[b]Zhaojun![/b]

It is said that the language of Heaven is wreathed in flame. It is said that it is written in glyphs that are left open to the reader’s interpretation. It is said that the first language was created as a tool of control, command, and as a method of expressing yearning. And all these things are true.

But still, Sagacious Crane must be commended for only flinching a little as her mind struggles to process a tripartite verb, with the knowledge that she heard three meanings and one sound. From her composure, she has heard such language before; from the way the rhythm of her walk falters, she does not have familiarity with it. But she does not fall to her knees in awe and surrender understanding in favor of rapture.

“A marvelous saying,” Sagacious Crane says. She does not say— oh, I see. Neither does she say— I do not understand. The careful words of a woman trying to buy herself time to puzzle out a meaning.

Her desires are so simple, though the reasons and meanings behind them writhe like the bright-banded serpents of this land. How she wants to be commended, or at the very least, told that her service was acceptable. How she longs, too, to see the mighty goddess Zhaojun lay the goblins and the rakshasa low with some peerless display of celestial skill, one that means she will not have to apply herself in battle, for the priestesses of the Sapphire Court are not peerless martial artists, relying on the assistance of small gods to defend them— and here, her only weapons will be her sash and her arms, which she does not value, despite their strength and shapliness.

That desire is a ready-made snare. All one of the rakshasa need do is pull on that string and Sagacious Crane will be lost in dreams of the goddess’s victory. How far will she follow in a daze, witnessing Zhaojun defeat ever more improbable opponents with a fearsome array of second-forms and true revelations of mien, even as the goblins swaddle her in silk and carry her down below the earth, there to be both wine and glass for their feasts?

To defeat the fair folk from beyond the world’s rim, you must fight above your desire, even one as simple as the guide’s, who wishes merely to be a good guide for honored guests. You must be able to see through their beautiful lies, though they offer you the fulfillment of your heart. And then, too, you must be able to outfight them. A difficult task, indeed.

“We shall build a cage for them,” Sagacious Crane concludes, her mind still clouded by a dread of what is to come. “I shall submit myself to your wisdom, radiant star of the dawn, whose light pierces the dark and brings revelation.”

As for what she loves most? The light of Venus is pervasive, and no desire can hide beneath it. Unpeel her heart of lesser things: her adoration of the priestesshood, her time spent as a silenced novice under the absolute authority of her superiors, her desire to see the Vermillion Beast locked away in a meditative anchorhold beneath the waters of Lake Zenba, her love of chilled noodles with crab meat and finely grated cheese, and (for once, not the cliche of newborn cats) baby monkeys. Underneath all the things she enjoys, there is a precious sapphire, and it is: the second-to-last night she spent at home, eating out of a hotpot with her sisters (who she wants to provide a good example, someone they can look up to) and her parents (who she wants to make proud, who deserve a daughter who becomes renowned and successful and, most importantly, [i]sophisticated[/i] in the way they never had the opportunity— thus, the way she strives to scrub her [i]hill country[/i] accent clean), in the place she still unconsciously thinks of as home (an inn on a winding road through the hills, a place of a hundred needful chores, a place where she played tag and skip-rope and mock swordfights with her little sisters).

That is what Sagacious Crane of the Reeds loves most, and it is the quiet tragedy of her life that love for her family is what has sent her away from them. When she is the Abbess, she thinks to herself— then she will have fulfilled the dreams of her parents for her life, and that will be the fullest declaration of her love for them.

***

[b]Giriel![/b]

Cathak Agata takes your hand. She reaches across the table, all innocently intense, and squeezes her fingers against the back of your hand. “It’s not,” she says, and the fire is in your hand, now, intense and inviting. “There are lives at stake, and you’re the one who can save them. What is one shabby cloak when compared to the lives of my guards?”

As if noticing the looks she is getting, if not from you then from other customers, she seems to realize that she is touching you for the first time, and then she withdraws. The air tingles where her hand rested against your skin, achingly sensitive.

She sits back, but her eyes still smoulder with Heroic Intensity. “I have been guarding the border of the Kingdom of Rose from N’yari incursion, but in the past month, my soldiers have been [i]haunted[/i]. Our iron is no match for the restless dead, and the fear they instill sends ordinary women and men wild with fright. I have dredged friends and companions out of the clinging mud, wrapped them in shrouds and written my condolences to their villages.”

Now you can almost taste her righteous fury, stoked around her brow like a crown— that here is an enemy that will not face her openly on the battlefield, but strikes at her subordinates instead.

“I have reason to believe the N’yari have desecrated highland graves and stoked their occupants to lamenting violence. I have come to ask you to help me set things right.”

That is a [i]very[/i] serious claim — the N’yari haven’t been at war like that with the Flower Kingdoms since the Sister-Warlords ruled. But her sincerity is like a brand against your skin, and the cloak lies there glimmering, reminding you: you can be a hero, too.

***

[b]Kalaya![/b]

Petony-[i]Phraya[/i]’s eyes are red-rimmed. The dark shadows under her eyes have run in unsightly circles onto her cheeks. She sulks in her great tigerskin cloak like someone half her age, her hook sword lying unsheathed on her lap, a half-empty bottle of plum wine at her elbow.

One of her retinue unfolds from the shadows to remove you: a large boy with a half-shaved head. But before he can lay a hand on you, Petony raises one hand, cowing him with a barked, incoherent command. Then she glares at you like you’re the midday sun.

“Princesses,” she says. The warriors sitting around the long table, legs folded beneath them or sprawled out on the reef mats, nod in agreement. She stares at... no, through you. It’s unlikely she immediately recognized you as a princess. Like, she couldn’t have, right? You’re a brave, bold knight, and you deserve to be at this table.

(How long have you been a knight, anyhow? And what makes you worry she can see right through you anyway?)

“They promise that you’re special, and let you kiss them in the gardens, like you’re sneaking around, like it’s a game. They try to make you stay, make you another one of their family’s tools. That’s all it is. A big scam. We’re just their [i]dogs.[/i] Well,” she says, and her voice is rising, becoming piercing, like the mighty war cry of the Tiger Knight, “this dog has [i]fangs,[/i] Meli! Down with princesses! Down with liars, pretenders, and [i]royals![/i]”

Drinks are had, and smoke rings are exhaled, and Petony glares balefully at the ring in the wood by her hand, worn by hundreds of cups incautiously placed directly on the table. “Where’s the new cup,” she slurs to herself. “Can’t even... new cup...”

***

[b]Piripiri![/b]

You may be charming. A single flower would do quite well. Just take care not to be [i]too[/i] charming. It suits Cathak Agata’s purposes to be reluctantly pursued but never caught by Azazuka, always just out of her reach; you have been forbidden to present an alternative to the daughter of merchants. For if Azazuka were to fall for [i]you?[/i]

You would be invited to [i]have tea[/i] with Cathak Agata in the Black Spur Redoubt. And you would stay there until certain things were found to have been made perfectly clear. You are not a player in the Game, Piripiri; you are a pawn.

So do be charming. Be an associate, be a friend, but do not dare to be anything more.

“Oh, [i]daaaarling,[/i]” Azazuka says, looking back over her shoulder and beaming at you. “Do come look at this! Isn’t it simply [i]delightful?[/i]” Her voice has an excitable trill to it, as if she’s seeing everything for the first time, despite the fact that she must have attended this festival every year growing up. And in her hands she has— ah! A model of the entire city, each ward shaped like a lotus’s petal, with the towers of the citadel rising from the center like stamen. The wards fold in on the center, around those towers, revealing intricate decoration in gold leaf, and careful interlocking facets to hold it closed, still in the shape of a lotus flower.

This flower she hands to you. “Here,” she says, as if it is not a completely inappropriately expensive gift. “So you’ll always remember being in the most beautiful city in the world.” The model is warm where she touched it, but not as warm as her smile. One of her attendants opens a purse and starts counting out golden coins as she takes your hand and pulls you along, barely giving you the chance to find somewhere to put the model.

It had better be a [i]very good flower,[/i] darling.

***

[b]Han![/b]

The priestess... giggles. It’s like drops of rain dripping from the branches during a lull, breaking the placid surface of a lake, clear and high. If you were extremely attentive, or were one of the mountain witches, you’d be able to notice the subtle echo contained [i]within[/i] the laugh, as if it were bouncing around a grotto. But your analysis likely starts and ends with “wow pretty.”

One hand flutters up to that veil while she tries to regain her composure. (Bereft of both hands on it, the umbrella tilts and bonks you on the hat before she manages to get it under control.) “I’m sorry,” she says, “I’m so sorry, it’s just, you’re just like her! Marchi, from— uh,” she adds, inexplicably flustered by herself, “That is, she’s from where I’m from, that general area, not really that close when you really think about it, but there’s this [i]person[/i] who is [i]named[/i] Marchi and she’s just like that, she growls just like her tiiiiiiger,” she finishes, having been completely unable to find a different word that started with “tie” and made any contextual sense.

“Ugh!” She says. “I’m sorry, I’m talking too much! I just don’t know when to shut up, do I?” Oh. Oh [i]wow.[/i] It is very obvious this priestess has never ever met a N’yari. That’s the perfect set-up for one of their punchlines. “I just, okay, you got me, I was lying when I said I came over here because it was too noisy over there, I just... you looked lonely. And that’s what we’re supposed to do, right? Us priestesses. We’re supposed to look out for people.”

Then, quietly, conspiratorially, impossibly, she whispers to you, all uncertain vulnerability: “Am I doing it wrong?”

And that’s when it clicks that, unlike any other priestess in your experience, this little flowerbud isn’t looking to manipulate you and give you a lecture. This is the first time they’ve let her out of the temple alone, and what she wants from you right now is [i]reassurance she isn’t a screwup[/i]. But when she came over here? All she wanted was to shelter you from the rain.

But that’s okay, because you’re great at reassuring people. Just the best, right? That’s a thing you know how to do. Just, like, make a joke. Tell her how you’ll shut her up for her, or something. Or ask if, wow, she really is a priestess (because of how not like Certain Other People You Know she is). You have got this on lockdown.