Scene #5051:

Owner	Pose
Inga Freyjasdottir	Inga evidentally knew she'd be home soon, as there's a fresh cup of tea and a snack waiting on the table, the tea still steaming. Inga is in the kitchen, washing dishes in the sink, her sleeves rolled up to the elbow, wrist deep in sudsy water. "Welcome back Eithne, your fight went well I take it," she said, looking over her shoulder. The bloody nose gets a brow raise. "Broke you nose did you?" she asks with a sigh. "Well, suppose I can fix that first and you can drink tea later," she adds, drying her hands with a nearby towel before hobbling toward the table, motioning for Enya to sit.
Eithne Sullivan	"It was great!" she nods, putting her books down on the table. Among them are things like 'A Brief History of Remnant' (it is incredibly thick and not at all brief), 'From Dust Till Dawn', and 'Ninjas In Love'. "Yang's even stronger than I am, and she's really fast, and I like her hair!" Yeah, Eithne's feeling really good. She's reeeeally enthusiastic. And there's a sandwich waiting for her on the table and everything! "Aw yeah, thanks Inga!" Sheela hops down from the Scion's shoulder and tries to steal one of the slices of bread, because that's what he does. Eithne pulls out a chair and has a seat. "She did this thing where she hit me with her shotgun gauntlets and my sword was up tryin' to block her and it smashed into my face. I flew into the wall!" She's grinning.
Merlin	It seems there's more than just a certain bloodynosed scion visiting. When noone's looking, a certain wonderfully pale-haired wonderful wizard of wonderous wonder wanders in, leaning up against the post of Inga's doorway. What, his tea senses were tingling. And then Enya explains further, and the wizard can't help but grin at the apparent newfound friend - and at Enya's story. "I suppose the lesson is to keep your enemy from using your weapons against you, perhaps." It's a gentle tease, rather than a serious rebuke. To the mistress of the house, Merlin nods his head and smiles softly. "Wisewoman. How be you?"
Inga Freyjasdottir	Inga grins, shaking her head. Eithne's a strange girl. Which Inga can appreciate. "Well, let me adjust your nose so it doesn't heal wrong. Stay still," she says, and gently takes Eithne by the nose, making sure its straight so that it doesn't heal bizarrly. "Mmm, doesn't look bad," she comments, reaching for her knife at her belt. She pricks her finger and flicks the blood toward Eithne. Rather than just, well, splattering her, the blood forms a fine mist to surround her, infusing Eithne with anima. The nose should mend without issue. "Yang...I don't think we've met, though I've heard her over the radio I believe. Shotgun gauntlets...?" she asks. She can't even picture what that would look like. She smiles though. It looks like Eithne made a new friend--through violence, as Eithne seems to do. Sheela gets her own snack--fresh meat, cut into small chunks for ease of eating. Inga turns as Merlin appears, blinking. She sighs then, and gets another few cups out of the cuppboard. Apparently, the siren call of tea is drawing people in from near and far. "Merlin. I'm well enough, and yourself? It's been some time since I've seen you," she says, pouring a cup of tea. She's set out two more teacups as well. They're mismatched, but pretty. Things she picked up here and there.
Sir Bedivere	There are hoofbeats outside. The others might not notice it over the sound of their own quiet chatter; a heavy blanket of snow lies on everything in Dun Realtai's valley, and it does an excellent job of muffling everything. Sir Bedivere of Dun Realtai does not merely appear in the home of Inga Freyasdottir. He doesn't know how to do something like that with his fledgling's talents. Besides, that would be rude. He does knock on the door, though. Three sharp raps announce the knight's presence. His precision in something a simple as knocking on a door is enough to give away his identity... and also, he's one of the few people insane enough to patrol the citadel in Dun Realtai's nearly sub-zero conditions.
Harry Dresden	Shuffle thump. Thump bump. There's a grumble mutter from the direction of the bedroom, and someone throwing something at the wall. "Sleepy cops in here, go away!" Good morning, Harry?
Eithne Sullivan	Some people, it seems, can sense teatime. It's a very versatile talent. "Hullo cousin," Eithne grins at the pale-haired magus, shooing Sheela away from the bread and towards his own little saucer of meat. "(Tell Inga thank you,)" she whispers to him. Sheela just snaps up a bit of flesh in his beak and gobbles it down. What a rude bird. She holds still for Inga to do her magic, eyes closing to let her work without the distraction of a cross-eyed patient trying to see the end of her own nose. "Thanks," she grins, wrinkling her newly-repaired nose once. Feels much better! She's picking up her sandwich when there's a knock on the door. "I'll get it~" Bedivere is greeted at the door and invited in, the Scion offering to take the steward's cloak and hang it up. "Hey, the whole crowd's here! Except Harry, w--" "Oh, there he is," she beams. "Harry, there's tea, yeh want some?" she calls.
Harry Dresden	Thump grumble thump clump bump. Shuffling footstep noises. "Cops don't drink tea, it's coffee! Black! And cold ass pizza.
Merlin	Merlin watches as Inga's bit of blood magic is performed. How fascinating, the wizard thinks. She is quite different than most other spellcasters he'd met, and equally as different in her art of arcana. Still, it must be a little painful, he thinks, given how sensitive the fingers are. "Indeed, it has. My path is mostly a solitary one, though I admit to overwatching some of the recent goings on in Ravnica. A fascinating place...and one for which I am glad has had a happy ending to its recent troubles. And, of course, the Sundering of the Worlds, which...was somewhat interesting." He raises a hand for a moment before changing his mind; a little tea is hardly an imposition and to truly refuse would be a potential insult. And as cute as Inga is when she's mad, well, he's not quite in the playful mood. Not nearly so much as Enya, it seems. The cup is accepted with grace, and a long careful sip before Bedivere arrives. Merlin stands aside with a grin as the Scion passes, glancing at Inga's handiwork. "Not bad. You look no different than yesterday, I think. So...who is this Yang, if you don't mind?" He's curious, certainly - especially if she's a good enough fighter to give Enya a bloody nose. In his lifetime, he's noticed a curious combination of fighting prowess and looks. Want proof? Just look to the knight in the room, Sir Bishounevere. Thud. Oh Harry, subtle as always. "Inga, I believe your home has a cave troll."
Inga Freyjasdottir	Inga hears Harry from the bedroom and sighs, getting the coffee pot as well. He'll want coffee if she knows him, and she does. "Bloody grumpy when he first wakes up--late night," she explains quietly. He'd better stop grumping once he has coffee in him or she'll give him something to grump about, though! There's Bedivere at the door, also drawn toward tea and pehaps the apple tart she made earlier. That's how one summons a Bedivere. "Bedivere, good to see you. I've set you a place," she motions. Because, Seer. To Merlin, Inga nods. "It is natural to wander...glad you have returned however," she replies to him. She's more or less gotten over being angry with him, especially when he behaves. The coffee is percolating. "He just needs his morning potion and he'll be back to his marginally less grumpy self," she assures Merlin with a grin.
Sir Bedivere	"My thanks." Bedivere stamps snow from his boots as he shrugs out of his mantled greatcloak, handing it off to the Scion. It's a surprisingly heavy garment, though part of that weight is probably water content. He's wearing his usual plate armour beneath it, though it's slightly different from its time in Camelot -- it's been trimmed in fur for the cold weather. Still shivering, he staggers inside, smelling strongly of horse. And not otherworldly horse, either. He must have taken one of the ordinary war-horses from the stables out for exercise. Whatever the case, the silver-haired knight drops himself into a chair. "Thank you." IT's cold out there. He absolutely doesn't need to point out the obvious, so he doesn't say it. Instead he'll be grateful for a warm shelter and someplace to sit. 'Morning potion.' Bedivere snorts softly, but he does incline his head to Dresden, eyes easing closed for an instant. "Master Dresden. Won't you have a seat? We may leave, of course, if this is not a good time."
Harry Dresden	Harry... does not look well. Well, he looks all in one piece, if the pieces were put into a garbage bag and shaken up before being put halfway together without using the edge pieces. A puzzle wrapped in a Hefty bag. "Buh." Yay coffee percolation. Also there's lots of people here. Harry flops into one of the chairs at the kitchen table and slumps. "Don't ever become a cop, you guys. Like a proper one."
Eithne Sullivan	Bedivere's cloak is hung up to dry near the hearth after Eithne does a fairly good job of wringing all the extra water out of it (just outside the door because the floor doesn't deserve such things). "She's got these big metal bracelets that turn into gauntlets," Eithne explains, mimicking the 'k-chak!' sound of a shotgun cocking. "An' then she uses the force from the blasts to punch better or boost her speed. And shoot things too, of course," she amends, settling back down at the table with her sandwich. "I think she made 'em herself? That's what I heard, that it's really common to make yer own weapon there." "I won't," she tells Harry with every possible bit of sincerity.
Merlin	Cold? Perish the thought; such delicacies must be hot and meaty. And delivered promptly; Confucius say forgiveness is divine but never pay full price for late pizza. Merlin grins suddenly, spotting the already-laid-out seat for the newly arrived knight. He glances over at the long cloak, giving a word or two whispered under his breath - it wouldn't do, even if it's perfectly normal, to have it drip all over the floor. Besides, drying things is hardly an abuse of power. Inga gets a nod of amusement. "I leave his deportment in your hands, and to you Officer Dresden, good morning." Hey, he can be polite! "A difficult incident, I imagine?" A look of mild concern crosses his face at the man's condition, but well...it's certainly not as bad as a broken nose. And if Inga has Enya well in hand, then she's certainly got Harry well too. "Sir Bedivere. I see Inga's cooking is a lure for us all. We may have to bar the door and defend the keep, lest the rest of the town come seeking victuals as well." Then Enya explains the situation with Yang, and the curious build-it-yourself mindset. "Fascinating. Then, warriors there are also engineers?"
Inga Freyjasdottir	Inga passes Bedivere a cup of tea. "Here, warm up. I made apple tart earlier. Must have sensed it," she says to the knight with a smile. It must be extra cold with all that metal on. "Worry not, we will not turn you out into the cold again so soon," she assures. "Could you put a couple more logs on the fire Eithne?" she asks. Get it nice and cozy in here. In regard to the explaination of Yang, Inga nods. "Interesting. Can't say I know how to make any weapons, if you don't count a stick," she laughs. "Feel free to invite her over if you'd like," she adds. Harry gets his coffee next, and a squeeze of his shoulder...and a smoothing of his hair so he looks less grizzly. "You need rest. If they try to send you out again too soon you can tell them they must deal with me," she informs Harry in a tone that implies They would probably like to avoid that.
Harry Dresden	Shoulder rubs and hairpats are good, though Harry winces at 'Officer' Dresden. "Gods, it's still Harry. Just... Not Warden Dresden, not if I can help that." He lets out a breath and leans back into Inga. Still one of the few good things in his life. "And it's just... a lot of back and forth. This is is my life now, walking a line between mortals and supernatual, mundane and multiverse." He looks to the others, and cants his head over to a dull grey cloak hanging up on a hook. "Also, if people try to make you a cop, tell them no."
Sir Bedivere	"Hm? I was not lured here by any cooking. I was patrolling, and intended to stop here regardless, to shelter for a moment from the cold and snow." Bedivere tilts his head, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to want to shelter from the weather. See, he's not as foolishly careless as some people seem to think that he is. "As to that, Master Dresden, if a 'cop' is what I believe it to be, then I have already done so, and did so decades ago." The latter is totally not given in a smug tone. It is a little bit amused, though. Leaning back in his chair, he cocks his head slightly at the description of Yang Xiao Long's weaponry. That sounds unusual, but a lot of modern weaponry sounds unusual to his ear. His fighting methods are archaic by the standards of most worlds. Blade wielders are hopelessly outmatched by such things as firearms or more futuristic arsenals. "I saw that," he adds, mildly, to Merlin. Honestly, such frivolous use of cosmic power. Honestly, whatever are they to do with him? He glances over to Inga, mild and direct, the same sort of look that had caused recruits to fidget in anxiety under his regard. "Master Dresden," he states, by way of greeting. "I was under the impression you had always walked the road of the Otherworld, and treated with the supernatural."
Eithne Sullivan	"Sure!" She eats another bite of sandwich before actually getting up to add more wood. It's cold outside, obviously, and the fire can use all the help it can get in warding off the chill. Maybe she'll split more wood tomorrow. It's good sword practice! She places the new logs carefully, watching to see where the old ones will fall through when they've burned up. "I think so? I suppose I see the sense of it, if yeh know how somethin' was built yeh know how to fix it." Logs added, she watches it for a long moment to make sure everything stays nicely in place. "Thanks, I might! We had lunch too. She likes hamburgers." Eithne settles back at the table and works on demolishing her sandwich before the crow gets it. Sheela finishes up his plate of meat bits and flutters his wings a bit at Inga, which is probably crow for 'thanks'. Maybe. "I'll be sure not to," she tells Harry.
Merlin	Apple tart? Merlin's eyes raise when Inga mentions the sweet. Why yes he'd love some! "Harry, then. And...I suppose I can sympathise, at least. I have heard tell from Gawain of some of your Chicago's recent history. It is...a difficult place, I must say. As Bedivere says," he adds, following on the knight's words, "you walk a world Different, and dangerous - and live in a city with its own equal dangers. A delicate balance like using torches for light in a powder magazine." Seriously, the Izzet guild are /weird./ "I merely am looking out for our host. Do not worry, Bedivere." Merlin smiles beatifically. "I'll make sure to put it back when it's time to depart." He would, too. Don't try to out-smartass the smartest of asses. Merlin nods. "Knowing the ways of the thing, yes...I can see the potential for use. Not that I would expect all swordsmen to be blacksmiths as well, but..." Shrug. "Perhaps there is still some merit in the idea, at least understanding ones' blade. Or...gauntlets. I take it you have a new solid friend, then."
Inga Freyjasdottir	"A joke my friend," she replies to Bedivere. "I expected you might be by." There is apple tart though. She supposes she has to get it, but she's being leaned against by Hary and she doesn't want to move at the moment. At least not until he's had his full cup of coffee and resembles something pleasant and human again. The grey cloak gets a look. It looks nice on him, but she's already starting to resent it, if this it what it does to him. "Naturally, but Harry does so in a more...official capacity now. A great deal of responsibility." She'll let Harry explain about the Wardens if he wishes to. Merlin's use of magic doesn't earn him a disapproving look from Inga this time. That's a damn useful spell and put to a good purpose, that purpose being keeping their steward warm and dry. Inga has quite enough sick people to tend to down in the village. To Eithne, she smiles a little. "I can make hamburgers," she confirms. She's fairly well versed in modern food by now.
Harry Dresden	A long sigh, and a smile at Bedivere. His fellow... well. Attached friend. Married? Common Law? Something like that. And he quietly shrugs, getting up from Inga's touch long enough to get his cup of coffee - black like his soul - and slump back into his chair. "Inga's got it. Now I'm official and crap. Greycloak and all." He rubs at his nose, and looks to Bedi and Merlin. "The Wardens are the ones who had my leash for so many years. The ones who were there to smite me down if I ever killed someone or cast a spell wrong or sneezed on a pixie the wrong way." A grumpy gus noise, and he nestles in against Inga. This was comfy. This was the Right Way of things. "And now they've got me working for them, on pain of scolding and/or going back to the Doom of Damocles. As it turns out, the White Council would rather have me as their bludgeon, rather than some misfit jerk-lord making things awkward for them." Siiiiiiip.
Eithne Sullivan	Apple tart, eh...? "Bein' a cop is a rough job." She knows that much, even if Eithne doesn't normally trust them very much. "The bad ones stick their fingers where they don't belong, and the good ones always seem to be overworked." "I think we're going to be good friends," the Scion beams. They're an awful lot alike. "If I bring the things home fer it it'd be nice to invite her fer dinner sometime. Thanks, Inga," Eithne grins. She'll get up for the apple tart herself in a moment, after she finishes her sandwich. "Lord knows I don't plan on becomin' a smith," she muses out loud, and tears part of the crust off to stick in her mouth.
Sir Bedivere	The knight rests his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers and resting his chin over them. His mild violet eyes hood, lending him something of a sleepy-eyed appearance, but the king's tutor would know the difference. Nearly nothing escapes Bedivere's gaze, no matter how inattentive his regard may seem. His ability to take in the details around him is almost unsettling, and while there's not a whit of otherworldliness in it, one can see how his detractors might have thought so. Absently, he holds out a hand for Sheela to hop onto, as though to see whether the crow would bother to or not. Probably not, but he's mildly curious. He has a way with animals -- but horses and hounds and falcons are very different beasts from crows. "That would be because the good ones are often outnumbered," Bedivere responds to Eithne, mildly. "I would say there are far more of the corrupt kind than otherwise. It is unfortunate, but such seems to be the way of the world. Many worlds," he corrects himself, still idly holding out a hand for Sheela. A bland look is cast at Merlin, but Bedivere doesn't comment. He can't out-smartass the smartest of asses. Certainly the wizard is the most arrogant of asses. "Everyone has need of a shoulder-friend, that person you can trust at your side through thick and thin, through war nad peace." Bedivere half-smiles at Eithne's enthusiastic descriptions. "It is nice to see you out there making friends." He props his chin in a hand, head tilted slightly as he watches the gathering. "I was referring to the Paladins, actually, but I suppose the Grey Wardens are just as applicable to the pursuit of law. I had not thought of them in particular." "I suppose. You are, after all, shockingly talented when it comes to spells of pure destruction. I have heard some tell of your... talents." Bedivere shrugs, armour clanking softly. "There is at times need of that, in any organisation. There were times when Sir Gawain's strength of arm was of great use to myself or Sir Lancelot, in the correct pursuit."
Merlin	Merlin can wait. He is nothing if not patient. ...Stop laughing. Besides, Inga's cute leaning up against Harry like that; there's a nice blending of white and grey, tall and short. Opposites attract, as it were. To Harry, Merlin nods sympathetically. "Trapped between the freedom of solitude and loss, and the bonds of a cruel taskmaster. At least you are in a position to use your power wisely, and affect some small change from within." As a wisp of steam rises from his cup, Merlin nudges and bumps it with a finger. After a few seconds, it forms a simple magical sigil, though nothig of power - and not by any direct action from the wizard. Just the right taps at the right places. "Even a gentle tug can move a mountain and create something better, after all. I wish you luck, Harry." At Enya's declaration, Merlin lets a long, bemused smirk cross his face. "I wonder. Perhaps that's best; with your strength, cousin...can you imagine the iron that could survive a good thrashing with the hammer?" Wink. Then again, she does have that big boat-anchor she calls a sword already, and knows it well enough. Merlin nods to Bedivere. "It is true. Some things can be solved," he glances back to the floating steam-sigil, "with mild touches. Others...the only option is destruction," he adds, giving the sigil one more look as it flashes into flame for the barest of instants - and is utterly gone afterward. "And it is folly to limit your capabilities against that which you cannot judge; once you know the strength of something then judgement may come into play. But be ready for all." Bedivere knows this as well - there were times in their mutual past when such force had to be brought down. The last resort of kings, indeed...was sometimes a required moment. "May you never need to seek those limits, Harry. Enya. Bedivere. I believe the sentiment applies to us all, in the end."
Inga Freyjasdottir	Inga leans down a little and kisses Harry on the cheek. "Let me get the apple tart," she says, extricating herself from being leaned on. Besides, once she fetches the tart she's sitting down, her back is starting to ache. Seems extremely unfair that she can heal from all injuries yet she still aches. Lazy bees. Tart, plates and utensils are set down on the table. She'll let Eithne serve. Inga flops into a chair beside Harry, close by in case he needs more assistance remaining upright--usually, their positions are reversed. Harry does have a certain touch for destruction. She hadn't had cause to really see it until somewhat recently. "Indeed, it is best to be prepared. Learn all you can, use a delicate touch if a delicate touch will get the job done. When it will not...well," she smiles. She's not as good with destructive magics as Harry, certainly, but he's taught her a few things and her lightning packs quite a punch. Tea is poured for herself now. She takes a careful sip to test how hot it is, only to find its a bit cold. She rolls her eyes and gestures to the cup, infusing it with just a touch of fire to heat it up again. She's not above such flippant uses of power. Not when it comes to tea. Tea is serious.
Sir Bedivere	The knight sobers, and his eyes seem to go distant for a few long moments while he considers his cup of tea. Despite wearing gauntlets, his hands are wrapped around the ceramic, with no apparent difficulty with delicacy. He is capable of shocking agility and dexterity while wearing full plate armour; a product, perhaps, of his having worn it almost constantly for some twenty-odd years. "It is aught we can do, some days, to effect some small change within to the systems we are so often trapped within. Yet the slightest breeze may herald the destructive gale. Have a care, Master Dresden, that you herald the correct and just changes. It does not benefit anyone to act rashly." Think before you act, in other words, and make sure you're not lousing up the situation and making things even worse. Sound enough advice. "Yet, as Master Merlin says, there are betimes a need for such force. I do not like it, but that is the way of the world; I do not enjoy battle, but that does not mean I lack for skill in the use of a blade." Bedivere falls silent, his distant and contemplative gaze on his tea, watching the perfectly ordinary steam curl from its surface as though in something of a trance. He had had his own instances of using both subterfuge and information to wage his wars, and he had also had instances where nothing but raw and overwhelming power had won the day -- as when Caliburn had been broken, when the Arthurian host had been hopelessly outmatched. The rain had come down in blinding sheets, and he had feared his king lost. The Saxons had been surprised, to say the least; calling him the 'pale demon' ever after. He had fought like a man possessed, reaving through seasoned Saxon warriors like wheat before the scythe. His own men had been in terrible awe, even if his berserk fury had cost him deeply; they had regarded him with fear and shock. Bedivere's eyes hood, as he lets the warmth of the place seep into his achingly cold and tired bones. He'll return home after this, and crawl into bed, most probably at Arturia's own insistence. "When it will not, the only option left is to use overwhelming force. If you must fight, fight well; make an example that no foe will ever wish to cross." Bedivere lowers his head, eyes grave. "Likewise, train yourself in times of peace, and create for yourself an image that will not provoke attack. In this way, one may win the battle before it is ever fought, and need raise not a weapon."
Harry Dresden	Harry snorts a bit, but doesn't mind as his lovely head rest slides away, but he lapses into listening for once at all of the comments about his power, and his... destructive tendencies. And he smiles, just a little bit, hiding behind his coffee mug. Is that a smug look? Maybe a little.
Eithne Sullivan	Sheela eyes Bedivere's offered hand, first with one blue eye, then the other. "Kraa," he says, birdhopping to the edge of the table before flapping over... to perch on Bedivere's head. "Kraa." Eithne watches with the expression of a pleased pet owner. "Oh look, he likes yeh!" Sheela proceeds to hop along the knight's shoulder, to his arm, to his wrist. He pecks experimentally at the shine of his own reflection before settling down to carefully inspect Bedivere from this closer vantage. "I was just feelin' a bit antsy," Eithne shrugs, picking up her plate to take to the sink before returning to cut the apple tart into pieces. "It'd been too long since I got in a good scrap~" Listening to Bedivere speak just confirms what she'd thought to herself earlier in the day: most folks who live in the little settlement dislike fighting. She's an odd duck for liking battle, but Eithne supposes it can't be helped so she won't linger on it. She's at leat self-aware enough to know that they've all had much worse experiences than she has. "I'm not one fer a soft touch. It seems every time I try to do somethin' delicately the worse the outcome is." She passes out little plates with slices of hot apple-y goodness on them, and retreats to the corner of the kitchen counter to nibble at her own.
Sir Bedivere	The knight offers no resistance as the crow hops onto his head, brows arching as he looks up. Sheela is too far back for him to actually see, so he waits patiently, at least until the crow hops back down to peck at his own reflection in a steel bracer. Bedivere tilts his wrist to afford Sheela a slightly more stable perch, and then returns his own attention to the others. What an adorable bird, even if they're normally disgusting scavengers that eat carrion. "I suppose some are like that. Sir Gawain sometimes fell into such a trap, particularly when it involved any efforts to cook." Bedivere wrinkles his nose in distaste. "I thought I was going to die. If I had not known better, I would have said that my dish had been poisoned." No, Gawain's cooking was really just that bad. He'd thought he was going to die, and by the second day he'd honestly been wishing for death. It would've been a kindness at that point. He tilts his head in thanks, settin ginto the danish with surprising delicacy. Delicious as these things are, he's not some mannerless barbarian. He'll eat daintily and carefully, with a minimum of mess. "It seems the soft touch is what I excel at. Such was why my king chose me as her marshal, I suppose. A delicate touch was of sore need in Camelot at the time. Too many sought for the smith's hammer with which to smash their problems, when perhaps a jeweller's chaser would have been sufficient."
Inga Freyjasdottir	Bedivere can be destructive. The Odin-fury certainly resides within him, buried deep but there nonetheless. Inga understands that his words of caution come from personal experience. Inga is about to speak, but a laugh escapes instead as Sheela hops upon Bedivere's head. She stiffles the giggle with her hand. Chuckling, she shakes her head and looks to Eithne. "That is alright. All kinds of people are needed. It is best to know where one's strengths lie. Learn from others as you can, but always hold fast to who you are," she advises. "I certainly shall never be a warrior. I have more to contribute to battle than I ever thought I would, certainly...but valkyrie I am not," she says, sipping her tea. Which is now the perfect temperature. "My own dilema is often trying to decide what to act upon. There are...many, many things I see. Past, possible futures...it is always hard to know when I should act. I am always asking myself if a certain knowledge should be shared. Do I have a responsibility to do so? Or would my words make a bad situation even worse?" she muses.
Harry Dresden	Harry eats some tart as well, as he gets comfy once again with coffee and fruit pastry. "You know that the Council gets real antsy about premontions and augury." A little smirk, and he turns to kiss Inga on the cheek. "That's my girl. Make the bosses nervous. I like that in a lady." Awwwww.
Inga Freyjasdottir	Inga can't help a small grin. This new pleases her. The smile slips in a moment however. "It makes them nervous, but someday they will ask me to look at the wyrd for them," she adds, setting down her cup. A vision? Or does she just know people?
Merlin	Merlin can't help a sparkle of amusement through his eyes, when Inga reheats her teacup. Tea is indeed important, and with winters like Dun Realtai's it needs to be just that little bit hotter to stave off the heat death of the universe that awaits outside. Then Enya speaks, and Merlin gives her a warm smile. "Fear not, cousin. It takes all kinds; you simply happen to be a bit more like Harry in some respects. It makes you no less one of us. Gawain as well is a strength we all count on, and yet he is no stranger to us all." Maybe he IS a bit stranger than most, though. "There is a time for a soft touch, and a time for complete obliteration." Accepting a slice of the apple tart, Merlin grins and holds up a fork. "At the moment I do believe this is time for the latter." And the grin turns into a laugh as the crow inspects the knight, before Inga confesses her questions of the nature of magic itself. "As one who walks that path, not always in the same direction as yourself, Wisewoman...there is a reason you are named such. It is your wisdom that selects from the threads of the future, and like a skilled weaver to apply that thread - or to reject it utterly. Be confident in yourself, and trust in your intuition. It would not be your burden otherwise...and fear not. I can certainly tell you..." He looks around taking in the scion, the knight, the cop, and the seer. "In all the centuries I walked the world since its founding, and in all the futures I lived for the land of England...this was no future that was ever revealed to me. Yet I do not find it quite so bad, I think."
Eithne Sullivan	For all the he's a loud, bratty little bird, he's still just a teenager in crow years. Sheela might even learn manners one day! ...Maybe. One hopes. "I'm glad that's one of Ma's tricks I never picked up," Eithne sighs. "I feel like I'd be paralyzed by choices. I don't like the idea of second-guessin' myself all the time." Of course she's at home here! Eithne had said once that she would bleed and die for Dun Realtai, and she meant it, but she was really thinking of the people in this room. "Thanks," she smiles at Merlin, lifting her dessert plate in a little salute.