There's some colour in Kalaya's cheeks too, but not too much. She watches as Ven starts pacing, smiling to herself as she remembers how the other woman always thought best when in motion.

Then she pulls her top o---asdfghjklbbb

Where to look where to look. Oh Gods above and Flowers below - WHERE TO LOOK? Does she stare at the sun, at the ground? At Ven's face? Her ches- no, wait, that one is definitely off limits. Wait, what's Ven saying? Look at her? So it isn't off the list right now?. And why is it so hot in here (I mean, it is Hell - but …)

Kalaya tries to listen to what Ven is saying. She really does. But all her ears can make out is an overboiled kettle of white noise. Her face feels hotter than that green sun itself. Her thoughts a dozen dozen doves, all startled to flight. Feathers and squawking everywhere (and probably some bird droppings in some inconvenient places).

She's been working out.

No! Bad brain, stop that!

Kalaya's eyes snap back up to Ven's face as the other woman steps closer. The young knight can feel every muscle in her body going stiff as she grabs her arm. She's still going on about some great plan to conquer stuff and wow her brass hand feels strong. How does it even move like that? Can she feel through it?

Ven's eyes snap down.

Kalaya's eyes flick down too.

And then something happens. A single word cuts through the static. It resonates within some deep-core part of Kalaya like a gong being struck. And the sound reverberates from the soles of her feet to the tips of her ears. It shakes the mountains and the forests, startling animals to flight. The motion dislodges a single raindrop, which falls from its leaf into the raging ocean. And all. Becomes …

Suddenly.

Still.

Kalaya's eyes flick back up, meeting Ven's. The silence between them stretches to infinity. And into that vast expanse she casts out - a tiny longtail boat against all the mysteries of the stars. Leaning closer, shrinking infinity into the barest fraction of a hair's breadth.

"You … you think I'm beautiful?" she whispers.

And then the distance between them is gone.

Ven gasps at first, tensing up like a feral cat. It's enough to make Kalaya almost worry she's made the wrong call, but before she can break away that brass hand moves around behind her. Her own moves into Vee's hair, tangling amongst the straight black strands. And the two of them just … fit.

Now most of Kalaya's mind is currently lost to the world; Submerged in the wow and the oof and the whuhhuhwoahs of what is currently going on. But a small part marvels at the way Vee's arms sit just right against her, at the way their bodies press flush, legs intertwined, like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle left unsolved for too long.

Or maybe the better analogy is Yin and Yang. Destruction and protection. The Knight and the Warlock. Heaven and Hell. The two of them, this, should never work. But something about it feels right. Feels natural.

Eventually, reluctantly, they part lips.

The two are breathing heavily, resting foreheads against one another as they stare into the other's eyes. The silence lasts for a few seconds before it's broken by Kalaya's laughter.

"Yep! Still happy!" she giggles, cupping a hand around Vee's cheek. "And I don't want you to give up either. I'm not going to, that's for sure. I'll defend the Kingdoms with everything I have. So go ahead and bring that army, I'll be waiting for you at the gates."

She grabs Vee's hand, her brass hand, a fire building in her eyes to match the woman's earlier bravado.

"But I'll tell you this; The Broken King can't promise what isn't his. And it will never be his." she continues. "But it can be yours. Don't give up on that. There's still a place in the Kingdoms for you, one you don't need armies or fire or brass to get."

"I'll … if you ever decide you want it, I'll keep it waiting for you. It's the same place you've always had … Right here, with me."

The blade demands one arm. It will not serve her here. So she cradles Melody’s tiny frame in the crook of the one arm she’s got left. Do you strain to reach her? To hide away? Don’t. Don’t you move a muscle. She’ll hold you closer. Sneak one, solitary finger behind your head, and keep it from falling limp. (She cannot feel the wave of hair, cascading over her claw. No silk ever looked so soft.) She’s got you. Rest in the shade of her body. Her scales can endure a hundred suns. You are safe. You must be safe.

The fearsome head of the Vermillion Beast of Lanterns dips low to the Priestess, then freezes. What…what does her head look like? She’d seen glimpses, in rivers, on posters, but in the hoards of her memories not one face belongs to her. She senses no spike or ridge along her neck, as she swallows great lungfuls of stinking air. Nothing below her jaws either. So. Perhaps? Perhaps she can descend, slowly. By inches. By the breadth of hairs. Freeze, when she feels the slightest pressure. Listen, for cries of pain. Feel, for agony. Then, with barely a twitch of movement, back and forth. Brushing against her forehead.

Her jaws part hardly at all, keeping rows of fangs hidden. The Beast does not talk. The Beast is not made for talking. The Beast roars and thunders. Rips and tears. From the corners of upturned lips rumbles forth a crude, discordant avalanche of a voice. Feel it echo through her body, straining to break forth in horrible violence. Feel it, if you do not wish to hear it.

“liTtLe........bUd.”

No more. Any more, and. She’ll break it. She’ll break her. She’ll break the most precious thing she’s ever been allowed to hold.

Please. Just let that be enough.

Giriel and Piripiri!

Uusha’s breath is hoarse, echoing in her terrifying helmet. She’s very deliberately not limping as she makes her way towards you. She’s also got that great spear slung over one shoulder, and an intensity rolling off of her in waves as she approaches.

“Nice catch,” she says to Piripiri. The mockery is thick, but deniable: of course you would play with a pretty snake. Then, to Giriel: “There’s the warlock.” She points down to where the knight is— oh. Oh, well. At least someone’s having a moment. “Be ready to leave.”

Back to Piripiri, looming huge and terrible. “Stay with the witch. She speaks for me.” A moment of trust? Or simply necessity? Does she think Giriel would side with her, or is she simply out of options?

Then she begins to march down towards the knight and the warlock, stiffly, like a boulder slowly picking up momentum as it rolls. Now, Giriel, you have a dragon-blooded at your disposal. Use her wisely.

***

Kalaya!

Ven is breathless, and for a moment, unguarded. She’s drowned everything else out: the struggle between the Generals, her own plans, the fact that the two of you have sunken in the waste (somewhat uncomfortably) down to your ankles holding still like this. She nuzzles into you and looks up, open, vulnerable.

“Stay?” She asks, and cups her brass hand against the small of your back. “I can keep you safe. Show you wonders. Introduce you to Whirling-in-Rags.” She’s trying. She’s wedging open her life, the life she’s made here, and all but begging you to step inside, instead. Her eyes dance with visions of you in hellish armor, someone she could trust, someone she could believe in, someone who she can show the wonders and horrors of the Demon City. “Please. This time. Stay with me.”

Behind her advances the Stag Knight.

There is danger in every stiff, deliberate step she takes across the waste. She’s found the warlock, and she will treat Ven with all the gentleness and care that a traitor to the Flower Kingdoms deserves. You don’t have very long at all to think about this.

You can accept her offer and defend her from the Stag Knight. You could try to stand between the two and defuse the situation, but that would just result in you being stabbed from both directions in the tumult; there’s no way to stop them from fighting.

Unless. You could take Ven prisoner.

You could clamp your hand over that perfect mouth you just kissed and convince Uusha that you seduced her into letting her guard down. You could wrap one arm around her torso and march her, flailing like a cat, into cuffs. She would be furious, she would feel betrayed, she would stare furious daggers into your heart.

But your options are narrowing down to betraying her for her own good or drawing your sword on a fellow knight to defend a warlock. And if Uusha rolls over you with her expertise and reach, then she’ll be at Ven’s throat anyway.

Or you could take her hand and try to run away, but where? You’re in a sea of the trash and detritus of war, there’s not exactly any place to go to unless you let Ven take the lead, and then you’re back to accepting her offer.

What will it be, knight of the Accord of Thorns? How will you protect the heart of the girl who’s falling for you, hard? How will you uphold your knightly vows and keep Ven safe from the scariest knight in the entire Flower Kingdoms?

Run or seize or draw?

***

Fengye!

We all knew the General would yield. He thinks of it simply as a tactical withdrawal. He gives ground in this way; he will then be in position to make a second advance and strike you where you are weak. Such is his thought. Such is his hubris. Such is his fear of being unmade. He is, after all, a fragment of the Broken King, the part that will never believe the war is truly over, no matter how long he has to fight— but to fight, he has to survive. He has to continue. He has to be.

And what he ignores is that he will be something very different; that, perhaps, when you are done with him, he will be unrecognizable, that he will no longer think in terms of grand strategies and the war that must not end.

He is yours, now. Show him the enormity of his error.

***

Han!

Her hands are so wonderfully soft on your scaled cheeks. She is dainty and small but when she moves those hands, you follow; you allow her to move your chin up, to be made to look at her, into those golden rings that protect such deep, soft eyes.

“That’s me,” she says, her fingers fluttering so soft against your scales, as if she’s playing you like a noblewoman’s harp. “Your little bud.” Her unveiled smile is shy, but sweet, and when she looks into your eyes, you don’t see fear. You see awe, which could become fear, but you also see happiness. She’s overwhelmed to see you, here, for her.

And maybe that’s why she makes you turn your head so she can brush such soft kisses against your cheek, warm beneath her lips: because she’s rewarding her rescuer. Prematurely, but the Generals seem busy and nobody’s bothering you right now and, besides, can you really think at a time like this? When you’re getting reward kisses? Or one hand reaching up and rubbing you at the base of one horn, so bold, and don’t you dare think about her taking it in her hand and leading you around by it, knowing you’d follow wherever she went, knowing you wouldn’t dare tug it out of her slender fingers.

You’re allowed to be happy, even as the two of you start to sink. Or, well, the one of you does. Melody doesn’t— is she really that light? Or is she just somehow balanced perfectly on the beams of a shattered catapult? But you’re the one finding her claws sinking under the waste as she shows you her gratitude. Don’t worry about that. You’re strong. You could sink all the way to your neck and still break free, as long as Melody asked you to. So relax a moment longer. There’s no danger in it. You defeated the danger and some other danger is getting rid of it. And you can just spirit her away when the time comes. So don’t worry. Just be happy, for once. It’s allowed.

Stay?

That had been something she hadn't considered. In fact, the whole idea was so crazy as to be laughable. Her? A knight of the Thorns? Swear to Hell? That would never happen. The stars would sooner go out than Kalaya Na agreeing to serve Whirlwind in Rags.

But … maybe.

She'd never be able to stay here. But she could, perhaps, visit?

"I … maybe … " Kalaya starts to say, before movement catches her eye.

No.

"Run." she finishes.

Her fingers dig into Vee's shoulders, a reflexive action but it also serves to help her grip as she throws the other woman to the side. Her fatigue vanishes, adrenaline flaring as her sword comes free in arcing silver.

"Run!" she yells, charging forward to meet the Stag Knight along the slopes of the Wrack-waste.

The first blow is almost strong enough to stagger her, but Kalaya keeps to her feet - using the momentum to spin and launch a counterattack. She's not trying to defeat Ushua, nor even really hurt her. But all that she is turns and focuses on just buying Vee enough time to get away.

I will respect the weak and defend them.

Vee is weak now - open, vulnerable. She will not let that hard-won moment shatter by betraying her trust.

I shall give mercy unto those who ask for it.

Sparks fly as she parries another thrust, ducking beneath that spear and closing to grapple. A foolish move as the stronger knight easily spins her around, sending her skidding across sand and bits discarded armour.

I shall not recoil before my enemy and will be the champion of the Right and Good against Injustice and Evil

It's crazy. It should be wrong - but once again, it feels Right. After all, what could be more Right and Good in this world than love?

She rolls to her feet, gritting her teeth and advancing once more - keep Ushua's focus on her. Get Vee clear. That's all that matters.

"RUN!"

But Ushua just keeps coming. An implacable wall of experience, steel and malice. Facing this, Kalaya sheds her inhibitions - giving up on her goal of not hurting the other knight. She knows that her strength will ebb away the longer the fight goes. Her only chance now is to do enough to keep her opponent from being able to chase Vee.

The Stag and Lilly clash again.

Kalaya's sword sings. She fights with everything she has and hidden reserves that even she didn't know existed before now. Steel bites and sends fragments of the Ushua's armour flying.

But Ushua keeps coming.

[Yeah, I think we all knew this was gonna be the way it went - Rolling to Fight. 4 + 6 + 4: 14 - Kalaya chooses to inflict a condition on Ushua, and to create an opportunity for Ven (to escape, hopefully). Using both Last Stand and Finally Kiss to offset Frightened.]

Have you ever fought someone you cannot beat? A person who outclasses you in every way?

For a moment, as she picks herself back up once again, Kalaya is countless leagues and fifteen years away. Shadows that look like boys hover around her, reaching out their nightmare arms. She strains against them, but although the heart is strong, the body is not - and her muscles bend, ever slowly, backwards.

It's always confronting to find your limits. That hill that is just that little bit too high to climb, that one weight to lift when your arms are already trembling. "Push through!", "You can do it!" they always yell. Words that are somehow expected to have physical force, enough to affect reality. As if doing that one more step is simply a matter of willpower.

Real life isn't like that. Sometimes, people just have a wall that is impossible to break through and all the heart in the world doesn't change anything.

Sometimes people just ... can't.

[Kalaya takes the condition: "Hopeless"]

She's on her knees now. A spear leveled at her. Breath heaving and sweat pouring off.

And Ushua is. Still. Coming.

She surges to her feet. Swinging wild. Her focus, her ability to think, has shrunk to primal instinct. Gone is rational thought. In its place are only the most base directives: Fight. Delay. Protect.

[Using For the Cause to inflict one last condition on Ushua]

A gauntleted hand sends her sprawling to the waste again. Sword clattering. Vision fading. She rolls onto her side. Pushing through the blackness, her eyes land on her weapon.

Her arm moves. Dragging her across the sands. One hand before another. Reaching. Fingers.

Almost ...

There ...

Giri looks at the chaos of the fight, the declarations made by the divine spirit, the collapsing of the general. She looks at Peregrine, still enrapt, and at Piripiri, a full dragon-blooded handed into her care while Uusha goes to do yet another utterly idiotic thing. And all that as her friends and the knights all scatter below in the course of the chaos.

And then she is done looking. It is time to leave. Or at least make a go of it. And all the big and little gods willing, they could have an end of portals to hell when they're done.

"Peregrine, help me. Nobody here knows the they're doing, and this isn't a safe place to be. We need a way to get everyone out of the hells and to safety. Even Han can't just fight every demon that comes out of, she'll get tired eventually." Giri stands from her perch with Azazuka with some strain, her own burns obviously paining her though she grits her teeth and ignores it. Instead she's looking right at Piripiri. A dragon-blooded dropped so conveniently in her lap.

As she speaks there's a pain in her eyes. An apology perhaps, not merely the pain of her wounds or even of seeing her friends suffer. It's the pain of regretting something before you even ask for it. Of playing into your own stereotypes and not being able to do a damn thing about it. "Piri, I...we will need your blood. Peregrine and I are skilled but mortal witches. We don't have the raw power to make an exit and keep it in place for everyone. But you do. You have divine blood, the blood of the dragon, and you're right here. It won't take much. Once we start the ritual, just take my knife, cut your palm and drip your blood onto the sigils we draw. I...uh...command it as your captor" though that last has barely any force behind it and Giri looks terribly chagrined. She obviously wanted none of this, but is scared enough at being here that all she can think about is the fastest route to getting everybody out.

With that she handed Piripiri the knife, and then drew her sword and started drawing a large magic circle into the ground. If she just did it, if she just assumed everyone would go with her on this, they would right? She needed them to.

[Rolling to defy disaster with spirit. 5+1+2=8. Giri's willing to sacrifice her own reputation, and also most of the particulars of where they exit as long as it's back in the mortal realm in the name of making a stable exit out of here.]

You see Piripiri become a different person, twice.

The first thing is simple: Uusha walks in. Piripiri goes quiet and focuses on her, finishing the burn she was tending and then folding her arms into her sleeves in front of her. She's not being amused at witches immediately focusing on the new magical lore in front of her anymore. She's just waiting.

There's no change in attitude when Uusha declares Giriel her proxy, but it still feels different to you, most likely, because all of that deference shifts to her when Uusha walks away. It's a little unorthodox but they're allies, maybe? This isn't the sort of thing you'd do otherwise, to anybody out of House. Maybe they're closer than she thought. She moves to stand two paces behind Giriel and one to the left, out of the way but able to help if needed.

Then the second shift. Giriel starts to talk, explaining her plan in halting detail, apologetic. Confusing, until the command. And Piripiri goes blank. Stony. You still have her attention but none of it is kind, now. Only her eyes betray her, thorny green fury. How dare you? To somebody who can't defend themselves?

She almost doesn't care that it's her, specifically. Maybe she'd be even more furious if it wasn't.

And there's one slow breath and even that fades. You're looking at the picture of calm detachment as she look down at the offered knife, then looks back up to meet your eyes. "It would be dishonorable for me to hold that." She states, and holds out her hand, palm up, for the knife's point.

Giriel's heart sinks down to her feet. It's obvious and she makes no attempt to hide it a her shoulders slump and her head droops. She can see the look, the detachment. It's almost worse that there's no protest, that Piripiri is just going along with it. It's just, there it is, what witches do is evil, everyone thinks it's evil and they're right. Even if it works, even if it saves them from hell, she has to do a monstrous thing. It's stupid that it would be like this, that blood magic would be the only thing she can think of, that the power of dragon's blood would be so damned powerful! She had hoped that maybe Piripiri would understand the need, but no, she must be cruel and take what is needed, though it harm Uusha's prisoner, and disrespect her and reinforce that witches are full of dark workings and never to be trusted. (Alas, it does not occur to her that perhaps she could have trusted more, and that had she asked and not demanded, things would be different).

She sighs, a deep, bone-weary sigh. "I am sorry, I have no choice, I can think of no other way to save us. Let all the guilt fall on me and none else here for this decision." She turns the dagger in her hand, no long presenting the hilt to Piripiri. Instead, she has the blade out and take's Piripiri's hand with her own. Her touch shakes, and she stops, breaths, and begins again, gentle as she holds Piripiri's hand in place, her own cradling it beneath. Then with the expert hand of someone well-trained in housework, she draws a shallow, clean line across Piripiri's palm. It stings but is not deep. A few drops of blood pool in the center, and she gently tilts her own hand so that they roll to the ground even as Peregrine has begun to work, drawing the circle around them.

"I...must work quickly" she says, ripping a piece of her own black shirt near the waist for a quick bandage. She wraps it firmly around Piri's hand. "Hold this there with pressure, and we will treat it more properly once we're out of hell." And with that, she pulls her greatsword and begins tracing her own pieces of the circle, adding interior lines and sigils as quickly as she can. This was all for escape, after all, the best respect she has left to offer is to make that happen as quickly as possible.

This is a new peril.

The hide of the Vermillion Beast has stood proof against sword and bow, tree and stone, enlightened fist and hellish wrath. What technique is this? Why do the muscles that withstood a demon greater than the mountains yield at so light a touch? So unbelievably light a touch. Be wary, daughter of dragons. Let not your guard falter. Watch her. Find out what she’s up to. Sink to the depths of those soft, inviting eyes, and find your answer. Search the mysteries of those warm, rose-blessed cheeks, and find your answer. Behold the shining, unveiled lips for but a moment, before she-

The Vermillion Beast of Lanterns bellows forth a warning to the cursed denizens of Hell, spoken in the ancient tongue of Heaven that none can decipher. The specifics are far too terrible to repeat. But they are very serious. And very real.

(Do not bother asking Melody for a translation later. She will be too busy laughing to tell.)

Why? Why do you do this to her, oh flower of Heaven? Don’t you know? Didn’t you see? A Beast is for destruction. A Beast is here, to break the things that need to be broken, because nobody else will do it. A Beast does not. A Beast couldn’t. So how was a Beast to prepare for gentle, soothing fingers, caressing her horn? How was she to know that was a place dragons ought to be held?! None of this. None of this! Why. You. Y-you…

She purrs.

Her awful voice hid, in the deepest places of her heart, and there it shook and it shook and the soft rumblings flowed through her body and set her tail to flicking about the wastes. She presses her head the barest bit closer, pressing into her, and the rumbling passes through her too. She sinks into the rain-soaked garden. Her thoughts float on the wind. Melody is close. She is so close she could just…if she maybe…parted her lips…does she have, no, maybe…how…

Too late. Melody is close. The Beast’s jaws part. A long tongue flicks at her ear, and a rich breath of fragrant fire washes over her, and the delight of her giggles is the most precious treasure yet.

For a moment, everything is. And it is, by a miracle, enough.

She is the hound that caught the horse, but with a lioness' mask, she can pretend she meant to.

"Your weapons are respect," she purrs, "fear, and strength. Tools of Maiden Mars. By any of these you might try to overthrow me, so you will be removed of all three. Let none respect you: may your tongue turn to begging, mewling, and obedience in the first. Let none fear you: may your skills at arms tangle each other and your mind and body betray one another. Let none fall to your strength; become soft, gentle, pliable and pleasing to look upon, helpless against the power of another. And then, only once all your arts of war are locked away, may you continue your campaign. Defeat me then, if you can."

Kingeater Castle!

Thunder rattling the trees. Rain, pouring down on the ruin.

Where there was a castle, there is now devastation. Everything was uprooted, down to the dungeons, down to the very foundations: the earth is a loose slurry being churned into mud. Trees have fallen, the stables have been washed away; come morning, there will be nothing to say that Kingeater Castle was once here but the mudslide drowning the earth.

Night on night pierces the darkness, forcing it open like the wedge of an axe’s head, and from it pours innumerable silver grains of sand, glowing from within as if imbued with moonish light, as if the stars themselves had been crushed to powder, and the murmur of their rush, hissing and tumbling over each other, is a hymn: all hail to the Mother of Deserts, all glory and power to the Edict Fount, may her body stretch into the shadows of eternity. And behind the ten sleepwalkers who stagger out into the sand-clogged mud, a presence rises, night blotting out night, and its tears are sand, and its mantle is the color that remains when all other colors have been eaten, and the sand surges forth like a high tide, hungry, inexorable, infinite; but the one who walks last, so that none will be forgotten as they walk single-file through the body of the Mother of Deserts, who alone did not slip into the cold waking dream of the rise-and-fall, the spell of the place where everything is the same as everything, she raises one hand and the door closes behind them, the ten of them, mortals and dragon-children and demons alike, and then there is nothing but the rain in the almost-light before dawn and the driving rain and the exhaustion, the bone-deep exhaustion, of walking the devil’s road out of Hell.

For the Mother of Deserts is the sister-bride of the Broken King, and she drapes herself around his bones like a suffocating robe; and her dictate is that those who leave must walk her road, and stand in her waste of ruined stars, and suffer for daring to leave, which she may never do, being now infinite. She could drown all creation beneath her weight and still only have extended the merest finger out of their prison.

The spell that the one wrapped around the nine was a mercy. Better to walk through that wasteland dreaming than to feel it bearing down on you, than to be tempted to collapse, than to be forced to understand the length of the journey.

***

Giriel!

Objectively: days. But also objectively: it’s maybe been an hour since you left. Subjectively: you are exhausted. You walked last in line, holding a candle, and you saw the shadows heaped up on themselves in the distance, horribly suggestive of entire civilizations drowned beneath the sand. You heard the sand-hymns and were coming dangerously close to understanding them. You held back the attention of one of the creators of the world with a candle and a waking dream, with blood and will and Peregrine’s help.

Peregrine. She stayed behind. She’s almost certainly got business with that warlock, who ended up escaping Uusha. She’s there because she’s got her hands in the guts of some interesting experiment, down to the wrists, and she’s there because— well, the last time you saw her was when she was abducted by that strange heavenly spirit, and there’s a connection there that you’ve almost hit, but it’s slipping through your fingers like smoke.

But can you be blamed? You’ve just walked for days without stopping, beating the responsibility of everyone’s safety on your shoulders, keeping all of them safe. And are they going to understand what you just did? Are they going to be grateful? Or are they going to listen to the dragon-blooded girl who looked at you with hate in her eyes? (Peregrine would understand.)

You’re sitting down. You don’t remember when you sat down, but it’s a thing that’s happening now. Sat down in the sandy mud (muddy sand?). You did it. And now it would be very appreciated if the world stopped requiring you to do things, because you’re going to need someone’s help to stand back up. Your thighs and feet have decided to go on dockworkers’ strike together. And the conversations happening all around fade in and out, cut together with the song of the sand.

That’s why you don’t notice what’s going wrong until it’s too late.

***

Piripiri!

Naji has wrapped herself around you, and you are sinking into her coils. Your hand throbs; your legs ache. The world has been too much, too loud, for too long. You need to dig your roots in and drink deep (metaphorically speaking).

Here’s a fun question to consider, though. You’ve been traveling through the Demon Desert for… folklore says it’s at least three days. The witch wrapped a simple enchantment over your eyes to protect you from the journey, but time still passed. If you sleep for three days and then awaken, are you still a hostage? Are you still required by honor to remain? Or does it even matter, did the witch break the oath of protection that stood between you and Uusha?

Naji nuzzles you with her body and you can feel her anger radiating off her. It’s not directed at you. It’d be nice to think it’s at the witch, wouldn’t it? Devils don’t much care for oathbreakers, after all (though they resent the oaths they are forced to swear). She probably deserves to be untied and told what a good girl she’s been, doesn’t she? It’s just that your fingers are so thick and heavy right now.

It’s the warmth of her fury and the softness of her flesh that drown out the signs you should have picked up on before it was too late.

***

Fengye!

You’re small again. But, luckily, Maid Confined in Yearning is smaller. She tugs at you, trying to pull her wrist out of your fingers, hissing— and she’s got more energy than you do, because walking through the desert (Zhaojun knows more) is harder on you comparatively fragile mortals than it is on them. So you’re forced to shift your footing and try to keep her from pulling you onto your bad leg.

Which is why the crossbow bolt screams through the place where your head was, before ending in a meaty thud that meant it hit someone.

Maid Confined screams and her helpless, pliable body throws itself of its own accord into your arms; she buries her face in you even as your leg goes out from under you and you both collapse into the muck, and she’s screaming so shrilly that you can’t hear yourself think, and you’ve got to wonder: is this how you die? With a former part of the Broken King’s soul squealing and kicking her feet on top of you while people get shot at?

***

Han!

The fire within you is waning. You won’t be able to stay like this for long. It feels achy, like you held a stretch too long, like you’ve been holding a muscle in place and now it won’t relax. It’s… fuzzy, memories of walking through somewhere dark and empty, like a tunnel, but with no walls, and there was this song—

Melody shifts on your back and sinks her fingers into your mane. Her chest rises and falls; she’s actually asleep. There. That’s something you can focus on. You didn’t manage to punish the rotting bastard who did this to her, but you saved her. That’s enough. She’s safe because of you.

Then pain explodes along your neck, crackling, burning, and Melody screams herself awake because her wrist’s caught in it, and everything— as the saying goes— goes to Hell.

***

Kalaya!

The world swims into existence. Rain hammers down onto your face. Pain swims underneath the bleariness of the world. But you’re home. You’re definitely home. The Flower Kingdoms, where the rain never stops during the rainy season. You push yourself up onto your elbows—

And Uusha grinds her boot down onto you, sending your head thudding back down against the mud. “Stay down, beetle,” she hisses. She looks about as bad as you feel: her face is bloodless, her eyes are half-shut, her stiffness is the fragility of someone who knows she is brittle. And even so, if you tried to get back up again, she would beat you into the mud until you stopped moving. Again.

The clash of your sword against her spear! The whirl, the execution of moves known by heart, the reserves of strength you pulled from again and again! The thorns that snapped from her armor, the bruises that blossomed on her skin like opening petals, the elegant arcs of her spear’s heads through the air, the whine of the wood put under such pressure! You fought like devils under the green light of Hell!

You can’t really be blamed for losing, you know. You were fighting the Stag Knight. One day, you’ll be as good as she is; one day, she was where you are now. She’s got long limbs and experience on the battlefield and a relentless fire in her heart, and that’s a lot to stack up against love.

(Love: Ven got away. She’s safe. You did it.)

Uusha opens her mouth to say something to you in her brittle, burned-through-anger voice, and you, through those bleary eyes, get to watch as she painfully turns, as she grabs at the air, slowed by exhaustion and the fatigue of fighting you. You hear the crunch, the way the air is forced out of her lungs in one sharp exhalation, as the bolt punches through a weak point in her armor, just a hair too fast for her to catch. You see the moment when she decides to lean into the momentum, so that instead of standing like an idiot who will get shot more, she topples like a falling tree and tumbles down a muddy slope.

And you hear the roar of the Imperial Legion.

***

Kingeater Castle!

Han is having a very bad time; she shakes and flails and roars to topple towers as the thunder bolas constrict about her throat, as a confused Melody screams in agony and tries to pull her wrist out from underneath the lines crackling with the power of a trapped lightning bolt, as Uusha topples into the dark bleeding from her side, as Imperial legionnaires reload a bolacaster and close in, ready to kill everyone. They’d do it, you know. Without so much as blinking.

And that’s when Cathak Agata rides into the scene on her coal-black horse (an already unusual animal to see here), rain hissing into steam in a halo around her body, and vaults from its back, does a somersault in the air, landing squarely on Han’s back.

The Red Wolf’s sword bursts into leaping flame and she raises it high. And with her in the midst of you, crossbows are lowered and shields are hammered into the mud, soldiers forming a ring of pikes to keep you hemmed in while their glorious leader plays her part.

“Hold still!” she says, pulling Melody to one side, and swings her blade down. The bolas explode into thrashing, arcing things like eels boiling in a pot, agony lancing through the air looking for victims, and in that moment, this is true:

Cathak Agata has Melody held tight to her chest, and is prepared to defend her from such things as a rampaging dragon out of her mind with pain.

After all, she’s the hero.

Does the sun move in Hell? Tradition and the dictates of honor demand that there be no escape attempt or resistance until the sun's crossed the horizon twice. It didn't look like it, and she'd tried to track it. No sunrise, no sunset. She had no way to know.

She could ask the witch. She won't.

That being said, she had every right to declare a breech of conduct, preferably from safety and enough distance to be free. Her hand still ached and ever so slightly bled, the cut refusing to heal. The fragment of Giriel's shirt that bandaged it had long since been stained crimson. Not a deathblow at all, one she could persist through for a long time yet, but enough of a disadvantage to want to wait before she was in a better situation to leave. She didn't know what Uusha'd do, didn't know what that apprentice knight that Uusha also appeared to be keeping prisoner would do. Didn't know how to get home without the witch and that one rankled. Didn't know why the cut on her palm kept bleeding. Does a wound born of betrayal not heal in Hell? It would make a degree of sense, but she doesn't know. She has no way to know.

She could ask the witch. She won't.

So she's been marching in that line, one hand holding Naji's leash, the other pressing the bandage into her palm and occasionally dripping a drop of blood. She can endure this. She can walk the rest of them into the ground if need be. The only one it'd even be close is walking on four in her true form and carries an exhausted half-god on her back.

So when they emerge into the ruins of Kingkiller Castle, the major difference here is that she's slogging through mud instead of sand, and instead of there being no water, there's too much. Even then, that took a minute to realize, and it was the smell of water more than anything that got her to look up and look around.

She missed the start of the ambush, but she has been walking for three days. Cut her a little slack.

When the crossbows and pikes do show, however, she changes course, heading straight for a squad near, but not next to, the command group, with the signal fans and mirrors. Approach nice and slow, hands out to her side: see, I'm not a threat. Get close enough to be able to speak and not be overheard.

"The bee is in the lavender
The honey fills the comb,
But here a rain falls never-ending
And I am far from home."

She hated that poem and so Cathak Agata had gone and made half of it her passphrase. The soldiers shift, immediately, pike-line reforming with her on the inside, and she relaxes, just slightly, for the first time in weeks.

"Capture, don't kill, if you can. Gold-level target is..." she squints. "The one Cathak already has. Next high priority threat is the antler-horned one. Any you capture, bind, gag, and hold for debrief." A salute in response, and she moves away to watch the fight, two soldiers breaking off to flank her.

Gold level means that the soldiers will die, if needed, to keep Melody. Sorry, Han.

Kalaya's vision wavers, her eyes casting about as Ushua plants her back into the mud. The elder knight is speaking, but her ears can't register it through the pouring rain and the after effects of their battle.

Their battle.

Kalaya's eyes swing to the Stag Knight's pale visage. A blur, as they sweep towards the ground again. No! Wait! Up! A moment of clarity to see Ushua's gauntleted hand moving. Empty! Thank the Sapphire Mother.

It was empty.

She's the only one Ushua took in the end ...

Vee.

She'd done it!

Kalaya falls back into the black realm of unconsciousness. But this time, even in that empty, dreamless darkness, there is a feeling of warmth. Even as sounds start to pierce her mind, Kalaya can't find it in herself to hold on any longer.

Time to rest.

Imagination was a funny thing - it exists most strongly on uncertain frontiers.

Fengye, one-book demonologist she was, could imagine binding a demon as grand and terrible as the General. Motonic physics and comparative spiritual essence was well beyond her understanding. She applied the same knowledge she had used on common demons to a large one and imagined that it could work. She didn't know any better and so there were no limits on what she could attempt - or what she could unexpectedly accomplish. Fools rush in and all that.

But Fengye understands precisely the power and danger presented by the Dominion. She knows exactly what to expect from one of the Dragonborn masters of creation. She knows that they have the ability and authority - legal and moral - to destroy her for any one of the crimes she has committed against the Immaculate Way. She knows the numbers and concentrations of military forces in the region. Going up against the General of Hell was a dream's madness; going up against an Imperial Legion is a very cold, real, sobering thought.

So she grabs the head of the flailing Maid and pushes it down into the ground alongside hers. And then, bound by a failed imagination, she waits in terrified kowtow for the shooting to stop.

The first sensible thing Red Wolf does is get out of the way.

The claw that would have crushed body and blade alike catches only air. The kidnapper shoots to the ground, and the storm is on her heels. Slash and bite and stab and whip and again, faster, and faster. The devastated earth splits into yet-smaller pieces. The air clogs with mud. Above it all, the piercing howl of pain and rage.

Yet the Red Wolf does not fall or falter. She finds the bits of solid ground moments before they are obliterated. Her blade screams! And the blow meant for her side slices a fallen tree clean in two. Dodges. Fancy tricks. Lies! She cannot take victory with these weak weapons. How will you carve through her hide with such a weak blade? Your precious footwork will only grow slower as the wounds mount! You are small! You cannot beat her! Flee! Fall! And never come back!

A tiny scream pierces night and heart alike.

Sparks dance in eyes gone wide in terror. She clutches the Red Wolf’s arm with both her hands. She winces - an almost-imperceptible shudder - to ask this much of her burned wrist. She clings on tighter.

In a flash of molten light, in a tidal wave of Essence, the Vermillion Beast of Lanterns vanishes, leaving behind nothing but a small girl; battered, bleeding, broken. Only her eyes still burn. Gripping her junk sword in numb fingers, she surges forward with a hoarse cry…

[Han reduces her Feral to 3 for feeling she's hurt someone with her bestial nature, thus ending her Transformation. Han also rolls to Fight Red Wolf: 3 + 6 + 2 - 2 (for Frightened) = 9. Han will:
-Inflict a Condition
-Take a String on Red Wolf]

Giriel leans back against a rock. Or perhaps it's a bit of broken masonry from the castle? That's the thing about the symbolism of the tower, the catastrophe, its nature is to take the works of mortals and tear them down through a greater power until at the end who can even say what was once crafted and what was shaped by the gods. It doesn't matter though. What matters is that there's something solid for her to lean against, that whatever it might be or have once been it has the strength to hold her body and let her settle all her bulk upon the sandy soil and relax. Her legs scream at her as the pressure releases, that feeling like a rubber band stretched too far that can't snap all the way back anymore because it's strained too long washing through her legs and up her thighs. Yes, this would be a great time to simply let her legs fall asleep and the rest of her with it and she could deal with all the consequences of that later.

Of course, the instant she closes her eyes, there's an army. The world is like that. It's always like that. Just like it's always going to force those with dark knowledge into doing things that will bring them stares like Piripiri's stare. It's just always like that, it's how the titans and the gods and all their servants crafted it to be. Perhaps it was in the materials of Creation itself and even if they wished it, they could not have changed their clay any more than a potter can magically change the soil she is given to spin.

For a moment, Giriel's heart races and fear and adrenaline shoots through her, that sudden jolt of attention snapping through her body, the band tense once again. But pain shoots through her legs and they protest and continue their strike. And at any rate after that first moment she sees Cathak Agata leaping through the air with her blazing sword and pulling Melody away from Han. She grins despite herself, a rueful sort of grin, the grin of irony. If it didn't hurt so much, she would bark a laugh. It's like an epic poem isn't it? Han won't find it funny, but there she is finally finding the girl she cared so much to save and because she looks to be a monster she becomes the villain in the story. All a big misunderstanding. Or...hmmm. The adrenaline is fading, and Giri isn't moving, but her eyes are focused. Red Wolf understood many things, she'd known just how to dangle the bait before Giri, known that she wouldn't say no to solving exactly the problem put in front of her. Was she...did she know and pretend to misunderstand, performing for her own troops? It was hard to think long on that though, not when Red Wolf was moving so gracefully, not when Giri imagined herself though far larger than Melody, gripped by those strong hands and pulled closed into those muscled arms and that curving chest with its heroic armor.

Her eyes drift enough to that, ah good, there was Piripiri moving into their lines. Just as Uusha had thought then, well that had had always been the best guess. At least that brought a smile to Giri's lips though, a true one and not an ironic one. Because Piri would get treatment for her hand there, and safety, and a little comfort. She deserved that, deserved none of the suffering Giri had put on her, the exhaustion and the pain. Her blood had saved them and her march had been the hardest.

Well come what may then. Yes, come what may. Giriel Bruinstead was tired and she had decided that moving was not in her near future, adrenaline or not adrenaline. She owed Red Wolf a report anyway, she'd saved all of them whatever they may think of her, and she'd eventually be able to sort things out for Han when they weren't all having crossbows pointed at them. Yes, that would be good. For now, she would do nothing and it would be the most blissful nothing there was. Giri at last closes her eyes and relaxes.

Giriel!

“I wanted to thank you for your service, didn’t I?”

When Cathak Agata cups your cheek with a bloodied hand, she wraps her spirit around you. Warmth suffuses you; the rain hisses away before it can touch you. Being this close to her is like sitting next to a fire, letting the heat sink in deep, until it is almost but not quite painful. She helps you to your feet as if helping a doll stand.

“What were you thinking?” Her admonishment is half gentle, half baffled. “Taking on an entire demon army by yourself, sealing their gate, defeating the warlock and her minions?” Her thumb rests on your mouth and she shushes away your attempts to explain. The warmth is so pervasive that it’s all you can do to stop yourself from falling asleep and letting Agata take care of where you walk. Even injured, she’s a pillar of confidence. You’d never think Han managed to lay a claw on her.

Han. She’s being wrestled down by legionnaires, dragging her over to the coffle: Han’s little demigod stands with the mad, brilliant woman who dared to impersonate the General, and the little demoness who used to be one of the most feared power players in Hell, all three collared and gagged, waiting for their forced march. Kalaya and Uusha are chained down to medicinal stretchers, and Azazuka—

“Release her, you dumb bastards,” Cathak Agata barks, the way that important people yell at people they think are simple but, dammit, good at heart. (The condescension of those who think themselves protagonists, and everyone else supporting players.) “Don’t you recognize her? If she’s so much as bruised…!”

And then Azazuka’s throwing herself into Red Wolf’s arms, which is to say, somewhat into your arms. “Oh, Gatty,” she squeals. “Don’t be too hard on them! I don’t know what’s been going on, but this witch here, she helped me, and so did the Hymairean, they’re innocent of whatever is going on!” Even as tired as you are, you recognize the shift in her demeanor: this is the mask of the Hapless Socialite Who Gets Her Way Out Of Indulgence. She’s trying to protect you and the Hymairean, and to a lesser extent, everyone else. She gives Agata a look that probably gets her anything she wants back home, but Agata frowns and gently lays a hand on her shoulder. Azazuka’s breath hitches a moment, but not from pain.

“What happened? How did this— and why are you here?” Concern. A hint of anger, roiling underneath for the first time. Azazuka definitely isn’t supposed to be out here, and shit’s going to rain down on someone who is responsible. She glances off to one side, her face away from you, but you can tell someone’s getting eye daggers. Then she returns her attention to Azazuka. “I’m afraid I don’t have a palanquin, my dear lady,” she says, taking her hand and simply breathing across her knuckles, the better to not irritate the sunburn, and Azazuka’s eyes flutter helplessly for a moment. “But if it is not beneath your dignity, I would make these brutes bear you on one of our stretchers back— and you, too, my witch. There’s no need for any more walking tonight.”

Han roars her fury into thick-packed cloth as her ass is smacked by a legionnaire to get the coffle marching. But that might as well be a mile away, because Agata’s helping you down onto a stretcher and she’s even got an umbrella for you.

After all, she’s the hero. She’ll take care of you.

Chamber of Harmonious Arrangements!

“—and of course, we expected anyone still remaining around the cursed castle would be in league with the warlock and her demon army,” Cathak Agata says, making an expressive gesture with her goblet. “So when a dragon emerged with several demons in tow, they thought they were under attack and moved with their characteristic efficiency to neutralize the threat! We’re all lucky that I was there to interpret the situation, aren’t we?”

Rain slicks the windows of the oversized cabin. Lanterns softly sway overhead from heavy chains, interspersed with incense braziers. The tables were set down easily, slotting into grooves on the floor to keep them steady, and the floor liberally cushioned to accommodate sitting or reclining as might please one. An erhu player sits in one corner, his silk robe loose and his chest intricately tattooed, playing O! Gloriana of the Triumphs! Legionnaires stand to attention between the narrow glass-paned windows, stoically ignoring the pervasive aroma of Dominion cuisine: duck skin and greens wrapped in pancakes, roast sweet potatoes served with cashews and dried piri-piri, sesame-seed cake and smouldering-wine. Cathak Agata has her own bottle of that last, spiced herself, and poor Lotus’s eyes start watering whenever she twists the lid off.

Because Lotus is sitting next to her at one table, wearing a red-and-gold gown, her blue hair bound up around a golden comb, skin fairly glowing from her hot bath, her lips and lids both gleaming red, with golden accent lines down the center of her lids and lower lip matching her gold-rimmed glasses. It’s not like Cathak Agata has a spare priestess outfit to hand, after all. You’ve all been helped into similar outfits, given that everything you were wearing was taken to be washed. (Though for some of you, “it’s being washed” was the second reason, the first being “evidence.” But the whole silly thing got taken care of! Everything is fine!

That is to say: Han, Giriel, Piripiri, and Fengye are all there, accompanied by Azazuka (on the other side of the Red Wolf), the demonesses (in the service of Piripiri), and Melody/Lotus (unveiled and very aware of it), as well as attendant slaves in black collars and fine robes (open low at the chest) to handle pouring drinks and lubricating conversation.

Han, Fengye: you have been through the mortifying experience of being processed as prisoners of the Dominion. Stripped, cold water poured over your head, then left to stew while bound in cells barely as large as a closet. This made suddenly being pulled out and tossed into hot baths, untied, and offered extensive help from Agata’s handmaidens in getting ready for dinner all the more abrupt and dizzying. Agata’s got the final say on which of those experiences you get when you leave dinner, but it seems like she’s eager to shrug it off as a ridiculous misunderstanding by everyone involved.

Giriel: you have not been through this experience. After waking up on board Beneficence of the Hearth, you cleared up the whole thing with Cathak Agata, who declared that she’d set the whole situation to rights. She’s also explained to you that both of the knights are under care from her physician to see to their injuries and that she would like to have a private night meal with you tonight in her cabin. The sort where food’s an excuse to taste sweeter things. Congratulations! You saved Han and her demigod from the brig, and you’re going to get rewarded for it! Everything is coming up Giriel tonight.

Piripiri: you have been Disciplined for letting Azazuka out into dangerous situations, given that you were meant to keep her under safe observation in Golden Chrysanth. In her usual magnanimity, Agata then turned around and delivered both the demons into your care, and (just before the two of you entered the Chamber of Harmonious Arrangements) informed you that she wanted you to arrange a night meal for Giriel Bruinstead. Because that is, unfortunately, actually a very good use of your talents.

Do try making your own duck rolls. They’re a delicacy for a reason, after all. Don’t even think of having to refill your own glass. Just enjoy the warmth to contrast with the rain lashing against the windows, the pleasant music and incense filling the room, and the brilliant smile of your hostess.

Everything is fine.

***

Kalaya!

You woke up naked in a cell, and it got worse from there. When legionnaires dragged you out of the cramped cell (through a hexagon-shaped room down in the hull, suggesting room enough for six other prisoners), they didn’t offer you clothing or answers for what was going on. They just dragged you up several floors, hands under your armpits, and cuffed you down to a chair in a guest cabin, leaving you to stew and bite down on your gag, trying to find some way out.

Then Cathak Agata takes a seat opposite you, in full Dominion uniform, gold cords and impractical jacket, her fiery hair falling loose down one shoulder, and studies you for a long moment, pointer fingers resting under her lip.

“Kalaya Na,” she says. “Not really what I was expecting.” She reaches out, hooks one finger under your gag, and pulls it down to rest around your neck, then pulls out the sodden wadding, setting it down casually on your lap.

“So, Kalaya Na, Princess of the Lily, can you explain to me how, exactly, you plan to…” She makes a show of pulling out a journal, looking for a certain page, reading the contents carefully. “Unite the Flower Kingdoms under your sword, defeat and humiliate the Dominion and the N’yari, force Cathak Agata to pull your chariot through the streets of Golden Chrysanth during your Triumph procession, and then usher in a golden age unseen since the days when the dragons ruled the whole world, as declared by virtue of the Five Maidens of Destiny?”

The journal snaps shut like the fall of an executioner’s axe.

“I am very interested in hearing how you plan to do all this, and how you’re making your sales pitch spread so fast. It’s like wildfire, and I have to know, because I didn’t think those particular techniques of Imperial Intelligence were disseminated yet. But they’re the only people I’ve seen who are this good at spreading a “”grassroots”” movement, so.”

She smiles, and it’s like staring down a dragon. Your heart really wants you to know that even if she doesn’t have fangs, she might as well.

“Let’s do this the easy way, like friends,” she adds. “I like you, after all, even though you apparently intend to dress me in a cow’s harness and make me trot with a whip licking at my heels. You know, apparently it was a grandmother who was sharing those details when my agent noted it down? Wild stuff. Wild stuff.”

Kalaya

There's one other person in the room with you: she was waiting silently when the guards took you in here. A slender, short woman wearing a black and red robe, a black choker, barely more than a ribbon, holding a pendant with the House Ragara crest. She's got a white ceramic mask obscuring her face entirely, and red hair pours from around it in long curls. In her hands she holds a small medicine chest.

Any medic that doesn't want to show you their face is not a medic you want to be treated by.

Kalaya just stares back at Cathak. Blinking slowly.

Blink.

Blink.

"What."

It's not the most articulate response, but it is the one that comes first and naturally to her croaking voice. After all, what else can she say to this fever dream? Everything since she last closed her eyes has been a disorienting blur of a waking nightmare. She recognises the beats of having been captured by the Dominion; the cold water, the nakedness, but until now the whole question of 'why?' was still bouncing around. With the last thing she remembered being Ushua standing over her in the rain, there wasn't really a trail her tired brain could follow to connect the then to the now.

And now that Cathak herself was laying it out for her, it still made no sense.

Wait.

A grandmother?

Kalaya lets out a groan of frustration, hanging her head and body against the restraints.

"Let me guess ..." she continues, looking up with clearer eyes as the pieces begin to slot together. "You spoke to someone in Turtlehead?"

"I was organising a tourney there, a rite of passage for a knight. It shouldn't have been that big an event, but for some reason every man, woman, grandparent and child decided to sign up." she laughs, bitterly. "It wasn't until a witch arrived, one of my old family friends in fact, that we found out a spell had been placed on the town by a Rakshasa. It was enthralling them, whipping them into a frenzy, but I don't know why."

"Other things happened that were ... more urgent to deal with. So I left Giriel to handle it and headed to Kingeater, which I'm guessing is where you must have found me."

Straighten up. Eyes forward. Posture correct for a princess. Training to the fore. Being naked normally calls for some blushing, maybe a bit of squirming, but not for a knight. Doesn't matter if the medic looks like someone whose first aid kit contains more thumbscrews than bandages.

"I never said those things about you. I don't have any plans. Sorry to be a disappointment."

Chamber of Harmonious Arrangements!

Piripiri stands against the wall as she directs the banquet. She's two steps behind and one to the left of Cathak Agata: if Giriel notices, the implication and parallel is clear. But Giriel would have to notice, and Piripiri fades into the background here. Faded red robes with a subdued pattern, a black veil covering her mouth and the delta of skin exposed by the robe's fold. A white flower sits in her hair, the most vivid part of the outfit. The sleeves drop just past her elbows, and black gloves cover the rest, flashing in signal after signal as she watches the room and orchestrates the servants just so.

Naji and Maid Confined move about the room together, clearing places and bringing new food. A long chain connects their collars and a dainty one connects Maid Confined's ankles, making sure they have to linger and be seen. Fine silk over their mouth ensures they aren't heard. Dominion power declared twice over in bound demons bringing roast duck and taking dirty dishes. Piripiri catches their attention and gestures, subtly, towards Lotus's seat. More stuffed yams there.

Three Bells circles by Piripiri periodically, bringing food as an excuse to exchange a few snippets of conversation, those things you can't do with clever handsigns. She relays who is to do what to the kitchen and the others. She also uses the movement to cover snagging a few bits of food for herself, the minx. Piripiri studiously doesn't notice: it's good to have the loyalties of the servants. Currently she's listening to directions to prepare Agata's cabin: a well-fueled brazier, a round table laden with food, silken cords.

Emli, one of the slavegirls, sits on a stool next to Han, smiling and suggesting various foods. "So you've never left the Flower Kingdoms? Please, try the piri-piri, it grows north of here in a place called Hymair." She's curious and genuine, guileless. She wants to learn about you. She's also insisting on pouring your drinks for you and making sure to get anything you can't reach, taking care of you. You've done so much already, just relax and let somebody care for you here. Emli is delighted to ease your burdens, she always is: that's why she was assigned with Han.

At the head of the table Cathak holds court, Lotus to her right, and Giriel to her left. She's radiant, laughing and charming and attentive. There's an endless flow of servers, Jali, Kun, Ophil, all bringing food and spiced-wine and chilled juices, in every color of the rainbow, from savory-sweet to mouthwatering hot. Srenjeh and Maru stand behind the two guests of honor, attentive to their needs. There will be no pouring of your own wine tonight, indeed.

This leaves Fengye, who has thus far politely declined a remarkable list of delicacies. The third course had salted rice added at the last second, to make sure the poor woman could eat something. Stationed behind her was Quinn, a veteran marine from the Lamentation: he'd been tested against fey reavers and had the blue scars to prove he lived. Piripiri didn't think she was the rakasha, any more than she'd thought Uusha was, but an abundance of caution rarely hurt anybody.