quinque: for you i bleed myself dry [central]
Sagramore's depressive periods were common enough in Camelot, where he actually had something to do from day to day. Here they've been getting progressively worse, out of boredom and the peculiar feeling that he's been living too long, that he's stepped out of the planned order of things, and, most of all, because in Camelot at the worst times he could always find a warm bed for refuge. There was always someone willing to welcome him in, in exchange for his handsome smile and the exotic touch of his accent and his pretty way of speaking.
Here he's been living mostly on his own since he came, with occasional visits to Mordred that consistently fail to reassure him at all. He's caught the rumour that Arthur is trying to put together a band of knights, and it's tempting--it's very tempting, but there's Mordred to think of, and that's hard to get past.
So he's taking refuge in his normal way, by finding a quiet place to get drunk, a task he's half succeeded in. He's leaning against the wall of one of the shops, with a tall glass bottle of a golden liquid at his booted feet. It is only half full.
Here he's been living mostly on his own since he came, with occasional visits to Mordred that consistently fail to reassure him at all. He's caught the rumour that Arthur is trying to put together a band of knights, and it's tempting--it's very tempting, but there's Mordred to think of, and that's hard to get past.
So he's taking refuge in his normal way, by finding a quiet place to get drunk, a task he's half succeeded in. He's leaning against the wall of one of the shops, with a tall glass bottle of a golden liquid at his booted feet. It is only half full.