finalflight | THIS IS JUST A PSL NOW I GUESS;

[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.

[Lucinda is dangerously aware of her appeal.

In her late teens, she had thought it was all Flora's doing. The spirit's sweet scent can draw people towards her, soften them to suggestion, and in most cases (because this is the most coveted for the Collective's operations), forget.

Her mother (the new one), dressed her up and worked around her ghost tattoos and the real ones to enhance her appearance. Working with other Collective members taught her how to use everything about herself to her advantage, not just her abilities to see and speak to shadows or have her three friends do her bidding.

She's a formidable agent for reasons other than her strange ghosts.

Lucinda seats herself against the wall with her serving using a fork to delicately cut into her meal. She's a slow eater.]

No whinging. [Her lips quirk a little at the word.] That's a promise.

[Not that she's done much of it if any at all. It could be mistaken as passivity, but it's more of a calculated move.

Or maybe she's just enjoying her time in this new world.]

Feather can wake me up. [She beams at Weir.]

So if you hear a thump on your floors, that's just her taking possession and making me roll off the bed.

[Weir knows better than to trust anything or anyone at face value. Lucinda has not been in purposefully obfuscating, but she isn’t an open book, easily read — there’s more to her than just her tattoos and the spirits that reside within them. He isn’t stupid enough to think otherwise.

It’s fine. They both have their share of things unsaid for now.]

And you just let her do that? Possess you?

[Gods, it’s hard enough to sleep with a stranger in his lodgings. The idea of one who might be puppeted around by a ghost is (ironic) twice as bad.

Anyway. He’ll sit at the table and eat? Because he’s not a heathen???]

[Look, she isn't sure if he even wanted to share the table ok she'll take the wall (and haunt it like a ghost)]

Mm. [Lucy finishes a slice of egg before replying to Weir.]

Sorry. I forget that casual possession shouldn't be taken lightly. [yeah lucy you should know... she pats her shoulder where one of Flora's blooms is apparent.]

But these three have been with me for a long while so our communication is finely tuned. They would never take over my body unless I let them and even then it's limited.

[No, that still doesn't sound all that great... But better than the alternative of some stray demon taking hold of her sensitivity.]

Keep in mind, they are not ghosts of humans. To be honest, their nature and make is quite a mystery to even those on my side.

[Yeah casually forcing someone to do a thing sure is bad, sweats,]

If not human, then could they not be something more… insidious? Communication does not necessarily equate to trust.

I’m HURT.

[He can sense her spirits, in the way he can sense faint essences entwined with her own. Still, they baffle him — he’s not encountered anything quite like it since the acquisition of his own abilities.]

I've been possessed by worse.

[Her tattoos, both ghostly and normal draw attention away from the damage that's been done by "worse."]

Just so you know, I'm not dismissing your suspicions. Even among my own kind, they're unsettled by my current state. A medium usually begins and ends with seeing, speaking, and channeling the dead. More than one spirit that manifests beneath the skin? And I'm not dead myself? Rather unheard of. Not impossible but there isn't anyone else like me.

[She twirls her fork at him playfully.]

I'm what's derisively called, "a special snowflake."

Mm-hm.

[Excuse him as he works on his sandwich for a bit.]

Your “snowflake” status [???] is not unsettling to me. That’s the wrong word for it. I’ve seen worse things than a woman who harbors something strange beneath her skin and talks to dead things.

[Its voice thrums in his head.]

What concerns me is why you are here at all. Does your “specialness” have anything to do with being thrown wide of your own world? This simply does not happen here, in this town.

[it's a very tasty sandwich ngl]

Have you now?

[She masks her interest to make it sound mild and proceeds to answer his question.]

Well. I think the conditions were just about right for it. Prior to waking up here, I was having... A disagreement with a warlock from my world. Fang had taken care of him but his workshop was in disarray. Many substances. I don't really remember what happened after I blacked out.

[It's true. Being thrown into another world was not on Lucinda's to-do list for the weekend.

She rolls her eyes as if expecting Weir to agree.]

Magic.

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