He'll prop himself up on his right elbow, favoring his left shoulder and revealing a ragged and bloodied hole in his tunic, too close to where the top of his ribcage would be. The wound underneath is only a flesh wound, but there's still a lot more blood covering him than there should be.
"Ugh... what... where am I?" he asks, staring up at the tiny woman before him. "What *is* this place?"
"You are in a place known as 'The Mansion'. " She rubs her hands, preparing herself for the healing. "I would explain more, but we should take care of your wound first."
He'll stare at the light emanating from the small woman's hand and he might pul back a bit, which gives her more access to the injury. "What do you mean... what is *that*?" he sputters, completely out of his depth.
By now, he's likely found a clean shirt and slacks, but might have his left arm in a sling, the better to immobilize his shoulder (we suspect he's likely enough of a skeptic that he'll take this precaution, even after his encounter with Genkai). And since information is one of the better forms of wealth, he's exploring this place, getting the lay of the land.
"So many books, so much time?" he asks, friendly enough.
His eyes turn in Malcolm direction, strangely cold for someone his age. "Not really, books are more tools if anything. I've never read for recreation before."
The kid's appearance makes him think of some of the club kids at the night spot that Tommy had opened, but the youngster's eyes are too old to match the rest of him.
"Neither do I, not much. Used to read the odd novel or poetry, but... well, that was a long time ago," he says.
"Malcolm Merlyn: just woke up here earlier today," he says, offering his free hand.
Morgana's out and about today. She's collected a couple of the early wildflowers, and intends to put them in her room. Unlike when she rides, she looks every inch the Lady of Camelot right now.
Any new strangers will find her in an excellent mood.
"Found some spring flowers?" a friendly if slightly clipped baritenor voice might ask, and she might spy a gent in an open-collared shirt, his arm in a sling, glancing from the flowers to her face,
By appearances, he's to be a shade older than a certain other gent, though the only difference is that the smirk lines around his mouth are a bit more discernible and he wears his hair a bit longer and combed-down.
"What makes them all the beautiful... there's some poem about gathering roses for that reason, if I remember correctly," he replies.
Glancing at the sling, he adds, a little quickly, "Oh, this: got an arrow through the chest while I was trying to protect my city." Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Merlyn. "Next thing I knew, I was waking up on the kitchen floor."
It's time for his afternoon cuppa, and the weather is so lovely, Neville is on the front porch. Sipping at a cup of tea, he has his feet propped up on the railing, enjoying the smell of summer grass. If Malcolm makes his way outdoors, Neville will be friendly, as usual.
Likely, he's gotten the lay of the house and possibly found a room of his own (he's convinced this is some kind of hotel in purgatory, if he's even worthy of that). It's a nice day, and while he's accustomed to spending his days cooped up in the boardroom, this has only increased his appreciation of nature.
"Perfect day for a cup of tea: fresh air makes things taste better," Merlyn says, coming up alongside Neville, his arm in a sling and wearing an open-collared shirt over dress slacks. "That green tea you've got?"
"Earl Grey, actually," Neville replies. "But there are sorts of varieties in the kitchen. I'm sure I've seen green tea," he add helpfully, his British accent obvious. "I tend to prefer this or chamomile," he admits. "Are you new?"
If Merlyn wanders off and around the grounds, he will come across a man shooting arrows with extreme dexterity (in fact, his aim absolutely equals Clint Barton's, which is no small feat).
Tristan already hit the bull's eye. He's now aiming to split that first arrow in two.
He's been looking for some place to practice, when his shoulder stops bothering him (or he realizes what Genkai succeeded in doing), and the sight of the archer in medieval gear is a relief and cause for eyebrow-raising.
"Tricky target: worth the challenge, though....," he murmurs, careful not to disturb the fellow archer.
Focused as he is, the man aiming the arrow does not shift - even if he did, though, Tristan's bow is such that it ever misses. Ah, the glory of those mystery days.
And so the arrow goes, and splits her sister in two, thudding into the heart of the target with a low vibrato.
The knight then turns, slowly, and eyes the stranger, without a word.
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"Can you hear me?"
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"Ugh... what... where am I?" he asks, staring up at the tiny woman before him. "What *is* this place?"
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Soon a glowing light comes from her fingertips.
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As if his day could get any more strange...
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Oscar was never much of a reader.
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"So many books, so much time?" he asks, friendly enough.
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"Neither do I, not much. Used to read the odd novel or poetry, but... well, that was a long time ago," he says.
"Malcolm Merlyn: just woke up here earlier today," he says, offering his free hand.
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Any new strangers will find her in an excellent mood.
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"It is a shame not to appreciate them. They are here such a short time."
"What has happened to you?" She nods at the sling.
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"What makes them all the beautiful... there's some poem about gathering roses for that reason, if I remember correctly," he replies.
Glancing at the sling, he adds, a little quickly, "Oh, this: got an arrow through the chest while I was trying to protect my city." Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Merlyn. "Next thing I knew, I was waking up on the kitchen floor."
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"Perfect day for a cup of tea: fresh air makes things taste better," Merlyn says, coming up alongside Neville, his arm in a sling and wearing an open-collared shirt over dress slacks. "That green tea you've got?"
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Tristan already hit the bull's eye. He's now aiming to split that first arrow in two.
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"Tricky target: worth the challenge, though....," he murmurs, careful not to disturb the fellow archer.
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And so the arrow goes, and splits her sister in two, thudding into the heart of the target with a low vibrato.
The knight then turns, slowly, and eyes the stranger, without a word.
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