Soot paced back and forth panicking. She surveyed the scene, her head darting back and forth between Bowlyn, the host, and the net. A terrible knot formed in her stomach. That odd runty firewheel didn’t look like they would be much of a problem for Bowlyn’s Cohort, but that Host. It was hulking, powerful. Soot couldn’t place why but it felt familiar, in a way that made the hair of her neck stand up. She couldn’t help feeling like Bowlyn had, unknowingly, bit off more than she could chew.

Soot had never actively participated in one of her Thief’s schemes, she’d always told herself she wasn’t really a criminal. This probably didn’t count? Plus the fire-wheels were a menace and deserved it. But, she couldn’t help feeling like it was a line that had to be crossed. But what could she do! What would she do if Bowlyn (‘Or one of the rats.. I guess’) got hurt and she had just sat around watching, impotently.

The Painter sprinted over to her bag, it was resting on the ground where Soot had been thinking about setting up. ‘What would Bow think…’ Her thoughts were deafening ‘If I ruined her plan, because I got startled’ She grabbed the bag, if she was going to need to run she wanted to be ready. ‘I know Bowlyn can handle herself.. Plus it's 2 versus 3! I shouldn’t interfere’. The Painter ran back to the ledge, hand resting on the netting. ‘Maybe she’ll be mad, after I told her I'd be safe’.

Soot threw the net, the heavy mesh sailing off the roof and plummeting towards the Host’s figure with a grunt of concerted effort. That might not be enough, she thought panting, her concern-addled mind still racing. In the same motion as the throw, her hand plunged down into her pack and withdrew a jar of sparkling gold-purple paint, which she threw right after the net, sending them hurtling towards Silsila Om.

She swore under her breath, and ducked below the side of the roof, eyes peeking out slightly.

She really didn’t know why she’d done any of that. Her heart was racing and her gut churned as the projectiles flew through the air. It had felt right… it was just a shame it was one of her nice handmade pigmentations.

Silsila Om

Silsila could hardly believe her eyes. Was the Thief-Queen, Terror of the Night, Spark of Rebellion which the palace so dearly desired quashed, seriously waiting for them? A sensation of indignation bloomed in her chest. Seriously? Really and truly? Had people forgotten the 40 day rampage on the edge of town? Was she so domesticated that house guards and thieves felt bold enough to waltz up to her and challenge her? Did people think she was so weak?

A shivering thrill ran up her spine as she stepped forward, hands still on her sword, eyes glowing bright, counting on her alien countenance to hide the jitters she was she getting--fear, indignation, anger. "Bowlyn, Thief Queen." She snapped, voice sharper and harsher than she would like. Everything was sharper and harsher then she would like. "I don't get why you think challenging me--us--alone, just outside the place where you're safe, is a good idea. You probably don't understand who I am, do you?" With a flourish, she drew her blade, pointing it in the thief's direction. "My name is Sils--"

And then a big, heavy net felt out of absolutely nowhere and took her down onto her face.

...and then a can of sparkly paint landed on her right after, coating her in sparkly shit.

It was funny, honestly. Big, imposing lady, trying so hard, trying to be a good Fire Wheel and a good Guard-Helper one minute, indistinct lump of squirming host the next, vaguely sparkling in the lamp light. Could you blame the Giggling Rat for letting out a sharp, snorting snigger then? An audible, keening cackle? Laughing at her?

This hurt her worse then losing to Birsi. The other Fire Wheels had just been disappointed in her. Now her enemies were giggling at her.

Talismans and spells written on her flesh began to spark and steam, glowing red and hot. Steam poured off her body, spreading out around her as the writhing bulge on the ground got bigger, and bigger, and bigger. The chemical stink of ozone and reacting iron filled the air, before giving way to a deep, thick, almost eye-watering musk.

The net split in two as Om stood back up.

Silsila Om

Four arms. Eight feet tall. Hair down to her ankles. Biceps the size of a ripe watermelon. Golden teeth and glowing eyes. Unfortunately still covered in that stupid paint.

Om looked up the side of the building where the net had come down. "Okay." She said,  before punching her fists into the wall (making a terrific racket) and scaling the side of it like some sort of giant, freaky ape-spider, heading straight towards Soot!

---

---

Birsi
Their quarry? So soon? Surely this must be some kind of trap. Rouse be damned, she needed to fight like herself if they were to apprehend their foe, and as such she would. Brandishing her blade in a very un-Fire Wheel Manner, she would straighten her stance, ready her sword, and… Okay, Silsila was just netted and had paint dropped on her head. Alright, that should be… Oh my. Birsi had not seen a Host transform like this, usually they just gained one minor change across their whole form, like turning a bright shade of red instead of their usual tan, but… Oh goodness she was large. But not in charge, as Birsi was the superior officer here.

“Alright Om, let us apprehend her with-” Birsi’s words trailed off as her teammate for the mission shot up the wall and left her on the ground. Alone… Okay then. “That was not part of the plan, Silsila!” She shouted up after her before returning her gaze back to the Thief Queen. “Very well, I shall face you head on. En Garde!” She would lunge forward with her blade to clash, and find that… Well, her stupid Fire Wheel attire had gotten caught on something, causing her foot to stumble into the broken half of the net on the ground, step in some paint, and then finally stagger over to her foe for a clash of blades. She barely managed to force her foe back and take a few stabs at her attire to try and frighten her, show that she was meaning business… Though Birsi sure was embarrassed by this entire maneuver of hers… She was getting a bit red in the face.

Birsi!

The Thief-Queen very much does not want to be fighting you. Not out of fear, mind you; rather, you are stubbornly placing yourself between her and the Host clambering up the side of a building towards one of her compatriots. More than that, she expected to defeat you with a flourish of her sword, and now that it is very much not happening, she’s let her (metaphorical) mask slip just a little, just an inch.

“Get out of my way,” she hisses, a sliver of real fear leaking into her voice as the sound of a furious Host behind you echoes through the close quarters. “You’re just as bad as them, you dog—”

And then the world explodes into purple-and-silver smoke, and starts to tilt on its axis. You take a deep breath before you can stop yourself, and the ground pulls itself out from under you. You land hard on your rear, and tip over onto your side, the street shaking like a plate underneath you, even as your body starts to get sweaty and extremely aware of how the cobblestones have lost the last of the heat they trapped during the day, how your stupid outfit is riding up in the back, and how the rubbing of your thighs against each other is sending shivers up and down your spine.

Someone close by giggles maniacally, and it’s not the Thief Queen.

Go ahead and Stagger.

---

Soot!

Here’s the thing. You’re not going to make it off the roof in time. The sheer terror of seeing Silsila Om’s fury unleashed is going to lock your legs up, make you teeter back onto your rump, and feebly try to crawl away as she crests the roof.

And if you agree, there’s a shiny XP in it for you. If not, roll to Defy Disaster, but be aware that the consequences will likely be even worse.

---

Silsila Om!

Strength surges through you. You are power, you are might, you are the will that impresses itself upon the world, and whoever is laughing about you still being glittery will face the consequences.

The Thief-Queen is racing after you, but even though she’s nimble and good at jumps, she’s having to dodge falling debris and she’s nowhere as strong as you are. You’ll have a beat where it’s just you and that paint-flinging hooligan, and just enough time to do something about them before she catches up.

Unless you intend to hold them hostage?

---

”Iris!”

The giddy noise that comes out of Gími suggests that you’ve flattened her. Just absolutely obliterated her ability to think. She has no idea how to handle such a pretty, graceful woman making such suggestions to her, and she’s obviously got it bad. Which, well, means she’s got some power over you, too. Because if you don’t live up to the dream you’ve waved before her eyes, it would be like punting an abandoned kitten.

That’s actually a good way to think of the girl. An abandoned alleycat all gangly and scrawny and purring the minute you’ve started showing her affection, not caring at all about how she smells.

“Yeah right so it’s just over this way if you’d like to come with me ladies usually I’d make you pay just a little Gími fee but for you it’s absolutely free don’t even think about it it’s my pleasure to help though if you really want to repay me later maybe I could think of a few lips I mean a few mouths I mean a few things!!” She takes your hand while she nervously babbles and slides her fingers between yours, squeezing possessively tight, her palm clammy and gross, her heartbeat pounding so hard you can feel it.

The way in, as it turns out, is scrabbling up one of those great, imposing horse pillars. You can try to climb it alone (which would be Defying Disaster)… or you can let Gími help you up. The process will involve a lot of Gími pushing, tugging, and otherwise helping you up by touching you a lot— and you’ll even have to give her another String in the process!

Iris takes Jasmine’s hand with her free one, ensuring the princess is there and not subject to the continued clammy grasp of this girl in the process. The more she stands near Gimi, the less she thinks she can fully keep herself this composed around this girl. The unwashed smell that wafts off of her, the clamminess of her hand. It was clear this girl had either little access or time to care for her hygiene to the extent that the sultan did, and her scrawny form made her wonder how well-fed this girl was. The stumbling, excitable noises she made were certainly charming in their own way, and Iris could find something cute about them if she could see past Gími’s faults. In fact, if she washed her up and gave her a meal or two, she’d be charming in her own way, buuuut maybe part of her rugged appeal was because of her sm-

What? No no no no NO, Iris nipped the thought before it could blossom, she would NOT entertain the idea of any sort of feelings for this poor, unfortunate… scrawny… sweaty… flustered…

“This seems like a rather sizable task, hm. Thank you so much for getting us here, Gími, but I’m afraid we’ll have to ask for your help further. If you can help me up this pillar, perhaps I could help pull up my friend, Jasmine, from above once you help her to the top? Neither of us are quite cut out for the guard or fire-wheels, but I probably fare a better chance helping her than vice-versa. Just… give me a second in private to limber up, if you would be so patient.”

Nahla walks around the opposite side of the pillar, stretching out her legs, tugging on her arms, the sound of fabric rustling as she drops into a deep squatting position, holds it, and stands up. A staggered pair of footsteps, and she walks back from around the pillar, hands pressed together at her midsection and face cherry red.

“Alright, if you would help me up first, Miss Gími?” As the urchin approaches her, she leans forward and takes her hand, nonchalantly placing something in her hand and leading it down to Gími’s pocket. Something silky, some bunched up fabric, and it’s warm…
“Some collateral, until I can fully repay your kindness,” she whispers. A quick lift of her mask, a peck on the cheek of Gími’s oily face, and another lipstick mark is left, this one bisected with half on her skin and half marking the edge of her veil.

“…and please try not to look up too much.”

Birsi

“As bad as who? You hav-!?” The woman took something hard to the side of the face, faltering slightly before the world was engulfed in violet and quicksilver smoke. Coughing and trying to catch her breath from the attempted swordplay, she readied her blade… Just in time to have her body flood with heat. She fell back, trying to drop onto one knee and instead falling flat on her ass, curling onto her side as sweat began to drip from her skin. Her makeup had not been fully sealed yet, so she started to look as messy as she felt, every breath like lightning, every twitch of her shivering body making her want more of this feeling. That giggling burned into her head and she turned to face it through the haze of simmering feeling and smoke.

“Y-You… Are interfering with… Business…” She panted out, curling up more on the ground as each breath and shiver forced more jolts of feeling up and down her spine. Damn it, what was she hit with? Why couldn’t she fully think? Wha… What was happening?

Soot’s mind was racing, she needed to run. There was probably a route down the building, it might require a little dexterity but she could manage. Make a break for it, double back through the markets, ditch her roguish outfit and make it home. Easy. She would need to act quick, especially with how fast this monster was approaching.

But her bag felt like lead. Her knees were locked, and she shook softly. She just needed to run, but she couldn’t. Every time the beast's fists slammed into the stone, the noise getting closer and closer, it vibrated through her and prevented any movement. She just had to run. Then she could get away!

As the things head crested the ceiling, Soot finally attempted movement but her shaking form and locked knees only managed to spin on the spot and fall tumbling to the ground. Her bag smashed into the rooftop as paint was sent flying, shattered jars sending smears of paint across the ground.

Her breath was ragged. She had ruined Bowlyn’s plans, stupidly. Put herself in danger. Was going to ruining everything.

Just because she had a bad feeling about this host, and now she knew why. It was unmistakable up close: Merov Ekh’s personal pet. She'd passed it a handful of times in the Palace and heard stories from the other servants, but now It was coming for her.

Trying to maintain her composure as she prepared to stare down her fate: quivering softly with a steely gaze.

Silsila Om

Om's digits punched into the stone with ease, iron-hard fingers digging into giving stone like a shovel into clay, leaving clear indictation of her path as she wound her way up the wall. It only took a few seconds, and she was gone over the side, towering over poor Soot.

So this was the girl who humiliated me. Thought Om to herself as she stared down at the gal, looking up at her with her resigned, steely gaze. She was so small compared to the Host's true form of towering iron and gold, so small and obviously totally freaking out? It was like a bear holding a grudge against a sparrow. Just looking at her made Om feel ridiculous. It made her entire outrage feel ridiculous. Why did she care what these people thought of her, anyway!? Had she softened so much under Merov Ekh's yoke?

"...Okay, nevermind. This is dumb." Om said despairingly, putting her hands to her head for a moment, rubbing her temples as steam snort out of her nose. Her long ears twitched--was the thief queen coming after her? Om turned to face her, reaching out with an arm blindly, looking to grab Soot and hoist her into the air with one arm, another of her four hoisting up Ill-Omened Star.

"How'd you even become an insurgent, anyway?" She asked Soot, not honestly expecting an answer.

"Iris!"

From up here, you can see--

Well, you can't see the swell of the city the way that you could from that statue. But you can see a bit more than you could have seen from ground level. Don't get too close to that edge; your knees are still shaky, aren't they? Not that it seems to bother Gími; she scrambled up as easily as a rat, or some sort of monkey (not that you've seen monkeys before). By the time you've caught your breath up two stories, Gími is spinning your unmentionables around one finger and grinning like a fool.

"You know," she says, with a saucy little lilt in her voice, "we could just have a bit of privacy here to ourselves. You have to pay to get that inside the Heavens, and it's got nowhere near as nice a view. You can see the laundry lines, the trees from Tourmaline Square over there, and-- snapping chains, what is that??"

On a roof, just visible if you crane your head out a little bit, is that awful brutish Host from the Fire Wheels, in her very, very big form. You're about at the same height, and if she turned her head-- she wouldn't see you, right? Especially if you both ducked back? But Jasmine down there, she doesn't have the same unobstructed view, and she's probably starting to wonder why Gími isn't clambering down to help her out.

All thoughts of sexytimes seem to have fled the urchin, who has plastered herself back up against a wall, barely breathing. Once again, it's up to you to salvage the situation. But if you try to climb back down-- oh, that's high up. That's really high up. It's Gími who's got the climbing prowess, and now that you're up here, you're at her mercy (not that she's figured that out yet, probably). And if she starts climbing back down, what if the brute happens to see her?

---

Birsi!

The Thief-Queen is clambering up the wall after your partner, but you're getting dragged off, hands already behind your back. Your giggling adversary drags you up a short flight of stairs and pitches you roughly into the broken crack, letting you fumble your way down a rough passageway before you manage to right yourself, and when you try to stumble to your feet, they slip out from under you and you tumble down a several-foot drop onto one of the rickety wooden streets of the 78 Heavens.

This is perilous, not least because one of your feet has slipped between the boards and is stuck. You're overlooking a maze of the poor, the desperate and the debauched, and this is one place where your knowledge of the city largely fails you. Your hands have been lashed together behind your back, but your captor hasn't followed after you-- yet. Presumably, they think you're hapless enough that you'll end up jumped by the locals.

Are they right?

---

Om! Soot!

The thief-queen's coming after you, but you have a moment to talk, if you like. Or you could just cut straight to dangling Soot over the edge and making threats, but that doesn't seem like the sort of thing Om is in the mood for right now (and Soot, you'd best keep things that way).

Soot yelped as she was ripped from her prone form and into the air. Shouting softly and thrashing, pallidly plapping her fists against the earthenware warrior. The bag of paint dragging over her shoulder and leaving a colourful trail peppered with shards of glass. When Om spoke, Soot’s face went blank; the panic and fear gave way to confusion.

Quickly she returned to her normal passive confidence. Fighting this thing: foolish, impossible, deadly. But talking? Soot could talk. Soot was great at talking.

“I’m Not! Obviously.” Soot said crossing her arms and twisting her head around to look to the Host


Om looked down at Soot, quirking an eyebrow. “You threw paint on me. And a net. As I was about to arrest the most wanted woman in Sajkal. That’s clearly insurgent behavior.”

“Since when does a spirit forcibly bound to steel not understand that people don’t enjoy the company of their oppressors. I can't be the first random civilian to throw something on you from a rooftop” Soot was not the kind of person to stoop so low as to stick out her tongue, but it certainly felt like she ought to be.

“Whether you like us or not doesn’t change the fact that acting against us in any way makes you an insurgent.” Om says, her brow furrowed, a sour grin on her lips. “That’s part of the perks of being on team big, oppressive, stupid empire, I guess. So when did you start throwing nets onto Fire Wheels then, huh?”


“Roughly 30 seconds ago.” Soot replied plainly.


“I’m getting sick of saying the word insurgent.” Om bemoans. One of the perks of having four arms is that you can reach up and rub your temples, hold a sword, and carry a cute girl under an arm, all at once. Multi-tasking! “You’re barely even a criminal. I don’t even care that you’re a criminal. Ugh. Being an attack dog is sooooo grating.” More whining from the Host. Her big ears twitch. The thief queen is quick approaching. “Alright, whatever. Scamper off, little miss snake. Don’t get underfoot when I bring my blade against Bowlyn.” Abruptly, Soot is released to drop onto the ground!

The drop is punctuated by a small ‘oof’ as Soot and her bag tumble slightly. From the ground looking up, she stared for a moment starry eyes towards the huge host, ‘free’ painted against the night sky and the ambient lights of the city. Her jaw hung slack for a moment as her mind raced.

“... You really are quite stunning” She blurted out like the gay little disaster she was lost in artistic thoughts of composition and pallet choices. “You aught to let someone paint you like this.. It says a lot more than how you are around the palace..” The painter trailed off.


“Paint me?” Om quirks an eyebrow, looking down at Soot, her dark red cheeks blushing just slightly pink. “You mean like–”

…

“...Around the palace?”

By the Almighty, Nahla could not understand why Gimi was able to push her buttons, but whatever it was… She couldn’t just leave her sultan down there on her own in the streets, but maybe after she gets up here, they could-

Oh. Oh no.

Nahla dips behind the column with Gimi, their bodies pressed against each other firmly as Nahla begins to panic. She can’t let this host discover Grace-of-Heaven, Nahla’s heard such horrible things about what the Fire Wheels had done. Maybe if they just remain quiet here, let the Host pass, maybe Grace won’t cry out to see that everything is alright and draw attention to herself, they can just go back and not have to run into this-
Her thoughts are interrupted as she stumbles on a rock nearby, the smattering of pebbles clattering against each other intermixed with the sounds of broken glass. As Nahla hurried to adjust her hiding spot, she swore she could hear the Host grunt. This was bad, this was really bad, she couldn’t let Grace be kidnapped by the Fire Wheels while she was hiding in public like this, but she couldn’t leave the sultan alone. Maybe…

“Gimi,” spoke the girl in harsh hushed whispers, “you have to get back down there. Tell Grace to run, to hide, anything, but it’s not safe for her here, got it? I’ll distract this thing, just get down there fast and I swear to make it up to you later, okay?”
Nahla takes a deep breath, eyes closed. She counts to 10 as her hand wraps around the hilt of her blade before she leaps out, drawing her polished sword and pointing the end at Om. Before she can realize that Om’s back was facing towards her, she blurts out-

“Away, foul spirit! You shall not wreak your havoc here tonight!”

Her face pales as the realization sets in. The realization that she absolutely could have ran, and that in drawing attention to herself, she has forced herself into this course of actions. But at least she told Gimi to tell Grace-

…wait, what name did she say to Gimi? Did she… she didn’t, right? RIGHT?!

The gravity of the situation was not very good, especially with gravity itself dragging her down several levels of the 78 Heavens, finally stopping after a bit of falling. She just had to give herself a moment to collect her thoughts and start down the path to- Her foot was stuck, and her hands were still bound. “Tsk…” She was annoyed by this, her cheeks still flushed with heat, and now being reminded about how she had dropped the ball on this mission. A deep breath was drawn past narrowed lips, a breathing technique, part of her Host Combat Training, drawing her strength inwards before rushing it to the points it was needed. Throwing her head back and forcing her arms and trapped leg to move, she drew her foot free of the trapping planks without even a scratch on her as her wrists sundered the very restraints binding them together, tattered rope falling to her feet as she began to assess the situation.

She had fallen down several layers of this place, and from her current position, not even her most acrobatic of bounds could get her to the higher levels. Eyes darting around in the dark, quickly readjusting to the new lighting, she could not find any routes up… Drat, she would have to use the innermost passages to get up to the higher floors. Finding her sword dropped down near her, she would scoop it up and sheathe it before hurrying off deeper into the 78 Heavens, muttering quiet insults to herself under her breath as she ran. She had to be quick, she could not fail this mission!

Om! Soot!

Bowlyn vaults up over the lip of the roof, under a possible grab from those big meaty Host hands, and skids to a halt between both Host and artist, her thin blade held out in challenge. “Hey, big girl,” she says, trying to make it seem like she wasn’t desperately exerting herself to get up here. “How about you pick on me, instead?”

And then! Ohoho, and then! Someone else butts in! She’s on the side of the Circus, which is one Om-sized jump away, and she’s got her own sword out, and maybe there’s a way she can cross that gap? After all, who would challenge someone on the other side of the street several stories up without some sort of scheme or plan?

And that distraction is just long enough for Bowlyn to grab Soot and shove her back out of the way. No swordfighting for helpless little artists! This is a Big Girl fight, obviously—

But does it have to be a fight, Soot? And how do you feel about Bowlyn defending you like this instead of seizing the advantage against Om, who’s big and scary and wow?

---

Nahla!

You got the Host’s attention! Sure, you’re clinging to the side of a decorative frieze, and the drop’s dizzying, but… well, something about this is steadying, isn’t it? This is something you’re not just doing for Grace-of-Heaven. If it was, there’d be plenty of easier ways to go about it—

But you wanted the sword, you wanted the challenge, and you want to do something that matters, right here, even if that Host jumps over and grabs you up and, well, you know just how the Fire Wheels might treat you if you ended up in their tender mercies, don’t you? What if she tossed her over her shoulder and your skirt hiked up???

(As for Gími, well, she didn’t immediately gasp and declare that you snuck the sultan out, so that’s good, at least? And that means she’s probably scampering away?? Which you should feel relieved about, right??)

---

Birsi!

The 78 Heavens are raucous, hot, and heaving with people— but everyone’s giving you a wide berth. It’s because you’re still dressed like one of the Fire Wheels, after all. But here, you’re alone. And, alone, one of the Fire Wheels is a target. Which makes it not entirely a surprise that, eventually, you’re stopped after someone goes to get someone to deal with you.

And the frustrating thing is that it’s just as you’ve figured a way out! If you climb that rope ladder, make your way down that arc of street, and then lower yourself down to a platform in a bucket, there’s an exit, you’re pretty sure, a floor above where Om would have ended up! But just as you’re getting ready to climb up, that someone places her hand on your shoulder.

“What are you doing in this part of town, Fire Wheel,” she breathes, huskily, from above you. She casually spins you around and you’re left to stare at an old, burnished, exotic breastplate, all whorls and patina, underneath a ragged cloak. “No, I want to hear how. That’s more interesting.” She tilts your chin up and you end up staring into the face of a woman with hair like a flickering flame, all tufted and short and (dyed?) orange. She’s older than you, and one eye’s covered with a simple patch, but she doesn’t seem decrepit at all. More as if age has given her more power, strength, and authority. “How’d you get into the Heavens, girl? There’s supposed to be folk at the doors for that.”

Soot plopped on the ground with a soft ‘oof’ as Bowlyn pushed her out of the fray. ‘I’ve been getting thrown about a fair bit tonight,’ the painter thought, ‘I don’t think I care for it much’. She watched the standoff between Om and Bowlyn, her heart fluttering as she looked between her criminal ‘girlfriend’ and the Bound Titan. A terrible pang of guilt rang through her as she looked at Bowlyn, sacrificing so many opportunities to strike down the host because Soot couldn't handle herself…

She jumped to her feet, disregarding everyone's instructions and dashed forward, throwing herself between Bowlyn and Om. If Bowlyn was going to prioritise her safety, she would do the same. Admittedly going back into danger was a questionable plan, but the Painter was mostly going off instinct. Her Bag dripped paint behind her, as she clutched her scattered brush. Arms outstretched between the preparing duelists.

“Please!” The Painter shouted out, “Enough! Honestly! We don’t need to do this!” Soot looked to Bowlyn, her eyes full of concern she whispered ‘She.. Might be too much, even for you.. please…’ before turning to Om with a furrowed brow.

“I-, I mean I don’t know for sure. But I feel like you don’t want this! Do you even know how incredible you look, free and wild! But.. running around like a mutt for a Tyrant!” She maintained her serious brow, but her eyes were wide. Filled with the fear of both pissing off Bowlyn further, and also getting thrown off a roof by Om.

The Painter then looked up at the shouting Nahla, the distant figure not quite obviously the Servant from dinner. “And you!” Soot shouted “Mind your business; S-sometimes three girls make some noise y-you know!” Her face was flush: from yelling, embarrassment, and fear mixing together.

Silsila Om!

Om prepared herself for the duel. Back into her element. Back into fighting! She'd take this mission thrust upon her and Birsi--she was going to have to fish Birsi out of the Heavens, wasn't she--succeed with flying colors, earn the undying affections of Hai Lin and Ruz and Rosethal, who'd free her from her bindings and make her the mistress of the Fire Wheels, and then she'd rule as a tyrant queen with cute artists like this little painter girl strewn out over her lap. Oh, there was Grace in her fantasy! Tied up and dangling from the ceiling! Hi, Grace! Glad you could swing in!

All she had to do was succeed beautifully, which would be tough, but not impossible. She pointed her massive blade down at Bowlyn, locking her golden eyes with the blade-toting thief queen. Things had gotten a little weird, but it was nothing a little battle clarification couldn't help.

Someone started yelling at her from across the street. Om turned towards her, looking down at a girl she... er... sort of vaguely recognized. "...Foul Spirit?" Om said to herself, sounding somewhat offended, rolling her eyes. "At least it's not `Teapot` or `Kettle` or something like that. I've heard that over and over." She said in Bowlyn's direction, turning back to her. "You first. Her? Maybe later."

And then Soot leapt between them, hands up, preventing the hulking giantess from doing proper battle with the much smaller thief queen. Om's eyebrows shot up, double taking at the sight. Really? Seriously? Truly? That was so stupid. But... it was also... sort of...

Sweet? She was cute. Really cute. Om just couldn't say no to that face. Something shifted inside her, like her foundations were sliding on mud. She was going to have to find out who this girl was. It was suddenly very important to her.

"...Alright. Alright! I won't fight. But I need you to pretend to fight me, and it needs to look good, or everyone will know. I need an excuse, because Merov Ekh won't take 'A really cute girl asked me not too, and I just couldn't resist her charms!' as an answer. So, Thief Queen..." Om reached out, stiffly moving to brush Soot aside, before swinging the slowest, clumsiest, most telegraphed overhead chop of her life, traveling so high that it would probably miss even if Bowlyn didn't even pretend to duck. "...Humor me and your paint-tossing girlfriend, for a minute, at least! And tell me why you're even bothering to try to resist. You can tell you're outclassed, so why the nightly struggling!?"

---

---

Birsi!

Well this was bound to happen sooner or later, but she had expected maybe an angry shopkeeper or one of the City Guards, not this veteran whose looks and armor were so strange to her. Still, Birsi knew better than to underestimate this person, for a smart person knows to be wary and scared of a senior in a profession where people die young. Her best bet was diplomacy…

“Are the heavens supposed to be off limits, or is it supposed to be a suggestion?” She would ask in a genuine, yet still trying to sound tough, tone of voice. She couldn’t let her disguise drop, for if word got out that there was a Palace Guard roaming the 78 Heavens, it could be trouble for more than just her. “And as for how I got in, isn’t it obvious…? I walked inside.” If conversational density could be turned to gold, Birsi would be richer than the Sultan.

Nahla blinked as she took in what she had done. She wasn't some dashing hero, it seemed that that lanky girl whose bag was dripping with paint had, for the moment, prevented the conflict herself. Wait, paint? Eh, she could think more about that later. For now, the reckless courtesan simply shuffles back by the pillar. Maybe... maybe Gimi would be back soon and Nahla would escape before these girls remembered she was there. Or maybe they'd lose interest! Whatever the case, Nahla was simply relieved that the situation hadn't turned drastic and that she hadn't had to show off her total lack of prowess with her blade as an actual weapon, even if her performance was a bit clunky and unnecessary in execution.

"s-sorry..." Nahla mumbled as she noted the apparent artist's anger at her attempt to intervene. Sweat beaded across her forehead as she noted the imposing figure of Silsila Om glancing back in her direction. She redirected her gaze back to the woman Nahla was unaware was the thief queen, but Nahla needed to get down. She thought this nerve-wracking but exciting, but now, there was no importance to this. She was at a dizzying height with no means of getting down, brandishing a sword she didn't know how to wield at another person, and Grace-of-Heaven-

Oh Almighty.

Nahla had been so wrapped in being up here, in this moment, with Gimi, with this fight, she leaked the true identity of her companion! Laying on this rooftop, Nahla tried to steady the ungodly degrees of vertigo looking down as she searched the streets below for Gimi or for Grace-of-Heaven's presence. If the former were nowhere to be found, Nahla would be in trouble, but if the latter were in trouble, this trip would be the undoing for the both of them! Foolish Nahla, why did she go first?! Why did she abandon her lady, she should never have left her side, just to be on a rooftop with some unwashed teasing street urchin! If she wanted to do something that mattered, she would've stay at Grace's side!

Nahla!

Down below (oh, so far below), Gími and Grace-of-Heaven are watching what unfolds intently! The greasy street urchin has Grace-of-Heaven by the hand, and keeps looking around, as if, perhaps, trying to decide whether to stay for your sake or to scamper away with that precious treasure you entrusted with her! Oh, poor Gími! Torn between her desires, inflamed by you, and the fact that she’s got a massive payday by the hand!

You need to do something, or she might very well succumb to her baser nature and see just how much she can upsell the Sultan for, to very interested parties! Possibly sliding down a column to rejoin them, no matter what that does to your dress? Or subtly promising her rewards for her services, once you are reunited?

---

Om!

“Me? I struggle for the people of Sjakal,” Bowlyn says, straightening with a flourish and a wicked grin. “Protecting them from oversized, moronic brutes like yourself!” From underneath her cloak, she flings something at your face, and it explodes into a multitude of bright, flashing colors. You take a step back, reflexively—

And tumble off the roof.

(You will survive, but— will that force you back into your smaller state?)

---

Soot!

Bowlyn grabs your hand and then pulls you in close for a relieved-to-be-alive kiss, her mouth warm, her grip firm.

“Come on,” she says, grinning. “Before the Sultan’s attack dog chases us.” She’s abandoning her original goal, because… because she’s scared? Of something about Om, at least.

Or maybe she was just terrified, knowing you were alone on the roof with that rampaging Host.

---

Birsi!

She shoves you up against one of the (formerly) white stone walls of the circus. Not angrily, but inexorably, with all the relentless strength of the tide rolling in. She leans in close, and you can smell cheap perfume layered over the scents of her body (there, at her neck, and beneath her breastplate).

“Well,” she breathes. “Why don’t I show you and you can find out? Little Fire Wheel. Clever little thing.”

You are in grave peril of disappearing into the 78 Heavens.

Very much Silsila Om again, no fancy crossouts this time

Well, maybe that was a bit presumptuous of the Host. Everything had been so weird! She'd been banking on the fairytale atmosphere to carry Bowlyn into committing to this bizarre dance with her. Maybe she shouldn't have expected so much. It isn't like Silsila had earned anything from anyone.

The towering host raised an arm to guard her eyes, stumbling back a step and falling plumb off the side of the building. For a more deserving hero, a shipment of cushions awaited beneath. At least a cart full of hay. Om got no such luxury, instead slamming into the cold, hard dirt of an unpaved side street, the already condensed dirt cracking under her dense, heavy body. Silsila sat up, vision blurry. Was she seeing... halves? She held her arms up--just two. That brief, wonderful, terrible transformation had ended.

"Yo, Silsila!" Rava Qi called from the sidelines. The host staggered to her feet, clothing disheveled, picking her sword up and looking over at the raven-haired firebrand.
"What?"
"You look terrible! Did you lose a fight? Merov is gonna hate that. You know how she gets it."
"I didn't lose a fight." Silsila snapped back, irritably. "I just fell off a roof. On purpose."
"Who falls off a roof on purpose?"
"I'm going to make you fall off a roof on purpose, after I'm through with you. You'll be hopping at a word from me just for the opportunity to get another touch!"

Hoist! With one bulging, gold covered arm, Silsila hauls Rava up over her shoulder, carting the suddenly squealing Fire Wheel over her shoulder and stomping off into more familiar, less hostile climes. "Where's the other Wheels? What are we doing tonight?"

She needed to think of something else. Anything else.

What a disaster!

---

---

Birsi!

Goodness that perfume felt thick and heavy, how had she not smelt it sneaking up behind her? Probably due to the other cheap perfume smells around the place, the 78 Heavens having plenty of other odors besides Perfume to mask the scents of those inside. While her mind and senses faltered at the smells, she was shoved against that wall and pinned flush against it, forcing her into a flatfooted position. There would not be much room to guard with her sword, much less even swing it, and that was assuming the woman didn’t already have one of her hands on Birsi’s pommel, keeping the blade sheathed even if she did go for it.

Birsi supposed it was time to try and use other skills besides her bladework to get out of this one, that Brutish “Charm” the Fire Wheels claimed to all have could work… Right? Oh goodness could she even do it right? She was a person of Order and Routine, not Boldness and Gracelessness of the Brutes she pretended to be right now! No words escaped her lips, only breaths that grew heavy over time, the internal doubt and insecurity forcing her into a dazed state where all she could do was breathe that cheap, layered perfume that was starting to become more and more overpowering…

Nahla studies the look on Gimi’s face. She had to get down there, and fast! Wrapping her limbs back around the pillar, she took a glance back at the trio of women on the roof- wait, weren’t there three of them? Now there’s only tw- whatever, not her problem, she already caused unnecessary trouble by sticking her nose where it didn’t belong. Nahla grapples her way down the pillar, thinking about the tricks Gimi showed her going up, now simply applied in reverse, all while NOT thinking about falling, don’t think about falling off the pillar, don’t look down, don’t worry, remain calm-



Nahla is so wrapped up in her worry, it takes her a moment to realize when her foot was fully standing on solid ground.
“Oh, Jasmine! I’m sorry to leave you on your own. You’re a lifesaver, Gími, dearest! Unfortunately, I didn’t realize how late it had become, and we have an early day tomorrow! We can’t stay around here, sadly!” She didn’t even need to look at Grace-of-Heaven’s face to know she was disappointed, but it was clear that a storm was brewing around here, and the sultan could not get caught up in whatever was coming in.

“I’m SO sorry that I couldn’t fulfill my thanks to you, Gími, but I promise you, tomorrow night, on my fair name, that I shall return here and give you my thanks. And I shall give it to you with interest to pay for your patience!”

Her hands clasp around Gími’s, both to further enamor her and to give reason for the sultan to be able to free her own grasp. Nahla thought to herself to yet again place a chaste kiss upon the back of the urchin’s clammy hands, seeing how effective that was last time, but misjudged how the panic and adrenaline running through her would affect the force in her lean forward. She leans forward and aims downward, her eyes closed as her lips press against Gími’s neck! Immediately upon realizing her mistake, Nahla fumbles to correct her action, to apologize, but any physical coordination she had this night was spent on climbing down the pillar. Tripping in her panic, her veil once again flutters out of the way as her lips brush against Gími’s own! Her face is completely red as she breaks the union their lips, grabbing Grace-of-Heaven’s wrist and hurrying away from this den of temptation and back towards the palace, cutting their excursion unfortunately short.

Soot staggered slightly, covering her eyes to avoid the Thief-Queen’s flash. “You know” Soot started “I think I had that reasonably under cont-” She was cut off by Bowlyn’s kiss. In an instant her normally cold, smug expression slipped away, her face softened as the Thief held her. Soot melted into Bowlyn's firm grip, weak to her touch.

The artist pulled away from the kiss softly, tears welling in her eyes as she looked to Bowlyn.. She leaned forward, squeezing tight and pressing her face into Bowlyn’s chest. “I-I’m sorry..” The painter blurbled, inhaling with a sob as her cool demeanor broke. “I.. I didn’t, I mean, I don’t.. I thought..” Her words fell away into a repeated ‘I'm sorry’. Her bag dripped between them, paint pooling and running down Soot’s legs as it seeped through the seams of her bag.

The mess of an artist allowed herself to be dragged, ferried off the roof and back towards her abode clinging to Bowlyn. Hiccupping softly and hiding her face as they travelled. Searching for composure in the cool night air.

A new day dawns. The world changed overnight; it spun and worked in its gyre, like a falcon under the eye of Heaven. The world, as if exhausted by the hard work, breaks slowly into being again, and most of the morning is gone by now. The Adamant, of course, has been full of hard work since dawn, but for almost all of you, that labor has been invisible, beneath the walls and behind the floors.

---

Nahla!

Tickling.

That’s the cover story for why you are completely unwelted from a corrective crop. It’s an accepted form of correction, particularly because of the strictures of the Faith: it’s hard to cause the kind of permanent harm that would see her right to own you revoked with feathers, fingers and tongues, but it’s easy to provoke pleas, muffled screams, and the white-hot lack of thought which is, ultimately, the goal.

This was followed up with Grace-of-Heaven supervising you on a run through the harem gardens: bouncing, jingling, and straining until it was impossible for you to seem too well-rested. A perfect scheme.

So now, here you are, slumped in the shade of an olive tree, driven to your limits, adornments still dangling (and, in some cases, weighted). Grace-of-Heaven daintily kneels next to you, the image of a proud, noble owner, chin lifted just so.

“So, the problem,” she says, her voice low enough that Lila Isa can’t hear her as she suns herself nearby, on very full display. “Is the Fire Wheels! How are we supposed to really, really appreciate Sjakal with them being brutes?”

It’s not a rhetorical question. Not really, not for you. You have to assume she means for you to provide her with an answer. Why else would she have said it?

---

Soot!

“You!”

Rosethal snaps you out of a reverie of images and flowing brushstrokes with a snap of her fingers and a clash of her bangles, advancing on you in the narrow hallway. An ambush from behind!

“You’ll do,” she says, hooking you by the arm. She hasn’t recognized you, it seems? What else would that mean? And, oh. Now she is pulling you. Now you are being pulled.

Where were you going? Is it more important than staying in the good graces of Rosethal?

---

Silsila Om!

You wake up sticky, in a pile of several exhausted Fire Wheels. Wine bottles and dreaming pipes lay scattered about, detritus of a riotous time. It goes without saying that you are in a state of some déshabillé. (Were you on top, in the end, or on the bottom?)

The only reason you are awake, in fact, is that someone has said (into your head, which rings like a temple bell): “something something Hai Lin.” Which demands some sort of rather unfiltered response, doesn’t it?

---

Birsi!

Your arms ache. It is too much to ask that they fall off.

The strappado keeps them pointed up, behind your back, forcing you down into a bow, folded over at the waist. You’ve faded in and out of sleep, repeatedly awoken by the strain in your shoulders— and the throbbing of your cheeks and thighs, where your captors made you dance from foot to foot with the kiss of a firm palm and a singing lash. Your mouth is crammed full of volunteered, unidentified items, held in place by perfume-soaked rags, the fumes of which fill up the corners of your weary head. Your hair is loose and lank and only half-dyed.

Finally, someone enters the shack where you spent the night. You can only lift your head so far, but from the look of it, it’s a woman that fills the whole narrow doorway with her curves.

“So this’s the Firehead that snuck past my boys,” Mother Bes drawls, and chucks your chin with a tap of her pipe. “A Firehead with all that fire leaking, from the looks of it. Did you work it out of her, Jekkan?”

“I put her through her paces,” Jekkan, the woman who caught you, drawls, entering the shack behind her. “She’s not a Fire Wheel. They would have broken by now. All spark, no steel— which is very interesting, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” Bes says, turning your face this way and that with the pipe. “Will you be a good girl and answer a few questions for Momma, dear? We might even be able to see about a change of accommodations…”

Do you respond, Palace Guardsman, through that drool-soaked mass between your lips? Is it desperate and pleading, or do you try to salvage some scrap of your dignity in this close, cramped shack?