Tatterdemalion

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Piripiri!

The warlock is short.

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the light and get a good look at her. She is looking over you with an appraising eye. The hand curled under her chin is flesh and blood; the one cupping her elbow is made of ornate green-stained brass, from fingertip to bare shoulder. From the old burn scars visible there, the fitting was not a pleasant process.

“Well,” she says, finally. Her smile is a knife. “It looks like the rat actually brought me something worthwhile. If it isn’t one of the spoiled merchant brats. The sort of girl that thinks money is a substitute for lineage.”

Azazuka’s spirited attempts at insults continue even when the warlock grabs her by the curls and viciously yanks her head back. “I wonder how much your family will contribute to the Work, thinking I’ll give you back. Thinking that I will have a place for those traitors and cowards in the kingdom to come.”

She considers Azazuka, red-faced, drool bubbling on her gag as she tries to pull her hair free, spirited and braver than you might have expected. Her voice drops, a ragged hoarseness at the edges. “But I might find a place for you,” she says, trying and failing to keep her voice steady. “Every queen needs a pet, after all.”

She shoves Azazuka down onto the tiles, hard, and steps on her. There’s a sadistic glee in her grin as Azazuka writhes under her foot, the sort of nastiness that you might recognize from your school days: a subject of bullying now come into power, drunk on it. “Faithless. Honorless. Arrogant. Pathetic. I’ll make you learn your place.”

Then she pulls back, takes a ragged breath, and composes herself. “And what is this one,” she asks, looking at you as Azazuka tries and fails to get back up onto her knees. “A guard? A suitor? A sycophant?” She lets her eyes drift up and down your half-dressed body. “A whore?”

She squats, cups your cheek with her brass hand, traces the ball between your lips with her thumb. “Plain,” she concludes. “Unimportant. Disposable.”

Do you gather information, scion of Hymair, do you read into the bitterness of her eyes and the eagerness of her cruelty? Or do you show her true nobility, entice her with a look of intriguing defiance?

***

Kalaya!

The priestess approaches you on quiet feet, turning her umbrella’s handle in slender fingers. Her shoulders are bare and smooth; her eyes are painted with subtle violet. She considers you before she speaks, and her voice is a soft and smoldering whisper.

“My Mistress is here to advise you, Kalaya-Phraya. The Flower Kingdoms are in turmoil, and Heaven means to set them into right order. You are to be the instrument of our will. Together, we will do wonderful things. But— as my Mistress bids— we must begin with the Peacock-star. An act of daring, something that will exalt your name.”

When she finally meets your eyes, her eyes are dark and lovely and hard to look away from; the contrast with her bright, expensive veil is even more striking. There are few secrets to that sort of gaze.

Kalaya-Phraya, as you consider her words, you are yourself evaluated by that even gaze, by this beautiful, enchanting, just-your-type priestess? Sure, you might have been thinking about that Snapdragon princess, but if you keep looking at the priestess, you really should keep looking at her, doesn’t she look like her, too?

Like her but fully blossomed, even. Better than you could have dreamed. Or perhaps exactly as you could have dreamed, little ditz. Is there anything in your heart but dreams of heroism? Iron and Salt, are we going to have to do a rescue romance?

Kalaya-Phraya, how could Victorious Vixen of Violets act, or change herself, in order to make you Smitten with her? And don’t worry about saying it out loud. Your heart squeals like a squeezed songbird. Enough to make a girl... thirsty.

***

Zhaojun!

There is a surefire way to make sure Victorious Vixen of Violets wins the heart of Kalaya-Phraya and wins glory enough to swell her ego. Oldest trick in the book.

Kalaya needs to save Victorious Vixen from peril. It needs to be terrible peril, but the sort that can be controlled by Heaven’s strings: no demons or fairies need apply. Kalaya needs to be seen doing this by onlookers who can sing her praises. And, of course, there must be a contingency plan in case Kalaya falters.

This much would be clear before the eye of the goddess. So, too, would be the ease with which these two knights could be maneuvered: like pieces on a Gateway board.

Now, the real question is what sort of peril? Wild animals are a classic, easily warded from causing risk, but perhaps anything smaller than an elephant stampede would just be too ordinary. The local moon-touched barbarians, perhaps, would make for an excellent choice; one could play on the extant animosities in order to increase Kalaya’s own glory, if a suitable champion was met and defeated in battle, a squirming Vixen tossed over one shoulder the entire time. Consider also the Dominion, beloved by Mars; seeing Venus’s champion overcome them in the name of love would be a thrill, would it not? One would need to falsify evidence and have her arrested for crimes against the local Embassy, of course, or arrange for her to catch the eye of the local Dominion emissary.

Whatever must be done, surely Victorious Vixen of Violets will understand the necessity. She is, after all, the perfect student, submissive to her Mistress’s will, and not likely to act on pique. Even if her role requires her to be paraded to a gallows so that Kalaya can knock down the hangman at the last moment, well, of course she would meekly place her faith in her Mistress.

She can, in fact, be taken as such a dependable asset that there is no reason to inform her of any plans until they are already in motion.

***

Giriel!

With hot, angry, flustered tears in his eyes, Kayl turns and flings himself into the dark, sure-footed as a goat, running away from something too big and fearful for him. He’s gone and away soon enough. You did your part for him.

Well done.

Uusha lowers her hand and rests it (possessively?) on your shoulder. “Not hollowed out by fire yet,” she concedes. “Come with us, Honored Sister. There’s work to be done.”

The choice isn’t really between accepting or politely declining. If you refuse, do you really think Uusha will just let you leave? But if you challenge her to fight, even though she’d fight you one on one... she’s Uusha.

Do you really think you can fight your way through her to keep your promise? Or perhaps not. You are a witch, after all, and Peregrine is lost in thought; you might be able to call upon the dead or the forest gods. Or perhaps you will stretch that promise long, say to yourself: I will come, Agata, but you will have to wait.

***

Han!

Machi has left herself vulnerable. Not wide open, not her— but she’s expecting you to squirm and fight for leverage and try to roll on top of her, or get her in some sort of lock.

Which means you can sucker punch her right in the kitty bitties and when she flinches, that’s when you get your legs under her and flip her over the side. After that? You’ll have to stop her from climbing back on board the barge, and you have just the tools to use: grab a couple of umbrellas and fend her off with them until she gives up and claws her way back onto the shore. Sure, you might have to break a couple, but what’s a broken umbrella or two, right?

Then use the umbrellas to get Hanaha and Kigi off the barge, taunt the N’yari to keep their attention, grab the priestess, and leg it. If you know anything about Machi (though you definitely know less than you thought you did, apparently, as new avenues of Machi knowing have suddenly revealed themselves), she’ll leave the barge alone to chase the two of you, and she’ll have to call off pursuit eventually or risk being caught out by a knight’s retinue.

Then the wedding party will just need to wait until someone struggles loose or another barge drifts downriver. And, Mother be praised, there’s even the faint glimmer of lanterns far upriver that suggests another might be on its way.

Now all you need to do is look possessive, warm, heavy, needy Machi in her (surprisingly tender) eyes and give her a haymaker to the tits so hard that every gal on the barge is going to flinch in sympathy. Get on that, kitten!

Breathless Dead

"The ship belongs to the Captain. The crew belongs to the Captain," Redana recites back at Dolce with a sneer. "The ship is mine, the crew is mine. Thus. Come on, even I can do this! It's a simple logical statement. If the ship and crew are mine, and they belong to the Captain, then I am the Captain. You've spelled it out yourself! And if I cannot help her with these, then to Tartarus with them! To Ixion's Wheel with us all!"

She begins fiddling with a dial. A dial that, yes, when you pull that hanging cord, signals to the engine room that more speed is necessary. That storm's coming up fast and hard, and in another heartbeat there will be no way to stop; the Plousios won't be able to deaccelerate in time without shearing itself apart.

"I have her blood on my hands, little cook!" Easy mistake to make, Redana. That's yours, dried. From where you've been punching walls and mirrors. "Hers, and Mynx's! I tore her apart! I wanted to, and wanting's the same as doing, and I gave her the death she wanted all this time, the death I didn't want for her, I didn't want for any of them, why, why am I worth dying for?"

She punches the dial and it crunches under her knuckles. Then she rests her forehead on the wall and her shoulders tremble.

"Back to the kitchens, little cook," she says, in a small, still voice. "Or I'll kill you, too."

It's not a threat. Not in that voice. Just fear that she's telling the truth.

Sunshards

If. If! Rose has had enough trouble learning to compensate for her chest, thank you, and if she is struggling right now, it is because she is trying to stop things from falling out, or getting stuck in particularly sweaty places, or just falling over, which is difficult enough when she’s trying to carry picture frames as big as she is! It’s not like she’s some big, strong champion who could carry all this effortlessly, and Cyanis, to boot! She’s just small, helpless, and useless without someone to guide her!

Not that she can talk back, of course. Like a naughty little thing, she is tempted to use her mouth in ways that would not pleasure her mistress. It’s a good thing she can’t! Wherever would she without her gag? It’s there to help her when she’s too silly to remember her rules! Thank you for gifting it to her, Countess!

Instead, Rose squeaks when Cyanis stuffs another tablecloth down her top, grunts when Cyanis tosses another painting on top of the other three and Rose has to catch it and ends up falling on her little tushie, and makes a worried little murr when Cyanis fills her cloak’s pockets with silverware. She is sworn to carry your burdens, Cyanis, but she’s definitely over encumber... encumber...

The fact that she can’t remember the word makes her face heat up and makes the nameless thing inside her writhe in shared embarrassment. How is a silly little thing like her supposed to remember big hard Countess words? And how is a silly, weak, dainty thing like her supposed to carry all this for Cyanis?

Unless. Unless. Maybe it’s a test. Maybe it’s one of the Countess’s no-win tests. Rose has to adjust her grip on the frames desperately. Why are her palms so sweaty? Why is her heart racing? Being punished is bad! Being put into a position where you can’t win so that you can learn just how much control the Countess has over you is... is just...

(It’s safe. It’s being spanked. It’s being called names that make her a squirmy mess. It’s being given extra chores. It’s being given penalties, tied up tighter, watching a timer while she dangles upside-down. And she’s always let out. She’s always let out. She’s never punished without being told how long it will last, she’s never locked in Rose’s Naughty Corner longer than the Countess said she’d be there. That’s why. Because it’s what hurt her, but defanged, made something that makes her squirm and clench her pretty thighs tight.)

Cyanis’s head snaps up. Rose immediately turns all her attention to her fox friend, just in case she’s about to be given new orders— and indeed, she’s right! “Over here!” Cyanis tugs on her leash frantically, darting into a shadowed side passage, and Rose hobble-hops desperately to keep up, trying so very hard not to fall over and not to drop anything and not to think about failing to catch up and—

Cyanis pulls her close around the corner, puts one silly hand over Rose’s face like she needs that to keep Rose quiet, while Rose keeps shifting and trying not to spill paintings everywhere. Why was she hurried over? Why are they hiding? Is this a game? Did Cyanis see an enemy? Why does she like being held like this? (Oh, right! The Countess doesn’t even need to be here for her to remember: it’s because she’s a desperate little slut! Gosh, that was easy! She’s sorry for being so sex-crazed that all she can think about is that hand pressing down harder and harder on the tightly-packed cloth and how much she loves it, Miss Cyanis!)

“You left a trail,” Cyanis moans in her ear, and Rose realizes: oh, no, she did! Gold coins and silver forks and egg-sized gems, all leading up to the two of them! She’s sorry, she’s so sorry, Miss Cyanis, it’s just that you were making her go so fast and she was just trying not to fall over or drop all the paintings and—

“Run!!” Cyanis lets go of her and smacks her rear to set her off like a race horse. And Rose, flustered, useless, flusterpated Rose, gets her heels caught in the cloak and goes down on the paintings in a huge clatter of bangles and treasures and paintings and a fox scrabbling on top of her. At least somebody picks up Cyanis by the scruff of her neck. Up she goes! With a meep and an eep! A squeak, even!

Which means, for a moment, just the blink of an eye, Rose gets to lie on top of a portrait of the Countess, helpless in the knowledge that she’s been a naughty, useless girl, and she deserves to be punished, and a good girl wouldn’t wiggle so eagerly knowing that, and therefore she needs even more training to learn to be a good girl, which is a much, much more complicated and interesting thing than she’d thought back when she was just a priestess.

Then she, too, is picked up by her collar and whisked away with a hmmph! and a mmmph! and a jingle of treasures still, still tumbling out of her top!

[Rose gains +1 XP for getting a 6 on Defying Disaster, netting her the coveted First Advance, which she will spend on Mirror Ball from the Dream Mirror.]

Breathless Dead

Redana blinks. The words shoot through her like darts through mist, embedding themselves in glass shards. She stares at Dolce. Then she laughs.

It is not the laugh of someone who is stable, of sound mind, and sober. It is not the laugh that one particularly might wish to hear from a captain, unless they have already evacuated every non-essential crew member as they order the throttle to be locked into full acceleration and the beak of the Eater of Worlds yawns wide to accept their vessel.

“Once upon a time,” she says, booping Dolce on his adorable nose, “there was a whipping-girl. Her job was to take every single punishment that her mistress deserved. And then, one day, the princess— her mistress— her— she ran away from home and left the whipping-girl behind.”

Redana rakes her hand through her hair, and looks at Dolce with wild bacchanal eyes. Her voice remains perfectly ship-shape, each word precise and trotting into place like an obedient sheep.

“Designations,” she sneers. “If I leave my Bella to starve on some broken husk of a Hermetic toy factory, then I would deserve the torments of the Kindly Ones!”

Dionysus does not so much as flinch. Mynx mouths “what the fuck.” For a moment, the only sound is the throb of blood in the ears. There is no sound of the snapping of claws. There is no scrape of chitin. Burning eyes do not appear in the yawning mouth of the door.

They only sometimes come when called.

They’re very busy, you see.

But there’s this game, Dolce. You wouldn’t have played it, but you can’t be among rogues and scoundrels without hearing hopefully-exaggerated stories.

You lay out daggers on a table. Each player takes turns plunging them against their own breast. Play continues clockwise around the table until you find the one that doesn’t agreeably fold back into itself.

Redana needs to stop talking.

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

“The castle will be dark,” Constance declares, not as a request; rather, as if she was relating something that had happened to her on a Yuletide long past, when she was a child. “There will be few welcoming lights. Her footfall will be heavy in echoing halls, without tapestry, without rushes under her boot. There will be the sound of running water from the fountains, the ice-cold water, trickling through the courtyard. And there she will find me, among the dying dark-paned lanterns. There she will take the fruit from my hand, or else cast it aside. When we have done our part, when we have said our words, then let you serve the boar, and make merry with her; and send a plate to my room, if you would. I may not eat it, but I would rather have it there to hand should I wish it.”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Piripiri!

Were you a witch, you might know that you have just struck one of the Passages of Hell, the Pseudoamphisbaena. It is a two-headed serpent, with the startling quality that both of its heads are on different bodies, and the creatures of the Demon City hang them upon brass poles far from each other, that by giving offering and praise, they may be allowed to pass through the serpent that is shared in common, and emerge from glistening fangs in some far distant district. And if they are pleased with the offering, the traveler shall come to no harm; and if they are displeased, or else hunger, then the traveler shall find themselves in the lightless, hungry dark. This would be useful to know, for reasons that are about to be clear.

Its jaw unhinges like some hideous fish from the very depths of the sea, stretching wider and wider, impossibly vast, and when it swallows the two of you, it does so head-first; all is darkness, and the clamminess of that demon road, and rhythmic constrictions of the throat, Azazuka pressed tighter and tighter against you, until it is able, self-satisfied, to close its jaws over your shoes. And then there is no trace left of you but your cast-off clothing, and two umbrellas floating on the surface of the lake.

The demon road is like being crushed forever until you are a precious stone. It is like crawling through rain-slick passages deep beneath the earth, with no way back. It is like slithering, limbless, on your belly, tongue flicking the air. It is like falling a long, long way. These are the ways you will remember it: as what it was like, not what it was. For the serpent devours the knowing of the road itself.

When you are cast from the open jaws of the other head, the world rushes back to you in a shock: the damp stones you crumple onto hard, the fur of moss under your throbbing palm, the sound of revelry and festival both impossibly far away and somehow just on the other side of a wall, the sliver of light leaking around the edges of a door which is too faint to do anything but confirm you have not gone blind, the sound of Azazuka hitting the ground with a crash of bangles and an exhausted groan, the hair damply sticking to your face, the prune-like wrinkles on your fingertips, the still air of a windless and lightless place. All this at once, jockeying: notice me, Piripiri, acknowledge me, welcome back to the land of the living!

And in that moment of overwhelming notice from every sense, the dark grows a hundred gauntleted hands. Do not feel ashamed, daughter of Hymair: even if you had the strength and sense of mind to fight back, you would find the Wrack-dolls of the First General foes who do not care for knives or punches to the cavernous, empty throat. As it is, you find yourself lashed tight with rope (desecrated, having once been from a shrine, now befouled by the rites of Hell), forced to kneel with your wrists secured to your ankles. The ball they force between your teeth is faintly luminous, having been touched by the power of the Green Sun, and it throbs with that power as it forces your lips and jaw open frustratingly wide. Beside you, you can hear Azazuka attempt to invoke her family and their wrath before she is forced into a loud and increasingly garbled tirade; you hear and feel more than see her furious struggles, that second pale green light beside you only serving to limn her generous, pouty lips.

And then the Wrack-dolls cease, seeming to melt away, and there is stillness in that dark chamber again, save for Azazuka trying to shuffle towards you— and being pushed back into place by unseen hands. You have been captured by the powers of Hell. Perhaps by misfortune, but more likely by design.

As you wait in the dark, listening to Azazuka’s limitless capability for incomprehensible complaints directed at your captors, feeling your limbs complain at being locked in place after such a harrowing journey, where do your thoughts take you? To your instructors, teaching you patience and a willingness to strike only when the time is right? To your brother, telling you stories of the War In Heaven and the infinite malice of the overthrown regime of the Titans, bound and sealed away in the undone body of their king? Or to the fleeting moments, in the dark of the demon road, when you felt a broad, ringed hand in yours, squeezing as if to say: I am with you, and you are with me?

***

Kalaya!

When you continue onwards, it is towards the northern border of Rose. Petony still means to show you the ropes of knighthood: battle against N’yari reavers, in which you will scare them away from their hunts and teach them a thing or two about the valor of the Flower Kingdoms. She’ll have you all to an inn only an hour or two after nightfall, don’t you worry; the hard march will toughen you up, princess!

(And besides, all the best witches are up in the highlands anyway. So two birds with the same stone! Whatever’s bothering you about an earring from a dissolved kingdom, they’ll put those worries to rest, don’t you worry.)

In the faint silver light of dusk, that’s when they appear on the road ahead: two priestesses of the Sapphire Court, traveling together. As they draw closer, through the clear rain you can see that one wears a white stone mask, one that indicates a Heavenly deity is acting through her.

(Not that you’d likely recognize their name, right? Most people in the Flower Kingdoms know the Sun, Moon and Maidens— that is, the wandering stars, from Mercury the Traveler to Saturn the Psychopomp— but everything below them is simply “the eight million gods” until you get to, as it were, the regional administration under Sapphire Mother of Lotuses.)

The other is— beautiful. Alluring. Just a glance is enough to know this, silly girl. She turns to her companion, the goddess-ridden, and whispers something behind her voluminous sleeve that causes her to break out into melodious giggles.

***

Zhaojun!

“—there she is,” Victorious Vixen of Violets lilts delightedly. Before you march a company of the local mercenaries, led by a knight aspiring, in her own undoubtedly brutish way, to follow the high principles of your Constellation.

Here, the rulers understand that desire is the highest principle; they require their champions to lead warbands of admirers and sycophants, then control them through desire for the approval and affection of princes and princesses.

The knight in tigerskin has suffered heartbreak, and recently. It throbs from her, desperate for solace, intense in its hues. The young knight beside her, fresh from her squiring, is dwelling on someone who was once important to her. That much is effortless before your eye.

“She may not seem like much,” Vixen continues, “but doubtless this is because she has drifted far from her Destiny due to the machinations of those wicked things outside the right order of Heaven. How fortunate she is that we have arrived to set things right!” She laughs, delighted at the power of Heaven to set right what has been put askew.

She does not tell you the nature of the girl’s Destiny. You already know it. Of course you do. You’ve always known it, ever since you were sent to this land. It’s what you were sent here to do. Just remember that. You are here for the Chosen One.

What is the nature of this Destiny, the one that sends luminous pink fires shivering up and down your spine? What must this girl become for the will of Heaven to be made manifest?

***

Han!

Machi rolls with you, scrabbles for position, ends up on top of you again. Face to face and chest to chest. Your wrists pinned to the deck over your head. Machi’s braids dangle over you, brush against your cheek. Her breath is hot and hitching and smothering just like the weight of her body on yours and her eyes are so happy and—

She kisses you.

She kisses you like she’s drowning.

Her tongue is as hot in your mouth as the fire inside your heart.

“Mine,” she growls. “My stone-heart.” Then she kisses you again. And this time, her fangs caress your lip as tenderly as a thumb rubbed against your hand, in their own way; she lets you know she could break skin. Her body radiates warmth, like a blanket you could fall asleep in.

What awakens the beast inside her? Competition, like the kind you can give her. Claiming things from others and making them hers. (She glances over at the priestess, who is staring in goggle-eyed shock; she’s not just doing this just because she wants you. She’s doing this to show off in front of a... rival? Okay!! Do not think about that!!!) Victory over a worthy rival. And a few helpless cuties to torment as the cherry on top. This moment, all those things intermingled, has pushed her past that edge she always flirted with crossing growing up.

(You can almost hear the Seedin sisters back home, pointing at you and laughing: catkisser, catkisser, Han kisses cats! Ew, stay away, catkisser! They must never find out they were vindicated a decade later.)

She licks your face, panting her possession with every lap as you squirm, getting more and more excited as she goes, and— Hanaha. Kigi. Stop whistling and cheering for her to “get it, girl.”

When she raises herself up, putting pressure back on your wrists, her face is a mess of raw feelings: desire (for you) and smugness (at every lowlander she’s scandalizing) and excitement (at seeing you strain and strive and fight for her) and wicked impishness (oh no).

“Yield,” she purrs, just loud enough for a certain priestess to hear, “and we can share her, Han’ya.”

(Because she can share her toys. As long as she gets to turn that into a game, too. As long as she gets to kiss and nip and vie for her stone-heart and her prize and be wanted and needed and the winner. As long as you both belong to her.)

Mark Insecure and think about being wanted, kitten.

***

Giriel!

Uusha nods. It is not a nod of approval. It is a nod of acknowledgment. Yes, you have this right. If the Stag Knight were to stop you, then she would not be who she is. You have overcome her hand; but do not think yourself safe from retaliation, either.

The dead come to the food, shivers in the damp air, and kneel down to feed of the soup. When they are done, when they have had their fill, the soup will remain, but it will be cold and tasteless and will not fill a belly. They eat of its essential food-nature, and the warmth the cook invested into it, and the honor they are shown. Heavy, weighed down by the feast, they become somnolent and idle. Hardly the sort of wraiths that could drive soldiers mad.

Peregrine sets down her erhu, notices the bowl, and shrugs her shoulders. Then she begins to pace among the stones, muttering to herself, having a conversation with the only witch who can keep up with her. Which leaves you, Kayl, Uusha, and Uusha’s band of wicked rogues.

When the gauntlet lashes out, the dark nails do not dig into your skin. She is careful, despite her strength; her fingers press into your cheeks, force your mouth into an undignified O, as she cocks her head like an animal to get a better look at you through that helm.

“You may go, boy,” she says, without looking at him. “If you tell anyone, I’ll know. I’ll set the Rattler on you.” Kayl, ashen-faced, looks from Uusha to you, frightened and desperate for some sign from you that—

That it’s okay to be a coward. That you’ll forgive him. That you won’t insist he stay and face fears even scarier than the ghosts. And even Uusha, moving your face around, peering close and making an uncanny, hollow tkk-tkk-tkk with her tongue, can’t take that power away from you.

Sunshards

Rose is movement. She is so spread out amongst herself, inhabiting each long-practiced step, each careful curl of her fingers, each alluring sway of her hips, that there is no center, no queen sitting on her throne giving orders in the chambers of the heart. The nameless thing slumbers peacefully and does not dream; or, if there is a dream, it is only a dream of unconscious motion. Step, step, shimmy. Step, step, sway. Step, step, knock. Swish, swish, open. Step, step, check the door closed with one useful hip. Spin, spin, and— EEEEP!!!

The breakfast trays balanced perfectly on her head come tumbling down. Before she can even finish jolting awake— she catches them. She doesn’t even know how she catches them. The teapot is balanced on its spout on top of a spoon. She balances, wobbling and instinctively correcting for the wobble, on one sparkling high heel, the other stretched out behind her as far as her hobbling chains will let her. Then she wakes up and comes tumbling down anyway— but Cyanis the Fox has whisked away the trays, and Rose has what smart engineer people call “built-in airbags” when they’re teasing her. She rolls over, takes a moment to cringe— ow— and then wiggles her way back upright. Cyanis already has her arm around her by the time she’s halfway up, stopping her from giving an apologetic groveling bow.

And Cyanis— a pure fox, an innocent vixen, someone you trust with your life— asks her for help, and Rose’s brow furrows for a moment with the strain of thinking. She’s obviously not supposed to help people escape. If they’re put places, that’s where they’re supposed to be. But she hasn’t been told not to help Cyanis out, and she has been told that a good girl is Agreeable and Loves to Serve, and she isn’t supposed to worry her Silly Useless Head with thinking for herself, because she’ll just get confused. Which adds up to mean...

“Mmmhmmm! Ff’s duuu’t!!” Rose nods with a bobbing of braids and earrings, clasping her hands demurely in front of her. Yes! Yes!! This is right!! Even if she and Cyanis would look wonderful as harem sisters, dancing for the Countess and nuzzling noses under their veils, a Good Girl is Agreeable, and Rose loves being a Good Girl, and so she agrees! Wow!! It’s so, so simple! Whatever Cyanis needs, as long as she can explain it to Rose’s Silly Useless Head, Rose will do her best to please!!

Oh, can’t you feel it, Cyanis? The joy radiating from her maiden’s heart? The bliss of not being important, of being a treasure rather than... than something else? Of being given headpats and possessive squeezes when you’re a Good Girl? Of being desirable and desired, not feared, not looked up to and given responsibility? Oh, oh, isn’t it the most wonderful thing? The most wonderful feeling in all the skies? When she gets to share the joy of submission with her Chen, oh!! Then her heart will just burst with joy!!

And in the meantime, maybe she’ll get a kiss from a pretty, daring, innocent fox? A kiss between girls? Oh!! That would be wonderful too!! Rose is very kissable. She’s kissable and touchable and very good at obeying, Miss Cyanis!!! Please, Rose will do her best and be as kissable as possible!!

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Giriel!

The three of you walk down into the dell and up into the graveyard, where moss gathers on stone markers and stagnant water pools for the washing of hands. Kayl clings close; Uusha moves, unhurried, after you. Her legs are long, but her footfall is almost silent on the wet grass.

From this vantage point, you can see more clearly that the N’yari here are nothing of the sort — some of them, at least. This is what the knights of the Accord would call a dishonorable false flag. (As a witch, of course, you don’t need to know what to call it to have an opinion on it.) Knights are supposed to announce themselves, to bring glory to their kingdoms, to be noble and true in the eyes of the Sapphire Mother— but Uusha has her brigands whispering to the woken dead, some costumed in beads and ears made of reeds.

(Some, but not all; Uusha is willing to take in N’yari outcasts and sellswords in her retinue, too, and more than a few of the rest are mountain-blooded, shaggy-haired and long-nailed. Having cultural advisors certainly helped sell the ruse.)

“She’s very pretty, isn’t she?” Uusha folds her limbs and hunches forward, elbows on her thighs. “Or so I’ve heard. Haven’t met her yet. Where’s the sense, letting her get her hooks in?” She taps her gauntlet-claws staccato against a greave. “A pretty face and a charming smile and you forget what she brings. What is in conjunction. Venus. Mars. The Mother. The Eater of Cities. The kingdoms ignore their duty. Until there is one crown and one voice for us, the Red Wolf will splinter us apart. One by one. Like ants dug free with a knife.”

She glances back at the shades, swaying, more smoke than figure where Uusha’s retinue passes. They do not cry out, not while Peregrine plays. After that, if you have any knowledge of witchcraft, once the song no longer holds their attention, they will turn to the anger coursing through them. Not all of them will make it out past the boundary stones; less than half will not dwindle and fade away into dappled shadows and the sound of rain dripping from above, to return to their sleep. But there will be enough who continue, woken to rage, that Legionnaires will die alone and far from home, faces twisted up in terror.

“We all must fight,” Uusha says. “The quick and the dead. This is their land as much as ours, and they have been here the longer. Let them fight for it, too.” That may be a command. It’s hard to tell.

So that’s her stake. An army of the dead, motivated by the tales her retinue whispers in their cold ears: of a homeland invaded, of a threat to their descendants, of an inevitable war that Uusha means to win. Less clear is Peregrine’s stake, but knowing her, it’s as likely as anything else that Uusha simply presented her the challenge of performing non-violent necromancy, en masse, without dishonoring the dead or inflaming them into immediate violence, and let Peregrine dive head-first into the work.

And she is masterful. Whatever her motivations for being here, Peregrine is an excellent witch: her song is not cruel but it is insistent, and even living you feel it tugging at your heart: wake! Brush away sleep, open your eyes! Come and listen, come and bear witness! Peregrine now calls you!

When you reach out your bowl to offer it up to the ghosts, Uusha puts one hand on the rim. “Do you think they need to be made heavy with food?” Her head cocks like a crow. “We want them roused, not satiated with offerings, Honored Sister.” Do you insist? Do you try to talk your way through? Is she right that you mean to placate them?

***

Zhaojun!

“Stars,” Zhaojun says. “An artificial imposition. Useful, even necessary— but we will chew some holes in their net. After all, I pursue larger and more important quarry and would have your service. You are... but a stepping stone for me.”

The two separate, then come together. The finger pulls the trigger; the fire roars through silk thread and dreams of the dark and sends bandar-logi screaming and skittering away deeper into the embrace of the underneath, beyond the light of the sun and moon and stars. The flickering nightmare razor sings and makes one beautiful cut, one perfect arc, searing the air into what is and what is not. And Zhaojun

[Sealed By Authority Of Iupiter, Maiden Of That Which Is Unknown]

walks, unhurriedly, out into the stillness. The air is humid. It clings with unseen hands to breath and skin and stone and mud. Over the rice plains unseen beyond, thunder rolls. It is a moment between drops. It could last forever. It will not last longer than it takes to walk out of the forest. The rain will return, by edict of the cloud-gatherers, themselves serving at the pleasure of the Sapphire Mother of Lotuses, herself serving at the pleasure of Venus Morningstar who turns the wheels of Heaven. All is desire; it is the axis of the world, the secret of the broken wheel, and the method by which two may be one.

The priestess sits primly on the steps, legs folded beneath her, hands lost in her azure sleeves. Around her is the memory of battle: splintered wood, broken brooms, shattered white masks, torn black fur. At the direction of the goddess, she has brought low her foes. Even the backwater has a hidden gem, after all. Surely this is remembered. Surely her devotion is recorded. Behold her humility, her willingness to transcend pride and yield whole-heartedly to instruction.

“Truly, you are more clever than a serpent, Exalted One,” Victorious Vixen of Violets says, bowing low to her teacher. “Better to strive against Mount Meru than to vie against you. May the evil spirit of this place be sealed here for a hundred hundred years without hope of parole!”

At a gesture from her teacher, the nubile priestess rises, demure despite her noble bearing. Whatever would Honorable Zhaojun do without her guide to the Flower Kingdoms? The self-unconscious way she strokes a stray lock of hair behind her ear, the way her lashes flutter over her coin-weighted veil, the sway of her bare shoulders: surely she is the most beautiful woman in the Flower Kingdoms, though of course she is too humble and pure of heart to notice. She is the sort of maiden that topples empires, and to please her, Zhaojun would—

Well. We shall see, won’t we? Won’t we just.

“So swift is my Mistress in battle,” Victorious Vixen of Violets breathes, her songbird-lovely voice almost muffled by her luxurious veil alone, “that we may yet meet with the Chosen One before nightfall. Glory be your purpose to save this land from war and strife, o radiant Zhaojun, victorious over all misfortune and wicked intent!”

***

Kalaya!

“I don’t know yet, bud,” Petony teases back, running one hand through her short, dark hair. “Maybe show me some actually impressive fighting and you’ll convince me.” The banter between knights! You’re doing it! You’re making it! If your parents could see you now, how proud they would be!

That’s the high spirits that Meke finds you in when she brings what she found out in the field. The red-tattooed retainer cradles an ivory-adorned relic in her arms, abandoned by the demons forced to put to flight. It’s witch-work, true, but also spoils of war, and Petony’s to keep until she is ready to offer it to her kingdom (Rose or Hyacinth, still depending on her mood).

Inside there is a long bone that once belonged to an animal, scrolled round with the script of Hell, harsh and angular. Inside there are broken thorns and nettles. Inside there are small coins stamped with the spires of Golden Chrysanth. Inside there is a priestess’s blue veil, torn in two.

And at the very bottom, underneath one of the veil halves, there is a delicate earring made in the shape of a snapdragon in bloom, pink and yellow.

Once upon a time there was a princess who wore ones like these, Kalaya. You knew her, once. Then other kingdoms went to war with them; then her family’s champions were defeated and humiliated; then she wasn’t around anymore, and your family simply said that failed royals just went off to live with their families, far from the places they’d tried to rule, on pain of humiliation if they dared return.

(One of her brothers was caught trying to travel through her family’s old land, and was paraded through Rose during one of your visits several years ago; his face was dark with anger when he saw you with your hostess, but he couldn’t exactly say much, now, could he? Especially when he had other places to go and be ceremonially thrashed by a priestess, writhing in the stocks under her palm. The laws of the Sapphire Mother are clear on the mercies and punishments she will allow the kingdoms.)

How do you still remember her, Kalaya? Is it her laughter, or her small and serious face, or playing out in the gardens between the fountains? When you hold that earring in your palm, what memories of Ven of Snapdragon return to you?

***

Piripiri!

“Thank you,” Azazuka says, earnestly, after a moment of contemplation. “You’ve given that a lot of consideration. I respect that in an associate.” She squeezes your hand, and then—

The boat rocks. The boat rocks dangerously. Azazuka’s grip on you tightens for support; you glance over at the urchin, who’s gone clammy-faced. “Oh no,” she murmurs to herself, not because she’s panicking but because she knows what’s going on and doesn’t like it. “Oh no oh no oh no.”

Then the snake flips the boat over.

The water is very cold. Azazuka is very much holding onto you. And as you react with the cool head of one trained in the clandestine arts (as if this is the first time you’ve been thrown unexpectedly into water), you see the snake begin to coil around.

It is dark, perhaps— yes, furred. Its eyes are shining green lights in the dark grey of the lake, and they flicker like fire, like the mad green sun. A demon serpent from the Endless City is upon you, and it winds about the two of you with contemptuous flicks of its long tail. Soon it will construct. And then—

Perhaps it is an assassin. Perhaps it is not. Perhaps it is hungry. Perhaps it is not. You cannot afford to find out. Azazuka is still in the panic of someone who hasn’t been in this sort of situation before, and you don’t have time for her to try and conquer that panic.

(The urchin is not in the water. The urchin knew something was up. A thought for when you are not under attack by a demon serpent.)

Boat: not capsized, but upside-down. Urchin: not in water. Surface: close enough for the two of you to swim to if not dragged down by the serpent’s coils. Shore: too far away if Azazuka is not an experienced swimmer. Other boats: too far away for immediate assistance, but likely that someone noticed. Azazuka: her fingers tight on your glove. Umbrella: floating on the surface of the lake.

Serpent: unknown capabilities, unknown purpose. Flute would be useful if you had one and could play it underwater.

***

Lotus of Tranquil Waters!

You can do it!!

That’s what you’re trying to say around the frilly and mortifyingly interesting wad stuffed in your mouth, held in place by a tightly-knotted sash beneath your stolen veil. Your heart is racing like a drum played by Skaral, the Drummer of Season’s Ending. Something that’s not quite panic is fluttering inside your chest like one of the baby birds you helped Grandaunt of Cranes foster as one of the fearsome N’yari pulls you back against her firmly, and your breath is coming fast and hot through your nose, which means you’re just smelling more N’yari, and... nnngh! Bells Below!

Come on, please, get up, you plead as the big N’yari grinds Han’ya(? Kitten??) against the deck. Because if she doesn’t get up, then... then your grand adventure is over before it even started, and all the risks the little brown foxes took for you was for nothing! How are you supposed to see the world for once, to meet other girls and have hot fried noodles and go for walks unchaperoned if you get taken prisoner by N’yari? You’d just be going from one cage to another.

(But at least in the second cage you might get attention from pretty girls for once— no! Shush! Bad Lotus! They might even keep you all tied up and gagged like this, and unlike hiding in your room back home, you won’t be able to wiggle out when you’re done playing— no!! Shush!! Meep!!!)

And, and besides, it’s not fair! Can’t you see she’s at a disadvantage? She’s hurt! And, and rained on! And missing her hat! How is Han’ya supposed to be able to win without her hat? Penalty! Reset the board! But, oh, silly girl, this isn’t shogi with the Blue Silk Glove Marchwarden, this is real, this is adventure, this is what it looks like when you put all your faith in someone who was mean at you and then tried awkwardly to apologize, not because your mother would be cross with them but just because they didn’t want to be mean at you, and...

You can do it!! You scream it at her as loud as you can, bouncing on the N’yari’s lap, not caring that your captor(!!!) will squish you back against her even harder. Because she has to know! She has to know she can do it, if she just tries a little harder, because, because true strength comes from the heart, and she has to have a heart, because... because she wanted to share the umbrella after all.

So please, Han’ya! Fight! Win!! And save everyone from the villains!

(But maybe take your time first, and a priestess should insist everyone else be untied first, and if you want to squeeze there a little more while you have the chance Miss N’yari... gah! Bells Below!!!)

Breathless Dead

Dolce!

The bridge is, for lack of a better word, trashed. You are ushered inside by a very sheepish (if you will excuse the pun) Mynx, who helps you navigate around the broken glass. There is a ridiculous amount of broken glass, as if many mirrors hanging on the walls had been shattered by strong hands. The culprit isn’t hard to find: her hands, already healed, still leave smears of her priceless blood on her glass. The room is full of the antiseptic smell of whiskey, and once again, the culprit isn’t hard to find, filling Redana’s shot glass again with a flourish of its velvet dressing gown.

Redana turns on her heel, back ramrod-straight, eyebrow arched in uncharacteristic confidence. Behind her, the god of madness waves, its mirror-mask reflecting a version of the room that most certainly is not real. At least, one sincerely hopes.

“Ah, Mister Dolce,” Redana says, her words too crisp for the flush in her cheeks. Her jacket is pinned back at the breast, and its motif is the twin-headed eagle. “Capital! I see you received our word. There is a ridiculous notion going around the crew that you are the Captain of the Plousios.”

She takes a seat, glass crunching under her boots, and gestures for you to do the same. Dionysus sets a neon blue cocktail sweet enough to drown the room by your seat, a decadence to melt a sheep’s composure like candyfloss. Redana herself sips from her whiskey and then meditatively swirls it around her glass.

“This rescue mission is going to be difficult enough, what with the storm we’re going through.” She idly gestures at the rainbow knot of disaster, stretched across the wall impossibly wide, slowly gaining mass and terrible details as the Plousios hurtles towards its doom. “We can’t have ambiguities in the chain of command at a time like this, what? Why, you might even...”

Redana stops, and for a moment she looks lost and vacant. There’s a terrible ache in her eyes as she looks at you, as if she’s trying to remember who you are. Then her eyes slide back down to her drink, and she knocks it back.

“...I am prepared to take steps to stamp out mutiny,” says the mutineer, with absolute confidence regained. “But let’s do our best to avoid unpleasantness, shall we? Bella here can’t wait forever.” She gestures at the God of Madness with that red-smeared hand, as if that explains everything. Then she leans forward and whispers, conspiratorially, as Dionysus fills her glass with amber again: “When I save her, she might finally accept my apology.”

Sunshards

The Girlfriend’s Plight

“W-wait,” Rose tries to squeak, realizing too little too late that she still hasn’t gotten to the “new wardrobe” part of her makeover. But she can’t! The words aren’t there for her! As the Countess (beautiful, terrible, confusing, amazing??) gazes victoriously at the squirming girl being pulled back to the gleaming, ornate manacles (with padded cuffs), just a little too high for her to be able to lower her hands, all Rose can say is: “Chen will save me! You’ll see! She’s the best at swords, annnnmmmph—!!!”

And that is how Rose ends up on display: slender wrists locked above her head, and her dainty ankles spread; her lovely face swallowed up by blindingly white cloth from the bridge of her nose, just beneath her striking eyes, to just tucked beneath her dainty jaw; her mouth well-packed with frills and lace and perfume. Helpless, without modesty, letting out useless little huffs and grunts as she rattles the chains, twisting this way and that as she agonizes over Keron’s accusation, which must be true, and without her Chen to rescue her...

But not alone. Never alone. And not ignored, but not mocked, either. After all, she’s here to watch and learn— and how can she do that without an example to learn from?

***

The Dancer’s Lesson

“My body belongs to my Mistress.

“For her sake, I make it limber, ready to be moved, and for her sake I train it to remember the steps. Without her to drive me, I would say to myself: Thara, this thing, it is too difficult! Perhaps you should go and eat the iced cream today, or luxuriate in sunbeams, or dangle your feet off above the clouds! Anything but mastering your body, making of it a beautiful thing!

“But our Mistress, she knows that my desire to excel is not strong enough to rule my heart. So she takes my desire for her, and she lashes me to it, so that I can follow her to where I want to be, so that I can move for her and she can move me as she pleases. For her sake, I dance; for my sake, she commands me to dance. For her sake, I am alluring; for my sake, she invites me to allure.

“Little sister, I do not bring you a special magic. You can be me, but you will have to want like I want. You have to want to move for our Mistress, and you must want this badly enough to train your body, clumsy thing that it is, to remember the orders you have given it, over and over, until it remembers, until it obeys without thought.

“Good girl. Follow me. My body is your body; my steps are your steps. Even a clumsy girl can learn someone else’s steps to follow. Listen, and I will tell you the secrets of the dance.

“The first is that you must make those who see you wish to touch you. Make of your body a whirlpool, a siren song, a living motion. Draw your witnesses in, remind them what it is to touch and be touched, to move and be moved, to love and be loved. Make your stomach a wave, your hips a wall, and your hands mist.

“The second is that you must not let yourself be held. You must punish an impudent touch and sway away from it, or check it, or invite it to try again, but when you are held, the dance is over. Then you may be of other use; but your honor as a dancer depends on making your Mistress struggle for mastery of you when you move for her.

“The third is that you do not need to speak. Let your body speak for you. Let it say: desire me! Let it say: take me! Let it say: I am yours! Let it say: you must win me! With your beautiful eyes, little sister; with the shine of your navel; with the elegance of your ankles and wrists; and with the bounce of your chest, you lucky thing! To dance is to supersede words, and it is all the better for you to learn like this, unable to give in to the temptation.

“If you practice, my little sister, you may become as graceful as I am. If you make yourself beautiful in your movement, you will not be useless. You will be adored, treasured, and free to submit.

“Good girl. Now, let’s get you dressed properly. The Countess had some very specific instructions for you, my dear~”

***

The Pirate’s Tale

“I was a pirate queen, once upon a time.

“I had a fleet of ancient ships, older than the burrows. They were like the Sky Castle, but unlike; they were dangerous little shrikes. With them I controlled the skies from elevator to elevator. Nothing bigger than a bird could challenge me and my Empire of Winds.

“Jessic defeated me. And Jessic saved me. I tumbled, my line cut by a treacherous first mate. I wanted nothing as badly as I wanted not to hit the ground; and Jessic dived, despite the shell and the cannon all around her, to catch me. After the battle, which went on longer under that sky rat, I begged Jessic to enter her service, to be her slave, because I had lost everything I thought I had wanted, and all I had left was hers. And so she asked the Countess, and now the Countess lets my Mistress have me. I am hers; I prepare her tack and I shine her scales. And I have never had to hurt someone ever again, because Jessic keeps me safe, and I can trust her with my life.

“I don’t know why a little thing like you needed to hear this story, but whatever you may have done, you dainty little thing: I’m living proof that the Sky Castle will keep you safe, no matter what happened in your past.

“Now, let’s get to work. Keron tells me you have dainty, useless little hands, but personally? I think these hands are perfect for the sort of things you’ll need to do. I’m a little jealous, even! We’re going to start with folding laundry, which is perfect for a pretty little maid like you. Just remember: strength isn’t in here, it’s in here— gosh, that jingles a lot, doesn’t it?

“Do you like— haha! Oh, stars above and sea below, you’re precious. I prefer leather, myself, but you do look very nice in that veil, little sister.”

***

The Artist’s Story

“When I was younger, I was given a very useless present indeed, and this one caused me to be given another. The first was a gender, and the second was a future.

“When I was young, you see, I stumbled across a broken machine, and I lucked upon the key to restoring it to its old use. It ran for a few months, flickering tape connected to our projector, before its account ran dry. When the collector came to discuss payment plans some time after, the exorcist who defeated it took me in as her apprentice. And I took to it because that was my future: a repairer and, more importantly, understander of machines.

“But the thing was? The machine had been colorcoded inside of its guts: not like to like, but complement to complement. Each component found its home in its partner. Against normal circuitry and code I was helpless; the colors were all wrong. And so I spent my life thinking that I would amount to little more than a second-rate exorcist.

“Indeed, I was so hapless that I was incorporated into a package deal, as my mistress found her match in haggling in the person of the Countess. As the new exorcist of the Sky Castle, entrusted to maintain wards and routers, I was, as you might expect, not particularly talented; the Countess soon realized that she had made an error in that deal. So she gave me a command: a full year and a day on the Sky Castle to discover who I was and who I wanted to be, and if I could not come up with an answer by then, she would send me on my way. And if she saw me wasting a minute of it, she’d put the fear of a sun into me.

“It was the sky, ironically enough, and all its colors. Not just the elevators and the Sunshards but the space in between them. That’s what taught me that I can be the empty space full of colors, too. I can be what defines other things by not being them. And soon enough I’d figured out how to save that on canvas, and in other forms, and when the Countess asked me what my calling was, I said that I was an Artist of Emptinesses.

“And, like most of the girls I meet here, I just want to tell you: don’t let the Countess scare you into being something you’re not. Let her scare you into what you want to be, like Thara does. You have emptiness inside you, but you also have a fullness inside you. Find your fullness, like I found mine, and don’t let anyone scare you away from it.

“...fine, I’ve been around enough of you girls to know what those puppy-dog eyes mean. You did a wonderful job of pouring my tea and you sat very attentively to listen, and you are in fact very pretty and demure. If this is who you want to be, Rose, you’re very good at it. But remember that, as scary as the Countess is, she just wants you to have the courage to know what you truly want. How else can she give it to you?”