It proves a rather beautiful late winter afternoon, if a bit foggy, the chill clinging to the air along with the mist. There was no snowfall last night. Hence the trees of the woods the knights and Roman Legion currently patrol can be seen, their dark bark stripped bare of leaves until spring comes. With the third month of the year in play, the days prove longer. Accordingly, the sun is only just now beginning to fall below its zenith. Though it shines pale against sky, its weak yellow light shimmering above them, it still provides a little warmth. The only caveat is the southern sky streaked with clouds of gray that threaten to burst with snow. Amhar, one of the Romanized Britons in the Roman company that travels with them on this afternoon patrol, breezily waved off the men's mounting concerns of the coming weather. "I was born and bred on this island," he briskly said as they mounted up that morning. "And those beauties won't be tearing open until tonight. All will be well," he continued, ignoring the disbelieving stares of the Sarmatians and mainland Romans. "You simply don't know," he finished with a shrug, his fellow Britons in the company nodding in agreement. These foreigners refused to even learn of the ways of the weather. Why bother to explain it to them?
At least the men now know that not all Roman soldiers are liars, judging by the way the clouds currently hold steady.
"Looks like trouble," Cai says offhandedly, watching the scene in front of him as Lot nods in agreement to whatever Tristan's saying. The scout then melts back into the sea of men behind them.
"As though we haven't encountered that before," Bedivere intones in his usual detached manner.
"'Tis no matter," Artorius replies easily, his relaxed tone causing Bedivere to look at him sideways. "Oh really?" the soldier replies.
"Of course," the young captain replies. "If something should happen, at least we will finally be able to put the training to use."
"Now might be the time for that, mate," Artorius suddenly hears a faint voice beside him say. It takes all of his efforts not jump in his saddle and risk falling completely off his horse at the startling noise, but he maintains his relatively calm demeanor. "My apologies," Tristan continues, laughter in voice at his captain's reaction, though his face remains impassive. "I often forget that my tendency to tread lightly can be… distressing."
"I simply failed to realize you could do it on horseback as well," Artorius replies with genuine admiration. "You'll have to teach me such skills someday."
"Then I'd be of no use to you," the scout replies with a smirk. "In any case," he continues, face becoming serious again, "There're people out here. Why they have not attacked, I don't know…"
"Too many of us?" Bedivere counters.
"Since when has that stopped the Blue Ones?" Tristan replies, narrowing. "Regardless, we're turning around. You're to go the front, and I'm to watch the rear, along with Palamedes and some of the Roman company." As though on cue, Palamedes rides up, followed by most of the Roman troop.
"Wondering what took you so long to notice the Blue Ones, lad?" Palamedes calls out to Tristan, flashing the scout a feral grin at the possibility of getting in some kills before the day is done. This knight not is of Sarmatia per say. Rather, he hails from the Roman province of Cappadocia. A land in the very far east, bordering the southern part of the great Pontus Euxinus, or the Black Sea, it is filled endless deserts, great plains and entire cities carved right into the mountains. A sarakenoi, or easterner as the Romans call him in Greek, Palamedes' coppery, bronzed skin, wavy black hair and dark eyes set him apart from the other knights. Well, that and the odd weapon he carries with him he calls the scimitar. "I spotted them miles back. Just on my way to let the young captain here know," he continues with a nod at Artorius.
"Took you a long enough time to mention it," Lot retorts as he rides up.
"No matter, we'll be gone before they can notch their arrows to their bows," Palamedes shrugs.
Tristan snorts with derision. "You best be off to the front," he then murmurs to Artorius, Cai and Bedivere.
"Many thanks for the warning," Bedivere says, in the process of turning his horse around.
"'Tis my duty," Tristan shrugs, clearly uncomfortable at the praise. They need to get going.
Without warning, the baleful sound of a barbarian horn rings out. As though on queue, it's followed the ominous hiss of numerous arrows flying over them. Menacing, barely human screams of gibberish then fly from the trees. The racket of it all causes the horses to start, the younger, more volatile ones rearing into the air. No one falls, but the sound of the horn still slices through the air, the screams becoming increasingly frenetic. The eerie commotion causes dread amongst the ranks, many of the younger knights' terror beginning to rise, though they fight not to show it. Even the older ones prove decidedly anxious; it's been at least a year since any real fight with the Woads. And judging by their screams, there's the high chance they are outnumbered. Without warning, the hiss of arrows whipping through the air comes again, the unmistakable sound of them finding a target hanging in the air. The call of the horn is renewed and then cut off, along with the shrieks of the enemy. The horn calls out a third time, but the cries from before do not respond, the abrupt silence in the air even more unsettling than the previous din.
"A Pict warning," Jols says quietly.
"Be still!" Lot murmurs as he moves towards them. "You've all had the training, now's the time to show it," he continues, voice decidedly more concerned than any of them have ever heard him. "But why didn't any of the arrows hit?" he says almost to himself.
"Either there aren't a lot of them, they're low on supplies and don't wish to engage, or God's smiling down upon us…Weapons at ready," Jols whispers to the Roman soldier beside him, the message immediately carried along the ranks, though there is really no need for it considering all in the patrol already have their weapons drawn. Jols nods in grim satisfaction and rides forward, where Artorius is still calming his excitable animal down. Dagonet goes to follow, but not before he rides up to Bors.
"Inish!" Dagonet whispers tersely, narrowing his eyes.
"What the bloody hell are you talking about?" Bors retorts, using the anger in his voice to cover his terror as Lancelot's eyes go wide at Dagonet's words.
"Inish!" Lancelot repeats, color draining from his face. "Devil ghosts!" he whispers even as he draws his bow, notching an arrow in preparation.
"Aye," Dagonet mutters, "Picts." Leaning over, he takes the bridle of Bor's horse and spurs him forward. "Retreat to the back…"
"I can fight!"
"Retreat. To. The. Back," Dagonet warns, his grim look warning Bors to think twice about arguing. "If one of us dies, 'tis better to be me," Dagonet explains even as Bors looks at him imploringly, though he does retreat. "You too," Dagonet nods to Lancelot. Lancelot's about to question the older knight was well until Dagonet speaks. "He needs your protection more than I do, lad," he nods to Bors' retreating figure. Lancelot's face becomes resolute as hunkers down in his saddle and turns his horse around to catch up with his friend. Dagonet swiftly makes his way to front, his horse galloping past Lot and the others, only to find he almost skitters headlong into a web of vines tied to the arrows that have been shot into the tree trunks.
"Careful there, 'Tis a trap," Artorius says resolutely, fighting to keep his voice calm, his sword in hand. "About to cut through it…" he continues riding towards the webs
"No!" Jols replies, throwing up his hand and holding back the young captain.
"What?" Artorius demands.
"Patience," Jols counters with a whisper, slowly removing his dagger and reaching up to cut off an apple from an overhanging tree. "'Tis a trap alright, but beyond what we're seeing now…" He throws an apple and it rolls forward harmlessly. That is until it rolls past the tangled web of vines and is speared by an arrow shot from the trees. A female voice howls out above them, her swiftly spoken Gaelic apparently impossible to understand. But the tone of her voice along with the visceral malice that lies in it proves clear enough, especially when she's joined by the jarring tongue of the many other Picts hidden around them. Tristan aims an arrow at the top of a tree beyond the web, but his arm snatched back by Amhar.
"They're giving us a warning. 'Tis not deadly yet just…" he leans forward to listen as the voices continue, "If we don't leave, they'll curse us. But not…before killing us." Without warning, Amhar begins to call out in what almost sounds like the Picts' native tongue. The hissing chatter immediately halts, the stillness carried on for what seems and eternity, becoming more and more oppressive. Suddenly the horn comes again, its tone higher. And then, as though from nowhere, in front of them beyond the web there materializes a Woad woman from the mist. Or rather, a girl barely into womanhood, her lanky body betraying her adolescence. Her dark eyes are wild, her black hair stringy and pulled back. She would be pale, save for the savage blue paintings that decorate ever inch of her exposed skin beyond her rough leather pants, bracers and the rough-hewn bodice that binds her. Her thin, dirt streaked face is grim, the feral intensity of her stare confident, adding years to her youthful face. Behind her stands a wild-looking Woad man, also painted in the tell-tale blue. He wears no shirt but rather a cloak clasped with what looks like animal bones. His hair is matted and dark as well, his features similar to the female. Like her, his eyes seem able to stare into them, beyond them even. While his apparent charge carries a bow, the string taunt, arrow notched and ready and aiming at Artorius, he carries no weapon save a knobby wooden staff. He's not leaning on it, on account of his youth, but he still holds it securely. The sound of the horn is abruptly cut off when he raises his hand in signal, neither his nor the woman's eyes leaving the patrol.
Where have I seem him before? Artorius thinks, memories racking his mind until he is distracted by Amhar's actions. Amhar nervously clears his throat before dismounting and walking towards the web.
"What in the hell are you doing?" Bedivere hisses, reaching out to snatch back the soldier.
"If they wanted us dead, they'd have done it by now," Amhar says through clenched teeth. "Do you know the language?" he adds.
"No!" Bedivere hisses back. "Do you?"
"Their tongue proves not too different from our Caledonian one…"
"Oh."
"If she shoots, we shoot her," Jols begins to whisper to Tristan, who moves her into his target.
"Even if the Painted Ones in the trees kill us all?" the scout replies dismally. Jols doesn't respond, Tristan keeping his arrow trained on the armed Woad.
Amhar clears his throat again, unbuckling his sword belt and tossing it to the ground. Raising his hands in surrender, he begins to speak in his odd, rolling, native Briton tongue. The Woads don't respond, woman's arrow now trained on him. He begins again, voice steadier. After when seems an eternity of silence, the man motions for the woman to move, which she does, falling into the background and slacking the string of her bow. The man then addresses Amhar, who nods in understanding. Amhar responds and the conversation goes forward. The forest around them remains completely silent save the guttural conversation of the negotiation and the sound of the men's breathing combined with their horses' snorts and stamps. Suddenly, Amhar gestures towards the patrol behind him, his voice rising with what sounds of irritation. The Woads don't respond, the oppressive silence falling once again.
"What now?" Cai whispers.
"We wait," Jols murmurs.
Without warning, the woman bursts out laughing, her cackle throaty, rough and almost derisive, the man giving a smile in his turn. She then points to the trees around them, as well as the trees on the patrol's side of the web. She then points to Artorius and gurgles out something in her language, guffawing again and causing Artorius to arch an eyebrow in question. Amhar, though irate, nods in understanding. He calls out what seems a question, which causes the woman to immediately go silent and back on her guard. The Woad man finally replies to after a lengthy bout of silence. The knight then reaches down to get his sword belt and makes his way back to his horse, quickly remounting.
"We are to go in peace," he begins, giving a sigh of relief. "They will be watching us until we reach the edge of the woods to ensure we leave as quickly as possible."
"Did he explain why they are so damn far South?" Lot questions irritably. "Starting to encroach a bit, don't you think?"
"No."
"Then we go," Jols says, spreading the order down the ranks along with the command to be absolutely silent. The entire patrol begins turning to make ready to leave.
Without warning the whistle of a thrown knife is heard, the thud of it hitting a tree trunk following. Tristan sees it first, rapidly spinning around to take aim at the Woad pair. But they are long gone, only the mist left in the space where they stood before. The scout pulls the heavy, wide-bladed knife out of the trunk, handing it to Jols.
"It wasn't meant to kill any of us," he says flatly as he hands it off. Jols inspects it, then handing it over to Amhar, who examines it, quickly noticing the runes carved along the blade. Muttering in his native tongue, he sheathes the blade. "If we venture back, they guarantee death," he says. "At least that's what the runes say…"
"Well then," Lot declares. "We've had our warning mates. Live today, fight tomorrow," he finishes, already turning his horse around. The others quickly nod in agreement and follow, cutting through the center of the rest of the patrol and moving towards the front again.
"Eh, why did she point to me?" Artorius questions casually, turning back to look at the spot where the Woads previously stood, trying to remember where he's seen their chief before.
"Just reminding me how much of a shame it would be for her to kill you in front of your own men," Amhar replies, agitated.
"I see," Artorius replies uncomfortably. "And who was he?"
"Myrddin, at least that proves his name in his language. Apparently he's their leader…"
"Of all of them?"
"Aye."
"For how long?"
"Didn't inquire."
"And the girl?"
"No name, though he referred to her as 'White Phantom.'"
"Come again?"
"'Gwenhwyvar' in their language."
"Well then..."
"You didn't fancy the little barbarian murderess, do ye?" Cai grins, trying to alleviate the tension.
"She only had a rather wicked looking barbed arrow aimed at my neck," Artorius retorts defensively. "Not exactly expected of most women, no matter their supposed charms…"
"You do fancy her!" Cai teases. "That's where they get you, you know. The Pictish women fight too, remember. All wild and such, just as much as the men. The minute you forget that and start musing on pretty faces, burning eyes and wild hair, they slit you from throat to gullet with nary a regret."
"I most certainly was not considering 'pretty faces, burning eyes and wild hair,'" Artorius sniffs. "Just committing things to memory for the future…"
"Like her pretty face, burning eyes and wild hair?" Cai retorts innocently.
"Let off of it," Bedivere counters with a grin.
Suddenly Artorius' horse whinnies in panic, rearing and catching the young captain completely off guard. He tries to hold on, but to no avail, falling to the ground with a sickening thud. But not before the delicate snap of bone can be heard, followed by his gasps of absolute pain. Cai, Bedivere and Jols quickly pull up short, as do Agravaine and Dagonet, who've been following behind them. Leaping off their horses, they rush to his side, their actions causing the back end of the patrol to come to a complete stop.
"'Tis…no matter," Artorius huff out as he tries to get his feet. "T-tell the rest t-to…carry…on."
"Surely?" Jols intones, concern in his eyes.
"S-surely." Jols sends one of the Romans to ride and tell Lot. As he does, Artorius bites back a scream of pain as he attempts to put weight on his left ankle. "B-Broken," he stutters.
"It may not be so bad, captain!" Pellinore mockingly calls out, flanked by some of the younger knights who attempt to keep straight faces. "You don't wish us to ride ahead and find help?" he continues scathingly. Agravaine quickly notices Pellinore palming something off to Lancelot, who drops it to the ground. Lancelot's face is impassive, save his eyes, which look on the scene with barely contained amusement.
"Ride ahead, with the rest of 'em," Jols commands, his tone of voice deadly serious. "All of you. Now."
"Aye, aye, captain," Lancelot replies with a contemptuous salute. Dagonet has already helped Artorius to his feet, though the injured man blinks back tears of pain every time he attempts to take a step with his left foot. Agravaine quickly moves to calm Artorius horse, his hand gently tugging its bridle as he whispers words of comfort to it. Finally getting the animal calm, he begins his inspection, hands moving over the glossy black coat of its flank. His fingers suddenly stop, feeling a warm sticky liquid near the left flank. A fresh wound. Granted, it's small, so there is no real injury to the animal, but still…
What Lancelot dropped! he hastily thinks. A rock. They startled the animal with it, causing it to rear…
Agravaine's looks over and catches a silently laughing Pellinore, flanked by a few of the younger knights, laughing as well. There it is then. Wel, that settles it, he considers. If it is an open hostility they want, then the war has begun.
The night is now cold, the girls walking along the south wall of the inner courtyard just in front of their quarters fully able to see their breath every time they exhale. While the wind doesn't prove strong, making it slightly warmer than usual, the cold air still has some devastating effects. Wrapping their cloaks tighter around themselves, they stop under one of the gnarled trees standing in the corner by the gated entrance. Granted there are no leaves on the thing on account of the season, it still helps shelter them from the heavily falling snow. They stamp their feet in the rather high snow to get the blood going. Then one of them, a blond haired girl of approximately eleven seasons, leans back against the giant trunk of the tree, pausing to look up at the black velvet of the sky. The stars glitter brilliantly against it but the moon is only half out, making the night unusually dark.
"They look like little diamonds," she says with a sigh, dark eyes wide with wonder at the sight of the stars.
"And just how would you know what a diamond looks like, Cassia?" Maeve mutters.
"Papa gave mama a rather nice necklace a few days back, to remember the day they married. It had pretty little diamonds in all the chains," Cassia replies dreamily.
"Well, good for her. It must have cost a fortune. Fabian sounds like a rather nice man."
"Papa's the best!" Cassia retorts with a huff.
"I didn't say he wasn't. Why again are we out here?" Maeve counters. Her fingers are beginning to go numb, so she wraps her hands in her father's deep red legionnaire cloak, which she snatched from his quarters before they headed outside.
"I just wanted to see the moon…" Cassia begins.
Because you're moony?" Maeve retorts.
"If you say so," Cassia shrugs in her usual way. Not matter what disagreeable thing you said about her, she just shrugged it off. It's one of the reasons Maeve usually likes her so much (save when she got hair-brained ideas like this one).
Silence falls between them, save for the sound of Maeve's stamping feet crunching in the snow. Suddenly, Cassia goes stiff, pressing her back into the tree trunk.
"Someone's here," she murmurs, nodding her head towards the solid stone wall to the left of them. "Actually, there's more than one…"
"Nonsense!" Maeve retorts. "The gate's closed for the night and we haven't seen anyone come or go…"
"You should listen to your friend more often," an accented voice calls out, just to their right. Maeve jumps, but Cassia relaxes, Maeve able to see the grin on her face despite the darkness. "Told you," the blonde haired girl says in a sing-songy voice.
"Didn't mean to frighten into you," the voice continues, sounding closer this time. They then see him, his pale gray eyes glittering unnaturally against the weak light of the moon.
"I-I'm not panicked, sir," Maeve stutters, wrapping her cloak around her tighter and attempting to back away, only to find the tree blocks her escape route.
"I can see that. And it's Agravaine, not 'sir'" he declares, teeth glittering now as he gives a feral smile. "Don't worry, I have no quarrel with either of you," he declares with a wave of his hand as he leans back into the corner of the wall, effectively hiding himself from anyone who should happen to look their way. Suddenly his face falls. "How does he fair?" he asks.
"W-who?" Maeve questions. She doesn't even bring up the fact that if he's caught here, on the grounds of the private quarters after curfew on this side of the citadel, they'll be hell to pay. He probably knows that anyway, obviously not caring.
"Artorius. Who else?" Agravaine snaps impatiently. Maeve blanches at the tone of his voice, speechless with the anxiety that snakes through her belly.
"Forgive me," he says upon seeing her reaction. "I'm not used to dealing with children," he states plainly with a shrug, though he wills his voice to sound calmer. "But I need to know how he fares. The infirmary's locked, I've yet to find any of the healers and Ceridwen seems to have turned in for the night. You're usually wandering around that place supposedly, so I assume you'd know."
"Oh," Maeve begins, taking a deep breath. "Well, there were a few bruises, a small amount of cuts and lacer-lacer…"
"Lacerations?" Agravaine and Cassia say at the same time.
"Aye, that's the word…"
"But that's not all," Agravaine says flatly, cutting her off.
"Ah…no," she begins, voice falling. "H-he broke his ankle," she continues, quickly becoming dismayed at the look of fury beginning to cloud the knight's face. "It was a clean break," she tumbles out. "Better that way…at least it didn't shatter! He'll be walking again within a month. It should…It will heal completely within a fortnight after that if he doesn't work it too hard…"
"Completely unacceptable," Agravaine counters, a dangerous glint in his eye.
"We did all we could!" she exclaims, breath coming in short bursts. "I swear it. We gave him the best care we could. He'll have to listen…" Agravaine suddenly gives her a quizzical look, cocking an eyebrow at her increasingly anxious state, his previous fury seemingly forgotten. Then it dawns on him. "I didn't mean you," he begins, trying his best to sound concerned. This is why he doesn't deal with children, nor have any desire to. Too unstable. "It's not unacceptable what you did, it's what they did…"
"'They?'"
"Never mind," Agravaine sighs, moving from his relaxed stance against the wall. He's been here too long and needs to get back to tavern. The guards will be making their rounds soon over here. "I just needed to know how bad it proved."
"That's all?" Maeve asks.
"I'm not going to kill you or anything," Agravaine retorts. "Settle down."
"Easy for you to say," she mutters. Agravaine pretends not to hear her as he moves to leave the courtyard. He'll have to climb back over the wall, which was a pain in and off itself the first time, considering it's over three-and-a-half meters tall. Thank the gods it's made out of stone, allowing decent crevices for holding onto. "Ehrm…thanks," he says as he starts away.
"Yes," Maeve replies.
"By the way," Agravaine begins, turning around to address them, an odd grin on his face. "You shouldn't be out here by yourselves. As you can see, the premises don't prove terribly secure…"
"To the contrary, knight," a gravelly voice calls out. A Roman soldier suddenly melts out of the shadows just to their opposite side, arrow notched on his bow and pointing right at Agravaine's chest.
"Told you there was more than one here," Cassia whispers to Maeve, a self-satisfied smile on her face. "'Tis alright, Gaius," she then calls out. "He means us no harm. He was just inquiring about his friend."
"Artorius is not my friend, simply my commander," Agravaine warns, eyes on the soldier's arrow.
"Well that's just a noble thing, isn't it?" Gaius replies sarcastically as he pulls his bowstring even more taunt.
"If you shoot him, it'll prove an awful bloody mess to clean up," Cassia laughs.
"You're rather lucky she cares, mate," Gaius says to Agravaine after moment of tense silence. Letting the bowstring go slack and removing the arrow, he makes his way over to the girls. "I would've had an arrow through yer neck as you as soon as you came back over that there wall had the little churl not said anything."
"And for not doing that, I thank you," Agravaine muses. He can't help but feel a tiny bit of respect. There are few able to get the drop on him. Apparently this place was more guarded than he thought; he assumed Ceridwen's bodyguard would've been in bed by now rather than guarding the little imps. No wonder they didn't seem completely terrified at seeing him. Apparently not all Romans were entirely lazy.
"I suggest you go, while you can. The guard will be along that wall in a bit," Gaius nods to the knight, voice hardening. "Next time, wait until morning for your queries, 'cause if you're ever here again at this hour, you'll be getting well acquainted with a good lot of my arrows, make no mistake."
Agravaine mutely nods in understanding. Silently padding over to the wall despite the snow on the ground, he easily climbs it, slipping over the top an out of site. After making sure the knight is gone, Gaius grabs both the girls by the arm, dragging them back into the building.
"You addled in the head, girls?"
"Aye?" Maeve replies, pretending not to understand.
"Talkin' to strangers proves a bad idea all around! You can get hurt, snatched and ransomed, get yer throat slit or worse!" Gaius retorts harshly, causing her to shudder while Cassia simply shrugs in reply. "He was just trying to find out 'bout his friend…" Cassia begins, only to be cut off.
"When Jols and Fabian hear what you two to have been up to, you'll be locked up in here for a month. Nothin' but lessons and such. No going outside to play and all that other foolishness," Gaius counters, causing Maeve to groan.
"That'll get Agravaine flogged…or worse," Cassia replies cryptically. Gaius snorts with derision, though his shoulders slump in defeat. "Fine," he says. "I'll keep it to myself. But I better not catch either of you out here in the yard goofing off or anything of that sort for next fortnight, that knight's back be damned!" He may be a lot of things, but there's no point in getting the knight flogged. Besides, it had been a noble cause he was after. "Am I clear, lasses?"
Maeve nods emphatically, while Cassia shrugs in reply again, a grin of triumph on her lips.
"Now of to bed with you both," he growls, shoving them up the steps to their respective quarters. I swear to God Almighty, he thinks to himself as he leaves, heading to his own quarters, Those ones will be the death of me.
"And where'd you slither off to?" Dagonet questions across the table. Agravaine silently slips back onto the wooden bench where they sit in the one of taverns. Located on the side of the citadel reserved for the marketplace, it's still lively at this late hour, on account it being the end of week. There will be few duties to attend to and no exercises on account of the Christian Sabbath. Hence the bar is buzzing with Romans, Britons, Sarmatians and others. They self-segregate, the Romans from the mainland on their side of the bar, Sarmatians on the other. A few of the Romanized Britons mingle with some of the Sarmatians, while other, more native Britons sit in their own corner, near the back. Next to them sit those who belong to none of the other groups, mostly various merchants and journeymen. Passing through on their way from place or another, they are holed up in the citadel tonight, mostly on account of the snow.
"Just needed to fetch a bit of information," Agravaine replies, motioning at one of the barmaids. She saunters over, dark blue eyes sparkling, black hair loose and tumbling down around her shoulders, highlighting her pale skin. Her skirts rustle seductively as she leans over, giving the men a rather attractive view of her bosom. "What can I get you mate?" her dark, smoky voice tumbles out.
"Just a bit of cider," Agravaine murmurs, too distracted by his own thoughts to notice her. She nods in reply, used to his odd ways.
"Anything else, lads?"
"A mug of beer…please," Tristan adds with a nod.
"I'll take what he's having, Brangaine," Palamedes replies, an easy grin on his face as he stares at her chest.
"Eyes up here, love," she chides coolly. "See, the scout here seems able to handle it. Sorry I can't say the same for you," she replies easily, quickly palming the golden coin Palamedes holds in his open palm. "Oh, and thanks for the tip."
"That wasn't the tip, it was the pay," the knight replies easily, too drunk to care. Granted, even if he were sober, he wouldn't be bothered about getting robbed, especially by one this lovely.
"Let 'er have it," Tristan replies, hastily looking up at her from where he's casually cleaning his nails with his dagger. "I would've taken it from you anyway in the game of bones about to begin…"
"Much thanks, Tristan," she intones with a barely perceptible grin. He nods in reply, face remaining impassive save they way his eyes burn as he watches at her. She doesn't look away, holding his inscrutable gaze until she finally nods and heads towards the bar. As she walks away, he still watches her, pulled out of thoughts only by the round of laughter that starts.
"I think Tristan's in love, lads," Dagonet chuckles.
"Shut it," Tristan advises.
"Well, she is one of the few women brave enough to talk to 'im," Palamedes chortles, finishing off the contents of his mug.
"Her father was knight from the mainland, Heraniae says," Dagonet replies with a smirk. "Of course she'd be rather fearless, though dealing with Tristan does prove an exercise in various horrors…"
"Bugger off," Tristan warns, voice flat.
"Don't worry," Palamedes begins with a laugh, "she's a beauty, that much is true."
"'Tis trivial," Tristan mutters. "Get on with the game," he continues. Gareth pulls out the dice, rolling them, and soon, the game us under way. Tristan wins the first round, with Gareth becoming victorious in the second. By the fifth round, Tristan's won twice and Palamedes once, with Dagonet still finding his luck lacking. Agravaine's excused himself from the diversion, choosing instead to mull over his cider.
"You're awful quiet," he hears a female voice say as he stares off into the distance.
"When is he not, Heraniae?" Gareth retorts, a smile on his face at seeing the woman. As per usual, the beer seems to have opened the doors to his more cheerful side, canceling out his usually irritable demeanor.
"As though that's different from the usual," Agravaine retorts, though a grin tugs at the side of his mouth. Heraniae's always proven one of the more tolerable women around the fort, not prone towards idle chatter or histrionics. He doesn't mind her disturbing his thoughts.
"And finally, my good luck charm has arrived!" Dagonet nods, immediately standing and scooping her up into his arms. He plants a sloppy kiss on her mouth, she returning the honors and taking a seat. Sliding her up to him, he wraps an arm around her waist, where it will most likely stay for the rest of the night.
"You're late," he whispers, though it comes out sounding rather loud on account of the drinks he had.
"And you're drunk," she whispers back, giving him a conspiratorial wink, which only causes him to lean in and kiss her on the forehead. "I had to close up the tavern for father," she adds. "Not to mention I had to do a favor for Fabian."
"That brother of yours, making you late! Why of all the impractical things…" he smirks before he gives a little hiccup.
"Don't worry about it," she replies with a smile, tenderly touching her fingers to her mouth to quiet him. "And my god, you are you drunk."
"Forgive me," he replies with a devilish smile. "Nothing to forgive," she nods back. "I like you drunk. Makes you more agreeable," she laughs. "And when am I not agreeable?" he questions, laughing as well. "Let's see," she chuckles, "You weren't so happy this afternoon, after you all got back from the patrol."
The noise of the dice clacking suddenly comes to a stop, Gareth smacking his hand over them. The scraping of cups scratching the table is heard as they simultaneously stop drinking. Various conversations come to a halt, none of them meeting her eyes, save Agravaine, who stares at her as though she's the Devil himself. She suddenly finds herself clutching at Dagonet's hand.
"W-what…have I said?" she intones voice serious as she stares back at Agravaine. "Oh my God, no one was killed, were they?" she groans after some minutes of the ominous silence, voice falling. "Why did no one tell me?" she whispers, nails digging into the edge of table as her shoulders heave with a rush of emotion.
"Nay," Dagonet murmurs, quickly pulling her into his lap and beginning to rub her shoulders, relieving her of some of the tension. "It's just…"
"An accident," Tristan begins. "Artorius," he shrugs.
"Accident?" Agravaine growls, slamming his hand onto the table. Despite the noise in the tavern, those at tables closest to them quickly look away, ignoring his outburst. They already know it would prove unwise to antagonize him, especially in these state. "You call that a bloody accident?"
"It wasn't murder," Tristan shrugs, beginning to cut up an apple.
"He isn't dead…is he?" Heraniae whispers.
"No, no," Palamedes replies, giving her a mirthless smile. "Simply injured. A broken arm, I believe?"
"Broken ankle," Agravaine counters, his face a murderous mask of fury. "A bloody broken ankle. He'll be unable to do much for at least a month, according to those of the infirmary."
"Oh, then all's well," Heraniae replies with a sigh. Seeing Agravaine's look she quickly continues, "Not for him, I mean. I just thought some poor soul had been killed."
"'Tis ashame," Gareth murmurs, taking a sip of his drink.
"It's more than just a damn shame, it's unacceptable. And it wasn't any damn accident. Those bloody gits Pellinore and Lancelot set the whole thing up. Made his horse start."
"And you're surprised because?" Palamedes shrugs.
"I'm not."
"Hold on there a minute," Gareth begins, setting his tankard of ale down on the table. "You came into the fort not giving a damn about anyone or anything, scaring the daylight out of anyone who crossed your path. And now you're suddenly concerned?"
"Frankly I care less about the captain as a person," Agravaine shrugs.
"Liar," Gareth mutters under his breath. Agravaine fixes him with a scowl and then continues.
"Self preservation. The fact of the matter is, as low as we hold the Romans in esteem, the young Artorius proves the least abrasive of them. He's decently intelligent. He contains the aggressive skills of a commander, considering he's yet to be beaten by any of the younger knights in a fair fight. He doesn't prove excessive to when it comes to reprimand, which shows a shockingly long bit of patience considering he's put up with such insubordination…"
"Shows a bit of weakness, don't you think?" Palamedes cuts in.
"To the contrary," Agravaine replies shaking his head. "It illustrates nobility."
"And just what do you know of that, brother?" Gareth counters with a snort.
"Nothing," Agravaine replies matter-of-factly. "But 'tis why I don't run the company and the little Roman does. He's a bit naïve, yes. But that can be trained out. Look," he huffs, "Do any of you really want to go back to the sorts of raging bastards who commanded us before we came here?" No one replies, though they each nod in agreement. "I thought so. You all know, no matter how loathe you are to admit it, if things start escalating and the Latin whelp is put out of commission permanently, they'll hand us over to another. Who? I don't ruttin' know. But do you want to risk someone like Lot? Sure, they may put us under Cai or Bedivere, who prove tolerable for the most part. But that's not a roll of the dice I'm willing take, especially when Artorius' tribulations are the result of a few."
"Where exactly is this going?" Heraniae questions, arching an eyebrow, Dagonet doing the same.
"All I propose is that we deal with the…problems."
"I have no quarrel with that," Tristan replies quickly, finishing cutting up an apple. Everyone pauses, giving the scout a long look of surprise, to which he simply shrugs. "It wastes time, the outright defiance," he continues, popping an apple slice into his mouth. "Getting damned tired of it," he crunches.
Gareth sighs, nodding in agreement. "I think this is the first time we've come an agreement on anything, Agravaine. Do what must be done."
"You all realize that taking care of the…'problem,' as you put it could cause more divisions in the company? I mean, not only do the younger ones despise Artorius, they'll now despise you," Heraniae adds after a moment.
"You plan on telling anyone, love?" Palamedes smirks.
"No," she replies seriously. "It's none of my business frankly. I just thought you all might need the logic of a woman before you do digging yourself into a hole you'll find yourselves unable to climb out of."
"Logic and women?" Tristan questions. "Aren't those two mutually exclusive, yeah?' he finishes with a smirk, causing Heraniae to reach over and snatch the apple slices out of his hand.
"You're lucky it's a good apple. Otherwise, it'd be flying at your head right now," she muses as she pops a piece into her mouth, handing the rest to Dagonet as Tristan arches an eyebrow at her. "But sincerely," she continues, voice becoming serious again. "Even more divisions wouldn't prove the best sort of thing.
"She's got a rather decent line of reasoning," Palamedes intones. "Surprising as it may be." Heraniae rolls her eyes at him.
"It's for their own good," Gareth shrugs. "Even if they can't see it now, once you cut off the head of the snake, the rest of it dies."
"Pellinore has to go then," Dagonet muses slowly. "Fine, I have no issue with it," he says, raising his mug in toast. He's followed by the others, save Palamedes. "Is…there a problem?" he says to the knight with a frown.
"There're a lot of problems," the dark knight laughs uneasily. "But…what's done is done," he says after a while, raising his mug as well. They toast, though all faces around the table are grim, the possible consequences of their undertaking on their minds.
Thus it is official; the line is drawn in the sand, Agravaine and company its official keeper.