Tatterdemalion

Masks: Resurrection Roundabout

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME??”

Sara puts her hands on her hips and offers the death glare to end all death glares. Smoke curls off of her in languorous helixes (the suit jacket that made the final cut made “smoky grey” very, very literal). The pins pushed through her bun are the splash of color, both of them made of stained glass, in a nod to her superhero aesthetic, while everything else is “dapper duchess of Hell,” from the lace gloves to the sleek black Oxfords. She’s the fallen angel made good, even at her own wedding.

“Do you have any idea how little I need this right now? Put those guns down, you little—“

She stops, smooths down her hair, takes a deep breath. Count to five. Think about Euna’s smile.

“Hey, sorry,” she starts again. “I get the gesture, I didn’t mean to lose my cool. Thanks for showing up, Dommy, I was worried when you didn’t RSVP. It’s a little late for this, though; you really should have done the whole fake kidnapping shtick at my bachelorette’s.”

Fellowship: The Heart

Lucien!

The creature comes to a halt bare centimeters from your ankle, still slavering. It then puts its paws firmly on your trousers and starts clawing its way up you, sniffling and snuffling. From this distance, you can see that it’s as hairy as a mop, and has at least six gripping limbs. And, for that matter, a pointed nose like a weasel. And teeth like a saw. If it decides to clamp down on somewhere sensitive, you’re in danger of losing it for good.

The patrons are staring grimly at you with those pale, bulging eyes, and it doesn’t take you long to realize why. Behind the bar is a pinboard covered in pale red rat tails. (Some of them bear delicate scales, like that of a lizard.) This creature is a ratter, whatever it is. And the smell of Ailee is driving it wild. You’ve got very little time in order to convince the proprietor that Ailee is not a rat, that the ratter should please be called off, and that you require help removing it from your person because it’s just been enchanted, before it decides to sink its teeth into the seat of your trousers, or worse.

***

Ailee!

Fascinating, isn’t it? Maybe if you wait, you’ll find out more about what this thing does when it’s curious about something.

***

Coleman!

The Flood pulls machinery off walls and tears down ruins and eats everything in its path. That means the junk’s materials of the Heart, touched by the Flood, useful for all sorts of things. Most practically, since you don’t want someone to fall achingly in love with an unattainable ideal or drown on their own spit, is that by sympathy you might be able to trick the Flood into thinking Sasha’s already part of her, or one of her worshippers. Adorn her in nets and set her out on a barge, and you might get through without any trouble.

As for the Beasts? This is a lull period for them; most are gathered to drink, with some careful sentries perched on their wagons or cleaning junk or drawing up their nets. By and large they’ve been marked by the flood, most looking like overgrown catfish or frogs, no matter what sort of critter they used to be; their horns are small nubs or coral-like prongs. The Powers of the Heart don’t much care for stagnation in the face of their overwhelming nature.

Meekness is the wrong approach; they’ll assume you want to join them as a petitioner. Polite assertion; make clear you mean to pass through, having given and taken in equal measure.

***

Jackdaw!

The word is market.

Each net belongs to a Beast. This means that each Beast interested in barter has a stall connected to their wagon. Ring the bell and summon the proprietor if you want to make a deal.

As for what’s hidden... well, certain wagons have more than one purpose! That big, oval one, for example: that’s a communal tavern. That one with a cog and hammer hung over the door: that’s a tinker-den. That warped and water-soaked one: that’s a shrine to the Flood, and outside it are strips of paper and pages nailed to the slats and skinned spines hung like gruesome trophies, their lettering washed away.

There’s got to be something left, right? Because otherwise this is just a horrid waste of paper and intention and words. You causally sidle away from Sasha and start pawing through ruined pages, and soon enough you’re noticing the pattern. The intentional streaking of ink. The swirling coils. The dreadful dark.

You are loved. You are alone. Come to my arms. Fill your pockets and come as you are.

In me the drowned are loved forever.

It doesn’t make you take leave of your senses, but it hooks in you and won’t leave. In me the drowned are loved forever. The water caresses the shore, lying against the stones like a lover. In me the drowned are loved forever. You ache with the need to be held, to be in Her embrace, to slough away worries and flesh and loneliness—

A bead of water drops on your nose, making you squeak. The pages are dizzying to look at now.

Masks: Resurrection Roundabout

POTENTIAL 2

Sara shrieks with laughter, doubling over and making high nasal squeaks and generally being ridiculous, before straightening up and fixing Locker with a dangerous, unhinged look.

“How dare you imitate me, you pathetic wannabe,” she sneers. “I already know what I’m going to do: I’m going to pretend I’m the fusion of Jack the Ripper and Moriarty, and do my best to try and make you stab yourself with my mind. Because I’m from the edge dimension where our outfits have to be black, spiky, and horrifically overwrought. Now I’m going to kill you.”

And she grabs him and pulls him in for an edgy, merciless noogie.

Princess-Champions of Hyperborea

Adila!

The engine room is filled with more gold. The engine that keeps you afloat is a huge, sprawling, hulking thing, made by goblin artifice, bound with the magic of the winds, and then decorated by Jedadi sensibilities; the levers and runes are so bejeweled, an enterprising thief could get away with stripping it down and then live like a queen for the rest of her life. And it's here that you find Hornet, wearing a simple leather apron and her goggles, disassembling the engine. She's got her tools spread out on the floor, her spiky hair covered by a handkerchief, and her arms are elbow-deep in the mechanisms as she tries to... well, presumably improve it. Or add a turbo mode. Or make it powered by applause. Who ever knows what Hornet's thinking?

When you enter, she stiffens, but doesn't otherwise acknowledge you. She picks up a wrench and starts loosening a bolt holding a panel over the crystal matrix, her cow-tail agitatedly twitching. And that's it. Grim silence. Not even an invitation to BEHOLD, or a victorious cackle, or a request to hold one of her tools for her. Maybe it's because she knows she was caught in the act of messing with the thing keeping you up in the air while you're up in the air.

She defiantly pulls the panel off and shoves it at you.

***

Alina!

"When we get married, do you think we'll do the summer-and-winter?" Rita can't even look at you when she says it. She's got her little hands in her lap and her cheeks are red and she's studying the window so, so intently. And her question... she's suggesting an old tradition for married queens. Summer in one kingdom, winter in the other. But how she says it! Like it's not even a question that you're going to get married. Of course you are. Of course you are. "Because, um, I know you always liked summer back home, and I love seeing Ilumina in the snow, and... and I do need to go home, but... mew!"

She shrinks in on herself and becomes a beautiful, sleek cat again, and wiggles into the blankets on the bed, all of her courage used up in the question. In a moment, only her twitching tail is visible. It's so cute. But you're already trying not to melt on the spot, aren't you?

You're already imagining waking up on a balmy summer morning with incense hanging in the air, in that Askaian glow which suggests your dreams will come true before your very eyes, holding your Rita in your arms as you lie on a bamboo mat together. You're imagining snowball fights with your wife in a proper Iluminan winter, and any memories of the Rider occupation would be soothed by her laughter and the sight of her bundled up in a giant poofy coat. You're imagining proposing, right here, right now. Aren't you?

***

Kazelia!

"It would be a shame to waste your father's wedding preparations, you know." Kyouko's suddenly there, smiling so smugly. She wraps her tail around your forearms and taps her fan underneath your chin. "How would you like to be married by the High Queen herself? I'll show you the glories of a Konkon wedding: how you'll hop so gracefully down the aisle, how the High Queen will look so radiant in her harness, how you'll be prodded by the traditional bamboo spears, how I'll shower you in cherry blossoms after you're asked if you'll submit to me in happiness and misfortune alike and you nod your agreement..." She laughs, holding one hand up to the side of her mouth, and it's hard to tell whether she's just trying to get a rise out of you, flirting in her people's way, or actually proposing.

That's when you notice the figure standing on the tea platform at the very top of Argossa. You jerk the wheel desperately to one side, knowing that it's already too late. This thing maneuvers like a lazy cow, and all of your maneuvers have to be planned well in advance. It's already useless. Which means you need to get Azora to do something. Or announce it over the ship's speakers so that everyone has a chance to brace themselves.

He's supposed to be preparing the wedding!

***

Oberon.

The wind kisses your hair as you stand beneath the storm. Your storm; you conjured it up using the Seven-Tempest Horn. The sun and moon will not be interrupting your wedding to your beautiful beloved, and neither will these frustrating princesses. At every turn they defy you and tie your plans in knots, and you are tired of indulging them. Coddling them. Letting them remain unpunished for their misbehavior.

You draw back the string of Blinding, and the eclipse-bow groans terribly. Even this terrible weapon cannot withstand your titanic strength, stolen from the Grandmothers of Devilhome. You will have to strike true; you will only have the one shot. Already, the pilot is attempting to turn aside, but it's useless. You are Oberon Greymane, the Hunter in the Dark, the King of the Riders, immortal and invulnerable, new king of this pathetic world.

You let fly, and Blinding splinters into a dozen quivering pieces in your hands. The eclipse-shot howls out, and strikes the airship dead on; for a moment, there is a terrible thirsty silence, and then a vast explosion of hungry darkness undoes the ship, causing rips and rents in metal and fabric alike, unweaving every part of artifice, stunning those inside and taking their senses. Debris begins to fall, a confused cloud of raw materials and furnishings and limp bodies.

You turn, and proceed down the stairs. You will tell Cassian to have the constructs gather up any fortunate survivors, if there even are any. Knowing the luck of these wretched princesses, there will be. But even this will be for your glory.

After all, you still have room for bridesmaids in the ceremony.

Fellowship: The Heart

I’ve been incubating this post since Wednesday

Fellowship: The Heart

Coleman, Jackdaw!

The word is flotsam.

The waters are so still that if you squint, you can almost trick yourself into thinking that there’s nothing but a glass plain between you and the Tyrian Spire. Flies the size of pocket-watches hover here and there, and the shores of the Flood here are choked with rusted, mildewed junk, caught in nets of thin wire and thick linen ropes. Not that any of those are yours for the taking: the nets and everything dredged up from the Flood belongs to the salvage-caravan of Beasts here. All around you, their wagons and tents squat, decorated with iron charms and net-charms and icons of the Flood made from glass and her waters; if you want supplies, you’ll either have to deal with them or go well out of your way to dredge something up from the Flood yourself — and she’s less likely to let you get away with all your fingers.

This is a problem, because Sasha needs Floodproofing. It’s either figure out a way to get the egg across without being lost underneath her placid waters, or pull up stakes and take your chances with the Houses of Parliament, which is a much more perilous route.

***

Ailee, Lucien!

As soon as you step into the cramped wagon, the door low enough to make Lucien duck underneath, all eyes turn to you. The locals are somewhat piscine in appearance; their eyes are large and pale, their whiskers droop in a manner reminiscent of catfish, and their fur is slick and dark, sticking close to their bodies. The smell suggests the drinks here are stale and watery, but only a fool turns down a chance to refill their canteens in the Heart.

Then a small, slavering thing the size of a terrier bursts out from behind a stack of crates and propels itself at high speed, all four paws tucked into its body as it leaps, shooting like a cannonball right at Ailee’s torso. This thing is a missile of pure bloody-minded intent, emphasis on bloody.

Princess-Champions of Hyperborea

Princess-Champions of Hyperborea!

FINALE: The Wedding!

Princesses!

The Pear isn't as cutting-edge as Eska's airship, but it's luxurious and equipped with everything you might need to save Hyperborea. Outside of the golden portholes, snow swirls.

It hasn't stopped snowing in the past day. Not since you woke up after the best sleepover in the history of sleepovers, and saw heavy, dark clouds blotting out the sky, and snowdrifts being cleared away by giddy denizens of the Bazaar, who saw it as money falling out of the sky. Maybe they'd change their mind if it never stopped. But it's going to stop. That's what you're here to do.

Even from this distance, you can see the dark veins of exposed crystal heartwood in Argossa. Oberon has done something to the very heart of the world, and Ourania... hasn't stopped him. That means you have to assume the worst. And you have to hit him hard and fast before he can... you have to assume the wards are down. Probably. It's going to be a very short flight if they're still up.

The CREW ROSTER of the Pear includes:

• CAPTAIN Adila II
• FIRST MATE Kazelia Swiftlance
• CHIEF ENGINEER Hornet
• COOK Dandelion
• CHIEF RATTER Rita von Catabas
• QUARTERMASTER Kyouko
• CHIEF OF O-PEAR-ATIONS Alina Cascade, Who Did Not Pick The Name
• SHIP'S SORCERESS Azora Howl
• CHIEF OF SECURITY Jessamine Cascade

What preparations are you all making during the last estimated hour of approach?

Princess-Champions of Hyperborea

Adila!

When you come back to the House of Hospitality, the world is vivid all around you. The soft sigh of the wind, the rustling of the leaves in the courtyard, the washed-out colors under the moonlight... some moments you know you're going to remember for the rest of your life. There are thin places where your timestream touches your heart, where past and future meet and there is only an eternal moment you can come back to, over and over again.

Some of them are terrible, like the moment you choked on Oberon's hands as his cold fingers clenched around your heart. But more are like this moment, in which all things are impressing themselves upon you, important in their existence. So much is just waves on the shore, broken and washed away, but moments like these are stable. Maybe one day you will be in the midst of something completely different, something you could never imagine right now, but in that moment you will blink and then suddenly be here again, hearing the sound of delighted laughter.

You wander closer to it, returning to your gangly teens: an age for laughter and showing off and being included. Alina's high, clear laugh, like the peal of a bell, sneaks out underneath the door. Then you hear Kyouko's snooty laugh, likely with a hand held close to her mouth, and a low, sultry chuckle you don't recognize. The desire to be included burns brightly in your young heart, and you knock on the door.

It's only a moment before it's swung open wide by Kazelia's magic. There, on the floor, on scattered cushions, sit a bunch of princesses in varying levels of distress, with a pack of Askaian Tarot sitting dead in the center. They're playing Peril Poker, the game of dares and bluffs and scarves, which you have never ever ever been good at. But there's something about tonight...

"Hey," Rita chirps. She's lying on the bed, head dangling off the foot, next to Alina, who's wearing the cutest little Askaian outfit (with floral embroidery, and pompoms on her skirt, and cat-ear stockings!). Then she actually gets a look at you. Everyone sits up a little straighter as you enter the room, large but fitting perfectly, and take a seat next to Kazelia.

+Deal me in.+

***

Prince Cassian!

This really should have been Azora's job. The rank unfairness of it all is worrying at you like a small and very disagreeable puppy. The Amulet of Sarcosis lying on your chest is a dull, aching weight, and you just know you're going to have a monstrous headache at the end of all this. But it's necessary for Father to have his army. His last army. It's just you, him, and a bunch of rancid magical sea crabs, here at the end of everything.

This wasn't the plan. This wasn't the plan at all. Azora was supposed to come back with the magical doohickey, deliver it to Father, and then he would march into Argossa through a magical portal and an army of Riders at his back, to deliver his proposal to the High Queen more forcefully. But everything kept getting pared away from that plan, the army and the portal and the flower decorations, and now you're stuck on the Folding Ship of Frossa with a whimpering witch tied to the mast and your Father's entire arsenal hidden below decks, and an entire armada of hideous black crab shells swimming after you.

Father sniffs the air, and then twitches a finger. The ship comes to a dead stop. +Stop, you idiots,+ you growl out to the Garthim, and as one they fall still, bobbing in the waves like awful jetsam. You examine your nails, leaning against the railing, while Father begins dragging magic out of the screaming witch. Ugh. She's loud. Why didn't he use one of those gags that are so dreadfully common here? Probably because it's more fun this way, but he's not the one with a leaden weight on his chest and a direct line to a bunch of braindead constructs, now is he?

Ahead of the ship, wards begin bursting apart like fireworks, and the ship lurches forward. +Follow!+ No sooner do you give the order than an arrow made entirely of light hisses past your face, lodging in a bulkhead as you squeal and drop to the deck. +PROTECT ME!+

Garthim surge forwards onto the jetty-- is it a jetty? A dock? The place where the boat stops. But that just gives you feedback bursting through your skull as they begin to be blasted apart by the half-dozens. Father can you please do something about that? On cue, he raises a knife to the witch's throat. "Ourania, my dearest," he says, over your dignified groans. "Drop your silly weapons. That's no way to greet your future husband." His voice becomes harsher, and you flinch on instinct. "Do it before I lose patience."

You don't even register the clatter of metal on the dock until Father nudges you with his boot. You get one nudge, and so you gather your rattled wits. +Seize her!+ Garthim claws close around her, and it's almost like holding her yourself. You get a sense of... not exhaustion. Someone recovering from a cold, maybe, and still tired and dizzy. But it's enough to hold her.

Father smiles, and that's your cue to poke your head up and provide a backup smile at the haughty, arrogant woman. Her jaw's set so defiantly, even surrounded by those stupid stinking crabs, and if anyone else but your Father was standing against her... well, maybe you'd be a little scared. But who cares? You've won! "Now. Let's discuss the wedding arrangements, love."

Masks: Resurrection Roundabout

POTENTIAL 2

"Locker," Sara says, intense. "I need to hear your Comstar. I have never needed anything more in my whole life." This is a lie, obviously, but what's a little hyperbole between friends? "Let me hear the Commy or I'm calling Angel again with directions for exactly how to come pick you up. I need this."

She's grinning, much like a tiger that's learned that it can get fish by padding up to fishermen and asking politely while flexing its claws casually, and commenting on how isn't it such a nice day with nobody getting mauled?

Fellowship: The Heart

I’ve got a first post prepped for once we have a first draft of Bonds ready.