[b]Om! Soot![/b]

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 [i]have[/i] 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?

[hr]

[b]Nahla![/b]

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??)

[hr]

[b]Birsi![/b]

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 [i]get[/i] 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 [i]how.[/i] 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. “[i]How’d[/i] you get into the Heavens, girl? There’s supposed to be folk at the doors for that.”