Phoe

Return to Thellamie

Problem is obvious. Assessment is a waste of precious time.

Phase 1: Set up. There is a figure in the mist positioned with intent to direct the flow of enemies around and toward the magician. It is imperative to neutralize this figure. Separate heartblade into component swords, techniqueless throws. Pin to hot springs entrance by sleeves: non-violent, non-invasive, non-aggressive. While figure will remain capable of wriggling free, the only thing required to purchase is time.

Immediate ollie, stomp kick into draft created by fireballs. Infuse spare pen with light, throw toward magician. Combination of precision movement on skateboard and release of magical/light/heat source toward their position will herd rootwalker cluster onto her position specifically. Nosegrind, dismount, high leap (magically assisted), rainbow arc.

Phase 2: Execution. Sufficiently surrounded by hostile forces, interfering magician will attempt wide area dispersal conflagration spell. Colloquial name, Explosion. Timing is essential. At moment of peak energy build and not one second before, descend and execute three part attack.

Woe betide you. A maid descends. A cat descends. From the haze of the mist, from the ceiling above by the sudden sound of planted feet and the rustling of fabric, a maid-knight drops on top of Tsane and swings a blunted metal longsword onto her shoulder. A simple piece of metal has no ability to incapacitate a sufficiently talented and determined wizard, at least compared to a heartblade, but none of this truth stops it from hurting a lot.

The maid-knight pushes away at the moment of impact and lifts her own body back into the air, where she twirls three times toward the floor and winds up enough momentum that when she aims the next swing at Tsane's ribs the resulting impact is enough to not only drive the air from her lungs but also lift her bodily off the floor. The instant her knees pass above the knight's descending face, she reaches up with her free hand and snatches at an ankle.

Landing wide flat on her right foot and with just the heel of her left, she swings her hips hard and adds a final spin and release to hammer toss this offending mage directly into the hot springs, though not before bouncing her like a skipping stone off of a certain assassin/idiot/paladin/professional nuisance.

Phase 3: Chain Reaction. Having waited for the form of the spell to complete, gathered spell ink will trigger in uncontrolled burst directed downward by simple realities of magician's facing. The release of such a large scale of powerful magical fire will, through a combination of heat and raw concussive force, cause a large scale geyser of heated water to spray across the entire lower region of the Chrysanthemum.

With nowhere else for the water to go, it will descend. To wit: it will rain indoors. Flames doused, dust settled, walls and floors washed, current batch of rootwalkers upended, all available parties and obstacles directed toward one another and (more crucially) away from location of central tree.

Phase 4: Cleanup. Remount skateboard and travel to invasion source to apply sealing techniques. I believe this technically still counts as battling the Architect-Knight. Priority afterward will be swift retreat toward town proper to assess and limit damage.

In the thick curtain of steam and falling water, the briefest flash of black and white and violet. The sound of rolling wheels quieted by distance and the blanket of moaning and shouting that has been tossed over this lower area of the Chrysanthemum. If anyone is paying attention to her, Eclair Espoir might be given credit for saving the day. Or she might be accused of trying to ruin it.

Sometime after this, and soon, there will be speculation. All that will be able to be said with certainty is that she was here. Vaguely. Somewhere. In this precise moment there are no eyes to track her. There are no hands to help her, and none to hinder her. This is as it should be. Eclair's magical technique is virtually non-existent. Her ability to work in concert with others on matters like this is rudimentary at best, and where there are likelihoods for conflicting methods of resolution and a breakdown of communications she would be an active hindrance to the safeguarding of this inn and den of pleasure/mystery/intrigue.

But by herself, she is a maid-knight. And if what is needed is to clean up a mess, to shut a door up tight, and make beautiful and real again that which has been nipped at by thoughts from the Outside, there are few creatures anywhere in Thellamie who could do a better job than she can. This whole absurd strike and battle plan has served no purpose other than to position her in place to do that lone thing as cleanly and quietly as possible.

There is, after all, still so much left to attend to.

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

"Eugh, what is that smell? Are these your tunnels, Miss - I mean Lady - I mean Sir? Berserker. No? They're not? Then these have just been all the way down here the entire time? Oh gross this must be where the demons live. Oh ew ew ew ew ew."

"...I hope Miss Saber is ok. Huh? No I know she's super tough. No I know she's probably up to something sneaky! No I-- well ok fair point. But still. The whole reason I thought I could trust her in the first place was 'cause've how much she seemed to love the sky and the trees when we fought her the first time. I think this might make her sick."

"...Berserker I don't like it down here. Everything smells like, like... like math. Really big numbers, y'know? The kind no one has any use for. It's dusty. Like Capitalism! I think that's what Hyra called it. Cy says it's what foxnip smells like but I... hope not. I really, I don't. I don't like it."

"Hey. Am I-- Am I a bad fox?"

.

.

.

.

.

.

"...Oh thank goshies I think I see her. Ok quiet like, now. Miss Saber? Is that you? We came, see? How can we help?"

Breathless Dead

Bella flinches as though something had just punched her in the stomach: a sudden sharp intake of breath, a slight crunch forward, and a gasp forced out of her. Her teeth clench so hard that it spoils her attempt at a smile into a death grin, and even the attempt at incredulous laughter grinds down against a horrible moaning sigh that won't stop, it won't stop, it just won't stop.

Her entire body trembles with fear. Her forehead slicks with foul smelling sweat. She almost doesn't notice the tear rolling down her cheek from her golden cat's eye. She lifts a hand to cover that entire half of her face, rather than wiping anything away.

"Go fucking figure."

No good. Her legs have turned to marble where she stands. Her heart is pounding so hard it's begun to drown out the sounds of the ship, so determined to cling to life that it might be killing her. Her head is swimming; every breath is choked by the smells of salt and sour wine. Bella cannot in this moment ever remember being more afraid. At least with her Mother there'd been a sad nobility to her last stand, but this was so fucking stupid and pathetic she can't find the anger that fuels her combat potential no matter where inside herself she looks for it. There is only the terror of impossibility.

Fuck you, Artemis.

"Spend my entire stupid fucking life getting underestimated and stepped on. And the one gods damned time it'd help me I get this. Well. Fuck me, fine. Is this what being respected feels like? Then give me more. I want more!"

Out of nowhere, she starts laughing. Her Auspex locks onto a space above the unicorn (is that a shield? What a novel fucking concept), and in the rush of adrenaline that follows Bella finds her body weighs nothing at all. It's not anger that lifts her into the air, but love. Her family is with her. Her family is against her. Her family needs her. What better cause to fight can there be?

Her legs tense. Her fingers curl, and thick, curving talons grow a full six inches out from her fingertips. Her teeth flash like wicked lightning in the dark. She leaps into the air, flying straight at Vesper. As horrifying a concept as it might have been, right now she was trapped in a war of information. But so what? Show her what you hid up your sleeves when no one was looking, Sister. Does the answer to this obvious response come from the guardian beneath her, or from a new trap? How hard is it going to hit?

If you're so much better than her, you stupid bitch down there, then bring it.

Return to Thellamie

They call her the Violet Flash. This is why.

Owing to height and weight advantage, opponent will attempt hammer blow from above head, at left. Dodge in direction of swing, use drafting to follow in semi-vacuum behind, swing around and run up length of arm. Roll heartblade at center of balance along wrist, cut at thumb, forearm, elbow, bicep, and shoulder. Rise into air, crash down with sword. Momentum presses body up again, use to dodge counterswipe. Fall again with heel kick plant weight on opponent chest and push to floor.

The Architect-Knight is a dangerous opponent and the largest single threat to the Chrysanthemum if left unchecked. In this exact moment, she is an extension of Eclair's skateboard. The pair of them slide across the floor toward a decorative fountain while Eclair whirls her opalescent heartblade all about her with the air of a fire dancer.

If Yuki Edogawa has a moment to watch this, she will note with whatever degree of interest she finds appropriate that none of these apparent blows have landed on Eclair's opponent. Instead they knock debris and porcelain into a single neat pile toward the wall, push furniture to the side and upend it into the sort of formation a restaurant would choose at closing time, as well as purge the dust from the area she crosses as she goes. She stomps her foot at the last second and flips off of the Architect-Knight.

It is necessary to put herself underneath the opponent in time to knock her into the sky and bat her back down into the water without damaging the masonry. Eclair lands lightly on the lip of her skateboard and flourishes with both weapons.

Single breath, apply Light enchantment to extend size of heartblade for exactly three seconds. Kickflip with board to gain air, aim swing on left-to-right diagonal down to redirect hammer blow into water. Resulting gate should wash unaccounted for rootwalkers down from upper level, dagger, dagger, dagger at one, six, and eight o'clock positions to finish. Land, heelgrind, push away and repeat climb on opposite arm. Denied full feeling in limbs, opponent will attempt shoulder check. Plant swordarm on neck and perform somersault to strike at back of opponent's head.

At some point during the action, Eclair has managed to tie a large white cloth to the tip of her tail. She defends it with strategic sweeps from both her heart and metal weapons, picking up momentum as she goes. All that wet hair is perfect for a mop. Her tail-cloth follows behind, drying the errant splashes and wiping clean the grime and bits of disgusting plant matter from the walls' many murals.

She drags the Architect-Knight across the length of the cafe twice over, and though she is not such a miracle worker that she can repair the gaping holes left by dueling dark dragons, she has at least left the rest of the building so pure that this is the only damage of note. For the moment.

"A paltry effort. I cannot continue to call myself a Maiden of the Aurora if I do not at least double this output. Do you have more to say, or may I move on to the next crisis?"

Eclair clicks her tongue with distaste. She polevaults off her heartblade to let her tail reach a stubborn spot on the ceiling before landing with a curtsy.

[Defy Disaster with Daring, risking her own physical wellbeing (and reputation, one supposes): 5 + 4 + 2 = 11. If Fight is more appropriate I will switch course.]

Breathless Dead

"No shit? How would that even come about? What kind of stupid-- Skeleton people... that's really fucked up. There's no way Demeter would be ok with that. That's, ugh, gods I'm picturing it. No that's gross. That's really gross, Ves. Glad you're not at the point where that's acceptable losses."

There is something soothing about the architecture of this place, despite its history. The idea of such grand workings and intent having their intent befouled by practical needs and the harshness of reality, perhaps, or even more simply than that just seeing an attempt at perfection fall short helps ease the tension in Bella's breath just a little.

Without that much, she might be dead right now. The air is hot, even accounting for the insane bullshit 'hide inside a star' plan the ship was preparing for, the atmosphere in this place is hostile and unbearable. Everything is too heavy by half, and it takes concerted and conscious effort to keep her posture straight and her hands up enough to defend herself if, no. When the moment comes. Her blood feels like it's trying to jump out of her body. Her eyes both feel as if they were being crushed under a vice. There's a headache crushing her skull and a dryness on her tongue that no amount or vintage of wine could ever hope to solve.

She tries to flex her fingers, to keep them loose. Every knuckle on her hand seems to pop like a firecracker as she moves from open palm to fist and then back again. Her claws feel pain, and so much weight pressed into them that they might as well be buried in some jackass king's chest right now. She can even feel the blood sickness swirling in her throat.

It has been since the Eater of Worlds that she felt this level of unprepared. Unqualified, and desperate. Her ear twitches, and she rubs at it with the back of one finger and a wince.

"I'd really like to believe you're telling me this because you like me, Vesper. Because that'd mean you're hoping I'll agree with you and just climb up there to join your stupid fucking plan. Not that you need me for any of it, but I happen to have it on good authority you've already made preparations to hand me my own ass and it would be a relief at the very least to know you don't want to."

Try as she may, Bella cannot keep her voice from straining. Or her jaw from clenching in between sentences. Her agitation is obvious to even the most distracted dullard who could be watching, from the muscles all over her body pulled so taut they're quivering to the restless tail at her back that won't stop bushing to its maximum volume.

The beating of her heart is audible. Bella plants her feet and cranes her neck to watch Vesper, and her eyes narrow to shield themselves from the light.

"...How about we turn it around for once? Just give up on this plan and walk away on your own this time. I don't want to do this, Sister. I'm begging you not to make me."

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

The tears just wouldn't stop streaming down Kat's face, only the meaning of them had shifted. She stands there, one hand clasped over her mouth and the other half twisted out to stop Berserker from hurting herself before she'd put it together that she was doing the exact opposite, listening to her Servant's voice for the very first time and feeling her heart burst from the sheer beauty of it. She's also (not that it matters) redder in the cheeks than a rose.

Yeah she asked the question, but what pure hearted maiden would be ready for the answer? Kat knew a lot of things a body could grow up to be, but this is her first time bein' face to face with an actual, no-fooling knight. She can feel her knees going wobbly underneath her, but she doesn't dare let them drag her to the ground.

"What? I'm not," she catches herself in the nick of time, "I mean... no. Of course. I-if it's for you, Berserker. I'll be your princess."

She's very careful to pronounce the lower-case p, at least. Some dreams are too beautiful to risk letting them get one the wrong end of an over excited Qiu. Katherine offers her hand to Berserker to help her pull herself up and touches the back of that hand to her lips after, right on the spot where her Command Seals ought to be. And how funny a feeling it is, the double swooping inside her stomach. The thrill of a girl finding her first crush. The guilt of needing this long to figure out how to be a good Master.

If only she could take back those orders. If only she'd known the right way to navigate those situations without needing them. Back in the fight in Miss Saber's giant evil robot thingy, she'd watched her use a Command Seal in a really weird way. What was it again? 'I order myself, survive this'? Or something like that? Neverminding how she'd managed to wind up with her own Master's seals, she'd taken that power and used it to give herself a lift. She wishes she could do something like that for Berserker. Claim victory! Or, or be the very bestest knight you can be!

But all she can give her beautiful Servant is a shy, sweet smile. A smile that turns a little bit sweeter and a whole lot shyer when she realizes she's looking at Berserker's face for the first time without that horrible helmet's facemask covering it up. And she's beautiful. A stern and boyish kind of beautiful that begs to be dressed up in a crisp black suit and sent to the ball with a besotted foxgirl draped across her arm. Did she think this was a crush before? Oh goshies.

"C-c-come on then. M-my knight," she stammers, "We cant' let. Uh. S-Saber steal the show from us!"

What a shame that there's no time for kissing here. Or for courtly ceremonies and pep talks and poems or even just assurances that nothin' about the past really matters anymore if what you do in the here and now is shining and beautiful and good. Y'know? Unfortunately, there really is a crisis going on and Saber really is probably going to get herself killed without the help of a plucky young princess and her dark knight. Not to mention Miss Rider and Cy and Actia and Angelesia and what's-her-monk and wow this is a big group at this point, isn't? It's a lot to keep track of.

Kat offers Berserker her hand again and clutches the cold gauntlet tight in her delicate, slender fingers. A good princess needs an adventure like a foxgirl needs a heist, and wouldn't you know it there's both of those things waiting for her in the tunnels just underneath this castle. Their steps are slow to start, but before long the pair of 'em have broken out into a run that feels so good Kat has to bite her lip to keep herself from wooping. Stealth's important too, ok?

"I'm never gonna forget this. I promise. Never ever ever. At the end of this... i-it's you and me. Ok, Berserker? You. And me."

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

Ok, is it honesty time? I think it needs to be honesty time. There's a whole bunch I do not know about the mechanics of what is going on here. I've said a bunch of stuff right about this or that or this other thing, about Servants and Classes and the nature of a Sunshard War and all other things. And the truth is?

I mean, I didn't make it all up. When I caught on to everything that was going on I, ok well hold on a second. There's still some stuff I shouldn't say, mostly about why I'm here telling you this story and how I wound up in that position. We're not ready for that and bein' honest (it's honesty time after all) I don't think it much matters either. Anyway. I found what I could. I did some reading in the time I had, but when the world gives its level best shot at endin' sooner or later it's either know what's happening or why and how. And I chose what, in the end.

So that's to say, I worry I might've come across as an expert of sorts till now. And I'm not. And that's, like, really important 'cause I know you're expecting me to explain why Berserker won't budge on this or exactly what possessed Saber to decide the best thing she could do is snarl back and then pivot on her heel and disappear down a trap door all by herself. I don't know. I've got no idea why it had to be this way, I just know when I see Kat's little heart breaking.

"No Miss Saber! Please don't... go."

It's already too late when she says it. Her voice breaks and drops down to a whisper. Berserker doesn't let go. Kat hangs her head in shame and defeat. All that enthusiasm and the thrill of the chase and the crime and everything else just drained right out of her and replaced with, well. I may not know what makes a Servant tick internally like, but I know how my little Katherine works.

It's not just that she thought she was getting a treat and suddenly having it taken away. Though that was in there too obviously. But it's also, that sense that she was failing some kind of test? She had a model for what a hero looked like and it looked way more like Saber than her own Berserker. Not only was she failing to live up to that model right now, in a moment where she was more convinced than ever she wanted to be the one doin' it, going in and saving the day and maybe someday getting to reference The Wandering Tales of Katherine Isabella Fluffybiscuits, she also felt guilty that she couldn't connect to the spirit who had come and bonded to her when she called to them. To find herself opposed to the one she was supposed to be supporting, that stung a lot. It felt like failing on every front it was possible to fail on, all at once.

She sniffles. And when she sniffles it doesn't take her very long before she's broken down into full on sobbing. And once she's crying so hard her voice doesn't work anymore, that's when she needs a hug. Kat spins on the spot in the space taken up by a sewing needle and all of a sudden the growling knight in full dressy armor and lord (lady? how does this work??) of however many hundred castles has gone from snatching at this foxgirl's shoulder to awkwardly standing there with a face buried against her neck and a whole mess of minty green hair spilling all over everywhere. What's an ancient warrior resurrected from beyond the beyond of ancient history supposed to do? Her arms automatically close around Kat's back. I wouldn't call it tender, not exactly, but it's one of those things where it turns out everybody's a person before they are themselves or their curses. Y'know?

They stand there together a while. Not a long while, but a minute or two where there's nothing but the sounds of Kat's slowly descending spiral of hiccoughs and undignified snorts and the distance-muted goings-on of a castle turning nature into war stuff. Berserker never speaks, s'far as I know she can't actually manage that in the state she's been summoned in, and Kat can't put her breathing right for even a second to push out an understandable sound.

"Why?"

It takes her six or seven tries to get that one word to come out right, and then that's it for a little bit. That word and her big, plaintive eyes are her contribution to the conversation. The moment, I guess, or maybe the cause. Come on, Katherine. Don't shrink away from the moment now. Saving the world's one thing, but this is where you save yourself, ok?.

"She... she never should've lost to me! She was so strong, Miss Saber was so..! But I fought her, me! And I won! And, and, and and and and and it's 'cause! It's 'cause! I made her promise to!! And she kept her promise even though she had no reason to and we weren't friends and she still did it! And now she's tryin'a keep her other stupid promise I made her give me 'cause I'm a dumb stupid selfish jerk and and and and and and I couldn't! Be satisfied with just one! I wanted to impress Cy! And Actia! Oh Berserker, she's gonna!!!!"

You would think that all Berserkers could really do is rage, right? It's there in the name. And remember, I read up a bit but I'm no master of lore here. I've got no idea if this is a miracle or a fluke or a coincidence or a, uh, y'know a reflex or what. But she doesn't fly off the handle and smash anything. She doesn't fortify her castle or seal off her tunnels in response to casting out the foreign intruder. She doesn't even snarl. What she does is take her gauntleted hand and pat Katherine across the back with it. Our skinny little sweetheart stumbles a bit from the power of that gesture, but the thought is there. It's almost like havin' a big sister.

You're gonna have to trust me on that one.

"I want. I want to go after her, Berserker. Please, please let me go. It's... s'not about foxgirl schemes ok? S'not! I just, I've been standin' and watchin' amazin' people do amazin' things my whole life! And they're all so brave and pretty and cool and why? How come? How come when it's my turn I'm just standin' to the side and lettin' everyone do all the work for me again? Why can't I be the hero, too? Why'm I not good enough, Miss Berserker? I know you know too! You're such a good person. You were someone's hero once too, right? But you never seem to wanna be like a Princess or a Handmaiden or a Demon Swordswoman or anything.

"I... I know we haven't always gotten along. But still. You were the one who answered me when I called. We're, we were meant for each other, right? So does? Does that mean? I-I-I-I'm not meant to be a hero either? O-o-or. D-does it mean somewhere deep down, you still wanna shine bright too? Please, Berserker. Please tell me. Please..."

Well, that's a good question. Is there a hero inside of you, Berserker?

Return to Thellamie

Two fingers, reach back and touch shoulder. Feel residual warmth. Allow for quiet smile, slightest tick of nostalgia. Thank you, Mayzie. Memories of you shall remain the only treasures worth holding onto in this accursed town.

Reach into apron pocket. Retrieve traditional notebook. For safety's sake, include color notes with observations taken at evidence site.

RED: Timtam was here.
BLUE: Working at Chrysanthemum? For Chrysanthemum? Possible implication of involvement up to highest levels of management. Best explanation for the procurement of my VIP ticket. Better than

Eclair looks up from her notes for a moment and frowns. She shakes her head.

Khaganate treasure. Although, thick Khaganate presence in establishment does suggest possible money ties. Raiders and houses of pleasure make for strong partnerships.

Mask missing from Lunarian-styled play held inside establishment. Style of surrounding costuming is a plausible match for Target's identity obfuscation tactics. Room cleanliness noted as exemplary, organization levels are beyond reproach. Odds of one mask among dozens going missing without active interference unlikely beyond the point of reason. I will say it again.
RED: Timtam was ABSOLUTELY here.
RED: Timtam has a connection to this place.
MYSTERY SCORE UPDATED: C+ → B-

Is it possible even that she was lying when she swore her oaths of service and sisterhood?
But then what reason would she have to invite me to come here herself?

Eclair blows on the ink to help it dry and flips her little notebook shut. She carefully caps the pen and tucks the pair of them safely away again before reaching for the twin heartblades poking up out of the ground in a crossing pattern in front of her.

There is... a song in the air. A Siren's temptations and the final musical act of a play, just on the other side of that curtain on the empty stage. All she need do is consign this place, which she now knows to be complicit in some manner of crime against the world, to its fate and she can cavort here with nobody to see her and have answers. Not speculation, she knows. Answers.

What point in decrying the lack of investigative opportunities when if the very next moment a chance to take the truth and kiss it comes along she simply walks away? What point in duty? When has she ever not been obligated to at least bend the rules of the Order for the sake of a case on its behalf? She has even already done so once tonight when she misused her requisition funding to help Mayzie. Is this not the ultimate expression of that fact? Now that she has her armor on, she!

Two fingers, reach back and touch shoulder. Three fingers. Four. Surface is cool to touch. Clutch tightly, as though to feel the hand that caressed this space not twenty breaths ago.

"Logic," she mutters, "Is the blade that can defeat all forms of deception or sorcery. I will find the answers hidden behind your mask when I pry it off of you myself, Timtam. Count on it."

Order of operations. Mustn't forget, order of operations. The cleanup comes first. The investigation follows after. After all, she need only wait in this city for two more days, and the truth would come home to see how she was doing.

Heartblade one, taken in left hand. Heartblade two, taken in right hand. Flourish, hold blades apart. Stance, tips pointed apart at 180 degrees of separation, blades held parallel to ground. Bring hilts together, join into twin-sword. Hold resulting polearm in left hand. Draw longsword from scabbard with right.

And now Eclair, walk. There are messes to be cleaned. There are people to be helped. There is a single faint glimmer of respect and trust that must be protected at every cost to yourself.

Farewell, foolish opportunity. Tempt me not.

Breathless Dead

"You do understand the Twelve Labors were a punishment, right? Or is that the point you're-- mmmn. No, never mind. I get it, ok? I get it. Can't wait to see the bullshit you've got lined up for me on the other side of this."

Bella rolls her eyes. A beat of two, and with heroic effort she surges from her spot on the wall onto one knee. And from there, to her feet. Her arms stretch toward the stars and her back arches in a long and elegant curve behind her. As her fingers bend back and her heels leave the ground so she can stand on her toes, Bella is a bow. Her tail lifts up toward her hair and together these become the string. It would take no effort whatsoever for Artemis to reach out and pluck her to send some terrible doom in the shape of an arrow at wherever whatever or whoever she pleased. All that it would cost is the woman she'd been speaking to, which is really no cost at all.

But the Goddess simply watches. As much as not she doesn't even really do that much. The woman, once a maid, once a Praetor, once an assassin, once a monster, once a demigod, once a queen, now nothing, settles back down into a standing position and becomes Bella again. She rolls her shoulders to feel their power. She tenses her claws against the air. And she scoffs. Then she sighs, softer this time.

"...But if I make it to the end that's it, right? Sure. That's a deal, Goddess. Do what you need with me till my sins are all washed clean. Just stop calling this shit impossible around me. I can't tell if you noticed or not, but I'm not Heracles. I don't have the luxury of using words like that. All this is for me is the continuation of the Olympics. I just. Haven't won yet. That's all."

Her feet are stones at the ends of her exhausted legs. They lift and fall without feeling as she walks away from the miracle projects of an Empire she cannot bow to and into the place where the air smells like the garden meeting the sea. Salt and rust and rotting plants, dried flowers and bones encrusted through with gleaming diamonds. A place of broken glass and shattered murals. Even the crabs give this place a wide berth.

Of course they do. No living creature wants to intrude upon the temple of Death.

Bella twists her neck as she moves. Her shoulders seem to weigh as much as her entire body, but she simply strikes them with a fist until pain takes over fatigue as the prevailing sensation. She lifts them with pride, and her arms swing with controlled ease by her sides at every step. She does not pick her way gingerly through the path in front of her, but rather crushes it all underfoot in a straight line. Fallen warriors, each and every one of them her superior, shatter beneath her heel. The crunch melds with the clacking of her toe claws against the metal of the floor and together mark her entry.

Cloaked in shadow with eyes gleaming, a tall, lithe silhouette crosses the threshold into the place where Sagakhan had attempted to explain the nature of the universe, once upon a time. Then as now, she wears a pure and simple white robe. Then as now, her body screams inside of her with the the memory of a hundred horrible abuses. Then as now, there's nowhere to go but forward. To the place where XIII was born.

But this time her eyes see clearly. She sees green and gold and blue and flecks of melting orange where before there was only swirling black and grey. This time her head is held high and the air is filled not with chanting and her own desperate screaming, but with the crunch crunch clack of her own steady footfalls and the distant sound of lapping water and the rippling plips of condensation striking a pool. This time she does not need anyone to tell her that she has claws.

She pulls the place and the moment into her lungs, and transforms it into the voice of bright and musical authority.

"Vesper."

Return to Thellamie

"...Mayzie."

Eclair stumbles when she steps forward into the space that used to be occupied by a lightning web. Without an opponent to focus on the alcohol reasserts its grip on her. It's a question of focus: control over her body, or her thoughts. Each took conscious effort and there was only enough focus in her right now for one. Her notes had never been more important than they are right now.

She grabs the second heartblade (the first that she had thrown) in her left hand, and lets the pair of them wrist against her wrists. Not even halfway to being serious; that at least was some manner of relief.

Frustration. Frustration. Frustration. An investigation where nobody and no circumstance would allow her to conduct a calm and plain interview. Minimal opportunity at best to engage in forensic analysis and evidence gathering. Even this simple trap, which only required her to spend three nights inside a house of leisure before she could collect her data, had chosen to simply shudder and collapse under the weight of unlikely legends all stuffed inside a comically dense and tiny box.

Irritating. She clicks her tongue against her teeth.

"In my room you will find a messenger bag next to my armor. Please place my tablet inside of it, next to my my pen and paper notes. You should be able to see a small black pouch with a golden butterfly clasp. Take it and keep it."

As apologies go, it's the best that she can offer. The majority of her requisition budget is inside; enough for one person to travel across Thellamie and, if they were smart and careful about it, to settle. It was meant to be used to source new teas for the Manor, but surely the Headmistress would not object to paying fair wages to a consulting detective on such an important mission.

She shrugs, and wobbles her way toward the crowd and the staff exit, which remains the cleanest path toward any other part of the Chrysanthemum.

"If you would also be so kind as to place your hand on the back of the right shoulder of my armor while you are in there, I would... appreciate that. That will disarm the trap I have placed and summon it to my person. The right shoulder only, thank you. You have performed admirably, in spite. In spite of my..."

A sigh.

"Being me. As per our arrangement, this marks the final time you are required to look upon my face. Thank you. I am sorry to have failed you so utterly and so repeatedly. Goodbye."

It should be a short walk down to the floor where the noises are emanating from. Find the mess and clean it, by whatever means necessary. Ignore the distractions. Ignore the nonsense. The investigation could continue as it ought to once the bath house was properly maintained again.