Handmaidens!

Frost.

Creeping up the windowpanes. Tracing the contours of the twisted room. Fringing the very edge of the teapot's spout. Spreading in spurts, in delicate fractals.

"She did not, because she would not. Eclair Espoir?" In her eyes. In her fingers. In her teeth. "Eclair Espoir would not. Would never. Not unless all we hold dear was at stake, and then she would come back to us." She does not say: and I would hold her, and stroke her back as she sobbed, and reassure her that she had done the right thing, and that there were simple chores waiting for her precise touch. But that is what she means, in her heart. It is only frozen on the outside.

When she exhales her breath is visible. Like a dragon's own.

"If you are going to lie to start a war, pick better ones. It would not do for the Champion of Thellamie to bring ruin and to destroy a place that has done her no wrong over such a flimsy, threadbare one."

---

Eclair Espoir!

She takes your hand, Eclair. Not sweetly, not slipping her fingers between yours, but so firmly that it digs your fingers against your palm around that too-solid hilt. She is frightened; she is furious. She is all her feelings, and no way to let them spill out properly.

"You! Idiot!" She sobs, shaking your hand. Keep the sword away from her. You have enough strength for that. I believe in you. "Did you think I would just buy a tower in the middle of a ruined city? Swoop in, and, and twist someone's arm until they sold? The Syzerpaws Memorial Tower!! That, that would be throwing it all away, and I thought you'd want, and anyway, the fastest way to get all those tents, all those groceries, all those rocks from Kel was just..."

She tries to make a gesture with her shoulders which says: if my palms were open, I'd be gesturing with them to suggest letting money fall out of my hands. But she's not very good at it. Her face says: how dare you be angry with me when I've already been angry at myself. Her fingers' shaking says: how dare you hurt yourself over me. How dare you how dare you how dare you.

"...what does money mean if I live every day in a broken city knowing that I didn't help all of them when I had the chance? Do you think I'd ever be able to look one of you in the eye ever again?! Do you??" She doesn't ask to be answered. She asks to be heard.

She stands. She draws.

Her heartblade is the color just before dawn, shivering in the shape of a long knife. Not the weapon of a duelist at all.

"Now put that awful thing away and duel me. And when I win," she says, willing victory into her unpracticed hands, "you will never do that again, Eclair."

---

Yuki!

Perfectly answered. You know, that must be why you met my daughters so early on your journey: you've been one of mine all along, for all those Kelish spots on your coat. To have a heart like that, that is.

Purnima takes her coffee with a ridiculous amount of cream and sugar. Sweet and spicy. And, yes, that means yours also has a kick to it. Do you cough when drinking spicy coffee, Yuki? I bet you do. I bet it's just the cutest, most adorable thing in all the world. You take coffee together, there in the Den of Evil, with the guards blushing outside.

"And when I am Queen of Crevas everything will be perfect and wonderful forever," she says, preening at herself. She's always doing this sort of thing when not in public: running fingers through her hair to catch tangles, rubbing at her scales to make sure one's not loose, looking at herself in the nearest shiny object to make sure there's no blemish that she hasn't caught before showing herself off to others. "I will make statues of myself that also double as fountains which also double as vendor machines, like on Yukisearth, and everyone will look up at me when they get their vended food and they will think to themselves: she is the most beautiful woman who has ever lived and my life is so much better now that the Karn-Pana family is in charge instead of the sanctimonious puffed-up Arjus. I will now go enjoy being twice as wealthy and four times as happy. And maybe you'll get a little statuette somewhere! And you'll be looking up at my statue so that everyone knows how lucky you were to pleasure me!"

Her smile is beatific, as if a fire demon were to suddenly experience bliss.

---

Hazel!

There is dead silence. Olesya is staring off into the flames, her body taut. Keli and Seli are holding their breath between them, afraid to so much as twitch an ear. In one of the braziers, there is the snap of coal falling apart, and a curl of smoke rises. The temperature is oppressive. The shawl around your shoulders is itching at every place where it touches your skin.

The Khatun laughs, the once. Her smile is yellow with age and tea stains. Yellow like the heart of the fire.

"Oh, this is a brave boy! You picked well!" She toasts the unseen stars with her teacup, tail swishing to the left, then to the right. "A brave prince with a clever voice. If I were half my age I would be rolling you up in a carpet myself!" She lowers the cup, sets it back in the saucer.

"But I am not," she says. "No need to be afraid," she says. "We will all do our best to help you choose," she says.

The teapot whistles. She does not flinch. Her eyes are on you.

She hungers.

"Oh good!" Tsane! said. "Because now you've accepted the idea that ruin, destruction and war are what you are going to get if you do not comply with my perfectly reasonable demands for courtesy and hospitality. As the representative of the Civil Church and Princess Heron -"[1]

[1] Tsane was awful at pretending to be Princess Heron. She was extremely good, however, at pretending to be the Hero of Ages disguised as Tsane. That fire in her eyes, that unending determination, the confidence that there was nothing she could not bring to an end - all of it made her seem less like a mere handmaiden and more like an unconvincingly disguised comet.

"- I am going to get to the truth. Your argument hinges on would, and would is a question of motive. Is it impossible she gained a new one? After all, I just told you that the Fire In The Wood has returned - how would you describe Ms. Espoir's resistance to poison? The False Fire is still at large - does your companion have a heart of stone? Your organisation has been around for centuries, dutifully serving the lands of Thellamie - we heard such words from the outraged monks of Shindenbutai even as the mark of the Demon Queen burned upon their hearts and their teeth curled into the tusks of boars. You tell us that you deal with tasks beneath Heron's notice - well, you are now the subject of Heron's notice as she deals with threats above your station."

"Is there something here you need to keep secret?" asked Kalentia quietly. "Or are you trying to defend something? Because I am a healer; if I go in I would pose no threat."

There was kindness, but also firmness there. She wasn't contradicting Tsane. They had a duty, and some things could not be taken on trust.

"...Aha."

Eclair's summoned heartblade is a match for the one she pulled in Mayzie's presence back during the duel in Vespergift. Her second heartblade matches it, now mirroring the two she wielded against the Architect Knight. Her third and her fourth are new to anybody she has met since she ventured forth from the Manor on this ill-fated mission. These beautiful, curving, single-edged blades join seamlessly together to form a pair of double-bladed polearms, which she twirls with such adroit cleverness that they seem to slice the idea of sound from the air itself.

She tosses the pair of them up into the air and they separate back into swords once more before burying themselves into the floorboards down to the hilt. One in the North. One in the South. One in the East. One in the West. The floor of the room lights up like a stormy sky, flashing pearly and purple lightning across the meager bedroom and turning it into an arena of legends.

She pulls a fifth sword from her heart, this one as pliable as a whip, and wraps its edge around her left fist.

"A contest between heartblades is not a contest of skill or experience. It is merely an expression of willpower. If yours remains inviolate, then even if your entire body should fail you, victory is still possible. Conversely..."

There is some clever and possibly horrifying bit of Maid-Knight magic to the technique of Reduced Earth. Whatever that is, it is not to be revealed here. Still, Eclair is an adept student: in a single violet blur of motion she crosses all the distance between herself and Mayzie, and now looms large and imposing in her glittering dress and armor in front of her childhood friend.

"--If one heart is defeated..."

Her sword-hand grapples Mayzie around the wrist, seizing control of her dawn colored knife.

"--Before the fight begins..."

Their faces are touching now. Eclair plants the softest and sweetest of kisses on Mayzie's cheek.

"--There is no need..."

She pulls Mayzie's arm forward by the wrist and thrusts the dagger through the crack in her armor.

"To fight in the first place."

Eclair takes three slow steps backwards, pulling free from the kiss. Free from the knife. She stands there in silence with her back as straight and proud as can be, and everything about her stance and expression exuding the confidence and power of a Maid-Knight in full standing who truly believes she could fight the entire world and win. At least with preparation.

She snaps her fingers and all of her weapons dissolve into mist. Then she dips into a low curtsy.

"Once again I have underestimated you, Mayzie. I was all too aware that the money I had offered you could not be stretched far enough to repair a broken city and I confess that restricted my thinking. No wonder I found you working another service job. You fool, what was there to be embarrassed about? You should have been gloating!"

She reaches for a mop and begins to clean up after herself until the room is spotless, well beyond the level of clean she found it in. She glances often at Mayzie's reaction as she continues, most especially to make sure she's still standing there. With a single relieved huff, she finishes and draws out her tablet in its place.

"A moment, if you please. Your heart is as beautiful as you are, and I can only hope to match it. I am going to inform my Order of the current status of my investigation. I am also going to requisition time off to accompany you until the restoration of Vespergift is well in hand. To arrange the transport of all the food and materials a clever mind might have purchased will take more work days than you can possibly afford right now. But if you simply hire me, I can accomplish all of this trivially. Distribution, construction, and especially cleaning are also skills I possess at a passable level."

She turns her head away and blushes, visible despite her very valiant attempts at hiding it.

"I am... sorry that this means you will be forced to continue looking at my face. I can wear a mask if that will help. I have... mmf. Simply realized there is no honor or kindness in disappearing or in aiding your dreams if I do not at least fix the things that are holding your dreams hostage in the first place. So I will. Be there. To pay back all the pieces that loved me. And t-the... ones that hated me as well. If I wish for you to think well of the Aurorae it is my job to prove you should. Not yours."

With a single, awkward glance at her friend she buries her nose in her tablet and begins writing with quick and feathery taps. For all her speed it's a thing that still takes quite a while, because in writing any missive to the entire Manor at once she will always find she has a lot to say. There isn't enough time or space to write down all the little bits of love and longing or every fastidious detail she copies from her notebooks, but the basic thrusts are these:

1. That Timtam is very decidedly not acting alone, though the full extent of her resources remains unclear
2. That she has employed multiple channels of misdirection, and that her sisters-in-arms to take care to scrutinize the rumors that filter in from the world
3. That even if she has betrayed the Order utterly, Timtam's heart remains her own. It is Eclair's recommendation in the meantime that the Maids and the Dreamers at the very least do not give up on her just yet.
4. That Timtam is limited enough after current events that Eclair feels comfortable prioritizing the wellbeing of Vespergift, recently destroyed by the sudden reemergence of the Rot Star.
5. If anybody from the Order wishes to criticize, chastise, or otherwise admonish her, they can find her in the city that fights the forest. Where there will evidently be a ball of some sort? She will be in attendance if there is any chance it could be mission relevant to either of her current goals.
6. Though owing to a mysterious and unprovoked aggression from the Civils, she may be forced to don a disguise or four. Send only Maid-Knights or couriers who could know her by her eyes.

It goes on like this, for endless paragraphs that name over six dozen individuals she wishes to send her love to. She asks if anybody knows whether Evening liked her picture. And for endless paragraphs more she begs everyone for their patience and understanding as she unwinds these unexpectedly complex threads. Then she (quite unnecessarily, given the... everything else about it) puts her signature on the bottom in her usual idiom.

As if anyone at the Manor wouldn't know the title she gave to herself when she was barely more than a squire.

He would really like that cup of tea now please. On account of his throat forgetting it wasn’t a desert.

Frankly, it is a clerical error on an unimaginable scale that Hazel Valentine Fletcher should even be sitting before the Khatun, much less talking to her, and don’t get him started about her talking about him. To him. The cold, iron fist of the Khaganate, now that, that he could wrap his head around. At least then he could be angry, and afraid, and feel like standing up to her was the right thing to do.

Now.

Prince?

Now?

Khatun?

Now,

Clever, prince?

(Khagan?!)

it’s getting tricky.

The shawl’s too hot. The shawl’s too prickly. They’re too close to the fires. There’s too many fires. There’s too much quiet. There’s too little sense. The tiara doesn’t fit. The teacup’s still empty. There’s nobody between him and the Khatun. There’s several twisting hallways, very big sluzhankas, and very big huntresses between him and the exit. The charm is right where he left it; beneath the shawl, pressing against his shoulder. He doesn’t know what he’d say. Only that he’d have to say it quickly.

She’s still looking.

She’s still waiting.

“Thank you, Khatun. I appreciate the help and also not being rolled up in a carpet.”

He doesn’t laugh. You don’t react when you do something silly. You do not pull a face unless the audience is right. You do not look away you do not look away you do not look away you do not look away you do not

“Though, to be clear, there won’t be any competing outside of the contests, for anybody. I’m, not saying any of your hospitality is meant to be competing. I haven’t taken it that way at all. Really, it’s been nice to rest after all the running around. But if there is to be any helping, it has to be done in the contests. Thellamie needs a Queen, but I don’t want it tearing itself apart to get one.”

The steam builds. The whistle rises higher, ever higher.

”I just wanted to tell you, up front, in case of…carpets. And if you hadn’t heard already. Avoid any misunderstandings.”

The flush builds. The red rises higher, ever higher.

[Oh no it’s a conversation now and that means it’s Friendly Benefits: The Khatun takes a String, and says one thing she finds attractive about clever, clever Hazel.]

Yuki doesn't cough right off the bat, but she also doesn't pace herself, and so after a few sips there's too much spiciness in her mouth and she has to stop and cough. They're cute little coughs, and she smiles in chagrin and to let Purnima know that she's enjoying it even though it's making her cough.

Once she collects herself (following a very hoarse "I'm fine...no really") she slows her pace to drink the coffee, she gives Purnima a thoughtful look. "See, I'd kind of like that because you'd be the one building a statue of me. And even if it's a little statue, it's pretty special to think that you'd want to build a statue of me because of tonight, y'know?"

She takes another very small sip, thinking about how to say this. "Back on Earth, Yukisworld, there are lots of people who build...statues of themselves. Or stuff like statues. Sometimes they make stuff, like clothes with their names on it. And...so I guess I understand why you'd want to do that. But, well, my friends and I all make fun of those people on Earth. Like, it's actually kinda lame to want a statue of yourself. Kind of...uh...well...it makes people think you're insecure. It's like, if you get a statue, it should be cuz somebody else thinks you're worth a statue. And if you're so rich that you can build statues of yourself, you should use your riches to do cool stuff for the people that really need help instead. So then they'll think you're cool enough to build a statue of."

Handmaidens!

“We are protecting love,” the maid says, simply. “Always.” There is steel in her resolve, and passion enough for a heartblade. She would die before she allowed intruders into the Mansion, and consider it nothing more than the duty that love is owed. As would the maids in the room beyond. As would, well, at least some of the maids throughout the Mansion.

When the Order of the Aurora contracts, they contract as hard as diamond. That the two of you were allowed this close was a tactical error on their part, and they do not intend to make that mistake again – not easily. Not here. Not when the stakes are so high.

If Heron were slumbering in the heart of the Stacks, would not each and every one of you do the same? Wouldn’t you keep her secret then, as you keep her secret now? Look at her again. Look at the maids beyond, trying not to be caught peering into the room. Do you recognize yourselves in the mirror?

“You will have no barriers to exit,” the Serigalamu maid says, even as Kalentia’s tablet pings.

On it, an unfamiliar handle, and a heartfelt message:
>[moreofamorsel]
>If you can save Eclair – from the Civils, from Timtam, from herself…
>Please. I’ll pay anything. I’ll make sure you can get in.

---

Eclair Espoir!

You do not see, I think, the way that Mayzie plays with a curl of her hair. You do not see the way that she looks away, self-conscious, unsure of how many layers of herself you have penetrated, unsure how many layers she has to be penetrated in the first place. Oh, there is something of my camp in her, my darling: she is a creature of masks and dreams and beautiful illusions.

“You’ll need a new disguise,” she says, primly, chin in the air. “I can’t have the most wanted woman in Thellamie dragging me down to Civil prison with her.” And, yes, Hazel, she did have to specify the most wanted woman – but this isn’t even the part about you, so sit back down. And, yes, Civil prison does involve tea and biscuits and lectures about the need to work together as a society, but while you’re squirming upside-down, so do your best to avoid it. As fetching as you’d look with a serious expression, attempting to convey the seriousness with which teatime is meant to be treated.

By the time you look over at her – once you’re done, of course, of course, you need time to type, no ability to get distracted by another task until you’re finished – then you’ll see her hard at work, already sketching, trying to transform your black-and-whites into a truly durable disguise. This is a way for her to express what her words cannot. I hope that you appreciate it properly.

Take a String on her, if you would. Tangle her up in it, until the two of you cannot break free.

---

Hazel Valentine Fletcher!

She does not hold you down and stab you. She could, you know. It wouldn’t even be particularly difficult. A whistle and she’d have more guards in here. An order and Juniper would be dragged out, and if Olesya ever wanted to see her again, she’d have to pin your arms while the Khatun showed you the shape of her wicked heart. And she’d carve into your feelings, your dreams, your very heart, until it hurt to think, it hurt to breathe, it hurt to be wanted but not for yourself, it hurt to be carved and cut into a good boy.

It would be the magic of the Stars against the magic of one particular Fallen Star, true. But she would have an advantage here, where it is swelteringly hot, where she rules by strength, where the Stars cannot see you. She knows a rite that would send you tumbling down into… well, you would call it Hell. The prison of a fallen Star, where there is fire and darkness and fury forever.

But sometimes she wants to win fairly. She wants to win, oh, she needs to win. She will do anything, anything, to win, Hazel. But if she has to toss you down into Hell immediately to win, that would be unbecoming of a Khatun. It would be an acknowledgement that you are more than a pretty little trophy.

And what a trophy you will be, on the wedding day with her daughter. You will give her good grandsons and strong granddaughters. You will give them your silly flushed cheeks and your adorable voice, and if she were young and endlessly powerful again, she would be the one competing for you, to own you, to make you proof that she can have whatever she wants, that life is a series of hunts for what one’s heart desires, that the strong rule and the weak obey, that she decides who is predator and who is prey. But she is old now. And she will not let time take her achievements and undo them.

You will give her a dynasty.

Is that not attractive enough?

“Carpets. Well. I’m sure that Olesya can arrange something if you are attempting that reversal psychology, Cutie.” She says it with a Capital. Because she is a huntress, and having the right bait is important, and seeing the look on your face when she uses Yaz’s name for you as a knife…

That’s its own victory. And that’s enough for her.

For now.

---

Yuki!

Purnima does not give this more than a moment of consideration.

“But if anyone else tries to make my statue,” she says, with an airy wave of her hand, with a squeeze of her coils, already envisioning it in her thoughts, how golden it will be, how it will be the centerpiece of Crevas, how it will immortalize her forever, how even if the Outside were to rush in and drown the world in subjectivity her statue, her statue, would be the last one that stood when even the Nails were drowned and Sayanastia could celebrate a victory without joy over that hated thing, Existence, and she would lie in her own arms and, oh, she would miss your statue when it went, probably, but the true tragedy would be the loss of one Purnima Karn-Pana…

“They might not get it right!”

Of course we’re coming back to the Chrysanthemum for the ball. Call it a victory lap, if you like. Call it proof that things have been repaired, and that better than ever (thanks in part to the Mystery Builder, Heroine of Vespergift).

The “ballroom” itself is a stained glass platform built around the chrysanthemum tree in the center of the building (itself very, very heavily magically warded by the Civils to avoid a repeat of what happened with Walking Elm). The repaired staircases lead to walkways jutting out over the ballroom, and private dining suites on platforms all about the tree. Underneath, the baths and the hot springs still boil and froth, just waiting for even more private dalliances.

The restaurants, the theaters, the massage parlors, these have all been closed for the evening. There’s only one event, and it’s the main event: winning Hazel Valentine Fletcher’s heart. (Aren’t you so excited? Just so, so excited??) Yaz’s girls are butlers and maids and coatchecks and hangers-on this evening, and that Nagi matron has got profit on her mind, profit in all sorts of different shapes and sizes.

---

Handmaidens!

There are vinyards in Kel. They are the hardiest, most exclusive vinyards in all of Thellamie. Up there, in the inhospitable mountains, under the unfiltered light of the stars, the Civils grow grapes glutted with starlight. And these grapes grow, and grow, and grow, until they are so full of starlight that there is more light than juice when they are crushed. And they are crushed, because the Civils hike up their skirts and dance in the vats, and they make wine of this juice, and it is bottled and aged for centuries until it is the most potent thing in all the world. It causes ecstactic madness and whirling visions and comet dances. It is the sort of wine that is fought over in heist and counterheist.

Civelia has been under a lot of stress lately. She was attacked; she expended much of her divine power to give this token to Hazel Fletcher; her church is under assault. Thellamie strains at the brink of open war between a goddess and a Khatun. So she took a bottle, and she poured herself half a glass. After all, she is a spirit of restraint. Of decorum. Of civilization itself.

Three bottles in she started messaging Sayanastia and it got graphic fast.

She erased the entire conversation the next morning, but what has been seen on the shared Handmaiden Tablet cannot be unseen. Not unless you get Cair to brew a potion of forgetfulness, extra strong. You might really want to forget the mental image of what she was saying she’d do to Sayanastia’s tail.

It’s rumored she’s making an appearance at the ball! Rumored because she hasn’t responded to any means of contact from Team Handmaiden since. Naturally, Heron will be required to make an appearance on her arm.

Simple enough, right?

---

Mystery Builder, Heroine of Vespergift!

Two weeks ago, Mayzie Sighs was working at a cafe and trying to maintain a low profile. She didn’t deserve any acclaim for donating money she hardly earned to a good cause, after all. But then you two came back, and she set you to work.

You were the only member of the Order helping. The Order has called back its members; the Mansion is being fortified. You, and you alone, put your shoulder to the work; you, and you alone, are entrusted with keeping the spark of the Aurora burning while Morning, Noon and Evening are defended by your sisters. I daresay it’s one of the longest fortnights you’ve ever had in your life.

Even you couldn’t do it alone. But the Mystery Builder became a symbol of sorts. A symbol of rebuilding, of reconstruction, of hope that one day more than the city would be reclaimed from the Witchwood. Recruitment applications for the Gardeners have shot through the proverbial tower roof. And wherever you’ve gone, Heroine of Vespergift, fans have followed, with their tablets and their fanart and their hopes.

Their hopes, Eclair.

So of course Mayzie was dragged into your wake: your manager, your squire, your interface with the Vespergift reconstruction project. Her face has been right next to yours on all the graffiti, all the posters, and in everyone’s hearts.

So tonight, Mayzie Sighs is going to be the sub-belle of the ball. Not as big a deal as this Hazel boy, but it is your sworn duty to ensure that she enjoys an evening of being in an auxilary spotlight, that she feels it burns as brightly as any star-sodden rack of antlers.

Tell me about her dress.

---

Yuki!

Purnima shows up in a golden palanquin to take the two of you to the Chrysanthemum. Her hair is in the “Princess Leia” buns, and did you have any hand in that? Her dress is gold, gold, tassels of it, chains of it, gold on gold on gold. Her eyeshadow is gold flecked with powdered starlight, for that intoxicating kick when one meets her eyes. Her scales shine with gold-flake oil. She is a mace to the face, aesthetically, and she intends to pummel Hazel into submission with every trick she’s picked up from you.

Your theme, the one she dictated for you, is “silver.” In the sky, a silver ribbon winds up to the moon. What does silver mean on Yukisearth? What does silver mean to you? And did you obey her command, or are you, as they say, being a brat about it?

You’ve got time to answer, borne in this palanquin, swallowed up by her possessive golden coils. She squeezes whenever you shift, as if to lay claim to you all over again.

---

Hazel!

Olesya pushes you up against the mirror and kisses you on the mouth.

While you’re still half-dressed, too! My darlings were in the middle of getting you dressed – a task they simply couldn’t possibly leave to anyone else, you have to be fitted and buttoned and made up correctly for the ball – and then Olesya was inside your dressing room, taking up the room, all of it, shoving Keli and Seli aside to grab you and, well, see above.

This isn’t supposed to happen! Miss Yaz promised you the best of security! And, really, I’m somewhat disappointed in her if she let a brawny Serigalamu huntress get past her best. She should have had better traps in place, at the very least.

She is mashing her mouth against yours. But there’s no passion in it. She’s just doing it harder and harder like it’s supposed to do something. Like she hasn’t been told that she’s allowed to stop. Don’t worry, my girls will have her off you in a minute…

But that’s still a minute where she’s doing a terrible job of making out with you in increasing awkward desperation. And that’s still a minute where it’s incredibly clear that she could pick you up effortlessly.

It’s not like she did this at all while you were enjoying her hospitality! She was quiet, practically your shadow, more than capable of fending off anyone who might get Bright Ideas about challenging her for possession of the you. She showed you how to shoot a training bow, and tried to give you tips on how to shape your heartblade into a bow – you go ahead and tell me if that succeeded. She fed you stew and steak and the kind of little goblin birds you eat in one mouthful. She did not push you up against anything and kiss you like she was kissing a mannequin.

So what gives???

Injimo!

A girl walks alone through a deep, dark forest.

"... Sayanastia?"

Sayanastia!

"So, this is because you like her, right?" said Cair as she did the Dark Dragon's makeup.
"Hardly," smirked Sayanastia. "Though I am surprised you do not understand. You are also an immortal, are you not?"
"Not in any way I'd admit to," said Cair shiftily.
"Of course," said Sayanastia. "Well, consider - there are no physical wounds we could do to each other that matter. This has been firmly established at this point."
"What about her arm?"
"That was an offering not an injury, though I did not realize at the time," said Sayanastia. "Which goes to further my point. The point is that she, the Hero and I have been locked in a struggle of wills since the dawn of time - a struggle that I have finally conceded in. Perhaps I was simply the weakest of us three, and thus was first to flinch - but if I flatter myself, I can say I was the first to acknowledge reality."
"Which is?"
"Once I beheld a fish," said the Dark Dragon. "Orange and shy, fat and squirming at the base of its pond. A pet thing, a play thing, a meal waiting to happen. I despised it, but I despised more the creature that would devour it and continue to sin against my restful slumber. So I cursed it with strength and power that far belied its size while allowing it to keep its appearance, and without second thought moved on in my trail of destruction.

"I only learned later that when Princess Heron had encountered the fish she spent over a week trying to catch it. She broke a dozen fishing rods, three fingers, and in a fit of rage even the filter of reality above her. Thrice she swore it off as a worthless insect, and thrice she came back to it to test her might again. She never did capture that cursed fish, but the knowledge of it has grated her forever. Of all her enormous trophy gallery, there will ever be a single missing entry. It is the most harm I have ever done her."
"So that's where you're at with Civelia?" asked Cair.
"I am not the only one who has spent millennia denying the truth," said Sayanatia, rising.

She was Princess Heron, wearing a battlegown forged from the scales of her defeated nemesis. A cascading cloak of black scales, as smooth and sharp as midnight, rises from the floor up her back until it melds seamlessly with long black hair. A shoulderless silken black dress is held in place by a dragonbone corset, and a long V-cut along the right thigh reveals a leg wrapped with belts containing endless green poisons. From the depths of a necromancer's eye shadow, faint flecks of glitter shine like stars in the void. When dark eyes open then they shine just as deep and dark.

Heron dressed as Sayanastia. Her own corpse on her enemy's skin. Her own heart beneath her enemy's bone. Hero and villain blurring together until the barrier between them ruptured.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

Injimo!

"Hello? Is anyone there?"
...
":<"

It is soft. It is heavy. It is warm. This is how it starts.

It is night on the windswept plains. It is the end of an adventurous day. It is a rare moment alone. This is how it can’t stop.

The warmth of piled blankets is almost like the warmth of a body. Almost.

First fly the questions, whittled down to points with no space for answers. What does he think he’s doing? You were doing so well. You don’t have to do this. Why? Why come back to these thoughts, again? Is this who you want to be? Is this who you’ve wanted to be? How much longer are you going to struggle with this? When will you get your act together?

She wanted him. She hungered for him. She bound him, and he could not move an inch, and he could only be where she wanted him. He tried to speak, and she devoured his words, and his lips, and his tongue…

Next come the knives. Surgical. Sharp. Begin with the beginning, the real beginning. A chain of mistakes led to a tragedy. The chain must be broken. The earlier, the better. Give no ground. Why did he choose wrong, when he could have chosen right? Walk me through it. Find the error. Correct it. Make new plans. Reinforce them. Correct it. Do better. Why can’t you do better? Correct it. Why are you like this? Correct it. Do better. Never again. Never again.

…would enough of her pollen stop her nails from hurting? Would he feel the fear and thoughts drain, and drain, and drain away as she kissed, and kissed, and kissed, no matter how hard he tried to fight it?

Questions and knives. Knives and questions. It will end, eventually. It has to.

He’s done enough thinking. He knows what happened. He knows what he will do. It is over and done with now. Aren’t the blankets comfortable? It’s time to sleep. Breathe. You have to focus on your breath. Feel the air fill your lungs. Count the seconds. Exhale. Don’t rush it. It’s over and done with. You know what you’ll do next time. Aren’t the blankets comfortable? Turn, and wiggle, feel the knit texture brush against your skin. This is nice. You are filthy. This is a nice bed. Tomorrow will be better. Look forward to it. You’ll sleep soon. Breathe. This feeling is poison. Count the seconds. You’re rushing it. Six, then two, then five. There’s other ways to count breaths. Any of them will do. This is fine. You are fine. It’s time to sleep. This feeling is

failure

Last, always last, the flood carries him away. Sleep will end it, eventually.

In the morning, he will feel better.

In the morning, he will smile.

In the morning, he will remember. Warmth and shame. Shame and warmth.

He knows what he will do. Next time, it will be different.

*********************************

No plan survives contact with a wolfgirl’s mouth.

In his defense, there’s a lot of wolfgirl! That much wolfgirl shouldn’t be able to appear and pounce so quickly! Though, come to think of it, that’s probably really useful to do when hunting, so maybe it happens more often than you’d think. Except! This is a ball! And not a hunting!

Which is all to say, if you were to ask him later what he was thinking in this exact moment, he wouldn’t have a particularly good answer. Not only because he’d be wondering how you knew any of this happened, or why it was so important for you to know what was on his mind when Olesya was attacking his face with her face. Though those would also make answering. Difficult.

But if he had to say something? And he had enough time to get his thoughts in order?

It didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel right. And that was probably a bad thing.

“Heymmrph! Waimmmphh!!! Timerprrhhh! Outmmmmmmph!!!!”

There is. So much? So much. Wolfgirl. The muffled protests of her prey a deerboy can’t stop her. The frantic tap-tap-tap-taps on her…arm? Golly, her back is really far away, anyway, that can’t stop her either. And. So.

(His heartblade showed some aptitude for shifting shapes. Possibly because it was more shape than blade. And yet, it resisted the form of a bow. Not completely, mind you. And he did get close. But he never quite got the knack of it. Something about the shape was right, but too much about the shape was wrong.

That said. He learned how a bowstring longed to be gently released, allowed to fly free. He learned where to hold his arm so as not to bruise himself with every shot. He learned the height to aim, the time to breathe out, and the thrill of an arrow thudding near to the mark.

But most importantly, he learned what a novice archer ought to shout when an arrow doesn’t go where you thought it would.)

-smack!-

rings a flailing hand against her jacket.

“DOWN!”

rings the voice of the Golden Fawn.

[Spending a String on Olesya, because he wants her to stop, start over, and use her words instead of her face.]

A few days after the capture by Purnima, while preparing for the ball
>[.snowkitten]
>@familychat, sorry I disappeared again, kidnapped by Purnima Karn-Pana. It's okay, she's taking me to the ball, so I'll be there. Kind of turned into a thing anyway, I'm trying to redeem her I guess? Anyway, no need to try and rescue me, we're both fine and I can use my tablet.
>[.realsuloarju]
>...wat
>[.snowkitten]
>It's fine, I promise, it will be fine. Anyway, I'm trying to come up with my ball gown. Purnima has asked me to theme it around silver.
>[.realsuloarju]
>She asked you to THEME it?!
>[.snowkitten]
>yeah, she's doing gold, we're going to be color matching.
>[.realsuloarju]
>She asked you to...COLOR MATCH?!?!?
>[.rockamt]
>Silver armor. Chainmail. Sparring gloves, go all out Kel knight, get a cool new pair of starglasses!
>[.praxispacksis]
>No, you gotta go with something loose and free. Nice gloves, very fitting. Purple is super in, Yuki, so you need silver with a purple highlight, maybe a flower in your hair. Here, like this. Photo:SilverAndPurple, Photo:Orchid, Photo:HotFox, Photo:HotterFox, Photo:HotterFox2, Photo:GlovesAndTailFloof, Photo:LivinItUpOnBottomAestival
>[.realsuloarju]
>No. No. Here. Photo:HouseArjuPattern. Photo:CrevasiStyle. You're going to wear this. You can modify for the ears and tail, but you need to keep the tassels and the pattern to show that you're loyal to my house. You cannot, CANNOT show up with Purnima dressed any other way while...color matching. Do you understand, Yuki?
>[.snowkitten]
>I'll take a look at all of these. I get you though, Suli, this is like a house thing, right? I don't want to accidentally give Purnima some kind of political favor.
>[.realsuloarju]
>...yes

At the ball

Purnima Karn-Pana is arrayed entirely in gold. Except for the purple orchid that Yuki (courtesy of Juniper) bestowed on her as a favor. Purnima was going to refuse it, but Yuki pouted for an entire hour, and so ultimately Purnima gave in and pinned the flower just above her left breast. A single splash of the season's color amidst all that gold. It actually makes Purnima pop much more than if she were purely gleaming bright. Oh and Yuki might have leaned a bunch on her in the palanquin while fixing her hair and gotten a bunch of silver glitter onto some parts of the gold, especially around the tail and the waist. Just to spice it up a bit...by accident of course.

Yuki herself is mostly wearing the dress that Suli requested, with a handful of accents and modifications around the periphery. The main dress is a tight-fitting silver shoulderless dress made with tassels running in five layers top to bottom that flutters and sparkles when she walks. It's full of silver glitter that mostly makes the dress shimmer when the tassels shake, but does lose just a little bit with each flutter, leaving a small glittering trail to mark Yuki's passage. The center of the dress around the belly has the symbol of house Arju in a small space free of the tassels, and there's a belt around the waist keeping the dress tight with small pouch with little accessories also showing the symbol of house Arju. Purnima was not pleased, but what she found in this instance she had no ability to make Yuki undress at the eleventh hour.

Yuki wears an amethyst necklace around her neck, a nod to the purple highlights of the season, and over her shoulders is a narrow fur shawl in white that makes the silver of the dress and the purple amethyst stand out against it. The rest of her upper body is bare, and she wears no hat, instead wearing her smooth black hair up in a braided bun at the top of her head (which Purnima helped her do).

The fur shawl is the only thing covering the various marks on her neck from her tussles with Purnima, and not particularly well at that, but she holds herself up straight with a smile as she enters first, guiding her lady inside from the palanquin as any knight would.