morally dubious dirt man ๐ weir dredger (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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finalflight2023-06-26 11:54 am
fossick) wrote in finalflight2023-06-26 11:54 amEntry tags:
fossick) wrote in finalflight2023-06-26 11:54 am
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How badly did they want to put on a show here, only to act as though they're ready to turn tail and flee? Weir thinks to say something, but the man Lucinda's speaking to says first-]
"Yes, very lovely. Very lovely." [He repeats, as though to make sure they know that the Turner's Vale residents are, in fact, very lovely.] "As much as we'd love to stay and take in the, ah, sights, we must be off. And soon. We've a very, very busy schedule ahead of us, and the Vale... it's taken us far from our usual itinerary and, er- No point in dallying! We must begin packing up tonight."
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[If her friends are clueless, so is Lucinda. But their observations aside, what's important is that this group is packing up tonight. This doesn't leave her much room for time, but depending on their response it's now or a long, long, while later. So the medium gives it a good ol' college try.]
I see. [She casts her gaze to the size and drums her fingers against her cheek.]
Then I don't suppose you have room for one more? At least until you reach your first rest or destination?
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You want to go with them?
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... Ideally, yes.
[She glances at the actor and then back at the Dredger.]
Only if they're willing though.
[She leaves it at that with all other unsaid things hanging in the air between them.]
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And your reasoning is what, precisely? If you wanted a swift exit from this town and the forest surrounding it, it wasnโt as though I couldnโt have rode you out on horseback.
[The green glow around Weir's irises fade as he... very much ignores the Polymath.]
Was not the issue simply that you had no means of returning home? How will that be any different with a traveling troupe of performative fools?
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There's a slight change in the air; a very, very faint sweet scent wafts through. It's Flora, who aims to soothe and calm the actor they were speaking to and think nothing of what the huntsman is saying. It gives room for the medium to consider what to say next.
Lucinda regards Weir with impeccable neutrality. Before, she might have entertained him with a plethora of reasons, teased him for what she sees is an overreaction. But with all the time they spent within each other's proximity, in an odd way, she's grown past that.
She keeps it simple. Brevity serves her better when it comes to him.]
It'd be less work for you.
[She casually runs a hand through her hair.]
If an additional person is not within their means, then I won't impose.
1/2
Weirโs not even paying attention to that. His gaze snaps more trenchant than before.]
Less work? Now you care about โless work?โ
[Weir snaps at the voice in his head.]
Shut up, you fucking nebby thing!
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The air's strung tense.]
If that's what you want, then go with them. You've done a fine job of wasting my time before all of this, Lucinda. Would have thrown you out and beyond the forest on that first day if I had known.
[And just like that, he's turning to walk away. She can have fun with her new little group if she so pleases โ and if they have no desire to take her with them, then it's still not his problem.]
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Brat.
[Weir is well out of earshot when Lucinda mutters that to herself. The sweet scent subsides. She turns to the actor and smiles as if nothing has happened.]
Let me know if you have room for a tagalong. Oh, but do decide amongst yourselves first. I won't be offended if there's no room.
[She makes a start in the other direction, calling over her shoulder.]
I'll be enjoying the rest of the festival! It shouldn't be too hard to find me.
[Hard to miss a tattooed woman in this village. Lucinda, makes the decision that in the meanwhile, she'll eat some festival sweets.]
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Meanwhile, the Dredger is nowhere to be seen amid the festival.
The festival itself continues on, however, just as lively as ever. She can have all the sweets she likes! If Lucinda stays until dusk, the lanterns strung along the square glow with an ethereal halo of light. And if she stays until the very end, when the night sky has turned inky enough to let the stars pierce through, she'll get a show of what must be fireworks bursting in blue, shimmering sparks overhead.
Ultimately, it's up to her what she wants to do next. It's reasonable to think the troupe wouldn't leave until the morning, anyway, because who wants to wend through an enchanted forest at night? It's also sensible to think that Weir is agitated enough not to seek her out for the rest of the night, too.]
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She stops halfway up the hill to look at the blue fireworks blooming in the sky.]
[Lucinda doesn't think about where to find Weir, doesn't want to dwell on whether his outburst mattered to her or not. She was of the same mind as him in terms of washing their hands of each other and not having to make space for one another anymore, forced or otherwise.
(But even if that's what they wanted, it was too tangled up now to fully be undone.)
The fireworks continue with a few sporadic breaks in between and Huyen thinks about how fun it would be if River were here by her side and to wash her concerns away.]
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Yet a less-lovely figure comes down the hill in the opposite direction, originating from the path which leads to the lodge. It's Weir, who's cast a tiny little cantrip that hovers as a sphere of light around his shoulder, illuminating the way. He carries two empty wooden buckets in each hand as he tromps down the path.
Like a dark, sullen shade, he approaches. He barely slows his gait when he notices it's her.]
You stink. I can smell you halfway up the hill.
[He's exaggerating, of course, but she does have the whiff of wine about her. Still, his remark is sharp โ the man is still in a mood.]
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And this also means her tongue is loose as well.]
Bแบกn cลฉng khรดng cรณ mรนi thฦกm dแป chแปu.
["You don't smell great either."]
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He might not understand her, but he understands her; no doubt she's said something sassy right back at him, something meant to get under his skin if he could properly translate it in his head.
Doesn't matter.]
Surprised you're not passed out in a stall somewhere. Or holed up with your new friends.
[Well, he will shoulder past her, as he is wont to do.]
Go sleep it off. Some of us would like to imbibe actual water.
[Which is a clue as to what he's doing; going to gather up drinking water. They're out.]
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Mn.
[The small noise is the only reply. Maybe she should sleep it off. She did tell him at one point that she wasn't really a drinker.]
Not sleepy.
[She's sober enough to know she isn't going to follow along to be a bother even if she wanted to. What she says next is a little odd and a little unexpected.]
Instant noodles.
[She inexplicably had a packet sitting in the inner pocket of her jacket and it remained there throughout her time in the Vale. She never showed it to him.]
I'm going to make some.
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And you need water for that, unless these โinstantโ noodles of yours are some form of culinary monstrosity.
[Though it wouldnโt surprise him. So much of what heโs been told of her world is alien to him.]
So pull your weight.
[Which is the only hint of an offer for her to come and help. But he wonโt repeat himself โ nor will he halt, either way. Up to her. He continues down the path.]
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At the heart of it all, she thinks to herself, is that now we know too much about each other.]
[Great. Now she wants her own friends to shut up. As if sensing her alcohol-tinged irritation, Flora and Feather's fade almost immediately. It's just Lucinda and Weir trudging down the path to retrieve some water and it's laughably mundane given everything that has happened.
She almost wants to speak up and ask why? Why couldn't he just... Shrug his shoulders back there when she questioned the actor? If he hated having her around that much, he should have been relieved at the possible solution they had in front of them. Unless maybe, he...? And as such it meant...?
God. Weir, for all his need to not be bothered, brings it upon himself like an idiot. She needs to calm down and temper the silence between them with something else and focus on not fumbling her footwork.]
If you brood any more, you'll become a hen.
[thanks alcohol]