TheAmishPirate

Return to Thellamie

He would really like that cup of tea now please. On account of his throat forgetting it wasn’t a desert.

Frankly, it is a clerical error on an unimaginable scale that Hazel Valentine Fletcher should even be sitting before the Khatun, much less talking to her, and don’t get him started about her talking about him. To him. The cold, iron fist of the Khaganate, now that, that he could wrap his head around. At least then he could be angry, and afraid, and feel like standing up to her was the right thing to do.

Now.

Prince?

Now?

Khatun?

Now,

Clever, prince?

(Khagan?!)

it’s getting tricky.

The shawl’s too hot. The shawl’s too prickly. They’re too close to the fires. There’s too many fires. There’s too much quiet. There’s too little sense. The tiara doesn’t fit. The teacup’s still empty. There’s nobody between him and the Khatun. There’s several twisting hallways, very big sluzhankas, and very big huntresses between him and the exit. The charm is right where he left it; beneath the shawl, pressing against his shoulder. He doesn’t know what he’d say. Only that he’d have to say it quickly.

She’s still looking.

She’s still waiting.

“Thank you, Khatun. I appreciate the help and also not being rolled up in a carpet.”

He doesn’t laugh. You don’t react when you do something silly. You do not pull a face unless the audience is right. You do not look away you do not look away you do not look away you do not look away you do not

“Though, to be clear, there won’t be any competing outside of the contests, for anybody. I’m, not saying any of your hospitality is meant to be competing. I haven’t taken it that way at all. Really, it’s been nice to rest after all the running around. But if there is to be any helping, it has to be done in the contests. Thellamie needs a Queen, but I don’t want it tearing itself apart to get one.”

The steam builds. The whistle rises higher, ever higher.

”I just wanted to tell you, up front, in case of…carpets. And if you hadn’t heard already. Avoid any misunderstandings.”

The flush builds. The red rises higher, ever higher.

[Oh no it’s a conversation now and that means it’s Friendly Benefits: The Khatun takes a String, and says one thing she finds attractive about clever, clever Hazel.]

Return to Thellamie

The world’s turned big on him. That’s the only reasonable explanation. Somewhere, in the time between falling asleep, and waking up, they’ve gone and scaled up the world and left him out of it. Check the tapes, you’ll see. Tents were never supposed to be this big.

It’s like…it’s like the one time he took a train, and stepped out into a grand station, and while his folks were figuring out where to go next, all he could do was stare up, up, up at the ceiling. All this space? All this space. Enclosed in one giant room. One giant room, that little him was standing in, when space this big was made for, for, how big was an X-wing? Would one of those fit in here?

No spaceships in this tent. Just wolves. Appropriately-sized wolves. Looming over what had been an appropriately-sized deer, and his inappropriately-sized shawl. He fights the urge to tug it closed. Again. Not that it would help. This shawl was cursed, somehow both entirely too big for him and also impossible to close over his chest. Juniper hadn’t covered it, but he was pretty sure that would be a rude thing to do in front of the Khatun.

(He doesn’t realize the effect. With the shawl tugged in as tightly as he can manage, you can’t see the neckline of the shirt at all. If you forget about the bit around his waist, it looks like he’s not wearing a shirt at all.)

Speaking of things that would be rude to do in front of the Khatun, here is a collection of things he also does not do: Squeak, jump, stare slack-jawed, or make any face that is not perfectly still and polite hold that poker face with your life, Hazel! Speaking of things that Juniper hadn’t covered but he still had a pretty good idea of: Khatun?!?!

That’d mean him

And, her?

Her. Her? All of, her? That her?

And him?!

(His place)

That’s! Bold!

Golly, a cup of tea would come in handy right now. Lots of things you can do with a cup of tea. Hold it. Sip it. Look at it. Sip it some more. Good stuff, good stuff. But he doesn’t reach for one, oh no. Not because Juniper told him that the Khatun must take hers first. Well, she did, and he did remember that. Or, rather, he was so ready to not take the tea first that he’s got that game plan, ready to go, as all the fluttering, dizzying heat in his body scampers to a pit in his stomach to hide away. Silent. Shaking. (Still fluttering. Somehow.)

Hazel opens his mouth. Respectfully.

“I…can’t say for sure that I do, Khatun,” and he got the pronunciation right. He’s practiced. “Which is to say, it is still very early; I don’t know everyone who will be competing yet. I think it wouldn’t be a very good contest if I had already picked out a winner.”

(He knows why he is here.

He knows he will have to tread very, very lightly, Or Else.)

Breathless Dead

The Starsong believed there was a mystery in music.

Journey to a hundred hundred planets. Meet a hundred hundred worlds, of all shapes and sizes. Grown with forgotten intent or thrown together by nameless fate. The mountaintop with room only for one or a sea of life flowing beneath the ground. One house. An entire city.

It doesn’t matter. There will be music there. There will be room, in the audience or the players. There will be a song from the stars - even if it is only one - that finds a new home. But this is only part of the mystery.

In the court of the Dead God, there is music. Music to draw a sheep out of himself, his hurt, and higher still.

Atop the creaking floorboards, there is room. Room for even the Mistress of the Hunt to play. A chef from Beri is a rounding error.

Between the notes from Olympus, there weaves a song from the stars. Plucked from a dream, dancing after a goddess, softly ringing from bells in curls.

Together, they build it a new home.

[Rolling to Speak Softly with Artemis: 6 + 3 + 3 = 12. What song is in your heart?]

Return to Thellamie

(A boy cannot escape a thorough education on all the exciting aspects of a girl, and the sorts of clothes one might wear to make them even more exciting. He will be raised by his family, surrounded by his friends, and bombarded by advertising. One of them is bound to do the job eventually. Thus warned, he will be fully equipped to avoid the sight of them at all costs, lest he become. You know. One of Those Guys. Everybody hates Those Guys. Ask anyone. All for the rest of his days he will perfect the skills necessary to survive in this world. The delicate art of never looking another soul in the eyes while walking through the mall. The lightning reflexes to outdraw the annoyingly risque commercial and change the channel.

Sound, though.

Ears can neither be averted nor directed. Sounds just. Happen. You can hear them. Even if you aren’t listening for them. You’ll keep hearing them, like it or not, until you or the sound goes away.

How is a boy supposed to deal with sounds?)

“Right.”

(Right. Shoot. She’s not one for big goofs. Dial it back, Hazel. Dial it back.)

“Juniper told me…” Blink. Stare. Up. “That is, Juniper, and Yuki both told me-” A foxgirl makes. A noise. There is a groan low, low in a girl’s throat. “Um. They told me about the Khatun. A lot. Stories, and things.” Muffled. And then, laughter. Delighted. Savoring. “Which is to say, I had thought it would be…neat, to get the chance to see her, sometime. While I’m here. You know.” Someone is losing. Someone is clutching to their senses for all they are worth. And they are losing. “Which is really, to say, that I never,” Losing. “Would have,” Falling. “Like this, expected. I mean.” Bit. By. Bit.

Hazel grips his short shorts. Hazel’s burning ears flop uselessly. Hazel looks up, and is met by a solid wall of wolfish muscle, and he remembers he stil needs to look Up.

“...you wouldn’t happen to have any spare clothes I could wear, would you?”

His voice cracks at the worst possible moment.

[Rolling to Entice Olesya: 1 + 4 + 1 = 6! Uh oh!]

Breathless Dead

What makes Dolce drag his shivering body one step deeper into Hell? What does he think of when a goddess approaches? Is it love in his heart when he stays locked in formation while his friend struggles to speak, to stand?

Is it Nothing?

Ask him later. He's too full now to give a proper answer. Ash and reeking. Screams and blasphemy. The tattered remains of the plan. They must stay here. They must stay here. They must stay here, and he is too full to say how they will do it. He is too full to answer. Nothing comes together. Nothing grows. Nothing is worth the knife.

Dolce does not answer.

Dolce takes one step deeper into Hell, following after the wolf who had so much more than Nothing.

Return to Thellamie

Pumpkin spice is pretty good! It's not his favorite flavor, but still, pretty good! It helps a lot that there's really only one season for it, so you don't have many chances to get tired of it. It's a special treat for autumn times, a good companion to chillier days.

That said, there are a lot of situations where pumpkin spice is a bit unnecessary? It works sometimes! Pumpkin spice Oreos are incredible, and make for an amazing cheesecake crust. But curiosities driven him to try a couple of cereals with limited edition pumpkin spice flavors, and every time he has visions of tasty spiced goodness, and every time he only tastes disappointment. It's like they were more concerned with having the seasonal flavor rather than actually doing a good, respectable cereal flavor. So, that's put him a little on guard over the stuff. It's intriguing whenever he sees it, but ohhhhhhh he's been burned before. Curiosity can only overcome so many scars.

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

Hazel opens a chest full of bras.

Hazel closes a chest full of bras.

Where is Juniper right now? Somewhere past a line of hanging dresses. She said she was going to try and find some jewelry, if it hadn't been given to another sluzhanka already. The delicate clink of metal jostling around mingles with the rain patterning against the tent. Juniper is not here. Juniper is not getting closer.

Hazel silently rises, takes two steps back from the chest, and freezes mid-stride. His weight rests forward. He can walk to the chest again at a moment's notice, and anyone who finds him here will think he hasn't opened the chest yet. Hopefully.

Hazel closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath in. Exhales, slowly.

Bras.

He forgot that bras were clothing too.

Didn't even occur to him. There were about 15 bajillion styles of dresses, shirts, skirts, shorts, pants, blouses, petticoats, and he's not sure if he's used all those terms correctly, but he's definitely seen most of them. At no point had he considered anything other than outerwear. Unless socks counted, but these were very outer-y socks they were talking about.

So. Bras.

Letting the two of them decide was out of the question. Completely against the spirit of this big game of Make Believe. Olesya would never approve. Also, letting Keli and Seli pick their own bras would end up with them picking something they could stash a rope, smoke bomb, and/or a spare handkerchief into. That would not end well. For anybody. (Probably mostly him.) So he has to pick something for them. Hazel Valentine Fletcher needs to tell two foxgirls which bras he would like them to wear. Information that will certainly convey no additional intent or meaning whatsoever. Cool cool cool cool cool cool awesome and cool.

Unless? Unless! Unless he let them keep whatever they were wearing right now! Yes! He wouldn't even have to raise the topic. If he hands them new clothes without handing them new bras, they might not realize that he even had the option to pick some out for them! There we go, problem solved, easy game, easy life.

Hazel turns about and walks away.

Hazel slows to a stop.

…were they wearing bras?

That. Hrm. That, is a very good question. Was there a way to tell? You know, without them directly telling you, while winking and waggling their eyebrows. Nevermind whether or not this sort of thing happens often; this is about Keli and Seli, who have gone bra-less at least once in their lives, because they are Keli and Seli. The possibility is there. Or, maybe, did it depend on the outfit? Were there outfits where certain structural properties of a top made a bra unnecessary? Like, swimsuits. This definitely isn't a swimsuit situation, but the point stands. Unless those dancer outfits were close enough to swimsuits to count.

It's tough going, contemplating complicated clothing concepts in a world without Wikipedia. (Or the concept of a browser history.) Suppose there is a way to tell. Suppose it's a way that everyone knows, except him. Suppose he gives them a set of clothes, and they all look at him funny, and Juniper says how daring It is of him to forgo the bras. While Keli and Seli wink/waggle at him. It's bad enough, thinking of the message you're sending with a choice. But is it worse than the message you could send without realizing it?

The rain falls. Jewelry jingles lightly.

A chest’s hinge creaks.

“Juniper?”

She finds him standing far, far away from The Chest. He hands her a selection of chaste, functional bras in a variety of colors. “Could you pick one out for each of them? Please?”

Because of course he can't pick them himself. Of course he would never pick anything remotely risque. He should get a gold star for achieving this much on his own. What, did you think he would emerge from the Seigalamu’s pile of plunder with lingerie? Or nothing at all?

Really. Imagine Hazel Valentine Fletcher knowing that a missing bra could be scandalous.

Where would he even have learned such a thing?

Juniper takes the multicolored bundle from him with ease. “Of course, oh honored guest. Were you having trouble deciding?~”

“Yes! Because I don't know their sizes! And also! I don't know how color coordination works!”

“Do you need help picking their panties too?~”

“Whatever they're wearing is fine!!!”

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

The final outfits are a clever little idea. If these two like their performance outfits so much, why not carry on with the theme?

Seigalamu dancers favor sweeping dresses, with sharp lines, bright colors, and dangling sleeves. And tassels. Many, many tassels. The sort of thing that does not fight the wind, but flows with it. The dresses with the diaphanous sleeves, those were a good find.

“Now, I know how excited they were to be unveiled,” and he is understanding, but firm, in his scolding. “But those veils are their signature. Anyone who hears the names Keli and Seli sees a pair of veils. How is anybody going to know who they are if they can see their faces?” (He's proud of that bit of goofball logic. It's hard not to smile and ruin the delivery.) “It would be terribly rude to squander the infamy of the sluzhanka you've given me, Bagyum Olesya.” And he bows, at just the correct level of respect, just like Juniper showed him.

Breathless Dead

Ever since the Royal Architect, Dolce has kept a little time to study Mars. The odd gap in his knowledge troubled him. Not that he ever planned to go to war, not even when Beri was left far behind, but it was a perilous thing, being unfamiliar with a god. All the worse when you were well-behaved with all the others. Imagine the insult.

So he studied, so he prayed, so he learned, and little by little that gap shrank. What was once a yawning abyss became criss-crossed with firmer ground. Holes remained, but there were paths around, and he could work with that. Iskarot once told him it was an admirable quality for a student to have; the ability to see your own ignorance and not be overly bothered by it. To neither stumble into it blindly nor obsess over it, but to watch, and to wait, and be ready for when answers may come. In whatever form they may come.

In all of his studies, he never found a single prayer or ritual intended for the front lines.

But Dolce is not a soldier; he is only slightly higher than a civilian. There are official terms for those tasked with logistics and assistance to the officers, but unless Mars asks it of him he will not fetch that knowledge. It is all he can do to stay where he belongs, in the center of the column, by Vasilia’s side. He wears a cap, and it’s got a symbol of some kind on it, and he can’t tell you where it came from but he can tell you it means he’s not somebody who should be shot at. He marches. He bandages. He provides, water and rations. He waits for her return. And because he is precisely where he ought to be in formation, then it is easier for Vasilia to be where she needs to be in formation, and all moves as it should, to the glory of Mars.

So he stands, so he waits, as Vasilia rises up alongside Dyssia. The artillery turns.

His ears have not stopped ringing.

[Offering Hope to Dyssia’s next roll.]

Return to Thellamie

Juniper looks at the twins. The twins look at Hazel. Hazel looks thoughtful.

“Hrm. Hrmm. Hrmmmmmmmmm.”

You can tell, because of the thoughtful noises he’s making behind his hand, the thoughtful way his finger tap-tap-taps his cheek, and how slowly he has to nod because his head’s weighed down by all the thoughts he’s thinking.

(There are several options in that list that he will set off to the side with the longest set of mental tongs he’s got, and he’ll wash his hands afterwards for good measure. While hiding his blushing face. And looking intently at the patterns in a fur rug so there’s no room to think of said options again. But not for too long. Not too long.)

“Hrm. That’s an awfully big decision for this time of the morning.”

No, no, it’s no good. He’s got to search farther afield. This is a conundrum that needs a good pacing about. “This is a very generous gift, Bagyum-” he’s pronouncing that right, right? Right. “-Olesya. Two sluzhankas, infamous sluzhankas at that. I wouldn’t want to mistreat them.” He turns as he paces, and for a moment the twins can’t see his face, but Juniper can see how super extra serious of a face he’s making. “So, I think I ought to make sure of my options. They sounded excited about unveiling, but just to be sure, what else do you have?”

(Cutie weathered countless lunch shifts, bouncing from table to table, chatting with guests anywhere from half-drunk to half-asleep. There simply wasn’t time to let a little discomfort stop him, and he would not dare spoil the guest’s mood.

Always, the bit must flow.)

[Rolling to Figure Out A Person: 6 + 5 + 0 = 11. Asking:
What do Keli & Seli hope to get from Hazel choosing their outfits?

Banking one question for later.]

Breathless Dead

Dyssia!

Did you ever realize what a luxury it was to go to war and know exactly who you were fighting?

This will not be a march for the fainthearted. You know nothing of the terrain nor the distance. Your allies may turn on you at any moment. You may be attacked by a people you don't know, as you walk through their home, and what will you do when the wolves howl for battle? The only mercy is that you've already left behind those whose resolve would shatter. The Shogun grants you another; some time to prepare, beneath the gaze of biting shadows.

So perhaps it is a comfort when Dolce joins you, a pack on his back and a pen in his hand. He and Bella had to account for every soul that was leaving, and every soul that would stay. Deck maps with territories color-coded, inventories of supplies and who holds them to account, a mostly-accurate list of all of Iskarot's side projects, he has it all to hand, if not already memorized. Lean on him, brave Knight. Nothing will be forgotten or overlooked on his watch. Let your scales hold back the shadows, and let his heart know some peace.

(Vasilia has gone to Bella and Ember. She has stood apart from them long enough.)

"Excuse me," Dolce offers his notepad to you. "Could you look over these figures? I'm not sure if they're right."

The figures are meaningless. The words in the margins, less so.

The Shogun sounds familiar.

The Shogun, who boasted of her illiteracy. The Shogun, who leads a pack that respects and craves her in equal measure.

I’ve heard the Crystal Knight, the Royal Architect, the Royal Architect’s proxy, Liquid Bronze, 20022, and others. They sounded identical when they talked about their dreams. And she sounds identical to them.

He looks to you for confirmation.

Breathless Dead

Respect for his work. Respect for his posture. Approval? Not quite. But close enough. Mistakes can be fixed later. The Shogun respects him. All voices are silent, for they are satisfied, and in their silence there can be peace. Put away the half-built scaffolding of answers and replies; it is no longer needed. Coax the lightning from his nerves; nothing more is required of him. Let the shadows come into focus. Let the tide of attention and need flow about his ears. Look, Dolce of Beri.

Watch two wolves burn.

They do not move. They make no sound. The fire speaks enough for them both. No shadow can conceal them like this. They will only draw attention to the pack. The pack must stay hidden. So, they must stay. They must silently bear the honor of their Shogun, for as long as it takes for their bodies to adapt to the flames. If they cry out, if they faint, it will be their fault for not growing a fireproof hide quick enough.

No tongue of fire burns brighter than their grins.

She doesn’t see

Dolce watches two wolves burn. Dolce watches the Shogun tear off her coat. Dolce watches a friend sink to her knees. For his work has found favor, and he is now free to watch. Observe. Think.

She doesn’t see She doesn’t see She doesn’t see

Again. And again. And again. He breathes. He taps.

Vasilia squeezes her reply around his hands.

She doesn’t. She doesn’t. Love. Dear heart. My treasure. Mine. She doesn’t.

The greatest daemon the Shogun has ever seen will not turn away. It is all he can do for a friend.

Vasilia of Lakkos will not interfere. She cannot leave his side.

Together, they will witness what happens next.