if we could sail on the wind in the dark

[northseaflotsam]

The nexus is growing on him; it has, like him, no business existing at all, and it's somewhere to go when he can't think what else to do with himself. He's there now, wandering idly through some corner of it that looks like the offspring of the Cloisters and a BBC costume drama set. It's dark and breezy and dramatic, and Mordred is, quietly and

Comments

[le_desirous]

Sagramore was, curiously enough, there first. He's sitting next to a curious fountain, leaning against its wall, his head tipped back, and the spray off the water has soaked his hair and beard and water is dripping off his face and shoulders. His shirt is loose on his thin body, age and drink having not been excessively kind to him, as Mordred has had opportunities before now to note.

He has a flask set on the ground beside him, but he hasn't been drinking; he doesn't smell of alcohol. He's just sitting.

[northseaflotsam]

It takes Mordred a moment to register, first, that this is a person and not just a particularly unfortunate piece of sculpture, and secondly that it's someone he knows. He stops, light-footed, and regards Sagramore with vast affection. "What the hell are you doing?"

[le_desirous]

He looks up and smiles. "Thinking. Come, sit by me."

[northseaflotsam]

"In the pouring wet. I don't think so." He does walk over, though, and puts a foot up on the marble rim, all easy elegance. "What are you moping about now?"