TheAmishPirate

Return to Thellamie

Rickshawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww

It’s even fun to say!

Now, had he ever driven one of these things before? Nope. Had he ever really, seriously thought about driving a rickshaw? Of course not. But that’s not important. This wasn’t the sort of dream you sit on like a hammock on a summer’s day, feeling it with your whole body as a long sigh escapes your lips. This one was quieter. Stealthier. Creeping in without you noticing. In the moment you see a video of a rickshaw driver carting a couple around some far-away city, it strikes. As you’re distracted by the sights and wonders of adventure, it slips past your guard and takes up residence in a silent corner of your heart. Waiting. Watching. Biding its time. For one day, you might find yourself looking at an unmanned rickshaw, and it’s only in that moment you’ll realize that you’ve always wanted to try driving one of those things.

Was he nervous about the possibility of running himself, Amali, and her entire collection of yarn into a wall? Absolutely. But fate, possibly feeling some remorse about the last half day or so, gifted Hazel with quiet backstreets to start his journey on. He braces his feet against the street, and leans, pouring a gradual stream of strength into the crossbar, until the sleepy wheels yawn and stretch and trudge their way forward. Then it’s step, step, step, slowly at first, feeling the momentum tug at his outstretched arms even as he keeps pushing forward. It wants to roll. It wants to sit upright. It’s not terribly interested in going much faster than a deerboy, but it could be convinced. Otherwise, well! It’s a fine day for bumbling about, driver, you just give it fair warning when you want it to make a change.

The alleys wind up and down through the city, even before they reach the main road. Gentle, but mischievous. They’ll make him lean his whole weight forward, keeping that cart moving even as it longs for lower climates. They’ll promise him an easy time on the way down while whispering to the rickshaw that this would be a great spot to build up to a sprint, wouldn’t it? But they’ll have to try harder than that to find Hazel sleeping on the job. He plants one foot after the other in a steady rhythm, tensing his upper body and dampening the shock with his arms, and Amali won’t hardly feel a jostle. He lets the momentum carry them down, digging his heels in and leeching enough speed to keep from rolling out of control. Turn by turn, they make their way out of the alleys and towards the main streets. The pavement gets smoother as they go. He can’t feel so many bumps, traveling up the wheels, down the poles, and into his hands.

By the time they reach the crowds, he’s learned how far he needs to pull and for how long to ease the rickshaw into a gentle stop. He’s learned roughly how much of a push it needs to get going, and that it’ll take less pushing to keep it going after that. He hasn’t quite figured out how wide this thing actually is yet. That’s okay though! He knows where everybody else around them is, and what they’re up to, so he can just give them as wide a berth as he can manage. No need to try anything too daring.

See, you have to be patient with crowds, especially when you want to go fast. There’s a flow to them. People follow the people in front of them. Groups stick together, not terribly minding how fast or slow they’re going. Streams branch off of the main flows, seeking faster paths. You have to keep an eye on what’s happening around you. If you’re being passed, give it a minute. See if it evens out. Crane your neck and see if you can spot the slowdown. Don’t weave, if you can help it. Angle yourself. Aim for where you want to be. Aim for where there’s going to be a gap. Ride the flows of the crowd, instead of fighting them. Get through as fast as possible, while causing no harm or concern to anyone else. For this is the way of moving through crowds, learned through many high school hallways and weekend mall trips.

They’re making good time. He knows, because they were behind that cart with the lanterns before, and now it’s far, far behind them. His starts and stops have been on point. He’s pulling a whole entire rickshaw all by himself, and his muscles shout out that they could pull like this all day. Flick-flick-flick goes his tail, poking out from his nice new clothes.

He’s doing such a good job.

It takes until the lady next to him waves, at him, to realize he’s being talked to. It takes until the man gestures at his antlers for his eyes to light up in understanding. “Ohhhhhh, the antlers, right!” He laughs with only slightly more relief than necessary. “No, no, it’s no trouble at all, you’re good.” In all the hubbub, he’d almost forgotten there were people who braved the Outside for a living, and sometimes came back changed. Venturer. He was a venturer. Right. “Sorry, I can’t say that I do,” he says easily. “I hope you two didn’t get caught up in all that mess last night.”

Because that’s the tune that he’s been working to all this morning. Isn’t Crevas wonderful? Isn’t it grand, to see a city still standing? Of all mornings, they’re stepping out into one where families walk safely down the road home, swapping stories of the festival, without a hunting howl to be heard.

It’s a new day. How can he keep from humming while he works?

Breathless Dead

There is only one way out.

The theory is sound, in that he knows it’ll work. If he followed Ember, Aphrodite would take over from there. But Ember has training. Experience. He’s pretty sure he noticed her whenever she popped into his cafe on some mission or other, but he would never say for sure. The chance was low, but never zero. She could adopt the role required of the ritual, to the degree required of the ritual. But ask him to call that love?

He could never pull it off.

Which left the boardpedoes. Or a shuttle. Either way, two defensive screens to fly through. A ship full of chaos and blood. Problems he did not have answers for. Funny how many of those he ran into, working within the real power of the Skies. But he’d have to see about finding a miracle later.

Iskarot wasn’t here. If he was left behind, then escaping to the Plousios changed nothing. He was smart. Clever. Resourceful. Flush with the authority to go where he pleased, within reason. He’d know what the alarms meant. He’d have seen the attack plans coming. He’d know he didn’t have time to rendezvous here like they’d planned.

I met you in a dream…

He didn’t know where Iskarot was.

The quality of a mind is not in its discoveries or its successes, but in the length and breadth of its emergency protocols.

But he knew how to find him.

“Sanalessa will be escort enough, though the offer is much appreciated.” He tap-tap-taps a sheaf of papers, and passes them to Ember in a neat stack. “You have a job to do, and we would only slow you down.” Diagrams. Floor plans. Alert protocols. All the intel a scout of Ceron could wish for. His smile shines soft as his wool. “We’ll see you aboard the Plousios. That’s a promise.”

Return to Thellamie

Well wasn’t that kind of her? Sure, it’d be better if she didn’t put herself in danger for his sake. Or really, it’d be nice if she didn’t have to leave her nice apartment just to see him off. But when a grandmother gives you such a lovely gift, it’d be rude to try and give it back to her. “Thank you much, ma’am. I really do appreciate it.” He can’t help but smile, big and warm, as he says it again. As if he could say it enough. He can’t promise anything about the worrying, but he’ll keep that from bringing her down too.

Still. That was tomorrow. Now, he had a warm blanket across his shoulders, a warm cup of tea ready for drinking, a warm cat bonking at his hand, and…well, tablets don’t really get warm like phones, do they? They just sort of work. Like those e-readers with the really simple screens, the dim ones, they barely seem electric at all. Which makes sense, it’s not really electric, it’s magic, but it’s not that unreasonable to expect magic to be warm, right? Or cold, or tingly, or glowy, or something. Magic typically does something magical. Or it ought to, anyway. He gets all the way to #thellamemes on reflex before he slams the magitechnical door shut. The unread notification instinct carries him all the way to his DMs and there he stays. Yuki’s chat history fills the screen, with no room for anything else. He didn’t see any messages in the group chat. If he stays here, he can pretend there’s nothing there. And there’s no other unread DMs.

For now.

He licks anxiously at his lips (still tingling) as he reads. And reads again. Shoot shoot shoot shoot shoot. He types with one hand, getting the words out as quick as he can. The cat won’t abide any other interruptions, and neither could he.

>[.cinnamondrumroll]
>I’m okay! Sorry I didn’t reply sooner. I haven’t had a chance to check my tablet until now. But I’m okay, I’m safe, nobody here’s trying to catch me.
>I don’t know where I am *exactly*, but I don’t think anybody else does either.
>Except for the aforementioned “nobody here” people. But they’re good, they’re friends. And not trying to catch me.

No response. So, Yuki probably didn’t have her tablet out either? Probably? So he had a bit of time to think. He typed and deleted a few notes, played with phrasings in his head, pet a cat, and then typed away.

>I appreciate the offer, but I think I’m alright for now. We haven’t heard anybody on my trail for a long time, and I’ve got a plan for the next day or so. No sense in leading a hunter here if we don’t have to.

Wait. Wait. Wait.

>Are you okay? Is your friend okay? That hunter didn’t get you, did they?

Yes, brain, he could’ve added an emphasis to “get” there, thank you for the tip. Except Yuki clearly doesn’t like them like that, and that’s not really an appropriate joke to make otherwise. Very helpful.

She’s still not typing back.

She’d silence her tablet if she was in trouble, right? She wouldn’t have let a warning ding give her position away, right? She’s Yuki Edogawa. She’s a seasoned adventurer. The snowkitty herself.

He should’ve said “thank you.” Instead of leaving it implied. No, he should take her up on the offer to chat and figure it out from there. That’ll show her she’s still in the loop. They’re still in this together. He’s not ignoring her now that, I don’t know, adventure happened. Or something. He opens up his notes again. Types. Deletes. Rewords. Thinks. Deletes again. Compares.

…was he sure she’d silence her tablet?

The cat enjoys some much deserved two-handed affection. The distracting tablet sits on the arm of the chair, open to a DM. Every now and then, Hazel sneaks a finger over to tap the screen and keep it awake. The only sound in the room is the ticking of a grandmother clock, and the purring of a contented cat. He sits. He watches. He waits.

She’s still not typing back.

Return to Thellamie

In the space of a few blinks, Hazel rockets from one warm dream to another. Right. They’ve escaped. They made it to Amali’s home. In the way of dreams, he’s not entirely sure how he got here, but then again, nobody’s asking too many questions about it. Himself least of all.

Removing the thirsting wool is delicate work. He has to extricate his arms carefully, one by one. Don’t disturb the cat. Don’t let the blanket fall from his shoulders. Either would be a tragedy. The nets are fastened by something he can’t see, something that ought to make a noise once he figures out the trick of the clasp, snap, thingy.

Pop! Pop!

There they go. At once, a faint glow lights up the room just a hair brighter. He drapes one over his shoulder while he fold-fold-fold-folds. Swap. Fold-fold-fold-fold again. He sets them atop his napkin; ordinarily that’d go in his lap, but, well, the space is occupied. And liquid starlight probably stains tablecloths terribly. He gives his host a polite, grateful smile. “Thank you for the dinner, ma’am.”

Now, he can properly turn his attentions to the meal.

You know, he wasn’t really a huge fan of jam back home. He’d had it for years as a kid, but one day something in him just clicked, and suddenly the lumpy texture of it was disgusting. Took him ages to find a new sandwich he liked after that. Hasn’t really gone back to try it since. But seeing how she put it on his plate, he owes it a chance, doesn’t he? Just a taste, on a corner of toast, and see what it’s like. Right away, it’s smooth, thank goodness. And sweet. And a flavor that resists description. Fruity, sweet, but somehow, a little spiced? Not spicy. Something with bite to it, all the same. And oh! It plays well with a bite of the cinnamon biscuits too. Leaves his mouth tingling, pleasantly. He licks at his lips, and is surprised to find nothing, not even a crumb.

A hand gets halfway to his mouth before he realizes it’s probably quite rude to run a finger over your lips at the table. It quietly retreats, to resume petting a cat.

It is a fact of life that a good meal in good company is always a difficult balancing act. Good food makes you want to be quiet and eat. Good company makes you want to talk and laugh. Hazel muddles through like a seasoned pro. Before long, he’s telling Amali about his day, and all the adventure he’s had. There’s a lot of ground to cover there, a lot of trouble she wasn’t there for, but has gotten herself wrapped up in now. He never speaks for too long before remembering his food, and tactically asks her about past festivals, Crevas, and more. Small bites, then, in case she passes the conversational ball back to him. He really strikes gold when he thinks to ask if she remembers the time when Yuki last visited, and the two of them are soon comparing notes and stories as the biscuits and tea flow freely. So freely, that the night calls for a second pot.

Amali gets to her feet, shooing off his offers of help to clear the table. No, no, he’s helping plenty by keeping that old rascal occupied. He does so love to get under her paws, such is his right. With a fond chuckle she shuffles off to her kitchen, leaving him free to gently pet the lord of the house. So pleasing is his offering, that he is allowed the privilege to scritchie his little ears. So Hazel waits. So Hazel pets. So Hazel drifts-

And he sees her closing the distance, again. He remembers that bit clearly. He closed his eyes then, not really sure why. Then he felt her lips touch his. He made. A noise. His eyes shot open. And then-

Starlight. Bright without burning. Color without shape. Eyes closed now, dearie.

After that, it got. Fuzzy. Presumably he did something with his hands, because he had them before, and he has them now, so they must have done something in the intervening time. But what?

He remembers her mouth covering his. Gently. Completely. Pressing soft but firm, and, he didn’t know lips were so sensitive, but, they were. Gosh. They were. She smiled against him, and he knows that because he could feel her moving, so slightly, and when she did his whole heart fluttered. Or was that her making a little humming noise? Don’t ask him. He’s already lost. The rest of him vanished. The rest of him was pressed in, soft and firm too, from, arms wrapping, flush against his chest, all sides, and

He remembers a body so focused on kissing they’d forgotten how to do anything else. If they hadn’t had a lifetime of practice standing up, surely they would have collapsed in a silly heap. See how easily their hands can be directed to hold onto sides. Feel them grab on, for dear life, without gripping too tightly. Even though they’re hopelessly out of their depth, see how gentle they are. See how eager they are. Lean in, and tilt up. Eyes closed. Don’t stop. Not yet. Let them know they’re doing a good job. Please.

He remembers taking breath and banishing thought. This face is delightful to touch. These lips are sweet to kiss. This heart is dear and precious. Don’t you agree? Deny these facts and they will be proven true again. As if such a chance will be given. All that is needed from you is the sound of your joy. It is the greatest treasure you could offer, more valuable than you could ever know. Whenever you like. As softly as you like. Let your heart sing to me. Delightful. Sweet. Precious.

He remembers that mug of tea being empty a moment ago.

No kettle could match the pitch of his surprise. Amali is there to witness that too. And whatever else she just saw that put such a smile on her face. “Sorry! Sorry, I didn’t see you come back. Long day.” He takes up his mug in both hands, much to the annoyance of cats in the vicinity. Terribly sorry, he needs to do something with his hands or else he will die. “Thanks, again, by the way. For the tea, the dinner, the place to stay, and, everything.” He takes a careful sip, mindful not to burn his tongue. “Are you still good to travel tomorrow? I don’t know how many people will still be after me then, and with this disguise I could slip out with the crowds easily enough. It’s no trouble at all.” She didn’t know, after all, when she agreed to take him in. It’s only fair she gets the chance to back out of his trouble.

Breathless Dead

It’s over just as quickly as it began. A moment of calm replaces the frenzy of imminent crisis. A moment of calm scored with guitars played at inadvisable volume that somehow did not drown out the sound of a million million drones waking up.

It might be the best they’ll get for some time. He takes the opportunity to sheathe his sword. “No, I’d really rather you didn’t kill everyone, thank you.” He speaks to Sanalessa, but his eyes are on the drone. In a few days time, it would be dead. It had no brain, no thoughts, no capability to understand them or what was happening. Disabling them would mean rendering them immobile while they waited to die, alone and in what pain the Biomancers had seen fit to give them.

He bows his head to the drone, stilling his thoughts for a moment of total silence. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, before turning to Sanalessa. “Could you just kill them for now please? As cleanly as you can manage? Ember, could you please hold them still a few moments longer?”

What comes next, he doesn’t have to see. He trusts a priestess of Artemis to be neither cruel nor inefficient. And he’ll need his wits about him for the next while. (That’s what you’d say, right Vasilia?) He marches over to his desk and begins consulting folders and binders, pulling out sheets of documentation and arranging them accordingly. What was this alert level? What zones were to be evacuated, and in how much time? Give him timetables, protocols, and everything in-between, and he begins to see the shape of what will happen on this ship in the next few minutes. The plan would need some adjusting, but the plan was still the plan: Meet up with the Craftstman, and get out, together. Only now, instead of escaping stealthily through a ship preparing for war, they would be escaping by whatever means they could through a ship going on high alert.

[Dolce is certain something’s wrong here. Activating I’ve Got a Bad Feeling About This to learn both the quickest way out and the safest way out, for all of them.]

To his credit, he only gets a little ways into his work before he remembers his manners. “Oh, my apologies. Ember, this is Sanalessa. She’s a friend I’ve been traveling with, the story’s a little long to tell now.” If she wished to give any further details, she could choose to do so herself. That was not his place. “Sanalessa, this is Ember. She’s a good friend of mine from back home, or rather, where home used to be.”

He pauses in his search, only briefly. “Actually, how did you get here, Ember? Did anyone else come with you?”

Ember!

His voice is different then you remember it. Not rude, of course not, he’d never be rude. But when did you ever know him to take charge, even in his own kitchen?

Return to Thellamie

Hazel was prepared for disappointment. He was hoping for approval.

He was unprepared for the approval of foxgirls.

Is. Is that going to happen if they go to Garnet? Wait is that a when they go to Garnet? They don’t. They’re not. Surely not? But they’re going there. So. Is he going to have to work there? Would they need him to? No, well, of course, they’re joking, it’s a joke, ha ha ha, there’s, there’s other jobs, surely. Oh he cannot even look at the two of them right now help his cheeks are burning up aaaaaaaaa

He is spared, only managing a tiny sputter before the oldest, most sweetest lady in all of Thellamie descends upon him. In this moment, Hazel realizes he’s never actually thought about grandmothers here before, be they Aestivali, Nagi, or what have you, but there she is. All the powers of fox and grandmother. Her silvery fur is soft, her voice is soft, the smile that wrinkles her nose is extra soft, and with the unstoppable power of many years, she at once bestows upon him a mighty blessing: Handsome young fellow.

He couldn’t be happier with his new clothes.

(Yes, most of the unprompted compliments he’s ever gotten have been from kindly old ladies of no relation, butt that doesn’t dim his smile one bit.)

The world feels a little less scary now, doesn’t it? They’re going to get a nice dinner somewhere. They’re going to get a good night’s sleep someplace safe. Tomorrow, she’ll have the route all planned out. At no point is she going to suddenly ask for his wallet and/or valuables. It’s going to be okay. It was rough there, for a little while, but it’s going to be alright now. All he has to do is what he’s asked.

But first, he’s got one more thing he needs to do.

When she takes his arm, he holds it out juuuuust so, nice and straight and stable, so she has all the support she’d like as they walk. His arm holds still, even as he bows to, er, himself, from the waist. His other arm hovers indecisively - do they do sweeping bows in Aestival? - before settling on polite and straight by his side. “I know this isn’t much, but, thank you. Thank you,” and he hopes with all his heart she can hear how much he means it. Behind him, his tail flicks a steady, joyful beat. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without your help. You’ve done,” his words trail off, his gaze bouncing between clothes, and wool, and grandmother, and decoy, and there’s not enough time to say everything he wants to, they’ve got to get going! “So much for me, and, I just hope that you’ll be safe and that I can make it up to you someday.”

[Activating Friendly Benefits with Inara. She gets a String, we get to hear what she finds attractive about Hazel.]

Breathless Dead

Dolce could’ve followed 20022. He also could’ve stood up on his chair and provided a singing, musical accompaniment to the fight. There’s a lot of things he could do that he doesn’t think to do.

He stands on the edges. The sword was a gift from Vasilia. The ready stance was a gift from the Starsong. He observes, and that is a gift he has made his own.

"Ember, can you give her a hand with whatever this is? I've got your backs."

When the time is right, a sheep and a blade will be where they need to be.

Return to Thellamie

In the breath before the grand reveal, a single, magical word is spoken.

”Pardon?!”

And then - clap! Fwhoosh! Fwhoosh! Fwhoooooooosh!

Hazel rises to his feet, blue-white light glittering in his wide eyes. How did…? Where did…? For him? He can really? This is all for him? He looks down one rack, then looks the other way, then back again, but no, it’s the same either way. There’s no end to the line of clothes swaying on the rack in a dazzling rainbow of colors. They stretch far, far into the distance, past where he was pretty sure a wall used to be, vanishing into a blueish, white glow. If he stares long enough, he can start to make out little shapes in the flames, and their capering dances make his head a touch giggly. Like, like hiking in the mountains and stepping out onto a view so incredible, the only thing you can do is laugh in awe and amazement.

But magic aside, he has to pick out an outfit? One outfit, from all this? Where’s he even supposed to start? Do you pick up clothing this nice like normal clothes, or do you just pick them up by the hanger, or-

Her voice shakes the room, and he jumps with a startled yelp. No thank you ma’am, he does not want to be on a leash by morning! He would like zero leashes for the foreseeable future! See how much he’s nodding agreement! Okay! Yes! He’s-

“HeY!!!”

-stumbling out of swat range?! Abwughbhg?! Why?! Why was spanks a thing that could happen! What is the meaning of this! Explain, foxgirls! Explain!

no seli winking is not an explanation aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

He scampers into the nearest clothes rack. For hiding. For defense. For a place where the world makes a little more sense. For a place to bury his face in his hands and let out a long, muffled squeak, like a teakettle trying to keep a secret. But there was no time for letting off steam. They were on the clock. Focus, Hazel, focus! You gotta pick out a disguise! Quick! He looks around him, and. Huh.

Huh.

He peeks out of the clothes rack, but no, the nice lady is already leading Keli and Seli away, paying him no further mind. There’s been no more claps, or magical fwooshes, or anything. So how is it that the one clothes rack he happened to stumble into just so happened to have something so…so possibly wearable?

Could this also be a sort of magic?

Whoever she is, she must be an awfully clever magic…person. (Wizard didn’t sound right, sorceress was a little better, but still didn’t feel impressive enough, you know?)

Anyway! To the changing booth. With an armful of possibilities.

*****************************************

Huh.

Huuuuuuuuuuh.

You know.

He didn’t?

He didn’t hate it, actually?

It’s not something he’d usually wear, for sure. As if he ever thought of wearing - what is this, silk? Whatever it is, it’s really soft. Not in a cozy blanket sort of way. Smoother than that. Fancier than that. Quite a bit nicer than that.

The pants remind him of his jeans back home; they’re loose, and he can squat and stretch easy as pie in them. But where his jeans were a bit baggy, these wore their extra fabric in graceful, flowing arcs, down to his ankles. When he walked back and forth in front of the mirror, they had a sort of swishful bounce to them, trailing his own motions. He wasn’t sure if he tied the sash/belt/thing correctly, but it was a lot fancier than his own worn belt, and the fabric didn’t dig into him when he sat or bent down.

The shirt. The shirt had started on thin ice. Yes, it fit him tighter than any t-shirt he’d ever worn, somehow without feeling too tight. Yes, the material was nice and comfy against his chest and back. But the stomach. The stomach was. Hrm. Not. Flattering. Something looser would hide that a lot better.

But then he’d put on the, what was it called, a capelet? A capelet atop his shoulders, draped over his arms and chest. He got the sash belt figured out. And you know what? With everything put together? His tummy didn’t seem quite so bad. The loose fluttering of the capelet drew his eyes a little higher, obscured the unflattering sides just the right amount. And the sash, with its pattern of woven snake tails, was so eye-catching that he couldn’t notice his own waist properly.

Now, he didn’t know anything about this sort of fashion. Taking another look at it, he was positive he’d picked out at least one devastating fashion faux pas. But taking a third look at it, as he walked back and forth, and saw his pant legs swishing, saw the capelet fluttering, felt the smooth, cool fabric brushing against his skin, well, maybe he was pretty close to alright?

Maybe.

Possibly.

Well. One of the three of them would tell him if he was making a fool of himself, right? He’d have to ask about something to hide the horns anyway.

Nothing else for it.

They didn’t have much time.

Taking a deep, deep breath, Hazel Valentine Fletcher nudged the curtain back, and hesitantly left the safety of the booth.

Return to Thellamie

It’s instinctive, the holding still. Generally speaking, if somebody yanks you to the ground and claps their hands over your eyes and mouth, they probably have a pretty good reason for doing so, and most of those reasons call for holding very still and taking stock of the situation. The surprised “Mrmph!” is also instinctive. That can’t be useful for most of those reasons, but he’s two for two now, so it seems rather hard to keep from doing. The quiet that follows when the hands are removed is just good sense.

Yuki told him a lot about Thellamie. Whatever she didn’t tell him first, he was bound to ask about eventually. He knows about the stars in the sky and a star on the ground. He knows about maid knights, paladins, tricksters, magicians, singers, dancers, and quite a few people between. He knows about the Outside, portal stones, and a few things about the moon.

He doesn’t know who she is. He feels who she is. Which isn’t as helpful as a name in some circumstances, but not this one. He feels he should keep kneeling until she says it’s alright to get up. He feels he should take questions of how she got her and what’s going on, and tuck them someplace it won’t be a bother to her. He feels he shouldn’t question why she would trouble to help him either. As a matter of fact, he feels he shouldn’t say a word until she’s done speaking her piece, and until then he should sit here and look at her politely. Look at her suitably impressed-ly? Would she be offended by a quiet “wow?” Maybe hold off on that. Just look, for now. Look at…himself.

But the trick with feeling small is that thoughts can be as large as ever. As she speaks, a few old ones make themselves heard.

That's not him. The voice is the same. The height is probably the same. The face, uncertain. The antlers, he doesn't know them well enough to say. His chest isn't flat, toned, perfectly shaped, perfectly groomed, perfectly lean. His chest shouldn't be shown. He wouldn't wear a robe that low, and definitely not one so bright. On second thought, no, he wouldn't have that face either. Not a face so smoothed with makeup and eyeshadow framing his lashes. He - and that's just it; he's him. Ugly. Disgusting. Common. Trash.

They aren't him. They're close enough to see him. Far enough to be something and someone else.

"We do, ma'am," and it is ma'am. Of course it’s ma’am, for her. (Yukisearth, that’s home, right?) "We've got both those things. It's just that I haven’t ever looked like that in a mirror before. Which, it’s not to say it’s wrong, no. Nobody at the ceremony got close enough to get a good look at me, so they don’t know much beyond a boy with glowing antlers. Honestly, you’re probably what they’re expecting a Golden Fawn to look like, so, if you wanted to lead them off the trail, this should work better."

Maybe they’d really want to chase a prize like her.

Breathless Dead

Dolce holds the single sheet of paper with both hands. One on the upper-left, one on the lower-right, held at the correct distance to hold the scrap perfectly in tension. You don't hold important documents in the center. There you must press your thumbs into the document until it turns concave. The line between readability and a crease is knife-thin. Dolce does not crease the paper. Dolce does not wrinkle the paper. Dolce does not permit his breath to rustle the paper.

"Okay." Dolce says with his mouth.

Dolce turns in one step. Five steps, equal in distance, take him to his desk. He picks up his pen.

******************************

Vasilly had a wonderful voice. Glaive or tongue, do not ask him which she was more skilled with. To say that she could fill a room with her voice would be a gross understatement. Let him walk from one corner to the other, let him duck into cupboards or rifle through closets, let him go where he will and do what he will, her words would find him all the same. Let her breath caress his ear. Let her speak to the wind. It made no difference. Here she purrs, stretching luxuriously over her syllables. Dol~ce. How she tastes each sound. Here she runs, now here, now there, and back, and again, and again, and how could you keep from dancing to her rhythm? Hiding was pointless. She did not need to see you to know she had led you precisely where she meant to. Her next swipe would tap your guard where you cannot expect it. Her next feint would wind you up. One breath of silence, the illusion of safety, a precious chance to melt.

When he sank into her jaws, it was a formality. Her voice had already swallowed him whole.

******************************

Dolce stretches. He reaches for a fifth sheet of paper. His pen resumes the work.

"Please, do not feel as though you must stay on my account." He speaks without looking up. "This may take some time, but I will send word when I'm finished. I know how busy you are."

An invitation to step inside is noticeably absent. 20022 had to put the fruit bowl on the floor to hand him the paper.