[b]Han![/b] “Once, the world belonged to the dragons.” It’s raining harder now, and you’re already soaked to the bone from falling in the river. So it’s just natural for the two of you to be huddled up underneath a copse of trees. The fire came easily to your fingers, and for once, you didn’t even have to hide it. And she actually clapped for you! And it probably wasn’t meant to be condescending! The little brown fox has already vanished off into the night, being very busy carrying messages for the gods, but not before giving you a look. You’re not particularly adept yet at interpreting meaningful glances from the little brown foxes, but it probably meant: don’t screw this up, bud. As if it has any room for judging you after such ruthless betrayal! But here you are, warming yourself by the fire, with the priestess snuggled up against your shoulder for warmth, listening to the snap of the fire and the soothing roar of the rain. (She’s pulled down her hood. Her hair is brilliant blue, the kind you only get near the coast. And her eyes are just. Wow. You know? So nice to look at. Framed perfectly by those glasses.) And she’s using the Storytelling Voice, the one that makes you want to curl up under a blanket and close your eyes and listen even after it looks like you’ve fallen asleep, like back when you were a little girl. “After the War in Heaven, the dragons were given dominion over the world by the victorious gods. The gods thought that their possessiveness would make them good caretakers, their cunning would make them excellent judges, and their strength would defend the world against every threat: the fairies, the fallen Titans, the dead below, the far-flung stars, and the deep kings.” She pauses a moment and lets the image sink in: the enemies of the world, met by tooth and claw and thunderous Essence. A vast shadow between them and the sun. The roar of terror, descending to the earth like lightning. Your heritage, however far distant. “But what the gods did not consider is that there is no such thing as a society of dragons. The only way that they could interact with each other was by fighting to see who was stronger and who was weaker, to take from each other their prizes. And they would rather die than share a prize; and what is dominion over the whole world but the greatest prize of all?” Does that stir something in your own heart, Han? A possessiveness? A desire to hold things fast and protect them? An ancient avarice that sought absolute and unquestioned power and majesty? Or is your heart (stone-heart, owned heart, smothered-heart) all too human, even still? “They fought, and they lost, they all lost, and Royal Perilous simply lost the least, and so she gathered the riches of the world to her golden bed to sleep for a thousand years, and left the world to the descendants of the dragons.” She turns to look up at you, and fire dances in the reflection caught in her lenses. “The Thunder Dragon loved these lands, and when she died her scales each became a flower. And so, when the kingdoms need her protection most, her blood quickens in a child of the flowers. It is different for the Dominion,” she concludes. “The Mother of the Host still takes mates, when the urge strikes her, and their families become great and powerful— but still hers. Always hers, even now.” The fire snaps and crackles. The sound of the rain seeps into your spine. Her face is so close to yours. It would be so easy to reach over and do something probably very regrettable. You’re supposed to be a hero, after all. Heroes don’t yank down veils and pull trusting priestesses into kisses, no matter how pretty they are. “Your turn,” the little bud says. She looks away, very casually. “You obviously have a lot of... [i]experience[/i] with the N’yari. What would have happened to— to us, if you weren’t there? It was the first time I’d ever... you know, met them. Are they really...?” She sneaks a glance at you, then back to the fire, the very picture of idle curiosity and little more. This is definitely not an opportunity to Entice her by playing up your heroism and the perils of being captured by the N’yari. Certainly not. The very idea. So what if she might look at you like you saved her from certain doom? *** [b]Giriel![/b] “The sickle,” the General murmurs through his mandibles. “Yes. Excellent. Flower-cutting. Trophy-taking. Corn-reaping. Throat-slitting. An auspicious sign.” His voice curls around the two of you like serpents. Despite yourself, you find yourself walking closer. One step. Then two. The ground underfoot is shaky. “What boon would you have of me, little augur?” You could reach out and touch that serene mask. The impossible body behind seems blurred and distant, as if you are trying to ignore that multitude of shoulders. “Speak your desire, before I send you to the little Prince, your commander on the front.” Not optimal, most likely; you’d have to convince the warlock unleashing the powers of Hell that you, a pair of mountain witches, were there to help— and who knows if your bodies would remain? Would Uusha come and check on the two of you, your breath slow and your inner furnace cold, your bodies waiting for your return? “Tell him we want instruction,” Peregrine says, animated, but as if on the other side of a wall. “We should learn [i]everything[/i] about his dolls.” But is that what you want? Or do you want Peregrine to stop meddling with the dead? Or do you want to see Cathak Agata again? Or do you want some other favor from one of the Lords of Hell? What bubbles up from your heart? Whatever you could wish for seems tantalizingly close, for what could a Lord of Hell [i]not[/i] do in service to a wish? (Answer it in the way you might hope. Do it without breaking the world in some small way. Hinder their own plans. Act against their own natures.) *** [b]Kalaya![/b] It’s difficult to overwhelm one of the N’yari. Generally, they tend to thrive when the fighting gets hot; they rely on their strength to overcome resistance. How incredible, then, is bowling over two N’yari in a single charge. Your sword sings in the dark; swords fall to the grass from stung hands. The traveler presses her advantage against the one remaining, and slips her broad sword into the gap between armor straps; she wets its tip. The three N’yari panic, and each one’s panic feeds on the other two, and they break and run, wounded and heedless of the swords left behind: a trophy worthy of a knight. The traveler wipes the tip of her blade off on the grass. “Little villains,” she growls. Then: “Good swordplay. Thank you.” She reaches up to adjust her hat, slid back on her skull as she fought— and the moonish light shines on her for just a moment. Long enough to read her jaw, her nose, her cheeks. Even once the brim is pulled down low— it has to be her. It has to be Ven. Unless you’re losing your wits, pining for lost love. Knights are always doing that sort of thing. Maybe she’s really just a traveler. Or maybe she’s a tree, and the N’yari were badgers you’ve scared senseless, and none of this is real. But the risk of it [i]not[/i] being a feverish Venus dream is too great (which, again, is a very knightly thing to think). What do you say to this long-lost princess, now dressed as a humble pilgrim? Even as you stand there, overcome by joy, she stops and considers you, standing like a fawn unsure whether to step forward or dart back, her uncertainty palpable. She does not recognize [i]you,[/i] but her heart remembers you regardless. (And this, too, is the sort of thing that happens in a knightly romance.) *** [b]Zhaojun![/b] The happy growl that rumbles through Machi reverberates through you, as if you were a freshly-struck gong. She does not move her eyes from your face as she reaches up and covers your chopstick-wielding hand with her own, broad and earthy and warm, warm, warm. Her ears flick with intense interest. “You are a spirit of the flowers, then,” she purrs, even as her warband mills closer all around. “So eager to serve, just like all their pretty girls. If I follow, sweet-addled thing, will I get to keep you, too?” The desires of Machi of the Ōei are uncomplicated. When she sees a pretty girl, she wants to have them. To own them. To feel the rush of power from being able to reduce them to blushing, squeaking, yearning messes. It is like picking flowers, wearing them, and then replanting them before they can wilt— if a flower could understand it was being picked because it was both beautiful and helpless, if a flower could squirm and moan as one long-nailed finger ran teasingly across its petals, if a flower could be bid to cook and clean and bathe and provide entertainment. So not quite exactly like a flower. But she is [i]interested[/i] in strength. You have to be so [i]careful[/i] with flowers. You can be rough with the strong; you can actually flex your muscles and [i]strive[/i] against them, and every victory is sweeter, and every defeat simply encouragement to do better next time. So she’s caught coming and going. She wants to see if this spirit of the lowlands is a flower for display, or a worthy challenger, and either way, her entire focus is on Zhaojun herself. Not the knight. Not the girl who spurned her tonight, who she intends to keep chasing. She is so wonderfully uncomplicated like that. She sees a pretty, interesting girl, and she wants to have them, one way or another. Her tail curls around an ankle. Her muscles tense as she prepares to roll over, to reverse the hold, to see whether Zhaojun is stone or petals. She has to know, after all. But will Zhaojun, in the face of such desire, allow it? Or will she strive and strain and match her strength against Machi and win as the N’yari do, making a great show of it? Or will she slip a knife into the brigand’s heart by belittling, humiliating, and mocking her? However it goes, Machi has won a String on her in turn. *** [b]Piripiri![/b] “She doesn’t mean it, you know,” one of the demon-maids hisses as they fit you in a long gown. This is not loose and revealing; this one is tight and yet concealing at the same time. The corset is achingly strict, but hidden under a broad belt of gold-and-green, with the grand Green Sun of Hell offset to your right. The lowest layer of skirt is enough to hobble you to tiny, demure steps, but the outermost layer, descending into a long train, is voluminous. The shoulders are so snug that you cannot lift your hands over your head, but they are lost in the long sleeves (and the stiflingly thick gloves). And a demon is dragging her fingernails up the back of your neck. “She wouldn’t tear it out. She just gets like that when she’s insulted by an ape.” “She would,” says one of the attendants locking the high-heeled sandals on your feet (the locks then to be hidden underneath another layer of silk). “Not tearing it out, but she’d turn it to lead. Or steal your mouth.” “Or, if we asked her nicely,” the first continues, “she’d let us stuff your mouth so, so full of our work, just to see your cheeks go red. Because you would, wouldn’t you? Silly mortal girls always get so embarrassed. It’s much more fun than lead tongues, which are terrible for kissing.” “And we’d have to find other places to kiss you without a mouth,” a third says as she paints your nails in swirling white and black. She catches your eye and then does the lewdest lick of her lips. “So maybe you wouldn’t mind [i]too[/i] much if we got you in trouble.” “I love their legs,” the first croons. A tail’s end winds around your load-bearing ankle. “They’re so spindly and cute. Though this one is very spindly, isn’t she, girls? Look at how [i]tight[/i] we got that corset.” She runs one thumb up the small of your back, lingering on each string. “But quite pretty for one of the apes,” the third continues. “Maybe if we’re lucky, that fool Prince will take offense at this one, too. And we’ll get to undress her all over again.” She runs one hand up your calf, and while her eyes are lost in the fringe of her hat, that grin is as inviting as it is licentious. The Laema snaps her tail like a whip, and all three fall sheepishly silent. “It is beneath my daughters to dally with it and its kind,” she hisses from where she sulks, looking through engraved tablets for inspiration. “Humiliating enough that we must let our works be wasted on them. Traitors, one and all.” “We’re just tormenting her, mama! [i]Every[/i] mortal girl is [i]very[/i] tormented if you find the right compliment,” the first says, brightly, in a familiar sort of way. Even Hell has its daughters who learn early how to lie to get away with what they really want. “For example,” she adds, draping a heavy necklace over your shoulders, adding to the weight. “[i]This[/i] mortal looks like she’s [i]very[/i] good at lifting her skirts. Maybe we can ask her to give us a demonstration while we wait for her [i]courter[/i] to come sweep her off her feet~” “Every Prince needs a consort, after all,” the third adds, working her way up your front under the excuse of checking your corset. “And what’s a consort without... experience~?” The Laema smoothly plucks that unfortunate third off you like a leech and tosses her into a wardrobe; the doors swing shut, the lock clicks, and muffled pounding and squealing emerges from inside, ominously dwindling down to still silence. The other two demons attending you very quickly clam up. If the experience is making you even more firmly against Hell and all its works, mark a Condition out of sheer humiliation. If you see a little humanity in these daughters of Hell, conversely, give them a String. Then model the second dress for the Laema and prove to her you are elegant enough for the constricting, hobbling design.