Morgaine winces a bit at the bruising and presses her hand to an area on the ribcage that seems more bruised and beaten than the rest -- to see if it's broken.
     "I personally have nothing against Christians... I take issue with her constant insult against those who are not of 'her faith'," Morgaine admits, sighing. Errant strands of hair come loose as she shakes her head a bit, murmuring, "I fear how much my brother listens to her. Excalibur was given to him to lead both peoples...not just those of his Queen." Perhaps she'll have more to do in Avalon once she gets there.
     To your comments about motivation, she shushes you and adds softly, "Now now... there's nothing wrong with that. Why you did it is irrelevant to me. You did it and it had certain effects that were good. If you benefited, even better, hm?"

     "For what it's worth, I think that's something that doesn't even occur to Arthur. He loves his people and his loyalty to them is regardless of who the bend knee to." He smiles then to you as he finally lays back so you can work. "Well If I made you proud I know the day wasn't in vain."
     He sighs as he settles back, "It was good to see Drustan in action again... He's hiding his pain, which I suppose is not healthy, but I'm glad to see him remember there was more to life than Yseult..."

     Commentary about what Arthur thinks about his people's faith is dropped at this point. She's had this argument with others a million times. She holds the same view as Vivienne and the Merlin. She will talk with her brother soon, and likely on behalf of Avalon. For now, it is not her job. Vivienne must decide that.
     Instead, she frowns and murmurs, "Well, you had better promise me you'll let yourself heal up before you go back out on that tourney field, young man. You've done a good job getting yourself all black and blue." She tries to hide her smile, but then finally laughs. "The things men do..." she comments and leans back on her heels.
     As for Drustan hiding the pain, she nods and adds, "Well, it's better to see him sober. It's a start."

     The man must have the ears of a hare, for it's not long after his name is uttered, and a colossal roar is heard outside, that the chime and clank and clink and clamor of a knight's progress approaches, and the flaps of the pavillion lifted. "Sweet Maiden Victory," Drustan sings, removing his helm, "...throw your shift down...so how is he? Is he still among the living?" Half-serious, half-light-hearted.
     From where you lie in the lord's cot, you are soon greeting with a Cornish overcast, a Cunomorus Cumulus cloudscape -- all sweat and dust, smelling of leather, horse and Himself -- and grinning like the very king's fool. Crinkles at the corners of his eyes, with the arrival of thirty years, going copper-cream with the spring sun. Looking damned handsome and even somewhat noble. Pardon, lord and lady, the glare...
     He holds his helm in the crook of his arm and cocks up an eyebrow. "The only thing keeping Olwen out of this tent is my own despicable reputation," Drustan glides. And then he winks to Morgaine. "Can you hear me, boyo? How many fingers am I holding up?"
     There's just one. An old and nevertheless rude Roman gesture.

     "You'll be holding up none at all if you don't get that out of my face you crazy cornish bastard." Ah yes.. He can, infact, hear you. His spirits are still high and his blood is up, depsite the fact that, as his step-mother notes, He's done a good job of turning himself black and blue. A crooked grin rests across his sharp, welsh features. "Though personally, I had been hoping someone whould shut Cei up....." The seneschal did infact hold his tongue after it became apparant that Ywaine wasn't going to rest until he bested all of the queen's nights, but once Galahad sent him from his saddle the tongue that is sharper than even Excalibur (Though not sharper than Drustan's when he's 'in a mood') set into him once again.
     "Oh I have had quite enough of Tournaments for awhile, Morgaine, trust me on that...." Which means he'll give himself what? Couple of weeks at best? "How did the Melee go?"

     A slender hand flutters upward to block the bright light from Morgaine's darkness-adjusted eyes. Really, was there any need to burst in like that? As the flap of the tent falls back in place, she lowers her hand and chuckles softly, "Well, either you're hiding them well, or you have no injuries for me to check out... which means things went well, hm? Oh well, I guess I won't be getting -your- shirt off, hm?" A wink follows this, punctuating her teasing.
     Well, then again... Ywaine's got his shirt off -- and all black and blue, by the looks of it. "I just finished warning this one he's not to go back on the tourney field for a bit. He's pretty bruised, but he'll live -- you can stop tormenting him with your gestures, Drustan... You're still upright, so I'm assuming I don't have to say that to you, right?" She rambles on like a mother-hen for a moment, on purpose. Looking at Drustan's messed state, she chuckles and shakes her head, "And it's a good thing you don't have a woman yet... what a mess! She'd have to scrub you for a month to get you clean!" Her lips purse as she tries to hide her smirk...not very well. She's in good spirits, over all, despite earlier comments about the Queen.

     "The dulcet tones of the Welsh birds, there's nothing like them in all Britannia," Drustan drolls, and the hand is withdrawn, it's one-finger-salute with it and with the loveliest of smiles, bland and promising only Pure Thoughts -- which is utter rubbish -- Drustan turns to Morgaine.
     "If there was such a woman, My Lady, to be sure her little hands would be rubbing, and there'd be nothing clean about it," so he lilts, the bland smile turning to a scandalous smile, slantwise, smooth. Both eyebrows arch upward. "There's no lady but you in sight, and not a clean rag within five miles, God knows no mercy."
     Well, that may be for him, but some God somewhere shows you mercy nonetheless, as Drustan pivots his attention back to Ywaine. "Bloody marvelous. Orkney won again. I'm off the lists, my day is done until Lancelot calls me. You should have seen little Olwen beaming," now he says this fondly, for indeed he likes the girl. "She is... as Lancelot would say: la belle du jour..." the Beauty of the Day.
     Blue-grey eyes settle on Morgaine again. "I think I'm well enough. What I can't see and can't feel can't kill me." And with that he finally sits, taking up his wide and comfortable hammock, setting his helm aside. "I am, however, stiff as a plank." He doesn't elaborate where.

     "Well we'll just make sure to get you plenty to drink Drustan. That should cure that stiffness." And like the renowned knight, who has graciously loaned his tent, Ywaine does not elaborate on where it might cure his ailment either. "Yes my cousin wins a lot...." Ywaine's wit makes him seem at ease, but you can still hear the awe of his cousin in his voice. He has never cared for Lancelot, but he looks up to Gawain and Drustan greatly
     "I saw my little cousin Mordred today, as Agravaine's squire. Little nip is almost grown." Of course for some reason the youngest Orkney doesn't seem to favor his cousin the way Gawain does. The pranks the little rotter has played on Ywaine in the past were quite vicious. Ywaine blames Agravaine of course... but that's another story entirely. "I'm just glad the DeGales where not here.. or this tournament might have gotten very unfriendly very quickly."

     Morgaine just blinks at Drustan as a lopsided grin slips onto her lips. Did he just--he did. Grabbing one of the many cushions scattered about the tent, she sends it hurling at the knight in the hammock. "Hmph. Don't tease, Drustan... it's not nice," she comments as she grabs another cushion, just in case. Then the smile bursts open as she laughs.
     Once she's able to breath, she looks back at Ywaine and comments, "Doesn't he look like the cat who ate the canary? Well, you let me know if anything bugs you later, Drustan." That last was more serious.
     There's a nod, then her smile softens as she adds, "Yes... Olwen is the center of attention now. She's no mere child anymore. Bah.. we should invite her in. She'd likely be tickled pink."
     Looking at Ywaine, she moves like she's going to get up, grinning hugely as she adds, "I could go and get her, if you'd like..." She leaves the talk of others in the tourney for now, choosing to tease Ywaine instead. It's so much more fun. "Oh, and then we could all go and drink..." She's already up on her feet now...

     Drustan settles back on his hammock, with a creak of wood and fabric and a slight swing. One leg bent at the knee, foot on the ground. The other stretched out in luxury. And his hand comes out and catches the cushion, promptly putting it under his head. "Ah... much better, cousin, I thank you..."
     He chuckles as he watches the blush blossom then fade, and he turns his head upon the pillow, looking to Ywaine. "Nothing better than slender fingers tending The Wound, hmm? Well, aye... bring her in to see her champion." A pause. "And see if she can bring a little friend..." Or a not so little friend, at this point. Hell, a sheep would almost do...
     Drustan unbuckles a fastening of armor beneath the boar's shift, and with a squirm that pitches the hammock, and defies all known physics, he comes out of mail shirt and mantle. Beneath his own kit he was indeed bruised. Nothing serious. Nothing broken. Just contact points where the one or two lances that actually met him, found him. "There, now when you bring her in, stand behind her in case she faints..."

     Changing the subject just failed miserably didn't it? Ywaine nods his head, "Well she is friends with Daisy.. or Lily...." Yes, Ywaine's forgotten the girls name, that Drustan has taken to. He associates her with her favorite flower. "or whatever it was." Hell after the deflowering, Ywaine's not even sure Drustan will remember.
     "Oh why not, I have a feeling the rest of the world will gravitate through here to see me in various states of busted up... Let's have someone go get her." And get the hurting over with. Ywaine is a great knight, but lord knows he's not a terribly romantic one. He has a feeling that Morgaine and Drustan plan to enjoy this... "Anyone else we need to have come here while we're inviting guests...."

     "Oh you! Damn you, Drustan... you were supposed to let the pillow actually hit you in the head, silly... you're no fun," she complaints with a grin, starting to move for the flap-entrance of the tent. "And you're horrible. You're lucky I am who I am and not some fragile little maiden who would faint at such talk... or worse... a Christian lady who would sic the clergy on you for your 'unclean suggestions'..." she chides with a chuckle, waggling her finger.
     Morgaine then pauses in her tracks, actually threatening to fall back down to her knees from a giggling fit -- all at the sight of Drustan disrobing in the hammock and the comment about poor Olwen fainting. Once she is able to speak, she does so between moments of laughter, "Now now... we don't want... to break... the poor thing..."
     But Ywaine's words calms her and she turns toward him, calming her giggling until it's almost gone. "Why now, what's wrong? I'm only teasing... -someone- has to do it!" Mind you, everyone else will likely join in at the feast tonight. "I think you need some wine.." Even if only to kill any of the pains of battle, it might be a good idea.

     "You are going to have the most looked at body since Mellinore of Powys sprouted breasts," comes the Cornish roll, followed by a guffaw. She's since married at the ripe age of seventeen, to a forty year old knight. She's dazed, but he's ecstatic. Laughing still, Drustan looks to you, lifting his head off his pillow.
     "Ah, but you knew this when you made your boast, eh, gladius gloriosus," Glorious Sword in Latin. Or... something like that.
     He is still chuckling. Sending a priestess of Avalon into a giggling fit is no mean feat. It's made his day, really. Well, that and nibbling on the little Averil of Dorset, before taking to his horse, though he would say now that it is to blame, in part, for his agony. "I promise to be gentle." A pause: wait for it! "I won't land a hand on her. Besides... if she faints it won't be for the sight of this old knight," a chuckle, "but for the champion wearing his new colors of black and blue..."
     Blue-grey eyes shift to Ywaine and then narrow. Daisy? Lily? "You mean Melli of Dyfed, little Honey of the West?" Another one of the lovely young ladies of the court. Older than Averil by two years. Two very full and ripe years, as Drustan would himself say -- and quite nearly does. He smiles. "Aye well enough, a little bit of honey on the tongue would sweeten the affair in an altogether pleasant way. Or are you meaning little Averil of Dorset, and yes I remember her name," Drustan lilts. "Wine and honey or flowers will do, my lady," Drustan says to Morgaine, looking back to her from his recline on the hammock, "...if I may not have you...curse my love of married ladies..."

     Actually he was talking about Averil of Dorset. "Melli of Dyfed..." Ywaine can hardly keep up. "Yes I mean Averil" Ywaine says as he starts to sit up. Morgaine will be mad at him for that but his back is getting a cramp by the goddess. He almost audibly creaks as he sits up in bed and shakes his head, "Some wine would be wonderful, Morgaine..."
     A dark brow raises and black eyes narrow in on Drustan goes on some tirade of wine and roses in place of his step mother. He's sure he's taken that lyric from some lewd Cornish song, there are many of them after. That notwithstanding, however, Ywaine starts to search around himself, looking for something he might lob at the wayard knight. "Do not think I'm so hurt that I won't come over there if I have to." Ok so it's yet another boast, but what the hell. He gives up his search for something aerodynamic to lobb at the fellow knight.
     Ywaine smiles a bit then, "I understand the other knights are making eyes at Olwen now... I guess it's true what they say, the best things in live are someone else's..." Of course eventually she'll be Gareth's but why get ahead of ourselves...

     "Ah, well, I'm sure Olwen will find her own way in to see you... or, perhaps at the feast tonight, hm? The ladies will see to it that they push her a little, surely," Morgaine says, looking over to Ywaine, smiling gently at him. The teasing has stopped from her, for now at least.
     But now there's calls for wine from both the men she now shares this space with and she's the only one standing. Chuckling, she goes to the entrance flap, pulls it aside just barely, and calls to a nearby servant. She murmurs a quiet command, then closes the flap. "Wine shall be forthcoming... for all of us... I think we need to relax and enjoy ourselves." To hell with the rest of the world right now.
     Despite Drustan's comments toward her, Morgaine manages to keep her cheeks their usual pale colour, showing a lot of restraint. Looking to Ywaine, she warns with a chuckle, "I'd like to see you just try to walk across this tent, Ywaine.. you could barely sit up just now. What? Will you challenge him with a cushion?" Pursing her lips a bit to try to restrain her grin, she remains near the entrance, waiting for the servant to return.
     Crossing her arms, she adds, "Oh yes, I can see it... a battle to the death for my honour... with pillows." And once more, she nearly collapses to her knees from a fresh new giggle fit.
     Through the laughter, she does manage to comment, "It's about time the... girl's getting... looked at... you did good..." She's not laughing about Olwen, obviously -- it's merely the aftermath of trying to envision the two of you in a pillow fight. She grabs her side and says, "Ow," through the giggles, obviously with a stitch in her side.

     Taken that lyric from a lewd Cornish song? Hell, he's probably written most of the lewd Cornish songs himself. And he doesn't look like he's afraid of the Welshman at the moment. His mouth cuts a slant of a grin, his eyes are bright with laughter yet to be voiced and he doesn't so much as duck.
     "I needed no such calling out to notice the little darling," Drustan mutters, arm thrown across his forehead, covering his eyes for a moment. His other hand resting lightly on his stomach. "She has milk-white skin, dimpled cheeks, lovely hazel leaf eyes and is filling out in all the right places. She'll make someone a very pleasant and very pleasing wife, I have no doubt of it. The man who may whisper to her in the night and in the morning, as I would do were she not too lovely for me to ruin, may count himself among the most fortunate in all of Britain. I praise her, for she is worthy of it. Now, about your mother..."
     The smile pulls slowly and Drustan peeks out from under his arm. "I shall sing first of the curve of her back, to the small of it...to where it ends, the gods be praised..."
     He once praised another woman this way. Calling out all of her loveliness. Boasting in beautiful song, of all her wondrous features. Ending such songs in a sigh, and soft whispered confessions of how and when and where he had her. That sort of thing does not, of course, follow, but the tongue is poised to lavish its attention on ~someone~, by Christ and/or Cerridwen, if not Yseult.
     "No wine for me," Drustan pipes up suddenly. "But some cool cider or... the juice of the fruit of one of Arthur's trees. If I have wine, I shall cry Camelot a new river, and lose the sunlight of my returned good humor..."
     In other words, if I drink, I'll think of her, become nasty and unruly, miserable and drunk and alone. God save me.

     Is it any wonder the cornish prince is banished. Ywaine shakes his head as his resolve to never fall in love is strengthened. And that said he slowly turns and looks to his step-mother. "Pillows can be quite dangerous... Why the corners can put out and eye... I understand many a good night has suffered death at that hands of pillows." Usually being suffocated with one after being found in bed with another man's wife. Pillows are decidely dangerous things. NO really.
     Ywaine audibly creaks again as he turns and lets his legs drap over the edge of the cot and try to find firm footing on the. "After a few stiff drinks I should go and get ready for the banquet.." Of course he'll be expected dance with Olwen at the banquet and in his current state, he'll likely embarrass the hell out of the poor thing. "Well Camelot scarcely needs a new river and so we'll keep you away from the wine and just find you some honey Drustan..." After all, that might Drustan has apparantly gotten over his pining for Yseult has swept through the courts and many young maids are hoping to catch the eye of the greatest knight in the land....
     Present company may know better. and they may well realize that he's no less miserable than he's ever been, but at least he seems alive again. For now that's enough. Ywaine starts pushing to his feet and winces a bit. "Very well then, If you'll both excuse me I should go and get ready and I need to go and remind Accolon that I still lasted longer than he did.."

     The description of Olwen is a flattering one, all of which is true. She is a lovely girl...but no one else seemed to notice until you, Ywaine, pointed it out to everyone. Morgaine smiles at this, calming in her laughter until finally she sighs to catch her breath. But then the conversation twists toward her, and to her own form... Green eyes flicker toward Drustan suddenly, even as crimson quickly flushes up into her cheeks, all the way to her ears.
     Blinking, she then looks to Ywaine as he starts getting to his feet. "Ah, well, perhaps we should have a Cushion Tourney sometime and see what happens," she suggests with a chuckle. "Talk to my woman, Beathag, for some herbs for your wine, Ywaine. She'll know the ones to give you. It will ease the pain that much more for tonight's banquet... and I fear you'll need it," she suggests.
     Just then, a voice at the entrance calls in, announcing the arrival of refreshments. The tray has arrived.
     "We will see you later, then. Go and boast to your brother... and be careful to duck, or you might get swatted," Morgaine murmurs with a chuckle, pulling the flap aside to retrieve the tray of drink and food.

     There's a motion of his hand, a wave. A chuckle. "When Lancelot is finished with his half of the lists... have his squire come to me. For the now, I am only going to tilt with this hammock..."
     The tray has arrived, and in truth there was plenty to drink in here, though knowing its owner, well may you both have been concerned on the potency of such potables and potions. The King's wine shall suffice.
     It's not enough to stop Ywaine for now. There is a burst of sunlight and then the cool and sheltering shadows of a knight's tent once more. Now, who's going to be suspicious of this? This pavilion-turned-hospital.
     Drustan looks to you, arm lowering, both hands lacing on his bare stomach. He smiles. "You bore me with grace, my lady," by that meaning his constant teasing, no doubt. "Hail the strength of Avalon. She can withstand the tickle of the tongue of Drustan..." Or could you?
     He doesn't linger on that for now. His head, his body, his blood is swimming with that energy, and yet he lies still, just slightly swinging on the hammock. "I should apologize for my manners," he thinks to say. "But I think your pagan heart is not so easily wounded, your Gods not so touchy as Christ when it comes to country matters. Care to share the hammock with me?" he asks quietly. It's not a flirtation. Just friend to friend. Confidante to confidante.

     She watches Ywaine leave, then turns back to look at the tray. True, there is plenty to drink in here. But there is cold cider on this tray -- as if she knew your mind before you did. She would have instructed the servant on exactly what to bring. She will have some wine, yes, but she does not want to be drunk before she gets to the banquet.
     When she turns back around, she holds two goblets before her, but does not approach you just yet. The blush has nearly faded, but remains enough to give her pale face just a little bit of colour. Her green gaze flickers to you, then down into the goblets, then back to you again before she sighs. "Do not apologize, Drustan. In truth.. I was flattered," she admits with a slight shrug. Approaching the hammock, she sets the goblets on a small table near it and adds, "My pagan heart was not wounded, no... stirred, perhaps, but not wounded." She looks down into her cup for a moment before she adds, "It has been a while since I've heard words like that used in context to me. I should thank you, really." She laughs briefly, but not entirely with joy...sadness perhaps.
     Drawing in a deep breath and putting on a smile, she raises her wine and knocks it back suddenly. To hell with not being slightly drunk before getting to the party. Why not start early? "I would love to share your hammock," she replies, setting her now empty cup down. She looks down at you and the hammock, however, and then laughs more joyously than before, "But how in the goddess' green earth do I get into it?"

     "Let me be your anchor, lady," he says, and a hand unfolds, arm extending.
     The hammock rests off the floor by some three feet, stretched in a great oaken frame, strong enough to bear a handful of Drustans. The body of the hammock itself is soft woven wool and linen, a variety of fabrics in a variety of colors, which is already dipping with his weight. There is more than enough room for you. And more than enough room for you to lie with him and yet retain your chastity, pagan though it may be.
     "Give me your hand," Drustan says, "...then slowly sit, not with your knee," he cautions with a chuckle, "...or we'll both get tossed. Then... roll over and lie with me."
     It sounds as it sounds. And is meant, likely, as it sounds. For even as your laugh wasn't entirely with joy, neither is his entire demeanor. "And I will flatter you more. I have... missed it. Being able to sing out the joys and beauties of a lover," he murmurs. "We will close our eyes, and I will whisper them. And in the realm where all things are possible, sweet priestess, you and I shall both know what love is."
     From any other mouth that might have sounded too thick, too flowery, insincere. But when he says it softly, he may as well have sung it like a bard. "It is good to know that I can still stir." Drustan chuckles, looking at you. You see the sadness throbbing under the surface. "It has been so long..."

     Slender fingers grasp your arm to steady herself as she seats herself upon the hanging bed. She's obviously unsure of herself in this crazy thing, but she follows your instructions. The last thing she wants is to toss both of you onto the floor.
     Within a matter of shakey moments, she manages to find herself lying next to you. "Well, that was an adventure," she comments with a brief chuckle. She's huffing and puffing a little from the effort of fighting for control with this awkward thing, and yes, there were a few moments where she nearly toppled you both over. But, all is well now.
     Her head rolls to one side so that she can look at you, her emerald gaze looking directly into your eyes if you'll let her. "Yes... you can still stir... if you couldn't, you wouldn't have elicited a blush from me. Remember that," she murmurs softly.
     Seeing the sadness there just about breaks her heart. Gentle fingers touch your cheek ever so tenderly as she whispers, "I know -- too long. What a pair we are, hm?" So similar are your situations, really. However, she's recently changed hers.. rumours have already spread about how she and Uriens are not together anymore.

     He remained still until you settled, being the anchor, the counter-balance and weight, and now you and he float above the ground, suspended as if on a cloud. Weightless. Maybe troubles will peel away as well.
     One could always hope...
     He's dirty, but the sweat has long since dried, leaving behind the smell of salt sea -- close your eyes, will you be in Cornwall? -- leather. His horse's sweat, though dried, still hovers, but not unpleasantly...
     Drustan smiles, head still turned to look to you, and though the sadness is there, there is also understanding and... the persistence of good humor. Don't ask him why. He's not certain himself. "Yes, we are a pair. It's a pity we're too closely related to run off and get married and have my fat little dark-haired babies." A chuckle, and he leans in, a kiss to your forehead. "I will take the blush," Drustan whispers. "It made my day. You see... it is ... much too easy to make the others blush. The younger, the easier. But you. You are wiser. Wealthier in courage and in heart." He grins again. "A tongue this silver cannot test its mettle on easily blushing violets. It must test itself in the heat of a strong woman's forge. Do not be fooled. I know the difference."

     She lies in contrast to you. The light scent of rosewater hovers about her gently -- not covering or smothering, but merely reminding the senses that she's there.
     Morgaine can't help but laugh as you mention fat babies. It's nearly a snort. "I could not give you any babies anyway, dear Drustan, but it's an intriguing thought. If I were ten years younger and a farther relation, I might have had to take you up on the offer." Part of her teases, part of her does not. Damn you and that heart-stirring.
     She closes her eyes as you kiss her forehead and snuggles into your side a bit. "Some say I know too much, but to each his own, hm? But truthfully, you know it's difficult to make a priestess blush...consider yourself a Master of the Art." There is a smile with this, even with those closed eyes... dark lashes shield her gaze from yours. As she moved, her hair did, also...partially hiding her face from view.

     "Despite my younger reputation," babies springing up with dark hair like daisies in the field when he was fifteen to eighteen, "... I do not believe we'd manage it." Yseult has never carried a child to term anyway. Never long enough for battles to be waged on the paternity of said child. As you snuggle in, he tilts his head to look at you a moment, smiling. "Not so masterful. You did not blush just now, when I all but asked to test my silver tongue in your forge..."
     The hammock shivers with his laughter. And he closes his eyes again, the earthy sound, raspy with the dust he's inhaled today. And yet will inhale if Lance has anything to say about it.
     "To make a pagan blush. Ah, do you think it is safe for me to be let loose among your women," at Avalon. "Or here with you now, for that matter," he adds.
     It has been so long. And the smell of roses permeates the air. It has been so long. Even when he lay little Averil in the tender grass this morning and showed her what the flowers are for, it was not this stirring. Little Averil made a kitten cry. But the two of you would growl. "That rose..." he whispers. "I bow down before a greater Mistress. For what are words, even pretty words, compared to that..."
     A finger goes beneath your chin. Stop me. His mouth brushes yours. Stop me. Then covers it. Too late.

Posted by rowan at October 01, 2003 09:22 PM