milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Ulfin's still here, sitting in a corner with a small pocket grindstone and a grim expression.

Sharpening his knives.

Master of Shadows. Sorcerer. Not like Morgan's magic or Myrddin's, this kind is bad.

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Morgan is sitting at a table, with multiple books and her snake. Hair falling out of her loose braid, dress plain and servicable, and ink-stains on her pale fingers.

The Iliad seems to stand out from all the magic books, but it's her reward for finishing the letter for Thea. That would be the letter she's currently trying to hash out.

From her table, mutters can be heard,

"...black is banishment, ink and string...also protect, along with 'blue'..."

Seeing her, he puts away his things, gets up and makes his way over.

She glances up, and smiles. She seems, oddly, far more content and happier then when last he saw her.

"Morning, Ulfin! You're back?"

He smiles back, pleased to see it.

"I am, my lady. For now at least."

"Good. I missed you. Sit?"

"Of course."

And he does.

"So. Can...can I ask what has been happening? In your world?"

He hesitates.

"I'll tell at your command, lady, but... are you sure?"

"No," she says, honestly. "But...I want to know."

He nods.

"As you will."

And, in a low voice, he recounts Gaheris' murder of Lamorak.

And the blood drains from her face.

"Oh."

"I'm sorry to bring such news, lady."

"No, it's...You did warn me, Ulfin."

"Even still. I would it were different."

Quietly, as if she's saying it herself,

"I have to concentrate on Mordred, just him, not Anna's boys..."

He nods, and offers, "Prince Mordred is well, lady, and still in high favour."

A little smile.

"That's good."

"He acts as the king's agent, among the young men."

"Oh?"

"They call themselves the Young Celts. Some of the talk... bears watching."

Morgan?

Looks baffled.

Ulfin is rather stymied, not sure how much he should tell her.

An interesting problem.

And one which she will not really help with.

He stays sitting in silence and his own thoughts.

"How old is he, your Mordred?"

He looks up at her, trying to remember.

"...perhaps eighteen?"

She bites her bottom lip.

"Okay."

"A different world, lady", he reminds her. "It may not fall out the same."

But it will.

And some part of her knows it.

...he's her son.

"I hope not."

"As do I."

And he means it.

She sighs, and leans back, resting one of her hands on her six-month belly.

"Well. A while before I have to worry about this one, I guess."

He nods.

"A while indeed."

"He'll be born in less then three months."

"Will you have him here?"

"Yes. I'm...too thin, really. And Kokopelli likes me, so."

"Kokopelli?"

"A fertility god. A bit like Raven...have you met Raven?"

"...don't think so."

[ooc: have to go soon. slowtime/fade?]

"Well. He's a god, of sorts. I don't think he'd let things go wrong. Anyway, I really should keep on working...I'll see you, Ulfin?"

He nods.

"I'll be here when I can."

She smiles, bright and happy and very young.

"Good."

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