Tatterdemalion

Breathless Dead

Bells ring out on the Rûm. The wonderful watchtower there has a story all of its own; it was beloved of an Azura of such dazzling wit and playfulness that, to this day, his watchtower remains as he left it, the old systems refusing to grind down. Rods of glass bob up and down as shining platinum gears interlock. The bells ring out as they have at their own ineffable intervals, across centuries, the silver and the steel, their tongues unleashed. A flight of birds rises from the roof of the Old Symposium, scattering feathers as they go, and the wind bears those feathers aloft, higher, higher.

Skotos takes the wrists of her stepmother in her hands. Her face is in the shadow of the shelves: the dishes and the jars still their trembling. Rusty whines, hops from foot to foot. Birds wheel over the Rûm. She cannot breach the surface, but she comes as close as she can in this moment, fingers outstretched towards the sky.

"...she couldn't have survived," she finally says to herself, freed by the wild possibility that tears through her. "Even then, I knew-- we might not have made it back in time." It takes much neglect to kill someone. But every moment they had delayed on that bridge was another that might have made them too late; her heart had been gripped by the terror of seeing Bella's face already, bloodless and frozen over, as her body drifted lifeless between the stars, possessed of strength enough only to accuse her princess of not caring, of being a minute too late to thaw her safely.

When she lifts her head, her eyes are the color of chips of ice, and she can't blink back the tears. "Was it pirates?" Her voice cracks like the splintering of a floe. "Did she ride on Cetus's mane? Did it come crashing down on Ridenki and she dived into-- even knowing how much she hated the water? How? How?"

How did her Bella survive? How can she, Skotos, the shadow, hope to find Bella? How can she, Skotos, the shade, hope to be forgiven? How can she hope for anything beyond those claws, punishing her for what another her once did? How can she stand beneath that violent disdain until she has repaid in full?

Her fingers squeeze until they go white, and she only remains dry-cheeked because of how much she has cried already today. There is the shadow of a mania in her again, a reminder of why she must be Skotos. A raw-edged desperation, opener of doors, speeder of feet, the strength to stand beneath the lash. The bells of the watchtower crash one more time and let the ripples of sound spread and diffuse into nothing.

"Where is she, Hera?"

Breathless Dead

Once upon a time, there was a girl who lost her shadow— but this can’t be that story. Skotos couldn’t possibly cause that much trouble all on her own. Especially because, in that story, it’s a labyrinth all the way down, and Dionysus dancing through the city of shadows making them all wise fools, and delivering from Hades’ summer house a handsome prince who was never born and thus never died[1].

“I would run out of things to bake very quickly. I only know so many recipes,” Skotos says. She doesn’t look the goddess in the eye. She’s gotten good at not looking anyone in the eye. “…but that’s not what you mean, is it?”

Skotos doesn’t consider that this is a trap. Not a cruel one, but a trap nonetheless. Catch and release. Beneath the sight of Zeus, blinded by the light shining off Redana Claudius. Given the opportunity to find a story small enough for her, so long as she chooses to remain simply Skotos.

Perhaps a delivery girl. Backpack topped by a flag, going on epic quests across the city, bearing a feast worthy of a queen (or your money back!). Or perhaps she would take care of the forgotten shrines of the city, keep the candles lit, sweep their gutters clean. She always did want to see those little acknowledgments of the gods kept neat and tidy. Or maybe— no, why would they even, they definitely wouldn’t look at a nondescript little thing like Skotos if they were interested in humans at all, anyhow!

Flustered, Skotos turns her attention to offering up the fruit. If one were willing to be generous, and tilted their head while squinting, it might even strike them as being almost a peacock’s tail, there on the plate. And she offers a silence that longs to be filled: a sheep-art, a cook-art.

[Redana attempts to Speak Softly with Hera. Deliciously, it is a 6. So here are the questions (writing prompts), anyway: what should Skotos be wary of when dealing with Hera? What can she tell Skotos about being Redana? And what does Hera want, how may Skotos provide? The rules encourage you to give me an unhelpful answer and a false answer; I am open to your own interpretations of the 6.]

***

[1]: Redana had considered that for a long time: a prince with gentle hands and the frailty and grace of the underworld, in that black suit jacket and the white bow tie, pretty-lashed and troubled at his mother’s own strange circumstances. Surely he would need a lot of holding, wouldn’t he? To keep the wind from blowing him away. And maybe he’d even need a thumb under his lashes to brush a beautiful tear away.

Breathless Dead

The honey here is black. It fights her spoon; she stabs it in several places with the blunted end, and then leverages up a chunk that she wrestles into the bowl. It is pungent, with notes of a spice she does not know. With the edge of the spoon, she carves it, the ventricle of some strange hive’s heart, into pieces which slowly begin to thaw, to slough apart. The lid of the jar, when tapped, melts back into place; she could juggle with it and risk not so much as a drop[1].

The butter is orange, thick, and just as pungent in its own way. She takes a knife, carves off slabs, and flicks them into the bowl with two fingers. They scatter in the bowl, fallen pillars among the dark humped shapes of the honey[2].

Beat until blended. Harder to do here; Skotos sets to it with gusto and a strong elbow. In the other kitchen, the butter was daisy-yellow and the honey was golden, and they swirled together until it was all one sweet shining sea. The pestle comes back colored like a bruise, and if this is a sea, it is one at sunset, and a storm on its way.

Then the eggs, overlarge, speckled, cracked one by one and then beaten again. Then the sour yogurt and the almost-familiar vanilla, beaten again. She probably shouldn’t be setting the bowl down every time she needs a new ingredient, but she never used to need to. When she reached for something, it was right there to hand; the whisper of lace and the click-clack of heels and the creak of the cabinets[3].

Flour, powder, salt: whisk them round. Skotos hums a far-off song, meaningless without its context, most especially to her. There’s no reason to sing the verses, even if she could get at them; there’s no one here to sing the high notes, clear as crystal.

Mix all together, pour out into the greased molds, set into the oven.

And now she’s the one who has to prepare the fruit, too. The ones to hand are red as rubies and have a white, firm flesh within, but the rind is thick all around, dimpled like the surface of a moon. She is obliged to dig at the rind with her fingernails and peel it away by hand before she can cut the slices and arrange them on a platter. Dark, bittersweet berries roll into the hollows left between slices. Finally, a last step, she takes another chunk of the black honey and squeezes it in her fist.

It drips from her fingers like the blood of a king, drizzled onto the fruit. Her lashes are wet and her body is warm. She is, for a moment, alive. And this is what she chooses to do, simply because it’s what’s in front of her. Because how can she hurt someone with honey cakes and a platter of fresh fruit?

***

[1]: just like in the kitchen back home, for all that the design of the jar is unfamiliar, with the smooth curves of an organ rather than faceted sides, good beneath the fingers.

[2]: as above, so below. The ruins of what came before are inescapable even in the kitchen.

[3]: here there is only Rusty, getting underfoot, leaning heavily against her thighs, sparing glances up at the infinite distance between him and the strange glories of the countertop.

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

Constance ponders this question with perhaps more gravity than it requires- or perhaps not. The heart, after all, is the heaviest of burdens, and is her role not that of its caretaker? She has been long out of practice, her own so long chilled. What is the role of the priestess? To deal with that which cannot be seen except in its motion, and to speak to the decisions that cannot be made alone.

"The squire if you would stay and learn to love the land as much as you would learn to love him," Constance says, carefully, her gaze not entirely on Tristan. "The knight if you would see wonders that have not yet been seen in this land- but never a hearth of your own." Tristan, after all, is a lover, which is to say, he is someone whose heart's desire is to fulfill those of others. So it would be best for him to know what he is getting himself into; two different roads with two different destinations. But she cannot make that choice for him, just as she could not make Robena's choice for her.

When Robena returns, should Robena return, she will find Constance there waiting for her, with her hair knotted about a comb of polished bronze, with her feet bare upon the earth, with a belt of pearls and bronze links set about a dress as green as the grass that grows on the Berkshire Downs, and a careful hope in her smile.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Azazuka!

Rain trickles down your shoulder blades. It’s not a sensation that you’re used to. Or, rather, it’s still a sensation you take notice of, rather than being beneath your notice. You are a young woman of means; you have always had umbrellas to hand, or else people to carry them for you. That’s why the chill trickle running down the small of your back is something that keeps your attention, even as the Hymairean girl does her best with a sword rather than shears. Tangled knots fall to the wet, twig-strewn earth.

Why are you smiling? For the same reason that she smiled at you. Because you faced the odds and won. Down there in the dark, you were helpless, but that was just a shrinking of the metaphorical cage. Now you’re out here, in the mud and the rain, and for all that it’s exhausting, it’s thrilling, too?

…that being said, once you get back to civilization, you’re going to get an inn suite just for the two of you, and bundle up in a big wool blanket, and shiver the rain away. Over tea. Yes. Tea, shared with—

She is a friend, isn’t she? You’d like her to be. But that’s mixing business and pleasure. If you are indiscreet, you risk handing her leverage in business dealings.

Even so, when she sets down the improvised razor and brushes off the back of your neck, a thrill runs through you, and the temple mantras all slip out of your mind for a moment. You bite your tongue and stop yourself from asking her not to lift her fingers.

She asks you if it’s all right, and not trusting your voice entirely, you nod. You don’t actually know how it looks, but there are all sorts of ways to fix a bad haircut. Wigs, even. What’s important right now is not getting your hair caught on any more branches.

Then, in the sky above, for a moment, there is a flash of lightning that illuminates the sky, and for a moment you see a cloud-herding god stark against the clouds; and in the moment of silence between the bolt and the peal, you hear afar off a tumult.

You don’t have the experience to understand the ominous portent, or to navigate the last mile-and-change out of the jungle. You’ll have to trust in Piripiri for that. And you can do that as easy as breathing.

***

Whisper-of-Rushes!

A mortal invokes symbols and means them. She needs you, and no god can ever quite resist being needed. So you stalk away from the hubbub, the clash of spirits that weave between the mortals that pay you homage, still wearing your reed breastplate and carrying a six-tongued thong. You appear before her, manifest in your breath, feather-haired and rice-toothed, eager to be back in the fight but unable to resist the invocation.

However, there are two… complications. The first is that you aren’t the only one who’s broken away from the battle, an intense clash that would shock the mortals if they had eyes to see the upper airs: Puddlefiller is here too, the vapid cloudy ditz, and soot-scaled Breath-of-Dust. And as for the witch’s news, well—

“Meddler!” It comes out a croak, and you scratch at the dirt with your taloned feet, your spindly legs shaking. “Heaven never understands what it’s like down here! The stars don’t understand plant-roots, soil-tilling, filling stomachs!”

“Only the love in the bowl,” Puddlefiller sighs. Stupid girl! Why does she never push her hair out of her eyes? “I think she’s Blue, I think. Maybe Red. Or Green? Maybe she’s all of them, but Blue the most. She’s wanting ever so much.”

“That’s not how they work,” you snap back. Really, you’re not sure yourself, but you take your chances that Puddlefiller is talking nonsense again.

“What if they’re a sign,” Breath-of-Dust frets. “What if there’s going to be another war? Then the N’yari will come in, and their maids will whisk away my gifts as fast as I can give them! No, no, I put so much care into showing them all how all things change, how all possessions are fleeting…”

“She’s a very good cat,” Puddlefiller says, rolling over and letting her head dangle over the edge of her clouds. The hair still doesn’t fall out of her eyes. “I think that’s why. She’s wearing two cat masks, so that’s doubled. Or squared. Which one is more?”

“Only the strongest god can have a hope of protecting our town,” Breath-of-Dust hisses. “That must be why the priestess told us about the tourney! The court has been stagnant, and Sapphire Mother of Lotuses must have a strong bastion here!” She slithers on her stomach back to the fray, which is quickly becoming visible even among the mortals.

“I don’t think so,” Puddlefiller yawns. “This whole thing has been so odd. What if the cat doesn’t have anything to do with the challenge? Maybe she’s juffffrrfff—!!!”

Your thong curls around her and lashes her pale limbs tight together as you cram more cloud in her dumb mouth. The second complication, which has been building all this time, is that the energy of the tourney, that desperation, and of the summoning, that confused anger, is a heady brew, and you are drinking deep. You knot snakeskin tight at the back of her head and toss her, helplessly wiggling, over one shoulder.

“You want answers, witch? Help me win, and I’ll make every spirit from here to the other shore give you the answers you’re looking for.” Competition thrums through your breath, and it’s only the offer of alliance that stops you from knocking her down into the rushes and letting them cocoon her up. “I’ll throw in the meddler, too; we’ll convince her to leave it out of her report~” You don’t know how yet, but you’ll figure that blackmail out when you get to it.

***

Uusha!

You’re not a witch. You deal with spirits, you have accepted their gifts, you are closer to them than any other knight in the Kingdoms, but you’re not a witch. And the witch you need is making sharp, mortified yelps as she’s carried away by a thing in the shape of a N’yari. In moments like this, all you can do is follow your instincts. And your instincts tell you that something in the shape of a N’yari has the heart of one, as much as it might try to deny it.

So you throw your spear.

It arcs well over their heads, and keeps going, and going, testament to how much you put into the lunge, how it shivered when it left your fingertips. It buries its head, quivering, in the earth far past them.

And when this N’yari-thing glances back at you, you stretch, hands behind your head, muscles taut beneath your armor. Lazy, proud, and implicitly challenging. I’ll let you try to get a better position, it says, and I’m not going to chase after you like a kitten— but I am coming, and if you try to really run away, everyone will know you’re a weak little flower girl.

You didn’t used to sympathize with that viewpoint. Then you watched the kings and queens of the Flower Kingdoms for over a decade. Now you might just understand the N’yari better. Not that you want to see them in charge, however. No.

Your Lady would not stand for that.

You trudge back to where the second witch (the brave one, the one that… mmn) is parleying with fractious gods. And— you glance back over your shoulder. The gods are manifesting in the middle of some fool tourney. Order must be maintained.

“Go down there,” you say. “Make them stop fighting. Gods and flowers. That thief will try to exploit it, otherwise.”

And when you fight that thief again, very soon, you don’t mean to let her have a way out again.

***

Victorious Vixen of Violets!

Drinking emotion is a very intimate experience. You can’t skim mild feelings off the top and hope to have anything but watery, non-filling dregs. No, you need emotions to be throbbing, burning, intense— and then you need time enough to sink your fangs in and drain those delicious feelings dry until they’re pale and hollow and helpless.

But an entire town, all feeling lust at the same time? Fanned up into an inferno by careful use of bellows and enchantment? That’s enough to bask in and lazily chew, teeth needle-bright beneath your veil, squeezing out some of the power you expended to get here in the first place.

Here it is, the first step, the first part of the story: how Kalaya Na was so much a cut above the regular stupid peasant that an entire village fought to try to become one of three chosen companions. Business partners try to beat each other senseless, mothers fight their children, and all of them want little Kallie so bad it aches: her approval, her fame, her kisses. You reel in a porter’s hopes and dreams with a subtle flick of your fingers and rip a bite away before he stumbles back into the melee to lose.

How sweet.

Three swords, three companions. That was a good touch. It’ll help the story spread. And once she’s famous enough, once she’s spent enough time with you— then the crown, then the unification, then the queen, and then her heart.

You will rule the Flower Kingdoms; you’ll use your puppet queen to make a paradise here for you and your very extended family. And it all starts here, with dear, sweet Kalaya earning her retinue and breaking the hearts of everyone rejected, and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop you! Nothing at all!!

You let out a dainty giggle, hidden in your sleeve, and roll around finally, my broad shoulders will be useful for more than carrying baskets! in your mouth. It’s sweet. So, so sweet.

Sunshards

Cheeeeen!

The smile on Rose from the River’s face is practically crocodilian. Not because it has too many teeth, or because she’s literally a crocodile, but that’s the only comparison that quite fits the delighted, victorious curl of her lips, the thin veneer of wicked (almost foxlike) scheming over her shared delight, and the way it slowly spreads even as you do your best to melt right through the floor.

“Well, Princess Chen of the Northern Wind,” she breathes, almost buzzing. “I’m afraid you’re too late.” One hand strokes down a shirt collar, stops at a button. The fiddling with it is intentional, artful. Maddening. “I’m under the Countess’s spell. She made me look deeply into her eyes…” Two fingers tilt your hot face up to look into her golden eyes, the lazy blink, the black slits. “And now I must do her bidding.”

She presses the advantage. Her knees flank you, trap your legs fast between them, even as she half sits on your own knees, leans her weight against them. She cradles your burning cheeks in her palms, body close enough for you to hold if only your hands were free, close enough for you to rest your face in paradise if your face wasn’t in her hands. It is like being held loosely in the coils of a serpent, knowing that it could tighten its grasp at any moment.

“I must obey my mistress,” Rose from the River asserts, the rules of the game laid out. “Once you are under my spell, I am to prepare you for her. You must be stripped,” she purrs, and a second pair of hands runs teasingly down your front, tugging lightly on fabric, cupping your soft stomach. “You must be dressed as befits a slave-girl,” she continues, and slowly pushes your head down to make you take a long, panning look over her body, and also, incidentally, her clothes. And, if you just glance over to the side, the clothes prepared just for you.

“And then I must make you as helpless as I long to be,” Rose from the River continues, and she cannot hide that slight nervous fidget. This is where she risks her story being too flimsy, being laughable, coming apart. If she doesn’t do this just right, you will surely see right through all her showmanship, or else miss her attempt at vulnerability completely. “I will gag you until your pretty cheeks are packed and you can barely make a squeak. I will tie you fast until you can barely squirm, and even that will just make the ropes rub against you all the more. And then I will be allowed to do whatever I please with you until our mistress arrives to put me in my place.”

A deep, softly jangling breath. Then, sibilant, hopeful, intentionally seductive: “Are you under my spell now, Heiress? Or do you still have some daring escape up your sleeve?”

Because if she doesn’t give you the chance to say no, your yes won’t be meaningful. And how she hopes you’ll say yes, that you’ll play with her, that you validate her choice to play like this with you, choosing to try to be a girlfriend and not a monk, to hope that you will protect her from being just a weapon.

***

Yue!

Today, the seaweed-wrapped rice balls are brought in by someone familiar. She’s big again, but sleeker, and all dressed up in the sort of maid outfit that is definitely decorative, though it doesn’t exactly give a girl with a perfect girlfriend many places to safely look, what with that skirt and those stockings and all that frilly lace and both those heart-shaped cut-outs!

She sets the tray down, with the rice balls (each one with a fish surprise inside!) and the square salted crackers and the choco-cherry milkshake, and then she curtseys so low that really it’s a way of showing off how much control over her body she’s got.

“I hope your stay in the tower has been comfortable, Yue the Sun Farmer,” Rose from the River says, and it’s her again, so serious while pretending she’s not being a little sassy. When she looks up at you, there’s a twinkle in her snakey eyes. “It is the will of our lady, the Countess, that you be entirely comfortable while you train. If you have any complaints, please share them with me. After all, I did say I would look after you, didn’t I?”

***

A Photoshoot!

Here is another thing that happened that winter.

The Countess let slip that Rose from the River, now quickly becoming one of her best girls (if her sass was silenced before it could start), was a shapeshifter, with increasing control over her body, discovering new ways that she could be a girl. And there is only one thing that must be done when a mighty dragon princess discovers that she has a shapeshifter at her beck and call.

Cosplay!!!

Imagine it, the process by which Rose from the River experiments with herself, with finding the balance between changing herself for others and staying true to herself. The printed-out screenshots of Ydian she meditates over while Jessic excitedly shares her backstory, the way her hair brightens into white-gold and forms faux curls, her flowers doing their best to blend in; how her now-smooth skin turns from rich riverbank black to Martian garnet-red, complete with the intricate white MagiSeal between her shoulder blades; how she treats the costume with the reverence of the raiment of a holy order.

Pose after pose! Set after set! They can’t stay cooped up in the castle! They need to go to one of the compact shrines looking out over the kingdoms, lugging the camera the whole way, so that Jessic can get a shot of Ydian preparing to consult her grandmother’s ghost; they need space in the park for the shots of Ydian calling upon the Power of Mystic Mars, channeling it through her bow, declaring that this time, this time, Zeryn won’t get away…!

And, along the way, maybe some pictures of Ydian posing with a giddy princess and delighted children. Maybe a candid shot or two of Ydian smiling when she thinks nobody’s watching, reveling in the joy her performance is bringing to everyone else.

(Of course, then there are the pictures that Keron takes that evening, the ones she’s going to hold onto and make Jessic ask permission to see whenever she wants to look. The Fanservice ones: Ydian, topless, facing coyly away from the camera, one heel lifted; Ydian, captured by Zeryn along with this magical dragon girl OC she’s doing a crossover with, sharing a hopeless glance with the muzzled Jezzikyn; Ydian, offering the camera White Day chocolates in a dragon-shaped box with a coy blush. And those are special, too.)

Breathless Dead

The need of the hound is reflected into Skotos like a beam of light being shone into a house of mirrors. For the sake of Rusty, Skotos condenses. She is solid enough for gender, at least for a moment, and solid enough for regret— but not so much that she could pull her scarf out of Rusty’s mouth (her fingers would fall limply away, like smoke over water) or even enough to call back to Alexa (the words would turn to empty night in her throat).

“I’m not very good at solving things,” she attempts to warn the hound. “Really, anyone else would have been a better choice. Unless all you need are hands?” She considers this as the hound tugs her resolutely along. “Then I am a good choice,” she concludes. “I have hands. And everyone else has more important duties to carry out with theirs. So you should use mine.”

Satisfied that she is doing the right thing and being of service to everyone (for Alexa must fight, the philosopher must teach, and the students must learn, and she is stopping the hound from pulling any of them away), Skotos begins to look around her properly, self-aware of the hollow longing in her chest. Everything here is empty even as it is grand; there is no concentration of population, and so the drift outwards continues, just like Nero’s thesis states is the natural inclination of humanity. And yet here, there, still can be seen people devoted to some grand task of their own choosing.

Just like her, if you think about it. She devoted herself to a grand task, and all it cost her is—

She blinks. Her spirit exists solely in her face and her breastbone. Her feet are automatons marching stiffly onwards, lead on a leash; her hands are too limp to raise to her chest.

All it cost Redana Claudius was the life of her childhood companion, Bella. And Redana is strong enough to live with that; she is able to accept the sacrifices that must be made to pursue a high and noble vision, just like her mother before her. Skotos is not strong.

That is why, walking down the streets of a grand Salibean city, in the shadow of high spires, on the mosaic roads, to the tune of the musician who still lives at 1397 Excellence-of-Companions Tower whose composition floats out from their open balcony and continues for hours upon end as he reiterates and seeks some refinement of the piece both as a whole and as an interlinked piece with the rest of his body of work, under the gaze of a sentinel who has fought and refought a theoretical war in his own mind for centuries so that he may know every aspect of it from every angle and from his own self-exploration thus derive an entire science of battle, stepping over carefully-swept piles of broken glass that the hound swerves around, Skotos cries. Again. As she does whenever she is enough herself to express pain.

She cries for the wasted potential of who she could have been, who Redana Claudius will now become, who she was unworthy of being. (As if standing outside herself, she remembers wanting to kill the Toxicrine, the Privateer. Redana Claudius would not, could not have done so. Another failed exam in an unbroken string.) But more than that, she cries for Bella, alone, in the cold and thin dark, an abandoned toy that was left without reassurance of love— no, worse. Toys can’t feel pain or grief or loneliness. An abandoned girl, then.

Bella, who never got to see Salib.

Bella, who never got to see Redana come home like she’d promised.

Bella, who was punished for the follies of the only person who tried and innocently failed to love her.

A footnote in the story of Redana Claudius. An Act I tragedy to tug at the heartstrings. An asterisk in the grand story of Humanity’s Salvation. A thorn in Skotos’s heel. It hurts. It hurts and it has not stopped hurting. And that is why Redana must be Redana and Skotos must be Skotos.

By the time the hound stops, Skotos has become so raw that she has wrapped back around to being numb, the pain a humming static. She stops to rub the hound’s ears before opening herself back up to the world, to see where she has been taken, blind and deaf to the world for the pain.

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

There have been many surprising things that have happened at this castle since their arrival, but perhaps the most surprising of all is how, once they have left the presence of that ephemeral queen, Constance Nim turns to her companion and seizes him fast, pulls him close, and for that moment she is flesh and blood and shaking ever so slightly, so unlike a mountain.

“Thank you, Tristan.” The words are as raw as a rabbit pulling its foot free from a snare, but have just as much life to them. “I owe you and your jests… I owe you. If you would have any favor from me, name it and it will be yours, if I can provide.” The sort of offer that is only extended because the recipient is trusted. Even Constance does not know whether Tristan’s reply will be light-hearted in turn, or as serious as the tilling of the earth.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Heavenly Cytherean Machi!

You dance on the edge of disaster, and how beautiful the prance of your feet! Over one shoulder you have a very dangerous witch indeed; if she realizes your nature, she could punish you for it. After all, this is the girl who spoke with the Morningstar herself. So you leave her breathless, disoriented, jostled; you have done your best to remove her from play.

The Stag Knight vaults forward, her great bronze-ringed spear singing in her hands, and, ah, to fight her? That would be a battle. But you don’t have the requisite audience yet. You will need all eyes on you for that battle. Draw her out, lead her on, and let her give chase!

***

Giriel!

The way that Uusha moves is incredible. It’s not showy, not flashy, but it is intense. Her witch has just been stolen, and now she’s going to get Peregrine back. There’s no room for this fight to deescalate now; it’s on, and good luck trying to stop the Stag Knight when she’s on the move.

You may continue to chase at their heels, but Uusha dictates the tempo of this battle now, not you. Hike up your skirt and run after them, if you dare!

***

Kalaya!

The highlander is small (even compared to you), but practically radiates surliness. Whack, whack! She sends aspiring warriors tumbling to the ground with her great swings of her sword. (Some of them will definitely feel it later; even middle-aged shopkeepers and mothers with their skirts tied up around their ankles are involved in this fight, because this tourney’s feverish energy has infected everyone. Luckily, anyone who really shouldn’t be here should get disqualified early, thanks to your plan.)

She’s perfect.

What a perfect supporting character! (Is a terrible thought to have, but there it is.) Everybody would take you seriously if your second-in-command was a fire-breathing, butt-kicking highland scoundrel, with you around to keep her in line. All you need to do right now is show off just how worthy you are of having fans! To display your skill with a sword and awe this surly girl, who’s just looking for a knight worthy of her service!

***

Han!

Usually, these tourneys are just a bunch of, you know, young adults looking to blow off steam and earn the chance to travel the Flower Kingdoms. Traveling with a knight is a hell of a way to spend a few years, after all. You get to see the land, make new friends, have big useless battles that get the blood flowing, and party all night long afterwards. No wonder it’s a coveted gig. Too bad that you are here to tell everyone that they are dumb and useless, though that’s to be expected when—

Someone who could be part of your mom’s tea club brings her sword down towards your shoulder blades. You smack the sword out of her hands so hard that it flies into a pimply teen and knocks them sprawling into the wet earth. Why is everyone getting involved with this? Like people with grey in their beards would want to pick up stakes and go tramping around the Flower Kingdoms?

That’s when you see the knight approaching you, and she’s… well, what’s your impression of her? Not like you can tell right away that she’s a princess and a knight. She’s small, deceptively so, and you need her attention! You have to make her tell you where you can find a witch!!

***

Piripiri!

Stumbling upon the secret passage wasn’t as much a stroke of good fortune as you might think. Kingeater Castle actually has a lot of them, burrowing beneath the ground like an anthill— not that you would know that, of course. To you, it was just the breath of hot, sweet wind down there in the dark, and the rich smell of rain, and a tunnel sloping upwards.

When you make it out, the sky above is a dark bruise, and the rain is coming down like falling teeth— but you can’t afford to dally. The longer you stay here, the more you risk being hunted by the hounds of Hell. The jungle stretches out before you, thick and vine-choked and bursting with colors: purples and blues, reds and pinks, and most of all green on green on green, visible when lightning cracks across the sky.

Beside you, Azazuka squares herself up. Her hair’s loose, and risks being caught on vine and bramble; her shoes are gone, her dress is rumpled and moss-stained, and her cheeks still have indents from the straps; but she’s not panicking or whining or draping herself over you. When you glance at her, and she glances back at you, there’s a little bit of steel in her that wasn’t visible back home.

She needs your help, she needs your expertise, and she may even need an impromptu haircut before you make it out, but she doesn’t need strength. Azazuka of Golden Chrysanth will provide that herself, bereft of her wealth and her servants, allowed to use it for the first time in her life.

How does the journey go for the two of you, the spy and the heiress alone together?

Breathless Dead

Skotos is a prop.

They must be. If they had interiority, then they would be overwhelmed with the revelation that Alexa has lost the favor of Athena, whose face she wears. If they were a person, if they had a relationship with Alexa, it would force them to reevaluate a past that has been severed from them like a lizard’s tail. How long, they would ask themselves. Then: why would Athena turn her face away from her champion?

It would force them to admit that they are not Alexa’s friend. Come to think of it, they aren’t anyone’s friend. Skotos is unmoored from the web of interconnections that makes up the universe, the thrumming strings of Aphrodite’s lute. A shadow is nothing more than a lacunae that passes briefly over the world.

Redana Claudius does not have friends, for she is too important; she has advisors, trusted companions, or loyal followers. Skotos does not have friends, for they are too unimportant; a rounding error, a loose cable, a rusting panel in a flooded corridor. They have no right to offer Alexa advice, to seek the attention of the philosophers, to be involved in a daring battle, a handicapped hero against two rogues juggling a useless cultist. They sink into themselves with a convulsive shudder, resigned to their role. Even in this sort of story, Skotos deserves to be nothing more than a prop. So they shall be. Or would be, perhaps, if not for—

Who here recognizes Skotos as a shade, a formless echo bereft of its proper place in the universe? How do they see this?