[Open Post] ..hell yes i mind..

[lanselos_du_lac]

It's been a long while since Lancelot felt this way: angry and adrift, too overwhelmed and in his own head to determine how best to manage it. (If Susan were here, it would be simple -- but the fact that his Susan is gone is part of the problem.) His anger is a hot stone at his center, a roiling mess, a weapon without a target. He still feels that he would like to smash something, start a fight, find some way to externalize everything all the things he could not bring himself to say to the Galahad who is far older than he ought to be, the quiet king of a quiet kingdom.

A fulfilled purpose. A completed quest. A long chain of manipulation and events that dragged Lancelot along in its wake, and that (in this other time, he has to acknowledge, not his time and not now) led only to the ruin of everything Lancelot had cared for. And for what? It makes him furious to think that the price of the Grail was Galahad's joy, Galahad's self, and that that price was somehow being paid long before Galahad was even born.

That's just the start of it; there is more, much more, and it feels like it will keep spooling out without ceasing.

His impulse, as ever, is to stalk off to his room and stay there until he feels he can manage himself. (He thinks, not for the first time, of himself ten years older and outwardly angry, angry enough that everyone sees it, fears him or dreads his company. A man who lashes out. He does not want that future, but this possibility has always been somewhere just under the surface; he's always known it. Sometimes it has worked for him, with him, but he knows that it is dangerous and there is no one in this place that he would want to bear witness to it.) If this were Camelot, that is what he would do.

Since he can't figure what to do, he settles for a middle ground. It's been a long while since he felt like getting very deliberately drunk, but that appeals just now, and so he heads for one of the smaller bars, just off the main corridor.

^{[Note: All are welcome! Those who care for Lancelot and/or those who also wish to fistfight God are particularly welcome.]}

Comments

[onthewillowsthere]

Galahad is looking for a bottle into which he can place the dogbane leaf beetle he currently has in his cupped palms when he ducks into the bar, and he nods at Lancelot politely.

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot is most of the way through a glass of bourbon. He glances up when Galahad comes in and blinks.

This Galahad looks as he should: relatively relaxed, working on something. Can he be here when the other Galahad is also here or does this mean the other Galahad has gone?

He says, still sounding surprised, "Galahad. Hello."

[onthewillowsthere]

His relationship with Lancelot is still somewhat difficult for Galahad to grasp firmly. He feels a certain protectiveness towards Lancelot -- he wants him to be happy. To be allowed to choose, as Galahad himself has been allowed to choose, the kind of person he wants to be, and the things that will make him happy. Galahad doesn't want Lancelot to be his father, but he feels the familial nature of their connection. Sometimes he feels as if he's much older than Lancelot, and more experienced, and other times he's acutely aware of how young he is.

As he begins poking around the bar, he realizes it will be difficult to find the bottle he wants while keeping the beetle trapped in his hands.

"Will you please help me find a jar?"

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Oh," blinking again. But he does get up and come around beside him. "Of course."

[vineleaves]

Did somebody say 'get drunk and shit talk the Christian God'? Because almost as if summoned, Dionysus walks in. It has been a day for him, too. He's worried about this new Susan, he doesn't know what the heck is going on with the very sad Galahad, and if Mercutio doesn't come back soon he -- well, he doesn't know what he'll do.

All this, and he doesn't even know he's getting swapped out later today himself. Very eventful day here at the mansion.

"...Lancelot?" he asks carefully, worried now that every person he comes across today is going to be some different version than he's expecting.

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Aye," draining the glass in his hand. "Hello, Bacchus."

It's really only because he's been thinking of Susan that he uses this name.

[vineleaves]

"Are you -- uh," Normal? The regular version? Not an adaptation? He recognized Dionysus, but so did Susan. Though there's a Bacchus in the Narnia books apparently, so that would make more sense. He's reasonably certain if nothing else, Sagramore would have mentioned by now that Camelot has its own Bacchus running around too if that were the case.

What if he's from an adaptation where there is a Bacchus though?

This is frustrating.

"You're the you who's usually here, right?"

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot shoots him a look, but it's one that's resigned -- he understands the question. "Aye. So I am."

[timebethine]

Laertes is on a supply run; his shoulders are already draped with bags full of fresh fruits, dried beans, cheese blocks, flour and jars of yeast. He's just stopping off to replenish their supply of alcohol (red wine and sherry for cooking, palinka and bourbon for drinking) when he catches sight of Lancelot. His ready smile swiftly fades when he catches sight of the expression on Lancelot's face. "What's happened?" he asks, and sets all of his bags down with a thump and a clink of glass.

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot looks up, and absolute relief crosses his face, "Laertes."

[timebethine]

"Ay, I'm here." He comes to sit at Lancelot's side, and reaches for his hand. "What ails thee? Thou lookest pale, and sick."

[lanselos_du_lac]

He takes Laertes' hand, gladly. "The house plays its tricks today. There is some other Susan, who knows me not. And a Galahad who-- well. Can we go out of here?"

[papadopoulos]

Apollo is tooling around the mansion as he generally does, these days, and pokes his head in when he sees the bar is occupied. He raises his eyebrows and comes in properly to sprawl next to Lancelot, book of poetry in hand.

"Yeesh. Who puked in your Cheerios, man?" A beat. "Unless someone actually did, in which case, send 'em my way and I can help out."

[lanselos_du_lac]

He shoots Apollo a look, skeptical and faintly irritated. "What?"

[papadopoulos]

"You look like something's bothering you, is what I meant," he explains, trying to mentally recalibrate himself to 'guy from Camelot' vibes. "Let me guess." It doesn't take a god of prophecy to figure this out, honestly. "The ...thing, with people that look like they should be people you know but aren't?"

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Aye," taking another drink, "it has not been the best of days."

[quote_gentle_unquote]

Susan isn't given to napping, so it's strange that she wakes up in the middle of the afternoon, Regina curled up at her shoulder, a dress she never wears crumpled at the foot of her bed. It was a harrowing dream that woke her: her fingers threaded through Edmund's through the bars of a hot, dry cell in an unfamiliar prison.

Unsettled, she moves the dress to her laundry hamper and selects something much more appropriate to the time of day: a simple dress, black, with buttons down the front, and lightweight enough for the warmth of the afternoon.

It takes her longer than she'd like to find Lancelot. He's not in any of his usual haunts. She hovers in the doorway for a long moment, watching him, reassuring herself with the sight of him - which is when she notices the full glass in front of him.

"Sweetheart," she says softly, striding forward.

[lanselos_du_lac]

He looks up immediately at the sound of her voice, takes a moment to assure himself that this is his Susan, and then he's on his feet, sweeping her into an almost crushing embrace.

[quote_gentle_unquote]

She makes a small little oof as the wind is knocked out of her, bringing her arms up to clutch him in return. "This is quite the warm greeting," she observes, concern mounting. "Sweetheart, whatever is the matter?"

[wickedwit]

Claudius leaves his own conversation with Galahad with the bittersweet feeling of knowing, despite all doubts, that Galahad wouldn't have been happier if he returned to God's side. Even if Galahad somehow avoided early martyrdom, the survival would be a bitter thing, forced upon him while God took away everyone he loved. As if to punish him, not reward him, by denying the one thing he asked. The only sweetness is knowing his Galahad will return soon. It's no wonder Claudius finds himself at the bar, searching for some whiskey to burn away that particular taste.

"You know, this is strange," Claudius says as Lancelot approaches, "but you may be the perfect company for a drink right now." He gestures at the opened bottle of rye with his own half-empty glass. He doesn't ordinarily drink rye, but it does burn nicely. "Come, sit down. Pour yourself a glass."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"I am not certain how it is that I am a perfect companion, but-- today has been enough. I will accept your invitation."

He does come and sit, after finding an empty glass, and does as Claudius has suggested.

[wickedwit]

"You're another victim of the Grail prophecy, if you'll excuse me for saying so." He kept himself from saying so at the Bacchanal, but that was under the ebullient influence of wine, where such thoughts could float away and pop like bubbles. Whiskey only feeds the fire in him. "When Gertrude came -- did you meet Gertrude? I'm sure she charmed everyone she met. She called us survivors of the same family. You and Galahad are survivors of God's meddling."

[ninth_cavalier]

Gideon hasn't had anything boozy to drink since the first night she was here and invented Wine with some guy she's literally never seen again, and she's not sure she wants to now. But she's feeling sorry for herself in a way she hasn't been in a while, and people show up to bars when they feel sorry for themselves, right?

She's halfway through a fantasy of striding in, ordering some whiskey, and propping her boots up on the bar—saying some shit to the imaginary bartender like, of all the fucked up Mansions in all the fucked up multiverse, she had to walk all seven tattooed feet of her leggy self into mine—when she sees this little bar is already occupied. She stops, eyebrows going all the way up, double-checks that she isn't too obviously bloody—benefits of wearing black—and tries to get a read on Lancelot's mood. It seems, how does she want to put this, pretty bad. "Captain."

[lanselos_du_lac]

He is, at this point, a couple of drinks in. When he looks up, he smiles -- though it does not sit well on him, at the moment. "Gideon! How art thou?"

[ninth_cavalier]

"Weird day," she says, pulling up a chair next to him and trying not to wince too obviously when it pulls at the long scratches in her side. "For you, too, seems like."