finalflight | THIS IS JUST A PSL NOW I GUESS;

[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.]

Weir, please.

[He's led the conversation to the point where there's no way she can leave the thread hanging. Morbid curiosity has been whetted and she would be a fool to go, "No thank you, I don't need to know."]

My opinion of you would be at its lowest if you were able to throw my dead body into the pit today. There's no way I could think any better of you, so why pause now?

So tell me. What did you do?

[So she says. Time to test that.

But first, context.]

Let’s backtrack just enough so you have a bit of context. This was years ago, back when I still delved into the Ceaseless Pit with a group. A small group, aye, but one that had survived longer than most do. We were far from greenhorns, instead always prepared to face what that place threw at us. Or so we thought.

[So very mistaken.]

That monster I showed you? [“Showed”.] Imagine something at least ten times more fierce, and a hundred times more cruel. Imagine what it was like for a small group of men to face something like it for the first time, utterly unawares and off-guard.

... 𝓣𝓸𝓻𝓷 𝓽𝓸 𝓹𝓲𝓮𝓬𝓮𝓼.

𝓣𝓱𝓮𝔂 𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓸𝓭 𝓷𝓸 𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓮.

[Lucinda is quiet but she's listening closely. If there was ever an explanation for why this man would ever turn out to be so selfish, then this would be it. He had no family, was resigned to a job where he could have died at any time, and almost did base on the account he was telling her now.]

You survived though. Is this when you encountered the Polymath?

I barely survived.

[This is important, too. That day, he had not met as cruel a fate as the others, but it was close. He still has the scar to show for it, an ugly thing that runs up and down his middle.]

And I would have died, were it not-

FOR US. That "awful" creature of yours was hardly any trouble at all. 𐌙ꝊU'𐌓𐌄 ᕓ𐌄𐌓𐌙 Ꮤ𐌄𐌋𐌂Ꝋ𐌌𐌄.

-for the Polymath saving me. He made short work of the thing.

[Which is a somewhat worrisome thought on its own.]

He healed me. In a way.

In a way.

[She repeats his words and leans back in her seat.]

... But I can take a guess. He wanted something in return for saving your life, didn't he?

[The supernatural operated like that a majority of the time; if something inhuman does you a favor, you're more than obligated to return it back. It is rarely a one-way transaction.]

[In an unpleasant way, but he blacked out partway through, which was likely for the best. An eldritch blood transfusion is not an experience he wants to ever recall with any clarity.]

For saving my life, he put me in a debt.

Lying River-child. It was an offer and you agreed to it.

He would ask of me one favor in the future, and I could not refuse it. And he granted me these strange abilities, too, in preparation for it.

And? Has it already made use of that favor?

[Each thread is being revealed and Lucinda keeps track of all of them in her head. Weir, Turner's Vale, the Pit, the Polymath, a world before, and the world after that they now sit in.

She really did just stumble her way into this, didn't she?]

And if it has, I'm surprised it's yet to leave you alone.

[She sure did.

He laughs again, so dry. If only it were so easy to get rid of this terrible god in his head.]

This is something of a permanent partnership, I’m afraid. Yet he asks nothing more of me. His favor has been tended to.

[Even if he knows the Polymath is hoping for something that Weir can provide it, but there’s no need to go into that now.

But what was that favor? Weir steps a little closer, his arms still crossed.]

Tell me, in your world, do you have powerful artifacts? Or entities, even, that might change the world on a whim?

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