"I heard you the first time," bellows Gawain, Camelot's prized Orkney stallion. At a corner, a large beaten copper bowl stands upon a pedestal, and before it stands the Orkney prince, his head tossed back as he's come up from the basin, soaked with water. Eyes closed, he rests as the water slides down his body, leaving trails of cleanliness in the pastiche of dirt that covers him.
     Armor gone, Gawain feels lighter. The sun has left the sky, and with it, good parts of his energy. So it's best he's done with the grounds for today. He twists around to see his tent proper, and both hands come up to run across his head, sending his hair slick to his head. Left in a pair of woolen breeches, Gawain twists and picks up a goblet, downing the contents.
     "I'm not so deaf," he explains, waving the cup as he exhales the words. "At least not as deaf as everyone seems to think around here...."

     "If you are not the most stubborn man in all of Christendom," comes the ringing tones and trilled 'Rs' of a high-toned, drolling voice. A lyrical voice. A voice of unnatural volume. The voice of Gerient ap Urbin, the ... other King of Cornwall.
     Oh sure, in centuries to come they'll say he's Irish. The minstrels will have gotten that wrong, too. He's half-Irish, truth be told, his family descended of Brythonic tribes related to the Cymri and the pirate princes of Eire. But he's also no Dumnonii wretch like the Cunomorii.
     As you rise from the basin, you see him staring at you, his red-brown curls cut close to his head and his garmets a mixture, midway between wooing and war.
     And to Gerient, there's not much difference...
     "You don't have to shout, I'm right here," he smiles it out, then spreads out his arms. "You've missed me. You haven't seen me since you, Arthur and I killed 500 men in four hours," it was a coastal raid consisting of 25 worn out Irishmen, a dog named Collin and the three of you. It's since gone down as one of the greatest slaughters in history for all his 'creative retelling' (sic exaggeration).

     "It was seven-hundred, and you'll do well to remember it," Gawain smiles, walking over. Dark brown hair is mottled with darker strands of dirt, but it's something that'll be taken care of later, preferably by other hands. Gawain smiles in the retelling of it, cup still in hand as he gives a hug for the open arms.
     "You smell nice," he teases, as always. "Prettying up I see. What's the occasion? Here, have a drink," he motioning to the pitcher nearby.

     "You know, come to think of it... I think it was more around eight hundred, good cos," he grins, he hugs, he slaps on the back with great boisterousness. For all of Drustan's midnight personality and dour pain, Gerient is a ray of sunshine reflected against a brass shield backed by a peel of constant laughter and grins.
     He does actually smell nice, teasing or no, and he relishes attention. You'd think he were flirting. And he might be. He's not choosy. Oh, no offense, brother. "Aye, aren't I just a drop of heaven," he laughs. "The occasion? Christ, do I need one to be better looking than you? Oh, aye," he says to the drink, moving quickly to it. He's not the tallest man in Camelot, he's not the tallest man in Cornwall, but what he lacks in height he makes up for in volume, quickness and sheer style.
     "I've come to seduce you. I guess I should warn you in advance," he rolls out, R's catching and rolling as he pours a drink. "In fact, I've come to ask for your hand in marriage. What say you?" Gerient winks. "Orkney, Cornwall. North, South. We can squeeze in the middle and become kings of the world!"

     "Tempting, but I think others have their own designs," Gawain says grumpily, letting more of the drink slide down his throat. In fact, it was all of it. "But it's a good idea," he waves off, moving over to take his seat in his large wooden chair. "I like it. As for marriage," Gawain shrugs, "I hear that I am not the type for marriage." A shrug with that. "Something wrong with me. Didn't you get the herald?"

     "That must have been the one I killed. Sorry, brother," he sits with great aplomb, even if heavily. He makes a wooden bench seem like a princess' pillow. "Eh, it's overrated," Gerient smirks. "Besides, why be with one woman when you can be with many women?" He gives you a nudged, but the clap on your shoulder tells you he hears you straight.
     "To be honest, I've not seen it work," he mulls. "But you know... you and me... we'd be different." He winks. "Our love is true." A pause, a sip. "And I wouldn't look at you fun when you scratched your balls. Think on it brother..."
     Another swallow and the matter -- tease or serious -- is dropped. For now. "So, I hear things have been quite ripe around here lately. Fighting, whoring. I'm upset no one sent for me!"

     "You shouldn't have to be sent for..." Gawain says drolly, reaching over to pick up the wine-laden pitcher with his off-hand. He pours liquid into his cup, explaining, "It is the way of all things here. Drustan cries, yet, I hear that his relationship..." no names said, "...continues. Ywaine has decided upon another...some girl has made her interest in Drustan known. Bors still lingers with Meredyth, Peruel carries the favor of Sir Ratham's wife..."
     Now, Gawain looks at you, chin at his chest. Does he need to go on? Oddly enough, he does leave out the major figures.
     "Galahad has returned for a while, been to Saxony with Ywaine. Agravaine, Edom..they are the same. And I..." Gawain sits back, setting pitcher aside, "I am...here." He swirls his drink a few times, staring into the cup.
     "And now, you are here too. Welcome to the Castle of Horrors..."
     He has such a way of catching one up.

     "Yes, hawks fly with regularity between the Dore and yon," he murmurs. "Well," a quick smile, "...let's not talk about that unpleasantness. I'll be sure to see him now that I'm here. Before he goes wandering off again to some damn place. Sounds a bit... boring... if you ask me. The only one not interested in Drustan is Drustan." A snort for that. Family politics. "It gives me indigestion just thinking about it," he makes a moan, rubbing his non-existent gut.
     "Galahad, eh? I'll never forgive his father but I suppose the sins of the fathers being what they are I should cut him a little slack. Elaine deserved better but... " a shrug. Who am I to complain? I'm only her brother.
     He laughs loudly at the nomenclature. Castle of Horrors indeed! He finishes his drink. "You know, brother, they have wonderful inventions these days. They have these... creatures. They call them... horses. I hear that if you saddle them, you can go away..."

     "I have heard of them," Gawain smiles, "I am very close to mine," having spent a year living in the woods with it. "However, I am tired of travelling." And war. And everything else. "I leave that to younger, prettier, men as yourself and your nephew."
     Golden suns, indeed.
     "And so, what brings you back our merry way? Who is..." he drinks, "...she..." And a smile creeps across Gawain's features.

     "No one it should be," he thinks to say, quips when he speaks it and grins like the devil. "I'm also here to give my usual diplomatic tirade about the Irish raids along Lands End, deliver certain," throat clears, "...letters to Drustan, including one from his own father calling for more stringent exile," he rolls his eyes, "... and then there's Enid, of course, who still refuses to accept my proposal," wise woman, "... This time, I've come to make her queen of Cornwall, well... my half of it. You know, if I'd been around to marry that Yseult creature, I'd let Drustan have the woman. Marcus is an insane old goat. Someone should put a stop to that..."

     "The rumor is that he is to father a child with her," Gawain waves again, swirling his goblet. He laughs slightly, "I wonder if she'd be interested in me instead..." That gets a smirk.

     He's rude enough to laugh, Gerient is. "Mark's probably red faced and breathless -- and that's just him getting up the stairs to the tower he's locked her in, the fat bastard. She'd do better to let one of us have a chance, get her pregnant and shut him up. It's not as if his union with the Irish woman has brought me any peace. Piss on it."
     But it's not that easy...
     Gerient makes a wave. To hell with them. "You speak much about, it must be weighing on you, brother. You mean to tell me there's not a single woman in Camelot that remotely interests you, not even "mistress quickly" behind the linen wash?" He tips his head back and waggles his brows. He's had many a pleasant ten minutes with mistress quickly....

     "I've been busy," Gawain says, "...what all the romances here, someone has to spend time on the field. Hold off Saxony." He looks over his cup and makes a small face with a half-shrug. "Bah, I'm tired. In the sun too long and I haven't had my dinner yet. And I'm filthy. And I need another drink. I'll be better later..."

     A hand comes out and gives a squeeze to your shoulder and a goodly shake. He smiles at you, as he's forever smiling, but his eyes hold you easily, gently, and with great affection. "None of that. You're quite right, both the sword and the shield of Camelot these days. Tis more than one man should have to bear. So... I've come to join you for a spell. Aren't you happy? You can bask in my sunlight," complete with the requisite waving of his hand, "... and remember pure joy."
     "We should definitely have more drinking. Come," he gives you another shake. "Let's go get a barrel and a few women, get off the field and into one of the towers..."

     "Not like this," Gawain protests, looking down at himself. "All I'm good for now is the goose girl," he decides. A last swig of his current goblet, and Gawain looks to the hand on his shoulder. "Kingly life suits you," he smirks, "...though your sword hand is still strong..."

     "Aye well, I won't bore you with my exercise regimen," he smiles sideways at that. Southwesterly, like his kingdom. "And there's nothing whatsoever the matter with a good goosegirl. They're a damn sight better than these high-born, quick-fainting damsels in distress. A good goosegirl understands the value of being a damsel in diss-dress, aye?" Another clap. "Alright, come on, we're getting out of this tent, we're getting drunk, and you're going to dance with me. And if you're not careful, you'll end up married by sunrise!"

     Gawain lumbers up, shaking his head. His goblet is tossed into the nearby pillows as he says, "I'm starting to think you're serious," his voice quiet. Another shake of his head and steps over a pillow near his chair.
     "And what do you know about goosegirls?"

     "I'll have you know I own twenty geese in Cornwall. Good goose country, Cornwall." Gereint grins, he winks, he spreads his arms as if he were hugging the world. "I'll tell you, boyo, it'll be a greater slaughter than when you and I and Arthur killed a thousand men that day!"

     Gawain looks skeptical. "Yes," as if he's answering some question, "...you are always that enthusiastic..." He picks up a white shirt and pulls it over his head. It billows around him, showing signs of recent use.
     At least he remembered to make himself decent.

Posted by rowan at October 10, 2003 08:10 PM