[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

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Perhaps we had fewer sorts in Britain. Or perhaps I did not pay enough attention to chickens. I'd like to see, though."

[sagramore]

"We had fewer sorts in Britain. There are so many French breeds! And Dutch. I'll show thee the book later."

[futaille]

"Oh, do we have more chickens than average in France?"

[lanselos_du_lac]

"I was paying no attention to chickens in France, either," he half-mutters.

[sagramore]

"Not more, but more breeds. Chicken fanciers, as it were."

[futaille]

"More kinds of chickens, then."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Perhaps thou'lt have several sorts of chicken. In this grand palace."

[sagramore]

"Perhaps I will! I think three is a perfect number, so we need to pick the three best."

[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."