Tatterdemalion

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

You meet Robena’s eyes, my dear Constance, and see there the same strength that underlies Britain entire. The deep flint. Yes, here is a woman for the hour. Can you match her? Can you do the same?

“Who else? Who makes the law? Who commands the knights? Who holds tournaments they do not come back from? Who has lost his heir and clings to his throne like the ivy clings to the branches? Who is the land?”

The name hangs unspoken. It is a magic spell of its own; you need Robena to say it. You are afraid of how you will change if you say his name, and afraid that Robena will fail, and afraid that Roebena will succeed. But perhaps this last is nothing more than the fear of stepping out into the unseen dark.

After all, in the first days, when Adam’s children inherited Britain from your forefathers, there were ways to deal with a king like this. Your fingers rest lightly on the hilt of your flint knife. At Midsummer, at the height, or on the longest day of winter, when the dark seemed inescapable. Can you call yourself a daughter of giants if you flinch away from the oldest laws?

“Uther,” you say, “presently King of Britain.” And now there is no turning back.

Sunshards

The look that Rose from the River gives Scales of Meaning in the moment before blades are crossed is still amused, but with a scorpion-tail crook in the corner of her lips. “What guards? You mean the scraps of dignity you tried to hide behind? ara-ara, I’ll take those too~” The pole slips from her hand and strikes the ground so hard that it bounces right back up, so that Rose from the River may catch it in a more comfortable grip for sparring. Bold Thorn Pilgrim! Without taking the pack from her shoulders, she laughs and moves to bat away the princess’s blade, to toy with her and find her measure.

But the daughter of two queens moves like water rushing down from the peaks, bright and sparkling cold, swift enough to drag the unwary down into the undertow. Almost too late Rose realizes that she has been drawn out of position. Is she so old, then, that this little snowbrand can trick her? The crystal blade comes whistling in to count coup by kissing her cheek, and both Rose and the Conciliatory Ice-Star Blade twist with a sudden violence.

The swords meet with a high note, the Ice-Star gleaming cold in the low light, the crystal blade of the high mountains straining a hair’s breadth from Rose’s cheek. Eyes meet: one pair dark and beautiful in their focus, their intensity, their love of the sport of princesses; the other catching the dying light and seeming to glow, save for the narrowed pits at their golden heart, black as ink. Rose from the River inhales, long and slow, and lets the shiver run up from the soles of her bare feet on the grass to the flowers growing in her braids. Her heart races in her chest, fluttering like a bird caught in the hand.

“Oh,” she says. For a moment she stands on the edge of the sword, as they make no move to disengage. On one side of that blade, she continues to hold back and then makes some kind of mistake that will lead to this child’s sword pressed lovingly against her neck. She will offer her sword to the princess’s care and offer herself up to her mercy. It will be this girl’s decision as to what to do with her; to give her over to Scales trussed tight, or to bring her as a maidservant on a leash.

Or she could enjoy a real fight and try.

She should not. She struggles enough with her love of battle, real conflict, the burn of the candle. She should yield to this child’s insufferable confidence and prodigy-like skill, be a stepping stone on the great and grand destiny she wears like a coat. aum shantae aum, the jewel is the axle of the lotus.

But Rose from the River is only a good pilgrim. She is a masterful huntress.

So she stops playing and throws herself into an advance, meeting those teasing little feints with a delicate sword-web. As it is said,

The sword is the heart of the field
from which danger radiates in four directions;
turn aside this way or that,
know that the blade will meet you.

“Who are you, child?” Rose from the River is too intent on her craft to veil her respect for the girl’s effortless skill. Here is a girl who must be met by ambush! Her eyes do not miss a trick; her feet are light and heavy by turns, and the sword-katas of the White Doe School seek to instill through repetition and solemn contemplation what this girl knows from her heart.

She should lower her weapon and yield to the little blade-saint. She should! A low growl escapes her as she instead slings her pack to the ground, a humiliating gesture; that she would need to fight unburdened against this tiny thing! Doubt creeps in, her heart still pounding: what if she loses? Does she still cling to some foolish pride, hidden behind her affectation of serenity?

[Rose from the River gives into the temptation to have a real fight, going against the guidance of her philosophy; she also is so on the back foot that she rolls a 5 for Fight.]

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

“Britain is... wounded.” How dare you say those words? You should snap like a branch in a storm and fall insensate at the enormity of that truth. To say it, to mean it, yet to know that you have barely explained to Robena what it means.

But, then again, she’s been on the battlefield, hasn’t she? She’s seen sucking, festering wounds. Wounds that will last for the rest of a man’s life, one way or another. Maybe she understands. Britain is wounded.

“The people like the farmer with the donkey... they’re fighting a blight on the corn. It’s worse near Camelot. I’d almost convinced myself that if we kept our heads down and did what we could, it would be better soon. But then this...”

You gesture hopelessly at the graves. More of Uther’s subjects failed by their king. More of Britain groaning under his rule. And what can you do against him?

“Merlin has not been seen for... three years, now. There’s a price for him. If he was here, maybe he could keep us from the worst of it, but he’s a traitor to the throne. Or so it’s said. And I wonder if he saw what I did. The fire and the blood and the dark rolling over us, blind and thoughtless.”

You hit yourself, fist clenched, against your hip. From a deep well the bile comes bubbling up. “And I thought I could hide by my lake and stop nightfall with candles and seeds?”

Sunshards

A princess! Well. Small, but that’s no indication of skill and power. Which one is this? The face (moonish, backed by night) is unfamiliar. One of Qiu’s enemies or servants. Who is to say which one? Not from this distance. If she is an enemy, then she will attack them (glorious and yet, very technically, regrettable), and if she is a servant, she will hijack their journey, give orders wantonly, and generally be troublesome until Rose from the River strikes from within. Either way, she will have the better of the princess. Her palms are damp on her sword-staff.

“My companion,” she says, projecting her voice down the hillside, “who is most definitely Scales of Meaning, magistra of accounts and balances, most capable of transforming a wayward princess into an expensive auction lot, note the child down there.” Haha! Smart-mouthed? You’ve seen nothing yet. “The one underdressed for the chill of evening, down by the horses. How unlucky for her, to meet not just one of the subsouls of the Pyre of Inspiration, but the most cunning and determined! If she is not in favor with your mistress’s mistress, the inexhaustible Princess Qiu, then she must be in more danger now than she has ever been! What is her value, do you think, oh most sagacious of serpents? Enough for you to snap her up if she does not turn aside?”

It would be a very silly princess indeed who fell for the first layer of Rose’s words. No, that was quite the intent. Peel away, princess, look for what must lie behind them: that this pilgrim must be exaggerating, that this demoness is puffing herself up to a higher tier and cannot possibly be the Scales of Meaning, and that you should hop up here and throw yourself into your passion thoughtless of any danger. That is the second trick, all done without doing undue injury to the truth; that is how it is done, dear Scales!

And if she is astute enough to notice she is being lured into an unfavorable position, then she has earned the wisdom hidden within Rose’s words, and is to be respected.

Now, Scales is certainly cunning enough to get to the second layer, and exactly cunning enough to throw a blushing tantrum there. If she can provoke the demoness to indignantly agree with her in seeming incoherence, oh, all the sweeter! That is why Rose smiles so, watching the princess to see what she does, like a coin tossed in the air. But where will she fall?

Heads, tails, or rim?

Breathless Dead

“Oh! My! Gosh!!” Redana’s eyes sparkle, and she shoots up out of the crabs with more energy and vigor than she’s shown this entire time, scrabbling back up Alexa. “So of course you killed Molech! He probably knew secret codes that would turn you back into his killer bodyguard! Oh stars, is that why you’re so awkward, because I’m like my mom?”

She leans into two of Alexa’s arms, carefree. “Because all I want is to prove to Mom that it’s time for us all to see the stars again. I’m not looking for a permanent bodyguard. I’m not going to war or anything like that. Do you want me to call you Pallas, or Alexa? Palexa?”

She beams, heedless of crabs, heedless of pain, heedless of anything but the joy of getting to know a friend better. Or make a friend? Perhaps here is a princess worth fighting an army of crabs for, neon green bangs and all.

Sunshards

Rose from the River laughs. She does not seem to watch where she is going, but note how nimbly she steps from rock to rock. Look now, she jumps in the water, up to her ankles, and sends little cold droplets all up and down Scales’ back; she lets a shiver run from her feet all the way up to her trembling braids. Petals retract as if winter had suddenly come to her hair.

“See, this is what I mean. You come so close to getting it right, and yet you stumble at the final... slither?” When she steps out of the water her feet shine like shark fins cutting through the surf. “Unless you mean to say that Qiu has forgiven and forgotten?”

Rose from the River has not met Princess Qiu. The First of the Radiants did, but only in the context of parties, a trophy to be shown off on Yin’s arm. But not since her metamorphosis. No, the reason that Rose from the River has a bounty (now doubtless devalued by the price on the shepherdess Yue) is that when she chose to follow the Way, she aligned herself with the White Doe school, seeking out its sifu and defending its adherents where she found them. The same White Doe school at the heart of the Foxglove Pact that sought to take one (just one) stone from Qiu’s crown, for the good of the land.

An audacious plan, one that saw their entire sect thrown into disarray when Qiu let them almost succeed. For the drama, probably, or to catch as many conspirators as she could. Maybe Rose chose to follow the White Doe because of the romance of standing up to a princess; maybe she really did choose it because its teachings sang to her heart, because they rang with truth. Or maybe it was because they had the best meditative dances, and not even the risk of making an enemy of the Threeshard Princess could keep her from walking that lovely path.

Or maybe it was all three, blended together.

“But we both know she wouldn’t do that without something in it for her, and so you succumb to the desire to misrepresent the world for your own gain. Don’t tell me, don’t tell me the value. I don’t want to know the number. Just don’t make an insect of me, my little Scales! You beautiful buy-and-sell! You wound yourself!”

Rose from the River hops onto a flat stone backward, as much imp as sage-in-training. “No, to truly be the illustrious demoness, the sub-soul of the avaricious Pyre, you must be honest with your evaluation. Let go of those petty grudges. Don’t twist the world to fit your shape. Illuminate it instead.”

Another stream, but here Rose takes her pole and tucks it underneath Scales’ belly, giving her something to push off to keep her from the water. Only many more to go. The sound of her not even mentioning it is deafening.

Her rings almost glow in the low light, looped in ear and set in nose and worn on fingers. Easy to come by, with her skills, and easy to give away. And easiest for her, too, not needing a hot needle when she wished to add more or change their placement, merely time enough for the slow change of her twice-strange flesh.

They are well-sized for a hooked finger, should a demoness be tempted to try and assert herself. What would it be like to hold Rose from the River and know she lets you hold her? Would she let you? What would it mean if she did?

[If Scales of Meaning is appealed to by either service or jewelry, it is her choice as to how to respond, as Rose from the River has rolled a 7. If not, both service and sight are free, regardless.]

Breathless Dead

The complex dimensions of the conversation crumple under the crushing weight of that thought-rail, that awful suggestion. It can no longer be about Bella. If it is about Bella, then... then Alexa would be wrong. Because she wasn’t there. She was there for a little bit but she wasn’t there.

”And guess what? That person’s not on this planet.”

Alexa doesn’t have the context and doesn’t know what she’s talking about and so Redana doesn’t need to think about those words she just said because they’re wrong and also hurt. Alexa wasn’t there when she asked Bella to come. Alexa wasn’t there when Jas’o’s throat was ripped out. And Alexa wasn’t there when Bella promised to take her home in the dark, struggling, friendless...

“You’re not a weapon,” Redana says, instead, sliding slowly down despite returning the hug, squeezing like she wants Alexa to be the one feeling safe. “I needed you to come because I needed a sailor. I can take care of myself,” she says, completely sincere, despite all evidence to the contrary. “I just can’t do it alone, and...” Oh, whoops! Ouch! Don’t think about that! That’s a thing which is not being thought about! “And I was out of options and I’m sorry I pulled you away but I never ever needed a weapon.”

She looks up at Alexa and sniffles. “You’ve seen the giant woman I turn into, right? You’re not just a bodyguard, you’re...” A thought begins hammering at the doors of her perception, and she looks up, even as the crabs begin clambering up her legs.

“Alexa, were you... who did you bodyguard before Mom won your loyalty? It wasn’t... like, it’s silly, we all know it was the Pallas Rex who protected him, but were you, like, assigned to a Minister? Because I think you really did know him back then.”

Breathless Dead

“But you wanted to.” Redana clings to her sulk like a cat Servitor clinging to a life preserver in a swimming pool. “If I didn’t have this stuck in my hand you would have ditched me for the chance to go back home, you would have! And... I understand. You don’t want to be here. But I didn’t want to be there. Can’t you handle being out here for a little while so we don’t have to stay there forever?”

She looks at the command seal on the back of her hand again, even as the crabs surge upwards. “Can’t you trust me?” The comment isn’t really for Alexa. It’s not hard to tell.

“Look,” she adds. “I promise once I figure out how to take it off, I will. You can have it, if you want. Haven’t you ever wanted to give yourself orders? Lexi, focus on your history essay! Lexi, do not eat that cookie! Lexi, be better!” She waves her hand airily and somehow manages to avoid activating the seal on those nebulous commands. Then she stops, struck by a thought.

“Is that it? Will you stop hating me if I set you free?” Her grip on Alexa tightens. “Is that why you’re killing people, because you feel trapped? But I didn’t... I did ask, but... but I still care about you, and...”

A crab grabs her boot and starts trying to tug her down, and she throws her arms around Alexa’s head. It’s almost cuddly.

“And then I won’t be like Molech or my mother! I’ll be myself!!” It’s really something how she continues to come close to understanding. It’s also really something how her biceps are smushed up against Alexa’s face while she clings for dear life against the crab tide.

Sunshards

“Why, brute!” Rose from the River’s tone is easy, flowering into self-satisfaction. “I’m the space inside a bell, resounding; I’m devoted to neither place or possession, which fix one in place like nails. And you’d take my smile away, too? Am I not permitted even that?”

When she looks at the flustered demon of the buy-and-sell, her eyes are for a moment predatory, keen. Sensing weakness, a baring of the throat, an exploit in the system. “Besides,” she purrs, that smirk hooked like the sickle moon, “you might come to miss it once it’s gone, down the road.”

Cruel Thorn Pilgrim! She could have let the demoness gather what remains of her dignity, but instead she invites the serpent to imagine growing to care for her and her shameless smile! She might claim in the moment that she needed to follow up on Scales’ moment off-balance, to place a soft hand on the throat of her heart and threaten to squeeze, but she cannot hide from her deeper self that she was born a huntress. If she shucked the welcome chains of the Way off, she could toy with Scales like the hound plays with a ball, chewing on her proud horns and pinning her to ground, daring her to courage with one hand while grasping her tighter with the other. And when she was done with her toy, she would leave her no recourse but to return to her oversoul in shame or serve her new mistress until she threw them both into a prison neither could escape, having aroused the princesses to stop this dire threat. In that one moment of pressed advantage, the dread queen of monsters roils behind those wet, golden eyes.

It is only with intention that Rose from the River draws back from the temptation, letting the moment pass. She is a vessel for the current that moves the sun and stars. “Jewel of the lotus,” she murmurs to herself, the words as familiar as the path under her feet (and just as able to surprise). “aum shantae aum. Jewel of the lotus, aum shantae aum.” She glitters at the heart of the unfolded lotus, which floats unstained upon the waters as the pilgrim floats unstained upon the world, which lives for a thousand years and lives after its own death, which unfolds to seek the sun as the pilgrim’s own heart unfolds. She is the diamond at the heart of the lotus, which drinks the sun at noon and shines in the dusk, which is the footprint of the lightning which strides across the sky and the echo of the thunder’s call. aum shantae aum. aum shantae nemo padhome aum.

So fortified, the Thorn Pilgrim resolves not to torment the she-demon beyond what she may bear. Merciful pilgrim! How beautiful her devotion! As it is said,

The open hand may hold the world entire,
the closed hand not even a mite of dust.
The bindings of the pious woman
permit passage over the eight heavenly peaks.

Having tamped down the monstrous side of herself (for now; traveling with Scales of Meaning will be a test, but one she knows she can pass), Rose from the River jauntily swings her pole onto her shoulder and keeps pace with the undulations of the demoness. The path beneath her feet is uneven and sparsely coated with grasses. Silver clouds lie stately over the hillsides. The doves sing and the lambs of the valley answer. If Scales looked closely, she might begin to earn the monk’s pay. Which is why Rose from the River now chooses to ask, still impish, “So who is this outlaw you pursue? Yola the Bandit, who steals both flock and shepherdess? Frog-and-Scorpion, demon of the ford? Sairose, the rebel of Sky Castle?” An affected casualness, a quiet glee. “Or one from my orders? Perhaps the Elder of the Black Snake School, that irrepressible evangelist? Or is it the Thorn Pilgrim of the White Doe School, who dares openly defy the Threeshard Princess?”

Being charged with hunting herself? Now that would be a new and delightful game. Unfortunately, she knows already that it isn’t her; it’s the girl. Now to find out what Scales is willing to let slip about her.

Breathless Dead

“What? Maybe? Sure, I guess?” Poor Redana doesn’t know what to do about this. Now Alexa is upset and she’s not angry upset which is what Redana was braced for. Maybe she really does feel guilty about what she did on Baradissar? The affirmation is half-hearted and it doesn’t take an augur to see it.

She doesn’t sit down. She takes the huge spear in both hands and pokes at the crabs, using the spear’s butt, with that same exhausted half-heartedness. Alexa has given her a response she does not know how to use. If Alexa just killed Molech because she’s a broken war machine, then that doesn’t explain Bella at all.

“When I get it off, you’re going to kill me too, right?” A crab takes her moment of distraction to grab at the spear’s butt, and it holds the spear still long enough that its brothers and sisters begin to clamber over its shell to grab at it, too.

The heels of Redana’s overbuckled boots squeak as she is slowly pulled into the crabs, but she’s not really paying attention. “Because I don’t blame you. I’ll figure something out. Really.” Because she has to, doesn’t she? It’s all on her. Can’t fob it off to Bella anymore. Not anymore.