finalflight | THIS IS JUST A PSL NOW I GUESS;

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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.

𝓦𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓲𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓦𝓮𝓲𝓻 𝓹𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰?

𝓗𝓸𝔀 𝓭𝓮𝓮𝓹 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝔀𝓮 𝓹𝓵𝓾𝓷𝓰𝓲𝓷𝓰?

𝓗𝓪𝓼 𝓱𝓮 𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓪𝓵𝓵𝔂 𝓰𝓸𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓷 𝓽𝓲𝓻𝓮𝓭 𝓸𝓯 𝓾𝓼? 𝓣𝓲𝓻𝓮𝓭 𝓸𝓯 𝓾𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓻𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓭 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓼𝓸𝓯𝓽 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓵𝓭?

[Lucinda lets her friends theorize amongst themselves. She focuses on holding onto Weir as the mare takes them down the path and further in than before.]

Not for picking herbs, I imagine?

[He scoffs.]

No. Not this time.

[Lucinda's ghost friends are right to wonder, to talk amongst themselves. Weir has not been the most straightforward—and likely after their last venture in the forest, the most trustworthy—man with her thus far, at least not where it matters. And he does not intend for that to change oh-so-quickly, with this single jaunt farther and deeper into the woods than before.

Yet to his credit, instead of riding on in silence, he does offer a small excuse for an explanation.]

You talked about overturning stones, didn’t you? Consider this your opportunity. This village is indeed more than what it seems, though not because of any wandering, restless spirits. Or a dearth of them.

There’s an entire world beneath the surface that you've come to know.

Is there now?

[Her responses are noncommittal because she's trying to get a read on where this is going. She's in her assessing state of mind, trying to predict where this is going to land her and what Weir's intentions are.]

I believe I did say before that I wasn't going to overturn any stones on purpose.

[He only looks ahead, eyes on the path. North, north. Follow this road out and they’d eventually leave the territory of the town altogether, though he has never had a reason to venture beyond. Not yet, anyhow.

At some point, he slows the mare down and leads them off the route slightly, into the gnarled leaf-laden duff.]

And did I accuse you of that, precisely? Here I thought you might be compelled to learn more.

[Lucinda chooses her answer carefully. Her usual humor is rather muted though it's not like she was in the mood to joke in the first place.]

It's in the way you act Weir. Ever since you asked me what I thought about the Vale.

[She leaves it at that. Flora stirs around her chest and Feather rustles under her skin. Fang waits. Fang is always ready. If there is one thing she is certain about, it's that the forest may not try to dig into her heart again. Though she has other types of pain she's experienced, what they saw previously was the hurt that affected her most.

Everything else that happened after that, well, she grew steelier from each and every consequent trial.]

Have you gone this far yourself yet? Or are we experimenting?

Edited 2023-07-08 04:05 (UTC)

[Her remark doesn’t really aggrieve him, but he twists his tone sardonic anyway.]

Why? Are you worried?

[It’s a thick part of the forest, so many trees to the point where it seems like moving forward with a horse will become impractical. He eases the mare to a stop and dismounts, then works to loop the reins around the branches of a tree.]

I’ve trodden down this path more than once before. As I said: I want to show you something.

[He assumes she can get off the horse herself.]

Well, for one, you'd be the first to call me a fool for not being alert.

[Sardonic right back 'atcha, Weir. Lucinda pushes herself off of the mare with a small impact on the ground.]

But go ahead. Once again, I can only depend on your capable hands.

[The best she earns is a noise of acknowledgment, and then he's out to stalk through the woods via a path that he knows by rote memory.

The trees are very close to each other, the branches needing to be swept out of the way by hand to pass. He assumes she's following, though that much is verified easily by the sound of her footsteps behind him.

But then, quite suddenly, the forest opens up into a wide clearing, utterly carpeted in Vale Sapphires. It's an open space, shuddering in the breeze, though if Lucinda takes the time to observe, it isn't all blue flowers.

There's a hole in the ground. A huge, gaping hole, cavernous and yawning -- something ominous about its blackness.

Weir moves towards it.]

[Lucinda makes no additional remarks as Weir leads her, sweeping the branches aside and only pauses when they reach the wide clearing. The Vale Sapphires are breathtaking with the way they cover the entire area... Except for that one part.

As Weir moves towards it, she's about to take a step forward until her friends make her stop in her tracks.]

𝓝𝓞! 𝓝𝓸, 𝓷𝓸, 𝓷𝓸, 𝓷𝓸!!

𝓐 𝓭𝓮𝓮𝓹 𝓭𝓪𝓻𝓴 𝓱𝓸𝓵𝓮, 𝓪 𝓭𝓮𝓮𝓹 𝓭𝓪𝓻𝓴 𝓭𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓱...

𝓣𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓲𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓲𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓭 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓼𝓸𝓯𝓽. 𝓣𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓲𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓵𝓭 𝔀𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝔀𝓮 𝓬𝓪𝓷𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓯𝓪𝓵𝓵.

... Weir.

[Lucinda tilts her head as she listens to her friends.]

You didn't know the forest, but you know this place?

Edited 2023-07-08 05:29 (UTC)

[The hole is gaping and large and almost unfathomable... but there are still signs of once-exploration. Wooden rigging that resembles a small winch system; scaffolding that eases into the depths below, creaky and to be traversed carefully.

Weir moves to the former, not looking back at Lucinda. He turns the lever that draws up a rope hanging deep inside the pit. Impossible to tell what he's heaving up with the winch right now, though.]

I'm very familiar with this place, yes. I used to delve down deep in there, rooting around for anything that might be of use, bringing it back to the surface for this blasted town.

[It occurs to Lucinda at that moment that Weir is finally telling her a deeper truth about himself and about this world. She watches as he works the winch, taking in his words about what he used to do.]

Flora... [She moves to stand next to Weir.]

... Is having quite the fit about it. Just from standing nearby, she and Feather find it foul.

But you did it to survive. [She gazes down at the hole.]

It shaped you, didn't it? Not the town that's here now.

Edited 2023-07-08 06:02 (UTC)

[The metal lever of the winch creaks in protest the entire time, turning, turning, working to pull that battered rope up via a basic pulley system.]

It is foul. Down there, you may find the most baffling things. Old relics from an age no one quite understands. Plants with impossibly potent healing properties, or magical ones, that proper magic-wielders used to fight over in the city. Old structures of strange architecture. Stones that hold odd energies. Creatures in which you might carve off their parts for enchanted trinkets, or even plates of armor.

AND US.

You’re right. That world is more my home than the one you’ve stepped foot in.

[And for a flash of a moment, he actually sounds… bitter about that. Like being dealt the wrong hand in life twice over. Like having contentedness thrown into his arms, and not feeling content at all.

But his expression doesn’t change. Eventually, the rope gives way to what’s finally being hefted up: a small wooden platform with something large wrapped up in thick, frayed burlap set on top of it. Clearly, Weir had already prepared whatever it is prior to now — maybe yesterday, maybe the day before. He locks the lever in place and stands up straight, moving over to fetch it.

It’s big enough, whatever it is, that he has to sling it over his shoulder to carry it away from the edge of the hole in the ground. And… well.

It stinks.

It smells like sulfur and rot.]

𝓘𝓽 𝓼𝓶𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓼! 𝓥𝓾𝓵𝓰𝓪𝓻, 𝓯𝓸𝓾𝓵, 𝓯𝓲𝓵𝓽𝓱𝔂, 𝓯𝓲𝓵𝓽𝓱𝔂...!

𝓗𝓾𝓼𝓱. 𝓑𝓮 𝓪𝓵𝓮𝓻𝓽. 𝓦𝓮 𝓶𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝔀𝓪𝓽𝓬𝓱.

𝓑𝓮 𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓭.

𝓨𝓮𝓼, 𝓦𝓮𝓲𝓻 𝔀𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓼 𝓼𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓶 𝓾𝓼. 𝓣𝓻𝓲𝓬𝓴𝔂 𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓵𝓮 𝓦𝓮𝓲𝓻, 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓿𝓲𝓵𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓭𝓸 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓾𝓼?

[Flora hates this. Feather waits. Fang is silent but he's the most ready of them all.

Lucinda covers her nose with her cloak and watches as Weir carries his package away from the hole with narrowed eyes.]

Weir.

[Her voice is calm and cold. She's a woman of contrasts who feels so much and carries deep wounds but can look at what's in front of her and change accordingly.]

What does this have to do with us being guests?

[He strides a few feet away, and hefts the rolled-up thing down into a patch of flowers that flatten under the weight of the putrid-smelling object. Weir finally chances a glance up at her, the way she's gone cold and wary — and he actually smiles, though it’s thin and humorless.]

You’re going to help me to decide what to do with you. As guests.

[A relatively unhelpful answer. For now, he crouches down and unwraps the item from the burlap, layer by layer. He doesn’t balk from the smell, utterly unaffected. Slowly, Lucinda will see the slow reveal of a tail. Than the pad of a paw. The strange, moist flesh of something that must have been decaying for who-knows-how-long. The tip of a fetid snout.]

This is your chance to prove that you’re not just an inconvenience. Or… [He shrugs a shoulder.] Perhaps I mean the opposite: that you’re too large of an inconvenience, one that I can’t just throw away when it gets too troublesome for me.

[Eventually, what’s been wrapped up becomes fully exposed: it’s an awful-looking monster, very much dead, shaped a bit like a canid but if you added a few too many extra, wiggling bits.

Even as a corpse, splayed out on the burlap, it looks like something that doesn’t truly belong in this forest, in this town. Like a bit of darkness plucked up from the deep — because that’s exactly what it is.]

I hardly think it needs any introduction, but this is one of the monsters you can find prowling down there.

[Dark eyes scan the corpse of this rotten corpse of a monster. She hardly balks at it though her lips are thin from grimacing. There are things from her world that are of a similar vein but it doesn't mean she's experienced many of them. Lucinda's usual problems are human, human-shaped, or dead.

Without having to ask, she surmises that no one in the Vale knows this hole, not like Weir does from the life he knew before. Inexplicably, this part of the world did revolve around him and the medium is not certain how that makes her feel, especially now that he's made it clear that she's an inconvenience.

A large one at that.

Well.

Depending on what he's planning, Lucinda should think she'll have to show how inconvenient she can be if he crosses the line.

Without that thought displayed across her face, she glances at Weir again.]

As we both know, I've been nothing but helpful during my stay here. So why stop now? I'm wide awake out of anticipation.

[Oh, the current residents of the Vale know about this gaping void in the ground. They know that Weir goes down there now and again, bringing back up resources that they might can use for trade or for their own personal benefit. And they know, too, that it is a treacherously unkind place and that the huntsman is nothing short of brave for venturing down into that world beneath them, where terrible things lie in wait.

But other than that? They don't care about it beyond it acting as a passing novelty in their minds.

And that is the main difference between this world and the one before.]

Are you?

[He says, and he's already taking one of his knives out of its sheath. Lucinda will see that this one is not a normal knife made of steel; its blade is ebony, so dark that it seems to reflect no light. He doesn't appear to be brandishing it at her, but rather points its tip down at the corpse at his feet, the blade teasing at rotted flesh.]

"Helpful" is generous, Lucinda. I hardly see how you've been helpful to me at all. There is a part of me that's starting to wonder if you'd just be better off gone. Do you agree with that?

Edited 2023-07-09 03:04 (UTC)

... Then you should have thrown me in the pit, to begin with.

[Her eyes track the knife that he wields and how he points it at the creature, not her. Past experience informs her that whatever he's about to do, the monster won't stay down for long. She turns and takes a few casual steps away, readjusting her cloak (loosening it rather) before continuing to speak.]

I would like to be gone. Gone from here and back to home. You and Turner's Vale would become an odd and distant memory. This would have just been a detour from my usual life as a particularly burdened esper.

[As she was speaking, a sweet scent emits from her body. Flora detests the putrid stink of the dead monster. Rather than rotten flesh, sweet overripe floral fruit is much preferable.

And it's a warning sign from Lucinda herself.]

So I think it's time to cut the pretense. It's not like you Weir. I'm the one who should be dancing around the main point, not you.

[And just like she had won an air-thin smile from him, she too wins a bark of a laugh. There's not much of a lick of humor in it, though he finds he appreciates her candor. Weir doesn't know her well, but he knows her well enough to realize her bravery isn't for show.

No, he supposes it wouldn't be, given her work back home.]

You're right. Straight to it, then.

[He pushes the ebony knife into the wolf-monster, and the blade slides in easily as though it were cutting through nothing tougher than vellum. The curve of its sharp edge buries itself into flesh, unseen; but it is the hilt that begins to glow along the etched carvings, coiling in a sickly green glow.

That same glow, a strange essence of energy, glides down the knife handle, presumably lowering itself into the blade. And by way of that, the corpse itself.]

You're either going to die here or you're going to prove too difficult to kill and remain my problem for however fucking long you're stuck in this world. If it's the latter, well, we'll cross that bridge if we get there. And if it's the former...

[He yanks out the knife, slick with fleshy rot. Something in the corpse stirs, a gutteral breath rattling in neglected lungs.]

Then I will throw you in the Pit and be done with you. Not my problem any more. I think that's fair, don't you?

[Ah. So there it is. Lucinda cooly witnesses the vile rebirth of the rotten monster as the sinister knife cuts through its flesh, carving something incomprehensible to her and if it's incomprehensible, it usually means it's some kind of magic. The results are clear as are Weir's intentions.]

𝓝𝓮𝓻𝓬𝓻𝓸𝓶𝓪𝓷𝓬𝔂? 𝓜𝔂, 𝓶𝔂, 𝓶𝔂.

𝓗𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓸𝓾𝓼, 𝓿𝓲𝓵𝓮, 𝓻𝓸𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓷...! 𝓗𝓾𝔂𝓮𝓷, 𝓭𝓮𝓪𝓻 𝓗𝓾𝔂𝓮𝓷, 𝓽𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓾𝓼 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝔀𝓮 𝓬𝓪𝓷 𝓭𝓸 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝔂𝓸𝓾. 𝓗𝓮 𝓶𝓮𝓪𝓷𝓼 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓽𝓸 𝓭𝓲𝓮.

𝓦𝓪𝓼𝓱 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓼 𝓬𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓷 𝓸𝓯 𝓾𝓼.

𝓟𝓮𝓻𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓼 𝔀𝓮 𝓼𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓳𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝔀𝓪𝓼𝓱 𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓼 𝓬𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓷 𝓸𝓯 𝓱𝓲𝓶.

[It sounds simple as a solution on the surface. Lucinda will always be their main priority over everything else and that's why she needs to be the one who is able to clearly see the larger picture. She can't just make use of her friends so recklessly. There is something to this world in regard to Weir's involvement a misfit of a puzzle piece. No, she can't kill him here, not yet, not now. It is quite possible that Lucinda will have to overturn a few more stones in order to find a way home.

As breath returns to the monster's lungs, Lucinda replies pleasantly to Weir with that dissonant serenity she applies when her life is in danger.]

You aren't the first person to threaten my life. And I'd hardly want you to be the last if it means drawing my final breath here and having my corpse thrown into that hole.

[She carries no weapons, nothing that can be weaponized. All she has are the clothes on her back and her friends in her body.

And really, if it's just Weir and a fiend of dead flesh, she might not need much else.]

Alright. Let me just make some room here before it tries to take a bite...

[Just a few more steps, crushing some Sapphires beneath her feet, nothing more. No running start, no visible panic. She's more than ready.]

[The life essence in the corpse spreads like a poison pushed out by a throbbing heart. Weir can feel it, as he always can — little strings of energy that wend through a vessel, ready to be plucked and pulled at his behest. He watches Lucinda closely as she takes this all in stride, as she steps back and crushes a few blossoms underfoot.

The voice in his head deigns to burst out in static-laughter.]

Are you so SURE of this? Perhaps she could be the ̷D̷̷E̷̷A̷̷T̷̷H̷ of you, instead, and what a loss that would be. You are our favorite, River-child.

Yes, well, how terrible for you. [His reply is to the awful god-thing in his head, not Lucinda. And yet he doesn’t make this clear, uncaring if he leaves her confused.] No, I’m not sure. That’s why I’m doing this in the first place.

[He stands, hitching his knife back into its sheath. Weir makes no other moves for now, choosing to cross his arms and eye Lucinda from where he stands. Almost too unaffected for what’s about to happen: his eyes, for one, already naturally dark green, take on an eerier sickly glow, ringed around his irises. It matches the energy that had been exuded by his knife hilt.

And the monster? It twitches, writhes. Lifts itself up, back raising first as though it were pulled up by a marionette’s strings, before its four legs follow suit, finding purchase on the ground. Its head lifts and its eyes focus on Lucinda, maw opening and closing, opening and closing, flashing teeth. Too many teeth, embedded across odd angles in its body. Too many coiling tendrils of flesh lashing from its middle and lurching forward, now given “life.” It growls, gnashing its fangs.

It’s far from the worst thing in the Pit. But it’ll do for now.]

No dallying, now. Let’s make it quick.

[Was that to her or the monster?

Doesn’t matter.

The creature leaps forward, leaving trails of shadow in its wake, dashing straight towards her.]

Edited 2023-07-09 06:56 (UTC)

proving grounds.

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