Creoda: "I am Creoda, son of Cerdic."
Arthur: "Cracking. I'm Damns To Give, son of Out Of."
---
"I couldn't help but note the blade's small, unimpressive make."
Arthur: "You're going to carve me with a woman's knife?"
Arthur: "Surely the king's castration calls for an ax."
Bedwyr: "You think [Gwenhwyfar is] learning anything in the convent?"
Arthur: "Frankly, I've always been under the impression the queen was born knowing everything."
Arthur: "Certainly acts it, she does."
Creoda: "You have that horrible accent."
Creoda: "Phlegm everywhere."
Creoda: "It's disgusting."
Arthur: "May I refer you to the wisdom of the bards?"
Arthur: "He whose tongue sounds like gargled piss ought not cast aspersions."
Arthur: "Nor spit in the wind."
---
Morgan: "Good morning, executioner!"
Morgan: "Did demons torment your dreams?"
Arthur: "Bore da, Morgan."
"Casting [Creoda] a hard glance over my shoulder, he declared:"
Bedwyr: "I crave Sais blood, Lord."
"Then, as he looked at me, his voice dropped to a whisper."
Bedwyr: "Let me out, fucksakes. I've got to take a heinous piss."
Arthur: "Creoda really is rubbing off on you in all the wrong ways."
Morgan: "I don't want to be lectured by one with the manners of a dog in a mead hall."
Arthur: "Step up from a wolf in a chicken pen."
Morgan: "Are you certain you are a king? Because all I hear from you is jest."
Arthur: "Good ones manage both."
Cynric: "La, Creoda, what do I keep you around for, decoration?" Cynric: "You see a pair of pretty birds and your brain flies off with them."
Morgan: "You've an entire weir to receive your business, but you choose to water my leeks!"
Creoda: "Woman, my bladder does not hold witan when it is full of ale."
Creoda: "How many times did you request Wulf and Eadwacer?"
Cynric: "Enough to put the hollering to bed."
Creoda: "La, Cynric, why chase the sword when you're a born peace-weaver?"
Cynric: "Aw, what're you pissing and moaning for? You weren't there to hear it."
---
Servant: "The yellow-haired one sits, and partakes neither of food nor drink."
Morgan: "They're all yellow-haired, Yetunde."
Bedwyr: "Prefer if my counsel was taken into bloody consideration once in a while."
Bedwyr: "[testily] Lord."
Arthur: "How about this?"
Arthur: "Say 'Lord' in that tone again and the Saisman's sword goes so far up your arse, you'll flap like a ffycin war banner every time you fart."
Creoda: "Your Gewisse is atrocious."
Arthur: "You should hear my Irish. Sounds like a Scotsman stuffed a fistful of acorns in his mouth."
Iddawg: "Shouldn't you keep an eye on [Arthur]?"
Creoda: "I have just one pair."
Creoda: "You watch him."
Iddawg: "What if he runs?"
Creoda: "He won't."
Iddawg: "But what if he tries?"
Creoda: "Kill him."
"Iddawg gave his blunted shovel a despairing glance."
Iddawg: "What if he kills me?"
Creoda: "So long."
Arthur: "I thought you Saeson were great shepherds."
Morgan: "No more than you wealh are fantastic cattle thieves."
Arthur: "Think me an Irish king, do you?"
Bedwyr: "They say if you press your ear to the dirt on Bedwin's grave, you can still hear his gripes waft through."
Arthur: "No wonder nothing grows there. Scared the worms away, he did."
Creoda: "Death doesn't stop the work."
Creoda: "It just passes the work onto another man."
Arthur: "Besides, you've such a stick up your arse, you wouldn't rest knowing we were doing it wrong."
Creoda: "We burn our dead."
Arthur: "Ah."
Arthur: "Stick's for kindling."
Arthur: "Beli knows I've had to sit and entertain the most insufferable kiss-arses while praying they would choke on a fish bone."
Creoda: "Come down."
Creoda: "No reason to squat in the trees."
Arthur: "Can't you leave me alone? I'm trying to take a proper dump, but all your gawking makes it hard to hatch."
Morgan: "What a mighty warrior you are when you have neither man nor horse to back your orders."
Morgan: "All you can do is preen your feathers."
Arthur: "Pity when a man can't build his roost in peace, that it is."
Arthur: "Alas, whatever is the constipated merlin to do?"
---
Creoda: "Morgan said she heard hens clucking."
Arthur: "Do you mind? Bedwyr and I are trying to hatch eggs."
Arthur: "Aye, but now Lord Peplum has hurled a wine jar at Lord Brocade's head, because he's just received word that Lord Brocade's nephew made off with his fattest cattle and is sleeping off a drunken stupor in his fields."
Morgan: "Sounds like my kind of party."
Morgan: "Good evening, man-smiter."
Morgan: "Did a cloud of mosquitoes feast on your succulent blood?"
Arthur: "Not now."
Morgan: "Keep up the attitude and your liver will burst with bile."
Arthur: "I don't think I much like this Hippocrates fellow of yours."
Arthur: "Or his rubbish ideas."
