World Tree MUSH

    The snowfall in the halcyon remnant has been gentle, but it's been piling up; this particular Blossom did, indeed, get a white Christmas in this region. It all makes it even harder to distinguish the city ruins from cliffs and rocks. In one particular plaza, one might even completely miss the sliced-in-half plinth with the two giant feet of a long-gone statue.

    Emily Nyx is currently in the form of a beefy, broad-shouldered woman with auburn hair and glowing purple eyes, dressed in a midnight-blue business dress. She's leaning against a second-story wall -- which is to say, she's floating in midair with her back against a wall -- and she's staring at a glowing white flower in her hand, her expression unreadable. Nevertheless, something about her demeanor seems pensive, overall.

    The flower known as the Lunar Tear has that effect sometimes.

  Well, this isn't the Bermuda Triangle.

  That's the first thought through the visitor's head. The second is that it's considerably colder than it should be, even accounting for the fact that winter is around in most areas of the World Tree. There comes a sigh from the masked and hatted fencer as Lucatiel of Mirrah's shoulders slump. She's down on the ground, unlike certain others in the area, and astride a beautiful dappled grey courser. A few sacks of something are slung behind the saddle and tied into place.

  A tiny snowflake whirls past; gets stuck in Naruiel's mane, as a handful of others sift in through the slots of Lucatiel's bronze mask.

  Her exasperated sigh fogs in the air, giving the mask a slightly ominous look.

  "...Not again."

  She hasn't spotted the floating Emily, yet, apparently. Instead she's busy with turning Naruiel around with a flick of the reins, looking for the nearest exit out of what appears to be just another empty, ruined wasteland.

    Emily catches sight of the newcomer, and does a double-take. She stares for several more seconds. Then she tucks the flower into the back of her hair, and opens up a staticky portal, transforming in a swirl of silvery glitter.

    A portal opens up directly in front of Naruiel, and out comes a bulky five-foot-wide orb of black metal, covered in red robotic eyes, and with a much larger robotic eye in what appears to be the front.

    ... It's carrying a modified P90 gun, pointed directly at Lucatiel.

    "Y'know what, I'm getting a strange case of deja vu," says the robot in a faintly robotic version of Emily's voice, her tone completely unamused. "I realize that the last time I was near this statue and thought that someone was pulling a fast one on me, I turned out to be wrong. Which is why, rather than shooting first, I'm going to ask questions sooner. So: is there any particular reason why I should believe that you are who you appear to be?"

  The courser flicks an ear. A creature of obvious quality, he's most likely a creature of outrageous expense, too. So is the gear he's equipped with, and the light armour of the knight astride the saddle. Whoever or whatever this is, it has mastered Lucatiel's mannerisms down to the smallest shift of weight in the saddle. So is the appearance: Every detail in the armour is correct, and even the precise shade of blonde in her braided hair is correct.

  At the opening of a portal, the horse throws up his head, bridle jingling, whistling as he scrabbles backward into a half-rear. Lucatiel maintains her balance, studying the weapon pointed at her. Unlike Salome's, this one is probably going to hurt if it goes off.

  ...Oh. That's... not a familiar face. What is that? Lucatiel tips her head slightly to one side. Her hand is half-raised, touching the hilt of that cavalry greatsword. It stays there, unmoving, still as stone despite the awkward angle.

  The voice, at least, is readily identifiable, even if the appearance is so often malleable.

  "And why should I appear to be anyone different?" That had tilts slightly to the other side; the question is languid, carrying the same vague air of tired exasperation that Lucatiel's voice always carries. If it's an imitator, it's a top-notch one. "More the fool you, I suppose; there is hardly anything worth shooting over in this wretched place. I was just looking for a path out. The vines, it would appear, are prone to jokes today."

    The Emily-machine doesn't budge for a few seconds. Then, in a swirl of silvery nanomachines, it transforms into the humanoid form Emily had a moment ago. The gun is still there, however, and while she's lowered it away from pointing at anything in particular, the safety is still off.

    "Well, there's the ... y'know what, let's cut the crap." Emily's glowering now. "I-I know for an absolute goddamn fact that you died." There's an uncharacteristic quaver in her voice. "Or at the very least, you, you took the kind of hit that most organic beings don't get up from. And. And we clearly ... there wasn't ... there was no chance to get you l-life-saving medical attention!"

    She's starting to tear up slightly. It might have served her purposes better to remain in a form without a face or any attempt to imitate humans.

  One hand rests steady on the reins through the transformative shenanigans. The horse remains still, though his ears are flipped back in clear displeasure or unsettlement. Lucatiel, or the thing wearing Lucatiel's face, apparently trusts the horse not to panic.

  "That would be because you did, in point of fact, watch me perish." Her tone turns a little lighter. "I must confess my surprise; I had not been expecting the dried-up old bitch to do that. She had a fairer hand with magic than even Miss Highscribe had suggested." The mask tilts slightly as Lucatiel seems to return to herself. "You are right. I did not get up, not from that. Not until much later. And not until after my heart had started again."

  "There was not even a chance for a decent burial, although I suppose I should be thankful for that. I do not appreciate the taste of dirt in my mouth." Lucatiel shakes her head. "In any case, I hardly hold you all accountable for that; there is naught you could have done at that point that would have had any appreciable effect, and dying in a miserable hovel is no different to me than dying in a gilded palace."

  The blank mask studies Emily for a long moment, before Lucatiel heaves another sigh. Carefully, and slowly, so as not to incur the attention of that gun, Lucatiel reaches up to the thin leather straps that buckle the mask to her face. The clasps are popped one by one, methodical and slow; when it lowers, the face behind it is...

  ...disappointingly human, maybe. Lucatiel was a pretty woman, once, possessed of classical beauty. Her features are strong without being bold; one eye a startlingly brilliant shade of emerald, flecked with gold. The other is the milky white of the blind. Spreading out from it is a ring of rotted tissue, skin tinged almost green. Both eyes blink once or twice, adjusting to the light. It isn't often the mask comes off.

  "I was dead," she proclaims. "And now I am not. You saw truly, and still do."

    "Nnnnrrrrgghghhghhr. Guess I'm two for two." Slowly, and trying to fight shaking hands, Emily switches her gun's the safety back on. Then she shoves it sideways into her torso, where it remains hidden from view.

    Emily regards Lucatiel's face for several moments, trying to blink away tears. Then she turns back to the snow-covered plinth in the middle of the plaza; it seems to be something of significance to her.

    "... I'm not a military model," she says, slightly hoarsely. "I wasn't built for ..." She struggles to find words for a moment. "... any of this," she finishes finally. "I ... well, what I was built for was to be a slave of those people who called themselves the Masters, so I like to think that the world ending and our potential extinction was a net positive ..."

    Her voice trails off as she realizes she's getting slightly off track. "I suppose the bottom line is, I don't know how to handle death," she says, not meeting Lucatiel's gaze. "Even if it's just ... y'know ... an extemporaneous ally. One whom I know I might possibly end up fighting at some point, because you were on the opposite side the first time I met you." She shakes her head. "Dunno what to say. Dunno what to do. Too self-centered to generalize from this." She snaps her fingers twice. "No point to this rambling either." She shakes her head. "Ugh."

  Not a military model? That doesn't make a lot of sense, but the woman can understand the gist of it. "More the pity for you, in that case." Lucatiel reaches up to place the mask over her face again, carefully fastening its tiny buckles. "I am an Elite Knight of Mirrah, and though that means little in the World Tree, it does mean that I am well acquainted with death: I have carved out my place in the world by my sword, in service to the lord I served in Mirrah."

  "And now, I have a more intimate relationship with death than is fit for man or beast." Naruiel stamps a hoof, and without thought she reaches out to pat the stallion's neck, soothing him. "In any case, I am not here to coddle you, and I will leave if you require time to cope." Lucatiel pauses long enough to survey the area, with clear disdain. "This was not my original destination, in any case. My business, as ever, is with Lady Highscribe."

    Emily inclines her head. "And we've only had chasing other Eudaemons away for the two-thirds-of-a-millennium before this world Blossomed," she says. "So. Done less than you, I'd expect."

    She shrugs grandiosely. Then, for good measure, she conjures up a second pair of hands with which to shrug more. "Yeah, I wouldn't expect coddling, either," she says, sounding faintly offended at the notion. She pauses. "Nor am I under any illusions that there's, like, any 'trick' to dealing with death, if you don't have any convenient programming handy," she adds. "But, uh. Yeah. You got shit to do, I got ... some shit to do. Might as well get back to it." She rises up off the ground. "I'll probably see you again the next time we happen to have the same shit to do. Or, indeed, opposed shit to do." She gestures vaguely. "In which case, later, gator."

  The knight is blasé about the shapeshifting shenanigans, focused instead on the conversation. The bits about other Eudaemons likewise doesn't garner much of a response. No frame of reference.

  "I am certain we will meet again."

  Such is the way of things.

  So instead of puzzling out Emily's bizarre colloquialisms any further, Lucatiel simply shrugs one shoulder. A sideways flick of the reins turns Naruiel into a tight circle, back the way they had come. Maybe they'll have better luck finding the correct Vine, this time.