Rose from the River laughs. She does not seem to watch where she is going, but note how nimbly she steps from rock to rock. Look now, she jumps in the water, up to her ankles, and sends little cold droplets all up and down Scales’ back; she lets a shiver run from her feet all the way up to her trembling braids. Petals retract as if winter had suddenly come to her hair.

“See, this is what I mean. You come so close to getting it right, and yet you stumble at the final... slither?” When she steps out of the water her feet shine like shark fins cutting through the surf. “Unless you mean to say that Qiu has forgiven and forgotten?”

Rose from the River has not met Princess Qiu. The First of the Radiants did, but only in the context of parties, a trophy to be shown off on Yin’s arm. But not since her metamorphosis. No, the reason that Rose from the River has a bounty (now doubtless devalued by the price on the shepherdess Yue) is that when she chose to follow the Way, she aligned herself with the White Doe school, seeking out its sifu and defending its adherents where she found them. The same White Doe school at the heart of the Foxglove Pact that sought to take one (just one) stone from Qiu’s crown, for the good of the land.

An audacious plan, one that saw their entire sect thrown into disarray when Qiu let them almost succeed. For the drama, probably, or to catch as many conspirators as she could. Maybe Rose chose to follow the White Doe because of the romance of standing up to a princess; maybe she really did choose it because its teachings sang to her heart, because they rang with truth. Or maybe it was because they had the best meditative dances, and not even the risk of making an enemy of the Threeshard Princess could keep her from walking that lovely path.

Or maybe it was all three, blended together.

“But we both know she wouldn’t do that without something in it for her, and so you succumb to the desire to misrepresent the world for your own gain. Don’t tell me, don’t tell me the value. I don’t want to know the number. Just don’t make an insect of me, my little Scales! You beautiful buy-and-sell! You wound yourself!”

Rose from the River hops onto a flat stone backward, as much imp as sage-in-training. “No, to truly be the illustrious demoness, the sub-soul of the avaricious Pyre, you must be honest with your evaluation. Let go of those petty grudges. Don’t twist the world to fit your shape. Illuminate it instead.”

Another stream, but here Rose takes her pole and tucks it underneath Scales’ belly, giving her something to push off to keep her from the water. Only many more to go. The sound of her not even mentioning it is deafening. 

Her rings almost glow in the low light, looped in ear and set in nose and worn on fingers. Easy to come by, with her skills, and easy to give away. And easiest for her, too, not needing a hot needle when she wished to add more or change their placement, merely time enough for the slow change of her twice-strange flesh.

They are well-sized for a hooked finger, should a demoness be tempted to try and assert herself. What would it be like to hold Rose from the River and know she lets you hold her? Would she let you? What would it mean if she did?

[If Scales of Meaning is appealed to by either service or jewelry, it is her choice as to how to respond, as Rose from the River has rolled a [b]7[/b]. If not, both service and sight are free, regardless.]