2019-10-13 - Treessassins

It was a little windy during the day, so August opted to stay in town with Eleanor tonight. He's developed a sense for when the weathers going to send work his way after all these years. As he's suspected, the wind picked up, gusting in a healthy manner, and just before midnight, a large ash tree on Bayside Road gives up the ghost. Unfortunately, it takes out two poplars on its way down, and all three go spilling out onto the road just as a couple of cars pass by. No one is seriously injured, but a lovely red Audi A4 is probably (...definitely) totaled, and phonecalls are made which eventually filter August's way. Please get these trees the fuck off the highway, the DoT says. More or less.

It takes him about thirty minutes to get on site with Finch, who was on call for the evening, in Big Betty. The tow trucks have arrived by then to gather up the cars, neither of which will be making their own way home tonight, and the ambulances and firetrucks have already declared the vehicle occupants in the clear. No rain, thankfully, and the wind's lightened up a bit so that it's no longer hazardous. The smell of the ocean is heavy from the steady breeze.

Finch is thankfully finally over the flu. That shit was awful. So awful she sent her grandmother out of town so they didn't infect the elderly woman. She missed a lot of work because of all this, so she's even taken on a couple other people's on-call shifts besides her own to make up for it. Her hair is pink tonight, and she has her goggles perched atop her head, which double as safety glasses. She's in coveralls over a long-sleeved, striped shirt, and work boots as she climbs out of Big Betty. Seriously, she's 5'4", she HAS to actually climb down out of that beast. "Shit," she mutters, "they're gonna hate their new insurance premiums," she notes, chin tipping towards the smashed vehicles.

Another vehicle rolls up on the scene of the treemergency. Probably should've been turned back somewhere by a barricade, but de la Vega tends to go where he wants and do what he likes. Until someone slaps his wrist for it, anyway. He climbs out of a mud-spattered blue Chevy truck, slams the door, and ambles on over with his neck craned to spot where the trees used to stand. The emergency vehicles are in the process of packing up and leaving, and one of the firefighters salutes him on his way by.

"Yeah. Sucks too since you can't really be expected to dodge a fucking tree in the dark," August says. He sighs, shakes his head, pulls out the storage bin of flares in one hand, takes the stack of cones with the other. A nod at the two heavy duty chain saws and their attendant safety equipment, then, "Go ahead and get started. I'll set up our perimeter and join you."

He comes around the front of the truck, spies someone eyeing the trees. Someone familiar. "de la Vega," he says, walking up and setting the tub down. "Here to help up get the road cleared up?" He pops open the lid, pulls out a pack of flares.

Finch nods to August, "Got it, boss," and the wee woman begins hauling equipment of the truck. Chainsaws, pruners, ropes, tarps. She heads over to one of the trees and lays out the tarp, putting the equipment on one corner of it, the rest will be for smaller limbs and branches to cart them off the road more easily. She eyes Ruiz as she pulls her goggles down over her eyes. Wait, is that the police guy from that Dream?

Well, you know, not precisely. But, "Close enough." The captain's sort of standing there, familiar enough with how these things go to remain on the shoulder of the road and out of the way. But still vaguely in the way. "Big tree," he comments next, hands jammed into the pockets of his jacket as he takes stock of the thing. Is it raining? A little. But it's the PNW, where it rains 8 months of the year. His gaze travels across to the pink-haired girl hauling equipment out of the truck, then back to August. "Do you need a hand with anything?"

August arches an eyebrow at the offer. Fortunately it's late enough cars aren't exactly piling up. "Comfortable with a chain saw? If so--and if you promise not to sue me should you cut off your own leg--I've got another in the truck." He nods at Finch. "You can help her get the bigger branches cut loose so we can tow them onto the shoulder. Or carry branches off the road--any of that's useful. I'll send people tomorrow to mulch it all up. " He lights the flare, tosses it alongside the truck to make a boundary. Then another, and so on, guiding cars clear of the rear of the vehicle, should they begin to approach. They cast a pale red-pink light to compete with the bright white and yellows of the various cars.

Finch has picked up a massive pair of pruning shears and she's begun snapping off the smaller branches that a chainsaw would be utter overkill for. She works efficiently, and with intense focus. She's learned a lot from August in the last few months since she started working for him. She's mostly amused though. Neither of them needs pruning shears or chainsaws to chop up these trees, but with witnesses lurking about, mundane means are the name of the game.

"Comfortable enough," is Ruiz's answer, after a beat to process the fact that, yes, August did indeed just offer to let him use his chainsaw. "Got an extra pair of gloves?" he asks a bit gruffly, still studying the collapsed hulk of the tree sprawled across half the road. He's already shrugging out of his jacket, which'll leave him in a tee shirt, worn-looking jeans and hiking boots. "I'll put a call in to the precinct, too, see if they can get traffic diverted until you're done here." He prowls off for his truck, where he undoubtedly has a radio tuned to the band used by the cops.

August nods. "Gloves, earplugs, and glasses." He sets out the cones, then heads back into the bucket truck to fetch everything. He sets it all under a corner of the tarp, so they're out of the rain yet within easy reach.

Although August pulls on gloves and glasses of his own, he doesn't put in the earplugs. He moves to the other side of the tree and starts cutting off the big boughs, the ones which are over three inches thick.

As they all get to working, Ruiz notices something--a pair of gray green eyes, gleaming faintly in the dark, lurking just beyond the base of the largest fallen tree. It's impossible to discern what these eyes belong to, at least in the dark, but they're definitely watching the proceedings.

Finch gets through the smaller branches and piles them onto the tarp in armloads. She eyes Ruiz for a long moment. “Did we meet recently. In, um,.. near the diner?” In the Dream of course.

The call's put in, and what looks like a handgun is tugged out of the glove compartment and shoved into a shoulder rig-style holster before Ruiz swings back out of his truck. Then he collects the equipment, tugs on the goggles, and gives the saw a test pull to be sure it's working. Once the noise dies down, his dark eyes shift Finch's way, and fix on hers for a second or two. Something about the girl.. his lips twitch, but it isn't quite a smile. "Might have," he replies, adjusting the goggles slightly.

And then he spots it. A glint of something in the dark, and it prickles the hairs on the back of his neck. "Roen. Think we've got company." He hitches his chin that way.

August glances up from sheering off a bough, looks from Ruiz to where he's indicated. It takes him a second to spot the pair of eyes, and by the time he has, there are more--a pair in ghastly orange, and a single, larger, pale yellow eye.

He makes a face, shuts off his chainsaw. "Finch," he says, looking at the eyes, which are looking at the three of them. The yellow eye flickers, growing brilliant for half a second, and a cold wave washes over them. August recovers from it quickly, frowning; Ruiz and Finch, though, feel a sense like hard, chilled fingers dragging over their spines.

The wind gusts, harsh, damp, bitterly cold. A voice drifts to their ears, soft and hushed, like the wind in the trees: "Murderers."

Finch snaps upright like a shot when that cold sensation creeps up her spine. "Mierde!" Somewhere, Ignacio is SO PROUD. She holds the pruning shears to the side and looks in the direction August and Ruiz are. "Who are you!?" she yells. As far as she knows, she hasn't murdered anyone. Yet.

Finch squints through the darkness and she thinks about the stories she's learned. She's no expert in Veil Lore but she could swear these are, "Dryads?" she offers to August. "But they don't usually come out of the Veil." She looks back towards the eyes. "We didn't fell the trees, the storm did that, we're just moving the remains, I promise," she calls to the creatures.

August looks askance at Finch, mouths, Dryads? and carefully sets down his chainsaw. With Ruiz handling a call--and hopefully keeping the other responders engaged--August edges closer to Finch. "I think they might not give a fuck about that given we were just chopping them up."

Another low voice growls, "Defilers."

August's mouth flattens. "We need to lead them away from here." He means the firemen and officers, who won't have the damnedest idea what's going on.

"Right Boss, away from here." Finch lifts up her shears and makes snip snip threatening motions towards the dryads to get them to follow her. Then she begins heading further off the road to the treeline, to get them clear of the first responders.

When Finch holds up those shears, there's a sound from those eyes, a keening, moaning wail; the sound the trunk of a tree the size of an office building would make as it gives way. And on its heals comes a fury so white hot and terrifying as to wipe the mind clean of all rational concerns and smack the hindbrain as hard as it can.

The first responders all start shouting. One yells, "MOOSE! GET IN THE TRUCKS!"

But August and Finch know what it is. They alone can hear the words in that voice: "DEFILER!"

And their minds tell them, 'You better run, squirrel.'

August doesn't pride himself on being a brave man. Just a survivor. He grabs Finch by the arm. "Run."

Finch doesn't need to be told twice. Her brain goes, "NOPE" at that sound and she runs as fast as her combat-booted feet will carry her. She keeps checking over her shoulder as she races in whatever direction August pointed her.

August is close on Finch's heels. Behind them they hear a crash as the dryads thunder out of the undergrowth after them, followed by more cries of 'MOOSE' and other shouted commands.

In one of those glances Finch can make them out: they're vaguely centaur-like in shape, but their bodies are entirely made of plant matter. They have great antler racks covered in lichen, grass- and moss-covered hides, makes of vines and ferns. Their faces lack the defined features a human would have, instead being suggestions in bark housing their glowing eyes.

Each one of them is carrying a huge spear made entirely if wood. Their hooves clatter on the road, then pound on the dirt as August directs her to a game trail, in hopes of losing them.

"What's the plan here, Boss? Do we fight them? Set them on fire? Or... >huff< ...do you think... >kaff< ...if they're made of plant stuff could we... >wheeze< ... manipulate them?" Finch's eyes keep sweeping back over her shoulder. Hopefully August keeps her from running into anything.

"Maybe we could," August says, meaning manipulating them, though of course fire might work really well. Or not at all--

One spear, then another, comes flying through the darkness towards August; the each graze his leg, causing him to stumble, but he recovers a second later. A third just passes by Finch; she can feel it brush her arm, a near miss.

"Okay. Let's try manipulating them first." He slows, betting that the Dryads will have stopped to get their spears.

Finch spins and she holds her hands out, like a grown up Eleven, and focuses on making one of the creatures's front legs entangle together so they cannot run. Her dark eyes narrow as she moves her fingers, like she's conducting an orchestra, trying to weave the plant material of the dryad into knots.

When Finch turns, so does August; one of his hands closes into a fist. They both find Finch's ideas is sound--the Dryad's bodies respond like a plant's would, allowing manipulation.

Unfortunately, the one Finch has picked, with gray green eyes, is able to resist most of the compulsion. She hisses, the sound of something crashing through branches, reaches her hand back and throws a huge net that looks to be woven from roots. August's target is the more fragile of the three, or maybe he's just lucky. The one's back contorts, twisting its rear legs around and sending it collapsing to the ground with an angry moan. The third one makes a cracking, snapping sound, and also throws a root-net.

Finch gets net ensnared and she tumbles, somersaulting into a heap. She grunts and then her hands come up, eyes flashing darkly, as she makes a motion of pulling her hands apart. The roots of the net are torn, making an opening for them to get through. "We don't want to hurt you!" she hollers at the Dryads. "We take care of plants for fuck's sake!" She is exasperated.

August holds up a hand at the incoming net to no avail; like Finch, he stumbles to the ground. He takes the net in hand and yanks, with his Gift as much as his arm. The hole that opens isn't anywhere near as big as Finch managed, but it does keep him from being entirely tangled up. Mostly. He staggers to his feet, trying to toss the rest of it off.

"Help." The dryad with the gray green eyes points at the one August managed to twist out of shape. "You attack us!"

"We were just clearing them out of the road, the storm knocked them over," August reiterates, trying to get closer to Finch. The one he twisted has managed to right itself and is climbing to its feet.

The third dryad, it turns out, fell behind because it was getting the spears. And because it just watched August contort over of them, it's not in a mood to converse--it throws the first spear as soon as it's in view.

"You were chasing us and throwing spears and nets! We were just trying to slow you down to get away or be able to talk to you!" Finch gets out of the net and stands her ground. She points a finger at the spear-thrower. "Cut that out or I'll put your head on your ass, got it?" she announces. She looks to the other two. "If we wanted to hurt you we could set you on fire. This man," she points to August, "Grows and nurses plants for a living. I study and try to save birds. We both trim trees to keep them healthy. These ones that were down came down in a storm, not by our hands."

August just barely evades the spear; it grazes his leg, tearing his jeans. "Fuck," he mutters, moving to stand next to Finch.

The gray green and yellow eyed dryads begin to close in, but the third one, with the orange eyes, hands back. That one tilts its head, makes a hissing sound. The other hesitate, turn and look back at it.

The orange eyed dryad shifts. "You claim you are sylvan," it says, looking from Finch to August and back.

"They are not sylvan, sylvan would have healed those trees!" snaps the yellow-eyed dryad. The green-gray eyed one grunts in agreement. "Not cut them apart to clear a river of tar and rock!"

August sighs. "We could have tried to do that, yes." He licks his lips, cuts a glance at Finch. "But that'd be so much power, They'd show up seconds later, and do who knows what."

Finch grimaces. "I wish we could have, but you're on THIS side of the Veil," she explains. "If we did that, people would be frightened. They'd hurt us, and probably cut down all the trees. And the Dark Men would come for us to kill us or enslave us. We do what we can, but we can't do everything. We will grow some new trees in the place of the lost ones though," she vows. "I've been moving some bushes to the grounds of my home, so they will live happy and safe as long as I can help they do that," she adds.

"Them," growls the dryad with the single, baleful yellow eye. There's a sense if it was a person it would spit to one side. The gray-green eyed dryad says, "See? They cannot be sylvan, they place their own lives above that of the forest."

August is uniquely pissed off by that claim, but Finch is talking, which gives him an opportunity to practice shutting up. Anyways, she seems to have said something which has the orange-eyed dryad's interest.

"It's true, practicing the Art draws Their notice. But as my sibling says, this would never stop a true sylvan." Its head tilts as it considers her further. "Still. It's true those who have no Art would panic, perhaps even do more damage. So you must do it carefully."

August glances sidelong at Finch. Following her lead, he says, "We can come back after the cleanup. After the rest are gone. I'll take cuttings of the ones that fell. Grow daughter trees off them."

But the yellow-eyed dryad sneers at Finch. "Prove it. Show us your brood, then."

"What, Gertrude and Puff? You wanna go to my house?" Finch asks, blinking. "Huh, well ok, sure. I live a little ways down the road here. Boss?" She looks over to August for his opinion on an excursion to Mallard House so the testy plant people can chat with her buddies, the Snowbrush and the Smoke Bush.

August blinks at the demand, even more so at Finch's willingness. He takes in a steadying breath. "Only if you're okay with them knowing where it is," he says with a wary, sidelong glance.

The dryads glance between one another, silently conferring. Then the orange-eyed one says, "We agree. Show us your brood, that they may speak for you."

August sighs. "Okay but...either you're giving us a ride, or it's gonna take a while. We're not fast."

This is met with grunts of consternation and more silent looks. Finally, the yellow-eyed dryad and the orange-eyed dryad step forward. "Very well. Misstep at your peril." Each one kneels down to make it easier to climb onto their backs. It won't be a comfortable ride, but maybe a fast one.

Finch climbs aboard one of the creatures with the same nimble grace she scales trees and buildings with. She gives August a look like DO YOU BELIEVE WE ARE RIDING PLANT CREATURES!? Because this shit is almost as good as if she'd been able to get herself a pet baby Utahraptor. She points the Dryad down the road towards Mallard House. "Just be quiet, ok? Don't wake my Gran. She's an elder, if you know what that is?"

August climbs on with a little less agility than Finch, thanks to all that metal in his bones, but no less wonder. Or maybe that's wariness. Yeah, it's wariness. The look he gives her is COOL AS IT IS, THIS IS PROBABLY A REALLY TERRIBLE IDEA.

No sooner than the two are seated do the dryads stand. August buries his hands in the 'mane', which is really a collection of vines and branches, thankfully none of them thorny, grips with his thighs like he would a horse. The dryad grants in response. "Nervous sylvan," it grumbles.

"We will not wake the Elder," the one Finch has climbed on says, its intonation one of solemn assurance.

And that's when they both feel it--an odd sensation, flowing into them from the dryads. It's hard to pinpoint at first, but gradually, it becomes clear that their Spirit sense has been amplified somehow, like the dryads serve as an antenna feeding signals far beyond anything they were sensing. There's the added side effect that it's adjusting their perception of the living things around them, and nearby: the trees in the road behind them are corpses being chopped to pieces. The road is a river of blood and bone. The cars are stinking, ugly lumps of metal, poisoning the world by their very existence.

But also, more usefully, Finch can sense her plants, her brood. They're as obvious to her with her Spirit sense like this as the house would be if she was standing on the road.

"Ho boy," August whispers, swaying in place.

Finch makes a little squeak as she feels herself amp up to 11. She tries to combat the negative feelings of the dryads by reaching out to her bush-friends, to her spoiled rotten chickens, to her adorable and much beloved pet rat. All the trees and plants on the grounds of Mallard House have been revitalized in the last few months since she came home, and she is healing them all, helping them thrive, giving them protection. Gertrude and Smoke she walked with, day by day, back to the grounds, to ensure they were safe and spoiled for helping her.

The dryads seem to be able to follow Finch's reaching out, and without needing to be told where, head for Mallard house. Though they might grip their viney, leavy manes, it's not needed; the creatures seem to move in a way which prevents being unseated. The don't gallop through the forest so much as flow through it, almost like deer in some way; they never crash through bushes or branches, never snap a single twig in their movement.

Mallard House looms within minutes. The dryads slow, coming out of the treeline warily. They eye the house with disdain, make right for the plants around the grounds instead, to Gertrude and Smoke.

Finch hops down from the back of the Dryad to move to Gertrude and Puff. She sends some of her energy into them, hoping they can sense how much she cares. She looks to the creatures behind her. "This is Gertrude, a Snowbrush. And this is Puff, a smoke bush."

August slides off the yellow-eyed dryad and moves to join Finch. He walks carefully, because everything feels strange and different and he's not entirely sure how to process it all. He moves to stand by Finch, still wary of the dryads.

The gray-green eyed one drifts forward, extending a long arm made of woody vines to Gertrude. "Such strange names you give them," it comments. The other two join her, and each takes their time touching the two plants. Though neither August nor Finch can hear it, they can sense, like ripples in a pond, the conversation happening between the dryads and the plants. Each shrub shifts and moves of its own accord.

"They're talking to them," August says, sounding more than a little jealous. "Well now we have to figure out how to do that."

"We really do. That would be so awesome," Finch murmurs in awe, totally and utterly high on the dryad power. She's grinning and waving to Gertrude and Puff like they have eyes and can see it, and you can almost see little hearts drifting up from her brain to signify the love for her plant friends.

The dryads continue this communion with the shrubs for some time. Eventually the orange-eyed dryad drifts to some of the other plants, as does the yellow-eyed one, but the gray-green eyed dryad remains with the shrubs. They run their viney, branched arms over trees, flowers, ferns. August watches all of this warily, but only half-aware; like Finch, he's off-kilter from his Spirit sense being drowned in the dryad's perception.

Presently all three dryads converge back on August and Finch. Reluctantly, the yellow-eyed one says, "They tell us you care for them and other plants."

"Sylvan," the orange-eyed one confirms.

The green-gray eyed one grunts. "You'll plant new trees to replace those which fell? You swear it?"

"Yes, I swear," Finch says. She gestures to August, "His entire living is growing new plants, and helping people learn how to help them. He is a good man. I do it because I study living things in my education. He does it as a calling. You owe him an apology." She folds her arms over her chest.

"I swear," August says, agreeing readily. But then Finch goes and demands an apology. He cuts a look at her, eyes a little wide and hard. He all but makes a 'no, no' gesture. He's trying to communicate it to her with his face.

Too late.

"Apology," the green-gray eyed one sneers.

"For what?" the yellow-eyed one demands.

The orange-eyed one, though, is somewhat more receptive to this request. It considers Finch, then August, who refuses to squirm under that botanical scrutiny, Finch again. "We will apologize when the new brood is established." It makes a slashing gesture across one of its root-like hands, causing water and sap to ooze forth. It offers the hand to Finch. The green-grey eyed one makes a hissing, sighing sound, steps forward, does the same. So does the yellow-eyed one; it holds out one of the spears, point down at the ground but with easy access. The implication seems clear--they're to cut their hands to seal the deal.

Finch's jaw sets. "If we do this, I want your word that you wont try to hurt our people again. We will put the fallen wood to good use, and we will plant daughter trees for those that nature fells. Agreed?" She cuts her palm with the spearhead, without hesitation, because that's how she rolls. It's a miracle her and Ignacio are still breathing with their fountain of bad ideas with good intent.

August makes a face when Finch cuts her palm. But, there's no chance he's letting her do that alone. (Also he suspects he has to pony up anyways.) "This is probably a bad idea," he warns Finch. He can feel the lecture from Alexander reaching from the future to now about how utterly bad of an idea this is. And yet--in for a penny. They can't have dryads running around killing people every time a tree falls over.

So he steps forward to cut is palm on the spear's 'blade', setting his jaw when he does so.

The dryads gather up their two hands in their three. It feels like reaching into tree bare-handed: hard, occasionally sharp, waxy. Then the sap and water mix with their blood, and a sensation hits like a freight train. If sitting on the dryads had been a rush, this is more like drinking honey heated to its boiling point. It's sweet and it sears and sets every nerve on fire in a blazing path that passes over them in a wave.

In its wake, their reach doesn't go any further than it can now, but everything is magnified. The stroma filling the chloroplast, flowing between the grana, shuttling around the necessary components of the most important biomolecular event in the whole of the world: carbon fixation. The wax forming on the cuticle. The cell wall being constructed. All of this, in the grass beneath their feet, Gertrude and Puff, the trees around the house, the dryads themselves. All of them in note perfect detail.

The dryads withdraw their hands. They seem unaffected. In some way, they have features now; the yellow-eyed one looks distinctly smug. The orange-eyed one, satisfied. The green-gray eyed one, wary. They always did, maybe, just now, August and Finch can sense those details.

Are Gertrude and Puff whispering to one another? Finch is sure she can hear them doing something..

The orange-eyed one says, "It is done. We will seek the new brood on the next dark moon."

Finch stares at, well, everything. She crouches down to pet the grass beneath her feet, then gets up to pet Gertrude and Puff affectionately. They are friends. "Are you two talking about me?" she asks them with an arched brow. "I'm glad you like it here. I'll make sure you are cared for always." She smiles drunkenly. Drunk on power. She smiles to the dryads. "Be safe, don't let the humans see you ok? Especially not the little young ones. They may be scared."

August stays still as a stone, his eyes distant and unfocused as he tries to make sense of what just happened.

If I tell Alexander about this I am going to get yelled at.

"Next new moon," August agrees, not totally aware he's doing so. He hesitates, looks at Finch. "Do we want to walk back?" He almost wants to. The responders will be concerned, but he'd kind of like to wander in the forest for the rest of his life, or at least until they make it back to the truck and the corpses--er, downed trees in the road.

"Yeah, it's a great night for a walk, Boss," Finch agrees, and to feel all the living things around her. To immerse herself in the life all around them.

The yellow-eyed dryad seems vaguely amused by this. The green-gray eyed one snorts, or makes a sound like a snort. It's hard to tell.

The orange-eyed one dips its head. "Until then, sylvan. May your brood grow tall, their leaves be full, their limbs sturdy." It turns to go, and the other two follow suit. Once they reach the treeline they leap into the forest, heavy footfalls pounding in the dark. They're soon lost to sight and sound.

August swallows, turns to look up the road. "There's a game trail just on the other side of the meadow here that'll take us back there," he says to Finch. He's never walked it, never even seen it on a map or with his own eyes, but he can feel it, right there. With a look over his shoulder at her, he starts walking.

"I know," Finch replies, because she too can feel it. She bounds along behind him, practically skipping, stopping every few feet to urge a little flower here to bloom, a shrub there, a tree right over in that spot. She spins and clasps her hands to her heart like a damned Disney Princess, wanting to sing about all the amazing living woods around them. Mercifully she doesn't sing. If she was pixie-ish before, she's Tinkerbell now!

August walks a little more slowly and stately, stopping just as often as Finch does. And if the first responders give them funny looks when they finally come back, and think the story of leading the moose off and then having to walk back is a little odd, well, it's 1am, and everyone's tired, and there's a tree to remove. No one thinks much of it. They're not around to watch August and Finch act more like they're wrapping a loved one in a death shroud rather than clearing felled trees from the road, for which both of them will be eternally grateful in a day or so, once the high wears off.