Beach Day

54: The Champion of Priscilla Cain

She tries not to take note of the fact that she's behind Priscilla when she puts the sword behind her back and announces, "We weren't here to hurt you."

Tiff knows she has a low charisma score. If she were to build herself for Pathfinder, she might choose ysoki and then nerf that particular stat. It's a shot in the dark that she does anything remotely useful here. It's a shot worth taking, though. She would hate to agitate her more. She would hate to hurt the wounded when they're undeserving.

Tiff's goal was always to help. Somewhere along the way, she thinks she may have decided that putting her undead great-aunt to rest was a phenomenal idea. Both are good options. The only bad one is getting her shit rocked a little more. She's trying her hardest not to move her left arm. It already hurts like hell she can barely move her fingers without gritting her teeth, to the point that she thinks she shouldn't move it at all. If there's something worse in store, she doesn't want to see it.

She just wants to come to an end that isn't a total wash of violence. Or, rather— it's not the violence that's the issue. She knows that. On some level, she likes the way it feels to come out of a rage with blood on her face and her chest heaving. It's the satisfaction of a job well-done and a life saved.

If she can help the victim, though... Didn't she learn from Despina? Didn't she try it again with the Lewis clone? Didn't she begin with Mark Croft himself, after she realized how Oneiron was manipulating him? Just as the Skunk Apes extended a hand of compassion toward her, she thinks she has tried.

And so she tries again.

She repeats it. "We weren't here to hurt you. I know what it looks like— a bunch of Cains bumbling in here like we're looking for a witch or something— but— But we didn't. We're more in the same boat than that. I think— We always knew it would go like this. Right? That's the way the story is."

The annoyance creeps back into Drew's voice. He taps his stomach, winces, and removes his hand. "Tiff, this isn't a story. This is real. This is the way our lives have unfolded."

"Tiff." There's an odd, dream-like quality to Priscilla's voice. "Tiffany."

"May." She regrets it as soon as it's out of her mouth.

"Tiffany May." Priscilla leans forward under the creature, using its leg to brace herself. "Tiffany May Cain. A name given to you—"

"I regret to inform you that's not my name."

"It's your name now."

"Fuck. I can't argue with that. Your reasoning is sound." She pauses, swallows, continues. "We— We know what he did to you. We were more concerned about, like... I don't know, seeing if you were okay. Or what we could do. Or something."

She doesn't turn around. Hollow, she asks, "Why would you care if I were okay?"

"See— we know you're not, because you're dead and all, but— I don't know. I came here to see what was going on and to— I came here to apologize, I guess. We know what he did to you. You shouldn't have had to go through that."

Priscilla doesn't say anything.

Tiff does. "We know it's— frightening. It's terrifying to have someone— three someones— show up out of the blue. You were right to protect yourself, but we weren't here to hurt you. I'm... invested."

She turns, finally, rocky face on a swivel, eyes weeping rain like the sky outside the cave. "Who are you, young witch hunter? You're a Cain, but you reek of divinity."

"Weird." Tiff doesn't frown, but she doesn't not frown. "You're the first person here who has caught onto that." She pauses, amends, "To the divinity, not to the— I'm not a witch hunter. None of us are witch hunters, except—"