finalflight | THIS IS JUST A PSL NOW I GUESS;

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)

[Her focus is entirely on the ordeal in front of her. Never mind Weir and his baffling dialogue for now. She needs to fight for her right to exist in this world she does not belong to.

Lucinda removes her cloak and tosses it aside. Underneath she wears her low-cut white blouse, the one from home. Across her collarbone and her chest, the peony flower tattoos, Flora, rustle across her chest, leaves and petals shuddering. She is no use against a dead creature but her sweet aroma can at least soothe dear Huyen's senses. As for the others...]

Feather.

𝓤𝓹 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓰𝓸. 𝓛𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓪𝓼 𝓪𝓲𝓻, 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝓪 𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓯 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓷𝓭.

[The moment the monster is mere inches away from her with its open maw ready to tear her apart, Lucinda jumps and leaps over it in a backward arch. She lands on her feet behind it but doesn't stop there. Feather makes her hover a few yards off of the ground and the medium starts to travel between trees without leaving the vicinity of Weir and the Pit, to see if it will give chase.

Fang can wait.]

[Ah, but Weir has chosen this terrible hound for a purpose. After all, he has taken into account what she's told him about her three ghostly friends inked onto her skin. He knows about Flora and her scent, and though he takes that into consideration, a dead creature piloted by none other than himself would not be affected. He doubts he would be affected, because all invasions of the mind are often greeted with a burst of terrible static, or the Polymath himself screaming lucidity into his head.

So, then, not an issue. That leaves them with Feather and Fang.

Fang can be handled with later -- likely the trickiest of the lot. But Feather, he expects Lucinda to use nigh immediately, and Weir is not at all disappointed when she uses her spirit to gain quickness and ease of traversal through the trees. And he is sure this creature can match it. He's seen it hunt down prey in the Pit, knows the extent of its dexterity. And he'll show her, too.

The monster does give chase, running on limbs in a way that looks like it is indeed being puppeted by an outside force, yet never so stilted to not move at a frighteningly dexterous pace. The shadows along its form whip out and latch onto the shadows cast by the trees, and for a moment, it is nothing but an inkly black void of gnashing teeth and eyes, following and then lurching upwards, slowly reforming on a branch that hangs right above her head.

It leaps down, turning once again into the shape of a wolf-hound, starting with a huge, sharp set of teeth first, while the rest of it melds itself behind it, forepaws flung forward to pounce on her.

Weir, for now, really will do nothing more than watch. He has the audacity to move over and lean up against the winch, arms still crossed, while this takes place. With how crowded the forest is with trees beyond the clearing itself, it's safe to assume that he can still at least somewhat through the monster's eyes during this whole ordeal.]

Edited 2023-07-09 16:13 (UTC)

[Oh, it's fast. And it can utilize its shadows for even more mobilization? Lucinda clicks her tongue. As it leaps for her, she moves sideways and it just barely misses her. Its stink mixes with Flora's scent, sweet pushing against rot. And though she was planning on waiting a little longer...]

𝙉𝙊 𝙈𝙊𝙍𝙀 𝙂𝘼𝙈𝙀𝙎 𝙃𝙐𝙔𝙀𝙉. 𝘿𝙊 𝙉𝙊𝙏 𝙒𝘼𝙎𝙏𝙀 𝙔𝙊𝙐𝙍 𝙏𝙄𝙈𝙀 𝙒𝙄𝙏𝙃 𝙏𝙃𝙄𝙎 𝙈𝘼𝙉'𝙎 𝙒𝙃𝙄𝙈𝙎.

... You're right. If I don't take this seriously, I'd just be proving him correct. So...

[She keeps her eye on the corpse hound and Feather makes her fly higher to create more distance and more room for what's about to happen next. Her dark eyes gaze at it with little fear and incredible serenity.

Mediums aren't known for any combat ability. Lucinda herself is a woman of above average strength though otherwise is as frail as any other human who only has enough endurance to be possessed by ghosts and three mysterious deities.

But the Esper Collective knew they had struck gold when they realized what Lucinda Huyen Tran carried within her.]

Rip and tear, Fang.

[Through the monster's eyes, something akin to smoke emits from Lucinda's back. The smoke forms into an outline and as its visage becomes clearer two giant glowing eyes emerge becoming brighter and brighter until it shines in the wolf-hound's face.

Fang is enormous. His serpentine body that snakes around Lucinda and the trees oscillates between corporeal and not. Though his being is transparent, his presence is overwhelming and domineering with heat radiating off of his scales, hinted to be obsidian with a sheen of vermillion to match his beard and fur that lines around him. And that's not even his full size, but it's more than enough for now.

When he opens his jaws and roars the force of the sound echoes throughout the forest, shaking the trees, making the Vale Sapphires tremble until their petals burst and fly all around them.]

Edited 2023-07-09 19:22 (UTC)

[lmao what the fuck

The dragon's roar is a force unto itself, the reverb of sound cascading through the clearing, jittering the petals clean off the blossoming Sapphires nearby. Weir's definitely not keeping his casual lean against the winch now; between viewing the emergence of the dragon from the monster's eyes and his own bones feeling as though they might shake under the pressure of that roar, he straightens and digs his heels into the ground, his mind assessing.

Well. Fang's already made his appearance, it would seem, and though it's earlier than Weir expected—and the blasted ghost is so much bigger than he expected, but perhaps that was his own folly; damn thing is a dragon—at least this information is out in the wild now. At least he has an idea moving forward of what he’s dealing with, one of the bigger mysteries finally unearthed. Sacrificing an undead monster is a small price to pay.

The wolf is still snarling, but it pauses in its pursuit in the face of the dragon, not out of fear (it does not feel fear any longer), but simply because Weir has taken the time to assess what to do next with it. Finally, though, it snaps its jaws rather fruitlessly and leaps forward again.]

Now imagine if that was ʏօʊ.

There’s a reason I chose a corpse for the chopping block and not myself.

And yet you are WONDERING if you still might control her despite her loyal friends. Yes, we know you are.

Well, the wolf is a fine enough of a distraction to find out, is it not?

[Speaking of the wolf… Its shadowy form lashes with its tendrils, trying to wrap them around Fang’s maw, as though that would somehow help it from biting it in twain. It becomes amorphous again, just a vague outline of a canid, while the rest of its tries to slip past its scales and aim its many teeth, many mouths, at Lucinda’s soft flesh.]

Edited 2023-07-09 22:35 (UTC)

[Fang's jaws are much too large and he's growing a touch larger so that the tendrils can barely wrap around them. He simply deals with it by snapping his teeth multiple times until he's free. Meanwhile, Feather works in tandem with Fang; the latter blocks the hound by using his face to perform an uppercut of sorts, juggling it in the air. Feather carries Lucinda and starting from Fang's head, she starts sliding down his body, using it as a path to surf around the trees and further away from danger.

Lucinda's smiling all the while and lands on a sturdy branch to watch her dear friend do his job.

The dragon opens its mouth and traps the animated corpse within and starts flying downwards to make sure it has no room to struggle.

The medium calls out to Weir.]

I only have to deal with one of those right? Is it too much work to pull up another body?

[just checkin' bestie]

I reckon the one is enough to keep both your dragon and bird entertained for now.

[Weir barbs right back, glowing eyes cutting over to where Lucinda stands atop a sturdy branch. The canid, at this point, is a very lost cause and he knows it — but he can still make it a thorn in the side before he loses it completely. In Fang’s mouth, the creature turns into inky black, receding into the dragon’s maw fully, and its reams and reams of teeth gnash and try to cut at the interior — if such a thing is even possible.

As Weir had said, it’s more distraction than anything. He’s more concerned with this little experiment, now: reaching out a hand to see how much of Lucinda’s life energy he can grasp in his figurative fingers, and compelling her forward closer to him.

It’s not a pleasant sensation, no matter how successful (or not) it is, like having one’s bones and muscles gripped tight and moved against one’s will. To boot, Weir eases himself into her head, filling it with a cascading wave of awful static, and the blossoming focal point of little more than his will:]

Come closer, Lucinda.

[Fang is taking no chances even if his mostly intangible form makes it challenging to cause any physical damage. He grunts as the hound gnashes his teeth and tries to fill his jaws; the dragon also senses the danger the medium is in as another presence, Weir's tries to worm its way into her mind.

It will be up to the other two to keep him out.

He spits out the wolf's inky mass and body slams it into the ground. The length and size of him will prevent it from trying to reach Lucinda's body.

Speaking of, Lucinda frowns as she feels the innate pressure in her bones and muscles. Feather fights against the compulsion; though the esper takes a step off the branch, the winged spirit keeps her grounded and drags her opposite of Weir. It wouldn't be the first time someone tried to inflict a type of mind control on Lucinda.

But what those people, now including Weir, soon find out, is it's not done without a fight; because when that happens, it's Flora who has full permission.

Lucinda's nostrils fill with the flowery scent emitting from her skin. The static finds itself being washed away by a more saccharine and coquettish voice.]

𝓝𝓸𝔀, 𝓷𝓸𝔀, 𝓷𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽! 𝓣𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮'𝓼 𝓷𝓸 𝓻𝓸𝓸𝓶 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓦𝓮𝓲𝓻.

[Feather keeps Lucinda in place while Flora claims her mind-space. Lucinda's eyes are half-lidded as if she's about to fall asleep on the spot. One can hear the smile in the flower spirit's voice as she speaks to Weir.]

𝓘 𝔀𝓸𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓹𝓵𝓪𝓷 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝔀𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓰𝓸𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓻𝔂. 𝓦𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓰𝓸𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓽𝓸 𝓶𝓪𝓴𝓮 𝓱𝓮𝓻 𝓼𝓾𝓫𝓶𝓲𝓽? 𝓦𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓰𝓸𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓗𝓾𝔂𝓮𝓷 𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓻𝓸𝔀 𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓯 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓿𝓲𝓵𝓮 𝓹𝓲𝓽?

𝓝𝓸, 𝓱𝓮𝓻 𝓵𝓲𝓯𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓼 𝓦𝓮𝓲𝓻. 𝓚𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝔀𝓮 𝓸𝓷𝓵𝔂 𝓽𝓸𝓵𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓽𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓫𝓮𝓬𝓪𝓾𝓼𝓮 𝓼𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓸𝓵𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓼 𝓾𝓼. 𝓑𝓾𝓽 𝓲𝓯 𝓼𝓱𝓮 𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓰𝓲𝓿𝓮𝓼 𝓾𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓭...

[Flora giggles as in the background, Fang roars as he takes care of the reanimated hound, soon to be deceased once again.]

ꃴꂦꀤꉓꍟꌗ ꀤꈤ ꌩꂦꀎꋪ ꃅꍟꍏꀸ! A new use for River-child's granted abilities. You are on the fast-track to ASCENSION now, my boy.

[Gods be. Weir's answer is telepathic, for once, now ricocheting between two voices in his head. His eyes glow brighter as a result.]

Will you shut up? I can't deal with two of you in my skull.

[He wrenches the "strings" of Lucinda's energy harder, uncaring for how he treats her body in these few moments. How strong is your hold on her, Feather?]

Perhaps I was just going to draw her close enough to slit her throat.

[With a free hand, he unearths his regular hunting knife from its sheath, and with a practiced throw of a huntsman, tosses it with a deftness that sends it careening in a spin right towards Lucinda's chest, hoping to meet its target without any fanfare at all, bastard that he is.

One more opportunity to be clever enough, or fast enough, to get out of this one, girl! Weir isn't shy about backstabbing... or front-stabbing, for that matter!]

𝓣𝓦𝓞? 𝓞𝓱, 𝓲𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽'𝓼 𝓫𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓫𝓸𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓵𝓮 𝓫𝓸𝔂?

[While Flora taunts, calm and collected Feather makes Lucinda stand firm. And if she can gently wake her up, she can also act swiftly to grab the knife by the blade with the tip barely grazing her chest. Her palm is cut making blood drip down the blade and onto the dirt.

Fang is finished with the hound. He didn't need to be precise, but its bones are completely broken, its head completely smashed — there is no body left to be useful for a third time.

As Feather throws the knife on the ground and steps on it, Fang unwinds himself around the trees to make his way back to Lucinda. His waving body blinks in and out of Weir's view but his fierce glowing eyes remain and are focused on him. He hovers over the medium and then winds himself around her. There's a rumbling growl, signaling that he's more than ready to make short work of Weir as well.

Flora speaks for them all, sweetly, threateningly.]

𝓦𝓮𝓵𝓵? 𝓓𝓸 𝔀𝓮 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓶𝓪𝓴𝓮 𝓰𝓸𝓸𝓭 𝓰𝓾𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓼? 𝓐𝓻𝓮 𝔀𝓮 𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓪 𝓼𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓼𝓹𝓸𝓽 𝓲𝓷 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓭 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓼𝓸𝓯𝓽 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓵𝓭?

[Weir has long relinquished his hold on the monster, knowing its body would be useless as soon as the dragon was done with it. Instead, he watches with something akin to disappointment when his knife is so quickly caught mid-air, though maybe he can take some small pleasure in knowing that he at least made her bleed.

But, generally? He’s far from surprised. Were Lucinda alone, no doubt it would have been a simple matter to take control of her mind and body, kill her outright in that way without the need for a creature from the Pit. But no, she has her spirit friends latched onto her like lesions — and they might as well add three more minds to contend with, three more founts of energy that he cannot, with his own single mind, untangle and control all at once.

No, her powers basically have loopholed his own to find victory and that’s rightly annoying.]

Are you proud to be a “guest” of the Vale by way of being only a thorn in my side? By being unwanted, yet too much trouble to toss away? How flattering for you and your precious Lucinda.

[Weir’s no fool. He’s not fighting a fucking dragon. He’s killed a god before, but that was with far more resources on hand, and this is just him, alone, standing in a forest with another god nattering in his head. A buzz of laughing static, so very amused at this turn of events.

His eyes revert back to normal. The hold on Lucinda’s mind and body disappears unkindly, like a snapped string. That’s his answer.]

[Fang snarls at Weir, having heard his unflattering reply. He begins to shrink until he's about the same size and proportion as Lucinda, his body still shielding her. Feather relaxes her hold on Lucinda's limbs when they all note that he's yielding.

Flora, the vain and prideful spirit that she is, gets the last word in.]

𝓢𝓹𝓸𝓴𝓮𝓷 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝓪 𝓼𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓵𝓸𝓼𝓮𝓻.

[The flower's voice softens just a touch, sharing a rare moment of compassion that's normally just for Lucinda.]

𝓛𝓲𝓯𝓮 𝓱𝓪𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓫𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓭 𝓽𝓸 𝓷𝓲𝓮𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻 𝓸𝓯 𝔂𝓸𝓾. 𝓑𝓸𝓽𝓱 𝓸𝓯 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝔀𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓲𝓷 𝓼𝓾𝓬𝓱 𝓭𝓪𝓻𝓴 𝓹𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓮𝓼. 𝓓𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓱 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓮𝓷 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓪𝓽 𝓪𝓷𝔂 𝓽𝓲𝓶𝓮 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓹𝓲𝓽, 𝓱𝓮𝓻'𝓼 𝔀𝓪𝓼 𝓫𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓭 𝓽𝓸 𝓫𝓮 𝓼𝓵𝓸𝔀 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓽𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓸𝓾𝓼 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷 𝓱𝓮𝓻 𝓸𝔀𝓷 𝓱𝓸𝓶𝓮.

𝓨𝓸𝓾'𝓻𝓮 𝓫𝓸𝓽𝓱 𝓼𝓾𝓻𝓿𝓲𝓿𝓸𝓻𝓼. 𝓦𝓮 𝓪𝓽 𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓼𝓽 𝓪𝓬𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀𝓵𝓮𝓭𝓰𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷 𝔂𝓸𝓾, 𝓦𝓮𝓲𝓻 𝓓𝓻𝓮𝓭𝓰𝓮𝓻...

[Her voice fades away. Fang dissipates into smoke that snakes down Huyen's spine. Feather takes Lucinda's hands and pats her awake one more time. Lucinda's eyes fully open and she sighs, rolls her shoulders, and smiles at Weir as if she just woke up from a pleasant dream.]

So.

[The cloak she threw on the ground at the beginning of the fight is right at her feet. Lucy picks it up and wraps it around her shoulders and checks her wounded palm, wiping off the residual blood.]

Dinner?

[Flora's sentiment, right before he severs the connection between them, is not one that Weir takes to heart. It takes more than a few passing words from a cheeky flower spirit(?) for him to draw a true connection between himself and another person; in fact, he can only take it as an indignity. What does a ghost from another world pretend know about him that it can speak with such certainty about dark places? They have not seen a dark place like the one that thrives hungrily beneath their feet.

But he has no further words on that.

Instead, when Lucinda comes back to reality, of course she treats it as casually as anything — that’s just her modus operandi by now, isn’t it? Weir actually scoffs. He doesn’t look as though he’s extended much effort in this whole ordeal, and now the idea of having to explain himself feels like the real upcoming trial. One of the perks of her dying would have been to avoid all of that nonsense.

What a shame.]

Bring me my knife.

[—is his only response to that right now.]

Third time's the charm?

[Or so she jokes knowing full well that it's not going to happen. She's played his game and her friends rose up to the occasion like they always do.

Lucy squats to pick up the knife, holding it by the blade and offering it to Weir so he can take it by the handle.]

Edited 2023-07-10 15:45 (UTC)

Were it so easy, I'd not hesitate.

[But, again, he's no fool. The whole point of this little test was to see what he could get away with: simply murdering her and being done with his little issue or if he's burdened with her presence for however longer. It's clear, now, what the reality is.

He takes the knife, looking at her evenly, then unearths a cloth to wipe the blade clean.]

Though you've more than proven that you are not a problem so easily taken care of. [DRY-] I suppose it's too much trouble to ask you to sod off and find refuge in another town?

It probably would have been less trouble than all of this.

[Lucy yawns and covers her mouth with her cloak.]

But it would be nice to see what's beyond the Vale.

Edited 2023-07-10 16:17 (UTC)

[His mouth twists sardonically.]

If you think this was more than a single day's preparation of work, then you're wrong.

[Girl he wasn't going to put that much effort into it. That said, perhaps it's a bit unnerving that Weir can simply drag a dead creature out from the Pit, give it life, use his abilities in such a way against her, and simply call it "not any work." It says something for his character; what he's willing to do if it meets a certain criteria of sensibility in his own eyes.

Knife clean, he slips it back into its sheath at his hip, opposite of where he keeps the one with the ebony blade, and frowns deeply at her.]

North's that way. [POINTS TOWARDS IN THE DIRECTION OF NORTH, where the road would wend out of the forest and spill out into the land beyond. YOU WANNA DO IT AND SPARE HIM THE EFFORT--] I'll not stop you.

[free him]

[True, she and her friends had to put more effort than he did technically. For a second there is a flash of irritation (or rather it was always there) but she relaxes again.

As Weir points in the direction of north (god this world needs a google maps) she raises her brow at him.]

I have the ingredients for a honey cake that I don't want to go to waste.

[this is your life now weir]

(no subject)

fossick - 2023-07-10 16:54 (UTC) - Expand