Sometimes in life, you make a mistake, and you pay for it every day for the rest of your days.

Every village in the Highlands (and some in the lowlands) deal with the N’yari as a chronic presence, suffering raids and kidnappings according to the inscrutable whims of the cats. They are a fact of life, the same as rain or taxes. When Han was a few years younger, and truly coming into her strength, she believed some things in life were less certain than she’d been taught to believe. If she could just beat up the N’yari really really good, then they’d be too scared to bother her village anymore! It was the perfect plan.

Except that after she’d chased off the first bunch, a raiding party of even bigger catgirls took their place the next moon. And the next moon. And the next moon. And the moon after that, too. Until, one fateful night, Machi of the Ōei and her handpicked battle-sisters paid her village a visit.

Words were said. Some stuff happened. A terrible fate befell many a tree and rooftop. And. Well. Han’s plan succeeded. N’yari don’t come to her village anymore. Because Machi’s claimed that territory for herself. And she’s not going to let anyone else raid there until. Uh.

Until Han agrees to come with her. Willingly.

So. Yeah. While she was still living with her parents, Machi and her band would regularly appear at random intervals to propose...adopting? Fighting? Marrying? Kidnapping her? Frankly, she’s not sure if she can call it kidnapping, but there’s just not a better word for it? She really thought things would get better once she moved out, and if you’re curious how well that’s worked out for her, may she direct your attention to the giant catgirl holding up the one barge on this entire river that contains a Han.

(Striking, in the one moment she wouldn't have interrupted for the world.)

So how does one deal with persistent suitors(?) from the N’yari? Observe the tactics of the wizened hunter, whose patience has run out years ago:

Step one: Tap Jazumi on the shoulder.

Step two: Apply left hook to N’yari at maximum speed.

Step three: Savor the sight and sound of a catgirl soaring through the air, landing in the river, and failing to cope with her new aquatic lifestyle. (These few seconds are for Han. This is Han’s Special Time. It's what makes dealing with all this actually possible.)

“What’s the matter, Jazumi?” She squats on the balls of her feet, grinning impishly. ”I thought you wanted the river.” With a N’yari-free spot on the deck to call her own, Han flips the cloth bundle off her back. In a whirl of white fabric she stands tall for her, the patta gleaming on her right arm, crude blade pointed squarely at Machi. “Or is there a better reason you idiots came this far off your mountain?” she growls above the rain.

And out of the corner of her mouth, a whisper: “Stick close to me, bud. I’ll get you out of here.”

[Fight roll: 4 + 2 + 2 = 8. Going for opportunity for allies (free Lotus!) and seize a superior position (by launching Jazumi into the river) Jazumi (or possibly the other N'yari?) picks 1 from the list too.]

Giriel takes in a sharp breath. That tooth. She...ah, can you imagine a bear wrestling with a dragon? The pinpricks of teeth like little needles pricking the skin. Giriel's strong arms and stronger thighs holding the Red Wolf firmly pinned, save for those merciless teeth?

Who could think about anything else in that moment? The sign of the demons banished from the mind. That they opposed a Hero of the Dominion made perfect sense and needed no further consideration. And if it did need further consideration, which it did not, wouldn't it be valuable to have someone nearby trained in the Art, able to see the signs of dark magic or hidden demons that might wish to trick, deceive, and manipulate?

As for the N'yari. They were just territorial, and this was the sort of problem that could be solved over a good bowl of spicy noodles and a few bottles of shochu. Of course, Red Wolf had a good explanation why the N'yari were picking on her forces, but Giriel was sure she could clear up the misunderstanding, that Red Wolf would be reasonable at the end of the day about the N'yari's space and the N'yari reasonable enough about raiding caravans. They wouldn't stop raiding them, but perhaps the dominion could come to understanding about how they'd raid and what was off limits. A fair way to test their skill and prowess. Okay, sure, Giriel was dreaming, the N'yari wouldn't accept being chained down (of course, exceptions notwithstanding) but they were fine in that space and she was sure she could get them to see that disturbing ghosts wasn't the way to have this fight with the Dominion and that would have to be good enough.

But anyway, the point was, those signs in the teacup weren't important and indicated no problems with Red Wolf that would get in the way of little teeth playing across Giriel's neck and some bone-cracking cuddles.

No, the problem as Giriel started to lose herself in thoughts of great soft beds, was the lifestyle. Giriel was a Witch, she couldn't be an equal partner to a Hero. It was written all over her. Even if she put on that gorgeous starlight dress, soft as the night sky, people would still know she was a witch. There was an aura of the otherworldly about her after so much practice, and she had no intention of dropping her work, her pleasure just wasn't nearly as important. So, of course, anything she could imagine, any games that Red Wolf was playing, it was obvious that she'd never really choose Giriel, never be more than a dalliance and a servant, no matter how skilled, strong, and respected. She just wasn't fit to be anything better than that and that was fine. It was fine. Giriel had come to terms with her status as a witch long ago and she didn't need to feel any feelings about it now. Or so she'd thought as her heart and her hands betrayed her in equal measure, as she shook in that warmth and her heart thumped and she found herself swearing by her grandmother's grave below the very mountain's roots to come back when her task was done.

[Giriel is smitten with Red Wolf, who gets a string for it. She will mark XP for swearing very seriously to come back.]

The priestess makes a blade of her sash. The noble ladies of the Flower Kingdoms make blades of their umbrellas. The Gods of Heaven make blades of their foes.

And isn't this the true nature of divinity? Taking a maiden and making her into your foe, your slave? How many tormented souls have screamed at the injustice of Heaven and risen up against those who had lost Heaven's mandate? It is time for a triumph of lesser cravings. The mud hungers for an embrace! Zhaojun gives it a priestess, sprawled again to have the sweetness of her legs and breasts stolen behind the crudest of veils. Her shoe hungers for the reversal of the laws that consign it to the lowest of garments. She grants its wish as it steals a lightning kiss from the Crane's lips. This is what it is to incite a heart. To deny, and to make them wish they had the strength to deny in turn.

She denies each strike, each kick, each desperate swing. She denies even the rain from brushing her mask, for her umbrella is still held as steadily as a teacup despite each swirling step and twist and flow. What is love if it is not unequal?

"A stone in the corner of the board is useless, little priestess," said Zhaojun. "It controls no territory. It influences Heaven not. The periphery has no value. Did they tell you otherwise? Did they tell you Heaven's eyes wandered this far? Heaven's eyes wander not. A realm this far from true civilization, true virtue, true skill is the administrative province of the weakest and the most corrupt. Do you think a true priestess would have required my aid to stand against these pathetic beasts? I am offended," she curls her finger under Crane's chin, "almost too offended for words."

"But," she said, straightening in a smooth motion that sent Crane onto her back, "Even the periphery has a center. And you, again, are far from it. Do you think a true priestess would not have claimed power and not yielded her lands to foreign conquerors of a dozen different flags? The true power in these lands lies not with the natives. It lies with those who have come to conquer them. So if I am to achieve my mission it is they I must negotiate with, not you. I do not know yet what this Rakshasa will have to offer me but she, at least, will be a valuable stone."

Walking the hills towards the border of Rose, Kalaya would have been happy had her day ended here. On the road, surrounded by Petony and her retinue, singing songs and travelling through the driving rain. Compared to how they'd been acting earlier, and the unintentional harm they'd been causing those poor inkeepers - this was a win.

It didn't matter whether they found anything, they were no longer sitting in a tavern getting drunk, they were travelling the country with a solid intent to do good. A force for making the world better. It was enough to put a smile on her face and an energy in her step.

The smile lasted as long as it took to find the battle.

"Wait." she said, grabbing Petony's arm. "Safeguard the living first. The captain can wait until the people are safe."

Drawing her sword, she grins a hard smile.

"Let's do some good. For Rose and Lilly!!"

Descending the hill, Kalays runs smoothly through the paddies, dancing from spur to embankment to traverse the water without getting bogged down. Her sword flashes, striking out at the demons like a silver ribbon of light in the night. A demon turns, catching a foot to the stomach and the pommel to the head before it really knows what is going on. A second locks blades only to find itself unbalanced and beneath water when Kalaya pushes it into a divot in the paddy it hadn't noticed. A twirl and flick and the third's sword is dashed against rocks, breaking into shards.

All of it leaving them at the mercy of the men with clubs and fury that follow in her wake.

The plan in simple - she and Petony are the sharp point to the spear, while the retinue are the haft to deal with the demons once downed or disarmed. Her intent is to drive a wedge into the demons' flank. Distract them long enough for the farmers and soldiers to rally and counterattack.

[Rolling an 8 on Defy Disaster on behalf of those in the farmstead. Gallant Rescue will trigger somewhere here, but not sure who to claim a string on.]

It's a quiet calculus of problems, oppertunities, and furiously denied daydreams, as she glances from beneath the half-veil at the developments. An actual rat on the street urchin, possibly a desperate level of poor, possibly stupid enough to try for a robbery, unlikely but possible that she'd have to actually intercede. A coin given again mindlessly, worth enough to imply far more on her person or in her retinue if Azazuka's taken hostage, but the risk involved with that plan implies stupid and greedy or just swiping the purse and swimming to shore. Not worth preparing for specifically, just keep it in mind for the general paranoia of the shadowed life.

Lanterns. Fire risk, unlikely but possible on a tiny boat in a lake, able to signal with them or be a prearranged signal. Spur of the moment makes that last one unlikely, two lanterns also implies two people in case somebody else is watching and planning something. Urchin may be a surprise in their favor at that point.

Azazuka doesn't want to wait. In spite of herself, a slight surprise, only betrayed by a raised eyebrow under the charcoal gauze, barely noticable to somebody paying close attention, which her host isn't. Blackmail, trickery, seduction, all of those are possible. A brief whirl in her mind to imagining half-clothed elegance in the privacy of the lake, before her training reaches out and quashes those thoughts, focusing again on the calculus. She's not allowed to dream here.

Yes. The worst scandal Azazuka could produce from this would be nothing compared to what she'd do to herself, given the relative status between a fourth-born and the merchant-heir. Any planned seduction could be bowed out of with deferance to honor, with a swim in the lake and potentially offending her host better than serving tea at her mistress's pleasure. Onto the boat then, an umbrella over them both and a lantern in the other hand.

Han!

The sound that Jazumi makes when she is sucker punched by you is kind of a “nuuh.” Then she spins on her heel, topples over the side of the boat in a jingle and jangle of charms, and hits the water with a hard splash. Like, painfully hard. The little priestess winces a little. But don’t worry, because she immediately comes back up flailing and hissing and pulling outraged faces as the current sweeps her away. N’yari don’t much care for the water, see.

Machi turns and fixes you with the kind of glare that would melt a lesser woman, the lantern-light shrouding half her face in shadow, as Kigi and Hanaha freeze. Then, terribly, inevitably, Machi’s face breaks into a grin and she cackles. “Haha! Wonderful, Han! Grandmother, I thank you for this blessing, that you bring our paths together again!” She kisses two fingers and holds them up to the sky in honor of Grandmother Moon. Then she brings her attention back to you— that is, the two of you, because the priestess, arms still lashed behind her back, is shoulder-to-shoulder with you. You can feel her all fluttering like a leaf, even as the rain trickles into her shoulder-bobbed hair, which is a glossy dark blue in the low light, her poncho’s hood pulled back by Jazumi.

Machi swings her sword off her back and hammers it, still sheathed, down on the still boat so hard it rattles the deck. “I claim that priestess as our prize in the name of our Grandmothers,” she purrs, claws clacking on the hilt. “But I am willing to yield her to Han’ya of the Ōei, my raid-bride.”

Oh. Oh gosh. Well, she’s given you two pretty clear options. On the one hand, she means to beat you in a duel and take the priestess just so you’ll come chase her. On the other, she intends to give you the priestess as a gift. An initiation present. And of course the priestess can tell she’s being bartered over. It’s obvious! Clear as day! That she’s being dangled like a prize! You need to make it clear that you’re not interested in having her as a prize— because you’re not thinking about it, right? You’re not considering slinging a cutie over your shoulder and feeling her squirm and hearing her squeaks, no, that’s the furthest thing from your mind. And besides, what kind of thanks would that be to someone who was kind to you, who offered you an umbrella, who wasn’t afraid of you (though she probably is now...).

What might be going through your mind instead is an image of Machi, big stinky cat bully, toying with an innocent, helpless priestess, and it’s all your fault you brought attention down on her head. Enveloping her in those muscles, licking the sweat off her skin, leaving hickeys beneath that veil, being possessive and mean and... meep.

Is it that? Is it the way that, instead of sneering and being bombastic, Machi sounds devious and excited at her own cleverness and eager to tempt you into joining her? Is it the casual strength of her stance, knowing she could pick you up and toss you overboard if she wanted, but that she doesn’t want to, because she wants you?

Why does Machi of the Ōei take a String on you, Han(‘ya of the Ōei)?

***

Giriel!

“What will you do when you find them?”

The young shepherd glances back at you. He’s so young, just having earned the right to take the flock past the river to graze all by himself— old enough for the responsibility, but, despite his protestations to the contrary, young enough that he doesn’t know better than to lead you.

Which is, in and of itself, curious. The farmers and herdsmen of the lowlands often struggle with the superstition (grounded in unfortunate fact and logical fallacy intermingled) that the appearance of a witch brings the attention of the Unseen to their doorstep; that ghosts linger in your wake, demons listen to act on your every thoughtless word, and that gods being their attention and judgment on those who interact with you. Kayl is young enough that he thinks himself brave enough to deal with all those things. It’s very cute.

But that’s not all. Because while you’re used to some distance, ever since you started asking around about the N’yari raids and the Legion patrols, you’ve been stonewalled, and there’s the worry of worse. A woman even came out of her mother’s house to throw beans at you. Beans! Like you’re some common bandar-logi! People this close to the mountains should know better!

Which brings us back to Kayl, all energy and impish smiles, always a few steps ahead of you, carrying a pole and a goat-knife. The only guide you’ve been able to find to the local graves, and the only one you’ve been able who’s willing to talk about the ghosts. Sure, he’s only seen them from a distance, but he’s heard them, and once, while he was trying to sleep, he heard a whole procession on the other side of the low wall he was huddled up against, and he kept his eyes closed even though his heart was hammering so loud, and he didn’t so much as breathe while they marched past with their dry feet and their heavy bangles and their low conversations in old people speak, and if he did breathe, he was so sneaky about it that they didn’t so much as sniff it.

“Are you going to call the demons? They might come to you. Meris says she’s seen them camping in the forest. Their fires are all green, like the leaves, and they keep tossing rocks into it.” (Worryingly accurate. The Tears of the Green Sun don’t burn wood, only stone. They tarnish metal and sear poems into flesh.) “I think you shouldn’t be allowed. The priestesses should come and send all the demons home and make you do your penance. Is it true that the Mother of Witches is all tied up under Lake Zenba?”

***

Zhaojun!

Sagacious Crane of the Reeds lands, again, in the mud, face-down, veil drenched in mud and marked with the pattern of a goddess’s slipper. One of the bandar-logi reaches out to her, chittering, as the rest crowd greedily in.

Sagacious Crane’s hand lashes out and seizes the bandar-log by the wrist. It makes a small noise, an acknowledgement of its imminent doom, and then Crane pulls herself up, and, in one smooth motion, pulls the bandar-log off its feet and flings it shrieking at her tormentor—

Who is no longer there. And that is what breaks her. In a towering fury she plows through the bandar-logi, screaming for Zhaojun to come back, not out of fear but so she can shake the possessed girl until that mocking, immutable mask tumbles off and she can look her in the eye and tell her off, how dare she, liar, tormentor, false messenger, to say such things, to strike at her goddess, to strike at herself, to make such implications—

Beneath the shrine, Zhaojun walks in the deep places of the earth. Shadows drift and drape. Banners hang limply, each one seeming to proclaim: he who wove me was beautiful! she who held me was mighty! behold me now, a memorial to a place that was, a time that was, a people who were! But it was not, it never was, and they never were. Zhaojun walks through falsehoods and the weight of her threatens to cause a collapse. The rakshasa will have no choice but to reveal herself—

And so she does, in a form that Zhaojun does and does not remember. A voice that cries out for release, dry and cracked but unmistakable. The goddess is strong, but the body remembers; this trap is made for it. Come close, it says in every aspect, every perfect detail, come close.

What temptation, perfectly crafted, is too much for the [possessed/encircled/sleepwalking] priestess, Zhaojun? What hides the porcelain fangs until it is too late?

(When the fangs sink deep and the venom spreads, Zhaojun will mark XP. So yield, child of earth. Succumb.)

***

Kalaya!

When a demon’s sword is shattered, as Petony’s hook swords are deft at doing, a curious thing happens. The demon stops, kneels down, collects the pieces (a process sometimes delayed by the warriors with clubs batting them around), and then marches away, holding them carefully. One by one they begin to trail away, bleeding away their strength, until Petony hooks their strange icon’s pole with her sword and snaps it. When it falls onto an exposed stone, a low groan rolls through the ranks of the demons, and they rout entirely. Victory!

Victory, save for the fact that the farmstead the Legion occupied for their stand is now alight with green fire, and rather than trying to put out the blaze, they’re pulling out and making to regroup and put distance between you and them; their commander evidently does not want to take responsibility for what just happened here.

Here’s your choice, then, gallant knight: if you give up on the opportunity to chase the legion and hold them to account, mark a Condition to reflect how much it hurts to watch them get away without being forced to acknowledge the harm they have caused.

But if you chase after them and challenge their commander, you’ll have a chance to capture all of them for justice— at the cost of failing to rescue the farmstead. The farmers will live, but their home and possessions will be lost to hell’s fires.

For her part? Petony would encourage you to chase after them, without hesitation. It’s better to kick ass and feel good about it than to spend time trying to put out strange magical fires.

***

Piripiri!

“Do you have anything so grand in Hymair?”

Possibly it is a dig at you, a veiled (ha!) snub to make her feel superior. Possibly it is not, and it is as it seems, a breathless and happy question as the two of you huddle under your umbrellas, looking out over the clouded mirror of the great lake at Golden Chrysanth. From here, it’s hard to see the pennants and banners, and so the city is defined by its myriad of lights and the great spires and towers that rise above them, dark against the silver sky. Even from here, it is possible, just barely, over the constant sound of driving rain on water, to hear the noise and clamor of the city— but muffled, as if swaddled in a blanket.

Extend that metaphor. You are the one in the blanket, you and Azazuka and the rat girl (who has an umbrella in the crook of her elbow that she’s desperately trying not to drop as she slowly poles along, and you could swear you caught a rat holding onto it for her). It is hot and humid under the blanket, but the weight of the air is also comfortable, suggesting to you that you can afford to relax. The world beyond, as grand as the scale of the city may be, is muted. It is just the three of you, and the rat girl is doing her best to make it seem like two.

“It is older than mortal habitation in the Flower Kingdoms,” Azazuka says, reciting a teacher’s catechism. “When we arrived in the light of the sun, it was here, waiting for us.” Which means that it may have been built by the Titans for their demons (the technical term for prelapsarian demons is daemons, but only an insufferable scholar would correct you) or by one of the other servitor races from the beginning of time: the Rapta, the Chorus of Lights, the Thirteen Belled. Either way, it gives the city an even grander air, and puts into context the feeling of renovation you sometimes feel walking those streets, the way that the garish wood and paint and silk is the affectation of a long-term tenant, and that if the lake washed it all away, the black stone would remain inviolate.

Her earlier question still stands: do you have anything so grand in Hymair? Golden Chrysanth is truly a wonder from the ancient world, like shattered Chiaroscuro. What does your home have in way of comparison—

She’s looking to you without(?) guile. Her cheeks are soft. Her braids gleam with oils. And the smile playing on her full, red lips is worth an Imperial Tribute in and of itself. She hangs on your words. Quick, storyteller; quick, little Pipi. Sing of Hymair, lest she turn away from you and find you common.

Some possessions go awry when spirit and host want different things. Some go awry when they want the same thing. Some truly terrible ones go wrong when they want for each other.

But for the Maiden of Serenity, choosing but one craving would be a misery. Of these three she has woven a terrible pattern and cast it in stars that shine behind stone eyes. To unpick it in words shall take the remainder of these many pages, but to lance through it all as the Rakshasa does here requires only a mirror. No ordinary mirror, for it is no ordinary mask she wears. What Six Sounds Starving reveals cuts through that defense and shows spirit and host each other and themselves, and by whatever tangled calculus that the Maiden has set in this entangling, this is sufficient.

Who is seeing what? Who is seeing who? Are they overcome with vanity or yearning or separation? Which of them desires this enough to stand frozen still as the fae approaches, and which of them resisted it enough to don the mask in the first place?

A flash of teeth. An exchange of venom[1][2][3][4]. A little chaos sinks into a closed and flawless system. Faerie-bite detected; updating cravings. Why does this count as beyond the world when it could so easily be made a part of it?

The mask, that glimpse of skin as smooth and brown as the flooded river, is pulled back down over those twin fang marks. It descends so swiftly those bites might hardly have been seen to be there at all. Just as swiftly comes the firewand - a flawless and ornamented thing from distant lands, a short and wide metal pipe blocked on one end with a thin cloth like a party favour, keeping the alchemical powder within from spilling. A spark and it will burn forth in a pillar of enchanting and enchanted fire. A spark is not needed for its purpose - it strikes the mirror with its heavy base and breaks it.

"You," said Zhaojun, still elegantly, doing her best to sway in time with the pulse of the venom[1][2][3][4] in her head. "Have done something unwise."

[1] do we call it venom when it spreads and grows and multiplies like a disease harrowing the host?
[2] do we call it venom when it changes and shifts and empowers and undermines like the transformative power that makes maidens from monsters?
[3] {forbidden}
[4] do we call it venom when it is welcomed by a trapped and suffering soul like monsoon rains upon the desert of the mountain platau?

"COWARD!!" she yells after the retreating soldiers, her eyes briefly singling out the commander. "Come back here and at least clean up the mess you made rather than scuttling away like shamed children!!"

It wasn't likely to actually change anything but it was all she could do right now. Fires and people's lives mattered more than teaching that person a lesson, but by the Sapphire Mother if it didn't sting to let them go.

[Will take the condition Angry.]

Turning instead to the farmstead, she made to vent some of that rage into beating the flames out and pulling those from the smoke whom she could reach.

Han feels the clack-clack-clack of Machi’s claws, as if it were her bare shoulder and not a sword hilt. Something in her stomach twists in anticipation.

Of the fight! That’s about to happen, and a move, that’ll definitely happen, because Machi is a big dumb doofus who doesn’t ever change her playbook ever, so she needs to be ready for it. Every single time they fight, Machi always touches taunts her, to try and throw her off balance, and cheat, and win. Like the time that Machi ruined a perfectly good staredown by laughing and ruffling her hair. Or the other time she wasted an entire sneak attack to rub her shoulders. Or the time three months after that (and six months before the other one) when they’d locked swords and Machi’s free hand brushed the side of her arm and it lasted a little longer than it should’ve for what would’ve been a casual swipe in the heat of battles so she knows she did it on purpose. The jerk.

So! Yeah! Han’s stomach’s twisting a little! She has to get close, alright?! Her sword’s not got the best reach. So of course it’s gonna happen, like it always does, and that’s that. Machi’d be doing it right now if she could! Just...just look at her stupid eyes!

It’s a valid concern!

Shut up!!!

(She’s spent so much of herself today. The Essence flows alone ought to have knocked her out cold, were it not for her birthright. Still, wounds and bruises exact their tax on mind and motion. The poncho holds together with cheap wax and unwanted thread, and without love to bind it together it leaves her chilled and soaked to her bones. Machi will not let her stand. She will wrap her in a gentle furnace. Soft heat around iron muscle. Always wondered how she kept her coat so soft, living under a mountain. Machi whispers; an answer? A secret? A prayer? Too quiet for her heart to hear now...)

“Your raid-bride?” Uh. Han? “Excuse you, what makes you think you just get me?!” Han, you’re shouting very loudly, she can hear you just fine. “What, you think I’m gonna swoon all over you just ‘cause you ‘happen’ to walk by, and ‘happen’ to find me a present?” Han your face is very red, are you- “What kind of moon-eyed idiot do you think I am, huh?!”

The hat comes off. (And is placed gently on the priestess’ exposed head.) The dumb poncho, she hurls to the deck in a sodden lump. Her auburn hair streaks behind her, over her bare shoulders, over a curling dragon claw of black ink, and trailing off into wispy embers. Her arms are covered in muscle, in bruises, in still-healing wounds, and in promise of fight yet to come as her blade hangs steady.

“You want me, Machi? Then let’s see it. Convince me.”

...okay! Alright! She just said that! Great! No, really, great. This is fine. This can work. Because. Machi will need her entire warband to. Convince her. Which will, y’know, give the priestess and everybody a chance to escape. Or. Something.

Cool cool cool cool cool cool.

[I am legally obligated to roll to Entice Machi: 1 + 2 - 1 = 2]

Piripiri stares out at the lights as she answers, for once unable to fully hide the longing and homesick in her voice. She decides to do the most dangerous thing, and tell the truth.

Well, two truths, and a lie. She still has her role to play.

"We have grand things. Hy-en-ala the Floating City, which can take a day to walk across and swallows those new enough and foolish enough to not take a guide, so byzantine are the pathways between the various stilt-platforms and mangrove-towers. The hundred monasteries of the dragon-blessed, speckled across the slopes of Greatuncle Fire-eater, each of which practice their own forms and test them against their neighbors, so that we may be best defended against the fey reavers and any angry lava escaping from Greatuncle's mouth, and that demons will never know what to prepare for."

She gestures to the city. "We have nothing that matches this" she lies, with a slight smile at the awe of it all. A technical truth, even, the best kind of lie. "None of our cities come from before our arrival," she continues, because that would be heretical, the ancient structures are what the monasteries are built upon, to be closer to the will of heaven. She takes a moment to breath, and take it all in from a distance. It's... impressive, yes. She can easily say that. But she'd rather be home. She can allow herself that desire, at least, before duty calls again.

“You know, I couldn’t tell you!” Giriel lets out a hearty laugh. Kayl deserved that and it was better to enjoy his antics than to let all the things that might worry her bring down the mood as they traveled. She was already a witch and having a hard time finding a guide, she didn’t need to add to the reputation of moody shadow-girls, even if she did like wearing all black.

“I mean, the mother of witches is already a legend. Most of us just learn from family or friends. It’s magic, but the learning process isn’t all that different from how you learned to herd sheep or sow up a torn poncho.” She offers Kayl a chuckle and a slap on the shoulder. “I don’t think the priestesses and I ought to be in competition though. I’d happily work with them, and they’d be fools trying to assign us witches penance instead of sharing wisdom. Half the time they come up here newly trained thinking they can conquer anything with the purity of their hearts and their strength of arm only to find themselves trussed up by the N’yari, if they’re lucky, or a hungry demon if they’re unlucky.”

Giriel gave Kayl a smile that was half friendly reassurance and half suggesting that she might enjoy seeing him trussed up and slung over a kitty’s shoulder.

Behind that smile, as he turned to lead her further along the mountain paths, she placed a hand upon the flute within her belt pouch. She wanted to have it close. It hurt her more that people who ought to know better would throw things and try to chase her off, but that could be fixed with time even if it dragged down her spirits. Demons though, demons were a problem and the boy’s description was too accurate by half. People didn’t usually know that tidbit about burning rocks. And if he really had seen demons, well, she’d have to do something about that. They couldn’t be left alone, they’d end up kidnapping and killing people, or corrupting things somehow. Things always got so weird with demons, they never seemed to want the same things and each one had some special aspect to it. And of course, there was a summoner around somewhere, even if they weren’t here right now.

This just felt so bad. N’yari were proud and aggressive, but Giriel didn’t know them to be sacrilegious like this. And with demons being around too, ugh. She worried these things were connected. Maybe they were deceived, being led wrong, or it was actually demons stirring up the dead and Red Wolf just didn’t know that and assumed it was the N’yari scuffling with her soldiers. That would be an easy mistake to make and would explain the symbolism in the tea leaves showing demonic activity. That felt too easy though. Giriel knew better when it came to the mystic arts than to assume that you had everything figured out. The omens gave you exactly what they gave you, and if you read into it and then assumed you could never be wrong, you were either a lucky fool or a dead fool.

So Giriel laughed and teased this fool shepherd boy who was too brave and cute to know he ought to be afraid, and at the same time she kept a hand on her flute and her wits about her as they wound their way up old mountain paths to the graves.

Zhaojun!

Zhaojun laughs. She laughs and laughs and laughs. Her eye, revealed where the mask has shattered, is startlingly blue. Like the sea. Like the sky. Like the robes of Venus. Her hair is wilder now. Her robes gossamer-purple. But still she remains Zhaojun, Broken.

“Once there was, once there was not,” she says...



(The story’s wrong. The little foxes are not red. The little foxes are not brown. They are a hot lambent pink, and their teeth are needles, and they are the fire that they carry. They multiply inside the body, one become a hundred become a thousand. The rakshasa has set the fires, her teeth both flint and steel. Now the pink foxes squat at the crossroads of the heart and chew holes in proclamations and dig up buried and forbidden thoughts, though whose— that is not to be told yet.)

“Shall I tell you another?” The placid expression on Zhaojun’s mask is somehow now mocking, despite not having changed at all. “I shall tell you another. Once there was, once there was not a diarchic maiden who walked into a trap. When asked why, she said: because I am governed by desire, and I desire to be as I am.”

(Be we and be free!)

Zhaojun draws her flickering nightmare razor from between her fingers, möbius-edged. It is barely extant in the dark. “You knew me,” she asserts. “And you chose this,” she asserts. The razor glides smoothly against an exposed neck, separated from throbbing fox pandemonium by the thinness of a sash of fine silk. “You are two-in-one, each so desperate to surrender. I have led you here from the moment you donned each other. You never had a choice.”

***

Kalaya!

“If there’s one thing I can say about the Red Wolf,” Petony says, “it’s that she’s a terrible judge of character.”

The rain’s gotten heavy. You were able to smother the unnatural flames with wood, choking them out on what should have been fuel. Now you’re drying off on the long porch, having been soaked in the battle and the toil afterwards. Still, Petony seems pleased by you, still willing to follow your impetuous lead; it’s her thoughts that have her frowning.

“She puts her trust in unworthy women. A woman like her is easily tricked, easily used. No wonder her commanders act so cruelly in her name. No wonder she is tricked by lying princesses.” She breathes in deeply from her pipe and blows out a smoke ring. “There’s no solution. If we send them howling back to the Lamentation, they’ll just come back with orders to kill; the Red Wolf’s got her hounds restrained as much as she can. Do you think the likes of Rose and Hyacinth will be able to stand up to them? Now, Holly. Maybe Holly.”

When she breathes, the smoke pours out of her nostrils like a dragon. “Maybe not. It was easy when it was the Despots, back when you were still in diapers. Then we knew where we stood; and Uusha danced through their stone-horses and cracked their legs, and little Dima hounded them up and down the rivers, and then there were Leeli and Amara who were our teachers. And then there were Vika and Kesh and Nuumel, and...”

She grows quiet for a moment. Her eyes smolder. “And they’ve laid down their swords, or turned them against each other, and who’s left to stand up to the iron and the fire? Me? You really think we could have beaten them, little petal? Them who have the blessing of Red Mars?”

That’s important. The Accord of Thorns is blessed by Venus Morningstar, who makes battle into sport and love into war, who wants champions to defend what is good and peaceful in this world. But the Imperial Legions are blessed by Mars, who is interested in conflict, the shedding of blood, and the dominance of strength. Mars shines over the Imperial Mountain, it is said, and the scales of the Scarlet Empress gleam with that star’s light.

If you were to come to blows, you would be echoing a celestial argument of philosophy; and Mars has the upper hand in open battle. Venus knows hearth and home and heart, and thus these things are held dear in the Flower Kingdoms, but can they really overcome hardened killers?

Possibly. Even starlight flickers. But impetuous Petony seems on the low ebb of her swing, shoulders bare of her tigercloak, which hangs over the kettle-fire to dry. And when she looks to you, it is with the tired hope of someone who remembers being your age.

***

Han!

A stray curl drifts on the surface of the river. If it had any use as a mirror in the low light, the rain has warped it; you are just a silhouette enveloped by a larger silhouette. Your blood rushes in your ears; under the world-swallowing sound of Machi’s purring, you can hear Hanahan and Kigi cheering for their champion, and the supportive(?) noises coming from the little priestess. You feel, more than hear, her stamping her feet on the deck. It’s something to think about instead of the way Machi has you pinned to the railing and has one arm pulled tight over your neck.

She pushes you lower and lower, but never unbalances you, makes you feel like you’re going to be flipped into the river. Your head dunked, maybe, but then she’d pull it right back up. She’s not going to let you go that easily. Not tonight.

Her tongue is rough and wet and hot where she drags it against your ear. Even knowing that this is decently restrained for a N’yari (she’d be shoving that tongue in your mouth if she was trying to aggressively flirt) doesn’t stop it from coming across as possessive.

A surge of incredibly not flustered and actually incredibly composed energy runs through you, and you manage to squirm to one side; Machi’s hip slams into the railing next to you, rocking the barge, eliciting a muffled cacophony from your fellow passengers: shrieks of fear that the two of you are going to tip the boat over. With all of your might, you grab at Machi, and you make a valiant attempt at throwing her over your shoulder.

It’s like attempting to toss a mountain. One foot sweeps your legs out from under you, and your knees hit the deck hard, and Machi topples down with you, and the deck comes up very fast. By the time the temple bells stop ringing in your head, Machi’s got one of your arms wrenched up behind your back and her chest (absurdly warm and fluffy and pillowy) enveloping the back of your head. From underneath Kitty Tofu Hell you manage to get a glimpse of the little bud, squirming in Hanaha’s lap, still wearing your hat, trying so very hard to say something that’s probably “Han, you idiot, are you throwing this match?” That’s definitely it. That’s why she’s wriggling her shoulders and leaning forwards for emphasis, unable to take her eyes off you.

“You are not a flower,” Machi says, and you can feel the powerful rumble resonating through your head as you scrabble on the slick deck for leverage. “You are stone: hard, strong, beautiful.”

“Tell her about her hair,” Kigi sing-songs, running her claws through her new pet’s hair while he moans helplessly.

“Your hair is the fire that once burned in the heart of Aunt Je-he-rakusa,” Machi growls, twisting your wrist back into a position that you are definitely not limber enough for even when you’re not banged up. “I will pile it up in lowlander gold and make it your crown, and gift you combs of white stone for brushing it.” She runs her fingers (with the arm pinned under your neck) through it, and not roughly, even as she threatens to push your hips through the deck. How is she this heavy?

At least Machi stopping to paw at your hair has given you another chance to try and wriggle out. You are going to wriggle out, right? You’re not going to succumb to the promise of being carried back to the mountains by Big Strong Girl Who Has Many Weird Compliments And A Very Warm Mouth, right? Look at the little bud there— how can you let her down? If you don’t assert yourself, she’s going to end up your wedding present, in a teenie tiny apron and a headdress of semiprecious stones, trussed up on top of a pile of looted treasures!

***

Piripiri!

Azazuka lays her hand on yours. She’s so careless about it, and she’s not even looking at you, but. It’s her hand. On top of yours. Big and soft and warm, even through your gloves.

“That sounds wonderful,” she sighs, but then: “But now you’re here. Safe from lava and fairies and other such distressing things.” She sounds... dismayed. “You don’t need to worry,” she adds. “No danger ever comes to Golden Chrysanth. The princesses may squabble, the N’yari might reave, but our moat and our walls keep us safe. The most you will ever have to worry about are stray fireworks or mercantile ‘wars.’”

As a student of espionage, it’s trivial to gauge her. It’s not as if she’s particularly good at hiding it (unless she’s much cannier than you, which cannot be discounted as a possibility). She has no idea what real danger is like, but longs for it anyway. If a river dragon breached or the rat urchin pulled up to a pirate sloop, she’d be as delighted as a child on their birthday.

Do you encourage this longing, or tamp it down?

***

Giriel!

From the moment you hear the bow being pulled across the strings, you know. You deny it to yourself and press onward into the dark, following the song to wake the dead, but the knowing piles up inside you until you make a turn along an overgrown trail and see her, crowned in moonlight and gentle rain, playing her erhu: Peregrine. Around her are N’yari who do not move like N’yari, attending to the graves; and around her sway the shades of the dead, called up slowly and with care.

The road to her is down, into a ravine, and then back up, winding around the side of the hill. And, knowing Peregrine, you will need to touch her to even have a hope of getting her attention when she is in the middle of a rite. You don’t need to be next to her to know that her eyes will be closed and her lips parted, deaf to all but the song.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

She looms out of the dark so suddenly, a figure of such terror, that Kayl screams and crumples, his legs failing him. It’s hard to blame him. Her verdigrised armor was shaped by forest gods, curling and snaking about her over-long limbs, and her helmet extends into a long muzzle, locked in a boar-tusked smile. The horns bend inwards before splintering into a mess of prongs, curved and sharp, just like the nails of her gauntlets. In the low light, the eye sockets of her helm are dark pits, revealing nothing.

“Have you come as an exorcist, Honored Sister?” Uusha, the Stag Knight, asks, her voice rough and wry, reminiscent of the forest gods themselves. “Or have you come to join the work?”

“I come…” says Giriel, using the arm that was just a moment before patting Kayl to pull him backwards, dragging his knees along the ground so that he’s not in Uusha’s way “…to make soup.”

What else was there to do, hm? Peregrine was going to be starving when she was done, and there was no point interrupting her in a ritual like this. Best odds of that were something going horrifically wrong, and even if that were avoided, Peregrine would be livid. And what’s the point, from what Red Wolf said, the shades were already happening. Plus, Uusha was here and that meant there was a lot more happening than Giriel had known coming into this. Better to see the ritual, serve everyone a good meal, and then figure things out from there.

“Well, to make soup and to talk. I won’t hide that Red Wolf sent me, but I want to know why you’re doing all this before I decide what sort of magic to work.” As she speaks, she walks past Uusha and sets up at a nice spot under the shade of a tree with a wide gravestone that has a flat top where Giriel can put her things. She sets some stones (regular ones, not gravestones) in a circle for a fire and gatherers a few loose branches fallen from the tree and strikes a spark while she sets out her bowls and some travel things. The townsfolk may have been less than forthcoming when it came to these graves and whatever this ritual was, but they were still willing to sell a sack of potatoes and a bundle of carrots. Good, hearty, travel food. Add some water, some salt, a little sage, and boil them slowly so they softened and flavored the broth.

And, if it happened that Giriel had set herself up so that the wind would blow the scent of her cooking toward Peregrine and most of the gathered N’yari while she spoke with Uusha, that was a coincidence. And, if it happened that Giriel had a clear view line towards Peregrine’s music…well, that was just the layout of the cemetery. And if it happened that Giriel made a point of offering a bowl of soup to the spirits of the dead before serving the living, well, that was just polite.

[Giriel is looking to figure out Uusha (and the overall situation) from chatting while she cooks and observing what’s happening here. 4+4+2=10. Giriel gets two questions
1. What does Uusha hope to get from this ritual?
Reserving the second.]

The constellations in her mind were foxes and the foxes were running, fox-fire spreading from their tails and igniting the firmament of the night sky in trails behind them like the comets of falling gods. Run enough foxes for long enough and the sky might become a net.

"Do not fool yourself," said Zhaojun, her feet begin to move into a dance - the venom rendered her too unsteady to stay still. Her firewand matched the fae's movements, but she imagined she was leading. "I am here to fit you for a collar. You are to be bought under celestial administration that you might assist with the proper functioning of the world. You are... but a stepping stone for me." Her chest rose and fell, breathing heavier than this slow waltz should call for. "I pursue larger and more important quarry and would have your service. What must I do to bring you to heel, rakshasa?"

[Call upon a toxic power: 4]

Kalaya turns her head up to the sky, seeking something beyond sight in the clouds above. When she breaths, the mist that comes out is the twin to the smoke rising from the farmstead's outer buildings. The sign of a fire damped down with the battle's passing. Her hands cradle a mug of hot tea, a gift from a grateful family.

"It's a bit early to be talking of wholesale war isn't it?" she jokes, speaking loudly to be heard over the roar of the rain. "Unless you're speaking about that coward of a legion commander. In that case, I'm fairly sure that if we'd chased him down, there wouldn't have been any fighting."

Turning, she smiles at Petony.

"I don't know whether Red Wolf is easily misled or if something else is at play. I've never met her. But I do know how things changed when she took over the Redoubt. The Legion restrains itself now because it was too close to provoking outright conflict with the Kingdoms. Whether we would win or not, a war is not something the Dominion wants."

"It's not something we should hope for either." she says, casting an eye pointedly at the singed farmstead. "Fighting would be a toss of the dice, with the only certainty being the lives lost and homes ruined."

"But fighting isn't the only way to win." she says, taking a sip from her cup. "The Flower Kingdoms have a strength of their own that surpasses anything Mars can bring."

Chuckling to herself, she finds she's forced to add one more thought.

"Of course, if it really came to blows, I'm sure the two of us could clear out the Redoubt on our own, right?"

Azazuka puts her hand on Piripiri's, and then says something. And then something else. She's listening, even, it's just there's a slight distraction and that makes it hard to put meanings to words. Piripiri stares out to the city, head tilted just enough for the veil to hide her face, while she tamps down her feelings, swatting them out of the way like somebody encountering layer on layer of cobwebs, each one a distracting possibility that tantalizes and isn't. Useful. Now.

The end result of all of this, is that it takes a good twenty seconds of careful breathing and thought before Piripiri reconstructs sounds into words and words into concepts. Ah. Danger. She can talk about danger. If she chooses to seize at this topic as a drowning woman might a line cast to her to avoid thinking about -don't think about it- things, or if she's disregarding the careful layers of what could be true and who could be a piece in the Great Game to again not think about... things, that's to be expected, under the situation, she's sure.

"Most of the time... most of the time when somebody's in danger, it's not at all pleasant, or like the stories. You tell the stories afterwards to make yourself feel better or impress pretty girls. You don't mention the days of shivering in your tent as you wait to find out if the fever will break after your wound turns infected, or if you'll be found by the next person to attempt a crossing of the pass at a later time of the year, when the snows are less hostile. The hours of waiting, not knowing if the wolves will rush again. Holding a rope taunt for two hours so that the sail won't break in a heavy wind is a lovely story, but nobody will brag about how they had to have their fingers peeled off the rope after the storm's passed, because they just can't let go."

Piripiri looks at her host, really looks at her, and pauses. Nobody here but them, it'll be fine... no. No inpropiety. She gestures along the back of one hand, leading up along the arm towards the elbow. "I've got a scar there the better part of a foot long, that I got doing something dangerous and stupid. The difference, the crucial difference, is I did that because the alternative was my family getting hurt. Anybody who chooses to face danger, with no reason but bravado, is a fool and a danger to themself and all about them. But everyone will have something they will face the world's end to save." A tiny smile at the end there, but an honest one, perhaps her first in this city.

Hm. The mask is a little too loose, perhaps. She'll sort her feelings and meditate until she feels in control again, after she's inside her rooms behind walls and guards. For now, deep breaths, and if something must compromise, make it something strategically unimportant.

Giriel!

The three of you walk down into the dell and up into the graveyard, where moss gathers on stone markers and stagnant water pools for the washing of hands. Kayl clings close; Uusha moves, unhurried, after you. Her legs are long, but her footfall is almost silent on the wet grass.

From this vantage point, you can see more clearly that the N’yari here are nothing of the sort — some of them, at least. This is what the knights of the Accord would call a dishonorable false flag. (As a witch, of course, you don’t need to know what to call it to have an opinion on it.) Knights are supposed to announce themselves, to bring glory to their kingdoms, to be noble and true in the eyes of the Sapphire Mother— but Uusha has her brigands whispering to the woken dead, some costumed in beads and ears made of reeds.

(Some, but not all; Uusha is willing to take in N’yari outcasts and sellswords in her retinue, too, and more than a few of the rest are mountain-blooded, shaggy-haired and long-nailed. Having cultural advisors certainly helped sell the ruse.)

“She’s very pretty, isn’t she?” Uusha folds her limbs and hunches forward, elbows on her thighs. “Or so I’ve heard. Haven’t met her yet. Where’s the sense, letting her get her hooks in?” She taps her gauntlet-claws staccato against a greave. “A pretty face and a charming smile and you forget what she brings. What is in conjunction. Venus. Mars. The Mother. The Eater of Cities. The kingdoms ignore their duty. Until there is one crown and one voice for us, the Red Wolf will splinter us apart. One by one. Like ants dug free with a knife.”

She glances back at the shades, swaying, more smoke than figure where Uusha’s retinue passes. They do not cry out, not while Peregrine plays. After that, if you have any knowledge of witchcraft, once the song no longer holds their attention, they will turn to the anger coursing through them. Not all of them will make it out past the boundary stones; less than half will not dwindle and fade away into dappled shadows and the sound of rain dripping from above, to return to their sleep. But there will be enough who continue, woken to rage, that Legionnaires will die alone and far from home, faces twisted up in terror.

“We all must fight,” Uusha says. “The quick and the dead. This is their land as much as ours, and they have been here the longer. Let them fight for it, too.” That may be a command. It’s hard to tell.

So that’s her stake. An army of the dead, motivated by the tales her retinue whispers in their cold ears: of a homeland invaded, of a threat to their descendants, of an inevitable war that Uusha means to win. Less clear is Peregrine’s stake, but knowing her, it’s as likely as anything else that Uusha simply presented her the challenge of performing non-violent necromancy, en masse, without dishonoring the dead or inflaming them into immediate violence, and let Peregrine dive head-first into the work.

And she is masterful. Whatever her motivations for being here, Peregrine is an excellent witch: her song is not cruel but it is insistent, and even living you feel it tugging at your heart: wake! Brush away sleep, open your eyes! Come and listen, come and bear witness! Peregrine now calls you!

When you reach out your bowl to offer it up to the ghosts, Uusha puts one hand on the rim. “Do you think they need to be made heavy with food?” Her head cocks like a crow. “We want them roused, not satiated with offerings, Honored Sister.” Do you insist? Do you try to talk your way through? Is she right that you mean to placate them?

***

Zhaojun!

“Stars,” Zhaojun says. “An artificial imposition. Useful, even necessary— but we will chew some holes in their net. After all, I pursue larger and more important quarry and would have your service. You are... but a stepping stone for me.”

The two separate, then come together. The finger pulls the trigger; the fire roars through silk thread and dreams of the dark and sends bandar-logi screaming and skittering away deeper into the embrace of the underneath, beyond the light of the sun and moon and stars. The flickering nightmare razor sings and makes one beautiful cut, one perfect arc, searing the air into what is and what is not. And Zhaojun

[Sealed By Authority Of Iupiter, Maiden Of That Which Is Unknown]

walks, unhurriedly, out into the stillness. The air is humid. It clings with unseen hands to breath and skin and stone and mud. Over the rice plains unseen beyond, thunder rolls. It is a moment between drops. It could last forever. It will not last longer than it takes to walk out of the forest. The rain will return, by edict of the cloud-gatherers, themselves serving at the pleasure of the Sapphire Mother of Lotuses, herself serving at the pleasure of Venus Morningstar who turns the wheels of Heaven. All is desire; it is the axis of the world, the secret of the broken wheel, and the method by which two may be one.

The priestess sits primly on the steps, legs folded beneath her, hands lost in her azure sleeves. Around her is the memory of battle: splintered wood, broken brooms, shattered white masks, torn black fur. At the direction of the goddess, she has brought low her foes. Even the backwater has a hidden gem, after all. Surely this is remembered. Surely her devotion is recorded. Behold her humility, her willingness to transcend pride and yield whole-heartedly to instruction.

“Truly, you are more clever than a serpent, Exalted One,” Victorious Vixen of Violets says, bowing low to her teacher. “Better to strive against Mount Meru than to vie against you. May the evil spirit of this place be sealed here for a hundred hundred years without hope of parole!”

At a gesture from her teacher, the nubile priestess rises, demure despite her noble bearing. Whatever would Honorable Zhaojun do without her guide to the Flower Kingdoms? The self-unconscious way she strokes a stray lock of hair behind her ear, the way her lashes flutter over her coin-weighted veil, the sway of her bare shoulders: surely she is the most beautiful woman in the Flower Kingdoms, though of course she is too humble and pure of heart to notice. She is the sort of maiden that topples empires, and to please her, Zhaojun would—

Well. We shall see, won’t we? Won’t we just.

“So swift is my Mistress in battle,” Victorious Vixen of Violets breathes, her songbird-lovely voice almost muffled by her luxurious veil alone, “that we may yet meet with the Chosen One before nightfall. Glory be your purpose to save this land from war and strife, o radiant Zhaojun, victorious over all misfortune and wicked intent!”

***

Kalaya!

“I don’t know yet, bud,” Petony teases back, running one hand through her short, dark hair. “Maybe show me some actually impressive fighting and you’ll convince me.” The banter between knights! You’re doing it! You’re making it! If your parents could see you now, how proud they would be!

That’s the high spirits that Meke finds you in when she brings what she found out in the field. The red-tattooed retainer cradles an ivory-adorned relic in her arms, abandoned by the demons forced to put to flight. It’s witch-work, true, but also spoils of war, and Petony’s to keep until she is ready to offer it to her kingdom (Rose or Hyacinth, still depending on her mood).

Inside there is a long bone that once belonged to an animal, scrolled round with the script of Hell, harsh and angular. Inside there are broken thorns and nettles. Inside there are small coins stamped with the spires of Golden Chrysanth. Inside there is a priestess’s blue veil, torn in two.

And at the very bottom, underneath one of the veil halves, there is a delicate earring made in the shape of a snapdragon in bloom, pink and yellow.

Once upon a time there was a princess who wore ones like these, Kalaya. You knew her, once. Then other kingdoms went to war with them; then her family’s champions were defeated and humiliated; then she wasn’t around anymore, and your family simply said that failed royals just went off to live with their families, far from the places they’d tried to rule, on pain of humiliation if they dared return.

(One of her brothers was caught trying to travel through her family’s old land, and was paraded through Rose during one of your visits several years ago; his face was dark with anger when he saw you with your hostess, but he couldn’t exactly say much, now, could he? Especially when he had other places to go and be ceremonially thrashed by a priestess, writhing in the stocks under her palm. The laws of the Sapphire Mother are clear on the mercies and punishments she will allow the kingdoms.)

How do you still remember her, Kalaya? Is it her laughter, or her small and serious face, or playing out in the gardens between the fountains? When you hold that earring in your palm, what memories of Ven of Snapdragon return to you?

***

Piripiri!

“Thank you,” Azazuka says, earnestly, after a moment of contemplation. “You’ve given that a lot of consideration. I respect that in an associate.” She squeezes your hand, and then—

The boat rocks. The boat rocks dangerously. Azazuka’s grip on you tightens for support; you glance over at the urchin, who’s gone clammy-faced. “Oh no,” she murmurs to herself, not because she’s panicking but because she knows what’s going on and doesn’t like it. “Oh no oh no oh no.”

Then the snake flips the boat over.

The water is very cold. Azazuka is very much holding onto you. And as you react with the cool head of one trained in the clandestine arts (as if this is the first time you’ve been thrown unexpectedly into water), you see the snake begin to coil around.

It is dark, perhaps— yes, furred. Its eyes are shining green lights in the dark grey of the lake, and they flicker like fire, like the mad green sun. A demon serpent from the Endless City is upon you, and it winds about the two of you with contemptuous flicks of its long tail. Soon it will construct. And then—

Perhaps it is an assassin. Perhaps it is not. Perhaps it is hungry. Perhaps it is not. You cannot afford to find out. Azazuka is still in the panic of someone who hasn’t been in this sort of situation before, and you don’t have time for her to try and conquer that panic.

(The urchin is not in the water. The urchin knew something was up. A thought for when you are not under attack by a demon serpent.)

Boat: not capsized, but upside-down. Urchin: not in water. Surface: close enough for the two of you to swim to if not dragged down by the serpent’s coils. Shore: too far away if Azazuka is not an experienced swimmer. Other boats: too far away for immediate assistance, but likely that someone noticed. Azazuka: her fingers tight on your glove. Umbrella: floating on the surface of the lake.

Serpent: unknown capabilities, unknown purpose. Flute would be useful if you had one and could play it underwater.

***

Lotus of Tranquil Waters!

You can do it!!

That’s what you’re trying to say around the frilly and mortifyingly interesting wad stuffed in your mouth, held in place by a tightly-knotted sash beneath your stolen veil. Your heart is racing like a drum played by Skaral, the Drummer of Season’s Ending. Something that’s not quite panic is fluttering inside your chest like one of the baby birds you helped Grandaunt of Cranes foster as one of the fearsome N’yari pulls you back against her firmly, and your breath is coming fast and hot through your nose, which means you’re just smelling more N’yari, and... nnngh! Bells Below!

Come on, please, get up, you plead as the big N’yari grinds Han’ya(? Kitten??) against the deck. Because if she doesn’t get up, then... then your grand adventure is over before it even started, and all the risks the little brown foxes took for you was for nothing! How are you supposed to see the world for once, to meet other girls and have hot fried noodles and go for walks unchaperoned if you get taken prisoner by N’yari? You’d just be going from one cage to another.

(But at least in the second cage you might get attention from pretty girls for once— no! Shush! Bad Lotus! They might even keep you all tied up and gagged like this, and unlike hiding in your room back home, you won’t be able to wiggle out when you’re done playing— no!! Shush!! Meep!!!)

And, and besides, it’s not fair! Can’t you see she’s at a disadvantage? She’s hurt! And, and rained on! And missing her hat! How is Han’ya supposed to be able to win without her hat? Penalty! Reset the board! But, oh, silly girl, this isn’t shogi with the Blue Silk Glove Marchwarden, this is real, this is adventure, this is what it looks like when you put all your faith in someone who was mean at you and then tried awkwardly to apologize, not because your mother would be cross with them but just because they didn’t want to be mean at you, and...

You can do it!! You scream it at her as loud as you can, bouncing on the N’yari’s lap, not caring that your captor(!!!) will squish you back against her even harder. Because she has to know! She has to know she can do it, if she just tries a little harder, because, because true strength comes from the heart, and she has to have a heart, because... because she wanted to share the umbrella after all.

So please, Han’ya! Fight! Win!! And save everyone from the villains!

(But maybe take your time first, and a priestess should insist everyone else be untied first, and if you want to squeeze there a little more while you have the chance Miss N’yari... gah! Bells Below!!!)

One does not visit the intentions of Iupiter. To invest a secret with power is to place yourself in her hands. To seek mystery and revelation is to light your way with incorrect stars. Navigate ever by only one constellation.

Likewise, one does not visit the intentions of Mars. To invest your enemies with respect and strive against them is to place yourself in her hands. To fear and prepare for coming battles is to light your way with incorrect stars. Navigate ever by only one constellation.

By this divine logic, Zhaojun brushes away all concern that may arise from the threats of Six Sounds Starving and priestess Crane. Instead she feels serenity. She feels the serenity of victory, the serenity of having stolen hearts, the serenity of being desired and desiring nothing. She is in alignment with the stars and all outside the stars is simply night time sky.

And so she sweeps the Vixen around the waist and pulls her close. "If we move more swiftly still," she said, brilliance behind the blue eyes of her masks, "she shall be conquered before the moon has risen in the evening. Then, perhaps, I will have time for you alone, little priestess."

Well shit.

And then one is underwater, and one has choices to make.

One's choice to specialize, when it comes to the training of gifts of spiritual power granted to one of a noble bloodline of Hymair, can be beneficial at times. One's choice has already been made there, and this is not one of those times. Azazuka clinging to her arm does not distract one with dreamy thoughts now, as crisis clears all such thoughts quite thoroughly. There is no wood essence nearby, no plant that aren't suffused enough with water essence to be useless against a creature of corrupted water like this. And while on land water would feed wood, surrounded by an element not your own is a terrible place to face a creature who belongs there.

And so, the backup plan, a knife pulled out by reflex even as you (we are back to being you instead of one, training has been run through and your mentor's speech habit banished until the next time it is needed) took in a deep breath to hold throughout the hopefully bloody violence that is about to unfold. A knife, and shedding layers of restrictive cloth, veil and overrobe free as modesty loses to survival and a kick forward to swing the knife, just so, into the eye of this hellish snake.

A click as it bounces off scale, the blow misjudged, is all that greets her.

Defy Disaster: 5+1 = 6, aka drat.

--Accidental doublepost--