[b]Kalaya![/b] The door bursts open. There’s no time to grab a weapon, you’ll have to defend yourself with your bare hands from— Petony?? Your erstwhile mentor stands there with a wicked grin and her hooked sword in her hands, backed by several of her squires; the Dominion guards lie senseless on the carpeted hallway. “Ho, bud! Get your sword— it’s time to bloody their noses!” How did she know you were here? How did she get here? What was that about bloodying noses? All questions she doesn’t really intend to give you time to ask— not unless you put your foot down and seriously try to figure her out! But you’d better hurry. There’s the sounds of swords clashing from either end of the hallway. More of Petony’s forces, right? Surely. After all, why would the soldiers of the Dominion fight each other? [hr] [b]Giriel![/b] The Rakshasa steps out from behind you, because nobody was looking back there, and so she was free to declare that she happened to be there all along. She lifts your hand and lets her priestess’s veil fall, and wraps her lips around your finger. She works at it greedily, head bobbing, tongue wrapping right around the joints, drawing blood and more than blood out of you. It’s an offering, after all: she drinks your dreams to sustain her existence here, offered freely. Mark Hopeless, for she has supped well on your dreams, Giriel Bruinstead, in a way that you’d hoped to prevent. Finally she releases you, drooling, panting, blushing. “Hello, Giri,” she says. (She knows you. How could she not? You gave yourself to her.) “You could just surrender now, you know.” Her face is narrow, brown, tufted; now that you know what you’re looking at, she can’t just assert her beauty. Her teeth are small and sharp and stained with your blood. “It’s what’s best for the Kingdoms. The villain is defeated, the True Queen brings unity, and everyone gets to live happily ever after.” That’s a lie. The people she feeds upon won’t get that. But she’s gorged, just after feeding, and she’s got that heavenly spirit backing her up. “Now are you going to be a good girl for me, or am I going to have to scream and call for rescue?” One hand drifts to a sword’s hilt, her flickering nightmare razor at her sash, and she’s hoping you won’t notice. [hr] [b]Zhaojun![/b] The maid telegraphs the swing; evading the windup is easy. Her smile is a feral thing. “Stop [i]dodging,[/i]” she squeaks, before stumbling over her own feet and staggering, dragging the hammer’s head along the deck. [i]Find thyself a bride,[/i] you’d said. [i]Of all maidens the fairest.[/i] But what is fair to the denizens of the Demon City, if not power, if not cunning, if not ruthlessness? Perhaps you should be flattered. Or perhaps you should do something about her and that hammer she’s gamely swinging around with both hands, even if your command upon her means that it’s impossible for her to win this fight; she’d knock herself out with the thing before she came close to besting you. But do you want to? She [i]burns.[/i] She despises you, but the command you laid upon her drags her forward on blue chains. She wants to slap the smile off your face. She wants to smother you under her thighs. She wants to fuck you like she wants to fuck the gods: furiously, until you mew and admit she’s in charge. And the minute you lift her chin and tell her she’s a good girl she’ll collapse into a stammering, blushing mess, nuzzling and wondering what this Strange New Feeling is. Either accept her (perhaps myopic) choice, or point her like a tsundere lightning-bolt elsewhere. Her fate is twisted about your fingers; a twitch and she will be doomed to go among the catgirls, or to end up stuck in a closet with Cathak Agata, or even to the very gates of the House of Lapis Lazuli. [hr] [b]Han![/b] Emli is like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a dragon. Her heart is beating wildly, her eyes are wide, and her face is frozen in a sort of terrified smile. Only the fact that she’s seen your heart, Han, stops her from just breathily threatening to scream while enunciating clearly and exaggeratedly to give you a better target. “The best part is the part only I know,” she adds, and she takes your hand with all the soft strength of someone who fulfills the desires of others for a living. “The part where you kissed me senseless, took my breath away, before making [i]very[/i] sure no one would be able to hear me. Because dragons are hungry and take what they want.” She leans in close, lets her lovely brown hair brush against your well-muscled arm. “And because I didn’t get the chance to teach you how to kiss [i]her,[/i]” she whispers. Then she looks up, and impishly adds: “And, of course, I wouldn’t want anyone to be jealous. Feel free to steal yours, too, Lady Lotus.” Lotus makes a flustered little squeak and squirms the squirm of someone who really wants to know how you’re going to react but thinks that kissies are good and she definitely isn’t thinking about how it would be like indirectly kissing [i]you[/i] too because that would be ridiculous. She’s definitely not planning to show you exactly how to render somebody helpless, either. She’ll just step in if she’s needed. Say, if you don’t know to cross her wrists over each other and create separate cuffs. Or to make sure you can fit two fingers under the ropes to allow her circulation. Or if you think that pulling a knotted sash between her lips is enough to satisfy her. You know. Just little things like that. [hr] [b]Piripiri![/b] [i]Click-click-click-click-clack.[/i] Azazuka is light on her feet, and she has created a zone of absolute denial around herself. None of the guards fighting her can so much as touch her; she smacks weapons aside with a flick of her wrist and a crack of her clattering cash sword. Color’s risen to her cheeks, and she’s laughing like she’s holding your hand and pulling you along the streets of Golden Chrysanth. An umbrella is not a sword; this is a simple fact. The brawl happening through the corridors of the ship is being fought with swords and spears; this is another simple fact. Men and women who have the strict unit cohesion of the Dominion are struggling against each other, panting and growling in a grand free-for-all. And Azazuka stands as the queen of them all. “[i]Pipi![/i]” Azazuka cries, delighted, and then lunges at you, [i]click-click-click-click-clack![/i] The guard accompanying you draws his own sword to defend you, and then slashes it through the space where your head just was. What is this? A madness of blades?