World Tree MUSH

    It is a warm night, tonight. In a village, it's easier to just... blend in. Especially a village that gets a lot of Vine traffic, relative to others. This makes it a village with a nice inn, and an inn and tavern on the outskirts for the less savory or less HUMAN travellers who might wish to avoid attention.

    Which still makes it hard for Priscilla to come in. Being this large causes problems even here, but at least the problem is merely ducking her head. Setting her scythe by the door is done with little concern, since it's hard for others to use anyway, and her reason for being here is...

    Not a drink. "Dost this establishment allow mine coin to purchase..." She struggles to remember the term used. "'vittles?'" Yes, she's distinctive.

  An inn is a welcome sight to the weary traveller. Whether on the roads of Lordran, Drangleic, or less hospitable places, such establishments usually promise a safe place to sleep and a hot meal before bedding down.

  The front door bangs open forcefully, sending a gust of warm night breeze chasing through the room, rustling hair and clothing. Few look up as an imposing figure trudges in through the open door. Of course they don't look. The garb of an Elite Knight of Mirrah is not recognised in this place. The only thing that these people see is a warrior, a mercenary; a wanderer.

  Yet the tired, dusty figure of the Elite Knight may be a familiar figure to the Crossbreed. Maybe the slots in the mask interfere with her vision. Maybe she's just too tired to notice. Lucatiel trudges across the room, shoving aside a drunkard who doesn't move quickly enough; he stumbles into the table and hurls a few choice curses after her, which she pointedly ignores.

  He goes for a knife.

  "Put that toy away," the woman's low voice snarls from beneath the mask, "or I will show you a real weapon, and I will show you what is /done/ with it."

  There's something off about her voice, something raw in her tone that suggests she's not playing around; that the threat is very much real. The man hesitates for a moment, spits to one side, and sullenly returns to his drink.

  Lucatiel throws herself into the chair beside Priscilla.

  "Hello, Priscilla." Her voice still sounds somewhat off, but her words are clear, still spoken in that almost aristocratic tone. "You certainly stand out like a gryphon among the kennel-dogs. I did not expect to find you here tonight." The masked visage and that magnificent hat, black plume bobbing slightly, cants to one side curiously. "You have not found your Painted World, I presume, if I am meeting you in this wretched place. I am sorry to see that."

    Either because of an elegance or her sheer size - or maybe the scales on her neck and furred tail that mark her as inhuman - Priscilla did not have that problem. She had to settle for a large cushion as well, but that didn't bother her. Waiting on her meal, the half-dragon has a tankard of... something. Whatever it is, it is at least warm, and she is sniffing it suspiciously when the disturbance draws her eyes up to that familiar figure. She knows that one.

    "Lucatiel of Mirrah, was it not?" Priscilla asks, her tail shifting to make room for the chair to pull out and host the smaller being.

    The empathy there makes Priscilla's eyes lower, crestfallen. "Alas. Twould appear that mine home is far, as none have heard of such. Mine choices of hearth art limited, as well. This place allows one such as I. What art thou seeking here, thineself?"

  "Ale," the fencer rasps to the barkeep, slapping a handful of tarnished coins down on the scarred wooden counter. "And whatever manner of hot food your kitchen will part with, for my friend, here. Bring whatever variety that will pay for."

  Once that's done, she glances back to Priscilla, although it's hard to say where exactly her eyes linger. The tail is probably a good bet. They aren't exactly common.

  The mask tilts slightly, as though Lucatiel were studying Priscilla more directly. She doesn't speak right away, as though she were composing her thoughts, or simply taking in the Crossbreed's unusual appearance. "Far indeed. Few here have even heard of Mirrah, across the mountains; they do not recognise the garb of its Elite Knights."

  Snorting, the woman shakes her head, faintly. "Any in Mirrah would go the other way, once they saw this mask. How far the mighty have fallen." The statement is both caustic and sarcastic; she knows nobody here will recognise her or her attire. What is she seeking here? "Nothing," Lucatiel replies, succinctly. She lays a gauntleted hand on the counter, splaying her fingers and looking down at her glove. "At least, nothing to do with this place, specifically."

  "I don't suppose you've seen anyone else wearing clothing quite like mine." Lucatiel's tone is almost sour, as though she already knew the answer. "I search for my brother, Aslatiel. He looks quite like me, save his hair is much shorter, and he will be wearing attire alike to mine. I suppose that is not much to go by... Mirrah is not a large kingdom, and its people do not generally travel far afield. But I must look for him."

    Looking at her tail makes Priscilla self-conscious, and she curls it further away. Something she's sensitive about? Yet Lucatiel is being... friendly. It makes Priscilla wary, but this is the second encounter that has been peaceful, so she is... if not letting her guard down, willing to be more talkative than before, and to socialize. "I thank thee."

    Interesting questions. "Nay, I hath not seen another." Priscilla shakes her head when she answers that. "Yet I hath lived in the Painted World since childhood. Mine mother wished me to live in peace, and Ariamis provided the means while mother's servants watched over mine life."

  Lucatiel waves Priscilla's gratitude off with a dismissive flick of her hand. Toeing her belongings closer to her chair, she glances over to study the much taller woman a little more. There's no place she knows of where anyone has a complexion that pale, and even in sunstruck Mirrah, her and her brother were considered pale -- but at least there's colour in her hair and skin.

  "Blood and damnation." Priscilla hasn't seen Aslatiel. The curse carries no weight behind it, and Lucatiel's resigned sigh suggests she expected that answer. "I am not surprised. If what you say is true, and I've no reason to believe it isn't, you've not been in any position to meet him. He vanished from Mirrah. He, the finest fencer in the kingdom; he, the premiere warrior of the lord we served."

  The fencer once again cants her head to one side, as though she were puzzled by the explanation regarding Priscilla's mother. She seems to think that over for a moment or two before answering. "Your mother must be--"

  Before she can elabourate, the barkeep returns with trays of food: Soup and stews, salt-grilled meats, vegetables, fresh fruit, bread and butter. Dishes are set out. Either the fencer paid too much, or she wasn't sure how much food she should order for a nine foot tall travelling companion. A tankard of ale is set in front of Lucatiel, and smallbeer for Priscilla -- that is to say, stout beer that's more water than beer; just enough alcohol in it to kill any potential contaminants. It probably tastes awful but it's also probably safer than the local water supply.

  Lucatiel flips another coin at the barkeep. He pockets it in his apron and wisely makes himself scarce.

  "Your mother," Lucatiel continues as she scoops up her tankard of ale, "must have been of high status indeed. What is this 'Painted World' you describe?" Surely it must be some kind of metaphor. "I had not heard of it, and there are strange tales of even stranger places even in Mirrah."

    Lack of socialization or not, Priscilla can tell that Lucatiel is frustrated at the lack of her brother's location. The half-dragon shakes her head again, "I hath not, but mayhap if mine eyes see one such as thineself, I can now guide him toward thee. To be alone is a terrible fate." There is definitely some experience there, but lacking the heavy and forlorn weight that one might expect.

    As the tray is delivered, Priscilla does fumble for her own pouch. She does have some coin, after her bounty job earlier. While she tries to sort out how much she owes, she speaks again, "I know not of Mirrah, but the lands outside of the Painted World are foreign to mine eyes. This Aslatiel sounds to be a great man. Yet I know few humans in mine world. Only mine mother's servants, afore their transformation."

    She says all this as if it were normal.

    Taking a small drink, Priscilla stares down at the food before beginning to carve. She answers as she cuts the meats for both, showing some interesting precision, if not a swordswoman. "The Painted World lie within the great Painting of the Cathedral of Anor Londo. Within it, mine mother raised a great temple to herself, away from the other Gods, wherein she could leave her faithful unmolested. It was my home, the inhabitants kind, far different from the deities that wished me not to exist. Mine mother was never one to agree with them, it is fortunate for mine life."

    Which, given her isolation, explains her next question. "Dost Mirrah have an ocean? You claim it is vast, wouldst thou tell stories of it for me some time?"

  "I would be appreciative, Lady Priscilla." Lucatiel cocks her head a little, eyeing the other woman thoughtfully. "But do not trouble yourself overmuch on my account, or my brother's. Aslatiel's path is a difficult one to follow. I think that he does not wish to be found." Tough cookies. She's not giving up.

  How on earth is Lucatiel going to drink while she's wearing that mask? Is she actually going to take it off and reveal her face? No. She's going to drink by tilting it up just far enough to admit a tankard, that's how.

  Lucatiel glances to Priscilla fumbling after coins, snorting. It echoes strangely behind the mask. "Put that away," she sighs. "You owe me nothing for this. I'm feeling generous, today." The fencer laughs, very softly, and the sound carries a thread of disjointedness. "I tire of the solitary road... at least for today."

  Aslatiel, a great man? "He was great to me," she says softly, wistfully. Another drink from the tankard. It's terrible ale, but it's wet and it has a bite.

  Leaning back in her chair, Lucatiel doffs her hat, setting it with the rest of her gear at her feet. The mask she leaves in place. Her hair, beneath that magnificent hat, is a little bit frizzy. She must have been on the road all the day long.

  Priscilla says something impossible, casually mentioning transformed servants and deities and other nonsense that brings Lucatiel to swivel her head back around and stare. It's obvious even through the mask. "What?" The statement is blank; uncomprehending.

  Just what has she gotten herself into...?

  Yet Priscilla is kindly enough, if melancholy, and seems to mean no harm. Indeed, she's even offered to help her find Aslatiel, sight unseen, and that's worth a great deal from Lucatiel's point of view.

  "Mirrah?" The fencer sighs again, morose. "I see no reason why not. Very well, then. When I first left, it was to the east, across the mountains. 'Tis is a land of knights, surrounded by enemies, and constantly at war. There is only one way up, in Mirrah; join the Order, and prove yourself in battle. My family had little fortune, and no name. I had to carve a piece of the world for myself with two things: My sword, and my loyalty to my lord."

  "My brother taught me to fence. He also taught me how to survive. Life was hard, in Mirrah, but I never gave it a second thought," Lucatiel adds, shaking her head softly. "Mirrah is mostly desert. There are areas were plants will grow, and rivers will wend, but it is not a forgiving land. Its greatest resource is sand, and the metals that are mined from within its canyons, and the magnificent silks produced by its weavers." She plucks at the sleeve of her own shirt. "It is surrounded on all sides by enemies at every border. Pity. Perhaps an ocean would have meant one less border to worry about."

    The thing that might make it easier to cope with is how casual Priscilla is about this. When she says deity, she says it without reverence. When she says servants it's completely casual, without disdain but without much inflection at all. Like each of these were things Different from her. She isn't even sure how to deal with the generosity, giving Lucatiel a strange expression... then bowing her head.

    "Very well," she murmurs. With that said she listens to the brief tale, her eyes wide. "I know nothing of far nations. This is... fascinating to me. Mine own home was shrouded in snow, held in the mountains of the Painted World. I know of deserts only through tales of others, those few who came past me and did not wish mine death."

    Also, apparently, a common enough occurrence to not care.

    The food has distracted her for a time, and with childlike delight she samples the various flavors before remembering she is speaking to someone. "Ah, silks... thine clothing. That is mine current quest. It seemeth that others expect protection of the feet, yet mine have none, so that I might walk with silence. I shall find some suitable for both purposes." Said with such a... grave intonation!

  Fortunately, the fencer doesn't seem to care about how her generosity is received. She watches long enough to register Priscilla's strange look and the inclination of her head, but doesn't otherwise react. Stoicism seems to be a common go-to for her. It works for a lot of situations. Like talking to nine foot tall demigoddesses who have scales and tails and speak like they crawled out of a history book.

  "Snow." Lucatiel's mouth twists, a little bitterly. "It did not snow often in Mirrah, but it would do so, from time to time. My mother called them the bleak seasons, those winters when the snow fell. Many died; done for either by freezing to death, or by starvation. I saw more snow in Drangleic, a land far to the west, across the mountains. It was where I began searching for Aslatiel before arriving where I first saw you. I have wandered since."

  She shrugs one shoulder, silk shirt rustling, gilded leather pauldron creaking. "I find myself apathetic on the matter of deserts. I find a certain charm in these milder climes. For one, I can sleep beneath the stars without worry of freezing to death; for two, I can walk beneath the sun by day, and not worry of dehydrating. At least," she adds, shrugging again, "not so quickly.

  While Priscilla goes about sampling the variety of food, Lucatiel takes her opportunity to stuff her face. She eats daintily, and she does so by tilting her mask without actually removing it, but she does so with a speed that might border on shocking. She eats like a person who never knows where their next meal comes from; a person who intends to make the most of the meal in front of them, just in case the next one doesn't come. At least she takes off her gauntlets to eat. Her fingers are long and might have been delicate, once, but they bear the calluses of a swordsman, and thin scars that tell of countless battles.

  Lucatiel is in point of fact halfway through a haunch of mutton when Priscilla speaks up again, setting it down with a frown. Clothing? "I suppose it would be difficult to find something to fit you, but surely there must be something." She tilts her head, tapping a forefinger against her exposed chin. "Hmmmm. I suppose if we search enough, something must be found in this bizarre amalgam of worlds."

  Wait a sec. 'We?'

    "The cold dost concern me little," Priscilla says... but then she adds, "Although heat, I know little about. Perhaps..." She starts to say more, but her thoughts cloud her eyes and cause her to stare for a long while before she resumes her meal. Evidently she eats a fair amount just for her size, but she does not appear to be ravenous at least.

    The topic of survival makes her nod her head. "I also know little of making mine way in the world outside. This... will be difficult. The place within which thou didst find me was familiar, likened to mine home. Now..." She gestures, at a loss. Probably she was taken care of for a long time.

    At least she isn't expecting servants to come to her beck and call here, right?

    At the last, though! Lucatiel's implicit offer almost slips by her notice, but she stops and stares. The generosity was strange, but this? She clearly struggles with herself! Until, once more, Priscilla moves. This time, a thin smile is given to the knight. "Yes, we must find our way here." Strange companions, to be sure.

  "Mirrah is cold, and Mirrah is hot," Lucatiel states, ticking the two extremes off on her fingers. That done, she drains her tankard, setting the empty vessel aside. "I have learned to live with both. That does not, however, mean that I seek it out."

  She leans back in her chair again, prodding at her mostly empty plate and pushing it away from her with a forefinger. That was probably too much food, eaten much too quickly, and she finds that she doesn't much care about it. The fare might have been mediocre but it was filling. Maybe she can rent a room here and sleep it off. A food coma sounds pretty excellent right now, she decides, even as Priscilla describes her cares and worries.

  "Worry not, Priscilla of Ariamis." The fencer gives another dismissive wave of one hand, sliding both of her gauntlets back on and tugging them into place. "I have little better to do, so if you are amenable to the notion, I will travel with you for a time. Two pairs of eyes are better than one," she adds, as though to underscore that it's purely selfish reasons she's taking Priscilla along with her, and not just because she's lonely. She's totally not lonely. Yeah. Honest.

  Folding her arms, Lucatiel glances over, although whether she smiles behind the mask, it's impossible to say. It certainly doesn't reflect in her tone of voice if she does. "I know what it is to be lost and adrift in an unfamiliar place. Drangleic is as unlike to Mirrah as one can be, yet travel through that wretched land I did, though I found no sign of Aslatiel. Now, I find myself travelling this strange 'World Tree.'" She gives particular emphasis to the words. "I fear that in some of these places I am as much at a loss as you are."

  In other words, don't feel too bad. Everybody gets lost and confused from time to time. Even fluffy-tailed demigods and footlose fencers.

  "I will rent a room for you to sleep in for the night," Lucatiel adds, pushing herself to her feet. "And one for myself. I cannot promise that the bed will be comfortable, as it is not made for one quite so... tall. But I have been travelling all the day long, and if I do not sleep soon, I will not be an amicable travelling companion." Is that a hint of a thin, bitter smile in her tone of voice? Yeah, she's probably a bear when she's sleep deprived. Her tongue can be sharp enough on normal terms, as the wretch who pulled a knife on her found out. Lucatiel adjust her gear over her shoulder. "The stable has seen to my horse, so with that... I bid you good night, Priscilla of Ariamis."

  With that, provided the Crossbreed doesn't try to stop her, the woman lifts a hand in farewell and trudges for the establishment's stairs.