World Tree MUSH

  In this particularly soulful realm, a lonely track of a road follows the sea, where the surf washes up against a narrow strand and imposing cliffs. Despite the nerve-wracking heights up above, none of the rock seems to be in any danger of collapse, and well-worn tracks suggest this trade route between villages has seen a lot of use.

  There are even stretches of it that are paved, washed clean by cold sea-spray depending on the prevailing winds. Gulls wheel and cry over choppy grey waters, and the occasional fishing boat cuts gamely through the waves, further out to sea. Every so often, broad shadows pass over the strand -- but rather than the tattered wings of a dragon, they're just the wings of pelicans, gliding in eerie silence.

  The clop of hooves marks the passage of time and distance; Lucatiel of Mirrah, astride her fine sand-bred stallion, has proven herself an able and accomplished rider. Although the steed had been somewhat nervous at first in travelling alongside a personage as unusual as Priscilla, he had eventually come to accept the strange Crossbreed... and Lucatiel might have had a hand in that, encouraging Priscilla to garner favour with the stallion's favourite treat -- diced apples.

  Heading on a northerly route, the sea-spray turns cold, and fog lies further out to sea, shrouding the horizon. It's closer to sunset than afternoon. The shadows of rocks jutting from the surf lie long over the waves; the shadows of the cliffs threaten to fall over the seaside track.

  There is, however, a village ahead. Those fishing boats have to come from somewhere. They might even have hot food and an inn.

  For now, though, Lucatiel is practising that fine art of half-drowsing in the saddle, swaying in time to the stallion's gait, although every so often an eye half-opens beneath the mask, keeping an eye out for hazards. That includes rocks her horse might step on, rocks her horse might walk into, and also the odd bandit. The woman seems to have a particular irritable animosity towards bandits.

  If Priscilla should decide on speaking up, on the other hand, Lucatiel hasn't been one to decline conversation. She's not exactly /friendly/, per se, but she has proven herself quite civil and amicable, in her own solemn and vaguely melancholy way.

    Priscilla doesn't know how to talk easily to another, so the quiet suits her just fine. At times, she has asked simple questions about life on the 'outside' as it is, though it's pretty clear she's just been kind of isolated for a long while. She takes an immense amount of wonder and delight in feeding the apples though. Something about that makes her quite cheerful, considering her normal distant and airy demeanor.

    Picking her way through the route, Priscilla finally speaks up after another shadow passes. "This land seemeth barren of the lushness of humanity that tales had insisted. This journey lasts beyond what had been expected." A... manner of asking 'are we there yet?'

  The Crossbreed's first answer is a grunt from the saddle, presumably as Lucatiel reluctantly drags herself out of another doze. Her horse flicks his ears indifferently at the sound as the masked face swivels around.

  "Lush?" Lucatiel sounds almost puzzled by that. "I will admit, it is not as hard a place as my Mirrah, but I imagine this place is just as hard, in its own way. See the boats out to sea," she adds, sweeping a hand to indicate the forlorn bay with its choppy grey water. "The only living these people might wrest from the land is from the sea; by fishing enough to feed their families, and presumably trade what is left. If, indeed, there is anything left at all."

  "I would imagine there is not."

  One hand reaches forward to stroke the stallion's neck, hide short and soft. The horse is one of fine breeding, and probably worth a kingdom's ransom; a dark dapple-grey with a black mane and tail and lively eyes. Right at the moment he's swaying a little closer to Priscilla, and finally nudges the Crossbreed with a whicker. Got any more treats?

  Lucatiel sighs, thinning her lips behind the mask. "So much for discipline. Feed him an apple or three--" More like a dozen over the past week or two they've been on the road, "--and his training is forgotten." The Elite Knight of Mirrah ruffles the horse's mane, between the ears. "You glutton, Naruiel."

  "As to that... we will be there when we are there. I have never been in this land, before. I do not think Aslatiel has passed through here, but perhaps it will lead us to a place where he has." She rubs her jaw. "A fishing village. Hopefully they've an inn, one that will take my coin. Elsewise, we may need to work for our room and board..."

    "Your steed doth see a weakness, and wishes to exploit it." Yes, Priscilla, blame the horse for spoiling. Ah well. She does pat his head though and slows the pace when she hears affirmation that they might as well take their time. No reason to rush when it could be another 3 days either way.

    "The land of Ariamis was very cold, compared to this one. More humans were expected. Perhaps further journeys into more prosperous lands will find more," the Crossbreed admits, scanning the horizon. At last, with a sigh, she admits defeat.

    "Mine skills are limited, but perhaps such a place would have need of some minor repairs, or hunting for fresh meat. Finding and killing a beast should not be so difficult, yes?" She really doesn't understand the hard part of hunting.

  "I think that Naruiel is wise, and knows a likely victory when he sees one," Lucatiel replies, amused. "The sand-steeds of Mirrah are fine beasts, both spirited and intelligent. They command a king's ransom beyond Mirrah. Within it, only the most accomplished bear the right to ride one. I chose this one when I was lauded as an Elite Knight. My brother chose a beast black as night..."

  She shrugs, pauldron rustling. "I prefer a beast more of Naruiel's temperament. Sweet-tempered, but cunning in battle. An Elite Knight of Mirrah's steed is as much a weapon as the sword on their back. One need only know how to guide it."

  "Mirrah, too, can be cold, though it be desert. By night the desert freezes, and by day it bakes." Lucatiel tilts her head a little at Priscilla's puzzlement over so few people. "Is it really so surprising? Look at this land. The earth is wet and barren, and like as not salted to boot, so close to the sea. Fishing will only support so many. And I imagine in this place, one grows tired of fish."

  "Fish... a delicacy, in landlocked Mirrah. Oh, there were ponds, and rivers; oases where one might drop a line, and hope for the best. My brother tried his hand at it, and so did I, once or twice. The best I had caught was a minnow." Lucatiel spans her thumb and forefinger, a pitiful catch of only a few inches. "I gave up after that. Better to spend my energies elsewhere."

  She eyes her travelling companion. "Fresh meat... perhaps. Or, if we are lucky enough that these people are troubled by some manner of monster, I do not doubt that we would have little difficulty in dispatching it. Not so lucky for them, I suppose, but advantageous to us, all the same."

    The whole matter is met with silence, but nods. Agreement to the way things are said, realizing the limits of the land, the balance that she never had to consider back in her little world. The crossbreed rubs at her head thoughtfully, whisps of hair fluttering behind before she sighs at the acceptance of this.

    "To catch fish..." That is something she muses. "One must find a very large fish for mine scythe to be a proper manner of acquiring its flesh." All that thought to come to that obvious conclusion, when other times she's fairly perceptive?

    The idea of a monster at least picks her up, moodwise! "It hath been a great while since mine scythe were used so often. A plague of monstrosities... here as well? So unlike the peaceful world of mine own. It does sound as if Mirrah is more vast..."

  "Scythes make poor fishing tools," Lucatiel comments dryly, voice echoing from within the mask. Even this long on the road, she's taken no opportunity to remove it in Priscilla's sight. For all the Crossbreed knows, that may not even be a human under there, though she does look the part from the outside. "Your luck may well be better with a net or a rod, or even a spear."

  The fencer gestures to indicate throwing something. "A net will let you catch far more fish than you might by rod or by spear. Hmm." She glances up toward the cliffside, as though speculating over the twisted, wind-stunted trees. "Nothing there that would make a decent spear. Not a single straight branch. We'd have better luck in a forest. And we are no closer to that than to the desert."

  "Vast? No. Not particularly. That is, perhaps, why Mirrah has not been conquered by its enemies lurking without. It is small enough that its king, my lord, has yet held its boundaries. Though, for all I know, it may have fallen in my absence." Her smile beneath the mask is cold and hard. "What irony /that/ would be; to return home, only to find it no longer exists. No doubt its enemies would put its people to the sword, or more likely, to put them in chains."

  "Slavery is not uncommon in the desert. Yes, even some in Mirrah suffer such a fate. Those unfortunate enough to be taken as prisoners from our enemies, and those who have accrued such debt as they could never pay in a lifetime." Lucatiel waves one gauntleted hand, apparently unconcerned. "Tis a hard world, you will come to learn, Priscilla. I am sorry to say that precious little of it is like your Painted World of Ariamis. Precious little, indeed."

    Priscilla muses over the suggestions. "A net. Mightest I be able to try mine hand at making one of those? That would be what mine talents suit best." She nods to herself, firmly then, and now has fallen into a regular pattern. These talks have distracted her, and are met easily enough now that her own distance has lessened and her cool manner thawed. If she is bothered by the unknown of her companion, she doesn't show it.

    "The Painted World is a refuge," Priscilla replies, with a shrug. "It is to be expected that the world apart is more harsh, yet it is... not without its pleasures." She reaches out and brushes the mane, showing some affection in that hesitant way she does. "Slavery... mine mother might perhaps have some words of that, but I know not. She hast not appeared before me in some time. Perhaps, like some say, that era is ending in mine world."

  "I see no reason why you couldn't. You need only find the proper materials. Rope. Hempen cord or... seaweed, depending on how industrious these fishermen are. Or how little they have to work with, I suppose." Lucatiel reaches up to adjust the lay of her hat, one hand flicking the brim back into place in a single practised motion. "Your hands are not as small as mine. It may be a large net. But by the same token, there may be large fish in these waters to be caught."

  She casts a glance out to sea, where the mist lies heavy over the darkening water. Whitecaps still rise from the waves. "Large fish indeed. Gods only know what behemoths live down in the lightless depths. There were traders, from time to time, come to Mirrah to trade their wares. Salted, of course, or those wares never would have survived a trip across the mountains."

  "They were a superstitious lot, the lot of them. Very much so. Small wonder why, though, to hear them tell it. The sea is a pitiless mistress, and winnows the strong from the weak. Or the wise from the foolish, if you choose to look at it another way." She shrugs, nonchalantly. "A trade best left to those suited to it. As I said, I had no luck with rod or spear."

  Naruiel flicks his ears at the unexepcted attention, tossing his head and jangling his bridle with an enthusiastic whicker, but he doesn't shy away. He stopped shying away when he discovered she had /apples/ to feed him. (He is not particularly loyal, and his affections are apparently easily bought, the filthy turncoat.) "Who is this mother you speak so often of, anyway?" Lucatiel arches a brow behind her mask. "If," she adds, languidly, "I may ask."

  She may or may not like the answer.

    "In mine childhood, mine hands did oft supply the means to create small items of interest," Priscilla claims, trying to put forth SOME kind of useful skill aside from murdering stuff. She is supposedly good at that at least? "I suspect that thou sayest true... to catch fish is best left to those who make it their trade in life."

    She sighs then, and... smiles. "The sea is a wondrous thing, is it not?" Is that a deflection? Not really, just a happy, pleased sigh. She stares out fondly, then shakes herself back to the modern world with a small shrug.

    "Mine mother? The goddess Velka, mistress of Sin and she who is apart from the other gods," she says without any hint of dissembling nor bragging. "The gods of Anor Londo did not look favorably upon mine existence, but to slay me would give mine mother more power."

  "Certainly not /my/ trade, in that case," Lucatiel asides, with a dismissive wave of her hand. Don't feel too bad. The desert swordswoman is no better at it than the Crossbreed, and fully owns up to being horrible at it. "It is. The first time I saw it, I was travelling from Mirrah."

  "I could do naught but stop and stare at it. Never in my life had I seen so much water." Lucatiel glances out that way, even as the waves thunder in from the sea, crashing on the shore. It's not close enough to wet the road, but it's enough to feel the cold salt spray.

  "I suppose the desert must be just as bewildering to one of these folk. Sand, as far as the eye can see."

  There is an owlish blink from behind the mask. It's followed by another, and then another, and suddenly Lucatiel is glad for the mask, because it hides the way the blood drains from her face.

  One good turn deserves another. If one's gonna buddy up to a demigoddess, this is probably a good one to be on friendly terms with.

  "Oh," she says, and her voice sounds a little strange. It's a little too high.

  "I see."

  Silence, broken only by the plod of Naruiel's dainty hooves in the wet, sludgy road, or the odd /clop/ against a weathered cobblestone.

  "Well. I cannot say I have such an... illustrious... parentage. But I understand why Ariamis must seem so sequestered to my sensibilities." Well, of course. Duh. Gods. "This wretched world of men really must seem a passing strange place, to you."

    A thin smile! "Perhaps not so different as one might think. This world is strange, yes, and full of wonder and terror, yet it is not the world I was lead to believe. I was neither god nor Everlasting Dragon, and have no common ground with either, nor with humanity itself." She looks toward Lucatiel again at last, the strange noise prompting that. She decides not to comment.

    "The world outside is vast with many different lands. Trees thick enough that walking amongst them was difficult. Sand without limit. Water one cannot see across. It is frightening, yet I wish to see more. Strange, is it not, Lucatiel of Mirrah?"

  "One could say that about any place, really. Full of wonders and terrors." Lucatiel keeps a hand on the reins, guiding the horse along the wet sand path. "Mirrah has its terrors. So too does Drangleic. No doubt your Anor Londo, too, has its terrors; mayhap even Ariamis."

  Well, maybe not that last one, so much.

  She listens as Priscilla disavows her status as god or Everlasting Dragon; which is close enough to a god that the differences are probably strictly academic.

  "No. Not really," Lucatiel offers, shrugging one shoulder. She leans forward, patting the stallion's neck and threading fingers through the silky mane; sorting out a tangle, and picking a burr out to flick it aside into the wet sand. "One always wishes for more, whatever their circumstance."

  "I saw the desert, yet I was not content with that. I've seen the sea, but there is more to the world than those boundless waves." The fencer looks up, to the mist-grey sky. "But right now... I will be content to see the next inn. I grow stiff from the saddle and weary of walking. No doubt Naruiel is also ready for a break," she adds, patting his neck again.

  She thinks a moment, before glancing sidelong at Priscilla. "Are there horses in the Painted World?"

    Oh, the Painted World has plentiful dangers, but Priscilla is simply... oblivious to them for various reasons. "Perhaps..." she muses thoughtfully at that. The half dragon shakes her head, "Alas, no horses that I knowest of. Mine home was a temple, a cathedral, and mine quarters overlooked the exit to the Painted World. One might say I could be its guardian?" She reflects upon that while walking.

    Speaking of walking, the grumbling about the lack of the presence of an inn gets Priscilla looking down at her feet. "Mine body has great stamina, and while I grow not weary, the tread upon which I must continue begins an ache that I would rather not possess as well. We should hope for such an inn." She sighs. "Perhaps if the Painted World had horses, one could'st be found which could bear mine own self."

  Silence follows the answer to that impulsive, almost whimsical question. After a few moments Lucatiel's voice echoes from beneath the mask. "I thought not." She doesn't sound terribly disappointed. Although, if that place did have any such creatures, they would surely be splendid specimens. Her own is quite splendid, though. Worth a king's ransom at the very least.

  She reaches forward and strokes the Mirrah sand-dancer's dainty ears. It's not visible, but she allows herself a half-smile behind the mask. Naruiel is a stalwart ally, but he's also helped her keep a handle on her fading humanity.

  Lucatiel settles back in the saddle as the stallion plods along, letting herself move in time to the beats of each step. One hand reaches up to adjust that magnificent hat. "At this point, I would not disdain a tree to sleep beneath, although there are passing few specimens in this country. What few there are have been bent and twisted by the wind."

  "I do not think any horse alive would be capable of carrying you. Weight aside... you are too tall to sit a saddle comfortably. Pity. If we were forced to travel swiftly, it would be tiring for you. Naruiel can run for long stretches. I do not know if you are capable of the same sustained athletics."

  Silence falls, broken only by the squish of Naruiel's hooves in the wet sand. "We will stop at the next inn; I've coin enough for a hot meal and beds. At this point I will be content to hope for a lean-to against the wind."

  More silence.

  The fencer must have drifted in the saddle again. It's a unique skill, to rest while travelling; to half-drift and only to come alert when it's needed.