[b]Kalaya-[i]phraya![/i][/b]

“And then! And [i]then![/i] Who should show up but my delinquent of a little sister, dragging a poor lost priestess behind her! Can you even imagine what the poor dear must have gone through? But then the goddess sent me a message— or, at least, I thought she had, but then the fox vanished, leaving me out here, in the middle of nowhere, and it’s just so [i]much![/i]”

She buries her face in her hands, elbows on the table, and bawls. There’s been a lot of buildup, and she’s finally lost the last bit of her composure— one might well assume. Certainly, this isn’t ordinary priestess behavior.

“Ever since I tried to get that [i]spirit[/i] to banish one of the rakshasa, not knowing that it was even worse, that it was base and vile and… is that it? Has the Sapphire Mother of Lotuses [i]abandoned[/i] me? Every step of the way, I’ve, I’ve, I’ve [i]tried[/i] to do the right thing, and… what am I supposed to do now? I’m supposed to [i]know![/i] That’s my [i]job![/i] Just like you’re supposed to be strong and do swords good and, and…”

She crams the palm of one hand against her messy face. “Don’t even [i]look[/i] at me,” she groans, suddenly embarrassed at how completely she’s coming apart in front of the first stranger to show her kindness in… probably some time.

[hr]

[b]Fengye![/b]

“I have [i]rights,[/i]” the mud-spirit complains, sullenly. Its fists are terrible maceheads, its back hairy with roots and stems, its face a squarish approximation. “Rights to not be treated like this. I know my rights. I’ll put in a complaint. Go back to where you came from. Not here. Not our land. I have [i]rights.[/i]”

A delicate hand briefly bursts forth from the muck and smacks its side, furiously, before being slowly dragged back in, uselessly clawing at yielding mud.

“Our Thorn Knight will fix things,” it continues. “Send them [i]all[/i] back. All the outlanders who don’t treat us right. The Dominion and their gods, all gone. Sapphire Mother’s crown and daughter, retuned to her. Out of the way, speck. Go home.”

[hr]

[b]Giriel![/b]

The warlock draws her sword. It’s a smooth whisper out of its sheath, but even a whisper can be menacing. Her breath is rattled; you’ve struck a raw nerve.

“And what do [i]you[/i] know? Idiot witch!”

“Not an idiot,” Peregrine corrects, still behind you. “Dependable. Conservative. Not likely to help. Come on.”

“I will not be insulted,” the warlock yells, and it rhymes with the lessons she’s learned from her tutors. The Broken King cannot endure mockery or questioning. He demands subservience and respect. “Keep her name out of your mouth and get out of our way, hag!”

“Not [i]in[/i] our… mmm.” Peregrine runs through a mystic calculation of symbolism and demonology in her head, gauging relative impact on her sorcerous project over any other concern. “No. You’re right. Demand satisfaction.”

Evidently, she thinks that having Ven back down would be bad for the purpose. If that’s the case, your intuition says that Ven losing decisively would wreck her entire project. Even odds on her being furious or simply shrugging and taking it in stride.

Ven herself is… well. Clinging to anger, embarrassment, letting her own emotional armor dig into her wounds. The comment about Kalaya really got under her skin, didn’t it?