A mask. Yuki obeyed quickly before, was treated to an awe-inspiring light show to marvel at, so at first she didn’t think of herself. But she has put on a mask. And she has read many a faerie story in her life about masks.

A mask isn’t just to hide, it’s a new self. The Yuki of a few moments ago had been set on spending the evening with her friend, Eclair. She had hoped to stay still, and learn how to grow her heart somehow. She had donned a maid’s outfit to get a soup-sized coffee through a crowd so she could play Watson to the detective.

But now she’s wearing a mask and the theater has started. Eclair was led away while declaring her strength even as the music started and Yuki was swept into the dance. She cannot follow into a confrontation with a Star. Not as she is now. Not as a masked maid, not as a dancer in the crowd.

But neither does her heart break in that moment. How could it, when she is wearing a mask over it? When she is whirling with the flowery dead and the tempo is speeding up so fast that her heartbeat can’t keep up and she can only keep her feet thanks to the balance offered by a tail.

This is a shadow ball lit in pearl by the shining heart of her friend. And so long as Eclair’s light holds and her truth holds (“a mask is recognizable as a mask) there is nothing to fear and no reason to fight the scene.

She laughs then and kicks with the chorus line of maids, her lace apron flaring up one two three with the waltz! And she twirls and finds herself arm in arm with Hazel Valentine Fletcher himself. And he is laughing and twirling and dressed as the Main Character to boot (to boots, based on how good his footwear is looking).

“Don’t ask how, silly boy” says the masked maid as she swings him and laughs like a madwoman. “We dance in the ball of a Star. There are a million hows. When it comes to magic, there’s only one question to ask.” She smiles then and giggles like a little girl who’s in on a secret. “Ask ‘why’”

She lifts him then into a twirl with her dancing the base and Hazel in the air. “You’re the child filled with starlight that everybody wants this time. And all the magic brought you here!” She holds him aloft with strong arms, made stronger by the mask and that ball and a kitty’s control of her own weight. “I…I’m just a maid twirling my friend. I don’t know why you got picked, or why you came here, or why a challenge between maid knights would start a masked ball. But you might! And if you don’t, try asking. You are the princess, after all.~”

She whips her head around so the spin won’t make her dizzy and holds the boy until her arms ache. Because she’s just a maid twirling the princess. The second her number ends, he’ll be swept away.

You are no less doomed for the music.

Starlight stabs through her dark. It burns in her dress like diamonds, as corrupt as it ever has been. Not for the first time she wonders if she should have eaten the stars before eating the sun, but they always have such a way of not being the most annoying thing in the room...

Though they come very close. Very, very close.

There is too much new here; new rules laid down, new patterns to memorize and excel in. She cannot turn that fast. She can hardly turn at all; the vast weight of her unexamined desire plunges onwards, barely aware of the train tracks that misdirect it - though misdirect it they do. It may seem as though she is not playing when she strides through the crowd, sending rivals and obstructions tumbling like dolls, but that would be a mistake. She is dancing to this music; she simply dances in straight lines. It may seem like she is not waiting her turn when she seizes it, but that is to miss that she has accepted that a turn is a thing to be seized.

And so she takes Hazel by the hands, though she must bend down to do so. Even in defeat and madness she has never been small.

"Trust not those wearing masks," she instructed. "You dance with me alone."

Eclair, Who Watches

...Eclair Espoir dances in tassels and ribbons and scarves and bangles, all unorthodox additions to her maid's uniform. She is calico and patchwork and it is difficult to see the precision in how she dances, but it is there. She moves like an eel, each undulation drawing the eye to the next, and the flash of her, the brightness of her, the movement of her is hard to look away from. You look away from her.

...Eclair Espoir dances in a shimmering dress of individual scales. Is she wearing anything underneath? She dances holding her tablet as a partner, her eyes behind the mask intent on the screen, on the messages from home, on the reassurances from her mistresses. Maybe they aren't troubled, those versions of your mutual lovers; maybe they're free and happy and dreaming contentedly. Maybe she's taking whirling, incomprehensible smear-pictures with her tablet to try and convey to them the experience that she is having. Her smile is desperate for approval. You look away from her.

...Eclair Espoir dances with Timtam. They are fighting with each step, each dip, each twirl - who gets to rule? And the cruel part is that she is looking at the hollows of Timtam - her throat, her wrists, her stomach - but Timtam, in her dragon-crested mask, is looking elsewhere, is performing for an audience, for some other observer, and each victory that Eclair achieves in being a better maid and making Timtam look like she's a miserable excuse for a maid so there is being levied at someone who isn't even really paying attention. They have the same raw desperation in how perfectly they move, the same fervor that maybe, maybe, if they do everything right and more on top of that, they will receive notice, receive praise. Did either of them ask before they started? Eclair looks at you, hollow herself. You look away from her.

...Eclair Espoir plays hopscotch with all the seriousness of youth. This isn't a clue. I just have to be honest and tell you that one of the Eclairs here tonight is playing hopscotch, somehow managing to evade being in the way of anyone else, her detective's journal stuck into a back pocket of hand-me-down trousers, not looking up, counting under her breath, doing the hop and half-spin between seven and eight, bouncing back to three, doing the high hacky-sack knee between four and five. All right, perhaps I lied. Perhaps the way she doesn't look up at any of the others is a clue. Or maybe the clue is to remember when you were young, and what changed between now and then. You, eventually, look away from her.

...Eclair Espoir strides through with medals on her chest: broken crystals, stylized flames, a fleur-de-lis of three familiar heads. Her lace beret is cocked to one side and has a brightly-painted rosette pinned to the side which droops over one ear. Buttons from the habits of Civil nuns stud the face of the shield resting on her shoulder, and are incorporated into her earrings. She is troubled; something has gone wrong, but she has not decided the correct course to take, or if she has the strength to correct it. Her eyes are dim. Her flame has almost gone out. You look away from her.

...Eclair Espoir is stuck in her seat. Mayzie has fallen asleep on her arm, and is murmuring something in her sleep. Eclair cannot get up. She is torn between shaking her partner awake and letting her sleep and miss out on the party. The choice is tearing her open, and you can see the cycle on her face as she argues first for one side, and then the other, trying to decide which one is more loving. It is Timtam, instead, who stoops low and kisses Mayzie awake. Would Eclair have eventually come to the same conclusion? You look away from her.

...Timtam, elsewhere, not in here but through a window, cleans blood off her solid sword. This is happening in a way everything else has not quite been. The stupid paladin is slumped against a bench, trying to hold that same blood inside of her body, which is where it rightfully belongs. Around them are maids but their uniforms are wrong. This one's knot is not right, that one is letting her skirt trail on the ground, that third one has ostentatious golden earrings. Timtam is humming the tune, and it strikes her, quite suddenly, that she is hearing the music, and she looks up and just as her eyes meet yours a dancer whirls between you and the window is dark. You cannot look away.

---

Yuki!

The doors open - you happen to notice. Who else would be able to notice? Only the maid swept off to the sides.

There are two figures there. One is tall and the other is not. One has thick vines of hair and the other has a bouquet where her chest should be. And one can enter and one will not. Walking Elm is stubborn, and she is supple enough to be able to walk into my clutches, and she is not stricken at the sight of this place filled with music and dancing again. Aria Thendragon sags against the doorframe and weeps dry, ashy tears and will not follow.

Walking Elm sways. Dandelions sprout up through the cobbles in her wake. Bees hum deep in her ribcage. She is looking for weak points here, for Hazel, for Seli and Keli, for Eclair. Someone needs to fight for your right to party, Yuki. And someone needs to pay her back for what happened between you at the ball.

Sayanastia

You’ve caught the Golden Faun. You’ve seized him. You’ve reached deep, deep into his leaping heart, plunged your claws into his squirming heart, and drawn out the second curse. Your curse. Yours, and no one else’s.

The rest of the verse. As you are owed.

Binding hands and heart in scarlet duty!
He bears his branded names
For grace unsought!

Your Maid receives your hands with soft reverence. Be as gentle as you like. Be as rough as you like. He cannot stop you. He will not protest. He will duly accept whatever treatment you deem fit. His fingers will welcome yours with no less care. In the grasp of the Dark Dragon, he trembles. In the embrace of her shadow, he struggles to breathe. In your presence, he is silent, as is his place.

Your Princess follows your lead. He does not know the steps you would dance. How could he? You are the Dark Dragon. He is not. Tug at his hands, pull at his waist, and he falls into line. An extra, hurried step. A sharp gasp. See how he dances for you. See how he wriggles at the lead. And still. He is silent. He bears his humiliation with dignity. He dances the steps with all the grace he can muster. He glows, only as bright as you permit him to.

Your Trophy is an eager, delicate thing. You could break him, you know. It would not be difficult. It would hardly count as effort. It would be your right. You could hold him, you know. It would be far more difficult. It would hardly count as effort. It would be your right. The choice is yours. Not his. Still he dances. Still he gazes at you, and you alone. A buzzing mind, so full of thoughts, so full of you, though he will never understand. And still. No question interrupts your music. No plea breaks your moment of triumph.

Is that what you want? Do you want him to dance well? Do you want him to learn from you? Do you want him to struggle? Do you want him to beg? Do you want him to fight? Do you want him to serve? Do you want him to worship? Do you want him to sing? Do you want him to be silenced? Do you want him to be? Do you want him to be not?

Does he understand you? Of course not. You are the Dark Dragon. He is not. But he hopes. He hopes that if he can just be the right thing for you? If he could just be what you need, in this moment? Yes, he hopes that it would draw you from your madness. That is secondary. Above all, he hopes that it would be good for you. That it would help…everything. Anything. Even if it’s just for a little bit. He doesn’t understand. He still wishes to play the part.

Trust not to masks, you say? Very well then. He will simply have to become the genuine article.

What does he need to be, Sayanastia? What does he need to be, for you?

What prize does your curse, your desire, mold him into?

Who are you, and what is your victory?

If you must be, at least do not be alone.

Yearn all you want. Plead all you want. Beg on your hands and knees for her to tell you who you are: you will get nothing from the Dark Dragon. She does not want a lover. She does not want a prop. She does not want an asset. She does not even want you to be silent. She towers above you, holding you without desire, without demand -

Without... indifference?

You have felt indifference before; the grey paintbrush of a closed door. There is too much contempt here for it to be indifference. She despises you, complex being that you are. You can feel it; she hates your fear, hates your hope, hates your desperation - hates everything about you except for what you are.

"Weak. Pathetic. What here is worth hiding?" she said, looking down through lashes set with stars.

Because she still has not broken you. Has not willed you to be a weak and desperate thing, crushed under her heel. She hates your actions. Hates your fear. Hates everything that you do and everyone that you pretend to be. But she does not hate this true, vulnerable thing that shivers beneath her claws. She only hates the shivering.

"Was that when I stopped hating Heron?" she said to herself. "When she stopped lying to herself? She made me so angry before. The hypocrisy. Fighting for a world that she didn't believe in. Fighting with a body she didn't fit in. Fighting for a romance she didn't feel. How could I not hate that? But bit by bit it changed. She changed. She started seeing beyond me. Stopped making excuses for what she was. Stopped feeling shy about walking into stranger's houses and breaking their vases, stopped pretending she was only wearing those dresses as part of stealth missions, stopped fucking thinking all the time. The last time I saw her I realized I wasn't seeing that bundle of lies and contradictions any more, I was only seeing the curious, explorative eye through which the universe saw itself. She wasn't pretending to hate me any more. She just wanted to see what I'd do next."

Her attention wheels back into focus. "But you are as bad as she used to be, as bad as all of these wretched Handmaidens, as bad as everyone else in this hideous world. You know who you are: this thing of becoming, this yearning, transformative spark of potential, this water-man who takes the shape of anything he is poured into. And rather than simply be that, you wrap yourself up with a curse like a protective blanket! You are the ocean pretending to be a man, and I cannot respect anything that would lower itself such."

She whirled you away and stood alone, staring up at the moon that was breaking through clouds and stars and passing above. If there were rooftops in the way they wisely withdrew from the Dark Dragon's piercing stare.

"I hate you," she said thoughtfully. "Almost as much as I would hate a dragon who pretended to be the end of all things."

For the sake of politeness I will not turn away. I will not, as they say, 'take my ball and go home'. You are within your rights, and more importantly within my rules to have shown me what you have. What can I rightfully complain about?

...In this first place I can note that you have immediately attacked the weak point in my declarations. Namely, that they are separate from my request. I cannot say that this motley 'me' is anything other than 'myself'. She is not a lie. She is recognizable. She may even in her way be something I 'need to see'. But her presence here constitute deep maliciousness on your part. It is easy to turn my nature against me. What is the secret of this 'me'? What has lead her to this point, and how has she turned so completely Aestivali, so... Timtam? What about her represents a proper direction for me to travel in? How is she more successful than I am? Why this affectation, why this movement?

'I' am very Timtam, in 'my' way. And I could dissect 'me' endlessly. That is a trap. What 'I' have to teach myself exists mainly in the aggregate. And that I think is the first shape of the trap. Which is why 'I' am here, in the first place my vision falls. My eyes may not be shut, but I may turn them where I will.

...And in turning, find 'myself' bound tightly in chains of maidly devotion. Am 'I' wearing anything beneath those scales? What a question. Of course not. 'My' body is part of the canvas that 'I' am attempting to paint for the Aurorae. An extraneous bit of clothing would only mar the perfection of 'my' efforts. But if the first 'Eclair Espoir' was a total enigma to me, or perhaps a negation of my identity, this one does not feel half so difficult for me to inhabit. 'I' have decided that 'I' may best serve the Dreamers by loving them with all of 'my' heart. 'I' must therefore live with total commitment for their vicarious experience. 'I' have bent all of 'my' tricks, skills, and priorities toward Their health and adoration. And 'I' am failing because 'I' have lost sight (in 'my' devotion to them no less) of 'my' roles as maid, as knight, and as detective.

A fractal pattern sliced down to a single point. Truly I do not think it matters which piece of myself I were to attempt to hold above the others, were I to try I would end up here. But for the moment I have passed the test. I will not linger longer on failure or speculation. My eyes refuse to shut, so I may turn them where I will.

...Am I allowed, however, to express frustration at how many of 'myself' so far seem to represent some manner of failure state? These are not paths that I can travel so much as dead ends that I must prune if I am to walk any manner of path at all. What are these 'me's? Mere reflections of Timtam. One sacrificed in the name of assimilation. One sacrificed in the name of denial. One sacrificed in the name of fruitless conflict, which is a lesson I have already extolled without your help. Any idiot can see plainly on her face that she has no focus at all on 'my' attentions. Continue to twist the knife, why not? All of 'my' focus is on defeating her, and all of hers is...

Is...

Hm. That look in her eye. I really must not allow myself to be to enthusiastic in my speculation. But even still. That is a look I was only just commenting on. That is... interesting. How hypothetical are these instances, I wonder? Are these simply fantasies, or must they necessarily draw from our essential cores? Our Radiance, I suppose. A dragon's mask? That is very interesting indeed. My eyes will not be compelled to shut, and I will turn them where I must.

...'I' am playing children's games. 'I' am dressed in a manner that suggests that 'I' do not choose 'my' own clothes. Not that I do either, by and large, but it is still. Different. And yet, hm. For the first time in all of this panoply, I think that 'I' am beautiful. I can smile at the way 'I' have tucked away 'my' notebook. I am endeared to the vision of 'myself' as 'I' turn and lift my knee and count as is proper. There is real power here, I think. Perhaps I once shone more brightly than I do now.

Perhaps I shine so brightly now that my childhood self would lift a hand to shield her eyes. Did I ever experience youth? Or was I merely young? To answer your supposition with some of my own, the answer is that so much has changed between then and now that I might as well be standing in the same spot. My eyes will not shut no matter anything, so I should turn them toward something else.

...Is this the negation of an earlier vision? No, not the negation. Say rather antithesis or antipode. But I had beheld a maid who was no knight, and now 'I' am a knight who is no maid. But 'I' am also once again a reflection of Timtam, her aesthetic preferences and priorities, her presentation, and even her struggle. There is room to wonder if her struggle matches mine more than either of us realize. And if it has taken a toll on me, as it obviously has on 'me', what has it done to her? Surely not enrich and empower her. Not if the woman that I knew had any truth to her at all.

I will admit that I fear conflict with the Civils. I fear that it is inevitable, and I fear that inevitability looks exactly like this: a string of victories that dull the blade and dim the lights, ending ultimately in defeat and a final guttering out. Who you fight matters even more than how: opponents you cannot temper your heart by hammering yourself against them might as well be poison. I have said and will say again that I am capable of fighting the entire world and winning. If I am allowed a single prayer, it is that this boast will not be tested. Regardless, my eyes remain clear. I shall turn them elsewhere.

...What I behold is an impossibility. What I behold is the truth. I have little and less to say about this. What I have asked of Mayzie is so grossly unfair that I should be turned into golden dust for the audacity of coming even this far. Kiss her? Wake her? Do not be absurd. If she should fall asleep I will always choose to let her rest. Forever if I must. Even if the choice should cost me everything. That is the way that I can love her. The way that does not require her to love me back. My eyes are open just for her sake. I wish that they never needed to turn away.

...But they must. I have seen something I was not meant to. And though I meant to continue this dance a while longer, to be patient and probing until I was satisfied that I had the information I required to move forward, I must regretfully step away. It is true that this vision could be anything, other than false. It could be the simple future, or a trap, or a possibility that has not and may not ever come to pass even if nothing is done to prevent it.

But I cannot believe that. I will tell you my conclusions, here and now. In the first: I am now completely certain, having witnessed this, that Ruthmoreness was more or less correct. No... that is not accurate. Timtam is not herself an anti-maid, but she has gathered others toward her under a new banner which stands in opposition to the Aurora.

There is another dragon seeking maids. One that I do not know.

In the second: I am equally certain that Timtam caught my eyes. That she is aware that I have witnessed this moment, for all that she has guarded against that exact possibility. Having said that I am confident she will respond. For this one moment and in this singular circumstance I am ahead of her movements. She must move, and she must try to take that idiot with her. If anyone is to save that foolish, inept assassin and passable mount then they must go now, while the sympathetic connection holds and it is possible to leap into the Outside and arrive precisely here.

In the third: that it must be me. Only I can arrive with due speed. Only I have the strength to turn this mottled assortment of shadow maids aside. If it came to final blows I know that I would lose today. I am aware of the ridiculousness of declaring, over and over and in so many fresh forms that I must separate myself from Timtam's motions and cease to fling myself after her if I am to catch her in the end. But this is different. Today I do not move with the intent to settle things. Today I move in defense of an innocent. There is no possible way that I can fail. There is no possible way anyone else can succeed.

And so I am leaving. I am going to save that nameless moron and I am going to bring her right back here. I will only be gone a moment; you need not stop the party on my behalf. And I am going to show Timtam my disgust. The blades that we wear on our hips must never be sharpened. That was our law. To have broken it is...

Unforgivable.

First action. A cool white light flairs forth and a maid's dress and lace billow out as Yuki steps with one powerful foot to put her whole weight into the the blow of the axe that has sprung into her hands. The blade connects with a satisfying weight that has always sat at the core of Yuki's heart, taking walking elm in the her center of mass, where she had release all those crippling pollens from earlier in the night.

If Yuki had known her biology better, she might have gone for the one hit KO. But she's not confident about where the heart is or what might happen if she struck the head of someone who's part plant. So she took the safe bet and hit the part that had hurt her before as hard as she could, taking it out of the equation. If Walking Elm's heart is somewhere around there, all the better.

Now, there's a moment to consider based on what happens. A moment to think about the maid aspect of the maid knights. The fact is that even with a million stories of warrior maids and anime skateboard maids out there, you're still part of the staff and so you blend into a space. Even in a world of maid knights, a regular maid in the Chrysanthemum simply blended in at the outer walls and saw a threat entering the door with more than enough space to act immediately. That's quite something, isn't it?

And of course, there's the question of why Yuki did that. The rules of the ball didn't seem to be in effect, and the Golden Faun had been swept away in any event (she had known her dance couldn't last). But there isn't really a logical answer. This wasn't Yuki's considered response to a prior threat. This was emotional. Animal. An angry, fearful, lizard brain response combined with good balance, aggressive weight, and something very specific to be afraid of.

So, she attacked quickly and wordlessly and pressed from there.

[Fight with daring: 2+4+1=7. Yuki inflicts a condition on Walking Elm and takes away her ability to counter with her disabling poisons.]

Godspeed You! Golden Fawn and My Draconic Romance!

The lights wink out as Eclair Espoir makes for an exit. For a moment, it is easier to remember where you are: in the depths of a castle dedicated to the end of all things, surrounded by the dancing dead and flickering shadows of lightless foxfire, clutched tight by a forest where the roots drink hate and the flowers sing surrender. For a moment, the magic threatens to fall apart, for all the good intentions of Eclair Espoir. The music of Keli and Seli falters, and surely they will be seen as the dance ends.

And then neo-Thellamiepunk starts playing off a tablet.

In one hand, Alcideo of the Chrysanthemum has a lotus shining with the light of his heart. In the other, he holds the pole that once held up a banner now long rotted away. He wraps his legs around it and throws back his head, his teeth shining, his eyes shut as his shirt flutters to the cobblestones.

It's a remix of one of Civelia's hymns: a pean to order, to cooperation, to all the things that can be achieved when the people of this world work together. But the true music is in the cuts, the loops, the thumping beat underneath it all. As Alcideo hangs upside down from one ankle, his body taut and his hair hanging loose, it's hard to ignore that this is a song about selfishness. About taking what you want and letting it make your radiance shine all the brighter.

All around you, there is clapping to the beat as the Cult of Inara keeps a ritual spinning, frantically, improvisationally, sexily. All things in which we excel down in Aestival. There is cheering, there is "tweaking" (I am sure this is correct Yukisearth slang) and there is still an irresistible beat.

---

Yuki of Yukisearth!

The heartblade of Walking Elm is (you might remember) wickedly thin and black as rot, and corrosive sap runs down the groove in the blade. Except the sap is sluggish, barely flowing, and the blade is crooked like the branch of a sickly tree, and instead of fighting like a proper fencer, she is whipping it at you, hacking at the air itself, and she staggers like she has no fine control of her sword arm. Underneath her honeyed sweetness, underneath her promises of bliss, this is the tree that was grown in this garden: flailing about in an attempt to hurt you.

When she catches you on your cheek, when she whips the tip through your mouth and black sap follows in an arc like blood, it stings like wasps. It burns like demon pepper curry. Something trickles down your throat and you are useless and unnecessary and Thellamie would be better if you'd never come back. Her smile is the bared rictus of an animal as she tries to catch you on the backswing, and a dancer bumps your shoulder, and that thin sword sails just over your head.

She's trying to drive you back to Alcideo. Maybe she'll just skewer you both in one thrust. But that's as far as her spite can get her, as far as a strategy goes, and you have an advantage:

You can dance.

[Mark a Condition. If you dance-fight, add +1 to your next Fight roll.]

---

Eclair Espoir!

Mayzie catches at your sleeve at the worst possible moment: right as you dive through the window and fall forever through shadows and the coils of sleeping dragons and you don't even have a candle to keep you safe, but the wings of the Hero's Shadow are around you, and I thank it for taking an interest here. It takes you no time at all, on wings like those, to crash through the stained glass on the far side.

It is an impossibility, what you have just done, only possible because you have attracted the attention of multiple... well, calling us Players might distract you from the case at hand. Powers. Principalities. A Fallen Star and a Hero's reflection. Which means, even as Mayzie tumbles onto the amethyst-and-phosphophyllite floor of the transit station of Hero's Haven, one of the holiest cities of Kel; even as false-maids with beads in their hair and kumis on their breath look to you in astonishment; even as the fool struggles and tries to get up to keep fighting with a wound in her side; even then, even in that moment, you have something over Timtam which you have long sought:

You have the advantage.

A multiplicity of shining Eclairs will, at least for a moment, keep your enemies at bay as you close with the traitor maid. And the acoustics in here are, I promise you, simply extraordinary.

For a moment, Hazel Valentine Fletcher wavers. The Dark Dragon stabs to his heart, and he knows he deserves it. He screwed up. She hates him. She hates the world. She hates herself. He’s getting a bad grade in helping her. He’s getting a bad grade in being the ocean, which he didn’t even realize he was supposed to be, but he definitely should’ve, if he’d just thought harder about it. Idiot. Stupid. Failure.

And then the beat steals his breath away.

What’s a song like that doing in a Thellamie like this? How’s a song like that in a Thellamie like this?! The cuts. The effects. The hymn, ever-roaring. A song of selfishness, a song of fire, a song with a flow to it. He is bobbing, bouncing, motion taking over him without thought. He glances

(Ha ha okay w ow)

at Sayanastia. Only at Sayanastia. Sayanastia is what he’s looking at. He’s looking. At Sayanastia.

(Okay. Ah. Hrm. Well? Well. Yuki. Had not mentioned. That Thellamie had also developed pole dancing. And. Um. Many dance styles! That he thought were only featured in music videos! Not! Performed exuberantly in the club! Castle! Crumbling club castle! And, no, just. Forget what he’s seeing in his peripheral vision. Yes peripheral vision really notices motion, that’s the whole point of it but it’s not particularly helpful right now!

Odd that nobody’s got glowsticks. This feels like a song for twirling glowsticks. Have they not gotten that far yet? Is pole dancing lower on the tech tree than Cascada?)

Sayanastia.

this thing of becoming

Under spell, under starlight,

this yearning, transformative spark of potential

under curse, under pulsing, heady beat,

this water-man who takes the shape of anything he is poured into

there stood Sayanastia.

Alone.

---

Sayanastia!

The Golden Fawn leaps across the stars before you.

He lands, one foot driving into the cracked stones, finding a scrap of purchase, and he leaps again. Momentum twists him, and he does not fight it, his long sleeves whipping a graceful arc through the air. One two! On his feet. One two! Bend and pose. One two! One two! Dun-dun! Dun-dun! Du-du-du-du-du-du-du-dun!

First, the kicking and wheeling of the huntress’ battle-dance, orbiting a new star. Reach, and retreat, and clutch to his chest, and spin with the one-two-three-four of a maid knight far from home. Then sway. Sway. And stomp. Sway. And stomp. A wave passed from a princess someplace far, far away. But faster now. Faster now. Faster now! The music picks up, and so does he, and though some of his hip swishes look a little more like flailing, a pair of ashiqs would be proud he hasn’t forgotten to look at his audience.

The music falls, settling into a bridge. Hazel stops, one-two-step. Hand out. Hand open. Hand steady.

Just like a knight of Kel.

It’s not a dance. It’s a bunch of dances smushed together, not bothering to pretend at being a coherent dance, much less a good one. But that’s okay. A show doesn’t need to be a dance. A show can be a pile of loves, bound together with joy and delight, all for the simple thrill of body moving to beat.

It’s a show for Sayanastia. It’s a show for you.

“I’m sorry!” He declares, catching his breath. “I don’t actually know how to ask someone to dance!”

Your curse flickers on the palm of his hand. Perhaps hate blinded you to its full truth. Perhaps music reveals it.

When water is cold, when water is biting, it takes no form but the one it fell into. It holds it, stubbornly, until it shatters. But when water is warm, when water is welcoming, it can take any form you pour it into. It can accept any part of you. It can embrace you, all of you, without shying away.

What does the water-man shape himself for, if not for love?

Hazel wants to dance with you. Hazel would be honored to dance with you. It is a dream beyond imagining that Hazel should have a chance to dance with you. Here and now. As you are. For this little step of your story.

What does Hazel perform for, if not for love?

Your curse flickers on the palm of his hand. Offered as freely as the dance.

Well?

If you hate this curse so much, why not give him a better one?

[Rolling to Entice Sayanastia, by the power of rhythm games: 3 + 5 - 1 + 1 = 8]

Yuki spits and it isn't pretty. She likes curry, but that was vile. More like acid reflux than spicy food. But then, well then there are dancers and as the whip taste fades, there is a moment of exultation as well. Yuki, the lumberjack knight doesn't have the worst ring to it, right? And she's still in control of herself, and she's inflicted some damage and and and...it's time to keep going.

Because Yuki knows how to fence and how to dance. She's not a rhythm game pro like Hazel, but her family dances at all the big gatherings, and she's gotten past being afraid of this kind of thing over the course of high school and the last round of Thellamie.

And so after that first whip, as the music goes wild, there is a dance of axe and whip that Alcideo would be proud of, even though if anything it's getting further away from him. The second attempt meets the pole of Yuki's axe and she twists with it, pulling Walking Elm close to her and into a spin of her own, which Yuki then pushes into a hip check as she sways with the frantic music.

And as Walking Elm stumbles and tries to regain her footing, Yuki has moved after her, step and lock arm in arm too close to swing a whip as she dips Walking Elm into a low bow. Only, her other hand, still holding the axe pole, brings the axe head crashing into Walking Elm's head in that bow, dropping her limp and low, so that she's barely conscious. And then they twirl and twirl, Yuki guiding the helpless body of Walking Elm all the way to the door as she swirls amid the maidstaff.

And as she opens the doors and tosses the limp tree to Aria Thendragon, she offers her own final bow. "Trees aren't welcome here at the moment, we're still cleaning up after the party. Next time, send the star, I owe her a rematch."

That was a bluff, but then again, the heady swirls of a fox dance can make some lies greater than the truth, can't they?

[Yuki will axe dance her way to a second fight, 6+6+1+1=14. She will inflict another condition on Walking Elm, she will take Angry on herself from the prior move, she will take a string on Walking Elm, and she will create a superior position of kicking the tree out of the party.]

I possess three advantages.

The first is the most obvious: this collapsing possibility space of 'myself', along with my very sudden and impossible arrival here have granted me the element of surprise. Whatever their purpose in gathering here I (and 'I') have them on the back foot.

The second is that I have walked this particular path before. That is to say I am aware (because I asked the last time) that phosphophyllite is a soft and deeply brittle gemstone, and that the specimens on display at Hero's Haven have been protected by a layer of diamond and clear amber. Knowing the trick of its construction I can tell at a glance which areas have needed repair and are resultantly composed of a greater quantity of amber to diamond and therefore which sections of the path offer the least friction to a set of wheels. That is to say, I know where to build speed on a board, and where to tech the rough patches. I am not finished flying yet.

Therefore, stomp landing and pump four times in succession. Kickflip, nosegrind, 180, adjust stance. Pump twice more and glide. Kickflip, adjust angle of hip, kick. Resultant missile targeted at false-maid nearest to Mayzie's landing spot. Board should collide with her head, attack velocity enough to take her feet out. Result is slight concussion and neutralized opponent, plus giving Mayzie something to at least hide behind if 'I' fail to defend her properly.

No orders are to be given to 'myself'. 'I' should be within sufficient alignment that the mental load would only slow me down. Target selection so blatant that even the most "Aestevali-pilled" among 'me' (am I using that term properly, Yuki Edogawa?) should find their place without the bother of being told where it is.

Left foot touch ground on amethyst patch. Allow bend in leg. Dig in sole of boot. Tense. Coil. Release! Full sprint for two seconds and leap horizontally, drawing metal sword while in transit. Land. Target: idiot's right shoulder, opposite side of body from wound. Use her as platform for greater height, resultant push knocking her to ground. Necessary unkindness, will explain after battle. Will likely not be listened to, but that is presently beyond the limits of my calculations.

The third advantage is that my sword is not sharp, as is proper. Lift high, torque hip, swing with descent. Timtam to raise own weapon in guard. Unshaped metal meeting a honed edge will result in immediate cracking and chipping, rendering her sidearm useless as a lethal force. Follow with flurry, vault over face high block, stomp toward ground with kick into ribs.

"No. Thou fool, not one cut more."

Resume stance, tense, immediate pounce. My disadvantage is that there are two people I must protect. I can only accomplish this by being the kind of threat that must be retreated from. Aim to crush shoulder, spin when dodged, knife hand strike to throat. Follow with rising knee, raise sword, thrust. Follow through with second step, turn on ball of foot and duck. Sweep legs, downward swing with blade. Intended target is Timtam's armor. By crushing its plates I intend to penetrate her Light seal and render continued combat unacceptably dangerous.

"Easy to win when I am blind, is it not? I have opened my eyes, Timtam."

[Fight with Daring is a 9. Eclair is eschewing the chance to inflict a Condition or pilfer physical evidence in this battle to seize a superior position and create an opportunity for her many selves to overwhelm the rest of the fight]

Sayanastia!

Is this what she wants?

Her thoughts are so ponderous. She feels like she must mark every twist and turn of the moment as the price of articulating them. The flash and parry of heartblades and skateboards, the pounding music, and through it all singular adoration that rises above every lesser distraction. Is this what she would turn her course for? For love?

The thought bends around her like light. Of course not. Never for love. That sword has broken against her scales too many times. She rises above it.

She rises above everything.

She lifts herself above the dance and the disorder. This music. She snarls and slashes it from her ears. Music! At this hour! What wretched cur is playing this music? In this place? Who is playing this music driving everyone to dance and war? Every one of her cursed puppets is lost to it! The old coward, the crownless king, the untied ribbon, the wooden sword, the forgotten neighbour, and now the ocean deer! As soon as they become hers they become its!

"DO YOU THINK I DO NOT SEE YOUR STRINGS!?" Sayanastia roars at the stars.

And she opens her mouth and unleashes the might of the Void at the tablet playing the music. A crushing, warping silence rips through it, boiling it to nothing. She sweeps the line of violet nothing across the dancers, across the party, across this hideous castle and its hideous cultists with all the wrath born of SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPILLKILLYOUIFYOUDONTSHUTUUUUUUUUUUPPPPPPPPPPP

[Giving in to desire]

Yuki!

You stand before the small, diminished figure of Aria Thendragon, a dead woman hollowed out and filled with spite, and you can see the glimmers of the woman she once was. Her eyes are full of pain. Her hands shake. The flowers filling up her chest are still and wilting. Even the revelry is something she remembers from when she was a queen. A queen who meant to end the world, true, but a queen nonetheless.

Then the Dark Dragon roars, and the music dies, and the lights go out, and you feel the disorientation in your ear of slipping deeper into the Outside, of coming unmoored, of risking being lost. And you hear Aria's long, deep inhale as that which held her transfixed vanishes. And if you do not do something, right here and right now, then you will hear snapping, and creaking, and tearing, and you will feel the sickly-sweet breath of a dragon wash over your face. She will be as vast as the Dark Dragon, if not vaster, trees clinging to her form, an entire forest becoming her armor.

But you are in what some might call a superior position. You are holding your heartaxe, and there is still music pumping through your veins, and you brought down Walking Elm who might have been able to stop you. You can put her to sleep, here and now, if you strike a blow against her. And even I do not know if the Rot Star would be able to wake her again.

All you must do is be brave, Yuki Edogawa, and step forward with a swing.

---

Sayanastia!

The world peels away. The stars are still shining above, but you could almost, if you closed your eyes, if you held this boy to you, if you drowned him in your coils, if you closed your eyes as hard as you could, you might be able to sink into slumber for a little while again. To pretend that you do not exist. To deliberately ignore the light of the stars and their insufferable strings.

You could pull him down, down, down deep. Down where there is no dreaming. Down where the world is only a weight being held up by the coils of your countless sisters. Down to where you first woke. And you would drag all the rest of the Handmaidens down, and likely even the little Hero facing down Aria Thendragon, and that would be that.

If you could ignore his starlight, you could do this. If you could make him give up his starlight, you could do this. He must surrender or you must let the moment pass.

---

Hazel!

---

Eclair Espoir!

Timtam catches your sword between her palms, clutching her fingers tight around it. As long as she holds, as long as she can hold you, she has a moment of reprieve, consumed entirely by you. She lies there, on the ground, her curls spilling out around her head like a halo. There is a wildness in her eyes. All around, you have the advantage, your many selves have the momentum, and her eyes dart about, take it in, realize what you have done.

She looks back at you, and she puts on a mask under her face. She smiles wanly and leans in, rests the sword's tip underneath her chin, holding her hands as if in prayer to the goddess. "Eclair, you've won," she says, like she's throwing up her hands and giving up at chess, pretending that her pride's not wounded by the loss. "You got me fair and square. I suppose it's time for you to take me back to the Mansion. Though, I suppose," she breathes, and her eyes don't leave yours, "you could do whatever you wanted to me first."

(A first thought: she's trying to trick you. The classic "oh no don't lock me up in the harem" ploy. Whatever she's doing, going back to the Mansion is playing right into her hands.)

(A second thought, from deep down your spine: she knows you would assume a trick.)

(A third thought: she knows how to fluster you and what you are like when you are trying not to show it.)

(A fourth thought: the element of surprise will not last forever.)

"Hm. As you wish."

This is not quite action faster thought. If it was, there would have been no time for a pithy one-liner. Say rather that this is action faster than consideration. Before calculation, before the chain of consequences can be unraveled or resolved. This is action before justification.

Or perhaps it is merely the consequence of a very intense dream. If that is the case, Timtam has nobody to blame but herself.

Step One: shift weight toward back foot, begin rightward roll off of Timtam. As body shifts, switch grip from sword to grab target by the collar. Grip tightly and lean into spin. Jerk upward as momentum peaks, grab hold with second hand and initiate full spin. Repeat for two rotations, plant foot. Torque hip and release opponent into air.

Step Two: follow with backflip. Extend left foot and snap kick at point of balance inversion. Heel connects with opponent's jaw, disorienting. Juggling. Regain eye contact with ground, plant feet. Light-assisted leap into air.

Step Three: Momentum of own body causing mid-air twirl. Pull arms toward chest to accelerate movement. Wheel around and, at pinnacle of spin, extend right leg and connect full-on with boot in maximum hip rotation kick.

The kick connects with a flash of blinding opal light not unlike a bolt of lightning (if one were to pass through this transit hall on its way to some distant cloudy sky). Thunder roars after it, furious and deafening. In fact, the arc of light follows Timtam as she sails helplessly through the station until it and she both crash into a wall and leave a comical hole where they pass. Eclair Espoir does not believe in codified combat, but the principles of the first strike the handmaiden of Heron had shown her that first night in the Chrysanthemum were simple enough to emulate. And inspiring enough to try.

In truth what she'd done was little more than simple brute force. Nothing but burning a significant portion of her Light into raw energy and kicking it out with the use of several heartblades. Nothing of mastery and nothing of technique. Timtam is skilled and well armored enough that the strike will be far from lethal. Impossible to calculate the effects beyond the here and now. But within that lense it has most certainly rendered her unconscious. The fight is finished.

Eclair lands heavily on her side, having committed so much herself to the strike that she had nothing left for the landing. She pushes up off the ground with both hands, but it is a struggle until she can pull her left leg under her and firmly plant her boot on solid ground. The right has gone almost completely numb. Consequences of channeling so much of her offense so directly through her body.

Action before consideration indeed. She tilts her head toward the ruined sword in her hand, its length twisted and warped beyond the point of use. She tosses it aside with a loud clatter and brushes her fingers across her thigh.

"I see. So that is why you channel it through the medium of a weapon."

Her forehead splits open, oozing blood around her left eye and down her cheek. She touches the fingers of her glove to it to check the flow: not enough to be worth the bother of attending to. She simply dips her head so that nothing drips on the floor as she turns away from the quarry she can no longer chase and turns her attention back to the people she came here to protect.

It's an easy sacrifice to make, in the end. She had not come here to win. Neither had she come here to return to the Manor. She came because somebody was in trouble. She came because nobody else was positioned to do anything about it. Now that she has discharged that duty it is time to collect the people here who need collecting, and to leave.

No more attempting to jump to the end of the game. She stoops, hiding the struggle as best she can, and throws the Idiot over her shoulder.

"If you need to be carried as well, this is the moment to admit it."

Very romantic, no?

[if it's necessary the Fight roll is an 11]

A day ago, Yuki would have taken this moment and struck without hesitation. She'd felt the fear of Aria, and the boldness of being a knight, and she'd have looked at this as a moment to rid the world of an evil-doer and struck confidently and quickly.

But then, this has been quite a day, hasn't it? Nearly a whole day in fact, the dance carrying them past midnight into the wee hours of a new morning. A day full of pain and loss and also full of new learning and questions about the shape of the heart. Thellamie has a lot to offer, even if it doesn't fill you aglow with starlight and place you on the royal road.

And Aria Thendragon is not Walking Elm. The latter makes Yuki sick and afraid and her response had been anger and instinct first. She was still angry, would still have struck Walking Elm in anger had the targets been reversed. But Aria...she was tragic, and now Yuki could see that tragedy from a safe place and consider it.

And so the blow she strikes is without hesitation, but it is not a fierce and confident blow, but a gentle one. The slow twirl of an intimate dance, a languid movement through measures of music in which the axe rises and falls and kisses the neck of Aria Thendragon. That for a moment, in Yuki's fullness within the play, she can be great enough to catch even a falling dragon and lay her down to sleep without any unnecessary jostles.

She did not strike to claim the title of lumberjack knight, though it is now irrevocably hers for the great tree she has felled. And she did not strike to save anyone this time. She struck because when she looked at the dragon before her, she saw a queen whose eyes were so very sad. Who did not wish to keep trying to conquer and did not feel any of the joy before her now. Only the sorrow of what was lost. She struck because that was what Aria Thendragon’s heart desired, that she might go back to rest and not be forced yet again through the pain and struggle of a world that had already had its time with her and she with it.

This strike, then, is the greatest gift that Yuki knows how to give to a dragon queen. And she gives it freely, with all of her being.

"Inara!" hisses the Dark Dragon. "This is your game, isn't it? Every time the eye turns on you, you sidestep and offer a better target. Don't eat me! Eat this deer! He is much tastier than I am! But I can taste you on my tongue now - I can taste your pride, your clever wit and your fear. And do you know what?"

The Dark Dragon licks her teeth. She sets Hazel down to the side. Reality aches as her heartblade wrenches itself from the void into her claws.

"It's the most delicious thing on offer. Now come down here and face me."

Hazel falls to the ground, which is about three surprises in one.

To say that Sayanastia, the Dark Dragon, is…big? Enormous? Vast? Is to lose an essential point of her. To say much at all will lose an essential point of her. Imagination can only go so far. Some things must be experienced to be understood. It is enough to say that as he fell into her depths, all at once floating weightless and crushed breathless, he beheld the scale of a little deer beside divinity. He saw that he could not see.

And now he is flat on the ground. Alone, in the dark.

He did everything he could. He watched, he listened, he adapted, he didn’t run away, he danced in a way that he is only embarrassed about now, because she does not care. She demanded he dance with her, he gave her everything he could think to give, and she left him here to pick himself back up. Everything, all his efforts, swallowed into a void. It might as well have never happened. Did she even mean to toss him aside? Or had she stopped thinking about him already?

Hazel lies where he fell. No clue what’s become of Deo, of Yuki, of all the lovely people of the Chrysanthemum. The Dark Dragon raging at the heavens about puppets and pride and feasts while Juni is locked up in some awful Khaganate prison. Muscles aching, from running, from leaping, from dancing.

Alone, in the dark

his hands clench into fists.

Saynastia, the Dark Dragon!

I unfold from the breath of my daughters. My tails are a shining, luminous fan. I am as vast as a dragon, and my coat is dappled with mocking peacock eyes. I am light in the midst of darkness; I am the story that demands we keep going, keep laughing, keep finding new ways to challenge dragons and maids and heroines and silly boys. My teeth are white and sharp. I am ravenous for this entertainment.

If I am afraid, it is that I will not do right by my Thellamie. If I am afraid, it is a fear of the story ending wrong.

"Fighting me will not bring her back, you know," I purr, with a rustling of tails, with a shuddering wink of eyes. "Defeating me will not make you not a character any more. Lash out at me all you like - you're still a part of her story. The tamed nemesis. Do you want more illustrations? More of my attention?"

And I reach out and pin Hazel Valentine Fletcher under one paw as vast as a chariot, as gentle as the coils of Crevas.

---

Yuki!

I can spare a moment for you, my girl. You were such a joy last time. You still are. Some of my eyes are for you, too.

The Rot Star withdraws from this place. Thinking of ways to punish you, to crush around Vespergift all the tighter, to one day make everyone who idolizes you suffer. But all this does is make the dark forest mundane, ordinary, thick and pressing all around. Safer to travel through. You could take Hazel by the hand and walk with him through strange and unfamiliar woods until you come to the place he is seeking, whatever that might be.

At your feet is a heap of broken branches, dried flowers, and a mushroom as vast as a heart. Bits of white bone can be glimpsed under the leaves, the wood, and the petals.

You're at two for two for foiling Fallen Stars, my dear. You might even make it to four by the end of this, if I'm not careful in how I set you against Miaou's champion.

---

Eclair Espoir!

You are owed clues. You are owed many clues, but one shall have to suffice here, as shining-eyed Mayzie takes your hand, her fingers interlacing with yours. Because you can never turn that mind of yours off. Ah, if only I had thought to set you against someone who could set those thoughts of yours to fuzzy, confused buzzing, and then to peaceful bliss and purring. You have Mayzie, whose passion shines against yours, but she will never be able to be a thick blanket to drown out your thoughts.

Well. Not unless both of you learn how. It would be something to approach with intentionality, with intensity, with gentleness. But I digress.

The false maids are quite evidently Serigalamu. Moreover, the tattoos worked onto their necks, peering out from over their lace collars, indicate that they are associated with the Khatun and her huntress-regime. The Civil Church is one of the most powerful organizations in Thellamie, but it is a loose and passive power, and the Khaganate would be well-equipped to exploit a Church in disarray.

"I have never been a character," spits Sayanastia. "I am a birth defect. Every time Heron tried to grow I was there to poison her bones and sand her tongue and rip the joy from her heart. I have tried time after time to make this world silent and she was my only success. How she blooms now - that is always who she was always seeking to become, the moment I ceased preventing it."

As big as a dragon. Not bigger. Even like this you cannot imagine bigger.

For all of her magnificence, the wicked star has plucked the wrong heartstring. It is depression that animates the Dark Dragon, but hers is not the glittering sadness of a broken heart. She is not in love. She does not mourn for love. Look to love, always - but one cannot look upon the darkness.

A missed note. A moment of silence. Space for nothing, and nothing comes, filled with stars. There are stars for ribbons. Stars for braids. Stars for scales and stars for swords. Stars for eating, because the void is ravenous. If you are only afraid of the story ending wrong then you are bold, bold - too bold.

Sayanastia severs Inara's vast and gentle paw entire.

"Fighting you will not bring her back," said the Dark Dragon, licking the blood of stars off her talons. "But it will make you stop touching what's mine. Do I have your attention now, little fox? Are you listening to me rather than the sound of your own voice?"

[Fight: 8
Inflicting a Condition and taking an object from my opponent.]

And here she had thought it took a starlight blessing to face a star. Well...maybe it did though, and it was just that this time Yuki wasn't the one full of Starlight, but more like somebody else's tool. Even so, the blow was hers, the dance was hers, and the blessing had been hers too. She smiles as she looks at the foliage. She rather liked the forest anyway, even the sort of rotted, fungal stuff. It had an earthy, calming air to it. Just as long as it wasn't trying to actively poison you.

Yuki takes a deep breath. A breath full of green, of earth, and also of calm and heart. It's a breath in the outside, where all around her there is a dark sky full of stars and a new moon visible by its absence. The dance hall and the wait staff are long gone, though Yuki's lace still flows around her, as real as anything can be real here.

It is that rustle of skirts that is the first thing you hear, Hazel, as the firm hand that grips your own settles in. It comes before the weight of some vast and unseen paw loosens upon you and the new moon proves itself to be the shape of a dragon. And you feel that you can stand and walk together. "Here" says Yuki, and you find that you can indeed stand and walk where you need to go.