Tatterdemalion

Breathless Dead

It was bad enough seeing it on the flickering screen. At least then there was some distance, some interference, and Bella to decisively end the threat of one— just one— of these monsters.

Grey and pink and grey and pink and white, bleach-white, white as sand. Grey the bark and pink the leaves, cherry-pink, pink like the soft places of the body, eaten away, long gone, blossoming out of eye sockets and between jaws and bursting through bullet holes in the backs of skulls. Grey the wood that wraps around grey skin and bones, white bones, slick with rain, grey the skin that peeks out from archaic coats and too-recent uniforms, and pink the flowers that tear through guts and ribs.

Death was a horror bad enough. Jas’o, lying in the mud. Hatchan, headless. But this? This is worse even than Hatchan’s guards. This is the worst thing she has ever seen in her life. It is wrong and even when she blinks, even when she crushes her lids shut to stop looking at them, her auspex, throbbing in her socket, the eye of a goddess, won’t stop telling her the exact numbers. Forty to one. Forty to one.

“Hold,” she groans. “Hold,” she screams. Her sword comes up, stiffly, so that she does not drop it. Her throat burns. “I’ve— I know how to kill them,” she says. Thank you, Bella. Thank you. “Destroy the head. That’s… it comes apart when you do that. Through the neck, or up through the jaw. Nothing else. Losing an arm, being torn open— nothing else works. For the head.”

Rain trickles down her back, and she shivers. This is all wrong. She could be a whirling dance of steel if she needed to, but Imperial duelists aren’t taught to go for the head. She’ll have to improvise, use strikes she’s never practiced. And if she gets it wrong, if her sword and its wicked edge still gets caught in fabric or wood, then…

”’You have to be lucky every time,’” Bella said in her spookiest voice, reading from the book open in her lap, as Dany pulled the covers up to her chin and stared out at the vast room all around, shadowed and haunting. “The wolf said, pressing itself against the window. ‘I only have to be lucky once…’”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Piripiri!

The priestess considers the trees on the riverbanks beyond, black shapes moving on a black sky, as if marching under the beating rain. An experience she’s had recently.

“I don’t think she understood— it’s different here,” she says. “You weren’t tied up or anything, right? That’s… it’s like you’re tied up in here.” She taps the side of her head. “But we can’t see that, so we, I mean, she’d just assume that you were angry about needing to give your blood. Because if you’re not tied up, you could just tell her no. Or slap her! It’s only when someone’s helpless that you need to take care of them and not threaten to cut their hands to steal their blood for demon worship!”

She shivers. Not unexpectedly; of course the daughter of a high-ranking goddess would be scared of demons. If she’d fallen into the General’s clutches, he would have condemned her to a terrible and prolonged fate imprisoned beneath the Wrack-waste.

“…I think even if she knew how you felt about it, everyone would have been in more trouble if she didn’t do that, right? Without you, her options were to lead us all deeper into that horrible city, or sit there and let us all get captured by that awful thing, or—“ She starts. A thought has suddenly struck her at high speed. “Or she could have just asked the dragon who was carrying me.” She buries her face in her hands for a moment and groans, then steadies herself.

“…but I really don’t think she understood just how bad that was. I mean, she probably thought it was bad, but because you’d think she was the kind of witch who makes people her puppets with their blood and sacrifices more than oxen to the gods, and much worse things. I hope she’s not. She didn’t seem like it, but you can’t tell, can you? Can you? I haven’t met very many witches at all, you see, and some of my tutors said they were just terrible, wicked people who’d do anything for power, but others said they were just trying to mimic what we could do all on our— that is, um—“

Her cheeks flush as she tries to find some way out of the conversational corner she’s backed herself into, and decides to dive out of the way by making a fool of herself. “But it’s all about the fact you weren’t tied up. Or chained up, I suppose, but I think the N’yari do it better with their ropes and their big thick cloths. Did you know that’s how we met? Not you and me, but me and Han. She saved me from a N’yari attack on our barge. Well, not our barge, just the one we were traveling on. They grabbed me and tied ropes all around me and stuffed my mouth full of, of—“ Her flush gets more prominent, until she can barely squeak out the word. But she does, and it’s pretty clear what she thought of the experience (and how much it thrilled her).

Which makes a lot of sense. It’s not hard to get a read on her. A sheltered scion, trapped in a gilded cage, who’s never had anyone dare to flirt with her, who craves submission and humiliation for how forbidden they are. If your orders weren’t to make sure she’s seen leaving, very publicly, you could take her by the wrist and offer to show her more, and she’d follow eagerly into the jaws of your trap, biting her lower lip and prancing after you.

“And then Han wrestled their leader,” she breathes, “and tossed her off the boat, and when they tossed me off the boat she dived in after me to save me. And then everyone was so beastly to her and she ran off and I had to go ask her if she’d take me to the Two Hundred Gates temple, and she said yes, and…!”

…and she’s head over heels for the highlander. If they somehow, impossibly, manage to have a future together, you’re fairly sure that it will involve the demigod bossing the flustered highlander around and telling her exactly how she wants to be kidnapped and safely, in private, embarrassed.

Consider also that she’d surrender immediately if you threatened the highlander.

***

Giriel!

“What a difficult position you put me in, you wicked little thing!” The Red Wolf reaches around, tugs, pinches. The chuckle in her throat is dizzying. “How am I supposed to punish you and thank you for your service? How could I possibly uphold my duty to the Immaculate Faith and treat you as you deserve?”

The leather is snug where she pulls it around your neck. You heard it coming from the jingle of bells. She must have planned this from the moment she entered. The click of a padlock behind your head, a key twisting in the lock. You can feel the blood rushing through your body, hot and fast.

“I will have mercy on you, Lady Giriel,” she purrs. “I sentence you to the service of the Dominion until I judge you penitent, enlightened of your error and cognizant of your place in the world.” One finger taps a bell, sets it to chiming. “My service.”

“Now,” she continues, fingers digging, probing, her hair spilling over your front as she leans in and lets her hot breath wash over your neck, your collarbone, the breath of a dragon who has added a queenly prize to her hoard, “for the matter of your reward. You know, I’d meant to have an attendant here for us. Someone for us to share. But then you had to go and cut her hand open. And now she’s busy. So who ever will be able to thank you for your service? Name her, and she’s yours.”

There’s an obvious answer. An answer that makes a mess of who is owned and who serves. Maybe that’s part of the fun. But is it too obvious? Would she discipline you for being impudent? Is she trying to trap you in her games, just like she’s trapped you in her service? Is her weight on you, pushing you down towards your thighs, leaving your rear defenseless, all part of her teasing? Or is she craving to show you the chivalry of the Dominion, a lordly knight stooping to hold vigil between your thighs, her breath so hot, feigning innocence as she makes your collar sing?

You had best make your choice, even if you can barely think through it, o lowly slave-girl.

***

The Baths!

“That does sound nice, though,” Emli sighs blissfully. And she actually means it. Her eyes are, for the first time tonight, shy. “Imagine not having to think at all. That’s one of the best things about the drills, you know. There’s a place you can slip into where there’s no you doing any thinking at all, just the motions you’ve memorized. And you don’t have to do that with just plates and forks, either.” She turns her eyes up back to Han, and they smoulder.

“There’s other ways I’ve been taught to find that place,” she adds, with a sly boldness, her hands drifting down to Han’s side. “Very fun ones.”

“But it doesn’t last,” she adds, and she pouts, breaking the spell of that moment. “I guess it’s because I’m not meant to be a scribe. I’d love it to, though. I could spend all day and all night in that place. No thoughts, just obedience. Everything is right or wrong, and doing what you’re told is right.” Her hand drifts back up to her elegant collar, which she touches with surprising reverence. “Thank you for the rebuke, honored one.”

***

Kalaya!

The Red Wolf sighs so sadly and shakes her head. “I am trying, your highness,” she says, and if she’s mocking you, she’s hiding it well. “But it’s quite possible I’ll just have to keep you here until such time as we’re able to confirm that the fairy has been completely defeated. Operational security demands that any threat to my men be kept under lock and key, be kept from concealing contraband, so on, so forth. And I have to follow the rules, just like you do. Unless you can give me something I can depend on, some plan, some oath, some way to ensure that you won’t accidentally undermine the security not just of my household but the entire Flower Kingdoms, I’ll have to send you back to wait out the exorcists. And that might be some time.”

There it is, laid out simply: convince the Red Wolf you can be a good girl, or return to your cell. Submit, show you want to help, and get Dominion clothing, a cabin, bodyguards; be stubborn, and get a cramped cell in the brig, waiting naked in the dark. And if you get locked up again, well. It might take the Red Wolf a very long time to find the fairy.

What if she goes to ground? Hides and bides her time? What if you remain A Danger to the Dominion’s Operations for the rest of your life? The last Dominion representative used to threaten to send prisoners to Lamentation— what if the Red Wolf does that to you? Her reputation suggests she wouldn’t, but the threat of it is beneath the surface of your thoughts like a sandbar, ready to tear hulls open.

“Anything coming to mind, your highness?”

Sunshards

Distract them.

What that is supposed to mean is Rose from the River using her peerless swordplay, her power and prowess as a paragon of the Burrows and their craftsmanship, to hold an army at bay. But what it could also mean, now, is Rosepetal dancing, drawing all eyes to her, unapproachable but desired, barely out of reach, leading an entire army away with a shimmy and a prance. And what it means right here, right now, for the battle of Chen and Hyra…

Rosepetal kneels on the earth, knees carefully apart, skirt hiking up to a scandalous degree, and then pats her knees. Yes, see? She’s getting your attention, Katherine Isabella Fluffybiscuits, champion of Hyra the Wolf Princess, devourer of whatever you like, a foe who cannot— who cannot— be defeated by force of arms. That’s right, Katherine. Not even Rose from the River in her prime could do that. There is no way to defeat you with the art of the sword.

But look! Rosepetal reaches up and begins stroking her hair. Such soft, gentle, languorous strokes! Imagine how that would look, Katherine, or better yet, imagine how that would feel, those fingers running up your back to the base of your floofy tail! How those clever fingers could wub you just right behind your perky triangles! See, in the twist of her wrist, the promise of floofing your fluff, of digging her fingers in and really fluffing your floof all over! How she flutters her lashes and conveys, through little more than a soulful look, how empty her lap is without a brave, courageous, and renowned vixen there to spoil! That’s right, Katherine, she doesn’t just want you, she needs you.

And so slowly, so slowly, you advance, tail wagging, hiding behind little clumps of leafs and then scampering close, wiggling and bouncing, only to poumce! Leap, little vixen, and be swept up into her arms! She presents her face and allows you to lick, her fingers rubbing up and down your sides as her mistress goes to face your mistress’s mistress (which, we can all agree, is quite a lot of mistresses). Don’t worry, little fox, dearest Katherine, you don’t have to worry about that fight! Chen of the Northern Wind has sacrificed her most beloved of girlfriends just to keep you— yes, you— at bay long enough for her to duel without you tangling her shoelaces and tugging at her skirt. After all, how could she be expected to fight Hyra and keep from stepping on your luxuriously soft tail, o most talented of narrators? And if she did that, then she would lose the duel by default, and never get the chance to show Hyra what her swordplay looks like when her heart is free and her maid outfit is so cute and she has a girlfriend to watch and cheer for her with adoring glances and eager nods and muffled squeaks! She would have to toss down her sword and surrender to Hyra for cutie crimes, or else face the wrath of Yue the Sun Farmer, and that’s even worse, oh yes it is, oh yes it is! So knead away, lick and drool, that’s what the apron is for! Scrabble your precious little pawsies against her buttons as you streeeeetch up to her face, and wrap your tail around her wrists, and—

“…mmmmff???”

Wait, little— dear little Katherine, there must have been some misunderstanding! You’re a silly pet, not— and her elbows, too? Katherine, please, how is she supposed to indulge you with her arms stuck like this, without anyone to pull them apart for her, and— and, oh, you’re slithering out of her lap? You’re headbutting her thigh and trying to get her to put her legs together? Oh! Oh! Yue!! What did you teach this wily little vixen?! Has she been this cunning the whole time? Don’t just giggle and play innocent! That exaggerated show of innocence fools no one, and— and— eeeep!

Down Rosepetal tumbles onto the soft grass, and up Katherine Isabella Fluffybiscuits hops onto her, radiating smugness as she flops down on Rosepetal, using her chest as a pillow, and begins kneading her apron with the indolent pride of a silly pet who has bested an even sillier pet! Rose reaches up as best she can to keep giving victorious Katherine awkward scritchies, and the delighted, smug purr radiates through both of them as Rosepetal, blissfully happy in her continued and yearned-for and completely safe humiliation, turns her head on the grass to watch Hyra and her wonderful, sweet-hearted Chen from an awkward angle indeed.

[Rosepetal really should have known better than to roll a 5 on such an important Entice if she didn’t want to end up all tied up and helpless again~]

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Vault of Rushing Fountains!

It is very difficult to have a bathhouse on board of a barge, no matter how luxurious. It is thus all the more incredible that the Dominion has managed it. It’s simple, true: one small, if not particularly shallow, tub, which requires slaves to fill it up with buckets of heated water. And, yes, it means that there’s not particularly such a thing as personal space. But the water is warm, the scented candles are strong, the attendants are here to scrub and lather and rinse, and it’s difficult not to feel stress melting away.

This, then, is the other side of the coin to the prisoners’ first arrival; this is how the Dominion treats honored guests.

“Honored scribe,” Emli says, some bashful color in her cheeks— not just from being in this cozy stone tub along with Azazuka, Han, Jali, and Fengye, but from her admission of inadequacy. “I’m sure that you could explain to our guests what was the matter back there better than I could. I’m still learning my catechisms, you see, and… and you’re smart, you know these things!”

She cuddles closer to Han, skin on skin, still blushing, and stares at Fengye with big, earnest eyes. The water ripples and steams; bells chime gently, though the barge is so steady that it must be some shift in the air, rather than the river below.

***

Piripiri, with Lotus!

“You’re hurt?” That’s what the little demigod says, brown eyes blinking in concern. “I didn’t even— here, please, let me help.”

She lays her hands on your glove, looking at you not with pity but with an earnest desire to help. She doesn’t care that anyone might turn the corner and see you; all of her questions about what just happened to the witch are, for a moment, forgotten.

Do you allow her to do so?

***

Kalaya!

“I have very little interest in giving the fairy the opportunity to weave her net of lies tighter around you,” Agata says brightly, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I want the opposite, truly, I do! It is absolutely unbecoming for a knight like you to be made a fairy pawn. No, striking at the cats works for everyone: I can show my commitment to working with the Flower Kingdoms, you have the opportunity to display some knightly heroics, and perhaps even win some trophies of your own.“

She lowers the compress, which has left her face wet, and gives you a maiden-killing smile, all smoulder and wry amusement at her own self. “Come on, princess,” she says. “Give me an excuse to set you free. Help me set aside the Principles of Domain Management for the benefit of a pretty girl, and let’s make the future brighter for both of us.”

Right here, right now, it’s not hard to tell how she’s become the heartbreaker of half of the Flower Kingdoms. What ever would Ven say if she saw this?

***

Giriel!

The waiting was the hard part. Kneeling on the floor, knees on a rush mat, legionnaires standing on either side, alone. The small gods of this place are still, or indolent, or suspicious of you, and so you sat, bound, silenced and blind to the world, awaiting the pleasure of Cathak Agata for what seems like hours. Long enough that you might begin to doubt.

Then a door, opened; the presences beside you withdrawing; a door, shut, locked. Boots, slipped out of; feet padding almost silently across a floor. A coat crumpling to the ground. Liquid, being poured from bottle to cup, with casual lack of perfection: the glop and splash of liquid that a patient and well-trained girl would never allow.

Then the Red Wolf drapes herself over you.

“Someone’s been a naughty girl, hasn’t she?” She sounds… amused. Perhaps slightly tipsy already, or just in a whimsical mood. She cups your chin and lifts it as she… from the sound of it, sits on top of a low table, the kind you ate at during dinner. Just enough height that she’s making you blindly look up at her.

“You’re going to have to be punished, you know. I’ll have to make a show of it, at least for those of us on board. Nip any rumors of excessive leniency in the bud.” Her giggle suggests a mischievous smile. Her thumb traces the lower edge of the scarf, then trails down to your jaw.

Then she tugs down the scarf, firmly, and works the sodden cloth out of your mouth— only to tuck it down the front of your fine black top, making sure it’s well and truly secured in place, wedged firm. Only then does she raise the wine to your lips and tip it just so, wetting your dry mouth. You stop when she decides you stop, lowering the cup once more.

“Do you have anything to say in your defense, my Lady Giriel? Is there anything the court should be made aware of before I pass sentence on you? Extenuating circumstances? Service already performed for the Dominion? Groveling, pathetic apologies?”

One finger hooks in the collar of your top once more, and tugs, teasingly, insistently, downwards. “Would you even commit the folly of attempting to bribe one of the Daughters of Victoria~?”

Her voice is a purr that would put a N’yari to shame.

Breathless Dead

War begins in the heart and emanates outwards by degrees. First master your heart; then master your thought; then master your sinew. This triumvirate, united, overcomes all. The challenge of war, then, is of inducing disunity.

And what of the great weapons, you may ask— what of the fire that descends, what of the titan who stalks the battlefield, what of the gods themselves? Simplicity: standing before them is a fault in one member of the triumvirate. Where the world comes unwoven, stand not there.[1]

The hilt of the sword in Redana’s hand is the most real thing in the universe.

Her long gloves fit neatly against it, their material conforming to her need: to not have the hilt slip, to hold it firm, to use it as the fulcrum point of the world. The sword itself was a close-quarters cutlass when it found its way into her hands. It was easy enough to remake it, to make the metal fit another mold: long, double-edged, wickedly sharp. It might as well be the sister of the dueling swords she learned to fight with back at home, down to the elaborate, rose-patterned guard at the hilt. The body remembers this kind of sword. She could fight with it if she were walking through a dream; she could move through a battalion of Kaeri like a gale whipping through willows, disarming, undoing, disarming, never killing, always removing from play.

Match point goes to the Princess. Reset; take your positions.

The thunder rolls. She adjusts the scarf again, burrows her face deeper into it. Roses, pink as roses, light and shimmering, yet opaque and clinging. It felt better than wearing a full-face mask. Leaves her full field of vision open, too. That’s important. It’s a flimsy way to hide her identity, but it makes her happy in a way she would struggle to articulate out loud. In some ways, Redana is simple: it makes her happy, so she doesn’t question it. She simply indulges without asking herself further questions.

After all, the aesthetic is the principal consideration in choosing armor, for Redana Claudius is human. Humans do not wear armor because they are afraid of death; humans wear armor because Athena wears armor. Would armor have saved Jas’o? Not so. Would armor stop the Master of Assassins from stopping Redana’s heart? Not so. Do the Kaeri have any hope of killing Redana, a genetic juggernaut, by force of arms? Not so.

The breastplate is cherry-pink, inlaid with silver, a cuirass hung with tassels and Athenian talismans and bells, silver bells, small and sweet. The half-cloak falls to the small of her back. The skirt sighs as she moves, many-segmented, studded down the length of each strip. The greaves and vambraces gleam over her long gloves, her long stockings. Beneath them all, the black bodysuit holds her tight, a second skin from throat to ankles, patterned in subtle arabesque, as if her very skin is mailed.

Her hair, too, is pink: vivid at the roots, fading to pale tips at the end of her ponytail. Aesthetic is everything. Commit in total, and feel your heart swell to meet the challenge. Instead of a ribbon, however, or a simple tie, her hair is bound by an Alcedi charm: bright-feathered, golden, a promise of victory.

It is not much of a disguise, but it is an assertion nonetheless. Who could this figure be, among the kingfishers, who fights like an Imperial duelist? Who could she be, this human, small and compact and dangerous? There is no disguise that could stop her from being recognized by her enemies, but she is not disguised as this mysterious heroine for their sake. Rather, so that Alexa can say: everyone knows Redana Claudius is blonde, that she wears black and sometimes gold, that she patterns her clothing after that of sailors. Clearly, then, I cannot tell you who she is, this mysterious heroine.

Thunder rolls, closer now. Redana’s fingers tighten about the hilt. About her, Lacedo sees to her honor guard, hand-picked for the duty of keeping pace. Redana will cut through the enemy like the slug of a Hermetic railgun to get to their champions and undo them, and she needs fleet-footed companions on either side.

She isn’t ready. If all was fair and kind in the world, she’d have had more time to rest. More time to let her body mend from what she did to it on Salib. Determination will have to serve for all, then. Because she’s not going to let anything stand between her and this second chance to prove to herself, most of all, that the Nemean was wrong. That she can be there for her Bella. This time. This time. It will all be fixed this time. And nothing will stop her.

Not even that hulking brute in garishly ugly armor standing at the side of the Master of Assassins. She’ll carve through them. Her palm is sweaty, but her grip doesn’t slip even a hair’s breath. Even that monster, dredged up from some Assassin-temple. It will fall.

Any other thought would lead her back to that black despair on the bridge of the Plousios. Therefore, she has no other thought. Just the grip on her white sword, the crunch of sand beneath her boot as she adjusts her stance, and the sensations of her body as the sinew remembers how she has used it so often before.

***

[1]: The Tactics of the Parynesshian, Vol. 1.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Chamber of Harmonious Arrangements!

The erhu player chokes and lets the strings run silent. Emli breaks off mid-simpering, suddenly serious, watching the Red Wolf like a mouse like watch, well, a wolf. Legionnaires stand looming with more intentionality.

She holds out one hand. Piripiri’s eyes dart around the room for a moment before she removes her glove, peeling it from her skin, and places her hand in her mistress’s waiting palm for inspection.

Dead silence. Agata is unreadable as her eyes drink in that cut, so slow to heal. She looks up, considers Piripiri for a while, then back down at the cut. She’s barely breathing.

“Sacrilege indeed,” she says. “To give the blood of the ancient guardians to the enemy they kept at bay. Even I know how serious that is.”

Piripiri’s hand is released, and the Red Wolf turns her attention to Giriel, at her side, so close, so favored.

“My hands are tied,” she says, quietly. Angrily? Passionately. “Lady Giriel, I find you in violation of the Sanguine Edict of the Mother of the Host.”

Two legionnaires step forward at a flick of Agata’s hand. Giriel is pulled to her feet; a glove is crushed over her lips as her hands are wrenched behind her. And Agata rises and suddenly is on her, their faces close, speaking in a whisper…

***

Giriel!

“I have to keep up appearances,” she breathes, the promising fire licking at your cheek. “Trust me.”

Do you? Or do you lash out, betrayed?

There’s a shiny XP if you let yourself fall into the clutches of the pretty girl, incidentally. And trouble, too. Plenty of it.

***

Fengye!

Nice job. You’re out of the frying pan— but are you out of the fire? You are beneath suspicion, but Agata does not seem particularly happy that you forced her into making a decisive move. She might very well spin around and make an example of you next. She very definitely doesn’t believe that you did that or that the demon maid is them, but that makes you vulnerable, particularly after dinner, when she can isolate and deal with her guests again.

Here’s a lifeline, though: despite Maid Confined being under the control of the Hymairean dragon-blooded, she’s still connected to you mystically after a wonder-working like that. If you can get your fingers on the metaphorical strings, you can give her a (literal) nudge. And she’s got a vessel full of wine.

***

Han!

Emli’s got her hand on you, trying to soothe, to comfort, but fuck that, right? Right?

Except. Uh. Okay. See. You did just see that wound on the other dragon-blooded’s hand. And it did look nasty. And, well, Giriel is a witch. Sub in the Red Wolf for a brave knight, and you’ve got the end of a bunch of lowlander stories.

And sure, you might be a highlander, more accepting of witches, but witches are still outside the community, and your own palm prickles in sympathy.

But on the other hand, this is Giriel we’re talking about. You know her. There’s got to be a reason why she did that, and you should definitely speak up.

(On the third hand, the injured dragon-blood is standing right next to a frightened-looking Lotus, who’s sitting like a deer frozen in the middle of the road, across the room, in harm’s way.)

***

Piripiri!

So here’s the thing. Agata is obviously into this witch. She’ll be like this for a while. At least a week. And she’ll pull her punches as much as she can.

But she’s also devious. There is a very high chance that she’s angling to make the witch one of her slaves, atoning for her crime through loyal service. And she’ll say it’s only for show, until it turns out that it isn’t, but by then it will be too late for the poor, foolish witch.

And then you’ll be stuck with her as a colleague, or as a servant, or as sulky entertainment. Not the first of Agata’s flings to end like that, either.

Does the thought cheer you up, or make you tense up?

***

Kalaya!

Cathak Agata is descended from the last great dragon in the world, and that fact is searing. She is a dragon in her heart: confident in her power, rapacious in her greed, and careless with the things she considers lesser. What is the Flower Kingdoms to someone like the Red Wolf? A stage. A toybox. It’s full of pretty girls and pretty flowers and a chance to play the hero. She means to make it a jewel in her hoard; to take what she likes from it and add it to the glory of the Dominion. She is hungry, Kalaya. And the Flower Kingdoms are so delicious.

As for getting her to leave the kingdoms alone— you are aware she’s here under orders, right? You would need to put her in such fear for her life that she would run back to Lamentation with her tail (metaphorical) between her legs, or else present a unified front with no weak points for her to exploit, the kingdoms yielding under one crown. And out of everyone you know, there’s only one person who’s got a real chance of doing either of those things.

She just beat you senseless, and the last you saw of her was getting shot in the side.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” she says, eyes still covered. “I can hear the pout. All you have to do is work with me. Wear our colors, work alongside some of our hard-working girls from the Legion, and prove decisively that you are not some destined champion against the Dominion. We can even pick out a target that works for both of us. How about those catgirls? They’ve been a problem for a long time, haven’t they? Well, I think that we could definitely teach them a lesson.”

(Sending the Legions against the N’yari would horrify them. It would be an act of Mars, bloody and domineering. They would withdraw, suddenly and in grief, and then either seal the doors of Mount Fang shut…

Or they would retaliate in fury, and then it would not just be simple raiding. The Flower Kingdoms would burn. Bullying, teasing N’yari would die. So would innocents who, normally, would just be in for some kidnapping and theft.)

[Kalaya, please answer: How could the Red Wolf get you to serve her?]

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

Aevum!

3V takes it. It’s non-alcoholic, of course. Just the sort of thing you drink because everybody drinks it, and it’s not cloyingly sweet (like half the liquids 3V puts into her body on an average day). Sips it and watches Yellow, watches the city, drinks it in. This. This is what she was missing on the Park.

A car roars by, heading for Zeus. 3V’s heart doesn’t skip a beat. In a moment like this, how could it? The cars are just another part of the great roaring engine all around them. More lights, more signals, more little fragments of meaning. The sort of meaning that only November’s got a hope of interpreting, out of anyone.

“Ownership. Whole messy thing started when somebody looked at a tree and said: stop, this is my tree.” She doesn’t even remember where she picked this up, or who said it. “You can’t have the apples. And, sure, some trees need specialized care, and sure, you don’t want people to gorge themselves on apples so everyone else goes hungry, but… but now other people gorge themselves on owning the trees.”

She smiles ruefully. “Then again, ownership is what allows me to tell people, no, you can’t use my likeness to market spam products. Actually happened this past week, there was this shovelware crowdfund that used old pictures of me to imply that it was Pro Gamer Content. I sent them this really… you know. I’m asking you nicely not to do that, and if I have to ask again it won’t be nice. Do I still count as one of the tree owners if I’m the tree?”

***

The Park!

“Shoo, shoo, go get dressed,” 3V says with a wave of her hands. “I’ll keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn’t get mobbed by cats.” (She lives on Aevum; cats are the first thing she thinks of when she thinks of “feral animals that run in packs.”)

The offer of a one-shot veers over her head because she wasn’t specifically invited. Not that she’s not interested, but she’s not the sort to butt into a home game. (Now, games at Gensoukyo, that’s something different entirely. That’s Her House.)

“Here, lemme help with breakfast— do you prefer Dr. Rolfe or Gavin? I’m fine with either.” And a parry: I’m cool with the dude, and not sure why you’re needling him. Like, if he was a Creep, the vibes you’re giving off would be way different, this is more like you’re worried he’s going to let something slip you haven’t told me?

Sunshards

The sudden change in power does, yes, leave poor Rosepetal somewhat stunned. Here she was, being so elegant and careful, artful and teasing and, beneath it all, sincere, doing her best to convey her meaning without breaking character or implying she was in a position of power, and now here she is, mouth stuffed, ordered to shut up, and incredibly self-conscious over how hot she finds it. She’s not a silly ditz; she’s just so preoccupied, overthinking, and not paying attention to where she’s walking. The poor dear needs her Chen to guide her by the wrist, leading her stumbling and blushing to the shop. Her eyes are darting, her fingers are clenched against Chen’s hand, and she’s trying to cover all of herself with one hand. (And it’s pretty obvious that she only got bashful right after she was silenced. She’s walking on the edge of a precipice, heart pounding, each step so careful, too afraid to glance down.)

Then Chen whips out the scarf, and pulls it so deliciously firm over her cheeks, over her pouting lips, cinching it behind her head, and that’s what shoves her over the precipice with a helpful pat and a command. Now this isn’t just an embarrassing punishment that’s got her flustered and self-conscious and squirming: now it’s something that her Princess gave her. She half-closes her eyes. No, that’s not the right way to say it: a filmy snake eyelid snaps down for a moment, and her brilliant golden eyes are hidden as if behind a gauzy veil.

She reaches up and rubs her fingers over that scarf, staring at her Chen, and even when the eyelid rolls back up, her eyes, usually so keen, are unfocused and relaxed. Then she makes a noise through the handkerchief and the scarf.

It is toe-curling.

It is also deliriously happy, the sound of bashfulness and excess thoughts melting away into that long, deep, delighted moan.

When Rosepetal stands back up, it’s with a sudden elegance, the elegance of Rose of the Sky Castle, a body that knows what it’s meant to do without that pesky brain getting in the way of things. When she sashays into the racks, swaying like a snake-charmer’s pet, she’s already up on the balls of her feet. If you whispered words of command into a willow-tree and had your true love step out, eager to make your every wish come true, the result might look something like Rosepetal picking out her outfit, humming, blinking slowly and contentedly with that snake-lid, moving with unnecessary spins and hops and not caring who sees what.

(And you can see, Chen, if you sneak a look. You can see everything. And when she catches you, peeking from around the aisle, she stretches, hands above her head, thighs taut and strong enough to crumble stone, soft chest rising and falling with her breath. And then? She bounces on the balls of her feet. Just for you.)

When she emerges, it’s hard not to stare, isn’t it? So much of her outfit is marching the scarf her Chen gifted her with: diaphanous white pulled snugly over her rich, dark skin. Her sleeveless top all caught up at her elaborate lace-over-leather collar (with a ribbon leash tucked neatly inside, waiting to be rugged out), the buttons down the front seemingly almost ready to pop, so sheer that it’s easy to make out the voluminous (and still straining) lace underneath: the deep, rich purple of the Northern Wind. Her gloves, extending snugly up past her elbows, and her stockings, racing up past her knees. The apron, which exists in shadow, with only a cute snake and snow leopard tail entwined in embroidery to distinguish it. But not the skirt, scandalously short, hiking up whenever she bends over (and, yes, it’s the same purple lace, Chen, your purple, feel free to stare), leaving a zone of Absolute Princess-Destroying Territory between her stockings and the skirt’s lace trim. And not the proper white headpiece, flanked on either side by thick ponytails: barely constrained with three ribbons on either side, heavy enough to kill a man if she spins on her gleaming white heels, pushing her legs up to their most presentable. And not the leather-and-lace cuffs around her elbows and wrists, ankles and knees, an odd but frilly decoration unless you recognize the design worked into the leather. Push them together, and they’re not coming apart no matter how Rose tugs— but only for her.

Oh, how she matches her Chen! She curtseys with that teeny skirt, unable to help herself from flashing hints of that rich purple on either side, and she lets her Princess twirl her around like a doll, pose, show off her outfit (just as daring, in its own way, as her precious short-lived outfit that Chen will undoubtedly replace). But between Chen doing her best maid poses, smiling like the sun peeking through the mountain peaks, and Chen leading their mistress through the city? Well, we can’t forget Rose squatting down, thighs not so much as trembling, pigtails brushing against the ground, to take her Chen’s perfect, round, shining face, and press her gagged lips to her girlfriend’s own, again and again, smothering her in gagged kisses, fluttering her lashes and humming I love you, and when she pulls away, she leaves her girlfriend breathless. Freedom from shame! Chen gets to look forward to those often. Much more often.

As for cleaning up Ys— well, Rosepetal isn’t doing a lot of thinking! That’s for people who haven’t been told to shut up, for people who aren’t wearing an outfit to make everyone jealous of both the Pyre and the Twin Shard Princess, and for people who aren’t giddy with delight, all but dancing through the streets, wringing their tiny skirt in their hands and trying to remember not to put their wrists anywhere near each other, so— Chen! Cheeeeeeeeeen!! She did it agaiiiiiin! And here she comes, prancing back to Chen, with a demon tossed over her shoulder and another three writhing in a sack, holding her wrists out with a begging whine, and giving her another thank you kiss before running nimbly off to toss demons back before the Pyre! Anyone might think she’s doing it on purpose, but the truth is simpler: Rosepetal doesn’t have to worry, because her Princess gagged her and is here to take care of her and here she is dancing through Ys, solving an invasion without a sword, just her muscles and her willingness to obey while looking like a knockout, and she never dreamed she would really get to do this! Not in a hundred years! Free and owned, shameless and flaunted, able to trust like she’s never been able before.

…until Chen leaves her in the claws of the Pyre of Meaning, who apparently finds it very funny to listen to Rosepetal’s flustered little huffs and moans, legs like columns, arms the same, as the promise of those cuffs is realized. And with her arms pulled back like that, well, when Chen comes out, it’ll be hard not to stare at the lace in her face, and the giddy whimpers of her Rosepetal being arbitrarily punished by her owner. Not that Chen knows it, necessarily, but she’s watching Rosepetal fall hard and fast knowing that her Chen is there to catch her.

Knowing that even if she’s helpless, her Chen would never let someone hurt her little Rosepetal. That she’ll keep coming back. And that she’ll tease her helpless, wiggling sillyhead of a girlfriend before pulling her limbs apart again, strong in a way that Rose is denying herself.

(It’s okay, Chen. Rosepetal is nodding when you catch her eye, and she’s awfully forward in her squirming, and she picked out that top for a reason. Go ahead. Show her how much you appreciate her, now that your hands are free. Threaten to snap those buttons. Get a nice handful and weigh her thoughtfully. Put on a show for the crowd and the demons and your mistress and make your Rosepetal feel like she’s the heroine of this very special story.)

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Kalaya!

“A fairy?” Agata’s laugh is both expansive and condescending, as if she’s delighted you’d actually try that. “That’s ridiculous! If it was one of their schemes, I would have…”

She breaks off, considers what she’s saying carefully. (That’s one of the special skills of the Rakshasa, which you may or may not know: they prey in the empty spaces of perception. The more influence they exert, the harder it is to pin down that they’re responsible. And the Red Wolf knows that, too.)

Then she’s up in your face, fast, holding your chin with one hand, tilting it up, her eyes intense. Then she opens her eyes again, as if lifting a veil, as if pulling away a mask. The air is thick with heat, the kind that licks wood and fiber down to nothing, that demands no secrets before it. And you are a shadow in the sun, a little mouse before a viper, flickering, insubstantial—

And she slumps back in her chair, one hand over her eyes, teeth on display, louche. The heat, slow to dissipate, is all that remains of her full power. “Compress,” she says, holding out her other hand to the medic, fingers impatiently curling.

“Well,” she adds, to you, once a cold compress is laid over her (grandmother’s) eyes, leaning back with nonchalance in the chair. “It seems you’re right. They’re such pests, aren’t they?” Her teeth are so white. “I’ll have to see to an exorcist. But the best way to weaken an enchantment like that is to act very directly against it.”

She tents her fingers. “So I think I may be able to save you, Kalaya Na, from leading half of the Kingdoms into the waiting maw of the fairy folk. How exciting it will be!”

***

Han!

“You put that hand back,” the slave-girl says, teasingly, taking your wrist and guiding it back to— oh, that fork. “I’ll do anything you want tonight,” she continues, and she couldn’t possibly mean what you think she might mean, “except letting you besmirch our reputation for hospitality.” Her eyes are sparkling as she leans in close and pours you more, until it’s almost at the rim, and then sets the pitcher down decisively close to her own seat. “Because we have to work very hard on that reputation, I’ll have you know! I’ve done place-setting drills!” She pouts for a moment, before bouncing back (just like her nut-brown curls, bounce bounce).

“Anyway, how’d you get this one?” she continues, eyes savoring a scar running parallel to your bicep. And she wants to know! She super wants to know! And she smells of very expensive perfume, and she’s snuggling up next to you, and she’s even reaching over to help roll your duckskin pancakes while looking at you so expectantly, focused on what you want, how she can spoil you.

Maybe you haven’t even noticed the Red Wolf just smoothly letting conversation flow over your complaint, because you’re in the hands of Emli now, and she has the soul of the kind of puppy who will climb right back into your lap after you set her down on the floor. The social entrapment is all the more sinister for being orchestrated by Emli’s supervisor; she is all sincerity and completely guileless.

But you probably notice when the Red Wolf suddenly diverts the dinner conversation.

***

Piripiri!

Naji slithers up, with Maid Confined wobbling on her heels in her train. She’s got a dish for… you? Held out, with a pleading look, a “nnnhmmmph,” and a nod of the head over to where Lotus sits. Lotus of Tranquil Waters, a hostage who could be the fulcrum on which the transfer of power turns, but one dangerous to publicly keep.

You already know the Red Wolf’s plan for her and her boisterous companion. They’ll be seen off publicly at Lanceolata, personally escorted off by Agata herself— and then they’ll vanish without a trace. And you know, too, who will be assigned the task of returning them to the Dominion’s arms.

Which makes the glance Lotus gives you over her shoulder all the more of an unintended knife. A hopeful “is she hungry?” sort of look. The kind that says that if Agata’s hand weren’t casually resting on her knee, she’d get up and already be asking you why you’re not sitting down (Grandmother forbid) or sharing in the meal. She picks up a strawberry and works it between her lips, completely innocent of how she looks while trying to nibble off the stem, and of how very conspicuous her sneaky glance back at you is. And she’s not just looking at you; she’s letting her eyes linger on the demonesses’ backs, too, when she thinks nobody’s watching, dragging those eyes from the Maid’s heels to her exposed back to the collar—

And then Agata directs everyone’s attention elsewhere, and the little flower jumps and chokes on the strawberry. She puts a hand to her mouth, eyes watering, and makes an effort of trying to swallow.

Someone could step in and help her. Should, even.

***

Fengye!

“And how did you end up there?” Cathak Agata’s attention has suddenly snapped to you. “While we’re at it, what, is the food not good enough?” It’s probably maybe mostly a joke. “Who are you, anyway? I don’t think we were introduced, and, does anyone…?”

She makes a show of looking around at everyone involved. Notably, the knight who brought you along, who trusted you, who thought you could be more even without the help of the goddess? She’s absent. She’s not here to step in and speak for you. And nobody else here really interacted with you, except for the priestess, and she saw you turn into a raging part of the Broken King’s soul.

The Cathak scion turns her attention back to you, and waits for your answer. She’s smiling, but it’s a lazy, expectant smile. Or is it? What is she hiding behind it? Is she hoping to let you dig your own grave? Playing with you as a cat plays with a mouse?

***

Giriel!

Here’s the thing: you know.

Once get all your thoughts aligned in a row, that is. The warmth of Cathak Agata seems to radiate off of her, sinking into your bones, filling them up with lazy warmth. Comparisons might be made, by the bold, to a bear being lulled to hibernation. It doesn’t seem particularly intentional; it’s just that being near her, mid-meal, is making you feel like a cat with a belly full of milk, stretched out by the fire with her paws tucked in neatly.

And the smoke! It keeps drawing your attention away. Its curls up near the roof are a little like all those terrible snakes you had to endure, but, no, they twist and writhe as if suspended, and— every time you’re almost close to it, it’s gone. It smells wonderful. Like cinnamon and cloves.

Then Agata leans close and whispers in your ear: “Wait until you see what I have just for you.” One finger drifts along the edge of your plate, the lacquered nail (three long, two short) almost scraping against the porcelain. And that gets some legs under you, though perhaps all pointed in the wrong direction. Her voice has such a lovely, playful trill to it, and her hair lingers, brushing against her shoulder as her attention darts back outwards. With the confidence of one of the Princes of the Earth, she simply assumes that you will be delighted to have her. And it is very doubtful that she is wrong. There’s a reason not to get too full yet, hmm?

But you know. You, alone out of the room, have the necessary pieces to know that whoever this meek, mousy little scribe is, she worked a spell over the General, a fragment of the Broken King himself, and reduced her to the furiously blushing, grunting, teetering-in-heels maid barely given enough time to finish pouring you more wine before, with a thickly-muffled whine, she’s pulled off towards the Dominion agent standing well behind you. She is a wonderworker, a sorceress, and she may have saved all your lives.

She also looks like she’s just risen out of her own grave, Agata’s attention on her making her seem to dwindle into a flickering little candle-flame, and she hasn’t said a word about what she did. You don’t know who she is, why she’s not crowing about her victory, or why she allowed her prize to be taken from her— but you could reveal what she did to everyone.

Do you?

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

On Aevum, Yellow!

“I hate fences. Have I ever told you that?”

The purpose of a motorcycle on Aevum is twofold. One is to get up on the expressway, that secondary artery pumping hot and fast through the station, and then spin it up until the world blurs, until you feel like you can almost keep pace with the trains, until your thoughts get left behind. The other is to find a place to pull over and drink in the sights of the city.

So here Vesna leans forward, hair tucked neatly into the helmet with its jagged streaks of neon pink, and gestures at Ares, the sprawling complexes of Wellington with their fences and their locked doors and keycards.

“Too many open world games. You know one of the fantasies they sell in those? You can go anywhere. It doesn’t matter if it’s locked; you can pick the lock, hack it open, find the key. It doesn’t matter if it’s somebody else’s house, because all you need to do is sneak in when they’re out to see what their life looks like when it’s unfolded. And if you see something interesting? Head for it! Clamber up slopes, see what’s between you and it, keep going until you’re satisfied and you’ve got an answer to your question. That’s a little what it was like on the Park, but— well, nature sucks at generating interesting content. We’re way better at that. When we throw things together, they’ve got meaning.”

She glances over at Yellow through the smoked glass of the visor. “How about you? What do you make of Ares, dear? What do you think of fences?”

***

On the Park, Gavin!

Well, yeah. Naturally. It’s no longer 3V’s favorite in that scene (don’t get her started on AoA’s megacampaign formats, or how it still ends up prioritizing combat over its other components despite the marketing) but on any given day she’s got a table in Gensoukyo reserved for AoA players, and fond memories of thumbing through the supplements: Lemuria and Mu; Red Mars and Fecund Venus; Sky London (with the Squamous Men and the Narcissus Bazaar).

Nah, right now she’s really into KATAPHRAKTOS, and not just because of the deep-fried memes. ([foliage][management][?]) Now there’s a game that commits to being about combat, but still tries to interrogate the morality of fucking awesome mech combats and asks you to make space wars about things worth dying for.

A game that asks, hey, what if a thousand years from now we start getting our shit together? What if we leave capitalism floating dead in the void and fight to defend gay luxury space communism, to fulfill its promises, and to fix all this crap? And what if you could figure out who’s standing athwart the rails of history telling you to go back into the dark, and then blow up his giant robot with [SHOTGUN].

That being said, 3V owns being a gaucho. Be free, clever and bold, and solve disagreements with close-quarters facón fights.

“Hey! It’s gonna take me a minute until I’m ready to throw myself back down the mountain, so I don’t mind the extra company. I miss that from the big tournaments, actually— everybody trickling in and grabbing breakfast, accumulating like snow rolling downhill, meeting folks over toast. Gavin and I were just getting to know each other, Ferris; seems like a fun dude to me. Must be nice to see folks out here. I get twitchy if there aren’t enough folks passing through my place, can’t imagine days without seeing anybody up here.”

Said without judgment, more a self-aware acknowledgment of how very, very social Aevum is by necessity. The only way to keep folks out of your life is to lock your apartment door and refuse to leave.