It would be a masterful feat indeed if Rose from the River could bat aside the sword-blows of Yin, Anahata of the Radiant Lands, with nothing but her staff. And perhaps she very well could! She is perilous, after all, with her roots sunk deep into the mysteries of the Burrows. Perhaps her role would then be to prove the limits of hubris, or to battle Yin until the Way revealed some better path, interceding through signs and lesser deities, pilgrims or stray pets. But Rose from the River will not do this. Ask her why! She will give you possibilities: that she is too cautious to risk falling into those omened arms, or merely too humble to insult Yin so, or it is simply that she takes this fight seriously, moreso than any other she has fought since she looked upon the Pyre on that gentle slope, hidden among the twilight shadows. But she will not tell you the truth: that she does not have the strength to shame the woman who loved her, not in that manner, by refusing to meet her as an equal. So with a flick of her wrist, the Conciliatory Ice-Star Blade gleams in the low light. Skillful Thorn Pilgrim! How she sweeps her sword into guard, held high, both hands on the long hilt! She is like the storm that gathers its clouds in great piles, when the air is pungent with the promise of rain. “The falling leaf does not choose its path,” Rose says. The two step closer, each pace measured and careful. “It is merely a part of grander movements. The wind tosses it up to lie in the place it was always meant to be.” One! Two! Blinding sparks. The two wheel back, blades moving in elegant arcs as they are brought to guard again, the afterimage of their meeting still seared onto the air, slow to fade. When Rose moves, it is like the sway of willow-branches over the water, mesmerizing in its grace. When Yin moves, it is with sullen determination, each move as if preordained before her birth. “When the songbird—“ “Enough!” One! Two! The air sears! How can Yin not see this as an affectation? As a thing unbefitting her dream? He was the shape of her desire, and she did not allow herself to question the miracle. And if she was weak in this, what of it? Who could be strong in the face of what First of the Radiants offered her? And now her waking dream mocks her with proverbs and sayings, as if she does not have a wealth of them stored up in her heart, as if these are not the tributes offered by her own monks. And yet how else is Rose to reach that heart, girded and buttressed about with shining righteousness? Is it not said: [i]A thing strange to behold! Revealed, impossible to see; hidden, laid clear for a child.[/i] “Speak like you used to,” Yin challenges. “Don’t hide behind maxims in the hope that I will not find you out and bring you back to yourself.” “I was a mirror,” Rose from the River says, her tone light, her eyes darker. “And now I grow into something new. Mind my shards.” One! Two! Three! They stand there, blades locked, eyes intent on each other. The stag looks up from its snack of clover at the two women, their breathing deliberately calm and measured, their arms straining to hold each other in place, their eyes daring each other to look away in shame first. “You know,” Rose from the River says with a dangerously careless smile, a dagger slipped under Yin’s guard, a flash of the thing she is underneath masks and vows. “If you give me too much trouble, Yin, maybe I’ll send you and Princess Chen back to Qiu together. She’s not too bad a view for that ride.” Impish Thorn Pilgrim! Whose resolve would not buckle, imagining Chen’s lovely eyes and rosy cheeks, the sway of the stag’s hindquarters beneath them, the elegant gift-ribbons woven about the two! And who would not be stirred into jealous passion, wondering why that privileged, pampered princess would be invoked! A moment’s hesitation would be enough to tip the scales. [Rose from the River Fights! With an [b]8[/b], so thank goodness this wasn’t a Figuring Out. Rose from the River gains a String on Yin and inflicts a Condition; Yin may return the favor as she pleases.]