Soot was certain her boast would have landed with the Vizier. The Sultan was very pretty, and Soot most definitely could produce any number of moving pieces with her as a subject. But watching the Vizier stare her down with pursed lips nearly sent the painter reeling. A pit forming in her stomach.

And this odd attendant. Standing over the Sultan like a guard dog, almost speaking for her. Soot stared her down, working through the introductions mentally but forgetting to actually vocalise any of it.

She accepted her sketchbook and retreated to the side of the room. Trying to find a good angle for observation.

Soot already could tell she was walking a thin line, and now she had to pick an impressive subject. Her hand slowly started to move across the page. A few warm-ups would buy her time: loose gestures of servants in motion; the Sultans form locked in that momentary happy pose; The vizier's looming figure. The doodles quickly filled the page, sending crumbled charcoal tumbling into Soot’s lap.

She narrowed down on the Vizier, still hesitant to commit, but watching her closely. Simple gestures: the vizier’s pose as she looked to everyone present. Sketching the way her shoulders tightened as she looked at the Sultan, or how she stood extra tall looking down to a servant. How her hands moved slightly as she stared down the palace painter, Soot. Oh. She hadn't noticed how long she’d been locked eyes with the Vizier. She looked away and continued sketching.

Ruz was so inscrutable, the Vizier was so built for statecraft that Soot could barely read her. Even after her time working under Ruz, Soot could only tell when she was disappointed, or hungry (more of her emotions than most palace staff could claim to understand). If you could tell what Ruz was feeling, it was because she wanted you to know, and likely to be concerned.

Soot shuffled over ‘to get a better look at the dance’. Staring down the attendant from the side as she moved. Staring intently the painter did her best to capture some of the dance. She normally preferred to draw people stationary. But there was something relaxing about watching Nahla’s movements, the gestures flowing through Soot's hand and into the sketchbook made it look more like a combat manual than an artist's warmups.

Soot's sketches kept pace with the action, so much so that the artist (lost in her work) included a daring gesture of the leap, the crash, the kiss, the splayed out Nahla.

Gesture drawings, luckily, contain precious little detail. But staring at the sketchpad and realising what she’d drawing still led the painter to blush slightly and flip to the next page.

Silsila! Birsi!

The Vo siblings start out cheering for their Host and telling Bratty Birsi that she’s going to get it. That they’re going to make those kisses extra sloppy, just for her. Mele even starts applying the lipstick on herself, trying to distract the House Guard with exaggerated movements and smacks of her lip.

But it doesn’t phase her, and Om doesn’t immediately pound Birsi into the floor, and some of the energy bleeds out. “What are you doing, Host,” Emissa complains, frowning and folding his arms. “Hit her already! Are you going to win or not?”

“Fire Wheels are on the line here, so if you don’t win, Ekh is going to make your life hell,” Mele hisses. And she’s probably right! If Birsi wins, four people are likely to be punished; if Om defeats her, just the one.

But, oh, how well that one can fight!

---

Soot!

That’s it. You’ve got it.

Part of it, at least.

Ruz is vain, for all that she is cunning and capable of hiding her emotions. She’s given you your choice of subjects and told herself that you’re going to make good work no matter what, but in her heart she selfishly wants you to reaffirm that she is the most worthy model in the room.

But from the way she almost smiles at the clumsy slave, how she drinks in the moment with a sip from her glass, how she very carefully considers her next move and whether or not the dancer deserves punishment… well, perhaps she might enjoy a private commission. Something to hold onto, something for her to remind Grace-of-Heaven she’s immortalized this moment.

You are an interpreter of beauty, of moments, and of bodies. If you wish fine rewards and Ruz’s favors, interpret these things in a way that flatters her and cements her control over the young Sultan.

But what will she learn from you, when she glances at you, when she sees your sketches? What are your feelings towards Grace-of-Heaven, Soot? Do not think you can hide them from the Vizier.

---

Nahla!

“Best???”

Grace-of-Heaven awkwardly covers herself with one hand and pushes you off of her with the other. Her acting is surprisingly good, or perhaps she underestimated how mortifying it would be to be exposed in front of her guardian. She grabs your long black hair, near the scalp, and pulls you up.

“How dare you? In front of our esteemed guest? You stupid girl, you, you…!!” She lets out a strangled scream and stamps one foot. (Was that a chuckle from the Vizier? Perhaps she’s glad to see the Sultan acting childishly.)

“Ma’am,” she says, hotly, “please excuse me. I need to discipline this, this barbarian. Myself. Best assets… what a horrible thing to—“

“Without giving her a chance to make amends?” Ruz lifts one hand, and Grace-of-Heaven sputters. If the Sultan’s forced to go too far off-script, she might flounder. “Dragon-daughter, what have you to say for yourself?”

But this is good. You can salvage this. She’s still thinking of you as Grace-of-Heaven’s girl, not an ordinary palace slave, and she still thinks of you as an exotic barbarian. If you are haughty, just the right sort of impudent, she’ll let Grace-of-Heaven drag you off and then likely ask to see you again at a later feast.

Grace-of-Heaven was beginning to stumble. If Nahla didn’t play along with this, she would be in trouble, their plan would be all for nothing! Her eyes darted over to the vizier, that look on her face. That phrase, Dragon-Daughter, it made her hairs stand on end. She wasn’t just an assistant or distraction of the Sultan, she was some unenlightened foreigner, a barbarian as her own Grace-of-Heaven had worded it. She needed to create something, some excuse to get her Mistress all the more frustrated without seeming too impudent to be kept around the princess. Something that merited punishment, that played into the insolent outsider, all without seeming too treasonous…

“I don’t see why you need apologies, I meant only to compliment my Lady’s fair and bountiful chest. If the Almighty herself should grace the sultan with such a delightful chest, than is it not my duty as a servant to my lady and the Almighty to display her perfect form? Or is it that my lady is displeased that I should name her bosom her greatest part? A thousand apologies, Grace-of-Heaven, my Sultan, for daring to ever neglect your hips!” Nahla drops to her knees, a clear over-exaggeration of any speck of guilt she may carry if such an incident were genuine. Her hands smack at the Sultan’s rear, a head rubbing against her thigh. “Please, my Sultan, accept my apology in not finishing the job! By the will of the Almighty, I swear to finish the job, to strip you bare so that we may see that the Almighty has blessed every square inch of your body!”

The entire time, Nahla’s form is pressed against the sultan’s legs, rubbing pleadingly as her chest heaves in dramatic breaths and pleas. A lewd, blasphemous foreigner whose cheeky apology is clearly to further taunt the mandate of heaven- in other words, everything Nahla believed Ruz wants her to be.

Birsi

Birsi wouldn’t be phased by such a thing as lipstick being applied in the corner of her vision, for she was a Royal Guard. She’d have seen plenty of makeup applied in the corners of her vision as she patrolled around, either from higher ups wanting to look proper or slave girls getting prettied up for their owners. No, her focus was entirely on the Host in front of her. Every swing she made was met with Birsi’s combat tact…

No blow was blocked head on, for that is the first mistake people make when fighting Hosts. Attempting to block and take the full force of their attacks is asking to lose balance or be sent flying, whether backwards or to the ground is based on the swing intercepted. No, Birsi would treat each attack like a raging river, and focus on deflecting and redirecting her strikes if she couldn’t outright dodge them.

Now that her opponent had finished her go of attacks, it was Birsi’s turn. With a twirl of her blade, the shorter woman would slice and jab at the weaker parts of her opponent’s material body and her attire. A not severe but very distracting jab to the side, a bit of her top piece being shredded by a straight edged sword, and a light peppering of stabs directed at her foes feet to make her dance. Silsila might be a Crashing Mountain, but Birsi was a Whirlwind of Steel.

“I expected much more from you Silsila. After all, you caused so much trouble in the past. Maybe all that bragging Merov Ekh did about catching you were lies? Or has being here so long weakened that fighting spirit of yours? Do your legs shiver at the sight of tight leather? Perhaps we shall see…” With that idea put into her opponent's head, Birsi kept up the momentum, forcing her larger opponent on the backfoot of the duel.

---

---

Silsila Om

"Shut up, girls." Om said, snorting hot steam from her nose. Om was frustrated. Birsi was being frustrating! Here Om was, basically offering the world to her, going easy on her, and she didn't even notice. She was so pig-headed, ugh! What's worse, the words of her peanut gallery made a pit in Silsila's stomach open up. If the Vo twins and Little Miss Drank-Too-Much were dragged off to the slave quarters, she really would be in big trouble. What's more, her body was getting cut and scratched up and marred--it was a stinging blow to her pride.

Still, that was later, and this was now. Birsi had still piqued Om's interest. If being complimentary--even in her clumsy, brutish, backhanded way--wasn't going to work, she'd just need to be more direct. Luckily, more direct was something she was very good at.

The next time their swords clashed, Om stepped in and grabbed her by the shoulder, pulling her in. Mwah! Om's lips gold lips pressed into her green ones--fast, hard, and quick. When they pulled back, could Birsi even be sure what had just happened?

The fight continued on for a few seconds more sword strokes, more of Birsi's slicing and cutting and slashing, more of Om being peeled away, when Om found another opening--and the girl would receive a sharp spank to her already sore rear end, setting it jiggling just in time for another offensive barrage from Om. A flick to her bust, another kiss, and Om almost had her pinned to the wall, before she managed to dance away.

...It was really all she could to keep up the pressure. Om wasn't doing well, and she knew it. She fervently hoped the Vo siblings didn't realize just how much getting poked and jabbed hurt, that they couldn't recognize a host taking damage, that they would just hoot and hollar and laugh as the Royal Guard was manhandled even as she kicked ass. Om also hoped that this worked--from what she knew of Birsi, the girl would find all this very distracting--hopefully distracting enough to not be so laser-focused on defeating her!

A few more strikes, and Om made her final play. "Y'know, this is pretty dumb." She'd say, almost too casually, her strikes relenting as she stepped back slightly. "We're basically on the same team already, right? And we're both going out tonight, one way or another. Tell you what--you forget about dragging my girls out here to the slave palace, or whatever, and I'll give you backup tonight instead of running my usual route. I can guarantee you'll get a lot more down with me on your back instead of whatever backup your boss was gonna send you. Get a lot more work done!"

Soot, content that her studying had provided enough insight, set to work. Her nose down in her sketchpad scribbling away diligently. Missing the majority of Nahla’s display as she focused on drawings. The charcoal dust staining the lap and arms of her borrowed clothes.

Finally, her work presented itself in the form of three pages of sketches. Perhaps, she thought, it might have been foolish to ‘go wide’ and create a variety of choices for her patreon. Sketches, no matter how skilled the artist, always look less impressive. But given her provided tools and time, it would have to do. Proving her range with 3 mostly finished sketches hopefully would result in more mileage than a single detailed one. Besides, ‘I can only do so much without my paints’, Soot told herself.

The first sketch was rough, she had drawn mostly accidentally. Her hand wandering while she was studying the Sultan. It was oddly delicate compared to most of her work and it lacked a lot of Soot’s signature style. There was no rope, no compromised positions, dramatic emotions, or Faithful imagery. It was simply the Sultana, leaning against a window staring sadly out into the yard. She was heavily obscured by a dress that was far too big, its folds trailing out of the frame of the image. It was a strange, pitiful depiction. Weighed down by her own clothes and looking sadly at the outside world. It may have seemed insulting to draw royalty that way, if it wasn’t that it had clearly been drawn with a lot of care.

The second sketch was a full page of the Vizier, smaller drawings in a variety of poses. In one Ruz was displayed powerfully against a web of rope. In another, the Vizier was looming over a small, coincidentally soot-shaped figure, holding the girl's hands above her head. In yet another, she stood with diligent attendants at hand and heel. The page showed that Soot had been focusing on the vizier, if not simply for how much there was, clearly trumping the effort put into the other sketches.

Lastly, a rough but telling sketch took up the third page. A recreation of the kiss between Nahla and Grace-of-Heaven. The servant girl looking down thoughtfully as their lips met in a preserved moment of awkward tension. Soot made sure the level of detail showed that she could be encouraged to forget the incident, or recreate it perfectly. Depending on her Patrons desire.

Soot leaned back, sighing contentedly and adjusting her posture. She had been paying little attention to Nahla and the Sultan at this point. So the artist sat, waiting for the strange altercation to finish. Not wanting to interrupt while she anticipated being called upon.

Nahla!

For a moment, everything hangs in the balance. Ruz's eyes are boring through you, as if trying to find the real girl underneath the performance. Then, amazingly, she begins to chuckle. "She really is a ridiculous thing, isn't she? Far be it for me to hold you back from instructing your slave in the ways of the Faith, my sultan. In fact, I think this is an excellent opportunity!" Her smile is a wicked, flickering rapier. "Go and teach her. I expect her to provide me a demonstration on what she has learned tomorrow night."

Grace-of-Heaven freezes up for a moment as she imagines how, exactly, her guardian might want you to demonstrate. You have to squirm and give her a little discreet pinch on her rump before she stammers back into life. "Of course, ma'am! That's my responsibility, after all! How can I hope to lead the host of the Faithful if I can't even teach one barbarian?"

So saying, she drags you out of the room awkwardly by your hair. It's a difficult performance, whining and squeaking all the way out while also being nimble enough on your hands and feet to keep her moving-- and even outside of the room, all she can do is help you up and keep leading you by the hair, making you walk backwards. But she's starting to get a little shaky; she's still exposed, she's likely got thoughts of you alone with Ruz swirling around her head, and she's also so close to succeeding that the adrenaline's likely turning her head.

Maybe you should pull her into an empty room for a brief reassurance and congratulations?

---

Soot!

"Hmmm." Ruz flicks through the sketches you provided her as you finish dinner. Together. "Yes, you do have an eye for quality. Naturally." She lingers on the sketches of herself, and drinks in the sight of that self-insert sketch, before devouring the kiss with her eyes. There's a lot of feelings churning there, which you're only beginning to unpack.

"She's not ready," she says, finally. "Isn't it obvious? She can barely control one of her girls; she'd tip all of our dominion into chaos if she took full responsibility for the administration. And my heart aches for her, it really does, but I will not fail her sainted predecessor by failing to carry out my own duty. If she sat on the throne today, she would be the next Ejelgarn: she would march our armies to defeat, provoke the populace to riot, and simper and whine about how unfair everything was before being deposed and bringing the Vulenid line to an unceremonious end." Her sigh is more than a little theatrical. "Can you imagine how this weighs on me, my dear? If anything were to happen to me, and she lost the support of the soldiers I brought in to assist her, everything would come undone. And this is the axis point of the entire world! I bear the weight of civilization itself while a silly girl lets her concubines paw all over her."

Ah. She's reacting to the picture of Grace-of-Heaven, looking so sad. Don't pity her, Ruz is arguing: give me sympathy, instead. A chance for you to reaffirm your loyalty, and Grace-of-Heaven would never need to know. Just flatter her. It's fine. What could possibly go wrong?

---

Birsi!

Just you, because you have a choice to make, pinned up against the wall.

You've got Silsila's sword locked hilt to hilt. If you pull off just the right twist (and you can, you know how to do it), you can disarm her. The sword will clatter at her feet and you can bring the tip of your sword up to her chin, informing her that you have won and you will carry out your duties. It's questionable whether the Fire Wheels would stick around or try to run away now that their champion has failed, but you'd have done your duty. You would be upright and righteous, carrying out your oaths to the House of the Vulenid. And you would, doubtless, make an enemy of Silsila Om.

Or you could let that opportunity slip (no one would know you let it pass, probably not even Silsila herself), and you could accept her terms. Likely you could even add on an extra obligation or two on Silsila's part. And if you brought Silsila to your commander, the Strategist Hai Lin, you would likely be commended, given a duty that only a Host and a treasured guard could carry out, and given the opportunity to spend more time with the rambunctious, powerful Host.

What's your choice, Birsi of the House Guard of the Vulenid? Your oaths or your desires? Thankless righteousness, or praise from your commander and the thanks of this powerful, playful, bullying Host?

Birsi

Oath and Order, or Praise and Desires…

Birsi had her foe in a blade lock, focused entirely on beating her, but now there was a seed of doubt, not in her abilities, but on what to do next. She could twist the hilt, disarm the Host, and bring in a total of Four Firewheels, or accept the Host’s Offer and… And… Confound it all!

The Guardswoman gripped her sword tightly, and with a small roar of exertion, forced the blade from her opponents hands, forcing it to clatter against the ground. While her foe expected there to be a sword point at her neck, no doubt closing her eyes in preparation, she would instead hear the result… A sword gliding back into its sheath, and a somewhat frustrated huff from the smaller woman.

Sweat dripped from her brow, her own this time, and she took a moment to draw a handkerchief from her breast pocket to pat away the sweat and remove the lipstick that had been forcibly applied to her lips before returning her gaze to the Host. “Your ‘girls’ will never set foot in The Room of the Manifold Stars, drunk or sober, and you will accompany me to my Direct Superior. Then you shall accompany me tonight. Are we clear?” The guardswoman would then go to fetch Silsila’s sword, and… Oh man this was so much heavier than she expected.

---

---

Silsila Om

For those unfamiliar with the Host (which, to be fair, was nearly everyone) Om's demeanor hardly shifted at all. Only she knew the huge ripple of relief which ran through her body. Birsi had moves, when she wasn't letting herself get pinned to the walls by rapscallions.

"Deal." Om said, quick enough that Birsi might squint at her. She and the Vo siblings knew Om really had no control over them, and that being technically banned from the room would only make it more attractive. Let them do it just to spite Birsi, reasoned Om. Just get caught away from the host and eat the punishment on their own.

Om tried to play it cool for all of 15 seconds after picking up the sword and walking out with Birsi, before bursting out. "How the hell were you blocking me with your little reed arms? I should have knocked you flat on your ass a half dozen times during that duel!" Anxiety was plain on her face. Had Birsi ever spared Om a passing thought before beyond "The big hot host that the Fire Wheels have"? The anxious frustration with which she hissed those words out might have taken her by surprise...

Nahla freezes for all but a moment at the thought of being alone with Ruz. The Vizier was a nightmare by what she had heard from her Mistress, but after the embarrassment Grace-of-Heaven had endured to achieve this, a single meeting with Ruz would be nothing. The servant gives a convincing performance, wincing and whining as the Sultana pulls her away. Her eyes darted about, waiting until there were no observers before turning and leading her Mistress in the room. Her arms wrapped around Grace-of-Heaven, holding the half-bare lady in a tight embrace.

“We did it, my Sultan!” Nahla exclaims in assuring whispers. “We had to improvise a bit, but we’ve successfully earned our alibi for the night, and you can see the beauty of Sjakal at night. When we return, we can begin to plan out how we will handle Lady Ruz. But for now, it is time for the finishing touches to our preparations, and then we’ve won!"

She opened an unassuming barrel in the private punishment room, containing within it a set of new, unassuming clothes for the two of them. Along with clothes for disguise, a small vial of the fragrant soap she had lathered the sultan with, which she began to dab in small amounts on the ground and walls to ensure the room carried the scent of the Sultan should anyone investigate the room. Stripping away her performance clothing, Nahla dons the clothes of a commoner and a hooded cloak.

“Now then, we may wait a moment to allow the palace to settle down, and then we shall away when they are unassuming. Are you prepared, Grace-of-Heaven? Hmm… perhaps it best that we use some sort of false names out there if speaking to each other?”

Birsi

Those words did surprise her, and she assumed a puzzled look and put a hand to her chin, having relaxed quite a bit post fight. “I believe I had made it obvious? Never fully blocked you, that is the easiest way to get thrown backwards by your swings. I guided your strikes elsewhere to minimize their impact on me and allow for us to be on equal ground. Plus, my arms are not reeds. Feel for yourself.” She flexed her arm a bit to let the host feel it.

The soft yet durable fabric of her sleeve clung to her tensed arm, highlighting that for a normal person who wasn’t in the Fire Wheels, Birsi had some bulk in those arms of hers. The guardswoman had to be well trained, not just in code and order, but in body and mind as well. Her strength was real, as was her grace and speed. Birsi seemed to be good at everything besides handling Fire Wheels in normal everyday encounters… That thought in Birsi’s head reminded her of the first day she encountered the Fire Wheels in the palace halls, the shudder at her memory being quite visible, but could also just be mistaken as a shudder due to having her arm felt up.

---

---

Silsila Om

Silsila makes a mental note to figure out a way to kick guard's asses evn if they did have some fancy sword fighting tricks under their belts. She makes a secondary note to focus more on winning fights and less on flirting hard with her opponent when fighting has such high stakes. What has she been doing lately, anyway? Just a fugue state of love and lust! She needs to focus up...

She does totally feel her bicep up on the way, though. Nice.

Soot sat nearby trying her best to remain calm and professional. Although the dinner with the Sultan had not been what she expected it was still delicious. If Soot wasn’t as familiar with Palace life, it would have been life changing. But occasional lunches and gifted food had made the painter comfortable with the servants level of second hand luxury.

So as she sat, well fed and made happy from the wine, as the Vizier scanned her work. Although Soot was feeling confident, she had lingering doubts that another blunder would see her station reduced to that of a street rat. So she steeled herself with the knowledge that at least it would end with this royal treatment.

Her fears were eased as the Vizier looked over the sketches. Barely any reaction, which was good, the usual. But she straightened up as Ruz spoke. Soot had thought that the picture was good, but hadn’t realised quite how emotionally loaded it had been. She smiled awkwardly as she realised her heart had been laid bare.

She looked up at Ruz, tilting her head and smiling softly in a slightly generic comforting face “Of course Grand Vizier...” Vizier. Burden-Bearer… Soot had no doubt the job was stressful and she had no reason to doubt Ruz but there had been a strange air to the interactions with the Sultana that had left Soot thinking.

“I am certain your wisdom will impart upon her with time, and a fine Sultan she will make” Soot continued in her flat tone, “There’s too much at stake to hinge on the pride of a girl. I could hardly imagine the havoc that would be caused by the Fire Wheels without your control.”

Leaving the Adamant is no simple matter. It has few gates, and those closely guarded; but even then, there are those who must pass in and out. Most who do wish they didn’t have to; traveling by night has become more perilous as of late. The Fire Wheels will go roaring and wild out of the Blue Gate, which means that it has become the most perilous route of all. So here at twilight the palace expels its servants, its common-born, and its terrors, and soon the five of you, too, will join the trickles out into the city of Sjakal, wild and tumultuous…

---

Nahla!

Grace-of-Heaven practically glows with your reassurance, and quickly puts on the simple linen clothes of a common citizen, the sort whose household would only support one or two slaves at most. She unlocks your own collar with a key she secreted away; permanently welding a collar is both inhumane and unfashionable, because a woman of means should be able to provide you with multiple accessorizing collars for every occasion and outfit.

The Faithful are odd in that sort of way. It’s all about power and control, clearly delineating who gives orders and who follows them, but people’s roles are fluid in practice. It’s possible to rise and fall, to be freed or to be enslaved, and almost nobody ends up permanently locked in place. Back home, social classes were much more static.

But here? Grace-of-Heaven looks surprisingly natural in a simple, opaque veil, wearing a mantle over a belted dress, with flat sandals and her hair loose under a flower-mimicking headband. The sparkle in her eyes, the bounce to her steps, the feeling that everything is going to turn out all right: that’s all her, independent of her title and her ownership of you.

Right now, anyone who saw you in the street would take you for equals. Friends, or family members, or even… well, girlfriends. Especially if you hold her hand to help guide her along.

“How about… hmmm… oh, but what if I say the wrong thing? The wrong name, I mean. If I pick the sort of name people don’t actually use, people, other people, would be suspicious of us! But maybe… nicknames? Little simple things? Maybe that would work!” She takes your hands in hers for a moment and squeezes. “How about… I’ll be Flower and you’ll be Darling? Or, no, that’s… Ring? Clever? North? Do any of those work?” Oof. North is a bit on the nose. Might as well be Foreigner.

Whatever name you end up picking, it’s time for you to reveal how you’re getting out of here!

[Grace-of-Heaven accepts, and clears a Condition. You have your choice of boons.]

---

Silsila! Birsi!

The Fire Wheel costume is laid out on the briefing table with the reverence of a suit of armor. Red and black, festooned with tassels and trophies, lacking a veil entirely.

“It is difficult for us to work in the city at present,” Hai Lin explains, hands behind her back, smiling in the way she does when she’s playing the General’s Game, her pleasantly serene and perfectly ironclad game face, which doesn’t move an inch whether she’s winning or losing. “Therefore, given this unique opportunity, I think the Fire Wheels will act in the city instead.”

That does make sense, Birsi. She can’t assign you anything sensitive with Ekh’s Host standing right here; she can’t make a play that requires secrets to be kept from the barbarian. But she’s instead turned this into an opportunity to pursue a different goal.

“Namely, you will go out and act with the decisiveness and personal initiative expected of a Fire Wheel— not in any way to discredit them, and indeed, this may bring them some credit. But you must be allowed to act in ways that, perhaps, might be unbecoming of one of our company.”

She gestures at the grand mural of the city that takes up one wall of her meeting room. “There is an element of unrest in the city at present that is difficult for us to address, given our duty.” You’re the House Guard, after all; you only leave the Adamant in the company of the Sultan or their servants while on duty, traditionally. “One in particular seems likely to present a threat to our duty. One Bowlyn, a leader of thieves who is acting against the Faithful and our… associates.” She means the Fire Wheels.

You know a little about that, Silsila. The Thief-Queen’s been making fools of the Fire Wheels, as much as she can; looting houses while you speak with the owners, picking off Fire Wheels left alone, and leaving graffiti at the scene of the crime.

“The two of you will go out and, working together, see this disruptive element inconvenienced to the best of your ability.” Carefully worded. It allows for anything up to bringing her and her thieves in bound up in a coffle, or as little as bringing back more information that Hai Lin can then feed back to the Stewards.

She then turns to Silsila, still smiling regally, impossible to read. “Host, given the terms of your arrangement tonight, I would prefer to request that you assist our Birsi in looking particularly appropriate for the part.” Unspoken: otherwise I will order Birsi to order you, but I don’t want to put strain on tonight’s working relationship, especially given that you are still the slave of a rival player in the palace.

So, Silsila: what does giving Birsi a Fire Wheel makeover look like? Is hair dye involved? How do you stop her from standing out like a sore thumb?

Birsi: this is an order from a superior. But what are your personal thoughts on this mission? It’s dangerous for you, which is both daunting and a sign of how much trust Hai Lin places in you.

---

Soot!

You are released, full of delicious food and projects to be working on for the foreseeable future, to pack up and dream of your promised workspace. Tell us all about the process of leaving the Adamant: how you are frisked by the House Guard, how you prepare to defend yourself against the steadily more perilous walk home, and to what degree you daydream your way through it.

Because, after all, you have business this evening on the streets. Graffiti to paint. A new design to emblazon proudly.

And maybe you’ll run into Bowlyn tonight, the Thief-Queen of Sjakal, who is your— sister? Childhood friend? Other crush? Artistic influence? How are you very closely connected to one of the most wanted women in all of Sjakal?

Birsi

This is a direct order from her direct superior, there is no way she cannot ignore it… However, she must act and dress like one of… One of… The thought made her brain grind to a halt, just staring at the clothing on the table with an expression that practically screamed “There is no thought behind these eyes, send help” all over her face. On one hand, this was Hai Lin, the person she trusted the most, whom she did everything for, and would do every command for due to mutual respect and gratitude. She was also making a very smart and strategic play, using the Host as a better way to blend in and handle this issue in the city itself, and this proved that she did in fact have trust and faith in Birsi.

On the other hand, Birsi was having to disguise herself as a Fire Wheel, the antithesis to everything she is. Unruly, Practically Savage Brutes who cared little to nothing for the law and order of this holy city. That, and their attire was so… Revealing… Birsi couldn’t act like a borderline uncivilized barbarian, she was nice and orderly, and this would require her to be completely the opposite of everything she is. That, and she knew little of the dangers outside of the Palace, though she did have vague ideas based on experience and gossip from around the place, but those were only small talks or excursions with the Vizier and/or her servants, not being out and about with only a Fire Wheel.

“Very well. The mind of a Fire Wheel is a dangerous thing, but since no one else is up for this task, I shall accept this mission and the dangers that come with it.” She stated with a gloved hand going over her chest, clenching tightly into a fist that grabbed at her uniform. However, the moment she turned to look at her companion for this mission… It was clear that she was a bit frazzled by the mere concept of being anything like a Fire Wheel. Have Fun, Silsila Om~

---

---

Silsila Om

Silsila knew of Strategist Hai Lin, of course. She was a frequent subject of Fire Wheel toasts, boasts, claims and story. She was nothing like the other's said she was, which was expected; Most other Fire Wheels were total dummies.

Still, that carefully placid face irked her. At least the Fire Wheels made it obvious they saw her as somewhere between siege equipment and toy. With her, it was impossible. Annoying. Silsila decided to probe at her, just a little.

"That thief queen, huh?" She said, in the drawling accent of the Fire Wheels she had picked up on. She stood with her arms folded, in a way which made her already huge, gold banded biceps look even bigger. "Bowlyn's pretty dangerous, y'know. I woulda thought you'd like her messing with Merov, not send your best girl on the job." She makes a stunted head motion at Birsi. "...Anyway, I must admit Birsi is good with her sword" (high praise from Silsila) "but she doesn't have the temperament for street fightin'. You should just have me do the heavy lifting, and let her stick back and watch. That way she's safe and sound and you got a badass yet expendable host working on the issue. Pretty clean, right?"

If and when they would move to the dressing up phase--honestly, the makeup was the most important part. The shimmering green would be smudged off her lips in exchange for a golden orange. Red paint which would flicker like flame in the lamplight of the streets, as anonymous as any veil. Baggy, cool pants and a shirt with no sleeves ("You're gonna get to show off those biceps of yours, Birsi, so quit squirming!"). Silsila spent a long time fussing with the tassels and trophies--"Now why the hell would she have the Eye of the Wheel AND the Eye of Dneej, you can't just mix and match eyes like that"--but after maybe a half hour, Birsi is the perfect little barbarian. Maybe a little short, but with a scowl and the right light, polite Birsi would look as savage as the rest of them.

Leaving the Adamant was simple procedure for Soot. Today there were a few extra steps but she took them in stride. First, the Painter was ushered back to the quarters of Ruz’s servants where a few of the previous horde chided her on the state of her coal covered evening-wear. Soot apologised and headed to her own quarters.

Soot refused to stay in the palace, she always said it was to help manage her work life-balance. But part of her patronage afforded her a small but private servants style dwelling within the Adamant. Furnished with a well made, dust covered bed, and the typical dressings of a boudoir. Her understanding was most ‘skilled professionals’ working in the place were awarded at least a private room. Every morning when she arrived at the palace she came here first, met with an attendant who prepared her hair and jewellery before heading off to her studio. Likewise every evening she returned, stored all the decorations of palace life, and let down her hair before heading home. Occasionally, when a project demanded a late night or some evening lightning, Soot would begrudgingly dust off the bed and stay the night. But this evening, like most, she was heading home.

Luckily most of the guards had learned to stop giving her too much trouble. Not that Soot raised any fuss, security was certainly important especially with times as they are, but everything eventually becomes routine. The guards usually let her through without issue. She knew most of the rotations and a polite nod and a remembered name goes far with military types. A standard pat down and exchanged pleasantries and Soot returned to the streets. Some guards took longer, making snide remarks about ‘needing to be sure there wasn’t anything hidden under those bulky clothes’

Soot was not a particularly capable fighter, but had taken to carrying a blade. A simple shortsword with a fine scabbard; the blade tapered into a needle point, not unlike a sized up stiletto. It was always worked into her palatial garb but it was rarely as at hand as when walking home. She found, at least as far as petty criminals, the threat it presented was enough to discourage. If the threat was more present, the fire wheels perhaps, usually enough swearing, shouting about her being a palace employee, and name-dropping the Vizier was enough to get them to leave her alone.

She strolled through the streets in the evening light. Stopping briefly to apologise to her usual street food vendors, claiming she had been lucky enough to eat at the palace. They lamented that her tastes were going to end up ruined by high class cooking and one of the old men made a mocking sob about losing her as a customer. Soot laughed, politely, as one does at old man's jokes and continued on home. It was a nice place, not so lavish as to be out of place for the neighbourhood, but a larger house than you’d expect for a single girl to live in. She was always thankful the palatial salary allowed her such comforts. The inside was cramped, a mess of canvas, shelves of paints, and dozens of in progress paintings. A simple kitchen with barely any dishes and a cookfire that looked like it hadn’t been lit in days. The ash pushed itself over the brick of the floor as the evening wind pushed in past Soot. It gave the house a sad air, as if it was abandoned.

The feeling was suddenly countered, as the setting sun streamed through the windows and the walls ignited with colour. Every inch of the house was painted with finely planned murals, wildly vibrant, and decorated with complex mathematical patterns. Soot stopped to admire her work for a moment, before clapping her hands together excitedly and smiling. A small honest smile, rarely seen on the painter's face but free for her to enjoy behind closed doors.

Moving to the bedroom she swiftly changed, Replacing her colourful linens with dark coloured cottons. She didn’t mean to dress so stereotypically roguish, but it worked. Soot grabbed a large leather satchel filled to the brim with large brushes, and jars of paint. Finally she strapped a small folding ladder to her back and ducked out the backdoor of her home into the alleys of Sjakal (one of her favourite features, of both her house and the city). As she slinked through the backstreets trying to find a perfect place for her latest masterpiece, her mind wandered… Wondering if she might see Bowlyn.

---

Soot had always preferred to use the traditional methods when inspiration wouldn't flow. If it was day, standing out in the desert for a while, or watching townsfolk. In the evening, drinks, smoking, and fine company usually encouraged artistic thought. It was during one such session of ‘divine inspiration’ that Soot met her. Bowlyn. Well, when Soot became aware of the Women who called herself Bowlyn. Who knows how long they had ‘known’ each other without the Painter being aware.

Soot was at the long end of a pipe, exhaling lazily and scanning the dingy taverna when she had locked eyes with the Woman. At the time she had no idea that the ‘thief-queen of Sjakal’ was staring her down across the bar. The woman sauntered over: she was tall, with long fair hair styled similarly to Soot’s unkempt mess, but with more intention. She had a dangerous air that demanded attention and Soot encouraged the barmaids at her sides to leave as Bowlyn sat down, sliding into the Painter's booth. Stealing a long drag from Soot’s pipe she stared the Painter down. ‘I love your work’ the woman had said, after exhaling smoke into Soot’s face. Her voice was low and she had a devious smile ‘Such delicate patterns.. And those delightful purples…’ And with that, she left, trailing a hand on Soot’s shoulders as she walked away. Soot sat, staring at the woman as she left without so much as a glance.

Soot had paid her tab, grabbed her leather bag, and bolted into the streets, shaking slightly. It was certain that the woman had been referring to an 'unlicensed mural' soot had painted the night before. But no one had seen her painting. In fact she was certain no one had even found the graffiti yet. The taverna wasn't even in her own neighbourhood! Even though she was a known painter, she doubted any random person on the far end of the city would just know her by sight.

She shook her head, it was probably senseless paranoia and a few too many drinks. Deciding to hurry off into the alleys to start her work for the evening anyway. It was a few hours later, Soot’s sleeves stained with paint, that she heard the voice again. ‘Didn’t think you’d still come out’ it had said, or something to that effect. Soot turned, wide eyed and terrified as she saw the Woman once again. Her clothing changed, similar to soot’s own roguish attire. ‘I’m serious’ she said, more casually this time ‘it’s beautiful’. Soot had remind wide eyed and frozen, Bowlyn taking notice chuckled softly getting closer to the painter. ‘I’m not a guard, just an admirer.’ She chuckled before leaning in close to Soot’s ear once more and whispering ‘But I figure there's some on the way, and I need a cup of tea. How's about we make it back to your place?’

The rest of the evening had been a blur, at some point they arrived at Soot’s house. At some point the guards chasing Bowlyn had found the strange geometric mural and a cold trail. At some point Soot managed to get to sleep. It had been... difficult in Bowlyn’s presence. She had such a delicate touch and such a soft voice. Her lithe body held such surprising strength. In the morning, Soot awoke alone, but with a soft fire in the kitchen and a fine shortsword resting on the mantle. It had a blade that tapered into a needle point, not unlike a sized up stiletto. A Note, in some of Soot's own paints read ‘Not everyone you’ll bump into is as nice~’

---

Lovers had never felt like the right word to Soot maybe… there was a kinship at very least. But Bowlyn swiftly became the Painter’s drug of choice. They had more evenings like that first. Bowlyn bumping into the painter with guards on her tail, leaving only a mural on the wall, and a flustered Soot back at home. It wasn’t every night, but it was enough that the paintings became associated with the thief. Who admitted so one night. Apologising to Soot and revealing her profession to Soot after the painter had nearly gotten hauled away by the Guard. Soot hadn’t cared; she always felt she should care more, but it just never seemed important. Besides, their relationship had been based in the illegal, and Bowlyns exploits never seemed that bad.

She wondered, some days. If Bowlyn was just using her, or if Soot was still painting ‘for herself’ under the thief’s influence. She told herself it was just coincidence and Bowlyn’s visits were not frequent enough to change her behaviour… And it wasn’t even every visit that Soot woke up to an empty bed, normally sure, but sometimes Bowlyn hung around. They would hit the streets together in the early morning before Soot ran off to work.

The painter assumed Bowlyn understood she was a palace servant, but she felt like it was best to never say anything about it. Maybe the thief didn’t know, maybe she didn’t care. Maybe that was just more evidence for the fact Soot was being set up as some kind of patsy.

All of her concerns aside, she couldn’t help thinking about whether she would be sharing a bed with the Thief Queen every time she grabbed her satchel and pushed out into the night.

Nahla slips into her unassuming disguise for the night as Grace-of-Heaven removes her collar. It felt nice to not have it on, though Nahla tried not to rub her hand over her bare neck too much in front of the Sultan. Her garments were similarly plain to Grace-of-Heaven’s, wearing a beige long-sleeved belted dress.

As she heard the sultan’s ramblings, Nahla couldn’t help but blush slightly at the thought of being called “darling.” She also feel a small twinge of… something else. Frustration? Disappointment? Pity? She had barely spent any time in Sjakal before she was confined to the palace as a distraction for the Sultan, yet she had seemed to have a better grasp on names than her Mistress. Part of her considered that it was in large part yet another sign of the detriments of the sultan’s isolation, of being trapped in her palace. Another part of her, a part she quickly tried to smother down, the side that could remember being the plaything to a naïve royal once before, saw it in a less positive light.

“To use your… wise ideas as a basis, perhaps it best we be a touch more precise. Flower, for example, perhaps it would be better to go with a type of flower. Perhaps it would be more unassuming if you were called Jasmine. As for me… Iris, perhaps.”

Taking the sultan’s hand, the concubine gently nudges the door open, ensuring that no guards were patrolling the hallway so late at night. She lead ‘Jasmine’ through the hallways, the guards being far fewer in patrol this late. Eventually, she found her way out- a large cart seemingly stuffed to the brim with the worn garments of the various groups that occupy the palace grounds.

“Alright, remember, ‘Jasmine,’ hold your breath. For our plan, and for your own comfort, hold your breath.” With that, ‘Iris’ shoves her blade in its scabbard against the sultan’s chest before pushing her into the cart, making sure to ruffle up the laundry atop to ensure a heavy layer obscuring the sultan that looked undisturbed. With her means of transporting the sultan out secured, Iris lifts the handles and begins trekking the cart through the entrance, confident that no guard would want to thoroughly inspect the dirty laundry of the rambunctious occupants. A bit of playing up the urgency of keeping such a heavy load moving (it wasn’t all false- she was hiding an entire person, after all), added to the clear lack of anything being smuggled out on the transporter’s person, and the pair had successfully escaped. Tilting the massive wagon over near an alley, Nahla reasoned that someone else, perhaps another palace servant, would just assume that whoever was moving the cart accidentally knocked it over and gave up on trying to lift it up. A problem for someone else, but not for them.

Silsila! Birsi!

The city of Sjakal opens up before the two of you, spreading out like a brand on the world, all lit up by lanterns in the gathering dusk. The light makes it harder, down there, to see the stars spread out across heaven. Down there, it's a labyrinth, a city built above and below another city, an orderly city of wide streets and gardens devoured by the need for more housing, more warehouses, more markets, more wealth and more bodies, by bright canvas and wood, by the irrepressible spirit of the Faithful.

Turn to look southward, and you can see the most likely place for your investigations to begin tonight: the 78 Heavens, a neighborhood built entirely within the old Circus. Where once chariots raced and the crowd roared, now there is a city within the city, one that never sleeps, one where any traveler can buy a bed for the night, companionship for the night, spectacle for the night, and things which the Stewards very much frown upon being sold. It's a confounding maze of signage and noise inside, but there are very few ways in, and all of them controlled by Mother Bes and her family.

Silsila: the Fire Wheels view the 78 Heavens as being beneath them; they're in the lap of luxury, they're not going to go slumming it. Why go buy overpriced drinks to see a fight when they could watch you and Rosethal go at it? That's good, by the way. If the Fire Wheels let loose inside the 78 Heavens, well. It's very flammable, it's got few exits, and it's full of the dregs of Sjakal. People would get really hurt. Maybe that's one reason Hai Lin is sending you here; the reason she gave you, on the other hand, is just that the House Guard must be proactive in defending the Sultan. (Funny, given that she's not been very proactive against possible threats inside the Adamant.)

Birsi: the 78 Heavens are a raucous den of iniquity. Or so you've heard, because you've never been. You keep your nose clean, don't you? You're above all that sort of thing; you thrive in the knowledge of a job well done, the simple pleasure of being praised. But here you are, red-headed and doing your best to scowl. Maybe even try spitting in the street, if your heart can take it. You're unveiled, given equal parts deference and glares by the people you pass, and walking into a dangerous assignment.

At least you have surprise on your side. Tell us about making your way through the lively streets, as people make way (or shout insults from the safety of an alleyway mouth), and how you plan to barge your way into the 78 Heavens like proper Fire Wheels.

---

Soot!

"Hey, Soot~"

Bowlyn melts out of the shadows as you take a shortcut between Mercy and Largesse, accompanied by two of her Rats (as the gang calls themselves). There's a bounce to her step, all anticipation and nervous energy. "You sure you want to be out tonight?"

"It's going to be messy tonight," Tall Rat says, with naked glee. They're a gangly one, usually involved with climbing and clambering and shimmying out of windows. "Sword work. Big work."

"A lapdog and a kettle." A member of the House Guard? And a Host? Giggly Rat (that's the best nickname you've got for her) seems pretty jazzed at the thought.

"You might want to go home and bolt the windows," Bowlyn says, and she does a pretty good job of hiding from the Rats that she's a little worried about you. "There's a difference between painting and... well, dealing with this." But if you insist, she won't stop you. You've got her gift, after all. You've got style. And even if she loves your graffiti, and might indulge in it with you after the sword work (if she wins), well.

She might be in the market to commission art of a House Guard and a Host in a compromising position, if she wins. And as long as you've known her, Bowlyn has always won.

---

"Iris!"

"Jasmine" comes up coughing and red-faced, but a sniffle or two and clinging to your sleeve and she's fine. What a brave girl, holding it all in until you helped her out. "I am never complaining about what our maids do again," she swears. "Imagine having to... well!!" (She says it like she complains about them all the time. She doesn't. She'd probably lie to cover for them if Ruz found something to criticize about their work.) Then she giggles, and takes you by the hand, and pulls you along as she runs.

She nearly gets both of you run over by a cart pulling out of a narrow street.

But she barely notices, and she's giddy as she lets herself run in a way she hasn't been able to do ever since you met her, and likely before then. She's drinking in everything around her, but she's got an end point in mind: the top of a hill, topped by a statue to the legendary hero that built this place, on the other side of a bridge. By the time you reach the statue's base, both of you are hitting the wall pretty hard, though she's definitely more pampered than you. But that doesn't stop her from looking out over the southward swell of the city and putting her hands to her chest and making a sound like she's either about to start laughing or crying.

"It's Sjakal," she says, and she's definitely losing the battle against crying. And, to be honest, can you blame her? This is the biggest city you've ever seen in your life. It glows like a fire underneath the almost-black sky, and you can make out the bright colors of the streets (where they're not covered by gaudy banners or makeshift archways) and the stateliness of the city's many cypress trees pointing up at the sky. It's beautiful. It's dangerous. It's unexplored. It's brooding. Anything could be around the next corner. Anything could be around the next corner.

Then she turns and throws her arms around you, and she's hugging you like she hugs one of her pillows. "Thank you thank you thank you," she says, the words bursting out of her like water pouring through a broken dam. "Nahla, I-- Iris, I mean, we did it, we did it!!"

You're going to be in trouble tonight. Whatever you do, whatever you say to her, she's going to end up in trouble somehow. But maybe it'll be worth it for how happy she is, right here and now?

Silsila Om

Silsila marveled at how one nominally competent--hell, she knew Birsi was competent, she had fought her herself--woman could wind up compromised, badly, three times in a mere half day. It was like she was cursed to run afoul of hot, malignant ladies who wanted to change her whole style and wrap her around their fingers.

Was it strictly necessary to have Birsi on her lap to apply makeup? Not quite. Did she need to personally bend her over the sink to add those bright red dyes to herr hair? No. Did she have to whisper into her ear, "Stop wriggling or I'll wrap you in so much silk I'll have to carry you to the 78 Heavens myself, with everyone staring and trying to decide if I'm carrying a girl or a carpet. Your fat ass will give it away, obviously, but it will take them a minute." Absolutely not. But something about Birsi just seemed to invite it--not even to mention how pleasant it was to put one over the guard. It felt like a comfortable reset of their relationship.

---

Silsila strode through the streets like a queen on promenade. The Fire Wheels' nightly rampages were barely challenged, least of all Om--if enterprising citizens were fed up with the drunken looting and flagrant harassment, the infamous attack dog of the brutes did not a desirable target make. Hurled insults were silenced with Silsila looking in the noise's direction with a stormy expression of dismissive ire--any citizen brave enough to say something else when the infamous host's burning eyes was on them were practically Fire Wheel material anyway.

...But now they were on the edge of the 78 Heavens, uncharted territory, the roughest part of town when the Fire Wheels weren't messing up the equation, and Silsila found herself slowing down. That thrill of nervousness ran up her spine, fingers dancing worryingly at the hilt of her sword. If someone picked a real fight with her, was she going to be ready? She had been completely off balance since her clash with Birsi earlier today, and wasn't sure she trusted her sword arm.

"If we stomp up through Cart Street, everyone and their mothers will see us coming." She said after a few moment's hesitation. "And the gatekeepers will need to make a show of being tough on us. Can't just let in Fire Wheels without at least pretending to put up a fight. I know a side path--its just a little hole in the circus wall. There will be one or two watchmen, tops, and hardly any crowd. Let's try that and squeeze inside."

---

---

Birsi

Well then, that whisper certainly got her to stop struggling during the makeover process, a not so faint red crossing her face as she tried to pass it off as just being insulted. It didn’t work on anyone, but Birsi continued to fool herself anyways. She was silent as one of the Alsamt, the slave girls who prided themselves on being so heavily gagged and padded that they didn’t make a sound. However, Birsi told herself that things would be different on the mission, she would be in control once more.

---

Okay so she was not in control in the slightest, and she was 90% sure she was barely acting like a Fire Wheel. Every fiber of her body was fighting her urge to be respectful, proper, and most importantly… Properly dressed. She felt exposed in her outfit, having to every now and then run a hand across her bare arms to simulate the feeling of having something covering them. Her eyes kept darting over to Silsila for subconscious tips on how to improve her ‘performance’ as a Fire Wheel, and her best attempt at being one got her insulted so heavily that she just awkwardly stayed close to Om until they arrived at the 78 Heavens, the guardswoman swallowing nervously as she listened to the Host. “I see- I mean, Just Great…” She forcibly hardened her tone in a rough manner, sounding less like a steel edged tone and more along the lines of jagged rock. “So let’s go through that place, come on then.” Goodness this was so difficult to maintain…

Soot jumped slightly as her name was called. As much as she did regularly sneak around at night, she wasn’t an expert rogue and often panicked about getting caught. Plus, even if she considered herself great at observing fine details, she wasn’t really that passively perceptive.

She was familiar with a lot of the Rats, if anything she saw them more than Bowlyn. As far as Soot understood, the gang knew where she lived and Bowlyn regularly used them to run errands for her: dropping off notes to apologise for now showing up to a date; delivering gifts to Soot; or even showing up to warn the Painter of danger.

But, Bowlyn showing up at the start of a night was more unique, especially to offer a warning like this. She could read on the Thief’s face that she was clearly nervous: uncharacteristically so. Soot rested a hand on Bowlyn's shoulder and gave a passive smile.

“Well… Just let me know where you all plan to be ‘busy with work’ and I’ll keep away!” She said, rubbing Bowlyn's shoulder, “Just because you are intent on causing a ruckus doesn't mean it needs to interfere with my work.” Seeing Bowlyn really did improve her mood, and the Thief-Queen’s confident demeanour was contagious. “Besides” Soot said, her face still passive, but the corner of her mouth curled into a smirk. “Only one of us is a wanted criminal.” she gave the thief a soft punch on the arm.

However… for all her talk, Soot knew that she’d end up following right after Bowlyn and her Rats. She would take a different route of course, to avoid bumping into the gang too early but... There was precedent! the painter told herself, ‘the more commotion nearby, the more likely the guards are too busy chasing Bowlyn to bother with me’ and everyone hiding inside from the fire wheels meant no random pedestrians would catch her. It wasn’t totally honest, but it was a reason!

Iris wraps her arms around Jasmine, fully reciprocating the embrace the excited girl had given her. In many ways, she understood exactly what she saw in that moment. It was beautiful, after all- but it was beautiful in part because of that unfamiliarity. Iris spent most of her life in the mountainous northern kingdom, where you were lucky to see a spring or a stream. And here, there was simply a vast outstretch of water, a great expanse that stretched out to nothingness, the lights of the city reflecting off of it. The beauty that she saw from all of this, the wonder of the city and its night lights and the coast and what lays beyond, they would be unappreciated if she lived here. And yet, Jasmine, who spent her life here, was as awestruck as she was.
“We did, Jasmine. It’s Sjakal. And it will all be yours, someday.”
A hand gently massages the sultan’s back as Iris looks out on the city.
“There’s a lot more to see, up close, beyond this statue,” she offers. “We can travel to the water, if it pleases you. Feel the sand beneath you, the ocean at your feet. This… ‘beach’ where the land meets water, or perhaps…” The concubine pauses. She wanted to help her Mistress, but sometimes the language differences between the kingdoms and misunderstanding snuck into her statements. The faithful around here praised the Almighty for all that they thought was good in the world, of course, so if she wanted to discover the greatest places to visit in Sjakal, she needed only to turn to the naming- a place named after celestial bodies.

“When I first came here, I passed someone mentioning some place, 78 Heavens? They must have feared others coveting this place, because the tones were hushed. Perhaps that will be a place to best enjoy our… 'visit' to Sjakal.”

Birsi! Silsila!

The good news is that there aren’t any guards on the Crack tonight; just a heavy bit of netting draped over the hole. Might have caused Birsi trouble, but not the mighty Silsila Om. But what’s likely to cause her trouble is the fact that your quarry’s here waiting for you. Alone.

Her fair hair shines in the faint light of the back alley as she dangles her legs over the lip of the Crack, though it’s too dark to really get the effect of the feathers woven into her braids. She’s wearing an elaborate silver-spangled mask over her face, and a long, thin sword rests at her hip.

“Hello, girls,” she purrs, lifting a bottle and gesturing broadly with it. “Looking for a good time? You won’t find better in the 78 Heavens…”

---

Soot!

From up here, on a rooftop (one no longer used for much, given the risk of peering eyes from the upper levels of the 78 Heavens), you can see the shape of the trap. Tall Rat’s ready to block any retreat, lurking in the shadows behind the two from the palace. Giggly Rat’s hiding in a doorway, ready to toss out some interesting alchemical concoctions, and—

It looks like somebody left a net right here. Someone like Bowlyn, say. And if a painter were to toss the net off the roof, it might land on someone, tangle them up, get them in quite a bit of trouble.

Do you, Soot? Who do you aim it for? Or do you just hide and watch this play out?

---

”Iris!”

There’s an entry fee. Of course there’s an entry fee. Why wouldn’t there be an entry fee?

From here, on Cart Street, you can see that the gilt entrance to the 78 Heavens (a huge structure, not the size of the Adamant but easily twice as large as the lord’s castle back home, looming up into the sky on the backs of horse-pillars) is manned by well-dressed gatekeepers, who receive entrance fees from guests, whether they come alone or in small groups. And you didn’t particularly bring money tonight, did you?

“Hey.” “Jasmine” makes a slight squeak and jumps; a scrawny girl with thatchy dark hair and an acne-scarred forehead has approached the two of you. “First time visiting the 78? Yeah, yeah, you’ve got that look about you. Listen, if you want, I can show you a way in that even Mother Bes doesn’t know about.”

“Are you sure?” Grace— er, “Jasmine” sounds hopeful. “We wouldn’t want to impose, would we, Iris? It’s just that we forgot our purses back at home, and…”

“No problem at all!” Under her veil, she might be smiling. “I just couldn’t let two lovely ladies like you go without offering my services. Call me Gími.” (That’s an interesting slur to the first vowel to your foreign ears. Gími.) She offers her hand (sweaty) to “Jasmine,” who graciously accepts…

Iris tries thinking on her toes. If Jasmine really wanted to get in there, and this person sounded like their only chance of getting in, she would do it! Surely the charm she would need to put on for this Gymie- Geemeye- Gími (seems her diction practices still had some places to improve, as she thought to herself about the foreign phonetics)- would be worth it in whatever rapport she could build with Jasmine. Besides, if this girl showed them her way in now, if they ever escaped again, she could get in without this person’s help. They just needed the one time, surely, and whatever was within such a grand structure was surely worth the means of access! Her hands reach out, both wrapping around the girl’s free hand and trying to ignore the sweatiness of her as she brings it to her chest.

“Oh, you kind soul! We live on the other side of the city, and we find ourselves so busy we almost NEVER get the chance to enjoy ourselves!” 78 Heavens was a place to relax, right? Definitely no misunderstandings in ‘enjoy ourselves’ whatsoever. “Please, Gími, we could not bear to trek- er, walk all the way back to our home and back tonight! I promise you, if you would be so graceful as to show us the way in, I swear to you that we will come back next time with our purses to repay you, for your troubles and for your generosity. And in the meantime-”

She gently lifts Gími’s hand, her head bowing gently as she closed what little distance there was between the two of them. Undoubtedly, her recent performance from the palace did not merit enough sweat to eradicate the lingering sweet scent of the soaps and perfumes from the Sultan’s bathing room. Her veil draping away from her lowering face, Iris plants her lips to the back of the urchin’s hand, leaving a solid print of her lipstick and a mental note to herself not to habitually lick her lips for the next… until she could wash her face.
“-in the meantime, I would be happy to show just how grateful I am for your help.”

Her grayish blue eyes, like the cloudy sky before an incoming storm, looked deeply into Gími's, looking for her approval, for however she may feel about this performance of a desperate, grateful woman looking for a night on the town. What Gími probably saw, was a woman deeply thanking her for a service she had yet to even elaborate upon, kissing the back of her hand, and looking deeply into her eyes.