[ And of course Arthur turns towards his own name, especially when it's spoken with such shock. As though he is known, but not expected. He looks first, turning his head and then following it with his body, and it's that man again, pale-haired and strange-looking. ]
[ The way he takes in Arthur is as though he's seen a ghost. And perhaps he has. Perhaps Arthur is a ghost now, despite the weight and chafe of mail through his padded shirt. He doesn't doubt a return from the dead in such a way is possible, though he doesn't know how he knows, and he certainly doesn't remember dying. ]
[ And surely a kidnapper (or a figment) wouldn't look at him as if he has no idea how Arthur came to be here. Despite that, one hand, kept steady through sheer will, goes to the hilt of his sword. Just to be safe. He is, after all, very odd-looking. ]
I'm afraid you have the advantage of me.
[ Arthur approaches, tense and ready, his chin high and not the slightest hint of recognition in those blue eyes, narrowed and ice-pale in the sunlight of the garden, the grass crunching under his boots. ]
no subject
[ The way he takes in Arthur is as though he's seen a ghost. And perhaps he has. Perhaps Arthur is a ghost now, despite the weight and chafe of mail through his padded shirt. He doesn't doubt a return from the dead in such a way is possible, though he doesn't know how he knows, and he certainly doesn't remember dying. ]
[ And surely a kidnapper (or a figment) wouldn't look at him as if he has no idea how Arthur came to be here. Despite that, one hand, kept steady through sheer will, goes to the hilt of his sword. Just to be safe. He is, after all, very odd-looking. ]
I'm afraid you have the advantage of me.
[ Arthur approaches, tense and ready, his chin high and not the slightest hint of recognition in those blue eyes, narrowed and ice-pale in the sunlight of the garden, the grass crunching under his boots. ]