Tatterdemalion

Breathless Dead

A dark shape cuts through the water with the ease of a shark. Out of the many dangers of the deep, she knows that she is one of them; that she is a part of the host of the outside. And so as a shark, sharp-toothed and sleek, dangerous but not vicious, Ember passes by crabs and jellyfish with equal ease. The residual intensity of the Adaption Instinct edges everything in crisp colors, but by the time that she beholds the ruin, it had almost passed. Almost.

It roars up her spine again, eyes wide, aware that what she is seeing is, no, has the capability of being a threat. It is without life, without animation, but it is intrinsically dangerous. Like a sword, lying unsheathed on a table. Even broken on the seafloor, this cyclopean ruin (for it was they, the one-eyed, who made the weapons of the gods) is a possible threat to the Silver Divers, and it is...

It is not her responsibility to investigate yet. And yet, she hovers in the water, slowly treads, looks down at the achingly familiar mystery. It is her duty to bring news of the dragon and its light-scanner to her packmates. It is, technically, still her duty to fulfill her training exercise. Going on an exploration of whatever lies inside that husk, bleeding death into the water, a slow accumulation of toxins that have her shivering just from the trace elements working their way into her nose from this far away, is not her duty. If she dies, breathless and trapped, or poisoned by the deathwound of this titan, then her information about the dragon's tactical capabilities may come too late. It is not her duty.

And yet, she struggles. She can see a gash torn in its flank, the deathblow of a comet. She yearns to swim inside, to walk down its halls, to see the drowned fountains, the miles of corridors cable-wreathed, the old chambers, the starheart, the starheart, the starheart, bound in adamant and raging, even buried beneath the weight of Poseidon, its veins seeping into the water, its claws abandoned in the corridors, its crew all shelled and pincered now, missing the captain, missing the temple, missing the stowaways, missing the statue, missing the princess, missing--

Her hand touches its flank and she starts. The water around her is clouded, stagnant, clinging to her fur. She kicks off, nostrils sealed, limbs pumping, and spends far too long getting to where the water is clear, and her heart is racing, and the tightness in her chest tells her that it is time for her to return to the surface. But she knows.

The way, that is. If she can lead from the beach, the dragon has given her the gift of knowing exactly, exactly how to reach the fallen titan. She can come back with packmates, with wetsuits, with rebreather muzzles, with her Alphas, who will know what to do with this impossible primordial corpse, how to pick its bones, how to learn its secrets, how to call for a reclaimer fleet; with pumps, this could even be their new fortress until it is lifted back into the stars.

It belongs among the stars.

Is she light-headed because the sun is drawing close, or because the thought has lodged inside of her brain like a knife in flesh?

It belongs hanging, impossible, beautiful, among the stars, and she belongs on it.

She loves it like she loves her pack. She knows its secrets, its turns, its furious planet-devouring heart.

And she has never seen it before in her life.

Ember breaks the surface of the waves with a gasp that is a scream, and she reaches up, tries to keep going, lifts her hand up towards the sky and the stars, and then she bobs beneath the water again, and the shock of it makes her sputter, shake her head, unseal her nostrils. She is already trying to sweat out toxins. She needs to get to her pack, to be hosed down, to deliver her message, and then--

And then they will invade the sea.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

The timing's uncanny; the live musical performance has changed from the moving Hybrasilian ballad Among the Reeds, Unseen to a modernized performance of the traditional Terenian folk song Rotten Red Fruit, with a pre-programmed light show casting shadows of old gods and demons on the walls. Jade lets them through. (It's not that she's micromanaging the entire electronics system here, it's more that she's added herself to the great big complex system, another layer of projection and audio, Ksharta thinks.) The whine of the guitar, the thump-thump-thump of the drum (like all their hearts), the lyrics of defiance in the face of the two-faced coin of oppression and desire, they're all for this, all for now, for

Angela, whirling, catching the Empress of Zaldar behind her ankle and swinging her down into a dip, so she can whirl her back up and send her spinning into her rival, so she can spread her arms and laugh, so she can have the Empress shoved back into her, the impact sending shivering sparks across her front, the impact enough to rock her back on her heels, but those nails are digging into her shoulders as she's clutched possessively

Dolly, pulled into a red-lamped room, pinned against the wall, as Valynia thumbs the faint shape on her shoulder where her fur hasn't fully grown back in yet, the same shape Dolly insisted on only having partially filled in, the same shape Dolly's found herself occasionally touching, and the way Valynia rubs up against her and smiles sends shivering sparks across her front, and she takes a deep breath

Jade, many-eyed, but the security cameras weren't cleared for this performance, and the shadows shivering across the walls remind her too much of the underworld, and Dolly's delight is the same as Angela's delight and they're both things that she can't give, not really, the impact and the softness, the violence and the scent, but she does her best, doesn't she, and her jealousy claws and bites against the growing realization that she can feel it, too, she can smell it, too, she can feel fierce and small at the same time, if she closes her eyes she can feel the blood pumping hard under Angela's skin and she can smell Valynia Bander's intoxicating perfume

Ksharta hiding behind the buffet table, tail curling and twitching, aware that literally everyone else in this harem/polycule/channel/situation is horny as fuck right now

Angela, one wrist twisted behind her back as she's sandwiched between two possessive dragon girls, using her other hand to tilt up an imperial jaw, teeth bared in a grin, feeling the excited shiver as she pushes herself back against the other, dimly aware that she's the axis on which an entire species' intrigue turns tonight, wishing that there was something similar for the kittens, imagine if there were two goddesses fighting over her

Dolly, feeling Valynia's fangs on her neck, tugging, tongue dragging on her fur, mewling into her, but with enough devotion to her goddess to try and give as good as she's getting, cupping Valynia's toned butt and lifting it into a biscuit, wishing that the wall behind her was Jade feeling her up, and it would be bad if she was kidnapped from the party, wouldn't it, it would be a security disaster, so there's reasons to hope that doesn't happen, beyond the tangled-up feelings of what that would do to Jade

Jade, running into someone, no, through someone, passing through them like a ghost, wishing she was able to tear herself apart and be everywhere at once, glorying in Angela's physicality the way that Dolly does, helping Valynia turn her priestess into a shivering mess, running a reassuring hand through the fur on the back of Ksharta's head, and

"You know we can feel it, too," Ksharta whispers.

The desire is a loop, the want that is tying the four of them together, one hand clutched together, the other reaching out. There's more bleed the more it gets; palms over mouths, hands on wrists, eyes drinking it in, and the yawning need to meet those desires, to be a good girl, to make them sing like Whispered Promise can.

Jade stops. She doesn't know what room she's in. The song is reaching a crescendo. Black and white war on the shining walls, each one containing the next figure. She crosses her legs and folds her hands in her lap, seated on the air, and she opens up her heart, unfolding like the flower, and in that moment of vulnerability her harem can feel her helplessness on the strings of Whispered Promise, her need to keep Dolly safe, her hunger to be good for them and to deserve them.

And her hands are on Angela's wrists, guiding, squeezing, a halo of jade fire around her head, an encouragement to give as good as she can get, to make her goddess proud, to teach them not to underestimate Angela Victoria Miera Antonius, to show the goddess what this kind of fight is like and how to glory in having a body, how to enjoy the throb of pain, and she'll guide you to the victory you want

And her hands are under Dolly's corset, under Valynia's dress, digging in, working in circles, the hot breath on Valynia's neck, and if you want her you must have me too, the sting of the brand on Dolly's shoulder replaying on Valynia's skin, and hands between them offering materials with which to shut her up, this is how we play, Valynia Bander, with magic and trust and the glory of a goddess, and what you do to her you share with the harem

And her hands are running slow trails through Ksharta's fur, relaxing, comforting, reassuring, you are part of us but you are not required to lose yourself in the decadence, my heart is a stone temple and there is unquenchable fire there which gives off no smoke but there is also water, cool on the tongue, soothing, and in this space it is your choice to walk into the fire, and you are my good girl, Ksharta Talonna, I am proud of you, your cooking and your hunting, and your courage to wear me tonight, now tap my hand if you need more attention because Dolly you are a bad, bad girl, seduce her MORE, use your BODY, show her why I CHOSE YOU, I LOVE YOU--

And guests gawk at the figure of the goddess, eyes closed, handless arms unfolding behind her like the petals of the flower, the water of the Fishers dripping from her mask, an art installation, another performance, they say that she's actually the mecha that Seven Quetzal pilots, you weren't here when she pulled herself free from it, she's actually a hologram and a Hybrasilian psyop because of the Empresses being here tonight, you can pass right through her, what in the world is she doing?

Smokeless Jade Fires doesn't care. She can't. Her world is three women, and what she can be for them. That is enough.

Breathless Dead

She's not afraid.

The first time this happened, there was an attempt to be afraid; she didn't know what was going on, why she was hyperfixating on the grin on Plundering Fang's face, the tilt of the sky as she turned on her axis, the tautness of her muscles as her heels left the ground, the wetness of her own half-open mouth, the nails digging into her side. But it was submerged beneath the genetic need to understand, to remember, to be able to explain how she was defeated. Part of training is learning how to survive during the Adaption Instinct, and that's why the recruit is barraged with new experiences during their training-- and that's why a Ceronian never forgets the experiences of being trained and initiated into the pack. All of those memories are more vivid in her head than the faint mist of whatever happened before she joined the Silver Divers.

So she swims. She knows well enough how to avoid the sludgewater, and, it's the oddest thing, but the current's working against them. As she swims out and down, all those toxic clouds are swept back up towards the beach, and the current's with her, pulling her downwards like a riptide as the clouds fade away like dying jellyfish, spat back up out of the mouth of the water. The water pulls, but it's comforting, it holds her tight as if to say that she is safe here.

So she follows. Out she sweeps, kicking her legs together like a mermaid, past the reef, downwards to where the light begins to falter and her instincts tell her that she should be relying on scent. She doesn't need to breathe, not yet. Above, the dragon still follows after her, but she is moving fast, and the current is unpredictable, and it pulls her deep; she has a decent chance of losing it on her way to...

Wherever she is going. She's headed perpendicular to the route she should be headed, out towards the current Silver Divers camp (for the daughters of Ceron move their location regularly to baffle their foes). But the sea is insistent, and little Ember trusts it. It is like being rushed along by many faint hands, urging her forward, inviting her down deepwards, and if she closes her eyes, she can see the faint throb of a riot of colors, a memory so old that it comes without names or a sense of self, just joy and speed and discovery. So she swims. So she lets the hunt fall behind her. So she braves the unknown again.

[15 on Overcoming the peril of the sludgewater.]

Huntresses of Hybrasil

The lights are snuffed out with the clicking of a jaw.

Zaldarians are faint outlines in the dark, light highlighting the edges of scales, the faintest touch of luminosity. That means the eye is drawn to them, at first, before Jade breathes, and it is the wet breath of a predator in the dark. (Hearts beating in time. Ksharta Talonna's irises widening as she tries to drink in the light. A hand on the back of Dolly's neck.)

Smokeless Jade Fires opens her eyes in the middle of her presence, looking down at the petulant royals who threaten her priestesses. She does not stop opening them. Like the Terenian peacock, they flare out behind her, like wings, like her tail stretching off into infinity, and then she opens, for a moment, several of her mouths, her fangs limned like Zaldarian scales.

Then she flicks the lights back on, trains the spotlights on the usurper and the usurped and her, standing between them, seemingly small. "This is not how we behave," she says, and for a moment she lets a third eye blink, flesh like oil. A calculated reminder of what she is. "Is it?" She drags her gaze up the legs of the usurped, lifts a lip lasciviously, then turns her attention to the illuminated chest of the usurper. "Not in here. Behave. If you want to fight, there is an entire arena designed for it, entire bodies made for it, drones so everyone can watch, all within casual flight distance. And if you want to fuck, there are discreet rooms for that. So go ahead and pick one, and keep your claws in at a party."

Then she strides forward, curls a finger. The yank surprises Angela Victoria Miera Antonius by surprise, and she staggers forward. She straightens up quickly, certainly, but the gesture is unmistakable. "Of course I find you in the middle of trouble," the goddess says, sweetly, pityingly. "What do you have to say for yourself~?"

"Are you going to scold me, little god, or are you going to stop those pirates from walking off with your pilot?"

The absolute, inhuman stillness is its own tell.

"We're not pirates," Valynia adds, over her shoulder, as she ushers Dolly into the ballroom next door. "Pirates don't get invites to big parties! We're just a group of enthusiastic pilots~!"

"You're going to get it," Jade whispers, just loudly enough for the empresses to hear. The sound systems here are only so good, after all.

"If you want a rematch, there's an arena designed for it, I hear," she retorts. "Any time you want, little goddess. Now keep your claws in and go save your blushing bride all weak at the knees. I'm not afraid of a couple of royals having a spat." And I'm not afraid of you, either, she thinks, almost loudly enough to hear. She scoops up a wine glass and stares down Dolly's girlfriend, waiting for either a temper tantrum or a huff.

Jade works her jaw, huffs, and then says: "Behave." And she turns and flickers and is out of the room.

Angela Victoria Miera Antonius takes a long sip from her wine glass and smiles the smile of someone tied into Dolly's fluster and Ksharta's awe, aimed towards her of all people. "Good luck, goddess," she murmurs, and then turns to the Empress of the Zaldarians. "Now, where were we?"

Breathless Dead

It would be nice to dive, to hit the water with her hands to cut it open, to be propelled down into the depths. But she's on the beach. All she can do is walk, slowly, confidently, into the water. Running attracts their attention. Walking, even walking in an unexpected direction, is easy enough for the eye to miss as she sinks into the waves, and then she starts to swim. The Silver Divers specialize in swimming, after all. The water deadens scent, but her eyes kick in to compensate. She holds her breath and feels the pressure slowly fill her body as she hugs the sand, her fur sleek as an otterskin, immersed in the sea. Once she gets out from the beach, once she gets to the drop, she'll take one more breath, face sticking out of the water briefly, and then she'll be able to drop.

The coral's beautiful, once you hit the drop. The sun slants through the water, illuminating the Divers' Garden. This is where she plays-- not here, exactly, not this precise spot, but all along the coast. This is another training ground, another place where she can race her packmates, another battleground full of advantages. Here is where she has learned to knife-fight in a place without air; here is where she has learned how to free herself from weights. Here is where she has learned how long she can hold her breath; here is where she has learned how to share her breath with a packmate who is floundering.

It didn't take her long at all to learn how to think in three dimensions. She earned praises for that, and envious glares, and extra chores maintaining the underwater defenses. It just came so naturally. She doesn't have a mobility pack here, but if she did, she'd be jetting along, eyes squinting as the water rushes past her face, making automatic adjustments at a level underneath thought. She might be the little Ember of the pack, but the sea can't quench her fire. It loves her too much.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Maybe it's Angela's fire that quickens her step. Click, clack, click across the grand floor, and on her arm is Smokeless Jade Fires. (This is before; this is before they pass into the next chamber after Angela and Ksharta, but it's important, Jade, please, we have to thank her, she did have something to do with the dress you commissioned--)

It's clear that she's tongue-tied, and not because Jade's keeping her quiet. She stands there a moment in the heels, the ones that almost bring her up to Mirror. (Jade herself has the kind of armored stilettos that could punch a hole through steel if she could only touch the world, refusing to cede so much height to her bride.) She is a princess of the mountains, a vision in white snow and delicate silk, her cloak tied in place where Jade's billows from one shoulder. The stockings and the gloves offer flashes of her thighs and her shoulders, and the corset's framing contributes with the cloak tie to draw the eye quite naturally to her bust: the unity of the formality required to mingle at the Gala with the greedy eye of a goddess. But the headdress, now that it's not crushing her under the weight of moping, elevates her. The designer has made her a worthy high priestess of the new chic, boldly stepping forward into a contest among aliens, able to take the best elements of the Terenians and claim them for her own (as if her pet Terenian wasn't proof enough).

Even as Dolly frets and tries to figure out where to look, balancing a respect for Mirror's modesty and the knowledge that this must be deliberate and thus an act of bold fashion, Smokeless Jade Fires looks Mirror straight in those wet blue eyes. Her eyes are the halo of light around an eclipsing moon, a ring of fire that does not dim. Goddesses do not blink unless they choose to. You wounded her pride, Whispered Promise. You humiliated her, and showed her a skill she did not possess, and you brought her beloved back to her. Her wounded pride will not allow her to back down, and her debt to you stops her from pouncing. So she stares, like an aggressor, daring you to look away, the intensity of her eyes hinting at the fact that she is not like you, Whispered Promise; whether or not she is a goddess, she is something that has built her identity around that belief, and on one wrist her destroyer's will is constrained by her debt to you, and on the other she is bound by the fear that you will, somehow, defeat her again, and that is intolerable to her, and around her neck is the desire to master your magic which can bind even the gods, the effortless wielding of the sword that she has spent her entire life learning how to wield--

"I'm so proud of you," Dolly half-whispers. She rubs her own cheeks, tearing up, because she's finally figured out why. Why you would dress like this. "You're reclaiming them." The only way to love her spots is to display them proudly to the entire world, isn't it? An act of radical self-love, of courage, and it would be arrogant of Dolly to believe that it's her encouragement that led Mirror here, but the magic of Dolly is that she immediately makes room in her heart for Mirror's victory. She smiles and does an encouraging hop from foot to foot, like a kitten inviting someone to play, and manages not to stumble in the heels. "And I won't-- you've got to make everyone see, right? Come find me once you're inside, okay? You have to meet Angela, and I owe you a dance!! I don't know how you convinced Mayze Szerpaws, of all people, to let you consult, but-- I mean, it's our secret, I haven't told anybody!"

"Shh," Smokeless Jade Fires breathes in her bride's ear. The back of her free hand glides across Dolly's jaw, suggestively, and the breath that the high priestess takes fills her up from the tip of her tail to the tips of her ears, and knowing that Angela Victoria Miera Antonius and Ksharta Talonna can feel her desperate hope and terror that her goddess is going to gag her in front of the entire gala short-circuits her brain completely, and her eyes bashfully slide down off Whispered Promise's face until they catch on two protruding struts, as it were.

"I have done impossible things before, Whispered Promise," the goddess says, evenly, her smile slightly too wide. "But even I have not disarmed the entire galaxy of a held weapon in one blow. Daring." She finally breaks eye contact and crooks a finger, evoking the leash without the leash. "Come, dear. The rest of my harem awaits our pleasure inside."

"Thank you," Dolly mouths one more time at Mirror, and then lifts her head and, for the first time, walks with her wife into the eyes of the galaxy, into the cameras, into the challenge of a four-way memory weave connection, into the thoughts of Angela pulling her into a private room, into the knowledge that Angela can feel the way she feels, into a night that she couldn't have dreamed of a year ago, into the music, into the lights, into the live performances, into the ribbon dances being performed over her head, into fleeting eye contact with a former empress of the Zaldarians, into an unforgettable night.

[Dolly rolls to Emotionally Support Mirror, and... it's a 4. But she is able to burn her String from when Mirror rescued her and showed off her heart to bump it up to a 7. So Mirror can either open up to Dolly (later in the evening, even), or she can tick Feelings up to 4 (later in the evening, even). Smokeless Jade Fires, on the other hand, has triggered Mirror's Center of the Web, and may be handled as Mirror sees fit.]

Breathless Dead

Two routes coming up. One leads towards Beri: natural next step. Blend in among the villagers, hide out at Dolce's long enough to shake initial tail, steal fishing boat and fake a trip out for crabs, then race Corvii to meet up with Divers once they realize she's not going for crabs. But! That's the natural next step. Route: open, particularly when approaching the town gates. Estimated delay from bicycle inspection complicated by circling Corvii and risk of being run down. Entire plan required being inconspicuous milkmaid.

Downcliff route: leads to the beach, longer way to get to town, more bushes and overhanging trees to baffle being spotted from above. Stash bicycle at first turn, underneath the cherry branches, then proceed downwards on foot. Change feigned occupation to beachcomber; leave sandals with bicycle, roll up sleeves, affect squint from sun glitter, hunch shoulders slightly. Commit. ("Make us believe you're a beachcomber, Little Ember! Wrap your sword in silk! The hidden face can be any face!")

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Han!

"It means I fell in love with you," Lotus says, the bravest girl in the entire Flower Kingdoms. Her glasses are a little crooked; her lips are wet with your mouth's... wetness. Her blue hair's a halo on the pillow. "I don't know exactly where, but... I like you, a lot, and I care about you, and I think you're a hero. And I think. I think I would be very lucky if you wanted to give me a chance, because I feel safe around you, Han of the Flower Kingdoms. Han of the Dragons."

She brings your hand up to her chest, and you can feel the heart beneath her skin. Her soft, gentle, demigod heart, which is beating for you. Delicate, like a flower. But she's placing that flower in your hands because she trusts you not to bruise the petals. And the look she's giving you...

"You won't break me," she whispers. "I want this. I want you. I want you to kidnap me back from her. I want you to toss me over your shoulder and run off with me, and I don't care if my mother's watching. I want you to be my big mean dragon who's going to make me her bride, as long as I can be the priestess who kisses your bruises and I can stop you from hiding your injuries and pretending that you're fine. As long as I can be yours, Han. I'd pick you-- I am picking you. Over everything in my mother's house. Because all of it isn't you."

Lotus of Tranquil Waters is the daughter of a member of Venus's court, and right now, you know what Venus means. It means her pulling you closer because she wants you to do the same. It means being wanted and having your want be wanted back. It means hunger and it means thirst. It means a girl who gets squirmy when she gets tied up but wants you tying the knots and keeping her quiet, because she feels safe with you. And it means a girl who sees you hurting and tears up because she wants to kiss you better.

Do you make her feel that she is loved back, Han of the Flower Kingdoms?

---

Piripiri!

The sip of tea is calculated. Loud enough that you can barely hear it over the sizzling of the food. And there she is: the woman who trained you all those years ago. She has an umbrella; she has a hat with a veil all around the rim, parted so that she can bring the tea to her lips. Beside her is a teapot, which you did not hear sing.

"Well," she says. "How has your service to the Red Wolf come along, dear?" Her voice betrays nothing, but to ask is to know. She always knew before you did.

Go ahead. Admit it to her first, so that you can then admit it to yourself.

---

Kalaya!

"It is very clear," says the goddess, and the words she uses mean illumination and glory and I am impressed all at once.

Her palanquin rises out of the waters. She is huge. She could pick you up with one hand and shake you like a child's doll. Around her are cranes, and warrior goddesses, and ferns the size of you, and little brown foxes, and pillows, and in the middle of it she lounges, head propped up on one hand, sapphire-sequined dress hugging her curves, and she looks a little like your mother, because she looks a little bit like everyone's mother.

The Sapphire Mother of Lotuses slowly blinks at you, considers you. Around her are demigods with burnished spears, flowing dresses, knight's breastplates: some of her many daughters. Then she nods, once. "This one. This is the knight." And what that means is chosen and royalty and guardian all at once. "Kalaya Na. The Dominion desires our home. Hell seeks to destroy it. You and the Stag Knight have been warring for my heart; but you love more. You love when it is foolish and you love when it is hopeless, and that is what we need for our Champion."

This is how she chooses you. This is the moment in which the fate of the Flower Kingdoms shifts. What is the token she offers you, the one that will convince Uusha to stand by your side against the Dominion, that will unite the Kingdoms behind you, Queen of Queens, Knight of the Sapphire Mother?

---

Fengye!

The real question, the one left remaining for you, is who you're leaving with tonight. On the one hand: the most eligible employer in the entire Flower Kingdoms is in front of you, and if there is anyone who can talk her way into her court tonight, it is you. On the other hand, there is still a N'yari here, who has just had the fear of Kalaya Na put into her, and she's going to be very well behaved. On the third hand, you have always had a will of your own. That's why you volunteered to wear the mask in the first place. Tell us your plan, tamer of demons.

---

Giriel!

That distracts her just long enough, makes some long-buried modesty flare up, that you can tackle her, and the two of you are wrestling, and there are wind-leopards everywhere, and somewhere behind you is a scream and a surge of power, but you have to trust in goodness and keep Peregrine pinned underneath you, one hand over her mouth, until the leopards grow bored and slink away, leaving you panting and sweating and vulnerable to being stabbed in the back--

But Ven just sighs, standing over the two of you. "...you'll need help with an exorcism," she says. Her silhouette is different. Tearing off your own arm will do that to a woman.

Behind her, blackening the grass underneath it, lies her brass arm, the fingers slowly curling up like a dying snake.

The good news is that once you've exorcised her, Peregrine will be mostly fine. Upset that you pulled her back from the brink, but once she really starts thinking again, she'll realize that she wasn't the charioteer and that she wasn't at the reins, and then she'll be angry. Not at you, she'll just be embarrassed and quietly offer her support with whatever you have planned next. The bad news is that you still have to carry out that exorcism.

Better make it the best one the Flower Kingdom's ever seen. Peregrine deserves nothing less.

Breathless Dead

Corvii? Easy. Corvii don't have packs; they have unkindnesses. That's what they intend to bring to bear on the poor, innocent farmgirl taking her milk down to Beri: unkindness from every side. Grilling questions, barking orders, keeping her off balance, even pushing her into tears. Relentless, ruthless, and cruel for the sake of cruelty. It's what you have to breed into soldiers meant to sink ships.

But they're not a pack. Each and every one of them is just instinctively looking for a weakness to exploit: in a hull, in a breach, in emotional defenses. Somewhere to wedge into. And they're competitive.

Ember the Innocent Farmgirl brings the bicycle to a screeching halt and blinks at the Corvii overhead. "Goshies," she says, so guileless that butter wouldn't melt in her mouth (ignore the panting, it's tactical, and there's little difference between someone winded from a bike ride and a Ceronian regulating optimal temperature). "Mornin', all! How can I help?"

"Hukkkou," one rasps, the consonant catching in their throat. They lower until they're just far enough above the ground to tower over her, closing ranks. Faceless, relentless menace. Fake pack.

"Oh, sure thing," Ember the Innocent Farmgirl says, tapping the (pilfered) earring. She kicks the stand and approaches the one directly in front of her, and then stops. "Hold on," she says, tapping her chin. "I should give it to that one, right? He's bigger than you are." Innocence. Wide eyes. Ignorance, but one which hides a point. "Although," she continues, slowly turning, "you've got a better set of Temple Best, and you've got much shinier feathers, but you've got the best 'rail, and you--"

She stops. Tries and fails to stifle a laugh. "Well, of course you ain't the one in charge," she says, trying so hard not to be Rude. The lack of explanation is crucial. It's so self-evident that the others will jump in, pick on the runt, and then they'll split while they argue over which one, precisely, is the one in charge. She might have to cover her head and avoid a few dominance swoops, but she'll be able to split long before they remember who and what they're fighting over~

[7 on the Overcome, but only because she's got +3 Blood now. I'd like a temporary solution to the problem, and to avoid harm as she Gets Away in the process, which explicitly does not mean she avoids further attention.]

Huntresses of Hybrasil

One glove. Two hands.

Whose hand was she going to hold?

On the one hand, Ksharta needed reassurance. A reminder that she was... appreciated. Wanted. Cared about. That she didn't need to be the winner to be... interesting. Loved? Maybe. Dolly certainly absolutely didn't mind sharing Jade with her, and wanted her to be happy, but was that love?

On the other hand, Angela had lost even harder, and had... gone to ground. Barely seen after her match with Solarel. And Dolly missed her. Really, really missed her. When she'd reached out, let Angela know that she had space in her retinue, that the Gala wouldn't feel complete if Angela wasn't there, she'd felt...

Jade first. Jade, always, first. She'd promised. But Jade wanted more, and that meant her high priestess got to share, got to be their doorway into Jade's world. But she couldn't go to Jade like this, couldn't ask. Jade might tell her to pick Angela, to make the exotic alien their favorite, to leave Ksharta to fend for herself, and how could she do that to a kitten like Ksharta? This would be her first interstellar party, surrounded by aliens, and she'd need her, her big sister (right?) to look after her. But Jade might agree, and she. She couldn't do that to Angela, either. To invite her along and then snub her the entire night isn't the right kind of rivalry. It's the kind that would hurt. Angela wouldn't want to ever, ever see her again. Wouldn't ever pick her up and smirk. Wouldn't be the bad girl to Dolly's good girl.

The closer the Gala (THE Gala, the Crystal Gala, the social event that was her chance to dazzle among the stars, to be the kind of bride that Jade deserved) got, the more of a nervous wreck she was, and the harder it was to keep it hidden. Jade didn't need to know. Jade shouldn't know. It was her problem to deal with. She had to choose. Even if it felt like she was ripping herself into two pieces.

---

"Do shuttles distress you, child?"

The miserable lump sitting between Ksharta and Angela is jerked out of her reverie. "I, um, I'm not-- I'm okay," she says, and smiles her I Am Definitely Okay smile, glove still resting against the casket in her lap. On her left, Ksharta Talonna, platinum beads draped between her ears, looking like a vision of loveliness, her shoulders shrouded in powder blue lace, looking for all the world like the spirit of the snow that lingers in summer. On her right, Angela Miera Victoria Antonius, having been "forced" into the role of the Captive Alien, all burning red and velvet black, her vulnerable midriff exposed and her eyes wreathed in smoke, bracers on her powerful arms and belled anklets on her delicious ankles, which is where anklets go.

And no Jade.

She hasn't seen her goddess since last night. Hasn't heard her, hasn't felt her. Just a message left for her saying that the goddess "would be waiting for her," and an instruction to bring the casket that appeared overnight. At least it meant that she could start falling apart about her impossible choice in peace for the rest of the morning.

Ksharta. Angela. Both beautiful in their own ways. But what is she supposed to do? Trail them both behind her, holding onto her arm, for the entire night? To her credit, the thought of not letting either of them enjoy Jade's presence doesn't even cross her mind. It's a gift that has to be shared.

Kimri (Blessed Daughter of Grandmother Night) is giving her a concerned look, but they're on their final descent, and the line of mechas is revealed in its glory, including, yes, there's Jade's idol, and the relief that floods her for a moment seeing that familiar shape should really be embarrassing. For a moment she forgets about her impossible choice and just longs to see Jade again. Being apart for the whole day has been...

Different than when she was with the Red Bands. That was knowing that Jade would come for her, and she had plenty. Plenty. To think about in the meantime. Not just the same worries looping on repeat.

---

The ache of Dolly's heart is an empty hollow in her goddess's chest.

It's going to be worth it, she tells herself, as she stretches one more time, feels out every part of the grand system. The station is a technological marvel, after all. A non-trivial system to overcome. Ever since Nine Forests plugged her in this morning, she's been engaged in a glorious hunt. It is one thing to disable a state-of-the-art cybersecurity suite; it is another entirely to tame it.

It's going to be worth it. It's going to be worth it or she'll send herself to hell for what she's put Dolly through today. The shock, the joy, the surprise, the love, it's all going to be more than enough to pay for what she's feeling right now. And she's committed now. The only way out is through, or Dolly would never forgive her.

---

Dolly clings to the casket like her life depends on it. She is flanked by her... girlfriends? Fellow concubines? Women that she wants to hug and reassure and share her goddess with, even if that means keeping them trapped right by her side, leaving her with the responsibility of figuring out what exactly they're going to do and finding ways to entertain all three of them and, and she's out of time, Jade's going to make her have to choose--

And as if the thought summoned her, Jade's idol leaks thick thundercloud smoke, and the goddess pulls herself free with a resounding laugh, and a ripple of shock and gasps runs through the Hybrasilian delegation and the observing Terenians, and

hold on, what?

The casket tumbles from Dolly's hands onto the landing platform as her jaw drops. They. They can all. Everybody can. This once, everybody. All of them. Unless Jade is faking a reaction from literally everyone, and... if she started believing that, she might as well stop believing in anything but whatever Jade wanted. (And she's not that good at people, the sensible part of her whispers. She couldn't fake everyone in this kind of fidelity, right? Ksharta still smells like Ksharta and Angela still smells like Angela, and this is happening, this is really happening, what does it mean that this is happening?)

The goddess turns and grins at the sight of her people, and then begins the walk down the line of mecha, tail insolent, teeth on wicked display, and with every step, she... shrinks. The clouds contract around her, the rumble of her footsteps becomes quieter, until she is merely an ordinary height, just a little taller than Dolly in her heels, tall as a Terenian. The clouds are solid now, gleaming black armor with glowing cobalt lines, a futurist's idea of personal armor somehow powered by a crystal fire drive, and her cloak (pinned at one shoulder) flutters behind her, rimmed in, what else, blue-jade fire which does not give off smoke.

"Honor to you, Blessed Cousin!" She is an impossible warlord, a knight from the holovids, a goddess in the flesh, and the half-bow she offers Kimri (Blessed Daughter of Grandmother Night) is the kind one offers a respected inferior, honor more to Grandmother Night than Kimri herself. "Thank you for bringing My beloveds to this Crystal Gala for Me." She turns her golden eyes to Dolly, curls one finger, and Dolly feels the pull of the leash hanging from her neck, the leash that everyone can see, and she opens her mouth, not knowing what she's going to say.

Smokeless Jade Fires pulls her into the kiss, in front of everyone, and she's careful not to unbalance Dolly, the only hint that she's not, not physically here, not embodied. Another one of her goddess's cunning tricks, but that's why Dolly, Dolly loves her. Never willing to let her lack of a body stop her from putting on the performance of a lifetime. Dolly melts into the perfect kiss.

When they break the kiss, it's only then that she notices in the periphery the giant screen, rimmed in the goddess's fire, blowing up the kiss for everyone to see in the highest definition possible. And they can see the deep breath she takes, and the flustered droop of her ears, until Jade dismisses it with a wave of her hand, lets it melt away into sparks and curls of smoke.

"I have one more gift for you, my darling birds," the goddess purrs. "Ksharta? Do pick up what My bride dropped in her ardor. Angela? Do come along." A look is shared with the Terenian, an invitation to play along; you've come this far, titan among kittens. Don't you want to see the punchline?

---

The hunting tent's drapes close behind them. (The floor is the dock, the gold-flecked black that drinks in light, and the reflections of the walls of the tent glow more vibrantly than they should.) Another impossible flourish, hiding them from sight in the middle of the dock, right at the feet of Jade's idol. Jade takes a seat on a stool in the middle of the tent, interlocking her fingers, still smiling. "Ksharta? Angela?" she says, eyes flicking between the two. "Seven Quetzal has been agonizing over trying to choose between the two of you for tonight. After all, she only has the one glove, the one sign of my favor. Whose hand could she possibly hold? She yearns to show you how much you both mean to her, but she can't! Because it is not her place to worry. It is hers to be bountiful, and to pour her love out, and to endure whatever I--"

"Out with it," Angela snaps. Her arms are folded, and her eyes are hard. "She's been worrying herself sick, and you didn't think to think to reassure her? Ai, I thought you were better than that, you peacock goddess!"

Jade opens her mouth. Jade shuts her mouth. Her tail lashes in agitation. Her tongue runs over her teeth.

"Please," she says, in her smaller voice, like she's trying to walk over a river on a piece of string. "Please open it. It was very difficult on short notice." Her eyes slide to Dolly, and they're the same eyes that looked longingly at her in the cockpit as Mirror rode them home. She reaches out and places one hand on Angela's bicep, squeezes once in thanks. And then she turns to Ksharta, who has already opened it up, and is staring wide-eyed at the inside.

Inside are three gloves: one wrapped in huntress's knives and chef's knives winding up its length in miniature, like ivy, each handle tied together by a subtle silver cord, and another decorated in owl's-feather patterns, each one framed by delicate chains, and one decorated in the feathers of the quetzal-bird, each one wrapped in neat bows by dancer's silks.

"You don't need to choose, Dolly," her goddess says, her voice slightly thicker than usual. "I'll dance with all of you tonight--"

And Dolly rushes up and lifts her goddess's illusion of a body up into her arms and squeezes, and feels a deliberate purr and a loving hand on her head as she sniffles and starts making just a mess of her makeup, but that's okay, because Ksharta and Angela are going to whisk her off to a bathroom to touch up, and Jade is going to go with them, and everybody will be able to see her but Dolly's harem-sisters can all touch her, and she doesn't need to choose, she doesn't need to choose, she can love all three of them, she can hold all three of them, she can dance with all three of them, the love she has to offer can be felt by all of them, from her little huntress-sister to her strong and teasing alien (who is going to "punish" her later for the outfit) to her goddess, and she doesn't need to know how Jade is doing all this, because it's enough that she is.