[b]Zhaojun![/b]

An unruly pack of wind-gods meet the Messenger of Heaven on the slopes of Mount Fang. They are inconstant, not in the manner that Mercury is but in the sort of way that the Moon is, waxing and waning through shadow and light, and like the choirs of the Moon (whose musical output is eclectic), they are creatures who do not take well to the song of domination. Or, rather, it might be better to say they sing it as a round, and woe to the one buried under their verses.

They circle around Zhaojun on their leopards and jackals until one approaches directly in the high airs, where the gods play their dramas, seeing but unseen to all but the wise. Her leopard bares its long silver fangs, the winds caressing the opals and turquoise woven into its braids.

“Hail, star-daughter,” the wind-god says. Her third eye is merry and promises mischief, the same as her flickering heart. Her accent is excruciatingly thick and terrestrial, a thing befitting a lesser spirit. “Have thou business ere? Hie up hither on mine ounce.” She scruffles her leopard affectionately and grins through curved teeth. “Thou’s hae a ride as fits lowland hindways fineful, blue-shine. Or this one’s no Jenny Tosstrees.”

...she seems to be offering a ride on her leopard. It’s possible that accepting would put the Emissary in her debt or leave her open for their pranks, but refusal might be perilous while surrounded by half a dozen wind-gods. By right they should yield to Heavenly authority, of course. And presenting them with her scheme directly might play on that love of mischief— if they do not choose to spite her, instead.

***

[b]Piripiri![/b]

Blood rushes to the warlock’s cheeks. Shame burns in her eyes, and anger that she feels ashamed, and confusion, because this isn’t how this is supposed to go. “Are you paying attention,” she hisses. “I’m in charge here,” she says. A rookie mistake. If you’re in charge, you only say that after establishing, without a doubt, that you are. “Your life is in my hands,” she adds, and looks away, having lost the staredown completely.

“In fact,” she says, standing, starting to pace, “you’ll regret your impudence. You’ll [i]wish[/i] I tossed you back! Then at least your suffering would be [i]brief.[/i] I was taught by the Princes of Hell how to hurt someone. And I’ll do it! You should have begged me for mercy!”

One of the Wrack-dolls laughs.

It’s a shuddering, wheezing sound, a thing of rusted metal scraping against itself, but it’s laughter. Ven turns on her heel and shoves the nearest Wrack-doll back into its brethren, hard, and the sound of that happening is auditory torture, like being stuck in an abandoned armory during an earthquake.

“I! AM! IN! CHARGE!” She yells, like someone who desperately needs to believe it. She snaps her fingers and the Wrack-dolls collapse to their knee guards, shrouded heads bowed, while the warlock breathes hard and fast and furious.

The look she gives you is furious. Like it’s your fault that she is airing out her insecurities in front of a prisoner, like a cut-rate opera villain. (It takes a very special kind of person to play the tropes beloved of Hell straight and not get that reaction, to be fair.)

“Take her,” she orders. “To the [i]Gate.[/i] I will call on the Laema later.” (The Laema, the Modiste of Hell; she intends to give you a most indecent makeover. Not being a witch, the most you have are stories about that serpent-witch and her infernal fashions.) The Wrack-dolls stand, and two cut the rope between your wrists and ankles, hauling you up to your feet.

Take a String on Ven, having embarrassed her in front of her own demons.

***

[b]Giriel![/b]

“Oh,” Peregrine says, halfway to Giriel’s lair. “Hello.”

You’ve been walking next to each other all this time, and it’s only now that she’s aware enough of anything outside of her own head to properly recognize you. On either side are Uusha’s brigands, and before and behind, too; Uusha herself leads from behind, covering the trail in your wake.

“Generality is a dead end,” she continues. “Encoding specific narrative through the translation is key to being able to enforce it.” Peregrine is talking about her current pet theory: she thinks she can translate the tongue of the gods into music in order to create heightened meaning and symbolism, and that all sorcery somehow echoes or points back to it. The only rub is that she’s the only witch who can seem to get it to work; every other witch who’s tried has ended up with a burning, ruined instrument. “I told them a story,” she continues. “One about that soldier.”

This soldier... the Red Wolf? Uusha? Someone else? She knows what she means.

***

[b]Kalaya![/b]

[i]Ugh. Of course you’d be that sweet and sentimental. Easy enough to manipulate, but... gross.[/i]

It must have just been this, Kalaya: that the priestess needs to be protected just like Ven needed you. That’s why you thought of her. When she glances up at you for a moment, she now reads as bashful, in need of a strong knight to protect her. [i]Being that beautiful? It must really be a curse. Everyone probably thinks of her as just a pretty girl and doesn’t take the time to look past her lovely eyes and effortless grace. Not like you. You’re a good person.[/i] 

“Because Heaven has willed it,” she says. “It’s not our place to argue with— oh, and she’s gone.” She leans in close and whispers, conspiratorially: “Half the time, [i]I[/i] don’t even know what she means. We just have to trust that she knows what she’s doing. Which means— can you introduce me?” She touches your arm, looking for reassurance and protection, and peeks past you to Petony. “I’m afraid I don’t know the knights of the Flower Kingdoms as well as I should. But I’m sure that you’re all doing your [i]very[/i] best to keep us safe.”

[i]But don’t you think that Petony is leering a bit too much?[/i] That was, indeed, not exactly a respectful look that your mentor was giving the [i]innocent, sweet-hearted[/i] young woman. Really, more like an assessment. Probably just saw her as a hot body and a sultry voice, and you should [i]definitely[/i] let her know what you think about that.

There’s even an XP in it for you, if you do.

***

[b]Han![/b]

There’s only so much water that one of the N’yari is willing to handle in one day. Machi doesn’t admit that she’s beaten; she just stops trying to get on the barge, claws her way up furiously onto the bank, and whistles for her girls.

You spin around to fix Hanaha and Kigi with your best “get outta town” glare, eyes narrowed, promising them a world of trouble if they don’t get going. And you glare so powerfully that Hanaha decides that she needs to delay you so that you don’t get any cute ideas about hitting them with umbrellas as you go.

So, looking you dead in the eyes, the N’yari raider steals your hat off the priestess’s head, sets the priestess down on the railing, and shoves her over. Then she scampers in the other direction as quick as she can, gleeful, because she knows you’re going to dive right in after her.

Without even really letting yourself think, you leap over the side, ready to dive down to the bottom of the river to save her, and only after you’ve hit the point of no return do you see her, legs up against the barge, impossibly floating on top of the water.

Which means that landing on her is a lot like falling off a log placed over a river. She can’t go underneath the water, no matter how much pressure you’re putting on her, and that leaves you churning your legs under the water and grabbing at her robes to try and stabilize yourself. You end up rolling her a couple of times over the top of the water with muffled grunts and squeaks before you manage to get steady.

She looks away, and what you can see of her suggests that she’s absolutely mortified about this incredibly normal priestess thing. You’ve never heard of a priestess doing this, but they probably just don’t tell the likes of you about their amazing walking-on-water powers. After all, the Sapphire Mother is a goddess of the waters, so it stands to reason that they can all do this and Crane just hasn’t shown it off in front of you because her training trumps her need to rub everything in your face.

You did it! You saved the day. And now you’re soaked, your hat’s gone, you broke a whole bunch of umbrellas, nobody’s going to want you to stay on that barge even after you untie them, and you’re inconveniencing a priestess after you tried to give her a rescue she didn’t even need.

And the worst part is that Machi’s breath still lingers on your mouth. The feel of her still weighs on you. That’s the first time you’ve ever been properly confessed to, and it’s not going away anytime soon. The process of actually setting everyone free is going to be an embarrassed blur of awkward coughing and zoning out as you think about muscles and kisses and being picked up and held.

Feel free to try to leave after, feeling the weight of those glares on you, hearing the murmurs, knowing that everybody blames you for what happened. Even the priestess seems to be keeping to herself, looking over the broken pieces of the umbrella she tried to give you. (A smarter girl might realize not all the murmurs are about [i]you,[/i] and that she’s trying to avoid talking to anybody more than trying to avoid you, but you’re busy wallowing in this feeling. Go ahead. Wallow away.)

Mark a Condition, too. You were playing rough and hard there at the end, and your heart hasn’t had a chance to have a breather. That, and that injury’s definitely making itself known.