milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

*Guinevere comes downstairs and takes a seat at a table. Though it's been a week since she arrived, she looks a little lost.*

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

[OOC: Still writing this damned paper. So sorry, can't play tonight. Tell Gwen that the Davies men love her!]

[OOC: Awww. S'okay. More power to your writing arm.]

Bran leads Owen over to the table. "Good evening," he says, voice still reserved, posture perfectly straight.

"Noswaith dda, Gwen," Owen says. His voice is warm, and he is actually smiling.

*Gwen's face lights up, and she smiles back at them.* Good evening, Bran, Owen. How do you fare?

"Very well, thank God," Owen says in sincere gratitude. "And you?"

Well, also. *She gestures to the empty chairs* Will you sit?

A fox watches her with cool, unblinking eyes from near the fire.

Bran looks at Owen and then at Gwen. In half-apology, he says, "He asked me to take him here so he could talk to you." To both of them, he says, "I will be at the bar if you need me."

Bran bows to Guinevere with a prince's grace and heads to a barstool far away enough that he cannot hear the conversation clearly.

"Diolch," Owen says, and takes a chair with what is for Owen a surprising lack of awkwardness.

*She smiles a little sadly at Bran's retreating back, then looks to Owen. She's unaccountably nervous.*

You wished to speak with me?

*After a time, she feels someone's gaze on her, and looks around for the source.

Her eyes pass over the fox at first, but eventually come to rest on it again.*

Slowly, the little fox gets up and pads over to her table, and jumps up onto a chair. He is still staring at her.

Owen catches some of her nervousness and ducks his head in a quick apologetic motion. "I only... It has been a long time, Gwen, and I wanted to ask how you were."

*She tilts her head, curious, and holds out a hand for the fox to sniff.*

*A warm smile* It has been a long time. I am well. And you?

But instead of a small, grey-tinged fox sniffing her hand, there is a young man taking it, and giving it a quick kiss as benefits a queen.

The cold stare hasn't improved, much.

"Settled in, my lady?"

"Very well." The conversation has entered a circular loop.

Or perhaps not. "Are you happy here, Gwen?"

*A quick intake of breath, and after a moment, she places his face -- the young man who had stood at Bran's side, the night she arrived.

She draws herself up and she is every inch a queen.*

I am, yes. I think we have not been properly introduced?. . .

*She looks around at the bustle of the bar.*

It is. . . strange, still. But I think I could be happy here, yes.

"You forget me so quickly?" He murmers, and gives her a little mocking smile. He is younger then the last time she saw the Mordred of her world, yes. Nineteen, instead of middle twenties, and prettier then when he gets older and fully grown. But, the look is the same, as are the golden eyes.

"Modredus Ambrosius Arturus."

"Very strange." Owen is again quite sincere. "But I am glad."

*And another small inhale, not quite a gasp.*

Mordred.

It has been some time.

As am I. It is not at all what I expected.

"Indeed it has."

He tilts his head.

"I assume that you are dead?"

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 4