TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

The greatest miracle of her recovery was that she missed it completely. The Hermetics assured her that every trace of foreign material had been excised, purged, or reborn from her. All the workings of her of her body had been set right, would she care for a scar to remember it by? Standard practice was to assume no, but the work was fresh enough that it could be altered if it suited her sensibilities.

Her arm is bare. Unmarred. No proof exists of the precise spot where goddess stopped her arm. Her hand goes to it at once. Beneath her fingers, it throbs. She is conscious, at once, of the musket settling against her back. The space on her belt where a glaive grows. A second holster, unfamiliar, awaiting its first draw.

Another hand closes over hers; warm, gentle, and smelling of fireplaces. Hestia shakes her head. Not this time. Not if you want to live.

You will have to find another way.

"Ahhhh, you know, after a certain number of times it really stops being an ambush doesn't it? If they truly wanted to destroy us by surprise, they ought to try not attacking us." This is the part where polite laughter goes. Thist, you will politely laugh won't you? You won't leave your dear friend Vasilia hanging all alone, would you? "Ah. Yes. Do we at least have time to review some of the basic terminology? The players? Any information at all would be a substantial improvement over last time."

The card is gone. Dolce lays it out on a open countertop. She missed its passing. She missed him. Now he reaches into his coat and pulls out a second card. An invitation. Marbles and black. Bearing a name in fine calligraphy: TUNGUSKA. Winnings from the god of the Dead. He studies the two closely, comparing color schemes, iconography, all the marks of signature and authority.

When the Chef became Captain, he was permitted to keep his nose. He has not forgotten the scent of Hades’ priest, who hurt his wife so terribly.

He must know why Thist carries that smell too.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

The coin.

All her attention rests on that coin. No time wasted on questions like “how did you get that?” No breath spent on demands like “give it back!” When it flips glinting into the cloudy sky, she does not dare lose sight of it for an instant. Whatever her cause was here, she’s forgotten it. Cast it aside. Doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Take all the openings you want, knight. There’s nothing you can do to her that’s worse than losing that coin.

But you catch it, and you catch her, and out she tumbles. No coin, no tournament prize, and you can see the terrible realizations carving a path through her heart in real time. Out of options. You cheated. She has to have it. She has to take it. How fast can she do it? How much time can she afford to waste here? She doesn’t know. You cheated. She doesn’t know.

[Taking a condition from the Fight roll: Marking Afraid.]

Do you realize the eruption your act of mercy forestalled? Maybe not in full. But fear and wrath give way to shock which gives way to a snortful huff and a critical eye turned on that offered hand, as if there’s another joke you’ve stuffed in there and she just hasn’t seen it yet. “Hrmph. Shoulda said so sooner, saved us both some time,” she growls.

It is at this moment that a dragon of dust roars across the battlefield, carrying a familiar voice. And Han lights up anew. She grabs the knight’s outstretched arm and is on her feet in a flash. “You really wanna help?” Hup! Up! And over! Han tosses the knight on her shoulder like a sack of chivalrous potatoes. “Don't let go of that coin, and don't you dare fall off!” In two steps she’s in a dead sprint, heedless of mud and scattered villagers and flying practice swords, barreling towards what could only be the work of a witch.

And, uh, Kalaya, turns out she didn’t just stop at her arm game because dang it’s like you’re not slowing her down at all. This is. Hrm. Is this the kidnapping that your Princess instructors warned you about? This is, wow, okay, how's this experience for you?

[For Han’s side of the Fight roll, she will be taking another String on Kalaya via sudden consensual kidnapping.]

Breathless Dead

Dolce could take the card. The kitchens were busy, but not so busy that he could not snatch up a card and set it someplace safe before his next check of the ovens. He does not intend to deceive her into thinking he can’t. The thing is, after wanting so powerfully to approach the Housekeeper, the card lies before him and his heart is...puzzled. Undecided.

Wondering.

So it falls to Vasilia, his faithful second, to glide from her post around the non-flammables to intercept. Which she does, with a perfectly gracious smile, and a formal lack of card-taking. “We wouldn’t want to impose upon your busy schedule. Especially after you’ve soiled the broth and stolen the pastries that were meant for the Satrap’s table. Our Captain will need time to replace them, and her lunch will be inexcusably late due to your carelessness. Or should I say, your sabotage? Your lack of patriotism? Oh well, I’m certain they’ll figure out the difference in the inquiry.” Her smile is loaded. And aimed square between the good senator’s eyes. “That’s how you work around here, yes?”

The language ought to be familiar to Thist. Neither of them speak it as their native tongue; none truly do. But those who walk the halls of power with confidence and full purses do well to learn it fast.

“Seeing how the Satrap will be so famished,” she continues, unperturbed. “She won’t be able to get to the matter of the Housekeeper for some time, you may as well stay and chat. Surely you didn’t wander so far from your station just to inspect the kitchens, no?”

Breathless Dead

Dolce lands. Or, perhaps, his hooves found the floor, and the rest of him caught up. He bows to the once-Housekeeper, bows to Apollo, and the third bow is involuntary. But before the floor can greet him properly a pair of strong arms cuts in, holding him fast. “What was that? Are you okay?” Vasilia asks from somewhere behind him.

You know, now that she mentions it, that is a good question: How is he? Do excuse him a moment, he has to sort through a dozen people to find himself again. But there, just after the finish, and beneath the pile, you’ll find him; dazed, but alive. Alive. Alive! All his heart erupts, joy mingling with shadows of grief until he cannot tell them apart any longer and he’s filled up thrice over. Out pour the tears. There shines the smile. It is done! She did it! She lives again, and he! He’s not crushed! Is this what it’s like, Hera, to bear the darkness that destroyed another? Are our burdens really so light on the shoulders of others?

No. No, his heart aches, for H'san, for Jalia, for every one of them, even as it sings. His heart strains to hold the heady river of emotions from overflowing its banks. Later, it will dry up, and what will he use then to keep himself together? The weight remains heavy. There are limits, after all. “I, I think I need a moment.” He breathes.

“Then.” Her hands are steady. Fortunes of effort are spent to prevent their moving an inch. “Would you care for me to keep holding you?”

He is silent. He is listening. He is feeling his weight settle in her hands, and he is listening. “...I think so. But. Please, just that, for now.”

“As you wish.” She says, and he lets himself rest limp in her grasp. Lots to think about. Lots to think about. Names, that he would not forget. The hole in the Housekeeper’s heart, left by humanity. How long she must have toiled around it. Who else…?

But first, food.

“We have a lunch to make.” Finally, he rises to his hooves, leaning on her arm to keep his knees from wobbling. “May I ask for your assistance?”

“You’re the captain. You shouldn’t have to ask.”

“But if the Captain wants to ask, he can. So. I did.”

Her smile shrinks to a thin, pale line. “I. Should warn you, I’m only a week past learning what a broiler is. Don’t expect any miracles.”

“I don’t know…” Dolce watches a god weep for joy at a plate of food. His hand squeezes her arm. “Miracles do seem to be in style these days.”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Kalaya!

Oh no! As you keep her attention with swordplay and conversation, a great mountain of a lady (a blacksmith, by her leather apron) sneaks up behind the highlander! Her wooden sword raises high, higher, held in both hands as she sweeps down before the warning can escape your throat and-!

The highlander catches the sword in her bare hand.

The blacksmith’s eyes go wide as saucers, then wide as dinnerplates as she strains with all her might, but her sword stays caught fast. A spin, swatting your own strike away, and in one great heave both sword and smith go tumbling across the field. The highlander snorts, and you swear you see smoke puff from her nostrils. “What is this, a fight or a tea party?”

She gives you no time to answer; she’s prepared one of her one. With a shout she’s upon you, raining down blows that leave no room for conversation or mistakes. To call her form sloppy would fall short of the mark. Your trained eye knows by the twist of her arm and the lurching, always-forward posture that this girl’s never seen a trainer for more than an hour. Has she even used a shortsword before? But she’s fast. She’s strong, and you feel it every time your guard catches one of those terrifying swings the wrong way. And she has a complete disregard for pain and her own safety. A feast of openings lies before you, how many do you take advantage of? How many can you take advantage of, brave knight? Why doesn’t it ever seem to slow her down?!

Your own training finally pays off, feint into parry into blades caught and crossed, and still she pushes you back, back, to the edge of the arena! You dig your heels into the earth, you drop to your knees, you throw all your weight against the tide, and at last you stop. Teetering on the edge of diaster, the highlander towering over you. Her blade presses ever closer. Your arms tremble to hold her back. She grins, right in your face, and are you surprised when you don’t see fangs? “Name’s Han. Nice to meetcha, Knight.”

A taunt. A challenge. A test, for the one who put this whole tourney on. Because the only deeds that will earn Han’s loyalty are ones that get the job done. Look around you, Knight, past the festival you’ve set up, to the N’yari roaming the highlands, the demons clawing at the edges, and the Dominion pulling the Flower Kingdoms under their spell. Where are the defenders of the Kingdom? Where are the princesses who swore we could live lives of peace? What are they up to, while the rest of us watch our worlds crumble around us?!

They’re gone. They’ve left us alone, and help isn’t coming. So it falls to people like Han, and the few knights who give half a damn about their duty and have the strength to do something about it.

So. Kalaya. Are you strong enough to do something about it?

[Rolling to Fight with Daring: 6 + 6 + 2 = 14. Taking a String on Kalaya via provocation, inflicting a Condition through violence, and seizing a superior position. Kalaya chooses one in return.]

Breathless Dead

The choice should not be his to make.

The thought does not survive the next passing of plates. Of course it has to be him. There is no one else. He is her. She is him. They are not, but they are, and there may never be another Chef to meet the Housekeeper. Forgive him for shrinking, ma’am. There is too much at stake to not make a choice. But it may be a mistake. He doesn’t want to hurt her. He knows it will hurt. He wishes he was clever enough to find a better way. But all he can think is this: The last one left should not be cursed for surviving.

Please. Don’t be angry.

The next time the Housekeeper’s cycle takes her across the gaping emptiness, it is not her hands that perform the flourishes. Dolce holds the precious motion, in his hands, in his heart, and asks a difficult question of a broken soul.

“Could you tell me about the one who worked their knives like this?”

And for the next. And the next. And the next after that. Remember, think, speak, and do not stop the work, and I will hold the monuments you no longer can. Will you tell whose names are on them? Will you let me remember them with you? May I be the first you tell?

Housekeeper. Dear Housekeeper. The universe holds too much for your love to stay frozen.

Go, and be well.

[Talking Sense with Wisdom: 6 + 2 + 0 = 8]

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

You wanna know why the last knight was running a tourney? Because their precious princess picked somebody else as their date for some ball or whatever, and they were so mad they ran off to get a new set of lackeys to cheer themselves up. For that, she turned over three towns to snatch up their best and haul them off to be as useless as her.

So Han did them all a favor; she kicked the crap out of anyone dumb enough to compete, and told the knight where, in excruciating detail, she could stick her honors. And the knight lost her mind. Ranted and raved about how this highlander thug was spitting on the knightly traditions of the Kingdoms or something. And the townspeople listened. And they ran Han out of town.

There would’ve been a makeup tourney the next week, if everything hadn’t caught fire, or the knight hadn’t gotten absolutely thrashed by the Vermilion Beast of Lanterns. Last she’d heard, her legend still hadn’t recovered.

Now here she is again, with a wooden sword gripped so tight in her fist it might splinter into nothing, about to do it all again. No clue what this Kalaya’s about, but this stupid tourney’s all anybody in this town cares about, so here she is. Beat up enough people, get enough attention, get someone to tell her where a witch is.

After that, who cares if they chase her out? She didn’t wanna stay here anyway.

Breathless Dead

It’s familiar.

A Manor serves far fewer than a palace. A family may enjoy the aesthetic comfort of a tidy kitchen. A Housekeeper must remain invisible. He sees the nuances of Purpose that gave her her arms and recognizes the hands that molded his wool. He does not look for any other staff; he already knows she is alone, and has been alone. A Chef watches a Housekeeper, born galaxies apart, and sees himself, and may not see himself, and the gravity of negative space draws him ever closer.

“Vasilia?” He hears himself, and forgets that he even spoke the words. “Would you be my eyes, please?”

She has no place for him. She is enough for the task. She has been enough. She will be enough. She is a universe unto themselves. But could that universe expand? He was not born to match her, and would not dare try. Slipping between spheres, slipping almost from thought, guided by a voice of his heart, he became more than a sphere. The system gains a second sun. Orbits drift in increments to match their destined paths. Nothing disturbs her trance. And yet.

Tell me who you are, Housekeeper. He does not know if you can speak anymore. A tongue may be only for tasting, now. Broken. Transcendent. Alive. He cannot tell from without, and so he asks you from within. Who are you, Housekeeper? Tell him of you, and he will tell you of him.

For this moment, you are not alone. And the universe may never be the same.

[Rolling to Overcome with Grace to make this all possible: 5 + 4 + 2 = 11]

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Plan? Yeah. She’s got a plan alright.

Run until hungry, thirsty, or tired.

Fix the problem.

Keep running.

Find her.

Make. Her. Regret it.

(The teacups and dress are bundled up and packed away safely. She’s back to her sleeveless shirt and pants, the better to run with. Her hair is even more of a wild mess than usual; the plan has no considerations for roads or baths. She holds the coin in her pocket instead of her hand. It would not be intact otherwise.)

Turtlehead isn’t the plan. Turtlehead is where she’s at. So, Turtlehead is where she’ll search. Not for a priestess. Never them. They wouldn’t believe her. Worse, they’d think her the culprit. Never a priestess. She needs a witch. If you want something done, you get a witch.

First person she meets. Are they a witch? Great, problem solved. Are they not a witch? Then they’re going to tell her where she can find one.

Breathless Dead

A rival? Maybe. Maybe not. How can he know until he meets them? The Housekeeper may have an interest in foreign cuisine, or long to collaborate with another cook, or feel a sore need for a break. There’s too much they could be, in this place where anything may be possible, so why fret about it when he could just meet them and find out?

Though he hoped they at least still liked good food, well-prepared. It would rather complicate everything if they didn’t.

“Thank you, everyone. Please, go and mingle while I prepare. Vas-” Ah. No. That’s not the name he should use, is it? Right? “Vasilia, would you. Accompany me to the kitchens?” It. Really ought not to be a question. If he’s Captain, you see. Captains generally give orders, but, questions were acceptable sometimes. And this seemed questionable enough?

Already she stands at the ready, seeming at once poised, but in an instant she will melt into a steady march behind him, and no one will mark the transition. She remains watchful of their surroundings. She does not look at him as she answers. “As you wish...Captain.”

He cannot see the concern, gathering at the corners of her eyes.

As they left the court, Dolce clung to the one rule that must hold true, no matter the custom: Food had to be brought from where it was prepared to where it would be enjoyed, as quickly and directly as possible. The complications of grav-rails might’ve stumped another Captain. But Dolce had, perhaps, the second-most experience amongst the crew in gravitational thinking. If he could not find the kitchen, then perhaps they were never meant to be found.