World Tree MUSH

    Another day, another road. Life has been an endless progression of roads and inns and campsites in the deep woods. Where they travel, the Elite Knight of Mirrah couldn't say, choosing directions seemingly at random and finding work along the way. Most of that work is exterminating monsters in the places that need such services, or even bandits and other highwaymen.
    Lucatiel had decided to strike camp in a clearing in the woods, where massive pines reach skyward. Needles crackle underfoot but they also make for convenient tinder. Owls call to one another in the highest branches, and occasionally, one of the great winged hunters swoops down, wholly silent, to flash across the furthest reaches of the campfire's light.
    For the time being Lucatiel busies herself with brushing down her horse, his saddle braced on a broken stump nearby, bridle hanging from the jutting break of a branch. Her hat and her mask have both been left by the fireside, despite the chill; it's easier to move around and to see without it, and there's no sense in keeping the secret any more -- the dragon-woman has seen what she is, and was not repulsed by it.
    Something in that is a comfort.
    "Watch the trees." Lucatiel speaks up over the contented whuff of her horse, patting his neck affectionately. "There are owls in this wood. The biggest I have ever seen." The woman turns to glance over her shoulder, mimicing a bird in flight with one hand. "Have you owls in the Painted World of Ariamis? Birds who fly, silent as a ghost, to swoop down upon their prey?"

    It's dangerous to travel alone, but travelling with Priscilla has its own problems. Aside from her size, of course. The ability for her to go invisible does make her very useful and an easier time hiding the strange half-dragon's form, but there's a dangerous matter of... she's getting attached to Lucatiel. That's dangerous!

    But for now it is a good thing, for they both could use a reliable friend. Looking up from the inspection of her scythe handle - the blade hasn't seen much use lately so a little attention is all it needed - The golden eyes blink. "Owls... owls? Mine memory recalls such, long ago, or a similar beast of thine description. Mother's servants kept much out of the cathedral, and it has been long since mine last sojourn from its walls. Are they of concern?"

    "Owls," Lucatiel confirms, passing the brush down the line of Naruiel's neck. The dapple grey blows out contentedly, ears swivelling to the sides and eyes half-closing. "Birds of a medium size, winged hunters, silent as a ghost. They've something of a flat face, and screech like a dying man at night."
    Are owls a threat? She shakes her head; doesn't quite laugh, mouth twisting. "Only if one is a mouse. To you, they are as a sparrow." Another shadow passes over the campfire; a few seconds later, a blood-curdling screech off in the distance. She looks up to watch it go, firelight reflecting in her mismatched eyes; emerald and milk-white. "I wonder if they sense the divinity in you? They are curious... most times, one may be lucky even to hear them. Rare is it that they are seen."
    She glances back over her shoulder, regarding the campfire. Acceptable, for the moment.

    Sense the divinity? Priscilla looks upward contemplatively. "Mine divinity has rarely attracted such attention. Mine own kin regarded..." She trails off in a rare moment of fading off midway, a troubled look on her face that usually precedes fading into actual invisibility. It's something of a triumph that she doesn't this time.

    Setting her scythe to the side but within easy reach, she looks upward. Priscilla is trying to spot one of these owls! "The Crow Demons kept most other feathered beasts away," she explains. "Mine home overlooked the mountain, allowing vision to see other birds from afar. This journey has seen so many new things."

    When a sentence starts and doesn't quite finish itself, Lucatiel glances over her shoulder again, although she's still brushing the horse down. She doesn't even need to look to see what she's doing. She doesn't call the dragon-woman on her hesitation, though; says nothing, merely watching, quietly, with those mismatched eyes.
    For all that she's unsociable and downright dour, Lucatiel is still observant and perceptive when it comes to people; skills that helped her stay alive on Mirrah's streets. A sixth sense for danger, in a way.
    She sighs through her nose and shrugs. "Crow Demons. Lovely." The fencer wrinkles her nose, before pointing skyward. "There. Follow that branch..." At its crux is a small feathery shape, crouched; the owl is... quite a bit smallr than his fellows, and quite a bit fluffier, too; a terrified juvenile, clinging to his branch and puffed out as though to scare his would-be observers. "Poor fellow. Something's got him frightened. There were owls, in Mirrah, but not of the sort you would think. A good deal smaller and more scrawny than these specimens, I would think."

    Eyes follow slowly, and at last Priscilla sets her gaze on the owl. Her expression... lightens. Considerably! She almost claps her hands together, but stops herself lest she startle the little owl. "Oh! There..." Truly it is a childlike wonder there, to see something so adorable. The fear makes it look cute! This is a little disturbing maybe, but it is so rare for her to break the mask she usually wears.

    Then, concern shows. "The animals show fear. Perhaps this forest is not quite so idle as it first appears. A guarded approach may be best."

    The fencer finishes her task, leaving her horse with a fond pat on his neck and a bundle of greens left for him on the ground, which he tucks into with a contented swish of his tail. She drops the brush into a saddlebag, moving over to flop bonelessly beside the fire. Its warmth and light are most welcome. They make the forest seem a little less oppressive.
    "There," Lucatiel acknowledges, glancing up more languidly than the awe of her travelling companion. "A young one. I suspect our campfire is more a fright to him than this wood, though I'll not argue that this wood feels off, somehow." She shrugs, reaching for a long stick and poking resignedly at the embers. "I suppose any day now we'll be off on our way to slay some dangerous monster, entreated by some hapless villager," she comments, with a sour smile. "Sooner or later."
    Her mismatched eyes flit skyward again. "Still... it would be worth keeping that in mind. If there is something amiss with this wood... better to go in with our eyes forward. I doubt anything here would pose a credible threat to us. I've not seen you fight, but I suspect you know your way around that thing." The scythe, that is; she inclines her chin to indicate it. "And that which I carry is no mere ornamentation."

    Priscilla looks at the fire. "To have a world where fire is treated without the sacred nature..." She watches the poking, but there are no bones in this one. Now Priscilla is just musing over it. She nods to acknowledge the thought, "It may be..."

    But for now, she touches a hand on the scythe. "Mine essence be that of death itself," she states. "To battle is a thing that mine being is made for, but mine heart lie not upon. When the time comes, this scythe will aid you." What an odd way of stating it. "For now, rest would suffice, wouldst it not?"

    "'Tis but a campfire." Lucatiel side-eyes the dragon-woman, but she doesn't argue any further. There are places where fire is worshipped in Mirrah, cults and shadowed chambers, but not any place she ever associated with. She and her brother toed an arrow-straight line. Earn their accolades, and enjoy the spoils of Mirrah's constant warring. "No more than a light against the dark, and a means to cook the night's meal."
    A final jab, and the fencer tosses the stick into the blazing coals, watching it glow and burn. "I had no choice, in Mirrah. It was the only way up from the bottom of a dry well-shaft: After all, being poor and starving, you've nowhere else to go but up. Those with nothing seem to fight like they've the most to lose."
    "...I and my brother fought like that. Save, we never lost our edge. We never forgot how to feel the cold, or how to be hungry. There is a skill in it, you know. To endure the hardship with grace. To let the hardships consume you, knowing they will ease."
    Yet for all that, it didn't prepare her for the curse. That takes a different sort of grace; a humbleness she's avoided for all her life. The fencer rubs at her jaw, callused fingers passing over the scarred ruin of the rot, stroking it once as a man deep in thought might stroke at his beard. Her mismatched eyes settle over Priscilla, thoughtful.
    "I find joy in battle, for what given value of joy I might feel with this mark of the Curse upon me. I love battle because it raised me up out of the poverty of Mirrah's sands." She smiles, hard. Her expressions, visible without the mask, seem as hard-edged as her personality and voice; sometimes chase themselves across her features before she can think to hide or stifle her reactions. "I thank you. And this sword shall aid you. I am an Elite Knight of Mirrah, and my sword is always ready."
    She's already kicking off her boots as Priscilla recommends rest.
    "Yes, yes, of course. We've another day of getting lost on the wrong side of a monster-infested mountain ahead of us. Isn't that the way?" Her mouth twists. She's being facetious, not to mention her usual scathing brand of sarcasm. "A wise decision."
    With a grunt, the fencer settles herself before the fire, using the rolled-up, frayed tabard from her armour as a pillow. Her head goes down, over the lump of fabric and her other arm. "Good night, Priscilla of Ariamis."