World Tree MUSH

    Autumn has come to many of the boughs of the World Tree where such things matter. Dawn had found the strange pair of travellers -- self-exiled knight and dragon-woman -- in a place as bleak as the one from which they originally hailed. Grey and sodden, it had taken a few moments for Lucatiel to gather up her things and trudge down to the stable, for once feeling the ache and cold in her bones.
    Then she had noticed her horse was not there.
    There are many things that Lucatiel is willing to suffer the loss of, but her horse is not something that can be so easily replaced. Not with something of equal quality, that is.
    Priscilla had probably heard the woman fly into a rage from the inn room; cursing, fit to cause the meek inhabitants of this place to shrink back from her. She had 'borrowed' a lesser animal to ride out after the thieves, following tracks.
    She hadn't come back.
    At least... not until evening.
    Strangely, it was her horse that had come trotting back to the inn-yard, tossing his head and huffing and rolling the whites of his eyes. There had been blood spattered on him.
    Lucatiel had come an hour later, right before sunset, limping, trailing blood and her fine silk shirt stained with the stuff. She had merely growled when some villager had shown up to try and help her.
    She had thrown appropriate coin at the innkeep for another night's travel and stalked back up to her room, stiffly and in pain, along with a message that Priscilla's presence was requested but not required -- if the dragon-woman hadn't waited around and been there to hear it, anyway.
    Now finds the sun limning the horizon, the last vestiges of the day giving way to an equally depressing, sodden night, the image only enhanced by barren trees. Lucatiel is in her inn room, sitting cross-legged before a basin of water, lamps lit, breathing through grated teeth as she examines in a dingy mirror the total of the damages, ruined silk shirt tossed carelessly over the nearest article of furniture, the undershirt beneath similarly stained with blood. She'd managed to place most of the wounds at her back, using her agility to her advantage, but... still hurts like the dickens.
    Notably, her mask and hat are not on her head.
    It is perhaps the first and only time her mask has not covered her face in the dragon-woman's presence. She must really be hurting.
    Lucatiel's features are pretty, in a classical sort of way, but hardship and sleeplessness and the curse have done their work on her. There are shadows under her eyes, and a slight hollowness to her cheekbones. And that's nothing to say of the left side of her face -- a ring of rot 'round her eye, spreading outward; one a fetching emerald green, the other the milk-white of the blind. The ridged, scarred tissue has begun its march down the side of her face, but as yet it only touches the area around her eye and the skin below her cheekbone.
    The woman stares her reflection down in the mirror, the tightness of her jaw belying her pain and her hatred.
    "I /loathe/ brigands," she snarls, to no one in particular. Or someone, if Priscilla has chanced to come by.
    ...Pity, she thinks, that she can only kill the thieving bastards but once.

    Priscilla, despite a temptation of moving on, had remained and waited. Was it worry that prompted this? Perhaps. Lucatiel seemed the sort that she would be more inclined to worry about the thieves than Lucatiel herself, though part of her still wondered if she should have followed. So the return of horse and woman was met with some semblance of gladness. A travelling companion was something she was pleased to have, and Priscilla had yet to admit to herself that after so long alone, company, even of the quiet and dour kind, was a change she was starting to not just endure, but take pleasure in.

    She had at least finished her water and meal before heading up, quietly nodding to the innkeeper who was at least getting used to the tall woman's presence. Priscilla's entry to the room was only given pause by seeing the mask laying aside, her eyes wandering up to the injuries... and the signs of rot. From the same, or a similar world, her tail's sudden twitch is unmistakably one of recognition of Lucatiel's condition. "Thou art Undead," she states plainly, before closing the door.

    Is that a bad thing? Priscilla's next words are neutral. "The mask reveals its purpose then. The thieves would be even less wise to cross thine blade. Art thou in need of assistance?"

    On some level, perhaps the dour and quiet swordswoman was glad of the dragon-woman's hesitancy. She had travelled alone far from Mirrah, and those days and nights had been a torment; with only her sand-dancer stallion for company.
    Shunning society since that ring of rot had first manifested around her eye, she had almost forgotten what a blessing company had been.
    Lucatiel's mismatched eyes flick to the movement of Priscilla's tail, and for a moment that terrible wrath stirs in her eyes; ready to leap to a defense. She flushed, maybe angrily, though the dead skin shows no change.
    But there is no need.
    "I am Undead," she confirms, very quietly. She swallows, and her eyes slide away from Priscilla's.
    The mask reveals its purpose. "In part," she corrects, quiet still. "It is nonetheless a sign of my accomplishments. Something tangible. To achieve what I have in a land as Mirrah... and to be forced to leave it all behind." One hand curls into a fist, for once bereft of its gauntlet. "It galls."
    "They are dead. So am I."Lucatiel glances down, mouth twisting in a frown. "If It should not trouble you. I must clean these, lest I follow their fate.'It's possible I would return. 'It's possible I wouldn't. I have seldom been one to take chances."
    Silence.
    Slowly, the woman lifts her mismatched eyes back to Priscilla, an expression of muted wonder flickering across her eyes before she can squelch it.
    "You waited. For me."

    Water. Clean water is needed then, and Priscilla prepares this. Her eyes do not look like those of a practiced physician, but she can tell if stitches are needed. This, she is good at. In fact, needle and thread are already present... almost certainly her own. "This may pain thee, briefly," she points out, but as yet she is not sure if it is needed.

    While Priscilla works to clean the wounds and determine if they need suturing, she explains herself. "Mine knowledge of the Undead is minute. Tis a Mortal affair, I had thought. Not a concern of mine." A knit of her brow shows some doubt of that, but not fear. Concern, more like. Her kin had reacted far differently, but she only vaguely knew that.

    A shrug, "Thou art mine companion. To wait a few sunrises and sunsets is a trifle." She pauses, before setting aside some of the dirty cloths and further elaborating. "Mine own life was that of an outcast. I know not what we are, if we are companions of the moment or perhaps more, yet in this much we have a manner of kinship."

    The marks will add to whatever scars lie beneath the undershirt. Lucatiel does not seem the type of woman to settle things quietly, and has certainly not lived a soft life, by her own admission. Her battles have been hard-fought, hard-won, and she wears those scars with some silent pride.
    Nonetheless, her eyes flick to the needle and thread with some disgust. She had never been fond of this part, although in the past, she had been able to call on the healers available to Mirrah's Elite Knights, or on her brother, whose skill in such was a little surprising.
    She exhales, softly. This may pain thee, briefly, the dragon-woman warns.
    "I know."
    She's no stranger to it, and she holds herself as still as she is able. The only betrayal of her pain is the sharp twist of her expression, or the way her right hand clenches a fist until her nails bite into her palm.
    "If it be any consolation, mortal knowledge of the Undead is likewise scant. My brother, I believe, was the first to contract the curse. I believe that is why he left Mirrah. His achievements were as hard-won as mine, yet... he left it all behind; abandoned it. We had sworn our swords to our lord, yet that meant nothing to him, in the end." She looks to the window, where the air hangs cold and wet and cheerless outside. "I believe he sought a place to die. He never told me. Not a note; not a message."
    "Each of us were the only other in this wretched world we could truly understand. It wounds me that he would have done so, yet... perhaps he was afraid. I would have been. Was, at first." Her free hand rises briefly, around Priscilla's tending, to brush the ridged skin of the scarring. "Still am," she adds, even softer still.
    She glances sidelong, watching Priscilla from the corner of her dead eye, as the dragon-woman explains her own situation. An outcast, despite her divine parentage. Lucatiel can only shake her head, and notes with an irritated snort that there is some small amount of blood staining the end of her braid. "In a manner of speaking, I suppose my brother and I, too, were outcasts. Gutter-churls. I have... never had a friend, not truly."
    "What strange travelling companions of the road we make, you and I," she says, with a breath that could be either mirth or pain, or both. "My brother would scarce believe me if I told him my tale, since leaving Mirrah."
    She glances back to regard Priscilla again, thoughtful.
    "I do not know, either. Yet you waited, and I... believe that I would have done the same, had our positions been reversed," she admits, shaking her head slightly.
    "I... do not think I could bear the thought of travelling alone, again. Not with naught more than a whisper and a prayer of my brother's passage... or /this/." Her voice turns bitter, hateful; as she gestures with an angry flick of her hand to the manifestation of the curse.

    Seeing Priscilla move, the woman does definitely have some skill with needle and thread. She had not claimed to have many useful skills, but it's only a moment until the needle moves in, a tiny and swift prick starting. Technically this should be done with anaesthetic, but...

    "Thine persistence is admirable," Priscilla says. Did she recognize the confession? "Mine own thoughts did, indeed, wonder if it would have been best to follow thine pursuit. Not for thine protection, for the thieves wouldst be quickly dealt with, I knew. Yet perhaps these wounds would not have beset thine back should we have gone together. Mine talents would be of use in times of need like that." She makes deft stitches, surprisingly. Even without dulling the pain, the work is so quick it's not too bad.

    Priscilla explains, "Mine amusements of youth did not come of mine family, but by mine own hand." A moment of quiet. "Neither of mine bloodlines wishest to keep mine presence close."

    Part of the swordswoman does watch the needle, the tiny sliver gleaming when the light of the lamp catches it each time it raises. She glowers just a little when she sees it fall, knowing what comes next, and knowing she has nothing with which to blunt the pain.
    The things she would ransom right now for a bottle of Mirrah's finest whisky. She might even consider ransoming off Naruiel, after sustaining such grisly wounds to retrieve him.
    "I seek now as much a cure for myself as for my brother," Lucatiel admits, although her voice is rough with pain; she snarls at the sensation of the needle through the edge of such indelicate wounds.
    Gods, she hopes those swords of theirs weren't rusted. That would just figure.
    "That stallion was a gift. I would not willingly part with him," she admits, reluctantly. "My brother gifted him to me, when he had attained the stature we both sought. He was the finer swordsman; I could never best him when we sparred, not even once. He received his honours before I did. That animal was the envy of so many knights." Her tone is wistful, remembering better days, almost amused. "So much envy. Yet none would dare act against him, then."
    She glances again to note the work. It's quick, if not painless, but she'll be finished soon. Talk helps to distract from what's happening.
    "I am sorry." It sounds genuine. "Mayhap we were among the poorest of Mirrah, but we had our family, at the very least. My brother and I had one another."

    A slow nod, and Priscilla continues while working, her tail vaguely swishing. Lucatiel has seen enough of her to know that there are other aspects of draconic nature under her robes, lines of scales and the like, but that fluffy tail is the most inhuman. Yet also a point of pride, much like the stallion. Or...

    "Much as mine scythe," Priscilla agrees. "The Painted World is quiet, yet it was not always so. Mine mother's followers populate the realm, yet their visits of late are few. They art my caretakers, not mine peers." She frowns. "Mine mother may be angered if she returns to find they appear to have failed." Doesn't sound like much worry there. And that's because of what she says next. "Mine mother visits rarely, it is fortunate for them."

    The thread is snipped off and Priscilla steps back. "Mayhap thine flame will be drawn to his, and he will yet be found. To see that reunion would bring joy to mine heart that it has not felt in centuries." Funny how she says that with such a neutral tone.

    The knight glances to one side again, watching dispassionately as the thread is drawn through the wounds, and the wounds are in turn drawn closed. Once upon a time, she had been eager for battle, throwing herself against Mirrah's enemies with a bloodthirst few in her country had demonstrated -- lusting not for glory, but for the bare necessities of life that such stature would bring her. The glory had come later and become something of a game, a friendly competition, between herself and her brother.
    It had still earned her a reputation as a ferocious combatant, someone not to be crossed. It had brought her accolades, by-names, fortune and fame. It had brought her recognition from Mirrah's beleaguered king, faced on all sides by enemies. Zealous soldiers like herself had won Mirrah free from the enemies that would stamp it out.
    She smiles, but the expression is bitter.
    "The things that pride me the most are the things that cannot be held." Slowly and carefully, she twists to survey the dragon-woman's work, narrowing her mismatched eyes. "Your work is good, Priscilla of Ariamis. I hope for your sake that your mother does not return for a long time yet. It sounds as though she would not take kindly to your absence."
    Experimentally, the fencer flexes her arm, but carefully, so as not to rip any of that hard work open again. "Thank you," she says, quietly. "Mayhap when the curse has done its work... mayhap you will remember my name, when no others do. I pray only that I find him before my own wits are lost to me, and I pray oly that his wits are not... lost... to him, yet." Her tone of voice is leaden. "The years have gone by, since my departure of Mirrah. I have little hope of that. But..."
    She shrugs, no more than a faint twitch of one shoulder, a careful effort not to disturb her wounds. "I suppose the journey is not all bad, now."

    Priscilla is good at stitching, but not so great at reassurance. Some of it she can, though. Easily. "Mine absence is of less concern for mine own welfare, and more for mine servants. Mine mother is kind, yet the Goddess of Sin may yet show wrath." She shakes her head. "One will hope that she knows it is not of their doing..." She trails off as if trying to remember.

    Then she shakes her head. Priscilla settles back, as always having some difficulty standing at her full height, though she needn't stoop too much here. "Thine own wits seem sharp, and thine words of thine brother speak of a man whose will is strong and character stronger. One must maintain hope that he shall be there to greet thine arrival." She smiles. "The practice was soothing. I am pleased that mine skills were of use. You are most welcome."

    "The Goddess of Sin." There's a slight flicker of something across Lucatiel's face at that. She had questioned what exactly Priscilla's divine pedigree may have been, but that is as good an answer as she might need. Her expression is bleak, but not fearful. "Hm. I suppose time will tell, one way or another."
    She bows her head a little when Priscilla offers her own form of encouragement in regards to Aslatiel. All the swordswoman can do is puff out a sigh, wincing when it tugs against fresh wounds. Ouch.
    "I thank you for your optimism, Priscilla of Ariamis." Those mismatched eyes settle on the dragon-woman, thoughtful but calm. "And the truths you speak. You are right. I must maintain. There will be no others to greet him. Were our roles reversed, he would be aught there to greet me, and mayhap you would have met him." Her mouth twists, fondly. "Mayhap you will yet. Maybe."
    Swinging her legs over, she pushes herself to her feet with a grunt, one hand reaching back to swat her braid out of the way, before its end manages to touch anything raw and painful. Which is a lot, going by the blood and the stitching and the staining.
    Damn thieves.
    "No more pleased than I," she says, inclining her head toward Priscilla.
    She looks to the bleak window and the equally bleak door, shaking her head. "For now, though, I ought rest. I am..." Exhausted. And hurting. But she's too proud to say it. "Weary." Understatement of the century. She manages a half-smile; an echo of a prettier expression once upon a time, under the desert sun. "Thank you. We will set out in the morning? At first light?"
    And it'll be /with/ a horse this time, thank you very much.