Phoe

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

Against most assaults, Avenger saw no need to defend herself. Against this one however, Avenger could not defend herself. Diaofei's mystic fists tear holes in her armor as if it wasn't there to begin with. The flesh underneath fares no better. Avenger's stomach crumbles like clay, her left shoulder tears off completely and the arm falls to the ground in a bloody heap. Even her own essence is not immune to the routines of the throne room; the shattered pieces of her body are quickly swept up into the floors and absorbed into the main power supplies of the mecha itself. The beast eating its own master in the name of a vengeance that nobody seemed to actually want.

Not needed. Not wanted. Her proud form and her long accumulated wisdom had all been discarded as worthless trash. In desperation she'd twisted herself into a warrior of shadows, a beast from the waning age of the gods that could twist herself into the kind of knife that certain trembling hands would actually want to hold. Not needed. Not wanted. Just another mistake. The words crush her as heavily as the punches. There is no magic in the Eighty-Sixth Stance of the Daemon Banishing Kata. Not truly. This was an act of unmaking, and whether Avenger wanted to or not, whether she tried or not, her body could not do anything but weather this rejection and the fury that was rapidly shattering her down to her spirit core.

Diaofei lifts her bloodied fist to deliver the final blow. She pauses to utter a prayer before she swings, and in that instant a paw the size of her torso knocks her across the room. Princess Jezara snarls and takes to the air. Her monstrous frame pins the monk to the scaffolding around the Archer Gate. For a moment there is only the sounds of breathing: of Diaofei's desperate grunts as she struggles to finish her work, to free herself, to channel for one more second the righteous fury that drove her here. Of Jezara's heavy panting as she presses more weight and more on this idiot interloper that couldn't even see what needed to be done anymore, so heavy was the aura of pain around her soul. Of Avenger, who wheezed in eight different voices and writhed on the floor with what was left of her long and lanky body.

Not needed. Not wanted. Just the second mistake.

Avenger's scream splits the heavens apart.

Outside, the storm unleashes its fury all at once. Lightning crashes down from three dozen different cloud fronts and converges all around Avenger's mecha, which bears the true name of The Fylgja. White hot power sears the air and boils rain water in an instant. It splits stone and melts earth, carving a scar into the planet a full kilometer across that ten thousand years of geology and all the wealth of the technomantic world could not heal again if it poured itself into the effort a million times over.

The heat is enough to make many a mortal faint even miles away. The light is so blinding it seems as if the world might have turned to pure, featureless white all on its own. The sound is so deafening, but more than that so agonizing and so saddening to hear that it could drive lesser souls mad just to witness it. The wise would do well to clamp hands over their fluffy foxy ears and whimper until it stops.

The air is thick with mana, as dense as it was even in days before the will of mankind controlled destiny and the world was its own master. Dense enough to activate the Primordial Runes written across the sleek, now melting body of the Fylgja. They gleam blue-white against the black sludge of its armor, and with a ripple of metal it grows strong once again. It lifts its grand blade and moves to pierce the Shrine Giant through the stomach.

Freed from their fury, the storm clouds pour gentle, pure rain on the world...

**

Avenger swallows mana in huge and greedy gulps. Every breath she takes is stronger than the one before it as her body reweaves itself out of fresh spirit particles. First the bone and then the flesh until finally her armor knits itself anew. She takes her feet as if nothing had happened to her in the first place. No, not nothing. Diaofei's former command seals now burn brightly against her own hand. She stretches her fingers experimentally.

"Blood..." she giggles. Snarls. Seethes. Commands.

Her blade buries itself to the hilt in Diaofei's back.

"Eagle."

A sword as large as this one should have skewered Diaofei so completely that there were no organs left inside her. Her spine should be melted and her body rendered an unintelligible mess. Certainly she experiences these sensations, but sadly for her they are not the end of her. The blade is buried deep, impossibly deep, and yet it does not pierce through her other side. Her body is whole and will continue to live for many long years when all of this is over unless someone steps in to change that.

"I will not. Allow it. Not from you. You called to me! You reached through time and grasped my hand, don't you dare dismiss me as some lowly fraction of your work! Spirit? Hardly. I am a proud warrior! I held the mantle of Valkyrie and lead my brothers to battle and victory even beyond my death! They crowned me king, and when they buried me I refused to rot! You never bothered to ask my name, not even to reduce yourself to address me by my title! Did you even notice I altered my legend for your sake. No you worthless woman, I am human just as you are. I am Ivar! And you will remember my name!!"

The power of Avenger's Noble Phantasm is not in destruction, though it can accomplish that much easily. This is a blade of grudges. It is the manifestation of her Oblivion Correction: the skill that renders every hurt against her into fuel for her continuing quest for vengeance. Many of Avenger's enemies to this point had tried to destroy her body, and the vengeance that the Blood Eagle inflicted doubled that in kind. Ruination and terror until no one could stand the sight of it. But Diaofei had dared to attack Avenger's soul. She had even used her privilege as a Master to strike at the weakness of a heart that had been rejected countless times across history. Now she is made to feel that pain, in every way a human being can.

"...And yet for all your faults, I love you still. So no, you foolish monk. I will not disappear into your memories. I cannot be banished by your arts, nor any others. I. Remain. And I will do the work that you require, even if you are so weak and wretched that you can't bear to recognize it anymore. So lie there. Writhe for me! I will have you remember that desperation that summoned me in the first place. I will have you scream for me. Lift your voice so high that your missing heart cannot fail to hear you. I need her here. I cannot give you what you want without her."

Phantom blood oozes from Diaofei's back, writhing chains of greasy, hot, and slippery muck that squeeze her into new and terrible positions before oozing back inside the origin point of the wound only to pour back out and bind her all over again. Even Princess Jezara turns her eyes away from the sight.

Return to Thellamie

Firstly, spoon small amounts of the jam into the tea and stir until by careful observation of color, consistency, smell, and very careful tasting it can be determined that the additive has balanced out flaws in the leaf selection and steep time. Remaining portion: slightly over two thirds. Eat directly with spoon.

Secondly, burst yolks with tines of fork. Season only the parts that leak out, half a turn of salt and two turns of pepper. Eat quickly and quietly, using cuts of white to sop up yolk. Transfer fork to left hand while cutting, then to right to bring up to mouth. Small sip of tea, repeat. Wipe fork clean with spare napkin before turning attention to pastry.

"Hmm," says Eclair, "I wonder..."

Thirdly, cut into pastry with fork. Repeat of previous technique. Outside crust will flake off into strips, drop onto plate. Leave for now, focus on main body of food. Take care not to spill chocolate, chew, swallow, follow with tea as before. Comparison of flavor profiles. Once main pastry is finished, pick up excess crust and run through now-congealing yolk remnants. Bring to mouth, continuing to follow laws of etiquette. Continue until both plates are clean.

"A satisfying puzzle, thank you very much." she speaks while pulling her pen free, touching it to the page while lifting the cup to her mouth again with her other hand.

Sighted in Vespergift: Civil Church sponsored wanted poster offering unspecified reward for capture of my person. Name in full, accurate spelling.
Depiction of face wildly inaccurate in excess of allowance for the style favored by this particular artist - Vespertine impressionism remains striking and lovely, but identification next to impossible against numerous mistakes.
I do not smile like that. Furthermore: ringlets?
Obvious conclusion is that poster is a construction of multiple descriptions. Assass------

"If you would be so kind Madame, could I direct your attention to the Civil Advertisement being placed on the wall opposite ourselves? I wish for your opinion on the matter."

Eclair takes the moment of conversation to flip three pages back in her notes and locate a forgotten piece of information.

-----Aadya, Rock Upon a Mountain accounts for one degree of accusation. However, she was under the mistaken impression I was a stalker. To mark me as an assassin in my own right requires a second criminal act have taken place, likely also in Crevas. From this observation and several superficial similarities in the physical portrayal of the criminal's features I conclude the artist has rendered a composite sketch of both my own self and Timtam.
Curious.
She gave them my name? And they accepted this uncritically?
The Civil Church is to be avoided as a line of questioning for the time being. Imprisonment would be inconvenient at my current levels of hypothesis.
A dependency? Erosion of support in traditional structures/natural mistrust of Aurora Maidens/threats of violence = Target's arms only ones to turn to?
Or merely attempting to destroy me without the risk of single combat. Though that does not line up with her method of invitation.

"No, if her aim was solely my capture or destruction there would be no need to say anything at all. Absent a new stimulus I would have eventually returned to Crevas, the location with the highest concentration of enforcement personnel thanks to the temporary presence of the Goddess. If she encouraged me here that can only mean..."

Eclair taps the tip of her pen against her lip, deep in thought. She rises out of her chair, and in that motion stacks her plates and cup perfectly alongside both folded napkins arranged for best and quickest carrying and cleaning. Under ordinary circumstances she would offer to do the work herself as a thank you for a meal prepared beyond the standard she was testing for.

However in this exact moment she is out of time. She needed to either locate her invitation to the Chrysanthemum or else determine the invitation to be a ruse and drop instead into a need for battle. Or flight. In every case the cafe would have to settle for merely being overpaid in a cute little pyramid of coins.

"To answer your question Milady, I am Eclair Espoir. There are some who refer to me as the Violet Flash, and I am here in pursuit of a target. If you are of the inclination to raise an alarm, I suggest you do so now before it becomes too late. And if you are not, I may return for dinner service. Regardless, please pass along my compliments to your chef and consider investing in a sand timer for your tea."

And with a curtsy and a careful tuck of her pen she is gone, making for the walls where the Dark Dragon might at long last fulfill the threat of her childhood and devour her whole. Vespergift is not especially well suited to her board, but it is nevertheless the dream of those who practice the movement arts of the Aurora. She is bounding off into shadows and toward the light on wings of stone and brick.

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

Avenger can only cock her head. What is he... doing? Some obscure branch of magecraft clearly, but what was it meant to accomplish? Assassins' absurd behavior made it clear he put great stock into its power, so much that he had dropped the pretense of being enemies and picked up the pretense of being in charge without so much as pausing to breathe, but so far as she could tell he hadn't actually done anything.

She follows a quiet routine of checks on her systems and subroutines. Her flow of magical energy remained uninterrupted, her parameters all remained at or above the standards her extra class set for her and even if that particular information had been scrambled she could feel the energy and strength coursing through her body plainer than the dawn. Her grand battle machine was currently stumbling, but that was because it was locked in a fight against an ancient wonder of the world from the coming of the Twilight; her control of it was everything she expected given the circumstances.

There was a possibility, she supposed, that his magic had altered some part of her mind. And if it had she would have no great way to detect it. But it seemed unlikely as she sat there hating him as obviously and openly as she could beneath her opaque mask. Her plans felt like they continued forward to his death and past it, and the only reason she hadn't already gutted him the way she would a fish was because--

...Aha. Because she had called Angelesia 'queen'. The magic of marriage, was it? The binding of these two great houses, a political tradition older than politics itself. It followed that if Angelesia was the queen of this dark palace, then by making himself her husband he would become its king. But then, well... that worked out fine enough for her. There was still a certain order her work needed to be completed in, and none of -- whatever this is -- conflicted with that.

Nevertheless, she does not bow to him. Neither does she acknowledge Assassin with her voice. All Avenger does is sigh, a lilting musical shudder with her pale echoing voice as she turns her head to look at the spot she knew her Master was hiding. Little fool.

**

Avenger's robot shudders against the might of the Shrine Giant. As restricted as its movement had become there was nothing it could do to avoid the clash, and neither could its sleek and (for its height) slender body contend with the raw power of this miracle that had surely one day long ago stood against the wrath of Surtr. Stood and fallen, certainly, but intact enough to one day stand again. That was a testament to its unrivaled power. Joints groan and sparks fly as the shield arm bends to support the blockade with as much weight as it could manage.

Knees that are already bound must bend, or buckle if they cannot. One arm is not enough, it must drop its mighty sword to reinforce defense. The machine's reflexes are slow and sluggish to the point that even when it engages the thrusters hidden in its calves and back to compensate for the lack of mechanical strength it cannot push back against this simple thrust.

Until suddenly the restraint binding its elbow snaps under the pressure of being crushed between two opposing directions of force. Now it is able to lift the shield higher and tuck its faceless head beneath it, hiding the majority of its own bulk behind the solid wall so it can focus all of its thrust on a single point and push back against the spear. And this might have been doomed to failure too, if it had been a pilot other than Angelesia that guided the methodology of this terrible machine. She understood just as Avenger did that the purpose of a shield was not simply blunting a blow you could not otherwise afford to take.

Its true purpose was to steal your opponent's weapon. With a snap and a great clamoring of machinery the tower shield begins to disassemble in much the same manner the inner components of the throne room itself kept doing. From the center of the shield a huge hole opens up and swallows the trident, allowing its wielder to be skewered at the knee (and another restraint) in exchange for being able to envelope the offending weapon in a tight metal mesh that swallowed the Shrine Giant up to the shoulder.

Now the heat whip sings: snatched from the hip and drunkenly lashed against the plating of that hideous pulsing eye. It wraps around the horrible weapon as Avenger's mecha pulls it taut, the thick and heavy links that comprised the weapon growing red and then white hot as it poured more heat and more power and still more heat along the length of it. Steam rises between the pair of them, soon enough to begin to obscure the specifics of the action from all but the most determined observers. All while thunder screams above them.

**

"Oh Master," Avenger sighs, "My dearest, darling Master. Whatever do you think it is you're doing?"

Avenger's grip is a vice around Diaofei's mouth. She lifts the little monk up off the ground, but not to the full extension of her arm, and crucially not away from her, either. One hand remains on the hilt of her sword, now buried in a new slot nearer to where her Master had been hiding, and together they hang sideways along the middle of a wall in the grand chamber. Not far from the Saber Gate, not that it counts for much now.

"You poor confused and silly thing," one voice laughs while another one weeps, and still a third whisper merely admonishes, "It is too soon to give up on your dreams. I promise you, your lover will be here soon. And you shall have everything from her that you begged me to deliver. Your very deepest wish is about to come true. But I must ask you, for just a few moments longer..."

Shark's teeth bite into a monk's hand. Through flesh and through bone, and through Command Seals. Avenger is not gentle; her jaw twists but does not chew. She does not even bite all the way through, nothing that would reduce the agony or leave Daiofei a moment to become used to or master this intense and wracking pain destroying her hand.

Avenger grins through a mouthful of blood and mana. Her sigh is sweet, and louder than the echo of the storm outside.

"Endure."

Return to Thellamie

Current Threat Assessment of Target: S/A
Ranking top of cleverness index, deep into advanced planning. Current assumption is that all possible-to-likely responses will be accounted for to a level of depth reaching 3 stages.
Favored protocol advises stealth entrance. Confession: personal bias. Hate this city, do not wish to be seen.
Target too likely aware of this, inadvisable. Though note for future: sweep outer walls of Vespergift before final departure to check for signs of tampering.
Data gathering.
Believe I am being herded through the most traceable entrance with the largest total defensive and deceptive options for Target.
But noting for posterity: I accept this and choose the path of my own free will.

She will not put it in her notes even under threat of death, but the deepest truth of the matter is that it has been, uh...

Eclair tries to work her way through the reckoning. When that fails she turns to dirty math. Twenty four plus... twelve? Fourteen? Error. She resorts to counting on her fingers, and it takes her four hands' worth to realize she is looping rather than incrementing. Never mind a number, then. It has been an unacceptably long time since she last took in any form of sustenance.

Personal addendum: this place is smaller in person than in my memories. I can no longer find it within myself to be mad.

The Marché Couvert, therefore. It is cramped and crowded enough to oblige Eclair to shuffle through what passes for streets here in side profile. Even still the sword at her hip manages to jab a youth in the back and she is further obliged to apologize to occupy a hand holding it in place against her thigh to keep anything from causing further harm or distress.

Her neck cranes automatically upward, pulled toward the higher labyrinths by the deep and long buried muscle memory that also wraps her tail like a belt around her waist in the same motion. She navigates the pathways in front of her via the ones above, only occasionally glancing down to track the crowds. Despite how many souls there are milling about, it is quiet here. The people of Vespergift know better than to excite the forest.

Eclair makes minimal effort (which is different from zero effort) to look for carrot orange curls or the black and white of a fellow maid. She works slightly harder to pick out any recent markings from attempts at skateboarding or parkour in this city that was practically built begging to be climbed, but these are likewise secondary concerns. There was frankly no concern to apprehend Timtam and no desire to speak with her even until she's put eyes on the display of Sayanastia and confirmed the presence (current or former) of the note she saw in that tablet painting. Any traps or lures encountered prior to that would have to content themselves with springing all on their own. She would not give them the satisfaction of consideration.

Even this is all background noise compared with the hunt for the titan of her childhood. A cafe she used to pine after, used to dream of dining at just a single time as the highest ambition of her tiny Avel life. It's nearer to the walls than most reputable establishments tend to be, but the smell of their ingredients was always so potent she'd just assumed it had to be the best anywhere in all of Thellamie. Even now she idly wonders if it might be worthy of a new conquest for the Manor.

Finally, her feet stop supporting her weight. She settles into a chair. Of course it's still there. From the looks of things, the same staff. Did you expect otherwise? Who could imagine any shop or dwelling collapsing on the ground level? That's like thinking Princess Heron could lose a duel. Absurd. Just the height of absurdity.

"Pain au chocolat," the first words out of her mouth since her collapse are strained but satisfyingly clear. She does not look up from her notebook, "With three eggs prepared to the chef's preference. I will also require a cup of tea. Black, steeped for two and a half minutes in water poured just before boiling. Place a serving of blackcurrant jam on the right side of the cup, thank you."

Breathless Dead

Bella arrives in the mien of a decorated hero. She arrives wreathed in gold and crimson, like her eyes and not the black she donned when she first took hold of an Imperial title. Instead she has the seeming of someone more than worthy of the most coveted bride in the galaxy: a princess in her own right. Or maybe more accurately than that, a prince.

A clean white robe sits elegantly atop her chest, tucked neatly into a blackened leather waist corset cinched tight with a pair of golden belts that perches with tantalizing grace across her hips. Underneath the robe, the folded collar of a dress shirt, and draped overtop of it connected to a red ribbon and a golden pendant of a crescent moon wrapped around a star: a series of layered crimson straps that cling to the underside of her ample chest and then hang loose as they dip closer to her waist. Her pants are a match for her robe, smooth and clean and loose as they flare a little away from her thighs only to pull tight against her knees and tuck into the heavy black boots with the high, flat heel that lifts her further off the ground than her normally impressive stature already manages. A golden chain with a matching moon-and-star pendant wraps around her pocket and glints with the regal bearing of a house she has yet to found. This demigod, this child of the moon-which-foreswore-love, has descended.

Draped across her shoulders is a long and flowing cape of the same brilliant and furious red as her Auspex. The shoulders are decorated in gold filigree winding and spiraling patterns like rose petals and twisted stems that wind down the hem along the front of her arms and all the way to the ground where the fabric brushes against the floor. Bella flexes her fingers, and five golden talons glint in the light shining on the shrine, with each ruby inlaid on the second knuckle blazing like a setting sun on some planet where the Skies are not so Endless and that kind of thing would be allowed. For once she wears these talons over her natural claws, not compensation for anything lost or broken and not a tool of servitude, but a celebration of her beauty and perfection, and a promise of her power. She wears no sword at her hip; she has no need of it.

Her blue-black hair is dotted through with golden ribbons that bind a series of thick and elegant braids together in layer after layer that cascade like a waterfall down her back. Red and gold the eyeliner painted in opposition to the mismatched eye it accents, set against deep black shadow that pulls out the animal shape of her eyes. Everything that makes her herself is beautiful. It is to be celebrated. On her perfect skin, no attempt is made to enhance it. The lone remaining concession to improvement are her ruby painted lips, so that when she smirks to see her princess carrying her flowers, it creates an arresting and bloody backdrop for her fangs to sparkle against.

And smile she does. She is Bella, and she has come to wage war.

"Hey, Redana~" she sings in greeting.

"Of course I'll have you," she adds a moment later, "My Ember. My bride."

She does not blush or stiffen when she says it. Neither does she wait at the altar of Hera, but saunters down the steps with the exaggerated flow of her hips that marks Mosaic's absolute confidence in a hunt, and places her golden talons on Ember's wrists. With a whisper of sharpness she cuts the bindings loose. With a gentleness that belies the danger of this conquering heroine who crossed the great Rift and lived, she brushes the back of her hand underneath Ember's veil and caresses her cheek. A moment later she is a flash of violence that shatters the electric prod torturing her lover. These things have outlived their purpose, she declares with a flick of her beautiful tail as it peeks from beneath her cape. She will not suffer them to mar the ceremony any farther.

And then she turns on her heels and glides back to where she first appeared. And offers a deep bow with a wide flourish of both her arms not to the proxy terminal of Liquid Bronze, who could not deserve the gesture less if he tried, but to the polite rows of Summerkind warriors who sit and wait for whatever it is they're meant for.

"I'd like to thank you all for coming to my wedding. I couldn't ask for a more magnificent host. When this lovely vision of Ceron and I are joined, it will mean the end of a long journey. And the beginning of a new one. Though I have already been gifted it, I ask once more in front of you all for the blessing of Queen Hera to take this woman for my own, and promise to live a life that no empire has yet dreamed of."

She looks up at the deadly gathering around her. One wrong move and they'll all descend, and against them a mere Praetor and a Ceronian Imperial Princess, without even the promise of a sacred hunt to guide them through the shadows back to safety. But her eyes have all the sunken hunger of the sunshark rampaging in the sea above them, and all the frozen fury of the Lady Artemis having been caught bathing once again.

"I am Bella Hostilius Mosaic: Ember is mine and no one else's."

Return to Thellamie

Vespergift, the City of Towers. Close city, strong city, cold city. Elongated R's and over-intense vowel sounds, quite difficult to entirely purge from one's accent even with training. An inborn tendency to crane one's neck upward and a particular style of tail crooking and ear posture that marks even the most assimilated among them as an obvious denizen of the only Avel city in Thellamie to even the thickest skulled fellow natives.

A place where open-air pathways were vanishingly rare and chance meetings tended to happen under beautiful and elaborate stone archways instead. A place where bridges were sheltered by bridges which were sheltered by bridges and where navigation of the local marketplaces required the ability to think at four different levels of elevation in addition to direction and distance. Yes, that baker's shop was on the west corner, but third story? Fourth? Surely they weren't doing well enough to be on the second?

Possibility of ground level location did not bear mentioning. Wealth in Vespergift measured by proximity to the earth. Most obvious means of display possible, really. Hit every factor: clear record of original habitation, most shade during warm season and easiest to keep warm during much longer cold season, least difficulty to access, and best of all to live your life down there meant you spent all your time looking at the walls feeling grateful for the sacrifice of Vesper the Conqueror.

Instead of spending your time peering over the walls. Wondering when the forests would advance again and swallow you whole. To note, again, not an act of cruelty. Merely practicality. When the homelands were consumed (the history books say) there was simply nowhere else for Avel folk to go and still be home. The city could not expand. No one believed it was safe, no one trusted the forest. Even today that remains true. But an influx of new people required a solution: build up. The walls rose higher with every new level to protect new citizens, but practicality and space saving gave out eventually.

Impossible, simply impossible, to stack the entire city on top of itself more than four times. Space largely taken up by amenities; decision born out of kindness. Full mirror of the cityscape helped to limit stratification. Nevertheless, need for housing overwhelmed aesthetic purity. Only solution remaining was spires. To build the outer walls to the height of the towers was to invite instability. Unacceptably risky. By the fourth floor marketplace it was possible to peak over the edge of the barrier, if one were inclined to stand atop the fountain. On a fifth floor home the view was uncomfortably full of snow. By level twelve windows felt like a mistake. Trees all there was to see. The thickness of the forest, the wavering in the winds, the sense of an army at the gates. Always wondering, wondering when your time was coming.

But where else could they have put the orphanage? Paradoxically it was the level with the most available free space. Pure coincidence one supposes, levels ten through twelve were built proactively rather than reactively, anticipating the wave of refugees and washouts from the wider world. Just an incorrect guess. And no one wanted to live that high up if they could help it, so it sat (it sits) largely empty. Kindest thing to do for children with nowhere to call home was at least to give them lots of space to run around in.

A terrifying experience. A miserable experience. Flowers everywhere, outside, hardly any to be found inside the city. Gardens only grown with approval of the Weeders. Local constabulary, self important, largely unhelpful. Mostly there to fine and jail people who braved the near trees for petals and mushrooms. Fine enough to have them in the city, no one complained. Medicine was excellent, food even better. But couldn't be seen doing it, never be seen. To be seen was to remind. To remind was to make the city fear. And Vespergift is so tired of feeling afraid.

Proud of their fear. Stubborn about it. General refusal to leave among those that had come. Another reason transplants so often sought each other out. Only bastion of true Avel culture in all of Thellamie. Meaning there are no bastions of true Avel culture in all of Thellamie, only this tree-sieged shadow. Impossible to say what it meant to be a cat among cats with no reason to look over your perch and shiver.

Still. Good bread. Better coffee (local pride, took leaving to realize it was imported). Excellent warm clothing, sense of community permeating everything. Crime rampant. Crime rampant? Positive experience? One supposes. One likewise supposes even orphan girls never leave their homes for the Manor of all places if they are not on some level unhappy with their lives. To be a Maid-Knight is to not fit in where you were born. All the same, all the same, all the same...

No. She had not gone back since the first day she'd scooped an extra little dress and two loaves into a rotting pack and slipped out the gate (out that gate) in search of the road. Had no intention of going back, tendency to avoid assignments that might require investigation in that area. Successful so far. Streak broken.

Similarly, stories left untold. Even in thought, only vague generalities, nothing to give away how difficult it might have been to be a little Eclair. Tragic stories of childhood trauma play well among certain subsections of the Aurora but the cost of inviting their swooning affections did not feel worth it. Opportunity cost among other sects for one thing. Constant reminders of a period best left to haze by way of foreplay, for another. And frankly if there was any desire to experience the tender ministrations of a mother in these later stages of life then

In any event. Somehow Timtam knew anyway. Knew on a level beyond what their personal friendship (had that even been real?) should have suggested. This message said that she knew. Screamed it. Flaunted it. Why? Why and how? Terrifying in its implications. Eclair's chest feels like it is on fire. Difficult in the extreme to sort through the rush of emotions and arrive at truth. No, nothing for it. She would have to go. She would have to put her hands on that envelope, examine the ticket inside (or confirm its lack of existence), locate the level the business being advertised was on, and then if possible confirm the validity of the ticket. While taking copious notes of course. There is a difference between triggering an obvious trap because you are desperate to believe you might get an apology and triggering an obvious trap because the mechanics of it would provide illumination on key factors in your investigation.

If each of these factors was true then there is no time to waste here. This rain-soaked liaison must be closed with all immediate speed. Nevertheless her honor as both maid and knight of the Aurora demanded certain concessions. Therefore:

Lock eyes, nod once. Set expression as grim determination. Convey full understanding of situation, share frown of consternation. Full seriousness. Now, lean in and touch forehead against Ruthmoreness'. Sign of regretful parting. Use shift in body position to access messenger bag. Retrieve pair of Commissions. Difficult part now, peel gauntlet off of left hand. Bite thumb, draw blood. Press against first slip, burn hedge magic to summon small open air tent.

Spend second Commission creating small fire with attendant tea kettle and single ivy patterned cup. Side note: yes, every Maid-Knight carries tea on her person at all times even when unprovisioned. This counts as separate larder from actual travel supplies. Shrug. Stand and retrieve notebook, pocket safely. Slip tablet out of companion's hands and return to satchel.

Offer curtsey. Salute of the Manor, greeting and blessing and thanks and parting in the same dip of the legs and lift of the skirt. Allow moment to smooth hair out of eyes. And.

Turn and leave. The road is long but there is no time to waste. Food and drink will have to wait until she can brave the jaws of Sayanastia once more. And those concessions, once she has them, will taste of a city that once called Eclair Espoir its own.

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

"...Disappointing."

Why must everything and everyone deny her? All she'd even demanded this time was that her opponent fight her with his mightiest weapons. Instead a... clown? A clown was making some sort of speech calling her an idiot. Just like every other Servant she'd come across.

"Disappointing, disappointing, disappointing."

She lets him speak. Every shake of her head is punctuated with another thrust of her sword into the body of Bohemond, until he is more stabs than man. It is not rage that drives this pointless violence. Her core is hollow, she cannot in this moment manage even a flicker of anger. There is simply nothing else for her to do just now, with her castle a smoking wreck and her army had been wiped off of the earth, more than half by her own hand.

"I would blame this on your Christianity," she says after a long while of stabbing, "Except that Lancer fell victim to it too. I do not understand what it is about you children that makes you all so certain you are the lone arbiters of truth and strategic insight."

Lift, stab. Lift, stab. Lift, stab. Lift...

Bohemond lies dead. But despite the fact that he is a Servant, his body does not disappear. Rather, his magical energy does not return to the Sunshard that spawned him. He does not power the ritual. Rather, he is absorbed into the throne room and is made to power the gleaming machinery inside. Avenger cranes her neck to watch the ceiling, and sighs.

Lift. Hold. Stab. The laser sword thrusts into one of the many slots carved into the landscape in here. Ghost-green lights flash along the length of the floor up to the throne, which rapidly unfolds into its component materials under the weight of the usurper suddenly sitting there. Assassin is more than quick enough to keep his feet, but shivering, feverish Angelesia is dumped onto the ground and left to tumble gracelessly down several stairs before she is caught by a quivering mass of cables.

Twist. Stomp. The nest pulls Angelesia tight and drags her down through the floor. She emerges wet and moaning at Avenger's feet, where a new seat has begun to assemble from blocks of raw material. It is not a throne this time. Cushions to absorb the shock of sudden g-forces, with joysticks at the end of both armrests stuck tight to her hands, belt after belt after belt snakes around Angelesia and straps her in inescapably tight. Her feet come to rest on a pair of pedals. The girl lurches violently, as though to throw up. Instead her head merely lolls as sweat drips from every pore in her body.

Avenger lifts her sword again and steps in front of the girl in the pilot's chair. She thrusts it deep into the walkway one more time and leans on it the way a knight might in some other bygone age and land if they were inviting challenges for the crossing of a bridge, a world she had never known but had knowledge of anyway thanks to the magics of her summoning.

"Let me ask you now, lambs-son. Puppet of Actia. Do you feel clever now? Do you believe you are in charge here? Do you even understand what it is I want?

The castle is dead. In the blinding glow of warning lights the last crumbling towers and walls all fall to dust. Only the core remains. The Keep, if you must be accurate. Only... not. From the dust, a massive clawed hand rises. It pulls a sword free from the rubble, blade crackling with dangerous energy in an outside replica of Avenger's own. A head like a helmet with a shining blue visor, black body of sleek armor plates and dangerous energy vents that extend like spikes from the joints, a coiled heat whip on its waist, and in its spare hand...

A great chunk of the primary weapon's tower lifts out from the ground with a plume of dust. A tower shield.

What had been a grand and empty throne room is now the much more cramped core of a second mecha standing against the Shrine Giant. Though it would be wrong to call it a cockpit. Between the sheer size of the monster and the general lack of need for real mechanical parts there proved to be an excess of empty (if reconfigured) space. More than enough for an army, and a painting, and a chimera. And of course, if it came to that, a battle.

"When you are hunting foxes," she growl-sighs, "It is first necessary to restrict their movements. Terror is more than a sword, did you say? Perhaps you are wiser than I gave you credit for."

Avenger leans backwards to plant a kiss on Angelesia's clammy lips. The hideous red cursemark, the fully gestated seed planted within her, burns bright against her chest.

"Darling Angelesia, my Queen-and-Pilot. I say to you once more: do not forget your gifts~"

Breathless Dead

"Nnf."

Bella sighs as well. But then next to a goddess what possible weight could her own melancholy carry? She could sit on the ground next to Hera, but her silly cut up suit will not form an island to match Hera's ocean. Tight fitted and simple fabric that it is, it wouldn't shift enough on her person to make so much as a pebble. She could loose her braids, but the gesture would take her awkward minutes to finish and then what? Half of it was already loose so instead of any dramatic cascade she would at most add a touch of wavy volume to an already loose and tumbled look. Blue hair did not matter in the face of absolute divine sorrow.

The fact is that she's just standing there, having just said something so stupid it might have doomed reality, holding a plate of pancakes with a berry compote slowly seeping into them and ruining their fluffy warmth. She might have been made to be perfect, but perfection meant nothing to a god. Call her what she really is instead: a useless little shit.

Without anything dramatic for her to do, all that's left for her as a response is setting the plate down on a table that both is and is not contained within the depths of Hera's magnificent dress. She picks up a knife and a fork (etiquette above practicality, Bella) and carefully cuts the stack into bite sized pieces. The universe is quiet while she works. There is only the clink of silverware on the surface of a plate and the mixed symphony of two people breathing anywhere in all creation. The gods are quiet. The universe is quiet.

Bella crosses infinity to be with Hera, and kneels down next to her with the plate balanced delicately on one palm. She jabs the fork into a bite of pancake and holds it in front of the Queen of the Gods' mouth, quiet but insistent. There is nothing to be said, there is nothing that can be said, until the offering is accepted.

"Um." she offers at last.

Now she watches Hera chew the food she'd made. If these were Dolce's cooking that might have been enough, but all Bella's gesture buys her is the opportunity to offer another forkful. What the fuck did she expect? They're just pancakes. Even still she offers another bite and then another, a rhythm of fluffy prayer, until the plate is more than half emptied.

"What good's it doing anyone to just give up?"

Her mouth hangs open in shock. What... did she just say? She almost drops the plate in surprise. When she lifts the fork again, her hand is trembling. She does not dare to watch what happens, in case the audacity of continuing to make her offering is worse than the audacity of cutting it off. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck is wrong with her?!

"I just, it's... like you said. Everything is getting worse. Doesn't that mean you're free? You could try, just, just anything at all. It wouldn't even matter how useless or trivial it is. If you can't, erm, have... ch-children then, like, I don't know? You could inspire people to pick up hobbies or just weave stuff yourself or whatever. You could fight another war if that's really what you wanted. You could talk to Lady Demeter or any of your children or siblings or, you know, your wife. Or you just..."

She has to set the fork down on the plate. It takes both hands to hold it in the intense pressure of this moment. Mosaic wouldn't falter like this. Redana wouldn't falter like this. Nobody but Bella would trip here. Why her? Why did she have to be herself?

"It just... doesn't matter. At all. If every stupid little thing turns out to be useless then it's just the same as it is. I just know that if we sit here forever, then we're all gonna wind up dead. And I... used to want that. But I don't now. So I just, I guess, if... if the food meant anything to you just now, then what I'd ask in exchange is that you. That you..."

Her voice falters. But the strain of her muscles, strangely, reminds her how strong they actually are. She didn't mean to arrive here, but Vesper might have. The little heart on the back of the note now tucked into her breast pocket fills her neck with the power to lift up, and sets lantern lights inside her eyes. She dares, from one knee, to behold Queen Hera in this moment.

"Hope," she finishes in a high and clear voice, "And if I have to pay a higher price for that then just name it. Anything. Everything, ok? There are so many mistakes I need to fix. The only thing I need is a world where I can try."

Return to Thellamie

It has been said there is no such thing as a perfect crime.

Strictly speaking that is not true. A perfect crime is definable as a sequence of events where the offending act accomplishes something desirable for the criminal that can also anticipate a desirable outcome from the punishment that follows. To wit: a maid-knight might steal a rival's perfectly crafted sandwich, earning her a superior lunch slash delicious treat. If that same maid-knight targets a crush with a tendency toward dispensing retribution in the form of the lash and the leash, then the sandwich thief has accomplished a second benefit when her abused posterior is paraded around the Manor on 'walkies'.

To name one example, at any rate. There are less frivolous possibilities, such as humiliating a figurehead knowing that your capture and punishment will inflame those who benefited from or otherwise enjoyed your actions and further destabilize a major hub or even several, depending on the nature of the original crime and the prominence of the target. If the actual target of theft was the status quo itself...

Nevertheless, they say there is no perfect crime. This concept is not even undermined by the existence of actual perfect crimes, because the true meaning of this wisdom is that no criminal act regardless of how masterful its planning or the skill of its execution can remain invisible to a sufficiently determined and objective investigative effort. It is the reason Eclair is valued as a Knight of the Aurora. It is why she is selected for missions. Not specifically to catch criminals per se, but the unraveling of mysteries. Another might occasionally get to the bottom of a problem before she can, but no one will pursue it as relentlessly and fully as she can in the end.

That is not to brag. That is simply to say that there is no value in spending thought cycles wondering if Timtam intends this revelation as subterfuge. This too would be revelatory, as it would showcase a motivation the target considers worth covering up. If even that turned out to be false it would instead imply a highly specific focus on and interest in Eclair's investigation in particular and that would open new avenues of thought that would eventually wind themselves around Timtam's wrists and ankles and catch her in the end. The only thing in doubt about this would be whether or not the act of catching would turn out to be a reward for her, or perhaps if she would prefer herself be caught by some other entity first for the sake of her plot.

In any event Timtam is creating messes. Yes, that is a very succinct and interesting way of putting it. Thank you Ruthmoreness. An anti-maid is a very intriguing hypothesis even if it is not one that shines any light on the essential question of motivation. It does at the very least emphasize specific possibilities that the more general concept of that lovely vision in orange curls merely turning traitor. She may be a victim: her heart inverted after contact with a Fallen entity or another corrosive force. She may be sitting on a secret of the Manor that requires revealing to the world, Cursed Be They and Such and Such. She might seek the full destruction of the Order of the Aurora or she might instead be agitating a sort of disaster to draw out the Maid-Knights' full strength and guide that to "accidentally" clean some presently invisible problem from the wider world. Oh yes, there are many many possibilities to consider where the cause of an anti-maid could be considered more righteous than Eclair's own.

In fact it could well turn out that reaching the end of this mystery could require--

Eclair sniffles. She does not shiver but that is an act of pure willpower on her part. If she implies too much weakness, Ruthmoreness will see through the spell she has cast and move to shelter her instead. The most imperative thing is not scoring points in the Great Game (or losing them) but the safety of that notebook, which will regardless of skill or intention be exposed to this downpour to some degree during any kind of position switch. She angles her body to invite the other knight to stare at her, instead. Presses her lips taut and draws a sharp breath through her nose to brace herself against a sudden snap of wind.

She opens her mouth, intending to praise her ward. She is forced once more to close it in silence. Even now? Even after achieving understanding and forging a connection in this moment, after such free flowing conjecture and interesting consequences to consider? She is still stuck shut? Would could be... oh. No of course. The fact remains that she has not eaten, and here in the face of love she can finally feel that for the problem it is. The fact remains that she has not drank her fill, and with shining eyes looking up at her in equal parts awe and earnestness she feels as dry inside as she feels wet out. The fact remains that she has overtaxed her muscles and asking them to hold firm here and for who can know how much longer is an act of self cruelty she can no longer conjure the death spiral of dark thought to convince herself she deserves.

The most frustrating weakness of them all, then: the need for basic care and rest. That is what has her voice stolen now. She will likely part from Ruthmoreness' company without managing a single word the entire time. But she must safeguard this woman, as thanks for what she's managed here (no matter if it is a trick or not), and she must safeguard the notebook until she can compose more formal notes so that she can return to this hypothesis after new, non-speculative interviews and fresh physical evidence without having to hold the entire thought in the forefront of her mind the entire time or risk it dissolving in the acid of new thoughts and needs. And she must above all say something to the woman beneath her, because it is unbecoming of a Maid-Knight to ignore a worthy thought no matter her own condition.

And so she turns 'That is possible' and 'I must consider this' and 'Thank you for your contribution' into a single sentence that also means 'You're beautiful'. She speaks this sentence in silence, but with her lips. Her elbows bend, though she fears it will be a challenge to straighten them again. She leans close enough that her soaking, heavy hair caresses Ruthmoreness' temples. And she plants a kiss that will have to satisfy all her hungers at once on the mouth that spoke the thought.

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

"My failure?"

Avenger cannot contain herself. Her grand sword trembles in her hands as she falls helplessly into a fit of horrible, breathy laughter. Giddy, ecstatic, sardonic, incredulous, uncertain, the only form of laughter her strange chorus of non-voices echo here is a full bodied one. Certainly as she cackles she throws her entire being into it, curling her spine uncomfortably far backwards and staring at the ceiling through her mask and the hand she's clamped over top of it. She convulses with the sheer strength of her amusement and anger, but none of it manages to reach the sounds coming out of her. Her mismatched giggles, chortles, and guffaws bounce around the room until they lap onto one another and wrap into a sound a bit like a burst of feedback from an overtuned amplifier, but not even this ear splitting noise carries a note of real, human depth.

Of course it doesn't. This creature has completely lost her connection the human world she once loved so.

Avenger stumbles, only stopped from ragdolling across her own throne room by the sudden emergence of two twisted paws from her cloak of demons. She glances down at the holy arrow embedded up to the fletching in her stomach. She clutches the offending missile in one armored hand and tears it straight back out of her to a sudden rush of messy, red blood.

"My failure?" she asks again as her armor plates reweave themselves and seal the hole in her suit closed over the wound.

She takes flight, flipping upside down as she does to hang from an overhead platform as though gravity had suddenly inverted for her. Her iron ring braid swings heavily underneath her head. She is just beginning some sort of gesture with her sword when two more arrows pin her to the ceiling by the knee and the shoulder.

"My failure..." she muses, wrenching her body free and falling like a stone.

She shudders with fresh laughter as she drags herself shakily to her feet. Even when a bolt pierces her neck, she doesn't stop. It would be fair, if one were inclined, to wonder exactly what was making these sounds on her behalf. Certainly it could not be her body, or if it was then she must be some sort of machine at this point to be able to continue functioning. She bleeds, at least. And she laughs. Those things can be said to be true.

"For the sake the heroes' blood that flows through you I have done my best to understand your words. But I cannot. Yours is the prattling of a child who either will not or cannot view the world through any lens but his own pretensions. Were he still alive I would be doing the Allfather a disservice by reaping your soul."

Now they clash as Servants, for the first time since the war began. Arrows are struck down, blows are matched and dodged and countered faster than the blurry eyes of an only-just conscious Angelesia can follow, if indeed she can manage to rouse herself from such concussed sleep. Simply sit on your throne and rest, innocent one. Avenger and Archer clash from wall to wall and ceiling to floor, tearing at each other and the structures all around them, which scramble to repair themselves in the aftermath in much the same fashion as Avenger's miraculous armor.

It is several long minutes of struggle for position and the breaking and reestablishment of distance before Avenger, now so soaked through with blood that it is the only thing visible through the crystal etchings of her armor, manages to corner her opponent. Her fighting style had switched from lazy efficiency to vicious overextension, but for all her talk of power she had shown little in the way of supernatural might. No bright beams of mystic light or electroshielding or powers of teleportation. Her sword had become a thing of energy, but she still wielded it as she had ever swung a blade. It seemed almost pathetic compared to the angelic glory of her opponent.

Right until she buried the giant blade in the base of his left wing. Now she grips the back of his neck with one hand as she saws and burns painfully through the false symbol of Bohemond's glory. With a final wrenching tear she plants her foot on his back and kicks him to the ground, clutching the feathered appendage and throwing it behind her for her cloak to devour.

"You have bound yourself in service to a demon, and allowed your warrior's soul to rot. Disgusting, I feel ill just looking at you. No more. Show me. Show me the relics of your hollow god one last time, if you can even wield them in your sorry state. I will shatter them as I shatter you. Perhaps then you will understand the meaning of the word 'failure'."

She spits foamy blood on the floor at his feet. It is comical how quick the throne room is to clean and absorb it. Even after all their fighting, this place remains pristine.