Guns of Camelot

Landarin looked emotionless at the disembodied vampire head. The sight itself didn't disgust him as much as the pure ferocity it took to complete the act in such a manner as John had done. The first thought that ran through his head was to help John. However, before he could even move the body of the dead creature it burst into flames and burnt to pure ash before his eyes.

Parting the sea of onlookers a strange man approached upon horse back. As he grew near the vampires head was turned to ash in the exact same manner. The man stared upon them with what might be considered hate or disgust, which one he could not tell. He explained the situation and soon enough Landarin realized what was happening. Mitchell began to follow the stranger as if he knew him, which he very well might. Without question Landarin holstered his revolver and followed Mitchell.

His thoughts strayed as he lagged behind the group. Before he knew it he was the last one in the line of people. He scanned the ragtag group of individuals and noticed the native american girl that he had found on top of Mitchell. He assumed that it had not been an attack considering the girls obvious heritage. Her presence in Camelot intrigued Landarin to say the least. What might she be doing in this land, and more than that why was she along. He sped up a bit to catch up with her and spoke to her in a hushed voice.

"Who are you. What are you doing in Camelot?" He asked her.

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Sparrow continued to stare at the creature in pure disgust. It was a crime against nature itself, and called out to her soul to destroy the thing. Yet she wasn't the one to do so. It was actually one of those strange men that did it. Her teal green orbs watched in horror amazement, as the man went and tore the monster's head off. Blinking her eyes a few times, she stared in strange fascination, at how a lone man was able to do something that no mortal could do before. For a while, Sparrow remained crouched down, staring with wide eyes, and a blank face. As the vampire fell dead, the body was soon burnt to ashes as a strange new man came.

She couldn't help it. The female native jumped back another pace, when the fire came. She stared back and forth, from the burning remains of the creature to the new face that showed up on horseback. It was clear, he was the one to have started the magical fire. While she understood the gifts the Spirits could give to her people. It was a unknown one that always threw her off the most.

She shook her head, clearing all of her hatred that she had when she saw the monster. Sparrow listened carefully, as everyone who took part in the fighting had to come along. Grudgingly, that meant she had to follow along with. Something she rather not do, to be honest. She wanted to get into the city, to find out a bit of who she was. Then again...as she thought about it, she was given a chance to enter without trouble.

Letting out a breath, Sparrow quickly lifted herself out of her crouch, moving towards the other men that followed the one on horseback. The whole time, her olive gaze was on the men in front of her. She could feel another behind her, but didn't say much. Part of her wanted him to move forward, away from her.

Then she heard a hushed voice behind her. Sparrow acted without thinking, quickly she spun about, her leg stretched out on the ground, as she gave a sweeping kick. She did it more or less, without thinking much of it. When she realized what she did, Sparrow would blink a few times as she stared at the man. She would then tilt her head, her face indifferent as she stared at him the whole time without saying a word. She was thinking of how to say it, and opened her lips to speak slowly in a slight accented voice. "Sparrow The Swift. That is the name my people gave me."

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↳ ██ █ ██▌▌{ NATIVE AMERICAN } ▌██▌█ ██ ↲

Before Rose's arrival, most, if not all, of the Gunsmiths in the factory grumbled among themselves for having to do such a menial task as manufacturing bullets. Bullets of certain types, calibre, materials and other details that only an experienced eye would know to watch out for perhaps, but this was the work of apprentices and ammunition specialists, not the makers of the finest weapons in the land, the revolver.

The Gunsmiths derided the tedious work of making bullets, and the factory workers were flaring up at the insolence of these newcomers. Tempers were rising and bound to come to blows, if these professionals of related, but fundamentally different fields, could not find common ground between each other. They found it soon enough as Rose McNair (still Wesson to some) entered the factory and went about her business, getting ready for work.

The atmosphere quickly became quite hushed as the Gunsmiths noted Rose's presence and exchanged the odd whispered word, here and there. The older ones knew her by sight, the younger by reputation, and the younger still, the apprentices, had little or no knowledge of the eminent ex-Gunsmith, but could read the mood well enough. Confused by the aborted tensions in the air, the factory workers simply went back to preparing everything they needed for the manufacture of ammunition.

Not longer after Rose had arrived, Martin appeared at the entrance and stood there for a moment as every head turned towards him. He looked around for a moment and then a moment longer, then shouted in a sudden boom of annoyance, "Well what're you all gawking at? START WORKING!"

He threw his hands up in the air as if to say, look at what I have to deal with, then made a lumbering beeline for the foreman's office as the factory exploded in a flurry of activity.

Landarin's feet flew out from under him as the strange woman swept her leg underneath him. Landing with a thump right on his ass he looked up at her dumbstruck. What the hell was that for, He thought to himself.

"Ouch," He said as he stood up slowly rubbing his hips. "Nice to meet you too. What are you doing here in Camelot?"

This lady was strange to say the least. Although he knew what it's like to be a foreigner surrounded by people of a different nationality he had never acted like that. Maybe it was the mixed blood that made him so tame.

Turning his head towards the group he made sure nobody had noticed or heard any of the exchange. Hopefully this wouldn't be a meeting of bad news. The Merlin seemed nice enough to an extent but Landarin wasn't sure how he'd react to a full blood native american in his kings nation. Maybe he would send her back to America. Whatever the outcome of the meeting was he hoped it would end in a good tone, unlike his last one with that witch.

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The female didn't say much, when the male gave her a look like that. She just continued to stare at him with a indifferent look on her face. Her bare feet still moving, as she walked backwards easily like she done it many times before. As Sparrow watched the male get up, asking his question. It was her turn to tilt her head to the other side, while she stared at him with her dark green orbs. The way she did that, tilting her head to the side, would remind anyone that they were looking at a wolf or something. That was just it. Sparrow was mimicking the the wolves themselves as she stared at this man called...Landarin?

Sparrow would glance over her shoulder, making sure that they were still following that man on the horse and others. So far, the two of them were now near the back together. Away from the others as they spoke. It took a while, for the strange female to answer. And when she did, she spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. "Came looking for answers. My peo-.....tribe stated that was not one of them originally. So came to find answers." It was simple, and by listening to her, would know that she did know some words. But others were hard for her to grasp when mouthing them.

Sparrow would give a single shrug of her shoulder. Never once, did she turn back from the man. Continuing to walk backwards as she spoke to him. It was clear, that she didn't want to speak to him with her back turned.

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Magic has no hard lines. It's nature isn't to lean to one aspect of the world, or the other. Healers, Pyro's, Frosties, and so on, they are all the doings of the individual who favors one of those. Rose tended to make revolvers with enchantments to keep them in working order, and generally stay hassle free when cleaning. Picking up tips and tricks with her trade, she got talented with enchantments that made the bullets hit their targets more often than not. A handy thing when in a heated gunfight. But right now it was time for making bullets.

“Ah, Margo, very well done, but don't touch Joe's hands until that spark of yours has left.” Rose nodded, referring to Joe and his work with the Frost bullets. “Don't want your hair on end or a dead fella.”

“This blows air.” One of them muttered, glancing up at Rose as she passed by. It was not said lightly, and although it was spoken to another, it was clear who it was meant for.

Rose sighed. It seems she's going to have to deal with more than Meredith. She saw some old faces. The newer ones were nice to speak with. Well, most. But the old 'buddies', her old 'friends', hah! Not so much friends as they were frenemies. Rose did her best not to snap back. She went on he business, keeping track of the working order of things. Especially with the people, but of course the machines. Then she'd go on to make sure the Gunsmiths that needed help, were getting it, and so on.

“Cain't weasel on in like you're some old storm, Rose Wesson.” A voice said from behind. Rose turned to face Hale. A lean brown eyed man, with a squint in his eyes.

“I'm not weaseling in on anything, Hale. I was asked to come. So I came.”

“Why? Humor me!” He laughed crossing his arms. “It's not like duty is so important to ya, you left to...what was it? To weave wool! What Gunsmith weaves wool, and expects to fall back into place here?”

“What I chose to do with my life, is none of your concern, now get back to your duty.” Rose crossed her arms, then added coolly. “Or is arguing with a silly old house wife more important you ya?

John felt like someone had sent him though a shredder, his body ached as it had been pushes far over its limits and he was paying the deadly price for it now.He has felt Mitchell carrying him so he reached out and grabbed his arm to only grunt before going limp. He had finally passed out due to the strain in him, He needed medical attention as soon as possible.

Desmond was in the dining room getting breakfast ready when he heard Nuala coming downstairs. He had been dreading this moment ever since a Gunslinger came to the house, just at the crack of dawn, to fetch Angus for some dangerous mission.

"Don't tell Nuala about it," was all the Caliburn Knight had to say about his daughter before leaving.

Well what in the blind heck AM I supposed to tell her? Desmond had been thinking to himself over and over again since that moment. Even now, he had no idea what he was going to say to Nuala when she'd inevitably ask about her father. Was there any point in trying to hide the truth anyway? The man McNair was a Caliburn Knight for God's sake, danger was his very business! Such matters were only to be expected.

It was decided then. Desmond was going to tell Nuala exactly why her pappy wasn't going to be around for breakfast, and she'd take it like a Gunslinger's daughter because that's what she was.

"Breakfast's ready," the house servant called out as he sat at the table, ready to eat his own meal of grits, eggs and bacon. Nothing finer for a coming moment of truth.

Landarin thought about the girls words for a minute. It was obvious that she was trying to say that she was not originally Native American. Now that he took a closer look even in the dark he could tell she wasn't of American decent. However, she acted like one. This fact led him to the conclusion that she spent her childhood among Native Americans. What a strange situation all of this was. Landarin shook his head. He was slightly interested yet at the same time he wanted no part of any of this. His foot steps sped up until he was in front of sparrow. Hoping they would get to the Merlins home soon he reached up and rubbed his chin in hard thought.

"Breakfast's ready," the house servant called out.

“Smells great Des, like always.” Nuala smiled after saying good morning to him. The worried feelings she had, about maybe Desmond telling Angus about Becky were put on hold. Nuala saw only two meals set out. She tilted her head, then walked into the living room. Where was Angus? She walked back to the table, sitting down. A new worry on her pretty face.

“Pa isn't here is he?” She asked. Her father was always there on Sunday. Always. It was supposed to be his day off. He's never not there. Not unless something happened. So what happened?

Nuala loved Desmond's cooking. She really did regret going to bed without eating that stew from the night before. It was decided by her to eat the breakfast. Now she couldn't even look at it. She was staring right at Desmond. Locking her blue eyes with him.

“Where is Pa, Des?”

After the fight, all Mitchell could think about was the brutal savagery that John had dealt to the vampire. He had never seen anything more incredible or terrifying. It was just now that he started thinking about the wolves that came from who knew where to help, or that strange woman who had fallen on him and later helped in the fight. They didn't seem so strange then, but they did now. Looking around at the others - John, Landarin and... Sparrow? Was that what he had heard the woman call herself? - Mitchell couldn't help but wonder if he'd be seeing stranger things later on.

Without any warning but a single, tired grunt, almost like a sigh, Mitchell suddenly felt John going limp and almost dropped the wounded Gunslinger before securing a tighter grip. "Whoa, what the- John? John! Hey, hold up everyone, I think John's passed out!"

Martin took a glance over his shoulder, which was all the notice he gave as he continued trotting his horse through the street. Avalonians and Arturians alike were looking on with dull curiosity.

Being behind everyone else, Mitchell stopped where he was and called out, "C'mon, we need a healer over here!"

"No shit," Martin blithely responded. "Just find a place to dump him and try to keep up, will you?"

"All right, fine. You guys go on ahead, I'm going to take John some place where he can be treated."

Crouching down to carry John over his shoulder, Mitchell stood up again with some effort and hurried off to the home of the nearest healer he knew.

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When Landarin just stared at Sparrow for a while, the female in question would just tilt her head to the other side. Quickly, her body twisted around easily like it was breathing, and began to walk forward once more. It was a while, before the other gunslinger called out to have everyone wait. Curiosity got the better of her, and Sparrow stopped to look behind over at the male in question when he held up another one. One that was passed out. Her olive orbs stared at the pair with a blank face, having had stopped to see what had happen. Yet when the male on the horse just kept going, giving his remarks, the female would look back then over to the guy when he agreed. These were strange people. Leaving one that apparently needed help to himself, not even worried out right, and kept on going. In her tribe, each other would help another out no matter what. If this was what her birth people were like, Sparrow was wishing she had been a true Native.

Her eyes were like flint, as she turned about on her heels without a sound. Her bare feet taking up the strides as she caught up with Landarin once more. Sparrow didn't make a single sound, just staring straight ahead. Yet it was only a few seconds, that she stared to trail her gaze around the area they entered. All the strange buildings. All of these people. Staring at some of the Avalonians, she had to admit that her coloring almost matched theirs. Even though her skin wasn't as pale, tanned from being under the sun most of her life, her hair and eyes were like she was part of them.

It brought a sad like feeling inside of her chest, but she banished it away. Sparrow wasn't one to think on the sorrows of the world. Always staring straight ahead, with the spirits speaking in her ears. With the dull stares the people gave as they walked, Sparrow felt a bit cold at that, and couldn't help take a few steps closer to the one male that spoke out to her. He knew this place better then her, and she had a childish impulse to hide behind the taller male as her olive gaze glanced around with a slight lowering of her eyelids.

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Seeing the look in Nuala's eyes and hearing the worry in her voice, Desmond was beginning to think that perhaps this wasn't going to be so easy after all. What were you supposed to tell a girl whose father had left without leaving any time for good byes?

Without realizing it, Desmond stared down at his food, no longer able to look Nuala in the eyes. He had hours to think about this, but no idea of how to begin. There was simply no easy way around it, no good words to frame it, none that Desmond knew anyway. Damn it, Angus, why'd you leave me in this crap hole of a situation?

Looking up at Nuala again took a concious effort, and as soon as Desmond got that far, he had no idea what he was going to say. He only knew that he was going to say it.

"There was a Gunslinger who came around in the morning. He said he was here for your pappy on the Merlin's orders, but wouldn't tell me more than that. Your pa did though, soon as he was done talking to the other fella. He told me there was a vampire attack in the night and now he has to go rustle up a crew, to get to the frontier and kill any vampires he can find. Your father had to leave immediately, so there was no time to... say good bye. He's a Caliburn Knight, y'know."

Desmond actually looked away. He looked away! Nuala always found Desmond to be to the point. He was a good man, an honest man. Uneasiness was a rare thing to see on his face. So Nuala's heart clinched a bit at that. Then the words he spoke made her slouch and stare at her plate. It's Sunday, and her Pa is going to go off on a mission? On their Sunday? With who? For how long?

“He didn't say goodbye...” She breathed. How DARE he! Angus was off, to who knows where, who know if he's coming back alive! The frontier was no walk in the park, it was no simple stroll around! Angus wasn't just going to a mission. If vampires are involved, then that bodes ill. He may be in serious danger. That was expected of a Gunslinger; A Caliburn Knight. But hell, that meant he should know to say goodbye!

“He didn't say goodbye.” Nuala spoke with a little bitterness. She didn't have to sleep away the morning! Dam her! She didn't have to go to sleep so early last night, she should have stayed. Talked. Sang. Moments, that's all you get. Moments with those you love.

“I have to go.” Nuala sprang up from her seat. She didn't bother to take a bite of food.

The grumbling in her stomach was not as strong as her will to find her Pa. He wasn't going to leave without saying good bye, dam it! Running as fast as her feet could take her, Nuala rushed to the stables. She didn't even check to make sure everything was there. Mounting Clover, Nuala rode out of the stables after paying the owners for their good work. The cart was attached, she had all her things as far as she could tell. At the moment, that wasn't her biggest concern. Nuala just hast to find Angus. He can't leave without a goodbye.

“Where are you?” She whispered to herself as Nuala rode down the streets, her eyes flicked around. Where was her father? Roaming onward, she was met with Elizabeth. Nuala asked her good friend if she had seen her father. Elizabeth nodded, and was pulled up onto Clover. Liz was never much of a talker. Barely spoke with Nuala. As she pointed to where to go, a commotion caught Nuala's eye.

Martin continued leading the way through the main thoroughfare, heedless of all the chatter behind him but most certainly annoyed by the grunts of his horse. "If you don't shut it, I'll smack you in the ear," Martin whispered in an almost affectionate tone as he patted the animal's head. It whickered in response then quietened down, as though recognizing the hidden threat in its master's voice.

Satisfied, Martin looked ahead and saw that it was nearly time to dismount, for the end to the main thoroughfare was in sight. Looming above the steps to the upper town was the statue of King Arthur, standing tall for all to see and silvery in the moon's pale light.

The thoroughfare itself was a wide road of paved concrete and illuminated only by the glow of the lanterns from nearby houses. Oil was precious in Camelot and used sparingly, so the streets were generally a dark and gloomy sight at night, especially in the lower town and even more so when it rained.

Looking up at the sky, Martin judged that there might be rain some time tomorrow or the day after. That could be a problem for the Avalonians who had yet to enter the city, but Martin had no such concerns. He was only glad to have finally reached the end of the road, where he promptly dismounted his horse and handed it off to a Gunslinger of the night watch for stabling.

"We'll walk the rest of the way," Martin said as he walked up the steps. With a click of his fingers, a flame appeared above his thumb where it flickered and burned like a torch, and the closer he got to the statue of King Arthur, the more visible its stern face became.

From the top of the stairs, one could see that the lower town was a sprawling sea of houses and streets, packed to the walls, but here in the upper and more ancient half of the city, the buildings were larger and more densely grouped. It was not long before Martin had led the group to the Merlin's workshop.

Motioning for the others to follow, Martin opened the door and entered the workshop. Within was a single wide room full of tables and equipment. At one of the sides was a forge like no other, and at the back of the room was the door to the wizard's tower, where the entire workshop had been built into the wall as an extension.

"Wait right here," Martin said as he gave a mistrustful look at Sparrow, then went to fetch the Merlin.

After a while, the old, short and stout wizard came out of the room of the tower with Martin close behind. Casting a curious glance at Sparrow, the Merlin said to Landarin, "So Martin tells me there was a bit of excitement in the night. Tell me, what happened?"

~~~

Mitchell was moving slowly but surely towards the healer's house, until an Avalonian man came to help him with carrying John. "Thank you," Mitchell said to the stranger.

"It's no problem, Gunslinger," he replied. "I'm just wondering why no one else around here helped sooner. It would have been a lickety split thing in Avalon, er, before the war that is, and judging by the look of your fellow, I'd be hollering for Morgana. Those wounds look serious."

"Aye, it's why I'm taking him to this healer, just up ahead. So is it true then that Morgana appears whenever you call for her?"

The Avalonian looked downcast for a moment then said, "Only in Avalon it seems. I called for her myself when I broke my arm as a kid and I remember her showing up just to fix it. My parents always told me she'd appear whenever you needed her... but sometimes, I wonder who's going to appear when she's the one needing help, like right now."

Mitchell looked quizzically at the man, wondering what he was implying. "Ah, sir, I do believe that's what the Guns of Camelot are there for."

With a kindly but somehow pitying expression, the Avalonian responded, "Boy, you have no idea what's going on over there, do you?"

Mitchell didn't know how to respond to that and as soon as they reached the healer's house, the Avalonian bade farewell and left.

There was something incredibly ominous about the man's words. Mitchell tried not to think about it as he entered the house and gave John over to the healer, but even as he left to go to the Merlin's workshop, there was nothing else to think about. The Avalonian's words simply echoed in his mind, over and over again.

After leading Landarin to his new plot of land, where he and Sparrow stayed together for the night, presumably in a nearby inn or makeshift camp (Mitchell didn't stay around long enough to see), Mitchell had gone back into the city to his small hovel of a house, taking a quick bath before going to sleep in a hammock.

The place was little more than a shed compared to all the other neighboring houses, but it served Mitchell well enough since his boyhood years and all throughout his time as a squire. It was the same house his father had stayed in before becoming a Gunslinger of Camelot and moving into one of the rich mansions of the upper town, after making a name for himself. Mitchell knew that soon enough, he would have to do the same if he wished to gain any respect, and in Camelot, it was the dearest kind of currency.

As morning came around, Mitchell washed his hands and face briskly in a bowl of cold water, then put on his clothes and stepped outside to have breakfast in the local tavern. Asides from the events of last night, it was a typical morning with the same old faces. Jim the barkeep, Kenny the drunk and old Ella, the scraggly, grey-haired scrapper of a cat. Get too close to that one and she'd nick the veins in your wrist like she knew where to hit. Better security than a loaded shotgun, Jim would joke, though the mangy cat wasn't any less unkind towards him.

Mitchell didn't feel like speaking of last night as a story to tell, so he said his hellos and kept his lips tight as he fished around in his pocket for coins. As he did so, he noticed a stranger in the tavern. Foreign looking, just like that Sparrow girl.

"Howdy, I don't think I've seen you around before," Mitchell said by way of greeting. "You new here?"

A guard stood off to the side near one of the buildings, berating and questioning one of the Avalonian refugees, a scraggly looking one at that who should not have been in uppertown to say the least. Her bare feet had developed a crust from the dirt road and her nails hadn’t had a good wash or cut for a while. Maroon, cotton pants road too high, too short, too tight, even on the petite thing, with holes announcing themselves wherever they had rubbed or ripped. Loose strands threatened to further unfurl the attire, but a long green nightgown could have taken up the slack. It currently tucked into one hip of the pants and draped nonchalantly on the other, possibly long enough to reach the top of her ankles. It had puffed sleeves with rips along the armpit and wide, flowered neckline, the latter of which someone attempted to stall by stitching, but it continued to cut its own seams.

Her hair had better knots. Sun-bleached auburn hair twirled in a rat nest of tethering down to her waist, broken and split ends sticking out like stiff straw. Some of it stringed onto her front around several tiny scars about the collarbone and the rest over her back, preventing the sunburn that had colored her forearms. She kept pinching a piece between her dirty, uneven fingertips anxiously, the dry fibers crackling like dead twigs. Her head tipped low on her short stature and the brim of a hat far too large for her head settled low on her brow, hiding most of her face, save for a chin.

Little pins glinted in the sun from the hat’s face: a shield with a Christian cross, a seal for a United States navy retiree, their flag and a ground-pointed golden sword. She wasn’t an Avalonian and she was too young for that to be her hat. She might have stolen that and even been in uppertown to do the same to the people there. Her jaw didn’t move once during this guard’s interrogation and, as he bent down to make them meet eyes, she turned away, bringing on more suspicion. His increase in energy and volume attracted a few others to the confrontation, not because they liked to pick on little girls, but because it was standard to assist another guard in case of a skirmish. It didn’t help her apprehension none and she clammed up all the more, stiffening and jerking away when one laid a hand on her shoulder.

That was resisting. The others stretched out their arms this time and she retreated out of reach, situation worsened. She had released her hair, but her stance was nothing if not tensed for a confrontation, which the guards responded to in kind. They didn’t think that she wanted a fight, but she was fearfully aggression, defensive, and that bespoke of criminal activity or guilt. There was no excuse for not knowing the rules, not that they were aware of, and she clearly knew English, as she had bobbed and shook her head for some of the inquiries. “Ma’am, please, come with us; you are not permitted to the area and you need to leave,” the initial guard spoke calmly, but firmly.

“What the- Hm...” Nuala shook her head at the scene before her. The poor girl, obviously shaken up and alone, was being treated ill by the very people who were meant to be there for Camelot. To help. Elizabeth fell silent as Nuala steered Clover over to the people drawing all this attention. Liz wasn't one to go against the grain. She kept quiet, even though she would rather have Nuala change course.

“What are you doing? Can't you see she's scared?” Nuala spoke as she halted her horse at the side of them. She jumped down off of Clover, stepping too close for their comfort. Her arms crossed and her lips pressed together as she narrowed her eyes at the Gunslingers. One man in particular didn't like that she just walked up to them.

“Go on and get, this is none of your concern.” He waved his hand at her. “And you, ya street Urchin, you're coming with us. If you aint a suspicious looking thing, I don't know what is!”

“Suspicious? Why? Because she's frightened? I'd be too, if men who are supposed to be looking out for Camelot started in on me!” Nuala wasn't leaving. She wasn't going to be ignored either. “Besides, just look at her! She's just a thin wisp of a girl! Wearing mismatched clothes! The poor dear doesn't look like she's had a bite to eat in weeks. Let alone a proper wash! Probably been traveling with the refugees. Give her a-”

“Well aren't you a busy bee, talking on and on. You scolding me?” The man glared at Nuala and some of her spark faded. He griped the girls arm, wrenching her over to him.

Scolding him? Was she? Nuala wondered what her Pa would say about Nuala talking like this to a Gunslinger. The girl steeled herself. She puffed out her chest and stood straight. Pa would tell this man to stick it where the sun don't shine. Angus didn't have patience for bullies and neither did Nuala.

“That's right, and you know why? Because she's a human being and deserves respect!” Nuala felt her eyes twitch. She blinked back tears. How could they treat this girl so cruelly?

“She's just scared and hungry! If you took the time to care you'd see that!” Nuala twisted the mans hand from the girl and he didn't like that. The man gripped Naula's wrist now and was eye to eye with her. Mad as a bull. She didn't look away, or flinch. Only glared. Elizabeth was wide eyed. When Nuala was being protective, she always threw caution to the wind. This made Liz nervous. She gripped Clovers reigns, hoping for the best.

“Just who the hell do you think you are, interfering like this?” The Gunslinger didn't want to give attention to the girls words. It was making people around him nod to Nuala, like they approved of what she was saying. “Do you want to be taken to?”

“Finnuala McNair.” She bit back with her words. “And I don't care what happens to me! You just leave that girl alone!”

The man visibly gulped. His eyes glanced at the grip he had on her. He dropped his hold and stepped back a bit. Nuala's wrist had a red band around it now. All from him. He felt small and the Gunslinger darted his eyes around, as if checking for something. When he took a breath of relief he rested his eyes on that wrist of Nuala's.

“And who are you?” She asked sternly. The man merely shook his head, not willing to give that information. He made a hasty apology and walked off with his hands stuffed in his pockets. On lookers were stifling laughs or staring with an expression one can describe as 'Oh shit'. Naula had no idea why the man ran off so suddenly, but she guessed it had to do with her name. One day, she was going to corner one of them and ask them why they acted so strange after hearing it. At the moment, Nuala turned to the girl, a soft smile on her face.

“Are you alright?”

The stranger nodded, glimpsing up for a twinkle’s worth of time and then down at Nuala’s wrist, and finally spoke up. The brunette deserved that much. “Yes, I am,” she answered hoarsely with a strong southern American accent. “I’m just—Got lost.” The explanation was a bonus, more than the guards could ever hope to pry out. Nuala’s unimposing physique and possibly just the fact that she was a woman calmed the girl, slightly.

On the ground and Finnuala being shorter than the men, she had a better view, spotting a plump lower-lip, split open and dry, and a featureless upper that probably thinned to nothing whenever, if ever, she smiled. The other shuffled her feet and lifted her face, squinting into the light, an act that did nothing to make her small eyes bigger, and neither did the charcoal colored about them to guard the sun’s glint off her cheeks from blinding her. Her sardonic eyebrows, deep-set eyes, frown and poorman’s makeup brought out the harshest part of her gaze. Meanwhile, she perused meticulously up Nuala, Clover and Elizabeth’s forms, those pinpoint eagle eyes taking everything in to the tip of intimacy. The hard contrast between sunlight and its sharp shadow, and the intensity of the girl alone, unnerved anyone who caught a good glimpse of the stare.

Still, the rest of it compensated, even the flustered blush on her face from the encounter, something that still had the hackles on her neck praising the sky. She had a diamond-shaped countenance, cheeky, and a concave nose with young, sun-shy skin. She looked like a child, one of those faces that seem so familiar, whether male or female, that it confused the brain, someone who could get lost in a crowd or take up another’s life without anyone being the wiser, if they knew enough. The irises were a blue-green-gray that actively switched in hue and saturation with every twitch, dull enough to escape notice, and held a copper-ring about each pupil, the like of which were so tightly pinched into points that she surely had to feel her way around. No wonder she was turned around.

“Thank you,” she murmured in a near whisper as her study stopped and dropped her hat back down. She brushed a hand over her arm as if to erase the man’s touch and she went back to her nervous tic. “I’m sorry,” she added and the angle of her hat allowed her to shoot a glare out of the corner of a crazy eye at the man, something he clearly inherited when he had laid his paws on the guest to begin with. She tilted her head forward again and started picking at one of the flowers falling off of the gown. Nuala knew she hadn’t bathed in a while, but there was also a hint of vanilla coming off the clothes.

She reached into a pocket after some contemplation and tugged to pull out something rather large. Pieces of dirt spilled out of the liner and out she held a piece of warped silver the size of a large coal, a peace offering. It explained why she had part of her nightgown planted into her pants. It looked like the only possession she had on her other than her clothes and hat. None of it fit together into a plausible story, but the heaviness of the block said it had some value. Nuala was either very appreciated or the woman was clueless about the worth of precious metals, but she could very well have mined it herself for the layer of dust.

“Oh, dear.” Nuala frowned a little to hear her say she was lost. Lost from where? The poor thing was lost and then she was harassed. Such a tragedy. Nuala was about to say more, but she took a moment to let the girls entirety sink into her memory. She noted that Liz was still quiet, sitting up in Clover, and that the stranger was also taking in her own image.

“Thank you.” The girl spoke, and it sounded like sand, if you can call it that. Following this, she actually apologized. But for what? For the harassment? For causing a scene? Nuala shook her head and smiled warmly.

“No, it's fine. It's not your fault. You're very welcome, I'm glad I was here to help.” Nuala spoke softly. Then a silence fell for the moment. Nuala looked up at Elizabeth, who shrugged. Liz knew Nuala was feeling awfully bad about what had happened to the girl. Nuala was asking with her eyes, with her body language, if Liz wouldn't mind the girl being offered to come with her. Elizabeth was not one to argue with Nuala, or anyone really. So she left it up to her friend.

When Nuala turned her attention back to the girl, the strange lost girl pulled out a nugget of silver. It was a lovely gift. Nuala wanted to refuse it, it was pricy. But she didn't want to insult the girl. It wouldn't help to glance up at Liz for an opinion, who would just shrug. So, Nuala took it gently, using the hand that had been held tight by the man who left.

“Thank you, this is very nice.” Nuala didn't feel right about just leaving the girl. It was hot today, a strange thing for Fall, especially where they lived, and the girl was in need of a friend. The girl was lost, its what she said. So maybe Nuala could give her a place to call home. For as long as she wanted to stay.

“What's your name, sweety?”

“An—Marianna,” the other corrected herself. She didn’t proffer a surname, but by the glimpse to the side she wasn’t too fond of “sweetie”. Marianna’s glance returned to Nuala and she repeated, “Finnuala McNair,” as if she were memorizing it more than acknowledging. There were crumbs on her chest, so the Arthurians had provided her with a meal and probably a drink as well, more than likely bread or vegetables for the horde of new arrivals. The longer she stood there, the more she fidgeted, and she seemed hesitant to move out of the little corner she had been boxed into. None saw her ever away from some sort of structure before the encounter, and she flicked her eyes behind her every now and again, as if to check that it was still there. It was much like a blind rat running along the molding.

The guards stood off to the side and observed the scene. They worried not about who got her out of uppertown, so long as someone did and this was a load off of responsibility on them. Should any ask, then the daughter McNair intervened. There was still the matter of her safety, since nothing was known about the scamp, but by first impression she was nothing Nuala couldn’t handle, if things got messy. The clothes were either too loose or too tight to hide a gun, and, if she had a knife, she would have used it against the line of armed men, rather than a benevolent girl. If she was anything like her father, then the half-dead thing before her was more in danger than she.

“Can you show me where I should be?” Marianna asked with a clear desire to avoid more altercations and an escort just might do the trick. “The ground is so light that it is hard to see,” she confided and rubbed more charcoal onto her cheek, but it did no good. The ground was not her cheeks and reflected the light up into her pale eyes. Her eyes were almost closed and probably watering from the pain or curling up in their sockets. Perhaps she had never walked on a road, especially not one with a clear, sunny sky above. The borderlands and wilderness were big places.

“Marrian? That's a lovely name.” Nuala noted the girl seemed to have some sort of food from earlier. It made sense. The Guns of Camelot were not a heartless bunch. Maybe a bad apple here and there, but that's expected. People aren't perfect.

“Can you show me where I should be?” Marrian asked her.

“Oh, well, I'm not so sure they have places provided where one can just bunk. I'm terribly sorry about that, but you know what? You can come with me if you wish it.” Nuala pulled Clover's reigns, and positioned the cart so Marian could see the soft mounds of quilts. “You can sit here. I'm heading home right after I find my Pa. You can wash up there, get more food. You can stay as long as you want.”

“Oh and, here.” Nuala had always kept her long, hip length, black curls in a braid, lest it ebb and flow with the wind. However, she saw that the girl was indeed of a hair tie more than she was. Nuala was washed, and wearing a lovely red dress with a white blouse and soft cream sash. Marrian can at least have a descent hair tie. She pulled her braid to the front, undoing it. She handed Marrian the tie, and got the idea that Marrian wasn't sure what to do with it. Gently, Nuala explained with her words. She was understanding that Marrian was a little skittish.

“You can keep it, Marrian.” Nuala smiled. Then she motioned to the cart. “So, would you like to come?” Her hair was already unraveling. The long dark hair tussled a little around her shoulders to her waist, some falling in front of her face. Nuala ran a hand through her hair, absentmindedly. But this was not use. Her curls falling around her in odd directions, but it was still pretty. Nuala may hate her hair down, but they were lovely all the same.

“Naula McNair, are ya trying to scar our eyes with your unkempt hair?” An irritatingly familiar voice spoke from behind. Hilda Hoover stepped up to tug on Nuala's hair. Then she took a double take on Marrian. “Good mercy, what is this thing?”

“She's a friend Mrs. Hoover.” Naula pressed her lips together. She wasn't going to comment on what the old hag had to say about her hair. But, Nuala did slouch her shoulders little because of it. Hilda saw this.

“And now you're slouching? Sad, just sad. Well, take the rag-nymph home if you must.” She waved her hand, talking like she had to approve it. Hilda Hoover hobbled off, a prissy smile on her face. “Good Day, and best wishes for your Pa.”

“That woman!” Nuala scowled. “Don't pay attention to a thing she says, Marrian, she's just...an old hag!” Nuala just knew that Elizabeth might have fainted. Liz was sweet, and could be shocked easily by those words.

Marianna took the bond carefully from Nuala and, after listening to the instructions for its use, pulled her hair through the bond with some difficulty. It took practice to manipulate it between the fingers without seeing from behind. As her mane hauled through the link, it rustled like dragged dead branches and she only put it through once. She scratched her neck as the tips tickled her throat and thanked the other, analyzing the locks cascading down Nuala’s form. For what little her pupils could spare, they enlarged before nipping taut again as an older woman came squawking at Nuala. She flinched when the witch gave her a brief summarization for a greeting and then glowered with that bottom lip puckered out in a pout.

The girl muttered, “Rag-Nymph,” under her breath and, “Mrs. Hoover.” She gave a small smile at Nuala’s language and uncertainly walked over to the cart. She didn’t bother with the hatch, not feeling up to pulling the back into position again, and crawled inside, though tumbling might have been a better description. She flopped back onto the pile, and slipped into a crevice between it and the edge for a handhold and security. Her hands ran across some of the quilts, surprised by the plush feel, and she rolled her face back toward Nuala, enough for one eye to be fully rendered by the height. The bowl of the hat sat right above it.

“I’ll hide so none else can see,” she offered, though it wasn’t from some lack of confidence there. She just didn’t want herself or Nuala to be bothered by anymore Mrs. Hoovers along the way. It was easy to conclude as much as that spare eye trailed after the crone, mildly irritated. Her father also might not approve, considering that she was clearly a vagabond and already involved in disturbing the peace. Marianna knew enough of small towns to know how rumors spread like wildfire. In her own family, those discussions sometimes included wildfires.

She laid back to avoid being a nuisance and added, “It’s soft and it’s easier to sleep,” than to fight the glaze of the sun or agitate the masses with her presence. Her hat pushed up from the quilt and she rearranged it to sit flat on her face, lacing fingers together on her stomach. While the daylight hindered her progress, it bounced off like a mirror on her skin and warmed her contentedly. Thankfully, there wasn’t any more loose dirt to soil the merchandise enough. With such a defenseless pose, Nuala already had the other’s trust and her assurance at warding off unwanted guests. Her only concern might have been the cart falling apart on her, but it was steady.

She’d have happily stayed like that until Nuala’s destination, conscious or not, but she took a quick peek at Liz to check out again and then at Nuala for permission. She wouldn’t completely settle without such, didn’t want to seem like a moocher or assumptive. Something about her eyebrows allowed her to appear decisively dark or naively open, of which she was now, blank-faced and awaiting Nuala’s go-ahead or even for her to jump on. The proximity might make her rest better all the more, especially with her silent friend sitting on their steed. The eyes' colors managed to still, so long as nothing shifted about them.

Marrian hopped on in the wagon. She tucked herself between the quilts and the side. Nuala thought it was nice to see her getting comfortable. It must be good to not have to walk, after so long. Avalon was quite a trek away. Wool quilts was surely a change for the better. Nuala made a mental note to offer one to Marrian, when they got to her home.

“I’ll hide so none else can see,” she offered, though it wasn’t from some lack of confidence there. Nuala tilted her head for a bit, wondering about her meaning. Then she guessed. Hilda Hoover. What an old crone, making Marrian feel like she had to hide.

“Well, you can if you like, but don't worry about it if you are seen. I won't let them bother you.” She smiled, hopping on Clover. Elizabeth glanced back, offering her own sweet smile. That's as much as she was comfortable doing. Liz was too shy to talk to Marrian.

“Alright, let's find my Pa.” Nuala clicked her tongue and Clover went off on a trot.

Marianna watched her for a few minutes and then flicked her hat into place, pulling her arms higher to hold in the heat. Nuala’s concerns about the hot day wasn’t so much Marianna’s; she had been freezing and shock didn’t help in that. The dryness of the cold air, dehydration and the brightness of the sky brought the worst headache she knew within her few fuzzy memories. It throbbed everywhere to escape her skull and only slumber was the most immediate cure. She drifted off into half-sleep to the rhythmic trot of Clover, the hum of Camelot’s life and the rocking, sometimes jerky, bounces of the cart as the hat collected her breath and sunrays. Soon enough blackness turned into nothingness and the migraine vanished.

Meredith's mind had blanked out Roland's mention of 'the prodigal daughter'. Perhaps she thought that it was referring to herself, but in any case, when Roland made the suggestion of bunking together at his place and then winking afterwards, the chance for a choice retort was too irresistible to pass up.

"Only in your wildest dreams," Meredith replied as she laughed scornfully. "I think I'd rather 'bunk' at my family mansion and enjoy all the luxuries that entails, you know, things like being able to take a bath and having my every need attended to... but thanks for the offer anyway, it's been a while since I've roughed it and I suppose there'll be a lot of that tomorrow."

Meredith paused as she looked down at the magic horn. It was going to take at least two days to get to Avalon, one of which would be spent travelling by boat. Then afterwards, who knew where the war would have spread to by that time? Without any protection asides from their own skill in magic, Meredith wondered whether she and Roland would be able to get to the witch queen unmolested, and all to deliver a horn that could summon mist. The more she thought about it, the more crazy it seemed.

"You know, the thought occurs to me that we'll probably be risking our health for this little venture," Meredith said as she followed Roland out of the workshop. "So, for what it's worth, I'm really actually sorry about earlier. Just to make it up to you, if we get into any situations where I have to save your butt, I promise I will. I won't even use you as a meat shield."

“Yes- yes you are richer than the lot of us.” Roland offered with a lowering of his eyes and his lips forming a thin line. “Well remember this when you are going to bed alone. I would say something now about your bed being cold, but I’m sure it isn’t even that.” The blonde remarked in an exasperated moment before he followed her eyes down to the horn. It was so cryptic, and honestly Roland wasn’t much appreciative of it. He didn’t know how much the Merlin knew about Morgana or her methodologies; but it seemed much like they were being sent into wild territory- and the outcome wasn’t at all fathomable.

Roland’s eyes inevitably left the horn and with the flow of traffic he left the workshop and entered the crisp night air of Camelot shortly afterwards. It took a moment to focus on Meredith, but he did with a bit of skepticism. “I do believe the Merlin would have sent someone he could have lived less without than us- if he thought the trip was going to go smoothly.” He smirked, “surprisingly enough I do believe we are not that low on the figurative totem pole. Tobias is still around.”

He paused for a moment as she apologized to him- not really expecting that amidst their usual banter. Roland seemed to squirm before rising out of it hopefully quicker than she could acknowledge that her statement had brushed against his emotions. “Ah- yes- well no problem I reckon.” Then he slid into a hot laugh a moment before speaking again, “well thank you for that. But I am going to take that with a grain of salt- because you said nothing about not using me as a human distraction.” With that he clapped his hand on shoulder and turned to the direction of his house that was amidst more of the crowded homes in Camelot- something that he had scraped long and hard to purchase. “Have a good night Mere- see you in the morning. And don't choke on your well roasted pheasant.”

Hale glowered in response and turned as though to leave the matter alone, but then he faced Rose again and said, "Ya know, we don't need your advice or whatever it is you're doing. You've been out for too long for that to have any kind of value any more."

A few other Gunsmiths murmured their assent and, spurred on by this, Hale continued, "If ya think ya can just waltz in here and tell us how to do our jobs, forget about it. I mean when's the last time you even touched a gun, let alone a bullet?"

As Martin sat behind the desk in his office, checking the lists of all the raw materials at hand, he glanced up out of the window overlooking the factory and noticed the commotion with the Gunsmiths.

With his chair creaking and groaning as he stood up, Martin walked outside of his office, leaned over the railing and shouted in a booming voice loud enough to drown out all the noise of the machinery, "OI, YOU LOT OVER THERE! GET BACK TO WORK!"

Everyone in the factory had stopped for a moment, not knowing exactly who Martin was talking to. After a few seconds too long, Martin inhaled sharply then roared, "I SAID GET BACK TO WORK!"

The Gunsmith was literally breathing fire as he said the word 'work', which was enough to terrify most of the people in the factory, and production promptly continued. Satisfied, Martin went back into his office and thought of how much he liked his job sometimes.

“Hale, you don't know who you're talking to, if you think that.” Rose's glint in her eyes darkened, when he said she'd have little value there. “I may have been away, but I have plenty to contribute. I'm the wife of a Angus McNair, but I am still the daughter of Daniel Wesson.”

“Whatever you think you need or don't need, ins't the focus here, Hale. I was asked to come, by the Merlin. He must think I am good for something. If the Merlin's wisdom isn't enough for you, then take it up with him.” Rose placed her hands on her hips, her eyebrows raised. “For now, you are on our time here. There is a war going on. Button up and buckle down, before I report you.”

“As for my talents, you don't know what I've been doing, Hale, so you can zip it.” Rose wanted to elaborate on these thoughts, but then Martin shouted down at them all with his usual lack of tact. Even a bit of his beloved flames escaped his mouth on that last word of his. Rose sighed, then turned back to her work. She was almost done with that half of the room. Going to cross examine, make sure no one was slipping up. Helping with the tough stuff.

“Mrs. McNair.” Margo spoke from the side.

“Yes Margo?” Rose didn't want the sweet new Gunsmith to see her tired irritation, so she smiled to her.

“We have a problem.” Margo led Rose to the machines, where the gears were getting stuck. “It's like, it's rusted, but, we can't get the hub to come off to clean it. And this isn't the only one either. These things are kind of old. We are having trouble getting them to be consistent.”

This was problem indeed. Here they all were, doing what they must to aid Avalon in the war. The last thing they want is to halt progress. Thankfully this was right up Rose's alley. Her smooth, clean, manageable guns haven't had one issue in that regard. None can doubt her long lasting magic. Rose inspected the machine and shook her head.

“Oh, dear. We need to clear this up before Martin sees it. He'll throw a flaming fit.” Rose said this without meaning to be funny, but the newer Gunsmith's chuckled a little. Rose let a little bit of merriment escape her lips as well.

“Here, we'll fix this. I can show you what I do, to keep things in working order. Not another crust of rust will plague this machine again.” Rose spent some time with them, working her magic and getting those persnickety machines back into shape. As good as new. Better than new!

Meredith didn't bother with a comeback as was her usual habit. She simply replied, "Yeah, good night." and left for home, wishing she wasn't the one carrying the horn. Thinking back on Roland's words, Meredith knew that she'd be spending the rest of the night thinking about tomorrow, wondering what adventures delivering the horn would bring, and what dangers might be encountered.

True enough, it seemed to be a menial sort of job, something for apprentices or couriers. The Merlin could have picked someone more expendable than two of his own potential successors for this mission, but he didn't. That either meant that he was trusting Meredith and Roland to be able to overcome whatever problems they came across, or he had simply chosen them because they were the last ones heading for the door when everyone had been dismissed.

Knowing the Merlin, it might have been both. He had ever been a practical man and wasn't above lazy convenience. It was in fact what Meredith liked about him. In spite of all his authority and responsibilities, he never made any effort to be a paragon of his station. He simply went about his work the way he always did as a Gunsmith, without pomp or preamble, and it kept him honest, but Meredith couldn't help thinking how much the war in Avalon was weighing down on the Merlin, for it certainly was.

As for Morgana, Meredith simply had no idea what to think about her. Some mysterious lady who happened to be immortal, that's all she had to think about the witch queen of Avalon. Morgana was also apparently as tall as the statue of King Arthur, and wouldn't that just be a sight to see?

It was a little scary come to think about it, but Meredith was no stranger to the strange. Gunslingers had a habit of telling her stories of their travels and showing the odd souvenir, emphasis on odd. Bizarre did not begin to cover a few of them, but none seemed so humble and yet so potent as the magic horn that the Merlin gave her. She was tempted to try to use it, but knew better than that.

Arriving home, Meredith ate a meal of roast pheasant - which she was suddenly cautious about upon remembering Roland's parting words - then went to sleep, dreaming of mist and giants. As soon as she woke up, she packed some food and spare clothes into a bag, told her servants about being away for a few days, then left for the stables.