[IC] TSL: The Excess of Flowers

[Thanqol]

The worst thing about demons, Fengye thought, is that there doesn't seem to be a medium setting for them. Lots of stories are about girls who are tempted by, like, an Emerald Eye Courtesan, or have to strike a deal with a Hopping Puppeteer to curdle a neighbour's milk (before being taught the error of their ways by an Immaculate). That was the level she was planning on operating on when she'd initially gotten into demonology: she'd wanted to maybe date a Courtesan (and maybe an Immaculate), and perhaps have some power and safety on the side. A demon horse? Absolutely something she could handle.

but what the fuck was this

how the fuck was anyone supposed to survive this

who the fuck is Ven?

But on the plus side, Fengye has developed a technique for managing her emotions, keeping the priestess' squeaks muffled and for keeping her demon horse under control. The technique is screaming in terror, and she races through the crushing arms of a nightmare beyond her small town dreams and small town demonology scrolls. She didn't ask for this.

(Well... perhaps not out loud.

... And perhaps that scream was, in part, a howl.)

[Marking Insecure]

[Anarion]

Maidens above this was so stupid. It wasn't hard to follow Uusha's reasoning. There weren't many dragons in the flower kingdoms, this one probably worked for Red Wolf, it wasn't exactly a secret that something was up when the waitress at the tea house drops a demon sword on your table. But that was the point, damn it! The waitress at the tea house could have been spying quietly, but she cared enough to drop that sword and help them. It was the same with Red Wolf letting Giriel know about the spirits of the honored dead being misued (by Uusha, let's remember). If Giriel had found out about that from a wandering shepherd, of course she would have gone and stopped it. It dishonored their ancestors! The fact it came from Red Wolf and maybe she served people who had long-term designs to hurt the flower kingdoms didn't mean you ignored a real problem that was happening now. And you didn't turn down allies who obviously wanted to help with your local demon problem!

In different circumstances, Giriel would have given Uusha a piece of her mind here. She still might. But this was a crisis and the conflict was over. She was already panicking, who starts a fight in the middle of a magical transportation spell through another dimension? What if the Rakshasa had been there, huh? What if they'd attracted attention on their trip? The spell helped them stay safe, but it was still supposed to be quickly in and quickly out, no guarantee of that next time! So, she didn't agree with Uusha, but she did agree with ending the fight and getting out of there and she wasn't about to stop that for anything.

The poor noblewoman though. Giriel sighed. "We'll fix it later, Uusha's a fool, but her heart's in the right place." She put her strong, thick arm around Azazuka's shoulders and guided the girl towards the exit. "What's important now is getting where we're going and sorting this whole demon thing. Then we can deal with all this business of politics and kingdoms."

And with that, she gave Azazuka a push out the exit and leapt through herself.

[BlasTech]

It's all in the little lies we tell ourselves.

She spins, fighting back against the literal demons in the dark. Telling herself that she's clearing space, that this is a fight worth fighting. That the battle she finds herself in is hard won. That she's made a difference. These are the lies she has to tell, to keep her sword arm swinging strong when it would be easier, smarter even, to hide away and put her hope in avoiding the attention of those who are simply too big for a lone knight of the Flowers.

Her breath catches when the roar shakes the castle.

Again, she tells herself that she's not afraid. Again, it is a lie. This time her conscious mind is able to recognise this, and identify the fear it for what it is. It's the fear that had been there when she'd left the inn. A fear that never really left. Only withdrawing to lurk like a river serpent beneath the waters of her mind. It's not a fear of death, or pain. But a fear of loss. A fear of things out of control. A fear that the big things are slipping away. That things might be too late to stop. All because she'd focused, like a fool, on the smaller, more immediate, problems.

But the lie is still a necessary one - otherwise the urge to curl up, to wail away in grief at what's she's losing, would only doom the fear to coming true.

[Kalaya marks the condition "Frightened"]

She weighs the paths in front of her. Fengye is away, and there can be no doubt that she'll get the priestess to safety. It's another lie, but one Kalaya cements in her mind as fact. If there was any doubt, her oaths would command her to run after them; to defend the weak. The priestess must be safe, she has to be. Otherwise, she couldn't do what she needs to do.

To an outsider, Kalaya must have been like a leaf on the wind - swinging in every direction. One instant one way, the next the other.

Once, when she'd been much younger, one of the castle guards had shown her a trio of magical pieces of iron. He'd said they'd been blessed by Manimekhala, the goddess of storms and sea. And they really had seemed magical back then, the way that they'd cluster together without anybody touching them. The way they'd required actual force to pull apart. How he could hang them in a chain, despite them never being physically joined.

She always remembered when he'd set them in a line, alternately pushing the ends closer, dragging that stone in the middle back and forth across the stone floor, back and forth, until at last it cleaved to one piece over the other.

Back and forth. Pulled in twain. Caught between her oaths and … what?

Kalaya makes her choice and, in doing so, she proves that it's in the little lies we tell ourselves that bigger lies are sometimes hidden. As much as her mind cements as fact once again; that this is for friendship past, a debt owed …

The truth is bigger than that.

The truth is … hidden deep beneath the surface and buried beneath the little lies and self-justifications. There is hope.

In one quick action, the bars to the dungeon are thrown back once more and the door opened. Armoured in her lies, the green knight leaps through.

[TheAmishPirate]

You, who have trucked with failures; behold victory.

Her hide glitters, the first of her namesakes, proof against weapons mortal, and demonic. Would the gods have entrusted the world to that which could not stand against hell? But you do not have room to stare. You do not dare avert your gaze. Hunched over, nearly on all fours, yet her long nose all but brushes yours. She bares rows and rows of glistening fangs. Her snarl could tear mountains to rubble, were she to unleash it in full. The air is fire, her eyes are fire, save where they are split by an endless blackness that threatens to swallow you whole.

Do you see the antlers, flowing from her head, save where they fork and split like lightning? Do you see her tail, flowing long from her body, swaying hypnotizingly slow? The only time you will see it, before it strikes? Can you bear the sight of her blade, weaving sinuously down the ridges of her back, waiting for its master’s hand to spring to life? A thirsting thing of scale and fang, once grasped, not to return until it has drunk its fill of victory?

And you thought to defy her, liar? Kidnapper?! Poisoner of her lands!?!

Yet the gravest insult of all; the wind answers for you. In deafening hiss and eternal hail, it hides you away and cries fight me! Fight me! How can you fight me, o glory of heaven?

The wind, make a demand of her?

The wind must learn its place.

An ocean stirs. Raging flows of Essence swirl through her. Embers fly from arrows deflecting off her hide. Faster and faster, more and more, flowing down the length of her tail, a secret weapon of the dragons.

(It is a secret weapon the same way a fever is a secret defense. A wager, that this will hurt you far more than it hurts me. A body takes in so much Essence, that no weapon or being can approach without first passing through fire. Teachers of the flows often let their students stumble into this art on their own, that they may experience firsthand the dizzying, burning reasons why only the desperate or foolish would try it in battle.

These rules, like many others, do not apply to dragons.)

She spins, her tail striking like lighting, and a crack of thunder sends torrents of burning air down the hallway. Arrows in flight burn, melt, shrivel to useless nothing, and it is all the opening she needs. Four claws shred stone and climbing! Leaping! Catching the air and hurling herself ever forward! Wall, floor, ceiling, it makes no difference. All are hers. All will serve. A feral mass of scales and violence tears after the kidnapper, and the wind feebly strikes at her wake.

Pathetic. How can the wind fight a dragon?

[Rolling to Defy Disaster with Daring: 4 + 3 + 2 = 9. The Vermilion Beast will sacrifice the appearance of control.]

[Tatterdemalion]

Han!

You bite down on something terrible, and it yields under your jaw. How could it not? You could bite through the mast of a real sea-ship when you are so suffused with Essence. There is a horrible echoing scream, and the kidnapper is released, only to be caught up by a dragon.

There is a wild panic in her eyes as she rolls over, mostly tangled in her cloak, sword half-drawn. She’s helpless. You are power, strength, rage. And now you get to make her squeal about where your little priestess is.

But first, doesn’t she deserve to be small and scared? Doesn’t she deserve to be punished for everything she put you through?

***

Kalaya!

There is a dragon in the room. It is standing over Ven. It throbs and burns with power, with essence flow unlike anything you’ve ever seen. It is not the dragon from your storybooks, to be revered as an ancestress, or the dragon of the Dominion, ancient and greedy and so, so distant. It is here and it is alive and it is an animal, and it is going to kill Ven.

Are you a knight, or aren’t you?

***

Piripiri!

Uusha shoves you onto the ground. Hard. For a moment, your head rings where you hit the ground. Then the hiss fills your ears.

The room is furious with arrows. Burning arrows, ricocheting arrows, howling wind arrows. And Uusha has just put herself between you and it. Arms crossed before her, feet set, head lowered, she takes to the task of protecting the three of you without complaint. Did she even think about it?

***

Giriel!

And four winds birthed the Mother of Loss, and one was the grinding-wind, and one was the brilliant-wind, and one was the promise-wind, and one was the arrow-wind. And of these only the arrow-wind will kill, with a thousand darts, or with the arrows of Yes and No, or with a long knife, as she chooses.

Kalmanka, the Arrow-Wind. She can be ten thousand arrows, or she can be a needle; she can be a black wolf, a silver swan, or a woman wearing a scale-coat of arrowheads. If Ven has called upon her, she is digging herself very deep in debt.

But worst of all is that Kalmanka holds the arrows of Yes and No in her quiver-soul, with which she may inflame passions or shatter them. No sorcerer may command her to use the one without accepting that she will also use the other as she wills, and often to their doom. She could turn [Uusha] into a sobbing berserker, or leave you with nothing but cold ash where your regard for her was.

***

Fengye!

There! The General roars, a hoarse and chorused bellow, and jerks back a mangled hand from the sea. Something on the other side got him fierce. He rears up and out of his sleeves spill dolls, hundreds of them, jerking broken shattered empty uniforms and breastplates, who walk as best they can on top of the sea of waste. Whoever is on the other side (which is to say, likely Kalaya) is about to be dragged into battle with a demon army. Could even she claw her way out of that kind of host?

If he pulls too much harder, incidentally, he risks doing damage to the world itself. The kind that will fester until its effects on the Flower Kingdoms are impossible for Heaven to ignore. It would ruin a beachhead for Hell, but the effects on the Flower Kingdoms would be… deleterious, in the short run.

The ideal ending for all of this is for the General to be distracted long enough for someone enterprising to contact the priestesses of the Sapphire Mother to exorcise this place as thoroughly as they can, at great expense.

He could be distracted, perhaps, with a truly audacious lie. Or with whoever this Ven is. Or— no, you wouldn’t hand over this cutie, you’re not that cold.

[BlasTech]

Is Kalaya a knight? Haven't we answered this question already?

Of course she's a knight - depending on your definition, she's been one ever since her teenage years. Ever since that one autumn evening when she first swore the Thorn Oaths and spent a night in contemplation (even though, at the time, her arms and armour had been little more than a rusty training sword and a leather jerkin that she'd claimed from the castle armoury)

Yes, Kalaya is a knight. But it is not Kalaya the knight that jumps back into the room.

For, long before she ever became a knight, she had been a girl.

And how does a girl react when she makes a true and dear friend? Her first real friend? Someone who stands by her when they had no need to do so, who fought for her and continued to stay by her side when all others would have left? What does she think when they spend every moment they can together, like a pair of freezing children seeking out, clinging to the warmth of that one ephemeral flick of flame.

What does a girl feel when that warmth turns to scalding fire, but only when in defence of her? When she and the fire would stand tall in defiance of those who were stronger, faster, crueller. When the flames would fortify her against the cold, lonely nights upon which doubt would prey. When she could feel that flame as a beacon on the horizon, despite the leagues between them?

And how do you sort through all that when one day, that flame disappears and it's like the sun itself has gone out. When you lose that reference point and all the perspective it would have brought? Do you let their memory fade, or does it become the ideal? And even when other flames flicker into life around you, even when you open up and let them into your life, do they still sit there as the light by which all others are judged?

And what, then, do you do when the sun is suddenly back? But instead of the warm yellow glow of your memories, it's shining green. Could your mind even begin to process this? Would it break?

And the craziest thing about all of this is that you can remember how the sun spoke to you. Both years and days ago, and the voice is the same - carrying a tone that it touches only for you. That the silent gestures of times past are still present and that whatever space you had in its thoughts - you're still there.

Now, you know what you are meant to do. You're meant to walk away. To forget. To move on. To find a new sun and a new life. Because for so long the sun had been distant and unreachable. Beyond hearing. Beyond touch. Beyond all sight and knowledge. But now here she is again, right in front of her, and Kalaya can only think about how to help Ven escape once more.

And that doesn't make any sense at all.

After all. Kalaya is a knight. Those sworn to hell are the enemy.

But it isn't Kalaya the knight that leaps against the dragon.

And it isn't Kalaya the girl.

It's Kalaya the woman. Armoured in lies, doubt and confusion. The one who would reach out to that flickering flame and try to preserve it, no matter the cost.

[Kalaya is smitten with Ven, who takes a string. Rolling to Fight the Vermillion Beast: 4 + 1 + 1: 6. Kalaya uses the move "For the Cause", marking the condition Insecure to pick a move from the Fight move and chooses to take something - namely Ven].

[eldest]

Honorable surrender accepted. Ow.

She blinks away the daze in time to look up into the tide of arrows, hissing their way towards her, and Uusha, and Giriel behind. Kalmanka. She'd seen her act once, from a distance, in a town whose lord was vicious and treating with demons. He'd gotten a taste of what he dealt out, and she'd watched, because her sifu had a point. Even the worst of powers have positive uses.

And now that was pointed at her. More importantly, it was pointed at Uusha, who did not have the tools to deal with it. Letting her captor become a pincushion and walking free doesn't even enter her mind. She snatches at her umbrella, squashing the guilt that this is bending honorable surrender quite far indeed, and shoves it forward, popping it open and breathing. The breath draws in the essence, the heart refines it, the hands channel it, and the umbrella...

The first arrow hits the umbrella, it's flight to Uusha's shoulder interrupted, and bounces off the dainty painted paper with a plink.

The immediate job of protection done, she begins to hum, and then to sing, a heavy, low song that fills the air, and the onslaught of arrows slow.

"Upon the sea, the sea, a tragedy
A fisher, a fisher once cried
He had not a boat not a sail to his name
For all that he touched had died

with the four winds he'd fought and he'd bleed
for he had no mind to yield
they fled and he was becalmed on the sea
flat as an unsown field

Three sunsets he saw come and they went
while he cried saltwater tears
on the fourth a swan sat on his mast
and set aside all that he feared

the swan she saw the sun kiss the sky
she took wing and flew on a breeze
the wind had filled his sails in the night
and soon he saw shore and it's trees

the sailor he gave up the sea, the sea
and went from shore to shore
all things, even wrath, must end
all must obey this lore"

She's breathing heavily as she finishes the song, half-sitting up and still holding the umbrella up as a shield, though no arrow had hit it for a verse. She takes a moment to breath, and then deliberately closes the umbrella. "My apologies for arming myself, and my appreciation that you did not act immediately out of suspicion. No escape or rebellion was meant." And with that, she rolls it away from her again.

Defying Disaster with spirit, rolled a mighty 12. The Arrow-Wind should no longer be in hail-of-arrows form. Gain a Tradition from following a commandment in a self-sacrificing way.

[Thanqol]

In a moment of calm amidst storms, Fengye realized that this she understood. Amidst the grandeur and power of this mighty demon lord hid a simple fact: He was a soldier. A creature who functioned as a military. Who interacted with the world in soldiers and invasions and battles. And she was trained specifically in military sabotage.

A bureaucratic functionary of the Dominion's Thousand Scales was intended to assist with all forms of military administration. It took eminent technique to maintain military superiority in lands as distant, and in terrain as dangerous, as the Flower Kingdoms, and an upright scholar knew the techniques to plunge an organization into chaos as surely as to keep chaos from her own door.

This enormous demon general may be a superpowered monstrosity, but then, so were the Lords of the Dominion. This was no different. He was just bigger, but that was all on the outside. His size meant nothing compared to the righteous conviction of the Dominion's true warriors. So the Texts said, and she kind of needed them to be right given the alternative.

Her third arrow connects with the knotted wood at the heart of one of the doll soldiers, sending it crumpling into a heap of discarded clothing. Fengye snatches up the helmet and snaps into place the breastplate, working a cantrip of a spell to adjust the rank insignia up several notches. She swallows hard, and then urges her horse to approach the General from behind and too his right.

She closes her eyes. Listens to the yells, the horns, the refrains. The clashing noise of war, the noise that kept away the silent wind. Let her mind pick out the patterns and dialect of the General's organization. Having a head for languages and accents was another key duty of the upright scholar, for the Lords of the Dominion could not be expected to learn the muddle of every lesser language.

She clears her throat, still scratching from all the yelling she had done so far today, and bellows in her best impression of a demonic centurion: "Ho, Lord! Grant me your scepter and I shall lead your troops who marshal to cross the sea! Grant me your scepter and I shall wage a war that will live forever in your memory! Grant me your scepter, for it is for glory that we fight, and to deny me glory now would spell the end of your oaths and your army both!"

[Call Upon A Toxic Power: 12]

[Anarion]

Giriel steps out from the backstage, carefully leading the noblewoman by the shoulders. She wants to prevent her from losing her composure. Things will be okay, after all, they've got a good team. She gives her a gentle pat of reassurance around her shoulder, it will be fine.

They exit to find themselves facing a roaring wind, the demonic arrow wind, Kalmanka, as the castle shakes and many things appear to be happening in many places. Giriel has just the presence of mind to close the door behind her, fully completing her travel spell, and then throws her current ward to the ground as fast and as hard as she can, using all of her bulk to shield her. She turns then, arm upraised and fingers together in a warding sign, hoping she can manage a chant before they're all killed only to see the dragon waitress (Piripiri, she had to keep the name straight in her head instead of just thinking of her as the waitress) holding out her umbrella and singing.

And such a song. A tale of becalming against the arrow wind, and of change and travel! In divinations, change and travel were often synonymous, a change of scenery being literal as opposed to metaphorical being one of the most difficult distinctions for the diviner to make. Considering they had just come out of a portal in a new place, the symbolism of the entire room shouted instability as loud as it could. Whatever was happening now, things would not stay as they were. It make Giriel a little worried. An optimist might simply assume that they were about to defeat a bunch of demons, but symbolism like this (and Han going on a full and wondrous rampage) made it just as likely that the symbolism was telling her that the entire castle would topple down around them before this was over.

Still, Piripiri was succeeding, her channeled essence through her song and her umbrella shielded them. So, Giri rose and offered a hand to the noblewoman she had so unceremoniously tackled as they entered. And as she lifted up the girl, she turned to the slowly coalescing wind, and spoke: "Kalmanka, the Arrow-Wind, I name you. Lady of battle, armored in arrows, the black wolf and the silver swan."

And then she is silent. For now, at least, Giriel has no request for this being, but in naming her, she has offered that she may, or perhaps that her companions may now that they are not being assaulted. Let one of them fill the silence first. Piripiri, perhaps, deserved that for saving their lives from the assault.

[TheAmishPirate]

Punishment is simple.

Her demonic attendant will be taken from her. They will be beaten. If she draws her sword, they will be beaten. If she tries to take her back, they will be beaten. If she admits where Melody is, they will be beaten.

No complaining now, kidnapper. It's only fair.

[Rolling to Fight Kalaya: 6 + 4 + 2 = 12. Choosing:
-Inflict a Condition on Kalaya with violence
-Take something from Kalaya (her veil, revealing her identity)
-Gain a String on Kalaya]

[Tatterdemalion]

Ven!

Your masters cannot exist in the world.

If the General attempted to march out in his glory into the Flower Kingdoms, the world would reject him utterly. This is the secret of demonology, the reason that the great lords and ladies of Hell need you. Even a pact would not suffice for someone as great as he; the earth would burn him, the air deny him, the flows of essence divert themselves around him, and when he fell not even the mushroom would eat his wretched body. This is what it means to be a splinter of the Broken King. It means you can never go back. It means that your entire war is meaningless, but you’ll never admit it.

But Kingeater Castle is a place where the world bleeds into Hell. It does not play by the same rules. You knew that when you took possession of it; it meant that you were at the peak of your power here, that you could call upon your masters’ legions and servants almost effortlessly.

But it also means that the General (why did the bitter old bastard choose now? why now?) can act here more directly. And he chooses to ruin everything.

He takes Kingeater Castle by its foundations, by its walls and its parapets and its angles, and he pulls.

The sound of an entire castle being pulled into Hell is indescribable. If you were forced, you would say it was wet. Uncomfortably wet, hideously grating, and loud enough to make your ears ring—

And it collapses all around you. You are swept on a wave of broken violence and the trash of death as towers crumble into the Wrack-waste, as your schemes crumble because of a monster with the patience of a child.

And he’ll blame you for making him lash out. He’ll subject you to court-martial and punishment. You’ll have to hope that the Green Sun and Whirling-in-Rags care to save you from the same fate as all the priestesses you sent here, buried under the waste in their cells.

A wave crests and sends you tumbling, tumbling, back down into Kalaya’s arms; you painfully end up in a trough in the sea, pinned underneath her, and she’s staring down at you, you, you warlock.

Your eyes are hot pinpricks of pain.

“Get! Off! Me!” You scream at her, even as the sea writhes beneath you, tries to pull you under; one of your feet is already caught under the crush. “You— you stupid bitch!”

Why does she have to see you like this? Why couldn’t she just leave you alone? Why are you crying? Why do you hurt? Why do you hurt? Why do you hurt?

You dig your nails into her arm, because you are sinking. You dig your nails into her arm, because you hate her. You dig your nails into her arm, because she’s in your way. You dig your nails into her arm, because she won’t let go of you.

***

Han!

Melody screams.

It’s the kind of high terror that you’ve never heard from her before, and hopefully never will again. She screams as she runs, stumbling, frantic, across the thrashing waves of a sea of trash, trying not to be crushed by falling stone. And behind her, the ugliest demon you’ve ever seen swings its attention over to her.

It’s the biggest fucking thing you’ve ever seen in your life, like a millipede that chews its way through mountains, draped in a patchwork soldier’s regalia with a thousand sleeves. It wears a serene white mask even larger than you, and thick hairy insect mouth parts are thrashing, just visible beneath it as he bellows in a chorus of voices: “Traitor! Collaborator! Revolutionary! Blasphemer!”

A blue rope lashes out and catches Melody around her chest, knocking her on her cute little butt, and it begins dragging her back towards it over that terrible sea, tearing her blue silks as she sobs in terror.

And you, in the air, in your element: you are resplendent. You do not know that it is impossible to win a battle against such a foe; and therefore, for you and you alone, it might not be.

***

Piripiri!

Uusha is a whirlwind of violence.

All around you, on this sea which threatens to drag you under if you stay still, Wrack-dolls are bursting forth from the waves, shambling towards you, and all around you they find themselves flung aside, arms ruptured, legs severed. In one hand she has her great double-ended spear, which she treats as if it were as light as a ribboned wand; how strong she must be, how capable. In her other she has your umbrella, which she uses to fend off grasping hands with sickening cracks of their, for lack of a better term, exoskeletons. It is possible she could fight any of your teachers to a standstill; it is even possible that she could overcome them.

This is very important, because it means you have your hands free to catch the snake falling from the sky: the daughter of the Laema, thrashing helplessly in her bondage, landing perfectly in your arms. Her hair clings to her skull, her scales slick and her chest heaving, as she looks around with panic and confusion. Apparently she wasn’t found after your escape. How lucky for her that the ropes suspending her were severed in the fall and she’s not being dragged down to the bottom of the waste!

…you could easily hide that you collaborated with a demon to escape, you know. If you dropped her and let the Wrack-waste swallow her. There will be awkward questions from everyone: the witch, Uusha, Azazuka. And you don’t even know her name.

The demoness, daughter of a power of Hell, born into a world that has no love for mortal kind, shivers just like a human in your arms, and nuzzles into you instinctively, like a submissive looking for reassurance from her mistress.

***

Giriel!

“GRAAAAAAAAAAH!”

The noble girl breaks an already broken spear over the head of a Wrack-doll, sending it tumbling down a wave, but then the equal and opposite resistance sends her stumbling back, landing on her rump by your feet, and there’s still more wading through the Waste towards you.

Well, here you are. Again. But this time, it’s in the flesh, which makes everything so much more dangerous. You didn’t have to worry about keeping your weight fleeting on the surface of this rubbish heap, or dodging falling rubble, or dealing with an army of angry dolls who want to drag you down beneath the waves.

And you could run, you could dance your way across the silver waste for five days and find yourself back home, but Uusha and the Hymairean are nowhere to be seen in the chaos. This is the worst of your challenges yet: do you have the strength to face it?

***

Fengye!

You can see it all, even as the demon horse bucks beneath you, torn between its rider and the whistle of its owner, who will come to find the horse if it tarries. You can see the dragon, curling on herself in the sky; you can see the priestess, who panicked and ran when the sky opened up and began to rain down stone, now caught by the General; you can see the knight and the warlock, beginning to sink beneath the Wrack-waste; you can see others, too, catching snakes from the sky and fighting off the Wrack-dolls and dodging collapsing towers.

You have the view of a commander, and you have the scepter. You may, in your role as the General’s aide-de-camp, give any order and it will be carried out by his host, so long as he does not countermand it. All the authority of the General is in your hands, so long as his suspicion is not aroused, and all power save that necessary to stop someone from being crushed by a collapsing castle turned inside-out.

What do you do, Fengye, in this fleeting moment of power?

[eldest]

…you could easily hide that you collaborated with a demon to escape, you know. If you dropped her and let the Wrack-waste swallow her. There will be awkward questions from everyone: the witch, Uusha, Azazuka. And you don’t even know her name.

There is no arrangement of the fates, no weaving they could make, to make that a choice that Piripiri of House Seumul would make.

She's got nothing to work with. Her umbrella is wielded by her captor handily, standing tall upon the broken side of a ship, holding back the tide of wrack-dolls from the sea of Hell. Her knives were tossed aside in the forest among a scaled-swarm, to save Han from the whispering snake. She cannot fight, she stretched honorable surrender to the breaking point even grabbing her umbrella.

But sometimes that's not what's needed. Sometimes you catch somebody unwanted as they fall. You wipe away any drool from their gag, you smooth back their hair and pet their head softly. And you hold them close as they shiver and make muffled whimpering noises. "It's okay." You say. "I'm here. It will all be okay."

A retroactive rolling of entice nets a 12. Gain a string on the demon maid, and she picks one.

[Thanqol]

Oh. Power.

Fleeting moment? No. No, no, no, no, no, storyteller. You have misjudged Fengye. She holds the scepter of office of Hell itself in her delicate little hands. Do you think that she'd let this slip through her fingers? Do you think that she'd exchange this kind of power for a temporary reprieve, the office of the General for a chance to get away and live a normal life? In this moment she is a pyromaniac given the keys to the firedust arsenal of Gem and the only sound coming from the direction of her conscience is the rip of duct tape.

She had fled the Emerald Prince because Zhaojun was not powerful enough. Because Zhaojun was outmatched. Because Zhaojun was scared. But now sapphire fire ignited along the edge of her mask and she looked up at the demon general, crowned with stars. She raises her scepter, she raises her voice, and she speaks to all the assembled demon army:

"Bind the pretender," she points the scepter at the General, whose back is turned, all his arms occupied grasping onto Kingeater Castle. "Chain him. Gag him. And bring him before me."

So speaks Zhaojun, The General, Demon Lord of the Broken King. Who is there to gainsay her? It is his word against hers, and she holds the scepter.

[Play the Part: 10. I am disguised as the Demon General, and only my words or deeds may expose me.]

[BlasTech]

"Geez, Language!" scolds Kalaya, pulling hard to unstick Ven's foot from the wrack waste before it can claim more than it has already. "And where do you get off calling me stupid? Have you seen where we are?? Now come on!"

Dragging her with strong arms, she brings the warlock up to the ridge to ...

"Oh. great." she says, her voice leaden. "Now there are two giant demons. And that dragon is still there."

You're in over your head, girl.

She sighs, closing her eyes. Why has it got to be this hard?

The plan had been simple to start with - just herself heading to Kingeater, nobody else needed to get hurt. Either she rescued the priestess, or she'd be captured or killed. A nice neat ending to everything. But then she had to meet Fengye. She'd gone and invited her along in a fit of impulsiveness. Why had she done that?

No, that's a lie - she hadn't come to Kingeater just to rescue the priestess. That had been a convenient intersection of duty and desire - but if that had been her only reason to come then she'd have just waited for everyone else back at that inn. No, with everything playing out how it had, she'd had to move quickly and come alone. Only Fengye, who'd never met Ven before and thus had no specific ill will against her, could be trusted not to interfere.

She spots the battle unfolding below, but for some reason she can't summon the energy to run towards it. She'd probably feel guilty about that later - but right now, she just felt so. very. tired.

[Taking the condition "guilty" following Han's attack]

"You know ..." she says, glancing downwards and effortlessly dispatching a wrack doll that was trying to pull itself together out of the rubble around them. "I was pretty sure coming here would get me killed. That seems pretty inevitable now, so I'm just going to take a moment to do what I came here to do: You and I? We need to talk."

She tosses the doll's breastplate down as a makeshift chair and, moving her full-arm grip on Ven to her hands, draws them both into a sitting position. Look into her eyes. Take a breath. Hope for the best.

"I don't know what's going on." she begins. "I've only seen you twice in the last ten years, so I know there's lots I'm missing. You've gone from being the girl I remember as my best friend to ... this."

"I didn't think we'd ever get the chance to meet again. And I'm not going to lie and say that I was always searching for you like one of those storybook characters." she admits "But I always kept my eyes open. I always ... I guess I always hoped we'd cross paths somehow."

"And now we're here. You're you. I'm me." she says, glancing down to those hands "And for some stupid reason. Despite the demons and all the circumstances. I'm still happy about it; That I got to see you again."

"Things may have changed - we may have changed - but that hasn't and it won't." she finishes.

"So ... uh ... yeah." she says, rubbing the back of her head awkwardly. "I guess that's what I broke into your castle to say."

Awkward silence.

"Did you, uh, want a book to read? I have one of our old favourites somewhere on me." she says, patting her cloak.

[For lack of a better thing - gonna take a string on Han as my fight move (since she'd recognise Kalaya when she grabbed the veil)]

[Rolling to Entice Ven: "Come on. Smile for me" and spending a string. 5 + 3 + 2 = 10 ]

[Anarion]

Giriel looks about her and smiles a wry smile. They are within the collapsing tower. One of the clearest symbols of disaster in all of divination, crossing civilizations, cultures, and the great seas themselves. It speaks perhaps to the shared understanding of hubris in all who look upon the world and, finding it wanting, seek to work change. Whatever the hopes and dreams of the maker, there will come a time when something they did not or could not have expected undermines what they have made. Fire, flood, war, and if all else fails, the slow creep of time will undo all that is made.

Philosophizing is, of course, the last refuge of the damned and Giriel Bruinstead understands full well her situation. Her group are lost all about and she won't leave them. No magic that she can work could hold up this tower. Perhaps in another life, in another time, a heroic effort on her part could accomplish such an end. But for herself, she must be content with slamming her blade like a club handily into a few wrack dolls. Keeping her current charge, the noble girl, at least alive. Knowing that the tide is unending and the stones below that tide quickly disintegrating, she can do only what she can in the moment and offer a prayer to Saturn that this is not yet their time.

It is funny that this is so much worse and she is far less panicked than she had been in her first encounter with the general. But it is in the nature of the mind that the most extreme reactions are the product of surprise and the unknown. Even the most extreme peril, encountered more than once, can become mundane if one survives it. This, then, is the reason that Giriel only screams when the ground beneath her feet finally gives way.

[Giriel attempts to defy disaster to protect Azazuka with her wits and will, offering up her own footing at risk. The dice say 1+2+2=5. Marking experience.]

[TheAmishPirate]

She got distracted.

She got distracted by the kidnapper, and could not save Melody from this terror. She should never sound like this. It is not right.

And she will burn the world until it is so.

She reaches a claw behind over her shoulder. Her sword flows off her back, sparks flying between blade and ridge, and as she takes hold it flashes to its full might. Keen of edge. Unbreakable, even with her might. Holding her as tightly as she holds it.

Before her are two identical demons. But of the two of them, one of them has hold of Melody. And so, it is no decision at all.

Down she falls. Down, leaping from the falling rain of Kingeater castle, a jagged, blurring missile, and at the last step she turns on the width of a reed and her blade howls at the speed of her strike. Through coat, through carapace, through wrongness beneath, they are all damp paper. The demon’s rantings turn to enraged screaming. A dozen arms, thick as tree trunks, descend upon her. A dozen arms fall severed. She does not slow a step.

One. One arm reaches through the rain of its brothers. One arm gets close enough to touch her. She catches it - no, she punches it with her own free fist. Her scales are undented. The Generals’ knuckles are bruised. But she slows, just a step. An opening. One becomes many. From all directions, the unholy things grasp at her, to bury her twice and for good.

And all of them burn.

Hotter. Hotter. Hotter! Until the air melts around her! Until she turns from vermillion to blazing white! Until her scales cry out, straining to contain a sun! Until every leap and lunge is an explosion pushing faster, faster than the infinite arms of Hell’s own General! See them languish in her wake! See them turn to ash and recoil in twitching agony! See the blazing comet circle the general, and if your eyes are not equal to the task then follow the trail of burning gashes up his body! Up and up, tighter and tighter, and for a moment she is a roaring halo above his head, bathing all of Hell in her light!

The whip cracks.

The lightning falls.

A hammer-blow of the heavens, condensed into a single stroke, pushes back the eternal clouds of Hell. And in the light of that baleful sun, a General is made to kneel.

A silken rope falls from his hands, and the blade of Heaven takes it in her claw. A snap of the wrist. One last, dizzying twirl. Melody is safe, bundled up, and clutched tightly to her still-warm scales.

The world is made right again.

[Rolling to Fight: 2 + 4 + 2 = 8. Marking Frightened to pick another option with Ferocious:
-Inflict a Condition
-Take something from him (Melody)
-Create an opportunity for an ally (Fengye, for only an imposter would kneel so easily)]

[Tatterdemalion]

Zhaojun!

That was touch-and-go for a moment, wasn’t it? But there’s nothing better than the rush of seeing everything click into place. The General is perilous, powerful, and potent, but you have turned his army against him, a child of the dragons has rebuked him, and at the end of the day, he is of Hell. They lost the war. Their days of glory are far behind them.

So down he crumbles, bleeding ichor from his hewn limbs, as Wrack-dolls climb all over him with rusted chains and frayed ropes, and when he tries to sink beneath the Waste they dig in their heels and slow him down. They will not last forever, and even now vambraces are snapping free and broken lines are sawing through the air, but he is not acting at his full strength and he is unable to simply dive and then burst out from beneath you, as he would like.

He is vulnerable. You may strike with the authority of Heaven and the law of Hell. And you should do so quickly, before the advantage is lost, and he marshals his strength and turns to the work of unmasking you.

***

Piripiri!

“My savior! My heart! Kindest of mortals! I am Naji, daughter of the Laema, sworn to torment those who cast aside true beauty in the Revolution and to provide loyalists with the ageless finery of the true aesthetes, and yet, I want nothing more than to yield to the iron command of a mortal, so long as she is you! Please, let me be yours, yours, yours! Let me be your slave, let me slither upon my pride and my mother’s war, let me be a filthy little traitor to the cause, if only I am yours!”

…is what the serpent-girl is trying to say. Even as you shush her, even as you trace a thumb over her drool-sodden gag, even as she grows more and more mortified, even as she squirms and writhes needily in your arms, cheeks flushed, top heaving, eyes bright, slithering neatly into the archetype of the Traitorous Demoness (who denounces the Demon City for the sake of love, despite the terrible punishments that may well be inflicted upon them when their lover dies and they must return home).

Her words are muffled, incomprehensible, and you can feel how the more she tries to talk, the faster her alien heart beats, the more she strains her muscles against the ropes, the more she huffs through her neat little nose, the higher-pitched her stopped-up voice becomes, and the more adoring the looks she gives you through her lashes.

This serpent has it bad for you. Just absolutely tumble-down-a-flight-of-stairs catastrophic. She associates you with the blissful neediness of suspension, the erotically charged transgression of dallying with a mortal, the shock of sudden relief as she’s plucked right out of the sky and held reassuringly close, and your fondly condescending smile as you listen to her just dig her own horny grave. Tell her how pretty her voice sounds like that and she’d shamelessly arch her back and moan. And keep reassuring her, tell her that you’ll keep her safe, and you’ll have earned the loyalty of a competent demon operative.

And also she has a long, powerful, clever tongue, if that is relevant at all.

***

Kalaya!

Color rises to Ven’s cheeks. She tries to say something, but it comes out as a little squeak. Her eyes dart from your boots to the collapsing demon monster far off, and then she stands up and starts pacing. So that she won’t start sinking into the sea, that is.

Then she pulls her top off.

Beneath, her body is hard. Scarred. The simple wrap over her chest doesn’t hide the place where her arm meets her body. It’s not pretty; the metal was hot when the fusing process began. The arm itself is gleaming brass, of strange design, impossible to mistake for a human’s arm: ornate, fluted. The fingers, articulated, are more like claws.

“Well?” She snaps. “Look at me and say that. Look at this and say that. The Green Sun gave me this instead of my useless one. It was mangled, Kal. I couldn’t even open my fingers anymore. I would have spent the rest of my life as a cripple, forgotten by the world, left on some backwards little farm, pitied and unloved and weak.”

(You know this Ven, too. The Ven who’s too proud to admit she needs you to agree with her.)

“So are you still happy? Because I’m not going to give up. The Broken King promised me the Flower Kingdoms. I’m going to march into Golden Chrysanth at the head of an army. I’m going to bring the kings and the princesses into line. I’m going to make my family proud and free again; Snapdragon will blossom, and there will be peace throughout the kingdoms, and all because of me. So don’t you—“

She gets in close. Touches you, before she realizes what she’s doing. Her brass hand on yours, her eyes shining with challenge and bravado and something more. She freezes up. She’s very close. You could reach out and touch her flushed cheek. Trace your fingers against the pulse beating in her neck. Bring your lips to hers.

“Don’t you try and stop me,” she breathes. “I don’t— I— you— you won’t—“ Her eyes snap down hotly from your face, and her grip tightens on your hand. “Shut up! Shut up!” You haven’t said anything. “I’ll! I’ll kill you! You stupid, beautiful—“

Her voice cuts off into a choked strangle of rage and… not rage.

***

Giriel!

You squeeze your eyes tight when you land. Not because you are afraid, but simply because the body has its own reflexes.

Even so, you see the world light up in searing emerald. Your skin prickles with sudden sunburn, red and sensitive to the touch. There is a sound of hissing, of settling ash, of the wind carrying off death.

And when you open your eyes, Peregrine is not offering you a hand to help you up, or comforting Azazuka, who is curled up and whimpering with the pain of that green fire touching her skin. She is watching the battle of the two Generals with delighted awe on her face, drinking it in greedily, even as a soft halo of Hell’s sunlight plays around her head.

“Fascinating,” she breathes. “What’s going to happen if she wins, removes him from play, allows Title to collapse? Diminishment? Scarring? Competition to fill the role? Old accounts from last war unreliable, biased. Contradictory. Implications… momentous. And her! Actions sanctioned? Risk of censure? Possibility of deep cover agents? All of Hell is Heaven unlikely, but… ha! Tell Giri later.”

Also, take a Condition. Being sunburnt hurts.

***

Han!

Mark Hopeless, too, as the fire wanes inside you, as the relentless green light of Hell’s sun beats down on you. Sure, you did it, you really showed that asshole, but the battle was harder than you maybe noticed at first. Gashes from the swords of dolls, ignored in the moment; bruises that will hurt more and more when you dwindle down into a smaller shape; and the question slowly sinking in of what you’re supposed to do now. There’s a second one, after all, and the sea all around you is swarming with the dolls.

But ignore that for a moment. Ignore all of it. Because Melody is nuzzling into your body in relief, and her dorky little smile is dazzling without her veil, and she’s shaking in that snug ribbon with the aftershocks of excitement, and when she looks up at you it’s like the first sunrise in the whole damn world.

“You came for me,” she says, and she’s still smiling even as tears well in her soft brown eyes, her glasses crooked on her nose, her body pressed up against yours like she wants you to never let her go.

Ignore your impending doom. Ignore the pain. You gave her a little more hope, gave her a reason to smile. You came back for her. Lower your head and nuzzle her and let that be enough, no matter what happens next to the two of you. Just let that be enough.

[Anarion]

You know what? You know what?! Maybe Peregrine had it right after all! Giriel had never been to hell before this journey. People didn't just go to hell! Even people wielding magic, that wasn't a thing you just did! Magic was supposed to be a safe, practiced thing, and they'd just tossed that out the window with all this experimentation. Giriel had been trying to help people, set things to right starting with the raised spirits who ought not to have been caught up in all this, and she'd landed in hell twice for it!

She still couldn't help herself. Even now she was helping Azazuka up, carefully avoiding touching the exposed skin and trying to just give her a comfortable position to rest. No time for healing magic this moment.

But the battle was interesting and there was a lot to be learned here. For one thing, was this what the heavenly spirit was after? Perhaps Giri had simply given unintentional offense, the thing had been of Venus after all. If it was here because of the upheaveal of the hells that would make sense. And the questions Peregrine was asking were such good ones.

Giriel cradles Azazuka over her lap and looks on. "Good thoughts, Peri" she says, quietly, starting her own patter as they both watch. "It matters that it's mimicry doesn't it? It carries the symbolism of the twin, the mirror, and the thief. It's not just heaven casting out a demon, but usurping the role that we're looking at."

Giri pats Azazuka comfortingly, one hand on her hair. She was burned so badly, and seemed to care much more. The poor girl probably had lived such a pampered, noble lifestyle she might have never felt pain like this before. What was her touchstone for it, even? A bad sunburn? An allergic reaction to a bee sting maybe? That hardly seemed to compare. "If we're right" she continues, still addressing Peregrine, "we might see the role retained and warped, right? The point of a usurpation would be that instead of creating a hole for some other demon to crawl into, instead the heavenly spirit takes the role and then her aspects change and warp it. She's a being of Venus, some aspect of love maybe, what would it mean to bring love into war? Or war into love? Oh gods, I don't want to think too hard about that."

[Giri's going to read Zhaojun as she does her thing here. Her questions are what are Zhaojun's feelings towards demons and what does she hope to gain from impersonating the General? Zhaojun can ask one at her leisure. Answers provided by her next series of actions are fine, hope she enjoys her witchy audience.]

[eldest]

She knows exactly how she's supposed to act here. Coy. Like having somebody confess, albeit muffled and distorted by layers of cloth, that they've been so enticed by you and what you offer that they'll turn on their side, on everything they believe, if only for a moment of your approval.

That's how you break in a prisoner, Ven. Which makes it all the more awkward that Piripiri doesn't want to do that to Naji. So instead she gets an approving smile and a calming hand on her back as she goes to cut the- whoops, no knife. Right.

So set aside the disdain for Ven (and really where did that come from?), take care of the poor snake-demon-lady that she's managed to entangle quite thoroughly, and do your best to not be malicious. She's honorbound to not be a good spy or even a spy at all right now, so she can be a good person instead. "Naji, right? Good girl. Come along, we're going to find someplace less dangerous." And with that, she works one of the ropes the demon had been suspended by free enough to work as a lead, and goes to find someplace less active.

*

Piripiri ducks into the hollow the witches and Azazuka have taken shelter in, still wearing hell's regalia from the Laema. She leads one of the Laema's daughters on a rope lead, who stares at her with naked adoration, gagged and bound. In short, it looks like she went native.

Then she grins on seeing Giriel and Azazuka. "Oh, good, you two got clear. This is Naji, she's... following me. Naji, Azazuka and Giriel and... I don't think I know your name?" She lies effortlessly. Of course she's gotten reports on Peregrine. But that's not exactly the sort of thing you want to say on first meeting somebody. She steps around and starts to work on checking over Azazuka's burns. She doesn't have her medicines with her (and this is the last time she's ever walking around a festival on anything less than fully ladden pouches), but she can at least make sure they're clean.

"So, you're a witch. You're probably also one because you're, y'know, here." She jabs a finger at the two Generals fighting. "The fuck?"

[Thanqol]

"A demon is a title," said the Fengye imperiously - nervously. Her hands trembled and her heart thundered but, at the same time, such conduct was unbefitting of the General and so it did not happen. "The occupant is immaterial. A Usurpation leaves a demon with no title, and thus no power. No protection. No form or thought, for its identity has been extracted, rendering it as harmless as a fae in the deepest dream."

Giri, you recognize the words - they're from the Codex of Steel and Salves, an introductory work on Demonology. Not a rare book, not the deep lore of the cosmos, but dangerously accurate and dangerously common. The Codex is the work behind every two bit demonologist or nightmare adept half the world over, and hideously resistant to the Dominion's ability to root it out. A demonologist quoting the Codex usually seeks little more than personal power, some magic trick beyond what ordinary society can provide.

"But I shall not leave you without identity," said Zhaojun, and here that nervousness realigned into confidence, the blue glow behind the stone mask igniting afresh. "I shall give you a new title befitting your new station. I shall grant you the title Maid Confined In Yearning. Accept it, or battle me for mine."

This is not in the Codex.

If the demon so desired, it could fight. It would be the work of years, lurking as powerless as a ghost, waiting for her to perform magic incautiously or die without handing the title to another. A hard road. The offer of a fresh title was practically charity in comparison, although the one she had chosen implied certain changes would be needed...

You don't see a plan here, Giri. There might be one, but if so it's alien to the point of illegibility - which is distinct possibility given that you are dealing with a creature of fate and destiny. But it seems like it's pure spur of the moment impulse and you don't have the foggiest where that might lead.