[b]Han![/b]

The sound that Jazumi makes when she is sucker punched by you is kind of a “nuuh.” Then she spins on her heel, topples over the side of the boat in a jingle and jangle of charms, and hits the water with a hard splash. Like, painfully hard. The little priestess winces a little. But don’t worry, because she immediately comes back up flailing and hissing and pulling outraged faces as the current sweeps her away. N’yari don’t much care for the water, see.

Machi turns and fixes you with the kind of glare that would melt a lesser woman, the lantern-light shrouding half her face in shadow, as Kigi and Hanaha freeze. Then, terribly, inevitably, Machi’s face breaks into a grin and she cackles. “Haha! Wonderful, Han! Grandmother, I thank you for this blessing, that you bring our paths together again!” She kisses two fingers and holds them up to the sky in honor of Grandmother Moon. Then she brings her attention back to you— that is, the two of you, because the priestess, arms still lashed behind her back, is shoulder-to-shoulder with you. You can feel her all fluttering like a leaf, even as the rain trickles into her shoulder-bobbed hair, which is a glossy dark blue in the low light, her poncho’s hood pulled back by Jazumi.

Machi swings her sword off her back and hammers it, still sheathed, down on the still boat so hard it rattles the deck. “I claim that priestess as our prize in the name of our Grandmothers,” she purrs, claws clacking on the hilt. “But I am willing to yield her to Han’ya of the Ōei, my raid-bride.”

Oh. Oh gosh. Well, she’s given you two pretty clear options. On the one hand, she means to beat you in a duel and take the priestess just so you’ll come chase her. On the other, she intends to give you the priestess as a gift. An initiation present. And of course the priestess can tell she’s being bartered over. It’s obvious! Clear as day! That she’s being dangled like a prize! You need to make it clear that you’re not interested in having her as a prize— because you’re not thinking about it, right? You’re not considering slinging a cutie over your shoulder and feeling her squirm and hearing her squeaks, no, that’s the furthest thing from your mind. And besides, what kind of thanks would that be to someone who was kind to you, who offered you an umbrella, who wasn’t afraid of you (though she probably is [i]now[/i]...).

What might be going through your mind instead is an image of Machi, big stinky cat bully, toying with an innocent, helpless priestess, and it’s all your fault you brought attention down on her head. Enveloping her in those muscles, licking the sweat off her skin, leaving hickeys beneath that veil, being possessive and mean and... meep.

Is it that? Is it the way that, instead of sneering and being bombastic, Machi sounds devious and excited at her own cleverness and eager to tempt you into joining her? Is it the casual strength of her stance, knowing she could pick you up and toss you overboard if she wanted, but that she doesn’t want to, because [i]she wants you?[/i]

Why does Machi of the Ōei take a String on you, Han(‘ya of the Ōei)?

***

[b]Giriel![/b]

“What will you do when you find them?”

The young shepherd glances back at you. He’s [i]so[/i] young, just having earned the right to take the flock past the river to graze all by himself— old enough for the responsibility, but, despite his protestations to the contrary, young enough that he doesn’t know better than to lead you.

Which is, in and of itself, curious. The farmers and herdsmen of the lowlands often struggle with the superstition (grounded in unfortunate fact and logical fallacy intermingled) that the appearance of a witch brings the attention of the Unseen to their doorstep; that ghosts linger in your wake, demons listen to act on your every thoughtless word, and that gods being their attention and judgment on those who interact with you. Kayl is young enough that he thinks himself brave enough to deal with all those things. It’s very cute.

But that’s not all. Because while you’re used to some distance, ever since you started asking around about the N’yari raids and the Legion patrols, you’ve been stonewalled, and there’s the worry of worse. A woman even came out of her mother’s house to throw beans at you. Beans! Like you’re some common [i]bandar-logi[/i]! People this close to the mountains should know better!

Which brings us back to Kayl, all energy and impish smiles, always a few steps ahead of you, carrying a pole and a goat-knife. The only guide you’ve been able to find to the local graves, and the only one you’ve been able who’s willing to talk about the ghosts. Sure, he’s only seen them from a distance, but he’s heard them, and once, while he was trying to sleep, he heard a whole procession on the other side of the low wall he was huddled up against, and he kept his eyes closed even though his heart was hammering so loud, and he didn’t so much as breathe while they marched past with their dry feet and their heavy bangles and their low conversations in old people speak, and if he did breathe, he was so sneaky about it that they didn’t so much as sniff it.

“Are you going to call the demons? They might come to you. Meris says she’s seen them camping in the forest. Their fires are all green, like the leaves, and they keep tossing rocks into it.” (Worryingly accurate. The Tears of the Green Sun don’t burn wood, only stone. They tarnish metal and sear poems into flesh.) “[i]I[/i] think you shouldn’t be allowed. The priestesses should come and send all the demons home and make you do your penance. Is it true that the Mother of Witches is all tied up under Lake Zenba?”

***

[b]Zhaojun![/b]

Sagacious Crane of the Reeds lands, again, in the mud, face-down, veil drenched in mud and marked with the pattern of a goddess’s slipper. One of the [i]bandar-logi[/i] reaches out to her, chittering, as the rest crowd greedily in.

Sagacious Crane’s hand lashes out and seizes the [i]bandar-log[/i] by the wrist. It makes a small noise, an acknowledgement of its imminent doom, and then Crane pulls herself up, and, in one smooth motion, pulls the [i]bandar-log[/i] off its feet and flings it shrieking at her tormentor—

Who is no longer there. And that is what breaks her. In a towering fury she plows through the [i]bandar-logi,[/i] screaming for Zhaojun to come back, not out of fear but so she can shake the possessed girl until that mocking, immutable mask tumbles off and she can look her in the eye and tell her off, how [i]dare[/i] she, liar, tormentor, false messenger, to say such things, to strike at her goddess, to strike at herself, to make such implications—

Beneath the shrine, Zhaojun walks in the deep places of the earth. Shadows drift and drape. Banners hang limply, each one seeming to proclaim: [i]he who wove me was beautiful! she who held me was mighty! behold me now, a memorial to a place that was, a time that was, a people who were![/i] But it was not, it never was, and they never were. Zhaojun walks through falsehoods and the weight of her threatens to cause a collapse. The rakshasa will have no choice but to reveal herself—

And so she does, in a form that Zhaojun does and does not remember. A voice that cries out for release, dry and cracked but unmistakable. The goddess is strong, but the body remembers; this trap is made for it. Come close, it says in every aspect, every perfect detail, come close.

What temptation, perfectly crafted, is too much for the [possessed/encircled/sleepwalking] priestess, Zhaojun? What hides the porcelain fangs until it is too late?

(When the fangs sink deep and the venom spreads, Zhaojun will mark XP. So yield, child of earth. Succumb.)

***

[b]Kalaya![/b]

When a demon’s sword is shattered, as Petony’s hook swords are deft at doing, a curious thing happens. The demon stops, kneels down, collects the pieces (a process sometimes delayed by the warriors with clubs batting them around), and then marches away, holding them carefully. One by one they begin to trail away, bleeding away their strength, until Petony hooks their strange icon’s pole with her sword and snaps it. When it falls onto an exposed stone, a low groan rolls through the ranks of the demons, and they rout entirely. Victory!

Victory, save for the fact that the farmstead the Legion occupied for their stand is now alight with green fire, and rather than trying to put out the blaze, they’re pulling out and making to regroup and put distance between you and them; their commander evidently does not want to take responsibility for what just happened here.

Here’s your choice, then, gallant knight: if you give up on the opportunity to chase the legion and hold them to account, mark a Condition to reflect how much it hurts to watch them get away without being forced to acknowledge the harm they have caused.

But if you chase after them and challenge their commander, you’ll have a chance to capture all of them for justice— at the cost of failing to rescue the farmstead. The farmers will live, but their home and possessions will be lost to hell’s fires.

For her part? Petony would encourage you to chase after them, without hesitation. It’s better to kick ass and feel good about it than to spend time trying to put out strange magical fires.

***

[b]Piripiri![/b]

“Do you have anything so grand in Hymair?”

Possibly it is a dig at you, a veiled (ha!) snub to make her feel superior. Possibly it is not, and it is as it seems, a breathless and happy question as the two of you huddle under your umbrellas, looking out over the clouded mirror of the great lake at Golden Chrysanth. From here, it’s hard to see the pennants and banners, and so the city is defined by its myriad of lights and the great spires and towers that rise above them, dark against the silver sky. Even from here, it is possible, just barely, over the constant sound of driving rain on water, to hear the noise and clamor of the city— but muffled, as if swaddled in a blanket.

Extend that metaphor. You are the one in the blanket, you and Azazuka and the rat girl (who has an umbrella in the crook of her elbow that she’s desperately trying not to drop as she slowly poles along, and you could swear you caught a rat holding onto it for her). It is hot and humid under the blanket, but the weight of the air is also comfortable, suggesting to you that you can afford to relax. The world beyond, as grand as the scale of the city may be, is muted. It is just the three of you, and the rat girl is doing her best to make it seem like two.

“It is older than mortal habitation in the Flower Kingdoms,” Azazuka says, reciting a teacher’s catechism. “When we arrived in the light of the sun, it was here, waiting for us.” Which means that it may have been built by the Titans for their demons (the technical term for prelapsarian demons is daemons, but only an insufferable scholar would correct you) or by one of the other servitor races from the beginning of time: the Rapta, the Chorus of Lights, the Thirteen Belled. Either way, it gives the city an even grander air, and puts into context the feeling of renovation you sometimes feel walking those streets, the way that the garish wood and paint and silk is the affectation of a long-term tenant, and that if the lake washed it all away, the black stone would remain inviolate.

Her earlier question still stands: do you have anything so grand in Hymair? Golden Chrysanth is truly a wonder from the ancient world, like shattered Chiaroscuro. What does your home have in way of comparison—

She’s looking to you without(?) guile. Her cheeks are soft. Her braids gleam with oils. And the smile playing on her full, red lips is worth an Imperial Tribute in and of itself. She hangs on your words. Quick, storyteller; quick, little Pipi. Sing of Hymair, lest she turn away from you and find you [i]common.[/i]