1910/Above the Clouds

Above the Clouds
Date of Scene:	30 March 2015
Location:	The Corridors of Time
Synopsis:	The Masked Knight of Mirrah visits with Princess Schala in the Kingdom of Zeal, courtesy of some handy cat-burglar skills to scale the roof.
Cast of Characters:	66, 733

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Schala Zeal (733) has posed:
Today, Schala has put a good deal of distance between herself and Algetty. In fact, if Lucatiel weren't the mysterious sojourner that she is, it's unlikely that she would ever have been able to reach the princess here. This is her room, of course – a quarter wrought in lavish, golden stone overlain with Tyrian tapestries that bear the same appearance as the Mammon Machine and the insignia on Schala's pendant. It's a far cry from the deplorable conditions on the surface, and a less understanding visitor might well lose their sympathy for the one who lives here moments after laying eyes on it.

It is posh well beyond simple comfort. Hints of decadent affluence pour from the sutures separating the blocks that make it up, and sitting amid all that excess, all that waste, is Schala. She sits within the arms of a fine chair whose wood has been painted over with a hint of gold, and whose cushions wear tassels that further boast the whole thing's majesty. The princess, of course, is entirely indifferent to all of it, preferring instead to read a small book with a red cover. Its name is obscured by the lighting and its contents are ultimately irrelevant, but suffice it to say, it provides her with a means to escape this beautiful microcosm. Even if it would take a more understanding sort not to judge her for all she indulges herself, it would likewise take someone quite dense not to know why she dreams of being somewhere far away.

This is a gilded cage, built by centuries of progress, then even more of complacence. Its key is kept by the mother whose lively corpse rules this land. With each visit from those outworlders, Schala grows more and more ill of being here. She longs to see what they are able to see, and to feel what they are able to feel. It's a terrible cliche – for sure, she's read enough books to know – but for the moment all she can do is close the cover of her read and look longingly out the window. Where are they right now? What are all of them doing? ... dare she think it, but might she join them there one day?

Her eyes close on the waning sun, and for a time she sits in as complete a silence as those steadfast walls are able to afford her. She holds her hands evenly over the face of her closed tome, and she muses on what the future may hold. Dalton had not died, after all; he had landed in the center of the palace in a bloody heap the day after their run-in at Algetty. It could easily be said that the entire kingdom, and especially her mother, were aware that something was wrong. No doubt Dalton had told her of the outworlders. No doubt Dalton had told her that she was there. Only, why hadn't the Queen acted on that information? Why was she being allowed to roam free when, by any stretch of the imagination, she should be incarcerated?

Every time those thoughts return, they bring her fear. There must be a reason behind it all. With a swift opening of her eyes, she studies the ceiling's every corner. Is she being watched, perhaps? Is she in a cell already without even knowing so? ... well. That has been the case for quite a while already, but at the least she's curious weather that control, that attention had intensified somehow. But alas, she would never know. She never knows anything. Until very recently, she had not even known how much the people beneath her had suffered.

And now she sits amongst the very things, the very people who make that situation possible. Her eyes close again, this time much more harshly. They squeeze and contort in anguish. She hates herself for being here, truly, but where else could she be? It would put those she wishes to protect in even greater danger were she to leave – danger of her mother's indignation. But is that really the case? She hopes so. She hopes this is not just some delusion she has conjured to preserve her own status quo.

In either case, though, her self-loathing is tantamount. That much is inescapable.

Lucatiel of Mirrah (66) has posed:
If the bedchamber were any sort of cell, it would be designed to keep others out as much as keep a single person in... and that is certainly not the case. At least, not today.

Quite abruptly, a shadow is cast over the window. It's a tall shadow, with distinctive features suggestive of armoured shoulders, and the wide shape of a broad-brimmed hat; there are also gauzier shadows, lighter and less distinct, where the sun shines through silk sleeves. One gloved hand reaches down and almost daintily unlatches the frame from the outside, mainly by way of curling into a fist and giving a sharp, precise rap against the window.

Lucatiel is an Elite Knight of Mirrah. That does not, however, mean that she did not learn the less savoury arts. Before she was a knight, she was a street rat; and street rats are very good at getting into places they aren't meant to be.

The window swings open on well-oiled hinges, and there's a sudden shift of weight outside; the sound of something stomping down on roof-tiles.

Quite abruptly, Lucatiel of Mirrah folds her arms over the windowsill at shoulder height, leaning against it for all the world like it were a counter, and not spiring above at some impossible height. The sun gleams on the brazen mask over her face, where the low light of sunset angles past the brim of her hat.

Half a second of silence tick by.

"Well?" Lucatiel's head tilts, faintly. "Are you going to let me in? Or are you going to continue your moping about? Not, I might add, that it is very difficult to escape the notice of your household guards," the woman scoffs. "Their level of skill is nothing short of shameful."

Schala Zeal (733) has posed:
Schala's eyelids immediately dart open as the window swings ajar. She is far too tense; she dart out of her seat at the sight and backs off into a more distant corner of the room. Traces of ember flit out of her hand to hint at some attempt of self-defense, but thankfully, the necessity of that gesture is quickly disproved. She sees Lucatiel's mask drape into view – an frightful visual in any other context, to be sure, but here it's a facade she knows quite well. The flames gathering in her hand dissipate almost immediately and the hand, now free, presses itself to her chest as she exhales with relief. And then she smiles, some of the weariness beneath her eyes relenting with her entry.

"Enter quickly," She says, "before I decide that you are some criminal come to snatch me away and call for help." She exhales, adding swiftly, "Not that that would help me at all if you were, it's true; the quality of our defense has been fairly lax as long as I've been alive. They see no need to train a proper fighting force because they see nothing worth defending against. And if they did, they would be far more swift to indulge a belief that they would be granted victory of divine providence than they would be to take any responsibility for themselves." Her expression dips faintly after she's spoken these words. "But we'd best not discuss that for too long. It would serve little purpose beyond lowering my mood."

She claims a new seat on the side of her bed, now, gesturing softly in the direction of the chair she had been in before as Lucatiel enters. Something makes her doubt that the knight will have any interest in sitting down, but still – hospitality is important. Even for those guests that sneak in through your window. Especially for those guests, since they're the only ones she has cared to see of late.

"How have you been since the last time we saw one another, Lucatiel?" Her attempt at broaching conversation; she's become quite a bit more loose since the first time they spoke. "Things became so... violent then. You've actually become a local legend amongst the guards already; 'The Masked Demon', they call you, as they pair you with the 'Devil of Revolution'. If nothing else inspires them to better themselves, the reason behind any martial progress this kingdom may well be fear of your title. I find that somehow ironic."

At this point, though, there would be a knocking at the door. A voice calls from its other side to say, "Your water, Miss Schala." It's croaking, squeaky, androgynous; almost as though it belonged to some sort of cartoon character or animal made man. Still, it inspires another grin from Schala. "You may enter, Rasha." And far too lax of one to hint at any danger for Lucatiel, mercifully.

A rotund, blue creature ambles inside, clutching a silver tray containing a single croissant roll, an assortment of cheeses, and the promised glass of water. Its beady, wide eyes would lock briefly on to the knight, but it would not acknowledge her in word; rather, it would simply continue on, handing the tray over to the princess. "Thank you," She replies, as the thing bends its body slightly forwards in some semblance of a bow. Then it would make its way back to the door without another word... though Schala interrupts before they can leave.

"Ah, and Rasha," The thing would look back to her expectantly, "no one needs to know that I have a friend here. Alright?" Again, the thing nods. "Yes, Miss Schala." The young woman nods in turn, and soon there is a final creak and locking of the door. It departs.

And the girl turns back to the guest in question. "My maid," She would clarify. "She is a magically constructed being – a Nu. They're the particular fascination of my mentor Belthasar, and they attend to most mundane tasks about the cities these days. Some are shopkeepers. Others care for houses as Rasha does. They're curious, funny things, but..." Her expression evens somewhat. "But I find them endearing. And sweet. I'd like it if Rasha could make friends with you of the outside world one day, rather than remaining indentured to the abrasive sorts who live here."

Lucatiel of Mirrah (66) has posed:
With a grunt, the taller woman heaves herself up and swings over the windowsill, moving with enough speed to suggest someone still in their prime. Weairng her mask as she always does, it's difficult to discern what the woman's age might be; her voice is no clue, muffled as it always is by the acoustics of the bronze mask. She moves well, though, and when bidden she moves quickly.

Straightening, she pulls the window neatly shut behind herself, dusting off one faintly dusty silk sleeve. Dust and grit from the roof tiles, no less; one can only imagine what sort of nightmare-path she must have taken to give the palatial guards the slip.

"Lax is not the word for it. Their level of incompetence is confounding. I could have been a professional burglar, an assassin, or both. Instead, the palace's defences have been defeated by a dusty wayfarer." Lucatiel snorts, tone laced with sarcasm and scorn. "If they see no use for defense, then they have no use for a sword." Why even bother if they can't even motivate themselves? They're better off not even maintaining the illusion.

But, that wasn't why she came here. Truth be told, it seems as though she can't imagine why she did come here. So she unbuckles the sword belt at her hip and throws herself down on an offered chair, casual as you please, as though she did not just cross half a mile of rooftop terraces after climbing up to a city in the sky, and as though she did not just come stealing in through the window like a common thief. Ordinarily she might lean against the wall, but she did just scale the roof and come in through the window and all.

Lucatiel has a staggering tolerance for displaying levity in the face of strangeness.

"Well enough." One gloved hand gestures faintly, almost dismissively. "Wandering. This land is a droll place with nothing to see, so I have been amusing myself beyond the warpgates."

She falls silent. She might be raising a brow behind her mask at that title, skeptically.

"Unacceptable." The word is a snort. "If that is all it takes for these people to fear, then they have grown even softer than I had given them credit for."

The head immediately snaps to the door at the sound of a voice, and though she reaches for her sword, it isn't at her hip; she'd taken it off to be able to sit down comfortably. Apparently, though, there's no need for it. Whatever-it-is seems to be some kind of servant, and perhaps an automation, if Schala's lack of concern with visitors is any clue. So she relaxes, though the mask remains fixed on the door, watching for as long as this 'Rasha' is out and about.

"Where I come from, the maidservants are usually human." Mostly because anything not human tends to be a horrible monstrosity or an eldritch abomination, either of which usually result in the innards of the resident civilian population becoming outards, and most probably strewn across the landscape in a one-kilometer radius. "So, an automation. Interesting."

The way she says 'interesting' suggests she's not particularly interested, but she's being disinterestedly polite, which is altogether much more of an effort than she gives for most people.

"I do not think I would make a very good friend for Rasha, unless you were interested in teaching Rasha how to wield a sword." Despite the cold tone, there's a hint of something approaching mirth in it. "Somehow, I doubt that would work well."

Schala Zeal (733) has posed:
Schala slips a sleeve in front of her mouth to stifle a giggle. "I would say that you're a bit more than a 'dusty wayfarer'," She offers, "but it's true. If anyone wished to assassinate my mother or myself, they would admittedly have far more trouble fighting us than they would avoiding the prying eye of the army. Or resisting their blades otherwise." She would comment no further on that because, all extenuating circumstances aside, she's not exactly glad to be reminded of how inept her guardsmen are. It makes her feel unsafe in her own home; it probably shouldn't considering that the only real threats to her longevity would come from a fairly unconcerned Multiverse, but alas.

All else aside, the princess would likely steal something of her own as Lucatiel takes her seat: a smile. Whatever the purpose behind her levity, Schala might enjoy the bladeswoman's 'casual' nature more than anything else about her. It makes her feel like she's getting a taste of the real world, sure, but it also makes her think that she has a friend in earnest. All her life she's been lauded over things entirely disconnected from her, and that same praise has made her distant from nearly everyone she might have called a confidant. At times, it truly seemed like Rasha was the only one unaware of her heritage, so the knight of Mirrah's particular brand of 'roguishness' makes her quite happy. Moreso than it ought, in some cases; she's far too innocent to notice the danger inherent in her character. Or anyone else's for that matter.

Still, the more she listens, the more Lucatiel has to say about her nation's warmaking practices. Her continued fixation on those things might eventually call her expression back to level. That's... not something she really has any interest in, if she can be honest, and a part of her is actually elated to know that her nation's military is not as central a focus as it is elsewhere. She would never say as much out loud, but it's certainly not something that she could ever be as adamant about. It might be a good point of conversation, though, so she might as well pursue it. She might find some common interest within it, somewhere down the road.

So she asks a bit more of her, once she's made her points: "Is combat important to you, Miss Lucatiel? You seem to become more heated about the way my people defend themselves than anything else. A part of me wonders if you have some personal connection to it – if you learned of battle through someone you were close to, perhaps." She attempts a gentle smile. "You could not always have been a wanderer. A part of me wonders what it must have been like when you were learning to fight. What it was like when your blade arm, too, was less tempered."

Not a subject that she's going to push, though, especially if she receives hint that it might be making her uncomfortable. She would move as fluidly as possible into a series of nods as she makes her comments on her handmaiden. "Human servants?" She would cant her head just faintly. "I... would have to assume that my kingdom employed human help of that kind too, once. Or I should hope so. I would like to think that our excess is not as eternal as my family's ostensible legacy." She would attempt another, playful grin here. Just further evidence of how glad she is of anyone she could even approach knowing as a friend.

Lucatiel of Mirrah (66) has posed:
Dusty wayfarer or no, the knight merely shrugs, evidently unconcerned with whatever the princess' perception of her may be. She may be a knight, and a trained warrior, but right now she's no more than a dusty wayfarer. It's an accurate description of her life, circa the last few years.

"Hardly a useful defence, though I suppose it is an unexpected one." Lucatiel raises a hand, cupping her chin in a gloved hand, elbow resting against a knee. "An assassin would hardly expect their target to be persons possessed of such talents. Although, the multiverse has a way of challenging one's perceptions."

As far as her levity goes, the answer is probably simpler than it may seem: She simply doesn't care to put on airs. It may be that she is a knight she may be, but the Elite Knights of Mirrah are more warriors than examples of chivalry. Likely it's the same; that Lucatiel simply has no care at all for Schala's purported royal blood. She respects those of talent, rather than those who rule simply because they are the son or daughter of so-and-so. Mirrah is a land of harshness, and merit – her king is her king precisely because he is a warrior and a strong leader, and not because he wears a crown. If he lost those qualities, she and many others would simply cease to heed his orders. A knife in the dark; a new king would sit the throne.

Her head turns back around, and though her expression doesn't change (and how could it, with a bronze mask covering her features?), one might have the impression she's frowning.

"I come from Mirrah, a land of knights. It is a kingdom constantly embroiled in wars with its neighbours." Her tone is somewhat dismissive. "No one in that place could afford such sloth. Forgive me if I happen to think these people soft; that they would not last five minutes against the well-ordered ranks of Mirrah's enemies, like sheep waiting for the wolf to run rampant amongst them."

"I have been raised from birth to wield a sword. You would be hard-pressed to find a time when I could not." Something in her tone softens, very slightly. "I learned all I know from my brother. His name is Aslatiel, and I am searching for him, but I suppose you have seen no one in the regalia of an Elite Knight of Mirrah; many who see this mask will turn the other way. He is the finest swordsman in Mirrah, and earned many accolades. Even I could not beat him."

A snort.

"Human servants," she agrees, "though not all of them serve by their own will. Prisoners of war. Slaves. The lower classes. But they are always offered a choice. Serve in that capacity: Or take up the sword and bring honour and status to themselves in defence of the kingdom." She lifts her chin, just slightly. "My brother and I chose the latter."

Schala Zeal (733) has posed:
"I would imagine." Her response to the claim that the Multiverse oft 'challenges one's perceptions' inspires some distance in her. The whole concept of that stretching yonder does, really – she wants so much to experience it. To see it, hear it, feel it; one day, she swears, she will. One day when all this misery in her kingdom has blown over and her mother is well. She just hopes that the situation doesn't necessitate her ascending the throne before she has the opportunity to explore. It's... a subject of contention, but she does allow herself that. It's a bit of a loophole that she was encouraged to see and understand more of the world as part of her education, and she milks that for all it's worth in her thoughts.

Schala would listen carefully, though, as Lucatiel recounts the nature of her homeland. And then, her own upbringing. It's... a curious condition, to her. In an educational tome, she might have read of it as a 'meritocracy'. Immediately, she begins to feel a stirring ambivalence: would she prefer a nation like Mirrah to her own? Again, her eyes meander to the window. Her home is a place of beauty and softness, but within that softness people have found their own cruelty. In a place like Mirrah, all people would have roughly equivalent opportunity to prove themselves so long as they were blessed with willpower and an able body, and yet life there seems... incredibly harsh. Too harsh. Could people ever find wisdom and enlightenment in that sort of an endless battle?

She look away from the window again. She really can't say. The very most she can conclude is that she would like to see something in-between their two extremes, but that's... such a useless suggestion. It's easy enough to want a more ideal 'middle road', but that's far too nebulous a claim to make. Lucatiel's philosophy holds true in one way, for her: whims and platitudes are nothing without action. Effort is a necessity, and those who are not willing to sacrifice to find betterment within themselves are doomed to fail. She had been taught this many times over in childhood – after all, an understanding of what it means to surrender things for the greater good is a part of any future leader's educational diet.

She doesn't have much to say, though, in the end. She would nod gradually and deliberately so as to give the utmost respect to each word. She can, however, conjure a reply for the final note she makes. That about her brother. Her expression, somewhat tainted by seriousness from the thoughts swirling about her head, immediately softens when she hears her brother's name. Likewise, her nodding slows ever the more, and her hands return demurely to her lap. Only when she finishes speaking completely does she make a single, modest suggestion:

"... you could do me no greater honor than to allow me to aid you in your search as recompense for whatever it is you may do for me here, or simply as a favor that requires no return on your part. But I only ask you to consider this – I do not wish to betray the trust you've invested in me by allowing me to hear these words. Not by allowing others to know it, nor by encroaching upon things I've no right to." That's probably a bit dramatic, but still. This is something she feels to hold great weight, and she will observe it as such.

Her final note on human slaves elicits another series of slow nods, followed by a more permanent bowing of her head at the end. She would say something, but there is very little to be said. Her actions have wrought what they were meant to. Their truth has been etched into her character. All of that is visible, tangible, real; it's not something that the words of a stranger could do justice to. In the brief time she's known the knight, Schala has at least come to understand that Lucatiel values silent respect more than frivolous speech. And she will abide by that knowledge.

Lucatiel of Mirrah (66) has posed:
"If you wish to aid me in my search, that is your decision, although I would imagine your hands are quite full here." The knight leans back slightly, folding her arms in a posture of indifference. Full of what, she couldn't say; at the very least, it seems there is a whiff of rebellion in the air, or at the very least a harbinger of radical societal changes. Such things are necessary in a place where the divide is so stark when there are no external pressures – threat of war and obliterations are the only thing keeping Mirrah's populace from overthrowing its own king. "Although where he has gone, I cannot imagine."

"My brother was a decorated soldier of Mirrah. As I said, he earned many accolades, and much and more high praise with the lord we served." She glances aside to the window, as though considering. "He left suddenly, and close as we were, he gave me no word, no hint of his intentions."

The mask turns to face Schala again. "Have you heard of the undead? It is a terrible fate, to know you are losing yourself and losing your humanity. The curse of undeath strikes those, at its whim, although the cause is not known. Hope of a cure is even more dim. Yet search I shall, for that is, surely, the motivation my brother must have had. Aslatiel would not abandon that which he strove so mightily to achieve with his own hands." Her head lifts, slightly, light gleaming from the contours of the mask.

"To spare himself pity from the people he served, and from those whom he fought alongside; and from his own sister... yes, he would have said nothing, and left." Her voice is low, as though she were mulling over her words. "When one is stricken by the curse, one gradually loses their humanity. They watch themselves become no more than a slavering beast, enraged by that which they have lost, yet unable to remember who or what they once were... they become Hollows, fit only to be dispatched by blade and by fire. Yes, I believe he would have left, to seek death on his own terms, and to spare himself the pity of those he knew."

"He was proud, my Aslatiel."

Yet there seems neither hope nor despair in her voice; simply neutral acceptance, as though she had long ago resigned herself to the fact that her brother has likely turned with no hope of a cure.

"In all likelihood, I am too late. He has been gone for many years, now, and I myself shall not be missed. Yet still I wander, and I search, and I listen for rumour of his travels." Her head shakes, slightly. "As of entering the multiverse, however, I have heard no word of him. And thus do I wander." She shrugs, indifferent. "I have little better to do."

In the end, that's all she can do; to shrug indifferently.

"Assist me if that is what you prefer. Do not if it is something you have no interest in. I do not care either way, though I cannot imagine how you would assist your own kingdom by leaving to search for a man who does not appear to wish to be found."

Schala Zeal (733) has posed:
At once, Lucatiel's words make Schala's heart flutter in her chest. Though nothing occurs in the realms of visibility, the princess's heart quickens. In her rises a telltale feeling of nervousness which barely abates perspiration. Likely too strong a reaction for something that is – or at the least, was meant to be – a casual conversation, but she can't help it. Somewhere beneath that mask, there are eyes; each of her pupils somehow find the means to dagger at her person even without making contact with her in any form. Again, she has been childish. Naive. How could she ever hope to take her mother's place if she is still so thoughtless?

It's true, after all. She had just made an offer to help Lucatiel find her brother, but not stopped to consider what such a feat would entail. Surely, this woman has been searching for years. She must have been. Whatever could she hope to do, even if she had her whole life to commit to the task? She takes a deep breath, allowing the air that fills her to abate her embarrassment just slightly. And to think she had sounded so adamant, so excited at the notion of 'helping' her! She still has such a long, long way to go. So much temperance yet to find.

Of course she had no plans to respond to all that, but her next words knock her off balance again. Un... dead? Her eyes dart to meet Lucatiel's, and they grace her with the most curious narrowing. In all truth, she is entirely unfamiliar with the concept – her nation's media has popularized no such thing, and there is nothing similar enough in her memory that she may use as reference. Still, she can grasp that it is some sort of disease, and a gruesome one. It seems to be something that rots not only flesh, but spirit; a veritable leprosy of the soul. Or at least of the mind.

At once, Schala realizes her hunched posture and the silly gape at her jaw. She adjusts both, nestling back on to her bed and swallowing as part of a refrain before reply. The more Lucatiel shares of this curse, the more horrified she becomes. It sounds... like a fate worse than death. That is a concept she understands well from books she has read, but to know that something of that ilk exists in reality tears at her comprehension. Her skin pales merely at the thought and her hands, still joined at her waist, squeeze together to avoid quivering.

So many rude awakenings in such great frequency... truly, this Multiverse has turned out to be quite an ugly truth for her. Never has she seen such a cataclysm of contrast – help masked within a face of scars and stitches; heroism tempered by the stark reality of an abyss that tugs at the human heart.

Again, she draws breath, and again, she exhales. "... a more dour and trying condition than any I believe I could understand as I am now, I fear." She refrains from speaking of how much her brother's choice – and perhaps Lucatiel's own – reminds her of tales of noble animals who have wandered from their packs to spare them the burden of their passing. Of course, the thought is tinged with great respect and fondness in the princess's own mind, but she doubts that it would come off so nicely if it was put to words. Still, she allows the thought to consume her – to calm her, and wrap her mind in a more soothing embrace. The image of a wolf drawing its last breath beneath the wispy bower of a tree in fall is far, far more relaxed and romantic than the one of... of a rabid beast tearing themselves asunder.

Oh, how much she hopes that is not truly her brother's fate. Her face might betray the faintest of frowns as she studies Lucatiel's features as she muses, and as soon as she is made aware of this she turns away. That's enough moping from her. She has no right to be so upset.

The knight's conclusion is like a spear that pierces her heart. She barely stifles another rush of nervousness with tensing of her shoulders. Her hands, now against the blanket on her bead, scrunch the soft materials tightly. And they squeeze with all the might they do not possess. When she finds it within herself, Schala nods rather meekly. In a hush, she replies, "If a method of aiding you ever presents itself. And if it does not jeopardize my mission here." To say anything else would seem dishonest, though she will not comment on whether it is truly her preference to stay.

There is a long silence afterwards. Her eyes would study the ground for an interminable, uncertain period, but before Lucatiel has the time to decide that she has wasted enough time here, the princess would turn back to face her. Her countenance now seems to carry with it something distinctly more... resolute – a facade, perhaps, but one that might garner some real interest in one tired of witnessing her trepidation. Still, the content of her words may not be as stirring as either of them may hope:

"Thank you," She add in the subdued tone from before, though faintly emboldened, "for saying all this. As you can see, I'm unused to it. I lack any of the temperance that you have. And as I said, I cannot fathom any condition so gruesome. But." Her eyes squeeze shut a moment longer as she stops to consider herself. Then they reopen. "But your suffering and your brother's... it will have meaning. With every word you share and every radiant memory I feel emanating from your person, I learn. I grow. The more I meet with you, Lucatiel, the more my innocent heart is being made aware of the truths it must know to safeguard those things that are important to me." Her hand would wander to her chest. She clutches her amulet, obfuscated though it may be by the satin of her robe.

"You will not be forgotten." She says, in full volume. "Your names may leave the flow of time one day. As will mine. As will everyone's. But this moment, right now, will live on forever. I will see to it that these words you speak to me reverberate throughout my kingdom as a renewed strength and dedication to purpose. And if it is within my power, that change... will be a lasting one." Slowly, the serious tension of her face eases back. Her eyes close again, and her whole body seems to relax. She offers not further words, incomplete though her proclamation might have been, and she allows herself a moment of rest.

Though she eventually does raise her eyes to meet the knight's again, and she smiles. It's full of warmth, and all the gratitude her speech had promised. She only hopes that that energy may suffuse her being somehow... and forestall that curse, that she might one day see her brother again. Even if it's for but a moment, and even if she has no idea why she is so concerned, she wants this. With as much vehemence as she wants to see her mother cured.

What a strange thing companionship is.

Lucatiel of Mirrah (66) has posed:
All of the myriad reactions that the princess has to her revelations go more or less unremarked on. It's obvious enough that these are things she needs to hear if she expects to have any skill in ruling her kingdom; if she expects to steer it away from the decadence, avarice, and indifference that rule it now. The time is come for Zeal to turn away from that which it has clung so hard to for generations; to roll up its collective sleeves and dirty its hands however it must – if it expects to survive.

Any kingdom left to such idleness and disregard for its subjects is a kingdom that will not long last. With no external pressures toughening it, the kingdom itself will in turn rot from within.

The knight can hardly imagine Mirrah in such a state. It has always been hard and lean as a wolf fresh out of a bad winter, and just as vicious when provoked. Mirrah is vicious because it has no choice but to be vicious; it fights for its very survival, lest its people become the slaves of its neighbours, and its beautiful sandstone palaces become smoldering ruins. She has never had any illusions to its fate if it should grow lax. Neither has its ruling lord; as incentive, those in the poorest stratum of society have always been offered glory and honour within the ranks of its armies.

In light of Mirrah's external pressures, she can hardly complain about idealism, or find any scorn in the way the kingdom governs itself. It's a sensible system and more than many such places might offer to its downtrodden peoples. She herself came from such beginnings, and she herself achieved such honour, as did her brother. They rose from unknown street rats to the finest sword wielders of their semi-desert kingdom; they wear the masks and garb of Elite Knights through their own hard work and relentless training.

Lucatiel, however, is a cynic.

"'Dour' and 'trying' are pretty words for an ugly thing," Lucatiel states succinctly. "I gather that you have no such things with which to compare the curse of undeath within Zeal. These people are too soft to know of such a unique torment." She gives that long and exasperated sigh, echoing very slightly through the confines of the mask. "As I thought. Perhaps you may learn more of it someday. I should hope not, for it has no place in this kingdom, or in any others beyond distant Mirrah or wretched Drangleic."

She shrugs, indifferent. "I have heard no reports of such a thing beyond their bounds, so I would imagine it has not yet found its way into the multiverse. But it is an ill-understood thing, and like any disease, I imagine it is persistent; it is only a matter of time. It is my hope that somewhere within the multiverse lies the answer in turning aside such a fate. Surely there must be something. I find one's expectations of everything else are twisted into knots; why not the inevitability of undeath, then, as well?"

"I will accept your offer of help, although I would advise you to remain here, where you are clearly needed."

To the matter of telling Schala these necessary truths, and showing her necessary hardship, Lucatiel doesn't seem to have much to say. She simply stares at the princess for what might seem a very long time, before shaking her head.

"Spare me your pretty words."

So much for warm, fuzzy feelings.

"I care not if my name is remembered, or my brother's. We will be remembered in Mirrah, and that is enough for me." She hasn't fallen so far yet as to beg. Not yet. Her mind is still her own, and she will carry her own name, for the time being. "It has no more meaning now than it did a year ago, or two, or five. There is no rhyme and no reasoning to the curse of undeath. Run your kingdom as you see fit, but it has naught to do with me, nor do I have any illusions to that." The mask tilts slightly; although her words might seem harsh, she doesn't seem particularly angered. "The best you can do is to pull your head from these gods-forsaken clouds that so many others would appear to have their heads lost within, and cast aside these pretty words and purposeless thoughts."

"What this place needs now is purpose and action. Words and dreams and ideals have rarely served kingdoms well; it is one thing to envision a future, but it is another entirely to grasp it with both hands, and to act upon it." She gestures vaguely with both gloved hands, fingers clawed as though to grasp something. "I have the impression this wretched place has spent far too long dreaming, and now it is time for it to rouse from its slumber, and to act."

...So much for warm and fuzzy feelings, but at least she seems to give the words with a certain apathy – she's not angry, just stating what she sees as simple fact. The knight seems a bit rough around the edges like that, refusing to stand on formality or buy into hoity-toity ideals regardless of who she's speaking with. Far better to rely on action than words, for her; intent of action speaks more loudly than any pretty words spent beating around the proverbial bush.

"I think, with some tempering, you will be able to provide this."

Okay, maybe she's not a complete bitch. So there's that.

"However, I suspect I should take my leave before your incompetent guardsmen finally notice there is an intruder in their midst." The words are given with some scorn, but mostly sarcasm. She doesn't actually expect to be found, but maybe she's had enough of Zeal's decadence. "In the meantime, you have paid for my services, and so if you should require them, you need only contact me. I shall hardly be missed in Mirrah, and it would be a shame to let the skills of an Elite Knight of Mirrah go to rust and ruin." The last is spoken with some sarcasm, too. The only reason she even offers is boredom, and perhaps a slight curiosity to see where this might lead.

Provided she isn't stopped, she'll rise, buckle her rapier about her waist again, and make for the window. Easing open the frame, she climbs out to drop down onto the roof, noiseless. She waits as she had before she had entered, arms folded over the sill, head tilted to regard Schala.

"This will test and temper you in ways you cannot even imagine. I wonder," she muses, the plumes of her hat quivering as she tilts her head the other way, studying Schala in apparent curiosity. "Do you think you have the strength to do what must be done?"

Go through with a revolution, that is. Restructure the entirety of her kingdom. Defy her mother, if she must; everything and everything it is that Zeal might require, her casual question seems to imply.

Schala Zeal (733) has posed:
... shot down again.

This encounter will do much to prevent Schala from mouthing off in the future, if only because each time she's tried to console her she's been met with such apathy. It's left her with an extremely queasy, awkward feeling – something only a child enraptured by a dream of finality and romanticized mirth and forced to snap out of it could know quite so acutely. She's left absolutely speechless, but more than that, helpless. She's used to receiving such spirited, warm replies as she speaks like this. A better reception, one might say. It isn't that she's aggravated herself, or hurt, or annoyed; rather, she just has absolutely no idea of how to respond here. This is a new sort of interaction entirely, and she has no concept of what should be done about it.

Looking into Lucatiel's eyes, Schala is sure: this woman is from another world. One far, far removed from hers. Possibly as far as any place can be in both form and idea.

So this time, she really does remain silent. She puts up no resistance as the woman moves back to the window, and wouldn't even make eye contact until she's addressed for a final time. Indeed, does she have the strength? That very question plagues her mind every day for almost every waking hour. It has crippled her to inaction thus far, and she only begun to move at all because others have intervened. In truth, she cannot say one way or the other, but she is fairly certain the answer is no. So she would shake her head in that direction in reply, closing her eyes in shame and inclining her head toward the ground. There is nothing she can do to communicate the depth of failure she feels accompanying this reality, so this will have to suffice.

Even so, though, she would eventually force herself to look up. With a miserable expression, her voice would make one more empty promise: "But I will... do everything I can to carry that burden all the same. I will perform as though I have the wherewithal until that becomes my reality. I... can do nothing else." And it's true. So long as her words continue to convey this same sort of helplessness, she will be incapable of surmounting this challenge. Something within her – something fundamental – must change if she is to do all that she hopes she can. She must feel the gravity of this affair beyond anything she can presently understand. She must become her obligation, embody it, and walk upon the Earth in its spirit.

And she will have to do all this... far, far beyond concept. Beyond these words. That, too, is something she cannot understand, and something that she may never understand. But to herself, she swears, she will try to. She will try to know what it means to exert effort, to apply force. The next time Lucatiel and the others fight, she swears, they will not be doing so alone. Slowly, her fingers unfurl, the young woman studies the palms of her hands.

Next time the battlefield is dyed crimson, her hands, too, will wear the paint of indignation. Though she does not know what any of that will entail, she can sense that she must be sullied. Her success depends on it. Her home depends on it. Everything... everything depends on it.

"... farewell, Lucatiel." No more thank-yous. No more flowery departures. The knight has chosen to go, and she will go. And then Schala will think for the rest of this night, but no longer. Enough time has been spent in idleness. Things will begin as soon as the next sun rises. That much she promises.

For now, though, there's another knocking at the door – a harsh sound. A sliver of blue hair teases through the entryway, and the princess is again drawn out of her stupor. She looks to the window again, but...

... but by that time, Lucatiel is likely already gone.