Guns of Camelot

Landarin pulled out a cigarette and lit it, watching Mitchell leave as he thought about the statements. Sliding his lighter back into his pocket he addressed the Merlin.

"No worries, friend. It's probably nothing bad," he said exhaling a large puff of smoke as he spoke. "I'll take care of her for you if you don't mind."

In truth Landarin had no idea if it was a good or bad thing, he couldn't tell what the spirits were saying. Either way he couldn't just let the Merlin send sparrow back home. She was here for a purpose and Landarin knew just how that felt. With no desire to stay there any longer Landarin stepped forward examining the map quickly. Stepped back once more he bid the Merlin a quick farewell not allowing the old man any room to navigate for more questions before turning towards the door.

"Follow me," He said to sparrow as he stepped out of the tower. With the native in tow Landarin walked past Mitchell heading towards the nearest gate out of Camelot that he could remember. He didn't think the Merlin was a bad man but he still wanted to get Sparrow away from him as quickly as possible. This land was a strange place especially for someone not from it. Landarin needed time to rest and think, therefor he needed to get his home up and ready as quickly as possible.

Taking another drag off of his cigarette he directed his attention to the gunslinger. "Lead the way Mitchell."

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■ ■ ■ ■ curious xxxxx ■ ■ ■ ■ spiritual xxxxx ■ ■ ■ ■ wanderer

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Sparrow lowered her olive orbs to the older man, when he remarked about how some of the spirits around here weren't nice or good. She saw how unnerved he was, when she mentioned the Spirits. What was so bad about that? The Spirits were guardians, protectors, and mentors. They wouldn't really want to harm people all that much, unless they were use to be alive and human. Tilting her head to the side, she would remark softly, as her gaze looked away, almost over Merlin's shoulder as she spoke. "Yet not all Spirits are like that. There are some, who do not suffer the morals of what you White Men know of." She then went silent once more, never once speaking up.

Then Landarin butted in, stating that he would take her off their hands. Sparrow's dark gaze, went quickly towards him, keeping a blank face the whole time. It was almost hard to even tell what this native female was thinking half the time, since she wasn't expressing herself like she usually did. But that was because she was in unknown territory. You didn't really bare your neck in a crowd of wolves right off the bat, would you?

Soon enough, the male in question, told her to follow once lighting a strange stick on fire. Sparrow sniffed the air a bit, following right behind quickly as her slightly covered form was silent as she walked on her bare feet. Once outside, and in front of the other male from before, the female was moving up towards Landarin a bit more. Lifting her head up, going on her toes, she put her face in close to the male. But what she did, would be funny. Sparrow sniffed at the lit stick, and then made a slight face. Moving away, she would shake her head, as she spoke in a tone that seemed almost sad. "That is bad tobacco. Where did you get such weak stuff at?" It was pure curiosity when Sparrow asked that. Her hand sliding up to push her dark hair behind a ear, as a wind came by. She instinctively moved her face into the wind.

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

As Meredith walked to the stables, she slung her bag towards her front and took out a pair of leather riding gloves which she had not worn in a long time. Fortunately, they could still fit over her hands. Unfortunately, she had not worn them in a long time, because she had not ridden any horses in a long time and, without having the space of thought to dread the prospect last night, it only occurred to Meredith now that she was at a very probable risk of making a fool out of herself.

The last thing she wanted was for Roland to be around to see that, and she could only hope that he was either going to be late or already on his way out of the city. Of course, true to fortune's consistently spiteful nature, Roland was already there at the stables and, by the looks of it, for some time now.

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"Oh, were you waiting for me?" Meredith said as she entered the stables. "My fair haired blondie, you honour me, but do take your leave first, I insist."

She had no idea which horse to choose.

"No doubt you already have your steed saddled and ready, so don't wait on my account."

She had mostly forgotten how to saddle a horse as well.

"Seriously, just go. I won't be far behind."

And there were no stable hands around at this time of the morning yet.

As the highest authority currently present in Camelot, the Merlin had command of the city's Gunslingers and the very law itself. Though the thought never occurred to him as he called after the trio, "Hey, wait, I wasn't done talking yet!"

Just then, when Landarin stepped in and took Sparrow away to evade further discussion, the Merlin was strongly reminded of his old friend, the king of Camelot, Gunther, in his youth. Brisk, blunt and quick to rescue women from serious conversations.

"Want me to get them back?" the Caliburn Knight at the door said after Landarin, Sparrow and Mitchell had virtually fled out of the workshop.

"Oh, just forget about it," the Merlin replied, then muttered with a smile on his face as he turned towards the wizard's tower, "Gunslingers."

Now what on earth was that girl going on about just before she left? the Merlin thought as he entered the tower. He had no doubt that benign spirits existed in the world, but was there any such thing in Arthuria? Food for thought... he honestly did not know.

~~~

"Are you sure that was a good idea?" Mitchell said as he tried to keep up with Landarin, who was walking as fast as one ought to after what he had just done. "I mean that was the Merlin, I don't think brushing him off like that was a good, er..."

The young Gunslinger fell into a bemused silence as he watched Sparrow acting, well, curiously. When she expressed her disapproval at Landarin's cigarette, made all the more amusing by her foreign accent, Mitchell couldn't help but chuckle, in spite of his wariness towards the woman.

When he realized that the Caliburn Knight guarding the workshop was not giving chase, Mitchell decided that there was nothing to worry about after all and walked out in front of Landarin and Sparrow, taking the lead.

"It's a bit dark right now, so try to keep close," Mitchell said as he walked past the statue of King Arthur and down the path towards the city gates. Thinking about the healer's house several streets away, he added, "I hope John's doing all right."

~~~

In the healer's house, John was lying stretched out on a healing altar, one of several beneath the cross of the crucifix which hung on the wall directly opposite the front entrance. The healer had gone to work immediately after Mitchell knocked on the door and quickly explained what happened before leaving.

Not a second was wasted in treating the wounds, knowing what vampire inflicted injuries could potentially lead to. By some miracle however, there was no trace of infection in John's blood. The healer figured that the injuries were caused indirectly and after closing the wounds, he went to fetch some dressing so the Gunslinger's flesh might heal naturally without risk of infection. That was about the time when the dream happened.

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John was sitting cross-legged within a circle in some house, but not the one he was currently inside in the real world. The walls were blue, the very air seemed blue, and standing over him were several white robed figures with their hands held above his head, chanting rapidly in some foreign tongue.

A voice began to speak as though it were coming from within the very centre of John's mind, but it was most certainly not his own voice. It was a woman's, the same as the one who had been talking to the Merlin through a crystal ball, what was her name? John did not recall ever hearing it, though he could guess that she was the ruler of Avalon.

"Warrior," she said, her voice faint yet resonating with power. "My time here is short, so listen well. Your mind was strengthened as well as healed in this place. You will not remember, but you must know."

A pause. John realized that the voice had been ebbing as though it would vanish at any time.

"The Goblin King will try to win through guile what he could not take by force. Go to Avalon before it's too late... and beware the lies."

The circle around John began to glow white and then intensified until it became a blinding glare. The chanting began to fade away and, eventually, so did the light. John was still squinting his eyes as he woke up and, when his vision gradually cleared, he saw the healer looking down at him with a curious expression and a handful of medicated paper strips.

"Where am I?" John murmured.

(Krie, you post first and then Morph, reply as you will)

Roland offered a rather gruff sigh to Meredith’s shenanigans. “Really Mere-? We are supposed to travel together, and while I love stroking Merlin’s beard-hair against the grain- I have to agree with the man on this: it is dangerous to travel alone.” It was then he pressed a hand to his chest as if he was about to state something monumental. “And what if I get kidnapped- Mere? This damsel in distress won’t fetch many knights to come save him from the evil Goblin King’s clutches.”

The man followed her into stables where his own horse was saddled and read to go: a white Welsh Pony Horse with a strong stance and a seemingly disgruntled outlook. His name was Archimedes, and given his stoicism, patience, and misanthropy- he did deserve his name. “So get your horse saddled- we are burning daylight.” It was then he paused and glanced the woman over. The look upon her brow and her incessant bantering about him ‘going ahead’ did poorly to mask her apparent lack of equestrian knowledge. “Seriously Mere- do you not remember how to saddle a horse? Does the ‘lowly born ranch boy’ have to help you prep?” It was then he paused and a revelation sparked across his eyes. “Wait wait- not yet- lets’ draw this moment out a bit longer. I want to relish it.” Roland held up a hand in hopes of staving off his female accomplices groaning and moaning. He managed to pop back into reality shortly thereafter. “Alright let’s get you on your horsey- and pray to the Christian God above you still know how to ride.” He then offered a pale whisper, “side-saddle because you are a lady- I think.”

"Whoa... shiny," Margo said as she examined Rose's work, impressed with the outcome. There was truly not a spot of rust left. "Well that's one down."

Some of the regular factory workers took notice and exchanged questioning glances. One of them, a slender grey-haired man, stepped forward and said, "Hey, I appreciate you being here to help out and all, but can I just ask you to please not mess around with the machines? We don't have many spare parts for them, y'see, and it only takes one mistake to cause problems."

Margo squinted at the man, not fooled by his civil tone. She 'knew' that the factory workers didn't want Gunsmiths around, just because they might do a better job of running the place, and Margo thought of telling the man just that, but managed to bite back her retort. She looked to Rose, wondering how the older Gunsmith would respond.

The intention of this mans words wasn't lost on Rose. The ex-Gunsmith met the mans gaze evenly, with as much honey in her expression as his flowery words to her were said. Hands folded in front, and a standing straight Rose listened to what he had to say before stealing a glance at the machine when he mentioned the lack of parts.

"Well, Sir, first I must say that your concern for these machines is admirable. When can only hope everyone here is looking out for them like you are." Rose smiled sweetly. "As for parts, well, I think being in a factory will aid in that respect, don't you think? You're all so innovative, I'm sure parts could be made."

Rose opened up a panel as she spoke and revealed her handy work. The shine of the metal, the way it seemed to hum and not scrape with sound like the other machines. Rose stepped aside and opened the panel of one of the others. It's insides were crusty and hurt the ears just to listen to it. One of the gears looked like it was about to pop off.

"As you can see, the mistake here isn't in what these hands would do." Rose said raising up her pretty little hands. Her manner calm and unphased. "The mistake would be to ignore my talents to serve the inflated ego of the factory workers, and their presumptuous arrogance that I'm not any good to serve the purpose for which I have been called for."

Rose let her hands fold in front of her again. She knew her last words must sting. It wasn't how she would have liked to do this, but it seemed he was just another one of those guys that kept popping up to get in her face. All because of her little past choices.

"Now, unless you want that rusty gear to pop out and shut down this machine, you can sit down and get to work." Rose smiled. "So that I can get to my work."

John was unamused by not recieving a answer from the unknown person. "Hey? You here me?" He said louder expecting a reply.


(SURPRISE.)

The brown clad, down-hooded monk remained turned away as he dabbled with several bottles upon the table, basking in the careful placement in front of an eastern window. With an average height and featureless apparel, the most noticeable thing about him (aside from the brown, flyaway halo of hair circling a growing bald spot) was his quiet demeanor. It emphasized the clanking of measuring tools, the tinkling of glass and the crinkling of turned pages as he prepared a concoction. He swiveled around with a vial in hand and locked brown eyes on John as he walked forward as the tassels of his rope-like belt bounce with each stride. He stopped at the bedside to scoop John’s head up and titled it back as he offered the liquid in monotone, “Drink, please.” This close, the blur of battle fatigue couldn’t fuzz out his features.

Graying hair flanked his wide brow with open eyebrows and gentle, if tired, eyes, and all of that above a long nose. His thin physique and advanced age made for loose skin scratched with a thin beard and mustache. The flesh of his lips midlined in volume and emphasized the flow of the upper, an easy pair to smile with, if he ever bothered. He clearly had some sun, despite his bookish aura, and a cleft on his chin helped to distinguish an otherwise weak characteristic. He was no fighter—not hardly—and not a looker either with those ears flared out, but confidence still showed, or maybe this whole business bored him. So much blood and bruises and broken bones; it was just another day in the life of a healer as John already knew from a lack of a hole in his body.

John took the drink between his lips swallowing as commanded by the strange healer man. It wasn't much else he could do for all he knew it could be poisioned.. Then again what would be the point of saving him. He looked up to the healer noticing cleft on his chin was the most noticeable feature on his face.. Also his vision wasn't the best


"Thanks."

Monk nodded and made a prayer directed at the cross displayed at the closest end of the room, as if to say who deserved John’s gratitude. He then started to play the supplies in holes of a case, and the scrolls also in another designed for them specifically and separately. “You are free to go, but you must stay out of fights,” he released and returned back to John’s side. He placed a hand beneath the other’s elbow to encourage him up. “Vampires are especially life-threatening.” His plain-spoken remark was like a precursor to sarcasm, or patronizing.

John got to his feet shaking the elbow off, he grunted looking at the old man "Fighting is gonna happen, by choice or not." He stated grabbing any clothing he might have and making way for the door. What was on his list was to make it back to the Merlin to find out what he missed since his absence..

-ABORTED-

-SWITCH TO Trouble In Camelot-

Howahkan Mato found that he quite enjoyed taking his meals at the local watering hole. Although his tribe had continued to teach the art of the hunt and harvest to his generation, the land of Avalon had not given them much practice for their arts. The shaman found excellent food and drink ready for him at the tavern, giving him a perfectly leisurely start to his day.

Of course, his day started before dawn's first light. As an apprentice gunsmith, he worked much of the morning away, only stopping for a meal and strong beer in the late morning before he continued his studies.

This morning was different from the others -- his master teacher had been at a meeting with the Merlin the day before, vying for the coveted place to become the next Merlin. He wasn't surprised when his master called him in the previous night, settling him in on making bullets and casings and shells until they were both falling asleep over the anvil.

His master had gone to bed, but Bear was content to spend the rest of the day in his cups, pleased that he was able to help not only his master, but also his people. Mindless busywork didn't worry him -- he had a plan. Once he knew the forge was mostly deserted, he was going to set up his own series of projects...

The wiry, dark-haired Native blinked and looked around as he was addressed. His dark eyes rose up along the form of the gunslinger, and a pleasant smile stretched his mouth.

"Hau, Gunslinger." His voice was a low roll of thunder, deeper than expected in such a small man. "I am a refugee from Yuwipi-Wanagiyata - from Avalon. I am Howhakan Mato, but your people call me Singing Bear." He stood respectfully and offered one calloused hand in greeting.