TheAmishPirate

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

What.

This. No. This isn’t right. What happened? She had you. She’s, no, she’s doing this for you, you, great big. No! What? You can’t, that’s, what?! You want…her, to?

(You want her?)

“Lotus!” Han shouts at a totally composed volume. “You’re! You! This! You, this???”

Her second mistake: looking at Lotus. Shining eyes. Bashful squeaks and squirms. Saying nothing, but why would she need to? If she had taken Han by the hand, kneeled before her, and begged, she could not have pleaded her case more. (And best not to think too hard about that possibility.) She turns back to Emli, from Lotus, and, and,

and for the first time, she doesn’t notice the collar.

Emli. She’s looking up at Emli. She’s lost, and, so, she looks to Emli. The girl who greeted her with the morning. The girl who hummed sweet lullabies until she fell asleep. Who knew everything she wanted before she knew it herself. Who took things off her plate before she could remember they were there. Who danced with joy with every stupid burden Han let fall on her bare shoulders.

(She felt ashamed, pulling a double-take the first day Emli wore a uniform without sleeves. She never said a word about it, pretended like nothing happened, and applauded her own stealth when Emli didn’t seem to notice.

The next morning, Emli bade her good morning with arms bared. She knelt, unfazed by her new loose, swishful pants. It had been an effort, throwing together a uniform in the Flower Kingdom style on such short notice. The dozy smile she won from her guest made it all worthwhile.)

This close, her skin glows. Like a full moon on a still pond. From her hands, so warm, up her arms, to her face, framed in beautiful, shining curls. Her clothes, her jewels, the shadows of her eyes, the paint on her lips, all emphasize her slender curves. Her round eyes. Her cheerful face. Her full, smiling lips. As one, they speak: I am here to bless you. I am a jewel in your crown. By all that I am, by all I can do, I will make your heart glad.

Come. I do not want you. I welcome you.

Emli draws her hand to her cheek, and then, slowly, down her body. Eyes never once leaving Han’s. Nodding, making little noises of encouragement. This is me. This is the curve of my side. You can touch here, Han. Anywhere. From my face all the way d-down to, my, down to, her, aaa, n-no-!

Is as far as Emli lets her fall. It's okay. It's okay to say no. Shhhhh. Shhhh, brave dragon. Strong dragon. What of her arm? The bicep? You know this well already. She’s been showing it off, just for you. Besides, you nearly napped on it in the bath, after all! Is this better? Do you like it? It's okay to say yes. Even if you don't know how, yet. She feels your fingers caress her skin, softer than the finest Dominion silk. She feels you squeeze, adoringly, and she knows. She does not frown for your refusal. She beams for your simple delight. Your other hand, in fits and starts, at last works up the courage to take her other shoulder, and she gasps for your boldness. Her rosebud lips part. Waiting. Inviting. You're so close. You could just. Rise. Lean. Inches. Taste her breath. And. A-and.

"Emli." She burns. She freezes. Can't breathe. Can't think. Eyes. Mouth. Which to look. Where to go. Why. Why?! "What are we?"

Your guest is drowning, dear Emli. Buried beneath the ocean of her heart, choking on all that she wants. All that she fears.

Won't you guide her, save her, one more time?

Breathless Dead

Heroes of legend. Rulers of Empire. Songs to outlast them all. How do such things come to pass? Raw talent? Dedicated practice, day in and day out? Closed eyes, frantic prayers, and dumb luck?

Darling. Please. You just have to know the right people.

For instance: Vasilia, hand of the Captain, knew the Coherent were setting up to film in a particularly overgrown wing of the Plousios. She also knew the location of the five closest workshops to their set, and which one of the five could most easily admit someone with a more tentacle-based form of locomotion. Which is how Ramses, future star of Prion Paula VS the Garden of Terror!, came to know that, why, yes, the Captain had plenty of time with which to review some character designs for his film counterpart.

So it was that Captain Dolce found himself seated in the private green room (walls fully engulfed in green hanging cloth so you knew it was official) of Ramses herself. Sharing a wheelchair with his wife, perched snug on her lap, far away from the office, bridge, and infirmary. For the first time in a week, the document in his hands weighs far less than a casualty report.

“Hrm.” Dolce carefully turns the sketch - one of dozens - a quarter-turn. Then another. “There was a lot going on, so it’s possible I missed it…” He squints at the dazzling figure staring back from the page. “...but I was pretty sure I only ever had the two legs?”

“The cape is a rather dashing look, you have to admit.” Vasilia offers, peeking over his shoulder.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Here is a secret: Dragons don’t get love.

Love goes to the farmers, and sailors, and innkeepers. Love goes to the princesses, and their knights, and their handmaidens. Love goes to the good, demure girls, running to the festivals in their pretty dresses. The gods draw them together, catching their eyes with beauty, welcoming their hearts with kindness. They shower them with blessings. All their hours are magic. All their thoughts are light. The world shifts, never to be the same again. And at last, the gods give them love, real love, the kind that lasts. It binds them, turning two into one. It makes a home out of a building, a family out of people, a future out of dreams. They need love, and so love was made for them.

The dragons got power. Strength to protect the world, or tear it in two. Blood so hot that they would never want for courage. Fangs, horns, scales, fire. They sit atop the world, with nothing but the divine of Heaven above them. None to challenge them. None who can stop them. But the gods did not give them love. A dragon made for love would not be a dragon anymore.

And despite it all, she’s in love with Lotus.

So what? As if she could love a demigod like she deserves to be loved. As if she could bring her anything that isn’t fire and ash. As if…as if Lotus could ever truly love a greedy, stupid dragon.

And now? Now she knows Emli’s a little in love with her.

Why? Why would you do such a foolish thing? Worst of all, why would you let her realize it? Did you think she’d be happy? Did you dare to think she’d understand?! She doesn’t know you. She doesn’t know how to act with you. What you expect, what any of this means, what you even want from her. (What she wants from you.)

Did you think that the simple love of a Dominion slave girl could change who she is?

Han takes the bag in her hands - heavy, with freshly baked bread, and dried meats, and a few of those snappy little cookies - and lets it fall on Lotus’ bed.

“You followed me to Lotus’ room.” She steps into Emli’s space, and doesn’t slow down. Emli can step back. Emli can be pushed back. Decide quickly. “You entered without knocking.” A petal against a hurricane. Resist, and be torn apart. “And the only reason you’re still walking? Is ‘cause you didn’t scream.”

Emli’s back hits the wall.

Han’s fist follows after. A hair from her ear. She could hear the wood splintering, shattering beneath the pressure. Just imagine what it might do to a delicate little slave girl.

And she leans in close. Her breath speaks of spark and smoke. “I tied you up. I made you tell us where they kept the food and supplies. You knew your boss might beat you for it, but they wouldn’t break you so bad you couldn’t keep working. Me?” She laughs. A bitter, cruel thing. “Well, it’s not like you need your legs to talk, do ya?”

See now, what a dragon calls love. A beast bigger than all the monsters of the world. Rain down the blows that would shatter a pitiful mortal; she feels nothing. Shake your fist at her; your scorn changes nothing. She takes what she wants. And no one can stop her.

“You told me everything. I gagged you. And that’s all you remember before you fainted dead away. You don’t know where we went. You don’t know how long ago we left.” She blinks, and the slitted eyes of a dragon pin Emli to the wall as she growls, “Understand?!”

(This is the part where she traps your wrists above your head, drawing you up so the tips of your toes are scrabbling at the deck. This is the part where she buries your face in her hand before a scream spills out of you. This is the part where all she wants from you is a silent nod, proof that you’ve gotten all this into your silly little head.

She does none of it.

She could. And you couldn’t stop her. You wouldn’t have a hope of stopping her. But she won’t.

Not unless you give her the word, first.)

[Rolling to Entice Emli, with the awful, terrible, hideous love of a dragon: 6 + 5 - 1 = 10]

Breathless Dead

Captain Dolce of the Plousios stirs, and wakes to a dance of glowing lights and fluttering petals. They sway, they swirl, against a canopy of bluest sky, behind a familiar snout and whiskers peering over him.

“Ah. Jil…at least you’ve made it to Elysium too.” He does not remember his voice sounding like this; so rambling and careless. The words spill out of him as soon as they enter his head. No room to stay still. “I’m sorry, I really had hoped you’d make it through. There’s your fearless world, at the end of the road. I wanted you to see it yourself.”

He tries to lift his neck, but can’t find it. The little lights, they hide him away, and all that’s left is the bone-deep weariness of a long day’s work. “Where’s Vasilia? She should be here. I don’t care if Zeus was disappointed, she ought to be here. Did you see her, Jil? Did you see her? She did it. I didn’t know how she would, but she did. She did it. Ah, Vas…”

The lights, the petals, they dim beneath a teary haze.

“I’m so proud of you…”

Breathless Dead

I am afraid, sir. I am tired. I am hurt, so sorely I cannot remember what it was like to feel normal. But I am also angry. I am determined to act, and I think that may be courage. But anger and courage did not bring me to where I am. You say I have no love. What, then, brought me here?

Or, maybe.

If it is as you say, then why haven’t we killed each other? You could snap your fingers, and make it so, but that would not be love that did it. Why then do we live, if love owns us?

No. Not that. None of that.

The stories he’d read, late at night in the Manor’s library, they would have had an ending like that. Or the tales the Starsong would swap over a few too many mugs of ale, they’d have a speech as grand as that. Since when had he come this far for a heroic ending? Did he really think himself so important that he needed to deliver a big speech to the gods themselves?

No. He sat on something far more precious.

To Aphrodite, he offers a noncommittal nod, or perhaps his head was growing too heavy to lift. He had fought gravity long enough. He lies down, he crumples, he stretches out across Vasilia’s chest, his head coming to rest beside hers. His fingers, shaking, brushed the grit and blood from her cheek. No priceless heirloom, no treasure of history across the whole of his long career did he handle more delicately than her. A nudge. A careful tilt to the side.

And Dolce leans in to kiss his wife.

The haze of Dionysus’ blessed torment melts from her eyes. At the edges of her awareness, something familiar. Something precious, and sweet, and soft. A language her mouth remembers, when all thought has passed.

And Vasilia kisses her husband back.

No more words for you, Aphrodite. He’s said his piece, and whatever else he could’ve added, it could not possibly be more important than the lioness beneath him. Vasilia. Oh, Vasilia. He doesn’t understand why she keeps seeking to punish herself for mistakes long past. His heart breaks when he thinks she might have forgotten him, that fateful day aboard the Yakanov. He knows, he knows that everything he could ever give would not be enough to fill the holes in her heart that keep her up at night.

And as the world fades around him, Dolce chooses to kiss her.

Whatever else may come, he’s done what he can.

Now, Vasilia needs him.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Lotus. Filling the air. Lotus. Clutching her shoulder and pressing into her. Lotus. Breathing in her ear, hitching on every heartbeat. The edges of her voice curling and moaning. Climbing. Neck. To cheek. To. To! Lotus!!

Isn’t here anymore.

Lotus. She knew. Lotus. Couldn’t miss the way Han jumped, when all she did was thank her rescuer. Lotus. Who was so nice to everyone, even dumb rocks from the Highlands. Greedy, stupid rocks, who wanted to take and take and take someone they shouldn’t ever dream of touching.

Lotus. Took her advice, after all. Got away from the nasty dragon, before she did something they’d all regret.

Is as far as she gets, before a pair of hands pulls her free, and she knows it’s Emli before she even looks, and can’t remember why that might be odd.

“Don’t wanna.” Her growl doesn’t pretend at teeth. “Go ask her yourself.”

“Do you want me to go find her? When she wants to be alone?”

Han doesn’t answer that. Doesn’t have to, when she stubbornly turns from Emli’s questioning gaze, hides a sour frown.

“Besides.” Emli runs her thumb over the back of Han’s hand, squeezing soothingly. “I want to hear you tell it. I want you to tell me about her. Everything about her. Please?”

Lashes flutter over wide, eager eyes. A gale mighty enough to topple a dragon.

“Fine. Whatever. It’s not like I got that much to tell. Most of the time I knew her, she was pretending to be a priestess anyway, so most of that’s just out the window now. The whole de-” Oh. Oh she just. By a. Oh. “D-demigod. Thing. That’s new. Don’t know crap about that. I guess she still needs to go to some temple or whatever, the, uh, y’know, Two Hundred Gates Temple? She hasn’t said she doesn’t actually need to go, so, we’re going. And I’m going, because I said I would, and being a demigod or whatever doesn’t change that. I told her I would, so, yeah.”

“Uhuh?”

“Besides, you’ve seen her, she’s got no chance of making it there on her own. We’re on the second or third kidnapping already. She’s, just, look at her!” She gestures at the Lotus-shaped absence. “She’d get knocked down by a stiff breeze! And apologize for being in the breeze’s way! And after that she’d give everything in her pockets to the first person who asked because they told her they needed it and she wouldn’t think twice about it. She’s too-!” Sweet. Caring. Honest. Precious. “Nice. She’s too damn nice for her own good.”

She lets out a heavy sigh. Her free hand rubs at her eyes. “I don’t get how she does it. She shouldn’t be…no, that’s just it. She shouldn’t be. S’not possible. It’s like, everything everywhere that’s soft and warm things got mushed up into one girl. She shouldn’t be real. That’s - wait, hang on, demigod. Okay, yes, that explains it. She’s the demigod of, of….soft. And, good. Like, she’s always warm. Her hands. Her eyes. Her. Smile. She smiles all the damn time, have you seen her? And her whole face, it just, her nose squishes, and her eyes - okay, yes, you’ve seen them, right? There’s something in there. Right?”

“Uhhuh!”

“I knew it! There’s some demigod thing that makes them sparkle. And they’re so big. You can’t, okay, it’s not fair, with the glasses. And the hair. And. Her. Uh, f-face, is.” Ha ha ha wow does it get hot this time of year or what? “It’s, I like, I mean, it’s good the way her…face…is. Because. O-of the.” Ha ha ha wow is every word here the worst word she’s ever said or what? “Parts of. Face. And, way they all, together, make a face, and. A-all the, rest, is, is…”

Her heart thunders in her ears, all but drowning out the whisper of her own voice.

“...s’pretty.”

“Mmhmm?”

“She’s pretty, alright?! I don’t stare at her or nothing, I don’t have to to know that.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“If she wears something, it’s beautiful. If she does something, it’s graceful. Her face, a-and, she moves, and, I can’t-”

She dropped her head to the table so hard the teacups jumped in their saucers. She groaned into the wood, sending ripples through the tea, groaning for all that she can’t.

“I gotta get her to the temple. I don’t care who I gotta fight to do it, I just gotta. She deserves it. She deserves way way way more than that. But.” Bonk. Bonk. Bonk, against the table. “...I just promised her the temple. S’all she asked for. So. I’ll get her the damn temple.”

Silence. Time, to properly behold the pile of words she just dumped out for all the world to see. There they are. Exposed. Instead of locked up deep, deep inside her, where nobody would ever have to know, or hear, or tell her what she already knows. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid-!

“N’why am I telling you all this? Why do you care?!” She groans, long and loud and sharp as talons. Just looking at the slave girl sends her already red face to new depths of color. “I don’t get you! I don’t get why you…!” She gestured uselessly at her hand “Any of this! Why you keep doing this! Why I keep letting you do this! You’re Dominion! I-”

I’m your enemy.

That’s right, Emli. You’re Dominion.

I can’t stand you.

The ones who’re here to steal her home. The people who care the least for highland peasants.

I hate you.

She can’t say any of it.

She tries. She opens her mouth. The words are there, on the tip of her tongue, for all the world to see. Or maybe just a pretty slave-girl to see. She digs deep, deep into her dragon’s heart, to pull out the fiery coal that’s always been there, except this time her hands come back empty. No flames. No fangs. Just a girl, confused and burning, not strong enough to pull her hand free from yours.

Breathless Dead

The totality of nature waits on a tiny, filthy lump of wool. To spare, or to devour.

“I have. Been given a lot.” More than he asked for. Or what he asked for was more than he ever realized. Years, he’s spent, thinking of what he’s been given. “It’s been hard to say if I deserved any of it. Just.” A wet, sickly cough wracks his frame. Her face blurs. “Just a chef, after all.”

She did not ask him to leave quickly; yet another mercy. He needs both his arms to raise himself upright. A moment, please, for the world to settle down. “Now, though,” he rasps, in-between gasps of air. “I think, it was a little unfair, yes? To everybody. Myself. And to you.” Could he have really hidden his heart so thoroughly, that you did not actually know him? Did you grant your gifts with anything less than his life in your hands? “Suppose it was never really a matter of deserving, after all. I have this. I am this. It’s a matter, then, of what I do with it.”

At last, he moves. Clutching scraps of shattered armor for leverage, he half-turns, half-rolls, and the Lady of Spring is before him. The face of his wife stares back at him, reflected in the blades of her hedge trimmers. His own face, too, growing clearer with each moment he stalls. This, then, is to stand before a goddess. Before the turning of seasons. The end that is beginning that never shall end. Life-giver. Tyrant. Bully.

Dolce looks up. And past her.

“I am told, we have already defied expectations.” His hand rises, shaking, clenched. Not a fist. A presentation. Of a band of gold, where the blood of two runs as one. Shining, amidst a cloud of cigarette smoke. “Aphrodite. Love took us this far. Do you permit a universe where it will take us no farther?”

Breathless Dead

Wake up, little sheep. The moon is gone. The dream is past. Wake, to the lingering memory of her blood.

He is up first, as usual. She is still sleeping. She could not sleep. Her eyes drink in the clouded light like she is dying of thirst. They dart past the shade in the shape of her husband. Her mouth opens. Screams that are not screams, only chunks of feeling breaking off from a raging storm. It would be better if she were silent. It would be better if she screamed.

But she’s alive.

His hand gropes blindly across his armor, and closes around a tuft of wool, nearly torn off in the fight. He pulls. Stillness, amidst a sickening pop as something in his shoulder gives way first. He pulls. Without leverage. Without tools. Without any sign that is close, or far, or hopeless. He pulls. The last thread snaps and he falls across her chest, clutching his prize. Not done yet. Not yet.

Arm over arm. Breath by breath. He crawls across her. Finds, in a sea of blood and ruin, one cut. Narrow. A centimeter deep. To this, he presses the wool, and in place of strength he lays his weight upon it.

It’s okay. It’s okay, Vas. He’s here. He’s still here. Even when you couldn’t see him, he never left your side.

Even now, when he lies between a goddess and her prize.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

It isn’t so simple as reaching out and taking a dragon by the neck. Lotus’ chair squeaks as she pushes it back, and it’s the loudest noise she makes as she rises and passes around the table. She is too small to reach. She must get closer. Close enough to see the damage. Close enough to touch. Close enough to. To…

“Uhhh, why would I? It’s not anything serious. It’ll go away in a few days. Doesn’t. Really need…”

Han flicks her eyes up. Up. That’s where her eyes are. That’s where to look. Don’t pay attention to the splash of red at the edge of her vision, a shining jewel set in gold. Don’t cross the edge from smooth, flawless skin to someplace new. Don’t land where all is soft, and full, and warm. Don’t sink into a red so deep she cannot see the bottom.

“I heal pretty fast. You don’t gotta do any. Sorta. Priestess…thing.”

Glistening. Catching the lights above as a sweet voice flows like honey. Watch them dance and play, shaping around each passing word. Welcoming the sound. Gently, so gently, sending it on its way. To her. For her. They meet, and part, and every beautiful thing she’s ever known was shadow and dust next to their mystery.

“H-hadn’t really see you, much. So. Not. Chances, to.”

Priestesses are to be seen, never touched. Demigods are priestesses times the biggest number she can think of. But words mean nothing now. Her own thoughts mean nothing now. Inside, she is nothing more than screaming, howling, clawing at her shame. A burning weight forces her down. All the strength in the world cannot lift her eyes. She cannot breathe. Stop. Stop. She’s unveiled. She sees you. She’s right here. She knows. Stop it. Don’t. Not her. You can’t. Don’t. Stop. Stop. Is this what you want? Is this what you want?!

“Ugh. Just. Hold on-!”

She grabs the hem of her sleeveless robe and with a sharp jerk tears off a strip of cloth. The jagged edge frays, the whole thing is much too long, but it’ll work. It’ll work, dammit.

With both hands, she reaches past Lotus’ shoulders, brushes back her hair, and ties a fumbling knot behind her head. Nothing fancy. Over and under and through and pull. Pull, until the gentlest pressure holds it in place. The length of opaque silk rests atop Lotus’ ears, perches on the very tip of her nose. It hangs down, hiding the lower half of her face. With each breath, it flutters. In, and out. Away, and back.

Lotus must think she’s being some kind of honorable. A makeshift veil, to protect a demigod’s modesty, torn from the only fabric she had to hand. She’ll feel Han’s fingers adjust the cloth against her temples, smooth out the wrinkles, and she’ll think her nice.

Her thumb presses into her lips. It sinks into soft warmth. The barest hint of friction tugs at her skin as she traces across them.

Lotus freezes where she stands. Later, she’ll think it an accident.

“There. Better.” She sits back. Withdraws her tingling hand. “You, uh, said something about helping?”

Wrong, bud. All wrong.

This veil’s not for you. It’s for her. A dragon. A greedy, ugly, beast who can’t control herself. Barely better than your stupid host. Hide yourself away. You don’t want to be hers. You can’t be hers. The day you see her for who she truly is, see her burn the world in her hunger, will be the last day she ever sees you.

Hold fast, little veil. Don’t tear just yet.

please.

[Han is Smitten with Lotus, finally. She accepts Lotus’ help, but first must do something about her mouth. Han takes two Strings on Lotus, clears Frightened. Lotus takes a String on Han. Emli takes two Strings on Lotus, and three on Han.]

Breathless Dead

Zeus passes. Demeter is left alone to her business. Paused in rebuke, but bitter, much too bitter to stay her hand. Vasilia can go nowhere. She has waited long enough. She expected satisfaction long ago. Her continued existence is an insult, a denial of her vision. Would it still be Demeter’s garden if even one weed was permitted to flourish?

In a moment, she will settle her mind.

“Oh, Lady Demeter,”

But before that, he speaks. Again.

“You are engaged in mighty works this day. I do not…presume that I can be counted as a distraction. My…my apologies, then, are only those of poor timing. But the…worse insult would be to remain silent.”

Hadn’t he left? Hadn’t she told him to leave? So difficult, to remember something so small…

“As you have said, you did give the task of Vasilia’s death over to your niece, Artemis…and I must recall to you:”

The vines shuddered, and turned a sickly, withered brown.

“The hunt is not yet finished.”

[Vasilia has Protection from a Location stat via the Anathema.]