907/Fireside Chat I

Fireside Chat I
Date of Scene:	03 November 2014
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	In the midst of its blustery, awful autumn weather, Dun Realtai receives a few visitors.
Cast of Characters:	346, 482, Riva Banari, Inga

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Welcome to Dún Reáltaí, where the weather is usually some variation on miserable and wet. Although there are clear, sunny days, those are few and far between, as rare as they had been in the land the castle's lord had once hailed from. Generally, autumn here seems to be a bleak, wet season, and the only thing separating it from winter is a lack of snowfall and warmer climates.

For a given value of warmth, anyway.

Today, the lord and lady have stuck largely to the castle keep. Most of the construction is finished, barring a few outlying buildings, and efforts have largely turned towards keeping the land from flooding away. Since almost all of the vegetation is gone, there's nothing to prevent the soil from eroding in the face of such heavy and consistent rain – sandbags and other weather countermeasures have been put into place to keep the hill stable.

That means that Sir Bedivere of Dún Reáltaí has also taken it upon himself to take regular patrols in the rain, and make sure the keep isn't going to wash out underfoot.

It's one of those patrols that he's just coming back from today. The pale-haired knight is soaked, and that's probably a generous description; the front door bangs open as Bedivere shoulders his way inside, grunting as he then turns to shoulder it closed against the driving wind and rain.

Panting, he reaches up to unhook his patched cloak of service, but he doesn't hang it by the door. Trailing water, he trudges over to the hearth, instead laying the garment out on the stone floor before the fire, in the hopes that it might dry faster. It was a pretty thing when he had first joined the multiverse, white and pristine, but now it's patched and stitched here and there after the conflicts it's survived through.

Kind of like its owner, really.

Bedivere himself shucks off his blue hauberk and the chain shirt underneath, spreading those in front of the fire as well; muttering under his breath as he tugs at the tunic-like gambeson under that. It's... well, there are probably spots that are still dry on it. Maybe. He can't find them, though.

Sighing, he himself then flops down in one of the chairs by the fire, immediately reaching for a piece of parchment and quill he'd left on the table earlier, jotting down a few notes. Things to be repaired or ordered, probably.

He doesn't really do that well with concepts like 'time off' or 'not working because of inclement weather.'

Inga has posed:
Naturally, it is cold and wet. Of course. This only reinforces that she desperately needs to purchase some new clothing. Reminded as she is by being soaked through her cloak, she sighs to Riva. "I must beg a favor Riva...I need more clothing. I need some...modern clothing, as well as my usual," she replies. Shopping is frightening. They wants her to try things on! That means getting undressed in a tiny room and–it's just traumatizing. She needs moral support.

Inga's boots are muddied, along with the hem of her skirt, her cloak soaked. Even the fox fur collar of her cloak looks grumpy. When they reach the door, Inga knocks her staff against the door to shake off some of the mud, then moves inside, wondering if she should take her boots off as well. A small sigh is uttered, but she knows at least she'll be able to get dry and will recieve a warm welcome here. She'd been meaning to come back for some time, and now that some things were settled, she can finally do so!

Inga spots Bedivere by the fire, looking as though he'd just come in out of the rain as well. "Hail Sir Bedivere," she greets, suddenly a downright cheery smile appearing.

Saber (346) has posed:
In Dún Reáltaí's miserable weather, saner people remained indoors. The lord of the lands was, however, not particularly sane. Or, at the very least, let his sense of duty override his common sense. Not that the King of Knights could really blame him; it was her code of chivalry, after all, which largely drove him. She had insisted that knights were servants of the people, not nobles who enjoyed special privileges over the people. Theirs was a status of service, and Bedivere took those duties even more seriously than most.

That did not, however, mean that Saber was about to overlook his neglect of himself. And if he insisted, then she would in turn insist on doing that for him...perhaps much to his discomfort.

The flaxen-haired knight made her way into the great hall after first loosely braiding her hair in lieu of, entering with all the finely-practised grace of her station. So used to presenting the image of the perfect king day in and day out, it was something she had never been able to simply turn off like a switch. As opposed to the commoner's attire she and her marshal were often seen in, Arturia dressed in more modern clothing, simple yet effective for the current conditions. Her hair was once more swept back into the usual braid-encircled bun, bound with a simple blue ribbon. And already, she was armed with the now-familiar towels.

Saber did not even so much as speak a single word or even sigh, already dropping one over his head even as he worked. She had no need to.

At the arrival of the Uppsalan, however, she finally spoke. "Greetings, Lady Inga," she hailed, already handing her one of the towels. And she would have to bring an extra serving of tea, once she was done tending to her lordand knight.

Riva Banari has posed:
There's a kind of sense of hearth and home that develops in areas with poor weather. When it's sunny, people take pride in going outside and making their yard look good. When it's bad out, people focus on more internal affairs. Unless you're Bedivere, who worries about everything (and for good reason!), or Riva, who believes in the use of coats and umbrellas. Except today, where the weather isn't all that conducive to umbrellas.

"Sure, no problem!" Riva replies to Inga in the middle of the storm. "We'll get you something that will look great." She is valiantly trying to remain sunny in the middle of the storm. You would not believe how put out the lack of umbrellas can make some people feel. The promise of shopping, however, definately makes her happier. Inga's always such a doll.

Regardless, Riva's come to visit! The door opens, and Riva slides into the hall, dripping water everywhere. "Wow, it's totally raining cats and dogs out there." She comments, pulling off her soaked coat. "Hello, Sir Bedivere!" as she slips in behind Inga and closes the door. "Lady Saber!" Riva says as well, smiling broadly despite her personal situation. "We came to visit! Inga and I totally wanted to see your progress and pitch in some more, and then BAM, this huge storm hit. Now that's timing, right?" She shucks off her coat and just sort of hangs onto it as she looks around for a good place to hang it up.

"How are you both doing? Things have been really quiet and nice over here for a while. Peaceful!" She finally pauses, apparently even more animated and chatty than she used to be. IF THAT WAS POSSIBLE.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere frowns when he hears a staff rapping against the door. Hardwood makes a distinct sound, especially when wood of the same density knocks. For a moment he almost finds himself reaching for a sword he doesn't have. He'd left his in his quarters, leaning against the ruined plates of his armour.

Yet there were several visitors who had open invitations, here, and so he doesn't so much as rise–

Flump.

Quite suddenly, there is a towel tossed over Bedivere's head. He just sits there for a moment, and though his face is hidden, one can imagine the blank expression that must be on it. He at least knows that was Arturia's doing; thanks to his own perceptions and their supernatural bond, it's almost impossible for her to sneak up on him.

After a few seconds there comes a long, resigned sigh from under the towel, and only then does he dutifully set to scrubbing out the water from his hair. Once his head's uncovered, he casts Saber a beleaguered look, somewhere between must you fuss so much? and thank you.

"Oh, Lady Inga. Dame Templar. I was not expecting you," Bedivere adds, slightly muffled as he makes another pass over his head with the towel, even as Saber dispenses extras to their guests. "Forgive me. I would have ridden to the gates, and escorted you both up the avenue."

"Actually, this 'huge storm' has been here for days. It seems Dún Reáltaí enjoys a rather wet autumn," the knight sighs. "Please, sit before the fire. Warm yourselves. Aye, things have been quiet, for the most part, but there is still danger of erosion. Since nothing grows in this barren soil, yet, I must mind the rain, lest the whole hill be washed away. We have been using sandbags and fortifications of stone and wood where we can, but if this rain continues, it may be a problem."

The knight rolls his right shoulder, somewhat stiffly, in an indifferent shrug. "Nothing insurmountable, of course, but it is still a problem. How are you both?" The pale-haired man offers a smile, and though it's reserved as his expressions so often are, there's still a hint of genuine warmth to it. "It has been long; too long, since either of you graced my hall."

Inga has posed:
Riva is rather a ray of sunshine, and apparently her mood is catching. Inga smiles to Riva, nodding. "Thank you, that would be much appreciated. Navigating the stores they sell modern clothing in is–very discouraging," she comments, not knowing Riva's likely excited to play dress up with Inga. Oh dear.

"Ah, Lady Artruria, hail to you. I hope we find you both well? If soggy?" she says, taking the towel with thanks. She begins to dry herself off a bit before wiggling out of her boots. She doesn't want to track mud all over, so she pads on stockinged feet over toward the fire. Stockings, yes she'll need more of those as well. Those she knows at least she can get here, or at least materials to make her own.

Finding a seat by the fire, Inga drops into it with a grateful sigh. The trek up isn't an easy one. Her feet and her back ache something terrible. Apparently, being Chosen doesn't make one immune to aches and pains. Again, Inga smiles to Saber and Bedivere. "My apologies, we should have sent word ahead of us...and yes, my apologies as well for my long absence. I have been...busy. At least a couple of things have been settled, much to my relief," she says. To her great, great relief.

Inga's brow furrows lightly at the mention of erosion, nodding. "Mmm, we can't have that. I'll see if I can do something about the rain," she informs him, as if it is something in her power. It is certainly the kind of ritual she has been trained to perform. "I'll need a goat, but if one cannot be spared a chicken is acceptable–or boar would also do nicely," she comments.

Inga fixes her eyes on Bedi squarely then, looking him over, especially the shoulder she'd mended. "Are you well healed? You haven't complained, but I expect you wouldn't even if it were bothering you," she says, thus looking to Saber. She knows she'll get the truth of it there.

Riva Banari has posed:
Riva waves, her smiles having nothing to do with the fussing Bedivere is getting from Saber.

Okay, maybe a little. She finds it cutedorable.

She handwaves. "Don't worry about it. I'm totally able to shieldmaiden just fine for Inga here, and I'd hate to make you or your men get wet on our account." She squishes a little in her shoes, as if to emphasize.

Bedi describes the rain problem, and Riva taps the side of her chin. "Well, at least the rain is natural and not the doing of more supernatural craziness." She sighs. "At least you can work with nature more easily... And you're right, it's been way too long since we've visted. There's been a ton of things going on all over the place. I feel like I'm a firefighter at the corner of Tinder Avenue and Flamethrower Alley."

She gets out of her wet shoes and starts pattering around, looking over everyone as she talks. "Can you really do that, Inga?" Riva continues to be astonished at the breadth of ability Inga seems to possess regarding natural things. And blood.

Saber (346) has posed:
The expression Arturia responded with in turn was an entirely unrepentant mixture of Yes, because you neglect yourself and You are welcome. She finally sighed, however. Eventually, she was going to have to drag him out to find some more suitable clothing. It was somewhat amusing, in retrospect, when she had requested Fate's help in picking out things to wear which would make the silver-haired knight stand out a little bit less, it was rather cute how his reactions had wavered between wavering stoicism and proverbial fish-out-of-water. At least now she had ways to ease that discomfort. Namely, something involving music.

She couldn't help but smile to herself. She had always wanted to learn more about him, and the multiverse had provided her that chance.

She was slightly more animated at the appearance of the two women, however. "Welcome. It has been some time, yes. And I am hale, thank you."

She could not help, however, a bit of discomfort over the idea of a ritual. Bedivere's gentler nature was rubbing off on her, remembering how their war horses had often been cut down in battle. The V-Max had been a godsend, an ideal, non-living mount. The King of Heroes had already trashed it once, and an older version of Emiya Shirou had little trouble rebuilding it.

She could, however, agree with the issue of her marshal's healing. "It is slow-going, though such things never prevent him from patrolling out in the middle of a torrent." Why yes, she ratted him out.

But then, the little blonde was negleting something for her own part. "Forgive me, I am remiss in my duties as a hostess."

With that, Arturia retreated into the kitchens – there were few servants about at the moment, currently tending to the many other duties of the keep – to brew tea and put together something proper to serve their impromptu guests with.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Both marshal and wisewoman could agree on that much. Modern clothing stores are a bewildering affair to have to negotiate their way through, and although the marshal has no particular problem with claustrophobia, sometimes it's just too foreign for him to cope with comfortably. He'd much rather wear simple commoners' clothing whenever he can get away with it.

Bedivere leans back in his chair with a sigh, closing his eyes for a moment at the warmth of the fire. It feels good to be in front of that blazing hearth. It's just another aspect of this broken-down old castle he's grateful for.

After a few moments his eyes open to half-mast, regarding the fire a little blankly as the visitors both explain themselves and their absence.

"I decided as much. You would have come if you were able; you could not, therefore, you have not been here until now. I would hardly hold that against either of you." The knight chuckles. He stops a moment, though, frowning. "The rain? You can do that?"

Still, he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. The idea of killing something just for the sake of easing the rains doesn't sit well with him; his more peaceable tendencies, it seems, have also rubbed off on his king.

He shifts uncomfortably again, this time because he's aware he's being stared at. "Mn." A noncommittal sound. "It is mending well enough."

Bedivere doesn't really offer an answer to her observation... but he doesn't argue with it, either. No, he'd probably be the last person to actually complain when he was justified in it. It's something Arturia is reasonably well acquainted with thanks to their days in Camelot; even when he'd been struck down by wounds that should have been mortal, not once had he complained about the pain.

He only snorts at Arturia's observation, closing his eyes again. "Someone has to keep an eye on the flooding."

But before he can get up and play the part of the host, Arturia's already volunteered and headed back to the kitchen. Bedivere sighs, sinking back into his chair. He still has some trouble adjusting to the idea that she can do the work of a castle drudge. It still galls him that she does it. She's the king, damn it... but she seems to enjoy it, and it isn't like he needs to protect her reputation here. Not quite as rabidly, anyway.

Sigh.

"In any case, I'm glad to hear things are going reasonably well for you both." Bedivere glances over to both his guests. "Things in Kingsmouth, as well, I trust...? Have you found a way yet to bring relief to the people there?"

Inga has posed:
Inga also enjoys the cutedorable of Saber fussing over Bedivere. Has anything progressed there?

Inga looks to Riva, smiling softly. "I can appeal to the gods and land wights to stop the rains by offering a proper sacrifice, yes," she answers. Such things didn't always work, for the powers beyond will do as they see fit, but...often she has been successful in such rituals. "A small feast would be held afterward. You should eat the meat and toast the gods—" she cuts off, remembering that Bedivere is a Christian. Inward sigh.

Inga looks back to Saber, her lips thinning slightly. "I see. I hope that you are stretching Sir Bedivere, best when your body is warm. Perhaps in the bath. Massage would also be beneficial," she comments. "You don't want those injured muscles to tighten."

Inga notes the ruffled feathers of the Knight as Arturia goes to fetch tea. Inga shakes her head slightly. There are people who would be happy to work in the castle, she's sure. It isn't proper, but it isn't Inga's place to argue.

She straightens slightly as mention of Kingsmouth. "There have been some developments. We have not cleared the island more, but we do have some clues...we recently had a victory over a very malevolent spirit there," she says, repressing a shudder, flashes of her own death playing through her mind.

Then, a smile. "I think I was able to clear Harry of the filth however, with a bit of help from Wuyin and a local shaman I am quite eager to meet," she adds. There's the source of great relief. "He'd struggled with it constantly for a month...he can finally sleep easy."

Saber (346) has posed:
Alas, what was perfectly average in their current setting tended to make him stand out like the metaphorical sore thumb. Arturia suspected he would always see commoner's attire as the simplest, most nondescript thing he could wear, and she doubted he would ever be convinced that such things were, by modern standards, considered a form of finery. Much of the modern era was upside down, as far at the knights were concerned, in fact.

At the offer, though, the little blonde shook her head. Ever the practical sort. "There is reason for the rains, I would imagine. There is still a great deal about this land which we do not know, and disturbing the natural order of things might have unforeseen consequences. We shall build what walls we can, and take some steps to control the erosion."

As to Bedivere's injuries and general health, in a strange turnaround she had taken it upon herself to ensure that there was not a repeat of the battle in which he had nearly been struck down. Even back then, she had been secretly, silently worried, even when she could do nothing but simply act the part of the distant king. Now, however, she was no longer bound to act in such a way. In fact, due to their current circumstances, it was expected. And she hardly minded at all...even if the violet-eyed knight had been horrified over the idea of the king serving him.

But then, that was her entire purpose as a king, wasn't it? The king served the people, not the other way around.

"Aye, and should you contract some manner of illness which restricts you to bed, then who shall keep an eye on it?" What perhaps would horrify him most is that this implied that she would be performing that task in his place. That remained something of a weak point of his.

And what both the knight and the wisewoman might not have noticed was that the jade-eyed knight rather enjoyed her role, though she did keep that much hidden as best she could. Perhaps it was a little undignified, but it was a rather nice change of pace to be able to simply do such things without the need for projecting authority and the image of a perfect king.

She returned soon enough with a tray laden with tea, honey, cream, and apple scones just as talk of the Kingsmouth issue had ended. "Hm. That is welcome news. I have heard some...complaint from Sir Harry concerning the matter," Arturia observed, setting the tray down at the table with her usual poise.

Riva Banari has posed:
"Man, if people could use goats to control the weather, maybe we'd all have less weather problems than we do now..." Riva comments wistfully... Or maybe people are doing it and people don't notice? "It must be terrible for the weather reporters." She chuckles. She doesn't comment on the progress of Bedivere's healing. She knows Sabre has him well in hand, and has the best sense of how he's doing.

"Kingsmouth is getting better, step by step. It's... not in good shape, even compared to here. There's a force there, an evil one. And everything is coming out of the woodwork around it." Riva shrugs. "But we're making progress even so. As Inga said, we managed to keep a spirit from taking the souls of a large number of children over Halloween, among other things." She nods to Inga on that.

Riva rubs her chin, then, and then gestures. "I've heard it mentioned that people like Lady Arturia are bound to battle in a competition, and others from other versions of the competition have arrived as well... But what is the state of your own? Are you concerned others might come to um... compete?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Mn. A sacrifice." Bedivere looks away at that, as though he weren't quite agreeable to the notion. Still, it's probably not for the reasons that the witch may think. He just doesn't agree with taking a life so casually for something he and the people of Dún Reáltaí could otherwise wait out. "We will see, but I am inclined to agree with my lord. Best not upset the balance of things too much, for we know not what the balance in this land is. There is much here we've not yet learned."

He smiles a little faintly, almost wearily, at her sudden cutoff. "Do not trouble yourself on that account, good lady. Yes, I am Christian. Ostensibly. But I am not so hidebound as some of my contemporaries were. I was always a foreigner at court, in truth, and perhaps that made me more open-minded than some." He shrugs his good shoulder. "You will find most of the people here are the same. They will give you no trouble, I should hope."

They have more important things to worry about than petty religious squabbles, like surviving the winter. While some would take it as an excuse to spiral downward into devout belief, or perhaps making a scapegoat out of people they didn't much like, these people seem much more pragmatic at their core. It makes leadership easier, that's for sure.

"Is that so? I am glad, then. And I am glad for Master Dresden, as well. I know what it is to suffer such sleepless nights." A shadow seems to pass over his expression, briefly; some long-buried pain, but he forces himself past it quickly with an equally forced-looking smile. "I am glad he no longer suffers that."

The pale-haired knight, however, only rewards Arturia's fussing and perfectly logical point with uncharacteristic muttering and grumbling under his breath... but even that seems to lack any real sense of fire or true argument.

He doesn't bother arguing with her on it, either.

...He probably knows he'd lose.

Violet eyes flick toward Inga, then, regarding the wisewoman with that characteristically studious, almost piercing gaze. Perhaps he'd sensed her discomfort when she had first come in from up the hill, and the pain of stiff joints and cold weather exacerbating those pains.

"Ah, Wisewoman. Perhaps you might like to make use of our baths? The heat would do well for you, I think. We can have a servant show you the way, and provide for you what you might need." Half-turning towards the kitchens, he brings forefinger and thumb to his mouth, giving a sharp whistle. In comes a servant, not quite running, to take Inga off to the baths – thankfully it doesn't require another trek outside. "Enjoy yourself."

A nod is given towards the status of Kingsmouth. So it seems, to hear tell of the things that happen there; surely there must be some kind of darkness... but his expression falls just slightly when talk turns to the War of the Holy Grail. To his credit he doesn't quite blanch, but he does look a little uncomfortable.

Somewhat unconsciously, he turns his left hand, hiding the mark under the long sleeve of his gambeson; his eyes slide briefly to Arturia.

I will let you explain to her as much as you are comfortable with.

Inga has posed:
Inga looks to Arturia as she returns, thanking her for the tea. "Very well, but if you change your mind I am at your service," she says in response to the problem of the rains.

A small smirtk at Saber's words to Bedivere. She almost feels sorry for the knight.

Mention of Harry's complaints causes a wince. She felt at least partly responsible for the whole business. "Yes, it was...difficult," she says, leaves it at that for now. She hopes to the gods the matter is settled. She nods to them both, glances aside. "Yes, he sleeps well now."

Oh, a bath! Inga brightens. "Yes, I was hoping I might take advantage of the hot water for a good soak," she replies. The fire is nice, but the hot water would be even better. "Thank you kindly," she says, then gets to her feet in order to follow the servant to the baths.

Saber (346) has posed:
It might have been eerie to some just how synchronised Master and Servant were when it came to their ideals, beliefs, motivations, and methods. Rarely were the two at odds...and those times were typically when arguing over one pushing oneself too hard or neglecting oneself. There had been a few times when the tables had been turned on her, when she should have been resting to conserve her mana and was scolded – rather, his equivalent of scolding – over extending herself too much.

This was one of those times. Inga was quite right to feel sorry for Bedivere.

Though her marshal knew better than to argue the point, he was nevertheless making his unhappiness known, and at a later time she would probably find some eventual amusement in his sulking. Would you rather that I patrol in your stead? she merely intoned silently, implying that she had no difficulties at all in assuming such work.

She nod-bowed politely to Inga as she followed a servant to the baths, considering that she should probably persuade the knight of the Dál Riata to take one as well once their guests were settled in. At least that, she imagined, might not be quite so difficult, persuading him to put down the paperwork for at least ten minutes.

Ah, the Holy Grail War. Though that hidden world seemed to be common knowledge within both the Union and the Confederacy, there seemed to have been a groundswell after several such realities had recently Unified. She tilted her head slightly at Bedivere. In truth, much is already known. There is not a great deal to hide, at this point in time.

"It is true that I am a Servant, summoned to fight in the Holy Grail War. However, the War in which I was first summoned ended – in what was from my perspective – five years ago. Ten, according to others."

The petite knight seated herself after pouring tea for the three of them, adding a touch of honey and cream to hers and sipping from it lightly. "I am, at this point, simply a being not unlike a familiar. However, that is not to say that other Servants and Masters from other Grail Wars will not view me as a threat, or perhaps another source of mana for their own version of the Grail. As such, I remain on guard with regards to other Servants who might appear."

Riva Banari has posed:
"Bedivere has always been pretty awesome like that." Riva says, happily adding her endorsement to his commentary. "Everyone here is, really. It's one of the reasons why this place is going to flourish once you get through this rainy fall and nasty winter. I think Psyber has a point on his take on the name." she says, jokingly.

There is a pause, and Riva nods as she listens to Saber's outlining of their particular situation. "That's a relief." Riva says. "Both of you be careful anyway, all right? I know Gawain has mentioned some problems on his end, and if anyone comes after you, well..." She folds her arms. "Let's just say I take it personally when people go after my friends. If you guys need backup at any time, just ask. You have my sword, that's how they say it, right?" She grins at that. "After all, we're supposed to watch out for each other."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The witch is given a faint nod in parting as the servant leads her away, but Bedivere remains in his chair. The fire feels too good to forsake, just now. It's true that he might risk himself in his patrols through wind and weather, but that just makes the fire that much more enjoyable once he trudges back inside.

That unspoken question does bring him to hunker down in his chair a little more, though. No.

Grumble.

When talk turns to more serious matters, he glances sidelong to Arturia as she explains their roles in the Grail War. Or, well, her own role, anyway.

Leaning forward, he prepares his own tea – and in so doing, bares the command seals on his left hand; his mark as a Master. They're pretty things, red against his pale skin, intricate Celtic knotwork forming a stylised sword in three distinct sections. His own tea he adds a little cream to, hesitates for a moment, and then adds a little honey in as well before leaning back with the cup clutched in both hands.

"We intend to," he says solemnly, violet eyes settling on Riva. "Indeed, we do, though you have not a sword that I know of." Heh. "Still. We will let you know if we have need of your aid. I thank you for that. By the same token, if there is aught we can do in Kingsmouth, let us know. Dún Reáltaí will be able to spare us for a day or three."

Saber (346) has posed:
At this point, Bedivere's stubborn sulking resistance was token, something to preserve something of his sense of honour. So, she let it go without reminding him who the Master was, and that he had an obligation not to get himself killed or significantly weakened. And bless his heart, he was trying.

Hence, the scones. Apple, his favourite. It might be considered something of a bribe.

The Saber-class Servant nodded at Riva's assessment. "The current tribulations appear to have been the result of the previous lord's proclivities," she replied. "As such, with a proper lord working on their behalf, the land should flourish."

Yes, she had appointed the right man for the job, in spite of his protests and sense of modesty. But if there was one thing Arturia did well, it was finding the right people for the right job.

She debated for a moment on the issue of their recent visit from Mikhail and Caster of White, not out of a need for secrecy, but needlessly involving the Templar too heavily in their problems. But then, she did consider them friends and allies.

"Our presence is not especially secret," she admitted. "We have already been visited by a number of other Masters and Servants from other Grail Wars...though none were inclined towards hostilities, thanks be to God."

At Bedivere's reply, Arturia nodded her assessment. "Indeed. Your offer is most appreciated, and we are more than willing to return it."

Riva Banari has posed:
Riva adds a significant amount of honey to her own tea. She has a sweet tooth. The appearance of the seals causes Riva to lean in and look at the work intently. "Oooooh," she coos, "That's some really nice work! I should make a sketch and show it to a tattoo artist, maybe get something like that done myself." She grins.

"Used to!" Riva replies regarding her sword. "It broke a little bit ago when we were fighting that spirit Inga mentioned." She reaches behind herself into... somewhere... And pulls out a little ingot of ruddy-looking metal. "I was able to salvage a bit of it though. Maybe it'll come in handy later." She flips the small bar in one hand. "If something comes up in Kingsmouth, I will definately let you guys know. The biggest problem we have there is finding a target that means something. We can kill zombies and draug all day, they just keep coming. We have to find out where they're coming from... And then cut the snake off at the head."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Oh, well. Apple scones. That changes everything, and lets him endure the trampling of his dignity with a little more grace, or at least a lot less outward grumbling. Bedivere contentedly picks at his scone, and pointedly does not consider it a bribe. He had never accepted those in fifteen years of service and he's not about to start, no sir. It's totally not a bribe.

(It's totally a bribe.)

"Indeed. I am to understand that a magician was the cause for all of this. He attempted to seize power, and though he failed, his machinations dragged the inhuman guardian spirit of this place, a winter-witch, out of her rightful time and place. Her very appearance caused the seasons to run amuck." Bedivere sips at his tea, eyeing the fire for a moment. "Now that it's been tamed, somewhat, it's simply a matter of rebuilding... and finding that man, that he might be presented to the winter-witch as part of our bargain to use this land."

In truth, he has no idea where to start with that. How do you find somebody who likely knows they've been pursued, and has probably had the foresight to dig themselves so deep underground a mole wouldn't be able to find them? He has little faith in the tracking hound he'd been given. The creature is... well, frankly, the thing is adorably inept. Maybe Kepas will surprise them all.

"Indeed, we have been approached. But we do not—" Suddenly Riva leans forward and admires his 'tattoo.' The sudden attention causes him to shy away, physically jumping back with a strangled sound of alarm. WHAT. "Uh," he finally manages, flushing. "No. I would not recommend that. In fact, that is a terrible idea. Please do not copy this design, it would invite unwanted attention—"

The poor man is practically flailing, and the 'help me' look he casts to Arturia is unmistakable.

Fortunately his attention is seized by the ingot. This time it's Bedivere's turn to lean forward, squinting at the tiny ingot. It doesn't look like any kind of metal he recognises, although the people of Ulaidh were known to colour their gold with red. How, he's not certain, but it was a technique sometimes used in Dál Riata as well. "Red gold," he observes, a little doubtfully. It has a similar look, but not quite. "Though the colour is not quite right. What manner of metal is that? I've not seen its like."

"Aye, I can understand that." Cutting off the snake at the head, that is. "'Twould have been a simple matter in Camelot if so many problems had been solved thus." He sighs, a little heavily. "So much bloodshed could have been averted. The Saxons, especially. It was long before their chieftain dared show himself in battle, and their hostilities were not tamed until he was cut down. And the rebellion..." That would have been easy. So easy. Yet they had no reason to suspect Mordred, at the time; and in some part, he's not entirely convinced that would have worked in the context. "No," he decides, shaking his head and drumming his fingers restlessly on the table. "That would only have made a martyr out of Sir Mordred, I think..."

Riva Banari has posed:
Riva seems to suddenly note the apple scones and acquires ond of them. Sweet tooth will devour delicious pastries. "I can't think of anyone better than you and Sir Bedivere to handle this." Riva replies to Saber. "I'm glad that you're getting along with with the others. Maybe this can all be settled in a reasonably civilized fashion." Hope springs eternal.

She nods in response to Bedivere's expanded explanation of the travails of his new demesne. "As soon as the weather lifts, we can start looking for him. Or maybe he'll come here, and make it easy." She grins with anticipation on that. "Don't worry, everything is going to turn out fine. It will just take a bit of honest work and chastisement of the guilty." She laughs. "Man, I almost sounded like Faruja there."

His reaction at the mention of copying the tattoo causes her to fold her arms. "Unwanted attention that would otherwise go to you guys, right?" She says, with an expression that bespeaks potential shenanigans. "The potential to confound any enemies who might come up might be worth it." She points out.

She holds up the ingot and turns it around. "It's just a base alloy of iron. The weird color is from all the impurities and stress that happened to it before I condensed the remains down into this ingot. I can break it down and purify it farther but it might be more efficient to toss it into a classical smeltery, My own conversion method is kind of... extreme." She comments.

Saber (346) has posed:
She might not be the tactician Bedivere is; she had yet to ever beat him at chess. She was resigned to the fact that she probably never would, either. Nevertheless, she was something of a tactician in her own right, able to foresee how a battle would play out in her mind's eye before striking. And then, there were times when...persuading her marshal to take better care of himself produced a more favourable outcome than simply threatening alone.

They really were like an old married couple at times, a fact that had not been lost on the townsfolk. Or their friends and allies, for that matter.

Similarly, she had no idea where to begin searching for the former lord. Kepas had been given to them on loan to help track him, but Saber doubted that would work if their errant necromancer had somehow escaped into the multiverse. That, and the elemental hound had probably been off eating a bug when the other ice hounds had been granted intelligence and dignity. But then, he might very well surprise them all.

Poor Bedivere, flailing like that. It is all right, she reassured the beleaguered knight. Worry not.

"That is a command seal," the knight-king explained. "They are bestowed upon a Master by the Holy Grail prior to summoning a Servant...or they form when a magus forms a contract with one who has already been summoned." That meant that her marshal was, in fact, one of these Masters. But who was his Servant?

Arturia in turn was curious about the ingot just as the silver-haired knight was, peering curiously at it. Even as a Heroic Spirit, she was unable to recall off-hand what Noble Phantasms might be made of such a metal. "It is rather peculiar, yes."

She had aced a similar problem five years before, battling Caster's summoned minions, and fighting through them had proved difficult. Even then, she had been unable to destroy him until later, and only with the help of Lancer, Rider, and even Archer. "Once the source is found, it might still prove difficult."

Jade eyes flicked to Bedivere. there was only one way to have avoided that battle, and in her eyes, the blame would always lie with her.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"I doubt he would come here. The man knows he is wanted by the winter-witch, for it was she whom he tried to subjugate for her power." Bedivere shakes his head, pausing to sip at his tea. "And if he has any wits, he will know he must surely be hunted. A being like that... I do not think she would let the object of her ire escape so easily. She would have sought help elsewhere, if we had not come along, I think."

He shrugs, faintly. "It matters not to me what becomes of him, but turning him over to the winter-witch was a part of the bargain to use this place freely. Even if I did not accept that, I am oathbound to return him to her custody. It is her business. And I am not inclined to argue." His expression darkens. "His actions brought about the death of three quarters of this town's people, if I estimate Dún Reáltaí's former numbers correctly."

While he may not be inclined to take action himself, he isn't against letting the winter-witch turn him into a newt or a tree or whatever it is she wants to do to him.

Sighing quietly through his nose, he lets Arturia explain the particulars of command seals, and obediently raises his left hand, showing the mark to Riva, letting her observe more closely. Without actually shying away, this time... they're intricate. Whoever his Servant is, it's somebody he has a good bond with. Hmm.

"Indeed. Still, once you have found that source, we are willing to lend you our swords, in turn." He raises serious violet eyes to Riva. "And if you have refugees that are in need of homes, once you have found a means to move them out of Kingsmouth, this place will not remain desolate forever. We would welcome them here."

Riva Banari has posed:
It's been super not lost on Riva, who keeps track of these things. Saber brings up more information on the exact nature of the tattoo, which causes Riva's eyebrows to rise. "Well!" She pauses. "Well, well, well. that just proves me right, doesn't it? If someone else has one of those, we can use it to fake out one of those guys who might make trouble." She says. Clearly she believes her logic is impeccable.

Or she might just be crazy. That's up to the viewer to decide.

Riva sips her tea and then winks to Saber, raising her cup in a salute. "Of course it won't be easy. If it /was/, it wouldn't need the Knights of the Round Table And Friends to solve it, would it?" She chuckles at that.

Bedivere gives his own two pence on the matter, then. "He can't escape forever. Everything leaves trails, right? We just have to figure out how to track this one. Just..." She looks out at the door. "Not riiiiight this moment. And don't worry, that guy need some serious disciplinary action. May as well help deliver him unto whatever justice is deserved in the matter, right? I'd hate to rob the Winter-Witch of her chance for a comeuppance in this case. I'd be really mad too."

When Bedivere shows those seals again, she reaches behind herself and produces a pad of paper and a sketching pencil, beginning to scribble on it. Looks like she might be intent on holding her plan in the arsenal of Shenanigans. "Absolutely. They're pretty rural people there too so it wouldn't even take much for them to adapt, I think. The place used to be a mining and fishing town, and the environment would be way healthier."

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia sipped her tea with a serious expression. "I am inclined to believe that this matter will not end peaceably," she admitted. "This wizard has already displayed a disregard for the lives of others. Had we not pledged to the winter-witch that we would deliver him to her, we would otherwise bring him to the multiverse's authorities to face trial."

The people of Dún Reáltaí were not the Britons, those she had claimed Caliburn from the stone to lead as their king. But she *did* have an obligation to protect them, both from her oath to Alaia as well as her own dedication to the code of chivalry. Their previous lord had already robbed them of friends and family, and he must be made to pay for his actions. However Alaia chose to deal with him was not something she troubled herself over. Arturia herself had difficulty in forgiving anyone who cost so many lives so wantonly.

the Servant blinked in surprise for a moment before chuckling softly. "Ah, were it so simple. But Masters would quickly see through such a ruse in a number of ways."

But it would appear Riva was set on it, and there was probably not much that Saber could do to dissuade her.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"I do not think command seals work that way." Bedivere's own protest is a little helpless in the face of Riva's enthusiasm. It seems she has her heart set on this little ruse of hers, even though any competent Master worth their salt ought to be able to see right through it. He sighs, slumping in his chair a little. "Besides which, you would be inviting a lot of unwelcome attention. It seems the identity of those who would become a Servant is nearly limitless..."

Honestly, he's not sure why he's even arguing. She's going to do this thing, and she's going to do it especially if they protest. Be reasonable, he wants to tell her, but somehow he has a feeling that's just going to galvanise her even further.

"It was our intent to deliver him to the Union authorities if he did not stand trial before those whom he had wronged, yes. I should prefer to present him to the winter-witch, if only because I have given my word that I shall do so. What becomes of him thereafter is little of my concern." He shakes his head. "I trust that she will do with him as she sees fit."

Rural people? That seems to meet with some satisfaction, to go by the look in the knight's eye. It means that any refugees brought here would experience a minimum of culture shock. In turn, helping them to adapt and get back on their feet after the horrors of Kingsmouth would be a little easier.

"Good," he murmurs distantly, eyes unfocused for a moment. "Good. And it would not be a strain on the resources, here, provided there were... hm..." Perhaps the other women might hear him mumbling under his breath as he works out the figures. The marshal certainly has a head for his figures and numbers; it's no surprise why he was elected Marshal of the Realm. He has a gift for logistics.

He seems to come back to himself a moment later, though a little slowly. He looks tired; perhaps drained after his foray out into the wind and weather. "Mm. I do not mean to take up our time with yet more work. In any case, if you should find a means to move them, I would welcome Kingsmouth's refugees here."

"Forgive me, though. I fear I may have overdone, earlier this afternoon, in my patrols." The knight pushes himself to his feet once he's finished his tea and scone, inclining his head to Riva politely. "I should rest. Remain for as long as you wish in Dún Reáltaí, though; you are a guest in my hall, as ever. There are quarters on the second floor, if you should prefer to wait out the weather."

"Good eve."

The violet-eyed knight takes his leave, then – but he doesn't call to Arturia, letting her stay and talk to Riva if she wants to. He himself is looking forward to a hot bath followed by a long, long sleep.

And dry. Dry is good.

Riva Banari has posed:
Riva is munching a scone while she sketches. She might be a Templar Knight, but she has a ways to go to get the kind of quiet dignity that Saber and Bedivere possess.

Then again, they also hang out with Gawain, so who knows? Finally, she swallows and brushes away the crumbs. "It's okay. He started it, right? We're just taking him down for what he did to all the innocent people here. He'll pay, one way or the other."

She shrugs at the mention of them seeing through the ruse. "Maybe! I mean, I've got magical power myself, so maybe if I just hang out with you or Gawain or something they'll fall for it." At least her brilliant plan isn't to try to hook up with a Servant herself, right?

"And face it. If someone's going to take a bullet, I'd rather it be me than you." She pokes Bedi. "You aren't going to come back if someone instant hell murders you. Me? Well... It'll be horrible, but I can recover."


She looks up at Bedi's thoughtful expression and tilts her head slightly. "Don't worry about it. We would of course send some supplies with any refugees to help deal with the increased burden. This winter is the worst part at the moment, right?"

When Bedivere excuses himself, Riva waves. "You rest well, all right?" She doesn't lecture him, Bedi gets enough of that from elsewhere.

Saber (346) has posed:
The Servant was probably not going to talk her out of it, but at least she could straighten her out a little on the nature of their world. "It is not the use of magic, per se...it is the existence of magic circuits which magi are able to sense. Or rather, when those circuits are activated, which is how they use mana for what is considered magic." It was an effort, at least. And she sincerely hoped Riva wouldn't involve heself in the messy affair of Heaven's Feel any more than she had to. No one should, really.

Nodding her agreement, Arturia deferred to the knight she had appointed as the lord of the land. It had been her task to delegate that responsibility, tasking the most suitable person to the task and trusting his judgement absolutely. But her trust in him ran far deeper than simply that. They were, after all, of a similar mind. He knew that she would never turn away refugees; often, Camelot had housed many whose villages had been razed by Saxons, rebels, and various brigands.

Bedivere's sense of logistics was indeed a significant reason he had been appointed first as the Left Hand of the King – the man whom generals answered to – and now as the lord of Dún Reáltaí. His strong moral fibre had, naturally, been another. What has been seen by some as weaknesses, Arturia considered strengths. He was of foreign, commoner stock, but that had shaped his personality into someone ideal for the duties she had assigned to him.

But that dedication and adherence to the code of chivalry was a double-edged sword. Her marshal had a habit of dismissing any possibility that he was overworking himself, and more often than not Arturia had been forced to resort to nagging and/or bribery to get him to take proper care of himself...and, at times, taking that task upon herself.

It therefore came as something of a surprise that the silver-haired knight admitted that perhaps he had overdone it. Arturia half-nodded, half-bowed to the Templar. "I must see to it that he does...rather than change his mind at the last moment."

And he would, too, if the opportunity presented itself.

Before she followed, however, she smiled warmly at Riva. "However, it was good to see you again. As my lord says, you are welcome any time."

Riva Banari has posed:
"Circuits, huh? Well, we have Anima Circuits, but they're not inside us. They help us channel our power through weapons and stuff so we can fight." Riva replies. "There's some parallels, but you're probably right. Either way, I still like the design." She grins at that. Saber might hope Riva won't get involved. Time will tell on if that hope will be futile or not. The Templarette has a bad habit of sticking her nose into other people's businesses to help her friends, even if it is full of horrible.

She nods to Saber, then, and stands up, giving a final bow for the moment. "It was an honor to see you again, Lady Arturia. Rest well, and good luck."

She sighs, looking at the direction she leaves after they do, idly sipping the remains of her tea.

"Boy are they going to need it." She says quietly to no one in particular."