TheAmishPirate

Return to Thellamie

For a moment, Hazel Valentine Fletcher wavers. The Dark Dragon stabs to his heart, and he knows he deserves it. He screwed up. She hates him. She hates the world. She hates herself. He’s getting a bad grade in helping her. He’s getting a bad grade in being the ocean, which he didn’t even realize he was supposed to be, but he definitely should’ve, if he’d just thought harder about it. Idiot. Stupid. Failure.

And then the beat steals his breath away.

What’s a song like that doing in a Thellamie like this? How’s a song like that in a Thellamie like this?! The cuts. The effects. The hymn, ever-roaring. A song of selfishness, a song of fire, a song with a flow to it. He is bobbing, bouncing, motion taking over him without thought. He glances

(Ha ha okay w ow)

at Sayanastia. Only at Sayanastia. Sayanastia is what he’s looking at. He’s looking. At Sayanastia.

(Okay. Ah. Hrm. Well? Well. Yuki. Had not mentioned. That Thellamie had also developed pole dancing. And. Um. Many dance styles! That he thought were only featured in music videos! Not! Performed exuberantly in the club! Castle! Crumbling club castle! And, no, just. Forget what he’s seeing in his peripheral vision. Yes peripheral vision really notices motion, that’s the whole point of it but it’s not particularly helpful right now!

Odd that nobody’s got glowsticks. This feels like a song for twirling glowsticks. Have they not gotten that far yet? Is pole dancing lower on the tech tree than Cascada?)

Sayanastia.

this thing of becoming

Under spell, under starlight,

this yearning, transformative spark of potential

under curse, under pulsing, heady beat,

this water-man who takes the shape of anything he is poured into

there stood Sayanastia.

Alone.

---

Sayanastia!

The Golden Fawn leaps across the stars before you.

He lands, one foot driving into the cracked stones, finding a scrap of purchase, and he leaps again. Momentum twists him, and he does not fight it, his long sleeves whipping a graceful arc through the air. One two! On his feet. One two! Bend and pose. One two! One two! Dun-dun! Dun-dun! Du-du-du-du-du-du-du-dun!

First, the kicking and wheeling of the huntress’ battle-dance, orbiting a new star. Reach, and retreat, and clutch to his chest, and spin with the one-two-three-four of a maid knight far from home. Then sway. Sway. And stomp. Sway. And stomp. A wave passed from a princess someplace far, far away. But faster now. Faster now. Faster now! The music picks up, and so does he, and though some of his hip swishes look a little more like flailing, a pair of ashiqs would be proud he hasn’t forgotten to look at his audience.

The music falls, settling into a bridge. Hazel stops, one-two-step. Hand out. Hand open. Hand steady.

Just like a knight of Kel.

It’s not a dance. It’s a bunch of dances smushed together, not bothering to pretend at being a coherent dance, much less a good one. But that’s okay. A show doesn’t need to be a dance. A show can be a pile of loves, bound together with joy and delight, all for the simple thrill of body moving to beat.

It’s a show for Sayanastia. It’s a show for you.

“I’m sorry!” He declares, catching his breath. “I don’t actually know how to ask someone to dance!”

Your curse flickers on the palm of his hand. Perhaps hate blinded you to its full truth. Perhaps music reveals it.

When water is cold, when water is biting, it takes no form but the one it fell into. It holds it, stubbornly, until it shatters. But when water is warm, when water is welcoming, it can take any form you pour it into. It can accept any part of you. It can embrace you, all of you, without shying away.

What does the water-man shape himself for, if not for love?

Hazel wants to dance with you. Hazel would be honored to dance with you. It is a dream beyond imagining that Hazel should have a chance to dance with you. Here and now. As you are. For this little step of your story.

What does Hazel perform for, if not for love?

Your curse flickers on the palm of his hand. Offered as freely as the dance.

Well?

If you hate this curse so much, why not give him a better one?

[Rolling to Entice Sayanastia, by the power of rhythm games: 3 + 5 - 1 + 1 = 8]

Breathless Dead

That’s not

Doesn’t

He didn’t

No, she

He did

He didn’t

Assumed, she wasn’t

Too late

Why didn’t he

What else did he

Too late

Listen

Ropes, wasn’t

He wasn’t

He can’t

Why

No

Stop

Stop

Wrong

Wrong

Wrong

Wrong

Wrong.

He watches his reflection in the tea. There is no more steam to obscure it.

“I understand.” The chair does not budge as he rises. The ropes lie where they fall. “Thank you for your time. I will not take up any more of it.” A soft smile. A polite bow. Not too big. Not too deep. “If there are any problems, please let me know. Send word to Dolce; it will get to me.”

He turns. One. Two. Three. He steps. One. Two. Three. He opens the door. One. He steps outside. Two. He closes it. He holds the handle. He turns. He turns. He turns the latch closed. Three.

Run

He walks the path back to the woods.

One.

Two.

Three.

Return to Thellamie

Sayanastia

You’ve caught the Golden Faun. You’ve seized him. You’ve reached deep, deep into his leaping heart, plunged your claws into his squirming heart, and drawn out the second curse. Your curse. Yours, and no one else’s.

The rest of the verse. As you are owed.

Binding hands and heart in scarlet duty!
He bears his branded names
For grace unsought!

Your Maid receives your hands with soft reverence. Be as gentle as you like. Be as rough as you like. He cannot stop you. He will not protest. He will duly accept whatever treatment you deem fit. His fingers will welcome yours with no less care. In the grasp of the Dark Dragon, he trembles. In the embrace of her shadow, he struggles to breathe. In your presence, he is silent, as is his place.

Your Princess follows your lead. He does not know the steps you would dance. How could he? You are the Dark Dragon. He is not. Tug at his hands, pull at his waist, and he falls into line. An extra, hurried step. A sharp gasp. See how he dances for you. See how he wriggles at the lead. And still. He is silent. He bears his humiliation with dignity. He dances the steps with all the grace he can muster. He glows, only as bright as you permit him to.

Your Trophy is an eager, delicate thing. You could break him, you know. It would not be difficult. It would hardly count as effort. It would be your right. You could hold him, you know. It would be far more difficult. It would hardly count as effort. It would be your right. The choice is yours. Not his. Still he dances. Still he gazes at you, and you alone. A buzzing mind, so full of thoughts, so full of you, though he will never understand. And still. No question interrupts your music. No plea breaks your moment of triumph.

Is that what you want? Do you want him to dance well? Do you want him to learn from you? Do you want him to struggle? Do you want him to beg? Do you want him to fight? Do you want him to serve? Do you want him to worship? Do you want him to sing? Do you want him to be silenced? Do you want him to be? Do you want him to be not?

Does he understand you? Of course not. You are the Dark Dragon. He is not. But he hopes. He hopes that if he can just be the right thing for you? If he could just be what you need, in this moment? Yes, he hopes that it would draw you from your madness. That is secondary. Above all, he hopes that it would be good for you. That it would help…everything. Anything. Even if it’s just for a little bit. He doesn’t understand. He still wishes to play the part.

Trust not to masks, you say? Very well then. He will simply have to become the genuine article.

What does he need to be, Sayanastia? What does he need to be, for you?

What prize does your curse, your desire, mold him into?

Who are you, and what is your victory?

If you must be, at least do not be alone.

Breathless Dead

Oh, Katherine Isabella Fluffybiscuits. If only you knew the depths of your own schemes. How cunning, how clever, for a foxgirl to concoct a plot so deep and tricksy that even she didn’t know what she was doing? How could one even do that?

But this is precisely why your blow strikes true upon the Clearly Evil Space Sheep.

Time. He needs time. He needs time desperately. There isn’t hardly enough. It’s different. He forgot. He’s the only one here. He’s not keeping busy in the corner. He’s not watching from the corner. But the information floods in all the same. Observe. Jupiter. Their handiwork. Autonomy. Privacy. Assignments. Curses. Mazes. Mazes. Mazes in mazes. Force. Jupiter. Jupiter. They made Jupiter. They made Jupiter. Jupiter.

Think.

Directions. Mazes lead somewhere. Designed to lead somewhere. Supreme Leaders, plural. Designing mazes. Do they agree where they go? What happens when they disagree? No. Mazes, again. They don’t mind failing. How are curses worked? Kindness? Empathy? Contentment? Joy? Loose terms. Can mean many things. Defined by who? To what end? But, no, better definitions can survive. She did better. What did she change? Does she keep her name? Is that fair? They could change that too though. They could try. Supreme Leaders. Curses. Selecting. Where does it go? Where are the people going? Why make people like this? Why? Where? For what?

No waiting.

Your answer, if you please.

And then. And then! Oh miracle of miracles, you are giving him that time. He recognizes the opportunity at once. He believes it, at once. It is real. There is a chance. He can wait, a little. Listen, only a little.

But no. You do not give him time.

You give him an insufficient explanation of a novel form of drama, a sort of Jupiter, but done for fun, and for performance. You give him a glimpse of swords that cause the stage to come to life and attack, or act in a way that everyone knows is an attack, technology he has no context to imagine. You give him a revelation. Subtle and ingenious. A miracle that was right under his nose all his life, and he never thought to see it: A colon three does look a little like a smiling face. But most of all? Most devious and wicked of all?

You give him what can only be an earnest attempt to help.

The last potential enemy he had in this room is no more. It can only, only be his fault.

Time. He has no time.

Your answer, if you please.

“Ah. Well. Yes.” He is not pushing on the ropes he is not pushing on the ropes he is not pushing on the ropes he is not pushing on the ropes he is not pushing on the ropes he is not pushing “That does not. Quite. Answer the question.” It does. It will. Stupid. Obvious. “Especially as it regards to, us, and, what may happen to, if someone should disobey.” Threat. It sounds like a threat. Cannot take it back. Explaining makes it worse. Say nothing. Frown. Frown. He can frown. It troubles him. It’s not a threat. He doesn’t want it.

He doesn’t want this.

Return to Thellamie

Hazel ran here. Hazel will run from here.

Hazel pauses here.

He needs not run, for she is not chasing. He needs not work (too much), for she knows him too well.

He needs not flee, for she already has him.

Yuki!? How, you-!” And there’s so many thoughts all trying to get out at once, they tie his tongue in knots and all that comes out is a tasteful variety of silly noises. He has no idea how you’re here. He’s so happy you rescued him. Your dress is so good!

And what can he do when confronted with the impossible, but laugh? But twirl? But let himself fall into the steps that two very, very good ashiqs drilled into him? But follow the lead of Yuki Edogawa; his hero, his knight, and his best friend?

(He has forgotten he’s still wearing the dress. The earrings. The boots. The makeup. He hasn’t quite realized he’s wearing a mask too, dotted with glittering stars like his freckles. Perhaps that makes it a weak mask, but it would take a concentrated effort to hide those ears.)

Breathless Dead

Dolce sits perfectly still in his seat.

Dolce opens his mouth.

Dolce says nothing.

Katherine Isabella Fluffybiscuits raises the teacup to his lips for a good sip, just like a Super Duper Good Girl should.

Katherine Isabella Fluffybiscuits leaves him tied up for his own safety, and so that he doesn’t get lost. Just like a Super Duper Good Girl should.

“Thank you for your time, ma’am, and for the tea. I know it is short notice for both.” Open mouth. Siiiiiiiiiiiip. Close mouth. “My name is Dolce; I’m one of the crew of the ship that recently landed in the Terraced Lake. My apologies for the trouble and worry we caused. We have come a rather long way, and we were not sure what we would find when we reached here. Please, do let me know if any of our number are causing any trouble, or if there are any complaints, and I will see to it that it gets sorted out. We mean no one here any harm.”

Kat sweetly bonks her head against his wool, slipping in a discrete, tasteful hrmmmmmmmmmmmmm? To remind him! Helpfully! Of the obligations of Fox Law!

“Oh, yes, and this is Katherine Isabella Fluffybiscuits Esq. She helped me find my way here.”

Dolce says nothing of demons, of lost sheep, or of the brave, selfless actions of a delicate foxgirl in remedying these matters.

Kat lets loose the beginnings of a yip, or whine, or something far, far more powerful and perilous.

“She was quite patient, to bear with me all this way. I do think a Super Duper Good Girl is patient, don’t you?”

Kat yawns, and has always been yawning, except for when she has been standing as still and as quiet as can reasonably be expected of an unjustly persecutied maiden.

“On the subject of being new to all this, I am rather curious about how your job works. Kat told me a little on the way over, but there is still much I don’t understand. If you would, I would love to hear more from you. It would be a great help for us to know how to be good neighbors, for as long as we are here.”

“You see. We had not touched down for five minutes before someone cut our ship in half. (On accident, of course. I understand this sort of thing happens.) But it does make me wonder. If one person can do that, and Princesses can do quite a bit more, how do you do your job? Suppose if - Qiu, was it? - what if Qiu disagrees with you, or is rather put out by one of your orders, or simply resents you, and refuses to fully cooperate. What happens then?”

Return to Thellamie

Well. You did ask for words. So here you are:

Hurry the treasure no one will grasp
Hurry now to labor unceasing
Hurry to wages of mist and silence-

And that’s all you get out.

The Golden Fawn runs on strong legs. With coiled legs he bursts into motion. From stillness. To tree. To stone. To root. Grasp the branch, bound from trunk, leap across nothingness, faster, faster, faster. A maid’s frills dance in his wake. A knight’s armor glints in his starlight. They do not slow him. Nothing will slow him. Nothing will stop him. Neither friend nor foe nor bleeding nor breath; he hasn’t the time. There’s work to be done. There’s a race to be run. One foot in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other in front of the other

He is gone. Up the stairs, hardly touching them, and through the door in the trees. Taking a second half with him. Taking a second curse with him.

You cursed him; he will never be caught.

You’ve seen him; so many have tried.

You are: Tired.

Tired.

Tired.

And: A dragon.

With no maids for your nest.

With a curse half-finished.

With a prize to win.

Breathless Dead

There are all sorts of things to do at the Terraced Lake. Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise, because they’d be lying, or they just didn’t know any better, and either of those are good reasons not to take their word for it. Do you know how many people live there? It’s nowhere near as many as in the cities, but it’s lots. Plenty enough. No need to put a number to it. And anyway, every one of those people? They do at least one thing a day. Oftentimes more! Now there is the possibility that some people are doing the same thing, but there can’t be that many of them.

Dolce - sometimes known as Dolcef - does some of these things, for a little bit. He watches the sunrise. He cooks. He strolls. He swims. He dries off in the afternoon sun. This and that, for a little bit.

And then he leaves.

Politely, mind you! He gives every gratitude to Yue. He promises he’ll be back. He hopes she doesn’t think herself a poor hostess. (He suspects she might anyway.) But he doesn’t say why. Not really.

He’s going to see the civil service.

He will not, cannot, do a thing until he does.

And if anyone wishes to travel with him?

Well! He won’t refuse the company.

Return to Thellamie

The world turns to darkness, outside the reach of his light. There are trees, but perhaps they are the memories of trees, like the remembered outline of your dresser once all the lights are off. There are handmaidens, but perhaps they are not handmaidens now. No flutter of silk. No strong hand on his shoulder.

He is alone.

And despite a dragon, despite the darkness, despite a hundred and one quite reasonable worries at his door, all Hazel Valentine Fletcher can think is

Huh.

Never seen that happen before.

And it’s true! He hasn’t! When else has he had the opportunity to witness a legendary hero give a companion just what they needed, right before they needed it? Before anyone knew trouble was coming?

Because. Well. He had always found a way to muddle through whatever life threw at him, hadn’t he? Things had always turned out alright if he just kept on trucking, hadn’t they? Was he really going to give up now? Was Hazel Valentine Fletcher a quitter? No! Not in the least. Not in the past, and certainly not today. They were going to get through this journey. He would see them through, somehow.

Heron. Hero of Ages. She was really something, wasn’t she?

Right. That’s enough sulking, snapping, and/or stressing. Sayanastia (the Sayanastia!!!) is under some sort of curse. She’s not acting herself. Or rather, she’s acting like she used to, long ago. That sort of thing happens when you’re Outside. So, if you think about it, that sort of thing should stop happening once you’re outside of Outside? Hopefully? It’s the best he can do on short notice, anyhow.

One foot in front of the other, Hazel. Time to put those notebooks to good use.

Plus side, she doesn’t seem to have noticed him yet. He’s got a moment to get a plan together...

---

Sayanastia!

The shiny little morsel thinks that tree is enough to hide him from your sight.

Do you find it amusing? Adorable? Refreshing, maybe, to have a brave, clueless little thing cowering from your impossible might?

Well, whatever the case, you’ve got some entertainment while you vent your wrath at these cursed pilgrims. Just as it should be.

[Hazel is rolling to Figure Out A Person: 6 + 2 + 0 = 8 Asking:
-What do you love most?
-How could I get you to chase me?

Sayanastia gets a question of Hazel in return.]

Breathless Dead

Somewhere far, far away from here, past the river Lethe, there stands a Manor.

The story would start that way. He’s quite sure of that. No one here was there.

“My name is Dolce. The very same that Redana mentioned.” From his perch on his wife’s lap, Dolce gives a bow of the head to his hostess. “Chef, and more recently, logistics officer. I manage the kitchens and the paperwork.”

The chef was so unhappy, he begged a goddess to tell him what was wrong with him.

“Pirate as well, darling.”

“Hrm. I mostly recall being a chef there too.”

“Which most polite society would call aiding and abetting.” Vasilia squeeze him from behind, arm wrapped possessively around his waist. “I’m afraid you’re just as wanted as the rest of us.”

He saw someone eating his meals for the first time. He replayed the memory so much he couldn’t sleep.

“Pirate by technicality, then. Though that was quite a while ago.”

He couldn’t stay any longer. He couldn’t stay anywhere. He had to know.

Odd. The day was peaceful. The terrain familiar to their hostess. The food was delicious and the tea refreshing.

Where was Hestia?

They were under hospitality. They were on the cusp of completing a great and perilous quest. Redana was on the cusp of completing a great and perilous quest.

Where was Zeus?

They had landed on Gaia.

Where was Demeter?

He had to know.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Yue. The brownies and tea were excellent.”

He had to know.