 Mordred knew the value of his face. He had learned of it as a child when he had been all big blue eyes and freckled cheeks under a mop of tousled hair. They lived in a world where aesthetics mattered, and Mordred had never needed to resort to magic to improve his own. If the Gods who had made him had blessed him with anything, then they had blessed him with his face. The high strong lines of his mother’s Celtic ancestry had been softened a little by his father’s striking symmetry and the overall effect was not dissimilar to the dream-forged faces created by the gentle caress of brush on canvas. Let this girl, whoever she was, stare. She could travel far indeed before seeing another face like his.
Outwardly, Mordred pretended to fidget a little awkwardly under her lingering gaze, as if he wanted her to look away because the unlooked for attention was bringing a little colour to his cheeks. He adjusted his smile; keep it polite but allowing discomfiture to show there too. Finally she spoke, and Mordred received her words with such enthusiasm that it seemed as if he were delighted that the focus of the encounter had shifted to something more agreeable to him.
“I shall find someone to tend to him,” the young lord promised, offering Wefios a nod of greeting, “you are both welcome here.”
Reece...he remembered the name, he had seen it written on pieces of parchment as his brother had handed him reports from the spies who were sent to keep a watch on pirates and to ask the right questions in the profitable places. There was perhaps more opportunity here than he had looked for. The thrumming of the little stone was persistent, pressing against his consciousness. It found the part of him that had once been full of magic, but which now lay strange and empty and called to it, offering to fill the hole the monster had left behind.
The young woman and the donkey exchanged some silent communication or other, and Mordred waited patiently for them to sort out...whatever it was that was troubling them. It was not him, he could tell that much, it was something between them, some disagreement or other...the girl was easier to read than the ass. Finally she produced the stone again and held it out on the palms of shaking hands. Mordred took it from her, reaching out with his long white fingers he grasped it firmly and lifted it free of her grip. She was reluctant to release it...the buzzing must have been calling to her too. The lord made deductions, the girl wanted to keep it, the donkey wished to surrender it and...and the girl lacked impulse control...she let the buzzing control her; interesting.
“I thank you,” Mordred said with another kindly smile, “in the name of my brother and the people of Shaman! Please, follow me, I will find you somewhere comfortable to sit whilst a nurse tends to Wefios, and, perhaps I could offer you both some food and drink? You look like you’ve travelled a long way.”
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