THIS IS JUST A PSL NOW I GUESS;

[fossick]

(( used the wrong method with the wrong technique ))

Comments

tfln cont.

[fossick]

(( from here ))

[Ah, gods. That was not an invitation to fling advice his way, ma'am. He endures it all the same.]

Perhaps the people here weren't always so friendly. Time changes plenty, including prosperity. Demeanors change in parallel.

[That's his story and he's sticking to it.]

How empirical of you. You're overlooking one thing, however.

[luciole]

That I find hard to believe. I find that kindness is consistent and if it isn't, a work in progress.

But do inform me. What have I missed?

[fossick]

Kindness is transactional, even if only to appease one's own emotional state.

[And with this universal truth in mind, it is almost too surreal to have it flung in his direction with so many friendly faces, as though they look upon him like some creature he simply... isn't.

He just wants to be left alone. He doesn't want to-]

That I have no interest in pretending to smile and care about what they have to say. I do my work here, and I do it well. I even perform favors for this town now and again. But why must I waste hours in the day, listening to people prattle on about the same thing?

[It bores him to tears.]

[luciole]

[See, that's the contradiction that's making the medium peer more closely at Weir than he may realize. He wants to be left alone but people here speak so well of a man who doesn't want their praise. He lives in this idyllic town but treats it with a hands-off indifference, uncertain of the overt and inherent beauty within.

The only conclusion she can draw?]

You're not used to kindness or a kind world.

[fossick]

[Well, yes.

But he can't just say that.]

Don't be daft. You've never met someone who prefers time alone?

a study in (being hunted and) gathering.

[fossick]

[He sleeps terribly.

But at least that’s to be expected.

Weir doesn’t expect to sleep soundly, after all; not with a stranger in his home. Though it’s hardly the first night she’s spent under his roof, he remains a leery man, accounting for all possibilities. Knowing a bit more of what’s under her skin, how can he be sure she won’t find herself skulking to his bedside mid-possession, letting that dragon spirit of hers somehow rend him in two? And so he sleeps lightly, and with one knife under his pillow; the other, under his bed.

Morning comes. He’s the first one up, the first one dressed, the first one who snags a quick bite from the kitchen. He waits a handful of minutes for her, fussing with his things while he does so, but notably… She does not come down to meet him.]

“Early to rise”, she said…

[He grumbles as he makes his way to her room, a “guest” room in his home that was used as an extra storage area until quite recently, now having to house an actual guest in his home. It would be polite to knock, but it’s his lodge, and he doesn’t even bother. The door just swings open, and he sees her…

Standing there, leaning up against the wall. With her eyes closed.]

Fucking hell… Lucinda. Lucinda. [He raises his hands, claps them together. Tries to wake her up. Who sleeps like this??? GIRL??]

[luciole]

[Lucinda, while keeping her most private thoughts and observations to herself, wouldn't lie about her friends to people who are aware of them. They have never possessed her against her will in the 13 years they inhabited the girl, now a woman. There's a tacit and unspoken agreement among them that they would only pilot her body if Lucinda directed them with very specific directions.

Like today for instance. Her thoughts filter to Feather to lift her out of bed and if need be, wake her up firmly, but gently.

Feather, a reserved but caring spirit, does so. But she props Lucinda against the wall instead of moving her to meet with Weir.

The human man is too twitchy and dear Huyen deserves all the rest she wants.

But alas. Weir is here. Weir is not pleased (not that any of them care, he certainly isn't working for any favors).

Lucinda's breathing is soft and her chest moves up and down. Barely. Just like the day before, Weir's attempts and clapping fall upon deaf slumbering ears.

Suddenly both of her arms stiffen and her fingers waggle on their own. Her eyes remain closed but as if having a mind of their own, her hands move up to her face and rigidly pat her cheeks. After several times, her eyes finally flutter open.]

... Nn? Already?]

[Her hands remain in front of her face though the rest of Lucinda is still slumped over.]

[fossick]

[What an odd sight, one that would register as eerier than it is were it not for Weir’s own abilities, able to move people in a similarly unnatural way. Maybe even more so, since they’re often keen on struggling, wide-eyed and aware.

Yet this is almost too still, too serene. Even if he can successfully guess at what’s happening, it still irks him to see her there, so peaceful while an internal force tries to wake her, the way a parent would a child.]

…It’s already light out. I could have woken you earlier.

[He steps into the room, frowning. Still a little wary.]

Is this your idea of “waking” yourself up? What’s the point if you’re just going to end up standing dumbly against the wall? Tell your spirit friends to puppet you downstairs next time.

[luciole]

Mm.

[Eyes squeezed shut but she opens them again. She heard Weir but looks as if she was only half-listening. There's an inscrutable smile as she finally stands straight and her hands fall limp at her sides.]

Feather says that she didn't want to make you any jumpier than you already are. She's aloof but quite thoughtful.

[For Lucinda, not for him.

She stretches properly and reaches into her pocket to tie up her hair again.]

I'm ready to go when you are. I'm sure the cool morning air will wake me up even more.

[fossick]

[What?]

I'm not "jumpy". Did I interrupt you at all while you slept?

[No, he did not! So what if he slept with a knife under his pillow! No one knows if he does that by default anyway!

He gives her a once-over, the manner she's dressed in — a gentleman does not eye a lady after she’s pulled herself fresh out of bed, but a gentleman he is not. And he’s not gawking, precisely, only assessing.]

You’ll need to wear more. The weather’s more than just meagerly “cool” outside today, as you’ll soon discover. We cut through the market on the way to the part of the forest I’ll be taking you — we’ll find you some proper garb for the task then.

proving grounds.

[fossick]

[Days pass. Whether or not they pass with an awkward strain attached to them, courtesy of their little adventure in the forest surrounding the Vale, is mostly up to Lucinda.

Weir, for his part, has nothing to say on the matter. He does not treat her any more cordially than before but neither does he treat her ill — the bar was already on the floor, after all, in terms of how gracious a host the huntsman can be. And if she does wish to speak on it, his responses are curt and pointed. He doesn’t need the topic filling his mind; not when it’s already brought to the forefront, turning over his options of how he wishes to proceed with her presence now in his life.

He needs time to think.

And eventually, the solution is an utterly simple one.

On a clear day that is soon to pass into dusklight, Weir has left a note on the table within his lodge for Lucinda to find. It reads, in his hurried script:]

𝑴𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆; 𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒘𝒆 𝒕𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆. 𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒍𝒖𝒄𝒌, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒔 𝒂𝒔 "𝒈𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕" 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒏𝒐 𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒖𝒆.

[luciole]

[After their ordeal in the forest, Lucinda has kept her presence around Weir at a minimum. When she wakes up she could be found wordlessly preparing the meal for the evening, somewhere in town helping one of the townspeople or conversing with them politely.

Like a ghost just passing through.

Any remarks or commentary she keeps light and vague, nothing too heavy and nothing to overstep boundaries. After so much of herself was revealed in the forest, it was as if she did not care to share anything personable until she was ready whenever that may be.

Weir and the state of his world around him is the burning topic in her mind. Her friends whispered amongst themselves about what it could mean and what led up to it to be so twisted and sculpted around the huntsman. What did it mean for Lucinda if she was no longer welcome?

"Well," she says to them as she reads over his note.

"It's time to find out."

Lucinda makes her presence known by her footsteps and the sound of her voice, singing some song from her world. She stops right at the entrance, her expression neutral rather than inquisitive.]

I woke up on time for once.

[fossick]

[He's hard to miss. He's seated upon a mare whose coat is a deep, shining black, waiting for her arrival, there at the treeline. Lucinda might be able to parse that their travels will be a little lengthier than their prior delve into the Vale's woodland, where they had taken the path by foot. Whether or not this bodes ill is up to her to decide.]

That you did.

[And while he should be impressed, the line of Weir's brow is darkened, his expression as serious as she's used to seeing. He considers her for a moment, waiting for her to draw closer and then extends a leather-gloved hand. Offering assistance up, to share the saddle and to take a seat behind him.]

Come. I want to show you something.

[luciole]

[Lucinda's brow raises but she moves to accept Weir's hand. When he pulls her up to take a seat behind him she'll feel light as well... Light as a Feather.]

Show me then. I'm waiting and willing.

[fossick]

[Light as a feather, as diaphanous as a ghost.]

Then you best hold on.

[Otherwise, she might topple off, and surely she doesn't want that.

He nudges hard at the mare's flank with a bootheel and the horse begins a canter down the path. Daylight isn't completely gone, but it is flagging, casting amber ropes of light down through the treetops above as they follow the path for a bit.]

We'll be heading further in than last time.

as shadows rest.

[luciole]

[The ride back to the Vale was in fact, sullen, silent, and especially awkward. Lucinda has to admit to herself that out of all of her life experiences, post-basement, continuing to live with the man who attempted to murder her was not something she ever conceive of making up. At this point, if she had anyone else to depend on or a feasible way to explore outside Turner's Vale, Lucy would have been more than happy to take the opportunity to do so. Now though, she needs to rest.

There's too much to think about right after the ordeal Weir put her through. So when they reach his home she hops off of the mare and heads straight inside to tend to her cut hand and to refresh herself before she puts together the cake. Lucinda hums all the while as she measures, mixes, assembles, and cuts. If she murmurs it's in reply to one of her friends though it's inaudible.

The smell of honey soon fills the lodge.

With the toppings ready when it's done, Lucy has one sleeve pulled up, examining the ink on her arm. Just like with Fang, Feather is surrounded by normal inked flowers.

She wonders how the tattoo artist is doing; her arm could use a touchup. She hopes River and the younger ones are doing well without her. It's not like she hasn't been away for days on end. She thinks of her adoptive parents, their restaurant, and how they would probably start pooling resources to get her back.

It's easier to distract herself with thoughts of things that were important instead of the irritation and resentment cultivated by one of the worst hosts ever.

The cake is done baking and she leaves it out to cool with a linen cloth to cover it to keep it moist before she starts adding the last touches. Lucy is standing over the table as the treat cools twirling a Vale Sapphire between her fingers.

And then she finally speaks up.]

Are the flowers edible?

[yeah, that's what we're starting with what of it]

[fossick]

[The cat is out of the bag, so to speak.

And though a fair variety of skeletons have been exposed with those closet doors flung open, it still isn’t the extent of every facet that makes up the ugly pieces of Weir Dredger. Still, it’s enough to shift the foundational dynamics between them, widening that gap — but he suspected as much. That is, after all, simply one of many consequences that attempted murder manifests between two people.

She seems to be taking it in stride, though Weir does expect the cascade of questions to come soon enough. He cannot imagine she’s pleased with him either way, but that works to his advantage, too. Maybe she will find someone with a kinder heart and inclination to help her shunt her way back home one day; free himself of the obligation so he can return to his simplistic life here in the village.

And when they return to his lodge, and it becomes very clear that she is going to take to a stint of baking, well. Weir isn’t about to stand around and waste time watching. He leaves. Gets a bit more business done, whatever that is. Maybe he doesn’t want to linger in the pretenses of a calm and quiet abode.

But he returns just in time for her to nearly be done with her little project, the scent of honey filling his nostrils. He wrinkles his face. Not because it’s a terrible smell, but because it’s yet one more indication of his life being wholly invaded by her presence.]

What?

[Flowers? The Sapphire in her hand? Is she really going to ask him this, first and foremost?]

Yes. [The automatic reply of someone who knows what’s equally gather-able and edible.] Wouldn’t be my first choice.

[He’s so tired of those flowers. That blue hue. Gods, there’s a festival soon— He banishes the thought away.]

After today, you’re wondering about the flowers?

[luciole]

It's a good start as any.

[Lucinda is frustratingly calm. She crushes the Sapphire in her hand and sprinkles it into the bowl of honey she's set aside for herself. Even when crushed, the hue is quite vivid making for a lovely contrast inside the clear golden honey.

The linen cover is removed from the cake and she drizzles it on top.]

You have to give me some leeway, Weir. I'm still sorting out the protocol of how I should act around someone who just tried to kill me indiscriminately.

[fossick]

[He doesn't stand in the kitchen, but rather the living area neighboring it, scoffing and setting his satchel down from his little excursion outside while she was baking. This time, he doesn't so much as glance at her.]

"Indiscriminately." [He parrots back, vaguely patronizing in tone. Even though she's right.] There was nothing indiscriminate about it. I thought long and hard about whether or not I would take the risk with you.

[As though that's supposed to make her feel better.]

You want to know how you should act? I imagine you'll at much the same as before. Unless you're afraid I might change my mind and slide a knife into your back when you're not looking?

[He's fairly certain Fang wouldn't allow that, anyhow.]

[luciole]

[She knows she's right which is why she won't waste energy arguing the point. The wild berries are next and Lucy takes her time arranging it artfully on top of the cake using the flowered honey as glue.

And yes, Weir's remark elicits a low burning growl from Lucinda's back. She glances over her shoulder.]

Shhh.

[No eyes on the back of her head, but Fang might as well be that pair. Speaking of head friends though...]

Flora tells me you have a friend of your own.

a flower festival.

[fossick]

[And so, a few days pass. The town is a-buzz with preparations, excitement fueling the interactions behind every meeting, every conversation. The Sapphires shine in the morning light, nigh glowing in the evening beneath the swell of the moon.

And one morning, as dawn breaks, the Sapphire Festival of Turner's Vale begins in earnest.

It all takes place in the marketplace square, of course. There is where the real entertainment is, where vendors have set themselves up to their fullest, their stock overflowing. Draped between each stall, above the heads of milling crowds, are textiles of the deepest, flower-blue to provide shade for those wanting to take their time browsing.

And there is so much of that blue color, that royal azure that the town is so proud of. There are so many flowers, bundled together and given freely (why pay for them when they are everywhere in town already?), and many wear them pinned in a tunic or a jacket or tucked behind an ear. There are textiles sold with flowers embroidered delicately in the material. Dresses and shirts and scarves and even trousers dyed in that blue. There are little glass sculptures and little knick-knacks made of stone, carved into the delicate shape of a blossom.

There is just so much heckin’ blue.

Music draws the crowd to the middle of the town square, eventually. There, musicians play their effusive warm-ups, just a teaser for what’s to come. There are murmurings from the crowd that there is a visitor from beyond the town today — a rarity indeed, another musician invited to play along with the already-planned set. People titter about it. They look forward to it later.

And Weir? By gods, Weir thinks this is far too much. He had provided the game that the butchers would chop up and the townsfolk chefs would turn into dishes for later; that is the extent of his contribution to this entire event, though even he is not immune from… curiosity. He’s never experienced this before, of course; this is the first time in the new Vale that he’s ever seen such a celebration, and they even tell him that it is “annual”, a notion he had scoffed at initially.

Regardless, he moves through the crowd—hard to miss, given he’s the only one not wearing even the smallest shade of blue (yet) and wearing his usual dark leathers—with the careful consideration of someone intrigued but not intrigued enough to participate. So many effusive, smiling faces. So much activity all around him. It is nearly an overstimulation, honestly.

Maybe he runs into Lucinda at some point, huh!]

[luciole]

[Lucinda had left the lodge after Weir. To say that being in proximity to one another was rather awkward after the two forest incidents and the following revelations is... An understatement. But the medium was set in her decision to leave as soon as possible.

During the days leading up to the festival, she would go out into town each morning and help with preparations wherever extra hands were needed. Only casually would Lucy ask about when the merchants would leave and how long it would take to reach the capital using their route. If that gave the villagers any hint about what she was going to do, most of them were too polite to ask why she was curious.

Working amongst the Vale's residents lifts her mood somewhat. Their cheerful and friendly attitudes have a way of rubbing off of Lucinda who tends to slide the opposite if she was alone with her thoughts for too long, even with her familiar's constant presence. As if sensing her persistent melancholy, some of the women who were putting the finishing touches on the textiles, dresses, and tunics, dyed with Sapphire blue, pull Lucinda when she arrives in town, excited to use her as a model...

It's hard to miss Lucinda with her raven black hair, loosely tied back and decorated with a few Sapphire flowers and even more surprisingly, dressed in a blue gown, embroidered with small blossoms. The sheer sleeves display Feather and the bolder inked flowers and patterns on Lucy's arms and Flora would always be hard to ignore, especially with the pinks of the peonies contrasting with the blues.

Currently, she's holding out her arm as the seamstress clicks her tongue as she adjusts with some extra thread.]

"Oh Miss Lucinda, if only your arms weren't so busy with paint! You'd look more like a dream... Not that this dress still isn't very flattering on you!"

[Lucy chuckles, shaking her head.]

I'd feel more naked without the ink, believe me.

"If you say so... Oh!"

[oops, hi weir, the seamstress is waving to the huntsman eagerly.]

"Weir! Come over here! Take a look at what we did to your guest!"

[Lucy glances over... She waves casually to Weir. Today's a festival so she isn't going to let him make her mood drop.]

[fossick]

[Well, figures he would run into her sooner or later. Turner's Vale is far from a sprawling city, and though they crowd is thick and bustling and excitable today, it's not as though it isn't full of familiar faces -- of course she would be one of them, eventually.

Weir stops when he's called over, his gaze cutting over to the seamstress and... Lucinda. Even he's caught off-guard by the sight, eyebrows hitching up. The seamstress and her helper nearby seem to laugh a little at that.

Again, HE IS RUDE AND NOT BLIND, and Lucinda is very striking in that gown, that blasted color. No doubt she'd turn heads if she wore it the entire time if it's even enough to give Weir a start.]

"Well! What do you think?"

[-the assistant chimes in, and though Weir could dole out a very pleasant compliment, the strain between hunter and medium overrrides all else.]

She looks fine, I suppose.

[wow. To Lucinda:]

Are you wearing that all day?

[And then to the seamstress:]

And before you get it into your head, too, no. I'm not in need of a new outfit.

[luciole]

𝓞𝓱? 𝓗𝓮'𝓼 𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰, 𝓱𝓮'𝓼 𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰! 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓫𝓵𝓾𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓯𝓵𝓪𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓲𝓼𝓷'𝓽 𝓲𝓽?

𝓗𝓲𝓼 𝓮𝔂𝓮𝓼 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓸𝓷 𝓱𝓮𝓻, 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓸𝓷 𝔂𝓸𝓾.

𝓑𝓾𝓽 𝓘'𝓶 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓼𝓽 𝓽𝓸 𝓫𝓮 𝓷𝓸𝓽𝓲𝓬𝓮𝓭!

[Always count on Flora to set aside all ills just to preen. Lucinda smiles at Weir and shrugs.]

I'm modeling for them. A walking advertisement to get others interested in their work.

[The seamstress, shakes her head in amusement as Weir denies her the chance to try and convince him to wear a new outfit. She ties off the thread and snips it off with her scissors before stepping back, nodding proudly.]

"It's one thing to let this hang on a mannequin, it's another to let the work live and breathe as intended. Now Weir, were you planning to escort her around?"

[Lucy's pursing her lips trying to hold back a laugh. These villagers, man.]

[fossick]

[Yeah, these villagers, man. Too keen, too kind. Still going against the grain of what Weir is comfortable with, for reasons he still cannot quite understand.

But. Way to put him on the spot, too.

No thanks. He's going to throw Lucinda under the bus with this one, and he glances at her, features sharpening into an almost sardonic skepticism.]

Well? Does the lady want an escort?