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Futuristic ♕ Camelot | ellarose & Syntra

That tiny jab? Oh, it didn't escape Morgan. Her ears were tuned to register the subtlest of insults, and Guinevere wasn't even trying to be subtle here. Still, she didn't bother to address it. The other woman hadn't asked, had she? (Even if she had, Morgan would likely had kept it to herself. Her reasons were her own, after all. Camelot had robbed her of many things, each of them more precious to her than the one before it, but her pride was still hers. A mangled caricature of it, yes, though it didn't mean she would present it to the girl on the silver plate just to... Just to do what? To appease her, perhaps? To satisfy her curiosity? Morgan didn't know and, at this point, didn't care. The sweetness from before had soured in her mouth, just like it always did. Good. At least the temptation wouldn't blind her. It tended to hurt when illusions came crashing down, but without them, Morgan could see the world clearly. That was worth it, wasn't it?)

"No, we are not," Morgan agreed, mostly because it was true. She, too, ceased to move, choosing to stare at Guinevere instead. The music played, still as cheery as before, but at this point, it sounded more like parody than anything else, really. Like a ghost of the understanding they might have reached. "And we won't be, either. You shall be my queen, and queens cannot be close to their subjects. Especially not to subjects like me. Once these lessons are over, I assume we won't get to see each other very much. Worry not. You won't have to suffer my presence for long." Okay, that came off as slightly more bitter than she had intended it to, but-- it was just righteous anger. Morgan had plenty of reasons to be angry, you see? Like the role she had been reduced to, for one. It didn't at all have anything to do with not being able to meet that ridiculous girl anymore! That was-- just an example to illustrate her situation with.

When she demanded to know what the people talked about, however, Morgan just raised her eyebrow. Did she not know? Seriously? Alright, perhaps her assessment of Guinevere as a master of manipulation had been a bit premature. Or was this a part of her game? Slowly, the confusion in her eyes morphed into frown. "Lady Guinevere," Morgan started, slowly and carefully. "Sir Lancelot brings you flowers every day. You seem to spend a lot of time with him, too, and I heard he composed you a song. What do you think the rumors are about? That you are having an affair!" 'Are you?' she wanted to ask, but ultimately, that was none of her business. If Guinevere wanted to cheat on Arthur, then she could help herself to whatever man was willing to have her. "Now, I am not judging you for your appetite, but you really should watch the way you express your affection for him. If my brother hears of this, he won't be pleased."
 
"My appetite?" She's incredulous. They might have stopped dancing, but the world around her is spinning. At last, Guinevere is the one to create distance between them when she takes a step back, as though struck by Morgan's hand instead of her words. Affair? Her... what? Oh, her stomach is turning. She might actually be sick. If only Morgan knew she's hardly had an appetite for anything inside Camelot's walls since she got there! This isn't even anger crawling under her skin anymore... it's horror. In her experience, friends give each other gifts. Friends even write songs for each other. But in Camelot, of course in Camelot, there's only one meaning attached to those things. Sure. Whatever. That tracks. Makes a reasonable amount of sense.

--But if that is the case, then what the hell is Lancelot thinking? Isn't he devout to Arthur? She'd thought he was the chivalrous sort, the kind of guy who went out of his way to do something nice for someone he might consider his queen one day. A nice guy. Nothing more than that. Not to mention the fact that everything that happened between them occurred in front of Arthur's knights in the gardens. What sort of scandal happens in plain sight? That's why she hadn't thought anything more of it... not until now, that is. Knowing is isolating. A betrayal of sorts. The potential loss of her sparring partner layered on top of the promises that Morgan won't have anything to do with her once she's queen.

"I think I know why you're always alone." A breathy, humorless laugh rattles out of her. It's not meant to be an insult. Not at all. "God, I hate this place."

She bites her tongue hard enough to draw blood before she can continue down that path. Closes her eyes long and hard. Swallows. Stays deathly still until the urge to say anything in her defense crumbles away. Who's going to believe her side of the story? Lancelot and Morgan are the only people in Camelot who spend any decent amount of time with her-- with the exception of Arthur himself. Lancelot's half of the problem and Morgan's the one confronting her about it. Clearly this won't end until she locks herself in her room, away from all the stares and assumptions. Reserve her eyes for Arthur until they rot out of her skull. She resigned herself to this life to help those she does care about. Maybe it's finally time to accept that that means shutting herself off from everyone else, so she doesn't mess this up for them.

"I didn't step on your feet. Not once. I... I think we're finished here." Guinevere says, strangely reserved and faraway. The heat burning behind her eyes can mean only one thing. And she'll do anything to escape if it means hiding it. The 'future queen' might as well have authority to end their lesson prematurely, play her role in Camelot's game, on the terms Morgan just set. "Thanks for the advice."

It's there as a formality... but maybe there's part of her that means it, too. It's better to understand it now so she can nip all of these flowers, real and metaphorical, in the bud.

With that, Guinevere breezes past Morgan, not waiting around to hear anything more, and closes the door behind her.
 
Well. Well, that... didn't go according to the plan. Not that Morgan had really had one, but still. She had expected this would end in an argument, not with-- with Guinevere running away, her eyes suspiciously moist. Damn. Had she crossed a line here? Surely not. It wasn't like she had been cruel to her for no reason; her behavior did fuel rumors, and it was going to be a problem. Arthur generally didn't pay much attention to the gossip, true, but this affected him directly, which meant it was a matter of time until one of his knights told him. No, it would have been far more unkind to not tell her. (Why, then, did it bother her so much? Why did recalling her expression feel like a knife in her chest, so cold and hard? Maybe it was the contrast, really. The contrast between Guinevere facing the nameless ones with a smile on her lips, and-- well, this. This silent fright. Monsters didn't scare her, but a few words did the job? Laughable. It would have been laughable, at least, if it hadn't been so sad instead. As silly as Morgan found Guinevere, she didn't actually want to bring her down. Not like this. And if that was all it took? Camelot would eat her alive.)

The following hours she spent wrapped in loneliness again; it fit her like well-worn shoes, and Morgan slipped into them easily. So what if her student had run away from her? Not her fault, not her problem. (Morgan considered apologizing to her, but those thoughts never led to anything. There had been nothing to apologize for, after all, and she sure as hell wasn't going to lie her just to get rid of some ill-defined sense of unease. Just... no.) If anything, the girl should have apologized to her! Morgan's only sin had been giving her sound advice. Well, that, and Guinevere was also the one who actually needed her. Given her propensity for doing the exact opposite of what etiquette required of her? Yeah, the future queen wouldn't last a day without her guidance.

Somehow, Guinevere managed to do exactly that, though. She lasted a day, and the day after that, and then another. Well, alright. Why not, it wasn't like Morgan cared. There were always other things for her to do anyway. Things she had neglected, actually, so perhaps their little falling out had been for the best. Avalon deserved her attention more than Arthur's little pet project, didn't it? And so she used the time reserved for their lessons to draw maps of places of power instead, hoping to discover... something. A pattern, or anything out of ordinary. The thing that would make it all click.

Unsurprisingly, that didn't happen. The heureka moments were few and far between, and Morgan wasn't lucky enough to seize one for herself. Gods, it almost felt as if the map was laughing her in the face! It held the answers, she was sure of it, but instead of offering them to her, it remained stubborn in its silence. Perhaps she should actually venture into the wastelands? Seeing them from up-close would likely put everything into a new perspective. Tapping into the magical energies, too, would be a boon. And since Arthur had left for some stupid quest of his-- there was no point in waiting, really. Opportunities were made, after all, not granted to people by the gods. In a split second, her decision was made. She packed some necessities hastily, and then she disappeared from her chambers with the audacity of someone who knew she wouldn't be missed.

Needless to say, when she stumbled upon Guinevere near the gates, Morgan's surprise was immense. "My lady," she greeted her, once again defaulting to pointless titles. Thank the gods for social scripts; they really did make everything easier. "What are you doing here?" Alright, so perhaps that wasn't exactly polite, but Morgan couldn't suppress her curiosity. Besides, hadn't Arthur banned her from wandering into the wastelands again? Not that she cared about his orders much, but one would have thought his beloved would respect them more. What a strange turn of events! So strange, in fact, that it hadn't occurred to her at the moment that she had technically also been caught doing something forbidden.
 
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Guinevere might have tossed and turned on the night of their encounter, but she rose with the sun the next morning ready to fight for her life. To survive. And to do that, like always, she'd need to adapt. So she spent most the day in her room, mapping out a battle plan. Might have been a bit silly to call it that, considering this plan didn't involve any monsters or swords... but treating it that way helped. First she made a list of the monsters, topics, that she needed to confront. The flowers, the song, and Lancelot altogether. Second, she made lists of weapons-- or rather believable and very much platonic excuses-- that she could use to cut them down. And third, she forced herself to practice all of the tedious lessons she had learned from Morgan thus far. (And tried very hard in the process not to think about Morgan. It was... admittedly difficult.) Rehearsing her words, smoothing her stutter. Working on her posture and expressions. The rest wasn't quite as hard as she thought it would be. With a banquet on the horizon, she eventually came up with plenty of ideas.

She started small, offering the maid attending her room a flower as thanks. 'Sir Lancelot has been so thoughtful. I wanted to make some flower arrangements for the banquet and he's been fetching some for me every morning. Now I have more than I know what to do with!' The maid brightened and told her that it was indeed very admirable. From there, she knew she needed Lancelot on the same page before the story could spread around--

And talking to him was sufficiently awkward, as expected. She confronted him about his intentions between each clash of their swords in the gardens. Though she let him down easy, she made her terms and boundaries indescribably clear. Fed him the stories he'd have to tell to explain away his grand gestures. Lying might be frowned upon... but the alternative with this supposed 'affair' was decidedly worse. Lancelot's face was red, she was uncomfortable, he apologized profusely... and she might have deliberately knocked him down so she wouldn't have to look at his face anymore. (That and, well, she's still mad. Because what the hell was he thinking?) She caught a few knights nearby snickering and made sure to tell them that's the last they'd see of her for a while. After all, she needs to make sure she's prepared for the banquet. Which, apparently, she is now "very excited" about.

The rumors started somewhere. The ladies are typically blamed for these things -- but Guinevere's certain they must have got their vulgar roots from the boys they call knights around here. And speaking of the ladies... they conveniently spoke about Lancelot as they dined one day. The song, in particular. Their conversation seemed almost scripted, like they planned it with the intention of prompting her to say something careless, something that might sate their hunger for gossip. (And she was thankful, at that point, to be armored with Morgan's information on the matter in advance -- or they'd definitely have eaten her alive.) Guinevere, who had fully prepared for this, told them she feared she'd feel faint when Arthur brought his ten bards in at the banquet. So she had asked Lancelot to help her practice maintaining her composure and grace while she received such a romantic gesture. Ugh. A ridiculous excuse, really, but just the type of thing that'd be acceptable in this place. Her smile was so fake that her face hurt afterwards... but it was well worth it, because a majority of them seemed to buy it. (In fact, some were pretty relieved to accept that she and Lancelot didn't harbor any feelings for each other.) The flowers also came into question, by a few who eyed her skeptically, and she gave them the same story that she gave the maid. She even went as far as to ask them if they would like to keep some of the flowers for their own rooms.

Ironically, the task of debunking rumors helped to distract her from the pain they brought her in the first place. She hadn't bothered to visit Morgan, now that she knows she's perceived as this foolish woman with an appetite for more than one man. Ugh. Whenever Guinevere pictures the way she must look in Morgan's eyes, she gets super grossed out. It's... better this way. Better to keep her distance. It's not like Morgan even wants her there.

A few days later and at long last, she finally has the opportunity she's been waiting for. Arthur and his knights are going away for a while and no one will be too determined to seek her out without his orders. Guinevere has the old, weathered bag she arrived with slung over her shoulder, stuffed to the brim with supplies she's gathered over all this time. Peering out through Camelot's gates, she takes in a long, deep breath. She's going home. If only for a little while. She's so excited that there's a sort of whiplash when she hears a voice that, at this point, almost strikes her like a ghost from the past. The very recent past, that is. Morgan. Shit. Why now?

Reluctantly, she turns her attention towards the other woman. It takes a second for her to realize it, but is she... also carrying a bag? That's interesting. She might have acknowledged it openly it if she wasn't so eager to leave. (To go home, of course, and maybe to escape the weight of Morgan's gaze altogether.) Besides, she might have found an easy out because of it. It's too late for either of them to turn back now without coming to some sort of mutual understanding.

"Excuse me for saying this, Lady Morgan... but it's none of your damn business." Didn't even stutter. Guinevere grins, shrugs, and then looks pointedly at Morgan's bag, as though to say she's got the same leverage at her disposal. "I won't tell if you don't."

The pack on her shoulder is heavy, but her footsteps are light and unhesitating as she slips through the gates and forges on ahead. After the week she's had, she sure as hell isn't going to let anyone stop her now.
 
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None of her damn business? Against her will, Morgan's lips twitched. That was the Guinevere she knew, not the empty shell from before, and seeing her like this brought her a strange kind of peace. You know that feeling when you straighten a crumpled dress, or when you put a book exactly on the shelf where it belongs? This felt similar. (Morgan just... liked patterns, she supposed. It was easier to understand the world when it was divided into bize-sized pieces, and Guinevere occupied her usual space once more. It had nothing to do with any kind of concern for the girl, of course. Nothing.)

"Well, at least you apologized," she said, unable to make herself sound completely serious. So what? The juxtaposition between how her sentence had started and how it had ended was funny. "I can see that my teachings have not been entirely wasted on you. A good apology goes a long way." Without hesitation, Morgan quickened her pace so that the two women were walking side by side. She did so instinctively, without thinking, and then she briefly considered going the opposite way, but-- no. No, Guinevere had seen her. It would be wise of her to tag along and discover what exactly she was planning to do in the wastelands, if only for the blackmail material. Morgan needed something to protect herself with, after all. Something to hold against her in case Guinevere decided to tattle.

Technically, the fact that she was even here should have sufficed, but knowing Arthur, he would find some way to excuse his bride while condemning her for the exact same thing. Arthur was just creative like that, really. In his head, Guinevere would have gone into the wastelands to save lost kittens, or perhaps to get him flowers. Morgan, though? Undoubtedly, she would have been there to commune with dark gods and feast on children's corpses. (Did he actually believe it or was he that good at pretending? And did it even matter? The difference between the two could be terrifyingly thin anyway.)

At any rate, Morgan required a solid proof of Guinevere's actions, and clearly the girl wasn't going to give it to her willingly. No, she had to chase it. And if her own reasons needed to be exposed in that chase-- well, so be it. "...research," she said after a while. "I want to confirm a few theories of mine and you can't do that from the safety of your room. Not when your theories revolve around the wastelands anyway." See? She hadn't even lied to her! Morgan may have omitted certain aspects, such as the bits concerning the conspiracy against Arthur, but Guinevere hadn't asked her about that. No, she had wanted to know why she had come, and now she did. A fair deal, right?

"Your turn, my lady," she tilted her head aside. Was it just her or did her tone sound slightly playful? Perhaps. Leaving Camelot behind always put her in a peculiar kind of mood, so it wouldn't be too out of ordinary. (Finally, finally she could breathe freely once again. It wouldn't last long, she knew, but wasn't that what made it so special? That ephemeral quality? Yes, Morgan was going to savor it.)
 
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"My turn? Hey, now, I never agreed to exchange stories." Guinevere's says, lilting with amusement. Might have dug her heels in on the defensive if she hadn't softened, witnessing Morgan in a mood that deviates from her usual no-nonsense air. Still. When she deep dives into her heart, she can still yank up remnants of hurt from their last conversation. It'd be easy to say that she missed her chance to learn about her life in the wastes, easy to lash out. But, no, she woke this morning resolving to put all Camelot-related issues behind her today. Plus... it's better not to fight out here. How many times have someone's last words to a person they cared about been something they regretted? (Well... not to say that she and Morgan are 'close' or anything. Obviously. They discussed that last time.)

Research, huh. Must be magic. She could ask some follow up questions, but nah, better not waste her breath. She won't get anything unless she offers something up in return. Even then, the chances of Morgan elaborating are slim. What she just gave her was the bare-bones of the matter, and well, Guinevere guesses she can play it like that, too.

"Hang on a sec." She stops when they're a relatively good distance away from the castle. Takes the band around her wrist and ties her long, wavy hair back into a ponytail. Then she unfastens the pins around the skirt-like fabric at her waist until she can remove it, revealing the pair of brown trousers she's wearing underneath. It's like shedding a disguise, becoming a different person. The person she was before. But it's more than a matter of preference, it's practical, should she need to fight in the wastes. She folds the fabric over her arm, stuffs it in the empty front pocket of her bag. She tilts her head from one side to the other, ponytail swaying like a puppy's happy tail behind her, rolls her shoulders and continues walking as though nothing happened. "Ah, that's so much better."

Guinevere thinks for a while after that, keeping a trained eye on the path ahead. No signs of danger. She supposes nothing gets too close to Camelot in the daytime. Hearing her footsteps and Morgan's together, it does make her wonder... is this 'research' going to take her in the same direction for long? Can she get away with prolonging her answer until they go their separate ways-- or are they going to be walking like this for a while? She bites her lip, contemplative. Might as well say something, or Morgan will think it's... well, she's not really sure what Morgan will think. She sure as hell doesn't want her suspecting she's headed off to see a mysterious third lover in the wastes.

"I've lived my whole life out here. The possibilities are endless." They call it a wasteland for a reason. Their base changes depending on the weather and the beasts... so home is where her gang is. Guinevere smiles. She's not going to dig deep. In fact, she reaches at the very top of her bag for her answer. A flower crown, composed of peach roses with large jagged leaves, dusted with baby's breath in varying shades of beige. She sets it on her head, feeling more confident than she has in days, smile growing a touch wider as she shoots Morgan a sideways glance. "I'm bringing flower crowns to some kids. Want one?"

Technically, it's true! Might not be the whole of it, but she isn't lying either.
 
"You have not," she agreed with a ghost of a smile on her lips, "but it is only proper. And since becoming a proper lady is your goal-- well, I imagine that you will play nice with me. Am I foolish for thinking so?" Perhaps she was, but that didn't matter very much. When Morgan le Fey set her eyes on a prize, she always got it, one way or another, and this time would be no different. That information Guinevere kept so close to her chest? She would get it, too. Likely not immediately, yes, but Morgan knew how to bide her time. Her entire existence in Camelot had been just elaborate exercise in patience; at this point, one could say she was overqualified. Surely one woman wouldn't get to be the straw that broke the camel's back?

When Guinevere asked her to wait, Morgan did so without asking for the reason and chose to take in the scenery instead. It was... rather monotone, as the wastelands tended to be. She had no idea who had coined the name for the world outside of Camelot, but it was a fitting one for sure. The land truly was wasted in the most primal of senses, completely devoid of life. As they got further and further away from the castle, the greenery gave way to the endless sea of grey. Grey skies, grey soil, grey air, even; in the past, they had called it 'pollution', but that word, too, was forbidden now. Arthur had thought it terribly unpoetic, and-- well. Obviously, that which didn't fit his sensibilities had no right to stay in his world. Morgan thought he called it 'ancient curse' now? She wasn't entirely sure. (The thing about melodramatic and non-descript terms was that you easily mixed them up, especially if there were like twenty of them and they all sounded like they could be referring to the same concept. An ancient curse, a fiendish curse, a curse of foolishness... Who had the time to differentiate between those?)

Wait. Was Guinevere putting on trousers? Now that snapped Morgan out of her trance. She-- didn't think she had seen a woman wearing such clothes, at least if you didn't count pictures. Even before The Catastrophe, her family had been... particular about these things. Traditional, as they had said. Perhaps that was why she couldn't hide her shock; her mask slipped, if only for a second, and she watched Guinevere with her mouth slightly agape. (She looked good, too. The way the trousers accentuated her legs? Very nice. Not that Morgan was too interested in such things, but she did have working eyes and could acknowledge the reality, thank you very much. Being able to do that was a mark of a true sorceress!)

"Well, as long as you are comfortable, my lady. I, for one, think they look constricting." Which they did! Morgan couldn't fathom how people managed to move so freely in them, though she supposed it was a matter of habit. Most things were.

It seemed, though, that Guinevere had more surprises up her sleeve. Morgan's expression turned to one of pure incredulity when she pulled out a-- a flower crown? Alright. At this point, she probably should have accepted that the other woman would never stop doing this. Never stop surprising her, really. To her own shock, Morgan chuckled; it was a brief, quiet thing, but it had definitely happened, which... hadn't been true for so, so many years.

"Thank you, but I don't think I should deprive the children of their flower crowns. They'll find more joy in them anyway." Morgan glanced at Guinevere's bag, at how full it seemed, and then she put two and two together. Oh. So it was that simple? "That's not the only thing you're carrying, though, is it? I mean, flower crowns are nice, but they sure don't help one survive in the wastelands. Having grown up there, surely you'd know this." Her gaze moved from the bag to Guinevere, sharp like a knife. "I have to warn you that this is theft, my lady," Morgan continued, still oh so very serious. And then: "...I do hope you had the decency not to be seen. Theft is terribly unladylike."
 
Guinevere smiles plainly in response to the first inquiry, deciding to take a cautious approach with her responses. Keep them as honest as possible, but short and to the point. Because her goal is not, in fact, to become a proper lady... but to deliver the supplies that rest on her shoulders at that very moment. No one needs to know that but her. Sure, Morgan might remember the outside to some unknown extent, but she's still ingrained in Camelot's ways. After all, she's probably never even worn trousers. And the consistent use of titles even outside Camelot's walls are a constant reminder. Though she's typically on the outskirts of events inside the castle, she's still a part of it.

There's a genuine spark of joy in her eyes when she catches Morgan's laugh, however quiet it might have been. There's this warmth and a sort of pride that blooms in her heart, for having coaxed that sort of reaction from her. It was nice to hear... well, it was nice while it lasted. And here they go again, with words like knives and accusations. It's becoming increasingly apparent to her that these 'sweet moments' between them never seem to go anywhere worthwhile. Always back to square one. Or, at least, that's how it feels sometimes.

"Surely I do." She agrees with a sage nod, the light flickering out of her expression as she lifts the flower crown off her head and sets it gingerly back inside her bag. Maybe she's so accustomed to being shouldered with accusations that they're starting to roll off her back like nothing. (That and, well, thievery is not the worst crime to be falsely accused of, when compared to... other things. Like affairs, for example.) Truthfully, Morgan's not the only one who's ever accused her of theft in her lifetime. Sometimes she's been guilty of it, too. But not this time. She'd simply held on to what she was given. And as 'future queen', she was always provided with far more than she needed, so she wanted for nothing. Keeping her gaze trained unflinchingly ahead, she breathes out a quiet, world weary sigh. "I'm not a thief. Believe it or not, everything in this bag belongs to me."

"They're like the flowers. Unwanted gifts." Looking tired, all of a sudden, she lowers her eyes towards the ground. "You'll find that nothing in Camelot has gone missing."

What makes her even more uncomfortable is the fact that they're stuck on the topic of her bag in the first place. She doesn't want Morgan picking her clean for information regarding her visit home or the reasons for it. Doesn't care a lick if she's branded a thief... but she does care about delivering these supplies in one piece. On top of that, she desperately wants to steer away from the subject of their last conversation.

"Probably wouldn't surprise you to know that I used to be a thief, though. Act too much like a proper lady out here and before long you'll be nothing but a dead lady."
 
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Ah. Had Guinevere interpreted it as an accusation? Morgan supposed that did make sense, but she hadn't actually meant it like that. It had been... her attempt at a lighthearted conversation, really, which only proved just how rusty she was in that department. Could one be rusty when it came to doing something they had never done, though? Because no conversation in her life had ever been-- well, just a conversation. It had always been a trial, or a reconnassiance mission, or an empty gesture to ensure she would be left in peace. Out of these options, which one fit this situation? Morgan... didn't know, actually. She did know, however, that this wasn't developing the way she wanted it to. Earning Guinevere's trust was a crucial part of her plan, for gods' sake! (And maybe, maybe she also didn't like the way Guinevere suddenly looked oh so very small. Again, she had never wanted that. In hindsight, though, what Morgan wanted had always seemed to matter very little, and-- and perhaps her mother had been right about her. About her nature and everything else, too.)

"Lady Guinevere," Morgan said, feeling ridiculous and somewhat panicked all at once, "I was-- I was trying to joke, alright? Clearly a bad idea, but that's what it was." Gods, it sounded even worse when she had said it outloud! This was just like that dance all over again, except that she didn't even have the advantage of knowing the steps this time. Just... ugh. Running away genuinely seemed like an appealing option, but that impulse only made her straighten her back. Made her face Guinevere with greater conviction, really. You could say many things about Morgan le Fey, many of them less than positive, yet nobody could accuse her of having no self-control.

"For the record, I don't even think it's that reprehensible to steal from them," Morgan shrugged. "I mean, if they value their knightly ideals, then they should be giving out food to the poor anyway, but I have never seen them do that." Not that it surprised her at this point; the knights were especially good at picking and choosing the parts that suited them while discarding the rest of it. Perhaps Arthur had made mental gymnastics an official prerequisite for serving him? Because that would have explained a lot.

"So, yes. Good job, I suppose." Good job. Good job? Okay, clearly her mouth was just functioning independently of her brain at this point, and had been for a while! Gods. Had she truly said all those things to the future queen? Most of it would easily qualify as treason. If the wrong sort of man heard of it, surely she would hang. (Somehow, though, that still wasn't the worst thing about this entire mess. The way her cheeks burned? That was the worst.) Finally, Morgan allowed herself to break the eye contact with Guinevere; her own feet felt like the only safe place to look at, and that was exactly what she did.

"Just forget I said anything," Morgan shook her head. "We'll both leave with our dignity intact that way."
 
"Oh." Oh. Guinevere can't think of anything else to say. It was just a... joke? But she'd seemed so serious, though! And considering how things had gone the last time they spoke, she-- oh god-- she really thought she was going to get in trouble. Her intentions are so radically different from what she thought they were that she doesn't know how to react, except with a blank stare. She blinks, watching perplexedly as Morgan's cheeks turn pink and she babbles in a way that's... sort of adorable, if she's being honest. (No way is she ever going to admit that to her face, though. She'd kill her. And then Guinevere would be a dead lady.) The hurt washes away and leaves a strange mix of awkwardness and relief in its wake. She rubs the back of her neck sheepishly, averting her gaze as an act of mercy. "I guess I've been sort of on edge lately." Does she apologize? What do the rules of etiquette say about this? It takes a moment, but naturally Morgan supplies the answer. Forget.

The tightness that ensnared her lungs releases, allowing her to breathe easy again. Knowing Morgan agrees with the concept of offering Camelot's resources to those who need them -- it's something she can respect. It matters to her, more than she can afford to say right now. Either way, she carries on before they can pause and have a truly detailed conversation about it. (Which might be for the best, considering Guinevere is particularly... passionate about it. Liable to say too much.) The echo of Morgan's 'good job' resounds in her head as a brief silence permeates the air between them. And every time she plays it back, the funnier it gets, really. The other woman subverted all her expectations. And she's never seen her like this before. Guinevere snorts before she can stop herself.

And then she loses it. She laughs. It's probably the first genuine laugh she's had since she first arrived in Camelot-- where her shoulders tremble and her eyes smile. Her belly will ache if she keeps it up for too long.

"I'm sorry--" She can barely speak through it, "I'm not trying to laugh, it's just--" more laughter, "I can't help it." There's a gasp for air as she tries to compose herself, in case Morgan doesn't find it quite as funny. She pushes her thumb at one of her watery eyes and adjusts the pack on her shoulder. Clears her throat and assumes the tone of a proper lady once more. "Okay. That's the end of it, I promise. I'll forget about it."

There's a brief pause as she gathers her bearings and reflects once more on what was said. She's nearly tempted to inform Morgan that that's how she and Arthur met. That she actually robbed him a lot before he finally caught her. How he said he'd agree to leave most of the food he packed with her gang... as long as she came with him. Like she was a thing to be traded. He must have thought he was being romantic until he realized the general consensus was that she wasn't going anywhere. Thinking back on that day reminds her of how tough times were then, the promises he made to convince her and the promises he's broken since then.

While she could easily indulge the topic and voice that she wholeheartedly agrees with Morgan, there's still good reason for her to tread carefully. Especially if she gets started on the subject of Arthur. It'd be apparent that she has no love, not even a mote of fondness for him. So instead, she keeps it brief. "I've been trying to talk to Arthur about sending supplies, but... he's been preoccupied lately." Preoccupied, yes. That's the kindest way she knows how to put it. She hates tiptoeing around her true feelings for him. But she knows she'll be able to vent... as soon as she gets home. Speaking of which, she hadn't really expected to have a companion for this much of the trip. It could just be a coincidence, but she decides to ask very casually, "So. What direction are you headed in?"
 
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When Guinevere erupted into laughter, Morgan looked decidedly less than impressed. Was that any way to treat someone who had just bared her heart to you? Really? One would have thought you didn't need etiquette lessons to, you know, not laugh in that person's face, but apparently not! Gods. What was it about Guinevere that made her lose so composure easily? The clumsiness with words must have been contagious, most definitely, because this-- this wasn't her. This wasn't the Morgan she had constructed so carefully; the Morgan who wore steel instead of her skin and whose tongue carried deadly poison. The Morgan who would not only survive, but also thrive within the walls of Camelot. Still, despite that, she found herself... smiling?

"Well, it is good to see that at least someone is having fun here," Morgan said, though there was nothing sharp about her words. Nothing at all dangerous. With her cheeks still red and her lips curled up in that tiny smile, she looked like someone else entirely. More like a person than a concept, really. (Perhaps that was Guinevere's fault, too. She was naive, yes, and Morgan didn't doubt that she would reap the fruit of that naivety soon, but-- well, there were benefits to that, too. Benefits that applied more to her than Guinevere herself. Was it selfish of her to indulge in them like that, without tempering the girl's worst impulses? Perhaps. It wasn't like Morgan hadn't tried to mentor her, though, and she could hardly be blamed for Guinevere's absolute lack of survival instincts.)

"Oh, preoccupied. Sure," Morgan smirked. Yes, she could imagine the things that kept him busy-- or, more precisely, the excuses he told her. Had he maybe wooed her with grand promises? If so, then she pitied the woman. Arthur's words were as sweet as honey, and it was easy to drown in their sweetness; such sweetness, however, often hid a rotten core. And Guinevere? To her misfortune, she was about to find out. "My brother is always so very preoccupied. Kingly duties, such as holding banquets and particupating in hunts, exhaust him so much. I weep for him every day." It was a dangerous line she walked here, teetering dangerously close to honesty, but her tone acted as armor. Because the way she said that? Nobody could tell whether it was sarcasm or whether Morgan actually meant it. A favorite technique of hers, really. Even if lies had ceased to bother her years ago, it was entertaing to slip in a fragment of truth here and there.

"And I don't know," Morgan admitted. "There's no specific location I am interested in. I just... follow the thread." Which probably wasn't the most exhausting of descriptions, but she doubted Guinevere was eager to hear about the fine details anyway. Most people only really cared for magic to the extent that allowed them to stay as far away from it as physically possible, and there was no reason to assume it would be different with her. Arthur had, after all, explained to her just how much Guinevere loathed it. (Not that Morgan trusted him much, but... yeah, that one sounded trustworthy enough. Again, magic was hardly the most popular of topics.)

"Don't worry. I will not expose you to it; my research is mine alone." It was in that moment, however, that Morgan sensed a strange presence. She froze in place, her eyes serious. "Lady Guinevere, can you--" 'sense it', she had wanted to say, but finishing that sentence was pointless. Of course she could. Hell, at that point, Guinevere could see it as well; one of the nameless ones, unlike anything Morgan had witnessed before. It emerged from a hole in the ground, and gods, was it large. Large and grotesque, too. Usually, you could at least identify what the creature had been before the parasite had taken over, but this? This thing had no distinct shape outside of its massiveness. The steel had swallowed it almost completely, and the fleshy parts that still remained had succumbed to rot.

Morgan looked up to the monster, unafraid. No, not just unafraid; more like thoroughly fascinated. "Wait, I can-- are those multiple animals fused together?" Because if she wasn't terribly mistaken, then she sensed more spirits than just one.
 
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Guinevere simply walks alongside Morgan, subdued by the easy air between them, maybe, as she listens to her speak about Arthur. She says nothing. Just brings her hand to her cheek, brushes her fingers over the place right beneath her scar. The place he chooses to kiss whenever he desires. With a slightly furrowed brow, she almost looks thoughtful, but only because she's hard at work under her surface, pushing down on all the pent up disgust and rage. And it's only going to get worse, a critical reminder whispers at the back of her neck, with breath so cold it chills her skin. Curling her fingers away from her face and lifting her head, Morgan's description finally snags her attention away from Arthur. "...The thread?"

Her exposure to it. It dredges Arthur back into her mind. She told him not to bother Morgan on her behalf-- so, naturally, he went and chose to do the opposite. And, seriously? She not a kid! (And if there's any reason she dislikes magic, it's because--) There's no time to process this or ask questions, however, before a true monstrosity of a mecha beast appears before them. It's shadow looms over her and Morgan. Mecha beast... even that title sounds too tame for what they're dealing with here. The sight of it almost turns her stomach as violently as the thought of Arthur does. Heh. Almost. But it's not enough for it to deter her from unsheathing her sword.

"I've never seen one like this before." Guinevere admits, surveying it from top to bottom. And she's seen a lot. Metal has nearly consumed it and she can't pinpoint a vulnerable point to strike at. Not yet, anyway. It's tedious, but no reason to lose hope. Sometimes all it takes is a change of perspective, seeing things from a different angle. Which she might get, soon (if she doesn't die, that is) considering it's leaning back, as if preparing to strike. She braces herself, eyes widening slightly as it cocoons itself into a sort of warped, metal sphere and rolls towards them at full speed. Instinctively, Guinevere dives out of the way, yanking Morgan along with her. And not a moment too soon, either. It inhabits the spot where they were just standing, forcing them to back up to keep a safe distance. Clouds of dust rise around them and the monster's silhouette seems to stand slightly taller as limbs made from bone and metal both jut out beneath it. It makes her think of a spider. A giant spider made of a grotesque amalgam of nightmares and who knows what.

"Tell me what can you do." Guinevere acknowledges Morgan with her gaze still trained on the monster's movements. She hopes she didn't hurt her just now, pulling her out of the way like that, but there's no time to bicker. Maybe the other woman would have reacted faster than she just gave her credit for, but she's not about to take any chances with their lives at stake. "I don't give a shit about exposure and it'll be a hell of a lot easier for us to fight this thing if I know what you're capable of."

It's moving slowly now, lumbering forward on newly sprouted limbs. She wonders how quickly it can change forms-- how many forms it even has. Maybe it has something to do with being a combination of so many different things? Huh. She glances down, realizing she's still holding onto Morgan's wrist and releases her quickly. Geez. This is a matter of life or death! Why is Guinevere blushing now? Now, of all times? "...Don't push yourself if it's dangerous. I'm here, too."

Tending to the supplies under her arm the way a mother might a newborn, she reluctantly slings the strap of her bag over the thick, sturdy branch of a dead tree a few steps away from where they're standing. As much as she hates to part from it, she can't let it get skewered while she's fighting. She'll have to keep an eye on it in her peripheral, protect it like a third person out here. (Which it might as well be -- it's one of the main reasons why she's tolerating Camelot's nonsense at all.)

The monster's getting close, now. She readies her sword, stares it down without fear. Then she rushes at it, weaving between limbs, and hacks away at one of the more organic looking ones. It falls away and the creature grunts -- but it's still supported by too many legs to fall yet. If she keeps this up long enough, she might be able to throw it off balance. The underbelly or even the top of the monster could be a place of weakness. If it collapses on its side, it'll be a whole lot easier to see. She twists deftly out of the way of a particularly sharp mechanical leg, and cuts through another in the process. Oh, right. Got to keep in mind to dodge if it changes forms again, too. She definitely doesn't want to get crushed under this damned thing.
 
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Perhaps it was a good thing that Guinevere was so quick to act, really, because Morgan... well, her feet seemed to be glued to the ground. With fear? No, definitely not. If anything, she was fascinated, taking in the form of the monstrosity in the same way a different person might have admired an exotic flower, or maybe a rare jewel. This-- damn. How did that bastard Darwin always manage to be so right? Because one couldn't ask for a clearer evidence that evolution happened to machines as well! Now probably wasn't the time to contemplate that, though. Not when the creature turned against them!

For a second, Morgan lost her footing as Guinevere yanked her aside, but she regained it quickly. (It turned out all those dance lessons hadn't been for nothing at the very least. Having to jump while wearing high heel-- well, it did teach you how to keep your balance.) "Everything," she said, looking Guinevere straight in the eye. "Everything and nothing. I-- I haven't actually seen this model before. I'm not sure how it works exactly." No matter what all those fools thought, magic wasn't as simple as waving your hands and screaming 'abracadabra'; hell, that notion was donwright insulting. In order to wield the power, you had to know where to direct it. You also had to know how much strength you needed to apply, and which spots to avoid if you didn't want it to explode. Parlor tricks? Hardly. Her brand of magic was closer to science-- except that word was forbidden now, too, and Morgan dared not to utter it. Not with the cost being so high. Besides, there were better times for philosophical debates; preferably when enraged machines weren't trying to rip your head off. "Just... keep it busy for me. Let me analyze the patterns so that I see what I can do."

Under normal circumstances, it would have occurred to Morgan how deeply strange this whole situation was. Now that she thought of it, nobody had ever asked her to use her magic before. Oh, they had expected it, alright. Relied on it, even. Magic just made one's life easier; everyone acknowledged that, if only grudgingly. It also stained your soul, though, and had they begged her for it, they would have been just as guilty, just as impure. (A weird logic, if you could even call it that, but Morgan had learned not to question it. Pointing out all the contradictions was just pointless, really. An utter waste of time. Camelot had, after all, been built on them.) And now this girl who had waltzed into her life a few months ago just asked her for help casually, as if magic wasn't something to be feared. Something disgusting. As if she wasn't untouchable for dabbling in it, either.

Morgan didn't have the time to think about any of that, however. Swiftly, she reached into her bag and pulled out a large syringe. The needle glistened in the sun, wet with some blue substance, and Morgan suddenly felt as if she was about to faint. Oh, how much she hated this! ...it had to be done, though. It really, really had, unless she wanted the fiasco from before to repeat itself, and so she gritted her teeth and stabbed herself into her leg through the dress.

The surge of energy came immediately. It was like a tidal wave, vast and wild and hot like fire, and it blended with the pain in a way that felt... overwhelming. Completely so. Morgan couldn't breathe, but that hardly mattered; in that moment, she was both the galaxy and the atmosphere, and oceans and the sun, and breathing was something only mortals concerned themselves with. No, she remembered. I do actually need to do that, otherwise I'll die. (That was what made the drug dangerous, really. Lesser minds succumbed to the illusion with great gusto, hungry for the promise of power. Just like most promises, though, this one was empty as well.)

Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Morgan looked at the scene, looked at the David fighting against her Goliath, and saw everything with such clarity it was almost blinding. Oh. Oh, so that was how it worked. Some of it, at least. She raised her left arm, drew a symbol in the air, and whispered something. And the colossus? The colossus staggered. It tried to move towards the source of disturbance, towards Morgan, really, but something invisible held it in place. Guinevere could hack away at its limbs as much as she liked, it seemed. The machine roared, a mix of static energy and something that sounded almost alive; Morgan would have said the creature was in pain, but that was nonsense. The nameless ones lacked pain receptors. They were inconvenient, and so the parasite had removed them.

The limbs fell off one by one, littering the ground with metal. The machine seemed almost pitiful now, really, as it barely stood on the remaining legs, but then-- gods, then it grew barbs, each larger than Guinevere's sword, and they flew in all the directions. The way the air gleamed with steel? A thing of beauty, or at least it would have been if they weren't about to be pierced.
 
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Everything and nothing. That's not very specific, but she guesses if even Morgan doesn't know how her magic will affect this thing, there's nothing to be done about it. She doesn't particularly like having to ask her to use magic, knowing the state it put her in last time. But she made it back to Camelot alive, didn't she? If magic is Morgan's choice, her go-to for defending herself out in the wastes, then there's nothing Guinevere can do about that. Magic may lead some to an early demise, but she has a feeling that refusing to use her skills against this thing would simply put her on a faster path to that same end. Besides, the way she took down that entire pack of mecha beasts attested to just how much she knew and was capable of. And it helps, because whatever she just did, it holds the beast still. Guinevere hacks at legs as quickly as she's got the advantage, she can already see the shift in it's weight, and maneuvers herself so she can dive away if it does fall.

There's a sort of whirring that she hears overhead and chances a glance upward. From where the legs have grown out, there's a large patch of unprotected... rot. The outer ridges are what's mostly mechanical, twisting and turning, a device controlling the sharper legs like lethal puppet strings. If she could find a way to get up there, then maybe... the way it leans certainly helps, but she still needs a boost up to reach it. But, no, there's no time to study it for long when one of the legs nearest her grows a thorn-- so painfully close to impaling her through the chest that she takes it as a reprimand from the universe for letting her guard down. She inches carefully out of their paths. Pointy at the ends, but slightly thicker where they point out of the legs. Almost like tree branches. If she could climb them, like a ladder, maybe then she'd be able to reach.

Tree branches. Worrying at her lip, she checks where her bag is. Defenseless but safe for the moment... but, with uneasiness roiling in her gut, her gaze flicks to the direction some of those barbs are pointed in. That's the instant when they eject from the beast, cutting through the air. She yelps, ducking partway down, attention darting urgently to Morgan, to make sure she's got herself covered. "Morgan! Large boulder on your left, get down!" Guinevere's feet move faster than she can think, though, and it's not because she's seeking cover for herself. Thank goodness she's wearing trousers for this, because she makes it in the nick of time, snatching her bag up and curling herself around it before anything can happen to it.

And nothing happens to it. That... doesn't mean something didn't happen, though. That's evident by the searing, white hot pain blooming in her shoulder. Wracked with hurt, Guinevere holds a cry in her teeth, breath slowly coming back to her in ragged shakes. Still alive, at least, for now. Her sword has skidded out of reach and she remains where she is on the ground for what seems like forever, curled on top of her bag and not daring to move. Okay. Assess the situation. It didn't impale her through, but it's... definitely not just a graze either. She should consider herself lucky that it didn't rip her arm clean off. Opening her eyes greets her with the blurry sight of her bag, unharmed, and then drops of blood blotting and spreading on the ground next to it. Hissing to suppress another involuntary cry, she hauls herself up with herculean effort onto her heels, flinching as she brings her right hand over her left shoulder, applying pressure. Would be her dominant arm, wouldn't it? Technically, she can fight with her right, too, but... she's got another idea. She doesn't bring herself stand, not yet-- too dizzy-- but she at least manages to address Morgan.

"Those thorns... sticking out of the ground... if it falls on one of those, it might be enough!" Guinevere wishes she could erase the wounded tinges in her voice the same way she can hide her fear in these situations. But, truthfully, she'd be kidding herself if she could walk away from this pretending like nothing happened. The white of her shirt makes it painfully obvious. Petals of red decorate the fabric around the tear in her sleeve. She clenches her fingers tighter, winces. "When I was under there, I noticed it -- it should be vulnerable where all those legs came out. At... at least for now." God. Who even knows what else that thing is capable of?

"It's slow like this... I could outrun it. Guide it." She might need a second, but she'll be damned if she doesn't get back on her feet. Function on sheer adrenaline until this is over. "You wouldn't have to take out the whole thing, like last time. Maybe just one of those steely legs?" It's not exactly standing right, after all her hacking, but those steel legs are steady pillars of support. Take out one and the whole thing should collapse and fall on its own sword. Well, ideally, anyway.
 
This time, Guinevere didn't need to warn Morgan. Everything fell in place like some kind of grotesque puzzle and she knew where the attack would land even before the creature executed it. A few steps to the left was all it took to neutralize that, really. And the feeling that came with that? Downright glorious. There were few things as satisfying, few things as stylish as evading a threat like that with next to no effort. (That, too, was one of the dangers of the drug. It made things too easy until it didn't, and most people weren't wise enough to poinpoint the right moment to stop. Morgan supposed she wasn't, either, but hey, so what? At least she got to pick her poison. It came with clear terms and conditions, too, unlike the propaganda fed to Arthur's knights, and perhaps that made it a little more dignified. Perhaps not, though. Perhaps she was just like all the other fools, thinking her own brand of bullshit to be superior to that of everyone else. If the end result was the same, what did it matter?)

Guinevere, though. The second she saw her, the triumphant feeling in her chest dissolved. Gods. Gods, was she-- was she alright? What a stupid question! You didn't have to be a freaking doctor to know that a woman who had practically been impaled by a giant barb was not even remotely okay. "Guinevere!" Morgan shrieked, forgetting her titles for once. Her voice cracked like a whip, but there wasn't a hint of sharpness in it. No, just a whole lot of worry. When the other woman stated her intentions, however, that worry quickly turned to indignation. "Don't you dare to move, Guinevere! Do you hear me? Disobey and I swear I will get you myself." ... okay, that might not have been the most strategic thing to say to your future queen, but the mix of adrenaline and drugs-- well, let's just say it didn't do wonders for your ability to filter your words. Besides, she was still entirely justified in saying that! What if she died? Arthur would definitely kill her this time; not even a man as in love with his idea of mercy as he was would forgive her for surviving where his fiance died. Hell, he'd probably blame her for orchestrating her death out of jealousy or some other nonsense because clearly she was oh so desperate for his attention. So, yes. This was one hundred percent about Arthur. About Arthur and his whims. (And if she was also genuinely scared of losing her? Just a coincidence, really.)

"It would probably work," Morgan continued, "but-- shit." Why was she even surprised? It should have been obvious that her ban would only serve as an encouragement. This was Guinevere they were talking about here; every time Morgan explained why something was a terrible idea, she went to do exactly that with a big smile on her face. Was she hoping to earn a badge for that or something? An achievement for pissing her off thousand times in a row? Because it certainly looked like that! "... I really am going to kill her," Morgan muttered under her breath as she raised her arms. At this point, there was no way to proceed but to follow Guinevere's plan. It wasn't even a bad plan, but-- damn her! Damn her and her taste for danger!

... no. No, Morgan couldn't succumb to anger now. Anger was fire, and she had to be water. Fire couldn't melt a machine, but water-- water would find the crack, no matter how small, and destroy it from the inside. Targeting the leg only was impossible, of course, since everything about it was so connected, though she could do something that would make the machine fall, and that would be enough. (Morgan hoped, at least. Because if it wasn't? She probably wouldn't be in a shape to attempt that again any time soon.)

One, she counted. Constellations were burned into her eyelids and she could see them even as she closed her eyes, ever-shifting and yet eternal. The time, it seemed, had stopped; only the counting was left to her, a lone point of reference in the emptiness of her universe. Two. Morgan could sense it now. She sensed where the spirit - spirits? - were hiding, one and simultaneously many. Three... and now. Instead of pulling the spirit out, Morgan found a way in and inserted herself into the machine. It only lasted a moment, but the effects were immediate. First, her own body fell on the ground. The machine fell on the ground, too, startled by the presence of another-- except that it wasn't as lucky as Morgan, who, unlike the beast, hadn't fallen right on the barbs. The thing screamed in pure agony, screamed and screamed and screamed until its vocal cords gave out, and then-- nothing. Nothing but deafening silence. When Morgan opened her eyes again, there were no signs of life to be found in that humongous body. Good news, she supposed. Such a monstrosity should have only ever existed as a corpse. The blood that flowed from her nose, though? That was decidedly less good. Something felt wet and sticky on the back of her head, too-- had she hit it during the fall? Of freaking course. Morgan leaned against one of the trees, waiting for her world to stop spinning. She felt mildly nauseous and her entire body hurt, from her fingertips to her very toes, but-- they had won. They had really, really won. They were just two, and they had taken down something that large. Unbelievable. Magnificent. Arthur would die out of envy. And the idea of that? Of her brother just keeling over because he wouldn't get to claim another pointless trophy? That was the last straw; Morgan began to laugh, uncaring that it only made the blood flow faster. No, she just... had to get this out of her system. All that stress, fear and gods knew what else.
 
Guinevere slows and finally stops running when she hears the thing smash against the earth, howling it's dying breaths... and then, at last, going quiet. Morgan did it. They did it. They're alive! The relief hits her at the same time exhaustion does, and hard, but she can't succumb yet. Heartbeat rushing in her ears with each footfall, she treks back over to her things, injured arm dangling uselessly at her side. Everything's there, right where she left it. She smiles ruefully at her bag. Everything should still be intact. Flower crowns might've taken a little damage, if anything, but that doesn't matter. She scoops it up using only her right arm and shimmies it until it's secure over her unwounded shoulder. Then she sheathes her blade and her hand assumes its position over her wound. Then she makes her way over to check on Morgan, who... is she laughing? Guinevere cracks a sideways smile, heart warmed. Good. It means she's still conscious. (And maybe she won't make good on that promise to kill her? Hah.) Especially considering the worrying state she'd been in the last time she'd used magic. Still. She'll have to get closer to make sure if she's really all right. Looking over at the monster's corpse leaves her in a state of awe-- it makes sense, that the exhilaration could bring one to laugh. They did that. Survived that and conquered it, too. Just the two of them. And that's... nothing short of incredible.

"You did it! That was impressive." She grins, wearing that same brash look she had on her face when she'd started running, if only a touch wearier. And, okay, she knows she kind of went against what Morgan wanted, but her gut told her it'd work out! And her gut is rarely ever wrong when it comes to these things. It doesn't fail to escape her that the other woman's got a bloody nose, however, along with the obvious fact that she's on the ground. "Are you okay? I-- I know magic takes a lot, I hope I wasn't asking for too much of you back there."

Guinevere would offer her a hand, but, well, has she got one to spare right now? Her right hand's gross and pressed against her wound, which... ugh. She finally listens to her body, all aching muscles screaming at her for rest, and lets herself fall to her knees on the ground nearby, torso pressed over her thighs. She can feel her chest expand and contract against her arms with each shuddering breath. The world spins around her and she has to blink slowly to bring it back into focus. She considers her options. Going back to Camelot right this moment is a serious no. She needs to make it home... hopefully without encountering another beast, or else she'll have to fight right-handedly and... yeah, she'll need a makeshift bandage of some sort if she's going to do that. "Front pocket--" She finally manages, referring to her bag. "The skirt. You can rip off a piece for yourself and... I might need one, too. I'd do it myself, but--" She trails off. Can't move her dominant hand and the other is slick with blood. Might is also a serious understatement. She bites her lip and averts her eyes, cheeks dusted pink.

It occurs to her now, how Morgan reacted when it'd happened. How she'd only used her name. No titles. That was nice. "Back there... you called me Guinevere." She curls her toes in her boots, wondering if it's a silly thing to bring up while she's in pain and blood trickles through the spaces between her fingers. "Made me sorta happy, I guess." Maybe she's delirious. Morgan's probably going to kill her now, if she wasn't before. That was one of their first lessons, wasn't it, that insufferable lecture on the importance of using proper titles? But it's true. It's so unnecessarily pretentious, being called my lady all the time.
 
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Morgan still laughed when Guinevere approached her, almost as if caught up in some kind of strange trance; it was hard to tell, really, whether it was the drug, the relief, or just the fact that she hadn't laughed like this in ages and so her body didn't remember how to stop. Gods, when had been the last time she had felt so-- so free? Blood was still flowing down her nose, yes, and there were tiny shock waves of pain every time she so much as took a breath, but that was beautiful in its own way, too. It-- well, it reminded her she was human. No matter what Arthur and his lackeys said, Morgan bled the same shade of red everyone else did, and that soothed her. Made her feel at peace. Eventually, though, she ran out of air, and that did subdue her somewhat.

"We did it," she corrected her pointedly as she rested her head against the tree. Not that Morgan suffered from false humility, but she also refused to claim others' victories. Her name wasn't Arthur, for god's sake. And Guinevere? Without her, Morgan wouldn't have been able to focus on her own thing. Perhaps she would have bested it anyway, even if less elegantly, though it might as well have ended with her crushed under those monstrous legs. Only the gods themselves knew, and since she had no way of looking into the alternate reality where Guinevere hadn't assisted her-- well, it only made sense to acknowledge her part in all of this, didn't it?

"And I'm fine. Really, it looks worse than it is." Which was true. Comparatively, nosebleeds weren't that bad; coughing out blood was the true red flag because it meant that lungs were afflicted. The nose just... had a lot of small veins prone to bursting even if nothing particularly dramatic was happening. Not the best design, Morgan supposed, but it was what it was. "I need some time to rest, that's-- that's all. What about you, though?" Because Guinevere looked to be in a far, far worse shape than her. The nosebleed would likely get better on its own, which couldn't be said about the wound!

As if her question had been a cue, Guinevere... collapsed. Yeah, definitely not good. "Gods," Morgan cursed and stood up, fighting against the vertigo. It threatened to pull her down, to make her fall once again, but she stood her ground. Guinevere needed her. Guinevere who had helped her in the past and now required the same kind of help. Right, that was what this was about; repaying her debt, nothing more and nothing less. Unlike some people, she had standards.

"Don't be ridiculous," Morgan hissed. "We won't be destroying any dresses. If you're so against the idea of using your supplies, I have mine to spare. I came prepared, too." More prepared than Guinevere, actually, if she was going to be stubborn like this, but Morgan decided to keep that to herself. The woman had, after all, been silent about her own humiliation.

She pulled some bandages out of her bag and started working on Guinevere's wounds, her hands both surprisingly gentle and swift. Everything about her movements suggested that she was not doing this for the first time-- or if she was, then she had tremendous talent. When Guinevere spoke, however, her hands flinched. "Ah. I did that?" Oh gods, she really had, hadn't she? And if her memory served well, then death threats had also been involved. Morgan was so, so screwed. If Arthur heard of this, surely he would have her head, and all because she couldn't keep her mouth shut! "Well-- that was completely inappropriate of me. I shouldn't have. I--" Wait, had she really said it made her happy? (And why did her heart flutter at the idea? It shouldn't matter. It didn't! Guinevere was Arthur's; making her happy just wasn't her job. They were enemies, even if the girl didn't realize. And yet, yet--) "I can continue, though, if you wish. When nobody is around, that is. And under the condition that you'll forget I threatened to kill you. I just... had a moment, I suppose," Morgan looked away, unable to withstand her gaze any longer. Lately, that happened to her with an alarming frequency.

"So," she said as she worked, desperate to fill the awkward silence with something, "I take it you aren't afraid of magic? Because I usually get very different reactions."
 
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Guinevere's hand shivers as she moves it away from her wound, maybe a little shy about exposing it, and lets Morgan go ahead with her bandages. She's good at this. Still hurts, but her movements are delicate and don't aggravate it any more than they need to. It serves as a nice distraction, though, when it's agreed to that they can go without titles in private. Yes! Who would have thought, of everyone in Camelot, Morgan would be the first to agree to that? Somehow, that mere step between them floods her with a greater since of victory than killing the monster did. She makes a valiant effort to keep her smile in response tame and small, as not to scare Morgan with her excitement, lest she take it back. She just curls her toes a little tighter. "Won't tell a soul." There's a tiny snort, "It was kind of funny, though. When you threatened to kill me." She imagines Morgan thinking it a lot, anyway, whenever she gets into mischief during their lessons. It's nice to hear what she's thinking outright like that, too. But she decides to keep that to herself for now, because the subject shifts over to... magic.

"It was that word. Exposure. It reminded me of something Arthur said, when we got back that day." Guinevere's brow furrows, her right hand clenching into a fist at her side, bloody knuckles turning white. She closes her eyes around the sting of her wound, tips her chin slightly forward. Cradling the anger close, keeping it quiet in her chest. "I've lived my life out here. In the wastes. With things like... like that." She eyes the monster they just killed. Well, maybe not exactly like that? That one was big and unpredictable in a way she's never seen before. (She hopes this variety isn't becoming the norm out here -- but she shoves those worries to the back of her mind for now.) But still, more or less, monsters. She's sure Morgan gets the point.

"'Course I've been exposed to magic, too. What's the point of shielding me from things I've already seen?" She tries very admirably to flatten the bitterness in her tone, but some of it rises through. What makes her really mad, remembering that day, is the total lack of concern he showed for Morgan. It almost makes her want to ask, about their relationship as siblings. They might be on a no-titles basis, but that still seems highly inappropriate and invasive to ask right now. "Anyway... I'm sorry if he bothered you on my behalf. I told him not to."

Guinevere breathes shakily through her teeth, wracked with another stab of pain. She wonders if it's going to leave her with another scar. It's not so bad, she guesses. It'll be a reminder of the first time they fought together. Her cheeks almost burn red again at the thought. Geez. What's wrong with her? Anyway... Magic. She shifts gears and swallows. Hard.

"Guess I'm dodging the subject, though. Magic is... complicated." The blue-green of her eyes gets a cloudy, faraway look when she opens them. "Well, I mean. I don't like how -- how some people use it. Not all, just... some. It's a weapon in it's own way, right? Like a sword. You don't necessarily fear the magic itself, just... the person who wields it."

She blinks, the fog in her eyes clearing, and glances at Morgan. After all, she'd just used her magic to support her in that fight. She's tending to her wounds now. Rather than turning the monster on Guinevere and making off with her supplies, she helped. "I think you're strong. And death threats aside, I'm not afraid of you, Morgan." She looks down at her arm, neatly bandaged now. "Thanks, by the way."

"I... I don't like what it does to people, mostly." She sighs softly, staring at her feet now. Then, to lighten the mood, continues with a wan smile. "I know that it doesn't involve all the weird hocus pocus people talk about in Camelot. Where do they even come up with that stuff?"
 
"... he did talk to me," Morgan admitted. A half-truth, mostly because he had done more than that, but there was no point in delving into the finer details. Not when Guinevere had made it so, so obvious that she hadn't been involved in any way. (In truth, she had never suspected her of that; Arthur had, after all, always been more than eager to lecture her even without any outside encouragement. Still, knowing it for sure? That was nice. Even if Guinevere was her enemy, she wasn't one by choice, and-- well, they likely wouldn't cross swords often. Queens weren't major political players anyway. She was a cog in the machine that was Camelot, very much so, but Morgan-- Morgan was one, too. Maybe some understanding could be derived from that.) "But it's fine. We talk often, Arthur and I." More often than she would have liked, really, but again, this was his future wife. Who knew just how far she could afford to go with the implications? With stretching the boundaries of sarcasm? No, she still had to tread carefully. "I'm used to it."

Still, Guinevere's thoughts on the subject were... interesting, actually. More than she had expected them to be. People not learned in the arcane arts rarely had something insightful to offer, clinging to superstition and their ideas of what magic should be like, but she did none of that. No, she actually thought about the things she wasn't familiar with! What a concept. (The bar shouldn't be that low, but it very much was. The last person she had tried to talk to about magic in earnest had thrown salt into her eyes, for gods' sake! ...yeah, that incident had cured her of any desire for a debate for a long, long time.)

"It is like a sword, and it is not," Morgan said, her voice thoughtful. When not raised in irritation, it sounded surprisingly soft; almost closer to whisper. "The fundamental difference is that a sword is only for killing. Magic is not. Then again, you can also kill in much, much more horrifying ways if you wield magic, so I suppose that doesn't help my argument," she chuckled. "But yes, I see your point. To me, magic is potential, and that also means a capacity for evil. It is wise to fear it, in a way. Everyone should." As if wanting to emphasize her point, Morgan reached for a handkerchief and wiped her nose; the flow had stopped by that point, but gods, she must have looked ghastly, all covered in her own blood.

And it was a good thing that she had done that, too, because it allowed her to hide her expression when Guinevere said that-- that she wasn't afraid of her. That she thought her to be strong. (It was undignified, Morgan was sure; surprised and relieved and somehow flattered all at once, and she simultaneously wanted to run away and lean closer. Must have been all the blood she had lost, really. There was no other explanation!) "Then I should be working harder on my reputation," she said, but it didn't sound even remotely convincing, and it wasn't meant to. At this point, it was... teasing, plain and simple.

"The price is fair," Morgan just shrugged when Guinevere expressed her concern. "You never get something for nothing la-- Guinevere. Do you not pay for your sword skills with training? Does your body not hurt when you practice, over and over until you can't move anymore?" Surely she had to have a routine like that; one did not learn to fight the way she did just by lying on a sofa. "And-- well, I actually came up with most of those things," Morgan giggled. "They weren't going to be reasonable about my magic, so I decided to have some fun with the rumors. They also leave me alone now, which is a nice bonus. There, all done," she rose from the ground. "Do you want me to escort you to your camp? Because I don't think you should be fighting more beasts with that arm." And maybe also because she didn't feel like leaving her, though Guinevere didn't need to know that.
 
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Guinevere listens intently when Morgan speaks. Until now, it always felt like she talked around her honest thoughts, all prettied up with the formalities Camelot expects of them. Magic is undoubtably something she's passionate about and that alone is something to appreciate. She feels like she's getting a rare glimpse of the Morgan behind the walls. She absorbs her opinions with a sort of thoughtfulness because of it. Magic is potential. What kind of potential, she wonders? What kind of change would Morgan bring to the world with magic, if she had the choice? They're loaded questions, though, and they certainly don't have all day to sit and speak of them-- unless they want another monster to find them, that is. And it's when she claims that the price is fair that Guinevere is inclined to disagree. When she aches after training, the feeling eventually reaps positive results. When it comes to magic, the price seems... too high. It's hard, though, from the outside looking in to tell exactly what it entails. Does it get any easier? Or does it take and take, until you have nothing left to give? It's hard to look at it the same way when she's seen people who have utterly destroyed themselves with it. "I guess so." She agrees thoughtfully, considerate of the opinion of someone far more well-versed in magic than she, though the concern is still more than slightly tangible in her voice.

"What!? No way." Amusement melts the worry away like sunshine, though, when Morgan brings up that it was she who started all those strange rumors. Really!? Turns out Morgan has a sense of humor after all-- something else she's learned today. And this hits nothing like the joke she'd attempted before. She laughs along with her, considering how nice it would be to just sit there and listen to her laugh all day-- oh god, she really needs to get a grip. They're going to get themselves killed if they keep sitting around here. Thankfully, Morgan stands, prompting Guinevere to do the same. The world whirls around her for a moment. She closes her eyes briefly, waiting for it to stop.

Blinking the world back into focus, she turns to Morgan. Is she... serious? Considering everything they'd just gone through, she wishes she didn't have reason to hesitate, but she does. Doesn't take long for her to set even that aside, though, noticing the corpse of the giant monster in her peripheral. She's not the only one who suffered during their battle. If Morgan ran into another of those things on her own out here and got hurt --or worse-- Guinevere would never forgive herself. As long as she's careful... the gang would understand, too.

"I-- appreciate the offer. I mean, you don't have to worry about me, I can fight right-handed, um, to an extent, but--" How does she explain? How are they going to react when she walks into camp with a woman? Oh god. She can already feel the sting of embarrassment for her future self on her cheeks. "--You can come. If-- if you want to. It'll give you a safe place to rest for the night. And who knows how many of those monsters are lurking 'round?" She nods to herself, because those are good points, but still scrapes the toe of her boot nervously at the ground, hoping she's not coming across as panicked. The concept of Morgan interacting with any of her gang had never even occurred to her until this instant. There's no telling how this is going to go. "I probably don't have to tell you this, but it's... it's not like Camelot. At all. So brace yourself?"

Guinevere takes a breath. Collects herself. On top of everything else, this is a huge risk she's taking. "And there is one thing before we go. You have to promise not to tell Arthur about this. About any of it." She chews her lip, looks to the bag under her arm. "Not that I think you would... it's just... this is really important to me." And if he knew, he'd probably do whatever he could to take it away.
 
Why did she suddenly look so nervous? Morgan would have liked to think she was just imagining things, but again, Guinevere was an open book, and what she read in there-- well, it implied her presence wasn't wanted. Not that that came off as a huge surprise; Morgan could count the number of times she had felt genuinely wanted somewhere on her hand. Still, it seemed a bit... jarring? Because the implicit rejection wasn't peppered with disgust of aloofness, but something Morgan couldn't quite place. Yet another riddle. (Guinevere herself was a riddle, with all her softness and strength existing in this strange harmony. How had someone like her came to be? Perhaps she would get the answer to her question at the camp. Perhaps she would get more than just that, too, considering who lived there. People surviving in the greyness of the wastelands-- well, let's just say they might appreciate the concept of Avalon more than your standard Camelot dweller. More than the lords and ladies drunk on the idea of their nobility, of being chosen by the valiant king.)

"And I can cast spells until I cough my lungs out, but that doesn't mean I should be doing it," Morgan rolled her eyes. Really, what was her problem here? Maybe her being there did bother Guinevere; she couldn't, after all, imagine a lot of valid reasons for rejecting help in such a vulnerable state. (Perhaps she only felt indebted to her and that was why she didn't tell her outright. Out of politeness. Out of respect for all the rules she had pressed into her skin. And hey, wasn't that a success? For some reason, though, it tasted so bitter Morgan almost recoiled.)

Except that Guinevere then agreed. Alright, she was giving up. At this point, trying to understand her thought processes felt like trying to read Chinese, or comprehend what people saw in Arthur. "Worry not. I imagine it will be a pleasant change of pace," Morgan nodded. Even being thrown into a pit full of scorpions would have been a welcome alternative, so she didn't think the camp could possibly disappoint her. Yet another advantage of the bar being on the floor!

Morgan's expression grew serious, however, when Guinevere spoke of Arthur. Wanting to keep things secret from him-- yeah, she could relate to that. "You have my word," Morgan bowed and placed her right hand on her heart. "He will learn nothing from me. In the same vein, I ask you not to tell him of my visit. Arthur doesn't exactly value my research much."

And speaking of research... "Just give me a moment." Morgan reached inside of her back and pulled out a long, metallic instrument. It looked uncomfortably sharp, too; exactly the kind of thing you'd want nowhere near your face. Fortunately, she didn't appear to be interested in torturing Guinevere with it. No, Morgan proceeded to kneel next to the corpse instead and... scrape away some of the rot? "It's terribly interesting, you see. Such a unique specimen! I'd hate to leave all of it here for the scavengers." Once some of the organic matter ended up in her flask (properly sealed and labeled, of course), Morgan put her bag over her shoulder in one swift motion. "Well, l'm done here. Lead the way."
 
Guinevere watches Morgan collect her sample with a lifted eyebrow, then manages a laugh that's sounds about as awkward as it is nervous. And then she does just that -- she leads the way. Digging her nails into the strap of her bag, she quietly tries to compute how Morgan will get along with everyone. It's hard to predict. The persistent anxiousness fluttering beneath her skin isn't entirely related to Morgan, though. Part of it is excitement, no doubt. But no matter how she tries to quell it, there's a certain amount of dread that thrums through her alongside every heartbeat, every step. Fear, too. After a prolonged absence like this, there's always a very real possibility that one or more familiar faces will be missing in the crowd. Especially if the mecha beasts are changing... growing bigger and fiercer, like the one they just faced.

The sun is starting to go down by the time they arrive. Guinevere stops in her tracks for a moment, when they're still a little ways outside of camp. Takes in a deep, consoling breath as she grapples with her feelings of unease. Just close enough to hear the crackle of the fire and a guitar playing, softly. The familiar strumming alone comes as a relief and she releases the breath she's been holding. Tamara's okay. Nearly got her leg bitten off, the last time she saw her. Guinevere barely has time to turn to Morgan and say something, though, when she realizes they've already been spotted. Four figures are running towards them. They've got tiny legs, but they're dangerously fast. A high-pitched chorus of 'Gwen's' ring out and before she knows it, she's got a child attached to her each of her legs, one trying to climb up on her back like a monkey, and another jumping right in front of her. The impact disturbs her wounded arm slightly and she winces, but simultaneously manages to grin and laugh through it. They're all riled up, trying to talk over each other.

It's mostly incoherent, but she catches' you're back' a few times -- then a proud 'I killed my first beast' (to which she responds by grinning and ruffling the kid's hair) -- and then a who's this? At that point, they all finally go quiet and stare wide-eyed at Morgan. It's probably the dress. Undoubtably the dress.

"Wow, she's pretty." The girl standing directly in front of her, Mia, holds her hands clasped behind her back and smiles knowingly. Oh no. "Guinevere, did you find a wi--"

"--A white flower? Uh, yes! I got some. Just for you." Guinevere's cheeks turn pink as she rummages in her bag for the flower crown made up of daises. It's a little bent out of shape from the fight, but she hastily plops it down on the girl's head anyway. God. The child was going to say wife. They've barely even made it to camp and she's already in trouble. Thankfully, Mia's too delighted with her new crown to correct her. And naturally, all the other kids are curious if they've also got one, so she busies herself with handing the flower crowns out to the rest of the little rascals before shooting Morgan a slightly apologetic look.

"Gwen! Thought that was you." A significantly older voice chuckles. And here comes even more trouble... along with a bloom of relief, a sense of warmth filling her heart. Sam, a rather muscular but cheerful woman walks up behind the kids with a grin. And then she eyes Morgan and winks. Guinevere wishes she could somehow dissolve into the ground and hug the woman at the same time. Sam's the sort of person who would seem very intimidating if not for the bright expression on her face. A pillar of strength and optimism. "And I see you brought someone home with you! Oh wow--" Okay, no, she can't let her finish this sentence.

"Sammy, this is Morgan. Arthur's sister." Guinevere cuts her off while smiling through her teeth, the last part should hopefully stand out like a warning. Arthur. As in the Arthur who whisked her away, the Arthur she has to appease just so she can bring them... as many supplies will fit in the bag she carries over her shoulder. It's not enough. But they have to take whatever they can get. (It spears her through, just noticing the dark circles under Sam's eyes now.) Though she and Morgan have been surprisingly amiable over the last couple of hours, she... still doesn't know that the supposed 'love' she feels for Arthur isn't real. And at this rate, it's going to be incredibly difficult to keep that a secret. She gives Sam a pointed look, to which she responds by dropping her mouth into a subtle but understanding 'oh'. "Um... we ran into some trouble on the way here. I was gonna come alone, but we figured it'd be better to stick together out there." She wants so badly to ask about everything and everyone all at once. But there'll be time for that... soon.

The kids, amidst their own chatter, start chasing each other back in the direction of camp, leaving them with a quiet space to talk. Guinevere and Sam both watch them for a moment before trading a glance of their own. Silently asking the other if everything's okay. As if they could somehow catch up in the span of a few seconds just by looking at each other.

"--I'm Sam. Or Sammy. Whichever you prefer." The woman shifts her focus and nods at Morgan. Her smile's a few shades softer now than before, but not without losing any of it's initial warmth. That turns into a frown, though, when she eyes Guinevere's arm, like she's already started putting the pieces together. "Trouble, huh. Wasn't one of the big ones, was it?"
 
Morgan's thoughts, too, belonged to the camp and its inhabitants. Her trips into the wastelands had been a regular thing, mostly because the samples didn't collect themselves, but she hadn't actually come across many people there. Corpses? Yes, though those hardly counted, and in truth-- Morgan preferred them.

Corpses didn't offer one much in the way of conversation, but that was usually true for the living as well. All that nonsense about the weather and who had slept with whose cousin? No, thanks. She would rather jump out of the window than subject herself to another minute of that willingly. As an additional bonus, the dead also couldn't stab you in the back; all things considered, their company really was underappreciated. Now, though, Morgan was going to get familiar with the living-- and, okay, it did make her nervous. More than just a little bit. Those people who survived on the scraps Camelot allowed them to have? There was no way they wouldn't see the king's sister as an enemy. She, after all, got to live in the castle; in the sanctuary where the world was kind, where the knights were noble and where the future existed as something else than just fear, hunger and promises of more pain. Well, at least it looked like that from the outside. How was she to win these people over? Manners wouldn't help her there. If anything, the way she carried herself would brand her as the other-- as a convenient target. Not that she didn't have experience with that, but still; she had to steel herself. When Morgan le Fey came to the camp, she would have fire in her eyes, not doubts.

Nothing could have prepared her for the welcome they received, though. That Guinevere received, really. Morgan couldn't help but stare at the horde of children that seemingly appeared of out thin air. Okay, these weren't the battle-hardened survivors she had imagined. She also hadn't expected to be called pretty. A witch, definitely. Things that would make any Camelot lady blush-- yeah, that also, and just like knights wore metal in expectations of a fight, Morgan, too, had put on an armor of indifference. Pretty, though? That slipped right past the it. How did one even react to something like that? "Um. Thank you?" Morgan managed utter, surprised at how sheepish her own voice sounded. It... must have been the spontaneity of the child, really. She had received compliments before, of course that she had, but that had been different. Grown men had paid them to her, and they had done so because she was the king's sister and they had felt the need to acknowledge her somehow. And since women were worth what they looked like-- well, praising her beauty was the natural route to take. (Morgan had usually just bowed in response. Why waste her words on them? It wasn't like they had been interested in what she had to say.)

"Morgan," she introduced herself to the woman who winked at her. What was up with those people? Were they this friendly to outsiders on the regular? Because that sure as hell didn't reflect any of her experiences so far. Alarm bells were going off in her head, screaming that something was wrong, wrong, wrong, but-- no. Morgan wouldn't allow herself to get thrown out of balance that easily, and certainly not due to something that appeared to be kindness. She'd just ask Guinevere about the strange behavior later. Surely she knew? "Morgan le Fey. It is a great pleasure to meet you, Sam, and be welcomed into your home," she recited all those meaningless phrases that had been drilled into her head. 'Guinevere told me everything about you' came to her next, but Morgan swallowed that one; considering they might want to keep certain aspects of their identity secret, it just didn't seem like a good idea.

Fortunately, Sam saved her from contemplating over what was polite and what wasn't with an actual topic to discuss. Guinevere had been right; this very much wasn't Camelot. "It was, actually. Not only was it large, but it also changed forms. I have never seen anything like that before. Do you encounter them often?"
 
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"Hey, no problem! It's not every day that we get a visitor from Camelot. Actually, that's never happened. Not once. Well, except for that one time--" Sam's referring to Arthur, but luckily she's careful enough to slide on past it with an easy chuckle. She makes these little slips look a lot more graceful than Guinevere does. "Gets cold at night, but it's not so bad by the fire. We hope you'll be comfortable."

Guinevere's stomach drops when Sam confirms that they've seen those monsters. That they've been dealing with worse things since she's been gone. Without saying anything, she stares at her, as though she might be able to judge whether or not everyone was okay just by her nuances and expressions. The fear must read clearly in her eyes, because Sam flicks her forehead, something she's always done whenever she gets locked up in her thoughts like this. Guinevere purses her lips and rubs the spot between her eyes, but the glare she gives Sam a touch amused despite her somber mood. It's a good sign.

"--Gwen." Sam's voice is the calm she needs right now. She finally steps forward and wraps her in a hug, careful not to disturb her arm. "Don't give me that look. Everyone's okay." Guinevere's relieved breath shudders out of her a bit louder than she'd like. But it helps release some of the tension she's been carrying with her for the last few weeks, so she melts into the embrace for a moment, chin in the crook of Sam's shoulder. A silent I missed you. Then the moment is over, maybe a bit sooner than she'd like, and she pulls herself away to address Morgan properly, all business once more.

"It's rare to see 'em all the way out here, actually. That's what's weird about it." Sam jumps right back into things, nudges Guinevere with her elbow. "Thanks to this one, we've got clearance to hunt closer to Camelot. Closer we get, the more we run into those things. Creepy bastards, aren't they? Well, creepier than the usual variety, that is. You guys must make a pretty good team, to escape one just between the two of you!" She winks again, despite her aforementioned knowledge on the situation, and Guinevere feels herself blush against her will. But then Sam hikes up her pants a little, revealing a nasty bite on her calf, draining the color from her face just as quickly. "Met a real medusa out there. Ton of snakes wrapped up into one creature. Gave me this. I'm not dead, so I guess it wasn't poisonous. Good thing, right?" She laughs heartily, but Guinevere feels a lump in her throat.

"--I've got stuff for that. Don't worry." Speaking of the chill... the wind's starting to pick up. It gets bad out here, the kind of cold that burrows under the skin, right down the marrow of the bones. Guinevere nods towards camp. She knows she's tired from the journey, so Morgan must be, too. "Why don't we go say hi before everyone tucks in?"

"Right! What kind of host am I?" Sam shakes it off and leads them forward. Guinevere offers Morgan a tentative smile, unsure as to how exactly she might be taking all this. It's a lot. She knows she felt strange and alone, walking into Camelot for the first time... so this must be at least a little jarring. It was alienating, when no one went out of their way to talk to her, so the attention she's going to receive might be overwhelming in a different kind of way. "Gotta tell you, most of the girls are on a hunt. It'll probably take a few days before they come back with anything. Those big guys have made it harder to find enough for everyone."

Guinevere tugs her bag a little closer under her arm. Things should be getting easier, not harder. But at least she's brought something with her to make up for the guilt swelling in her chest. Maybe she could try a little harder, convincing Arthur. Maybe if she says the right things... does the right things, maybe then he'll listen. Maybe. But who is she kidding? He won't let them into Camelot or offer them resources unless they play exactly by his rules. Her demeanor lightens a touch, though, when they steps into the heart of camp. The familiar pitched tents, the fire, her girls sitting beneath their layered blankets by the fire. Notably exhausted and probably hungry, but alive. Despite the chill in the air, a warm reception seem to come in from every corner, but most don't get up from their perches, conserving energy after a long day. It seems the kids have already spread news of their visitor from Camelot, too. Morgan receives a greeting from every direction. Some wink. (Mia better not have spread any rumors about her 'wife'. But anyone who's not a child should know that isn't the case.) Some, who are far more polite about it, just smile.

"Guinevere. I see you've come back to us like Persephone in spring." Tamara's airy voice is what she focuses on first. Her leg's elevated and she's got her guitar in her lap. She's watching the kids play in their flower crowns, flecks of orange sparkling in her brown eyes like fireflies. Guinevere reaches in her bag for another flower crown, the one with peach roses, and sets it on her head. Tamara's not a kid, but she's always been a romantic at heart. She also reaches in her bag for the medical kit she requested all those days ago and sets it on the log beside her. For her leg. That goes unspoken, though. "Where'd you get all the flowers?"

"Um... they were, uh, gifts. This knight. They were starting to pile up, so..." This is awkward. Speaking about it here, in front of Morgan no less. One of the girls towards the back tending to her sword snorts like it's funny. Guinevere shakes her head in response with a huff, setting her bag down and open wide, so it's at anyone's disposal. A few girls come forward and take only what they need, or fetch something for those who can't make it there themselves-- whether it's for their injuries, or to soothe the ache of their hunger. Tamara takes that time to briefly introduce herself to Morgan and comment on her lovely dress before venturing further on the subject.

"--Oh no. You let him down easy, didn't you?" Tamara sounds genuinely concerned as she nods towards the log nearest her, as if to invite them both to sit. There are a few more amused comments about the whole ordeal behind her back, about how romance is wasted on her. Guinevere sits, pulling her ponytail free as she tries to ignore the fact that she's blushing. Again. Maybe it should have been more obvious that Lancelot had a crush? The way everyone's reacting... oh. This is embarrassing. Maybe Morgan was right... about some of it. And this is only proving that. But in her defense, she was practically isolated then, with only Lancelot to keep her company. The way he speaks and acts... she'd thought he just took his niceness to a new level. Didn't even want to think it could be anything but a chance at friendship-- which was something that she longed for since she got to Camelot. She hadn't thought it wasn't possible for him to have an ulterior motive, being the one who upholds the name of 'chivalry', but...

"Ugh. I let him down in more ways than one. Knocked him right off his feet. Couldn't even look at his face when I found out." Setting her bag down, she drags her hand over her face, and then through her hair. "I thought he was just being friendly, but--" more snickers all around, her cheeks turn an even darker shade of red if possible, "He was seriously going to get me in trouble! I was so pissed off." Sam suddenly comes in behind them, draping a thick blanket over Guinevere's shoulders with a consoling pat, and then goes on to wrap one over Morgan's as well. It goes unsaid, in a way, to take care of each other when it's so cold.

"A different world, I suppose. I love you, but you are a bit too oblivious for your own good." Tamara smiles innocently when Guinevere shoots her a look. Then she turns to Morgan, as if she's still trying to gauge exactly what their relationship is. "Morgan, you'll have to look out for her-- she's hopeless and I worry often. You're... from Camelot, I gather? What's it like?"
 
The casual intimacy between the two women was a strange thing to witness, and Morgan found herself staring again. People just-- didn't act like this! Shouldn't act like this. Such invasions of one's personal space were completely inappropriate in public, even if the interaction was taking place between a man and his wife. (Not that Morgan was jealous or anything. The relationship between this Sam and Guinevere, Lancelot and Guinevere or even Arthur and Guinevere didn't interest her at all. Of course not! It was just that affection was meant to be enjoyed in private, thank you very much.)

Still, Morgan's reservations were quickly swept under the rug when Sam spoke of the unknown creatures. "So you mean to say they usually live closer to Camelot?" she asked, her eyes bright and curious. "My, that's-- quite unexpected." Didn't Arthur claim that he had some way of repelling the nameless ones? Something Merlin had invented for him? Morgan had known from the very beginning that her brother was just smoke and mirrors, but she hadn't, at the very least, doubted that. Not even Arthur would have accepted so many knightly vows from utter incompetents if he had no way of keeping the monsters at bay, right? Well, it turned out that maybe not. Stupid, stupid Arthur. What was he playing at? Did he plan to have them confined to one place just so that those without a name could slaughter them more quickly? That would have been funny, Morgan had to admit. Since her brother dearest had no sense of humor, though, she doubted that it was the case.

"But it does confirm some of what my research has uncovered. You see," she put a stray strand of hair behind her ear, "there are-- disturbances, for the lack of a better word, surrounding Camelot. Well, not just Camelot, but the concentration is unusually high there. I wonder what was first; whether the disturbances originate in the monsters, or the monsters in the disturbances." The assurance that they must have been a good team because they managed to escape, though, put a smirk on her face. "Maybe. We didn't escape, however. We killed it." (So what? Morgan, too, was proud of her abilities; partly because it was so audacious to take any pride in magic at all. They could make her dance to their tune, but she wouldn't, at least, hum the melody as she did so.)

Then the women headed further into the camp. If Morgan had hoped that things would start making more sense any time soon, then she was sorely, sorely mistaken. If anything, they grew even stranger. She had already-- accepted Sam's behavior, sort of. Every group had an oddball or two, after all. The thing was, she didn't seem to be the oddball in her group at all. Not when everyone acted the same! They laughed and joked and touched one another as if it was normal, as if other people weren't danger, and Morgan-- felt a strange sensation rising in her throat. Gods, it was getting so, so difficult to breathe; she could swear there was an invisible weight sitting on her chest, threatening to crush her. Still, she just... smiled pleasantly at whoever smiled at her, and shook every hand offered to her. Pretense had, after all, been burnt into her skin. If Morgan wanted others to think she was fine, then that was everything they'd take away from their exchanges. She wouldn't fold, especially not for no reason at all. Everything about this was fine.

And then the conversation suddenly turned to Lancelot. Wait, what? Morgan glanced at Guinevere, surprise written in her eyes. So nothing among them had happened? And she really hadn't realized? Gods, old and new, just how naive could one be? Lancelot had practically been shouting his intentions from the rooftops! Just-- how? For some reason, Morgan couldn't suppress her smile. (Couldn't suppress her relief, either. Why, though? It wasn't like her relationship status was a concern of hers. Maybe-- maybe she was just glad on her behalf. Guinevere didn't seem to be a terrible person, after all, and Arthur's wrath would be great if she took a lover.)

Ah, a good question. Just how much could she afford to reveal, though? "It's... it is what it is," Morgan shrugged. "I wouldn't know how to describe it to someone who had never been there." Oh, she did. Nothing about it was especially nice, however; comparisons to a cage came to mind. "It's a castle. The walls are high and the food plentiful, so you want for nothing." Nothing aside from your dignity, that was. Morgan supposed that some of those fools had forgotten what it felt like to have it in the first place, though, and so they technically did not miss it. "You just need to follow the rules, that's all."

"Oh, and I imagine that Gwen is great at that," another woman, Nessy, chuckled.

"... she is passable," Morgan glanced at Guinevere with a tiny smile, "when she isn't throwing things at people, running away and stealing various knights' hearts." Which didn't happen very often, actually, but there was no reason to point that out. "But yes, I will look out for her. I'm not her mentor for nothing."

"Oh, so you are her mentor?" Some of the girls exchanged pointed looks, though what they meant, Morgan couldn't say. "I'm sure that must be very-- hmmm, interesting for Gwen." Okay, there was no way this wasn't some inside joke; not with the way they looked at each other. What could it be, though? Morgan saw nothing particularly funny about their arrangement. "Say, Gwen, did you also teach Morgan something interesting in return?'
 
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