Tatterdemalion

Breathless Dead

Bella!

Skotia does not flirt with disaster by constructing further on your assertion. That’s the simplest sort of trap! The magic of the stranger unravels if you pin yourself down, if you let your shadow be limned and sewn up tight. That’s why he doesn’t agree with you, he doesn’t explain his presence here, he simply offers a nod and a bashful look at Nero’s Praetor.

“You noticed me?” he asks, and his smile is like the rosy fingers of dawn on a world that is not Tellus as it is, tantalizingly glimpsed through the golden thread of his mask. “I’m surprised. Not that I expect you not to notice people, but even me? Well. You’re careful and have a long memory, Bella.”

He inclines his head, neatly lowers himself with a footstep back, an attempt to mimic the submission of serpents. “Allow me to add to your welcome to the Endless Azure Skies, Praetor. I’m sure there is little enough I could add to your understanding of this place, these people, given how clever you are— but I know how to dance, and I have two feet to do it with. If you are in a generous mood.”

He straightens, tries to look nonchalantly away, glances back at you as if he’s worried you might have somehow vanished between heartbeats. His ears, too, are that gentle pink. He doesn’t know where it’s safe to look— at your face? Too impudent. At your body, draped in lace? Too licentious. At your feet? Too meek. He settles, eventually, on your hand, on the wine glass, for the most part.

The boy has it bad, and in a way that might even feel strangely familiar. He honestly doesn’t feel that he deserves to dance with you, but the desire to hold you and try to be a passable partner, to win just a smile from you, would cause his heart to carve a tunnel through his ribs if he didn’t say something. Which makes no sense, except that he still sees you as a Praetor, and presumably that takes precedence over the ears and tail, or—

Ah. He’s also into those. When he looks he doesn’t see a servant, he sees a great lady whose approval he craves. Maybe even a Mistress. If you whispered a command in his ear, who knows what he would do?

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Zhaojun!

No disguises. Not here. That was a mistake, and one that might be sending hot pink thrills up your spine, the giddy feeling of being in freefall and needing to twist so that you land on your feet.

The Green Sun is one of the most perilous princes of the Demon City to call upon, for his gravity is so great that it draws in those who call upon him, and how light your feet were in yielding, even with a wrapped-up witch in your arms.

The Green Sun is the heart of the Broken King, and in its heart is another heart, a palace of brass and glass and mirror-polished stone. And in the heart of this palace, this core with its crushing gravity from which no one may escape without his leave, is the workshop of the Green Sun. He is here. He has stepped away from his work in order to address you, by the laws that Heaven set in place over him and his kind.

His hair is the ruddy red of a copper bowl. His eyes are the flickering green of his light. He is wearing only an apron around his waist, and his shapely golden muscles gleam in the light of the forges. He could crack a mountain if he wanted to; he could weave spells about the two of you to doom you to bitter love forever and ever; he hates you and everything that you stand for. You are a brat, a child, papering your bedroom with posters of revolutionaries, while he continues to thanklessly embody true royalty.

And royalty never lashes out without provocation.

And the Green Sun is nothing if he is not the prince in exile.

And so you are safe and surrounded by terrible peril on all sides, Zhaojun.

”I do not have time to tell you what I know,” he breathes, and his breath is hotter than Scarlet’s fury. He stands in perfect poise, one hand holding his hammer behind his back, the perfect counterbalance. ”You do not have time to listen to what I know,” he continues, and the mockery is only implicit. ”You must learn to be more specific.”

“How may I blackmail Iupeter?” Peregrine blurts out, her eyes shining.

”If I knew, would I not already have done so?” His smile reveals nothing. He’s just trying to tilt you, Zhaojun. There’s no way he actually could have followed through on that implication. Right? ”Your efforts would be better suited to an exchange of favors. You deliver her an agent of one of her sisters, a secret for only the three of you to keep, and she gives you a secret— of equal worth, one supposes.”

Peregrine glances at you out of the corner of her eyes, and not subtly. The Green Sun patiently awaits your own question, Zhaojun. It would not do to keep him waiting.

***

Petony-phraya!

This is some real fertilizer, is what it is.

The kid was really getting at it! Diving in, knocking a highland bumpkin out of bounds (she definitely needs to be bigger in the version you’ll tell later, of course) and getting an entire town fired up to win those swords! And then one of those meddling witches comes in and says there’s fairies involved? What a load. Like you wouldn’t notice one of them meddling.

So here you are, the five of you, taking up a big table in the teahouse: you (with your retinue taking up positions at nearby tables), the kid (confused, and who can blame her), the bumpkin (who looks like she’s left her wits back home), the witch (definitely up to something), and the bumbling priestess trying to set up anti-fairy wards feverishly (somehow even cuter the more she fumbles the salt and squeaks, maybe you should make a move~).

“So do you mind explaining again, witch? I just want to make sure I understand what you’re going on about.” The more she talks, the more you’ll be able to see through her tricks. “While you’re at it: mountain girl, do you drink tea?” Sun only knows what sort of drinks mountain peasants turn to for comfort…

***

Piripiri!

This was a bad idea for the one simple reason that, as soon as Azazuka stepped to the restroom to make herself look presentable again, a knight and her entire retinue came crashing into the place, along with: a squire(?), the squire’s girlfriend(?), and the witch.

You’ve gone straight from being in the middle of something to being on the outskirts of something interesting and potentially valuable: how do you play this?

Breathless Dead

Bella!

The clocks chime: a conjunction of hours and moons, an auspicious moment. The music, for a moment, stills, and that is when he arrives, the Princess of some minor colonized power, slipping into the room with a casual nonchalance, a self-assurance that is not projected outward like a roar of defiance at the room but simply… inwards, echoing. Each step is both careless and precise as he makes his way down the stairs. He has left one button at his collar undone, and the skin underneath is a pale flash against his mop of ruddy curls, his velvet jacket, his golden hound-mask. A fringe of fine golden threads sways beneath the mask with each step, enough to catch a glimpse of a strong jaw, a soft mouth. A flower with fiery red petals pinned to his breast is a splash of ostentatious color against the muted swirls of the velvet.

He looks to you and for just a moment, his footstep falters. A hitch, hardly noticeable. But you notice. One look at you and his breath caught in his throat.

He slips to one side, greets several Azura with a courteous bow, shakes hands with the humility of a lesser serving at the behest of a greater, but the confidence of someone who does not have any reason to worry for the security of his station. But even then, his eyes flicker to you for a moment. They are mismatched, charmingly so, almost familiarly so, but his lashes are long and demure and his gaze is gentle. He lingers a moment too long, watching you; he covers his jolt back to the conversation smoothly, but you see that, too.

He is slight, but moves with the grace of a swordsman (and a dueling saber hangs from the sash at his belt). The serving-staff approach him with trays, glasses, and offers to be seated in a private booth; he declines them all, politely, and redirects them to other guests. No, he has to keep circling the ballroom, watching the dances, watching you, standing in the lee of conversations to avoid the embarrassment of being obvious.

When he tilts his head, for a moment you see his mouth open, his lips parted in admiration; when your eyes meet, he does not blush or look away, but looks at you as if hoping to impress the fleeting moment of connection in his memory— and then nods, and looks away, until such time as you bid him come closer.

Do you?

Sunshards

Chen!

Rose from the River turns dressing you into a dance. Step, step, turn; step, step, lean. Twirl, little princess; the moment you feel like you’re going to spin out of control, you find Rose from the River there to hold you fast, and silk worked up around your hips, pulled snug over your curves, draped heavily over your face. She locks bracelets around your wrists while you are breathless and being suspended by one hand in the small of your back, keeping you from tumbling to the ground; she pulls you in close and taps the earrings you didn’t even notice her slipping in. She is showing off, incorrigible, just for you. Just so you know how much control she has, how much she can do all for you.

She spins you round and round, and then slowly, her grip on your wrists keeping your hands above your head, slows you down, tugs you up onto tiptoe, makes you show off how much you can stretch. Her hair whispers at the sides of your stomach, teasing, as she tilts your chin up, makes your veil drape itself over your features.

“Good girl,” she breathes.

Then, still holding you in place, she sets the gem in your navel, a sparkling amethyst, and runs one finger over its swell. Her chuckle is deep and indulgent. And when she looks over you, the strain of your muscles, the grace with which you hold the position, it’s with a delighted hunger.

She does not insult you by giving you anything less than her best. The ropes are thorough, folded back on themselves for safety, swaddling your arms behind your back, pulling them in close, wrists resting on the swell of your rear. Your legs she secures ankle to thigh, forcing you to kneel, but with knees so easily spread. And she frames you in the rope, pulling it snug in a net around your body, pulling your top tight against your skin, dimpling your sides, wrapping you up like a present.

And then… well. “Good luck paying me back double,” she breathes in your ear, packing even more silk between your lips, and pressed so tight against you, you can feel her wicked, monster’s heart beating like a drum. How she jumps when you huff through your nose! How delirious her smile grows when she dangles more packing in front of your face and watches your eyes widen! How she shivers when she leans forward to secure the knots behind your head, burying your face in her softness, and then leans back to take up another scarf from the stack! How vulnerable she is, for all that! A single sad shake of your head or crinkle of your forehead would destroy her.

But you don’t, do you? Because you want to see Rose bloom all for you; because the sparkle in her eyes over being allowed to control the scene is giddy and joyful and hiding behind the pretense of doing this for the Countess as if it were a gauzy silk sash draped over her body; because when she is done, she reaches down and tweaks you through your top just to check her work, and her fingers are so, so clever.

When she picks you up and sets you down on the couch, she might as well have been picking up a stray pillow; she is mighty, mighty, the kind of monster that could arm-wrestle Jessic for fun. When she climbs onto the couch and growls, drinking in the sight of you underneath her, it echoes in the small chamber.

“Now,” she purrs, and her teeth are almost fangs, and her eyes are too visible in the low light, “what do I do with you now, you silly little slave-girl~?”

***

Yue!

Rose from the River gives you something that she has in abundance: she gives you her attention. She drinks it all in! The furrow of intense thought; the slow blossom of realization over your face like the sunrise; your judgment of being a city girl that you lay upon her with such solemnity!

And then she curtseys again, still smiling that too, too clever smile, the one that says she’s got her own opinion as hot as five-alarm curry just simmering away. “Very good, ma’am,” she says, all prim and proper and inviting you to join in on the joke.

Then she does it, so smooth that it might as well have been choreographed—

Sorry, that it might as well have been practiced. Hopefully that’s better, dear.

She stops with her hand on the doorknob and turns back for just a moment to deliver the piledriver right to the heart, as best as she can, unable to escape the urging of the Way forever: “If you’ll forgive me for saying so, I think that your sister would appreciate a visit, should you ever escape the mistress’s grasp. You’ve got quite a few stories to tell her now, and a girlfriend to introduce her to. If you were my younger sister, I would want to hear the whole thing from you, start to finish.”

And she’s gone! But hopefully her words, they linger.

***

Chen! Again!

Rose from the River has been more mutable, hasn’t she? Ever since she had to lock her spirit away, she’s had a little more flexibility; like a young green sapling in the springtime which bends when the wind blows from the north.

Her braids snatch the sword out of midair, and there is a dizzying flourish as she tosses it up, to the squealing delight of her companions, and spins it around, catches it, makes it hum fast like a saw, and— lets it fall into her outstretched hand?

Four arms, again: two tied tight behind her back, two slender and smooth and quick and ready to fight. She doesn’t bother to undo the rope harness, just cuts away the rope about her legs and stands with a theatrical stretch, a faint groan, and then bows to the guards.

Look, she seems to say, the treasure is here for the taking, secured and silenced and swaying! Reach out and try to grab hold of her harness, if you dare! Her eyes are lidded, but not with playful distress, and her moans are ironically sharp. She is amused, and intends to enjoy herself; to prove herself so capable, she can win a fight seemingly while flailing about and squirming uselessly against her bonds. That stance is the stance of a master, and she is ready to prove that she could win against a host with two hands quite literally tied behind her back.

Breathless Dead

Skotos is without words for a moment. It hurts, after all. To be given a quest, then to have it pulled out of her hands; make things right, but do so yourself. This is the spite of the queen of the gods, a refusal to return power to the powerless. But more than that, she is in the presence of Aphrodite.

She should not accept. Aphrodite is, in his own way, as dangerous as Poseidon; not for nothing is he Aphrodite Androphonos. Perhaps even moreso. Both are gods of vast expanses, with terror in their depths; both drown the unwary and bring ruin to the mighty and the powerful. But where Poseidon lures the foolish into his grasp with the treasures of the sea, not least of which are the strange and wonderful lands beyond them, Aphrodite offers a different boon.

Imagine being seen for who you are, Aphrodite’s song goes. Imagine being accepted anyway. Imagine someone choosing you, over and over again.

And even if she doesn’t have that sort of story with Bella, Hera is right. Of course she was. Bella deserves an apology for everything. For leaving her behind, time after time, for not seeing what was placed upon her shoulders, for not being Redana Claudius. And Skotos, then—

Perhaps she will become someone new. The gods are capable of strange metamorphosis. But surely she will no longer be a shadow? Surely. Surely if Bella forgives her. Her palms sweat; her heart throbs almost painfully in her chest. Bella, who holds the keys to Elysium and Tartarus in her hands. With a contemptuous glance, she could tear Skotos apart; with a quiet word, she could make Skotos whole.

See me, and do not look away. Touch me, and do not flinch. Hear me, and do not condemn. The siren song of Aphrodite is sweeter and headier than wine.

Skotos does not address him by either of his greatest titles, as Redana would: Ourania, the god of high and portentous romance, the god of love-as-swords, or Pandemos, the god of ordinary loves, the god of the pulp novel and the bedroom closet. She simply says: “Please. She has to know she was… that she was special. To Redana. And how, if things were different…”

Her voice trails off. She doesn’t deserve anything more. She doesn’t deserve anything at all. She needs to do this for Bella’s sake. But if things had been different, could they have been— not like that, but could they have been, could she have been happy? Could Redana have made her smile? Could she have understood that Redana wanted to give her an entire universe?

Skotos curtsies before Tymborychos, the digger of graves, in her shapeless yellow robe, and awaits his judgment.

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

Vesna “Vixillusion” Valentine
Proprietor of Gensoukyo Gaming And Cafe
Mythos Eurasia Grand Championships, First Place

Handle: 3V.
Alternatively: Threevee, 3vee, Vixillusion, VixSticks, Vixvanity.
Star Sign: Scorpio.
Pronouns: She/They.

Cool +3
Clever +1
Tough +0
Quick +2

Origin: Gamer.
Once per mission, Boost a Quick roll. (That is, add a d6.)

TRAITS
Hey, I Know You!
When meeting someone new, you can roll 1d6. On 5-6, they know you, and your next Social roll is Boosted. On a 1-2, they know you, and your next Social roll is treated as having taken Serious Harm (reputational).
Well Traveled
Roll with Advantage (3d6, highest 2) when relying on knowledge of the station’s layout. Roll with Advantage when losing unspent Cash at the end of a session.

TALENTS
Paid (Hands) [Generic]
No further Burden from the Augment.
Plausible Deniability [Fixer]
Advantage on covering up, lying about or concealing dubious or criminal activity, either your own or others’.

Action Specialties
+1 Charm
+1 Bullshit

Generic Specialities:
Esports +2
Games +1
Motorcycles +1
Online Communities +1
Social Media +1
Station Layout +1

Assets
Trendy Wardrobe
Small Local Business
3V3D Printer
Motorcycle

Augments
RayZyr Gamer Hands of Glory (Rad Mod, Esports +1)

Occupation: Fixer 1
Burden: 1
Cash: 0
Prep: 0
Harm

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Heavenly Cytherean Machi!

The witch studies you a moment too long, her close-cropped hair refusing to succumb entertainingly to gravity. “You’re complicated,” she says, more to herself than to you. “Like a city. Influx of different cultures, different motives. Cascading? Possible. Hard to tell from a look. You’re definitely from Her, but cut, adulterated.”

Her eyes glitter. Too keen. She’s dangerous, this witch. “You should have clarity. You want to know what I know because you don’t know. You need an anchor point. Something to pivot on. Torn away? Added to. Cecylene: at a guess. How better to derail?”

She comes to a conclusion, and smiles thinly. “You are a distraction,” she concludes. “You’ve been hijacked, and everything you do with that mask on is going to further the agenda of Hell. So take it off.”

She takes a breath, and then slams her will into the command: bereft of ritual, without signs and tools, barely enough to tilt you unless you were already teetering: “Now.”

Do you? Does her cold read of you (perhaps only partially correct, not that you can be sure) rattle you? Does it fracture you further, or make you cohere long enough to send her spinning?

Whatever your answer, keep your head up: there’s more trouble on the way. Tangled-up hearts, emerging from the trees.

***

Piripiri!

Azazuka barely gives any thought to the offer— or, rather, she skips straight to acceptance. She really should be more careful! What if you staged all this to get closer to her, and the warlock was in your employ? What if you were a con woman who got lucky and snuck her out using your ill-gained skills, and you intend to drain her purse dry?

Or, hypothetically speaking, what if you were a spy who would gain a view of the Flower Kingdoms’ political games from within by being close to her, and would be required to push her towards the Red Wolf?

…ah. The Red Wolf. There is a method by which you can send word to her, and quickly, by supernatural means, in case of emergency. What is it? And how will you guide Azazuka past what looks like a dragon of dust arising from the town in order to get her somewhere with tea and seats and the means to contact the Red Wolf?

***

Giriel!

The glamour draped over the town comes apart. Your keen eyes see gossamer-strings snapping and wildly lashing like ship’s ropes suddenly cut. You’ve stopped everyone here from being controlled by one of the rakshasa: one that is evidently powerful, has had time to lay a spell upon an entire town, or both.

The problem is that you stumbled into it and took it apart without even really thinking about it. Anyone here could be the rakshasa, and if you tried to seek them out by magical means, you’d end up with all sorts of false positives.

Like, for example, the two familiar girls in front of you. One’s a knight (how better to prey upon dreams of glory and adventure?) and the other is a burly highlander (perhaps a goblin-queen, hiding her uncouth nature and freakish strength in plain sight) — but either could be a disguise. From this point forward, anybody could be the magician that did this, even that priestess trying feebly to comfort those frightened by the sudden dust dragon, and whoever they are? They have your number, for sure.

But you’re the center of attention, and everyone’s stopped fighting and is looking to you, except for those two girls, who might have a more immediate or pressing challenge!

Sunshards

Chen!

You are unwrapped.

Rose from the River takes her time with her work, but only so that she can linger over the power in this moment. Do you feel it too, Chen? The electric moment when her fingers are hooked in your top and she’s tugged just enough to make you feel it, and in that moment you know that she could pull it off, she almost certainly is going to, but she hasn’t yet, so all you can do is squirm there in anticipation, and she looks up at you and you can see the thrill of that moment running through her, too, and that moment she stretches out for long enough for you to say no, if you were to be frightened of that moment, if you were to change your mind, if you were to find the power and thrill and helplessness of the moment too much or too fast or too anything— then you could. Even after you said yes.

Because Rose from the River wants you, Chen. Make no mistake, she is doing this because she wants to. Why else would she look at you like that with her golden eyes, two fingers on one hand fidgeting as she drags her gaze over your skin, the faint hairs on your arms, the curve of your neck meeting your shoulders, the place where your stomach meets your skirt— and there she teases her fingers along your belly, too, light and graceful.

She touches you as if you were the hilt of a sword and she had you mid-flourish, you lucky girl. And she looks at you like a woman no stranger to intense obsession. Even only half unwrapped, that gaze is intense, as if she is trying to memorize your particulars, the things that make you you. An uncharitable mind would call it a built-in reflex, a shapeshifter’s mania; a charitable one would note how much attention she is paying to you, how she is trying to see you, not just as a canvas for a makeover but as a new girlfriend, someone who wants her loyalty and attention and prowess, maybe even someone who will not see her as a weapon, just as Keron has refused to do.

And when you let her finish, should you choose at every step to allow her to do so— oh, how she will look at you then, all of you, standing you up and raising your hands to your head, palm cradling your jaw, foot pushing your heels apart, looking at you in a way that any princess would yearn to be looked at.

She is a very old thing, Chen of the Northern Wind, and at the same time she is a very new thing; she has deep wells of experience, and at the same time, yearns for experiences she has been denied. The fact that you allow her to play this game with you means the world to her— she is not just entertaining a princess she met on the road, not this time. She is leaving herself vulnerable to you and your judgment by inviting you to share this story with her so thoroughly, by looking at you with such intensity in her eyes, by stepping into the role of antagonist to princesses she finds so comfortable and safe.

And even now she takes the power in the scene and uses it to pamper you because she can reassure herself that her interest in this story isn’t some hardcoded weakness meant to lure her into a trap, and because it lets her feel useful and desired and unselfish all at once, and because she wants you to understand the feeling in her heart when she first saw herself at that dance so long ago— and all those things are true at once, Chen.

You are the true power in this story, bright princess. The more you validate her devotion, the happier she will be, and the more likely she will be to be gentle (or clinging); the more you threaten revenge (if you can get it out, if your mouth isn’t already useless before she gets there), the more likely you can make her fingers skip a beat, can send an envious and needy thrill through this amazon, and the more you will signal you don’t want her to pull any of her punches. So what will it be, Chen? Will you melt into being the adoring and adored girlfriend, or will you try to play the part of the captured and enchanted princess?

***

Yue!

“A change of clothes, you say?” Rose from the River smiles a little wolfishly herself. “Very well. I’ll see if we have anything suitable for your idiom, ma’am. Daisies and flannel, perhaps.” Be careful what you wish for, Sun Farmer! She might even find some boots to go along with it.

“Less kibble,” she adds, smoothly (worryingly, not no kibble), “Go board, pillows, honey. And a CD player. If it is in my power, Yue the Sun Farmer, you will have what you want.”

She sets down the tray, turns to leave— and then stops! Oh, that teasing maid! The Countess definitely has her hands full with that one (in more ways than one).

“I feel… pretty,” Rose from the River concedes. “I have been statuesque, alluring, handsome, magnificent, but this?” She does a little spin, skirt floofing out, Mary Janes click-a-clacking on the floor. “This is pretty. And I think I quite like it, even though
Beauty is fleeting, a petal falling to earth;
only a bite of the heavenly peach may restore it.
Better then is the virtuous heart,
gold which will not tarnish with age.
How fortunate, then, to have both!”

And from the look she gives Yue, she’s not boasting about herself. It’s both fond and impudent, self-aware enough to know Yue will be flustered, graceful enough to not imply anything too untoward.

***

Hyra!

Off on one side of the throne is a recessed alcove for the handmaidens. It’s full of soft lounging pillows and smoky-glazed lanterns, and packed to the gills with handmaids peeking out from behind the curtains. The sort of place where a decadent countess could lounge with a handful of handmaiden in either hand and watch a private show. (Not that Keron necessarily would, but the implication is important.)

In the middle of that alcove, Rose from the River sits, surrounded by her weaknesses: a skimpy outfit, shiny ropes, and girls. Her fingers flutter uselessly at her own shoulders as a multitude of hands play with her: rubbing her powerful thighs, her taut stomach, the cups of her lacy top, tilting her face up for veiled kisses, stroking the petals in her hair. Pink and white: Rose from the River’s own flowers are blossoming in the seasonal colors.

What a pretty shrine maiden she is today! How lovely she looks in lace, the cherry blossoms caught swirling on her chest, and how bright the rose-pink gold of her collar and bracers, her earrings and necklace! How demure her cherry-pink veil! And how the ropes hold her fast, framing her like a cherry-viewing lunchbox just waiting to be opened!

A handmaiden turns Rose’s face to look over at you; another leans in close to whisper in Rose’s ear. You don’t need to be close enough to hear Rose’s helpless, needy whimpers as she breathes through several thick layers of fragrant scarves; the glazed look in her eyes is enough to tell you that the Thorn Pilgrim has been effectively neutralized, and that’s before fingers start tugging on ropes and making her squirm and shuffle on her knees, trying to find some respite from the delightful torment.

And that’s before the handmaiden who whispered in her ear, making sure Chen’s glancing over, pulls Rose’s top up just long enough for both girlfriends to die blushing. Squirming from side to side like that over a simple wardrobe malfunction is a little theatrical, though, don’t you think?

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.