1819/Midsummer Night's Dream

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Midsummer Night's Dream
Date of Scene: 16 March 2015
Location: The Corridors of Time
Synopsis: Schala finds a knight errant in a cave.
Cast of Characters: 66, 733


Schala Zeal (733) has posed:
    It was impossibly difficult for Schala to return to Zeal last night after what was said on the radio. She already had enough ambivalence built around the idea that her own mother was the person almost singularly responsible for the oppression of an entire race of people before hearing several people insinuate that she was the human equivalent of the bloody scourge. But, perhaps that's a bit unfair to their communication. Perhaps she had only interpreted it that way. In fairness, yesterday evening had been trying in many more ways; she had been dueling with a bout of her magically instigated illness, and she could -swear- that she's been hearing voices lately. What with the horrific and sudden change that came over her mother as a result of experimentation on Lavos, now she's begun to fear for her -own- sanity as well. Granted, she would never burden anyone else with this explanation, but even beyond her notice it rides heavily on her.

    Still, she's returned to Algetty -- the village of the Earthbound Ones -- today to give them what comfort and supplies that she can. 'My discomfort,' She reminds herself, 'pales in comparison to what these poor people are forced to endure'. And no matter how much her troubles may mount, this would always be true. For at the very least, she was fed; she was clothed; she was safe. None of this could be said of the people on the ground who fear everyday that one of them may perish of illness or hypothermia. The mere thought that some people must suffer so when the people of her home live in such ideal comfort makes her physically ill. Yet, this is all she can do. If she did any more, she would draw attention to herself and to them, and they would only be made to suffer more. Or worse -- be put in such a position that they could never suffer again.

    Currently, she's seated on a stump lying beneath a leafy bower that hides the entry ladder to the village. She has several satchels of fruit tied around her waist, and another whole bag of other provisions slung over her shoulder. And in her hand is an ornately decorated picture book which Schala had brought to read to the children who call this place home. In the moment of rest that she affords herself, the woman would leaf through its pages.

    Her fingers would slide past nursery rhyme after nursery rhyme. Her eyes would glaze at the thought that, in her youth, these had been her life. She had been raised in a place of such luxury whilst the staggering reality of the world lay hidden beneath her. It was a torment to imagine that any child should have to be deprived of the sort of comfort these stories hold, and beyond that, that any child should ever be made to die. The Kingdom of Zeal had created panaceas and risen a castle up into the air, and yet it could not afford to give these poor souls the basic necessities of life?

    The book would slide shut. No longer. Whatever the excuse -- a malefic, primordial being of evil; greed; ignorance -- this could go on no longer. When she is finally able to meet with those of this 'Union' she had so mercifully discovered, she would find a solution to this. And if that meant ending the life of her mother? If that meant slaying the evil in question? ... so be it. She would lay down her life and the lives of all those she loved that this sort of disparity might never rear its head again.

    She clutches her forehead. But now -- now, this will have to suffice. Modest though it all may be, these goods are all she has to offer. And she will move to deliver them... momentarily. Just as soon as this migraine plaguing her abates.

Lucatiel of Mirrah (66) has posed:
The princess of the castle in the sky agonises over the plight of her people, but she doesn't do so alone.

Unbeknownst, perhaps, to the princess, a single figure leans against one of the more shadowed trees with folded arms. A brazen mask reflects the occasional dapple of sunlight through the leaves; its unsmiling countenance seems to match the mood of the future sovereign rather well. Gloved fingers tap absently and silently against the silk sleeve of the opposite forearm.

A few moments of silent agony pass along, although perhaps for the watcher it's simply business as usual. The masked, somewhat androgynous-looking figure seems untroubled by the troubles of Schala.

Something lands at the feet of the princess with a dull thump, rolling to a halt just before her boot.

A canteen, its sloshing suggestive of water; perhaps wine, or perhaps something stronger still.

"I find that eases many troubles."

The voice is unmistakably a woman's, though its tone is hard and low, and distorted by the mask. The watcher never moves from the tree, arms still folded, head still tipped down; mask shaded now by the brim of that broad hat and its magnificent black plume. It's armour of a sort, fitting perhaps to a fencer or a more agile swordsman. Well-crafted and ornate, but not ornamental; crafted, perhaps, for someone of obvious station. Details, details -- white silk shirt, tooled and gilded leather, a metal shield and greatsword nearly as tall as she over her shoulder; a rapier at her waist, and a long braid of dark honey-blond visible trailing down her back.

No footpad is she, whoever she may be, or the distracted princess may have been robbed and left for dead by now. No; she is merely a watcher. A traveller, disconnected, and content to observe the realms she passes through, transient as smoke on the wind.

"Drink up." There comes from beneath that mask a quiet laugh, almost unsettling in its lightness and breathiness; its muffled quality, as though it were not quite all present. "Perhaps it may help you."

Schala Zeal (733) has posed:
    The princess would jolt slightly as the canteen falls to the ground, turning with quickened trepidation to see her visitor more fully. No, no she had not seen her there. She has a half-mind to stand and back away, but something keeps her seated; something she can't quite rationalize at the moment. This individual, however odd in both her manner and dress, does not seem outright -dangerous-. So she would instead just continue to stare with some degree of bewilderment that eventually calms with a short, gentle breath and a folding of the young woman's hands. In time, she would pluck the flask from the ground and encase it a glistening lavender light. It dissipates seconds later, ridding it of any grime it might've accrued on the floor of the cavern. Afterwards, she would offer it back to its owner.

    "Thank you," She would finally say, "but I've no claim to indulge in vice. Forgive me if I've made an assumption as to what this must contain, but if it is... what I believe it to be, it would be better served in the hands of another." She would hold it out until it is either taken or pushed back in her direction. In the latter circumstance, she would simply stand and set it down upon her seat in kind, moving to face the woman more fully. The natural questions follow. "Before anything else, tell me: how have you found this place? Were you listening to the radio yesterday evening, or have you simply wandered through that gate outside? If you do not care to tell me then I'll not press you, but it would put my mind at ease to know you aren't here at the behest of my mother, or greed otherwise."

    But... no. It's true -- if she were here to take something from her, she would have done so already. Still, she might pat at her chest to be sure that a certain object of value is still there. And it is. Good. Her eyes maintain a faint glimmer of skepticism, but begin to ease out of their narrowness as the moments tick by. Her shoulders lower from a position of tension that the princess had not even noticed they had assumed. "Though," She would begin again, "perhaps it would be more prudent to ask /why/ you've come, if any such questions are even pertinent to you. You have the look of a wayfarer. The look of..." The Prophet. That man who had recently breached her kingdom to fill her mother's head with yet more dark and dour ideas. He, too, had the look of a transient, but this woman is different from him. So instead of completing that statement as she might've, she simply mutters, "... a curious sort."

    She would exhale. "I'll admit, I have little experience with people who are so free to wander. I have been bound to one place all my life, and so I may be a bit naive in the face of any tricks you might've learned abroad, but my lack of understanding does not suggest a lack of caution. You'll excuse me if I remain somewhat guarded in your presence until I've had time to learn more."

Lucatiel of Mirrah (66) has posed:
The visitor isn't dangerous now, no. A serpent who has not yet seen fit to sound the rattling alarm, or a sleeping falcon, head turned and tucked beneath a wing, hiding its knife-like beak. The woman merely leans against the tree with her arms folded, and while it's not the most peaceable body language, it suggests she isn't going to go reaching for her blade. Not as of yet, anyway.

"Your assumption, not mine." The woman accepts the canteen, only to toss it back at Schala's feet. Subtle mirth curls her tone, though she doesn't quite laugh. She only gives that near-silent breath; unsettling, to some, in its amusement. "Not unless you consider water a vice. It works wonders for a brewing ache of the head."

Listening to the radio? The woman's mask never moves, although perhaps she may be arching her brows, languidly, beneath that brazen man's frown.

Instead, Schala gets a long, drawn-out, and vaguely hard-edged sigh of clear exasperation. Those arms unfold just long enough to gesture, nebulously, with thick-gloved fingers. "Rare is it that I listen to that infernal device. Little of note is ever spoken from it. Rarer still that I should act upon it. I am a traveller; and as you seem reasonably more intelligent than the voie that grace my radio, I would imagine you should know, then, that it is expected that I travel."

"And as I do not know you, and you do not know me, I should not be here, then, at the behest of your mother." Arms fold again in a single economic motion. "Why do I roam anywhere? Because that is what I do. The multiverse is an endlessly fascinating place, and also an endlessly mad one. The more I linger in a place, the more the madness becomes evident..."

"Hmm." It's that breathless half-laugh again, and it seems genuinely amused as it rises, never quite gaining volume. "Curious. What an interesting word." That hint of mirth spills into her hard voice. "I would say the same to you. Most people make a point of avoiding me, yet you, once aware of my presence, engage me. You are an odd one... and so earnest, too."

Silence, broken only by the wind sighing through the trees. After a moment, the traveller pushes off from the trunk she'd been leaning against, moving over to circle in front of Schala, affording the princes a good clear look. The armour is certainly fine, and so is the clothing; in spite of her wayfaring ways, this woman is obviously one of some means. Even the equipment -- sword, shield, armour, hat and mask -- are clearly crafted to exacting standards; embelleshed without being needlessly ornate.

And then she settles down, casually as you please, onto a stump.

"Your caution hardly matters to me, but I find myself with a dearth of interesting things to do for the day." Again, that subtle hint of mirth in her words. Is she toying with the young royal? The mask tilts to regard Schala, just slightly; although there are vertical slots where the eyes are, they're too narrow to more than the gleam of reflected light against what are, presumably, the woman's eyes. "Then I shall educate you. I am called Lucatiel, and I come from Mirrah, a land of knights."

Schala Zeal (733) has posed:
    Schala would again take the flask off of the ground as it's returned to its place at her feet. She does not drink from it, but she would perhaps open it to test the scent of its contents. This person has no visible reason to be lying about this or anything else... from what she can see, but as she herself had said before, that's no reason to forgo reasonable steps of caution. Once she's 'confirmed' beyond whatever reasonable doubt she can account for with such a cursory analysis she fastens the thing in an unoccupied section of her satchel belt. Since she's so intent on letting her have it, Schala will at least hang on to it. "Water is a vice," She mutters, distantly, "but it is one of necessity. And for that reason I can condone its consumption when it must be done for the maintenance of one's longevity."

    Lucatiel's next words make her recall the conversation of the previous night more fully, however, and she must concede that not everyone who speaks on the radio is... 'intelligent', per se, or at least as versed in social expectation as some. But even that could theoretically be attributed to disparities in culture considering the notion that, ostensibly, this 'Multiverse' is comprised of many worlds. That warrants some degree of tolerance in her eyes, even if she had not been so quick to show as much in her dealings before. She has no further desire to comment upon any of that, though, so she would allow that aspect of the conversation to fade in favor of more relevant subjects. So much, of course, as anything can be relevant between two complete strangers.

    She would sigh, though. Of course she hasn't come on her mother's whim. She senses little magic dwelling within this woman, and she would never deign to associate or collaborate with anyone lacking the 'enlightened' gene. Further, as much as this woman -seems- a complete enigma -- a wandering essence with nowhere to rest its head -- she senses some idea of loyalty in her still. There is a warmth in her. A passion. Or perhaps it would be more right to that there was; that which she sees in her now is more a flicker than a flame, though as she herself had said, she ill understands the hearts of people less focused than she. This could be nothing more than presumption on her part, or wishful thinking, but she would still reserve the thought. If she should meet this person again, or perhaps even later today if she is given the opportunity, she might ask what she hopes to find in all her wandering. If indeed there is anything at all.

    Though, ignore her? Never. "It might be aberrant for one less connected to the ground upon which they stand to show little concern for those who walk upon it, but this land is my home. As such, I have a responsibility to know everything I am able to about those who dwell here, and those who visit. Ignoring a single suspicious presence could spell disaster. I have made the mistake of overlooking something that has tempted my apprehension before, and I will not do so again." Yes, perhaps she is a bit... forthcoming with all of this. And certainly she is more frank than royalty ought to be, but right now she is in the presence of one who could not know that about her. She takes comfort in this, and will allow herself the luxury of 'looseness'; after all, it has not seemed to chafe this person yet. Quite the opposite.

    Her eyes carefully follow the woman as she circles around her, right until the moment when she sets herself upon a stump. She hesitates before following suit, though, and never lets her eyes roam from her guest's own visage. Toying with her? She could care less if she is. It's not something she's accustomed to, but she's far more pressing things to worry about than how some stranger might go about teasing her mood. When she finally sees fit to share her name, though, Schala would in kind: "Schala. I am of Zeal, a land that tempers its enlightenment with fathomless degrees of ignorance."

Schala Zeal (733) has posed:
    She doesn't let her conversation rest quite yet, though. "I would not wish to interrupt your travels if they are truly so filled with intrigue and activity already as you say, but if you might be able to spare some time, I have a proposition." From another section of her satchel, she removes a small, shabby brown bag. She gives it a single shake -- it elicits a jingle. Coins, she would realize; something monetary. "There are people here in need of protection. If you swear to me that you will come to their aid if I ask, then you may have this now... and more as your service may demand." She would hesitate only a moment concluding, "Is this acceptable?"

    This girl is indeed far more concentrated, far more frank than her youth would imply.

Lucatiel of Mirrah (66) has posed:
So it seems this princess is one more concerned with ethics and morals than anything else. A preoccupiation bordering on an obsession, perhaps; water, after all, is hardly considered a luxury in a desert kingdom like Mirrah. It is too precious to even be considered a luxury; it's a necessity, pure and simple. A potentially annoying trait, but one tolerable enough for the time being, at least until the wayfarer can learn more.

That princess guesses correctly, though. There's not a lick of magic in this woman, but there's a sense of purpose, however languid her bearing may seem. She's as focused as a hunting hawk, though to what end, it's not immediately obvious.

Those arms fold again as the figure leans back on the stump she's seated herself on, relaxed in a way that seems at odds with Schala's own slightly furtive mannerisms. Lucatiel doesn't answer that long-winded admission, although the way her masked face cants just slightly to one side suggests she may be raising a brow.

"An interesting way to describe one's own homeland. On the contrary. As I said already, I find my travels insufferably boring, today, and this is the first interesting thing to happen since daybreak." She shrugs, gesturing somewhat nebulously with one hand. Her head cants slightly to one side again at the jingling satchel. It remains that way, as though mildly puzzled. "Coin? I have no need of that."

Standing, she paces slightly to one side, pausing to look down at the princess. "I have a different proposition, if, indeed, you wish to hire me. I am no mercenary, in truth, but a vassal of my lord. Though," she adds with that subtle amusement and breathless laugh, "my loyalty to my lord is hardly in conflict, in a place as far-flung as this. Indeed, I shall not be missed. No; I propose this: I shall ask of you a favour, one that need not place you in conflict against the people you are so obviously determined to protect, and you will satisfy that favour when I ask it."

"And the coin," she adds, folding her arms. Greedy? Perhaps it might be seen as such. "Of course, you have nothing to judge the odds of my service, and I would expect your refusal. Think it over after you have called upon me, and judged for yourself the quality of service. After all," she adds, that mask turning now to face Schala directly, "I am an Elite Knight of Mirrah; not a mercenary, but that means nothing to you."

Schala Zeal (733) has posed:
    Now it's Schala's turn to be a bit surprised. This woman isn't tempted by money, not even slightly? She places her hand upon the bag she had drawn again for several moments before pulling it back into its hiding place within her satchel. The princess is a bit perplexed by this, really; she entertains the thought that her money might be worthless to one hailing from another world, but she can't even be sure of that.

    Still, she's more than willing to hear her alternative proposal. The fact that she insists on calling it 'hiring' in spite of the visible lack of material gain on her end draws her attention, however -- and this suspicion is confirmed moments later. More of a mutual favor, then, but one this woman would clearly have the upper hand in. She seems to have noticed her attachment to principle; her 'integrity', for lack of a better thing to call it. They both know that this means she is bound to answer any request, regardless of what it happens to be, if Lucatiel's end of the bargain has been upheld, and so long as it does not stand in direct opposition to Schala's morals. Or perhaps even then so long as that violation is not greater than one inherent in breaking a vow.

    So she takes her time in contemplating this. It would be ill-advised, especially after she has been promised so much aid freely by others, to simply accept a proposition that demands something so nebulous of her. But were she to ask for more clarity or use that fact as leverage, how would she respond? Would she merely remind her that that has no bearing on a wanderer? After all, she lies outside of their sphere. It has no bearing on her whatsoever. So instead, she suggests this:

    "So long as this 'favor' does not fall out of line with my principles, and so long as the thing that you request is possible for me, I will do my utmost to fulfill it. However, if for any of these reasons I cannot do the thing you ask, you will receive only the coin I have shown you in compensation. It may not be what you want, but it is still enough to pay the fares of your travel for many days. I will see to it that you are amply compensated for the donation of your time in any event." It's not the finest attempt at covering her bases, and it's anything but foolproof, but it does prevent her from having to face consequences that lie within the scope of what is most pertinent to her. No cost would be greater than a sacrifice of her loved ones, her virtues, or the well-being of her kingdom, but all those things are tidily encapsulated within 'principle'. So for the moment, she may be satisfied with the stipulations she has placed upon the offer.

    She's right -- the weight carried by her origins is entirely lost on her. Yet still, some of it echoes vicariously; through the sheer inflection of her voice, relaxed though it may be. And she would consider the possibility of additional compensation a distinct one. "As I said, I will see that you are amply rewarded for whatever you do here. If I decide that what you do is exemplary, you will gain something tantamount to the effort you have given. If I decide that you could have done more, then you will leave with exactly what you have been promised."

    Finally, though, she allows a faint smile to show. "That said, I have a good feeling about you. This is why I am so intent on enlisting your help; after all, if I earnestly believed you were just another mercenary, I am sure I would be served well enough by those whom I have already asked to help me. But to echo my own words from earlier, you are a curious sort -- someone whom I have every confidence will exceed my expectations." After a brief pause, she adds, softly, "If you do, then part of your compensation will be to leave me with a lasting impression of precisely what an 'Elite Knight of Mirrah' is capable of. And, of course," She would raise a finger, "what -you- are capable of, Lucatiel."

Lucatiel of Mirrah (66) has posed:
That lack of temptation seems to be genuine enough; Lucatiel's dismissal is both immediate and unhesitating. She waits with her arms folded while the princess debates with herself the genuinity of her offer or service.

"I would expect no less than the proper recompense." Again there's that hint of mirth, though she doesn't actually laugh. "And indeed I would demand it, were you to accept my service. I will give to you my personal frequency. Use it, if you require my services."

Pushing herself to her feet, Lucatiel reaches up and grips the front of the hat, sweeping it off and into a flourishing, graceful bow; although the movement bares long hair the colour of honey-gold wheat or perhaps golden desert sand, no details of the woman's face are visible from that mask. Why take only the hat off, and not the mask, too...?

With that, she whisks off a gauntlet, slipping a hand up under the lower edge of the mask, and gives a low whistle. At first, nothing seems to happen.

"And you are an odd one," she says, mask turning to look at the princess again, "Schala of Zeal. Perhaps this may be a lucrative arrangement after all."

Something can be heard... a dull sound, after a moment resolving itself into the steady four-beat pace of hooves. A horse; a beautiful dapple-grey charger, black mane and tail streaming behind it, wearing leather tack as elegant as the fencer's armour. Bundled behind the saddle are all manner of supplies, secured in place with rope. As the beast canters past, Lucatiel reaches out, seizing the horn of the saddle in one hand, the reins in the other, and swings herself up in a single practised motion.

"Farewell."

She doesn't raise her voice; that would be needless, and also inelegant, but she does raise a hand without looking back, in farewell.

Soon, even the sound of hoofbeats is gone.