[b]Han![/b] The [i]Dragon’s Pearl[/i] is fairly standard, as far as highland barges go. It sits high in the water, traveling at a sedate pace downriver, pulled by an ox on the canal path and guided along by poles. At its prow is the carving of the Thunder Dragon, the legendary mother of the Flower Kingdoms, clutching a pearl in her talons; her horns rise from the center of her head in waves, like some vast and deadly chameleon. Behind, the barge’s deck is half covered by a curved roof over simple benches. The barge, not being particularly large, usually has extra passengers sitting between the prow and the benches, legs tucked in beneath them to fit underneath an umbrella. But today, there is a wedding party traveling downriver to Golden Chrysanth taking up the benches, and you are not going to make somebody sit outside when they should be surrounded by their friends and family. So you are sitting, stubbornly, in the rain, radiating disdainful energy to scare pity away. Besides, who would dare approach you? You’re looking pretty scary, and the wedding party is comprised of lowlanders who recognize your fashion: a dangerous highlands country thug. Probably doesn’t want to be around us, you can almost hear them saying. Don’t give her an umbrella, she’d just end up breaking it. So you sit, getting wetter and wetter, hood up but rain somehow getting inside your poncho anyway, in the low light of dusk, completely umbrellaless. And that’s when the priestess (who you were sure was with the wedding party) looms over you. “Do you mind if I...?” She doesn’t finish the sentence, but goes ahead and takes a seat right next to you. Very close, even. Shoulder of her blue river-patterned poncho rubbing up against yours, the back of her hand holding the umbrella over both of you brushing against your soaked knee. When she half-turns to glance at you, her face is hidden— well, of course it’s hidden, she’s veiled and has her poncho’s hood up. But the lantern light from the covered benches glints off her glasses, and you get just a glimpse of her dark eyes behind them. “I was getting a little overwhelmed over there,” she lies, transparently. “It’s all... bwah, yay, you know? Just a [i]lot![/i]” She does a little gesture with her free hand that might be intended to be... fireworks? “Thank you for letting me take a seat where it’s quieter.” (She smells like a garden just after rain, but even sweeter, richer. Her voice is high and has an accent you can’t quite place, but sounds... classy. And she’s tilting the umbrella over you.) What happened to your umbrella, anyway? And are you going to scare this little busybody off, before she can get on your case about something? *** [b]Piripiri![/b] [i]Yayeh![/i] Festivals in Golden Chrysanth are riotous, and the Umbrella Festival is no exception; it might, in fact, be the biggest. Despite the flooding of the gutters, everyone is happy to say that not a drop of rain reaches the street, there are so many umbrellas on display on the streets (not to mention stalls, making the already cramped streets into tight mazes). The lanterns hanging at every door and stall turn the silver light of the stormy sky into a kaleidoscope. [i]Yayeh![/i] Fried fruits! Fried fish! Fried flatbread! Sticky sweet pastes! Fried noodles, coated in spicy-sweet sauce, served eyewateringly hot! Mystery Filling Buns, with the skeleton of an umbrella traced in frosting, each one a gamble! Wine, spiced or floral, poured into flimsy paper cups! Golden Rum, the official drink of the city, which you, as a visitor, must [i]always[/i] remember to order diluted and with ice (lest you sear orange molasses into your throat), both because it’s cheaper and because only barbarians drink it straight (as you did, that first memorable time). Candied nuts, dried fruits, fruit-infused cookies, and that odd N’yari dish cooked in a sheep’s stomach (and nobody will tell you what it’s made of). [i]Yayeh![/i] And nobody’s wearing ponchos, which means bare shoulders and bare arms, bare stomachs and bare chests (though that is both rarer than it was and a deliberate political statement, these days). Necklaces, bracers, bracelets; girdles, earrings, headdresses. Everything and everyone is fighting for your attention, your approval, and (in the case of the vendors) your money— but not in the sort of way that you might see back home. It is doubtless rather awkward. Look at lips and be polite, dear. Thankfully, your host has Dominion sympathies, and is wearing red and gold, her skirt jangling and her top made of layer upon layer of ruffled satin. Her servants and bodyguards are a crowd unto themselves, drawn in her wake, and she dives gleefully into the narrow streets, pulling you along. What sort of relationship do you have with Azazuka, anyhow? And, despite the fact that she could probably buy this whole street, what gift do you want to give her before the end of the festival? *** [b]Zhaojun![/b] This far into the forest, the rain has changed from texture to sound. The boughs overhead: an awning, a symphony. It almost drowns out the story of the guide, and the story of the guide is this: “On the hottest day of the Hot Season, a rakshasa queen took residence in the shrine of a Loyal God.” That is what the locals call the gods of disease, misfortune, and decay. It does not do to attract their ire; better to both flatter them and remind them of their allegiance to the Sapphire Court. “She bound him tight in fantasies and sealed him away. Now we are preyed upon. No charm hung over the door keeps her servants out, and we become weaker and weaker. Half the village has already been spirited away to their larders, caught in their own dreams.” The guide’s hair is long and straight, falling in a curtain. Her conical hat shadows her face, and the light from her lantern plays instead on her simple brown dress. “Do not be troubled,” the priestess says. Her hair is gathered into an elaborate braid, and her voice is a self-conscious facade almost natural. It would take a keen ear to notice how she leans on her vowels too much, overly enunciating to avoid slipping into old rhythms. “The goddess [b]Zhaojun[/b], descended from Heaven, has already deigned to hear you out.” She is almost clever here. She tries to maneuver Zhaojun into definitive agreement, thinking herself a player of the Game of Generals; to make something concrete of the goddess’s simple marble mask. “Such affronts to the proper order will not stand against [i]her,[/i]” she adds, with a flourish of intentional humility. But perhaps this is too harsh an assessment of Sagacious Crane of the Reeds. After all, not only must she impress this rather singular emissary to the Flower Kingdoms, but there is a unsettlement running down her spine, and not simply the excitable one that is caused by being so close to Zhaojun. No, this is a more dangerous feeling, a premonition of danger. The way the sound of the rain has become a distant roar, a dome of calamity out of sight; the soft and lulling sound of the guide’s voice; the knowledge that if she fails, she risks not only imprisonment in fantasy but also the displeasure of the Sapphire Mother and Heaven itself for allowing harm to come to Zhaojun. So she armors herself in control. Surely she can make Zhaojun understand the esteem she is held in here, that the Flower Kingdoms are not some barbaric backwater but the most vibrant and blessed land in all the world. Surely, with such a subtle nudge, she has committed Zhaojun to defeating the fairy rabble and made her feel good about doing so. And surely she has nothing to fear, as a priestess of the Sapphire Court and as the companion of Zhaojun herself. Surely. *** [b]Kalaya![/b] The cup shatters when it hits the support beam on the far side of the hallway; an unlucky thing, that. If it had hit paper, it might have just caused a tear and then bounced onto the reed mats. But now the cramped hallway is covered in small shards of white-glazed porcelain, and there are shards stuck in the hair of the crying server who narrowly avoided being hit in the head by it, and from the sound of the hoarse roar that comes from the private room, the breaking of the cup didn’t even make its occupant feel any better. The inn’s owner, a grey-haired woman with a bent back from years stooping in the garden, gives you a look that’s half pleading and half exhaustion. You’ve already had the discussion; nothing more needs to be said about what lies beyond. Petony, the Tiger Knight, needs to sober up. She’s drinking them dry, clearing out their larders, and she’s got an entire retinue accompanying her. While it would be dishonorable for her to react to requests to leave or at the very least pay her tab, her hosts are very much aware that she is unstable, armed, and in a destructive mood. Having the moral high ground wouldn’t help rebuild an inn, or even an entire village, if things spiral out of control. Which is the real variable, if things come to blows. You, against a drunk Petony and her warriors, most of whom are either also drunk or very high? A dangerous fight, but one you might still win. But rather than considering victory, consider the risk of collateral damage if you move incautiously. What do your stories have to say about Petony’s conduct? What is expected of you in this situation, as a knight and not a princess? And have you ever fought a knight before? *** [b]Giriel![/b] You are not in Golden Chrysanth officially. But this teahouse is not [i]so[/i] far away, and it is closer than you have been in some time. Outside, the world is lost in the grey veil of rain; inside, it is warm, the world lit in oranges and yellows and reds. It is like taking tea in the heart of a fire, but without the fire. Cathak Agata is fire enough for all, anyway. She is not like the last emissary, the one who was all self-importance and furious commands. The Red Wolf is an invitation to admire, to come close, to burn yourself on her. And her smile is so impossibly innocent that, even knowing that she is dangerous, it is difficult not to wonder if you have been misled and that she is exactly as she presents herself: a heroine fumbling about in a strange land, eager to learn from you. “There are so many subtle changes in this season, don’t you think?” The lanternlight plays across her speckled skin. Her hands are... her fingers are, well. Nice. She brushed them against the back of your hand when she offered you your cup, and it’s hard not to let your attention drift back to them. She guilelessly takes another sip before continuing. “I’m not a magician. But I’m in awe of you and what you do. It’s like being a diplomat, a scholar, and a gardener all in one.” Being around her, the warmth is... comforting. Seductive. Easy to yield to. The warmth simply wants you to use its energy to act. The Red Wolf simply needs to nudge your desires into a place that is convenient for her. How much of that are you aware of, as a student of essence and enchantment, and how much is just the witchy instinct in your gut, and how much is it still managing to slip by you anyway? “And that’s why I’ve come to ask you for a favor. But first—“ She waves over one of her slaves, who wears a fine robe and a gleaming golden collar, who sets a box down on the table. The Red Wolf opens the exquisitely carved lid, and packed tightly inside is all the night sky. The fabric is impossibly soft, plush, inviting you to sink into it; the constellations above Scarlet’s mountain are delicately stitched in tiny diamonds and fine golden thread, and the moon is an empty circle of silver leaf. The cloak’s clasp is the Imperial Eye, done in jet and gold. “It’s yours,” she says, and pushes the box forward. “As a sign of my gratitude that [i]you[/i] were willing to meet with me. I’m sorry for the quality; it was the best I could get under short notice.” Her sheepish smile is a snare; her carefully unartful humility a trap. But can you really pay attention, when the gift is the sort that princesses would envy to see you wear? To deny the gift of the Red Wolf in her presence is difficult enough for socialites and princesses. To reject it, politely or otherwise, you must Defy Disaster; if you accept it, give her a String from your heart.