Tatterdemalion

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Kalaya!

The door bursts open. There’s no time to grab a weapon, you’ll have to defend yourself with your bare hands from— Petony??

Your erstwhile mentor stands there with a wicked grin and her hooked sword in her hands, backed by several of her squires; the Dominion guards lie senseless on the carpeted hallway. “Ho, bud! Get your sword— it’s time to bloody their noses!”

How did she know you were here? How did she get here? What was that about bloodying noses? All questions she doesn’t really intend to give you time to ask— not unless you put your foot down and seriously try to figure her out!

But you’d better hurry. There’s the sounds of swords clashing from either end of the hallway. More of Petony’s forces, right? Surely. After all, why would the soldiers of the Dominion fight each other?

---

Giriel!

The Rakshasa steps out from behind you, because nobody was looking back there, and so she was free to declare that she happened to be there all along. She lifts your hand and lets her priestess’s veil fall, and wraps her lips around your finger. She works at it greedily, head bobbing, tongue wrapping right around the joints, drawing blood and more than blood out of you. It’s an offering, after all: she drinks your dreams to sustain her existence here, offered freely.

Mark Hopeless, for she has supped well on your dreams, Giriel Bruinstead, in a way that you’d hoped to prevent.

Finally she releases you, drooling, panting, blushing. “Hello, Giri,” she says. (She knows you. How could she not? You gave yourself to her.) “You could just surrender now, you know.” Her face is narrow, brown, tufted; now that you know what you’re looking at, she can’t just assert her beauty. Her teeth are small and sharp and stained with your blood. “It’s what’s best for the Kingdoms. The villain is defeated, the True Queen brings unity, and everyone gets to live happily ever after.” That’s a lie. The people she feeds upon won’t get that. But she’s gorged, just after feeding, and she’s got that heavenly spirit backing her up.

“Now are you going to be a good girl for me, or am I going to have to scream and call for rescue?” One hand drifts to a sword’s hilt, her flickering nightmare razor at her sash, and she’s hoping you won’t notice.

---

Zhaojun!

The maid telegraphs the swing; evading the windup is easy. Her smile is a feral thing. “Stop dodging,” she squeaks, before stumbling over her own feet and staggering, dragging the hammer’s head along the deck.

Find thyself a bride, you’d said. Of all maidens the fairest. But what is fair to the denizens of the Demon City, if not power, if not cunning, if not ruthlessness? Perhaps you should be flattered. Or perhaps you should do something about her and that hammer she’s gamely swinging around with both hands, even if your command upon her means that it’s impossible for her to win this fight; she’d knock herself out with the thing before she came close to besting you.

But do you want to? She burns. She despises you, but the command you laid upon her drags her forward on blue chains. She wants to slap the smile off your face. She wants to smother you under her thighs. She wants to fuck you like she wants to fuck the gods: furiously, until you mew and admit she’s in charge. And the minute you lift her chin and tell her she’s a good girl she’ll collapse into a stammering, blushing mess, nuzzling and wondering what this Strange New Feeling is.

Either accept her (perhaps myopic) choice, or point her like a tsundere lightning-bolt elsewhere. Her fate is twisted about your fingers; a twitch and she will be doomed to go among the catgirls, or to end up stuck in a closet with Cathak Agata, or even to the very gates of the House of Lapis Lazuli.

---

Han!

Emli is like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a dragon. Her heart is beating wildly, her eyes are wide, and her face is frozen in a sort of terrified smile. Only the fact that she’s seen your heart, Han, stops her from just breathily threatening to scream while enunciating clearly and exaggeratedly to give you a better target.

“The best part is the part only I know,” she adds, and she takes your hand with all the soft strength of someone who fulfills the desires of others for a living. “The part where you kissed me senseless, took my breath away, before making very sure no one would be able to hear me. Because dragons are hungry and take what they want.”

She leans in close, lets her lovely brown hair brush against your well-muscled arm. “And because I didn’t get the chance to teach you how to kiss her,” she whispers. Then she looks up, and impishly adds: “And, of course, I wouldn’t want anyone to be jealous. Feel free to steal yours, too, Lady Lotus.”

Lotus makes a flustered little squeak and squirms the squirm of someone who really wants to know how you’re going to react but thinks that kissies are good and she definitely isn’t thinking about how it would be like indirectly kissing you too because that would be ridiculous.

She’s definitely not planning to show you exactly how to render somebody helpless, either. She’ll just step in if she’s needed. Say, if you don’t know to cross her wrists over each other and create separate cuffs. Or to make sure you can fit two fingers under the ropes to allow her circulation. Or if you think that pulling a knotted sash between her lips is enough to satisfy her. You know. Just little things like that.

---

Piripiri!

Click-click-click-click-clack.

Azazuka is light on her feet, and she has created a zone of absolute denial around herself. None of the guards fighting her can so much as touch her; she smacks weapons aside with a flick of her wrist and a crack of her clattering cash sword. Color’s risen to her cheeks, and she’s laughing like she’s holding your hand and pulling you along the streets of Golden Chrysanth.

An umbrella is not a sword; this is a simple fact. The brawl happening through the corridors of the ship is being fought with swords and spears; this is another simple fact. Men and women who have the strict unit cohesion of the Dominion are struggling against each other, panting and growling in a grand free-for-all. And Azazuka stands as the queen of them all.

“Pipi!” Azazuka cries, delighted, and then lunges at you, click-click-click-click-clack! The guard accompanying you draws his own sword to defend you, and then slashes it through the space where your head just was.

What is this? A madness of blades?

Breathless Dead

“Where is she?”

Redana Claudius staggers out of the medical tent like a white-faced wraith, a spirit of the underworld herself. Have you heard the things she did to Dolce when they fought on the bridge? Did you see the star on her brow when she destroyed the Black Pyramid with the arms of a goddess? This is the young woman that drove the Praetor halfway across the galaxy, and looking at her now, is it that hard to believe? One wrong word would send her spiraling. Around her, Lanterns cringe and find things to interpose between themselves and Redana, the Imperial Princess who was twice touched by Dionysus.

“Why didn’t you let me say goodbye?” she sobs, grinding the heel of her palm against her eyes. “I brought her this far! Why didn’t you let me be with her until the end? Where did you take her? Let me say goodbye!”

“She’s not here,” Jil says. Dany turns, teetering on the edge of mania, and stares down the little mouse woman. The bags under Jil’s eyes suggest that, unlike Redana, she’s been too busy to do anything like sleep. She holds a surgeon’s sewing kit like one of her folk’s great war-shields. “Our Praetor left three hours ago. Before you ask, I don’t know where she’s gone.” Unspoken: and if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. “But she wasn’t dead. Not when she left.”

Redana shakes her head, like a stunned bull, and the braid swings behind her like a tail. An instinct, a memory, brings one hand up, and her fingers trace the pattern. Her sobbing continues, but underneath it bubbles laughter. She got her miracle. Only her Bella would have done this, and if she was well enough to work the hair, how hard was it to believe that she could have—

Dany closes the space between herself and Jil suddenly, and scoops her up. The sudden moment of horror on all sides melts when she spins Jil around, laughing, wet-cheeked. Then she kisses Jil on the face, repeatedly, askew, because that’s the only way her fireworks-sparking brain can vent its heat.

“She’s alive! Bless you, bless you, Apollo light your way! Haha!” She sets Jil down with a sudden exaggerated care, as if worried she might shatter upon hitting the ground, and runs out of the temple because her body is on fire and, why not, she does a cartwheel that doesn’t even break her stride.

It takes quite a while for her to finally slump against a wall and crumple into exhausted, ragged hiccups and sniffles and giggles. After all, she’s an Olympian(-in-training). Plenty of people would have seen her, racing down corridors like one of the nymphs bringing in the springtime.

How different from that awful day when she had walked the ship blind and ruined, with only Dionysus for company! And yet, how similar, too: the people she saw becoming just a blur of uncomprehending faces, watching her as an emotion too big for her swallowed her whole.

“There’s still time,” she says to herself, smearing tears inelegantly across her burning face, and makes an inelegant and overjoyed hornk noise, and doesn’t even care.

---

“Magos!!”

Iskarot, cultist of Hermes, is tackled by his patron’s daughter. She hugs him like he’s a life preserver and she’s been drowning.

“I was so worried after they stole the ship— but I prayed, even if— well, I don’t think Hermes will listen to me, given who she is, but just in case, I lifted you up for her care and— your legs, what did they do to you, I’m so sorry!”

She sets him down, allows him his dignity, stands to attention. But she fidgets, chewing on the question that’s been boiling up inside of her.

“…I’m not an Initiate any more, am I?” And unlike everything that exploded out of her heart just now, she’s been mulling over saying that. Ever since Skotia. Ever since the Heart. Ever since she saw her mother’s truest self.

TSL: Sjakal

Nahla!

Grace-of-Heaven shines. Her eyes are bright with that irrepressible hope that her guardian has tried her best to stamp out of her. Even so, she refuses to let this hope smother her affection for Yasmin, Lila and Taima; she wants to be back by dawn, and sleep away the morning (as, to be honest, is customary in the harem anyway; late nights and lazy mornings are common).

“Yes,” she says, and takes one of your hands in hers. “We’ll do it. Together.”

Then she leans in and impulsively kisses you on the mouth. This isn’t the first time it’s happened; there’s not a lot of personal space in the harem, even if mouths are usually covered. It’s her way of showing affection. But just when it could, maybe, be a little more than that, she pulls away.

Are you disappointed?

Even if you are, you’d better hide it. She’ll need a lot of preparation: a beautiful dress, strategic weakening of the top, braids and decorations, and plenty of makeup to accentuate her features. Who helps you with everything but the weakening?

---

Silsila Om!

Submit? Submission is not in Rosethal’s vocabulary. Not while she has tricks and Hosts and pride. The only way to win this is to physically render her incapable of battle. To make her armor clatter to the floor, unable to recohere without her command; to stop her from talking and summoning up her slaves to defeat you when she becomes desperate; to smother her in shining, sweat-slicked gold until she goes limp and you can carry her off the battlefield.

Then Merov Ekh will reward you, your name will be elevated and praised by the Fire Wheels, and Rosethal will be dangled from her ankles to make fun of her. (And nothing more; Merov Ekh would punish any of her followers for risking Ruz’s favor by pushing too far.)

But if you were to throw, to yield, to allow yourself to be overthrown, then Merov Ekh would allow you to be dragged off by the victorious sorceress, and judging from her demeanor right now, the Almighty alone knows what would happen next…

---

Soot!

Ruz’s eyes flash with… intrigue? “Perhaps some pieces to reassure the people that I am their guardian. Their mother, even. Have I not protected them? Kept them safe? Fed them, disciplined them, allowed them to aspire? And, after all, if you can do this with a barbarian brute, I wonder what you would do with a better—“

“Word from the Sultan, your most illustrious excellence,” says the servant at the door. Ruz lets her hand fall from under your chin, where she was tilting your head up. Did you even notice? Where were you staring, little Soot?

She takes the missive and scans it as you fumble your paints and brushes into their lacquerware cases. And then she chuckles, in that self-satisfied way of hers.

“Yes, allow me an answer, just a moment. Soot: stay.” And then, well, you have to, right? There with the model and the servant and the cases, until Ruz returns a sealed note to be returned to the Sultan. The messenger leaves, and she turns to you, appraising you.

“No, that won’t do at all,” she says. “Not for dinner with her. Follow me, girl.”

You’re about to get a makeover.

---

Birsi!

“Don’t be like that,” the Fire Wheel says, not yet angry but starting towards it. She grabs at your glove, tries to pull it off, drunkenly laughing. “We’re friends, aren’t we? Working together? Keeping the peace?”

Her voice suddenly lowers. She’s stumbled into a resentment unexpectedly . “Yeah. We’re friends. Which is why we let you all parade around and play soldier. You ever been in a battle, palace girl? Ever used that little knife of yours?”

Are you going to let her keep controlling the conversation? Is she right that you’re untested by battle? Is that one of the sacred walls she’s backed you up against?

TSL: Sjakal

Silsila Om!

Rosethal is a woman who chases whatever she wants. When something no longer interests her, she drops it without a qualm. She is dangerous, capricious, cruel. And she cares very little about the opinions of others when she wants something.

Any other woman would hesitate, would think about the watching crowd, would think about the bets being made. Any other woman would lower her head, blushing furiously, and stammer out a heated demand for you to remember your place.

Rosethal grabs the back of your head by your hair, drags you down, and forces you into a kiss. She’s the aggressor: her lips are plump, wet, soft, painted. Her tongue is a lashing whip, her breath a scouring wind.

The crowd explodes into yelling, cheering, vulgar suggestions, ones that Rosethal could give less of a fuck about, but you’re not quite that composed, are you? Merov Ekh wants Rosethal defeated, everyone who bet on you wants you to deliver a decisive victory, and Rosethal is likely to make even makeouts a challenge, a clash of towering egos.

How do you use that String on her, o terror of the desert? Do you pursue victory, or are you melting into a tangle of limbs and possessive kisses?

---

Soot!

Ruz fell silent during the last parts of your work, as you mastered the interplay of color in the piece. Now that you have finished, now that the templar slumps in his ropes, the Grand Vizier finally leans over your shoulder to inspect the painting closer.

This close, her perfume is almost a solid thing, sweet and rich, the scent of far-flung flowers mixed with the rarest notes that the Faithful natively have to hand. Rich in more than one sense: you could gather up everything you own, sell it all, and sell yourself in the bargain, and you still wouldn’t be able to afford the scent that she is free to dab on her fine wrists, her strong neck, her heavy breasts.

“Yes,” she breathes in reverent delight. This is the strongest reaction you have ever gotten out of her: usually it is a content nod, some words of praise, a promissory note scribbled off to be taken to a treasury clerk. But today, you have her attention.

“As the poet says, a rare talent is more precious than diamonds; let your garden wither before the skillful woman starves.” One hand, heavy with jeweled rings, rests on your shoulder, possessively. “How are we to cultivate your talent, little Soot?”

This is very literally the opportunity of a lifetime. Say the right thing, right here and now, and you can have whatever you want: a dizzying thing, isn’t it? Say the wrong thing, and it might all come crashing down around your ears.

And while we’re at it, why don’t you tell us all why the Soot that Ruz finds so praiseworthy isn’t the real Soot, who she would never accept. It wouldn’t have anything to do with your extracurriculars, would it? After all, she spent years serving among the Stewards, and she’s very conservative…

---

Nahla!

“No, that wouldn’t work,” Grace-of-Heaven says, frowning. One hand lifts from the water to caress your cheek, guiding you just that little bit closer. (She’s nervous. Not about tonight, but about what she’s about to say.) “Who would believe that? That I would get angry at you over a dress? It has to be— it has to be worse than that.”

She takes a deep breath, her toes curling in the water in that way she does when she’s trying to wrap herself in courage. “I think we need to invite the Grand Vizier to dine with us tonight, Nahla. Then you need to tear my top open by mistake, and— and then make some clumsy joke about it. So that when I yell at you, when I stamp my foot, everyone believes it.”

The blood is already rushing to her ears. She’s been humiliated many times before by the Fire Wheels at the Vizier’s instructions, but being humiliated while she’s ostensibly trying to impress the Vizier would be a devastating blow, another indignity heaped on a head that has withstood so many.

It’s a miracle of her Faith that she’s still fighting, still rebelling, despite what the Fire Wheels have done to her. The heart of a lion beats in her chest, for all that she desperately clings to you as someone she can trust.

Then she looks at you, and her smile is as bright as the sun in this hot land. “But it will be worth it when we see my grandmother’s city.” She still thinks of it as belonging to her grandmother; she hasn’t been allowed out, and the Vizier makes decrees in her name until “such time as she is prepared and able to assume her duties.” A time that the Vizier makes excuse after excuse to push off, until she can make Grace-of-Heaven marry Rosethal.

What are your thoughts on Rosethal, anyway, while we’re at it?

---

Birsi!

The singer is the one who stands up. She’s taller than you, but not by too much. Her wrap only covers half of her chest, and an impressive scar snakes its way down her ribs. She stands there for a moment, and then she throws one arm over your shoulders.

“Palace girl,” she says. “You’re upset at us? We didn’t know a better place for it.” Her breath stinks of wine, and at a guess, you’d say even that was plundered from the palace cellars. “Tell you what. Angry little puppy. Come and show us where we can have some private time to ourselves, and we’ll share. Your stuck-up bitch doesn’t need to know, hey?”

It’s an expansive offer, clearly. The barbarians get handsy when they’re drunk (and even now, the singer is rubbing your shoulder in an overly familiar way), and it’s probably very good wine. Do you drink, Birsi? Do you drink expensive wine set aside for the sultan and her court? And do you want to be touched by barbarians?

TSL: Sjakal

Sjakal. The City of Blue Chains. How it groans beneath its misrule. By Day, it may seem serene, as things continue as they should, as ships berth at its grand harbor, as the affairs of the Faithful are attended to by master and slave alike. What of war in the north, one may say in the heat of the afternoon, drinking tea and enjoying the pleasures of the greatest city on earth. But by Night, the city throws off its cloak and shows its raging heart. Its taxes are ruinous, the people go hungry, and unlike her beloved grandmother, Grace-of-Heaven does not issue forth from the Adamant to soothe the hearts of the people, nor does she accept their audience within the palace's grand walls. Her barbarian mercenaries rage through the city unchecked, and the common citizens (who can barely afford to feed their households) turn to the Stewards of the Faith for guidance. Soon, there will be turmoil. Soon, there will be chaos. Soon, the city will reach its grand climax, and maybe it will be that the Vulenid will not remain masters of the empire.

But for now, it is still the heat of the DAY, and life continues in its leisurely way in the palace, and all strife and discord is smothered by the rule of the Grand Vizier, illustrious Ruz...

***

Nahla!

"Will it be tonight?"

Grace-of-Heaven leans in closer, the pretense of a private bath for the moment forgotten. Beside you are the buckets of ice-cooled water and the perfumed soaps, and in your hands the sponge you have been using on her bare back. The young sultan is many things, but the prospect of escape would be a heady brew for anyone, let alone someone as comparatively inexperienced as she.

To her, you do not just represent security, but a chance at escape from the walls of her harem unaccompanied by the vizier's mercenaries. She is placing her trust in your cunning, your discretion and your loyalty. After all, if you turned around and informed Ruz that her caged bird was trying to stretch her wings, you would be richly rewarded. And yet, you still haven't gone to her. Why is this young woman's smile worth protecting, even at risk to yourself?

Because if you are caught, both of you will be punished terribly by the Fire Wheels. Ruz's fury will make punishments in your past look like mere slaps on the wrist. Grace-of-Heaven has assured you that tales of criminals being thrown into snake pits are historical relics, nothing more, but can you really trust someone who's been cloistered for half of her life? After all, you've seen what Ruz is willing to do (or rather, to order the Fire Wheels to do) to the girl who legitimizes her control of Sjakal. How much worse would she treat you, a mere heathen concubine?

***

Silsila Om!

"du Vas! du Vel! du Shan!"

Honored Rosethal slams into you, hard. She catches you by the wrist, leans her shoulder into your collarbone, and uses the strength of her armor to lift your feet off of the ground and slam you down onto the mosaic floor, sending precious tiles splintering into the air. From the sidelines, raucous cheers and yelled bets fill the air. Who's going to win? The vizier's terrifying daughter, or the Khan's pet Host?

Rosethal kicks you in the side and sends you sprawling, then turns and poses for the Fire Wheels gathered to watch. Merov Ekh hisses from her seat, and your bindings throb in your muscles, your spine, the backs of your eyes. Your mistress is willing you to win, so that she can not only profit from the bets placed on your victory, but so that she looks all the better for having mastered you in the scrublands, o most ferocious of spirits.

This wouldn't be a fair fight for Rosethal if she wasn't using her own Hosts. But instead of commanding them to fight in her stead, she has wrapped one around her to serve as armor. When you grapple with her, you grapple with both the sorceress and her slave. Your one advantage is that she is showboating, using a second Host as a bladed whip which she spins around her body, turning this into a showcase of her sorcerous talents.

Well, Host? You have been commanded. Fight. Win. Prove that your mistress is the strongest in the palace.

***

Soot!

"Nnnngh."

The Draconic templar gives you a glare that suggests he's willing your bones to tear out of your body and throttle you. Not that he can do anything about it, because he's your model for today. This would normally be a relaxing process, a chance to let your mind wander as your body translates his vulnerability to the canvas, but today your Patron is hovering over your shoulder, carefully watching the piece, and she's ready to make Recommendations.

Ruz has given you conflicting orders for this piece: the Dragon Kingdoms must look threatening, but vulnerable. We must demonstrate the active danger they represent to the Faith, but naturally they must be shown to have a weakness that our brave soldiers will use to overcome them. It should not be too dark, but you need to avoid too many colors, we will have copies made by scribes. And while you're at it, work in the iconography of both the Army of the Faithful and the Fire Wheels, to represent that they work in unison against the perfidious foe.

How are you approaching this piece, then? What aspects of the costuming, the pose, have you arranged just so? And what about Ruz looming over you is making your heart beat a little faster-- her perfume, her gold-trimmed robe, her air of experience and effortless command?

***

Birsi!

"as vren mej ra thor duv ha kha..."

The Room of the Manifold Stars is sacred. It is used by the Sultans of Sjakal to read the stars, the signs and omens and portents of the Almighty, her commands for her loyal slaves below. No one is permitted to enter the room save those mystics and astrologers, those sorcerers and holy women who the Sultan entrusts. Even stepping into the room, one is struck by the golden sigils on the black walls, the narrow windows tilted upwards towards Heaven, the way the walls drink in any sound. This is a holy place.

Which makes it all the more insufferable that three Fire Wheels are being very drunk in the Room of the Manifold Stars, having forced the lock in search of more entertainment. One is staring, dazed, at the sigils, while another guzzles from a bottle of wine and the third sings some discordant barbarian hymn. All three are half-naked, built lean and strong, and are rather drunk, which would make one against three fair, right?

Behind the door, a serving-girl quivers, sneaking looks inside. She's fulfilled her role in life, not daring to challenge free warriors, even barbarian ones. It's your role to protect not only her, but the sanctity of the Faith and the traditions of the Adamant palace. What sort of guard are you? One who loudly admonishes them, one who tries to put on a severe face and use quiet words, or one who beats sense into them with her sword still in its scabbard?

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

On Gensoukyo

Cygnus is 3V’s favorite employee, but star is still a student, and thus can only work part-time, and still in the sort of apprentice stage where star is learning the ropes. Star leans masc, dresses in hand-sequined vests, and has Opinions about collectible card games and running star’s own diceless roleplaying games. 3V doesn’t actually fully understand star’s gender, but she’s down to support wherever star finds starself happy. Plus, star has good taste in music, and gets control of the streaming while star works.

The person in charge while she’s out is Luisa, who only became a tangential 3V fan after she got the gig, has just the curliest hair, and sometimes brings in tamales. Luisa does Monday, Wednesday and the weekends; Oscar handles Tuesday and Friday, and the downtime on Thursday is just part of small business ownership that’s only trying to pay for itself.

Four employees, then; the owner who lives upstairs and flits in and out, the heart of the community who handles the store more than 3V does, the guy who’s extremely divorced and spends his spare time painting minifigs and battling insomnia, and the queer student who’s soaking up everything the above three have to offer.

***

Heple

The right move. The kind move. The explosive move. The Renegade move. All one and the same.

She’s a tree-princess, she’s Red Riding Hood with glowing hands, she’s Ceres getting ganked by three Fenrirs at the Jade Phoenix spawn. She’s breathless and glowing and off-balance already, so when she gets hip-checked she giggles like she’s drunk and gives it right back.

She smiles. She glows. She radiates a smile, even as she gasps, even as she backs into fur and muscles and a wordless invitation to be lifted off the floor. It’s a show, and she’s free to put one on. No expectations of intimacy except for that of the body, an audience drinking in what she’s offering and she’s listening to what they have to say in turn.

No wonder she used to be a star in her own little corner of the world. Sure, she was good, but look at her gasp, her silent request to touch what her dance partners clearly want her to admire. Her brain’s off and her persona’s on and she’s not trying with them, she’s not doing fake-dating-with-benefits, she’s just trying to do what Black told her to do: listen. No, more than that: she’s trying to reflect, to take the energy being flung at her and send it back converted into what other people need, without breaking her stride.

Even when she’s hoisted up by her hips and spreads her arms like she’s on the prow of the Titanic by the she-wolf, she’s doing it because it’s what Black wanted her to do. Because that’s how she tries to show people that she hears them, that they mean something, that they matter.

Her blush is real, though. Wolves were obviously the right choice. Deliberate contrast to her persona’s own strengths: cleverness, skill, personability. It’s obvious what kind of basic bitch fursona she’d naturally fit like a glove. Put her on a leash and she’d trot; shut her up and her brain would melt into lo-fi beats to study to until she got words back and she’d try to use all of them at the same time. Probably wouldn’t last longer than a scene, but in the scene…

But that’s part of the problem, isn’t it? She’s always in a scene. She’s doing her best to play the part of a good person, as best as she knows how. Caught between desire and suspicion of desire, caught between chasing her bliss and worrying she’s the grasshopper and not the ant, caught between opening up and then overthinking opening up, caught between performance and performance.

Do you think she’s pretty, Black? Will you share this with the rest of yourself or try to save this, keep it for your portion of yourself, for fear of Blue commissioning fanart and Yellow making suggestions and Pink being, well, Pink?

What’s it like, being this close to the princess of Anthropozine and being the reason she’s shining?

Huntresses of Hybrasil

The wristblades were a mistake, actually. If this were a more brutal hunt, there is little that they could hope to do to fend off the spear’s hungry head, and now that it is close, intimate, the wrestling of kittens, they are an irresistible target.

The mechs crash to earth heavily; torches shake and threaten to fall, trees groan out their wounds, and Angela Victoria Miera Antonius finds herself pinned down beneath the weight of a Hybrasilian huntress, tail lashing in delight, breastplate specked and dented from autocannon fire. Her wrists are forced against the ground, and one knee keeps her from rising.

Inside, Dolly holds a pose, tail raised, back arched. Without, Smokeless Jade Fire chuckles. “You chose the wrong name, Angela Victoria Miera Antonius,” she says, using the full name very intentionally, mockery dripping from her self-satisfied voice. “A [Barn Owl] is a quiet creature. It comes in close and quiet, even silent.”

“You know all about silence,” she stops to purr in Dolly’s ear, the hands rougher now in the delight of victory, her Dolly being such a good girl, holding the pose, letting her gloat. The shivers of delight as Jade’s hundred hands work her tail over!

“A [Barn Owl] is motion. Grace. It moves as the wind and with it. You sat and hoped that your little gnat-stings would stop me. Me! Smokeless Jade Fires, the goddess hatched from the stone egg, who watches over the hunt and deems it good. But perhaps it’s not all your fault, is it? After all… who wouldn’t stop to watch my pilot’s form?”

The Cords wrap tightly around the mech’s wrists, pulsing, coursing energy through the mech, locking them in place. Inside, Angela Victoria Miera Antonius will find herself helpless to lower her own arms. Smokeless Jade Fires lazily rolls her over, pulls her legs up against themselves.

“But you still need to give this engine of battle a fitting name, Angela Victoria Miera Antonius. One worthy of your prowess together. Perhaps… Trophy?”

With one nail, she traces it, lightly; there is no need to gouge, to cause Angela Victoria Miera Antonius to scream and thrash and disconnect. Let her feel the relentless tickle, let it make her try to stand up on the arches of her feet, let her be aware that she is being marked. “Good girl,” Smokeless Jade Fires purrs, patting the glyph etched on the mech’s flank. “See? Am I not a merciful goddess? Am I not— Angela Victoria Miera Antonius~! That is language hardly becoming of a noble representative of the Consortium, now, isn’t it?”

Smokeless Jade Fires luxuriantly pulls the mesh over The Barn Owl’s speakers, seals either end shut behind the mech’s head, runs her fingers over it just to feel the charge, the slight numbness it causes her. It’s not the sort of fine work that she can do with her Dolly, but the feedback on the pilot, that thick and stifling pressure, will keep her quiet as much as the actual speaker interference.

Those fingers find the mech’s strong chin, tilt it upwards, and Jade purrs as she hears the stifled, crackling audio being forced out of the speakers anyway. Inside herself, she clenches Dolly tighter, nips at her, grinds against her, pants with half-delirious excitement.

“I look forward to seeing you earn the name, Angela Victoria Miera Antonius. To move like one of my worshippers should. To strike with those wicked little gnat-stings from a dozen different directions, one after another. To strike from ambush, from the silence of the owl. She means death to us, did you know? She cries for the dying, but is silent on the wing. And then I will beat you again, but I will enjoy the game, and I will give you my respect, Trophy.” One final cord links the wrists forced behind the head to the ankles, and with a very satisfied purr, Smokeless Jade Fires hoists the Trophy onto her shoulder, then retrieves her spear.

This will be the shot that is remembered: Smokeless Jade Fires, with an insouciant glance over her free shoulder at the cameras, the very image of an ancient Hybrasilian warrior-huntress. On the outside, her fingers work on Trophy’s thick armor, the small of, yes, Angela’s back, a glorying in victory. On the inside, she takes Dolly by the chin and kisses her hard, the gag dissipating as her goddess wills, leaves her breathless, even as she holds Dolly still in her victory pose for the cameras.

“I love you,” Jade growls in ecstasy, and starts using her teeth.

[Smokeless Jade Fires hits an 11 on a Fight. She seizes a dominant position, takes a String, and inflicts a Condition on the poor, emotionally confused thing. She’s not going to like the headlines: Bagged, Gagged and Tagged!!]

Breathless Dead

“Bella!”

Her throat is raw, and it shouldn’t be. It’s raw and trying to close up and her body is shaking and it’s small again, the Shepherdess receding from her in bright ribbons shining in the sunlight. There are a hundred reasons why, and all she can do is trust the last squeeze against her skin as reassurance that this isn’t a retreat from a moment too painful to relive. But she’s still afraid. And why shouldn’t she be?

Her Bella is sprawled limp in her arms, bloodied and surprisingly heavy now that her muscles are no longer supporting her, keeping her up, keeping her moving, and Redana knows enough about how a body is shaped to see Bella’s body for what it is.

A fellow Olympian.

“Bella, you can’t,” she says, and her eyes are hot, and her legs itch where she’s kneeling in the grass, and she’s pulling Bella close but Bella’s not resisting, Bella’s not opening her eyes, Bella is barely breathing. “No, no no, I won’t let you, it’s not fair!” She gulps down air, and hiccups, small and dumb and useless. “Stop! You can’t! After this whole thing! I stopped the Assassins, I got you out of that awful— and you haven’t even apologized to Vasilly!”

The tears land hot on Bella’s bare skin, her matted fur. She doesn’t move.

Redana lifts Bella onto her shoulders. One hand on her thigh (and she doesn’t even flinch) and the other on her wrist, and Redana deadlifts from kneeling. She is small, and tired, and her face is wet, and Bella is very still. So Redana takes a step forward. And then another step. Then another. All that matters is taking another step, because there will be triage set up by the Lanterns now that they’ve won. It was in the meeting. She was listening. She knows where they are. So all she has to do is carry Bella, and then there’s a chance. Maybe everything will be okay. Masters don’t abandon their pets. Her face is red and she feels like she’s running the last lap of the marathon, but she can’t see the finish line.

There’s so much, she doesn’t say, because she’s focusing on breathing: in, out, in, out, hiccup. There’s so many apologies. Apologies to Dolce and Vasilia and the film! Bella doesn’t even know that Dany saw them! Bella can’t die without knowing that Dany knows about the holos and the Lanterns and they still need to talk about how Batrachomyomachia is good, actually, Bella! And she needs to apologize to you, and you need to apologize to her, and you need to talk about what happened with Skotia, and so she’s going to! She’s going to get you there!

…and she would have, too, if she hadn’t heard the long, slow round, a twisted braid of voices rising and falling, singing—

And when I fall, don’t lay me
under earth or lonesome sky;
and when I’m gone, don’t mourn me
just send me out and watch me fly.

Lay me down among the stars,
let me soar through veil of night;
send me out on one last jaunt,
see me shining far and bright.

The strength leaves her. She could be strong enough to carry Bella. She could be strong enough when she was just thinking about the things they couldn’t lose, all the reasons that Bella can’t die here, not yet.

But here they come, Coherents in all their beautiful glory, their incredible bodies, bearing one body from the field: her four arms limp, her arms and armor laid out on the stretcher, missing her head. And Dany breaks. Her legs crumple beneath her and her knees hit the earth hard, and her body convulses as she’s reminded that she’s lost Alexa, brave Alexa who was fighting so hard against her creator, Alexa who kept her safe and came with her all this way, Alexa who ended up here (like Bella) because of Redana, because she insisted, because she escaped, all of this hers.

All of it.

The dead. The dying. Bella, Alexa, Lanterns, Alcedi, even the horrible Kaeri. Her fault. Her fault.

And she’s lost. She failed. Alexa’s never going to know what it means to be free. Bella is never going to get to make anything right. All because she was selfish. Because she had to ruin everything. If she’d just stayed home, none of this would have happened at all.

It’s the Coherents who stop to help her, who take pity on the little princess who dirtied her hands and put her shoulders to the work without complaint, no matter the task. It’s the Coherents who change their song, who help Dany find the last of her strength, who make a work-song of it.

Dany can do that. She can do the work. Even if she’s sputtering and snot’s on her lips and chin and she can’t see what’s in front of her for grief, even if her chest’s torn open and all her love’s spilling out on the ground, useless useless useless, she knows what to do when there’s a Coherent on either side of her and the round is changed, because it’s what Alexa would have wanted.

Bella lies on Alexa’s body, bloody cheek against her chest, and Dany puts her shoulder to the work, in her place, bearing the two beautiful women she ruined back to the world that will be less without them, a thought she does not have to think because there is only the work, and the song, and the knowledge that everyone around her is lifting, too.

She can play a part. And when they finally reach the triage, when they finally find themselves among the Lanterns, that’s when she’ll fall apart completely. When she’s got nothing else to do, that’s when she’ll crumple in on herself and break so completely that she’ll be really, for real useless, and not even a song will work to get her moving.

Only a miracle, then.

Only eucatastrophe.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

For Dolly, the world is full of fireflies, a storm of them, roiling and humming and streaking through the night. Her heart races as she realizes that her goddess is going to hold, is going to make her wait for the very last second, and only then will she let her Dolly move, show her the right moves to make. A thought flashes through Dolly's head as the fireflies streak fearfully close, and she strains slightly, offering a suggestion. Smokeless Jade Fires' attention alights upon her like a halo, like the sun that cuts through the treetops, and then she is pushed, tumbling into the motion she offered.

Dolly does the splits: heels out, palms on the earth, fireflies streaking through her headdress, back low, head up. She brings her heels back behind her, toes digging into the stone, and lunges forward on all fours. The storm tracks her movements, descends to meet her, but Jade already knows what they need to do. Dolly does a headstand on one hand, lets the momentum flip her over and carry her back onto her feet, and now she's up on her arches at the very edge of the water, heels up, as much hopping as running, and Jade's laughing for her, and now the fireflies are setting the very ground beneath her feet alight.

Dolly drives her dancer's stave, hung with feathers and bangles, onto the stone and vaults up into the air. There's a moment where her stomach lurches, even though the hundred hands are holding her tight, pulling her up into the sky, as if Jade means to make her a constellation, or as if she's going to be one of the bird dancers, soaring down to earth with the rest of her flock, making the thirteen circuits around the heart of the world. And there, hung in furs, her rival: one of the Dead Wolves, the tzitzi, her ribs all lit up with fireflies. Dolly knows better than to compare Jade's enemy designs to Starless Skies bosses again unless she really wants to get it good, but she can still think it: the baroque and over-the-top arms and armor, the skeleton iconography straight out of late-Kaliko temple art, the reverb on their laughter as they point up higher than Jade thought they could and--

Oh.

The fireflies are like hot embers washing over her bare fur (and, more to the point, her bare chest) and she lets out a muffled, mortified squeal as she tumbles backwards, but Jade's hundred hands have her, cradling her spine and head, slowing her tumble as much as Jade can without breaking their connection. Dolly lets those hands spin her around, loosening her grip on the pole, and then snatching it back out of the air as she hits the ground on one knee. Her front throbs with the feedback, and Jade's fingers are rubbing her in soothing circles, almost shyly, almost apologetically. Almost.

Not that her Jade would show weakness when she knows her Dolly needs her to be strong, needs encouragement and bravado.

"Is that all you have?" Jade roars, cackling. "I barely felt it!" One open palm cracks on Dolly's rear to get her moving again, and Jade excitedly guides her through flinging the pole straight at one of the tzitzi's arms. Her choice whether to let it get hit or to twist out of the way, buying Jade the time she needs to close. Sure, Jade's down one weapon, but that's why she has two. Dolly looses the thongs at her hip, the cords of a huntress, and spins them to life, taking deep heaving breaths from her exertion (which are translated into the fluid, organic shudders of Jade's body, just as any other mech interface would). "You must want to pay homage to a true goddess." The hundred hands tighten their grip. "Well, I already have a bride, but I might accept your pathetic prayers..."

[Dolly and Jade, working together, manage a desperate 7 on Defying Disaster, and are willing to give up their electrolance and any hope of winning without wrapping up the foe. Or, you know, it could turn out that Jade's once again underestimating Angela Victoria Miera Antonius.]

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Piripiri!

Tomorrow, the guests are leaving: Kalaya to go and begin her mission, and the highlander and the demigod to continue their pilgrimage. Which, of course, is why you are up this late, preparing for the order you have been given: to make sure that the highlander and the demigod are seen leaving, and they are not seen returning. Even if something unexpected were to happen (say, if they were to escape tonight), those would still be your orders: to ensure that their trail obviously leads away from the Dominion. You need to give the Red Wolf the plausible deniability she needs to carry out her own negotiations.

How are you preparing? Walk us through it. Have you brought Azazuka (who has been busy with being pampered by Agata, and being obviously conflictedly jealous of Giriel, the poor dear) in on this, or is this the sort of work that a student shouldn’t be trusted with?

And then, by the by, tell us your reaction when Agata’s grand barge runs aground, a terrible tremor that can be felt all throughout the ship.

***

Giriel!

Everything is falling into place: Agata’s interest in Han and Lotus, the heavenly spirit you met at Turtlehead, Ven’s attempt to offer Lotus to the powers of Hell. The most terrible burden of the witch is knowledge that brings responsibility. Is your responsibility to help Agata as a loyal slave in, most likely, keeping Lotus as a bargaining chip? Or is your responsibility to the Flower Kingdoms and making sure Lotus is free?

Either way, Three Gleaming Petals has fallen asleep on you, her shining blue robe lying forgotten on the floor, completely relaxed. It’s to her credit that she doesn’t even wake up when Agata’s barge runs aground.

***

Kalaya!

Ven says: Crunch. Snapping timbers, the groan of wood, disaster.

That’s not—

You wake up, and the cabin is tilted in a way it shouldn’t be. The barge is huge enough that your cabin hasn’t been directly breached, but something is obviously very wrong.

But if you want to get out and help (of course you do, you’re a knight, after all) you’ll have to get past the hardened guards waiting outside your door, who likely would need a push to even think about leaving, let alone let you leave.

So, Kalaya: how does a knight of the Flower Kingdoms approach a challenge like this?

***

Zhaojun!

The pink fire sparks and surges in your blood. The little foxes leave their paw prints up and down your spine as they run, run, run with their tails burning like brands.

The steering system for the barge is remarkably simple: a wheel connected to a rudder, little more. Really, if any part of this was hard, convincing the door that it was unlocked and then convincing the sailors that they were unconscious was much more difficult than convincing the barge to turn.

Which you did, because it’s what was destined. Laid out. Of course it was, because it’s what you’re doing. Everything you are doing is sanctioned. Everything you are doing is justified. Watch the fields burn.

What three things did you do before you caused the Beneficence of the Hearth to run aground? What lovely chaos prescribed action have you undertaken tonight?

***

Han!

This is before all this. Don’t worry. Not too much before, but you don’t have to worry about the ship running aground, just the fact that Emli just walked into Lotus’s cabin.

Which is a problem, because you are also in Lotus’s cabin, in the middle of packing a bag for her and explaining why you are leaving tonight, and you have no idea how much of the conversation she might have heard.

”I care because you’re our guest,” she’d said. “And because helping our guests makes me happier than I ever was back home. And also because you’re in love, and you don’t even know it.”

And Emli— Emli who’s supposed to be taking care of you, Emli who (you are belatedly realizing) will be punished for letting you escape, Emli who told you you were in love with Lotus and then let you stew in those thoughts, Emli who has been nothing but kind and sweet and wears the Dominion’s collar— she offers you the bag that she packed for you.

“Good luck,” she says, and that’s the moment you know you cannot, cannot just leave her here to be punished for letting you escape. That’s the moment you realize, Han of the Mountains, that Emli’s a little bit in love with you and Lotus, and this is what her love looks like: food stolen from the kitchens and extra raincoats and two pilfered umbrellas.

Show her (and Lotus) what a dragon’s love looks like in return. And before you get all flustered and complain, consider it a String pulled.