Fic #05 -- visitingWestmark!Bedivere
Original post here. Five fics are still claimable!
(Just for clarification, the name Bedwyr Bedrydant translates roughly to "Bedivere of the Perfect Sinews".)
For kaliscoo:
It was a nice enough place, if you liked trees and dirt and rocks and chasing mythological creatures for no apparent logical reason. Eventually, Bedivere emerged from the forest which he had been riding through for days to find himself in unfamiliar settings. It didn’t quite look like Wales, it was too warm for Scotland, and England would have had more people. That left him out of options, as he certainly didn’t remember crossing the Channel, to he rode a ways to see if he could locate civilization.
Soon he hit a small town. He did not recognize the name, but he recognized the building with the universal wooden sign depicting a foam-topped mug. He tied up his horse and went in.
The Inn was empty save for a sizeable group in the corner who fell silent when he entered. Obviously the place was going to be suspicious of strangers…or maybe it was just the sword and dagger hanging from his belt. He sat at a table somewhat away from the others. A fellow who was obviously the proprietor brought him an ale.
“Thanks,” he said. “Say, I don’t suppose you can tell me where I am?”
“Freyborg,” said a man from the other table. Bedivere looked to see that the speaker, a youngish and prematurely grey man, and all his companions were looking at him. “Never heard of it,” he replied to the man. “Is it Scotch or English?”
“Westmarkian,” replied the old man at the end of the table. “And you’re Welsh, I’d surmise by the make of your sword and your accent. I’m Luther.”
“Sir Bedivere Bedrydant, at your service,” Bedivere replied. The redheaded girl snorted. “What sort of name is that; Welsh for ‘bloody moron’?”
“Actually, It’s Welsh for ‘good in bed’; want to find out why?” The redhead looked like she might claw his eyes out. Meanwhile, the pretty blond girl was blushing furiously and the violet-eyed boy next to her looked like he might kill him. Luther and the other two men were trying desperately not to laugh. The dark haired woman, did laugh as she made room for Bedivere on the bench.
“Never mind about Zara, she’s always this good natured. Why don’t you join us? I’m sure if nothing else watching you and Zara go at it should be amusing. I’m Rosana.”
Bedivere had a feeling he was going to like Westmark.
(Just for clarification, the name Bedwyr Bedrydant translates roughly to "Bedivere of the Perfect Sinews".)
For kaliscoo:
It was a nice enough place, if you liked trees and dirt and rocks and chasing mythological creatures for no apparent logical reason. Eventually, Bedivere emerged from the forest which he had been riding through for days to find himself in unfamiliar settings. It didn’t quite look like Wales, it was too warm for Scotland, and England would have had more people. That left him out of options, as he certainly didn’t remember crossing the Channel, to he rode a ways to see if he could locate civilization.
Soon he hit a small town. He did not recognize the name, but he recognized the building with the universal wooden sign depicting a foam-topped mug. He tied up his horse and went in.
The Inn was empty save for a sizeable group in the corner who fell silent when he entered. Obviously the place was going to be suspicious of strangers…or maybe it was just the sword and dagger hanging from his belt. He sat at a table somewhat away from the others. A fellow who was obviously the proprietor brought him an ale.
“Thanks,” he said. “Say, I don’t suppose you can tell me where I am?”
“Freyborg,” said a man from the other table. Bedivere looked to see that the speaker, a youngish and prematurely grey man, and all his companions were looking at him. “Never heard of it,” he replied to the man. “Is it Scotch or English?”
“Westmarkian,” replied the old man at the end of the table. “And you’re Welsh, I’d surmise by the make of your sword and your accent. I’m Luther.”
“Sir Bedivere Bedrydant, at your service,” Bedivere replied. The redheaded girl snorted. “What sort of name is that; Welsh for ‘bloody moron’?”
“Actually, It’s Welsh for ‘good in bed’; want to find out why?” The redhead looked like she might claw his eyes out. Meanwhile, the pretty blond girl was blushing furiously and the violet-eyed boy next to her looked like he might kill him. Luther and the other two men were trying desperately not to laugh. The dark haired woman, did laugh as she made room for Bedivere on the bench.
“Never mind about Zara, she’s always this good natured. Why don’t you join us? I’m sure if nothing else watching you and Zara go at it should be amusing. I’m Rosana.”
Bedivere had a feeling he was going to like Westmark.