4289/You were indicted

You were indicted
Date of Scene:	06 July 2016
Location:	Great Painting of Ariamis <PoA>
Synopsis:	Priscilla meets Svala for the first time.
Cast of Characters:	1014, Priscilla

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Heaven's Armory (1014) has posed:
    There are plenty of places around Anor Londo where, for someone without wings of their own, travel is difficult. Most pilgrims walk on their own, two feet, apart from however they reached the city in the first place. There are, similarly, places within the city of the gods that are given over only to the owners and those with appropriate business, and protected by gates and their guardians. The streets carry the throngs, but elsewhere, solitude can still be found.
    It is in one of these places, as far from prying eyes as could be managed, yet within the domain that one familiar with the city knows to be at least occasionally walked by the Halfbreed, that a trap is laid. For the sake of being the harder to foil, it's hardly elaborate. Sheer drops lead off a circular area of stone and a walkway. A large doorway leads to the steps that take one back down, into the city. A brace of some new model of firebomb is prepared to reduce the exit to a non-navigable mess of rubble.
    For the figure in brass armor that awaits Priscilla here, it wouldn't be that much of a problem, even if the bombs sent them both tumbling all the way down. She reveals herself by leaping away from the explosion and catches her landing with the butt of a long-bladed spear, raising herself into a guarded stance, and makes her intention clear upon the first word.
"Heretic! How dare you? To strike down a deity!" The voice shakes with rage, even as she attacks.
    She is far swifter than any unimportant Blade of the Darkmoon has a right to be.

Priscilla has posed:
    Priscilla wasn't ever one for sitting around in a court room yelling at people, or lounging around on a pile of cushions being fanned and fed grapes, even before the events of the last month. Honestly, some part of her felt that people were more comfortable without her minimally present directly around them, and she would be half right, where those same people weren't fearing her shadowing them invisibly. That equates to someone who exercises a lot of alone time, and someone who tends to think better while alone, unsurprisingly, spending a lot of time alone. That means isolated from the rest of an increasingly, if slowly, busy metropolis. Normally a troupe of flesh demons would be poised here to fend off, or carry up, would-be climbers, or else a silver knight to keep watch over the staggering mountain drop and its mists, but neither are.

    Instead, it is someone with an esteemed position within the Darkmoon Blades; a knight of Lord Solaire, who yet, in her heart, appears to still hold only allegiance to his younger brother, the deceased liar. It almost takes Priscilla a moment to recognize her, and not for her initial state of vacant motionlessness like the dragon she is distantly related to, but for how little, and how long ago, she had actually seen the woman. It only now strikes her as odd that she'd never seemed to have caught her at functions where the Darkmoon's knights should be importantly present. It takes a couple of additional moments for the gears to fully click into place of /why/.

    "Thou art immediately treading very dangerous ground." she first urges the Lady Darkling, though not compassionately. "I will apologize not for the change of thine master. There is good reason that all else art in agreement and the terms hath been long decided and settled. As thou art, this is thine own action of producing a blade upon thine divine ruler. These art not the actions of a knight of the gods, but of heretical petty revenge in of its own."

Heaven's Armory (1014) has posed:
    "That others did decide is mere, foolish excuse, abomination. To believe the lies of a dragon, the same blood that turned one dukedom into a dungeon of blood. Yes, even gods can be tricked, but not all turn traitor so easily as did the heretics that had been my brethren." Compared to whatever memory Priscilla may retain of her, this encounter shows far more bile. It has been some time since many have seen her, for whatever cause.
    "Your sins must end." To begin, there was shaking, but now that energy is being put to more productive purpose, even if the tip of her spear still lacks the steady motionless of a true knight's discipline. Her words are punctuated with her thrust, taking advantage of the weapon's pike-like length, then swinging upward faster than one might expect, if one were not used to opponents strengthened by the gathering of many, many souls. The sword-length blade keeps the weapon dangerous in either motion.
    This isn't enough to stop her from talking. "If all else forsake the covenant, then I alone will see justice wrought."

Priscilla has posed:
    Whatever possible relationship the brass knightess could have had with Gwyndolin, of all people, to provoke this kind of suicidal, revenge-driven spite, is beyond Priscilla. She isn't knew to this. She'd stewarded Anor Londo under the false sun for a very long time as a Firekeeper. There is no possibility that she didn't know of his deception. Of his outright treachery. Why then, does she feel the need to do this even after what he had hoped to accomplished had come to pass, merely without himself as the new, scheming little king?

    In truth, she might have an idea, but Priscilla is far beyond caring. There is no room in her heart right now, and may never be again, to feel any kind of compassion for a human so turbulently lost as this as to try to waste her life in useless revenge. Her resolution since Gwynevere had returned had been to close that part off wherever her closest ones may be threatened. Aside from herself, she has no idea what else might be going on at the same time.

    "Thou hast mine most insincere apologies if the lies of a serpent were more palatable to thee." she only says instead, barely saddened. As the peculiar spear flashes out towards her, she twists with the agility of someone who has consumed many, many more souls than a human would see in their lifetime, going halfway through the motions necessary to grab and disarm it, only to have to back off at the upwards arc lest it rip into her arm. Moonlight springs to her hand in a trick of blue light and the sound of a pealing bell. "Justice and heresy art simple enough words to hurl as spears at whatever it is that draws thine ire. A clearer head wouldst hath befitted thee were thou truly motivated by only thine oath." That sword comes straight down on the stone dias, cleaving the white granite where it sparks an eruption of baleful, scorching soulfire, large enough that the platform cannot possibly contain all of it, so that glittering motes of incandescent magic spill from its edges with the scream of effervescent chimes.

Heaven's Armory (1014) has posed:
    The former firekeeper rolls back from the slash, then leaps to avoid the flame. It's not clear what miracle or sorcery propels her, but quite clear that no human of this world could normally manage to leap clear over Priscilla's head without either, and certainly not with such clearance as she manages, avoiding the fire via a path that will take her fully off the platform.
    The growl beneath her helmet is little answer to Priscilla's words, if just short of an admission that she has no convincing words to give. Nor is it the sound of someone moments from plummeting to her death, a fate that is clearly hers--until the angle of her fall changes to be on a direct line with her opponent, in further contradiction to nonmagical physics. Spear-point extended and aimed for her heart, Priscilla will even feel a few hundred pounds of evenly distributed force pulling her toward it, like a magnet for half-dragons.
    This surprise attack would be far more deadly if the spear's blade did not jerk to the side at the last fraction of a decisive moment, forcing its wielder to find any purchase she can under her feet and take distance, again with the long weapon to catch her. "You, too?" There's shock and anger in her voice, in a tone surpassing that of a moment ago, but she is no longer entirely focused on the one she'd come here to kill.

Priscilla has posed:
    None of that was in the knight's repertoire before, as far as Priscilla is aware. In fact, none of that should be in the /Darkmoon/ repertoire. She is forced to wonder for a moment, watching those absurd jumps and falls, and then feeling that pressure on her body that she is abruptly forced to resist, if this woman has been gallivanting around the multiverse gathering up some kind of arsenal to kill her, because she knows that it hasn't been filtering into Anor Londo for purchase, but that makes even less sense than the alternative.

    Even with her weapon on auto-kill reflex however, she doesn't get to /that/ point either before things get even more confusing, and the Brass Lady actually /misses/. Priscilla has no idea who she's talking to, and perhaps mistakes it as a change of heart. "Whatever perverse notion that grips thine heart, whether it be guilt, fury, a wish for martyrdom, or even simple love, it is not justice. Thou art no longer fighting in the name of the one thou swore thine oaths to. Before Gwyndolin, the Blades were service to Lord Gwyn and his /entire/ family. They are at last, at peace; all except for thee. Do not spit upon the works thine oathgiver's father gave his life to uphold."

Heaven's Armory (1014) has posed:
    "No," she says, seeming even less to be speaking directly to Priscilla. "Not you, too. With this, I cannot... there is no path forward. I AM just, this is my duty, kept for--no!"
    She should have been long since freed of both the old, everpresent curse and the need to hide her visage, yet her voice still hollows with growing despair. "No, you cannot..."
    The knight falls to her knees, seemingly deaf to the world. Her spear falls, clattering and hanging off the platform's edge. "Enough. I fought fate, and lost. Kill me however it pleases thee, dragon, or I shall force the issue."
    If there is any explanation for any of the strange events just shown, she seems disinclined to provide them.

Priscilla has posed:
    Priscilla has so little idea of what any of this is about. Had this happened a year ago, she would have staked anything on that being the madness of an Undead reaching the end of their tether and Hollowing completely. In the end though, maybe it's that old reflex; what she'd had to do for so many of the Painted World. Maybe it's just the fresh loss carved in her heart, and the soreness of having something precariously come back to her. "Very well then. Whatever it is that troubles thee, be free of it, and remembered more kindly in retrospect." Moonlight plunges cleanly through the brass cuirass, its ethereal edge delivering the best she can approximate to a painless death, rather than the spiteful Lifehunt, and leaves the almost tiredly obligatory soul behind mostly intact.

    She won't be taking the standard way back, but having seen all of that, Priscilla sincerely doubts an organized coup. All of it reminds her bitterly of nothing but a woman's devotion turning to obsession, and meeting an unnecessary for being unable to cope. She takes another look at the unfamiliar spear, wondering who exactly had made it, and then takes that too, rescuing it from the edge on the off chance there might be something notable about it.

Heaven's Armory (1014) has posed:
    The Lady of the Darkling does not react. Her request proves a sincere one, and she expires for it, bringing an end to all duty and obsession.
    The weapon remains. Rather than reacting to her touch, the reaction comes just before Priscilla can take hold of the spear. A girl, too slight to yet be considered a woman, grey-haired and red-eyed, is now kneeling by the spear, with her hand already upon it. She's dressed, if one reached for any explanation that could fit, like some noble's daughter. Certainly, she lacks the appearance of one able to so swiftly raise up what is essentially a pike and lean it across her shoulder, just ahead of another's grasp. She might be tomboyish, but only by the standards of a people for whom wearing pants is unbearably masculine.
    In short, there is nothing about her that would lend credence to a story of her being here. Nevertheless, here she is.
    The girl stares, motionless but for the wind against her hair. Contrary to the spear's last wielder's discipline, hers is as perfect as a statue.
    "The first judgment has been passed. The second judgment has been passed. Authorization has been granted to qualified wielder, Priscilla." The spear comes off her shoulder, its butt against the ground, and is then turned and presented to hold.
    Again, no explanations. Though perhaps this one is more sane.

Priscilla has posed:
    For mentally assigning, even subconsciously, the label 'peculiar' earlier to this spear, Priscilla feels a little chagrined. Previously interested only in its stand-out yet not quite clearly foreign make, now she has to contend with the fact that some kind of girl, clearly too small to be using it at all, is now obviously intrinsically associated with it. One she's never met, has no idea where she came from, and knows not the name of, though her thematics clearly hold with the weapon.

    So she'll fix that last one, stuffing down her astonishment as far as it will go to keep a cool face. "Thou hast mineself at a disadvantage. Thou art aware of mine name, but I am not aware of thine, Lady . . . ?" Her eyes track briefly up and down the girl's frame, as if expecting to find any clues just by looking.

Heaven's Armory (1014) has posed:
    Something slight changes in the girl's expression. It's a subtle relaxation, from an expressionless tension that was only visible in retrospect. She otherwise makes no motion, but does answer the question. "I am Svala, one of Heaven's Armory." After a moment, she adds, "I have heard of you. From her. And others."
    There is certainly a similarity of theme between herself and the weapon. Grey, black, and trimming in red. Nothing, however, clearly marks her place of origin, as nothing but her coloration marks her as anything but human. Even red eyes could be common, somewhere.

Priscilla has posed:
    An only slightly more visible degree of Priscilla's posture softens in return, though mostly from guarded shock. "Then, surprisingly, I am able to say I hath heard something of thee; or rather, thine kind and kindred. Such is well, for thine sisters must be an agreeable sort to hath found the places they currently stay. I cannot hope what else thou hast heard of I is as charitable." She then stays remarkably still for several, very long moments, outwardly expressionless but clearly contemplating what to say regardless. "And what of these judgements? I wouldst very well like to knoweth what good I hath done in thine eyes." That's something nobody can seem to fill her in on over the radio. "And then perhaps it wouldst be best to . . . retire to somewhere else." She then reluctantly adds. This is kind of a bad place for a meeting like this.

Heaven's Armory (1014) has posed:
    The girl--Svala--remains where she is, for the moment. She blinks, slowly. "Mmn," is all she says to the admission of being known.
    Then, to the question, "These are..." Her tone is quite different from those first words. More natural. "Judgment of character. The safeguard against misuse." She's on the quiet side, though audible even in this open space. "The second judgment qualifies one to become a wielder. You are now qualified, but not yet my wielder, until you accept me. The first judgment is to qualify one to carry me. I am a spear. I cannot walk far on my own, you see." This last is said despite the clear existence of her feet.

Priscilla has posed:
    "Character." Priscilla rolls that one around in her head for a while. It's not a word she often thinks about; especially directed towards herself. One look at the girl though, feet and all, is enough to make her feel a certain something, or rather, feel it again a little too soon, that there isn't any clear answer to the contrary. "Of course, I cannot allow thee to simply languish here forgotten. There is too much thou must hath heard of this place and its people that I wouldst dearly wish to disillusion thee of, and perhaps allow thee to see for thineself better. It is ill manners to allow a guest to leave unhappy, and more deplorable still to abandon one with no means to fend for herself." She gently reaches out, but her hand hesitates as to whether she's supposed to grab the spear part or take the girl part's hand, or maybe do neither just yet. Nothing like this has ever happened to her before.

    Instead, in the end she seems to settle for putting that hand down on top of the girl's head, in an awkward gesture of compromise, before faintly smiling with more familiarity than she should be able to show for someone she's just met, and briefly stroking her fingers through her hair. "Pray, if thou shalt, come with me. Whether or not thou shalt stay, I cannot in good conscience leave thee here, after thou were so recently left by another in bitter bereavement of one thou hast never met. I wouldst not hath such poison colour thine heart."

Heaven's Armory (1014) has posed:
    The compromise is apparently acceptable, the gesture taken as the important point. The opportunity to freely refuse was given, yet not taken. A number of things could be assumed as to the state of mind of a masterless weapon, but there are few who could claim the experience to understand such a thing. Priscilla's position is an unusual one, the more so with this day's passing.
    No words are given in response. Not, at least, until after the girl gives a faint smile, that would be as at home on one far older than her form suggests. Then, words that may be rote, but still with the natural rhythm of sincere speech. "I will go wherever you go, and your quest will be my quest. I am now your blade. Use me well."
    There is a glance, as she walks, behind. Just a glance of farewell, to her last wielder, one she had assuredly failed.