Plenty of room at Moria Manor

[Alan Girm Moria]

Cracking his neck in relief, Alan let the bags down gently onto the porch. Raising an arm to his brow while looking upwards the sun was beating down cheerfully overhead the happy go lucky bastard. Upon departing from the cafe the temperature had steadily increased from uncomfortable to unbearable. Coupled with the having to drag Aela's heavy bags across the city it was understandable why Alan's shirt was soaked through with sweat and clinging to his frame. Thankfully he still smelled great thanks to the power of old spice. Thankfully, Benkei had carried the other half of Aela's bags allowing them to make some headway. While baking in the sun, Alan had ruminated on the intricacies of playing the host.

'IT'S FUCKING HOT! What did she put in these bags? Bricks? Pieces of Veronica? Her brain since she obviously stepped out of the taxi without it!? ....Blah this shirt is beginning to feel disgusting.' Look down now back up. You're on a porch with the librarian your man could smell like. Look at your hand now back to me. It's a librarian with a dozen bags of the thing you love. Look again , the bags are now books.

Stepping into what little shade the old house provided, Alan began to fish around for his house key. Wait, hadn't he gone through this scene already earlier this morning? This time around the unwanted packages had multiplied, along with the number of people milling around.

'Oh god. My day is repeating itself in an increasing loop!' Shivering at the thought, Alan unlocked the door and made his way into the cool foyer. The foyer consisted of a set of intricately detailed pair of front doors surrounded by a pair Corinthian columns on both sides. The worn tiled floor spilled forward leading to a wide marble stair case that went upward towards the second story bedrooms. Marble handrails seemed to flow out from the staircase, and wrap itself like ivy around the second story. Semi-circular arched windows spilled light down before the marble staircase. The walls were made of smooth plaster and were surfaced with white chalk paint.

Back on the first floor, on the left and right of the front door were door less arches that would invite guests to a sitting room or garden depending on their inclination. Digging into the wall on either side of the staircase were arches containing stone doors layered with bounded fields instead of keys. The left one led into the mine complex and library.

Setting the bags down on the tile floor for a brief rest, Alan stretched and turned to his guests. "Welcome to the Hotel California Moria manor. I hope your stay here is enjoyable and that you leave behind some of the happiness you bring with you." Happiness from these two. Hahaha. Yeah right. Alan doubted they would even get the reference. He certainly didn't expect the smug Berserker to be a fan of literature if he was even literate at all. Being fair though, it was after his time...he was getting off track.

"While you might no doubt want a tour of the place, I'll let you pick your room out first. Bedrooms are on the second story, and you can choose any of the rooms you want in the left wing. My bedroom and my parent's bedrooms are in the right wing. If you'll excuse me for a bit, I'm going to go get changed."

With that, Alan headed up the marble staircase towards his room to change. Hopefully, his new guests wouldn't try to double cross them here. That might force him to activate the Liar's fable set up around the foyer. Any illusion is possible when your man smells like a bookworm and not a lady. I'm on a staircase.

Alan really did not want to have to use that if at all possible. In the worst case scenario he would destroy part of his home and base. At worst, everything but the library would be burned away. Shutting the door behind him, Alan looked through his closet for a spare change of clothes.

(Edit OOC: By popular demand, scenery porn reposted and more in subsequent posts. Look forward to it Aela~)

[Aela Atheling]

The sun was shining bright, and there was barely a single stray cloud in the sky. It was warm, rather cheery and bright with a slight breeze that was making it a rather enjoyable walk. Thankfully Alan was kind enough to carry the most of the luggage, his body more suited to manual labour than hers. She did carry a single bag, one of the lighter ones.

One of his glances at her as she was enjoying the day was almost wondering in nature. It must have had to do with her Servant. Well obviously Beowulf couldn’t help carry the bags because… because he had no normal clothes, like Alan’s Servant had.

She almost wondered if Alan was trying to prove something to her, handling quite a few of the bags himself instead of getting the Servant who showed no sign of distress to carry them all. He was struggling under the weight of her clothes as well as the flail. It probably didn’t help that the majority of them were completely soaked, either.

There was almost a bit of pity for him, but that was quickly wiped away. After all he could have easily remedied the problem with his Servant.

While watching him sweat was mildly entertaining, and felt almost like a strange bit of payback, especially for his Servant’s earlier… presence. She had not been expecting that in the slightest, and had made some poor and possibly hasty decisions.

After a rather enjoyable stroll for her, probably not so much for him, however, they arrived at what was apparently Alan’s house.

No, house was not a good enough of a descriptive word for the thing that lay in front of her. Where she had been residing was a house. This was a manor. Well built, old and beautiful, on the outside. And when he unlocked the door…

Inside was even more incredible. She had not expected the man to have something like this, likely some young bloodline, considering his disposition. Something like her original family, with something respectable at most.

Apparently she had underestimated the man. But she had never met anyone of a similar disposition in the tower! Alan… She had suspected him to be of little general skill, but just feeling the very air of the house, she knew his blood was older than hers. Potentially older than even her adoptive family’s.

He actually had a workshop here too. She had been in the process of establishing one, but had not finished when everything that had happened… happened.

The inside was decorated liberally with bright marble, and other precious materials. Had she actually been of the same blood as her family, she may have been interested in the beautiful stone columns, or the shining intricate pillars.

No space that could hold elaboration seemed to go wasted, as even the heavy wooden doors had their panels detailed by some ancient carver of magnificent skill.

The house was old, but not only that the masons had apparently decided to hearken back to an even earlier age of construction. The building would not be out of place in ancient Rome, with its Renaissance Idealism construction. It was also entwined

She was in awe. This was nothing like she had expected.

But there was no way she was going to let Alan know that. Her eyes hardened again as he laid the majority of her items down on the floor. Apparently she was to carry it up the staircase and…

“Welcome to Moria Manor. I hope your stay here is enjoyable and that you leave behind some of the happiness you bring with you.” Was he really… no, he had to be… then again the book references from earlier. Maybe just. Well, she would wait. Maybe it had been accidental. I mean he couldn’t have purposely referenced Dracula.

Well at the very least, he didn’t make reference to some of the more recent Vampiric… she couldn’t even bring herself to relate some of the recent bookstore trash with such ancient marvels of literature.

He continued, offering her choice of quite a few rooms apparently, and in a weird want to try to see if he really was talking about a story she had read once, and been in fear of as a child. Of course now Dracula seemed so tame compared to the other things that were actually out there…

“As long as it is not dyed crimson, I should be happy with the first bed I see.” It was remotely obscure, even to her, but that imagery had been the first thing that popped into her mind, and she didn’t want to take too long to think about it, after all. But Alan didn’t either hear her or care as he continued up the stairs, his hand putting much weight on the marble banister.

As he ascended the stairs she took another quick look around, and then ascended the opposite way to the left wing, away from him, carrying the bag with her dry clothes. It was still odd. She was in a strange man’s house, but her Servant should be capable of discouraging him should he decide to betray her. At the very least she wouldn’t, unless it was absolutely necessary. As she opened the second door on her left, after ascending the stairs, she was greeted with another magnificent room. The opulence was stunning as always, and richer than any place she had ever stayed.

A four poster bed, with a careful carving of the blasphemous rise and subsequent fall of Bellephoron on the headboard, lay in the center of the room, and an ancient oak closet stood next to it, stained smooth from age. The room had a few other minor furnishings, but still was incredibly luxurious.

I really underestimated him… That thought bit through her mind, and made her almost regret talking down to him so much as she sprawled out on the comfortable bed, staring at its additional cover. It seemed to happen often enough to her anyways, underestimating anyone she talked to. But they just seemed so stupid!

No matter what she had done, however, this place would definitely work. Alan seemed honest and upfront enough, and would be a good, if slightly-less-than-dependable ally. Yet… she hadn’t really asked the most important partner in this.

Beowulf.

She had not been consulting him in anything she did, her silent Servant, who probably watched with some humour. The bags she brought up remained unpacked, but this was more important to her now than something she could do any time.

“So, Berserker,” Aela still laid on the bed, sprawled out and looking straight up again. Sleep was beginning to look like an attractive prospect now, but there was no time for that yet. He was offering her a tour, and knowing where she was staying was incredibly important, after all. She could afford to wait until night, one missed sleep was not deadly, no matter how it felt. “What do you think of all this?”

[BEOWULF]

Truth be told, BEOWULF would have gladly carried Aela's bags. However, the short and skinny man had taken up the arduous task himself, claiming half of Master's baggage, leaving the other half to his Servant. How magnanimous of him! As the host, he had assumed all responsibility, leaving his guests to linger in comfort. Again, how kind of him!

At least, that was the idea. However, the boy's failings were made apparent as he gamely hobbled on, bobbing and weaving in some poor, misguided attempt to balance all of the bags. BEOWULF considered helping the kid. Then he remembered that the boy was the host, and wisely discarded such thoughts.

Besides, it was also amusing to watch.

The cheerful sun shone brightly, the air abuzz with local chatter. To BEOWULF, however, it all passed by in a seamless blur. Before he knew it, they had arrived at Moria Manor.

It was big. Certainly bigger than any place that BEOWULF had seen, more ornate, richer. It was a house designed to impress.

As the four passed through the manor's threshold, BEOWULF rematerialized, arms folded. He cast a glance over the inner workings, over the stairs and the walls, before turning back to Alan, who had dropped the bags with a heavy thump. Turning back to his new guests, the boy reached out languorously, stretching.

Immediately, a wave of some foul odor, of sweat mixed with some cologne assailed BEOWULF's nostrils. Of course, he did not show any response, just slight irritation. He did not mind the smell of labor, of sweat. He did, however, mind it when the sweat mingled with alien stenches, producing some foul offspring.

With a rather self-satisfied smirk on his face, the boy grinned. "Welcome to Moria manor. I hope your stay here is enjoyable and that you leave behind some of the happiness you bring with you. While you might no doubt want a tour of the place, I'll let you pick your room out first. Bedrooms are on the second story, and you can choose any of the rooms you want in the left wing. My bedroom and my parent's bedrooms are in the right wing. If you'll excuse me for a bit, I'm going to go get changed."

With that, he turned tail and left, presumably to shower. BEOWULF nodded. Turning to the luggage, he effortlessly swept the assorted mix of bags into his arms, all of them securely nestled within his grasp. He peeked around the pile at Aela, following her to a room. As his Master disappeared into one of the many doors in the hallway, BEOWULF dropped the luggage by the door, squeezing through the small frame.

His Master, apparently worn out by the long, long day, fell into her bed with a relaxed and pleasured sigh, bouncing on the light frame. She stayed there, relaxing, for a few minutes before speaking. "So, Berserker. What do you think of all this?"

BEOWULF gave a non-committal shrug, turning back to the bags that he left in the hallway. He tossed them into her room, bag by bag. All the while, he spoke. "Seems as good a place as any to rest for now. Of course, we'll have to FIGHT them sooner or later, but as your home is destroyed... might as well make the most of it for now."

[Aela Atheling]

“Of course we will have to fight them eventually, Berserker, we are just using them for –“

Gurgle. The rumbling sound growled again from her midsection, and her face went scarlet.

Aela almost leapt out of the bed, and quickly turned away from her Servant. Was that… my stomach?

That was uselessly rhetorical, it certainly was her stomach. “Ahhh… ummm… t-t-terrible plumbing in this house.” She had completely turned away from Berserker, now engrossed in staring at the blank, age spotted wall as she stammered.

When did I even last eat? Her mind flashed back… after summoning Berserker, what seemed like months ago, but had only been hours, she had tea, but didn’t eat. She went to the church, and didn’t eat. She met Alan and went to a café… how long had she known him and she was now in his house? Her hand now rested on the wall, and she was resisting the urge to slam her head into it.

Well she didn’t eat at that café… again. Only drank tea. And before she had summoned Berserker… had she really not eaten anything for over a day. Her mind actually counted the hours… thirty-three of them since she had last had a hasty piece of bread with meat rolled inside it.

She had expected some sort of knock on her door or something, but Alan seemed to be busy doing something… possibly planning against her with his Servant, although he seemed much too thick for that. Perhaps… she just smiled at that thought, not even letting it finish in her own mind.

Then her stomach growled again, and her head actually impacted the wall this time. She did not even bother to make an excuse this time and instead just leaned on the wall. “I…I’m going to find his kitchen, Berserker!”

Again it growled, and made her almost want to cry as she nearly sprinted out the door. It was just so embarrassing! Nothing she had done today had conveyed anything other than that she was a clumsy, useless mess. A wooden railing in her way as she descended the delicate spiral staircase got a swift kick to relieve her anger, but it didn’t help. Not even in the slightest.

She wanted to just scream or something, and her face still being red did not help.

Instead she took a deep breath, two deep breaths… three deep breaths. Finally she calmed down at the landing of the staircase. It’s just a natural body thing, not a big deal. And all these accidents? They could happen to anyone!

Her composure was no longer shattered, not even cracked, as she walked towards where the kitchen should be, or at least one of them in this mansion the crazy man somehow had. Maybe too much inbreeding in a long history had produced his insanity? She wasn’t really sure, but hopefully he would have a kitchen with something to eat.

Tch… she shouldn’t be insulting the man who provided her a place to stay. Well she should refrain from doing it out loud at least. Maybe she should show some appreciation… perhaps cook something for all of them? Something simple…

After three random rooms, she managed to find a kitchen. He probably has more than one anyways. There wasn’t all that much in it, however… so she decided on canned tomato soup, and grilled cheese. Simple, and grilled cheese was something she liked, so she poured five cans of soup in a large pot, and set it on the oven, after turning it to max heat.

Berserker could probably eat the entire thing, which is why she chose so many. Or the other Servant with the horrible face. She shuddered as she laid the cheese on bread, and then contemplated where to cook it…

“Aha!” It was almost a shout when she found the toaster hidden in a corner of the marble countertop. It was difficult to jam a sandwich in each of the four slots, but she managed it, and then set the timer to max, and let it cook.

As long as it was simple, she could manage it. Who could mess up melted cheese and soup anyways, even if every time she tried to cook, things seemed to combust. For a while, she had thought it was the maid sneaking in flammable items into the food, but even that seemed ridiculous now.

Hmmm… did she smell smoke? No it couldn’t…

Reluctantly turning around from her glass of water at the nearby table, she looked at the toaster. Which was, sure enough, smoking.

Which made her panic, so she rushed over, glass of water in hand, and dumped it on the smoldering toaster.

Making the situation much, much worse, as it immediately burst into flames. Grabbing a the ladle from the pot of soup with a quick spinning jerk, she began pushing the flaming toaster away from anything flammable using that same ladle.

At least until she felt something wet, and fairly hot on the back of her leg. She didn’t want to look, she didn’t want to look, she really didn’t want to look.

But she did. Her haste to pull the ladle out of the pot had dragged the entire pot onto the ground, spraying semi-hot tomato soup pretty much everywhere. There were absolutely no words that could convey her absolute frustration, but she certainly tried to find words.

The toaster was on fire, and the floor covered in tomato. And she had no idea what to do, especially when water just seemed to make both of them worse…

[BEOWULF]

A rumble like THUNDER. Hyperbole, yes. But Beowulf was a man who lived life by hyperbole and hype. Life was large and grand to him. The word, the concept, and the name of SMALLNESS did not sit well with him. Not at all.

So yes, a rumble like thunder, and not at all like the rupturing and smashing of continental forms engaging in their eons-old war against each other. The growling sound emanated from within his Master's belly. It was a sound that Beowulf recognized, the sound of hungry men announcing their deepest and darkest cravings.

No, not sex.

Hunger. Simple as that. It was a sensation that Beowulf knew all too well.

Beowulf shrugged off the excuse with a simple handwave. "Right... 'plumbing.' You should-" Before he could continue, however, Aela dropped the facade hastily.

“I…I’m going to find his kitchen, Berserker!” With that, she darted out of the room, stumbling through the hallways.

Beowulf allowed himself a self-satisfied smile. When hunger struck, it hit furiously and swiftly. It took a will of steel to resist its call and a body of iron to soldier through the pangs. It took a man like him to ignore and best hung-

...What was that feeling? Not unlike hunger, but without the weakness involved in such feelings. The craving, minus the churning stomach. Beowulf blinked, glancing at his own belly. Then he turned on his heel, following Aela.

A strong man could endure hunger. A smart man didn't bother.

...And the last time he had a meal was one and a half millennium ago, give or take a few centuries. A long time to go without meat or drink. A millennium and a half, give or take a few centuries, too long, in fact.

He was justified.

It was easy to find his Master. Beowulf only had to follow the stumbling. By the time he chanced upon the kitchen, he saw that his Master had already started up, getting some bland stew bubbling. She finished shoving some sort of bread-and-cheese combo into some strange contraption, forcing four of them down into too-thin slots.

Beowulf frowned. The first rule of everything and anything outside of monster-choking and dragon-slaying and bitch-punching was to never ever force something.

And Aela was doing exactly that.

"Uh-"

The events that shortly followed could only be described as a pure, unmitigated disaster, the end result being an electric fire that refused to die and tomato soup dripping everywhere.

Beowulf sighed as he strode forward, stepping over the staining tomato soup, planting himself in front of the source of the fire. He unclasped his cape, hurling it over the toaster, smothering the fire. Still, he had to be careful... so he clenched his fists, and then punched the toaster with two, quick strikes, leaving it little more than a pile of warped metal and squashed cheese and toast. Whatever was left of the fire stifled itself under Beowulf's thunderous strikes. Now, to dispose of the mess. Wrapping the mess of plastic and metal and foodstuffs in the cape, Beowulf took hold of the hem, hurling it through the window, sending it crashing outside in a tinkering hail of glass.

Let it never be said that Beowulf did anything in half measures.

[Alan Girm Moria]

Turning the knob to the left, Alan shut off the cold water and quickly hopped out to dry off. Cold showers and worse still short showers were not his first choice when it came to getting clean. This could be applied to the large part of his morning thus far. Once managing to thoroughly dry himself, Alan threw on the replacement clothes he had set aside and re-entered the bedroom he had left Benkei in.

A room that closely resembled a book warehouse. In nearly every possible inch of free space books were arranged, stacked, and piled up leaving scarcely space to stand let alone move. That Benkei had been able to get in at all without sending them flying like dominoes in some eccentric stack up was a feat in and of itself. To say nothing of the room's owner who frequently went through the bedroom bookshelf half asleep in the mornings through the clustered minefield.

If one were able to see past the carpet and wall paper of literature they might scry that the room while not average was by no means on par with the rest of the manor in terms of decoration. More suitable to an unwanted guest put up with out of formality than what would be expected for the heir to a blood line to be roomed in. Where his parents were concerned it was the most suitable place for the stigma they had conceived until they could replace him. To their lasting regret they had been unsuccessful in that crusade to produce another heir with less decayed circuitry.

"Might be best if you used spirit form to leave the room. Might not have the same luck getting out that you did coming in."

Tossing that careless comment after noticing Benkei's precarious footing in relation to the room, Alan began tying on a headband identical to the one he had worn before. Wearing a fresh grey t-shirt to deal with the warmer temperatures and a comfortable pair of blue jeans he was ready to rejoin his tempermental guests. Upon arriving at the foyer he paused at the top of the marble staircase mentally guessing which room they picked.

As it turned out there was no need to have bothered at all as the racket from the kitchen became evident. Endulging in a mental sigh, Alan made his way to the kitchen rolling his eyes. He should have guessed they would pick the kitchen to room in of all possible places. Walking into the mess, Alan swept his eyes over the kitchen performing damage assesment while putting together what happened.

Analysis:

The floor from the stove to nearly the entrance way was covered in a layer of what was presumeably tomato soup. Alea's pants legs too for that matter. The room smelled of smoke although none could be seen with a missing source of fire from which to originate. One window had been broken in a distinct toaster shape which upon double checking was also missing in action. The two suspects were standing still amidst the damage. One in shock, one in dull idleness both presumeably hungry.

Conclusion:

'Whichever one of them made this mess trying to make lunch has serious skills. Not in cooking of course, but you need some kind of skill to fail this badly at an attempt. Doubtful either of them are joing to lend a hand cleaning up to boot. Joy.'


"I'm not sure if you liked or disliked the Dracula reference too much. Either way covering the floor in tomato afterwards is going a bit overboard. While I clean up and make something for lunch you might want to go change."

Casting a meaningful glance at Aela's jeans now colored a lovely shade of red, Alan walked over to the broken window. Scooping down to pick up a shard of broken glass he pricked his finger to draw blood. Writing a rune upon the shard he muttered it's name quietly as the window shards began replacing themselves to the way they were before attempting to block a toaster missile.

Satisfied with the result, Alan turned on his heel navigating yet another precarious floor with a deftness that came from mornings of practice. After traversing the cooking blood bath without walking through it the pantry was finally accessable. In a tucked away corner existed some of the much needed tools and supplies for kitchen cleaning. Namely, a mop and bucket among other valuable tools.

"Try not tracking it through the house if you can Aela."

Calling over his shoulder, Alan set to work regretting the maid was on vacation at a much needed time.

[Aela Atheling]

…

He hurled everything through windows. That was her first thought. Not ‘Oh, he put out the fire’. No, that was her second thought. The first was ‘Why does he hurl everything through windows? Is it a Norse custom or something?’

Really.

The second thought was a barely whispered, “Thanks, Berserker.” See, this mess is why she hated cooking! Why technology shouldn’t be involved in it either. Stupid things, catching fire so easily. It wasn’t her fault at all! And why did anyone put such long handles on…

Oh yeah, she was still covered in tomato. Lovely. Was the universe out to get her clothes today? Perhaps Gaia decided they shouldn’t exist undirtied and was forcing her will upon it. Whatever it was, she really wasn’t sure, and really didn’t care. One thing was for certain though; she was not cleaning up what was clearly not her fault.

“Ber-“

Lovely. Footsteps. Alan was coming. The day just loved getting worse and worse.

He opened the door before she could even turn around. And just stared at the pair of them. Well, they were going to have to move back into her absolutely demolished house

"I'm not sure if you liked or disliked the Dracula reference too much. Either way covering the floor in tomato afterwards is going a bit overboard. While I clean up and make something for lunch you might want to go change."

Then he decided to show off and repair the window. Although… what he did was useful, so she was glad he did so. Runes. The completely… well ok, just less useful type of magecraft in general. A family this deep in central Europe using it, huh? Interesting. They must have had quite the storied history.

The soaked slacks brought her back to reality, just before Alan opened his mouth again. “Try not tracking it through the house if you can, Aela.”

Wait. What? Did he really expect her to clean up this mess? It wasn’t even her fault! Well… it could be slightly, sort of. She was even doing it to get him food, anyways. Ugh… the man probably had a maid too! It was incorrigible… but grudgingly slightly fair, she supposed. Although she had never really cleaned up anything like this, or really anything at all in her life.

How would one go about it? Shovelling it up with a bucket or something and dumping it in the garbage? That certainly wouldn’t get it all.

“Ahhhhhg!” She was just absolutely frustrated. Once again she swore never to try to work in a kitchen again. She had made that promise numerous times, but this time she would actually keep it! Hold on, she had a Servant… that was apparently easily offended and quite quick to throw things. Like her, potentially. And he wasn’t called berserker for nothing, he would probably go mad and tear her in half…

She shuddered. Thinking about that, with all the tomato soup on the floor… it really started to look like blood. The whole thing was… ugh, she had to supress an urge to vomit.

“Ok…” No one in particular was being addressed; she just needed to work through this out loud, “So how would I do this…” Well, she could certainly freeze the entire area, but that would be such a waste of prana. If she could do this by hand, she would do this by hand.

“I think… a mop”

About five minutes later, the mop really wasn’t working.

“All this stupid thing is doing is pushing this stuff around!” It wasn’t working, at all! She threw the mop to the side, and tomato soup squirted out of the sponge part.

Wait… maybe she had to squeeze that out? Yes! That made sense! There was even a handle thing to do it with! Ahahaha… she would defeat this mess yet!

…

It was still a lot of work, and the finished job looked… less than impressive. She could do it! And she would never do it again. Ever. But at least she proved that she could.

The floor was a slightly reddish tinge, but it was dry now, and that was the important part. Of course, now her last set of clothes was completely ruined by the ridiculousness of the job. And she wasn’t supposed to get any of this stuff anywhere… hmmm…

What could she do? The first thought was to take her clothes off, but that was immediately discarded. Hmmm… Berserker could…

“Berserker, can you carry me back to my room?”

[BEOWULF]

Ah. The owner was here. The boy busily set about repairing everything, meaning that his, BEOWULF's, own role in this matter, was more or less concluded. So he yawned, watching the events unfold before him with a passive disinterest. Master got a mop. Master took five minutes to work the mop. Master dithered around for a while, and then-

“Berserker, can you carry me back to my room?”

Had BEOWULF been drinking anything, he would have done a spit-take then and there, only adding to Aela's burden. The Berserker instinctively looked Aela over, searching for broken bones, wounds, anything that would inhibit her ability to walk. He certainly didn't see her get any... but still, better to check. It didn't take long. He found nothing - well, nothing aside from the stains all over her pants, leaving uncomfortably red blotches. Almost like blood, but only in looks. IT didn't smell like blood, it certainly didn't taste like blood. Blood was easily and obviously identified, even if you had never seen it before. It was sort of a primal feeling, a recognition, born from the moment you first started teething, as a baby. No. It... looked like tomato soup, really.

The Berserker blinked, folding his arms. "Wait, why?"

In answer, Aela pointed at the tomato stains, at the soup dripping from her pants. Beowulf nodded sagely, not understanding. "Yes. I see that, but why?"

"Because it's dripping." Beowulf could almost hear the unsaid dolt, impatience creeping into Aela's tone.

Suddenly, it all became clear. "You would not want our host to have to clean this up, huh? Perfectly understandable!" Beowulf strode forward. Without warning, he bent down, grabbing Aela by the legs. He fluidly and swiftly rose, eliciting a surprised shriek from his Master as she rose with him, suddenly finding herself staring down at the ground, slung over her Servant's shoulder.

"Where to? Your room?" A rhetorical question, as Beowulf didn't even wait for an answer as he left the kitchen, walking towards Aela's room, uncaring and heedless of the tomato dripping down his leather tunic. Beowulf made his way through the manor, master merrily bouncing off his shoulder. It did not take long to find the room that Moria had allotted for them. He pulled Aela down, holding her in both arms. He was about to drop her onto the bed, before noticing that her pants were still runny. And she did not want to dirty anything more than she had to. Beowulf was sure that making the boy change her sheets counted as such.

"Take off your pants."

[Alan Girm Moria]

Alan was beginning to have serious doubts about Aela's mental health. Not only did she begin talking to herself despite the room being full, she didn't seem to notice he was already setting to cleaning the place. Walking up to him, Aela grabbed the mop and bucket setting to the task in confusion.

Having the mop and bucket taken from his hands, Alan leaned back against the wall. Making sure he remained out of Aela's way, the three men quietly observed her work to remove the mess. An unspoken agreement between the three kept them apart as the woman began her work. Why Aela had taken it upon herself to clean up when he had already offered was anyone's guess. On the other hand, the result of this event was easily understood by them all.

Forget jokes about having skills at goofing up. Aela had no business doing housework. Plain and simple.

Failing at cooking was followed up by an equally dismal attempt at correcting the previous mistake. If this was how she normally acted doing simple tasks Alan could see why she was so eager to move in with him. There probably wasn't much of a house left standing if she was this much of a klutz.....he would need to keep an eye on her to ensure his house didn't suffer a similar fate. Any more than it already had at least.

At the end, the only evidence remaining of the mess would be the missing toaster. Discounting the ugly red stain she left behind after making a quick exit with Berserker.

"Does she think this amounts to clean? Sheesh...better get started I guess. Starting to doubt if I should even let her into my workshop at this point. That girl would manage to destroy the place by tripping over her own feet."

Pushing himself off the wall, Alan leaned down to scoop up the mop and bucket. The sludgy dregs within sloshed irritatedly as if protesting their relocation. Hauling the bucket to the pantry, Alan tilted it letting the red tide flow away down a drain in the floor. Rinsing it, and adding a cleaning solution to the warm water Alan mopped up the counter going over the stain.

After some time the last traces of the stain was removed. Wringing the last spurt of red fluid from the mop, Alan placed both hands on the tip of the handle one on top of the other. Resting his chin on his hands the bookwyrm idly surveyed the kitchen. It had taken time to be sure but he wouldn't suffer his home remaining in that state. Clucking his tounge he turned his thoughts to what to make for lunch.

Not enough time to cook anything warm for sure. It had taken long enough to get the kitchen truly spotless. Strangely enough the two hadn't made a peep in that time or returned either...

"Lancer please go check up on those two and get them down here to eat. I'll have something ready when you get back...just keep those two from destroying the place."

Sending Benkei off, Alan put away the cleaning materials and washed his hands. Pulling out plates, turkey meat, and bread, he soon assembled a mighty stack of turkey sandwiches. Setting them down on the table, Alan sank into his chair.

Normally there would be a maid here to take care of such matters. Yes, when his parents were here they wouldn't bother stooping to something as lowly as cleaning or cooking their own meals. In their eyes it was far beneath beings of their stature. So why wasn't she here right now?

It was very simple actually. His parents chose to schedule her vacation whenever they weren't at home and Alan would be. If he was any good at cleaning and cooking for himself it was a matter of necessity. The maid would be back two days before their return as always. His parents certainly did not want to return to a dirty house. In the mean time Alan didn't want to live in one.

Grabbing his own sandwich, Alan lathargically brought it to his mouth taking a savoury bite into it. Those three sure were taking their sweet time getting back here. Well their loss if they came back to lukewarm turkey. Sipping idly at his own cup of tea, Alan continued to wait.

[Aela Atheling]

She almost was forced to shriek. One second she was standing, looking at her giant of a Servant, the next she was upside down, and blood rushing to her head, and the air forced out of her lungs in a scream. Her hair was even brushing along the ground, somehow dripping red from blue bangs. Before she could wonder how the soup managed to get in her hair of all places, Beowulf swung her over his shoulder, in some crude version of the way firemen carried people.

Dizzyness assailed her for a second, as he started to walk through the hallways, well jog, bouncing her up and down like a rag doll. Except she, unlike a doll, had a stomach, which was beginning to become upset with the repeated torture she was inflicting on it. And the fact she hadn’t had anything to eat didn’t help either.

In the end she managed to hold it down though, with particular difficulty during the stairs portion, and her complaints seemed to fall on deaf ears.

Finally though, blessed finally, he stopped, but she was still slung around his back, not really able to move at all. She wiggled, trying to get out, but it was to no avail.

“Take off your pants.”

…

Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa? Wha? Did he whaaaaaaaaa? No no no, he didn’t just say that. Her ears were clogged. He wouldn’t say that, why would he say that? That would… why did he want to see her again after the summoning!? Hadn’t that been enough!?

…

Wait. Oh yeah, the stains on her pants. Still! He did this on purpose to see her squirm. She slammed her hands against his back, to no avail.

“I… I… I…” She blushed furiously. This was ridiculous; he was just a Servant, why was she getting worked up? It was stupid, but nonetheless, there it was.

She sighed. This was ridiculous. She could not say that enough.

“Well… I… I can’t very well get out of it like this, you know! I’m right here in your arms, that w-would be insane. I don’t even know you! Just… close your eyes or something.” He was carrying her bridal style now… that really, really didn’t help.

Okay Aela, Calm down. It isn’t that big of a deal. Seriously, it’s a Servant. He has seen you worse, and it isn’t a big deal. It is natural, be comfortable in your own skin.

…

Yeah being comfortable in the arms of a giant just wasn’t going to happen. Especially a giant that she had known for oh, about half a day. There still was no certainty on how the man would act, and there was no way she should intentionally undress herself in front of him, it would make him think far too highly of himself. Beowulf, braggart and charmer of women, that would only feed his ego if she listened to him.

What she should do is just have him put her down in the bathroom or something, she would need a shower after this, that much was certain. Yes, that was a perfect idea.

“No! I’ve decided. Not doing this, not now, not ever. Just… carry me into the bathroom, I’ll change and shower there, and throw the clothes out of the door to be washed.” There was an adjoining one just a few paces to the right… well she thought it was a bathroom, she hadn’t really opened the door yet. But the ground under there looked tiled. And the tile wouldn’t get stained by this foul tomato soup.

Yeah, a nice hot shower sounded beautiful right now. That was perfect~ Probably too perfect. The taps would probably be rigged to explode or something, but at the moment she could care less. She just wanted to get clean, and stay clean for at least a few hours. Was that too much to ask?

[] Ahhhg everything I write is terrible forever. []

[BEOWULF]

Beowulf was trembling. Almost shaking with silent mirth. At what? Nothing else but Master's response, of course. His plan was simple, really. Stunning in its simplicity. Keep pressing Aela's buttons, all of them, as many as possible. Whatever happened after that...

Well, it hardly mattered. If Aela were a competent Master and person, if she had a certain strength of character, then she would bear it with the right amount of calmness. Or Beowulf would beat it into her. Either way worked.

In the meantime, Beowulf would just have fun along the ride. He had technically been dead for the better part of a millennium. Could you really begrudge this to him? Especially when he had not had a chance to fight anyone yet, especially when he could not scream his name from the roofs, had to restrain it within him...

The Berserker needed a way to unwind. And Aela, for better or worse, willingly or unwillingly, was the proverbial squeeze ball.

"Hh, alright." The room was equipped with an adjacent bathroom, meaning that it was a simple matter for Beowulf to walk across the polished wood floor, pass the dresser, push the door open, and to deposit Aela on the tiled floor. The Master slid out of his arms, almost grateful for the chance to be rid of Beowulf. "While you're showering, I'll be dematerializing," The Berserker grunted. "You shouldn't be needing me 'til you finish... though if you want, I'm willing to run an errand, replace your clothes." The clothes that I might have accidentally destroyed, one way or another. Beowulf shrugged. "Either way... When you're done, gimme a shout. Anything happen in the meantime... gimme a shout." Unclipping his cape from its clasp, still scuffed and scratched from its previous tussle with the terrible toaster, Beowulf wrapped it upon itself, handing the bundle to Aela. "In the meantime, you might need this, though," he added.

[Aela Atheling]

Finally, finally she was free of Beowulf. Free of his arms, and his nauseous grip. He had deposited her on the tiled floor of the bathroom, which was actually quite cold on her bare feet. It was odd to say anything was cold, when she sheathed herself in ice, but there it was.

Small amounts of tomato soup spattered against the tile as she stood, stained and staring at Beowulf, who began to address her.

“While you’re showering, I’ll be dematerializing. You shouldn’t be needing me ‘til you finish… though if you want, I’m willing to run an errand, replace your clothes.” Huh… that would actually really help. The real question was if she trusted him to do laundry. “Either way… when you’re done, gimme a shout. Anything happen in the meantime... gimme a shout. In the meantime, you might need this, though.”

He had pulled off his long cape, one that almost touched the ground on him, rolled it up, and passed it to her. She was… grateful for the thing, but wasn’t sure what it could accomplish more than the… she peered at the bathroom… ok there was only one towel, she could be thankful for the cape.

“Thanks, I suppose.” He was a good foot taller than her, at least, and she wasn’t sure what exactly she could do with it, but she thanked him nonetheless. Maybe he would be slightly easier to get along with, and less ridiculous than suggesting she strip in front of him, if she was slightly nicer to him?

… That just seemed so unlikely.

“Beowulf,” She said, before closing the door, “Can you wash and dry my clothes? I don’t actually need them replaced.” Making a Servant do servant work. Again. Yeah, there went that nice part. “Just don’t ruin them, and don’t root through them for specific ones. Just… take one of the suitcases. The one closest to the door. I’m sure Alan knows where his own laundryroom is, if you can find him to ask. And… thank you, in advance.” The last bit was a little grudging, she was rather worried he would ruin the clothes, so she had pointed out the one she would care about losing the least. Mostly clothes gifted to her by her parents who, while understanding her tastes in colour, did not seem to understand the way she preferred to dress, and sent her annoyingly thin and almost breezy clothes and dresses.

It was just so much easier to wear slacks, or jeans, and shirts or button up blouses over anything so annoyingly complex. While they were kind, and some of the prices on those clothes had been rather shocking (Although she wouldn’t have put it past them to steal the clothes… she wouldn’t have really put it past herself either), they just really didn’t get it.

She began to pull her tee over her head, getting red streaks from its stains along her face. They probably wanted her to wear specific clothes so that she could fulfill her one promised function to them: continuing their line, marrying and producing some children with a man who she had visited quite a few times, and was not repulsed by but there were no feelings there.

Urg… just that thought annoyed her, even if it was fairly common among magi. She would do what was expected of her, she had promised them that when they gave her their blessing to attend the war.

Shaking the thought away, she unbuttoned her jeans, and pulled them down, kicking them off into the corner with her stained shirt. How many times had she showered today? Once after painting the circle with blood, another time after the fire to cleanse the smell of smoke from her, another time after her and Veronica’s fight and now a fourth… it was barely into the afternoon! And that wasn’t even counting the ice bath she had while summoning Beowulf.

All her clothes were now piled in a corner, and so she turned on the shower, and stepped into its blessed warmth. After all that had happened, it seemed to just wash away her worries.

For a short time, at least, until she remembered she was trusting a barbarian from before the first millennium to wash her clothes. What had she even been thinking? Well… probably something along the lines of preferring to not be naked. Or just wrapped in a single towel and a cape that she really had no idea what to do with. Maybe wear it like a ridiculous scarf or something combined with the towel? A blanket? But she could just use an actual blanket as a blanket…

The absurdity of the situation was striking. In a war, in a house with another Servant, an enemy, she was sending her only protection, a hero from centuries old legend, to do her laundry, because she was worried about clothes. This was definitely not how she had seen the war progressing when she had come to Lucca, or planned everything out.

After fully cleaning herself, and furiously scrubbing away any signs of the tomato soup on her body, she shut off the shower, and stepped out into the steamy bathroom. She dried off a bit with an actually rather soft pale blue towel, and then wrapped it around herself, tightening it and tucking it in so she could walk around with it. Paying no heed to the pile of clothes in the corner of the room, she walked back into the bedroom, leaving damp footprints behind, and sat on the bed, with the cloak sort of draped haphazardly around her shoulders.

…She felt like she was swimming in the stupid thing. Or it was some sort of cape-toga-scarf-cloak combination. But she wore it anyways, she felt just… better with it on. Felt better waiting. Which was all she could really do until Beowulf returned. Just sit on the edge of the bed, with her legs crossed, waiting for the giant man to return with her clothes.

[BEOWULF]

An odd request for a Servant, especially a Servant like Beowulf. Then again, Aela was full of them. Her first request, after all, was asking him to make her tea. Then asking to ride on his shoulder. This was nothing new. And he did offer. It was not his fault if Aela took it at face value "...Sure."

Aela waffled on about something called a laundry room, to Beowulf's eternal bemusement. Why would you need an entire room to clean clothes? That was just silly. It would just take too long, too.

As Aela shut the door, Beowulf turned around, grabbing the suitcase in question. He left the room to the sound of running, drizzling water.

The suitcase was light. Very much so. The owner of this manor was complaining about this? Honestly. This was nothing. Perhaps Beowulf would have to implement a training regimen. Given five months, he would be able to transform Moria into an excellent warrior.

...Of course, he didn't have five months. He had about two weeks to win this War. This War, by the way, that Moria and Lancer were his enemies in. It was that kind of a situation.

Almost a sobering thought, really. It depressed Beowulf for all of half a second. Then he continued walking. If that was the case, then that was how it would be! He and Aela would live under Moria's roof for the time being. For as long as this alliance, as tenuous as it was, would hold out.

And when it ended, then he would fight Lancer. He would win, yes, but he would endeavor to make his death as swiftly and painless as possible, in remembrance of their alliance!

So, with renewed resolve, Beowulf hooked a mighty left, turning STRAIGHT INTO A BATHROOM.

He walked towards the bathtub, turning the water on. As it slurped and ran into the tub, Beowulf opened the suitcase, taking Aela's clothing out.

...

What was this stuff? Light... flimsy... no, seriously, what? These things wouldn't protect her from a light breeze, let alone chilling winter. For that matter, it looked like they were too weak to handle even a vigorous scrubbing, let alone turning even a knife.

...

Well, she asked. Beowulf might as well try, at least.

About a fourth of them didn't survive the cleaning process, torn apart by vigorous scrubbing.

Of those that survived Beowulf's rough attention, half were torn, ripped, shredded, beaten apart during the drying process, as Beowulf took a hairbrush to them, slamming the water out of them.

A lesser man might have been embarrassed.

But you don't really think that Beowulf is a 'lesser man', do you?

They were dry. They were cleaned.

Beowulf haphazardly stuffed them all back into the suitcase, even the ruined ones, not taking care to fold them. So what if there were a few wrinkles? He squeezed the suitcase shut, and then dashed back to Aela's room, where his Master was already waiting for him, cloak draped across her.

"Master." Good beginning. Now, how would he break the news of her clothes' demise to her? He nodded gravely, raising the suitcase in front of him. "Your clothes were not ready." He opened the suitcase, allowing fabric, beads, buttons, with an assortment of actual clothes to bounce out, flopping to the floor.

[Aela Atheling]

What she had just done would probably be labeled almost unequivocally as a bad move. Her hand hurt, her wrist hurt, everything on her entire right arm hurt. She had taken a bullet to her ice shield and it hadn’t even felt like this.
Possibly because it was willing perhaps?

Shredded clothes lay on the ground, ruined, destroyed beyond repair, dumped right on the ground by her Servant, as she shook her right wrist sulfurously. Potentially it had been her mistake by asking him to do it, but she had given him instructions, ones he had clearly failed to follow.

So when he had come back, and shown her the ruined clothes, with nothing of an apology at all, she could not help herself. She stood up, her hair still slightly dripping, and the light blue towel still wrapped around her.

And… she…

Punched. Beowulf. With all the force she could muster, against his metal armour. Against his midsection, in some frantic manner hoping for some reaction from the unfeeling steel. Her only response was a light thrumming, and then a sharp pain as her arm almost broke under her own force.

That did not make her happy, and she immediately shook her right hand, and then cradled it, glaring at the taller Servant. This too was his fault, all of it was. Sure, she hadn’t really planned on wearing those clothes, but that didn’t mean he had to go out of his way to destroy pretty much all of them!

Had he had no idea how to wash and scrub them, he should have admitted his fault. But he was just this stubborn lunk of a man, exactly the same as all the others.

Her eyes drifted to the loose buttons, the stray strands of silk, the torn skirts, the… she was shaking, and almost about to hit him again. A man in armour who could rip her apart, while she stood in a towel. The sheer genius of it almost failed to hit her.

Fury overwhelmed her, but all she could let out was a pained “Hnnnnn…” It hurt. Hopefully nothing was broken from her moment there… Deep breath now. Breathe, Aela! Breathe! Finally she breathed in, stopping the mad trembling that had almost made her swing her left, or perhaps even use one of the seals burned into the back of her left hand.

That would have been regrettable. Certainly. What would she have done? Ordered him to undo the damage he had caused? That was impossible. Never touch her clothes again? Perhaps. Still, it would have been a silly, stupid thing to do.

After having successfully obtained oxygen, finally, she began to start to lay into Beowulf. “You- Don’t ever… How…” Although it had little effect, or even coherence, as she stumbled over what she wanted to say even in the moment of speaking. She could not put words together to ask how or what or even… even her thoughts were getting unaligned.

…Even with the pain, punching him again looked mightily attractive. But she stopped herself, again. Cold anger. What, in fact, gave her aid, was the sound of heavy approaching footsteps. Her sense of propriety, the need to show the strength of the alliance between her and Beowulf caused her to step back, and sit down on the bed, head down. It made her realize what she had been about to do; made her realize what she had done.

She could only whisper “Sorry.”

[BEOWULF]

thdink

BEOWULF looked down. He saw Aela's hand curled up into a small fist, resting against his hip. She was trembling, panting from exertion. If Berserker didn't know better, he'd have said that his Master had tried to punch him.

On cue, she reacted violently, hand snapping back, cradling it. She loosed a cringing whimper of pain. So. She did punch him after all. Hmmm. Hmmmmmmm. Beowulf frowned, stroking his chin, deep in thought.

Even Aela's angrish ranting (and there was plenty of it, more of the angrish than the ranting, though) was not enough to derail Beowulf's pensive train of thought. And it was a pensive one indeed. "Hmmmm."

Finally, the rantish angrishing petered down to sullen silence, followed by a muttered "sorry."

Beowulf folded his arms sternly, expression swiftly becoming blank and unreadable. "You're doing it wrong, Master."

Before Aela could respond, Beowulf instantly bent down to a knee, large, callused hands working over his Master's smaller hands. He prodded and poked Aela's bruised right hand, before straightening it out with a crunch or two. He looked straight into her eyes, and said, quite seriously, "That was a poorly thrown punch, miss. Let me show you how to do it."

Aela's hand still enfolded in his own, Beowulf deftly began working, forming his Master's fingers into a proper fist. "Bit like this." Berserker's mouth broke into a wide, warm grin. He released her hand, standing and walking back. "Try again, Master! But this time, not like that," - Beowulf's fist thrust out awkwardly stiff and forward, aping Aela's earlier hit - "But like this." He swung his fist again, but in a powerful, arcing right hook.

You could almost hear the empty air wince with pain.

"C'mon, Master! You can do it!" Beowulf laughed, arms spread wide. He walked closer, still magnanimously presenting himself as a target. "Show me your moves!"

[Alan Girm Moria]

"Hello hello welcome to our segment on dealing with summoning aftermath! I'm your co host Alan Girm Moria and today we will be disposing of crispy rugs! Simply roll it from both ends into a tube shape, and then proceed to firmly tie around it's length a piece of rope. Having completed this step apply a table flipping technique of your choice and awayyyyy it goes~!"

With a cheerful voice, Alan angrily hurled the charred rug across the room using all of his might. Seriously what was this? The first day of this grail war had turned out to be a test of his janitorial and porter skills!

"Phewwwww"

Blowing out his frustration the rug's existence was dismissed as it flew away out of sight. Scratching his chin, Alan flopped into a plush armchair nestled into an aclove. After learning from Lancer that the two upstairs were playing at being Rocky waiting became pointless. They wanted to play around? They were welcome to it but he was done waiting. Thus he had come down to a smaller section of the Library near the surface. It was roughly the size of a warehouse. With Lancer guiding them they shouldn't have a problem finding him. He was in the smallest of the library sections in the complex so it couldn't be that difficult.

Not paying attention to the title Alan scooped up a nearby book on an end table. Reading from the middle onwards it became apparent the book was from the Narnia series. Sticking a bookmark between the current pages he began to recite the book aloud from memory. Upon reaching the book marked page he stopped and read not only the story but for his memory's accuracy. It wasn't entirely word for word but 10 mistakes out of a hundred pages wasn't bad after 3 years since last reading of it.

Done with the little game, the rest of the story was finished in short order. Then another followed in the same manner. Then another. And another afterwards until the pile of books stacked up int he aclove moved from the unread pile to the finished pile. The number of books and the time it took quickly faded away as Alan rejoiced. Back in his own rhythm again in his element surrounded by seas of shelves and their bounty of books. Stretching from floor to ceiling they ran on endlessly in a wood and paper maze promising bliss.

A happiness that would prove to be short lived as the sound of muffled foot steps approached Alan's aclove. Ignoring them Alan continued to stare into his current book in the volume filled area.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
{Fate Meta Monogatari}
[MEANWHILE AT THE OTHER END OF THE LIBRARY]

Making it's landing the ruined rug continued it's pilgrimage onwards past books of all shapes, sizes, content, and color. It soon arrived at an elegantly carved wooden chair. No, chair would not be an accurate term for the furniture. It was more akin to a throne that would not be amiss in any lord's court. Surrounded by a ring of piled books it reigned holding a young girl. Dressed to match the elegant furniture the mini monarch sat with a book that dwarfed her.

Frowning into it's contents she slowly mouthed each word without attention span or enthusiasm. Uncomplaining her audience of books listened attentively to the chronicle of silly events being read. They let loose an unheard cry of joy as a burnt carpet punctuated the tale. Crushing the babbler beneath it's bulk it gave a motionless bow to the silent din of applause.

[Aela Atheling]

[] I grow tired of waiting far too quickly~ []

She wasn’t sure how this happened. Had she not just punched him? She was fairly sure she wasn’t dead yet, as her muscles told her at least. Instead of roaring at her, or some other thing suitable of a Berserker, he immediately fell to his knees after she sat down on the bed, and then nearly dragged her off it when he grabbed her hand with his own rough, but definitely warm hand and forcibly opened hers.

Her fingers cracked audibly as she futiley struggled against him. There was a split second in her mind when she thought he was going to break her fingers for punching him, but that notion had faded in a second with his ridiculous statement.

"That was a poorly thrown punch, miss. Let me show you how to do it."

“W-wh-“ She had no time to object, as she was dragged to her feet, her free hand struggling to hold the towel in place. He then had folded her hand into a proper fist, backed away, smiled, and… demonstrated how to punch.
Which was why she was now practicing throwing punches with him looking on with what seemed to her like disapproval while she was clothed only in a towel, which she had to desperately readjust every so often when she threw the wild punches he was seeming to indicate.

There was no way this was happening… but it was. It definitely was. She could feel it as her muscles started burning after the twentieth or so time she tried to recreate what Beowulf had done. However while the air may have felt the pain of his punch, it was certainly laughing at her attempts.

"C'mon, Master! You can do it!"

His cheering really did not help. If anything it made it worse. Well not the quality of the punches, those just would never improve, but how she felt. Her face was furiously red with embarrassment, getting worse with each word he said.

"Show me your moves!"

He had to pick the most corny thing to echo to her, she couldn’t even look at him any longer, couldn’t show him her face. It had to be- she quickly caught the towel as she felt the fold slip and reset it- this had to be the most ridiculous thing she had ever done and being watched while doing it? That just made it worse.

She punched the air one more time, and then just stopped. The embarassment had reached critical level, she could no longer take doing this.

“… Wh- uh… I.” She was still completely lacking words, so she just gave up and picked up part of the pile of clothes and took it to the bed, not even making eye contact with her Servant. There had to be something there remaining in a state of wearability.

A bra, with one damaged strap, although it looked like it would hold and it’s matching lower half intact, although far more frilly than anything she would normally wear. It was also black… and the only intact top was a sort of thin pale pink button blouse…

Nope she was just going to wear wet clothes. Never ever ever going to wear any of those remaining things, at least it had been things she hated he destroyed. Although anything wasted like that made her fury rise a little again, but she quickly forced it down

Pushing the majority of the pile unceremoniously off the bed she was now sitting on, she opened one of the boxes beside her that looked the least damp and pulled the majority of her clothes from that.

… Why she had a labcoat she didn’t even know, but now was glad for it, as it meant she didn’t have to care at all about the clothes she picked other than their dryness, as she could just cover it after, and then haul this stuff down to wash. Herself. She was going to do it and Beowulf would… do… something… else. Probably break the rest of- no. She was a guest, even if her host wasn’t the best person in the world she couldn’t really leave Beowulf alone in his rather expensive seeming house.

Ushering her Servant out the door she changed quickly, not enjoying the feeling of damp clothes but she would suffer through it. After quickly pulling over the labcoat, since she didn’t have anything else both full length and relatively clean, she picked up the box and pushed her way out the door to meet her Servant again.

She still couldn’t look him in the eye, but it felt like her complexion had returned to its normal state, so she just talked to him while looking straight ahead over the railing.

“Alright. Just… just take me to where you washed and dried my other clothes. Don’t worry, I am never going to ask you to do that again. Ever. If I was almost dead, I’d get up and do it myself at this point. Just… show me where you did it.”