If...
      ...When the bards speak of this night (oh sing, great calamity!), they will say that the first thunderbolt of the storm was struck by Drustan's own hand. For a year and a day, the storm has been brewing (and so they shall sing it), quietly rumbling. Flickers of lightning had danced in his eyes for months, weeks, and for certes there had been rain. But tonight, tonight the rumbling clouds broke loose and lightning leaped. In eye, in tongue, in fist.
     Darkness and rain makes it hard to know where the mud leaves off and the blood begins, and the storm is raging just outside the castle gates, having first begun in the courtyard, and curious eyes (eyes also partly horrified) look on, as knights have spilled like so much rain into the nearby field to watch Drustan beating Sir Linolas of Rheged to a pulp...

     Chain jingles down a quiet hallway as a jogging knight approaches your chamber. He's sopping wet, his hair all but pasted to him. Normally bright red, his hair's deep auburn with all the wet. There's a touch of red-brown mud as well, no doubt. His pace is steady, covering the distance despite the weight of the chainmail and leather he is wearing. "Ywaine!" his voice resounds in the hall. It's near on to midnight. Most sensible folks are long a-bed. "Ywaine!"
     You'd recognize the voice. It's Gruffudd ap Owain. Like you, a younger knight beginning to make his way in court. Of the lands of Snowdon, nearby where Merlin had the vision of the red dragon fighting the white.

     He had been dreaming. Not the kind of wonderful dreams that seem but a fleeting moment and gone. No they are more they kind of dreams when something weighs heavily on your mind, forcing you to drift in and out of sleep. He dreams of dreams he fears are dying, and point of fact, he's quite tired. He's had a long day, though knighted he's still not earned his seat at the round table. Yet.
     Of course the pounding on the door rouses him quickly. He pulls back to the bolt and throws it open irritably. "Oh by the Goddess, Gruffudd, why are you making such a racket. Someone better by dying for you to wake me up like this." You know, Ywaine's gotta get over this habit of self foreshadowing.

     "Aye well'n if you wait but a few minutes, you're like to get it," comes the lilt and drag of unusual consonants and vowels that make up the Welsh accent. Brythonic though you all speak, each region has its own... idiomatic flair. "Drustan's pounding Linolas within an inch of it!" No regard for sleeping ears. Let them hear it. There may be a banishment come the dawn. "I'm sent in to fetch you. No one else can get near him and Linolas is showing the worse for the wear."

     The rain is unstopping, and so are Drustan's fists. In the gut. Hands clenching leather and chain, bodies spill to the mud, drenching. The small crowd of knights, most of them of the younger peer group -- where's Gawain? Where's Galahad? Where's Bedwyr? Where, when you need them? -- they don't dare come near, fearing to face the same unfettered wrath. And they watch with a sense of helplessness and awe. For some of them, it's the first time to see the Boar in action.
     Hands clenching, Drustan forces Linolas into the mud. His furious, muddied, beautiful face nose to nose with the bloodied face of Linolas. "Do you yield," he growls. "Retract it, or I will kill you..."

     Ywaine nods somberly and simple says, "Where?" The welsh knight only gets out 'gate' and that's quite enough for Ywaine. He's sure he can find it from there. Shouldering past Gruffudd, the pagan warrior breaks into a full run heading through the halls and down the corner tower steps and soon his bare feet are splashing in the wet mud as he runs for all he's worth. This is going to end badly.
     "Out of my way!" He says as he comes to the circle of nights hovering around the Boar of Cornwall. Never, ever make a boar angry, everyone knows this. However only slightly more common wisdom is don't try and pull it off it's kill, which is of course what Ywaine is about to do.
     Mud splashes as bare feet run to where Drustan hoists Linolas out a puddle made of rainwater, mud and his own blood. He forces his arms between the two and tries to force them apart. "Enough Drustan! You've proved your point!"

     Not that Linolas will remember what that point was, he's quite unconscious. You can tell that when he offers no fight back. Drustan could drown him in the mud and he'd not have the strength to save his own skin. In fact, the only thing holding him up at all is Drustan. He on his knees, smelling of mud, blood, sweat and someone's home brew, hands on Linolas, who's now laid out flat on his back, sprawling in the mud. "Say it!" he yells, and his voice booms as loud as the thunder that follows it.
     The Christian knights you barrel through are a bit superstitious. Hearing Drustan's booming voice trailed by thunder's enough for them to move back. The pagans are not as easily spooked, but move out of your way for other reasons. They respect you...
     Drustan's quite out of his wits, battle lust in his eyes, bloodlust in his ears. He could be on the field of Badon now, blue eyes wide and fierce. Your voice doesn't even register. He feels the hands but he twists, an arm coming out quickly in a grapple.
     Yes, you are going to have to fight him...

     The pagan knight groans and instantly takes back his claim that it is Gawaine that will be the death of him. "It's to late for this." He says grumpily as Drustan lashes out to grapple him. Oh well, god loves fools and children. Ywaine is at least the former. Even as you try to grapple him, Ywaine bends and the legs, coiling power there and suddenly lunges forward trying to tackle you about the waste intent on sending you into the mud.
     This is the part where it gets worse before it gets better if you're keeping score.

     Unless of course you're Linolas, who, with your sudden tackle, is now spared further onslaught. Arms splayed outward -- the Christian knights will note how he was crucified on the cross of Cornwall and then cross themselves for blasphemy -- he falls back. And then is pulled quickly out of the fray.
     Now it's getting interesting...
     Several of the knights actually cheer -- the brazen audacity! But several others rush now to your aid. One latching onto Drustan's arm and pulling back. This acts like a tripping mechanism on Drustan's tongue and out comes a flurry of curses that make some of the nearby knights pale. Good lord. The two knights beside you, one of which has Drustan's arm, look to you, rather aghast. Holy shite. Does he mean half of what he says? I really don't want my member cut off with a lady's penknife and given to his lame dog.
     Drustan struggles, but the war is over. He's caught. As much as he fights against it -- and while he may have lost his heart, and may be losing his mind, his body has lost none of its strength. It's taking a lot of work for all three of you to hold him down.
     "Get off!" Drustan bellows. He thrashes in the mud, causing the three bodies of the two knights and you to bash together. "I will have his retraction or I will have his death!"

     The son of Uriens releases Drustan's waist and quickly raises up to take Drustan by the thrashing shoulders and tries to pin them back into the mud. The face scare contorts as Ywaine scowls, "Dammit Drustan! Restrain yourself!" His words are likely just a haze that doesn't even have a chance of. "It's late, it's raining, and the only answer you're going to get out of Linolas right now is him gurgling and making bubbles in mud water!"
     Well he does make a vivid point doesn't he? "I don't know what he said, and I'm sure he had it coming. Is it worth getting banished over? Is it?!" Almost black eyes meet Drustan's and the younger knight says, "Now are you going to come inside quietly or do we have to drag you?"

     And then he laughs. That hoarse 'I hate the world and myself' sort of weary laugh. The laugh of Arthur's comet, who was known to be so affected by battle that he'd laugh himself sick, physically sick, after fighting. It's that sort of laughter. Banished. "Lightning doesn't strike twice, Ywaine," he smiles and even in the low light you know that Linolas got a few shots in. His mouth is bloodied, his face will have at least one bruise. Linolas won't be able to court women for half a year, poor bastard.
     "Nah, nah," Drustan growls. "Let me go, brawd," it means 'brother'. "I'll come peaceably."
     The other two don't look convinced. They look from him to you. Thankful that he's stopped his pitching and wailing.
     "Fuck him," Drustan moans, "...I think he bloodied me. Is he dead?" A hint of remorse. Perhaps a little bit of worry. He loves Arthur. He loves him more than he loves nearly anything. Anything but one thing. One woman. "Arthur," Drustan exhales and he looks crestfallen. He nods and, though not fighting, does try to take command of his own arms again.
     The other knights have begun to disperse somewhat. This event will be the news of the day come the morrow...
     "I'm alright... I'm not going to fight," Drustan clips. "I'm not going to fight."

     "Let him go." Ywaine commands the other two knights. They are reluctant but they listen to the son of Uriens and the back away as if backing up from a rabid dog.
     Ywaine hops to his feet and slowly stretches to his feet. Extending a hand down to Drustan to help him up out of the mud. "Linolas he'll live..." but he won't be happy. This probably won't end here. They're pretty prideful up in Rheged, he'll likely challenge Drustan sometime when he's feeling his oats. Course then Ywaine can just let Drustan kill the bastard and he won't have to come running out of bed. Mud squishes between the toes on his bare feet as he readies to help Drustan to his feet, "Let's go someplace dryer than this."

     "Over here, m'lady," the lilt and drawl of Gruffudd. Good on him, he brought help. He's a smart young man, Gruffudd of Snowdon. The large red headed knight, not a day over three-and-twenty, gestures over to that crowd of knights. Some of whom have the decency or the smarts to start dispersing.
     And there's one knight, likely unconscious from the looks of it, being dragged toward some sort of shelter. There's Drustan in the mud, muddied and bloodied and rain-soaked, with three knights around him. Namely, a barefooted Ywaine...

     There is a sudden commotion far back within the crowd. Did anyone notice her rushing across the field, her hair thrashing behind her wildly? As soon as Gruffudd points the way, she's off like a shot, pushing her way through the crowd -- leaving her escort to either follow or merely watch from his spot.
     "What happened??" she demands, finally emerging from between two men. Her gaze flickers to the unconscious one, no doubt making a quick assessment of his situation, then over to the focal point of the scene. Her eyes quickly slip over Ywaine's form first, likely looking for wounds... and then over Drustan as she still approaches.
     "What happened?" she repeats nearly without breath as she gets closer. She must have run as soon as she heard.

     Drustan makes no move to get up, and the rain hasn't really let up. Still the spittle of he gods upon the heads of men that it's been for the past several minutes. The downpour has slowed sommat, thankfully. But the sky promises more. The air is electric with it. Alive with it. Angry with it. Or... maybe that's Drustan's projection. Is he affecting the weather now? A muddied hand, and bloodied too though little of it is his, gestures to Linolas and there's a fierce look. "That pup," he rolls thickly, "... got deep in his drink," he wasn't the only one. "...started talking about ..." his face twists in remembered fury, "...Love. And he just kept going and going. About how isn't it a pity when...what was it, Linolas?" he calls out to the beaten knight, he cups his hand to his ear as if straining to hear the retort "... one falls in love with one's own mother, wasn't it? Fuck," Drustan swears in the Saxon he knows so well. "I can't take this. It's my name. It's my honor and god help me," his voice picks up again, "I still have it. I still have a heart that beats and an honor that can be besmirched. And I'll not hear it."
     And he pulls his arms fiercely out of the holds of the other two knights, glaring at them. They were a bit slow to back off on Ywaine's request. But they do so now, looking to Morgaine.

     Gruffudd whistles and winces. Ouch. "Aye, well he was talking a bit thick," he murmurs to Morgaine. "And Drustan leapt on him like a wolf. Look to him, lady. He's not a bad lad for a'that. Big mouthed, maybe. But..." Not one that should be beat to death over it.

     Gruffudd isn't the only one who winces. Morgaine's expression is a pained one. Shaking her head, she says to the men standing around Drustan, "Well, don't just stand there looking all dumbfounded... Help the lad into the infirmary. I'll be there promptly. The women will see that he finds some comfort, and then I'll look to him."
     Immediately, she turns her attention away from the other knights and the rest of the scene to look at Ywaine and Drustan. Moving closer, she says in softer tones so that only the two of you can hear, "The first order of things is that we need to get you out of the rain and dry. Then, we shall talk." Ut oh, she wants to talk.

     Ywaine runs his fingers through his rain and mud streaked hair and nods to his step-mother. "Right." And that said he turns to Drustan and even though his hand wasn't taken when offered he grasps him about the wrist and helps him to his feet with a hoist. "Let's go Drustan we'll throw a few logs on the fire in great hall and dry up." and hopefully sober up.
     Ywaine for one, while he likes playing around int he mud as much as any night came from a warm dry bed and would at least like to work on getting back to such a state. "Linolas has learned his lesson I'm sure, now what say we go inside?"

     "Aye, m'lady," Drustan mutters, at the edge of a sigh. It will be the first of what shall likely be several "talks" he will have to endure. A moment more and he nods slowly to Ywaine's wisdom -- I really should listen to you more often. Ah, but it'd only feed your ego, boyo. With a groan, Drustan uses Ywaine's hand as his anchor, coming up even as he's tugged. There's a wince for that. Linolas got a shot in or two.
     Poor Linolas. Gruffudd is one of the ones who finally lifts the poor wretch. He might be conscious now, it's hard to tell. If he is, he is but barely. Drustan doesn't give him a second notice, but he pauses as the knights who carry the beaten down comrade pass him. Squinting, Drustan looks up at the clouds, frowning at the roll of thunder and lightning. The gods are unhappy. And so am I.
     "Well," he exhales, as if to say: may as well get the lectures started. I'm already thirty. We're running out of time to fit everyone in. With that, and a hand on his gut, he heads into the castle.

     Morgaine follows Drustan closely, holding her skirts up a bit, not to keep them out of the mud but to prevent herself from tripping all over herself. It's difficult to navigate muddy ground in long skirts.
     "The first thing we need is to get you dry and warm... then we need to get you sober," she states. "And maybe if we hide you away for a bit, I can intercept my brother before he finds you," she adds. To calm him down. No doubt, he'll be extremely upset over this.
     "Ywaine, once we get inside, can you send for two large buckets of water, one cold and one hot? And something non-fermented for him to drink?" she asks her step-son.

     "I would bleed myself dry for him," he says of her brother, and his steps half-pause. He looks over his shoulder and the look is still fierce. "Artos knows this." Artos, the Bear. Arthur, good Cornish name that. But he also knows he's nearly killed one of Arthur's knights, one of Rheged. Aye... is that not Uriens' country? Linolas is a younger peer knight, but an unblemished one. Until tonight, that is. Aye, Arthur will be upset. He will be angry. He will be sad. He will be at the end of his wits. Drustan may be at the end of his stay here. And it twists his stomach.
     Drustan heads past the gates and doors, down the main passage and into the great hall of the keep. The fires are going, the dogs are snoring, the servants are sleeping in the corners.

     At his step-mother's request Ywaine breaks away from the group once inside, going to fetch three things while only having two arms to carry them in. Still as he's bade he soon returns. Two buckets, one with warm water, one of with cool. In the cool water bucket is a ladle so we can serve some up to drink as well.
     "Where would you like these Morgaine." He's still walking sopping wet and traipsing around the keep in bare muddy feet. You know Drustan, for as much as he complains about you, he does in fact cherish your friendship.

     "I know, Drustan, I know... but right now, no one else will be bleeding, alright? Come along..." she murmurs as she passes through the hall with the two knights. She drops her skirts once more, letting them leave a muddy trail behind her. It will get cleaned up eventually.
      And it seems she'll need to intercept two men this evening... her brother and her husband. Oh dear, what a mess this is. And if the other knights want to get a piece out of Drustan as well... she can't stop them all. Then again, she doubts any of them would go through her if she blocked the door, but hopefully it wouldn't come to that.
     As Ywaine returns, she murmurs to him, "I might need your help speaking to your father." Unspoken: he will not be pleased. "Are you willing to do that? As for the buckets... whatever room we end up in. I'd suggest not Drustan's... maybe an empty one for now..."

     In the light of the fire of the great hall -- it's the closest and warmest place, and god damn it, if he's going to be arrested it's going to be in style and comfort befitting a prince -- the level to which he is drenched and muddy is all too obvious. As is the bloodied mouth -- a split lip -- and a bruised and blood-smeared face, and still manages to be handsome in his way. It suits him strangely, the mud and the blood. He doesn't linger though. If not here, where? If not my room, who's? Drustan glances around, then looks to both of you. Then to the bench near the fire. Why not here?
     He shakes his head, sending water and mud and sweat flying. A shake that the dogs can appreciate...

     Ywaine smiles to his step-mother and says, "Certainly. I think he'll understand the situation...." Well ok so it depends on the kind of mood Uriens is in, but that's hardly the point. He looks to Drustan then and sighs. "You realize, you have quite throughly passed Gawaine as the knight that is most likely to put me in my grave." He sets the buckets on the ground near and then looks to Morgaine
     "Maybe we can get him dried and cleaned up a bit and then move somewhere else."

     There's the usual babble of voices, which gradually diminish as the door opens to allow in a rather drenched figure, cloaked though it might be. And it's a very heavy cloak, of woven dark brown material, held over the head of its wearer in feeble effort to fend off the river of water that's been dumped upon skin and bones and hair all alike.
     The cloak is unfurled, the glint of red-gold hair uncovered to firelight, and Yseult looks round the hall, drenched and besotted by the full force of the elements. Apparently, she was out of doors before coming in via the hall... "Thank you," she murmurs, taking a cup of heated wine from an offered hand, dropping the cloak in favour of wrapping small hands round warm metal. She does not yet drink. She only looks, standing framed by the doorway.

     There is a sigh from Morgaine as she halts in her tracks, waiting for Drustan to finish shaking himself off, and to listen to her step-son. Running a hand through her hair briefly, more as an absent movement than a thing of vanity, she nods and replies, "Yes, you are right. It's best not to traipse mud throughout Camelot and cause more disorder. Right then... have a seat, cousin. We'll see to it that you are cleaned up. We'll start with the boots." She no sooner announces this when she drops to her knees and starts yanking off one of Drustan's boots herself.

     As Morgaine starts in on his feet, he plops down on a bench. A Cornish curse. And then Drustan lays back, reclining on the bench near the fire, throwing an arm over his forehead. The room is spinning. Bloodlust and battle lust calming, the momentary sobriety of fury starts to fade, revealing just how drunk he is. Very. And Linolas too, though his inebriety was beat clean out of him.
     "I'm a mess, aren't I, cousin," he's not talking about the mud. "I can't stop. I can't. I think I ...I think I should leave." Quest or otherwise. What good am I here.

     Stepping forward, Yseult glances around the people assembled with a slight shake of her head, smilingly refusing offers of more food or drink from some of those present. She draws progressively closer to the two by the fire, footsteps slow and steady.
     "If you are seeking your honour," she says steadily, as she approaches the fireplace, "then it would best be found somewhere outside of memory. Messes can be cleansed, but one must wish to cleanse them." She keeps her stormy gaze downwards, though it flickers to Morgaine, chin dipping into a silent, respectful greeting. "I am sorry to see you thus."

     Shaking her head, Morgaine opens her mouth to speak, but closes it as she hears another's voice. She pauses struggling with a boot for a moment to look up at Yseult, then back at Drustan. Oh no, just what the doctor -didn't- order. There's a quick nod from her as she looks back at Yseult briefly.
     A flash of anger passes over her face, but she hides it by dipping her head back down as she manages to wriggle off one of Drustan's boots. Drawing in a deep breath, she almost visibly bites her tongue...this can't be good.
     Quickly, she grabs for the knight's other boot so that he cannot get up. She speaks while she pulls on yet another stubborn piece of footwear, "M'lady, 'tis late, and he has had a rough night..." It is a warning, but will it be heeded?

     Drop a pin, wooden or otherwise, and you could hear it drop. And echo. In the quiet that follows. It is broken at length, not by his voice but by the shifting of his arm against his forehead. For a moment, maybe you both wonder if he's going to say anything to that at all. When finally his voice sounds, slow and quiet. "Madam Mother," the woman for whom I burn and for whom I am thus as you find me, "... do you have any advice on how I can rub my soul clean?" Drustan moves his arm and his eyes are bright -- even more so than usual, with the rest of him muddied as he is. It makes the blue all the more startling. He turns his head toward her. Eyes are red-rimmed. Drunk? Certainly. But there's more than one reason for such a thing. "For I'm fresh out of ideas," his voice croaks.
     Drustan turns his head toward the fire. For a time he says nothing. "I am as you find me, nothing as I was," he whispers. "My father must be worried sick," comes the familiar quip. There's no need for you to rush, Morgaine, Drustan's not moving.

     For what I am about to say, I am sorry. Yseult thinks the words, though doesn't voice them, bringing the cup finally in a slow motion to her lips. "My lord and master, my husband, King Mark of Cornwall," it all comes out so steadily, "has, to the best of my knowledge, no information on what events may have transpired this eve. I cannot, thus, speak in his absence upon his concern for his only living heir."
     She takes a deep breath, and her chin jerks up, in an unplanned, spontaneous gesture that unhoods her eyes, the turbulence in them, as she looks from Drustan to Morgaine and then back. "If you would be cleansed, then you must purge yourself of what draws you to the sin in the first place. If you cannot," as I cannot, even as I resist, my wings clipped and shorn half from me, "then you must fly from it, as actively and as viciously as though wild hounds and boars followed in hot pursuit."
     She takes a step back, and stops. "I do not wish you ill..." Her voice almost cracks, then she steadies it, "But you are doing grave ill to yourself, and to those who care about you, by this course of action. Please ... reconsider."

     "Only with my last breath, may it be purged. Not by my hand, but by God's." However many there are. As steady is her voice, his is quiet. He speaks the truth. He knows no other way. What am I to do? "As for my father's concern," his voice spins darkly upon the words and he half sits upon the bench, not moving out of Morgaine's tug -- his foot is still hers to hold. Good on you, cousin, you give him an anchor in this sudden storm. "Of that, there is no doubt. Even the undressed picts in the highlands knows of the ... depth of my father's love." A pause. "But then... who am I telling. You know of it as well as I."
     With that he settles back upon the bench. He stares up at the ceiling and he swallows. But despite his best efforts, there is a sudden trail of cleanliness upon the high cut of his cheekbones, where a spring of water washes mud and blood away.

     Morgaine purses her lips as she holds Drustan down by the boot, her face turned toward the floor and hidden behind a curtain of raven-black hair. She doesn't want him running off and getting more drunk than he already is.
     However, when she hears Yseult's words, she drops his foot and stands to face the source of Drustan's pain. "If you do not wish him ill, why do you stand here and torment him so? Your very presence harms him, for he cannot have what he truly wants. Do you wish to taunt him with that as his father does so publicly?" Morgaine says coolly. Her blue eyes seem like ice right now as she glares at Yseult.
     She stands her ground, placing herself bodily between the two of you, suddenly seeming to be much taller than she really is...pulling up the authority of who she is and the power that comes with that...sister to the High King and priestess of Avalon, kin to the Lady of the Lake -- the blue tattooed crescent upon her forehead is a reminder of this. The height is an illusion, but an effective one.
     Her anger is nearly tangible, burning hotter than the fire in the nearby hearth. One that she cares about is hurting, and she will do anything to help stop that.
     "Go to your husband, girl, lest you cause more rumours to sink their barbs further into his heart and reputation." Her own words lash out like stinging vipers. Do they find their mark?

     The Irishwoman pales, but does not shrink in upon herself. "I stopped being a girl some time ago," Yseult says steadily, though quietly, to the other woman. "I did not come desiring to cause him pain, any more than I desire to cause pain and injury to myself." The turbulence in her eyes increases for a moment, then is forced into something approaching tameness as she lowers her lashes.
     "I have never wished for anyone's harm, or death, before I stepped foot away from my own Eire's soil." I had no need... She turns away, setting the goblet down on the table, and with her back turned to the two, she says, quietly, "But if you accuse me, then so be it. It will not be the first set of accusations laid at my door, nor the last. 'Twas not I that caused the little pigeons to be sent for use as bait in the mews. No doubt that, too, will be spoken of, soon enough." Once Mark decides it's time for another public 'lesson', at any rate.
     With the same careful, slow steps, Yseult heads for the door, leaving the cloak where she'd dropped it. "The funny thing about halves is that once broken, they each only show half a picture. But you can never put them together again as they were when they were one. I bid you both good eve, for I have nothing else."

     Hands go to his face, mud is streaked. "There's only one picture," Drustan counters. "There's only one that tells the truth. There's only one that matters. The one of two bodies beneath the furs of a boat's bed. Hands and legs twining in the ermine." Drustan smiles. He chuckles softly, briefly. "What else do you need to know, but that I have loved you. Convince yourself of... what you must to live with him, if you must. But your... illusion will never change the truth of that."
     He doesn't look at her. He keeps his eyes on the ceiling. Nor does he bother to hide the tears. In them, he can taste the sea that brought her to him. As she starts to leave, Drustan turns his face toward the fire. "Let her go," he murmurs to Morgaine. Don't keep her to argue. It's done.

     "You are a girl until you stop acting like one," Morgaine comments stiffly before turning her back on Yseult altogether. She dares not say anything else. Seething anger threatens to overtake her and she prays to the Goddess that she can remain in control a little while longer -- at least until she can go and take it out on a practice dummy with a sword.
     And, Drustan has asked it.. the comment she made was already past her lips before he asked it, so now she will bide by him and tend to him as though the Irish woman wasn't even standing there.
     For now, she has to remain steady...for Drustan's sake. What rotten luck, this eve holds. Shaking her head, she lowers herself to grab the second boot again -- which surprisingly, slips off with more ease than at first. The rest of Yseult's words are ignored as Morgaine falls deadly silent.
     Talk of pigeons will have to come later...she will have questions. The boots are discarded off to one side in a pile of leather and muck. Morgaine wipes her hands on her already muddy skirts, rises again and murmurs to Drustan, "Come on, now.. time to get you sober, cousin." A gentle arm goes around his shoulder, in an attempt to comfort him.

     That her face goes redder than any rose is only visible to those behind her. That the back of her neck does as well is truly impressive. However, Yseult does not speak again, stepping back out into the rain, where she can give voice to any tears and have them be unnoticed entirely. The door's banged shut, not by her arms but by the wind.

     There's a slight and slanted smile. "Ah.... too late for that, cousin," he mutters. "I fear tis done. I could not be so blessed as to be drunk just now. Strange... that a moment of pain can ruin an entire night's worth of ale..." The sardonic wit returns, though slowly. And he looks not to Yseult but to some shimmer of her on the air she left behind.
     I must leave Camelot...

     "Well, lets get you to a bed then. You need some rest, and I want to look at your wounds," Morgaine insists. Physical wounds, anyway. She urges him to rise once more so that she can at least get him behind a door where no one else can bother him this night.
     Perhaps she will speak to him about traveling to Avalon with her sometime soon. She's been meaning to visit for a while and Uriens would not let her go unescorted... but that is not for tonight.

     He is slow to sit up, and there's a hidden wince for it -- he's not about to let Linolas know that he got a punch in, or two, not that Linolas is asking -- but he does eventually sit. With a groan. He sits there for a while, then with an exhale he slowly pushes himself up. His heart and mind may be sober, but his body is slow to obey. "Nothing oblivion won't cure," Drustan cracks. He moves slowly from the fire, moving as if he's stiff all over.
     And he is.
     There's even a bit of a limp. The body at thirty doesn't handle brawling as well as it did at nineteen. A last joke on his creation by God. One of many. The Almighty is the court jester of the universe. He has to be...
     What else could explain it?

Posted by rowan at September 24, 2003 01:01 AM