THIS IS JUST A PSL NOW I GUESS;

[fossick]

(( used the wrong method with the wrong technique ))

Comments

[fossick]

[The cat is out of the bag, so to speak.

And though a fair variety of skeletons have been exposed with those closet doors flung open, it still isn’t the extent of every facet that makes up the ugly pieces of Weir Dredger. Still, it’s enough to shift the foundational dynamics between them, widening that gap — but he suspected as much. That is, after all, simply one of many consequences that attempted murder manifests between two people.

She seems to be taking it in stride, though Weir does expect the cascade of questions to come soon enough. He cannot imagine she’s pleased with him either way, but that works to his advantage, too. Maybe she will find someone with a kinder heart and inclination to help her shunt her way back home one day; free himself of the obligation so he can return to his simplistic life here in the village.

And when they return to his lodge, and it becomes very clear that she is going to take to a stint of baking, well. Weir isn’t about to stand around and waste time watching. He leaves. Gets a bit more business done, whatever that is. Maybe he doesn’t want to linger in the pretenses of a calm and quiet abode.

But he returns just in time for her to nearly be done with her little project, the scent of honey filling his nostrils. He wrinkles his face. Not because it’s a terrible smell, but because it’s yet one more indication of his life being wholly invaded by her presence.]

What?

[Flowers? The Sapphire in her hand? Is she really going to ask him this, first and foremost?]

Yes. [The automatic reply of someone who knows what’s equally gather-able and edible.] Wouldn’t be my first choice.

[He’s so tired of those flowers. That blue hue. Gods, there’s a festival soon— He banishes the thought away.]

After today, you’re wondering about the flowers?

[luciole]

It's a good start as any.

[Lucinda is frustratingly calm. She crushes the Sapphire in her hand and sprinkles it into the bowl of honey she's set aside for herself. Even when crushed, the hue is quite vivid making for a lovely contrast inside the clear golden honey.

The linen cover is removed from the cake and she drizzles it on top.]

You have to give me some leeway, Weir. I'm still sorting out the protocol of how I should act around someone who just tried to kill me indiscriminately.

[fossick]

[He doesn't stand in the kitchen, but rather the living area neighboring it, scoffing and setting his satchel down from his little excursion outside while she was baking. This time, he doesn't so much as glance at her.]

"Indiscriminately." [He parrots back, vaguely patronizing in tone. Even though she's right.] There was nothing indiscriminate about it. I thought long and hard about whether or not I would take the risk with you.

[As though that's supposed to make her feel better.]

You want to know how you should act? I imagine you'll at much the same as before. Unless you're afraid I might change my mind and slide a knife into your back when you're not looking?

[He's fairly certain Fang wouldn't allow that, anyhow.]

[luciole]

[She knows she's right which is why she won't waste energy arguing the point. The wild berries are next and Lucy takes her time arranging it artfully on top of the cake using the flowered honey as glue.

And yes, Weir's remark elicits a low burning growl from Lucinda's back. She glances over her shoulder.]

Shhh.

[No eyes on the back of her head, but Fang might as well be that pair. Speaking of head friends though...]

Flora tells me you have a friend of your own.

[fossick]

[Ah, and there it is. The questions have started to become actually relevant.

Flippantly, and not terribly helpfully:]

"Friend" is not the word I would use.

Súćh á ćŕúéĺ ćhíĺd.

[luciole]

Not like mine then?

[Lucinda finally deigns to look at Weir with curiosity.]

What is the nature of it if you don't mind me asking?

[fossick]

I don’t know his nature.

[Weir is still fussing with his things, not meeting her eyes. Eventually, he peels away at his outer layer of clothing, leaving a dark undershirt beneath — the nights are still cold but it’s fine with the hearth blazing. He removes his hunting knife and rests it on the table. His other blade remains at his side, as it always does.

Really, he should be calling the Polymath an “it” for all he knows, but his voice resounds as male in his head, so that’s good enough for him.]

He lives in that place, down below. Calls himself an ancient god.

[luciole]

Hm. I see.

[Coming from a world of magic, psychics, and everything else in between, that is not the most farfetched thing she's ever heard of. But then again, things that called themselves "gods" are a flag in itself. Lucinda knows that there are creatures who can envelop and cause chaos in the mind and bodies of humans and without the arcane resources of magickind, they would claim her world with ease]

Does he use your eyes? And listen in on your conversations?

𝓐𝓽 𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓼𝓽 𝔀𝓮'𝓻𝓮 𝓹𝓸𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓮 𝓪𝓫𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝓲𝓽!

𝓜𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝔀𝓮 𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓷 𝔀𝓱𝓮𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻 𝔀𝓮'𝓭 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓸𝓻 𝓷𝓸𝓽.

𝓦𝓮 𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓷 𝓼𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓲𝓽 𝓬𝓪𝓷 𝓱𝓮𝓵𝓹 𝓗𝓾𝔂𝓮𝓷!

[fossick]

Whenever he deigns to. And I do not know when he does not deign to.

[Weir just assumes the Polymath is always listening, always watching, even if he doesn't hear his static in his head.]

Just assume that every conversation we've had, everything I see, he sees, too.

[And finally, he flicks a glance over at Lucinda.]

A bit like your spirit friends, in that way.

[luciole]

[The honey cake is done and she leaves it aside for now. She's fully paying attention to Weir though it's hard to tell how she's feeling about these revelations.]

You say he lives in the pit... But he occupies your mind? Ah, telepathy of sorts.

[She knows the deal.]

When did you first encounter it?

[fossick]

[One-way telepathy is perhaps the best way to describe it; the first time he's ever encountered another voice of an entity in his mind was... literally today, when Flora spoke with him. He's not sure he's much of a fan.]

We're connected.

[Which seems like not much of an explanation, but Weir is trying to judge how much to say, and when. Finally, he straightens, crossing his arms from where he stands to look at her.]

Years ago. [A pause.] The monster I brought up to the surface, to employ against you in my little test? That was nothing compared to some of the things that rove around down there at the deepest depths. There's one in particular that...

[He trails off, reassesses.]

Long story short, it nearly killed me. The Polymath saved me.

[luciole]

[Lucinda nods. Although she doesn't remember all of what Flora had said to Weir directly, she remembers everything else that Weir had told her prior to the fight. He had made his living by risking his life in that hell hole where the monster originated from. And if there were even worse things...

If there was ever a reason to have one's heart and mind hardened, that would be it, she supposes.]

𝓣𝓱𝓪𝓽'𝓼 𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓵𝓮 𝓮𝔁𝓬𝓾𝓼𝓮 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓱𝓸𝔀 𝓱𝓮'𝓼 𝓫𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓽𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝔂𝓸𝓾.

[Feather thinks otherwise.]

The Polymath... Does he call himself that? [Lucinda takes a seat. This is going to be a long conversation.]

1/2

[fossick]

[He scoffs.]

No.

River-child can't PRONOUNCE my name! It's ■■■■■■■̵̺̞͋͊̾̊͐̐͠■̷̨̨̧̛͉̣̱̞̫̣͖͕̠̂̂̃͝■̴͔̟͕̌̋̈́̓̽̈́̋̄̔̐͘͘͘͝■̴̛̛̱̼̖̒̑̓̈́͊́͗■̷̢̭̝̩͓̏͗͊͑́͆̉͜■̷̧̧̞̪͉͓̬͍̲͎̉̄̅̑̽̊̄̈́̉̃̈́̔͑͆͜͜͜■̵̺̞͋͊̾̊͐̐͠■̷̨̨̧̛͉̣̱̞̫̣͖͕̠̂̂̃͝■̴͔̟͕̌̋̈́̓̽̈́̋̄̔̐͘͘͘͝■̴̛̛̱̼̖̒̑̓̈́͊́͗■̷̢̭̝̩͓̏͗͊͑́͆̉͜■̷̧̧̞̪͉͓̬͍̲͎̉̄̅̑̽̊̄̈́̉̃̈́̔͑͆͜͜͜--

[Too much static with that resounding in his head, Weir clearly grimaces.]

Shut up.

Bah!

[fossick]

[ANYWAY,,]

...I call him that. Were you to ever lay eyes on him, you would understand why. When he folds himself up, awful thing that he is, he looks like a brain.

[luciole]

[Lucy raises a brow at this exchange which by now she knows isn't directed at her. ]

... I suspected you were talking to yourself for some reason. But I didn't want to make any assumptions at the time.

It's nice to know that you treat both god and man with the same amount of distaste.

[fossick]

[Small comfort, that. Knowing that he can natter to himself like a madman doesn't mean that he still wants to in anyone's presence.]

Yes, well, for as much of an annoyance he is, I might give him credit where it's due: he is useful.

[And this, it sounds like, is the sticking point. The line drawn in the sand, where Weir decides how much value he puts into a person or thing.]

I can hardly say the same for you.

[this is how he treats someone baking a nice cake!!]

[luciole]

[Yeah, she's gonna share the cake with the nice vendors who gave her free stuff at this rate.]

If you only judge people by whether they're useful to you or not, I should hardly think that a village with a friendly populace who looks up to you is all that useful to a man who wants to be left alone.

[Lucinda's voice is unusually sharp though she tempers it by keeping her volume low and neutral like she usually does.]

So why is it they are like that? What do you and the Polymath have to do with how the world is at least in this corner?

[fossick]

[i, the player, am sorry he's this way...dump this man, lucy

Ah, she's going to have to try a little harder than that if she want him to spill this particular branch of truths.]

And what makes you think I have any power over how I'm treated in this village?

[luciole]

It's not how you have any power, though the forest accepting or rejecting my presence may give me the idea.

[She turns in her chair to fully face him, crossing her arms and legs.]

I'll ask a different question then. Were there other people like you who had to go down to the pit and crawl through it to make a living?

[fossick]

The forest's fickleness about your presence was as much a surprise to me as it was to you, remember? Why you should equate any of that to my doing is a flimsy assumption.

[Besides, there's no way of knowing what the deal was with that. GOSH, PERHAPS IF THEY LEFT THE TOWN SOMEDAY THEY MIGHT FIND OUT THE EXACT REASONING--

But for now, he's clearly pausing before each reply.]

Of course. None of them are alive any longer.

[TECHNICALLY...TRUE,,,]

[luciole]

How vague, Weir.

[Not that she doesn't doubt that some people just don't live long with a job like that. But Lucy's looking at him critically.]

Also, you pause too much before replying to me.

[fossick]

[This time, he answers without missing a beat (and not without some sarcasm), but only because he doesn't have to filter what he thinks he should say versus what he doesn't.]

Well, wouldn't wish to give you an unsatisfying answer. What I said is true: they're all gone now.

[luciole]

[uh huh]

Normally, this is where I'd get a mind reader to help me out but I guess the Polymath would probably give them a bit of a start.

[Lucinda sighs and rubs her forehead. It's been a day.]

Look, Weir. I don't know how it would be a disadvantage for you to let me know the details of what's been going on around here. You've lowered my opinion of you by a significant amount already.

[fossick]

[Oh, he’s sure the Polymath would just love that.]

Oh, is that a challenge, Lucinda? I imagine I could lower it further into the grave if I had to.

[Perhaps it would be more beneficial to lead the conversation himself, then.]

The abilities you saw from me — what would you label them if asked?

[luciole]

[this feral cat... someone get the spray bottle]

𝓗𝓾𝓾𝓾𝓾𝔂𝓮𝓮𝓮𝓮𝓷. 𝓘 𝓭𝓸𝓷'𝓽 𝓰𝓮𝓽 𝓦𝓮𝓲𝓻 𝓪𝓽 𝓪𝓵𝓵𝓵𝓵𝓵𝓵!! 𝓘𝓼 𝓲𝓽 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓵𝓵𝔂 𝓳𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓯𝓲𝓼𝓱𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼? 𝓘𝓯 𝓼𝓸, 𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓷𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓹𝓻𝓲𝔃𝓮!! 𝓑𝓾𝓽 𝓲𝓼 𝓱𝓮 𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓹𝔂? 𝓝𝓸, 𝓷𝓸, 𝓷𝓸, 𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻𝔂𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓲𝓼 𝓪𝓷 𝓮𝔂𝓮𝓼𝓸𝓻𝓮, 𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻𝔂𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓶𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓫𝓮 𝓼𝔀𝓮𝓹𝓽 𝓪𝔀𝓪𝔂!!

[imagine flora rolling on the ground and whining about this, that's basically what it sounds like to Lucy.

And she gets it; the medium is frustrated at him. A normal person would be mad, enraged even, probably resorting to threats at Weir right now. Unfortunately, Lucy's never been normal and her upbringing before and after her life in Vietnam has ensured that for better or for worse. Some misplaced sense of pride as an esper who's known for tackling tough circumstances is making her more patient than he deserves.

Fine. She'll let him lead the conversation (and then she can sleep for 12+ hours)]

Your powers? I'd label them as magic. Phenomena that manifest from magical energies from within or drawing upon the world itself to make something impossible, possible.