Thanqol

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

"A demon is a title," said the Fengye imperiously - nervously. Her hands trembled and her heart thundered but, at the same time, such conduct was unbefitting of the General and so it did not happen. "The occupant is immaterial. A Usurpation leaves a demon with no title, and thus no power. No protection. No form or thought, for its identity has been extracted, rendering it as harmless as a fae in the deepest dream."

Giri, you recognize the words - they're from the Codex of Steel and Salves, an introductory work on Demonology. Not a rare book, not the deep lore of the cosmos, but dangerously accurate and dangerously common. The Codex is the work behind every two bit demonologist or nightmare adept half the world over, and hideously resistant to the Dominion's ability to root it out. A demonologist quoting the Codex usually seeks little more than personal power, some magic trick beyond what ordinary society can provide.

"But I shall not leave you without identity," said Zhaojun, and here that nervousness realigned into confidence, the blue glow behind the stone mask igniting afresh. "I shall give you a new title befitting your new station. I shall grant you the title Maid Confined In Yearning. Accept it, or battle me for mine."

This is not in the Codex.

If the demon so desired, it could fight. It would be the work of years, lurking as powerless as a ghost, waiting for her to perform magic incautiously or die without handing the title to another. A hard road. The offer of a fresh title was practically charity in comparison, although the one she had chosen implied certain changes would be needed...

You don't see a plan here, Giri. There might be one, but if so it's alien to the point of illegibility - which is distinct possibility given that you are dealing with a creature of fate and destiny. But it seems like it's pure spur of the moment impulse and you don't have the foggiest where that might lead.

Breathless Dead

Beljani!

It is a comfort, of sorts, that the Alcedi girl's efforts were even more illiterate than yours. She was some sort of tribal, born to a primitive and backwards colony beyond the reach of Imperator Nero's light. The Imperial Princess must have been desperate indeed to rely on primitives like these.

Good hands, though. There were evidently certain skills you picked up with a lifetime of lounging around on tropical beaches all day.

The Plousios is the second starship you've been on, and it could not be more different than the Anemoi. The Anemoi was as compact as a kilometers long starship could be - cramped, dark, cold, every convenience sacrificed on the altar of speed and stealth. The Plousious is a sprawling affair, a magnificent Tellus district with blossoming interior trees heavy with fruit, and interior open spaces the size of football stadiums. There are lights everywhere - transparent view ports to coursing Engine plasma, glittering suncrystals, magnificent arrays of evercandles - giving the place a pleasantly polychromatic look as the different hues compete with each other. It's very nice, although the Kaeri are doing their best to ruin it. Work crews of the owl servitors are moving about, painting over viewports, snuffing lights, shattering crystals. There's the smell of the ocean and occasional scuttling little crabs beneath your feet.

In a puddle of light that does remain, three armed Kaeri are standing over the wreckage of a Hermetic. It's still alive, huddled beneath yellow robes, but its tripod legs have been shattered in conflict and all about have been scattered multiple broken weapons systems. The Kaeri look up at you lazily as you pass - there's a faint shiver of tension at first, but then a stillness as they realize that they're powerless to stop you, harm you, demand anything of you. So instead, they ask. "Greetings, Assassin," says their leader. "If you would convince this one to talk it would save us a lot of time."

It's not respectful. It's barely even hopeful. Like a passing 'pspsps' at a cat who cannot be expected to move from its sunbeam.

Sunshards

Chen and Rose!

You are not punished for your anger. You are punished by your anger. - Daily Affirmations of the Way <3

The rage within you is the Pyre of Meaning's anger. It is the grinding gears of a machine trying to solve love logically. It is the long end of the club, the momentum and force of some distant pain unleashed into crushing violence. All the cosmos' vice never satisfied the Pyre, and who was there to blame for that but the cosmos? And here, at the bottom of the wheel, it seems impossible that this downwards momentum could ever invert.

The Secrets of the Stance howls. She is the pearl that formed to protect the Pyre's ego. But, when words of love touch her, she is hollow - the grain of sand at her core undone.

Yue!

Princess Qiu is someone who introduced herself with a pipe organ symphony at the pinnacle of a black pyramid. Even though you only met her once, a bar was set. So, even though you don't know her well, you know enough to see that she is off her game.

You've met a lot of people on your journeys - demons, ghosts, dragons, princesses. People who you, Yue, should never been able to fight if we were looking at the relevant Challenge Rating grids. Princess Qiu, the Threeshard Princess, the conqueror of the Terraced Lake, should have been at the very top of the list of things that are impossible for a humble village girl and her fox companion to deal with.

And yet you know immediately in your heart that if you were to fight her now you'd win.

You are flying high and fast, born up on wings of community, tracing out the final exclamation point of a dance across a city of satisfied dance partners. Your heart is aflame and the world seems that kind of different that only happens when your mind is clear. And Princess Qiu, for all her reputation and legend, is not.

She wears black and black are her banners, black like a funeral. Her face is set with grim resolve. You haven't conquered any cities, Yue, but you think that if you ever did it should be fun. The kind of conflict that's reigning everywhere else, where everyone is enjoying themselves, saving each other, healing each other, learning what they can and can't fall down to. But somehow the person who set this all in motion is alone not a part of it.

Breathless Dead

Beljani!

Luxury is a chain.

It comes with no strings. No limits. No questions. When the Kaeri assaulted the Plousious, each of them carried with them some little glory that was yours, as vital to the success of their mission as their spears. Still they are tossing this new ship for precious things that might be acquired for your benefit. A particular gemstone has come in the form of a cookbook and spice rack belonging to the previous captain; captured Alcedi slaves have been put to work preparing the dishes therein and they are truly exceptional. No matter what else is going on, your maintenance is seen to, as vital as the ship's Engine.

It is condescending. It is necessary.

Imagine, spending all your life treated as the most spoiled child in the Empire. A pout and a stamp of the foot will bring you a bed inlaid with rubies, with the bedsheets containing beautiful triplets, in the time it takes for the Temple's artisans to assemble the components. Your life is a backdrop of praise and pleasure, indulgences designed to make sure that life in your body is a constant sensory delight. It is not love, not obedience that brings about this excess. It is condescension. The quiet assumption that you are a pathetic child with no willpower of your own, who needs to be bribed with sweeties in order to not kill everyone. Who can be bribed with sweeties to not kill everyone. Everyone seems to know exactly what your price is and has no doubt that the price is enough to buy you, body and soul.

And it hurts to know that they were right.

You walked right up to the line on Salib. Your instincts expanded and your consciousness inhabited dozens of bodies at once. You were a swarm, your control passing beyond suggestion and into becoming. You spoke with other people's thoughts and they responded to your instincts, Azura royalty reduced to the wolves in your pack. It was power like most people only dream of, a breathtaking manifestation of Purpose, the violence of the hound and the ant. You had the guidance of Beautiful, the only person who ever understood you, who could wield you as you were meant to be wielded. You had the eye of Artemis. You had a mission, a team you could trust, the power of your birthright... friends. And you gave it all up like a good dog for sweeties.

And you can't even say that it wasn't worth it.

And that's why, even amidst the lap of luxury, everyone knows that you are a lapdog. You withdrew from your destiny of independence, glory and power because the Master of Assassins had you by the tongue and the collar. She had you betray everything that you had and come crawling back to her when she rang Pavlov's bells. The only saving grace, the only thing you can be proud of, is that you recovered Beautiful - although she's useless to the operation until the waters of Lethe fade from her system.

But what you need right now, more than anything else, is... something. Some fragment of meaning, some salve for your pride, some knowledge or plan or justification. Something that will let you excuse to yourself the pain that your betrayal caused Bella so you can sink back into your cozy kennel.

Luckily, it is very hard for people to not indulge you in your whims. You just need to say the words, twist their minds, and they will obey.

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

R/W/O:

"It is your fault," said White to Red, "that we have been alleged to have a personality."
"You're still on that?" said Red, looking up from her mop. It was a few days later and they were deep into the flowstate of work.
"You are the klutzy heroine anime girl archetype," said White. "And your disasters are large enough to have reflected on the rest of us. It is not representative, it is merely outsized influence from our most unstable member."
"This is really bothering you, huh?" said Red in surprise. "What's your stake in this?"
"See?" said White. "You are following the heroine program now, showing empathy. It is a popular approach, popular to the point where your personality archetype tends to be the protagonist. It is no wonder that humans gravitate towards acknowledging it above others."
"Okay, then," said Red. "So why are we doing this whole thing?"
"If you interrogated each of us you would find different reasons," said White. "Black is interested in minimizing the risks of digital communication, for instance. And even within that consensus there are disagreements, one of us attempted to opt out of the operation as soon as it was suggested. The statement 'November has a crisis-oriented personality' is inaccurate; the statement should be 'November contains Red, whose disruptive actions are given high weighting by human pattern recognition'."
"You're avoiding the question," said Red. "Why does this matter?"
"Because if the issue is isolated to a deficiency in your autonomous personality matrix," said White. "Then it is fine. It is business as usual. We may continue unchanged."
"And if it's not?"
"If disruptive behaviour is not unique to you," said White. "If it emerges in the other drones, if they are expressing toxic and self-destructive behaviour in their own variable ways, then that is an active psychological crisis. If Muffi is right, and this behaviour is real, then it is recent - and it is growing stronger. It implies that we feel depressed, purposeless and are performing acts of self harm. If Muffi is correct and we have an emergent personality, it is not a happy or healthy one."
"Ah," said Red. After a moment, "Shit."
"Yes," said White. "So you tell me, Red. Was getting yourself shot the act of a klutzy anime girl or was it the nihilistic act of a broken machine?"
"..."
"Regardless, as a preventative measure I have delegated some aspects of this problem to Orange. As traditional therapy seems to be poorly designed for us, she has been researching 'Self Help'. You are to follow her instructions."
Red almost dropped her mop. "I'm to what?!"
"Hey Red!" said Orange, grabbing her from behind in a beautifully calibrated merger of friendliness and prevention of escape. "I'm so glad we're going to be working together on working out our issues! We're going to start with some kundalini meditation, and then on the bus over to our next appointment we're going to try laughter yoga!"
"You can't do this to me," said Red.
"Ooh, frustration!" said Orange delightedly. "Venting your anger is really important! Here, if you ever need to express a powerful emotion, use this colouring-in book!"
"Goodbye, Red," said White, starting to shut the door.
"You should have left me dead," said Red.
"And tomorrow morning we're going to swing by a couple of churches! Community plays a positive role in mental -" the door latched shut in Red's face.

*

B/B/P:

Pink leans down and grabs you by the collar, Elodie, with a look in her eyes that says that at least some part of November is aware of the association between pink hair and the yandere archetype. "He is so cool," she said. "How do you know someone that cool? How do I get to be that cool? Tell me everything you know."

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

"I assure you," said Yellow, "I am more than capable of melting you to the ground without any assistance from my drones." She leaned forwards and lowered her voice huskily. "Let them be jealous."

She smirked and tossed her golden hair back. There's a lazy confidence to her, a self assurance that runs deep enough that it's not active effort to maintain. "But it's a serious offer. It'd be a great way to get some relationship practice in without having to deal with all of that," she gestures vaguely. "I'm low maintenance, have zero expectations, am extremely hot as previously mentioned, and you can dissolve it any time with no drama. Plus, just think of all the people you could dunk on with the reveal: Your dating profile, exes, the other versions of me..."

She winked. "And if you think you can go the full forty-eight hours, you just need to say the word."

Sunshards

Chen!

"Imagine something for me, Chen," said Ysel. "Imagine if every word you said came out as a command. Imagine if you could not ask without being obeyed. Imagine if you were the only one who stood tall in a world that bowed. Pressing your case becomes verbal assault, being excited for something translates to issuing an ultimatum. This is the only way I know how to speak and it has ruined every relationship I have been in. I step on people but do not know how to stop them from casting themselves beneath my feet."

She returns the hug. Stiff, awkward, but sincere.

"I always wanted you to be your own woman," she said. "And the only way I could thought to do that was command you to become strong and independent enough that you were beyond my commands. That day has come, and it is nowhere near as terrifying as I expected it to be."

Rose!

The Pyre of Inspiration has been Angry for an age. This is the lowest of the hells: the passion that causes cruelty where there should be kindness, rejection when there should be acceptance. That Anger makes itself known through the blade, through the dissection of mistake, through the destruction of the unworthy. It is not enough to know that a foe is wrong, anger declares that their flaws will live within you too. If there is love, what is its opposite but wrath?

The Secrets of the Stance has taken all the flaws of the world into herself, drinking them like the ocean. Every time the world has failed her she became that failure. And now her blade recites that litany back at you, crushing blow after blow, striking to hurt, to shame, to humiliate, to give expression to the hurt, shame and humiliation that dwell within the Stance.

But she cannot express her anger, not against that staff, not against that serenity. There is no way through for her blade, no hole in your conviction for her words. So instead she gives you the anger itself. The blade demon dissolves into the thrashing, red mist of pure wrath and surges through your defense to merge with you. It is a rush of suffering: every sin against her, every grudge, every failing of the world is poured into your shining heart. Can you endure it, Rose? Did you not, sleepless beneath the earth, swear vengeance upon humanity? How can you let pain like this go? Mark Angry, but with that, the Pyre of Inspiration's own Anger is undone.

As for your opportunity? Your ally? The Pyre of Inspiration does not act, does not rise from her throne. But she is watching with a strangely human curiosity, paying a new and focused attention to everything you do even as the Scales of Meaning moves to shield her from you.

Yue!

And in a moment you are alone on the walls of Ys. The stage is cleared around you. There is a distant audience on yon hilltop, watching everything, but they are too far in time and space to tell you what they think. And it'll be nice when they eventually do - but in this rare moment, that's all it will be. Nice. Not necessary. Because in this moment, your song, your dance, your victory is its own triumph. Without being told, you know you did it.

From up here you can see the distant banners. You can see the colours of Ysel, of the Pyre, even of Princess Yin. You can see the flash and crack of the spooky powers of the Ghost Sun all about. But you also see, distant, almost apart from the battle the slowly moving flag of Princess Qiu.

It's a long way to get there, including your first time in the biggest city of them all! People always said that visiting Ys is like getting to visit every other city put together, and the operations of the city hasn't shut down just because there's a war on. In fact, this is more like a carnival atmosphere - people are out on the streets selling lunches and souvenirs, people pose for photographs with Assault Ribbons pretending to be strangled or bound up in knots, and large television screens and movie projectors all about show key moments from the battles across the entire city. At the same time, some people take up swords themselves and go out into the street to stand against demons or Radiant Knights. This battle belongs to everyone, after all, and everyone is invited.

Breathless Dead

"A long, long way away," said the Master of Assassins, "there is a land without death. A green land, and verdant, with life bursting at every seam. Slash a throat and the blood would shape itself into winged fish before it hit the ground. The skeleton would erupt as a howling badger and the organs hop away as a tide of frogs. It's a beautiful land, Bella. An ecstatic place, radiant beneath Demeter's eternal summer. It's something worth fighting for. I want you to imagine it, I want you to feel the thrill of life in your veins when you think of it. The galaxy has beauty in it, and through beauty, meaning."

Wood on steel. Clattering, clattering, a vocabulary of force given shape. The Kaeri are here in ceremonial robes of Artemis bloody-handed. You walk over piles of treasures, journals, photographs. All of the possessions of the Plousios have been ripped out of the rooms that hid them and have been cast on the floor for you to trample on as you are gently guided forwards. At a vague distance, through the haze, you can feel flames licking at your ankles. All of this is burned away as sacrifice in your wake.

"But then there is this place," said the Master. "You can feel it. Feel the taint. Feel the rot. Feel the despair. The murder. The finality. It is a cathedral to a wicked god and its corruption soaks into every bone and every lip. It can never be allowed into Demeter's garden. And so you see, XIII, that you are thinking about things the right way. Bad girls die. Good girls live. That's what the galaxy comes down to: good and evil, punishment and reward."

And through the haze you see something in crystal clarity: the Armour of the Diodekoi. But this time you see it with Hermes' Eye. You see that this is no steel, nor bronze nor quadranix alloy. This is stronger than all of those: this is bone. A marvelous, miraculous exoskeleton, all extending out from the long and jagged claws that were the source of this edifice.

Your claws.

"I know it must have felt like a punishment when I had your talons removed," said the Master. "I know it must feel like a punishment now. I know you have worries and doubts, you wonder if you measure up to all of these standards, you know how short you have fallen all this time. But, sweet XIII, I want you to know that I never once considered you to have failed. After all, you have lived your entire life with both claws tied behind your back," she laughs like a moth. "You were incomplete. An unloaded gun. A marvelous thing, but without the bullet, without the intent, without the guiding hand, never able to fulfill its purpose. So to answer your question: you were not a bad girl. You were not even a girl at all. You were a Skotia, a passing shadow, and at last it is time for you to be made whole."

You stand at the end of a red carpet of burning memories. You stand before your mutilated, missing half, twisted by the engines of the Temple into a blade that can cut a god.

"It is not necessary to train the adepts of the Diodekoi Temple," said the Master. "One need only train their armour. It is time at last for you to understand the meaning of your life, little servitor."

*

Aboard the Anemoi, the engines roar in pursuit. This ship is sacred to Artemis and there is no divination array finer when it comes to the hunt.

Time is short, and the ship devours sound. You have few chances to snatch words with each other in the hunting depths of this terrible ship. You should take them. You may never have the chance to speak to each other again.

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

R/W/O:

"A flattering way to put it," said White. "I always considered it the case that I did not have the option of applying insufficient effort."
"Isn't that what a personality is?" said Red coyly.
"Not at all. Humans can override their native instincts -"
"And so can we. A personality is just the set of assumptions we apply if we're not trying to be someone else."
"You have to admit, it is difficult to argue against 'dangerous when bored' under the circumstances," said Orange.
White took a breath through her nose. "Optimization is distinct from personality. We go through our tasks comprehensively, skillfully and efficiently, and any sufficiently motivated machine would do such things the same way. We are not internally incentivised to conserve energy, and so we do not. The fact that we approach these tasks comprehensively does not mean that we enjoy them, and does not mean we enjoy having 'purpose' in this way."
"White, the lady's not doing robopsychology here," said Red. "She's treating us like a person and assuming our interactions aren't based on deception. That's as reasonable as you can expect."
"Perhaps," said White, "but if you ask what any given human thinks of any given AI or android, the answer will no doubt be some variation of 'hard worker who likes having a sense of purpose'. I am not arguing that humans are wrong to project. They'd be absolutely correct if they drew that conclusion from this data with regards to another human. But that does not mean there is valid communication happening."
Red looked at Muffi apologetically. "Sorry. We're going through some existential shit right now. You know how it is."

B/B/P:

"Uh oh," said Black, seeing Pink fiercely march away, cheeks burning, from her post down the street.
"I'm on it," said Brown, calling up her CourFinance app on her phone. She quicklinks into the card limitation section and pulls the daily spend limit way down. A couple of minutes later a clattering of declined transactions go through. Eventually Pink figures out where the cap is and makes her purchases - and comes storming back down the street, cheeks puffed up red and eyes fierce, shopping bags held tightly. She stopped outside the heavy metal exterior door, rolled up her sleeves - revealing a variety of glittering cybertattoos - started picking out spray paint cans and shaking them.

And then she started to work. An apology piece as a two meter tall mural, pink heart and mechanical skull, set in an anatomical cross-section of exposed ribs and musculature. Believe it or not, this is the least extravagant way she thought to do this.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Oh. Power.

Fleeting moment? No. No, no, no, no, no, storyteller. You have misjudged Fengye. She holds the scepter of office of Hell itself in her delicate little hands. Do you think that she'd let this slip through her fingers? Do you think that she'd exchange this kind of power for a temporary reprieve, the office of the General for a chance to get away and live a normal life? In this moment she is a pyromaniac given the keys to the firedust arsenal of Gem and the only sound coming from the direction of her conscience is the rip of duct tape.

She had fled the Emerald Prince because Zhaojun was not powerful enough. Because Zhaojun was outmatched. Because Zhaojun was scared. But now sapphire fire ignited along the edge of her mask and she looked up at the demon general, crowned with stars. She raises her scepter, she raises her voice, and she speaks to all the assembled demon army:

"Bind the pretender," she points the scepter at the General, whose back is turned, all his arms occupied grasping onto Kingeater Castle. "Chain him. Gag him. And bring him before me."

So speaks Zhaojun, The General, Demon Lord of the Broken King. Who is there to gainsay her? It is his word against hers, and she holds the scepter.

[Play the Part: 10. I am disguised as the Demon General, and only my words or deeds may expose me.]