[b]Maid Confined in Yearning![/b] Being bad at something you love is very frustrating. You were once definitionally good at swordplay. You must have been. You were War. That red hussy thinks she’s all that, but she can’t hold a candle up to you. So you were, of course, the best at swordplay, and spear drills, and shooting firewands, and thus had no need to stoop so low as to actually perform. You knew you were skilled, and they were arts of war, and therefore you claimed them and loved them. That’s how owning concepts works. You occupy them, exploit them, and leverage them. So it is embarrassing that you are this bad at actually fighting. It’s not your fault! It really isn’t! If you were as strong as you’re supposed to be, you could destroy entire armies of the Rakshasa, wither them beneath iron and fire, see their strategies unravel and turn to dust, and claim their territories as your own, anchor them, claim them for the world you helped make! But [i]she[/i] made you clumsy and flushed and turned this body to cross-purposes! It’s [i]her[/i] fault, that smug, superior, scheming spirit that didn’t even have the good grace to not fall to a common garden [i]goblin[/i] when she bested you! You are not pathetic! You are not below the likes of this parasite! You are Maid Confined in Yearning, and you will prevail, no matter how you are sweating, and panting, and [i]bouncing[/i], and even if this body is a liability, your will is adamant! You fling yourself at the parasite before it can insult you further by ordering your conqueror about; you go tumbling, and you yank, pull, tear, using your fumbling fingers and your blunt teeth and your kicking legs to explain to the Rakshasa that you are not going to lose again! Then she grabs your wrists and pins you to the deck. The look in her eyes is wild and dangerous and it’s your body’s fault, this weak and mortal thing, that makes your face heat up and your heart race in panic and a pathetic, helpless squeak escape your blubbering lips and your hips are rocking from side to side, your toes not finding any purchase on the rain-slick deck, and she’s going to [i]eat[/i] you and you can’t make her let go of you and nobody’s coming to help you, why is she so cruel as to ignore you like this when she put you in here, why won’t she come over and tear the vicious hungry thing off of you and stroke your hair until you stop shaking it’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not [i]fair![/i] “S-someone, save meeeeeeeee! Pleaaaaaaaaaase!!” And right there, right then, you mean it. You want someone to come and save you, because you’re a useless little thing and you want to be held, you don’t want to die, you just want to be safe— A white sword lifts the Rakshasa’s chin, and she does her best to look small and pitiable, even though her fingers are digging into your soft skin. The person holding it is one of the children of the upstart dragons, but right now, you don’t care, do you? You’re sobbing in relief, stupid little buttoned top heaving as you take snot-choked breaths, your body swamped by [i]gratitude[/i]. “What have you done to my soldiers?” The Red Wolf’s voice is caustic, searing. She’s barely holding back her fangs, and a silly little thing like you can’t remember if that’s literal or not. “I didn’t do anything,” the Rakshasa simpers. The Red Wolf opens her eyes again and the air [i]chars[/i]. You whimper and shut your eyes but she can see through you, all of you, and what does she see? Frills and lace and needy rubbing? Blushing cheeks and mincing steps and [i]you will never go home[/i]? “I didn’t,” the Rakshasa growls, defiant. “Whatever is on them is [i]her[/i] work.” The Red Wolf half-turns to look at your conqueror, and the Rakshasa lets go of you, is snaking upwards, fangs open and nails sharp— And the mean dragon opens an umbrella sharply in her face, and the Rakshasa stumbles back, trips over you, hits the railing with a scream and tumbles over, and the force of it sends you bashing against the railings and you hear them creak and you just keep screaming, and you don’t know whether or not you’d survive because you’re not thinking about it, you just don’t want to fall, please don’t just let you fall, do something, the railing’s creaking harder with every pitch and thump of the ship, and nobody cares enough to save you. [hr] [b]Piripiri![/b] You snap your umbrella shut. The demon maid, one arm dangling through the railing, one heel wedged beneath it, is screaming her head off. The Red Wolf gives you a nod of gratitude, shifting her grip on her sword. “Jaws,” she says. She means for you to help her flank the blue-robed thing that’s dangling Giriel over the side of the barge, threatening her with a firewand to the forehead. No time for saving sobbing, useless demons. (She must be feeling more terror right now than in her entire existence.) And then— On the other side of the deck, three Flower Knights burst through a door. Kalaya Na, Petony the Tiger Knight, and… Uusha. The Tiger Knight is saying something, but Uusha is staring at the Red Wolf, and, uncharacteristically, the Red Wolf is staring right back, not moving forward, not leaving her flank open. Her eyes flick once to Giriel, and then back to Uusha; her hand is, for a moment, unsteady on her sword. “…save her,” Cathak Agata asks you. [i]Begs[/i] you. And then she turns to face Uusha, both hands on her sword’s hilt, and the anger roiling off her is causing the rain to hiss and steam away all around. [hr] [b]Kalaya![/b] “We need to [i]go[/i],” Petony half-snarls at Uusha. “Victorious Vixen of Violets has already given us all the distraction we can afford!” What a distraction. The barge is careening deeper and deeper into the tangled forests of the Flower Kingdoms, and even beginning to tilt upwards; it’s cutting a path back northwards. Away from Chrysanth, back towards N’yari country. It’s unclear how Petony thinks that she can get all of you off safely, or how she thinks that priestess managed to do this at all. The air’s cut apart by shrill, desperate, helpless screaming from a maid, frantically kicking and scrabbling over by a railing, unable to get to her feet for some reason. Piripiri is on the other side, too, and— Cathak Agata, standing opposite Uusha, holding her sword like it’s a dragon’s thunderbolt. “She’s not going to let us leave,” Uusha says, the words slamming into place with the weight of lead. Her armor creaks as she shifts her weight. “But there’s three of us. Two of them. And she’s [i]scared.[/i]” “We need to [i]leave,[/i] you glory-seeking bitch!” “[i]Everything[/i] I have done, I have done for [i]us![/i] Now if you value your oaths to [i]our[/i] land, [i]our[/i] people, and [i]our[/i] gods, [i][b]fall in line![/b][/i]” Petony looks like she’s either going to piss herself or take a furious swing at Uusha, and it’s hard to blame her. Those last three words were delivered like a furious mother losing the last of her patience— but there was something of a monster’s roar in them, too. If Uusha’s still in pain from being shot, she doesn’t show it as she draws herself up to her full height and lets the cloth wrapping fall from her spear. Her gauntlets close around its shaft. And with a guttural roar, Uusha suddenly charges across the deck at Cathak Agata. [hr] [b]Lotus of Tranquil Waters![/b] You have a lot of pent-up makeouts inside of you and they come exploding out like a geyser. Look, Han! Are you watching? This is what you can do! You guide her hands up to cup and squeeze and a happy shiver runs through you. Your mouth is wet and scented like flowers, and you give its gift to Emli, who has visited you, who still smells like [i]Han.[/i] And since Han probably thinks you’re terrible anyway, a selfish heartbreaker who takes kisses and doesn’t care about her feelings, well… Maybe it’s okay to intermingle the kisses she gave Emli, the kisses you wish she wanted to give you, and the way you’re smacking your hungry, inexperienced mouth all over hers. She holds you, she has you, she’s appreciating you, she’s touching your body and she wants to, and a terrible awful part of you really does hope that Han might be watching. Maybe… No. She’ll just know that she was right about you. Spoiled princess. Liar, pervert and worse. Should have tossed you to the N’yari. Shouldn’t have bothered to save you as a strong, beautiful, incredible dragon. Shouldn’t be saving you, even now. But it feels too good, and you’re too weak, and if Han won’t hold you, at least Emli will, right here, right now. And maybe you can dream about Han tugging both of you by leashes, pulling you into bed, and the three of you sharing kisses until you can’t figure out where one of you ends and another begins, but later. In between thinking about Han kissing you like she kissed Emli, pressing you up against that wall, but being so gentle, exploring, being such a sweetheart with all of her strength, and— “Good girl,” Emli gasps, and your thinkies capsize. You’re glowing when she finally leads you back to the bed, helps you readjust your veil, folds your hands neatly in your lap, and leaves you to burn inside. You can’t look Han in the eyes. You want to turn and stare and see what she thinks. You aren’t brave enough. “So, Han… are you ready to tie me up?” [i]Oh wow you’re braver than you thought actually hi Han yes would you like to tie up the girl who you both just kissed? Do you need help maybe? Does she remind you of anybody?[/i] You are hopelessly gay. There is no cure.