Emeth

Blackguards!

Weaves

The too-tall woman looked back down as the man who'd once tried to kill or capture her let out a hollow laugh. Others were laughing, too, and others still were shouting madly. Apparently, Weaves concluded that it was appropriate for her to join in and added to the cacophony of insanity with her own childlike, echoing giggle—a contender for the most cliche horrifying sound one might hear while alone in the woods. She jabbed her oversized needle-staff into the ground, hunching over as she did so—a natural habit she'd built living under the low ceilings of the Maw, but one that made her look a bit like an unwashed forest witch stirring a pot of boiled humans, or other unspeakable substances.

The nature of her magic soon became apparent as her Marrow—appropriately named, as it was pale as a bone and macabre besides—began to glow with a moon-like light as it sucked life itself from the ground, causing grass and flowers to wither and die, and insects to be silent as the grave. "My name, as I told for the tongue of man: 'Weaves-in-Shade.' To whit I weave; life, death, and flesh." After creating a sizeable crater of dead foliage—a veritable crop circle, even—the strange and otherworldly being that called itself "Weaves" lifted her staff to the skies, and out from its sharpened tip poured an absolutely deafening, massive swarm of buzzing, stinging hornets.

The furious pestilence descended upon the force of men unfortunate enough to be named an enemy in her presence. Their advance could not be stopped by sharpened steel, and their persistent and invasive stings cared little for even the most tightly packed links of chainmail or plates of armor. For all it mattered, the wyvern could have breathed fire, and their numbers would still be sufficient to incapacitate its rider. The beast could continue to rampage, but it would do so without human direction—as would the rest of the men, incidentally.

Weaves cracked a wide smile as their captain thrashed about in a useless struggle, the hornets having clearly invaded his helmet at the very least. His tormentor briefly glanced around at her allies, her smile not unlike that of a child seeking approval from her peers. Then, she wandered off into another patch of vibrant flora, seemingly content to continue her assault of profane magic from behind the front lines, watching the leaderless human force split between continuing their advance towards the enemy, and struggling to subdue a very angry reptile as she prepared her next "batch" of horrors. "Do not do to fear friends, fort I've marked you, so. Thou'rt safe, so as amongst the hornets," she said, apparently satisfied with her explanation that the hornets wouldn't attack her allies... probably?

Blackguards!

I've been sick for a few days. Getting back in this with Weaves is next on my list, either today or tomorrow.

Kurai Majokko

---

As Evil Eye fell, so too did Nonsuch, but not very far and in open defiance of the fundamental laws of physics. The two girls, having sent their respective messages, parted ways. Despite neither being convinced of the other's Truth, they were united in just one feeling: they both hoped that Nonsuch wouldn't regret this decision, to let Evil Eye go. However, Evil Eye would depart with the distinct feeling that she had lost. Instead of leaving Nonsuch with lingering questions to ponder, the blast furnace in magical girl form had left the interrogating eye of the Detention Club with her own. What was the utility of lifting up fallen magical girls? To prove that the dark magical girl was a lesser being, and not a final evolution? Was what Nonsuch sought even possible? Could the process even happen in reverse? What did she mean by "these pages?" Were they the pages of history? The girl's biography? What story did she intend to tell, and how might it change if a magical girl like Evil Eye returned to the light? "Heehee~! How interesting! She's just so interesting!"

She squealed with glee as she swerved to avoid the pavement below, swiftly flying back into the tunnel that may have been her grave if not for the intervention of her self-sworn adversary. Her eyes scanning the ground and occasionally checking behind her to ensure she was not followed, she quickly found what she was looking for: the broken body of her partner, Shatterscape, which was still unconscious, left to bleed in its invisible state, barely hanging on only by the grace of being a magical girl. Swooping behind a concrete barricade, she lifted her invisibility, then lifted Shatterscape's body to carry it to nearby paramedics. "Please! Please help my friend!" she cried, hobbling along in a false display of weakness as she carried her. As soon as they looked in her direction, their faces fell. The girl's friend wasn't going to make it, and they knew it—or so they thought, ignorant as they were. "I'm sorry. We can't do anything for your friend," one woman said with a frown. Kiyo's face became hideous with rage. "Treat her. Now," she demanded as she locked eyes with them—and from that moment forward, they did her bidding. For the crew of a single ambulance, triage became an afterthought as they took Shatterscape inside and treated her alone, sedating two other patients. A quick visit to the driver convinced him to drive the magical girls to an unusual place, and with the matter of their destination settled, the two dark magical girls escaped unnoticed from the mountain, hidden amongst the emergency crew. Kiyo watched as the helpless medical staff worked on the body that shouldn't have been possible to save, acting as though seeing it heal before their very eyes even as they set about cleaning and bandaging it were the most mundane thing in the world. Perhaps there was a glimmer of shock visible in the back of their hollowed eyes, or upon their pale faces, but Evil Eye had the power to ensure that they had no consciously retrievable memory of this night. Kiyo smiled, taking Shatterscape's hand and holding it.

"It truly was a beautiful night, Sister. Though we'll be taking the train home, it seems. ...At least it'll be warm."

The Hourglass Order

Xiuyang Solari
The Sage and the Scoundrel

---

---

Xiuyang followed the sagely twin, Emperor Ten-Re as he led her away from the gathering of other students. She was certain that this would be an unpleasant meeting, if not her end. As a Binder, Cold Soup had died on her watch—worse still, she truly got the impression that Mountain Spring was going to quit because of it, what with the way he had left her his gourd and just, walked off into the sunset. She clasped her hands behind her back, willing them to be still. Her voice too would have come out shaken were it not for her ever-present mask. "...That was well handled, Wànsuìyé," Xiuyang offered, to break the desperately unbearable silence.

"Ah, the box? Just a fun little prank my brother came up with; entirely his idea," Ten-Re replied with a smile. Xiuyang smiled too, in spite of herself. She imagined that his brother would say the exact same thing. "The lesson seems to have fallen on deaf ears, for now," she lamented. "But your ears are open, yes?" the Emperor replied as he took a seat, and motioned for her to do the same. "Like beaches to an ocean," came the smooth voice, even as her heart beat madly in her chest. "Excellent! Mountain Spring told us all about you, you see—how you handled the negotiations well under pressure, and came to his aid when it counted, even though you promised no such thing."

Xiuyang blinked. Well, it looked like she had it wrong about Mountain Spring quitting at least, so that was one strike from her record—but had she really handled the negotiations well? Sure, her mask let her project an air of confidence, but ultimately she waffled and lost her footing. Mountain Spring had her firmly beat. To say nothing of Cold Soup... Ten-Re raised a finger. "Tsk! Not a word; I can see the objections on your face. You said your ears were open!" Xiuyang scratched her neck sheepishly with a fingernail. There wasn't much face to look at, but when you were as old as the Emperor, she supposed... "I'm listening..." "Then accept the compliment! You show great promise," he declared victoriously. "Very practical people, the Solaris. Skittish, and quick to disappear in times of personal crisis, but always come through for their allies when it counts—an example of which we've seen today, I wager."

Xiuyang shuffled awkwardly. She wasn't used to receiving praise, let alone from an Emperor. She also wasn't sure how seriously to take him, considering the circumstances. "...I assume you pulled me away for more than just a royal pep talk," she offered politely. "Ach, yes. Very practical people," he repeated, this time with less bluster. "Truth is, you have some bad news coming your way. I'm cutting in line a bit, since I have something to say on the matter—softening the blow, you know?"

"Oh, good. Bad news was in short supply lately," she replied facetiously. Needless to say, between being pressed into the service of sanguinaires, killing her first human, her friends nearly being fucking eaten by dragons, and eldritch space squids... existing, she had a lot on her mind. Her life had been forever changed by the knowledge of the knowers. Her willingness to owe sanguinaires a favor in exchange for a chance to save lives, including those of herself and her friends, didn't surprise her—but her willingness to kill a man in defense of a stranger she'd just met that very same day... perhaps it didn't call her entire system of morality into question, but it did frighten her some. They always did say that, while killing never gets easier—justifying it does, after the first. She wondered how she could just go back to her merchant life after this, and act like none of it ever happened—because what else could she do? Fight the knowers? She felt so... insignificant.

She thought she knew her place. Royals and Nobles moved the world. Merchants moved money.

It would be best if she returned to her place.

She couldn't.

She must.

"Your father plans to remove you from the company payroll."

"...What?"

The reply came before Xiuyang could control the emotions. Even the device on her face couldn't mask her anger.

"No. He—He would never." She wouldn't dare call the Emperor a liar, but surely he must be mistaken.

"'As soon as the draft passes over her, you'll have her place in the company.' Those were his words."

"Who?!" Xiuyang demanded, her eyes wide with fury.

"Your brother-in-law, Eustace."

A good man. Noble, and treated her sister well, from what she'd read.

Her countenance fell. Perhaps if she'd had someone to hate, this could have been easier.

"I... I don't..." she stammered, looking down at the table in front of her, as if to find an answer written in the lines of the wood. She grasped at her temples with her hands, as if to find deeper truth hidden in the locks of her hair, or the depths of her mind. Why? Why?! She gave up everything for this! She didn't have the beauty, charm or social grace of her sisters. She didn't have the social rank or the clout to move the world, nor the strength or courage to stand up and change it. What was she, now? Just a girl with high RAS? Just a number, nothing more—maybe that's all she ever was. Just numbers on a ledger.

"I don't have... anything else." Her hands trembled as she hid her face from Ten-Re.

"What do you want out of life, Xiuyang?" he replied with patient grace.

His words ought to have brought clarity. Such were his intentions, ostensibly.

Xiuyang, however, remained silent—not because she found herself unable to speak, for there was no need for her lips to move. Rather, she simply lacked the conviction to bring voice to her thoughts: to see the world. All of Sipentia, its peoples and cultures: art, music, tradition—the vivid tapestry of color that sentient beings brought to creation. To think that these unfathomably powerful beings could sneeze and it would all be destroyed. It seemed so worthless now—so childish to cleave to these things as though they were her life's purpose.

"I... don't know," she lied, weakly.

For a moment, there was silence.

"...As a father, I suspect he did this to protect you from involvement in the brewing war. Could you be held responsible for the shipment of weapons that may be used against your friends, and think nothing of it?" he asked her meaningfully.

Xiuyang hesitated, only for a moment. "This... is my strength. It couldn't save Cold Soup, but it—it's not worthless," she said, unconvincingly. After all, it was worthless if it couldn't be used. A sudden realization hit her. "No, it—it is. I can't even honor my end of our deal anymore." Ten-Re shook his head. "Fret not. You acted in good faith, and we intend to honor our end of the bargain anyhow." Xiuyang looked at Ten-Re like she couldn't believe her ears. Ten-Re smiled as their eyes met for the first time in a minute. "You've been through a lot these past two days, Xiuyang. It's enough to make any young lady's head spin. Go home—get some rest, process everything. Worry about what 'your end of the bargain' may be later. Offer yourself just one kindness, and let go of your ego." "My ego?" Xiuyang replied, confused and borderline offended. "Do not blame yourself for Cold Soup's loss. There was nothing more you could have done. It wounds one's ego to admit, but it's the truth."

Xiuyang clenched her fist, objections stubbornly forming in her mind in spite of their foolishness.

"If you lack strength, reflect on that," Ten-Jiu interrupted, causing Xiuyang to shiver, startled. How long had he been there? "—and work for us! If you need more power, we will give it! The proof is in your hands. We reward hard work and loyalty, unlike some people," he added with a grin. Xiuyang's eyes drifted to the staff currently tucked in her elbow as she regarded his words. Ten-Re shook his head. "Do not hate your father, Xiuyang. When you live as long as we have, old grudges seem like such small things; but to you, they are poison." "Bah! Screw'im! Anyone with eyes can see your talents being wasted. You wanna spend your whole life doing paperwork? Fuck that!"

Xiuyang smirked. They had a point—but they most certainly had an agenda, as well, though she knew not what.

"Thank you for your wisdom," she said as she rose, intending to excuse herself.

"Our information network is vast. We'll be in touch," Ten-Re said with a wave.

"As always," Xiuyang shot back with a wink, straining herself to appear positive.

"Figured it out, have you?" Ten-Jiu smirked.

"...Yeah," she replied as she turned to leave.

Betrayal.

That was what she felt now, as she walked away from the Twin Emperors. This was his fault—his stupid fucking idea to come to ReTan, and now this. She'd intended to offer only what she needed to in order to be able to escape the sanguinaires, and he'd managed to cock that up thoroughly enough that she now owed them a blank check! She'd wanted to ask Ten-Re if he knew all along that she had nothing of value to offer—if they were toying with her from the start, knowing that she no longer held any real authority in her father's shipping company, taken from her as if he'd already given her up for dead, as if he'd sent her here to die if she didn't know the man any better. She certainly thought she knew her father—no, she did—but he'd changed.

And now... of what use was she, to anyone?

She wasn't strong like Ashon or Jocasta.

She'd lost to Maura, in the end.

She couldn't outsmart Mountain Spring, who'd beaten her at her own game.

She couldn't even begin to touch the schemes of the Twin Emperors, who seemed to see and know everything.

If they could, they'd surely see what she saw: just a binder with high RAS.

One who refused to hurt anyone, or commit to anything meaningful.

Behind a mask, behind a tree, beyond the Emperors' sight—Xiuyang grit her teeth and wept bitterly.

Blackguards!

Ah are the brackets supposed to imply a change in tongue in that case?

@Kassarock

Ye, the crescent moon brackets and italics are what I decided to go with for that. Apologies to anyone else who might've missed that.

Blackguards!

@Kassarock I could have been more clear about this, my apologies. Weaves only mentions the Pyre by name in her Moonwalker language, though she does vaguely allude to it in her gibberish attempts at speaking the King's English. Up to you what to do with that, though it's worth noting that Weaves doesn't know Brandon's backstory or anything. Whether or not she's referring to the same "Pyre" is also left ambiguous~

Dreams of the Old World (Post apocalyptic adventure with dream based powers)

Karla

Karla always thought of herself as having pretty decent luck, all things considered. With a dream like hers, there really shouldn't be any place for her in the world, but she'd managed to carve one out for herself. Tagging along with various dreamer groups, hoping that she would get lucky and at least be stuck with a half-decent summon, then dipping before she could get a bad one and spoil her image as a strong dreamer had worked out better for her than it should have, considering the odds. Occasionally she got burned, but never enough times for the truth to be anything more than a short-lived rumor that she could just dodge by living in the woods on her own for a while. Sometimes she'd get a summon that couldn't really fight, but was useful for other applications, and she could find work with shard hunters.

Today, she'd summoned an absolutely massive archangel. Somehow, she'd managed to avoid being crushed to death by it. It didn't obey her at all, but she'd been so high up in the air on its shoulder that nobody could tell. The bandits her group was hunting got squished by it (along with most of the cargo they stole) but had left quite an impression to say the least. Her next summon had been a high-level fire devil which also didn't listen to her at all. That one had the nerve to stand around and do nothing at least once, and despite being very strong, did almost nothing for her. Her final summon of the day had been a very average light elemental, which only obeyed her about half of the time, which was also very average. Such was the nature of the luck of the draw. As Karla would say, she always had pretty rotten luck.

Sitting here, in this place, was the proof. Summoning two high-tier monsters hadn't been her fault or mistake, but it did draw the wrong kind of attention. Her average summon had been overpowered by the group of ruffians easily, and before she could summon a stronger one she'd found herself in a cage, consciousness drifting like a stick on the river. Now, she didn't even have a disobedient animal companion to lay into while she waited for whatever horrible thing was about to happen to her. Being forced into gladiatorial combat was certainly among one of the very last things on that list, though. Looking around at the other cages around her, there was no way for her to tell if any of these people were strong or not, but given what the warlord Morski had said, they simply had to be. As soon as the cage opened, she took off running. There was no time to prepare, no time to think. All she wanted in that moment was to be away from here, away from these people.

...The sky above the arena cracked open. An immense mental pressure fell upon Karla, bringing her to her knees as a giant eyeball in the sky gazed down at Morski's spectacle, analyzing. Judging. Another absolute monster was coming. A ray of red light shot down from the eye and enveloped Karla, and in the very next moment, she was being embraced by what could only be described as a thousand-eyed demon.

Hider

Ceol'Oggoth had descended, to bear witness to this charade.

"Prophetess! Be not afraid, but honored, for I have come to lend you my wisdom," the being declared unto a visibly distressed Karla—whose appearance had completely changed against her will, placed into the garb of a prophetess, apparently. "That's... great," she replied with an air of uncanny dissociation from her current predicament. "Can you put me down? Somewhere far away from here?" she asked politely, somehow looking both anxious and fed up with this creature already. It gazed around at the other dreamers, for it could not do much else—and did not move, for there was no need, covered in eyes as it was. "You there!" it called out to Richtor suddenly, craning its neck to face him with the one eye that was not for seeing, but knowing. "You shall be our worthy ally in this, the destruction of this charade," it declared unto Richtor. Though it had no face, it conjured to Richtor's mind the idea that it was inwardly grinning like the devil, eager to bring destruction to Morski's throne. Karla, meanwhile, looked like she'd already accepted that she had no say in this plan of action.

Legend of Benkei

♢♡ Marissa ♡♢

Marissa looked like she wanted to roll her eyes at Sinmara, but considered herself too high-class for such a thing. Hadn't this woman ever heard of subtlety? Yes, she was trying to take this outside, but saying it outright like that was just asking for someone to intervene and spoil the moment! "Oh." At Sinmara's insistence that she was trying not to cause trouble, Marissa's face softened, in spite of her sour tone. Well, if she was going to be reasonable like that... there was always room for more powerful figures, with big egos to match, in Marissa's court—the Duchess, the Court Jester, the King—this wasn't the kind of mission she could do alone, after all, nor was there any sense in the Queen competing for a lesser role, though whether Sinmara was competing for Duchess or Court Jester was up in the air. "Perhaps you didn't realize that disrespecting someone with a long name might cause some trouble then, hm?"

No sooner had the words left her smug mouth than a fox lady teleported behind Sinmara in a very personal way, and cut straight to the heart of what Marissa wanted to say. "Well, that took the wind out of my sails," she responded, sighing in disappointment. What sense there may have been in teaching Sinmara a lesson about subtlety or deceiving appearances was getting vanishingly small at this point, especially since she didn't even question Marissa's strength or her right to be here. She made to put her lighter away, with a nonetheless satisfied smile on her face despite her sigh. Unfortunately, it only lasted for as long as it took for the mysterious kitsune woman to get around to her, at which point it became one of barely concealed fury. Much as Sinmara had made an arse of herself with the chairwoman, she at least had the decency to introduce herself somewhat properly, and while she could do without the nickname of "Rissy" and the comment about "getting smoked," her clever wordplay and personable attitude convinced her to let it slide, just this once at least.

When the fox-like woman disappeared, Marissa stood ready for her to do it again, ready to steal whatever spell she was using. How cocky would she be when she could no longer run away? What snarky comments would she make then?! ...but she never used it again, leaving the Red Queen holding her fingers in the air, poised as if waiting to snatch a card out of the hands of a phantom that never appeared. Did she know to expect that trick from her, and choose to visit her last on purpose? Frustrated, Marissa instead flicked open her lighter, causing her to burst into flames instantly. In a flash, those flames became armor, and a great steampunk waraxe. "I'm always prepared," she scoffed, glaring at the woman. Indeed, the "Red Queen" was currently wearing and carrying everything of value that she owned.

Blackguards!

Weaves

The King. The one who had sent countless men to her home, in search of shiny rocks. Men who reviled her simply for existing, and who tried to kill her for no other reason than because they were told. Yet also, the one who had sent the Warrior, who was like the sun, shining and magnificent in battle, who now stood before her as, presumably, her equal and ally—and also the Warden, who was like the moon, the pale and beautiful light which shines in the darkness, the harbinger of dangerous times, the understated force which moved the oceans simply by existing. Here, too, these black waters, the Blackguards, were being moved by her presence alone. The King, who commanded both the fools and the finest, was a strange figure. Would he, too, resemble the sun? The Warden, she was stranger still, but made good on her words.

Weaves did not understand most of her words, but perhaps as a courtesy to her—or perhaps it was true for everyone, she had no way of knowing—Weaves saw, in her mind's eye, images of people, places, and names written. These would weave themselves into her memories far more strongly than any words ever could. While some others in the room would latch on to the hope of freedom immediately, barely paying attention to anything the Warden said, Weaves was in something akin to a meditative state, committing all of the images to memory, her mouth slightly agape at the sudden realization that they were to attempt to slay a god. It was certainly not a common occurrence for Weaves to interact at all with something more ancient than herself, that wasn't also a tree. Perhaps the occasional tortoise, but nothing more. To kill a being such as this—such a scene would make a fine tapestry. To find brilliant enough colors to do it justice—that alone would be an adventure.

And if she were destined by the stars to fail, then—she would simply have to fight for a place in someone else's tapestry.

---

Blackness. Fragments of a memory spun in Weaves' mind, stitching themselves back together. Something like an earthquake.

"Oh..! The sun..!" she cried out with wistful longing. Ah... she had missed the sun's warmth, after all.

She quickly stood up, Marrow in hand, greedily basking in the lingering sun, the cool breeze, the smell of trees and flowers dancing on the wind. Oh, she'd missed them all. How quickly she'd gotten acquainted with the Maw and its darkness—such was her nature—but this scene reminded her what it was like, all those moons ago, to confront the sun, to face fear and death, to howl in the face of fate. For the first time in many moons, she stretched her too-long limbs freely, and breathed all the way in. In amongst the pleasant smells of nature, however, there was a pungent smell. It wasn't her; Moonwalkers didn't smell like anything at all. It was one of the men who accompanied her here.

Turning to face the others, Weaves eyed them all curiously, one by one. Though she was close by—a daunting, looming figure nearly eight feet tall—her eyes felt far away, her gaze a thousand-yard stare, her smile a forced one, though not malicious in its falsity. Weaves cast a glance at Christoph, who introduced himself as "alive," and applauded him in a slow and stiff way that showed Weaves didn't really understand why, when or how she was supposed to do it. She looked at Holgarth next and dropped her false smile, which she seemed to take as equivalent to a frown. "I smell your incense, but am not knowing, why," she tried to say, her voice lacking the upward inflection that should accompany a question. Instead, she tilted her head to the side like a child. "Does a High-Place King kill also the children," she added seemingly out of nowhere, ignoring his question about who or what she was. Though in fairness, perhaps she also didn't know how precisely to answer it. ☾Woe, O Kings of the Earth, who send their fools to the high places to place their babes upon a pyre,☽ she mourned, her face upturned toward the heavens, but devoid of obvious emotion.

Legend of Benkei

♢♡ Marissa ♡♢
♬

The Slag. A dark and maze-like place, massive in size and unsanctioned in its existence. No one knows when the construction started, underground, in and around and across and under the artificial ley lines of the city's magical trains. It's utterly unnavigable—a place that changes in layout every time the government comes knocking. It's nearly pitch black, lit only by neon lights and the ambient glow of ancient magic. Only the worst dregs of society dare venture to the lower levels, which stink like a sewer, the ground coated in layer upon layer of blood and piss and Hell knows what else. Even the upper levels are teeming with shady characters. For both those reasons and more, it pays to watch one's step—and of course, to always mind the gap—even as you look over your shoulder for the person waiting to push you in.

If there's one sight that doesn't belong in a place like this, it's a beautiful young lady with pristine porcelain skin and alluring curves, wearing an old school uniform—old, but well-kept, and freshly ironed by the looks of it. As she walked, with her head held high and shoulders broad, the signature scent of a luxury-brand perfume wafted through the air. In the worst place to do so, she stood out, every aspect of her appearance projecting innocence, as if carefully calculated, daring any who laid eyes upon her to try to soil her pure visage. As it were, that was the exact intent of her fashion statment—to loudly proclaim a challenge to any damned fool who did not know this woman.

Only a select few could call her their associate, let alone a friend. None who knew this would dare to speak to her. Yet, one voice echoed toward her, carried to her ears by the claustrophobic halls. Even worse, it called her name: "Marissa." Whirling around, she glared at the source of the violet neon light. Another sight that did not belong in The Slag met her gaze: a suited man, wearing sunglasses in the underground—like some kind of fashion statement. As his light bathed her skin, inky imperfections revealed the truth: fresh blood.

♬

The girl, just like her environment, was covered in the evidence of fresh blood, revealed by the man's light. At this, the Red Queen clenched her fists and trembled with rage. "I am the Red Queen. Who in the fuck are you?" she demanded. "You may call me Mr. West," he replied, deadpan. Now he was telling her to call him by a title?! Her pupils almost seemed to contract in response to his words. She opened her mouth, slowly, baring her fangs as if she were about to take a bite out of his face. "This is my territory. Get out," she hissed. As if he paid her threat no mind, he withdrew a golden envelope from his suit jacket. "I have correspondence which may be of interest to you. It's an invitation to a party, so don't lose it. No one in the real world knows who you are, after all," he said, returning her gesture with his own Cheshire-cat-like grin. His words carried no particular emphasis, but mocked her nonetheless—and before she could strike him, he vanished.

Infuriating, and nauseatingly so—every syllable of his words grated on her ears like a sanding belt. Instead of his face, her fist met the envelope, snatching it out of the air. Much as the man provoked her ire, however, a denizen of the dark would recognize the glitter of gold, even in the warped neon lights of The Slag. In grabbing the invitation, she saw that her skin was snow white once again. The sight calmed her a little. Letting out a sigh, she cut open the seal—a proper wax seal—with a bright pink fingernail. She stood there in the dark, reading its contents without a drop of fear in her bones nor an ounce of regard for her surroundings, as was her privilege as the Red Queen.

She smiled. A party—a fancy one, fit for a Queen. "Why, of course I'll attend!" she proclaimed with a schoolgirl-like laugh. What's more, it seemed like the Unity Organization had some kind of lead on the Seven. What it was, they were quite obviously not stupid enough to put to writing, but she was welcome to learn about it while in attendance. "Perfect," she said, as if the woman who'd hand-written every invitation were there to receive her praise. Holding the letter close to her lips, she smiled a smile that was the perfect picture of innocence, humming a tune and bobbing her head from side to side as she walked. Then, she gasped.

"Oh, shit. I need a bath!" she realized. Reminding her that she smelled of blood—how helpful the man had been, after all!

---

When what appeared to be an—admittedly young, but nonetheless—grown woman dressed like a schoolgirl approached the venue, security was naturally skeptical, even a little concerned. After a moment of silence, one of the men took a chance. "Invitation?" he prompted her, to which Marissa smiled and presented it. "Welcome," he said, trying to play it off like he knew all along. "Good call, rookie," his partner teased once she was out of earshot. "Guess a once-in-a-lifetime event attracts all the freaks, huh?" he laughed. "Psh, a cosplayer is normal compared to what I saw before your shift," his senior fired back. "At least, I hope it's cosplay. This is a fool's errand she's being taken for a ride on. If she really just got out of school, that's a godsdamned tragedy. Makes my career look like a fucking fairy tale, it does."

The young lady who was the image of purity walked through the hallowed halls, taking in the sight of it all. The glitter and gold, the luxury. Her heart swelled, but she wouldn't let it show on her dignified face. She belonged here, and she wanted all of them to know it. Of all the various characters gathered today, she certainly looked the most like she belonged. She appeared an icon of privilege amongst the other rabble. The gaudy name tag plastered on her chest looked most at home on her mundane, yet pristine clothing. It was also a problem, however. "Marissa." Wouldn't the lack of a family name draw attention? Yet, she looked around at the others. None of their name tags displayed family names, either. Marissa's satisfied smile returned. It appeared as if she'd fit right in here, after all.

Another woman of refined and elegant appearance had a dignified, satisfied smile on her face as well. Perhaps she was the one who'd organized all this? If so, it would do Marissa well to talk to her—but she would not approach the woman first. She was the guest. The onus was on her to see her guests satisfied. Until she approached, she would take part of the luxuries on offer. Motioning for a waitress, she spoke: "Your finest Riesling Spätlese." The impeccability of her manners and specificity of her order would surely—

"Um... ID?" the waitress asked nervously. "It's just... your outfit... I went to school there. I recognize it."

Did I fucking ask?! Marissa thought irritably, her smile turning just a bit false. "Why, thanks for the compliment~ I haven't been asked for my ID in years, so I always leave it at home~" she lied. She owned no ID. "Er, I can't... my job..." she stuttered anxiously. Marissa rubbed her temple in vexation. "Non-alcoholic, then," she offered in reluctant surrender. "Coming right up!" the girl responded without missing a beat, eager to leave the table, and the room for that matter.

While all of this was happening, Marissa watched the antics with Sinmara unfold. Unlike Fae, Marissa was not amused by the too-big woman who seemed to have missed every memo ever written in human history, about everything. Her appearance, her attitude, her loud mouth, her rough speech, her table manners, everything. Marissa couldn't decide what was the worst part, until the important-looking woman decided—in fairness to her, correctly—that the threat Sinmara posed to her wasn't worth it, and left the room. Ah, now this wouldn't do, not at all.

Taking the time to finish her drink—it was a bit tart for her tastes—Marissa slowly rose from her chair and approached Sinmara, her face the perfect image of friendliness. "Greetings, Sinmara. I'm Marissa, the Red Queen," she introduced, pointing to the gold-embossed fine print on her name tag, displaying her title. "Why don't we step outside and get some fresh air? You smoke? You look like a smoker. Need a light?" She pulled out an old—but polished—brass lighter, with unintelligible engravings on its sides.