The first battle was of Hell. The second was of Dominion ambush. Han survived a third, down in the murky depths of the barge’s dressing rooms.

She hides the scars from none of them.

The handmaidens bested her in the bath; her skin is on the right side of presentable, freed at last from mud and ichor, and soothed with the finest of soaps. They negotiated an uneasy truce in the mirror; not the royal, regal treatment of other honored guests, but an understated dusting of powders and colors, softening the features without excessive work. At their suggestion, a few glittering, red scales adorn the corners of her eyes. Her hair falls long down her back in smooth, silky waves, contrasted by the sharp collection of accessories they’ve woven through the front, where she demanded her eyes be freed. But the outfit. She had saved her strength for that last fight. A vermillion robe patterned with gold dragons hugs her body tightly - enough to keep up with her movements, without impeding them - broken up only by a sash made up of two formerly-attached sleeves. Her arms alone stand bared in the company. See the sickly, muddled bruises covering them. See the hasty bandages, and know the wounds were from demon blades. See, around her neck, an angry red line, forked and cruel. The best shot of the Dominion, and she stands unbowed.

Or maybe their best shot was yet to come.

It’s not fair. It’s not fair. Give Melody her space, you rotting bastard. Filthy, smirking, Dominion snake. She can smell the stinking wine in your cup. How dare you force her to sit so close. You never even asked her. You didn’t even pretend she had a choice. She’s been through so much and now you make her a hostage without blinking. Because that’s what this is, right? It’s a message. A dare. A challenge. See where your little Melody sits. See what you can do about it. See you cause trouble now, with the deck so stacked against you.

Again. Run through the numbers again. At least twelve legionnaires she can see. There were how many, earlier? It was dark, raining, she wasn’t really looking. They have to be close, of course. Can’t be that big a ship. Time limit. A pile of time limits. How long to clear the table. How long to close the distance. Melody, there, but also Giriel, and between them-Nghh! Her lungs fill too deeply. Her side burns, threatening to come apart. Wilting wrack-dolls, curse them! She should’ve been able to endure a thousand of those thorned things. Should’ve just been a bruise. Stupid demons. Stupid Dominion. Come at her on even ground, see how smug you are then.

Gods. How long was it since she’d seen a proper bed? Since she ate something she hadn’t just grabbed off a bush? Everything smells so good…

Hold on, Melody. Just, hang on. She sees you. You’re not alone here, and she’ll figure this. Uh. She’ll. She’s gonna. Figure.

Red Wolf takes another swig of wine. Melody winces from the smell, pursing her bright lips. Even from so far away, the flickering lantern light dances across them. In Hell, there’d been the green sun, and so much fighting, she hadn’t. Noticed. Thought to notice. Red. Not red. A…better red. Deep. Smooth. Glistening. Cupped gently by precious gold. It’s, painted, of course but, then, why does it look so. So…

(Inviting.)

Wait, no, hold on, what is she doing?! She can’t, bad look! Bad look! Eyes! Look at her eyes, you stupid idiot. She doesn’t need one more person ogling her unveiled face. Eyes are safe. Gold and red and glittering every time she flutters her long eyelashes and what was she doing again? Right, right. Give her a firm nod. She can’t reach her, not yet, but she’s here. She’ll find a way out of this, little bud.

Somehow.

“Yeah. Lucky us.” The cheer is forced through gritted teeth. “Only way we could’ve been luckier is if none of you’d ever came.” She reaches for a pitcher; sobriety and sanity weren’t gonna be pals tonight. Forget dulling her wounds, she’d need it to survive the company-

A hand falls on her arm, careful to avoid the bruises and bandages. The slave girl, stopping her, looking insistently at her for some reason. What now? Is she not allowed to drink until the host is finished? Is that the wine for the third course? Is it actually butter meant for the sweet potatoes?!

Can’t she even get a stupid glass of wine today?

This, Fengye thought with the serenity of the Enlightened, was a test.

If she was unlucky it was a parable.

Once, there was a maiden
Who strayed from the Immaculate Way
Summoned Gods
Bound Demons
Reveled as only a Princess of the Earth should
She was bought before a grand feast
And ate all the things she desired
Forgetting her rank and station
"Desire cannot lie," said she.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. This was a test. This was a test of greed and pride. Was she a rogue sorceress, defiant of the Way, who considered herself a peer of the Dominion's great masters? If she was then of course she would lack restraint and feast upon every treasure bought before her. She would demonstrate before the eyes of the Wise that she had no control - not over hunger, not over magic, a creature lost and craving and bound by and to desire.

A soul so lost was anathema, inviting possession, anarchy, destruction.

Or was she a humble scribe, the least rank in the Thousand Scales? A virtuous and humble maiden whose pen would labour forever in service to the Princesses of the Earth? One who knew that her fare would be rice and salt and watered wine until the end of her (long and peaceful) days, the only reward for her service being promotion in the next life?

Desire and Endings always walked hand in hand, but right now they were locked in passionate embrace. Every scent, every touch, each perfect shape that made constellations of craving flicker on the inside of her eyes - they all bore the sign of Saturn. She might be dead already. The only question might be the Princess of Cathak determining the nature of her denouement, execution, and the wise words with which to address the Priests otherwise. Was she planning a speech about the deceptive being able to pretend virtue when it suited them? If that was the case then she was forgoing her last meal in favour of rice and terror.

But the soul, above all, desires hope. It will forego a great many pleasures to cling to it.

Life was meant to be lived. This was the lesson of the flower kingdoms. Everywhere, everyone and everything sought to revel in life. The rains fell vastly and the flowers sucked in the waters and ached towards the sun. The people congregated in the warmth of inns and homes, of good food and better drink amid the steam. In the mountains, the N’yari basked in their own strength and ever sought for challenge and dominance. The knights fought for fame and an ever growing retinue. And the witches too sought knowledge and were not afraid to practice their art. That was the lesson of the flower kingdoms. Life was for living.

So Giriel Bruinstead, who was large and hungry, and full of life yet, started to recover. First with rest and massage and soft cushions for muscles that had experienced days of walking and constant strain as she had put her whole self into maintaining the spell, had willed each and every body out of hell to their ultimate salvation. Her mind and her thoughts were simply not prepared to race ahead of such exhaustion and so first was to ease out that tension and breathe. To rest, to relax, and to let the magic of time do its work and restore her to life.

Then there was the matter of food and the banquet. Seated as she was by Cathak Agata, she felt that she ought to wait on her host, but the Red Wolf lived up to her name in many ways and seemed to have no hesitation at their meal (especially so when it pleased her guests for her to have such freedom) and so Giri in her turn chose to enjoy the banquet. There was fine sake in abundance, and peppered meat grilled with sweet, sticky rice. And from the rivers salted fish eggs with flavor that seemed to burst in her mouth and deserved to be savored one tiny bite at a time.

Nor let it be said that Giri was an ungrateful guest, for with each service and each delicacy, she thanked her host graciously, hands together, and offered a bow before she ate. Abundance was never to be taken for granted, no matter how common it seemed and Agata was being a gracious host indeed.

There was still a little fear gnawing at the back of Giriel’s mind. Many things, many people were out of place and she ought to worry about them. But sitting so close to Red Wolf, it was difficult indeed to remember why exactly she ought to be worried about them. And more pressingly was Agata herself, who seemed always somehow larger than life even at her rest. She always was the center of things. And Giri wanted her, wanted to feel her, touch her warmth, have her wrap her all up with those strong arms and stronger legs. Yes, Giri was hungry, and bold, and though she did not violate decorum, she sat as close as was permitted to her hostess, and even as she ate and drank, her eyes were not shy as she met the Red Wolf’s gaze and did not look away.

Kalaya!

“A fairy?” Agata’s laugh is both expansive and condescending, as if she’s delighted you’d actually try that. “That’s ridiculous! If it was one of their schemes, I would have…”

She breaks off, considers what she’s saying carefully. (That’s one of the special skills of the Rakshasa, which you may or may not know: they prey in the empty spaces of perception. The more influence they exert, the harder it is to pin down that they’re responsible. And the Red Wolf knows that, too.)

Then she’s up in your face, fast, holding your chin with one hand, tilting it up, her eyes intense. Then she opens her eyes again, as if lifting a veil, as if pulling away a mask. The air is thick with heat, the kind that licks wood and fiber down to nothing, that demands no secrets before it. And you are a shadow in the sun, a little mouse before a viper, flickering, insubstantial—

And she slumps back in her chair, one hand over her eyes, teeth on display, louche. The heat, slow to dissipate, is all that remains of her full power. “Compress,” she says, holding out her other hand to the medic, fingers impatiently curling.

“Well,” she adds, to you, once a cold compress is laid over her (grandmother’s) eyes, leaning back with nonchalance in the chair. “It seems you’re right. They’re such pests, aren’t they?” Her teeth are so white. “I’ll have to see to an exorcist. But the best way to weaken an enchantment like that is to act very directly against it.”

She tents her fingers. “So I think I may be able to save you, Kalaya Na, from leading half of the Kingdoms into the waiting maw of the fairy folk. How exciting it will be!”

***

Han!

“You put that hand back,” the slave-girl says, teasingly, taking your wrist and guiding it back to— oh, that fork. “I’ll do anything you want tonight,” she continues, and she couldn’t possibly mean what you think she might mean, “except letting you besmirch our reputation for hospitality.” Her eyes are sparkling as she leans in close and pours you more, until it’s almost at the rim, and then sets the pitcher down decisively close to her own seat. “Because we have to work very hard on that reputation, I’ll have you know! I’ve done place-setting drills!” She pouts for a moment, before bouncing back (just like her nut-brown curls, bounce bounce).

“Anyway, how’d you get this one?” she continues, eyes savoring a scar running parallel to your bicep. And she wants to know! She super wants to know! And she smells of very expensive perfume, and she’s snuggling up next to you, and she’s even reaching over to help roll your duckskin pancakes while looking at you so expectantly, focused on what you want, how she can spoil you.

Maybe you haven’t even noticed the Red Wolf just smoothly letting conversation flow over your complaint, because you’re in the hands of Emli now, and she has the soul of the kind of puppy who will climb right back into your lap after you set her down on the floor. The social entrapment is all the more sinister for being orchestrated by Emli’s supervisor; she is all sincerity and completely guileless.

But you probably notice when the Red Wolf suddenly diverts the dinner conversation.

***

Piripiri!

Naji slithers up, with Maid Confined wobbling on her heels in her train. She’s got a dish for… you? Held out, with a pleading look, a “nnnhmmmph,” and a nod of the head over to where Lotus sits. Lotus of Tranquil Waters, a hostage who could be the fulcrum on which the transfer of power turns, but one dangerous to publicly keep.

You already know the Red Wolf’s plan for her and her boisterous companion. They’ll be seen off publicly at Lanceolata, personally escorted off by Agata herself— and then they’ll vanish without a trace. And you know, too, who will be assigned the task of returning them to the Dominion’s arms.

Which makes the glance Lotus gives you over her shoulder all the more of an unintended knife. A hopeful “is she hungry?” sort of look. The kind that says that if Agata’s hand weren’t casually resting on her knee, she’d get up and already be asking you why you’re not sitting down (Grandmother forbid) or sharing in the meal. She picks up a strawberry and works it between her lips, completely innocent of how she looks while trying to nibble off the stem, and of how very conspicuous her sneaky glance back at you is. And she’s not just looking at you; she’s letting her eyes linger on the demonesses’ backs, too, when she thinks nobody’s watching, dragging those eyes from the Maid’s heels to her exposed back to the collar—

And then Agata directs everyone’s attention elsewhere, and the little flower jumps and chokes on the strawberry. She puts a hand to her mouth, eyes watering, and makes an effort of trying to swallow.

Someone could step in and help her. Should, even.

***

Fengye!

“And how did you end up there?” Cathak Agata’s attention has suddenly snapped to you. “While we’re at it, what, is the food not good enough?” It’s probably maybe mostly a joke. “Who are you, anyway? I don’t think we were introduced, and, does anyone…?”

She makes a show of looking around at everyone involved. Notably, the knight who brought you along, who trusted you, who thought you could be more even without the help of the goddess? She’s absent. She’s not here to step in and speak for you. And nobody else here really interacted with you, except for the priestess, and she saw you turn into a raging part of the Broken King’s soul.

The Cathak scion turns her attention back to you, and waits for your answer. She’s smiling, but it’s a lazy, expectant smile. Or is it? What is she hiding behind it? Is she hoping to let you dig your own grave? Playing with you as a cat plays with a mouse?

***

Giriel!

Here’s the thing: you know.

Once get all your thoughts aligned in a row, that is. The warmth of Cathak Agata seems to radiate off of her, sinking into your bones, filling them up with lazy warmth. Comparisons might be made, by the bold, to a bear being lulled to hibernation. It doesn’t seem particularly intentional; it’s just that being near her, mid-meal, is making you feel like a cat with a belly full of milk, stretched out by the fire with her paws tucked in neatly.

And the smoke! It keeps drawing your attention away. Its curls up near the roof are a little like all those terrible snakes you had to endure, but, no, they twist and writhe as if suspended, and— every time you’re almost close to it, it’s gone. It smells wonderful. Like cinnamon and cloves.

Then Agata leans close and whispers in your ear: “Wait until you see what I have just for you.” One finger drifts along the edge of your plate, the lacquered nail (three long, two short) almost scraping against the porcelain. And that gets some legs under you, though perhaps all pointed in the wrong direction. Her voice has such a lovely, playful trill to it, and her hair lingers, brushing against her shoulder as her attention darts back outwards. With the confidence of one of the Princes of the Earth, she simply assumes that you will be delighted to have her. And it is very doubtful that she is wrong. There’s a reason not to get too full yet, hmm?

But you know. You, alone out of the room, have the necessary pieces to know that whoever this meek, mousy little scribe is, she worked a spell over the General, a fragment of the Broken King himself, and reduced her to the furiously blushing, grunting, teetering-in-heels maid barely given enough time to finish pouring you more wine before, with a thickly-muffled whine, she’s pulled off towards the Dominion agent standing well behind you. She is a wonderworker, a sorceress, and she may have saved all your lives.

She also looks like she’s just risen out of her own grave, Agata’s attention on her making her seem to dwindle into a flickering little candle-flame, and she hasn’t said a word about what she did. You don’t know who she is, why she’s not crowing about her victory, or why she allowed her prize to be taken from her— but you could reveal what she did to everyone.

Do you?

Kalaya

The compress was waiting when her hand went out. Maybe it was in that medicine chest, it's open now. No thumbscrews in sight, actually, as you blink away those burning spots in your vision. And the masked woman is looking at you with... pity? Sympathy? She does not like what has been done to you by the Rakasha. She takes out a small box of balm from the chest, partially used already and smelling of citrus, and starts to rub it into the cuts and bruises from your fights.

Her touch doesn't feel anything like Ven's. It's still, one hopes, soothing. She doesn't want you to hurt.

Chamber of Harmonious Arrangements!

She picks up a strawberry and works it between her lips, completely innocent of how she looks while trying to nibble off the stem, and of how very conspicuous her sneaky glance back at you is.

She looks back, her face a polite mask, burying the guilt under scorn. What a hamfisted, overacted, lack of nuance to a seduction attempt she-

And then Agata directs everyone’s attention elsewhere, and the little flower jumps and chokes on the strawberry. She puts a hand to her mouth, eyes watering, and makes an effort of trying to swallow.

Oh gods she's clueless.

Two steps forward and she's behind Lotus in a crouch, and a further push and she's breathing again. She glances at Naji, crooks a finger, and takes the plate from her. A stroke of her finger down the line of Naji's spine, good girl, and then a pat on the back sends her out to continue circulating. Azazuka needs more wine at her table.

And Lotus is staring and as red as that strawberry. Hm. Piripiri crouches next to her, ignoring the screaming from her legs and back. "Are you finding the food to your satisfaction?" She favors Lotus with a friendly smile as she takes a bite from the plate Naji had brought her. No wolf here, little lamb. "One hopes the servants are as well."

That's a 9 on Emotional Support for Kalaya, if you feel this would be valid emotional support. Pick one from the list.

Why should Red Wolf mind the challenge of this upstart dragon? She sits, on the other end of a high-class banquet, and any threat to her seat must first contend with this phalanx of high society. Han has hardly taken her first step forward, and already the waters rush in to swallow her whole.

Which startles her more; the soft, but firm touch of Emli on her wrist, or the discovery that the extra forks weren’t just spares? What is she to say to place-setting drills and pouting faces and, and, certain? Phrasings?! She mumbles out her thanks, and instinctively knows she’s done something wrong. (No one will tell her what, but they’ll make her pay for it.) The meal offers little refuge. Nothing here looks familiar. Some dishes ask for forks. Some dishes ask for hands. Others are not dishes, they are garnishes, and only some of those are edible. It’s anyone’s guess which is which. Cups of sauces surround platters full of savory meats, and perhaps they are the table’s, or perhaps they are for pouring. A small plate orbits her larger one, and that may be hers, or it may not be, and everybody here already knows but her, and the only way she can find out is by watching everyone else, intently, but not too obviously, and her stomach rumbles at the smell of it all, but she has to wait, she has to look, she has to, she has to, she has to.

(She has to. If it is to happen, for her, she has to do it.)

Unless, food should happen to be on her plate already. Unless, somebody were to keep her wineglass full. Unless, the person sitting next to her (so close to her) seemed to always be having what she was having, and slowly, so that she can watch how it is meant to be eaten. Unless, somebody were to fold up her pancakes into tasty little bundles, with just the right blend of flavor and texture so that every bite is crunchable and perfect. With every dish, pour, and touch of the hand, Emli plucks a little weight off of Han’s shoulders, and only when it is gone does she realize she was carrying it in the first place. Only by the overwhelming relief a full glass brings her does she realize she was worrying about fetching more, and now she doesn’t have to.

It’s. Nice. Unusual, but nice. So unusual that, moments later, she will mindlessly reach for the pitcher again. When the tray of those scrumptious pancakes passes through, she’ll try to grab some without thinking. Patience, Emli, patience. She has not snapped at you yet for your forwardness. Her eyes flash surprise, confusion, the barest hint of alarm, but then she relaxes, pliable in your expert hand as you guide her back where she belongs.

She is on edge. She sits in the den of her most hated enemy, and knows not what she plans. She sits beside a loyal agent of the enemy, and knows not what to think. But she is starving. She is thirsty, for water, for strong drink, for company. She is tired, so tired, weary from toil and injury. And isn’t it so nice, to have such simple needs met, gladly, without having to do a thing herself?

Patience, Emli. Patience.

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh this one? Which one?” Han blinks, peering through a whirlwind of fine dining back into the present, the person sitting next to her. “Oh. Uh, that one. Uhhhhhhh.” She rubs her neck, struggling to remember. (Her eyes had been locked on the priestess as she nibbled on a strawberry. Sitting so close, how could Emli miss the heat rising in her cheeks?) “Oh yeah, that one. Wrestled a tiger that got a taste for village livestock. Jerk got a few good swipes in, before I threw them over the nearest river. Learned his lesson after that.”

(Nobody saw her do it. The good villagers of the Flower Kingdoms had given her the cold shoulder, but not before she caught wind of their tiger problem. She could’ve stoked the fires within her, sent a surge of vitality through her body to heal her wounds, but she’d have been stuck in the wilderness afterwards, little more than a defenseless lump. By the time she’d found a safe place to crash, the wounds were too old to simply erase.)

Han follows Red Wolf’s conversation, for there still is some part of her clinging to her words, searching for the knife she’s positive must be there. And, come to think of it, who was this other guest? She was with them when they all left, but was she with them in Hell itself? Not that she could remember...

Weird. Very weird.

"She saved all of us in hell" Giri purrs, lounging at Red Wolf's side.

Giri is caught between many things right now. Caught up in Red Wolf's aura, yes, but also there was a question that Red Wolf just asked the room, one that Giri knows the answer to with a clarity unmatched by anyone else present save Fengye herself. Why shouldn't she rush to please her host with her information? And on to that there is a worry nagging at her mind about this little scribe and the divine spirit that is with her. She doesn't know how that works, hasn't pieced it together yet, her mind feels like it's moving through molasses right now. But isn't that even more reason to share this information? To leave it to a hero of the dragon-blooded who is surely experienced in such matters. There's also the fact that Giri is already on her third glass of sake and there are fewer barriers between thought and word than there might normally be.

"I don't know how it happened, but she's host sometimes to a divine spirit of the heavens, partial to Venus if the local gods of Turtlehead are to be believed." Giri takes another sip of her sake and plows forward.

"I still don't know her name, but I'm certain of it. I watched in the hells as this woman bound the General of the Broken King and reduced her to that maid wandering about over there." Giri chuckles and sips her drink again. Her demeanor is far less serious than it ought to be for revealing such dire news as that serving girl is actually an aspect of the broken king stripped of her power, but then again Giri has professional interest in the matter and she saw how thorough the ritual was. Her worries at least were minimal for the time being, even if she ought to be afraid of things going wrong down the line.

"I can't tell you why a heavenly spirit has deigned to grace us with her presence through this vessel" she says, her formality dripping with a hint of mockery given her past experiences with the spirit to date. "And as far as I can tell she has no agenda but to appear and work marvels regardless of whatever else is happening." Giri looks at Red Wolf, the smile on her face a mixture of was I a good girl and a relaxed warmth from the food, drink, and presence of the dragon-blooded. She, at least, had decided a while ago that this simply was what it was and had put it with the problems to be sorted in the future along with the Rakshasa, finding Ven, and figuring out how to keep Han together with her little girlfriend.

"I apologize, dread lord," said Fengye, eyes downcast. "But the sorceress is mistaken. This one is but a humble scribe, incapable of performing any of the incredible feats so described. Though one would understand why she would seek to redirect suspicion, given her sacrilege in stealing the blood of the Dragon from Lady Piripiri and offering it in sacrifice to the Demon Desert. Her claims, of course, lack evidence while mine can be proven by simply inspecting the wound on Lady Piripiri's palm."

[Knives Behind The Mask: Take a condition, Giri
Persuading a NPC of a lie using The Mask: 7. The Red Wolf gives me the benefit of the doubt and will remain convinced even in the face of evidence.]

Cathak Agata

The intensity of your gaze brooks no secrets, and yes - Kalaya might be no more than a mouse before the viper - but this mouse doesn't shy away. This mouse keeps her eyes open.

Tell me, Cathak, what do you see as you are staring into the depths of this Knight? You see the fingerprint of the fey on perception, you know Kalaya isn't lying about that - but what else do you find?

Because this moment goes both ways, and Kalaya is looking back.

[Roll to Figure out a Person: 5 + 3 - 1: 7 - Asking: "What are your feelings towards the Flower Kingdoms?" and "How can I get you to leave the Kingdoms alone?" - Cathak can ask one in return.]

When the gaze is broken - Kalaya's forehead beads with sweat. She rests back against the chair too, a more restrained (literally) mirror to your lounge.

"Yippie." she deadpans, in response to your declaration. "I'm feeling very saved already."

She doesn't even bother rattling the clasps to make her point.

--=====--

It's the touch on her arm that brings her awareness back to the wider room around them. Soothing and smelling of citrus.

Kalaya's eyes flick to the mask, ready to dismiss the other woman's efforts - but then she catches her eyes. That emotion in them. That sympathy. They're not the eyes of a soldier just doing their job.

She actually cares.

Kalaya's gaze locks with the medic's just for a moment, before she glances down and away. Her head tilts in acceptance, a thanks. As much of a bow that she can do right now.

It's nice to know there's someone else out there.

[Clearing Angry]

Chamber of Harmonious Arrangements!

The erhu player chokes and lets the strings run silent. Emli breaks off mid-simpering, suddenly serious, watching the Red Wolf like a mouse like watch, well, a wolf. Legionnaires stand looming with more intentionality.

She holds out one hand. Piripiri’s eyes dart around the room for a moment before she removes her glove, peeling it from her skin, and places her hand in her mistress’s waiting palm for inspection.

Dead silence. Agata is unreadable as her eyes drink in that cut, so slow to heal. She looks up, considers Piripiri for a while, then back down at the cut. She’s barely breathing.

“Sacrilege indeed,” she says. “To give the blood of the ancient guardians to the enemy they kept at bay. Even I know how serious that is.”

Piripiri’s hand is released, and the Red Wolf turns her attention to Giriel, at her side, so close, so favored.

“My hands are tied,” she says, quietly. Angrily? Passionately. “Lady Giriel, I find you in violation of the Sanguine Edict of the Mother of the Host.”

Two legionnaires step forward at a flick of Agata’s hand. Giriel is pulled to her feet; a glove is crushed over her lips as her hands are wrenched behind her. And Agata rises and suddenly is on her, their faces close, speaking in a whisper…

***

Giriel!

“I have to keep up appearances,” she breathes, the promising fire licking at your cheek. “Trust me.”

Do you? Or do you lash out, betrayed?

There’s a shiny XP if you let yourself fall into the clutches of the pretty girl, incidentally. And trouble, too. Plenty of it.

***

Fengye!

Nice job. You’re out of the frying pan— but are you out of the fire? You are beneath suspicion, but Agata does not seem particularly happy that you forced her into making a decisive move. She might very well spin around and make an example of you next. She very definitely doesn’t believe that you did that or that the demon maid is them, but that makes you vulnerable, particularly after dinner, when she can isolate and deal with her guests again.

Here’s a lifeline, though: despite Maid Confined being under the control of the Hymairean dragon-blooded, she’s still connected to you mystically after a wonder-working like that. If you can get your fingers on the metaphorical strings, you can give her a (literal) nudge. And she’s got a vessel full of wine.

***

Han!

Emli’s got her hand on you, trying to soothe, to comfort, but fuck that, right? Right?

Except. Uh. Okay. See. You did just see that wound on the other dragon-blooded’s hand. And it did look nasty. And, well, Giriel is a witch. Sub in the Red Wolf for a brave knight, and you’ve got the end of a bunch of lowlander stories.

And sure, you might be a highlander, more accepting of witches, but witches are still outside the community, and your own palm prickles in sympathy.

But on the other hand, this is Giriel we’re talking about. You know her. There’s got to be a reason why she did that, and you should definitely speak up.

(On the third hand, the injured dragon-blood is standing right next to a frightened-looking Lotus, who’s sitting like a deer frozen in the middle of the road, across the room, in harm’s way.)

***

Piripiri!

So here’s the thing. Agata is obviously into this witch. She’ll be like this for a while. At least a week. And she’ll pull her punches as much as she can.

But she’s also devious. There is a very high chance that she’s angling to make the witch one of her slaves, atoning for her crime through loyal service. And she’ll say it’s only for show, until it turns out that it isn’t, but by then it will be too late for the poor, foolish witch.

And then you’ll be stuck with her as a colleague, or as a servant, or as sulky entertainment. Not the first of Agata’s flings to end like that, either.

Does the thought cheer you up, or make you tense up?

***

Kalaya!

Cathak Agata is descended from the last great dragon in the world, and that fact is searing. She is a dragon in her heart: confident in her power, rapacious in her greed, and careless with the things she considers lesser. What is the Flower Kingdoms to someone like the Red Wolf? A stage. A toybox. It’s full of pretty girls and pretty flowers and a chance to play the hero. She means to make it a jewel in her hoard; to take what she likes from it and add it to the glory of the Dominion. She is hungry, Kalaya. And the Flower Kingdoms are so delicious.

As for getting her to leave the kingdoms alone— you are aware she’s here under orders, right? You would need to put her in such fear for her life that she would run back to Lamentation with her tail (metaphorical) between her legs, or else present a unified front with no weak points for her to exploit, the kingdoms yielding under one crown. And out of everyone you know, there’s only one person who’s got a real chance of doing either of those things.

She just beat you senseless, and the last you saw of her was getting shot in the side.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” she says, eyes still covered. “I can hear the pout. All you have to do is work with me. Wear our colors, work alongside some of our hard-working girls from the Legion, and prove decisively that you are not some destined champion against the Dominion. We can even pick out a target that works for both of us. How about those catgirls? They’ve been a problem for a long time, haven’t they? Well, I think that we could definitely teach them a lesson.”

(Sending the Legions against the N’yari would horrify them. It would be an act of Mars, bloody and domineering. They would withdraw, suddenly and in grief, and then either seal the doors of Mount Fang shut…

Or they would retaliate in fury, and then it would not just be simple raiding. The Flower Kingdoms would burn. Bullying, teasing N’yari would die. So would innocents who, normally, would just be in for some kidnapping and theft.)

[Kalaya, please answer: How could the Red Wolf get you to serve her?]

Chamber Of Harmoneous Arrangements

Piripiri's gaze rakes over the banquet hall as she primly slides the glove back on, smoothing out any wrinkles. Any hint of pity is matched with furious, arrogant scorn: how dare you? The glare only softens for Azazuka: she'd rather her not have seen this, at all. All the while, her head's racing. The witch claims that the scribe's a divine vessel, who bound the General. The scribe countered with, well, the truth. You can use the truth to lie, she does this all the time. Three daughters of dragons, a demigod, a witch, a scribe who might be host to a celestial god, two demons, a merchant princess, everyone else wants something. Giriel isn't resisting and the slaves know their jobs. She's not needed here, and she'd like some distance.

She turns to Lotus and offers an arm. "You seem like you may need some air. Would you like me to accompany you to the upper decks?" A crook of her free fingers sends Three Bells along, collecting food from the kitchens that wouldn't collapse outside of the dining room and up to meet them above. And then not a rout, but certainly a retreat at speed, from the attention. Past the legionnaires, currently gently but firmly escorting Giriel out, out the door, and around a corner.

Take a second, and. Breathe. Shove everything down. Emotions do not get shown.

"My apologies about that. I do not like showing that I was hurt." Every word is enunciated slowly and deliberately. Another deep breath, and then more casually. "I also worried you were upset by the demons in the room. My brother is an Imaculate: he's told me that they do not take kindly to the gods or those who serve them. The top deck does have a lovely, if small, garden. If you'd care to join me?"

Kalaya

The last of Kalaya's wounds are treated. The masked woman tucks away the much emptier salve box inside her medicine chest (no thumbscrews in sight), pulls out a bandage, and starts wrapping your chest, quick, businesslike movements. Maybe not a soldier? She seems to know what she's doing, even if she's rusty: her hands speed up as she goes, like she's remembering some long ago tutor's lesson. Like you might, if you had to go back and play the harp after leaving the tutors teaching you how to be a princess for the path of the sword. Regardless, those calluses are all wrong for a pike or anything with a crossguard.

She finishes your undergarments and opens the door, accepting a bundle of dark cloth from a guard. Turning to you, she shakes out a robe in Dominion colors. "Would you like me to dress you in this?" Her voice is a murmur, barely heard. "It's what we have. No strings." The masked woman glances at Agata for confirmation. Well if there was any doubt who was in charge, there isn't anymore.

Giriel's heart skips a beat when the scribe begins speaking. And then when Piripiri brings her hand forward, it simply sinks to her feet. There's no shot of adrenaline, no burst of defensiveness. She simply slumps. She'd known of the possibility of course, and Piripiri had been nursing her wound, it wouldn't have been hard to notice. But she had hoped that...that she'd be believed. That after all this, after all she'd done, the way Red Wolf had celebrated her, she had hoped for the benefit of the doubt, had even been confident in it. Drunk and relaxed and willing to simply share what she knew.

But no. She had committed sacrilege for dark magic, and though it had won their freedom, that was how it was going to be. Perhaps she ought to run. Or to fight and make a show of herself. But that too seemed pointless. Cathak Agata, the Red Wolf had them all in her jaws and a small army at her beck and call. For all her strength and learning, Giri was not a fighter, she had barely even begun to study the sort of magic that would let her be a fighter, and it seemed a damn fool's errand to try it now. Besides that, she wouldn't give the damn scribe the satisfaction of watching her struggle. Twice now, twice she'd been in the presence of this heavenly spirit and all that had happened was all her affairs thrown into disarray. She would not, not, not let it happen a third time.

So she simply let the guards approach her. She deserved her punishment, deserved to suffer for what she'd done. She should never have trusted that she'd be believed, that when it actually came to something hard to swallow that anyone would trust her skills, her learning, or her experience. No, she was an idiot for believing in Red Wolf that way. She'd known it too, and been lulled anyway. She was...

...a jolt went through her at Red Wolf's words. She shouldn't. Shouldn't trust. Shouldn't believe. It was a fool's errand. But, she wanted to so badly. She wanted to trust Red Wolf, wanted to be close to her. Her thighs and her chest ached to be close to her, to curl in upon her and rest her head upon those strong shoulders and snuggle close. She wanted it desperately and so she believed when she shouldn't.

When the guards approached, she let them bind and gag her. As a witch, the binding is significantly more thorough than it might be for a regular prisoner. The guards pull her arms behind her and tie them with Agata's well-made silk ropes. First hands closed around each other and then tied around the wrists tight enough that she can't pull her hands apart to prevent any sort of magical signs and gestures. Then again just above the elbows so that she can't move her arms away from her body nor her hands up from her butt. The cloth gag they stuff into her mouth so she cannot speak any spells and then bind it with one of Agata's red silk scarves behind her head so she cannot speak beyond a moan and can utter no spells. And finally there is the blindfold, this too of red silk wrapped twice about her eyes so she cannot see through it to remark upon her confines or be able to call upon the local gods that might reside with her.

Her trust, then, is to not only accept the inevitable but to relax into this. Had she known that she was following the best teachings of Piripiri, perhaps the two would have felt greater sympathy. But regardless, there is nothing more for her. Robbed of two senses, she is led by the guards not unkindly. One pulls her direction by a rope and the second stands by her side so that she doesn't trip as they escort her from the hall to be even more at the Red Wolf's mercy than she already was.

The dragon-blooded servant slips her glove back on, carefully slipping the fabric over the ugly slash across her palm. The scribe testified to perverse blood sacrifice to dark powers. The Red Wolf handed down a judgment without a second thought. But where explanations, counter-points, the fatal blows to misunderstanding might fall, she speaks only silence.

The Legionnaires were not in the business of mercy. The fell on one and all, not caring for the weak, the injured, the unarmed, the innocent. Every act of rebellion was met with more chains, more humiliation, a faster march, yet the muffled whimpering of the priestess silenced her where these punishments could not. How long they spent trudging through the rain, she could not say. But where explanations, defenses, the vouching of character, given at risk of punishment, where these and more might have prevented it all, Giriel spoke only silence.

Han stands in the Chamber of Harmonious Arrangements; deaf, for a moment, to the gentle pleas of Emli. They truss up Giri in Dominon reds, bind her under the law of a land not her own. The injured dragon-blooded lays her hands on Melody and rushes her out of sight. Heat rises, building in her chest, washing through her face, her eyes, her heart, and all is red, and all is choking. But where rescues, defenses, the bold warnings to seize not what is hers might ring out, she speaks only silence.

Even if she has to tear herself to pieces, she will speak only silence.

"I can work with anyone." replies Kalaya, tersely. "But why the cats? If you really want to stop this, why not just lend me some exorcists and we can hunt that Rakshasa down without the need for an army."

Even though she's saying this, she already knows the real answer: To make the Kingdoms dependent on the Dominion. A full scale war with the N'yari would bring nothing good, and would only ensure a Dominion military presence here forevermore.

Now, to answer your question Red Wolf, it depends on what you mean by 'serve'. Kalaya is a sworn Knight of the Thorn, her oaths are paramount and watched over by Bright Rose Aching; a goddess in the court of the Sapphire Mother. To supplant you over them in her heart would be very difficult. You'd have to show her that all the things that Knighthood stand for are false, that the goddesses that she honours are deceiving her and, well - need I go on?

But to 'serve' your ends, well - that's an easier proposition. Kalaya can be bullied. She can be tricked. Importantly, Kalaya is not lying when she says she can work with anyone. While she has seen your true goals for the Kingdoms, and will resist being made out to be a pawn of the dominion, she knows that, right now, she is at the weakest in terms of bargaining positions with you. Her only real leverage is her life, and the difficulty that might be faced should the Kingdoms learn you've taken it.

Don't push her so far that she feels that cashing that in is worthwhile and you will still have a potential asset here.

Kalaya loves the Flower Kingdoms, her family and Ven - in that order (although you may not know about that last one yet?). Present a threat any of those, with your desires as the solution, and she can be brought in line. The N'yari are a good one and, while she has questioned the choice, this is done in the spirit of a counter-offer, not a dismissal.

Of course, your best bet to have her work with you is to return her her arms and armour, lend her the exorcists with your banner, and send her hunting against the Rakshasa. But will that be enough for your needs? If you want more - then make your pitch. You can double down on your proposal, accepting no compromises if you want and she may feel forced to agree.

Just know that the tighter you make the cage around this bird, the more she will fight against it and the more damage she might wreak should she break free.

In the meantime, Kalaya glances at the clothing on offer and turns back to Cathak, with an eyebrow raised.

Fengye does her best to keep her water from spilling as she raises it to her lips. She is a humble scribe. She drinks only water and eats only rice. She does not race the wind on unbroken legs and she desires nothing as all rewards will inevitably come to her following long lives of virtue. She is beneath notice and she has hardly spilled any water upon herself.

Instead it is time for a more thoughtful calculation. This ground is familiar - averting the wroth of a Princess of the Earth whose ire has been raised by an unwelcome truth. An entire branch of her education was turned towards such a thing - it was named etiquette, but its meaning was self preservation. The Red Wolf's temper is unlikely to burn long - she has great matters to tend to, and fairer maidens to torment. Retribution may be coming but it can be sidestepped.

But should it? Here a dark thrill runs through her, an edge of heady daring. She is no mere scribe, not any longer. She has an arsenal of hidden techniques. She has spells of deception, of summoning, of control - Serenity is Control. And she still has an agenda to work. Stars flash on the inside of her eyes like sparks and she can feel the weight of fate on her shoulders - and knows that instead it could be in her palm.

Now she struggles again with her water - this time it is not to keep her hands from trembling, but to keep the glass from cracking. She sets it down with a delicacy that belies the pounding in her head at the idea that she just deceived a Princess of the Earth. She could do so again.

She sits and waits. There are so many other things she could use this power on than mere escape.

Vault of Rushing Fountains!

It is very difficult to have a bathhouse on board of a barge, no matter how luxurious. It is thus all the more incredible that the Dominion has managed it. It’s simple, true: one small, if not particularly shallow, tub, which requires slaves to fill it up with buckets of heated water. And, yes, it means that there’s not particularly such a thing as personal space. But the water is warm, the scented candles are strong, the attendants are here to scrub and lather and rinse, and it’s difficult not to feel stress melting away.

This, then, is the other side of the coin to the prisoners’ first arrival; this is how the Dominion treats honored guests.

“Honored scribe,” Emli says, some bashful color in her cheeks— not just from being in this cozy stone tub along with Azazuka, Han, Jali, and Fengye, but from her admission of inadequacy. “I’m sure that you could explain to our guests what was the matter back there better than I could. I’m still learning my catechisms, you see, and… and you’re smart, you know these things!”

She cuddles closer to Han, skin on skin, still blushing, and stares at Fengye with big, earnest eyes. The water ripples and steams; bells chime gently, though the barge is so steady that it must be some shift in the air, rather than the river below.

***

Piripiri, with Lotus!

“You’re hurt?” That’s what the little demigod says, brown eyes blinking in concern. “I didn’t even— here, please, let me help.”

She lays her hands on your glove, looking at you not with pity but with an earnest desire to help. She doesn’t care that anyone might turn the corner and see you; all of her questions about what just happened to the witch are, for a moment, forgotten.

Do you allow her to do so?

***

Kalaya!

“I have very little interest in giving the fairy the opportunity to weave her net of lies tighter around you,” Agata says brightly, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I want the opposite, truly, I do! It is absolutely unbecoming for a knight like you to be made a fairy pawn. No, striking at the cats works for everyone: I can show my commitment to working with the Flower Kingdoms, you have the opportunity to display some knightly heroics, and perhaps even win some trophies of your own.“

She lowers the compress, which has left her face wet, and gives you a maiden-killing smile, all smoulder and wry amusement at her own self. “Come on, princess,” she says. “Give me an excuse to set you free. Help me set aside the Principles of Domain Management for the benefit of a pretty girl, and let’s make the future brighter for both of us.”

Right here, right now, it’s not hard to tell how she’s become the heartbreaker of half of the Flower Kingdoms. What ever would Ven say if she saw this?

***

Giriel!

The waiting was the hard part. Kneeling on the floor, knees on a rush mat, legionnaires standing on either side, alone. The small gods of this place are still, or indolent, or suspicious of you, and so you sat, bound, silenced and blind to the world, awaiting the pleasure of Cathak Agata for what seems like hours. Long enough that you might begin to doubt.

Then a door, opened; the presences beside you withdrawing; a door, shut, locked. Boots, slipped out of; feet padding almost silently across a floor. A coat crumpling to the ground. Liquid, being poured from bottle to cup, with casual lack of perfection: the glop and splash of liquid that a patient and well-trained girl would never allow.

Then the Red Wolf drapes herself over you.

“Someone’s been a naughty girl, hasn’t she?” She sounds… amused. Perhaps slightly tipsy already, or just in a whimsical mood. She cups your chin and lifts it as she… from the sound of it, sits on top of a low table, the kind you ate at during dinner. Just enough height that she’s making you blindly look up at her.

“You’re going to have to be punished, you know. I’ll have to make a show of it, at least for those of us on board. Nip any rumors of excessive leniency in the bud.” Her giggle suggests a mischievous smile. Her thumb traces the lower edge of the scarf, then trails down to your jaw.

Then she tugs down the scarf, firmly, and works the sodden cloth out of your mouth— only to tuck it down the front of your fine black top, making sure it’s well and truly secured in place, wedged firm. Only then does she raise the wine to your lips and tip it just so, wetting your dry mouth. You stop when she decides you stop, lowering the cup once more.

“Do you have anything to say in your defense, my Lady Giriel? Is there anything the court should be made aware of before I pass sentence on you? Extenuating circumstances? Service already performed for the Dominion? Groveling, pathetic apologies?”

One finger hooks in the collar of your top once more, and tugs, teasingly, insistently, downwards. “Would you even commit the folly of attempting to bribe one of the Daughters of Victoria~?”

Her voice is a purr that would put a N’yari to shame.

Threefold Garden

It's a fancy name for a small garden. A trellis in an L has ivy growing up it, sectioning off a small amount of the deck from sight, with raised beds holding flowers blooming in the night air about hip height. Piripiri's standing at the railing, brown eyes staring out into the dark at the jungle just across the water, invisible in the murk. How to explain?

"I come from Hymair." For once, she doesn't smother the sudden well of homesickness. A deep breath and squeeze of the railing, and then she can continue. "I come from Hymair, and to us, what Giriel did was wrong. Horribly so. Not because my blood is sacred. But because... you'd need to understand, first, I'd yielded in a fight earlier. It's dishonorable to fight after that until the sun's crossed the horizon twice. And I'm a noble. Fourthborn, yes, but my honor matters to me." A glance to Lotus: does this make sense? Are you so alien that this is confusing. "So when she bleed me, I couldn't resist that. I'd be just as furious if it happened to, I don't know, that scribe downstairs. If she had asked. I would have given it freely." A pause. "That does need to stay between us, however. Immaculate philosophy and all."

She takes another deep breath, eyes closed, and lets it out, deliberately, before jade eyes open. Feels good to soak into your element, a good way to center. Her sifu would call it a crutch. Then he'd smack anybody who called a crutch a bad thing: any tool you can use is a useful tool, just know it's limits. "So I need to leave the hand wound for the moment. The... repercussions of what happened, there, haven't fully shaken out. But your offer is appreciated, genuinely."

She pauses, then asks the question that'd been biting at her. "How would the Flower Kingdoms view this? A daughter of dragons who's captive, a witch who needs her blood to have all of us escape hell? What's the moral action to you, oh priestess?"

Kalaya

The masked woman pauses in the middle of folding back up the robe at the word "princess", eyes narrowing as she glances back at you with renewed focus. Then goes back to folding the robe, deliberately unruffled. Looks like you just got made.

9 on It Wasn't All Bad with Lotus: gain a string on Lotus and she'll respond with something interesting or useful from her upbringing.

If you'd taken Giri out to tea (or perhaps a lot of sake) and asked her how she imagined this going, it was not this. She certainly had not imagined answering for her wrongs and the wrongs of her profession tied up with a scion of the dominion held close to her. But even if you'd posed this exact scenario, what she'd have told you over drinks was that she wanted to be strong, stoic, willing to accept what fate had dealt her and face her fate with dignity and grace.

Which makes the deep blush coursing its way through Giri's whole body all the more difficult to bear. She can speak but she has no words as Red Wolf drapes herself over Giri's body. The weight of her and the warmth, gosh it's so much! Red Wolf is far more than mortal and the blood of the dragons coursing through her makes Giri's heart flutter. It's heat and touch, pressure along her back and shoulders, almost like a stone massage. Her muscles loosen and the sound that escapes her mouth is a sign of pleasure.

It almost hurts. In her head there is pain and apology, and more than a little indignation, but her body wants only to relax into the ropes and the grip, for Red Wolf to dig those talons of hers deeper under Giri's chin and stroke the neck just shy of drawing blood. She wants Red Wolf to hold her whole head and bury it between her thighs. She wants it all, and she can't even move or see.

"I'm sorry" she says and through her pleasure it barely sounds like she means it, but she does. Perhaps Red Wolf is so experienced in such matters of physical pleasure that she knows what it sounds like when someone sincerely means what they're saying yet sounds silly because of the pressures their body is putting on them. Or perhaps she expects the impossible out of Giri and wants dignified respect even as she drunkenly wraps herself about her captive. If so, she will be disappointed.

Through her sighs and her cuddles, Giri does eventually manage to get out a few sentences though. "It was the only way I could think of for a spell to get such a big group out of the hells. I didn't want to hurt Piripiri but it was the only way I know. I wasn't strong enough to do better, please tell her I'm sorry." And then a moment later, after she's had a chance to just breathe and can speak again, "I finished your first request. The spirits are calm, and Peregrine, the witch who was doing that spell, she's busy elsewhere now."

That's as much as she has to offer. Even getting that much out through the teasing has her panting, and it's obvious she's at war with herself not to simply moan and beg Red Wolf for more. She wants more. She wants it bad. If Red Wolf would just massage her back and work one of those hands further down and down she'd lose all thought entirely.

And here's the thing: she's letting Red Wolf know it, her body responding to every touch and pressure with sharp breaths and moans she can't hold back. That hand works its way so carefully along her back, first lightly, then harder, pressing on the muscles and pushing against the knots. Giri lets out a low moan of pleasure and leans in as much as the ropes will allow her. That hand keeps moving down, down over the lower back and to the butt squeezing her cheeks tightly and then lower still as Giri lets go of all words and relaxes into the Red Wolf's ministrations.

[Giri is rolling to entice the Red Wolf. 4+2+2-2=6. A miss.]

Han!

You have been having a complicated day, haven't you?

You don't know where to touch. What to look at. What to be. Your head is swirling with the smiles of girls, the swords of girls, girls, girls, girls. Catgirls and dragongirls, knights and sorceresses. All that strength and not knowing where to apply it.

And now you're sitting across from Fengye.

There's something hypnotic about her eyes, the way they catch the light - it's sometimes like her pupils must be blue. And even though she's bare chested before you, arms spread wide against the stone side of the tub - a situation that would be vaguely confusing and frustrating with anyone else - somehow with her it's not confusing at all. You know exactly where she wants you to look. You know when it's her eyes. You know when it's her arms. You know when it's her chest. You know when it's her eyes again.

You know something about this is dangerous. You know it's terribly dangerous - for you. For her. Like a dorsal fin slicing through the water, a secret too close to the surface. She shouldn't look at you that way. But then she tilts her neck up and you wonder if maybe that's not something you have to worry about.

"Do not exert yourself seeking understanding," said Fengye to Emil, but her eyes stayed with Han. "Grasping for knowledge leads to suffering. It is not ours to know. It is ours to be taught." She flicked a smile and a curiously imperious gesture at a serving maid behind her and warm hands began to brush and braid at her hair. "And isn't that a comfort? The Lords of the Dominion have a duty to us, just as we do to them. And so, if anything is required of us, it will not be left to chance. We will be instructed. We will know the difference between right and wrong immediately and without ambiguity." Up, commanded her eyes wordlessly, meeting yours Han. "And is that not a desirable way to live?"

She shifts slightly. There's a space next to her in the bath, if you wanted to slide across into it. You're aware that is what she wants now. Who this scribe is to dare wanting this of you is a question at war with the simple reward of the concession to that desire.

[Enticing Han 8]

The last bathhouse Han attended had been a humble roadside affair, one of the last gasps of ‘civilized folk’ before entering the Highlands proper. The activities of the Vermillion Beast had taken a little money from hands less deserving, and she decided to treat herself. It was simple, as simple as she remembered it, with fine floral scents dancing through the air, steaming pools, a kindly family who ran the place, and a fine, hearty meal afterwards. She’d spent a night in welcome company, washing away the concerns of her journeys, and went to bed completely happy.

Here, there were more soaps than she knew existed, and that was before she even stepped foot in the tiny tub. Not even the order of washing, scrubbing, and rinsing was the same. Despite the best efforts of the attendants, no explanation rang anywhere close to familiar for her comfort. And so here she sits, asking nothing of the numerous servants buzzing about her. Asking nothing of the pretty girl hanging off her arm. It is impossible to see her hands through the water’s surface, but judging by her posture, they are folded chastely, stiffly in her lap. She holds her heart tightly against the ministrations of luxury, heedless as it burns, it pierces, it hangs heavy in her grasp.

Emli asks the question. And that’s when her eyes meet the scribe’s.

So full of anger and worry. Does she even have a thought to spare, to why her eyes rest so easily on yours? The barest push, and she stumbles out of herself to see your arms, walking slowly, leisurely down their length. So lithe, so smooth, the arms of a scribe faithful to her work, positively glowing with delicate care. And then. And then!

When you draw her eyes upward once again, she looks at you as if you’d just asked her to steal your wallet. You wanted her to steal your wallet. Now she has the little pouch clutched in her hand, and what are these shiny round things it's filled with? Co-oyens, you say? Just what is she supposed to do with these? Just what are you asking of her, you, you, whoever you are?!

A yawning, empty chasm stretches between them. To leap across it risks falling into its unfathomable depths. To make the leap rewards her, it will give her, there’s, the scribe will, what? What?! What does she want with her? What will happen if she accepts? What is she agreeing to? Why is this even being offered, whatever this is? Why is she looking at her like that? Why?! So many questions. No hope of answers. She knows so little. She aches so terribly.

Amidst it all, what little she knows - really knows, deep in her soul - stands in shining relief, as lights in a fog. Danger lurks before her, yes. But not malice. Only a (beautiful) scribe, with a steady voice, promising something simple, on a day when everything has been so, so complicated. If she would just take one, little leap. For her.

She intends to drift over, casually, but such is impossible even for heaven’s favored ones. A push, and she floats slowly across the pool in the sight of all, coming to rest beside you, honored scribe. (Sitting, with your arm looming perilously behind her. She watches it, out of the corner of her eye, as if it were a snake.) “Sure are banking a lot on your ‘Lords of the Dominion’ not being complete wilting jerks.” She fires back, in this completely casual and normal discussion of philosophies, between two people just sharing a bathhouse. “Fresh out of luck if they don’t really care about you.” And maybe she would’ve said more, had she not been suddenly and profoundly aware of Emli pressing warm against her, following into the open space beside her.

One, little leap. And she is surrounded.

[Han will give into desire, despite having no clue what she's given in to.]