Tatterdemalion

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

The push and pull. The fear and the exhilaration. I shouldn’t do this, I want to do this. I should be the responsible one—

But she can’t talk.

That’s her thing, that’s her strength. She can talk and talk and talk when she needs to. A performance, a barrage of patter, taking control of the conversation because so many people are bad at it. You learn that early online. There’s no test to be a fan, no “you must be this good at using a keyboard,” let alone to try and send messages, to try and connect. Like everything else in the world that requires a bit of skill and consideration, a lot of people really aren’t good at intentionally socializing. Thus, the 3V theory of bars: getting drunk is a necessary social lubricant so that there’s more of a level playing field.

Wasn’t she here on business? She’s got to write a thing. She’s got words about music and about dancing and about how sometimes it’s okay for a place to be a place for your people, but that doesn’t mean there’s no room for new blood (but in a way that makes it clear she’s not talking about ethnostates, find a different fandom metaphor, maybe cooking?). She’s supposed to be finding the angles and making sure Black November has a great time and learning more about what makes this really cool android girl tick.

She nuzzles her lips into Black’s palm and whines, and holds one artificial but human hand against another (because November’s a person, humanity’s an umbrella, someone said that once and she stole it and ran with it) and presses it firmly. She shouldn’t be doing this. This is kink in public. There’s a whole discourse. One of the others could tell Black about it. Green? No, she’s terminally online differently. Blue? Too much of a sweetheart. Black’s fingers tighten imperceptibly and 3V lets out a needy whimper and her other hand finds Amie’s and their fingers curl together.

Permission. God, the permission. Stop thinking, 3V. Stop making decisions. Do the thing that feels good. Isn’t that what nightclubs are for? Being young and pretty and dumb? And the cover story is that they’re dating and November wouldn’t let that spin out of control. Nobody’s going to call them out for this. It’s okay. Relax, Vesna. Let go of the conversation and the evening. You don’t have to make it all line up.

“Mmmmfff,” she says, and feels safe to do so.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

”How dare she?” Smokeless Jade Fires ripples. For a moment, just a moment, her spine is ridged like one of the great lizards; for a moment, her teeth are great and terrible. She is a creature of thought, after all, and her thoughts are affronted and vast. “I’ll show HER arrogance! Dolly, my sweet, my kitten: bap!!”

And Dolly, small meek melting Dolly, Dolly who has been picked up and pulled close, Dolly who’s aware that Victoria Angela, no, Angela Victoria Miera Antonius, is strong and straightforward, like a bull, like a megafauna, and she is a small meek little thing, Dolly obeys. Dolly squirms and presses herself up against Angela and goes: bap!

But of course it is more than just smooshing her palm against Angela’s face. This is: a challenge. This is: not with claws. This is: dominance, asserted playfully but with a flick of the tail. This is: you won’t and can’t do anything about this, and even if you do, I’ll win. This is: I am brave enough to do this.

She flexes her other hand. The one in its soft black-and-grey neural mesh sleeve, her connection to Smokeless Jade Fires, the reason the goddess can see through her eyes and hear through her ears and touch her everywhere, and the fact that she is wearing it is permission, because she has the power to take it off. She could, if she wanted to. But she doesn’t.

And she doesn’t touch it to Angela Victoria Miera Antonius, either. Because that would be a declaration of war. Because she hasn’t been invited in. Because Angela would scream and reject the connection and Dolly would see her use of the glove sanctioned, at the very least socially if not officially. Because she doesn’t want Angela to be scared of Jade, even if Jade might be tempted by the thought. The flex is a reminder that the glove is there, that she hasn’t touched Angela with it, that the goddess is here, her hands covering Dolly’s hand, shifting her grip, adjusting her fingers.

Her palm lays claim to Angela’s lips, and Dolly’s heart nearly bursts out of her dress.

”Isn’t she so much better like this, Dolly?” Jade asks, flowing into the crook of Dolly’s shoulder, resting her head on Dolly’s collarbone, purring in satisfaction.

“You’re right,” Dolly says, impishness stretched taut over her awareness of an audience, her tail swishing in delighted danger, her head pounding, as she says something she’d never be brave enough to say alone. “She does sound much cuter like this.” ”Call me your bride.” “…m-my bride~! Just like when we caught her.” ”Imagine her face, getting all red, just like this, feeling the gag pulled phantom-tight, unable to get an intelligible word out even to her own ears. She’s almost as cute as you, like that. Almost.”

“You’re not her enemy,” Dolly adds. Jade pricks up her ears, watching, listening. “She’s a hunt-goddess.” She’s worked her way up into Angela’s lap now, shins on the bigger woman’s thighs, and Angela’s not letting her go, perhaps thinking this is a kitty trick, perhaps with a brain mired in flustered gridlock. That wicked little tail curls around the railing, shaking, quivering. She adjusts her hold, traces Angela’s hair with her gloved hand with the little bit of room she’s got. “You’re the quarry, Angela, and I’m just her jackal, and we both—“

Dolly cuts off, suddenly, pupils contracting. She lets out a pathetic little huff through her nose, ears swiveling as if trying to find her own voice.

”Good girl~! Good girl~! I’m so proud of you, Dolly,” Jade croons, securing the knots behind Dolly’s head. “But I think Angela Victoria Miera Antonius is, perhaps, a visual learner. Little tablethawk. And you’ve been so good. So good! My little servile bride deserves her treat, doesn’t she? Her reward? And they’re all staring at you, do you think they know? Do you think they all envy you?” Her fingers rub Dolly’s impossibly packed cheeks, pressing the thick cloth down into denser, more compact form. “She knows,” Dolly adds. “She knows she’s the third rung on the ladder. Look at her. Arrogant, am I? At least I’m not being gagged by a gagged bride, Angela Victoria Miera Antonius~”

Dolly stares into Angela’s eyes, framed by those glasses, and she feels the sensations her goddess has blessed her with, and something inside of her is combusting. Jade, Jade, Jade! She can’t sit here and stare into that affront, that pride, that building glare intermixed with fluster at having the little priestess turn on her, and not swoon a little bit, Jade, Jade, Jade! Is this what you see in her? This fighting spirit? This promise to get you back? Jade, she’s going to use your little Dolly as a footrest, or sit on her, or tie her to a chair and make an attempt at matching the goddess for silencing a priestess! The moment is explosive and forever and you shouldn’t have gagged her if you didn’t want her to, to— to want what she’s not supposed to want—

Come on, little owl. Show me. Recognize me. Show your belly and your teeth. Put my Dolly in her place. Show me that pride so I can forge a net against it. If you want my Dolly, earn her!

TSL: Sjakal

Birsi!

The Thief-Queen very much does not want to be fighting you. Not out of fear, mind you; rather, you are stubbornly placing yourself between her and the Host clambering up the side of a building towards one of her compatriots. More than that, she expected to defeat you with a flourish of her sword, and now that it is very much not happening, she’s let her (metaphorical) mask slip just a little, just an inch.

“Get out of my way,” she hisses, a sliver of real fear leaking into her voice as the sound of a furious Host behind you echoes through the close quarters. “You’re just as bad as them, you dog—”

And then the world explodes into purple-and-silver smoke, and starts to tilt on its axis. You take a deep breath before you can stop yourself, and the ground pulls itself out from under you. You land hard on your rear, and tip over onto your side, the street shaking like a plate underneath you, even as your body starts to get sweaty and extremely aware of how the cobblestones have lost the last of the heat they trapped during the day, how your stupid outfit is riding up in the back, and how the rubbing of your thighs against each other is sending shivers up and down your spine.

Someone close by giggles maniacally, and it’s not the Thief Queen.

Go ahead and Stagger.

---

Soot!

Here’s the thing. You’re not going to make it off the roof in time. The sheer terror of seeing Silsila Om’s fury unleashed is going to lock your legs up, make you teeter back onto your rump, and feebly try to crawl away as she crests the roof.

And if you agree, there’s a shiny XP in it for you. If not, roll to Defy Disaster, but be aware that the consequences will likely be even worse.

---

Silsila Om!

Strength surges through you. You are power, you are might, you are the will that impresses itself upon the world, and whoever is laughing about you still being glittery will face the consequences.

The Thief-Queen is racing after you, but even though she’s nimble and good at jumps, she’s having to dodge falling debris and she’s nowhere as strong as you are. You’ll have a beat where it’s just you and that paint-flinging hooligan, and just enough time to do something about them before she catches up.

Unless you intend to hold them hostage?

---

”Iris!”

The giddy noise that comes out of Gími suggests that you’ve flattened her. Just absolutely obliterated her ability to think. She has no idea how to handle such a pretty, graceful woman making such suggestions to her, and she’s obviously got it bad. Which, well, means she’s got some power over you, too. Because if you don’t live up to the dream you’ve waved before her eyes, it would be like punting an abandoned kitten.

That’s actually a good way to think of the girl. An abandoned alleycat all gangly and scrawny and purring the minute you’ve started showing her affection, not caring at all about how she smells.

“Yeah right so it’s just over this way if you’d like to come with me ladies usually I’d make you pay just a little Gími fee but for you it’s absolutely free don’t even think about it it’s my pleasure to help though if you really want to repay me later maybe I could think of a few lips I mean a few mouths I mean a few things!!” She takes your hand while she nervously babbles and slides her fingers between yours, squeezing possessively tight, her palm clammy and gross, her heartbeat pounding so hard you can feel it.

The way in, as it turns out, is scrabbling up one of those great, imposing horse pillars. You can try to climb it alone (which would be Defying Disaster)… or you can let Gími help you up. The process will involve a lot of Gími pushing, tugging, and otherwise helping you up by touching you a lot— and you’ll even have to give her another String in the process!

Breathless Dead

Redana’s head throbs where Beautiful kicked her[1]. Her back screams where she stumbled into the jutting spur of a reliquary[2]. And her fighting instincts kick in; she braces herself against the stone behind her, stares down her opponent, gauges the space between them.

“Bella is my… she used to be my maid,” Dany says, glaring into those wicked violet eyes. “She’s mean and beautiful and doesn’t give up, and she cares about you enough that she risked her life to save you on Sahar.”

And what Dany hasn’t thought through is how Beautiful will disassemble her body language, her word choice, her tone. That she’s just handed one of the Ikarani the following pieces of information:

• Redana Claudius is head over heels for Bella.
• Redana Claudius still feels complicated about that fact; it’s till unsettled, it’s in flux.
• Redana Claudius believes that Bella has feelings for you, Beautiful, and is jealous of this fact; she’s mostly convinced herself she is not.
• Bella saved you from going Rampant, and Redana was likely involved in this process, unclear on which side.

“So stop being an ass and stand down,” Redana commands. “I don’t want to have to hurt you,” Redana lies. “As I said: just help me find Bella, like I was trying to do, and you can go back to sleep.”

If Beautiful pulls the trigger, Dany will charge through the SP shot like a bull. Easily redirected, easily dunked on. She’s got power and speed and is a coiled spring right now, but she’s an open book of resentment and barely-managed envy and brass knuckles. About as comparatively dangerous as a small but vicious dog, not liable to kill but very willing to pummel.

---

[1]: right in the fucking Ajna, the flower of command, because Beautiful does not fuck around.

[2]: Of Artemis Indefatigable.

TSL: Sjakal

Birsi! Silsila!

The good news is that there aren’t any guards on the Crack tonight; just a heavy bit of netting draped over the hole. Might have caused Birsi trouble, but not the mighty Silsila Om. But what’s likely to cause her trouble is the fact that your quarry’s here waiting for you. Alone.

Her fair hair shines in the faint light of the back alley as she dangles her legs over the lip of the Crack, though it’s too dark to really get the effect of the feathers woven into her braids. She’s wearing an elaborate silver-spangled mask over her face, and a long, thin sword rests at her hip.

“Hello, girls,” she purrs, lifting a bottle and gesturing broadly with it. “Looking for a good time? You won’t find better in the 78 Heavens…”

---

Soot!

From up here, on a rooftop (one no longer used for much, given the risk of peering eyes from the upper levels of the 78 Heavens), you can see the shape of the trap. Tall Rat’s ready to block any retreat, lurking in the shadows behind the two from the palace. Giggly Rat’s hiding in a doorway, ready to toss out some interesting alchemical concoctions, and—

It looks like somebody left a net right here. Someone like Bowlyn, say. And if a painter were to toss the net off the roof, it might land on someone, tangle them up, get them in quite a bit of trouble.

Do you, Soot? Who do you aim it for? Or do you just hide and watch this play out?

---

”Iris!”

There’s an entry fee. Of course there’s an entry fee. Why wouldn’t there be an entry fee?

From here, on Cart Street, you can see that the gilt entrance to the 78 Heavens (a huge structure, not the size of the Adamant but easily twice as large as the lord’s castle back home, looming up into the sky on the backs of horse-pillars) is manned by well-dressed gatekeepers, who receive entrance fees from guests, whether they come alone or in small groups. And you didn’t particularly bring money tonight, did you?

“Hey.” “Jasmine” makes a slight squeak and jumps; a scrawny girl with thatchy dark hair and an acne-scarred forehead has approached the two of you. “First time visiting the 78? Yeah, yeah, you’ve got that look about you. Listen, if you want, I can show you a way in that even Mother Bes doesn’t know about.”

“Are you sure?” Grace— er, “Jasmine” sounds hopeful. “We wouldn’t want to impose, would we, Iris? It’s just that we forgot our purses back at home, and…”

“No problem at all!” Under her veil, she might be smiling. “I just couldn’t let two lovely ladies like you go without offering my services. Call me Gími.” (That’s an interesting slur to the first vowel to your foreign ears. Gími.) She offers her hand (sweaty) to “Jasmine,” who graciously accepts…

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Maid Confined in Yearning!

Being bad at something you love is very frustrating. You were once definitionally good at swordplay. You must have been. You were War. That red hussy thinks she’s all that, but she can’t hold a candle up to you. So you were, of course, the best at swordplay, and spear drills, and shooting firewands, and thus had no need to stoop so low as to actually perform. You knew you were skilled, and they were arts of war, and therefore you claimed them and loved them. That’s how owning concepts works. You occupy them, exploit them, and leverage them.

So it is embarrassing that you are this bad at actually fighting. It’s not your fault! It really isn’t! If you were as strong as you’re supposed to be, you could destroy entire armies of the Rakshasa, wither them beneath iron and fire, see their strategies unravel and turn to dust, and claim their territories as your own, anchor them, claim them for the world you helped make! But she made you clumsy and flushed and turned this body to cross-purposes! It’s her fault, that smug, superior, scheming spirit that didn’t even have the good grace to not fall to a common garden goblin when she bested you!

You are not pathetic! You are not below the likes of this parasite! You are Maid Confined in Yearning, and you will prevail, no matter how you are sweating, and panting, and bouncing, and even if this body is a liability, your will is adamant!

You fling yourself at the parasite before it can insult you further by ordering your conqueror about; you go tumbling, and you yank, pull, tear, using your fumbling fingers and your blunt teeth and your kicking legs to explain to the Rakshasa that you are not going to lose again!

Then she grabs your wrists and pins you to the deck.

The look in her eyes is wild and dangerous and it’s your body’s fault, this weak and mortal thing, that makes your face heat up and your heart race in panic and a pathetic, helpless squeak escape your blubbering lips and your hips are rocking from side to side, your toes not finding any purchase on the rain-slick deck, and she’s going to eat you and you can’t make her let go of you and nobody’s coming to help you, why is she so cruel as to ignore you like this when she put you in here, why won’t she come over and tear the vicious hungry thing off of you and stroke your hair until you stop shaking it’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not fair!

“S-someone, save meeeeeeeee! Pleaaaaaaaaaase!!” And right there, right then, you mean it. You want someone to come and save you, because you’re a useless little thing and you want to be held, you don’t want to die, you just want to be safe—

A white sword lifts the Rakshasa’s chin, and she does her best to look small and pitiable, even though her fingers are digging into your soft skin. The person holding it is one of the children of the upstart dragons, but right now, you don’t care, do you? You’re sobbing in relief, stupid little buttoned top heaving as you take snot-choked breaths, your body swamped by gratitude.

“What have you done to my soldiers?” The Red Wolf’s voice is caustic, searing. She’s barely holding back her fangs, and a silly little thing like you can’t remember if that’s literal or not.

“I didn’t do anything,” the Rakshasa simpers. The Red Wolf opens her eyes again and the air chars. You whimper and shut your eyes but she can see through you, all of you, and what does she see? Frills and lace and needy rubbing? Blushing cheeks and mincing steps and you will never go home? “I didn’t,” the Rakshasa growls, defiant. “Whatever is on them is her work.”

The Red Wolf half-turns to look at your conqueror, and the Rakshasa lets go of you, is snaking upwards, fangs open and nails sharp—

And the mean dragon opens an umbrella sharply in her face, and the Rakshasa stumbles back, trips over you, hits the railing with a scream and tumbles over, and the force of it sends you bashing against the railings and you hear them creak and you just keep screaming, and you don’t know whether or not you’d survive because you’re not thinking about it, you just don’t want to fall, please don’t just let you fall, do something, the railing’s creaking harder with every pitch and thump of the ship, and nobody cares enough to save you.

---

Piripiri!

You snap your umbrella shut. The demon maid, one arm dangling through the railing, one heel wedged beneath it, is screaming her head off. The Red Wolf gives you a nod of gratitude, shifting her grip on her sword.

“Jaws,” she says. She means for you to help her flank the blue-robed thing that’s dangling Giriel over the side of the barge, threatening her with a firewand to the forehead. No time for saving sobbing, useless demons. (She must be feeling more terror right now than in her entire existence.)

And then—

On the other side of the deck, three Flower Knights burst through a door. Kalaya Na, Petony the Tiger Knight, and…

Uusha.

The Tiger Knight is saying something, but Uusha is staring at the Red Wolf, and, uncharacteristically, the Red Wolf is staring right back, not moving forward, not leaving her flank open. Her eyes flick once to Giriel, and then back to Uusha; her hand is, for a moment, unsteady on her sword.

“…save her,” Cathak Agata asks you. Begs you. And then she turns to face Uusha, both hands on her sword’s hilt, and the anger roiling off her is causing the rain to hiss and steam away all around.

---

Kalaya!

“We need to go,” Petony half-snarls at Uusha. “Victorious Vixen of Violets has already given us all the distraction we can afford!”

What a distraction. The barge is careening deeper and deeper into the tangled forests of the Flower Kingdoms, and even beginning to tilt upwards; it’s cutting a path back northwards. Away from Chrysanth, back towards N’yari country. It’s unclear how Petony thinks that she can get all of you off safely, or how she thinks that priestess managed to do this at all.

The air’s cut apart by shrill, desperate, helpless screaming from a maid, frantically kicking and scrabbling over by a railing, unable to get to her feet for some reason. Piripiri is on the other side, too, and—

Cathak Agata, standing opposite Uusha, holding her sword like it’s a dragon’s thunderbolt.

“She’s not going to let us leave,” Uusha says, the words slamming into place with the weight of lead. Her armor creaks as she shifts her weight. “But there’s three of us. Two of them. And she’s scared.”

“We need to leave, you glory-seeking bitch!”

“Everything I have done, I have done for us! Now if you value your oaths to our land, our people, and our gods, fall in line!”

Petony looks like she’s either going to piss herself or take a furious swing at Uusha, and it’s hard to blame her. Those last three words were delivered like a furious mother losing the last of her patience— but there was something of a monster’s roar in them, too. If Uusha’s still in pain from being shot, she doesn’t show it as she draws herself up to her full height and lets the cloth wrapping fall from her spear.

Her gauntlets close around its shaft.

And with a guttural roar, Uusha suddenly charges across the deck at Cathak Agata.

---

Lotus of Tranquil Waters!

You have a lot of pent-up makeouts inside of you and they come exploding out like a geyser. Look, Han! Are you watching? This is what you can do!

You guide her hands up to cup and squeeze and a happy shiver runs through you. Your mouth is wet and scented like flowers, and you give its gift to Emli, who has visited you, who still smells like Han. And since Han probably thinks you’re terrible anyway, a selfish heartbreaker who takes kisses and doesn’t care about her feelings, well…

Maybe it’s okay to intermingle the kisses she gave Emli, the kisses you wish she wanted to give you, and the way you’re smacking your hungry, inexperienced mouth all over hers. She holds you, she has you, she’s appreciating you, she’s touching your body and she wants to, and a terrible awful part of you really does hope that Han might be watching. Maybe…

No. She’ll just know that she was right about you. Spoiled princess. Liar, pervert and worse. Should have tossed you to the N’yari. Shouldn’t have bothered to save you as a strong, beautiful, incredible dragon. Shouldn’t be saving you, even now.

But it feels too good, and you’re too weak, and if Han won’t hold you, at least Emli will, right here, right now. And maybe you can dream about Han tugging both of you by leashes, pulling you into bed, and the three of you sharing kisses until you can’t figure out where one of you ends and another begins, but later. In between thinking about Han kissing you like she kissed Emli, pressing you up against that wall, but being so gentle, exploring, being such a sweetheart with all of her strength, and—

“Good girl,” Emli gasps, and your thinkies capsize.

You’re glowing when she finally leads you back to the bed, helps you readjust your veil, folds your hands neatly in your lap, and leaves you to burn inside. You can’t look Han in the eyes. You want to turn and stare and see what she thinks. You aren’t brave enough.

“So, Han… are you ready to tie me up?”

Oh wow you’re braver than you thought actually hi Han yes would you like to tie up the girl who you both just kissed? Do you need help maybe? Does she remind you of anybody?

You are hopelessly gay. There is no cure.

Breathless Dead

The brass knuckles are out. Dany’s body was the one that made that call, slipping them over her hands and curling into fists, forming a boxing stance. Strong footing, hands up, ready to block or snap out, catch any opening. This isn’t an exhausted, bloodied girl flailing on a rooftop; this is Redana Claudius, strong contender for the Gold.

“Stand down,” she says. Her pulse pounds through her fists. “You are a prisoner of the Princess Redana Claudius of Tellus.” Her body is a spring. It would feel so good to let the tension loose. To catch that perfect nose square on. “Your Master is dead… or worse… and I did it. I and Bella, of your Orders.” Which one was Bella? They’re all an inchoate mass of deadly tricks in her head.

The situation is… bad. Not because she doesn’t think she can go toe-to-toe with this huntress (she can, at least long enough for the battle to be noticed, probably) but because she’s… distracted. The way that the assassin moves. The flexibility, the inhuman grace, the precision. It’s not the same as what Dany can do, all raw power and stamina, but game recognizes game, training recognizes training. The blonde locks spilling down her back, the insouciant little smirk as she drinks Dany in, the long legs, the delicate power… no wonder Bella had it bad for her. Don’t think about being chased, Dany. Square up, hold your ground, show her your mettle.

“…and I only opened up your box because I needed to know if she was inside,” Redana lies, trying to shore up the moral high ground. “Help me find her, and I’ll let you keep sleeping before you run rampant.” There? See? Nobody needs to get punched in the face, and if somebody does, then they clearly deserved it for rejecting such a sensible offer, so there.

TSL: Sjakal

Silsila! Birsi!

The city of Sjakal opens up before the two of you, spreading out like a brand on the world, all lit up by lanterns in the gathering dusk. The light makes it harder, down there, to see the stars spread out across heaven. Down there, it's a labyrinth, a city built above and below another city, an orderly city of wide streets and gardens devoured by the need for more housing, more warehouses, more markets, more wealth and more bodies, by bright canvas and wood, by the irrepressible spirit of the Faithful.

Turn to look southward, and you can see the most likely place for your investigations to begin tonight: the 78 Heavens, a neighborhood built entirely within the old Circus. Where once chariots raced and the crowd roared, now there is a city within the city, one that never sleeps, one where any traveler can buy a bed for the night, companionship for the night, spectacle for the night, and things which the Stewards very much frown upon being sold. It's a confounding maze of signage and noise inside, but there are very few ways in, and all of them controlled by Mother Bes and her family.

Silsila: the Fire Wheels view the 78 Heavens as being beneath them; they're in the lap of luxury, they're not going to go slumming it. Why go buy overpriced drinks to see a fight when they could watch you and Rosethal go at it? That's good, by the way. If the Fire Wheels let loose inside the 78 Heavens, well. It's very flammable, it's got few exits, and it's full of the dregs of Sjakal. People would get really hurt. Maybe that's one reason Hai Lin is sending you here; the reason she gave you, on the other hand, is just that the House Guard must be proactive in defending the Sultan. (Funny, given that she's not been very proactive against possible threats inside the Adamant.)

Birsi: the 78 Heavens are a raucous den of iniquity. Or so you've heard, because you've never been. You keep your nose clean, don't you? You're above all that sort of thing; you thrive in the knowledge of a job well done, the simple pleasure of being praised. But here you are, red-headed and doing your best to scowl. Maybe even try spitting in the street, if your heart can take it. You're unveiled, given equal parts deference and glares by the people you pass, and walking into a dangerous assignment.

At least you have surprise on your side. Tell us about making your way through the lively streets, as people make way (or shout insults from the safety of an alleyway mouth), and how you plan to barge your way into the 78 Heavens like proper Fire Wheels.

---

Soot!

"Hey, Soot~"

Bowlyn melts out of the shadows as you take a shortcut between Mercy and Largesse, accompanied by two of her Rats (as the gang calls themselves). There's a bounce to her step, all anticipation and nervous energy. "You sure you want to be out tonight?"

"It's going to be messy tonight," Tall Rat says, with naked glee. They're a gangly one, usually involved with climbing and clambering and shimmying out of windows. "Sword work. Big work."

"A lapdog and a kettle." A member of the House Guard? And a Host? Giggly Rat (that's the best nickname you've got for her) seems pretty jazzed at the thought.

"You might want to go home and bolt the windows," Bowlyn says, and she does a pretty good job of hiding from the Rats that she's a little worried about you. "There's a difference between painting and... well, dealing with this." But if you insist, she won't stop you. You've got her gift, after all. You've got style. And even if she loves your graffiti, and might indulge in it with you after the sword work (if she wins), well.

She might be in the market to commission art of a House Guard and a Host in a compromising position, if she wins. And as long as you've known her, Bowlyn has always won.

---

"Iris!"

"Jasmine" comes up coughing and red-faced, but a sniffle or two and clinging to your sleeve and she's fine. What a brave girl, holding it all in until you helped her out. "I am never complaining about what our maids do again," she swears. "Imagine having to... well!!" (She says it like she complains about them all the time. She doesn't. She'd probably lie to cover for them if Ruz found something to criticize about their work.) Then she giggles, and takes you by the hand, and pulls you along as she runs.

She nearly gets both of you run over by a cart pulling out of a narrow street.

But she barely notices, and she's giddy as she lets herself run in a way she hasn't been able to do ever since you met her, and likely before then. She's drinking in everything around her, but she's got an end point in mind: the top of a hill, topped by a statue to the legendary hero that built this place, on the other side of a bridge. By the time you reach the statue's base, both of you are hitting the wall pretty hard, though she's definitely more pampered than you. But that doesn't stop her from looking out over the southward swell of the city and putting her hands to her chest and making a sound like she's either about to start laughing or crying.

"It's Sjakal," she says, and she's definitely losing the battle against crying. And, to be honest, can you blame her? This is the biggest city you've ever seen in your life. It glows like a fire underneath the almost-black sky, and you can make out the bright colors of the streets (where they're not covered by gaudy banners or makeshift archways) and the stateliness of the city's many cypress trees pointing up at the sky. It's beautiful. It's dangerous. It's unexplored. It's brooding. Anything could be around the next corner. Anything could be around the next corner.

Then she turns and throws her arms around you, and she's hugging you like she hugs one of her pillows. "Thank you thank you thank you," she says, the words bursting out of her like water pouring through a broken dam. "Nahla, I-- Iris, I mean, we did it, we did it!!"

You're going to be in trouble tonight. Whatever you do, whatever you say to her, she's going to end up in trouble somehow. But maybe it'll be worth it for how happy she is, right here and now?

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"I didn't taunt you."

It's a testament to Dolly's fortitude, her inner strength that Jade curls about like a fortress, that she's able to get the words out. She could just lean forward. She could smush her face up against that hand and breathe in deep, feeling the pressure against her face, letting the smell swirl about her head. The smell of excitement and attentiveness flooding through her and underneath, her washed skin, the body wash that lingers on it, and what would the distinct tang of sweat add to that? A shiver rumbles down through her bushing tail.

Jade is amazing at visuals, and sounds, and especially tactile sensations, where she is an unparalleled goddess. But she's sensitive about the fact that she's still learning how to replicate smell and taste, particularly because she knows. She knows that Dolly is Hybrasilian, and she knows that Dolly finds those senses particularly appealing, her little heart racing when she finds something particularly interesting. Not that she can't feed Dolly's adorable nose and thirsty little tongue information, but she has to play it safe; if she messes something up, if she makes something that Dolly can't handle, she'll end up with Dolly retching into a wastebasket again. And that leads to an unpiloted mech stomping around a training zone, cursing in furious garbled code and smashing targets, while her beloved pilot lies in bed with her face buried in a pillow.

"You know, maybe I should push you forward," Jade purrs, knotting her fingers in Dolly's hair. "Get that beautiful face all over her hand. But that's not where you want to be, is it, my heart, my beloved, my priestess? You want a footstool and your hands nice and neat behind your back while I hold you in place right in that cleft, don't you? While she squirms and makes muffled, useless complaints, the color so, so bright on those smooth cheeks of hers?"

"I am Dala of the Hunter Clan, whose star name is Seven Quetzal, and I serve the goddess Smokeless Jade Fires, who lives inside of the mech you fought. Not like a pattern intelligence, she's more than that. But I did enjoy piloting her while she fought you, and she enjoyed it, too." "Tell her I want to fight her again." "She would like to fight you again in the future," Dolly says, and smiles, and means the smile. She's being nice, which she always enjoys, and maybe she'll get to be friends with this big, emotional, nice-smelling alien girl.

"Tell her I'm going to put her in her place."

Dolly locks up. Her heart starts hammering, her eyes wide as she stares up at Angela Victoria Midoriya Antonius. Jade lazily wraps a tail around her midriff, squeezing possessively, nails playing on Dolly's shoulders. This is what it means to be the mouthpiece of a goddess, isn't it, Dolly? But it's not just embarrassment, is it, Dolly? Her body can't lie to a goddess. Jade knows how she's reacting to being on the spot. How she wants to bury her face in Jade as soon as this is over, and shake and mew, but how at the same time she couldn't be moved from the spotlight with a construction crane right at this second.

"...and she is going to put you in your place," Dolly continues, squeezing her thighs together. "Good girl. MY girl." "She helped me find mine. Everything we did in that fight was only possible because of her instruction, her guidance, her knowledge of what I can do. If she thought you were a bad pilot she wouldn't even be saying that, she'd... she'd want me to insist on calling you Trophy." "Maybe I should." "So when we fight again, Angela Victoria Mmmmiera(?) Antonius, please give us your best! It's a holy duty! And tonight..."

Jade goes silent, her fingers flexing on Dolly's body, her breath felt rather than heard. In, out. In, out. She lets Dolly stumble for a moment, free of puppet strings. A test, to see whether she chooses to exalt her goddess. But more than that: uncertainty as to what her Dolly is going to say. Smokeless Jade Fires acts on her desires, but in this moment? She wants her Dolly to speak what's inside her heart.

"Tonight, would you like to watch the show with me? I understand if you're upset, but I promise we don't want to hurt you." "I do. But the good kind. The fun kind. I want her to writhe for me." "...we don't want to really hurt you," Dolly amends, stumbling back over her words. "It's just that I'd like the chance to make it up to you? To prove that there's no hard feelings from us, and maybe help you feel better, too?"

"What if she wants you to make it up to her by kissing you, Dolly? Wants you to be her little trophy for the night? Would you do it? Sit in her lap and purr? Wear a collar for her?" Jade's tone is light, teasing, as she runs rings with her fingers. "A Trophy like her? What would THAT be like, being the trophy of a Trophy? Maybe I should let her. You'd love it, wouldn't you~? My lusty little bride~" She nips and tugs at Dolly's ear with a playfully mocking growl, dancing back and forth on the line, letting her own crystal heart throb with something which might be adrenaline as she envisions making her bride and her Trophy kiss, jealous and needy and achingly curious at the same time. She can't stop herself from panting into her bride's ear, letting vent some of that confusing mess.

And Dolly leans forward, ever so slightly, Jade not moving her but moving with her, and huffs the scent of Angela Victoria Miera Antonius. The tip of her tail curls, clenched tight against itself, as she imagines that, too, being used to make her goddess and a flustered alien pilot happy, plummeting down into a new and degrading social role for an evening, face pressed against the alien's inviting chest, wearing a spirit collar and a real collar, doing everything she's told until her goddess takes her up in all of her hands and uses her, again, as a weapon. But the kind of weapon that can be forgiven, even cherished.

[Dolly attempts to Figure Out the alien pilot and gets a beautiful little 6, hopefully leaving her open to being counter-read, or perhaps ending up in over her head with Angela. She also hopefully activates Wingmate, giving Jade +1 forward to her next Fight or Entice against Angela.]

TSL: Sjakal

Leaving the Adamant is no simple matter. It has few gates, and those closely guarded; but even then, there are those who must pass in and out. Most who do wish they didn’t have to; traveling by night has become more perilous as of late. The Fire Wheels will go roaring and wild out of the Blue Gate, which means that it has become the most perilous route of all. So here at twilight the palace expels its servants, its common-born, and its terrors, and soon the five of you, too, will join the trickles out into the city of Sjakal, wild and tumultuous…

---

Nahla!

Grace-of-Heaven practically glows with your reassurance, and quickly puts on the simple linen clothes of a common citizen, the sort whose household would only support one or two slaves at most. She unlocks your own collar with a key she secreted away; permanently welding a collar is both inhumane and unfashionable, because a woman of means should be able to provide you with multiple accessorizing collars for every occasion and outfit.

The Faithful are odd in that sort of way. It’s all about power and control, clearly delineating who gives orders and who follows them, but people’s roles are fluid in practice. It’s possible to rise and fall, to be freed or to be enslaved, and almost nobody ends up permanently locked in place. Back home, social classes were much more static.

But here? Grace-of-Heaven looks surprisingly natural in a simple, opaque veil, wearing a mantle over a belted dress, with flat sandals and her hair loose under a flower-mimicking headband. The sparkle in her eyes, the bounce to her steps, the feeling that everything is going to turn out all right: that’s all her, independent of her title and her ownership of you.

Right now, anyone who saw you in the street would take you for equals. Friends, or family members, or even… well, girlfriends. Especially if you hold her hand to help guide her along.

“How about… hmmm… oh, but what if I say the wrong thing? The wrong name, I mean. If I pick the sort of name people don’t actually use, people, other people, would be suspicious of us! But maybe… nicknames? Little simple things? Maybe that would work!” She takes your hands in hers for a moment and squeezes. “How about… I’ll be Flower and you’ll be Darling? Or, no, that’s… Ring? Clever? North? Do any of those work?” Oof. North is a bit on the nose. Might as well be Foreigner.

Whatever name you end up picking, it’s time for you to reveal how you’re getting out of here!

[Grace-of-Heaven accepts, and clears a Condition. You have your choice of boons.]

---

Silsila! Birsi!

The Fire Wheel costume is laid out on the briefing table with the reverence of a suit of armor. Red and black, festooned with tassels and trophies, lacking a veil entirely.

“It is difficult for us to work in the city at present,” Hai Lin explains, hands behind her back, smiling in the way she does when she’s playing the General’s Game, her pleasantly serene and perfectly ironclad game face, which doesn’t move an inch whether she’s winning or losing. “Therefore, given this unique opportunity, I think the Fire Wheels will act in the city instead.”

That does make sense, Birsi. She can’t assign you anything sensitive with Ekh’s Host standing right here; she can’t make a play that requires secrets to be kept from the barbarian. But she’s instead turned this into an opportunity to pursue a different goal.

“Namely, you will go out and act with the decisiveness and personal initiative expected of a Fire Wheel— not in any way to discredit them, and indeed, this may bring them some credit. But you must be allowed to act in ways that, perhaps, might be unbecoming of one of our company.”

She gestures at the grand mural of the city that takes up one wall of her meeting room. “There is an element of unrest in the city at present that is difficult for us to address, given our duty.” You’re the House Guard, after all; you only leave the Adamant in the company of the Sultan or their servants while on duty, traditionally. “One in particular seems likely to present a threat to our duty. One Bowlyn, a leader of thieves who is acting against the Faithful and our… associates.” She means the Fire Wheels.

You know a little about that, Silsila. The Thief-Queen’s been making fools of the Fire Wheels, as much as she can; looting houses while you speak with the owners, picking off Fire Wheels left alone, and leaving graffiti at the scene of the crime.

“The two of you will go out and, working together, see this disruptive element inconvenienced to the best of your ability.” Carefully worded. It allows for anything up to bringing her and her thieves in bound up in a coffle, or as little as bringing back more information that Hai Lin can then feed back to the Stewards.

She then turns to Silsila, still smiling regally, impossible to read. “Host, given the terms of your arrangement tonight, I would prefer to request that you assist our Birsi in looking particularly appropriate for the part.” Unspoken: otherwise I will order Birsi to order you, but I don’t want to put strain on tonight’s working relationship, especially given that you are still the slave of a rival player in the palace.

So, Silsila: what does giving Birsi a Fire Wheel makeover look like? Is hair dye involved? How do you stop her from standing out like a sore thumb?

Birsi: this is an order from a superior. But what are your personal thoughts on this mission? It’s dangerous for you, which is both daunting and a sign of how much trust Hai Lin places in you.

---

Soot!

You are released, full of delicious food and projects to be working on for the foreseeable future, to pack up and dream of your promised workspace. Tell us all about the process of leaving the Adamant: how you are frisked by the House Guard, how you prepare to defend yourself against the steadily more perilous walk home, and to what degree you daydream your way through it.

Because, after all, you have business this evening on the streets. Graffiti to paint. A new design to emblazon proudly.

And maybe you’ll run into Bowlyn tonight, the Thief-Queen of Sjakal, who is your— sister? Childhood friend? Other crush? Artistic influence? How are you very closely connected to one of the most wanted women in all of Sjakal?