lanselos_du_lac

Lancelot is in a very good mood indeed. He feels settled, assured. He feels as he did, he thinks, back when he first found his feet at court -- he is someplace he belongs, he can be assured that people will treat him with respect, if not kindness or welcoming. He lets himself revel in it, a little, as it's been a long while since he felt anywhere near as nice as this.

The weather is good: sunny, crisp, the familiar feeling of autumn as winter is hovering close by. He goes to his own room and fetches his sword. He runs his usual drills, though with a kind of ease and almost carelessness he hasn't had since he was young. (Perhaps he is young enough, still. He can't be sure. He has already lived past the age his father was when he died, but that means almost nothing. His father died in battle and Lancelot is, now, no longer likely to ever see such a fate.)

Afterwards, he showers and decides he might as well find breakfast. So he's now heading toward one of the kitchens, looking cheerful for once.