Phoe

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

"Haa?! What do you think you're doing, you little idiot? It's gross, knock it off! You're the one who ate her anyway, I'm the one who gets to be mad here!"

The first rule of being an idol is that you can't ever be less than perfect in front of your fans. That means she can't get flustered here, can't let anyone know Uwudumbface is getting to her. Just like nobody can ever find out that when the two of them met, Elizabeth was actually pretty intimidated.

Not her fault! How often do you get to meet a dragon? Like, a real one! Even manifesting as an Extra Class this time around she herself was still only allowed at the table on a series of technicalities and... ok it doesn't really matter because her horns are, like, way cuter and once she figured out she was better than a real dragon everything kind of slid back into place the way it was meant to.

Or so she thought. But sometimes Oroboros just... did stuff and it freaked Liz the hell out. And this is so clearly one of those Dragon Moments that it makes her want to grind her teeth. But instead she sets her lips into a perfect, pink smirk. She tosses her hair in the spotlight and shifts her leg to get all of her accessories sparkling at the same time. That neatly distracts from the fear creeping into her eyes. Pr-probably.

"H-hey, knock it off already! I get it, ok? I'm sorry I stabbed you! But you, urk. Oh gawd I'm gonna be sick; is... is that supposed to bend that way? Are you? Uh??"

The first rule of being an idol is that if you're going to be a failgirl in front of your fans, you have to at least be a cute one. If you stumble, then blush about it. If you get scared, really ham it up. If you say something you shouldn't? Well, teehee! You can't call yourself the best unless you turn your worst moments into another reason fans want to crawl all over your shoes.

And if you freak out and start screaming about all of this weird hippie magic Power of the Earth stuff, you have to at least maintain the wherewithal to charge forward anti-heroically and start stabbing and clawing with everything you've got. This is NOT because Oroboros is her friend ok? It's not even because she'd be lonely down here without someone to yell at (though that IS her only nightmare...). It's just that, whatever is happening here, it's wrong. It's wrong, it's wrong, it's bad it's bad, it's very bad bad bad bad bad bad bad bad bad!

So she hacks at flowers and grass and she crushes antler-horns. As if she could fix the problem by just exhausting its magical energy. Besides, what else is she supposed to do? Sing? At this?? As if! But it's like gnawing on a mountain. That's the work of centuries, and while other dragons might have the patience that's just not Elly, not at all.

In a last ditch effort to make something, just anything happen that is not This, she tries to pry Oroboros' tail out of her mouth. Some unseen force knocks her away like a sack of extremely cute feathers (the sack is also unbelievably cute) and sends her flying the whole length of the hallway to splat against her own stage. How dare! But, also? Eep?!?!

"Oh. Something weird's about to happen, isn't it?"

Elizabeth Bathory stands up on her perfect pink stilettos. She adjusts her frills and grips her mic stand the way any proper hero and guardian should. She briefly allows herself to contemplate what kind of class, and what kind of shape she's about to end up in this time.

Then the much more depressing realization hits home, that much more likely she's about to simply die. No fanfare. No tears. No funeral. Haaaaaaa, how glum can you get?

Elizabeth Bathory grips the hilt of her sword. And the adorable purple ribbon-grip on her magic wand. And the edges of her magic mirror. And the handle of her Death Metal Elizabeth JAPAN spear. Her missile launchers. And her three section staff. Screw it all, she'll just save herself.

"Of course you realize," say nine perfect voices in perfect unison, "I'm the main vocalist here. Right?"

Breathless Dead

At first glance it might be a palace of some kind. Perhaps even a city.

Columns and spires rise to such dizzying heights that they pass beyond the limits of even divine vision. Grand, rolling arches provide easy passage through the rounding walls, though beyond these welcoming entryways the air becomes so thick with shadows that there may not be a world inside of it at all. Your feet carry you for miles around the outside of it but the curve continues on forever. All of this vast expanse is in service to a single building.

Everything is white, white, white, white, white, white, White. Glittering and painful, more pure than the fur on her body. Brighter than creation. Not a canvas waiting for a brush or a joining of every color into some unified whole but Perfection for its own sake. Uniform and featureless and forever. It suffers a single imperfection along the vast walls, the only thing that might be worthy to mar the surface of such a pure artistic vision, which is Gold. Gold is necessary to create massive, serpentine grooves that run up the infinite vastness of this place. Gold is necessary to prove that Perfection is capable of more than featureless nothing; that there is art and creativity and beauty here for anyone to love.

There are pictures painted in the gold. A crew of idiots scrambling around the Eater of the Dead, the storm inside the monster and the murder of a King. An endless sea of machines dancing around a crown, and desperate heroes just barely slipping through their broken, grasping digits. On and on it stretches until it has painted the entire journey of the Plosious, before it wraps back around again to tell it again as a series of endless failures and captures. Once as betrayal stacked on top of betrayal, once as timidity disguised as love and contentment, and again as nothing but a series of horrific tortures so vivid they have their own screams.

Though there is nothing here but safety. Up, and up, and up, and up stretch the great pillars of white like fingers attempting to grasp the featureless blue sky. Down, and down, and down, and down reach their opposites: the shadows made of pure pitch that sink like fangs and daggers toward the howling abyss. And through the middle of that contradiction, winding in and out of the light and the darkness as simply as though it were a game of make believe, there is laughter.

The pair of them dart around the murals and the intimidating perfection as though they cannot see it. Their small forms are wrapped in perfectly fitting silks fit for young imperial princesses. They hold hands as they dart about, they skip and they leap and they laugh and it is more beautiful and flows more clearly than a brook fed by the final snows of winter. Together they are every color this place lacks. The taller of the two twirls, and her golden hair trails like a scarf made from precious metals that have been taught to flow as water does. Her eyes are golden too, with long catlike irises that are striking against her otherwise perfect and perfectly human body. She is grace and surety and joy every time she stoops to pick up the smaller girl, the one with the short cropped cut of blue-black hair who flushes with embarrassment every time before her emerald eyes flash in renewed determination and she does something even dumber and more flashy as though to make up lost points.

The ground sometimes melts in front of them, white featureless perfection turning briefly to bubbling mud and sludge that lifts itself into new shapes for their enjoyment. First a small forest and then a mountain and then a little fortress with adorable little guns point at them for the pair of them to raid. In the span of ten minutes the girls complete an adventure that sees them save a Forest Lion from its Deadly Paw Thorn, win a race (both of them, despite running separately), punch a dragon, kiss a beautiful princess, and then ride a dinosaur without pausing to think about what came next.

Breathless, giggling, and dirty with white dust on their colorful mosaic clothing, the pair of them finally slow down enough to notice a massive, golden door opening to their right. From the entrance and the warm light that pours out there is music so beautiful that it could only be about love. The chorus is made entirely of bells; their melodies richer than the most indulgent chocolate cream and bursting with unique chimes that are a match for any number of voices. The girls turn their heads to look at each other, and with smiles on their faces they skip inside the light before the doors slam shut behind them.

And this is how you learn that all of this towering White is for a theater.

"They're off to play with their Grandmother," says Bella, "I think she's going to share a bunch of Dany's old favorites. Fun little way to teach the kids what it was like for their parents growing up and embarrass the living shit out of us at the time time."

The voice is hers, unaltered and strong, but the mouth it is coming out of belongs to a child even younger than the two who just disappeared through the door. She is a tiny thing, smaller than she ought to be through obvious malnutrition and dressed only in bandages. Her head is covered in rough patches of her signature hair, which has otherwise been burned or melted off. Her face is covered completely in wrappings which are all the colors of misery and suffering, and the stench of her tiny body still speaks to the acid treatments she'd been subjected to in order to remove unwanted fur from her form. She flicks her tiny tail, and shrugs.

"I thought, for a while, it wouldn't be so bad to let my dream go. If it was for her sake."

This Bella is older, maybe a match for the larger of her two daughters. Her frilly gothic dress and large heeled, ribboned shoes should make her a delight to prospective buyers at the auctions. Her hair is silky smooth and braided into twintails that seem designed to make her look sweet and non-threatening, something that was evidently a problem for her in the past. If the bandages around her fingertips are any indication. She glances briefly at her younger self, still sitting in her tiny chair, before walking further into the light with her carefully practiced gait.

"I mean, I never wanted to stifle her. But endless adventure is a lot to ask for, don't you think?"

A teenage Bella is standing behind you in her finest Imperial Pet collar and the beautiful black-and-whites of a palace maid. Already in her adolescence she has flowered into the kind of womanhood that will bring a certain princess to ruin. Her every motion is velvet perfection, and the talons on her fingertips accent the perfect amount of jewelry for her station. You would have to be cynical indeed to believe they were coverings for mutilated, missing claws and not a personal touch she added to her look to please her Mistress. She offers the daintiest curtsy, and smiles sardonically.

"Every journey is supposed to end in the same place."

Another angle for the voice, another Bella to speak it. This one looks like the Praetor who hunted Princess Redana and her friends, but after some horrible disaster. All of her strength and her beauty is fallen to ruin. Her hair is matted and painfully clumped around a small braid that looks like it's tugging on her scalp every time she so much as breathes. What had once been a fetching military jacket and creamy white pants have rotted down to tatters, and the red half skirt around her waist is so full of holes and frayed spots that it might disintegrate if she tries to do more than limp forward. Which her legs look barely capable of to begin with. She stares with resentment at the empty wine bottle in her hand and lets it fall to the ground with a clatter. Another simply appears in its place.

"That is, if you want to have a real family..."

An older Bella still in her pet collar flaunts her body without meaning to. Every inch of her body is soaked from some kind of downpour. Her hair is bedraggled, but in a way that shows great care has recently gone into it, though her ears are crushed miserably against her skull. She clutches at the chain leash around her neck as if it were a weapon, while white and black and gold in very translucent overlapped lace patterns cling to her fur, the pale skin of her stomach, her chest, and her shoulders. Her golden eyes tremble with equal parts fear and anger, as hideous red drips from her beautiful talons.

"You have to come home."

Mosaic grins and ties a jacket around her waist. Her body drips with sweat from long labor, but she seems unbothered by everything. Her golden and purple eyes are turned only toward the skies.

"We have room enough for you here too," says another, more horrible Bella, "We have room for as many people as we need. Just so long as they understand."

Here at last is a Bella at the gate, plainly guarding the spot where those little girls disappeared. She is resplendent in the red and gold of the Empire. A sweeping skirt and a tight button shirt with one sleeve longer than the other. This is an affectation and not a flaw: her arm is bare to show her furless skin. The crown on her head sits without needing to make any accommodations for ugly pointed triangles spoiling the view. As if to revel in the shape of her head she has slicked back her hair to show her unblemished forehead. Her hair is streaked with molten gold. Bella, biomantically ascended into a true Administrator Species. A Human not just by some pretension of philosophy, but in real and actual fact. Bella: daughter of Nero.

She smiles, and her teeth are perfectly centered. And perfectly flat. Her eyes are still the colors of gold and red, but no cat qualities mar (//lift) them up. She opens her palm, and a wreath of flame roars to life until it takes the shape of a sword. Pointed and jagged and sickening to look at too long, this blade feels like a glitch in the universe. It's no comfort to know it is derived from the flames that once trapped the Empress Nero's corpse, now wielded in her service by her one true daughter. For the moment she does nothing more than lean on it, but just by having it here the air feels less pure and more like being in the presence of the Master of Assassins.

"My wife."
"My mother!"
"My sisters."
"My friends!"
"My crew."
"Every stupid moron who followed me this far."

The many Bellas speak up in rapid succession, the same voice bouncing from myriad angles in the expanse in front of the theater. She is every moment in time that she ever cried out for help. Every moment she was desperate enough to wish for a mother's embrace, or a parent's perspective, the stability to at least know what to do or the strength that comes from knowing there's somewhere to return to when everything is over.

There are far, far more of her than have shown themselves yet. She has lived a lifetime of fear and regret. Here, at last, every chapter of her life has a happy ending. Here, every prayer was answered by the same god. Here, every wish led her back to the place where she could have the peace and acceptance she trembled for so many long years' worth of fear, toil, and unending loneliness. Here she is limitless, and so knows limitless delights.

"I'll accept them all into my paradise."

They all speak out at once. They all smile, in their different ways. Bemused and superior sarcasm stands with equal power next to childish fawning and the servile solitude of the perfect maid. Heroes grin with sharp teeth and tyrants flash a winning smile without a fang in sight.

"You can rest now," they all say it like a song, "Right here."

"Under my perfect, starless sky."

Return to Thellamie

Do you know?

I don't really think it matters.

Dresses and makeup and who turns the most heads at a ball.

It is a waste of time. And time is wasting.

Everyone is waiting.

The Order of the Aurora has shut the door.

The golden eye shadow or the jade eye liner.

The violet and the fuchsia and the lavender and the lilac and the mauve and the Imperials at the corners of her eyes.

Unfurling like the petals of a flower into wings.

The lipstick pinker than poison.

In the exact shape of a kiss.

Is more than double what she will accept.

And less than half of what she deserves.

And anyway like I said.

I don't really think it matters.

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

Guh! Buh! Nnn! GnNnngngngngngngngnnnnnnnnnnnnnnngh~!

Do you, dear kitty on the wall, have any idea how hard it is find real and actual fans down here? Not a victim, not a curious bystander lured over by the sultry tones washing over the hills ten miles away, not an agency plant, but a F A N! Someone who'll buy merch! Someone who'll take your side in a stupid legal battle that you initiated on bad information, even (especially!) when you're objectively in the wrong! Someone who's one sad, pathetic day away from making you their entire personality!

A fan, a fan, a fan!!! That's two letter off from a stan! That's getting to be called somebody's "bias" is what that is! That's what just gotten eaten by that cutesy-wutesy lazy pretend-innocent layabout jerk! Rarer and more precious than gemstones! GnnNGNGNGNGNnnnAAaah!

Already, Liz can feel the weight of the Command Seal pressing down on her entire body. She's 'poof'ed back into her normal form, having not even noticed it through how busy stomping her foot and making cute dragon pouting noises is keeping her right now. It doesn't matter. What matters is that her mic stand is as sharp as it's ever been. The other thing that matters is the order screaming DO NOT KILL EACH OTHER screaming inside of her skull.

DO NOT KILL EACH OTHER
DO NOT GET DISTRACTED
DO NOT LEAVE

Yeah, well! Glow red and bind her all you want, you stupid seals! Some things are more important than following rules! She flies forward on wings of glittering pink and starlight wishes and buries her weapon deep in Oroboros' side. Enough to hurt. Enough to hurt a lot when she twists it free. Nowhere near enough to kill. And just the once, ok? That's hardly a distraction no matter who's keeping track. And kicking her doesn't do any good and you darn well know it.

"Give her back! Spit her out right now, that was MINE! I hate you! I hate you so much you useless, sleepy worm! Show up when you're wanted for once in your life!"

This is pointless. All of it is completely pointless. A spiritron body can't dramatically climb back out of a dragon's stomach, and even if it could this loser would never have it in her to make the attempt. They break down into magical energy the moment they've been defeated and then that's all there is. Nothing short of a full re-summoning would return Lancer, and that without her memories. So it's pointless. But Liz hefts her weapon to stab her partner again anyway, and only the weight of three Command Seals in concert pushes it back town.

She turns reluctantly on her heels. It's like being dragged away. Well. She got her point across anyway right? Tch. She doesn't turn her head or make any effort at all to pay attention to anything other than the stage she's being pulled back towards.

"...Try it again and I kill you next time. Orders or no."

Luckily, hatred and revenge only ever flow in one direction, and blood letting is a victimless crime. That's why the life of Elizabeth Bathory turned out so well the first time!

Breathless Dead

Her heart races. Her skin prickles. Her ears stretch upwards until it hurts. Her throat constricts. Her eyes narrow, and then they widen black as voids. Her grip on Redana tightens. And then it falters.

Her tail flicks once. Twice.

She is still split down the middle. Two visions and two feelings. She is feverish and she is freezing, she is lighter than a grave-wisp and heavier than the Anemoi. She is trembling and she is calmer than a pool of water hidden in the bottom of a cavern. She is silent. She is singing. She is once again a hundred broken pieces rearranged and glued together in a desperate attempt to create something beautiful. She is once again herself. Bella. And Mosaic.

She is a child being lifted out of the most terrible trap and punishment she has ever endured. As the beautiful, laughing girl falls on top of her, she turns her eyes upwards and sees a severe and grandiose woman - the girl perfected - suddenly melt into a charming smile at the sight before her. It is a fleeting instant, gone before it's really begun. But she is certain: the girl who is about to get a name for the first time is certain that that smile was meant just for her.

She is a woman struggling madly to keep her breathing in check. To maintain her poise and posture as she lowers herself into a menial bow. The Princess is gone. She, Bella had done everything she could think of to keep Redana safely on Tellus but she'd been fighting with both hands tied behind her back. What was she to do, kill the Princess?! But she has no excuses. She feels the iron terror of the Empress' eyes on the back of her neck. She cannot quell the shudder that runs through her body when the brands are brought close. And this too, she is certain, was meant just for her.

She is as breathless as the dead, not that she understands what that means just yet. She'd needed to drug her opponents, poison and trick and waylay them along the way, but all the same she'd run until her heart felt fit to explode and hers was the body that crossed the tape at the end of the Marathon. And hers was the head that wore the laurel crown. She dares to smile and it is stricken from her face as though carved with a knife by the cold and furious aura of the woman standing above her. What kind of an idiot was she? Of course Nero would know immediately that she had cheated her precious Olympics, that was the whole point of this to begin with! She cannot bring herself to apologize. She cannot afford to admit her mistake. The only thing that could raise her sins higher is if she reveals the shame of these Games to all of Tellus. Those perfect hands seem smaller now than they did once, but they are no less powerful and no less terrifying when they pluck the laurels from her sweat soaked blue-black hair. She flinches, anticipating torture, and what happens instead is that she feels an iron weight replace it. Her ears fill with applause. Her eyes fill with tears. When those fingers touch her chin they are as gentle as they are strong. And she is lifted to her feet a Praetor.

She is an awkward sort of teenager stalking the halls well past the bedtimes of Real People. But there is dusting to be done, and laundry after that, and Plover maintenance after that, and to set her mise-en-place for Redana's breakfast after that so that maybe if polishing the Palace armory didn't take too long there would be time to curl up in her little bed in the Princess' room before she needed to be up and moving again. So she is annoyed and surprised and then mortified to see the Empress herself come gliding down the hall directly toward her. She dips into a hurried bow and dares not lift her head for fear of meeting the eyes that are so like the daughter's she has so shamefully fallen in love with. For fear of having that understood. The Empress' hand is unsteady when it touches her shoulder - she has been drinking. She asks Bella if she has been keeping up with her studies. Bella denies the blasphemy, and only offers that she has been diligent in helping the Princess in whatever meager way a creature of her standing can manage. There are horrible long seconds where she is left to wonder if that was the wrong thing to say. But Nero offers her a smile, drunken if not unkind, and pulls out a tablet from her robes. The quiz lasts for hours and her chores are left undone. There will be no sleep tonight no matter how good she is. But before the Empress takes her leave she feels a single warm pat, and fingers tousling her hair just behind her ears. Just in time, she dares to meet Nero's eyes. And what she sees is sharp and appraising enough to make her wish that she could be a Princess, too.

A mother. If little Dany was sure of anything, the best thing that anybody could have (other than a best friend!) was a mommy. And Bella knew watching the two of them what the shape of the little hole inside her heart really looked like. She knew at long, long last why the dark always scared her. Why she hated being alone even though she could barely stand the nerves of being around others. She saw something that seemed to her young eyes like tenderness, and before it reached her heart it grew and changed into hunger.

She is walking toward the corpse of Nero. She is slipped free from Redana and she is crossing the long distance of this audience hall as though it did not exist at all. The flames are all that hold her back. When they are wiped away, she will be herself again. That voice will be her own again. It will be Right. She knows it. She knows it. Her red eye trembles violently and forces her eyelid closed, and she lifts a fist to smash herself in the face. She pulls it open and stares at the final obstacle between her and the wish she never even needed to make out loud. The sound of her heels are a symphony. The sound of her heart is sickened terror, but it only makes the orchestra sweeter.

Her talons glisten in the firelight, as though they were slavering fangs anticipating prey. Anything may be hunted. Everything can die. Even in this broken, crapsack clusterfuck of a galaxy to think otherwise is the domain of vain, delusional gods. Her eye and body know better. She sees the names of the fires. She sees the spots where her claws may cut them.

"Hold on. It will only be a moment longer," she sings and her breath is hot with steam, "I am coming... Mother."

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

"Oh no! Oh no oh no oh no no no! But, but... without my Castle Csjete and my many, many, oh-so-many servants and my hereditary wealth, I'd be! I'd be nothing more than! I'd!!"

It's like watching a magical girl transformation in reverse. Elizabeth Bathory sobs dramatically as she sinks to her knees, shimmery pink claw nails wiping uselessly at the tears that won't stop pouring from her beautiful gemlike eyes. Her perfect idol's costume, all that glitz and glam, all of it fades away in sputtering light like the dying embers of a long guttering fire. Goodbye, her wonderfully frilly skirts. Goodbye, her slightly scandalous and perfectly fitted top. Goodbye, her dazzling pink-spike heels. In their place are drab browns and blacks, the frumpy threadbare yet still tragically cute linens of a mere scullery maid. In her hand sits a bristle brush, which she dramatically dunks into a bucket of soapy water that only a second ago was not there at all.

And so the Countess of Blood washes the floors.

"Ahhhhhh, what a tragedy♪
"That Iiiiiiiiiii~♪
"Such a beautiful and innocent maiden♪♪
"Should be forced♪
"To toil away♪
"In obscurityyyyyyy♪♪
"By this wicked♪
"Kind of uggo♪♪♪
"Step-Empress♪"

Bubbles shimmer with their oil slick rainbow light around her. Maiden Ellie smiles at her numerous reflections inside of them, and in this moment regardless of rational explanations they look more like jewels from some magical kingdom where this kind of thing happens all the time.

At that exact moment, a doe with a squirrel riding on its back come scampering through the tunnels and perform a cantering sort of dance around her. The squirrel darts about excitedly and together they push a beautiful glass slipper toward the dutiful heroine with her absurdly cute little bandana and her smile so alight with wonder and the endless possibilities of the universe that refuse to be trampled so long as anyone with a beautiful heart and beautifuller face continue to hold onto a dream.

She takes the shoe in her trembling hands, and lets the well worn brush fall with a sudsy clatter on the ground. Music swells in the background, and three spotlights converge on her person. The glass glitters like diamond in all this light: it's as much of a weapon as it is a piece of footwear. The heel and the toe are both covered in such wicked spikes it's a wonder a certain other dancer doesn't want it as a venom delivery device. The drab, ordinary, but still very much a dragon and therefore the cutest possible maiden places the shoe on the floor and slips her delicate foot inside.

It is (of course) a perfect fit.

And suddenly she is not wearing the threadbare costume of a scullery maid, nor indeed any kind of maid at all anymore. Now Liz stands resplendent in a crystal ballgown with magnificent hooped skirts that simply have no front at all, the better to show off her slender legs and the gorgeous pink scales embedded in her creamy, perfect skin. Feel free to ask her for skincare tips by the way, everybody agrees she's an expert. The fabric gathers around her waist and smooths as it climbs up her chest and opens up for a good look at her gorgeous bust and the elegant curve of her bare shoulders before wrapping her arms in delicate silks that open from their skintight deliciousness into the most dramatically flared cuffs a girl could ever ask for.

No longer are her draconic claws painted pink. Now they glitter, like the curved horns atop her head, the color of diamonds. The only pink (which is still the best color) left on her at all sits atop her head in her perfectly styled hair, which is woven into an elaborate up-do bun with girlish flat bangs and lightly curled ringlets framing her princess-perfect face. Top it all off with a tiara and she's ready for the ball!

She gathers the woodland creatures into a hug before punting them off the stage.

"Oh thank you friends, of course of course! It's all so obvious now! The more downtrodden I become the more beautiful the Prince who rescues me! My Prince will always come for me. Why wouldn't she? I mean, just look at meeee♪"

The battle resumes, and though all Ellie seems to do is twirl in glittery light, or wobble comedically on her unbalanced slippers, or enter into a slow ballroom step with her overmatched opponent, the damage she inflicts everywhere she passes is unfathomable. Walls that have stood for probably thousands of years crack at the mere passing of her draconic cinderella power.

"Reality? I don't know her. The Bloody Countess? Carmilla? Oh please, as if! You really make me laugh, you silly goose. I. Am. An. I★D★O★L★. And now we're doing a musical, understand? If you think you can reach into the future and just pluck away my past, then I'll live in a world I make instead. Do you have any idea who you're even messing with?"

Mirror, mirror on the wall
Who's the cutest of them all?

"...Wait. What do you mean it's it's a little mint flavored foxgirl?! You stupid mirror, see what you get!"

And she smashes the very magical, very sharp and bleed inducing mirror over Lancer's head. With a sharp kick, she sends the woman flying and falls into hysterical laughter. Her sparkly princess costume falls away and reveals impractical and kind of lewd (but pink! very very pink!) bikini plate mail armor.

Elizabeth the Brave plucks her mighty broadsword from the floor and levels it dramatically toward her foe. Her shining white cape flutters in the hot winds, and her heroic pink hair now falls gracefully down her shoulders and overtop of it. She has, of course, kept the tiara.

This then is the answer to Julia's Noble Phantasm she arrives at. A fantasy bubble to deny the reality bubble. The death of facts and logic: Fairy Tail Erzebet.

"Do you wanna keep going, oh Wicked Dragon King? Because I can promise you this: if you want to turn this into a battle of your ego versus mine??? Then I can't possibly lose!"

Um. Liz? Should you really be so proud of that?

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

"I want it on the record! That the only reason I'm losing right now! Is because! I'm too busy! Trying! To keep my sides from splitting! Ahahahahahaha!"

It's true if you turn your head just right! That's legally distinct from a lie! She really has been giggling herself almost to death since the real identity of this creep was made clear. Oh, sorry. It's not about knowing who she is (because honestly, who cares?), but what she is that's so funny. Anyway the important thing is that it's really, really funny ok?

And that is why this whole fight is going backwards at the moment. She can keep herself from rolling on the floor. She can keep her perfect, pretty skirts and beautiful hair from getting snipped by these gross, double ick attacks, but she can't do those things and also outfight someone getting power ups from a monster. At least not without doing things that would compromise her status as an idol, you see.

"I mean why wouldn't I talk about your dumb spear? Look at it, girlie! It's like mud! Honestly, worse than mud! It doesn't go with anything you're wearing, not even the stuff that already doesn't go with the stuff you've got on! Like, I promised you a makeover but there are limits, piglet!"

She just barely manages to duck under the answering swing, but this one was so heavy that Elizabeth has time to wheel her body around and smack her tail into this half-Berserker's face. There's no power differential in the world that could keep her from flying a clear fifteen feet after that. She grins. She preens. She does that little hair toss that makes the fans go wild. Can't you hear them screaming for her?

"I can't, I can't, I just can't with you! You stink so much like that Other Empress I got myself all spun up for the sequel, but what are you actually? You're so pathetic and girl-next-door-with-depression it makes me want to choke on my own tongue laughing. What were you, her secretary? You couldn't be her concubine, not with anti-drip like that. She'd have had you pretty if you were hers. Oh god, you're a stan aren't you? That lance is something she touched once and you just never washed it, isn't it? Is that why it feels so ridiculously cursed? Ahahahaha that's so pathetic~"

Once more, Elizabeth Bathory takes a deep breath to fill her lungs with the power of a dragon. No preamble this time, no show. It's a shame but there's no time to write lyrics about how much this woman sucks, and cyphers aren't really her thing to begin with. A good idol's song should always be about how special and pretty and cute (and pretty!) she, Elly, is. And how much people should want to love her. Besides, why would she waste all that effort on an Empress of Roses stan when a single power note will do?

The shockwave sends the Lancer, stinkiest of all possible classes, flying backwards into a wall. With her magical energy glittering all around her like the very pinkest of fireworks Liz rushes forward, leaps, and begins to twirl like an ice skater (or a drill, if you're very terrible and uncouth) as she hurtles toward her opponent. She knows just what to strike. And she also knows that when it comes to it, this woman will move her lance out of the way from such a dangerous attack and just take it full on in the ribs rather than risk her most precious possession.

Because she knows the score. It's a little bit attachment, but it's mostly the arrogance and raw stupidity that comes with the kind of power you only pick up later in life. You know, the kind that makes you drunk on it. Like if somebody swallowed an artifact of ultimate power and authority and just digested all of its energy instead of learning to wield it properly. If someone tried something like that, they'd be history's biggest dummy.

"One for all, and all! For! Me~!"

The explosive power of her strike (and the real, actual explosions of her strike) would be lethal to even most Servants. In this case, what she manages is to carve away most of those gross vines, and to send that ridiculous laurel crown tumbling. Not to mention causing her opponent to flop face first onto the floor with a deliciously pathetic little moan.

And this would be the time to finish her off. She's got enough space to launch into a musical number of such beauty that it would make the sun itself explode in shame. But Elizabeth does not do that. She plants her foot and calls for a spotlight (which shines down obligingly at the right angle to shine her shiny hair so perfectly that nobody could look at her and not fall in love), but she doesn't use that cue for stabbing or for singing. Instead she just hides her mouth behind her hand and unleashes a noblewoman's delighted laugh.

"You know what your problem is? You tried to cut to the front of the line and now you don't know how to hack it in the big girl's club. You don't belong and you know it. So why not let me do whatever I want with you? I'll make you sparkle, you unbelievable idiot. If you've got your eye on someone special you'll take their heart with a single sigh once I'm through. Nothing so much as breathes near me without being pretty enough. Or if you really are an Empress and not just some sad punchline at the end of my real rival's legacy, why don't you... Prove. It?"

Her smile is darker than the endless night. Her eyes are sharper and more radiant than cut gemstones. Her tail is a thousand times cuter and more desirable than any fox's who has yet walked the earth.

This is not mercy. Or empathy or any other of those stupid soft heart words. This isn't a quiet hand down to somebody in a bad spot because she Gets It and has Been There Before. No. She just said it isn't, so you'd better believe her. This is the proper ruthlessness someone should expect from a good ruler.

"If you've got any pride in you at all, stand up and show me. I'll say whatever the hell I want about your sweaty little lance if you don't. Or I'll just eat you and take all your borrowed power for myself! I bet I can put to waaaaaaay better use than you! Ooh, maybe even concerts... on the surface!!!"

Again, don't get mixed up. It's just, if that monster energy is what's crushing her so flat then pushing her to show her pride would definitionally push that power back out. Right? It's brilliant, right? And then she really will get to eat it. Isn't that just perfect? Isn't it exactly the sort of brilliant plan you expect from Elizabeth Bathory? It is, isn't it? Right? Right????

Breathless Dead

Her tongue is covered in sand. Heavy, dry, gritty, barren. Trapped. The desire to swallow is overwhelming, but it's like trying to do it with a mouthful of cinnamon: all that she can do is choke and sputter. But she must do it quietly, quietly. Oh so very quietly. She has not known fear like this since the Opera.

She can feel fingers of pure ice reaching down her chest and filling her insides with a cold more intense than any weather she has ever known, a thought that chills her even more as it registers across the front of her brain. She cannot speak. She cannot speak. She cannot allow Her to know that comparison that came to mind. The very concept is blasphemy itself.

All she wants in this moment is a whiff of roses. All she wants is the smile that smell implies. It is nowhere to be found. There is sulfur and bright burning metallics and the odor of their conflagration, and there is the formaldehyde miasma of a body preserved well enough to contain a god even in death. Part of a god? Or just an Empress? Her nose cannot tell. She is too busy looking for roses. Roses the Empress has lost. Roses the Princess has given away.

"Your Majesty, I..."

The words drop from her mouth as if shot out of the air with arrows. Useless platitudes delivered in her useless voice to express useless sentiments. This is not her place. She puts her mouth to better use and drinks the tastes and scents of the chamber deeper than before. And there she finds sweat, and ash, and the soot of war. She finds fresh soil and iron and a fear that is not hers.

Redana.

Bella finds her legs for Redana. She stands again even as the anger that was animating her ebbs away into pure terror, all for Redana. She stands behind her and wraps her arms around her shoulders in an act of suicidal possession, where there is warmth and the firmness of muscles still fit for the Olympics (as hers never were) and the grateful pressing back of that beautiful head into her own soft chest. She holds, and is held. She stands.

And even in this, Nero does not turn to her. Not even to frown.

"Y-Your Majesty, can't you see me? Can't you hear my voice? Please, I! Do I... do I have to give It back to you? Because I! I!!"

A mother. A father. It doesn't matter to her at all. She left in the end for the promise of a single tender glance. So why? Why isn't she getting it? What did she do wrong? What has she forgotten to do?

Return to Thellamie

"...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.

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

"Um? Excuse me?? Do you mind??? You're ruining my show????"

That last one isn't a question, but she's built up too much momentum to keep the rising inflection out of her voice. The effort it would have taken to wrench her voice down to the proper octave also would have risked making her sound uncute, which is just flagrantly unacceptable no matter how you do the math.

Plus, maybe it is actually a little bit of a question. That she, Elizabeth Bathory, media darling and dragon idol, was in the presence of the saddest sort of loser imaginable there could be no doubt. That this yappy little drag was committing the ULTIMATE CRIME of not paying attention to the greatest concert in human history was likewise not at all in question. Unless she's just waiting for Love is Dracul? Some especially rude piggies do wind up being one-song stans sometimes. Always a risk when your debut hit is that perfect. But that can't exactly be overlooked in the face of the EVEN MORE ULTIMATE CRIME of being so unbelievably cringe that it's making her revise her Empress Tier List. Do you realize she actually misses that idiot right now?? What's up with that?!

But it might not be so unacceptable, you see. Because it might be an opportunity. Is she an idol or is she an idol? Then it's time for our challenge of the day!!!!

"Ohhhhhhhh," she chirps, "Iiiiiiii see what's going on~"

Ready, and! Hop! Pose! Sparkle! Flash those gemstones in the spotlight, girlie!

"It's our contest winner, lovelies! Isn't this great? Production scoured the whole, entire earth just to find the saddest, most bedraggled little puppy that's ever been born!"

Her smile is beatific, but her fangs flash hotter than dragonfire. There's murder in her soulful, starry, gorgeously turquoise eyes for those with a mind to notice it there.

"But don't worry! Your hero Elly's here to fix her all up! Game, set! Mission: Makeover! Let's start!!"

No more singing. No more singing yet. She'll croon over this idiot's broken corpse in a minute, just be patient! But right now she needs all of that magical energy to sprout big, glittery wings! She needs to well up a big store of power in her tummy like one of those weird martial artsy guys in those movies certain (beloved but don't tell them that) dorks (do tell them this!) like to watch way too late at night, so that when she takes off there's the might of a peerless warrior behind her attractive and girlish figure. Hero of Charity? Eat your heart out, sun-boy.

"I think! We should!! Start off!!! Wiiiith~! That stupid!!!! Lance!!"

The stompy, deliciously pink kick leads with is actually aimed at this disgusting Empress' face, but so what? She'll probably block! Probably, right? And if she doesn't, then hey! The follow up Tail Slam will crush everything that's hers into little bitty bits anyway! It's actually magnanimous to not be so picky. Or something?

Whatever!