[Open Post] ..only want to glean the purpose..

[lanselos_du_lac]

Since they learned of Shen Yuan's death, things have been subdued; rightly so, Lancelot reasons. He has done what he can to be a support for those he loves, and to keep his own worry and anxiety at bay. He worries about how they are all doing, about whether or not they are safe, about what he can do to make anything better -- which often feels like nothing. It's unsettling, and he wants to stay settled and present for them, so he determines to find a way to be so.

As has always been the case for him, being outside helps. The weather is warming and true spring is settling in. (He has difficulty keeping track of what time may be like back in Britain¹, but he suspects that it is early summer there. If so, then he supposes that means he is another year older, which is a strangely hopeful thought.) And so, after his lunch with Susan, he heads back out -- he might ride, or walk through the woods, or explore the lake. Whatever keeps him out in the sunshine, under the sky.



^{1: He has not quite realized this yet, but he has generally stopped thinking "at home" when he means Camelot, or Britain in general. That this place -- no, these people -- have become home in so short a span is something he has to take by degrees, lest he worry about what it means for his relationship with those he left behind there.}

Comments

[futaille]

"A chicken trinity, if you will!"

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Which ones are most likely to joust?"

[sagramore]

"There are fighting breeds, actually! Bred for cockfighting, knowst thou, with exceptionally long spurs."

[futaille]

"That much, at least, I knew."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"So, warrior chickens. I see."

[sagramore]

"Precisely! That's not what I want, though. I want eggs."

[futaille]

"Ah. So should the chicken portraits include a copious layer to aspire to?"

[lanselos_du_lac]

"A lovely nest, a fine hen," thoughtfully. He is not very artistic, but he's trying to envision what such a painting might look like.

[sagramore]

"Yes! Plenty of eggs, to inspire her."

[futaille]

"So a warrior chicken, a motherly chicken... what other kinds of chicken? A philosopher? An explorer? A ballerina?"

[lanselos_du_lac]

"A scientist?" He is, of course, thinking of both Laertes and Susan.

[sagramore]

"Yes! Of course, that's so wise."

[futaille]

"Oh yes. And perhaps a doctor."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"A doctor?"

[sagramore]

"Oh! That reminds me. Art thou a doctor?"

[futaille]

"Am I... what? Have you been talking to Crowley? I told him I'm not a doctor." He looks to Lancelot. "Someone who practices medicine."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Oh," lightly. "Thou couldst be."

[sagramore]

"He seemed pretty sure."

[futaille]

"Oh, yes, because no one has ever been sure of anything that ended up being wrong." He shakes his head. "No, if you want a doctor, entreat the mansion spirits to bring back Combeferre. Or Joly."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"I think thou wouldst make a fine doctor."

[sagramore]

"Thou wouldst! I believe it."

[futaille]

"Oh, absolutely not. I have much better things to do with what anatomical knowledge I have."

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot does flush a little, but jokingly says, "What is more noble than medicine?"

[sagramore]

"Thou art a very noble man."

[futaille]

His expression turns almost comically guileless. "One must have a reasonable foundation of anatomy for art, after all." The guilelessness is then promptly ruined by a wrinkled nose. "And I am very ignoble, thank you."