[b]Ven![/b] When you go down into the tunnels beneath the castle, it is with a torch held by a servant. Every other time before, it’s been a wrack-doll, but right at this second, well. You’re already making plans to shift your operational strategies, aren’t you? Ordering the dolls to go and assault a major settlement, like Turtlehead, was cutting the knot. The only move you could make. They’re ultimately loyal to their creator, after all, and he’s… he won’t understand the play you’re making, but he’ll be distracted by the tactical strike against “supporters of insurrectionists.” See? You’ve got this. Everything is perfect. Everything is going to work. You’ve salvaged this. Except as you approach the dungeon door, you find it open. Your heart skips a beat, even as Kalmanka, your ronin knight, whistles between her teeth in amusement. And you draw your sword… *** [b]Kalaya![/b] “Look, I’m an [i]artist,[/i]” the demon says. “Commissions pay the bills.” Do demons even pay bills? Is Hell that cruel, that even the emanations of the Titans must pay rent to live on their backs? “So let me [i]finish my job.[/i]” “MMMMPH!!” The priestess says, wiggling behind the demon in the middle of a professional lighting set-up: lanterns, mirrors, candles, and prisms make her look like she’s on a mountaintop at noon, really bringing into sharp relief the way that her dress is scandalously torn, her hair’s starting to frizz, and the way her veil’s been lowered to show off the green-and-brass-colored scarves swaddling her face. Dangling from the ceiling by her wrists, she sways and squirms on tiptoe, desperately trying to get your attention, even as the artist-demon harrumphs through his baleen mustache and spreads his many (many) arms. “I don’t even care what you humans want to do with the subject material afterwards! But this is my [i]livelihood[/i], so piss off and let me finish!” *** [b]Fengye![/b] You’re out of time. You made it here just to find there’s a jealous guardian, a spider-peacock of crushed dyes and mingled inks, and the way behind you is about to be blocked off. Even if Kalaya bullrushes through the artist, snaps his brushes and scatters his easel’s bones, there won’t be time to save the girl. It was a good run, though, right? Really got to feel like a hero. Sure, the horse is almost certainly going to betray you when its mistress whistles for it, and you’ll be lucky if you end up tied back-to-back with the little priestess, and not just tossed into one of the deep pits down here, to fall for the rest of your life. Unless you’ve got one more trick up your sleeve? *** [b]Giriel![/b] All the props for the wedding scene are back here. Fried pastries made of folded paper, stacked in ready-to-serve trays. Wreaths, also made of folded paper, that almost somehow seem like they could look better than the real things, once you brought them into the light and brushed the pervasive dust off. Venus-blue banners hanging from the ceiling of the (tunnel? passageway? backstage?): Long Life, Lasting Happiness, Bountiful Gardens. Dresses on mannequins that look almost like real people, in all their ruffles and rainbow colors. In the hands of one, a very conspicuously out-of-place umbrella. All you have to do is wade through the props until you find the exit. Easy enough, and this trip backstage seems like it’s deserted right now, no [i]bandar-logi[/i] to worry about. The only danger here is the kind you bring yourself. Uusha does a spin in midair to build momentum. It’s beautiful; she controls her body with the grace of a predator, completely under her control as she kicks the barmaid in the side of the head. *** [b]Piripiri![/b] There are two ways to fight a daughter of dragons. The first is to challenge them properly, to trust in your own method of channeling essence to overcome them. Bold, confident, and very dangerous. The second is to stop them from channeling their essence in the first place. Never give them a moment to breathe, to reach for that power, to feel it flow through the stations of the body. You can’t breathe; Uusha isn’t giving you that chance. When you try to get up, she’s there to knock you back down. When you try to cover your face, she punches you in the throat; when you try to cover your throat, she slams a fist against the side of your head and makes stars explode in your vision. She isn’t cruel, she’s not trying to kill you, and isn’t that a bleakly comforting thought? She’s just going to pummel you until you can’t fight back. Smart of her. If you needed to restrain a daughter of dragons, and you didn’t have an opportunity to rely on drugs, you’d probably have to stoop to the same tactics. Unconsciousness opens her arms wide and invites you inside her bedrooms to sleep. Then Azazuka tackles Uusha from behind and tries to get her in a bear hug. Silly girl. Uusha’s armor makes hugging her like hugging a holly bush; there’s no safe place to do it. Thorns dig into her soft skin as she takes two steps backwards, dragging Uusha off you before Uusha catches her heel on the floor, vaults over Azazuka’s head, forces the merchant’s daughter down to the floor with a squeak. Barely avoids goring her on those antlers. Then she’s charging at you again, almost too fast to counter. But you bumped into one of the mannequins, didn’t you? And now there’s a very familiar umbrella handle under your hand. And you’ve got just enough time to let essence flow through your body in one savage inhalation of power. Fairy-essence, admittedly; this is not a particularly safe place to channel essence, to draw on power. But whatever the cost later, it’s yours [i]now.[/i] *** [b]Han![/b] Oh, you’ve got a choice, don’t you? Not much of one (we all know what you’ll choose), but there it is, a choice nonetheless. Just in case we’re wrong. Just in case the dragon roars. On your right, there’s a [i]fight.[/i] The dragon blood in you thrills, because someone’s drawing in essence. A [i]rival.[/i] You’ve never been acclimated to other dragon-blooded, after all. This feeling suddenly surfacing inside you is new: the challenge-lust, the desire to prove that [i]you[/i] are the strong dragon. There’s a reason that only Scarlet remains of the true dragons that once ruled the earth. Dragons do not have a society. Dragons only have [i]dominance[/i]. And you know, instinctively, that you need to prove that you (yes, you) are the strongest. That this is your territory. (Piripiri’s had training. Every dragon-blooded child goes through socialization, learning to keep that instinct on a leash, turn it into motivation to excel. But you, child of the mountains and the wild places, you’ve never practiced keeping this on a leash.) But on your left? You hear, from a far distance, echoing, [i]Melody.[/i] Trying uselessly to call for help with her mouth stuffed full, just like the first night you met her. There’s no way of telling how far she is, but if you run, if you break through everything in that direction, you’ll get to her eventually. And she needs her dragon. Fight! Rescue! Dominate! Hoard! Your instincts writhe in your gut, burning away sleepiness and leaving [i]dragon[/i] behind. Your blood burns, and for a moment you feel like you could let all that roiling essence out in a torrent of fire. Go on. Let the dragon out. You know you want to.