Mayzie!

On Yukisworld they've got a story about a musician who was told he could bring his wife back from death, only he couldn't look back on his journey back through the Outside. Of course he did, because he'd missed her, see. And she melted back into everything unreal, into the dreams of slumbering not-dragons in their infinite coils.

You make the same mistake on your way out, taking a detour through the public-facing stairs to avoid the congestion of the evacuation. And as you emerge into chaos, you see Eclair Espoir, old friend and crush and enemy, who only has eyes for this Timtam, show the Architect-Knight herself about the cafe, putting her through her absolute paces.

It's the most beautiful damn thing you've ever seen, and the most beautiful damn woman who's ever walked the face of this town. Your ears, traitors that they are, wiggle.

You want, more than anything, to tear her out of that armor-- out of those frills-- and use that maid-knight's body as a canvas for your art, the art that you almost managed to convince yourself would never go anywhere. The Yukisworld designs.

---

Eclair Espoir!

Take a String on poor, absolutely besotted Mayzie Sighs, standing at the back of the cafe. Wrap it 'round her. Pull it tight.

And then lift your lovely chin and sniff the air. Fire! Here? Where there is so much wood? That is a safety hazard. And a cleaning frenzy is upon ye, is it not? Douse it! Surely there are pipes! Surely there is an entire hot springs complex downstairs! And surely you can smother out some magician's fire, likely by smothering out some magician.

Your honor demands nothing less. (And I'll toss this in, just as a bonus: that useless Paladin is downstairs, too~)

---

Handmaidens!

You're fine. Everything is fine. Why wouldn't everything be fine?

Steam swirls up maddened from the hot springs as this invasion pours out from the heart of the vast tree: another one of the Architect-Knight's own doors, likely. And on the other side, your own Stacks. A veritable garden burns as the steam rises in great gouts, the water hissing away as magical fire consumes the bathing area and the trendy cafes. Down here is the chaos of magical war, an echo of the great battles that brought down the homeland of the Avel centuries ago.

And through it wades a Paladin intent on securing the Public Safety, building steam as she goes (if you will forgive the pun). Aadya, the Rock Upon a Mountain, is here to fight her way through anyone who stands between her and closing that door. And in the swirling steam, everyone may as well be her foe.

---

Yuki!

"You don't know who I am?" She meets your axe with the bow, using it like some sort of exotic double-bladed sword. When she bares her teeth, semi-precious stones flash in your face. "Bitch, have you been lost in the Outside for the past forever?" She's good at slipping in, under your guard, hot and close and rough. "I'm the most important person here! Dig the earwax out of your triangles and listen up!"

The two of you careen into a wall and she manages to pin you with one arm, her body against yours, her starglasses crooked (and, thankfully, no baleful light behind them). Outside, dragons roar, battling across the skyline of Vespergift. Her breath is hot with a local specialty, similar to wassail on your world.

"I'm the Khanum, dumbass, and whatever you idiots are fighting over, I want it." There is love in that sentence: love towards herself, heaped up on her own head, shining with self-regard. "And then I'll show it off to Mommy and she'll know I'm a much better hunter than Ollie ever was." There's love there, too, before it turns to spite.

You make an attempt to break free, but she's got her leg under yours and she's spinning you into a drop on the stairs, which means you're tumbling right back down them as she races up, cackling, feckless and wild and free.

What sort of String does she take on you, out of curiosity? I mean, feel free to answer once you've come to a complete stop.

---

Cutie!

She kisses you again, and the smell of her is all around you, sweet as honey, sweet as sin, flowers blooming and pollen on the fur of bees. Her hair falls about you like a curtain. She is soft, inviting, and eager to devour. Eager to pour more of her magic into you, to leave your limbs trembling and your breath faint and your eyes fluttering.

The yank on your hair is sudden, sharp, startling. I'm certain that it elicits a gasp from you, that jolt when you're already feeling like the ground's all gone from underfoot. And that gasp, that grip in your curls, the shape of your mouth as it leaves you: these things are as intoxicating to her as she is to you. The smile that she gives you, the way her eyes widen, the way her grip tightens: these are the signs that she, too, is succumbing to desire. The beating heart of her is cracking through her carefully grown facade.

It has been a restraint this entire time for her not to hurt you. Not to hurt everyone. Because her job is just to bring you in, to feed you sap and honey, to make you succumb in order to advance the plans of a very sour star indeed. But that Rot Star? It can't help itself. Never could. Azaza tried to make the whole world worship her, but she was self-absorbed, obsessed with her own beauty, lashing out to make the world conform to the way she wanted it. And Miaou was just lashing out because she was hurting, and now she's sealed down beneath Kel, all shadow and flame.

But the Rot Star is aware of the world around it, and it hates the world. A slow, creeping, toxic hate. And it grew Walking Elm in its gardens and made her fair, for silly boys like you, and made her sweet, all the better to pretend she's that she's not as dangerous as the dragon.

She pulls your head back, inch by inch, and stares at the look on your face. The curve of your neck. In this moment, she has power over you, and she knows she can hurt you, and it is making her giddy, giddy, giddy.

Distracted.

"You don't get a say," she breathes, not blinking. She is grinding your back against the banister, pinching flesh against bone. Her other hand's fingers brush against your exposed throat. "Whatever made you think you had a say?" And she laughs, high and shrill and joyful as she digs her nails into your skin, drunken on victory.

And Princess Sulochana Arju shoves her heartspear through Walking Elm's chest and its forked head juts out an inch from your face and Walking Elm's grip on you loosens and you're flopping free and half through the banister and the Princess screams and flops against the banister and catches your wrist before you can lose your balance and go all the way tumbling out into empty space.

"Don't let go," the Nagi princess says, hair flopping into her eyes, hand clenched tight around you for fear of losing you. Beside her, Walking Elm is crumpled against the banister, making an awful hissing noise like no person should ever make. Her eyes are still locked on you.

Take your String on that poisonous woman. And once your fingers are working properly again, wrap them around Sulochana's wrist. She'll pull you up.

Problem is obvious. Assessment is a waste of precious time.

Phase 1: Set up. There is a figure in the mist positioned with intent to direct the flow of enemies around and toward the magician. It is imperative to neutralize this figure. Separate heartblade into component swords, techniqueless throws. Pin to hot springs entrance by sleeves: non-violent, non-invasive, non-aggressive. While figure will remain capable of wriggling free, the only thing required to purchase is time.

Immediate ollie, stomp kick into draft created by fireballs. Infuse spare pen with light, throw toward magician. Combination of precision movement on skateboard and release of magical/light/heat source toward their position will herd rootwalker cluster onto her position specifically. Nosegrind, dismount, high leap (magically assisted), rainbow arc.

Phase 2: Execution. Sufficiently surrounded by hostile forces, interfering magician will attempt wide area dispersal conflagration spell. Colloquial name, Explosion. Timing is essential. At moment of peak energy build and not one second before, descend and execute three part attack.

Woe betide you. A maid descends. A cat descends. From the haze of the mist, from the ceiling above by the sudden sound of planted feet and the rustling of fabric, a maid-knight drops on top of Tsane and swings a blunted metal longsword onto her shoulder. A simple piece of metal has no ability to incapacitate a sufficiently talented and determined wizard, at least compared to a heartblade, but none of this truth stops it from hurting a lot.

The maid-knight pushes away at the moment of impact and lifts her own body back into the air, where she twirls three times toward the floor and winds up enough momentum that when she aims the next swing at Tsane's ribs the resulting impact is enough to not only drive the air from her lungs but also lift her bodily off the floor. The instant her knees pass above the knight's descending face, she reaches up with her free hand and snatches at an ankle.

Landing wide flat on her right foot and with just the heel of her left, she swings her hips hard and adds a final spin and release to hammer toss this offending mage directly into the hot springs, though not before bouncing her like a skipping stone off of a certain assassin/idiot/paladin/professional nuisance.

Phase 3: Chain Reaction. Having waited for the form of the spell to complete, gathered spell ink will trigger in uncontrolled burst directed downward by simple realities of magician's facing. The release of such a large scale of powerful magical fire will, through a combination of heat and raw concussive force, cause a large scale geyser of heated water to spray across the entire lower region of the Chrysanthemum.

With nowhere else for the water to go, it will descend. To wit: it will rain indoors. Flames doused, dust settled, walls and floors washed, current batch of rootwalkers upended, all available parties and obstacles directed toward one another and (more crucially) away from location of central tree.

Phase 4: Cleanup. Remount skateboard and travel to invasion source to apply sealing techniques. I believe this technically still counts as battling the Architect-Knight. Priority afterward will be swift retreat toward town proper to assess and limit damage.

In the thick curtain of steam and falling water, the briefest flash of black and white and violet. The sound of rolling wheels quieted by distance and the blanket of moaning and shouting that has been tossed over this lower area of the Chrysanthemum. If anyone is paying attention to her, Eclair Espoir might be given credit for saving the day. Or she might be accused of trying to ruin it.

Sometime after this, and soon, there will be speculation. All that will be able to be said with certainty is that she was here. Vaguely. Somewhere. In this precise moment there are no eyes to track her. There are no hands to help her, and none to hinder her. This is as it should be. Eclair's magical technique is virtually non-existent. Her ability to work in concert with others on matters like this is rudimentary at best, and where there are likelihoods for conflicting methods of resolution and a breakdown of communications she would be an active hindrance to the safeguarding of this inn and den of pleasure/mystery/intrigue.

But by herself, she is a maid-knight. And if what is needed is to clean up a mess, to shut a door up tight, and make beautiful and real again that which has been nipped at by thoughts from the Outside, there are few creatures anywhere in Thellamie who could do a better job than she can. This whole absurd strike and battle plan has served no purpose other than to position her in place to do that lone thing as cleanly and quietly as possible.

There is, after all, still so much left to attend to.

“Aah-!!”

He doesn’t get a say in the sound. She pulls it from his throat. And he’s not allowed any other words either. He tries. He really, really tries. There’s a question in his eyes, there’s a plea in his wide eyes, but he can’t get it to reach his mouth, stuffed full of flowers and fear. No. She doesn’t allow it.

“Ah! Wh, uh! Mm! Mm!!!”

His gasps for air get faster. His cries drip with desperation, higher and fainter with every. Stinging. Inch. To no avail. She grants him no mercy. She blots out the skylights. She pushes her body atop him until the banister bites through his worn vest. The pain brings clarity. Only enough to taste how thick the air is with her scent. The world shrinks down to a tugging on his head, a biting at his neck, a smothering weight grinding him down, wild eyes, teeth, breath, laughing, laughing

This is the part where running would be a fantastic idea. It has been a long, long time since he had a say in ideas. Legs scrabble at the floor. Arms fight for purchase. He wiggles. He gasps. He is drowning in honey. He. Danger. Pain. Held. Fighting. Helpless. Toy. Plaything. Resist. Trapped. Kissed. Can’t.

Owned.

Darkness.

Drifting.

Lighter.

Lighter?

He opens his eyes.

Is he floating in space, or have his legs gone out on him? How long has he been here? Where’d this Nagi come from? How’s the lady making that awful noise? Why’s she staring at him like that? What was. Any of that?

All good questions. They’ll have to wait. He’s much too preoccupied figuring out which of these arms are his, and he’s got to. He’s, he needs to. Once he finds his hand. He clutches her wrist tight and woahhhhhhhhh everything melts into a shimmer of motion and vertigo and he hits something soft and he wraps his free arm around it or else he’ll tumble over into heaven knows where.

And. And he’s maybe had enough. Tumbling. For now.

“Ha…?”

He looks up. And up. Past the curiously smooth bands of color pressed against him, past the hand holding his, up, up, up a gently swaying curve, past weight and softness, guided by a frame of dark hair, to land at last on a pair of shining, glittering, golden eyes. And the eyes are looking back at him. Stricken with worry.

Ah.

(Okay. Okay. We see what happened here. Now. Say thank you. And apologize. It's the least you can do.)

“Thhh…thankk…” The air’s clearing? The air might be clearing. He’s panting for breath, and each one tastes just a little cleaner than the last. “Thank. Yyyy.”

(You can stop pretending this is difficult. It’s just some words. You know how to talk.)

Right. Right. He sniffs. He swallows. He breathes. “Sso…sorr…” He clings tighter to her waist. Her solid, strong, warm waist. “I, uh, I…I.” She’s holding his hand. His fingers are all tangled and discombobulated, but. She. She’s holding his hand. Tight. “I’m, sh-she, that was.” Scales are so, so nice to rest against. The texture’s, mmm, feels so lovely against his cheek. “I’m, I-I-I…”

(Come on. Say it.)

Cutie gazes up at a Nagi Princess, and she must be a Princess. Why else does she dress so pretty? How else could she be so strong, and so kind? So. He has to say it. He opens his mouth. To say it. For her. The Golden Faun gazes up at a Nagi Princess, cheeks flushed, vest battered and torn, eyes sparkling with a memory of starlight, mouth open and panting and trembling, and he says,

“I…I’m s-sorry…”

[Rolling to Entice Sulochana, and spending a String on her to boot: 3 + 5 - 1 + 3 = 10]

Rurik!

So it came down to this.

He couldn't put his faith in Sayanastia the Dark Dragon; she was a shadow of herself. He couldn't put his faith in Injimo; she was a shadow of the Hero. He couldn't put his faith in his granddaughter Tsane; she was an uncontrolled hothead. He couldn't put his faith in the tricks of Cair; she believed in diplomacy even in the face of the apocalypse. He couldn't put his faith in Kalentia; she didn't even believe in herself.

He had armour. He had endurance. He had patience. He had time. He had waited fifty years. He would not fail to wait now, when it counted most.

The Seneschal of the Hero of Ages drew at last his Heartblade.

"Silk!" he cried, and his suit erupted in an ocean of tangling fabric. His sleeves unraveled and expanded, his cravat bloomed like a flower, his coat tails wove out like twin scorpion tails. The dark colours exploded into a vibrant patchwork whirl of different dyes and textures, crashing over the Rotwalkers like a tsunami. At the same time the fabric wrapped around him, hardening into steel plate that merged seamlessly with the sharp angles of a suit and the blossoming ruffles of a dressmaker's swatch.

"Silver!" said the Seneschal, and from the knee-high silken waters rose a dozen mannequins of gleaming silver metal. Each held a spear like a needle, and each wore a dress like an angel. They stood on tip toes like ballerinas, and with a synchronized whirl and slash they took their dance's first steps, cutting down the horde's entire first rank before returning to their neutral pose, each one separated by one second's movement.

"Serenity!" said Rurik, clapping his hands above his head. He forced his aching left knee into a wide slash outwards, and then traced the arc forwards. He bent down despite his aching back and pulled from the silken ocean a pair of gleaming crystal scissors. Their edges were so sharp that they severed the light of the Rot Star itself, breaking the diseased yellow gleam into a burning rainbow.

The searing light of his transformation faded. The end result: his left half the sharp black and red suit of a butler, professional and precise, squares and triangles in perfect and dignified order. His right half was a floral explosion of a hundred dresses, ideas overlapping and entangling, a mood board of different ideas and concepts. Fabrics for every occasion, colours to channel every kind of mana, options for every way to be. An arsenal to help the Hero of Ages to choose whatever inspired her in any given moment. The silver mannequins fell into close formation around him, needle-spears held in ready repose, weaving their way through the forces of the Rot Star as they approached.

And Rurik stood ready in the center of their circle, scissors held high. Press too hard on any of his defenders and he would swoop in to relieve them, disassembling the horde with the focused precision of a craftsman unraveling an incorrect stitch.

And there he stood astride the battlefield, a castle of cloth and cutting. He did not advance, did not try to cut to the center of things, only destroyed in defense. In his mind the tick-tock metronome of the counting clock was already counting down minutes, hours, weeks - years, if it had to be. He had waited this long for Heron to arrive, and arrive she had. He could wait for her to arrive again, to do what none of her handmaidens could. This was his blade, his faith: the confidence that all the Hero of Ages needed was time.

Time he could give, and the time he gave would be filled with the creation of ten thousand battle dresses.

Yuki laughs as she falls. Why shouldn't she laugh? Maybe every Kel knight does learn the titles and ranks of the Khanate, but she certainly doesn't know them. But princess little sister here calling herself the most important person present, when there's not one but two dragons, another princess, whatever Cousin It was on about, nearly the entire entourage of the Hero of Ages, a maid knight who was styling on the entire lot of them, AND Hazel the star chosen was...well it was pretty funny.

And that's what made her charming. All these absurd people, Yuki fighting an impossible dragon that she had no way of ever beating, the whole place getting blown open and plants vs. zombies teaming up to be plant zombies and this girl had Yuki going over backwards and laughing herself silly in the process. It was cute and it made her want to know more. Olesnya (she had given up on the name) had been so serious. But her little sister was cute and funny and full of joy. It reminded her of Suli when she was younger, before everything made her forehead crease with worry about land crises and living conditions. [The Khanum gets a string]

Yuki lets out a grunt as she lands at the base of the stairs. Her chain shirt blunts the impact a bit, sending it spreading across her back and shoulders instead of entirely in any one spot, but it still knocks the wind out of her. She stays down for a few seconds until she can breathe again, silent giggles still rippling through her body all the way up to her ears and out to her tail. Presently, she rolls her shoulders, stretches, and groans as she pulls herself back up.

She probably could have done without getting tossed down a flight of stairs, but in a funny way, it was bringing her back to loving Thellamie. In the real world, falling down some stairs could have killed her! Like, probably not actually killed her, but people break their necks falling down stairs, or they break fingers, or an elbow or something. But here, she was armored, she was agile, and while she'd probably have a big bruise down her back by tomorrow, she got to get up and start running back up those stairs to go help Suli and Hazel as best she could.

Though as she looked up, hell yes, Suli! Hell yes! Look at her spear that tall flower girl. You go girl!

Handmaidens!

With a crash like a falling tower, Aria Thendragon plunges down into the Chrysanthemum once more. Rurik had successfully handled the Rootwalkers, Eclair Espoir had managed to seal their way in, the Architect-Knight was soundly defeated: everything handled except for this titan of sodden wood and hate.

Even so, alone and still growing more roots to seal the empty spaces that Saynastia had gouged into her, she is more than a match for you. Any one of you. All of you together. The light in her eyes is what we in the business call fell.

"Broken puppets. Do you still dance to her tune?"

With a sweep of her tail, she clears space for herself. With a beat of her wings, a tempest roars through the building (but does not tear it down, not with the attention of a maid-knight of the Order of the Aurora still lingering here). She raises one paw to crush Injimo completely (who is, we must assume, stancing and getting ready to try and block).

And she howls as arrows strike her from both sides. From one, the great golden arrows of Yaz, the proprietress; from another, a veritable hail from Olesya, the Baygum. A brief reprieve from her multi-hit unblockable attacks. But she shall keep coming until her mistress calls her off; and Walking Elm has no reason to do any such thing. Not while she still has the Golden Fawn within reach.

---

Cutie!

It's raining indoors. All the water down at the roots of the Chrysanthemum has gone up, and is now spattering back down in a short, intense, bangs-in-your-eyes deluge. Somewhere down below, there is the roar of something great and awful and terrible.

The Princess of Crevas puts her fingertips to your lips, once she has pulled you back up onto your feet and into her embrace. "Hush," she says, and her fear and relief are shivering through her coils. "There will be enough time to, to talk, once we have you in safety, Hazel. Because, you see, then we will be abele--"

She blushes and puts her hand to her own mouth. The great speaker, a leader of serpents, stumbling over her own words as she looks at you. At you. Gold star for Cutie.

"Abel. Able. Yes, that's, I apologize, we're having a moment here and..."

The moment is ruined by Walking Elm pulling herself up to her full height. Sulochana, flustered and awkward, half-raises her spear, but we both know there's no way she's going to be able to protect you properly in time.

The water becomes ice. It becomes a solid sheet between you and Walking Elm, and though it spiderwebs with cracks when she punches it, you've gained a moment. A moment that Sulochana takes eagerly, desperately, slithering down along with you towards her cousin Magasha, who is calling up more water to support the wall with each sinuous flick of her tail and intricate gesture. But there's not enough water to do more than delay the Rot Star's emissary.

A Serigalamu huntress in starglasses is waiting down the stairs, and she flourishes a heartsaber gaudily. "Well, looks like you have my prize there, slithers. Mind handing him over?"

And you get, oh delight of delights, the experience of having one of the Nagi bodily put herself between you and danger. I mean, yet more danger. This place has become nothing but danger after danger, and all because you are here. Danger that this princess and her team are doing their best to get you out of, but danger nonetheless.

---

Yuki!

"Oh, goddess..."

A friend's hands lift you up, and you're pulled into a trembling hug by Sister Juniper of the Civil Church. It's probably the biggest hug she's ever given you, and she's a hugger already. Like she's trying to center both of you in this moment, as the world breaks apart on all sides.

"Olesya's buying us time." The words tumble out of her mouth. "Are you okay? Did that... charming young woman," she says, obviously correcting herself from other, more unfavorable words, "hurt you? She's... like that! A lot! Here, let me..."

And before you can say a word otherwise, she presses one hand against your chest. Warmth flows through you, and a certainty that things will be all right, if we can just get organized and work together. The bonds of the Civil Church. You can heal one of your Conditions here, as long as you give Civelia a String in turn.

Unrelatedly, there is very definitely a dragon down there.

---

Eclair!

All that? You're well out of it. Door's sealed and you are grinding down the streets of Vespergift, which are... well, a lot is happening out here. An evacuation, as coordinated by the Serigalamu huntresses and employees of the Chrysanthemum, some of the latter wearing borrowed coats to make impractical outfits more appropriate for the snow swirling down. This is worse than what happened in Crevas; back there, there wasn't this mad civilian dash for the Roads.

Back in Crevas, there weren't towers leaning at crazy angles from having dragons smash into them. There weren't people gingerly clambering down from broken walkways, or clambering up to fetch children and pets and prized possessions. And there wasn't a despair fallen on the entire city, a certainty that their worst nightmares had finally arrived.

Half of Vespergift will be flooding hotels in Kel by dinner. But your efforts have ensured that it won't be so bad that they can't come back and prepare to fight as hard as they can against the encroaching wood. I mean, assuming that Heron's Handmaidens don't fumble dealing with that dragon.

The worst thing that could happen right now is for someone to cause an awful panic. Someone like, say, the maid-knight who attacked Civelia (or so they say). You need to take a moment to hole up somewhere. Take stock of yourself. Check your messages. That sort of thing. Do you have a place in mind?

"It is... possible, I suppose, to make the argument I have done enough for today."

Eclair slides to a halt on her skateboard and stomps the lip of it to flip it onto her back. She pinches the bridge of her nose for a moment and then rubs at the edges of her eyes before rushing forward and springing off the edge of a column, snatching the edge of a balcony with her fingertips and swinging up and over to the next level of the city.

Truly, there was no better place in all of Thellamie to practice the art of parkour than Vespergift. Even the training course at the Manor paled in comparison. If she could be said to have any particular talent for the art that the typical maid-knight could not lay claim to, then it stemmed from growing up here. She runs up a second wall and flips up onto and then off of a windowsill that's nearer to a tower than it ought to be, giving her a convenient pair of brace points to wall kick between and climb her way up in decent time.

"I prefer the, nnngh my head, argument that my strength is better preserved for the final conflict. I am certain this is not finished. But while there are two dragons fighting inside of the city there is very little I can accomplish on the ground. What is happening here, and why? Crevas was one thing, but what could have set off such a specific and unusual chain here? I do not understand."

Up she climbs, higher and higher. Beyond the streets and into the towers. To be frank the idea of knowing a place to be alone in Vespergift is absurd to the point of parody, but in a moment like this where so many of its people were frantically moving for the gates at the very least there were principles that could be followed. Up, not down. Use the ruined towers for climbing, but make for the ones that have remained upright - these are less suitable for foot traffic so to reach a position where another's footsteps were unlikely it simply made sense to make for the heights that were most easily cleared out from the inside.

Sitting on a rooftop also doubled as a strategic advantage. Something nearer to the center of the city insomuch as it was possible to find a spire there, where her vantage could double as a staging ground if she saw the dragon fight turn suddenly in such a way that it might threaten the viability of the city for return. Perhaps it was the sake talking, but Eclair couldn't find it in herself to blame Vespergift for being what it was. The North simply wasn't meant to only have a single city. It could stand even less to have none at all.

In any event it is happenstance and not planning that sees Eclair Espoir pass across the window of her old orphanage. What they were using it for now she neither knew nor cared, though she couldn't help but hover for a moment to peer inside. There was no reason to do so, nothing whatsoever to be gained from knowing. But even so, she looks. And if it really was empty, there wouldn't be a better perch in the entire city to catch her breath and read her missives in whatever fragmentary moments this disaster had to offer her.

Rurik!

"Loyalty," said Rurik, pulling himself from the ground. He appreciated the silk, not for the first time, for how it might cushion a fall. "Loyalty, earned!"

He got to his feet, snapping his scissors. "For a thousand years the Hero of Ages has defended Thellamie. Against you. Against her. Against every threat, every wickedness, every curse she has stood triumphant. Today is no different! The clouds will gather, the lightning will flash, and all that you are will be gone with the thunder! Even if you have not yet learned, I have!"

He reset his stance. Alone. "Feel the time ticking down, Thendragon! Every moment your annihilation draws closer! And though I might fall, I will drag from you fistfuls of your precious time!"

It's the least he can do. To repay her. It's the least the world can do, to repay her. All she needs is time. All they can give her is time. He regrets that the world only sent him, the least of its champions, to stand astride the gates of hell.

"...and my axe!" flashed through Yuki's mind. The classic scene from Fellowship, that was how she imagined the ideals of the Civil Church. At least, how she wanted them, how she thought about order and cooperation. Different people all uniting to accomplish something that seemed impossible. The smallest person making a difference that nobody expected. Accomplishing together something that even the greatest and wisest could not see how to do, beyond all expectation, beyond all hope. [Yuki removes Hopeless and offers a string to the Civil Church to pull her along this vision if they so wish.]

In her arms is Juniper. Thick and warm and flowing with light and absolutely wonderful in every way. Yuki squeezed tight in that hug, and she wanted to just bury herself in her taller friend and close her eyes and everything would be perfect forever. That's what she wanted, and she indulged it for just a moment, with a biiiig final squeeze. But a knight's duty is never done, and on top of that, they were in the middle of a city-wide evacuation happening below and around them, while they stood in the heart of the fighting. Fighting over Hazel. An evacuation over Hazel.

God this was all over Hazel. Did that mean? "Juni! Juni! We need to get to Hazel and get that plant woman away from him! Anybody else is fine. Like, temporary alliance! Uh, double trucies! Like, we just need to get her away from him in a way that she's sure she can't get and I'm almost sure she'll call off the attack. Come on, come on!"

Yuki is almost pulling Juniper along in the hopes that she, of all people, can manage to get all the kids of the Khatum to stop fighting each other and Suli long enough to get the dragon attacks to stop!

…how long was he out?

(Not “out” in the traditional sense. Just making out. Don’t you forget it.)

It has to have been a long time, right? It took this Nagi Princess a long time to fight off the hammer monster, and nobody else was close enough to reach him, so. It has to have been a long time.

If it wasn’t. Then. Then the Crysthanamum was ruined in the space of a few minutes. That’s how long it took for things to get this bad.

(He doesn’t know how bad it really is. He can’t see much through the smoke and the rubble. The battle downstairs is a mass of rumbling and shouting, and he doesn’t recognize any of the sounds but not a one of them is good. There’s no time to look. Plenty to use his imagination.)

It’s the only thought in his head as he runs alongside the Nagi. It’s bad. It’s getting worse. It’s all because of him. None of this would’ve happened if he’d not been here. He needs to run. He needs to get out of here.

They stop.

Cutie’s hands open and close, halfway between re-drawing his heartblade and balling up in bitter frustration. “Ma’am.” (He knows it’s not going to work.) “Please.” (He’s not able to stop himself.) “Whoever you are, can you just. Let us get out of here?” (Don’t shout. Don’t scowl. Keep it together.) “Before anyone else gets hurt?” (Keep it together Hazel) “Please!!”

A golden light glows overhead.

Over his head, specifically.

Oh no. Not now…

[Rolling to Entice the Khanum, but unfortunately, Women Want Me, Fish Fear Me: 5 + 3 - 2 = 6]

Eclair!

They still have the mural. Children, frozen in play: laughing, running, pouncing. Ribbons suspended in a still moment. The grass is green and yellow, and there are no trees. Unidentifiable smears and handprints exist all along the edges, the accumulation of generations.

They still have the long table, too. That's where you sit, surrounded by memories, and yet alone. A moment to catch your breath, a moment to breathe in an old air, a moment to feel small somewhere. A moment to check your messages, where your quarry has once again contacted you.

>[.tmtwo]
>I *knew* it was a gamble sending you to enjoy yourself somewhere.
>A fool's hope that you'd bend an inch.
>But you burned it down? What, did they use the wrong forks at dinner?
>Still, can't blame you too much~

Tablets struggle with taking pictures of things in motion. They fade into soft impressionism, the magic's best effort at capturing the quality of movement. So the picture that Timtam sends you is of herself(?), masked and wearing a nun's habit, making an impudent little Yukisearth V sign, framed by a tall cathedral (but not the sort you'd recognize, hard to say where it is).

And the cathedral is lit from within by those soft yellows and oranges shading into red, and about it shines that ruddy halo. Figures mill about in the background, silhouettes.

The figure of, supposedly, Timtam in that picture: she is not holding the tablet.

---

Handmaidens!

Rurik is not devoured! He is not squashed! He is not flung aside, or dashed against the floor, or swarmed by enemies!

And this is because Aria Thendragon hesitates, for a moment, and considers what he has said. Hate roils in her heart, but more than hate, too. If she continues, she will be destroyed at the hands of the Hero she despises. If she continues, she may yet shatter the weapon that has been made of herself. If she destroys all you gathered here, if she ensures that Heron arrives to the site of a bitter and sorrowful battle, then the Rot Star will be denied a weapon.

And their hate is concordant, but for a moment, the call of the void wars with the bitter spite in her heart.

And in that moment, a yell from up on the stairs: "Let her come, then! Take the Faun! Just pick him up and take him!"

The would-be conqueror, the doom of chivalry, the husk of a past life: she turns away from you as she would a game that she no longer delights in. She turns her damp bulk towards the Golden Faun, jaw opening to snap him up in a bite.

This is a mistake, to turn away from you. You cannot defeat her, but you can buy time, buy an opening for a miracle. Give it your everything, o you lingering bits of stardust. For Cair is, if I have this right, about to change the world.

---

Yuki!

You're not going to make it.

The Handmaidens who you met on the Road? They're doing their best. Olesnya? (Ugh, now you've got me doing it.) She's getting ready to jump onto a dragon's face to try and buy you just a little more time. Suli? She's cornered and doing her good girl best to protect Hazel, but she can't head towards you. And that dragon is still coming.

In the moment when you're sure that you won't be able to make it in time, when you miss a step and come crashing down on one knee, when you're sure that you won't be able to save Hazel and Suli and everyone who needs you- what do you cry out? What bursts out of you? These are, after all, sad cat hours. Do step up to the occasion.

---

Hazel!

The Khanum fights like she's button mashing, and it's working. The Nagi princess repeatedly intervenes, putting herself between you and her, but she can't protect you and herself. Each cut with that heartblade makes her cry out and sob through gritted teeth, and each one makes her just a little bit slower. She's graceful and elegant and she could force this brat to fight at her own tempo, could control the fight, if she didn't have to protect you.

"He even lights up!" Her blade of light cuts through Suli's arm at a shallow angle; not enough to disarm the princess, but enough for her to contract, to fail to push the advantage. "Give it to me! It's the perfect accessory! He'll be my favoritest favorite and I'll have a light-up boy to show off at conclave!" She keeps trying to flank around Sulochana, but the reach of that long spear and the way that Sulochana doubles back on herself, pushing back to buy you room and time, keeps her away for a moment longer each time. "Olly can have the dumb stinking dragon: I want that boy!"

(And the way she says it, it almost sounds like toy.)

The dragon is, I must remind you, almost upon you. And if that wasn't bad enough, Walking Elm is striding very purposefully down the stairs, cutting off your exit. And Yuki's stumbled on the stairs and is calling out to you, too far to sweep you up in her arms and growl at everyone to back off.

This is it. You're doomed. Surely nothing can save you now.

Eclair touches her gauntleted hand to the mural, which is now large enough to cover several of the little prints dotting the edges of the happy painting. She slides her fingers along the wall with a strange look on her face. Rubs her fingers together and peers at the tips to monitor how much dust has accrued. Not so much that it upsets her, but she pulls a cloth out of nowhere anyway and proceeds to wipe down the entire room.

Of Mrs. Shark she finds no sign. Neither does she find Ser Kensington, or even Uni the Rainbow Unicorn, who had been a popular mainstay among far more children than just her. There are toys aplenty in the adjoining closet just begging to be organized and put away properly (for once), but none of them belong to her childhood. Many possible explanations for that. They may have been retired after being on the receiving end of too much love; Mrs. Shark in particular had needed three different stitching sessions in Eclair's last year here alone. They may have gone away as graduation presents to children who were less ashamed of their childishness than she had been, and who had earned the privilege by dint of not running away in the middle of the night. They could all be in another room. It's not as though Eclair has infinite time to search for fleeting hits of nostalgia. Or perhaps they, like her, had simply gone off on an adventure and had not seen their way back to visit yet.

Eclair takes a seat at the long table. It is not the seat she preferred as a little girl (she cannot remember which that was). It is the seat the caretaker always took, at the head of the table. The better to oversee dinner and keep a tangle of assorted hungry and sometimes miserable children under control. She glances around the room. Bright and happy colors, bright and happy decorations, bright and happy toys. All cleaned, thanks to her, and... reasonably well maintained if one accounts for the state of things in Vespergift. She turns her attention down again, to the table, to the tablet she's left there, to the message she has done everything in her power to avoid thinking about because she cannot admit to herself she doesn't know how to respond to it.

She plants her elbows on the table and locks her fingers in place in front of her. Her chin rests upon her knuckles, and she furrows her brow in thought. She wiggles her ears too, also in thought.

"Is this sentimentality brought on me by drink? Or by contact with an old friend? Or... is it, more simply, that my perspective was wrong? It is a certainty I was unhappy here. That I was hungry. Neglected. Physically struck. And yet I look around here and I see... love? That idea is repulsive to me but I cannot come to another conclusion."

A picture of Timtam. Allegedly. It has been certain for some time she has had accomplices, but this latest missive begs the question of if she is even physically active on the board to begin with. Disturbing notion. Well, if it is deception all the way down that too is information. I will not walk back my assertions to the handmaiden of Heron so soon. What is confidently correct here in any case is that the speed of this correspondence and the specificity of knowledge is such that there are only two possible hypothesis. Either: I am currently speaking to the mastermind behind a world scaling threat that has manipulated even the Rot Star itself. Or. She has an information network inside the Chrysanthemum that dwarfs anything I could possibly have anticipated. Terrifying. And yet, not infallible? If her information is so perfect, why did she not taunt me over my inebriation?

"I see love. To those children and adults who leave this place and do not return... I agree with your decision. And to those who return, if I have done my job well enough to see that you can... I agree with you as well. One small city is not enough to hold the dreams of an entire people. One orphanage is not enough to raise all the children who lack for parents. I no longer... believe it is just. To hate a place or its people for failing to do the impossible. The hurt is still real. But so was the effort."

>[.eclairespoirviolet]
>It is with my sincerest apologies that I ask you not to think ill of me for going against your expectations. You may take it as a sign that I have no higher pleasure at the moment than our little game. Though I assure you, in the end I will emerge victorious. Inadvertently or otherwise, you have stepped into a world that I have trained to be the master of since before our fateful meeting was even a glimmer of possibility. Against a mind I rate as three times sharper than yours.
>However, I must ask. Is this intended to be a form of flirtation? Admittedly I have not been able to get the question off of my mind since the possibility was brought up to me. My apologies once again if I have misinterpreted your intent. But if your aims for me include amorous ambitions I would ask that you kindly show more patience. To both win your heart and unravel your schemes in the same grasp will require rather more effort on my part.
>In either event, I believe it is time for us to speak face to face. I, Eclair Espoir, evidently the assassin who attempted to kill the Goddess Civelia, am inviting you to afternoon tea. You have my assurances on my honor and on every form of oath known to me that no attempt to apprehend you will be made until such time as I have fully pierced every veil you have wrapped yourself in. I am aware of the innuendo but I hasten to add I do not mean my words in that capacity. Today. Feel free to select the location of your liking.
>Cordially awaiting your reply,
>Eclair Espoir, Investigative Knight of the Aurora

"Well. That is enough of a break for one day."

Hazel!

Above you looms the Rot Star, vast and terrifying. Its mouth is filled with the woeful yellow-green light of an empire dissolved, its scales split open to support the growth of leaves, the brackish water pours down wings carving shifting water-pattern channels of filth through the tattered membranes. She is vast, terrible and beautiful, and she is as inevitable as an avalanche.

Below you stands Cair, down one level over the soft line of the balcony. She is ninety percent coat by bodymass[1], but what is visible has an extremely trustworthy smile. She is holding a sign over her head[2]. It reads:



It's a small jump down. She's got a hand extended for a high five.

You feel like taking the time to haggle?

[1] Seven thousand percent if we count the contents of the coat.
[2] Cair investigated using the Omnibanner, a sacred relic from the depths of the Stacks used to empower and inspire battlefield troops even as it shifted its heraldry and colours to communicate messages. After realizing that each charge of the Omnibanner was priced at around 16,000 goldmarks she opted for instead for a hunk of cardboard and one of Tsane's used-up markers.

Yuki Edogawa is a knight. She was a knight before she knew that she was a knight. She was a knight when she was summoned to Thellamie the first time because Thellamie needed a fearless young warrior aglow with hope and sincerity to blind the mirrors of Azaza. She was a knight even before that, when she ran up to a bully in second grade who had taken her friend's pork dumpling and pushed him into the mud even though he was twice her size and dragged her down too and she'd been sent home from school and then had a bruise on her face for a week and her mom yelled at her for fighting.

When she stumbles, she shouts "Hazel!" and she shouts "someone help Hazel!" and she points and she pushes herself up to keep moving as fast as she can. She's not going to get there no matter how frantically she runs, not ahead of the dragon, not even with Olesnya helping. But she's not going to stop either. Not until she collapses from exhaustion and her lungs force her to catch her breath.

No, all the strength that's in her body, kitty tail and all is so that she can try to rescue a damsel in distress (Hazel counts as a damsel). And if they're kidnapped by a dragon, she'll rescue them from the dragon if that's what they need. Or maybe the dragon is cool and is actually a much better result than the tall tree girl and...whatever the point is she'll figure it out and do the rescuing that's needed!

Or...maybe no rescuing is needed at all. Maybe there's a strange girl dressed like she's selling something illegal but like it's not drugs because that coat and those pockets are way too thick for drugs. Who's holding the most absurd sign ever and despite not looking anything like a fox is clearly setting Hazel up for the biggest fox heist of his life only that's infinitely better than everything else happening right now.

Even so, she keeps running to be there and do whatever she can.

He’s doomed.

The certainty sinks in, and there’s not room for any other thought. Terror? Panic? They’ll have to wait their turn. He’s busy. Being doomed.

“Hazel!”

That is a dragon. The mouth is as big as him. Are those talons as big as his middle? A huntress is clinging to her horns with all her might, and it’s hardly doing a thing. He can’t imagine his heartblade making a scratch. (So it wouldn’t. That’s just how it works.)

“Someone help Hazel!”

No one’s coming. No one can make it in time. No one can stop the dragon. No one can get the plant lady out of his way. He’s trapped. He’s doomed. They

They’re going to win.

They’re going to take him away. They’re going to claim him. They’re going to tame him. And all of Thellamie is going to rot away. Forever. Because he’s doomed. And no one’s coming.

The dragon blots out the skylight. A single thought bubbles up to the surface.

It’s not fair.

Odd thought to have when you’re about to be eaten by a dragon. But there you have it. It’s not fair.

This Nagi Princess shouldn’t have to keep fighting through so much hurt.

The Chrysthanamum shouldn’t be empty of people and full of rubble.

Yuki shouldn’t have to fix all this.

For him.

For him.

The jaws nearly swallow his vision. Nearly.

One bounding step takes him to the balcony. The second launches him through the air. Behind him, even as the huntress bears down in a shadowed mass of claw and blade, the dragon’s maw is turning to chase him. Probably. He’s not looking. All his focus is on that outstretched hand. His only hope. His only option.

(Just one step in front of the other, Hazel.)

-clap!-

He has to get himself out of this mess, for once. He’s caused enough trouble.

They can sort out the financing later.

Yuki!

Sulochana takes a moment to choose between the Khanum and the oncoming dragon. But is it really a choice? She leaves herself exposed to the Serigalamu brat and turns, takes her heartspear, and casts it from her fingers with every last bit of determination she can bring to bear.

It bursts out through the dragon's wooden skull, a firework of light bursting and fading all too fast. That buys just enough time; the dragon smashes into the stairs, through them, and a massive part of the winding stairwell falls apart. With a lurch, you fall through splintering boards. At least from this distance it'll just be like falling off the roof of your house back in Yukisworld.

Sulochana falls, flailing and ridiculous. Juniper falls, shrieking. Hazel falls, glowing like the sun. Walking Elm falls like deadwood.

Cair, naturally, has something up her sleeve for just this scenario, so don't worry about her. The Khanum has a grappling hook, so you don't have to worry about her (or Hazel). And Aadya's running towards the disaster, like always, dripping wet and her face set in determination.

Be the hero, Yuki. Hit the ground (with your axe) if you have to. Save your friends (except for Hazel, who, again, I must stress, will be completely fine).

---

Hazel!

The power of a goddess in the palm of your hand.

Do your best not to be frightened as you fall through broken wood. Don't look at the walls and see the labor that it takes to construct them. Don't look at the ruined cafe up on the upper floors and see how it was a hub for relieving the stress and loneliness of people in a cramped, unhappy city, and see how it could be again. Those aren't the purposes of this Charm.

The purposes of the Charm, as you can feel somewhere between your lungs, are as follows:

• To declare contests for your hand.
• To dictate rules for the contests.
• To enforce punishments in the breach of the rules.

Or, put another way:
When you call upon the Charm through a dramatic pose and short speech in order to make or enforce a rule in a contest for your hand, roll +Radiance. On a full success, choose one; on a mixed success, choose two. On any success, the Charm will do as you bid. It will not help you to evade a contest or its results, and it will not help you avoid connections or binding, which are necessary for civilization.

• Give a String to Civelia, who may Influence you from afar.
• Take a Condition as the Charm saps your strength.
• Summon a Suitor where you least expect them.

Go ahead. Declare (and quickly) the first contest for your hand. May I recommend...

• ...the Hunt?
• ...the Ball?
• ...the Tournament?
• ...the Gambling Tournament With Very Convenient And Affordable Accommodations?

Oh, that last one. You should definitely do that last one. I'll have you safely back in my arms in no time. The Khanum grabbing you out of the air as you speak will be a very temporary safety in comparison, especially since I'm sure you'll feel much less safe once she gets you to the ground and starts trying to escape with her prize.

---

Handmaidens!

I mean, beyond just how Cair gets out of this scrape, you've got plenty to worry about! The complete lack of Heron, for example. Now is the right time for somebody to put on the Heron outfit, but nobody is, so this moment on the ground floor of the Chrysanthemum is a moment for disappointment, for watching Yuki Edogawa's heroism and feeling envy that at least she knows what to do, for quiet blame games to start, and for doing your best to fail to live up to the occasion.

After all, you've just been shown up, repeatedly, by Eclair Espoir: the woman who you're supposed to be trying to arrest, and who is a disconcerting wild card in all this. And she's gone just as quickly as she arrived, in a way that suggests that if she were one of Heron's Handmaidens instead of a maid to dreaming dragons, she'd be making the rest of you look bad.

Especially poor Injimo. Just couldn't get the capture, defeat the beast, or win the battle. It took Eclair Espoir to finally defeat the Architect-Knight, after all...

---

Eclair Espoir!

It would be lovely if Timtam replied right away, wouldn't it? If she was baited into replying hastily, all too eagerly, spilling words across her tablet screen as she rises to your bait. But nothing yet. Instead: bats.

They're a common sight around Vespergift, these mice with wings. They roost in the high towers and fly out in great swarms when they are disturbed, or when night falls. Since both have happened tonight, they move between you and the clouds in great, swirling flocks. (Is that what a group of bats on the wing is called? Let us assume so.) At times, they seem to be like one vast animal in many parts, twisting in impossible serpentine acrobatics. And they glitter.

That's another thing about the bats of Vespergift that Yuki Edogawa would likely be surprised by. The legend goes that they carried off the old stained glass of the great Avel castles when the trees and the dead consumed them all. Each Vespergift bat is studded with glass shards, tiny ones worked into their fur, and they reflect the lights of the city back down on it, which means that right now it looks as if the sky is catching fire, too.

Your tablet pings.
>[.onarainyeve]
>I dreamed about you, Eclair.
>Or, no. I dreamed about someone who looked like you but wasn't you.
>There's a you-ness to you, and nobody else has it.
>And this person who wasn't you, but looked like you, she was covered in fire, from her ears to the tip of her tail.
>Or, no. The fire didn't burn. Burning is a thing that fire does. It was like a picture of fire, like the art you all make with your tablets.
>Appearance without reality. You are very real, my darling Eclairette. It's so easy for me to see you right now, if I try...
>Watching little fires in the sky...
>But you're so very small...
>Be brave for me, my kitten. I know that you will come back home to me.
>And you will know why dear Timtam has tried to hurt all of us with her antics.
>Oh! The little fires! I think I know what they mean!
>They are coming back to you...

That was a lot of words for Evening. Effort, on her part, to cohere her thoughts towards you in speech for so long. She is affectionate with her presence, with her thoughts slithering ghostly through the library wings, with how she drapes her attention around maids like the coils of a Nagi princess- not with words. But she believes that you are worth the effort.

---

Natt!

The damn maid has her heels up on the good cushion.

Behind the wagon come the whimpering, sobbing Civils, later to be sorted into those wise enough to understand and those foolish enough to require training. Soon it won't matter whether they could escape the coffle or not: if they try to run off while you all travel through the Outside, anything could happen to them. So you sit on your fur blanket in the wagon and try to ignore the dragon's sluzhanka. But it's hard when she's got her heels up and is lounging amidst the loot, playing with her silly little tablet, gnawing on the stylus.

She's been glued to the thing since the first reports started coming in on the groupchat from Olesya's hunting pack. Dragons fighting in the sky; a city on fire; tumult, confusion, and the opportunity for glory. And here you thought that striking into Kel itself, plundering another decadent cathedral, and undermining Civelia herself for the good of the Serigalamu would be the best trouble that the night would see. And instead it's the Khatun's daughter who'll be remembered for fighting dragons. Feels like rocks grinding in your chest.

"Afternoon tea!" She murmurs to herself, lazily running a wet fingertip along the rim of a sanctified goblet. "Amorous..." Her smile is almost Outside-mad. "Three times!"

When she glances at you, suddenly, it raises the hackles on the back of your neck. It'd be better for everyone if she was at the back of the coffle, save that then you'd have to answer to the Khatun about the state of her jester. (And, not that you would admit it, even in a parenthetical, you're not sure that you wouldn't end up back there instead, with her eyes shining all bright and fey like that.)

"Ha!" She says, once, deliberately, and drums her heels on the cushion. And then she goes back to gnawing on the stylus, staring at the words on her tablet like she's trying to drill a hole in it, or else convince it to melt. Finally, chuckling to herself, tail's tip swishing fitfully and erratically, she begins to type...

In spite of everything, Eclair takes a moment to smile. Her fingers caress the words on the tablet, curling over 'Eclairette' as if to capture the diminutive of her name inside her fist and lift it into her heart. A precious gift, this attention. Strength itself. She would not waste it.

It was no good responding to Evening with words. It was little good responding at all, but sometimes love overwhelms practicality. A flourish of a sword, a stiff nod, salute, and curtsy, a flustered smile and flush of the cheeks, the twist of a shy foot against the ground. They all meant the same thing. Even from here she would be seen, no matter the gesture.

Eclair picks up her tablet and climbs back out the window she slipped in from. Farewell, first home. Thank you, though it comes far too late to help. She stands with her back to the street, holding the tablet in front of her and waiting on the precipice. Watching the bats in all their glittering mystery as they swirl and circle across the city. Back and forth, back and forth, they carry the fire of Vespergift and the dreams of the Avels with equal ease. Do they flee the city and the smoke? Or do they dance above it all?

The fires above, and the fires below. Eclair Espoir, lit in soft red from the tips of her ears to the end of her tail. The shadows paint her face in pure determination. Does she smile, does she burn, does she chill the air around her with cool perfection? The truth is in the eye of the beholder. This is the image she sends to Evening, along with a violet heart reaction.

She tucks her tablet away. She straightens her hair. She draws the iridescent curved sword that is the first section of her heartblade. She closes her eyes. She leans backwards.

And Eclair Espoir falls. Her knees bend to match the curve of her spine as she turns through the air until her position is inverted. Face first, she hurtles toward the lower streets in silence and serenity. The city is burning: what could that possibly be considered but the greatest mess anywhere? It has been long enough to clear the streets to the point where her face should no longer cause panic and confusion. Now is the time to finish washing away the Rot Star's grime and ensure that this last and least of homes does not crumble on top of its injuries.

She thrusts her sword toward the ground, a simple vertical strike with the blade held flat against her opposite hand. Not a codified technique, hardly even a particular skill worth mentioning, but Light and physical force enough to halt her fall and give her something to do other than dig a well with her skull. Once she feels the edge bite into the cobblestone she lets her body turn limp and melts over the side of the hilt until she brushes against the ground. A simple shoulder roll, with particular care taken to not flip her skirts overmuch and she is back on her feet with just enough time to dust herself off before her skateboard hits the streets and sends her rushing through the city.

She does not, of course, know the secret of cutting fire. That is the sort of miracle that requires a true hero like Princess Heron to manage. But as she is otherwise engaged in... well. That thought deserved unpacking later. For the moment it is enough that she is not coming. Luckily, years of playing detective and charting the imagined escape of her and Mayzie's many 'culprits' has left Eclair with an intuitive understanding of the waterways of Vespergift. And it is a far simpler thing to guide a river than to fight an inferno.

"I have of course heard of the Yukisearth combat technique called 'surfing'. I am excited to see how different it is in practice from skateboarding."