Money.

The third spiritual force. It descends into the gross physical form, Cash; it rises by degrees into the refined conceptual form, Credit; it is purified through acquisition into the Value of the mighty. The worthy find that it flows into their possession to become greater; the lowly can only hope to produce more of it for their superiors. And— fatally, for the Scales of Meaning— the creature that once had been was a bioalchemical creation brought forth from Money. It was not her place to make it herself; it was her role to clean the gears of the vast societal machine that was powered by it. Why should she want it?

(Leave unspoken, of course, that a spy and kidnapper who can be bought is a hiltless sword. Sooner or later, you will wound yourself upon it. And her king had. Never mind that she had just wanted to prove her worth.)

Money. The vital essence of the old world. And all too often, a blinder that weighs down the heart and deafens it from hearing the quiet whisper of the Way. Hoard, build, set yourself firm as stone against the currents of reality; that is the way of the masters of Value. Yet even the poorest insect sings.

Rose from the River pulls her pin from her hair and lets it fall in loose cords. Dear Thorn Pilgrim! With a flick of her wrist it becomes a long and elegant saber, held low at guard. Like a panthress she moves, her feet silent upon the grass. Does she reveal herself? Perhaps.

Perhaps the Scales of Meaning have heard of the pilgrim of the Way who carries the moon’s own sword. Perhaps she has not. Still, Rose from the River plays with revelation, flirts with it, dares boldness.

“You are glorious,” Rose from the River purrs. One step, another. Which of them is prey? “Your numbers are without limit. Surely you can tell me what my price must be. Name it, if you truly are the exalted Scales of Meaning, she who sits above the bull and the bear, and I will be yours seven times over. If you fail, then surely you cannot be the wise sage who tramples deception under her scales, and I will do with you what I please.”

The saber circles the epee. That smile! It is a quiet mockery. It is the suggestion of what Rose from the River may please— a reversal of servant and mistress. Does that not gall, Demon of the Second Exalted Rank?

Will you dance with the pilgrim clad in moonlight?

[Rose from the River works to Figure Out the inner workings of Scales of Meaning. With a [b]7[/b], this is two and one. So, the first question: [i]how would she feel if Rose from the River won?[/i]]