Tatterdemalion

Return to Thellamie

Handmaidens!

Aria Thendragon was a proud woman in her day. Her glory burned so, so brightly, as bright as the thousands of candles that lit her halls. Prior to her war with Heron, she had been a queen, she had ruled the Avel and the Kel with false justice, and she had built castle after castle across Thellamie. There was no reason for her not to be proud, even in that disguise. Perhaps she even forgot, sometimes, that she was ruling in order to undermine the reality of Thellamie and ultimately plunge it back into dissolution and slumbering dragons.

To have that taken away from her by some Mystery Heroine absconding with the spotlight? That would be difficult enough for her to bear even if she did not have the bitter spite of a Fallen Star oozing like sludge in her veins.

"Minion," she growls at Cair, staring down balefully at Hazel Valentine Fletcher, "with me. I must prepare panoply."

Let some other blushing maiden take the lead! She must be dressposted. You know what's popular these days, right? You're in the fashion group chats, probably.

---

Yuki!

Civelia lies in state down in one of the saunas, commandeered for purpose by the Civils. Her chest rises and falls shallowly, and dark veins run through her marble skin. Her eyes are closed and her lips are parted ever-so-slightly. There is an uncomfortable voyeurism to seeing her like this, isn't there? To see how almost peaceful she is.

Outside, Paladins, big and burly and quiet to hide how much they're fretting. (Aadya got you through, and is grilling them over what went down.) Inside, a Civil herbalist fusses with the coals in the center of the sauna, finding just the right herbs and incenses to burn--

No, she's tossed some on the coals and looms over you now. "Miss," she says, politely, "the goddess needs her rest. We'll have her right as rain soon enough."

The word rain left her mouth like a sigh. An orange curl hangs, a little messy, a little bouncy, out of her habit. Steam mists up from the coals, sweet and warm and tingling against the skin.

"...but I must admit that I am curious. What does the goddess mean to you, Miss Edogawa?"

---

Hazel!

Your eyes meet. How could they not?

Hers are dark and ringed with kohl, but there is a fire inside them. Princess Sulochana of Crevas drinks you in, and a dark color rises to her olive cheeks. She is still, her tassels and bangles at rest as she savors the moment of looking upon you, of how you look in this moment, and there is no one else, just the two of you. Just here. Just now.

Which is why you are not prepared for being swept up into the arms and bosom of Purnima Karn-Pana. Her perfume hits like a wagon. Her powerful midriff also hits like a wagon. Her smugness also hits like a wagon. The world is suddenly cut off by the waves of her dark hair.

"It won't be hard to avoid a worse performance! Ballrooms, bah- everyone knows that it's Crevas who knows how to dance properly!" Her belly undulates against you, as she scoops you up--

And then you are aware of a second Nagi pressed up against your back. "We should be dancing in order of rank," the Princess Sulochana says, grabbing your wrist possessively. Her forehead is already pressed against Purnima's in a dominance display. Your feet are off the ground, but don't worry: you are in no danger of falling. Not with Purnima in front of you and Sulochana behind.

Just like the fantasies you have never dared to write down, Cutie~

---

Eclair Espoir!

And the Nagi have already swallowed him up in their coils. Tsk, tsk. And after you tried so hard.

Ah, and here's Mayzie bustling up with two flutes of lavender champagne in her hands, beaming so hard that it's a wonder her head doesn't fall off. "That was- you- incredible," she enthuses, pressing one flute into your hands, her eyes sparkling with The Emotion That Dare Not Speak Its Name.

You can take a String on her if you linger here, in this moment, with her. With the champagne. With the adoration of the party.

But.

But but but.

Somewhere, ever so faintly, in the air, beyond the squabbling Nagi and the lavender hitting your nose and the color in Mayzie's cheeks as she sips an expensive vintage, diluted by distance to the degree that it takes time to convince yourself that it is not a trick of nostalgia...

Someone, close by, is burning the Goodnight Special. Designed to lull Morning, Noon and Evening into a pleasant half-slumber when they are too close to waking. Designed to lull exhausted members of the Order into the sweetest dreams. An expensive and secret blend. Not the sort of thing to be found here...

Breathless Dead

Skotia...

is gone.

---

Redana...

suffers. Refusing to fight only goes so far, and one woman against a hundred terror-fueled maids?

She will get back up over and over and over. Thank you for leaving her eyes, at least. No matter what else is clawed to shreds, oh-so-briefly. No matter what else is torn out of her and regrown. How else is she to experience an unending battle? To endure torment without end?

---

Ember...

walks through the darkness with her eyes closed. Ears at attention. Nose sniffing. Barefoot on the tiles.

And there is nothing. Rich, sumptuous nothing. Forever. Silence, except for the echoes. No scent, a complete absence of information. Nothing to report, nothing to scheme, nothing to learn. She walks into no walls. She stubs her toe on no tables. Nothing, nothing, nothing: the darkness of the Anemoi is total. The bounds of the universe stretch on forever.

---

Dany...

takes Bella's hand and looks up at this woman so much like her mother. So extravagant, so commanding, willing to change the shape of the world with a command and a wave of her hand. Willing to ignore the fear in Bella's eyes. Willing to shut people away in boxes until they're needed, if they ever are.

"No." Her face scrunches up, and she stands straight and scared. "You're scaring her." A useless statement of fact. A javelin thrown right at one's own feet. "And, and she's right about the monster, and, and... you're not making either of us go into the Box. Ever." Her face is a blotchy mess of tears and snot and terror, and her grip on Bella's fingers is the desperate cling of we-go-together.

A woodpecker strikes at a tree in a drumbeat. A butterfly touches the flowers in an erratic waltz. A breeze carries petals across the lawn.

"Put it away. Nobody ever goes back into the Box ever again."

Return to Thellamie

Olesya!

You were twelve when you wrestled with a Fallen Star.

You did not know back then. You knew nothing of what your mother had touched in her hubris, in her pride, in her glory. All you knew is that the sluzhanka was hot. Painfully hot. Feverish, sweating, wild-eyed. She laughed and gloried in the struggle, your strength against hers, and in the shattering of furniture, the breaking of porcelain, the tearing of rugs. And when you cried out to your mother, she sipped her tea and watched. You knew then that you would have to be strong or that you would perish.

And you won. You brought that burning woman to her knees in a headlock until her thrashing stopped, and then she granted you a token of victory: a red word.

Your arrows have proven useless. The wolf arrow, the fox arrow; the heartseeker, the howler, the birdcatcher. All spin around the head of this dragon from before the world's birth. These are secrets that your mother passed down to you, weapons proof against the half-real creatures that you hunt. And each has failed.

Juniper.

This event is in distinct risk of being canceled. Your vision narrows with the certainty of horror. If you cannot win Hazel's heart to your mother's satisfaction, you will not be the one who is punished. Will you be allowed to see her again? Will you be blamed for the failure of your quiver? Told that you should have wanted it more? Should have felt more? Should have let your fury roar?

And Hazel is not here. There is no risk of him becoming afraid. Juniper is not here. There is no risk of her disapproval. Your mother is here, and she is prepared to step in if you cannot do what is needful. You know that like you know the beat of your own heart.

It beats faster.

You draw the string of your heart's bow, and you feel. You dredge the red word from inside yourself. Light bleeds from you in banners, in pennants, in fire. A word which no one should have hidden in their hearts. You are so calm, so gentle- does not Hazel think so? Because you are strong. Because you felt bones give way under your palm, then. Because you have a red word in your heart.

"-MIAOUQASTRA-"

Somewhere in the ballroom, a child screams. You screamed then, too.

For a moment, your light spans wall to wall.

For a moment, you feel nothing. Because Juniper is not here.

---

Sayanastia!

The really funny part is that Civelia would have had a fit.

She would have summoned a shield to make Kalentia positively pink with jealousy, one designed to let that furious howling wrath dissipate down countless labyrinthine grooves in its face, one which would accept the poisonous anger of Demon Queen Miaou and envelop it within smothering acceptance of eternity.

Firing this thing, in here? In here? After all the repairs? It would have blown through the walls of the whole block. The shockwave would have knocked down everyone in the building. Blown out all the windows. Knocked down some door or other and revealed Hazel in a compromising position with a wanted fugitive. Only--

Only, it is focused on you, instead. And the raging light of the Hell Star enters into you like a meteor striking the sea. Light which defines. Light which says Be. A weapon which could blow open the very walls of Vespergift, in the hands of a panicking child, instead disappears into your depths and forces your power to turn inward likewise. In that moment, you are solid, connected, present, forced to reckon with existence and its weight, as the howl of an imprisoned queen at the very roots of the world resounds within you, every inch, from your brow to your fingertips to the lashing end of your tail.

And that's when Aria Thendragon lands a right hook on your jaw.

---

Yuki Edogawa!

Aria Thendragon stands victorious over her reincarnated self. Simulated lungs wheeze. Her teeth are bared in challenge. The leaves of her false corsage sway in no wind. There is a terrible silence, punctuated only by hyperventilation and sniffles and, from Purnima, complaints about how she just got wine on her dress.

Then Aria grins, and for a moment she has the charisma that caused Thellamie to bow to her, once upon a time.

"Friends, I may have been an evil queen," she says, holding her arms out. Showboating. "I may have conquered, fought wars, made cursed blades, and been brought low by Heron. But damn it all, I can't just sit by and let this faker ruin our party! We're here to dance, aren't we? We're here to see a pretty boy, aren't we? And we're here for Thellamie, aren't we?"

The tension breaks. There's applause - for a dead tyrant. There's cheering - for the woman who stepped up and defused the situation. There's whistling - for the pawn of a tree. In a moment like this, after terror and fear and confusion, there is a desperate need to cling to the first relief that makes itself known.

"Now, I'll go down and have a look at Civvy, and my old enemies the Paladins will see to it that this shabby has-been won't bother us any more! Everyone else - let's drink! Let's feast! And let's tell Hazel Valentine Fletcher that we want him to come! out!"

The chant starts, even as Aria pushes past you and Aadya. This close, you can tell: that may have been her charisma, but it wasn't her speech. There's still honey clinging to her, honey and rot.

And up on a balcony, a huntress slumps to her knees in defeat. She may have made a reckless, awful shot-

But she never would have had the words.

Breathless Dead

Ember...

gets back up, of course. All that lying down would do would be to attempt another lie. And lies are being stripped away and consumed here The last scraps, the remnants, of her disguise: she tears them away, and now there is just her, drawing on the strength of Ceron in order to be able to stand. Standing for Beri, for the Silver Divers, and for Bella who is Mosaic who is Beloved. Why be concerned with propriety here? She's often had to discard it for one reason or another in order to serve her pack. And Bella is part of the pack, whether she accepts it or not.

She is someone that Ember will always fight for, even if her ability to fight is pathetic and cowardly and relies on deception.

Ember closes her eyes. They will not help her here. She balls her fists and waits for the next Plover head. A dance, like they never had the chance to have on Beri. Ah, what a delight...

---

Skotia...

is always and ever doomed.

The shape of death has always been with him. It is inevitable to his existence in a way that no other Redana confronts. She is always defiant, always has death at her back, but it is his lot to be consumed. To be devoured. To be a flimsy mask used up. Always and ever.

"I always loved you," he manages. It hurts to breathe. He cannot even see her, with the pained sweat in his eyes. His head hangs like that of the condemned criminal. This is his lot, and it has always been his lot: the tragic romance of someone whose death cannot be ignored, only temporarily staved off. And this is beautiful, too: a mirror reflecting the glory of Bella Aurelia. A prince who can be shattered for his sins.

"I only wanted to be yours..."

---

Redana...

does not get up. You missed it. She did it over and over again, and the Praetorian Guard was obliging enough to bring her back down to the floor over and over again. To her place. Where she belongs. Groveling, burnt, punished. Shown the folly of thinking that a plucky attitude and a refusal to give up would lead to anything but pain.

There is no question of whether she will accept the pill. She has lost. She has discovered the place where there is no more strength, only a tear-stained face and horrible, choking sniffles, her tears having run dry. She cannot resist being made into a trophy that can be broken forever and ever, if that is what this glorious empress desires.

She cannot resist being broken into a new shape. A better shape. She is the second-youngest, after all, and perhaps the most immature. Perhaps...

---

Dany...

takes the hand.

She is not past tears. They are wet and sticky on her cheeks. The thought of taking up the sword cannot be seriously bounded within her thoughts; she would vomit. The promise of violence is horror; the promise of inevitable retribution to anyone who stands in the way of this monster is terror.

She can't be expected to fix this. This. Any of this. She's too small, too stupid, too disappointing. Unable to do anything useful at all. Unworthy of anything in this vast, cavernous, shattered mansion. Deep down, here, she's always known that. She'd forgotten by the time she was big enough to run for the stars, but deep down, this is all she is.

Crying. Alone. Afraid. Reaching out for comfort. Undeserving of comfort.

Unworthy.

Return to Thellamie

Aadya, the Rock Upon a Mountain!

There shouldn't be doubt in your heart at a moment like this. And yet, o daughter of the peaks, and yet.

Curse that Eclair Espoir. Go ahead. You know it will make you feel better, don't you? She did this to you by defeating you, by making your heart race, by making you an inconvenient witness who still knows, deep in her heart, that Eclair must be innocent. And you've gotten nowhere with it.

You've been mocked by peers into silence. Aadya, the meathead. Aadya, who fell for yet another Maid trick. Aadya, sent on a chase she'll never be able to fulfill. And now here you are, without Eclair, standing in front of the greatest challenge of your life. And if I'd come up to you and asked you an hour ago if you and Yuki could fight the Dark Dragon herself, you would have laughed and told me: yes, of course, because we'd both be trying to be the one who lands the final blow! Because together we are unstoppable!

But now your hands are sweaty on the very light of your heart. It's not just your imagination; it's duller than it should be. You hear yourself placing all your hopes on Yuki days ago, and how it hurt her. You are a Paladin of Kel, and you should know better than to hurt the hearts of others. Of innocents. Of your friends.

You do not know if she can win this fight.

You do not know if you can win this fight.

Your mouth is painfully dry.

Civelia, the Light of Civilization, was in the arms of her enemy, and she has fallen, and now is the moment when stories of the clash between good and evil begin anew. Heron will surely be here any minute. But Sayanastia was disguised as Heron. So maybe Heron's not here at all. Maybe she's busy on the other side of Thellamie, tricked into completing a bug collection quest. Maybe it's just you and Yuki, and Yuki's not ready to be a hero, and you are dull and unworthy and all your training failed to make you a woman who could fight Sayanastia in this moment.

You grip your heartglaive and sweep it into the first drill stance.

"I've got this, Yuki," you say, and step in front of her. Only the two of them, Yuki and Sayanastia, can see your fear. Can see that you will fail. But everyone here has seen you try.

---

Olesya!

Your mother pulls you out of the restroom by your arm. You do not struggle. When have you ever?

You've run, certainly. That was encouraged. It is good for the heir to the Khaganate to be comfortable with riding goblin-beasts, to struggle against strange mirror-eyed folk, to become familiar with the ragged edge of stable reality, is it not? And if you happened to ride with a loyal, devoted, beautiful sluzhanka, well. No one can see indiscretions out in the strange places of the Outside, not when you are careful and keep an ear out for travelers drawn to a place with more observed reality than the norm.

You and I both know that you have gone farther with her than is acceptable, and we both know that Juniper wanted you to. Isn't that a funny joke? I think it's funny, that you were trying to show her the delicate balance of mastery and submission, the hierarchy that must be obeyed to bring order and reason to the dreamscapes beyond the Stones, and she was so eager to learn that you ended up somewhere else entirely. You don't need to be afraid of your strength with her. You don't need to speak when it's just the two of you out there, because she understands what you mean and what you need.

"I fixed," you start to say. I think you've done a lovely job given the circumstances. Sure, you could have called on one of the clan's other sluzhankas to do it for you - you should have, in order to demonstrate that you are in command - but you weren't thinking and you half-remember what Juniper's shown you about how to paint your lids, how to fix your mascara, how to touch up your cheeks, and getting that wrong seemed even scarier. In the wild, there's usually only one or two scary things to think about at a time.

Your mother gestures with two fingers, as if cutting a throat, as if wiping away words. Your words all crumple into a heap against your teeth.

"The Dark Dragon has struck down the Goddess," she hisses, eyes bright embers. "Now. You will go and defeat her." She does not explain that this will further make the paladins and the Civils seem toothless, unable to defend Thellamie against the threats that rally against it; she does not tell you that you will be lauded as the defender of the Golden Fawn; she does not even point out that it will solidify support for you as a worthy heir to her throne among the clans. She does not need to. Whether you understand or not, what is important is your obedience.

You want to ask where Juniper is.
You want to ask if she is all right.
You want to explain that you kissed Hazel but then she would ask how it went and if you tell her the truth she'll be angry at you and if you lie she'll be able to tell and she'll be angrier and if she's angry she won't hurt you, her golden child, so easily led astray
You want to run back into the bathroom.
You want to start crying again.
You want to start a fight you cannot win without suffering any of the consequences of losing.

You nod and your bow comes easily to your hand.

Breathless Dead

Redana...

looks around her. She has a sword. A fencer's sword, for Olympic fencing. The sort of silly little thing that couldn't possibly stand up to the whole wide universe. It's a weapon for trying to score points. It is not a heat lance. It is the opposite end of a spectrum from a heat lance.

"...yeah, I can win this," she says. And she can't. Of course she can't. But she says it with conviction. With bravado. With a smile on her lips. She salutes in the honorable way, raising her sword to honor Bella in turn. And she steps forward in her black boots, her many-pocketed trousers hugging her legs.

Is she overwhelmed? Or is she allowed to reach the throne?

Ember...

hasn't roughhoused like this in a bit. But the Silver Divers didn't hold back. They put her through.. well, not Hades, but not too far above it. So that she would be ready for a fight like this. So that she could take a hit and get back up. So that she could adapt and win.

The Plover's head clips her. A little too slow. She spins, lace flutters, and she hits the ground, bounces, bounces again, hits the ground. And she pushes her hands under her and gets back up out of habit, out of sheer refusal to let the pack win, out of her duty as a warrior of Ceron. Out of her duty, always, to keep fighting.

"There's a lot of you," she says, and there's blood on her face, and she wipes it on her lovely glove. "And there's a lot of me. Figured that you might be a little distracted, darling." But underneath that, she refuses to admit: she did it to be clever, she did it because it's what she knows how to do, she did it because she needed to do something to maintain control. You always have to fight for your position in the pack.

The outfit will, piece by piece, be lost. In a fight like this, a disguise cannot hold up any more than the morning mist can withstand the light of the sun.

Skotia...

matches Bella Aurelia, because what she wants most is to be seen, and to be responded to in turn.

He moves like a ballerina, even more graceful than Redana. He is within an inch of each blow, and when he reaches in turn, his fingers almost grasp at that cloak, her sleeve, her fingers. But to achieve that would be an insult to Bella, and he is obliging. He is deeply, yearningly obliging. There is a not insignificant part of Redana that has always wanted Bella to take charge, and she is reflected in him.

But his hair shines blonde. Maybe we shall call it, and the shape of him, a consequence of being so close to Desire.

"You meant it then," he says, perhaps a little out of breath. This is an intensity that he can barely maintain. But anything less would be to fail Bella. To let her down. To be unworthy of her. "Have we failed? Were we not enough?"

There- now, finally, he catches her wrist. Not enough to stop her from plunging Desire into his chest, should she choose. But enough that it is a choice. His mask falls cleanly in two, each one becoming half of a perfect mask of a butterfly, and beneath it is the face of Redana Claudius doing her best to hide herself. To hide from the name that she is unworthy of. To serve Bella in a way that Bella will accept.

Does Bella Aurelia strike regardless?

Dany...

run run runs scampers tumbles throws her body into each turn and corner and is crying, desperate, calling out for Bella to come to her between sobs, soft warm lovely beautiful Bella, but the monster behind her won't let up, and she has to double back around, she needs to double back around, if she doesn't then there's no chance to ever save Bella and that's the most important thing in the whole wide world, but the monster is always there first, smashing through:

walls
doors
end tables
pillars
the chandelier in the dining room that was always too low
interior windows
tennis nets
balustrades

and there's nowhere to hide because she'll find you and there's no one to protect you because there was never anyone in this yawning empty house except for Mynx and Bella and oh gods what if they run into Mynx what if she hurts Mynx no no no now the very thought of finding someone else in here isn't safety it's terror it's her responsibility to stay alone and just be cleverer than the monster because otherwise someone will get hurt and it will be her fault her fault her fault her fault forever so the chase just keeps going and going and going and if she gets cornered she won't even wake up screaming it will just be real and awful and

and she needs to find Bella again

no matter what

Return to Thellamie

Eclair Espoir!

You have, naturally, retreated to the facilities when you receive word from Hazel Valentine Fletcher, asking for your aid. I should like to think that this is an impulse that is common among the Knights; when your shield must be adjusted to face the world, seek a secluded room where everyone is alike in their vulnerability. A place where you can inspect yourself in the mirror, can make small adjustments, can see how the world sees you and make it fit with how you should very much like to be seen. There's an impulse there that I can respect.

This is not a retreat, except in the strategic sense. It is fortifying yourself for what is to come.

But then, ah. A quest. Something to distract yourself with, avoiding the smiles of adoring children and the applause of those who unknowingly still hunt you, for just a little while longer. A damsel in distress has called for your aid; a princess in a tower, if you will. And being a knight, you know just how to answer.

---

Yuki Edogawa!

Aadya barely apologizes as she pulls you from the grasp of Walking Elm. There is a much bigger trouble to be concerned about.

She needs a battle sister to deal with the Dark Dragon.

"Sayanastia," she says, summoning her heartglaive; behind the two of you, Paladins block off the dance floor. There is distress, confusion, but they know their duty to protect the innocent and defend Civelia. If you squint, and you're not good at recognizing aprons, there's not so much difference between them and the Knights of the Aurora - thus, the professional rivalries. Well, one source of the professional rivalries. "Dark Dragon. Going for Hazel."

Do you need much more prompting? Look at this absolutely unhinged woman, fending off three paladins at once; on the floor lies Civelia, the goddess of civilization herself. You might not be the hero this time around, but that doesn't stop the impulse to do the right thing, now does it?

---

Sayanastia!

The thing about heartblades is that they're very good against you in particular, and other things of the Outside. Where there is nothing, let there be something; let that something fill you up, however briefly, and shine.

Three paladins? This is a joke. This should be a joke, rather- but when you fend off one, in comes another at your blind spot.

A thrust. Righteous anger fills you.
A cut. Controlled fear fills you.
A slice. Confused attraction fills you.

And they bleed away - of course they bleed away - but the residue remains.

As a group, take Frightened, the lot of you. This is frightening, isn't it? Not just to be struck, but to watch Sayanastia stagger and yet keep going, relentless, only to be faced with a bright-eyed girl in a silver dress. She shines. She sparkles.

She's a little like Heron, isn't she?

---

Hazel!

Rejoice! You shall be saved. Not just from Sayanastia- don't worry about that, unless she decides that she will let absolutely nothing stand in her way in order to seize you, which she'd better not- but from the impish fashion choices of those two lovely girls. Between you and me, they're prettier than anyone else at the ball, aren't they? Not that you'd have them in mind as suitors, goodness no, but... there's something there, isn't there?

I should very much like for you to be assailed by thoughts of such nature until Eclair's arrival. Come now, you can tell me, don't be shy: is it the way that Keli swishes her curves, or the way that Seli's eyes gleam when she has you right where she wants you, Master~?

Return to Thellamie

Yuki!

Aria's hands (claws) tighten on you. Painfully. Ready to shake you apart. She was not accustomed to being sassed when she ruled in the secret name of the Rot Star, and having that awful vat of poison poured into the shape of her soul has not improved matters. She considers, for a moment, how satisfying it would be to unhinge her jaw and then bite down on your skull. How sweet the crunch would sound.

But then there are flowers. And there is a hand on her wrist. And she is releasing you.

And there is another hand on you.

Soft. Cool. Smooth. Like the surface of a very expensive table.

"Miss Edogawa," Walking Elm purrs in feigned delight. She is resplendent in gold, but the subtle variations of color make that gold difficult to look away from, a shimmering forest floor under the dappled sunlight, and she smells of honey and flowers and desire. Her ears are hung with gold and her hair is banded in gold and she shines like the sun. Purnima only knows one volume; Walking Elm's modulation of the color shows her mastery.

She was made for this, after all.

"I do so appreciate your company," she says, sweeping you along. (That is a vine at your back. Her grip is iron.) "All that unpleasantness - well! You deserve a treat tonight, don't you? I do think you do." Don't you? Don't you? Don't you? Drown in honey, Yuki Edogawa, while Aria casually positions herself between the two of you and the serpents.

Drown in honey until the solid rock of Aadya steps in your way.

A lifeline. A twist on success. Your savior.

---

Eclair!

Well, I could quibble. In fact, I will toss you the Clue that the wanted posters in Vespergift do have your face on them, not that of Timtam's disguise - which means that someone gave that face, your face, to the Civils, and someone in the Civils accepted it. That is a lead worth following when one is free to socialize with the Civils, no?

But you have insulted me, and for this reason I am delighted to announce that you are interrupted in your brooding stalk outside by a young girl.

She is wearing her very best dress in pastel pink and creamy white. There is a comb tangled expertly in her hair. The buckles of her shoes have been shined until they catch the light and toss it every which way. And she is looking up at you like you are the most important thing in all the world.

"Misstery Builder," she says, unfolding the paper in her hands, "thank you." She has more prepared, but she hides behind the paper: fine drawing paper. Her parents - her mother works for the Royal Bank, that's effortless for you to deduce - watch at a safe and respectful distance. She is at an age where it is important for her to show some independence, where she must be allowed to step forward and act on her own terms.

It's good for a beginner. The kind of figure that you paint when you can only see at a distance, because you're not allowed on a construction site. The watercolors are lower quality than one would wish for, but good paints have been funneled to the reconstruction in bulk, and even through the flatter colors the superheroic quality of the woman who helped rebuild her home is captured with the devotion of the novice.

This is not a scam. This is not a lie. This is sincerity and truth, which is the deadly knife hidden up my sleeve.

This is a child who longs for her hero to acknowledge her love.

"...thank you," she says, and starts sniffling, overwhelmed by the moment. She holds the picture out, and does not know whether she wants you to take it and promise to hang it up in your knightly castle or to sign it with a flourish and tell her that you will never forget it.

---

Hazel!

Archery was a bust. Riding lessons were a bust, and that scratches feats of riding off the list, too. Wrestling? You ended up upside-down in a head lock in three moves. The Khatun watched often, and did not speak. Not to you, anyway.

This left trailblazing and sneaking, and this you could do, the three of you (Keli and Seli being left back at camp to stay out of mischief): you and Olesya and Juniper. Being in the Outside is like being in one of your video games, the ones with the open worlds, where anything could be over the next ridge, over the next hill, and strange landmarks rose out of the hills. It would be the adventure of a day to get to one, with your antlers showing you the way.

And when you actually managed - actually pressed your palm up against the flank of something that was like a horse and like a frog at the same time - and it jumped and hopped away - that is when Juniper clapped in delight for you, and Olesya nodded and gave a thumbs up, because she'd seen you use it, and she'd figured out what it meant, and she wanted to show you that she was trying to learn from you, too.

She gives you a shaky thumbs up, here, in your dressing room. Her fingers are trembling. She can't look you in the face. But she tries. She pours every bit of her strength into that one gesture, into trying to get you to stop worrying about her.

I think it is likely that it has the opposite reaction.

You're the kind of boy who can see a lie told on someone else's behalf from a mile away, aren't you?

She turns with a sudden violence. She leaves. No: she flees.

Leaving you with a gesture that she learned from you, and the lie that she is okay.

...you're on in two minutes, by the way.

---

Handmaidens!

Something is wrong.

One, two, and Civelia stumbles at three.

Her eyes are on Sayanastia, drinking her in, listening to the siren call of rest, but there is a droop to them which she is not controlling.

She opens her mouth to speak in her serene voice, and then she coughs.

She raises a hand to her lips.

There is blue on her fingertips: the color of her blood.

In that moment, her eyes lift again, but she is already crumpling into the arms of the Dark Dragon.

And right before the Golden Fawn comes out, too!

Really, some people have no sense of timing. Can't help but to upstage a perfectly nice young man.

So here's the thing: you have to figure out what's wrong without alerting the Civils (who are looking with alarm to Civelia) because they will figure out that Sayanastia is disguised as Heron and then immediately assume that she has returned to her wicked ways once more and is making an attempt on the goddess's life in order to overthrow the world into inchoate chaos once more and so on and so forth.

Ideally I would like for you all to do this in such a way that it does not disturb Eclair Espoir receiving my vengeance down on the ground floor.

Breathless Dead

“This is simple,” Ember says. She has folded up her bright silks, her colors; her scoutsuit is pale black and grey, the color of shadows under a starless sky. “All we have to do is buy time until the Shepherdess shows up. This is exactly the sort of time she does, and— yes?”

Dany’s hand politely lowers. “Um,” she says, a little bashfully, as if she’s just been asked a question about housing development strategies. “I think she’s busy fighting the lion?” Her cheeks flush perfect rose red.

“…oh,” Redana breathes. Her Auspex continues tracking everyone under the starless sky, distracting her as she tries to think through the implications. “That… no, if the Nemean were to show up…”

“She’d kill us.”
“She’d hate us.”
“We’d get divorced.”

“We would defend her,” Skotia says, and Ember nods at the assertion. It’s the sort of truth that comes most easily from behind his mask. Out of the four of them, he is perhaps the one most honest about his love, though that’s hardly Ember’s fault. “I would die before I let her touch Bella.”

“Again,” Ember sighs, and peeks back out over the balustrade. There’s only one path to infiltration here; she’ll need inserts in her shoes to pass as anything other than a gangly passing-awkwardly-through-puberty Bella.

“Well, I guess that means it’s up to us,” Redana says, smacking her fist into her palm. “All we have to do is figure out what divine device is powering this phantasm and then switch it off!”

“Do we have to?” Dany asks, squinting at her older, even more impetuous self. “She wants to play house. I think we have to play by the rules of the event, or we’ll get a penalty.”

“You’re right,” Skotia says with a chivalrous nod. The shadow of Ceron in the future he helped create is clear. “We can’t fight our way out of this, because she’s right— eventually, even the adventures have to end.”

“But this isn’t home,” Ember murmurs, slipping pads down her new blouse, blinking the contacts into place. “Not for us.”

“Why would she want to come back?”
“There was nothing for us there and there was even less for her.”
“No, this is where she can have what she did not.”

Another nod of agreements at Skotia.

“How about you, Captain?”

An adventurer, a girl, a dashing youth, and a Ceronian scout adjusting her new feline proportions look to Captain Dolce of the Starsong Privateers for his sage wisdom.

Return to Thellamie

Handmaidens!

It is the calm before the storm. Or, rather, it is the anticipation before the storm; the socialites, the Civils, and the entertainers in attendance are almost buzzing with anticipation. Soon, the Golden Fawn himself will be making his grand entrance. There shall be fireworks, and a red carpet, and champagne salutes. Let no one say the Chrysanthemum does not know how to party.

But that is not yet, so the tension has not been broken. It sways to and fro about the room, and builds to a feverish pitch around certain notables.

Civelia, Goddess of Civilization, is one of these notables.

Her dress is blue, but curving lines in white race up from the flared, floor-length skirt, spiraling around her body. Her tiara is platinum wire and sapphires. The gem on her ring finger is lit with a cold, clear fire within. She holds a wine glass between her fingers, and the starlight within the white wine winks faintly in and out. She is a mountain. She is a pillar. She is incapable of being moved by temptation or wickedness.

There are a great many paladins in tight suits standing around her, unable to relax even when under strict orders to enjoy the party. I do think at least one is checking under the buffet tables for hidden maid assassins. A useful but unsubtle asset for civilization, aren’t they?

---

Yuki!

Sulochana is here early. Of course she is. She has been here early for hours. She was worked around by caterers and event staff who knew better than to try and shift the Princess of Crevas.

She is radiant. She is arrayed in the patterns of her house, in vest and blouse and half-cape, and her tail is covered in small stones in impossible shades, entirely new colors made specifically in lightless workshops on the very edge of the Outside, each one affixed in the center of a scale. Her braids are thick with flowers and golden ornaments, washed three times in perfumes. When it comes to standing out, who could beat her?

Unfortunately, as much as we might enjoy a moment of the two of you staring at each other with unresolved tension, someone sweeps your leg out from under you while you try to figure out a good name for a color that is purple-green-copper-but-pale.

“Watch your step, little hero,” Aria Thendragon sneers. She is back to the suit, the macabre corsage of flowers growing out of her ribcage, the starglasses to hide the pale glow of undeath. The smell of her is sickly-sweet and cloying. (Her lady is not present, curiously.)

If Aria has something beyond that bullying cliche to share, however, it will have to wait. Because unless you’re quick on your feet and of your wits, Purnima is about to get herself unceremoniously kicked out for attacking Aria Thendragon. For an attack on you is an attack on her, and condescension to her lovable minion is not to be borne! The indignation is of you but not for you, if you understand me, but the indignation is there all the same.

Azaza was much the same way about her mirrors.

---

Eclair!

Of course it matters, Eclair! Take away the Golden Fawn, and a party like this is still a celebration of a job well done on your part. An explosion of civic pride (for a city you left behind) and defiance. Defiance against an old enemy of the order, against the poison that the Order rebelled against back in Aria’s day.

Set aside the Fawn, and there are still dramas to attend to. Heron and Civelia, over there— surely the goddess cannot have recognized you. Not yet. You are wearing a fetching domino mask, which I very much approve of, and so I have decided that she will not recognize you. For as long as her failure amuses me, and for as long as you do not draw too close.

Even I have limits, Eclair.

But the two are there, and there is tension between them. If you were more like Timtam, I would here point out that this makes them vulnerable to manipulation, that one could be played against the other to give the Order breathing room, but you would just give me another Sad Cat Look.

Mayzie is doing her best to get between you and your fans. Maybe there is some resentment here on their end; maybe Mayzie will be remembered as a vainglorious manager. (But that is not why she does it.) She wears a glittering dress to match with your martial jacket and gloves, a dainty counterbalance to your stiffness. (Here, behind this mask, it is considered dignity and not awkwardness. How the clothes make the woman!)

Do you keep sulking, Eclair? I shall have to make your life interesting, if so. Or do you prowl in this sea of suspects for a lead in the all-consuming case?

---

Hazel!

Olesya drops to one knee. She shakes with it. Trembles with the force of Down and her unwillingness to submit.

(Keli and Seli are also affected. I believe you call it do-geza?)

But she has stopped leading with her mouth, and you have a moment to catch your breath.

When she looks up at you, her eyes are red. Not in the sense that they have become like the eyes of a demon, but in the sense that she has been crying. But her cheeks are dry.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and there’s meaning in it. But it levels out into more monotone than is usual for her (and that is saying something). “I was just. Overcome. With how much. I want you. Hazel.”

There is a need in her eyes. But it’s not a need for you. (And I can already hear your inner monologue: well of course it’s not me, who would ever actually want me? I’m a uniquely ugly and unlovable boy who will die alone, despite all the women literally throwing themselves at me. If only she were as good an actress as Timtam, then maybe your complex wouldn’t be growing right about now. But if Timtam had come in here to kiss you, you’d have a completely different set of problems, wouldn’t you?)