Piripiri does not react, at all, to the Wrack-doll's laughter. Not a blink, not a twitch. It didn't happen. There is a difference between defiance and inviting disaster, and an insecure warlock who's dealing with authority issues might take off her head if she pushes too hard. So, defiance, to the end, but not mockery. And as such, she does not fight back, does not escape, but walks with her captors if allowed, head held high. You know, if she's not dragged there. Not like she can resist much of that now. So walk, as best you can, and try not to think of the merchant you're (being forced to) turn your back on.

Oh, you're surprised at no escape attempt? You know the best time to escape? When you are expected not to escape. On arriving, she was expected, tried to escape, and it failed to work. On moving to another location, she's expected to escape, and will likely have failed. At the Gate, whatever that is, she might have a chance. Later, if it seems she's been... not beaten, but at least prepared to endure rather than escape, that's when you should look for that.

Giriel!

“You know,” Peregrine says, off-handedly. “The one they’re supposed to be angry at. The foreigner.” Peregrine: too busy to learn even Cathak Agata’s nickname. “Demons,” she adds, abruptly, vaulting nimbly over your question. “Tell me more. Clade?” That is, what common ancestor titan. “Malfeas?” That is, the Broken King. Not a name to be used lightly at all; Peregrine has it on a leash, the same way she uses the names of gods. “Cecelyne? Adorjan?” The Mother of Deserts, who is the King’s robe. The Fivefold Wind, who is the King’s breath. “...Qaf?” A crooked smile; she resonates with the Endless Mountain, driven like a spear through the Broken King, and has been known to call up its Hollow-sages to argue theology.

But of course it is the King. The other Titans would leave different signs and spoors, and it is the King who resonates best with the hearts of the people of the Flower Kingdoms. The Mother of Deserts may have her cults in Gem, dressed in silver veils, and the Fivefold Wind may have her cultists race up and down abandoned towers in far Chiaroscuro, but the Broken King reigns here.

Of course you will confirm this, and things will unfold from there; Peregrine has been unleashed on something Interesting. If it is to placate her witch, of course Uusha will consent to calling up demons, binding them fast, and bidding them answer, in the depths of Uusha’s mountain den. Will you take part, Giriel?

Will you parlay with demons as Peregrine wraps song and will tighter and tighter about them? If so, tell us what it is like to prepare, and roll to Call or Commune, as you like— depending on how far you push. One is simpler, the other more elaborate a working, with greater risk and reward.

***

Kalaya!

“Watch yourself, bud,” Petony growls, embarrassment leading easily to anger. “You have a lot to learn about being a knight, after all. When Heaven provides a beautiful girl in need of protection, it is wrong not to admire her. You insult her, otherwise, and not content with that, you insult me as well.”

She steps close, bristling. “So go ahead, Kalaya-phraya,” she says, over the priestess’s feeble attempts to defuse the situation. “Make your apologies and there won’t be any need for me to teach you respect for your elders and for the lovely little flowers of the world.”

***

Zhaojun!

The wind-spirits do indeed take the messenger of Heaven to her destination. They simply succumb to their desire first, and that is why the journey there is undertaken both at incredible speed and in a slowly-tightening gyre, lashing round and round the Flower Kingdoms beneath the silver-streaked clouds. The leopard beneath her pumps its hips furiously, at every moment threatening to unseat her, to send her toppling below, a fall to be feared for its lack of dignity more than any injury.

Lights and lanterns flash by like bolts of lightning. Faces frozen in the moment of seeing, then overlaid by the sight of hundreds more. Farmers in the fields; soldiers on the march; a festival of lanterns in a prelapsarian city; a daughter of a god chasing after a daughter of dragons; witches gossiping in the mountains, speaking names of old power; the Chosen One arguing with that other fool knight; a jungle that the leopards shy away from, stinking of Hell’s old fires.

The tighter Zhaojun clings, the louder and more delighted Jenny Tosstrees laughs; the louder her laughter, the faster her leopard streaks through the high airs; the faster they go, the tighter Zhaojun clings fast. But somehow Jenny is still limber enough to turn in her seat, take Zhaojun by the chin, and steal a kiss from that stone mask, smearing blue lipstick on the white stone—

And then she melts into mist and lets Zhaojun tumble into the mud in front of Machi of the Ōei, who— bedraggled, bedrenched, and frustrated— is making good time back to her hidden camp. Spooked, the N’yari go for their swords while making impressive jumps backwards, hunching and hissing to seem larger and scarier than this newcomer.

“You picked a bad time to fall out of that tree, lowlander,” Machi growls. Her warband, not yet knowing who they deal with, begin to circle around, cutting off avenues of escape, getting ready to pounce.

***

Han!

You walk alone. The rain picks up, becoming leopard’s teeth— you know, when it feels like each drop was tossed down from on high to hit you, personally. Your shoulders hunch, which does nothing to protect the back of your neck, and you instinctively make for a copse of trees, dark on black, which will give you a moment of shelter from the rain in their lee. Everything is soaked; your skin is almost burning hot against your clothes. The air is stiflingly humid, and there is no respite. You might as well be swimming in the river. And there’s no Machi here to laugh and challenge you to a race to those trees and pull you into the foliage once you get there and peel you out of your clothes so that you can try vainly to use her fur as a towel. You are alone. And you always will be. Because you push everybody away, because you know the truth: you do not deserve to be loved.

Someone touches your shoulder. You shake it off, spin around, ready to make them regret trying to—

It’s the priestess. Holding half an umbrella, awkwardly. Heaving and trembling from having to run to catch up to you (or the fear that she was about to get clocked, don’t forget that).

“Thank you,” she blurts out. “I didn’t say it. And I wanted to. Thank you. For saving— us. And.” She stands there a moment. Shuffles from foot to foot. The And hangs in the air. The tension builds.

“I’m going to the Two Hundred Gates Temple,” she finally admits, unable to look you in the eye. It’s a long detour out of your way. “If you happen to be traveling in that direction, and you don’t mind the company? It’s just that— anything could happen out here. And you fought off an entire raiding party of the savage N’yari, and... well. I’d rather your company than theirs, if you’d have me.”

She. She wants to travel with you. Probably because you’re strong and just protected her, but. After everything you said to her. After Machi kissed you. After her umbrella got broken. And she still wants to go with you?

(Try not to think about the “priestess secures a promise of protection from a monster and then tames them through virtue, spiritual lessons and seductive bondage” genre of stories. That is not what should be springing to mind. Thinking about yourself as a monster in that sort of situation— and besides, you would never— and just because that’s always what the monster thinks to themselves at the beginning before they learn their place— and anyway this little bud couldn’t seductively tie up someone if her job depended on it, definitely!!)

***

Piripiri!

The world in the courtyard is dull, dark green. The leaves are too glossy on the vines that sprout all over the stonework; the rain falls from a bright grey sky, framed on all sides by trees leaning over the walls. You remain in the Flower Kingdoms, though you cannot say where. You have not, perhaps, heard the grim stories of Kingeater Castle.

The courtyard is a mosaic of stones. There once was a gate on one side of the courtyard, but now there is only crumbling stone and empty air. It is too obvious for an escape right now, into a thick and perilous jungle; there are tigers and worse than tigers in the wild places of the Flower Kingdoms, and the path from the gate is quickly swallowed by verdancy. You must know where you are going, from a place like this.

On the other side of the courtyard is a vast circular door. It is shut. Shadows pass behind it, and a sickly green-yellow light plays underneath it when you do not look straight on it. You kneel in the rain and wait, still accompanied by the still soldiers of Hell.

This whole place is... soaked. It has drunk deeply of Hell’s Essence and now is drenched as deeply as a washcloth. Things scrape behind the walls, laughter rings out as if from distant rooms, and the sounds of the jungle all around are muted and dull. And you kneel at the center, at the nexus point of the walls’ attention, and it makes you sweat cold and hard. A lesser woman would begin to panic. But you have been trained. You know how to wait.

Something that is like a small green snake at a glance slithers across the courtyard, knocks on the door with its head. The door creaks open from the other side, and for a moment discordant music blares loud and hot and sharp, and the sounds of battle and hatred and desire, and the yellow-green light stabs its way into the world. The serpent slithers through. The door swings shut, but the light lingers. The light of Hell’s mad green sun. The air is sharp and acrid, like firewand powder.

Some time later, the door opens again. The Laema passes through with her attendants, who none of them bear legs, each and every one with a different scaled tail, each and every one with a different bead-curtained hat, and amongst them all comes the Laema, who like many demons insists that creation bear her marks; that the degenerate ideals and beauties of the world be elevated by her touch. Her robes drag on the ground in a dozen subtle shades of gold; her hair is bound in a vast headdress-wheel, each lock wound about the irregular spokes of a false sun. Her lips are a gash of red and her eyes flicker like Hell’s green fires.

“Disgusting,” she says, as her attendants erect: wardrobes of silver wood, chests of brass, measuring-sashes of gossamer, needles of iron, mirrors of copper, and a great couch for the Laema’s vast coils. “Drab. Muted. Ashamed of itself. Even worse than Whirling-in-Rags’ little pet; at least it attempted something with color. Left to their own devices, they never fail to disappoint.”

Tell us about what the Laema has failed to understand about your clothes and their meaning as she orders them incinerated and has you fitted for fire-blackened brass and sheer green silk, has your hair pulled into a bun and your face painted with green bands on white cheeks, your teeth made black with charcoal, your eyes ringed with the names of the Laema as a signature.

And, if you dare, you will have time enough after the teeth painting to speak: to ask her something, or to flatter her, or to spite her.

The umbrella slices down into the earth like a spear, and a moment later the feet of Zhaojun touch down upon it with perfect balance. From her position of unassailable height she looks down at Machi with the deadly contentment of the Highest Up Cat, tail swishing, blue eyes blue fire blue lipstick.

She kicked down at the side of her umbrella and with a phomph! it sprang open, making Machi step back from the unexpected motion. Her legs arc and spin beneath her elaborate robes, bringing her around into a meditative lotus posture, balanced flawlessly atop the umbrella.

"Once, there was a volcano!" Zhaojun said. "And upon her slopes lesser creatures built their towns. The volcano was torn, for she longed to show the creatures clinging to her side her full strength and beauty, but every time she did they trembled and quaked and fled. So the volcano, in despondency, learned to temper her wroth, learned to lower her standards, learned to show mercy to those few flickers of courage and boldness she saw. If the choice was between half a rivalry and abandonment she learned to live with disappointment. And her head became so bent by always looking out for those below her that she slumped and slid and faded back into the plain."

From a fold in her robe she produced a wooden box, tied in blue string. She laid it across her lap, unraveled it with one pull, and opened it to reveal three compartments. One held a pair of firewands and enough gleaming dust to make even the incautious shrink back a little; one held a sheaf of papers; one held a small packed lunch of rice dumplings, lotus root and sliced peaches. Chopsticks flashed out from a billowing sleeve, and the stone mask was pushed up just enough for food to slip in beneath.

"And so it is with you, little sister," said Zhaojun. "Too broken hearted, too spurned, too lovesick to burn the world. You know that they do not fear the N'yari below any longer? The Flower Knight Kalaya, who rests but a short ride from here, is concerned with demons and dragons. She is the destined hero of this land, chosen by Heaven, and yet cats and the girls who are them do not even enter her mind. I am shocked that you would be regulated to such a sideline, but then, that is why I am here."

With a blur the chopsticks are replaced with long, emerald-sapphire feathers, a quill from a sacred bird. The papers are arranged. "If you would care to answer some questions about your local deities and their failure to support your civilization in raiding the lowlands it would assist enormously in my investigation."

[I Ship It: 3]

For a moment, Kalaya is eight years younger - standing straight as Lin and another of his 'friends' bear down on her. Time has passed since they last fought, but memories like that fade slowly and the next summit between Lilly and Hyacinth presents another opportunity for revenge.

For better or worse, Kalaya still hasn't learnt how to run for a fight. Had she been alone, that day would have ended a lot worse for her. Fortunately, Snapdragon was also attending ...

The past and present blur and, at a half imagined flickering of movement behind Petony, Kelaya's hand almost twitches to her sword hilt before she catches herself.

What am I doing?

Emotions roiling, she turns stiffly to the Priestess.

"Is it?" she says around a dry mouth. "Is it an insult to you to stop her?"

The priestess freezes, eyes wide for a good few seconds before she stammers out a reply. Of course, the theology of beauty would support such a viewpoint - but but of course, she isn't a knight, so someone like Kalay-

"I'm not asking about theory ..." Kalaya cuts her off. A bit harshly, perhaps, but anger from the Legion battle is still simmering under her otherwise stoic exterior.

"I meant for you ... is this welcome?"

The priestess hesitates, but nods before shrinking into Kalaya's shadow.

Kalaya turns back to Petony. Her breath shudders as she crams the ocean back into a box.

"I am in the wrong and apologise wholly for my actions, Petony-Phraya." Her head tilts down in a disciplined bow.

She'll hold that pose for as long as it takes for Petony to respond.

[I feel like I should give Petony a string on Kalaya here - but dunno how that works]

Why would she be thinking of those sorts of stories?! They’re dumb! And completely wrong! The priestesses are all radiant serenity, the day can always be saved with good vibes and holding hands, and the only really bad things happen to the people who treat the priestess badly. Who would waste their time with crap like that?

(The best ones are when the priestess realizes the terrible roars are actually cries of pain. They approach the weary monster, armed only with kindness and soothing holy water. They speak a soft, gentle tongue that no one has dared to use with them before. They will wait, as long as it takes, for the monster to curiously snuffle their outstretched hand. The first touch. And their walls come crumbling down-)

A-anyway. Two Hundred Gates Temple. Never been, but yeah, she’s heard of it. Supposed to be not bad, if you like that kind of thing. And don’t mind adding a good pile of days to your journey, when hers ought to have been over tomorrow. What a pain, leaving for another trip when she’s already imagining the feel of a real bed again. A roof over her head. And yet.

When was the last time somebody’d thanked her? For anything? Not like she needed it or anything, but. Still, how long? When was the last time someone left a perfectly good barge behind to chase after her, in the driving rain, with half an umbrella, when she’d busted up the other half? All her thoughts had already begun to tread the same, bitter grooves in her heart, with nothing but a black, lonely night to look forward to. And yet.

I wanted to. Thank you.

“Listen, bud...” The growl’s gone out of her voice. Now it’s as cold and hard as the icy rain. Take heed, little priestess, of the wisdom of beasts. “I’m flattered, really, but you gotta know it’s not gonna be that easy. You’re gonna get what you saw tonight, every day, and there’s nothing your veil’s gonna do about it. Maybe it’ll be N’yari. Maybe the people on the street. Definitely your sisters, if we’re unlucky enough to run into them. Now, maybe I can get you there through all that, maybe I can’t, but you gotta know that some of that trouble’s gonna rub off on you, if you have me along.”

“You wanna change your mind? That’s your call, and I can respect that. Get your butt back to the river, catch that barge, and there’ll be no hard feelings. But if you wanna tag along,” Her hand shot up, cutting off the eager nodding before it could start. “Think. Really think about it, and make your choice. I’m not gonna have you regretting it.”

Can’t you see, bud? This is just the same mistake all over again. Please. Learn your lesson. Wise up. And get back to the barge.

She passes through the courtyard, not a slight hesitation in her step betraying her interest. A polite, neutral expression (marred somewhat by the brass gag, but one works with what one has) masks her attention, paid to corners, cracks in the wall, places to hide. Not useful now, she's still bound and has an escort, but later. Knowing the terrain helps.

She pauses for a second as she comes into view of the Gate. A moments break in her step, eyes flicking across the closed door, taking in the unnatural light, the shifting shadows, before coming to a stop where directed and kneeling. Mud's not worth paying attention to. Half dozen dolls, certainly enough to win out against her if she tries to escape now, bound as she is. A gate to hell in front of her: she'd likely rather die than go through. An unstable warlock behind her: frankly, likely her best tool for escape.

She turns over what she knows, reviews old training, as she kneels in front of the gate. Something to consider instead of the other side, and what she's waiting for. One does not panic when one can plan. One does not panic when one has information to sort. Eventually, one does not panic, period. Until something comes along to disturb the careful mindlessness.

There is silence. There is knocking on the door, a moment of blaring noise, and then silence again. And eventually, there is those same discordant chords, as the door opens and somebody slithers out.

“Disgusting,” comes the new voice, as sounds of heavy things being moved and place play out around her. “Drab. Muted. Ashamed of itself. Even worse than Whirling-in-Rags’ little pet; at least it attempted something with color. Left to their own devices, they never fail to disappoint.” She cannot respond, the gag forbids this, but she does change posture, looking up at the demon.

There is no particular ceremony to the Laema's ministrations, even as she's sure care is being taken here. She is cut free of bindings and clothing alike, assistants holding her steady on a rug to avoid dirtying her feet. The assistants measure her, thoroughly, commenting on her body with language that would make a sailor blush. Piripiri hears it but does not. It's not from the Laema or the warlock, so it does not matter, and is simple noise, to be ignored. She does mark Azazuka's gift, pulled out of the rags that was once her outfit and set aside, with the few jewelry pieces she had been wearing, a muttered sneer about treating the prisoner and her things as a set.

And then she's dressed. She floats above it still, just as unresisting as when she was bound, while she's draped in layer on layer of thin, fine silk, translucent and gossamer. A single piece covers her arms, easily seen through, and a half dozen keep her privacy about her bust and below. The rest of her is somewhere between those two states, visible but faded, teasing what was previously covered and proper. A pattern of yellows and greens run diamondback along her spine from clever layering, yielding to a simpler pattern elsewhere of the two.

She's given heavy bracelets on each arm, a stylized reminder of her status here, and lighter anklets. A thick choker of brass, with a jade heptagon at the front, is put on, and then finally, finally, the gag is removed. She takes but a moment to work her jaw, giving relief to long stretched muscles, before staying meek as the makeup is applied, her teeth painted. She looks in the mirror. She smiles. Somebody else smiles back, a painted lady of Hell, with black teeth and far too much on show. Ignoble. Base.

And then, to her surprise, she finds herself asking the Laema a question. "What colors would you recommend for me to wear, outside of your greens?"

The thing about demons is that you shouldn't consort with demons! There's a reason that it's common knowledge not to do that. Demons will hurt you. Not that they'll claw you or bite you. They might do that, but that sort of thing is the easiest to guard against. No it's that demons are beings that aren't right with the world. That's the core of Malfeas and Adorjan and all the way down through circles and circles of existence down to the smallest little imp. These are beings that don't want this world, this version of creation to exist as it is. The old and lost lords lamenting all the cracks and flaws they see in the sculpture. If you stay with them long enough, let them have their way with things in word and deed, they'll try to chip at the statue. Make a few alterations to bring it closer in line with what they want. Maybe put in some new cracks because really the whole thing ought to come down so they can start from scratch.

And the thing about demons, to keep this statue metaphor going, is that they'll keep at it like a chisel against reality. Sure, you can defend against that. You can build sturdy and strong, you can put up guards and wards, barriers and protections and all sorts of rules to keep yourself safe. And that works to a point. But we're talking about a chisel against reality. You always have to be asking, is your barrier set up to handle one strike? Ten? Fifty? Five hundred thousand? Is it set up to handle every different sort of strike from every angle, every speed and force and variation in movement?

In a lot of ways, Giriel wasn't worried about Peregrine. She was a genius. The sort of person who really did think of everything and took the right precautions. And if you were going to be a proper witch, you had to take these risks. You couldn't just write off demons and say "well, that's a bad plan, guess I'll never deal with them" because other people were going to do it and you needed to know how to handle them. Sometimes there was even something worse happening and you needed the power and the risk to get the job done. Not often, not nearly as often as people seemed to think, but sometimes. So, in most ways Peregrine was well within bounds, highly skilled, entirely reliable. But in one very important way, Giriel was incredibly worried and had been for a while now: hubris. Peregrine was always pushing, testing new theories and ideas and plans. It only took one mistake for big problems when it came to demons and so Giriel always approached this sort of thing with trepidation.

Also, there was the fact that demons weren't dogs despite how some people treated them. They were thinking, sapient beings, especially some of the higher circle ones, who were smarter than the vast majority of people. If you pulled one of those into your service, even if you did it perfectly, they would pay attention the whole time. Your deeds might become rumors in hell, you might become a subject of interest to hell. That was, as one might expect, a very bad thing to have happen.

And yet! Peregrine could not be stopped, Uusha could not be convinced, and there was a real problem out there that had led Giriel to bring this all up at all. So what other choice was there? The only choice, the only option for a proper witch was to lean into it, to make sure the ritual went off as well as could be, to understand that it was Malfeas, to know the shape of its powers, and so to call on its demons with power and authority.

So Giriel joined Peregrine in the work. She drew the proper circles and the binding runes and checked them over, and checked Peregrine's and asked Peregrine to check hers. She tuned her flute and checked her sound. However, the key to the actual sorcery, despite what most dabblers thought, was not complex runes or having just the right sort of instrument. It was focus and will. Sorcery, the binding of demons especially, was an act of will. The ritual created the right signs and symbols to tell the universe what you were doing, and it got you the demon you wanted. A good flute made sure that the demon could hear what you were doing much more clearly than if you had to work with an improvised reed and that was important! But more important by far was that the effort focused the caster's will.

When it came time, Giriel played her flute in tandem with Peregrine's, and the two sounds coalesced through the cave where they had set up the summoning and echoed deep beyond the mountain.

And yet, despite all the preparation, the care, and the timing, it seemed that something had gone awry.
[Giriel offers a string to a demon of Malfeas and rolls to commune. 1+3+2=6. A miss and an experience.]

Zhaojun!

“You are obviously a spirit of great power,” Machi says, her voice reverent. “You even talk in riddles like a sage.”

Then she smiles. It’s positively feral. “Which means when I defeat you and force you to grant my wishes, you’ll be able to bring our warband to glory!”

This is why comparative theology is an important subject.

The heavenly emissary will find herself assailed on all sides by both sweaty catgirls and desires of glory, adoration, love, plunder, physical striving, and victory. The uncomplicated but yearning desires of simple girls.

Their plan is simple: they mean to wrestle the emissary down and twist limbs until she concedes and agrees to grant their wishes. This might be a somewhat undignified way of being able to manipulate them all the more easily. It might also be a shame that the heart of the emissary cannot endure. Will it come to swords and firewands? Or will Zhaojun somehow outwrestle half a dozen baying N’yari?

***

Kalaya!

It is moon-dappled night and you cannot sleep.

You have encamped on the far side of the river that runs between Rose and Mount Fang. It is the quiet hours of the night; the rain is a gentle pitter-patter on the canvas over your head, and the insects sing in their orchestras. The cooking-fire is simmering low embers beneath its umbrella. The air is warm and wet all around you, though that’s hardly unusual. These are the Flower Kingdoms, after all.

You get up and slip out of the tent you are (by her request) sharing with the priestess, who teased you not to peek as she got ready for bed, and seemed perhaps a little disappointed that you didn’t. She is surely asleep. Not that you notice the glimmer of light beneath her lids as she watches you go.

A walk. That’s what you need. Your legs will still be sore come morning, but all of this destiny mess is going to crack your head in two if you don’t move. You walk in the muted silver light of the moon hidden behind the clouds, through pale shadows, trying to exorcise the confusion that swells in your heart like mist rising off the river.

Then you hear it: the clash of swords. Your sword is already in your hand, even before you draw close and realize that it is one traveler by night, hidden in cloak and straw hat, against three N’yari. The traveler weaves a net of steel around themselves, but even so, it is clear the N’yari will win this fight inevitably; the traveler must fight as hard as they can against three raiders lazily darting in and out. Go and even the odds.

***

Han!

The little bud stops to think. She really considers. But she’s still quick to come to her conclusion.

“No. No, I’m not going to change my mind. Unless you’re trying to tell me I’m not wanted, but I think you’d just say that if that’s what you meant. You’re very... earnest. Simple, even.” That... didn’t sound like she knew how that sounded. “Besides, that’s probably not true. If people see that you’re looking after a priestess, they’re more likely to excuse crass behavior outright or ask me to correct you, rather than being gossips about it, and— oh!! Hello!!”

A little brown fox darts out of the shadows and zooms over to the priestess, who kneels down and greets one of the messengers of the Sapphire Mother as if it’s a beloved family pet. She even takes its little paws in her hands!

“Mmhm? Really? Oh, thank you.” Yip! Yip yip! Arf! Tail wag! “Oh, while you’re here, what do you think of her? I think— mmhm! That’s what I thought, too. And she’s... oh, gosh!” She looks up at you and, even though it’s dark, you can feel the sparkliness. (And, conversely, Incredibly You Energy coming off the tattletale fox.) “Of course! How could I not realize? You’re a daughter of the Thunder Dragon! That’s why you’re so heroic!”

She lets her veil fall to one side so she can give that dumb brat fox kissies on its dirty muddy face, and then fusses it back into place. “Well, that settles it. I’ve always wanted to meet one of the dragon-blooded! Eee, this is so! So! Just so exciting!!”

***

Piripiri!

“Finally,” the Laema hisses, adjusting her bulk on the couch so that she can get a better look at you, “one of them with deeply-buried taste and sense. Though it should know to address its betters appropriately: it is to use my terrible Lord when speaking to the Prelapsarians. Still, we will forgive this lapse in decorum the once. Forget again and we will not be so generous.” Pointing out that discrete gender markers in address are in fashion these days would be a foolhardy thing to do.

One long scarlet nail the size (and sharpness) of a sword lifts your chin. “If we were to use other colors for it, we would draw from page-whites and boar-blacks. It might like gaudy colors like most of its kind, but that is because it is ignorant of sumptuary law. Blue is for Our Mother of Law, yellow for the Enlightened Dancer, silver for the Mirror-Copses, red for the Dreamer. But the Sky-Twister and the Unspoken Word allow for white and black for one of its station. And of course, anything can look good in our King’s colors.”

“Well, there she is.” The warlock marches through the attendants with the arrogance of someone who knows they are untouchable. The Laema withdraws her nail with a warning hiss, and you can look at— ah. She’s dressed for the road. And she stopped to gawk at you.

“You’re lucky, you know,” the warlock sneers. “I’ve got better fish to fry. The daughter of the Sapphire Mother thinks herself safe away from her mother’s arms. Don’t think she’ll keep you company here, though.” She reaches out and takes your chin between forefinger and thumb. “I intend to keep you close. How I’ll make you scream, you impudent little worm. I’ll burn the thoughts out of your worthless skull. When I’m done with you, you’ll be useless for anything that’s not serving the true Empress of the Kingdoms.”

(She’s posing. Posturing. Trying to work up something in herself as much as she’s trying to scare you. A real disciplinarian would be stern and precise, not looking like she’s a stupid impulse away from—)

She knots her fingers in your hair and pulls you in for a kiss. She’s sloppy, uses her teeth, is trying to prove something. She kisses like a demon. Perhaps she’s only had the chance to learn from them.

“Lots more of that when I come back for you,” she whispers into your lips. “As much as I want. Everything in these kingdoms is mine by right, after all.”

“Is it done?” The Laema sounds like she’s as impressed with the warlock as you are (which is to say, absolutely not at all). “Our commerce is over, Prince Ven of the Brass City, and your master’s credit will be charged. That is all.”

“No,” Ven says. “Not until I say you’re done.” That was a flash of anger in her eyes when the Laema pointed out, spitefully, that she’s beholden to others in Hell. For a moment that anger could have been directed at you, but it seems she’s decided to be petty and nasty right back. “I am not satisfied with this outfit. An old crone wouldn’t be caught dead wearing something this out of style. Tear it all off and make something that actually lives up to your reputation, rag-weaver.”

The Laema launches into an apoplectic fit of cursing in the First Language. It is extremely and uncomfortably comprehensible; the meaning and sensation of each curse, being forced to eat rotting meat and being stabbed in the spine by a lover and being whipped by the dogs of hell, is slamming into the back of your mind like a rock. Ven smirks, having won this stupid dominance dispute, and then “pats” you on the cheek just hard enough to sting. “I’ll see you when I come back, little bud. And that’s when your obedience training will really begin.”

And that’s when she miscalculates; she leaves you in the Laema’s care assuming that the Laema will be immediately paying attention to you and that her assistants wouldn’t help you cause mischief. Both of these, you of course realize, are incorrect assumptions; the Laema is incandescent and tearing through a chest of dresses with her nails (and the violence with which she does so is proof enough of the dangers of Hell), and the assistants are draping themselves over you and languidly complaining about having to get rid of all their hard work without actually getting started.

***

Giriel!

You are in a room deep within Uusha’s sanctum. Keep hold to that. You are in the candlelit dark. The air is stale. You are sitting on a firm stool.

It is just that your hearts have also slid through the door you opened to the Demon City, drawn by its gravity, and found yourself on the Wrack-waste. It is the detritus of ten thousand battlefields, heaped up upon themselves: broken weapons, bloodstained scraps of cloth, torn canvas tents, blackened spurs of wood. The wing of some magnificent flying ship juts out of a dune, its golden ornamentation corroded and rusting away, its feathers all plucked and torn. This is the birthing-place of the Wrack-dolls, assembled from all around you.

The General arrives. Tichtokh breaches the surface of the Waste like a centipede-whale. He is the size of a tower, hundred-handed, thousand-handed, each one clammy and pale, with too many fingers, each arm wrapped in bandages and quilted cloth and burnished leather, each arm jutting up against the one further along. Each hand has its part to play: supporting him as he rears up above the tarnished sea, grabbing at that which has reached the surface and examining it, weaving together tattered banners and ruptured breastplates and chipped spearheads. He wears a serene white mask, framed with coarse black hair; his mandibles churn, visible just underneath its rim. He brings it low, even as more and more of him catches up to where you stand. You are nearly as tall as the span between his lip and brow.

“Augurs! Oracles! Diviners! Prognosticators!” His voice is a fluting multitude, a legion of boys too young for the battlefield, lilting above the bray of trumpets and the beat of drums. “How goes the War? What are our victory-omens, our triumph-signs, our inevitabilities, our certainties?”

The General never accepted that he lost. Or, rather, he is the aspect of the Broken King that will never accept that defeat, complete and utter as it was. By turns deluded and shrewd, gregarious and apoplectic, as likely to conscript you and offer his munitions as to imprison you on suspicion of espionage, he is perilous— and you leave his presence only by his sufferance, as long as his attention is on you.

(Though that is not as long as might be feared. He is very busy. There is so much to be done. Armies to be sewn. Munitions to be inspected. Stratagems to consider. Fair-weather allies to beseech. Temporary setbacks to lament. Tunnels to burrow. Saboteurs to sentence.)

Without waiting for you to finish an answer, he cocks his head and exclaims: “Ha! From the thousand-seven-fifty-seventh front! Straight from the beachhead! Deliver, deliver! Bring your news from the front— unless you have brought us more traitors?”

Two hands brandish a blue rope, pulled taut between them. No, not a rope. The veils of priestesses of the Sapphire Court, knotted together. Too new to be old trophies.

The General accepts your String, Giriel. You should treat any further roll of 7 or 10 in the scene as being a 6 or a 9, respectively, for he will spend it then.

The turning of days comes to an end. Another year passes the great and the small alike. The emissaries of Heaven are already on their way, and nothing will slow the steady tread of their starry oxen. No machination of demon, divine, mortal, or anyone in-between can hope to change the hour of their arrival. They will come to the house of the Sapphire Mother, with two grand carts, bearing in them two jeweled eggs, or two earthen jugs, or a chest of stone and a chest of jewels, or a silver cloud and a golden cloud, depending on who tells the story. The Sapphire Mother will open her storehouses, and accept the new year’s fortunes. If her houses be not empty, then they will burst, and all will be thrown into chaos as ill and good fortune flood the land.

The wise say it is for this reason that all must quietly accept their lot from the Sapphire Mother, for it is to spare us all a far worse disaster that some must suffer. The wise might also say that it’s not actually the end of the year yet, but given how wrong they were on the first point Han sees no reason to believe them on the second. How else is she to explain the mountain of bad luck crushing her voice into a quiet moan? In fact, that stupid fox is probably the one who delivered it all! The jerk! How dare you look so pleased with yourself! No, don’t kiss the rascal, bud! Gah!

She still has a chance. The night’s dark. The priestess has no lantern, and is completely distracted with fox kissies. Up to the treetops. Leap to the open sky. Get out of binding range. Don’t return to the earth until this place is a distant memory. Find a new village to live in. Forget everything she had in her old place, it’s dead to her now. No, wait, she didn’t give her a name yet. No way to track her down. Daughter of the Thunder Dragon? Weird priestess nonsense. Unless Machi ever said her name? (warmth. drowning in her. hers. her stone-heart) Nope. No way to tell. Can’t risk it. Dead to her. Wait hang on did she say exciting? Heroic? Always wanted to?!

What?!

Here she makes her second-worst mistake: Instead of leaping out of her life forever, Han takes another look at the little priestess. She lets herself hear the wonder in her voice, see the delight turning her fingers silly as she fumbles with her veil, instead of the perilous threat her heart screams must, must be there. No matter how hard she looks, all her fears catch a glimpse of is the terrifying possibility that she herself might be the cause of all this. And her worst mistake?

Deciding to open her mouth.

“Uhhhhhhhh. Yeah. That’s right. One of the dragon-blooded. Guess I’m just lucky to have met you. First. Instead of all the other dragon-blooded running around, because there’s so many of us.” Oh gods above below and sideways what was she saying. Why was she saying. This is the worst and dumbest she has ever been. “Good. Good. Glad you’ve thought about it. You shouldn’t go rushing into things without thinking, or else you’re going to get yourself in trouble.” Gee, Han! What a great idea! Thinking. Who’d have thought?! “Now that that’s all settled, we should make camp for the night. And.” Han. Han. What are you doing. “And you can tell me everything you’ve heard about dragon-blooded.”

No, wait, actually, that’s good. That’s a good idea. Get her talking, see what she knows. See what she expects. If she’s going to be travelling with a priestess, Han can’t afford any mistakes. She’s going to be an ordinary, simple dragon-blooded girl, escorting a priestess to a faraway temple, which everybody knows is the last thing an angry guardian spirit at large would be doing.

B-big! Big! Giant demon general! Oh creation, oh oh, what was she going to do? What had she done?!

For a brief instant, Giriel's senses fled her entirely and she was simply convinced that she was going to die. No amount of images in books, or scale illustrations with tiny stick figures for scale and descriptions of strengths, weaknesses, and magical sympathies actually prepared a person to stand before a great demon with a hundred hands whose voice is the sonorous thunder of that which should not be in such a place! She could not speak, could not think, could not be quail and wonder at how she had brought herself to die.

A moment passes. Giriel feels the presence of Peregrine at her side, rehearsing...something? Was she going to try and cast a spell at this thing. Or...an augury like it was asking? It was asking for an augury was it not? Or was it expecting them to have already done an augury perhaps? Would attempting a working now be viewed as untoward? Did Peregrine even care? No probably not, probably she was simply curious whether a binding seal would work cast via a transposed soul manifesting in hell and was either fully convinced in her technique or fully prepared to die for the pursuit of knowledge. Knowing her, she had a plan for someone to offer their body as a vessel for her in a year or two so she could get back to work undisturbed while everyone thought she was dead.

That was not a helpful line of thought and still they were being met with expectation. How much time had passed? Probably a year? Or 30 seconds as the creature cut off itself and waved about blue veils as though showing off its grisly trophies would win them over to its cause.

"The symbols are the stone and the sickle!" Giriel blurts out. "The burning stone is your symbol of victory and the sickle your symbol of battle. For...for it is the place of your armies to reap where they go and leave a harvest of flame upon the world. You should be wary of the...uh the dragon and the stag because of...um the dragons opposing your forces and the stag preventing your march, who will, uh, probably unite to defeat your armies?"

Oh gosh, that was the worst, the absolute worst generic read she'd ever made and she'd actually been so uninventive that she'd tipped the demon off to two actual major forces in the area if it was paying attention.

[Defy Disaster with wits. Giriel was willing to sacrifice information about Red Wolf and Uusha to the demons. 1+1+2=4. Snake eyes XP]

The first thing she sees are the stars.

Out here, far from any city, the sky is awash with muted colours and a thousand thousand pinpricks of light. She spots the Lance, rising slowly over Mount Fang while, over there, the Lady's Veil trails its way across to the Talon and countless more. She names as many as she can, a habit formed from countless nights staring out the window back home, her only company a book or scroll lying open by the light of a fading candle. She remembers the promises made to herself in those lonely moments.

The tableau should be calming. It should help her mind settle and refocus. But why isn't it? The beauty of the stars, the deep breaths, the names and histories, it all feels like a single sheet of paper stretching across a deep and jagged chasm. Standing still is not working, she needs to move. She doesn't pay attention to where she's going, it doesn't matter where, so long as it's not here.

There's never been a princess knight in Lilly. They just don't do that. Never!

Kalaya picks up speed, walking faster now. Batting branches out of her way when they dare to impede her path, footsteps crunching through the undergrowth. It's not loud enough. She can still hear the laughter.

Leave her alone. It's not her fault she was born a weirdo.

Ugh no way. I'm not really interested in all ... that stuff ... why would you even think I ... just ... no!

Go back to your little tower princess! Hah. As if you think you could ever make it.

Back in the palace, back with her parents. Tears in her eyes, hot and welling. Formal dresses, dinner balls, matchmaking. A crown and a flower in her hair. Stuffing all she wanted to be and was into something she was not. Breaking out only to be met with disappointed frowns. Over and over again. Until she couldn't take it anymore and just burst.

We're just wanting what's best for you. You'll thank us one day.

Do you even have any friends, dear? I mean real friends, not imaginary or ones you read about in a book.

Just give it a try, that's all we're asking. Just try behaving more ... properly.

"Why NOW???"

She stops short, eyes wide and breathing ragged as that last shout, in her own voice, echoes in her head. It takes her a moment to focus back on the present and she's surprised to find her hand holding her dagger, a hair's breadth away from ramming it into the trunk of a nearby tree.

Startled, she drops it, sinking to the ground with her back against the bark and her head in her hands.

"Why now?" It's the question at the heart of all of this. If she has a destiny as a knight, if she is meant to help the Flower Kingdoms, if the gods needed her here to prevent some great calamity ... then why was the godling only coming to her now?

Where were the gods on the lonely nights. Where were they when Kalaya could do nothing more than cry herself to sleep and hope, desperately, that tomorrow would be, had to be, better? Where were they on the nights when she was so close to giving up and had nobody, and nothing, to believe in. Where the only thing that kept her going was the desire not to break that one promise to herself.

Did it mean that they wanted her to go through all of that? That they meant for it to happen? Was it their goal that she pass through to harden into the person they needed her to be or some piece of cosmic bullshit like that? And if it was, did Kalaya even want to help? Could she?

She sighed, sinking back and staring up to those stars again.

It wasn't fair. But could she really bring herself to threaten the Kingdoms over it?

That's when she hears it: the clash of swords. Her sword is already in her hand as she sprints through the undergrowth. The scene that the finds is one that would normally require some kind of assessment - but she's beyond thinking things through tonight. Instead she bursts from the treeline in a wordless yell of rage. Sword flashing as she throws herself upon the N'yari from the flank.

[Defy Disaster: 4+6+2=12 - Gallant Rescue grants a string on Ven]

The way her foot flexes out to catch the first N'yari in the chest is like the answering of a prayer. For the first moment after her strike there's a flicker of blue, the shocked desynchronization of one soul marveling at the effortlessness with which another can wield this power. For a moment, as the catgirls close in, she's frozen, and then the unity snaps back into place with a wild and terrible revelry.

Cautious games of grace and denial against a surprised priestess are one thing; the whirl of battle against a N'yari warband is another - and the craving that Zhaojun answers is her own. She pulls the umbrella from the ground as the catgirls close in and as she falls she spins and strikes it against a skull with one hand. Her other hand spears the ground with her chopsticks and balances her by her fingertips above the mud as her heels lash out in a whirlwind of kicks and silken blue robes.

Then the game is reversed again; and the momentum of her latest strike carries her forwards, umbrella opening and closing with snaps of colour and radiance to conceal the flow of strikes and stance changes. She is dazzlement and delight, just look at her! A flower opening and closing and warding away perilous foes with her beauty, a true maiden of the Flower Kingdoms, a battle the N'yari are prepared for and know how to engage. And so she lures them along with their own instincts, letting them fall into the tactics they use for fighting mortal maidens.

But Zhaojun dreams of claws and lions.

With a whirl she casts away her umbrella, tangling it into the crowd of warriors, and pounces as pure and vicious as any N'yari. She catches Machi in the chest and her momentum carries them both to the ground. It is not claws around Machi's neck, though - it is chopsticks held between her knuckles that she uses to tilt the head of the proud warrior up with delicate force. Her hair, tangled and wild from the surge of action, has fallen down to cover one of her mask's glowing eyes, but even on that blank surface is the intention of teeth.

"I am already here to grant your wishes," she said through heavy breathing - a body straining to keep up with what was demanded of it. "I am already here to bring you glory. Follow me and I will serve you the greatest knight of the Flower Kingdoms and her retinue," she was close, hot breath against stone, bamboo wood against flesh.

[Fight: 7
Flirting with and gaining a superior position]

She... is an awful kisser.

There, that's the route to keeping under control. The idiot warlock had so many openings, so many, but vengefully clawing out eyes is tempting but no, analyze this. Think. Hold onto that anger and don't let it run the show.

Terrible kisser. Teeth used the wrong way, tongue's all in there, she kisses like it's a war and she's there to win. No fun, not for the warlock, not for the other person, just about asserting dominance badly. Needs tutoring. Can't be any demons, naturally, that's who she learned from. Not her either, not like she's interested in this woman.

Absently she notes the name and title (Prince Ven of the Brass City), the boasts, the, ah, promises, and then nothing as she's sandblasted with the true meaning of the words the wrath of hell. Mmm. Time to leave.

A moment to recover, here. Wipe a small amount of blood from where it drained from her nose, recenter. One needs to leave before one gets to the bad part of being a prisoner. There's a power imbalance and the snake-demons are furious, use that.

Guileless, she turns to the biggest of the assistants. "While Prince Ven's ordered you to find another outfit, it's a shame that your terrible lordships' talents will go unappreciated. I should take a walk around the castle, to best display your work."

Or rather, that was the plan. The act is interrupted by familiar talons grabbing her face and yanking her about, facing the Laema's hissing fury, again in the First Language. [A dog among nobles/silence enforced/via broken will/or removed tongue] A meek nod is all that's managed in response, as she's set back in place among the assistant's prodding and poking, staying mute as she looks about.

Fuck.

Entice roll failed with a 5. I am having terrible luck with giant snakes.

Han!

“Once, the world belonged to the dragons.”

It’s raining harder now, and you’re already soaked to the bone from falling in the river. So it’s just natural for the two of you to be huddled up underneath a copse of trees. The fire came easily to your fingers, and for once, you didn’t even have to hide it. And she actually clapped for you! And it probably wasn’t meant to be condescending!

The little brown fox has already vanished off into the night, being very busy carrying messages for the gods, but not before giving you a look. You’re not particularly adept yet at interpreting meaningful glances from the little brown foxes, but it probably meant: don’t screw this up, bud. As if it has any room for judging you after such ruthless betrayal!

But here you are, warming yourself by the fire, with the priestess snuggled up against your shoulder for warmth, listening to the snap of the fire and the soothing roar of the rain. (She’s pulled down her hood. Her hair is brilliant blue, the kind you only get near the coast. And her eyes are just. Wow. You know? So nice to look at. Framed perfectly by those glasses.) And she’s using the Storytelling Voice, the one that makes you want to curl up under a blanket and close your eyes and listen even after it looks like you’ve fallen asleep, like back when you were a little girl.

“After the War in Heaven, the dragons were given dominion over the world by the victorious gods. The gods thought that their possessiveness would make them good caretakers, their cunning would make them excellent judges, and their strength would defend the world against every threat: the fairies, the fallen Titans, the dead below, the far-flung stars, and the deep kings.”

She pauses a moment and lets the image sink in: the enemies of the world, met by tooth and claw and thunderous Essence. A vast shadow between them and the sun. The roar of terror, descending to the earth like lightning. Your heritage, however far distant.

“But what the gods did not consider is that there is no such thing as a society of dragons. The only way that they could interact with each other was by fighting to see who was stronger and who was weaker, to take from each other their prizes. And they would rather die than share a prize; and what is dominion over the whole world but the greatest prize of all?”

Does that stir something in your own heart, Han? A possessiveness? A desire to hold things fast and protect them? An ancient avarice that sought absolute and unquestioned power and majesty? Or is your heart (stone-heart, owned heart, smothered-heart) all too human, even still?

“They fought, and they lost, they all lost, and Royal Perilous simply lost the least, and so she gathered the riches of the world to her golden bed to sleep for a thousand years, and left the world to the descendants of the dragons.” She turns to look up at you, and fire dances in the reflection caught in her lenses. “The Thunder Dragon loved these lands, and when she died her scales each became a flower. And so, when the kingdoms need her protection most, her blood quickens in a child of the flowers. It is different for the Dominion,” she concludes. “The Mother of the Host still takes mates, when the urge strikes her, and their families become great and powerful— but still hers. Always hers, even now.”

The fire snaps and crackles. The sound of the rain seeps into your spine. Her face is so close to yours. It would be so easy to reach over and do something probably very regrettable. You’re supposed to be a hero, after all. Heroes don’t yank down veils and pull trusting priestesses into kisses, no matter how pretty they are.

“Your turn,” the little bud says. She looks away, very casually. “You obviously have a lot of... experience with the N’yari. What would have happened to— to us, if you weren’t there? It was the first time I’d ever... you know, met them. Are they really...?” She sneaks a glance at you, then back to the fire, the very picture of idle curiosity and little more.

This is definitely not an opportunity to Entice her by playing up your heroism and the perils of being captured by the N’yari. Certainly not. The very idea. So what if she might look at you like you saved her from certain doom?

***

Giriel!

“The sickle,” the General murmurs through his mandibles. “Yes. Excellent. Flower-cutting. Trophy-taking. Corn-reaping. Throat-slitting. An auspicious sign.” His voice curls around the two of you like serpents. Despite yourself, you find yourself walking closer. One step. Then two. The ground underfoot is shaky.

“What boon would you have of me, little augur?” You could reach out and touch that serene mask. The impossible body behind seems blurred and distant, as if you are trying to ignore that multitude of shoulders. “Speak your desire, before I send you to the little Prince, your commander on the front.” Not optimal, most likely; you’d have to convince the warlock unleashing the powers of Hell that you, a pair of mountain witches, were there to help— and who knows if your bodies would remain? Would Uusha come and check on the two of you, your breath slow and your inner furnace cold, your bodies waiting for your return?

“Tell him we want instruction,” Peregrine says, animated, but as if on the other side of a wall. “We should learn everything about his dolls.” But is that what you want? Or do you want Peregrine to stop meddling with the dead? Or do you want to see Cathak Agata again? Or do you want some other favor from one of the Lords of Hell? What bubbles up from your heart? Whatever you could wish for seems tantalizingly close, for what could a Lord of Hell not do in service to a wish?

(Answer it in the way you might hope. Do it without breaking the world in some small way. Hinder their own plans. Act against their own natures.)

***

Kalaya!

It’s difficult to overwhelm one of the N’yari. Generally, they tend to thrive when the fighting gets hot; they rely on their strength to overcome resistance. How incredible, then, is bowling over two N’yari in a single charge. Your sword sings in the dark; swords fall to the grass from stung hands. The traveler presses her advantage against the one remaining, and slips her broad sword into the gap between armor straps; she wets its tip. The three N’yari panic, and each one’s panic feeds on the other two, and they break and run, wounded and heedless of the swords left behind: a trophy worthy of a knight.

The traveler wipes the tip of her blade off on the grass. “Little villains,” she growls. Then: “Good swordplay. Thank you.” She reaches up to adjust her hat, slid back on her skull as she fought— and the moonish light shines on her for just a moment. Long enough to read her jaw, her nose, her cheeks. Even once the brim is pulled down low— it has to be her. It has to be Ven.

Unless you’re losing your wits, pining for lost love. Knights are always doing that sort of thing. Maybe she’s really just a traveler. Or maybe she’s a tree, and the N’yari were badgers you’ve scared senseless, and none of this is real. But the risk of it not being a feverish Venus dream is too great (which, again, is a very knightly thing to think).

What do you say to this long-lost princess, now dressed as a humble pilgrim? Even as you stand there, overcome by joy, she stops and considers you, standing like a fawn unsure whether to step forward or dart back, her uncertainty palpable. She does not recognize you, but her heart remembers you regardless. (And this, too, is the sort of thing that happens in a knightly romance.)

***

Zhaojun!

The happy growl that rumbles through Machi reverberates through you, as if you were a freshly-struck gong. She does not move her eyes from your face as she reaches up and covers your chopstick-wielding hand with her own, broad and earthy and warm, warm, warm. Her ears flick with intense interest.

“You are a spirit of the flowers, then,” she purrs, even as her warband mills closer all around. “So eager to serve, just like all their pretty girls. If I follow, sweet-addled thing, will I get to keep you, too?”

The desires of Machi of the Ōei are uncomplicated. When she sees a pretty girl, she wants to have them. To own them. To feel the rush of power from being able to reduce them to blushing, squeaking, yearning messes. It is like picking flowers, wearing them, and then replanting them before they can wilt— if a flower could understand it was being picked because it was both beautiful and helpless, if a flower could squirm and moan as one long-nailed finger ran teasingly across its petals, if a flower could be bid to cook and clean and bathe and provide entertainment. So not quite exactly like a flower.

But she is interested in strength. You have to be so careful with flowers. You can be rough with the strong; you can actually flex your muscles and strive against them, and every victory is sweeter, and every defeat simply encouragement to do better next time.

So she’s caught coming and going. She wants to see if this spirit of the lowlands is a flower for display, or a worthy challenger, and either way, her entire focus is on Zhaojun herself. Not the knight. Not the girl who spurned her tonight, who she intends to keep chasing. She is so wonderfully uncomplicated like that. She sees a pretty, interesting girl, and she wants to have them, one way or another.

Her tail curls around an ankle. Her muscles tense as she prepares to roll over, to reverse the hold, to see whether Zhaojun is stone or petals. She has to know, after all. But will Zhaojun, in the face of such desire, allow it? Or will she strive and strain and match her strength against Machi and win as the N’yari do, making a great show of it? Or will she slip a knife into the brigand’s heart by belittling, humiliating, and mocking her?

However it goes, Machi has won a String on her in turn.

***

Piripiri!

“She doesn’t mean it, you know,” one of the demon-maids hisses as they fit you in a long gown. This is not loose and revealing; this one is tight and yet concealing at the same time. The corset is achingly strict, but hidden under a broad belt of gold-and-green, with the grand Green Sun of Hell offset to your right. The lowest layer of skirt is enough to hobble you to tiny, demure steps, but the outermost layer, descending into a long train, is voluminous. The shoulders are so snug that you cannot lift your hands over your head, but they are lost in the long sleeves (and the stiflingly thick gloves). And a demon is dragging her fingernails up the back of your neck. “She wouldn’t tear it out. She just gets like that when she’s insulted by an ape.”

“She would,” says one of the attendants locking the high-heeled sandals on your feet (the locks then to be hidden underneath another layer of silk). “Not tearing it out, but she’d turn it to lead. Or steal your mouth.”

“Or, if we asked her nicely,” the first continues, “she’d let us stuff your mouth so, so full of our work, just to see your cheeks go red. Because you would, wouldn’t you? Silly mortal girls always get so embarrassed. It’s much more fun than lead tongues, which are terrible for kissing.”

“And we’d have to find other places to kiss you without a mouth,” a third says as she paints your nails in swirling white and black. She catches your eye and then does the lewdest lick of her lips. “So maybe you wouldn’t mind too much if we got you in trouble.”

“I love their legs,” the first croons. A tail’s end winds around your load-bearing ankle. “They’re so spindly and cute. Though this one is very spindly, isn’t she, girls? Look at how tight we got that corset.” She runs one thumb up the small of your back, lingering on each string.

“But quite pretty for one of the apes,” the third continues. “Maybe if we’re lucky, that fool Prince will take offense at this one, too. And we’ll get to undress her all over again.” She runs one hand up your calf, and while her eyes are lost in the fringe of her hat, that grin is as inviting as it is licentious.

The Laema snaps her tail like a whip, and all three fall sheepishly silent. “It is beneath my daughters to dally with it and its kind,” she hisses from where she sulks, looking through engraved tablets for inspiration. “Humiliating enough that we must let our works be wasted on them. Traitors, one and all.”

“We’re just tormenting her, mama! Every mortal girl is very tormented if you find the right compliment,” the first says, brightly, in a familiar sort of way. Even Hell has its daughters who learn early how to lie to get away with what they really want. “For example,” she adds, draping a heavy necklace over your shoulders, adding to the weight. “This mortal looks like she’s very good at lifting her skirts. Maybe we can ask her to give us a demonstration while we wait for her courter to come sweep her off her feet~”

“Every Prince needs a consort, after all,” the third adds, working her way up your front under the excuse of checking your corset. “And what’s a consort without... experience~?”

The Laema smoothly plucks that unfortunate third off you like a leech and tosses her into a wardrobe; the doors swing shut, the lock clicks, and muffled pounding and squealing emerges from inside, ominously dwindling down to still silence. The other two demons attending you very quickly clam up.

If the experience is making you even more firmly against Hell and all its works, mark a Condition out of sheer humiliation. If you see a little humanity in these daughters of Hell, conversely, give them a String. Then model the second dress for the Laema and prove to her you are elegant enough for the constricting, hobbling design.

Staying silent as she's prodded and bantered at works wonders on giving her some sort of context to put this in. This is the unpleasant part of being a captive, right here. It is an unconventional interrogation, made by demons with snake-tails instead of legs, but the dance is there. Break, say something, reward or punishment depending on if they like it. Obedience yields rewards.

Fortunately for her tongue, training in this case says to stay silent. Her eyes follow the assistants and this new outfit being put on her, but she says nothing. And a different outfit it is, a different mockery of her normal layers and veils. She's concealed, technically, but the tight confines both show her body off in a distasteful way, and make it very difficult to move. A flex of her fingers and the gloves fight her. Take too far of a step and the heels will trip her up even if the skirt doesn't stop it. Cannot breath in too deep, cannot bend over too far.

She's worn something along this lines before. One of the few times she was acting as a noble, instead of a student or later a spy. That had the same proper layers and something closer to mobility, but it was a dress designed for appearances first, flattering her shape into something approaching the feminine ideal, topped with a brilliant blue peacock mask. Look at me, the center of attention, pay no attention to anybody else! A night of masked dancing and gossip, which was... new to her. It was odd, to be the one talking, instead of the one listening or the one being gossiped about. The dancing and not caring who it was with, whose standing was important and who was to be scorned, that was novel.

She'd ended the night holed up on a balcony off the servant's corridor, a brilliantly dressed woman with a chameleon mask her companion as they let the night breeze cool their skins. The masks had stayed on, a hint of propriety among the rest, and they fell asleep curled together, her companion stroking blue scars normally hidden under layers of cloth, proof of having survived a fey raid. The next morning she'd woken first and left down the wall, leaving mystery in her wake. A good time, that, one of precious few moments she was able to be instead of be useful.

Something to dwell on other than the surroundings, at least, where she must be useful or be tossed aside. She eyes the dress in a mirror, eyes briefly lingering on her side where the scars are concealed again, before nodding her approval. Restrictive, irritating, but stylish: the denizens of hell are terrible and to be opposed, but they have skill, otherwise there would be no point to their calling. An absent glance to the now-silent locked wardrobe, a twinge of pity (to be used and discarded is a tool's lot, but that was... unnecessary), and a baring of the lips that could pass for a smile.

String given to the demon-snakes.

Now, let us first consider the warrior who - having just vanquished their aggressors through feat of arms - is still riding a high of adrenaline. The kind that allows a quick glance to be processed in the blink of an eye.

Let us also consider the knight who, upon single-handedly putting two N'yari to flight, would allow herself a moment of indulgence in flourishing her sword to impress the person she'd rescued. It should have been an nice bit of showmanship, the kind that Kalaya, being the sort of knightly tragic that she is, has practiced in front of a mirror once or twice (okay, maybe a lot more). A full spin before being caught and sheathed all in one smooth, perfectly poised and controlled motion.

But then! Let us also consider the woman who, after having had a bit of a night (to put it mildly), spots the one person she's had on her mind for most of the night as well as the last ten years.

Of course, I don't know what you mean about pining for lost loves. Kalaya just misses her friend.

Her best friend.

Her only real friend.

Needless to say, all that poise and control goes flying away - much in the same way her sword goes cartwheeling off into the grass - the instant she sees that face. The smooth spin she'd started nearly ends in disaster when her feet instinctively propel her forward, catching each other in the process. The outcome is a rather odd drunken stumble that quickly morphs into a full-tilt run at Ven.

Before the fawn can flee, Kalaya is hugging her tight, spinning her around off the ground and laughing true. After a few rotations, enough to thoroughly dizzy-fy a person, she holds Ven at arms length (no mean feat given she's still suspending her off the ground) to look her in the eyes. And if Kalaya's grin is bright enough to light up the night and her cheeks are a little pinked? That's clearly just from happiness.

"Vee! It's really you!" she says, using the old nickname from their childhood as she goes back to hugging the stuffing out of the other woman. "I've missed you so much! How are you? What are you up to? Where have you been all this time??"

Yes, says Zhaojun - and so too does she say no. Half of her falls into the strength of the N'yari and the other half strains against it and in a moment there is the distortion of souls straining against themselves.

But water will not break so long as a path to retreat remains open, and Zhaojun flows up and away and to her feet, back turned on the N'yari for the duration of a couple of deep breaths out of fear that her blush might shine through the mask. She can't hear the frenzied beat of raindrops, can't feel the shining array of cerulean constellations, not over the pounding of her heart. Her heart! Far too mortal for such a responsibility.

Long fingers push her mask firmly into place. With the third breath the blue aura returns and the ethereal wind again brushes at the hem of her dress. Professional. If you can't decide, be elegant in the indecision.

"It remains," she said, "to be seen if you will even overcome lady Kalaya at all. Your record, after all, is not currently inspiring confidence."

Her fingers, though, trace and play with a silver button torn from Machi's shirt during her retreat. She folds her arm behind her back to hide the way it dances through her fingers and makes its way into one of her hidden pockets.

[Too Many Feelings: 2]

What...what in Creation did Giriel want in this moment? She was scared, awestruck. Her immediate wish was to go back, to return to more familiar grounds. But could she ask for that? The General claimed any boon at all, but when someone said anything what they often meant was something they thought a person ought to ask for in this sort of situation and it was far from anything.

And was asking to return to their bodies thinking too small? Here was an opportunity to learn about a real threat. Those veils the General was holding had come from somewhere. Perhaps Peregrine was right, and she should ask for instruction. That could prepare them for what was to come and the General would surely lose interest after a brief while, leaving them to make their own exit.

Or was there some other request she ought to be making? Some boon of magic that would enable her to protect the flower kingdoms? Some lost secret or forgotten knowledge that would change the world? A chance to see the people she cared about, to speak with her grandfather who she missed dearly or to return to Cathak Agata triumphant and learn more about what those little teeth could do when the Red Wolf was in a good mood?

No, of course not. Demons were dangerous. If you bared your heart, they might take it and twist it. Possibly even by accident. Even Peregrine was being a fool, the shine in her eyes betraying that she wanted to learn, wanted to study so badly. They would break her on that though it might take them a lifetime to do it. Giriel feared the reproach she would see in those eyes, for Peregrine was insatiable.

"I would ask for knowledge, lord. Before you send us off to the Prince. Of..." What? Was she just doing what Peregrine wanted? No, Peregrine wanted tutelage, but Giriel wanted something more practical. Her mother had always said that for all the great rituals, the best magic was good food and a warm hearth. "...of the Prince and her plans. We have been away from the main front and do not know how we can best serve. Please tell us about her before we depart, of the forces we will support and of the magic she wields."

Bud? Bud. Do you see the fire? It’s a nice fire. Big enough for two. She built it that way, you know. Could’ve made it all small and smokeless but nope! It’s big and blazing and crackling away. And look! See how many trees they’ve got to hide under? Absolutely spoiled for shelter. There are so, so many places you could sit right now, and any of them are fine. Honest. She won’t be broken up if you sit anywhere else. You don’t have to. Um. Sit with her. But - okay. Alright. Yes, you’re wriggling closer. That’s. Your choice? Right? You’re...choosing to curl up beside her, like she’s the only shelter you have from the storm.

What in the mother’s own name is she supposed to do with that?!

...is what she’d say, if the thought didn’t keep slipping straight through her fingers. She shifts against the tree, feels the priestess nestle up closer, but before her surprise turns to panic it has to contend with that voice. More than rain, more than the scent of flowers, it fills the air to bursting and falls all about her. Don’t you know? It whispers. Haven’t you heard? This is the time for stories. Here is the place of rest. Stay. Be still awhile. You are safe, little one. What worry can survive such an assault? Fear falls away, and all that’s left is warmth. Of the fire, of a pretty little priestess by her side, of a world gone still with her still in it.

The Thunder Dragon. Maybe she ought to have paid more attention to the legends, in hindsight. But in her defense, how was she supposed to connect the dots on her own? A Thunder Dragon, whose scales became flowers, and whose daughters breathe fire? What?! How did that make any sense? The rest though…a hero, here to save the Kingdoms in their hour of need. A daughter of dragons, mighty and powerful. One would would not let anyone take what was rightfully hers.

A hard-beaten heart, wounded from a long and trying day, takes in these treasures and perches proudly atop them. A hero. Saviour of the Kingdoms. Mighty! Powerful! Don’t take her stuff! Her stuff. Hers…

She didn’t remember turning to look. Or, deciding to. One moment, there was a story. The next, there was her. Bright blue hair, framing glasses, framing painted shadows, framing long lashes, framing rich, earthy, sparkling brown eyes. Her silk veil flutters in the wind, whispering suggestions of jaw and lips beneath. People that, wow, like that couldn’t really exist. Impossible, for them to exist this. Close. So close, to her. For her. Trusting, and snuggling, and admiring with eyes bright and shining, and she chose her. Her.

Would she choose to draw even closer?

Would she…

The priestess turns to the fire. Han turns to the fire, sharply, and her faces turns to fire. Would she what, Han? What exactly would she?! With her! And! Well! What?! Get it together already! You don’t just go thinking like that about somebody you just met. You don’t even know her name! She’s just a lost little priestess who needed a bodyguard, and recognized talent when she saw it. Don’t go reading anything else into it like, like some kind of creep. What are you, desperate?

(Yes.)

Anyway. Han clears her throat. Stares long into the fire, letting it cast her face into deep, blush-concealing shadow. Her voice isn’t as pretty or as fancy as some, but you don’t travel as much as her without learning how to tell a good story. And of the N’yari, she has stories to tell.

“Far away, on the very edges of the Flower Kingdom, in the heights of the Highlands, stands Mount Fang. If you could climb the sheer cliffs, stand against the howling winds, and plow through the waist-deep snow, you might stand atop the peaks. But you will not be able to escape the tribe of the Oei. Their eyes can track a butterfly through a typhoon at midnight. They can leap over a house in a single bound. And the smallest of them can throw a soldier - in full gear - over their shoulder like it was nothing.”

She says, with the confidence of one who’s seen it happen. Multiple times.

“They come down from their mountain lairs to raid the Flower Kingdoms. They love gold, and jewels, and spices, but most of all?” A knowing glance, to her captive audience. “They love pretty girls. Anyone who catches their fancy, they bind, and gag, and carry off to their mountain, and that will be the last sunlight they see for months. Maybe even years. Unless the N’yari decide to take their pets for a walk.” Which was something she hadn’t seen for herself, and with any luck, she never would. “Once you’re under the mountain, you belong to the N’yari. They’d have had you cooking, cleaning, entertaining, whatever strikes their fancy and whatever they’re too lazy to do themselves. If you’re good, they might dress you up in their frilliest outfits for a uniform. If you’re bad, they might just do it anyway. Or maybe they’ll tie you so tightly that you can’t move a muscle, and make you promise a hundred times over not to make anymore ‘silly mistakes.’ All while they sit on you and tickle your face with their tail. Anything to make you never forget; you belong to them, now.”

Memories spring unbidden to mind without the soothing guard of a priestess’ voice. A ghost of a taste dances on her tongue. Han draws within herself, just a bit tighter.

“Escape is impossible. No one but the Oei know the ways through their twisting caverns. Your sentence is up when they get bored of you. One day, without warning, they tie you up from head to toe, carry you back to the Highlands, and drop you off somewhere you can hobble back to a village. All the while they watch from the trees. One last show, before they go.” Bitterness. Anger. Spat into the air, and stabbed to her own heart. “They raid the Highlands because we’re easy pickings. Because no Kingdom keeps enough trouble here to challenge them. So. I make my own trouble. For any N’yari that thinks they can mess with my home and get away with it. If they want new maids to play with?”

Her eyes narrow to burning slits.

“They’ll have to take ‘em from me.”

[Rolling to Entice with stories of bravery and binding: 3 + 5 - 3 = 5. The XP race continues….]

Piripiri!

The Laema plays a joke on everyone. It is not a nice joke. This is the joke: she has decided that you must be kept safe, and that the safest place to keep you until Ven returns is in Ven’s own chambers. It will enrage Ven, disappoint her own daughters, keeps you from going to find Azazuka, and means you have to spend the night (if not longer) in that miserable room.

It is a transitory room. It is the room of a young woman who both hoards possessions but does not much care for them beyond having them close to hand. It is tacky luxuries imported from Hell and then papered over a room that lies at the thin point between one side of the castle and the other.

Rain streaks down over the dusty panes of one window, clamped in place by old and rusted iron in the classical Kingdom style. It is dark, and cool, and the night beyond is silent and still. Green sunlight shines through the thick panes of the other window, and the distant chaos of Hell is a dull roar at the edge of your senses, the kind of thing that takes some time to acclimate to. Between the two is an overly plush bed somehow crammed in, despite all the exits being too small for it, hung with green curtains and covered with swirling, writhing labyrinth-sheets.

In this room, there are maps, crammed haphazardly into a lacquered box; in this room, there are two piles of clothes, the used and the unused; in this room, there are masks, and incense sticks, and shaman-pouches full of Hell’s trinkets.

In this room there is something like a black monkey with a hideous and arching claw on either hand, locked in a thing like a birdcage. Its bulging, oversized eyes have no lids. It has no mouth that you can see. It watches you with unwavering intensity, scratching something into a brass sheet with its nail and then returning to stillness with just enough irregularity that it is impossible to relax. Perhaps anything you do in here will be presented to Ven; perhaps anything you do in here will be presented to Ven’s masters; perhaps it is writing an aria intended for the revels of the Broken King’s tattered heart, and your paranoia is misplaced.

But isn’t it tempting to figure her out by proxy? To play a game with the demon scribe, to spy without being caught spying, to gather a picture of the fool before her return? It would at least distract you from that unearthly, far distant music— from the flutes, the drums, the pipes and bells, the harps and tambourines and horns— singing to drive off a silent, deadly, all-consuming wind— playing because silence is death and death is swift and because Whirling-in-Rags dances still through the winding black streets, his golden feet streaked with his blood, his yellowing robes swirling all about him as he loses himself in the ecstasy of motion which he shares with the Fivefold Wind whose sermon is the release of all those painful attachments to the world that she has lost and therefore were only and ever holding her back and in her depthless benevolence she will carve them from you too until you are free from existence—

Perhaps it is best to think about other things. Yes.

***

Kalaya!

Ven stiffens awkwardly as she is held, much like a cat that has been bowled over by an affectionate dog. There is little softness in her, particularly on one side of her body, hard as a sword. For a moment, there’s nothing in her face but confusion and distress— until realization, memory, uncertainty bloom. “Kal?”

Despite that, when you hug her again, exuberant, for a moment some of that hardness slips. Her nails dig against your shoulder; she leans into you like a ship hugs a cove in a storm. She looks down, lets your eyes get lost in her short hair, the way it curls at her jaw, the way it hides her own eyes in the dark.

“I had to leave the Kingdoms, Kal.” The words slip out of her like a dagger leaving its sheath. “To study. To find myself. There wasn’t any future for me here, not as a failed princess.” The dagger turns. It is not driven into you, but for a moment its sharpness is unmistakable. “Now I’m here. Pilgriming, obviously. Doing pilgrim things. Walking to some of the old shrines. Paying homage. Seeing what’s left for me.”

She wants to push you away. She chooses not to, again and again, because she wants to be held. Because she wants you to keep holding her more than she wants whatever else keeps making her tense up, keeps her from opening to you.

“I’m. I’m really lucky to see you,” she admits. “Just... please don’t tell anyone else, okay?”

She finally looks up at you, and her eyes are dark and large and perilous. That’s what you call places where you could drown: perilous. And that dagger of a voice keeps turning, keeps leveling its tip away from you, hard and sharp and trying so hard to be gentle with you.

“I don’t want people to know I came back,” she says. “Not unless it’s on my terms. Thus. You know. The hat. And the cloak.”

She pulls her cloak tighter against that unnaturally hard arm in unconscious self-consciousness. A veil, of sorts. Something she wants to hide, even from you.

***

Zhaojun!

The N’yari camp is typical for them: small, camouflaged, easily pulled up and relocated. They’re evidently early in a raid: their spoils include a few pigs, a couple of lockboxes into which clothes and coins and materials are sorted, and two girls who are both a little scared and a little excited, torn between embarrassment and curiosity and fear of the half-known. One girl sits in Machi’s lap during the strategy meeting, her linen-swaddled face buried into Machi’s neck, squirming in tantalized fluster as one hand kneads her rump with distracted feline rhythm.

“Now, I don’t just want the knight,” Machi dictates. “I want hidden treasure to bring back home, and I want to match up against the dragon girl again, my little kitten, just so she knows I defeated this knight.” She presumes that her new spirit will know innately who the dragon girl is; her rival-desire for the girl burns brightly. The dragon girl is strong and cunning and wonderfully unscrupulous; the dragon girl is her destined trophy, prize, and makeout partner, and Machi doesn’t just want the glory of bringing her home, she honestly thinks that she’ll be bringing the dragon girl home — that she’ll be doing right by both the dragon girl and her community by helping her discover she belongs among the N’yari.

In contrast, she just wants to dress up this knight in a cute maid outfit, force her sword-hands into mittens, and show her off at feasts as proof of Machi’s strength and prowess. Maybe dangle her from the chandelier in her family’s hall, for guests to bat at and spin around. Clearly, there is work to be done if Machi is to be convinced to be Kalaya’s nemesis, properly and completely.

***

Giriel!

“Ah, yes. The Prince.” The General begins to move again, restless, beginning a great arc that will eventually end with you surrounded on all sides. “An excellent protege. The dancer taught her etiquette and extended her protection when she was weak and unforged, and the sun gave her new flesh and lessons in statecraft, but I was the one who taught her the war. Swordplay, strategy, and liberation. She was cast down, and it is our privilege to make her a weapon, an agent for the front, to raise her again, just as our standard will rise over the rebels, the revolutionaries, the anarchists, the traitors.”

Pale fingers twist a pauldron into useless scrap, effortlessly. It is discarded into the heaving sea of trash.

“First she simply wanted her kingdom returned. It took time to convince her to be a uniter; we must maximize our beachhead. She’s still in the early stages of the campaign, introducing saboteurs to the occupation, suborning their defenses, facilitating our advances, delivering us traitors. Soon she will be ready to move on their regional hub, and we will raise her to glory, and their kings will kneel and lose their crowns, and she will make a throne of them, and stand on their throats.” He stops his rambling for a moment, and then turns to you, speaking almost conspiratorially.

“She has recently identified a vulnerable asset. The daughter of a revolutionary.” A god’s daughter, then. “When she acquires it, we shall see whether she gives it up to us or not. I will think less of her if she tries to hide it from me, or thinks to give it over to my brothers. But the joke is that I will take it. There are interrogations. There are disciplines. There are humiliations. There are punishments. I have my right. I will not be denied. There is a war to win.”

It would be unwise to point out that his motives are nakedly revenge that he cannot admit to himself, rather than being driven by any sort of tactical sense. Watch how his fingers twitch with their naked need to punish the gods and their children and their servants. Try not to imagine the deep pits, the oubliettes, the prisoners lost underneath the waves of this horrible sea, alive beyond the reach of time. Try very hard not to imagine the General deciding that you, too, are on their side.

(There is, of course, even in the demon city, the hope of reprieve. There is always the chance of being fished out by demon-thieves who scurry beneath Tichtokh’s notice, unearthed by the churn of the Waste, or even being traded away as a prize so that the General receives the concessions he needs for the neverending war. Small comfort for anyone sinking to their knees in the Waste, betrayed and handed over to face a litany of their crimes against the rightful ruler of the world.)

Peregrine makes the little noise, beside you. She doesn’t blurt it out, but if she doesn’t know who he’s talking about, she knows how she can find out, and she finds this interesting, perhaps interesting enough to distract her from Uusha’s need— at least until she gets the answers she wants.

“Now, go pick up your meat. Take it to Kingeater Castle. Their little joke on the front. There you’ll find my Ven. And if she thinks to hide it from me— I have my ways. She cannot keep it from me. But unbar the door, and I will remember.” Ah. So he wants you to call on him so he can intercede very directly.

Add that to the list of things you definitely should not do.

***

Han!

The little bud shivers and gives you tiny appreciative squeaks and breathlessly thanks you for saving her from such an awful fate. It would be fairly obvious how titillating, how both scary and enticing she finds it, for anyone who wasn’t busy brooding. Which, of course, means that it soars right past your head.

By the time she falls asleep, her head resting on your shoulder, her dainty body all tucked in next to you, you’re still running over those thoughts of Machi, over and over, and the difference between you. Machi is wild, selfish, and impetuous, and she thinks any cutie she sees is hers to kiss. And after sharing what the N’yari are like with the little bud? If you remind her of Machi, she’ll make some excuse to leave you. She’ll run away from the catkisser.

And that thought hurts, doesn’t it?

All you have to do is be the opposite of those things. Be safe and tame. Be selfless. Don’t do things without thinking them through very carefully. Don’t think of Crane scoffing and telling you that you’d never be those things. You have to prove that you’re nothing like Machi.

Drop your Feral to 0, and then tell us how you try to show Lotus that you’re a good girl over the course of your trip, and how you deal with unwanted heart flutters.

(For her part, she walks without complaint, but is easily distracted; she is constantly on the lookout for whatever she finds beautiful, which is often something quite ordinary. She is cheerful, and happy to share little songs, but drifts close to you and shrinks whenever someone passes by. And she watches you when she thinks you’re not looking, all her judgment hidden by her veil.)