Scene #8983: Holy Light and Cosmic Mists

Owner	Pose
Dysnomia	The once idyllic city-on-a-hill that was Ostia sat in the sun, its walls pockmarked by ballista fire, the green fields around it were pockmarked by fallen detrius. Carrion birds still cried overhead, grown fat off a feast of rot and human sinew. But, the world went on. Even if the sky was falling, the citizens needed to get something to eat. Locksmiths needed to make new doors. The work of masons and smiths was suddenly in high, urgent demand. The grinding sound of a wagon's wheel over a well-worn rut, a hawker crying out in the street--it was alive. The directions Dysnomia has left to Blemishine takes her to an inn, near the walls, its roof still bearing scars of a siege not yet properly cleaned. It was under new management--the old owner had perished in the brief revolt, leaving the young woman who points Blemishine to Mia's room to hope he had, at least, been on the winning side. Up a creaking wooden stairwell, down to the end of the hall, to the highest room. "Get in here." The roof was angled, meeting at a point above them, from which a lantern hung--unlit. A bed lay pushed out of the way, against the wall, undisturbed, while a table had been made into an impromptu workbench, with a variety of strange, glowing machinery and a holographic screen. The window was thrown open, golden sunlight catches motes of dust in the air as it cut across the room. Dysnomia was still wearing what she'd been in the day of the seige--that skirt and tunic and leggings, in the Lycian style. She stood at edge of the window, staring over the edge. "So, you're here. Put that damn thing down." Dysnomia growled. She didn't clarify what she meant. "You won't be needing it."
Blemishine	Maria does not, in fact, normally just bring Durandal around with her - even in Elibe! As she said before, it doesn't belong to her and there are several others in the army who are capable of using it, so that'd just feel improper. But in this period of peace before they have their dealings with Etruria, while the Blazing Blade is at rest and currently unneeded, she decided to take it with her this once. To meet Dysnomia. It's not what it looks like, honest. "Hello, Dysnomia." After some exchanged words with the young woman at the front, making her way in, and catching sight of the sun-lit room, it's her that the knight's focus naturally rests on first, with an apologetic smile. She's come dressed in otherworld casual - a ribbed sweater and jeans - which makes the fact she has the massive black-and-red sword on hand an awfully anachronistic sight. "Don't worry. I know." Stepping further in, she moves aside closer to the makeshift workstation, pulling Durandal free to hold aloft-- before carefully placing the heavy weapon down, leaning it against the wall. "I suppose I wasn't sure if it being here or not would affect things at all? And... well. I suppose I just wanted to show you firsthand that history won't repeat itself. You know?" Indeed, there's no sign of her even thinking of making a swing on Dysnomia. But with that out of the way, she gives a curious glance over the workbench after, with it right there. "--I had no idea you were turning this place into a craftstation for yourself... this is some really advanced stuff, too! What are you worki--" She starts, stops, then gives an awkward chuckle. "...Eheh. I shouldn't get too off-topic, should I? I did come here for a reason, after all."
Dysnomia	"I suppose I just wanted to show you firsthand that history won't repeat itself. You know?" "Not in your hands, maybe." Dysnomia said, and when she turned to face Blemishine, her expression was dubious. "But, there's a reason that Eliwood hated that blade. Someone else they cared for got hurt, decades ago. Last time they used that. I don't know the full story. But what I've heard, I don't like." At the very least, that hard glare fixes on on that sword instead of Blemishine, when she puts the weapon down. "Roy's father had good judgment." "Just some things to keep me busy while I'm here," Mia shrugged. With a gesture, there was a flourish of smoke, and then a chair was pulled up next to her, to sit on. "I can barely even change, or I risk breaking these damn stitches. Do you know how well bandages hold up, when you take a different shape? Badly..." She rolled up her tunic and.... ...Oh, god... Durandel had cleaved a perfectly straight line through Dysnomia's midsection. Held together by stitches stubborn will, the wound still cleaved upward from her waist to the middle of her chest, underneath where a lung should be. Even through it all, it insisted on bleeding, only a trickle now; but it was easy to see the way it slowly tried to fill the empty space and push outward.
Blemishine	But, there's a reason that Eliwood hated that blade. Someone else they cared for got hurt, decades ago. "...Mmn." Maria gives a quiet and affirmative sound, her head tilting down slightly. "From what little I know of it, I can hardly fault him for feeling that way. I don't intend to say that it hasn't been used for heartwrenching things in the past-- or even recently." There's a glance to Dysnomia's torso, still tunic-covered at the time. "I just abide by something as a craftsman. Well, you seem to be something of one yourself, so you've probably heard it before." "Weapons and tools are extensions of their users. Even a long time after his death... Roland still lived on inside the Blazing Blade. He never truly did put it down." Her eyes drift back its way, a complicated tense in her expression. "...He's no longer there, I think. And so Durandal is merely a weapon with a long, long history now. It's okay, to hold a grudge against Roland after what you've been through, I think. You and Lord Eliwood both." "But... by the end of this, I'd like Durandal to have had better done with it. Been used for the sake of a better world." She looks back to Dysnomia, once again with one of those apologetic not-really-a-smile's. "Or maybe it's just easy for me to talk from my position." Such a look doesn't last for long when Dysnomia actually reveals the wound. Maria hasn't had the chance to really look at it in detail before; she was effectively possessed when she made the blow, and there was no opportunity while they were fighting. Now, though... she can't help but take in every detail. After a few seconds, her hands flex, as if remembering exactly how they performed the cut. "...Right." Her usual chipper-sounding attitude gives way for a level tone and a quieter way of speaking as her brow furrows. She moves over to where Dysnomia has sat down, dropping down to a knee to put herself at head height with the injury for a closer examination. There's unsubtle wincing, more than once. "...So it's healed up at least some. But not completely. Even after all this time. And-- ...still bleeding, despite it all. As if it's still fresh." Her golden eyes drift up to Dysnomia's face for a moment. "...I suppose it still feels that way for you, and that's part of why, right?"
Dysnomia	"A strike with powerful intent to kill is hard enough to heal, anyway. This is that, and so much more. The hopes and grudges of a people. And whatever power drives it." "Tools are more than just their wielder, you know." Dysnomia grumbled. "They give you a new way to touch the world. A different option. A camera lets you watch; furtheres your awareness, your control. An assault done lets you destroy people without looking them in the eye. A sword is an instrument of violence." "...Right." "If I hadn't moved when I had, I'd have been cut in two." And with that kind of wound, even Maria could see...Dysnomia wouldn't have gotten better. "It's like it forces itself to reopen, every time." She groused. "It's made progress. But." Not much. A burning stare met Blemishine's gold. For a moment, she just sat in silence. "Tell me." Dysnomia murmured, eventually, "What do you think Elibe's dragons are like?"
Blemishine	"That still makes them extensions in a way, you know? Or at least I think so. Giving you new ways of engaging the world, that is." What would ordinarily be excited chatter coming out rather reserved lends an odd tone to her words, spoken while still carefully examining the wound. "They're more than their owner, and their owner is more than them. And together, they're more than each other is alone. They're... a team, in their own way. Even a sword doesn't have to 'just' be a tool of violence." "That's part of my duty as a craftsman, I think. I want to give people the tools that bring out their best and strongest, and have them bring out their tools' in turn. Really, if we're only talking effectiveness, something like Durandal would be far better off in Rutger's hands than mine." It's all said almost conversationally as she does her steady look-over, acknowledging just how terrible this unhealing wound really is, before their eyes meet. Maria remains knelt on a knee, holding the locked gaze as she speaks up. "Elibe's dragons, hm. 'Are', or 'were'?" A moment passes. "If it's the former, I can't help but imagine... they'd have to be awfully reclusive. Hiding away from society, some way or another. The ones old enough to remember the Scouring - if dragons here even live that long - undoubtedly would have complicated feelings about it... and any who might've been born after it, or who don't remember it, might wonder why they can't be a part of the world." Her stare finally pries away, focusing back towards the bleeding injury. Though Maria brought Durandal with her, she also keeps her own sword on hand at her hip, and it's that hilt that she reaches for. Though as the steel begins slowly sliding out from its resting place, there's no sense of any kind of danger. "How they 'were'... I can't really say," she admits. "But. Hartmut put himself between all of his allies and one of their young to protect her. And Roland's spirit suffered a thousand years of guilt over what they had to do out of necessity." It's the kind of sentence that sounds as if it'll have something after it. But as if that statement alone says enough, nothing comes. Instead, Maria fully unsheathes her personal sword, resting the flat of the blade in her free hand. "I use this as a focus for my healing arts, before you ask. If you don't mind that, I'll give this my best attempt."
Dysnomia	Dysnomia grunts. "That thing will be useful. I suppose." She seizes the excuse to break from the horse's gaze, rest on the sword. Was Roland still sleeping within it, or was Blemishine right, and he had passed on? And did it matter even if he had? "That talk." Dysnomia said. "What Hartmut said. You're all so sure it betrays their...gentleness. But aren't you forgetting what would have happened, if you hadn't been there to cheat the scales to spare me?" "All those things Hartmut said; 'the bright future they fought for.' That bright, beautiful talk, like now finally they'd put down that sword, that they'd put an end to the war..." "But when you look around, when you listen to all the stories they tell, now. When they had the luxury of mercy, as the Dame Commander likes to say..." There was a gust of wind, and Dysnomia's teeth grated...From pain? "What did they DO with that chance, Maria Nearl?" "If by chance, there are still dragons, hidden in plain sight..." She'd hinted enough that there were, hadn't she? "Why wouldn't they show themselves? Are they waiting in the dark for people to lower their guard," A shadow of a sneer. "...Or do they fear what would happen to them, in a world where what they are is a synonom for 'demon.' Blending in, praying no one will find you out." Her eyes stray to Blemishine's sword next, but Dysnomia shows no sign of tensing...Well, no more than she already was. "If you intended anything else, I'd sense it." Is that a warning or a reassurance? "Proceed."
Blemishine	"What did they do with that chance?" Maria repeats with a contemplative tone while examining the fringes of the wound. It's only not 'curious' because she's talking rather more quietly and reservedly than she normally does. "I really wonder. Elimine was confident it was 'the end', and Hartmut that it was 'a beginning'. Obviously, she meant the end of the Scouring. Their victory over the dragons. But Hartmut?" "'The first free choice any human being has ever made'. For the first time, they had the ability to choose to kill or spare, rather than fighting because they had to. That... 'innocent girl, who helped even when she was hated'. That would be the foundation their new future after the was built on. You're probably right about if we hadn't been there; I think Roland's lingering sentiments would've caused him to do something terrible to you, as he did around Lord Eliwood. And you're also right that Elibe doesn't have very kind stories about dragons, or back then." "But do you remember what Roland was talking about, after that? 'I was a fool to spare her. We made the wrong choice. We couldn't coexist. Your peace didn't last, Hartmut.'" The blonde smith slash knight says them all one after another, golden eyes briefly closing. "With that chance, they did spare her. They made the decision to do that. Maybe it was too little and too late, if Elibe is like this now... but they did." After taking in a breath, she opens her eyes against and refocuses, aligning the flat of her sword nearby the bleeding rend in Dysnomia's torso. Her grip tightens, and the guard glints with bright, sparkling light that travels up the steel. It's only meagre enough to coat the blade, but the warmth radiating from it still reaches the awful wound. It starts there, the sensation focusing at the centerpoint of the slash before spreading out towards the far corners, and from there into the rest of her body. Like basking in a comfortably sunny day. It doesn't grow any more than that, or pick up in intensity; it merely holds that as it bathes the injury over - encouraging it to heal itself. "So, if we're speaking personal thoughts and assumptions... I do choose to believe there are still dragons, somewhere, out there. Because they made that decision. And I also think, even if Hartmut and others heroes knew differently by the end... if that war was so unbelievably horrible, it's not a surprise that dragons would go down in history the way they have. As everyone else from that time remembered them and passed down." "Whether they're waiting for a chance at revenge, or just trying to live peacefully... I couldn't tell you. I don't know," she says evenly. She seems like she's concentrating on maintaining the healing. "All we have to go off of is that Zephiel is fighting his ideological war on the world with these strange dragons, hating his ancestor Hartmut who wanted to give one of their kind a chance the moment he could."
Dysnomia	"With that chance, they did spare her. They made the decision to do that. Maybe it was too little and too late, if Elibe is like this now... but they did." Suddenly, the shine of daylight became unbearable to Mia. The shutters closed, sharply, seemingly on their own, with a sharp sound. She hissed through her teeth, making a sound too low a register to hear, but not to feel. "And after a thousand years, they're known as demons. Who can't live openly in the world, who everyone believes to be dead." Dysnomia's voice was flat, and keenly unimpressed. "If you thought of them as just another kind of person, you'd be horrified. 'There was a terrible empire with dark powers, that threatened the whole world. We defeated them in battle, and hunted down every last citizen. And so the world was saved, thanks to us.'" "Every time I hear that damn story, it's like I'm losing my mind. I thought, maybe this world is different. Maybe they really were monsters." She'd seen enough that she couldn't dispute it, from the implacable hunger and hate of the alien queen to the anathemas that lived behind cells in L corp. "But that girl, whoever she was, wasn't. And I bet she wasn't the only one..." There's a certain will, a determination. A grim permenance to the wound; this cut exists to kill you. Dysnomia took a sharp breath as the magic took hold, eyes fluttering momentarily shut, and Blemishine could feel the wound resisting her. But it seemed...Could a wound be confused? It was like whispering gentle words into the ears of a half-feral old pet, with its teeth dug deep into flesh. Its purpose was to kill this monster. But, it's purpose was also to lay in her hands. Even then, with the advantage on Maria's side, it didn't want to mend. But, as the light seeped from her hands, it nevertheless crawled into the wound along Mia's side. Blood seeped and out, at the point where flesh knit back together, and Dysnomia hissed a soft, pained noise that Maria could momentarily feel in her own chest. "Enough," Mia grunted, eventually pushing Maria's hand away. Frustratingly, distressingly, the light had only begun to knit the wound back together, leaving a too-pale, jagged scar where flesh had struggled to put itself back together. It wasn't even close to done. But it's working. Dysnomia ran a hand over her face, muttering softly to herself. "No one else got it to respond this well." She admitted, grudgingly. "Stars. You might be my best shot." A sigh. "...I think they're out there too. The dragons." If she hadn't been so sure that Eliwood was a human, Dysnomia would think that Roy was one, too. "Call it a hunch. My sight isn't waht it used to be, but...I think it's a mistake to think all that is over and done with." "Think about that." Dysnomia grated. Her eyes once more found Durandel. "Before you swing that sword at someone."
Blemishine	Every time I hear that damn story, it's like I'm losing my mind. "History, reality, and terrible truths do tend to go hand in hand, I've noticed," Maria's own voice remains steady, despite Dysnomia's own unimpressed tone. Her gaze has stayed locked on the wound, and on her own work, rather than her face. "So I try to understand what I can about them. That means looking at what little we do know. Do you believe the shades of the heroes, who claimed they didn't have any choice until that point? Or do you think they could've done more, before then?" Her brow furrows at the injury's resistance; she's not sure she's had to heal anything close to this before. You could say that gnashes that actively refuse to allow themselves to be cured aren't exactly common. Ones that aren't /sure/ they want to be, even more. She doesn't try to push harder in response to that. Keeping it bathed in the light and letting it acclimate would be better, she thinks. "....What about if the dragons would've done the very same to humans, if the shoe was on the other foot? Killed them down to the last man, woman, and child? Said it was necessary to stop those demons, and it couldn't have been helped? Would you feel the same way?" Maria doesn't sound judgmental about that, even - reservedly curious about her thoughts and reaction, more than anything. "Learning the whole truth of the Scouring will be important to figuring out what's going on in the present. And figuring out how I really feel about it all. So I can't afford to get bogged down in how horrifying or not it is. I only hope Etruria will have the records we need to paint a better picture." When Dysnomia asks her to stop and pushes her away, she shuffles backwards where she's knelt, glancing up and then focusing back to the cut. For the first time since she started this, her expression eases up and the ghost of a smile comes back to her lips. "...So it is working, at least a little. I've sure never had to try and heal anything like this before. First time for everything, right?" Her golden eyes drift back upwards again. "I'm not sure anyone believes it's over with. I'm sure all of this was just the beginning." An unintentional echo of Hartmut's phrase, in a way. Maria's head turns, also in Durandal's direction. A contemplative hum escapes from her throat. "Well, I do try to think about a whole lot of things. This, especially."
Dysnomia	"Do you believe the shades of the heroes, who claimed they didn't have any choice until that point? Or do you think they could've done more, before then?" "War is war. It's won with blood and sacrifice." She concedes. "The only rule is victory. My concern is for what became of them after. There are noncombatants in every war, Blemishine." She switched to the knight's title. "Children too young to fight. Individuals whose priorities are their trade, or their family, or who just don't want to die. Conscientious objectors." "I look around, and I think...Either they really WERE hunted down, or it just wasn't safe for them to openly live. And. Somehow. No one CARES." "Killed them down to the last man, woman, and child? Said it was necessary to stop those demons, and it couldn't have been helped? Would you feel the same way?" "I'd hope so." She said, a threat of irritation crawling into her voice. "But even if I hadn't, would it matter? There's always a line of defenders waiting, worlds upon worlds, full of things people call monsters, never thinking twice about the banal little evils they do to each other." "Sometimes, they're called demons. Sometimes they're called dragons. Sometimes abominations...Or just monsters." An inhale, sharp. "Sometimes, they're even right to be." "But when they aren't? When they can be more? There's a universe of people who've already made up their minds. Humans already HAVE their champions. In this world more than most." Now, she admired her wound together with Maria, assessing it. "If we want to keep this treatment going, it will take a long time." It meant as a warning to Maria, but it came out a resentful growl. "I'm not sure anyone believes it's over with. I'm sure all of this was just the beginning." "You overestimate their foresight. Among elites, maybe some do. But here? In Elibe? Here, dragons are just a story. Lugh saw everything we did, and still thinks dragons are evil. And you heard Cecilia..." Dysnomia slumped back into her chair. "She wasn't even scared of them, or angry. She was quibbling over old stories...That's all they are to these people. Stories so old they're practically fiction. Never even considering what it would mean for it to be real..." She sighs, some of the venom draining for her voice, leaving her just..Tired. "...And no one wants to challenge it."
Blemishine	Children too young to fight. Individuals whose priorities are their trade, or their family, or who just don't want to die. Conscientious objectors. "You're right," Maria agrees, with a nod. "And we know there was at least one of them. All the others... well, we know a lot less. Even though..." Well, Roland and Elimine's thoughts shed a bit of light onto how they must've felt by default. Humans already HAVE their champions. In this world more than most. "...You want to be the champion of the ones who're looked at as monsters by the rest of the world. The one who'll be able to help change things for the ones who don't deserve to be, or who have the potential to be different, and set things right." That thinking-out-loud hangs in the air for a moment, before Maria gives a quiet giggle. "You remind me of a fair few people back home, you know. The ones who'll fight for the sake of the ones shunned by society, just because of the unfortunate circumstances they fell into." "Part of that, though... is understanding how it got to that point. To almost everyone here, they /are/ just stories. They're everything they've known. A thousand years is a long time, and also not very long at all," she echoes Cecilia. "No human alive knows how that era was firsthand-- and we don't either, to tell you the truth. At the same time, there's ten generations of piled-up tales about a terrible war against the dragons that shook the world." "Challenging it... ...This war itself is going to do that. Zephiel, using his 'dragons' as he is, is going to bring the stories to life and tear that ancient wound right open again. For better or worse." The blonde knight returns to her feet, dusting her pantslegs off as she does so. "...And we, also, are going to affect how the people in Elibe think by the end of things. With what we learn..." In the middle of sheathing her sword back at her side, her eyes flit to Dysnomia, being what she is. "...and what we do. If you want to topple a millennia of dragons being villified more than you think they deserve, then we just have to find tangible proof that shows otherwise." The part that's left unstated is that they could equally find proof that the dragons /were/ that terrible. But it's unstated for a reason. She's sure Dysnomia knows. "Show everyone a truth they can't deny. I'm sure that's how my big sister would do it too, come to think of it." A slightly bigger smile than before is given to Dysnomia, as the other girl slumps over. "We'll still be working together here, won't we? So taking a long time is no problem with me. If the pain ever bothers you, I can teach you a few forging techniques to help take your mind off it?"
Dysnomia	"...That's nothing new. It's always on us, to prove we've a right to exist. So much everyone else will just HAVE to accept." There's a bitter, sarcastic edge to her voice, as her hand runs over her face. Perhaps 'us' was presumptive. But, Roland certainly hadn't seemed to think so. "That ALWAYS works." But this debate had taken its toll, and she'd fast grown sick of it. Too much more, and Mia wasnt' sure if she could bear to look on the girl. "The one who'll be able to help change things for the ones who don't deserve to be, or who have the potential to be different, and set things right." "Somebody has to." She felt rough and raw, in ways she couldn't quite articulate. Her arms crossed, eyes averting. "Forging, huh. And I bet you'd have me believe this isn't your way to find out how well plasma breath serves?" Dysnomia snorted. But then... "Fine, then. Just don't waste my time."