finalflight | THIS IS JUST A PSL NOW I GUESS;

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!

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.

[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?

[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.

[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.]

[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!

[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.

[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.

[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!!]

[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?

[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?

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?

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,,,]

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.

[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.

[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.

Edited 2023-07-12 02:51 (UTC)

[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?

[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.

Edited 2023-07-12 04:51 (UTC)

[To his credit, Weir manages to not make a face at his abilities being called magic, for as much as he disagrees with it. He does not necessarily want to be clumped into that same category, not does he believe it's the same thing at all.]

No. This- [He twists a wrist, and a small ball of light emanates from his palm, then lifts up and glides over to Lucinda. A very basic cantrip for creating illumination in the dark. One can assume the Weir knows it only for utility.] -is magic. This is what you describe. The kind of small feat that everyone can access to a certain degree. The magical energies of this world are like a well; anyone can skim the surface.

But to plumb its depths required innate talent and endless study. Casting times, incantations. Perhaps even reading from the pages of a tome. Resources that most of the common folk do not have. There is a reason there were only ever a handful of true magic-wielders in the world, but the power they utilized was great.

[Frowning, he pauses there. He'll continue, but he wants to get a read on Lucinda first; and likely, she can see where he's going with this. His abilities, though she might qualify them as magic, are not the same. They come naturally to him. They require no such preparation, acting like a biological extension of what he can already do, even if he was far from born with them.]

[It's a slow start, but for Lucinda who's dealt with magickind before, she's making some connections. If there are few casters in this world, it meant that they had to be someone who had more access than common folk. And knowing magickind, they focused more on their advancing their arts rather than the people. At least in her world, she understands their function but they're a troublesome group at best, a nightmare to deal with at worst when they let their power get to their heads.

When he tried to control her body back in the forest, that was more akin to ESP to her; her mind started to fill with static before Flora took the reigns. But she'll hear him out on the rest before making any more assumptions.]

Was the reason there are few true magic-wielders because one would have to be someone of privilege or wealth to be able to further their studies?

... And are those resources you would be able to find in that pit?

[He shakes his head, speaks lowly, a little... disapprovingly, because he has a low opinion of those who fling magic around and let it get to their heads. But at the same time, his investment in the concept is at an all-time low. They're talking about a world that no longer exists.]

Yes and no. As I said, it's partly due to talent. Either you are born with a unique and rare proficiency for the art, or you're not. Now take those who are, and yet are never given the opportunity to study. To learn, and to grow. So you've even less, simply due to circumstances out of someone's control. You find yourself just... slightly better at it than your fellows around you.

[And he knows he never was better. His talent was never in magic. Necro"mancy" be damned.]

As for your other question, yes. [She's quick, isn't she.] There were mysteries still waiting to be discovered. Resources, too. What nosy sorcerer or sorceress with their heads too far up their arse would not want someone else to explore it on their behalf?

Edited 2023-07-12 15:13 (UTC)

Outsourcing the work. Typical.

[Lucinda uncrosses her legs and taps her fingers against her chair.]

You're speaking of them in the past tense now.

["There is a reason there were only ever a handful of true magic-wielders in the world..."]

Do you know if all of them are gone or not? Like the ones who used to explore the hole?

[He had used past tense very purposefully, to see if she would pick up on it (unsurprising) and perhaps to test the waters that would lead to the bigger picture.]

Think about it, Lucinda. No one explores the Pit any longer -- but do you think that if sorcerers and their ilk still existed in the city, they would allow for that?

[No, of course not. A Dredger was expendable. Death did not deter those who would gain from their fossicking in the deep, and the fact that there are none now is, therefore, more telling than anything Weir has said so far.]

They're gone, too. [Minus one who is Very Angry about what happened to her, but Weir doesn't know that!] No one cares about magic, anymore. Not like they used to, at least. Everyone is as rubbish at it as I am.

[Spoken with the strange certainty of someone who has never left this village.]

[Lucinda sits there silent for a second and then she nods understanding.]

Alright. But why? Or rather how did that happen?

[She's not sure if that's where he wanted to lead her but the question had always been lingering on the "why" and "how" of this world, to begin with.]

So there's a "before" but we are currently in the "after."

[It was where he was leading her, conversationally. But this is also the part that incites the biggest pause of all; not out of fear and trepidation, but the simple turning of the gears in his head. What he has to gain by telling the truth and what might be of detriment to him.

In the end, he decides that she's at a disadvantage, living in a strange world. What will she do with that information? What can she do? Run off and tell someone? That someone will think she's mad. There's on one here who remembers anything but this world -- no one but Weir, anyway.

And so, carefully-]

This is likely the part where I lower your opinion of me into said grave. Are you sure you want to know?

[Also, maybe. MAYBE THIS WILL SCARE HER OFF.]

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