Tatterdemalion

Breathless Dead

Redana no longer works among the Coherents.

She walks with the Magi now, listening to them, offering words of correction and advice in her melodious voice. She wears stately robes now, and her hair is bound up in the olive. The unpleasantness about the storm, the changed course— it is waved aside. What matters is that, despite the seeming contradiction of the orders, the Order carried them out, and that is to their credit.

She sits in state among the debates with a fan in one marble hand, and by lifting it on one side or the other she gives her judgment. This is the use of royalty, after all: through discernment, to take the many and make them one, to decide what direction the future will turn, to cause things to happen through hands that are not her own.

Redana has chosen a captain.

Now Dolce has a very capable second-in-command. Early in the morning and late at night she comes to him with lists, data, and reassurances. He has command of the vessel, and so Redana will make that smooth and simple for him. The first he hears of half the problems on the Plousios is when Redana informs him, with that smooth and effortless elegance, that it has been taken care of.

Redana might not be as fun now, but at least she’s finally grown up. Isn’t it a relief? Some of the Coherents might grumble, certainly, but others might see her shine and know her to be come into her own at last: a star to chase until morning. Untouchable, distinct, sacred: set apart from the world of ordinary men and women.

And at odd hours, Redana sits in her renovated chambers, white marble and gold, the bed spartan, the wardrobe full of subtle variations, and she holds the cup of coffee between both cold palms and stares into the swirling veins in the stone while Skotos brushes her hair.

Skotos is always with her. It’s just that Skotos is not important. Not noteworthy. It is Skotos who carries the papers, Skotos who stands at her elbow, Skotos who brews the coffee. Skotos wears the saffron robe and their face is swallowed entirely by that hood.

If you don’t pay attention, you’ll miss that Skotos is in the room. They might not even be a person. Have you heard Skotos talk? Have they done anything not in anticipation of Redana’s needs? They’re an ornament, like Mynx or Bella, not their own person. And this is what they deserve. It is the only fitting punishment. Silent, servile, subordinate.

Skotos knows they deserve this. That’s why they sleep even less than the Princess. That’s why they fade unseen into the background. That’s why they make inedible food every morning and hang their head when Redana smoothly pushes the plate aside and gives them an encouraging smile. That’s why they are Skotos. They deserve nothing more.

Sunshards

Scene #1.

Chen will come for her.

She'll zip into the tower on her sword, smashing through a window, or dramatically opening a door, or even sneak in and wake Rose up with a finger to her lips and that heart-meltingly cheeky smile. What, exactly, she ends up doing to get to Rose doesn't actually really matter; what matters is that it will be unexpected and sudden and dramatic, and she'll suddenly just be there. There'll be a hug. And--

And she'll take the collar off, won't she? Because that's what a hero would do. She'll tell Rose that she can go back to being a priestess of the fox goddess and take off all her humiliatingly revealing silks and wear something more modest, and Rose shouldn't argue with her, because of course her girlfriend, her lady, will know better--

But would she really feel happy about it? She likes being made to dress like this. Because there's no judgment of her for choosing to wear them. If she had to be practical and responsible and smart she'd probably dress in something oh-so-ordinary. Whenever she tries to make her own choice while getting dressed, the Countess tuts and explains to her that her place is to be a mannequin for her mistress's fashion tastes. What would that look like, anyway? Would Chen make her wear North Wind Chic? All fur and muffs, like wearing a warm blanket, instead of these whispery silks?

No, no, no, maybe that won't happen. Maybe...

***

Scene #2.

Chen will come for her.

But she'll confront the Countess and demand the return of her Rose with the grandeur of a princess, and the Countess will tell her to sit down and she'll fetch her Rose, and Chen will sit in one of the sitting rooms in that tower and wait impatiently, all ready for a trap, and that's when Rose will enter, and the lights will be all low, and Chen won't be able to take her eyes off Rose, who has made herself the goodest girl that she can be, who is the trap for Chen's heart. And that's when Rose will dance. And Chen will go as red as roses, hands in fists in her lap, as Rose draws closer and closer, showing off just how much she has learned from the Countess, and when Rose slips to her knees and offers her leash, she'll get so adorably squirmy and shy as she takes it from Rose's hands and--

And then what? Rose hasn't, you know, ever really been with Chen, but while Chen might be good at teasing her (ah, getting picked up at the market!!) she's not really like the Countess. She might be the least bossy princess in the Nine Kingdoms. Rose would probably have to walk her step by step through how she's meant to be used! And what kind of topsy-turvy world would that be? Imagine, Rose bossing around a princess! Absurd! Unheard of! She'd get them both into trouble! And however would Chen introduce her slave-girl to her parents as her girlfriend? Oh, Chen would be so embarrassed of her! No, no, no!

No, but what if...

***

Scene #3.

Rose climbs up onto Chen's lap and distracts her. That's something she's so good at! She's a pretty distraction. She drowns Chen in kisses, and when Chen finally surfaces for breath, that's when the handmaidens all around them strike! And Rose adjusts her veil and bats her eyes as Chen succumbs to the chloroform, and when Chen wakes up? That's when she'll find herself in Keron's clutches. And then, and then?

That's when Rose will get to be dangled as a prize. Maybe Rose will even get to be Chen's Thian! Just imagine, Chen, being trained in being a good girl! No more worrying about being a princess, no more furrowed brows as she talks about all those difficult things that cause her heart to hurt: the dragon-princess and her mothers and everyone's expectations. It's the easiest thing in the world to live up to the Countess's expectations, because she'll explain herself clearly, and if you get things wrong, she'll punish you and then explain things again, and she'll be so patient until a sillyhead like you learns what she is meant to do! And unlike mothers or princesses, the Countess will never push you into a place where you're really honestly truly miserable, because she takes responsibility for all of her handmaidens!

And then maybe all three of them will get to be a trio! Just imagine: Chen, the protagonist; Rose, the eye candy; and Cyanis, the schemer! All three of them, getting into mischief, entertaining their mistress, being the stars of a new sort of story. Maybe they'd even color-coordinate, though Cyanis and Chen would have to figure out who gets the light blue, and Chen would have her snow leopard pet as their mascot, and Cyanis would be the one who came up with all the zany plans, and of course Rose would be the hapless one who got into trouble, but it'd be all right, because, because, because! Because she and Chen would still have something so special, and they'd be fanservice for their mistress, and Chen's prize for being the bright and sparkling flower right at the heart of the harem would be having Rose all to herself when neither of them was on call, and then, oh, and then! And then!!

Chen will come for her~

***

Scene #4.

But then Qiu will kidnap Chen and Rose and Cyanis to send a message to the Sky Kingdom and dangle them over a pit of packaging-serpents capable of wrapping anything up in thirty seconds flat and leave them to squirm together and make such beautiful muffled conversations with each other and now they'll be the ones in need of rescue together and Chen will rest her head on Rose's shoulder to reassure her and Cyanis will come up with some clever plan for escape that ends up toppling all three of them into the snake pit and then they'll have to try to hop out of Qiu's lair only for Rose to get caught at the last minute and of course Chen won't leave her behind and Cyanis despite all her bluster will turn back too and that's why the three of them will be chained up to Qiu's throne when Jessic arrives to challenge Qiu to a duel and the three of them will have to squirm and try to tell Jessic through their big fat gags not to accept Qiu's terms for the duel because they can't be worth that much to a princess but Jessic will agree anyway because Keron told her just how good and pretty and special these three girls are and then and then and then--!!!

"Rose!"

"!!!"

"Were you listening to anything I was saying? Of course not. Hop over here so we can make sure you remember..."

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Giriel!

“You know,” Peregrine says, off-handedly. “The one they’re supposed to be angry at. The foreigner.” Peregrine: too busy to learn even Cathak Agata’s nickname. “Demons,” she adds, abruptly, vaulting nimbly over your question. “Tell me more. Clade?” That is, what common ancestor titan. “Malfeas?” That is, the Broken King. Not a name to be used lightly at all; Peregrine has it on a leash, the same way she uses the names of gods. “Cecelyne? Adorjan?” The Mother of Deserts, who is the King’s robe. The Fivefold Wind, who is the King’s breath. “...Qaf?” A crooked smile; she resonates with the Endless Mountain, driven like a spear through the Broken King, and has been known to call up its Hollow-sages to argue theology.

But of course it is the King. The other Titans would leave different signs and spoors, and it is the King who resonates best with the hearts of the people of the Flower Kingdoms. The Mother of Deserts may have her cults in Gem, dressed in silver veils, and the Fivefold Wind may have her cultists race up and down abandoned towers in far Chiaroscuro, but the Broken King reigns here.

Of course you will confirm this, and things will unfold from there; Peregrine has been unleashed on something Interesting. If it is to placate her witch, of course Uusha will consent to calling up demons, binding them fast, and bidding them answer, in the depths of Uusha’s mountain den. Will you take part, Giriel?

Will you parlay with demons as Peregrine wraps song and will tighter and tighter about them? If so, tell us what it is like to prepare, and roll to Call or Commune, as you like— depending on how far you push. One is simpler, the other more elaborate a working, with greater risk and reward.

***

Kalaya!

“Watch yourself, bud,” Petony growls, embarrassment leading easily to anger. “You have a lot to learn about being a knight, after all. When Heaven provides a beautiful girl in need of protection, it is wrong not to admire her. You insult her, otherwise, and not content with that, you insult me as well.”

She steps close, bristling. “So go ahead, Kalaya-phraya,” she says, over the priestess’s feeble attempts to defuse the situation. “Make your apologies and there won’t be any need for me to teach you respect for your elders and for the lovely little flowers of the world.”

***

Zhaojun!

The wind-spirits do indeed take the messenger of Heaven to her destination. They simply succumb to their desire first, and that is why the journey there is undertaken both at incredible speed and in a slowly-tightening gyre, lashing round and round the Flower Kingdoms beneath the silver-streaked clouds. The leopard beneath her pumps its hips furiously, at every moment threatening to unseat her, to send her toppling below, a fall to be feared for its lack of dignity more than any injury.

Lights and lanterns flash by like bolts of lightning. Faces frozen in the moment of seeing, then overlaid by the sight of hundreds more. Farmers in the fields; soldiers on the march; a festival of lanterns in a prelapsarian city; a daughter of a god chasing after a daughter of dragons; witches gossiping in the mountains, speaking names of old power; the Chosen One arguing with that other fool knight; a jungle that the leopards shy away from, stinking of Hell’s old fires.

The tighter Zhaojun clings, the louder and more delighted Jenny Tosstrees laughs; the louder her laughter, the faster her leopard streaks through the high airs; the faster they go, the tighter Zhaojun clings fast. But somehow Jenny is still limber enough to turn in her seat, take Zhaojun by the chin, and steal a kiss from that stone mask, smearing blue lipstick on the white stone—

And then she melts into mist and lets Zhaojun tumble into the mud in front of Machi of the Ōei, who— bedraggled, bedrenched, and frustrated— is making good time back to her hidden camp. Spooked, the N’yari go for their swords while making impressive jumps backwards, hunching and hissing to seem larger and scarier than this newcomer.

“You picked a bad time to fall out of that tree, lowlander,” Machi growls. Her warband, not yet knowing who they deal with, begin to circle around, cutting off avenues of escape, getting ready to pounce.

***

Han!

You walk alone. The rain picks up, becoming leopard’s teeth— you know, when it feels like each drop was tossed down from on high to hit you, personally. Your shoulders hunch, which does nothing to protect the back of your neck, and you instinctively make for a copse of trees, dark on black, which will give you a moment of shelter from the rain in their lee. Everything is soaked; your skin is almost burning hot against your clothes. The air is stiflingly humid, and there is no respite. You might as well be swimming in the river. And there’s no Machi here to laugh and challenge you to a race to those trees and pull you into the foliage once you get there and peel you out of your clothes so that you can try vainly to use her fur as a towel. You are alone. And you always will be. Because you push everybody away, because you know the truth: you do not deserve to be loved.

Someone touches your shoulder. You shake it off, spin around, ready to make them regret trying to—

It’s the priestess. Holding half an umbrella, awkwardly. Heaving and trembling from having to run to catch up to you (or the fear that she was about to get clocked, don’t forget that).

“Thank you,” she blurts out. “I didn’t say it. And I wanted to. Thank you. For saving— us. And.” She stands there a moment. Shuffles from foot to foot. The And hangs in the air. The tension builds.

“I’m going to the Two Hundred Gates Temple,” she finally admits, unable to look you in the eye. It’s a long detour out of your way. “If you happen to be traveling in that direction, and you don’t mind the company? It’s just that— anything could happen out here. And you fought off an entire raiding party of the savage N’yari, and... well. I’d rather your company than theirs, if you’d have me.”

She. She wants to travel with you. Probably because you’re strong and just protected her, but. After everything you said to her. After Machi kissed you. After her umbrella got broken. And she still wants to go with you?

(Try not to think about the “priestess secures a promise of protection from a monster and then tames them through virtue, spiritual lessons and seductive bondage” genre of stories. That is not what should be springing to mind. Thinking about yourself as a monster in that sort of situation— and besides, you would never— and just because that’s always what the monster thinks to themselves at the beginning before they learn their place— and anyway this little bud couldn’t seductively tie up someone if her job depended on it, definitely!!)

***

Piripiri!

The world in the courtyard is dull, dark green. The leaves are too glossy on the vines that sprout all over the stonework; the rain falls from a bright grey sky, framed on all sides by trees leaning over the walls. You remain in the Flower Kingdoms, though you cannot say where. You have not, perhaps, heard the grim stories of Kingeater Castle.

The courtyard is a mosaic of stones. There once was a gate on one side of the courtyard, but now there is only crumbling stone and empty air. It is too obvious for an escape right now, into a thick and perilous jungle; there are tigers and worse than tigers in the wild places of the Flower Kingdoms, and the path from the gate is quickly swallowed by verdancy. You must know where you are going, from a place like this.

On the other side of the courtyard is a vast circular door. It is shut. Shadows pass behind it, and a sickly green-yellow light plays underneath it when you do not look straight on it. You kneel in the rain and wait, still accompanied by the still soldiers of Hell.

This whole place is... soaked. It has drunk deeply of Hell’s Essence and now is drenched as deeply as a washcloth. Things scrape behind the walls, laughter rings out as if from distant rooms, and the sounds of the jungle all around are muted and dull. And you kneel at the center, at the nexus point of the walls’ attention, and it makes you sweat cold and hard. A lesser woman would begin to panic. But you have been trained. You know how to wait.

Something that is like a small green snake at a glance slithers across the courtyard, knocks on the door with its head. The door creaks open from the other side, and for a moment discordant music blares loud and hot and sharp, and the sounds of battle and hatred and desire, and the yellow-green light stabs its way into the world. The serpent slithers through. The door swings shut, but the light lingers. The light of Hell’s mad green sun. The air is sharp and acrid, like firewand powder.

Some time later, the door opens again. The Laema passes through with her attendants, who none of them bear legs, each and every one with a different scaled tail, each and every one with a different bead-curtained hat, and amongst them all comes the Laema, who like many demons insists that creation bear her marks; that the degenerate ideals and beauties of the world be elevated by her touch. Her robes drag on the ground in a dozen subtle shades of gold; her hair is bound in a vast headdress-wheel, each lock wound about the irregular spokes of a false sun. Her lips are a gash of red and her eyes flicker like Hell’s green fires.

“Disgusting,” she says, as her attendants erect: wardrobes of silver wood, chests of brass, measuring-sashes of gossamer, needles of iron, mirrors of copper, and a great couch for the Laema’s vast coils. “Drab. Muted. Ashamed of itself. Even worse than Whirling-in-Rags’ little pet; at least it attempted something with color. Left to their own devices, they never fail to disappoint.”

Tell us about what the Laema has failed to understand about your clothes and their meaning as she orders them incinerated and has you fitted for fire-blackened brass and sheer green silk, has your hair pulled into a bun and your face painted with green bands on white cheeks, your teeth made black with charcoal, your eyes ringed with the names of the Laema as a signature.

And, if you dare, you will have time enough after the teeth painting to speak: to ask her something, or to flatter her, or to spite her.

Breathless Dead

“I will,” Redana growls. “I can feel it.” When she strikes her breastbone it is flinchingly hard. “Traitors! Backstabbers! Liars!” When she strikes the wall there is a sound like breaking glass. “Cowards! Cowards! You left her and did nothing! And what if she hates me? What if everything was lies? Do you think I can leave her?”

The tears are coming freely now. Her shoulders tremble. “She was so scared,” she groans. “In the box. I know that now. And then I thought she was happy. To be with me. And then she turned cruel, but now— how long did she hate me? Behind her smiles? And now, and now I’ll always know she died cold and alone and scared, curled up on some godsforsaken rusting wreck, and I can never apologize to her, and I can never ever try to make it right, I can’t fix any of it, and it’s her fault for abandoning her and it’s your fault for wasting our time and I’ll never know if we could have saved her if we’d just been faster and I’m going to kill you, kill you both, cowards and traitors and faithless and murderers—”

She reaches out into the air and the air becomes tainted with hot ozone and static. Perhaps it is because she is drunk; perhaps it is because Dionysus has its hand on the scales; but the change from girl to monster is not immediate. It is slow in the way that the final act of a tragedy is slow, and behind Redana are a thousand thousand doors, a thousand thousand green eyes, a thousand thousand could-have-beens and never-weres, shadows of shadows, gunslingers and pilots and generals, tyrants and matricides and maids, and through them all shoving them aside like a bull, the vast shadow rising of Redana Chrysopelex, who has both the strength and the will to tear everyone in the room apart and then half the crew for seconds. Redana’s fingers curl around the haft of something that might, in a moment, become an axe.

And Redana’s eyes are closed, and her face is contorted into a gross sob, and the tears flow freely as the Nemean looms over her. She is blind; she sees only Bella, curled up on a steel floor, cold and still. She is deaf; she hears only the hiss of Bella’s wounded words lashing against her, overflowing from old and hidden wounds. She is senseless; she feels only pain.

She will not return.

The Nemean will overthrow the Shah, perhaps, and turn the great wheeling ships of the Azura, bound to one fatal, grand and terrible will, against Tellus, and condemn humanity by turning it to silvered glass and steam. Or she will ride the ruin of the Plousios into the tempest, laughing as she goes, and do battle there with the leviathans of the deep. She will, heartless, assume the hole in the world left by Redana Claudius, whose heart is pierced and who can no longer stand under the weight of it.

Sunshards

Rose flinches from the zappy, bitey, familiar jolts. Not that the Countess ever got so mad as to use this on her before, but... she must have broken a Burrow artifact when she was a child, to flinch and risk tears as the little fangs nip at her skin. To remember— pain. And not the good pain.

But the words. They’re the gentle soothing she needs. To serve is right. Her mistress (whether the Countess or her beautiful Chen) is correct. She must have been such a sillyhead! To think that the Countess agreed with Cyanis! Just because she was repeating the fox’s words... oh, what a silly girl she is!

She nuzzles into her— into— into the Countess’s thumb with her cheek and looks up with those big, dark eyes. “...does this mean I’m not a bad girl? Do I... do I not get spankies? I... I don’t understand...”

Because that would be! Well! Maybe she just deserves them a little bit for being so easy to be confused! Just enough so that she knows she’s been punished and then forgiven. And then she can go back to being a good girl and waiting for her princess to save her, which... she’ll do eventually, right? R-right??

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

Winter is still and quiet and cold. The serpent curls beneath the rocks and dreams of the sun. Winter is dark and lightless. And Constance is draped in winter. For a moment, she is tempted— the snow crunches under her fingers— and then she lets it fall back to the earth through numb fingers. Its fall is whisper-soft.

She sits in that palimpsest dress by the fountain and lets her fingers drift through the water. It is cold as ice. Later, she will regret this, hand clutched against her breast as she hisses in the agony of feeling returning. But she is not here for herself. She is here for Sir Coilleghille.

The candles are wan. The dress promises skin beneath it, if only a layer or two more was pulled aside. One golden curl rests against her pale cheek. The choice of whether to approach remains in Robena’s hands.

Breathless Dead

You only get one miracle, Redana. You only get one person saved from you. You can’t call down Olympus to stop you every time you want to hurt someone.

She hooks her fingers in Dolce’s wool and lifts him up off the ground with the strength of an Olympic athlete. The things coming out of her mouth aren’t understandable words anymore. They’re just hurt and betrayed syllables sliding out from between her lips.

She slams him against the instruments so hard that not even the insulating wool can protect him entirely, and screams, even as the ship begins its long, slow drift out of the storm. It won’t escape unscathed, but it’s not going to dive into destruction, either.

She’s crying. She’s crying and shaking and falling apart, but she’s still got a grip on Dolce as she slams him into the wall again, and again, and again, until she tosses him aside and, growling like an animal, claws at the clogged pipe. Someone who was patient and careful could clear it. Redana is likely to just get it crammed in deeper.

But what when she realizes that? Will she call down the thunder? Will the Nemean tear open the hull? Will that incredible capability for violence finally be turned against the crew by a gods-maddened princess, and yet another journey to Gaia fail, torn apart by Aphrodite?

The defense of the crew and ship falls again to the (bruised, battered, brave) Captain.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Zhaojun!

An unruly pack of wind-gods meet the Messenger of Heaven on the slopes of Mount Fang. They are inconstant, not in the manner that Mercury is but in the sort of way that the Moon is, waxing and waning through shadow and light, and like the choirs of the Moon (whose musical output is eclectic), they are creatures who do not take well to the song of domination. Or, rather, it might be better to say they sing it as a round, and woe to the one buried under their verses.

They circle around Zhaojun on their leopards and jackals until one approaches directly in the high airs, where the gods play their dramas, seeing but unseen to all but the wise. Her leopard bares its long silver fangs, the winds caressing the opals and turquoise woven into its braids.

“Hail, star-daughter,” the wind-god says. Her third eye is merry and promises mischief, the same as her flickering heart. Her accent is excruciatingly thick and terrestrial, a thing befitting a lesser spirit. “Have thou business ere? Hie up hither on mine ounce.” She scruffles her leopard affectionately and grins through curved teeth. “Thou’s hae a ride as fits lowland hindways fineful, blue-shine. Or this one’s no Jenny Tosstrees.”

...she seems to be offering a ride on her leopard. It’s possible that accepting would put the Emissary in her debt or leave her open for their pranks, but refusal might be perilous while surrounded by half a dozen wind-gods. By right they should yield to Heavenly authority, of course. And presenting them with her scheme directly might play on that love of mischief— if they do not choose to spite her, instead.

***

Piripiri!

Blood rushes to the warlock’s cheeks. Shame burns in her eyes, and anger that she feels ashamed, and confusion, because this isn’t how this is supposed to go. “Are you paying attention,” she hisses. “I’m in charge here,” she says. A rookie mistake. If you’re in charge, you only say that after establishing, without a doubt, that you are. “Your life is in my hands,” she adds, and looks away, having lost the staredown completely.

“In fact,” she says, standing, starting to pace, “you’ll regret your impudence. You’ll wish I tossed you back! Then at least your suffering would be brief. I was taught by the Princes of Hell how to hurt someone. And I’ll do it! You should have begged me for mercy!”

One of the Wrack-dolls laughs.

It’s a shuddering, wheezing sound, a thing of rusted metal scraping against itself, but it’s laughter. Ven turns on her heel and shoves the nearest Wrack-doll back into its brethren, hard, and the sound of that happening is auditory torture, like being stuck in an abandoned armory during an earthquake.

“I! AM! IN! CHARGE!” She yells, like someone who desperately needs to believe it. She snaps her fingers and the Wrack-dolls collapse to their knee guards, shrouded heads bowed, while the warlock breathes hard and fast and furious.

The look she gives you is furious. Like it’s your fault that she is airing out her insecurities in front of a prisoner, like a cut-rate opera villain. (It takes a very special kind of person to play the tropes beloved of Hell straight and not get that reaction, to be fair.)

“Take her,” she orders. “To the Gate. I will call on the Laema later.” (The Laema, the Modiste of Hell; she intends to give you a most indecent makeover. Not being a witch, the most you have are stories about that serpent-witch and her infernal fashions.) The Wrack-dolls stand, and two cut the rope between your wrists and ankles, hauling you up to your feet.

Take a String on Ven, having embarrassed her in front of her own demons.

***

Giriel!

“Oh,” Peregrine says, halfway to Giriel’s lair. “Hello.”

You’ve been walking next to each other all this time, and it’s only now that she’s aware enough of anything outside of her own head to properly recognize you. On either side are Uusha’s brigands, and before and behind, too; Uusha herself leads from behind, covering the trail in your wake.

“Generality is a dead end,” she continues. “Encoding specific narrative through the translation is key to being able to enforce it.” Peregrine is talking about her current pet theory: she thinks she can translate the tongue of the gods into music in order to create heightened meaning and symbolism, and that all sorcery somehow echoes or points back to it. The only rub is that she’s the only witch who can seem to get it to work; every other witch who’s tried has ended up with a burning, ruined instrument. “I told them a story,” she continues. “One about that soldier.”

This soldier... the Red Wolf? Uusha? Someone else? She knows what she means.

***

Kalaya!

Ugh. Of course you’d be that sweet and sentimental. Easy enough to manipulate, but... gross.

It must have just been this, Kalaya: that the priestess needs to be protected just like Ven needed you. That’s why you thought of her. When she glances up at you for a moment, she now reads as bashful, in need of a strong knight to protect her. Being that beautiful? It must really be a curse. Everyone probably thinks of her as just a pretty girl and doesn’t take the time to look past her lovely eyes and effortless grace. Not like you. You’re a good person.

“Because Heaven has willed it,” she says. “It’s not our place to argue with— oh, and she’s gone.” She leans in close and whispers, conspiratorially: “Half the time, I don’t even know what she means. We just have to trust that she knows what she’s doing. Which means— can you introduce me?” She touches your arm, looking for reassurance and protection, and peeks past you to Petony. “I’m afraid I don’t know the knights of the Flower Kingdoms as well as I should. But I’m sure that you’re all doing your very best to keep us safe.”

But don’t you think that Petony is leering a bit too much? That was, indeed, not exactly a respectful look that your mentor was giving the innocent, sweet-hearted young woman. Really, more like an assessment. Probably just saw her as a hot body and a sultry voice, and you should definitely let her know what you think about that.

There’s even an XP in it for you, if you do.

***

Han!

There’s only so much water that one of the N’yari is willing to handle in one day. Machi doesn’t admit that she’s beaten; she just stops trying to get on the barge, claws her way up furiously onto the bank, and whistles for her girls.

You spin around to fix Hanaha and Kigi with your best “get outta town” glare, eyes narrowed, promising them a world of trouble if they don’t get going. And you glare so powerfully that Hanaha decides that she needs to delay you so that you don’t get any cute ideas about hitting them with umbrellas as you go.

So, looking you dead in the eyes, the N’yari raider steals your hat off the priestess’s head, sets the priestess down on the railing, and shoves her over. Then she scampers in the other direction as quick as she can, gleeful, because she knows you’re going to dive right in after her.

Without even really letting yourself think, you leap over the side, ready to dive down to the bottom of the river to save her, and only after you’ve hit the point of no return do you see her, legs up against the barge, impossibly floating on top of the water.

Which means that landing on her is a lot like falling off a log placed over a river. She can’t go underneath the water, no matter how much pressure you’re putting on her, and that leaves you churning your legs under the water and grabbing at her robes to try and stabilize yourself. You end up rolling her a couple of times over the top of the water with muffled grunts and squeaks before you manage to get steady.

She looks away, and what you can see of her suggests that she’s absolutely mortified about this incredibly normal priestess thing. You’ve never heard of a priestess doing this, but they probably just don’t tell the likes of you about their amazing walking-on-water powers. After all, the Sapphire Mother is a goddess of the waters, so it stands to reason that they can all do this and Crane just hasn’t shown it off in front of you because her training trumps her need to rub everything in your face.

You did it! You saved the day. And now you’re soaked, your hat’s gone, you broke a whole bunch of umbrellas, nobody’s going to want you to stay on that barge even after you untie them, and you’re inconveniencing a priestess after you tried to give her a rescue she didn’t even need.

And the worst part is that Machi’s breath still lingers on your mouth. The feel of her still weighs on you. That’s the first time you’ve ever been properly confessed to, and it’s not going away anytime soon. The process of actually setting everyone free is going to be an embarrassed blur of awkward coughing and zoning out as you think about muscles and kisses and being picked up and held.

Feel free to try to leave after, feeling the weight of those glares on you, hearing the murmurs, knowing that everybody blames you for what happened. Even the priestess seems to be keeping to herself, looking over the broken pieces of the umbrella she tried to give you. (A smarter girl might realize not all the murmurs are about you, and that she’s trying to avoid talking to anybody more than trying to avoid you, but you’re busy wallowing in this feeling. Go ahead. Wallow away.)

Mark a Condition, too. You were playing rough and hard there at the end, and your heart hasn’t had a chance to have a breather. That, and that injury’s definitely making itself known.

Sunshards

Oh, gosh! Goshies! She’s— she’s in charge of— it’s her responsibility to decide what should happen to Cyanis? That’s a whole lot of responsibility!

Okay, what sort of perfect punishment would be just right for Cyanis? Think, Rosie, think! Something that would make her feel so special and safe and ready to obey. Something that would make her feel just like you, Rose!

“She should... have to entertain Princess Jessic,” Rose says. It’s perfect! Imagine Cyanis, in just the cutest of outfits, chained to a mighty dragoness’s paw, asked to lift spirits and bring smiles and tell stories! Oh, oh, that’s important. “And, and she won’t be allowed to go until she’s told Jessic a better story than anything she’s ever heard! And her royal title will be the Court Cutie! And—“

Wait, Rose! How can she be so mean to Cyanis? Rose can see her so vividly, eyes full of betrayal, pleading desperately for Rose to go along with her story. And isn’t that what foxes want? They want to tell stories so clever that everybody else dances along to them! And, sure, yes, she did need to answer the Countess honestly, but... but doesn’t Cyanis deserve someone who does her best for her, too?

“B-but,” Rose continues, “whatever she deserves... I deserve a lot worse.” Some strange feeling is roiling deep inside her. Like... it’s right. For silly, useless, weak Rose to protect somebody else however she can. “Because she’s telling the truth! I’m a muh... I’m a muh...”

The words clog in her throat and she tears up. She’s found something she can’t say. Something that’s worse than spankies. If she says those words they’ll eat her all up just like a monster, a real real monster.

“I’m a bad girl,” Rose manages to squeeze out. “I’m really, really good at lies. And duplicating. And everything else that Cyanis said, because really she is a good girl.”

Really, the best punishment for Cyanis would be to make her come in here and look at the absolutely miserable expression on Rose’s face as she tries as hard as she can to internalize everything her friend said about her. Because she’s agreeable and helpful and trying her very best to distract the Countess with someone who much, much more needs punishment, right? Look at her, she’s obviously been plotting the downfall of the entire sky kingdom this entire time! And the only reason that it’s still up in the sky must be that she’s...

She’s bad at being a bad girl.

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

Would that Eve had been so cunning! Had she simply been armed with such a bullet, then perhaps all of her children would have been born in grace. The serpent would have slunk away in shame. Constance, however, rises up in a flickering fury. The candlelight doesn’t quite meet her face, but the offense is clear.

“Are you a child, Sir Coilleghille?” Her voice is something like the creaking of ice on the river, but the warmth of her humanity spreads through the cracks. It is difficult enough not to be angry at the sudden sting, the shock of unexpected coldness, when you are not brooding and anxious and miserable in the waiting all at once.

“Would you rather I left you to what’s coming, then? Do you think miracles grow on bushes ripe for the picking?” Snow trickles down her delicate dress, white lost in the dark, and she writhes like a snake to dislodge it. “You wilful creature!”