Thanqol

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Is this what it is to be seen?

Correctly, coldly, dispassionately analyzed from a distance and then dispatched with a single precision strike? Nothing to take back to the mud but the verdict of distraction? If she lets it, this can be true. This can be right. This can be justified, and this story can have a righteous ending.

Some part of her folds before rightful authority. Is it the spirit who collapses, as it is programmed to, or is it the girl who acknowledges that she is a thief who has stolen a place in this story? But the other part doesn't let her. It craves still. It craves to be seen not for what it is, but for what it dreams it might be. The strike finds its mark but it does not split the skin. Accuracy alone is insufficient.

"I understand you perfectly," said Zhaojun, shivering back from the force of the blow to coil her finger under Peregrine's chin. "You say that I am in service to the agenda of Hell? That means the Yozi have an agenda here, and rather than discuss it with me, a rightful representative," of what? "you want to discuss and dictate terms to me. Sorceresses are a disrespectful sort, are they not?"

Her hand flares with peacock blue sorcery. She grasps Peregrine by the chin, throat dry, craving burning in her throat like the deserts beyond the Lap.

"And so I will ask again, this time of the demons you truck with: tell me what you know."

[Invoke a toxic power: 5 woooooooooooo]

Sunshards

"... another volunteer for the arena?"

Hyra's eyes snap back into place - and she grins. "Oh, no, not me!" she said. "Never mind me. I'm just here to observe - just let me pull up a seat!" She walks quickly, hands in pockets, over to the side of the room, takes a finely embellished chair, and drags it across the hall. The wood screeches against the marble, a long, drawn out, disrespectful motion, which ends with Hyra tearing the back pillow out and tossing it aside so there'd be a space for her tail to fall out the back. This is important, because her tail has a lot of wagging to do.

Keron watches all this, looks at the smiling wolf sitting upon her ruined furniture, and decides to take the bait. She raises her hand in the sign that her handmaidens place her laser gauntlet upon her wrist.

... and it does not come. She glances about. Mistrile isn't there, neither is Hena. Where are -?

*

"The Countess wants her balloon prepared at this time of night?" Hena asked, exasperated, brushing her hair away as the wind tugged at it yet again.

"It's probably for something romantic," sighed Mistrile dreamily, working on the rigging.

"Romantic? In this weather?" grumbled Hena, looking out at the windstorm. "I don't see anything romantic about it. Airplanes, sure, but balloons? They're so... cramped!"

"That's the point!" said Mistrile. "Stuck in this tiny basket alongside another person, no matter how your bodies twist they're always touching, a little world in the sky that nobody else can touch..."

"Yeah, the genuine utility closet in the sky experience," said Hena.

"You don't think utility closets are sexy!?"

The argument went on, neither girl noticed the sound of a knife sawing away at the anchor line, even as the wind raised higher and higher...

*

"Oh?" said the Countess, eyes flicking back onto Hyra and staying there. "I see what your game is, little wolf."

"Do you?" said Hyra, red eyes widening in mock surprise.

"I do," said Keron. "This is a magic trick. You're trying to distract me. In fact, I'd guess that another crisis is due to start any second now."

She paused meaningfully. The silence dragged on for just long enough to make it seem like she might be wrong - and then a shattering explosion erupted from the second floor balcony. A huge wash of fire rolled out along the ceiling, sending handmaidens running and shrieking in all directions.

Keron didn't even blink. She smiled, eyes fixed on Hyra.

"There we go," said Keron. "Right on schedule."

*

Smuggling explosives into or out of the castle was a difficult matter - rearranging the flammables already inside was comparatively easier. The airplane hangar was guarded, though, but the bathhouse wasn't. Princess Jessic enjoyed the occasional flame baths and moving around a basket full of ignitable lotions seemed perfectly in character for a handmaiden...

*

"Anybody could have set that bomb," said Hyra innocently. "Why are you assuming it was me?"

"Because I've seen this show before," said Keron, drawing herself up to her full height atop the throne. As she does a hidden compartment on the armrest springs open, the Countess' movement concealing the draw of - a tennis ball. The Countess doesn't even look at it, doesn't even show surprise, just lets it fall from her fingers without breaking her stride as she starts to come down the stairs. "Your plan is based on distraction. Surprise. Keeping me off balance. The same as any magician. Making a show with the right hand while the left hand picks my pocket. All that's required to defeat someone like you is to maintain eye contact."

Hyra continued to smile, but she could feel a bead of sweat run down the back of her neck.

"That," she said, "might be easier said than done. You've worked so hard, you deserve to take a rest..."

*

An evening of hard work in the kitchens, up to her elbows in dough. Everything smelled of bananas. Why was this so hard? Flour-caked, recipe book held open in one hand, trying to retrace her step and reverse engineer why the finished product didn't look anything like the picture.

In the end, she had to run down to the market. Passing off store-bought as her own was humiliating, but the mission demands.

*

"Are you referring to the sleeping poison in my breakfast? My food taster caught that one," said Keron.

"You have a food taster!?" said Hyra. "Seriously?!"

"No," said Keron, "but Wen Zi got up earlier than I did and ate my last piece of banana bread against my express instructions. I do not have Princess Chen feeding me grapes entirely for the spectacle of it."

In the background, a Handmaiden's eyes rolled back into her head and she collapsed into the arms of her fellows.

"I thought you could keep them in line," said Hyra.

"Such are the problems of running a household of masochists," sighed Keron. "Everyone wants to be punished."

"So," said Hyra, as Countess Keron drew closer still, "what? Do you intend to fight me with your bare hands?"

"If I must," said Keron, flexing her fingers. "But more likely I will simply take your weapon. Then your heart. Then your dignity."

"What makes you think I'll let you?" said Hyra, looking up at Keron as she drew closer.

"I think that you'll let me because -"

+Keron!+ both women flinched at the sudden sharp jolt of telepathy as Princess Jessic burst into the hall, a rolling surge of sky blue scales. +I saw the fire, is everyone all right?+

"Yes dear," said Keron, looking around. "I'm just dealing with -"

And then her arm was twisted around behind her back and Hyra's sword touched her neck. "Hi there~" said Hyra.

"..." Keron let out an extremely long and testy sigh. "Are you serious?"

"What?" said Hyra. "You said it yourself. Maintain eye contact."

"You went through all that trouble and -" the Countess pursed her lips tightly.

"Oh, I didn't go through any trouble," said Hyra. "I had a girl on the inside."

+Keron! Are you okay?+ said Princess Jessic, flaring her wings out threateningly as she moved towards Hyra and Keron.

"I am fine," said Keron tersely. "But can you do something for me?"

+Anything.+

"Grab Cyanis. She is the inside girl," said Keron. "You get her and you have leverage."

In a flash of blue lightning, Jessic is moving. She leaps, clapping her wings to the ground just enough to carry her into a crouch against one of the hall's marble pillars, eyes scanning the room. With predator's swiftness they lock onto the wide eyed fox standing trembling in the midst of a rapidly departing circle of handmaidens - and then the dragoness launches. Like a thunderbolt she crosses the distance, knocking Cyanis to the floor to the sound of a terrified and indignant shriek of "It wasn't meeeeeeeeeee-"

"Ooh, good guess," said Hyra.

"Thank you," said Keron.

"This is an injusticeeeeeeee-" said Cyanis.

"Wrong, though," said Hyra.

"No, I stand by it," said Keron. "Jessic, darling? Make sure to bind and gag her."

"Fox is innocent of crimes! I demand a - mmph!!! Mmph!!!!"

"I'm being serious, she's not actually my agent," said Hyra.

"Listen," said Keron, "I understand that you're desperate, but this ridiculous bald-faced lie has run its course. Release me or the fox will never see the light of day again."

"Whatever you say," said Hyra. "Sorry Cyanis."

"Mmph! Mmph!!!"

The Countess doesn't look around, even as the spear of Vogodoris, the stone warrior god, comes down to shatter the chain that binds Yue to the throne. She doesn't blink as the master thief Elkibrant pulls off her veil, draws two swords from hidden folds beneath her dress, and tosses them to Chen and Rose from the River. Guards yell and draw swords and race to the alert, looking to recapture the Countess' treasures in the finest traditions of martial arts movie extras. Indeed, the Countess appears serene. She has made her decision, and she stands by it.

Breathless Dead

Skotos!

Hera shakes her head. "I do not come in Hestia's place," she said. "I do not come in Aphrodite's. I do not come to talk of motivation and wishes and dreams. I do not tell you to trust in your heart, for it is broken, or your mind, for it is simple. I come to talk about of decision."

She took a deep breath. Like some part of her didn't want to do this. She still does not like you, Skotos.

"The lives of mortals are beyond their control for so much of the time. They follow destiny, duty, inertia, day after day with not a single choice passing through their minds. Kings and slaves both live their lives without change. They follow their hearts, and are at the whim of their hearts. They follow their social caste, and so are enchained by their society's expectations. Gods, too. I lived for many years with an anger I did not choose. It grew into a hatred I did not want. It became cruelty I never intended."

From behind her unfold the feathers of a peacock, a thousand gemstone eyes. "I!" she cried, voice as the stampede of cattle. "Even I! Who defines Hera, Queen of the Gods? Who can make her into something she does not intend? I am not the shadow of Zeus, I shall not throw my identity on the pyre of her neglect! I realized then my true power and true domain. I am Choice! The ability that lies within the soul of every mortal to stop. To declare themselves unsatisfied with who they are and where the path before them leads. To transform."

She took a deep, slow breath. The radiance around her slowly began to dim.

"In XIII... in Bella, I saw a younger version of myself. Someone trapped within the radiance of another, letting her soul fester if she thought it was for love. Where I sat enchained by my pride, though, she was imprisoned by terror and that was a more terrible chain by far. For her the choice was between prisons, one physical and one metaphorical. No wonder her soul became jagged, too hurt to see the choices even when they came."

"And... I do not hate you for your neglect. Though you tempted me many times," said Hera. "You owe no one your love. I do not hate you, for once you saw the shape of the problem you determined to cut it out at the source. I cannot fault your heart, as much as I might wish to, just as in the end I could not fault Zeus. You are a good person, Skotos."

And then she seizes you by the neck with taloned hands and slams you against the wall.

"But you do owe her an apology," she hisses. "Chose as you will. Chose to shrink from your duties, your morals, that pure heart that started all this. I do not care. But if you abandoned your childhood friend for a cause you no longer believe in, knowing the suffering you caused her, then the least you can do is look her in the eye and confess your shame. Leave this story if you must but do not leave a hole in that girl's heart. If you confess, I will turn you over to the protection of Hestia. If you ghost her I will ensure you regret it."

Alexa!

Something is wrong.

You are wrapped in coils. You have a strength, a talent for enveloping people in your arms and keeping them helpless. This is what it is to be on the other side of that. You're trapped, the Azura's breath on the back of your neck, her fangs against your marble spine.

Athena stands over you impassively. Her face doesn't have respect, pity, or contempt. She should have at least something, surely. Even she is not so cold hearted as to -

You freeze.

That is not Athena.

None of this made sense as a battle. It's something different. She produces a pocket watch from her silver suit pocket and glances at it. One, two, three -

A sphere drops down from above. Seated enthroned upon a velvet throne is an aged Azura in robes of highly respectable sky blue. Upon his head rests a three-pointed hat, as magnificent as a crown. One of the Azura technologists, a member of the Shahrak Society - though the Hermetics always called them the Tricorns.

And on his withered hand is a command seal. The same as the one Redana wears. It's not attuned to you yet, but the intent is terrifyingly clear.

Vasilia and Dolce!

A chill walks up your spine, like a flower sprouting on the soil of your grave.

You've dealt with con artists before. You've met Azura warbands in the dark before. You're familiar with their narcotic of choice, those eerie cigarettes they call senth. And the smell from the smoke Thelis Thist blows in a long, satisfied cloud from her nose smells nothing like senth. It smells... if anything, like the power wielded by that priest of Hades, Ivory Smile.

Thist looks at you with heavily lidded eyes. The cigar in her hand smoulders in dark promise. It's the chill of spotting the yellow stripe running up the back of a serpent you were about to pounce on. A lot of your ancestors had to die for you to build up a fear like this.

"... no, you're not the assassins," said Thelis Thist, fangs tracing swirls in the smoke that rolls around her. "You're the victims. Excellent."

She shoves a pot aside and leans in over the stove, resting her elbows in the open flames. The flames surround her from below, burning away the rest of that cigar in a sudden and violent cloud of billowing smoke. Amidst the haze, up to her neck in fire, Thelis Thist looks suddenly more like a devil - though her cheerful, oily patter continues without hesitation.

"Sir," she said, "ma'am. You are being hunted. Sagakhan, the Telluric assassin, has once again decided to brave my realm to keep her own in order. Once again she sends children to fight me. I swear, they get younger every year..."

She smiles, smoke coiling around the edges of her mouth. "If you'd like, I will help you. You will have to follow my instructions without question no matter how illogical they may seem. We are up against a foe who works in prediction and it would take me months to explain the complexities of the plan in motion."

She offers her card again, unburnt despite the fire that wreaths it. "And don't worry about my fee," she said. "I'll take what's mine from the assassins."

XIII!

Of course the first thing you see in the hall is Redana. How could you miss her?

She looks... good. She looks better than she ever has, actually. It's been so long since you've seen her but at last she's come into her own. She looks like her mother. Dressed in white with a golden wreath upon her head, golden hair done up in a braid worthy of Mynx. Perhaps being away really has been good for her...

And then her glance meets yours across the hall and there is no warmth in it at all. That is an expression you've never seen on her at all. It's serene and steel, determined as ice as it breaks the boulder.

She's surrounded by her retinue; Hermetics, battlecrabs, Alcedi, an a small army of retainers in organized array and full grandeur. Surrounding her even further are the Azura; hundreds of their great and good, conveniently sorted by colour in relation to the spectacular Satrap upon her throne. Your nose twitches. You can smell the smoke from Thelis Thist's office somewhere, though you can't see her. Some of the other Azura in the galleries are also smoking, but whatever they're using is... different from what she used.

Your name is announced. The Satrap gestures, and Redana is drawn aside as you are called to stand before the apex of the Azura's society-wide dictates on colour. You have no orders from Beautiful here, she must be relying on your instincts.

Sunshards

Hyra of the Wolves has taught Yue many things, but she has not taught her this. Every master must keep a secret or two back. Every hero, too. She received an ideal from a great thief and considers it, its logic and precise wording, one of her hidden treasures. It's not a secret to be given; you have to walk the same road as Hyra to earn it.

She runs the precise words across her mind in secret. Feeling their reassurance. Feeling their warmth. These secret words are what she will live by, and she lets them fill her as she walks towards the Sky Castle.

This is the Handmaiden's path. The earlier Handmaidens thought themselves shields but those relationships were flawed; they pushed their mistresses to the background, engaged each other, and their hearts fell before each others blades. The internet forums she was on as a wide-eyed teenager were flooded with discussions of those warriors, idolizing their martyrdoms on the pyre of unrequited love. She'd gotten a lot of pushback for her fanfictions that actually had the Princesses kiss their Handmaidens.

But to her, being a martyr seemed miserable. Being a shield meant taking blows. Pining silently away meant not getting kisses. And in the opinion of Hyra of the Wolves, kisses ruled actually and more people should have them. She didn't want to be a tragedy, no matter how appealing some people found that idea. She wanted to be a hero. She wanted to be a hero in the way the thief had taught her to be.

Princess Yin, then, had been a mistake. A well intentioned one, one built on the battle of her shining magical knights in eternal night-time battle against the horrors of the dark. That seemed surely a path to true heroism, to shine for those who would appreciate it. It had turned out differently. Yin had been exactly the sort of person who believed that any sort of non-canon ship was somewhere between childish and barbaric and was extremely keen on everyone pining over her from a distance while she made out with designated canon ship boyfriend. There had been a brief, awkward shift after the Prince had dumped her and Yin grasped around for a rebound. That had... gone badly and ended predictably, in a rather neat illustration of why one shouldn't sacrifice one's ideals no matter how thirsty you were.

Enough, then. She would not be that kind of Handmaiden ever again. She would not fight battles on behalf of another. She would not break herself on the sharp edges of someone else's heart. The essence of being a Handmaiden, though, was to save your beloved - and that was where Hyra drew the line. She would not fight Yue's battles for her. If she lost, so be it. That's when Hyra would rescue her.

That was the kind of Handmaiden Hyra wanted to be. To escape the burning building with the girl in her arms, like the superheroes of old. So finding out she had to rescue Yue from the Sky Castle? Braving a Princess, Countess, and aeronautical army?

It was like a fanfiction come true.

She looks up at the ominous shape of the Palace above her. Steel and scale and stone and power. It tells the tale of exactly what it is, exactly what it intends, exactly who you are in relation to it. There is no question, no mistake, no deception.

And her?

She wears a black business suit and tie. Hair tied up in a bun. Sunglasses revealing nothing. This is an ancient look, at once boring and timeless. She wears it today for the same reason as those back then wore it. It reveals nothing. For a time, everyone from parakinetic directors of supernatural government agencies to tech support drones wore this same identical uniform, cloaking their splendour in generic anonymity and ambiguous power. The suit is a mask. It is the only shield that can protect her from the overwhelming power of the Sky Castle's architecture. That can make the gate guards hesitate when they see her. That can let her bluff her way right into the throne room, as slick as bureaucracy.

(The other reason she wears it is for the pockets and vague shapelessness. Both extremely necessary given how many tools, weapons and emergency costume changes she has crammed in under the surface. Of all her winter preparations, one of the hardest was making sure she still looked sufficiently hot after all of the gear had been accounted for.)

She'd chosen her moment carefully. When she pushed the double doors of the great hall open, the wind blew in a wave of cherry blossoms ahead of her. It's spring now and the Sky Castle is an ocean of pink and white, and so Hyra of the Wolves emerges in the midst of a perfumed blizzard. She comes in alone to stand before the mighty throne of Countess Keron, reflecting the mighty ruler in her mirror shades, confronting that draconic power with itself.

Her intention here is not a total mystery though. Her sword, long and silver and naked, rests across her shoulders. Armoured guards circle around her, spears readied with the cautious stance of stunt crew who trying to judge just how badly they're about to go down.

"Oh?" said Countess Keron from her throne, chin resting on her hand in the opulent arrogance of her station. "What comes calling, I wonder? Another volunteer for the arena?"

Hyra remains silent. For now, just her eyes move, crimson lights beneath the void. She picks out Chen, Rose - Yue. Where has the Countess chosen to display each of you?

Breathless Dead

Redana!

Step by step, ingredient by ingredient, you claw your way up the rungs of reality. You were a shadow, but a dog made you a ghost. You were a ghost and a goddess makes you a slave.

There is no comment from Hera at first as she walks by, imperious, ringed fingers picking a single cookie and tasting it with the absence of a ruler too mighty to be ruled, even by desire. This is not a gift shared between friends as it might be if you cooked for Hestia; but neither this is nothing made by no one. This is something. Made by some one. And that, somehow, is what's required to get Hera's attention after a lifetime of failing.

Get her attention... no, that is not how the Gods work. Aphrodite does not come to those who do not love. Athena will not find you as you dance. Hera does not speak to those who stand in the light. Bella could always speak to her.

"You could stay here, if you liked," she said. Her voice is not cruel. "No one would find you."

Alexa!

"Love," hissed Hades, "is the most selfish wish of all."

And with a flare of smoke the world rushes back in, taking the form of an Azura bruiser lunging in with brass knuckles to the face. His colleague slashes behind, seven-section staff lashing out in a clattering whip to strike you as the walls come down.

You are back in the realm of Athena and Ares, the War Goddess directing your demise with pointed fingers. But there's an angle here that you're not familiar with; some strange and dark energy running below the surface. It does not empower them, but they move in tune with its hidden dictates in a way you can't quite anticipate...

Vasilia and Dolce!

It is as you cook that Thelis Thist finds you.

You weren't expecting that - expecting her, to come in here, to the kitchens. You weren't expecting her to be wearing an oily smile and dip her serpent tongue directly into a pot of broth experimentally. From her conduct before the Satrap you imagined her some sort of deeply aggrieved figure, someone intense, someone basically sincere even if strangely limited. None of that now. Now she leaves a trail of credibility behind her like a snail leaves a trail of slime.

"You went and Ascended the housekeeper!" she said, both hands filled with pastries and her mouth with a strange cigar. "You know that means this entire palace will have to be closed, the building abandoned, the court relocated? We're going to have to move the whole operation to Svant! You have just caused spectacular political chaos and personally inconvenienced the majority of the most powerful members of society. Shocking behaviour. You might need an advocate in court to defend you from the shitstorm that's about to rain down upon you. Here's my card!"

It is unclear if this is normal for the Azura, or if defending the people you are also prosecuting is a Thelis Thist thing.

XIII!

You can feel Beljani's muscles against your own. She is on your arm - you have no doubt, from her dress, that she hoped it might be the opposite. Her fashion design was more than the results of her own hobbyist weaving; like yours, she had some tweaks made by Beautiful to bring out the best in her. Her arms are wrapped with ribbon-bands, vibrant green, even down to her fingertips. It is a dress that is a cage, but it is a cage to whose bars she clings. You can feel her muscles so tense beneath your fingers, even though she would sooner eat that dress than show her discomfort on her face. She's afraid too.

You can smell it on her - the Virus, unveiled from the jasmine perfume that kept it hidden. She is the Virus; it swirls around her invisibly except for the razor scent at the edge of your nose, the Auspex's interpretation of that extreme and invasive danger. You've seen how it works at this point, and it's not the frictionless mind control novels thought it might be. The Virus does not dictate - it opens. It gently presses on the brain just enough to make people receptive, to make them inclined to listen, to dull the edge of skepticism, to fill their senses with the pleasant chemicals of love. It's barely an infection at all, so mild and benign that it does not trigger an immune response.

And that's where her true work begins. Then her voice starts, her oratory - a powerful weapon even in ancient days, honed in her to the finest blade. Paired with her gift she can step inside anyone's guard and convince them as a sister might. This is her subtle work and hidden blade. You haven't yet seen her swing it as a club.

She's at her best. Wielded to perfection, just like you. Contentedly buzzed, strong and free and reveling in getting to use the power she is made for. She does not outshine you, not quite, but that was Beautiful's decision and she has no choice but to trust in it. Like you, she should be prepared for this.

But her hands are tensed all the same. The shadows of the Master and her own Rampancy hang in the air. She's aware that she has more to give. She's aware she might be asked to give it all.

"I hardly know what to say any more," she said, voice looking for a haughty sniff that wasn't quite there. "Speaking to someone who can figure everything out at a glance leaves one... she didn't tell you what the plan here was, perchance? Or what the plan was at all? All I know is I've been asked to give a number of rather dubious economic theories makeovers for the modern day, and I can't draw the connection between that and mass death."

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

She'd tried to steal the spear; of course she had. An extra mask to add to her collection; who knows when being able to impersonate a big, strong, beautiful Flower Knight might help her on her mission?

She hadn't been able to get it out of the ground. She'd given it a solid, serious pull and it hadn't even wobbled. Feeling that solidity beneath her fingers made that strength suddenly seem so terrifyingly immediately real and present. If this was what those muscles could do - if her goddess' strength wasn't enough to - perhaps it was a trick or an enchanted spear. Maybe she wouldn't know for sure unless she got close enough to feel for herself -

She hisses, scratching at her mask. Backwards! There were bigger things to want! (were there?) And besides! She had a new toy and she was going to get some use out of it. She didn't have a plan for the sorceress (oh goddess a sorceress!?), but plans were foolish. One pushed the vase in front of oneself.

"Tell me what you know," she said, opening one eye to look at the trussed up Peregrine, dangling in twisted blue tape from a tree-branch at the perfect height to spin if she proved bothersome. She left it at that. She didn't really care to know anything specifically, that way Iopeter waited with an innocent smile. But maybe the witch would tell her about something less distractingly solid. Or give her reason to twirl her about like a toy, entangling her further in the ribbons.

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

God. The inevitability of it.

The part of her that wore the bear skin rages. Thrashes. Cries. Begs. Why not draw your sword and dare them to try and take you? Why not run? Why not resort to banditry? What foul magic is contained within the word knight to make you give up the truths of the heart, of the blood? What makes you dare every instinct? This path does not even have the promise of love or redemption or glory at its end. It is an unknown, awful burden - no, a curse. A faerie curse from the living dead. Why consider this a matter of honour? Why accept the premise and let a deathless monster strike you down rather than spending your year learning a way to slay ghosts? Don't you want to taste again, to sing again, to be beautiful and strong beneath the sun? Why should you not be a goddess? Why should you not be a beast, when there is so much joy in savagery?

Eve no doubt asked herself the same questions when she stood outside the Garden. Nothing stopped her from returning. She had not become any more or less capable of violence. Predators still roamed the garden, the lion and the serpent, beasts still below divine judgement. The apple had not corrupted Eve, it had simply made her aware of the blood.

And she was aware now.

She has no words, and yet she must find them anyway. She wants to face her death silently, stoically, like the ox before the hammer. She cannot be permitted that either.

"The ideal of chivalry has faded," said Robena Coilleghille. "The land is blighted. The fields are fallow. Warriors use the word 'knight' until its meaning drips towards 'bandit'. And I am as much responsible for that as anyone.

"I wish I could cast the blame away, I wish that I could cast the blame at the King, or even at my Countess. I wish I could let the salve of loyalty soothe the flame of every other vice. But I have stood in many lands, before many kings. I have seen many examples, brilliant and wretched. Always my soul had the knowledge of good and evil, and so I learned to suppress it. Alcohol, obedience and pride - three devils enough to drink the Grail dry. My soul desiccated in the drought.

"But then there came a wildfire; a spark set by the devil that set alight that fading forest. For this, I thank the devil. I burned while there was still some part of me left to burn. Five more years and I might not even have felt shame when I struck King Pellinore from behind 'neath the flag of truce. Certainly, my mistress did not. It was not she who was called to face judgement here. At first I thought this a terrible injustice, but my heart knew that to be false. She was being treated as an animal. Returned to the Garden. The world resigned to her slaughter and base impulses. An animal she had become already.

"In being offered judgement, even if the judgement was to end in death, I was being offered a greater courtesy by far. I was recognized as someone who had the knowledge of good and evil, even if I had done great evil. So I am grateful, too, to King Pellinore and her mercy. She did not condemn me as a mere beast in that moment. She condemned me as a sinner. And so, I approach you lords and ladies as a sinner. While I have stained the title of knight, I have striven this past year to be at least a virtuous sinner."

And with this, at last, she kneels.

Breathless Dead

Skotos!

In this moment you have been taken to a bakery.

The Azura by the front observes you with the lazy danger of a predator that weighs its sunbeam as a greater pleasure than your flesh might provide. She wears the bonelike armour of the Path, surrounded by a wealth of roasted grains, enough to feed the city that casts this city as its shadow. In the hound drags you, in amidst the low heat of ovens whose fires have burned low.

You are in a kitchen, Skotos.

You have tried baking cookies before; it is an ancient memory that comes to you now. They burned then. Every time.

Will they still burn now, I wonder?

Alexa!

"Your wish is only for yourself," said Hades, hands dripping with avian blood. With a flick his kerchief comes out and his bloody hands are wiped. "For happiness. That is not enough."

His hand comes up, sharp. He cuts you off, and the Azura thugs and Athena with the same gesture. All three slink into the background. The God of the Dead is possessing the Azura philosopher, eyes inorganic blue - and the moment his hands are clean they plunge straight back into the body of the next bird.

"It is pointless to judge your wishes," said Hades. "You cannot intellectualize or rationalize them. You cannot reason yourselves into them or out of them. Philosophers have tried, but," he holds up a sticky handful of bird entrails, "they have failed."

Again that kerchief comes out, and with steady fingers and a sharp knife he begins to peel the flesh off the bird. Bit by bit, tossed away, inhumanly precise as he reveals the bone underneath.

"In some cases it would not matter. Your misery would not matter. I would be content to let you suffer for as long as you insisted on tormenting yourself in this way. It would be a fair punishment. But in this case it does matter, matter more than anything, because of that bastard Aphrodite."

He looks up at the sky. At the Rift. You can see it from here. A slicing knife blade across the cosmos, from horizon to horizon, endless and sparkling in red and pink and gold like the stars it bisects.

"None have crossed the Rift. In two hundred and fifty years of attempts, thirty three times the Plousios has survived Demeter's Assassins for long enough to reach it. And those are only the attempts I have sanctioned; the number raises terrifyingly if one accounts for the Azura, the Hermetics, the lost and adventuring souls who have sought to brave those awful rivers. These failures were not for lack of strength. Not for lack of skill."

He spreads his hands across the perfect bird skeleton, bloodless and picked clean of any hint of flesh.

"It was because a soul's wishes are as its bones. And if your bones are hollow enough to fly then they shall shatter within the pressures of the deeps. Even if you had all the strength you might wish you could wish for, you are ruined for my purposes. As are all the others. Ruined. Pointless. Cursed. Hermes has betrayed me yet again. If you brave the Rift you shall die."

The flesh and blood sizzles away on the brazier around that gleaming skeleton, and in that thick and choking smoke Hades starts to fade, face twisted with bitterness. "If you want to help," he said from the haze of scorched flesh. "pray for your replacement."

Vasilia and Dolce!

The cinnamon is H'san. He dreamed of music. He shook the spices because he liked the rhythm of the motion, not because he minded their flavour. He was a fool. He is yours. Carry him gently.

The coriander is Jalia. She was a researcher, a Triarch, a gene weaver in training who worked in the kitchens that she might learn the skills to impress a future wife. She is yours. Carry her gently.

The drawer of unopened white plates is Fangst. They were a criminal, an outcast in hiding, planning vengeance on the palace while gaining their trust as a chef. They never had the courage for it. They are yours. Carry them gently.

There are these. There are more. This is a place of loss, and in Apollo's light it seems like it is not so different from anywhere else. Each world aches with the loss of humanity. Each star aches with the loss of the shadows of orbiting fleets. Each heart in this dark and shadowed galaxy weeps with the same loss that the Magos Birmingham forged into a sword. Yours are no different. But you take on the Housekeeper's loss, name by name, burden by burden, and it does not crush you. All the weight of her agony and grief... it does not cripple you in the same way it cripples her.

And with the gentle click of silver, the Housekeeper at last looks down upon her finished masterpiece. Fried halloumi, drizzled with honey and scattered with peanuts. The perfect saganaki. If it is not Ambrosia it is as close as mortal hands might ever manage.

"Oh," said the Housekeeper, in a quiet kind of surprise. "I did it."

And she smiles. She bows to you. She bows to Apollo. She undoes her strange armour, letting it clatter to the ground all about her like shedding skin. And reborn in sun-kissed blue, she shucks the title of Housekeeper and leaves it behind. It is yours now, if you wish it. This kitchen is yours now.

(Ah, but what of the consequences of that partial success? The price you must pay is a simple one - Apollo has picked up that divine dish before you could, and has taken a delighted bite. He crying with silent laughter at the joy of it. Perhaps for the best, though. Problems tend to occur when mortals eat the food of the gods.)

XIII!

Could not the Empire be run like this?

Of course, it could not. The Ikarani are architects of death and disaster. Are vessels of death and disaster. Only permitted to soar this high because their inevitable collapse is part of their terms and conditions. They are the hubris that kills civilizations hidden behind a Beautiful face. Of course the Empire cannot be run like this.

But oh, is it not glorious to live within it for a little while.

Perhaps the idea of Imperial administration as analogous to the half-Kaeri girl's processes is flawed, though. This doesn't feel like taking orders. It feels more like horseback riding - either as the rider or the horse. You race with borrowed strength and speed, but still have space to flourish. You are empowered to be your best. Partnership like you've never felt it. Each mission is assigned to you specifically because of your talents, and resources are issued precisely to cover any weaknesses or limitations that might frustrate you or slow you down. Everything is where its supposed to be. Reinforcements, aid, escape vectors, all appear perfectly on cue. It feels like you are for once understood. You are asked to push yourself, to give your all at times, but not once does Beautiful ask you to do the impossible. She doesn't even ask you to do the inefficient or boring parts. She takes into account the time you need to rest, your mind's hunger for variety, even your desire for positive feedback. Despite working harder and more effectively than you ever have in your life, somehow the Ikarani Adept makes this feel like a vacation.

And on this vacation you are stealing a lot of money.

The shape of the plan is illegible, but the specifics aren't. You are moving money around. You break into vaults, museums, military facilities and ancient factories. Spectacular wealth flows through your claws like water. But, strangely, Beautiful doesn't seem to be building up a hoard. Some missions have you smuggling treasures into certain vaults, having you leave empty-handed. At one point you need to keep an Azura sentinel distracted for long enough for some Lanterns to hastily load crates full of the Azura coins onto someone else's spaceship without them noticing.

What do these forced interventions in the economy of the Endless Azure Skies add up to? You don't have time to ask, and from Beautiful's hazy look she doesn't have the time to answer. And she might not have much time, period.

The plan runs for five days. Just long enough for you to start to worry. An Ikarani can't maintain this level of mental output for long, can't hold this much raw data inside their head, even with the oversight of the Master. By the stroke of midnight tonight Beautiful needs to have her mind wiped to prevent her from going Rampant. You've got the poison in your pocket. It's an ominous and flowing thing that calls to mind the Lethe, the River of Hades that washes away the memories of the dead.

But one last mission. One last mission before the dose, after which point Beautiful hopes her plan will be able to conclude itself. And for this one she needs you looking your best. You'll be attending a fancy ball with the Azura Satrap. It's an afternoon of pampering and luxury, but that too is part of the plan - this doubles as your mandatory rest break.

Tell us of your metamorphosis.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Zhaojun just lashed out for the crime of paying her insufficient attention. Now she lashes out for the crime of paying her too much attention. How dare this Stag Knight confront her? Does she not respect the pounce? Does she not respect her grace, that she has amply demonstrated that she is a flawless predator who can seize any prize she wishes? How dare she be asked to prove it a second time!

How dare she be struck back at?! How dare she be threatened!?!? She is not done here, how dare!?

(Marking Afraid. And it is no wonder that the threat of severing is fearsome, Giriel, for Zhaojun clings to this strength with four limbs and four sets of claws. This is not the confidence of a goddess, assured of her place amongst the stars and contemptuous of mortals. This is the aggression of a youth where everything seems conditional and nothing is guaranteed. Anything might be lost, so everything must be fought for. Kittens grow in destructive power more rapidly than in emotional maturity, and so it is here.)

But she is not Zhaojun. No matter what this witch thinks! She is Heavenly Cytherean Machi! And Machi will not hiss or snarl or shiver at having her power challenged. For Machi too has the character of a cat, and a cat will never blink when watched by a rival cat - even if that cat happens to be herself. So instead of expressing poison fear she expresses liquid grace. She slips into the guard of Uusha - an easy thing because she carries a hostage upon her shoulder that can turn that dangerous spear aside like water.

"Don't be so greedy, witchbound knight," she said with the smug voice of a cat, dangerously close. She has to be, moving step by step to stay inside the sweep of that spear. "You have two witches here, and there's no way you could satisfy them both by yourself. You should be happy with the one you still have - at least until I'm done with this one. After all, yours has been injured by my surprise attack, her fair skin rent, her fair mind confused, her fair mouth dripping nonsense about spirits. She is in dire need of a powerful knight to heal and protect her for I am not the only N'yari to stalk these jungles."

<I Ship Uusha with Giriel: 9, giving Uusha a string on Giriel; she can take/give a string on me>

And then her moment comes. One foot steps onto Uusha's spear, another onto her shoulder, she crouches and uses the knight's back as a springboard to hit the ground running. And if Peregrene gets any ideas about magic while she's being carried a spank or two across the behind should be enough to distract her until more permanent solutions can be arranged.

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

So how, then, does she fight the boar?

She does not. She dispatches it.

Were you expecting a tale of strength and heroism and red in tooth and claw struggle? Fool, you have learned nothing from this tale. If you wanted to know that Robena was strong you could have observed that in her size and muscles from the first page of this story.

So perhaps your problem, then, is the same as hers. You hunger for the blood and the sweat and the push and pull of spear and flesh. You hunger for the clatter of dice, in which case you will be satisfied to hear of her twelve. Do you recall the blow she landed on King Pellinore's kneeling neck? Do you recall its strength and skill? Do you celebrate it? Would you say that, but for the moral technicalities surrounding it, that is a tale worthy of telling about a knight?

You ask her, this girl who has spent this last year struggling with death, atonement, and knighthood how she kills a pig? Shame on you. Shame on those like you. Shame on her for being like you. Shame on her no longer.

This is not her final trial. She will not make the mistake of considering it so.