finalflight | THIS IS JUST A PSL NOW I GUESS;

(( from here ))

[Ah, gods. That was not an invitation to fling advice his way, ma'am. He endures it all the same.]

Perhaps the people here weren't always so friendly. Time changes plenty, including prosperity. Demeanors change in parallel.

[That's his story and he's sticking to it.]

How empirical of you. You're overlooking one thing, however.

Edited 2023-06-26 16:58 (UTC)

[He sleeps terribly.

But at least that’s to be expected.

Weir doesn’t expect to sleep soundly, after all; not with a stranger in his home. Though it’s hardly the first night she’s spent under his roof, he remains a leery man, accounting for all possibilities. Knowing a bit more of what’s under her skin, how can he be sure she won’t find herself skulking to his bedside mid-possession, letting that dragon spirit of hers somehow rend him in two? And so he sleeps lightly, and with one knife under his pillow; the other, under his bed.

Morning comes. He’s the first one up, the first one dressed, the first one who snags a quick bite from the kitchen. He waits a handful of minutes for her, fussing with his things while he does so, but notably… She does not come down to meet him.]

“Early to rise”, she said…

[He grumbles as he makes his way to her room, a “guest” room in his home that was used as an extra storage area until quite recently, now having to house an actual guest in his home. It would be polite to knock, but it’s his lodge, and he doesn’t even bother. The door just swings open, and he sees her…

Standing there, leaning up against the wall. With her eyes closed.]

Fucking hell… Lucinda. Lucinda. [He raises his hands, claps them together. Tries to wake her up. Who sleeps like this??? GIRL??]

Edited 2023-06-30 03:50 (UTC)

[Days pass. Whether or not they pass with an awkward strain attached to them, courtesy of their little adventure in the forest surrounding the Vale, is mostly up to Lucinda.

Weir, for his part, has nothing to say on the matter. He does not treat her any more cordially than before but neither does he treat her ill — the bar was already on the floor, after all, in terms of how gracious a host the huntsman can be. And if she does wish to speak on it, his responses are curt and pointed. He doesn’t need the topic filling his mind; not when it’s already brought to the forefront, turning over his options of how he wishes to proceed with her presence now in his life.

He needs time to think.

And eventually, the solution is an utterly simple one.

On a clear day that is soon to pass into dusklight, Weir has left a note on the table within his lodge for Lucinda to find. It reads, in his hurried script:]

𝑴𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆; 𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒘𝒆 𝒕𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆. 𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒍𝒖𝒄𝒌, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒔 𝒂𝒔 "𝒈𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕" 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒏𝒐 𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒖𝒆.

[The ride back to the Vale was in fact, sullen, silent, and especially awkward. Lucinda has to admit to herself that out of all of her life experiences, post-basement, continuing to live with the man who attempted to murder her was not something she ever conceive of making up. At this point, if she had anyone else to depend on or a feasible way to explore outside Turner's Vale, Lucy would have been more than happy to take the opportunity to do so. Now though, she needs to rest.

There's too much to think about right after the ordeal Weir put her through. So when they reach his home she hops off of the mare and heads straight inside to tend to her cut hand and to refresh herself before she puts together the cake. Lucinda hums all the while as she measures, mixes, assembles, and cuts. If she murmurs it's in reply to one of her friends though it's inaudible.

The smell of honey soon fills the lodge.

With the toppings ready when it's done, Lucy has one sleeve pulled up, examining the ink on her arm. Just like with Fang, Feather is surrounded by normal inked flowers.

She wonders how the tattoo artist is doing; her arm could use a touchup. She hopes River and the younger ones are doing well without her. It's not like she hasn't been away for days on end. She thinks of her adoptive parents, their restaurant, and how they would probably start pooling resources to get her back.

It's easier to distract herself with thoughts of things that were important instead of the irritation and resentment cultivated by one of the worst hosts ever.

The cake is done baking and she leaves it out to cool with a linen cloth to cover it to keep it moist before she starts adding the last touches. Lucy is standing over the table as the treat cools twirling a Vale Sapphire between her fingers.

And then she finally speaks up.]

Are the flowers edible?

[yeah, that's what we're starting with what of it]

[And so, a few days pass. The town is a-buzz with preparations, excitement fueling the interactions behind every meeting, every conversation. The Sapphires shine in the morning light, nigh glowing in the evening beneath the swell of the moon.

And one morning, as dawn breaks, the Sapphire Festival of Turner's Vale begins in earnest.

It all takes place in the marketplace square, of course. There is where the real entertainment is, where vendors have set themselves up to their fullest, their stock overflowing. Draped between each stall, above the heads of milling crowds, are textiles of the deepest, flower-blue to provide shade for those wanting to take their time browsing.

And there is so much of that blue color, that royal azure that the town is so proud of. There are so many flowers, bundled together and given freely (why pay for them when they are everywhere in town already?), and many wear them pinned in a tunic or a jacket or tucked behind an ear. There are textiles sold with flowers embroidered delicately in the material. Dresses and shirts and scarves and even trousers dyed in that blue. There are little glass sculptures and little knick-knacks made of stone, carved into the delicate shape of a blossom.

There is just so much heckin’ blue.

Music draws the crowd to the middle of the town square, eventually. There, musicians play their effusive warm-ups, just a teaser for what’s to come. There are murmurings from the crowd that there is a visitor from beyond the town today — a rarity indeed, another musician invited to play along with the already-planned set. People titter about it. They look forward to it later.

And Weir? By gods, Weir thinks this is far too much. He had provided the game that the butchers would chop up and the townsfolk chefs would turn into dishes for later; that is the extent of his contribution to this entire event, though even he is not immune from… curiosity. He’s never experienced this before, of course; this is the first time in the new Vale that he’s ever seen such a celebration, and they even tell him that it is “annual”, a notion he had scoffed at initially.

Regardless, he moves through the crowd—hard to miss, given he’s the only one not wearing even the smallest shade of blue (yet) and wearing his usual dark leathers—with the careful consideration of someone intrigued but not intrigued enough to participate. So many effusive, smiling faces. So much activity all around him. It is nearly an overstimulation, honestly.

Maybe he runs into Lucinda at some point, huh!]

Edited 2023-07-20 23:18 (UTC)

tfln cont.

a study in (being hunted and) gathering.

proving grounds.