Tatterdemalion

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Giriel!

Of course, taking the time to finish the tea meant that Cathak Agata— her fires now merely a smolder, paying as much attention to the hazy rain outside as to you— is able to answer the question. You are unable to escape with that loose end dangling.

“I’ve asked myself the same question. As I said, I am not a witch, and I wouldn’t do you the dishonor of declaring to you the answers that you and your peers glean from the supernatural world that surrounds us all. But I imagine that being raised from the dead through desecration is much like being suddenly woken from slumber; and the shamans of the savage cat-women know your idioms better than we do, being your guests far from home.”

For a laywoman, not a bad guess. It’s certain that things are more complicated, but she has given you a hook for contextualization: that the ghosts of the highlands are being driven to chase off “intruders.” A tactic that would backfire on the N’yari, if they truly intended to linger in or pass through the land they drove to haunting, but— it is possible. Not certain. But possible. Fools and arrogant women alike call up what they cannot put down. That’s what falls to you, then.

“Now, Lady Giriel,” she adds— oooh, Lady. “I have one more matter to ask of you before you leave. I’ve heard that you are one of the best interpreters of omens in this land.” How thoughtful of her to word it in such a way that you aren’t necessarily obligated to correct her and tell her that Peregrine is the best. “I haven’t had the chance yet to see your methods— would you be willing to read my fate?” And here she smiles like a wolf, beautiful and perilous.

***

Zhaojun!

The occupied shrine looms suddenly around a turn in the bend, heaped up on the high earth like a vulture clinging to a crag. It is lightless, bereft of lantern or candle; the shadows cling to wooden slats and coil within the inner shrine, its doors opened. There has been desecration here, a perversion of Heaven’s laws. In such a place, even a celestial emissary might be— vulnerable.

The steep stone steps are mossy and wet, and the shrine is bereft of keeper to sweep it dry. The guide’s feet are sure, but the same cannot be said of Sagacious Crane; she stumbles and catches herself on Zhaojun’s sleeve. She stammers apologies and thanks, muddling them together, and then continues:

“...and of course I know the steps of the Husband-Seducing Demon Dance, and the Lotus-Arousing Sequence, and the Removal of Petals— which, yes, that would seem to be— I do not have the special raiment, but I am trained in the classical arts, as every priestess of my rank is expected to be, so that will be only the most minor of difficulties, o gracious and cunning Zhaojun...”

And so the three of you come to the shrine’s courtyard. Black fingers tighten on slats; a low hooting and screeching fills the air as the uncouth goblins, the bandar-logi, multiply in the shadows, each bone-white face in the midst of a dark mane ducking away before it can be seen. The guide takes up a fallen drum as Sagacious Crane lifts her poncho over her head and tosses it with practiced disdain to the stones; her top is covered in a river of beads, small and precious drops of lapis lazuli charting the deep current from shoulder to hip in amongst the many lighter glass beads in turquoise and sea-green.

She takes it by the hem and, with a shimmer of beads, with a circle of her hips, with pride in her goddess rather than herself, with a carefully-hidden seed of insecurity that an innkeeper’s daughter would be found pleasing in shape and motion to an emissary of Heaven, Sagacious Crane lifts the top a fatal fingerwidth, revealing olive skin around a stone-pierced navel, and begins her circuit around the courtyard, her eyes flashing, her feet never still, and one by one the bandar-logi grow perilously quiet and begin to emerge by their ones and twos, long limbs splayed as widely as their curling fingers, obscenely scuttling and peering at Sagacious Crane with their dark eyes.

One takes up the drum from Six Sounds Starving and continues to play without missing a beat, as the guide melts into the mist and the moment, as Sagacious Crane reveals the merest flash of her breasts’ underside and bandar-logi tumble down from rafters and flash their fangs in response, unable to tear their eyes away as the curves are again lost in a haze of beads and a spin that sends her skirt billowing.

She trusts in Zhaojun, but that trust is simply an extension of her trust in her training and order, which itself is an extension of her trust in herself, that she has chosen correctly, to the standard that she can expect from herself. If she is right, then the priestesses above her, who assigned her to this, must be right, and if they are right, then Zhaojun is right, and if Zhaojun is right, then she is capable of defeating all of these wicked things so long as Sagacious Crane keeps them enthralled. Therefore, she must do so; therefore, she has nothing to fear from the rough paws of the bandar-logi; therefore, she dances as if before the sacred idols in the Temple of the Pure Lotus, beguiling but untouchable, serene save for the palpable disdain she has for this audience, which she cannot hide, which both attracts and repels them, bringing them closer and closer in spirals and waves.

And yet there is no sign of their rakshasa-queen. Clearly, there is improvement to be found; why else would the rakshasa remain elusive? Clearly, the sweetener must be sweetened; the snack made irresistible. Or was distraction of the simple bandar-logi in and of itself the goal? Will the priestess raise her head and find no sign of Zhaojun, and disaster if she falters, and disaster when they come close enough to seize her fast— save that Zhaojun find the queen of this dream-hive and rebuke her?

***

Kalaya!

Petony swings wild. That’s a part of her reputation, too; that she can go from high to low quickly, and from low to high just as fast. And attention from a princess (who is also a knight) perks her up like a tiger who’s scented something delicious to eat.

Soon enough she’s back to laughing and lets you carefully maneuver her cup away from her. “I’m not one of the Twelve,” she says, with something almost approaching humility to those legendary knights, “but I’d go blow for blow with any one of them! And we should show the little princess— the little knight here some real action before she realizes it’s mostly flower wars and court politics!” Say what you like about Petony; she has the loyalty of her retinue, who roar wild and happy as she springs to her feet, cheeks flushed and smile dangerous.

Take a String on Petony or a benefit, and then— quick, before she leaves the room— figure out how you’re going to get her to pay. She’s supposed to have credit from her kingdom, but she’s on the outs with Rose, and she’s been racking up a major bill here, what with all she’s been drinking. An appeal to chivalry might work, but that’s still very easily a downer to her mood— and Petony swings fast.

“Say,” she adds, while you’re still thinking, “what kingdom are you sworn to, what princess caught a princess? Is it Hyacinth? It had better not be!” She throws back her head and laughs.

The Knights of the Accord of the Thorn have always been sworn to sisterhood in principle, but to the various kingdoms in practice. Thus, your sword-sister one day may be your enemy the next. This, when combined with the divisiveness of the Flower Kingdoms, means that talented knights are sought eagerly by the kingdoms, and kept close through chains of love as much as by loyalty. Many a princess has been instructed to seduce a talented knight into accepting her parents’ offer.

(This means that you, yourself, likely have: insight into the situation with Princess Meli and how her dalliance with the Red Wolf has threatened her kingdom; Opinions about the Red Wolf using her troops as mercenaries without lasting allegiance, which is making royal politics even more unstable; explaining to do about your relationship with your own kingdom and how it has nothing to do with fancying your sisters.)

***

Piripiri!

So. Here’s an idea. An idea inspired by making it to the end of the street and seeing one side fork off down a switchback to the very edge of the ward’s petal, and the barges coming and going, the people releasing lotus blossoms on the water, the people taking their lunch or their tea out on the water, and, ah, the freedom, the comparative privacy, the lack of places for Azazuka to buy you more gifts and put you into even deeper debt! The kind of place where you can look at the city again from the outside, all lit up in the rain, and sneak glances at Azazuka’s warm, beaming face (because glances are all you are getting, ma’am), and work hard on figuring out that present without a host of distractions on all sides: street vendors and people pushing past and outrageous umbrellas and landmarks and all of that, left behind you as you’re poled out into the vast lake around the city.

It is, in fact, such a flawless and excellent idea that you will receive XP if you choose to do it, maneuver Azazuka down to the docks, and hop into the barge being steered by the young woman with the scuffed trousers and the greasy ponytail. What could possibly go wrong?

***

Han!

It’s not your fault. It’s totally not your fault. It is completely not your fault.

It is not as if, say, you glared a hole through an anxious and vulnerable young woman, letting the moment stretch on longer and longer, giving her more time to compound worry upon worry, until she’s squirming and fidgeting and desperate to know if she’s done something horribly wrong after all, and then you laughed at her and told her she wasn’t like other priestesses and was thus failing at being one.

“Oh,” she says, in a devastated little voice. Her shoulders tremble with effort. “I’m s—“ She chokes on the word. “Sorry for bothering you, ma’am.”

And then? You know what she does? She doesn’t stand up and in a huff lecture you about how good fortune comes to those who respect the spiritual hierarchy of the land. She doesn’t get up all snooty and walk away to leave you to get rained on. She doesn’t even burst into tears so that everybody knows that you, Han, are the terror of every priestess from here to Lake Zenba.

She leans over (and her veil trails ever so slightly against you) as she sets the umbrella down, wedging it against the deck, so that you can keep it when she slinks away. Do you realize your mistake and act while she’s still hunched over you, or do you sit there like a slack-jawed cow until she has her palms on the deck and is starting to stand up, muttering something too small to be heard about having a good night?

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

"Forgiveness."

The Christians speak much on forgiveness: its power, its worth, its value. They neglect to explain, then, why their god will only offer it when his bloodlust is satiated on his own son. Is it because any forgiveness must include pain? Is it because, if there is not suffering, it will be forgotten, and forgiveness turn to wickedness turn to a new need for forgiveness?

There is no need for cruelty. No need to punish those that stumble beyond what they deserve. Why then does she want to see Robena suffer?

Because then her own need to suffer is obviated. Because she blames herself for showing Robena what England has become, for setting her on the path that led to the axe being buried in Pellinore's back. Because she blames herself for speaking, for thinking she could end battle with nothing more than the glory of her name and station. For thinking that she controlled Robena, that Robena was a piece in her game she was playing against the absent King and his servants. And if Robena does not suffer, then Constance must ask herself whether she deserves to suffer; and that is a terrifying thought.

"Forgiveness," she says, and takes the needle back up from where her slack fingers let it fall. "Do you think she understands the wrong she has done me, let alone the wrong she did to Pellinore? Do you think she knows her need for it? I do not know. And that is why we must find out. Whether she craves it more than she craves her life. I must be temptation, I must be desire, for only the Robena who could turn me away could stand before Pellinore and seek forgiveness. That is a funny joke, isn't it? The kind that you like, Tristan? Only if she rejects me may she have me. If she embraces me, I will see her dead by midwinter. Ha ha."

And then, Constance, you do not need to ask yourself if you love a woman who does not deserve to be forgiven, and you will not need to ask yourself whether you will forgive her for the pain she has caused you, and you do not need to know the answer. Things will be so painfully, sharply simple if Robena succumbs. That was how the old kings did it, and that is how the land still is: if you break the rules, whether or not you know them, you will die.

But if you cannot see or know the laws, how will you know when you are trapped inside them yourself?

Sunshards

Rose does not have much experience with makeup. Her mind shies away from reasons. Something about... meditation. Or travel. Or just... it slips through her fingers like fog, and it doesn’t feel good when she tries to touch it. So she exists in the now instead. In the now, where her skin feels soft and smooth and made to be touched, gleaming like a river lit only by shardlight. In the now, where her hair falls to her shoulders, transformed from thick and vine-like braids to mossy, sweet-smelling curls, glossy green-black bangs falling loose about her face, which is... small. Dainty. Pretty, in a way which makes her chest tighten and her heart race.

Her lips are so full, so golden! They make her look like a treasure. The dusting of gold on her lashes, traced around those golden eyes, rings gleaming at her lobes and (so small!) at her nose, they make her shine, put her skin into contrast, and oh, Chen will be so happy when she sees her, won’t she?

(Deep within, the nameless thing worries whether she will. It feels joy and nervousness alike; these wrists cannot hold a sword, and she was beloved because of her power and strength... wasn’t she? Would her new friends prefer her like this, a fluttering damsel in need of their help, more than the smirking, powerful warrior?)

(...would she prefer to be this, to lose herself in Rose, innocent and beautiful, to wish the candle never blown out? The coils scrape against themselves as she realizes she does not know. Maybe it would be better for the monster to sleep soundly, never to wake while Rose hangs on her girlfriend’s arm, in desperate need of both protection and adoration, able to express her love unburdened of the knowledge of the Way and the responsibilities of strength.)

Rose stands, nearly unbalancing herself, putting out one soft and useless hand to steady herself. Then she turns and flings herself into Thain’s arms, and her tears threaten to undo much hard work.

“I look beautiful,” Rose expresses about herself, in echo with something deep within. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Oh, no. It is real. The cosmetics of the Castle in the Sky struggle to hold against Rose’s happy tears, running down her cheeks no matter how she tries to stop them, getting her more and more flustered as she waves one hand to try to dry them. “I just... I never learned, and Chen didn’t complain, but... oh, you will let me show her, won’t you? Please?”

Then she looks down at herself, and squeaks, just like her best friend, who... who... who looks after her? Yes. That’s why Yue, the brave knight, is associated with protection and haplessness. How many scrapes Yue got poor, useless Rose out of! How much Rose looks up to such a gallant country swordswoman! And the precise source of the squeak is forgotten. But she squeaks, and tries to cover herself up, very much aware that silly, useless girls like her are supposed to be embarrassed and flustered when other people see their bodies on display. Not that they really do anything about it other than getting even more useless and wound up and trying haplessly to hide themselves from everyone’s stares!

(Deep within, the nameless thing flinches in embarrassment and promises to apologize to Yue one day for... certain assumptions about her, and girls like her.)

“N-not like this,” Rose stammers. Her hair flops in her face, and she contorts herself trying to brush it out of the way while not exposing herself, which leads to her failing at both counts. “You can’t, I mean, my dress, I...” Squeak! Squeak squeak goshies! She stumbles back into the hands of giggling handmaidens, who— with soothing compliments and helping her hold her hands behind her back like a good girl— sit her back down to fix her makeup before anything else happens. Oh, don’t worry, little Rose, we’ll probably get you dressed before we show your lucky girlfriend, and if we have to change your collar to complete the look we’ll be sure to keep your old keepsake safe—

And though she doesn’t know why, Rose is helplessly smiling as she blushes furiously and squirms in their hands, even as she holds hers behind her back where they’re just as useless as the rest of her, her heart racing like a champion horse, making feeble complaints and feeling everybody’s eyes on her in ways that... that, um, monks don’t get, what an odd thought that is. Of course she’s not a monk, she’s a priestess— and, more importantly, a captive. How thrilling, knowing that at the end of all this fun, Chen will come save her and pull her into a— meep!!! Gosh gosh goshies!

Breathless Dead

“So what,” Redana starts to snap, digging alfalfa out of the pancakes with her fork, “Mother decided I needed some clowns?”

Then, again, she stops, and considers what she’s said after she’s said it. She looks at Mynx again, properly, and puts the fork down with a sigh. “No,” she says. “She decided I needed friends. I’m sorry, Mynx. It’s just that... I never would have seen this side of you or Bella if I hadn’t left. You would have fooled me the whole time, and I never would have seen how much Bella really hated me, or the lengths you’d go to just to keep me safe and miserable in my little cage. And I would have thought everything was fine.”

Around them, the ten thousand nameless noises of the ship as it is stressed by the rigors of travel, slingshotted towards their next destination. The sound of pancakes, chewed. The sounds, too quiet to hear, of the body: the beating heart, the rush of blood, the flutter of breath in and out of the lungs.

“I’m surprised Bella hasn’t jumped out yet with a straitjacket and an ELF,” Redana jokes, trying to plaster over that ache. “Is she too busy chasing Alexa around and lecturing her over letting me run off with her?” And she almost hides it. Almost. Almost manages not to glance over at the door, not sure if she is scared Bella will walk in or needs Bella to walk in and be coaxed into trying the pancakes, too.

[Redana Claudius flexes her Wisdom for once and rolls a 12. She would like to ask two questions, to be answered truthfully: what can Mynx tell Redana about Bella’s secret heart; and what does Mynx want now, and how can Redana help her?]

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Zhaojun!

It is said that the language of Heaven is wreathed in flame. It is said that it is written in glyphs that are left open to the reader’s interpretation. It is said that the first language was created as a tool of control, command, and as a method of expressing yearning. And all these things are true.

But still, Sagacious Crane must be commended for only flinching a little as her mind struggles to process a tripartite verb, with the knowledge that she heard three meanings and one sound. From her composure, she has heard such language before; from the way the rhythm of her walk falters, she does not have familiarity with it. But she does not fall to her knees in awe and surrender understanding in favor of rapture.

“A marvelous saying,” Sagacious Crane says. She does not say— oh, I see. Neither does she say— I do not understand. The careful words of a woman trying to buy herself time to puzzle out a meaning.

Her desires are so simple, though the reasons and meanings behind them writhe like the bright-banded serpents of this land. How she wants to be commended, or at the very least, told that her service was acceptable. How she longs, too, to see the mighty goddess Zhaojun lay the goblins and the rakshasa low with some peerless display of celestial skill, one that means she will not have to apply herself in battle, for the priestesses of the Sapphire Court are not peerless martial artists, relying on the assistance of small gods to defend them— and here, her only weapons will be her sash and her arms, which she does not value, despite their strength and shapliness.

That desire is a ready-made snare. All one of the rakshasa need do is pull on that string and Sagacious Crane will be lost in dreams of the goddess’s victory. How far will she follow in a daze, witnessing Zhaojun defeat ever more improbable opponents with a fearsome array of second-forms and true revelations of mien, even as the goblins swaddle her in silk and carry her down below the earth, there to be both wine and glass for their feasts?

To defeat the fair folk from beyond the world’s rim, you must fight above your desire, even one as simple as the guide’s, who wishes merely to be a good guide for honored guests. You must be able to see through their beautiful lies, though they offer you the fulfillment of your heart. And then, too, you must be able to outfight them. A difficult task, indeed.

“We shall build a cage for them,” Sagacious Crane concludes, her mind still clouded by a dread of what is to come. “I shall submit myself to your wisdom, radiant star of the dawn, whose light pierces the dark and brings revelation.”

As for what she loves most? The light of Venus is pervasive, and no desire can hide beneath it. Unpeel her heart of lesser things: her adoration of the priestesshood, her time spent as a silenced novice under the absolute authority of her superiors, her desire to see the Vermillion Beast locked away in a meditative anchorhold beneath the waters of Lake Zenba, her love of chilled noodles with crab meat and finely grated cheese, and (for once, not the cliche of newborn cats) baby monkeys. Underneath all the things she enjoys, there is a precious sapphire, and it is: the second-to-last night she spent at home, eating out of a hotpot with her sisters (who she wants to provide a good example, someone they can look up to) and her parents (who she wants to make proud, who deserve a daughter who becomes renowned and successful and, most importantly, sophisticated in the way they never had the opportunity— thus, the way she strives to scrub her hill country accent clean), in the place she still unconsciously thinks of as home (an inn on a winding road through the hills, a place of a hundred needful chores, a place where she played tag and skip-rope and mock swordfights with her little sisters).

That is what Sagacious Crane of the Reeds loves most, and it is the quiet tragedy of her life that love for her family is what has sent her away from them. When she is the Abbess, she thinks to herself— then she will have fulfilled the dreams of her parents for her life, and that will be the fullest declaration of her love for them.

***

Giriel!

Cathak Agata takes your hand. She reaches across the table, all innocently intense, and squeezes her fingers against the back of your hand. “It’s not,” she says, and the fire is in your hand, now, intense and inviting. “There are lives at stake, and you’re the one who can save them. What is one shabby cloak when compared to the lives of my guards?”

As if noticing the looks she is getting, if not from you then from other customers, she seems to realize that she is touching you for the first time, and then she withdraws. The air tingles where her hand rested against your skin, achingly sensitive.

She sits back, but her eyes still smoulder with Heroic Intensity. “I have been guarding the border of the Kingdom of Rose from N’yari incursion, but in the past month, my soldiers have been haunted. Our iron is no match for the restless dead, and the fear they instill sends ordinary women and men wild with fright. I have dredged friends and companions out of the clinging mud, wrapped them in shrouds and written my condolences to their villages.”

Now you can almost taste her righteous fury, stoked around her brow like a crown— that here is an enemy that will not face her openly on the battlefield, but strikes at her subordinates instead.

“I have reason to believe the N’yari have desecrated highland graves and stoked their occupants to lamenting violence. I have come to ask you to help me set things right.”

That is a very serious claim — the N’yari haven’t been at war like that with the Flower Kingdoms since the Sister-Warlords ruled. But her sincerity is like a brand against your skin, and the cloak lies there glimmering, reminding you: you can be a hero, too.

***

Kalaya!

Petony-Phraya’s eyes are red-rimmed. The dark shadows under her eyes have run in unsightly circles onto her cheeks. She sulks in her great tigerskin cloak like someone half her age, her hook sword lying unsheathed on her lap, a half-empty bottle of plum wine at her elbow.

One of her retinue unfolds from the shadows to remove you: a large boy with a half-shaved head. But before he can lay a hand on you, Petony raises one hand, cowing him with a barked, incoherent command. Then she glares at you like you’re the midday sun.

“Princesses,” she says. The warriors sitting around the long table, legs folded beneath them or sprawled out on the reef mats, nod in agreement. She stares at... no, through you. It’s unlikely she immediately recognized you as a princess. Like, she couldn’t have, right? You’re a brave, bold knight, and you deserve to be at this table.

(How long have you been a knight, anyhow? And what makes you worry she can see right through you anyway?)

“They promise that you’re special, and let you kiss them in the gardens, like you’re sneaking around, like it’s a game. They try to make you stay, make you another one of their family’s tools. That’s all it is. A big scam. We’re just their dogs. Well,” she says, and her voice is rising, becoming piercing, like the mighty war cry of the Tiger Knight, “this dog has fangs, Meli! Down with princesses! Down with liars, pretenders, and royals!”

Drinks are had, and smoke rings are exhaled, and Petony glares balefully at the ring in the wood by her hand, worn by hundreds of cups incautiously placed directly on the table. “Where’s the new cup,” she slurs to herself. “Can’t even... new cup...”

***

Piripiri!

You may be charming. A single flower would do quite well. Just take care not to be too charming. It suits Cathak Agata’s purposes to be reluctantly pursued but never caught by Azazuka, always just out of her reach; you have been forbidden to present an alternative to the daughter of merchants. For if Azazuka were to fall for you?

You would be invited to have tea with Cathak Agata in the Black Spur Redoubt. And you would stay there until certain things were found to have been made perfectly clear. You are not a player in the Game, Piripiri; you are a pawn.

So do be charming. Be an associate, be a friend, but do not dare to be anything more.

“Oh, daaaarling,” Azazuka says, looking back over her shoulder and beaming at you. “Do come look at this! Isn’t it simply delightful?” Her voice has an excitable trill to it, as if she’s seeing everything for the first time, despite the fact that she must have attended this festival every year growing up. And in her hands she has— ah! A model of the entire city, each ward shaped like a lotus’s petal, with the towers of the citadel rising from the center like stamen. The wards fold in on the center, around those towers, revealing intricate decoration in gold leaf, and careful interlocking facets to hold it closed, still in the shape of a lotus flower.

This flower she hands to you. “Here,” she says, as if it is not a completely inappropriately expensive gift. “So you’ll always remember being in the most beautiful city in the world.” The model is warm where she touched it, but not as warm as her smile. One of her attendants opens a purse and starts counting out golden coins as she takes your hand and pulls you along, barely giving you the chance to find somewhere to put the model.

It had better be a very good flower, darling.

***

Han!

The priestess... giggles. It’s like drops of rain dripping from the branches during a lull, breaking the placid surface of a lake, clear and high. If you were extremely attentive, or were one of the mountain witches, you’d be able to notice the subtle echo contained within the laugh, as if it were bouncing around a grotto. But your analysis likely starts and ends with “wow pretty.”

One hand flutters up to that veil while she tries to regain her composure. (Bereft of both hands on it, the umbrella tilts and bonks you on the hat before she manages to get it under control.) “I’m sorry,” she says, “I’m so sorry, it’s just, you’re just like her! Marchi, from— uh,” she adds, inexplicably flustered by herself, “That is, she’s from where I’m from, that general area, not really that close when you really think about it, but there’s this person who is named Marchi and she’s just like that, she growls just like her tiiiiiiger,” she finishes, having been completely unable to find a different word that started with “tie” and made any contextual sense.

“Ugh!” She says. “I’m sorry, I’m talking too much! I just don’t know when to shut up, do I?” Oh. Oh wow. It is very obvious this priestess has never ever met a N’yari. That’s the perfect set-up for one of their punchlines. “I just, okay, you got me, I was lying when I said I came over here because it was too noisy over there, I just... you looked lonely. And that’s what we’re supposed to do, right? Us priestesses. We’re supposed to look out for people.”

Then, quietly, conspiratorially, impossibly, she whispers to you, all uncertain vulnerability: “Am I doing it wrong?”

And that’s when it clicks that, unlike any other priestess in your experience, this little flowerbud isn’t looking to manipulate you and give you a lecture. This is the first time they’ve let her out of the temple alone, and what she wants from you right now is reassurance she isn’t a screwup. But when she came over here? All she wanted was to shelter you from the rain.

But that’s okay, because you’re great at reassuring people. Just the best, right? That’s a thing you know how to do. Just, like, make a joke. Tell her how you’ll shut her up for her, or something. Or ask if, wow, she really is a priestess (because of how not like Certain Other People You Know she is). You have got this on lockdown.

Sunshards

Weak. Fragile. Useless.

My girlfriend.

Weak. Fragile. Useless.

My girlfriend.

Rose is used to mantras. Because... because it is expected of a priestess? Yes. That must be it. Long hours spent in meditation over the miracles of the goddess, her ten thousand transcendent titles, her eight million fluffy tails. She lets the words step into the spotlight of her mind, declare themselves into the resounding dark, and step back into shadow, one at a time, over and over.

Weak. Fragile. Useless.

My girlfriend.

She is weak. She is not strong. Her restraints are hopeless; she shouldn’t even bother to struggle against them. She could never lift the sword that— what sword? Was she thinking of the bronze rod the Countess was holding? That surely must be it. As she is walked through the castle, her arms become slimmer with a slow and gradual diminishing, until the ropes (inescapable, adamantine, heavy) are dangling on the cock of her wrists.

Weak. Fragile. Useless.

My girlfriend.

She is fragile. She is not a mountain, not a serpent with invulnerable scales, not Equal To... well, anyone. She is a flower. She is a rose. She needs to be held and kept safe. She dwindles like a candle in the arms of her guards until she is no longer towering over them, but dainty, delicate, very holdable, just begging to be swept up into someone’s arms or over their shoulder. A white cloth slides down her chin and rests like a scarf around her collarbone.

Weak. Fragile. Useless.

My girlfriend.

She is useless, not skilled or useful or competent. Her chest is... awkward, compared to the rest of her, just a little too big, made for getting in the way of holding swords or fitting in tight spaces. Her hind end, the same, made for bumping into things and being smacked. Her footfall is not a sure, confident thing, but now stumbles and is hesitant, the body being made to forget... forget something. Why had she been so sure and capable before? No, she wasn’t, she must have been misremembering. She’s a silly little thing, all blushing and muffledly squeaking as she remembers her betters saying:

Weak. Fragile. Useless.

My girlfriend.

She is pushed into a small, warmly-lit room full of mirrors, where she is given the opportunity to look at herself, and she sees: the girlfriend of Princess Chen. Weak and fragile and useless and so, so lucky. She is told to sit; her bonds are removed, the sodden gag pulled from between her teeth; she is told to wait. Then the door is closed.

Rose, Princess Chen’s girlfriend, waits. Not just because she’s been told, but because she knows that Chen will come and save her, and that she is supposed to be in need of saving. She’s weak and fragile and useless and loved, after all, and—

Her fingers find something hidden away underneath her outfit, which is starting to fall away from her, leaving her very exposed. She runs her fingers over it reverently, over the pink leather, over the studs, and she remembers where she got it. Of course she does. How could she forget?

She lifts the collar that has her name on it and buckles it around her throat, just snug enough that she’ll remember, no matter what, Chen fitting it around her neck for the first time at the Flying Market of Princess Jessic; and their soft, gentle kiss; and how Rose felt safer and happier then than she had felt in, in mil— in years. Because she’s just a silly little priestess who has the cutest artist princess girlfriend in the world. And no matter what happens while she waits for Chen to escape and come save her, she can hold onto that truth.

Breathless Dead

Redana is still poisoned. She has to be. The tightness in her stomach, the way her throat is closed up, the frantic beating of her heart and sweat dripping off her sides. The poison courses through her veins, and it laps against the locked door in her heart. Behind the door is a world where everything is broken forever because she forced her best friend in the whole world to kiss her. Behind the door is a world where Bella becomes small and quiet and not fun any more, because Redana was a bad girl. Locking the door is don’t be naughty with your servitors and your highness, please accept my suit and the ways that Bella would stiffen and try not to run away when she brought her face close, and Redana might be dumb but she knows, okay? She knows Bella doesn’t want her. Not like— not that way.

And Bella being her best friend is— was. Was the most important thing in the whole world. So that kiss can’t have happened. It’s the forbidden thing, the freedom she doesn’t even dream about because it’s impossible, not in the way that going to space is impossible but in the way that being her father is impossible. And the poison surges through her, an acid sea.

And now she knows, too, that Bella was never her friend. All those flinches were— she must have been disgusted whenever Redana got too close, dared to touch her hand, rested her head on Bella’s shoulder. She was such a good actress. She had Redana fooled the whole time. Hiding all of that contempt and bile and venom behind polite, strained smiles. It wasn’t just that Bella was straight as an arrow, it was that she was roiling with hatred for her charge for, for so long, and Redana really was dumb, wasn’t she? Wasn’t she just.

That. Over and over. The shark beneath the sea of her thoughts. She hated you. She hated you. She hated you.

And still the poison burns.

“Don’t do that,” Dany says, and her voice is small and raw and hurt. “Please.” She doesn’t explain what that is. The words would break her like taking a sledgehammer to stained glass. So instead she changes the subject. When her hand rests on the table, next to the plate of pancakes, it shakes. “And I don’t. Didn’t. Whatever the Hunt and the Harvest and the Heart is. Are. Whatever.”

(And here the Auspex cheerfully shows her— what, exactly? If anything?)

“But I’m still going. I’m not going to stop. I have friends who don’t hate me and—“

She stops. She wouldn’t be Redana if she didn’t. “I’m sorry,” she says, and then coughs out the last of the venom; it shines on her lower lip, where the punctures are already closed. “I didn’t mean— I guess you didn’t hate me. I think. I don’t know. Because all of you were putting on a show for me the whole time. Pretending. And just... I’m not going back with you, Mynx. I’m sorry. I have to see this through.”

But she doesn’t yell for help, or tell her to get out, or anything like that. She sits and looks at Mynx with those sad eyes, and waits for the next part of the performance.

Then: “would you like some of the pancakes? Or some milk?” Because Redana is still Redana, whether or not she’s changed.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Han!

The Dragon’s Pearl is fairly standard, as far as highland barges go. It sits high in the water, traveling at a sedate pace downriver, pulled by an ox on the canal path and guided along by poles. At its prow is the carving of the Thunder Dragon, the legendary mother of the Flower Kingdoms, clutching a pearl in her talons; her horns rise from the center of her head in waves, like some vast and deadly chameleon. Behind, the barge’s deck is half covered by a curved roof over simple benches. The barge, not being particularly large, usually has extra passengers sitting between the prow and the benches, legs tucked in beneath them to fit underneath an umbrella.

But today, there is a wedding party traveling downriver to Golden Chrysanth taking up the benches, and you are not going to make somebody sit outside when they should be surrounded by their friends and family. So you are sitting, stubbornly, in the rain, radiating disdainful energy to scare pity away. Besides, who would dare approach you? You’re looking pretty scary, and the wedding party is comprised of lowlanders who recognize your fashion: a dangerous highlands country thug. Probably doesn’t want to be around us, you can almost hear them saying. Don’t give her an umbrella, she’d just end up breaking it.

So you sit, getting wetter and wetter, hood up but rain somehow getting inside your poncho anyway, in the low light of dusk, completely umbrellaless. And that’s when the priestess (who you were sure was with the wedding party) looms over you.

“Do you mind if I...?” She doesn’t finish the sentence, but goes ahead and takes a seat right next to you. Very close, even. Shoulder of her blue river-patterned poncho rubbing up against yours, the back of her hand holding the umbrella over both of you brushing against your soaked knee. When she half-turns to glance at you, her face is hidden— well, of course it’s hidden, she’s veiled and has her poncho’s hood up. But the lantern light from the covered benches glints off her glasses, and you get just a glimpse of her dark eyes behind them.

“I was getting a little overwhelmed over there,” she lies, transparently. “It’s all... bwah, yay, you know? Just a lot!” She does a little gesture with her free hand that might be intended to be... fireworks? “Thank you for letting me take a seat where it’s quieter.”

(She smells like a garden just after rain, but even sweeter, richer. Her voice is high and has an accent you can’t quite place, but sounds... classy. And she’s tilting the umbrella over you.)

What happened to your umbrella, anyway? And are you going to scare this little busybody off, before she can get on your case about something?

***

Piripiri!

Yayeh!

Festivals in Golden Chrysanth are riotous, and the Umbrella Festival is no exception; it might, in fact, be the biggest. Despite the flooding of the gutters, everyone is happy to say that not a drop of rain reaches the street, there are so many umbrellas on display on the streets (not to mention stalls, making the already cramped streets into tight mazes). The lanterns hanging at every door and stall turn the silver light of the stormy sky into a kaleidoscope.

Yayeh!

Fried fruits! Fried fish! Fried flatbread! Sticky sweet pastes! Fried noodles, coated in spicy-sweet sauce, served eyewateringly hot! Mystery Filling Buns, with the skeleton of an umbrella traced in frosting, each one a gamble! Wine, spiced or floral, poured into flimsy paper cups! Golden Rum, the official drink of the city, which you, as a visitor, must always remember to order diluted and with ice (lest you sear orange molasses into your throat), both because it’s cheaper and because only barbarians drink it straight (as you did, that first memorable time). Candied nuts, dried fruits, fruit-infused cookies, and that odd N’yari dish cooked in a sheep’s stomach (and nobody will tell you what it’s made of).

Yayeh!

And nobody’s wearing ponchos, which means bare shoulders and bare arms, bare stomachs and bare chests (though that is both rarer than it was and a deliberate political statement, these days). Necklaces, bracers, bracelets; girdles, earrings, headdresses. Everything and everyone is fighting for your attention, your approval, and (in the case of the vendors) your money— but not in the sort of way that you might see back home. It is doubtless rather awkward. Look at lips and be polite, dear.

Thankfully, your host has Dominion sympathies, and is wearing red and gold, her skirt jangling and her top made of layer upon layer of ruffled satin. Her servants and bodyguards are a crowd unto themselves, drawn in her wake, and she dives gleefully into the narrow streets, pulling you along.

What sort of relationship do you have with Azazuka, anyhow? And, despite the fact that she could probably buy this whole street, what gift do you want to give her before the end of the festival?

***

Zhaojun!

This far into the forest, the rain has changed from texture to sound. The boughs overhead: an awning, a symphony. It almost drowns out the story of the guide, and the story of the guide is this: “On the hottest day of the Hot Season, a rakshasa queen took residence in the shrine of a Loyal God.” That is what the locals call the gods of disease, misfortune, and decay. It does not do to attract their ire; better to both flatter them and remind them of their allegiance to the Sapphire Court. “She bound him tight in fantasies and sealed him away. Now we are preyed upon. No charm hung over the door keeps her servants out, and we become weaker and weaker. Half the village has already been spirited away to their larders, caught in their own dreams.”

The guide’s hair is long and straight, falling in a curtain. Her conical hat shadows her face, and the light from her lantern plays instead on her simple brown dress.

“Do not be troubled,” the priestess says. Her hair is gathered into an elaborate braid, and her voice is a self-conscious facade almost natural. It would take a keen ear to notice how she leans on her vowels too much, overly enunciating to avoid slipping into old rhythms. “The goddess Zhaojun, descended from Heaven, has already deigned to hear you out.” She is almost clever here. She tries to maneuver Zhaojun into definitive agreement, thinking herself a player of the Game of Generals; to make something concrete of the goddess’s simple marble mask. “Such affronts to the proper order will not stand against her,” she adds, with a flourish of intentional humility.

But perhaps this is too harsh an assessment of Sagacious Crane of the Reeds. After all, not only must she impress this rather singular emissary to the Flower Kingdoms, but there is a unsettlement running down her spine, and not simply the excitable one that is caused by being so close to Zhaojun. No, this is a more dangerous feeling, a premonition of danger. The way the sound of the rain has become a distant roar, a dome of calamity out of sight; the soft and lulling sound of the guide’s voice; the knowledge that if she fails, she risks not only imprisonment in fantasy but also the displeasure of the Sapphire Mother and Heaven itself for allowing harm to come to Zhaojun.

So she armors herself in control. Surely she can make Zhaojun understand the esteem she is held in here, that the Flower Kingdoms are not some barbaric backwater but the most vibrant and blessed land in all the world. Surely, with such a subtle nudge, she has committed Zhaojun to defeating the fairy rabble and made her feel good about doing so. And surely she has nothing to fear, as a priestess of the Sapphire Court and as the companion of Zhaojun herself.

Surely.

***

Kalaya!

The cup shatters when it hits the support beam on the far side of the hallway; an unlucky thing, that. If it had hit paper, it might have just caused a tear and then bounced onto the reed mats. But now the cramped hallway is covered in small shards of white-glazed porcelain, and there are shards stuck in the hair of the crying server who narrowly avoided being hit in the head by it, and from the sound of the hoarse roar that comes from the private room, the breaking of the cup didn’t even make its occupant feel any better.

The inn’s owner, a grey-haired woman with a bent back from years stooping in the garden, gives you a look that’s half pleading and half exhaustion. You’ve already had the discussion; nothing more needs to be said about what lies beyond.

Petony, the Tiger Knight, needs to sober up.

She’s drinking them dry, clearing out their larders, and she’s got an entire retinue accompanying her. While it would be dishonorable for her to react to requests to leave or at the very least pay her tab, her hosts are very much aware that she is unstable, armed, and in a destructive mood. Having the moral high ground wouldn’t help rebuild an inn, or even an entire village, if things spiral out of control.

Which is the real variable, if things come to blows. You, against a drunk Petony and her warriors, most of whom are either also drunk or very high? A dangerous fight, but one you might still win. But rather than considering victory, consider the risk of collateral damage if you move incautiously.

What do your stories have to say about Petony’s conduct? What is expected of you in this situation, as a knight and not a princess? And have you ever fought a knight before?

***

Giriel!

You are not in Golden Chrysanth officially. But this teahouse is not so far away, and it is closer than you have been in some time. Outside, the world is lost in the grey veil of rain; inside, it is warm, the world lit in oranges and yellows and reds. It is like taking tea in the heart of a fire, but without the fire.

Cathak Agata is fire enough for all, anyway. She is not like the last emissary, the one who was all self-importance and furious commands. The Red Wolf is an invitation to admire, to come close, to burn yourself on her. And her smile is so impossibly innocent that, even knowing that she is dangerous, it is difficult not to wonder if you have been misled and that she is exactly as she presents herself: a heroine fumbling about in a strange land, eager to learn from you.

“There are so many subtle changes in this season, don’t you think?” The lanternlight plays across her speckled skin. Her hands are... her fingers are, well. Nice. She brushed them against the back of your hand when she offered you your cup, and it’s hard not to let your attention drift back to them. She guilelessly takes another sip before continuing. “I’m not a magician. But I’m in awe of you and what you do. It’s like being a diplomat, a scholar, and a gardener all in one.”

Being around her, the warmth is... comforting. Seductive. Easy to yield to. The warmth simply wants you to use its energy to act. The Red Wolf simply needs to nudge your desires into a place that is convenient for her. How much of that are you aware of, as a student of essence and enchantment, and how much is just the witchy instinct in your gut, and how much is it still managing to slip by you anyway?

“And that’s why I’ve come to ask you for a favor. But first—“ She waves over one of her slaves, who wears a fine robe and a gleaming golden collar, who sets a box down on the table. The Red Wolf opens the exquisitely carved lid, and packed tightly inside is all the night sky. The fabric is impossibly soft, plush, inviting you to sink into it; the constellations above Scarlet’s mountain are delicately stitched in tiny diamonds and fine golden thread, and the moon is an empty circle of silver leaf. The cloak’s clasp is the Imperial Eye, done in jet and gold.

“It’s yours,” she says, and pushes the box forward. “As a sign of my gratitude that you were willing to meet with me. I’m sorry for the quality; it was the best I could get under short notice.” Her sheepish smile is a snare; her carefully unartful humility a trap. But can you really pay attention, when the gift is the sort that princesses would envy to see you wear?

To deny the gift of the Red Wolf in her presence is difficult enough for socialites and princesses. To reject it, politely or otherwise, you must Defy Disaster; if you accept it, give her a String from your heart.

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

"How can it not?" Constance does not snap. It is too inward-facing to be a snap. "If I absolve her of her wrongdoing, how can it not be because I am compromised? If I condemn her, is it not the same? And what does it say of me, that the brute feels emboldened to say this to me the first time we have seen each other in a year's time? And what does it say of me, that I do not know whether I am frightened or yearning? By the Hunter and the Mother, I do not know if I want to split her in half or if--"

She strangles the words. Her needle flashes like a sword. She can control this; she has done the work before, even by candlelight, working as much by feel as by sight, and as much through experience as either. What she has not done is this. Every mediation between the world and the divine is a performance, more art than skill. You cannot learn how to stand in the place between; you can only learn the skills to do so.

"I am not here for myself," she murmurs. "I am the turning point of the Wheel. I am the door that she must pass through. And that is my punishment. All I can do-- all I should do-- is play my part. If I do that, then..."

Then she will be absolved. Then Pellinore's eyes will leave her be. Then she will not see these eyes widen, over and over again, as Robena drives the axe into Pellinore to the very haft; the confusion, the betrayal, the accusation. That Constance was in collusion; that she was a traitor, a liar, a villain; that she betrayed her very nature as a holy woman. And if part of her believed that Pellinore deserved that death, that the land must be refreshed with the blood of the guilty, then how could she believe anything less of Robena?

"I caused the blow," she says, for the first time. "I cannot give her forgiveness. It is only my place to reveal her heart, that others may judge us. It is only mine to do the task in front of me. That, and nothing more."

A tear blots the delicate fabric; Constance lowers it into her lap with shaking hands.

"Nothing more."

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

When Constance enters the room, for a moment the activity stops. Harold, Mort, even Tristan; everyone looks up to see her, as strong and fragile as ice. Then she takes a seat beside Mort and takes up needle and thread.

It is only once they are working on the hemming that she says, unprovoked, in the middle of an entirely separate conversation: “She professed her love.” She does not say the words loudly, but they cut through the room like a knife all the same. “As if I could,” she says, and then falters. “As if we were,” and again the words wither away in her mouth, dry and brittle like the dying crops, like the broken heads of corn, like the earth without rain.

Constance’s folk were always closest to the land. Perhaps it is not so strange that she has suffered long over this past year. Perhaps Britain’s weakness is hers, in turn. Perhaps Britain does not know what to do with the love given it, either.