RP:In The Garden Of Good And Evil

Summary: The hunter and the maid cross paths late at night.

Gualon Gardens

Loravelle - A bit late to be flying a kite. That didn't seem to stop Loravelle, though. Townsfolk were scarce in the gardens when it was cooler, and coupled with nighttime it was practically empty. She had the light of the moons and distant light from various buildings' windows to faintly illuminate her scrounged up leisure time. The kite is one of her smaller, cheaper ones; pale yellow paper stretched over a wooden frame to form a simplified bird that she carefully guides with her line and spool to swirl and dip with the wind. She isn't dressed well for the chill winter weather. The green changbao she wears is a plain cotton, with white rabbit's fur sloppily stitched at the collar, cuffs and hem to at least give the illusion that the cold is being left at bay. One that is sharp of eye and hearing could probably not only see the maid's teeth chatter, but hear it. She's grinning all the same however, grey eyes cast skyward while she stands on one of the winding cobblestone paths that wind around the gardens. The bench nearest to her has a water skin waiting for her, filled with water drawn from the well further south, along with a worn notebook.

Lhyrin ||The scent of the honeysuckle was the first thing that drew Lhyrin in, and then it was soon the sound of the water that was used to irrigate the gardens. The forsaken elf took their time to look around before finally settling stormy grey eyes on the maid. There’s a tilt of their head, but for now, they were content to watch both her and her kite. Thankfully for Loravelle, Lhyrin wasn’t hungry, so they let their curiosity take hold instead. Raven-colored brows furrowed a little in confusion as soft black leather boots brought them a few steps closer to the strange woman. “What… is that contraption’s purpose?” ‘Play’ was only the sort of thing Lhyrin did with their food and the bewilderment the kite caused was evident on their pale face. The moons’ lights spilled over the elf, their attire (made of the same soft black leather, with hints of forest green here and there), and the yew bow and arrows strapped to their back. One couldn’t quite tell from that distance whether they were an undead or not, and Lhyrin was always content with letting that mystery continue--sometimes it made things interesting.

Loravelle knew it would be foolish to think she had the entire expanse of the gardens to herself, but the sound of someone's voice resulted in a startled yelp. Her grip tightens on the spool of kite line, not to brandish it as a means to defend herself, but to prevent herself from dropping it, while her head whips around to locate the source of the voice. They spoke Common. On instinct she lifted a hand to her collar to tug it down just a hair and reveal the scars on her throat. It was her usual excuse to weasel her way out of having to speak, but this person already heard her yelp. It wouldn't work. She sighs. Loravelle detested speaking both from being frustratingly shy and a general dislike for conversations, but irony struck her when she was young and fate blessed her with a knack for picking up and speaking multiple tongues. This had its advantages – she could listen in on conversations that weren't meant for her to hear, or she could...play dumb, hopefully enough to have strangers such as this person dismiss her for the foreigner she is and leave her be. It wasn't often a necessary move, fortunately; Maids were so often overlooked. Lyhrin's question was innocent enough, but it was nighttime, and Lora was alone and easily spooked. So with reluctance, and a very obvious, hesitant step or two back away from the eerily illuminated figure nearby, she stammered out, in Elvish and very unaware that they may understand her, “It's a kite. For flying.” Why she didn't answer with a string of random words in another language to confuse Lhyrin is anyone's guess, but the bow-toting person could probably see that her ears didn't possess the characteristic point of an elf's. She's human, pitifully so.

Lhyrin || There was no smirk, despite the vague amusement in Lhyrin’s eyes. “Indeed,” they said, their somewhat monotone voice shifting from Common to Elvish, with their Vhysian lilt shining through. “And you get enjoyment from this? In the dark? Where there are many things that lurk in shadows that might seek to eat you?” They took a few more steps closer, but stopped before reaching her, having found the source of the honeysuckle. Keenly aware of their places as predator and prey, Lhyrin was fine with turning their back to her to approach the plants, those elven ears on display thanks to their hair pulled back into a half-ponytail. “Your body language clearly shows you know it’s not safe and yet…” As one gloved hand reached out to pull a bit of the honeysuckle near to their face for them to take in its sickeningly sweet scent, the other hand waved vaguely in Loravelle’s direction.

Loravelle realizes that she has made a terrible mistake. Now she drops the spool of kite line, flinching at the sound of wood thudding against the cobblestones. It rolls away just a bit, but the kite itself is still airborne and on a slow drift downward. Sure, Lora understood Lyhrin's words, but she fails to respond immediately. As they step closer, she steps backward to maintain distance, and considers turning tail and running. She would be fleeing empty-handed however, leaving two of her most precious possessions behind. This won't do. This isn't Vailkrin, she tries to remind herself while...the elf busies themselves with picking flowers? This puzzles her. Do they mean no harm? Just a kind person warning her of the dangers of being out at night? Surely that can't be all. Lora still possessed a bit of naivete, but recent encounters had cemented the notion that trusting anyone was a risk. Especially when they asked ominous-sounding questions. She answers all the same, again in Elvish, stammering while she side steps toward the bench to retrieve her journal and perhaps the kite, if it lands on the ground near enough for her to scoop it up. “Y-yes. It is the only time I can really do it...I...usually go on the roof to fly it, but they're slippery from the ice.” Why is she over-explaining? Did they really want to know? Her expression turns incredulous while she observes Lyhrin breathe in the honeysuckle's scent, and is oddly, briefly reminded of the silk flowers she usually decorates her hair with. Her hair is unadorned tonight however, though swept up into the winged style she usually kept it in. Once her journal is back in her hands, she grasps it tight to her chest like a child might clutch a security blanket. “Are you a gardener?” she asks, nodding toward the flower in their hand.

Lhyrin’s ears caught the sound of the kite’s spool hitting the cobblestones, though they did not look in her direction. “You’ve dropped your toy, little mouse,” they said, playing on her timidness. “You should take better care of your treasures or they won’t last long to serve you anymore.” They finally pulled a small bunch of the flowers free from its bush, looking to the human at last. “A gardener? Of sorts. Maybe more of a farmer.” They turned away from the bush and approached her calmly. Their body language wasn’t one that directly said ‘Hey I’m gonna eat you’, but the look in their eyes said otherwise. Gaunt features were further shown as the gap was closed somewhat, the elf actually allowing her a small amount of space. “And what is it that you do? A princess or duchess perhaps? One who’s duties take up all her time during the day that she must escape into the night to have her free time?” Now Lhyrin allowed a hint of a smirk as they offered the woman the honeysuckle. “You shake with fear, yet you are brave enough to come out on your own without any sort of protection. An enigma you are.”

Loravelle failed at keeping her face neutral when addressed as 'little mouse'. She frowns. Not the worst name that had ever been used to address her, but she didn't enjoy it. Lowering just enough to feel around on the ground for spool, she finds the handle and lifts it up to hold it with one hand. The kite itself landed on the ground a distance away, thankfully without any damage that Lora could make out in the light of the moons. A farmer? She mouths the words, confused. They have a bow. Perhaps a hunter as well? Before she could even consider questioning further, Lhyrin approaches and she freezes, uncertain of what to make of them. Her grey eyes fail to meet theirs. She knew that frightening gaze. Lyhrin looks like an undead. She...befriended? Paid an undead to teach her how to use a crossbow and Lora hoped that the money made him less likely to...eat her? Is that what undead do? She shudders at the thought. Or could they be a vampire? She didn't catch a glimpse of their teeth. The flurry of panicked thoughts are interrupted by Lhyrin's suggestion that Lora is someone of importance. The laughter is out of place, but she can't help it. Envisioning herself as more than what she was elicits a short chortle, accompanied by a slow shake of her head. “I'm the help. ...I clean and take care of peopl- Oh! You...” She accepts their gift with a trembling hand after tucking her journal under one arm. Her smile is uneasy, uncertain if she accepted bait for an eventual trap, but it is a gift and gifts are supposed to be significant, no? What did she have to give in return to Lhyrin? “T-thank you.” She falls silent again, turning the bloom by its stem in her fingers, uncertain with how to explain herself.

Lhyrin tilted their head, somewhat like a dog, as the maid let out a laugh. Her flurry of emotions was still entirely amusing to the elf. And likely surprising to Loravelle, there was no attack! Once the gift had been taken, Lhyrin took a step back, studying her thoroughly. “You do not like the nickname. And a servant girl? Hmm.” They crossed their arms, their stormy gaze lifted to the moons. “I supposed I had been ‘the help’ at one point. Dealing with cattle and all that.” Yes. Cattle. Totally not people-cattle. This actually caused Lhyrin to… frown? Their body stiffened somewhat, a look of remembering written all over their gaunt face. The expression was soon wiped away, Lhyrin’s features returning to that of near-emotionlessness. They shook their head, her attention finally finding home on her again. “Don’t let them break you.” The elf’s words were strangely kind, despite their expression. A leather hood was soon pulled up over their long locks, ears, and all as they turned away from her again, a few steps taken towards the exit. “Be careful when you’re out at night. Don’t let your mind stray wholly from the world around you as you play.” It was a warning, of course. And their intent to leave was clear.

Loravelle didn't know what to expect. Her mind was in a rush of panic. She's supposed to give something back to them. They gave her a gift, one which her fumbling hands are working to tuck behind an ear (those clumsy hands of hers dropped the spool again). Ah! Her journal. Maybe there's a page worth giving in return. Its pages were scrawled in some made up musical short hand. Pieces of songs. A smattering of lyrics here and there. She tore out a page and tried to press it into Lyhrin's hands if she could manage it. Whether or not she succeeded isn't of importance now. The page could quite easily have missed its mark and been swept away by the wind. They're frowning. Did she offend them? Lora missed part of what they had said, but their advice...no, command? To not let them break her. It struck a familiar chord. They understood what this existence was? She wants to believe that they did. For the briefest of moments, the fear receded, her demeanor seemed to steady. She points to her throat and the scars that peek out from her collar, hinting at more beneath her clothing. “I never did,” replies Lora, without hesitation. Once Lhyrin draws up their hood and turns to depart, she bends down to pick up her belongings yet again. “Y-you be careful as well,” is her late reply to Lhyrin, though they look better equipped for danger than she could ever be.

Loravelle - Along the top of the page and its margins are hastily scribbled staffs with notes drawn in, some crossed out or smudged. A few stanzas of an unfinished song are written in the center of the page.
"I only warned you with a lowered voice/
"Be wary of my river's undertow/
It flows with water from the coldest source"/
Did you hear?
And then I made sure/
You would always return/
You still know of dawn/
But you always return"

Lhyrin || After exiting the gardens, the elf paused briefly and looked down at the bit of parchment that they had managed to snatch right out of the air. Raven-colored brows furrowed somewhat, Lhyrin almost seemingly confused by the song lyrics. Nevertheless, they take their gift and deposit it into an empty belt pouch and carry on to the swamp, with the intent on hunting some orc.