Mordred came looking for Owain, who was last heard from visiting his mother in her isolated castle; but Owain had gone by the time he arrived, and turning back that day was neither practical nor polite. So he has, grudgingly, accepted Morgan's hospitality, which doesn't mean he plans to sleep tonight ( Read more... )

There are, unfortunately, no cold-shower facilities at the cottage. Mordred is making do with well water and some very deep breaths. On the bright side, he's changed his habitual T-shirt for something more old-fashioned and less gratuitous-when-wet.

Gunshot to the heart, as neat as these things can ever be. He's lying very still and oddly graceless on the immaculate Mansion floor, still with that vaguely stunned expression, and quite beyond resuscitation.

[friends, relations and alarmed passersby feel free to react here, to save spamming Lascelles' intro. :D]

It doesn't get any better after he gets out of the library.

Somewhere in the midst of the Mansion, one Michael Wilkinson -- Mordred only to his very close friends -- sits with his head in his hands. He's a little taller, a little older, but mostly recognizable to any of his erstwhile acquaintances.

Outside again today, in the makeshift shed beside the house, sanding down what looks to be half a bench for the living room (still furnished mostly with cushions and good intentions): scruffy, sweaty, his sleeves rolled up against the heat. For once he seems at ease.

[/sock] open post, you know the drill. :) [sock]