finalflight | THIS IS JUST A PSL NOW I GUESS;

[She's a sight, that's for certain. For good or ill, Lucinda appears at odds with the rest of the town, a place that seems so idyllic that even the slightest darkened demeanor feels as though it doesn't belong — like a scrap of cloth hewn into the wrong tapestry, the fabric misaligned. Weir is the same way, though perhaps even more so. Bafflingly, the town takes to him. And bafflingly—though maybe not as much, since she is kinder at her core—the townspeople of Turner’s Vale take to her, too. They ask about the flowers inked on her skin. Remark on the beauty of her raven-black hair. Wonder at her story, and how she arrived here, and how she knows the huntsman so well enough that she might take up space in his abode. Scandalous? Well, maybe minds don’t work quite that way in this town anymore, but it is enough to make imaginations run wild.

Though those imaginations would be put to rest if they saw how the man interacted with her, not so much a smile as he meets her halfway up the path, a leather satchel slung over his shoulder. A hunting knife hangs in its sheath, latched onto his belt on one hip; another with an ebony hilt, of similar size, resting on the opposite side.

“Welcome home,” she says, and to hear that is so foreign that he doesn’t know what to do with it, instead glancing up at her as he wends up, up the hill that eventually leads to his front door. Weir makes a low noise of affirmation, adjusting his satchel.]

Have you eaten supper yet?

[If he looks like he’s been foraging about beyond the entrance of the northern woods, where he would have met her if she wasn’t late, then yes. He has been. His cheekbones are tinged slightly from the cool breeze, gradually picking up its intensity as the evening drags on.]

Supper? Not yet. [She brushes her hair behind one ear.]

I decided to wait for you instead.

[Lucinda finds herself liking Turner's Vale. The people are kind and friendly towards her despite being an outsider. She finds herself smiling back at them and engaging in polite conversation to answer their curiosity. The flowers on her skin? She casually mentions a "skin artisan" who painted on her when she came of age. An unpopular choice even back home but she wanted to express her womanhood. Compliments to her black hair, she accepts gracefully, humbly saying people from her village also sport dark hair (not a lie).

Her story? She was traveling with a merchant who promised her passage to the capital but then scammed her out of her meager coin and belongings and left her on her own. How fortunate that the huntsmen found her before the forest animals did. How kind he was to take her in and put a roof over her head and give her time and space to figure out her next steps.

Okay, maybe she embellished that last part. Weir wasn't kind.

But inexplicably, there was some small relief in his bluntness. Espers have a gruff appreciation for that quality. And somehow they've struck some sort of peace between them especially after she was forthright about her origins and capabilities. She meant no harm to him or the Vale. Lucinda would just linger and hover until there was a way back to sunny California.

But first, supper. She turns herself halfway but waits for him to walk first so she can follow alongside or behind him.]

I did take the opportunity to prep a few things. So when we're inside, it's all ready to go. I even went to buy some bread.

[The medium looks away from him and casts a dreamy gaze at the evening sky.]

Food tastes better with company.

[She took the opportunity to prep things? He stares at her for a moment, then brushes past up the path, clearly expecting her to follow.]

Taking it upon yourself to ready a meal? Supposing I have no reason to complain, seeing as how I've been telling you to pull your weight.

[But still a vaguely uncomfortable feeling, knowing that someone who is still mostly a stranger to him, tromping about his home, fussing with his things -- even if it's for something as mutually beneficial as prepping a meal.]

Come on. It's cold tonight.

[It'll be better if they hunker down indoors, where he can at least get a flame blazing in the hearth.

His lodge meets them at the top of the hill, large and crafted from dark wood, with a slanted rooftop. It's perhaps a bit too large for one person, yet far from overly ostentatious. There's still a practicality that exudes from the building itself, as though this home belongs to a man who does not seek to display himself as anything more than he is.

He leads them in through the front door. The interior greets them, and the first thing he does is move over to his desk, placing his bag down.]

What did you throw together? [Food-wise. She'd be a bit spoiled for choice if she really trawled through the market during the daylight hours; trade has been booming, and merchants bring back all manner of things from the city and beyond; produce, spices, and "exotic" dried or preserved meats and fish, even though Weir sees no issue with the venison garnered from the forests nearby.

Hopefully she didn't blow through all of his coin.] And how "ready" is it?

[does he still need to throw it all into a pot-]

Edited 2023-06-27 16:45 (UTC)

I may prefer to sleep in but in my waking hours, I'm more than productive.

[She's been mostly nonplussed by Weir's general attitude from the beginning. In fact, Lucy doesn't really blame him for acting the way he does around her, an anomaly from another world inhabited by three spirits. It's the way he is around other people in Turner's Vale that amuses her.

The medium follows Weir from behind, humming some song under her breath all the while. When they enter the lodge, Lucinda doesn't linger and takes out a hair tie from her pocket to gather her hair behind her head.]

Vegetables have been cleaned and cut and there's still some preserved meat leftover so I have several slices of that ready as well.

If you start up the fire, I would like to do something with the eggs.

[It may or may not be surprising how, for a lack of a better word, domestic she is. When Lucinda isn't hunting rogue espers or witches, doing damage control, or negotiating with the Collective's clients, she's a surrogate big sister to her friend's younger cousins or assisting in her adoptive parent's restaurant.

And the kitchen may not be modern but it reminds her of her original home in Vietnam. They had a humble kitchen space at the beginning at least, more firewood and charcoal, less propane gas and electricity.]

I hope you haven't minded my cooking. I don't believe in overspending especially since food preservation isn't the same here as it is where I'm from.

[Oh, yes. This is definitely a more firewood-and-coal set-up, the stove far more medieval than anything she might be used to seeing. But simple is fine — Weir does not fancy himself a cook more than he knows what goes together and what does not.]

Your cooking is fine.

[“Fine”, he says, which is perhaps the biggest compliment she will pry out of him right now. He eases himself over to the kitchen hearth and stove, bending down to reach out and light a fire. Embers fly out from his fingertips and gather in the coals.

Honestly, he just wanted to throw everything into a stew pot, the one hanging over a larger hearth, but whatever. If she wants to put in the work, he’ll not stop her. It’s not like she can poison him.]

Your home is rationing food? Is that what you mean?

[Not realizing she means the literal process of preservation. Meanwhile, as they chat, he’s going to cross back into the main area of the lodge, to light the central fire in the hearth.]

Edited (clarification) 2023-06-27 17:48 (UTC)

Let's see... How to explain it best?

[She has a small cauldron of water ready (for poached eggs) and a metal grate to grill the vegetables and bread. Lucinda hauls it over to the hearth so that it can get heated up.]

We have large cold boxes. [You can just call it by its real name Lucy... But she has a habit of being roundabout sometimes.]

So in our household, when we can afford to, we buy larger amounts of food. Raw meat, raw fish, and fresh vegetables keep for much longer though you don't want to forget about what lies within. Everything eventually rots after all, no matter how long you try to avoid it.

[Lucy says that part so cheerfully...

She hangs the pot of water over the fire and slides the grate beneath it.]

But yes, cold boxes. Very useful. It's seen as excessive but we have two in our house. That's why, I'm trying to be conscientious here. If I bought too much, there isn't a reliable way to preserve the food and it would go to waste.

Edited 2023-06-27 18:21 (UTC)

[Large... cold boxes. He looks over his shoulder from where he's crouched and towards the kitchen, his eyebrows are hiking up.]

You have boxes filled with ice. You can say as much. You might think me primitive, but I understand the concept of the cold keeping food fresh for longer.

[He's a hunter! Of course he does!

(But rather, no. Her general way of explaining the concept of a "cold box" does him no favors, because literally. He's just imagining a box that is kept brimming with ice or something.)]

Your world, what did you call it? Kali...?

[California.]

Edited 2023-06-27 18:35 (UTC)

[Against all odds, Lucinda suppresses the desire to laugh or show that she's even tickled by Weir's misconception of her explanation. But you know what, he's got the idea, she'll let him run with it.]

Oh, I don't think of you or any of this as primitive. I lived in similar conditions as a child.

[At least until her parents indulged in the money she brought in to create a bigger house, a bigger kitchen, and to hire a maid to cook and clean all their meals.

Funny. She doesn't really remember if the food the maid cooked tasted good.

Her dark eyes are set on the cauldron of water, waiting for it to come to a boil. Several eggs sit in the basket next to her, as well as the other ingredients for when everything is properly hot. She continues their conversation easily.]

California.

[No she also won't explain that California is only part of the world, who needs that explanation? Boring!]

I specifically live in the southern region, close to the coast. I don't know if you'd like it but there's plenty of sunlight. We don't have snow during the winter. Only in the mountains.

[Lucy, who hails from the Planet of California.

He'd say that there are places like that here, and not too terribly far south of the Vale, should anyone here get it into their heads to leave town. (No one really does, except on short business trips to indulge in trade, and they're often back as swiftly as they had departed. No one truly wishes to leave this town, flourishing and colorful. But still prone to changing seasons, and yes, snow in the wintertime.)

But he doesn't catch the tail-end of her explanation. Or rather, he doesn't hear it. In his head, a murmur, a wash of static, a voice. It piques, it rumbles, it sluices through every fold of his brain. Only Weir hears it.]

Cₐₗᵢfₒᵣₙᵢₐ! Yes, we've heard that name before, haven't we? Somewhere, where...? Between veils, between worlds, between dimensions, just passing through, really. ǟֆӄ ɦɛʀ ǟɮօʊȶ ƈǟʟɨʄօʀռɨǟ, RIVER-CHILD.

[He squeezes his eyes shut, murmurs-]

Ah, fuck... Shut up, not now.

[Welcome to the Planet California...

Before she can continue to muse over the cauldron, his murmuring catches her attention. Lucy turns to look at him dark eyes narrowed. But she doesn't chastise or make an attempt at talking back because her gaze is more assessing than it is offended.

And because of her experience with other espers, especially those who could invade your mind or connect with it, she's more informed of when things are not what they seem.

So silent she remains (Flora and Fang stir under her skin, Feather is indifferent) until she lightly remarks.]

Migraine?

[He hisses air out between his teeth when he hears her question, raising a hand to waggle it dismissively.]

A right terrible headache.

[The voice in his head rumbles out a laugh, dissonant behind his eyes.]

River-child thinks he's funny. We are not the headache! You are, difficult boy. Not much fun ṅöẅ ẗḧäẗ ḧë'ṡ ġöẗẗëṅ ẅḧäẗ ḧë'ṡ ẄÄṄṪЁḊ. We want to talk to HER, ask her more about-

So, you said you were going to tell me about-

̷C̷a̷̷l̷̷i̷̷f̷̷o̷̷r̷̷n̷̷i̷a̷!

-why espers can't be alone.

No. Not that! Aren't you listening? ͯWe ͯaͯͯlͯͯrͯͯeͯͯaͯͯdͯͯyͯ ͯkͯͯnͯͯoͯͯwͯ ͯaͯͯboͯͯuͯͯtͯ ͯtͯͯhͯͯeͯ ͯmͯͯiͯͯnͯͯdͯ, ͯwe ͯwͯͯaͯͯnͯͯtͯ ͯtͯͯoͯ learn about California!

[Weir is in a tough spot; he cannot reply to the thing resounding in his head without giving himself away, so he must endure it, putting on a farce with his houseguest. Well. Nothing he doesn't deal with everyday.

The fire's blazing now, and he stands to look at her, questioningly.]

Edited 2023-06-27 23:33 (UTC)

Ah. Yes. I did present that as a topic of conversation, didn't I?

[As much as she would love poached eggs, seeing as how Weir is having difficulties... Boiled eggs it is. It's fine, her internal timer is consistent with cooking, not sleep. The eggs are dropped in before she turns her gaze back to them.

Better to pretend she does not suspect much.]

Espers... Tend to be troublesome when dealing with their burgeoning abilities by themselves. It's been said before that depending on how powerful one is, you're born with a crushing weight.

[She had a particularly heavy load.]

[A crushing weight?]

The best kind, the kind that changes. Ha. Ascends.

[He doesn’t break her gaze, purposefully.]

And does that include you?

Weir, tell me.

[Her tied-up hair drapes across her shoulder as she looks at him again.]

Though I don't think you have the mindset for it, think of a person who has lost a loved one. A parent, a child, a friend, or a lover... Someone whose loss could profoundly break them.

[The metal grate is hot enough now and she takes the basket of vegetables and sets several slices of squash, brushed with oil, salt, and pepper.]

One day, they learn about someone else who can see and speak to their shadows. Hear their voices. Learn that they are not truly gone. How much do you think that pathetic, broken individual would give for some kind of closure? Words of validation?

[The voice in his head recedes like rumbling, static background noise, the same way the tide recedes from a sandy shore. Vacillating, listening through Weir's ears, seeing through his eyes. At least the hunter's thoughts remain his own.

Loss. Grief. The desperate need for closure in the wake of all these things. She's right, he doesn't have the mindset-- No, the experience to see these as little more than a function that sometimes buoys itself up in a person's life, a reaction to an emotional pillar summarily, and permanently, lost.]

Should they really find themselves that "broken"? I would imagine anything at all.

Indeed. Anything at all.

[She continues to cook, her auctions automatic as she tends to the grilled food.]

And for the shadows whose voices cannot reach the living, the moment they find a person who can bridge the gap, well... [Lucinda takes the poker and rearranges the embers absentmindedly and the light of the fire reflects off of her dark eyes.]

Like a moth to a flame.

[Mediums are in a unique position within the world of espers. It is safe to say that everyone, even magickind regard them with caution since their ability to speak to those beyond the veil is almost a type of magic itself. Those touched by death and make it their business have always been misunderstood.]

Between the living and the dead, the medium experiences the weight of both sides. You're a human, yes, but both see you as a means to an end. A vessel, only to be filled.

[The way Lucinda speaks of the matter is frank with hardly a trace of cynicism. It's been more than a decade now and she's a far cry from the poor child who had no one but ghosts to talk to and who shed bitter tears because of her lot in life.]

Edited 2023-06-28 01:33 (UTC)

[Her straightforward honesty means that Weir can turn all of this over in his head, and distill it down to a single meaning.]

So you were used. Seen as a tool, little more than that. A bridge for both the living and the dead, trodden over again and again for the sake of initiating communication.

And yet the ʋɛɨʟ between the living and the DEAD is a diaphanous one, besides. Ṡẗïḷḷ, ẗḧïṡ ẅöṁäṅ ṡṗëäḳṡ ẗö ẗḧëṁ while you use them as the tools, too, pretending at đeɍɨsɨøn. How funny! We find that very FUNNY.

[Weir wants to fling a barb back so, so badly. Instead, he strains a facetious smile in Lucinda's direction, one he wishes to give the voice in his mind but cannot. Then he moves to his satchel on the desk, digging through it idly. A shrug of his shoulders.]

You don't seem too bothered by it.

[The woman chuckles, removing the vegetables and adding the bread slices to the grill next. The eggs are removed with a ladle and left to cool in a bowl.]

And that's where the part where I said espers can't be alone comes into play. For you see, I would have continued being a shell with no personality until I died as well. But there were other espers who came to my aid.

[A little too late perhaps? Maybe. She was already fifteen by the time the girl with vivid blue eyes found her, freed her, and comforted her. And yet the moment she locked eyes with her (her burden was just as heavy, if not heavier) for the first time in Lucinda's life, she felt the emptiness that her spirit friends couldn't fix, fill with warmth and relief. Like a child reunited with a parent who wanted them.]

And if I sound like I'm not too bothered by it... Well, the past is past, isn't it? I am much more fortunate now. I have a place I can return to. People who will say, "Welcome home."

[River and his family, her new parents... And even though it's strictly business, other espers within the Collective at least have a level of respect for her. It's like she's almost a whole person now.]

Our tenets as espers, are simple; no one governs us but ourselves, and we protect each other from those who use us... And from each other.

[He's listening, but doesn't respond immediately. Instead, he's pulling out sprigs of loose, fragrant herbs from within his satchel, then returning to the kitchen to find some twine to tie them up at their ends. Weir crosses around her, just to the back, where he hangs them upside-down on a drying rack nailed to the wall.]

The past is still who you are. Whether or not you think you've moved on, I'd wager it's still in there. Somewhere.

[He supposes the normal thing to say is that he's glad she found someone to come to her aid, but he isn't the sort for that kind of sentiment. This much, however, he can mean sincerely:]

But at least it sounds like you have moved on. There's value in that.

Edited (Clarification!! ) 2023-06-28 03:27 (UTC)

[There were some things a new life could not do and that is to undo the hurt and guilt after she left Vietnam. There were times Lucinda wondered as she struggled in her training as an esper, if it would have been better if she wasn't a medium. Surely her parents wouldn't have given into greed and they would have lived quiet, humble lives. She would have married perhaps, taken care of them in their old age.

But the what-ifs were so poisonous to the mind. Her mother and father do not remember her anymore. Flora made sure of that. There are no what-ifs for Huyen, just the here and now for Lucinda.]

Weir, your words could warm the coldest of hearts. You need to refine that quality some more.

[That actually earns a laugh from him, sharp and barely inlaid with any humor. He finishes tying up the last of the bundle of herbs; it smells a bit like wormwood.]

My words are never meant to warm. Only speak the truth. There is value in that, too, that more need to appreciate.

I appreciate it.

[Both bread and vegetables are grilled nicely and she just starts to idly peel the hardboiled eggs.]

I appreciate you. Mercenary mindset and all.

[The manner in which she expresses gratefulness obscures the sincerity. Lucinda isn't under any illusions that he's an honorable man who's housing her out of the kindness of his heart. It's convenient and he's suspicious of her and rightly so. The woman has an eerie tendency to be able to read into another person's character, with or without the helpful whispers of shadows.]

[She's coming along with that meal rather swiftly, isn't she? Weir crosses his arms to examine her work for a passing moment.]

You'd be fool not to. I'm giving you a place to stay, never mind what you think of me otherwise.

[Neither is fooling the other: Weir will not pretend to be a gracious host, but he will be a host for someone who doesn't belong here, who appeared in the forest through a means that can only be described as a tear in the veil between worlds itself. One more oddity to add to the list of strange things happening about, the dangers that have lurked in the deepest parts of the forest, where there should be no danger at all.

Best to keep her close, if only to keep an eye on her for now.]

Mm. And here I thought you just liked looking at me.

[Lucinda is not above insincere flirtatious jests.

The meal is coming along nicely. She's basically making an open-faced sandwich. First the base of toasted bread with artful char marks. It's covered in a thin layer of butter and a generous spread of soft white cheese. Next is the placement of the meat and then the vegetables she cooked are diced into small pieces and mixed with sweet vinegar, salt, and pepper. And last of all is the hardboiled eggs, sliced and placed on top.

There are two servings, one for her, and one for Weir and additionally, she prepares a tray with the extra leftover bread and toppings. Lucy explains cheerfully.]

Since one won't be enough, especially since you were out all day. You can add what you like after you're done.

Very forward of you.

[He says, noncommittally. Once more: he's rude, not dead. She is very pretty to look at, quite easy on the eyes, and it's hard not to let his gaze linger maybe a little too long on her tattooed skin, but Weir is not fool enough to fall into the trap she's set with that flirtatious retort. He'll keep that to himself else he's teased to oblivion and back — she seems the type.

Best to focus on the food, instead.]

IS she nice to look at? I can nɇvɇɍ ŧɇłł wɨŧħ ħᵾmȺns. Too shaped, too angled, all the organs in the wrong places, the strangest places—

Tomorrow— [He takes the plate with his serving without so much as a thanks. It’s simple, but still a lot more artful than what he bothers with.] —you’ll be out all day, too. Save enough for breakfast, because I don’t want to hear any whinging about an empty stomach come late morning.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject