Scene #4569: The Young King

Owner	Pose
Sir Bedivere	Yes, Inga is sharing that look. It is /very/ strange. As she will tell, Inga doesn't not really believe in coincidences, which leaves two options. Her first thought is of worry. Can this youth be trusted? Perhaps she is not what she appears...perhaps it is a ploy to gain Bedivere's trust for nefarious purpose. Perhaps, the youth is an assassin. Paranoid, maybe, but it is too uncanny not to consider. Or...the gods are involved and it is simply fate. And if it is fate... Inga can't help herself. Now that a seed of worry has been planted she wants to be sure they are safe. Bedivere is mortal after all... so Inga lets loose the restraints on her Sight and takes a good, hard look at what this youth's wyrd has to show her. It is a doozy. Inga gasps quietly, stepping back, nearly stumbling. Shaking, Inga looks to Bedi. She will have to ask Merlin how he does what he does with getting in other people's heads because she would give a great deal to share with Bedivere what she just saw. Inga looks to Rhapsody. She blinks. Oh, she has seen her before. "That was lovely, yes..." still looking startled. She's tempted to ask for another song. Maybe it would cut the tension. "Perhaps another song? If you feel inclined?" she asks. Inga swallows hard, looking to Arthur. "You are safe here...indeed you are among peers. Perhaps you might trust us with your name?" she asks. This is going to be really complicated.
Sir Bedivere	"Good eve, then," Bedivere affords to the dragon, along with a faint half-smile. He'll see that she's left alone but for anyone she happens to invite. Giving her a place to put her thoughts in order is the least that he can do. His attention turns back to the newcomer, and the more the faerie horse goes on about spoiling for a fight, the more sour his expression seems to turn. Apparently he doesn't agree with said faerie's magic. "You will not dishonour me before Brehon Law," the knight points out, glaring at the horse under him. "Cease your talk of Lord Caradoc. If he should come here, he too will be welcomed as a guest -- and both you and he shall be protected by those laws." A holdover from the times before Christianity had visited their lands, such laws would proclaim a guest safe under a host's roof, and guests could not act against other guests. In an age when political alliances were so mercurial and where warfare could erupt from nothing, meetings citing hospitality were sacrosanct; to meet under the roof of a host was a white flag of truce. Bedivere frowns as he considers the youth's words. "No, I would not involve myself in your dispute. As steward of this place, I must consider its safety before I entangle myself with the political matter of an external territory." He shakes his head. "I believe you. And while I may offer you sanctuary, I will not turn him away." Bedivere's face curls into a thin, almost sardonic little smile. "I can, however, buy you time, if you should wish to escape or hide yourself. That is not any breach of Brehon Law." A host really just promises to do no harm to his guests. He doesn't promise to be incredibly inconvenient to them under technicality of the law. And if there's one thing Bedivere had come to be very competent at, it's finding the wiggle room between the spirit and the letter of a law, or whether an action is chivalrous or unchivalrous. Bedivere cants his head slightly the other way, studying the youth. "I know of King Uther, because that was the king before the one I now serve. I swore my sword long ago to King Arthur Pendragon. If my histories are aught like yours, I know these men, and I know of their character; at least what the bards were paid to remember." His eyes flick back to the road, studying the steep road that winds back down to the base of the mountain. Further on is the warpgate; maybe that's how these people got in. Had to be, unless they went slogging through the tundra beyond Dun Realtai's distant bordering mountains. "I would do you no dishonour, nor would I bring such dishonour upon myself." Bedivere answers seriously, with an earnestness that's almost endearing. He takes these matters quite seriously. "My /companion/ was merely amusing himself. And," he adds, eyeing the horse, "he will be forbidden from interfering--" <This one is going to /expire of boredom/,> the Black One insists morosely. Bedivere ignores the horse-like creature without skipping a beat, "--from whatever matters are between yourself and Lord Caradoc. To the best of my ability, you will be given safe haven, here, as you have asked it, and I am obligated as host to provide it." "However, you have still not answered one of my questions." He studies his guest. "By what name are you known, traveller...? Who are you, who has Lord Caradoc so wroth with y--" His head whips around as Inga stumbles, and he's beside her at once to offer his arm. "Wisewoman?" That makes him even more wary. What precisely is she seeing that's got her so upset? Oh, such a loaded question, for Inga... one never knows just what she's going to see. And she's seen some doozies.
Sir Bedivere	Arthur blinks when Bedivere mentions he serves Arthur, and there's still a wariness there, but he makes up his mind. "I wish to show you something to prove what I am about to say, if what you tell me is true I have little doubt that you will understand why it proves it." That said, he pulls out bundle of cloth and rolls it open, revealing a hefty stone, three inch thick, six inch wide and several feet long. Out of one end sticks the holt of a sword. He picks it up like it weighs nothing. "He whosoever pulls this sword" He puts his right hand on the of the hilt, "out of this stone and anvil." His grip tightens, and the sword begins to glow, "is rightwise born king of all Britain." He pulls it out, and it glows in holy light, the weapon itself nigh impossible to see clad in brilliance as it is. A moment after, he sticks it back in the stone, and the light fades. "I am Arthur, ward of Lord Hector, of unknown parentage, though I have been suspecting for a few months now that I may be King Uther's son." He folds the stone and sword back into their bundle, and puts them back in the wagon.
Inga Freyjasdottir	Even though she is pretty sure what the youth is going to answer...when he does, Inga stares for a long moment, eyes moon-round. Then, she starts to laugh. It bubbles up first with an escaped giggle, overflowing into a completely hopeless laughter. Inga leans against Bedivere, still shakey, though she would not be surprised if he falls over as well. "I'm...sorry," she says, turning away, breathing, trying to get control of herself. "Sometimes, the world is so mad you just have no choice but to laugh," she explains between strangled giggles. When she finally has herself under control, she takes a few deep breaths and looks to Bedivere. "It is true. I have seen it...gods, I have seen it twice now...that bloody battle," she shudders. This time, it was not the past she saw...
Sir Bedivere	At the youth's assertion, Bedivere cants his head slightly to one side, frowning slightly as he concentrates on the youth's words. He's about to ask the youth what he means by that, when he speaks-- --exactly the same words that were graven on Caliburn's blade. His brows vanish into the ashen-blonde locks over his forehead when he sees the sword in its stone scabbard. Well, now, this is interesting. "Arthur." There's something in his face that twitches, and then his mouth twists into a crooked smile. "Sir Ector... the son of the king. Oh, aye. I know who you are, boy, but you do not look the part of the king I serve..." "You come from a world not unlike mine. But different, in key aspects. Curious." He reaches up, unclasping his cloak and offering it down to Inga and looking concerned. For her sanity, maybe. "Wisewoman. What have you seen--" I have seen it, she tells him, and not a flicker of change visits his expression. He hides his reaction with the practise and patience of a master; even as he reels inwardly, just a little. Another king; another Arthur. Another boy who pulled the sword from the stone, even if the version he's intimately familiar with is a woman, not a man. His expression might as well be carved of alabaster. "Then I offer you what sanctuary you must have. My king will understand." Oh boy will she. She would do the same, in his shoes, he's certain. "I believe you. If that is what Wisewoman Inga says, than that is truth. I have come to trust and rely upon her judgement."
Young Arthur	Arthur seems somewhat surprised by Inga's laughter, but he doesn't respond to it, he lets it slide over him, wordlessly accepting the apology, with only a smile to go with it. The mention of a bloody battle causes him to raise an eyebrow, but he doesn't ask. "They call the blade Calibourne. It's a powerful weapon, but I fear it won't be enough." He answers softly, and he seems genuinely worried. "Should civil war break out, as seem almost inevitable, it is not the lords who will suffer for it. Oh certainly, the losers may pay in prestige and wealth, but it's their people that will pay in blood." "Regardless of such," Arthur changes the subject away from those grim prospects, "Thank you for granting me sanctuary. I don't know how long I must stay, nor how long I can, but your claims interest me and if they prove true, I would be eager to get to know the people of this town better."
Inga Freyjasdottir	After that little bout of silly madness, Inga is back to the dignified wisewoman, leaning on her staff with her hands folded atop the rune-carved oak. Bedivere certainly has a poker face. She knows why. It is a useful skill to have. The poor child. What a road he has ahead of him. Or...not. There are choices, and his path has many more forks now than it once did. "So...did you have knowledge of where you were going? Do you understand that you have entered into the multiverse?" she asks. She'd needed a great deal of help there herself, so she isn't going to assume he knows anything about what he has stumbled into. "But first...perhaps we should find a seat. You've been injured and you most certainly need to replenish your fluids," she adds, thoughtful. Her cottage is probably a bit far...anyone in the village though, would gladly surrender their home for a little while if Bedivere is involved she's sure.
Sir Bedivere	The pale-haired knight settles his hands over the pooka's neck, eyeing Arthur with renewed interest. In particular he watches Arthur's weapon, committing all the crags and texture of the stone to memory. So too does Bedivere pay attention to the blade itself. It is radiant, divine, somehow; something about it commanding attention just like the Caliburn that he remembers, awash in its own taste of the Otherworld once pulled from its stone scabbard. It's curious how similar and yet how different this Calibourne is from the blade Bedivere remembers at Arturia's side. Despite its invisibility -- rather like Excalibur's Invisible Air, he thinks -- there is still something of royal bearing in that simple but beautiful, radiant blade. "Oh," Bedivere whispers, "aye, I know her name. Aye." His eyes are absolutely locked on the scabbarded Calibourne. Even he can't help a slightly puzzled frown. There's no questioning that blade's regality. It's eerie. In that, the aura of this sword feels just like the sword he remembers, but the aesthetics of its hilt don't look right at all; and belongs in a woman's hand, not a stripling boy... though this boy is more than he looks, if he's survived so long in Camelot's viper-pit of politics. Some things, it seems, are universal. Arturia's courage -- Arthur's courage, he mentally checks himself -- is a quality that seems to last across worlds themselves, and the swords always play a role. "My lord." Bedivere eyes the young king appraisingly. "You will be staying here. I would be remiss as a host if I did not insist that you rest and recover from your flight. Lord Caradoc or his men will be seen to if they should arrive; your identity is safe among them, as it is safe with me." The way he clasps a hand to his heart and bows, slightly, is exactly the kind of thing he would have done before his own king; a formal gesture of respect. His lopsided and crooked smile, however, is not. "Forgive my impudence, but this offer is not open to negotiation." "Come. I would at least bring you to the great hall, where it is warm. The autumn is cold and sharp, here, and on most days, terribly wet." Eyeing the wagon for a moment, he snaps his fingers. One of the villagers, perhaps a servant, perks up from not too far away. "My lord?" "This horse is a guest's. Please see to it as you would see to my own. Ah, do not leave yet. One more thing. I would have this young man's belongings brought to the third floor. South wing, please. The north wing is unsuitable for guests." "Yes, my lord." The villager tugs his floppy cap in a gesture of respect before turning and running for a team of other villagers. It's not long before there's a crowd of them. One leads the horse away, but the rest of them are busily coordinating amongst themselves how best to lug that stuff up to the citadel at the top of the mountain. They're doing a lot of lugging for that sword. It seems like the only people who can carry it are two big, beefy guys who might be quarry workers or something. Even they're straining to carry the solid stone scabbard, and by the look of it, the more rangy-looking villagers are glad for ducking out of that particular duty.
Sir Bedivere	Bedivere turns back to his guest, eyeing the youth blandly for a moment. He then gestures, beckoning a silent 'walk with me.' "Allow me to tell you of the land you have found yourself in, if I may." There's an echo of briskness in his walk that the king's aide-de-camp would have had in the field -- yet this boy has perhaps never even met the Bedwyr of his tale, if indeed he is even fated to. "I will insist that your stay be at least two days. Your horse must doubtless be tired. As your host, I fear I cannot spare the breeding stock to provide you with another as a gift. Therefore, I must insist that you rest." Bedivere's soft smile is gentler, though, despite the crooked, sardonic slant of his expression. No matter the gender or the circumstance, it seems he is fated to be a loyal servant to King Arturia Pendragon -- or King Arthur Pendragon, as this one truly is. He lets his hands drop, content to let the Black One plod forward. The pooka does so, ears flopped listlessly at the sides of his head. Every so often, the big black horse eyes Arthur with those softly-glowing eyes, and one can practically see all the questions the Sidhe wants to ask -- but the Black One is blessedly silent. For now. In the meantime, Bedivere shakes his head. "I do not have any reason to lie to you about this or aught else. Indeed, speaking falsehoods would be a grave breach of the virtue of Fides." His tone is earnest; absolutely serious. "Speaking in all seriousness, you will be welcome as long as you wish to stay, my lord. I will not in truth keep you here, if you wish to go -- but I would strongly recommend resting for a time, if naught else."
Young Arthur	Arthur listens, he's said enough already, and now he's embracing the virtue of silence as he's provided wisdom. Inga's first question gets a faint shake of his head, the second with an uncertain nod. He knew not were he was going beyond rumours, but he had been told some things about the multiverse. As his stuff is carried away, Arthur does not object nor give any indication of disagreement with that course of action, following quietly, listing with what is abundantly rapt interest. The only thing he mentions at the end is a comment, "Honesty is without doubt a virtue that should not be ignored, I wish I could count on the lords I meet to share that view."
Inga Freyjasdottir	To the castle then. Inga raises a brow toward Bedivere. She's coming with them. "A moment, I must get Jodis," she says, then turns and calls for her horse. Jodis, being uncannily well trained, trots over toward Inga and actually bends her front legs at the knee, lowering herself so that Inga could more easily climb into the saddle. The horse stands back up without too much trouble. Inga pats her neck gently, cooing words of praise as they start up toward the castle. Inga listens, lightly holding the reigns of Jodis. "Good. The multiverse can be very overwhelming I knew naught about it upon my arrival. I hope yours was more pleasant," even with a wound, it had to be more pleasant that discovering Kingsmouth. Inga looks to Bedivere, raising an eyebrow. "...and is the lady at home Bedivere?" That would be interesting, but probably a bit much for the poor boy's first day. Arthur, meet Arturia! She's you, but older...and a woman! Isn't that grand? Bet you've wondered what you'd look like with curves! ...Probably not.
Sir Bedivere	Bedivere's expression twists into something more uncomfortable as the young king vents his frustrations. They're perfectly understandable, and it's something that he had also struggled with. The machinations of court and the subtleties of the public sphere were things that he had to learn, and learn quickly, sink or swim. He not only learned them, he forced himself to be ten steps ahead of the schemeing bastards in Arturia's court. Yet he can only smile that soft, almost melancholy smile. "I do not like to speak overmuch of the similarities or differences of certain things; I should not like to influence your actions unduly, for they are yours to make, and choose. But I can say this: If your Camelot is aught like mine, then I wish you Godspeed in those treacherous waters." The mirth seems to bleed out of his smile; it turns cold, but it doesn't falter. Bedivere slides off the black horse's back with a grunt, and no sooner has he cleared the war horse's massive back than the beast seems to shift, flowing like smoke; neatly folding itself over into a much smaller shape. A cat -- which runs a few steps ahead, tail in the air like a fuzzy black flag. He doesn't seem to pay any attention to the fact that his noble steed just turned into a cat. Hey, it would be rude to ride if Arthur gave up his own beast of burden. So the lord dismounts and walks beside his guest -- which probably says something about his integrity of character. This is no Lord Caradoc; this is a man of careful thought and meticulous action. He decides upon a course of action, and he cleaves to it with the steadiness of stone. That's probably a good thing, in Arthur's case. He blinks, startling a little and looking at Inga. "I--no, she is not, Wisewoman. She insisted upon surveying potential flood areas of the village..." The last time he went out in the cold rain to make sure buildings weren't going to be innundated by water, he caught a cold. And then he caught hell from Arturia. No, no thanks, he's not going to risk her wrath again. She can patrol once or twice, even if it makes him chafe against his sense of duty. The great hall is a massive building, big enough that two colossal hearths take up most of the northern wall; long tables run its length, with long benches. Basically, a typical mediaeval great hall. Hopefully it's familiar, at least a little, to the young king. Bedivere steers his guests toward the hearth, which is lit -- it's cold outside, even if it's not downpouring rain. The knight himself selects a chair and drops into it, armour clattering as he throws himself into his chair. "Now. Perhaps we should begin from the beginning, with you," he offers with a droll half-smile, "as would be sensible." Bedivere leans back in his chair with a sigh, eyes on the crackling flame. "I am afraid you are nowhere near the place you thought you were any longer. I do not know where you left it behind, but you have left Britain behind, somewhere in your flight, and you have arrived in an entirely different place. This is neither Britain nor any of its neighbours. Dun Realtai exists in a place called the multiverse. I know it strange, but think of different worlds -- the Otherworld and the land you know, mayhap -- put together, stitched like so many patches on a jester's tunic."
Young Arthur	Arthur follows along, still choosing silence over speech. The young king, if king in name only. He nods with an appreciative smile as Bedivere wishes him well in the treacherous waters of Camelot, though he adds on a small note. "The old capital is in Dun Breatann up at the river Clyde, and Dun Camlann, or Camelot, has yet to be rebuilt. It's where I intend to hold court when the time comes, however." The mention of a lady makes Arthur seem curious, but he doesn't ask for detail, going back to silence after his simple remark, until they make it to the hearth and Bedivere starts to explain things, "I've heard some tale of such, but none offered any great detail. I am eager to learn more."
Inga Freyjasdottir	Inga nods. Well, that might be for the best. Give Arthur a chance to settle in before he meets Arturia. She'd better be there for that, though. She could probably sell tickets. Inga makes her way to her own favorite seat by the hearth after hanging her cloak. Hopefully Bedi will send for tea and something to eat. "He should have meat. Needs to replenish his blood," she suggests, reaching into the pouch at her waist and pulling out her knitting. It would appear she's working on a large sock of soft, grey wool. "Im my home...we thought there were nine worlds. Turns out, Yggdrasil holds many more than we imagined," she offers, sticks clicking away as yarn slides easily through her finger tips. "This is only one of many worlds--but probably the one in which you will be most comfortable. Speaking from personal experience," she adds with a smile. Her ball of yarn tumbles suddenly out of her pouch and rolls across the floor. Inga looks to Black One, wondering if he'd chase it.
Sir Bedivere	The knight's gaze seems to grow distant for a moment. "Dun Breatann, and the River Clyde... I remember those names." Bedivere thinks back to the places he had passed through, and the places that Arturia had once sent him, staring blindly at the hearth. "Aye. It is a good place to hold court." Camlann... that is not so auspicious. The only thing that place will ever evoke in him any more is nightmare. Is that a shiver that passes through the marshal? Inga might catch it, even if he recovers quickly. The Black One does indeed snake out a paw and swat at the yarn ball, hitting it back towards Inga. But, when it doesn't do anything more than roll and stop, he seems to grow bored with the game, and leaps up to curl up on Inga's lap. No, he's not going to ask for permission. He's a faerie /and/ he's a cat. What do you think? Folding his arms over himself, Bedivere leans back in his chair, considering for a moment. "Aye. Tell to my servants what you wish, my lord, and it shall be provided. Worry yourself not over our stores. We have plenty and to spare for the coming winter." Indeed, there are a few servants hanging about the fringes and the shadows, waiting for orders. He manages a faint smile at Inga's description. Of course she would use the World Tree as a metaphor; she worships the old gods of the frozen northlands. "You will perhaps be most comfortable here, yes. It is... a comfortable place. Particularly for those who seek some measure of peace." "You will of course be welcomed as a guest for as long as you please, my lord."
Young Arthur	"I've heard tale about Yggdrasil, my dear friend and advisor Merlin is a pagan, but I'm a man of the cross, so I've not paid much attention to the specifics of his tales." Arthur answers Inga, with a faint half-shrug, "He's a good man, and his faith is genuine. I see no reason to quarrel with him over it." "King Uther was a strong king, but I think as much as I am his heir, a clean break with his policies is important. A king like him will inspire vassals like his." Arthur leaves unsaid what he means by that. If such a King falls, the whole of the kingdom will fall with him. "As for what I wish, food and drink for now. It's been a long journey and I've not been able to eat as much as I like."
Inga Freyjasdottir	Inga does catch it, and if she dosn't shiver she shares some degree of the emotion. "Twice I have seen it..." she mumbles again, shaking her head. Inga then looks to Black One, grinning as he bats the ball back toward her. She leaves it on the floor, making space for Black One to curl up on her lap, setting aside her knitting to provide petting and behind the ear scritching. She doesn't think too hard about it. "Many places are overwhelming. Strange and wonderful in their ways, so I do encourage you to explore...but I think you will want to come back here. It is the closest to the world as we knew it," she explains. "If you do wish to explore once you are healed, there are a few places we could certainly show you," she offers. Inga isn't afraid to wave one of the servants over and politely ask for some tea and a bite to eat. Inga looks back to Arthur. Slowly, she grins a wolfish grin. "Tell me, Merlin...does he have a beard?" she asks. Now she wonders about the religious affiliations of the Merlin she knows...certainly he is not a Christian! Inga figured his religion was trickery and...lewdness. Inga is still petting Black One. Pretty kitty~
Sir Bedivere	Until they specify more clearly what it is they want to eat or drink, servants will deliver tea and what looks like scones. Nothing particularly fancy, but something suitable to serve to guests. "Oh, yes. There is no question that Master Merlin is a pagan." Bedivere reaches for his teacup, balancing it delicately despite still wearing his articulated plate gauntlets. The servants are meanwhile bringing back a more substantial meal for Arthur, which winds up being somewhere between the humble fare of peasantry and the richness of nobility -- the multiverse has made some rarer ingredients considerably more common, so as a result Dun Realtai's food stores are a bit better stocked than the typical early mediaeval pantry. Bedivere has grown unreasonably fond of cinnamon. Meanwhile, the Black One is content to play the part of housecat, because it's getting him attention and he gets to sit on Inga's lap where it's nice and warm and decidedly not cold like the rest of this place's dreary autumn. Look, he can even purr like a regular cat. Purr purr purr. "My king does not often speak of King Uther Pendragon." Bedivere shakes his head, considering. The only times Arturia had ever spoken of him had been with cold and scornful tone, dismissive; unwilling to even acknowledge Uther as family. Ector had been her family, and Kay. "When I did hear of King Uther Pendragon, it was in tones of distance, and even scorn." The knight inclines his head, with a fleeting half-smile. "You are wise, my lord, or perhaps more perceptive than I would have credited you. Perception is good. Foster those instincts, those talents; they will serve you most well." The smile fades. "We believed the same." How that turned out for his Camelot, though, he doesn't say. "Aye. Wash the dust of the road from you, my lord. Stay a while, and rest. If you wish, I will even see that you are given a new horse to draw your waggon; I have made something of a point recently of importing horses of better stock." He taps a gauntleted finger against his teacup, steel ticking softly agaist china. "I was my king's master of cavalry, and I would raise one again, here. Such plains are ripe for cavalry tactics, and I believe such would be an excellent defensive measure for the people." He does cock an eye at Inga when she asks whether Merlin has a beard or not, and his blank look is an unspoken question. What the hell, Inga.
Young Arthur	Arthur starts eating when food arrives, with all the eagerness for food of a growing boy. Oh he eats politely and properly, but he also eats quickly, and having already been fairly quiet so far the eating just helps give him an excuse to maintain it more. Still, he does comment a couple times. "Yes, Master Merlin has a beard, I don't see why this is relevant? He's an old man, likely older than he even looks, why wouldn't he?" He seems surprised to hear the question, it seems Merlin just has to have a beard to him. "I've never known King Uther Pendragon except by reputation. While I suspect he may be my father in the flesh, and wanted me to be his heir, Lord Hector has been much more of a father than he ever was. Please don't mistake my references to Uther as affection." Arthur clarifies, "I will need to learn more about him than I have so far. I've never met the man while he was alive."
Inga Freyjasdottir	Inga takes her tea, grumbling over her teacup, "there's something to like about him," she says to herself, picking up her knitting again if Black One will allow it. Inga glances to Bedivere when he gives her that look and shrugs her shoulders. It is simply something she has to know! Arthur might be the Arthur from HER world--and maybe that Merlin is old, has a beard and is dignified and not a terrible flirt! Arthur answers and Inga grins. "Ha! Well...you see, I am friend with Merlin. But...clearly not your Merlin. Our Merlin. You see, I am from a time...after yours. I have heard the stories. I always wanted to meet Merlin. The Merlin you know sounds more like those from my stories," she explains. "Once you meet our Merlin you will understand," she says, waving a hand. Still, she is secretly pleased that she can tell Merlin this, that elsewhere he is indeed an old bearded man. "Do slow down...there is no shortage of food. You do not need a stomach ache on top of a wound," she cautions.
Sir Bedivere	Although his guest is hungry, the steward doesn't seem to be. Bedivere merely cradles his teacup in his gauntlets, apparently deft and dextrous enough in them to be able to do so. He watches Arthur with those hooded eyes in the manner of a man studying a cryptic problem before him. Certainly Arthur represents a puzzle to him. How much does he reveal? How much does he keep silent? He had asked himself the same questions when he had seen the thing that Mashu carried as a shield. The same answer is satisfactory, he decides. Answer what questions are asked. Volunteer as little as possible. It may change the fate of this boy's life, and he is loathe to do or say anything that would lead young Arthur down a road he is not fated to walk. "Master Merlin is an old wizard of no small acclaim in my world, as well, but he has chosen to keep the appearance of youth," Bedivere states, diplomatically. "Unfortunately, with such power comes a certain degree of ennui. He is easily bored, and even more easily amused, and sometimes his trickery comes at the cost of comfort and pride. He means well, however." Bedivere pauses for a sip of tea, raising a brow. "That is not so different from my king, who chose to refer to Sir Ector as family, rather than King Uther Pendragon. Perhaps my king was descended of King Uther, but in name only." He studies his teacup. "I did not know King Uther, myself. He ruled before even my time, but I know that there were aspects of his rule that needed to change. And so, my king changed them." "Perhaps you had best speak with my king, or even better, Master Merlin, but I cannot promise you that any information you have from them will help you. The world Master Merlin and I hail from is..." He squints at Arthur a little, frowning. "Different." Way different, in certain aspects. Inga is given a slightly weirded-out look. Maybe she's been hanging around Merlin too much... "In any case." Bedivere clears his throat, politely, before glancing to Arthur again. "Where were you bound, if I may ask?"
Young Arthur	"I can eat this much and more with ease." Arthur responds to Inga with little concern for what wisdom may be in her words, instead as he empties his plate he looks for a servant as though trying to figure out the best way to ask for more. He doesn't ask, however, merely consider. "Merlin is an itenerant traveler, he comes by occassionally but he holds himself accountable to none but himself. I believe him to be a good man, however." He shrugs slightly, and considers the remainder. "If your king is like me, he was raised by a good and humble man, in a welcoming family that treated him as one of their own despite not being kin." "And I was bound for them, to Caerleon where Lord Hector rules, the sole lord of Britain to proclaim loyalty to me. I hope Sir Cay has done well in finding himself a new squire."
Inga Freyjasdottir	Inga smiles. "That's some of the highest praise I've ever heard you give him," she says to Bedi, setting her tea down in order to pet Black One. The wisewoman is beginning to look a little sleepy.
Sir Bedivere	Dun Realtai's servants are perceptive. No sooner has Arthur started looking about for someone in the shadows than there is someone there, a girl with auburn hair and another plate full of food waiting for him. Whether the steward had communicated something with them or whether the kitchen staff is just observant, it's hard to say. The bottom line, though, is that scarcely has Arthur begun to look for more food than his old plate is cleared away, and more food is made available to him. Bedivere suppresses a slight smile. He recognises something of himself in the boy; once upon a time, he had eaten like that, too, as though convinced he might not see any food on the morrow. There were days when he hadn't. It's a habit he still has, and has to check himself against doing, sometimes. He lifts a brow in response to Inga, though, that bland look he so often favours when he's hiding his real reaction. "Credit where credit is due," he says, with a half-smile.