love is blue.

The cat becomes human, it would be rude to stay as a hawk even if he wanted to keep flying. So he shifts back to his human form, a boy only twelve years of age. He gives a stretch before holding out his hand to the other.

"Maybe it's because I'm better at it then you?" A sweet smile despite the rude words. "My name is John Milton. What's your name? Can you only be cat???"

The rudeness doesn't stop Vivi from shaking the offered hand—-in fact, they barely register that the words are rude to begin with. More... competitive, maybe, which is only natural for kids his age.

This is going sideways faster than Mordred anticipated. The one advantage he has over Lancelot is being steadily removed from play as first his jacket and now one of his gloves begins restricting his movements. The effect may be small, but even a slight slowing down makes a big difference against the likes of Lancelot.

When he's pulled into a restraining hold, Mordred hisses, squirming against Lancelot's grip as much as the sluggishness of his own traitorous coat. He should have been able to twist himself free, but instead his remaining option is to merely throw his weight against the knight's and set him off balance. Just as Mordred is tensing to do so, he feels Lancelot brace, anticipating the differences in their heights. Always two steps ahead, the bastard.

Fine then. As Lancelot pivots, Mordred sidesteps, hooking a leg behind the knight's ankle in hopes of Lancelot's own movements and weight toppling him. Whether he merely trips the knight up or actually knocks him off balance with the move, Mordred is using the few seconds he buys himself to drag his jacket off and throw it aside. The glove stays for now, it's now enough of an encumbrance to risk taking his attention of Lancelot too long.

Not surprised enough by the sidestep to do anything more than stumble slightly before regaining his balance, he debates his next move—-and ultimately retreats a couple of steps. He could strike while the traitor removes his jacket, yet fights are as psychological as they are physical. Despite his threats, he's only trying to restrain, not cause any harm. That impression will serve him.

@heartbloomd Though they don't typically hunt anything larger than bugs, Vivi has spotted an interesting piece of prey—-though a hawkling doesn't really qualify as prey, nor are they really hunting the bird. Either way, they recognize an animal that shouldn't be blue, and they wonder if this is the John they were once mistaken for. They creep closer, belly fur brushing the ground, tail twitching back and forth. Careful to be spotted early, lest they be deemed an actual threat.

Flying can be a draining thing, really. Milton often has to take breaks. Like now, where he sits and rests in the shade of the tree. His abilities limits are what keeps him from taking his true form. He still longs to keep flying. It’s while he rests that he notices the blue cat among the green grass. It has him stop to do a double take. A blue cat. Blue like him.

"Are you trying to hunt me or say hello?" Milton doesn't shift just yet, but he does watch. He wasn't a cat currently, but he was as curious as one.

✧ « @heartbloomd ➥ answered »

There's a pale blue kitten trotting over to where Dinadan sits, meowing cutely and headbutting his ankles. Give them attention, please, and maybe some of that food.

The cat meows and Dinadan stops with his sandwich halfway to his mouth. He blinks, frowns, even rubs at one ear to check his hearing is still working right. Nope, his hearing is fine. That cat did just meow, and it didn't come with an auto-translation provided by his Ability. Huh, okay weird. So not a natural cat then--the blue fur should make that obvious, but people these days do all sorts of weird things to their pet's fur in the name of fashion, he's not judging.

"You want some?" He's making an educated guess. While the meows are only coming across as meows to him, if there's anything Dinadan has learned about living creatures as a whole: the two things they want the most are food and attention.

Ripping off a chunk of ham, he dangles it above and just a liiiittle out of the cat's reach. He gives the piece of meat an enticing wiggle. "Do you do tricks? Or is being blue your only trick?" Even if the cat can't answer (which continues to feel weird to him), Dinadan is too much in the habit of talking to animals to bother stopping now.

Thus, they flop onto their back, eyes closed and limbs splayed, mouth open just enough for their tongue to peek out. Look, look, they can play dead! That's definitely a trick!

“… The choice would be yours, your ability and you’re the king…. It’s probably for the best we go straight to the medical ward.” For now he rests his head back on Arthur’s shoulder, trying to ignore the pain of his wounds. It would heal, eventually. And Dagonet would live.

Once his wounds mended enough to return to his room, he could just take out what had been stored away for a later date. Nothing like a nice wine to soothe bloody wounds and bruises.

“Wanna share the bottle of wine in my room when I’m not bleeding all over? With some nice steak…” Yeah. Food was better to think about than the pain.

Mordred spends a moment watching Vivi settle down with Rook. The kitten stirs awake just long enough to snuggle up closer to the other cat, tiny purrs filling the air. Satisfied Rook isn't about to start causing mischief outside of kittenish dreams, Mordred returns his attention back to Sapphira. "They didn't tell me much about you either, just your name and that you like gemstones. And the library, of course." Can't forget that!

Her explanation has him leaning in, expression fully attentive. "A pocket dimension, huh? That makes sense. I had something like that once--just a bag that could hold more than it should, though, not an entire library." He'd lost that bag not long after leaving Europe and never come across another person or being who could replicate the effect the same way. A shame. He'd had to resort to carrying the normal number of books and medical supplies after that. "Did you make create it yourself?"

It only occurs to him belatedly that he'd left her unanswered, so distracted by talk of the library as he is. "Oh, right. Mine's Mordred--my name, that is." Surname? He'll leave that for now, since Sapphira hadn't offered one herself he decides it's better to match like with like.

In the end, she's only (probably) human, no matter how versatile her magic. A small pocket dimension is difficult enough to maintain, but she poured an endless amount of determination into her efforts until she could build an archive as impressive as hers is.

The ladybug regards the offered cream before giving a brief buzz of its wings. As close to shaking its head as its anatomy will allow. << It's kind of you to offer, but no thank you. >> Despite the insect's tiny size, the woman's voice that issues from it is not, instead carrying the volume and presence of someone standing in front of Kyouka. << This little one is nothing more than a bit of enchanted paper, it can't taste anything. >>

As the voice continues to speak, the ladybug itself stands unmoving, without so much as an antennae wiggling. << I'm Gengetsu. I apologize for the small deception, force of habit. You see, I've heard a good deal about you and was curious. >> Curious enough to send a messenger while not coming herself. But she has her reasons; some are business related, although she was likewise merely interested in seeing just how perceptive Kyouka is of her environment. Most people wouldn't notice a ladybug landing on them, let alone watching them.

<< I'd like to meet you in person. But of course that must sound suspicious coming from someone who's been spying on you, so you're welcome to choose the time and place yourself if that'd put you at ease. >>

She glances around the park. "We can meet here," she decides. "Tomorrow afternoon... if you don't spy on me anymore before then." It's close enough to the office, and she can ask one of the adults to loiter around the area just in case. There are some stores that Yosano-sensei would probably enjoy...

“You’ve met one of them already. Shimazaki Haruki.” Who was currently pestering the other young hunting into a fight. It’d only be a matter of time till Shiga and Haruki ended up in the infirmary once more for maiming each other.

The worksheets were vocabulary and kanji lessons, geared more towards that of a young teen. Both sets were in the same level while the mathematical worksheets were very different.

"This will be the only bit I get till 10 tonight. I can't imagine you get much silence with the self-proclaimed jester running around."

Certainly kinder than some of the other Hunting Dogs she's met, though just as eccentric as anyone enlisted into such an organization—-as anyone who possesses an ability in the first place. It'd be more unusual to meet an ability-user who fits inside the box that society deems normal.

Niimi gives a nod as he hops down and digs into his pouch for the said key. Though they still had to go all the way up to the top floor for it. Not that Niimi minds the little extra travel.

“I live here too- so it should be okay. The worse Nii-chan can do is get all fussy and yell at me.” And while Niimi didn’t like or want to upset Jono, excluding pranks and general mischief, this should be fine. So he takes Inari’s hand and leads her all the way to the apartment.

Shoes sat neatly inside as the boy lets Inari in. “I’ll take some medicine so my fever doesn’t come back." Hopefully. "You can look around if you want~ the loft is my room. Nii-chan buys me all sorts of toys if you wanna play.”

The fact Lancelot doesn't hesitate to move in gives Mordred pause, a flicker of doubt crossing his face. Why isn't he more wary of Fields of Camlann? He should be hesitant, the rest of the knights always were, yet Lancelot doesn't seem to balk at all. Either he's keeping up a good poker face or he has some kind of trick up his sleeve. Great. As if the odds aren't already stacked against him.

Before Mordred can dwell on that oddity long, Lancelot is in reach and making his move. The feint is expected. Lancelot's definitely noticed his blindspot, everyone who does tries to use it against Mordred with a similar maneuver and he's more than prepared to block the strike. It's almost too easy... too late he spots the true intent behind Lancelot's attack, leaving him no time to avoid the grab.

His first instinct as he feels Lancelot catch hold of his jacket is to pull away and put distance between them again, however Mordred quells that reaction, stamping it down and holding his ground. This is exactly where he wants to be. Close quarters makes both of them a risk to the other with their respective Abilities. Lancelot is probably expecting Fields of Camlann, which is why Mordred feints making a grab for the knight's face with one hand while the other darts in low, aiming a jabbing strike at the elbow of the arm Lancelot caught his jacket with.

Making contact won't bring with it any feelings of weakness, Mordred's Ability remaining unused as he instead aims to temporarily immobilize the joint. Taking advantage of pressure points has become a favored method of Mordred's since working with the Hunting Dogs--their boundless strength amounts to little if he renders an arm or leg useless. The trouble is, hit or miss, the prince is slow to draw his hand back afterward, the fabric of his jacket suddenly reluctant to move properly as Lancelot's enchantment takes effect.

Two fingers brush the back of the other's hand, applying the same restrictive enchantment to his glove before Lancelot yanks him forward. The goal being to throw off his balance, twist his arm behind his back, and restrain him that way. But aware that the traitor's center of gravity is lower than his own, he braces himself for the motion to be used against him, prepared to pivot away at a split second's notice.

When Lancelot doesn't take the bait, Mordred bites back a curse, miffed but not surprised. It had been a cheap trick but better to make the attempt than not, especially when his options are so limited. While he could try to make the first move, Lancelot outclasses him in raw strength, and that's not counting that he's armed while Mordred isn't. Not to mention there's no telling what sort of enchantments Lancelot is carrying with that Ability of his. Who knows how much the knight's tactics have changed in the gap of years since they last faced off with one another. Mordred's advantage of speed can only do so much.

He should to wait for Lancelot to make the first move, provide him an opening.

Or... Mordred resists the urge to glance away. He knows there's a side street to his left, he's long familiarized himself with the area as well as avenues of escape in emergencies. He could make a run for it. Not that Mordred expects to escape, there's no way Lancelot balks at a chase; but unlike some of the knights, he's honorable enough that he should balk if he's led toward a more populated area. It's risky. Mordred can't say for certain if Lancelot would put public safety over the dogged need to capture 'the traitor' for his king.

Two options, and neither of them are very appealing. Mordred grimaces--correction, three options, although surrender grates at him for entirely different reasons. He's been just as thoroughly taught by Arthur (if not moreso) than Lancelot, the thought of giving up without a fight goes against some deeper instinct.

Mordred takes a breath, holds it for a beat, then exhales. Option one it is. A knight does not yield. "You may as well save your breath, it's not in me to surrender. You want me, come and get me."

More than being a former knight, this traitor has an ability that can kill with a single touch. Lancelot's newly developed enchantments have proven effective the king's light constructs during sparring matches, but there's a limit to what they can negate before he needs to reapply them; he's not too worried about that either way. Rather, his highest priority is to protect his exposed skin—-his offense will be secondary to his defense. He can't win a fight if he's dead, after all.

Plan finalized, he strides forward to close the distance. Based on the other's left eye and his movement's earlier, he's suffered an injury that rendered him at least partially blind. Lancelot will take advantage of that.

Is Saga judging him? He gets the sense Saga is judging him at least a little, which has Mordred deciding he'll get some proper ingredients later to have on hand.

At least when asked about seasoning, the medic is quick to nod, perking up. "Yeah, plenty. Take your pick," he motions toward the apartment's windows, each sill occupied with Mordred's eclectic garden of herbs. In that regard there's ample supply, with even more of the dried and jarred varieties to be found in the cabinets.

Cookware is likewise present, nothing especially fancy but Mordred does like to have the basics on hand. Now eager to prove he's not utterly hopeless when it comes to the state of his kitchen, he busies himself with rooting through the cabinets to pull out some pots, pans, and a rice cooker for Saga.

"In my defense, I'd keep things better stocked if I had the chance to cook more often. But I hate when stuff is left to spoil." Over the years he's managed to get himself stuck in a cycle of supplies and spare time never matching up right. Accounting for guests (that aren't of the uninvited royal pain variety) is a completely new factor for Mordred on top of that.

(In the meantime, he's amused by the elder's defensiveness, though he tries not to let it show in his expression. He didn't intend to seem judgemental, and he understands that doctors have busy schedules.)

With a simple thank you signed, he fills the rice cooker with water and empties the package of rice into it, stirs in a decent amount of salt before turning it on. In the meantime, how does he want to prepare the tofu...? Picking up his notepad, he gestures toward the ingredient and asks Mordred, Do you prefer tofu soft or crunchy?