[b]Chen![/b]

The air changes, the pressure and the flow. Qiu's presence isn't crushing down on you now that you're swimming with it. You haven't challenged her and so this cannot be a duel, you haven't defied her so this cannot be a contest, you haven't questioned her so this cannot be a debate. There isn't just nowhere for her to strike at you, she definitively can't. By accepting her demand without complaint or reservation you have rendered yourself a part of her - and now all that fierce might isn't pushing at you but at [i]your[/i] problems. She notices and acknowledges the awkwardness of your things and moves to accommodate them. She does not assert control when you change your positions and the nature of the half-dance; it is enough that she could.

"Yue - just Yue. A villager out on the edge of the Terraced Lake, and apparently the most valuable thing in all of my realms," said Qiu, relaxing into the moment. "There are wanted posters out for her already, so you'll have plenty of competition in finding her. You'll have to move fast..."

Her orange-red eyes blinked and glanced aside, at your sketchbook and canvas. "... but not too fast. I have a painting of my own to do, so I won't be getting up to any trouble."

[b]Rose![/b]

Ferocious, dissatisfied, rebellious - all feelings already present within the Scales of Meaning and unlikely to change if her mistress changes from her own ascendant self to you. You see within the divine naga a creature that can be conquered and bound, but one who will resist and resent and seek independence ever more.

You see too a creature that is doomed, at least if she stays within her own embrace. She can never defeat the Pyre of Meaning for all that she is exists within the Pyre's totality. No matter what plans, what armaments, what wealth and what allies she has when she approaches her greater soul she could no more overthrow herself than a wave could become the ocean. They are already one and the resistance and denial of this fact causes the Scales nothing but suffering. 

This is a teaching of the Way - the suffering of all things stems from failure to embrace their universality. Demons are not beings to be feared, not eternal entities of darkness, they are merely souls so torn they cannot even accept that they themselves are one whole thing. It is a pitiable state, one to be healed as the sick are to be healed - but also a dangerous state, as the sick are dangerous. If she loses she will hate, but she is already imprisoned by hate, and so this feeling should not be given special consideration.

Her blade crosses yours.

"Of course I know," she purrs as your swords clash, as a twist of her elbow tries to pull your blade away and down. Combat exists so much in footwork and hers is impossible - her serpentine lower body allows her to advance and retreat in unreadable patterns and her long and lashing tail is always seeking your ankles. Her sword is long and thrusting, a distance and precision weapon, but this is an illusion. Her real weapons are the rippling muscles of her tail and shoulders, and if she can lure you in close she'll be around you as swiftly as swallowing. "But I want to hear you [i]say[/i] it. I want to hear you accept your collar with your own lips. I want you to know how exactly unworthy and shameful those lips are before I claim them and gag them."

Be wary of daring the Scales of Meaning, for with her voice she charms the truth from unsuspecting lips.

Her question, in turn: [i]What do you love most?[/i]

[b]Yue![/b]

Down and down Hyra goes. Down and down she is driven. Patiently, patiently she holds her arrow.

The demons swarm like ants, like acrobats. They leap and cavort and form chains of bodies that reach out like fingers or nets. They block, they condense, they imprison and enchain that ray of shining silver moonlight in tighter and tighter. Hyra moves in flashes and twists, a dance but a desperate one. Several shining silver hairs are sent scattering as she slips away from grasping claws, the edges of her clothes gather rents and tears from lance-strikes dodged by animal instinct. Down and down she goes until her feet touch the ground.

A flash of broken magic. One toe on the soft grass of the hilltop and her spell is broken and gravity is returned to her. She falls to her knees as the demon army raises above and around her, a dozen lances and a hundred blades and a wall of shields, exalting in triumph as the jaws of the trap swing shut around her. 

And from a distance, through shadows and spirals and silver hair fallen across her face like a veil, you see the smile of a wolf. 

For Hyra of the Wolves does not need magic to fly.

She leaps like you've never seen. It is an entirely different thing than air-walking, as different a motion as swimming. To walk in the sky down remains down, but not for Hyra here. She rotates in the air, legs coming up high over her head, arm extended straight down and holding the bow at full extension. Even now the demons are too confident in their victory to realize their vulnerability and they lash out rather than defend themselves - rather than defend that single critical bowl of water that rests upon the head of their master. 

The arrow comes down and the clay pot shatters.

The demons lunge all at once for the spilled water, trying to catch the droplets with their fingers, to snatch the mist from the air. Then they scrabble at the ground like dogs, seeking to dig the water from the mud. Finally, howling in fright, they turn and race back towards the distant river in their full hundred like creatures dying of thirst.

And Hyra slumps against her longbow, tired and bleeding and shaking with cursed magical energy that pours off her in veins of black, red and violet.