finalflight | THIS IS JUST A PSL NOW I GUESS;

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.

Ah—

[When her wrist is grabbed, she hears Fang hissing in her head and Flora crying out indignantly (it's too much like those wretched humans who called themselves her mother and father). But Lucinda, aside from stumbling and barely saving herself from tripping doesn't resist at first.

Is this the rock being overturned?]

Wait.

[Internally, Lucinda soothes her friends and then wiggles her wrist from Weir.]

You don't understand this world completely, do you?

[Hints of it from their conversations, the way he treats Turner's Vale and its people, this very forest...]

Do you think it's trying to understand me?

[Touching her, he can nearly feel the entities beneath her skin writhing in protest against his proximity. Her questions lance through him, and she manages to loose her wrist because he practically balks at them.

If only because she's right.]

I've only said that this has never happened before. You want to stand there and ask questions or do you want to-

[Leave. Whatever is turning itself inward, whatever this forest might be doing, he instinctively knows in the marrow of his bones that it isn't anything good.

And he's right.

A wind passes through, cold and scented like those bright blue flowers, the Vale Sapphires that dot the valley, the town, the forest... And in the wake of that, comes the fog, swirling in at their feet at first, then overtaking them both completely.

It's so thick that, when it floods the space between them, he loses sight of her.]

Shit- Lucinda?!

[Lucinda flinches as the fog overtakes them separating her from Weir. The flowery scent is unlike Flora's and it fills her senses as she hugs her cloak around her from the sudden chill.]

𝓣𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓽 𝔀𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓼 𝓼𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰.

𝓓𝓸𝓮𝓼 𝓲𝓽 𝔀𝓪𝓷𝓽 𝓾𝓼?

𝓘𝓽 𝔀𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓼 𝓱𝓮𝓻.

[She does not panic. Does not shout. Her mind has been trained to observe and calculate regardless of the distress of her spirits for her safety. She wills Flora to calm down and start fighting the scent with her own. Lucinda shouts back sharply.]

Weir! Can you follow Flora's scent?

[Flora's scent is soothing and enticing; the more she flourishes through Lucinda's skin the more her aroma becomes like sweet fruit. But they're at the mercy of this forest so who knows if it can even cut through?]

[The scent is strong but familiar enough that he doesn’t even register it as strange until he hears Lucinda’s exclamation.]

What?!

[Flora’s scent— Perhaps he could if he tried. Perhaps he can, just the faintest whiff of it in the air. But Weir, as always, is caught between what action will make sense for him to launch into — would finding her amid this mess help him get out of it faster? If the forest wants her, then why should he stand in its way? The choices he makes are so, so less forgiving when danger rolls itself into play.

He hesitates, deciding on what to do, and it’s exactly this passing moment of inaction that has the forest deciding that no, she must not belong here, not if a native of the Vale treats her in such a way.

And so the fog roils. The scent is impossibly thick. And then… it all fades away, dissipating like smoke evaporating; the air clears, another breeze pushes through the flit the flower-perfumed air away.

Weir and Lucinda are left standing there. They can see each other clearly now, and the way he has his hand hovering over one of his knives. But the forest is not a forest any longer. It is the scene from a memory — and not Weir’s.]

What the bloody fuck is happening.

[It's hard to say what would have happened had Weir abandoned her completely. She probably wouldn't have been surprised. Hurt? Perhaps a little in the mildly offended way. Lucinda is more than prepared to act alone— No, not alone. They would all act together.

The fog clears and she sees Weir clearly. They weren't too far off from one another after all. It's everything else that she's concerned about and he is, audibly, too. What is this memory before them?

It's still a forest of sorts but the trees are different. It looks like nighttime but it feels so...]

... It's humid.

[Her skin is crawling. Her friends are oddly silent. She shrugs off her cloak and folds it in her arms while glancing around. The trees now look thinner and that's because they're in groves of tall bamboo that towers above them. They have an eerie iridescent green color and they're so dense it's difficult to see through them and above. In fact, trying to look at the sky feels more like looking at an inky dark expanse.

Her heart stops.

She remembers this place.]

... Weir? We need to move. [Lucinda's voice remains calm but she's gripping her folded cloak tightly.]

Don't run though. Just walk and keep walking.

Edited 2023-07-02 06:22 (UTC)

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