Tatterdemalion

Breathless Dead

When she wakes, Bella is still there. Her lips are set in a frown, and how she smiles. Her coat is cruelly familiar, and her eyes still throb as she lights a cigarette and exhales something that stains the walls clear. Behind the mirrors are machines and masks, and every one of them is her.

“Zenoy, Zanzenoy, Zenangelov,” the Laughing God purrs, and the knowledge hits her hard and fast like lightning. She stumbles out of the bed, trailing the Scyllan medical tether until its jaws yield and leave her bereft of its monitoring and enhanced nutrient lines, and she begins fumbling, pushing through the mirrors, grabbing at them and knocking it down.

“Redana,” Mynx says, and she’s wearing a mask, too. Princess Redana Claudius, thinking herself clever. The pink of Redana’s skin melds too neatly with the red scales of her neck. “Are you okay? The Alcedi grandmother said that there wasn’t anything wrong with you, and neither did the Magos, but—“

Redana grabs Mynx by the mask, and finds that she can’t find the seams. Well. That’s all right. “Mynx,” she growls. “Mynx. I have to find the right one.”

“You... what?”

Redana pushes Mynx back, not unkindly, and continues— no, not here, not in here. She stumbles out through the decontam and lets it wash over her and Mynx, even while she checks— no, not here, either.

“Redana, you’re scaring me.”

“I have to find the right one.” The mask on the door (Princess Redana Claudius, upon eating something that she had been pushing around her plate for ten minutes) glows green through its eyelids and Redana pushes through and groans at the sight in front of her, rows upon rows upon rows of masks all the way down the corridor. “I have to find the right one,” she says, repeating herself, louder, with more urgency. “Because I can’t save her without the right one.”

“Zenoy, Zanzenoy, Zenangelov.”

Redana starts running. She glances this way and that, and wherever she looks the mirrors crack and masks pour out of the walls. Sometimes she stops and begins to root through them, uncertain, until she stands up and hares off again, certain that the one she’s looking for is just a bit beyond.

Just a bit farther. Just a bit further. Just a few more steps. It’s around this next corner. The machinery is deafening in her ears, and she almost understands it. Maybe after she finds the right one, she’ll be ready to listen to it properly. But that’s not here. Not yet.

“Redana,” Mynx says, her face still embarrassingly smug, “I really don’t think you should go in there.” Redana stops, looks at her hands, then back at Bella, who is waiting for her. Her stone tail curls around the helm, and smoke curls in the empty places of her back. Redana pries the door open, ignoring Mynx’s squeak of terror, and marches in. There it is, hanging right where it’s supposed to be.

Redana reverently takes the mask and gives it to Bella. Bella hooks the string behind Redana’s head and settles the mask firmly on. Her fingers, clawed, crumbling, linger on Redana’s eyelids before trailing down her new cheeks.

Captain Redana Claudius sets her hand on the helm. “Magistrix,” she says to Mynx, her voice calm now, self-assured, but without arrogance: “Seal the doors and inform the crew. We’re taking a Tristranian Folly. Engines shuttered, save on my mark.” It’s an elegant dance of engines, a way to kill momentum, to make a hard turn without straining the ship past what it can bear. Too slow for battle, but whispersoft if you get the timing right. She pulls the cords and messages begin their long relay down the ship.

“You are to be commended for bringing this to my attention, magistrix. You will be disciplined for cowardice and desertion of a true comrade, which are high crimes, but I will take the circumstances and our long acquaintance into account in your sentencing. Phobos and Deimos make fools of us all, and I will not cut off my own nose to teach my face how to behave. Once we are on our new heading for Ridenki, you are to confine yourself to the brig. Am I clear, magistrix?” Captain Redana Claudius speaks as a woman of the high seas should, her Armada accent crisp and steady, her words carefully enunciated, her passion hidden behind a stoic demeanor.

“And for the sake of the Thunderer,” she says, frowning at what she’s just received on the pneumatics, “send word to the phalanx that if they think the cook is in command, they are gravely mistaken.”

With a wave of her hand, one wall becomes the starry sky far beyond, and even here she can see the gears, the levers, the turning keys, each one hiding behind the drifting colors. Perspective. That’s what she needs. With the right perspective, you could understand the entire design. Isn’t that right, Father?

Isn’t that right?

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Zhaojun!

Zhaojun laughs. She laughs and laughs and laughs. Her eye, revealed where the mask has shattered, is startlingly blue. Like the sea. Like the sky. Like the robes of Venus. Her hair is wilder now. Her robes gossamer-purple. But still she remains Zhaojun, Broken.

“Once there was, once there was not,” she says...

An enemy of Creation who sought to destroy this land.
Maybe it was the Broken King.
Maybe it was the traitor, Neptune.
Maybe it was me.
He took all the little foxes.
In those days they were red, red, red.
So red.
Incarnadine.
He took the foxes, all of them.
He tied torches to their tails.
He set them loose and watched them run.
Trying to escape from the fire.
They set fire to the world.
But then the rains came.
They churned the earth into mud.
All the little foxes rolled in it.
That’s why they’re all brown now—
And black, where their tails burned.

(The story’s wrong. The little foxes are not red. The little foxes are not brown. They are a hot lambent pink, and their teeth are needles, and they are the fire that they carry. They multiply inside the body, one become a hundred become a thousand. The rakshasa has set the fires, her teeth both flint and steel. Now the pink foxes squat at the crossroads of the heart and chew holes in proclamations and dig up buried and forbidden thoughts, though whose— that is not to be told yet.)

“Shall I tell you another?” The placid expression on Zhaojun’s mask is somehow now mocking, despite not having changed at all. “I shall tell you another. Once there was, once there was not a diarchic maiden who walked into a trap. When asked why, she said: because I am governed by desire, and I desire to be as I am.”

(Be we and be free!)

Zhaojun draws her flickering nightmare razor from between her fingers, möbius-edged. It is barely extant in the dark. “You knew me,” she asserts. “And you chose this,” she asserts. The razor glides smoothly against an exposed neck, separated from throbbing fox pandemonium by the thinness of a sash of fine silk. “You are two-in-one, each so desperate to surrender. I have led you here from the moment you donned each other. You never had a choice.”

***

Kalaya!

“If there’s one thing I can say about the Red Wolf,” Petony says, “it’s that she’s a terrible judge of character.”

The rain’s gotten heavy. You were able to smother the unnatural flames with wood, choking them out on what should have been fuel. Now you’re drying off on the long porch, having been soaked in the battle and the toil afterwards. Still, Petony seems pleased by you, still willing to follow your impetuous lead; it’s her thoughts that have her frowning.

“She puts her trust in unworthy women. A woman like her is easily tricked, easily used. No wonder her commanders act so cruelly in her name. No wonder she is tricked by lying princesses.” She breathes in deeply from her pipe and blows out a smoke ring. “There’s no solution. If we send them howling back to the Lamentation, they’ll just come back with orders to kill; the Red Wolf’s got her hounds restrained as much as she can. Do you think the likes of Rose and Hyacinth will be able to stand up to them? Now, Holly. Maybe Holly.”

When she breathes, the smoke pours out of her nostrils like a dragon. “Maybe not. It was easy when it was the Despots, back when you were still in diapers. Then we knew where we stood; and Uusha danced through their stone-horses and cracked their legs, and little Dima hounded them up and down the rivers, and then there were Leeli and Amara who were our teachers. And then there were Vika and Kesh and Nuumel, and...”

She grows quiet for a moment. Her eyes smolder. “And they’ve laid down their swords, or turned them against each other, and who’s left to stand up to the iron and the fire? Me? You really think we could have beaten them, little petal? Them who have the blessing of Red Mars?”

That’s important. The Accord of Thorns is blessed by Venus Morningstar, who makes battle into sport and love into war, who wants champions to defend what is good and peaceful in this world. But the Imperial Legions are blessed by Mars, who is interested in conflict, the shedding of blood, and the dominance of strength. Mars shines over the Imperial Mountain, it is said, and the scales of the Scarlet Empress gleam with that star’s light.

If you were to come to blows, you would be echoing a celestial argument of philosophy; and Mars has the upper hand in open battle. Venus knows hearth and home and heart, and thus these things are held dear in the Flower Kingdoms, but can they really overcome hardened killers?

Possibly. Even starlight flickers. But impetuous Petony seems on the low ebb of her swing, shoulders bare of her tigercloak, which hangs over the kettle-fire to dry. And when she looks to you, it is with the tired hope of someone who remembers being your age.

***

Han!

A stray curl drifts on the surface of the river. If it had any use as a mirror in the low light, the rain has warped it; you are just a silhouette enveloped by a larger silhouette. Your blood rushes in your ears; under the world-swallowing sound of Machi’s purring, you can hear Hanahan and Kigi cheering for their champion, and the supportive(?) noises coming from the little priestess. You feel, more than hear, her stamping her feet on the deck. It’s something to think about instead of the way Machi has you pinned to the railing and has one arm pulled tight over your neck.

She pushes you lower and lower, but never unbalances you, makes you feel like you’re going to be flipped into the river. Your head dunked, maybe, but then she’d pull it right back up. She’s not going to let you go that easily. Not tonight.

Her tongue is rough and wet and hot where she drags it against your ear. Even knowing that this is decently restrained for a N’yari (she’d be shoving that tongue in your mouth if she was trying to aggressively flirt) doesn’t stop it from coming across as possessive.

A surge of incredibly not flustered and actually incredibly composed energy runs through you, and you manage to squirm to one side; Machi’s hip slams into the railing next to you, rocking the barge, eliciting a muffled cacophony from your fellow passengers: shrieks of fear that the two of you are going to tip the boat over. With all of your might, you grab at Machi, and you make a valiant attempt at throwing her over your shoulder.

It’s like attempting to toss a mountain. One foot sweeps your legs out from under you, and your knees hit the deck hard, and Machi topples down with you, and the deck comes up very fast. By the time the temple bells stop ringing in your head, Machi’s got one of your arms wrenched up behind your back and her chest (absurdly warm and fluffy and pillowy) enveloping the back of your head. From underneath Kitty Tofu Hell you manage to get a glimpse of the little bud, squirming in Hanaha’s lap, still wearing your hat, trying so very hard to say something that’s probably “Han, you idiot, are you throwing this match?” That’s definitely it. That’s why she’s wriggling her shoulders and leaning forwards for emphasis, unable to take her eyes off you.

“You are not a flower,” Machi says, and you can feel the powerful rumble resonating through your head as you scrabble on the slick deck for leverage. “You are stone: hard, strong, beautiful.”

“Tell her about her hair,” Kigi sing-songs, running her claws through her new pet’s hair while he moans helplessly.

“Your hair is the fire that once burned in the heart of Aunt Je-he-rakusa,” Machi growls, twisting your wrist back into a position that you are definitely not limber enough for even when you’re not banged up. “I will pile it up in lowlander gold and make it your crown, and gift you combs of white stone for brushing it.” She runs her fingers (with the arm pinned under your neck) through it, and not roughly, even as she threatens to push your hips through the deck. How is she this heavy?

At least Machi stopping to paw at your hair has given you another chance to try and wriggle out. You are going to wriggle out, right? You’re not going to succumb to the promise of being carried back to the mountains by Big Strong Girl Who Has Many Weird Compliments And A Very Warm Mouth, right? Look at the little bud there— how can you let her down? If you don’t assert yourself, she’s going to end up your wedding present, in a teenie tiny apron and a headdress of semiprecious stones, trussed up on top of a pile of looted treasures!

***

Piripiri!

Azazuka lays her hand on yours. She’s so careless about it, and she’s not even looking at you, but. It’s her hand. On top of yours. Big and soft and warm, even through your gloves.

“That sounds wonderful,” she sighs, but then: “But now you’re here. Safe from lava and fairies and other such distressing things.” She sounds... dismayed. “You don’t need to worry,” she adds. “No danger ever comes to Golden Chrysanth. The princesses may squabble, the N’yari might reave, but our moat and our walls keep us safe. The most you will ever have to worry about are stray fireworks or mercantile ‘wars.’”

As a student of espionage, it’s trivial to gauge her. It’s not as if she’s particularly good at hiding it (unless she’s much cannier than you, which cannot be discounted as a possibility). She has no idea what real danger is like, but longs for it anyway. If a river dragon breached or the rat urchin pulled up to a pirate sloop, she’d be as delighted as a child on their birthday.

Do you encourage this longing, or tamp it down?

***

Giriel!

From the moment you hear the bow being pulled across the strings, you know. You deny it to yourself and press onward into the dark, following the song to wake the dead, but the knowing piles up inside you until you make a turn along an overgrown trail and see her, crowned in moonlight and gentle rain, playing her erhu: Peregrine. Around her are N’yari who do not move like N’yari, attending to the graves; and around her sway the shades of the dead, called up slowly and with care.

The road to her is down, into a ravine, and then back up, winding around the side of the hill. And, knowing Peregrine, you will need to touch her to even have a hope of getting her attention when she is in the middle of a rite. You don’t need to be next to her to know that her eyes will be closed and her lips parted, deaf to all but the song.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

She looms out of the dark so suddenly, a figure of such terror, that Kayl screams and crumples, his legs failing him. It’s hard to blame him. Her verdigrised armor was shaped by forest gods, curling and snaking about her over-long limbs, and her helmet extends into a long muzzle, locked in a boar-tusked smile. The horns bend inwards before splintering into a mess of prongs, curved and sharp, just like the nails of her gauntlets. In the low light, the eye sockets of her helm are dark pits, revealing nothing.

“Have you come as an exorcist, Honored Sister?” Uusha, the Stag Knight, asks, her voice rough and wry, reminiscent of the forest gods themselves. “Or have you come to join the work?”

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

The dress looks faintly ridiculous in the sunlight. It is made for night, meant to be cloaked in shadow and to shroud Constance in temptation. In the last of the daylight, it does not flatter Constance as she pins her hair in place; it makes her seem gangly and grave-pale, and it was definitely not made to be bunched up while she sits.

But once the night falls, then it will be different. Then she will wear the night itself. Then her paleness will become like marble and its lustre where it flashes beneath the layers will be like the barrow-hoards of the dead kings. Then her make-up will be effective, deep and dark enough to drown Robena, rather than looking faintly like peat.

Artifice, Artifice, all is Artifice— but when the sun lowers her lids, then will that artifice be revealed in its hour and glory. Then she will be Night’s handmaiden, the serpent in the garden, a stone to break Robena’s hull and send her heart spilling into the sea.

“Thank you,” she says, to those assembled, and her sincerity is fine and brittle as chalk. Her heart is a bird in a snare in her chest, and her fingers unconsciously twist at her dress already, as if eager to pull layers away.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Han!

The sound that Jazumi makes when she is sucker punched by you is kind of a “nuuh.” Then she spins on her heel, topples over the side of the boat in a jingle and jangle of charms, and hits the water with a hard splash. Like, painfully hard. The little priestess winces a little. But don’t worry, because she immediately comes back up flailing and hissing and pulling outraged faces as the current sweeps her away. N’yari don’t much care for the water, see.

Machi turns and fixes you with the kind of glare that would melt a lesser woman, the lantern-light shrouding half her face in shadow, as Kigi and Hanaha freeze. Then, terribly, inevitably, Machi’s face breaks into a grin and she cackles. “Haha! Wonderful, Han! Grandmother, I thank you for this blessing, that you bring our paths together again!” She kisses two fingers and holds them up to the sky in honor of Grandmother Moon. Then she brings her attention back to you— that is, the two of you, because the priestess, arms still lashed behind her back, is shoulder-to-shoulder with you. You can feel her all fluttering like a leaf, even as the rain trickles into her shoulder-bobbed hair, which is a glossy dark blue in the low light, her poncho’s hood pulled back by Jazumi.

Machi swings her sword off her back and hammers it, still sheathed, down on the still boat so hard it rattles the deck. “I claim that priestess as our prize in the name of our Grandmothers,” she purrs, claws clacking on the hilt. “But I am willing to yield her to Han’ya of the Ōei, my raid-bride.”

Oh. Oh gosh. Well, she’s given you two pretty clear options. On the one hand, she means to beat you in a duel and take the priestess just so you’ll come chase her. On the other, she intends to give you the priestess as a gift. An initiation present. And of course the priestess can tell she’s being bartered over. It’s obvious! Clear as day! That she’s being dangled like a prize! You need to make it clear that you’re not interested in having her as a prize— because you’re not thinking about it, right? You’re not considering slinging a cutie over your shoulder and feeling her squirm and hearing her squeaks, no, that’s the furthest thing from your mind. And besides, what kind of thanks would that be to someone who was kind to you, who offered you an umbrella, who wasn’t afraid of you (though she probably is now...).

What might be going through your mind instead is an image of Machi, big stinky cat bully, toying with an innocent, helpless priestess, and it’s all your fault you brought attention down on her head. Enveloping her in those muscles, licking the sweat off her skin, leaving hickeys beneath that veil, being possessive and mean and... meep.

Is it that? Is it the way that, instead of sneering and being bombastic, Machi sounds devious and excited at her own cleverness and eager to tempt you into joining her? Is it the casual strength of her stance, knowing she could pick you up and toss you overboard if she wanted, but that she doesn’t want to, because she wants you?

Why does Machi of the Ōei take a String on you, Han(‘ya of the Ōei)?

***

Giriel!

“What will you do when you find them?”

The young shepherd glances back at you. He’s so young, just having earned the right to take the flock past the river to graze all by himself— old enough for the responsibility, but, despite his protestations to the contrary, young enough that he doesn’t know better than to lead you.

Which is, in and of itself, curious. The farmers and herdsmen of the lowlands often struggle with the superstition (grounded in unfortunate fact and logical fallacy intermingled) that the appearance of a witch brings the attention of the Unseen to their doorstep; that ghosts linger in your wake, demons listen to act on your every thoughtless word, and that gods being their attention and judgment on those who interact with you. Kayl is young enough that he thinks himself brave enough to deal with all those things. It’s very cute.

But that’s not all. Because while you’re used to some distance, ever since you started asking around about the N’yari raids and the Legion patrols, you’ve been stonewalled, and there’s the worry of worse. A woman even came out of her mother’s house to throw beans at you. Beans! Like you’re some common bandar-logi! People this close to the mountains should know better!

Which brings us back to Kayl, all energy and impish smiles, always a few steps ahead of you, carrying a pole and a goat-knife. The only guide you’ve been able to find to the local graves, and the only one you’ve been able who’s willing to talk about the ghosts. Sure, he’s only seen them from a distance, but he’s heard them, and once, while he was trying to sleep, he heard a whole procession on the other side of the low wall he was huddled up against, and he kept his eyes closed even though his heart was hammering so loud, and he didn’t so much as breathe while they marched past with their dry feet and their heavy bangles and their low conversations in old people speak, and if he did breathe, he was so sneaky about it that they didn’t so much as sniff it.

“Are you going to call the demons? They might come to you. Meris says she’s seen them camping in the forest. Their fires are all green, like the leaves, and they keep tossing rocks into it.” (Worryingly accurate. The Tears of the Green Sun don’t burn wood, only stone. They tarnish metal and sear poems into flesh.) “I think you shouldn’t be allowed. The priestesses should come and send all the demons home and make you do your penance. Is it true that the Mother of Witches is all tied up under Lake Zenba?”

***

Zhaojun!

Sagacious Crane of the Reeds lands, again, in the mud, face-down, veil drenched in mud and marked with the pattern of a goddess’s slipper. One of the bandar-logi reaches out to her, chittering, as the rest crowd greedily in.

Sagacious Crane’s hand lashes out and seizes the bandar-log by the wrist. It makes a small noise, an acknowledgement of its imminent doom, and then Crane pulls herself up, and, in one smooth motion, pulls the bandar-log off its feet and flings it shrieking at her tormentor—

Who is no longer there. And that is what breaks her. In a towering fury she plows through the bandar-logi, screaming for Zhaojun to come back, not out of fear but so she can shake the possessed girl until that mocking, immutable mask tumbles off and she can look her in the eye and tell her off, how dare she, liar, tormentor, false messenger, to say such things, to strike at her goddess, to strike at herself, to make such implications—

Beneath the shrine, Zhaojun walks in the deep places of the earth. Shadows drift and drape. Banners hang limply, each one seeming to proclaim: he who wove me was beautiful! she who held me was mighty! behold me now, a memorial to a place that was, a time that was, a people who were! But it was not, it never was, and they never were. Zhaojun walks through falsehoods and the weight of her threatens to cause a collapse. The rakshasa will have no choice but to reveal herself—

And so she does, in a form that Zhaojun does and does not remember. A voice that cries out for release, dry and cracked but unmistakable. The goddess is strong, but the body remembers; this trap is made for it. Come close, it says in every aspect, every perfect detail, come close.

What temptation, perfectly crafted, is too much for the [possessed/encircled/sleepwalking] priestess, Zhaojun? What hides the porcelain fangs until it is too late?

(When the fangs sink deep and the venom spreads, Zhaojun will mark XP. So yield, child of earth. Succumb.)

***

Kalaya!

When a demon’s sword is shattered, as Petony’s hook swords are deft at doing, a curious thing happens. The demon stops, kneels down, collects the pieces (a process sometimes delayed by the warriors with clubs batting them around), and then marches away, holding them carefully. One by one they begin to trail away, bleeding away their strength, until Petony hooks their strange icon’s pole with her sword and snaps it. When it falls onto an exposed stone, a low groan rolls through the ranks of the demons, and they rout entirely. Victory!

Victory, save for the fact that the farmstead the Legion occupied for their stand is now alight with green fire, and rather than trying to put out the blaze, they’re pulling out and making to regroup and put distance between you and them; their commander evidently does not want to take responsibility for what just happened here.

Here’s your choice, then, gallant knight: if you give up on the opportunity to chase the legion and hold them to account, mark a Condition to reflect how much it hurts to watch them get away without being forced to acknowledge the harm they have caused.

But if you chase after them and challenge their commander, you’ll have a chance to capture all of them for justice— at the cost of failing to rescue the farmstead. The farmers will live, but their home and possessions will be lost to hell’s fires.

For her part? Petony would encourage you to chase after them, without hesitation. It’s better to kick ass and feel good about it than to spend time trying to put out strange magical fires.

***

Piripiri!

“Do you have anything so grand in Hymair?”

Possibly it is a dig at you, a veiled (ha!) snub to make her feel superior. Possibly it is not, and it is as it seems, a breathless and happy question as the two of you huddle under your umbrellas, looking out over the clouded mirror of the great lake at Golden Chrysanth. From here, it’s hard to see the pennants and banners, and so the city is defined by its myriad of lights and the great spires and towers that rise above them, dark against the silver sky. Even from here, it is possible, just barely, over the constant sound of driving rain on water, to hear the noise and clamor of the city— but muffled, as if swaddled in a blanket.

Extend that metaphor. You are the one in the blanket, you and Azazuka and the rat girl (who has an umbrella in the crook of her elbow that she’s desperately trying not to drop as she slowly poles along, and you could swear you caught a rat holding onto it for her). It is hot and humid under the blanket, but the weight of the air is also comfortable, suggesting to you that you can afford to relax. The world beyond, as grand as the scale of the city may be, is muted. It is just the three of you, and the rat girl is doing her best to make it seem like two.

“It is older than mortal habitation in the Flower Kingdoms,” Azazuka says, reciting a teacher’s catechism. “When we arrived in the light of the sun, it was here, waiting for us.” Which means that it may have been built by the Titans for their demons (the technical term for prelapsarian demons is daemons, but only an insufferable scholar would correct you) or by one of the other servitor races from the beginning of time: the Rapta, the Chorus of Lights, the Thirteen Belled. Either way, it gives the city an even grander air, and puts into context the feeling of renovation you sometimes feel walking those streets, the way that the garish wood and paint and silk is the affectation of a long-term tenant, and that if the lake washed it all away, the black stone would remain inviolate.

Her earlier question still stands: do you have anything so grand in Hymair? Golden Chrysanth is truly a wonder from the ancient world, like shattered Chiaroscuro. What does your home have in way of comparison—

She’s looking to you without(?) guile. Her cheeks are soft. Her braids gleam with oils. And the smile playing on her full, red lips is worth an Imperial Tribute in and of itself. She hangs on your words. Quick, storyteller; quick, little Pipi. Sing of Hymair, lest she turn away from you and find you common.

Sunshards

Good girl. A thrill runs through Rose from her toes all the way up to her head; her hair floofs in a perfect and impossible way as the shudder reaches the top of her. Yes. Yes! Another piece of the puzzle fits into place with an almost audible click: she’s weak, fragile, useless, Chen’s girlfriend, and she is a good girl. A good girl: is good, is a girl, does her best to keep quiet when punished, check, check, check. And her mouth is for pleasing her mistress (in her silks and fluffy scarf and shining eyes that see the beauty in everything) and she won’t use it for anything else unless she wants to be punished.

(Does she want to be punished? That’s a prickly question. Punishment is bad. Punishment is... dark, and sleep, and loneliness, and she can’t remember what the temple did if that’s what she remembers of it, and the thought hurts. Punishment hurts. It hurts so much. Is that what Keron will do to her if she is a bad girl? Will she make Rose fall asleep and bury her forever under the castle? Then how will Chen find her? Please, please, Chen, if that happens, you have to find her, please.)

So she has to use her mouth to make her Chen pleased. And what would please Chen? Rose thinks as hard as she can, Keron’s stare hot and hard on her. Then she speaks, looking up with eyes like gold and onyx.

“Princess Chen tries so hard,” she blurts out. “When she laughs, the world lights up all around me. I used to think princesses were no good, were power-hungry, needed somebody to keep them in line— not me, of course,” she squeaks, squirming. “But I don’t want anyone to stop Chen from smiling. She does that enough herself. She deserves someone big and strong to look after her and keep her safe and hold her and instead she picked me and every day she makes me feel a little more like she made the right choice. Because that’s what she does. She sees the beautiful things in landscapes and draws them out, and she sees the beautiful things in all these silly princesses and draws them out, and she sees the beautiful things in useless, weak girls who can’t even use a sword... and she makes it so that everyone else can see them, too.”

And then her mouth clamps shut, because begging someone else for reassurance wouldn’t be pleasing to Chen! She’d want to know that her fragile little Rose never lost faith in her, and no matter how much she wants to be called a good girl again, she can’t ask. And, and, and! And the look that Keron is giving her makes her feel all the more useless, useless, useless, because her heart’s hammering and she’s all hot and she’s being held in place by a handmaiden who can move her around, and, and, and if her mouth is only for Chen’s kisses she shouldn’t want Keron to steal one from her mouth anyway! That’s not a good girl thought, right? R-right? She doesn’t know the words for that kind of girl, but they’re probably... w-whatever the opposite of a good girl is!

No, a good girl is... someone who Chen would be proud to save. And that sort of girl would tilt her head like this— before Keron can decide her fate— and let out a little “hmmph!” of defiance, like Keron doesn’t make her scared and excited and weak and useless, like she wants to be punished, and even though she’s scared, she can’t stop herself from trying to be the most like Chen’s girlfriend she can be.

Because Rose is a good girl.

[Despite herself, Rose is Smitten with the Countess. She may take a String, herself, on Rose; and if she tugs that String, she will tug Rose helpless and all confuzzled and thirsty with it.]

Breathless Dead

In the desert, Redana walks.

The ship yawns and unfurls. The metal on the walls, well-welded, is gone; there is glass. There is glass and glass and glass. It drifts in dunes up and down the passages, crunching under Redana’s feet. The walls are warped. The labyrinth is here. She walks it, and her clothes are leopardskin and blood, and when she lets her fingers drift against the mirrors she flinches back because they are so cold, they burn.

She is bloody; she leaves smears on the glass, shivering, demarcated. Has she committed another sin? Her body burns where she embraced Mynx, held her so tight, in her throat where she screamed, in her fingers which made fists pressed against her spine. And did she pop? Or... no. That was when the curtain fell. Mynx’s voice follows her, but the words are meaningless: Zenoy, Zanzenoy, Zenangelov. That is what the Coherent say to her when she pushes them aside, into the wastes: Zenoy, Zanzenoy, Zenangelov.

She wanted to become the Nemean and tear Mynx apart for being a coward, but she saw the thought falling like a star, from outside herself, and she was afraid, and Mynx was afraid and knew her death, and there trembling on the edge of calling down that violence she called out, and what she called out was that Mynx was not the one who needed to be punished, Mynx was not the monster, Mynx was not, and she raised one hand to backhand the coward and her fingers interlocked and—

There is a statue that stands alone. The sky above is roiling, a nebula split in half by Nyx’s sword, so violently black that the pink within throbs. The statue is white, glass-scoured, blasted. The back has fallen out, worn away completely, leaving a thin marble facade smiling serenely out. Bees crawl in and out through the parted lips, brilliant black and all-consuming gold, cloyingly sweet to see. It stands in the middle of the road, and Redana cannot go around, cannot go around at all, because distance is boundless and mirrored on either side.

“I hurt you,” Redana says, pressing her forehead to the sandaled foot, the claws and the arch. “Because i am stupid. You were right, you were right, were you always right? By being born I hurt you. Come back. Come back. Please. Let me show you what I wanted. Just let me show you what I meant. Please. Please. Let me unhurt you.”

And she looks up, and Bella looks down, her eyes in the hollow mask painted circles nested forever in a thousand colors, black holes for falling into until the stars fail and the gods begin the game all over again, and her voice is the whisper of the bees passing in and out from her lips. ”Zenoy, Zanzenoy, Zenangelov.” Thus she proclaims, and condemns blood-stained Redana to her punishment, by authority of Redana Nulla, Never-Empress of Tellus.

***

When Mynx catches up to her, Redana’s dug a groove in the shrine door (Dolce has the key) with her nails, which are too strong to break. She lies face-down on the floor, her manic energy all at once expended. Mynx lifts with her knees, asking her ward if she is okay, as if she can do anything about it, as if she did not do this somehow, and all Redana hisses through a clenched jaw is, simply, ridiculously, again: Eloy, Elioyama, Sabakthani.

And together the three of them make their way to the infirmary.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Zhaojun!

What is a battle between martial artists but a dance by a different name? Sagacious Crane flares into life, her maiden’s heart wounded by this sudden betrayal, for a moment too angry to fall apart; she is not too dissimilar from her sister, if one digs in the right place.

When she strikes at Zhaojun, ineffectually, her mud-drenched sash lashes through the air like a whip. The bandar-logi crowd in on all sides to watch, their heads cocking to one side and then shuddering slowly back upright. They make a sound like raindrops striking bamboo as they do, until the world all around melts into a haze of sound, the pearl that by necessity is formed by the crude world of matter around the things that truly matter.

Ah, Zhaojun! This girl has been molded already, from the first time that she saw an icon of the Sapphire Mother, from the first night she spent blissful and secure in the Temple of the Pure Lotus, from the first day she spent walking the roads of the Flower Kingdom as a rising star amongst her peers. She has been reassured, over and over again, that if she walks this road she will be rewarded, accepted, beloved. She has tamed and sublimated her temper— the very same that flares now. It will burn but a moment before it dwindles into despair, unless it is stoked.

If she is mocked— if she is reminded of her birthplace— if she is challenged for her right to serve her goddess— then she will hold the bandar-logi at bay with the strength of that old and well-buried hurt. But to burn water is a terrible thing. It will hurt her, perhaps more than it will turn her against you; she will go from this place, no matter what happens, and quietly insinuate that the possession was flawed, that the goddess Zhaojun was decieved into an inauspicious and unstable manifestation, that perhaps the Sapphire Court should correct this error.

But left to dwindle, confused and betrayed, she will be helpless before the rakshasa, let alone their servants.

As for her fear? That her peers, her goddess, and her world that she is so desperate to fit into see her for what she is and reject her; that she is not some sparkling gem rescued from humble birth but simply another common stone. That in this place, Zhaojun will judge her and find her wanting, tainted by her birth in the mud between the rocks. Nothing more, nothing less. That is the fear that would drive her to defeat the bandar-logi. Will Zhaojun act upon it?

And how, pray tell, does Zhaojun let slip what she hopes to get from Sagacious Crane, or does she armor her heart and refuse to let anything by her stone face?

***

Giri!

It is very difficult to know Cathak Agata’s true feelings. After all, you are simply a witch; you have not gone on pilgrimage to the far side of the world where her matriarch-ancestor lies and receives the tribute of nations. The gleam of emotion in her brilliant eyes, the one you do not know enough to read right, is like that of a dragon who has seen something it wants. Perhaps it is the touch of skin on skin, your controlled strength, your humility. But more likely it is your sincerity that Cathak Agata wants to take between her teeth until the taste has grown less novel.

Even so, she is not a monster. Take a String on her, and know you have leverage on her heart. Even the judges of the dead may be moved by sentiment; how much more a breaker of hearts?

As for the divination: here, each sign reveals itself. Central, of prime importance: possession, achieving a goal dearly sought. On the outer rim, low, are several symbols that are almost clear if you squint: success in love, victory in battle, to come into possession of a material windfall, the sorts of things that people always ask if you see in their future.

But in the upper right (an unfortunate direction), clear as day, the stain forms a broken circle, a dire omen which indicates the influence of the Broken King. And this isn’t the first time this month you’ve seen it appear, or even this week; the King is on the move (which is to say, his shattered aspects and their infernal hosts have been invited into the Flower Kingdoms to act on the behalf of those who listen to their poisoned words). Conversely, in the upper left, still oppositional, is a mountain, strength, associated with the N’yari. Which means that her goals are opposed by the N’yari, or the highlands in general, or someone or something renowned for their strength.

Which does suggest the reading that whatever she wants will be opposed by both the N’yari and the power of Hell. Which, in turn, suggests that whatever she’s striving for may very well be a good thing. Even if that isn’t necessarily the case, wouldn’t it make you feel better if it was? Better than assuming that the Broken King is stoking her towards a downfall, or that her achievement of good fortune might come at the expense of others.

But you want to know how she leaves you, don’t you? At the steps to the teahouse, that liminal space between light and warmth within and the pale rains without, she stops you, takes your hand in hers, pale fingers curling against your skin.

“When you have put them to rest,” she says, her voice earnest, her eyes shining to blind sense, her grip inexorable, “then come back to me, Giriel. I want to thank you for your service— not just to the Dominion, not even just to me, but to the legionnaires who stand beside me— in person.”

And she lifts your knuckle to her lips, bowing before you in that exotic manner of a foreign knight, and you feel not just the heat of her lips, the steam of her breath, but how one tooth grazes against your skin, promising more, rougher, all of her—

And then she lifts her head, strokes one stray lock back from her face with the innocence of a girl who has just been given her first kiss, and dismounts from the steps, looking back up at you as the rain hisses ever so softly against her cheeks.

If you promise her that you will, if you swear to it, if you understand better than she feigns what she means to reward you with, or if you just become Smitten with her immediately, mark XP. If you hesitate, if you catch a glimpse of the dragon beneath her fair mask, if you let yourself be caught up in thoughts of broken circles and ill fortune, mark a Condition. Either way, Cathak Agata has relinquished her String on you.

But she has not relinquished her intentions on you.

***

Han!

The moment is textured, rich, pregnant with meaning. The way you can feel her fingers, so delicate, underneath yours. The way she stays, as if transfixed. The fact that it is growing darker, and she is a silhouette against the lanterns now, and even if you dared look at her you could not see her expression. The agony, not just of moving your arm, but of being vulnerable.

Then you feel her fingers curl around the side of your hand, and her thumb grazes a thoughtlessly devastating path along the back of your hand, and you hear her hiccup slightly, but you can feel that smile.

It just hurts all the more, literally, when she is yanked backwards off her feet and, as part of the fancy transitive property, yanks you forwards too. You weren’t expecting that, in a moment of vulnerability and overextending, and you end up sprawling into the rain-slick deck as the N’yari acrobatically vault onto the ship from the riverbank.

You’ve seen N’yari before. King’s Crown, you’ve seen these N’yari before, you realize as you retract your throbbing arm. That’s Kigi there; she grabbed the pretty boy from the wedding party who tried to get in her way and is now sitting on him, giggling coquettishly as she pins his wrists to the deck and smothers his face in black-speckled fur. And that’s Hanaha (or “better Han”) menacing the bride and groom, tail flicking as she drapes herself over their laps and squishes the bride’s cheeks in one hand, making jokes about a “matching set.” And, Mother of Lotuses, that’s Machi’s hellion of a little sister, Jazumi, wrenching the priestess’s arms behind her back and lashing them fast (and don’t pay attention to the way her shaky grunt of discomfort hits a note that’s almost appealingly husky, or how her frantic squirming is pulling her poncho tight against her, that definitely isn’t worth noting for thinking about later). Which means—

When Machi hits the deck, the barge shudders. Her huge sword is slung over her back; the chains keeping it in its scabbard are set with labyrinth-charms carved from rough stones, the same as the ones dangling from her braids. The purr of her amusement is a low rumble that sets the water on the deck vibrating. “Look at you, little lowlanders,” she says, her mismatched ears twitching with amusement, earrings gleaming in the lantern light. “Don’t you know there are taxes for using our river?”

“And tariffs!”
“And charters!”
“And fines!”

“Battle-sisters,” she says, grandly, “take your prizes, scent-mark them, and bind the rest fast.” (The little priestess lets out a breathy gasp and squeezes her eyes shut.) “If a voyage down our river is what they want, then it is what they’ll have!”

But you, brave Han, are lying unnoticed in the dark, being rained on, and even though Machi is starting to sniff the air, recognizing a familiar scent, you have a moment to...

To do something. To make the mistake of trying to have a swordfight on a barge (one that Machi will not even draw her sword for); to make the mistake of tackling Jazumi and likely knock the priestess overboard in the process; to make the mistake of trying to intimidate the brats into leaving, because then you’ll be threatening them with a good time.

Really, so many possible disasters unfold in front of you. While you’re picking one— how do you know them, anyway? Have you chased them off, have you saved a sister from them, have you (Sapphire Mother forbid) spent a summer being bossed around in Machi’s sprawling family home in a little frilly apron?

***

Kalaya!

Petony pinches your cheek in a way very reminiscent of your older sisters before she stalks off to arrange payment. And already, you might feel, she falls naturally into that role. But to impress you, more than to follow her old oaths, she pays from her own purse (and follows it up with shaky credit from Rose when that runs dry).

You go forth from that place into the paleness of morning, and you go on narrow roads up and down the gently rolling hills, making together for the border of Rose. Even if Petony has no little love for the kingdom as it is now, the rumors she has heard, of both N’yari on the move and the dead sleeping restless, these prick at her heels even after she has sobered up. Like a turtle her retinue moves across the land, umbrellas interlocked as they follow her.

(They are something like soldiers and something like servants and something like adoring admirers. To be a knight is an ambition that many do not have the fortitude to follow, and so they content themselves with clubs and quilted armor and daubed symbols showing their allegiance. It is for this reason that the great battles between kingdoms, ones that see crowns rise and fall, have the character of a violent ball game as much as anything that could actually be called war. You do not yet have a retinue; you have yet to make your name the seed of a story.)

And you walk together, and you sing walking-songs together as the rain beats down, and Petony lifts her voice up in challenge to the world— and that’s why it takes you so long to hear what’s over that next hill. And then? Then Petony begins to run, unsheathing her hooked sword, and her retinue pull out their clubs, and there’s you working to crest the hill, too, you ready to fight by the Tiger Knight’s side no matter what’s causing the roar of battle just beyond—

Then Petony stops, hesitates, and you can see why, even as her retinue mills about the two of you, looking down at the battle being fought in knee-high water, in rice fields, in the driving rain. On one side, there’s the red-lacquered armor of the Imperial Legion, with their heavy shields and spears, struggling to form a shield wall with only an eighth-Talon’s worth of men. A banner in the Imperial style snaps in the wind as legionnaires force open the gates of a farmer’s compound, putting innocents at risk just so they will have a place to stand and a wall to put their backs to.

On the other side are things that it takes you a moment to understand are actual, real demons. Their many-medaled coats are an ugly bruise-green, their heads hidden under hoods and shrouds, and they grip heavy sabers in pitted gauntlets. The sounds of flute and bell accompany them as they dance, manic, like wasps, sabers rising and falling as they spin and jerk their way through gaps in the line.

(If a witch was here, they could tell you more. That the icon borne, there, is their Promissory, which grants them leave to act in the world, as provided by the warlock who accepted their services. That these are Wrack-dolls, made by the clammy hands of the First General, the soldiers that do not die, for they are dreams of black mud and infected wounds wrapped fast around their scavenged armor. That their warhounds, harrying the crossbows on the flank, are Fathers-of-Serpents, which the eye rejects and abhors, which must be fought by striking where you dare not look. But you only know that these are monsters of story and song, and that they serve whoever summoned them here.)

What is happening below is not the battles you heard about growing up, where champions duel in the midst of their armies, where the defeat of one knight is the signal for their retinue to withdraw and yield. It is ugly work from both sides, the work of iron Mars shining high above the clouds. A family patriarch dares confront the legionnaires about bringing the battle to his land, his home: you see him, his robes white, being tossed down— impossible to tell from the distance if he moves or lies still. Demons set fires to the stone walls about the compound, hungry green flames that lick at and devour the very rock.

Petony’s hesitation is not because she is afraid. It is because her outrage wars with the responsibility you represent: the struggle is plain on her face as she tries to decide whether to charge the demons from the rear, or to charge them and keep going until she has her hands around that legionnaire commander’s throat.

***

Piripiri!

“Have you not been? It’s the sort of experience you have to have, Pipi!” That. That sure is a nickname. And that sure is a way she takes your arm in a way that brooks no dissent, steering you down towards the docks.

And then, the trouble. The trouble is that the street urchin whose boat is closest has a slender boat, and three people would be a tight fit— but what does Azazuka do? Does she wait for one of the larger boats, perhaps a barge, perhaps invite half the docks to join the two of you in festivities?

Well, she considers it. You can see her glance across the lake, survey the boats in evidence... and then take an umbrella from one of her handmaidens, a gaudy pink-and-purple thing of waves. “Why wait,” she bubbles, pulling you in after her, handing the barge-rat (who has an actual rat peeking out of her vest?) a gold coin ten times what the trip is worth. “You must see the city from the lake in the rain, there’s nothing like it,” she adds, and then claps her hands together so suddenly that the barge-rat fumbles her pole and nearly loses it. “And the lanterns! Melai, go and fetch us two paper lanterns! We can release them on the water and add to the lights all about the city! It’s the sort of experience you must have.”

But that gives you a moment, standing in the boat with her and the little barge-rat, with her bodyguards glowering at you and your pilot, and time enough to second-guess yourself (and third-guess that second-guess). You should insist on a chaperone, even if the thought of impropriety (seemingly) hasn’t crossed her mind. Just so that there’s no way she can use it as a weapon, or that it can be used as blackmail.

But what if she gets offended and invites you to go by yourself? Or what if she’s actually scheming and intends to seduce you out there on the lake, bribing the street urchin into staying silent as she plies you with kisses and— hey, stop thinking about that! The fact that you would even think that is why you need to have a chaperone!

Oh no Melai is coming back with lanterns, you have to choose! Make a scene and risk hurting your business partner’s feelings (and after she bought a treasure for you, ungrateful thing), or stay quiet, despite the fact that anything could happen on that lake?

Sunshards

So this is what it felt like to be moved by someone else.

A strange thought. Even if Chen wasn’t exactly a big, strong girl herself, capable of picking Rose up and carrying her, it’s not like Rose ever... and anyway, how would she even dare? Holding someone like this was so intimate, so demanding. And it is easy enough to melt into the movements: the strut across the room, each step small but quick, on the ball of the foot, her hips swaying easily as she went. Then the low curtesy (not that she has any skirt to lift, not yet), the steps of making the tea (a ritual, one that priestesses are as familiar with as monks), and then the way she is to fall to her knees, elegantly, head bowed and hands upraised, the tea as still and smooth as glass within the cup.

The only problem is when she is released and told to try for herself. Because she is useless, isn’t she? Suddenly, bereft of that comforting touch, everything comes undone. She wobbles dangerously across the room, her balance gone; her curtesy is ungainly, her blush as she recognizes her own nakedness is furious, and she is seized again by gentle hands before she can butcher the tea. No, no, back to being controlled, little Rose; you clearly aren’t ready for this.

Then Thian hits upon it: little reassuring words. That Rose can do this, that she is graceful, that she is pretty when she walks, and, ah! There. That does it. A dozen repetitions around the room under Keron’s eye, but all that was needed is one. When tested again, her footsteps are perfect, exactly where Thian guided them; her curtesy is low and perfect and without any self-awareness, and her skill with the tea is almost mechanical, but with a gentle fluidity that suggests more than rote learning.

So here is a prize, Countess, that much is obvious: a girl who is incredibly malleable. It takes more than an eagerness to serve to be this eminently moldable, to yield this thoroughly, to be akin to wet clay. She could be shaped into a perfect maid, or a deliberately imperfect one; she could have new truths whispered into her ear to change her very self. Tell her who she is, and she listens.

Ah, a case in point: Rose lifts her head and dares look the Countess in the eye, though she quails like a wet kitten. “Please,” she dares, “is my Chen all right...? Whatever you do to me, please, just don’t punish her... too much...”

Her voice is faltering, but the spark of defiance in her eyes still exists. It is as feeble and weak as a mouse trying to hold a sword, but for her Chen, she will still dare speak out of turn and speak to someone so far her superior, so important and commanding.

(And deep within, the nameless thing is strangely proud.)

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

Constance looks to Sir Harold. Then she looks to him again; she opens her eyes in a way she had not before and looks at him. And she sees; she witnesses; she accepts. That is one of the roles of the priestess, after all; she is a mediator not just between the supernatural and the ordinary, but between the varied selves that surround each and every one, waiting for their moment to be born.

She reaches out and takes his hand, her skin like alabaster, his rough and weathered by sun and sleet. The pressure is gentle, but her arm forms the arc of a bridge that could stand a thousand years and never fall.

"I cannot forgive you," she says. "But I can sit with you until the pain is gone. You will forever be an oathbreaker, but... thank you, Sir Harold. For reminding me that that is not all you will ever be. I cannot wash it white as snow, but I can tell you know that you are in the process of becoming something new. The oak's scars do not fully heal, and yet the leaves grow green. It is only that-- she must want. She must want to shed her skin and be new."

Like the snake. Like the year. Like a god. Like a king, in the days before Man ruled Britain.

Like the snake, which ate the herb called immortality. And that is why there is Death, and Pellinore will one day submit and rest and sigh no more. And that, too, is why Constance will wear scales and molts in the garden. For the serpent is sacred in its theft.

Breathless Dead

"I'm fine, Dany."

Redana's face is ashen.

"No, that wasn't a yawn! I'm fine!"

The Auspex doesn't even need to tell her that Mynx is telling the truth.

"I slept on the wrong side of my bed, your highness!"

Because it's like one of those funny pictures.

"If you don't get it, it's okay. I'm sure your tutors will be happy to explain to you again tomorrow."

Where you spend your whole life thinking it's a monstrous face and then one day you see that it's someone sitting for their portrait at an odd angle, but because it was so small and stuck inside that sprawling gilt frame, you mistook the negative space for a cheek and a screaming mouth, but now you can see it, and you can't see the face again no matter how you tilt your head at it. Because you saw what was really there, even though you'd never been able to see it right in front of your face every time you looked.

"There's nowhere I'd rather be, Princess."

Redana is an Olympian. She has also been training with the Coherents, swinging hammers and forcing panels into place and pulling on cables in sync with a hundred other arms. The table is nothing to her. She lifts and throws it like a monstrous discus at terrible speed, and when it strikes the reinforced wall, it cracks and splinters and skitters, pinwheeling, into Redana's bunk, legs shattered and surface ruined.

The noise that tears its way out of her throat is something that should belong to the Nemean. It is an echo of her great-grandfather's scream when the flint tore its way into his thigh, when from him came whirling galaxies and entropy and time and blood and love, smeared across the dark. For a moment, there are three shadows underneath the flickering lights, and Ares smiles through bloodless lips at Mynx, and the divinity strains to burst its way out of her bones and her flesh and her skin and smear itself across the Plousios.

And then Redana crumples to her knees, just a girl again, making gross heaving sobs, because now she can see the picture.

“We are going to put it back and pretend nothing happened.”

"Bella, this is for you! I’m going to save you and everybody else, whether or not you want to come with me, now stop! squirming!"

"I'm more than that, Redana! I'm so much more!"

"You thought I was useless. You thought I was stupid! I'm so much more than your dumb little pet, Redana! I'm a praetor, you moron! I shot you down, I brought you here! And now I'm going to bring you home because those are my orders, and there is not a fucking thing you can do to stop me!"

Every mistake. Every failure. Everything, on her shoulders, forever, while she tried to pretend she cared for the stupid ditz of a princess who brought consequence upon consequence down on her head.

She must have been so scared. And Dany had just wanted, desperately, for her mother to understand that Bella didn't have anything to do with it, that Bella shouldn't be punished for letting Dany escape, that's why, that's why if Bella wouldn't come with her, that's why she had to leave Bella in that closet, and if that was just the worst in a long line of punishments she'd been given over and over, all Redana's life, bearing everyone's responsibility, and if everyone expected her to be perfect, too, just like Dany, then--

And--

And--

Mynx is at her shoulder now, and Redana grabs at her with sudden violence, in the way that a drowning woman will. She pulls Mynx close, and her eyes are huge and blind with tears.

"Where is she, Mynx?" Her voice is quiet in the sort of way that suggests it will be very loud in a moment. It is the sort of voice that proceeds oaths and terrible dooms and declarations to mothers that can never be taken back. It is the voice of someone who is falling forever.