[goddamn crackplots]

[illgotten]

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.

Comments

[dutifuldaughter]

Clar, carrying cloth shoes and lacking the usual smell of cigarette smoke, bends down and says, warmly, steadily, with no malice, "Sir? Are you well? Is there aught I can do?"

[illgotten]

That gets his attention. "Clar?"

[dutifuldaughter]

Clar looks startled. "I am Clarissant, yes, sir. I beg your pardon, I do not know you, though sure and I should."

[illgotten]

"Jesus Christ," sinking back in the chair. "Mordred. It's Mordred, for God's sake, Clar-- don't do this to me. What are you doing here?"

[blind_judgment]

Hardly erstwhile, and hardly just an acquaintance, and also remarkably uncrackplotted, Justitia pokes his head into the little room off the library where Mor-- Mi-- ...Mordred seems to have taken refuge. When he sees M... well, let's just go with M - when he sees him sitting in there, he smiles and walks in. "There you are, I've been looking for you. Hard as it is to find anyone in this place. I think the floorplan changes every two days, you know. What're you doing here? Herbs again?"

[illgotten]

He looks up, blinking, looks reflexively to one side in case someone else is there, and back at Justitia blankly.

[blind_judgment]

"...what's the matter? Cat got your tongue? Or Clar?"

Not like that, thanks. Arthuriana though it is.

[illgotten]

He tenses at the name. "What?"

(continued)

[illgotten]

"How do you mean?"

Re: (continued)

[cywyllog]

"Nothing," she says, shaking her head.

Re: (continued)

[illgotten]

"Nothing, nothing. A thousand years and it's 'oh, nothing'?"

Re: (continued)

[cywyllog]

"It has not been a thousand years for me."