A sense of foreboding filled Artie as she turned her gaze towards the four men across the room. All of them had rather stiff shoulders.
"Are you going to force me to write poetry?" Sir Lamorak said rather loudly, and it was Lady Guinevere who nearly did a spit take as she was in the middle of taking a sip of her tea.
"P-Pardon?" She exclaimed, trying to cover her coughing daintily.
"I will do so, if it appeases you." Sir Lamorak stated grimly. Like he was a soldier getting his orders to march off to war.
"Uh, no thank you?" Artie replied, and Sir Kay sighed heavily beside him.
"You are right, Sire, Sir Lammy is awful at writing poetry. It should be Sir Geraint who does so." Artie went white while Artie watched Sir Lancelot glance at Sir Geraint.
"He is good at writing poetry?" He asked, curious, and Sir Kay nodded.
