finalflight | THIS IS JUST A PSL NOW I GUESS;

[Of course they light up when they see her. Lucinda has already taken to these people, just as they've taken to her. All the greetings wash over Weir and roll straight off his back, though it's not hard to mostly ignore them, given their attentions are focused solely on the newcomer. He's a welcome sight, but a normal one to see prowling around town. She, however, is not.

At some point, he pulls his hood up. Anti-social vibes at their peak when she's spoken to by at least the fifth vendor on their way to the local tailor.

(These people, the effusiveness, bothers him. There's something about their kindness that is hard to parse, dream-like as though to fit in with the rest of this town. They've been nothing but polite and generous to him, of course. But instinctively, it sits at odds with him, and he cannot quite understand why. He feels grounded; they do not.

It would be interesting to ask her opinion on the matter, a woman who hails from another world altogether, without really asking.)]

Gods, woman, have you spoken to the entire town?

[He mumbles at her as they take a shortcut in a little alleyway.]

[Her words come back to mind as she watches this huntsman stalk through the streets and she could only describe it in her head as...

𝓐 𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓻 𝓲𝓷 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓸𝔀𝓷 𝓱𝓸𝓶𝓮.

𝓝𝓸𝓽 𝓾𝓼𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓸 𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓸𝓻 𝓪 𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓭 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓵𝓭.

𝓤𝓷𝓪𝓬𝓬𝓾𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓭? 𝓤𝓷𝓽𝓻𝓾𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓸𝓯 𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼.

𝓔𝓿𝓮𝓻𝔂𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓭, 𝓼𝓸 𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓭.

𝓢𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝔀𝓮 𝓫𝓮 𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓻𝓾𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓽𝓸𝓸?

Oh. Well. Thank you for the commentary Flora and Feather. Lucy doesn't respond to their remarks as she finishes the meat pastry she was gifted. She only replies to Weir when he mumbles at how she's taken to the town.]

What am I supposed to do? Depend on you exclusively for riveting conversation? But no, I haven't spoken to the entire town, not yet.

Edited 2023-06-30 20:25 (UTC)

Obviously you do not. [Depend on him for riveting conversation.] But how quickly you've ingratiated yourself with the local populace.

[Then again-]

Not that it's hard to do. Tell me, what do you make of everyone here? You have an opinion by now, I imagine.

[Interesting.]

My opinion... Well, answer this question for me first Weir.

[She keeps strolling languidly behind him and only she of all people could casually ask something so morbid.]

Have there been any deaths of loved ones recently? Any graveyard of sorts? Actually, this world's customs around death would be most fascinating to learn about!

[He doesn’t stop, but he does turn his head to look at her. The clothier should just be right around the corner, so best get all the morbidity out of the way.]

Why? [Warily-] You hope to track down any lingering spirits in this town?

Death, Weir— [She holds up her index finger to wave it at him.]

Is a sign of life. But you can just say yes, no, or you don't know. Then I'll give you my opinion.

[At least she's giving him an out, sorta but she'll still get to remain enigmatic.]

[The problem being that it isn’t an out at all. Not really. How can he say “no” that there isn’t a graveyard when every village and town has one? How can he say “I don’t know” when he has claimed to live here all of this life?]

…No one has died recently that I know about. [He’s only been living in this town for a few months, help.] But I don’t make a point to keep my ear to the ground regarding everyone’s business.

And of course there’s a graveyard.

[This, he knows. But he’s never bothered to investigate further; why would he? Every headstone would just be etched with names he wouldn’t recognize.]

Need to put the corpses somewhere.

[sir, please]

Yes. Of course. The corpses do need their beauty rest.

[Lucinda ups her pace so that she's closer to him.]

Coming from me, an outsider, Turner's Vale and its townsfolk feel like a place that was made to live comfortably in. It is a wealthy place; not the gaudy kind that people with too much money would rather drown in rather than do anything good with.

[Lord knows she's encountered many of those and sometimes the Collective works with them too often.]

There's just enough. Again, very comfortable. And a life where you're provided with what you need and just a bit more would lead to a kind populace.

[𝓢𝓸 𝓶𝓾𝓬𝓱 𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼. 𝓢𝓾𝓬𝓱 𝓪 𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓭 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓵𝓭. 𝓢𝓾𝓬𝓱 𝓪 𝓼𝓸𝓯𝓽 𝓸𝓷𝓮.]

So really, I've no complaints or reason to find anyone or anything suspect. That's why I'm interested in the nature of the dead here, Weir.

[Her smile is lovely but...]

It would be like turning over a rock to find all the bugs underneath.

[... But that loveliness is dark and tainted by the shadows that whisper to her, telling her of the injustices, indignities, and cruelties of their life. Their anger, their sadness (and though uncommon, joy) are amplified through her because she is one of the few to exist between life and death.]

... Weir. For someone who's lived here so long, it appears to me that you haven't turned over that rock.

[Comfortable is a word for it. Probably the best one to describe it. Comfortable and well-provided for. Beautiful. Surreally so. And is that not all he wished for himself? To live an easy life, filled to the brim with said comfort, doing as he pleases, only when he pleases. Answering to no one, and no city farflung from where he lived.

And yet.

Turning over a rock to find all the bugs underneath. He wonders if that's the case, if there's something beneath the gilded veneer. However, it should be him turning that stone over, not hers. On his terms only should things unwind if there's anything to unwind; he cannot have her nosing about, upending everything.]

ᵂᵒʳʳⁱᵉᵈ? If she finds the ugly parts beneath, what will you do, River-child? Oh, but we ask as though you have not already given it THOUGHT.

[Yes, yes. Of course he has. The more complex this gets, the more trouble it is. And for what? When does the need for answers stop being worth it?]

You should consider that I might prefer keeping my hands out of trouble. As should you.

Edited 2023-07-01 01:10 (UTC)

Certainly. I'm just your guest after all. I wouldn't cause you any trouble.

[She stretches her arms and just yawns. Sleepiness hasn't totally left her yet.]

That's what villains do. Now are we going to make sure I don't fall over and die of cold or what?

[Let's get to that tailor Weir, you can keep being paranoid sweetie,,,]

[You don't want him paranoid, Lucinda. They'll see exactly how much trouble you'll cause him, won't they.]

Unless you want to dash the rest of the way, we're taking the fastest route there.

[And indeed, just through the alley out into the fringes of the market square, rests a small clothier shop. Weir leads her in, where they're greeted by the owner, who recognizes Weir's face and brightens when he sees Lucinda.

Weir explains what they're there for; the shopkeep chuckles lightly in agreement that Lucy will need something a bit more suitable for trouncing around in the forest in these temperatures. So, it's off to find some outerwear already prepared; something that needs no tailoring for how it'll fall across her.

So, she'll end up with a riding cloak, too, long and dark to match Weir's, though lined with fur along its edges. She also gets a new pair of boots and an overcoat to wear beneath it, one that reaches down past her knees. Sturdy, leather gloves. The huntsman supposes that's the benefit to having a leatherworker nearby, too.]

There. That should suit you well enough for now. How does it fit?

["Ah, not quite yet. You mustn't forget a scarf for this weather -- the both of you could do with one." The shopkeep says as he brings out two long, blue scarves from the back of the shop, in a vivid royal blue color. The sort that match the flowers soon all over the village.]

I already own plenty of scarves.

["Not in this color, you don't! These are freshly dyed, too, in preparation for the upcoming festival. A bit of an early treat for you and your friend; it'll be our secret."]

[Lucinda graciously accepts the clothing given to her. She looks over them and nods in approval at each. It's more than suitable (Flora grumbles about being covered up. Fang hushes her).

She tries on the riding cloak hugging it around herself as if it's a blanket. Don't go to sleep now, Lucy.

The sight of the blue scarves catches her interest.]

They're a lovely color, sir. It's from the Vale's flowers, isn't it?

[And a festival, huh... Lucinda makes note that if the duration of her stay is indefinite, she will venture down and enjoy the celebration. She can ask the other villagers about it after they return from their trip. Weir will most likely skulk away from such events.

Speaking of. Lucinda grins at Weir as she touches the scarf to see how it feels.]

So we'll be matching then. Fun.

["That right," the man says, smiling genteel. "The Vale's very own Sapphires, as you'll see them grow just about all over the valley. There are no flowers like it anywhere else in the world, you know. Which makes this particular shade of blue just as unique amongst the lot of us."

Flowers which decidedly did not exist in the world before this one, Weir thinks, but it's simply one more aesthetically oddity piled onto the rest. He has no reason to think anything more of them.

He hikes up a dark brow when she grins at him.]

You'll be sick of that color by the time you're done with this village.

[The shopkeep just laughs, light and airy. As ever, the people here seem undeterred by his blunt manner.]

Wrap it 'round your neck. You might as well use it if you have it. [And he'll do the same with his, a vivid blue against his otherwise dark attire. He will not acknowledge matchies.] You ready, then?

[Lucinda admires the scarf before wrapping it around her neck. Matchies!!]

It's alright. If I get sick of the color, I'll just look at the flowers I already have.

[Despite her dark aura Lucinda's favorite color? Pink. Peony pink specifically which coincidentally is the shape that Flora takes.

The medium smiles at the shopkeeper and gives her thanks before following Weir.]

[Weir is already credited for a bit of coin, courtesy of a prior trade, so he doesn’t have to pay upfront today. They’re out of the shop in relatively record time.

After that, it’s farther north they go — following the main road that runs parallel with a river cutting through the middle of town, before it branches off and leads straight towards the woodlands ahead.

The forest awaits them, still and calm. The breeze whispers through the treetops, and it’s easy to see that this forest—even here at its edge—is very deep, and likely very easy to get lost in if one did not follow the road out.]

We would usually take a mare if we were to tread deeper into the forest, but I don’t plan on taking us far. Still, you had best not wander off. If you get lost, you’re on your own, and that would be a waste of my coin purse on your new clothes.

[Yes, he will leave someone to the proverbial wolves for not heeding his instructions.]

[With her new outfit broken into Lucinda's pace is languid as they make their way into the forest. At Weir's harsh warning, she replies airily.]

Oh, it's alright. I'll just fly above the trees and find my way back to the lodge. If that actually happens of course. [A la Feather.]

So what's first on our to-do list?

[While he supposes that might work, he still makes a face like it’s cheating or something.]

You say it like it’s that’s simple. This forest…

[Is odd.]

You’ll see. First on the list are the herbs I gathered yesterday. Dry them out and they fetch a fair price outside of the Vale once a few vendors make their trade trips beyond the village. If you’re going to live under my roof, this is the best way you may contribute.

[And like that, he treads out farther down the path, expecting her to follow.

The further they go in, the stranger it feels in this woodland. It’s very still for too-long stretches at a time, like all the birds and insects and wildlife were holding its breath; and then sometimes Weir has to raise his voice over the cacophony of life that resounds in echoes through the trees, unseen but definitely heard.

And sometimes, it just feels like walking through a lucid dream.

But eventually, he stops. Shows her a clearing where these herbs grow, encircled by trees. Teaches her how to pick them without tearing too much of the root away. Offers her an empty satchel to store it all in. Eventually—]

Still paying attention? Or are you daydreaming of bed?

Edited 2023-07-01 06:16 (UTC)

[Despite being loquacious around certain people and specific company, Lucinda knows how to fall back and be quiet when instructed on something she isn't as knowledgeable about. At the same time, she's taking in the growing denseness of the forest and the air it exudes. Her friends are still as if trying to make sense of the atmosphere around them. Quiet, but alert.

When they stop in the clearing she nods at Weir's instructions and explanations. Her eyes follow the herbs and she's definitely listening; she probably just looks dozy because of her exhausted eyes and her deliberate movements as she accepts the satchel.

Her reply to Weir when he checks for attention?]

Con đang nghe mẹ đây.

[Said to him with direct eye contact and a smile.]

[what]

What?

[Don’t you talk in a language he can’t understand!]

[Just! Smiling!]

That was my first language in the country I was born in. Roughly translated, it means, "Yes Mother, I'm listening."

[SMILES.]

I'll start cutting the herbs now.

[Don't you SMILE at him like that. Once again, his unflagging willpower helps him avoid rolling his eyes.

He's going to make his way to a neighboring tree where a bundle of those same herbs are growing just near the base, crouching down to root them free.]

That explains your accent.

[(He is referring mostly to, instead, her American accent.)]

[Cutting herbs isn't nearly as foreign to her as he may think. In her adoptive parent's garden, they cultivated and grew Vietnamese herbs such as heart leaf, pennywort, perilla, and the like. Shame they wouldn't have any of that here unless she can be surprised. Those herbs are better grown in warmer conditions. She works deftly and carefully and some tufts of green start to peek out of her satchel.]

Do I sound that different here? Oh, probably. I haven't given it much thought.

[Vietnamese first and then English later. She's still more than proficient at the former. The latter was learned through lessons, lots of Hollywood blockbusters she watched with River, and BBC dramas. Her word choice and cadence are flowery for a reason.]

[He might not comment on it, but he notices her familiarity with cutting herbs; he thinks she could have mentioned any experience earlier and save him the breath. But that's just him being a grump about things, as per usual.

The branches of the trees overhead shudder a little.]

You sound like a foreigner, yes. [Weir might not be flowery, but his cadence is that of a BBC drama, tbh.] You're lucky the people of the Vale aren't much the questioning sort. Otherwise you'd be subject to the friendliest interrogation you could stomach.

[He can't imagine. That just sounds awful to him. He opens his mouth to say something else off-handedly while he stuffs herbs into his satchel, but stops when-

The atmosphere changes, so very subtly. Like a storm about to roll in; like something in the veil tearing open. Like a dream starting to overcome two people just trying to collect herbs--

Ah, hell.]

Wait. Do you feel that?

[that's, um, new]

[Lucy stops from cutting an herb halfway. A leaf drops to the ground as she gathers her bearings.]

... Yes.

[Her skin pulls underneath.]

Yes, we do. Did we disturb something? Catch its attention?

Edited 2023-07-01 18:01 (UTC)

I don't know. This has never happened before.

[In the handful of months that he has lived in Turner's Vale, working as a hunter, he is brought into the deep recesses of the forest more than once. Deeper and more frequently than anyone else should bother -- he is a hunter, after all, and there is no better place to catch game. Or to gather wild vegetation.

But he has never felt this happen. Why here? Why now? The only difference is that he has someone with him, but he has never heard tales of the villagers experiencing something similar when they tread into the forest, even though they do not stray too far from the northern path.

Immediately, his eyes flicker over to Lucy. She's the only difference, isn't she? A woman from another world; a woman that isn't supposed to be here. Weir cannot sense things with accuracy in this forest, not when he is surrounded by life force at every turn (the trees in this place are rife with them, bafflingly), but he can feel the "eyes" of this place turn towards her, attentions fixed on the anomaly that she is.]

You're not supposed to be here.

[He says, suddenly, like it is a fresh revelation... because it is. Weir's soon up on his feet and crossing over, grabbing her by the wrist and trying to tug them both back towards the road in which they've wandered off from.]

And I don't want to find out what happens if you linger.

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