Giriel folds her hands serenely and doesn't stop walking, forcing them to keep up or teleport to stay near her if they really want to be that extravagant. "Oh, her? You just missed her. She's in the hands of Heaven at the moment." That's Heaven with a capital H and any witch worth her salt would hear Giriel say it that way. "You can try to interfere with them of course, in fact I'm gathering these N'yari to do much the same since one of them was taken in the process."

Giriel does not point out that they are technically in the hands, or guts, of an earth spirit and the little clerk is racing after them, but she feels entirely confident that at least one Heavenly spirit is in on the matter, so she's not lying here.

"Of course, now that I know that a Witch and a Warlock are interested, maybe I should suggest that the N'yari kidnap you two instead." Giri chuckles because she's not really serious, right? Unless she is. "Really, I think Hell's already taken too much of an interest in this kingdom, don't you?" She looks at the Warlock directly. "Thinking you can get one up on demons is how you get your soul flayed into a hundred pieces. Try not to take Kalaya with you when it happens?"

Kalaya-phraya!

“And then! And then! Who should show up but my delinquent of a little sister, dragging a poor lost priestess behind her! Can you even imagine what the poor dear must have gone through? But then the goddess sent me a message— or, at least, I thought she had, but then the fox vanished, leaving me out here, in the middle of nowhere, and it’s just so much!”

She buries her face in her hands, elbows on the table, and bawls. There’s been a lot of buildup, and she’s finally lost the last bit of her composure— one might well assume. Certainly, this isn’t ordinary priestess behavior.

“Ever since I tried to get that spirit to banish one of the rakshasa, not knowing that it was even worse, that it was base and vile and… is that it? Has the Sapphire Mother of Lotuses abandoned me? Every step of the way, I’ve, I’ve, I’ve tried to do the right thing, and… what am I supposed to do now? I’m supposed to know! That’s my job! Just like you’re supposed to be strong and do swords good and, and…”

She crams the palm of one hand against her messy face. “Don’t even look at me,” she groans, suddenly embarrassed at how completely she’s coming apart in front of the first stranger to show her kindness in… probably some time.

---

Fengye!

“I have rights,” the mud-spirit complains, sullenly. Its fists are terrible maceheads, its back hairy with roots and stems, its face a squarish approximation. “Rights to not be treated like this. I know my rights. I’ll put in a complaint. Go back to where you came from. Not here. Not our land. I have rights.”

A delicate hand briefly bursts forth from the muck and smacks its side, furiously, before being slowly dragged back in, uselessly clawing at yielding mud.

“Our Thorn Knight will fix things,” it continues. “Send them all back. All the outlanders who don’t treat us right. The Dominion and their gods, all gone. Sapphire Mother’s crown and daughter, retuned to her. Out of the way, speck. Go home.”

---

Giriel!

The warlock draws her sword. It’s a smooth whisper out of its sheath, but even a whisper can be menacing. Her breath is rattled; you’ve struck a raw nerve.

“And what do you know? Idiot witch!”

“Not an idiot,” Peregrine corrects, still behind you. “Dependable. Conservative. Not likely to help. Come on.”

“I will not be insulted,” the warlock yells, and it rhymes with the lessons she’s learned from her tutors. The Broken King cannot endure mockery or questioning. He demands subservience and respect. “Keep her name out of your mouth and get out of our way, hag!”

“Not in our… mmm.” Peregrine runs through a mystic calculation of symbolism and demonology in her head, gauging relative impact on her sorcerous project over any other concern. “No. You’re right. Demand satisfaction.”

Evidently, she thinks that having Ven back down would be bad for the purpose. If that’s the case, your intuition says that Ven losing decisively would wreck her entire project. Even odds on her being furious or simply shrugging and taking it in stride.

Ven herself is… well. Clinging to anger, embarrassment, letting her own emotional armor dig into her wounds. The comment about Kalaya really got under her skin, didn’t it?

"You and Lotus are respectively numbers five and six. So I suspect the question is, is this your first time being kidnapped?"

Her head appears from the side of the screen to peer owlishly at you, tilted.

"You are in my care. The conditions of that care reflect on me. It would be improper if the lady Lotus and her... hm." She frowns as she searches for a word. "Companion. Her companion were not treated with the respect they deserve, even in captivity. Now. My job is to do improper things, when there is a need, but there isn't one here."

She raises an eyebrow, and then slides back behind the screen fully.

"And so, your training, safety, and other such things one does for those in their care fall to me. There's a famous story of the heir to House Kemaal being taken captive, and the next day the responsible party hired the family's swordsaint to continue his training during the negotiations for his return. That is the honorable and just thing to do, because you are not my enemy, you are my prisoner. And so. Respect due to the lady Lotus of Tranquil Waters, daughter of the goddess Sapphire Mother of Lotuses."

There's a final shuffle of cloth, and then Piripiri folds the screen to one side, a deep bow and outstretched arm presenting Lotus.

She is veiled. It would be improper to leave one of the cloth unveiled, and so there is a azure translucent cloth across the lower half of her face, covering bright lips painted a shiny copper, in turn parted around rainbow layers of fine silk scarves muffling anything she might say. Turquoise is painted on about her eyes, a contrast to the warm brown.

Turqoise also sparkles against her skin, a shimmering dress hugging her form, accenting curves of the hip, the chest, the thigh without demanding the attention. A black, translucent overrobe covers it, accented with embroidered pink petals across the body. It was likely meant to look like they're flying about in a breeze, but here they float on the blue, guiding the eye in one curve up the demigoddess. Overlarge, flowing sleeves lend a fluid grace to her pose, the robe loose enough that her shoulders are left bare, skin exposed. Heavy obsidian beads form a bracelet around each wrist and a choker about the neck, glinting in the afternoon sun filtering in through the windows. She's barefoot, and the black silken cord keeping her here fades into the background against the display.

She is the water that nurtures the fields, the water that quenches fire and rage. She is, for perhaps the first time, being celebrated for herself. And Piripiri sincerely hopes Han finds her radiant.

Long ago, when Han was too young to fight a war, and just old enough for the world to declare one, her family made her attend the Festival of the First Blossom. They pulled an awful chrysanthemum dress over her head, brushed her hair until it was long and wavy, and kept holding her hand even when she asked to go race the other kids around the entire village. No, they said, we have to pay our respects at the village shrine. No, they said, we’re eating now, and you’ll upset your tummy. No, they said, and she wasn’t listening then, because whatever the reason was it was going to be stupid.

So she didn’t think much when a priestess in a flowing blue dress stood up in front of everybody, her veil glittering like starlight. She yawned, rather than wonder what the name of the stringed instrument the attendant was plucking at, or why she only needed to hear each string once to tune it properly. The priestess took a big breath, opened her mouth, and Han crossed her arms sulkily, determined to ignore whatever she was about to say.

The Festival of the first Blossom, as it so happens, commemorates the story of the First Flowering Tree. The legends say that, in the middle of a glade, there stood a single tree, with branches stretching out to the mountains, and bark as hard and bitter as her heart. No flower could grow beneath her thick cover, and she liked it that way. Couldn’t stand the flowers, their thoughts all empty fluff, pretty sweet nothings with no root. Not like her. Her branches were wide, to catch the ever-falling rain. Her roots were deep, to withstand the driving winds. When all flowers were gone, she would remain, and this would be her victory.

Then one day, the clouds parted. For the first time in her long, lonely life, the clouds parted. There in the sky hung the Sun, in a dress of radiant, translucent gold, her hair flowing wild and free down her back, a song of the stars dancing upon her lips. In her radiant light, all the tree’s good sense evaporated like the morning dew, the bitterness of her heart clearing like so much fog. All at once, her limbs blossomed into flowers of every color. Reds and blues and violets and greens, stripes and spots and starbursts, everything she could think to be and everything she didn’t know she could be. All at once their petals opened to drink in even more of the Sun’s glory.

Was her display of love enough to catch the eye of one so far above her? Do the trees blossom so, even to this day, because they have not yet told the Sun the full depths of their love? There are many tellings of the tale. The high, clear voice of the Priestess sung them all, and sung them none. For the song of the First Tree is a song of longing, and not one of finding.

Han stormed out of the room before the applause had died down. Later that evening, a flowerless tree fell in the woods, punched until its trunk split in two. And in the memory of its shade she curled into a ball, the rain soaking her horrible new dress, and there she remained until morning.

This, then, is the song that she hears in place of thought. A priestess’ song of years ago. She remembers every word.

Han stands before Lotus of Tranquil Waters, daughter of the Sapphire Mother of Lotuses. She does not remember standing. She does not remember walking. Ah, ah! Do you see my flowers, oh Lady of Heaven? I will reach my branches to the skies, that you may see them. That I may see you. That I must see more of you. More of you! More of you!

Han’s gaze drifts up and down the waters of her body. She can count the stones around her wrists. Pink petals stretch themselves across her chest, suggestions of shape. She counts the stones hanging around her perfect neck. Any moment, the wind will catch these sleeves, and she will dance on the air. Why do no flowers bloom where her feet meet the floorboards? Her shoulders glow where sunbeams kiss her skin. Her face. Her face. Her face. Hide not your face from me again, or I shall surely wither. Memory alone could never sustain me.

Han steps no closer. For you are of heaven. And I am cursed to root in the dirt. There is a sky between us, that I cannot cross. Her clothes are bitter rags, well-worn in travel, crusted with mud. Her skin reeks of battle and grime. Her tongue is crass and foolish. This is as far as a dragon may approach a demigod. Her worship must be from afar. Though my life began when I beheld you, though I will surely die without you, what use have the Heavens for a bitter, ugly tree?

"I know nothing. And everything. Peregrine knows too, she's just...mmm...not prioritizing safety over knowledge quite right. I think she's right that I'm conservative." Giri laughs, long and hard. Loud enough to alert the N'yari around her, though who knows if they can see what's happening or not. "But then, I'm conservative because I've summoned demons too, and I saw what happened and learned from it. You still have that opportunity. We do not need to fight here. You can abandon this scheme, I promise Kal...I promise she'll be happy for it."

Giri pauses, looks, tries to gauge something about these two. She can't possibly beat both of them, but Peregrine is signaling that this is Ven's fight and again Ven alone there was a chance, even if it didn't favor her.

"Still, I don't think I'll allow you to simply go past me. You might anyway, I've never been much of a fighter. But I think I ought to try. We just...we don't have to do this, please, there's another way."

Giri unsheathes her sword, which she has never used as a sword and holds it in both hands, but she steps back. It's up to Ven to make the first move if this is what she wants.

"Hey, Hey. It's okay. It'll all work out." says Kalaya, signalling the storekeeper to bring another basket of dumplings.

"The Sapphire Mother doesn't abandon her children - I'm pretty sure at least - and as for what to do next, well, you've come to the right place! After all, I've already rescued one priestess from a spider demon in a hell-infested castle, so tracking down your sister and her priestess shouldn't be too hard."

"... buuuuuut ..."

Kalaya rubs her forearm and shrugs awkwardly.

"Look, I'll be honest - I've kind of found myself with a bit of a loooong list of problems to fix. Including saving the Flower Kingdoms from the encroachment of Hell, the Dominion and defeating this rakshasa that is trying to whip up an army in my name."

"... I normally wouldn't ask this - but can we work out some kind of deal here? I'm sort of in the same place as you: not really knowing what to do next about some of this. And needing help with other things."

"For the first; There's another Knight of the Thorn in town, Dima, who needs to placate the local river spirit. We'd thought about summoning something - perhaps a water demon - that we could defeat to regain her favour. I've promised my help to her first, but if there was some way you could intercede or help us with the summoning? Do you know any magic like that?"

"Once her issue is dealt with, I'd be more than happy to accompany you to help you find your lost sibling. Dima and Petony might also come along, so you'd maybe get three knights to help!" she says, trying to sell the idea.

"As for the second thing ... these problems facing the Kingdom are getting bigger than me and my sword and, I'm ... frankly a bit afraid of the consequences of making the wrong choice. So I want to ask the Sapphire Mother for her advice and guidance - that's the sort of thing you priestesses can do right? Request an audience?"

Glancing down, Kalaya shuffles over to give Sagacious a reassuring half-hug.

"There's always going to be these moments where everything feels like it's coming apart. I don't know about you, but when it feels like that I try to remind myself of the things I've sworn to do, and the things I've sworn to protect. It helps ground me - a rock to lean on when everything else feels like sand and petals to the wind."

"You know what I mean?"

[Rolling emotional support - 3 + 5 + 1 - 1 = 8 - If Sagacious opens up to Kalaya, she can pick one from the list. In addition, Lay on Hands activates - she is healed of physical ailments and can choose to either validate Kalaya's Devotion or criticise it - granting an XP or a string.]

"Of course you have rights," said Fengye. She is wild, fierce, rain-soaked and blue eyed, but none of that stands between her and the lessons she learned while others were studying the blade. "As is your right I shall address you as the Rootwash, moving soil that leaves the mangroves bare. I shall make you the offering of mango, rice and salt and perform the flooding dance," only the faintest touch of hand to knee, "and cry out your name as I strike the ceremonial gong. I shall haul your shrine from the river using the sacred rope and scrub the silt from it. Because you have rights."

She raised a finger. Pointed. "As do I. She is mine."

Piripiri leans in close to Lotus first, lips brushing against her ear, and whispers instructions.

"Be protected. Be kept safe by her, and me. Be valued, for yourself. Aid her, and treat her wounds. Talk with her about any anxieties the two of you have. I will be giving you privacy."

She winks with a soft smile. Han next.

"Guard and protect her from harm. Should the need arise, use the blade. Talk with her, reassure her, discuss anything you want. Allow her to care for you. You may remove the gag but not the rope. I will be giving you privacy."

And then, she leaves, shutting the door after her. Time to give the two privacy, and secure the lodge.

A shiver runs down the length of her spine. Piri’s words and Piri’s lips caress her ear in turn, and in each moment she knows not which to expect. And thus, both pass straight to her unguarded heart.

The door clicks behind her. They have been given privacy.

She steps closer.

Her thoughts are…her thoughts fall strangely silent. Muffled, even. At the edges of her awareness, she feels the sharp edge of danger, the instinct to be on alert, but of what? Her heart cannot tell, exactly. It is too busy with another song to hear any note of alarm. Guard and protect her from harm. Talk with her. Reassure her, the poor thing. Allow her to care for you. Talk with her. Reassure her. Allow her. Guard her. Talk. You may remove the gag.

Han stands before her demigod. Her charge. Her hands rise to the sparkling veil, all but brushing it, and then she freezes. Frowns. Pulls back, and scrubs her grimy, filthy fingers on the least dirty corner of her poncho. A bath of rosewater and fancy perfumes would be better. It’d be what she deserves. Talk with her. Reassure her. Guard her. It will have to do.

Her fingers slip beneath the veil, cupping her cheeks, brushing her flowing blue hair aside to reach the knots on her neck. Piri’s work is good, and thorough. No knot is so tight as to be uncomfortable. Each scarf is tied separately. One by one, Han gently teases them loose. Scarf by scarf, she unwraps Lotus of Tranquil Waters, running her rough fingers over her face, her neck, her lips. Hands that carved the earth in two stroke her skin, their touch as light as butterfly wings.

At last, she grants Lotus her voice again. The gags lay neatly in a pile on the bed.

“It’s gonna be alright, little bud.” Her voice isn’t made for breathy softness. Even whispered, a growl runs through her halting words. But still, she speaks. “I’m here. And. No one is gonna take you from me.” Her hand hangs, awkwardly, halfway between face, and shoulder, and hair. Unsure of where to touch. Unsure of where she could touch. Shaking, with strain and fatigue.

[That’s going to be 5 + 4 + 2 = 11 on Emotional Support]

Giriel!

“What other way?” She drags the hilt of her sword down her brass arm, scraping, discordant. A hell-sound, slavering and vicious. But underneath…

There’s something there. Something that Kalaya can’t help but reach for. She hasn’t lashed out yet; she hasn’t called for demons contracted to her will, or swung her sword at your head. She’s still making up her mind, even as she paces, gauges your guard, considers you— and what you stand for.

There is always another way, Giriel Bruinstead. The warlock is lost, committed to a path that she’s already spent much pursuing. If she gives up now, she’ll spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder for the debt to come due. But you can help her stop.

This is your magic, Giriel. And of everyone in the Flower Kingdoms, you’re the person that she needs right now. The one who can show her that there is another way.

There’s a shift in the wind. The smell of the rain is cleaner. The seasons are close to changing.

---

Kalaya!

Half-hug nothing. Sagacious Crane pulls you in and clings to you. She’s not a particularly good hugger— all stiff and awkward— but she definitely needs it. Isn’t this what it means to be a knight, after all? This isn’t the usual sort of distress, but you’re still being helpful. Of use. Her hero.

“Yes, yes, that’s— yes, I know just the place where we could beseech the Sapphire Mother for her aid and advice! I’d, I didn’t want to go back to her after the failure of my… well, that’s not important right now. What is is helping you, brave knight!”

With some remaining sniffles, she takes you by the arm and leads you down the river. It’s not the worst walk in the world, despite the rain, the borrowed umbrella from the dumpling stand, and the exhaustion you yourself are facing. And the way that the priestess is clinging to your arm and laughing a little too much at what you say. You might have an admirer, Kayala.

But the sacred place she’s bringing you to? It seems that it’s already occupied— by a great, hulking mud-monster facing down a defenseless woman with an umbrella. One you’ve definitely never met before. Isn’t this the sort of thing a knight’s supposed to get involved in?

---

Fengye!

You have an audience yet again. Coming down a nearby dirt path are a priestess clinging to the arm of a knight, neither of whom look like they’re having a particularly good month.

“Come and claim her,” the Rootwash mumbles, in a pathetic attempt at subtlety. No doubt it hopes you will sink your hands into the mud, looking for the Maid, and then it may force any concession out of you it pleases. But the invocation of rights was correct, and you have this under control— so long as the knight and the priestess don’t interfere.

---

Lotus!

Han is a hero.

That’s why your heart is racing, isn’t it? Feeling her strong, steady fingers remove layer after layer, unwrapping you, freeing your voice, somehow even more enticing than being gagged in the first place? How gentle she’s being with you, even as she winces whenever she raises her arm too high? How she growls, in a way that sends shivers down your spine, that she’s going to protect you? You wanted to be saved by a dashing hero, and that is exactly what you have gotten. It’s difficult to even try and find your voice.

But you have to. Because only a selfish girl would indulge in her own pleasure without caring about the needs of her hero.

“Han,” you say, and your voice is a fluttering bird in the cage of your heart, beating against the bars. “You’re hurt. Please, let me just… may I?” Your fingers brush against her sleeve, slowly rolling it back, even as you look Han in the eyes. She’s tired, and she’s trying so, so hard not to show it. “Please. You got hurt trying to protect me. It’s… it’s the least I can do.” It’s the only thing you can do. You’re not a swordfighter like the two children of dragons who fought over you, like a treasure they both desired. Your tongue touches your dry lips (surely just because of the gag!).

You lower your veil, and scoot down, kneeling beside her— which is a mistake, because now it’s just a little too high up to kiss, and also you’re kneeling next to her like a N’yari slave-girl waiting for permission to serve, but you can’t get back up. Your legs won’t obey you, because you’re staring up at your hero and you can’t decide whether you want her to let you kiss her wounds better and cradle her head in your arms or to pull your face up to hers with those rough, gentle hands and kiss your unveiled mouth, and you shouldn’t be thinking about that, but your lips are parted anyway and you can’t pull your eyes away from her mouth, even as you rub her arm and wait for…

For permission. To be allowed. Even as the daughter of a goddess, you are familiar with this. A good girl asks for permission before she acts. A good girl considers the feelings of others before her own. A good girl respects that Han only sees her as something to be protected, not as… as more.

“I don’t want you hurt,” you say. “I want…”

I want to kiss you. I want you to hold me and make me feel safe. I want you to tie me tighter and toss me over your shoulder in a daring escape as i breathlessly squeal into every one of those gags. I want you to think I’m pretty. Do you think I’m pretty? The way you looked at me…

“I want you…”

And you should say something to finish the thought, but it just hangs in the air, and you are completely at your hero’s mercy as you kneel there, in the most gorgeous dress you’ve ever worn, staring up at her through your golden spectacles, heart in your throat, lips parted, goosebumps under your fingers.

Giriel takes a deep breath. "The way of the Flower Kingdoms. The way of good land, warm rain, and warmer noodles. The way of sharing those noodles with someone whose touch makes your heart skip a beat and laughing with them when they order more chili than they can properly handle and have tears streaming down their face by the end of the meal. The way of travelers who feel safe to travel. The way of festivals and dancing and fireworks. The way of strong mountain cats who worship strength and the moon. The way of valiant knights old and young, of witches who know the land and the people, and priestesses with their little brown foxes who know it even better. The way of friends who will always offer a hand when you stumble. The way of lovers who can see your true heart and love you all the more for it. The way of trust."

And to make her point, Giriel takes her great dark sword and slowly, carefully, she turns it about and she sticks it into the wet and muddy earth, driving it down and down until the point hits hard ground and down further until it stands on its own. And she steps to the side, away from it, out of its reach.

"The offer of the Flower Kingdoms is that if you look for help, you'll find it."

She supposes it's too much to hope that Kalaya might stumble out of the forest to really ram the point home, but Ven that both Giri and Peregrine can find her if they need her, and so can Ven herself.

Come and take her?

Oh, wouldn't that be lovely? To be a creature of such strength and power that she could just fucking do that? Even here, alight on the edge of adrenaline, glowing with the cerulean wash of desire she knew that she couldn't. She couldn't cross that distance. She couldn't beat this spirit. This one thing, this small thing for something she wanted more than she'd ever wanted anything and she couldn't. A wall of mud and muck and indifference and she couldn't climb it on broken legs. No sword. No spear. No bow. Only an umbrella and the ability to call monsters.

Monsters. Demons. They filled her head, their names and shapes and catalogues. You couldn't just read about them - even in words explaining the curve of their wings some of them made their way inside you. They changed the way you thought, the way you imagined, the way that problems could be solved. Puppets for a road, chariots for mercy, the howling wind for silence. Their logic flowed through her mind in alien cascades. The prices they'd declare. The power they represented. The allegiances they held. Would they free her Maid from her prison form? Would they shatter her and ascend on the wreck of her power? Would they do their job as commanded? If only she had the capability to do things herself she could choose how they got done. She'd thought that power had meant strength, but there had never been enough strength to make all the world bend at once. She'd thought that power had meant authority but there were always fractures between her desires and the desires of her monsters. Even manipulating the powerful, how she'd started her career, had placed her on the razor edge of her mistress' caprice.

How could she get what she wanted? What was the path? The azure stars were still as unreachable as ever no matter how many times she altered her approach. In changing her approach she'd lost coherence with herself. With each re-invention she was still a slave and she could hear the laughter of Venus in her ears. In her temper she saw a new path; one where she could cast this god's star from the sky and weave it into a needle of starlight. A new path to power built on fear and ruthlessness. Maybe that would be the way.

Come and claim her. Her fingers itched. Her knees didn't. She could see the tumbling arms of the haywain. And...

She remembered. Words said in a past life.

Which did she desire? The Maid, or her pride?

... the Maid. Perhaps untrue, but she was too proud to admit to herself that she was a slave to pride.

And so, with eyes burning blue, she turned and looked towards Kayala Na. Do you remember her, Kayala? The crippled girl you met in the forest, who you helped briefly and then forgot in your pursuit of another? She remembers you. She'll never forget the way you discarded her. It's a dagger in her pride, right next to the one she adds there now.

"Help me~!!" Fengye begs, clasping her hands together, eyes filling with shining tears. "Please, noble lady! That terrible monster has stolen my darling and is imprisoning her inside it! Please! You're my only hope~!!"

[Entice: 10. Fengye takes a string on you, and choose from the list]

Of course she remembers! The grin that breaks out when she sees your face tells you that much. If anything, seeing you here is a relief and you don't need to ask her twice before she's running at the mud-spirit, scabbard drawn.

I really need to get a new sword at some point.

Still, the scabbard will do. It worked on Machi and she was way bigger than this thing. Or, at least, much more solid, muscular, taller and okay, this is not the time.

She starts swinging, strong arms and the work at hand drowning out intrusive thoughts. For now, she focuses on skillfully batting away at section of the spirit's belly while ignoring its scandalised roar. Complain all you want about rights, Spirit, but a Knight is involved now and it's her duty to protect the weak, to help those who ask for it. Whereas you, my dear turbid friend, are holding someone helpless against their will.

Some things just get alot clearer when you're swinging a sword.

"It's good to ... umf ... see you ... umf ... Fengye!" she says, between strikes. "I'd hoped ... you'd gotten away ... when I didn't see you ... in Hell ... after Kingeater ... got sucked through."

Suddenly, one chunk of the monster is splatted away, revealing a pale hand sticking from the muck. Kalaya ducks under a brown arm as it swings for her before reaching in.

"Do you still have that ghost horse?" she finishes, as she fishes for the Maid.

As for you Fengye - look at what you've unleashed with your request! The way she moves, the way she ducks and fights on your behalf? Does that pull at you? That this woman will face monsters for you without the need for spells or chains of binding.

Does that count for anything?

[Rolling to defy disaster, putting herself in the line of fight on behalf of Fengye. 2 + 3 + 2 = 7 - Gallant Rescue is at play here, granting a string on Fengye.]

The stories lied to her.

When the Sapphire Mother takes the stage, she doesn’t walk. She has people to do that for her. She lounges on a seat of brilliant blue lotus petals, borne by priestesses in their finest silks. She does not command them to stop, and set her down. She does not demand they bring cups of the finest wine, and raise them to her lips whenever she desires drink. She does not snap her fingers for someone to take the coat from her shoulders. All this is done for her, freely, as an act of worship. In deference and demonstration to her power.

Bull. Shit.

The priestesses could drop her any time they wanted. Or throw the wine in her face. Or make her stand there awkwardly with her coat on like a big dumb idiot while everyone points and laughs. Power?! There’s not a damn thing powerful about, about priestess on their knees, begging to serve you. Screw that, there’s nobody who’s got more power than them. There’s nobody that could drive a dagger through your heart easier. If the Sapphire Mother’s so powerful, why doesn’t she just float in herself, huh?! Pour her own damn wine! Gah!

Let her care for you.

The barge didn’t count. Emli was. Different. If she wanted to eat some breakfast in the morning, what was so bad about somebody bringing it to her room before she woke up? Saved her a damn walk. And, if she wanted to sulk walk around the gardens, then of course she wanted directions. Stupid barge, with too many stupid decks to keep track of. Emli was smart, and, professional, and good at a job she, loved, and, she’d do all that whether you asked her or not, and you could always just, leave, or do something else if you wanted. It’s. It’s different, when, she’s on her knees, in that dress, with those eyes staring up at her, so she can see the flickering lanterns reflected in them, and, and, asking. With. Her mouth. Open. To…

(Her burning heart is doused in river and rain. All available fuel burns to hold her shoulder together. Lotus’ hands are so, so light. And soft. All she does is stand here. Lotus strokes her arm tenderly. She will not stop. She could stand here, and do nothing, and she wouldn’t stop pouring this little, tender comfort on her. If she tugged, she could pull Han to her knees. If she laughed, she could shatter her. If she smiled, she could pull her heart out of her chest, and she would never get it back.)

Let her care for you.

Something between a growl and a groan nestles in her throat, and refuses to come out, or make up its mind which it would be when it did. It is the stupidest noise she has ever made, until she opens her mouth to speak. “Alright. Just. Don’t freak out. It looks worse than it is.” She sits? She kneels? No, she sits. No, she leans casually against the side of the bed. No, the bed’s the wrong height and she’s the filthiest thing in the room she sits. No, kneels. Crouches? She crouches. She crouches very close to sitting, but she could stand up anytime she wanted to, so there. “Damn floor….” she mutters.

She rolls up her sleeve to her shoulder. And keeps pulling it back.

Her shoulder is mottled with deep purple splotches. Something may have snapped inside. Maybe several somethings. She holds herself stiffly. She can’t see where the bruises stretch onto her back. She can feel where they darken her collarbone. Perilously close to her neck. Her throat.

(She fought the Dominion spy? In this condition?)

“I wasn’t gonna leave it like this or anything.” So, you can’t scold her now. She didn’t do anything wrong. “I was gonna heal it on my own, when I got my wind back.” Her wells of Essence were dry, is all. Dry enough that she couldn’t flood her body with life and energy. All she’d have to do is sit here, and bite her tongue for however many hours it took to build her reserves back. Then she could spend them. Then she could lie limp and exhausted, and wait, and wait, until she could stand again. Her little bud would never have known. She couldn’t have known. Not on the walk. Not in the fight. Not a minute ago.

Lotus would’ve offered to heal it on the spot. Because she’s kind to everybody. Because she’s got a heart big enough for the whole world. Because it’d break that heart of hers to know somebody was hurt, and she could do something to make them feel better. Even if she had to kiss their neck. Their throat. Anywhere, anyplace, even where only lovers and slaves go. And Han knew that. And if she let anything slip, it’d be just the same as…it’d be just like tricking her. Into kissing her, again. When she’s just kind to everybody. Even beasts.

But it’s different, when she’s asking. If she’s offered, already.

Let her care for you.

Han’s free hand finds Lotus’. And clumsily squeezes. Because she needs to hold something, or else the rush of blood and terror in her head will sweep her away. Do not let go. Do not let her go, Lotus of Tranquil Waters.

“You should. Be thorough.” Oh gods oh heavens what is she saying what is happening what is any of this. “I don’t know how any of this magic crap works, okay?! So. I. Want you, to.” Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa?! “Take your time. And. Don’t miss any spots.” She looks her in the eye. She has to look her in the eyes. Oh gods she’s looking her in the eyes. “That’s what I want.” And Lotus is looking right back and she’s leaning now her chest is pressing soft into her arm and

oh.

(Her lips are warmer than she remembers…)

Giriel!

The warlock closes the gap between you. But she does not strike. The sword is the promise of violence in her hand, but she holds it back, torn between anger and hope, doubt and longing.

“You’re lying,” she spits between her teeth. “I wasn’t offered help. I was never offered help. And where was your help, witch? What have the people of these kingdoms ever done for you that wasn’t done to curry your favor, to buy your help with the spirits, the portents, the demons at the door?”

---

Kalaya!

Two mud-slick hands grasp at you. One is desperate, flailing, the delicate hand of a dainty maid.

The other is the firm, clawing hand of a N’yari warrior. One who could, one imagines, put Fengye and Sagacious Crane at risk. You know how opportunistic the N’yari are; if you pull her out, she’s likely to try to grab someone and make a run for it.

So here’s your choice, noble knight. Do you pull them both out? Or do you fumble, try to get a better position, and risk the enveloping, clinging mud-embrace of the spirit?

---

Lotus!

Oh, Han.

It takes you some time to realize how she’s shivering underneath you, trying so desperately not to… to do something. Your attention was absorbed in the delicate work of pouring your essence through your lips, your tongue, giving her everything you can. Here, far from water, in the wood which drinks its essence, you give her everything.

The gash scabs over, the scar glossy as lacquer. The bruises ebb, the blood-dam loosening with a twist of your essence. Cool waters lick along her veins, dampening her fires, reducing her pain, and that must be why she shivers; her skin prickles with cold.

You try to stand, to not linger, to not take more from Han than she would want from you, and the room slips sideways. Your essence is unbalanced; you silly girl, you didn’t need to give her so much of yourself!

But she catches you.

Your head is on her lap. Her hands are on your head. When you shift, the links of the chain around your ankle drag across the fine boards of the floor.

“You saved me again,” you say, and you can’t stop yourself from smiling. Your face uncovered, your dress splayed out around you like the petals of a flower, you smile up stupidly at the girl you…

“It was my fault,” you blurt out. “I got you into this mess, and I did too much— I should have gone slower— thank you, and, if I had to be here, with anyone, I love. That it’s you. That’s what. And. And.”

You turn, blushing, still smiling, and nuzzle your mouth against her palm, toes curling as you try to will yourself to turn into water and melt through the floor.

“I want you,” you mouth against her skin, again.

Kalaya pauses, momentarily surprised by the sudden choice before her.

N'yari. Dainty Maid. Which one to save? Which one is she meant to save?

Now, if you'd asked her, she would have guessed that the dainty maid arm was the one that belonged to Fengye's darling love. But the scribe hadn't been specific, and it was wrong to assume that just because Fengye was ... of the softer persuasion ... that her heart would look for likeness only.

An image of Muscles and Fur blinks through her head. After all, there were things to be said for N'yari physiques. Academically of course.

She grabs both arms, pulling hard until they are out of the muck.

"I've got her! Both, actually!" she says, as they slip free. "Now which one's yours?"

Send her to fight all the N’yari in a night, bare-handed. Put the flood-waters before her and ask her to hold them back. Bind her in dresses of delicate flowerpetals and play a reel for her to dance. But do not ask her to hold herself up any longer. She isn’t strong enough. The reed-thin demigod bears a dragon to the ground, presses her back against the silken sheets. Now, there can be no running. Not until the miracle is complete.

She burns. She shivers. Her roaring heart fills her ears. Lotus hums softly at each kiss. She is crushed beneath the curves of her body. She grips her hand like it is made of glass. Her shoulder ices over into blessed numbness. Wet, warm, tender brushes at her skin. Beg this could last forever. Touch her neck again and she will burst. She cannot breath. She pants for air.

Done. Undone.

For the price of surrender, a broken tool transforms into something lovely. Something…someone a goddess (demigod, whatever!!!) would look at and smile. Someone she loves to be here with. Whose arms she nestles into like a bed no matter how gross, how muddied, how rough they are. This is the place divine wishes to rest, peaceful and pretty, in her dress so beautiful and her cheeks so red and her lips pressed snug against her palm…

Her breath catches. Fire erupts.

This is it. She has to say it. She has to say it. Right. Now. No waiting. She promised her, and now she has to say it. Just like this: Bud, she promised she’d see you safe, and she’d take you to every place on your list, and anywhere else you forgot to put on your list because you’re too silly to have remembered it all. She promised, and that promise still stands, got it? She’s gave you her word, and she’s damn well gonna keep it, do you hear her?! That’s a fact, it’ll always be a fact, so she should just say so already! Say it! Right now! No more stalling! She’s Han of the Highlands, she promised you the world, little bud, and nothing you say or do is ever gonna change that!

“L-Lotus…”

Han pulls her up to sit comfortably on her lap. Listen up. This is important. Look at her. Don’t flinch away, even when she cups your cheeks in her hands. Don’t listen to the furnace-blast of her breath, hoarse and hungry. You have to hear this next part. You have to know you can refuse her. Whatever else happens, you have to know that. No fear, only honesty. She can’t bear an answer that’s not from your heart. Not when your bodyguard (your knight, your dragon, whatever the hells she is!!) holds so much power over you.

“..................................can I kiss you?”

You’re free to break her heart. It’s okay.

Lotus’ cheeks blossom in red and pink. Her lips part. She prays in a breathy whisper. ”Please!”

And there is no time left for words.

Han pulls Lotus of Tranquil Waters atop her. And slows. The instant. Before. They touch. And she smothers. Her lips. With hers. She holds. Her face. Still. Steady. Inescapable. She is. Not done. Not done with one. She kisses her mouth. Again. And again. Bit. By. Bit. Carefully, carefully. She must. Taste. Every bit of them. She. Must. Know. If they are all. Soft. The same way. Or. Sweeter. Here, or there. Will she. Make that noise. Every time her tongue. Finds her skin? She must. Know. Fire grows. When it is. Fed.

Gently as butterfly breezes, Han devours her.

And when at last they part, it is only to lean her weary head against hers, forehead to forehead, and all the air tastes of flowers. And all her thoughts are music. And song tumbles whisper-soft from her lips, so quiet that Lotus will hear it long before she herself does.

"What life of striving would I endure
For the blessing of beholding you
What suffering more would I gladly bear
For the promise of your touch…"

As she's walking away, Piripiri feels the flare of heat from behind her, and half turns. It's not an attack, though, it's- ah. Ahhhhh.

Well. That's one thing she's wanted out of this mess, accomplished. She'll have to figure out more reasons for them to cuddle later. Maybe a muscle massage for Han after hard training?

She turns back to the kitchen, pulling a stack of bowls and filling them with water halfway, before walking around the perimeter of the house. At each cardinal point, she places a bowl, leaving a selection of petals and herbs floating in the bowl, and chanting a short poem. The first five, the outer layer, are a notice-me-not, to ward away the smaller spirits that might seek out Lotus for her mother. The inner layer, each placed equidistant between two outer bowls, is a forbiddance to those same spirits. It won't keep out a focused and trained witch, but she doesn't have anything that would. Delaying and hiding.

She crouched by the last bowl, chewing her lip. She's safe, for the moment. Azazuka is off someplace. Giriel is off someplace, probably with her. Hopefully with her. The Red Wolf is at the legion's camp, most likely, with the barge scuppered. She's been ordered to bring Lotus directly to the camp, and... she's not going to. She never was going to, she realizes. It's Cathak acting out of emotions and ego, instead of what's helpful. Lotus being in the wind is better for every angle, Lotus's comfort, operational security, political risk to the Dominion, she could keep going. The only danger is if somebody makes the accurate guess that the Dominion has her, but suspects that she's in the camp, and launches a full attack.

She could fix that.

She's staring down at the bowl, the last part of the forbiddance. Right now, as it stands, everything she has done was for security. Disobeying a specific order to follow a more general one is reasonable. Letting in a fox spirit, on purpose, is not. Nobody else would know. But she would.

Her back hurts still. Agata's gift. That fierce, warm joy of the two discovering their feelings.

It'd be a kindness to them.

She tips over the bowl, pouring out the water and flipping the bowl upside down. Piripiri rises from her crouch, raises a finger to her lips, and winks out at the river. Our little secret.

She then goes back to the kitchen. Let's see what lunch options we have.

Which one?

"Both," said Fengye without hesitation. "I claim them both."

She says it with confidence. With threat. With intimation. Both are mine. I know what to want and I want these. And I want you, too. It's an intimidating, burning, dangerous gaze that sees right through to your heart.

[Spending a string] How could she claim - if not your heart, if not your service, but your craving? What word, what touch, what caress, what slip of clothing must she give to make you want her? Even if you don't act on it, even if your vows and heart lie elsewhere, how could she make you feel torn about it?

It may also be better to answer not in what she might do, but what she does.

Giri holds that stare, not moving. She looks at Ven ever so sternly, a big sister's look that says put that sword down before you hit someone. It's a look without fear for herself. "I am offering you help. So is Peregrine in her way. And I know, I know that Kalaya would take on the whole world to help you if you asked for it. You have to ask, Ven. If you lock it in your heart, nobody will hear it."

And then she smiles, and it is a smile full of so many things. Some of them things Ven knows all too well, pain and sadness, frustration at not being understood. But also at all the things Ven isn't seeing, all the little beauties and joys. The fond memory of the dead, satisfied with a good meal returning to their rest, and the memory of raindrops gently rolling off of beautiful flowers. And...ah, yes she had just the thing. "As for me, well...the last inn I was at served a really good bowl of noodles. Hot and steaming, covered with so much chili that the broth turned red, just how I like them. Would you like to get some?"