1511/A Sword and a Lady

A Sword and a Lady
Date of Scene:	04 May 2020
Location:	Little Italy
Synopsis:	Directions and help given, and a friendship made.
Cast of Characters:	Caliburn, Clea

---

Caliburn has posed:
The arrival of Caliburn's return to the world is one heralded in a few different ways. First, for the average pedestrian of New York, there was a thunderclap on a clear day. Was this a transformer blowing? A bomb? A resident god of thunder? The origin was not obvious, but the loud boom certainly stunned the nearby residents of Little Italy before they continued on with their normal activities. The second was a potent magical wave that ripples through the immediate vicinity. It had no hallmark of spell work and instead as more of a 'white noise', a field that quickly faded but would stir curiosity for those able to detect it.

The third is reserved for a dishwasher of a nearby Italian eatery. Following the sound of thunder, something falls from the sky. A sword topples haft over blade, edge glinting briefly in the sunlight before disappear between two buildings into a narrow alley. A sudden crack marks its impact with concrete, the weapon stabbing into the ground and sending small fractures in a radius. The dishwasher yells bloody murder and clutches his apron clad chest. He takes a deep breath, composes himself and then rises to inspect the disturbance.

As he approaches, the weapon glows with light, and what was the silhouette of a sword becomes that of a man wearing medieval armors, a tunic, and old leather boots. He coughs and runs his hands over a short beard then looks at the dishwasher. He squints and offers a word in old English as his first guess of language. The reply isa point and a series of profanities offered in Italian. Caliburn winces. Good start.

Clea has posed:
Little Italy isn't much Italian anymore, the mafioso pushed out decades ago. Creep encroaching from Chinatown and SoHo devours much of the enclave. It still smells heavenly though. Real red sauces leak out their scents from one of those Italian shops established forty years ago, while the Bowery Poetry offers a place to snap beats and craft ideas into the twisty turns of cunning linguistics. It's from the latter that the pale-haired young woman emerges, her hand pressed to her brow. Now is a fine time to slide sunglasses over her nose, wide lenses the sort of uniform of general anonymity that a certain class of woman prefers. The loud noise resonates in the quiet poetry slam inside the building, less "Moth" than social revolutionaries defining their space in a topsy-turvy society.

"C'mon, let's get outta this place," becomes the rallying cry for the thin crowd, zigzagging their way towards the nearest subway. The subway is a lifeline and an escape for those all too familiar with dangers of lightning or thunder on a clear day. A loud noise could be a fire, for all they know. Hispanic and Italian voices mingle heavily with Mandarin, all of them wrapped up in various dialects of three different continents. El Salvadorian is just as prevalent as Cantonese or Neapolitan terms. They all flow around Clea in their way too. She takes in her bearings, a great deal less concerned than a few diners paying up immediately and several poets fleeing.

Her manner calls back to more regal people of yore, those who carried themselves in a certain way, with a certain gravitas lingering. One of the stumbling, startled patrons of Umberto's Clams -- unfortunate restaurant of an unfortunate dishwasher -- practically collides with her in his haste to get away. She gently steadies him with a hand. "Please, be careful. This is no place to sprain an ankle," she offers. Her accent holds an odd, unfamiliar tone. It's not every day someone speaks with proper Oxfordian English and Tibetan as their main influences, but there it is. "Goodness, what happened?"

Goodness: it's worthing noting that in a sea of mystic metahumans and the occasional hidden practitioner, she's something like the Shard or the Burj Khalifa, burning intensely bright. And like nothing else on Earth, because the only equivalent is jailed elsewhere.

Caliburn has posed:
For Caliburn, this place is beyond alien. He attempts to calm the dishwasher in Italian, but the anger and fear that permeates the man's thoughts seems impossible to pierce through. Following another wince, Caliburn raises his hands palms out in the universal gesture of 'I mean no harm' and proceeds to exist the alley way only to step onto a sidewalk of a somewhat bustling if not panicked tree.

He immediately bumps into a woman and offers his apologies in Italian. She responds unfavorably in an unfamiliar dialect of Spanish. He tries to apologize again in Castilian but is promptly shoved aside as he's bombarded by further slang. Unfamiliar with etiquette for such crowded streets, he inevitably runs into another one. This man yells at him in Cantonese. Caliburn desperately tries to respond back in a very outmoded dialect. Again with failed results.

Never had he encountered a population of such varied origin. Completely flabbergasted, he leans against a nearby window though stares follow because of his strange outfit. An older woman raps on the window from the outside and shakes her finger at him for leaning on the glass. Caliburn clutches his head and bellows, "What is this.. MADNESS!?!"

Clea has posed:
Not much damage threatens Umberto's Clam restaurant, other than scattering a few patrons like pigeons. The well-dressed and the casual alike might be tempted to follow the outflow. New York's like a pond though. Throw a small rock and the water eventually swallows up the issue altogether. Away heads the businessman with a curse, and another waitress bustles around as she desperately tries to scoop up her tips or get her bills paid through the system, avoiding a dine and dash situation. Her face is red, her eyes watery, finding another table vacated and no signs of the patrons.

The quiet dance of conversation fades and thrums. Angry voices rise and fall, seeing perhaps a charlatan emerging from Times Square or a concert or some game that doesn't involve them. They don't understand, frowning as they go, and Clea decides to veer up to the source of the commotion in hopes of finding, perhaps, the knot of confusion. One can only feel its tentacles from afar, but she can certainly manage better than that, watching thoughtfully as the anguished expressions turn with annoyance or confusion. Those who didn't even hear the bang barely pay attention. Another person lost chattering in one of the four hundred languages of New York, crying out in the urban wilderness, isn't bound to be responded to much. Well, by someoen impatient.

Clea, on the other hand, is far from young by human standards. Patience is one of her great graces, and she slants towards the angry woman waving out the shop window. The howling voice snares her, and it sticks; she's there in less time than not. "Excuse me?" Soft words, unthreatening, answer Caliburn. She pushes her sunglasses up onto her pale hair. It's almost suffused in sunlight, even though the hour is waning, and shadows long. That warmth clouds her features in a curious fashion. "Sir? Is everything quite all right?"

Caliburn has posed:
Soft spoken words in a familiar tongue are like a lighthouse in a storm for Caliburn. He gazes up towards the woman and tilts his head. One could not imagine a creature more out of place, in his armors of old on the modern streets of New York. One might consider it almost a pathetic sight until he rights himself. He stands tall and draws an arm over his chest. He bows cordially, the long tendrils of his dark hair momentarily framing his features. "Ah.. Perhaps. You must excuse me.. I am.. a bit overwhelmed."

His brow furrows as he scans his surroundings, catching hints of surface thoughts from those the closest. He starts to detect a prevalence of English.. a new much more modern dialect of it. He takes in the large concrete structure and the machines driving along paved streets before looking back toward the woman. "May I ask a very.. awkward question? By the.. ah.. Roman calenda.. what year is it?"

His eyebrows raise hopefully for an answer.

Clea has posed:
A slender lighthouse with a radiant beacon, for it truly is. On some unseen level, Clea radiates actual light though it's outside the human spectrum. She clasps her hands together, the better to reduce her profile of someone inherently threatening. Tilting her head, her curling hair spills over her shoulder in a nebulous wave tinged with a nacreous finish, catching the faint light. Armours of old wrapped around him find a mirrored sensibility of sorts, her flowing dress something archaic in its original stylings. Not at the folded origami pleating on her hips, mind, but definitely in the long, loose sleeves sitting off the shoulders that taper into banners painted with auroral watercolours on silk. It takes her a few moments to center in on the language, to focus. Her lips press together and she shakes her head. "No explanation necessary, nor apology. It is rather a confused and busy hour. Have you been turned around, perhaps?"

A bit of her syntax is precise, though she refines as she goes, as though practice improves the grasp in question. "By the Julian calendar," she begins, taking in his response. Caliburn receives her full attention, short of a cyclist getting too close or a building falling. "The twenty-second of April, two thousand and twenty. Though the current calendar used in most of the world, it would be the fourth of May, the same year. If you prefer the Hindu, it's Vaisakha Sukla Trayodashi, Vikram samvat 2077."

Caliburn has posed:
His response to the Hindi calendar is one of almost bliss, for it was a piece of familiarity to latch upon. Though the information imparted by it is alarming. He draws his fingertips over his face and stifles a momentary groan. He murmurs in older Swedish, "Nearly nine hundred years since Magnus.. was I.. so unneeded? Have the times been.. that peaceful?"

He grows momentarily withdrawn as he considers the ramifications of the elapsed time. The strange contraptions that surround him begin to make sense. Mankind has always striven to improve their lot. He gazes back toward the woman and almost feels the need to squint as his old senses come back to him. Finely attuned to the currents of magic, he begins to realize that this woman was more then just a kind bystander. His back straightens as his expression grows alarmed. "Did you.. summon me?" The words uttered in Irish Gaelic once more. "Have I been plucked by your hand.. or did I arrive honestly by this time?"

Clea has posed:
Oh, there indeed is an absolutely ancient way of measuring the world. The Hindi calendar is, oddly, one Clea seems to be comfortable with though nothing about her coloration would indicate being from the subcontinent. Not that this means much of anything, though the tells about her whereabouts aren't very clear otherwise. Swedish that ancient forces a bit of a wrinkle to her brow, as though she tries to define the origins of the language that has much more in common with modern Icelandic than anything else. Her fingers flank her cheekbone, sliding up and down, taking measured stock of what Caliburn says.

"Forgive me, I am trying to remember the way to speak in that, while being clear," she admits in Gaelic. A flick of her wrist might be the simple dismissal of those long, flowing sleeves trailing after every gesture with a certain poetic ease. Just that. Except a spark of magic settles in, giving a grafted talent for tongues, one she can use to shift back and forth with better ease. It comes as innately as anything else. Gesturing to the sidewalk, the sorceress smiles gently. "Summon you? Oh no. I might ask if you summoned me, but few talk like that and mean just what it says." Her soft-spoken tone ripples with concern, and it radiates in her eyes, pure and brilliant heliotrope as they are. "Forgive me, my manners are lacking and it is such an unforgiveable oversight. My name is Clea." She pauses again, as though determining the proper way to approach the matter. His dress settles it.

The curtsy to Caliburn is pitch perfect in depth and execution. It's the kind of gesture infused by formality such that it must look terribly odd on a street. Nonetheless, one she executes with ease. "May I have the pleasure of your name? Again, I extend the hospitality that you might require, should you be lost or newly arrived. 'Honestly?' I am not sure what conditions those mean. Came of your own accord?"

In the scale of 'magic things,' she's at a far end of the chart. She /is/ magic.

Caliburn has posed:
He grows more wary by the moment in the presence of one which radiates magic so profoundly. Yet, she acts kindly and politely. If she is a foe, she is a devious one. One who understands the merits of being cordial and welcoming the unsuspecting to their doom. Yet if she is a friend, she is a noble one who offers compassion where others have extended only apathy. He nods carefully and murmurs, "Indeed, I meant it as I said.. and no, I have not intended to summon you. Thus, I can only guess the winds of fate work as they intend as inexplicable and as baffling as ever."

He pauses at the question, oddly so, for something so straight forward as name. However, a name is often something imparted upon him in the moment. He considers long and decides upon a favorite, offering her a cordial nod. "You may call me, Caliburn. It is.. a pleasure to meet you, Clea." There is another pause, a nervous rolling of his tongue within his mouth. "I am.. most definitely newly arrived. Though.. I'm not so sure I can be said to be lost.. for I am where it is intended, if I not know why."

He straightens and adjusts his tunic. "I must ask.. plainly.. Sorceress Clea." By the way he plucks the honorific of sorceress without pretext, it is clear he must perceive the magic in her. "By what cause do you wield magic?"

Clea has posed:
"Fate is a strange and many-faceted thing, but I do not begrudge the unexpected turns that bring me where I am," Clea says. She nods to the Bowery and Little Italy, where the porous borders bleed back and forth. That heavenly scent of baking bread and tomatoes permeates the air, bringing a widening smile to her lips. "The simple pleasures are sometimes the best. Forgive me, they can be a distraction. I have not called you up, though had I done so unconsciously or out of need, my sincere apologies. It was not my solemn intention."

Her smile lifts when he mentions the name. "Caledfwlch!" The Welsh leaps to her tongue and she weaves it back with a bright, satisfying tilt of something Latinate. "Caliburn. That is an excellent name. It starts hard and rolls from the tongue. I appreciate the very sound of it, like a kind of poetry or a song. Hello, Caliburn. Well, this is New York." A gesture made with her hand is small. "A great city of the United States. About nine million people live here, many different sorts. It is not the largest city or the most important, but it has perhaps the most diversity, the most heart." This matters to her, given the stress. "Full of art and voices and stories. Not all parts of it are safe, but I can bring you somewhere if you should need. I will warn you your clothes will have you stand out. Some may question it. However, it is not ill-intentioned. They are concerned when they see something different, as it is."

Her smile rises, surprised by tinged by delight. The honorific she accepts, nodding with openness wreathed in a bit of caution. Hey, people can overhear, even if the language has less than a million speakers. "By birth, Master Caliburn, and by legacy. It is my people's birthright and never have I lacked it. However, I follow the tenets to use none of it recklessly and to do no harm, as I have sworn by oath to the greatest defender of this place. He taught me compassion and humanity with the arts I command, and so I strive to honour his memory. That's rather the longer answer, but I hope it satisfies."

Caliburn has posed:
He listens and measures her words carefully. He beams momentarily at the mention of another of his monikers. Indeed, the way it rolls from her tongue brings heat behind his ears in enjoyment. He offers a prideful nod. "Such it is.. one that brings me joy, as have many other names." He mouths the word nine million. "That is an.. entire empire rolled into a single city." He gazes around an absolute awe of a city so large. "In.. my time Constantinople did not even boast so many people.. nor so many languages."

He gazes down at his clothes and nods, "As.. it has often been. This is not the first time that I've arrived so out of sorts. I doubt it will be the last, but I would appreciate if you could bring me to the nearest tailor."

When she announces her oath, he judges her silently before punctuating his acceptance with a nod. "It is more then satisfactory.. and I do not find it long in words. Every detail was essential. You claim your birthright and the responsibility to wield it with compassion. You announce your oath to an individual of power to bind it. You act in honor. It is.. a strong composition, not to be lightly weighed. I believe you.. Though I admit, the nature of your magic brings me some discomfort. There is a familiarity I must admit, I do not appreciate."

Clea has posed:
"It is a good name. Not that I am the best judge of all names. Merely able to determine when one is a good one." Clea beams in a smile, returning that supportive comment back to Caliburn without hesitation. Her shoulders lift a little, causing the trailing sleeves of her dress to swirl easily around her again. She rises onto her toes, her heels completely off the ground, with absolutely no indication whatsoever this causes her the least amount of strain. "Constantinople was the city of gold and porphyry, yes? I remember it being called a seat of wisdom. Like Baghdad, then Samarkand in their times. A place of learning. Great and mighty. It would have been such a pleasure to walk its streets, and the... the horn?" Golden Horn, she's reaching for it, striving to recall glimpses and pieces.

Still, her hands come out of their brief clasp as she faces Caliburn. "Oh! This I can help with, the matter of your clothes. They use currency here. Paper and metal, a bit, but mostly it is data. Information assigned to a person, in different places. I could fix that, but it would be a shift of your clothing permanently. To something you could wear, but more modern. Or there is a store, and I have the currency but it is all with a card. One with my name, so I must be there. This assumes you do not have the coinage of they day they prefer. When I first came, it was easier to wrought my own clothing of spellcraft. A necessity, and one not seen as untoward by the community I found. You see, they understood it was practical and not me trying to sell off wares of great value that were not gained fairly."

She inclines her head slightly, his words curious to her, and that must be plumbed. Curiosity is what it is. "My magic causes you discomfort? My people's arts are primarily and foremost those of the Mystic Arts and sworn to a goddess of light and defense. Abjurative enchantments, though the flames." She touches her head briefly. "Burn. It's rare they wield them in anger, and to even ask must be proven worthy or they refuse the gift. It has always, always been so. Reckless use is not our path."

Caliburn has posed:
"Yes, the Golden Horn.. A gateway to the Bosphorus, as the Bosphorus was the gateway between West and East." He nods in thought. "And no doubt still is.. but if this place New York, of which I have never heard of, houses so many souls. No doubt Constantinople houses untold millions. Such wonder." He looks thankful at the offer of help and gazes down upon his clothes. "Paper currency you say.. No doubt the wisdom of the great empires of China have spread then.. but data you say? Information... assigned to a person. That seems.. most strange, and yes, I am without much material goods. What riches I had, I left behind in the past."

He offers a shrug to her, "Perhaps it is the potency of it. It is in my experience that great power always comes with the danger of corruption.. and I.. have been weld against many a sorcerer who wield demonic forces or command the elements to smite the innocent. Indeed, it is when the balance of power is so tipped, that I am often called to the hand of the virtuous. Though clearly no man or woman need protection from your whims, fair lady. And such, I must only assume that I will be needed elsewhere in a time to come soon.. and that fate may have landed me upon your welcoming breast to find succor as the helpless stranger I am. I promise to return whatever aid you lend me.. tenfold, Clea. Do as thou wilt to save me from the scrutiny of others." He looks out into the street. "For I tire of their disdain..."

Clea has posed:
"The largest cities have twenty to thirty million, I am told. Humans are a most fecund population." Her smile brightens at this, anyway. "Diligent and prosperous. But you should look around you and walk, when you find your bearings. The maps are very good. They have conveyances called 'trains' that travel along a fixed path. You sit there, and it moves you back and forth. 'Buses' do this too. When you take them, you can see all the city and the people who live here, from poor to reach and those between. It is one of my favourite things to do here. To see people living their lives and learn how they enjoy what they have before them, which is a great deal. I will never in my life tire of seeing it all." Her gaze shimmers and Clea looks back, laughing softly. "Data, yes. Information, they have it stored in machines. So you do not need to carry money when you have this card. It is instead a permission chit, of sorts, that you will pay the money owed for the good. I am lucky to have one. But then, it is still a debt to pay." She understands credit cards. Sort of. That is knowledge worth having.

"Caliburn, I would say you owe me nothing if you come here to help. It is our grace and obligation to aid others if they are doing the right thing, to protect the weak and to seek counsel when we need knowledge. There can be many causes worth helping." She shakes her head softly, pale hair glittering with buried hints of whitefire, proof of being more than she seems. It's hard to notice, and few do, but flames glaze those locks as a coronet. Queen to a dimension, its rightful ruler; it's clear. "I understand well your purpose, though. Mine own is to halt such things, for I was once enslaved by my own kin, and saw my people ruthlessly subjected to tyranny and corruption by a dreadful master who cares nothing for their lives. He would spread the same here, given the chance, and the utmost efforts to halt him have taught me much about the value of honour, the dictate of safety, and the respect for goodness. It is a dangerous path. I would spend my life's flame to prevent his return, or none would ever know bondage again. Luckily such forces of demonic power are beyond me, by choice and by decree. I trust my faith and better examples will keep me ever striving to be better. But ah, I'm rambling. I will give you mundane clothes, and hope they will suit. Just a simple transmutation, if you are amenable?"

And if it is? Well, he's dressed nicely, but not too wildly. To fit in, it's easy: dark jeans, comfortable and stylish boots, a spring jacket, a midweight shirt.

Caliburn has posed:
"Thirty million souls.. Are cities now immune to armies? For how could anyone feed a force large enough to besiege such a population." Caliburn's eyes widen in wonderment, no doubt it will be a sad revelation when he learns the evolution of warfare and the new atrocities capable by mankind. He grows curious about such things as trains and buses. He gazes to the street and can only assume these names for the machines within view. "A permission chit.. for credit with merchants then. I shall have to make myself useful and acquire one in the days to come."

He straightens and listens to her declaration while eyes that see beyond that of the mortal realm observe her crown. He resists the urge to take a knee on observance of such majesty, for it seems clear that such is not the custom of the time.. or if it is, then those who roam about them have no understanding of the monarch who assists him. "A noble woman you are.. to offer your life in the pursuit of goodness and honor. It is good portent for this age that those such as you dwell here." He nods his consent for the transmutation, and indeed, she may gain the impression that he had to 'allow it'. A potent barrier wanes just for a instant to allow the blessing to pass forth before erecting itself around Caliburn.

He gazes downward and admires his new wardrobe. He tugs at the pants legs and stomps his feet. "Such comfort.. and yet, I see others wearing similar, so I cannot assume that is solely the product of your spellcraft. Innovations in textiles as well as currency. What marvels this new era holds. You have my thanks.. and if not my oath of service, then my pledge of friendship."

Clea has posed:
Clea laughs merrily, warm as the sun dawning over the eastern horizon. "Oh, the numbers are great. They still pursue their wars and they still suffer from illnesses, but it changed greatly. Medicine improved. They produce food very well. Especially in protecting their children from disease, the growth came so fast. I do not remember how quickly they came together, but it was certainly in the last century." Which tells her own awareness of history at least, if not her age, which spans a very, very long time indeed. At least by human standards. By Faltine, she's laughably young.

"I am getting ahead of you and I am sorry. It is hard not to share my appreciation for what others take for granted, especially when they manage it all so very well." Her hand sketches another gentle circle. "Everyone here, they take the good and the bad. They thrive! And when you watch their achievements with what they imagine, it blossoms into appreciation and wonder. I am trying, though, to be good and to fit among them. To live in ways I was denied, and assure they will always have this. I might not be born to humankind, but I assure you, they earned my respect and exasperation at times. Promise and potential, hope and joy." Her words are soft.

The spell landing earns a certain smile again. The world is blithe when not shackled without the sky, really. "You are dressed so you retain a bit more conservative fashions by their standards, but enough to fit in. Neither will you suffer for being cold, or the rain or other cares, as long as you are out and about. Good boots, the footwear, is the most important, so I'm told." Because she floats. She is really on her toes. "A pledge of friendship is a most welcome thing. Your service will follow where you need to go, and I hope you find someone who is meet with your needs. I wage my own war, and I am grateful to have those in my company who understand of it."

Caliburn has posed:
Caliburn seems warmed by the demeanor of Clea, the merriness of her laugh and the mirth by which she describes the advancements of mankind. "You and I.. appear to be kindred spirits, and maybe that is the strand of fate that caused me to arrive in your presence. You've offered me hope and wears to begin my quest, and thus I shall venture out to offer my service." He pauses and rubs his chin through his beard and tugs at a strand of his hair. "And perhaps I shall, amend my appearance further to match the times.. and learn the local dialects. But then, I must search, and in this I would beggar myself once more to you. If you encounter someone pure of intention who lacks the might they need to keep evil at bay.. and you are not rendering that aid yourself, then please call to Caliburn. For I am a vessel of power that must be welded."

He drew his hands up to his chest as if cupping his heart, and as the crown of Clea's noble brow glowed with the radiance of magic, so did an emblem of a sword through the body of Caliburn. "For as Fergus mac Roich's hand needed Caladbolg, so did Caledfwich need the firm grip of Llenlleawg Wyddel.. and thus the cycle continues."

Clea has posed:
"Then I shall count this a blessing and no reason to complain. Now, then, you shall be on your way?" Clea nods. "I am not hard to find I suppose, but I am the only one of me to look for. If there are others weak and in need, I shall do what I can. Yours is not an easy path and I hope you pick well. If you find yourself wielded astray, but speak the title of the Sorcerer Supreme with conviction. There will be release there. Or pray to Oshtur and may she deliver assistance as she can." Clea's silvery hair fans across her shoulders in those languid waves as she tips her head slightly. "There is no beggaring when one has a good cause, friend! You surely must know of that. It is a privilege to be of aid and service. Someone took great pains once to aid me when there was no certain prize for it, other than the act of doing so. I have never forgot."

Her fingers touch her chest. "A cycle onward. Then explore this city. Be light in spirit and heart. New York awaits you!" She winks, and swivels, floating an inch off the ground. Not that anyone seems to notice, not here. "Godspeed, as they would say. A different time, but the same hope."