[b]Kalaya![/b]

If only Giriel were here. She could explain to you that Hell has no such master plan. The Broken King is the geography of Hell, broken and flayed; his lesser selves bring his pain to the world because it is their nature. The General sought to establish a beachhead, but dragged Kingeater Castle back into Hell out of spiteful lust for a prize. Now it remains to be seen whether the Green Sun or Whirling-in-Rags who becomes ascendant in the games of Hell.

But Dima is not a scholar of such things, and neither is Petony, and Machi is absolutely not, even if she could offer advice. “What [i]of[/i] Hell? Do you suspect them of— oh! Oh, you mean for us to summon up something dark and terrible to defeat? To bind away some enemy for a hundred years? Yes, that would do! Some dark spirit of polluting waters!” The prospect seems to lift her spirits, just as she lifts her chin. “But who could provide us with the means of calling forth such an enemy? One of the witches?”

“Uusha’s supposed to have a witch that she works with,” Petony mumbles. “Peregrine. Not like she’d be interested in helping us, though.”

“But if she doesn’t know you’re involved, perhaps I could go find her,” Dima says, completely innocent of how badly you have messed up. It’s just an accidental stabbing, how bad could it really be?

[hr]

[b]Fengye![/b]

The N’yari rather aggressively responds to the scritchies. It’s all you can do to stay upright, to avoid being bowled over completely by her. She smells like the mountain wilderness, and she is so strong that she could pick you up with one hand if she wanted to.

But she doesn’t want to. Not yet. And as a result, you get a front-row seat to the Maid being bent over the front of her makeshift sled. Oh, how she wiggles! Oh, how she complains! Oh, how she glances back at you, awkwardly, over her shoulder, as her skirt is flipped up. But she does not beg. Some sliver of pride prevents her from begging her Cutie for mercy.

Zhaojun [i]really[/i] knew what she was doing, by and by. The Maid is in possession of a succulent, heavenly peach, wrapped in dainty Dominion lace. And it is in your power to stop it from being bruised by barbarian palms. Which makes withholding that mercy all the more intoxicating, no?

And, unless you raise a finger, they will leash her, let her hair loose, undo her buttons and her ties, and give her love bites up and down that perfect neck; they will bring her to the point where she [i]does[/i] incoherently beg for you to save her, to do something, to stop them from squeezing and spanking and making her feel small and helpless.

And then they will turn their attention on [i]you.[/i] You may have a String on Jazumi, but you will have to use it deftly, or else suffer a similar fate.

[hr]

[b]Lotus![/b]

Alright.

You’re “alright.”

You are “alright.”

Haha. Ha. Ha.

That’s how she thinks of you. Alright. Nice to be around. You know, if she has to.

And she squeezes you. As a friend. And she stops touching you as soon as she can. And you can’t help yourself, you selfish little brat; you lean into that squeeze, even after she lets go, and you close your eyes, wishing that she thought you were worth more than that. That you were more than just alright.

Then a trickle of warning shivers down your spine, and you push away. “Han,” you say. “Something’s— something’s wrong.”

[hr]

[b]Piripiri! Giriel![/b]

You have the tactical advantage, such as it is. You are in the thick of the trees, on a slope overlooking the two. The demigod is alarmed, but she hasn’t seen you yet; doubtless she felt the wake of the Banneret’s forceful skipping from moment to moment. If she wanted to, if she knew how, there are many ways that she could punish you for arriving like this— but she is young and lovestruck and sheltered.

Now is your chance to strike.