[b]Giriel![/b]

“It’s one N’yari,” Uusha says, rather simply. It’s not the opening to a rant but rather a raised eyebrow, an acknowledgment that your priorities are odd in a way that suggests there’s more going on beneath the surface. But she doesn’t press you, and neither does she try making her way around the boulder. She plants her feet and looks to the two of you, you and Peregrine, and her retinue (somewhat more baffled by what’s going on) do the same.

“Something different from calling down heavenly tigers,” Peregrine says, and she’s intrigued. “You’d need a [i]lot[/i] of weight pushing through on either side of here and there; that’s how the 108 Celestial Gates function, though they link that weight to the position or the stars, and I’ve only gone to visit examples once or twice.” Not an insignificant trip, likely one of the times she just left for a few months in the company of strange things. “But [i]you[/i] are not thinking about weight.”

She takes you by the arms and looks up at you and you (and your thoughts) are all that shines in the world for Peregrine. You have an idea she wants, and she’ll turn her attention onto you until she gets it. This is made more complex by the circumstances, namely, that you are all busy, not to mention the heavenly spirit disguised as a N’yari.

***

[b]Heavenly Cytherean Machi![/b]

Each part of the whole must be in unison: witches are nerds. They are the sort of girls who poke and prod and question the simple rules that Heaven puts in place, and they are not incorrect in doing so, because those simple rules are put in place as guidelines, policies and (in some cases) wishful thinking.

But there may be internal dissonance in the severity of [i]demons.[/i] The Heavenly Envoy would, of course, be aware of the seriousness of that matter. Machi of the Ōei, on the other hand, would regard them as a challenge to her authority. This is made further complicated by the occlusion: Hell works outside of Fate, and thus must be opposed wherever it is found to avoid doing damage to the right, ordered, and proper destiny of all things, despite that it cannot be found by simply following the threads of destiny.

In short, you are obligated towards some sort of action, or to further provoke some sort of action, so that you may further use these nerds and their knight (older than them, heartbroken once, loves the idealized kingdoms more than she loves herself and is thus empowered in the sight of Venus) to further your own goals—

Or at the very least, to pursue the overlap of your myriad goals, great and terrible raider in the name of love.

***

[b]Han![/b]

“Oh, you look like a [i]strong[/i] one,” the priestess breathes. Of all the luck! Everyone in town is streaming out towards one of those knightly tourneys. You know, where you can compete to try to prove to a snooty knight that you have what it takes to be a professional spear-carrier and hanger-on. If you got involved, you’d probably beat everyone and then offend the knight by turning down her honors, and then there’d be words, and then the Vermillion Beast would strike again, and this definitely is all theoretical and has never happened.

But the priestess is pressing a flyer into your hands, written on a strip of off-white reed paper, the characters written in broad black strokes. A grand tourney: a big fight, jousting (in boats, first to get overturned loses) and duels, all just to get one of three exclusive and prestigious slots for the Branch War itself. And it’s important. It’s terribly important.

Hypothetically, if you were being enchanted right now, it would be a rather diluted one, given that it has to stretch over an entire town, but if you’re already thinking about a priestess, worrying about her, focused like a dart in flight on her, then it might, perhaps, be easy for someone who lives and breathes fantasies to just poke that a little bit, without even trying.

Whatever you want (a witch) can be yours if you win! Therefore, you should take that full head of steam (or so the thought goes, even as that purple-eyed priestess flounces and chirps about how [i]exciting[/i] it’s going to be and what an [i]opportunity[/i] and her brush strokes on the paper thrum in your head) and go and win the tourney! Don’t let [i]anybody[/i] stop you, because that’s how you (and everybody else involved) get what you want!

Hop to it, mouth-breather. You’ve got those intense Crazy Eyes and while that’s great for anyone who might be into eating something spicy and strong later, some of us are trying to build up a legend here, and you smell like you haven’t showered lately. Just get over to that tourney already.

***

[b]Kalaya![/b]

Everything is ready! You’ve even got the fishing coracles ready for the joust: getting one up to speed and knocking over an opponent’s boat while keeping yours upright is a test of strength and skill worthy of any knight.

“You know,” Petony points out, “as excited as they all are, they’d be even [i]more[/i] excited if you participated.” She offers you a wooden blade hilt-first as Victorious Vixen orders everyone to get into their rings, having just arrived with a surly highlander in tow.

It’s actually your choice whether or not to get involved: some knights would tell you that it’s better for you to remain impartial, as the judge, and that it’s very inauspicious if you’re defeated by a contestant this early on, while others (like Petony) would tell you that no retinue follows a knight who hasn’t proved her strength and skill, and how better than to disqualify some people personally? Besides, it’s a good way to gauge the most skilled people involved.

Petony’s cashing in that string immediately: if you get involved in the same grand melee as that highlander, showing off your trained sword skills and hyping yourself up at the expense of some early disqualifications for others, take 1 XP on the house.

***

[b]Piripiri![/b]

The teased and tantalized seamstress will not be found for some time, and she’s quite unlikely to “recall” what you might be up to. You have free rein through the mouldering, labyrinthine castle.

Corridors are shadow and reeking moss. On the other side of rotting doors, always on the other side, can be heard the sound of Hell’s revels. Sometimes, horribly, you find skeletons down in the dark, and ancient flower iconography suggestive of a burning rose.

There was a Hell cult here once. They’re gone. The stain on reality remained.

It’s below the earth, in the deep dark, where you find the cells. You creep along, relying on hearing alone, your sight blind and your gloves uselessly thick and your nose overwhelmed by a smell like ten thousand fallen petals. In that dark, all you can do is extend your senses as far as you dare, almost to the point where your body moves like a puppet, and [i]listen[/i] for the sound of a heartbeat and a breath beneath the distant cacophony.

You return to yourself in time for battle. You feel the sword coming, a ripple of displaced air against your skin, and nearly twist an ankle ducking out of the way. Two of the Wrack-dolls, here, alone, guarding almost-abandoned dungeons. There’s no quarter here: either they will bring you down and lock you away in the dark, or you will overcome them and free Azazuka, who presses herself against rusting bars and tries desperately to will you to win, unable to tell what’s going on but trusting that it must be salvation.

Fight them, Piripiri. Do not hold back. Down there, lightless, against the undying soldiers, reach victory as your teachers insisted. Take the battle to these things of Hell, even if you have to snap a leather-thong wrist and steal a sword for yourself.

(Your prize in victory: the keys they carry, Azazuka’s total freedom, her assistance there in the dark freeing you from that fine and hellish dress.)