Mordred, in his own way, was one Hell of an obstacle as well. Already determined that his father hated him to the core, each word from Arthur always felt like a like. Like poison.
".. Good morning."
Now what.
".. Good morning."
Now what.
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"...Yes, morning.."
That is no way to talk to a King, is it? Mordred, in his own growing unease, seems to have dropped every hint of a wellbespoken attitude.