demisemidemon | (no subject)

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milliways

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The land outside is... strange.

The forest seems normal enough, and the lake. The buildings are a weird mishmash, though -- some of them completely ordinary to Clare's eyes, and some of them like that baffling house entirely of transparent glass in huge panes. And then there's the wide pasture, that stretches all around the bar to the forest's edge, its grass cropped close even though there are no animals in sight but a few horses, too few to keep such a wide swath of land trimmed so low.

Also, there are tiny creatures with tiny weak auras scattered all throughout the forest. She hasn't seen any yet, but she can feel them from here. And another warrior of the organization, somewhere deep in the trees, and others with weirder auras too.

Clare's walking, unhurried, towards the trees.

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There's another woman out there, white-haired and golden-eyed, dressed entirely in maroon leather armor.

Said eyes widen when she catches sight of Clare, and a wide, white-toothed smile splits her mouth, if only for a moment.

"What have we here? Company? And such an interesting time, too. Almost as interesting as the Orlesian invasion, though without all the Orlesians. Such a troublesome lot, and so fond of shoes."

It's easy to miss even someone like this with all the auras around Milliways, strong and weak, close and far, clustered atop one another. But missing this--

Clare's arm swings up, and pulls her sword free. She needs to have it ready to hand.

She's never felt anything this strong. Anyone. When Priscilla Awakened, Clare was human, and could barely feel even that flare of power. But she's not human any more, and sensing this 'woman' is like staring into a sun.

(There's fear coiled deep in her gut, but that's always only made Clare more determined.)

Flemeth's laugh rings deep in her chest.

Surprisingly deep for a human-shaped woman, really.

"Are you so fond of shoes, then? Or maybe it's Orlesians. You have that look about you. I think it's the eyes."

Plus that sword is ridiculous.

What's an Orlesian?

"You're an Awakened One."

It's a flat statement, not a question.

Probably. Mostly.

"That is a pretty name, certainly. Full of gravitas and meaning, yet saying nothing at all! But alas, I am merely Flemeth. Or Asha'bellanar. Or that crazy old woman who lives in the swamps."

Flemeth's smile widens again, seemingly uninterested in the immense sword the pale woman is holding.

This would not be an inaccurate description of the facts, to some extent.

"We could do with a few more swamps here, really. A pity."

None of these are names Clare knows, but that doesn't mean much.

Milliways is full of weird people with weird auras who don't seem to be inclined to eat people despite their demonic strength. This woman could be one of them. But she doesn't feel like it.

Clare's conversational skills aren't great at the best of times. When faced with a probable Awakened One... Clare does what she does best, which is to say intent and silent silver-eyed staring.

(She's looking at Flemeth, but her focus isn't quite right. That's because she's looking past and beneath her, to watch the flows of power beneath her skin.)

Flemeth will see her intent silver-eyed staring and raise her some amused and mocking golden-eyed staring!

Who will call?

"I would ask if a cat has got your tongue, child, but it was wagging quite well a moment ago. Or have you been struck suddenly mute? Stranger things have happened, or so I hear tell."

Clare will give her the benefit of the doubt, and ask.

Grudgingly.

And only because this is Milliways; half of her thinks even the attempt is stupid and foolhardy.

(And, okay, also because Clare is alone, and no match for an Awakened One unless everything goes just right. She'd try anyway if she had to, but if she doesn't... retreat is a hateful option, but maybe the best one.)

"What do you do here?"

"I?"

Her golden eyes catch the light, gleaming more brightly for a moment.

"I am merely an old woman, here to rest my bones in front of the fire and drink cup after cup of delectable tea."

Not deadly poison.

"The occasional person dropping by to chat is certainly enough for me. Though it is nice, every so often, not to have to do all the heavy lifting."

This subtly dropped hint thuds to the (metaphorical) ground between them.

Clare... continues to stare.

Sorry.

"Hmm."

Flemeth taps one mailed finger against her lips, the other held up to brace her elbow.

It's restful for an old woman's back.

"I suppose you do make a fine enough statue. The details need work, but the basic frame is sound enough. If only we had a mage . . . "

Well, if one will stand around gobsmacked, this is the only likely result.

If Clare were a little later in canon, she would find this even less reassuring than she does now. Awakened Ones tend to have weird obsessions.

As it is... what's a mage? is not something she's going to say to Flemeth/Asha'bellanar/swamp-lady, but her eyes narrow slightly. If Flemeth interprets it as confused wariness, she won't be wrong.

Flatly, "Just try it."

And Clare will... either attack or flee! (Let's be honest: this is Clare. She'll attack.)

"Hah! Just try it, she says."

Flemeth sounds transparently amused.

She looks it, too.

"But I think she wouldn't like it much if I did. They never do. No one appreciates the immortality of art, these days."

She frowns slightly, rubbing at her chin.

"Or any other days, really. I can't say I blame them."

...What.

What is she even talking about.

Why do so many yoma love the sound of their own voices so much?

When you live alone save for a daughter that prefers to spend her time as various animals in the Korcari wilds -- minus the occasional templar looking to slaughter you and all your kind --

You get used to talking to yourself.

Plus, other people's reaction to the crazy crone routine are hilarious.

Here Flemeth arches an eyebrow, gaze meeting Clare's with abrupt directness.

"Are you waiting for something, girl?"

For you to attack, so that Clare's particular abilities will be most useful when she fights back!

"Yes."

"Good that you know that, at least. Plenty there are who can barely manage their own names."

Not that Clare has entirely proven she's not one of those.

Shockingly.

"But how long will you be waiting? That's a question that heroes never do ask. Or villains, either. Clerks, now. There's pragmatism at work."

Clare is, sadly, a lot more stubborn than pragmatic.

ISN'T IT NICE TO MEET PROTAGONISTS, FLEMETH.

If Flemeth were a human saying all this, Clare would have responses. Since Flemeth is what she is... yeah, have some more stony staring.

One of the many useful aspects of superhuman strength: you can stand around with a giant claymore in hand pretty much indefinitely!

Flemeth loves meeting protagonists. They are such useful tools!

(In many senses of the word.)

"Answer enough, I suppose. If only you were not so dull. Ah, well."

She's got places to be, does Flemeth.

And she seems very careless of turning her back on a half-inhuman woman with an unsheathed giant claymore.

Mostly it is because she can afford to be.

Clare watches her go.

With an aura that strong, it really won't matter if trees or rocks get in the way. She'll keep watching.

Just in case.

Flemeth might almost call that a sensible precaution.

Her face bears a slight, satisfied smile as she walks away.

That went well.

Milliways is wonderful as a cure for boredom. Really it is.

Clare is delighted to be of service!

Wait, no.

Clare is itching for an excuse to kill Flemeth and an opening that would give her a chance to succeed at it.

There we go.

Clare will be waiting a long, long time.

May she have joy of it!

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