[b]Azazuka![/b]

Rain trickles down your shoulder blades. It’s not a sensation that you’re used to. Or, rather, it’s still a sensation you take notice of, rather than being beneath your notice. You are a young woman of means; you have always had umbrellas to hand, or else people to carry them for you. That’s why the chill trickle running down the small of your back is something that keeps your attention, even as the Hymairean girl does her best with a sword rather than shears. Tangled knots fall to the wet, twig-strewn earth.

Why are you smiling? For the same reason that she smiled at you. Because you faced the odds and won. Down there in the dark, you were helpless, but that was just a shrinking of the metaphorical cage. Now you’re out here, in the mud and the rain, and for all that it’s exhausting, it’s thrilling, too?

…that being said, once you get back to civilization, you’re going to get an inn suite just for the two of you, and bundle up in a big wool blanket, and shiver the rain away. Over tea. Yes. Tea, shared with—

She is a friend, isn’t she? You’d like her to be. But that’s mixing business and pleasure. If you are indiscreet, you risk handing her leverage in business dealings.

Even so, when she sets down the improvised razor and brushes off the back of your neck, a thrill runs through you, and the temple mantras all slip out of your mind for a moment. You bite your tongue and stop yourself from asking her not to lift her fingers.

She asks you if it’s all right, and not trusting your voice entirely, you nod. You don’t actually know how it looks, but there are all sorts of ways to fix a bad haircut. Wigs, even. What’s important right now is not getting your hair caught on any more branches.

Then, in the sky above, for a moment, there is a flash of lightning that illuminates the sky, and for a moment you see a cloud-herding god stark against the clouds; and in the moment of silence between the bolt and the peal, you hear afar off a tumult.

You don’t have the experience to understand the ominous portent, or to navigate the last mile-and-change out of the jungle. You’ll have to trust in Piripiri for that. And you can do that as easy as breathing.

***

[b]Whisper-of-Rushes![/b]

A mortal invokes symbols and means them. She needs you, and no god can ever quite resist being needed. So you stalk away from the hubbub, the clash of spirits that weave between the mortals that pay you homage, still wearing your reed breastplate and carrying a six-tongued thong. You appear before her, manifest in your breath, feather-haired and rice-toothed, eager to be back in the fight but unable to resist the invocation.

However, there are two… [i]complications.[/i] The first is that you aren’t the only one who’s broken away from the battle, an intense clash that would shock the mortals if they had eyes to see the upper airs: Puddlefiller is here too, the vapid cloudy ditz, and soot-scaled Breath-of-Dust. And as for the witch’s news, well—

“Meddler!” It comes out a croak, and you scratch at the dirt with your taloned feet, your spindly legs shaking. “Heaven never understands what it’s like down here! The stars don’t understand plant-roots, soil-tilling, filling stomachs!”

“Only the love in the bowl,” Puddlefiller sighs. Stupid girl! Why does she never push her hair out of her eyes? “I think she’s Blue, I think. Maybe Red. Or Green? Maybe she’s all of them, but Blue the most. She’s wanting ever [i]so[/i] much.”

“That’s not how they work,” you snap back. Really, you’re not sure yourself, but you take your chances that Puddlefiller is talking nonsense again.

“What if they’re a sign,” Breath-of-Dust frets. “What if there’s going to be another war? Then the N’yari will come in, and their maids will whisk away my gifts as fast as I can give them! No, no, I put so much care into showing them all how all things change, how all possessions are fleeting…”

“She’s a very good cat,” Puddlefiller says, rolling over and letting her head dangle over the edge of her clouds. The hair still doesn’t fall out of her eyes. “I think that’s why. She’s wearing two cat masks, so that’s doubled. Or squared. Which one is more?”

“Only the strongest god can have a hope of protecting our town,” Breath-of-Dust hisses. “That must be why the priestess told us about the tourney! The court has been stagnant, and Sapphire Mother of Lotuses must have a strong bastion here!” She slithers on her stomach back to the fray, which is quickly becoming visible even among the mortals.

“I don’t think so,” Puddlefiller yawns. “This whole thing has been so [i]odd.[/i] What if the cat doesn’t have anything to do with the challenge? Maybe she’s juffffrrfff—!!!”

Your thong curls around her and lashes her pale limbs tight together as you cram more cloud in her dumb mouth. The second complication, which has been building all this time, is that the energy of the tourney, that desperation, and of the summoning, that confused anger, is a heady brew, and you are drinking deep. You knot snakeskin tight at the back of her head and toss her, helplessly wiggling, over one shoulder.

“You want answers, witch? Help me win, and I’ll make every spirit from here to the other shore give you the answers you’re looking for.” Competition thrums through your breath, and it’s only the offer of alliance that stops you from knocking her down into the rushes and letting them cocoon her up. “I’ll throw in the meddler, too; we’ll convince her to leave it out of her report~” You don’t know how yet, but you’ll figure that blackmail out when you get to it.

***

[b]Uusha![/b]

You’re not a witch. You deal with spirits, you have accepted their gifts, you are closer to them than any other knight in the Kingdoms, but you’re not a witch. And the witch you need is making sharp, mortified yelps as she’s carried away by a thing in the shape of a N’yari. In moments like this, all you can do is follow your instincts. And your instincts tell you that something in the shape of a N’yari has the heart of one, as much as it might try to deny it.

So you throw your spear.

It arcs well over their heads, and keeps going, and going, testament to how much you put into the lunge, how it shivered when it left your fingertips. It buries its head, quivering, in the earth far past them.

And when this N’yari-thing glances back at you, you stretch, hands behind your head, muscles taut beneath your armor. Lazy, proud, and implicitly challenging. I’ll let you try to get a better position, it says, and I’m not going to chase after you like a kitten— but I [i]am[/i] coming, and if you try to really run away, everyone will know you’re a weak little [i]flower girl.[/i]

You didn’t used to sympathize with that viewpoint. Then you watched the kings and queens of the Flower Kingdoms for over a decade. Now you might just understand the N’yari better. Not that you want to see them in charge, however. No.

Your Lady would not stand for that.

You trudge back to where the second witch (the brave one, the one that… mmn) is parleying with fractious gods. And— you glance back over your shoulder. The gods are manifesting in the middle of some fool tourney. Order must be maintained.

“Go down there,” you say. “Make them stop fighting. Gods [i]and[/i] flowers. That thief will try to exploit it, otherwise.”

And when you fight that thief again, very soon, you don’t mean to let her have a way out again.

***

[b]Victorious Vixen of Violets![/b]

Drinking emotion is a very intimate experience. You can’t skim mild feelings off the top and hope to have anything but watery, non-filling dregs. No, you need emotions to be throbbing, burning, intense— and then you need time enough to sink your fangs in and drain those delicious feelings dry until they’re pale and hollow and helpless.

But an entire town, all feeling [i]lust[/i] at the same time? Fanned up into an inferno by careful use of bellows and enchantment? That’s enough to bask in and lazily chew, teeth needle-bright beneath your veil, squeezing out some of the power you expended to get here in the first place.

Here it is, the first step, the first part of the story: how Kalaya Na was so much a cut above the regular stupid peasant that an entire village fought to try to become one of three chosen companions. Business partners try to beat each other senseless, mothers fight their children, and all of them want little Kallie so bad it aches: her approval, her fame, her kisses. You reel in a porter’s hopes and dreams with a subtle flick of your fingers and rip a bite away before he stumbles back into the melee to lose.

How sweet.

Three swords, three companions. That was a good touch. It’ll help the story spread. And once she’s famous enough, once she’s spent enough time with you— then the crown, then the unification, then the queen, and then her heart.

You [i]will[/i] rule the Flower Kingdoms; you’ll use your puppet queen to make a paradise here for you and your very extended family. And it all starts here, with dear, sweet Kalaya earning her retinue and breaking the hearts of everyone rejected, and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop you! Nothing at all!!

You let out a dainty giggle, hidden in your sleeve, and roll around [i]finally, my broad shoulders will be useful for more than carrying baskets![/i] in your mouth. It’s sweet. So, so sweet.