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{morganville vampires: myrnin

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That he walked his trusty steed Rocinante through doors is not by far the strangest thing to happen to Don Quixote, the bravest, most honorable, most stalwart of all knights in the history of Knight Errantry.

Even, that he is suddenly in a new place might not seem so strange to the Knight, who, as those with a penchant for the wonders of the Romance as a genre of literature can attest. After all, magic is a staple of such books. (They are also what drove our brave, honorable stalwart knight from his very wits.) It is a good thing he is clad in his armor (which is rusted, barely holding together and very heavy)!

It is a lovely place, he finds, after all. Bright and warm with lovely flowers and a field of clover that beckons Rocinante closer. The horse, who, in Quixote's mind, is the most valiant of all steeds, is actually a poor, old sway-backed hack who would very much like to only roam through the clover.

The old man and the old horse wander further and the man can be heard exclaiming, "Sancho! I say, Sancho, it seems we have found a new adventure." He does not look behind him to see that his squire has not made the journey to this place with him. "Surely, this will be a place wherein I can honor my fair Dulcinea with deeds worthy of her name!"

[enter one Don Quixote de la Mancha, fighter of windmills and sheep, man bereft of his wits. Please keep him from the flowers and his horse from the clover?]

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Behold someone who might actually know who Don Quixote is! Of course, it will depend on the day whether he recognizes this or not. He's walking in the shade of the awnings along the street, broad brimmed hat on. The day is far too warm for the leather trenchcoat and gloves he wears, but Myrnin doesn't seem to mind. He pauses to look the new arrival over.

"I wouldn't count on it," Myrnin chimes in. "Honor all you like but Dulcinea is unlikely to hear of your deeds worthy or otherwise. Hello. Welcome to Itinere. There should be a...thing-a-ma-bob in your pocket." He reaches into his own pocket and gets his PDA out, waggling it at Don Quixote.

"I beg your pardon, fine sir!" Don Quixote stops, and Rocinante stops .. once he's bumped into Don Quixote and nearly sent the hildago tumbling off of his gangly legs. "I do not know of these ... "

He may not even have a pocket. But he finds such as these. "I am sure this has been let here by the Black Knight! What is this place, again? Is it here La Mancha?"

He looks around warily. This place is not like any part of Faerie that he is familiar with. And then there is a knight there and not one he recognizes off the bat (though eventually he will remember Jonson telling him the story of this poor knight and the windmills) so he heads that way. There is much that he needs to find out and his earring is not with him, so his mark of safe-passage is gone and that can be dangerous if he cannot barter with one of the Queens before he tastes food from this realms.

He has no wish to be forever an Elf-Knight bound to the whims of a fickle Queen. For the Mebd was always more feckless and ever-changing than Gloriana herself. He hears the knight call for someone and after a moment, he is bold to answer back, "Hail knight, your Sancho is not present here. Perhaps he did not follow thee?"

"I say - !" The hildago turns to see who speaks, his face solemn in thought. "If Sancho did not make the journey, I am going to need a new squire. After all, a Knight Errant needs a squire." As well, as a damsel, armor, a steed and a knighthood, of course.

He has those things, but now he is without a squire.

Hrm.

"That he does. Perhaps the town there will have someone worthy of the post of squire."

He cannot offer himself, his hands are not suited for those kinds of skills any longer. He can hold a pen on his best and naught but a cup on his worst. It is the family curse as his Annie would have called it.

"Myself, I had thought to find a good inn where I could find a good stout ale." And someone who can answer the questions on his mind.

"An ale! Why, there is certainly little more a good Knight needs than ale!" If this man is offering to buy? For Knights never travel with money, or so say the great books of Romance!

"Who is it that I find myself meeting on this fine day?" Don Quixote asks, unaware of Rocinante's veering toward the clover.

He might buy if he can locate the pouch he hides in his boot. If not then they will both have to be charming so that the alewenches do not question them.

Knights might not travel with money, but old aging storytellers do. For the ground is hard and these bones are no longer young.

"My name is...Marlowe, sir. William Marlowe, at your service." Since it doe snot do to tell a Fae creature your true name, lest they bind you by it and leave you subject to their whims. A harmless lie, to be sure.

"Ah, Don Marlowe, I am Don Quixote! Knight of La Mancha, defender of Dulcinea, righter of wrongs, redresser of grievances!" He stands as tall as he can, which, based on the weariness of his bones puts him at nearly a half-moon bend.

"Narrow of purpose and wide of vision as well, Don Quixote?" He's trying to hide the smile behind his hand a little.

"It's good to make your acquaintance, Don. Shall we direct your mount over to the town before he falls prey to the clover there?"

"I say, Rocinante!" the hildago called to his steed, who gave him no nevermind. "Rocinante!" He staggered after his horse, barely grasping his reins. "Tell me, Marlowe - ! Where are we ... ?"

He steps to go and try and assist the knight with corralling the horse. "Don, I know not where this place is. It is not one with which I am familiar."

He had thought it somewhere in the realms of Faerie but now he is not so sure of that after all. The air is different here.

Alas, poor Rocinante is not nearly strong enough to fend off even two medium strength men, and with a sigh, he acquiesces to go along the more beaten path.

"And where is it that you are from, Marlowe?" Don Quixote asks, his rusty metal armor clanking as he walks, masking the creaking of his bones.

Myrnin watches with an amused smirk on his face as he watches the man from beneath the wide brim of his hat. He doesn't make any move to safe guard against the man falling off the horse, though if he had fallen Myrnin certainly could have caught him had he cared to. He doesn't argue with the man nor does he hurry him, simply lets him find the bit of technology on his own. Perhaps it's because he'd had a similar experience upon his arrival. He had been fortunate to have some experience with cell phones before arriving here though. Claire had even taught him to text back home.

Myrnin's eyebrow arches at the man's words. He recognizes a few of those words. He tilts his head to one side, examining the man with a renewed vigor. "Itinere and no, I don't believe you'll find it's in La Mancha. You've just come from there?"

"I have!" The hildago says with a surety he doesn't entirely feel. "I was - " he turns and finds not his stables, but ... well, more clover and quite strange looking buildings. "This is a most grand adventure. My squire will call it an Island-worthy adventure, surely."

"Island worthy?" Myrnin asks, the smirk still playing at the corners of his lips. "I am Myrnin." He is sorely tempted to add the Lord and of Conroy, but he doubted either of those would mean much to this man. Besides his Conroy was no more and the queen that had made him Lord is long deceased. "And might I ask your name?"

"Don Quixote de la Mancha! Knight Errant! Righter of wrongs and redresser of grievances," he is told. "I did, you see, promise my squire the governorship of an island with a worthy enough adventure!"

"New adventure, new world," Jenny responds with a laugh. She doesn't know who this Sancho is he's calling for, or Dulcinea, but the man is riding atop one of the most unusual creatures she's ever seen. "Brilliant, every single one."

And that ought to count for a lot, given the whole three new worlds she's managed to make it to so far. (Four, if you count Itinere.) There have been all sorts of different bipedal creatures, and a couple of smaller four-legged ones, but not a single horse on any of the planets.

She walks closer, reaching out to touch the animal's flank. A large rifle is slung over her back and she still favors the basic green tee and dark pants she had been born in. "Oh, she's beautiful! Does she have a name?"

The she is a he who doesn't much like having his maculinity challenged. Rocinante gives a snort and a shake of his head. "This is Rocinante! A more noble steed," Don Quixote proclaims, "hardly exists in this world or any other!"

As soon as the horse shakes his head, she takes a step back. The temptation to pet him is still there but Jenny doesn't fancy herself an idiot. A good soldier doesn't rush foolishly into an unknown situation without having a strategy at hand. And though she's eager to prove to her father that she can be so much more than a soldier, the knowledge she was born with is still very much a part of her.

"Rocinante," she repeats with a prominent English accent that easily butchers the Spanish name. She nods solemnly at Don Quixote. "It is a very noble name."

It is! That's why he picked it, you see. A Knight Errant needs a noble steed! Amonsttother things.

"Do you need rescuing, young lady? I would rescue you in the most honorable fashion is needs be!"

Well, he's exactly who Myrnin thought he was. Of course, Myrnin thought he was fictional as well. Never the mind. Stranger things and the like. "Well then, I shall assure you this place is worthy enough an adventure. I believe you'll agree if you stick around a bit."

"Ah, what excellent news!" exclaims the hildago. "Now... If I can only find Sancho and where he's wandered off to." the knight turns a slow, creakedy circle. "What sorts of adventures, say you? Dragons? Dark knights?"

'England, Don. That is where I hail from. Specifically the bowels of London." Because he's a step above paupers some days. Even if the Queen likes his plays. He's no knight like Kit is or Murchaud, has no airs to pretend to. He's just a simple wordsmith and playmaker.

"You, sir? Where do you call your home?"

"Why, La Mancha, of course! The most beautiful of all the lands, unless you are a Moor and then you would be a liar anyway and still consider it lovely!"

If that makes little sense, that is of little matter.

"Best of luck in finding your squire," Myrnin nods. As to adventures, his eyebrows go up. "Dark knights to be certain, though they may not look like the ones you know. You can find them hiding in alleys and like at night. I've not seen a dragon, but then perhaps it's being sneaky."

"It sounds very grand, this La Mancha of yours." He cannot comment on the Moors, as he's only known a handful and as an inveterate lair and teller of tales himself. he is the last person to comment on the untruthfulness of anyone. "Who governs there, Don? Is it yours?"

"Dragons," the knight intones, "are very sneaky indeed." Oh yes. So sneaky that he has never seen one! But he does not deny that they exist.

"It is my experience," he adds, "That dark knights do like the night, as it matches the pitch of their souls."

"Alas, it is not." And the man is so gone in his wits that he could not tell his new friend Marlowe who the governor is. "Surely, he is a find and upstanding man," he says, though. Which might very well be a lie taking in to account the current state of Spain.

"That is good to hear," the officials in London are not always so, in Will's approximation. "Certainly La Mancha is lucky in that respect."

As they approach the town more, Will frown a little more, it does not appear to look like anything he recognizes. And that is also worrisome.

"You've experience with them then?" Myrnin is curious. He really isn't called bullshit on Don.

Myrnin can't help but snicker at that. "Indeed it would. However, not all dark knights are bad. Simply misunderstood."

Truthfully, Don Quixote is used to not recognizing anything; it is one of the benefits of being mad. "Surely," he tells his new friend. "We shall find adventure here."

"... misunderstood?" That seems to trip the hildago up and he pauses, brows drawn. "Well ... yes," he decides after a moment's thought. "Not all men are bad, are they? They are only ... yes, misunderstood. Though!" he is quick to add. "Many are bad."

There are many benefits to madness, Will is beginning to see. And he cannot claim that he is totally in his right mind either, not with the adventures he'd had in Faerie with Will.

"I think you are correct in that, Don. I feel certain that this place will have many wonders for us to explore."

"I say," the Knight suddenly declares, so physically moved by his idea that his armor clatters and he nearly loses his footing. "Would you wish to be my squire? We can adventure together!"

"I do not think I possess the necessary skills to serve you as you deserve to be served, Don. But I am grateful for the honor." Will said with a small bow and a smile. "Though adventuring together does sound like a grand plan."

First, the ale and food. Then the adventuring.

Ale would need to be limited as Quixote is old enough that more than one may well do him in for the night. But food, yes! Then adventure.

"Very well," the hildago replies. "We shall be compatriots, then." And that is good. Who better to tell stories to?

"Rescuing?" Jenny scoffs, looking a little aghast at the thought. "Me? Oh, I wouldn't be a very good soldier if I needed rescuing."

No, far from. She had been born with an instant and complete mental download of all strategic and military protocols. All Generation 5000 soldiers on Messaline had.

"A ... a soldier?" the knight asks, entirely baffled.

Why ... women were not soldiers! That ... that is ludicrous! His mouth opens and closes, open and closes. That ... well, he doesn't know what to do with all of that.

"Yes." She tilts her head a little, looking at him with a touch of concern and a whole lot of confusion. Is he suffering from some kind of degenerative breakdown or is he mimicking a fish on purpose? She really can't tell. "Generation 5000 soldier. From Messaline."

Jenny stares at him for a second longer. His reaction really is strange. Then again, she has yet to encounter a world on all her travels (which really hasn't been all that many) where women are expected to be docile. And rescued. "Are you all right?"

"I am a Knight Errant!" Don Quixote exclaims. "The righter of wrongs! Redresser of Grievances! I am ... fine."

It is not he who is strange, for the record, but her! Does she not know how a damsel should act?

She bites down on her lip as he lists his accomplishments. They sound very impressive. The sort of titles that she'd love to obtain for herself one day.

"A soldier, then?"

"A knight."

Which is, for the record, a soldier. It's just that in the books of Romance, knights sound more ... well, regal.

"... are you sure you do not need to be rescued? Or perhaps a poem written in honor of your beauty?"

"Well, I'm a soldier," she answers in a matter of fact sort of way. Close enough to a knight, she thinks. And certainly not a person in need of rescue. "Which means that I can rescue myself."

Most of the time.

The serious expression disappears quickly though as she considers his second question. "But I've never had anyone write a poem about me before."

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As promised, one Bard.

Yay!

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