So it did. [Amicably following her eager lead, flicking the electrical switch on as they head downstairs. A more recent addition, better than candlelight and set in place by Tesla who-- in spite of Galahad's assurance that the old manor did not in fact, need a current run down to the cellar rather than keeping Edison's wiring where it was (upstairs entirely, save for the attic)-- fought a remarkable battle in the name of stumbling insistence.] Territory was a volatile thing, back then. Mongol hordes expanding eastward with success, and the Crusades, in turn, reaching westward to champion their cause, both clashing in the middle.

Perceval and I hadn't been sent to fight in the Holy Wars, mind you. Our charge was protection - sacred relics, rooting out any beasts that might sieze advantage in the fray. [No small surprise how little has changed aside from scenery since.] Young as I was, I could barely tell the difference.

[Step by old creaking step they descend to the smell of dust and dry air, rows of bottles lining those stone walls all plucked up over the course of a handful of lifetimes. Spent so infrequently it feels more like a tomb than a proper wine cellar.]