changed, and she would not demand something so unreasonable as to simply stop being so protective.      No, her concern was to protect him in turn, to keep his sense of virtue intact and prevent him from feeling cornered and forced to violate Brehon Law for her sake.      But she need not have worried when Yari beat a hasty retreat to her favourite pasttime in Dun Realtai. Standing, she nodded to the Garlean. "You are welcome. I was glad to have had the chance to speak with you again."      Turning back to the one she trusted most in the world, she allowed her mask to drop, betraying the hint of sorrow. In some ways, she could see the tragedy of their own history playing out again. "Worry not, I am hale," she reassured him as best she could. "I shall explain...but later."      In priivate. 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' The silver-haired knight frowns, even as the Confederate Centurion very abruptly takes her leave. Although he's not going to argue with that, about as comfortable in her presence as a hart among wolves, the abruptness of it still seems strange. He's left somewhat perplexed, although it's hidden behind his mask of cold disapproval. Gradually, that mask fades as it becomes clear Yari has no intention of returning; he glances aside to Arturia, expression softening as she seems to drop her own guard as well. Even as he leans down to press a brief kiss to the top of her head, arms briefly wrapping around her, he still looks a little perplexed. Ultimately shakes his head when he straightens. "As you wish, my love," he murmurs quietly. No one is in earshot any longer; he can use the names and titles he wouldn't ordinarily. "I think I will retire for the evening; I will see you later, then." One hand trails along her shoulder as he releases her, turning and trudging towards the stairwell and rubbing wearily at his face as he does. 

}}

Enter the Prodigal Knight

2015-04-19T05:44:34Z

ForwardObserver: Undo revision 8472 by ForwardObserver (talk)

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2014/03/14
|Location=Kothla, Deep Void
|Synopsis=Kyle Katarn goes investigating a newly-Unified world rife with Dark Side energies and spooky Sith ruins. But it seems that someone was already there...
|Thanks=
|Cast of Characters=414, Kyle Katarn
|Tinyplot=
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= It was a jungle world, not altogether unlike Dxun, the lush and untamed moon of Onderon, with its thick vegetation and wild beasts. At dusk, shadows rose up, obfuscating hidden depths between the trees. The jungle was hardly silent, nosy with predators and their prey. What faint illumination present was cast by the setting sun, and only one of the three moons had risen. Perhaps most ominous of all were the ruins that rose up beyond the jungle, marring the landscape with a palpable, ancient evil. At once grotesque and strangely beautiful, the dark stone cast its own shadow over the landscape, helped in no small part by the mountain it rested upon. A winding staircase at once beckoned and threatened the intrepid explorer, inviting secrets...and disaster. 
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= Dxun's not a world Kyle's unfamiliar with. He's also been getting blips from this unknown world as well. The Raven's Claw emerges from hyperspace, slowing to an approaching speed as it begins to make atmo, then moving planetside. In the cockpit, Jan and Kyle are tense, as they are whenever Kyle gets his 'feelings' again, those weird blips in the force that herald what tends to be something crazy. "You think this is a good idea?" Jan asks, regardless looking for a good clearing to land near where the temple is placed, a clearing for the ship to land. "Nope. But we're going in anyways. You know the drill, stay near the ship and ring me if something happens, otherwise I don't want a repeat of Artus Prime." Kyle says, unbuckling his seat's straps as the ship touches down and the canopy opens. "Got a bad feeling about this, all the same." "Get back here in one piece, alright?" A peck on the cheek, and Kyle's off as usual. The swoop stays where it is this time, affixed to a compartment on the underside of the ship, as Kyle hoofs it on foot. With his stamina and speed, he won't have trouble with making it towards the temple itself and back. What does worry him is the sheer WRONGNESS that's been gnawing at him since the ship made planetfall. Some of the jungle appears to have been cleared already, and recently. Someone has quite obviously been to this place recently. But if there is a clearing with a ship in it, it must be on the other side of the mountain. The /wrongness/ of the ruins only intensifies the closer one comes to it, and no vegetation at all seems to grow on the rocky cliffs, though whether that is from the natural ecosystem or the taint for the ruins remains to be seen. At the end of the stairway, two giant figures are poised as if standing guard over the doorway; they appear humanoid, though their features are obscured by both their height and whatever ravages the planet's climate wrought upon them. The door they guard had been closed once more, though the dust around them had been unsettled -- more proof of a recent visit. The door itself is covered with the strange glyphs of its architect's culture. Whether they provide instructions on how to enter or whether they indicate the function oif the ruins is only apparent to one who can read them...or one strong in the Force. What is immediately apparent, however, is that the ruins are filled with the Dark Side. "Sith temple." Kyle decides. "Still fresh too." He frowns, this place feels like Dromund Kaas all over again. He presses on though, he's no rookie, and this kind of taint is nothing he hasn't been exposed to before. Regardless, his every step is hesitant as he keeps a hand close to his lightsaber hilt, expecting a fight or worse as he produces a glow-lamp in hand. He eyes the glyhs, running a hand across one or two of them slowly. "Got a bad feeling about this before...now it's worse." He mutters.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= The door inexplicably opened as Kyle ran his hand over the glyphs; they seemed to respond to someone with Force abilities. It rumbles and with the grinding accompanying the movement of heavy stone, the twin panels part, admitting entrance into the dark maw beyond. Once inside, however, the hallway seemed to be illuminated with crystals mounted into sconces carved from the stone wall. Likewise, elaborate, decorative scrollwork was carved into the walls, at once foreboding and yet strangely beautiful, as if the culture appreciated some aesthetics. The floor itself was partitioned, formed from precisely formed panels, leading on through the faint light. The only sound seemed to be a faint rumbling beyond the walls, slightly overhead.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= Door open, and Kyle wanders in slowly. He narrows his eyes, glow-rod (Or flashlight, whatever.) shining through the darkness as crystals shine everywhere. "Hnnh." He continues to wander down the hall like this is a spooky house attraction. "This wasn't the best idea I've had, not going in alone anyways." He mutters. And then rumbling. He looks up and suddenly his heart sinks. "Shit." He begins to run as fast as his legs can carry him, sensing out with the Force every step ahead of him in the event of there being some sort of trap underfoot as well as overhead. He's a seasoned coolguy adventure, so naturally he's going through a mental checklist of deathtraps.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= Suddenly, spikes! Down from the blackness above drop what appear to be stalactites, rough-hewn from the same rock making up the corridor. They seem to project Kyle's movement, crashing to the floor in front of him, threatening to impale him with an earthen world of hurt if he's not careful. Fortunately, just before they drop, a soft chime issues from their origin, almost warning /when/ they'll drop, if not /where/. It will take not just the Force, but some forethought and careful timing to navigate the stalactite rain. And judging from the scattered broken stones nearby, someone else had already successfully navigated the trap, even if some are scattered among the bones of those who failed to. 
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= The lightsaber is unclipped from Kyle's belt, and he begins to get a little careful in his steps as he stops just before he's hit with spikes after hearing each chime. His lightsaber flourishes, and he slashes at each one that falls. "Nasty." He grouses in between dodging and slashing. His eyes look down at the bones at his feet. "Really nasty. Guess I wasn't the only one that tried to get in here before." he muses as he continues down the hall, methodical in evading the traps.
}}{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= Once the raining stone death was cleared, the high ceiling descended once more into a far more comfortable corridor. At least, for about fifty paces. The corridor again opened up into a wider, taller chamber. This time, the 12x12 tiles on the floor seemed to be missing, revealing the blackness of an endless pit below them. Whoever had been through the ruins before Kyle had successfully navigated the metaphorical minefield of collapsing tiles. On the other hand, it would still demand a good amount of balance to progress from tile to tile before reaching the other side, where the corridor narrowed once more, fading into what seemed to be a large -- yet trap-free -- chamber beyond, watched by smaller stone guardians. Unlike the statues outside, these were free from the fierce erosion that pummeled the others, and their facial ridges were much easier to discern. And beyond the two watchmen, was a presence strong in the Force... 
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= Kyle's only about to stop when he notices a massive void in the path. "Are you serious?" He protests aloud, shaking his head before he thinks for a moment. He rubs his chin, extinguishing his lightsaber before he begins to vault across towards where he notices the statues. His trek progresses across after he holds out a hand, hovering over one of the statues to form a bridge. "Sorry, fella, but I'm on a tight schedule." He says, leaping onto the makeshift bridge to amble across nimbly enough. He leaps off when he's clear, and he picks up that presence with a stumble in his step. "Whoa. I'm not alone after all..." Kyle thinks, heading towards the chamber.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= Thanks to Kyle's quick and unorthodox thinking, traversing the rest of the trap was fairly easy. Not so much for those who had gone before, whether they were Jedi, Dark Jedi, or the occasional unfortunate fortune hunter whose remains no doubt lay at the bottom of the inky blackness below. The short corridor beyond opened up into a much wider circular chamber, the walls carved with intricate glyphs and even entire scenes. On the far end of the chamber, a large statue stood ensconced in a nave hollowed out from the wall, easily towering over the previous statues. Its features were likewise more distinguishable; to those who had encountered them, the statue honoured a long-forgotten ancient Sith of the original race, possibly a ruler. But the source of a more immediate concern was at the base of the statue: cloaked figure who was very much alive. Seeming to be engrossed in the strange glyphs carved on the base, the figure has its arms -- clad in bronze vambraces -- folded over a bronze cuirass etched in maroon, pacing as it studied the ancient writings only moments before. The face was obscured in the shadows of the cowl, and a black cape fastened at the shoulders drifted behind it as it paced. Legs were hidden beneath a black hakama, making it difficult to judge movement, which lended itself to an almost graceful appearance. The faint light reflected off of silver cylinders at the waist; a pair of lightsabers were attached to rings suspended from the abdominal armour. At Kyle's approach, it stopped, turning to face him, and the light cast from the crystals within their sconces revealed that the figure's face was covered by a rust-and-black Mandalorian mask. The figure, whose intent was impossible to read through the Force, paused, as if waiting for something as it seemed to regard the new arrival. If there was any Light within that person at the foot of the Sith, it was nearly impossible to tell from the overwhelming Dark Side of the Sith ruins.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= It's times like this when Kyle Katarn wonders why he keeps doing this sort of thing to himself. He sees the dark-clad figure, eyes narrowing as his blaster pistol clears leather with the kinda speed a Wild West gunslinger would be wary of tussling with, the weapon trailing center mass. He gets a bad reading off of the figure, what with the Mandalorian mask and armor, the dark cloak, and the overwhelming feeling of darkness radiating off of him...her...whatever. "I don't know who you are or what you want here. So let's start there. Next, helmet and hood go off, so do whatever weapons you're carrying." He says, his off-hand gripping his lightsaber hilt tightly. "You only get one chance dealing with me, pal." 
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= The moment that Kyle drew his blaster, the figure's arms appeared to blur as only a well-trained Jedi or Sith could, drawing its lightsabers at the sign of the threat. The blades flared to life in the familiar snap-hiss, but the blades themselves were not the sort of hue typical for a Sith. Instead of an angry blood-red, the blades were deep blue, like those of the Jedi Guardians. if this was indeed a Sith Kyle was dealing with, it was either a recent fall, or a very unorthodox one. There was of course another possibility, but what would a Jedi be doing in such an evil place? The figure remained where it stood, standing perfectly still, as if studying him. That is, until he made his threat. The cowled head shook slightly. It's voice was hard to discern from behind the mask and from that distance; was it a man or a woman? "I'm afraid not," he or she replied. "It would be wise for you to leave, now." Was that a threat, a warning, or what?
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= Blue lightsabers. This one's packing blue. Kyle actually blinks a moment, remembering how Jerec and his cadre of darksiders used their old lightsabers before they themselves fell, or the ones stolen off of dead Jedi running from the purge. He even remembers using Yun's, when Qu-Rahn's was destroyed. But it's clear Kyle won't last long against someone this skilled in Jar'Kai techniques. Sparring with Revar made it apparent he was only holding out through sheer combat hardening and stubbornness. That said, Kyle's never one to hold back himself. He holsters the blaster before his lightsaber enters a two-handed grip, his stance recognizable as Djem So. His response ought to speak for him, as he focuses for a moment, then grits his teeth as he charges forth at the other force wielder, Sith, Dark Jedi, or whatever else this one could be. With lightsaber flourishing, Kyle slashes downwards when he's in striking distance, following it up with sidelong strike should the first be parried.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= The "Sith" doesn't seem phased by the sudden attack, bringing the left lightsaber up to bear into a parry. It was simple enough, yet even as he/she parried, the right lightsaber was already in motion to deflect the next strike, and the left one already bearing on Kyle in a downward sweep. However, for a trained Jedi, such a strike was able to be dodged or deflected, almost as if he was being tested. Moreover, the fluid motions were indicative of the Niman form, one that was less demanding in its training, yet able to be wielded to dangerous efficiency, as Exar Kun had proved long ago. Even still, a Sith would have surely countered with a much more brutal attack. Was this mysterious Sith testing him? Toying with him? Or was he/she actually reluctant to use lethal force?
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= Niman. Kyle's seen that style too, at least with the students around the Praxeum anyway. This is a pro, pure and simple, someone well above that level and possibly even more skilled than himself. He blocks the second saber, before backing off in order to let off a flurry of strikes of his own. His own style works best with redirecting force anyways, already beginning to press the assault in retaliation. "Ngh!" He's being toyed with, that's for sure, or perhaps being tested. Kyle can tell this much, the warrior better pick up his or her game if this fight's going to end quickly. Not that he's going to hold back himself, as he slashes towards the masked possible-Sith's ankles. "Niman too, huh? Not bad." He comments, before he then slashes upwards. 
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= The black-clad Force wielder still does not press the attack, but frustratingly parries with seeming ease and practised, almost feminine grace. Though the footwork below the hakama is hard to discern, it's clear that he or she has been relying heavily on it. A good place to start would be there. This must be a new Sith, because for all the martial skill, he/she hasn't seemed to master the art of monologuing in lieu of quipping. "Djem So.that brings back a few memories...I think. Hard to tell these days. Happens when you have your mind wiped, you know." With a sudden sidestep towards the right, the cloaked figure dropped the lightsaber in his/her left hand... ...And suddenly reversed the grip on it to swing it forward towards Kyle's face.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= To be quite honest, Kyle vastly prefers a Sith more suited for quips rather than entire rants about how they are gods among men and all that usual garbage. He was even braced for the monologue for the moment before the warrior speaks again. "Yeah. It's worked pretty well so far." he grunts, before he evades the blow and bats the cloaked figure's hand aside. "Nice try, but I -invented- dirty fighting in Skywalker's academy." He cracks a smirk before he backs off to let off a kick, displaying the sort of flexibility that would be better expected from an assassin than a soldier. All the same, Kyle's fast and he hits hard, that boot aimed right at the masked mug of his opponent before he whirls around quickly, lightsaber slashing at the cloaked warrior again.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= If the "Sith" seemed annoyed by the continued quipping, he/she certainly put up a good show, keeping the dialogue going. "It has its strengths and weaknesses like anything else" Seriously. this might get annoying for a seasoned Jedi Knight. Did this Sith even know who he was? And he/she made its point by blocking the kick with... ...Another kick? This was definitely not a conventional Sith /or/ Jedi, not above using the more mundane tactics that both sides frowned upon. From beneath the mask, the figure 'tsk tsked" softly. "Now, now...Master Vrook would say this was unbecoming a Jedi..." The figure, which seemed almost easygoing at first, seemed to intensify at the mention of the "Skywalker academy". "Is that a new Sith academy?" it demanded. "Tell me, and I'll think about letting you go. Oh, and don't think about trying to trick me; I was a Sith once too, you know." But before the figure could continue, Kyle's next strike got in while he/she was far too focused on closing into the mystery he/she was seeking. The figure evaded in enough time to avoid damage, but not enough to avoid having her mask knocked off. His/her body language suggested surprise for only a brief moment. Straightening, the now unmasked figure turned to glare at him, revealing the face of a relatively young woman with a right grey eye and left blue-violet eye...and no Dark Side corrosion whatsoever.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= "Can't say I know a master Vrook myself." Kyle retorts back, before he notices that blow of his being blocked with one from the other. He blinks suddenly, as he's the one being interrogated. "Sith? Former? When the hell are you from? First off, no, I'm not a Sith myself, that much is obvious. Second, that's none of your business, but we don't teach Sith teachings there, I'll tell you that much." He's hesitant about the whole Jedi Academy on Yavin thing, with how well this is going as a first-impression> His kick strikes true however, and he notices that this woman is NOT Sith after all. Her eyes are mismatched, but neither of them have the yellow markings of Dark Side taint... "Son of a bitch. You weren't kidding." Kyle says, lightsaber raised at the ready just before he senses other presences enter the chamber. "No, she was not. Neither of you are Sith, and you will DIE all the same for tresspassing on our sacred grounds." A guttural voice rasps, and Kyle's eyes dart behind the woman to spot two yellow eyes staring them both down, and a cloaked figure is joined by several other men and women in robes, toting lightsabers which emit red blades and that deep snarl of a Sith weapon igniting. Kyle eyes the Sith warriors as they circle himself and the pale haired woman, "Truce?" He asks, before suddenly he faces one of the bigger warriors, a Zebrak from Dathomir it seems, as he initiates a back-to-back pose with his foe-turned-temporary-ally. Pause. "Katarn, by the by. Kyle Katarn."
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= For a moment, the would-be Sith looked as if she was stunned and about to hit him with at least a dozen more questions. At least until they had company of the genuine Sith persuasion. "Dammit," she muttered under her breath. She frowned slightly, studying the interlopers for a split second before the first was joined by yet more actual Sith. "Works for me," she told him, apparently jettisoning their earlier "disagreement" easily enough. "Looks like we'll have a lot to talk about after this." If she wasn't confident, at least she knew how to make a good front. While surprised, the Guardian caught the toss of the radio, reserving her curiosity for a more auspicious moment in time. "Sure...I'm Lowri Revan-Shan. Lowri is fine..." Her eyes flickered back toward the closest Sith, dropping back into an en garde stance. "But you guys can just call me Revan."
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= "Great." Kyle's taking this better than the other Sith are at this point, their rage palpable as Revan introduces herself. "She is the traitor! The one who killed Lord Malak, and the one who slew our brothers aboard the Star Forge!" Yeah, Revan got a LOT of enemies out of that one. Kyle just shoots Revan a 'You too, huh?' look before he focuses back at the Sith surrounding them. There are eight of them in total, one of them carries a doublesaber, one dual wields, the others use standard sabers in varrying styles, one of them using Shien with a pair of lightdaggers even, with spiked hilts as though they weren't deadly enough as is. "Bring it." Kyle grins briefly, before the Sith charge, The one dual wielding regular lightsabers gets in range of Revan, while the oldest, and therefore the leader, engages Kyle with fencing techniques that Revan might notice are that of a Form II duelist. The twi'lek currently engaging Revan swings her lightsabers at the ex-Sith, snarling out in fury as she pounces like a jungle cat. 
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= The once Dark Lord of the Sith flipped the rest of the hood back, letting the thick platinum blonde braid fall down her back. Might as well free up some peripheral vision, since this fight was about to get a little more interesting. Revealing her name to them had been part of her ploy; sooner or later they had to drop some hint of her quarry. Revan just shrugged at Kyle, as if to say "What can you do?" She had made some friends and even some adoration, but she had expected that there were going to be a lot of unhappy people, too. And that was just the Sith Academy on Korriban alone. "I suppose an apology won't make things better?" she queried with a faint smile. Not that she expected an answer, naturally. And whatever personal angst she had on the matter would have to wait. Revan might have been less powerful than when she was at the height of her power as a Dark Lord, but she retained more than enough skill and power since her "rebirth" to take on a few Sith. The first few are dispatched easily enough, but the dual-wielding twi'lek was proving to be a little more of a challenge. Of course, the Guardian couldn't resist. "There's much more than even just power in the Light, you know it's not too late to turn back."
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= "Shut up." The twi'lek snarls, robes flowing behind her as she lets them go to reveal a form-hugging bodyglove of some sort, made with red and black, with light armor padding. She's not going it scanty like a certain lethian twi'lek obviously, and it's clear she's not settling for negotiation. "You don't have any idea who you're dealing with, or where you are for that matter!" She screams, her lightsabers flourishing, striking as one. "I will kill you, and then they will make me a Darth for having slain the traitor!" "Get in line!" Another, the massive zabrak with the double-saber growls, his weapon spinning like a circular saw as he swings at both Kyle and Revan. "If anyone's gonna be made a lord, it's me!" Kyle evades the strike while dealing with the old guy, casually decapitating another of the more unremarkable Sith warriors, then cleaving another. Soon enough it's just Kyle and Revan against the terrible trio, their leader inwardly sighing at the childish bickering of his subordinates. "How do you guys get anything done?" Kyle jabs, either at Revan or the old man as he evades another strike from the latter, parrying the followup. Despite himself, the elderly leader actually responds. "With a -lot- of patience."
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= The royal blue lightsaber blades became a blur of circular motions as Lowri deflected the twi'lek's strikes before slamming her with a Force Push. "So, why don't you tell me? What is it you're hiding, exactly?" Never let a good opportunity for information go to waste. She had to toss up a resistance shield to absorb the blow from the Iridonian, though once she did, she had the opening to give him a good swing with her right-handed lightsaber. Her response to him was an almost exasperated sigh. At least their superior had something of a sense of humour. "Sometimes, it just isn't worth it," Revan quipped. "Having to watch you back all the time gets to be a real pain. No real friends, no family...it's a pretty sad existence." She did like to wear opponents down mentally as well as physically. Why fight an enemy you didn't necessarily have to fight? 
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= "Tch. Sentiments. It's no wonder Malak abandoned you." The old man grouses, before he ducks as Kyle slashes overhead at the sith acolyte. "Your friend's style is unrefined, too focused on brute strength and-*URK*" "And you're too busy criticizing your opponents to actually focus, gramps." Kyle snarks, as he ekes in a good strike at the old man's side, a painful burn left as the Jedi sends his opponent back with a force push as well. Meanwhile, the twi'lek and zabrak continue their assault, the former striking low and the latter coming down on Revan like a torrent of rain. The twi'lek's blades strike out to trip Revan while the big guy's double saber thrusts at her to skewer the ex-Sith lord. "Arrogant bitch!" The twi'lek hisses like a snake, her blades arcing upward. "We'll slay you both and the Jedi Knight, just like all else who bypass the traps set here!" Kyle meanwhile ends up running out of luck as he takes a grazing slash to his stomach, then ends up on the ground as the Zabrak moves over to him. "Stinking Jedi." THe brute snarls, extinguishing his lightsaber and clotheslining Kyle to the ground. His boot raises, but he feels a blaster bolt burn through the boot and into his foot with a scream of pain before he stumbles back, a second shot rings out, and the elder falls to the ground dead with a smoking hole in his forehead. The big guy takes another two shots to the chest, but he seems to no-sell them as he slashes down at Kyle with his lightsaber, only for the blow to be blocked by Kyle's own weapon.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= "He fell prey to his own thirst for power, as the Sith always do," the tall blonde started to remark before Kyle got in his strike. Hopefully, he'd find peace, eventually. The dual attack proved a little harder to evade; as Darth Revan she could have simply called down an entire lightning storm -- at least, some vague memory of it, at any rate -- but as a simple commando-turned-Jedi, (if only in false memories) it proved a little harder. Even as she evaded the lower strike, the Zabrak's saber painfully scored her arm. Time for some more down-to-earth tactics. Revan dropped low into her knees, ducking under another swing from the twi'lek before driving her elbow had into her solar plexus in an Echani martial arts manoeuvre to take the wind out of her. "Unrefined, maybe...but it works," she commented dryly, finishing up with an even more undignified head-butt and a more refined swipe with her left lightsaber.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= Kyle's got the big guy's attention for now, and the Jedi stands up after sending the hulking Zebrak back with a force shove again. He leaps to his feet, leaving besides his blaster for the moment as he and the brute dance for a bit. Lightsabers clash against each other, until Kyle manages to sever the double-bladed weapon's hilt until the Zebrak has only one working end to use. He snorts like a beast, charging at Kyle with saber swinging. The Jedi easily evades that blow, ducking down before he calmly sends the Zebrak flying towards the wall with one last Force Push, then pulling over his blaster pistol to level it at the brute's head. He eyes the hold Revan has her own opponent in, raising a brow. "Echani? You're full of surprises, even for an ex-Sith." He allows a grin before he levels the blaster at the twi'lek. Flicking a switch of some sort, he fires twice before the Sith Assassin falls unconscious. Her last surviving comrade growls out, wounded by breathing and conscious. "Why spare us?" The brute growls, yellow eyes glaring at Kyle. "Should be killing us by now." "Maybe you two deserve a chance. The old man's not a Darth, but he was too set on his path. You two on the other hand can't be too old. Twenty-five at the least for you, your friend younger." Kyle explains, trailing his blaster at the wounded apprentice. His and the twi'lek's youth are apparent now, both Kyle and Revan have noticed. "...your point? They'll have us killed if we come back to our lords unsuccessful." "You're not going back to them." Kyle holsters his weapon at last, producing a credit chit and tossing it at the zebrak's feet. "That's enough for you two to get to the nearest station and grab some food." He says, kicking aside the damaged lightsaber. You got a ship?" "...yes." "Good. Get going." He nods to Revan to turn the twi'lek over to the big guy. "You're not needed anymore, the lady and I are old hands at wandering through ruins, it seems. There anybody else we need to worry about in the temple?" "No thanks to you, no."
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= As the Sith Assassin stumbled back coughing from the blow, Revan didn't give her the chance to recover. With an even swipe with both lightsabers working in concert, she disarmed the disoriented twi'lek, sending her lightsabers scattering in opposite directions with a flick of her wrists before Kyle blasted her into unconsciousness. So Kyle had been paying attention. That deserved some respect; even many Jedi were so focused on the internal that they tended to be oblivious to the external. Redeemed as she was, that tended to frustrate Revan a little. "Muscle memory," she offered the short explanation with a shrug and a slight smile. She scrutinised the Knight as he offered the remaining two mercy...admittedly, just as she would have done. Jedi didn't kill their opponents.but Jedi also didn't use blasters. Interesting. "Trust me, it's a life you won't regret leaving. You'd be amazed at what life has to offer away from the Sith philosophy," she commented, deactivating her lightsabers and returning them to her belt before she dusted off her sleeves. But in spite of her nonchalance, she offered a warm, genuine smile. In spite of her hardness of a warrior, she couldn't help but reveal her compassionate side. the Sith might think it soft.but her lightsaber would often say that she could back it up with some necessary hardness if one pushed the issue.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= The Zebrak scowls before he creeps over, picking up the twi'lek and muttering out, "C'mon, Hanaki..." He seems to do alright even with a wounded foot, hoofing it after crawling out of a hidden passage that might lead out of the temple. "So what's your reason for being here? Some kind of artifact or whatever?" He asks, scruffing his beard. "I'd also switch that radio on if I were you. Might be good to see what I mean by alternate timelines and universes if you just give that a shot first." He says, eyeing the room for a moment before he spots the entrance out. "So. How long you been since you got back on the wagon?" Yeah, we're going there with that analogy.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= Once the two remaining Sith had limped away, the other Knight sighed softly. Looked like she had some explaining to do...but how to keep it vague enough to keep anyone else from getting killed by getting embroiled in her campaign? She might not have recognised the Jedi who had become her de facto ally, but that hardly meant she was going to risk getting him embroiled in this mess. "Information," she admitted after a brief pause of consideration. He'd earned that much, at least. "The Council wasn't wrong...there was /something/ behind the Mandalorians. I intend to find out what it was." Of course, that was before he started babbling about timelines and universes. "I'm...sorry, but I'm not following you there." Revan might have had one of the more flexible minds of her era, but what he'd said made little sense to her. She studied one of the glyphs that she had been ruminating over before the interruption as Kyle asked her another question. It was a rather strange one; what jedi hadn't heard of the destruction she'd wrought? He should have known more than she did. "Three years, I suppose? You know about the destruction of Taris, I take it?" Even as she asked, she stopped looking t the glyphs long enough to study the commlink. It was definitely an odd bit of technology. "Just who does this communicate with, if I might ask?"
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= "Hm." Kyle listens, folding his arms. He probably could've done better with explaining what's going on, and he forgot his pamphlets at home besides. "Long story short, we're part of some sort of galaxy in a galaxy. A multiverse, seems like. All these worlds converging together via portals and...hell, I'll try and get someone to explain once that radio's on." He motions to the device itself, holding up a matching on in his hands connected to an ear-bud. His finger points to a button. "This is the synch button, it defaults to a broadband system. It's moderated, so behave." Beat. Revan begins to try the radio out for herself, before he rubs a temple trying to remember some things. "Mandalorians....man, we haven't heard much from them in a while now. There was a kid from clan Ramsair who helped get students and one of the teachers to the Praxeum, but otherwise, there's not much I know of since the clans went dark, Mandalore's still under reconstruction after a couple darkside whackjobs tried to take over and.." He wobbles a hand. "It's complicated. Taris, I don't know much. I've heard a bit about what happened there, but otherwise the planet's pretty obscure around my time."
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= The Prodigal Knight had, if nothing else, a flexible mind. But even this new knowledge was testing the limits of that flexibility. In the Force, many things were possible, but little of what the strange Knight said made much sense to her. Especially when she activated the comm link. She could follow each voice easily enough, but /what/ they were speaking about, not so much. "Something...is definitely not right, here," Revan commented almost helplessly.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= Looking at Raven, Kyle just rubs his temples. He feels like he's thrown Revan into the deep end, and with the multiverse, it's ALL a deep end really. Still, she needs to know what she's up against here. And Kyle's short on options for proof. So...damned if you do, damned if you don't. "Sorry." He says at last, shrugging before he wanders towards the quick-exit those two Sith took on their way out. "We'd better go before we end up going crazy with all the dark side influence this place has. Get to your ship, mine isn't far from here. We'll explain things once we meet up outside a gate." Suddenly Revan's ship will be picking up a friendly signal by the time she gets there, no doubt. "For what it's worth, welcome to the multiverse." He smiles over his shoulder, before heading on out with a lazy salute of sorts.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= Kyle certainly did throw her into the deep end, but if anything, she seemed to be enjoying it. In fact, it looked as if she hadn't been able to really enjoy herself like this for a long time. But...he did have a point about the ruins. "Point," she conceded. "It looked like a dead end, anyway." Which was visibly regrettable. Here she had hoped she was one step closer to the evil manipulating the Mandalorians, and even the Sith Empire she had once commanded...only, the glyphs revealed nothing, in spite of their architects. "Thanks," she said before heading back to the Ebon Hawk, and meant it. She probably wouldn't have been able to take the Sith on her own, not there. Even if this idea of a "multiverse" was more than just a little beyond her comprehension.
}}

Enter the Prodigal Knight

2015-04-17T22:33:02Z

ForwardObserver:

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2014/03/14
|Location=Kothla, Deep Void
|Synopsis=Kyle Katarn goes investigating a newly-Unified world rife with Dark Side energies and spooky Sith ruins. But it seems that someone was already there...
|Thanks=
|Cast of Characters=753, Kyle Katarn
|Tinyplot=
|Tinyplot2=
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= It was a jungle world, not altogether unlike Dxun, the lush and untamed moon of Onderon, with its thick vegetation and wild beasts. At dusk, shadows rose up, obfuscating hidden depths between the trees. The jungle was hardly silent, nosy with predators and their prey. What faint illumination present was cast by the setting sun, and only one of the three moons had risen. Perhaps most ominous of all were the ruins that rose up beyond the jungle, marring the landscape with a palpable, ancient evil. At once grotesque and strangely beautiful, the dark stone cast its own shadow over the landscape, helped in no small part by the mountain it rested upon. A winding staircase at once beckoned and threatened the intrepid explorer, inviting secrets...and disaster. 
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= Dxun's not a world Kyle's unfamiliar with. He's also been getting blips from this unknown world as well. The Raven's Claw emerges from hyperspace, slowing to an approaching speed as it begins to make atmo, then moving planetside. In the cockpit, Jan and Kyle are tense, as they are whenever Kyle gets his 'feelings' again, those weird blips in the force that herald what tends to be something crazy. "You think this is a good idea?" Jan asks, regardless looking for a good clearing to land near where the temple is placed, a clearing for the ship to land. "Nope. But we're going in anyways. You know the drill, stay near the ship and ring me if something happens, otherwise I don't want a repeat of Artus Prime." Kyle says, unbuckling his seat's straps as the ship touches down and the canopy opens. "Got a bad feeling about this, all the same." "Get back here in one piece, alright?" A peck on the cheek, and Kyle's off as usual. The swoop stays where it is this time, affixed to a compartment on the underside of the ship, as Kyle hoofs it on foot. With his stamina and speed, he won't have trouble with making it towards the temple itself and back. What does worry him is the sheer WRONGNESS that's been gnawing at him since the ship made planetfall. Some of the jungle appears to have been cleared already, and recently. Someone has quite obviously been to this place recently. But if there is a clearing with a ship in it, it must be on the other side of the mountain. The /wrongness/ of the ruins only intensifies the closer one comes to it, and no vegetation at all seems to grow on the rocky cliffs, though whether that is from the natural ecosystem or the taint for the ruins remains to be seen. At the end of the stairway, two giant figures are poised as if standing guard over the doorway; they appear humanoid, though their features are obscured by both their height and whatever ravages the planet's climate wrought upon them. The door they guard had been closed once more, though the dust around them had been unsettled -- more proof of a recent visit. The door itself is covered with the strange glyphs of its architect's culture. Whether they provide instructions on how to enter or whether they indicate the function oif the ruins is only apparent to one who can read them...or one strong in the Force. What is immediately apparent, however, is that the ruins are filled with the Dark Side. "Sith temple." Kyle decides. "Still fresh too." He frowns, this place feels like Dromund Kaas all over again. He presses on though, he's no rookie, and this kind of taint is nothing he hasn't been exposed to before. Regardless, his every step is hesitant as he keeps a hand close to his lightsaber hilt, expecting a fight or worse as he produces a glow-lamp in hand. He eyes the glyhs, running a hand across one or two of them slowly. "Got a bad feeling about this before...now it's worse." He mutters.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= The door inexplicably opened as Kyle ran his hand over the glyphs; they seemed to respond to someone with Force abilities. It rumbles and with the grinding accompanying the movement of heavy stone, the twin panels part, admitting entrance into the dark maw beyond. Once inside, however, the hallway seemed to be illuminated with crystals mounted into sconces carved from the stone wall. Likewise, elaborate, decorative scrollwork was carved into the walls, at once foreboding and yet strangely beautiful, as if the culture appreciated some aesthetics. The floor itself was partitioned, formed from precisely formed panels, leading on through the faint light. The only sound seemed to be a faint rumbling beyond the walls, slightly overhead.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= Door open, and Kyle wanders in slowly. He narrows his eyes, glow-rod (Or flashlight, whatever.) shining through the darkness as crystals shine everywhere. "Hnnh." He continues to wander down the hall like this is a spooky house attraction. "This wasn't the best idea I've had, not going in alone anyways." He mutters. And then rumbling. He looks up and suddenly his heart sinks. "Shit." He begins to run as fast as his legs can carry him, sensing out with the Force every step ahead of him in the event of there being some sort of trap underfoot as well as overhead. He's a seasoned coolguy adventure, so naturally he's going through a mental checklist of deathtraps.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= Suddenly, spikes! Down from the blackness above drop what appear to be stalactites, rough-hewn from the same rock making up the corridor. They seem to project Kyle's movement, crashing to the floor in front of him, threatening to impale him with an earthen world of hurt if he's not careful. Fortunately, just before they drop, a soft chime issues from their origin, almost warning /when/ they'll drop, if not /where/. It will take not just the Force, but some forethought and careful timing to navigate the stalactite rain. And judging from the scattered broken stones nearby, someone else had already successfully navigated the trap, even if some are scattered among the bones of those who failed to. 
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= The lightsaber is unclipped from Kyle's belt, and he begins to get a little careful in his steps as he stops just before he's hit with spikes after hearing each chime. His lightsaber flourishes, and he slashes at each one that falls. "Nasty." He grouses in between dodging and slashing. His eyes look down at the bones at his feet. "Really nasty. Guess I wasn't the only one that tried to get in here before." he muses as he continues down the hall, methodical in evading the traps.
}}{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= Once the raining stone death was cleared, the high ceiling descended once more into a far more comfortable corridor. At least, for about fifty paces. The corridor again opened up into a wider, taller chamber. This time, the 12x12 tiles on the floor seemed to be missing, revealing the blackness of an endless pit below them. Whoever had been through the ruins before Kyle had successfully navigated the metaphorical minefield of collapsing tiles. On the other hand, it would still demand a good amount of balance to progress from tile to tile before reaching the other side, where the corridor narrowed once more, fading into what seemed to be a large -- yet trap-free -- chamber beyond, watched by smaller stone guardians. Unlike the statues outside, these were free from the fierce erosion that pummeled the others, and their facial ridges were much easier to discern. And beyond the two watchmen, was a presence strong in the Force... 
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= Kyle's only about to stop when he notices a massive void in the path. "Are you serious?" He protests aloud, shaking his head before he thinks for a moment. He rubs his chin, extinguishing his lightsaber before he begins to vault across towards where he notices the statues. His trek progresses across after he holds out a hand, hovering over one of the statues to form a bridge. "Sorry, fella, but I'm on a tight schedule." He says, leaping onto the makeshift bridge to amble across nimbly enough. He leaps off when he's clear, and he picks up that presence with a stumble in his step. "Whoa. I'm not alone after all..." Kyle thinks, heading towards the chamber.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= Thanks to Kyle's quick and unorthodox thinking, traversing the rest of the trap was fairly easy. Not so much for those who had gone before, whether they were Jedi, Dark Jedi, or the occasional unfortunate fortune hunter whose remains no doubt lay at the bottom of the inky blackness below. The short corridor beyond opened up into a much wider circular chamber, the walls carved with intricate glyphs and even entire scenes. On the far end of the chamber, a large statue stood ensconced in a nave hollowed out from the wall, easily towering over the previous statues. Its features were likewise more distinguishable; to those who had encountered them, the statue honoured a long-forgotten ancient Sith of the original race, possibly a ruler. But the source of a more immediate concern was at the base of the statue: cloaked figure who was very much alive. Seeming to be engrossed in the strange glyphs carved on the base, the figure has its arms -- clad in bronze vambraces -- folded over a bronze cuirass etched in maroon, pacing as it studied the ancient writings only moments before. The face was obscured in the shadows of the cowl, and a black cape fastened at the shoulders drifted behind it as it paced. Legs were hidden beneath a black hakama, making it difficult to judge movement, which lended itself to an almost graceful appearance. The faint light reflected off of silver cylinders at the waist; a pair of lightsabers were attached to rings suspended from the abdominal armour. At Kyle's approach, it stopped, turning to face him, and the light cast from the crystals within their sconces revealed that the figure's face was covered by a rust-and-black Mandalorian mask. The figure, whose intent was impossible to read through the Force, paused, as if waiting for something as it seemed to regard the new arrival. If there was any Light within that person at the foot of the Sith, it was nearly impossible to tell from the overwhelming Dark Side of the Sith ruins.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= It's times like this when Kyle Katarn wonders why he keeps doing this sort of thing to himself. He sees the dark-clad figure, eyes narrowing as his blaster pistol clears leather with the kinda speed a Wild West gunslinger would be wary of tussling with, the weapon trailing center mass. He gets a bad reading off of the figure, what with the Mandalorian mask and armor, the dark cloak, and the overwhelming feeling of darkness radiating off of him...her...whatever. "I don't know who you are or what you want here. So let's start there. Next, helmet and hood go off, so do whatever weapons you're carrying." He says, his off-hand gripping his lightsaber hilt tightly. "You only get one chance dealing with me, pal." 
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= The moment that Kyle drew his blaster, the figure's arms appeared to blur as only a well-trained Jedi or Sith could, drawing its lightsabers at the sign of the threat. The blades flared to life in the familiar snap-hiss, but the blades themselves were not the sort of hue typical for a Sith. Instead of an angry blood-red, the blades were deep blue, like those of the Jedi Guardians. if this was indeed a Sith Kyle was dealing with, it was either a recent fall, or a very unorthodox one. There was of course another possibility, but what would a Jedi be doing in such an evil place? The figure remained where it stood, standing perfectly still, as if studying him. That is, until he made his threat. The cowled head shook slightly. It's voice was hard to discern from behind the mask and from that distance; was it a man or a woman? "I'm afraid not," he or she replied. "It would be wise for you to leave, now." Was that a threat, a warning, or what?
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= Blue lightsabers. This one's packing blue. Kyle actually blinks a moment, remembering how Jerec and his cadre of darksiders used their old lightsabers before they themselves fell, or the ones stolen off of dead Jedi running from the purge. He even remembers using Yun's, when Qu-Rahn's was destroyed. But it's clear Kyle won't last long against someone this skilled in Jar'Kai techniques. Sparring with Revar made it apparent he was only holding out through sheer combat hardening and stubbornness. That said, Kyle's never one to hold back himself. He holsters the blaster before his lightsaber enters a two-handed grip, his stance recognizable as Djem So. His response ought to speak for him, as he focuses for a moment, then grits his teeth as he charges forth at the other force wielder, Sith, Dark Jedi, or whatever else this one could be. With lightsaber flourishing, Kyle slashes downwards when he's in striking distance, following it up with sidelong strike should the first be parried.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= The "Sith" doesn't seem phased by the sudden attack, bringing the left lightsaber up to bear into a parry. It was simple enough, yet even as he/she parried, the right lightsaber was already in motion to deflect the next strike, and the left one already bearing on Kyle in a downward sweep. However, for a trained Jedi, such a strike was able to be dodged or deflected, almost as if he was being tested. Moreover, the fluid motions were indicative of the Niman form, one that was less demanding in its training, yet able to be wielded to dangerous efficiency, as Exar Kun had proved long ago. Even still, a Sith would have surely countered with a much more brutal attack. Was this mysterious Sith testing him? Toying with him? Or was he/she actually reluctant to use lethal force?
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= Niman. Kyle's seen that style too, at least with the students around the Praxeum anyway. This is a pro, pure and simple, someone well above that level and possibly even more skilled than himself. He blocks the second saber, before backing off in order to let off a flurry of strikes of his own. His own style works best with redirecting force anyways, already beginning to press the assault in retaliation. "Ngh!" He's being toyed with, that's for sure, or perhaps being tested. Kyle can tell this much, the warrior better pick up his or her game if this fight's going to end quickly. Not that he's going to hold back himself, as he slashes towards the masked possible-Sith's ankles. "Niman too, huh? Not bad." He comments, before he then slashes upwards. 
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= The black-clad Force wielder still does not press the attack, but frustratingly parries with seeming ease and practised, almost feminine grace. Though the footwork below the hakama is hard to discern, it's clear that he or she has been relying heavily on it. A good place to start would be there. This must be a new Sith, because for all the martial skill, he/she hasn't seemed to master the art of monologuing in lieu of quipping. "Djem So.that brings back a few memories...I think. Hard to tell these days. Happens when you have your mind wiped, you know." With a sudden sidestep towards the right, the cloaked figure dropped the lightsaber in his/her left hand... ...And suddenly reversed the grip on it to swing it forward towards Kyle's face.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= To be quite honest, Kyle vastly prefers a Sith more suited for quips rather than entire rants about how they are gods among men and all that usual garbage. He was even braced for the monologue for the moment before the warrior speaks again. "Yeah. It's worked pretty well so far." he grunts, before he evades the blow and bats the cloaked figure's hand aside. "Nice try, but I -invented- dirty fighting in Skywalker's academy." He cracks a smirk before he backs off to let off a kick, displaying the sort of flexibility that would be better expected from an assassin than a soldier. All the same, Kyle's fast and he hits hard, that boot aimed right at the masked mug of his opponent before he whirls around quickly, lightsaber slashing at the cloaked warrior again.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= If the "Sith" seemed annoyed by the continued quipping, he/she certainly put up a good show, keeping the dialogue going. "It has its strengths and weaknesses like anything else" Seriously. this might get annoying for a seasoned Jedi Knight. Did this Sith even know who he was? And he/she made its point by blocking the kick with... ...Another kick? This was definitely not a conventional Sith /or/ Jedi, not above using the more mundane tactics that both sides frowned upon. From beneath the mask, the figure 'tsk tsked" softly. "Now, now...Master Vrook would say this was unbecoming a Jedi..." The figure, which seemed almost easygoing at first, seemed to intensify at the mention of the "Skywalker academy". "Is that a new Sith academy?" it demanded. "Tell me, and I'll think about letting you go. Oh, and don't think about trying to trick me; I was a Sith once too, you know." But before the figure could continue, Kyle's next strike got in while he/she was far too focused on closing into the mystery he/she was seeking. The figure evaded in enough time to avoid damage, but not enough to avoid having her mask knocked off. His/her body language suggested surprise for only a brief moment. Straightening, the now unmasked figure turned to glare at him, revealing the face of a relatively young woman with a right grey eye and left blue-violet eye...and no Dark Side corrosion whatsoever.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= "Can't say I know a master Vrook myself." Kyle retorts back, before he notices that blow of his being blocked with one from the other. He blinks suddenly, as he's the one being interrogated. "Sith? Former? When the hell are you from? First off, no, I'm not a Sith myself, that much is obvious. Second, that's none of your business, but we don't teach Sith teachings there, I'll tell you that much." He's hesitant about the whole Jedi Academy on Yavin thing, with how well this is going as a first-impression> His kick strikes true however, and he notices that this woman is NOT Sith after all. Her eyes are mismatched, but neither of them have the yellow markings of Dark Side taint... "Son of a bitch. You weren't kidding." Kyle says, lightsaber raised at the ready just before he senses other presences enter the chamber. "No, she was not. Neither of you are Sith, and you will DIE all the same for tresspassing on our sacred grounds." A guttural voice rasps, and Kyle's eyes dart behind the woman to spot two yellow eyes staring them both down, and a cloaked figure is joined by several other men and women in robes, toting lightsabers which emit red blades and that deep snarl of a Sith weapon igniting. Kyle eyes the Sith warriors as they circle himself and the pale haired woman, "Truce?" He asks, before suddenly he faces one of the bigger warriors, a Zebrak from Dathomir it seems, as he initiates a back-to-back pose with his foe-turned-temporary-ally. Pause. "Katarn, by the by. Kyle Katarn."
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= For a moment, the would-be Sith looked as if she was stunned and about to hit him with at least a dozen more questions. At least until they had company of the genuine Sith persuasion. "Dammit," she muttered under her breath. She frowned slightly, studying the interlopers for a split second before the first was joined by yet more actual Sith. "Works for me," she told him, apparently jettisoning their earlier "disagreement" easily enough. "Looks like we'll have a lot to talk about after this." If she wasn't confident, at least she knew how to make a good front. While surprised, the Guardian caught the toss of the radio, reserving her curiosity for a more auspicious moment in time. "Sure...I'm Lowri Revan-Shan. Lowri is fine..." Her eyes flickered back toward the closest Sith, dropping back into an en garde stance. "But you guys can just call me Revan."
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= "Great." Kyle's taking this better than the other Sith are at this point, their rage palpable as Revan introduces herself. "She is the traitor! The one who killed Lord Malak, and the one who slew our brothers aboard the Star Forge!" Yeah, Revan got a LOT of enemies out of that one. Kyle just shoots Revan a 'You too, huh?' look before he focuses back at the Sith surrounding them. There are eight of them in total, one of them carries a doublesaber, one dual wields, the others use standard sabers in varrying styles, one of them using Shien with a pair of lightdaggers even, with spiked hilts as though they weren't deadly enough as is. "Bring it." Kyle grins briefly, before the Sith charge, The one dual wielding regular lightsabers gets in range of Revan, while the oldest, and therefore the leader, engages Kyle with fencing techniques that Revan might notice are that of a Form II duelist. The twi'lek currently engaging Revan swings her lightsabers at the ex-Sith, snarling out in fury as she pounces like a jungle cat. 
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= The once Dark Lord of the Sith flipped the rest of the hood back, letting the thick platinum blonde braid fall down her back. Might as well free up some peripheral vision, since this fight was about to get a little more interesting. Revealing her name to them had been part of her ploy; sooner or later they had to drop some hint of her quarry. Revan just shrugged at Kyle, as if to say "What can you do?" She had made some friends and even some adoration, but she had expected that there were going to be a lot of unhappy people, too. And that was just the Sith Academy on Korriban alone. "I suppose an apology won't make things better?" she queried with a faint smile. Not that she expected an answer, naturally. And whatever personal angst she had on the matter would have to wait. Revan might have been less powerful than when she was at the height of her power as a Dark Lord, but she retained more than enough skill and power since her "rebirth" to take on a few Sith. The first few are dispatched easily enough, but the dual-wielding twi'lek was proving to be a little more of a challenge. Of course, the Guardian couldn't resist. "There's much more than even just power in the Light, you know it's not too late to turn back."
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= "Shut up." The twi'lek snarls, robes flowing behind her as she lets them go to reveal a form-hugging bodyglove of some sort, made with red and black, with light armor padding. She's not going it scanty like a certain lethian twi'lek obviously, and it's clear she's not settling for negotiation. "You don't have any idea who you're dealing with, or where you are for that matter!" She screams, her lightsabers flourishing, striking as one. "I will kill you, and then they will make me a Darth for having slain the traitor!" "Get in line!" Another, the massive zabrak with the double-saber growls, his weapon spinning like a circular saw as he swings at both Kyle and Revan. "If anyone's gonna be made a lord, it's me!" Kyle evades the strike while dealing with the old guy, casually decapitating another of the more unremarkable Sith warriors, then cleaving another. Soon enough it's just Kyle and Revan against the terrible trio, their leader inwardly sighing at the childish bickering of his subordinates. "How do you guys get anything done?" Kyle jabs, either at Revan or the old man as he evades another strike from the latter, parrying the followup. Despite himself, the elderly leader actually responds. "With a -lot- of patience."
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= The royal blue lightsaber blades became a blur of circular motions as Lowri deflected the twi'lek's strikes before slamming her with a Force Push. "So, why don't you tell me? What is it you're hiding, exactly?" Never let a good opportunity for information go to waste. She had to toss up a resistance shield to absorb the blow from the Iridonian, though once she did, she had the opening to give him a good swing with her right-handed lightsaber. Her response to him was an almost exasperated sigh. At least their superior had something of a sense of humour. "Sometimes, it just isn't worth it," Revan quipped. "Having to watch you back all the time gets to be a real pain. No real friends, no family...it's a pretty sad existence." She did like to wear opponents down mentally as well as physically. Why fight an enemy you didn't necessarily have to fight? 
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= "Tch. Sentiments. It's no wonder Malak abandoned you." The old man grouses, before he ducks as Kyle slashes overhead at the sith acolyte. "Your friend's style is unrefined, too focused on brute strength and-*URK*" "And you're too busy criticizing your opponents to actually focus, gramps." Kyle snarks, as he ekes in a good strike at the old man's side, a painful burn left as the Jedi sends his opponent back with a force push as well. Meanwhile, the twi'lek and zabrak continue their assault, the former striking low and the latter coming down on Revan like a torrent of rain. The twi'lek's blades strike out to trip Revan while the big guy's double saber thrusts at her to skewer the ex-Sith lord. "Arrogant bitch!" The twi'lek hisses like a snake, her blades arcing upward. "We'll slay you both and the Jedi Knight, just like all else who bypass the traps set here!" Kyle meanwhile ends up running out of luck as he takes a grazing slash to his stomach, then ends up on the ground as the Zabrak moves over to him. "Stinking Jedi." THe brute snarls, extinguishing his lightsaber and clotheslining Kyle to the ground. His boot raises, but he feels a blaster bolt burn through the boot and into his foot with a scream of pain before he stumbles back, a second shot rings out, and the elder falls to the ground dead with a smoking hole in his forehead. The big guy takes another two shots to the chest, but he seems to no-sell them as he slashes down at Kyle with his lightsaber, only for the blow to be blocked by Kyle's own weapon.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= "He fell prey to his own thirst for power, as the Sith always do," the tall blonde started to remark before Kyle got in his strike. Hopefully, he'd find peace, eventually. The dual attack proved a little harder to evade; as Darth Revan she could have simply called down an entire lightning storm -- at least, some vague memory of it, at any rate -- but as a simple commando-turned-Jedi, (if only in false memories) it proved a little harder. Even as she evaded the lower strike, the Zabrak's saber painfully scored her arm. Time for some more down-to-earth tactics. Revan dropped low into her knees, ducking under another swing from the twi'lek before driving her elbow had into her solar plexus in an Echani martial arts manoeuvre to take the wind out of her. "Unrefined, maybe...but it works," she commented dryly, finishing up with an even more undignified head-butt and a more refined swipe with her left lightsaber.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= Kyle's got the big guy's attention for now, and the Jedi stands up after sending the hulking Zebrak back with a force shove again. He leaps to his feet, leaving besides his blaster for the moment as he and the brute dance for a bit. Lightsabers clash against each other, until Kyle manages to sever the double-bladed weapon's hilt until the Zebrak has only one working end to use. He snorts like a beast, charging at Kyle with saber swinging. The Jedi easily evades that blow, ducking down before he calmly sends the Zebrak flying towards the wall with one last Force Push, then pulling over his blaster pistol to level it at the brute's head. He eyes the hold Revan has her own opponent in, raising a brow. "Echani? You're full of surprises, even for an ex-Sith." He allows a grin before he levels the blaster at the twi'lek. Flicking a switch of some sort, he fires twice before the Sith Assassin falls unconscious. Her last surviving comrade growls out, wounded by breathing and conscious. "Why spare us?" The brute growls, yellow eyes glaring at Kyle. "Should be killing us by now." "Maybe you two deserve a chance. The old man's not a Darth, but he was too set on his path. You two on the other hand can't be too old. Twenty-five at the least for you, your friend younger." Kyle explains, trailing his blaster at the wounded apprentice. His and the twi'lek's youth are apparent now, both Kyle and Revan have noticed. "...your point? They'll have us killed if we come back to our lords unsuccessful." "You're not going back to them." Kyle holsters his weapon at last, producing a credit chit and tossing it at the zebrak's feet. "That's enough for you two to get to the nearest station and grab some food." He says, kicking aside the damaged lightsaber. You got a ship?" "...yes." "Good. Get going." He nods to Revan to turn the twi'lek over to the big guy. "You're not needed anymore, the lady and I are old hands at wandering through ruins, it seems. There anybody else we need to worry about in the temple?" "No thanks to you, no."
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= As the Sith Assassin stumbled back coughing from the blow, Revan didn't give her the chance to recover. With an even swipe with both lightsabers working in concert, she disarmed the disoriented twi'lek, sending her lightsabers scattering in opposite directions with a flick of her wrists before Kyle blasted her into unconsciousness. So Kyle had been paying attention. That deserved some respect; even many Jedi were so focused on the internal that they tended to be oblivious to the external. Redeemed as she was, that tended to frustrate Revan a little. "Muscle memory," she offered the short explanation with a shrug and a slight smile. She scrutinised the Knight as he offered the remaining two mercy...admittedly, just as she would have done. Jedi didn't kill their opponents.but Jedi also didn't use blasters. Interesting. "Trust me, it's a life you won't regret leaving. You'd be amazed at what life has to offer away from the Sith philosophy," she commented, deactivating her lightsabers and returning them to her belt before she dusted off her sleeves. But in spite of her nonchalance, she offered a warm, genuine smile. In spite of her hardness of a warrior, she couldn't help but reveal her compassionate side. the Sith might think it soft.but her lightsaber would often say that she could back it up with some necessary hardness if one pushed the issue.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= The Zebrak scowls before he creeps over, picking up the twi'lek and muttering out, "C'mon, Hanaki..." He seems to do alright even with a wounded foot, hoofing it after crawling out of a hidden passage that might lead out of the temple. "So what's your reason for being here? Some kind of artifact or whatever?" He asks, scruffing his beard. "I'd also switch that radio on if I were you. Might be good to see what I mean by alternate timelines and universes if you just give that a shot first." He says, eyeing the room for a moment before he spots the entrance out. "So. How long you been since you got back on the wagon?" Yeah, we're going there with that analogy.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= Once the two remaining Sith had limped away, the other Knight sighed softly. Looked like she had some explaining to do...but how to keep it vague enough to keep anyone else from getting killed by getting embroiled in her campaign? She might not have recognised the Jedi who had become her de facto ally, but that hardly meant she was going to risk getting him embroiled in this mess. "Information," she admitted after a brief pause of consideration. He'd earned that much, at least. "The Council wasn't wrong...there was /something/ behind the Mandalorians. I intend to find out what it was." Of course, that was before he started babbling about timelines and universes. "I'm...sorry, but I'm not following you there." Revan might have had one of the more flexible minds of her era, but what he'd said made little sense to her. She studied one of the glyphs that she had been ruminating over before the interruption as Kyle asked her another question. It was a rather strange one; what jedi hadn't heard of the destruction she'd wrought? He should have known more than she did. "Three years, I suppose? You know about the destruction of Taris, I take it?" Even as she asked, she stopped looking t the glyphs long enough to study the commlink. It was definitely an odd bit of technology. "Just who does this communicate with, if I might ask?"
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= "Hm." Kyle listens, folding his arms. He probably could've done better with explaining what's going on, and he forgot his pamphlets at home besides. "Long story short, we're part of some sort of galaxy in a galaxy. A multiverse, seems like. All these worlds converging together via portals and...hell, I'll try and get someone to explain once that radio's on." He motions to the device itself, holding up a matching on in his hands connected to an ear-bud. His finger points to a button. "This is the synch button, it defaults to a broadband system. It's moderated, so behave." Beat. Revan begins to try the radio out for herself, before he rubs a temple trying to remember some things. "Mandalorians....man, we haven't heard much from them in a while now. There was a kid from clan Ramsair who helped get students and one of the teachers to the Praxeum, but otherwise, there's not much I know of since the clans went dark, Mandalore's still under reconstruction after a couple darkside whackjobs tried to take over and.." He wobbles a hand. "It's complicated. Taris, I don't know much. I've heard a bit about what happened there, but otherwise the planet's pretty obscure around my time."
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= The Prodigal Knight had, if nothing else, a flexible mind. But even this new knowledge was testing the limits of that flexibility. In the Force, many things were possible, but little of what the strange Knight said made much sense to her. Especially when she activated the comm link. She could follow each voice easily enough, but /what/ they were speaking about, not so much. "Something...is definitely not right, here," Revan commented almost helplessly.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Kyle Katarn
|Pose= Looking at Raven, Kyle just rubs his temples. He feels like he's thrown Revan into the deep end, and with the multiverse, it's ALL a deep end really. Still, she needs to know what she's up against here. And Kyle's short on options for proof. So...damned if you do, damned if you don't. "Sorry." He says at last, shrugging before he wanders towards the quick-exit those two Sith took on their way out. "We'd better go before we end up going crazy with all the dark side influence this place has. Get to your ship, mine isn't far from here. We'll explain things once we meet up outside a gate." Suddenly Revan's ship will be picking up a friendly signal by the time she gets there, no doubt. "For what it's worth, welcome to the multiverse." He smiles over his shoulder, before heading on out with a lazy salute of sorts.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=Revan
|Pose= Kyle certainly did throw her into the deep end, but if anything, she seemed to be enjoying it. In fact, it looked as if she hadn't been able to really enjoy herself like this for a long time. But...he did have a point about the ruins. "Point," she conceded. "It looked like a dead end, anyway." Which was visibly regrettable. Here she had hoped she was one step closer to the evil manipulating the Mandalorians, and even the Sith Empire she had once commanded...only, the glyphs revealed nothing, in spite of their architects. "Thanks," she said before heading back to the Ebon Hawk, and meant it. She probably wouldn't have been able to take the Sith on her own, not there. Even if this idea of a "multiverse" was more than just a little beyond her comprehension.
}}

1921/A Little Child

2015-04-04T05:27:13Z

ForwardObserver: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2015/03/31 |Location=Dun Realtai |Synopsis=Dun Realtai draws the curiosity of a most unusual child: the Summon whelp of Keltonia, Bahu. |Thanks= |C..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2015/03/31
|Location=Dun Realtai
|Synopsis=Dun Realtai draws the curiosity of a most unusual child: the Summon whelp of Keltonia, Bahu.
|Thanks=
|Cast of Characters=346, 735
|Tinyplot=
|Tinyplot2=
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Winter, at long last, had begun its slow retreat from Dun Realtai. Named "the Fortress of the Stars" in a fit of sarcasm when its current lord looked up through the holes which had been in the keep's roof at the time, the once-ruined village was gradually being rebuilt under the direction of Union aid. For all outward appearances, it seemed hardly any different than a typical castle town in Middle Ages Europe, but there were tell-tale signs of modernity; LEDs set into street lanterns as well as modern plumbing, insulation, and construction techniques. Some buildings even featured materials which were certainly not native to the area -- bamboo timbers, among others -- in their construction. Yet, it appeared that restoration efforts had taken pains to keep the original atmosphere of the village, apparently conscious of disturbing the lives of the people.      And they had clearly been through a great deal, already. What seemed to have supported a population of a few thousand now hosted mere hundreds, and the signs of recent calamity could be found here and there. Most noticeably, the outer wall around the town remained largely in ruin, the towers still half-crumbled as if rammed by some great beast. Though there were hints of coming spring, the land seemed sluggish, as if finally shaking off a winter which had lasted far longer than it would have naturally, and much of the land was forcibly barren. Many efforts were already underway to restore that necessary vitality to farmlands and pastures beyond the village.      Yet, for all their endured hardships, the people -- though not Elites -- were a tough, resilient lot. Fiercely independent, they would have refused any simple fixes to their plight, only accepting the hand of the Union when efforts had been spearheaded by those from an environment and era similar to their own. No traces of massive construction vehicles were to be found, as if everything had been restored by hand and by simple machines drawn by beasts of burden. And though they had been wary at first of the many offworlders to have found their way to the remote village, they had now become acclimated to such visits. Most were polite, and those who remained wary simply disappeared into their homes, stores, stables, or workshops. Children were naturally the most curious and accepting of all, sometimes overwhelming visitors with a barrage of questions about the worlds beyond the mysterious gate.      However, there were Elites who called Dun Realtai home, most notably the lord and lady. Rumoured to have been knights from a distant world, the two had earned the respect and even loyalty through their hard work and dedication to helping the villagers on their own terms. Unlike the nobles they had known before, the lord and lady often made their way out into the village to talk to them, ask them how they fared, and what they might need in the way of supplies. At the moment, it is the lady of the land who made her way through the square at this moment.      Dressed similarly to the villagers themselves in plain, homespun tunic and leggings and leather boots with her flaxen hair bound up into a braid-encircled bun, what set her apart were several things. She carried herself with far too much formality to be anything other than a noble trained in proper bearing. And second, magical beings would recognise another of their sort; the jade-eyed woman was not human, as if made from magic itself.      At the moment, the Servant Saber of the Fourth Holy Grail War and now Lady of Dun Realtai was listening to a report from one of the stablehands of the village. An otherwise unassuming occupation. 

:'''{{#var:735|Bahu (735)}} has posed:''' Bahu pauses once he materializes in the realm, his eyes wide with wonder. Since hatching a few weeks ago and with basically nobody paying much mind to his safety, the little whelpling has been spending the vast majority of his days hopping through portals. Some days he'd find a place that was nice and spend some time there, and other times he'd visit places that were forboding...or just plain weird ('Horsies don't talk or have magic, what weird place is this?'). But with this place he seemingly just...paused. This place felt...so similar to home, almost familiar to him. Rather than scurrying about trying to see the sights, Bahu walks on his hind legs slowly, looking around at the people and the various buildings, taking his time with them. He's off to the side of the road, knowing better by now to not stand in the middle of anything with traffic. Being stepped on is very unpleasant and making embarrassing squawking noises when it did happen is tremendously uncool. He does have an image to project after all. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Lately, it seemed that the place the Knights of the Round Table now called home had attracted quite a few fae and other magical creatures to it. The latest of these visitors came in the form of a kelpie, which seemed fond of staring up at the keep as if waiting to see what the lord of the land would do. Fortunately, the townspeople had been warned away from it, and the Unseelie appeared to be content to peek out occasionally from beneath the murky depths without causing trouble.      However, many more visitors were of the more mundane sort, arriving through the warpgate either to help with the reconstruction or else exploring...as their latest visitor appeared to be doing.      Saber was a bit surprised, at first, managing to spy the Summon even with his diminutive stature. The whelp was not one of their fae visitors, certainly. An Elite, then? Dragons were much more common in the multiverse than even in the Britain of her era, though the particular magical energy seemed to suggest a being more like her. No sense wondering about it, however; she had a duty to properly greet their visitors.      Excusing herself, Saber made her way to Bahu, rendering a proper greeting with a polite bow, her arm folded over her torso. "Greetings, and welcome to Dun Realtai. Have you only just arrived?"      Though translated through the multiversal effect, the actual language she spoke would be identified as an archaic form of Welsh...or the equivalent language for worlds where a variant of the language was spoken. 

:'''{{#var:735|Bahu (735)}} has posed:''' Bahu didn't particularly enjoy his lack of height, but he couldn't deny that it was handy sometimes. Unless someone had taken to lookind down, he'd slide by completely unnoticed, able to look at whatever sights and signage his surprisingly large eyes would pick up on. He stops walking when the lithe girl speaks to him, one of his ears tweaking in response to her presence. From his perspective the bow seemed...oddly cordial, but at least he could get a better view of hher face. He looks up towards her and smiles, nodding his head quickly. "Yep-yep-yep! I's only just got here. It's nice. I like it here. Is this place another hooman world?" As he was speaking, he reaches around behind him to a small shoulder-slung backpack particularly tailored for him...or stolen from an appropriately sized toy. In -EITHER- case, he pulls out a slightly oversized notebook and a pencil and begins writing in it. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Once again, the blonde knight was surprised, eyebrows lifting slightly with a bit of an owlish blinking of her eyes. For all appearances, the whelp was as young as he looked. More, possibly. Assuredly not like Fayt or Bahamut or just about anyone else.      Still she remained unfailingly polite. Chivalry didn't stop with adults, or beings she could understand straight away.      "The village itself is a human settlement, yes," she agreed. "But there are others which call this place home, as well. The Fair Folk live beyond the village in the woods, fields, and lakes...though they seldom come into the village. Additionally, we have many guests under our roof, several of whom are not human, as well."      Smiling, Saber nodded. "I am gladdened to hear that it is agreeable to you," she replied. "There is only one rule here; the Law of Hospitality. No one may attack a guest who has been offered hospitality, and guests must respect other guests, the villagers, and the Fair Folk."      But somehow, she doubted this would be a problem. 

:'''{{#var:735|Bahu (735)}} has posed:''' Bahu 's voice reinforces his lack of age, but he does speak well, to his credit. He continues to write in his notebook, but only a few words before he flips it closed and stashing it back in it's storage spot. Judging by the knapsack's size, he didn't have much in there. He nods rapidly in response to her second statement, speaking in turn. "Yeah-yeah! It reminds me of Keltonia. A lil' bit. Like...the wooden stuff, the hoomans and the magic stuffs too. Magic is good. Places feel weird without it." In response to her last statement, he flexes his horribly unimpressive arms like a body builder, the thinnest of muscle definition coming out of them. "Nobody's gunna messes with me with guns like these. They're huge. But I ain't gonna attack no-folks who aren't askin for it so...ah...you don't gotta worry about that. What's your name huge lady?" 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      The Servant found her curiosity piqued about quite a number of things, from the knapsack -- and lack of much in it -- to the note-taking. It would have been rude to ply their newest visitor with questions, but she could at least venture something of a guess. "You are an explorer, I take it?"      True, a bit of an apparently young one, but that was by far not the strangest thing she had ever seen in the multiverse, and that much showed in her demeanour. One might think tiny dragon summons appeared there on a daily basis.      "It is very much like my own home of Britain," she agreed. "The magic here is somewhat different, but not unfamiliar." So she was not one of the natives herself, then?      In someone else, her smile would have been a grin. That build might not have necessarily been impressive, but the Servant respected the strength of spirit. It was one of the traits she cherished in others, such as her adopted people. "Excellent."      She knelt then, bringing herself closer to Bahu's level. "I am called Saber. I was tasked with guarding over this land. Might I ask your name?" 

:'''{{#var:735|Bahu (735)}} has posed:''' Bahu nods towards her initial question, reaching up with a hind leg to scratch at an ear rather absent mindedly. He looks beyond her for a moment as she speaks of her home, sniffing the air a little bit before returrning his attention to her, a toothy grin still present. When she introduces herself, he noddles quickly again and upon spotting her kneel, he runs up her diagonal legs to her side. His grip is gentle, with only the barest hints of his claws scrabbling across her and being careful not to scratch anything. He climbs her rapidly in a continued diagonal pattern until he ends up on her right shoulder, performing a hand stand on it for a few seconds before sitting down properly on it. This was MUCH more comfortable for the two of them to talk to. He speaks triumphantly, siilarly to one being announced before a social function. "My name is Bahu. I ams pleased to meet you Missy Saber-lady. You gotsa same name as a sword yeah? Do you like swords too? Swords are pretty cool." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      It was turning out to be a day full of small surprises. Saber wouldn't have expected the whelp to have climbed up onto her shoulder, having knelt to be more polite and maintain a respectful distance. But it was not something which repulsed her, and the Heroic Spirit made no move to brush him off, waiting until Bahu had reached her shoulder before carefully straightening up again.      Not that she really had to go very far, being of diminutive stature for a humanoid being, herself.      "Well-met, Bahu. And yes, it is the name of a sword...my class designation, in truth. It is more akin to a code-name, or a nickname, as I wield a sword in battle."      In spite of her short height, the Summon's vantage point would likely be much improved to properly see the sights of the village as the townsfolk continued preparations, some stopping to have a look at their unusual visitor. "Ah, but permit me to extend the hospitality of Dun Realtai to you for as long as you wish to remain here. We have several forms of accommodations...though I fear that I do not know what your specific needs might be."      Speaking of which, there was another point of proper hospitality. "Likewise, I am afraid that I am not familiar with what manner of food you might require. Our supplies are rather limited, but we are obligated to offer what we are able." 

:'''{{#var:735|Bahu (735)}} has posed:''' Bahu did enjoy the heightened perspective, finding the world to be a much easier place to look at when you were at the proper height to appreciate it. He makes himself comfortable on her shoulder, resting on it with both his hands and his legs, similarly to how a feline might. "Oooh. I know what a codename is. I remember readin' it from a book-thing. Fiction? Yeah, that was the word. Super secret guys use them to fight bad guys." He starts to go on further but Saber brings the conversation into food and he...rattles with excitement. He smiles towards her with all of his admittedly non-threatening teeth, nodding rapidly again. "Ooooh don't you worry, I eat lots of things! I'm just like a hooman. THey make good stuff. Like...I like bread, it's all brown and soft and it's really good if you heat it up..." He opens his mouth somewhat abruptly, his fat, triangular tongue seeming unimpressive. He makes a clicking noise similar to that of a lighter, in which a few orange sparks shoot out. After the third or fourth time of this, a small gout of flame shoots from it and pointed away from her, as to not be too startling. Just as soon as he'd suddenly decided to show that, he goes back to being energetic about the conversation at hand. "Oooooh cheese is really nice too and people like, eat it with this purple stuff that comes out of a bottle? It's good. Weird but good. And then there was this thing I tried called an Egg Roll? It looks NOTHING like an egg or a roll but it was the most bestest thing. All food should come in little tasty crunchy wrappers like that, don't you think Missus Saber?" 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Years of practise had honed Saber's ability to control her expressions with an iron grip, and it demanded hardly any effort on her part to present an impassive mask. Yet today, that mask was replaced with a slight smile as she stifled her urge to chuckle at the dragon-like being. In many ways, he reminded her of a young child...and personally, she was fond of children. "Yes, they exist to protect the true identity of a hero," she quipped lightly, apparently not bothered by his presence on her shoulder. "You are quite knowledgeable."      This time, she could not quite stifle a light chuckle, and seemed to take the sparks in stride. "Well then, we have many things to eat. Bread, cheese, tea...something called 'hot chocolate', which is sweet and quite pleasurable to drink."      There might have been wine as well, though she had to check on that following an earlier visit from a certain Gaerlean who preferred to drown her sorrows in unhealthy ways.      "Egg rolls? Ah yes, I am familiar with such things. I am particular to the ones filled with shrimp. Before I came here, I lived with someone who was quite the expert in preparing them." Indeed, Tohsaka Sakura, the Servant's previous Master, was skilled enough to please even Saber's picky tastes. 

:'''{{#var:735|Bahu (735)}} has posed:''' Bahu reaches into his backpack for one of the few other things within it; a half eaten package of cheese crackers. He pops one of them into his mouth whole, crunching it quickly so that he could talk afterwards. "Oooh. I like chocolate! Also hot stuff. Some hoomans were like 'You can't eat that, it'll burn' and I'm all like 'I can do anything you can do but betters' and they were all like 'Nuh-uh'. I mean, I guesses you guys can say whatever, but I'm para...uhm...paraperhasing? I think that's the word? Anyways, I ate this red stuff. It did tickle a lil' bit but it was kinda tasty too. It makes eating the green plants much better. Especially the ones that look like little trees?" He pats his belly a few times before continuing on with his talking. "I know there are like, fish and prawn and like, these red little pinchy hands...crabs? Yeah. Those. Anyway, those are only in the ocean right? Unless they are huge. Like...evil huge. Is there an ocean here? If there is, can I see it? I like oceans. Not bein in one tho. Unfun." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      If there was any doubt about Bahu's outworld origins, they had been obliterated once the whelp got to talking. As Saber made her way out of the village and up the hill through the inner bailey to the keep proper, she tried to keep up with the rapidfire chatter from the enthusiastic Summon. "Did they warn you that it was spicy? I prefer spicy foods, myself...it is bland foods I dislike. I am especially fond of curry. I find it to be much more flavourful than the foods of my homeland...though I find that not everyone is capable of enduring it."      She frowned slightly in puzzlement, trying to discern what particular vegetable Bahu meant. It sounded familiar... "I think...'broccoli'? It is pleasant enough to eat, so long as it is prepared properly. If it is frozen and then broiled in water, it is positively vile." Broiled broccoli, on the occasion she sampled it, reminded Saber of the terrible cooking of late Roman period Britain: bland.      "A great many," she continued, "Though I did not learn of some until I arrived in the multiverse. What was taken from the sea mostly consisted of fish, such as salmon..."      The Servant suppressed a shudder; she had seen (and fought) more than enough deep sea creatures to last multiple lifetimes. But she wasn't about to ruin the mood discussing Servant Caster's transformations in the middle of the bay or Dagon. "No, Dun Realtai is entirely inland..."      Her smile faded slightly, however, at the mention of oceans. "In truth, I do not care for oceans, myself. All too often, the ocean brought invaders from the lands to the west, beyond those seas."      As if to deliberately lighten that mood, she smiled and changed the subject. "Tell me of Keltonia. Is that your homeland?" 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      All throughout the trip up to the keep, there was much to see for a newcomer as various villagers acknowledged their lady and her peculiar visitor and busied themselves in their tasks. The activity never lessened even near the keep, though far fewer busied themselves with the specific tasks of maintaining the small castle. Various servants curtseyed or bowed, though Saber made a point of making it clear not to allow her to disturb their work. If she was indeed a noble, she was a strange one in acknowledging the hard work of even the lowest of staff.      Fortunately, with the disappointment as short-lived as it was, Saber could devote energy to the discussion of magic and other lands. "Magic is more subdued here, I believe," the knight mused. "Yet, it is much more readily present than in other worlds. And there is much which has not yet been discovered in this land. Perhaps there are ruins beyond the forests and mountains?"      In fact, it might seem that they had not explored much of the land at all, in lieu of preparing for a truly brutal winter.      Her eyebrows raised slightly as Bahu mentioned missing the world he had come from. "Are you not capable of returning?" 

:'''{{#var:735|Bahu (735)}} has posed:''' Bahu watches some of the servants who do their thing, tilting his head at those who showed proper respect to Saber. He starts to open his mouth with a question but thinks better of it, turning over to listen to the noblewoman's words. His tail slowly wavers when the idea of exploration is brought up, but before he could ruminate on it much, she asks another question. He shrugs in return. "Uhms...I was hatched in that Nojorum place. You know, the big place with all the Union stuff? I dunno where Keltonia is now. I've been checkin all the portals and hopin I'd kinda finds it, but I haven't seen it yet. Besides, I get to see a ton of cool stuff 'round here until I do. But I can feels the magic here. It's why I kinda like it. Can you casts magic?" 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      The Servant hadn't known Bahu long enough to necessarily pick up on cues, but from what she had gleaned so far, he enjoyed exploring. Come to think of it, once the planting season had begun and the village's livelihood re-established, they should look into having the surrounding lands explored and surveyed. For that, they would need scouts, and perhaps they had one of their first candidates for the task. But that could wait a little while longer.      With little effort, Saber opened the heavy oak doors carved with intricate knotwork leading into the great hall. Though spring approached, the air remained crisp and cold, necessitating the warmth provided by a large hearth at its centre. A half-rusted greatsword was mounted over the mantle, as if neglected and only just recently some effort was taken to restore it. Following a wordless nod, a servant disappeared into the adjoining kitchens and returning with a tray laden with bread, cheese, scones, and tea. He set it down silently on one of the large wooden tables before bowing and disappearing again, leaving Saber to pour tea into two porcelain cups and seating herself on the bench next to the table.      "So then, you are truly a denizen of the multiverse," the knight observed. "I too remain uncertain where my original world is, but duties within the Union have kept me more than busy."      Measuring out piping-hot bread and sweet butter, she divided them onto a pair of pewter plates. "Indeed, there is magic...I cannot 'cast' it, per se, but it is a part of my very being. One could even say that I am 'made' of magic, as it were." 

:'''{{#var:735|Bahu (735)}} has posed:''' Bahu looks at the door as they passed it, recognizing a good door when he saw one. Probably would be pretty heavy too. Still though, upon being brought inside he swivels his head in nearly every direction he could reach, taking in the sights. Unlike some others, he didn't seem to be adversely affectived by the weather, but considering the lack of clothing...maybe that was a good thing? He does take a moment to run a hand through his white mane as she continued to walk, keeping it's spikiness in check for the time being. When the food is brought out his pupils grow; it'd been an uncomfortable amount of hours since he'd returned to a place for a decent meal...and here they were just bringing it out for them? When the sword-lady seats herself he leaps off of her shoulder, landing on the table with a pleasant thump. He takes a seat, pulling up one of the offered scones and stuffing the entire thing into his mouth at once. He puts in a few loud chews into the tasty pastry before swallowing it whole, licking his lips a little bit. "Yous magic too? I'm magic too! That's pretty nice...but I don't think I see a hooman magic-thingie before. Are you a summon like me or are you somthin' else?" 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Once more, Saber could not quite suppress a soft chuckle, though perhaps at this point there was very little need to. Besides which, she was in her home, as safe and secure as she had been for /years/. She was always pleased when their guests obviously enjoyed their hospitality, but Bahu's enthusiasm was more than enough gratitude. It was, after all, a mark of honour in her culture.      "Indeed, I am a summon of sorts, the most powerful form of familiar in my world," Saber noted without boasting. "However, Servants such as myself are summoned specifically to battle in a war which lasts merely a fortnight. However, I Unified at my own War's conclusion, and now I have a much broader purpose."      The knight paused briefly for a sip of tea. "I was human, many years ago, as were all other Servants. And there are others out in the multiverse as well who are no longer confined to their own Wars. But we are all, essentially, summons." 

:'''{{#var:735|Bahu (735)}} has posed:''' Bahu grabs two of the bread rolls provided and a hunk of cheese, sandwhiching them together. He then opens his mouth and begins making the same harsh *CHIKTH* noise he had before when he tries to spark a flame. It only takes two tries this time though, as a small flame jet shoots from his mouth and engulfs the cheese sandwhich. The fire is pretty weak, because instead of scorching the bread, it's toasting it, and the cheese is slowly melting. When he was finished he had one pretty toasted grilled cheese. He takes a huge bite out of it, licking his lips of any excess orange sticky stuff. "Oh...uhm...that's pretty differents. Summons in Keltonia is like...makin a friend for a hooman wizard-guy. When you get olds enough, you get a summons and you two are the best of friends an stuff. You help em do the magic thing, or find stuff or run a store of anythin you wanna do. It's pretty neat. The war thing is kinda unfuns though." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      For her part, the more human-shaped familiar ate with a practised, regal poise...and more than a normal human being would eat. Apparently, Servants boasted fearsome appetites. It had been fortunate for the beleaguered village that Saber had brought her own special foodstuffs purchased with her own stipend to sustain herself, or else all their efforts to bring aid would have been for naught.      She refrained from making a sarcastic comment about the magi of her world, a generally selfish lot who summoned familiars as mere tools, whether they were simple creatures used for surveillance or Servants used for killing other Servants to obtain a shortcut artefact to reach the Root of existence itself. Instead, she smiled lightly. "It sounds quite nice," she commented. "A magus summoning a friend. My previous Master is a dear friend, and I speak with her frequently. She is an excellent cook. she did not summon me, but she nevertheless formed a contract with me, and we became friends."      As for the War..."It is an unpleasant business," she admitted. "I am no longer a part of it, though the prize is to have any wish granted to the winner. It is a call that few can ignore." 

}}

1903/Love and Eikons

2015-03-30T19:17:49Z

ForwardObserver: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2015/03/29 |Location=Dun Realtai |Synopsis=Yari comes to Saber asking favors. |Thanks= |Cast of Characters=346, 691 |Tinyplot= |Tinyplot2= |pretty=..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2015/03/29
|Location=Dun Realtai
|Synopsis=Yari comes to Saber asking favors.
|Thanks=
|Cast of Characters=346, 691
|Tinyplot=
|Tinyplot2=
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:691|Yari Takane (691)}} has posed:''' It's been a rough couple days for Yari Takane, from a difficult mission to an even more difficult bout of 'training' that she's still recovering from. But after some time relaxing with Lute and Sanary, Yari finally returns to Dun Realtai. And this time, it's on business, if unofficial. Thus, given the chilly weather and grey skies, Yari has bundled up in a traditional-but-thick white and red kimono with a heavy cloak draped over it. A slightly odd look to be sure, but she'll take that over getting her tail frozen off. And like any good guest, she lets today's target know she's coming. Choosing to walk today rather than try to take more mechanical mounts, she arrives at the front door to the keep's Hall with little fanfaire. She even knocks on the door. "Centurion Takane, reporting! Are you in Miss Saber?" Then, like a good conquerer, she opens the door and walks in. There's still that paleness to her skin that speaks to either recent illness or some sort of trauma, and shadows of sleeplessness in her eyes. Yari's definitely had a rough time as of late. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Life in Dun Realtai had been somewhat busy as of late.      With the supernaturally-extended winter at last in retreat, the village now prepared for the coming of spring and the subsequent planting season. Yet much more was too be done than in years past; the unnatural winter had sapped the land of life and fertility, and even the animals of the wilds had migrated to more plentiful lands. It would require more than simply waiting until the final frost had passed to begin plowing the earth and seeing the fields. Even before the last vestiges of snow had retreated, work was already underway to restore the vitality of the land.      Yunomi Stadler, having pledged her efforts to not only reviving the land but also drawing up plans for a greenhouse to extend the naturally brief growing season, was already well into her task elsewhere. The appointed lord of the land, Sir Bedivere, poured over ledgers and work orders, preparing the logistics of their efforts well in advance, leaving nothing to chance and ensuring none of their efforts would be languishing while awaiting the necessary materials. As for the last of the land?      Currently, the Servant Saber was taking inventory of a delivery of various seeds in the great hall of the keep, a few crates already opened and accounted for, though many had not yet been opened. A ledger of her own last open, the seeds already accounted for recorded carefully. Dressed in a simple, homespun tunic and leggings and soft suede boots, her flaxen hair was bound in it's usual practical braided bun.      The knight only lifted her head at the sound of the knock on the heavy, carved oak doors, followed by the entrance of one of their growing number of guests.      "Greetings, Lady Yari," the jade-eyed swordswoman hailed, straightening up from her task. "What brings you to our hall today?" 

:'''{{#var:691|Yari Takane (691)}} has posed:''' Yari pokes her head in, and then closes the door, spying a familiar bun of hair. Her own twintails fly fairly free, despite the obvious combat problem. One of her few concessions to vanity, perhaps? Or maybe she just apes Jinx's hair these days. "Actually I had...a favor or two to ask." Comes the woman, losing her usual edge of composure. She frowns briefly, snaps a salute, and then sits down. Her legs cross, and she squeezes her tail just a bit. Seems the woman doesn't know /quite/ how to start, peering about for convenient food and drink. She'll need it, at least on one of the subjects she's here for. Time to start with the more agreeable one. "If it's not a problem, I'd like to perform an aetheric scan on you." She lifts her kimono's sleeve on her arm, revealing her magitek armlet. Then her head tilts as she explains. "If my research is correct, you're known as a 'Servant', yes? A magical being constructed from the essence of a human of your world that passed into legends? In Hydaelyn, one of the worst threats to both sides of the conflict are beings known as Eikons." She doesn't see much point in hiding that fact. It's fairly obvious to anyone who follows dealings in that land. "And while there's something to be said for certain short-term military gains at this point, I prefer longer views. Eorzea will be Garlean territory eventually, after all." It's said so casually as to be an inevitability. When it comes to her country, Yari can be quite arrogant. "I believe these creatures may share similarities in construct with yourself and others of your kind I've encountered. I realize this will open you to some risk, and won't say I wouldn't use any methods I uncover against you in combat...but I think removing these creatures would be a boon for everyone involved." Then, Yari shrugs. "I'd understand if you think the personal risk is too much. You don't owe me anything." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      While there were many Elites who might have found the salute disconcerting, or would have been made to feel uneasy and insist such protocol was unnecessary, the King of Knights did not so much as bat an eye. Clearly, she was accustomed to not only military settings, but was comfortable, perhaps even accustomed to being in a position of command. However, the way she ordered servants was not quite in the same way, as if she was comfortable ordering civilians, though she looked them directly in the eye as she did. It might have almost seemed that she was merely making a request as she ordered a tray laden with tea, scones, biscuits, and even small sandwiches brought to the table, even thanking the young woman who brought them.      Hospitality, it would seem, was taken as seriously as ever in Dun Realtai.      The request, however, appeared to puzzle Arturia. It was somewhat sudden, to say nothing of what would have been Bedivere's adamant, automatic refusal; as far as the once-marshal of Camelot was concerned, his first duty would always be to his king and her protection. She had always trusted him to advise her in tactical matters, and she was reasonably certain her would have not even so much as entertained the idea. If there was anyone's advice she always heeded, it was that of the knight from Dal Riata.      And then there was her own clear frown of disapproval at talk of conquering. Fending off wave after wave of marauding Sea Wolves, seeking the peace of utopia all throughout here reign, naturally the knight-king would hardly approve. Obvious aggression of a neighbour-state or tyrant was one thing, but outright conquering of another country was never something she would condone. She had informed the King of Conquerors of that opinion on more than one occasion during the Holy Grail War.      Nevertheless, there were some points of common knowledge. Though it might, she considered, be a moot point. Her own world, for all its simulators to others, possessed by comparison some very strange physical lass when it came to magic and magical energies. "I am what is called a Servant, yes. However, our existence is somewhat complex, and how magical energy functions in our world -- and worlds similar to it -- would appear to be unique to our shared reality. I am sceptical that knowledge of the precise nature of my existence would be of particular use to you."      But on the other hand, perhaps it might. Though Saber was not in any particular danger from being scanned -- and there was always the possibility that Yari could also turn to one of the Confederacy's many Servants already among its ranks -- such knowledge might be of some use against beings which were a genuine threat in that world.      Silently, she considered a possible opportunity. Her personal like of the Centurion aside, the knight needed to think more tactically, at least where her adopted people were concerned. And, she suspected, the dragon-girl possessed something honour. "Very well, then. You may perform your scan, but on one condition. There will, no doubt, come a time when we have need of a favour from you. Will you accept?" 

:'''{{#var:691|Yari Takane (691)}} has posed:''' Just how different Saber treated her servants versus others is such an odd thing to Yari. Lines of merit and a strict social structure run through everything, and to see something /not/ held to military standards is strange for the young ninjette. She takes the tea and scones without much to say, seemingly lost in thought for a moment as she watches the servants putter about. "...I'll admit to a certain amount of desperation." Might explain part of why she's come here in the first place. Yari remains as stoic as ever in that look of discontent. She'd expect such, of course. Saber more than reminded her of the picture of a king to defend her realm taht she's read about in multiversal fiction. She's used to being the 'villain' by now. Yari gives a swift nod of assent. "As long as it doesn't harm the Confederacy, my men, or my country, that's fine. A debt, then." She takes her typical greeting most seriously, after all. "Stand up please, this will take just a moment. Hold still, arms at your side, and breathe normally. Gets the aether all mixed up if you get nervous." Tapping a few buttons on the thing, a holographic screen pops up in front of Yari. Then she slowly waves her arm from head to toe on Saber from about a foot away. There's a small whirring sound before the light on the end dissappears. "That's it." Sitting back down, she waits for the little bar to fill up. Her foot taps just a little. She /really/ needs a new armlet for things like this. Then she's quiet again, and increasingly nervously though she desperately tries to not show it. On to the far more embarrassing option. "...Are you...experienced in...matters of the heart, and war, Miss Saber?" She's pointedly looking away. Yari Takane is blushing a bit here, and soon quaffing wine as seems to be her go-to embarrassment hider. Her eyes occasionally flick about. Hopefully none of the servants heard that. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      In truth, the image she projected in Dun Realtai was a far different one than in her own kingdom, five years gone in her own sense of time. While whether they saw their intentions as noble or not -- nevertheless made them enemies by default. Not unlike fellow Servants during the Grail War, in fact...though that had done nothing to diminish her genuine like and respect of Lancer.      Regardless, her dream of utopia, somewhat changed now afterthe end of Heaven's Feel, was at odds with subjugation, whatever the cause might be. In spite of that, she held her tongue...there would most likely come a time when that difference of opinion would play itself out on the battlefield. Yet, for now, Dun Realtai was a haven and a place of peace.      The Servant shook her head."It will not be something with would violate the laws of chivalry, hence will bring no harm to you and yours. Mostlikely, it will be something to the direct benefit of Dun realtai....for example, if the corrupted elementals threaten this land once again."      The petite knight did not so much asflinch when she was scanned, her stoic, impassive mask in its typical place. She had not previously seen technology of that particular type before, a queer blend of magic and technology. an average magus tended to eschew a certain level of it, and her first master had been odd in that he used cellular phones to communicate with his associate as opposed to some odd cobbling of thaumaturtgy. And there were worlds with nigh-incomprehensible technology with a complete lack of anything resembling magical energy. The Servant found it slightly strange to find both in the same world...or at least technology which appeared to use magicin some way.      But the earlier mild surprised were nothing compared to what came next.      Saber blinked owlishly at the question, herstoic demeanour loosening with clear bemusement. She knew about war, certainly...quite well, in fact. "Much of my lifewas surrpounded by some form of war..." she admitted.      She poured herself a serving of tea, as if to hide her own embarrassment over the first part of the question. "As to the other....I must admit that my experiences are...a rather recent development." In other words, she was still very much green, herself. 

:'''{{#var:691|Yari Takane (691)}} has posed:''' Never let it be said that Saber isn't who she claimed to be. The pure honesty of the woman is a little off-putting to the spy, and yet endearing at the same time. Chivalry is such an odd concept to her. Finally the bar fills up, and she pours over the scan. She'll need to run it by a specialist, but the results certainly pique her interest. 'Corrupt elementals' seems to be an oxymoron to the Garlean, but she swiftly nods. "I'd hate to lose a tactically viable neutral meeting area anyway." She'd likely have answered /that/ call even without a debt in the balance. Win-win in her book. Yari's face clearly holds a touch of dissappointment, as she rubs the back of her head. "Mmm. I grew up with war as well. 'Same boat', is it?" She muses with a frown. Then, with a shrug, she strides forward regardless. "...How do you keep them apart? When you're away from the one you love and they're on the battlefield. How do you maintain your focus?" Frustration is clear in her voice. "I've heard her cries more than once, but every time, all that training in discipline? Useless! I'm /weak/. We're weak when we get like that! Tch, what kind of commander risks her men like that!?" It's a surge of emotions, oh-so-new to the young Centurion, that frustrates her endlessly. Her hand clenches her cup, nearly cracking it in irritation. "...And I'm not sure if my current 'methods' will leave me sane or not. I thought I could endure it all." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      The chivalric Virtue of Fides had not always been one which the Servant was permitted to follow in true spirit. As king, she had been forced to work around it somewhat in order to disguise the truth of her gender, ruling where only men had truly been permitted. As a Servant, she would only give her true name if the Servant she faced gave his first, adhering to chivalry but otherwise maintain a close guard of her identity otherwise. Yet, in her own home, she had little need to hide herself away with quite the same level of caution. It was true that some secrets remained, but what was already fairly open knowledge would not surprise her unpleasantly in the long run.      Besides which, Bedivere was already properly paranoid for the both of them, as per his duties.      Saber smiled; though it was one that would otherwise be a warm, friendly one, the undercurrent suggested she knew all too clearly the realities of war...even the generally cold one waged between Confederacy and Union. Though neither she nor Bedivere had particularly planned for events as they had occurred, Dun Realtai's nature as neutral ground in spite of being technically Union-controlled as well as a safe haven had made some Confederate interests vested in keeping it that way. Nearly everyone, it seemed, had more use for it as neutral ground than as territory. "Dun Realtai has little in the way of resources, and even at its peak will not be especially useful in terms of agriculture, livestock, or mining. What likewise makes it useful is also what protects it: neutrality."      The diminutive swordswoman tilted her head slightly, her equivalent of a shrug, but her expression turned thoughtful. "To some degree, perhaps," she replied. "My kingdom was in turmoil for a very long time, though I admit that for the earliest years of my life, I was rather sheltered. I knew only peace until my fifteenth birthday, and soon thereafter involved myself in driving the invaders from our kingdom and quelling the chaos of the land." So that was it; personal experience driving off invading forces. Small wonder she seemed to take invasions somewhat personally.      Arturia sat back into her chair, her finger idly tapping the side of the porcelain teacup. How, indeed. She herself was still coming to terms with many of the same problems. "When we fought Odin," she mused, and perhaps that particular name might ring a bell or two for the Garlean, "He took us by surprise with a magical attack. We had no time to prepare, and though I cannot be harmed with most forms of magic, I had no time to properly guard my Master. He was rendered unconscious, and I simply...reacted."      In other words, she went berserk, her draconic blood overriding her normal personality, and pressed her attack against the Primal Elder, only calming once Bedivere awakened long enough to assist her final attack and all but collapse in her arms afterward. "Whatever discipline I honed from the time I became a squire�s apprentice to my entrance to the Fourth Holy Grail War, it mattered not. I risked our mission because I lost control."      The little blonde shook her head, speaking after a long moment of silence. "It would appear that there is no easy answer," she replied at last. "However, it does become somewhat...perhaps 'easier' is not the correct word, but one becomes more acclimated to it, over time. It is like any new form of discipline, I believe it will take time to learn how to overcome it, and to rely on one another as we have always done."      But in their case, it might not be so easily done; Bedivere, for his part, had always been possessed of a berserker rage when it came to seeing his king fall. 

:'''{{#var:691|Yari Takane (691)}} has posed:''' Yari's head tilts in thought as she listens. "More or less true. But I think you're forgetting something. Dun Realtai's ultimate worth is it's people. And not just the Elites here. Tough, strong people like that...I'll admit, if this wasn't a neutral area, even a tiny village like this could prove useful. But I guess I'm being rude. Sorry, being a 'civilian' doesn't sit well with me." Manners is still something that Yari's working on. There's such thing as /too/ much honesty. The ninja is busy drowning her sorrows, but never once looks away from Saber. It's a skill honed by being in rooms full of subordinates likely more intoxicated than you are. Eyes widen a touch as it all clicks. She'd not heard of the invasions, and it certainly explains /why/ she finds conquerers so distasteful. There's a hint of sadness in her eyes for a moment. Yari had, and to a degree still does, hold out the hope of besting the woman and adding her to the Empire's forces like so many before her. But it's a thinning hope indeed. She may just be /too/ virtuous and strong after all. "Eikons aren't something to be underestimated. Or trusted." Comes the woman with the type of scorn the good Marshal might reserve for herself. But she softens a touch, leaning her head on her hand. "...I had a feeling you'd say something like that, but...I guess there's no easy path to anything, else it wouldn't be worthwhile. No merit or strength in it." Then she goes silent. Her mind races a moment, and then the lizardes leans forward. Personal space isn't something that one often considers in a cramped airship or in a military camp. Old habits die hard. "This might be an opportunity, then. Miss Saber. I'd start making sure your lover isn't just going soft in a place like this. I'll be doing the same. Because when we meet in battle? I want to see what you /and/ yours are capable of. Sanary and I won't dissappoint." There's something challenging in her voice, the Centurion poking at that knightly pride. Maybe it'll help all four of them, after all. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      The knight-king folded her hands in her lap, giving more of an appearance of a refined noblewoman than the ruler of a country. "The people of a land are a resource unlike any other. Subjugate them, and either their spirit is broken to little more than machines, or else they rebel. The only wy to truly make the most of people is to approach them with respect; offer them treaties, alliances, and trade. They can only be useful to another country so long as their own sovereignty is respected." Or, in the case of certain two Knights of the Round Table, bring aid and be tasked with watching over them by the land's winter spirit. The Centurion did have a point,however; lord and lady of the land valued its people above all else.      Though she kept her face placid, inwardly the Servant wondered if she would need to tap into more of the buttery's stocks. on the other hand, that much wine couldn't be good for anyone.      It was just as well that the pieces had fallen together for the Garlean. It wouldn't have been the first time someone had become fond of the idea of besting the Saber and inviting her to join another army. Fortunately, she hadn't voiced it; aside from her duties to the Union, her allies, Dun Realtai, and above all her Master and the lord she appointed over the lands, there was still the matter of kingly pride. She had already warned Iskander off it during the Grail War, her previous smile fading into a stern rebuke: /I would punish you for that another time, Rider./ She was a knight, but she was more than that the King of Knights, and would never submit to the rule of another.      "And they are similar to Heroic Spirits? Elementals after a fashion, I assume?" There remained a great deal she still didn't know about the beings in question, and though she doubted they might find their way to the remote village, there was nevertheless the possibility. Best to prepare for any potential problems.      "Unlike many other problems, it is not something which can be trained for..." she began before there was suddenly a ninja in her personal space.      It would have been unthinkable in the days of her reign, when she had needed to maintain the necessary space to protect her identity. Fortunately, it was no longer Camelot, and said ninja was not a lecherous Pokemon trainer with no concept of chivalry. Likewise, Bedivere would have broken Hospitality again to defend his king, regardless of intent or not, and as luck would have it embroiled in his battle with paperwork. Yet the Saber for all the world did not so much as move, like a novice Lancer facing down a rival.      What might have been most surprising, however, with the faint smile, a mere suggestion of what might have been a wolfish grin in another. Perhaps to some, that challenge might have been an insult...not to the Servant Saber of the Fourth Holy Grail War. "Oh? Then I shall look forward to such a time, then."      If one didn't know any better, the other dragon had finally bared her fangs....and actually /enjoyed/ the prospect of a test of strength and skill. For all her otherwise peaceable ways, Yari had encountered a warrior. 

:'''{{#var:691|Yari Takane (691)}} has posed:''' Yari isn't quick to reject Saber's ideas. After all, the woman is more soldier than politician. No, she seems to ponder the whole thing as though she's toeing into waters clearly unfamiliar. "...Broken, or remade? I'll admit that your ideas are the 'ideal'. For a country to lay down its arms willingly is always preferred. After all, like you said, rebellion is always a factor in people worthy of joining an Empire." Seems the ninja is a bit blind that way, not able to see too far past what she's been raised in. "But reality isn't so sweet. Maybe your realm had that kind of time. We Domans, we Au Ra, lost a lot when we were conquered." There's no hatred in her voice, simple historical fact. "But men and women like me found a new strength. Discipline. Honor of a sort. And a way of living better than what we came up with." Then she shrugs. "But I'm not really good at this kind of thing. Politics, I mean. If you want a /real/ representation of our people, have a talk with Lord van Baelsar. Hard man to get to know, but...I think someone like you, Miss Saber, might just be capable of it. You're an easy woman to talk to when swords aren't involved." There's a sudden burst of amusement in her eyes, and a bit of worry. Saber's charisma, after all, is infectious. Definitely not good for her. Yari'd be well on her way to horrible consequences if it wasn't for Confederate technology. Sadly, she's learned early on to drown her pain in drink. It's, sadly, symptomatic of someone who drinks to forget. Yari has a few too many regrets that she'd rather not face, even in all of her duty. "You could call them Elementals, though not how Gridanians think. I'm not privy to but so much. I just have a few contacts, that's all. Creatures of magic that only want to gain 'followers'. And I don't mean gently." It's all she can say, but a significant tip. From what she's gathered, the Primals piss off Saber almost as much as Yari wants to stab them clean through. "I don't like to say this much, but they're all better off dead. Permanently." Her eyes narrow meaningfully. Perhaps the Servant comparison is apt. Yari leans back finally. She'd expected insult. What she got was a grin and an agreement. The woman rarely laughs. But she belts out a loud, curious little laugh. The lizard nearly falls over. By the time she controls herself, there's tears in her eyes. "You know, I half expected you to punch me for something like that. Maybe too much time in a bar." Then she slowly stands. For some reason, she looks much, much better. "...I appreciate it, Miss Saber. You'd make a fine Legatus." There's something of a smirk at the end, a gentle nudge. Then she's waving. "Let's both hope that some day someone finds out a real answer to all of our questions. Even for someone like me, it all sometimes is just a damn tragedy. Goodnight, Saber." With that? She walks towards the guest quarters, filled with questions, and maybe an answer or two for once. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Saber shook her head. "What is broken cannot be remade in the same way...what rises from ashes is a very different creature. What arose from the ashes of mine was no longer what I could call Britain, though the country bears its name, still." Perhaps more than she would have otherwise have revealed, yet the Once and Future King had seen the pattern at least once before. Though she herself had no inclination towards conquest, it had been a common enough theme throughout human history not to remark upon it. "And the, even what might seem a small rebellion is enough to spark that flame which brings a kingdom to ruin.      On that point she certainly had seen events first-hand.      "Perhaps, she acknowledged. "I ruled for a scant decade and one half. Had my reign been of fewer years, we would not have stemmed the tide as we had."      Battle, politics, charisma...Saber had ample experience with both. as a king, she had needed to possess it, to say nothing of appointing the right men to the right positions within her court. It would seem the Centurion might have gotten more thaqn she bargained for.      She certainly recognised the name; though she had not faced Gaius van Baelsar in combat, she had at the very least opposed him in the curt of the Dawn King. Strangely, the king of that particular realm -- in spite of being a Confederate, himself -- seemed to agree more with the King of Knights than the commander of the Garlean forces. Arturia was not entirely certain how that perticular discussion would go. She doubted it would end as poorly as the Feast of Kings had, but she was not entirely certain she would be able to hold her tongue for very long.      There was much the Au Ra wanted to forget, she could see that well enough. But it would not keep the ghosts away for long, though Yari might have to discover that for herself.      As for the Primals, Saber's expression remained dark, having faced at least one already. They were nothing to trifle with, but she would oppose them wherever they chose to appear. Odin's destruction was clear enough indication on what would happen if they ran unchecked. "It goes without saying that they have no place on this plane of existence," she agreed. "They cannot be permitted to wreak destruction on the people."      Though she prefered more peaceful means such as sparring, the truth was that Saber did very much enjoy tests of strength and skill. As repugnant as the Grail War could be, there was some measure of enjoyment testing her mettle against other knights throughout history and legend. Death threats were more of a point of honour; she met Lancer's promise to take her head with that same faint, wolfish smile, honestly glad to have been able to met such a skilled and honourable Servant. Death for them had no meaning; he was already dead, and she would be soon enough. Their promised duel had been cut far too short, a regret that she still harboured even after five years.      Yet, times were different now, and she could no longer take quite the same risks. The Servant was now more careful; her new duties to her friends, allies, her new home, and her lord and Master demanded that she refrain from throwing herself into every battle. But there was the truth that they were on opposite sides in a war which ran cold and hot depending on the circumstances, and it was nevertheless better to have honourable, skilled opponents. "It was merely missing the promise to take my head and serve it to your Master as a prize," she quipped softly, her smile never wavering.      It did, however, soften as Yari took her leave. "There are times when tragedy turns to triumph. I have seen it with my own eyes, so do not lose heart, Lady Yari."      With that, the Once and Future King of Britain returned to her work. 

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1737/Follow the Heron

2015-03-07T17:52:48Z

ForwardObserver: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2015/03/06 |Location=Dun Realtai |Synopsis=On a typical blustery day in Dun Realtai, Saber, Bedivere, and Irisviel have an impromptu chat about the..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2015/03/06
|Location=Dun Realtai
|Synopsis=On a typical blustery day in Dun Realtai, Saber, Bedivere, and Irisviel have an impromptu chat about the Fair Folk and cell phones.
|Thanks=
|Cast of Characters=346, 482, 603
|Tinyplot=
|Tinyplot2=
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Winter in Dun Realtai seemed to drag on through the months, most days blustery and filled with blizzards. When there was an absence of the latter, the skies were nevertheless grey and dreary. And the few clear days were nevertheless bitterly cold. It was only on these latter sort of days when villagers were sometimes seen about performing some necessary tasks -- along with the occasional outworld visitor or guest of the lord and lady -- and were otherwise found inside in the hearth-fuelled warmth of their homes and common areas. Thanks to the efforts of Union volunteers under the direction of the new lord and lady, none were lost to winter's bite, with modern insulation and construction ensuring that the usual drafts had been sealed out. The buildings had actually protected their residents.      And it was within the Great Hall of the keep where one of the people who had made sure of that now worked, driven by memories of her own homeland. Britain's winters had rarely been as harsh as Dun Realtai's, yet never had that season ended without taking lives along with it. More than a few lives of the very young, the old, the infirm, and the ill had been claimed by the icy grasp, either by the cold or starvation. In spite of all her best efforts -- and those of her knights -- there were always casualties. Upon coming to this distant land, Arturia Pendragon, Servant Saber of the Fourth Holy Grail War, had been determined to never allow that to happen here.      Much to her relief, their efforts had born fruit. Under the direction of the lord she had appointed, Sir Bedivere, the necessary reconstruction and preparations had been completed before the leading edge of winter descended on the land. They had both personally overseen the efforts, and Bedivere's keen eye had ensured that no detail went unnoticed. The villagers were well-protected and made comfortable, leaving enough time and materials to even begin reconstruction of the keep. That was just as well; many more visitors had made their way to the rural village and had been offered the hospitality which chivalry and ancient laws had demanded of them. Even several members of the Confederacy called the place their haven...albeit, some of the more honourable and well-behaved members, at any rate. The guest quarters had been rebuilt and refurbished enough to offer the necessary comfort of temporary longings, the baths remade in the style familiar to the Roman Britons. Arturia allowed herself some pride in that; many of their guests had praised them well for the Roman-styled baths.      And in spite of the harshness of the winter, it was an ideal time to simply relax. The weather had kept the knights indoors -- with the occasional foray for Union duties -- as much as it had the villagers. The most strenuous work they partook of now was the matter of accounts and paperwork...at least, as much as Arturia had permitted her still-recovering marshal. Oh, she had certainly forbid him any overly-strenuous work in these vital months...and, in fact, bade him catch up on the five years of decent rest he had been deprived of in the wake of Camlann. She only left his side long enough to make her way downstairs into the great hall, filling in necessary detail in various ledgers, a tea service set on the table and out of the way of the books, a half-filled cup of cooling tea not far from it. Her hair was bound in a loose braid, and she was dressed in a cream-coloured Aran sweater and wool trousers as she worked quietly near the hearth. In all, a peaceful scene. 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Sir Bedivere has somehow managed to keep himself busy in spite of the weather. For the most part, that's consisted of balancing ledgers, checking and double-checking the finances of the estate, and ensuring that things run smoothly from an administrative standpoint. Even as marshal, he had always had an eye towards logistics, and a keener eye toward figures and sums. He's also taken to light cleaning, arranging things and slowly digging out things like the unused storage rooms -- although they're not used now, his rationale is pretty simple. They're going to need that space sooner or later. Right at this particular moment, he's carrying a pile of unused clothing down from one of the upper storage rooms. Tunics, leggings, and even a pair of virutally unused boots atop the pile; it's all ready to be donated to whoever needs it most among the villagers. There's a similar pile not too far from the hearth, various clothing and tools from the castle's inner rooms; things left behind and somehow untouched. Some of it had been sealed in barrels and crates, which may account for its uncommon good condition; there's even the odd mail shirt among them, indicating that the place once had a standing militia of some kind. "That's the last of it from the northwestern storage room." Bedivere turns on his heel, slumping into the other chair across from Saber and picking drifting bits of cobweb from silvery hair. "Some sweeping, a verification from the stonemason, and those chambers should be ready for use." He reaches over to pour himself a cup of tea, glancing at the ledger. He doesn't even need to ask if everything's lining up on it; doubtless she'd say something if anything looked amiss. 

:'''{{#var:603|Emiya Kiritsugu (603)}} has posed:'''     Patter patter patter. Feet go down the hall. Feet belonging to a cat. A cat that Illyasviel has apparently picked up somewhere and which Irisviel is presently trying to locate after it escaped their quarters. She was not aware of the cat's adoption before it went out the door like a flash of orange and gold. "Ah... Here cat? Here kitty?" Iri calls out as she comes around the corner, looking for the cat, and missing it going down a different hall. "...Come here please, Mister Cat?" she asks. She has never owned a cat, so she has no idea how to talk to them.     Irisviel has a radio of her own now, in phone format, but every time she tries to use it she just winds up staring at all the Buttons and having a bit of a meltdown as she fails to figure out how to use it. She considered using it to call for help in reobtaining the cat, but... Buttons.     So it is that Irisviel enters the Great Hall in a stylish burgundy dress shirt, with a black ribbon at the chest, held in place by a diamond-shaped clasp. A white skirt layus overtop of black leggings, and white boots that reach up to almost mid-thigh. The homunculus's white hair hangs loose as is typical of her, as she pokes her head in, and asks somewhat anxiously, "Ah... Sorry to bother you, but have you seen what appears to be a small lion running loose?" 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      A brief, barely-noticeable frown flickered across her girlish features for a fraction of a second, though doubtless the sharp-eyed knight would catch it. It was one of conflicted feelings, betraying her internal debate. Should she scold him for not resting more, or thank him for his hard work? She had finally persuaded him to admit that he /needed/ to rest, but at the same time, he also needed to feel useful. But after that moment, the latter appeared to win out. "Good," she commented with a slightly wry smile. "The clothing will need to be mended, most likely...the weavers will not be at a loss for work."      Closing one completed ledger, the petite blonde set it aside. "Have you eaten yet?" Even she tried not to be overbearing, she could not help but fuss over him in some way. Fortunately, he refrained from complaint.      As if to spare him from further nagging, the Servant was mildly surprised by Irisviel's appearance. Arturia had been meaning to check up on her after their rescue from Einzbern Castle, but it seemed that there was no rest for the weary. At least the impromptu snowball battle had provided a window of opportunity. For the moment, however, jade eyes blinked owlishly at the request. "A...cat? I had not noticed the presence of one..."      In other words, it was quite good at catting, if it had evaded even her notice...though she doubted it had escaped Bedivere's. She turned a quizzical look at the pale-haired knight, the unspoken thought which might as well have been out loud for all their understanding. /Have you seen it?/ 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Bedivere cocks his head, regarding the pile of clothes, tactfully ignoring Arturia's inner conflict. Oh, he noticed it, make no mistake. He seems to notice everything when it comes to her. "Aye. Most of it is fairly dusty, and will need a good washing and drying. As soon as spring turns over, there should be enough sun to hang it to dry." He considers the pile for a moment. "The boots would be most welcome among the villagers, I think, although they may not be of much use in the snow." He shrugs. "Yes, but earlier. Ask the kitchen staff; one of them prepared a meal for me at my request." Incidentally, there aren't too many animals in Dun Realtai, these days. A few horses and the odd ox to help with hauling construction materials, but for the most part, the place is eerily barren. Whatever force had brought the town low had wiped out most of the animal life, and virtually all of the vegetation; the only things untouched were the forest north of the castle, and the single oak tree towering over the inner bailey. Maybe some enterprising soul had brought a cat with them to control nonexistent vermin. So it's a bit strange to hear someone calling after one. "A lion?" That seems to bring the knight to blink once or twice, quirking a brow. Good heavens, one would hope he'd hear about it if a lion got loose in the castle. Unless... "No. A cat? There are no cats here, Lady Einzbern," he says, with a shrug to Irisviel. "Something happened here, a long time ago, and there are no animals but for the horses and oxen in the stable. You must be mistaken... or perhaps the Fair Folk have taken an interest in you. Let us hope that is not the case." There's the briefest twitch of his head in response to Arturia's questioning look. No, there just aren't any domestic animals here beyond the beasts of burden, so how a cat got here is well beyond him. 

:'''{{#var:603|Emiya Kiritsugu (603)}} has posed:'''     "It was apparently in Illyasviel's room. I went to check on her and it went right out the door like a shot! I thought maybe she had picked it up somewhere or maybe Kiritsugu got it for her, but if there are no such animals here..." Irisviel taps her cheek with one finger, looking thoughtful. Then she smiles all n_n as she comes to a realization. "I guess it must have been a ghost cat! What a relief!" A ghost is a relief!?     She claps her hands together and says, "Well, since that mystery is solved, would it be terribly intrusive if I joined you two for a little while?"     Irisviel takes note of the papers and ledgers and says, "Perhaps I could even make myself useful by helping you organize things!" Would she even know what to do with a ledger? Fast learner though she may be, that probably isn't something that falls within her realm of experience. She might be better suited to dealing with ghost cats.     Irisviel looks at Bedivere while waiting to find out if she should stay or leave and smiles mischievously as she comments, "Oh-hoh~? I almost didn't recognize you looking healthy, rested, and not covered in snow, Sir Bedivere!" Then she looks down at herself in her newest outfit and says, "Though I suppose I was rather snow-covered as well. Saber has quite good accuracy!"     She pauses when she thinks about the suggestion of faerie folk. It took her a bit to think if she knew much about them, but ultimately she has to admit, "I... Am not certain what threat fair-folk pose. Should I be concerned if one is masquerading as a cat in my daughter's care? A ghost would be easier to deal with, but I have no idea how to defend against fair folk." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Perhaps amusingly to some, Arturia knew full-well he had ignored her internal debate; he was much too observant not to have noticed. Nevertheless, she had taken the high road...or, rather, the road less travelled. In this instance, the road less nagged. "In the summer months, certainly...if all goes well and the land is restored, be they crops or pasturelands."      the King of Knights nodded her approval. "Good. It would not do if you had gotten so caught up in your work that you simply forgot." Because she knew very well that he had done so many times in the past...if not in Dun Realtai, then in Camelot. Fortunately, she no longer needed to worry about concealing her concern over accusations of favouritism. And at this point in time, such accusations would be accurate; she did indeed favour her marshal.      A brief nod acknowledged Bedivere's answer. Indeed, it seemed odd that, with the complete lack of all but a handful of animals, the lands were devoid of life. And those animals would have likely perished had it not been for Union-provided supplies. Cattle, especially, required considerable amounts of feed, which would have been stored before the winter.      Which, given how many different varieties of Fair Folk seemed to be taking a sudden interest in the place, his assessment was likely correct. "Ah...given the nature of these lands, I do not believe it to be a ghost, either, Irisviel. I think perhaps...it is a manner of creature called a 'Cat Sith', a fae creature. They appear to have taken an interest in these lands as of late, though I cannot discern precisely why that is."      Her otherwise impassive mien instantly dissolved into a smile at her request, betraying a fondness which might have seemed peculiar. "By all means. You are most welcome to join us."      As if to emphasise her acceptance, Saber plucked a teacup from the service and set it down in front of an empty chair after filling it. "Ah, forgive me if I injured you in any way," she apologised with a hint of sheepishness. "I was rather caught up in the moment." Which, given stoicism matching Bedivere's, was quite the event.      Her expression sobered slightly on the subject of the fae. "Perhaps it means no harm...the Tylwyth Teg are a mercurial lot. Some are benevolent, some simply mischievous, and a few malicious. They all, however, do not think as human beings do. Their ways and thinking are alien."      She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "I do not believe this cat sith...if indeed that is what it is...means you any harm beyond simple pranks, if even that. Still, I would urge some measure of caution, merely to be safe."      In all, the King of Cats was far preferable to a watery murderhorse. 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' The pale-haired knight merely shrugs at that mystery, although the gesture could be in response to the request to join the table. He doesn't seem to have any particular stake in it, either way. What's one more sidhe taking an interest in all things Dun Realtai? Whatever it really is, it can't be any more dangerous than the kelpie in the lake. "No," he responds flatly, to her request to help, and shakes his head to punctuate the point. "I handle the ledgers personally. My king checks them, but they are my responsibility." There won't be any convincing him otherwise, to go by his tone of voice. It's one of the few things Arturia lets him do right now, and by God, he's not giving that up. "Leave it be, I would say." He shrugs again. "Perhaps it is simply curious. I do not think it would be harassing your daughter if it had any ill intent; it would have found itself a more high-profile guest, I think, or come directly to me. I am the one these creatures are watching. They are nervous, for they know not which way the leadership of this land will turn." He considers for a moment. "Best speak to Master Merlin if it does create any problems, however. He would know best what is to be done; he is experienced in dealing with such creatures." He's closer to the Otherworld than most. "And I must agree with my king. Remain vigilant, and cautious." 

:'''{{#var:603|Emiya Kiritsugu (603)}} has posed:'''     Irisviel seats herself at the table, taking note of Bedivere's insistence that she not help. Though she tries to remain serious regarding the discussion of fair folk, she can not help but smile a little at how possessive the knight is of his duty. "I would never dream of interfering then." Turning wine-red eyes on the King of Knights, Irisviel smiles happily and says, "No serious injuries occurred, and I had fun! I also got to meet another Illya! Though the younger of the two isn't sure what to make of her, she mostly seems to be treating her as an older sister rather than a replacement or imposter. Which is fortunate, because I'm not sure how to explain that I want to spend time with both of them otherwise."     Irisviel holds out her phone suddenly and says, "By the way, um... Could one of you show me how to use this?" 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      The speed with which Bedivere turned down the offer of help was mildly amusing, Arturia had to admit. She hid a smile behind her teacup as she lifted it to her lips, but it was a useless effort. He would have seen it, and more importantly, knew her disposition and her way of thinking. Bedivere hated feeling useless every bit as much as she did, and if he was forbidden from strenuous work, he would cling to that which he was permitted. In a way, it was her own fault for appointing him as lord over Dun Realtai. She had understood full-well that, should she assign him to a land, he could potentially work himself to death over it. That sort of dedication made him an ideal choice, though his propensity to overwork himself would make him a short-lived one if she didn't remind him every so often.      In retrospect, it had been a boon that the people assumed they were a noble lord and lady, otherwise looking after him would have proved much more difficult.      Her smile broadened slightly at the white-haired alchemist. "Ah, that is good. I had been concerned that there would be...difficulties, considering the nature of our different realities. But, that is good. Perhaps they will be able to have something of a normal life...if only a little."      Saber's smile broadened again at the rquest for help in using her phone. That task naturally fell to her; as someone from her own time without the benefit of knowledge from the Holy Grail, Bedivere still struggled with the sea of new technology he had been abruptly thrust into. And he continued to be suspicious of such things in general, though he had acclimated to the Union's radio reasonably well.      Holding out her hand, Saber replied, "I have some experience with such devices. Allow me." 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' The pale-haired knight takes his teacup in hand. It's hard to imagine him as one of the Round Table's most formidable warriors with such delicate features. His fingers are slender and almost delicate against the china he so carefully holds; fingers made for plucking harp-strings, not swinging swords. Violet eyes flick to the phone, regarding the thing blandly. It might be that he's more comfortable with technology and adept enough in the use of his own radio, but to Saber goes that particular honour. At least, that's what his bland look to her seems to say. To other Illyas, he doesn't seem to have much to say, either. He's not particularly good with such a precocious child, and his relationship with the older Illya and Chloe consisted of yelling at them for locking gulliable Gawain in a closet, so... he hasn't really gone out of his way to interact with any of them. He's been much too busy with more serious matters, like trying to keep Dun Realtai afloat through the winter. 

:'''{{#var:603|Emiya Kiritsugu (603)}} has posed:'''     Irisviel delicately places the phone in Saber's waiting palm, for a moment her dainty fingers resting upon the Servant's in a manner not unlike a lady accepting the waiting hand of a gentleman. She withdraws her own hand eventually, as she says, "I admit to not being sure what exactly a 'normal life' entails, but I think that, thanks to Kiritsugu, I've had something like one - at least a little. I've gotten to learn about the world, to fall in love, get married, have a daughter... And make friends." That last part she says while looking from Saber to Bedivere and back.     "I have met some very interesting people and seen some amazing things. And if the future holds what I think it does, we may get to see many more!" Iri squints at Bedivere and says, "The younger Illya even said that she respected your skills as a 'snow warrior', Sir Bedivere, after getting knocked off her feet by your counter attack. You two may have had a rough start, but after seeing you with the village children, I think you and she could get along well. She might even learn something from you."     Then Irisviel lifts her tea cup with a thankful nod for the beverage and, right before sipping from it, says, "You might make a splendid father some day." THEN she sips only to move directly to the next topic of conversation a moment later, completely innocently. "So, you said speaking to this 'Merlin' might help clarify things?" 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Arturia's interactions with the various incarnations of Ilyasviel had been limited as well, other than perhaps the Christmas gifts she had sent. Before her Unification, the Servant had had no true contact at all, observing her playing with her father out in the snow while she remained with Iri inside. That Ilya had been doomed to a life as the tool of the Einzberns and their centuries-old fool's errand...but the rescue of mother and daughter from the castle had freed them of that fate. But only time would tell if they were cursed to a different but hardly less-tragic fate...though Saber was determined to find some way to avert that.      It might have been ironic that the flaxen-haired knight spoke of a normal life, something she had never known for herself. From the moment she had drawn Caliburn from its stone and claimed her birthright, she had given up such a life for herself. Yet, that had been a choice she had made willingly, with her eyes wide open. The homunculi should be given that choice, whether or not they could cheat the nature of their creation.      And miraculously, Saber herself was granted something of a "normal" life upon coming to Dun Realtai. The place itself seemed to be a miracle...perhaps it could be that for the Emiyas.      "I have known little of what a normal life would entail," she admitted, gazing into the teacup cradled in her hands. "Yet, I do not believe such things are forever out of reach. This place...well, I believe it is possible, here. I have found my own life here, as have others. It is not such an impossible dream."      She smiled as she lifted the cup to her lips, listening to Iri's report of Ilya's 'battle' against the knight from Dal Riata. Yet, she had lifted her cup far too soon, nearly choking at the homunculus's innocent comment. That was likely to earn a raised eyebrow or two, especially given how red her face turned after that. And however embarrassed she was, doubtless it paled in comparison to how her marshal would react.      "A-ah yes...Merlin was my tutor before I ascended the throne of Britain," she replied hastily, fumbling with the phone. "He is, like the fae themselves, mercurial. he has seen many things, and I daresay I cannot comprehend his ways, but...he has never led me astray. His advice is usually sound." 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Bedivere considers his teacup while the women talk; or, more specifically, while Arturia takes care of the phone. While it's entirely possible for him to figure out how it works, it isn't his place to, and he wouldn't deprive Arturia the pleasure of helping. He takes a slow sip of tea, savouring the warmth and the mildly sweet taste, and it is in fact half a second before he realises what it was that Irisviel actually said. Saber nearly chokes. Bedivere actually does choke. Explaining Merlin's going to be all up to Saber. The marshal's no good for the next five minutes, because he's busy trying to clear tea out of his windpipe. 

:'''{{#var:603|Emiya Kiritsugu (603)}} has posed:'''     Irisviel sort of feels guilty for making Bedivere choke and Saber almost choke, but not really, because she thinks they're adorable together. So though she offers Bedivere whatever the closest thing to a napkin that is available might be, and says, "Sorry, sorry! I guess what I said was really surprising~!" she is not too worried. She is more concerned about his choking than anything else.     It's true that she may not be able to negate the limitations of her own nature as an artifical life form, that she might one day just grow weak and die, but that can happen to anyone. Accident and illness can claim any life. She is no different from anyone else in that regard. So, she believes, now that she has this chance, she might be able to live as a human after all. And that, she believes, is as close to normal as she can get. Philosophical matters are put aside in favor of the answers being given regarding Merlin, all while intently watching Saber mess with the phone.     "Hmm... It sounds as though it would make sense if he were a fae himself. I will ask him about this -suspicious cat- as soon as I am able! Curious or no, it's my duty to protect Illya!" Irisviel, in the midst of her declaration leans in close to Saber and points at one of the buttons. "-Ah, this one here with the cone and the little waves moving away from it. Do you suppose it unleashes a sonic attack?"     It's the speaker-mode button, so she's kind of right. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      For all their stoicism, those masks come crashing down so easily with just the right amount of leverage. And in Iri's case, it was not so much 'leverage' as it was taking a sledgehammer to those walls. Normally, the Servant recovered quickly enough, though at times only to prepare for another assault to her dignity. But this time, it took her a little bit longer to recover. Thank the Lord that she had another subject and task to latch onto, though she spared a worried frown obliquely at Dun Realtai's beleaguered lord.      With a notable clearing of her throat, Saber shifted with some awkwardness into the topic of Merlin. "He is half-fae," she replied. "Or demon, though it would depend on who is asked."      Bedivere probably suspected he was wholly demonic, given his disapproval of the wizard's forms of entertaining himself and stirring up trouble. "But he has trafficked with the Fair Folk long before my birth...if there is anyone who would be able to discern this fae's motivations, it would be he."      Arturia blinked a few times owlishly before explaining about the phone. "Ah...that would be button for the speaker function, Irisviel." 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' "Most probably it is a lesser member of the Fair Folk. I would not be too concerned, but I would nonetheless continue to watch the creature." Bedivere recovers wiht great dignity, straightening and clearing his throat with another lingering cough, rubbing at it with his free hand. "Cait Sith, as my lord says. Trickster-spirits, but rarely malicious." He simply nods in response to the description of Merlin, although it's more of a dip of his head than anything else. It looks like it's more grudging than anything else. That's because, well, Merlin. 

:'''{{#var:603|Emiya Kiritsugu (603)}} has posed:'''     The white-haired homunculus makes an impressed sound at Saber's knowledge of phones as the speaker function is explained. When there is confirmation as to Merlin being half-fae (or half-demon), Irisviel seems pleased. "Oh, my guess was almost right then! I'll take your words under advisement, brave knights. I don't intend to start a conflict with fair folk, but I'll keep an eye out regardless-" Then the sound of a little girl calling out to a cat outside the Great Hall can be heard, coming closer and closer, and an orange and yellow cat goes fast-walking by at the pace of a cat who is not quite motivated to run but motivated enough to not be caught.     Moments later Illyasviel passes by as well, arms outstretched, still calling out to 'Leo'.     "...Ah. My apologies for the..." Irisviel turns an embarassed look on Bedivere and Saber. "...'Liveliness' that has come with our stay here." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      It was not simply the faeries that Dun Realtai had apparently attracted the attention of. In fact, many oddities had somehow made their way out to the remote village, drawn by some mysterious calling. Whether it was some faint yet powerful leyline, the concentration of several Heroic Spirits, or something else, something had piqued the interest of all manner of beings. it might be that neither Arturia nor Bedivere would truly ever understand that compelling force, but it was an interest that kept them both on their proverbial toes even as they allowed their masks down for the first time in years. They could relax in Dun Realtai...though apparently, not /entirely/. There were still dangers out in the multiverse both known and unknown...and somehow, the knights had led them to their doorstep.      "Even so, some might be searching for something...a trace of power, perhaps. Or satiation of their curiosity. But I am not worried that you would unknowingly provoke them. My concern is for your own safety, as well as that of Ilyasviel."      As if she had summoned her, Saber could hear the voice of the homumculus child calling out for the cat -- or more likely, the faerie King of Cats -- before Ilya made her appearance searching for a 'pet' who most likely considered the pair his own pets. The Servant chuckled her reply to her mother. "Not at all. It is, in fact, most welcome. Dun Realtai is not a tomb, but a haven. Life, in whatever form it takes, will always be cherished." 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' The pale-haired knight swills his tea around in his cup, looking down at it as he does, though he flicks his eyes back up at mention of the court wizard. Somehow Merlin has become something of the court wizard in this place, although the marshal has little trust for the man. There's always an ulterior motive. He watches, somewhat nonplussed, as a cat passes by at a dignified high-step. He watches Illyasviel pass by not long after, arms outstretched and calling to the cat. Mortal or sidhe? It's hard to say by appearances alone. If there's one thing that the sidhe are very good at, it's concealing their own nature. Then again, one could probably argue that mortal cats might as well /be/ sidhe. They're not too dissimilar in temperament or behaviour... His gaze slides slowly back to Irisviel, and he simply shrugs in response to her apology. "As my lord says," he offers simply. "Better a town than a tomb." Those violet eyes slide back toward where Illya vanishes, tottering after the 'kitty.' Lifting his hand, he touches his forefinger and thumb to his mouth, and gives a single short, sharp blast. Something huge slinks into the room -- Kepas, with his grinning skull-face and vacant eye sockets, sliding smoothly into a bow before Bedivere, the better to fix the lord with those yellow lantern-lights that serve as eyes in those dark, dark sockets. He's got the look of a greyhound, sleek and smooth and made to run, but he's about the size of a very large draught-horse. "Follow the child. See that she comes to no harm. She may be chasing after one of your kind, and I know not their motivations." He reaches out, giving the skull-face a fond pat. "Go." Apparently the creature understands him, or at least vaguely understands what's wanted of him, for he turns and slinks away without a sound, eerily silent. "She will be safe, at least for now. Kepas is a formidable ally," he offers, climbing to his feet with a half-smile that almost borders on sardonic. "However, if you will pardon me, I should like to take my leave. I have resting to do." With a final bow to the two women, he takes his leave, retreating up the stairwell with little more noise than the fae-hound. 

}}

1632/Garleans Upon Dun Realtai

2015-02-22T18:47:49Z

ForwardObserver: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2015/02/21 |Location=Dun Realtai |Synopsis=A Garlean Trooper has taken up Dun Realtai's hospitality, and Centurion Yari Takane arrives to assess th..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2015/02/21
|Location=Dun Realtai
|Synopsis=A Garlean Trooper has taken up Dun Realtai's hospitality, and Centurion Yari Takane arrives to assess the state of her man and repay a debt. She finds good food, good wine, good company, and perhaps good friends.
|Thanks=
|Cast of Characters=346, 560, 691
|Tinyplot=
|Tinyplot2=
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:691|Yari Takane (691)}} has posed:''' Centurion Takane is as good as her word. Arriving atop three chocobos outfitted for the weather, Yari and her two fellow soldiers pause through the crunching of snow. Yari is dressed, rather than her usual legion-color leather armor, a black and red formal uniform. She's missing the magitek arm as well, and even her blade. For once, she's not sporting any hidden weaponry, aside from a few smoke bombs just in case. Her two compatriots are both human, with blonde hair and green eyes. Young, likely not much more than seventeen, the two are bedecked with packs, potions, and other supplies. Not a weapon on the two. It's a risk, but Yari's research and the ways of those who greeted her on the radio have her extending trust. The trio simply wait even as they announce their arrival on the radio. Wincing a little after the long chocobo-ride agitating the gunshot wound to her right side, she can't help but rub it a little as she awaits. There's a zippo extended from a soldier. Yari gives a tiny nod, pulls out her pipe, and lights up with her companion's help. Smoke and frosty breath fills the air as they await their escort(s). 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      The weather in Dun Realtai remained generally unforgiving, a harsh and dangerous place to become lost. The otherwise dead and barren land showed signs of what had once been vegetation, lost to an unnatural, artificial winter when its winter guardian was forced to assume responsibility for the land and its people until the arrival and appointment of their current lord. Villagers remained indoors for the most part rather than risk exposure to the extreme cold and winter storms. In all, a bad place to become stranded...except for the fact that Dun Realtai lay beyond the warpgate. And according to both chivalry and the ancient laws the guardians followed, no one in need could be turned away.      The Centurion's subordinate was tended to with care by healers from the village, and no questions were asked. Therefore, it was somewhat surprising when Arturia Pendragon heard over the radio that their guest's superior had finally found their wayward scout and requested a visit. And as per their own rules, she could not turn her away.      Dressed in a leather jerkin and trousers with her ermine-lined cloak thrown over her shoulders, the King of Knights rode a large grey mare out into the snow-covered lands to meet their new arrivals and escort them into the keep. "Greetings," she hailed as she arrived, her voice quiet yet somehow carryiong with the rest of her regal demeanour. "I am Saber, the one you spoke with over the radio. I welcome you to Dun Realtai."      And with that, the group was under the absolute protection of the lord and lady of the land so long as those laws were observed. 

:'''{{#var:560|Emiya Shirou (560)}} has posed:'''     Emiya Shirou doesn't like sitting idle. When he hasn't been learning riding from Sir Bedivere or practicing Projection elsewhere with Iianor's support, he's been...     ...hauling firewood all over the place, checking on people, doing handyman work all over the place to keep the cold out...     As usual, he doesn't spend practically ANY time on himself.     Disturbing.     he's in the keep though when the King of Knights and her entourage arrive, hanging up his own jacket... 

:'''{{#var:691|Yari Takane (691)}} has posed:''' Trooper Julus is lucky to be alive. A dark skinned, tall elezen man, three arrows and an unfortunate encounter with an Ochu left him poisoned, half-dead, and at risk of losing an arm. After fever, chills, and a bit of work from the villagers? The young scout is alive, healthy, albeit missing a pair of fingers on the left hand. He's proven a good guest: amiable, quick with a joke, and full of fanciful tales of questionable truth. While not the best scout in the unit, his effects on morale and skill with numbers makes him invaluable. It's part of why Yari has risked freezing weather and wound aggravation to come collect the man. She simply refuses to leave someone behind if she has any choice in the matter. Especially those that prove their worth. The two Troopers beside Yari straight up in their saddles as the King of Knights approaches. Yari herself is a little slower on the uptake, visibly flinching as she moves into a smooth salute. The pipe, in its red and black, is then flicked empty and stored in her belongings. Embers quickly burn out in the snow. "Lady Saber. Centurion Yari Takane. These are the medicae I spoke of." The twin healers give swift nods to Saber, with sharp 'Ma'am's'. "My thanks, and that of the Legion, for taking in Trooper Julus. How is he?" In a quiet, but firm tone, she swiftly moves to the topic of her wounded soldier. Looking the King of Knights over, measuring her up, she then spies Shirou. A blink, and a nod to the man. "I am under the impression you are a member of the Union, Lady Saber? Even so, so long as there's no harm to Empire or Confederacy, we will repay your kindness." Here, she bows just slightly as her tail curls. The trio are already starting to usher their chocobo slowly forward, ready to fall behind Saber should she lead on. One of them noticably takes stock of the area, seeming a bit curious. Yari's own eyes flit about at village and keep alike. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      The jade-eyed knight acknowledged not only Yari, but the accompanying healers in turn as they rode through the village. Most of the villagers peered with a mild curiosity out through heavy glass windows yet remained inside, though not out of fear or apprehension of anything other than the weather. "Well-met. Your man is well...I have seen to it that he has been tended to until your arrival. The winter here is a harsh one, yet he seems to not have suffered from anything more severe than frostbite."      A pair of stablehands come to collect the chocobos as well as Arturia's mare as she rode into the bailey and dismounted, somewhat surprised by the large birds and mildly curious, but otherwise rather calm. It would seem that they had become accustomed to the odd outworld guest or two.      From there, the flaxen-haired knight leads the group through heavy, intricately-carved oak doors into the blessed warmth of the great hall. Saber shrugged off her cloak after leading them to a table and benches near the hearth as servants brought bread, cheese, and spiced wine. As in the case of the other villagers, the aura was of calm, mild curiosity.      "We are of the Union, yes," the Servant explained. "However, all are welcome within the walls of Dun Realtai so long as the Laws of Hospitality are observed. We are bound to protect you for as long as you remain a guest here." Apparently, this meant even Union members had to behave themselves, whether or not they felt an attack was justified. "As we are likewise bound by chivalry to never turn away any who are in need."      When she caught sight of Shirou, the otherwise stoic mien shifted slightly into a faint smile. "Good afternoon, Shirou," she greeted softly but with an undercurrent of warmth. "Have your studies been well?" 

:'''{{#var:560|Emiya Shirou (560)}} has posed:'''     Oho, Chocobos! Shirou spotted them through a window moments before everyone arrived. Seeing the birds always put him in a good mood. They're so full of life!     ... MAYBe that explains the faint smile he's showing when the group enters and Saber greets him. The young puts a hand on his hip. "Nn! Next time there's another feast I'll ride circles around Mordred." Well that's clearly a joking boast. But he CAN ride somewhat now, at least! ... Around town, anyways...     His gaze sweeps over to Yari and the twin healers. "This is the first time I've seen the Garlean Empire's people in these parts. Just what happened wit this soldier? I didnt hear anything about this until now... have been busy around town." 

:'''{{#var:691|Yari Takane (691)}} has posed:''' The journey through the village proper slowly melts the facade of soldier-like perfection in the two Medicae. The pair quietly converse in whispered sub-tone over their linked devices. One even gives a friendly little wave to a young girl smooshing her face to the glass of a window curiously. Yari, for her part, remains as formal and rigid as she has since arriving. Indeed, it might mirror something of the good King's own mask, though far, far less practiced. Beneath it all, little subtle facial cues of curiousity, but mostly /worry/ are etched there. It only lessens slightly at the news. "Mmm. Better than expected. It seems our preparedness for..." She pauses, coughs, and lets the thought drop. She'll have to re-think her Multiversal Scouting Strategies later. Chocobos properly borded and 'kweh'ing happily, the trio enter the hall. One of the troopers openly gasp. Warmth, food, and a harth. It's a little vision of heaven for tired and wounded troops. A look to Saber questioningly, and then, a nod to her troopers. The duo look quite happy to accept the offered victuals; tucking in with efficiency and gusto. Yari is far more reserved, taking her seat in measured paces after removing her own cloak. She's notably quick to pour herself some wine, sipping it down and letting out a sigh of relief. Only now does it become apparent the cold hasn't done well for her at all. She moves slightly closer to the hearth. But her eyes never seem to leave Saber, studying her increasingly openly. "I am unfamiliar with these Laws. Please explain?" A glance to Shirou, and the voice is recognized. "Squire Shirou. Greetings." Then, the lizard-soldier looks to one of the Medicae. "Trooper?" Gulping down a slice of cheese, the human turns to Shirou at the question. "...Well, Julus loves hunting. We had been on a tour of duty, supplies running low. So he goes out to bag something edible. Next thing we know? Bunch of bandits show up. Julus leads some of 'em off while we fight the rest. Made the rotters flee, moved on, tried to find 'im. Last tracks at a warpgate, and blood. Probably got hit, ran to the nearest gate. Just chose the wrong...heh, or maybe right one. Going from forest to cold isn't good for you." The man had been likely put up at the Inn, and only recently was awake enough to toss his superior a message. Yari looks to Saber as she finally starts making herself a sandwich. "You and yours have encountered our troops before?" Asks the Centurion conversationally, a quick glance shot to Shirou. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      For all their isolation, the villagers hardly seem the insular, suspicious sort; reserved, even perhaps cautious, but not the suspicion normally associated with such apparently isolated communities of cold climates. As if the people were well-used to foreign visitors...or had full confidence that their guardians had their protection well in hand. That confidence was certainly not in the half-ruined walls around the village, where something had clearly rammed into them. What work that had been done on them had evidently been halted once the inclement weather set in. Likewise, there were no signs of arbalests, trebuchets, or turrets from which archers could rain arrows down on armies laying siege to it. Either there was no perceived need for them, or what there had been was destroyed some time ago, and the efforts to rebuild had been entirely focused on the village, where most of the buildings were clearly recent. In spite of the mediaeval style of architecture, there were signs of modernity; the occasional LED light, indications of indoor plumbing, and modern insulation.      The keep likewise appeared to have been rebuilt recently; newer stone had been laid atop old from whatever damage the rest of the village had suffered. Timber was replaced completely -- some of which with, strangely, what seemed to be bamboo -- and some sported what appeared to be Celtic-style knotwork. Some benches and chairs boast woven cushions of wool either plain or dyed modestly, with similar Celtic patterns.      Waiting until the weary soldiers have seated themselves and gratefully partaking of the offered hospitality, the diminutive knight explained. If she was troubled by the scrutiny, she didn't reveal it, her stoic mien unwavering. "Were we are from, there exist the Brehon Laws." Was the knight not from this land, then? "Among them, there exist the Laws of Hospitality. Once a guest has been welcomed and offered hospitality, the host may take no aggressive action against them. Likewise, the guest is expected to honour that same agreement, and take no action of aggression against his host."      With a languid yet graceful movement, Saber claimed a scone from the tray in front of her. "Moreover, the code of chivalry likewise forbids it, as well as demands that we never turn away someone in need. In this weather, there have been more than a few who have had need of the shelter we offer freely."      She nearly grinned at Shirou. "I have heard that Sir Bedivere has been teaching you," she replied. "I shall look forward to it, then." At Yari's last question, she shook her head. "I have not personally," she admitted. "I am familiar with the chocobos you have ridden, though...the ones I have experience with have been rather...spirited." Ivalican chocobos, apparently, the mean bastards. 

:'''{{#var:560|Emiya Shirou (560)}} has posed:'''     Ack, now the spotlight's on Shirou. The look he returns to Saber is a little bit sheepish. Like he can really ride circles around a Heroic Spirit. Well, he's willing to try!     Or at least not make a fool of himself next time.     "A few times." Shirou answers cautiously. "With the interests of figuring out what's happening in Hydaelyn and ending that war as fast as possible." He's carefully omitting the fact that he's been against them several times.     They aren't exactly happy memories or worth bringing up now. "But let's leave the war at the door. It can stay outside along with the awful cold." 

:'''{{#var:691|Yari Takane (691)}} has posed:''' Even if she's here for peaceable reasons, Yari is too much of a soldier to /not/ guage the defenses. She takes in every detail, lips pursing slightly. A village such as this could likely be taken without a single blade drawn with her unit alone. Judging by the defenses. In the warmth of the hall, with such kindness laid to those who would in theory be enemies, the thought threatens to push the Centurion into a spiral of depression. How many kind, good folk had died by their Empire's hand? An all too sobering thought. But one that's dashed by belief. An unfortunate sacrifice, but a necessary one for Hydaelan. She notably consumes her wine with indecent haste, thoughts of war and death clouding her features in sadness. Then she slams down a now empty wine bottle looking slightly more stoic as she draws on that mask from the sudden haze of depression. Thankfully she holds her liquor well. "Mmm. These terms are agreeable. Medicae? As soon as Trooper Julus is recovered and further tended to, you will assist the villagers with any illnesses that you can treat. Do not fear to hold back supplies, or assist in other matters. Bring the Empire honor and glory. Do not tarnish the Emperor's name. Understood?" The two troopers swiftly salute. Then she's looking to Saber. "If that is agreeable, of course. As I am currently on light duty after an injury, I too will offer what help I can." Comes firm words, the soldier straightening up in her chair. Yari's lips budge upwards. "...War chocobos are often that way. Several in our unit are enough to unseat all but our best riders." There's a hint of mirth in her voice, and perhaps self deprication. Yari is /not/ one of those best riders. A small nod offered to Shirou. So too does her exterior crack as cold limbs warm and the feeling of /safety/ enters her. For a ninja, it's almost shameful. For the woman called Yari Takane, it's a vast relief to feel that way. "Yes. The topic was foolish. My apologies." His answer earns him a tilt of Yari's head, tail swaying just a bit more. "However I wouldn't turn down to discussing your perspective on it at another time." Yet another of her small, formal nods, and she finally lets out a breath. "I am curious about this village. It's not unlike certain villages in the Empire. Was this technology pre-existing, or the work of those arriving after?" Here, she sounds honestly curious. The place is a backwater by her standards, but that just gives it a charm of its own. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Were she in a similar situation, Arturia would have been engaging in much the same, she realised as she observed the ninja appraising the state of the village and keep. So too, for that matter, would her marshal, the Left Hand of the King, now Lord of Dun Realtai. It was only in what had become their home where they could truly allow their guard to lower and their stoic masks to slip. Yet, they remained vigilant per their chivalric code, and with good reason. There would always be threats even to remote villages such as this, and their first duty was to protect the people.      Similarly, she knew of a similar depression, though hers she was forced to hide behind the mask of the ideal king. Wars had constantly harried Britain, driving her to seek the utopia of peace. She was never able to realise that dream...at least, not in Britain. But Dun Realtai was another matter. They had been able to realise something of their dreams in this deceptively desolate land. And woe be unto anyone who decided to intrude upon that peace.      But for the moment, Saber merely performed her duties as a proper king, knight, and hostess. "That is agreeable," she replied with a slight nod of her head. "However, there is no need to repay us. I ask only that, should you see fit to help the people in any way, we would be most grateful." And, of course, Saber considered herself in the personal debt of anyone who chose to help those who had become, as far as she was concerned, her people.      On that topic, the flaxen-haired knight-king lifted a teacup to her lips before responding, which the servants had brought her knowing of her proclivities. "The more modern technology was brought here by relief teams," she explained. The truth of how they came to be there was not of any particular tactical advantage, so there was little harm in it. It did, however, affirm that they were not, in fact, natives of the land. "Dun Realtai had been devastated following its previous lord going mad and corrupting ice elementals, which were responsible for devastation of the land. We felt that the people would resent too many changes, and so we have only introduced enough to improve the quality of life for the villagers." What went unsaid was that the lord -- himself from a similar time frame -- was more comfortable that way, as well. As a Servant, Saber was comfortable in more technologically-advanced settings, but the idea was to provide him a place to heal just as much as for the people. 

:'''{{#var:560|Emiya Shirou (560)}} has posed:'''     "I went and brought it up." Shirou counters apologetically with a shake of his head. "but sure. There's a lots of questions that need answering."     "We should bring in some bicycles once the snow melts," He suggests in an aside to Saber a few moments later. 

:'''{{#var:691|Yari Takane (691)}} has posed:''' And an excellent hostess she is. The two medicae eat as though they haven't had food of this quality in weeks (likely true), and drink with reserved gusto. They need to be somewhat sober for seeing to their charge here, after all. Yari, being on semi-leave as she is, is far less restrained. She's already on her second bottle, and third plate. This one can eat. Being a ninja requires quite a few calories to defy laws of physics. "Your selflessness is admirable, Lady Saber. The honor of the Legion demands repayment, however." She states quite simply, as though the matter were closed. It's a bit forceful for one with such a quiet voice. It's a skill perfected by chastising Troopers. The matter of technology is torn into, curiousity clear in her eyes. Yari's no engineer, but she's used to Garlean life enough to be familiar. "A neutral village, rescued from a madman, and reinforced by relief teams presumably from both sides. In a...'multiverse' of war, this village is an oddity." She states, before devouring a slice of cheese. "...Mmm. Credit to your cheesemaker. Perfect texture, good consistency, not overly aged." Yari pauses, coughs, and continues her thought. "...Apologies. The atmosphere of this place is relaxing. I may stay a day or two, duties allowing. I wish there were more villages like this." It's an honest thought, ended with a sigh. And more wine. When she's had her fill, the Centurion leans back in her chair. The two medicae excuse themselves. Taking out her red and black pipe, with some fumbling, she sets about seeing to her vices. A glance to Shirou. There's a tiny, bitter little smile, but it passes. "Squire Shirou. Forgive me if it's too forward, but why do you wish to become a knight?" She asks suddenly, lips thinning to a line as though the question was awfully important. % 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      At Shirou's suggestion, the Servant frowned thoughtfully. "Hmm," she mused, tapping a finger on the side of her teacup. "The pathways and roads would need to be mended first, however, that is an agreeable idea." Not that she nor Gawain had any problems guiding their motorbikes over the terrain, but then again, they possessed high Riding skill. Normal people would have more difficulty.      On the subject of war, however, her expression turned sombre. "My kingdom was constantly plagued by wars," she reflected. "It is our intention for this to be a land of peace...the peace we were unable to realise for my kingdom." She was not as secretive as she once was, and saw no need to conceal what was, if she was to be completely honest with herself, fairly common knowledge. She referred to herself as "we" now rather than "I", having appointed Bedivere as lord of Dun Realtai and took her place at his side as his lady. Yet, she was in many ways still a king, and carried herself such. In fact, she simply didn't know /how/ to stop being a king. At times, it seemed completely out-of-place that a woman who had ruled a kingdom behind an impartial and aloof mask would lower herself to the status she now held, but the people had noticed how much /relief/ it appeared to bring her. She was still a knight and followed the Eight Virtues as absolutely as always, but the once-broken king had been slowly healing.      "I would expect no less, for those who hold honour in such esteem," she observed, and she did nothing to keep the slight tone of approval out of her voice. "However, any kindness paid to the people is a kindness unto me. You are welcome as a guest within these walls for as long as you desire."      As if to underscore her point, servants led the healers up to the upper floors of the keep where the guest quarters were, whether they preferred the open-bay hostel accommodations -- not entirely unlike military barracks, likely for housing the keep's guards when there were any -- or private rooms, and shared Roman-style baths as if to declare the evening's luxuries were still to come.      "It would be an oddity in many worlds," Saber admitted. "We had no wish to disturb the livelihood of the people any more than it was already, yet it became much more, in the process." It had become their home, and a refuge for a number of people on both sides of the battle lines. And she preferred to keep it that way.      "I shall inform her," the Servant replied with a slight smile. Though they had brought in what could not be replicated, many people were determined to return to their work, as if to forget the pain of losing loved ones or else simply to reassert their independent spirit. She had found it was better to simply bring in more livestock and allow the people to perform their own milking and preparation of dairy, rather than import everything outright. It was quite refreshing for her and her marshal both. 

:'''{{#var:560|Emiya Shirou (560)}} has posed:'''     "--eh...?" Why does he want to be a knight?     Well for starters Shirou doesn't really want to be a knight per se, so the question at first leaves him staring much like a deer caught in headlights.     Yet he has to answer honestly. Especially with Saber right here. Not going to be any dodging this one.     "It's not quite that I want to be a knight specifically." He begins cautiously, for it would be very bad if Sir Bedivere heard him say this the wrong way.     "Braving challenges that need to be overcome, saving people who need to be saved, helping people who need to be helped... before I came to the Multiverse I was training to... for that kind of work." No he's not gonna say 'to be a superhero.'     "... for one world it's emergency workers or superheroes, for another it's knights... the Knights of Dun Realtai are the best example of such a thing I've seen and have my complete respect. Why wouldn't I want to be like them and protect the Dun Realtai too? Learning to be a Knight, I think that will put me on the right path." 

:'''{{#var:691|Yari Takane (691)}} has posed:''' Yari goes utterly silent as Saber speaks of her kingdom, and peace. There's a small breath, somewhat uncomfortable, even as there's a contemplative look on her features. Another deep drag of pipe, a breath, and she ends up with a frown. "...It's unfortunate. There are so many who want peace. I cannot say that I really know what peace is." Offers the woman somewhat timidly. It's odd, to share honest words with an enemy. But the offering of Saber's own life is returned in kind. "I was an orphan. Taken in by the Empire. So all I have known is war. And I won't presume to speak for the Emperor. But I think our purpose is to achieve that thing called peace. I will not sit here in this hall of good people and say what we do to acquire peace is just, or maybe even right. But I believe only the strongest and most skilled can make unbreakable peace. That is why we take and conquer. So that one day Hydaelyn can be free. To subdue without dishonor to the defeated..." She straightens, mask of neutrality slipping back on. Her head is fuzzy. "My apologies. Your wine is too enticing, I did not mean to ramble on meaningless subjects." There's a look away from the duo, and then back. Her lip is bit for a moment, and then she lets go. "...I will report to my Legatus that this land possesses no tactical worth, and that its status as a neutral ground will be beneficial in remaining so." She says quietly, with a nod to Saber and Shirou. Not an unfair judgement, but Saber's cause here is one she can get behind. "I simply ask that you show me what 'peace' is. I doubt that I will see that in my own world in my lifetime." Her words of honor have Yari tugging lip-corners but she's otherwise silent. A small nod of assent, conceding victory in the battle of honor as it were. Then Yari once again focuses on Shirou. His answer has amusement tickling her features, and a bit of sorrow. "Respectfully, Squire Shirou, your life I think will be a painful one." She starts honestly. "You wish to save. But there will always be loss. The path you wish to walk is not knight, or warrior, or soldier. No, I have not met one who walks the path you wish. There's always a greater goal other than saving." Then, she pauses. "But if there really is a path like that, I would like to see someone walk it. If we meet on the battlefield, I will be interested in seeing what someone of your intended path is capable of." A tilt of the head, curious, and then respect. Her tail curls. Then she's devouring another wine bottle. Her features soften, shame and confusion in them. Why was she being so open and honest? Only with Sanary has she been so forward. "...Too much wine, I speak too freely. My words are the wind. Ignore them, Squire Shirou. Mmm?" A hand goes to her ear, and her features light up. She calms with a breath, and stands. "It seems Trooper Julus is awake. Excuse me, I should see to him. My men and I will make use of your baths as well. Thank you both. Please let us know how we may assist. Good night. I..." She looks away, then back to the pair. "It's a pleasure and honor. This Multiverse possesses wonderful people." A formal salute, and the soldier is off, full of thoughts of these two new lives, and the paths of all within. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      If Shirou was concerned that Saber would be dissatisfied or disappointed in his answer, he needn't have worried. Her smile was faint, almost secretive, as if privy to something which his answer had reminded her of. "Have no fear of that," she reassured him. "In truth? Sir Bedivere had not wished to be a knight precisely, either."      That might stun the red-haired magus to learn, and she was not going to go into much more detail than that, but there was the simple truth he needed to hear: not everyone who had become a knight did so to become one specifically. "The wish to serve the people, to protect them and possess the strength and discipline necessary to do so...that is what it means to truly be a knight."      To Yari's musing that she never knew what peace truly is, she responded with a soft, contemplative 'hm'. Jade eyes became slightly unfocused, staring down at her teacup without seeing it. Instead, she mulled over Camelot and her dreams for it...dreams which were never to be fulfilled. "I only knew peace for a short time, and I wished it for my kingdom, though that meant no longer knowing what that meant for myself. I was not to know it again until I Unified, and I had given up on having a true home until I came here."      She regarded the ninja thoughtfully, seemingly without expression or judgement. "I knew another who spoke similarly...though he never sought peace. But his armies were made from those he had conquered, and who joined him to pursue their course wherever it led them. Making war is not necessarily evil, in and of itself. But to do so means never being able to truly rest." Not that Iskander had any inclination to, not when the ocean lay beyond the lands he rode into with his Companions at his side. But, she suspected, she and the Centurion were cut from very different cloth. Perhaps those she served were, as well.      "It may be," she mused, fingering the handle of her cup, "That the means to bring true peace to your world might lay here. This is a place of peace, but it is also a place of healing, of learning. Stay a while, and you may yet find what it is that you seek. And for yourself, as well."      /In Vino Veritas/, as she had discovered for herself, her dignity long fled when it had come to those times with Bedivere when mead or Mjod was involved. But typically, those times were a needed release....and ihe same might possibly have been true for Yari, as well. Whatever the case was, Saber merely shook her head, as if to imply not to worry about it. "No words will pass beyond these walls. What is said here remains here." As she said, it was a place of healing, of release.      "Of course," she replied as Yari made to check on her Trooper, standing as she did. "Have you need of anything, ask of one of the servants. As it has been said, you are welcome to stay for as long as you have need." Whether that need was physical or spiritual, Arturia left that up to Yari.      Folding her arm at her chest, the knight rendered a formal bow. "As it was for me, as well. Welcome, my lady, to the Fortress of the Stars." 

}}

1463/The Road of Passage

2015-02-01T08:01:30Z

ForwardObserver: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2015/02/01 |Location=Dun Realtai |Synopsis=The mysterious Saber of Silver pays an overdue visit to Dun Realtai...and to the King of Knights. |Thank..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2015/02/01
|Location=Dun Realtai
|Synopsis=The mysterious Saber of Silver pays an overdue visit to Dun Realtai...and to the King of Knights.
|Thanks=
|Cast of Characters=227, 346
|Tinyplot=
|Tinyplot2=
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''     As it has been in these winter months, the weather in Dun Realtai is crisp and cold, with intermittent days of sun among the almost constant snowfall. Days are spent in attempts to clear out the village square to at least permit some passage between the buildings and the warpgate so vital for incoming supplies. With the real winter following so closely upon the heels of the unnatural enchanted one, the villagers had needed to rely on supplies brought in via the Union. Yet, many of the alien saviours who had first driven off the corrupted ice creatures had actually remained to help them to get back on their proverbial feet. Fiercely independent and a little insular as these natives were, the more cynical among them had expected the do-gooders to retreat back into their strange gate and leave them to their fate. Only, their new guardians were unexpectedly cut from the same metaphorical cloth; not only staying to lead the rebuilding efforts and introducing such life-saving features as modern insulation, but they knew when to step back and allow the people to rebuild their homes and shops themselves. None took their unexpected stroke of good luck for granted.     But then, the new lord and lady had more than a bit of healing to do themselves. Perhaps it was merely a strange quirk of fate that the multiverse had brought together ailing, yet proud people to heal one another. They had all lost much, the lord and lady able to empathise with their plight and their pride. And of course, it hardly hurt their image that the two weren't afraid to get their hands dirty...figuratively /and/ literally.      Currently, the lady in question is out in the unusually light snow, the lone person outside with the townspeople secure inside. Dressed in plain -- if thick -- woollen commoner's attire and thigh-length leather boots with the hood of her cloak raised, she busied herself silent examining the recently-restored rooftops for any signs of stress under the unrelenting snows. 

:'''{{#var:227|Saber of Silver (227)}} has posed:''' "It's colder here than I expected..." The silver-haired Saber murmurs under her breath, which is quite visible in the cold air, as she walks down the streets of the village. "This is the right place, I hope. I'd hate to have come here for nothing..." In deference to the chillier weather, she's wearing a fur-lined kimono, but it still is not really suitable for the temperature here. She seems... mostly okay, at least. She's a bit tougher than just a bit of chill wind! "Now, I'm sure I should be able to feel the presence of another Saber nearby." Green eyes close, and she takes a deep breath. An image of Saber forms in her mind, perhaps shaded a bit into being even more dashing and handsome than reality, but one can't fault her for embellishing her memory, right? "...ah!" Opening her eyes again, the silver-haired Saber looks up, allowing a faint smile to her lips. She's doing nothing to hide her own presence, and in fact is broadcasting it openly. It's much more dignified than just -yelling- to get Saber's attention. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''     The moment the other Saber extended her senses outward, the shorter one's head jerked up, sea-green eyes narrowing as she scanned the horizon beyond the stone walls of the village. The presence of another Servant didn't necessarily mean hostility by default, but better to be prepared. Yet, even as she remained vigilant, the King of Knights remained in her current attire, Excalibur unsummoned.     But upon looking down from her current rooftop, she couldn't help but blink owlishly as jade eyes met emerald, recognising the other Servant. The hard demeanour eased somewhat; though still aloof, her stance relaxed somewhat. Saber straightened, balancing easily along the roof's edge before leaping down effortlessly down and landing with supernatural lightness not far from the other Saber.      "Greetings, Saber," she hailed politely, her hood falling back to reveal flaxen hair pulled up into a high ponytail. "What brings you to Dun Realtai?" 

:'''{{#var:227|Saber of Silver (227)}} has posed:''' There was no killing intent, so the silver-haired Saber has yet to summon either of her weapons, nor don her Mystic Robe. As her gaze meets the other Saber's, her expression softens. There's no large smile there, for such a thing was frowned on when she was raised, but her face shows she's quite pleased to see the blonde. "Saber," she says softly in greeting, incining her head. "I... ah. I had hoped to come visit you, in all honesty. We've discussed meeting in the land you've come to oversee, and I've come across some free time today." The silver-haired Saber tilts her head slightly, glancing at her Servant counterpart. "It's not any trouble, is it?" 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''     For her part, the Welsh Saber's face remained mostly neutral, though compared to the serious expression she typically donned for most other Servants who were not in her inner circle, it had softened considerably. If anything, she was slightly surprised that the other Saber seemed pleased to see her.     "Ah, yes. I remember," she replied, but now a faint smile alighted her face before shaking her head. "It is no trouble. I welcome you to Dun Realtai."      She bowed slightly -- European-style, as she recited the clause of protection. "Under Brehon Law you remain under our protection for as long as you are a guest within these walls." 

:'''{{#var:227|Saber of Silver (227)}} has posed:''' For a moment, the silver-haired Saber worried if she was truly welcome... but the blonde's statement eases her mind. "Thank you. And I'm glad to hear my arrival isn't causing any trouble." She takes a moment to glance around. "Though I'm afraid my clothes do make me stand out from the locals quite a bit..." The villagers here probably have never worn a kimono in their lives. "Brehon law?" A few curious blinks, though she understands the intent if not the specifics. "Ah.. but if we're going to discuss further, might we go inside? The winter here is harsher than it is at home." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''     For all its mediaeval European appearance, the village showed some signs of its recent modernisation; many of the lightposts featured LEDs rather than easily-extinguished flames, composites were incorporated into various buildings for strength and durability, and there were hints of indoor plumbing. Likewise, the people were accustomed to some rather strange visitors with peculiar ways of dress. It was hardly the first time they had seen a kimono...though certainly more modest than what one of their long-term guests preferred.     "Actually, we have had quite a few visitors and guests dressed quite differently. That said..."     The petite knight looked up at the sky before she continued, as if she expected the light snowfall to pick up. "It offers little in the way of protection from this climate."     "Of course," Saber replied with a deferential nod of her head before turning to lead the other Servant up into the Inner Bailey and the Great Hall of the keep. "The snow is light for now, but it will not remain so for much longer. If it becomes so that you are unable to leave for whatever reason, there are private guest rooms on the second and forth floors, and a hostel on the third, each with shared baths."     She turned back before they reached the heavy oak doors. "Also, a meal can be prepared, as well as tea, should you desire." 

:'''{{#var:227|Saber of Silver (227)}} has posed:''' There's the barest hint of a shiver as the climate is mentioned, and the silver-haired Saber nods. "I'm afraid you're right. Especially my shoes..." Or sandals, as they happen to be. "Ah, I don't think I'd be trapped in by weather, but I do appreciate the offer." Private guests rooms on multiple floors does sound tempting, though. "Oh, I wouldn't want to impose! Though... some tea would be nice, I admit." She keeps close by the other Saber, occasionally stealing glances over. "It seems you have a very organized kingdom here. Though... this isn't your original one, is it?" That last question is more of a musing aloud, mostly because she's fairly certain that Servants are from long enough ago that they'd have trouble ruling their own lands again. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''     Saber remained silent on the matter of the other's sandals, though she did glance at them thoughtfully. "It seems that, regretfully, the snows will likely not abate until perhaps the next month, or possibly the one following," she admitted. "And even then, what is on the ground will likely not melt away completely until April."     So it would seem that the petite Servant had some experience with a similar climate, or at least weather...enough to make an educated guess at what they could expect.     At the polite refusal -- or at least expectation that the white-haired swordswoman would not be snowed in, Arturia inclined her head slightly. "As you wish."     The doors opened up into a pleasantly warm hall, the heat of the hearth-fire carrying throughout the cavernous chamber. A few servants busied themselves with the day-to-day tasks of upkeep, pausing only briefly to notice the lady and her guest. Saber made a gesture to one, who then retreated into the kitchens to prepare a proper tea. Saber stopped at a table near the fire, gesturing to the wooden chairs made more comfortable with cushions affixed to them and waiting of the other to seat herself first.      "I would not say this is a kingdom," the jade-eyed knight admitted. "But no, it is not mine. We were tasked with watching over this place while its winter guardian regained her strength, in place of its previous lord, who had gone mad and all but destroyed it."     The servant Saber had gestured to earlier set down a tray laden with green tea -- something the Japanese Servant would no doubt appreciate -- and, somewhat oddly, a few scones and butter, curtseying after Saber thanked her and returned to her other duties. Saber poured for the both of them before she continued. "However, we have been granted guardianship indefinitely for the work we have accomplished here. Now, it is our home." 

:'''{{#var:227|Saber of Silver (227)}} has posed:''' "Ah.. no slight intended, of course! I just don't want to be away from my Master for too long. He'd worry, and so would I. We've yet to find a trace of the other Servants in our war, and it would be terrible if one showed up while I was spending several days here." As she steps into the hall, the silver-haired Saber takes a deep breath. Ahhh... warmth. She visibly relaxes just from the change in temperature, stepping serenely over toward the indicated chairs. "I suppose if you're not acting as its king, then it can't be a kingdom, then..." The Servant sits down and takes a moment to smoothe her kimono, then offers a grateful nod toward the servant who returns with tea and... food she's never seen before. "Ah, so the people love and trust you? That's another mark of a good leader, though." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''     Saber shook her head, a slight fraction of movement. "There was none taken," she reassured the other Servant. "Many who visit find themselves unable to return to the warpgate, and we would be remiss in failing to shelter those who have need of it. It would violate Brehon Law and chivalry alike."     Her eyes flicked to the stairs leading up into the residential areas. "It is most fortuitous that this castle has such capabilities. It was last to be repaired -- our efforts were entirely on restoring the homes and the essential areas of the village before the winter set in -- but it has been adequately restored to accommodate servants and guests."     A slight frown marred her features, though it was not directed at her guest. "Still, I appreciate your consideration...I have no wish to embroil those people in the War. Though my own ended some time ago and there is no longer a Holy Grail to claim, that is not to say that there would be other Masters and Servants who would involve me, regardless of that."     When the white-haired Servant seated herself, Saber slipped her cloak from her shoulders, folding it and laying it over the back of a nearby chair before seating herself. "Even if I were still a king, this is bit a humble village, with pastures and farmland but little else that we know of. And even those are barren for the moment."     Arturia ducked her head slightly in what might seem like a strangely embarrassed gesture."To be fair...they are grateful for our help, and our respect of their independence. Much they wished to rebuild themselves, and we merely lent aid to restore the homes before the winter, so that none would be lost to cold or illness."     Her previous faint smile them became warm, her features settling into an expression of fondness. "Further, the people owe their lives to the knight I appointed as lord of this land. I have absolte faith in his abilities as my marshal, and he has never disappointed me. This, as much as anything, has been a testament to his abilities and his dedication to the people. And they have responded in kind." 

:'''{{#var:227|Saber of Silver (227)}} has posed:''' The silver-haired Saber brings her tea to her lips and takes a very delicate sip. She's not short on mana today, it seems, else she'd probably have gone for the food immediately. Sabers are still Sabers. "What is it like?" Green eyes lift up, looking across at the blonde. "Still being around after the War is over, without needing to worry about it? I realize you're more of a warrior than I ever was, but I find the constant vigilance... draining, sometimes." She lets out a soft sigh. "Though I do enjoy being able to experience life here once more. There are a number of things in the modern world which I've come to appreciate." There's that faint smile again. "Ah? The knight you were with when we first met, yes? He does seem the trustworthy type. I'm glad to hear you have a marshal you can put such faith in." She looks thoughtful for a moment. "I suppose... we are two different types, you and I, despite our similarities." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''     For her part, Saber had made a habit of forming her own separate stockpile apart from the rest of the village's vital supplies, taking her own meals strictly from that. True, she needed that much for the same reason any other Saber-class Servant did; their powers demanded incredible amounts of mana. When Sakura had been her Master, she had little need to eat so much but with Bedivere still training to improve his own capacity, she had been forced to make uo that difference in her meals. And sharing with the other Saber would have likely meant another trip out into the multiverse for restocking.     A barely audible sigh escaped her lips. "I truly wish that I could be done with it, but I am nearly as involved as I was when I fought for the Grail. There are allies and friends who are either Servants or Masters, and their Wars are either halted -- as yours would appear to be -- or are already in progress. Another of my knights is also a Saber in a War currently being fought."      Arturia took a small sip from her own cup, with the regal grace the other Saber would expect from someone of her rank. "I must maintain that constant vigilance, even now....though for somewhat different reasons. Servants not of the Union appear in this place much more often than I would like, and I must keep watch to protect my people." It seemed that, somehow, the King of Knights now regarded the people of Dun Realtai as hers.     "Still," she admitted with a small smile, "To not be directly involved, to not be focused solely on winning Heaven's Feel...it is quite...liberating."      Saber nodded in response too her question regarding the man the Saber of Silver was introduced to simply as 'Fionnlagh.' While normally reticent, she did not hold back her praise of the pale-haired knight. "Indeed, he is, in truth, one of my knights. A most capable, trustworthy man."     In turn, Arturia frowned thoughtfully, with a bit of puzzlement. "You are a samurai, correct? If you indeed follow the code of Bushido, we are more alike than dissimilar. True, we have named virtues, but honour is honour, particularly in worlds and eras which do not value it as we do." 

:'''{{#var:227|Saber of Silver (227)}} has posed:''' "Ah... that's a shame. Surviving the War should allow for some larger measure of peace than that." It's a sympathetic glance that the silver-haired Saber gives her host, though she looks down at her cup of tea soon after. "Not that I know how I should feel. For all I know, we may find the rest of the participants only to discover they've already eliminated each other while we were away. Wouldn't that be something?" Green eyes blink in surprise. "You seem to have a number of knights involved in the Grail Wars. It must leave you feeling quite conflicted. I'm not sure what I'd do if I came across anyone I knew as a rival Servant... or even an allied one." She sips her tea lightly, mulling over that thought. "Mmm?" Eyes widen slightly, and she gives a shake of her head. "I'm honored, but no, I am no samurai. I know of bushido, but..." At that, she trails off, gaze sliding away. She's silent for a moment, before continuing as if she'd never stopped, "...I've never seen that code personally enacted." That admission is, in itself, something big, though she calls no attention to it save for a very faint blush on her cheeks. "But I agree. Honor is honor, no matter what it is called." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''     Closing her eyes for a moment before sipping once more from her own cup, the flaxen-haired knight permitted herself a slight smile. "Hm. It would be different had my own world not Unified when it had. In truth, I would have disappeared, then...my Master had ordered me to destroy the Grail, using his remaining command seals to give me that order. I had no choice, and I destroyed it...or so I had thought. I would have disappeared then and returned to my own era had I not Unified right then."     So she would not have returned to the Throne of Heroes, but her own time? That would mean that the Servant the emerald-eyed Servant now spoke with was not, in fact, dead. But how should such a thing be possible?     TSaber, for her part, was funny aware of that implication, as well as the next part of her tale. "I later learned from former Masters involved in the Grail War following my own that the Grail is, in truth, tainted, and any wish it could grant would likewise be tainted. if indeed you are the winner of your Grail War, I would urge caution."     Her expression became distant, as if hiding her true feelings behind her stoic mask. "Indeed," she admitted in spite of it. "Truthfully, I have been fortunate. I have made amends with some...I wish to make amends with all, though I have yet to encounter others of my order."     She permitted a slight smile then, dissolving the stoic mask. "Truthfully, what worries I have regarding other Grail Wars are few compared to the miracles the multiverse has granted me. Though I must remain vigilant, I have been granted a peace that even the Grail could not grant me. Perhaps we sought the Grail when we should have sought Unification."     Her eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise at the denial; Saber had been reasonably certain she could have been any number of heroines who acquired enough lore to become the highly-prized Saber class. She silently wondered; perhaps this heroine might have pre-dated even the samurai? It was entirely possible. To know of their codes was one thing, but to have never seen it practised...      But she doubted the Saber of Silver was going to go into much detail. On the other hand, Saber was more than happy to speak on chivalry at length...and often did. "Our own code was intended to ensure knights act only with honour," she commented softly. "If we did not, we would be mere savages, and the ones who would suffer the most would be the people we were meant to protect."     Here was one knight, it would seem, who took her duties with grave seriousness. 

:'''{{#var:227|Saber of Silver (227)}} has posed:''' "He ordered you to destroy the Grail? That seems... strange." And it goes against everything she knows of what the Grail War is supposed to be about. She's still wondering about that enough to miss the subtleties of where Saber might end up afterward. "So the Grail was destroyed.. and then the Multiverse interfered with the rest." The silver-haired Saber presses her lips together thoughtfully. "Your Grail was tainted? I haven't heard of that, though... it's not as if we can go ask anyone right now." A faint smile comes to her face to match the other Saber's own. "It has been a wonderful place. I don't think I ever would have been able to meet you, n..nor your marshall or any of the other friends I have made. I haven't come across the other Servants in my own War yet, but it seems the likelihood of anyone I've met being a Servant is low." Especially since the Saber slot is already filled. "Mmm..." The silver-haired Saber gives her blonde counterpart a somewhat coy look, though she dare not explain further. Not now, anyway. Little slips and hints can't hurt, but she'd feel she was betraying her Master if she let too much of her identity go. "A code to protect the people is a good one. Too often honor can cloud its own meaning and become more important than actually doing what is right." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''     "I learned later that he had somehow learned that the Grail was tainted, and that if his wish was granted through it, that wish would destroy much of the world," Saber explained. She remained somewhat ambivalent about Kiritsugu, but she did not doubt his intentions had been pure. It was his /methods/ she took great exception to. Perhaps if Irisviel and Ilyasviel could be saved...      "Unfortunately, for whatever reason he chose not to inform me, and merely ordered it to be destroyed," she continued grimly. "Whether he did not trust me to act with honour or else did not feel he had the time necessary to explain, I do not know. What I do, however, is that even that action had its consequences, and the fire created by its destruction consumed a large part of that city, killing hundreds of people."      The Welsh Servant took a long sip of her tea, as if to cleanse herself of the lingering bitterness of what she felt was her hand in that matter. Still, she continued. "My Master -- that is to say, in my own timeline -- passed away some time ago. Yet, almost perversely, a different version has Unified, at a point prior to my summoning. I suspect that version is tainted as well, and he has been warned...I do not agree with his methods, but...he is taking steps. That is heartening, at least."      Saber remained oblivious to the other's particular slip, smiling faintly. "It is good that there are other Servants within the Union. Though the Holy Grail War must end with only one Master and Servant remaining, in the multiverse that end is not always assured. There are other ways. It is merely a question of discovering them."      Straightening, the knight leaned back a fraction into the back of her chair. "Chivalry was founded to protect the people, first and foremost. The best way to ensure that was to create a code with eight virtues -- each as important as the next -- with the hope that those with honour would be bound by it to protect the people."     Regretfully, it didn't always work out that way. But as far as Saber was concerned, it was the only way she could ever be. She could never /not/ be a knight, nor not live by her ideals. 

:'''{{#var:227|Saber of Silver (227)}} has posed:''' "How can you tell if the Grail is tainted, though? It would be nice to know if ours is as well, though... I don't think it is." Still, the idea that the Grail is anything but what it's supposed to be is a difficult one for her to wrap her mind around. One hand comes up to cover her mouth as she gasps. "That's... terrible." Though from what little she's heard, she can at least be sure that the collateral damage wasn't expected. "Mmm.. I can't say I understand how the multiverse works, but the chance to spare others that fate seems like something worth pursuing." Slowly lowering her hand, the silver-haired Saber gives a brief nod. "This chivalry does sound like quite a good thing. I'm glad that you're able to continue to uphold it, even today." Another smile comes to her lips, and she glances away slightly. "I wonder if my life might have been different if I'd have known a knight such as yourself." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      A sigh escaped her lips again, but this time it was quite audible, with an element of weariness to it. "I do not know. I remained unaware of its true condition even as I destroyed it. It would seem there is no way of knowing until it has successfully been integrated with a vessel..."      She shook her head with a little more force than usual. "That, too, is unacceptable.The Einzbern family creates homunculi to serve as the vessel for the Grail. But it possesses them, erases their very identities..."     At the time, she had accepted that it was Irisviel's sacrifice to make. But knowing what the Grail truly was and the entire farce of the War made that something she would no longer merely accept. "The Holy Grail ultimately consumes their bodies to manifest itself. I can no longer merely accept that, especially not for something potentially tainted."     Her mind wandered to Shirou then, the young one who had Unified not too long ago...right in the middle of the village square, in fact. His past was already written, but there was another reality which had not been. If there was a chance to save the people in at least one reality, she would take it. "At the very least, we must try."     Her smile was a faint, bittersweet one when the Saber of Silver complimented her on chivalry. "It was a necessary thing...I believe it continues to be necessary. Something to guide us, to keep up on the correct path...it is as much a part of me as my blood, my bones. It is the only way I can live. I know of no other way."     The look on the other Saber's face was an all-too familiar one; though Saber concealed much of her own purpose and true feelings behind her rigid mask, regret was a constant in her existence. But after five years, there had been much she had learned. Therefore, it seemed strange to be giving the very advice that, five years ago, she would have disregarded in her dream to save Britain and to undo her entire rule. "Perhaps...but I was a...different person as the king. My regrets are many, and I will always mourn the fall of my kingdom. But it was never the utopia I wished it to be. And I was never the king I wished for my people."     Her smile coloured with that slight note of fondness, thinking of Bedivere again, and his promise to serve her faithfully again...and then Lancelot, and Gawain. In spite of her regrets, she treasured what she had now. Even who she was now.     "Who we are as Servants in the present would seem to be what is needed in the multiverse. We are no longer restrained by the Holy Grail War...we can simply serve as knights, or whatever honourable warriors we may be. We can accomplish with our own hands what we could only look to the Grail to grant us. We no longer have need of it."     Though subdued, the silver-haired Saber might catch the faintest glimmers of true passion in the undercurrents of her voice. "The multiverse is the miracle the Grail itself could not grant us." 

:'''{{#var:227|Saber of Silver (227)}} has posed:''' "Is that how it works? The details were always less than forthcoming..." The silver-haired Saber tilts her head thoughtfully. "Has it been like that for every Grail War, or only the ones from your world?" While she doesn't say it, she's holding out for some hope that perhaps her own world's Holy Grail War was different. The more she finds that are different, the better chance hers has. "There will always be regrets. I'm wondering if the Grail can only summon spirits who died with some regret in their heart. Else why would a Servant need a wish? Still..." As she looks up toward Saber, a soft smile comes to her face. "No one is without faults, and I'm sure you were a marvelous king. Your chivalry and goodness outweighed your mistakes." It might be those heart-lensed glasses of her mind speaking, but that's how Saber comes across to her, at least. "It does allow for our fates to be more in our own hands and not tied so tightly to the Grail. That thought alone is rather refreshing." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Saber shook her head. As involved in it as she was then and in spite of all she had learned since, there was much that remained frustratingly unclear or unknown. "I am afraid I do not have the answer to that, as well," she admitted ruefully. "Even with all I have learned, there is much which remains unknown to me, and to many others. I have my suspicions regarding those who might know...however, I do not believe I will be welcome by them in the near future."     Primarily because she had helped a version of her former Master rescue his wife and daughter from a life as Grail puppets. Well, no regrets on that front, at least.     "I have, however, heard that there are other Grails which have escaped similar contamination. Perhaps yours is among them," she offered helpfully. Saber still thought its pursuit was a bad idea in general, but for the moment, she hadn't been able to dissuade the other Servant.     But for the question of regrets, Saber took a small sip of tea before answering. And the telltale twitch of her eyebrow betrayed her true feelings regarding the person she was speaking of. "I do not believe that is the case. I know of at least one Servant who was summoned with no desire for the Grail at all. In fact, he claimed the Holy Grail was already his, but virtue of owning everything in the world."     Of course, the King of Knights was the sort of person who could not see herself the way others might see her, be those opinions favourable or unfavourable. She did, however, keep such thoughts to herself, merely inclining her head. "I thank you," she replied, but not without gratitude. There were others, as well, who had insisted on her virtue and the goodness of her heart.      And one such person needed to be checked on to make certain he wasn't overworking himself yet again. Setting her empty cup down on the table, the blonde knight stood with a faint smile. "Forgive me, but I have some matters I must attend to. You are welcome here for as long as you wish, and have the full protection of Dun Realtai and the Knights of the Round Table for as long as you remain under our roof."     With that, Arturia bowed once more and departed up the stairs of the keep. 

}}

1129/A Gentle Place

2015-01-20T04:04:15Z

ForwardObserver: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2014/12/12 |Location=Dun Realtai |Synopsis=When one is the King of Knights, one has a certain amount of dignity to maintain. Absolutely, hair-brush..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2014/12/12
|Location=Dun Realtai
|Synopsis=When one is the King of Knights, one has a certain amount of dignity to maintain. Absolutely, hair-brushing is NOT dignified. Fortunately, a certain Enforcer understands...but mothering shall not be denied.
|Thanks=
|Cast of Characters=306, 346
|Tinyplot=
|Tinyplot2=
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      'Tis the season of dreary in Dun Realtai, when the cold rain, sleet, snow, or a mix of all descend upon the small hold. That is, according to the villagers slowly rebuilding from the rampage of corrupted ice hounds, courtesy of Harkaiz. Fortunately for all involved, that particular sorcerer had been apprehended and brought to justice in the form of the winter-witch guardian of the land, Alaia. In gratitude for that, his abilities in rebuilding the ruined village, and his commitment to its people, Sir Bedivere had been granted governorship of the lands indefinitely. Which, truthfully, was just as well.      But for now, the lord of the land was resting following yet another brush with death at the hands of the Primal Elder, Odin. But as unforeseeable as that magical attack had been, his king did not lecture him over it. No, Arturia Pendragon -- the Once and Future King of Britain -- would not scold him even when he was capable of enduring a lecture. Of course, he might find that preferable than dealing with the Fair Folk, but such as it was. He needed better armour.      And for the moment, the former king -- now the lady of the land due to circumstances everyone else no doubt would find amusing -- had made her way downstairs into the great hall of the keep, single-mindedly focused on fetching tea for the both of them. Bedivere slept, but upon awaking he would require yet another dose of painkillers and a good spot of tea. The Servant could use some herself, actually. 

:'''{{#var:306|Fate T. Harlaown (306)}} has posed:''' Cold, rainy, dreary days are absolutely the best says for visiting friends. It does help that Fate is acquainted with the castle and knows exactly where to find it... and it also helps that any servants here likely know her face by now. She hasn't necessarily called ahead to let the lord and lady of the land know she was coming, though. Where would the fun be in that? So it may come as a surprise when the Enforcer's soft voice calls from the hallway near the kitchens. "I knew I'd find you here, Saber." The blonde gives the Servant a soft smile, adjusting the bag on her shoulder and advancing toward the king. She's in civilian clothes today, fairly casual, though bundled for warmth. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      In contrast to her stark appearance in a three-piece black-and-grey suit, Saber was typically found about Dun Realtai in a simple homespun leine and heavy skirt, with some modest embellishment but otherwise the clothing of a typical peasant of the village, her hair in a simple, messy braid over her shoulder and bound with a plain ribbon. Both lord and lady tended to favour such modest garments, much to the bewilderment of the villagers who were far more used to nobility showing off their rank in their finery. Even aside from their natural modesty, both were far more comfortable in such clothing.      The shorter blonde was certainly surprised. "Fate," she said, her eyebrows lifting with her surprise. "Truly, I did not expect you, today."      And then, likely to the Enforcer's amusement, devolved into fussing. "Had I known, I would have properly prepared...will simple shortbread be acceptable? I had no time to prepare more gingerbread..."      There was even some minor flailing involved. Indeed, a stark contrast to the once cold, aloof Servant. 

:'''{{#var:306|Fate T. Harlaown (306)}} has posed:''' That reaction is another plus to surprise visits. Fate gets to see Saber as she is, without any preparation. "I just returned from a mission, so not even I expected to come today. But I had some time, and it's been so long since we've had the chance to catch up..." No, of course the purpose isn't sinister. Fate gives the Servant a soft smile and reaches out to place a hand on Saber's shoulder. "Shortbread would be lovely." Nevermind that Fate lives with someone who grew up in a bakery. She's never compared what she gets at home with what she gets anywhere else. It would be unfair! "You do have some time to talk, don't you?" Fate didn't think she looked like she was in any sort of hurry, but she didn't want to assume. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Well, Fate certainly got her without any preparation. The people of the village had never seen her in her full regalia and distant demeanour as the king, but they had certainly seen her more recent facade of proper lady. Even if Arturia had no idea how a proper lady was supposed to look and behave. Instead, she had ended up cobbling together what she had learned during her reign in how to act dignified with her more recent ability to be open and warm. That seemed to go over fantastically, much to her bewilderment. Still, why question what worked?      But at the moment, Saber had been reduced to a persona which had been cast aside long ago and only recently surfaced completely; the girl she had been long before her ascension. "A-ah..." she managed. "Yes, that is true. It has been quite a while. I hope that your duties have not been too strenuous...."      Sea-green eyes blinked in surprise. "I...well, I am not busy, I was merely preparing some tea..."      Definitely flustered. 

:'''{{#var:306|Fate T. Harlaown (306)}} has posed:''' The smile Fate gives to the shorter blonde is definitely tired, but quite optimistic. "Things are never slow in my line of work, unfortunately. It's nice to have a respite for a few days before having to deal with another emergency, though." The Enforcer tilts her head slightly. "Tea would be wonderful too." At least she probably doesn't have to worry about her preferred style of drinking tea causing any issues here. Of course, a flustered Saber is an adorable Saber, and Fate makes a move to do something she'd never do in public to such a noble king. She leans over and embraces Saber, holding the girl tightly. "Just let me recharge my batteries a bit before tea, though." A mother's hug batteries can run dangerously low at times. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Fortunately, (or perhaps unfortunately, depending on whose perspective it was) the diminutive swordswoman's flailing had tapered off, giving way to her more proper demeanour. Yet, that traditional cold aloofness remained distant as she smiled softly. "Ah. I have found that, for all of the work to be done, and the difficulties the people have faced, Dun Realtai is a most excellent place to recuperate, or to merely stop and catch one's breath." It certainly had been that for the lord and the lady, who had been running on proverbial empty for years, sustained on little more than their ideals, before they had finally found a home in which to have a true rest.      Saber suspected that even the vision Avalon had promised could hardly compare.      If it had been anyone other than Fate and outside the Round Table -- the the excpetion of two others-- the King of Knights would have protested, possibly attempting to back away. She was still, after all, squeamish about her personal space. But Fate was in her inner circle, a friend over the five years she had been in the multiverse. "Of course," she replied with a gentle smile. And she even hugged her back, until she left to bring the tea and shortbread she had promised. 

:'''{{#var:306|Fate T. Harlaown (306)}} has posed:''' Her status as one of the privileged few who gets to do this is not unknown to Fate. She makes sure not to abuse said privilege by trying not to embarrass the small Servant in public. In private, though, where no one else can see? There will be hugs. There is even an imaginary meter that rises when Saber returns the hug, though it isn't full yet. Fate does, however, release the shorter blonde to gather tea. "I was counting on it being quiet and peaceful here." She sets her purse down on a nearby table as she awaits Saber's return. "There were some things I had wanted to ask you about as well... A matter that's left me a bit stumped, but I'm sure you could help me with." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      It wasn't long before the short blonde returned with a tray laden with shortbread and a tea service with two cups, cream and sugar. The pot contained green tea, but as for Fate's preference of drinking it...well, Saber wouldn't tell.      "We recently retrieved the former lord and sorcerer responsible for the sorry of the land," the Servant explained as she poured them both tea. "Yet, even then, it has been most peaceful. There have been some problems, but those have been of a more domestic nature, preventing erosion and ensuring the village homes have been sufficiently insulated, as well as food secured for the winter."      Pale eyebrows raised again, though in mild curiosity this time. "Oh? What do you wish to ask of me?" 

:'''{{#var:306|Fate T. Harlaown (306)}} has posed:''' Green tea is not what Fate would have expected in a place like this, but she certainly isn't going to complain. Especially when there's also cream and sugar. She gives a grateful smile to the Servant and wastes no time adding a bit of each to her cup. (And, somewhere in another world, a certain Mage probably gets a shiver up her spine.) "I'm sure that incorporating a few more modern ideas help as well." Did they have crop rotation in this time before? The teacup is lifted, a sip is taken, and Fate lets out a happy sigh. "Ah, well... a few things. First of all..." She lifts a finger and inclines it toward Saber. "I really should help you neaten up that braid of yours. I know you're not planning to leave the house today, but it seems a bit hastily done." The criticism is soft and gentle, though, with no harshness to her words. "And... I was hoping you'd tell me a bit about your nephew. Don't tell him, but I've drawn his name to give a gift to and don't quite know him well enough to know what sorts of things he likes." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Though not especially unusual when it came to a Servant accustomed to the modern era, the Left Hand of the King had likewise developed a fondness for something which had been primarily a medical treatment in their era. As such, there always seemed to be an ample supply, even of the more exotic forms. It was perhaps one of the few indulgences the knights allowed themselves.      "Yes, quite so," Saber agreed. "Insulation from the current era has been most beneficial, much more than, I can truly express." Plans of crop rotation were set aside for the spring, once the frost had passed.      The Servant's smiles wavered, however, at the critique. "W-well, yes I had merely braided it to keep it out of the way...but I have been too preoccupied to properly braid it.." Why did she suddenly have a sense of dread?      Thinking of Gawain was nearly a relief. "Ah, well...in truth, I am still learning, myself," she admitted with a hint of lingering sadness. "But he seems to very much enjoy the era he was summoned to. Perhaps something from that time? 

:'''{{#var:306|Fate T. Harlaown (306)}} has posed:''' "I'm sure the citizens here enjoy the possibility of warmer homes in the winter, as well." Fate definitely enjoys that tea, slowly sipping at it to savor the mix of flavors. "Ah, he's been enjoying his time then. That's good to hear. I know that Servants are able to adapt to different timelines, but... still, it's good to know he is enjoying it and not just coping." For Saber, Fate has no worries. Especailly with a place like this, she's quite certain that the young king is enjoying her time in a different time. "Mmm." That soft sound conveys quite a deep meaning, though Saber may not recognize it right away. As the Enforcer sets down her cup, she walks around behind the Servant and begins deftly undoing the loose braid. "I'll take care of it, just this once." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Saber's expression turned slightly determined, a subtle change from the traditional stoicism, containing a hard edge with her commitment. "Enjoy, yes...but more importantly, we shall not lose a soul to the winter. The heated water brought through internal plumbing will help, as well."      Lightly sipping her own tea, the Servant suppressed a wry smile. "He has more than simply adapted. Sir Gawain has evidently embraced the modern era." As had she and Bedivere, in their own ways...though perhaps more the former than the latter. Even her motorbike seemed to set the marshal on edge, even if he equally shared her wonder over things such as modern medicine. Or, more importantly, how many lives it saved.      Yet, they both felt the most comfortable where they had now found themselves. It was not simply nostalgic; it was, in many ways, a second chance. An opportunity to truly make a difference this time.      Indeed, that was a sound which filled the knight-king with a growing sense of trepidation. Which was soon justified. "...Ah?"      Soon, she was sputtering not unlike the way a certain other had been when the tables had been turned. "Th-that is not...you need not trouble yourself..." she protested futility. 

:'''{{#var:306|Fate T. Harlaown (306)}} has posed:''' "Heated plumbing is a -wonderful- invention. I'm sure that everyone here will appreciate being able to take a warm bath even in the middle of winter." Although she never lived in times of lesser technology, she knows of them from her history classes in school. They didn't seem pleasant at all. She's also visited a number of worlds with similar problems... but it's nice to hear that this place will be free of some of them. "I'll keep that in mind, then. Perhaps a trip to a world along the same timeline as his is in order..." Gears are already turning in Fate's head as she sifts through some ideas. A sputtering Saber is an adorable Saber, but Fate doesn't point that out. She merely smiles and runs her fingers gently through the hair as it's pulled out of its braid. "Now, now. It's no trouble at all." The taller blonde gives a few more strokes through Saber's hair with her fingers before reaching over to her purse and drawing out a brush. She's a mother with a preteen daughter who has very long hair and another teenage daughter whose hair has been growing out. Of course she carries a hairbrush with her. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      The flaxen-haired Servant nodded slightly. "We had insisted that the village be rebuilt first, with modern plumbing and insulation to keep out cold and moisture. The granary, as well...what provisions the Union has sent needed to be preserved from rot and pests."      A mere five months ago, Saber would have referred to herself in the singular, though some had expected her to refer to herself in what was apparently known now as the "royal 'we'". A peculiar change for the knight-king, though perhaps expected. It seemed that whatever altruistic work she had done either in Dun Realtai or abroad, she now spoke constantly in the plural.      She almost seemed chagrined as she continued. "Ah...though the villagers, in gratitude, restored the fifth floor of the keep at the same time, regardless."      And, of course, had mistaken the /precise/ relationship of the king and her marshal. It had worked out for the best, but not without considerable embarrassment on both their parts.      The Enforcer was awarded another nod. "I have visited his world, as it were," Saber explained. "It is not very different from the era I was summoned to, as our Wars appear to have been nearly ten years apart." She paused, tilting her head slightly. "He appears to enjoy video games, I have noticed."      It might have been an amusing sight to some: it appeared that there were currently only two people who could send her into such stammering fits. Though only one seemed to be able to cow the Servant in turn. At the moment, that Servant sat quietly with a strange sort of obedience when Fate went into Mom Mode. She did have to admit, the brushing was quite pleasant. If she had done even half as well brushing and braiding Bedivere's hair, than Arturia could be rather pleased with herself. Even if she didn't say it. 

:'''{{#var:306|Fate T. Harlaown (306)}} has posed:''' Given that she knows the hand Bedivere has had in restoring this place, Fate isn't fooled into assuming that Saber has changed pronouns. "If this is their first winter with these things for the village, I'm sure they'll be even more grateful the colder the weather gets." Crimson eyes glance upward toward the ceiling. "Fifth floor? Is that the top of this place?" She didn't count stories on her way in. "Ten years of technological growth can do quite a lot... but I'll keep that in mind. Thank you, Saber." There are definitely some ideas forming. The brushing is gentle, even when tangles are encountered. This isn't being done by someone in a rush to get a girl ready for school in the morning. There's no time limit, so Fate carefully brushes out the Servant's hair. "I usually see you wearing this up in a bun... I didn't know how long it was, Saber." Mom Mode is a terrifying thing, and very difficult to stand against. Fate seems quite pleased, though, as she smoothes and straightens out Saber's hair. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      If anything, the King of Knights almost speaks as if she is a part of a married couple. Curious, that. "The late autumn season is bitterly cold and often rainy, I have been informed," she noted. "They have not misled us, that is indeed what it has been. Even now, they have been most grateful for these changes." To say nothing of a lord and lady who place the needs of the people above their own, but the typical answer of both knights had always been to reply that it was simply their duty.      "Yes, it is," Saber explained after another sip of tea. "Those have been the quarters of the previous lord, and were restored in short order for the new lord to have a proper place to live." In spite of all his protestations to the contrary. Even his quarters as a knight of Camelot had been extravagant by his standards, as Spartan as they had been. But then, their shared chambers were larger than even hers had been as the King of Britain. Bedivere was hardly the only one whose sense of modesty protested at the perceived extravagance. The fact that the quarters also served as a necessary office still seemed a bit decadent.      "You are most welcome," the jade-eyed knight replied with a smile.      Only now, she had an almost defeated expression, unable to resist. She was still not certain what it was about her that brought out Fate's maternal instincts, but she was never one to appreciate her appearance beyond properly projecting the image of the flawless king.      "A-ah..." she stammered slightly. "I...it was necessary to be able to bind it so, for it to be as long as it is."      And it did help considerably that she was not the only one to wear her hair so long, or even braided... 

:'''{{#var:306|Fate T. Harlaown (306)}} has posed:''' Cold and rainy. While Fate spent most of her time growing up on Earth in Japan, she did learn some about other parts of that world. "Then is the weather here much like the climate you grew up in, Saber?" England is cold and wet, from what she remembers. "It must be a little nostalgic, with the environs and the castle..." Crimson eyes glance upward at the ceiling briefly, as if doing so would allow her to see the fifth floor. She's mostly thinking, though. "It is quite nice to know that they've accepted you, though. It means they trust you and they want you here." A faint smile crosses her lips. "And it sounds like they're supporting some of your choices as well." Fate is being vague for now, but there's no need to address it directly and embarrass the Servant. "Mmm?" With soft but firm strokes, the blonde brshes out Saber's hair more thoroughly. "I've gotten used to fighting with my hair loose, though it certainly is a lot easier to tie it somehow... though I've outgrown the twintails I used to wear." She pauses a moment, working the brush through a bit of a tangle in the king's hair. "Have you considered trying other styles? A ponytail is easy to put on yourself if you're in a rush." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Saber tilted her head slightly, her gaze turning inward with the effort to recall what were now somewhat distant memories. Perhaps not terribly long ago, but she had been living predominantly in a temperate part of Japan for the better part of the last five years. Additionally, the Servant had been on frequent missions to all manner of different worlds with vastly different climates, much more disparate than even between Britain and Rome. It had been a great many experiences to take in.      But there were some things she remembered with clarity even now. "I lived for the first fifteen years of my life on an estate in...I believe it is called 'Wales' now? A small farm, in truth, but it had been given to a knight loyal to my father. Sir Ector was his name. I believe he had been grated a leave...he had seen many battles, and they had taken their toll on his state of mind." Post-traumatic stress disorder, most likely; the same as what Bedivere struggled against now. "It was reasonably warm in the summers, though never oppressively hot. But the winters could be dismal, cold and wet."      The petite knight shook her head slightly. "But even those winters seem mild compared to Dun Realtai. It is far colder, in this place, than any winter I can remember in Britain."      She nodded slightly in agreement, sipping her tea after. "Indeed. Perhaps it is because we have committed ourselves to healing this place, to help rebuild it...yet, we have been careful not to interfere too much, or simply solve all of their problems for them. The people here are quite independent, perhaps even a little proud." In other words, the people were not so very different from Saber herself. But she failed to catch Fate's other meaning. "Choices?" she asked, blinking owlishly in bemusement. The knight-king did have to admit that the brushing was rather pleasant, and the working through tangles were not especially painful. She had dealt regularly with far worse. "Ah...on occasion, when I do not anticipate battle, I simply pull it back, or braid it only loosely." Such as the low ponytail when she wore her suit, the high one when she busied herself with work around the keep, or the braid she had loosely woven for the previous ceilidh.      "A few times, I do not so much as bind it at all." Primarily because A Certain Knight had said that is looked nice like that. She wasn't trying to be /too/ obvious there, but then, most already had an inkling as to why. 

:'''{{#var:306|Fate T. Harlaown (306)}} has posed:''' "I think I remember Wales. Part of Great Britain." Fate wrinkles her nose slightly. "When I was in elementary and middle school, everyone assumed I was from Europe. And since Midchildan sounds similar to Earth's English, it helped to know a few names of places." She is, in fact, speaking Midchildan right now! It sounds just like English with an odd accent. Brief as it is, Fate listens carefully to the story of Saber's childhood. "Did you enjoy growing up there? Ah... sorry for prying, but you never really spoke to me about your past before." Fate definitely likes it, as it shows there's a higher level of trust from the Servant. She's aware of how details of history can affect them. "I'm not sure why, but somehow I can see you as a little farmgirl as a child..." A soft smile comes to the taller blonde's face. "If they're independent and proud, then it speaks quite a lot that they trust you and Sir Bedivere as much as they do. It seems you're both very good for this place." When asked about choices, Fate simply makes a lilting hum and smiles mysteriously, but doesn't explain herself further. "You do look very cute with it down. I know you're a king and should be regal and majestic, but you're also a girl, and there's nothing wrong with being cute from time to time." After a few more strokes of the brush, Fate runs her fingers through Saber's hair. "There. Now, what sort of style would you like?" 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Because of the magical link between Servants and their Masters and the necessity of being able to communicate for the purpose of co-ordinating battles, Saber tended to speak the language of her Master. With Emiya Kiritsugu and Tohsaka Sakura, that language ended up being Japanese, though she occasionally lapsed into her more familiar native tongue of an archaic form of Welsh. Only now, her Master spoke not only her lingua franca, but his own native tongue, an old form of Gaelic. More often than not, when the multiverse translated her speech, it translated either of these two languages into something the listener could understand. Few were capable of speaking such obscure languages natively.      "English?" Arturia's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Ah. Yes...a more modern tongue, somewhat after my time. It is a rather strange one, to me." Welsh was, after all, the oldest language still spoken in those island countries, even if it was not quite in the same form that existed in her own time.      Shaking her head slightly, Saber smiled softly. "I do not mind. My childhood there was pleasant, as if the wars and chaos of Britain were distant things. My father...that is, the man who raised me, Sir Ector...raised me alongside his own son, Kay." The way she had spoken of her biological father -- Uther Pendragon -- had been distant, as if reciting some long-dead ancestral lineage. By contrast, when she spoke of Sir Ector, her tone became much more familiar, hinting that she regarded the old knight as her actual father. It was rare that she so much as spoke of her past, but Fate had long ago earned the Servant's trust.      "We were both trained as squires, and our father taught us the basics of a knight-aspirant's training as well as a more formal education, and some skills which lay beyond a squire's usual purview. We learned to read and write, speak Latin and Greek...but we likewise learned how to survive in the forests and wildernesses. We knew how to hunt game with a bow and arrow and how to fish, how to gut and clean game, as well as how to mend our clothes, which wild plants were safe to eat and which ones were poisonous. His explanation was that, should we be separated from our units, we would be able to survive on our own." One might get the impression that Sir Ector had been far more than a simple soldier, perhaps even the equivalent of a modern-day Special Forces member. "But we built up our strength through exercises and learned everything that was taught other squires. By the time of my ascension, I was competent enough to have become a knight-aspirant."      At fate's envisioning her as a farmgirl, Arturia blushed slightly, ducking her head, though a slight, bashful smile broke through. "A-ah...I was never especially suited to the skills of a farmer," she admitted. "My brother and I learned enough to perform the necessary chores, but we never learned enough to maintain a farm on our own. That task fell to what few servants our father employed from the village."      "I am grateful for their faith and trust," the jade-eyed knight replied on the subject of Dun Realtai's villagers. "We are truly blessed, to be able to help such people." Though they had never expected gratitude -- it was their duty to merely serve, after all -- to have had their efforts answered with that gratitude was a refreshing change. Who wouldn't want to be appreciated, really?      The question of hairstyle flustered the petite blonde somewhat. "I-I...perhaps...perhaps a simple braid. I do not anticipate a great deal of work, today..." That is, her day was more than likely going to involve watching over Bedivere and making certain he was resting. 

:'''{{#var:306|Fate T. Harlaown (306)}} has posed:''' "Ah? I wasn't aware of that... I thought English was always spoken there." Fate looks thoughtful for a moment. "I suppose languages can change over time. I always had a hard time with Earth culture, though..." The blonde looks somewhat embarrassed, "Language and history were always my worst subjects in school here. I only knew Midchildan and Belkan history." As Saber continues her tale, Fate begins to arrange her hair. "Sounds like this Sir Ector did a good job of preparing you for just about any circumstance. Did he expect you to become king, I wonder?" Fingers comb through Saber's hair a final time before she pulls it into a few bunches and begins to braid it. "I'm afraid I can't quite relate to being brought up that way, but it does sound like you enjoyed your childhood... even if it was hard work. Kay, then... would he be your step-brother, of a sorts? Did he become one of your knights?" Fate knows a few of the Knights of the Round Table, but not all of them. As she said, she's not the best at history and lore of things she hasn't specifically studied. "Mm... I wonder if any young men or women here have aspirations to becoming knights. You'd be able to help train them, along with Sir Bedivere and Gawain." Surely nothing could go wrong. By the time she's finished with Saber's hair, it's been woven into a simple but elegant braid, one just intricate enough that it would be difficult for Saber to do herself. There's also a blue ribbon tied on it. Now where did Fate get that? Perhaps it's one of the unsolved mysteries of being a Mother. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      "The history of my kingdom is a complicated one," Arturia explained, with no indication of having been offended. And these days, if she didn't appear to be particularly bothered by something, it was a good indication she wasn't. Though not the sort to wear her emotions on her proverbial sleeve by any means, she was nevertheless capable of snapping at anyone who insulted her pride as a knight. Fortunately, those instances were rare. "At the height of the power of Rome, there were many different tribes of people throughout Albion, many of whom spoke their own tongues. When Rome's power waned, many formed kingdoms; ours was Britain, what is now 'Wales' and much of 'England'."      Curiously, the exact word she used for her kingdom was its medieval Welsh form: Prydein.      Saber made a soft 'hm' sound, as though both in agreement and thought. "I believe that was his intention. In truth, Uther had abandoned me when I was born, entrusting me to Merlin, who then brought me to Sir Ector. I believe the wizard informed my father that I was the crown princess, and trained me to be prepared for my eventual ascension. Frequently, Merlin returned to tutor me in various things which I found strange, at the time. He was, however, preparing me for my eventual rule. as was my father, I believe."      Her face was somewhat neutral when referring to Merlin, as if she was still, even after all the years, not completely certain what to make of the wizard. She did, however, smile faintly when speaking of Kay....perhaps even smirking slightly. "Yes, I never knew of Kay as anything other than my brother....even when I learned the truth of my birth, I could never see him as anything other than that. He became one of my knights...in fact, he was my castellan, managing Camelot's castle with great efficiency. Though, he was oft-times prone to complaining over certain things."      She smirked slightly as a particularly amusing memory surfaced. "He had been tasked with managing the knight-aspirant applications,but there were so many following my ascent to the throne that it overwhelmed him. Sir Bedivere was tasked with helping him, and narrowed two hundred applications down to forty. Kay was astonished and asked how he had managed such a feat. Bedivere told him that he had used a technique Merlin had taught him -- natural selection -- in which he would toss the applications into the air and select the application which the wind had carried the farthest."      Saber paused to chuckle softly before continuing. "Kay was horrified, and asked if he truly believed it, to which Bedivere replied that of course he did not, he merely had much more exacting standards than Kay. but he had made his joke with such a serious expression that he had fooled my brother completely."      In other words, the good marshal was a master at joking with a straight face. One more aspect of the legends which had never seemed to have made it into the books.      The Servant paused, clasping her chin between her thumb and her index finger. "It is, in truth, my hope that some would become inspired. We shall have need of more men to train them, of course...but I hope to establish an order strong enough to help those in need, and act as an inspiration by acting on the Eight Sacred Virtues." Already, Bedivere had started with Shirou...and the Enforcer might be able to glimpse at Arturia's new dream, her hopes for the people of Dun Realtai.      Once Fate was finished with the braid, Saber's stubborn blush returned. "Ah...thank you, Fate. It is...very nice." She didn't ask about the ribbon, though she did wonder. 

:'''{{#var:306|Fate T. Harlaown (306)}} has posed:''' "You were held in high regards even as a child, then. Somehow, I'm not surprised..." Fate smiles and, now that she's done fixing Saber's hair, the brush goes back into her purse. Best not to ask about the ribbon. It's not as if Fate expected to be able to play with Saber's hair, right? "Merlin is one I've heard stories of, of course. Though considering I didn't know you were a girl until I met you, I'm not sure how accurate any of those stories are... especially the versions that eventually made it to my ears." She quirks her brow slightly at the tale of Bedivere's joke... then covers her hand and laughs softly. "I never knew he was the type to do that. It suits him, I suppose, thinking about it." Bedivere the deadpan joker. If only the tales added that to his accomplishments. "It would be nice... and I'm sure it would do them proud to have some of their own be honored as knights. What are the Eight Sacred Virtues?" The blonde gives her shorter friend a soft smile. "Of course! It looks quite good on you. Just make sure Sir Bedivere gets to see it before you take it out." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      If Saber had suspected that Fate had just been waiting for the chance to play with her hair, in all likelihood the otherwise dignified knight-king would have dissolved into a puddle of blushing and helpless stammering. Fortunately for what little dignity she had left, Fate's secret was safe.      "I would not necessarily say that I was held in high regard," Arturia replied, and not entirely out of her famous sense of humility. "Uther had expected a son. When his disgraceful conduct produced a daughter instead, he merely passed me to Merlin to do with whatever he pleased." As detached as she was speaking about her biological father, she was nevertheless clearly displeased with the manner of her conception. It went against everything she had believed as a knight and king.      She frowned slightly with an expression of reluctance. "To his credit, it did not matter to Merlin what my sex was. He would raise a great king, in his mind...someone who would rule Britain with just laws and fair rule, be that king a man or a woman. He did, for all his faults -- and he has many -- believe in me."      That was as much as she spoke on her tutor and advisor; in all likelihood, the Enforcer would doubtless run into him sometime, milling about the village and causing at least a little bit of mischief. He couldn't help himself, really. Instead, she smiled faintly, almost mysteriously, at a much more pleasant subject. "There was little opportunity then for him to reveal his sense of humour," she admitted. "Now that he has been much more at ease, it has emerged with more frequency."      She became subtly more animated as she spoke of the ideals which had become synonymous with her legend. "The Eight Virtues of Chivalry. They are: Militia, the military spirit of knighthood; Exercitium, lifelong training of one's skills; Fortitudo, perserverence in the face of adversity; Fides, honesty and loyalty in one's personal conduct; Generositas, charity; Pietas, piety and sense of duty; Humanitas, kindness and courtesy; and Ingenuitas, nobility of character, modesty, and humility. Each is a vital cornerstone of knighthood, what separates a knight from a mere warrior. It is a life of continuous service, and for as long as a knight remains in the service of the king, he must uphold the chivalric virtues at all times, dedicating himself to the people and to the king who serves them."      Certainly a backwards concept for most, but Arturia regarded knighthood as a duty rather than a privilege.      Once more, her face heated up to a seemingly impossible shade of red. "O-oh...o-of course..." she stammered, fidgeting away. 

:'''{{#var:306|Fate T. Harlaown (306)}} has posed:''' "I see..." Fate doesn't really have to ask to pick up what Saber thinks of her biological father. "That seems rather silly to me. King is just a title, after all, and gender shouldn't matter. The last great Saint King of Belka was a girl as well, you know." The blonde pauses as she walks around Saber, glancing down at the Servant. "Come to think of it, she resembled you in a few ways..." A soft smile comes to her lips. "My daughter, Vivio, is her reincarnation. Perhaps in a few years, she'll become more like you." That may mean that Fate is going to bring Vivio to train with Saber sometime... even if their fighting styles are vastly different. "All eight of those seem like good and proper traits to have as a knight... or as any sort of protector, in fact. I'll have to tell Signum about them. I'm sure she'll be pleased." Her good friend, after all, was a Belkan Knight. "I think she qualifies for all eight, though she might not admit it." The Servant turning red draws a faint smile from Fate, but she decides not to point it out. "So, now that I've finished with your hair and interrupting you from all your duties... what were you about to do today, Saber?" 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      "I think, perhaps, it was the belief that women are not as strong as men, and only a man would be strong enough to lead the kingdom, strong enough for the people to place their confidence in." There had been times when she wondered such a thing, herself. Had she been born a man, would she have been strong enough to bear the weight of the kingdom upon her shoulders? But no, she had concluded; it had been her own personal failings and weaknesses, not those of her gender. Now, however, she dwelt on it less by the day, with her Master's patient and gentle encouragement.      Her eyebrows lifted slightly in curiosity. "Oh? I should like to hear more of this Saint King, sometime." Another day, perhaps. When Fate brought Vivio to train, maybe?      Yet more curiosity for things which would come some other time. Saber enjoyed meeting other knights -- and even the samurai who practised a code not entirely unlike chivalry -- finding that most lived by a similar code. They were more similar than dissimilar...and the very first person Saber had encountered after Unification had been a holy knight from another world. In fact, it could be said that the King of Knights had been rescued by this very knight, who was out in the multiverse somewhere, serving her queen faithfully. "It has been my wish that chivalry would not be forgotten...I am gladdened to learn that not only has it been remembered, but others seek to follow it, still."      The petite knight stood then, gathering up the empty cups before a passing servant dissuaded her from taking the service to the kitchen; she did have a guest to entertain, and it /was/ the servant's job, after all. These people nearly had Saber's own stubborn streak. No wonder the Knights of the Round Table seemed to fit in so well here. "Ah...I had no other plans. Perhaps, we might pass the time with a tour? There have been a great many improvements to the village and the keep..."      It was a pleasant enough way to pass the time, and show fate a little bit more of the new dream of the Once and Future King. 

}}

999999/Le Mortefication d'Arturia

2014-12-25T00:01:08Z

ForwardObserver: Tidying up some rouge HTML

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2014/07/04
|Location=Njorun Station - Ring of Philosophy / Fuyuki City
|Synopsis=The Servant Saber pays a visit to Njorun Station, only to meet with a very familiar face, indeed...
|Thanks=
|Cast of Characters=346, 482, Tohsaka Sakura
|Tinyplot=
|pretty=yes
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{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' The Multiverse is a place of strangeness. Here there come together things that no one would have thought possible; fantastical things and impossible things, all swimming together like so many fishes in a great, wide sea. For the knight perched on a stone in the midst of an arena of raked sand, it is an impossibility that he still struggles to grasp. Sir Bedivere of Camelot is a literal-minded sort, fiercely loyal but not particularly open-minded about the fantastical and the weird – and ever since coming to this place, this "Union," he has struggled to try and understand what's become of his world. Camelot is safe, but he has heard that his liege is about somewhere in this "Union." At least, somebody very closely matching her description. She's been gone from Camelot, and he had personally laid her to rest beneath the tree on the shores of the lake. He had personally returned Excalibur to the Lady of the Lake, after some convincing from Arturia. Bedivere sits hunched over on his boulder, arms folded over his knees, chin buried in one mail-clad arm, frowning deeply. His sword is at his hip, sheathed, and he looks ready for war in his plate-mail and his heavy cloak. Familiar, perhaps, to some – unchanged. "Hmmph." It's a deep, unhappy sigh. Trying to sort all of this out is like... like... like trying to thread a needle while wearing mail mittens, he decides after a few seconds. "This world is mad," he mumbles to himself. Pushing back to his feet, he returns to the simulation of a dead trunk – the best explanation he'd gotten from the arena's minder is that this was all holographic, whatever that meant; eventually the man had simply said it wasn't real. That made no sense to Bedivere, but it was a working arena that he could practise his skills in while he thought about his next move. And so his blade flashes silver in the simulated sun – and simulated sawdust flies as the blade bites into the dead trunk, Bedivere practically dancing as he battles some imaginary foe of Camelot; light on his feet despite his heavy armour, pale hair flying behind him as he changes direction and spins on one plated sabaton to strike at the log from the other side. No doubt a familiar sight, to some. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' As much as she had felt obligated to help out in the supernatural criminal cases of the multiverse -- as both a member of the half-angel-led Heaven or Hell and a "special consultant" to Harry Dresden, Wizard of Chicago -- the Servant known simply as Saber occasionally wondered how much indignity she was capable of enduring. The day before had found the King of Knights in the Winter Court, which in itself was bad enough. But the fae had taken to the modern era in various ways, and Harry's being forced to act as a courier between the Seelie and Unseelie Courts due to a "really bad deal" with his fairy godmother had landed knight and wizard in the middle of a rave and all manner of unsavoury sorts -- male and female to include Mab herself -- taking a rather unhealthy interest in Dresden's accomplice. It was more than just a little disgusting. But the worst indignity in her mind was her prickly response to warn them off, name-dropping the Lady of the Lake as a reminder that they had better behave themselves. It had not gone as planned. Finding herself alone, Arturia allowed her mask to slip as she entered the Union's recreational and training area, releasing an exhausted, pent-up sigh. She liked Dresden personally and the bribes of the multiverse-famous "Chicago deep dish" were worth the trouble, but that hardly meant that the Unseelie hadn't been practically begging for their faces to the concrete...or whatever that floor was made of. Saber didn't want to think of what else it could possibly be. The fae here had been nearly as annoying as one fellow Servant in particular, another person she tried very hard not to think about lest it ruin her entire day. For now, she was going to enjoy some training and take a long bath to purge the grime. A frown marred the girlish face; her suit was in dire need of drycleaning as it was. Rather than summon her battle armour, Arturia opted to borrow a training uniform -- apparently the only one her diminutive size was something more suitable for Chinese unarmed martial arts than sword training -- as she was reluctant to switching back afterwards to her tainted modern clothing. Now ready, Saber headed to the arena...only to find it was already in use. She stifled another sigh; not that she was annoyed with it being used, that would have been rude. But the weariness was wearing her down more than it should have, and the Servant wondered if the years she had been in the multiverse had spoiled her to the point of rot. She would need the training, no doubt. Curiosity getting the better of her, she peered in, idly wondering if the user was someone she knew...and though she couldn't see clearly at the distance, there was indeed something familiar... 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' The sword flashes as though it were a living thing, rearing back and striking with a serpent's speed. It nearly blurs as it lunges for the tree trunk that Bedivere has chosen as the object of venting his annoyance; sawdust and chips of wood fly from what is fast becoming an unrecognisable chunk of wood. He moves well, with speed one would not necessarily expect him to have, wearing full plate armour and a heavy, reinforced cloak. It shines in white and blue, bright and proud, and every inch of him seems to be primed and ready for battle. It shows in his eyes, pale as they are, focused on that trunk with such intensity that they might well pass for a bird of prey (or perhaps another familiar friend, to the King of Knights). It isn't until the king chooses to look into the arena that the sword halts in its track, pulled back with an audible grunt of effort; it wouldn't do to shower any potential spectators with splinters. Sir Bedivere of Camelot turns, frowning slightly. He hadn't expected any visitors, but... The first thing to strike him is how short his visitor is. Not a child, though. Those proportions may be fine and slender, but they are an adult's, not a child's. And certainly not a novice, for they carry themselves with the grace of a warrior. What strikes him most, though, is the eyes. Once he spots them, the much-taller knight simply stops, his sword droops until the point touches the ground, and he stares with his mouth hanging open like a village yokel. It takes him about ten seconds to fully regain his composure, jaw snapping shut so quick the click of teeth is audible. And then Bedivere drops to one knee so hard he could swear, somewhere in the dim recesses of his numbed mind, that he must have bruised something. So fast does he fall that his cloak is, for one brief instant, floating in the air behind him until, with a heavy rustle, it follows his movements. "M-my King...!" His statement is a shocked breath, and his voice is likely as familiar as ever; seeming as though it could be a masculine woman or a feminine man. "H-how–?" He is, for the moment, staring quite wide-eyed at the ground beneath Saber's feet. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' In turn, the King of Knights was every bit as shocked as her knight. The tiny blonde stood, frozen as if made of a block of ice, her face carved from stone. Only her eyes gave her away, snapped impossibly wide as her mind reeled. Though, perhaps it shouldn't have; she had encountered Lancelot twice already, and it was entirely possible that other Knights of the Round Table were somewhere in the multiverse. On the other hand, it was a very big multiverse, and this was only the second time in nearly four years she had encountered one of her knights. It took a long moment to recover her wits, her mind catching up to her outward composure. And ironically, that composure relaxed. Even around her closest knights, Arturia had carefully maintained her facade of the king, neither truly frowning nor truly smiling...so much so that one knight in particular had, unbeknownst to her, merely wished to once see her true expressions. While it had certainly been necessary to hide the truth of her sex from the people -- even her knights -- what Rider had said about her was true; she had never led them, she tried to save them. Revealing anything of herself would have been a burden. But time in the multiverse had worn down that mask, and her friends had pointed out that the greater burden would have been worrying over her. No reassurances to the contrary had ever seemed to fool any of them. Had it been that way with her knights, as well, and she merely refused to see it? She had assumed it was too late to truly make amends with them; meeting Lancelot when he was not hiding behind a madness enhancement and trying to commit suicide by king had been an entirely unexpected stroke of fortune, one that she had never expected to encounter again. Arturia had decided to force her mask down instead with her new friends, allowing them to see the glimpses of annoyance, amusement, exasperation, and even happiness. For a brief moment, she was at a loss for how she should act. Her instincts demanded falling back into her old patterns as the King of Britain...and yet, living with the emotionally-open Tohsakas and other friends had unlocked other paths that simply seemed natural. Whether it would confuse her knight or not, Arturia opted for the latter. It might have seemed strange, but the familiar mask dropped, and the King of Knights allowed a slight, gentle smile to alight on her face. "Please, forgive me...I did not intent to interrupt your training, Sir Bedivere," she replied. It was too precious a moment to waste on a mask that, in truth, she no longer had much of a need for...especially for one of her beloved knights, and even more so for one whom was as close to her as he. 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Perhaps he had not been expecting the king to drop her mask. She had always been guarded, though it had pained him on some level to see her sacrifice herself for the sake of her people. Not that he did not admire that, or respect that – but it saddened him, somewhat, to know that she had put her people before herself to such an extent. Never had he seen her so much as smile. Some part of him had always wanted to see that, impossible as it may have been. So when she favoured him with that gentle smile, his reaction is to blink owlishly, and to stare. At least his mouth isn't hanging open this time, but his expression is one of obvious puzzlement. "My King?" Never had he presumed closeness with her, although he trusted her with his life, and always he had observed the correct and proper titles. So strong a habit is that that he does so even now, head cocked like a curious hound. And he continues to stare, because it's just plain odd to see her without her kingly raiment; her richly adorned armour. Bedivere can do little more than stare, for a few moments. "No, my lord, you were not interrupting anything." He finally remembers himself, head straightening, though he remains on one knee. He wouldn't presume to rise until told to do so; he would never breach the rules of etiquette so. "But if it would please my lord to do something else, I will put up my sword. I... I did not expect meet with you here." He shakes his head and stares, and a smile even threatens the corners of his own mouth – only through effort does he stop the smile, though he can't completely banish it from his voice. "I had despaired of ever meeting again. My lord had slept so soundly on the shore of the lake, I had feared my lord dead..." He shakes his head, looking to the ground, hair falling across his face. (Quite a few suspect he's a woman. Quite a few are wrong.) "No training is as important as to meet with you again." He looks up, sudden fire in eyes that are otherwise so mild. "I am yours to command, my lord. Now and ever." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' His formality was at once so familiar that it was almost nostalgic, yet in some ways alien. Out of everyone she had met in the past three years, only Harry addressed her as 'Your Majesty' and only fellow knights such as Agrias addressed her as a peer in their respective knighthoods. Those who could sense something of royalty in her found themselves sitting up a little straighter or sometimes curbing coarse language, but it wasn't the same thing as living in the middle of court, insisting on maintaining a level of protocol necessary to reassure the people that the king would protect them and rule them wisely and fairly. The modern era was more informal than otherwise, and Arturia, in spite of her generally hidebound ways, had become accustomed to it. Beneath her mask, one of the feelings she had buried was to grant her knights the companionship they longed for; before she was a king, Arturia was a knight. It was only natural that the camaraderie that could only come from those who had faced death on the battlefield and returned was something that knights and soldiers wanted to share, but to her people, the King of knights had to become the king first. Friendship, family and a normal human life were sacrifices that needed to be made, and she had accepted that. But it meant that there were some wishes that she could not grant, lest accusations of favouritism tear the court apart. Or so she had believed. Other tragedies she had been unable to prevent tore the kingdom apart instead, and rebellion brought her dream -- and her life -- to an end. The Holy Grail had granted her a chance to correct it, only to be a tainted relic with no other purpose than opening a path to Akasha for a Master upon sacrificing his own Servant. At first, Saber decided to seek out a different method; if the Grail could not grant her wish, surely a multiverse with limitless opportunities would. Yet, while the means to save Camelot might yet exist, she had some to see her past as perhaps something best left untampered with. What Iskander could not convince her of, precious friends led her to, seeing their lives as important as her duty to her people. Where she had failed Britain, she would succeed with Sakura, Rin, Agrias, Psyber, Harry, and countless others of the Union. And beyond that, Arymes Prydain had hinted at another possibility...though for the moment, perhaps the Abstractum did not feel that she was quite ready to hear of it. It took a moment for her to step back into role, if for no other reason than to let the man get back on his feet. "Rise, Sir Bedivere," she said, straightening a little more. Impressive, considering that even when informal, Saber's posture was impeccable. And yet, she was unable to don the impassive mask completely; the smile was still there. 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Although it was something he had longed for, companionship had been an unattainable goal for Bedivere; he had learned to content himself merely to serve, to the best of his abilities, and ease the burden from his liege in that manner. She would never need to worry herself about his conduct, and any tasks she gave to him would be carried out to the utmost of his abilities and in the highest of integrity. The least he could do, he had once reasoned, would be easing her burdens that way. Some of the other Knights of the Round had come into suspicion; their conduct and their honour had been sullied by their own actions. Bedivere only prayed that he would never fall to such depths, but more than that, he prayed that he might never disappoint his liege so. Her approval meant everything to him; more than that, it meant everything to him to be able to claim such high honour. He could not envision himself without knighthood. It was as natural to him as breathing. Bedivere cocks his head slightly, and that air of puzzlement is still settled about him when he regards the King of Knights, the King of Britain, his liege; the one whom he had so ardently served for so many years. He frowns, but not out of disappointment. It's simple puzzlement. Saber might even find the expression amusing. He just seems so uncomprehending at that faint smile of hers. "My lord." His acknowledgement does seem a little hollow when he finally climbs to his feet, the plates of his armour clanking faintly. "Is aught amiss...?" In other words, surely there's a reason why you're smiling like a lunatic, because that's starting to creep me out, the question seems to say. Bedivere is too hidebound to actually say as much, but his concern is noticeable. More to the point, who are you, and what have you done with the real King Arturia? There's a moment or two of awkward silence in which Bedivere brushes imaginary grit from the plates protecting his knees; or from the hem of his unsullied white cloak. He folds his arms, and for a few seconds more, he seems completely at a loss as to what to do. His armoured shoulders slump, very slightly. "Ah..." It's more a breath than a sigh, and his head bows, hair falling across his eyes. The great sigh he gives after that is definitely a sigh, and it seems like a breath that had been pent-up for years. It's hard to tell whether it's a breath of regret or relief, but after a few moments, it seems that it must surely be the latter. "It is so good to see you alive and hale, my lord. I had feared the worst..." He looks up with a tiny, somewhat uncertain smile of his own. It fades after a moment, and again he seems a little puzzled; mystified by Saber's own show of emotion, however restrained it might be. Bedivere had in time become accustomed to the mask, and if he had suspected some of the king's fears, he had never spoken on them. He had simply accepted her behaviour, and accepted serving her to the best of his ability; the very role model of a good, loyal knight – no ulterior motives and no hidden agendas, with Bedivere. There was only service, and only his unshakeable loyalty to his liege-lord Arturia. To see anything but the mask is extremely disconcerting, to go by the naked puzzlement on his face. "It is you. I see it in your eyes, though your behaviour be strange to me – why do you smile so? Has something happened? Tell me; are you safe? Are you hale?" Now he sounds worried, and though he barely moves, shifting his weight, his eyes betray his concern. "Please, my lord, if you lack for anything, tell me. I will see to it." Oh God, what's wrong with her? Why is she smiling? Poor Bedivere. He doesn't quite seem to know how to deal with that. Well, at least he seems to have the best of intentions heart, still. Sir Bedivere of Camelot seems not to have changed in the least. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' The smile faded, replaced by a look of puzzlement of her own. Was it truly that strange? But then, she had been in the multiverse for several years after she had been first summoned as a Servant; bitter at first and truly cold, then gradually opening up. The piece de resistance when she had realised just how much she had changed had been after inviting Lancelot to dinner at the Tohsaka estate, when the violet-eyed knight decided to 'test' her with an old game, only to have her Master blurt out the proper response. It had taken a moment for both Servants to recover from staring at the painfully shy magus, only for the stoic King of Knights to laugh. Poor Bedivere, indeed. He would have doubtless had a heart attack. Unfortunately, this was not going to be easy for either of them. The otherwise calm, serious Knight of the Round Table looked so utterly baffled, so out of his element that it took all of Arturia's willpower not to laugh once more. But this time, it would have been not so much out of amusement as the feeling of nostalgia overtaking her again. The memory of his first appearance at the court, an untested strip of a boy seeking to become a knight of Camelot, seemed at once distant and yet, with that knight standing there, as if it were merely the day before. He had always been so serious, so dedicated to his duties...all of them had been, of course, but Gawain had always been cracking jokes when he could, and Lancelot had been more melancholy than stoic as time went on. Bedivere had been more like Arturia herself; taking his duties as seriously as she had taken hers. It was probably for the best that she not recount that particular dinner. "I am hale," she reassured the poor man with a wave of her hand, fighting off another nostalgic smile. "Worry not. It is....simply that a great many things have happened since I arrived here. Many battles have been fought, and I have found myself in some...unusual circumstances." Involuntarily, her brow wrinkled in worry. She only knew of what had happened to her after Camlann from second-hand accounts, having been summoned from a point before her death. Were she to return, by all accounts only death awaited her, and that was a sorrowful burden she was not about to place on the tall knight. But she had probably better find out; Saber had a feeling it was going to be brought up in the foreseeable future. And then there was perhaps an even bigger problem: Bedivere wasn't a Servant. How much of the bloody ritual war of Heaven's Feel was known, she couldn't discern, but if he remained ignorant of it, Arturia would prefer to keep him innocent of it. Nothing good could come of that knowledge, whether it would be in the form of disappointment in her, or driving himself to an early death worrying over her even if that war was well behind her. Saber suppressed a sigh; her death should have set him free, not keep him bound to her. The selfish part of her was overjoyed to see him again, but the selfless knightly part curse whatever thread of fate had brought Bedivere into the multiverse. Even if King Arthur could not live a normal life, her people and her knights should have been able to. The petite blonde found herself in a dilemma; pushing him away and attempting to convince him to forget about her and the knighthood would be painful and probably impossible. As much as she hated to admit it, she was thankful Sakura wasn't there...or anyone else, for that matter. It would have taken even more explaining on her part and fretting on his, and she needed some time to prepare everyone. But as much of a headache as everything was probably going to be, Saber nevertheless had to pour considerable willpower into not smiling. As selfish as it was of her, she had missed him so. "I have been in this universe for nearly four years," she explained. "Though it might be improper of a king I must be truthful...it is good to see you again, Sir Bedivere." 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Evidently such a reaction is, indeed, truly strange from the point of Bedivere. So accustomed to the mask had he become that to see anything else – no matter how much he might have wished to see a genuine reaction from his king – was indicative of something very much out of the ordinary. Still, he is a knight, and he seems to find his balance well enough once he has reason to believe that there's no witchcraft at play. She does indeed seem to be Arturia, and her mannerisms are very much like the Arturia that he was once familiar with. He might have said that he once knew – but he wonders, briefly, if anyone truly knew her. She allowed few that luxury; that honour. Bedivere presses his lips into a thin line, not quite displeasure, but not quite contentment. Something troubles him, and his expression is almost pained when she mentions unusual circumstances. Truth be told, he finds himself under strange skies and in odd times, as well. "Ah... about that." He reaches up, rubbing at the back of his neck in very un-knightly gesture. While not necessarily high-strung, he was certainly one of the first knights to worry himself sick about inconsequential details. Occasionally he had reason to break his facade of stoicism, and often it was to express his ceaseless worrying. If any of the Knights of the Round understood the difficult business of running a kingdom, it was Bedivere, Arturia's own right hand. Many of the administrative tasks fell to him when she became too busy to manage it all herself; he understood what was needed, and most of the time, he saw that things were taken care of in a just and expedient manner. But he understood the pressures, and felt the driving compulsion to ensure that all in Camelot were treated fairly and enjoyed as decent a quality of life as could be provided for them. In some ways it was something of an impossible goal. With so much warfare and so many enemies on all sides, both without and within, it was difficult to bear the suffering of its people, at times. There were orphans living on the kingdom's streets; hungry and alone in this world. This world, though, has suddenly grown larger. Bedivere's hand drops back to his side. For a moment, he seems to be at a loss for words. He settles for folding his arms, though the posture looks oddly defensive from such a tall and solidly-built knight; lost, even. Or perhaps just very worried. It wouldn't be outside the realm of normalcy for Bedivere. He had always taken his duties as seriously as Arturia had. "If I might be honest with you, my lord, I have had a strange time of things, myself." He glances back over to Saber, frowning slightly. "I had returned Excalibur to the Lady of the Lake, as you had instructed, and I had left you on its shore. But when I sought to return to Camelot, the roads became strange... by God, they were bewitched! I prayed that I might find the proper path, for I wished to return and set Camelot aright, until your eventual return, but try as I might, I could not find the way." His gauntleted fingers splay wide, palms up, in confused gesture. "And there were brigands on the road. Brigands! In broad daylight! Although I was able to drive them off, my horse was frightened away. I became disoriented." "After that I came across a strange man from this 'Union,'" the knight continues. "He said that I could swear my service here, but I–I could swear no oath to him, for I had sworn my sword to you, my King. But I told him I would serve for a time, for I had nowhere else to go, and no means by which to return to Camelot. I have been here since. That was... a fortnight ago? Perhaps two? I have had no cause to raise my sword, yet, but I have been waiting for the opportunity..." The knight seems at a loss when she says it's good to see him again, and indeed, for several moments he seems torn and almost pained; perhaps mulling over what to say. Perhaps Arturia can understand that struggle between duty and self, rare a conflict as it may be for one like Bedivere. He finally sighs, arms dropping and shoulders sagging a bit, head bowing forward. His slump is almost enough to take him to his knees, but he wobbles on his feet a bit, keeping himself upright – even if this whole situation is surreal, and even if the mere sight of her again nearly drives him back to his knees in shock. "Four years..." This time he does sag slowly, and there's a muted, metallic thump when his armoured rump hits the ground. Bedivere exhales a long, slow sigh of befuddlement and shock. "Four years? Had I been wandering so long? Yes, I suppose that is possible. I did not have any sense of time. I do not know where I went, or from whence I came. What was left to me? To return to a Camelot that did not have you at its reins... it did not seem right, my King," he admits faintly. "I could not imagine serving another lord. It shames me, but I was content to wander, even though I could not have found my way had I wanted to." "It is not proper or knightly to say this, either, but... I am glad to see you again, my King." He looks up to her, apparently not caring that he's in a terribly undignified position. The taller knight remains flat on his rump, cloak crumpled, hands splayed behind and legs splayed out before him. Slowly he smiles, an expression of genuine pleasure, apparently not caring about dignity or propriety, for just a moment. "I am glad. Truly. I did not expect to see you wake from that shore ever again. I am blessed to lay eyes on you again, my King; to speak with you once more." A few seconds of silence pass. He frowns, slightly, cocking his head to one side like a puzzled hound. "...But whatever are you wearing, my King?" 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' As much as she had kept everyone at an emotional distance, there were certain mannerisms and behaviours that Arturia recognised in those closest to her...or, at least those who had comprised of those she had trusted with knighthood and nobility. She felt some sympathy for Bedivere; four years ago, she had found herself in a similar predicament. However, his situation was far more complicated. The Holy Grail had imparted at least some knowledge of the current era, and she knew that she might be summoned into an era far into her future, so there were a number of things she knew to expect. She could only imagine his reaction to the flying machines that now filled the skies...and the ones which went well beyond them. Another internal sigh. This was going to prove difficult, even disregarding Heaven's Feel. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she mulled over the completely unexpected situation, and adapting was proving to be much more difficult than first appearances. But as a king it was a necessity for her to think and resolve problems quickly...however much she might have regretted the decision afterwards. It seemed that for every decision she had made, she should have made the other one. But now was not the time to mourn her reign again. Folding her arms and closing her eyes, Saber tapped a finger on her arm, deciding that there were some things that she simply couldn't ease the bewildered knight into. This was not going to put his mind at ease at all. "There is... I fear no comforting way to put this, but...for the most part, these worlds exist thousands of years after our own era. And, to my knowledge, there is no way to return." Admittedly, that was not completely true, at least in her case. Not that she was inclined to simply disappear and return to her death-bed under the oak...she had become quite comfortable with being able to make a difference in the world at long last, not to mention all the wonderful food the era had to offer. Now she had one more reason not to simply give up and slip away quietly to her death; someone would need to look out for Bedivere. As capable as she knew he was, being tossed abruptly into the multiverse was overwhelming for anyone. At the very least, she was grateful someone from the Union had found him...some of the Confederacy's members were clever enough to obfuscate the true nature of their organisation. "The Union are as close to a knighthood as any that exists in this time," Arturia attempted to explain. "They are committed to keeping the pathways into this world out of evil hands. I suppose one could think of them as ley lines...I fear the more complicated understanding of them eludes me." She avoided speaking about Camelot further; Saber knew Bedivere would discover the truth eventually, but she hoped she could break that part to him gently...as well as that of her apparent death. Though that in itself would come with no end of complications, such as the fact that she was now a Servant, a being no longer human. Had she been alone, she would have pinched the bridge of her nose in frustrated musing and paced, but for the moment she had to keep up appearances. Fortunately, she no longer had much of a need to hide her true identity -- and hopefully the other Sabers wouldn't complicate things even further -- but first she would have to contact her friends and associates and warn them of what was to come. And then there was Mordred, another Saber like herself. Damn it all....this was entirely more complicated than anything had a right to be. "There are a great many good, honourable people in this world, even fellow knights from distant lands. However, there are a great many enemies, some of whom we know all too well." Arturia could not keep her mask in place completely at her knight's admission; as complicated as it was, she was genuinely happy to see him again. Regretfully, the moment was not to last. "Oh....ah. Perhaps the best way to put this is that...it is a long story..." As if someone had decided that her life was not nearly complicated enough, that someone had decided that they needed to call her on her cell phone right this minute. On the one hand, she was not going to need to explain the Chinese-style uniform. On the other, explaining her cell phone was going to prove even more of as headache. The King of Knights might or might not have been fidgeting at this point in time. 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Though Bedivere is certainly capable of coldness and ruthlessness, where King Arturia is concerned, he is largely guileless. Although none could truly be said to be close to her, he was perhaps the most likely to be; loyal, and unquestioning in his devotion to her every command and her every potential need -- many times had he anticipated something she might want, or perhaps anticipated some need of the kingdom, the better to ease the burden off her shoulders. He knew that she had borne so much of the burden; taken on so much of the lion's share of worrying, and he sought where he could to ease that. Right now, though, he probably looks a little silly, sat down and splayed out like that. Truth be told, magic is not so foreign a notion. Perhaps it was out of the hands of ordinary folk, more into the domain of magicians like Merlin or Morgan le Fay, but its existence was not entirely a secret in the days long past to the modern era. Such an explanation may be why Bedivere accepts what he does of this strange new world. The only possible way any of this makes even a bare minimum of sense is "magic." He didn't necessarily watch Arturia die, but it was close enough – there was a chilling finality to the act of laying her at the oak tree's roots. He just stays on the ground, possibly because it's easier to look up at her than to force her to look up at him. It's kind of awkward when your liege-lord is about a foot and a half shorter than you are. "A knighthood." He cocks his head, this time looking more thoughtful than lost. "I suppose that makes sense. 'Twas the impression I had gathered, myself. One of them said I looked familiar, though I could not imagine why... but yes. They seem as such. Hmmm. I can respect that they wish to keep the pathways protected, and out of evil hands. Even men alone are capable of great evils, but I've a feeling there are many more things than just men to be wary of." Bedivere is, at least, reasonably perceptive. It makes certain things (and probably dealing with eventual Multiversal things) much easier. "I can agree with that." To Arturia's assessment of many honourable people, that earns another faint, un-knightly smile. "Good. That is good." It makes his job a little bit easier. It's so much harder to uphold the pillars of knighthood when you're the only one doing it, or the only one who seems to take things seriously. "I am glad for that... but there are always enemies, my King, even in the most safe-seeming realms. 'Tis why we must take our vows seriously. We must uphold the pillars of knighthood, even if it seems we may be the last ones to fight the good fight. Yes? Especially because those enemies may be those we know all too well. And sometimes those enemies may even be ourselves..." Perceptive indeed. He's a quiet one, though; most of the time rarely imparting such insight unless asked directly. Bedivere drums gauntleted fingers on the ground, thoughtful under his liege's revelations. He straightens, looking thoughtful, though he does eye her a bit oddly when she smiles again. It seems he still has to get used to that aspect. To see something beyond the cold, seemingly indifferent mask is a little strange. It isn't quite off-putting, but it does give him pause. "Uh?" And then, a cell phone rings. Bedivere looks around, left, then right; over his shoulder, before he centres on the source of that sound. Arturia. Specifically, Arturia's pocket. The loyal knight frowns, somewhat deeply, and he points straight at Arturia. "My lord," he proclaims, with such gravity that she's bound to find it amusing, "there is a demon-thing. In... in your pocket." He sounds somewhere between horrified and intensely curious. "What... is that. Infernal. Chirping." Poor Bedivere. Welcome to the modern age. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' It was more than a little bit of a relief that the "magic" explanation made things more comprehensive, and in truth, Arturia didn't understand any better than the average Elite. The world that she and her knight came from was tucked away in some small corner of it, or some version of it. That was another headache in the offing, having to explain the phenomenon of Unification...and of course, there was the extremely bizarre happenstance of different versions of the same person. That, above all else, was going to cause no end of headaches. How could a knight pledge his loyalty to another Arturia, should another duplicate turn up again? A small part of her was sorely tempted to call Ezio and take him up on his drink offer; the King of Knights had a feeling she was going to need it. As much as it was something of a relief on her neck not to have to crane her neck up to look the tall, pale-haired knight in the eye, Arturia couldn't help but feel a little bit bad about the situation, given how Bedivere tried to maintain the same level of dignity as she did. Like her, he was not always successful, though at least the indignities she had suffered had generally gone largely unwitnessed....except for perhaps that one horribly embarrassing episode where Gilgamesh had demanded both her and Mordred's hands in marriage...after somehow exploding his clothes off. Saber couldn't completely suppress the shudder from the deeply-scarring memory. She sincerely hoped Bedivere would never have to suffer knowing the insufferable Archer's existence. After that terrible moment, however, she had made the knight suffer his own indignity more than long enough. Though perhaps he would be mortified by it, the petite king offered her hand to help him up, and -- even more unsettling -- allowed a slightly chagrined expression to flicker across her face. "Forgive my rudeness," she apologised. It was a good thing she was maintaining some caution; Bedivere was proving once again one of the reasons why she had hand-picked him to be her Marshal. Finding oneself in the multiverse could be compared to teaching someone to swim by tossing that person into a deep part in the ocean, and Arturia was not about to allow him to drown in the information overload...or, for that matter, the tragic end of their legend. But she would have to begin that task immediately. "An order....and like any order, not all are what we would speak of as 'honourable'. Their purpose is to uphold a semblance of law across the worlds, though some employ methods we would not approve of." As much as she personally liked the Hashashins, she had not entirely agreed with some of their methods even as she had understood their necessity. And their own world was far different from hers in a great many ways, and they were among what she had considered the more honourable members of their organisation. "By the by, the Confederacy is not entirely without honour....or rather, certain members are not. Many are reprehensible, though others give one pause. There are some whose position within it puzzle me," she admitted somewhat ruefully. Saber still wondered what Nine was doing in it, other than the fact that he seemed to think of himself as a being of chaos and that he was simply supposed to be there. Once again, she set aside her musings to focus on the immediate concern, a person whose life was precious enough to her for the king to end up protecting the knight where she could. For what seemed like an eternity, Saber simply stared at Bedivere and his reaction to something she had for years taken for granted. After a second it finally registered, and with the last scrap of willpower left quickly slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle what would have been the same laugh Lancelot and Sakura had heard over the callback from the "Rogue in the Castle" game they played with cutlery. It was so unexpected, and yet...so very much like the Bedivere she knew. But though the laugh itself was successfully stifled and her mask mostly in place, her shaking shoulders gave her away. It was going to require a few moments for her to completely regain her composure and calmly explain that what he was hearing was a simple communication device. She sincerely hoped he hadn't been given a radio yet. 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Thankfully, the Union had explained some of the sticky business of Unification to their newest recruit. That had not been terribly difficult, eventually having found somebody from a similar timeline as the Dark Ages of Europe; someone who had been able to couch the terms into something familiar enough for the bewildered Sir Bedivere of Camelot to digest more easily. That doesn't make it any easier, though. Some subconscious part of him still struggles to place all of this, to reconcile these many worlds with his one; the unknown with the known. Bedivere doesn't seem to mind being splayed on the ground, as it does mean he doesn't need to make Arturia suffer the indignity of looking up at him. It might be undignified, but right now, there aren't any other people to observe such. It's also possible he's still a bit in shock over the whole affair, too, and less prone to caring about his dignity than he might normally be. He cocks his head at the hand offered him, before holding up a gauntleted hand in a gesture of polite refusal. No, he wouldn't put her out like that. And he's tall and solid enough that he might well haul her off her feet unintentionally, which would be even worse. Instead he climbs to his feet, brushing nonexistent grit and sand from his armour; straightening out his cloak fastidiously, and smoothing the creases in it. He folds his arm once that's done, letting the cloak fall to curl around him. The posture almost makes it seem as though he's cold, though likely it's more because that heavy cloak is a comfort in the face of such strangeness. Despite his discomfort, though, Bedivere seems to be handling himself reasonably well – he is a knight, and he thinks on his feet reasonably well; recovers quickly from shock. This and many other reasons are why he had been elected Marshal by Arturia herself; and now that he's over his initial shock, he's beginning to prove those qualities. Slowly. "Hmmm." Bedivere affords a thoughtful sound on the matter of honour, though it seems a bit dubious. "I can believe that. But were there not knights whose honour was suspect?" He's not speaking of anybody directly, but certain examples do come to mind. The pale-eyed knight's expression is a little dubious. "'Tis any order that will have its black sheep, and its rotten apples." "I expect the Union is no different," he says, shrugging with a clank, "though I grant it is on a much larger scale than aught I have ever seen before." There's a short pause. "Ever." Ah, the Confederacy. He had heard of that band of rogues and blackguards, although he has no reason yet to leap into conflict with them. He's still testing the waters, as it were, and finding his place in this Multiverse. They sound like just the sort of thing with which he might like to raise his sword in defiance, though. Silence falls, then, and he finds himself stared at by his liege, and the object of his selfless devotion for so many years. Bedivere stares back, though after a few moments he seems uncomfortable under such scrutiny, turning and coughing into a hand, looking away. She might not miss the slight flush of high cheekbones; or the way he looks away so as to avoid her gaze. Is the Marshal of Camelot nervous, and actually fidgeting under the gaze of this slip of a king? Yup. Actually, the longer she goes without saying anything or looking away from him, the redder he's going to get. Truth be told, it's odd to have her react in such human ways. It's very odd. He'd become so accustomed to the mask. He had always looked up to her, and served her in any way he thought might benefit her. He had served her because he believed in Camelot and wished the best for it, as much as for its king. But mostly, he served her because he followed Arturia as much as he followed any ideal – in some ways, she is the ideal he had always aspired to; she is the one whose approval he had always sought. She was the impossible goal he had always striven for, even knowing that his cold, distant "king" was unattainable. Oh, yes; he had known her secret for a long time, trusted with it, and had altered his own appearance for her sake to ease suspicions throughout the kingdom – though it had been a small enough sacrifice, gentle of appearance as Bedivere had always been. A braid here, a braid there, and perhaps the softer lines of a heavy cloak over his armour to blunt some of the hard angles of chain and steel. When she stifles that laugh, he turns on his heel to face her again, blinking owlishly in helpless confusion; so helpless that it might just set her off properly. He might be the perfect picture of dignity much of the time, particularly in the public eye, as Camelot's steel-spined Marshal... but here, he is just a knight, and a lost one at that. Bedivere just sort of stares at her, helplessly, because he doesn't know what else to do. Chances are he had indeed been given a radio, and he hadn't bothered to investigate it too closely or activate it just yet. Clearly, he is not familiar with the protocols of communication devices calling to one another, and attributes that noise to witchcraft and devilry. "Milord?" Bedivere says, somewhat helplessly, in the face of her trembling shoulders. He even reaches out hesitantly, as though uncertain that it's laughter that's the "problem." Steel-clad fingers brush her shoulder before he remembers himself, snatching his hand away as though burnt. "I–I am sorry; forgive me... are—are you hale...?" 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Though she knew the knight had his reasons for refusing her offer, Arturia inwardly flinched. But she should have expected as much; she had insisted on a certain level of protocol...needed to, in fact. Had she been a man, it might have been unnecessary, as she wouldn't have needed to hide being a girl from nearly the entire kingdom. Yet even then, the people had taken comfort in such assured, formal rule, and giving them confident rule had been one of her aspirations, even as it was a confidence she had never truly felt. Saber let her hand fall back to her side, the more familiar impassive mask back in place. back to business, it would seem. Nevertheless, it was good that he could understand the broader situation, the Union-Confederacy conflict, as well as the fact that everyone involved had a familiar range of alignments and motivations. If there was one part of her rule that she did maintain confidence in, it had been in her selection of capable knights. "Quite so. In many ways, it is not so different than our days in Camelot. The difficulty lies in understanding so many differing mindsets...there are those from countries whose entire ways of thinking are beyond what we are accustomed to. It is not that they lack honour, it is merely that their sense of it is...peculiar." In particular, she thought back to the Hashashins, some of whom were honourable even by their rigid standards...except, perhaps, in their method of fighting. Ezio was probably as close to being a traditional knight as one of the order could get. then again, she tended to think highly of those whose cooking and sense of hospitality were as praiseworthy as his. To be fair, anyone who could bear the brunt of a Saber's appetite must possess at least some modicum of good in his or her heart, demanding as it did a deep sense of generosity. But in truth, as a proper knight she reined herself in, keenly aware of the sacrifices one made to feed others; the peasants of their era had struggled, especially through the winter months, and much effort was spent to help them. They were the backbone of her kingdom, and King Arthur made it known. And when it came to the hospitality of others, the Servant only allowed her legendary fearsome appetite to run unchecked once explicitly invited to do so. Even still, those who adhered to their ancient law of hospitality tended to reserve a special admiration in her heart, even if they themselves had no knowledge of the Brehon Laws. It was still, in the petite knight's mind, a form of high honour. The moment of seriousness didn't last for very long. Hand still clasped over her mouth with some vestiges of tears forming at the corners of her eyes, Saber nodded helplessly, waving her unoccupied right hand, unable to speak until she was finally able to assert control over her amusement. Quickly, she cleared her throat, her smile no longer faint. "Ah...yes, forgive me," she apologised, fishing the phone out of her pocket. "This is a device for the purpose of communicating with another over great distances." The doubtless disconcerting smile faded slightly, becoming somewhat...sheepish? Was King Arthur actually embarrassed? "I am sorry that it was so startling...there are a great many things which could have only been possible in our own country through magic." And here, perhaps the most startling of all, she became much more animated than she ever had in her lifetime. By anyone else's standards, she would have been calm and sedate, but for the girl who became the Once and Future King of Britain, she was positively giddy, unable to contain herself any longer. "Starvation is all but unheard of in this era, even in the most severe of winters. So many diseases have found cures...there is still poverty, but the people nevertheless have clothes and food..and can even obtain a noble's education. In some ways, this era is like a miracle...though it is not perfect, it is more than I could have ever thought possible." 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' "Those from our own country sometimes thought in ways beyond what I am accustomed to," Bedivere points out. "There were those whom I did not understand living even in Camelot. 'Tis not the trouble to live with them, but to understand them. I believe a true knight must accept and be at peace with all who surround him." Bedivere smiles a gentle little smile. "You taught me that, milord. To be the calm in the midst of the storm." Although he might seem hapless in the face of modern technology, he has always been an insightful knight, if prone to quiet and brooding almost as much as his liege. His voice is gentle enough that some have mistaken him for a woman; never demanding, always thoughtful. He gives consideration to his words before he speaks, and he always tries to settle on a fair solution to conflict or conundrum. In all, he's been a wonderfully efficient marshal; one Arturia has never needed to chastise, and almost never correct. He is wise, and fair, but perhaps he lacks some of Arturia's ruthlessness in her role as king; he is perhaps too gentle, especially for a man. Some perhaps saw him as too soft, though none questioned his skill and ferocity in pursuit of Arturia's defense. Rare was it indeed that she ever needed defending, but in those rare cases, perhaps happenstance on the battlefield, Bedivere was there; sword bared and thundering his defiance like a force of nature given form. Right now, however, he doesn't look very threatening. He sheaths his sword, folding his arms over his chest and tilting his chin to look down at the diminutive King of Knights, and the communication device she fishes out of her pocket. He squints at it, even as she tries not to weep with laughter. He has the distinct impression that he's been had, somehow, by something, somewhere in the cosmos. At least Arturia's almost giddy pleasure doesn't seem to be disturbing him too much. He even allows a tentative smile at her own mirth, as though not quite willing to believe it, and unwilling to call attention to it, lest it disappear. For a few seconds, all he can do is watch, conversation utterly forgotten – just to see her smile, or even laugh; he doesn't even care that it's entirely at his own expense. For her, he would happily play the court fool, just to see that smile. It takes a few seconds for him to realise that she's talking to him again. "Milord." He himself looks sheepish for a moment, perhaps embarrassed to be caught at anything but intent and alert. "Fascinating," he adds, when she describes the thing's function. He cocks his head at it, like a dog hearing a whistle. "Witchcraft... probably... but fascinating, all the same." To her explanation of the current era, though, he can only stare at her with an expression of naked disbelief. Starvation, unheard of? That ancient evil rears its head every winter, when scores of peasants die for simple want of food and warmth. He has done what he could to mitigate the effects in Camelot, passing out food – even if it was as meagre as stale bread, or dividing up what firewood and fuel he could. Even if it came from his own personal stores (and it often did). There were always casualties; always. Cures for diseases? Clothing and food, and poverty reduced so? A noble's education? He stares almost slack-jawed for a moment, eyes wide. "What?" Finally his arms fall to his sides, head cocking slightly in that endearing, almost houndish expression of puzzlement. "Unbelievable." He catches himself; he was about to say 'witchcraft' again, but that doesn't seem to be the case this time. Instead, he simply bows his head. "By the grace of God," he says instead, humbly. "I am glad to hear it. And I am glad to hear it from you. From the mouth of any other, I would not believe such miracles..." "But you are a miracle yourself, milord, just to stand before me. I confess, I do not know how you rose again." He rubs at the back of his neck again, cold steel and leather padding against skin. "I do not understand. I mourned your death... as I am certain the rest of Camelot no doubt did..." Sighing, he lets his arms drop again. "And yet here you are." "Well... I suppose I should not be ungrateful, nor ask too many questions of that. 'Tis unknightly of me, but it would be disheartening if this were naught more than a dream, or a bewitchment." Bedivere folds his arms again, as though he can't quite decide whether to leave them down or keep them folded; perhaps another sign of nervous habit in an otherwise placid, loyal knight. So he instead settles for lowering himself to one knee in respectful gesture, head bowed. "I am glad that that does not seem to be the case, thus far. And if 'tis a bewitchment... I am gladly bewitched. It was a long and lonely road, milord, and I feared I would never find the end of it. But that winter road was worth the effort. I would have pressed my horse faster, had I but known what awaited me at the end of it." "My heart is glad to serve you again. I am yours to command. Now and ever. Whatever you wish of me in this new world, O King, it is yours. On this I swear, by my faith." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Once more, the faint, gentle smile emerged. She had done her best to instill those ideals into her knights, praying that they shared them. It was a great comfort to know that she had not simply been seeing what she wished to. Even if she had not truly led them, if the ideals of Camelot had thrived, all was not lost. If they simply lived on in a single knight, Arturia counted that as a victory. How could she not be gladdened by that? She hadn't meant to laugh at his expense; in some ways and in spite of the distance she had imposed, Bedivere had been the closest thing to a family as she could have, other than Kay. Lancelot had been a friend, Kay had been the older brother who picked on her, while Bedivere was not unlike a younger brother to her. She protected him as he protected her, though she had tried to hide it....but the knight was more than astute enough to have probably noticed. She had never teased him, her need to maintain her serious demeanour aside, nor would she. But the only way to describe his reaction...the word 'cute' mysteriously popped into her head for some unfathomable reason. Why, she wondered? It could only be a familial way of seeing others, she fielded a guess. Either that, or Fate was seriously rubbing off on her. But on occasion, familial-like bonds could turn to exasperation. Especially now, given Saber's gradual changing and freeing of her emotions. In some ways she would never change, she would always be mostly serious, especially carrying out her duties. But the King Arthur of ages past would not have given one of her knights the flat look which she gave Bedivere at that moment. So she didn't understand the exact ways this new technology worked. "The forging of a sword is not witchcraft, is it not?" Arturia risked a glance at the screen, hoping it hadn't been an emergency call from Harry or Psyber. She was relieved to see it had been from her Master and, switching quickly to the text, noted that the violet-haired magus simply requested picking up a few things for dinner. Nothing to worry over...other than now she'd have much more to explain. At least this time Rin wouldn't be throwing tables over another Servant coming by, and it wasn't as if Saber wasn't drawing salaries from several different sources and couldn't cover her own food bills, as she pointed out not long ago. Moreover, she did try to help Sakura out in the kitchen...but it always seemed that her own culinary attempts were, while not bad, never measured up. Unlike Saber, Sakura was a true lady. Her train of thought made her pause abruptly in surprise. For countless others, it was a perfectly normal series of events and concerns. But that was what made it so unique; during her own natural lifetime, she had given up on such an ordinary life, sacrificing the comfort of a normal life for the sake of Britain. How many considered such a mundane life boring, not appreciating such comforts which seemed decadent to the King of Knights? On the occasions when she reflected on them, Arturia couldn't help but feel guilty, believing she had no such right to them. Camelot was gone, but a part of her believed her duty did not end even if her kingdom had fallen. Once more falling back into old patterns, Saber ruthlessly suppressed her feelings, choosing to focus on the present. She was going to have to let Sakura and Rin know what was going on, and once again she found herself missing Irisviel. The little blonde couldn't conceive of a person immune to her charm and could resist being pulled into her pace...even Kiritsugu couldn't resist the girlish Einzbern homunculus completely. Especially now, once her excitement over sharing her appreciation of what good existed of the era turned back to her. She knew she was not going to be able to evade the truth forever, that sooner or later she would have no choice but to reveal that she was now the Servant Saber. That didn't mean that she wouldn't try to make that as "later" as possible. Arturia wasn't lying, but she didn't like not telling Bedivere the entire truth either way. "It was a sudden thing, how I found myself here. I encountered another knight, a dame from a land called Ivalice..." she decided against attempting to explain the demon bird at this point in time, "...it was she who explained much of the multiverse to me." While Agrias hadn't been her introduction to the modern era, Saber felt at least a little better speaking about the holy knight, one whom she considered a beloved friend. And she had made her induction into the multiverse considerably easier, after all. once more, Arturia found herself grateful that Sakura was her Master; she was going to need considerable help trying to explain all this, particularly the Heaven's Feel side of things. At least Sakura treated her with the same respect and admiration as her knights; she had a sneaking suspicion Bedivere wouldn't have tolerated Kiritsugu Emiya. At all. But then, all her internal fretting came to an abrupt halt with a few honest, simple, yet moving words. He always seemed to be able to do that...even if she could not allow herself to properly display her appreciation. As much as she had willingly taken on the burden of kingship herself and had fully intended to endure it by herself, it had always been a comfort to have someone truly on her side. For a moment, her eyes widened before the stunned expression was replaced by another smile...but this time, it was slightly bittersweet. Her hand lifted as if to gently touch the top of his head, but she hesitated and simply dropped her hand back to her side. "I am...it is perhaps selfish of me, but...I am grateful to whatever powers brought you here. I have...missed you...my most loyal knight." 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Although many of the knights of Camelot had adopted the ideals their king had preached, few of them had taken them to heart as Bedivere had. He was devoted completely and utterly to his duties with a seriousness that surprised many, and even invited some suspicion on himself – some doubted his devotion, for surely such a knight was too good to be true. Not Bedivere. To the very end, he had remained faithful. When his liege had commanded he cast Excalibur into the lake, he had ultimately done his duty, and his hesitation had been the only stain on his record of service – but even then, he had not hesitated out of selfish motives, but had been thinking of his country, and the good Excalibur might have done for it. Ultimately, though, he had obeyed. Bedivere always obeys. It is a hallmark of his personality, ever since he had come to Camelot wishing to become a Knight of the Round. Somewhere along the line, he had gradually let his sense of duty carry him. It became automatic, he did it without thinking. His devotion had been easier to bear when he spared it no thought; when he became accustomed to his king's coldness and distance. Many of her knights loved her, the pure love of a knight willing to die for their beloved king, but Bedivere's devotion stretched perhaps further than others – he was certainly willing to die, and he knew there would be no hesitation if he were called to such a fate. Others might perhaps hesitate out of self-preservation. He would not. It was perhaps the only way he could show his devotion to a person who could only barely be considered human any more – so complete was her mask that even her most loyal knight was in fact afraid, though not of her. No; he was afraid of his own devotion – he knew he would do something as extreme as sacrifice himself for her, or something similarly reckless. But it wasn't death that frightened him. It was the depths to which he was willing to go; the absolute hold his cold and remote liege had over him. In those cold and lonely days of wandering the wood, he had almost been ready to give up, but it had been the memory of her that had spurred him on. She would have been disappointed if he'd simply thrown in the towel – and disappointing Arturia was the one thing he feared; the one thing that upset him more than anything else on this earth. Bedivere just blinks a bit, rising slowly and awkwardly, and he almost withers visibly under Arturia's flat look – seems somehow diminished, despite having an extra foot and a half on her and plenty of weight. There is confusion, too. He's just not used to such candid displays from her. The King Arturia of ages past never would have done something like that. When the silence seems to stretch on to uncomfortable lengths, Bedivere drums his fingers against the opposite arm almost nervously, gauntleted fingers meeting the sleeve of his plate mail with a quiet ''tink'' for each finger. Although he's not precisely distressed, there's a definite unsettlement to him. She finally speaks before it becomes impossible to bear, thankfully, and seems not to be piqued at him any more. "Another knight?" He raises a brow in what seems to be approval. So, there are other knights, here; knights who would seem to uphold the strict codes of conduct expected of the Knights of the Round? That's good. Very good. It is in fact extremely heartening to hear, to go by the light in Bedivere's eyes. Odd, though, that it would be a woman. Not that he has anything against that, given the secret he's kept so long for Arturia; given that she commands his faith and his devotion more wholly than any male lord could. No, it's simply odd, because such things aren't commonplace in Camelot. If they happen at all, they happen because a woman is clever enough to hide her identity as Camelot's king does. "I see..." It is entirely likely that Bedivere would have fought a Master like Kiritsugu Emiya in every capacity he would have been able to. Though it may not be knightly of him, Bedivere can't help a broad smile at the faint one Arturia allows herself. It gives him no greater pleasure than to see an expression like that on her, and it shows plainly on his face. The expression falters as she reaches up to the top of his head, cocking it as though in puzzlement, but he allows her the attempt, perhaps curious to see what she might do. He seems almost disappointed when she lets her hand drop. He smiles again when she offers her honest statement, though, gentler this time; the smile of a person deeply content, and with no regrets. "Then we are both selfish, milord, and share in such sentiment. 'Tis not knightly of me, but I can no more deny it than fly through the air." Bedivere shakes his head, some of his hair falling across his face. He seems to pay it no mind. "I know not what powers brought me here but the hand of God. And for that, I thank God. I prayed that I might see you once more, milord." He looks away, turning slightly so as not to face her; his pale, almost violet eyes seem distant when he speaks again. "I cast Excalibur into the lake as you commanded me. I saw the Lady of the Lake seize the blade and draw it back beneath the waves. After that, I returned to see that you were in comfort 'neath the tree's boughs... you looked so peaceful, milord, as though you had only closed your eyes to rest. I could have believed that but for the blood. I cleaned what I could... but I knew I would not see your eyes open again but for God's Kingdom, if I would be fortunate enough to find my own final rest there." "I raised a marker for you, and inscribed your name. I found a flower and left it. It seemed..." He shakes his head, as though momentarily struggling for words. "It wasn't right, milord, that none would remember your passing. I would bring word to Camelot, aye, but... right then... I couldn't bear the thought of..." It had struck him, at the time, that there would be no grave for her, no marker; for surely she had been laid low at Camlann. She seemed only to be sleeping, but he knew it was a sleep from which she would never wake. Camelot would mourn in time after he brought word, but letting her go without some kind of remembrance seemed wrong, somehow. "I said a prayer over you, on the shore of the lake." She wouldn't have heard, most likely, though he might be surprised if she did. "Forgive me my presumption; I am no priest, but it... it didn't seem right that you would not have a final prayer. If anyone deserved that, 'twas you, milord." If she did remember, she would remember that it had been a pitiful thing; his voice had not held steady, breaking; weeping bitterly as he tried to form the words. Unknightly conduct – but she hadn't been alive to note, and so he had felt no shame in it. He sighs, turning his back to her, looking down and away as though to regard her obliquely. "I never expected to see you again save in the Kingdom of God, milord." He smiles; she can probably hear it in his voice. "I am blessed. Truly. Whatever I have done to earn this, I know not, but whatever cost it was, I would pay it again gladly." Bedivere spins on one sabaton-clad heel, metal plates clanking quietly at the sudden shift in weight; in the same movement, graceful as a deer, he falls back to one knee, smiling that smile of pure joy. "To know that I was missed by you, milord... you do me too much honour. Ah, by the Good Lord, I missed you. To see you hale again before me is a miracle. I can see no other explanation. But to see you smile so, my King – I had always wanted..." He flounders a bit, voice gentle and slightly awkward, as though he were unsure of how to arrange his words. Bedivere was perhaps not the most eloquent of knights, but he was always a confident speaker; to see him flounder may no doubt be a bit amusing to Arturia. "I had always wanted, just once, to see a true smile on your face." "I never thought that I would have my wish." He studies her with those almost-violet eyes, folding his arms and smiling a little more broadly. "It suits you. Not even a sunrise over the fair fields of Camelot can compare in its beauty. I..." He seems about to say more, but trails off, clearing his throat awkwardly and turning away from her. "But I speak too much," he mumbles, awkwardly. "Forgive me my boldness, milord."

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' As strict as she had been with her court and her knightly order, those knights had never complained or protected, not even once. Naturally, the nobles had done so, and even Camelot was not freed of the petty power struggles and undermining of the king's rule of other countries. Gilgamesh 'solved' those problems by simply making everyone fear him, driving his people to beg their gods to intercede on their behalf to save them from their own king. Iskander had 'solved' it by leaving the administration of the lands he had conquered to appointed officials while he busied himself and other restless men in the business of conquering even more ever-distant lands. Arturia, by contrast, took as much of the higher road as possible...though those who crossed over into mutiny often fell to the executioner's noose. At least, until Mordred's rebellion. But her knights had never complained. Whether their duty was to King Arthur or whomever ascended the throne, it hadn't mattered. As long as she had those whom she could place her trust in, it was enough. As long as they believed in the utopia she reached for, it was enough. Yet, she could not show them the favour they had earned, treating them no different than even the nobles harbouring treachery in their hearts. If there was any sacrifice she had truly regretted, it had been that. Only now, she no longer needed to. She could let the facade drop, welcome them as true friends. She had been able to when Lancelot had reappeared, no longer cursed with madness and finally at peace. Was it because bedivere had been so dedicated to being the perfect knight that she feared disappointing him by revealing her true nature, with all its flaws and imperfections? If his fear was disappointing her, that fear was mirrored with her own. All she was able to do in the end was leave them with a dream, an ideal. The other Kings of the Fourth War might have mocked it, but it was all they had. They weren't the heroes of ages past which Kiritsugu blamed for the bloody nature of the world for those seeking glory. Their only glory would be found in defending those who could not defend themselves, in bringing justice to wrongdoing, in serving the poor. Glory was the means and the inspiration for others, not the end. Their ideal became what defined a "hero" to the modern era, even if Arturia stubbornly refused to see that. That did not, however, lessen her immense pride in her knights of the Round Table. All of them had undoubtedly been remembered by Akasha...she had seen Lancelot as a Servant with her own eyes, even fought him in Heaven's Feel. The loud, obnoxious Saber in red who bizarrely shared her face spoke of a tall, handsome Saber with hair and eyes like hers and a confident smile...he could have only been Gawain. She had almost been expecting that, should she ever encounter her knights again, she would be forced to fight them on the terms of the Holy Grail War without ever having known who they were, and vice versa. That would have been the only way they would have submitted to fighting one another. Even Lancelot had no wish to fight her, only be properly punished by her. there had been some sense of mercy in the universe to meet him again and become fast friends once more. That made it all the more puzzling that Bedivere appeared before her not as a Heroic Spirit, but a human; the multiverse seemed to favour them as Servants. But Arturia was not even remotely about to complain; the cruelty of the Holy Grail War was something she would have wanted to shield the gentle knight from. It was going to be bad enough simply explaining the entire ordeal to him. He was not going to be happy about it. At all. At his discomfiture she sighed, letting the mask slip. But he was going to be getting a tiny lecture here. "I apologise. However, it is important that you learn more of the current era. There are worlds where magic either does not exist, or the people are deliberately kept in ignorance of it." She smiled again with the return to the subject of Agrias, a bright, dazzling thing. "Indeed. There are worlds where knighthood is open to both men and women, so long as they possess the ability to learn the necessary skills and carry true chivalry in their hearts. I had feared that our ideals had been forgotten....but even in other worlds, they are very much alive." Her own death and the final end of Camelot were, strangely, in her possible future. It was an inevitability...if she returned to her own era. But for the moment, it remained something she had to be told about, from those in the distant future...or now, as Bedivere described everything in careful detail, barely keeping his emotions in check, telling her of his own deeds in what he tried to do for her. How he continued to be a loyal knight and serve her even beyond her passing. To simply say that he made her proud seemed inadequate. How could she possibly express it; she, who had always concealed her true self behind a cold, inhuman mask? Almost randomly, the memory of Haytham Kenway's funeral flickered through her mind, a deadly foe to the Assassins and yet possessed of his own code of honour, and nevertheless a subject of the Crown. She had felt obligated as a King of his country, as well as her friendship with Connor and the others, to see him off in her own way. Sakura had given her a book of poetry which contained one dedicated to the end of her own legend. She had smiled; even poets of her distant future mourned her passing so much that they had re-written it so that she had never died, merely "went away" until Britain had need of her again. She hardly felt worthy of such adoration, but the sentiment was deeply touching. Those words came again, and she recited them as she had when Haytham's funeral barge bore him away: "The old order changeth, yielding place to new, And God fulfils Himself in many ways, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? I have lived my life, and that which I have done May He within Himself make pure! but thou, If thou shouldst never see my face again, Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day. For what are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain, If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend?" For all her past careful reservation, Arturia had been gradually casting the mask aside, only donning it like another piece of her armour, to be used in battle and set aside when the battle was done. Yet, there were times when it had become a crutch, something to retreat behind like a shield. But there were times when all she had experienced in the multiverse, all the moments shared with Agrias, Sakura, Rin, Psyber, Lancelot, and countless others who had encouraged her to open up, wore away her defences. Where once he would ruthlessly restrain herself, it seemed too unnatural to merely stand perfectly still. Such as now. Slowly, carefully,she closed the short distance between them. Her tiny, deceptively feminine hands reached out, though only a short distance, yet is was enough to take one of his hands in hers. With a smile containing a full range of emotions between happiness and sorrow, both bittersweet joy and regret, she squeezed his hand gently. "I am the same....but through my trials and my friends here, I have...changed. That you have been able to accept that...it brings me happiness." After a pause to search for a succinct way to say what she wanted to, she continued. "In truth, I have found purpose here. Camelot is...lost to me, but there are worlds beyond counting which have needed my sword. The only regret that had remained for me was to have left you behind."

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Bedivere had certainly never complained – indeed, he had been one of the few to offer not even a hint of protest or rebellious nature. He had always been her most staunch supporter; always been the first one to soothe ruffled feathers in the courts when the nobility had protested this or that. He could speak eloquently when he wanted to, and his gentle, measured tones had always had a calming effect even on the most bombastic of Camelot's resident nobility. Favour had always been the one thing that had meant more to Bedivere than any silver or gold. The approval and favour of King Arturia Pendragon had always been the one thing he had sought above all else; the one thing he had craved, and his single driving motivation in serving the kingdom. He had never known if he had ever achieved that approval before now. He had contented himself with knowing that she was unreachable behind that mask, and that he may well never know. Ironically, that had only spurred him on to greater efforts to seek out her favour, and conduct himself in a manner that she would approve of. How strange, then, that the one knight who had striven almost more than any of the others for the ideals of King Arturia had been the one that had not been remembered by the Akashic Record – the one she had not seen as a Servant, but as a mortal man before her. A Servant would not have the faint shadows under the eyes that Bedivere now wears. They know not of fatigue as a mortal man would. Perhaps, though, he might know that something is amiss – to be seeing Arturia at all, even amongst the possibilities of the Multiverse, is almost too good a miracle to be true. He could not be certain whether she had slept when he left her or whether she had truly passed beyond mortal ken, but the difference had been negligible at the time. Whichever the case, she would not be returning; she would not wake from that final sleep, and he would not see those cold jade eyes again. He had known that; had fought with himself to accept that inevitability, no matter how much it pained him. To see her here at all, then... perhaps he suspects that something unnatural is at work, but as he had mentioned before, he's willing to accept it if it means seeing his beloved Arturia once more, and serving by her side, where he belongs. Perhaps, then, explaining the War of the Holy Grail to him may not be quite as difficult as she might imagine. Perhaps he might even be grateful of the position she finds herself in – to be remembered with such fervour by people of an age they can only dream of; to be remembered and honoured so. To be remembered and honoured for her sacrifices had been one of the few things that had truly angered Bedivere, though he had been careful, so very careful, not to let it show to his liege. While understandably upset at her passing, another side of his upset had been that she would not be remembered for the great deeds she had done; would not be celebrated for what she had done and the way in which she had shaped Camelot with her own hands. That pitiful stone monument he raised, a single stone with her name scratched into it, would be the only lasting memorial to her – until now, anyway. Bedivere shifts his weight somewhat uncomfortably, looking a little awkward when he finds himself the target of a lecture. He clears his throat with equal awkwardness, bowing his head and looking repentant. "Yes, my lord." Honestly, the way he wilts a bit under even such a mild chastisement can't be described as anything but 'cute.' He has at least a foot and a half on her height, and probably a minimum of fifty pounds; if they were both mortal and it came down to a contest of strength, there is no conceivable way he would lose – but he's cowed as easily as a hound scolded in a firm tone of voice. That smile, however, draws him out of it. Without consciously realising it, he finds himself wearing a similar smile – not because he knows this lady knight Arturia speaks of, but to see such a beautiful expression on her face; something he had once only dreamt to see. He is at least dimly aware of the subject matter, though, and he is listening, even if contemplating her smile is mostly the focus of his attention. "Good... that is good." His soft voice is a little distracted. "I am glad that somewhere, such chivalry lives on. It would have been sad, I think, if Camelot had been the only seat of such ideals. That it has most likely died with you... it does not bear thinking." The poetry earns a slightly blank look – not because Bedivere is unfamiliar with poetry, but because he isn't familiar with this particular piece, likely written centuries after his time. He cocks his head like a puzzled hound once more, listening intently to the recital. Bedivere blinks somewhat owlishly, as though picking it apart in his mind and trying to make some sense of it. When the pieces settle into place, he smiles again, but this time it seems almost sheepish; almost shy. Yes, he carried her memory, and he wished to do right by it. Who else would? The duty had been left to him, as much because he wanted to as because there was no one else to properly respect her memory. It was his duty – to not do it wouldn't have even occurred to him in his grief and his anger. He blinks owlishly once more, but this time in confusion as Arturia approaches him. He lets her take one of his hands, but only because he seems to be in slight shock as to what's happening, those almost-violet eyes wide in unguarded surprise. This is definitely not the Arturia that he left behind; that proud and aloof king, who wanted nothing more in the world but to build a suitable kingdom for her people. At the same time, though... this is also the same Arturia. He's not sure how he knows that; perhaps just from his imaginings of what the real Arturia might have been like, but he's as certain of that as the earth beneath his feet. Bedivere very carefully does not move at all as she takes his hand; does not so much as breathe when she squeezes it gently. He does not tremble – but he stands still as a deer that knows it's been spotted. He's reluctant to ruin that brief instant by speaking, but eventually, he finds his voice. "I—" His voice cracks; he's forced to start over, clearing his throat again, flushing a little at his own false start. "My lord..." Having something eloquent to say was a great idea, but there seems to be a disconnect between his mind and his tongue. Bedivere inwardly curses; his face flushes a little more, and this betrayal only seems to cause further inward despair. His eyes drop to somewhere in the vicinity of his own sabatons, lingering on the floor. "I have reason to believe Camelot is lost to me, as well. I know not how you came by here, but I have wandered for what you would say is four years in search of it – would I not have found it already, were I not meant to be back there? But it is just as well that I have not, for it would be an empty thing, a hollow thing, without you there. What is Camelot without its King?" he asks, lifting his gaze to hers. To hear her speak so openly of a regret, though... that is a rare and precious thing beyond counting or measure. Again, he finds himself reluctant to speak, but... Bedivere bows his head; his laugh isn't much more than a breath, almost missed but for proximity. It might be a hearty belly-laugh in anybody else. "You speak in nothings, milord." In spite of what might be a reprimand from anyone else, his gentle tone is good-natured. "I am not worth such regret. I am but a humble knight of Camelot. Why would you trouble yourself over my fate? My King, I am happy to serve you, no matter where it may be from." He seems to consider for a few moments, dimly aware that she still has hold of his hand, and seemingly reluctant to so much as move for that fact. He is, dimly, aware that he doesn't want her to let go. Her hands are surprisingly warm; he can feel it even through the steel plating of his gauntlet. "But I am honoured, milord. I—I will serve you to the end of my days. Should I find Camelot, I will serve it again – but until that time, I remain your loyal servant." There is a particular emphasis he places on it that suggests not kingdom or kingship, but a more personal loyalty – for her he would travel to the very gates of Hell and challenge the Devil himself. Bedivere smiles, genuine; though there seems to be a thread of self-consciousness in the expression. He's not used to showing himself so openly, especially not around Arturia; it feels incredibly awkward. The expression falters just slightly. "If... if you will have me again."

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' As much as she had secretly cherished her knights, what drove them had been something of a mystery to Arturia, and she had dared not find out lest her mask be exposed should the wrong person have overheard. That they had believed in the ideals of Camelot and followed the path of chivalry without reservation had never been in question, but their reasons for doing so had eluded her. Did they follow the King of Britain or King Arthur, whether it was her ial, what she represented, or who they imagined her to be? She had been grateful either way and would not have turned even one away...and yet, understanding their hearts was a luxury she was unable to grant herself. Mordred had believed that she was the only one whom had been pushed away...when in truth, she had been forced to push everyone away. One version of Mordred had apparently come to terms with that and, in spite of her previous treachery, grown beyond her previous role. But this new one... There was battle in the offing, Arturia could feel it. And there was little she could do to avoid it. For the moment, however, she decided that she would figure out how to cross that bridge when she got to it. For now, she considered other, more immediate problems. She had no doubts that, upon his own death, Bedivere would have ascended to the Throne; the Knights of the Round Table were far too legendary to have been forgotten, their deeds too widely celebrated even on distant shores far beyond the infinite oceans. but for whatever reason, his reality -- or perhaps only Bedivere himself -- had Unified before that point. And while she was personally overjoyed that he truly lived still, the multiverse was a dangerous place. Those mortals who lacked supernatural powers in the Union had to be especially careful. Saber hardly minded having to look out for her knight -- she was a Servant, after all -- but to Sir Bedivere, it wouldn't seem right that she would be the one protecting him. Such was her dilemma. It certainly didn't help matters when he looked for all the world like a scolded puppy. Here was a tall, imposing knight with the same serious demeanour as Arturia herself, and yet with the same manner of lecture she had given others, was reduced to this. She couldn't help but blink in surprise; had he always been like this? In all her memories, he had been beyond chastisement...then again, after the Holy grail War she had found herself chastising some when they failed to properly look after their health, or became too reckless... her eyes widened even further upon realising that every one of them was someone she had thought of as family, in a sense. Just like that, she had considered him as a part of her inner circle in the present. Would he be happy, or horrified? It wasn't always a good thing. At the very least, he would probably enjoy meeting the others. "It is, regrettably, a rare thing, at times. But those whom I have met whom share our path of chivalry are true treasures, the pride of the Union. It is my honour to serve beside them." As she watched his changes of expression, Arturia continued to be puzzled in turn. That was perhaps the most disconcerting of all to her; as she had been unbreakable in her stoicism, so too had he...or so she had thought. Bearing the burden all on her own, becoming the immovable, stoic king was supposed to have allowed them to be free with their emotions. The example she tried set wasn't supposed to go quite that far. She never would have expected it, for him to seem so lost, so innocent, so....shy. Even the aloof king had heard the whisperings of the court ladies...his mysterious, similarly aloof demeanour and gentle calm had captured more than one maiden's heart. If they had known the truth, Arturia had a feeling there would be even more. She smiled again, mostly to herself. "Ah...another friend had given me a book of poems. It had been the first thing to come to my mind." She chuckled softly, which doubtless would have disconcerted the poor knight even more. " I seem to be thinking of it often..." Which would have come as no surprise at all to anyone familiar with it: the speaker had been a fictional version of herself, and the audience had been a fictional version of him. At his modest dismissal, she shook her head slightly. "No. I have come to understand that one's friends and family should be treasured. Perhaps it was impossible for me, while I was king, to show such favour. I am under no such obligations now...." and here she thought of Sakura, and the necessity of forming a contract to fight the King of Heroes, "...and it has become important that, in order to work together harmoniously, that they know of my true feelings." An even brighter smile alighted her face; a Knight of Camelot had been returned to her. She hoped that, in the future, she could set his mind at ease, not make him so horribly uncomfortable. But she was glad...glad that his loyalty had never wavered. "You need not even ask, my most precious knight." And all this time, she was still holding his hand in hers.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Such lack of closeness was one of the many reasons why Arturia had not known the motivations behind her own knights' actions – and Bedivere may have represented more of a mystery than the others. Ironic, considering he was the most driven among his brothers-in-arms. Not once had he ever confided in anyone why he strove so mightily to serve. Never had he revealed something of his true colours in this sense. Much like his liege, he had never been particularly close to anyone. Perhaps Gawain could have been said to be his closest friend among the Round Table, but even then, there were aspects of him that Gawain simply didn't understand. While the other certainly had his virtues, and certainly displayed compassion as befitting such a lofty standard, Gawain showed more of a casual nature than the serious-minded Bedivere. Oh, he was certainly good for a laugh from time to time. Even Bedivere couldn't help but crack a faint smile at some of Gawain's better jests. There was a rift between them, though, driven open by duty, and kept open by the same. Few, if any, could have been said to truly know Bedivere – he was probably more a symbol of knighthood to the people than an actual person. His motivations were always a closely-guarded secret. Now that he has no kingdom to fall back on, no need to impress and no duty to fulfill short of his obligations to the Union, he finds himself at somewhat of a loss. In the face of Arturia's chiding, the knight certainly does have a puppyish air about him – however minor it may be, it can't help but call to mind a scolded puppy in the way he ducks his head and avoids her gaze, or the faint hint of a chagrined expression on his face. There are few things that can really get to him that way, but direct chiding from Arturia herself. That's certainly enough. No doubt he had always been like this – but once upon a time, he had taken more measures to take her criticism with an expression of stone. And he had always been shy and gentle; a quality that no doubt earned him many a female fan among the courts – gentle, quiet Bedivere, the mystery of the Round Table, whose intents and motivations were as much a mystery as the king's herself. Now, though... to see her smile, to see her laugh; it's difficult to rein himself in. It shames him, truly; to know that his self-control is so little. He should not be allowing himself this luxury. If she wishes to indulge, that's all well and good, unknightly as it may be... but... At the same time, something in her words rings true. I have come to understand that one's friends and family should be treasured. Perhaps it was impossible for me, while I was king, to show such favour. I am under no such obligations now... and it has become important that, in order to work together harmoniously, that they know of my true feelings. The awkwardness seems to fade from him at that, and he seems to think about that with seriousness. In fact, he seems to have forgotten entirely that she still holds his hand; frowning as though he were on the verge of realising something terribly important – at least, until his eyes drop, and he notices his hand is still held by both of hers. He curses inwardly, because he can feel the heat springing to his face; that traitorous reaction. He makes no move to pull away, though, thinning his lips slightly at his own awkwardness, and even forcing that into an awkward smile. "It would not be right not to ask. I should not have left your side at Camlann. Perhaps then..." She would not have been killed, then; subjected to the wrath of Mordred. But there's no use in the what-ifs. What's done is done. He sighs, head bowing slightly, though it doesn't hide his face from her. He still practically towers over Arturia. "But that is done, I suppose." His eyes lift to hers almost reluctantly, as though he were unwilling to look her in the eye. In truth, he's still horribly embarrassed, because his face is still horribly red. It's also horribly embarrassing! But he forces himself on nonetheless, and even manages a faint flicker of a smile. "I—I have a confession to make, milord, if... if you will hear it. Since you seem to value such openness, now..."

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' A symbol of knighthood, of just rule. That was what Arturia sought to become, to be the vision of a perfect king for the people to rely on, and a model for those who wished to become knights and serve the kingdom. She knew very well what it was to sacrifice oneself to become the living embodiment of an ide. Even Mordred had seemed to pursue this goal of perfection, only for Arturia to find out that the homunculus had been chasing after Arturia herself, believed she was the ideal of a father. That, more than even having been created as a tool for Morgana's revenge, had been why Arturia had been forced to reject her. Mordred had been an impeccable knight, but to be the king, she needed to have placed the people -- not the king -- first. At first, she had been at an equal loss after the end of the Holy Grail War, abruptly thrust into the multiverse with Gilgamesh laying waste to entire worlds searching for her and the source of her hope -- the Holy Grail -- destroyed. The despair had nearly overwhelmed her even as she searched for some other way to grant her dying wish, and it was only her determination to grant it with her own hands which had kept her from succumbing. Everything and everyone she had cared for was gone...and even the realisation of her wish would have taken most of what she had loved from her. But Camelot must live...that was her entire reason for being. She had been entrusted with one duty above all else, and she had failed in that. Without a doubt, Bedivere would have vehemently disagreed. But that wouldn't have reassured the petite king. Even now, after all the years, she could still feel the pain of the loss of Camelot, though it had dulled to an ach upon being reminded of her loss. Accepting it hadn't completely healed her....she doubted that anything ever truly could. It was a wound that was so deep that it would pain her until she ascended to the Throne of Heroes. "In truth, there was nothing that could have been done, at that point in time. You performed your duty admirably. That was all I could have ever asked." In the present, however, she took comfort in those she cherished, and the powers that be had brought her another of them. She had very little to regret, given that fact. Arturia couldn't help by smile; she had to admit, he was quite adorable, flustered like that. On the other hand, she truly did want to put him at ease. Focusing on their duties...that was always something that seemed to comfort the both of them. "Our task as knights is not yet over....even more have need of us, now. And I can think of no greater honour or blessing than to have you at my side once more." Nevertheless, his flushed complexion puzzled her; the girlish knight hoped she wasn't putting him on the spot too much, though somehow that seemed a foregone conclusion. "of course," she replied with a faint smile. In truth, her smile never seemed to have left; it was hard not to, given that perhaps her last remaining wish --selfish as it was -- had been granted. "You no longer need fear speaking openly in my presence." Though she did worry that Bedivere was going to admit some bad habit of hers which had always annoyed him, or a frustration with her cold mask....but one had to take the good with the bad. She'd not have it any other way, these days.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Bedivere inclines his head when told that he'd done everything that could have been expected of him. He doesn't seem particularly proud of the praise, perhaps feeling that he could have done more still – like he could have avoided the great tragedy, somehow. No, and it would be presumptuous of him to think so, but that doesn't ease his guilt very much. Still, it's the best kind of praise he might earn in the situation. It was, and is, a complicated one. The knight exhales through his nose, too soft to be a proper sigh, but clearly still a little regretful. There's still a little colour to his high cheekbones; still a bit of fluster to him, but he seems to be gradually bringing it under control. "If you say so, my lord." He glances back up at her, if only a little, and somewhat indirectly. "And you are right, from what I have heard men of the Union say. There are many more who have need of our protection and our help, and many more who are as bad shape as the most piteous of Camelot." Inevitably, his eyes drop back to the hands that still hold his. He manages not to blush this time, though he seems to be staring as though he doesn't quite comprehend what he's seeing. It's just so strange to see that; so surreal, to know that those delicate hands belong to Arturia. The woman could have been cut from alabaster for all her affability in the days of Camelot. He could think of statues that had been more personable. Some part of him, though, wants to think that that potential was always there – that maybe, even, she had been lonely behind her mask; as lonely as he had sometimes been. "Ehhhhn." It's a quiet, not quite uncomfortable sound when she says he need not fear speaking openly. He still seems reluctant, as though whatever bravery had gripped him has utterly deserted him now. There are no confessions of worrisome habits here, though. He keeps his eyes fixed firmly on their joined hands, as though fascinated by it and reluctant to look away; as though if he did, such a thing would vanish, never to happen again. He seems to steel himself with a breath before speaking. "When I first came to the court, I was struck by your status as a knight." He begins slowly, choosing his words with care. "I knew then that that was what I wished to become. I wished to live the ideal of chivalry, no matter what price was required... to help others, to defend the defenseless. I wanted nothing more than to do that, and to serve the one whom I saw as the living ideal of that." "As time went on, I came to see that my instincts were not amiss. But sometimes I almost dreamt of a melancholy that I saw in your eyes, when you thought that none were watching – I dismissed it, of course; it was not... knightly... to think of such things. Especially of one's liege." He shakes his head slowly. "Yet still, I did not think I was imagining it... and in time I suppose it came to haunt me, as well. I did not have many friends even among my brothers of the Round Table. Perhaps Sir Gawain, but..." But Gawain did not share Bedivere's ironclad dedication to duty and idea; could not seem to spur himself on to the same heights of utter selfless devotion. Maybe Gawain was a little happier for being able to fall back on good-natured humor when things looked bleak, but it had always struck Bedivere a bit oddly. "But I was not close to many, if any at all." "In time I realised there was something else that I wanted, my lord. One more thing, however much an impossible dream it may have seemed. I wished to see what lay beneath the mask that you wore. Once, my lord, just once, I wanted to see you happy – to see you smile. I understood that you needed to wear the mask. Such a thing was necessary; I did so myself... but..." He himself smiles, just a little. "Yet still, I wanted to see – just once." He doesn't look up at her, instead keeping his eyes directed firmly at her hands. "It seems surreal, my lord, that I have seen that now.But I would not trade it for anything. In that, I have been given something more precious than silver or gold; more valuable to me even than the teachings I have striven so hard to follow." He smiles gently; not much more than a faint curl of the corner of his mouth. "I will remember it to the last of my days. To see that, my lord... that was my wish, and I had thought I must settle for seeing you find peaceful rest as you lay beneath the oak. But to have two wishes granted – to see you again, and to see that... and to serve you again?" "I am blessed, truly." He shakes his head, slowly, as though he doesn't quite believe it himself. "And I am humbled; that you would reveal to me..." Bedivere stops talking, perhaps thinking he's dug a big enough hole for now. He can feel his damnable face heating up again.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' In all fairness, there was much they both would regret until such a time came where their minds would be free from all worries....though hers had come first. And even when it had approached, when she lay dying beneath the oaks, Arturia couldn't simply let it go. Pleading with Alaya had been all she was capable of at that point, but it had been something. But even if, ultimately, that particular wish had not been granted, and Camelot had still met its end, that decision was one which she refused to regret. Had it not, would she have ever found herself in the multiverse as Bedivere had? Would it had been too late for her, even if she had? Or had the only path for her to take through the Holy Grail War, as a Servant? Certainly, she never would have met Irisviel, nor had much of a reason to befriend Sakura. No, that particular path was one which she would not second-guess herself. The truth of her mask was as complicated as the rest of her. It was truly a mask, hiding her real nature as well as her gender. But many times, she did not permit herself to feel; her personal feelings would have interfered with many of her duties, as well as some of the uglier realities of the world as it had been. The gentle, girlish Arturia of her childhood would have been unable to brutally put down rebellions, execute traitors, go to war. Deep down at her core, she was a weak, soft slip of a girl; that girl was her first sacrifice for Britain. She cast aside more than simply her femininity, her identity as a girl; she had banished her kinder, gentler side deep within her. She could not waver in what was necessary to rule. Yet, burying her feelings had never made it easier, and the mask she wore was also her crutch and shield. It had kept out the enemies of Camelot and king, but it had kept out the companionship of true friends, as well. So well hidden behind it that Arturia herself had wondered if there was anything left of her humanity...only after spending time with Irisviel and later being abruptly thrown practically headfirst into the multiverse had taught her that it wasn't the case. it had taken years, but the long-exiled girl had started to find her way back. However, she was still somewhat afraid to reveal her, especially around the knights she had known in life, who knew her only as King Arthur. Kay had been the only one who had seen her as a girl, knew her when she was weak and frail. Though the two of them had trained together -- he remained the only opponent she was unable to beat -- she had still been an overly emotional girl she had ever needed to hold back anger, tears, or laughter.It was that girl who now felt just a little timid...worried about rejection from those who had only seen the Iron Rose. Which is why Bedivere's confession was all the more astonishing. She was not so foolish as to be ignorant of his admiration, perhaps even hero worship. It had helped keep her focused, to try to live up to that ideal. She had failed to live up to the chivalric code once, and the price had been Caliburn. How much worse would it have been to disappoint such a promising young knight? To hear that he had always looked up to her stirred mixed feelings; it made her happy, and yet the fear of being a disappointment persisted. What was completely unexpected for the King of Knights, however, was what followed. That the mask was what had been looked up to was entirely intentional; it was the mask which had been the ideal king. Gawain had all but idolised the ideal of the king, and much of his pride had been wrapped up in serving that ideal. Lancelot had known something of the truth, that a girl hid behind that mask, but even then he had known the fierce and honourable knightly side of her. But it astonished her that there had been someone who had wanted to see beyond all of it, to catch a glimpse of the true person at the center of it all. That someone cared enough to wish for that, to understand that there was more than simply the ideal. This time, it was Arturia who was the one with the flushed face and downturned eyes, studying the rivets in the gauntlet covering his hand. it made her feel even more inadequate, seeing just how tiny her hands were, especially compared to his. She had always felt ashamed of her short stature, especially compared to the tall knights around her, but it was never so apparent until that moment. It might be a while before she was able to speak again, even if she should have said something. If for no other reason than to reassure him that she didn't think any less of him...though the bright red face she now wore might have been a good indication of that. the timid girl had surely picked a very inconvenient time to reemerge, damn it all.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Perhaps the King of Knights would be surprised to know that her trusted lieutenant had endured much the same – not only burying his feelings, at time, but outright banishing them and hardening his heart. His is a gentle heart, much as hers, although perhaps he didn't exile his innermost essence quite so far. He can still recollect the gentler aspects, still call them to mind, though at times it takes effort to actually show them. His mask, however, was not a crutch or a shield. It was simply a thing that needed to be done, another facet to his duties as a knight of Camelot. He had done things he could not fully be proud of, but the ends justified the means – always he has acted with Camelot's best interests in mind; always he's put aside the good of the one for the good of the many. Perhaps Arturia had underestimated the perception and depth of Bedivere, though his deft administration of Camelot had certainly showed sharpness in the past. Perhaps he knew all along that there was a softness buried behind the steel; perhaps that was why he wished with such fervour to see that one, untainted smile. And perhaps that sharply perceptive knight senses something of Arturia's astonishment. Bedivere allows himself the faintest hint of a smile, though he has the good grace not to let it seem too obvious. Yes, he sees and understands much, and so single-minded is his devotion to duty that many would underestimate his sharp mind; or his ability to connect dots that are not always so obvious. That faint smile widens when it's her turn to look away, flushing; he can't help the reaction, even as he follows her gaze to their hands. His flexes almost unthinkingly, the oiled steel giving not so much as a whisper at the movement, well cared-for. Bedivere takes his equipment as seriously as his duties, for are they not in their own way gifted to him from the king? Besides, it wouldn't do for a knight to live the ideal, and then appear in tatters. Who would trust someone with such a shabby appearance? Bedivere can't help himself. When her face turns such a shade of scarlet, he chuckles, quietly. Oddly, even his own face is red in light of what he considers – and then, before he has the opportunity to think better of it, he reaches out and draws the considerably tinier knight close, steel-clad arms folding around her in a firm embrace as he rests his chin over the top of her head... and though he still has to bend a bit to do that, he doesn't seem to mind the difference in stature. "What I'm trying to say, milord," he begins awkwardly, "is that I have always..." No, that would just come out all wrong. Bedivere draws in a patient breath and tries again. "I wanted to see who you were, not the mask. It is easy enough to wear a mask, as king, but..." No, that doesn't seem right either. Bedivere makes an awkward little sound of despair and tries one more time. "I am your faithful servant, my lord. But I would be more honoured to be your faithful friend, too." That's better. But not really. ...Damn it, he can feel his face heating up again. So clumsy! Couldn't he find some better way to phrase that? Augh, of all the...

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' It was probably for the best that she hadn't known just how far Bedivere had duplicated her path to the point of even adopting the proverbial mask, albeit for somewhat different reasons. It was in her very nature to worry, and where once she had hidden and buried such inclinations, with the release of her previously suppressed inner nature her fussier side tended to manifest. Already, Saber's mind was furiously working on how to ease him into the insanity that was now her reality. Many of her friends could be overwhelming, even on their best behaviour. As fairly polite as she was, an unprepared meeting with the likes of someone like Hastur would go over about as well as a tonne of bricks. And even Psyber could be a little....crass. All right...a lot crass. They were good people, it would simply require some reassurance. But then, perhaps his keen skills of observation would see that there was nothing to be concerned about, and she was worrying over nothing. Was she being overprotective? Probably, but his owlish expressions certainly weren't helping. Moreover, being overprotective was merely a part of her nature, even if he was a capable knight who hardly needed her protection. The King of Knights suppressed a sigh. Her mask should have been flawless, and there were many who were misled by it, but perhaps she should have been more careful around Bedivere. Then again, it was strangely comforting that she couldn't fool him....if a little worrying for those times where she needed to. Such as if her fortunes turned exceedingly bad and the King of Heroes showed up to plague her existence once more. That could be more than just a little troublesome; even if he had been a Servant, Bedivere could not hope to face the insufferable Archer on his own. Even the King of Conquerors fell to his blade. And those were just a few of the dangers of their own world. As her jade eyes seemed to suddenly find the more intricate details of knightly armour even more fascinating that they usually were -- though she had a much easier time of it with armour made from prana which demanded no upkeep other than a competent Master -- Arturia felt even more self-conscious. She must have looked ridiculous like this, and inwardly she scolded herself for her lack of proper bearing. She might have been trying to be more emotionally open these days, but she'd be damned if she was going to stop carrying herself like a proper knight. Her pride was something she would never let go of. She was almost startled out of it by his own chuckle; if he had been baffled by hers, she was in turn baffled by his. It would have been enough for her to look up, were it not for the surprise of her life. Her eyes widened in astonishment at first, followed by even more furious blushing on her part. Yet, she did not push him away, quite the opposite, in fact. She sighed -- a barely audible sound -- as the sea green eyes closed and her own small arms gradually found their way around him in turn. To be true friends... Her voice sounded tiny, awkward, and shy even to her own ears. "I...would...like that. Yes."

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Adopting the mask-like guise of the king had begun as a form of respectful imitation, but it had quickly become a necessity – much like the girl that had been locked away, the softer aspects of Bedivere's personality had by necessity been banished in the pursuit of his duties. Perhaps he hadn't needed to make choices quite as difficult as Arturia's, but those that he did make were not easy for him. More than any of the other Knights of the Round, Bedivere's personality was gentle, soft; aspects some said were unfitting for such an esteemed knight, and so – as whispers of this disapproval began to reach him – he had slowly begun to hide those softer aspects away. Oh, he would indulge in them. He had a natural outlet in knighthood's chivalry – he could not pass a beggar without offering coin or bread. But some parts of him had been locked away just as surely. Maybe, in his wanderings through the Multiversal wood, he had reverted even further into that manner of being... but just a few moments of interacting with Arturia – an Arturia unburdened by the things that had once troubled her in Camelot – seems to be enough to coax that knightly facade to crack. Funny how life has a way of working out like that. He'd thought his own guise to be as ironclad as he could make it. Although not as ornamented as Gawain's armour, the ornamentation Arturia so carefully studies is a cut above most knights of Camelot. He'd spent some coin on the armour, but true to his ideals, he'd wanted something protective more than something well-decorated. Most could be found on the embroidery of the cloth aspects of his armour, such as trimmings around the border, hemming the cloth in bright metallic thread of gold. What few ornamentations he sports are subtle and tasteful, enough to lend an impression of affluence, but not opulence. And certainly not arrogance. None of the metallic pieces of his armour seem to sport any real decoration – a slight blue hue to the steel, perhaps; a tint applied when each plate was forged, but no more than that. Of all of his comrades of the Round Table, he had leaned towards subtlety and modesty. Many were the tales of Bedivere slogging through the frozen slush in midwinter, bringing food to the poor and fuel for their meagre fires where he could. Still, even unornamented, the craftsmanship is obviously superior, and he's taken exceptionally good care of it. Why would he not? All of his raiment is practically a gift from the king, is it not? Despite what seems like relaxed posture, the knight is wound tight as a spring under his chain and steel and heavy cloth; he at least does not tremble in his nerves (thank the Lord for that small favour), but he's still strung taut as a deer tensed to spring. He relaxes only slightly when she doesn't push him away (or even worse, aim a swipe at his face for his impropriety – a reaction he had halfway anticipated). She might feel him sigh through her hair when she gives her awkward, small-voiced reply. It's so odd to hear a tone like that from her. His memory is so accustomed to the cool, regal tone of King Arturia Pendragon of Camelot; not the sweet, painfully shy voice of Arturia, the young woman who had driven away so much of her own life and given up so much of herself in sacrifice to the cause. The discrepancy between memory and reality is almost enough to make him chuckle again. But he is sensitive to her pride. He would not insult her by pointing that out... it does make him smile a little, though. "I could have hoped for no better answer." His own voice is soft; gentler tones than the aloof sort he would so often adopt in Camelot – something of the gentle, almost shy young man beneath the mask of the realm's able marshal. He seems almost about to pull away, but no, it's just so his gauntleted hands can settle over her more comfortably, so the steel doesn't bite into her. Much like the other Knights of the Round, Bedivere favours extremely heavy armour; so much so that only the largest, heaviest horses could even bear him. But he's far stronger than he looks, able to move gracefully even when encased in steel. Better still, he seems mindful of that weight, since Saber isn't wearing her own plated armour. He pulls away, but only the upper half; just enough to get a better look at her, head cocking as he glances down at her. "Hm." It's a thoughtful sound. He lifts one brow, as though considering something quite seriously. "So be it, then. I will try to mind myself... or not mind myself, as it were. Hah." He gives a dry laugh; almost self-conscious. "Perhaps I will need you to mind me, as well, my lord. I spent much of my time hiding my reactions from you. I... I did not wish to disappoint you. I had always wanted nothing more than your approval, and as I said; to know who you were beneath the mask of the king..." His smile twists a little; somewhat sardonic, but still amused. "I may need some chiding to allow myself to react when I am not thinking of reacting. But for you, I will do that, if you wish." Since she seems to place such value on being more emotionally open, now; that practise, at least, seems to be something he's willing to make an effort to adopt. Maybe just the chance to not hide behind his own mask is something he had always wanted, too. Steel-clad arms close around her again, a presence both comforting and comforted. "I am glad." The words are little more than a sigh through her hair, a sound of breathless, almost disbelieving pleasure; but more than that, tremendous relief. Better still, he decides – he hasn't botched it too badly with his clumsy awkwardness! Truly, the good lord smiles down upon him this day.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Another series of memories sprang to mind, blending into one; catching a glimpse of an almost frail-seeming young boy with shaggy silver hair in the gathered crowd as her entourage passed through, yet there was something different about the kind of awe he possessed. Then, she saw him as only perhaps a few years older, untested but with an unmatched fire in those pale eyes, determined to become a knight of King Arthur's court and submitting to training with not so much of a word of protest. After that, she caught glimpses again of that boy during training, slowly maturing into a much taller young man, yet losing none of that determined fire. and then he was on bended knee before her, silver hair now long and bound back in the familiar braids, face turned respectfully down as the blade of Caliburn touched each of his shoulders in the familiar ceremony. She had always tried to treat everyone equally, showing no special favour to those who loved her over those who merely respected her and even those who hated her. Beyond hiding her gender, her mask had served to project that impartiality, that King Arthur could make those necessary hard decisions even regarding those in her favour. Of course, there were always those who tried, playing the familiar court politics to be granted the graces of the king; much disgruntled complaint became active political plotting against her. In truth, Mordred's rebellion was merely a catalyst; Camelot's fall began with the discovery of Lancelot and Guinevere, and the demands which had resulted. Her enemies had assumed that she could not carry out the execution, that they could accuse her of the very favouritism she had carefully avoided. They cared not at all about the laws, nor about honour.If not for that law, that instance, they would have eventually discovered another. It was not unrealistic ideals, nor the weakness of the people which had felled the Britain she ruled. A stronger king would have possessed a power and strength they wouldn't have doubted and questioned. And yet, for all that, there were still those who had indeed earned her highest regards, who she watched grow up before her eyes as they became men, whose devotion and loyalty were genuine and true, who were as dedicated to the more unfortunate was as absolute as hers. And one in particular, who had been so devoted to the kingdom that in some ways, he became like her...not only the honourable knightly aspect, but all of it, including the unwavering mask of duty. He had earned every single rank, every position. No one had ever doubted that Bedivere had earned the position of Marshal with his own hands, and his calm reliability had made him such a natural choice and his modesty had meant unbiased decision. None could possibly make an accusation of favouritism without appearing bitter themselves. Yet, Arturia never felt that he had been granted even a small portion of what he truly deserved. What might have been even more damning is that in all that time, she could still see glimpses of the awe-inspired young boy, an honest and gentle heart that inspired her need to protect. It had been children such as him who had reminded her of her duties, it had been they she fought so ruthlessly to defend. As open as she had started to become, that was one truth she could never tell him, so devoted he was to protecting her. Knowing that might cause him to doubt his knighthood, and that was one thing she could not do. His care in resettling the thick plate over his arms in consideration of her might have almost been a metaphor for the complexity of their relationship and motivations. As a Servant, the weight to her was nothing, but she was not about to tell him, touched as she was by such a simple gesture. It was so much like the Bedivere she knew, and she smiled fondly musing over it. Once more, she could see the boy watching the entourage as he committed himself to following once more, even insofar as trying to become more open. there were at least some things she could tell him now. "Do not feel as if you must force yourself," she reassured him with an earnest expression in place of where the familiar mask had been. "Go at your own pace...I shall not pry if there are things you are uncomfortable speaking of." She indulged him the fond smile that she dare not have showed him in Camelot,though there was in turn a sardonic edge to it. "Aí...there shall be times when I chide you, I shall warn you of that right now...but it shall be over other things." And then she did something that she had been wanting to do for years, a simple gesture that would have betrayed everything of her fondness for the tall, shy knight. Arturia had to strain a little, though his current posture had made it a little easier. The Once and Future King of Britain reached up to her Knight of the Round Table and ruffled the hair at top of his head

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' From the first time he had laid eyes on his king, he had wanted nothing more than to serve – it had been his dream; a relentless and driving goal, one that would not let him rest. From then on, the wide-eyed boy had thrown himself into his practise and his studies. He would throw himself against the things he did not know, or the things he did not do well; and he would succeed, or he would break. For if he could not serve at court, if he could not become a Knight of the Round Table, what other service was worthy of his dreams? Skill had prevailed, though, and he had focused his calm, determined mind to the task. As he'd grown, that determined fire had been tempered into something far more formidable. All his perception, his keen skills of observation, had served him in his learning and his practise: Letters and blades, sums and chivalry; he had taken it upon himself to learn all of it. Never had it been a chore, though. He had applied himself gladly to his studies. There had never been a single word of complaint. In the years to come, no matter the hardships, there never would be. So devoted had he been that none had questioned his mastery or his skills – indeed, even his detractors could name none who would make a more just or fair Marshal of Camelot. Ironic, then, that the only thing he had wanted was the one thing that no gold or silver could buy; no price could be named to – just a single glimpse of the true person behind the crown; a single genuine smile untainted by worry or concern. He seems taken a bit off his guard by that fond smile. Even if it was something he'd always wanted to see, it wasn't something he'd ever expected to see. It still seems a bit strange to him. "Aah." It's a quiet sound of acknowledgement, low in his throat, as though he were still a bit uncertain of what to do with himself or what to say. It's certainly nice that she wants him to fumble his way through dropping this mask at his own pace; but the reality is that it's still incredibly awkward, for him. She is his king, and the remembrance of that fact is almost enough to shock him into dropping his arms and backing away – almost. He does not, though, mastering himself at the last instant. She might well feel the reflexive twitch as he brings his subservient instincts back under control. He doesn't look miserable at that warning, but he does still look incredibly awkward. "Other things?" He tries to keep a note of dread out of his gentle tone. It's hard, and he's not terribly sure of its success. No sooner are the words spoken than he decides he's probably better off not knowing until he has to cross that particular bridge. When she strains to reach up for the top of his head, he merely cocks his head in that puzzled-hound fashion again, blinking in evident surprise. What's she— Oh. "Aí! My lord!" Bedivere's half-hearted protest can only be called a squawk; completely undignified, and thoroughly taken off his guard. His hair is extremely fine, and it makes a nice satisfying frizz when it's unceremoniously mussed. The Knight of the Round looks at a loss for a brief moment. His mouth twitches, slightly, threatening a smile – and then he laughs; not the low, restrained chuckle that he usually holds himself back to, but he laughs; a sound of genuine delight and amusement. He can't help himself – she just seems so inordinately pleased at having been able to do that.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' In the midst of becoming swept up in her memories, an almost seemingly random fact occurred to her. According to the multiverse's calendar, the current day was the sixth day of the month of what was now called July, the calendar having undergone extensive revision hundreds of years into their future. It was the day before her birthday. Someone, somewhere, had decided to give her a birthday present to make up for all her troubles. Perhaps the best part of it all was that she no longer had to pretend, no longer had to hide her pride, or curb her doting. It was perhaps the closest thing to a true miracle as she had ever seen. If there was a lesson to be learned, it had been one she had learned long ago, yet the last part of understanding finally fell into place. She didn't need the Holy Grail for a miracle. She never had. Or perhaps, she had only needed it to summon her from what was to be her death-bed. There might have been another Camelot, another version at least that she could save. But she had grown dissatisfied with it over time, and frustrated that she could not bring the utopia she had prayed for. How could she keep the destitute from winter and drought starvation? How could she cure the terrible plagues which had claimed so many? How could she bring a true peace, what might almost be a boring existence to be taken for granted? Through those she had come to know, Arturia eventually realised that her utopia, her paradise, was right here. Should she find Camelot again -- or a similar kingdom with similar needs -- leading the to utopia was a matter of serving the Union and bringing them into the multiverse. And in spite of the advancements that had been made, and the people seemed to no longer need a king, there was still a need for knights, for chivalry. That suited the King of Knights just fine; she had always been a knight first, anyway. And now, part of her own hope had been restored. She had never been able to properly convey her gratitude to Agrias, to Sakura, to Psyber, and all the others for their support and friendship. They probably knew, of course, but it was something she could never properly express; the words always seemed lacking, the struggle with her own numbing mask seemed to be a stumbling block. It might be that now she would be able, having been granted her wish of being able to convey at least a part of it to the knight whom she had always wanted to express it to. Her final regret was no more. Arturia didn't speak when they finally separated -- it wasn't as if they could stay that way forever -- but she did notice he was making an effort. He always did, of course. Now the problem, she could tell already, was going to be convincing him to live a little for himself. On the other hand, she was having that very same problem, with her occasional 'selfishness' being relegated to minor acts of enjoying her food or trying to sneak in petting lions at the zoo. It was fortunate indeed that the one place where she wished to maintain at least some semblance of dignity tended to go unnoticed. Mostly. If she had been offended or disappointed in the cracking of his own armour, she hardly expressed that displeasure. Quite the opposite, in fact; his gentle laughter was contagious. The tiny knight had known bedivere was going to be a little flustered, but while she didn't want to make him too uncomfortable, that was the one thing she finally couldn't resist. She'd been holding back far too long. She almost looked like a triumphant little girl, and yes, some might find that quite adorable, king or not. So even had she wanted to, Arturia couldn't fault him. Had he not confessed that all that he had wished for was this moment in time? She would have forced herself to drop her mask for Bedivere's sake, had she known...it just so happened she had been trying to wear it less in the first place. That was her reward, in turn...seeing him smile and laugh. There was little she wouldn't do to see this scene again. "Now then," she said at last, her hands clasped in front of her, the very picture of contented serenity, "What have you been doing, prior to my interruption?" He would probably choose to drop everything to attend to her, but she was not about to drag him off somewhere if there were other things he had needed or wanted to do prior to her arrival. That, and she was curious what he'd been up to, how he was faring since arriving in the multiverse.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Miracles could be subjective things, and the King of Knights had stumbled into her own purely by happenstance. The same could be said for the subject of her good fortune. Never would the knight have suspected such a thing could be possible, let alone that it would happen to him. He had expected to wander those woods to the end of his days, if that was what was needed of him – eventually he may have found his way out, but he had held no expectations on his way back to Camelot from Arturia's grave. Bedivere does take a moment to fix his hair, though he offers not a word of complaint. Truth be told, it had been an amusing trick, albeit one he never would have expected from her. That almost girlishly triumphant expression isn't missed, though. Hmm. Would it be proper to think of some way to set her out of sorts in response? Maybe. He'll have to ponder that. Surely there must be something he can do, some amusing thing to make her laugh again – because that's the real motivation. Something as petty as "getting even" would never occur to Bedivere. No, he would do it strictly to see that smile again, that laugh. Such things are more rare and precious than the most valuable jewels. Gold and silver tarnish before such beauty. "Mmmm?" It's a soft sound, more thoughtful than anything else, as Bedivere listens to her question. Although he lets go of her with obvious reluctance, he lets her go all the same, folding his arms and glancing over to regard her obliquely. "Serving the Union, primarily. But oh, my lord, they are such a strange lot. Still, I do what I can. I do not have a Camelot to serve, and I did not know you were here – could not have guessed—" His voice goes a little raw as his emotions threaten to get the better of him mid-sentence. He closes his eyes for a moment until he's mastered himself, inhaling and then letting it go; he clears his throat before he tries again. "In any case, I have been conducting myself as a Knight of the Round would be expected. I have served them in battle, but I take more pleasure in charitable works for the poor. There are so many worlds torn asunder by war, my lord, so many. Sometimes I feel the task of helping them all is impossible, but I am helpless but to try." He shifts his weight a little, eyes distant as he considers. "Some days I bring them food. Others I bring fuel. Still others simply require clothing. Clean water. Ah, my lord, the water here – it is so clean. Never have I seen such crystalline water. 'Tis even safe to drink!" And a lot more palatable than the usual substitutes. Once that brief instant of almost childlike wonder passes, Bedivere continues his recounting. "I have also served in war. The Confederacy..." His expression turns grave. "I will not pretend they are all monsters. But there are many such. I do not understand how they can treat one another so." He spreads gauntleted hands as though in entreaty. "Are we not all brothers and sisters 'neath the Lord's reckoning? And they are strong. Stronger than I could have anticipated. But I shall not stand down." His hands drop, head shaking faintly; his cloak rustles as he shrugs. "I would not be so cowardly as to turn tail and run in the face of such. There are too many who cannot defend themselves against such – and what am I, if not a shield to the poor and the vulnerable?" Ah, Bedivere. If ever there was a Knight of the Round whom the ideals of the knight had never faded in, it would have been him. He shakes his head, as though to dismiss the matter. Those pale, almost violet eyes turn to Arturia once more, suddenly curious. Once upon a time, he had been forced to turn his curiosity inward, for it would not have been seemly to pester his king with such questions. Or, perhaps it would not have been seemly to be asking ceaseless questions with all the guilelessness of a child among his fellow Knights of the Round. Here, though... the knowledge that he can do something as simple as ask questions in regards to the things he doesn't know, that's a treasure. The realisation actually stops him cold; he'd opened his mouth to say something, and it hangs there for a second or two. And then Bedivere, briefly, can't help an awkward little smile. "Ah. I am sorry. I forget myself, my lord," he says softly, flushing as he ducks his head, hair thankfully hiding his expression of embarrassment. "I am... not accustomed to asking questions. May I inquire as to what you have been doing for these four years...?" He keeps his head down, because his hair hides that traitorous blush creeping across those high cheekbones.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Ignorant of Bedivere's 'plotting', the Servant merely cracked a slightly lopsided smile. Fate would have been in full teasing mode...how many times had Saber herself looked like that, trying to tidy her own hair after the golden blonde 'Strike Witch' had done the same? Come to think of it, she had better not mention the Mobile Six Captain just yet. As strange as he already thought they were, in truth they were most likely even stranger that that. She herself had become accustomed to just how different everyone was from the people of their kingdom and era -- with some help from the Holy Grail when it came to basic knowledge of all the eras before and since theirs -- but now that she thought on it, there remained many, many explanations she was going to need to make. She was going to have to call Psyber and Harry and let them know that she wasn't going to be able to come by the respective offices for a while. A demonic version of Boston and 21st-century Chicago were liable to give Bedivere a heart attack, much less that her consulting work had been for a half-angel and a modern-day wizard. At least Harry didn't share Merlin's bizarre proclivities, thank the Lord. That line of thought was cast to the winds, however, at the emotions he barely held in at what was to be her passing. Her smile dropped, replaced by a slight frown and a wrinkled brow of worry. In spite of that, she remained silent, allowing him the time to compose himself. It might have been that it was a fate she couldn't ultimately avoid, but for the moment, she was right there and, for all intents and purposes, alive. In all fairness, she was up to a little 'plotting' of her own, with much the same intent. Even with her deep-seated worries about how to help acclimate the distraught knight to a universe that many times made no conceivable sense at all, there was nevertheless much she was looking forward to sharing. That is, if he hadn't discovered them, already. A small part of her suspected there was a great deal that she would indeed have to introduce, especially since, much like his king, tended to bury himself in his work. ...Which had been exactly what he had been doing. just as he had in Britain, her marshal had been busying himself with knightly charity and defence of those who could not defend themselves. A soft 'hm' of approval, with a nod of her head. "That is good. An example must be set...those of us who belong to various orders have been working to achieve that, though we are relatively few." She couldn't help but smile at the almost childlike wonder over things so many others took for granted. Such simple things that most in the modern era never took notice of, so commonplace they were, and yet, in the Britain of their time, were things out of the reach of even the wealthiest noble. There were few whom she could truly share that wonder with, and Arturia was glad once more that there was another who could appreciate such things. But then, her expression turned serious at the accounting of the Confederacy. On the one hand, there were almost innocent souls, such as the golem Nine, and even Haytham with his sense of honour and misguided goals. On the other, there were those such as the King of Heroes -- or, at least the version of him who had not been reined in by a Union member. And then there were was Mordred... Even without the Confederacy, however, the multiverse was still a dangerous place, especially for a mortal. Samael, while not a part of the Confederacy, was untrustworthy and dangerous. Saber was even more aware of the dangers, now that Bedivere had appeared; Sakura at least had powerful magic to fall back on in a tight spot. The silver-haired knight was certainly a formidable swordsman, but against the more powerful magic and other powers of the dark side of the multiverse... Arturia couldn't help but be worried all over again. "But take care...should you fall, it would mean one less knight in the multiverse, and we are in need of each and every one." Not to mention that she needed him not to die, not when there was so much to show him...so much time to catch up on. And then, her smile returned at his innocent question. It had made her happy, his curiosity, and she saw no need to hide that fact. Some things were going to be trouble to recount, particularly the Holy Grail War. And yet, in some ways, even those she wanted to tell him of. "Ah. A great many things have happened...it will take some time to recount it all. But this I promise you: I shall tell you everything." She cast a critical eye at their current surroundings. "Perhaps a change of setting is in order to tell you of all that has happened..."

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Twenty-first century Chicago and demon-infested Boson would probably not settle over well with the knight. Loyal and faithful he may be, but Bedivere is still a little skittish when it comes to things different from his own native time period and familiar setting. He seems to adapt well enough so long as he's eased into it, but that's the trick – he has to be eased into it, or it quickly becomes overwhelming to him, and nothing's gained. Fortunately, aside from his bravery and his loyalty, Bedivere's senses of observation are keen. He picks things up quickly enough when they're couched in terms he can understand. For those modern things he can't quite see to understand, as long as they're explained in a means he can understand – something that Arturia would know precisely how to do, familiar as she is with him – he can certainly grasp them. Charity work likely isn't surprising at all. It would be like Bedivere to find something like that to do, and to apply himself to it with little to no instruction. It's the kind of thing expected of him as a knight, but more than that, it's the right thing to do, to him. "Yes." This, in regards to setting examples. His voice is gentle, deceptively soft. There are those in the courts who had, upon only hearing him, once mistaken him for a woman – he simply has a gentle way about him, and he speaks softly, unlike the brash Gawain or the harder voices of the other knights. Bedivere had simply seen no need to impose himself upon others like that. If people wanted to listen to him, they could listen, and he need not shout over them or otherwise overpower them in any way. It was, in some ways, perhaps the last indulgence he allowed himself when he had begun to build up those walls; to wear that mask – unless calling across a battlefield, he never raised his voice, not even in anger. Some of his detractors called him womanish and weak, but perhaps it spoke well of Bedivere himself that he had never wasted the breath to answer those detractors; as though such was beneath him. Besides which, his capable administration of Camelot was proof enough that even if he had a few quirks, by the reasoning of his peers, he could be permitted them and still perform his appointed tasks admirably. The treasury certainly never suffered under him, and some were even inspired to do charitable works of their own by Bedivere's own personal example. Should he fall? Bedivere cocks his head at that, as though the turn of phrase is foreign somehow. "I will not fall." His affirmation is given calmly and patiently, and he looks directly to Arturia with those near-violet eyes. "Am I not a Knight of the Round Table? It would take a mighty foe indeed to strike me down. I have trained against the greatest knights of Camelot. Still..." He looks away. "You are right, my lord. There are powerful things in this 'Multiverse.'" "A knight's duties are many, and difficult, and there is no guarantee that we will not fall in pursuit of our duties." He smiles that gentle smile down at her. He seems to hesitate for a moment, as though reaching some internal decision, reaching out and carefully – oh so carefully – taking one of her hands in both of his. "I cannot promise that I will not fall, my lord. That would be foolish – and it would be arrogant. A knight must be modest. What I can promise you is this – in times of war, in times that I am compelled to ride to battle, I will do aught in my power to return to you. I have served you always, my king, in the utmost of loyalty. For this I would return to you regardless." "But I have all the more reason to, now." Because now, he has more than a liege-lord in Arturia; but a friend, and while he would never shirk his duties, that is far more rare and precious to him. "For you I would return to you, my liege, as a loyal servant – but how could I not return to you, as a friend? No force could stop me from that." He looks down at the hand, seems to realise what he'd done, and then abruptly lets go – as his face flushes that bright scarlet again. Bedivere mumbles something that might be an apology, but it's a bit too vague to really make out the words too clearly. "Y-yes, my lord. A sparring ring is no place for such, is it?" Several seconds of awkward silence pass. When he speaks again, his voice is still a bit of an embarrassed mumble. "...To where shall we go...?"

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' In some ways, Arturia's newfound openness was working against her; as the aloof king, she would have simply left his way of adjusting to Bedivere alone. Inwardly, she fretted; was she being insulting by worrying over him, her mind working to find the less-jarring ways of bringing him in? Somehow, she didn't think he would admit it if she had insulted him...or more likely, would not have been insulted at all. For all his rigid adherence to chivalry and his strong sense of justice, the violet-eyed knight nevertheless possessed a quick and agile mind which adapted to nearly any situation. As chaotic as the multiverse was, he would adapt as she had. But that was simply her way, to worry over her loved ones. Sakura had nearly been astonished when her Servant, King Arthur herself, had been reduced to fussing over her when she endangered herself, albeit unknowingly. it had been a little paranoid of her, but considering Gilgamesh had been running loose with some mysterious designs on her Master, Saber was not about to take any chances and did not trust the young magus to go out on her own. looking back, might that have been one of her flaws as a king, that she didn't trust her subordinates enough? She suppressed a shake of her head as if to shake such thoughts off; now was not the time. At the very least, she could help by phrasing things in ways familiar to him. That she could do. "There are...creatures which, though they call themselves all manner of names which may seem familiar to us, these names mean something else entirely. There are 'demons' who are not demons at all...and 'witches' who do not practise what we would think of as magic, though it might seem so." It was a start, anyway. To her discomfiture, the fact that Bedivere's mannerisms had sometimes led others to assume he was a woman had complimented Arturia's deception. While Merlin had cast a glamour which had, in essence, enchanted the people into seeing a man whenever they looked upon her, Bedivere's presence had further maintained that facade. it almost felt as if she had been using him, something which had inwardly disgusted her. He couldn't help his --admittedly beautiful -- appearance, and it had never sat well with her that it worked to her advantage. With his almost casual dismissal of her caution about falling in battle came another expression that he might find disturbing: pale brows knitted together in a deeply troubled expression. It might have been the first time the Knight of the Round Table had ever seen it, in fact...a look of fear. Oh yes, the king did know fear, though never regarding herself. Having found Bedivere again, the thought of losing him again terrified her. But that look lasted merely fractions of a second, before some vestiges of her former mask fell over it. "Simply....be careful. that is all I could possibly ask of you." It demanded much of her willpower to keep her face in a mask of calm, to suppress that fear. She was being ridiculous...he was a knight, a man, and someone in whom she had entrusted countless battlefield duties. She had lost so many in her time, and even friends as a Servant. But somehow, the thought of this miracle slipping away seemed unbearable. With that, the moment passed, especially with what followed. Somehow, she could feel the warmth of his hands through the mail and plate, and the glove beneath it. It was comforting, and yet... she could feel the blood rise to her face, as if she was staring up at the mid-day sun. Not just his gesture, his touch, but his words. Friend. Her selfish wish, to be more than a king and a comrade. To share in their laughter and their sorrow, to understand them... For Camelot, she had given such things up. But that hardly meant that she hadn't longed for them. Try as she might, the mask slipped as she bit her lip. She should have said something, but what could she possibly say? She opened her mouth to make the effort, but frustratingly, her voice stubbornly refused to co-operate. And then the opportunity passed as he let her go, turning away and mumbling what sounded vaguely like an apology. It was just as well; he probably wouldn't have glimpsed her disappointment. Oh. Right. Onto more practical matters. Saber clasped her chin between her thumb and her index finger in the typical habitual gesture she employed when she thought on something. "Hmm...the home belonging to my Ma..." abruptly, she stopped herself before she completed the word. She cursed herself; she knew full well her fellow knight would pick up on it. She had gotten far too careless. "....my friend's home is some distance and in another world. however, it is secure and comfortable. That would be the best place, I should think."

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Bedivere still has his dignity, even if he is considerably less prone to pride than his contemporaries of the Round Table. No doubt if he thought he were being sheltered, he might take exception to such a thing on general principle, insisting that he can look after himself and that his king need not trouble herself over such an insignificant matter. Gently, of course. Always gently. That's just his way. To have her pay any attention to him outside the context of duty is still strange and new, though, and part of him finds that he doesn't mind the notion. Most likely, though, he would suffer no insult. Bedivere was always of a placid mindset, disinclined to take things personally. Even the rare direct insult over his somewhat feminine appearance and soft voice were always met with grace and good humour; a trait that served him well as marshal of the realm, and had earned his trust with Arturia. More hot-tempered among the knights would have bared steel at such an insult, but not Bedivere. Indeed, unless he was looking after his sword or he was called to battle, it rarely left its scabbard. If he has any notion of some of the awful things that lay in wait in the Multiverse, though, the calm knight shows no fear and no apprehension over what he may someday challenge in the line of duty. Only in times of danger for Arturia herself had he ever let slip his calm exterior to show fear – fear over her safety, not his own. Never his own. The knight cocks his head, slightly, at her explanation. "Oh?" Demons that aren't demons? Witches that don't practise witchcraft? "That seems strange, but if you say so, then I shall take that to heart, Sire." His head inclines forward, slightly, in an expression of respectful acknowledgement. He's so damned polite in all things, too. Also a plus in Camelot. Probably something that's going to earn him some awkwardness, here. Although he dismisses her caution, it's given in deadly earnest. He seems to genuinely believe he can look after himself here, even if it may be vastly different from Camelot. His duty and his faith are his shield, and it seems he has yet to learn the hard lesson – that some shields do break. Bedivere was always a perceptive knight. He does not miss that brief flicker of fear through Arturia's features, and he almost looks ill at ease himself. It certainly wasn't his intention to trouble her, and she certainly looks troubled as she bites her lip. The expression is a foreign one, and it takes him a moment to reconcile the cold, remote King Arturia with the young woman in front of him. He seems to hesitate, momentarily not quite certain of what to do to soothe her worries. At a loss, he frowns, looking a little distressed himself. Augh, this is just so strange. He himself isn't so remote that he doesn't recognise the signs of worry or unease, but to see it in her is a different matter entirely... "Your...?" He caught that fragment of a word. When she corrects it to 'friend,' it seems like an awkward fit, but he doesn't call her out on it. She might notice that knowing quality in those violet eyes, though. "Mm. If it is not an imposition on your friend, I would not be averse to travelling there, then." He shuffles his weight a little, still looking a little awkward. He lifts his arm for a moment, hesitating, before reaching out for Arturia's hand. Mortified, he catches himself and drops his hand again, settling for folding his arms lest he do something foolish. The slight clearing of his throat he makes sounds more like an awkward, embarrassed cough. Bedivere looks away, strictly to hide the bright scarlet of his face from her.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Just as much as it had been for his trained skills, Bedivere had been appointed for his fairness and even temper. As capable as Gawain had been, he was far too hot blooded -- not to mention not quite serious enough at times -- for the tasks she had given to her appointed marshal. And while Lancelot's martial skills were unparalleled, his ability to disguise himself with equal flawlessness had made him better for tasks such as espionage or, more often, reporting of the true feelings of those throughout the kingdom. The only knight who had both the martial prowess, the mental agility, and the proper temperament had been the knight she had ultimately chosen. Change though they might in subtle ways, there were some things about the both of them that would never change. They might show more of their true feelings, laugh and smile a little more, allow embarrassment to show on their faces...but the two knights would always be proper, conduct themselves with dignity, live by their chivalric ideal, seek peace, and never allow their emotions to get the better of them. To change those parts of themselves would have meant that he was no longer the Bedivere she knew...nor would she have been the Arturia he had known. "You shall see for yourself, soon enough," she cautioned gently. Of all her knights, she was the most gentle with him, at least as much as she had been able to be, given that she treated all equally. "However," she continued with a smile, "In adhering to the tenants of chivalry, I am reassured that you have and will continue to conduct yourself as befitting a knight of Camelot." Arturia might have had to worry about the boisterous Gawain or another knight accidentally causing an incident, but with bedivere, she felt no need to worry. If anything, her worries were over how the multiverse might affect him. Even some of their allies were a little disturbing. At least his reassurance had made her feel a little better, but still...even just the thought itself of losing him again secretly terrified her. It didn't help that the two of them were of one mind in so many ways that their emotions seemed to bleed off and affect the other; when she laughed, he seemed to start laughing, but when he was uneasy, it started to make her uneasy in turn. She fidgeted slightly, cursing her mask drop at a bad time. "I...do trust in your abilities, without question. If ever there was someone who could face the dangers of the multiverse and triumph, it would be a knight of Camelot. Still...these miracles seem to come with a price. The water is safe to drink, yet the other side of the coin is dark magic practiced by those with no honour nor compassion. Even..." She stopped before she finished saying 'Servant', cautious in her phrasing. "...those who possess strength greater than human beings must remain on guard." Of course, if any of her knights could be said to be truly cautious, it had been Bedivere. Her warning was most likely unnecessary, but her fears stubbornly persisted. Perhaps this was what it was like to truly feel; it wasn't always pleasant. Here, his keen powers of observation were working against her; she knew he was going to catch that. Even still, she wouldn't keep the knowledge of the Holy Grail War from him even if he were less astute. He needed to know, and not simply because she was in the middle of it all. That, however, didn't mean that she was looking forward to it. "I explain everything, but...not here." The awkward air was almost palpable. Arturia was likewise astute, not missing the attempt, nor his awkward reaction. In turn, she hesitated with her next action, but pressed herself to follow through with it. Closing the distance, she took his arm, snaking her hand around and curling around it in a posture of escort to lead him out. Her hair hung low around her downturned face, obscuring it as she stared at the floor, but the bright red colouring her ears gave her away.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' There are aspects of the gentle knight that will never change – that even, placid temperament, and his relentless desire to do good. His is a generous and gentle soul; one that is pained by the injustices of the world and the rift between rich and poor. If ever there is a Knight of the Round that will conduct himself as befitting knightly ideals, it would be Bedivere. If those parts of him changed, there would be something wrong with him, and that man would no longer be Bedivere. "I am honoured," he murmurs, ducking his head when he's praised – openly, so openly, such a strange and wondrous thing to hear that from his king! – for his conduct. It hides the sudden redness touching his face again. Why can't he take such praise with a straight face? He can do any number of other things without so much as flinching, but this seems to be beyond his capabilities. He looks to her sidelong through those violet eyes, and seems to take her caution in all due seriousness. It isn't like him to dismiss advice of any kind, so she can at least content herself that he'll take it to heart. Indeed, Arturia's unease seems to linger in her loyal knight. He isn't quite certain why she feels so ill at ease, but some of that is reflected in himself. He manages to hide most of it, but no doubt she can see right through his efforts. Worry over her is one of the few things he's had difficulty hiding beneath his own mask. He cocks his head slightly at her near-stumble again. It seems strange that she would be so uncertain with her words; normally so self-assured and confident. "Hmm." The sound is thoughtful, and Bedivere watches her from the corner of those violet eyes. "I thank you for your vote of confidence in my skills, milord, but you need not worry for my sake. I will be cautious. And I do not have reason to take unnecessary risks." He smiles, though the expression is more reminiscent of his more careful, restrained displays of emotion. "Have I not given my word that I would return to you, milord? I have never been one to break my given word. Nor have I any intentions to start now." Fortunately he's tactful, too, and lets her slip pass without comment. There's a knowing quality to those violet eyes, though, that says very plainly that he did catch that slip, and he is curious, but he is also a gentleman and won't pry. "As you wish, milor—" Bedivere's voice abruptly trails off, not quite squawking, though it comes close. His own face flushes red again as she takes him by the arm and tugs him along to leave. He can't help but stumble after her; not just because he doesn't want to resist, but because she's got him by the arm and all. She's got him by the arm. The strange, surreal nature of that is probably the only thing that keeps him from dissolving into mortification. He can't even protest, because his throat's closed off so badly he can't find his voice. Well, looks like Arturia's going to have a willing travel partner, if only because he's too flabbergasted to protest, helpless but to follow along wherever it is she intends to go. Oh, dear.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Oh, how she had missed him. And even now, being at her side again, it was a bittersweet feeling, the memory of the ache from leaving the knights behind. Out of all of them, however, Bedivere could have been said to be the closest to her, and not simply because he had been the one to bury her in a future that had yet to happen for her. He had been the most like her in temper and outlook, the one who most pursued the sacred chivalric virtue of charity...and, of course, adopted a mask of stoicism to carry out his duties with the same impartiality as she had. In some ways, they had not even needed to speak, understanding so well what was within their hearts, and their shared devotion to chivalry. And yet, so much misunderstanding. For her part, she had remained unaware -- though hardly blissfully so -- of his deeper motivations, of longing for just a simple, honest smile from her or a glimpse of her true feelings...feelings she dare not reveal to anyone. Perhaps had she only known, she could have allowed something to slip beyond the mask... But no. In Camelot, it simply wasn't possible. Only now could she reveal herself, let go of those constraints. Even if she remained unaware of the wish she was continuously granting him, she wouldn't hold back. At least, not as much. Her stoicism was too much a part of her -- a part of her chivalry -- that she would always maintain some vestiges of it. That was simply who she was. But it was a part of him, as well. Another way in which they understood each other so well. "I know," Arturia replied quietly. "I truly do." And she left it at that; Bedivere had given his word, and the only way to properly honour him was to take him at his word. The word of a knight was his bond. She had made sure of that when she founded the Round Table. The tiny blonde was further grateful that he did not pry; there was going to be a lot of exposition to a very ugly greater reality. She wasn't looking forward to it at all, but it was necessary. Involuntarily, the Servant pressed her lips into a thin line. Her current Master was a true lady with hidden spirit, and honourable to a fault. Bedivere would probably accept her with few issues, but recounting her previous Master's actions would prove to be a trial. That was to say nothing of the tainted relic of the Holy Grail....and her motivations for seeking it out. That was going to sting the worst of all. She felt as if she had insulted him by wishing to undo her entire reign, even if she had, in her eyes, failed completely. At the time, Arturia had thought that by undoing her history she could spare them the pain she had caused, allow a king whom they could truly trust in, who could lead them the way she never could. Yet, if it had not been for that perhaps selfish wish, would she not be here, now? Granting his wish to serve her again....she had the power to grant at least one, after all was said and done. For some reason, that brought her a measure of satisfaction. Her hand stayed where it was as she led him out, leaving the V-Max and her (in dire need of drycleaning) suit where they were to make their way to the Tohsaka mansion on foot. Thank the good Lord for warpgates. But before that, she took a moment to inhale and exhale slowly, carefully. "I am not sure how to prepare you for all this....nor the close friend whom I live here with. I...was somewhat too preoccupied to properly warn her..." It was a rare occasion when the King of Knights was embarrassed to the point of blushing, yet she seemed to be doing just that non-stop. With some trepidation, she opened the door, just as she had so many times before, and called out in a language that the workings of the multiverse translated for them but was obviously not the medieval Welsh they had spoken in Britain so long ago; "Sakura, I am home. I have brought company." At least the Servant/magus alarms weren't going off.

:'''Tohsaka Sakura has posed:''' Blissfully unaware of the impending doom, a certain lavender-haired young woman glides around the kitchen of the Tohsaka mansion. Mostly, that is, because the doom isn’t really hers, so the whole ‘oncoming train of embarrassment’ isn’t triggering her own senses. As it is, she instead provides the domestic services of which she’s both immensely proud of and skilled at, almost humming to herself. The song in her head is one that’s been on the radio now and then, but the electronic box itself is quiet for now. And then there is that sense of presence, of familiarity, that doesn’t even break Sakura’s rhythm. The only sign she gives of her awareness of Saber’s close presence is a smile; it’s been a little while since she’d seen the Servant. And it was nice to have friends around, even if...well, at least she did make the onigiri as a snack before dinner; well...ahh, it’ll be alright, and it’ll be fun to share the tray with her. Sakura did, as always, make enough. The door opening gets a reaction, and the magus makes her way to the foyer of the mansion. Slippers on, she smiles wide and greets Saber with a cheerful hello - and then plum eyes go wide when she realizes that the King of England has a companion. Her cheeks go red slightly when she sees the incessantly handsome young man … woman … ? with her friend, and then she notices their hands. A new expression dawns across her face, one Saber definitely hasn’t seen in quite some time. It’s joy. It’s peaceful, almost tearful, pure joy. “Ah...w-welcome to our home, ah, that is...I’m Sakura. Sakura Tohsaka, ah...please, come in. I, er, wasn’t expecting anyone special to arrive, I’m sorry I’m unprepared…” A bow, proper and formal despite the simple clothes that she wears, before she rises to give Saber the subtlest (not really) of winks. Then her gaze turns back to the much taller blonde, and...erm. She isn’t sure, and never really...enquired such things about Saber, but the royal woman’s own love life was her own business after all. Still, congratulations were in order. Reaching out, Sakura rests both her hands atop Arturia and Bedivere’s, the smile on her face still wide. “Saber...I’m really, really happy that...that you finally found someone. And I’m so very honored to meet you!” Another nod of the head by way of acknowledging, and Sakura looks back to the Servant. “After all, it’s been so long, it’s not right that...you’ve been so alone all this time. That you found your happiness as well, with someone to be by your side…!” Well, maybe she’s just a little bit speechless. But that’s kind of understandable, when one of your closest friends shows up. And then realization dawns. England...was not known for its historical liberal views on courtship, and knightly chivalry and courtly love was something expressed in deeply subtle ways. For the Magus, perhaps her own memories are slightly muddled by those shared with the King of Knights, but there are feelings that she remembers to someone just like this blonde person before her. And the closeness that they are clearly showing must be deeply significant, and Sakura gasps, pulling her hands away. “Y-your highness...please forgive me, I didn’t mean…” Wellllll she did actually sort of swear fealty to Arturia at one point, technically that makes the incredibly handsome Guinevere her Queen. “I am at your service...for someone who has clearly won Saber’s heart…” Somewhere in what passes for a metaphysical realm, the great god Murphy is laughing his ass off. 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Although Bedivere glances over at Arturia's acknowledgement, he doesn't comment on it, apparently content to let it go. If she doesn't wish to speak on it any more, he certainly has no inclination to pry. It is impolite to do so, and also improper. She may be encouraging him to be more open and the like, but it's a difficult thing for him to do. Saber may have had four years to bring down her walls, but his were just as strong. It will take more effort to relax completely. Even as they walk, he seems to be a little uncomfortable just holding her hand where it might be seen by others. He doesn't pull away, though, which probably speaks volumes. "Prepare?" Bedivere quirks a brow in an uncharacteristically curious expression. Whatever does she plan on telling him? It doesn't really fill him with apprehension, but it does make him wonder just what strangeness his liege has gotten herself into in his absence. Properly warn her? Still, he follows docilely enough, all eyes as they cross through the neighbourhood. The architecture is at once familiar and utterly foreign, and he can't help but stare. No doubt he has people staring at him, too, for he isn't a Servant... though these people have been in a Unified world for some time now. Some of them have gotten used to seeing the occasional weirdness pass through. They reach the door, which he squints at. Such intricate craftsmanship, with such perfect planes and angles. He reaches out to touch it shortly before she opens it. "Glass," he breathes in wonder. "How is it made so clear, I wonder?" The door opens, though, and he follows his liege faithfully. He blinks a bit as he and Sakura are suddenly faced with each other, and sizing one another up with evident puzzlement. Ah, so this is the friend that his king had mentioned. She does seem a proper lady, and refined in all of the correct and proper ways. He gives a faint inclination of his chin that's mostly meant as subtle approval. And then— Oh. Oh, Good Lord above. Arturia still has him by the arm, and too late does he realise why Sakura has such a strange, strange expression on her face. Violet eyes widen as he stiffens so much he can practically feel something in his back pull painfully. He's good enough to mask his sudden expression of dawning horror, and since Arturia has his entire arm, he can't pull away before Sakura lays a hand over theirs. Bedivere opens his mouth to say something, but he can't really form any words. He's definitely starting to look uncomfortable, now. Still, he's holding his own, and his quiet horror is more concerned with the fact that there are others witness to he and Arturia behaving so closely, and not— "What—" Bedivere can't even speak. His high cheekbones flush red, and he can feel the damning heat that he knows everyone else can see. He can feel it straight into the tips of his ears; can feel his throat closing in his shock and mortification. Not necessarily for himself (though that's certainly an element), but for Arturia's own honour, too. After all, he doesn't know what this young lady is to his king, and... He sputters a bit as he tries to master himself, even against the odds. "I—n-no, you misunderstand, good lady, I—milord—" Bedivere's head whips over to Saber in helpless entreaty. Help me! "N-no, that is not... I am only..." So much for that famous calm and poise. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Perhaps 'warn' hadn't been the best turn of phrase to use, Arturia reflected. "Ah...well, you see, there have been some hostilities tied to this family...it is one of the things I shall explain shortly. But more importantly, my friend is somewhat...shy. A true lady. I did not wish to put her out of sorts, bringing unfamiliar visitors without preparing in advance. It is, I must admit, rude of me." She visibly steeled herself mentally, inhaling and exhaling again. "The first truth I must share is that I am known by most not by my true name, but by a code, of sorts. Do not be surprised when I am merely called 'Saber'." That was definitely going to score a questioning look, but the whole explanation could be delayed until they at least got settled. The nest part, given his suspicion of magic, was going to be far more difficult. "The second is that magic in this world is very weak, acts of True Magic are all but nonexistent. However, there are those who call themselves 'magus' who wield the small vestiges of it through peculiar means." With at least the basics out of the way, Saber decided to take the rest as they came down the path; revealing that Sakura was one of these magi, that she was even a Master, specifically Saber's....and that Saber was no longer human. Baby steps. At first, Saber was a little startled but didn't think anything suspicious about Sakura's enthusiasm; she always seemed so happy when her Servant made efforts to create a true life for herself, finding friends and working with various allies and associates for the greater good. Tragically, she assumed that Sakura's enthusiasm had been over the fact that someone from her own time and place had appeared, that Saber had started to piece together more of her past to properly make amends. She hadn't spoken of her regrets in so many words, but the memories Sakura could catch glimpses of in dreams and Arturia's own recounting of them surely must have left the magus with some impression of the wish to see her knights again, to convey what lay behind the mask. She had no earthly idea that Sakura had interpreted some romantic meaning to her companion. Which made the whole eventuality all the more disastrous. It was in the second burst that things started to go horribly wrong. "Found...alone...side..." she repeated, her mind not quite registering the words at first, labouring with Sakura's ecstatic outburst. Try as she might, she couldn't quite address one point. She started to smile and then introduce Sakura to her dear friend, then relate how she had missed all of her knights, ask her if she remembered the last time she had brought Lancelot -- a fellow Saber now -- over... And then. Without preamble, all of Saber's mental workings came to a screeching halt. It might seem as minutes tick by as Saber's face reflected nothing at all, each one lasting a seeming hours as she seemed frozen in time itself. Once the silence might appear to last for an eternity, the exact progression of events seemed to blur into a single flurry of frantic activity. Which came first: the impossibly widened eyes, the burning cherry-red face, the frantic waving of hands, or the choked unintelligible sputter? Only the Lord God Himself could really and truly know. "Wh-what....n-no...I...we...it does not...." She happened then to glance down, which is when she finally noticed it: her hand was still curled around Bedivere's arm. Oh. Oh dear. At the realisation, Arturia abruptly let go, waving both her hands out in front of her as if to ward off some accusation, so flustered that her filter regarding the ritual relationship between Sakura and Arturia came completely off and not daring to risk so much as a glance at her equally horrified/embarrassed knight. "Y--you misunderstand, Master...he is a knight of my retinue...n-not...not...." There were some rare moments when returning to her own time and letting the earth take her into its embrace seemed such a welcome, peaceful fate. This was one of those times. 

:'''Tohsaka Sakura has posed:''' The much taller man gets a sunny smile, as he nods - and that smile persists as he straightens and his eyes go wide. She is indeed a proper lady, at least as the modern term might go; Sakura herself is certainly not one of any highborn blood but at least comports herself with dignity. At least, usually. Sakura blinks as Bedivere straightens up suddenly, and his eyes widening bring a slight shadow to the sunny expression on her face. It lasts for a moment, as he starts to ask a question, but the young woman's own blurted words of praise and encouragement suddenly bring a reaction she hadn't quite expected...from both of them. Those purple eyes, not quite as blue as Bedivere's own, flick back and forth between the two newcomers in confusion. The bits and pieces of words they're trying to get out, and the terribly flushed reaction from both of them... OHHHH. Before Saber's able to recover, reboot herself, and reason with Sakura as to just what's going on, the magus realizes the truth herself. Saber's true identity was a secret, of course, and that meant that this other person...must be the same. "I...ah, I see, then...I'm terribly sorry!" Her head hangs forward, long hair spilling past her shoulders in an apologetic bow. "I didn't realize, th-that...it was something that was supposed to be, ah, kept quiet...p-please forgive me! Er, th-though, please come in, both of you..." One hand gestures further inside the manor; after all it wouldn't do to leave the once and future King and Queen of England simply standing in the foyer! The door will, fortunately, close behind them; the house at least is doing its best to keep some form of privacy even if noone else is aware of its kind and supportive efforts. "I didn't mean to, ah, disturb your identity, y-your-" Fortunately, the magus is saved from a worsening case of foot-in-mouth disease by the sudden and spastic gestures by the diminutive King of Knights. She gives a sudden and understanding nod; Sakura does her best to keep up with the implications of Saber's stuttered explanation. And promptly misconstrues it. "Ah, r-really that...that's alright, Saber, I won't...tell anyone. It's important to, ah...maintain a certain sort of disguise, wh-when ah..." Well, when someone is trying to be as incognito as Saber was - and, apparently, Queen Guenivere as well. Well, if anyone /else/ figured out the tall blonde's identity it could be extremely dangerous to Saber's own life as well! Blushing as furiously as the other two, Sakura lets her voice drop to a whisper. "I promise...o-on my bond to you as a M-" Cough. She still hates that word. "As...your friend and ally, I won't...tell anyone. Not even sister." It's bad enough when Rin's hackles are up over the presence of one Aozaki or another; were she to know who is standing there she'd probably explode. As it was, Sakura finally draws her hands away from the others, crossing them in front of her chest. It's an entirely understandable situation - as Saber herself had to masquerade as a King, it's only reasonable that a gentleman such as this would be the right match for her. And with Saber's own destiny determined by the single act of drawing a sword, it wasn't as if she had a choice. Perhaps that Merlin fellow that she'd dreamt of once or twice had a hand in maintaining their illusion. "Ah, if you'd please...this way, I'm afraid there isn't much, but I've made refreshments..." Deferential as ever, Sakura will be more than happy to lead them to the kitchen. And she can only wonder about Sir Lancelot, and how privy he was to all of this - and just what it must mean. Wasn't...Lancelot part of the reason that Camelot fell, and...with this person...? What passes through Sakura's mind for the shortest possible instant causes those plum eyes to open slightly, and she turns to regale the Man Who Would Be Queen. Ah, for such a face, a truly royal beauty...p-perhaps she can understand what the tall, dark-haired knight must have felt...!

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Unfortunately, Bedivere has very little opportunity to take in the cautions and warnings given to him before the door opens and the whole kettle of fish is overturned. Where Arturia's face reflects nothing at all for a few minutes, Bedivere's is a healthy mixture of horror and scandalised shock. His mask may have been nearly as complete as Arturia's, but there's absolutely no hope of maintaining it under this assault, this onslaught. He can only stare in growing horror at this mortifying misunderstanding. Bedivere's just as quick to yank his hand back when she pulls away, as though he'd been burnt. Suddenly everything becomes clear, and for a moment all he can do is sputter ineffectually. "No, that is not—we—I—" The title used doesn't escape him, but right now, he's in too much shock to make specific note of it. He's too busy skipping beats over the rest of the situation, trying desperately to make some sense of this awful misunderstanding. "Aí!" He finally comes out with that sound; a syllable Arturia well-recognises; not something he uses often, and certainly not in Camelot... but when he does, something in place of exasperation, embarrassment, or simply more emotion than he can really put to words. Right now it's something of all three. "N-no! This—this is not what you think, good lady!" It gets even worse as Sakura seems to putter along with that reasoning. Bedivere is so scarlet he's sure that the heat must have done permanent damage to the skin of his face by this point. Even the tips of his ears are scarlet. No doubt it's an amusing contrast between his pale, silvery hair. "Oh, no, no," he groans, scandalised, reaching up to cover his face with his hands. "No. Please, no, by the Good Lord, this is not..." He forces himself to drop his hands, looking to Sakura helplessly. "Let me introduce myself properly and perhaps we can put this to rest once and for all. I am Sir Bedivere of Camelot. I—we are not—that is to say—" Bedivere folds his arms over his chest, one of them raising so he can bury his scarlet face in one steel-gauntleted hand. Again. "I am milady's loyal servant, not—we are not—'tis not like that—oh, by the Good Lord, this is a terrible misunderstanding—!" Violet eyes dart to Arturia in obvious desperation, as though entreating her to help them out of this mess somehow. She doesn't look to be in any better straits than he, though. Oh, what a mess. Help me! those desperate violet eyes seem to plead to Arturia. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' And in the middle of that storm there was Arturia, groaning softly, holding her head in her hands. Even that one piece of hair that stubbornly refused to lie down obediently seemed to droop with despair. Dear God in heaven, she pleaded with the powers which had made her a Heroic Spirit. Surely I have committed no great evil to incur this! "No...Sakura...you are mistaken..." she managed to grind out hoarsely as Sakura closed the door, her mind still fragmented with the mental cluster bomb her Master had just dropped on the two unsuspecting knights of Camelot. Bedivere's looks of desperate entreaty went unseen; Saber's still-red face remained dropped in her hands -- she didn't dare look at him. Giving him hope again, only to cruelly serve up such horror. Such a terrible liege. Still, even with her mind reeling like that, she could hear the desperation, the mortified denials, the brave attempts at setting Sakura right. The problem was that she was hardly in a better position to deal with the situation with her usual calm and an unflappable expression. Or, was she? As equally mortified as she was, some semblance of reason miraculously broke though. It did, however, have a number of conditions that needed to be met. And much to her added horror, drop the poor knight right into the middle of an exposition of the Holy Grail War. Finally, she removed her face from her hands, and the calm mask started to reassemble itself. Right, so perhaps the most embarrassing moment in either of her lives was apparently over, and now all that remained was a rational explanation... But as if the universe was conspiring against the petite blonde knight, the magus chose the perfect opportunity to hit her again, merely seconds before Arturia was able to speak...with an even more devastating attack. She seriously assumed... The empty, near soul-less stare was even longer this time, and even though the door was now safely closed, the poor unfortunate humans might have probably felt the vestiges of a chill wind sweep through the foyer as Sakura completely and disastrously misinterpreted every last detail. And had Saber turned completely sheet-white? "Master...." the Servant Saber finally managed, her lips feeling numb. "What are you speaking of..?" Her expression, though bland, would probably convey everything to her helpless marshal. Her gaze was empty, her lips pressed into a straight line with the ends curled up into not-quite a smile. And that chill wind persisted. "I am completely and utterly defeated." Forgive me, Sir Bedivere, but you shall have to bury me again. One could almost hear a plaintive penny whistle in the background...

:'''Tohsaka Sakura has posed:''' There are impressive qualities about psychological masks. They can endure many things, they can be a powerful demonstration of will and determination, and they can be a wonderful protection for those who must wear them. So much can be endured, so much can be absorbed, that it's almost impregnable. And then there's simple misunderstandings centered around hope, and the sheer power the multiverse has given the sensation of hope from young women means it overcomes everything. Meanwhile, innocent misunderstandings continue, and Sakura wonders momentarily if the radio's weather report was wrong. After all, it seems as if they've both been in the sun for some time; the flushed expressions...was it that hot outside? Her head bowed, Sakura doesn't quite notice the change in the two, the blanching and curiously expressionless face of Saber, and the desperate terror of her companion. She does, though, hear the words stated...and finally mentally pauses after a moment, trying to understand what it was that Saber and her companion had just said. And when he speaks, that soft plaintive voice finally triggers another memory of dreams. A sword, gently placed upon each shoulder, and a certain phrase. The look of sheer joy on the young man, the sensation of pride in Saber, and the meaning of the ceremony. It's now Sakura's turn to turn as red as physically possible, and her head hangs lower. There's a very long moment where the magus is more than glad her hair has grown so long, as it makes a perfect way to hide her face. A strangled squeak of...not much comprehensible at all, and without an ability to say anything the girl turns and flees into the kitchen. Well. She does need a moment, after all, to regather her composure - even for the younger of the Tohsaka clan, it is still a difficult thing after such...a horrid misunderstanding as that. Well, the simplest and least embarrassing thing is to simply pretend it never happened, and simply carry on. A faux pas of that nature...maybe it can be just...left behind, perhaps. If Saber and her companion are willing... After a moment, Sakura returns - this time carrying a tray of sushi rolls. "Ah...Saber, and your friend, I..." Kind of completely forgot your name. "I made something to eat earlier, if you'd like. It isn't much, but perhaps...to, ah, to celebrate finding your friend, after so long..." It's a perfectly reasonable thing to do, and one should always welcome guests with significant hospitality! The fact that her face is glowing as red as the malfunction lights on a certain little hatchback's dashboard is blithely ignored.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Although he seems to calm down fast, the noble Sir Bedivere can do little more than stew in his own horror as Saber adopts the mask of the cold king. Maybe he suspects that this time it's so she can control her raging emotions. He does the same, for much the same reasons. Perhaps it's a little less complete than the king's, but the marshal was still formidably impartial. He had to be, to perform his duties objectively. A faint twitch near his right eye nonetheless gives him away. No, his mask is not nearly so complete as Arturia's. Bedivere's armour rattles slightly in the face of that chill wind. When Arturia admits her defeat, he swallows thickly, as though trying to clutch at some remaining hope of salvaging this horrible misunderstanding. Some dim, distant part of him hopes this never comes up again – there's simply no need to say that this is beyond mortifying for such a loyal servant, so concerned for the honour and pride of his king. For a brief instant, some small part of him wonders if he could yet return to the wood he had wandered for four years. C-could he just... wander for a few years more there, at least until the fire left his face and the horror fled his heart? Sakura takes a moment to flee. Once she's left, Bedivere very slowly crumples to his knees, both hands rising to hide his face. The scarlet of his skin is still visible through his fingers, though, and the faintly blue tinge to the gauntlet's leather pads only accentuates the brightness of the hue. "Ah, milord... I—I... there are no apologies I can offer to—" For someone normally so eloquent and composed, Bedivere can't even seem to speak. The redness reaches the very tips of his ears, so covering his face doesn't help as much as he may think it does. "I—I am so sorry. There—there is no way I can make this up to you; I take full responsibility for the assault on your honour, I..." Dimly, he might be aware that he is running his mouth like an idiot, but his nerves are too frayed to stop until he trails off, gracelessly. The onetime Marshal of Camelot inhales deeply, sags forward a little further, and lets his breath out in a sigh that is, thankfully, only slightly shaky. Oh, horrors. He seems about to say something else, but before he has the opportunity, Sakura comes back in. His fingers splay just enough to regard her through one violet eye. Even crumpled on his knees, hunched over a bit, he's not a whole lot shorter than Arturia – it's clear that this is (normally) a tall, and imposing, figure (in any other circumstance but this one specifically). Clearing his throat, Sir Bedivere rises to his feet with great dignity, dusting off his cloak and resolutely ignoring the crimson that still touches his face. It isn't much longer until Sakura makes her return. Bedivere stands there, hair shadowing his still-red face, and he eyes the plate somewhat dubiously. What exactly is that? Is that even edible? And then she does it again. He'd been about to banish that redness, but she goes and calls them friends again – it's one thing to allow Arturia to do it, but somehow, the idea of other people acknowledging them as such, openly, makes his stomach twist itself into all sorts of new and interesting configurations that were probably never meant to be endured. His face redoubles its impressive scarlet colour. He opens his mouth and makes a strangled sound. When he tries again, he finally manages to make some kind of sense. Or at least use words. Actually, he seems to recover most of his wits, though he has to stand in silence for a moment, working his jaw to burn off some of those nerves. Arturia may hear his teeth creaking for a brief instant before he manages to speak. He finally sighs, famously straight posture sagging. "No, good lady, I am King Arturia's sworn knight. My name is Sir Bedivere of the Round Table, and I was her sworn Marshal of Camelot. I am not—that is to say—w-well, yes, we are certainly fortunate to see one another again, but—" So much for recovering his composure. Bedivere reaches up and covers his face with a hand. What's he supposed to do? Arturia may be the one burying him. He sighs through his hand, somewhere between frustration and helplessness. "What I mean to say is that milord Arturia and I are not... not..." Oh, the Good Lord in Heaven. He can't even bring himself to say what conclusion he suspects Sakura had jumped to. Even thinking about it makes his face redden so much more. Just thinking about being friends with his liege makes him practically hyperventilate; thinking about the kind of nebulous more that Sakura had implied? Bedivere looks faint for a moment; his jaw snaps shut, and he just hides behind his gauntleted hand for about five seconds of perfect silence. He tries one more deep breath and tries again. "We are not—we are not— I have not—" His voice rises into a genuine squeak. "I have not won milord Arturia's heart—" He doesn't dare say anything more for a moment, lest he betray the horrible maelstrom that his poor mind's turned into. He can't even imagine that, and yet for a brief instant, he does, though he doesn't breathe a word. He wouldn't dare breathe a word. All the others would take note of is that the tall knight suddenly sags to his knees again, hands resting flat on the floor, shoulders hunched, head bowed and trembling in his misery... but there are at least small favours. His hair is long enough that it does, for a brief moment, hide his face. "Oh, might the Good Lord give me mercy," he says in that soft voice, tone plaintive, "for I have clearly sinned to bring this upon myself, and may I repent properly, for I—I have brought shame upon milord Arturia..." It takes him about five more minutes of this before he recovers, rising unsteadily to his feet. He resolutely does not meet either Arturia's or Sakura's eyes during this time. In fact, his head remains bowed, staring straight at the floor. His posture is still a little hunched, as though he couldn't quite bring himself to stand tall and proud. "Aí," he murmurs, softly; absolutely mortified. Oh, the Good Lord preserve him.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' As the realisation at long last dawned on her Master, Saber was unable to speak so much as a world as Sakura -- nearly as mortified at the two knights of Camelot -- let out her characteristic squeak and retreated into what had become her well-established refuge. "Ah..." was all that managed to escape the Servant's lips, helplessly raising a hand as if to grasp the fleeing violent-tinted shadow. That she probably understood their relationship now was good...the unfortunate part was that the awkwardness was almost tangible, having escalated even further. Arturia hadn't thought that was possible. Saber stood frozen in place, valiantly fighting to overcome the embarrassment which seemed to keep her rooted like a tree to the floor. Slowly, the colour returned to her face...a little too much, given her now ruddy complexion. After a moment to gain at least some semblance of coherent thought, the tiny blonde tried to piece together some idea of what to do. She was startled out of her murky musings, however, by the sound of metal scraping floor as her poor, beleaguered marshal sank to his knees beside her. Poor Bedivere, she could feel the humiliation practically radiating off him -- or that could have been the blush of a thousand burning suns she was feeling -- and his choked apology made his sound absolutely pitiable. Vaguely, she wondered how long had it been since she'd last seen him like that, so helpless; years ago when that young boy not even a year her junior began the difficult road to knighthood. He had trained relentlessly to perfect both skill and demeanour, and for the years afterward it had never seemed to crack at all. Until today. It would have been nostalgic if she hadn't been so embarrassed, herself. Taking a deep, somewhat shaky breath, she composed herself carefully, ruthlessly suppressing the overwhelming urge to do some hiding of her own by fleeing outside and losing her embarrassment in rigorous training. Her mask was far from complete, but it didn't need to be. Just enough for her to rest a light hand reassuringly on his shoulder. "There is nothing to apologise for," she replied, managing to sound fairly even. Mostly. "I-it was just a misunderstanding..." A horrifically embarrassing misunderstanding, to be sure, but a misunderstanding. The Servant was mildly surprised when Sakura made her return; it was rather impressive she managed to recover relatively quickly. Of course, she was 'burying herself in work', but wasn't that what Saber did? The thought of the two rubbing off on each other was a touching and pleasing thought...if that was the case, perhaps Arturia might acquire at least a little of Sakura's cooking skills? With an internal frown, Saber scolded herself and tried to put on a dignified face; she needed to focus on the needs of her friends first. Clearing her throat softly with a tiny fist raised to her mouth, Arturia nodded to the magus. "Yes, that is quite thoughtful, Sakura," she replied smoothly, trying to smile reassuringly. "Yes, I..." And then it was the marshal of Camelot's turn for a bout with foot-in-mouth disease. Oh, no. "Sir Bedivere, she is not incorrect, we are fr..." And then the silver-haired knight blurted out probably a little more than he intended to, flustered as he was. This time, the squeak was from her. Not to mention her face heated up all over again. Was he just babbling something frantically to convince Sakura that her earlier assumptions were wrong, or... No, clearly not. There was nothing feminine about her for anyone to want to win her heart, nothing beyond that of a cherished comrade. Yes, that was surely what he had meant. Inwardly, she nodded in satisfaction, regaining her composure a little more fully now. Bedivere was simply unsettled because of the horrible blows to his knightly dignity, that was it. With a sweet smile of some much-needed relief, Saber waited until Sakura had returned to the kitchen -- perhaps to regain a little more composure but more than likely because she was in the middle of preparing dinner -- before her smile dropped. This was probably the best time to fill him in on that which she had been dreading. "I...have much that I must tell you. But I think it would be best were you sitting down to hear of this..." she said quietly, almost reluctantly leading the way to the parlour.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' If Saber shows a bit too much colour in her complexion, her loyal knight must be suffering from some kind of awful sunburn. Bedivere remains exactly where he is as though rooted to the spot, shoulders slumped. His gaze is resolutely directed at the floor. Actually, not even that. His eyes are closed. He can't bring himself to open them. So complete was Bedivere's once-mastery of himself that he had never before shown this side to his liege. Not even when he was training had he ever seemed so helpless – indeed, he had been fiercely determined as a youth, his heart and soul absolutely set on passing the trials before him and joining the Knights of the Round Table in service to Arturia. Perhaps he lacked experience, then, but never had he been helpless. The temptation to sink to his knees again is almost overwhelming. Just to hear her voice is enough to hammer down the guilt at visiting such indignity upon his liege. One hand slowly rises, and so terrible are his nerves that his arm trembles; the slight sound of rattling plate is unmistakable. Very slowly and deliberately, Bedivere covers his face with a gauntleted hand. He does not speak when Arturia reassures him. He isn't certain he can trust himself to. Somewhere in all of this, their plum-haired host returns to the kitchen. Bedivere never takes note of it, striving valiantly to recover some shred of dignity in all of this. His shoulders slump and his other hand rises, both coming up to cover his face. Without much prompting, he makes his way over to someplace appropriate to sit, sinking bonelessly down in the manner of one without much spirit left in them. The motion is graceless, especially for him; the armour makes a distinct clank when he rests on it, and the only reason he doesn't get jabbed by his own sword sheathed at his hip is because he isn't thinking when he drops a hand to remove the sword belt, leaning it carefully against an endtable. And then he slumps and rests his face in both hands, elbows on his knees, shoulders a bowed, miserable line. "Aí," he says again; very, very softly. Well, it's probably a good as time as any to continue on. He is listening, even if it may not seem like it. He's just trying to recover what tatters remain of his dignity and composure while he does.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Deliberately conscious of his discomfort, Arturia took a seat in a tapestry-covered Queen Anne chair across from Bedivere; close but not so close that it would continue to make him nervous, keeping her jade eyes focused on the folded hands in her lap. She risked a glance at the exhausted knight; it might take some time for them both to recover, and it was still difficult for her to think straight. Inwardly, she scolded herself....she really should have had Sakura at least bring them some tea to calm their shattered nerves. On the other hand, she wasn't entirely convinced she could balance a teacup steadily, not with what seemed like an ache throughout her entire body that rendered even her Servant's healing abilities useless. Not that things were about to get any easier, abject humiliation they had suffered aside. In some ways, even that might have been preferable. The King of Knights felt herself squirm involuntarily, wondering how the composure she had spent a lifetime perfecting had been decimated so utterly in a matter of minutes. It may have been that she had gotten soft in her new life in the multiverse, but she had maintained a rigorous training regimen to offset that -- as unnecessary as it might have been for a Heroic Spirit frozen in a moment in time -- and she had always been able to deal with most situations in a calm and collected manner. The obvious exception, of course, had been the King of Heroes. No one had been able to incur her wrath as absolutely as he had. She had assumed that only he could shatter her composure so. Today, she had discovered that this was not the case at all. Why was that? Saber resisted the urge to peer into his eyes to discern just what was it that had caused all this. But not only would that would have been terribly rude -- extremely unbefitting a proper knight and king -- but she wouldn't have been able to, anyway. She had never had that problem before, but with her mask stripped away, even if a large part of that was her own doing... Perhaps, she decided, that was why. Her lack of a mask left her vulnerable, which had been the entire point of cultivating it to begin with. The favour she was displaying now would have ended the Kings of the Round Table before they were even gathered. But her friends in the multiverse had done an excellent job of slowly stripping it away, so much that when she had finally and against all odds been reunited with her beloved knights, she was defenceless. Especially regarding one whom she had always had a special -- and completely unknightly -- fondness for. The Servant was unable to suppress a weary sigh. There really was no good way to begin. Taking in a deep breath to steel her nerves, Saber began, her face impassive, but her true emotions betrayed by haunted jade eyes. "I should begin with what was to be my death..."

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Perched on the edge of the chair, the former Marshal of Camelot tries to recover some wayward scrap of his dignity and pride. He can barely bring himself to raise his head, let alone look his liege in the face. It's hard for him to even string a coherent thought together. Now that there's some relief of the ungodly pressure that had been bearing down on him, the eyes of the well-intentioned but misguided Sakura or the direct regard of his liege, it's a little easier to find some breathing room. Slowly, Bedivere can begin to piece his own mask back together again. It feels somehow more fragile than it ever had before, though – why? It had always been flawless. His calm and steady personality had always led him through the worst of times, through even the hell that was the crumbling and eventual fall of Camelot, and even the death of Arturia; led him even to act calmly and rationally to build a cairn for her – for surely what could be harder than that? Yet even now it threatens to fall away, when he even thinks about raising his head. So he keeps his gaze riveted to the floor, lest his emotions betray him. Why do they trouble him now when they had never been so uncontrollable in the past? Is it just the shock of seeing Arturia alive again? Surely that must be it. The opportunity to even see her again is more than he had dared hope for, dare dream for. Surely it's just the shock of everything, coupled with his own physical condition – those four years in the wood had not been kind to him. To be certain, he had found peasants to shelter with when he needed it, but more often than not, there were nights he bedded down on his cloak cold and hungry. He's spent a little time in the Union recovering, but it's clear that he's not quite there yet – there are still shadows under his eyes, and those high cheekbones are likely a little more gaunt than Arturia remembers. A mere shadow of sorrow; a lingering vestige of the grief he had been trying so hard to work his way through. Even four years had not been enough to blunt that sorrow – and now, it has turned to joy, to relief. Surely his lack of control is just from having to reconcile one extreme with the other. Some of that sorrow comes back in the set of his shoulders, though Bedivere does not look up, when she mentions her own death again. "Tell me of what comes after, milord, but – but forgive my boldness. Please do not speak of that." His words are little more than a breath. Anxiety and awkwardness banished, it's clear that the remembrance of that threatens to strike a nerve in the ordinarily cool and calm Knight of the Round. He had never truly put her out of mind; had never truly stopped grieving. How could he? "Tell me what you must, but I would not think of that again. Those were cold days, milord; such cold days. To—to have lost you was a great blow indeed to Camelot. A winter had settled over that land I fear would never be broken, even had I returned to try and help set things aright. There..." His head drops just a bit lower. "There would have been no setting that aright." He shakes his head, voice lowering even further; it lies barely above a whisper. "I am sorry. I do not mean to interrupt. Please continue, milord. I would know what had become of you."

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Deep in the recesses of her mind, Arturia knew they would mourn her passing; why wouldn't they? She was the king, the one who they looked up to. If nothing else, the king symbolised the hopes of the people, their protector and guide. Failed though she had, the knights who trusted her and looked up to her would grieve, it was natural. And yet... There was something else, something that suggested that Bedivere had not mourned simply the king, or even a fellow knight....but her. The though humbled her greatly; she had her pride as a knight, yet to have been mourned personally... On the one hand, it gave her a small measure of happiness that someone had tried to see the woman and not the king. On the other, his obvious sorrow nearly broke her heart, the one that so many doubted she even had. And her sense of guilt nearly threatened to consume her as it once had. It didn't matter that she hadn't died yet, not in her timeline. The fact that she had been about to, and that she would have certainly not remembered all that had happened after pleading to the world, was enough. She hadn't even known that it was to be Sir Bedivere to have found her and laid her to rest, the one she would give her final command to. Part of her wished that he hadn't been. He was always too gentle for such tasks, even though he carried them out flawlessly and without so much as a word of complaint. And she had burdened him until the very end. "Forgive me," she begged so softly that her voice was barely above a whisper, begging for more than just the mention of her passing. For everything. She remained still, almost to a disquieting degree, but only for a moment before her hands tightened into clenched, slightly shaking fists on her lap. It was going to be even harder now, telling him what she had intended to do. "I...pleaded with the spirit of the world. I pledged my service as a Servant in the Holy Grail War...in exchange for my wish." That admission alone was difficult enough, but the worst for her was yet to come. "My wish..." Her hair hung low over her face, obscuring it like a shield. Her eyes shut tightly, as if to block out an admission that now, in the face of his devotion, caused her shame. Her voice was steady, but only barely, as if she was doing so only to be able to speak at all. "...Was that I wanted to undo my reign...to allow a stronger, better king to rule in my place. A king who would be able to save Camelot where I could not."

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Bedivere looks up at those two words. The soft entreaty might have been missed by anyone else, but the Marshal of Camelot has always had keener perceptions than his fellows. He has seen things and heard things where they would not; not necessarily because of any desire for subterfuge, but because it has simply always been his nature to watch and listen, rather than talk or impose his will over others. In some ways, his gentle, shy personality had worked to his advantage. The emotion seems to drain from him as he looks up; as he sees that broken, vulnerable girl who was, for a time, king of an entire nation. That mask slides back into place, even as he chides himself for having brought about that through his own selfish request. If she were watching, she might be able to see the change pass over his features – the emotion seeming to leach out of those violet eyes, becoming the calm, stoic marshal that she had relied on so much in Camelot. Inside, he has to suppress a sudden flare of anger, so rare to him, bright and white-hot in its intensity and suddenness. Something, no doubt, that Arturia has never seen in him. Muted though he may force his reactions to be, there's no mistaking the deadly cold in his eyes, or the drawn quality to his angular features. It isn't fair. She gave up everything for the sake of a Britain that rejected her rule, had given up any semblance of happiness that she might have had – and for what? For Lancelot to spite the Round Table and indulge in his indiscretions with Guinnevere; for Mordred to rise up and overthrow the kingdom wholesale? For the people to turn their backs on the one king who could have given them the dream they had all at one point harboured? They were the traitors; they who had followed her ideal, and then they who turned on her. Bedivere does not notice that his hand has clenched into a fist; doesn't even heed the steel plates biting through the leather guards at his palms until he hears the metal rattling quietly. As much as he wants to, he can't open his fist. It shivers in betrayal of the emotion he strives so hard to hide. It isn't fair. She gave up everything. Even her life. And that is what she believes? That she failed? That she could have turned over reign to someone somehow more suitable? Does she really not know that she was the most suitable? For all its intensity, surprising even him, his anger isn't directed at her. Never her. No, he is angry at the ungrateful people. How could they follow Arturia, only to cast her away so readily? What justice is there in this world that that is her reward; that she gave up her very life, and if not for Bedivere's survival of Camlann, she would not have even had a proper grave? Bedivere sets his jaw so hard he can feel the muscles strain, and his teeth creak in protest. "No, milord." His voice is dangerously soft as he strives to control himself, but preternaturally calm. She might hear a rustle as he rises from his seat, the quiet clatter of steel plates and the sound of his heavy cloak falling behind him. If she listens, she may hear the quiet sound of Bedivere's sabatons settling against themselves as he takes a hesitant step, followed by another. There comes another sound, a rush of fabric settling, and the clatter of plates resettling. Should she look up, she'll see him kneeling before her, looking at her with those violet eyes; so tranquil, so absolutely certain of himself. He does not smile. That would not be right, and he does not trust himself to, anyway. But his voice is gentle and reassuring, the anger leaching out of him to see her broken like that. There is an undertone of warmth to it that he would never have shown in Camelot; though there is an undertone of pain, in turn, to that warmth. "There could not have been a more worthy king," he says softly. "Did you not draw the sword from the stone yourself? No one else could have done so. And even had they been able to, they would not have held the kingdom together. It would have splintered long before it did, and the results would have been much more grievous. Camelot would have been a disaster of blood and ruin well before now. Perhaps it has ended in ruin, but that is by Mordred's hand, not yours." He reaches out, almost hesitantly, and lays a gentle hand on her shoulder. His touch is light, as though he could flinch away at any moment; a deer tensed to spring. Despite all of his adoration of her, all of the hero-worship she had rightfully suspected lay within him, there is a calm confidence to his voice; an absolute certainty. There is nothing of an idealistic, wide-eyed youth in his words, but the cool reassurance of a man absolutely certain of what he says. "You did all you could, milord. That you could not save Camelot was through no fault of your own." A shadow seems to pass over his features; a sad solemnity in those violet eyes. "Perhaps Camelot was fated to fall. I believe that you held it together longer than any other king may have, against all hope, and at—" His voice finally breaks, however faintly, and he coughs before he continues on, "—at such cost to yourself, milord; at such cost..." His head bows and his hand drops; he remains knelt before her, the posture of a loyal subservient. "I am sorry. I speak too much, milord." He seems to withdraw, then, quiet as he leans back a bit on his heels; but he does not rise, and he does not draw away. Once he masters himself, he looks up to her, holding that mask together through sheer willpower; that wall, regarding her through a veil of silvery hair. No. He would not dare let himself slip now, and cannot afford to suffer a crack in his own mask. To do so would be grave insult to Arturia, and he could not do that. No matter how much it pains him to see her like this, so vulnerable, he will not do her the disservice of losing his own calm. He clings to it as a drowning man clings to a raft – but there's a tightness around his eyes that suggests he struggles as he has never struggled before. "You—you deserved more than a commoner's cairn," he murmurs softly; so softly. His voice breaks again, and his gaze drops, unwilling or unable to meet her eyes.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' The King of Knights hadn't known what to expect following her confession, if she had expected anything at all. She had apprehended a number of different possibilities; disappointment, sorrow, anger...any number of feelings or accusations directly at her. Bedivere's loyalty was beyond question, but she had failed chivalry and kingdom again. The King of Conquerors had scorned her regrets, declaring with pride that a king would never regret...and yet, she was helpless to stop herself from doing so. She had born every burden willingly, without complaint, and buried her emotions while hiding her vulnerabilities behind that inhuman mask. She had done everything she could have possibly done, yet failed anyway. The only explanation Arturia could find was that she had not been strong enough. If her best efforts were not enough to protect Britain, what other reason could there possibly be? Her only hope was to fight for the Holy Grail, claim the sacred artefact, and undo it all and allow a king who could protect the kingdom to ascend the throne. A king who would not have had to wear a mask, who could have been the leader the people and the knights of the realm could truly have confidence in, who could have shaped fate itself with his own hands and forced it to submit to his will to protect his kingdom. Who wouldn't have broken so helplessly under the burden..not the frail, impotent thing who had ascended the throne. Nevertheless, whatever trepidations she had over how her former aide-de-campe would react, she could not have foreseen the reality. Startled out of her morose thoughts by the simple address, she managed to suppress jumping even slightly in surprise. She could hear him approach, her face remaining down-turned, her eyes still trained on her hands. It was not merely the firm denial, but the unyielding tone in it that held her as if held by a spell. All the awkwardness, the uncertainty, had evaporated in an instant, replaced by the immovable, self-assured Marshal of Camelot of her memory. Her sensibilities all but screamed at her not to look up, but she was compelled to in spite of it. Her mask was nearly gone, the normally hard jade eyes wide in astonishment as she looked up at him. It was as if all the earlier humiliation and doubt and never existed. The man standing before her was the knight of her memories, the one she had left behind. But there was a softness to him --and pain -- that had not been there before. As he spoke, she was transfixed, unable to so much as move or even speak. Not even when his hand laid lightly upon her shoulder did she move. Except for the astonishment in her eyes, she might have seemed as distant and emotionless as she had been for all those years as the King of Britain. It was only when he pulled away, struggling to maintain his own mask, did she so much as blink. As distraught as she was with her own grief over the loss of Camelot, it was only when his own grief threatened to overwhelm him that she looked away. It was human to be missed when one passed, to be remembered and mourned...and yet, it was also human to feel guilt over wishing for that, to feel it when one is the cause of so much pain. To love meant to hurt, and to be hurt in kind. That once inhuman king dropped her head once more, the pale blonde hair hanging like a veil over her face. It was as if she was carved from lifeless marble, not even so much as shifting for a moment that might as well have been an eternity. But though the little knight didn't so much as move, a sound so soft that only the most keep of ears would have been able to hear it; the sound of water droplets. And only an equally-keen eye would have been able to see the glistening tears on the back of her hands.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' It had taken him some time to find that confidence and that self-assurance, those hallmarks of his service in days of yore. More than his knowledge of tactics, more than his abilities in war; those were what had earned him his position as Marshal of Camelot. That steadfast ability to remain calm in the midst of hell itself were more valuable than anything else – rare qualities in many. Perhaps the Multiverse has crumbled the foundations a bit, but it seems that when it matters, those qualities are still there. This is still the same Bedivere that she had left behind so long ago; the same achingly loyal Bedivere who had without complaint taken Excalibur to return it to the Lady of the Lake. This is the same Bedivere who had gently and patiently set his liege afloat on the lake, to return to Avalon; who had built an empty memorial cairn on the shore of the lake. He is a bit worn, perhaps, but it is the very same Bedivere who now crouches before her, with nothing but steadiness and calm in those gentle eyes. At the same time, he is not the same – that gentleness and that pain are new, things he never would have permitted to show in the realm of Camelot. They were dangerous vulnerabilities that he could not allow to show in Camelot. Much like his beloved king, he was forced to hide his weaknesses. He had to present the image of a confident, calm knight. One with inner strength that, at times, surprised even himself. The naked astonishment in Arturia's eyes does finally earn a faint smile; a slight softening of those violet eyes. It's a rare and precious thing to see such open reaction in her, even if it is under the worst of circumstances. His expression falters when she hangs her head again, brows furrowing just slightly. The reaction is so faint it could be missed by all but a practised eye. Bedivere remains frozen for several moments. He hears that sound; he who had trained himself to listen and watch to everything that happened around him, to focus on the details that so many others would have missed. It was how he had come to the conclusion that his king was not a man; although he had never told her he'd figured it out, there had always been a silent understanding. He had figured that out for himself early on, though, thanks to his sharp perceptions. They serve him now, but he isn't certain of what he's actually seeing. It actually takes him several seconds to assign some kind of meaning to the sound he hears, or that slight glimmer of just a bit too much light on the back of her hands. His own eyes drop to regard that, thoughtful. King Arturia Pendragon would never have shown her reactions to her people. It's a foregone conclusion, then, that she never would have permitted them to see her do something as vulnerable as weep. No matter how much her heart may have been twisted and torn by the events that unfolded around her, she never would have allowed herself to show the pain – and he knew she was in pain, his perceptions keen enough to know that she was hiding it. Bedivere's mouth twists in an expression of uncertainty, and unconscious pain. He starts forward, just slightly, little more than a twitch, and he hesitates. Arturia would not want someone else to acknowledge that she hurt so fiercely; if this were any other situation, there's no possible way that he could know the depths of her pain. The knight's expression seems to tremble for a moment. His violet eyes remain locked on her, as though unable to look away. There are shadows beneath his eyes; lines of stress and fatigue that suggest he's trying his best to hold his own reactions in. Arturia might hear his sudden exhalation; trembling, and the way he tries to draw in a breath as cleanly and calmly as he can, but his own breath hitches. She's dropped her gaze, so she wouldn't see her most faithful of knights lunge forward; wouldn't notice until he's thrown his arms around her, the sudden embrace almost desperate. For a brief instant he doesn't think to hold back, and only concern for her brings him to loosen his grip a little, hesitant to dig those steel plates into her arms. She isn't wearing her typical armour. He does still hold her tightly, though; something suggestion of desperation in his tight grip – as though if he let her go, she might vanish, and he might discover this has all been a very strange dream. Very carefully, he rests his head over hers, and she might feel the trace of moisture in her hair, or the way his breath hitches; so subtle it could be missed – he's obviously trying to control his own reactions, but even he can only control so much. "Aí, my king; my king," he whispers into her hair, unable to hide the way his voice breaks. "Do not weep. Please, do not weep. I can bear much, but please—" His voice breaks again. The sound is almost a sob. It's clear that he's struggling; harder than he ever has before; trembling even as he tries to comfort the one he had given everything to. For he truly had – after burying her, he had been a hollow man; a broken man, with little left to live for but some vague sense of duty to the memory of that which Arturia had built. "Please do not ask me to bear that. I—I cannot, my king; I cannot bear to see you in such pain..."

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' The iron mask of the King of Knights was not entirely to protect her secret, hide her vulnerabilities, or even to maintain impartiality. A part of it had also been to protect those around her, to keep the burden entirely on her shoulders. Even if at times she wasn't entirely certain she could, she had to. Her first duty was to protect her people, and she had willingly made that choice when she cast aside her femininity -- even something of her humanity -- to draw Caliburn from the ceremonial stone when she was but a child herself. She tried to shield them...just as she had tried to shield Bedivere. She had failed once more, and no less dramatically. Were she any less distraught than she was, Arturia would have jumped in surprise at the sudden embrace, perhaps even have pulled away if he had been anyone else. In this moment, however, she was powerless, her mask crumbling away into nothingness. Instead of pulling away, tiny hands reached up and gripped the mantle around his shoulders and upper chest, clinging to it almost desperately and she buried her face into his shoulder. But what had been silent tears became open sobbing, quiet but nevertheless audible. Her voice was hoarse, cracking as she murmured, the release of all her long-buried agony almost palpable. "I'm sorry....I'm sorry....I'm sorry...." And then his own grief feeds into that, making it even worse. Arturia was beyond caring about her own dignity at that point, the aloof, mighty king gone, if only for this moment. She was being so very selfish, so very unknightly, to have laid such a burden on him when she finally broke under the weight of her own ideals. The naked despair, the bitterness, the sorrow...everything she had still buried beneath countless layers came crashing down around her and once more, she was too weak to even protect a single person from it. Never had she hated herself more than that moment. Yet, she couldn't stop. She couldn't pull away and gather herself, not until her raging grief was finally spent, leaving her so very exhausted. Perhaps that was what she had felt when she was dying and had given up her wish, when the world slipped away like water through her fingers. That she had just wanted it all to end. And then there was a faint light in the darkness, like a whisper that told her it was not so. True, she had finally and truly let it all go, accepted the end of her kingdom...but she was still alive. Alive, and even beginning to heal, after all the long years. Her tale, unlike all those in the poetry books, was far from over. In some ways, it had only begun. Her tears finally ceased, and she took a ragged, steadying breath. But she didn't pull away, not yet. it was a little bit selfish of her, she admitted to herself, but a part of her wanted to reassure herself that he was, in fact, there...not simply a vision that would fade upon waking. She did, however, have one thing she needed to do. "I...forgive me..." she murmured, her voice still raw. "To have burdened you so...it was not right..." Words were still failing her, it seemed.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' While it's true that she may have tried to shield her knights, the truth is that some of them chose to bear these burdens. Sir Bedivere of the Round Table was perhaps the quietest of her entourage. Few knew what he may have been thinking at any given time, for he spoke precious little of himself, and none of his comrades knew what his true motivations were in serving the king so loyally. None would have suspected how deeply his loyalties lay, although perhaps some of them knew that he would have laid his life down in an instant for his king. He had kept things close to his heart, though, and remained aloof. Much like his king, he had adopted a similar mask, pushing away even those whom he considered fondly. In the end, only a few of the Round Table could have been said to know him, and even that seemed faint by comparison to what lay beneath the surface – Gawain knew only that he was entirely too serious; and whatever Lancelot may have thought of him, only the heavens know. Calm and stoic, he had always given the impression of a rock of stability in the midst of a court full of high emotion and potential intrigue. Alone among his brethren, he was the one that always seemed to be exactly what he appeared to be. Surely he must have known, with his observant nature, that she had tried to shield him from some things. That she had tried to take the burdens onto her own shoulders, that he might not be made to suffer them. Too, he had neatly evaded some of these efforts – he had merely soldiered on, quietly and without complaint, sharing the burdens where he could. Much like her, he had wanted to shield her, in whatever ways he could. They had always understood one another; had always been so similar in their pragmatic and selfless approach to things. They shared the same sense of duty and obligation to the people, and they raised similar masks to deal with the injustices and cruelties of the world they lived in. Bedivere finds his mask cracking, though. He can feel himself-control eroding by the moment, feeling her tremble in his arms; hearing the quiet but undeniable sound of the king's desperate sobs. The sound is more agony to him than a knife twisted through the heart. To hear that suffering is almost worse than the suffering he'd endured to lay her to her final rest, watching the boat bearing her drift away, into the lake; laying what stones he could find together into an empty cairn, a memorial. It had seemed so paltry at the time. How could a pile of stones do justice to the memory of a person who had inspired such awe and fealty from him? She may feel him shudder around her, struggling to maintain his composure in the face of her agony. Much like her, her grief only seems to fuel his. Perhaps Arturia may hear a soft sound from her knight. It is a curious sound, strangled, as though given from a throat that threatens to close itself off. It is not a sound she ever would have heard before, or perhaps ever would have expected to hear from such a calm, stoic personality. Unable to help himself, Bedivere gives his own strangled sob. The sound is somehow foreign, coming from him; as is the trembling that he suffers – ordinarily so controlled, so measured. He gives another strangled huff, hoarse, trying to master himself; his breath warm. For him, the sound is so vulnerable, for he had always striven to guard his reactions as surely as his king. He had always followed her more closely than any of his brothers of the Round Table, adopting the same cold visage. And now that visage is useless. Utterly useless. When she takes a ragged breath to steady herself, he does the same, steadying his breath and mastering himself once more. He doesn't let go of her, either. If anything, his arms tighten around her, as though she might vanish if he let go. That would be worst of all, to have found her again, only to discover it was the dream of a mind gone mad from cold, from hunger, and from grief. When he speaks, whispering into her hair, Bedivere's tone is even softer than it normally is. It's not quite a whisper, but it's close; so gentle, but it's still clearly raw, too. "Aí," he murmurs, softly; "my king, my king." It seems more a clumsy reassurance than a reminder of her title. Perhaps she's forced him to break down some of his walls, but it will take more for him to actually call her by name. "You speak in nothings." He laughs, but it's little more than an unsteady breath blown into her hair. "That burden was mine to bear by choice. I chose to follow you from the first. And I chose to follow you to the end, no matter where that may have led." "I will follow you still. It is my choice, and your actions have no bearing on that. To follow you is no burden at all." He draws her closer, mostly so his plate armour isn't digging into her arms; he also rests his head more gently over hers, squinting a little when that stubborn lick of hair feathers along his cheekbone; threatening to stick to the tracks of his tears. She might hear the faint smile in his voice, unsteady as it is. "I knew when I saw you from the first, there was no other purpose for me. I would be at your side, or I would die in the effort, but I would accept no less." "And I accept no less now." Carefully, somewhat awkwardly, he gives her shoulder a pat with a leather-padded palm. His voice drops into a raw whisper again; she might feel, one last time, the dampness in her hair of a tear. "I will follow you to the end, whatever that may be. I would have it no other way, save by your wish. I could not have imagined finding you again. I..." His voice catches, but he doesn't dissolve this time; though his tone turns raw, he seems to be in control of himself once more, relying on that mask he had so carefully built. But it isn't as complete, this time – lessened, somehow; letting her in, letting her see what lies beneath. Although he doesn't draw back from her, his head tilts slightly, as though he were cocking one violet eye at her to study her as she makes her final entreaty. "You have not burdened me." She may feel his head shake, faint as the movement is. "No, milord, not in the least. Far from it. I chose to bear that burden, and I would choose it again, without hesitation. Even with no Camelot, even with no Round Table, I would still follow you – to Hell itself, my lord, to fight the very Devil himself, if only you asked it of me."

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Four years ago, at the height of Heaven's Feel when Rider had called out the two other Kings of the Holy Grail War, the King of Conquerors had scorned this ideal of hers, to protect her people, her knights, rather than truly lead them. Not that she really could have, given that she would have been rejected as a woman, and she would absolutely not become a tyrant no matter how noble the intent was. Yet, it had not been completely out of a sense of chivalric duty; she cherished them far too much to see them hurt, to share those burdens...even when they were more than willing to. And, on occasion, they took them onto themselves anyway. She was trapped, unable to protect for fear of letting her mask slip, but she could see it. Bedivere, especially...he did everything without complaint, always dismissed having his burdens taken from him in turn by insisting upon knightly duty. It pained her, but the impartial king could allow herself to show no special favour. Not even to those she cherished. It was touching beyond measure, but her fears practically paralysed her. There was no need for a mask any longer...at least, not in the sense that it had been needed in Camelot. And still, she felt as if she needed it still. Arturia didn't worry over exposing any vulnerabilities, she could not have been in safer company; if there were any she trusted with absolute certainty, it was her Master and her closest knight. However, she had never suspected that in some ways, their similarities ran much deeper than merely the surface, or even their shared commitment to chivalry. Had he been, beneath his own mask, as lonely as she had been? Was his just as much to protect others as hers? She had always been fond of the quiet knight, and even felt a kinship that she was certain was only one-sided, but never as much as before now. Arturia couldn't help but feel that something had changed, that perhaps she was just a little closer to true friendship than before...but perhaps that, too, was one-sided. She shifted slightly, but only enough to let go of the mantle, lowering her arms to encircle his torso. She had never known such a comforting feeling, and, like before, even with her sense of propriety and guilt over his feelings, she couldn't bring herself to stop. A part of her would always mourn Camelot -- it was too deep a scar to heal completely, too much a piece of her that was lost to her forever. It had left an empty ache that could never be completely filled, but there was no one else who had experienced that loss...losses of their own, of course, but not the same. Bedivere might have been a reminder of that loss for another, but Arturia only saw someone who had suffered as greatly as she had, who had lost the very thing she mourned. That gentle presence only served to soothe her, to help that scar at least heal in part. Once more, he was her rock, but with the crumbling of their masks she couldn't help but be worried; he had his own vulnerabilities to protect. Being aware of just how far his gentleness extended...Bedivere was far from fragile -- not like her -- but at the same time she worried that with too much pressure, he might disappear like a Servant struck down. Arturia knew she was being ridiculous, but she couldn't seem to help it. His words, though...those gentle words. She could hear the smile in them, the fondness in them. He truly had mourned her beyond her kingly mask, as he himself had said. Once more, she felt humbled. There was no doubt in her mind at all that he would stay by her side, and her arms tightened of their own accord around him. To rely on someone else was a frightening prospect, for fear of needlessly placing that person in danger, or hurting them, especially by one's own hand. Guinevere had been one such person whom she had harmed thus, sacrificing her 'wife' for the sake of the kingdom. Many empty nights, she cursed herself for that choice, even as the only other option was to allow lawlessness into the court. She was terrified of hurting him in such a way, but the entreaty had rendered her refusal impossible. She was unworthy. Yet, he followed her anyway. She had no strength to push him away, neither physically nor mentally. No part of her wanted to. "I...I am so glad...that you are by my side again..." was all the petite knight could manage in reply to such eloquence, almost reverently and with perhaps a trace of the awe he might have once felt as she rode by, all those years ago.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' No doubt she had not suspected how deep their similarities had run. Bedivere had been careful, so very careful, to hide that. Although he had not wanted to be perceived as weak by his contemporaries, he had especially not wanted to reveal any weakness to Arturia. She had been his inspiration, his motivation for striving so hard – he had not wanted to disappoint her by showing his vulnerability. It had forced him to push people away, though. He had become lonely. The ladies of court sighing over his handsome good looks and mysterious nature may have imagined a bit of melancholy that always seemed to surround him. They weren't too far off the mark. Of course, he was always careful to hide it in Arturia's presence; careful that not a hint of his loneliness ever showed. For oh, he was lonely. The gentle, almost shy knight was a stranger even among his brothers-in-arms. Gawain was the one who perhaps understood him best, and there was much and more about him that even Gawain never knew or suspected. Gawain had never suspected the true reasonings for Bedivere's absolute loyalty; the reasoning that not even Arturia herself knew, that secret reason that even Bedivere rarely considered too deeply. It shamed him, and it was unknightly, but he could no more deny that devoted admiration than he could refuse a direct order from Arturia. He had always admired her, even behind the cold, remote mask of the king. He had always known there was something beneath it, something far richer than the inhuman figurehead that ruled Camelot from on high. He had always wanted to see that; he alone, where all others had seen only a symbol of kingship, an ideal given form. From the first, he had wanted to serve her – but from the first time he had laid eyes on her, he knew that he would be helpless but to devote himself to her. He knew from the first he had been hopelessly in— Arturia may feel him tense, and then slowly relax, as he shifts his thoughts to a path less shameful. He had certainly mourned her more than a mere servant mourning their king. There's no mistaking the raw pain that haunts his eyes whenever the subject of her death comes up. He had mourned the loss of king and kingdom, but more than that, he had mourned the loss of her. It had broken him, as surely as anything could break the steadfast Sir Bedivere. Unworthy she may think herself, but he seems to have no intention of letting her refuse. When she gives her quiet response, she might feel his head shift slightly, as though he were eyeing her from the corner of one violet eye. Perhaps he hears the awe in her tone. His only real response is to sigh into her hair, fluttering that stubborn lick of hair of hers in front of his face, but he doesn't move away. While he wants to answer her, nothing he thinks of seems to be sufficient. None of it really frames the awe he feels, the reverence; the sheer joy at having her back in his life again – or the wonder he feels at this rarest of opportunities, to see what lies behind the mask. It had been a foolish dream, a pointless flight of fantasy; nothing more. He had never truly expected it to be granted. So he simply holds her tightly, sighing into her hair, though his breath trembles a bit. Perhaps she feels the dampness of his tear – he catches himself, silently, but he can't help the emotion. He has no way to express it, and it's simply too great, too overwhelming, to hide it behind his own mask. "Milord..." His response is raw and hoarse, but his tone is one of warmth. More than that, it's one of relief; relief so great he has no way to put it to words properly.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' There were a great many things Arturia was ignorant of regarding her knights, but ironically, few hid themselves even half so well as the knight who had kept her company the most. Many times, that mask had even been a comfort to her, keeping her steady and serving as a buoy for her own chivalry. When Caliburn was broken -- a reflection of the single time she had ever violated her oath -- it had been well before he had been there with his calm rationality tempered with true chivalric charity and compassion. Even Mordred, who had tried so hard to earn her approval, had not embodied the virtues so well. Not even, Arturia reflected, herself. But for his gentle temperament, he would have made a fine king. She was all too happy to spare him from that particular pain, however. There had been some places he could not follow, and she would never have let him. They were all warriors, blooded in battle, but her hands were stained with such impurities that went far beyond merely the slaying of enemy armies. She had razed villages, ordered executions...things that no one with a pure or gentle heart could in good conscience order. She was neither gentle nor pure. That was the price she had been willing to pay to keep Gawain's cocky grin, Lancelot's subtle smile, and Bedivere's innocence and purity. Keen of mind, she was certain he knew, yet he never spoke of it. That silence had helped her maintain her mask, cemented her own icy calm. It was a fortress which repelled all attack, but at the cost of locking out friends as well as enemies. Likewise, the walls kept her locked within, ignorant of the true hearts of those around her. And with his own fortress walls, she couldn't hope to catch a glimpse within. Until now, that is. It had been clear that for all his ferocity in battle and incomparable martial skill, within the armour still dwelt that shy young boy in awe of the king. Of a soul who, in the current era, would have probably never taken up arms at all. The sort of person who seemed to represent everything she had been trying to build a utopia for. She had caught glimpses -- more than even his mask it had strengthened her resolve countless times -- but nothing to the degree she now saw. For some reason, it evoked an unfamiliar emotion she could not quite place, and Arturia suddenly felt so very self-conscious. She almost stayed the way she was out of fear of having to look him in the eye. Surely it was because she was unworthy, in spite of his dedication to stay by her side. Fortunately -- at least for his piece of mind -- she misinterpreted the sudden tension followed by relaxation as he ordered his thoughts away from a path he refused to allow them down. It swept away that uncertainty, being terribly conscious of his pain. A pain she strongly desired to ease, and to allay any fear he might have that she would fade into aether if he merely looked away. Her arms tightened just slightly around him, now there for his sake than merely reaching out to someone who had reached out to her first. She would never abandon a fellow knight, but something compelled her to do more than simply protect. "I am here..." It was not a mere acknowledgement, or a declaration. It was a gentle reassurance. "I am here..."

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Although he feels Arturia tighten her arms around him, Bedivere doesn't seem to react for a moment, as though unable to. His gaze is fixed on some distant point behind Arturia, somewhere far distant and past the wall, violet eyes hooded. Slowly, very slowly, she might feel him relax just a little against her. He's still terribly tense, but some of that tension seems to bleed out of those broad shoulders. He lets out another breath, still trying to bring himself under some semblance of control. His eyes finally drift closed. He tilts his head to bury his face into her shoulder, so narrow by comparison to his; just like the rest of her – so small and delicate, but possessed of such strength. How did she survive the things she did in the name of the king? Even he can't answer that question, in all his reverence and worship of her; even he can't puzzle out how she managed to move forward, without truly losing herself. And it awes him, even now, to think of it. Almost against his will, his arms tighten around her – less desperate, this time, and more as though he were reassuring himself that she won't vanish when he opens his eyes. No doubt she must be marvelling at his weakness, he reflects, with some bitterness. Was that all it truly took to reduce him to shambles? To have his wish granted; to see beyond that mask? This is shameful, he knows, but he can't help himself. He can no more pull away than he could turn his sword on her, or disobey a direct order. Still... to see her let go, to see her drop the walls she had so carefully built up – it evokes an unfamiliar emotion in him as well. Yes, he had always wanted to protect her, but seeing this side of her... something about it makes him want to protect her all that much more. To shield her, that he might not see those tears again, or see her in such heart-wrenching agony. Although he had suspected some of the pain she had carried through her rule, it had run deeper than he could have imagined. For just a few moments, the spell is still intact. He does not think to resume his own mask. "I never knew..." His voice is as gentle as it ever is, but there's a raw note to it. "Milord, I never knew you suffered so. I knew you had suffered, I knew you had given up much for your reign, but I—I never knew how deep it had run. Had I but a means to shield you from that... I would have borne any burden to spare you from it..." He sighs, though it's a much shallower sigh than before; it carries with it a note of regret. "I know you are here, milord. And I am here, as well. I will not leave you, not ever again. Where you go, I shall go. On this I swear, by my faith, by my sword..." It occurs to him, very slowly, that he can feel and hear something unfamiliar. He falls silent, listening, almost straining – it takes him longer than it should, he of such keen perceptions, to identify that unfamiliar thing as the king's heartbeat. He considers for a few seconds, trying to think of a time he had ever heard that. True, the people may have seen Arturia bleed – war was an eventuality in their world – but they had never seen her weep, and he can think of no time in which he had ever heard a sound as quiet as her heartbeat. He bows his head over her, the better to hear that sound, frowning as though through intense concentration. The king may feel him tense; this time it seems he has a harder time dismissing that tension. By this point she might start to wonder if something's wrong, but eventually, he seems to relax a little. That frown fades away into an expression that seems oddly peaceful. As though that sound, that simple, quiet, infinitely steady sound, had somehow reassured him that this is real; he's not dreaming, nor wandering the wood somewhere in the final throes of death or dream or madness. That sound, it seems, is what makes all of this truly real to him. At least this time he seems more inclined to speak his own mind, for just a few more seconds. "Ah..." His voice is so low that if he weren't so close to her, she might have missed it; hushed and almost reverent. "Listen..." What in the world is he trying to point out? "Your heart," he adds, after a moment, shyly. His voice is still hushed, as though reluctant to break the near-silence; reluctant to interrupt that sound. After all, the last time he had been so close to her, he had carried her to the oak tree, to lay her down; there had been nearly nothing left of a heartbeat, and certainly nothing he could have noticed through her armour. And after that, that noble, proud heart had stopped. When he had laid her in the boat, and set her onto the lake, she had already begun to cool. The commoner's cairn he had so painstakingly built for her had been empty. It had only been a memorial; something to sate his need for something left behind of Arturia, the king he had watched sacrifice so much for her country. It seems he can do no more for a few moments, listening in hushed, awestruck silence to that very real reassurance. Truly, Bedivere has a gentle soul – for such a simple thing to arrest his attention so completely...

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' The Servant smiled to herself, her head nestled against his shoulder. While his tension only seemed to relent slightly, it was still far better than moments ago. Maybe, just maybe, she could ease that discomfiture and pain. If she could, she wouldn't be so utterly useless. Arturia had been a knight and king, someone who ruled and fought, not comforted anyone. The only way she could possibly do that centuries ago was through just laws and defence of Britain against her enemies. Even a simple touch or a smile had been too dangerous to risk. Secretly, buried within her so deeply to try to forget was how much she had wanted to. That part of being human had been one far more difficult to sacrifice than simply her femininity or the hope of a family or any such things she had considered trivial compared to the chaos of the lack of a king and the suffering that anarchy had brought. To rule with compassion, in many ways she had to give up her own. In turn, she had to rely on others to act on theirs in her place. Not everyone who had risen up from such roots remembered them, but as a knight, Bedivere never forgot his, exemplifying the virtues of charity and generosity. He had been so much more than just her strength, he had acted with compassion where she could not, leading refugees from borderland villages ravaged by war to new locations or issuing supplies to outposts which had been cut off and were forced to be officially abandoned, often carrying out these tasks personally. She had never seen him withhold anything from those in need, bringing constant relief to the poor and unfortunate. And yet, he had never tried to act as her conscience, chastising her for the hard decisions she was forced to make for the sake of the kingdom as a whole. He merely acted in silence, almost reading her true wishes. If he had been someone else, she might have suspected that he had been doing so to silently shame her or undermine her rule...but not him. It could have been that, when she had never disciplined him for doing so, he had understood what it was she had truly wanted. Or, at some point, something might have slipped past her mask, and he had acted on it ever since. A keen observer, of that she harboured no doubt. His strength was an altogether different sort, the kind which came from righteous actions and dedication to the ideals of chivalry. Arturia hadn't seen the crumbling of his mask as any sort of weakness; quite the opposite, in fact. It was an admirable strength, to maintain one's compassion even through all he had been through. How could she, the king who had tried to lead her country to utopia, not be awed by that? But on a more personal level, she had admitted to herself that she had wanted to see behind his mask as much as he had wished to see behind hers. She had no right at all to want that, but that did nothing to stop her from wanting it, regardless. Emotion threatened to overwhelm her again -- not to the point it had before, but enough to furrow her brow as he spoke. "No, I...I wanted...I thought of myself as your shield, so that you would not have to..." It was frustrating beyond measure that she suddenly found herself stuttering and inarticulate. All she wanted at this point was to convey something of the truth of her rule, but the words stubbornly refused to co-operate. moreover, his pledge, as it had before, brought with it a happiness that she had never thought she would ever feel again...yet no speech could properly express that. She tensed and then relaxed again, and this time it bewildered her, at least, until he spoke again. The sound he had heard had been slow and steady, calming after the storm of grief. As he bade her listen, her brow furrowed again, this time in concentration. What sound was she listening for? But at the moment he told her, he would hear the unmistakable sound of the beating becoming more rapid. Were he to look down, he might catch the tips of slightly reddened ears. Such a silly, trivial thing to suddenly find oneself bashful over. And yet, it was in noticing that sound that revealed his own heart: Bedivere was the sort of man who would watch, listen, and observe. And he had been watching listening, and observing not the king, but Arturia. It made her strangely self-conscious in a way she hadn't known she was capable of, but more importantly, that a gentle soul would still long for nothing more than to serve her again, even after seeing her so pathetic and weak... Arturia managed to maintain dry eyes, this time... though perhaps the threatening tears were only held at bay by burying her face in the mantle again.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' If she had only wanted to comfort someone, or be comforted, that simple desire was shared in her lieutenant. Much like his king, he had sacrificed that for the sake of duty. Part of it was to protect his own reputation, perhaps knowing that there were many eyes on him; he, who had been knighted a commoner, of a family with little fortune and no name. Indeed, he is perhaps the only Knight of the Round not to bear his own heraldry – although given permission at his knighting, he never forgot his common roots. There were eyes upon him, though, and Bedivere knew that by extension, there were eyes upon the king. He wouldn't dare threaten Arturia's reputation, not even by proxy. There were some who had questioned her choice of marshal, and some who had put forth their own name to be chosen; and she had chosen Bedivere over them. There was bound to be bad blood of some kind. It came as little surprise, then, that those were the first such nobles to be swayed to Mordred's cause by her honeyed words and silver-tongued lies. Not all of it had been duty, though. Bedivere was simply not the sort to forget his roots. Nor had he, practically breaking his back to deliver relief to the beleaguered, to offer more material comforts to those in need of them, where he could not offer such simple things as a simple touch or a smile. He tried where he could to make their lives easier – and where some might have suspected him of being a little simple, aloof of the courtly intrigues, he was more canny about it than they had ever known. He knew exactly how to balance his compassion with competence; how to do exactly what he wanted to do, and do it in a way that did nothing but help his own reputation. And, therefore, the reputation of the king, who had chosen her highly dedicated marshal. Perhaps part of that undertone of resentment were his common origins, he'd once speculated, and perhaps they were out of sorts because he had come from more distant territories – his pale hair and his odd eyes were clue enough; the faint but undeniably foreign lilt to his words that he took pains to hide as he grew. Was that it? He would never know, now. Somehow that isn't so distressing a notion. There are some mysteries Bedivere can live with. His eyes flick down, slightly, though he can't quite see Arturia from the angle he holds her at; he can only feel the weight of her head against his shoulder. Carefully, he reaches up to circle his arms around her, mindful of the steel he still wears. Likely he should simply remove the gauntlets, but thi is still the house of a stranger, no matter how welcome he had been bidden – he could not fully relax here until he had, in some odd way, judged that for himself. Another of his desirable traits, as Marshal of Camelot – although secretly warm-hearted, Bedivere was aloof, and slow to extend his trust. No doubt it had once been a useful skill. Perhaps he does not distrust Sakura, but the thoughtful knight would prefer to take her measure before he can pass judgement in good conscience. Surely, though, Arturia's trust in her must go a long ways. She may feel him shift his head, just slightly, to listen when she speaks. Despite the sincerity of the words, and the seriousness with which they're spoken, he can't help but chuckle – and never mind the way her ears turn red, or her heart quickens. He certainly notices that; dimly, he's aware that his own is probably thundering, but thank the Good Lord he still wears his armour. It would be more difficult for Arturia to hear his. Still, that 'laugh' has no real voice involved, though; it's not much more than a warm breath stirring her hair – he was always subtle that way. Where someone like Gawain might indulge in a hearty belly-laugh, Bedivere might have exhaled in that particular way, suggestive of laughter, but restrained as always behind his own mask. "Aí, my king, when have you ever known me to carry a shield?" Despite the admonishment, his tone carries warmth; a warmth he never would have let himself show in Camelot. "I need no shield from the burdens I bear willingly. Though, by the Good Lord, it touches me that you would think such." His voice takes on that quiet, awed tone again. "No, milord, I knew what it would mean to serve you. I knew that I would need to bear my own shield." He shifts his weight slightly, if only because the plate armour he's kneeling on is starting to dig in most uncomfortably. It's a good excuse to resettle the much smaller knight in his arms; mindful not to dig steel-plated armour into arms and shoulders that aren't wearing any. "To serve as a Knight of the Round Table... and to serve as your Marshal..." He shakes his head, careful not to jar Arturia too much. "Do you know where I come from, milord? A province on the far reaches of Camelot's bordermarches." Perhaps he's not thinking clearly – to be so forthcoming is simply not proper, but he can't seem to stop himself, at least for right now. He continues on in a soft tone, and it seems to change before her ears; his voice still holds that familiar gentle tone, but there's a nearly musical quality that slips into it – almost a lilt, stamping it as surely as anything to the region he mentions. "I knew that I would have enemies, to achieve the Round Table, even in the kingdom you sought to build. I suppose there are some who would think me a dreamer, and a fool, for I do not suffer the politics of the courts lightly. But that does not mean that I lack skill." The faint smile he shows is almost shy; and that accent fades again as he consciously dismisses it. "I know the way of the world in such matters, and I know that to achieve any kind of rank would have earned me enemies, even where I sought none. Perhaps especially where I sought none." He exhales, softly; that quiet, subtle laugh again that so many had missed. Few in Camelot would bother to speak with him beyond the bounds of duty; a position he encouraged, despite his loneliness. Perhaps his brothers of the Round Table, but few more than that. Most had no idea of his subtle sense of humour, or the gentleness of him. They saw only a man with gentle looks, and perhaps for that, some assumed him weak. Incorrect, of course, but he was above correcting such notions – he preferred to let his actions speak for him, and in war, they had nothing to question. When acting in defense of his king, in particular, he was a force of nature on the battlefield. No doubt there were occasions in which Arturia was under threat simply by dint of numbers, and an enraged, righteous Bedivere helped to turn the tide, along with his brothers of the Round Table – enraged, perhaps, because they dared threaten his king; his dream. He flinches back a little when she buries her face into his mantle so suddenly; surprised, perhaps, at the vehemence of the motion. Awkwardly, he raises his arms around her, drawing her closer; trying to comfort her in his own unfamiliar way. This is new territory for him, and he is keenly aware of his shortcomings. While it does take conscious effort for him to lower his guard like this – at the same time, it strangely doesn't. "I knew what endeavour I had begun," he murmurs into her hair, "to enter into your service. I did not choose that path with blind eyes. And when you saw fit to appoint me your marshal, I knew also what that would bring for me. I knew to shield myself. No, my king; I wanted to shield you. I suspected something of your sacrifices. I simply never knew how deep they ran." He considers for a few moments, mulling over his words, letting his eyes close. "Had I but known, I could have done something to help you. What, I know not, but..." "But that does not matter any more, does it?" He can feel how tense she is; how she strives so valiantly not to tremble. Bedivere sighs, resting the side of his face against the top of her head; the soft gold of her hair. "I am sorry, milord. I never meant to twist those knives. I—I would never wish to cause you pain... I only wished to share some of your burdens, that you might not carry them alone." "It is... shameful of me to admit, but I watched you, at times. I wished to know what was behind the mask, yes? I think I began to know something of the burdens you carried – I had never known how great they were, of course, but I knew something of the sacrifices you were forced to make. I only wished to share some of that." His voice lowers, barely above a whisper. "You seemed so alone, my king; so... isolated. I wished only to relieve some of that burden, even if—even if I dared not even speak of it. It was not fair to me. You had given so much of yourself, had given up nearly everything... but that you need endure those sacrifices so alone..." He sighs, eyes sliding closed. "Forgive me," he murmurs into her hair. "I speak too boldly."

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' It had been another source of seemingly endless guilt that Arturia had appointed Bedivere to be her marshal and aide-de-campe, working closely with her and, for all appearances, had her ear. It was naturally a highly-coveted position, one fought for by anyone with any ambition at all, and hardly a one had the best intentions for the kingdom at large. The unassuming, dedicated, and completely trustworthy knight was more than her best choice, he was ideal. Even those who had desired the position for personal means were grudgingly forced to admit such. Yet, she knew full well that it would be a great burden on him, that a fragile heart and a weak mind would break. For all his seeming fragility, Saber knew he was far from it. She had watched him as he trained, catching what glances she had been able, climbing his way up from squirehood. She had knighted him with the same placid, impassive face as she had all her knights, but was in secret pleased that the quiet, gentle soul was tempered by a spine of steel and an indomitable spirit. He would face even greater difficulties, she realised even as she appointed him, but she had confidence he would face them as he had faced all other challenges. It was the pain it might otherwise cause him, the verbal knives and plotting of ambitious nobles. As she did, he stood alone, faced everything alone. The king had hoped he would find some form of support...yet he had always seemed content to simply support her, to act as her secret will. She could never seem to discover why. It had not been even the duty of a knight utterly dedicated to the path of chivalry. It certainly wasn't shame any longer which kept Arturia from looking up at him, though it was some odd compulsion which kept her from doing so , some strange reluctance which had not been there before. She could feel rather than hear his laugh -- if she had ever heard it before this moment, she couldn't remember, and she had been watching him for years -- and it does nothing to ease the quickening of her heart or the burning blush on her face. She frowned slightly, unsure why it was that this particular expression was one she wore. "I watched you as a boy, becoming a squire...I feared placing too unfair a burden on you too soon," she blurted out, too flustered to properly filter her words, revealing far more than she wanted to admit. Curse it all. She might never be able to look him in the eye again. It was a shame; his eyes were, she had to admit, beautiful. And even for that she inwardly scolded herself; such impropriety! Yet, when he began to speak of his homeland, the compulsion was then to shift back just enough to look up into his violet eyes, her own sea-green ones widened slightly with some surprise....even a hint of wonder. Her embarrassment evaporated as she listened intently, hungering for even more. Bemused, Arturia found herself disappointed when the lilt gradually faded; to be sure, Bedivere must have taken considerable pains to train himself to speak in the common accent of the kingdom. But she found herself yearning to know more about him, to listen to him tell of his life before his knighthood. That he never knew, could never have even guessed of just how heavy her burdens had been was a testament to her nearly flawless mask, one she had spent a lifetime perfecting, burying her emotions deep within her. That had been what she had wished for, that they would not suffer because of any burden she had placed on them, and for those threats from the outside...well, she would deal with them with ruthless efficiency. Anything to protect her kingdom, her knights, her people. Bedivere was, however, right. Whatever both their intentions had been, however many burdens they had each carried alone...none of it truly mattered any more. The sense of melancholy remained, but the burdens had long gone, fragments of a Camelot which had fallen to ruin centuries ago. Discovering that the motivation behind his own mask had been to catch some glimpse of her behind hers had been a humbling experience on many levels, laced with a tangle of other emotions that Arturia was still attempting to sort out. But the earnestness in his voice now stirred her to try to reach out, as clumsy as her own efforts were. Strangely, the words seemed to come more easily this time. "No, it was not too bold of you," she replied, shaking her head slightly. "I chose you because I trusted your judgment and your opinion. I could never ask it, only trust in the decisions you would make in my stead. I have never been disappointed in them." She shifted then,pulling back just enough to be able to reach up and place her hands on each side of his face, gazing intently, earnestly, into his eyes. A little of her old self returned, the confidence of a natural leader. What was missing was the cold mask, and her eyes implored him with the emotions it had once hid. "Please, do not withhold your thoughts from me any longer. I wish to hear what you have to say."

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' To some of the nobility, the position of Marshal was more than just the responsibility of overseeing the kingdom; they assumed that it came with the king's ear, and the ability to gain the king's favour. Unfortunately for them, that was not the case – this was not a king whose favour could be gained. There would be no compromising the standards set before this king. The very being of this short, strong woman was devoted to the well-being of her people. No; there could be no compromise with a personality that fierce, that strong. Such a thought of favouritism would never even cross her mind. Nor would it cross the man she had appointed Marshal over all of the contenders for the role. He had denied to bear heraldry, and had also denied a fief of his own – he had preferred to simply serve, without trappings of knighthood; without distractions to pull him away from his own duties. Far more likely, as she gets to know what Bedivere really is beneath his mask, it was more out of his inherent humble nature than out of avoiding distraction. Using such a position for personal means, even to gain the things that the other knights had earned, would never cross his mind. A more ideal knight could not have been found – even his detractors were forced to admit that, even as they slunk through the courts and nosed about in search of some tidbit of scandal to erode his position. They'd found none. Perhaps the worst in their tireless campaigning had been that Bedivere was, perhaps, a bit more feminine in appearance and mannerisms than his brothers-in-arms, but that was hardly a crime – he carried himself with bravery and chivalry on the battlefield, and he worked tirelessly for the poor and the unfortunate in Camelot, almost always personally. No; he was not even the kind of knight to issue orders and feel fulfilled over that – he was never satisfied unless he was there, personally distributing food, clothing, fuel, or whatever else it was that might have been needed. "Ah. Yes, I knew you were watching me, even then." Bedivere flushes slightly at that. He was so unrefined, then; so raw. All of that idealism and youthful determination were hardly dignified, and time had eventually tempered him into the calm, focused knight he is today – looking back, his youthful enthusiasm was somewhat embarrassing. "Hah." A quiet laugh, little more than a breath. It sounds almost embarrassed. "I was... untempered, shall we say? Yet still, I... thank you for your concern, milord. But it was unfounded." He need not say that he would have done anything for her – already he's spoken those words several times, and there's nothing else he can add to them that would give them any more sincerity. When she looks up at him, jade eyes surprised and even in wonder, he seems a bit surprised at that raw curiosity, though he doesn't draw back. He just tilts his head, very faintly, as though he were trying to make sense of the emotion he sees in her. Any emotional display in her is blatant, to his sensibilities, honed by the cold mask of the king. To see anything like that in her is still new, and he still seems to struggle over how to react to her own reactions, at times. Yet, still... part of him doesn't mind seeing that curiosity. Something about that expression of hers makes the corners of his mouth twitch, not quite a smile. When was the last time she would have been able to express that, he wonders? Would it have been at the courts? Surely not. And if it was, it would have been over far less happy subjects – war parties and border raids, battles forming and enemy scouting. Her curiosity would have had a hard, imperious edge to it. He seems a bit taken aback when she says his words aren't too bold; as though he had been expecting her to agree with him, rather than express a desire for more of this strange openness. "I..." Bedivere doesn't have the opportunity to say anything else. Before he can react, she reaches up and touches each side of his face; stares straight into his eyes, violet meeting sea-green. He startles so badly his armour rattles, but he doesn't pull away; perhaps uncertain of whether she would take it poorly if he did. No, he doesn't dare retreat, but it's obvious that that straightforward, sudden contact spooked him – Bedivere, who had unflinchingly faced down half a battle line just to defend his king when she had incurred some moderate wound, the very picture of righteous wrath; Bedivere, who had endured years of courtly intrigue just to remain at his king's side, loyally enduring all manner of the less pleasant aspects of Camelot's inner workings. And now – now he looks terrified. His face flushes scarlet, so scarlet it goes to his very ears, and perhaps she can hear his heart now; thundering in time to the twitch of the pulse at his throat. His eyes won't meet hers, darting as though looking for an escape. Wh—what should he do? What can he do—? Bedivere opens his mouth to say something, and to his further horror, he actually squeaks. He tries to say something, but his voice cracks before he can even form any words. Frantically, he tries to gather his wits, but his mind races like the hare before the hound, darting and terrified, never settling too long on one thing. Certainly not long enough to recover his wits. When he finally gets his voice back in working order, it's no louder than its usual gentle tone, but it is a few notes higher than it should be. "M-milord—?" His face is still red; he can feel it, and he can't even duck his head to hide it. Dimly, he's certain that he must be blushing down to his neck, and there's not a damned thing he can do about it. Right there, plain as day, for Arturia to see. Oh... oh, how humiliating. He swallows, harshly; slowly, he can try to put his mask back together again. It's not the same as it was, though. Trying to hide his reactions away in the face of that entreaty – he can't do it, no matter how much he wants to, just to restore some semblance of order. She might feel him shudder, but his eyes eventually lift to meet hers. Something about him seems withdrawn in the face of that straightforward entreaty. Is he afraid? Is this brave knight who had faced down so many horrors actually afraid? He certainly seems to be. Bedivere swallows again, helplessly. When he finally finds the presence of mind to speak, his voice is dry and hoarse, almost a rasp. "I—I cannot, milord." That might be a disappointment to her, though, so he elabourates. Perhaps some part of her might be pleased to hear that that faint, musical lilt touches his words again; his shock too great to consciously hide it. "My thoughts... I... that would not be..." Please, she says, and the simple entreaty in her tone is like a knife wrenched in his gut. How can he refuse her? He has never refused her in any other thing. Even when she commanded him to throw Excalibur back into the lake, he had relented. The heat of his face is almost painful; the hands he can still feel there are distracting like nothing has ever been. He's always been so calm, so focused. So why, now, can he barely even speak? "Aí," he finally says softly, and his tone is one of resignation. That single liquid syllable is nearly a sound of despair. "Aí. My king, I cannot deny you." She genuinely wants to hear, and he manages to gain some semblance of self-control; if nothing else, than to obey her wishes. "Very well, then. I—I could not bear to see you sacrifice everything. I knew you would, nonetheless, and even as Camelot's very underpinnings began to crumble, I knew that it would serve no purpose, too." He bows his head, slightly; his brow furrows as he leans, slightly, into her touch. Those violet eyes slide closed. "There would be no returning that which you sacrificed. I saw the walls that you put up. I should know. I did the same, my king. But the worst was to see you bear that burden alone." He sighs, a soft breath that barely has any strength to it. His eyes open, but they slant to one side, not looking at her directly. "I did not want to see you in such pain. It... angered me, to see that not only did you suffer so, you did so alone. I would have shared that burden with you, had it only been possible... but even that opportunity was not to be." Neither of their morals would have bowed enough to allow them to confide in one another; neither would have been able to drop their masks. Indeed, only the shock of finding her alive again seems to have helped him do so. "I... have always admired you." His voice is quiet, so quiet; and it threatens to crack again. "To be able to do anything to lessen your pain... just to see you smile... I would have done it. I..." He reaches up, carefully taking one of her hands, as though he were handling the finest-wrought glass. They feel so strangely delicate without the gauntlets he's accustomed to seeing her in, and he's almost afraid he might hurt her with his own gauntlets on. Despite the weight of leather and steel, his touch is light, and so infinitely careful. His eyes drop. With surprising care, he takes her hand in his, regarding the delicate features as though committing them to memory. His eyes hood; in that moment he seems unspeakably weary, though not for lack of sleep (although the shadows under his eyes suggest that, too). "I hope never to disappoint you. I do not think I could bear that." His tone is hushed, almost reverent, and he seems content just to hold her hand. He keeps his gaze downcast to it, as though studying it. So delicate, as though he were instead holding some other person's hand; not the hand he had so often associated with the same style of leather and steel gauntlet that he favours. His words still carry that lilt, so distracted he hasn't thought to banish it. Besides, looking at her hand means not looking in her eyes; he isn't certain he has the fortitude to do that just now. "You... you are everything to me, milord." There. Was that so hard? Probably. Still, the way he says you suggests more than simple kingship or the fealty of a loyal servant – after all, he had mourned the death of Arturia, not the death of the king. And time after time, he has put her before his own comfort or safety, even if only in subtle ways. Perhaps the king may not understand, but if a certain plum-haired magus of the house were watching, she might recognise that reverent tone of his; the earnestness in his voice, and the faintest hint of warmth there – when he can be bothered to push his shock away enough to let it show, that is. The poor knight. It's obvious that he's rattled – but at the same time, if he truly minded, he would have pulled away; would have expressed his horror in some manner or another.

:'''Tohsaka Sakura has posed:''' The truth of the matter is that said plum-haired magus is not actually watching - but while she’d been planning to return to them, the conversation had been overheard. And of all people, Sakura herself knows when it’s best to not interrupt others...especially when it’s something as important as this. There’s a soft, beatific smile on her face, and she just lets the two of them speak quietly to each other. Lunch, or snacks, can wait just a little bit longer. Still, she was right, and the slightest of impish smiles crosses her lips. Ah well, she’ll simply congratulate Saber - and Bedivere - later.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' If one of those nobles who had coveted Bedivere's position had been awarded it instead, he would have soon been bitterly disappointed. With Arturia's reforms, it had become a heavy responsibility, one of strict administration with nothing in the way of political perks, not privilege. Advisory capacities had been stripped away, replaced with the much more unglamourous duties of an aide-de-campe, someone who merely kept the affairs of the state in proper working order and kept painstaking records or its workings. From the very beginning, she had set out to create just laws, ones under which noble and commoner alike were subject, carried out with completely impartial rule. No longer would a starving peasant be put in stocks for stealing a loaf of bread to feed his children while an earl skimming taxes collected for the royal treasury would go free and even gain from it. Even the court itself was not immune, with strict codes of conduct enforced, a declaration to the people that the decadence of the past would not be tolerated. The court would no longer enjoy special privileges and comforts that the people themselves could not. Such laws had been widely celebrated by the various commoners...but had made her an enemy of the nobility from the very beginning of her reign. And by extension, those she appointed to any position within her court. The foundation of the Round Table had caused an uproar the likes of which Britain had ever heard. What was even worse in the minds of the nobility, the Knights bestowed this honour were required to earn their position, rather than buy it with coin, goods, marriages, or special favours. There were knights from nobility's ranks, but ones who had demonstrated their absolute commitment to the chivalric code and all its virtues. Their oaths were not mere decorative ritual; they were absolute, and the word of a knight became his bond. Even the King herself became subject to such strictures. Though she wore the royal blue to indicate her status as was necessary. Her armour and dress bore only the lightest of embellishments, her lifestyle was as simple as status would permit. Her seat at the Round Table likewise bore more embellishment as some indication of rank was necessary, but her place at the table was equal to even the most recently-initiated knight. But to King Arthur, all was but the start of the road to her dream. Her hand-picked knights to a man had all shared her dream, in one way or another. While some, such as Gawain, possessed the hearts of warriors, all believed in the pursuit of peace for the kingdom. It was the peasants who suffered the most when countries went to war, and their chivalric code demanded that knights become unto servants of the people. When they fought, they fought only for a cause that was just. As a commoner himself, Bedivere was perhaps more inclined to truly believe in those ideals. In the years past, someone in a similar position could have simply spurned that past, living a life of luxury. Yet, the gentle knight needed no such strictures, painfully aware of the plight of those who had come from the same beginnings. He conducted himself with the holy virtues of humility and modesty at all times, never wavering, never casting them aside when he had thought himself alone. And the king noticed. She did not award such exemplary conduct, however. instead, she charged him with one of the most demanding positions in her new kingdom. Nobles who had dreamed of it as a pathway to the throne would have rebelled, or at least protested. Arturia had never regretted choosing the soft-spoken of mysterious origins. She had never regretted making him a knight. Arturia's admission about observing him was no small cause for embarrassment to her, though. He knew? She had taken pains to be careful, to not show favour. "You...were talented...and driven. I could see that...qualities I wanted in a knight. They served you well.." she managed to admit quietly, conscious of her burning face. But then, she cast aside that doubt at his second-guessing, retreating back into the modesty which had otherwise served him so well. She had never seen him act so flustered, so perfect was his mask, so impeccable his conduct. Attempting to bridge that chasm she herself had erected around herself as the king, she found herself wanting to become closer, make him not so nervous in her presence, not dread her status as king, to see her as a fellow knight whom he could talk to openly and easily. Just as he had wished for some way to ease what loneliness she surely felt, so too did she wish for some way to ease his. She had tried to make that first step, to show him that she was indeed human. The silver-haired knight's initial reaction, however, baffled her utterly. It seemed to even frighten him, causing him to drop his mask and reveal a look of what could only be terror, an expression she had never expected to see from the steel-nerved knight. Arturia worried for a moment if she had in fact done something terribly wrong, that she had offended him in some way. Yet, he didn't pull away, even as he turned more scarlet than should be humanly possible, looked desperately away, squeaked, attempted to stammer out a proper answer. Saber was at a loss. Furiously her mind searched for what it could be, what had she done wrong. She was about to draw her hands away and stammer out some humiliated apology of her own when he finally looked back into her eyes. He was still, for all appearances, embarrassed. Even so, he was trying. Bedivere fought valiantly to speak, and she couldn't take pleasure in the lilt's return, as sweet at it sounded -- like a musical instrument -- to her ears. He was too distressed, and she didn't want him to be. Her intention was to be reassuring, not make him nervous! Even as he relented, his resigned tone sounding almost mournful to her ears, she felt terribly guilty for placing him in this awkward predicament in the first place. It had been a selfish request, she knew. Arturia had gone out of her way not to order him, though she had really only ordered him when he refused to rest or eat to stop working -- so stubborn! -- and attend to himself. She should have known better; Bedivere treated any simple request from her as an absolute order. She had been prepared, she thought; she honestly wanted to know if she should have done what she did, if there was some way she could have saved her kingdom...or even if perhaps the King of Conquerors had had a point in calling her wish blasphemous. Unlike the boisterous Rider, she trusted Bedivere absolutely. His calm demeanour, his rational and observant mind, his dedication to chivalry. If she had been able, she would have made him an advisor regardless of what a Marshal's duties were. She would never stray from her righteous path, but because neither would he, she could trust in his wisdom. In some ways, his truthful words, as kind as they were, were painful. He could see the cracks in the foundations that she had refused to see, those sharp eyes and that keen mind had faced the truth she had refused to. She couldn't...it was her sworn duty, her sacred oath, to do everything to prevent it. Yet, she couldn't. The flaw was not with what she sacrificed to protect; the flaw must be within her. otherwise, she would have to face the truth; Camelot could not be saved. There was something like the twisting of a knife in her side at the other truth he had seen, the one she had guarded as if her very life depended on it. While he had not seen precisely how deep it rant, he had seen her pain, her regret. Somehow, though the mask, he had seen it. Simply by watching her and truly seeing her, the girl behind the king. Finally, there were five simple words that felt to her as if she had been kicked in the gut. His honesty was beyond question, and yet what he confessed was surely impossible. That mixture of emotion, disbelief even in the face of something undeniable, reflected on her unmasked face. Her throat felt to dry to so much as swallow as he took her hand as gently as if it was as fragile as a butterfly's wings, his touch light despite the gauntlets he still wore. When he spoke his tone was of such a weariness that she would have ordered him to sleep immediately in spite of everything had it not been predominantly something else entirely. No, a weariness of spirit could not be so easily healed. She would know. She felt it at Camlann. Arturia had tried to reassure him as much as she was able that he could never disappoint her, never in a million years. He was too dedicated to chivalry, too pure, to ever incur her disappointment. at that moment, however, all she had was that emotion, something beyond speech. Even if she had somehow gathered suitable words, they would fail completely mere moments after. You... you are everything to me, milord. As she lay dying beneath the oak tree, she had prayed to the world to allow her to be replaced with a suitable king....because to Arturia, the king was merely a symbol. The other kings of the Fourth Holy Grail War had resoundingly disagreed, but while a king could protect and rule wisely, he was nevertheless something transient and replaceable. So long as Britain lived on into Utopia, the king was ultimately unimportant. She had tried to rule so that the people would hold her ideals sacred, not the king herself. She never wanted to be regarded a irreplaceable, so crucial that without her, the kingdom would fall. That was not, however, how Bedivere had spoken of her. Before King Arthur, before the ideal of the king, his hand had reached out for the woman behind the mask. Even if he could not reach her, even if he could not even see her. Why? Did he already see her as a fellow knight...or as even a friend? She wanted so badly to ask what was she in his eyes? But she didn't dare; she had pushed him far enough and opened up too many wounds already.Her eyes remained fixed to the same point his were, her guilt eating away at her. But in spite of that. she was nevertheless grateful; more grateful than she could ever express. "Thank you..." she managed after a long moment, her eyes misting over. "For telling me..." She shook her head, correcting herself. "No. For everything."

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Although she had sought to unify the people under the banner of equality and justice, the king had in reality alienated more than she could have known. The ruling class wanted nothing that would threaten their base of power through the ages. Few who have held such power are willing to let it go, especially not without a fight, and perhaps those royal edicts were the beginning of the end. Some may have coveted the position of Marshal of the Realm, intending to use their newfound authority to gain the king's ear, but that wasn't how this king ruled. The only person suitable for that role was someone to whom the role was not a guarantee of a soft life, but hard work; something earned rather than given. Ultimately, the only person suitable for that role was the person the role had been given to. Oh, there had been scandal, albeit very quietly. Some questioned how and why this foreigner, this pale-haired Dál Riata, had become so indispensable to the king – how had he earned her favour where no others could? In time it had become clear that he had earned the position through merit, but those undercurrents of resentment throughout the courts had never truly gone away. Other things had drawn their attention, such as Guinevere's infidelity and Lancelot's betrayal, but some considered the appointment of Sir Bedivere as Marshal of the Realm to be the king's first fatal misstep. He had known that, at the time. He had heard their whispers and the sometimes cruel things they had said, forcing it to roll off his back. They had not bothered him, for he had expected such betrayal; was it not the nature of men in positions of privilege to guard what they considered theirs? Besides, their loyalty had meant nothing to him – his loyalty had been solely to the king. Bedivere had been in a unique position to carry out the work that he had believed his king had wanted; charitable work, work that said that the commoners were not forgotten, even if the king could not push policy too openly. So he had acted as her conscience, gladly helping those less fortunate than he. Had he not been familiar with living in such dire straits? After all, by the reckoning of so many of Camelot's more well-to-do, he had been worse even than a commoner – he had been born of Dál Riata, a foreigner, people rumoured to have strange and unbelievable powers. Untruth, of course – the most he had were a few talents picked up as a child that he had secretly kept on, such as his love of music, born of the great fili, the bards, the storytellers and the poets, the keepers of lore. Some had rumoured it, and whispered of it, but he had never confirmed or denied those rumours. To acknowledge them at all only would have brought him to lose face. So he had calmly tolerated the hard looks from the nobility, and the quiet whisperings they thought he couldn't hear. He had always had the keenest of senses. But he had never so much as thought of wavering. They served you well. Direct compliments, once so rare as to be nonexistent from his king, and now he's heard more of them than he would ever have dared to count in one evening. Bedivere exhales through his nose, head bowing just slightly, but it seems more a gesture of modesty than anything else. He can feel the heat rise to his cheekbones again at such praise. "I thank you, milord," he murmurs, controlling that lilt once more. "I... only acted as I thought right." That was, when it comes down to it, the story of his service record. He did what he thought right, in the cleverest way he could think of that would both achieve his goals and appease the capricious nobles. Bedivere had become adept at striking that balance, at perching atop that knife's-edge; in this, his mind and his capacity to deal with courtly politics was far keener than any of the court would have guessed. His eyes lift when she tries to express her gratitude, and he can see the tears that threaten to spill, but don't quite. For a brief instant he doesn't seem to know what to do, expression flickering between several different emotions – relief, gratitude, puzzlement, pain. He seems conflicted in that moment, so conflicted; where he had always been so sure of himself, so calm and quietly confident. Finally, he smiles, the expression faint. He seems to hesitate for a moment before allowing it to broaden a little, just a little, beyond the restrained bounds he had so often set for himself before. Please, do not withhold your thoughts from me any longer, she had told him. Would that also include his emotions, his reactions? He would suppose so. He hesitates again before reaching out, the leather pad of his gauntlet lighting against the side of her face; so controlled and careful that it may as well be the touch of a feather – and so light that she may feel him trembling as he does, all through his arm, as though he were struggling not to withdraw. "You need not thank me for that, my king." Despite the title, the formality, there is a warmth to his voice that implies so much more – that he sees more than the crown she once wore; that he had always seen more than that crown. His voice is hushed, though not quite a whisper. "You need never thank me for what I give freely. Do not weep, my lord; do not weep. You have failed no one, least of all me. Nay. You have succeeded, more surely than any could have known." That smile broadens, though the expression is still gentle, those violet eyes veiled by pale lashes. "I must... I must thank you, as well. Truly. I do not think you knew that you gave me something to look to, but... you gave me place and purpose. A cause I could serve. And..." He stops, then, looking somewhere between anxious and thoughtful; as though he wanted to say more, but isn't certain how to frame it – or if he should even speak. Those violet eyes are doubtful; another expression she never would have seen through his own mask. The Marshal of Camelot had to be confident and decisive, wholly convinced of the correctness of his actions. He could not have afforded to show doubt, even if he had nonetheless felt it. Now, it probably seems so strange on him; he, who had always been such a bulwark of calm, quiet confidence. "Ah..." The sound is almost disappointed, little more than a breath, and his eyes turn down and away. He's already told her that he's wanted to see beyond that mask, beyond the cold countenance of the king, but he dares not tell her why. If she asks, he is helpless but to answer, but he clearly seems to be struggling over something. It isn't proper, and it isn't knightly, but some part of him wants to tell her what she means to him – but those parts of him raised on chivalry and on the propriety of a knight are deeply ingrained. Still, perhaps it might reassure her. After this conversation, he has some idea of how little she thinks of herself; how much a failure she thinks her actions. He wants to tell her that she was never a failure to him – that she was always the opposite; that she always spurred him to greater courage, greater actions. She had always meant more to him than a figurehead or an ideal. True, she had inspired him, but he had not followed her because of lofty ideals – while true in part, it was never the entire truth. He simply regards her with those conflicted violet eyes. The need to speak is almost a physical weight, but it's a struggle he can't put to rest so easily. "My lord." His voice is soft, so soft, almost a whisper, and an undercurrent of disappointment lies in his tone – as though it weren't precisely what he wanted to say. Prying off that mask takes conscious effort for him, especially when it clashes with his knightly sensibilities. It isn't proper to befriend one's king, let alone to— His face flushes scarlet again; he looks away, pained. That doesn't even bear thinking about. Even if it weren't in defiance of everything he's ever learned or taught himself... whatever makes him think that he could be worthy of her?

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' If anything could have been said to be the king's true downfall, it had been in her belief that -- in time -- some of the nobility could be persuaded. Surely they would have seen the prosperity such peaceful and equal rule for all had brought Britain, the surplus in the stores and easily-travelled roads? Clearing the dead weight from her court had improved efficiency considerably; the Crown had been able to accomplish much more with fewer taxes, leaving plenty for those who had actually worked for their gains. Fewer deaths in the dead of winter or famine -- though even those were unacceptable to the king -- had meant from a strictly economic standpoint a larger and healthier workforce. A shepherd tending to his flock gently and carefully more often than not boasted a healthier flock. And even a simple peasant child was worth far more than a sheep. Her fatal flaw had been that she had underestimated human selfishness and depravity. If she had indeed been an unfit king in at least one respect, it had been in her blindness to such greed, such evil. Arturia hadn't been so naive as to expect that inherent good in people would overcome -- there would always be those ruled completely by evil -- but she had grossly underestimated how widespread it had been, even within her own court. She had seen the well there as plainly as day...she failed to be able to see the bottom. That then, was another part of what she had considered her weakness, when she reflected on it. it seemed nearly every decision she had made had been wrong, that she should have taken a different path. She should have found some other way when it seemed as if both options were terrible and that she could only choose the less-acceptable one. Somehow, a stronger, better king would have found some other option. no, the only choices she had never regretted were the knights of her retinue, the appointments she had made. Bedivere's origins had never mattered to her, only that his loyalty was beyond dispute, his dedication to chivalry without question. She had expected others to see what she had seen; the flawless work, the self-discipline, the impartiality. Or perhaps this last virtue was one the courts preferred to do without, given that any attempts to bribe or coerce were refused and reported immediately. If the king could be said to have become genuinely angry at anything -- in spite of concealing it ruthlessly -- it had been the rumours,the cruel whispers. no court was ever completely free of gossip, but a less-controlled king would have ordered the execution of those who had accused Lancelot and Guinevere, instead of that of her queen. She had been too fragile for such a poisonous environment; in retrospect, Arturia should not have accepted the proposal of a false marriage for the sake of the illusion of a stable royal family. Guinevere had been a kind, gentle young woman, not the scheming harlot they had made her out to be, and the rumours had in truth made her furious beneath the cold, aloof mask. It had hardly been through any fault of hers that she had fallen in love with a man, and he with her. That was natural...not the unnatural sham of a marriage only meant to keep Arturia's disguise. So too had the attempts to poison Bedivere's reputation, ranging from the clearly ridiculous to those which might well have fooled those who did not know him. In no way had he deserved such ill-regard, yet he had handled it with such dignity that the rumours had seemed to merely slip away into nothingness. Of that she had been thankful, but there had been no recourse for her for how to punish such impunity. Arturia carefully buried such anger, but deep within her, she still felt it. A different sort of emotion welled within her heart now, however. She could only feel pride as she looked at him now, his head bowed humbly as she had finally been able to bestow the praise she had always wanted to. naturally, he had merely done what was right. Such a modest, humble answer...so very much the Bedivere of her memories. There was nothing she possibly could feel at that other than pride, for one who had so exemplified the virtues of chivalry. The came naturally to him, and his king could not have been more proud. That pride had been mingled with gratitude, but then pride faded when she tried to express it. Memories of all they had endured for the years of her reign; looking back, she had silently depended on him so utterly. She had always insisted -- both to herself and to others -- that the king was always and forever alone. Even as she had drawn Caliburn, she had accepted that. Only now, she had discovered that it had not been entirely true. She had shouldered all the burdens of kingship, true; but where she had needed others to be her eyes, ears, and hands, she had hand-picked a select few to become them. Yet they were not merely extensions of her will as the king; she delegated authority and responsibility to them, trusting them to understand that will, but to use their own judgement and abilities. The prosperity of Britain until the fall of Camelot had been, in many ways, due to the ceaseless efforts of these men. Alone, Arturia could have only accomplished so much. She was keenly aware of that. The greatest of these debts was owed to the Marshal of Camelot. Even among the Knights of the Round Table he had worked tirelessly, needing no prompting and nearly no correction to act in proper service to the Crown. But her gratitude ran far deeper than for simply that. One was rarely moved to tears from gratitude, alone. They were not out of sorrow, this time. Were it not for him, she would have broken long ago. His light touch surprised her into looking up, but like before, Arturia didn't pull away. Instead, her own hand lifted to cover his hand in a touch as light as his, leaning ever so slightly into his hand. The sound she made was barely audible, so soft that only he would have been able to hear it. It might have sounded like something half-way between a choked-back sob...and a sigh of relief. Another of her incredible burdens had suddenly been lifted from her shoulders. Perhaps the most moving of all...her efforts had not been so futile, after all. But then he stopped, and briefly she wondered what it was she had done wrong again. She could see the struggle, clearly, but this time she refused to press him on the matter. In truth, she was surprised that he had managed all he had already. No, she would not pry further; she had wanted at least something of his true thoughts, hoping that she had at least made it known that he could speak them now. But only if he felt that he could. She hardly begrudged the tall knight any secrets; she kept countless ones. Though perhaps that was changing. there was so much she wanted to tell him; though fearful that there might be something hidden that stained his opinion of her irreparably, there were likewise his reassurances that no such thing existed. She wanted, almost desperately, to confide in someone...confide in him. Never in a million years could Arturia have possibly guessed what lay beneath the surface, what other feelings he could possibly have other than the ones he had already expressed. Still, the conflict in his eyes, the sound he made of almost...disappointment? In what? She couldn't ask, not until she knew he was willing to talk, but surely there was some way to ease his troubled thoughts. She couldn't read his face, either, turned away as it was, puzzled as to what could have made him so conflicted, so flustered. "It is true that I wish to hear what it is that you think," she told Bedivere quietly, making another attempt at reassurance. "But...if you do not wish to, I would like to know that, as well. you need not keep silent any longer, but you need not speak, either, if you do not wish to...simply for my sake."

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' If the king had been angry at such backbiting and ill regard as surrounded Bedivere's reputation, she had hidden it well indeed. There had been no suspicion at all from her faithful marshal, who had let the toxicity slide off of him. He had always seemed almost oblivious to those efforts to get under his skin or damage his reputation – but no doubt Arturia knew better. His very perception was one of the reasons he had been chosen. He watches as she looks up, forcing himself not to look away or startle. It takes more self-control than he can usually muster; how is it that his king, the very person he had followed unflinchingly so many times, could strip away his mask so completely? What power did she hold over him that she could reduce him to such distress? Despite how quiet it is, he hears the quiet sound Arturia makes; that hitch of breath between a relieved sigh and a stifled sob. When he does, his hand tightens over hers, fleeting concern over his face as he regards her. Had he done something; said something? Did she want him to speak where he had held to his silence? He is perceptive, though, and he does note the puzzlement on her face. All he can do in response is to make somewhat of a helpless sound, quiet, as though to say without words his discomfort; his reluctance to speak. It would be easy. She even encourages him to speak his mind; that he need not keep silent any longer, but his honour demands that he not speak. Not on that. That would be going too far, and he isn't certain he wants to burn that bridge. Not yet; not when he had only just found her again. "No, milord." His voice is quiet, the words barely a hoarse whisper. He finally does drop his gaze, though, looking almost troubled. "I—I am sorry. Do not mistake my hesitation; I could not keep anything from you. But this..." The look he casts her is both conflicted and complex. Something certainly gnaws at him, but he seems powerless to speak of it. At the same time, something in his expression suggests that he does want to talk about it. Isn't talking supposed to help? Still, old habits are hard indeed to break, and much like Arturia, wearing his mask is a very old habit. "No, I do not wish to keep anything from you, but—but it shames me," he murmurs quietly, dropping his gaze again. "Aí, it shames me. I should not even speak of it, but..." Her attempts to reassure him only make it worse. He shifts his weight uncomfortably, settling less stiffly on the floor, but he doesn't seem at all inclined to get up or move, still holding her hand with such delicacy, despite wearing those steel-plated gauntlets. He has the strength to cut a man down in battle, but at the same time, he's always been the most delicate of her knights – perhaps she had seen him in the gardens, once, catching his breath after training with a stave-sword. It had been a spring morning, early into the season and still somewhat cold; he had found on the ground a single butterfly, shivering, fluttering its wings but unable to fly. Perhaps she had watched then as, with infinite care, her marshal had scooped up the trembling insect and cupped it in his hands, sitting down on a boulder and simply waiting there, patiently, holding the butterfly until it could recover enough warmth to fly off. That's just the kind of person he's always been – perhaps he might have hidden that away, but he couldn't hide it from her, and he could not dismiss that part of his nature without destroying who and what he was. And while there were many things he could do, Bedivere never could have done that to himself. "I wish to," he says quietly. His hand trembles in hers, fragile as that butterfly he had once held in turn, brow furrowed just slightly. "But I do not know how... I..." The knight sighs, sagging a little. "Aí," he murmurs in defeat. "I had not thought that taking the mask off would be so difficult..."

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Arturia was still somewhat unaccustomed to seeing him without the mask he had built up ever since his training had started in earnest. Though she had relied heavily on it as King of Britain and had strangely taken comfort in it, she was happy that, even after all the years, Bedivere had not really changed at all. The youthful exuberance had tapered, but there was still that idealism, that devotion to the ideals of chivalry and the knighthood. Attaining that dream had not made him cynical; in fact, he had taken it all the more seriously following his knighting. Yet, there were a few things that had changed. She had remembered him being a little awkward and almost painfully shy, and his training had seemed to have given him the confidence that knighthood and service to the king demanded. She had thought that his shyness had faded, replaced with a mask not unlike her own, and that his own aloofness was simply a part of his now stoic nature. In truth, it seemed, that shyness and awkwardness had not faded at all. He had always been kind-hearted and gentle but open display had been replaced for the most part by silent charity. She had only discovered that he was still this way as he comforted her through her grief, even grieving himself. But instead of finding these weaknesses, Arturia found herself strangely drawn to them. She still struggled with her own mask, but with his lowered, she found it easier to lower hers in turn. That lowering in ways made her feel vulnerable, it left her open to attack, but she had nothing to fear from him. Her trust in him was unshakable, and so rather than making her feel exposed, that lowering-- though stirring up an odd shyness of her own -- felt...liberating. She had believed a king must shoulder all burdens alone, shielding his subjects and becoming more than human in order to endure burdens which no frail human being could on his own. But she wasn't a king any more, not really. Camelot had fallen to ruin years ago, and what was a king without his kingdom? Or perhaps a better way to describe it was that she had felt suffocated, only now able to breathe. Not that she no longer had need for that stoic mask. She remained a knight, if no longer a king with a country to attend, and that mask was another piece of her armour. In battle, the need to obfuscate one's weaknesses remained, and her kingly mask had always served her well in that regard, whether in distant Camelot, Fuyuki City, or the multiverse at large. In business settings, she had for the most part remained calm and collected, revealing little beyond an occasional slight smile. In the company of friends in more relaxed settings, however, she would allow it to slip, chuckling at jokes and expressing her appreciation for a good meal. yet, even then, she conducted herself with a fair bit of reserve. Her mask came down further within the walls of the Tohsaka estate, in the presence of Sakura and Rin. There had been more than one occasion Saber had fussed over Sakura overworking herself or lectured Rin on the cost of cigarettes versus those of the gems she required for thaumaturgy. She had even laughed and played once Lancelot had returned as a fellow Saber and entreated her to permit him into her service once more; a fact that would probably not please Bedivere in the least, given the violet-haired knight's actions as Berserker in the Fourth Holy Grail War. But she had never broken down completely before, every last wall collapsing into nothing. She had never cried on anyone's shoulder, nor admit everything of what she had endured. It had felt so unfair to burden anyone else with what she had chosen to shoulder herself, shirked her responsibilities. With her mask up, she would have refused Bedivere's open offer to help her to bear what he could of those burdens. Without them, she was helpless to refuse. But once he had, she felt -- a little selfishly -- that great wave of relief. Arturia felt herself chewing the inside of her cheek; he looked so anguished, though over what specifically she could not discern. perhaps it had something to do with his knightly duty, or at least some perceived conflict with it. When he admitted in a tortured voice how this mystery brought him shame, the King of Knights was left bemused. What could have possibly caused such a thing, for a knight who possessed all the proper virtues almost naturally, who was so slow to anger yet so quick to defend an innocent, who had remained loyal until the very end and even beyond? Her hand lightly squeezed his as it trembled. It pained her that he was so inconsolable; it was true that she had been earlier, but he had weathered that storm. What could she say that would make him smile again? She found she liked seeing that smile he had kept hidden away for so long, she had felt so warmed by them. Conversely, his pained expressions incurred an inexplicable tightness in her chest. These were such odd, unfamiliar sensations that she had no idea what she was supposed to do. just as she had no idea what she was supposed to do for him. She did, however, know of at least one thing she needed to tell him, even if it might not assuage his sense of shame. "You could never be shameful," she said with absolute certainty. "I have never known a knight who exemplified the chivalric virtues more than you. Whatever it is that you have done, it could never be said to be shameful." He was right, though. It was difficult, indeed.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' If Arturia had thought his shy nature had faded, she was mistaken. In truth, it was a testament to how carefully Bedivere had built his own mask. That she had suspected nothing was something of a left-handed compliment. He had done his work more thoroughly than he had even suspected. How ironic, that both of them had only wanted to see past one another's masks, and yet both were bound by those very masks. The very things each had wanted had always been right within reach, and yet for kingdom and for duty, they had denied themselves; had resolved to carry out their duties in silence and solitude. No doubt she sees the slip of his own mask as a weakness, but that's an opinion she may need some effort to change – it would be like Bedivere convincing her that she had not failed Camelot. Some habits are difficult to break. That mask had served him well for many years, and he had been loathe to remove it. In Camelot, there had been every reason not to. To do that would have been tantamount to career suicide. It may have been so in a more literal sense, too. Even the gentle and soft-spoken Bedivere had enemies. Where she had been given time to lower her defenses in her years in the Multiverse, Bedivere had no such fallback. If anything, finding himself utterly alone before Arturia had happened across him had only encouraged him to raise his defenses further, hiding behind that mask as a footman would crouch behind a stout shield. Since he had laid Arturia to rest on the shore of the lake, it had been his survival skill; that, and shutting his emotions off entirely. He had watched the boat bearing her body push off into the lake, and only then had he allowed his mask to crack, alone but for the birds in the wood – no doubt his grief-stricken cries had carried across the lake until his voice had been no more, but there had been no one to hear them. It had been the only time he had let that control slip, and after that, he had let the numbness take him. That was by far easier than thinking about what had been lost. It had not been just his kingdom or his king, although those were certainly casualties of the Battle of Camlann. No; it had been something far more precious to him. Something he never thought would be replaced, and something that he struggles even now to reconcile. Having her back forces him to confront things he had pushed out of his mind entirely until he'd seen her again; things that obviously cause him some kind of pain. But what is it that she tries so hard to figure out? What could even shame someone of such impeccable conduct? Bedivere bows his head, slowly, hair falling across his face. Though fine, there's enough of it that she might have to duck her head to actually see his expression, which seems to be one of pain. He turns his hand over, carefully, when she squeezes his hand; ever mindful of the steel plates. His fingers close over hers in a silent gesture of what seems gratitude, or relief, and perhaps even apology. "Ah, my king..." He shakes his head, slowly, but he doesn't bother to straighten. Even his posture is a sign of his distress, normally so careful to conduct himself with dignity. There's no dignity in it now, head bowed as though he wanted to hide from whatever it is that troubles him. "There are some things..." The confidence in her voice, though, the absolute certainty, seems to do some to reassure him. Goodness, what could it be? Had he killed an unarmed man? Struck down a woman? Robbed someone? It causes him clear distress, whatever it is— Bedivere sighs, so quietly the sound could be missed but for the hitch and then sag of his shoulders. The movement is just enough to cause the heavy cloth of his mantle to rustle. "I..." He wonders, briefly, how one turns that protective mask off. How one simply speaks, openly and candidly, without the almost instinctive urge to hide away. His gaze drops, unable to meet her eyes, and his fingers tighten around her hand, almost imperceptibly, as though unconsciously seeking comfort. "I had always... admired you, milord." His admission is quiet, but surely there must be something else to it. He's already managed to say this, though it may have taken some work to drag it out of him. He hadn't placed such emphasis before, though; not quite so plainly. "And there is no untruth when I tell you that I followed you for the ideal, for I did, and I too wished to realise your vision of Camelot. But... that is not the only reason why I... followed you." He swallows, harshly, almost grimacing as he tries to marshall his failing courage. "I knew from the day your entourage passed me by in the market square that I would have no other master, and I would spend my life serving you. I knew then I wished to become a Knight of the Round Table, but it wasn't..." He shakes his head, faintly. "It wasn't that I wanted to be a knight. Well – I did wish to be a knight, that much is true, but... it... was because of you. Yes. I strove to become a Knight of the Round Table... but not solely for the sake of knighthood," he adds, risking a glance at her. He can feel the scarlet flush of his face clear to the tips of his ears; he doesn't dare meet her eyes. That blush is almost painful. "It was for the sake of standing by your side... I only wanted to stand at your side. I—" Bedivere exhales through his nose, a quiet sigh of – despair? Frustration? It's hard to say what exactly it is, but it's definitely unhappy. He screws his eyes shut, but there's no stopping his words now. If he stops, he fears he might never speak again, especially not to her. His voice drops, that gentle tone not quite a whisper. "From the first I was stricken by the sight of you. I know it is shameful, but my desire to serve you was only to be closer to you; it was only a selfish desire to prolong that moment in the market square, when I had first seen you in the sun... I—" His voice cracks, and he coughs, mortified; but to his credit, he continues on. It's as though her silent desire to help him opened a dam, and now, held up for so long, there's no stopping the inevitable deluge. "I knew you were a woman, even from the first," he admits, releasing her hands a little reluctantly. His own hands return to rest over his knee, fidgeting slightly. How odd it must be for her to see this bastion of calm and stillness... fidget. "I know not how I knew, but I had suspected. I confirmed as such later, but my suspicions had been correct. And since the first I—I had been struck by your beauty," he admits, voice so faint and hoarse it would be missed if they weren't so close. "I..." His voice gives out again, and he has to start again. "And I still am." Several seconds of silence pass; he seems to fold in on himself, shoulders hunching, head hanging. She may hear a quiet sound – the subtle, metallic rattle of his armour as he tries to control his trembling. And now, apparently, she knows what terrible thing it was that had plagued him; what shameful secret he had harboured all through her rule. Was this what had sent him into such distress? To simply admit that he had admired the woman on the throne, who hid herself and sacrificed so much of herself, that her people might prosper? That he alone had seen her beauty, and had wanted to serve not the king, but this brave and selfless woman who had – completely unknowingly – stolen his heart? "I—I am sorry. I should not have spoken. Ah, merciful God! Why did I speak of that?" Even his voice trembles; as though he were waiting to be struck by lightning, or perhaps struck by Arturia, or some similarly unpleasant punishment. "Aí," he murmurs mournfully, "I will understand if you choose to dismiss me from your service for such shameful..." He can't even seem to bring himself to finish his sentence, miserable voice sinking into a dry whisper, and then giving out altogether. He can still feel the heat in his face right down to the tips of his ears, too, and no doubt he knows she can see it. No; he only keeps his head bowed, because it means not meeting her disappointed – or perhaps horrified – eyes. He can imagine any number of reactions from her at his halting, stumbling admission; and every one of them is as a knife wrenched in his gut. "Aí..." The sound is so small, so despairing, it might almost seem comical.

:'''Tohsaka Sakura has posed:''' Elsewhere in the house, there’s a momentary - and extremely silent - gasp. She was right after all...but, keeping her mouth covered, Sakura only listens carefully. She’s going to have to make much penance for listening...b-but, at the same time, for the plum-haired magus to simply stride out would be noticed, and remind them of the horrible mistake she’d made… ...which would take Saber’s current feelings, as well as Bedivere’s and crush them in a way that would be irreparable. She owes her friend too much, and she owes Bedivere...at least the chance to confess himself. So silent she will remain, keeping what is, at the moment, a secret between two people only that.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' There was a great deal Arturia didn't know about, it seemed. Emotional detachment for the sake of impartiality had many costs; even commoners, who had been jubilant over her reforms, had been made uneasy by her distance. None could gain her favour as a means of power...but at the same time, no one could approach her with honest intentions, either. She had watched Bedivere grow from an exuberant if timid boy into a serious young man, but those brief glances told her little. She had heard that whatever family he had come from were of the Dál Riata, but beyond that, she knew nothing. His likes and dislikes, habits, tastes...it was all a mystery to her. It had been the same for all her knights, in fact...only now, for some reason, she found it deeply troubling. Even when Rider had criticised her for it, it had not bothered her quite to the extent that such a thing did now. She had hardly enjoyed it, keeping her distance from them, for some part of her had always wanted to get to know them as true friends and comrades. But the kingly part of her realised that camaraderie had been sacrificed so that the people would not think they were above her new laws. Becoming a knight might have been a great honour, but it was no privilege...it was a call to service. Just as how Arturia regarded her place as king. She only felt that loss as keenly as she did once she had stumbled upon the multiverse, first when Lancelot appeared, then Bedivere. She had felt some conflict over Mordred's reappearance -- both versions of her -- but the Saber of Red seemed uninterested in making amends, and while Arturia's mask had diminished, it had not sufficiently slipped in the presence of her artificial 'son'. But not so with her remaining knights. and one for whom she harboured a special fondness for was now right there, after four years, his mask sufficiently slipped enough for her to have seen his own anguish. It was only now, seeing it with her own eyes, that she realised that there had not been anything she could have done to completely shield them all, to free them from concern over her. Had it been like that for all of them? Lancelot, too, had seemed to desperate to be punished by her for his actions, and similarly pined to be readmitted back into her service. Of course, she couldn't refuse him. She had wept openly after he had faded away as Berserker; accepting him as a knight again as a Saber was simply the sort of forgiving and loving person she was. She missed them all terribly. It was a selfish wish of hers to see them again, to grant them perhaps some of what they might have wished for that could not have been granted in Camelot. but there had been some merciful power in the multiverse, to have brought at the very least the knights she had most wanted to make amends with. But it must have been so confusing, she thought with a sense of shame, to now see the distant, confident king crumble into an uncertain girl with a tangled knot of emotions. How could he have not been disappointed in what she was behind her mask, the girl Arturia she had kept locked away in a prison within her own self? His own uncertainty at having seen her mask drop; her inner self was a stark contrast to her kingly self...so weak and unsure. The newly-coronated king he had been in awe of...would that boy have been so awe-struck to know that she had only permitted the kingly part of herself to be seen? Her unworthiness was made all too clear to her as Bedivere continued, even as she had tried to reassure him that he did not need to. He had at once been horrified by the thought, yet something urged him forward. At first, she was slightly puzzled; it had been clear that he had admired the king greatly -- she had known that much, at least -- and he had already confessed that he had also longed to steal even just a glimpse of what had been concealed behind it. His posture crumpled, a far cry from the usual rigid posture of a knight of Camelot, and he looked so weary that, had she not wanted to disturb him after being so determined to see the rest of it through, she would have taken him into her arms just as he had with her as she openly grieved for the first time. So too, when he had said that there were some things, she almost dreaded hearing that he had, in fact, been disappointed. Her conduct had hardly been becoming a proper king. Especially when he said admired in a way that carried with it something beyond even admiration, though she was befuddled as to what that specifically was. Inwardly she winced, afraid she had let him down in some mysterious way. He had followed her for other reasons? No matter what reasons he might have had -- helping his people, perhaps? -- she almost didn't care; he had served her so faithfully, so unwaveringly, that even if the motives had not been 'pure' by some standards, it didn't matter to her. But then, no...she was learning he had been following her, that he desired nothing more than to follow King Arthur herself, and that becoming a knight had been the best -- and perhaps only -- way to do so. That revelation likewise failed to trouble her; the entire point of becoming a knight was to serve, and he had served flawlessly. No, what finally began throwing her off was that he had known from the beginning of her secret, of the gender she had been trying to conceal. Her mouth fell open slightly in astonishment, her eyes wide. True, bedivere was perhaps the most observant person she had ever known -- if anyone would have been able to see beyond the ruse, of course it would have been him -- but they had been so very careful after the coronation. Drawing Caliburn from its ceremonial stone had been easy by comparison. Was this his horrible secret, that he had hid his knowledge of it until he had been made the Marshal of the realm? But it was only when he had confessed that he had been struck by an attribute that she firmly believed she did not truly possess that she went into shock. Her, beautiful? Even in the raiment of the king, projecting as much masculinity as she was able? She almost didn't register the implication. It was an impossible thing for someone like her; a masculine king and the weak young girl hidden beneath. Nothing of her could have possibly been evocative of such feelings. So how had she? Surely he had been confusing his awe with something else entirely, she thought...until the final part of the confession. It was if she had been riding through a desert for days on end, the way her face flushed to such a point that, had she been human, she likely would have fainted from a heat like a thousand suns. All the ways she was unworthy of such....regard. Every last one of the instances in which she wasn't worth that sort of regard demanded to be told, each one a reason until itself for why someone could not possibly feel that way about her. So much blood on her hands...they were both knights, true; both had shed much blood in defence of Britain. But she had razed villages, destroyed entire universes. Complete lack of femininity which had been willingly cast aside, she was tainted. Bedivere, closest of all her knights, had seen that first-hand. How could he still feel such things, even after that? Her hand reached up and gripped the fabric of her tunic over her chest, and her eyes slammed shut, a stricken expression naked on her face. Somehow, it hurt, in a way unlike any physical wound, and in some ways more painful. She was helpless, as if drowning in the lake, some invisible iron hand squeezing her heart. And that was to say nothing of her confusion over her own feelings. Perhaps it was suppressing her emotions for all those years, but she couldn't make sense of the maelstrom at all. When she tried to name one, it would slip out of her grasp as quick as if she had been trying to hold water. But most troubling of all -- due to the guilt over feeling it all-- was an emotion she had been able to identify before it was overwhelmed by the morass of all the others. A small, strange bit of happiness. So caught up in her internal maelstrom that she almost didn't hear the mournful apology. "N-no..." she stammered, her trembling quite nicely matching his own. "I-I...I would never...never do that..." The once proud, stoic king now simply stared with that girlish, bright-red, fiddling nervously with one of the clasps of her tunic. In spite of the overwhelming sense of shame he felt at something that was hardly shameful at all -- even if she couldn't bring herself to quite believe it -- he had reached out to her and told her of his true thoughts and feelings. She wanted to understand, to know how he could still feel that way. And perhaps, that way she might begin to understand her own. So softly that he might have to strain to hear her voice, she asked a simple question. Her throat was dry, and her voice sounded hoarse even to her own ears. At least the stammering had stopped. "What is it like...to feel that way...how do you know?"

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Thankfully, Arturia's conflicted emotions are all her own. Bedivere doesn't so much as look up, gaze fixed firmly on the floor beneath him. He hasn't the strength to look up, and the humiliation and shame that seem to ripple from him in waves are almost tangible. He crouches as though he wanted to hide, withdrawn into himself, shoulders and head bowed in the furthest thing from pride she's ever seen in him. His armour still rattles softly as he trembles, and as the silence passes, it almost gets louder. The brave, unflinching knight shakes in front of his king like a leaf. Although he hears a rustle of cloth as she reaches up and clutches at the front of her own tunic, he doesn't look up. If he were actually watching her, he might sense the conflict and the pain with his keen eyes, but apparently he hasn't the strength to. Her words bring his head to rise, though, very slowly. He doesn't quite look up at her. His head is still tilted down enough that his hair can hide his eyes, but it's clear that he's listening. Although he can't see her face, he can see the way she fiddles nervously with one of the tunic's toggles. It's so strange to see such indecision out of her – she, who had always been so calm and so confident. So cold, so remote. Yet here she is, right in front of him; vulnerable. Part of him still marvels at that. He has to strain to hear her next words, head cocking faintly as he does; the desire to know what she's saying momentarily overruling his humiliation. When she does, he frowns, though the expression is so faint it could be missed. Slowly, Bedivere seems to wilt again. He droops, as though all the strength were leaching out of him before her eyes. He seems to shrink until she can look over the top of his head with ease, head bowed so far that there's no question that the only thing he sees is the floor. His eyes close; he gives a sigh that sounds curiously defeated. How, precisely, did he let himself slide so far as to shame himself like this? And why does she not punish him for his dishonourable misconduct? Still, her question is puzzling. This wasn't what he had expected to hear. Dismissal, perhaps, or even beratement at such insolence. Anger. Shock. Even disappointment, which in some ways would have been the worst to bear. Instead, she seems curious. The part of his heart still hopeful almost wants to believe it sounds accepting, but the greater part of him, the part that wants to punish himself for such shameful behaviour, doesn't want to acknowledge it. "How?" He repeats the word softly, and his tone is one of puzzlement. "How do I not?" For a moment it seems that those hoarse words are all she'll get out of him, but once he's found his resolve, he speaks again, still knelt low before her. He doesn't dare look up or meet her eyes; doesn't dare reveal his burning face, though she can probably see it in the scarlet of his ears. At least he seems to be controlling himself enough to speak evenly, through some tremendous effort of will, though she may hear that musical lilt creeping back into his tone; unconscious. At this point, his control only extends so far. "From the first time I had seen you in the market square, I had known." His own words are soft, so soft she might need to strain to hear him in turn. "I knew then I would serve no one else. And I knew then that I would—that—" He makes a soft sound, almost miserable, but he forces himself onward. "I knew then that I would give my heart to no other. Even if it was impossible, and I knew that it was – even if it was wrong..." His head drops a little further. "I am your knight, your marshal; your servant. It—it is not right..." Why, then, he has to wonder, does it feel right? He continues, voice soft and low, words clear despite how hushed his tone is. It's clearly costing him something to get all of this out, by the way he shakes, crouched so low over himself. Though still knelt before her, it isn't the posture of someone showing respect; it's the posture of someone bearing such a shameful burden that it becomes a physical weight bearing down on them. He trembles so violently his armour rattles; steel plates chafing with a subtle, almost musical sound. "I know because there are times I can think of nothing else. I remember that day as though it were yesterday, even after all this time. I know because when I—when I laid you to rest, I thought I would be torn asunder. I—I had certainly wished for that, yes; I knew that there was nothing left worth living for." His voice sinks even further. "Oh, God forgive me, I did not even want to return to Camelot. But only the duty to what you had built bade me go. If there was anything left of Camelot to save, I—I knew I owed it to you to save it..." His tone is haunted; a raw rasp. "I—I wept, when I pushed the boat over the lake, the boat I had laid you to rest in. It shames me, but I could no more control myself than—than..." He shakes his head, very slowly. "No more than I can now," he finishes helplessly. "Ah, God! You ask me how I know, but the better question to ask is how I do not know. It is because I am helpless, my king, but to follow you. It is because there is nothing else for me. It is because without you, I am nothing; I am less than nothing. I am meaningless without you." "But I—forgive me." This time his voice is a whisper, and his head bows further, shoulders hitching. "This is wrong. You bade me speak freely, but I did not wish to dishonour you so..." The soft, strangled sound he makes is unmistakable; although he tries to stifle it, Bedivere is weeping – but in a way so typical to him, not for his own misery, but for his perceived slights against her – slights that probably don't even exist. "I am sorry, my king, that of the knights who served you loyally, it is the weakest among them that returns to you now..."

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' It was frustrating...so frustrating that she could hear and in stolen glances see his anguish...the wavering of his voice, the violent trembling...yet be so powerless to do anything for it. Even if she wasn't almost completely caught up in her own, what could she possibly do? The ache was unbearable. She had done everything to save them, save him, and yet this still... A shameful part of her wanted nothing more than to simply throw her arms around him, to persuade him that there was nothing wrong with his feelings, with what was even more than devotion and duty. He was so very precious to her...he always had been. They had both concealed it to well that no one could have even suspected, not even each other. And in some ways, Arturia had buried it so well that even she herself was ignorant. She could not even have had true friends. To fall in love even more impossible. Perhaps that was why it had been one of the easier sacrifices to make; pushing everyone else away, submitting to an illusory political marriage...if she had already given her heart to another, one well beyond her reach. It was shameful to her, not because it would have been a violation of chivalry, but an abuse of power. Bedivere was her subordinate, for the love of all that was holy...she could never abuse her position like that. It was wrong...on her part. Already, the guilt that she had dared even be a little bit happy about it gnawed at her. And yet, she could not push him away, not any more, not with her mask evaporated into aether as it was. Not even if she had wanted to. Was that favour she had felt all those years ago, in spite of all her efforts to be wholly impartial...was it something other than a simple fondness, a simple favour? Once more her heart was divided; one side wished more than nearly anything that she could know, while the other was too fearful of the answer. Was this how Guinevere had felt, she she looked upon Lancelot? Above all, there was the crushing guilt, the constant remind her of her unworthiness. As he answered her question, pledging that his heart would belong to no other, she could do nothing to control her own trembling, a cold knife twisting in her chest. And when he spoke of his overwhelming grief at her loss even as he fought to carry out his remaining duties, Arturia could not keep back her own sorrow and guilt, her very breath laboured. Neither shock nor anger, nor even disappointment coloured her tone. Instead, it was anguish, much like his own, tears stinging her eyes once more. "I don't...I don't deserve such a precious thing...I..." His insistence on his weakness, however, spurred her towards a hard decision." No..the weakness lies not with you. Never with you. I have..." She stopped, shaking her head as she firmly decided upon one particular dark secret, the one which perhaps plagued her more than even her life as a Servant. "No. I must show you." Perhaps to his horror, Arturia suddenly turned with her back towards him, and perhaps even more mortifying, unbuttoned the top clasps of her tunic, shrugging off the top around her shoulders... ...to reveal the stylised alien mark of a black sun just below the nape of her neck. "This is, perhaps, my greatest shame. Much I have destroyed, in my life, as a Servant. But this..." Her voice, steady at first, lapsed into a slight waver. "This marks me as one responsible for the death of an entire universe." Surely this would convince him that she was in no way worthy of such a precious gift, even as she felt it crush her inside to try to push him away. No, he couldn't love her. Not her. He deserved something far better than to be so hopelessly bound to one as repulsive as the Servant Saber.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' By this point, Bedivere has sunk so low as to look almost as though he had no strength at all– head bowed, trembling violently, all pretense of dignity thrown aside. Doubtless to his own mind he does not deserve dignity at this point. He is beneath even that. To admit to something so against the very grain of everything he had ever followed – it's one thing to have harboured that secret, but to lay it bare before the very one whose dignity and honour he would have given his life to protect— The marshal makes no attempt to speak, and no attempt to even move. In spite of his agony and his shame, he bears it in silence, as he always had. What strangled sobs he had given earlier are now silenced ruthlessly, though in the quiet of the sitting room, there's no doubt that she can hear the catch and hitch of his breath as he tries to stop himself from making any sound. One hand lowers to brace against the floor, instead of bending double over his knee; the unconscious movement allows him to bow even lower. He had always been dignified in Camelot, but never arrogant. Always he had comported himself with a quiet dignity despite his common origins. What pride he had felt never lay within himself, but within his service to Arturia's reign and to the kingdom he had loved. For that, he had always let his knightly pride show, conducting himself with the utmost dignity. Now, though, there's no trace of that to be seen. Now, he cowers before what he no doubt thinks is her inevitable judgement. Precious thing? The words seem to give pause to his anguish, and reach him even through his thoughts of shame and unworthiness. His head raises incrementally, even as she says she has something to show him. He looks up even as she turns her back on him. His self-loathing at his own conduct must run deeply indeed. He flushes as she turns and begins to unfasten the toggles of her tunic, but he doesn't look away. He stares as though in morbid fascination, but there is also an uneasy puzzlement on his face. What on earth is she—? She shrugs the tunic down over her shoulders, baring the Scar of the World-Slayer. The black sun stands against her pale skin, bared for him to see, and he frowns at the mark. It bears no especial significance for him, at least not until she speaks on it. This marks me as one responsible for the death of an entire universe. It takes him several seconds to even process that. True, he had known that she could be ruthless. Such was required of the king in the course of duty. It was necessary to harden one's heart and take actions that were unpleasant, or even abhorrent, for the good of all. He had seen countless instances of that behaviour, even as he had quietly worked as though to atone the foul things Arturia had been forced to commit – as though they'd had an unspoken agreement that his actions would serve penance for the necessary atrocities. Bedivere's expression falls, very slightly, although she doesn't see it. She stands with her back turned to him, brandishing the scar as though it were a weapon with which to drive him away. Perhaps it speaks to the solemnity of the occasion that he doesn't question the sheer scale of what she tells him. And perhaps he has better experience with this Multiverse for the short time he's been alone in it than he lets on – but it seems that on some level he knows that what she's telling him is a possibility. Arturia did not lie, not even when it would have been necessary, save about her gender. She may hear the quiet sound of armour resettling. He plants both hands on his knee, pushing himself to his feet. She may hear the subtle sound of his heavy cloak settling over his shoulders, rippling from where it had pooled on the floor beneath him. And she may hear the sound of the two footsteps it takes for him to draw even with her. With the utmost care, she may see as he reaches out to her, settling the tunic back around her, covering the Scar of the World-Slayer. He settles the fabric back about her neck and shoulders. Despite wearing gauntlets, his touch is light, as though he were afraid to apply any pressure; afraid that she might break – or afraid that he might. And she may feel as much as hear his response. He's standing behind her, close enough that he can bow his head to whisper into her ear. "I do not know what you did. I was not there. There is no way for me to know what reasonings you may have had for whatever earned you that mark. But know this." Despite the steel he wears, the weight of his arms suddenly settling around her from behind is nonetheless surprisingly light – he's being careful not to cause any untoward harm; and though she may feel him tense as he hesitates, it relaxes after a moment, as though he were reaching a decision. His hair hangs down as he bows his head over her again, a faint but insistent tickle at the side of her neck. "I do not care." Despite what could be a harsh rejoinder out of anyone else, the words are spoken with such gentleness, such conviction, that there is no question of the truth of them. He's obviously torn, though; perhaps at hearing the anguish in her own voice, the uncharacteristic wavering of her tone. His own voice lilts again, that faint, musical hint to it that – now – seems to betray him in times of distress. "I know you. And I know that if there were any other path, you would have sought to take it, or sought of others – as you had done with me – to take it in your stead. My king, you are no murderer. You do nothing without good reason." Gently, his arms close around her, and he bows his head until he can rest the side of his face against the gold of her hair. "No, my king." The gentle refusal is little more than a warm breath through her hair, unsteady and trembling. Bedivere closes his eyes, expression tightening, as though he himself felt the pain she shows him. "Please. I cannot bear to see you do this to yourself – you have suffered for as long as I have known you. And you—you have given so much of yourself, without hesitation..." "Ah, God have mercy on us both," he whispers, tone anguished. "But if He will not... then please, my king... please let me help bear the burden, this time. I cannot bear to see you suffer; it pains me more than any burden I myself could bear." "Please..."

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Earlier, had the knight whom she had known to be as composed and dignified as she been so cowed and vulnerable, Saber would have laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and smiled gently, insisting he had nothing to fear, nothing to be ashamed of. Commanded him to rise, insisted that there was no penance to be paid. That Bedivere was now, and forever would be, her knight. There was no fault in his feelings, in what had been only a silent longing within that gentle heart. He had never acted on it and resisted all temptation, endured it all for the sake of Camelot and the sake of her reign. In some things, he had sacrificed even more than she had. He had never spoken of it until now, hidden it so completely that it had never so much as troubled her. Nothing would have been gained, and there had been everything to lose. As she was now, however, she was powerless to comfort him. She could, however, try to protect him. She had failed miserably before, but if she could stop this, he could truly begin to live. Bedivere had mourned her far more than she ever deserved, and while she was grateful, she couldn't let it go on. he had to leave it behind, to stop suffering, to heal. More than anything --even having him at her side once more -- she prayed for his healing, his happiness. She loved him too much to shackle him to her like that. Her shoulders shook slightly as she remained with her back to him. The pain became a stitch in her side -- appropriately where Mordred had given her the wound which had ended her life, as if to remind her of her failure -- and her arm crossed over her torso to hold it with an involuntary gesture. "That is why...you must..." Saber never had the opportunity to finish.She heard the armour resettling, wondering in the back of her mind if that had meant that he would finally walk away, free himself from her at last. His service to her had brought her joy and even some measure of peace, but she would sacrifice that in a heartbeat for his life. She would sacrifice her life for his as many times as she had to. perhaps it was not a kingly thing to do, for a king to die for his knights. But it was the chivalric thing to do, to lay down one's life for his brothers, and she was a knight even before she was a king. And aside from that, she valued him as more than simply a knight and her marshal. Instead,she was surprised when the sound came towards her rather than away. What he was thinking at the the moment, she couldn't yet tell from her position. She nearly flinched as he simply resettled her tunic back on her shoulders, though she could do nothing to stifle the surprised gasp as he leaned down to whisper in her ear. The tiny blonde struggled uselessly with her mask, but even that effort ceased once his arms were around her again. The last vestiges fell away when next he spoke. I do not care. Just like that, Arturia's resolve crumbled all over again, and once more, the immovable King of Knights was reduced to sobbing in his arms, the open palms of her hands pressed into her eyes. How could he still...after all she had done, after discovering who she really was? She could hear the comforting lilt in his own voice, struggling to comfort her even as he fought his own despair. Even with all his burdens, Bedivere was nevertheless there, even pleading with her to share hers with him. Lord God above, she was so selfish. With considerable effort, she tried to speak, as if to repay his kindness if only with a few paltry words. Instead, her thoughts came out fractured jumble that she fought to press past her lips in a small, shaking voice. "You can't...not you...for me..." The emphasis on 'you' was telling, a hint that her regard extended beyond a simple fondness or a devotion to one of her knights. Even if she herself didn't quite understand what it all meant. Curse it all. How can you still call me your king? How can you still wish to serve me, after all this? Why was her stubborn tongue refusing to speak such simple words? She was past caring about her dignity at that point, but why would the words not come?

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' She can't see it, but his expression twists as her defenses come down once more. It pains him to see her in such agony, reduced to showing so openly the pain she had borne throughout her reign, and now here, in this place. Slowly, Bedivere closes his eyes, and he does the only thing he can think to do – he simply holds her as that long-suffering pain comes bubbling back to the surface. His arms tighten around her when she tries to speak, stuttering in a small, unsteady tone. Even now she tries to push him away. He is astute, though. That small slip, that emphasis placed just so, betrays her motives more than anything else. He doesn't dare to speak just yet, even as he tightens his arms around her; feels his shoulders sag, as though in defeat. Perhaps there's some of that, but in reality, all he wants to do is ease that terrible burden on her shoulders. Despite the pain, despite wanting to crawl into a hole for his indignity and his shameful bearing, he feels the faint beginnings of a smile flicker across his face. Those broad shoulders sag a little further, though she may mistake it as despair, or pain. No. This time, it's relief. Bedivere heard that emphasis – Bedivere, who never seemed to miss anything that happened around him, whose eyes and ears were more astute than anyone of the Round Table had ever suspected; perhaps even the very king he served. Few things slipped past his notice. He lets out a breath, still trembling, and slowly lowers his head to rest over hers. "I can," he murmurs, though his voice is so quiet it's almost a whisper. "And I shall. Don't you understand? For you I would do anything. Anything," he adds softly, his voice cracking faintly. He ignores the slip, continuing on. If he doesn't, he knows he'll lose all resolve again. He's not sure why it's important for him to continue on. He knows only that it is. Her raw pain compels him to speak. "Please, my king, please." His voice is soft, lilting; perhaps unintentionally soothing. Truth be told, he isn't even aware that he's letting it slip. With his mask down, it seems he slips into that mode when he's distraught – and if there's ever a time in which he's distraught, it's now. Still, perhaps his tone is soothing, so gentle and soft; this shy and slightly awkward knight. He had never raised his voice outside the battlefield, not once. "Do not weep. I will bear any burden for you, and I will bear it gladly, if it means for you not to suffer so." "I cannot bear to see you suffer... even—" His voice cracks. He withdraws his arms from her, but not to draw away; very carefully, and with such gentleness that he might be holding that butterfly again as he had done that spring morning in the garden, he tries to turn her about by the shoulders to face him. Gently, though – if she resists at all, he'll abandon the notion. "Even then I had longed to share your burdens, to ease the pain I knew you felt, even if I did not know how great that pain was. I would do that even now. I... especially now." "Please let me help you, my king. Aí," he whispers, "I wanted to see you smile, not to weep... I did not want to cause you any distress. No, my king, no; I do not care what you have done, or what burdens you have borne. You are still my king. You are still—" He can't quite bring himself to call her by name; that instinct is so deep-rooted that even he can't overpower it. Instead he shakes his head, dropping his gaze to some distant corner. His voice drops as well, barely a breath, so quiet that she may have to strain just to make out the words. He tightens his grip on her, as though afraid she might flee in her anguish; lowering his head to rest over hers, as though he might shield her from whatever pains her. "You are still the woman I... you are still the... aí, forgive me, my king..." Try as he might to find the right words, they fail him, leaving him with his own confused tangle of words. "No... no," he adds, breathing a sigh into her hair. "You—you are more to me than just my king; so much more than that... I will always serve you, but..." Bedivere just... stops talking. It is possible that he's trying to quit while he's ahead, hoping his awkward, clumsy half-sentences can nonetheless convey to her what he wants so desperately for her to understand. Or... maybe... quit while he's behind, more like.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Within that warm, comforting embrace, the storm gradually abated, leaving her exhausted once more. Even as she had tried to shield him again, Bedivere would have none of it, holding her there as the storm raged again, bearing it with her until the winds receded. But then, that was simply one more thing which made him the man her was; the gentle yet steadfast knight, the one fit to sit at the left hand of the king at the Round Table. Saber might curse her slip, but his words gave her such relief. It was if she had finally come to the end of a long, arduous journey, able to lay down her burden and finally rest. She could feel him slump against her, and it worried her; had her burdens been too much for him? No, it would seem. She could hear the lilt slip out, the one he had been so careful to suppress. It had been a wise thing to do, given the pressures of the court and the distrust of the nobility within it. To Arturia, it didn't matter, but her own judgement was already and constantly in question. Perhaps it was a small thing to sacrifice for her, yet it nevertheless troubled her. Idly, she wondered if perhaps she could coax him to speak like that more often, to speak of where he had come from...if only within the walls of the Tohsaka estate. to see him finally relax, smile, perhaps even laugh... It was so strange; thinking about trying to get him to do something so simple as smile had started to make her feel a little better. Curious. A realisation made her start, if ever so slightly. He pleaded with her to share her burdens, that he would do anything for her sake. Nothing she asked of him would be withheld, of that she was certain. It was such a simple thing, yet merely by being there and listening to her, weathering that deluge of all her buried emotion as the dam finally broke after the long years of silence, he already had. At long last, she realised it now; this was what it meant to truly rely on someone, to share one's burdens. It frightened her knowing this, however, not because it made her vulnerable; her trust in him was as absolute as his loyalty to her, and nothing could tear that asunder. But if there was something even more terrible, some burden that would finally break her, that was something she never wanted to share with him. That fear had, she thought, always been born out of a need to protect his purity and innocence. To some extent that wish remained, and yet, now... When he tried to turn her around, she was gripped by a sudden bashfulness, her face heating to red once more...but she yielded. In spite of her embarrassment, Arturia very much wanted to see his face. Her eyebrows knitted, though, as she turned to face him and his entreaty to let him help her. She desperately wanted to protect him, and yet...she couldn't bear to see the pain which such protection caused, the distance she would have been forced to maintain once more. Which was truly worse; the pain caused by such burdens, or hiding them and knowing she was bearing it alone? Was it that much more painful, the latter? Woman. He had called her a woman. A woman he... She could feel her face heating up all over again, matching his complexion, her awkward fumbling a mirror of his own. Why did only a few humble words make her feel like that? Inwardly, Arturia steeled herself. She could not let this go unanswered, this debt unpaid. "Even if I am unworthy, even if I can never...I still..." Again, the words failed her. She was grateful of course, but this went well beyond even that. But how could she express it? What could she convey with simply words? After some fierce internal debate, she came to the conclusion that she would have to once more simply have to show him. Edging slightly closer, Arturia rose up just enough until her face was at the same level as his. With a slight tilt of her head, she leaned in and brushed her lips lightly over his cheek before sitting back down, her eyes fixed once again on the hands in her lap, flaxen hair only partially shielding a bright-red face.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' It seems that the soft-spoken knight may know the king better than he may have ever let on. He simply holds her as the storm rages, as though absolutely certain that the emotional deluge will end. After all, she's been through so much. Most of what she had been through were things he never had the opportunity to see – although, yes, he had suspected. Then, there were the scars inflicted on her after she had come to be in the Multiverse. Those were, perhaps, what cut him more deeply. It isn't that she had to endure those things, though he would have preferred otherwise. No; it's that she had to endure them alone, for he can imagine that she must have put up her mask in the face of that pain, just as she always has. And how could he blame her for that? He would have done the very same. Bedivere merely waits, patient as she ever would have remembered him. His face is calm again when he looks down at her, when she relents and allows him to turn her around. He even manages the faintest hint of a smile, as though he were even now wanting to reassure her. It falters at the sight of her troubled expression. Had she been listening? No, he thinks not, but he can hardly fault her for that, either. Old habits run deep, and those roots are difficult to pull. They have an insidious way of sprouting again, just when one thinks they'd all been pruned and uprooted. His own expression of concern seems to crack a bit as she flushes scarlet again, though, and he's dimly aware that his own face is just as red. She fumbles with her words just as much as he had, and the similarity is not lost on him. If he weren't feeling so hopelessly distraught, he might even find some amusement in the comparison. When she trails off and seems to lose all semblance of words, though, he tilts his head. The gesture is ever so faint; one of obvious curiosity. He seems to remain puzzled as she edges closer to him, stretching until she can stand level with him (which, if he weren't distracted, would be impressive; he is a good deal taller than her). Before he has any opportunity to react, though, she stands up, closes the distance, and— The world seems to go a bit fuzzy for a moment, curiously soft around the edges. For a moment he has to think hard for which way's up and which way's down; he actually wavers on his feet for a moment in his shock. By the time he recovers himself, she's sat down on the chair again, staring resolutely at her hands in her lap. Her head is tilted down, so she probably can't see him, but she might hear the quiet clatter of heavy plate armour as he takes another step closer; the rustle of his cloak as he again kneels down before her. If she risks a look up, she might see him smiling at her – a little like that ghost of a smile he might have shown in court when particularly pleased, where anyone else might have been grinning ear to ear – but there's a warmth to the expression, an utter contentment, that he had never shown before. Whether or not she's looking, he'll reach out to take one of her hands in one of his, though he hesitates before he quite reaches her hand. Nonetheless, he forces himself to follow through. Despite his steel-plated gauntlets, he holds her hand with the same delicacy he had shown to a shivering butterfly on a cold spring morning; so careful, as though he were handling fine-wrought glass. He lifts her hand, then, with a confidence he does not particularly feel. If she still doesn't look up by now, she won't need to see to know what he's doing. Bedivere leans down, carefully, pressing his lips to the top of her hand. It would have been a courteous gesture within Camelot; simple favour shown between a lord and lady – but it was something he never would have dreamt of doing, something he never would have been able to do. And now, here, showing his favour to this particular lady, it has so much more meaning than a simple show of courtesy. It is, for him, all of the admiration and respect and loyalty; all of the contentment he had felt in serving at her side. More than that, it's all of the relief, the sheer simple joy, at having found her once again; things he has tried to put into halting words, but could not. When he draws away, he simply holds her hand, eyes fluttering closed; he doesn't lower it, instead holding it to the side of his face, as though he were holding the most precious treasure in the world. For him, he is.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Arturia hadn't been entirely alone -- all those who had taken part in that terrible campaign only to find that universe occupied -- but each member of the Union forces bore the pain in their own ways. Psyber had become moody, for a time -- at least, more moody than usual -- and eventually set up a memorial of a sort. But for Saber, there was nothing but to bury the pain within her where the rest of her agony was and move forward. She withheld even speaking of it with anyone, unwilling to reopen their wounds or reminding them of the destruction of Annu by their own hands. It didn't matter if there had been no other way, if many more countless worlds and universes were threatened by Annu's expansion. To Saber, it was something which had to be done, yet the mark and the memories of every person in that internal universe reminded her of the cost, even as she buried her anguish along with that which had come with her reign. Only, she hadn't...not really. But it wasn't until her mask had broken down in front of Bedivere that she learned she had never truly been able to bury everything, to simply kill her emotions until they didn't exist. She could still don her mask when the need arose, in battle or other situations which demanded calm logic and an impartial eye. Her duties as a knight were far from completed, and when she pledged her sword in service to the Union or her allies, it was merely another piece of her armour. Yet, even when she had thought she had lowered it, she still hid her inner pain. The light smile she wore with her volunteer work was for the sake of the downtrodden who needed that comfort -- something she had never imagined she would ever be able to provide, and her service brought her measureless joy -- and while it was not a mask, it was not completely honest, either. All the fumbling, all the blushing...perhaps they might one day look back upon these horribly embarrassing moments and laugh. That day, however, remained a good ways off. It had been much more of a bold manoeuvre she ever thought she would be capable of, at least outside of battle or politics. There, bold, aggressive action could give her an advantage, turning the tide of many a battle. But in social situations, it had generally seemed rude to the prim and proper knight. And yet, it had seemed so right...and something she had wanted to do. It was still so dreadfully embarrassing, however. Arturia felt too embarrassed to dare look directly at him, not until he knelt before her again. Her head raised only slightly, but from that angle she could see him clearly...and his look of utter contentment. She inhaled softly yet sharply, the blue-green eyes flaring in surprise, unsure at first of what she was seeing. She had never, in her recollection, ever have seem him smile like that, as if all burden had been lifted from him. As terribly embarrassing as it all was, it had all been worth it just to see that expression. So caught up in it, she didn't quite notice at first when he had gently taken her hand. When she finally did, her breath caught in her throat as she felt the light touch of his lips upon the back of her hand. She had witnessed many a scene such as this one within her court, the timeless gesture of a lord and a lady, what had eventually become the very image of chivalry. Perhaps not the sacred virtues themselves, but this one simple gesture which conveyed so much of them. But she had always seen it through the distant eyes of the king, merely observing for a brief moment before attending to the matters of the Crown. Now, here she was in that moment, the otherwise simple, modest gesture speaking entire tomes of what it was they wished to say. Though a blush remained, it had tapered off into a light dusting across her cheeks as he pulled away. She would have been disappointed but for the fact that he did not let her go, not yet. For a moment she blinked in surprise, but then her features settled into an expression that Bedivere had probably longed for years to see; a look of contentment not unlike his own, as her thumb lightly caressed his cheek. For this moment in time, there was no trace of grief or sorrow at all.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' One day, they'll look back on all of this needless embarrassment, this awkward evasion, and they'll laugh. Right now, it's all Bedivere can do to express himself coherently. It's hard for him to put to voice the feelings he'd carried for so long. He'd never been able to truly bury those feelings. If he could have done that, this might have been easier – or it might not have happened at all. Some things have a way of never coming to light again. Even though she had bade him to speak at his comfort, he's seemed almost compelled to express himself, to speak honestly in a way he never could before. Bedivere had never had any confidants in the court of Camelot. Where most of the nobility and the knights were of Welsh stock, he alone was an outsider, a foreigner of Dál Riata stock. There had always been a subtle wrongness about him in the eyes of the people, and his eagerness and sincerity in serving had only seemed to perpetuate that suspicion. He had withdrawn as much out of self-defense as to protect Arturia's reputation. At the same time, he could never resist Arturia. No order had ever been too dire for him to carry out, for her sake. No request had ever been too great. He had always considered disappointing her the greatest failure he could suffer, and so he had worked tirelessly to avoid that. Even now, he doesn't want to disappoint her. He can't resist her gentle encouragement to speak his mind. Her boldness seems to have surprised even her knight, though. True, she was a force of nature on the battlefield. He had watched her reave into enemy lines countless times. Her bold tactics and strategic aggression left Britain's enemies reeling, but this is no battlefield. In this, he had never expected her to be so forward. Off the battlefield, she had always been a cold and impartial creature. Rarely would she reveal her hand, and she never revealed her emotions. So complete was that guise that many privately accused her of not even having emotions – an accusation that pained him, but one that he dared not speak against. Lancelot had always been more of a proper spymaster than the soft-spoken, gentle-hearted Bedivere. Bedivere's duty had been to observe, to watch and listen, and he had done those faithfully all through her reign. For a few brief moments, violet eyes drift closed as he holds her hand to his face. Despite how keen his perceptions are, how accurate his memory for fine details, he can't remember ever seeing her without that armour. He has never seen her bare hands, or seen her separate from the mantle of kingship. He had always wanted to, but she'd always guarded that part of herself jealously. Though her hands are small in comparison to his, it's their delicacy that strikes him. Her appearance is such a stark contrast from the cold, imperious conduct of the king. Now, she is just an uncertain young woman. She is, for these precious and fleeting moments, Arturia – not King Arthur Pendragon. Bedivere exhales softly, breath catching again as he feels her thumb against the line of his high cheekbone. The touch is welcome, though, and he makes no move to pull away. If anything, he seems to lean into it. His eyes flutter open to half-mast in time to see that expression he had longed for so many years to see. For a moment all he can do is stare, eyes half-closed. The peace in her face seems to broaden his own smile - free of care and worry, free of weariness, for a few moments. "I had dreamt for so long to see that," he murmurs, voice low and unsteady, lilting again. His gentle tone is hushed, as though hesitant to break the silence. He doesn't want the moment to end. "So long. I had thought it only a foolish longing, an unsuitable and shameful dream for a knight of his liege... but I..." He bows his head into her hand. His breath hitches in his chest again, but the sound is faint, so faint it might be missed if not for the quiet clatter of his armour. She might feel the distinctive heat of what can only be a tear against the side of her thumb, then, but he keeps his breathing mostly steady. Bedivere doesn't dare betray himself with the choked sob he wants to release. No; he will conduct himself with dignity in the face of such a precious gift from her. "I remain your most ardent admirer, my lady," he murmurs, so quietly it could be missed if she weren't listening closely. His tone is one of affection and tenderness – foreign qualities in a voice once as impassive as Arturia's own. More than that, his tone is one of relief. "Now and ever." And for the first time she'll ever have heard, he uses no royal title. What he does use is a far cry from the polite term for any woman of Camelot's courts. His tone suggests a deeper meaning; a much more personal meaning. Something much more specific. She is his lady. Without looking up, his other arm rises to slip around her shoulders and pull her close. He folds her into an embrace with such firmness that it seems almost desperate, and though he's mindful not to hurt her, he nonetheless seems almost driven by something. For a moment all he can do is hold her, trembling as he chokes back a hoarse sound. She will recognise it without doubt this time as a sob. This time, though, it isn't a sound of anguish. This time, it's a sound of overwhelming relief.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Arturia had hardly been oblivious to the secret -- and not-so secret -- distrust and apprehension of her marshal as someone of a foreign bloodline. On the contrary, she was all too aware of it, as well as the opposite reaction more than a few ladies of the court had over his exotic nature. The only ones who had seemed to pay it no heed one way or the other had been the other knights of the Round Table and Arturia herself. But even then, he had carefully closed himself off from even them, just as she had. Perhaps that had made him suspicious to some, but never to his king. No, she only judged him by the standards of chivalry and knighthood. In those ways, Bedivere was without equal, even if she had been unaware of the undercurrent of his motivations. He had been so eager to serve, though she had never known there had been any other reason than what she had been trying to accomplish. Many times, she found herself burying her anguish over how such a gentle person surely must have been repulsed by her actions, however necessary they had been, as a king. As he didn't want to disappoint her, she too feared disappointing him, especially now. She had always been conscious of her actions, and in those times when she was forced to act ruthlessly as a king, there had always been another layer of guilt over how he must have been secretly disappointed, perhaps even disgusted. Knighthood had probably been nothing like he had expected, serving such an inhuman king...and yet he had never so much as hesitated in his duties. She had always thought that had been out of his dedication to chivalry, so well he had concealed his true feelings. Arturia would tell him of that, eventually. But for this moment, she didn't want to break this spell. Her boldness might have been rather embarrassing, but Arturia was feeling dangerously reckless. So many walls had come down around them both, their bond stronger than ever now that she realised the true depths of it. But it didn't feel to her like it was enough, and she wouldn't be satisfied until every last one of them was gone. He was her knight, friend, support, confidant, and perhaps something more...but none of these truly defined that bond, brought into daylight like a fine gem, where all the facets reflected and refracted light at every angle. Perhaps that reckless feeling was because she had never been so close to another before, not even after she had become a Servant or even stumbled upon the multiverse. Some had come very close, yet the opportunities had never arisen, but also none could truly understand what she had been though without having seen it first-hand. Or perhaps after coming to understand that bond, she was helpless to resist its siren's song. But neither of these potential reasons seemed quite right. No, she realised. Only the wish for the happiness of her most gentle knight could have made her so. Now that she finally could grant him his wish. Now that she realised she had wanted that, herself. His dream to see her smile, he said as he struggled to maintain some dignity, as if God Himself had sent an angel down from the heavens to bestow a great reward and he tried to receive it with the proper reverence. It had been such a simple thing, yet impossible within Camelot's walls, even as she had wished to grant it. It had made her apprehensive at first; though she had become more open after four years and considerable persuasion, but how would he have received it, given how he had always seen her? All he had known was the King of Britain, concealed within armour of silver and blue, hidden behind a mask of ice. Bedivere had swept those doubts away with gestures which perhaps would mean little to anyone else. But to Arturia, they told her everything. As he leaned slightly into her hand, she bit her lip slightly, and surely he must have felt the slight tremble she couldn't quite control. She didn't dare move, like a startled hare, unwilling to break the spell with actions or words. She had never expected that, rather than break, that spell would intensify into a bonfire. Two words. Two simple words were all it took to cause her breath to catch in her throat, and she had certainly not missed that implication, the lack of royal title. It moved her in a way she had never dreamed was possible, so intense that it had almost felt as if she had been thrown from a horse and had fallen hard to the ground. That caught breath tangled into a startled gasp for only a moment before her hand fell away as he pulled her close, her arms lowering to encircle him in turn. "You are more to me than merely my knight," she whispered after a long moment of quiet, her cheek resting against the silver of his hair. Delving through her memories more critically now, she could finally see those traces, the hints that she had misinterpreted her fondness, her feelings of closeness. "Perhaps, my lord...you always have been..." Once, such a form of address would have been inappropriate, a discarding of protocol which would have seriously called into question her rule. She had been the king, he had been her knight -- her marshal, but a knight nevertheless -- born of foreign common folk. But in that moment, she was simply Arturia.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' If Bedivere had ever noticed the apprehension and distrust that followed him through the courts, he had never breathed a word of it. Not once had he ever complained, nor had he ever indicated that perhaps life was not as easy as he had expected it to be. More likely, he had never held any expectations, or perhaps he had expected it to be hard. Unlike many of the nobility, he had sought to become a knight not for the promise of glory, land, or riches, but for the simple sake of serving. Alone among his brethren, he had refused to bear a standard of his own. He had also refused any offers of land, isolating himself further as one of the only landless Knights of the Round Table; and in particular, one of the only landless knights at court. Rather than help ease the tension, that had only seemed to make things worse, for a time. The whisperings had grown, but as before, Bedivere had borne them with such dignity and grace that they seemed to flow away like ice in the sun. He had not been ignorant, though. There was little he had ever missed at court. Most would have been surprised to learn how acute his perceptions were. He never spoke of what he saw, or what he had heard. He simply filed the information away, and where it was necessary to act on it – such as mutterings of rebellion, or news of a border assault – he dutifully bore the news to Arturia. Yet he had never so much breathed a word of the unfair persecution that seemed to surround him; indeed, seemed to accept it serenely. Perhaps he had thought that, aside from the impropriety of bringing complaint to the king, he had not wanted to disappoint her by bearing his burdens with anything other than grace. Or, perhaps he genuinely thought that he wasn't worth the trouble. He's always been modest among her knights, humble; and where some might have used it as a front to earn the king's favour, his modesty had always been honest. Although he notices that faint tremble, or the way the line of her shoulders seems taut as a strung bow, he doesn't draw attention to it. Much as she had politely ignored his own nerves, he does the same for her. If she felt thrown from a horse, he felt the same – and he had suffered such a fate many times in battle. Horses had been killed from beneath him, or simply stumbled on uneven ground, and his landings had never been easy in full plate mail; he had even broken several bones in one particularly nasty fall, forced to retreat from battle, ashen-faced – although wounded, he had gamely stuck to the sidelines to rally his troops. This, however, makes falling from a horse seem like so much less. True, it's a much happier occasion, but the shock of it is so great that it makes even breaking a bone seem barely noticeable by comparison. While he notices the way her breath catches, his seems to outright stop for just an instant. Perhaps, she had always considered him fondly? My lord? He trembles; those two simple words are just as much a bolt out of the blue to him. Never before had he been called that – by anybody, but more importantly, never by her. She may feel his own shoulders hitch as he remembers to breathe again; a faint shiver of what can only be shock. "Ah..." It's not much more than a breath, and the soft, awestruck sound gives way to a long, trembling sigh. "My lady." He makes no effort to control the lilt in his voice, too awestruck to stifle a detail so insignificant by comparison. "I—I know not what I had done to be rewarded so, but whatever it has been, I would do so again in a heartbeat. I will not leave you again. Not ever." Not that he did so consciously in the first place, but it's the thought that counts, right? "What..." He seems to lose his momentum, helpless for a moment but to let her hold him, even as he tries to put his thoughts into words. "I..." He only shakes his head softly, little more than a sideways twitch. "My lady. You—you honour me..." So much for an articulate, thoughtful speech to try and impress upon her the enormity of this situation. His throat closes off; he finds he can't even speak, and the effort of stringing words together is more difficult than he had thought. Why? Why can't he even speak? Surely he owes her that much, but at the same time, he finds that it somehow... isn't important. Drawing in a deep breath, he sighs, and tries again. Dimly, he can remember that she'd had something she had wanted to explain to him, here; there was a reason that he had been brought to this house, and while this had been beyond his greatest expectations, he's fairly certain that this had not been the aim. Loathe as he is to think of much else, Bedivere was ever a dutiful knight. "Ah, my lady." His voice is soft, so soft she might well have to strain to hear it. "There is yet duty to be done, if you had aught more to tell me. I... I do not wish for this... this moment to pass, but... if there is anything left, anything important..." He exhales softly; breath only slightly unsteady. "But if you do not wish to speak of it, I will not press..." He struggles for a moment. It is his place, no matter what his personal feelings, to serve. He is a knight, as he has ever been; and he has always been her marshal and her loyal supporter. As much as he cherishes this, and as much as he even lets himself enjoy it, he does have his responsibilities to remember. Ah, Bedivere, ever the loyal servant; even at a time like this.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' What have you not done to be rewarded so? Saber wanted to say, though she refrained. Like her, Bedivere seemed to be ill at ease around too much compliment. She wondered if he might likewise feel unworthy of it, just as she did. All the flustered reactions, the furious blushing, the dropping of his mask to reveal the shyness beneath, seemed to suggest it. Instead, all she could do was simply stay like that when the words failed, her arms around him, for however long he needed it. It was a little frustrating, however, because not only did he deserve so much more than the little things she had been able to grant, but because she wanted to compliment him. And not out of simple gratitude or because he had always been the most virtuous of her knights. Oh, she had known of the persecution, the shunning, the rumours and plotting. It had secretly angered and saddened her that she was powerless to stop it, at least not without accusations of favouritism. Even still, he shouldered it all without complaint. To embody all the chivalric virtues was her ideal, and he had more than lived up to them. When she addressed him, it had been such a little thing, but it had been something he had long deserved. He had served his king magnificently, and if there was one thing she wanted him to understand, it had been that. Had they met under different circumstances, or their positions been reversed, he would have been the one whom she had admired. In her own way, she already did; chivalry was everything to the petite knight. And his devotion was as strong as hers. Through his stuttering speech, though the slight trembling, somehow Arturia had at least some idea of the significance of it all. She hadn't been doing any better attempting to express the same sentiment to him, but tightening her arms just a little seemed to be the only way she could express that as he stumbled over his words. And called her my lady again. That was a treasure more precious than gold to her, those words, spoken by him. But once more, the familiar pattern emerged; when she felt as if she was straying, he would cautiously remind her of what she should do, what needed to be done. But "duty" was not the correct way to look at it. There were dangers, things he needed to know so that he could properly protect himself. She'd be damned if she lost him again, especially something so pointless as the Holy Grail War. Relieved of the great burdens -- some of which she had not even realised she was carrying -- she sighed softly, releasing him with some reluctance and settling back into her chair. "Indeed," she replied, her expression serious, though not the same icy mask as the one she wore in Camelot. "Forgive me, I was somewhat...carried away." As much as she was still reluctant to relate the events of Heaven's Feel -- and what Servants truly were -- Saber found she was not dreading it quite so much now, given that her fears of his disappointment had been allayed. The Scar of the World Slayer had been much worse, something she had intended to discuss much later, not out of desperation. If that had not driven him off, nothing would. And Bedivere remained at her side. Nevertheless, she steeled herself. He was going to be saddened, or angry, or perhaps both. The entire idea of the Holy Grail War was something such a gentle soul would find to be an abomination, even before she approached the subject of her previous Master. "I had mentioned before that I offered my services as a Servant to the world in exchange for the opportunity to win the Holy Grail and undo all the history of my reign," she began. "Our universe...it preserves the souls of those who have been celebrated as heroes..." Of course, she would personally not have thought of Archer as particularly heroic. "In...some form or another," Saber added after a moment to ponder that sourly. "We become Heroic Spirits, preserved in the Throne of Heroes, and we can be summoned to fight in the Holy Grail War, if we agree to a contract with the Master who summons us. We are granted transient bodies formed of pure magical energy, prana...and our abilities are even greater than they had been during our lifetimes. We are divided into individual classes according to aspects of our legends...Saber, Archer, Lancer, Rider, Berserker, Caster, Assassin. I myself am a Saber." After a pause, she continued. "Our identities are concealed, and we are merely called by our class designation, for to do so would be to reveal the weaknesses within our legends. The Holy Grail is what keeps us anchored to this plane of existence, yet also grants us knowledge of legends before and after our own eras, as well as grant us some limited knowledge of the era into which we are summoned." Saber considered a point, and then added, "This is why I do not struggle with understanding this era; I was granted knowledge of it from ten years ago...there are some differences, yet the era had not changed dramatically in that time." She recalled being surprised that mobile phones had become so small, recalling the large device Kiritsugu had used to contact Maiya. And here was where things were about to get ugly. "We are summoned for the purpose of battling and slaying each other in combat, and the transient body of each Servant slain becomes a refined form of prana, filling the Grail. We fight...until only one Master and Servant remain, who may then claim the Holy Grail and have any wish granted, no matter how impossible." "I was summoned to what was the fourth such of these wars by Emiya Kiritsugu -- ten years prior to my arrival in the multiverse." Here was another point that she decided was something she wasn't going to get into just yet; Berserker's identity...and the fact that she was forced to kill him, even though that had been his wish. Instead, she skipped ahead. "In the end, only I and Archer remained." It was slight, but there was a slight twist of her mouth that broadcast her displeasure with the haughty King of Heroes. Saber was not about to get into all the indignities she had endured from him, particularly at the end. "However, my Master ordered me to destroy the Holy Grail even as Archer and I fought." After her initial talk with Rin, Sakura, and Shirou, Saber had learned the truth of the Holy grail, but she still could not help but be bitter over, unconscious of the frown which slipped past her mask. Kiritsugu could have told her, she would have understood. But then, he had never fully trusted the tool he had summoned. "In the end, it was for the best; I was unable to destroy it completely, but I was informed some time later that the Holy Grail was, in fact, tainted. Any wish it could possibly grant would, in turn, be tainted." Saber paused again, as if to reassert the detached way she had been trying to relate the events of the war she had participated in. "I was likewise informed that there had been a final Holy Grail War ten years from that moment, and that I had once more been summoned as the Servant Saber. However, I have no recollections of such. Once I had destroyed the Grail, there was an explosion....and I found myself in a strange fortress. I was later informed that I had arrived in Njorun Station, and that I had 'Unified' with the multiverse. I also discovered that it was impossible to return...though that was for the best. Without the anchor of the Holy Grail, I would have disappeared." Of course, there was far more to her entire story than this, but her recounting was acceptable for an introduction. Poor Bedivere was going to be more than a little confused even by what little she had told him so far.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' At the king's soft sigh, Bedivere allows her to release him, though there's a clear reluctance as he sinks back into an obedient kneel. He keeps his head somewhat downcast. To any potential watchers, he would be the spitting image of a dutiful, obedient knight – the faithful servant, loyal to the end. His head cocks slightly as she mulls over where to begin, and as she marshalls her courage to begin. Ever the perceptive one, he can sense her hesitation, but he offers no pressure over it; makes not a movement or word to hasten her to begin before she's ready. He would never be so presumptuous. In silence, he listens to her explanation. She explains the nature of a Servant's pact; of the Throne of Heroes, and the nature of a Servant's bargain with the World. He listens in silence as she describes the nature of the Grail War, and the nature of a Servant. He listens to the seven classes, the nature of legends, the knowledge imparted by their very being. And he listens as she explains the rules of the war – and her hesitation at describing their dear brother-in-arms, Lancelot, and his tragic end. While he knows not the nature of her hesitation, he knows there is pain, there. Bedivere dips his head, the gesture a faint but gentle indication to continue. He listens on as she describes the end, and the destruction of the Holy Grail at her own hands; of its tainted nature, its tainted promise, and the Fifth Grail War ten years later, which she has no recollection of. He listens, and she describes that without the Holy Grail serving as an anchor, she would have vanished had she returned to the place which she had been summoned. All through this, his expression remains impassive. Even she would sense that he has put up his mask by now, the mask of the loyal servant receiving the king's imperative. He listens, and he shows not a single hint of betrayal to his emotions now. He has recovered from the destruction of his mask, earlier, and he has put the pieces back together again to hear her out. When she finishes, he remains motionless, as though he were considering his answer with care. In truth, he is. He isn't certain what to say to any of that. Perhaps it isn't as fantastical as she might believe. After all, he was familiar with Merlin, and had a little suspicion of some of the things the great wizard could do. Humanity was much closer to True Magic in those times – he had heard whispers of Merlin's infatuation with Nimue, and the strange things that had befallen Arturia's strange advisor. Whether they were true, he couldn't say, but he was inclined to believe it. He had never seen Merlin at work, not precisely – but even Bedivere could sense the aura of raw power about the magician. That Arturia would be caught up in such things again is unsurprising to him. Regardless of his high opinion of her, she is nonetheless a remarkable young woman, prone to being caught up in remarkable events. He may distrust it, but magic was a fact of life even in Camelot, however understated – it did undeniably exist. Still, it seems strange that it would be so sought-after in such a time as this, so long-departed. He is silent for so long that it might be worrying – and then he finally speaks, head tilting, though he doesn't look at her as he addresses her. His tone is calm, and thoughtful. "It seems strange to me that people would seek the Holy Grail, so long after our time. But if you say this is true, then I believe you." She might hear him draw in a breath, and then let it go through his nose, measured; pragmatic and businesslike once more, like the flip of a switch. He is nothing if not resilient. And perhaps set in his ways. Much like Arturia, he had made the mask his own. Something in his voice darkens just slightly, though, as he continues. "So. It is a grand melee, held for the cup that held the blood of Christ. That does not seem right. Nor does it seem right that you would be the tool of another. You are a king... but..." His tone seems to shift, as though mollified by something. "Still. I am... pleased, that your accomplishments were not forgotten." He doesn't raise his head, but she might see part of his soft smile. "That too was something I had regretted – that you would never be rewarded for the sacrifices you had made, and that you would be forgotten by an ungrateful people. But it seems you were remembered, my king. Ah... I am glad for that." Anybody else might be wondering if they themselves were remembered in such legends, yet Bedivere, faithful Bedivere, is only concerned for the reputation of his king. His head bows again, voice calm and impassive once more. "So you are no longer human, then." It is a simple statement of fact. For just a moment the words hang there, and perhaps Saber might feel a fleeting instant of apprehension, even fear – until he continues. "I understand. It matters not. I will continue to serve you, my king... and I will continue to stand by your side, my lady. I will serve you here in this world as I have always served you. Was I not knighted by your own blade? Had I not sworn my blade in turn to your service?" Again, he seems intent to sweep away her doubts, even if he didn't even realise she had had them. He straightens, though he remains on one bent knee to look at her thoughtfully. Although he doesn't smile, there is nonetheless a warmth in his regard. "Mmm." The sound is thoughtful; his eyes slant away, distant. "I have sworn my blade to the Union, but I would not forsake my oath to you, my king. Their cause is just, in many ways, and I will do what work I can for them. But you are the one I serve, truly. You are the one to whose side I will return, now and ever. I hope they are content with such, for I will not forsake that which I swore to you. I cannot. I do not know that I could even were I dismissed." A smile flickers across his face. "Though I hope that is not and will never be an option... my lady." He makes no move to rise, content to kneel before her. As much as he might not like to disturb the moment, though, he looks tired – he had not yet recovered from his time wandering the wood, and the not-insignificant outpouring of his emotions is draining all on its own. He seems to be trying to bear it with his usual poise, and for all that anyone else might miss his fatigue, Arturia seems to know him better than he might have guessed. The signs are clear to her. "What then are we to do now?" He cocks his head, regarding her with those violet eyes. "You serve the Union as well, do you not? I suppose that is what lies before us. Though the Union is at war with the Confederacy, I should like to help those forgotten by both sides." Just like Camelot – running supplies to the forgotten and the downtrodden, by his own hand where he can. No, her familiar Bedivere hasn't changed a bit. "Though I am willing to raise my sword in their defense, of course, if that is what is required of me. Ah, God preserve me, this world is so great as to defy the thought of it. I cannot imagine so many worlds, full of so many poor souls needing help..." His gaze drops, eyes drooping to half-mast. "A pity my brothers of the Round Table are not here. There is such good that we could do... I suppose it falls to you and I, my king..."

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' It had been a mere four years since Saber had found herself in the multiverse, and compared to her years reigning Britain, it had not been very long at all. But the realisation and one's perception are occasionally at odds, and it seemed as if the scene before her had happened lifetimes ago; her faithful marshal, kneeling before her, receiving orders. There may have not necessarily been a need for such a thing, not in an era over one thousand years into what had been their future. Even with the automatic knowledge imparted by the Holy Grail, there were times Saber had felt the world -- the universe, she corrected herself -- had passed her by. She couldn't even imagine what Bedivere was going through, having none of that pre-knowledge at all. While he was the most observant person she had ever known, there was only so much a person could absorb in a short amount of time. Heaven's Feel and ambitious magi aside, she was going to have a great deal more to introduce, hopefully help him to adjust. There were still so many other matters within the multiverse, so many dangers and circumstances that were -- by their standards -- bizarre. Arturia felt weary merely considering some of them; where would she even begin on the time she had visited one of these unique worlds and ended up being turned into a unicorn with her own heraldry on her flank the moment she passed the warpgate? That, she decided, could probably wait, perhaps some time after she had related what kind of highly questionable beings the fae in Harry Dresden's Chicago were or when she had offered to help retrieve a Scion of Lugh from the Underworld by promising a favour to Persephone. Come to think of it, battling the chief of the Deep Ones -- some time after battling Caster's summon of a Great Old One -- could wait for that matter, as well. Yet, he had managed to remain there on bended knee, as patient as he always had been, his own impassive mask restored, listening to her entire recounting. Even with the crumbing of those masks, this too, was nevertheless a part of who they were. King and knight. No matter what the future held, that part, she foresaw, would never change. Which was why the long silence did not bother her as it might have, at least before the masks had fallen away. Now, her concern was over whether or not she had revealed too much too soon, without giving him enough time to process it all. Even keen minds would find the infinite number of different worlds enough to drive someone to the point of insanity. Regardless, his acceptance was a relief to hear spoken out loud. But it was mystifying...how he was still wishing that she only be remembered, rewarded at least in the people's memory for her efforts. It had been her shame, as she lay dying, mourning her failures rather than fearing her impending death. No matter what history had said, she could not accept that. And perhaps, until that moment in time, she had never truly let go...even as she had been told the Grail was no more and not something she should have been fighting for, anyway. For several years, that had merely led her to see the multiverse as her opportunity not to find another Grail, but to find some other way to grant her wish. If the Grail was unsuitable, then perhaps there was something on another world which was. Living with and fighting alongside Sakura, Rin, Shirou, Agrias, Fate, Psyber, and others in the Union too numerous to count had changed her perspective, somewhat. Eventually, she was led to the conclusion that she should not change her past...for to change it would mean that she would have to change the lives of her friends. And that was a sacrifice she was not willing to make. Yet even then, she had not completely accepted the loss of Camelot. She had never truly and completely moved on. Arymes Prydein had spoken to her of something greater, but it has seemed the Abstractum believed she was not yet ready. Being reunited with Bedivere, however, made her think that perhaps...perhaps that wound might finally begin to close. The scar would always remain -- like the brand on her back -- but it would heal. She smiled at him then, the mask falling away again. "It had never mattered to me whether or not I would be remembered...but I am glad that you were able to see this, how I have been remembered." Arturia sighed softly, almost a suggestion of sound. "In truth, I had given up the war for the Grail some time ago. But though I no longer fight for that tainted thing, I had...not completely given up my wish. However, over time I came to cherish the friends I have made here, and I cannot alter history and risk changing their lives." In some ways, it was still painful to admit, but she finally relented to sharing her burden with her faithful knight. "I was forced to finally see...Camelot is gone. Even were I to change the past and allow a different king in my stead, the Camelot I knew would nevertheless be no more." To his observation that she was no longer human, she shook her head. "No." Saber could not help but feel a slight wave of apprehension, though she was uncertain what she dreaded. The moment passed quickly; he renewed his pledge to her and in that moment, the apprehension dissipated like the morning mist over the hills as the sun rose over the barley fields beyond the castle walls. She made a soft sound then, almost like a chuckle, at once slightly amused and nostalgic. "They seem to have had little issue with those who serve first their sword lieges," she mused, almost seeing the long, ash-blonde braid of hair as another knight from a distant world turned away, ever-pursuing service to her own lady. "Defence of the gates from those who would exploit them for conquest, that would seem to be the purpose of this strange sort of order." Arturia frowned then, observing how exhausted he suddenly seemed. "Indeed, I do...and relief for those torn asunder by such a war is a most welcome endeavour. However..." Standing,only to kneel down beside him, Arturia lifted her hand to brush his hair aside, peering into his eyes with a critical stare. "How long has it been since you last slept? Ah, no matter...you will rest here tonight, at this very moment." Another frown, and anyone observing the scene would clearly see the fussy mode of the King of Knights had activated. "And do not think to protest, or I shall order you." Taking the stinging off her lecture, she smiled slightly. He truly was the Marshal of Camelot, her most beloved knight. And now, with him at her side -- and being by his -- she might be able to affect the changes she had been praying for. "And then, on the morrow, we shall begin our work as knights. Even a one makes a difference...two shall bring hope to the people all the more."

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Bedivere tilts his head as Arturia makes that sound – at once amused and nostalgic, though it seems more to do with someone she might have known than any shared history of Camelot. ''She stood in the frozen slush, heedless of the cold, one hand on the reins of the ill-tempered bird that served as her steed. Although the winter morning was not harsh, the cold was nonetheless a formidable force, fangs of ice buried in the skirling of the wind. Someone already sat astride the chocobo's saddle, uncertainly clutching the ruff of feathers around Alkoun's neck. Princess Ovelia Atkascha – no, Queen Ovelia Atkascha – seemed a delicate thing in the weak light of the winter sun, but there was an odd sort of relief in her brown eyes. Her loyal guardian, however, stood holding the reins of her war-bird, and her eyes were on the Servant standing before her. She had called her there to say goodbye, for even she had no idea where she would go. "The truth, Dame Saber, is that I am weary." Agrias Oaks shook her head as she spoke, but there was a hint of amusement about her words. "'Tis an exhaustion that no rest will help me relieve. I have sworn my sword to the Union, and I owe them much for that which they have done for me, but they deserve better than a broken knight. We will travel, for a time, and see what we can see. 'Tis safer on the roads than to settle in any one place, but I will see to it that milady is comfortable." "Agrias..." The princess on the saddle spoke the name with uncertainty, and a little concern. "I am not burdened, milady." Agrias half-turned to address the queen, and despite the mild chastisement, her tone was one of warmth. "To travel is how I lived, for a time, though 'twas in far worse a situation than this." The Holy Knight turned to face the Servant – her friend – and smiled. "Ah, Dame Saber, my friend. I owe you much and more. I will be certain to say hello, from time to time." She strode forward, then, and threw her arms around the shorter knight in a brief but warm embrace. "We will meet again; on what remains of Defender, I swear it." Her voice took on an almost playful tone. "Mind yourself while I am gone, and see that the Union does not forget the chivalry we have shown them, aye?" With that, she let go, stepping back and smiling to the Servant. It was the smile of a woman relieved; unburdened, and she bowed low in respect. As she straightened, she turned on her heel, ash-blonde braid flying behind her as she turned away, climbing into the stirrups. Leather creaked as she eased into the saddle, settling Ovelia in front of her. "Of all those friends I have found in the Union, I will miss you and Dame Amalthea the most while we travel, I think. But take heart – we will see each other again." Alkoun tossed his head, harness jingling. "Farewell, my friend." Her ash-blonde braid snapped once more, this time behind her, as she spurred her loyal steed on at a brisk run. His talons crunched in the snow, and the long plumes of his tail flew out behind him; soon, even those began to diminish, until the trio shrank and finally vanished as they travelled east, into the morning sun.'' Such a memory is not something that Bedivere would be privy, to. The knight simply cocks his head at Arturia's explanation of the Union. "So I have heard, myself. They are also known to provide relief to those caught in the war; and that is what I had sought to do more of. There are many in need of such relief. So many." Bedivere glances up as Arturia kneels down to his level, brow furrowing slightly. To his credit, he doesn't flinch away when she reaches up to brush his hair aside, but he does blink somewhat owlishly at her careful scrutiny. Aside from a catnap here or a brief and restless sleep there, he can't remember the last time he truly slept. "I do not... well..." He looks undecided, but only for a brief instant. It's easier for him to accept than to argue, and besides, it would be unseemly to argue in the face of an implicit order. "I am your loyal servant, my king," he relents. Bowing his head, his hair hides his faint smile. It fades as he climbs wearily to his feet, wavering slightly. "I will stay in the guest room, then, so long as it does not impose upon Lady Tohsaka. Yes... I will rest," he murmurs, inclining his head in courteous gesture to Arturia. He pauses before he starts in the direction of the hallway, though, offering her that contented smile again; the one so free of weariness and worry. "Good night... my lady. Rest well. And please, call for me if you should have need of me. I will not be far." With that, he'll make his way toward one of the house's many guest rooms – but though weary, there is a relief in him that seems to lighten his step.

:'''Tohsaka Sakura has posed:''' Unfortunately for poor Bedivere, it seems that the Tohsaka family had been...slightly busy of late, what with summer cleaning and other such. While it’s true that Sakura hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort to Saber recently, it seemed as if there simply wasn’t any other open rooms for the Knight but the one by Saber’s own. It’s almost coincidental, possibly even conspiratorial, but Sakura’s quite alone - and it does make sense to only heat and cool portions of the mansion anyway; rooms that were potentially open would be the most reasonable to find next to the ones in use. Of course, the knight is shown the bath, and other such amenities, and thankfully for him there were spare pajamas of a certain redheaded stepchild’s that...happened to be available in the laundry. Once Bedivere is assured of Saber’s - of Arturia’s - safety, and quite becalmed enough to finally retire for the evening… ...he might just notice that the door of his room mirrors that of Arturia’s. And that his bed is on that same side; there’s nothing but a little air and plaster between the two. All quite honorable and chivalric of course...but just a little bit sentimental as well. Once in her own room, sliding into bed, the lavender-haired woman simply sighs in happiness. Matchmaking is fun after all...and she can think of none better. Hmm...the best way to make a truly beautiful flower blossom is tenderness and patience...and just a little bit of help.
}}

GENESIS: Saber

2014-12-24T23:56:17Z

ForwardObserver:

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2014/04/12
|Location=Heaven Or Hell Office
|Synopsis=In spite of her scepticism and after some needling by Samael, Saber finally agrees to generate an Abstractum: Arymes Prydein.

NOTE: Arymes Prydein's personality has been retconned.
|Thanks=
|Cast of Characters=346, 253, 347,
|Tinyplot=
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:253|Psyber (253)}} has posed:''' Psyber's office, sometime during the past week. There had been up and down days, and today happened to be one of the more relaxed ones. Saber had been interested in an Abstractum, Psyber had the time free to generate one for a brief period, and so he had set up this meeting. The time was mid-afternoon, perhaps about three or four in the afternoon. And the location was Psyber's training area within the larger office building. Several floors up in the elevator will take one to the firing range adjacent to a sparring arena. The sparring arena is where Psyber can be found. In lieu of his normal attire, which is mostly worn outside, Psyber is wearing a pair of black slacks and a t-shirt with tennis shoes, sitting in the middle of the sparring circle with Adjudicator across his lap while he yawns faintly and sort of drifts in and out of a mid-afternoon nap while he waits for his friend to arrive. His head bobs up and down occasionally, red eyes drifting between half-open and barely shut as he dozes. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' As much as Samael was not the most trustworthy of beings, Saber had nevertheless considered her "suggestion" that she seek out obtaining an Abstractum, something she had not really considered. Although, it was more like needling, and she had been told the Pure had been seeing out strong opponents. While Saber generally liked honourable battles against chivalrous opponents, something had seemed a little off. Nevertheless, she decided it was probably a good idea...in case her allies needed her help. Fortunately, Psyber seemed willing. Parking the V-Max in the usual spot, the knight dismounted and entered the office, straightening her gloves on the way in. The usual three-piece suit was convenient enough to travel in, and if need be she could always shift to her battle armour in the even of something a little more rigorous. Chances were that she would need to summon her armour; Psyber was in the sparring arena. As much as Heaven or Hell was an investigation agency, having a sparring arena was quite convenient. Heading on in, the Servant entered with her usual amount of quiet. It was only when she spoke -- a soft alto -- that she made any sort of noise. "I am here. I thank you for waiting." 

:'''{{#var:347|Abstractum.Net (347)}} has posed:''' Adjudicator, the wide greatsword, sits with a rather relaxed, casual sort of posture to its blade, making a gesture like a greeting with its hilt. The eye set into hilt of the thing, around the odd inscribed imagery of a dragon, seems almost as drowsy as Psyber. "Greetings, miss Saber." It says, in a deep, aged sort of voice - yet still lacking any distinguishable gender - and then takes a more passive posture, letting Psyber handle much of the actual talking. The irony of a talking sword greeting Saber isn't lost on the blade, but it keeps amusing puns and other suchlike to itself for now. 

:'''{{#var:253|Psyber (253)}} has posed:''' Psyber makes a kind of half-asleep noise and snaps his head up to full attention when Saber joins, letting out a wide yawn and then rubbing at his eyes, "Hey Arturia. Always happy to help out a friend, and you and your Master have done a lot for me anyway, so yeah. It's not much imposition." He slowly pushes to his feet, letting Adjudicator take care of its greeting, "This is Adjudicator. His whole powerset is derived and built around morality and choices. That kind of thing. He's a really powerful weapon, too." He adds as a secondary note, lifting the sword up and presenting it out towards her. "But don't take him as an indicator what yours will be like. I've helped get a good three or four people their Abstractum, and they've turned out drastically different every time." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' The King of Knights nodded; she and Sakura had been busy enough helping out the agency when they were able. Though her Master had been busy as of late with business at the Clocktower with her elder sister, Saber nevertheless managed to keep busy. She wasn't terribly surprised by a talking sword...at least, not after being in the multiverse for nearly five years. Her expression remained neutral, but the knight was polite and properly chivalrous, as always. "Greetings," she replied, with no indication that she found it particularly odd...given the magical nature of her universe. She accepted the sword with the practised hand of a Saber-class Servant. "I see. What needs to be done?" 

:'''{{#var:347|Abstractum.Net (347)}} has posed:''' "If you're seeking one of your own," The blade explains with a little gesturing of its blade. "Then what needs to be done is simple. Both you and my User need to consent to the process, after which I may begin it. Aside from that, there's little that needs to be done, and I will handle it." A simple, frank explanation. Easy! "Before we begin, though, do you have any questions?" 

:'''{{#var:253|Psyber (253)}} has posed:''' Psyber doesn't have particularly much to say to Saber as the sword is taken into her grasp, "The sword is pretty helpful and knows most of the process. Way more than I do, so I usually let him take the lead on this stuff." "We're in the training room, by the way, because there's always this big..." He waves his hand a bit, "Dramatic thing. And if we did it in the office proper, papers would fly around from all the wind and junk." Psyber admits to Saber. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' A curious expression bypassed Saber's usual mask as she regarded the sword. She had heard that it didn't seem to matter if a potential User was necessarily honourable or not, but the purpose itself seemed unclear. "In what way do Abstractums turn out differently?," she asked him. "Does this depend upon the personality of whomever seeks one? I remain somewhat unclear as to one's specific purpose." Her eyes flickered to Psyber, tilting her head slightly. "What causes this dramatic reaction? Is it a reaction with prana, or some other sort of energy?" 

:'''{{#var:347|Abstractum.Net (347)}} has posed:''' "We are whatever our Users need. Not what they want, sometimes, but whatever's best for them." Adjudicator says, frankly. "I ease Psyber's uncertainty, and do so with as much forethought as I can. But others of more ill intent have less pure needs. Some Abstractum are simply evil or sociopathic because that is what their User truly needs from them. Others have more complex psychological needs. So the Abstractum they receive is friendly, but forces some unusual interactions that they need to work through. In all cases, it is only what the User would benefit from most." "The reaction comes from the unusable portions of our Resonance energy being vented. It is a somewhat spectacular visual experience. You'll see much more of it through further Abstractum use." 

:'''{{#var:253|Psyber (253)}} has posed:''' "Like it said, it's resonance bleedoff as part of the setup process, I guess. You should see some of the stuff it does during combat. Trails of dramatic red sparks, cutting red lines through the air, all sorts of stuff." Psyber shrugs to Saber, reaching out to take back his sword, "I'll need the sword back when we make yours, you can't hold two at once or shit goes wacky, so yeah." Psyber explains to her in a friendly tone. "Really, I don't regret getting Jude ever. It's been a huge help to my life, and though I own many blades, it is by far my favorite. I really think you're making a good choice." Psyber reaches out with a hand to pat Saber on the shoulder as if sensing some worry or unease from the Servant over this, "It gives you someone you know you can trust, and everyone needs more people like that." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' The Servant nodded. It was, admittedly, something she was not entirely sure of; Psyber had read her well. That wasn't an easy thing to do, even after all this time. Just one more of his many talents, Saber supposed. Something she needed? Years ago, she had needed to save Britain by allowing a different king -- a stronger king -- to take her place. Yet, she had accepted her birthright because there had /been/ no one else. She had come to terms with that much; she might not have been strong enough to bring Utopia, but no one else so much as wanted to even try. It had taken her a long time to come to terms with that. But just what did she need now? "I understand. I must admit...I am somewhat apprehensive. However..." But she was still going to save Britain...in a different way. Camelot was gone, but that didn't mean she couldn't still protect the country which was once her kingdom. She handed the sword back to the half-angel, with a subtle edge of determination in her expression. "I am ready." 

:'''{{#var:347|Abstractum.Net (347)}} has posed:''' "Ah, you are ready?" There's almost a palpable spark when the Abstractum comes back into contact with Psyber's hand. It audibly draws a deep breath - impressive, given that it doesn't have lungs or a mouth - closing its eye for a moment. "Then we shall begin." "Powering Genesis Drive." THEME: http://tinyurl.com/ABSTRACTUM-PROCUREMENT A red light shines out of the blade's eye, and then suddenly becomes bright. It shifts into a monotone. "User explicit consent confirmed. Candidate User explicit consent confirmed. Drawing resonance." A loud whirring noise begins to build in the Abstractum; small burst of wind blast out, but there's nothing here that can get knocked over, only a bit of dust to kick up dramatically. "ASSEMBLING CONCEPTS. AMPLIFYING PARADIGMS." It speaks in a harder monotone. "DETERMINING IMPRINT." Saber is going to feel a sensation not entirely unlike being grasped, tightly, but instead of in physical space, it's in another spatial axis entirely. Like the sensation one feels during summoning, but only partially. It lifts her, and then she's struck against reality, with the sensation of leaving an imprint in it, a mold of sorts. When she's struck against reality, there's a bright red shockwave of light; Excalibur, her sword, wasn't summoned by her, and yet, there it is, floating in front of her! "CONCEPT MOLD ESTABLISHED. ENGAGING FULL GENESIS." And, it would seem, this "imprint" gets filled in. Like certain actions before it, this "filling in" seems to be performed on another spatial dimension, looking the way a mold might look to a flatlander when filled. A hemispherical crystal appears first, at the hilt, seeming to grow a strange arrangement of brassy tines that wrap around the crossguard of the blade with a complex construct. When it completes, the blade itself seems to suddenly flicker to a new form: A bronze or iron-like tone to the metal, and a deep blue penetrating the hilt and the midsection of the blade displayed through an indentation on its flat, and a short, tapering gap just above the crossguard. A stern black iris forms in the gem, then the eye closes over it, lidded by two shadowy eyelids. Both Abstractum speak in unison now. "NETWORK MESSAGE: A new Abstractum has been deployed. Thank you for assuming the duty of protection. When They return, together we'll end them." And, abruptly, everything settles down. Adjudicator seems to now be at the point where it doesn't get any exhaustion at all from the process, a testament to its growth. "It would seem that worked out quite well." The Abstractum says, simply. "I hope it serves you well, Saber." To Psyber, "The shape seems fitting, at the very least, for her." The new blade itself is just now waking up, so to speak; the sword was floating just in front of Saber previously, and is now beginning to settle down. Ideally, it'll settle down in her hands. 

:'''{{#var:253|Psyber (253)}} has posed:''' Psyber steps away as the enter Genesis process finishes, slinging his sword up and across his back as the new sword appears in the air, "Yeah. That's a fine-looking sword. I hope it grows up to be as powerful as Jude is." The half-angel grins a bit and crosses his arms, looking back up over his shoulder, "Wow, you're not even winded at all. Impressive, Jude." Psyber then mostly turns to watch Saber, "You should probably find out its name." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' In truth, Saber had not known what to expect; all the Users she had come into contact with had been granted a new weapon. However, she didn't need one...Excalibur: The Sword of Promised Victory was the symbol of her legend, a legend unto itself. The holy sword was so legendary, in fact, that she required a second Noble Phantasm -- Invisible Air: The Bounded Field of the Wind King -- just to simply hide it and by extension her identity. The only other concepts she could have made use of were Caliburn: The Golden Sword of Destined Victory, and Avalon: The Everdistant Utopia...and both were lost to her. What she had *not* expected was for the Abstractum to fuse with Excalibur /itself/. Prana surged, and Excalibur was summoned...but not by the King of Knights. The blinding flash that accompanied summoning her armour surrounded her petite form as she was strick against reality, the spiritual forms easily manifesting on the material plane, imposing her battle armour over her civilian attire before her feet touched the floor once more. She found it wasn't possible to contain her surprise and nearly everything. The Excalibur-Abstract settled into her hands, and Saber stared down at it for a brief moment. It was almost a blend of both the Sword of Promised Victory and the Golden Sword of Destined Victory, and even something of Avalon in it. In a way, it was not unlike all her Noble Phantasms combined...and for the first time in many years, there was a strange mixture of feelings within her. The wistfulness at her loss of Caliburn and Avalon, but yet hope and fulfilment, as if they had been found once more and restored to her. Vaguely, she heard Psyber speak; it was almost a miracle she could even hear him. "Yes...I should. Forgive me. What is your name?" 

:'''{{#var:347|Abstractum.Net (347)}} has posed:''' "Greetings and salutations. I am Arymes Prydein, Red Abstractum in service to you, my king." The blade itself almost seems to bend, as if making a bow-like gesture. The blade has a polite, respectful sort of tone to it, reverent in a restrained kind of way, and perhaps a fair bit on the chivalrous side. "Hmmm. Quite a bit more professional than most." Jude says, frankly assessing the new sword-thing. It turns to Psyber, nodding briefly. "You're right, you've built up quite a bit of power here." It speaks in an honest and rather genuine tone. "And it is good to see you think of it more as an example for others to achieve than anything else." With that quick approval done, Jude goes back to watching Saber and Arymes. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Talking swords might have been something Saber was acclimated to, having her own sword speak -- or rather a modification of her sword -- was another matter, entirely. It was strange, but yet something else. Lancelot had been re-summoned as a Saber after finding peace at last, and it was entirely likely that others had become Heroic Spirits as well. Yet, her First Night had been scarce as of late, and she had yet to encounter any of her other knights. Agrias had filled that void, to a great extent, but the knight of Ivalice served another. To have something like another knight at her side was comforting. Cliche, perhaps, but for Saber, it was the sort of thing she felt most comfortable with. "Well-met," she replied. "I must admit surprise...I had not expected an Abstractum to become a part of Excalibur." 

:'''{{#var:347|Abstractum.Net (347)}} has posed:''' "The blade is a part of you, just as an Abstractum might hope to be." The newly changed blade says, simply. "I become a part of it, when you allow me to, just as a knight becomes part of their kingdom and its identity." The blade seems to stand "at attention" as it continues. "There will be times when you will have need of your blade in its original form, for which I may separate from it. But if you will have my service to you, I will do what I can to serve you." There's a slightly awkward moment before it continues. "However, I must know, what you would prefer I call you." It looks like Abstractum don't know the names of their Users right away! For pretty much precisely the reason of situations similar to Saber's. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' "A part of me..." Saber mused. At least this part she could understand on an instinctual level as a Servant. "So then, you are a concept, such as a Noble Phantasm?" She couldn't help but smile; some might find it too formal, but for Saber, this made her feel at ease. "I shall. I have no doubt that I will have great need of you, Arymes Prydein." Saber shouldn't have been all that surprised that the Abstractum hadn't known her name; she hadn't known its name, either. The important part was the understanding of the code of chivalry, the path of the knight, things beyond names. And because the Abstractum was a part of her now, her simple class designation wouldn't do at all. "I am Arturia Pendragon, heir to Uther Pendragon and the King of Britain." 

:'''{{#var:347|Abstractum.Net (347)}} has posed:''' "I am a conceptual construct, wrought in the mold you form in reality." The sword speaks almost as if it's giving rehearsed religious information. "From your identity, I find my own, as a knight is defined by their liege, or a sword by their swordsman. I believe I am very much like a Noble Phantasm, a pure idea and symbol." "Well then, Pendragon, consider me pledged formally to your service, and to the protection and betterment of your Kingdom of Britain." Not an official oath of fealty, precisely, but the intent is there and genuine: It's obvious that while Arymes may be disconnected from specific variants of the code of chivalry in terms of their most specific rules, it certainly adheres to the ideals and spirit of the rules with much respect. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Thinking of them as a form of Noble Phantasm helped a great deal...but then form that point, Saber had many more questions. She had heard through Psyber and others about many more aspects of Abstractums, where they came from, what their ultimate purpose was aside from aiding their Users, why Samael seemed so interested in encouraging strong opponents to seek them out...but the Servant decided those could wait for the time being. She had a feeling she would be finding out soon enough. Unbidden, the memory of Sakura's sudden, unexpected pledge upon forming their contract; the magus had known she was a knight and had come to trust and respect Saber, though she had remained unaware of her true identity. The King of Knights had been completely taken by surprise; Masters did not typically pledge loyalty to their Servants, even if the circumstances had been wholly different than those of the Holy Grail War. But Sakura trusted her...and she trusted Sakura. Upon her pledge, Saber revealed her true identity, much to Sakura's amazement at who her Servant really was. It was a moment she would never forget. And now, she had been given much the same thing again, under the code she held dear. "I shall."
}}

GENESIS: Saber

2014-12-24T23:33:33Z

ForwardObserver: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2014/04/12 |Location=Heaven Or Hell Office |Synopsis=In spite of her scepticism and after some needling by Samael, Saber finally agrees to generate..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2014/04/12
|Location=Heaven Or Hell Office
|Synopsis=In spite of her scepticism and after some needling by Samael, Saber finally agrees to generate an Abstractum: Arymes Prydein.

NOTE: Arymes Prydein's personality has been retconned.
|Thanks=
|Cast of Characters=346, 253, 347,
|Tinyplot=
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=253
|Pose=Psyber's office, sometime during the past week. There had been up and down days, and today happened to be one of the more relaxed ones. Saber had been interested in an Abstractum, Psyber had the time free to generate one for a brief period, and so he had set up this meeting. The time was mid-afternoon, perhaps about three or four in the afternoon. And the location was Psyber's training area within the larger office building. Several floors up in the elevator will take one to the firing range adjacent to a sparring arena. The sparring arena is where Psyber can be found. In lieu of his normal attire, which is mostly worn outside, Psyber is wearing a pair of black slacks and a t-shirt with tennis shoes, sitting in the middle of the sparring circle with Adjudicator across his lap while he yawns faintly and sort of drifts in and out of a mid-afternoon nap while he waits for his friend to arrive. His head bobs up and down occasionally, red eyes drifting between half-open and barely shut as he dozes.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=346
|Pose=As much as Samael was not the most trustworthy of beings, Saber had nevertheless considered her "suggestion" that she seek out obtaining an Abstractum, something she had not really considered. Although, it was more like needling, and she had been told the Pure had been seeing out strong opponents. While Saber generally liked honourable battles against chivalrous opponents, something had seemed a little off. Nevertheless, she decided it was probably a good idea...in case her allies needed her help. Fortunately, Psyber seemed willing. Parking the V-Max in the usual spot, the knight dismounted and entered the office, straightening her gloves on the way in. The usual three-piece suit was convenient enough to travel in, and if need be she could always shift to her battle armour in the even of something a little more rigorous. Chances were that she would need to summon her armour; Psyber was in the sparring arena. As much as Heaven or Hell was an investigation agency, having a sparring arena was quite convenient. Heading on in, the Servant entered with her usual amount of quiet. It was only when she spoke -- a soft alto -- that she made any sort of noise. "I am here. I thank you for waiting."
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=347
|Pose= Adjudicator, the wide greatsword, sits with a rather relaxed, casual sort of posture to its blade, making a gesture like a greeting with its hilt. The eye set into hilt of the thing, around the odd inscribed imagery of a dragon, seems almost as drowsy as Psyber. "Greetings, miss Saber." It says, in a deep, aged sort of voice - yet still lacking any distinguishable gender - and then takes a more passive posture, letting Psyber handle much of the actual talking. The irony of a talking sword greeting Saber isn't lost on the blade, but it keeps amusing puns and other suchlike to itself for now.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=253
|Pose= Psyber makes a kind of half-asleep noise and snaps his head up to full attention when Saber joins, letting out a wide yawn and then rubbing at his eyes, "Hey Arturia. Always happy to help out a friend, and you and your Master have done a lot for me anyway, so yeah. It's not much imposition." He slowly pushes to his feet, letting Adjudicator take care of its greeting, "This is Adjudicator. His whole powerset is derived and built around morality and choices. That kind of thing. He's a really powerful weapon, too." He adds as a secondary note, lifting the sword up and presenting it out towards her. "But don't take him as an indicator what yours will be like. I've helped get a good three or four people their Abstractum, and they've turned out drastically different every time." 
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=346
|Pose= The King of Knights nodded; she and Sakura had been busy enough helping out the agency when they were able. Though her Master had been busy as of late with business at the Clocktower with her elder sister, Saber nevertheless managed to keep busy. She wasn't terribly surprised by a talking sword...at least, not after being in the multiverse for nearly five years. Her expression remained neutral, but the knight was polite and properly chivalrous, as always. "Greetings," she replied, with no indication that she found it particularly odd...given the magical nature of her universe. She accepted the sword with the practised hand of a Saber-class Servant. "I see. What needs to be done?"
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=347
|Pose= The King of Knights nodded; she and Sakura had been busy enough helping out the agency when they were able. Though her Master had been busy as of late with business at the Clocktower with her elder sister, Saber nevertheless managed to keep busy. She wasn't terribly surprised by a talking sword...at least, not after being in the multiverse for nearly five years. Her expression remained neutral, but the knight was polite and properly chivalrous, as always. "Greetings," she replied, with no indication that she found it particularly odd...given the magical nature of her universe. She accepted the sword with the practised hand of a Saber-class Servant. "I see. What needs to be done?"
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=253
|Pose= Psyber doesn't have particularly much to say to Saber as the sword is taken into her grasp, "The sword is pretty helpful and knows most of the process. Way more than I do, so I usually let him take the lead on this stuff." "We're in the training room, by the way, because there's always this big..." He waves his hand a bit, "Dramatic thing. And if we did it in the office proper, papers would fly around from all the wind and junk." Psyber admits to Saber.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=346
|Pose= A curious expression bypassed Saber's usual mask as she regarded the sword. She had heard that it didn't seem to matter if a potential User was necessarily honourable or not, but the purpose itself seemed unclear. "In what way do Abstractums turn out differently?," she asked him. "Does this depend upon the personality of whomever seeks one? I remain somewhat unclear as to one's specific purpose." Her eyes flickered to Psyber, tilting her head slightly. "What causes this dramatic reaction? Is it a reaction with prana, or some other sort of energy?"
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=347
|Pose= "We are whatever our Users need. Not what they want, sometimes, but whatever's best for them." Adjudicator says, frankly. "I ease Psyber's uncertainty, and do so with as much forethought as I can. But others of more ill intent have less pure needs. Some Abstractum are simply evil or sociopathic because that is what their User truly needs from them. Others have more complex psychological needs. So the Abstractum they receive is friendly, but forces some unusual interactions that they need to work through. In all cases, it is only what the User would benefit from most." "The reaction comes from the unusable portions of our Resonance energy being vented. It is a somewhat spectacular visual experience. You'll see much more of it through further Abstractum use."
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=253
|Pose= "Like it said, it's resonance bleedoff as part of the setup process, I guess. You should see some of the stuff it does during combat. Trails of dramatic red sparks, cutting red lines through the air, all sorts of stuff." Psyber shrugs to Saber, reaching out to take back his sword, "I'll need the sword back when we make yours, you can't hold two at once or shit goes wacky, so yeah." Psyber explains to her in a friendly tone. "Really, I don't regret getting Jude ever. It's been a huge help to my life, and though I own many blades, it is by far my favorite. I really think you're making a good choice." Psyber reaches out with a hand to pat Saber on the shoulder as if sensing some worry or unease from the Servant over this, "It gives you someone you know you can trust, and everyone needs more people like that."
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=346
|Pose= The Servant nodded. It was, admittedly, something she was not entirely sure of; Psyber had read her well. That wasn't an easy thing to do, even after all this time. Just one more of his many talents, Saber supposed. Something she needed? Years ago, she had needed to save Britain by allowing a different king -- a stronger king -- to take her place. Yet, she had accepted her birthright because there had /been/ no one else. She had come to terms with that much; she might not have been strong enough to bring Utopia, but no one else so much as wanted to even try. It had taken her a long time to come to terms with that. But just what did she need now? "I understand. I must admit...I am somewhat apprehensive. However..." But she was still going to save Britain...in a different way. Camelot was gone, but that didn't mean she couldn't still protect the country which was once her kingdom. She handed the sword back to the half-angel, with a subtle edge of determination in her expression. "I am ready."
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=347
|Pose= "Ah, you are ready?" There's almost a palpable spark when the Abstractum comes back into contact with Psyber's hand. It audibly draws a deep breath - impressive, given that it doesn't have lungs or a mouth - closing its eye for a moment. "Then we shall begin." "Powering Genesis Drive." THEME: http://tinyurl.com/ABSTRACTUM-PROCUREMENT A red light shines out of the blade's eye, and then suddenly becomes bright. It shifts into a monotone. "User explicit consent confirmed. Candidate User explicit consent confirmed. Drawing resonance." A loud whirring noise begins to build in the Abstractum; small burst of wind blast out, but there's nothing here that can get knocked over, only a bit of dust to kick up dramatically. "ASSEMBLING CONCEPTS. AMPLIFYING PARADIGMS." It speaks in a harder monotone. "DETERMINING IMPRINT." Saber is going to feel a sensation not entirely unlike being grasped, tightly, but instead of in physical space, it's in another spatial axis entirely. Like the sensation one feels during summoning, but only partially. It lifts her, and then she's struck against reality, with the sensation of leaving an imprint in it, a mold of sorts. When she's struck against reality, there's a bright red shockwave of light; Excalibur, her sword, wasn't summoned by her, and yet, there it is, floating in front of her! "CONCEPT MOLD ESTABLISHED. ENGAGING FULL GENESIS." And, it would seem, this "imprint" gets filled in. Like certain actions before it, this "filling in" seems to be performed on another spatial dimension, looking the way a mold might look to a flatlander when filled. A hemispherical crystal appears first, at the hilt, seeming to grow a strange arrangement of brassy tines that wrap around the crossguard of the blade with a complex construct. When it completes, the blade itself seems to suddenly flicker to a new form: A bronze or iron-like tone to the metal, and a deep blue penetrating the hilt and the midsection of the blade displayed through an indentation on its flat, and a short, tapering gap just above the crossguard. A stern black iris forms in the gem, then the eye closes over it, lidded by two shadowy eyelids. Both Abstractum speak in unison now. "NETWORK MESSAGE: A new Abstractum has been deployed. Thank you for assuming the duty of protection. When They return, together we'll end them." And, abruptly, everything settles down. Adjudicator seems to now be at the point where it doesn't get any exhaustion at all from the process, a testament to its growth. "It would seem that worked out quite well." The Abstractum says, simply. "I hope it serves you well, Saber." To Psyber, "The shape seems fitting, at the very least, for her." The new blade itself is just now waking up, so to speak; the sword was floating just in front of Saber previously, and is now beginning to settle down. Ideally, it'll settle down in her hands.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=253
|Pose= Psyber steps away as the enter Genesis process finishes, slinging his sword up and across his back as the new sword appears in the air, "Yeah. That's a fine-looking sword. I hope it grows up to be as powerful as Jude is." The half-angel grins a bit and crosses his arms, looking back up over his shoulder, "Wow, you're not even winded at all. Impressive, Jude." Psyber then mostly turns to watch Saber, "You should probably find out its name."
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=346
|Pose= In truth, Saber had not known what to expect; all the Users she had come into contact with had been granted a new weapon. However, she didn't need one...Excalibur: The Sword of Promised Victory was the symbol of her legend, a legend unto itself. The holy sword was so legendary, in fact, that she required a second Noble Phantasm -- Invisible Air: The Bounded Field of the Wind King -- just to simply hide it and by extension her identity. The only other concepts she could have made use of were Caliburn: The Golden Sword of Destined Victory, and Avalon: The Everdistant Utopia...and both were lost to her. What she had *not* expected was for the Abstractum to fuse with Excalibur /itself/. Prana surged, and Excalibur was summoned...but not by the King of Knights. The blinding flash that accompanied summoning her armour surrounded her petite form as she was strick against reality, the spiritual forms easily manifesting on the material plane, imposing her battle armour over her civilian attire before her feet touched the floor once more. She found it wasn't possible to contain her surprise and nearly everything. The Excalibur-Abstract settled into her hands, and Saber stared down at it for a brief moment. It was almost a blend of both the Sword of Promised Victory and the Golden Sword of Destined Victory, and even something of Avalon in it. In a way, it was not unlike all her Noble Phantasms combined...and for the first time in many years, there was a strange mixture of feelings within her. The wistfulness at her loss of Caliburn and Avalon, but yet hope and fulfilment, as if they had been found once more and restored to her. Vaguely, she heard Psyber speak; it was almost a miracle she could even hear him. "Yes...I should. Forgive me. What is your name?" 
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=347
|Pose= "Greetings and salutations. I am Arymes Prydein, Red Abstractum in service to you, my king." The blade itself almost seems to bend, as if making a bow-like gesture. The blade has a polite, respectful sort of tone to it, reverent in a restrained kind of way, and perhaps a fair bit on the chivalrous side. "Hmmm. Quite a bit more professional than most." Jude says, frankly assessing the new sword-thing. It turns to Psyber, nodding briefly. "You're right, you've built up quite a bit of power here." It speaks in an honest and rather genuine tone. "And it is good to see you think of it more as an example for others to achieve than anything else." With that quick approval done, Jude goes back to watching Saber and Arymes.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=346
|Pose= Talking swords might have been something Saber was acclimated to, having her own sword speak -- or rather a modification of her sword -- was another matter, entirely. It was strange, but yet something else. Lancelot had been re-summoned as a Saber after finding peace at last, and it was entirely likely that others had become Heroic Spirits as well. Yet, her First Night had been scarce as of late, and she had yet to encounter any of her other knights. Agrias had filled that void, to a great extent, but the knight of Ivalice served another. To have something like another knight at her side was comforting. Cliche, perhaps, but for Saber, it was the sort of thing she felt most comfortable with. "Well-met," she replied. "I must admit surprise...I had not expected an Abstractum to become a part of Excalibur."
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=347
|Pose= "The blade is a part of you, just as an Abstractum might hope to be." The newly changed blade says, simply. "I become a part of it, when you allow me to, just as a knight becomes part of their kingdom and its identity." The blade seems to stand "at attention" as it continues. "There will be times when you will have need of your blade in its original form, for which I may separate from it. But if you will have my service to you, I will do what I can to serve you." There's a slightly awkward moment before it continues. "However, I must know, what you would prefer I call you." It looks like Abstractum don't know the names of their Users right away! For pretty much precisely the reason of situations similar to Saber's.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=346
|Pose= "A part of me..." Saber mused. At least this part she could understand on an instinctual level as a Servant. "So then, you are a concept, such as a Noble Phantasm?" She couldn't help but smile; some might find it too formal, but for Saber, this made her feel at ease. "I shall. I have no doubt that I will have great need of you, Arymes Prydein." Saber shouldn't have been all that surprised that the Abstractum hadn't known her name; she hadn't known its name, either. The important part was the understanding of the code of chivalry, the path of the knight, things beyond names. And because the Abstractum was a part of her now, her simple class designation wouldn't do at all. "I am Arturia Pendragon, heir to Uther Pendragon and the King of Britain."
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=347
|Pose= "I am a conceptual construct, wrought in the mold you form in reality." The sword speaks almost as if it's giving rehearsed religious information. "From your identity, I find my own, as a knight is defined by their liege, or a sword by their swordsman. I believe I am very much like a Noble Phantasm, a pure idea and symbol." "Well then, Pendragon, consider me pledged formally to your service, and to the protection and betterment of your Kingdom of Britain." Not an official oath of fealty, precisely, but the intent is there and genuine: It's obvious that while Arymes may be disconnected from specific variants of the code of chivalry in terms of their most specific rules, it certainly adheres to the ideals and spirit of the rules with much respect.
}}
{{Single Pose
|Poser=346
|Pose= Thinking of them as a form of Noble Phantasm helped a great deal...but then form that point, Saber had many more questions. She had heard through Psyber and others about many more aspects of Abstractums, where they came from, what their ultimate purpose was aside from aiding their Users, why Samael seemed so interested in encouraging strong opponents to seek them out...but the Servant decided those could wait for the time being. She had a feeling she would be finding out soon enough. Unbidden, the memory of Sakura's sudden, unexpected pledge upon forming their contract; the magus had known she was a knight and had come to trust and respect Saber, though she had remained unaware of her true identity. The King of Knights had been completely taken by surprise; Masters did not typically pledge loyalty to their Servants, even if the circumstances had been wholly different than those of the Holy Grail War. But Sakura trusted her...and she trusted Sakura. Upon her pledge, Saber revealed her true identity, much to Sakura's amazement at who her Servant really was. It was a moment she would never forget. And now, she had been given much the same thing again, under the code she held dear. "I shall."
}}

513/Somebody Out There

2014-10-15T11:09:12Z

ForwardObserver: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2014/08/28 |Location=Dun Realtai |Synopsis=Dun Realtai receives a most unexpected visitor in the form of one Emiya Shirou when his reality abruptly..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2014/08/28
|Location=Dun Realtai
|Synopsis=Dun Realtai receives a most unexpected visitor in the form of one Emiya Shirou when his reality abruptly Unifies, leaving him stranded in a strange land with no apparent way to return home...
|Thanks=
|Cast of Characters=346, 560
|Tinyplot=
|Tinyplot2=
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      It was late afternoon at Dun Realtai, the sun nearing the horizon painting the fields and groves in various golden hues, making the landscape appear more as its natural season. Though it was autumn, the unnatural winter from the presence of its benevolent winter guardian was only beginning to fade, the trees already bare and the vestiges of snow melting, though the lakes remained largely frozen. Unfortunately, soon the natural winter would be upon the land, and the townsfolk worked fiercely in a race against the approach of the season to restore their decimated village. But under the watchful eyes and skilful guidance of the new lord and lady of the land, that work was proceeding at a rapid pace.      Yet, as the twilight approached, the cacophony of tools had gradually abated as the workers prepared to end their toil for the day and sit down to dinner. Signals passed along the chain, indicating that they were given the all-clear that the work day was over. Laughter and chatter replaced sawing and hammering, and the chimneys of the newly-rebuild houses came alive with the smoke of a dozen fires. The Inn in particular was bustling with activity; the houses had been restored but the pub on the ground floor was nevertheless an excellent place for a meal.      Among the passed the erstwhile lady of the land, though she was hardly dressed as a lady; any visitor would easily mistake her for another one of the workers as she was dressed in the simple clothes of the workmen. In fact, even with her flaxen hair bound up as it was, one could hardly be faulted for concluding that the woman was in fact a man...albeit a rather short, androgynous one.      What might have set her apart, however, were several attributes a person simply didn't find outside nobility. The first was her practised grace in moving, almost like a dancer; she carried herself with a regal elegance as if from years of training. The second was her aura of command. There was something about her that seemed to be used to issuing orders and organising teams of villagers. Currently, her orders were a release from their current work and that they were free to go home to their families or retire to the Inn, visiting each group personally to deliver the signal. It might have been strange for someone so used to command to do so, but that personal attention had endeared her and the lord to the beleaguered people of the land. 

:'''{{#var:560|Emiya Shirou (560)}} has posed:'''     "Trace, on."     For Emiya Shirou, it's been an exhausting day. He's spent nearly all evening with Ryuudou Issei mending things at school. Following that effort was a lovely dinner made very strange by a certain wild animal - err, teacher... a routine he's been used to for years.     Just like his habit, his routine, of heading every night to the old shed and practicing Reinforcement magic. He's almost deep in a trance when--     Without warning, the world shakes. The boy's eyes blink open. "Mh?" But he doesn't get a second chance. Reality distorts and comes apart around him, swallowing him in a ripple in space!     For the Multiverse, it's just Thursday. Sure, the news will report about a new version of Earth showing up, that's nothing spectacular. And the Mage Association will be having a fit, as will the Holy Chuch. Somewhere, an old man and user of true magic is laughing.     Shirou's plight is a little different.     "Whatthehellisthis?!" The boy yells, gasping, as he suddenly tumbles and rolls down the roof of the inn in Dun Realtai. He appeared in a ripple of light, Magic Circuits still energized, and hit with a loud thump! But as he reaches the edge, he scrambles for a grip... and fails to find one, thanks to a wet roof from recent melt. Down he tumbles! "H-hwaaghk!" WHUMP!     ... Facedown and halfway sunk into a big pile of wet, packed snow that fell off the roof earlier. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      And suddenly, the now-daily routine came to a screeching halt. A few workers yelped in surprise at the abrupt and unceremonious introduction, but relaxed after a moment when the bright red hair emerged from the snowpile. Even these townspeople of a simpler time were becoming accustomed to strange, alien visitors dropping into their village. Although...perhaps not quite as literally as that.      On the other hand, the plainly-dressed worker with her hair in a braided bun had been on alert at the moment of Unification. There had been no mistake: those were active Magic Circuits she had sensed. Weak, untrained...but unmistakeably they had been magic circuits.      The Servant was already on guard before the unidentified falling magus cried out and dropped like a rock right into a nearby snowpile. She relaxed her guard the moment the boy dove head-first into it, conveniently hiding any way to identify him for the moment. The guarded stance was replaced with a visible wince; that /had/ to have hurt. Well, better fish out their hapless involuntary visitor.      Gingerly, she started to disengage the poor boy from the snowpile, taking care not to injure him further. "Ah, are you hale, young si..."      ...And stopped short when she finally got a good look at him. Jade eyes snapped wide as she most certainly recognised the young man. He was far younger than the last time she had seen him, but it was definitely Emiya Shirou. "...Ah."      There really weren't any suitable words for this. Other than this being Thursday in the multiverse. 

:'''{{#var:560|Emiya Shirou (560)}} has posed:'''     "Grrfghk?" Shirou splutters despite the pain into the snow when unknown hands shift him around. He's already somewhat soggy from the experience, and having the wind knocked out of him didn't help much. But he's physically fit, and a little pain's not gonna stop him.     "It's cold." He stupidly states, before the efforts to free him finally pay off. He rolls over slightly, reaching out wildly and, by chance, grabbing Saber by the wrist (clothed, probably?) just as he gets on his side to see what's happening.     Brown eyes crack open while he sucks down a few pained breaths of refreshingly crisp and cool air. He'd go for warmer, after the impact, but this is no situation to complain in.     Because when he spots Saber's face, he just starts staring, stupefied. The completely innocent awe soon melts into shock though. His eyes go wide, he even gapes a little. Not just for the powerful presence of the Servant before him, but...     It's pretty obvious what has him stumped, as he finally wrenches his gaze away from Saber long enough to look left, and right. ".... Yeah," He finally gasps out, as if that was nothing. "Thankfully the snow was here. Speaking of... here? Where is this?" He wastes little time getting to his feet and assessing his clothing, releasing Saber right away. He doesn't seem to have caught on to her gender, but he's still giving her a somewhat curious, and even more confounded look.     As if something should be clicking here, but just isn't. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      It took a bit of work to free the red-haired magus from the packed snow, but a Servant's strength was certainly a boon here. "Ah...yes. I do apologise..." Since, it really isn't supposed to be winder at the moment. On the other hand, that fall could have snapped his neck if the snow hadn't been there.      Her grip -- covered by thick working gloves -- was certainly strong enough to qualify for masculine. Even if she was being careful, it was nevertheless a solid grip and the petite boy -- or girl -- did not so much as waver off-balance as the involuntary visitor grasped at her for balance.      Just as he blinked in surprise, the Servant too was baffled; he hadn't recognised her. That might make things rather awkward, especially if he was unaware of beings such as Servants and the Grail War. Still, he was clearly a magus....somewhat.      "Hm. Indeed. You are in Dun Realtai...", which, due to the translation effect, Shirou would understand it to mean "Fort of the Stars".      The knight frowned, slightly; there was a lot to explain, but first things first. "Come...it is clear that you have need of warmer and drier attire. I shall do my best to answer all of your questions, in the meanwhile." 

:'''{{#var:560|Emiya Shirou (560)}} has posed:'''     Shirou is clearly somewhat baffled by this turn of events. Something this bizarre is just hard to process. But there's a kind young... man, here? Even if they don't feel human, his gut feels nothing at all bad about it.     No, there's no need to worry about Saber's monstrously powerful, even inhuman presence, is there? "H-hold on a moment, I don't want to impose--" Hrmngh. Nope. He cuts off those words, thinking better of it. Or rather... "Brrrh!"     Yeah, he's wet, and out in the trailing edge of winter. A sudden chill gets him wrapping his arms around his body briefly to fend off the wind. "... b-but it seems I'd better. Okay, thank you!" Suddenly smiling, he gazes expectantly at Saber, as if to say 'lead on.'     "I'm Shirou. Emiya Shirou.... Fortress of the Stars?" The name sounds so different when he pronounces it in japanese words instead, then immediately frowns. "Dun...Realtai. That's what you said." But not what he heard.     If onlookers only knew the kind of sudden mental self-check Shirou's forcing on himself... because this is just crazy.     "And... thanks for helping me out of there." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      Of course, Saber hadn't missed the peculiar looks she was getting; even an untrained magus couldn't possibly miss a Servant's overwhelming magical presence. She was going to have one hell of a time explaining that one. The King of Knights stifled a sigh, keeping her expression carefully neutral. Explaining the multiverse might even prove easier.      She awarded the red-haired magus a bland expression as the chilly wind wafted through the town; true winter would be upon them soon, and the winds still contained a bit of the cold of the artificial winter. And of course, he was in snow-soaked clothing. It almost said /Don't be daft, you'll freeze out here/ without the need for words. Fortunately, he thought better of it an relented, which the Servant was not about to accept.      She tilted her head slightly, pausing to consider whether she should get into the issue of Unification now or not. He certainly was confused enough as it was, but that was the only possible reason she could think of. The multiverse was a strange phenomenon, and even after five years she was still as clueless about its true nature as she had been after her own Unification. "Indeed, it is. I shall explain the situation you have found yourself in to the best of my ability...once out of the path of the winter winds."      And then there was the issue of her name. As strange as it was going to seem, she decided that being straightforward was probably best. "Well-met, Emiya Shirou. I am Arturia Pendragon, though I am more often called Saber."      Yep, girl. Even with a weird nickname.      The neutral expression faded into a slight smile as they reached the entrance to the keep. "You are quite welcome. It is our custom to offer hospitality to all in need," she explained. "Not only is it a virtue of chivalry, but it is also an ancient law of our original homeland." 

:'''{{#var:560|Emiya Shirou (560)}} has posed:'''     "I'd be really grateful if you would, er, Saber... which do you prefer?" It seems he might subconsciously prefer Saber. Or maybe he's just avoiding thinking about the 'Pendragon' attached to that name for the moment, to avoid a mental overload beyond what's already facing him.     For now, anyways.     Then it registers. She's a girl. He grabbed her wrist a moment ago. And she's just plowing on as if nothing happened. He makes a strange choking noise. It catches in his throat, going nowhere, but he clamps down on the shock for now, while his thoughts whirl on the complications involved in whether he should apologize.     He steps inside the old castle with eyes partially full of wonder and the rest just confounded. "If there's a castle like this around, I'm somewhere in... Europe? B-but that's halfway across the world! And it's like I'm in the past... that's ridiculous. No way this is anything I did..." He's mostly talking to himself... thinking out loud.     He faces Saber, smiling again. "Ah, is it? .... If someone toppled into the snow where I live I'd be doing the same... well, I'd rather not be the one imposing. Sorry, Saber."     If nothing else, he's earnest as he nods gratefully at her. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      There was a slight tilt of her head, a regal equivalent of a shrug. At least, as dignified as a shrug could be. "I am most frequently called Saber, if for no other reason than it is simpler." It was difficult for her to tell if it was a natural preference or the fact that the idea of someone with some kind of connection to the mythic 'King Arthur' would be more than just a little strange for anyone. More than likely, it was the latter...and it was going to take a lot of easing into that particular fact.      On the other hand, there were two more Sabers about, at which point things were going to be even /more/ confusing. But she decided she would worry about crossing that particular bridge when she got to it.      Oblivious to his internal agonising over apologising to her, the petite knight led him into the great hall where the fire blazed away in the hearth. However, a simple hearth-fire -- no matter how big -- could not have possibly warmed a hall of that size...unless some modern construction techniques were involved. In fact, there was no sign of draft apart from the entranceway, and nothing of mould or mildew as one would expect from an ancient castle.      Perhaps fortunately for Shirou's peace of mind, Saber answered his questions, even if they had not been specifically directed at her. "Ah, that is where the difficulty of explaining your situation begins. This is not Europe...nor Earth, for that matter. I am not certain this is a world, not precisely."      Perhaps she had better let that sink in slowly for the moment.      Even when they reached the stairs with proper windows instead of loopholes, there was a mysterious lack of cold and draft, like a modern building. When she reached the third floor where the guest quarters were, she stopped her ascent and began hunting for an unoccupied room, stopping to regard him with a slight smile. "The beginnings of chivalry, it would seem."      She shook her head slightly. "But worry not about imposition. Brehon Law may be required of a knight, but chivalry calls for generositas." The wonders of the multiverse translate the Latin into a number of different things, not only generosity and charity of materials, but of spirit and kindness, that charity should never be given grudgingly.      Finding an unused guest room, Saber entered and went to the trunk at the foot of the simple straw mattress, opening it and rummaging through the clothing in it. Experimentally, she pulled out a simple woollen tunic, trousers, a belt and leather boots. "Hmm...this should do. Perhaps they are somewhat large, but they should suffice until more suitable clothing can be found."      Before she left to let him change, she gave the red-haired magus a sympathetic smile. "I do apologise for the confusion...I realise it is a great deal to take in." 

:'''{{#var:560|Emiya Shirou (560)}} has posed:'''     The words just keep rumbling around in his head. Words that don't feel quite right. Chivalry, the knights' oath? Then this girl - who is so much more - is a knight? Shirou blinks a few times the moment Saber's looking away and on the way out, while he rummages with the presented clothing. Such old style! "Well, it'll do great for here..." He mumbles approvingly.     Turning about as Saber's on the way out, he answers her explanation with a simple, warm, "What are -you- apologizing for? You didn't work some spell to call me here, right?" Or, in other words, don't worry about it!     It is gonna take some time to sink in. For the moment, the wonders of the castle and its very luxurious lack of miserable draftiness is going unnoticed, because Shirou's quite busy pondering over the rest of things.     It's a matter of simple logical deduction and fact-checking in his head that takes about as long as it does to change his clothes once he's sure there's some privacy. He neatly folds up his wet clothes, holding them in his hand to keep the wool from getting all damp. Damp wool wouldn't help anyone. And he doesn't want to lose his clothes in some strange not-a-world.     "Not a world? Not even Earth? What could she have meant..."     When Shirou emerges from the room, he's in the new attire, and still adjusting it periodically. Not quite used to this sort of wear. And he wastes no time spotting Saber. "A lady knight... seeing someone like you around cheers me up. I'm in your debt. Erm, so.... Saber. If this isn't Earth, and isn't even a world... where is it? You seem so calm, I guess you know what happened?" 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''      In all, Shirou was taking it rather well. Internally he might be having a hard time holding himself together, but there was definite potential there. Saber had never particularly noticed before; she had not gotten to know the magus-in-training terribly well while she had been living in the Tohsaka manor with her previous Master.Though he had treated her in a friendly manner, even restoring her motorbike after Gilgamesh had destroyed it, his time was spent in Rin's company for obvious reasons. It would be rather interesting to see how he had been when he was much younger, the young man so entwined with the lives of the Tohsaka sisters.      His comment before she left drew a soft chuckle. "Hm...that is true enough."      The jade-eyed knight did not leave the hall, however, waiting outside for him to change into the provided temporary garments. Shirou would find her outside with her arms folded, leaning against the wall, looking up when he emerged shortly. "I do, indeed. This way," she replied, leading him back down the stairs into the great hall. Stopping at one of the long tables near the hearth, she indicated for him to take a seat. Seating herself opposite from Shirou, she did so with what was for her a languid movement, yet for all the years of a careful act to project the image of a perfect king, was made with a practised elegance.      "Now then," she began, her hands folded in her lap. "What has happened is a process known as Unification. In essence, it is when a world or even a universe merges with the multiverse. What has happened is that your world has now become a part of the multiverse, which is made up of countless worlds and universes."      Saber raised her hand to her face, her finger tapping her chin thoughtfully. "As for this particular world, I am not certain. Occasionally, lands of a similar type seem to merge -- such as different oceans from differing realities -- and form a new land which would appear to function as a proper world. This would appear to be one of them." 

:'''{{#var:560|Emiya Shirou (560)}} has posed:'''     In comparison to Saber's elegance, Shirou is an enthusiastic, sliiiiiiightly clumsy, but earnest, well, peasant. he follows along with no particular demeanor, just taking even steps and regarding Saber with some amount of awe. The kingly demeanor draws his attention, but perhaps not quite in the spirit it's intended to.     Which might be why, when he's suddenly invited to sit across from her, he starts stammering - clearly startled out of his thoughts. So he seats himself without much care, struggling to calm his heart and spirit alike while listening.     "Unification?" The young man repeats the unfamiliar word, and folds his own arms while listening. But the explanation leaves him jawdropping even when it's only halfway through!     "Hghkh?" BOGGLE. Shirou just blinks.     Silence reigns for quite a bit. During that time though, the redhead's expression keeps shifting. Eventually, he just sighs out, "How ridiculous can this day get?"     Settling in the chair better now, he turns a serious face towards Saber. "I see." He probably doesn't, but what else can he SAY to that? "A dimensional distortion... that's way more than anyone could hope to deal with? ...hm.... so, if this Unification just happened, then you wouldn't know where Fuyuki City is... great, I couldn't be more lost." There's a hint of grouch in his tone, but only a hint. Al in all, he's still in a good mood." 

}}

999999/Le Mortefication d'Arturia

2014-08-31T17:51:34Z

ForwardObserver: Adding in some missing poses

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2014/07/04
|Location=Njorun Station - Ring of Philosophy / Fuyuki City
|Synopsis=The Servant Saber pays a visit to Njorun Station, only to meet with a very familiar face, indeed...
|Thanks=
|Cast of Characters=346, 482, Tohsaka Sakura
|Tinyplot=
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' The Multiverse is a place of strangeness. Here there come together things that no one would have thought possible; fantastical things and impossible things, all swimming together like so many fishes in a great, wide sea. For the knight perched on a stone in the midst of an arena of raked sand, it is an impossibility that he still struggles to grasp. Sir Bedivere of Camelot is a literal-minded sort, fiercely loyal but not particularly open-minded about the fantastical and the weird – and ever since coming to this place, this "Union," he has struggled to try and understand what's become of his world. Camelot is safe, but he has heard that his liege is about somewhere in this "Union." At least, somebody very closely matching her description. She's been gone from Camelot, and he had personally laid her to rest beneath the tree on the shores of the lake. He had personally returned Excalibur to the Lady of the Lake, after some convincing from Arturia. Bedivere sits hunched over on his boulder, arms folded over his knees, chin buried in one mail-clad arm, frowning deeply. His sword is at his hip, sheathed, and he looks ready for war in his plate-mail and his heavy cloak. Familiar, perhaps, to some – unchanged. "Hmmph." It's a deep, unhappy sigh. Trying to sort all of this out is like... like... like trying to thread a needle while wearing mail mittens, he decides after a few seconds. "This world is mad," he mumbles to himself. Pushing back to his feet, he returns to the simulation of a dead trunk – the best explanation he'd gotten from the arena's minder is that this was all holographic, whatever that meant; eventually the man had simply said it wasn't real. That made no sense to Bedivere, but it was a working arena that he could practise his skills in while he thought about his next move. And so his blade flashes silver in the simulated sun – and simulated sawdust flies as the blade bites into the dead trunk, Bedivere practically dancing as he battles some imaginary foe of Camelot; light on his feet despite his heavy armour, pale hair flying behind him as he changes direction and spins on one plated sabaton to strike at the log from the other side. No doubt a familiar sight, to some. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' As much as she had felt obligated to help out in the supernatural criminal cases of the multiverse -- as both a member of the half-angel-led Heaven or Hell and a "special consultant" to Harry Dresden, Wizard of Chicago -- the Servant known simply as Saber occasionally wondered how much indignity she was capable of enduring. The day before had found the King of Knights in the Winter Court, which in itself was bad enough. But the fae had taken to the modern era in various ways, and Harry's being forced to act as a courier between the Seelie and Unseelie Courts due to a "really bad deal" with his fairy godmother had landed knight and wizard in the middle of a rave and all manner of unsavoury sorts -- male and female to include Mab herself -- taking a rather unhealthy interest in Dresden's accomplice. It was more than just a little disgusting. But the worst indignity in her mind was her prickly response to warn them off, name-dropping the Lady of the Lake as a reminder that they had better behave themselves. It had not gone as planned. Finding herself alone, Arturia allowed her mask to slip as she entered the Union's recreational and training area, releasing an exhausted, pent-up sigh. She liked Dresden personally and the bribes of the multiverse-famous "Chicago deep dish" were worth the trouble, but that hardly meant that the Unseelie hadn't been practically begging for their faces to the concrete...or whatever that floor was made of. Saber didn't want to think of what else it could possibly be. The fae here had been nearly as annoying as one fellow Servant in particular, another person she tried very hard not to think about lest it ruin her entire day. For now, she was going to enjoy some training and take a long bath to purge the grime. A frown marred the girlish face; her suit was in dire need of drycleaning as it was. Rather than summon her battle armour, Arturia opted to borrow a training uniform -- apparently the only one her diminutive size was something more suitable for Chinese unarmed martial arts than sword training -- as she was reluctant to switching back afterwards to her tainted modern clothing. Now ready, Saber headed to the arena...only to find it was already in use. She stifled another sigh; not that she was annoyed with it being used, that would have been rude. But the weariness was wearing her down more than it should have, and the Servant wondered if the years she had been in the multiverse had spoiled her to the point of rot. She would need the training, no doubt. Curiosity getting the better of her, she peered in, idly wondering if the user was someone she knew...and though she couldn't see clearly at the distance, there was indeed something familiar... 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' The sword flashes as though it were a living thing, rearing back and striking with a serpent's speed. It nearly blurs as it lunges for the tree trunk that Bedivere has chosen as the object of venting his annoyance; sawdust and chips of wood fly from what is fast becoming an unrecognisable chunk of wood. He moves well, with speed one would not necessarily expect him to have, wearing full plate armour and a heavy, reinforced cloak. It shines in white and blue, bright and proud, and every inch of him seems to be primed and ready for battle. It shows in his eyes, pale as they are, focused on that trunk with such intensity that they might well pass for a bird of prey (or perhaps another familiar friend, to the King of Knights). It isn't until the king chooses to look into the arena that the sword halts in its track, pulled back with an audible grunt of effort; it wouldn't do to shower any potential spectators with splinters. Sir Bedivere of Camelot turns, frowning slightly. He hadn't expected any visitors, but... The first thing to strike him is how short his visitor is. Not a child, though. Those proportions may be fine and slender, but they are an adult's, not a child's. And certainly not a novice, for they carry themselves with the grace of a warrior. What strikes him most, though, is the eyes. Once he spots them, the much-taller knight simply stops, his sword droops until the point touches the ground, and he stares with his mouth hanging open like a village yokel. It takes him about ten seconds to fully regain his composure, jaw snapping shut so quick the click of teeth is audible. And then Bedivere drops to one knee so hard he could swear, somewhere in the dim recesses of his numbed mind, that he must have bruised something. So fast does he fall that his cloak is, for one brief instant, floating in the air behind him until, with a heavy rustle, it follows his movements. "M-my King...!" His statement is a shocked breath, and his voice is likely as familiar as ever; seeming as though it could be a masculine woman or a feminine man. "H-how–?" He is, for the moment, staring quite wide-eyed at the ground beneath Saber's feet. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' In turn, the King of Knights was every bit as shocked as her knight. The tiny blonde stood, frozen as if made of a block of ice, her face carved from stone. Only her eyes gave her away, snapped impossibly wide as her mind reeled. Though, perhaps it shouldn't have; she had encountered Lancelot twice already, and it was entirely possible that other Knights of the Round Table were somewhere in the multiverse. On the other hand, it was a very big multiverse, and this was only the second time in nearly four years she had encountered one of her knights. It took a long moment to recover her wits, her mind catching up to her outward composure. And ironically, that composure relaxed. Even around her closest knights, Arturia had carefully maintained her facade of the king, neither truly frowning nor truly smiling...so much so that one knight in particular had, unbeknownst to her, merely wished to once see her true expressions. While it had certainly been necessary to hide the truth of her sex from the people -- even her knights -- what Rider had said about her was true; she had never led them, she tried to save them. Revealing anything of herself would have been a burden. But time in the multiverse had worn down that mask, and her friends had pointed out that the greater burden would have been worrying over her. No reassurances to the contrary had ever seemed to fool any of them. Had it been that way with her knights, as well, and she merely refused to see it? She had assumed it was too late to truly make amends with them; meeting Lancelot when he was not hiding behind a madness enhancement and trying to commit suicide by king had been an entirely unexpected stroke of fortune, one that she had never expected to encounter again. Arturia had decided to force her mask down instead with her new friends, allowing them to see the glimpses of annoyance, amusement, exasperation, and even happiness. For a brief moment, she was at a loss for how she should act. Her instincts demanded falling back into her old patterns as the King of Britain...and yet, living with the emotionally-open Tohsakas and other friends had unlocked other paths that simply seemed natural. Whether it would confuse her knight or not, Arturia opted for the latter. It might have seemed strange, but the familiar mask dropped, and the King of Knights allowed a slight, gentle smile to alight on her face. "Please, forgive me...I did not intent to interrupt your training, Sir Bedivere," she replied. It was too precious a moment to waste on a mask that, in truth, she no longer had much of a need for...especially for one of her beloved knights, and even more so for one whom was as close to her as he. 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Perhaps he had not been expecting the king to drop her mask. She had always been guarded, though it had pained him on some level to see her sacrifice herself for the sake of her people. Not that he did not admire that, or respect that – but it saddened him, somewhat, to know that she had put her people before herself to such an extent. Never had he seen her so much as smile. Some part of him had always wanted to see that, impossible as it may have been. So when she favoured him with that gentle smile, his reaction is to blink owlishly, and to stare. At least his mouth isn't hanging open this time, but his expression is one of obvious puzzlement. "My King?" Never had he presumed closeness with her, although he trusted her with his life, and always he had observed the correct and proper titles. So strong a habit is that that he does so even now, head cocked like a curious hound. And he continues to stare, because it's just plain odd to see her without her kingly raiment; her richly adorned armour. Bedivere can do little more than stare, for a few moments. "No, my lord, you were not interrupting anything." He finally remembers himself, head straightening, though he remains on one knee. He wouldn't presume to rise until told to do so; he would never breach the rules of etiquette so. "But if it would please my lord to do something else, I will put up my sword. I... I did not expect meet with you here." He shakes his head and stares, and a smile even threatens the corners of his own mouth – only through effort does he stop the smile, though he can't completely banish it from his voice. "I had despaired of ever meeting again. My lord had slept so soundly on the shore of the lake, I had feared my lord dead..." He shakes his head, looking to the ground, hair falling across his face. (Quite a few suspect he's a woman. Quite a few are wrong.) "No training is as important as to meet with you again." He looks up, sudden fire in eyes that are otherwise so mild. "I am yours to command, my lord. Now and ever." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' His formality was at once so familiar that it was almost nostalgic, yet in some ways alien. Out of everyone she had met in the past three years, only Harry addressed her as 'Your Majesty' and only fellow knights such as Agrias addressed her as a peer in their respective knighthoods. Those who could sense something of royalty in her found themselves sitting up a little straighter or sometimes curbing coarse language, but it wasn't the same thing as living in the middle of court, insisting on maintaining a level of protocol necessary to reassure the people that the king would protect them and rule them wisely and fairly. The modern era was more informal than otherwise, and Arturia, in spite of her generally hidebound ways, had become accustomed to it. Beneath her mask, one of the feelings she had buried was to grant her knights the companionship they longed for; before she was a king, Arturia was a knight. It was only natural that the camaraderie that could only come from those who had faced death on the battlefield and returned was something that knights and soldiers wanted to share, but to her people, the King of knights had to become the king first. Friendship, family and a normal human life were sacrifices that needed to be made, and she had accepted that. But it meant that there were some wishes that she could not grant, lest accusations of favouritism tear the court apart. Or so she had believed. Other tragedies she had been unable to prevent tore the kingdom apart instead, and rebellion brought her dream -- and her life -- to an end. The Holy Grail had granted her a chance to correct it, only to be a tainted relic with no other purpose than opening a path to Akasha for a Master upon sacrificing his own Servant. At first, Saber decided to seek out a different method; if the Grail could not grant her wish, surely a multiverse with limitless opportunities would. Yet, while the means to save Camelot might yet exist, she had some to see her past as perhaps something best left untampered with. What Iskander could not convince her of, precious friends led her to, seeing their lives as important as her duty to her people. Where she had failed Britain, she would succeed with Sakura, Rin, Agrias, Psyber, Harry, and countless others of the Union. And beyond that, Arymes Prydain had hinted at another possibility...though for the moment, perhaps the Abstractum did not feel that she was quite ready to hear of it. It took a moment for her to step back into role, if for no other reason than to let the man get back on his feet. "Rise, Sir Bedivere," she said, straightening a little more. Impressive, considering that even when informal, Saber's posture was impeccable. And yet, she was unable to don the impassive mask completely; the smile was still there. 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Although it was something he had longed for, companionship had been an unattainable goal for Bedivere; he had learned to content himself merely to serve, to the best of his abilities, and ease the burden from his liege in that manner. She would never need to worry herself about his conduct, and any tasks she gave to him would be carried out to the utmost of his abilities and in the highest of integrity. The least he could do, he had once reasoned, would be easing her burdens that way. Some of the other Knights of the Round had come into suspicion; their conduct and their honour had been sullied by their own actions. Bedivere only prayed that he would never fall to such depths, but more than that, he prayed that he might never disappoint his liege so. Her approval meant everything to him; more than that, it meant everything to him to be able to claim such high honour. He could not envision himself without knighthood. It was as natural to him as breathing. Bedivere cocks his head slightly, and that air of puzzlement is still settled about him when he regards the King of Knights, the King of Britain, his liege; the one whom he had so ardently served for so many years. He frowns, but not out of disappointment. It's simple puzzlement. Saber might even find the expression amusing. He just seems so uncomprehending at that faint smile of hers. "My lord." His acknowledgement does seem a little hollow when he finally climbs to his feet, the plates of his armour clanking faintly. "Is aught amiss...?" In other words, surely there's a reason why you're smiling like a lunatic, because that's starting to creep me out, the question seems to say. Bedivere is too hidebound to actually say as much, but his concern is noticeable. More to the point, who are you, and what have you done with the real King Arturia? There's a moment or two of awkward silence in which Bedivere brushes imaginary grit from the plates protecting his knees; or from the hem of his unsullied white cloak. He folds his arms, and for a few seconds more, he seems completely at a loss as to what to do. His armoured shoulders slump, very slightly. "Ah..." It's more a breath than a sigh, and his head bows, hair falling across his eyes. The great sigh he gives after that is definitely a sigh, and it seems like a breath that had been pent-up for years. It's hard to tell whether it's a breath of regret or relief, but after a few moments, it seems that it must surely be the latter. "It is so good to see you alive and hale, my lord. I had feared the worst..." He looks up with a tiny, somewhat uncertain smile of his own. It fades after a moment, and again he seems a little puzzled; mystified by Saber's own show of emotion, however restrained it might be. Bedivere had in time become accustomed to the mask, and if he had suspected some of the king's fears, he had never spoken on them. He had simply accepted her behaviour, and accepted serving her to the best of his ability; the very role model of a good, loyal knight – no ulterior motives and no hidden agendas, with Bedivere. There was only service, and only his unshakeable loyalty to his liege-lord Arturia. To see anything but the mask is extremely disconcerting, to go by the naked puzzlement on his face. "It is you. I see it in your eyes, though your behaviour be strange to me – why do you smile so? Has something happened? Tell me; are you safe? Are you hale?" Now he sounds worried, and though he barely moves, shifting his weight, his eyes betray his concern. "Please, my lord, if you lack for anything, tell me. I will see to it." Oh God, what's wrong with her? Why is she smiling? Poor Bedivere. He doesn't quite seem to know how to deal with that. Well, at least he seems to have the best of intentions heart, still. Sir Bedivere of Camelot seems not to have changed in the least. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' The smile faded, replaced by a look of puzzlement of her own. Was it truly that strange? But then, she had been in the multiverse for several years after she had been first summoned as a Servant; bitter at first and truly cold, then gradually opening up. The piece de resistance when she had realised just how much she had changed had been after inviting Lancelot to dinner at the Tohsaka estate, when the violet-eyed knight decided to 'test' her with an old game, only to have her Master blurt out the proper response. It had taken a moment for both Servants to recover from staring at the painfully shy magus, only for the stoic King of Knights to laugh. Poor Bedivere, indeed. He would have doubtless had a heart attack. Unfortunately, this was not going to be easy for either of them. The otherwise calm, serious Knight of the Round Table looked so utterly baffled, so out of his element that it took all of Arturia's willpower not to laugh once more. But this time, it would have been not so much out of amusement as the feeling of nostalgia overtaking her again. The memory of his first appearance at the court, an untested strip of a boy seeking to become a knight of Camelot, seemed at once distant and yet, with that knight standing there, as if it were merely the day before. He had always been so serious, so dedicated to his duties...all of them had been, of course, but Gawain had always been cracking jokes when he could, and Lancelot had been more melancholy than stoic as time went on. Bedivere had been more like Arturia herself; taking his duties as seriously as she had taken hers. It was probably for the best that she not recount that particular dinner. "I am hale," she reassured the poor man with a wave of her hand, fighting off another nostalgic smile. "Worry not. It is....simply that a great many things have happened since I arrived here. Many battles have been fought, and I have found myself in some...unusual circumstances." Involuntarily, her brow wrinkled in worry. She only knew of what had happened to her after Camlann from second-hand accounts, having been summoned from a point before her death. Were she to return, by all accounts only death awaited her, and that was a sorrowful burden she was not about to place on the tall knight. But she had probably better find out; Saber had a feeling it was going to be brought up in the foreseeable future. And then there was perhaps an even bigger problem: Bedivere wasn't a Servant. How much of the bloody ritual war of Heaven's Feel was known, she couldn't discern, but if he remained ignorant of it, Arturia would prefer to keep him innocent of it. Nothing good could come of that knowledge, whether it would be in the form of disappointment in her, or driving himself to an early death worrying over her even if that war was well behind her. Saber suppressed a sigh; her death should have set him free, not keep him bound to her. The selfish part of her was overjoyed to see him again, but the selfless knightly part curse whatever thread of fate had brought Bedivere into the multiverse. Even if King Arthur could not live a normal life, her people and her knights should have been able to. The petite blonde found herself in a dilemma; pushing him away and attempting to convince him to forget about her and the knighthood would be painful and probably impossible. As much as she hated to admit it, she was thankful Sakura wasn't there...or anyone else, for that matter. It would have taken even more explaining on her part and fretting on his, and she needed some time to prepare everyone. But as much of a headache as everything was probably going to be, Saber nevertheless had to pour considerable willpower into not smiling. As selfish as it was of her, she had missed him so. "I have been in this universe for nearly four years," she explained. "Though it might be improper of a king I must be truthful...it is good to see you again, Sir Bedivere." 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Evidently such a reaction is, indeed, truly strange from the point of Bedivere. So accustomed to the mask had he become that to see anything else – no matter how much he might have wished to see a genuine reaction from his king – was indicative of something very much out of the ordinary. Still, he is a knight, and he seems to find his balance well enough once he has reason to believe that there's no witchcraft at play. She does indeed seem to be Arturia, and her mannerisms are very much like the Arturia that he was once familiar with. He might have said that he once knew – but he wonders, briefly, if anyone truly knew her. She allowed few that luxury; that honour. Bedivere presses his lips into a thin line, not quite displeasure, but not quite contentment. Something troubles him, and his expression is almost pained when she mentions unusual circumstances. Truth be told, he finds himself under strange skies and in odd times, as well. "Ah... about that." He reaches up, rubbing at the back of his neck in very un-knightly gesture. While not necessarily high-strung, he was certainly one of the first knights to worry himself sick about inconsequential details. Occasionally he had reason to break his facade of stoicism, and often it was to express his ceaseless worrying. If any of the Knights of the Round understood the difficult business of running a kingdom, it was Bedivere, Arturia's own right hand. Many of the administrative tasks fell to him when she became too busy to manage it all herself; he understood what was needed, and most of the time, he saw that things were taken care of in a just and expedient manner. But he understood the pressures, and felt the driving compulsion to ensure that all in Camelot were treated fairly and enjoyed as decent a quality of life as could be provided for them. In some ways it was something of an impossible goal. With so much warfare and so many enemies on all sides, both without and within, it was difficult to bear the suffering of its people, at times. There were orphans living on the kingdom's streets; hungry and alone in this world. This world, though, has suddenly grown larger. Bedivere's hand drops back to his side. For a moment, he seems to be at a loss for words. He settles for folding his arms, though the posture looks oddly defensive from such a tall and solidly-built knight; lost, even. Or perhaps just very worried. It wouldn't be outside the realm of normalcy for Bedivere. He had always taken his duties as seriously as Arturia had. "If I might be honest with you, my lord, I have had a strange time of things, myself." He glances back over to Saber, frowning slightly. "I had returned Excalibur to the Lady of the Lake, as you had instructed, and I had left you on its shore. But when I sought to return to Camelot, the roads became strange... by God, they were bewitched! I prayed that I might find the proper path, for I wished to return and set Camelot aright, until your eventual return, but try as I might, I could not find the way." His gauntleted fingers splay wide, palms up, in confused gesture. "And there were brigands on the road. Brigands! In broad daylight! Although I was able to drive them off, my horse was frightened away. I became disoriented." "After that I came across a strange man from this 'Union,'" the knight continues. "He said that I could swear my service here, but I–I could swear no oath to him, for I had sworn my sword to you, my King. But I told him I would serve for a time, for I had nowhere else to go, and no means by which to return to Camelot. I have been here since. That was... a fortnight ago? Perhaps two? I have had no cause to raise my sword, yet, but I have been waiting for the opportunity..." The knight seems at a loss when she says it's good to see him again, and indeed, for several moments he seems torn and almost pained; perhaps mulling over what to say. Perhaps Arturia can understand that struggle between duty and self, rare a conflict as it may be for one like Bedivere. He finally sighs, arms dropping and shoulders sagging a bit, head bowing forward. His slump is almost enough to take him to his knees, but he wobbles on his feet a bit, keeping himself upright – even if this whole situation is surreal, and even if the mere sight of her again nearly drives him back to his knees in shock. "Four years..." This time he does sag slowly, and there's a muted, metallic thump when his armoured rump hits the ground. Bedivere exhales a long, slow sigh of befuddlement and shock. "Four years? Had I been wandering so long? Yes, I suppose that is possible. I did not have any sense of time. I do not know where I went, or from whence I came. What was left to me? To return to a Camelot that did not have you at its reins... it did not seem right, my King," he admits faintly. "I could not imagine serving another lord. It shames me, but I was content to wander, even though I could not have found my way had I wanted to." "It is not proper or knightly to say this, either, but... I am glad to see you again, my King." He looks up to her, apparently not caring that he's in a terribly undignified position. The taller knight remains flat on his rump, cloak crumpled, hands splayed behind and legs splayed out before him. Slowly he smiles, an expression of genuine pleasure, apparently not caring about dignity or propriety, for just a moment. "I am glad. Truly. I did not expect to see you wake from that shore ever again. I am blessed to lay eyes on you again, my King; to speak with you once more." A few seconds of silence pass. He frowns, slightly, cocking his head to one side like a puzzled hound. "...But whatever are you wearing, my King?" 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' As much as she had kept everyone at an emotional distance, there were certain mannerisms and behaviours that Arturia recognised in those closest to her...or, at least those who had comprised of those she had trusted with knighthood and nobility. She felt some sympathy for Bedivere; four years ago, she had found herself in a similar predicament. However, his situation was far more complicated. The Holy Grail had imparted at least some knowledge of the current era, and she knew that she might be summoned into an era far into her future, so there were a number of things she knew to expect. She could only imagine his reaction to the flying machines that now filled the skies...and the ones which went well beyond them. Another internal sigh. This was going to prove difficult, even disregarding Heaven's Feel. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she mulled over the completely unexpected situation, and adapting was proving to be much more difficult than first appearances. But as a king it was a necessity for her to think and resolve problems quickly...however much she might have regretted the decision afterwards. It seemed that for every decision she had made, she should have made the other one. But now was not the time to mourn her reign again. Folding her arms and closing her eyes, Saber tapped a finger on her arm, deciding that there were some things that she simply couldn't ease the bewildered knight into. This was not going to put his mind at ease at all. "There is... I fear no comforting way to put this, but...for the most part, these worlds exist thousands of years after our own era. And, to my knowledge, there is no way to return." Admittedly, that was not completely true, at least in her case. Not that she was inclined to simply disappear and return to her death-bed under the oak...she had become quite comfortable with being able to make a difference in the world at long last, not to mention all the wonderful food the era had to offer. Now she had one more reason not to simply give up and slip away quietly to her death; someone would need to look out for Bedivere. As capable as she knew he was, being tossed abruptly into the multiverse was overwhelming for anyone. At the very least, she was grateful someone from the Union had found him...some of the Confederacy's members were clever enough to obfuscate the true nature of their organisation. "The Union are as close to a knighthood as any that exists in this time," Arturia attempted to explain. "They are committed to keeping the pathways into this world out of evil hands. I suppose one could think of them as ley lines...I fear the more complicated understanding of them eludes me." She avoided speaking about Camelot further; Saber knew Bedivere would discover the truth eventually, but she hoped she could break that part to him gently...as well as that of her apparent death. Though that in itself would come with no end of complications, such as the fact that she was now a Servant, a being no longer human. Had she been alone, she would have pinched the bridge of her nose in frustrated musing and paced, but for the moment she had to keep up appearances. Fortunately, she no longer had much of a need to hide her true identity -- and hopefully the other Sabers wouldn't complicate things even further -- but first she would have to contact her friends and associates and warn them of what was to come. And then there was Mordred, another Saber like herself. Damn it all....this was entirely more complicated than anything had a right to be. "There are a great many good, honourable people in this world, even fellow knights from distant lands. However, there are a great many enemies, some of whom we know all too well." Arturia could not keep her mask in place completely at her knight's admission; as complicated as it was, she was genuinely happy to see him again. Regretfully, the moment was not to last. "Oh....ah. Perhaps the best way to put this is that...it is a long story..." As if someone had decided that her life was not nearly complicated enough, that someone had decided that they needed to call her on her cell phone right this minute. On the one hand, she was not going to need to explain the Chinese-style uniform. On the other, explaining her cell phone was going to prove even more of as headache. The King of Knights might or might not have been fidgeting at this point in time. 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Though Bedivere is certainly capable of coldness and ruthlessness, where King Arturia is concerned, he is largely guileless. Although none could truly be said to be close to her, he was perhaps the most likely to be; loyal, and unquestioning in his devotion to her every command and her every potential need -- many times had he anticipated something she might want, or perhaps anticipated some need of the kingdom, the better to ease the burden off her shoulders. He knew that she had borne so much of the burden; taken on so much of the lion's share of worrying, and he sought where he could to ease that. Right now, though, he probably looks a little silly, sat down and splayed out like that. Truth be told, magic is not so foreign a notion. Perhaps it was out of the hands of ordinary folk, more into the domain of magicians like Merlin or Morgan le Fay, but its existence was not entirely a secret in the days long past to the modern era. Such an explanation may be why Bedivere accepts what he does of this strange new world. The only possible way any of this makes even a bare minimum of sense is "magic." He didn't necessarily watch Arturia die, but it was close enough – there was a chilling finality to the act of laying her at the oak tree's roots. He just stays on the ground, possibly because it's easier to look up at her than to force her to look up at him. It's kind of awkward when your liege-lord is about a foot and a half shorter than you are. "A knighthood." He cocks his head, this time looking more thoughtful than lost. "I suppose that makes sense. 'Twas the impression I had gathered, myself. One of them said I looked familiar, though I could not imagine why... but yes. They seem as such. Hmmm. I can respect that they wish to keep the pathways protected, and out of evil hands. Even men alone are capable of great evils, but I've a feeling there are many more things than just men to be wary of." Bedivere is, at least, reasonably perceptive. It makes certain things (and probably dealing with eventual Multiversal things) much easier. "I can agree with that." To Arturia's assessment of many honourable people, that earns another faint, un-knightly smile. "Good. That is good." It makes his job a little bit easier. It's so much harder to uphold the pillars of knighthood when you're the only one doing it, or the only one who seems to take things seriously. "I am glad for that... but there are always enemies, my King, even in the most safe-seeming realms. 'Tis why we must take our vows seriously. We must uphold the pillars of knighthood, even if it seems we may be the last ones to fight the good fight. Yes? Especially because those enemies may be those we know all too well. And sometimes those enemies may even be ourselves..." Perceptive indeed. He's a quiet one, though; most of the time rarely imparting such insight unless asked directly. Bedivere drums gauntleted fingers on the ground, thoughtful under his liege's revelations. He straightens, looking thoughtful, though he does eye her a bit oddly when she smiles again. It seems he still has to get used to that aspect. To see something beyond the cold, seemingly indifferent mask is a little strange. It isn't quite off-putting, but it does give him pause. "Uh?" And then, a cell phone rings. Bedivere looks around, left, then right; over his shoulder, before he centres on the source of that sound. Arturia. Specifically, Arturia's pocket. The loyal knight frowns, somewhat deeply, and he points straight at Arturia. "My lord," he proclaims, with such gravity that she's bound to find it amusing, "there is a demon-thing. In... in your pocket." He sounds somewhere between horrified and intensely curious. "What... is that. Infernal. Chirping." Poor Bedivere. Welcome to the modern age. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' It was more than a little bit of a relief that the "magic" explanation made things more comprehensive, and in truth, Arturia didn't understand any better than the average Elite. The world that she and her knight came from was tucked away in some small corner of it, or some version of it. That was another headache in the offing, having to explain the phenomenon of Unification...and of course, there was the extremely bizarre happenstance of different versions of the same person. That, above all else, was going to cause no end of headaches. How could a knight pledge his loyalty to another Arturia, should another duplicate turn up again? A small part of her was sorely tempted to call Ezio and take him up on his drink offer; the King of Knights had a feeling she was going to need it. As much as it was something of a relief on her neck not to have to crane her neck up to look the tall, pale-haired knight in the eye, Arturia couldn't help but feel a little bit bad about the situation, given how Bedivere tried to maintain the same level of dignity as she did. Like her, he was not always successful, though at least the indignities she had suffered had generally gone largely unwitnessed....except for perhaps that one horribly embarrassing episode where Gilgamesh had demanded both her and Mordred's hands in marriage...after somehow exploding his clothes off. Saber couldn't completely suppress the shudder from the deeply-scarring memory. She sincerely hoped Bedivere would never have to suffer knowing the insufferable Archer's existence. After that terrible moment, however, she had made the knight suffer his own indignity more than long enough. Though perhaps he would be mortified by it, the petite king offered her hand to help him up, and -- even more unsettling -- allowed a slightly chagrined expression to flicker across her face. "Forgive my rudeness," she apologised. It was a good thing she was maintaining some caution; Bedivere was proving once again one of the reasons why she had hand-picked him to be her Marshal. Finding oneself in the multiverse could be compared to teaching someone to swim by tossing that person into a deep part in the ocean, and Arturia was not about to allow him to drown in the information overload...or, for that matter, the tragic end of their legend. But she would have to begin that task immediately. "An order....and like any order, not all are what we would speak of as 'honourable'. Their purpose is to uphold a semblance of law across the worlds, though some employ methods we would not approve of." As much as she personally liked the Hashashins, she had not entirely agreed with some of their methods even as she had understood their necessity. And their own world was far different from hers in a great many ways, and they were among what she had considered the more honourable members of their organisation. "By the by, the Confederacy is not entirely without honour....or rather, certain members are not. Many are reprehensible, though others give one pause. There are some whose position within it puzzle me," she admitted somewhat ruefully. Saber still wondered what Nine was doing in it, other than the fact that he seemed to think of himself as a being of chaos and that he was simply supposed to be there. Once again, she set aside her musings to focus on the immediate concern, a person whose life was precious enough to her for the king to end up protecting the knight where she could. For what seemed like an eternity, Saber simply stared at Bedivere and his reaction to something she had for years taken for granted. After a second it finally registered, and with the last scrap of willpower left quickly slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle what would have been the same laugh Lancelot and Sakura had heard over the callback from the "Rogue in the Castle" game they played with cutlery. It was so unexpected, and yet...so very much like the Bedivere she knew. But though the laugh itself was successfully stifled and her mask mostly in place, her shaking shoulders gave her away. It was going to require a few moments for her to completely regain her composure and calmly explain that what he was hearing was a simple communication device. She sincerely hoped he hadn't been given a radio yet. 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Thankfully, the Union had explained some of the sticky business of Unification to their newest recruit. That had not been terribly difficult, eventually having found somebody from a similar timeline as the Dark Ages of Europe; someone who had been able to couch the terms into something familiar enough for the bewildered Sir Bedivere of Camelot to digest more easily. That doesn't make it any easier, though. Some subconscious part of him still struggles to place all of this, to reconcile these many worlds with his one; the unknown with the known. Bedivere doesn't seem to mind being splayed on the ground, as it does mean he doesn't need to make Arturia suffer the indignity of looking up at him. It might be undignified, but right now, there aren't any other people to observe such. It's also possible he's still a bit in shock over the whole affair, too, and less prone to caring about his dignity than he might normally be. He cocks his head at the hand offered him, before holding up a gauntleted hand in a gesture of polite refusal. No, he wouldn't put her out like that. And he's tall and solid enough that he might well haul her off her feet unintentionally, which would be even worse. Instead he climbs to his feet, brushing nonexistent grit and sand from his armour; straightening out his cloak fastidiously, and smoothing the creases in it. He folds his arm once that's done, letting the cloak fall to curl around him. The posture almost makes it seem as though he's cold, though likely it's more because that heavy cloak is a comfort in the face of such strangeness. Despite his discomfort, though, Bedivere seems to be handling himself reasonably well – he is a knight, and he thinks on his feet reasonably well; recovers quickly from shock. This and many other reasons are why he had been elected Marshal by Arturia herself; and now that he's over his initial shock, he's beginning to prove those qualities. Slowly. "Hmmm." Bedivere affords a thoughtful sound on the matter of honour, though it seems a bit dubious. "I can believe that. But were there not knights whose honour was suspect?" He's not speaking of anybody directly, but certain examples do come to mind. The pale-eyed knight's expression is a little dubious. "'Tis any order that will have its black sheep, and its rotten apples." "I expect the Union is no different," he says, shrugging with a clank, "though I grant it is on a much larger scale than aught I have ever seen before." There's a short pause. "Ever." Ah, the Confederacy. He had heard of that band of rogues and blackguards, although he has no reason yet to leap into conflict with them. He's still testing the waters, as it were, and finding his place in this Multiverse. They sound like just the sort of thing with which he might like to raise his sword in defiance, though. Silence falls, then, and he finds himself stared at by his liege, and the object of his selfless devotion for so many years. Bedivere stares back, though after a few moments he seems uncomfortable under such scrutiny, turning and coughing into a hand, looking away. She might not miss the slight flush of high cheekbones; or the way he looks away so as to avoid her gaze. Is the Marshal of Camelot nervous, and actually fidgeting under the gaze of this slip of a king? Yup. Actually, the longer she goes without saying anything or looking away from him, the redder he's going to get. Truth be told, it's odd to have her react in such human ways. It's very odd. He'd become so accustomed to the mask. He had always looked up to her, and served her in any way he thought might benefit her. He had served her because he believed in Camelot and wished the best for it, as much as for its king. But mostly, he served her because he followed Arturia as much as he followed any ideal – in some ways, she is the ideal he had always aspired to; she is the one whose approval he had always sought. She was the impossible goal he had always striven for, even knowing that his cold, distant "king" was unattainable. Oh, yes; he had known her secret for a long time, trusted with it, and had altered his own appearance for her sake to ease suspicions throughout the kingdom – though it had been a small enough sacrifice, gentle of appearance as Bedivere had always been. A braid here, a braid there, and perhaps the softer lines of a heavy cloak over his armour to blunt some of the hard angles of chain and steel. When she stifles that laugh, he turns on his heel to face her again, blinking owlishly in helpless confusion; so helpless that it might just set her off properly. He might be the perfect picture of dignity much of the time, particularly in the public eye, as Camelot's steel-spined Marshal... but here, he is just a knight, and a lost one at that. Bedivere just sort of stares at her, helplessly, because he doesn't know what else to do. Chances are he had indeed been given a radio, and he hadn't bothered to investigate it too closely or activate it just yet. Clearly, he is not familiar with the protocols of communication devices calling to one another, and attributes that noise to witchcraft and devilry. "Milord?" Bedivere says, somewhat helplessly, in the face of her trembling shoulders. He even reaches out hesitantly, as though uncertain that it's laughter that's the "problem." Steel-clad fingers brush her shoulder before he remembers himself, snatching his hand away as though burnt. "I–I am sorry; forgive me... are—are you hale...?" 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Though she knew the knight had his reasons for refusing her offer, Arturia inwardly flinched. But she should have expected as much; she had insisted on a certain level of protocol...needed to, in fact. Had she been a man, it might have been unnecessary, as she wouldn't have needed to hide being a girl from nearly the entire kingdom. Yet even then, the people had taken comfort in such assured, formal rule, and giving them confident rule had been one of her aspirations, even as it was a confidence she had never truly felt. Saber let her hand fall back to her side, the more familiar impassive mask back in place. back to business, it would seem. Nevertheless, it was good that he could understand the broader situation, the Union-Confederacy conflict, as well as the fact that everyone involved had a familiar range of alignments and motivations. If there was one part of her rule that she did maintain confidence in, it had been in her selection of capable knights. "Quite so. In many ways, it is not so different than our days in Camelot. The difficulty lies in understanding so many differing mindsets...there are those from countries whose entire ways of thinking are beyond what we are accustomed to. It is not that they lack honour, it is merely that their sense of it is...peculiar." In particular, she thought back to the Hashashins, some of whom were honourable even by their rigid standards...except, perhaps, in their method of fighting. Ezio was probably as close to being a traditional knight as one of the order could get. then again, she tended to think highly of those whose cooking and sense of hospitality were as praiseworthy as his. To be fair, anyone who could bear the brunt of a Saber's appetite must possess at least some modicum of good in his or her heart, demanding as it did a deep sense of generosity. But in truth, as a proper knight she reined herself in, keenly aware of the sacrifices one made to feed others; the peasants of their era had struggled, especially through the winter months, and much effort was spent to help them. They were the backbone of her kingdom, and King Arthur made it known. And when it came to the hospitality of others, the Servant only allowed her legendary fearsome appetite to run unchecked once explicitly invited to do so. Even still, those who adhered to their ancient law of hospitality tended to reserve a special admiration in her heart, even if they themselves had no knowledge of the Brehon Laws. It was still, in the petite knight's mind, a form of high honour. The moment of seriousness didn't last for very long. Hand still clasped over her mouth with some vestiges of tears forming at the corners of her eyes, Saber nodded helplessly, waving her unoccupied right hand, unable to speak until she was finally able to assert control over her amusement. Quickly, she cleared her throat, her smile no longer faint. "Ah...yes, forgive me," she apologised, fishing the phone out of her pocket. "This is a device for the purpose of communicating with another over great distances." The doubtless disconcerting smile faded slightly, becoming somewhat...sheepish? Was King Arthur actually embarrassed? "I am sorry that it was so startling...there are a great many things which could have only been possible in our own country through magic." And here, perhaps the most startling of all, she became much more animated than she ever had in her lifetime. By anyone else's standards, she would have been calm and sedate, but for the girl who became the Once and Future King of Britain, she was positively giddy, unable to contain herself any longer. "Starvation is all but unheard of in this era, even in the most severe of winters. So many diseases have found cures...there is still poverty, but the people nevertheless have clothes and food..and can even obtain a noble's education. In some ways, this era is like a miracle...though it is not perfect, it is more than I could have ever thought possible." 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' "Those from our own country sometimes thought in ways beyond what I am accustomed to," Bedivere points out. "There were those whom I did not understand living even in Camelot. 'Tis not the trouble to live with them, but to understand them. I believe a true knight must accept and be at peace with all who surround him." Bedivere smiles a gentle little smile. "You taught me that, milord. To be the calm in the midst of the storm." Although he might seem hapless in the face of modern technology, he has always been an insightful knight, if prone to quiet and brooding almost as much as his liege. His voice is gentle enough that some have mistaken him for a woman; never demanding, always thoughtful. He gives consideration to his words before he speaks, and he always tries to settle on a fair solution to conflict or conundrum. In all, he's been a wonderfully efficient marshal; one Arturia has never needed to chastise, and almost never correct. He is wise, and fair, but perhaps he lacks some of Arturia's ruthlessness in her role as king; he is perhaps too gentle, especially for a man. Some perhaps saw him as too soft, though none questioned his skill and ferocity in pursuit of Arturia's defense. Rare was it indeed that she ever needed defending, but in those rare cases, perhaps happenstance on the battlefield, Bedivere was there; sword bared and thundering his defiance like a force of nature given form. Right now, however, he doesn't look very threatening. He sheaths his sword, folding his arms over his chest and tilting his chin to look down at the diminutive King of Knights, and the communication device she fishes out of her pocket. He squints at it, even as she tries not to weep with laughter. He has the distinct impression that he's been had, somehow, by something, somewhere in the cosmos. At least Arturia's almost giddy pleasure doesn't seem to be disturbing him too much. He even allows a tentative smile at her own mirth, as though not quite willing to believe it, and unwilling to call attention to it, lest it disappear. For a few seconds, all he can do is watch, conversation utterly forgotten – just to see her smile, or even laugh; he doesn't even care that it's entirely at his own expense. For her, he would happily play the court fool, just to see that smile. It takes a few seconds for him to realise that she's talking to him again. "Milord." He himself looks sheepish for a moment, perhaps embarrassed to be caught at anything but intent and alert. "Fascinating," he adds, when she describes the thing's function. He cocks his head at it, like a dog hearing a whistle. "Witchcraft... probably... but fascinating, all the same." To her explanation of the current era, though, he can only stare at her with an expression of naked disbelief. Starvation, unheard of? That ancient evil rears its head every winter, when scores of peasants die for simple want of food and warmth. He has done what he could to mitigate the effects in Camelot, passing out food – even if it was as meagre as stale bread, or dividing up what firewood and fuel he could. Even if it came from his own personal stores (and it often did). There were always casualties; always. Cures for diseases? Clothing and food, and poverty reduced so? A noble's education? He stares almost slack-jawed for a moment, eyes wide. "What?" Finally his arms fall to his sides, head cocking slightly in that endearing, almost houndish expression of puzzlement. "Unbelievable." He catches himself; he was about to say 'witchcraft' again, but that doesn't seem to be the case this time. Instead, he simply bows his head. "By the grace of God," he says instead, humbly. "I am glad to hear it. And I am glad to hear it from you. From the mouth of any other, I would not believe such miracles..." "But you are a miracle yourself, milord, just to stand before me. I confess, I do not know how you rose again." He rubs at the back of his neck again, cold steel and leather padding against skin. "I do not understand. I mourned your death... as I am certain the rest of Camelot no doubt did..." Sighing, he lets his arms drop again. "And yet here you are." "Well... I suppose I should not be ungrateful, nor ask too many questions of that. 'Tis unknightly of me, but it would be disheartening if this were naught more than a dream, or a bewitchment." Bedivere folds his arms again, as though he can't quite decide whether to leave them down or keep them folded; perhaps another sign of nervous habit in an otherwise placid, loyal knight. So he instead settles for lowering himself to one knee in respectful gesture, head bowed. "I am glad that that does not seem to be the case, thus far. And if 'tis a bewitchment... I am gladly bewitched. It was a long and lonely road, milord, and I feared I would never find the end of it. But that winter road was worth the effort. I would have pressed my horse faster, had I but known what awaited me at the end of it." "My heart is glad to serve you again. I am yours to command. Now and ever. Whatever you wish of me in this new world, O King, it is yours. On this I swear, by my faith." 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Once more, the faint, gentle smile emerged. She had done her best to instill those ideals into her knights, praying that they shared them. It was a great comfort to know that she had not simply been seeing what she wished to. Even if she had not truly led them, if the ideals of Camelot had thrived, all was not lost. If they simply lived on in a single knight, Arturia counted that as a victory. How could she not be gladdened by that? She hadn't meant to laugh at his expense; in some ways and in spite of the distance she had imposed, Bedivere had been the closest thing to a family as she could have, other than Kay. Lancelot had been a friend, Kay had been the older brother who picked on her, while Bedivere was not unlike a younger brother to her. She protected him as he protected her, though she had tried to hide it....but the knight was more than astute enough to have probably noticed. She had never teased him, her need to maintain her serious demeanour aside, nor would she. But the only way to describe his reaction...the word 'cute' mysteriously popped into her head for some unfathomable reason. Why, she wondered? It could only be a familial way of seeing others, she fielded a guess. Either that, or Fate was seriously rubbing off on her. But on occasion, familial-like bonds could turn to exasperation. Especially now, given Saber's gradual changing and freeing of her emotions. In some ways she would never change, she would always be mostly serious, especially carrying out her duties. But the King Arthur of ages past would not have given one of her knights the flat look which she gave Bedivere at that moment. So she didn't understand the exact ways this new technology worked. "The forging of a sword is not witchcraft, is it not?" Arturia risked a glance at the screen, hoping it hadn't been an emergency call from Harry or Psyber. She was relieved to see it had been from her Master and, switching quickly to the text, noted that the violet-haired magus simply requested picking up a few things for dinner. Nothing to worry over...other than now she'd have much more to explain. At least this time Rin wouldn't be throwing tables over another Servant coming by, and it wasn't as if Saber wasn't drawing salaries from several different sources and couldn't cover her own food bills, as she pointed out not long ago. Moreover, she did try to help Sakura out in the kitchen...but it always seemed that her own culinary attempts were, while not bad, never measured up. Unlike Saber, Sakura was a true lady. Her train of thought made her pause abruptly in surprise. For countless others, it was a perfectly normal series of events and concerns. But that was what made it so unique; during her own natural lifetime, she had given up on such an ordinary life, sacrificing the comfort of a normal life for the sake of Britain. How many considered such a mundane life boring, not appreciating such comforts which seemed decadent to the King of Knights? On the occasions when she reflected on them, Arturia couldn't help but feel guilty, believing she had no such right to them. Camelot was gone, but a part of her believed her duty did not end even if her kingdom had fallen. Once more falling back into old patterns, Saber ruthlessly suppressed her feelings, choosing to focus on the present. She was going to have to let Sakura and Rin know what was going on, and once again she found herself missing Irisviel. The little blonde couldn't conceive of a person immune to her charm and could resist being pulled into her pace...even Kiritsugu couldn't resist the girlish Einzbern homunculus completely. Especially now, once her excitement over sharing her appreciation of what good existed of the era turned back to her. She knew she was not going to be able to evade the truth forever, that sooner or later she would have no choice but to reveal that she was now the Servant Saber. That didn't mean that she wouldn't try to make that as "later" as possible. Arturia wasn't lying, but she didn't like not telling Bedivere the entire truth either way. "It was a sudden thing, how I found myself here. I encountered another knight, a dame from a land called Ivalice..." she decided against attempting to explain the demon bird at this point in time, "...it was she who explained much of the multiverse to me." While Agrias hadn't been her introduction to the modern era, Saber felt at least a little better speaking about the holy knight, one whom she considered a beloved friend. And she had made her induction into the multiverse considerably easier, after all. once more, Arturia found herself grateful that Sakura was her Master; she was going to need considerable help trying to explain all this, particularly the Heaven's Feel side of things. At least Sakura treated her with the same respect and admiration as her knights; she had a sneaking suspicion Bedivere wouldn't have tolerated Kiritsugu Emiya. At all. But then, all her internal fretting came to an abrupt halt with a few honest, simple, yet moving words. He always seemed to be able to do that...even if she could not allow herself to properly display her appreciation. As much as she had willingly taken on the burden of kingship herself and had fully intended to endure it by herself, it had always been a comfort to have someone truly on her side. For a moment, her eyes widened before the stunned expression was replaced by another smile...but this time, it was slightly bittersweet. Her hand lifted as if to gently touch the top of his head, but she hesitated and simply dropped her hand back to her side. "I am...it is perhaps selfish of me, but...I am grateful to whatever powers brought you here. I have...missed you...my most loyal knight." 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Although many of the knights of Camelot had adopted the ideals their king had preached, few of them had taken them to heart as Bedivere had. He was devoted completely and utterly to his duties with a seriousness that surprised many, and even invited some suspicion on himself – some doubted his devotion, for surely such a knight was too good to be true. Not Bedivere. To the very end, he had remained faithful. When his liege had commanded he cast Excalibur into the lake, he had ultimately done his duty, and his hesitation had been the only stain on his record of service – but even then, he had not hesitated out of selfish motives, but had been thinking of his country, and the good Excalibur might have done for it. Ultimately, though, he had obeyed. Bedivere always obeys. It is a hallmark of his personality, ever since he had come to Camelot wishing to become a Knight of the Round. Somewhere along the line, he had gradually let his sense of duty carry him. It became automatic, he did it without thinking. His devotion had been easier to bear when he spared it no thought; when he became accustomed to his king's coldness and distance. Many of her knights loved her, the pure love of a knight willing to die for their beloved king, but Bedivere's devotion stretched perhaps further than others – he was certainly willing to die, and he knew there would be no hesitation if he were called to such a fate. Others might perhaps hesitate out of self-preservation. He would not. It was perhaps the only way he could show his devotion to a person who could only barely be considered human any more – so complete was her mask that even her most loyal knight was in fact afraid, though not of her. No; he was afraid of his own devotion – he knew he would do something as extreme as sacrifice himself for her, or something similarly reckless. But it wasn't death that frightened him. It was the depths to which he was willing to go; the absolute hold his cold and remote liege had over him. In those cold and lonely days of wandering the wood, he had almost been ready to give up, but it had been the memory of her that had spurred him on. She would have been disappointed if he'd simply thrown in the towel – and disappointing Arturia was the one thing he feared; the one thing that upset him more than anything else on this earth. Bedivere just blinks a bit, rising slowly and awkwardly, and he almost withers visibly under Arturia's flat look – seems somehow diminished, despite having an extra foot and a half on her and plenty of weight. There is confusion, too. He's just not used to such candid displays from her. The King Arturia of ages past never would have done something like that. When the silence seems to stretch on to uncomfortable lengths, Bedivere drums his fingers against the opposite arm almost nervously, gauntleted fingers meeting the sleeve of his plate mail with a quiet ''tink'' for each finger. Although he's not precisely distressed, there's a definite unsettlement to him. She finally speaks before it becomes impossible to bear, thankfully, and seems not to be piqued at him any more. "Another knight?" He raises a brow in what seems to be approval. So, there are other knights, here; knights who would seem to uphold the strict codes of conduct expected of the Knights of the Round? That's good. Very good. It is in fact extremely heartening to hear, to go by the light in Bedivere's eyes. Odd, though, that it would be a woman. Not that he has anything against that, given the secret he's kept so long for Arturia; given that she commands his faith and his devotion more wholly than any male lord could. No, it's simply odd, because such things aren't commonplace in Camelot. If they happen at all, they happen because a woman is clever enough to hide her identity as Camelot's king does. "I see..." It is entirely likely that Bedivere would have fought a Master like Kiritsugu Emiya in every capacity he would have been able to. Though it may not be knightly of him, Bedivere can't help a broad smile at the faint one Arturia allows herself. It gives him no greater pleasure than to see an expression like that on her, and it shows plainly on his face. The expression falters as she reaches up to the top of his head, cocking it as though in puzzlement, but he allows her the attempt, perhaps curious to see what she might do. He seems almost disappointed when she lets her hand drop. He smiles again when she offers her honest statement, though, gentler this time; the smile of a person deeply content, and with no regrets. "Then we are both selfish, milord, and share in such sentiment. 'Tis not knightly of me, but I can no more deny it than fly through the air." Bedivere shakes his head, some of his hair falling across his face. He seems to pay it no mind. "I know not what powers brought me here but the hand of God. And for that, I thank God. I prayed that I might see you once more, milord." He looks away, turning slightly so as not to face her; his pale, almost violet eyes seem distant when he speaks again. "I cast Excalibur into the lake as you commanded me. I saw the Lady of the Lake seize the blade and draw it back beneath the waves. After that, I returned to see that you were in comfort 'neath the tree's boughs... you looked so peaceful, milord, as though you had only closed your eyes to rest. I could have believed that but for the blood. I cleaned what I could... but I knew I would not see your eyes open again but for God's Kingdom, if I would be fortunate enough to find my own final rest there." "I raised a marker for you, and inscribed your name. I found a flower and left it. It seemed..." He shakes his head, as though momentarily struggling for words. "It wasn't right, milord, that none would remember your passing. I would bring word to Camelot, aye, but... right then... I couldn't bear the thought of..." It had struck him, at the time, that there would be no grave for her, no marker; for surely she had been laid low at Camlann. She seemed only to be sleeping, but he knew it was a sleep from which she would never wake. Camelot would mourn in time after he brought word, but letting her go without some kind of remembrance seemed wrong, somehow. "I said a prayer over you, on the shore of the lake." She wouldn't have heard, most likely, though he might be surprised if she did. "Forgive me my presumption; I am no priest, but it... it didn't seem right that you would not have a final prayer. If anyone deserved that, 'twas you, milord." If she did remember, she would remember that it had been a pitiful thing; his voice had not held steady, breaking; weeping bitterly as he tried to form the words. Unknightly conduct – but she hadn't been alive to note, and so he had felt no shame in it. He sighs, turning his back to her, looking down and away as though to regard her obliquely. "I never expected to see you again save in the Kingdom of God, milord." He smiles; she can probably hear it in his voice. "I am blessed. Truly. Whatever I have done to earn this, I know not, but whatever cost it was, I would pay it again gladly." Bedivere spins on one sabaton-clad heel, metal plates clanking quietly at the sudden shift in weight; in the same movement, graceful as a deer, he falls back to one knee, smiling that smile of pure joy. "To know that I was missed by you, milord... you do me too much honour. Ah, by the Good Lord, I missed you. To see you hale again before me is a miracle. I can see no other explanation. But to see you smile so, my King – I had always wanted..." He flounders a bit, voice gentle and slightly awkward, as though he were unsure of how to arrange his words. Bedivere was perhaps not the most eloquent of knights, but he was always a confident speaker; to see him flounder may no doubt be a bit amusing to Arturia. "I had always wanted, just once, to see a true smile on your face." "I never thought that I would have my wish." He studies her with those almost-violet eyes, folding his arms and smiling a little more broadly. "It suits you. Not even a sunrise over the fair fields of Camelot can compare in its beauty. I..." He seems about to say more, but trails off, clearing his throat awkwardly and turning away from her. "But I speak too much," he mumbles, awkwardly. "Forgive me my boldness, milord."

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' As strict as she had been with her court and her knightly order, those knights had never complained or protected, not even once. Naturally, the nobles had done so, and even Camelot was not freed of the petty power struggles and undermining of the king's rule of other countries. Gilgamesh 'solved' those problems by simply making everyone fear him, driving his people to beg their gods to intercede on their behalf to save them from their own king. Iskander had 'solved' it by leaving the administration of the lands he had conquered to appointed officials while he busied himself and other restless men in the business of conquering even more ever-distant lands. Arturia, by contrast, took as much of the higher road as possible...though those who crossed over into mutiny often fell to the executioner's noose. At least, until Mordred's rebellion. But her knights had never complained. Whether their duty was to King Arthur or whomever ascended the throne, it hadn't mattered. As long as she had those whom she could place her trust in, it was enough. As long as they believed in the utopia she reached for, it was enough. Yet, she could not show them the favour they had earned, treating them no different than even the nobles harbouring treachery in their hearts. If there was any sacrifice she had truly regretted, it had been that. Only now, she no longer needed to. She could let the facade drop, welcome them as true friends. She had been able to when Lancelot had reappeared, no longer cursed with madness and finally at peace. Was it because bedivere had been so dedicated to being the perfect knight that she feared disappointing him by revealing her true nature, with all its flaws and imperfections? If his fear was disappointing her, that fear was mirrored with her own. All she was able to do in the end was leave them with a dream, an ideal. The other Kings of the Fourth War might have mocked it, but it was all they had. They weren't the heroes of ages past which Kiritsugu blamed for the bloody nature of the world for those seeking glory. Their only glory would be found in defending those who could not defend themselves, in bringing justice to wrongdoing, in serving the poor. Glory was the means and the inspiration for others, not the end. Their ideal became what defined a "hero" to the modern era, even if Arturia stubbornly refused to see that. That did not, however, lessen her immense pride in her knights of the Round Table. All of them had undoubtedly been remembered by Akasha...she had seen Lancelot as a Servant with her own eyes, even fought him in Heaven's Feel. The loud, obnoxious Saber in red who bizarrely shared her face spoke of a tall, handsome Saber with hair and eyes like hers and a confident smile...he could have only been Gawain. She had almost been expecting that, should she ever encounter her knights again, she would be forced to fight them on the terms of the Holy Grail War without ever having known who they were, and vice versa. That would have been the only way they would have submitted to fighting one another. Even Lancelot had no wish to fight her, only be properly punished by her. there had been some sense of mercy in the universe to meet him again and become fast friends once more. That made it all the more puzzling that Bedivere appeared before her not as a Heroic Spirit, but a human; the multiverse seemed to favour them as Servants. But Arturia was not even remotely about to complain; the cruelty of the Holy Grail War was something she would have wanted to shield the gentle knight from. It was going to be bad enough simply explaining the entire ordeal to him. He was not going to be happy about it. At all. At his discomfiture she sighed, letting the mask slip. But he was going to be getting a tiny lecture here. "I apologise. However, it is important that you learn more of the current era. There are worlds where magic either does not exist, or the people are deliberately kept in ignorance of it." She smiled again with the return to the subject of Agrias, a bright, dazzling thing. "Indeed. There are worlds where knighthood is open to both men and women, so long as they possess the ability to learn the necessary skills and carry true chivalry in their hearts. I had feared that our ideals had been forgotten....but even in other worlds, they are very much alive." Her own death and the final end of Camelot were, strangely, in her possible future. It was an inevitability...if she returned to her own era. But for the moment, it remained something she had to be told about, from those in the distant future...or now, as Bedivere described everything in careful detail, barely keeping his emotions in check, telling her of his own deeds in what he tried to do for her. How he continued to be a loyal knight and serve her even beyond her passing. To simply say that he made her proud seemed inadequate. How could she possibly express it; she, who had always concealed her true self behind a cold, inhuman mask? Almost randomly, the memory of Haytham Kenway's funeral flickered through her mind, a deadly foe to the Assassins and yet possessed of his own code of honour, and nevertheless a subject of the Crown. She had felt obligated as a King of his country, as well as her friendship with Connor and the others, to see him off in her own way. Sakura had given her a book of poetry which contained one dedicated to the end of her own legend. She had smiled; even poets of her distant future mourned her passing so much that they had re-written it so that she had never died, merely "went away" until Britain had need of her again. She hardly felt worthy of such adoration, but the sentiment was deeply touching. Those words came again, and she recited them as she had when Haytham's funeral barge bore him away: "The old order changeth, yielding place to new, And God fulfils Himself in many ways, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? I have lived my life, and that which I have done May He within Himself make pure! but thou, If thou shouldst never see my face again, Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day. For what are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain, If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend?" For all her past careful reservation, Arturia had been gradually casting the mask aside, only donning it like another piece of her armour, to be used in battle and set aside when the battle was done. Yet, there were times when it had become a crutch, something to retreat behind like a shield. But there were times when all she had experienced in the multiverse, all the moments shared with Agrias, Sakura, Rin, Psyber, Lancelot, and countless others who had encouraged her to open up, wore away her defences. Where once he would ruthlessly restrain herself, it seemed too unnatural to merely stand perfectly still. Such as now. Slowly, carefully,she closed the short distance between them. Her tiny, deceptively feminine hands reached out, though only a short distance, yet is was enough to take one of his hands in hers. With a smile containing a full range of emotions between happiness and sorrow, both bittersweet joy and regret, she squeezed his hand gently. "I am the same....but through my trials and my friends here, I have...changed. That you have been able to accept that...it brings me happiness." After a pause to search for a succinct way to say what she wanted to, she continued. "In truth, I have found purpose here. Camelot is...lost to me, but there are worlds beyond counting which have needed my sword. The only regret that had remained for me was to have left you behind."

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Bedivere had certainly never complained – indeed, he had been one of the few to offer not even a hint of protest or rebellious nature. He had always been her most staunch supporter; always been the first one to soothe ruffled feathers in the courts when the nobility had protested this or that. He could speak eloquently when he wanted to, and his gentle, measured tones had always had a calming effect even on the most bombastic of Camelot's resident nobility. Favour had always been the one thing that had meant more to Bedivere than any silver or gold. The approval and favour of King Arturia Pendragon had always been the one thing he had sought above all else; the one thing he had craved, and his single driving motivation in serving the kingdom. He had never known if he had ever achieved that approval before now. He had contented himself with knowing that she was unreachable behind that mask, and that he may well never know. Ironically, that had only spurred him on to greater efforts to seek out her favour, and conduct himself in a manner that she would approve of. How strange, then, that the one knight who had striven almost more than any of the others for the ideals of King Arturia had been the one that had not been remembered by the Akashic Record – the one she had not seen as a Servant, but as a mortal man before her. A Servant would not have the faint shadows under the eyes that Bedivere now wears. They know not of fatigue as a mortal man would. Perhaps, though, he might know that something is amiss – to be seeing Arturia at all, even amongst the possibilities of the Multiverse, is almost too good a miracle to be true. He could not be certain whether she had slept when he left her or whether she had truly passed beyond mortal ken, but the difference had been negligible at the time. Whichever the case, she would not be returning; she would not wake from that final sleep, and he would not see those cold jade eyes again. He had known that; had fought with himself to accept that inevitability, no matter how much it pained him. To see her here at all, then... perhaps he suspects that something unnatural is at work, but as he had mentioned before, he's willing to accept it if it means seeing his beloved Arturia once more, and serving by her side, where he belongs. Perhaps, then, explaining the War of the Holy Grail to him may not be quite as difficult as she might imagine. Perhaps he might even be grateful of the position she finds herself in – to be remembered with such fervour by people of an age they can only dream of; to be remembered and honoured so. To be remembered and honoured for her sacrifices had been one of the few things that had truly angered Bedivere, though he had been careful, so very careful, not to let it show to his liege. While understandably upset at her passing, another side of his upset had been that she would not be remembered for the great deeds she had done; would not be celebrated for what she had done and the way in which she had shaped Camelot with her own hands. That pitiful stone monument he raised, a single stone with her name scratched into it, would be the only lasting memorial to her – until now, anyway. Bedivere shifts his weight somewhat uncomfortably, looking a little awkward when he finds himself the target of a lecture. He clears his throat with equal awkwardness, bowing his head and looking repentant. "Yes, my lord." Honestly, the way he wilts a bit under even such a mild chastisement can't be described as anything but 'cute.' He has at least a foot and a half on her height, and probably a minimum of fifty pounds; if they were both mortal and it came down to a contest of strength, there is no conceivable way he would lose – but he's cowed as easily as a hound scolded in a firm tone of voice. That smile, however, draws him out of it. Without consciously realising it, he finds himself wearing a similar smile – not because he knows this lady knight Arturia speaks of, but to see such a beautiful expression on her face; something he had once only dreamt to see. He is at least dimly aware of the subject matter, though, and he is listening, even if contemplating her smile is mostly the focus of his attention. "Good... that is good." His soft voice is a little distracted. "I am glad that somewhere, such chivalry lives on. It would have been sad, I think, if Camelot had been the only seat of such ideals. That it has most likely died with you... it does not bear thinking." The poetry earns a slightly blank look – not because Bedivere is unfamiliar with poetry, but because he isn't familiar with this particular piece, likely written centuries after his time. He cocks his head like a puzzled hound once more, listening intently to the recital. Bedivere blinks somewhat owlishly, as though picking it apart in his mind and trying to make some sense of it. When the pieces settle into place, he smiles again, but this time it seems almost sheepish; almost shy. Yes, he carried her memory, and he wished to do right by it. Who else would? The duty had been left to him, as much because he wanted to as because there was no one else to properly respect her memory. It was his duty – to not do it wouldn't have even occurred to him in his grief and his anger. He blinks owlishly once more, but this time in confusion as Arturia approaches him. He lets her take one of his hands, but only because he seems to be in slight shock as to what's happening, those almost-violet eyes wide in unguarded surprise. This is definitely not the Arturia that he left behind; that proud and aloof king, who wanted nothing more in the world but to build a suitable kingdom for her people. At the same time, though... this is also the same Arturia. He's not sure how he knows that; perhaps just from his imaginings of what the real Arturia might have been like, but he's as certain of that as the earth beneath his feet. Bedivere very carefully does not move at all as she takes his hand; does not so much as breathe when she squeezes it gently. He does not tremble – but he stands still as a deer that knows it's been spotted. He's reluctant to ruin that brief instant by speaking, but eventually, he finds his voice. "I—" His voice cracks; he's forced to start over, clearing his throat again, flushing a little at his own false start. "My lord..." Having something eloquent to say was a great idea, but there seems to be a disconnect between his mind and his tongue. Bedivere inwardly curses; his face flushes a little more, and this betrayal only seems to cause further inward despair. His eyes drop to somewhere in the vicinity of his own sabatons, lingering on the floor. "I have reason to believe Camelot is lost to me, as well. I know not how you came by here, but I have wandered for what you would say is four years in search of it – would I not have found it already, were I not meant to be back there? But it is just as well that I have not, for it would be an empty thing, a hollow thing, without you there. What is Camelot without its King?" he asks, lifting his gaze to hers. To hear her speak so openly of a regret, though... that is a rare and precious thing beyond counting or measure. Again, he finds himself reluctant to speak, but... Bedivere bows his head; his laugh isn't much more than a breath, almost missed but for proximity. It might be a hearty belly-laugh in anybody else. "You speak in nothings, milord." In spite of what might be a reprimand from anyone else, his gentle tone is good-natured. "I am not worth such regret. I am but a humble knight of Camelot. Why would you trouble yourself over my fate? My King, I am happy to serve you, no matter where it may be from." He seems to consider for a few moments, dimly aware that she still has hold of his hand, and seemingly reluctant to so much as move for that fact. He is, dimly, aware that he doesn't want her to let go. Her hands are surprisingly warm; he can feel it even through the steel plating of his gauntlet. "But I am honoured, milord. I—I will serve you to the end of my days. Should I find Camelot, I will serve it again – but until that time, I remain your loyal servant." There is a particular emphasis he places on it that suggests not kingdom or kingship, but a more personal loyalty – for her he would travel to the very gates of Hell and challenge the Devil himself. Bedivere smiles, genuine; though there seems to be a thread of self-consciousness in the expression. He's not used to showing himself so openly, especially not around Arturia; it feels incredibly awkward. The expression falters just slightly. "If... if you will have me again."

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' As much as she had secretly cherished her knights, what drove them had been something of a mystery to Arturia, and she had dared not find out lest her mask be exposed should the wrong person have overheard. That they had believed in the ideals of Camelot and followed the path of chivalry without reservation had never been in question, but their reasons for doing so had eluded her. Did they follow the King of Britain or King Arthur, whether it was her ial, what she represented, or who they imagined her to be? She had been grateful either way and would not have turned even one away...and yet, understanding their hearts was a luxury she was unable to grant herself. Mordred had believed that she was the only one whom had been pushed away...when in truth, she had been forced to push everyone away. One version of Mordred had apparently come to terms with that and, in spite of her previous treachery, grown beyond her previous role. But this new one... There was battle in the offing, Arturia could feel it. And there was little she could do to avoid it. For the moment, however, she decided that she would figure out how to cross that bridge when she got to it. For now, she considered other, more immediate problems. She had no doubts that, upon his own death, Bedivere would have ascended to the Throne; the Knights of the Round Table were far too legendary to have been forgotten, their deeds too widely celebrated even on distant shores far beyond the infinite oceans. but for whatever reason, his reality -- or perhaps only Bedivere himself -- had Unified before that point. And while she was personally overjoyed that he truly lived still, the multiverse was a dangerous place. Those mortals who lacked supernatural powers in the Union had to be especially careful. Saber hardly minded having to look out for her knight -- she was a Servant, after all -- but to Sir Bedivere, it wouldn't seem right that she would be the one protecting him. Such was her dilemma. It certainly didn't help matters when he looked for all the world like a scolded puppy. Here was a tall, imposing knight with the same serious demeanour as Arturia herself, and yet with the same manner of lecture she had given others, was reduced to this. She couldn't help but blink in surprise; had he always been like this? In all her memories, he had been beyond chastisement...then again, after the Holy grail War she had found herself chastising some when they failed to properly look after their health, or became too reckless... her eyes widened even further upon realising that every one of them was someone she had thought of as family, in a sense. Just like that, she had considered him as a part of her inner circle in the present. Would he be happy, or horrified? It wasn't always a good thing. At the very least, he would probably enjoy meeting the others. "It is, regrettably, a rare thing, at times. But those whom I have met whom share our path of chivalry are true treasures, the pride of the Union. It is my honour to serve beside them." As she watched his changes of expression, Arturia continued to be puzzled in turn. That was perhaps the most disconcerting of all to her; as she had been unbreakable in her stoicism, so too had he...or so she had thought. Bearing the burden all on her own, becoming the immovable, stoic king was supposed to have allowed them to be free with their emotions. The example she tried set wasn't supposed to go quite that far. She never would have expected it, for him to seem so lost, so innocent, so....shy. Even the aloof king had heard the whisperings of the court ladies...his mysterious, similarly aloof demeanour and gentle calm had captured more than one maiden's heart. If they had known the truth, Arturia had a feeling there would be even more. She smiled again, mostly to herself. "Ah...another friend had given me a book of poems. It had been the first thing to come to my mind." She chuckled softly, which doubtless would have disconcerted the poor knight even more. " I seem to be thinking of it often..." Which would have come as no surprise at all to anyone familiar with it: the speaker had been a fictional version of herself, and the audience had been a fictional version of him. At his modest dismissal, she shook her head slightly. "No. I have come to understand that one's friends and family should be treasured. Perhaps it was impossible for me, while I was king, to show such favour. I am under no such obligations now...." and here she thought of Sakura, and the necessity of forming a contract to fight the King of Heroes, "...and it has become important that, in order to work together harmoniously, that they know of my true feelings." An even brighter smile alighted her face; a Knight of Camelot had been returned to her. She hoped that, in the future, she could set his mind at ease, not make him so horribly uncomfortable. But she was glad...glad that his loyalty had never wavered. "You need not even ask, my most precious knight." And all this time, she was still holding his hand in hers.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Such lack of closeness was one of the many reasons why Arturia had not known the motivations behind her own knights' actions – and Bedivere may have represented more of a mystery than the others. Ironic, considering he was the most driven among his brothers-in-arms. Not once had he ever confided in anyone why he strove so mightily to serve. Never had he revealed something of his true colours in this sense. Much like his liege, he had never been particularly close to anyone. Perhaps Gawain could have been said to be his closest friend among the Round Table, but even then, there were aspects of him that Gawain simply didn't understand. While the other certainly had his virtues, and certainly displayed compassion as befitting such a lofty standard, Gawain showed more of a casual nature than the serious-minded Bedivere. Oh, he was certainly good for a laugh from time to time. Even Bedivere couldn't help but crack a faint smile at some of Gawain's better jests. There was a rift between them, though, driven open by duty, and kept open by the same. Few, if any, could have been said to truly know Bedivere – he was probably more a symbol of knighthood to the people than an actual person. His motivations were always a closely-guarded secret. Now that he has no kingdom to fall back on, no need to impress and no duty to fulfill short of his obligations to the Union, he finds himself at somewhat of a loss. In the face of Arturia's chiding, the knight certainly does have a puppyish air about him – however minor it may be, it can't help but call to mind a scolded puppy in the way he ducks his head and avoids her gaze, or the faint hint of a chagrined expression on his face. There are few things that can really get to him that way, but direct chiding from Arturia herself. That's certainly enough. No doubt he had always been like this – but once upon a time, he had taken more measures to take her criticism with an expression of stone. And he had always been shy and gentle; a quality that no doubt earned him many a female fan among the courts – gentle, quiet Bedivere, the mystery of the Round Table, whose intents and motivations were as much a mystery as the king's herself. Now, though... to see her smile, to see her laugh; it's difficult to rein himself in. It shames him, truly; to know that his self-control is so little. He should not be allowing himself this luxury. If she wishes to indulge, that's all well and good, unknightly as it may be... but... At the same time, something in her words rings true. I have come to understand that one's friends and family should be treasured. Perhaps it was impossible for me, while I was king, to show such favour. I am under no such obligations now... and it has become important that, in order to work together harmoniously, that they know of my true feelings. The awkwardness seems to fade from him at that, and he seems to think about that with seriousness. In fact, he seems to have forgotten entirely that she still holds his hand; frowning as though he were on the verge of realising something terribly important – at least, until his eyes drop, and he notices his hand is still held by both of hers. He curses inwardly, because he can feel the heat springing to his face; that traitorous reaction. He makes no move to pull away, though, thinning his lips slightly at his own awkwardness, and even forcing that into an awkward smile. "It would not be right not to ask. I should not have left your side at Camlann. Perhaps then..." She would not have been killed, then; subjected to the wrath of Mordred. But there's no use in the what-ifs. What's done is done. He sighs, head bowing slightly, though it doesn't hide his face from her. He still practically towers over Arturia. "But that is done, I suppose." His eyes lift to hers almost reluctantly, as though he were unwilling to look her in the eye. In truth, he's still horribly embarrassed, because his face is still horribly red. It's also horribly embarrassing! But he forces himself on nonetheless, and even manages a faint flicker of a smile. "I—I have a confession to make, milord, if... if you will hear it. Since you seem to value such openness, now..."

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' A symbol of knighthood, of just rule. That was what Arturia sought to become, to be the vision of a perfect king for the people to rely on, and a model for those who wished to become knights and serve the kingdom. She knew very well what it was to sacrifice oneself to become the living embodiment of an ide. Even Mordred had seemed to pursue this goal of perfection, only for Arturia to find out that the homunculus had been chasing after Arturia herself, believed she was the ideal of a father. That, more than even having been created as a tool for Morgana's revenge, had been why Arturia had been forced to reject her. Mordred had been an impeccable knight, but to be the king, she needed to have placed the people -- not the king -- first. At first, she had been at an equal loss after the end of the Holy Grail War, abruptly thrust into the multiverse with Gilgamesh laying waste to entire worlds searching for her and the source of her hope -- the Holy Grail -- destroyed. The despair had nearly overwhelmed her even as she searched for some other way to grant her dying wish, and it was only her determination to grant it with her own hands which had kept her from succumbing. Everything and everyone she had cared for was gone...and even the realisation of her wish would have taken most of what she had loved from her. But Camelot must live...that was her entire reason for being. She had been entrusted with one duty above all else, and she had failed in that. Without a doubt, Bedivere would have vehemently disagreed. But that wouldn't have reassured the petite king. Even now, after all the years, she could still feel the pain of the loss of Camelot, though it had dulled to an ach upon being reminded of her loss. Accepting it hadn't completely healed her....she doubted that anything ever truly could. It was a wound that was so deep that it would pain her until she ascended to the Throne of Heroes. "In truth, there was nothing that could have been done, at that point in time. You performed your duty admirably. That was all I could have ever asked." In the present, however, she took comfort in those she cherished, and the powers that be had brought her another of them. She had very little to regret, given that fact. Arturia couldn't help by smile; she had to admit, he was quite adorable, flustered like that. On the other hand, she truly did want to put him at ease. Focusing on their duties...that was always something that seemed to comfort the both of them. "Our task as knights is not yet over....even more have need of us, now. And I can think of no greater honour or blessing than to have you at my side once more." Nevertheless, his flushed complexion puzzled her; the girlish knight hoped she wasn't putting him on the spot too much, though somehow that seemed a foregone conclusion. "of course," she replied with a faint smile. In truth, her smile never seemed to have left; it was hard not to, given that perhaps her last remaining wish --selfish as it was -- had been granted. "You no longer need fear speaking openly in my presence." Though she did worry that Bedivere was going to admit some bad habit of hers which had always annoyed him, or a frustration with her cold mask....but one had to take the good with the bad. She'd not have it any other way, these days.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Bedivere inclines his head when told that he'd done everything that could have been expected of him. He doesn't seem particularly proud of the praise, perhaps feeling that he could have done more still – like he could have avoided the great tragedy, somehow. No, and it would be presumptuous of him to think so, but that doesn't ease his guilt very much. Still, it's the best kind of praise he might earn in the situation. It was, and is, a complicated one. The knight exhales through his nose, too soft to be a proper sigh, but clearly still a little regretful. There's still a little colour to his high cheekbones; still a bit of fluster to him, but he seems to be gradually bringing it under control. "If you say so, my lord." He glances back up at her, if only a little, and somewhat indirectly. "And you are right, from what I have heard men of the Union say. There are many more who have need of our protection and our help, and many more who are as bad shape as the most piteous of Camelot." Inevitably, his eyes drop back to the hands that still hold his. He manages not to blush this time, though he seems to be staring as though he doesn't quite comprehend what he's seeing. It's just so strange to see that; so surreal, to know that those delicate hands belong to Arturia. The woman could have been cut from alabaster for all her affability in the days of Camelot. He could think of statues that had been more personable. Some part of him, though, wants to think that that potential was always there – that maybe, even, she had been lonely behind her mask; as lonely as he had sometimes been. "Ehhhhn." It's a quiet, not quite uncomfortable sound when she says he need not fear speaking openly. He still seems reluctant, as though whatever bravery had gripped him has utterly deserted him now. There are no confessions of worrisome habits here, though. He keeps his eyes fixed firmly on their joined hands, as though fascinated by it and reluctant to look away; as though if he did, such a thing would vanish, never to happen again. He seems to steel himself with a breath before speaking. "When I first came to the court, I was struck by your status as a knight." He begins slowly, choosing his words with care. "I knew then that that was what I wished to become. I wished to live the ideal of chivalry, no matter what price was required... to help others, to defend the defenseless. I wanted nothing more than to do that, and to serve the one whom I saw as the living ideal of that." "As time went on, I came to see that my instincts were not amiss. But sometimes I almost dreamt of a melancholy that I saw in your eyes, when you thought that none were watching – I dismissed it, of course; it was not... knightly... to think of such things. Especially of one's liege." He shakes his head slowly. "Yet still, I did not think I was imagining it... and in time I suppose it came to haunt me, as well. I did not have many friends even among my brothers of the Round Table. Perhaps Sir Gawain, but..." But Gawain did not share Bedivere's ironclad dedication to duty and idea; could not seem to spur himself on to the same heights of utter selfless devotion. Maybe Gawain was a little happier for being able to fall back on good-natured humor when things looked bleak, but it had always struck Bedivere a bit oddly. "But I was not close to many, if any at all." "In time I realised there was something else that I wanted, my lord. One more thing, however much an impossible dream it may have seemed. I wished to see what lay beneath the mask that you wore. Once, my lord, just once, I wanted to see you happy – to see you smile. I understood that you needed to wear the mask. Such a thing was necessary; I did so myself... but..." He himself smiles, just a little. "Yet still, I wanted to see – just once." He doesn't look up at her, instead keeping his eyes directed firmly at her hands. "It seems surreal, my lord, that I have seen that now.But I would not trade it for anything. In that, I have been given something more precious than silver or gold; more valuable to me even than the teachings I have striven so hard to follow." He smiles gently; not much more than a faint curl of the corner of his mouth. "I will remember it to the last of my days. To see that, my lord... that was my wish, and I had thought I must settle for seeing you find peaceful rest as you lay beneath the oak. But to have two wishes granted – to see you again, and to see that... and to serve you again?" "I am blessed, truly." He shakes his head, slowly, as though he doesn't quite believe it himself. "And I am humbled; that you would reveal to me..." Bedivere stops talking, perhaps thinking he's dug a big enough hole for now. He can feel his damnable face heating up again.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' In all fairness, there was much they both would regret until such a time came where their minds would be free from all worries....though hers had come first. And even when it had approached, when she lay dying beneath the oaks, Arturia couldn't simply let it go. Pleading with Alaya had been all she was capable of at that point, but it had been something. But even if, ultimately, that particular wish had not been granted, and Camelot had still met its end, that decision was one which she refused to regret. Had it not, would she have ever found herself in the multiverse as Bedivere had? Would it had been too late for her, even if she had? Or had the only path for her to take through the Holy Grail War, as a Servant? Certainly, she never would have met Irisviel, nor had much of a reason to befriend Sakura. No, that particular path was one which she would not second-guess herself. The truth of her mask was as complicated as the rest of her. It was truly a mask, hiding her real nature as well as her gender. But many times, she did not permit herself to feel; her personal feelings would have interfered with many of her duties, as well as some of the uglier realities of the world as it had been. The gentle, girlish Arturia of her childhood would have been unable to brutally put down rebellions, execute traitors, go to war. Deep down at her core, she was a weak, soft slip of a girl; that girl was her first sacrifice for Britain. She cast aside more than simply her femininity, her identity as a girl; she had banished her kinder, gentler side deep within her. She could not waver in what was necessary to rule. Yet, burying her feelings had never made it easier, and the mask she wore was also her crutch and shield. It had kept out the enemies of Camelot and king, but it had kept out the companionship of true friends, as well. So well hidden behind it that Arturia herself had wondered if there was anything left of her humanity...only after spending time with Irisviel and later being abruptly thrown practically headfirst into the multiverse had taught her that it wasn't the case. it had taken years, but the long-exiled girl had started to find her way back. However, she was still somewhat afraid to reveal her, especially around the knights she had known in life, who knew her only as King Arthur. Kay had been the only one who had seen her as a girl, knew her when she was weak and frail. Though the two of them had trained together -- he remained the only opponent she was unable to beat -- she had still been an overly emotional girl she had ever needed to hold back anger, tears, or laughter.It was that girl who now felt just a little timid...worried about rejection from those who had only seen the Iron Rose. Which is why Bedivere's confession was all the more astonishing. She was not so foolish as to be ignorant of his admiration, perhaps even hero worship. It had helped keep her focused, to try to live up to that ideal. She had failed to live up to the chivalric code once, and the price had been Caliburn. How much worse would it have been to disappoint such a promising young knight? To hear that he had always looked up to her stirred mixed feelings; it made her happy, and yet the fear of being a disappointment persisted. What was completely unexpected for the King of Knights, however, was what followed. That the mask was what had been looked up to was entirely intentional; it was the mask which had been the ideal king. Gawain had all but idolised the ideal of the king, and much of his pride had been wrapped up in serving that ideal. Lancelot had known something of the truth, that a girl hid behind that mask, but even then he had known the fierce and honourable knightly side of her. But it astonished her that there had been someone who had wanted to see beyond all of it, to catch a glimpse of the true person at the center of it all. That someone cared enough to wish for that, to understand that there was more than simply the ideal. This time, it was Arturia who was the one with the flushed face and downturned eyes, studying the rivets in the gauntlet covering his hand. it made her feel even more inadequate, seeing just how tiny her hands were, especially compared to his. She had always felt ashamed of her short stature, especially compared to the tall knights around her, but it was never so apparent until that moment. It might be a while before she was able to speak again, even if she should have said something. If for no other reason than to reassure him that she didn't think any less of him...though the bright red face she now wore might have been a good indication of that. the timid girl had surely picked a very inconvenient time to reemerge, damn it all.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Perhaps the King of Knights would be surprised to know that her trusted lieutenant had endured much the same – not only burying his feelings, at time, but outright banishing them and hardening his heart. His is a gentle heart, much as hers, although perhaps he didn't exile his innermost essence quite so far. He can still recollect the gentler aspects, still call them to mind, though at times it takes effort to actually show them. His mask, however, was not a crutch or a shield. It was simply a thing that needed to be done, another facet to his duties as a knight of Camelot. He had done things he could not fully be proud of, but the ends justified the means – always he has acted with Camelot's best interests in mind; always he's put aside the good of the one for the good of the many. Perhaps Arturia had underestimated the perception and depth of Bedivere, though his deft administration of Camelot had certainly showed sharpness in the past. Perhaps he knew all along that there was a softness buried behind the steel; perhaps that was why he wished with such fervour to see that one, untainted smile. And perhaps that sharply perceptive knight senses something of Arturia's astonishment. Bedivere allows himself the faintest hint of a smile, though he has the good grace not to let it seem too obvious. Yes, he sees and understands much, and so single-minded is his devotion to duty that many would underestimate his sharp mind; or his ability to connect dots that are not always so obvious. That faint smile widens when it's her turn to look away, flushing; he can't help the reaction, even as he follows her gaze to their hands. His flexes almost unthinkingly, the oiled steel giving not so much as a whisper at the movement, well cared-for. Bedivere takes his equipment as seriously as his duties, for are they not in their own way gifted to him from the king? Besides, it wouldn't do for a knight to live the ideal, and then appear in tatters. Who would trust someone with such a shabby appearance? Bedivere can't help himself. When her face turns such a shade of scarlet, he chuckles, quietly. Oddly, even his own face is red in light of what he considers – and then, before he has the opportunity to think better of it, he reaches out and draws the considerably tinier knight close, steel-clad arms folding around her in a firm embrace as he rests his chin over the top of her head... and though he still has to bend a bit to do that, he doesn't seem to mind the difference in stature. "What I'm trying to say, milord," he begins awkwardly, "is that I have always..." No, that would just come out all wrong. Bedivere draws in a patient breath and tries again. "I wanted to see who you were, not the mask. It is easy enough to wear a mask, as king, but..." No, that doesn't seem right either. Bedivere makes an awkward little sound of despair and tries one more time. "I am your faithful servant, my lord. But I would be more honoured to be your faithful friend, too." That's better. But not really. ...Damn it, he can feel his face heating up again. So clumsy! Couldn't he find some better way to phrase that? Augh, of all the...

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' It was probably for the best that she hadn't known just how far Bedivere had duplicated her path to the point of even adopting the proverbial mask, albeit for somewhat different reasons. It was in her very nature to worry, and where once she had hidden and buried such inclinations, with the release of her previously suppressed inner nature her fussier side tended to manifest. Already, Saber's mind was furiously working on how to ease him into the insanity that was now her reality. Many of her friends could be overwhelming, even on their best behaviour. As fairly polite as she was, an unprepared meeting with the likes of someone like Hastur would go over about as well as a tonne of bricks. And even Psyber could be a little....crass. All right...a lot crass. They were good people, it would simply require some reassurance. But then, perhaps his keen skills of observation would see that there was nothing to be concerned about, and she was worrying over nothing. Was she being overprotective? Probably, but his owlish expressions certainly weren't helping. Moreover, being overprotective was merely a part of her nature, even if he was a capable knight who hardly needed her protection. The King of Knights suppressed a sigh. Her mask should have been flawless, and there were many who were misled by it, but perhaps she should have been more careful around Bedivere. Then again, it was strangely comforting that she couldn't fool him....if a little worrying for those times where she needed to. Such as if her fortunes turned exceedingly bad and the King of Heroes showed up to plague her existence once more. That could be more than just a little troublesome; even if he had been a Servant, Bedivere could not hope to face the insufferable Archer on his own. Even the King of Conquerors fell to his blade. And those were just a few of the dangers of their own world. As her jade eyes seemed to suddenly find the more intricate details of knightly armour even more fascinating that they usually were -- though she had a much easier time of it with armour made from prana which demanded no upkeep other than a competent Master -- Arturia felt even more self-conscious. She must have looked ridiculous like this, and inwardly she scolded herself for her lack of proper bearing. She might have been trying to be more emotionally open these days, but she'd be damned if she was going to stop carrying herself like a proper knight. Her pride was something she would never let go of. She was almost startled out of it by his own chuckle; if he had been baffled by hers, she was in turn baffled by his. It would have been enough for her to look up, were it not for the surprise of her life. Her eyes widened in astonishment at first, followed by even more furious blushing on her part. Yet, she did not push him away, quite the opposite, in fact. She sighed -- a barely audible sound -- as the sea green eyes closed and her own small arms gradually found their way around him in turn. To be true friends... Her voice sounded tiny, awkward, and shy even to her own ears. "I...would...like that. Yes."

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Adopting the mask-like guise of the king had begun as a form of respectful imitation, but it had quickly become a necessity – much like the girl that had been locked away, the softer aspects of Bedivere's personality had by necessity been banished in the pursuit of his duties. Perhaps he hadn't needed to make choices quite as difficult as Arturia's, but those that he did make were not easy for him. More than any of the other Knights of the Round, Bedivere's personality was gentle, soft; aspects some said were unfitting for such an esteemed knight, and so – as whispers of this disapproval began to reach him – he had slowly begun to hide those softer aspects away. Oh, he would indulge in them. He had a natural outlet in knighthood's chivalry – he could not pass a beggar without offering coin or bread. But some parts of him had been locked away just as surely. Maybe, in his wanderings through the Multiversal wood, he had reverted even further into that manner of being... but just a few moments of interacting with Arturia – an Arturia unburdened by the things that had once troubled her in Camelot – seems to be enough to coax that knightly facade to crack. Funny how life has a way of working out like that. He'd thought his own guise to be as ironclad as he could make it. Although not as ornamented as Gawain's armour, the ornamentation Arturia so carefully studies is a cut above most knights of Camelot. He'd spent some coin on the armour, but true to his ideals, he'd wanted something protective more than something well-decorated. Most could be found on the embroidery of the cloth aspects of his armour, such as trimmings around the border, hemming the cloth in bright metallic thread of gold. What few ornamentations he sports are subtle and tasteful, enough to lend an impression of affluence, but not opulence. And certainly not arrogance. None of the metallic pieces of his armour seem to sport any real decoration – a slight blue hue to the steel, perhaps; a tint applied when each plate was forged, but no more than that. Of all of his comrades of the Round Table, he had leaned towards subtlety and modesty. Many were the tales of Bedivere slogging through the frozen slush in midwinter, bringing food to the poor and fuel for their meagre fires where he could. Still, even unornamented, the craftsmanship is obviously superior, and he's taken exceptionally good care of it. Why would he not? All of his raiment is practically a gift from the king, is it not? Despite what seems like relaxed posture, the knight is wound tight as a spring under his chain and steel and heavy cloth; he at least does not tremble in his nerves (thank the Lord for that small favour), but he's still strung taut as a deer tensed to spring. He relaxes only slightly when she doesn't push him away (or even worse, aim a swipe at his face for his impropriety – a reaction he had halfway anticipated). She might feel him sigh through her hair when she gives her awkward, small-voiced reply. It's so odd to hear a tone like that from her. His memory is so accustomed to the cool, regal tone of King Arturia Pendragon of Camelot; not the sweet, painfully shy voice of Arturia, the young woman who had driven away so much of her own life and given up so much of herself in sacrifice to the cause. The discrepancy between memory and reality is almost enough to make him chuckle again. But he is sensitive to her pride. He would not insult her by pointing that out... it does make him smile a little, though. "I could have hoped for no better answer." His own voice is soft; gentler tones than the aloof sort he would so often adopt in Camelot – something of the gentle, almost shy young man beneath the mask of the realm's able marshal. He seems almost about to pull away, but no, it's just so his gauntleted hands can settle over her more comfortably, so the steel doesn't bite into her. Much like the other Knights of the Round, Bedivere favours extremely heavy armour; so much so that only the largest, heaviest horses could even bear him. But he's far stronger than he looks, able to move gracefully even when encased in steel. Better still, he seems mindful of that weight, since Saber isn't wearing her own plated armour. He pulls away, but only the upper half; just enough to get a better look at her, head cocking as he glances down at her. "Hm." It's a thoughtful sound. He lifts one brow, as though considering something quite seriously. "So be it, then. I will try to mind myself... or not mind myself, as it were. Hah." He gives a dry laugh; almost self-conscious. "Perhaps I will need you to mind me, as well, my lord. I spent much of my time hiding my reactions from you. I... I did not wish to disappoint you. I had always wanted nothing more than your approval, and as I said; to know who you were beneath the mask of the king..." His smile twists a little; somewhat sardonic, but still amused. "I may need some chiding to allow myself to react when I am not thinking of reacting. But for you, I will do that, if you wish." Since she seems to place such value on being more emotionally open, now; that practise, at least, seems to be something he's willing to make an effort to adopt. Maybe just the chance to not hide behind his own mask is something he had always wanted, too. Steel-clad arms close around her again, a presence both comforting and comforted. "I am glad." The words are little more than a sigh through her hair, a sound of breathless, almost disbelieving pleasure; but more than that, tremendous relief. Better still, he decides – he hasn't botched it too badly with his clumsy awkwardness! Truly, the good lord smiles down upon him this day.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Another series of memories sprang to mind, blending into one; catching a glimpse of an almost frail-seeming young boy with shaggy silver hair in the gathered crowd as her entourage passed through, yet there was something different about the kind of awe he possessed. Then, she saw him as only perhaps a few years older, untested but with an unmatched fire in those pale eyes, determined to become a knight of King Arthur's court and submitting to training with not so much of a word of protest. After that, she caught glimpses again of that boy during training, slowly maturing into a much taller young man, yet losing none of that determined fire. and then he was on bended knee before her, silver hair now long and bound back in the familiar braids, face turned respectfully down as the blade of Caliburn touched each of his shoulders in the familiar ceremony. She had always tried to treat everyone equally, showing no special favour to those who loved her over those who merely respected her and even those who hated her. Beyond hiding her gender, her mask had served to project that impartiality, that King Arthur could make those necessary hard decisions even regarding those in her favour. Of course, there were always those who tried, playing the familiar court politics to be granted the graces of the king; much disgruntled complaint became active political plotting against her. In truth, Mordred's rebellion was merely a catalyst; Camelot's fall began with the discovery of Lancelot and Guinevere, and the demands which had resulted. Her enemies had assumed that she could not carry out the execution, that they could accuse her of the very favouritism she had carefully avoided. They cared not at all about the laws, nor about honour.If not for that law, that instance, they would have eventually discovered another. It was not unrealistic ideals, nor the weakness of the people which had felled the Britain she ruled. A stronger king would have possessed a power and strength they wouldn't have doubted and questioned. And yet, for all that, there were still those who had indeed earned her highest regards, who she watched grow up before her eyes as they became men, whose devotion and loyalty were genuine and true, who were as dedicated to the more unfortunate was as absolute as hers. And one in particular, who had been so devoted to the kingdom that in some ways, he became like her...not only the honourable knightly aspect, but all of it, including the unwavering mask of duty. He had earned every single rank, every position. No one had ever doubted that Bedivere had earned the position of Marshal with his own hands, and his calm reliability had made him such a natural choice and his modesty had meant unbiased decision. None could possibly make an accusation of favouritism without appearing bitter themselves. Yet, Arturia never felt that he had been granted even a small portion of what he truly deserved. What might have been even more damning is that in all that time, she could still see glimpses of the awe-inspired young boy, an honest and gentle heart that inspired her need to protect. It had been children such as him who had reminded her of her duties, it had been they she fought so ruthlessly to defend. As open as she had started to become, that was one truth she could never tell him, so devoted he was to protecting her. Knowing that might cause him to doubt his knighthood, and that was one thing she could not do. His care in resettling the thick plate over his arms in consideration of her might have almost been a metaphor for the complexity of their relationship and motivations. As a Servant, the weight to her was nothing, but she was not about to tell him, touched as she was by such a simple gesture. It was so much like the Bedivere she knew, and she smiled fondly musing over it. Once more, she could see the boy watching the entourage as he committed himself to following once more, even insofar as trying to become more open. there were at least some things she could tell him now. "Do not feel as if you must force yourself," she reassured him with an earnest expression in place of where the familiar mask had been. "Go at your own pace...I shall not pry if there are things you are uncomfortable speaking of." She indulged him the fond smile that she dare not have showed him in Camelot,though there was in turn a sardonic edge to it. "Aí...there shall be times when I chide you, I shall warn you of that right now...but it shall be over other things." And then she did something that she had been wanting to do for years, a simple gesture that would have betrayed everything of her fondness for the tall, shy knight. Arturia had to strain a little, though his current posture had made it a little easier. The Once and Future King of Britain reached up to her Knight of the Round Table and ruffled the hair at top of his head

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' From the first time he had laid eyes on his king, he had wanted nothing more than to serve – it had been his dream; a relentless and driving goal, one that would not let him rest. From then on, the wide-eyed boy had thrown himself into his practise and his studies. He would throw himself against the things he did not know, or the things he did not do well; and he would succeed, or he would break. For if he could not serve at court, if he could not become a Knight of the Round Table, what other service was worthy of his dreams? Skill had prevailed, though, and he had focused his calm, determined mind to the task. As he'd grown, that determined fire had been tempered into something far more formidable. All his perception, his keen skills of observation, had served him in his learning and his practise: Letters and blades, sums and chivalry; he had taken it upon himself to learn all of it. Never had it been a chore, though. He had applied himself gladly to his studies. There had never been a single word of complaint. In the years to come, no matter the hardships, there never would be. So devoted had he been that none had questioned his mastery or his skills – indeed, even his detractors could name none who would make a more just or fair Marshal of Camelot. Ironic, then, that the only thing he had wanted was the one thing that no gold or silver could buy; no price could be named to – just a single glimpse of the true person behind the crown; a single genuine smile untainted by worry or concern. He seems taken a bit off his guard by that fond smile. Even if it was something he'd always wanted to see, it wasn't something he'd ever expected to see. It still seems a bit strange to him. "Aah." It's a quiet sound of acknowledgement, low in his throat, as though he were still a bit uncertain of what to do with himself or what to say. It's certainly nice that she wants him to fumble his way through dropping this mask at his own pace; but the reality is that it's still incredibly awkward, for him. She is his king, and the remembrance of that fact is almost enough to shock him into dropping his arms and backing away – almost. He does not, though, mastering himself at the last instant. She might well feel the reflexive twitch as he brings his subservient instincts back under control. He doesn't look miserable at that warning, but he does still look incredibly awkward. "Other things?" He tries to keep a note of dread out of his gentle tone. It's hard, and he's not terribly sure of its success. No sooner are the words spoken than he decides he's probably better off not knowing until he has to cross that particular bridge. When she strains to reach up for the top of his head, he merely cocks his head in that puzzled-hound fashion again, blinking in evident surprise. What's she— Oh. "Aí! My lord!" Bedivere's half-hearted protest can only be called a squawk; completely undignified, and thoroughly taken off his guard. His hair is extremely fine, and it makes a nice satisfying frizz when it's unceremoniously mussed. The Knight of the Round looks at a loss for a brief moment. His mouth twitches, slightly, threatening a smile – and then he laughs; not the low, restrained chuckle that he usually holds himself back to, but he laughs; a sound of genuine delight and amusement. He can't help himself – she just seems so inordinately pleased at having been able to do that.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' In the midst of becoming swept up in her memories, an almost seemingly random fact occurred to her. According to the multiverse's calendar, the current day was the sixth day of the month of what was now called July, the calendar having undergone extensive revision hundreds of years into their future. It was the day before her birthday. Someone, somewhere, had decided to give her a birthday present to make up for all her troubles. Perhaps the best part of it all was that she no longer had to pretend, no longer had to hide her pride, or curb her doting. It was perhaps the closest thing to a true miracle as she had ever seen. If there was a lesson to be learned, it had been one she had learned long ago, yet the last part of understanding finally fell into place. She didn't need the Holy Grail for a miracle. She never had. Or perhaps, she had only needed it to summon her from what was to be her death-bed. There might have been another Camelot, another version at least that she could save. But she had grown dissatisfied with it over time, and frustrated that she could not bring the utopia she had prayed for. How could she keep the destitute from winter and drought starvation? How could she cure the terrible plagues which had claimed so many? How could she bring a true peace, what might almost be a boring existence to be taken for granted? Through those she had come to know, Arturia eventually realised that her utopia, her paradise, was right here. Should she find Camelot again -- or a similar kingdom with similar needs -- leading the to utopia was a matter of serving the Union and bringing them into the multiverse. And in spite of the advancements that had been made, and the people seemed to no longer need a king, there was still a need for knights, for chivalry. That suited the King of Knights just fine; she had always been a knight first, anyway. And now, part of her own hope had been restored. She had never been able to properly convey her gratitude to Agrias, to Sakura, to Psyber, and all the others for their support and friendship. They probably knew, of course, but it was something she could never properly express; the words always seemed lacking, the struggle with her own numbing mask seemed to be a stumbling block. It might be that now she would be able, having been granted her wish of being able to convey at least a part of it to the knight whom she had always wanted to express it to. Her final regret was no more. Arturia didn't speak when they finally separated -- it wasn't as if they could stay that way forever -- but she did notice he was making an effort. He always did, of course. Now the problem, she could tell already, was going to be convincing him to live a little for himself. On the other hand, she was having that very same problem, with her occasional 'selfishness' being relegated to minor acts of enjoying her food or trying to sneak in petting lions at the zoo. It was fortunate indeed that the one place where she wished to maintain at least some semblance of dignity tended to go unnoticed. Mostly. If she had been offended or disappointed in the cracking of his own armour, she hardly expressed that displeasure. Quite the opposite, in fact; his gentle laughter was contagious. The tiny knight had known bedivere was going to be a little flustered, but while she didn't want to make him too uncomfortable, that was the one thing she finally couldn't resist. She'd been holding back far too long. She almost looked like a triumphant little girl, and yes, some might find that quite adorable, king or not. So even had she wanted to, Arturia couldn't fault him. Had he not confessed that all that he had wished for was this moment in time? She would have forced herself to drop her mask for Bedivere's sake, had she known...it just so happened she had been trying to wear it less in the first place. That was her reward, in turn...seeing him smile and laugh. There was little she wouldn't do to see this scene again. "Now then," she said at last, her hands clasped in front of her, the very picture of contented serenity, "What have you been doing, prior to my interruption?" He would probably choose to drop everything to attend to her, but she was not about to drag him off somewhere if there were other things he had needed or wanted to do prior to her arrival. That, and she was curious what he'd been up to, how he was faring since arriving in the multiverse.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Miracles could be subjective things, and the King of Knights had stumbled into her own purely by happenstance. The same could be said for the subject of her good fortune. Never would the knight have suspected such a thing could be possible, let alone that it would happen to him. He had expected to wander those woods to the end of his days, if that was what was needed of him – eventually he may have found his way out, but he had held no expectations on his way back to Camelot from Arturia's grave. Bedivere does take a moment to fix his hair, though he offers not a word of complaint. Truth be told, it had been an amusing trick, albeit one he never would have expected from her. That almost girlishly triumphant expression isn't missed, though. Hmm. Would it be proper to think of some way to set her out of sorts in response? Maybe. He'll have to ponder that. Surely there must be something he can do, some amusing thing to make her laugh again – because that's the real motivation. Something as petty as "getting even" would never occur to Bedivere. No, he would do it strictly to see that smile again, that laugh. Such things are more rare and precious than the most valuable jewels. Gold and silver tarnish before such beauty. "Mmmm?" It's a soft sound, more thoughtful than anything else, as Bedivere listens to her question. Although he lets go of her with obvious reluctance, he lets her go all the same, folding his arms and glancing over to regard her obliquely. "Serving the Union, primarily. But oh, my lord, they are such a strange lot. Still, I do what I can. I do not have a Camelot to serve, and I did not know you were here – could not have guessed—" His voice goes a little raw as his emotions threaten to get the better of him mid-sentence. He closes his eyes for a moment until he's mastered himself, inhaling and then letting it go; he clears his throat before he tries again. "In any case, I have been conducting myself as a Knight of the Round would be expected. I have served them in battle, but I take more pleasure in charitable works for the poor. There are so many worlds torn asunder by war, my lord, so many. Sometimes I feel the task of helping them all is impossible, but I am helpless but to try." He shifts his weight a little, eyes distant as he considers. "Some days I bring them food. Others I bring fuel. Still others simply require clothing. Clean water. Ah, my lord, the water here – it is so clean. Never have I seen such crystalline water. 'Tis even safe to drink!" And a lot more palatable than the usual substitutes. Once that brief instant of almost childlike wonder passes, Bedivere continues his recounting. "I have also served in war. The Confederacy..." His expression turns grave. "I will not pretend they are all monsters. But there are many such. I do not understand how they can treat one another so." He spreads gauntleted hands as though in entreaty. "Are we not all brothers and sisters 'neath the Lord's reckoning? And they are strong. Stronger than I could have anticipated. But I shall not stand down." His hands drop, head shaking faintly; his cloak rustles as he shrugs. "I would not be so cowardly as to turn tail and run in the face of such. There are too many who cannot defend themselves against such – and what am I, if not a shield to the poor and the vulnerable?" Ah, Bedivere. If ever there was a Knight of the Round whom the ideals of the knight had never faded in, it would have been him. He shakes his head, as though to dismiss the matter. Those pale, almost violet eyes turn to Arturia once more, suddenly curious. Once upon a time, he had been forced to turn his curiosity inward, for it would not have been seemly to pester his king with such questions. Or, perhaps it would not have been seemly to be asking ceaseless questions with all the guilelessness of a child among his fellow Knights of the Round. Here, though... the knowledge that he can do something as simple as ask questions in regards to the things he doesn't know, that's a treasure. The realisation actually stops him cold; he'd opened his mouth to say something, and it hangs there for a second or two. And then Bedivere, briefly, can't help an awkward little smile. "Ah. I am sorry. I forget myself, my lord," he says softly, flushing as he ducks his head, hair thankfully hiding his expression of embarrassment. "I am... not accustomed to asking questions. May I inquire as to what you have been doing for these four years...?" He keeps his head down, because his hair hides that traitorous blush creeping across those high cheekbones.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Ignorant of Bedivere's 'plotting', the Servant merely cracked a slightly lopsided smile. Fate would have been in full teasing mode...how many times had Saber herself looked like that, trying to tidy her own hair after the golden blonde 'Strike Witch' had done the same? Come to think of it, she had better not mention the Mobile Six Captain just yet. As strange as he already thought they were, in truth they were most likely even stranger that that. She herself had become accustomed to just how different everyone was from the people of their kingdom and era -- with some help from the Holy Grail when it came to basic knowledge of all the eras before and since theirs -- but now that she thought on it, there remained many, many explanations she was going to need to make. She was going to have to call Psyber and Harry and let them know that she wasn't going to be able to come by the respective offices for a while. A demonic version of Boston and 21st-century Chicago were liable to give Bedivere a heart attack, much less that her consulting work had been for a half-angel and a modern-day wizard. At least Harry didn't share Merlin's bizarre proclivities, thank the Lord. That line of thought was cast to the winds, however, at the emotions he barely held in at what was to be her passing. Her smile dropped, replaced by a slight frown and a wrinkled brow of worry. In spite of that, she remained silent, allowing him the time to compose himself. It might have been that it was a fate she couldn't ultimately avoid, but for the moment, she was right there and, for all intents and purposes, alive. In all fairness, she was up to a little 'plotting' of her own, with much the same intent. Even with her deep-seated worries about how to help acclimate the distraught knight to a universe that many times made no conceivable sense at all, there was nevertheless much she was looking forward to sharing. That is, if he hadn't discovered them, already. A small part of her suspected there was a great deal that she would indeed have to introduce, especially since, much like his king, tended to bury himself in his work. ...Which had been exactly what he had been doing. just as he had in Britain, her marshal had been busying himself with knightly charity and defence of those who could not defend themselves. A soft 'hm' of approval, with a nod of her head. "That is good. An example must be set...those of us who belong to various orders have been working to achieve that, though we are relatively few." She couldn't help but smile at the almost childlike wonder over things so many others took for granted. Such simple things that most in the modern era never took notice of, so commonplace they were, and yet, in the Britain of their time, were things out of the reach of even the wealthiest noble. There were few whom she could truly share that wonder with, and Arturia was glad once more that there was another who could appreciate such things. But then, her expression turned serious at the accounting of the Confederacy. On the one hand, there were almost innocent souls, such as the golem Nine, and even Haytham with his sense of honour and misguided goals. On the other, there were those such as the King of Heroes -- or, at least the version of him who had not been reined in by a Union member. And then there were was Mordred... Even without the Confederacy, however, the multiverse was still a dangerous place, especially for a mortal. Samael, while not a part of the Confederacy, was untrustworthy and dangerous. Saber was even more aware of the dangers, now that Bedivere had appeared; Sakura at least had powerful magic to fall back on in a tight spot. The silver-haired knight was certainly a formidable swordsman, but against the more powerful magic and other powers of the dark side of the multiverse... Arturia couldn't help but be worried all over again. "But take care...should you fall, it would mean one less knight in the multiverse, and we are in need of each and every one." Not to mention that she needed him not to die, not when there was so much to show him...so much time to catch up on. And then, her smile returned at his innocent question. It had made her happy, his curiosity, and she saw no need to hide that fact. Some things were going to be trouble to recount, particularly the Holy Grail War. And yet, in some ways, even those she wanted to tell him of. "Ah. A great many things have happened...it will take some time to recount it all. But this I promise you: I shall tell you everything." She cast a critical eye at their current surroundings. "Perhaps a change of setting is in order to tell you of all that has happened..."

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Twenty-first century Chicago and demon-infested Boson would probably not settle over well with the knight. Loyal and faithful he may be, but Bedivere is still a little skittish when it comes to things different from his own native time period and familiar setting. He seems to adapt well enough so long as he's eased into it, but that's the trick – he has to be eased into it, or it quickly becomes overwhelming to him, and nothing's gained. Fortunately, aside from his bravery and his loyalty, Bedivere's senses of observation are keen. He picks things up quickly enough when they're couched in terms he can understand. For those modern things he can't quite see to understand, as long as they're explained in a means he can understand – something that Arturia would know precisely how to do, familiar as she is with him – he can certainly grasp them. Charity work likely isn't surprising at all. It would be like Bedivere to find something like that to do, and to apply himself to it with little to no instruction. It's the kind of thing expected of him as a knight, but more than that, it's the right thing to do, to him. "Yes." This, in regards to setting examples. His voice is gentle, deceptively soft. There are those in the courts who had, upon only hearing him, once mistaken him for a woman – he simply has a gentle way about him, and he speaks softly, unlike the brash Gawain or the harder voices of the other knights. Bedivere had simply seen no need to impose himself upon others like that. If people wanted to listen to him, they could listen, and he need not shout over them or otherwise overpower them in any way. It was, in some ways, perhaps the last indulgence he allowed himself when he had begun to build up those walls; to wear that mask – unless calling across a battlefield, he never raised his voice, not even in anger. Some of his detractors called him womanish and weak, but perhaps it spoke well of Bedivere himself that he had never wasted the breath to answer those detractors; as though such was beneath him. Besides which, his capable administration of Camelot was proof enough that even if he had a few quirks, by the reasoning of his peers, he could be permitted them and still perform his appointed tasks admirably. The treasury certainly never suffered under him, and some were even inspired to do charitable works of their own by Bedivere's own personal example. Should he fall? Bedivere cocks his head at that, as though the turn of phrase is foreign somehow. "I will not fall." His affirmation is given calmly and patiently, and he looks directly to Arturia with those near-violet eyes. "Am I not a Knight of the Round Table? It would take a mighty foe indeed to strike me down. I have trained against the greatest knights of Camelot. Still..." He looks away. "You are right, my lord. There are powerful things in this 'Multiverse.'" "A knight's duties are many, and difficult, and there is no guarantee that we will not fall in pursuit of our duties." He smiles that gentle smile down at her. He seems to hesitate for a moment, as though reaching some internal decision, reaching out and carefully – oh so carefully – taking one of her hands in both of his. "I cannot promise that I will not fall, my lord. That would be foolish – and it would be arrogant. A knight must be modest. What I can promise you is this – in times of war, in times that I am compelled to ride to battle, I will do aught in my power to return to you. I have served you always, my king, in the utmost of loyalty. For this I would return to you regardless." "But I have all the more reason to, now." Because now, he has more than a liege-lord in Arturia; but a friend, and while he would never shirk his duties, that is far more rare and precious to him. "For you I would return to you, my liege, as a loyal servant – but how could I not return to you, as a friend? No force could stop me from that." He looks down at the hand, seems to realise what he'd done, and then abruptly lets go – as his face flushes that bright scarlet again. Bedivere mumbles something that might be an apology, but it's a bit too vague to really make out the words too clearly. "Y-yes, my lord. A sparring ring is no place for such, is it?" Several seconds of awkward silence pass. When he speaks again, his voice is still a bit of an embarrassed mumble. "...To where shall we go...?"

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' In some ways, Arturia's newfound openness was working against her; as the aloof king, she would have simply left his way of adjusting to Bedivere alone. Inwardly, she fretted; was she being insulting by worrying over him, her mind working to find the less-jarring ways of bringing him in? Somehow, she didn't think he would admit it if she had insulted him...or more likely, would not have been insulted at all. For all his rigid adherence to chivalry and his strong sense of justice, the violet-eyed knight nevertheless possessed a quick and agile mind which adapted to nearly any situation. As chaotic as the multiverse was, he would adapt as she had. But that was simply her way, to worry over her loved ones. Sakura had nearly been astonished when her Servant, King Arthur herself, had been reduced to fussing over her when she endangered herself, albeit unknowingly. it had been a little paranoid of her, but considering Gilgamesh had been running loose with some mysterious designs on her Master, Saber was not about to take any chances and did not trust the young magus to go out on her own. looking back, might that have been one of her flaws as a king, that she didn't trust her subordinates enough? She suppressed a shake of her head as if to shake such thoughts off; now was not the time. At the very least, she could help by phrasing things in ways familiar to him. That she could do. "There are...creatures which, though they call themselves all manner of names which may seem familiar to us, these names mean something else entirely. There are 'demons' who are not demons at all...and 'witches' who do not practise what we would think of as magic, though it might seem so." It was a start, anyway. To her discomfiture, the fact that Bedivere's mannerisms had sometimes led others to assume he was a woman had complimented Arturia's deception. While Merlin had cast a glamour which had, in essence, enchanted the people into seeing a man whenever they looked upon her, Bedivere's presence had further maintained that facade. it almost felt as if she had been using him, something which had inwardly disgusted her. He couldn't help his --admittedly beautiful -- appearance, and it had never sat well with her that it worked to her advantage. With his almost casual dismissal of her caution about falling in battle came another expression that he might find disturbing: pale brows knitted together in a deeply troubled expression. It might have been the first time the Knight of the Round Table had ever seen it, in fact...a look of fear. Oh yes, the king did know fear, though never regarding herself. Having found Bedivere again, the thought of losing him again terrified her. But that look lasted merely fractions of a second, before some vestiges of her former mask fell over it. "Simply....be careful. that is all I could possibly ask of you." It demanded much of her willpower to keep her face in a mask of calm, to suppress that fear. She was being ridiculous...he was a knight, a man, and someone in whom she had entrusted countless battlefield duties. She had lost so many in her time, and even friends as a Servant. But somehow, the thought of this miracle slipping away seemed unbearable. With that, the moment passed, especially with what followed. Somehow, she could feel the warmth of his hands through the mail and plate, and the glove beneath it. It was comforting, and yet... she could feel the blood rise to her face, as if she was staring up at the mid-day sun. Not just his gesture, his touch, but his words. Friend. Her selfish wish, to be more than a king and a comrade. To share in their laughter and their sorrow, to understand them... For Camelot, she had given such things up. But that hardly meant that she hadn't longed for them. Try as she might, the mask slipped as she bit her lip. She should have said something, but what could she possibly say? She opened her mouth to make the effort, but frustratingly, her voice stubbornly refused to co-operate. And then the opportunity passed as he let her go, turning away and mumbling what sounded vaguely like an apology. It was just as well; he probably wouldn't have glimpsed her disappointment. Oh. Right. Onto more practical matters. Saber clasped her chin between her thumb and her index finger in the typical habitual gesture she employed when she thought on something. "Hmm...the home belonging to my Ma..." abruptly, she stopped herself before she completed the word. She cursed herself; she knew full well her fellow knight would pick up on it. She had gotten far too careless. "....my friend's home is some distance and in another world. however, it is secure and comfortable. That would be the best place, I should think."

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Bedivere still has his dignity, even if he is considerably less prone to pride than his contemporaries of the Round Table. No doubt if he thought he were being sheltered, he might take exception to such a thing on general principle, insisting that he can look after himself and that his king need not trouble herself over such an insignificant matter. Gently, of course. Always gently. That's just his way. To have her pay any attention to him outside the context of duty is still strange and new, though, and part of him finds that he doesn't mind the notion. Most likely, though, he would suffer no insult. Bedivere was always of a placid mindset, disinclined to take things personally. Even the rare direct insult over his somewhat feminine appearance and soft voice were always met with grace and good humour; a trait that served him well as marshal of the realm, and had earned his trust with Arturia. More hot-tempered among the knights would have bared steel at such an insult, but not Bedivere. Indeed, unless he was looking after his sword or he was called to battle, it rarely left its scabbard. If he has any notion of some of the awful things that lay in wait in the Multiverse, though, the calm knight shows no fear and no apprehension over what he may someday challenge in the line of duty. Only in times of danger for Arturia herself had he ever let slip his calm exterior to show fear – fear over her safety, not his own. Never his own. The knight cocks his head, slightly, at her explanation. "Oh?" Demons that aren't demons? Witches that don't practise witchcraft? "That seems strange, but if you say so, then I shall take that to heart, Sire." His head inclines forward, slightly, in an expression of respectful acknowledgement. He's so damned polite in all things, too. Also a plus in Camelot. Probably something that's going to earn him some awkwardness, here. Although he dismisses her caution, it's given in deadly earnest. He seems to genuinely believe he can look after himself here, even if it may be vastly different from Camelot. His duty and his faith are his shield, and it seems he has yet to learn the hard lesson – that some shields do break. Bedivere was always a perceptive knight. He does not miss that brief flicker of fear through Arturia's features, and he almost looks ill at ease himself. It certainly wasn't his intention to trouble her, and she certainly looks troubled as she bites her lip. The expression is a foreign one, and it takes him a moment to reconcile the cold, remote King Arturia with the young woman in front of him. He seems to hesitate, momentarily not quite certain of what to do to soothe her worries. At a loss, he frowns, looking a little distressed himself. Augh, this is just so strange. He himself isn't so remote that he doesn't recognise the signs of worry or unease, but to see it in her is a different matter entirely... "Your...?" He caught that fragment of a word. When she corrects it to 'friend,' it seems like an awkward fit, but he doesn't call her out on it. She might notice that knowing quality in those violet eyes, though. "Mm. If it is not an imposition on your friend, I would not be averse to travelling there, then." He shuffles his weight a little, still looking a little awkward. He lifts his arm for a moment, hesitating, before reaching out for Arturia's hand. Mortified, he catches himself and drops his hand again, settling for folding his arms lest he do something foolish. The slight clearing of his throat he makes sounds more like an awkward, embarrassed cough. Bedivere looks away, strictly to hide the bright scarlet of his face from her.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Just as much as it had been for his trained skills, Bedivere had been appointed for his fairness and even temper. As capable as Gawain had been, he was far too hot blooded -- not to mention not quite serious enough at times -- for the tasks she had given to her appointed marshal. And while Lancelot's martial skills were unparalleled, his ability to disguise himself with equal flawlessness had made him better for tasks such as espionage or, more often, reporting of the true feelings of those throughout the kingdom. The only knight who had both the martial prowess, the mental agility, and the proper temperament had been the knight she had ultimately chosen. Change though they might in subtle ways, there were some things about the both of them that would never change. They might show more of their true feelings, laugh and smile a little more, allow embarrassment to show on their faces...but the two knights would always be proper, conduct themselves with dignity, live by their chivalric ideal, seek peace, and never allow their emotions to get the better of them. To change those parts of themselves would have meant that he was no longer the Bedivere she knew...nor would she have been the Arturia he had known. "You shall see for yourself, soon enough," she cautioned gently. Of all her knights, she was the most gentle with him, at least as much as she had been able to be, given that she treated all equally. "However," she continued with a smile, "In adhering to the tenants of chivalry, I am reassured that you have and will continue to conduct yourself as befitting a knight of Camelot." Arturia might have had to worry about the boisterous Gawain or another knight accidentally causing an incident, but with bedivere, she felt no need to worry. If anything, her worries were over how the multiverse might affect him. Even some of their allies were a little disturbing. At least his reassurance had made her feel a little better, but still...even just the thought itself of losing him again secretly terrified her. It didn't help that the two of them were of one mind in so many ways that their emotions seemed to bleed off and affect the other; when she laughed, he seemed to start laughing, but when he was uneasy, it started to make her uneasy in turn. She fidgeted slightly, cursing her mask drop at a bad time. "I...do trust in your abilities, without question. If ever there was someone who could face the dangers of the multiverse and triumph, it would be a knight of Camelot. Still...these miracles seem to come with a price. The water is safe to drink, yet the other side of the coin is dark magic practiced by those with no honour nor compassion. Even..." She stopped before she finished saying 'Servant', cautious in her phrasing. "...those who possess strength greater than human beings must remain on guard." Of course, if any of her knights could be said to be truly cautious, it had been Bedivere. Her warning was most likely unnecessary, but her fears stubbornly persisted. Perhaps this was what it was like to truly feel; it wasn't always pleasant. Here, his keen powers of observation were working against her; she knew he was going to catch that. Even still, she wouldn't keep the knowledge of the Holy Grail War from him even if he were less astute. He needed to know, and not simply because she was in the middle of it all. That, however, didn't mean that she was looking forward to it. "I explain everything, but...not here." The awkward air was almost palpable. Arturia was likewise astute, not missing the attempt, nor his awkward reaction. In turn, she hesitated with her next action, but pressed herself to follow through with it. Closing the distance, she took his arm, snaking her hand around and curling around it in a posture of escort to lead him out. Her hair hung low around her downturned face, obscuring it as she stared at the floor, but the bright red colouring her ears gave her away.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' There are aspects of the gentle knight that will never change – that even, placid temperament, and his relentless desire to do good. His is a generous and gentle soul; one that is pained by the injustices of the world and the rift between rich and poor. If ever there is a Knight of the Round that will conduct himself as befitting knightly ideals, it would be Bedivere. If those parts of him changed, there would be something wrong with him, and that man would no longer be Bedivere. "I am honoured," he murmurs, ducking his head when he's praised – openly, so openly, such a strange and wondrous thing to hear that from his king! – for his conduct. It hides the sudden redness touching his face again. Why can't he take such praise with a straight face? He can do any number of other things without so much as flinching, but this seems to be beyond his capabilities. He looks to her sidelong through those violet eyes, and seems to take her caution in all due seriousness. It isn't like him to dismiss advice of any kind, so she can at least content herself that he'll take it to heart. Indeed, Arturia's unease seems to linger in her loyal knight. He isn't quite certain why she feels so ill at ease, but some of that is reflected in himself. He manages to hide most of it, but no doubt she can see right through his efforts. Worry over her is one of the few things he's had difficulty hiding beneath his own mask. He cocks his head slightly at her near-stumble again. It seems strange that she would be so uncertain with her words; normally so self-assured and confident. "Hmm." The sound is thoughtful, and Bedivere watches her from the corner of those violet eyes. "I thank you for your vote of confidence in my skills, milord, but you need not worry for my sake. I will be cautious. And I do not have reason to take unnecessary risks." He smiles, though the expression is more reminiscent of his more careful, restrained displays of emotion. "Have I not given my word that I would return to you, milord? I have never been one to break my given word. Nor have I any intentions to start now." Fortunately he's tactful, too, and lets her slip pass without comment. There's a knowing quality to those violet eyes, though, that says very plainly that he did catch that slip, and he is curious, but he is also a gentleman and won't pry. "As you wish, milor—" Bedivere's voice abruptly trails off, not quite squawking, though it comes close. His own face flushes red again as she takes him by the arm and tugs him along to leave. He can't help but stumble after her; not just because he doesn't want to resist, but because she's got him by the arm and all. She's got him by the arm. The strange, surreal nature of that is probably the only thing that keeps him from dissolving into mortification. He can't even protest, because his throat's closed off so badly he can't find his voice. Well, looks like Arturia's going to have a willing travel partner, if only because he's too flabbergasted to protest, helpless but to follow along wherever it is she intends to go. Oh, dear.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Oh, how she had missed him. And even now, being at her side again, it was a bittersweet feeling, the memory of the ache from leaving the knights behind. Out of all of them, however, Bedivere could have been said to be the closest to her, and not simply because he had been the one to bury her in a future that had yet to happen for her. He had been the most like her in temper and outlook, the one who most pursued the sacred chivalric virtue of charity...and, of course, adopted a mask of stoicism to carry out his duties with the same impartiality as she had. In some ways, they had not even needed to speak, understanding so well what was within their hearts, and their shared devotion to chivalry. And yet, so much misunderstanding. For her part, she had remained unaware -- though hardly blissfully so -- of his deeper motivations, of longing for just a simple, honest smile from her or a glimpse of her true feelings...feelings she dare not reveal to anyone. Perhaps had she only known, she could have allowed something to slip beyond the mask... But no. In Camelot, it simply wasn't possible. Only now could she reveal herself, let go of those constraints. Even if she remained unaware of the wish she was continuously granting him, she wouldn't hold back. At least, not as much. Her stoicism was too much a part of her -- a part of her chivalry -- that she would always maintain some vestiges of it. That was simply who she was. But it was a part of him, as well. Another way in which they understood each other so well. "I know," Arturia replied quietly. "I truly do." And she left it at that; Bedivere had given his word, and the only way to properly honour him was to take him at his word. The word of a knight was his bond. She had made sure of that when she founded the Round Table. The tiny blonde was further grateful that he did not pry; there was going to be a lot of exposition to a very ugly greater reality. She wasn't looking forward to it at all, but it was necessary. Involuntarily, the Servant pressed her lips into a thin line. Her current Master was a true lady with hidden spirit, and honourable to a fault. Bedivere would probably accept her with few issues, but recounting her previous Master's actions would prove to be a trial. That was to say nothing of the tainted relic of the Holy Grail....and her motivations for seeking it out. That was going to sting the worst of all. She felt as if she had insulted him by wishing to undo her entire reign, even if she had, in her eyes, failed completely. At the time, Arturia had thought that by undoing her history she could spare them the pain she had caused, allow a king whom they could truly trust in, who could lead them the way she never could. Yet, if it had not been for that perhaps selfish wish, would she not be here, now? Granting his wish to serve her again....she had the power to grant at least one, after all was said and done. For some reason, that brought her a measure of satisfaction. Her hand stayed where it was as she led him out, leaving the V-Max and her (in dire need of drycleaning) suit where they were to make their way to the Tohsaka mansion on foot. Thank the good Lord for warpgates. But before that, she took a moment to inhale and exhale slowly, carefully. "I am not sure how to prepare you for all this....nor the close friend whom I live here with. I...was somewhat too preoccupied to properly warn her..." It was a rare occasion when the King of Knights was embarrassed to the point of blushing, yet she seemed to be doing just that non-stop. With some trepidation, she opened the door, just as she had so many times before, and called out in a language that the workings of the multiverse translated for them but was obviously not the medieval Welsh they had spoken in Britain so long ago; "Sakura, I am home. I have brought company." At least the Servant/magus alarms weren't going off.

:'''Tohsaka Sakura has posed:''' Blissfully unaware of the impending doom, a certain lavender-haired young woman glides around the kitchen of the Tohsaka mansion. Mostly, that is, because the doom isn’t really hers, so the whole ‘oncoming train of embarrassment’ isn’t triggering her own senses. As it is, she instead provides the domestic services of which she’s both immensely proud of and skilled at, almost humming to herself. The song in her head is one that’s been on the radio now and then, but the electronic box itself is quiet for now. And then there is that sense of presence, of familiarity, that doesn’t even break Sakura’s rhythm. The only sign she gives of her awareness of Saber’s close presence is a smile; it’s been a little while since she’d seen the Servant. And it was nice to have friends around, even if...well, at least she did make the onigiri as a snack before dinner; well...ahh, it’ll be alright, and it’ll be fun to share the tray with her. Sakura did, as always, make enough. The door opening gets a reaction, and the magus makes her way to the foyer of the mansion. Slippers on, she smiles wide and greets Saber with a cheerful hello - and then plum eyes go wide when she realizes that the King of England has a companion. Her cheeks go red slightly when she sees the incessantly handsome young man … woman … ? with her friend, and then she notices their hands. A new expression dawns across her face, one Saber definitely hasn’t seen in quite some time. It’s joy. It’s peaceful, almost tearful, pure joy. “Ah...w-welcome to our home, ah, that is...I’m Sakura. Sakura Tohsaka, ah...please, come in. I, er, wasn’t expecting anyone special to arrive, I’m sorry I’m unprepared…” A bow, proper and formal despite the simple clothes that she wears, before she rises to give Saber the subtlest (not really) of winks. Then her gaze turns back to the much taller blonde, and...erm. She isn’t sure, and never really...enquired such things about Saber, but the royal woman’s own love life was her own business after all. Still, congratulations were in order. Reaching out, Sakura rests both her hands atop Arturia and Bedivere’s, the smile on her face still wide. “Saber...I’m really, really happy that...that you finally found someone. And I’m so very honored to meet you!” Another nod of the head by way of acknowledging, and Sakura looks back to the Servant. “After all, it’s been so long, it’s not right that...you’ve been so alone all this time. That you found your happiness as well, with someone to be by your side…!” Well, maybe she’s just a little bit speechless. But that’s kind of understandable, when one of your closest friends shows up. And then realization dawns. England...was not known for its historical liberal views on courtship, and knightly chivalry and courtly love was something expressed in deeply subtle ways. For the Magus, perhaps her own memories are slightly muddled by those shared with the King of Knights, but there are feelings that she remembers to someone just like this blonde person before her. And the closeness that they are clearly showing must be deeply significant, and Sakura gasps, pulling her hands away. “Y-your highness...please forgive me, I didn’t mean…” Wellllll she did actually sort of swear fealty to Arturia at one point, technically that makes the incredibly handsome Guinevere her Queen. “I am at your service...for someone who has clearly won Saber’s heart…” Somewhere in what passes for a metaphysical realm, the great god Murphy is laughing his ass off. 

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Although Bedivere glances over at Arturia's acknowledgement, he doesn't comment on it, apparently content to let it go. If she doesn't wish to speak on it any more, he certainly has no inclination to pry. It is impolite to do so, and also improper. She may be encouraging him to be more open and the like, but it's a difficult thing for him to do. Saber may have had four years to bring down her walls, but his were just as strong. It will take more effort to relax completely. Even as they walk, he seems to be a little uncomfortable just holding her hand where it might be seen by others. He doesn't pull away, though, which probably speaks volumes. "Prepare?" Bedivere quirks a brow in an uncharacteristically curious expression. Whatever does she plan on telling him? It doesn't really fill him with apprehension, but it does make him wonder just what strangeness his liege has gotten herself into in his absence. Properly warn her? Still, he follows docilely enough, all eyes as they cross through the neighbourhood. The architecture is at once familiar and utterly foreign, and he can't help but stare. No doubt he has people staring at him, too, for he isn't a Servant... though these people have been in a Unified world for some time now. Some of them have gotten used to seeing the occasional weirdness pass through. They reach the door, which he squints at. Such intricate craftsmanship, with such perfect planes and angles. He reaches out to touch it shortly before she opens it. "Glass," he breathes in wonder. "How is it made so clear, I wonder?" The door opens, though, and he follows his liege faithfully. He blinks a bit as he and Sakura are suddenly faced with each other, and sizing one another up with evident puzzlement. Ah, so this is the friend that his king had mentioned. She does seem a proper lady, and refined in all of the correct and proper ways. He gives a faint inclination of his chin that's mostly meant as subtle approval. And then— Oh. Oh, Good Lord above. Arturia still has him by the arm, and too late does he realise why Sakura has such a strange, strange expression on her face. Violet eyes widen as he stiffens so much he can practically feel something in his back pull painfully. He's good enough to mask his sudden expression of dawning horror, and since Arturia has his entire arm, he can't pull away before Sakura lays a hand over theirs. Bedivere opens his mouth to say something, but he can't really form any words. He's definitely starting to look uncomfortable, now. Still, he's holding his own, and his quiet horror is more concerned with the fact that there are others witness to he and Arturia behaving so closely, and not— "What—" Bedivere can't even speak. His high cheekbones flush red, and he can feel the damning heat that he knows everyone else can see. He can feel it straight into the tips of his ears; can feel his throat closing in his shock and mortification. Not necessarily for himself (though that's certainly an element), but for Arturia's own honour, too. After all, he doesn't know what this young lady is to his king, and... He sputters a bit as he tries to master himself, even against the odds. "I—n-no, you misunderstand, good lady, I—milord—" Bedivere's head whips over to Saber in helpless entreaty. Help me! "N-no, that is not... I am only..." So much for that famous calm and poise. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Perhaps 'warn' hadn't been the best turn of phrase to use, Arturia reflected. "Ah...well, you see, there have been some hostilities tied to this family...it is one of the things I shall explain shortly. But more importantly, my friend is somewhat...shy. A true lady. I did not wish to put her out of sorts, bringing unfamiliar visitors without preparing in advance. It is, I must admit, rude of me." She visibly steeled herself mentally, inhaling and exhaling again. "The first truth I must share is that I am known by most not by my true name, but by a code, of sorts. Do not be surprised when I am merely called 'Saber'." That was definitely going to score a questioning look, but the whole explanation could be delayed until they at least got settled. The nest part, given his suspicion of magic, was going to be far more difficult. "The second is that magic in this world is very weak, acts of True Magic are all but nonexistent. However, there are those who call themselves 'magus' who wield the small vestiges of it through peculiar means." With at least the basics out of the way, Saber decided to take the rest as they came down the path; revealing that Sakura was one of these magi, that she was even a Master, specifically Saber's....and that Saber was no longer human. Baby steps. At first, Saber was a little startled but didn't think anything suspicious about Sakura's enthusiasm; she always seemed so happy when her Servant made efforts to create a true life for herself, finding friends and working with various allies and associates for the greater good. Tragically, she assumed that Sakura's enthusiasm had been over the fact that someone from her own time and place had appeared, that Saber had started to piece together more of her past to properly make amends. She hadn't spoken of her regrets in so many words, but the memories Sakura could catch glimpses of in dreams and Arturia's own recounting of them surely must have left the magus with some impression of the wish to see her knights again, to convey what lay behind the mask. She had no earthly idea that Sakura had interpreted some romantic meaning to her companion. Which made the whole eventuality all the more disastrous. It was in the second burst that things started to go horribly wrong. "Found...alone...side..." she repeated, her mind not quite registering the words at first, labouring with Sakura's ecstatic outburst. Try as she might, she couldn't quite address one point. She started to smile and then introduce Sakura to her dear friend, then relate how she had missed all of her knights, ask her if she remembered the last time she had brought Lancelot -- a fellow Saber now -- over... And then. Without preamble, all of Saber's mental workings came to a screeching halt. It might seem as minutes tick by as Saber's face reflected nothing at all, each one lasting a seeming hours as she seemed frozen in time itself. Once the silence might appear to last for an eternity, the exact progression of events seemed to blur into a single flurry of frantic activity. Which came first: the impossibly widened eyes, the burning cherry-red face, the frantic waving of hands, or the choked unintelligible sputter? Only the Lord God Himself could really and truly know. "Wh-what....n-no...I...we...it does not...." She happened then to glance down, which is when she finally noticed it: her hand was still curled around Bedivere's arm. Oh. Oh dear. At the realisation, Arturia abruptly let go, waving both her hands out in front of her as if to ward off some accusation, so flustered that her filter regarding the ritual relationship between Sakura and Arturia came completely off and not daring to risk so much as a glance at her equally horrified/embarrassed knight. "Y--you misunderstand, Master...he is a knight of my retinue...n-not...not...." There were some rare moments when returning to her own time and letting the earth take her into its embrace seemed such a welcome, peaceful fate. This was one of those times. 

:'''Tohsaka Sakura has posed:''' The much taller man gets a sunny smile, as he nods - and that smile persists as he straightens and his eyes go wide. She is indeed a proper lady, at least as the modern term might go; Sakura herself is certainly not one of any highborn blood but at least comports herself with dignity. At least, usually. Sakura blinks as Bedivere straightens up suddenly, and his eyes widening bring a slight shadow to the sunny expression on her face. It lasts for a moment, as he starts to ask a question, but the young woman's own blurted words of praise and encouragement suddenly bring a reaction she hadn't quite expected...from both of them. Those purple eyes, not quite as blue as Bedivere's own, flick back and forth between the two newcomers in confusion. The bits and pieces of words they're trying to get out, and the terribly flushed reaction from both of them... OHHHH. Before Saber's able to recover, reboot herself, and reason with Sakura as to just what's going on, the magus realizes the truth herself. Saber's true identity was a secret, of course, and that meant that this other person...must be the same. "I...ah, I see, then...I'm terribly sorry!" Her head hangs forward, long hair spilling past her shoulders in an apologetic bow. "I didn't realize, th-that...it was something that was supposed to be, ah, kept quiet...p-please forgive me! Er, th-though, please come in, both of you..." One hand gestures further inside the manor; after all it wouldn't do to leave the once and future King and Queen of England simply standing in the foyer! The door will, fortunately, close behind them; the house at least is doing its best to keep some form of privacy even if noone else is aware of its kind and supportive efforts. "I didn't mean to, ah, disturb your identity, y-your-" Fortunately, the magus is saved from a worsening case of foot-in-mouth disease by the sudden and spastic gestures by the diminutive King of Knights. She gives a sudden and understanding nod; Sakura does her best to keep up with the implications of Saber's stuttered explanation. And promptly misconstrues it. "Ah, r-really that...that's alright, Saber, I won't...tell anyone. It's important to, ah...maintain a certain sort of disguise, wh-when ah..." Well, when someone is trying to be as incognito as Saber was - and, apparently, Queen Guenivere as well. Well, if anyone /else/ figured out the tall blonde's identity it could be extremely dangerous to Saber's own life as well! Blushing as furiously as the other two, Sakura lets her voice drop to a whisper. "I promise...o-on my bond to you as a M-" Cough. She still hates that word. "As...your friend and ally, I won't...tell anyone. Not even sister." It's bad enough when Rin's hackles are up over the presence of one Aozaki or another; were she to know who is standing there she'd probably explode. As it was, Sakura finally draws her hands away from the others, crossing them in front of her chest. It's an entirely understandable situation - as Saber herself had to masquerade as a King, it's only reasonable that a gentleman such as this would be the right match for her. And with Saber's own destiny determined by the single act of drawing a sword, it wasn't as if she had a choice. Perhaps that Merlin fellow that she'd dreamt of once or twice had a hand in maintaining their illusion. "Ah, if you'd please...this way, I'm afraid there isn't much, but I've made refreshments..." Deferential as ever, Sakura will be more than happy to lead them to the kitchen. And she can only wonder about Sir Lancelot, and how privy he was to all of this - and just what it must mean. Wasn't...Lancelot part of the reason that Camelot fell, and...with this person...? What passes through Sakura's mind for the shortest possible instant causes those plum eyes to open slightly, and she turns to regale the Man Who Would Be Queen. Ah, for such a face, a truly royal beauty...p-perhaps she can understand what the tall, dark-haired knight must have felt...!

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Unfortunately, Bedivere has very little opportunity to take in the cautions and warnings given to him before the door opens and the whole kettle of fish is overturned. Where Arturia's face reflects nothing at all for a few minutes, Bedivere's is a healthy mixture of horror and scandalised shock. His mask may have been nearly as complete as Arturia's, but there's absolutely no hope of maintaining it under this assault, this onslaught. He can only stare in growing horror at this mortifying misunderstanding. Bedivere's just as quick to yank his hand back when she pulls away, as though he'd been burnt. Suddenly everything becomes clear, and for a moment all he can do is sputter ineffectually. "No, that is not—we—I—" The title used doesn't escape him, but right now, he's in too much shock to make specific note of it. He's too busy skipping beats over the rest of the situation, trying desperately to make some sense of this awful misunderstanding. "Aí!" He finally comes out with that sound; a syllable Arturia well-recognises; not something he uses often, and certainly not in Camelot... but when he does, something in place of exasperation, embarrassment, or simply more emotion than he can really put to words. Right now it's something of all three. "N-no! This—this is not what you think, good lady!" It gets even worse as Sakura seems to putter along with that reasoning. Bedivere is so scarlet he's sure that the heat must have done permanent damage to the skin of his face by this point. Even the tips of his ears are scarlet. No doubt it's an amusing contrast between his pale, silvery hair. "Oh, no, no," he groans, scandalised, reaching up to cover his face with his hands. "No. Please, no, by the Good Lord, this is not..." He forces himself to drop his hands, looking to Sakura helplessly. "Let me introduce myself properly and perhaps we can put this to rest once and for all. I am Sir Bedivere of Camelot. I—we are not—that is to say—" Bedivere folds his arms over his chest, one of them raising so he can bury his scarlet face in one steel-gauntleted hand. Again. "I am milady's loyal servant, not—we are not—'tis not like that—oh, by the Good Lord, this is a terrible misunderstanding—!" Violet eyes dart to Arturia in obvious desperation, as though entreating her to help them out of this mess somehow. She doesn't look to be in any better straits than he, though. Oh, what a mess. Help me! those desperate violet eyes seem to plead to Arturia. 

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' And in the middle of that storm there was Arturia, groaning softly, holding her head in her hands. Even that one piece of hair that stubbornly refused to lie down obediently seemed to droop with despair. Dear God in heaven, she pleaded with the powers which had made her a Heroic Spirit. Surely I have committed no great evil to incur this! "No...Sakura...you are mistaken..." she managed to grind out hoarsely as Sakura closed the door, her mind still fragmented with the mental cluster bomb her Master had just dropped on the two unsuspecting knights of Camelot. Bedivere's looks of desperate entreaty went unseen; Saber's still-red face remained dropped in her hands -- she didn't dare look at him. Giving him hope again, only to cruelly serve up such horror. Such a terrible liege. Still, even with her mind reeling like that, she could hear the desperation, the mortified denials, the brave attempts at setting Sakura right. The problem was that she was hardly in a better position to deal with the situation with her usual calm and an unflappable expression. Or, was she? As equally mortified as she was, some semblance of reason miraculously broke though. It did, however, have a number of conditions that needed to be met. And much to her added horror, drop the poor knight right into the middle of an exposition of the Holy Grail War. Finally, she removed her face from her hands, and the calm mask started to reassemble itself. Right, so perhaps the most embarrassing moment in either of her lives was apparently over, and now all that remained was a rational explanation... But as if the universe was conspiring against the petite blonde knight, the magus chose the perfect opportunity to hit her again, merely seconds before Arturia was able to speak...with an even more devastating attack. She seriously assumed... The empty, near soul-less stare was even longer this time, and even though the door was now safely closed, the poor unfortunate humans might have probably felt the vestiges of a chill wind sweep through the foyer as Sakura completely and disastrously misinterpreted every last detail. And had Saber turned completely sheet-white? "Master...." the Servant Saber finally managed, her lips feeling numb. "What are you speaking of..?" Her expression, though bland, would probably convey everything to her helpless marshal. Her gaze was empty, her lips pressed into a straight line with the ends curled up into not-quite a smile. And that chill wind persisted. "I am completely and utterly defeated." Forgive me, Sir Bedivere, but you shall have to bury me again. One could almost hear a plaintive penny whistle in the background...

:'''Tohsaka Sakura has posed:''' There are impressive qualities about psychological masks. They can endure many things, they can be a powerful demonstration of will and determination, and they can be a wonderful protection for those who must wear them. So much can be endured, so much can be absorbed, that it's almost impregnable. And then there's simple misunderstandings centered around hope, and the sheer power the multiverse has given the sensation of hope from young women means it overcomes everything. Meanwhile, innocent misunderstandings continue, and Sakura wonders momentarily if the radio's weather report was wrong. After all, it seems as if they've both been in the sun for some time; the flushed expressions...was it that hot outside? Her head bowed, Sakura doesn't quite notice the change in the two, the blanching and curiously expressionless face of Saber, and the desperate terror of her companion. She does, though, hear the words stated...and finally mentally pauses after a moment, trying to understand what it was that Saber and her companion had just said. And when he speaks, that soft plaintive voice finally triggers another memory of dreams. A sword, gently placed upon each shoulder, and a certain phrase. The look of sheer joy on the young man, the sensation of pride in Saber, and the meaning of the ceremony. It's now Sakura's turn to turn as red as physically possible, and her head hangs lower. There's a very long moment where the magus is more than glad her hair has grown so long, as it makes a perfect way to hide her face. A strangled squeak of...not much comprehensible at all, and without an ability to say anything the girl turns and flees into the kitchen. Well. She does need a moment, after all, to regather her composure - even for the younger of the Tohsaka clan, it is still a difficult thing after such...a horrid misunderstanding as that. Well, the simplest and least embarrassing thing is to simply pretend it never happened, and simply carry on. A faux pas of that nature...maybe it can be just...left behind, perhaps. If Saber and her companion are willing... After a moment, Sakura returns - this time carrying a tray of sushi rolls. "Ah...Saber, and your friend, I..." Kind of completely forgot your name. "I made something to eat earlier, if you'd like. It isn't much, but perhaps...to, ah, to celebrate finding your friend, after so long..." It's a perfectly reasonable thing to do, and one should always welcome guests with significant hospitality! The fact that her face is glowing as red as the malfunction lights on a certain little hatchback's dashboard is blithely ignored.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Although he seems to calm down fast, the noble Sir Bedivere can do little more than stew in his own horror as Saber adopts the mask of the cold king. Maybe he suspects that this time it's so she can control her raging emotions. He does the same, for much the same reasons. Perhaps it's a little less complete than the king's, but the marshal was still formidably impartial. He had to be, to perform his duties objectively. A faint twitch near his right eye nonetheless gives him away. No, his mask is not nearly so complete as Arturia's. Bedivere's armour rattles slightly in the face of that chill wind. When Arturia admits her defeat, he swallows thickly, as though trying to clutch at some remaining hope of salvaging this horrible misunderstanding. Some dim, distant part of him hopes this never comes up again – there's simply no need to say that this is beyond mortifying for such a loyal servant, so concerned for the honour and pride of his king. For a brief instant, some small part of him wonders if he could yet return to the wood he had wandered for four years. C-could he just... wander for a few years more there, at least until the fire left his face and the horror fled his heart? Sakura takes a moment to flee. Once she's left, Bedivere very slowly crumples to his knees, both hands rising to hide his face. The scarlet of his skin is still visible through his fingers, though, and the faintly blue tinge to the gauntlet's leather pads only accentuates the brightness of the hue. "Ah, milord... I—I... there are no apologies I can offer to—" For someone normally so eloquent and composed, Bedivere can't even seem to speak. The redness reaches the very tips of his ears, so covering his face doesn't help as much as he may think it does. "I—I am so sorry. There—there is no way I can make this up to you; I take full responsibility for the assault on your honour, I..." Dimly, he might be aware that he is running his mouth like an idiot, but his nerves are too frayed to stop until he trails off, gracelessly. The onetime Marshal of Camelot inhales deeply, sags forward a little further, and lets his breath out in a sigh that is, thankfully, only slightly shaky. Oh, horrors. He seems about to say something else, but before he has the opportunity, Sakura comes back in. His fingers splay just enough to regard her through one violet eye. Even crumpled on his knees, hunched over a bit, he's not a whole lot shorter than Arturia – it's clear that this is (normally) a tall, and imposing, figure (in any other circumstance but this one specifically). Clearing his throat, Sir Bedivere rises to his feet with great dignity, dusting off his cloak and resolutely ignoring the crimson that still touches his face. It isn't much longer until Sakura makes her return. Bedivere stands there, hair shadowing his still-red face, and he eyes the plate somewhat dubiously. What exactly is that? Is that even edible? And then she does it again. He'd been about to banish that redness, but she goes and calls them friends again – it's one thing to allow Arturia to do it, but somehow, the idea of other people acknowledging them as such, openly, makes his stomach twist itself into all sorts of new and interesting configurations that were probably never meant to be endured. His face redoubles its impressive scarlet colour. He opens his mouth and makes a strangled sound. When he tries again, he finally manages to make some kind of sense. Or at least use words. Actually, he seems to recover most of his wits, though he has to stand in silence for a moment, working his jaw to burn off some of those nerves. Arturia may hear his teeth creaking for a brief instant before he manages to speak. He finally sighs, famously straight posture sagging. "No, good lady, I am King Arturia's sworn knight. My name is Sir Bedivere of the Round Table, and I was her sworn Marshal of Camelot. I am not—that is to say—w-well, yes, we are certainly fortunate to see one another again, but—" So much for recovering his composure. Bedivere reaches up and covers his face with a hand. What's he supposed to do? Arturia may be the one burying him. He sighs through his hand, somewhere between frustration and helplessness. "What I mean to say is that milord Arturia and I are not... not..." Oh, the Good Lord in Heaven. He can't even bring himself to say what conclusion he suspects Sakura had jumped to. Even thinking about it makes his face redden so much more. Just thinking about being friends with his liege makes him practically hyperventilate; thinking about the kind of nebulous more that Sakura had implied? Bedivere looks faint for a moment; his jaw snaps shut, and he just hides behind his gauntleted hand for about five seconds of perfect silence. He tries one more deep breath and tries again. "We are not—we are not— I have not—" His voice rises into a genuine squeak. "I have not won milord Arturia's heart—" He doesn't dare say anything more for a moment, lest he betray the horrible maelstrom that his poor mind's turned into. He can't even imagine that, and yet for a brief instant, he does, though he doesn't breathe a word. He wouldn't dare breathe a word. All the others would take note of is that the tall knight suddenly sags to his knees again, hands resting flat on the floor, shoulders hunched, head bowed and trembling in his misery... but there are at least small favours. His hair is long enough that it does, for a brief moment, hide his face. "Oh, might the Good Lord give me mercy," he says in that soft voice, tone plaintive, "for I have clearly sinned to bring this upon myself, and may I repent properly, for I—I have brought shame upon milord Arturia..." It takes him about five more minutes of this before he recovers, rising unsteadily to his feet. He resolutely does not meet either Arturia's or Sakura's eyes during this time. In fact, his head remains bowed, staring straight at the floor. His posture is still a little hunched, as though he couldn't quite bring himself to stand tall and proud. "Aí," he murmurs, softly; absolutely mortified. Oh, the Good Lord preserve him.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' As the realisation at long last dawned on her Master, Saber was unable to speak so much as a world as Sakura -- nearly as mortified at the two knights of Camelot -- let out her characteristic squeak and retreated into what had become her well-established refuge. "Ah..." was all that managed to escape the Servant's lips, helplessly raising a hand as if to grasp the fleeing violent-tinted shadow. That she probably understood their relationship now was good...the unfortunate part was that the awkwardness was almost tangible, having escalated even further. Arturia hadn't thought that was possible. Saber stood frozen in place, valiantly fighting to overcome the embarrassment which seemed to keep her rooted like a tree to the floor. Slowly, the colour returned to her face...a little too much, given her now ruddy complexion. After a moment to gain at least some semblance of coherent thought, the tiny blonde tried to piece together some idea of what to do. She was startled out of her murky musings, however, by the sound of metal scraping floor as her poor, beleaguered marshal sank to his knees beside her. Poor Bedivere, she could feel the humiliation practically radiating off him -- or that could have been the blush of a thousand burning suns she was feeling -- and his choked apology made his sound absolutely pitiable. Vaguely, she wondered how long had it been since she'd last seen him like that, so helpless; years ago when that young boy not even a year her junior began the difficult road to knighthood. He had trained relentlessly to perfect both skill and demeanour, and for the years afterward it had never seemed to crack at all. Until today. It would have been nostalgic if she hadn't been so embarrassed, herself. Taking a deep, somewhat shaky breath, she composed herself carefully, ruthlessly suppressing the overwhelming urge to do some hiding of her own by fleeing outside and losing her embarrassment in rigorous training. Her mask was far from complete, but it didn't need to be. Just enough for her to rest a light hand reassuringly on his shoulder. "There is nothing to apologise for," she replied, managing to sound fairly even. Mostly. "I-it was just a misunderstanding..." A horrifically embarrassing misunderstanding, to be sure, but a misunderstanding. The Servant was mildly surprised when Sakura made her return; it was rather impressive she managed to recover relatively quickly. Of course, she was 'burying herself in work', but wasn't that what Saber did? The thought of the two rubbing off on each other was a touching and pleasing thought...if that was the case, perhaps Arturia might acquire at least a little of Sakura's cooking skills? With an internal frown, Saber scolded herself and tried to put on a dignified face; she needed to focus on the needs of her friends first. Clearing her throat softly with a tiny fist raised to her mouth, Arturia nodded to the magus. "Yes, that is quite thoughtful, Sakura," she replied smoothly, trying to smile reassuringly. "Yes, I..." And then it was the marshal of Camelot's turn for a bout with foot-in-mouth disease. Oh, no. "Sir Bedivere, she is not incorrect, we are fr..." And then the silver-haired knight blurted out probably a little more than he intended to, flustered as he was. This time, the squeak was from her. Not to mention her face heated up all over again. Was he just babbling something frantically to convince Sakura that her earlier assumptions were wrong, or... No, clearly not. There was nothing feminine about her for anyone to want to win her heart, nothing beyond that of a cherished comrade. Yes, that was surely what he had meant. Inwardly, she nodded in satisfaction, regaining her composure a little more fully now. Bedivere was simply unsettled because of the horrible blows to his knightly dignity, that was it. With a sweet smile of some much-needed relief, Saber waited until Sakura had returned to the kitchen -- perhaps to regain a little more composure but more than likely because she was in the middle of preparing dinner -- before her smile dropped. This was probably the best time to fill him in on that which she had been dreading. "I...have much that I must tell you. But I think it would be best were you sitting down to hear of this..." she said quietly, almost reluctantly leading the way to the parlour.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' If Saber shows a bit too much colour in her complexion, her loyal knight must be suffering from some kind of awful sunburn. Bedivere remains exactly where he is as though rooted to the spot, shoulders slumped. His gaze is resolutely directed at the floor. Actually, not even that. His eyes are closed. He can't bring himself to open them. So complete was Bedivere's once-mastery of himself that he had never before shown this side to his liege. Not even when he was training had he ever seemed so helpless – indeed, he had been fiercely determined as a youth, his heart and soul absolutely set on passing the trials before him and joining the Knights of the Round Table in service to Arturia. Perhaps he lacked experience, then, but never had he been helpless. The temptation to sink to his knees again is almost overwhelming. Just to hear her voice is enough to hammer down the guilt at visiting such indignity upon his liege. One hand slowly rises, and so terrible are his nerves that his arm trembles; the slight sound of rattling plate is unmistakable. Very slowly and deliberately, Bedivere covers his face with a gauntleted hand. He does not speak when Arturia reassures him. He isn't certain he can trust himself to. Somewhere in all of this, their plum-haired host returns to the kitchen. Bedivere never takes note of it, striving valiantly to recover some shred of dignity in all of this. His shoulders slump and his other hand rises, both coming up to cover his face. Without much prompting, he makes his way over to someplace appropriate to sit, sinking bonelessly down in the manner of one without much spirit left in them. The motion is graceless, especially for him; the armour makes a distinct clank when he rests on it, and the only reason he doesn't get jabbed by his own sword sheathed at his hip is because he isn't thinking when he drops a hand to remove the sword belt, leaning it carefully against an endtable. And then he slumps and rests his face in both hands, elbows on his knees, shoulders a bowed, miserable line. "Aí," he says again; very, very softly. Well, it's probably a good as time as any to continue on. He is listening, even if it may not seem like it. He's just trying to recover what tatters remain of his dignity and composure while he does.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Deliberately conscious of his discomfort, Arturia took a seat in a tapestry-covered Queen Anne chair across from Bedivere; close but not so close that it would continue to make him nervous, keeping her jade eyes focused on the folded hands in her lap. She risked a glance at the exhausted knight; it might take some time for them both to recover, and it was still difficult for her to think straight. Inwardly, she scolded herself....she really should have had Sakura at least bring them some tea to calm their shattered nerves. On the other hand, she wasn't entirely convinced she could balance a teacup steadily, not with what seemed like an ache throughout her entire body that rendered even her Servant's healing abilities useless. Not that things were about to get any easier, abject humiliation they had suffered aside. In some ways, even that might have been preferable. The King of Knights felt herself squirm involuntarily, wondering how the composure she had spent a lifetime perfecting had been decimated so utterly in a matter of minutes. It may have been that she had gotten soft in her new life in the multiverse, but she had maintained a rigorous training regimen to offset that -- as unnecessary as it might have been for a Heroic Spirit frozen in a moment in time -- and she had always been able to deal with most situations in a calm and collected manner. The obvious exception, of course, had been the King of Heroes. No one had been able to incur her wrath as absolutely as he had. She had assumed that only he could shatter her composure so. Today, she had discovered that this was not the case at all. Why was that? Saber resisted the urge to peer into his eyes to discern just what was it that had caused all this. But not only would that would have been terribly rude -- extremely unbefitting a proper knight and king -- but she wouldn't have been able to, anyway. She had never had that problem before, but with her mask stripped away, even if a large part of that was her own doing... Perhaps, she decided, that was why. Her lack of a mask left her vulnerable, which had been the entire point of cultivating it to begin with. The favour she was displaying now would have ended the Kings of the Round Table before they were even gathered. But her friends in the multiverse had done an excellent job of slowly stripping it away, so much that when she had finally and against all odds been reunited with her beloved knights, she was defenceless. Especially regarding one whom she had always had a special -- and completely unknightly -- fondness for. The Servant was unable to suppress a weary sigh. There really was no good way to begin. Taking in a deep breath to steel her nerves, Saber began, her face impassive, but her true emotions betrayed by haunted jade eyes. "I should begin with what was to be my death..."

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Perched on the edge of the chair, the former Marshal of Camelot tries to recover some wayward scrap of his dignity and pride. He can barely bring himself to raise his head, let alone look his liege in the face. It's hard for him to even string a coherent thought together. Now that there's some relief of the ungodly pressure that had been bearing down on him, the eyes of the well-intentioned but misguided Sakura or the direct regard of his liege, it's a little easier to find some breathing room. Slowly, Bedivere can begin to piece his own mask back together again. It feels somehow more fragile than it ever had before, though – why? It had always been flawless. His calm and steady personality had always led him through the worst of times, through even the hell that was the crumbling and eventual fall of Camelot, and even the death of Arturia; led him even to act calmly and rationally to build a cairn for her – for surely what could be harder than that? Yet even now it threatens to fall away, when he even thinks about raising his head. So he keeps his gaze riveted to the floor, lest his emotions betray him. Why do they trouble him now when they had never been so uncontrollable in the past? Is it just the shock of seeing Arturia alive again? Surely that must be it. The opportunity to even see her again is more than he had dared hope for, dare dream for. Surely it's just the shock of everything, coupled with his own physical condition – those four years in the wood had not been kind to him. To be certain, he had found peasants to shelter with when he needed it, but more often than not, there were nights he bedded down on his cloak cold and hungry. He's spent a little time in the Union recovering, but it's clear that he's not quite there yet – there are still shadows under his eyes, and those high cheekbones are likely a little more gaunt than Arturia remembers. A mere shadow of sorrow; a lingering vestige of the grief he had been trying so hard to work his way through. Even four years had not been enough to blunt that sorrow – and now, it has turned to joy, to relief. Surely his lack of control is just from having to reconcile one extreme with the other. Some of that sorrow comes back in the set of his shoulders, though Bedivere does not look up, when she mentions her own death again. "Tell me of what comes after, milord, but – but forgive my boldness. Please do not speak of that." His words are little more than a breath. Anxiety and awkwardness banished, it's clear that the remembrance of that threatens to strike a nerve in the ordinarily cool and calm Knight of the Round. He had never truly put her out of mind; had never truly stopped grieving. How could he? "Tell me what you must, but I would not think of that again. Those were cold days, milord; such cold days. To—to have lost you was a great blow indeed to Camelot. A winter had settled over that land I fear would never be broken, even had I returned to try and help set things aright. There..." His head drops just a bit lower. "There would have been no setting that aright." He shakes his head, voice lowering even further; it lies barely above a whisper. "I am sorry. I do not mean to interrupt. Please continue, milord. I would know what had become of you."

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Deep in the recesses of her mind, Arturia knew they would mourn her passing; why wouldn't they? She was the king, the one who they looked up to. If nothing else, the king symbolised the hopes of the people, their protector and guide. Failed though she had, the knights who trusted her and looked up to her would grieve, it was natural. And yet... There was something else, something that suggested that Bedivere had not mourned simply the king, or even a fellow knight....but her. The though humbled her greatly; she had her pride as a knight, yet to have been mourned personally... On the one hand, it gave her a small measure of happiness that someone had tried to see the woman and not the king. On the other, his obvious sorrow nearly broke her heart, the one that so many doubted she even had. And her sense of guilt nearly threatened to consume her as it once had. It didn't matter that she hadn't died yet, not in her timeline. The fact that she had been about to, and that she would have certainly not remembered all that had happened after pleading to the world, was enough. She hadn't even known that it was to be Sir Bedivere to have found her and laid her to rest, the one she would give her final command to. Part of her wished that he hadn't been. He was always too gentle for such tasks, even though he carried them out flawlessly and without so much as a word of complaint. And she had burdened him until the very end. "Forgive me," she begged so softly that her voice was barely above a whisper, begging for more than just the mention of her passing. For everything. She remained still, almost to a disquieting degree, but only for a moment before her hands tightened into clenched, slightly shaking fists on her lap. It was going to be even harder now, telling him what she had intended to do. "I...pleaded with the spirit of the world. I pledged my service as a Servant in the Holy Grail War...in exchange for my wish." That admission alone was difficult enough, but the worst for her was yet to come. "My wish..." Her hair hung low over her face, obscuring it like a shield. Her eyes shut tightly, as if to block out an admission that now, in the face of his devotion, caused her shame. Her voice was steady, but only barely, as if she was doing so only to be able to speak at all. "...Was that I wanted to undo my reign...to allow a stronger, better king to rule in my place. A king who would be able to save Camelot where I could not."

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Bedivere looks up at those two words. The soft entreaty might have been missed by anyone else, but the Marshal of Camelot has always had keener perceptions than his fellows. He has seen things and heard things where they would not; not necessarily because of any desire for subterfuge, but because it has simply always been his nature to watch and listen, rather than talk or impose his will over others. In some ways, his gentle, shy personality had worked to his advantage. The emotion seems to drain from him as he looks up; as he sees that broken, vulnerable girl who was, for a time, king of an entire nation. That mask slides back into place, even as he chides himself for having brought about that through his own selfish request. If she were watching, she might be able to see the change pass over his features – the emotion seeming to leach out of those violet eyes, becoming the calm, stoic marshal that she had relied on so much in Camelot. Inside, he has to suppress a sudden flare of anger, so rare to him, bright and white-hot in its intensity and suddenness. Something, no doubt, that Arturia has never seen in him. Muted though he may force his reactions to be, there's no mistaking the deadly cold in his eyes, or the drawn quality to his angular features. It isn't fair. She gave up everything for the sake of a Britain that rejected her rule, had given up any semblance of happiness that she might have had – and for what? For Lancelot to spite the Round Table and indulge in his indiscretions with Guinnevere; for Mordred to rise up and overthrow the kingdom wholesale? For the people to turn their backs on the one king who could have given them the dream they had all at one point harboured? They were the traitors; they who had followed her ideal, and then they who turned on her. Bedivere does not notice that his hand has clenched into a fist; doesn't even heed the steel plates biting through the leather guards at his palms until he hears the metal rattling quietly. As much as he wants to, he can't open his fist. It shivers in betrayal of the emotion he strives so hard to hide. It isn't fair. She gave up everything. Even her life. And that is what she believes? That she failed? That she could have turned over reign to someone somehow more suitable? Does she really not know that she was the most suitable? For all its intensity, surprising even him, his anger isn't directed at her. Never her. No, he is angry at the ungrateful people. How could they follow Arturia, only to cast her away so readily? What justice is there in this world that that is her reward; that she gave up her very life, and if not for Bedivere's survival of Camlann, she would not have even had a proper grave? Bedivere sets his jaw so hard he can feel the muscles strain, and his teeth creak in protest. "No, milord." His voice is dangerously soft as he strives to control himself, but preternaturally calm. She might hear a rustle as he rises from his seat, the quiet clatter of steel plates and the sound of his heavy cloak falling behind him. If she listens, she may hear the quiet sound of Bedivere's sabatons settling against themselves as he takes a hesitant step, followed by another. There comes another sound, a rush of fabric settling, and the clatter of plates resettling. Should she look up, she'll see him kneeling before her, looking at her with those violet eyes; so tranquil, so absolutely certain of himself. He does not smile. That would not be right, and he does not trust himself to, anyway. But his voice is gentle and reassuring, the anger leaching out of him to see her broken like that. There is an undertone of warmth to it that he would never have shown in Camelot; though there is an undertone of pain, in turn, to that warmth. "There could not have been a more worthy king," he says softly. "Did you not draw the sword from the stone yourself? No one else could have done so. And even had they been able to, they would not have held the kingdom together. It would have splintered long before it did, and the results would have been much more grievous. Camelot would have been a disaster of blood and ruin well before now. Perhaps it has ended in ruin, but that is by Mordred's hand, not yours." He reaches out, almost hesitantly, and lays a gentle hand on her shoulder. His touch is light, as though he could flinch away at any moment; a deer tensed to spring. Despite all of his adoration of her, all of the hero-worship she had rightfully suspected lay within him, there is a calm confidence to his voice; an absolute certainty. There is nothing of an idealistic, wide-eyed youth in his words, but the cool reassurance of a man absolutely certain of what he says. "You did all you could, milord. That you could not save Camelot was through no fault of your own." A shadow seems to pass over his features; a sad solemnity in those violet eyes. "Perhaps Camelot was fated to fall. I believe that you held it together longer than any other king may have, against all hope, and at—" His voice finally breaks, however faintly, and he coughs before he continues on, "—at such cost to yourself, milord; at such cost..." His head bows and his hand drops; he remains knelt before her, the posture of a loyal subservient. "I am sorry. I speak too much, milord." He seems to withdraw, then, quiet as he leans back a bit on his heels; but he does not rise, and he does not draw away. Once he masters himself, he looks up to her, holding that mask together through sheer willpower; that wall, regarding her through a veil of silvery hair. No. He would not dare let himself slip now, and cannot afford to suffer a crack in his own mask. To do so would be grave insult to Arturia, and he could not do that. No matter how much it pains him to see her like this, so vulnerable, he will not do her the disservice of losing his own calm. He clings to it as a drowning man clings to a raft – but there's a tightness around his eyes that suggests he struggles as he has never struggled before. "You—you deserved more than a commoner's cairn," he murmurs softly; so softly. His voice breaks again, and his gaze drops, unwilling or unable to meet her eyes.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' The King of Knights hadn't known what to expect following her confession, if she had expected anything at all. She had apprehended a number of different possibilities; disappointment, sorrow, anger...any number of feelings or accusations directly at her. Bedivere's loyalty was beyond question, but she had failed chivalry and kingdom again. The King of Conquerors had scorned her regrets, declaring with pride that a king would never regret...and yet, she was helpless to stop herself from doing so. She had born every burden willingly, without complaint, and buried her emotions while hiding her vulnerabilities behind that inhuman mask. She had done everything she could have possibly done, yet failed anyway. The only explanation Arturia could find was that she had not been strong enough. If her best efforts were not enough to protect Britain, what other reason could there possibly be? Her only hope was to fight for the Holy Grail, claim the sacred artefact, and undo it all and allow a king who could protect the kingdom to ascend the throne. A king who would not have had to wear a mask, who could have been the leader the people and the knights of the realm could truly have confidence in, who could have shaped fate itself with his own hands and forced it to submit to his will to protect his kingdom. Who wouldn't have broken so helplessly under the burden..not the frail, impotent thing who had ascended the throne. Nevertheless, whatever trepidations she had over how her former aide-de-campe would react, she could not have foreseen the reality. Startled out of her morose thoughts by the simple address, she managed to suppress jumping even slightly in surprise. She could hear him approach, her face remaining down-turned, her eyes still trained on her hands. It was not merely the firm denial, but the unyielding tone in it that held her as if held by a spell. All the awkwardness, the uncertainty, had evaporated in an instant, replaced by the immovable, self-assured Marshal of Camelot of her memory. Her sensibilities all but screamed at her not to look up, but she was compelled to in spite of it. Her mask was nearly gone, the normally hard jade eyes wide in astonishment as she looked up at him. It was as if all the earlier humiliation and doubt and never existed. The man standing before her was the knight of her memories, the one she had left behind. But there was a softness to him --and pain -- that had not been there before. As he spoke, she was transfixed, unable to so much as move or even speak. Not even when his hand laid lightly upon her shoulder did she move. Except for the astonishment in her eyes, she might have seemed as distant and emotionless as she had been for all those years as the King of Britain. It was only when he pulled away, struggling to maintain his own mask, did she so much as blink. As distraught as she was with her own grief over the loss of Camelot, it was only when his own grief threatened to overwhelm him that she looked away. It was human to be missed when one passed, to be remembered and mourned...and yet, it was also human to feel guilt over wishing for that, to feel it when one is the cause of so much pain. To love meant to hurt, and to be hurt in kind. That once inhuman king dropped her head once more, the pale blonde hair hanging like a veil over her face. It was as if she was carved from lifeless marble, not even so much as shifting for a moment that might as well have been an eternity. But though the little knight didn't so much as move, a sound so soft that only the most keep of ears would have been able to hear it; the sound of water droplets. And only an equally-keen eye would have been able to see the glistening tears on the back of her hands.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' It had taken him some time to find that confidence and that self-assurance, those hallmarks of his service in days of yore. More than his knowledge of tactics, more than his abilities in war; those were what had earned him his position as Marshal of Camelot. That steadfast ability to remain calm in the midst of hell itself were more valuable than anything else – rare qualities in many. Perhaps the Multiverse has crumbled the foundations a bit, but it seems that when it matters, those qualities are still there. This is still the same Bedivere that she had left behind so long ago; the same achingly loyal Bedivere who had without complaint taken Excalibur to return it to the Lady of the Lake. This is the same Bedivere who had gently and patiently set his liege afloat on the lake, to return to Avalon; who had built an empty memorial cairn on the shore of the lake. He is a bit worn, perhaps, but it is the very same Bedivere who now crouches before her, with nothing but steadiness and calm in those gentle eyes. At the same time, he is not the same – that gentleness and that pain are new, things he never would have permitted to show in the realm of Camelot. They were dangerous vulnerabilities that he could not allow to show in Camelot. Much like his beloved king, he was forced to hide his weaknesses. He had to present the image of a confident, calm knight. One with inner strength that, at times, surprised even himself. The naked astonishment in Arturia's eyes does finally earn a faint smile; a slight softening of those violet eyes. It's a rare and precious thing to see such open reaction in her, even if it is under the worst of circumstances. His expression falters when she hangs her head again, brows furrowing just slightly. The reaction is so faint it could be missed by all but a practised eye. Bedivere remains frozen for several moments. He hears that sound; he who had trained himself to listen and watch to everything that happened around him, to focus on the details that so many others would have missed. It was how he had come to the conclusion that his king was not a man; although he had never told her he'd figured it out, there had always been a silent understanding. He had figured that out for himself early on, though, thanks to his sharp perceptions. They serve him now, but he isn't certain of what he's actually seeing. It actually takes him several seconds to assign some kind of meaning to the sound he hears, or that slight glimmer of just a bit too much light on the back of her hands. His own eyes drop to regard that, thoughtful. King Arturia Pendragon would never have shown her reactions to her people. It's a foregone conclusion, then, that she never would have permitted them to see her do something as vulnerable as weep. No matter how much her heart may have been twisted and torn by the events that unfolded around her, she never would have allowed herself to show the pain – and he knew she was in pain, his perceptions keen enough to know that she was hiding it. Bedivere's mouth twists in an expression of uncertainty, and unconscious pain. He starts forward, just slightly, little more than a twitch, and he hesitates. Arturia would not want someone else to acknowledge that she hurt so fiercely; if this were any other situation, there's no possible way that he could know the depths of her pain. The knight's expression seems to tremble for a moment. His violet eyes remain locked on her, as though unable to look away. There are shadows beneath his eyes; lines of stress and fatigue that suggest he's trying his best to hold his own reactions in. Arturia might hear his sudden exhalation; trembling, and the way he tries to draw in a breath as cleanly and calmly as he can, but his own breath hitches. She's dropped her gaze, so she wouldn't see her most faithful of knights lunge forward; wouldn't notice until he's thrown his arms around her, the sudden embrace almost desperate. For a brief instant he doesn't think to hold back, and only concern for her brings him to loosen his grip a little, hesitant to dig those steel plates into her arms. She isn't wearing her typical armour. He does still hold her tightly, though; something suggestion of desperation in his tight grip – as though if he let her go, she might vanish, and he might discover this has all been a very strange dream. Very carefully, he rests his head over hers, and she might feel the trace of moisture in her hair, or the way his breath hitches; so subtle it could be missed – he's obviously trying to control his own reactions, but even he can only control so much. "Aí, my king; my king," he whispers into her hair, unable to hide the way his voice breaks. "Do not weep. Please, do not weep. I can bear much, but please—" His voice breaks again. The sound is almost a sob. It's clear that he's struggling; harder than he ever has before; trembling even as he tries to comfort the one he had given everything to. For he truly had – after burying her, he had been a hollow man; a broken man, with little left to live for but some vague sense of duty to the memory of that which Arturia had built. "Please do not ask me to bear that. I—I cannot, my king; I cannot bear to see you in such pain..."

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' The iron mask of the King of Knights was not entirely to protect her secret, hide her vulnerabilities, or even to maintain impartiality. A part of it had also been to protect those around her, to keep the burden entirely on her shoulders. Even if at times she wasn't entirely certain she could, she had to. Her first duty was to protect her people, and she had willingly made that choice when she cast aside her femininity -- even something of her humanity -- to draw Caliburn from the ceremonial stone when she was but a child herself. She tried to shield them...just as she had tried to shield Bedivere. She had failed once more, and no less dramatically. Were she any less distraught than she was, Arturia would have jumped in surprise at the sudden embrace, perhaps even have pulled away if he had been anyone else. In this moment, however, she was powerless, her mask crumbling away into nothingness. Instead of pulling away, tiny hands reached up and gripped the mantle around his shoulders and upper chest, clinging to it almost desperately and she buried her face into his shoulder. But what had been silent tears became open sobbing, quiet but nevertheless audible. Her voice was hoarse, cracking as she murmured, the release of all her long-buried agony almost palpable. "I'm sorry....I'm sorry....I'm sorry...." And then his own grief feeds into that, making it even worse. Arturia was beyond caring about her own dignity at that point, the aloof, mighty king gone, if only for this moment. She was being so very selfish, so very unknightly, to have laid such a burden on him when she finally broke under the weight of her own ideals. The naked despair, the bitterness, the sorrow...everything she had still buried beneath countless layers came crashing down around her and once more, she was too weak to even protect a single person from it. Never had she hated herself more than that moment. Yet, she couldn't stop. She couldn't pull away and gather herself, not until her raging grief was finally spent, leaving her so very exhausted. Perhaps that was what she had felt when she was dying and had given up her wish, when the world slipped away like water through her fingers. That she had just wanted it all to end. And then there was a faint light in the darkness, like a whisper that told her it was not so. True, she had finally and truly let it all go, accepted the end of her kingdom...but she was still alive. Alive, and even beginning to heal, after all the long years. Her tale, unlike all those in the poetry books, was far from over. In some ways, it had only begun. Her tears finally ceased, and she took a ragged, steadying breath. But she didn't pull away, not yet. it was a little bit selfish of her, she admitted to herself, but a part of her wanted to reassure herself that he was, in fact, there...not simply a vision that would fade upon waking. She did, however, have one thing she needed to do. "I...forgive me..." she murmured, her voice still raw. "To have burdened you so...it was not right..." Words were still failing her, it seemed.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' While it's true that she may have tried to shield her knights, the truth is that some of them chose to bear these burdens. Sir Bedivere of the Round Table was perhaps the quietest of her entourage. Few knew what he may have been thinking at any given time, for he spoke precious little of himself, and none of his comrades knew what his true motivations were in serving the king so loyally. None would have suspected how deeply his loyalties lay, although perhaps some of them knew that he would have laid his life down in an instant for his king. He had kept things close to his heart, though, and remained aloof. Much like his king, he had adopted a similar mask, pushing away even those whom he considered fondly. In the end, only a few of the Round Table could have been said to know him, and even that seemed faint by comparison to what lay beneath the surface – Gawain knew only that he was entirely too serious; and whatever Lancelot may have thought of him, only the heavens know. Calm and stoic, he had always given the impression of a rock of stability in the midst of a court full of high emotion and potential intrigue. Alone among his brethren, he was the one that always seemed to be exactly what he appeared to be. Surely he must have known, with his observant nature, that she had tried to shield him from some things. That she had tried to take the burdens onto her own shoulders, that he might not be made to suffer them. Too, he had neatly evaded some of these efforts – he had merely soldiered on, quietly and without complaint, sharing the burdens where he could. Much like her, he had wanted to shield her, in whatever ways he could. They had always understood one another; had always been so similar in their pragmatic and selfless approach to things. They shared the same sense of duty and obligation to the people, and they raised similar masks to deal with the injustices and cruelties of the world they lived in. Bedivere finds his mask cracking, though. He can feel himself-control eroding by the moment, feeling her tremble in his arms; hearing the quiet but undeniable sound of the king's desperate sobs. The sound is more agony to him than a knife twisted through the heart. To hear that suffering is almost worse than the suffering he'd endured to lay her to her final rest, watching the boat bearing her drift away, into the lake; laying what stones he could find together into an empty cairn, a memorial. It had seemed so paltry at the time. How could a pile of stones do justice to the memory of a person who had inspired such awe and fealty from him? She may feel him shudder around her, struggling to maintain his composure in the face of her agony. Much like her, her grief only seems to fuel his. Perhaps Arturia may hear a soft sound from her knight. It is a curious sound, strangled, as though given from a throat that threatens to close itself off. It is not a sound she ever would have heard before, or perhaps ever would have expected to hear from such a calm, stoic personality. Unable to help himself, Bedivere gives his own strangled sob. The sound is somehow foreign, coming from him; as is the trembling that he suffers – ordinarily so controlled, so measured. He gives another strangled huff, hoarse, trying to master himself; his breath warm. For him, the sound is so vulnerable, for he had always striven to guard his reactions as surely as his king. He had always followed her more closely than any of his brothers of the Round Table, adopting the same cold visage. And now that visage is useless. Utterly useless. When she takes a ragged breath to steady herself, he does the same, steadying his breath and mastering himself once more. He doesn't let go of her, either. If anything, his arms tighten around her, as though she might vanish if he let go. That would be worst of all, to have found her again, only to discover it was the dream of a mind gone mad from cold, from hunger, and from grief. When he speaks, whispering into her hair, Bedivere's tone is even softer than it normally is. It's not quite a whisper, but it's close; so gentle, but it's still clearly raw, too. "Aí," he murmurs, softly; "my king, my king." It seems more a clumsy reassurance than a reminder of her title. Perhaps she's forced him to break down some of his walls, but it will take more for him to actually call her by name. "You speak in nothings." He laughs, but it's little more than an unsteady breath blown into her hair. "That burden was mine to bear by choice. I chose to follow you from the first. And I chose to follow you to the end, no matter where that may have led." "I will follow you still. It is my choice, and your actions have no bearing on that. To follow you is no burden at all." He draws her closer, mostly so his plate armour isn't digging into her arms; he also rests his head more gently over hers, squinting a little when that stubborn lick of hair feathers along his cheekbone; threatening to stick to the tracks of his tears. She might hear the faint smile in his voice, unsteady as it is. "I knew when I saw you from the first, there was no other purpose for me. I would be at your side, or I would die in the effort, but I would accept no less." "And I accept no less now." Carefully, somewhat awkwardly, he gives her shoulder a pat with a leather-padded palm. His voice drops into a raw whisper again; she might feel, one last time, the dampness in her hair of a tear. "I will follow you to the end, whatever that may be. I would have it no other way, save by your wish. I could not have imagined finding you again. I..." His voice catches, but he doesn't dissolve this time; though his tone turns raw, he seems to be in control of himself once more, relying on that mask he had so carefully built. But it isn't as complete, this time – lessened, somehow; letting her in, letting her see what lies beneath. Although he doesn't draw back from her, his head tilts slightly, as though he were cocking one violet eye at her to study her as she makes her final entreaty. "You have not burdened me." She may feel his head shake, faint as the movement is. "No, milord, not in the least. Far from it. I chose to bear that burden, and I would choose it again, without hesitation. Even with no Camelot, even with no Round Table, I would still follow you – to Hell itself, my lord, to fight the very Devil himself, if only you asked it of me."

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Four years ago, at the height of Heaven's Feel when Rider had called out the two other Kings of the Holy Grail War, the King of Conquerors had scorned this ideal of hers, to protect her people, her knights, rather than truly lead them. Not that she really could have, given that she would have been rejected as a woman, and she would absolutely not become a tyrant no matter how noble the intent was. Yet, it had not been completely out of a sense of chivalric duty; she cherished them far too much to see them hurt, to share those burdens...even when they were more than willing to. And, on occasion, they took them onto themselves anyway. She was trapped, unable to protect for fear of letting her mask slip, but she could see it. Bedivere, especially...he did everything without complaint, always dismissed having his burdens taken from him in turn by insisting upon knightly duty. It pained her, but the impartial king could allow herself to show no special favour. Not even to those she cherished. It was touching beyond measure, but her fears practically paralysed her. There was no need for a mask any longer...at least, not in the sense that it had been needed in Camelot. And still, she felt as if she needed it still. Arturia didn't worry over exposing any vulnerabilities, she could not have been in safer company; if there were any she trusted with absolute certainty, it was her Master and her closest knight. However, she had never suspected that in some ways, their similarities ran much deeper than merely the surface, or even their shared commitment to chivalry. Had he been, beneath his own mask, as lonely as she had been? Was his just as much to protect others as hers? She had always been fond of the quiet knight, and even felt a kinship that she was certain was only one-sided, but never as much as before now. Arturia couldn't help but feel that something had changed, that perhaps she was just a little closer to true friendship than before...but perhaps that, too, was one-sided. She shifted slightly, but only enough to let go of the mantle, lowering her arms to encircle his torso. She had never known such a comforting feeling, and, like before, even with her sense of propriety and guilt over his feelings, she couldn't bring herself to stop. A part of her would always mourn Camelot -- it was too deep a scar to heal completely, too much a piece of her that was lost to her forever. It had left an empty ache that could never be completely filled, but there was no one else who had experienced that loss...losses of their own, of course, but not the same. Bedivere might have been a reminder of that loss for another, but Arturia only saw someone who had suffered as greatly as she had, who had lost the very thing she mourned. That gentle presence only served to soothe her, to help that scar at least heal in part. Once more, he was her rock, but with the crumbling of their masks she couldn't help but be worried; he had his own vulnerabilities to protect. Being aware of just how far his gentleness extended...Bedivere was far from fragile -- not like her -- but at the same time she worried that with too much pressure, he might disappear like a Servant struck down. Arturia knew she was being ridiculous, but she couldn't seem to help it. His words, though...those gentle words. She could hear the smile in them, the fondness in them. He truly had mourned her beyond her kingly mask, as he himself had said. Once more, she felt humbled. There was no doubt in her mind at all that he would stay by her side, and her arms tightened of their own accord around him. To rely on someone else was a frightening prospect, for fear of needlessly placing that person in danger, or hurting them, especially by one's own hand. Guinevere had been one such person whom she had harmed thus, sacrificing her 'wife' for the sake of the kingdom. Many empty nights, she cursed herself for that choice, even as the only other option was to allow lawlessness into the court. She was terrified of hurting him in such a way, but the entreaty had rendered her refusal impossible. She was unworthy. Yet, he followed her anyway. She had no strength to push him away, neither physically nor mentally. No part of her wanted to. "I...I am so glad...that you are by my side again..." was all the petite knight could manage in reply to such eloquence, almost reverently and with perhaps a trace of the awe he might have once felt as she rode by, all those years ago.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' No doubt she had not suspected how deep their similarities had run. Bedivere had been careful, so very careful, to hide that. Although he had not wanted to be perceived as weak by his contemporaries, he had especially not wanted to reveal any weakness to Arturia. She had been his inspiration, his motivation for striving so hard – he had not wanted to disappoint her by showing his vulnerability. It had forced him to push people away, though. He had become lonely. The ladies of court sighing over his handsome good looks and mysterious nature may have imagined a bit of melancholy that always seemed to surround him. They weren't too far off the mark. Of course, he was always careful to hide it in Arturia's presence; careful that not a hint of his loneliness ever showed. For oh, he was lonely. The gentle, almost shy knight was a stranger even among his brothers-in-arms. Gawain was the one who perhaps understood him best, and there was much and more about him that even Gawain never knew or suspected. Gawain had never suspected the true reasonings for Bedivere's absolute loyalty; the reasoning that not even Arturia herself knew, that secret reason that even Bedivere rarely considered too deeply. It shamed him, and it was unknightly, but he could no more deny that devoted admiration than he could refuse a direct order from Arturia. He had always admired her, even behind the cold, remote mask of the king. He had always known there was something beneath it, something far richer than the inhuman figurehead that ruled Camelot from on high. He had always wanted to see that; he alone, where all others had seen only a symbol of kingship, an ideal given form. From the first, he had wanted to serve her – but from the first time he had laid eyes on her, he knew that he would be helpless but to devote himself to her. He knew from the first he had been hopelessly in— Arturia may feel him tense, and then slowly relax, as he shifts his thoughts to a path less shameful. He had certainly mourned her more than a mere servant mourning their king. There's no mistaking the raw pain that haunts his eyes whenever the subject of her death comes up. He had mourned the loss of king and kingdom, but more than that, he had mourned the loss of her. It had broken him, as surely as anything could break the steadfast Sir Bedivere. Unworthy she may think herself, but he seems to have no intention of letting her refuse. When she gives her quiet response, she might feel his head shift slightly, as though he were eyeing her from the corner of one violet eye. Perhaps he hears the awe in her tone. His only real response is to sigh into her hair, fluttering that stubborn lick of hair of hers in front of his face, but he doesn't move away. While he wants to answer her, nothing he thinks of seems to be sufficient. None of it really frames the awe he feels, the reverence; the sheer joy at having her back in his life again – or the wonder he feels at this rarest of opportunities, to see what lies behind the mask. It had been a foolish dream, a pointless flight of fantasy; nothing more. He had never truly expected it to be granted. So he simply holds her tightly, sighing into her hair, though his breath trembles a bit. Perhaps she feels the dampness of his tear – he catches himself, silently, but he can't help the emotion. He has no way to express it, and it's simply too great, too overwhelming, to hide it behind his own mask. "Milord..." His response is raw and hoarse, but his tone is one of warmth. More than that, it's one of relief; relief so great he has no way to put it to words properly.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' There were a great many things Arturia was ignorant of regarding her knights, but ironically, few hid themselves even half so well as the knight who had kept her company the most. Many times, that mask had even been a comfort to her, keeping her steady and serving as a buoy for her own chivalry. When Caliburn was broken -- a reflection of the single time she had ever violated her oath -- it had been well before he had been there with his calm rationality tempered with true chivalric charity and compassion. Even Mordred, who had tried so hard to earn her approval, had not embodied the virtues so well. Not even, Arturia reflected, herself. But for his gentle temperament, he would have made a fine king. She was all too happy to spare him from that particular pain, however. There had been some places he could not follow, and she would never have let him. They were all warriors, blooded in battle, but her hands were stained with such impurities that went far beyond merely the slaying of enemy armies. She had razed villages, ordered executions...things that no one with a pure or gentle heart could in good conscience order. She was neither gentle nor pure. That was the price she had been willing to pay to keep Gawain's cocky grin, Lancelot's subtle smile, and Bedivere's innocence and purity. Keen of mind, she was certain he knew, yet he never spoke of it. That silence had helped her maintain her mask, cemented her own icy calm. It was a fortress which repelled all attack, but at the cost of locking out friends as well as enemies. Likewise, the walls kept her locked within, ignorant of the true hearts of those around her. And with his own fortress walls, she couldn't hope to catch a glimpse within. Until now, that is. It had been clear that for all his ferocity in battle and incomparable martial skill, within the armour still dwelt that shy young boy in awe of the king. Of a soul who, in the current era, would have probably never taken up arms at all. The sort of person who seemed to represent everything she had been trying to build a utopia for. She had caught glimpses -- more than even his mask it had strengthened her resolve countless times -- but nothing to the degree she now saw. For some reason, it evoked an unfamiliar emotion she could not quite place, and Arturia suddenly felt so very self-conscious. She almost stayed the way she was out of fear of having to look him in the eye. Surely it was because she was unworthy, in spite of his dedication to stay by her side. Fortunately -- at least for his piece of mind -- she misinterpreted the sudden tension followed by relaxation as he ordered his thoughts away from a path he refused to allow them down. It swept away that uncertainty, being terribly conscious of his pain. A pain she strongly desired to ease, and to allay any fear he might have that she would fade into aether if he merely looked away. Her arms tightened just slightly around him, now there for his sake than merely reaching out to someone who had reached out to her first. She would never abandon a fellow knight, but something compelled her to do more than simply protect. "I am here..." It was not a mere acknowledgement, or a declaration. It was a gentle reassurance. "I am here..."

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Although he feels Arturia tighten her arms around him, Bedivere doesn't seem to react for a moment, as though unable to. His gaze is fixed on some distant point behind Arturia, somewhere far distant and past the wall, violet eyes hooded. Slowly, very slowly, she might feel him relax just a little against her. He's still terribly tense, but some of that tension seems to bleed out of those broad shoulders. He lets out another breath, still trying to bring himself under some semblance of control. His eyes finally drift closed. He tilts his head to bury his face into her shoulder, so narrow by comparison to his; just like the rest of her – so small and delicate, but possessed of such strength. How did she survive the things she did in the name of the king? Even he can't answer that question, in all his reverence and worship of her; even he can't puzzle out how she managed to move forward, without truly losing herself. And it awes him, even now, to think of it. Almost against his will, his arms tighten around her – less desperate, this time, and more as though he were reassuring himself that she won't vanish when he opens his eyes. No doubt she must be marvelling at his weakness, he reflects, with some bitterness. Was that all it truly took to reduce him to shambles? To have his wish granted; to see beyond that mask? This is shameful, he knows, but he can't help himself. He can no more pull away than he could turn his sword on her, or disobey a direct order. Still... to see her let go, to see her drop the walls she had so carefully built up – it evokes an unfamiliar emotion in him as well. Yes, he had always wanted to protect her, but seeing this side of her... something about it makes him want to protect her all that much more. To shield her, that he might not see those tears again, or see her in such heart-wrenching agony. Although he had suspected some of the pain she had carried through her rule, it had run deeper than he could have imagined. For just a few moments, the spell is still intact. He does not think to resume his own mask. "I never knew..." His voice is as gentle as it ever is, but there's a raw note to it. "Milord, I never knew you suffered so. I knew you had suffered, I knew you had given up much for your reign, but I—I never knew how deep it had run. Had I but a means to shield you from that... I would have borne any burden to spare you from it..." He sighs, though it's a much shallower sigh than before; it carries with it a note of regret. "I know you are here, milord. And I am here, as well. I will not leave you, not ever again. Where you go, I shall go. On this I swear, by my faith, by my sword..." It occurs to him, very slowly, that he can feel and hear something unfamiliar. He falls silent, listening, almost straining – it takes him longer than it should, he of such keen perceptions, to identify that unfamiliar thing as the king's heartbeat. He considers for a few seconds, trying to think of a time he had ever heard that. True, the people may have seen Arturia bleed – war was an eventuality in their world – but they had never seen her weep, and he can think of no time in which he had ever heard a sound as quiet as her heartbeat. He bows his head over her, the better to hear that sound, frowning as though through intense concentration. The king may feel him tense; this time it seems he has a harder time dismissing that tension. By this point she might start to wonder if something's wrong, but eventually, he seems to relax a little. That frown fades away into an expression that seems oddly peaceful. As though that sound, that simple, quiet, infinitely steady sound, had somehow reassured him that this is real; he's not dreaming, nor wandering the wood somewhere in the final throes of death or dream or madness. That sound, it seems, is what makes all of this truly real to him. At least this time he seems more inclined to speak his own mind, for just a few more seconds. "Ah..." His voice is so low that if he weren't so close to her, she might have missed it; hushed and almost reverent. "Listen..." What in the world is he trying to point out? "Your heart," he adds, after a moment, shyly. His voice is still hushed, as though reluctant to break the near-silence; reluctant to interrupt that sound. After all, the last time he had been so close to her, he had carried her to the oak tree, to lay her down; there had been nearly nothing left of a heartbeat, and certainly nothing he could have noticed through her armour. And after that, that noble, proud heart had stopped. When he had laid her in the boat, and set her onto the lake, she had already begun to cool. The commoner's cairn he had so painstakingly built for her had been empty. It had only been a memorial; something to sate his need for something left behind of Arturia, the king he had watched sacrifice so much for her country. It seems he can do no more for a few moments, listening in hushed, awestruck silence to that very real reassurance. Truly, Bedivere has a gentle soul – for such a simple thing to arrest his attention so completely...

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' The Servant smiled to herself, her head nestled against his shoulder. While his tension only seemed to relent slightly, it was still far better than moments ago. Maybe, just maybe, she could ease that discomfiture and pain. If she could, she wouldn't be so utterly useless. Arturia had been a knight and king, someone who ruled and fought, not comforted anyone. The only way she could possibly do that centuries ago was through just laws and defence of Britain against her enemies. Even a simple touch or a smile had been too dangerous to risk. Secretly, buried within her so deeply to try to forget was how much she had wanted to. That part of being human had been one far more difficult to sacrifice than simply her femininity or the hope of a family or any such things she had considered trivial compared to the chaos of the lack of a king and the suffering that anarchy had brought. To rule with compassion, in many ways she had to give up her own. In turn, she had to rely on others to act on theirs in her place. Not everyone who had risen up from such roots remembered them, but as a knight, Bedivere never forgot his, exemplifying the virtues of charity and generosity. He had been so much more than just her strength, he had acted with compassion where she could not, leading refugees from borderland villages ravaged by war to new locations or issuing supplies to outposts which had been cut off and were forced to be officially abandoned, often carrying out these tasks personally. She had never seen him withhold anything from those in need, bringing constant relief to the poor and unfortunate. And yet, he had never tried to act as her conscience, chastising her for the hard decisions she was forced to make for the sake of the kingdom as a whole. He merely acted in silence, almost reading her true wishes. If he had been someone else, she might have suspected that he had been doing so to silently shame her or undermine her rule...but not him. It could have been that, when she had never disciplined him for doing so, he had understood what it was she had truly wanted. Or, at some point, something might have slipped past her mask, and he had acted on it ever since. A keen observer, of that she harboured no doubt. His strength was an altogether different sort, the kind which came from righteous actions and dedication to the ideals of chivalry. Arturia hadn't seen the crumbling of his mask as any sort of weakness; quite the opposite, in fact. It was an admirable strength, to maintain one's compassion even through all he had been through. How could she, the king who had tried to lead her country to utopia, not be awed by that? But on a more personal level, she had admitted to herself that she had wanted to see behind his mask as much as he had wished to see behind hers. She had no right at all to want that, but that did nothing to stop her from wanting it, regardless. Emotion threatened to overwhelm her again -- not to the point it had before, but enough to furrow her brow as he spoke. "No, I...I wanted...I thought of myself as your shield, so that you would not have to..." It was frustrating beyond measure that she suddenly found herself stuttering and inarticulate. All she wanted at this point was to convey something of the truth of her rule, but the words stubbornly refused to co-operate. moreover, his pledge, as it had before, brought with it a happiness that she had never thought she would ever feel again...yet no speech could properly express that. She tensed and then relaxed again, and this time it bewildered her, at least, until he spoke again. The sound he had heard had been slow and steady, calming after the storm of grief. As he bade her listen, her brow furrowed again, this time in concentration. What sound was she listening for? But at the moment he told her, he would hear the unmistakable sound of the beating becoming more rapid. Were he to look down, he might catch the tips of slightly reddened ears. Such a silly, trivial thing to suddenly find oneself bashful over. And yet, it was in noticing that sound that revealed his own heart: Bedivere was the sort of man who would watch, listen, and observe. And he had been watching listening, and observing not the king, but Arturia. It made her strangely self-conscious in a way she hadn't known she was capable of, but more importantly, that a gentle soul would still long for nothing more than to serve her again, even after seeing her so pathetic and weak... Arturia managed to maintain dry eyes, this time... though perhaps the threatening tears were only held at bay by burying her face in the mantle again.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' If she had only wanted to comfort someone, or be comforted, that simple desire was shared in her lieutenant. Much like his king, he had sacrificed that for the sake of duty. Part of it was to protect his own reputation, perhaps knowing that there were many eyes on him; he, who had been knighted a commoner, of a family with little fortune and no name. Indeed, he is perhaps the only Knight of the Round not to bear his own heraldry – although given permission at his knighting, he never forgot his common roots. There were eyes upon him, though, and Bedivere knew that by extension, there were eyes upon the king. He wouldn't dare threaten Arturia's reputation, not even by proxy. There were some who had questioned her choice of marshal, and some who had put forth their own name to be chosen; and she had chosen Bedivere over them. There was bound to be bad blood of some kind. It came as little surprise, then, that those were the first such nobles to be swayed to Mordred's cause by her honeyed words and silver-tongued lies. Not all of it had been duty, though. Bedivere was simply not the sort to forget his roots. Nor had he, practically breaking his back to deliver relief to the beleaguered, to offer more material comforts to those in need of them, where he could not offer such simple things as a simple touch or a smile. He tried where he could to make their lives easier – and where some might have suspected him of being a little simple, aloof of the courtly intrigues, he was more canny about it than they had ever known. He knew exactly how to balance his compassion with competence; how to do exactly what he wanted to do, and do it in a way that did nothing but help his own reputation. And, therefore, the reputation of the king, who had chosen her highly dedicated marshal. Perhaps part of that undertone of resentment were his common origins, he'd once speculated, and perhaps they were out of sorts because he had come from more distant territories – his pale hair and his odd eyes were clue enough; the faint but undeniably foreign lilt to his words that he took pains to hide as he grew. Was that it? He would never know, now. Somehow that isn't so distressing a notion. There are some mysteries Bedivere can live with. His eyes flick down, slightly, though he can't quite see Arturia from the angle he holds her at; he can only feel the weight of her head against his shoulder. Carefully, he reaches up to circle his arms around her, mindful of the steel he still wears. Likely he should simply remove the gauntlets, but thi is still the house of a stranger, no matter how welcome he had been bidden – he could not fully relax here until he had, in some odd way, judged that for himself. Another of his desirable traits, as Marshal of Camelot – although secretly warm-hearted, Bedivere was aloof, and slow to extend his trust. No doubt it had once been a useful skill. Perhaps he does not distrust Sakura, but the thoughtful knight would prefer to take her measure before he can pass judgement in good conscience. Surely, though, Arturia's trust in her must go a long ways. She may feel him shift his head, just slightly, to listen when she speaks. Despite the sincerity of the words, and the seriousness with which they're spoken, he can't help but chuckle – and never mind the way her ears turn red, or her heart quickens. He certainly notices that; dimly, he's aware that his own is probably thundering, but thank the Good Lord he still wears his armour. It would be more difficult for Arturia to hear his. Still, that 'laugh' has no real voice involved, though; it's not much more than a warm breath stirring her hair – he was always subtle that way. Where someone like Gawain might indulge in a hearty belly-laugh, Bedivere might have exhaled in that particular way, suggestive of laughter, but restrained as always behind his own mask. "Aí, my king, when have you ever known me to carry a shield?" Despite the admonishment, his tone carries warmth; a warmth he never would have let himself show in Camelot. "I need no shield from the burdens I bear willingly. Though, by the Good Lord, it touches me that you would think such." His voice takes on that quiet, awed tone again. "No, milord, I knew what it would mean to serve you. I knew that I would need to bear my own shield." He shifts his weight slightly, if only because the plate armour he's kneeling on is starting to dig in most uncomfortably. It's a good excuse to resettle the much smaller knight in his arms; mindful not to dig steel-plated armour into arms and shoulders that aren't wearing any. "To serve as a Knight of the Round Table... and to serve as your Marshal..." He shakes his head, careful not to jar Arturia too much. "Do you know where I come from, milord? A province on the far reaches of Camelot's bordermarches." Perhaps he's not thinking clearly – to be so forthcoming is simply not proper, but he can't seem to stop himself, at least for right now. He continues on in a soft tone, and it seems to change before her ears; his voice still holds that familiar gentle tone, but there's a nearly musical quality that slips into it – almost a lilt, stamping it as surely as anything to the region he mentions. "I knew that I would have enemies, to achieve the Round Table, even in the kingdom you sought to build. I suppose there are some who would think me a dreamer, and a fool, for I do not suffer the politics of the courts lightly. But that does not mean that I lack skill." The faint smile he shows is almost shy; and that accent fades again as he consciously dismisses it. "I know the way of the world in such matters, and I know that to achieve any kind of rank would have earned me enemies, even where I sought none. Perhaps especially where I sought none." He exhales, softly; that quiet, subtle laugh again that so many had missed. Few in Camelot would bother to speak with him beyond the bounds of duty; a position he encouraged, despite his loneliness. Perhaps his brothers of the Round Table, but few more than that. Most had no idea of his subtle sense of humour, or the gentleness of him. They saw only a man with gentle looks, and perhaps for that, some assumed him weak. Incorrect, of course, but he was above correcting such notions – he preferred to let his actions speak for him, and in war, they had nothing to question. When acting in defense of his king, in particular, he was a force of nature on the battlefield. No doubt there were occasions in which Arturia was under threat simply by dint of numbers, and an enraged, righteous Bedivere helped to turn the tide, along with his brothers of the Round Table – enraged, perhaps, because they dared threaten his king; his dream. He flinches back a little when she buries her face into his mantle so suddenly; surprised, perhaps, at the vehemence of the motion. Awkwardly, he raises his arms around her, drawing her closer; trying to comfort her in his own unfamiliar way. This is new territory for him, and he is keenly aware of his shortcomings. While it does take conscious effort for him to lower his guard like this – at the same time, it strangely doesn't. "I knew what endeavour I had begun," he murmurs into her hair, "to enter into your service. I did not choose that path with blind eyes. And when you saw fit to appoint me your marshal, I knew also what that would bring for me. I knew to shield myself. No, my king; I wanted to shield you. I suspected something of your sacrifices. I simply never knew how deep they ran." He considers for a few moments, mulling over his words, letting his eyes close. "Had I but known, I could have done something to help you. What, I know not, but..." "But that does not matter any more, does it?" He can feel how tense she is; how she strives so valiantly not to tremble. Bedivere sighs, resting the side of his face against the top of her head; the soft gold of her hair. "I am sorry, milord. I never meant to twist those knives. I—I would never wish to cause you pain... I only wished to share some of your burdens, that you might not carry them alone." "It is... shameful of me to admit, but I watched you, at times. I wished to know what was behind the mask, yes? I think I began to know something of the burdens you carried – I had never known how great they were, of course, but I knew something of the sacrifices you were forced to make. I only wished to share some of that." His voice lowers, barely above a whisper. "You seemed so alone, my king; so... isolated. I wished only to relieve some of that burden, even if—even if I dared not even speak of it. It was not fair to me. You had given so much of yourself, had given up nearly everything... but that you need endure those sacrifices so alone..." He sighs, eyes sliding closed. "Forgive me," he murmurs into her hair. "I speak too boldly."

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' It had been another source of seemingly endless guilt that Arturia had appointed Bedivere to be her marshal and aide-de-campe, working closely with her and, for all appearances, had her ear. It was naturally a highly-coveted position, one fought for by anyone with any ambition at all, and hardly a one had the best intentions for the kingdom at large. The unassuming, dedicated, and completely trustworthy knight was more than her best choice, he was ideal. Even those who had desired the position for personal means were grudgingly forced to admit such. Yet, she knew full well that it would be a great burden on him, that a fragile heart and a weak mind would break. For all his seeming fragility, Saber knew he was far from it. She had watched him as he trained, catching what glances she had been able, climbing his way up from squirehood. She had knighted him with the same placid, impassive face as she had all her knights, but was in secret pleased that the quiet, gentle soul was tempered by a spine of steel and an indomitable spirit. He would face even greater difficulties, she realised even as she appointed him, but she had confidence he would face them as he had faced all other challenges. It was the pain it might otherwise cause him, the verbal knives and plotting of ambitious nobles. As she did, he stood alone, faced everything alone. The king had hoped he would find some form of support...yet he had always seemed content to simply support her, to act as her secret will. She could never seem to discover why. It had not been even the duty of a knight utterly dedicated to the path of chivalry. It certainly wasn't shame any longer which kept Arturia from looking up at him, though it was some odd compulsion which kept her from doing so , some strange reluctance which had not been there before. She could feel rather than hear his laugh -- if she had ever heard it before this moment, she couldn't remember, and she had been watching him for years -- and it does nothing to ease the quickening of her heart or the burning blush on her face. She frowned slightly, unsure why it was that this particular expression was one she wore. "I watched you as a boy, becoming a squire...I feared placing too unfair a burden on you too soon," she blurted out, too flustered to properly filter her words, revealing far more than she wanted to admit. Curse it all. She might never be able to look him in the eye again. It was a shame; his eyes were, she had to admit, beautiful. And even for that she inwardly scolded herself; such impropriety! Yet, when he began to speak of his homeland, the compulsion was then to shift back just enough to look up into his violet eyes, her own sea-green ones widened slightly with some surprise....even a hint of wonder. Her embarrassment evaporated as she listened intently, hungering for even more. Bemused, Arturia found herself disappointed when the lilt gradually faded; to be sure, Bedivere must have taken considerable pains to train himself to speak in the common accent of the kingdom. But she found herself yearning to know more about him, to listen to him tell of his life before his knighthood. That he never knew, could never have even guessed of just how heavy her burdens had been was a testament to her nearly flawless mask, one she had spent a lifetime perfecting, burying her emotions deep within her. That had been what she had wished for, that they would not suffer because of any burden she had placed on them, and for those threats from the outside...well, she would deal with them with ruthless efficiency. Anything to protect her kingdom, her knights, her people. Bedivere was, however, right. Whatever both their intentions had been, however many burdens they had each carried alone...none of it truly mattered any more. The sense of melancholy remained, but the burdens had long gone, fragments of a Camelot which had fallen to ruin centuries ago. Discovering that the motivation behind his own mask had been to catch some glimpse of her behind hers had been a humbling experience on many levels, laced with a tangle of other emotions that Arturia was still attempting to sort out. But the earnestness in his voice now stirred her to try to reach out, as clumsy as her own efforts were. Strangely, the words seemed to come more easily this time. "No, it was not too bold of you," she replied, shaking her head slightly. "I chose you because I trusted your judgment and your opinion. I could never ask it, only trust in the decisions you would make in my stead. I have never been disappointed in them." She shifted then,pulling back just enough to be able to reach up and place her hands on each side of his face, gazing intently, earnestly, into his eyes. A little of her old self returned, the confidence of a natural leader. What was missing was the cold mask, and her eyes implored him with the emotions it had once hid. "Please, do not withhold your thoughts from me any longer. I wish to hear what you have to say."

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' To some of the nobility, the position of Marshal was more than just the responsibility of overseeing the kingdom; they assumed that it came with the king's ear, and the ability to gain the king's favour. Unfortunately for them, that was not the case – this was not a king whose favour could be gained. There would be no compromising the standards set before this king. The very being of this short, strong woman was devoted to the well-being of her people. No; there could be no compromise with a personality that fierce, that strong. Such a thought of favouritism would never even cross her mind. Nor would it cross the man she had appointed Marshal over all of the contenders for the role. He had denied to bear heraldry, and had also denied a fief of his own – he had preferred to simply serve, without trappings of knighthood; without distractions to pull him away from his own duties. Far more likely, as she gets to know what Bedivere really is beneath his mask, it was more out of his inherent humble nature than out of avoiding distraction. Using such a position for personal means, even to gain the things that the other knights had earned, would never cross his mind. A more ideal knight could not have been found – even his detractors were forced to admit that, even as they slunk through the courts and nosed about in search of some tidbit of scandal to erode his position. They'd found none. Perhaps the worst in their tireless campaigning had been that Bedivere was, perhaps, a bit more feminine in appearance and mannerisms than his brothers-in-arms, but that was hardly a crime – he carried himself with bravery and chivalry on the battlefield, and he worked tirelessly for the poor and the unfortunate in Camelot, almost always personally. No; he was not even the kind of knight to issue orders and feel fulfilled over that – he was never satisfied unless he was there, personally distributing food, clothing, fuel, or whatever else it was that might have been needed. "Ah. Yes, I knew you were watching me, even then." Bedivere flushes slightly at that. He was so unrefined, then; so raw. All of that idealism and youthful determination were hardly dignified, and time had eventually tempered him into the calm, focused knight he is today – looking back, his youthful enthusiasm was somewhat embarrassing. "Hah." A quiet laugh, little more than a breath. It sounds almost embarrassed. "I was... untempered, shall we say? Yet still, I... thank you for your concern, milord. But it was unfounded." He need not say that he would have done anything for her – already he's spoken those words several times, and there's nothing else he can add to them that would give them any more sincerity. When she looks up at him, jade eyes surprised and even in wonder, he seems a bit surprised at that raw curiosity, though he doesn't draw back. He just tilts his head, very faintly, as though he were trying to make sense of the emotion he sees in her. Any emotional display in her is blatant, to his sensibilities, honed by the cold mask of the king. To see anything like that in her is still new, and he still seems to struggle over how to react to her own reactions, at times. Yet, still... part of him doesn't mind seeing that curiosity. Something about that expression of hers makes the corners of his mouth twitch, not quite a smile. When was the last time she would have been able to express that, he wonders? Would it have been at the courts? Surely not. And if it was, it would have been over far less happy subjects – war parties and border raids, battles forming and enemy scouting. Her curiosity would have had a hard, imperious edge to it. He seems a bit taken aback when she says his words aren't too bold; as though he had been expecting her to agree with him, rather than express a desire for more of this strange openness. "I..." Bedivere doesn't have the opportunity to say anything else. Before he can react, she reaches up and touches each side of his face; stares straight into his eyes, violet meeting sea-green. He startles so badly his armour rattles, but he doesn't pull away; perhaps uncertain of whether she would take it poorly if he did. No, he doesn't dare retreat, but it's obvious that that straightforward, sudden contact spooked him – Bedivere, who had unflinchingly faced down half a battle line just to defend his king when she had incurred some moderate wound, the very picture of righteous wrath; Bedivere, who had endured years of courtly intrigue just to remain at his king's side, loyally enduring all manner of the less pleasant aspects of Camelot's inner workings. And now – now he looks terrified. His face flushes scarlet, so scarlet it goes to his very ears, and perhaps she can hear his heart now; thundering in time to the twitch of the pulse at his throat. His eyes won't meet hers, darting as though looking for an escape. Wh—what should he do? What can he do—? Bedivere opens his mouth to say something, and to his further horror, he actually squeaks. He tries to say something, but his voice cracks before he can even form any words. Frantically, he tries to gather his wits, but his mind races like the hare before the hound, darting and terrified, never settling too long on one thing. Certainly not long enough to recover his wits. When he finally gets his voice back in working order, it's no louder than its usual gentle tone, but it is a few notes higher than it should be. "M-milord—?" His face is still red; he can feel it, and he can't even duck his head to hide it. Dimly, he's certain that he must be blushing down to his neck, and there's not a damned thing he can do about it. Right there, plain as day, for Arturia to see. Oh... oh, how humiliating. He swallows, harshly; slowly, he can try to put his mask back together again. It's not the same as it was, though. Trying to hide his reactions away in the face of that entreaty – he can't do it, no matter how much he wants to, just to restore some semblance of order. She might feel him shudder, but his eyes eventually lift to meet hers. Something about him seems withdrawn in the face of that straightforward entreaty. Is he afraid? Is this brave knight who had faced down so many horrors actually afraid? He certainly seems to be. Bedivere swallows again, helplessly. When he finally finds the presence of mind to speak, his voice is dry and hoarse, almost a rasp. "I—I cannot, milord." That might be a disappointment to her, though, so he elabourates. Perhaps some part of her might be pleased to hear that that faint, musical lilt touches his words again; his shock too great to consciously hide it. "My thoughts... I... that would not be..." Please, she says, and the simple entreaty in her tone is like a knife wrenched in his gut. How can he refuse her? He has never refused her in any other thing. Even when she commanded him to throw Excalibur back into the lake, he had relented. The heat of his face is almost painful; the hands he can still feel there are distracting like nothing has ever been. He's always been so calm, so focused. So why, now, can he barely even speak? "Aí," he finally says softly, and his tone is one of resignation. That single liquid syllable is nearly a sound of despair. "Aí. My king, I cannot deny you." She genuinely wants to hear, and he manages to gain some semblance of self-control; if nothing else, than to obey her wishes. "Very well, then. I—I could not bear to see you sacrifice everything. I knew you would, nonetheless, and even as Camelot's very underpinnings began to crumble, I knew that it would serve no purpose, too." He bows his head, slightly; his brow furrows as he leans, slightly, into her touch. Those violet eyes slide closed. "There would be no returning that which you sacrificed. I saw the walls that you put up. I should know. I did the same, my king. But the worst was to see you bear that burden alone." He sighs, a soft breath that barely has any strength to it. His eyes open, but they slant to one side, not looking at her directly. "I did not want to see you in such pain. It... angered me, to see that not only did you suffer so, you did so alone. I would have shared that burden with you, had it only been possible... but even that opportunity was not to be." Neither of their morals would have bowed enough to allow them to confide in one another; neither would have been able to drop their masks. Indeed, only the shock of finding her alive again seems to have helped him do so. "I... have always admired you." His voice is quiet, so quiet; and it threatens to crack again. "To be able to do anything to lessen your pain... just to see you smile... I would have done it. I..." He reaches up, carefully taking one of her hands, as though he were handling the finest-wrought glass. They feel so strangely delicate without the gauntlets he's accustomed to seeing her in, and he's almost afraid he might hurt her with his own gauntlets on. Despite the weight of leather and steel, his touch is light, and so infinitely careful. His eyes drop. With surprising care, he takes her hand in his, regarding the delicate features as though committing them to memory. His eyes hood; in that moment he seems unspeakably weary, though not for lack of sleep (although the shadows under his eyes suggest that, too). "I hope never to disappoint you. I do not think I could bear that." His tone is hushed, almost reverent, and he seems content just to hold her hand. He keeps his gaze downcast to it, as though studying it. So delicate, as though he were instead holding some other person's hand; not the hand he had so often associated with the same style of leather and steel gauntlet that he favours. His words still carry that lilt, so distracted he hasn't thought to banish it. Besides, looking at her hand means not looking in her eyes; he isn't certain he has the fortitude to do that just now. "You... you are everything to me, milord." There. Was that so hard? Probably. Still, the way he says you suggests more than simple kingship or the fealty of a loyal servant – after all, he had mourned the death of Arturia, not the death of the king. And time after time, he has put her before his own comfort or safety, even if only in subtle ways. Perhaps the king may not understand, but if a certain plum-haired magus of the house were watching, she might recognise that reverent tone of his; the earnestness in his voice, and the faintest hint of warmth there – when he can be bothered to push his shock away enough to let it show, that is. The poor knight. It's obvious that he's rattled – but at the same time, if he truly minded, he would have pulled away; would have expressed his horror in some manner or another.

:'''Tohsaka Sakura has posed:''' The truth of the matter is that said plum-haired magus is not actually watching - but while she’d been planning to return to them, the conversation had been overheard. And of all people, Sakura herself knows when it’s best to not interrupt others...especially when it’s something as important as this. There’s a soft, beatific smile on her face, and she just lets the two of them speak quietly to each other. Lunch, or snacks, can wait just a little bit longer. Still, she was right, and the slightest of impish smiles crosses her lips. Ah well, she’ll simply congratulate Saber - and Bedivere - later.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' If one of those nobles who had coveted Bedivere's position had been awarded it instead, he would have soon been bitterly disappointed. With Arturia's reforms, it had become a heavy responsibility, one of strict administration with nothing in the way of political perks, not privilege. Advisory capacities had been stripped away, replaced with the much more unglamourous duties of an aide-de-campe, someone who merely kept the affairs of the state in proper working order and kept painstaking records or its workings. From the very beginning, she had set out to create just laws, ones under which noble and commoner alike were subject, carried out with completely impartial rule. No longer would a starving peasant be put in stocks for stealing a loaf of bread to feed his children while an earl skimming taxes collected for the royal treasury would go free and even gain from it. Even the court itself was not immune, with strict codes of conduct enforced, a declaration to the people that the decadence of the past would not be tolerated. The court would no longer enjoy special privileges and comforts that the people themselves could not. Such laws had been widely celebrated by the various commoners...but had made her an enemy of the nobility from the very beginning of her reign. And by extension, those she appointed to any position within her court. The foundation of the Round Table had caused an uproar the likes of which Britain had ever heard. What was even worse in the minds of the nobility, the Knights bestowed this honour were required to earn their position, rather than buy it with coin, goods, marriages, or special favours. There were knights from nobility's ranks, but ones who had demonstrated their absolute commitment to the chivalric code and all its virtues. Their oaths were not mere decorative ritual; they were absolute, and the word of a knight became his bond. Even the King herself became subject to such strictures. Though she wore the royal blue to indicate her status as was necessary. Her armour and dress bore only the lightest of embellishments, her lifestyle was as simple as status would permit. Her seat at the Round Table likewise bore more embellishment as some indication of rank was necessary, but her place at the table was equal to even the most recently-initiated knight. But to King Arthur, all was but the start of the road to her dream. Her hand-picked knights to a man had all shared her dream, in one way or another. While some, such as Gawain, possessed the hearts of warriors, all believed in the pursuit of peace for the kingdom. It was the peasants who suffered the most when countries went to war, and their chivalric code demanded that knights become unto servants of the people. When they fought, they fought only for a cause that was just. As a commoner himself, Bedivere was perhaps more inclined to truly believe in those ideals. In the years past, someone in a similar position could have simply spurned that past, living a life of luxury. Yet, the gentle knight needed no such strictures, painfully aware of the plight of those who had come from the same beginnings. He conducted himself with the holy virtues of humility and modesty at all times, never wavering, never casting them aside when he had thought himself alone. And the king noticed. She did not award such exemplary conduct, however. instead, she charged him with one of the most demanding positions in her new kingdom. Nobles who had dreamed of it as a pathway to the throne would have rebelled, or at least protested. Arturia had never regretted choosing the soft-spoken of mysterious origins. She had never regretted making him a knight. Arturia's admission about observing him was no small cause for embarrassment to her, though. He knew? She had taken pains to be careful, to not show favour. "You...were talented...and driven. I could see that...qualities I wanted in a knight. They served you well.." she managed to admit quietly, conscious of her burning face. But then, she cast aside that doubt at his second-guessing, retreating back into the modesty which had otherwise served him so well. She had never seen him act so flustered, so perfect was his mask, so impeccable his conduct. Attempting to bridge that chasm she herself had erected around herself as the king, she found herself wanting to become closer, make him not so nervous in her presence, not dread her status as king, to see her as a fellow knight whom he could talk to openly and easily. Just as he had wished for some way to ease what loneliness she surely felt, so too did she wish for some way to ease his. She had tried to make that first step, to show him that she was indeed human. The silver-haired knight's initial reaction, however, baffled her utterly. It seemed to even frighten him, causing him to drop his mask and reveal a look of what could only be terror, an expression she had never expected to see from the steel-nerved knight. Arturia worried for a moment if she had in fact done something terribly wrong, that she had offended him in some way. Yet, he didn't pull away, even as he turned more scarlet than should be humanly possible, looked desperately away, squeaked, attempted to stammer out a proper answer. Saber was at a loss. Furiously her mind searched for what it could be, what had she done wrong. She was about to draw her hands away and stammer out some humiliated apology of her own when he finally looked back into her eyes. He was still, for all appearances, embarrassed. Even so, he was trying. Bedivere fought valiantly to speak, and she couldn't take pleasure in the lilt's return, as sweet at it sounded -- like a musical instrument -- to her ears. He was too distressed, and she didn't want him to be. Her intention was to be reassuring, not make him nervous! Even as he relented, his resigned tone sounding almost mournful to her ears, she felt terribly guilty for placing him in this awkward predicament in the first place. It had been a selfish request, she knew. Arturia had gone out of her way not to order him, though she had really only ordered him when he refused to rest or eat to stop working -- so stubborn! -- and attend to himself. She should have known better; Bedivere treated any simple request from her as an absolute order. She had been prepared, she thought; she honestly wanted to know if she should have done what she did, if there was some way she could have saved her kingdom...or even if perhaps the King of Conquerors had had a point in calling her wish blasphemous. Unlike the boisterous Rider, she trusted Bedivere absolutely. His calm demeanour, his rational and observant mind, his dedication to chivalry. If she had been able, she would have made him an advisor regardless of what a Marshal's duties were. She would never stray from her righteous path, but because neither would he, she could trust in his wisdom. In some ways, his truthful words, as kind as they were, were painful. He could see the cracks in the foundations that she had refused to see, those sharp eyes and that keen mind had faced the truth she had refused to. She couldn't...it was her sworn duty, her sacred oath, to do everything to prevent it. Yet, she couldn't. The flaw was not with what she sacrificed to protect; the flaw must be within her. otherwise, she would have to face the truth; Camelot could not be saved. There was something like the twisting of a knife in her side at the other truth he had seen, the one she had guarded as if her very life depended on it. While he had not seen precisely how deep it rant, he had seen her pain, her regret. Somehow, though the mask, he had seen it. Simply by watching her and truly seeing her, the girl behind the king. Finally, there were five simple words that felt to her as if she had been kicked in the gut. His honesty was beyond question, and yet what he confessed was surely impossible. That mixture of emotion, disbelief even in the face of something undeniable, reflected on her unmasked face. Her throat felt to dry to so much as swallow as he took her hand as gently as if it was as fragile as a butterfly's wings, his touch light despite the gauntlets he still wore. When he spoke his tone was of such a weariness that she would have ordered him to sleep immediately in spite of everything had it not been predominantly something else entirely. No, a weariness of spirit could not be so easily healed. She would know. She felt it at Camlann. Arturia had tried to reassure him as much as she was able that he could never disappoint her, never in a million years. He was too dedicated to chivalry, too pure, to ever incur her disappointment. at that moment, however, all she had was that emotion, something beyond speech. Even if she had somehow gathered suitable words, they would fail completely mere moments after. You... you are everything to me, milord. As she lay dying beneath the oak tree, she had prayed to the world to allow her to be replaced with a suitable king....because to Arturia, the king was merely a symbol. The other kings of the Fourth Holy Grail War had resoundingly disagreed, but while a king could protect and rule wisely, he was nevertheless something transient and replaceable. So long as Britain lived on into Utopia, the king was ultimately unimportant. She had tried to rule so that the people would hold her ideals sacred, not the king herself. She never wanted to be regarded a irreplaceable, so crucial that without her, the kingdom would fall. That was not, however, how Bedivere had spoken of her. Before King Arthur, before the ideal of the king, his hand had reached out for the woman behind the mask. Even if he could not reach her, even if he could not even see her. Why? Did he already see her as a fellow knight...or as even a friend? She wanted so badly to ask what was she in his eyes? But she didn't dare; she had pushed him far enough and opened up too many wounds already.Her eyes remained fixed to the same point his were, her guilt eating away at her. But in spite of that. she was nevertheless grateful; more grateful than she could ever express. "Thank you..." she managed after a long moment, her eyes misting over. "For telling me..." She shook her head, correcting herself. "No. For everything."

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Although she had sought to unify the people under the banner of equality and justice, the king had in reality alienated more than she could have known. The ruling class wanted nothing that would threaten their base of power through the ages. Few who have held such power are willing to let it go, especially not without a fight, and perhaps those royal edicts were the beginning of the end. Some may have coveted the position of Marshal of the Realm, intending to use their newfound authority to gain the king's ear, but that wasn't how this king ruled. The only person suitable for that role was someone to whom the role was not a guarantee of a soft life, but hard work; something earned rather than given. Ultimately, the only person suitable for that role was the person the role had been given to. Oh, there had been scandal, albeit very quietly. Some questioned how and why this foreigner, this pale-haired Dál Riata, had become so indispensable to the king – how had he earned her favour where no others could? In time it had become clear that he had earned the position through merit, but those undercurrents of resentment throughout the courts had never truly gone away. Other things had drawn their attention, such as Guinevere's infidelity and Lancelot's betrayal, but some considered the appointment of Sir Bedivere as Marshal of the Realm to be the king's first fatal misstep. He had known that, at the time. He had heard their whispers and the sometimes cruel things they had said, forcing it to roll off his back. They had not bothered him, for he had expected such betrayal; was it not the nature of men in positions of privilege to guard what they considered theirs? Besides, their loyalty had meant nothing to him – his loyalty had been solely to the king. Bedivere had been in a unique position to carry out the work that he had believed his king had wanted; charitable work, work that said that the commoners were not forgotten, even if the king could not push policy too openly. So he had acted as her conscience, gladly helping those less fortunate than he. Had he not been familiar with living in such dire straits? After all, by the reckoning of so many of Camelot's more well-to-do, he had been worse even than a commoner – he had been born of Dál Riata, a foreigner, people rumoured to have strange and unbelievable powers. Untruth, of course – the most he had were a few talents picked up as a child that he had secretly kept on, such as his love of music, born of the great fili, the bards, the storytellers and the poets, the keepers of lore. Some had rumoured it, and whispered of it, but he had never confirmed or denied those rumours. To acknowledge them at all only would have brought him to lose face. So he had calmly tolerated the hard looks from the nobility, and the quiet whisperings they thought he couldn't hear. He had always had the keenest of senses. But he had never so much as thought of wavering. They served you well. Direct compliments, once so rare as to be nonexistent from his king, and now he's heard more of them than he would ever have dared to count in one evening. Bedivere exhales through his nose, head bowing just slightly, but it seems more a gesture of modesty than anything else. He can feel the heat rise to his cheekbones again at such praise. "I thank you, milord," he murmurs, controlling that lilt once more. "I... only acted as I thought right." That was, when it comes down to it, the story of his service record. He did what he thought right, in the cleverest way he could think of that would both achieve his goals and appease the capricious nobles. Bedivere had become adept at striking that balance, at perching atop that knife's-edge; in this, his mind and his capacity to deal with courtly politics was far keener than any of the court would have guessed. His eyes lift when she tries to express her gratitude, and he can see the tears that threaten to spill, but don't quite. For a brief instant he doesn't seem to know what to do, expression flickering between several different emotions – relief, gratitude, puzzlement, pain. He seems conflicted in that moment, so conflicted; where he had always been so sure of himself, so calm and quietly confident. Finally, he smiles, the expression faint. He seems to hesitate for a moment before allowing it to broaden a little, just a little, beyond the restrained bounds he had so often set for himself before. Please, do not withhold your thoughts from me any longer, she had told him. Would that also include his emotions, his reactions? He would suppose so. He hesitates again before reaching out, the leather pad of his gauntlet lighting against the side of her face; so controlled and careful that it may as well be the touch of a feather – and so light that she may feel him trembling as he does, all through his arm, as though he were struggling not to withdraw. "You need not thank me for that, my king." Despite the title, the formality, there is a warmth to his voice that implies so much more – that he sees more than the crown she once wore; that he had always seen more than that crown. His voice is hushed, though not quite a whisper. "You need never thank me for what I give freely. Do not weep, my lord; do not weep. You have failed no one, least of all me. Nay. You have succeeded, more surely than any could have known." That smile broadens, though the expression is still gentle, those violet eyes veiled by pale lashes. "I must... I must thank you, as well. Truly. I do not think you knew that you gave me something to look to, but... you gave me place and purpose. A cause I could serve. And..." He stops, then, looking somewhere between anxious and thoughtful; as though he wanted to say more, but isn't certain how to frame it – or if he should even speak. Those violet eyes are doubtful; another expression she never would have seen through his own mask. The Marshal of Camelot had to be confident and decisive, wholly convinced of the correctness of his actions. He could not have afforded to show doubt, even if he had nonetheless felt it. Now, it probably seems so strange on him; he, who had always been such a bulwark of calm, quiet confidence. "Ah..." The sound is almost disappointed, little more than a breath, and his eyes turn down and away. He's already told her that he's wanted to see beyond that mask, beyond the cold countenance of the king, but he dares not tell her why. If she asks, he is helpless but to answer, but he clearly seems to be struggling over something. It isn't proper, and it isn't knightly, but some part of him wants to tell her what she means to him – but those parts of him raised on chivalry and on the propriety of a knight are deeply ingrained. Still, perhaps it might reassure her. After this conversation, he has some idea of how little she thinks of herself; how much a failure she thinks her actions. He wants to tell her that she was never a failure to him – that she was always the opposite; that she always spurred him to greater courage, greater actions. She had always meant more to him than a figurehead or an ideal. True, she had inspired him, but he had not followed her because of lofty ideals – while true in part, it was never the entire truth. He simply regards her with those conflicted violet eyes. The need to speak is almost a physical weight, but it's a struggle he can't put to rest so easily. "My lord." His voice is soft, so soft, almost a whisper, and an undercurrent of disappointment lies in his tone – as though it weren't precisely what he wanted to say. Prying off that mask takes conscious effort for him, especially when it clashes with his knightly sensibilities. It isn't proper to befriend one's king, let alone to— His face flushes scarlet again; he looks away, pained. That doesn't even bear thinking about. Even if it weren't in defiance of everything he's ever learned or taught himself... whatever makes him think that he could be worthy of her?

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' If anything could have been said to be the king's true downfall, it had been in her belief that -- in time -- some of the nobility could be persuaded. Surely they would have seen the prosperity such peaceful and equal rule for all had brought Britain, the surplus in the stores and easily-travelled roads? Clearing the dead weight from her court had improved efficiency considerably; the Crown had been able to accomplish much more with fewer taxes, leaving plenty for those who had actually worked for their gains. Fewer deaths in the dead of winter or famine -- though even those were unacceptable to the king -- had meant from a strictly economic standpoint a larger and healthier workforce. A shepherd tending to his flock gently and carefully more often than not boasted a healthier flock. And even a simple peasant child was worth far more than a sheep. Her fatal flaw had been that she had underestimated human selfishness and depravity. If she had indeed been an unfit king in at least one respect, it had been in her blindness to such greed, such evil. Arturia hadn't been so naive as to expect that inherent good in people would overcome -- there would always be those ruled completely by evil -- but she had grossly underestimated how widespread it had been, even within her own court. She had seen the well there as plainly as day...she failed to be able to see the bottom. That then, was another part of what she had considered her weakness, when she reflected on it. it seemed nearly every decision she had made had been wrong, that she should have taken a different path. She should have found some other way when it seemed as if both options were terrible and that she could only choose the less-acceptable one. Somehow, a stronger, better king would have found some other option. no, the only choices she had never regretted were the knights of her retinue, the appointments she had made. Bedivere's origins had never mattered to her, only that his loyalty was beyond dispute, his dedication to chivalry without question. She had expected others to see what she had seen; the flawless work, the self-discipline, the impartiality. Or perhaps this last virtue was one the courts preferred to do without, given that any attempts to bribe or coerce were refused and reported immediately. If the king could be said to have become genuinely angry at anything -- in spite of concealing it ruthlessly -- it had been the rumours,the cruel whispers. no court was ever completely free of gossip, but a less-controlled king would have ordered the execution of those who had accused Lancelot and Guinevere, instead of that of her queen. She had been too fragile for such a poisonous environment; in retrospect, Arturia should not have accepted the proposal of a false marriage for the sake of the illusion of a stable royal family. Guinevere had been a kind, gentle young woman, not the scheming harlot they had made her out to be, and the rumours had in truth made her furious beneath the cold, aloof mask. It had hardly been through any fault of hers that she had fallen in love with a man, and he with her. That was natural...not the unnatural sham of a marriage only meant to keep Arturia's disguise. So too had the attempts to poison Bedivere's reputation, ranging from the clearly ridiculous to those which might well have fooled those who did not know him. In no way had he deserved such ill-regard, yet he had handled it with such dignity that the rumours had seemed to merely slip away into nothingness. Of that she had been thankful, but there had been no recourse for her for how to punish such impunity. Arturia carefully buried such anger, but deep within her, she still felt it. A different sort of emotion welled within her heart now, however. She could only feel pride as she looked at him now, his head bowed humbly as she had finally been able to bestow the praise she had always wanted to. naturally, he had merely done what was right. Such a modest, humble answer...so very much the Bedivere of her memories. There was nothing she possibly could feel at that other than pride, for one who had so exemplified the virtues of chivalry. The came naturally to him, and his king could not have been more proud. That pride had been mingled with gratitude, but then pride faded when she tried to express it. Memories of all they had endured for the years of her reign; looking back, she had silently depended on him so utterly. She had always insisted -- both to herself and to others -- that the king was always and forever alone. Even as she had drawn Caliburn, she had accepted that. Only now, she had discovered that it had not been entirely true. She had shouldered all the burdens of kingship, true; but where she had needed others to be her eyes, ears, and hands, she had hand-picked a select few to become them. Yet they were not merely extensions of her will as the king; she delegated authority and responsibility to them, trusting them to understand that will, but to use their own judgement and abilities. The prosperity of Britain until the fall of Camelot had been, in many ways, due to the ceaseless efforts of these men. Alone, Arturia could have only accomplished so much. She was keenly aware of that. The greatest of these debts was owed to the Marshal of Camelot. Even among the Knights of the Round Table he had worked tirelessly, needing no prompting and nearly no correction to act in proper service to the Crown. But her gratitude ran far deeper than for simply that. One was rarely moved to tears from gratitude, alone. They were not out of sorrow, this time. Were it not for him, she would have broken long ago. His light touch surprised her into looking up, but like before, Arturia didn't pull away. Instead, her own hand lifted to cover his hand in a touch as light as his, leaning ever so slightly into his hand. The sound she made was barely audible, so soft that only he would have been able to hear it. It might have sounded like something half-way between a choked-back sob...and a sigh of relief. Another of her incredible burdens had suddenly been lifted from her shoulders. Perhaps the most moving of all...her efforts had not been so futile, after all. But then he stopped, and briefly she wondered what it was she had done wrong again. She could see the struggle, clearly, but this time she refused to press him on the matter. In truth, she was surprised that he had managed all he had already. No, she would not pry further; she had wanted at least something of his true thoughts, hoping that she had at least made it known that he could speak them now. But only if he felt that he could. She hardly begrudged the tall knight any secrets; she kept countless ones. Though perhaps that was changing. there was so much she wanted to tell him; though fearful that there might be something hidden that stained his opinion of her irreparably, there were likewise his reassurances that no such thing existed. She wanted, almost desperately, to confide in someone...confide in him. Never in a million years could Arturia have possibly guessed what lay beneath the surface, what other feelings he could possibly have other than the ones he had already expressed. Still, the conflict in his eyes, the sound he made of almost...disappointment? In what? She couldn't ask, not until she knew he was willing to talk, but surely there was some way to ease his troubled thoughts. She couldn't read his face, either, turned away as it was, puzzled as to what could have made him so conflicted, so flustered. "It is true that I wish to hear what it is that you think," she told Bedivere quietly, making another attempt at reassurance. "But...if you do not wish to, I would like to know that, as well. you need not keep silent any longer, but you need not speak, either, if you do not wish to...simply for my sake."

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' If the king had been angry at such backbiting and ill regard as surrounded Bedivere's reputation, she had hidden it well indeed. There had been no suspicion at all from her faithful marshal, who had let the toxicity slide off of him. He had always seemed almost oblivious to those efforts to get under his skin or damage his reputation – but no doubt Arturia knew better. His very perception was one of the reasons he had been chosen. He watches as she looks up, forcing himself not to look away or startle. It takes more self-control than he can usually muster; how is it that his king, the very person he had followed unflinchingly so many times, could strip away his mask so completely? What power did she hold over him that she could reduce him to such distress? Despite how quiet it is, he hears the quiet sound Arturia makes; that hitch of breath between a relieved sigh and a stifled sob. When he does, his hand tightens over hers, fleeting concern over his face as he regards her. Had he done something; said something? Did she want him to speak where he had held to his silence? He is perceptive, though, and he does note the puzzlement on her face. All he can do in response is to make somewhat of a helpless sound, quiet, as though to say without words his discomfort; his reluctance to speak. It would be easy. She even encourages him to speak his mind; that he need not keep silent any longer, but his honour demands that he not speak. Not on that. That would be going too far, and he isn't certain he wants to burn that bridge. Not yet; not when he had only just found her again. "No, milord." His voice is quiet, the words barely a hoarse whisper. He finally does drop his gaze, though, looking almost troubled. "I—I am sorry. Do not mistake my hesitation; I could not keep anything from you. But this..." The look he casts her is both conflicted and complex. Something certainly gnaws at him, but he seems powerless to speak of it. At the same time, something in his expression suggests that he does want to talk about it. Isn't talking supposed to help? Still, old habits are hard indeed to break, and much like Arturia, wearing his mask is a very old habit. "No, I do not wish to keep anything from you, but—but it shames me," he murmurs quietly, dropping his gaze again. "Aí, it shames me. I should not even speak of it, but..." Her attempts to reassure him only make it worse. He shifts his weight uncomfortably, settling less stiffly on the floor, but he doesn't seem at all inclined to get up or move, still holding her hand with such delicacy, despite wearing those steel-plated gauntlets. He has the strength to cut a man down in battle, but at the same time, he's always been the most delicate of her knights – perhaps she had seen him in the gardens, once, catching his breath after training with a stave-sword. It had been a spring morning, early into the season and still somewhat cold; he had found on the ground a single butterfly, shivering, fluttering its wings but unable to fly. Perhaps she had watched then as, with infinite care, her marshal had scooped up the trembling insect and cupped it in his hands, sitting down on a boulder and simply waiting there, patiently, holding the butterfly until it could recover enough warmth to fly off. That's just the kind of person he's always been – perhaps he might have hidden that away, but he couldn't hide it from her, and he could not dismiss that part of his nature without destroying who and what he was. And while there were many things he could do, Bedivere never could have done that to himself. "I wish to," he says quietly. His hand trembles in hers, fragile as that butterfly he had once held in turn, brow furrowed just slightly. "But I do not know how... I..." The knight sighs, sagging a little. "Aí," he murmurs in defeat. "I had not thought that taking the mask off would be so difficult..."

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Arturia was still somewhat unaccustomed to seeing him without the mask he had built up ever since his training had started in earnest. Though she had relied heavily on it as King of Britain and had strangely taken comfort in it, she was happy that, even after all the years, Bedivere had not really changed at all. The youthful exuberance had tapered, but there was still that idealism, that devotion to the ideals of chivalry and the knighthood. Attaining that dream had not made him cynical; in fact, he had taken it all the more seriously following his knighting. Yet, there were a few things that had changed. She had remembered him being a little awkward and almost painfully shy, and his training had seemed to have given him the confidence that knighthood and service to the king demanded. She had thought that his shyness had faded, replaced with a mask not unlike her own, and that his own aloofness was simply a part of his now stoic nature. In truth, it seemed, that shyness and awkwardness had not faded at all. He had always been kind-hearted and gentle but open display had been replaced for the most part by silent charity. She had only discovered that he was still this way as he comforted her through her grief, even grieving himself. But instead of finding these weaknesses, Arturia found herself strangely drawn to them. She still struggled with her own mask, but with his lowered, she found it easier to lower hers in turn. That lowering in ways made her feel vulnerable, it left her open to attack, but she had nothing to fear from him. Her trust in him was unshakable, and so rather than making her feel exposed, that lowering-- though stirring up an odd shyness of her own -- felt...liberating. She had believed a king must shoulder all burdens alone, shielding his subjects and becoming more than human in order to endure burdens which no frail human being could on his own. But she wasn't a king any more, not really. Camelot had fallen to ruin years ago, and what was a king without his kingdom? Or perhaps a better way to describe it was that she had felt suffocated, only now able to breathe. Not that she no longer had need for that stoic mask. She remained a knight, if no longer a king with a country to attend, and that mask was another piece of her armour. In battle, the need to obfuscate one's weaknesses remained, and her kingly mask had always served her well in that regard, whether in distant Camelot, Fuyuki City, or the multiverse at large. In business settings, she had for the most part remained calm and collected, revealing little beyond an occasional slight smile. In the company of friends in more relaxed settings, however, she would allow it to slip, chuckling at jokes and expressing her appreciation for a good meal. yet, even then, she conducted herself with a fair bit of reserve. Her mask came down further within the walls of the Tohsaka estate, in the presence of Sakura and Rin. There had been more than one occasion Saber had fussed over Sakura overworking herself or lectured Rin on the cost of cigarettes versus those of the gems she required for thaumaturgy. She had even laughed and played once Lancelot had returned as a fellow Saber and entreated her to permit him into her service once more; a fact that would probably not please Bedivere in the least, given the violet-haired knight's actions as Berserker in the Fourth Holy Grail War. But she had never broken down completely before, every last wall collapsing into nothing. She had never cried on anyone's shoulder, nor admit everything of what she had endured. It had felt so unfair to burden anyone else with what she had chosen to shoulder herself, shirked her responsibilities. With her mask up, she would have refused Bedivere's open offer to help her to bear what he could of those burdens. Without them, she was helpless to refuse. But once he had, she felt -- a little selfishly -- that great wave of relief. Arturia felt herself chewing the inside of her cheek; he looked so anguished, though over what specifically she could not discern. perhaps it had something to do with his knightly duty, or at least some perceived conflict with it. When he admitted in a tortured voice how this mystery brought him shame, the King of Knights was left bemused. What could have possibly caused such a thing, for a knight who possessed all the proper virtues almost naturally, who was so slow to anger yet so quick to defend an innocent, who had remained loyal until the very end and even beyond? Her hand lightly squeezed his as it trembled. It pained her that he was so inconsolable; it was true that she had been earlier, but he had weathered that storm. What could she say that would make him smile again? She found she liked seeing that smile he had kept hidden away for so long, she had felt so warmed by them. Conversely, his pained expressions incurred an inexplicable tightness in her chest. These were such odd, unfamiliar sensations that she had no idea what she was supposed to do. just as she had no idea what she was supposed to do for him. She did, however, know of at least one thing she needed to tell him, even if it might not assuage his sense of shame. "You could never be shameful," she said with absolute certainty. "I have never known a knight who exemplified the chivalric virtues more than you. Whatever it is that you have done, it could never be said to be shameful." He was right, though. It was difficult, indeed.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' If Arturia had thought his shy nature had faded, she was mistaken. In truth, it was a testament to how carefully Bedivere had built his own mask. That she had suspected nothing was something of a left-handed compliment. He had done his work more thoroughly than he had even suspected. How ironic, that both of them had only wanted to see past one another's masks, and yet both were bound by those very masks. The very things each had wanted had always been right within reach, and yet for kingdom and for duty, they had denied themselves; had resolved to carry out their duties in silence and solitude. No doubt she sees the slip of his own mask as a weakness, but that's an opinion she may need some effort to change – it would be like Bedivere convincing her that she had not failed Camelot. Some habits are difficult to break. That mask had served him well for many years, and he had been loathe to remove it. In Camelot, there had been every reason not to. To do that would have been tantamount to career suicide. It may have been so in a more literal sense, too. Even the gentle and soft-spoken Bedivere had enemies. Where she had been given time to lower her defenses in her years in the Multiverse, Bedivere had no such fallback. If anything, finding himself utterly alone before Arturia had happened across him had only encouraged him to raise his defenses further, hiding behind that mask as a footman would crouch behind a stout shield. Since he had laid Arturia to rest on the shore of the lake, it had been his survival skill; that, and shutting his emotions off entirely. He had watched the boat bearing her body push off into the lake, and only then had he allowed his mask to crack, alone but for the birds in the wood – no doubt his grief-stricken cries had carried across the lake until his voice had been no more, but there had been no one to hear them. It had been the only time he had let that control slip, and after that, he had let the numbness take him. That was by far easier than thinking about what had been lost. It had not been just his kingdom or his king, although those were certainly casualties of the Battle of Camlann. No; it had been something far more precious to him. Something he never thought would be replaced, and something that he struggles even now to reconcile. Having her back forces him to confront things he had pushed out of his mind entirely until he'd seen her again; things that obviously cause him some kind of pain. But what is it that she tries so hard to figure out? What could even shame someone of such impeccable conduct? Bedivere bows his head, slowly, hair falling across his face. Though fine, there's enough of it that she might have to duck her head to actually see his expression, which seems to be one of pain. He turns his hand over, carefully, when she squeezes his hand; ever mindful of the steel plates. His fingers close over hers in a silent gesture of what seems gratitude, or relief, and perhaps even apology. "Ah, my king..." He shakes his head, slowly, but he doesn't bother to straighten. Even his posture is a sign of his distress, normally so careful to conduct himself with dignity. There's no dignity in it now, head bowed as though he wanted to hide from whatever it is that troubles him. "There are some things..." The confidence in her voice, though, the absolute certainty, seems to do some to reassure him. Goodness, what could it be? Had he killed an unarmed man? Struck down a woman? Robbed someone? It causes him clear distress, whatever it is— Bedivere sighs, so quietly the sound could be missed but for the hitch and then sag of his shoulders. The movement is just enough to cause the heavy cloth of his mantle to rustle. "I..." He wonders, briefly, how one turns that protective mask off. How one simply speaks, openly and candidly, without the almost instinctive urge to hide away. His gaze drops, unable to meet her eyes, and his fingers tighten around her hand, almost imperceptibly, as though unconsciously seeking comfort. "I had always... admired you, milord." His admission is quiet, but surely there must be something else to it. He's already managed to say this, though it may have taken some work to drag it out of him. He hadn't placed such emphasis before, though; not quite so plainly. "And there is no untruth when I tell you that I followed you for the ideal, for I did, and I too wished to realise your vision of Camelot. But... that is not the only reason why I... followed you." He swallows, harshly, almost grimacing as he tries to marshall his failing courage. "I knew from the day your entourage passed me by in the market square that I would have no other master, and I would spend my life serving you. I knew then I wished to become a Knight of the Round Table, but it wasn't..." He shakes his head, faintly. "It wasn't that I wanted to be a knight. Well – I did wish to be a knight, that much is true, but... it... was because of you. Yes. I strove to become a Knight of the Round Table... but not solely for the sake of knighthood," he adds, risking a glance at her. He can feel the scarlet flush of his face clear to the tips of his ears; he doesn't dare meet her eyes. That blush is almost painful. "It was for the sake of standing by your side... I only wanted to stand at your side. I—" Bedivere exhales through his nose, a quiet sigh of – despair? Frustration? It's hard to say what exactly it is, but it's definitely unhappy. He screws his eyes shut, but there's no stopping his words now. If he stops, he fears he might never speak again, especially not to her. His voice drops, that gentle tone not quite a whisper. "From the first I was stricken by the sight of you. I know it is shameful, but my desire to serve you was only to be closer to you; it was only a selfish desire to prolong that moment in the market square, when I had first seen you in the sun... I—" His voice cracks, and he coughs, mortified; but to his credit, he continues on. It's as though her silent desire to help him opened a dam, and now, held up for so long, there's no stopping the inevitable deluge. "I knew you were a woman, even from the first," he admits, releasing her hands a little reluctantly. His own hands return to rest over his knee, fidgeting slightly. How odd it must be for her to see this bastion of calm and stillness... fidget. "I know not how I knew, but I had suspected. I confirmed as such later, but my suspicions had been correct. And since the first I—I had been struck by your beauty," he admits, voice so faint and hoarse it would be missed if they weren't so close. "I..." His voice gives out again, and he has to start again. "And I still am." Several seconds of silence pass; he seems to fold in on himself, shoulders hunching, head hanging. She may hear a quiet sound – the subtle, metallic rattle of his armour as he tries to control his trembling. And now, apparently, she knows what terrible thing it was that had plagued him; what shameful secret he had harboured all through her rule. Was this what had sent him into such distress? To simply admit that he had admired the woman on the throne, who hid herself and sacrificed so much of herself, that her people might prosper? That he alone had seen her beauty, and had wanted to serve not the king, but this brave and selfless woman who had – completely unknowingly – stolen his heart? "I—I am sorry. I should not have spoken. Ah, merciful God! Why did I speak of that?" Even his voice trembles; as though he were waiting to be struck by lightning, or perhaps struck by Arturia, or some similarly unpleasant punishment. "Aí," he murmurs mournfully, "I will understand if you choose to dismiss me from your service for such shameful..." He can't even seem to bring himself to finish his sentence, miserable voice sinking into a dry whisper, and then giving out altogether. He can still feel the heat in his face right down to the tips of his ears, too, and no doubt he knows she can see it. No; he only keeps his head bowed, because it means not meeting her disappointed – or perhaps horrified – eyes. He can imagine any number of reactions from her at his halting, stumbling admission; and every one of them is as a knife wrenched in his gut. "Aí..." The sound is so small, so despairing, it might almost seem comical.

:'''Tohsaka Sakura has posed:''' Elsewhere in the house, there’s a momentary - and extremely silent - gasp. She was right after all...but, keeping her mouth covered, Sakura only listens carefully. She’s going to have to make much penance for listening...b-but, at the same time, for the plum-haired magus to simply stride out would be noticed, and remind them of the horrible mistake she’d made… ...which would take Saber’s current feelings, as well as Bedivere’s and crush them in a way that would be irreparable. She owes her friend too much, and she owes Bedivere...at least the chance to confess himself. So silent she will remain, keeping what is, at the moment, a secret between two people only that.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' There was a great deal Arturia didn't know about, it seemed. Emotional detachment for the sake of impartiality had many costs; even commoners, who had been jubilant over her reforms, had been made uneasy by her distance. None could gain her favour as a means of power...but at the same time, no one could approach her with honest intentions, either. She had watched Bedivere grow from an exuberant if timid boy into a serious young man, but those brief glances told her little. She had heard that whatever family he had come from were of the Dál Riata, but beyond that, she knew nothing. His likes and dislikes, habits, tastes...it was all a mystery to her. It had been the same for all her knights, in fact...only now, for some reason, she found it deeply troubling. Even when Rider had criticised her for it, it had not bothered her quite to the extent that such a thing did now. She had hardly enjoyed it, keeping her distance from them, for some part of her had always wanted to get to know them as true friends and comrades. But the kingly part of her realised that camaraderie had been sacrificed so that the people would not think they were above her new laws. Becoming a knight might have been a great honour, but it was no privilege...it was a call to service. Just as how Arturia regarded her place as king. She only felt that loss as keenly as she did once she had stumbled upon the multiverse, first when Lancelot appeared, then Bedivere. She had felt some conflict over Mordred's reappearance -- both versions of her -- but the Saber of Red seemed uninterested in making amends, and while Arturia's mask had diminished, it had not sufficiently slipped in the presence of her artificial 'son'. But not so with her remaining knights. and one for whom she harboured a special fondness for was now right there, after four years, his mask sufficiently slipped enough for her to have seen his own anguish. It was only now, seeing it with her own eyes, that she realised that there had not been anything she could have done to completely shield them all, to free them from concern over her. Had it been like that for all of them? Lancelot, too, had seemed to desperate to be punished by her for his actions, and similarly pined to be readmitted back into her service. Of course, she couldn't refuse him. She had wept openly after he had faded away as Berserker; accepting him as a knight again as a Saber was simply the sort of forgiving and loving person she was. She missed them all terribly. It was a selfish wish of hers to see them again, to grant them perhaps some of what they might have wished for that could not have been granted in Camelot. but there had been some merciful power in the multiverse, to have brought at the very least the knights she had most wanted to make amends with. But it must have been so confusing, she thought with a sense of shame, to now see the distant, confident king crumble into an uncertain girl with a tangled knot of emotions. How could he have not been disappointed in what she was behind her mask, the girl Arturia she had kept locked away in a prison within her own self? His own uncertainty at having seen her mask drop; her inner self was a stark contrast to her kingly self...so weak and unsure. The newly-coronated king he had been in awe of...would that boy have been so awe-struck to know that she had only permitted the kingly part of herself to be seen? Her unworthiness was made all too clear to her as Bedivere continued, even as she had tried to reassure him that he did not need to. He had at once been horrified by the thought, yet something urged him forward. At first, she was slightly puzzled; it had been clear that he had admired the king greatly -- she had known that much, at least -- and he had already confessed that he had also longed to steal even just a glimpse of what had been concealed behind it. His posture crumpled, a far cry from the usual rigid posture of a knight of Camelot, and he looked so weary that, had she not wanted to disturb him after being so determined to see the rest of it through, she would have taken him into her arms just as he had with her as she openly grieved for the first time. So too, when he had said that there were some things, she almost dreaded hearing that he had, in fact, been disappointed. Her conduct had hardly been becoming a proper king. Especially when he said admired in a way that carried with it something beyond even admiration, though she was befuddled as to what that specifically was. Inwardly she winced, afraid she had let him down in some mysterious way. He had followed her for other reasons? No matter what reasons he might have had -- helping his people, perhaps? -- she almost didn't care; he had served her so faithfully, so unwaveringly, that even if the motives had not been 'pure' by some standards, it didn't matter to her. But then, no...she was learning he had been following her, that he desired nothing more than to follow King Arthur herself, and that becoming a knight had been the best -- and perhaps only -- way to do so. That revelation likewise failed to trouble her; the entire point of becoming a knight was to serve, and he had served flawlessly. No, what finally began throwing her off was that he had known from the beginning of her secret, of the gender she had been trying to conceal. Her mouth fell open slightly in astonishment, her eyes wide. True, bedivere was perhaps the most observant person she had ever known -- if anyone would have been able to see beyond the ruse, of course it would have been him -- but they had been so very careful after the coronation. Drawing Caliburn from its ceremonial stone had been easy by comparison. Was this his horrible secret, that he had hid his knowledge of it until he had been made the Marshal of the realm? But it was only when he had confessed that he had been struck by an attribute that she firmly believed she did not truly possess that she went into shock. Her, beautiful? Even in the raiment of the king, projecting as much masculinity as she was able? She almost didn't register the implication. It was an impossible thing for someone like her; a masculine king and the weak young girl hidden beneath. Nothing of her could have possibly been evocative of such feelings. So how had she? Surely he had been confusing his awe with something else entirely, she thought...until the final part of the confession. It was if she had been riding through a desert for days on end, the way her face flushed to such a point that, had she been human, she likely would have fainted from a heat like a thousand suns. All the ways she was unworthy of such....regard. Every last one of the instances in which she wasn't worth that sort of regard demanded to be told, each one a reason until itself for why someone could not possibly feel that way about her. So much blood on her hands...they were both knights, true; both had shed much blood in defence of Britain. But she had razed villages, destroyed entire universes. Complete lack of femininity which had been willingly cast aside, she was tainted. Bedivere, closest of all her knights, had seen that first-hand. How could he still feel such things, even after that? Her hand reached up and gripped the fabric of her tunic over her chest, and her eyes slammed shut, a stricken expression naked on her face. Somehow, it hurt, in a way unlike any physical wound, and in some ways more painful. She was helpless, as if drowning in the lake, some invisible iron hand squeezing her heart. And that was to say nothing of her confusion over her own feelings. Perhaps it was suppressing her emotions for all those years, but she couldn't make sense of the maelstrom at all. When she tried to name one, it would slip out of her grasp as quick as if she had been trying to hold water. But most troubling of all -- due to the guilt over feeling it all-- was an emotion she had been able to identify before it was overwhelmed by the morass of all the others. A small, strange bit of happiness. So caught up in her internal maelstrom that she almost didn't hear the mournful apology. "N-no..." she stammered, her trembling quite nicely matching his own. "I-I...I would never...never do that..." The once proud, stoic king now simply stared with that girlish, bright-red, fiddling nervously with one of the clasps of her tunic. In spite of the overwhelming sense of shame he felt at something that was hardly shameful at all -- even if she couldn't bring herself to quite believe it -- he had reached out to her and told her of his true thoughts and feelings. She wanted to understand, to know how he could still feel that way. And perhaps, that way she might begin to understand her own. So softly that he might have to strain to hear her voice, she asked a simple question. Her throat was dry, and her voice sounded hoarse even to her own ears. At least the stammering had stopped. "What is it like...to feel that way...how do you know?"

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Thankfully, Arturia's conflicted emotions are all her own. Bedivere doesn't so much as look up, gaze fixed firmly on the floor beneath him. He hasn't the strength to look up, and the humiliation and shame that seem to ripple from him in waves are almost tangible. He crouches as though he wanted to hide, withdrawn into himself, shoulders and head bowed in the furthest thing from pride she's ever seen in him. His armour still rattles softly as he trembles, and as the silence passes, it almost gets louder. The brave, unflinching knight shakes in front of his king like a leaf. Although he hears a rustle of cloth as she reaches up and clutches at the front of her own tunic, he doesn't look up. If he were actually watching her, he might sense the conflict and the pain with his keen eyes, but apparently he hasn't the strength to. Her words bring his head to rise, though, very slowly. He doesn't quite look up at her. His head is still tilted down enough that his hair can hide his eyes, but it's clear that he's listening. Although he can't see her face, he can see the way she fiddles nervously with one of the tunic's toggles. It's so strange to see such indecision out of her – she, who had always been so calm and so confident. So cold, so remote. Yet here she is, right in front of him; vulnerable. Part of him still marvels at that. He has to strain to hear her next words, head cocking faintly as he does; the desire to know what she's saying momentarily overruling his humiliation. When she does, he frowns, though the expression is so faint it could be missed. Slowly, Bedivere seems to wilt again. He droops, as though all the strength were leaching out of him before her eyes. He seems to shrink until she can look over the top of his head with ease, head bowed so far that there's no question that the only thing he sees is the floor. His eyes close; he gives a sigh that sounds curiously defeated. How, precisely, did he let himself slide so far as to shame himself like this? And why does she not punish him for his dishonourable misconduct? Still, her question is puzzling. This wasn't what he had expected to hear. Dismissal, perhaps, or even beratement at such insolence. Anger. Shock. Even disappointment, which in some ways would have been the worst to bear. Instead, she seems curious. The part of his heart still hopeful almost wants to believe it sounds accepting, but the greater part of him, the part that wants to punish himself for such shameful behaviour, doesn't want to acknowledge it. "How?" He repeats the word softly, and his tone is one of puzzlement. "How do I not?" For a moment it seems that those hoarse words are all she'll get out of him, but once he's found his resolve, he speaks again, still knelt low before her. He doesn't dare look up or meet her eyes; doesn't dare reveal his burning face, though she can probably see it in the scarlet of his ears. At least he seems to be controlling himself enough to speak evenly, through some tremendous effort of will, though she may hear that musical lilt creeping back into his tone; unconscious. At this point, his control only extends so far. "From the first time I had seen you in the market square, I had known." His own words are soft, so soft she might need to strain to hear him in turn. "I knew then I would serve no one else. And I knew then that I would—that—" He makes a soft sound, almost miserable, but he forces himself onward. "I knew then that I would give my heart to no other. Even if it was impossible, and I knew that it was – even if it was wrong..." His head drops a little further. "I am your knight, your marshal; your servant. It—it is not right..." Why, then, he has to wonder, does it feel right? He continues, voice soft and low, words clear despite how hushed his tone is. It's clearly costing him something to get all of this out, by the way he shakes, crouched so low over himself. Though still knelt before her, it isn't the posture of someone showing respect; it's the posture of someone bearing such a shameful burden that it becomes a physical weight bearing down on them. He trembles so violently his armour rattles; steel plates chafing with a subtle, almost musical sound. "I know because there are times I can think of nothing else. I remember that day as though it were yesterday, even after all this time. I know because when I—when I laid you to rest, I thought I would be torn asunder. I—I had certainly wished for that, yes; I knew that there was nothing left worth living for." His voice sinks even further. "Oh, God forgive me, I did not even want to return to Camelot. But only the duty to what you had built bade me go. If there was anything left of Camelot to save, I—I knew I owed it to you to save it..." His tone is haunted; a raw rasp. "I—I wept, when I pushed the boat over the lake, the boat I had laid you to rest in. It shames me, but I could no more control myself than—than..." He shakes his head, very slowly. "No more than I can now," he finishes helplessly. "Ah, God! You ask me how I know, but the better question to ask is how I do not know. It is because I am helpless, my king, but to follow you. It is because there is nothing else for me. It is because without you, I am nothing; I am less than nothing. I am meaningless without you." "But I—forgive me." This time his voice is a whisper, and his head bows further, shoulders hitching. "This is wrong. You bade me speak freely, but I did not wish to dishonour you so..." The soft, strangled sound he makes is unmistakable; although he tries to stifle it, Bedivere is weeping – but in a way so typical to him, not for his own misery, but for his perceived slights against her – slights that probably don't even exist. "I am sorry, my king, that of the knights who served you loyally, it is the weakest among them that returns to you now..."

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' It was frustrating...so frustrating that she could hear and in stolen glances see his anguish...the wavering of his voice, the violent trembling...yet be so powerless to do anything for it. Even if she wasn't almost completely caught up in her own, what could she possibly do? The ache was unbearable. She had done everything to save them, save him, and yet this still... A shameful part of her wanted nothing more than to simply throw her arms around him, to persuade him that there was nothing wrong with his feelings, with what was even more than devotion and duty. He was so very precious to her...he always had been. They had both concealed it to well that no one could have even suspected, not even each other. And in some ways, Arturia had buried it so well that even she herself was ignorant. She could not even have had true friends. To fall in love even more impossible. Perhaps that was why it had been one of the easier sacrifices to make; pushing everyone else away, submitting to an illusory political marriage...if she had already given her heart to another, one well beyond her reach. It was shameful to her, not because it would have been a violation of chivalry, but an abuse of power. Bedivere was her subordinate, for the love of all that was holy...she could never abuse her position like that. It was wrong...on her part. Already, the guilt that she had dared even be a little bit happy about it gnawed at her. And yet, she could not push him away, not any more, not with her mask evaporated into aether as it was. Not even if she had wanted to. Was that favour she had felt all those years ago, in spite of all her efforts to be wholly impartial...was it something other than a simple fondness, a simple favour? Once more her heart was divided; one side wished more than nearly anything that she could know, while the other was too fearful of the answer. Was this how Guinevere had felt, she she looked upon Lancelot? Above all, there was the crushing guilt, the constant remind her of her unworthiness. As he answered her question, pledging that his heart would belong to no other, she could do nothing to control her own trembling, a cold knife twisting in her chest. And when he spoke of his overwhelming grief at her loss even as he fought to carry out his remaining duties, Arturia could not keep back her own sorrow and guilt, her very breath laboured. Neither shock nor anger, nor even disappointment coloured her tone. Instead, it was anguish, much like his own, tears stinging her eyes once more. "I don't...I don't deserve such a precious thing...I..." His insistence on his weakness, however, spurred her towards a hard decision." No..the weakness lies not with you. Never with you. I have..." She stopped, shaking her head as she firmly decided upon one particular dark secret, the one which perhaps plagued her more than even her life as a Servant. "No. I must show you." Perhaps to his horror, Arturia suddenly turned with her back towards him, and perhaps even more mortifying, unbuttoned the top clasps of her tunic, shrugging off the top around her shoulders... ...to reveal the stylised alien mark of a black sun just below the nape of her neck. "This is, perhaps, my greatest shame. Much I have destroyed, in my life, as a Servant. But this..." Her voice, steady at first, lapsed into a slight waver. "This marks me as one responsible for the death of an entire universe." Surely this would convince him that she was in no way worthy of such a precious gift, even as she felt it crush her inside to try to push him away. No, he couldn't love her. Not her. He deserved something far better than to be so hopelessly bound to one as repulsive as the Servant Saber.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' By this point, Bedivere has sunk so low as to look almost as though he had no strength at all– head bowed, trembling violently, all pretense of dignity thrown aside. Doubtless to his own mind he does not deserve dignity at this point. He is beneath even that. To admit to something so against the very grain of everything he had ever followed – it's one thing to have harboured that secret, but to lay it bare before the very one whose dignity and honour he would have given his life to protect— The marshal makes no attempt to speak, and no attempt to even move. In spite of his agony and his shame, he bears it in silence, as he always had. What strangled sobs he had given earlier are now silenced ruthlessly, though in the quiet of the sitting room, there's no doubt that she can hear the catch and hitch of his breath as he tries to stop himself from making any sound. One hand lowers to brace against the floor, instead of bending double over his knee; the unconscious movement allows him to bow even lower. He had always been dignified in Camelot, but never arrogant. Always he had comported himself with a quiet dignity despite his common origins. What pride he had felt never lay within himself, but within his service to Arturia's reign and to the kingdom he had loved. For that, he had always let his knightly pride show, conducting himself with the utmost dignity. Now, though, there's no trace of that to be seen. Now, he cowers before what he no doubt thinks is her inevitable judgement. Precious thing? The words seem to give pause to his anguish, and reach him even through his thoughts of shame and unworthiness. His head raises incrementally, even as she says she has something to show him. He looks up even as she turns her back on him. His self-loathing at his own conduct must run deeply indeed. He flushes as she turns and begins to unfasten the toggles of her tunic, but he doesn't look away. He stares as though in morbid fascination, but there is also an uneasy puzzlement on his face. What on earth is she—? She shrugs the tunic down over her shoulders, baring the Scar of the World-Slayer. The black sun stands against her pale skin, bared for him to see, and he frowns at the mark. It bears no especial significance for him, at least not until she speaks on it. This marks me as one responsible for the death of an entire universe. It takes him several seconds to even process that. True, he had known that she could be ruthless. Such was required of the king in the course of duty. It was necessary to harden one's heart and take actions that were unpleasant, or even abhorrent, for the good of all. He had seen countless instances of that behaviour, even as he had quietly worked as though to atone the foul things Arturia had been forced to commit – as though they'd had an unspoken agreement that his actions would serve penance for the necessary atrocities. Bedivere's expression falls, very slightly, although she doesn't see it. She stands with her back turned to him, brandishing the scar as though it were a weapon with which to drive him away. Perhaps it speaks to the solemnity of the occasion that he doesn't question the sheer scale of what she tells him. And perhaps he has better experience with this Multiverse for the short time he's been alone in it than he lets on – but it seems that on some level he knows that what she's telling him is a possibility. Arturia did not lie, not even when it would have been necessary, save about her gender. She may hear the quiet sound of armour resettling. He plants both hands on his knee, pushing himself to his feet. She may hear the subtle sound of his heavy cloak settling over his shoulders, rippling from where it had pooled on the floor beneath him. And she may hear the sound of the two footsteps it takes for him to draw even with her. With the utmost care, she may see as he reaches out to her, settling the tunic back around her, covering the Scar of the World-Slayer. He settles the fabric back about her neck and shoulders. Despite wearing gauntlets, his touch is light, as though he were afraid to apply any pressure; afraid that she might break – or afraid that he might. And she may feel as much as hear his response. He's standing behind her, close enough that he can bow his head to whisper into her ear. "I do not know what you did. I was not there. There is no way for me to know what reasonings you may have had for whatever earned you that mark. But know this." Despite the steel he wears, the weight of his arms suddenly settling around her from behind is nonetheless surprisingly light – he's being careful not to cause any untoward harm; and though she may feel him tense as he hesitates, it relaxes after a moment, as though he were reaching a decision. His hair hangs down as he bows his head over her again, a faint but insistent tickle at the side of her neck. "I do not care." Despite what could be a harsh rejoinder out of anyone else, the words are spoken with such gentleness, such conviction, that there is no question of the truth of them. He's obviously torn, though; perhaps at hearing the anguish in her own voice, the uncharacteristic wavering of her tone. His own voice lilts again, that faint, musical hint to it that – now – seems to betray him in times of distress. "I know you. And I know that if there were any other path, you would have sought to take it, or sought of others – as you had done with me – to take it in your stead. My king, you are no murderer. You do nothing without good reason." Gently, his arms close around her, and he bows his head until he can rest the side of his face against the gold of her hair. "No, my king." The gentle refusal is little more than a warm breath through her hair, unsteady and trembling. Bedivere closes his eyes, expression tightening, as though he himself felt the pain she shows him. "Please. I cannot bear to see you do this to yourself – you have suffered for as long as I have known you. And you—you have given so much of yourself, without hesitation..." "Ah, God have mercy on us both," he whispers, tone anguished. "But if He will not... then please, my king... please let me help bear the burden, this time. I cannot bear to see you suffer; it pains me more than any burden I myself could bear." "Please..."

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Earlier, had the knight whom she had known to be as composed and dignified as she been so cowed and vulnerable, Saber would have laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and smiled gently, insisting he had nothing to fear, nothing to be ashamed of. Commanded him to rise, insisted that there was no penance to be paid. That Bedivere was now, and forever would be, her knight. There was no fault in his feelings, in what had been only a silent longing within that gentle heart. He had never acted on it and resisted all temptation, endured it all for the sake of Camelot and the sake of her reign. In some things, he had sacrificed even more than she had. He had never spoken of it until now, hidden it so completely that it had never so much as troubled her. Nothing would have been gained, and there had been everything to lose. As she was now, however, she was powerless to comfort him. She could, however, try to protect him. She had failed miserably before, but if she could stop this, he could truly begin to live. Bedivere had mourned her far more than she ever deserved, and while she was grateful, she couldn't let it go on. he had to leave it behind, to stop suffering, to heal. More than anything --even having him at her side once more -- she prayed for his healing, his happiness. She loved him too much to shackle him to her like that. Her shoulders shook slightly as she remained with her back to him. The pain became a stitch in her side -- appropriately where Mordred had given her the wound which had ended her life, as if to remind her of her failure -- and her arm crossed over her torso to hold it with an involuntary gesture. "That is why...you must..." Saber never had the opportunity to finish.She heard the armour resettling, wondering in the back of her mind if that had meant that he would finally walk away, free himself from her at last. His service to her had brought her joy and even some measure of peace, but she would sacrifice that in a heartbeat for his life. She would sacrifice her life for his as many times as she had to. perhaps it was not a kingly thing to do, for a king to die for his knights. But it was the chivalric thing to do, to lay down one's life for his brothers, and she was a knight even before she was a king. And aside from that, she valued him as more than simply a knight and her marshal. Instead,she was surprised when the sound came towards her rather than away. What he was thinking at the the moment, she couldn't yet tell from her position. She nearly flinched as he simply resettled her tunic back on her shoulders, though she could do nothing to stifle the surprised gasp as he leaned down to whisper in her ear. The tiny blonde struggled uselessly with her mask, but even that effort ceased once his arms were around her again. The last vestiges fell away when next he spoke. I do not care. Just like that, Arturia's resolve crumbled all over again, and once more, the immovable King of Knights was reduced to sobbing in his arms, the open palms of her hands pressed into her eyes. How could he still...after all she had done, after discovering who she really was? She could hear the comforting lilt in his own voice, struggling to comfort her even as he fought his own despair. Even with all his burdens, Bedivere was nevertheless there, even pleading with her to share hers with him. Lord God above, she was so selfish. With considerable effort, she tried to speak, as if to repay his kindness if only with a few paltry words. Instead, her thoughts came out fractured jumble that she fought to press past her lips in a small, shaking voice. "You can't...not you...for me..." The emphasis on 'you' was telling, a hint that her regard extended beyond a simple fondness or a devotion to one of her knights. Even if she herself didn't quite understand what it all meant. Curse it all. How can you still call me your king? How can you still wish to serve me, after all this? Why was her stubborn tongue refusing to speak such simple words? She was past caring about her dignity at that point, but why would the words not come?

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' She can't see it, but his expression twists as her defenses come down once more. It pains him to see her in such agony, reduced to showing so openly the pain she had borne throughout her reign, and now here, in this place. Slowly, Bedivere closes his eyes, and he does the only thing he can think to do – he simply holds her as that long-suffering pain comes bubbling back to the surface. His arms tighten around her when she tries to speak, stuttering in a small, unsteady tone. Even now she tries to push him away. He is astute, though. That small slip, that emphasis placed just so, betrays her motives more than anything else. He doesn't dare to speak just yet, even as he tightens his arms around her; feels his shoulders sag, as though in defeat. Perhaps there's some of that, but in reality, all he wants to do is ease that terrible burden on her shoulders. Despite the pain, despite wanting to crawl into a hole for his indignity and his shameful bearing, he feels the faint beginnings of a smile flicker across his face. Those broad shoulders sag a little further, though she may mistake it as despair, or pain. No. This time, it's relief. Bedivere heard that emphasis – Bedivere, who never seemed to miss anything that happened around him, whose eyes and ears were more astute than anyone of the Round Table had ever suspected; perhaps even the very king he served. Few things slipped past his notice. He lets out a breath, still trembling, and slowly lowers his head to rest over hers. "I can," he murmurs, though his voice is so quiet it's almost a whisper. "And I shall. Don't you understand? For you I would do anything. Anything," he adds softly, his voice cracking faintly. He ignores the slip, continuing on. If he doesn't, he knows he'll lose all resolve again. He's not sure why it's important for him to continue on. He knows only that it is. Her raw pain compels him to speak. "Please, my king, please." His voice is soft, lilting; perhaps unintentionally soothing. Truth be told, he isn't even aware that he's letting it slip. With his mask down, it seems he slips into that mode when he's distraught – and if there's ever a time in which he's distraught, it's now. Still, perhaps his tone is soothing, so gentle and soft; this shy and slightly awkward knight. He had never raised his voice outside the battlefield, not once. "Do not weep. I will bear any burden for you, and I will bear it gladly, if it means for you not to suffer so." "I cannot bear to see you suffer... even—" His voice cracks. He withdraws his arms from her, but not to draw away; very carefully, and with such gentleness that he might be holding that butterfly again as he had done that spring morning in the garden, he tries to turn her about by the shoulders to face him. Gently, though – if she resists at all, he'll abandon the notion. "Even then I had longed to share your burdens, to ease the pain I knew you felt, even if I did not know how great that pain was. I would do that even now. I... especially now." "Please let me help you, my king. Aí," he whispers, "I wanted to see you smile, not to weep... I did not want to cause you any distress. No, my king, no; I do not care what you have done, or what burdens you have borne. You are still my king. You are still—" He can't quite bring himself to call her by name; that instinct is so deep-rooted that even he can't overpower it. Instead he shakes his head, dropping his gaze to some distant corner. His voice drops as well, barely a breath, so quiet that she may have to strain just to make out the words. He tightens his grip on her, as though afraid she might flee in her anguish; lowering his head to rest over hers, as though he might shield her from whatever pains her. "You are still the woman I... you are still the... aí, forgive me, my king..." Try as he might to find the right words, they fail him, leaving him with his own confused tangle of words. "No... no," he adds, breathing a sigh into her hair. "You—you are more to me than just my king; so much more than that... I will always serve you, but..." Bedivere just... stops talking. It is possible that he's trying to quit while he's ahead, hoping his awkward, clumsy half-sentences can nonetheless convey to her what he wants so desperately for her to understand. Or... maybe... quit while he's behind, more like.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Within that warm, comforting embrace, the storm gradually abated, leaving her exhausted once more. Even as she had tried to shield him again, Bedivere would have none of it, holding her there as the storm raged again, bearing it with her until the winds receded. But then, that was simply one more thing which made him the man her was; the gentle yet steadfast knight, the one fit to sit at the left hand of the king at the Round Table. Saber might curse her slip, but his words gave her such relief. It was if she had finally come to the end of a long, arduous journey, able to lay down her burden and finally rest. She could feel him slump against her, and it worried her; had her burdens been too much for him? No, it would seem. She could hear the lilt slip out, the one he had been so careful to suppress. It had been a wise thing to do, given the pressures of the court and the distrust of the nobility within it. To Arturia, it didn't matter, but her own judgement was already and constantly in question. Perhaps it was a small thing to sacrifice for her, yet it nevertheless troubled her. Idly, she wondered if perhaps she could coax him to speak like that more often, to speak of where he had come from...if only within the walls of the Tohsaka estate. to see him finally relax, smile, perhaps even laugh... It was so strange; thinking about trying to get him to do something so simple as smile had started to make her feel a little better. Curious. A realisation made her start, if ever so slightly. He pleaded with her to share her burdens, that he would do anything for her sake. Nothing she asked of him would be withheld, of that she was certain. It was such a simple thing, yet merely by being there and listening to her, weathering that deluge of all her buried emotion as the dam finally broke after the long years of silence, he already had. At long last, she realised it now; this was what it meant to truly rely on someone, to share one's burdens. It frightened her knowing this, however, not because it made her vulnerable; her trust in him was as absolute as his loyalty to her, and nothing could tear that asunder. But if there was something even more terrible, some burden that would finally break her, that was something she never wanted to share with him. That fear had, she thought, always been born out of a need to protect his purity and innocence. To some extent that wish remained, and yet, now... When he tried to turn her around, she was gripped by a sudden bashfulness, her face heating to red once more...but she yielded. In spite of her embarrassment, Arturia very much wanted to see his face. Her eyebrows knitted, though, as she turned to face him and his entreaty to let him help her. She desperately wanted to protect him, and yet...she couldn't bear to see the pain which such protection caused, the distance she would have been forced to maintain once more. Which was truly worse; the pain caused by such burdens, or hiding them and knowing she was bearing it alone? Was it that much more painful, the latter? Woman. He had called her a woman. A woman he... She could feel her face heating up all over again, matching his complexion, her awkward fumbling a mirror of his own. Why did only a few humble words make her feel like that? Inwardly, Arturia steeled herself. She could not let this go unanswered, this debt unpaid. "Even if I am unworthy, even if I can never...I still..." Again, the words failed her. She was grateful of course, but this went well beyond even that. But how could she express it? What could she convey with simply words? After some fierce internal debate, she came to the conclusion that she would have to once more simply have to show him. Edging slightly closer, Arturia rose up just enough until her face was at the same level as his. With a slight tilt of her head, she leaned in and brushed her lips lightly over his cheek before sitting back down, her eyes fixed once again on the hands in her lap, flaxen hair only partially shielding a bright-red face.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' It seems that the soft-spoken knight may know the king better than he may have ever let on. He simply holds her as the storm rages, as though absolutely certain that the emotional deluge will end. After all, she's been through so much. Most of what she had been through were things he never had the opportunity to see – although, yes, he had suspected. Then, there were the scars inflicted on her after she had come to be in the Multiverse. Those were, perhaps, what cut him more deeply. It isn't that she had to endure those things, though he would have preferred otherwise. No; it's that she had to endure them alone, for he can imagine that she must have put up her mask in the face of that pain, just as she always has. And how could he blame her for that? He would have done the very same. Bedivere merely waits, patient as she ever would have remembered him. His face is calm again when he looks down at her, when she relents and allows him to turn her around. He even manages the faintest hint of a smile, as though he were even now wanting to reassure her. It falters at the sight of her troubled expression. Had she been listening? No, he thinks not, but he can hardly fault her for that, either. Old habits run deep, and those roots are difficult to pull. They have an insidious way of sprouting again, just when one thinks they'd all been pruned and uprooted. His own expression of concern seems to crack a bit as she flushes scarlet again, though, and he's dimly aware that his own face is just as red. She fumbles with her words just as much as he had, and the similarity is not lost on him. If he weren't feeling so hopelessly distraught, he might even find some amusement in the comparison. When she trails off and seems to lose all semblance of words, though, he tilts his head. The gesture is ever so faint; one of obvious curiosity. He seems to remain puzzled as she edges closer to him, stretching until she can stand level with him (which, if he weren't distracted, would be impressive; he is a good deal taller than her). Before he has any opportunity to react, though, she stands up, closes the distance, and— The world seems to go a bit fuzzy for a moment, curiously soft around the edges. For a moment he has to think hard for which way's up and which way's down; he actually wavers on his feet for a moment in his shock. By the time he recovers himself, she's sat down on the chair again, staring resolutely at her hands in her lap. Her head is tilted down, so she probably can't see him, but she might hear the quiet clatter of heavy plate armour as he takes another step closer; the rustle of his cloak as he again kneels down before her. If she risks a look up, she might see him smiling at her – a little like that ghost of a smile he might have shown in court when particularly pleased, where anyone else might have been grinning ear to ear – but there's a warmth to the expression, an utter contentment, that he had never shown before. Whether or not she's looking, he'll reach out to take one of her hands in one of his, though he hesitates before he quite reaches her hand. Nonetheless, he forces himself to follow through. Despite his steel-plated gauntlets, he holds her hand with the same delicacy he had shown to a shivering butterfly on a cold spring morning; so careful, as though he were handling fine-wrought glass. He lifts her hand, then, with a confidence he does not particularly feel. If she still doesn't look up by now, she won't need to see to know what he's doing. Bedivere leans down, carefully, pressing his lips to the top of her hand. It would have been a courteous gesture within Camelot; simple favour shown between a lord and lady – but it was something he never would have dreamt of doing, something he never would have been able to do. And now, here, showing his favour to this particular lady, it has so much more meaning than a simple show of courtesy. It is, for him, all of the admiration and respect and loyalty; all of the contentment he had felt in serving at her side. More than that, it's all of the relief, the sheer simple joy, at having found her once again; things he has tried to put into halting words, but could not. When he draws away, he simply holds her hand, eyes fluttering closed; he doesn't lower it, instead holding it to the side of his face, as though he were holding the most precious treasure in the world. For him, he is.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Arturia hadn't been entirely alone -- all those who had taken part in that terrible campaign only to find that universe occupied -- but each member of the Union forces bore the pain in their own ways. Psyber had become moody, for a time -- at least, more moody than usual -- and eventually set up a memorial of a sort. But for Saber, there was nothing but to bury the pain within her where the rest of her agony was and move forward. She withheld even speaking of it with anyone, unwilling to reopen their wounds or reminding them of the destruction of Annu by their own hands. It didn't matter if there had been no other way, if many more countless worlds and universes were threatened by Annu's expansion. To Saber, it was something which had to be done, yet the mark and the memories of every person in that internal universe reminded her of the cost, even as she buried her anguish along with that which had come with her reign. Only, she hadn't...not really. But it wasn't until her mask had broken down in front of Bedivere that she learned she had never truly been able to bury everything, to simply kill her emotions until they didn't exist. She could still don her mask when the need arose, in battle or other situations which demanded calm logic and an impartial eye. Her duties as a knight were far from completed, and when she pledged her sword in service to the Union or her allies, it was merely another piece of her armour. Yet, even when she had thought she had lowered it, she still hid her inner pain. The light smile she wore with her volunteer work was for the sake of the downtrodden who needed that comfort -- something she had never imagined she would ever be able to provide, and her service brought her measureless joy -- and while it was not a mask, it was not completely honest, either. All the fumbling, all the blushing...perhaps they might one day look back upon these horribly embarrassing moments and laugh. That day, however, remained a good ways off. It had been much more of a bold manoeuvre she ever thought she would be capable of, at least outside of battle or politics. There, bold, aggressive action could give her an advantage, turning the tide of many a battle. But in social situations, it had generally seemed rude to the prim and proper knight. And yet, it had seemed so right...and something she had wanted to do. It was still so dreadfully embarrassing, however. Arturia felt too embarrassed to dare look directly at him, not until he knelt before her again. Her head raised only slightly, but from that angle she could see him clearly...and his look of utter contentment. She inhaled softly yet sharply, the blue-green eyes flaring in surprise, unsure at first of what she was seeing. She had never, in her recollection, ever have seem him smile like that, as if all burden had been lifted from him. As terribly embarrassing as it all was, it had all been worth it just to see that expression. So caught up in it, she didn't quite notice at first when he had gently taken her hand. When she finally did, her breath caught in her throat as she felt the light touch of his lips upon the back of her hand. She had witnessed many a scene such as this one within her court, the timeless gesture of a lord and a lady, what had eventually become the very image of chivalry. Perhaps not the sacred virtues themselves, but this one simple gesture which conveyed so much of them. But she had always seen it through the distant eyes of the king, merely observing for a brief moment before attending to the matters of the Crown. Now, here she was in that moment, the otherwise simple, modest gesture speaking entire tomes of what it was they wished to say. Though a blush remained, it had tapered off into a light dusting across her cheeks as he pulled away. She would have been disappointed but for the fact that he did not let her go, not yet. For a moment she blinked in surprise, but then her features settled into an expression that Bedivere had probably longed for years to see; a look of contentment not unlike his own, as her thumb lightly caressed his cheek. For this moment in time, there was no trace of grief or sorrow at all.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' One day, they'll look back on all of this needless embarrassment, this awkward evasion, and they'll laugh. Right now, it's all Bedivere can do to express himself coherently. It's hard for him to put to voice the feelings he'd carried for so long. He'd never been able to truly bury those feelings. If he could have done that, this might have been easier – or it might not have happened at all. Some things have a way of never coming to light again. Even though she had bade him to speak at his comfort, he's seemed almost compelled to express himself, to speak honestly in a way he never could before. Bedivere had never had any confidants in the court of Camelot. Where most of the nobility and the knights were of Welsh stock, he alone was an outsider, a foreigner of Dál Riata stock. There had always been a subtle wrongness about him in the eyes of the people, and his eagerness and sincerity in serving had only seemed to perpetuate that suspicion. He had withdrawn as much out of self-defense as to protect Arturia's reputation. At the same time, he could never resist Arturia. No order had ever been too dire for him to carry out, for her sake. No request had ever been too great. He had always considered disappointing her the greatest failure he could suffer, and so he had worked tirelessly to avoid that. Even now, he doesn't want to disappoint her. He can't resist her gentle encouragement to speak his mind. Her boldness seems to have surprised even her knight, though. True, she was a force of nature on the battlefield. He had watched her reave into enemy lines countless times. Her bold tactics and strategic aggression left Britain's enemies reeling, but this is no battlefield. In this, he had never expected her to be so forward. Off the battlefield, she had always been a cold and impartial creature. Rarely would she reveal her hand, and she never revealed her emotions. So complete was that guise that many privately accused her of not even having emotions – an accusation that pained him, but one that he dared not speak against. Lancelot had always been more of a proper spymaster than the soft-spoken, gentle-hearted Bedivere. Bedivere's duty had been to observe, to watch and listen, and he had done those faithfully all through her reign. For a few brief moments, violet eyes drift closed as he holds her hand to his face. Despite how keen his perceptions are, how accurate his memory for fine details, he can't remember ever seeing her without that armour. He has never seen her bare hands, or seen her separate from the mantle of kingship. He had always wanted to, but she'd always guarded that part of herself jealously. Though her hands are small in comparison to his, it's their delicacy that strikes him. Her appearance is such a stark contrast from the cold, imperious conduct of the king. Now, she is just an uncertain young woman. She is, for these precious and fleeting moments, Arturia – not King Arthur Pendragon. Bedivere exhales softly, breath catching again as he feels her thumb against the line of his high cheekbone. The touch is welcome, though, and he makes no move to pull away. If anything, he seems to lean into it. His eyes flutter open to half-mast in time to see that expression he had longed for so many years to see. For a moment all he can do is stare, eyes half-closed. The peace in her face seems to broaden his own smile - free of care and worry, free of weariness, for a few moments. "I had dreamt for so long to see that," he murmurs, voice low and unsteady, lilting again. His gentle tone is hushed, as though hesitant to break the silence. He doesn't want the moment to end. "So long. I had thought it only a foolish longing, an unsuitable and shameful dream for a knight of his liege... but I..." He bows his head into her hand. His breath hitches in his chest again, but the sound is faint, so faint it might be missed if not for the quiet clatter of his armour. She might feel the distinctive heat of what can only be a tear against the side of her thumb, then, but he keeps his breathing mostly steady. Bedivere doesn't dare betray himself with the choked sob he wants to release. No; he will conduct himself with dignity in the face of such a precious gift from her. "I remain your most ardent admirer, my lady," he murmurs, so quietly it could be missed if she weren't listening closely. His tone is one of affection and tenderness – foreign qualities in a voice once as impassive as Arturia's own. More than that, his tone is one of relief. "Now and ever." And for the first time she'll ever have heard, he uses no royal title. What he does use is a far cry from the polite term for any woman of Camelot's courts. His tone suggests a deeper meaning; a much more personal meaning. Something much more specific. She is his lady. Without looking up, his other arm rises to slip around her shoulders and pull her close. He folds her into an embrace with such firmness that it seems almost desperate, and though he's mindful not to hurt her, he nonetheless seems almost driven by something. For a moment all he can do is hold her, trembling as he chokes back a hoarse sound. She will recognise it without doubt this time as a sob. This time, though, it isn't a sound of anguish. This time, it's a sound of overwhelming relief.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' Arturia had hardly been oblivious to the secret -- and not-so secret -- distrust and apprehension of her marshal as someone of a foreign bloodline. On the contrary, she was all too aware of it, as well as the opposite reaction more than a few ladies of the court had over his exotic nature. The only ones who had seemed to pay it no heed one way or the other had been the other knights of the Round Table and Arturia herself. But even then, he had carefully closed himself off from even them, just as she had. Perhaps that had made him suspicious to some, but never to his king. No, she only judged him by the standards of chivalry and knighthood. In those ways, Bedivere was without equal, even if she had been unaware of the undercurrent of his motivations. He had been so eager to serve, though she had never known there had been any other reason than what she had been trying to accomplish. Many times, she found herself burying her anguish over how such a gentle person surely must have been repulsed by her actions, however necessary they had been, as a king. As he didn't want to disappoint her, she too feared disappointing him, especially now. She had always been conscious of her actions, and in those times when she was forced to act ruthlessly as a king, there had always been another layer of guilt over how he must have been secretly disappointed, perhaps even disgusted. Knighthood had probably been nothing like he had expected, serving such an inhuman king...and yet he had never so much as hesitated in his duties. She had always thought that had been out of his dedication to chivalry, so well he had concealed his true feelings. Arturia would tell him of that, eventually. But for this moment, she didn't want to break this spell. Her boldness might have been rather embarrassing, but Arturia was feeling dangerously reckless. So many walls had come down around them both, their bond stronger than ever now that she realised the true depths of it. But it didn't feel to her like it was enough, and she wouldn't be satisfied until every last one of them was gone. He was her knight, friend, support, confidant, and perhaps something more...but none of these truly defined that bond, brought into daylight like a fine gem, where all the facets reflected and refracted light at every angle. Perhaps that reckless feeling was because she had never been so close to another before, not even after she had become a Servant or even stumbled upon the multiverse. Some had come very close, yet the opportunities had never arisen, but also none could truly understand what she had been though without having seen it first-hand. Or perhaps after coming to understand that bond, she was helpless to resist its siren's song. But neither of these potential reasons seemed quite right. No, she realised. Only the wish for the happiness of her most gentle knight could have made her so. Now that she finally could grant him his wish. Now that she realised she had wanted that, herself. His dream to see her smile, he said as he struggled to maintain some dignity, as if God Himself had sent an angel down from the heavens to bestow a great reward and he tried to receive it with the proper reverence. It had been such a simple thing, yet impossible within Camelot's walls, even as she had wished to grant it. It had made her apprehensive at first; though she had become more open after four years and considerable persuasion, but how would he have received it, given how he had always seen her? All he had known was the King of Britain, concealed within armour of silver and blue, hidden behind a mask of ice. Bedivere had swept those doubts away with gestures which perhaps would mean little to anyone else. But to Arturia, they told her everything. As he leaned slightly into her hand, she bit her lip slightly, and surely he must have felt the slight tremble she couldn't quite control. She didn't dare move, like a startled hare, unwilling to break the spell with actions or words. She had never expected that, rather than break, that spell would intensify into a bonfire. Two words. Two simple words were all it took to cause her breath to catch in her throat, and she had certainly not missed that implication, the lack of royal title. It moved her in a way she had never dreamed was possible, so intense that it had almost felt as if she had been thrown from a horse and had fallen hard to the ground. That caught breath tangled into a startled gasp for only a moment before her hand fell away as he pulled her close, her arms lowering to encircle him in turn. "You are more to me than merely my knight," she whispered after a long moment of quiet, her cheek resting against the silver of his hair. Delving through her memories more critically now, she could finally see those traces, the hints that she had misinterpreted her fondness, her feelings of closeness. "Perhaps, my lord...you always have been..." Once, such a form of address would have been inappropriate, a discarding of protocol which would have seriously called into question her rule. She had been the king, he had been her knight -- her marshal, but a knight nevertheless -- born of foreign common folk. But in that moment, she was simply Arturia.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' If Bedivere had ever noticed the apprehension and distrust that followed him through the courts, he had never breathed a word of it. Not once had he ever complained, nor had he ever indicated that perhaps life was not as easy as he had expected it to be. More likely, he had never held any expectations, or perhaps he had expected it to be hard. Unlike many of the nobility, he had sought to become a knight not for the promise of glory, land, or riches, but for the simple sake of serving. Alone among his brethren, he had refused to bear a standard of his own. He had also refused any offers of land, isolating himself further as one of the only landless Knights of the Round Table; and in particular, one of the only landless knights at court. Rather than help ease the tension, that had only seemed to make things worse, for a time. The whisperings had grown, but as before, Bedivere had borne them with such dignity and grace that they seemed to flow away like ice in the sun. He had not been ignorant, though. There was little he had ever missed at court. Most would have been surprised to learn how acute his perceptions were. He never spoke of what he saw, or what he had heard. He simply filed the information away, and where it was necessary to act on it – such as mutterings of rebellion, or news of a border assault – he dutifully bore the news to Arturia. Yet he had never so much breathed a word of the unfair persecution that seemed to surround him; indeed, seemed to accept it serenely. Perhaps he had thought that, aside from the impropriety of bringing complaint to the king, he had not wanted to disappoint her by bearing his burdens with anything other than grace. Or, perhaps he genuinely thought that he wasn't worth the trouble. He's always been modest among her knights, humble; and where some might have used it as a front to earn the king's favour, his modesty had always been honest. Although he notices that faint tremble, or the way the line of her shoulders seems taut as a strung bow, he doesn't draw attention to it. Much as she had politely ignored his own nerves, he does the same for her. If she felt thrown from a horse, he felt the same – and he had suffered such a fate many times in battle. Horses had been killed from beneath him, or simply stumbled on uneven ground, and his landings had never been easy in full plate mail; he had even broken several bones in one particularly nasty fall, forced to retreat from battle, ashen-faced – although wounded, he had gamely stuck to the sidelines to rally his troops. This, however, makes falling from a horse seem like so much less. True, it's a much happier occasion, but the shock of it is so great that it makes even breaking a bone seem barely noticeable by comparison. While he notices the way her breath catches, his seems to outright stop for just an instant. Perhaps, she had always considered him fondly? My lord? He trembles; those two simple words are just as much a bolt out of the blue to him. Never before had he been called that – by anybody, but more importantly, never by her. She may feel his own shoulders hitch as he remembers to breathe again; a faint shiver of what can only be shock. "Ah..." It's not much more than a breath, and the soft, awestruck sound gives way to a long, trembling sigh. "My lady." He makes no effort to control the lilt in his voice, too awestruck to stifle a detail so insignificant by comparison. "I—I know not what I had done to be rewarded so, but whatever it has been, I would do so again in a heartbeat. I will not leave you again. Not ever." Not that he did so consciously in the first place, but it's the thought that counts, right? "What..." He seems to lose his momentum, helpless for a moment but to let her hold him, even as he tries to put his thoughts into words. "I..." He only shakes his head softly, little more than a sideways twitch. "My lady. You—you honour me..." So much for an articulate, thoughtful speech to try and impress upon her the enormity of this situation. His throat closes off; he finds he can't even speak, and the effort of stringing words together is more difficult than he had thought. Why? Why can't he even speak? Surely he owes her that much, but at the same time, he finds that it somehow... isn't important. Drawing in a deep breath, he sighs, and tries again. Dimly, he can remember that she'd had something she had wanted to explain to him, here; there was a reason that he had been brought to this house, and while this had been beyond his greatest expectations, he's fairly certain that this had not been the aim. Loathe as he is to think of much else, Bedivere was ever a dutiful knight. "Ah, my lady." His voice is soft, so soft she might well have to strain to hear it. "There is yet duty to be done, if you had aught more to tell me. I... I do not wish for this... this moment to pass, but... if there is anything left, anything important..." He exhales softly; breath only slightly unsteady. "But if you do not wish to speak of it, I will not press..." He struggles for a moment. It is his place, no matter what his personal feelings, to serve. He is a knight, as he has ever been; and he has always been her marshal and her loyal supporter. As much as he cherishes this, and as much as he even lets himself enjoy it, he does have his responsibilities to remember. Ah, Bedivere, ever the loyal servant; even at a time like this.

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' What have you not done to be rewarded so? Saber wanted to say, though she refrained. Like her, Bedivere seemed to be ill at ease around too much compliment. She wondered if he might likewise feel unworthy of it, just as she did. All the flustered reactions, the furious blushing, the dropping of his mask to reveal the shyness beneath, seemed to suggest it. Instead, all she could do was simply stay like that when the words failed, her arms around him, for however long he needed it. It was a little frustrating, however, because not only did he deserve so much more than the little things she had been able to grant, but because she wanted to compliment him. And not out of simple gratitude or because he had always been the most virtuous of her knights. Oh, she had known of the persecution, the shunning, the rumours and plotting. It had secretly angered and saddened her that she was powerless to stop it, at least not without accusations of favouritism. Even still, he shouldered it all without complaint. To embody all the chivalric virtues was her ideal, and he had more than lived up to them. When she addressed him, it had been such a little thing, but it had been something he had long deserved. He had served his king magnificently, and if there was one thing she wanted him to understand, it had been that. Had they met under different circumstances, or their positions been reversed, he would have been the one whom she had admired. In her own way, she already did; chivalry was everything to the petite knight. And his devotion was as strong as hers. Through his stuttering speech, though the slight trembling, somehow Arturia had at least some idea of the significance of it all. She hadn't been doing any better attempting to express the same sentiment to him, but tightening her arms just a little seemed to be the only way she could express that as he stumbled over his words. And called her my lady again. That was a treasure more precious than gold to her, those words, spoken by him. But once more, the familiar pattern emerged; when she felt as if she was straying, he would cautiously remind her of what she should do, what needed to be done. But "duty" was not the correct way to look at it. There were dangers, things he needed to know so that he could properly protect himself. She'd be damned if she lost him again, especially something so pointless as the Holy Grail War. Relieved of the great burdens -- some of which she had not even realised she was carrying -- she sighed softly, releasing him with some reluctance and settling back into her chair. "Indeed," she replied, her expression serious, though not the same icy mask as the one she wore in Camelot. "Forgive me, I was somewhat...carried away." As much as she was still reluctant to relate the events of Heaven's Feel -- and what Servants truly were -- Saber found she was not dreading it quite so much now, given that her fears of his disappointment had been allayed. The Scar of the World Slayer had been much worse, something she had intended to discuss much later, not out of desperation. If that had not driven him off, nothing would. And Bedivere remained at her side. Nevertheless, she steeled herself. He was going to be saddened, or angry, or perhaps both. The entire idea of the Holy Grail War was something such a gentle soul would find to be an abomination, even before she approached the subject of her previous Master. "I had mentioned before that I offered my services as a Servant to the world in exchange for the opportunity to win the Holy Grail and undo all the history of my reign," she began. "Our universe...it preserves the souls of those who have been celebrated as heroes..." Of course, she would personally not have thought of Archer as particularly heroic. "In...some form or another," Saber added after a moment to ponder that sourly. "We become Heroic Spirits, preserved in the Throne of Heroes, and we can be summoned to fight in the Holy Grail War, if we agree to a contract with the Master who summons us. We are granted transient bodies formed of pure magical energy, prana...and our abilities are even greater than they had been during our lifetimes. We are divided into individual classes according to aspects of our legends...Saber, Archer, Lancer, Rider, Berserker, Caster, Assassin. I myself am a Saber." After a pause, she continued. "Our identities are concealed, and we are merely called by our class designation, for to do so would be to reveal the weaknesses within our legends. The Holy Grail is what keeps us anchored to this plane of existence, yet also grants us knowledge of legends before and after our own eras, as well as grant us some limited knowledge of the era into which we are summoned." Saber considered a point, and then added, "This is why I do not struggle with understanding this era; I was granted knowledge of it from ten years ago...there are some differences, yet the era had not changed dramatically in that time." She recalled being surprised that mobile phones had become so small, recalling the large device Kiritsugu had used to contact Maiya. And here was where things were about to get ugly. "We are summoned for the purpose of battling and slaying each other in combat, and the transient body of each Servant slain becomes a refined form of prana, filling the Grail. We fight...until only one Master and Servant remain, who may then claim the Holy Grail and have any wish granted, no matter how impossible." "I was summoned to what was the fourth such of these wars by Emiya Kiritsugu -- ten years prior to my arrival in the multiverse." Here was another point that she decided was something she wasn't going to get into just yet; Berserker's identity...and the fact that she was forced to kill him, even though that had been his wish. Instead, she skipped ahead. "In the end, only I and Archer remained." It was slight, but there was a slight twist of her mouth that broadcast her displeasure with the haughty King of Heroes. Saber was not about to get into all the indignities she had endured from him, particularly at the end. "However, my Master ordered me to destroy the Holy Grail even as Archer and I fought." After her initial talk with Rin, Sakura, and Shirou, Saber had learned the truth of the Holy grail, but she still could not help but be bitter over, unconscious of the frown which slipped past her mask. Kiritsugu could have told her, she would have understood. But then, he had never fully trusted the tool he had summoned. "In the end, it was for the best; I was unable to destroy it completely, but I was informed some time later that the Holy Grail was, in fact, tainted. Any wish it could possibly grant would, in turn, be tainted." Saber paused again, as if to reassert the detached way she had been trying to relate the events of the war she had participated in. "I was likewise informed that there had been a final Holy Grail War ten years from that moment, and that I had once more been summoned as the Servant Saber. However, I have no recollections of such. Once I had destroyed the Grail, there was an explosion....and I found myself in a strange fortress. I was later informed that I had arrived in Njorun Station, and that I had 'Unified' with the multiverse. I also discovered that it was impossible to return...though that was for the best. Without the anchor of the Holy Grail, I would have disappeared." Of course, there was far more to her entire story than this, but her recounting was acceptable for an introduction. Poor Bedivere was going to be more than a little confused even by what little she had told him so far.

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' At the king's soft sigh, Bedivere allows her to release him, though there's a clear reluctance as he sinks back into an obedient kneel. He keeps his head somewhat downcast. To any potential watchers, he would be the spitting image of a dutiful, obedient knight – the faithful servant, loyal to the end. His head cocks slightly as she mulls over where to begin, and as she marshalls her courage to begin. Ever the perceptive one, he can sense her hesitation, but he offers no pressure over it; makes not a movement or word to hasten her to begin before she's ready. He would never be so presumptuous. In silence, he listens to her explanation. She explains the nature of a Servant's pact; of the Throne of Heroes, and the nature of a Servant's bargain with the World. He listens in silence as she describes the nature of the Grail War, and the nature of a Servant. He listens to the seven classes, the nature of legends, the knowledge imparted by their very being. And he listens as she explains the rules of the war – and her hesitation at describing their dear brother-in-arms, Lancelot, and his tragic end. While he knows not the nature of her hesitation, he knows there is pain, there. Bedivere dips his head, the gesture a faint but gentle indication to continue. He listens on as she describes the end, and the destruction of the Holy Grail at her own hands; of its tainted nature, its tainted promise, and the Fifth Grail War ten years later, which she has no recollection of. He listens, and she describes that without the Holy Grail serving as an anchor, she would have vanished had she returned to the place which she had been summoned. All through this, his expression remains impassive. Even she would sense that he has put up his mask by now, the mask of the loyal servant receiving the king's imperative. He listens, and he shows not a single hint of betrayal to his emotions now. He has recovered from the destruction of his mask, earlier, and he has put the pieces back together again to hear her out. When she finishes, he remains motionless, as though he were considering his answer with care. In truth, he is. He isn't certain what to say to any of that. Perhaps it isn't as fantastical as she might believe. After all, he was familiar with Merlin, and had a little suspicion of some of the things the great wizard could do. Humanity was much closer to True Magic in those times – he had heard whispers of Merlin's infatuation with Nimue, and the strange things that had befallen Arturia's strange advisor. Whether they were true, he couldn't say, but he was inclined to believe it. He had never seen Merlin at work, not precisely – but even Bedivere could sense the aura of raw power about the magician. That Arturia would be caught up in such things again is unsurprising to him. Regardless of his high opinion of her, she is nonetheless a remarkable young woman, prone to being caught up in remarkable events. He may distrust it, but magic was a fact of life even in Camelot, however understated – it did undeniably exist. Still, it seems strange that it would be so sought-after in such a time as this, so long-departed. He is silent for so long that it might be worrying – and then he finally speaks, head tilting, though he doesn't look at her as he addresses her. His tone is calm, and thoughtful. "It seems strange to me that people would seek the Holy Grail, so long after our time. But if you say this is true, then I believe you." She might hear him draw in a breath, and then let it go through his nose, measured; pragmatic and businesslike once more, like the flip of a switch. He is nothing if not resilient. And perhaps set in his ways. Much like Arturia, he had made the mask his own. Something in his voice darkens just slightly, though, as he continues. "So. It is a grand melee, held for the cup that held the blood of Christ. That does not seem right. Nor does it seem right that you would be the tool of another. You are a king... but..." His tone seems to shift, as though mollified by something. "Still. I am... pleased, that your accomplishments were not forgotten." He doesn't raise his head, but she might see part of his soft smile. "That too was something I had regretted – that you would never be rewarded for the sacrifices you had made, and that you would be forgotten by an ungrateful people. But it seems you were remembered, my king. Ah... I am glad for that." Anybody else might be wondering if they themselves were remembered in such legends, yet Bedivere, faithful Bedivere, is only concerned for the reputation of his king. His head bows again, voice calm and impassive once more. "So you are no longer human, then." It is a simple statement of fact. For just a moment the words hang there, and perhaps Saber might feel a fleeting instant of apprehension, even fear – until he continues. "I understand. It matters not. I will continue to serve you, my king... and I will continue to stand by your side, my lady. I will serve you here in this world as I have always served you. Was I not knighted by your own blade? Had I not sworn my blade in turn to your service?" Again, he seems intent to sweep away her doubts, even if he didn't even realise she had had them. He straightens, though he remains on one bent knee to look at her thoughtfully. Although he doesn't smile, there is nonetheless a warmth in his regard. "Mmm." The sound is thoughtful; his eyes slant away, distant. "I have sworn my blade to the Union, but I would not forsake my oath to you, my king. Their cause is just, in many ways, and I will do what work I can for them. But you are the one I serve, truly. You are the one to whose side I will return, now and ever. I hope they are content with such, for I will not forsake that which I swore to you. I cannot. I do not know that I could even were I dismissed." A smile flickers across his face. "Though I hope that is not and will never be an option... my lady." He makes no move to rise, content to kneel before her. As much as he might not like to disturb the moment, though, he looks tired – he had not yet recovered from his time wandering the wood, and the not-insignificant outpouring of his emotions is draining all on its own. He seems to be trying to bear it with his usual poise, and for all that anyone else might miss his fatigue, Arturia seems to know him better than he might have guessed. The signs are clear to her. "What then are we to do now?" He cocks his head, regarding her with those violet eyes. "You serve the Union as well, do you not? I suppose that is what lies before us. Though the Union is at war with the Confederacy, I should like to help those forgotten by both sides." Just like Camelot – running supplies to the forgotten and the downtrodden, by his own hand where he can. No, her familiar Bedivere hasn't changed a bit. "Though I am willing to raise my sword in their defense, of course, if that is what is required of me. Ah, God preserve me, this world is so great as to defy the thought of it. I cannot imagine so many worlds, full of so many poor souls needing help..." His gaze drops, eyes drooping to half-mast. "A pity my brothers of the Round Table are not here. There is such good that we could do... I suppose it falls to you and I, my king..."

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:''' It had been a mere four years since Saber had found herself in the multiverse, and compared to her years reigning Britain, it had not been very long at all. But the realisation and one's perception are occasionally at odds, and it seemed as if the scene before her had happened lifetimes ago; her faithful marshal, kneeling before her, receiving orders. There may have not necessarily been a need for such a thing, not in an era over one thousand years into what had been their future. Even with the automatic knowledge imparted by the Holy Grail, there were times Saber had felt the world -- the universe, she corrected herself -- had passed her by. She couldn't even imagine what Bedivere was going through, having none of that pre-knowledge at all. While he was the most observant person she had ever known, there was only so much a person could absorb in a short amount of time. Heaven's Feel and ambitious magi aside, she was going to have a great deal more to introduce, hopefully help him to adjust. There were still so many other matters within the multiverse, so many dangers and circumstances that were -- by their standards -- bizarre. Arturia felt weary merely considering some of them; where would she even begin on the time she had visited one of these unique worlds and ended up being turned into a unicorn with her own heraldry on her flank the moment she passed the warpgate? That, she decided, could probably wait, perhaps some time after she had related what kind of highly questionable beings the fae in Harry Dresden's Chicago were or when she had offered to help retrieve a Scion of Lugh from the Underworld by promising a favour to Persephone. Come to think of it, battling the chief of the Deep Ones -- some time after battling Caster's summon of a Great Old One -- could wait for that matter, as well. Yet, he had managed to remain there on bended knee, as patient as he always had been, his own impassive mask restored, listening to her entire recounting. Even with the crumbing of those masks, this too, was nevertheless a part of who they were. King and knight. No matter what the future held, that part, she foresaw, would never change. Which was why the long silence did not bother her as it might have, at least before the masks had fallen away. Now, her concern was over whether or not she had revealed too much too soon, without giving him enough time to process it all. Even keen minds would find the infinite number of different worlds enough to drive someone to the point of insanity. Regardless, his acceptance was a relief to hear spoken out loud. But it was mystifying...how he was still wishing that she only be remembered, rewarded at least in the people's memory for her efforts. It had been her shame, as she lay dying, mourning her failures rather than fearing her impending death. No matter what history had said, she could not accept that. And perhaps, until that moment in time, she had never truly let go...even as she had been told the Grail was no more and not something she should have been fighting for, anyway. For several years, that had merely led her to see the multiverse as her opportunity not to find another Grail, but to find some other way to grant her wish. If the Grail was unsuitable, then perhaps there was something on another world which was. Living with and fighting alongside Sakura, Rin, Shirou, Agrias, Fate, Psyber, and others in the Union too numerous to count had changed her perspective, somewhat. Eventually, she was led to the conclusion that she should not change her past...for to change it would mean that she would have to change the lives of her friends. And that was a sacrifice she was not willing to make. Yet even then, she had not completely accepted the loss of Camelot. She had never truly and completely moved on. Arymes Prydein had spoken to her of something greater, but it has seemed the Abstractum believed she was not yet ready. Being reunited with Bedivere, however, made her think that perhaps...perhaps that wound might finally begin to close. The scar would always remain -- like the brand on her back -- but it would heal. She smiled at him then, the mask falling away again. "It had never mattered to me whether or not I would be remembered...but I am glad that you were able to see this, how I have been remembered." Arturia sighed softly, almost a suggestion of sound. "In truth, I had given up the war for the Grail some time ago. But though I no longer fight for that tainted thing, I had...not completely given up my wish. However, over time I came to cherish the friends I have made here, and I cannot alter history and risk changing their lives." In some ways, it was still painful to admit, but she finally relented to sharing her burden with her faithful knight. "I was forced to finally see...Camelot is gone. Even were I to change the past and allow a different king in my stead, the Camelot I knew would nevertheless be no more." To his observation that she was no longer human, she shook her head. "No." Saber could not help but feel a slight wave of apprehension, though she was uncertain what she dreaded. The moment passed quickly; he renewed his pledge to her and in that moment, the apprehension dissipated like the morning mist over the hills as the sun rose over the barley fields beyond the castle walls. She made a soft sound then, almost like a chuckle, at once slightly amused and nostalgic. "They seem to have had little issue with those who serve first their sword lieges," she mused, almost seeing the long, ash-blonde braid of hair as another knight from a distant world turned away, ever-pursuing service to her own lady. "Defence of the gates from those who would exploit them for conquest, that would seem to be the purpose of this strange sort of order." Arturia frowned then, observing how exhausted he suddenly seemed. "Indeed, I do...and relief for those torn asunder by such a war is a most welcome endeavour. However..." Standing,only to kneel down beside him, Arturia lifted her hand to brush his hair aside, peering into his eyes with a critical stare. "How long has it been since you last slept? Ah, no matter...you will rest here tonight, at this very moment." Another frown, and anyone observing the scene would clearly see the fussy mode of the King of Knights had activated. "And do not think to protest, or I shall order you." Taking the stinging off her lecture, she smiled slightly. He truly was the Marshal of Camelot, her most beloved knight. And now, with him at her side -- and being by his -- she might be able to affect the changes she had been praying for. "And then, on the morrow, we shall begin our work as knights. Even a one makes a difference...two shall bring hope to the people all the more."

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:''' Bedivere tilts his head as Arturia makes that sound – at once amused and nostalgic, though it seems more to do with someone she might have known than any shared history of Camelot. ''She stood in the frozen slush, heedless of the cold, one hand on the reins of the ill-tempered bird that served as her steed. Although the winter morning was not harsh, the cold was nonetheless a formidable force, fangs of ice buried in the skirling of the wind. Someone already sat astride the chocobo's saddle, uncertainly clutching the ruff of feathers around Alkoun's neck. Princess Ovelia Atkascha – no, Queen Ovelia Atkascha – seemed a delicate thing in the weak light of the winter sun, but there was an odd sort of relief in her brown eyes. Her loyal guardian, however, stood holding the reins of her war-bird, and her eyes were on the Servant standing before her. She had called her there to say goodbye, for even she had no idea where she would go. "The truth, Dame Saber, is that I am weary." Agrias Oaks shook her head as she spoke, but there was a hint of amusement about her words. "'Tis an exhaustion that no rest will help me relieve. I have sworn my sword to the Union, and I owe them much for that which they have done for me, but they deserve better than a broken knight. We will travel, for a time, and see what we can see. 'Tis safer on the roads than to settle in any one place, but I will see to it that milady is comfortable." "Agrias..." The princess on the saddle spoke the name with uncertainty, and a little concern. "I am not burdened, milady." Agrias half-turned to address the queen, and despite the mild chastisement, her tone was one of warmth. "To travel is how I lived, for a time, though 'twas in far worse a situation than this." The Holy Knight turned to face the Servant – her friend – and smiled. "Ah, Dame Saber, my friend. I owe you much and more. I will be certain to say hello, from time to time." She strode forward, then, and threw her arms around the shorter knight in a brief but warm embrace. "We will meet again; on what remains of Defender, I swear it." Her voice took on an almost playful tone. "Mind yourself while I am gone, and see that the Union does not forget the chivalry we have shown them, aye?" With that, she let go, stepping back and smiling to the Servant. It was the smile of a woman relieved; unburdened, and she bowed low in respect. As she straightened, she turned on her heel, ash-blonde braid flying behind her as she turned away, climbing into the stirrups. Leather creaked as she eased into the saddle, settling Ovelia in front of her. "Of all those friends I have found in the Union, I will miss you and Dame Amalthea the most while we travel, I think. But take heart – we will see each other again." Alkoun tossed his head, harness jingling. "Farewell, my friend." Her ash-blonde braid snapped once more, this time behind her, as she spurred her loyal steed on at a brisk run. His talons crunched in the snow, and the long plumes of his tail flew out behind him; soon, even those began to diminish, until the trio shrank and finally vanished as they travelled east, into the morning sun.'' Such a memory is not something that Bedivere would be privy, to. The knight simply cocks his head at Arturia's explanation of the Union. "So I have heard, myself. They are also known to provide relief to those caught in the war; and that is what I had sought to do more of. There are many in need of such relief. So many." Bedivere glances up as Arturia kneels down to his level, brow furrowing slightly. To his credit, he doesn't flinch away when she reaches up to brush his hair aside, but he does blink somewhat owlishly at her careful scrutiny. Aside from a catnap here or a brief and restless sleep there, he can't remember the last time he truly slept. "I do not... well..." He looks undecided, but only for a brief instant. It's easier for him to accept than to argue, and besides, it would be unseemly to argue in the face of an implicit order. "I am your loyal servant, my king," he relents. Bowing his head, his hair hides his faint smile. It fades as he climbs wearily to his feet, wavering slightly. "I will stay in the guest room, then, so long as it does not impose upon Lady Tohsaka. Yes... I will rest," he murmurs, inclining his head in courteous gesture to Arturia. He pauses before he starts in the direction of the hallway, though, offering her that contented smile again; the one so free of weariness and worry. "Good night... my lady. Rest well. And please, call for me if you should have need of me. I will not be far." With that, he'll make his way toward one of the house's many guest rooms – but though weary, there is a relief in him that seems to lighten his step.

:'''Tohsaka Sakura has posed:''' Unfortunately for poor Bedivere, it seems that the Tohsaka family had been...slightly busy of late, what with summer cleaning and other such. While it’s true that Sakura hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort to Saber recently, it seemed as if there simply wasn’t any other open rooms for the Knight but the one by Saber’s own. It’s almost coincidental, possibly even conspiratorial, but Sakura’s quite alone - and it does make sense to only heat and cool portions of the mansion anyway; rooms that were potentially open would be the most reasonable to find next to the ones in use. Of course, the knight is shown the bath, and other such amenities, and thankfully for him there were spare pajamas of a certain redheaded stepchild’s that...happened to be available in the laundry. Once Bedivere is assured of Saber’s - of Arturia’s - safety, and quite becalmed enough to finally retire for the evening… ...he might just notice that the door of his room mirrors that of Arturia’s. And that his bed is on that same side; there’s nothing but a little air and plaster between the two. All quite honorable and chivalric of course...but just a little bit sentimental as well. Once in her own room, sliding into bed, the lavender-haired woman simply sighs in happiness. Matchmaking is fun after all...and she can think of none better. Hmm...the best way to make a truly beautiful flower blossom is tenderness and patience...and just a little bit of help.
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