[Featured characters: Borus, Percival] Marooned Ship: Deck From the deck, this large ship appears to be in VERY good condition. Strange, considering how long this thing must have been embedded int othe wall of Budehuc Castle. It doesen't even seem to have been effected by the weather that much, excepting the sails and mast which all seem to be worn down and/or broken off completely. On the head of the ship are two doorways which lead to what used to be the Captain's Quarters and the Navigation Room- but now the Captain's Quarters has had it's door removed, replaced instead with a white curtain complete with red spot in the middle. Within is now Budehuc's newest luxury: the Bath House. ===== There's something nice about wind over water, cooler and heavier, and this morning carrying the distinctive scent of rain from the other side of the lake. The distant land is but a dim shadow on the horizon, shrouded by fog and clouds that the newly risen sun cannot breach. Waves slap impatiently against the hull of the ship far below. The shimmer of the lake's surface is almost hypnotic, holding Percival's eyes as he leans against the wide rail, half to relax, half in exhaustion. He's still in his formal clothes, but his coat is unbuttoned and billowing behind him in the breeze, and his hair is in chaos, no longer slicked neatly back. Obviously, he stayed up all night, but he doesn't have the look of too much wine - or much of anything else but an avid interest in the water. The breeze this morning is certainly heavy, but not nearly as heavy as Borus's head. Leaning on the rail next to Percival, this seems an ideal spot to begin the process of sobering up. Damn those Karayans and their horrible liquor! Its most certainly made from the blood of the dead, that's for sure! The fine, decorous clothes he had on last night are still slumped on him, wrinkled and sweated. He has unbuttoned the doublet and untied the cravat, but hasn't made an effort to change. Things were still bothering him, and clothes were not high on the rank of importance. At the top of that list, is an offer of thanks to his friend for saving his skin yet again. So, while looking off at the menacing clouds, he says simply, "Thanks, Percival." For a moment it might seem that Percival didn't hear him, but eventually, "Not a problem," is his equally simple reply. The sound of his friend's voice broke his reverie, so now he looks down at the rail, and the shift of the water in the ship's shadow, and tries to gather his thoughts. He'd not been actually /thinking/ much of anything, but just reliving images: the festival back home, fire, Chris, with her hair gleaming like her armor. It leaves him feeling rather empty, and the lack of sleep has not helped. "Feeling better?" The question is only half in jest. The reply is devoid of sembelence of emotion, "Not really." A beat passes, what else is there to say? A thanks had been offered and accepted, but it still felt empty. Somehow, someday, he'd make this up to Percival. Staring into the newly risen sun, he squints, but the warmth of his face is a welcome remedy for the horrible hangover. Turning back to his friend, he asks a question that has been burning in his mind since he came to, "So what did you end up doing last night?" "Had a talk with Geddoe, danced with a few girls. On the scale of exciting evenings, it was wholly unremarkable." There is no bitterness in that statement, nor any disappointment. One might ask what kept Percival up into the morning if it was not a remarkable evening, and he might just be at a loss for an answer. Their talk in the tavern had inspired too many unwelcome thoughts, perhaps, and inspired him to consider an idea he'd only been half-joking about. With patrol duty looming over his head, it only occurs to him now that he should have gone to sleep. Borus just nods, as if the response was what he was expecting. The dance may have built some morale around the castle, but it certainly missed him. His head was killing him, his stomach was doing back flips, and then there was just this damned place! Well, if he was going to vent his frustrations to anyone, it would be to Percival, and now seemed like as good as time as any. Finding some strength under the after-effects of the alcohol, he bangs a rage filled fist on the rail with a growl. Then, glancing back down at the water, and admits vaguely, "I hate this." That seems to startle Percival into some semblence of alertness. He looks over at his friend with a questioning eyebrow raised, straightening a little. The less he leans against the rail, the weaker the temptation to fall asleep will be. "Define 'this.'" He waves his hand vaguely at the water. "The war, the castle, the morning, the Grassies - which part of it has earned your ire this morning?" His tired gaze goes back to the water in the distance, where the surface mirrors the sun and leaves purple after-images behind his eyelids. But closing his eyes is a bad idea - they snap open again immediately. A tired hand runs through snarled golden-blonde hair as Borus prerpares his answer. When he has finally found the words to describle 'this' he looks off into the middle distance, and lets out a long held sigh. "I can't define 'this' but I fear it is everything, my friend. Do you realize what we are, Percival? We are murderers. Oh, they dress us in shining armor, mount us on regal chargers and give us blades of steel, but that doesn't take the blood away. It just makes it easier to clean." He shakes his head, "I've come to the conclusion that 'knight' is just a euphomism for killer. We might be lauded as heroes, we might be called clever nicknames, children may imitate us in play, but at the end of the day what is that we have done? Killed people. That's it." "Not so, my friend, not so... we manage to fit plenty of drinking and carousing into that equation as well." The sardonic twist to Percival's lips is short-lived, replaced with a sigh as he tears his eyes from the play of the water to rest on his friend. This is not Borus's usual hangover grumbling, and this time it reflects his own thoughts too closely for comfort. Answers are carefully considered, then thrown out, his tired mind trying to grind into motion long enough to formulate something halfway intelligent. "You've been brooding over this since you razed Karaya." That incident seems to be the seed that sprouted into so many of their problems today. "Yes," the blonde answers. "Yes. It started there, and it has just gotten worse. Sure, this time we're supposed to be saving the world, but does that make it any more tolerable?" He turns to look at Percival, "Do you think you could sleep at night if the souls of the dead came to haunt you? Of course not. That's why we drown them in our drinks." Gazing back out over the water, rubs a hand over his mouth, a bit of stubble abrading his palm. "That's why we do what we do, Percival. That's why we drink and carouse, because if we didn't, we'd likely go insane." Percival turns his back to the horizon and leans against the railing, plucking the buttons of his shirt loose thoughtfully. His eyes close just a moment to savor the feeling of the wind sifting through his hair and tossing it around and over, into his face. "Someone has to do the job, Borus. If not us, it will be someone else - another knight, or some poor farmer trying to defend his crops. The killing isn't noble, but our purpose is." This morning simply isn't a good time for /this/ discussion. As much as he would like to put his confidence into those words, it simply isn't there right now. He'd spent the night wondering, himself, why he had chosen this path in his life, why he'd left his home to fend for itself, why why why... Every soldier faces these questions, and many of them can't find their answers. "Why did you join the knighthood, Borus? Why a career of blood instead of wine?" In a tone so bitter, one might have though he had just drank some horribly bad wine, Borus answers the question truthfully. "In my idealic youth it seemed like a glamorous and exciting life. I never was good at any of the things my brother could do, so I wasn't much help to my parents. He's best suited to help them run the business." He shakes his head, "We don't get along so well anyway. Too much 'spirit' between us, my father says." Still this doesn't make him feel any better, and thoughts of home are just making it worse. He chuckles to himself, the sound more pathetic than funny. "My brother always said I should settle down and stop playing out my adolecent fantasies, and I would just tell him where to put his ideas. But you know, maybe he was right, but I don't see that happening anytime soon, either." "I wanted andventure!" Percival punches his fist into the air with a flourish, his tone faintly mocking. "Just like every other lad applying to our ranks, I'll wager. I can't sow crops to save my life, so you know how well I would fare in Iksay." His arm drops again, propped against the rail, and he gestures vaguely with it now and again, his gaze locked onto the billowing curtain of the bath house, but far away at the same time. "It doesn't sink into us when we're young. I knew I'd be killing rats and Grassies, if you even consider them to be different in the first place. I was fine with the idea. It isn't until now that I have started questioning my choice. And other things, as well." His voice trails away into the wind. The water lapping the hull of the boat seems to have Borus's full attention, but he is indeed listening to his friend. It seems that despite their differences, these two are cast from similiar dies. There is some comfort in this for the short knight, but not enough to make him feel any better. Percival's last statement interested him--so much so that he turns around from staring at the water and asks face to face, "What other things?" Today is a day of confessions, it seems. But some things should remain unsaid. "Our allies are an interesting bunch, don't you think? I never dreamed we'd be fighting next to a Tinto banner... nor with the clans. It is difficult to maintain a hatred of something I am getting to know so well." Percival casts a sidelong glance at Borus, squinting through his hair and bleary-eyed exhaustion to watch, wait for the inevitable. But his friend has changed, and he is curious to see just how far that reaches. "We hate what we don't understand, or so they say." There are many things that Percival does well, and changing the subject when he doesn't want to talk about something is one of them. Shaking his head in amusement at this uncanny ability, Borus rubs a hand over his face and just fills in the conversation--he's not going to press for answers when they aren't being offered today. "Interesting, yes. But that I guess is also part of 'this,' you know." He curls his fingers into quotation marks as he says "this" and then continues. "We do hate what we don't understand because we've never been allowed to understand it. Think about it. From the time we were children we were taught that Grassies are dirty, indecent people. Are they? Some, probably. But so are we." "We are in their eyes. I've heard it enough... they grumble about this just as much as we do when they think we're not listening. The Karayans would as soon water the grass with our blood than see us pave it over with stone. The lizards would rather have a good fight than a treaty." Percival combs his fingers through his hair, pulling it back from his face and holding it there, against the wind. His sigh is lost in the breeze, but his posture conveys the sentiment well enough. Tired, resigned. He's too tired to smooth it over with a smile. "They tried to burn my home to the ground, Borus... the cost of rebuilding will far exceed the funds they will bring in with only half of the harvest. They will starve, come winter, unless someone helps them." His eyes squeeze tightly shut a moment, and his fist clenches in his hair. "I laughed at Karaya. I should be ashamed of myself." Borus mutters as he speaks the well known truth, "The Council will probably let them starve. They don't give a damn about anyone but themselves, but if there's anything I can do, I will. My father has friends in all the Guilds. I can see if he could negotiate something for you." He crosses his arms, leans back against the rail and gives a luke-warm glare to Percival. "Do you think they attacked Iksay because Chris was there?" "How could they know?" Percival tugs his hand through his hair swiftly, releasing it to the wind again. "We gave no warning. In fact, I recall their delight and discovering her presence. It was just... just war. Revenge." As a knight he should know these sentiments well, but they leave nothing but a bitter taste in his mouth. They were manipulated into this conflict, and they all know it /now/, but that knowledge doesn't bring the dead back to life. "Our hatred runs deep. If things keep going as they are, it will never end. I'm not sure I want to contribute to that cycle anymore." His voice is fading, a bit rough. These thoughts have been with him for weeks, festering, and he didn't want to give them any power by putting them to voice. But if he has to hide from his friends, who will he go to for release? "I would be in your debt, Borus, if you are able to help them. I'm afraid all I will be able to do is lend an extra pair of hands." "You won't be in my debt. Its the least I can do, since I feel that most of the Karayan's rage lies on my head, and as you say, it was revenge that set them on Iksay." Borus looks again off across the deck of the boat, the breeze pulling the loosened cravat into a dance on his neck. "You don't want a part of this anymore?" There isn't much surprise in that, and it was more a statement than a question. Rather than outright confessing his distaste for the life he has chosen, he says through half-hooded eyes, "I did something the other day, Percival. I did something I never thought I'd ever do." "I appreciate it just the same." Percival straightens, rubbing at his elbows. Lack of sleep has made him more suceptible to aches and pain, and while the discomfort will probably help him stay awake come time to patrol, it only distracts him, now. His curiosity is piqued, as he twists to face Borus. The wind has grown stronger, and the clouds far across the lake have moved closer, blotting out the morning's sparkle and promising rain. Shirt and jacket flap as it rushes past, tossing his hair about. "What is it you have done?" A lopsided grin surfaces on Borus's face, as he scratches the back of his neck. "That stupid Karayan girl--the one that is always around Geddoe and his men--she fell in the lake. For a moment I thought to let her drown. What's one more or less of them, anyway! They started this damn war, when they attacked us at the treaty negotiation. But as I saw her flailing under the water, I just couldn't let her drown. So I pulled her out." He looks back at his friend, the first bit of hope that's appeared in ages reflected in his dark eyes. "Maybe if we do more things like that, the wine won't have to save us every night. Maybe." Percival tilts his head, studying his friend through a fringe of dark hair. That's quite an improvement, given Borus's opinion on Karayans, but he can't say he's surprised. He isn't a monster. "You may be right, my friend. It's a beginning... and perhaps a thankless way of thinking in our times. But you may be right." Disaster had to strike before he himself gave in and realized they were as human as he is; he'd never been as overtly hateful toward the Grasslanders as Borus, but Percy's soul is as darkened as anyone else's. "I'd expect no less, no matter how I tease you. You're a good man." Sprinkling rain begins to fall, but it is refreshing to the still-not-quite well Borus. Talking with Percival has certainly made him feel better about the murky "this" but his head is pounding. With a wry smile he pats his friend on the back in response his last two statements. Finally, after a moment of silence waves between them, he brushes his hair out of his face and says, "Come on, we better get changed, or someone will think we've been up all night with wine, women and song."