Scene #1048: Home Away from Home

Owner	Pose
Bitter Medicine	Desolation. Travelers from lonely worlds will have something of an easier time here than most, but it's by no means pleasant. If anything, it's dead and barren, the air here as thin as the highlands of some mountainous village. The silence would be oppressive if not for the distant grinding of gears and their myriad mechanical cousins. There's a smell of oil in the air and a profound sense of loneliness. The Great Maker's servants and subroutines fly, float, slither and scurry, their presence offering no more company than shadows on the wall. Life, what little of it exists out here, is utterly ignored by these machine spirits, save for hostile life--which is certainly here, somewhere. It's not hard for the seasoned Elite to detect the presence of scurrying feet; of things which hide deliberately rather than as a function of their purpose. The signs of their presence are evident in the landscape--parts of it look deliberately damaged. Clawed. Chewed.
Lucatiel of Mirrah	Sometimes it's not so different from the deserts outlying the war-torn lands of her world; other times, it's a wholly alien wasteland. This place is the kind of hell not even the most creatively, twisted minds could imagine. Lucatiel of Mirrah had been wandering here for days, riding astride the great dapple-grey stallion brought from Mirrah itself. That tireless beast had carried her for some time across the grey wastes, but even he had flagged; now, directionless, horse and rider trudge along in search of a warpgate out of this blasted hell. The horse slows to a halt, and the rider leans far over the front of the saddle, peering with slitted eyes at a beam of metal or some other material, sticking up from the ground. It looks suspiciously... /chewed/. Clad in raiment befitting an Elite Knight of Mirrah, she looks like she could be a contemporary of the Three Musketeers in silks and embossed leather armour and magnificent leather hat, its black plume reaching skyward, and the ragged-ended blue waistcloth folded into her belt; but it's the mask that sets her apart. Hammered steel in the guise of an unsmiling man, with neatly-trimmed beard and moustache, and imposing features -- that itself might make her seem more fitting to the alien and no-nonsense things here, but she doesn't belong in this place. Sand winds are her preferred environment; the hot, arid earth of Mirrah, and the distant promise of sea beyond the borders. There comes from behind the mask a long, exasperated, drawn-out sigh. "...I've had enough of this place," she mutters to herself, voice weirdly echoing from the mask as she straightens. Turning the horse with a flick of the reins, she looks back the way she'd come, hoofprints marring the dust and grit of the wastes. Behind the mask, she frowns. Well, this is a fine pickle, this trackless waste.
Bitter Medicine	Trackless indeed. The metal of this place offers no assistance to the stranger. It's a wonder anyone could live here at all. The only reason the ground isn't a gleaming example of cleanliness is due to the oil, metal shavings and rust which accumulate in spots. Odd as it might be to ascribe human qualities to a place, much less a place so alien as this one, the area seems... sickly. Lucatiel has perhaps fifteen minutes of peace, with peace being a relatively more friendly word than quiet. Then, there's noise. Rattling, clinking, scraping. The scraping is the worst of it--whatever makes the noise seems to be doing so almost intentionally, as if the grating sound drew some pleasure for its owner. Out of the woodworks, or lack-of-wood-works, there comes a minor horde of things. Things is the best word to describe them, not only because of their likely foreign appearance to one from Drangleic, but because they exhibit an almost willful disregard for anything resembling orderly anatomy. The best one can hope for when observing them is hints and tastes, like a deranged chef's creation. A pinch of squid here, a squeeze of spider there. They shamble towards Lucatiel, each one a mass of mechanical cancer--superfluous tubes and wires, dripping oil, grinding, screeching, clanging. Buzzsaws and drills and torches, all tools perverted towards, or perhaps designed for killing and destroying. Syringes drip with disturbingly viscous cocktails, bared like the rusted fangs of steel cable vipers.
Lucatiel of Mirrah	Slinging the reins sideways, Lucatiel turns her horse the other way, as though contemplating the wisdom of journeying in one direction rather than the other. It's six to one and half-dozen the other, at this point, and the only real saving grace is the possibility of stumbling across some manner of warpgate or another. At least, that was the idea. And now she can hear sounds that bode ill. Oh. Lovely. The woman gives another one of those long, drawn-out sighs of exasperated annoyance. And, with a rasp of leather and steel, the greatsword over her shoulder -- a cavalry greatsword, enormous and glinting dully in the murky light -- she brings her blade to bear, spurring the horse forward. "Come, then, Naruiel." Her free hand lowers to tangle into the horse's mane, gripping firmly. "We will deal with this rabble, first. Ugly, aren't they, then? I suppose ugly begets ugly, in this place." The beast charges, snorting and plunging, shod hooves striking sparks from the metal ground; as much a weapon as the blade held by its rider -- lashing out with its hooves as it draws close, a jerk against the reins enough to bring it up short, rearing up and thrashing at them with its heavy hooves, even as Lucatiel brings her blade sweeping around to try and slash at the unspeakably grotesque weaponry brought to bear against her. "Sometimes," she grunts, perhaps talking to the horse, "I hate travel."
Bitter Medicine	Help arrives from unexpected places. Credit for the first kill goes to Naruiel. Horses are often surprisingly strong, and here, they are alien beasts. A squidthing which underestimates the steed, or overestimates itself, has its metallic shell cracked open. It falls to the ground, spasming and leaking stained-white ichor. Apparently, these things are the equivalent of Hollows--their real danger comes from numbers. But, on the subject of unusual allies? It seems some of the machines in the surrounding area have taken an interest in Lucatiel. As soon as her horse fells the first abomination, a jet of corrosive, transparent fluid melts what can only be described as a cancerously deformed mechanical crustacean--perhaps without its bulging pneumatic growths, it might be likened to a hermit crab, especially with the large optical stalks it has. Now, it looks like a heap of unmoving slag, thanks to the efforts of a floating mechanical nautilus. Where the other creatures are abhorrent, this one, however alien it might be, is at least /orderly/ in its appearance. There's not a spot on it marred by rust, nor an inch of its anatomy disgraced with unsightly bulges. Each appendage ends in a different tool, and unlike its foes, these tools have not been engineered for killing--though they certainly dissassemble well enough. Lucatiel's sword strikes true, severing an arm brought to bear against her. It twitches as it falls like the lost limb of a reptile, and its owner hisses in a not entirely automated way. Is that spite? The end of the knight's swing knocks astray some orb-thing, only to reveal hundreds of razor sharp needles apparently serving as legs. Now that they know she can easily take them, Lucatiel's foes settle into a cautious shuffle not unlike that of the aforementioned Hollows, testing the space between them and conservatively searching for openings.
Lucatiel of Mirrah	"How lovely." Lucatiel wrinkles her nose behind the mask. She's no stranger to foul things and disgusting spectacles -- while Mirrah was slightly more civilised, Drangleic was filled to the brim with such unpleasant surprises -- but this is pretty terrible even by her standards. A flick of the reins brings the horse to mince sideways with deceptive delicacy. He's not a draft horse, but Naruiel is still pretty big, and sturdy enough to carry Lucatiel, all of her armour, and the few supplies she needs while travelling rolled up into a bedroll behind the saddle; he's strong, and trained for war. Score one for the horse, but he seems all too happy to get away from these noisy, foul-smelling things. Lucatiel, meanwhile, is all too happy to visit hell upon them. She may not be able to do much damage with her sword against these mechanical minions, but it's something. And she has a surprisingly powerful sword-arm. Oh lovely. More weaponry. What sort of lunatic /dreamed up/ this nightmarish nonsense?! Good. They're on the defensive. She spurs the horse forward into another leaping and plunging charge, one of thrashing hooves and flashing greatsword -- aiming to scatter them like a ball thrown amongst ninepins. Just, you know. Messier. A lot messier.
Bitter Medicine	CLANG. For the second time, the sound of metal against metal rings out, the struck assailants ringing with an unusually sonorous sound, given their ugly appearances. Perhaps it's this world's way of cheering Lucatiel on. Perhaps it's just coincidence. Either way, the knight's brute strength carries her far. These things might be tough, but they seem to be built more for doing damage than taking it. Without much in the way of counterbalancing systems, it's remarkably easy to knock them over with a good enough whack. Lucatiel's sword arm, it seems, is very good at delivering such whacks. Her erstwhile ally the nautilus capitalizes on her strength, its glowing red eyes watching her. A drill-appendage zips in and unbolts the metallic plating of a few of the creatures, while its owner bobs left and right. The noises coming from the creatures grows more irate by the second, something one wouldn't usually prescribe to machinery. Off in the distance, there's a roaring sound.
Lucatiel of Mirrah	Or perhaps it's just the simple fact of metal against resonant metal, creating a chiming that's strangely pleasing to the ears. That's a good incentive to keep on striking these things like church bells. Well... that, and not wanting to die. That's a good reason, too. Lucatiel seems to catch onto the ability to overbalance these things via blunt trauma, and circles her horse about to broadside the hideous mechanical creatures; a charging blow is enough to send them over, where they aren't as effective at things like, oh, say, 'murdering her horribly.' From there, it's easy to order Naruiel to rear up and come down on them with his broad, hard hooves, whistling his equine battle-cry and trampling. That nautilus does earn a few looks, when she has the opportunity to. That one seems different, and so she doesn't attack it -- but it's piqued her curiosity. It's not like these other things. Aside from the fact that it isn't hostile, it's actively taking apart its mechanical brethren, through... tools? And why do they sound so angry? She pauses at the sound of a distant roar. Several things flick through her mind. Dragons. Monsters. Giant slavering things. Even the things she'd hunted in Wyveria might have made sounds like that. Something big, and something unpleasant. Lucatiel sighs that exasperated, angry sigh through her mask again, but this time it sounds a little winded. She's not sure even she has the wherewithal to face down another Great Big Thing after dealing with the small fry.
Bitter Medicine	The skies are free of dragons, drakes, and Pursuers, but they aren't empty. Well, actually, considering there's no moon, no sun, and no stars, yes, they are--but there's a... presence, of sorts. A purple speck, repidly growing larger and larger until it goes from speck to corona. The combined efforts of blunt force trauma and the nautilus' precision disassembly fell one, then two, then three of the abominations, each one dying with hateful hissing or an almost anguished screech of bending girders. The remaining one, an apelike thing of ill-colored steam and creaking gears, rears up onto its misshapen hindlegs and attempts to swipe Lucatiel off of her steed. The nautilus interjects, but its mass, even being several times larger than its organic counterpart, is not sufficient to completely resist the force of the apething's blow. Suffering an ugly dent in its near-reflective 'shell,' it doesn't let out so much as a peep, save for the natural denting in its metal. If it's possible for such a thing to be wounded, then this machine is wounded, leaking oil and listing from side to side as it slowly gets back into the air. It wobbles left, then right. The apething's jagged fist swings through the air once more, attempting to remove the only obstacle between it and Lucatiel. With an almost gleeful demeanor, the apething bats it aside. Its hands raise up into the air like meat tenderizers. EEEEEEARGH A sound like the death wail of a swamp hag pierces the air. The apething's hands fall to the ground with a clatter, the creature dumbly staring at the culprit--a disc of blue-black metal already on its way back to make another attack. SKREEEEEAH This time, the apething's left leg is removed from its body. It begins to try and hobble away. The nautilus watches as six feet and two inches of Alchemical Exalted lands on top of its enemy. Crunch. The disc flies swiftly and obediently into the hand of its owner, who promptly crushes the weakened monster's head beneath his boot. The stranger, looking like a Russian officer from the Western Front (a stark cultural and chronological counterpart to Lucatiel) retracts the vicious teeth of his weapon and places it on his hip. "Hail."
Lucatiel of Mirrah	Lucatiel cocks her sword as though to deliver a hammerblow with the flat of her blade, but the nautilus has already interjected itself between her and her quarry. The thing gets battered and dented, neatly removing it-- And before she has a chance to strike down Big Ugly, the thing is suddenly short limbs, and having its head crushed, and...? Lucatiel's sword slowly lowers until it hangs limply, point fixed toward the dirt, arm hanging loose at her side. Her other hand is still gripping Naruiel's mane, but the horse seems to be just as nonplussed, one ear forward and one ear back; already backing up a step or two. "Well, that was an interesting trick. You'll have to tell me how you managed that so neatly." The masked, hatted head tilts slightly. "Greetings. I was beginning to wonder if I would encounter anything worthwhile in this wretched place." The sword raises, but only held loosely. She doesn't look ready to attack, but the blade is held at the ready just in case it needs to be used. "May I ask who you are?"
Bitter Medicine	"I am Bitter Medicine, Chosen of the Machine God." He spitefully grinds his jackboot into the detritus which formerly comprised the apething's head, then steps off of its unmoving husk. As he turns to face her, he reveals his face. His skin is pallid--too much to be human, almost white in its color. His hair by contrast is jet black, and his forehead bears a brilliantly cut diamond. Aside from the gem embedded in his forehead, the man is severe to the point of inviting ugliness. At the very least, he looks aptly named. "And," he says, "This wretched place is the Reaches." Bitter Medicine's hands clasp behind his back, which only serves to strengthen the image he conveys--authority. He strides over to the nautilus, which appears to be undergoing treatment by a number of tiny, crystalline insects. It bleeps at him, a synthetic but not unpleasant sound. It's almost musical. "This machine spirit says you defeated these gremlins." So, that's what they're called. He cranes his neck, peering first at Lucatiel's horse, then her weapon, then the numerous dead gremlins. "I would know your name, comrade," he says.
Lucatiel of Mirrah	Behind the mask, Lucatiel blinks owlishly at that spiteful display, and at the otherworldly appearance of this dapper-coated officer. At least, that's the only comparison she can think to make. He carries himself with the kind of dignity and authority that one would expect of an officer, though... officer of what, she couldn't say. Well, maybe the Machine God, whatever that is. Carefully, she flicks the ichor off the greatsword; broad and heavy, she nonetheless lifts it with ease, sheathing it across the back of her shoulder. She also wears a smaller sword at her hip, a rapier of some kind, and a round metal shield over her back. "Hm." A thoughtful sound, but not one that seems terribly impressed; a sound of reserve, just the same as the mask hides her expressions. She folds her arms, once her greatsword's out of the way. The masked face turns out to regard the bleak landscape, and one can practically sense the disdain radiating from the woman -- for though it's hard to tell her gender by appearance alone, with such armour, her hard and low voice is nonetheless female; and there is a long blonde braid beneath the back of her hat's brim. "I suppose I must have taken a wrong turn, somewhere. I certainly didn't intend to come here." The head turns then, back to the nautilus. It's cute in a strange sort of alien way. "Machine spirit?" Oh, but how rude of her. Lucatiel sighs that hard, exasperated sigh. "I would have preferred to simply leave, but now that I've come here, it doesn't matter. You may call me Lucatiel." Today is one of her lucid days, it seems. "I come from Mirrah, a land of knights. I am myself one of them." She reaches out to steady the horse, which snorts and stirs restlessly as Bitter Medicine looks their way again. "And this," she adds wryly, indicating the horse with a pat of its dappled neck, "is Naruiel."
Bitter Medicine	Bitter Medicine nods grimly. "There aren't many people here who intend to be. Nomads, outcasts, scavengers..." He pauses for effect. "Gremlin hunters." The Exalt looks for a moment as if he might attempt a smile, but settles instead upon a thoughtful frown. "You've done my people a service, Lucatiel." Here on Autochthonia, a place where life is a constant effort, even the smallest gestures of aid go a long way. "Helping you find your way is the least I could do in return." The nautilus beeps at Lucatiel, then begins sterilizing and salvaging the gremlins, using the rendered down components to make spot-repairs to the surroundings. "Sova's the closest of the Eight Nations currently." Currently? An unusual word when referring to geography. The Exalt peers at Lucatiel's steed as if inspecting a troop. "We could be there in two days' time, at which point you could use the warpgate in their customs office. We should leave." The roaring sound from before echoes through the sky. "Soon."
Lucatiel of Mirrah	That gesture of service was completely unintentional, for once. Not that she makes a particular habit of wandering from place to place doing good deeds. A knight she may be, but the knights of Mirrah are not the sort to wear shining armour, ride white horses, or do good deeds. It's simply a denotion of strength, and to a lesser extent, political authority. Well, Lucatiel isn't completely morally bankrupt, but she's no white knight, either... but that's beside the point. Mostly. Her attention is taken momentarily by the nautilus as it beeps at her and goes about its repair-work. Something about it is almost charming, alien as it is, and some small, dim part of her is glad the thing wasn't destroyed. "'Currently?'" She glances back to Bitter Medicine, and though he can't see it behind the steel mask, she frowns. "A curious way to refer to a place... but I'll not split hairs if haste is needed." A chuck of the reins in her hand brings Naruiel to circle, and the way her head tilts suggests she's studying the Exalt as well. "Will you ride, or will you walk? I am quite certain Naruiel would outpace you as you are... or perhaps not. The life in this place is strange."
Bitter Medicine	"Yes," Bitter Medicine admits. "If you've never met an Exalt before, we're certainly that." He grunts. The pale figure scowls at the horizon, his brow furrowing. "It would be more efficient if I flew. Use the light of my plasma thrusters to find your way, and don't slow down." Before Lucatiel can ask him what in the bloody hell plasma thrusters are, he demonstrates. Loudly. If it's possible to describe the sound in Drangleic-friendly terms, the best available description would be that of a fire igniting itself all at once. The Exalt takes to the air, hovering ten feet above Lucatiel and her steed. He stays there only so long as it takes for him to catch her attention, and then he's off. Trails of ash and cinder fall to the ground in the wake of those purple flames.
Lucatiel of Mirrah	What in the bloody hell is a plasma thr-- Oh. He's gone. And suddenly Lucatiel has her hands full, because even the most well-trained horse has its limits, and Naruiel has suddenly decided he wants nothing whatsoever to do with that nonsense. She crouches low over his neck as he rears up, screaming and thrashing with his front hooves, ears plastered back against his neck. Lucatiel is apparently an expert equestrian, though, and manages to force his head back down, looking up just long enough to catch sight of the light's position, spurring him onward. His first few paces are pretty reluctant, but she drives him on, and soon the two are at a ground-eating gallop over the metallic wastes. The Mirrah courser's steel-shod hooves strike sparks from the ground, making light of their own. Lucatiel herself is forced to snort once or twice beneath the mask, tasting ash from those thrusters. Even still, she decides, that is a /terribly/ convenient way to travel. If it doesn't set you on fire or something, anyway.
Bitter Medicine	Bitter Medicine is a pretty good lodestar. Rather than ignore the limitations of terrain, he scouts out troublesome areas for Lucatiel and takes action to evade them--narrow passageways, chasms, and even, when it's convenient, uneven ground are all avoided. After a few hours of flight, the Exalt looks over his shoulder. His head is not turned towards Lucatiel, but rather towards his world's dark horizon. Apparently, whatever was spooking him no longer is, because, perhaps to his guests' pleasure, he slows his pace slightly. Needless to say, two days of constant travel is pushing it even for an Exalt, and Bitter Medicine does /occasionally/ stop to allow his Essence reserves to replenish and to allow Lucatiel's steed to recuperate. On the whole, he is a taciturn taskmaster, very much deserving of his name. There is good in him, but even in his stern nature, there is much of the evil of goodness. Midway through the second day of travel, he comes to a gradual halt, this time taking care not to spook the horse. A gloved finger points towards the horizon--a speck upon it, rather. "There. A few of Sova's siphon-cities." That must mean it won't be long before Lucatiel can catch a warpgate out of here. "I have water, if you need it."
Lucatiel of Mirrah	Thanks to the thoughtful navigation of their guide, horse and rider are able to pick out the most efficient route through the wasteland's brutal terrain. Several times they have to slow to navigate the badlands, an act that Lucatiel seems to take with all due seriousness. An error on her part might yield a broken leg for Naruiel, and he is not so easily replaced; she is unwilling to take that risk. Those rest breaks are also welcome. Naruiel may be a high-quality steed, but he is mortal, and subject to the limitations of a mortal. Neither is Lucatiel immune to having to ride for forty-eight hours; though she's trained herself to doze in the saddle when her steed slows, the horse also needs to rest. Both of them look pretty ragged by the time they make it to the outskirts of Sova's siphon-cities. She's too tired to even ask what in the bloody hell a siphon-city is. ...Oh. Oh, they're not /that/ close. "Water." It's both acknowledgement and agreement, and even Lucatiel's voice sounds cracked and dry behind the mask. "Please." There's a pause. One can almost sense the distaste radiating from her. "How does one even eke out a living in this wasteland?" She lifts her hand, absently tucking the plume more firmly into the hatband. "Nothing grows."
Bitter Medicine	The Exalt tosses a canteen to Lucatiel. It's heavier than it should be. Has he not had any? "Out here? No one /lives/ out here." How best to explain it to a foreigner? Bitter Medicine furrows his brow, staring at the horizon. "A few survive. Nomads and scavengers with special suits which ensure no moisture is wasted." He nimbly drops down from his platform to stand preternaturally upon a pipe. "Rumors of tunnel settlements. Unconfirmed." He stands guard, waiting for Lucatiel to finish resting. "The Eight Nations are a different story. Each one has an infrastrucure designed at the municipal level to facilitate human life. Air and water refineries, hydroponically grown food, elementally provided power, heating, and lighting."
Lucatiel of Mirrah	Fortunately, the fencer has quick reflexes. She catches the canteen handily, absently unscrewing the lid and taking a nice long pull of it. After a few minutes of consideration, she sweeps her hat off her head, turning it upside-down and filling it with water, offering that to Naruiel by leaning well over his neck. The horse makes a messy affair of it, but seems appreciative of it. Without the hat, the mask still covers her face, tied with a leather band around the back of the head. Her hair is revealed, though, blonde and pulled into a neat braid that trails down her back; after two days of relentless travel, it (like the rest of her) looks a little scruffy. Smacking the empty hat a few times to dislodge the rest of the water, she lays that over her lap, screwing the canteen shut and tossing it back to Bitter Medicine. If she notices the level of water in there doesn't seem right, she doesn't comment on it. He'd drink if he wanted to, no doubt. He knows this place better than she does. Also, she's pretty well aware that he's not really human. Who knows how his bizarre physiology works. "Hm." This, to the matter of people living out here. "Curious. What a dark and dreary place... though I suppose Drangleic was no less harsh, in its own way." She gives the hat a few more whacks to dislodge most of the water and replaces it on her head, tugging the brim into place. "Those creatures I slew. Gremlins." The mask tilts back up to Bitter Medicine. "Tell me more about those."
Bitter Medicine	The Exalt places the canteen back into his trench coat. At Lucatiel's request, he nods. "I was built to destroy them," begins Bitter Medicine. "Among other things." He ruminates on that for a moment, then explains in full, running a gloved hand through his jet-black hair. Unlike the fencer's, his is short enough that it doesn't require the least bit of maintenance--and it's evident that 'the least amount' is exactly how much effort he puts into it. "Autochthon is sick. He was always mocked by his brothers and sisters for his frailty, which is why he helped the gods of creation devise a way to kill them--but that's another story entirely. We call it Gremlin Syndrome. Imagine being slowly destroyed by your own body, and you'll get the idea." "Gremlins used to be servants of Autochthon, part of his cosmology. Machine spirits, elementals..." Even Alchemical Exalted. But that is /heavily/ classified. "When infected, they become the antithesis of everything the Machine God stands for; disorder, entropy, deliberate waste. They destroy and defile whatever they can, be it the Great Maker's body, his divine subroutines, or his people." "A few years ago, some of the Eight Nations collaborated to create a solution to the gremlins. The Palladium Wyrm, an immensely powerful automaton that could think and even speak. It was to be a sort of..." The Alchemical's gloved finger twirls in a circle as if trying to drudge up the word he's looking for. "Antibody. Do you know that word? Antibody?" He waves his hand dismissively. "Anyway, it worked well, until a horde of gremlins captured it and made it into one of them. Now it wanders the Reaches on an aimless and hateful path of destruction."
Lucatiel of Mirrah	Folding her arms, Lucatiel leans forward, perched over the crest of Naruiel's neck as easily as one might fold their arms and lean on solid furniture. Most likely he has a great deal of trust in the animal not to spook and fling her from his back; she seems to be an expert equestrian, and handles herself well in the saddle. Ah, so hunting those nasty things is his job. That might explain why he approached her after she'd finished them off. The fact that the nautilus was there to report her activities probably didn't hurt. Character witness, or the like. He seemed to communicate with the thing as easily as she conveys orders to her horse. Slowly destroyed by your own body? Lucatiel makes a thoughtful sound at that, and behind the mask, her face twists. It's a grin, but it's not a nice one, brief as it is. Good thing he can't see it. Straightening, she takes the hat off and sets it over the forward part of the saddle, reaching up with both arms to untie the leather fastenings of the steel mask. One hand carefully guides it down, revealing a pretty face -- at least, it might have been pretty once upon a time. The left side, concentrated around her eye, is a sickly grey-green. Though it doesn't smell like rot, it looks like it, with a leathery and dry appearance to the affected skin. Her right eye is a clear blue, but the eye on the affected side is a milky white. "I do believe I have experience with /that/." The mask and hat are left off, because hey, it's hot in these wastes. Her eyes watch him as she reaches out to pat the horse's neck; the afflicted eye seems to see just fine, tracking along with the other. Lucatiel sighs, but it seems more a contented sound than anything else. It's good to be rid of that steel and leather. It's hot here. Not entirely unlike Mirrah, except for the steel and the gremlins and the eleemntals and all that. Okay, so it's hot and dry like Mirrah, and that's about where the similarities end. "So they run about and destroy things, then. I suppose I was doing you a favour back there. How unfortunate." She reaches up to rub the unaffected side of her chin, thoughtful. "Curious." Antibody? "No. So this Palladium Wyrm was a... guardian, of some kind. Is that what you chose to flee, then?" She gestures vaguely, back towards the direction they'd come from. "The sky-shadow back the way we had come?"
Bitter Medicine	Understanding flashes in his eyes as he observes Lucatiel's face. So, she knows what it's like. The constant weight upon the shoulders which demands one find a cure before one's existence is pulled from beneath one's feet. In her case, it's just a more immediate threat. "You did do me a favor. I'll repay it however I can." Autochthonia's in no position to turn down help, or let good deeds go unrewarded. Bitter Medicine hops off of the pipe and rolls his neck. Pop-pop-pop. "As for the Palladium Wyrm... guardian's a good word, or was. He was supposed to fight the infection. Now he's part of it." The Exalt stops himself from grinding his teeth. "The Wyrm has enough weaponry to annihilate anything but a coordinated strike force. Certainly, one Exalt and one very talented Elite wouldn't be enough to stand up against him. At best, we'd be quickly killed."
Lucatiel of Mirrah	"Find me a cure for this," Lucatiel says, pointing to the Hollowing spreading from her left eye, "and I'll kill as many of those things as you need destroyed. I have fought horrors and monsters before." To the matter of the Palladium Wyrm, she tilts her back slightly, regarding Bitter Medicine with hooded, mismatched eyes. "Is that so? How inconvenient. Such things never seem to have a way of working out quite as neatly as they were planned, do they? Perhaps you should hirer wandering adventurers to dispatch the beasties. Elites. We are not machines, and cannot be 'recruited' to their cause." Of course, if it were that easy, it probably would have been dealt with by now, many times over. "Hmm. So, a squadron of Elites. Pity my brother is still lost somewhere in the aether." She sighs that long, harsh, exasperated sigh again. "Aslatiel was always better with swordplay than I. With him on your side, you would have no difficulty. I have been searching for him, and I fear he suffers the curse of Undeath, just as I do. Well," she sighs again, "I suppose it best to avoid the thing, then, until sufficient strength can be found to overpower it. Are they thinking beings, or just mindless creatures? Those I destroyed did not seem to be particularly... complex."
Bitter Medicine	"Depends on how smart they were before. The ones you fought looked like oilslick tenders and a gezlak--a kind of iron elemental. With the exception of the gezlak, most of them were alpha-class intelligence, which is mostly assigned to manual laborers. All they'll do is try to kill you." His face darkens slightly. "The smarter gremlins have an... understanding of conditioned responses." He glances towards Lucatiel. "Torture. And the smartest ones are /patient./ They'll infiltrate cities, kidnap a mortal or two, and institute a cult in their name, feeding on the worship and becoming exponentially more powerful. They pass out Voidtech charms to their worshippers--imagine a mortal with mechanical cancer like theirs grafted onto his body. Fighting them requires constant vigilance." He examines Lucatiel's sickness, his gaze as piercing as the bladed teeth of his weapon. His face is a stony, pallid and unflinching slab for a few tense moments, before he finally unleashes a grunt. "You look like hell," he says bluntly. "There might be an Alchemical Exalt who could help you. If you can find one with a specialty in medicine, he or she might be able to at least stave off the infection. If you can't find one, find me. I'm not a doctor, but after you've helped me here, I'd be happy to help you with anything, so long as it's not detrimental to my home... or the Union."
Lucatiel of Mirrah	"Hm. So they are in truth minions." Lucatiel glances back out across the wastes, apparently undisturbed by this information. Actually, that's pretty handy to know, that those creatures seem to have tiered intelligence. It'll make singling out the dumb ones a little easier. The way he describes them gives her a few signs to look for. "Good to know." The smarter ones, though, that sounds like an inconvenience to deal with. Rather like those afflicted by Hollowing, but still early on in their disease; still able to think and reason and plan things with chilling efficiency. For many, staring down a terminal fate like that is reason enough to do terrible things for the sake of stopping it. Sometimes she herself is made uneasy by the things that cross her mind, of the lengths she'd be willing to go to. Who wouldn't want to preserve themselves, especially against a horrifying fate like that? You're aware of every bit that you lose, although you can't remember it. Aware, in the dead of night as you lie unable to sleep, that you are slowly losing your grasp on yourself and everything that makes you an individual. Aware of the steady, slow erosion of life and memory and self. Aware that there's probably not a gods-damned thing you can do to stop it. Lucatiel looks thoughtful, although if she's made uneasy by the subject matter, she hides it well. Similarly, she looks undisturbed when studied closely, arching her Hollowed brow and regarding Bitter Medicine from that milky-white eye. It seems she has no trouble seeing through it; there's no mistaking that she's looking directly at him. "I could have noticed that much by looking at my reflection," she points out, but it isn't without some amusement. Most days she takes her appearance with somewhat of a tongue-in-cheek attitude. What else can she do? "I'd be appreciative. I'd like to find Aslatiel, but a cure -- for both of us -- is also a priority. As to that, I do not care. I have not involved myself in the petty squabbles of the superfactions." She waves a gauntleted hand in careless gesture. "It does not concern me, and it does not concern Mirrah, therefore I have no need of involving myself -- on either side."
Bitter Medicine	"Heard, understood, acknowledged." The Exalt stands in silence for just a few moments, before running directly up the nearby wall. He hangs on the lip of the structure, one hand held over his brow to accomodate better vision. "Another four hours to Sova," he says. There are some disturbing rumors being spread about a member of Sova's Olgotary--rumors which the Exalt would like very much to investigate himself. "The warpgate is as far as I go," he says, looking down at Lucatiel. "I have some business to attend to in Sova." With that, he hoists himself onto the roof of his vantage point, and activates his plasma thrusters once more.