Hazel!
You shine with the light of civilization, of binding, of laws and strictures, of all the reality that the world can bear. A terrible and wonderful magic flows through you, invests your words with meaning, and makes them truth. It would take terrible magic indeed to break the spell that you weave.
But it just takes a hand reaching over your shoulder and a palm placed on your token to yes, and your spell.
"And while all of that is happening he's going to stay with the last person who won him until the Ball starts," the awful brat adds with a sadistic glee. You are suddenly aware that she's got you. "Because I won." The token thrums with an acknowledgement of this self-evident truth; she's the last Hunter standing, even if she doesn't know what's going on. A boy in the hand is worth... well, you know how that goes.
She twists one hand and a shining leash appears between her fingers, and you get precisely no prizes for guessing where the other end is, Hazel. (Cutie. One more for old times' sake.) She flashes her braces at the assembly and tugs possessively, and both of those actions are largely pointed towards the tall, gangly Serigalamu staggering to her feet.
You know. The one who jumped on a dragon's face to buy you time. That woman. Her cheek's cut, her eyes are tired, and she's lost her jacket which means her shoulders (big, wow) are on full display. And she looks, wow, rather similar to the brat who's claimed you, just older and gothier and big where your captor's a wiry little gremlin.
Then you're all interrupted by a creaking and a cracking, and Walking Elm's limbs bending in odd directions as she lurches to her feet. The way that she snaps them back into an approximation of the proper positions will, I am sure, stay with you forever, especially when you're trying to get to sleep in the dark.
"Oh, a ball," she says, honey dripping from her voice. "Aria, we do love balls, don't we? You had such lovely ones back then, with all your knights and your trophies and your fair damosels!" She claps her hands together, the once, causing another puff of golden spores. Behind her, staggering out from the smashed wall, is the much smaller regular-sized Aria, her eyes still aglow with hate. "Aria, sweet, do go get your builder-knight. She's sure to be useful."
Handmaidens!
"After all our long acquaintance, this is how Heron does me? Intolerable," says the Nagi woman curling in a currently-friendly manner around Tsane. Her eyes are wicked, her hair is a mess, and she is still gesturing with a smoking pipe. Her fur-lined blouse is stained with sweat and the strange rain of this night. Did I say that she says that? She declares it. "I do my part in protecting the Golden Fawn from ruffians and ne'er-do-wells, and this is how I am repaid? No, this is not acceptable, not in the least."
She flourishes, from one of her purses, a golden coin. It's rare that these are handed out; that she has one implies that she's done the Civil church some great service, or perhaps that she's done some favor for someone who had and was also drunk, high or very compromised. There, on its face, is the Heronmark, stark in its simplicity. This she hands to Cair.
"I am not entrusting this to anyone but Heron herself, and I am insisting that this be one of her official duties. Repair her holy place, this spring which she gave to Vespergift. Clean up after yourselves, Miss Dragon, and ensure that the Fawn does not spend months being bandied about Khaganate campsites!"
The energy of the argument, I am sure, does not dissipate - but there is a reason for at least some of you to linger and try to fulfill Heron's obligations, or at the very least weasel your way out of having to explain why Heron can't show up and clean all this up with her wonderful toys, most of which are stuck in the Rootwalker-infested Stacks.
Outside, a rushing torrent flecked with suds of soap rushes through the streets.
Yuki!
"Oh, we can't let Negodincia, of all people...!"
Juniper does a little foot stomp. It is objectively adorable. The Khanum sticks out her tongue at that, suggesting that she is the Negodincia in question. Khanum Negodincia, one might say, if one was to use her full title; the little princess of the plains.
Olesnya turns and takes one of your hands in her own: broad, warm, firm. She draws it up towards her chest, and she gives you a very intent look. "Miss Edogawa," she says, her voice low and quiet, "put your faith in me. I will not let my sister torment your boyfriend, and I will bring him to the ball."
Juniper's eyes nearly start sparkling. It would mean a lot to her for you to accept this offer, but... well, she didn't really impress you back in Crevas, did she? And she was marked by the crown back in Crevas. That's an awful lot of trusting she's asking from you here, and you're certainly under no obligation to accept it.
Especially right next to Sulochana, who looks indignant and is making a sputtering noise about it.
Eclair!
The waterways of Vespergift are a wonder of the world, really. Sure, the Chrysanthemum is squatting on the best hot spring, but here, water moves up and it moves warm, and it cascades down from gargoyles into the sewers, through water purification vats made by skilled artisans, and then back up under the power of the steam of the earth. Now, this system is carefully monitored by the Dame of the Gargoyles, a Civil title with deep integration with the civic infrastructure.
We shall take it as given that, the circumstances being what they are and your single-mindedness being what it is, that you have no compunctions at all about waltzing straight into Vesper Victoria's, which should be bustling with life if the Civils who staff it weren't busy assisting with evacuation (as their oaths demand of them). We shall further take it as given that you know how to open a locked drawer.
The part that I want to know is how you got the soap into the water system in the first place, and how you had so much to hand. That's the part I don't know! Do tell me, Eclair darling, as you remove the safeties and set the gargoyles to running riotous with water all over the city.
You shine with the light of civilization, of binding, of laws and strictures, of all the reality that the world can bear. A terrible and wonderful magic flows through you, invests your words with meaning, and makes them truth. It would take terrible magic indeed to break the spell that you weave.
But it just takes a hand reaching over your shoulder and a palm placed on your token to yes, and your spell.
"And while all of that is happening he's going to stay with the last person who won him until the Ball starts," the awful brat adds with a sadistic glee. You are suddenly aware that she's got you. "Because I won." The token thrums with an acknowledgement of this self-evident truth; she's the last Hunter standing, even if she doesn't know what's going on. A boy in the hand is worth... well, you know how that goes.
She twists one hand and a shining leash appears between her fingers, and you get precisely no prizes for guessing where the other end is, Hazel. (Cutie. One more for old times' sake.) She flashes her braces at the assembly and tugs possessively, and both of those actions are largely pointed towards the tall, gangly Serigalamu staggering to her feet.
You know. The one who jumped on a dragon's face to buy you time. That woman. Her cheek's cut, her eyes are tired, and she's lost her jacket which means her shoulders (big, wow) are on full display. And she looks, wow, rather similar to the brat who's claimed you, just older and gothier and big where your captor's a wiry little gremlin.
Then you're all interrupted by a creaking and a cracking, and Walking Elm's limbs bending in odd directions as she lurches to her feet. The way that she snaps them back into an approximation of the proper positions will, I am sure, stay with you forever, especially when you're trying to get to sleep in the dark.
"Oh, a ball," she says, honey dripping from her voice. "Aria, we do love balls, don't we? You had such lovely ones back then, with all your knights and your trophies and your fair damosels!" She claps her hands together, the once, causing another puff of golden spores. Behind her, staggering out from the smashed wall, is the much smaller regular-sized Aria, her eyes still aglow with hate. "Aria, sweet, do go get your builder-knight. She's sure to be useful."
Handmaidens!
"After all our long acquaintance, this is how Heron does me? Intolerable," says the Nagi woman curling in a currently-friendly manner around Tsane. Her eyes are wicked, her hair is a mess, and she is still gesturing with a smoking pipe. Her fur-lined blouse is stained with sweat and the strange rain of this night. Did I say that she says that? She declares it. "I do my part in protecting the Golden Fawn from ruffians and ne'er-do-wells, and this is how I am repaid? No, this is not acceptable, not in the least."
She flourishes, from one of her purses, a golden coin. It's rare that these are handed out; that she has one implies that she's done the Civil church some great service, or perhaps that she's done some favor for someone who had and was also drunk, high or very compromised. There, on its face, is the Heronmark, stark in its simplicity. This she hands to Cair.
"I am not entrusting this to anyone but Heron herself, and I am insisting that this be one of her official duties. Repair her holy place, this spring which she gave to Vespergift. Clean up after yourselves, Miss Dragon, and ensure that the Fawn does not spend months being bandied about Khaganate campsites!"
The energy of the argument, I am sure, does not dissipate - but there is a reason for at least some of you to linger and try to fulfill Heron's obligations, or at the very least weasel your way out of having to explain why Heron can't show up and clean all this up with her wonderful toys, most of which are stuck in the Rootwalker-infested Stacks.
Outside, a rushing torrent flecked with suds of soap rushes through the streets.
Yuki!
"Oh, we can't let Negodincia, of all people...!"
Juniper does a little foot stomp. It is objectively adorable. The Khanum sticks out her tongue at that, suggesting that she is the Negodincia in question. Khanum Negodincia, one might say, if one was to use her full title; the little princess of the plains.
Olesnya turns and takes one of your hands in her own: broad, warm, firm. She draws it up towards her chest, and she gives you a very intent look. "Miss Edogawa," she says, her voice low and quiet, "put your faith in me. I will not let my sister torment your boyfriend, and I will bring him to the ball."
Juniper's eyes nearly start sparkling. It would mean a lot to her for you to accept this offer, but... well, she didn't really impress you back in Crevas, did she? And she was marked by the crown back in Crevas. That's an awful lot of trusting she's asking from you here, and you're certainly under no obligation to accept it.
Especially right next to Sulochana, who looks indignant and is making a sputtering noise about it.
Eclair!
The waterways of Vespergift are a wonder of the world, really. Sure, the Chrysanthemum is squatting on the best hot spring, but here, water moves up and it moves warm, and it cascades down from gargoyles into the sewers, through water purification vats made by skilled artisans, and then back up under the power of the steam of the earth. Now, this system is carefully monitored by the Dame of the Gargoyles, a Civil title with deep integration with the civic infrastructure.
We shall take it as given that, the circumstances being what they are and your single-mindedness being what it is, that you have no compunctions at all about waltzing straight into Vesper Victoria's, which should be bustling with life if the Civils who staff it weren't busy assisting with evacuation (as their oaths demand of them). We shall further take it as given that you know how to open a locked drawer.
The part that I want to know is how you got the soap into the water system in the first place, and how you had so much to hand. That's the part I don't know! Do tell me, Eclair darling, as you remove the safeties and set the gargoyles to running riotous with water all over the city.