Tatterdemalion

Return to Thellamie

Yuki!

Aadya is big. It's hard not to notice that when she's crammed, sweaty and beaming, into a booth at Chatte Souffrance. It doesn't matter to her who won your race through the early streets, leaping over flood-strewn debris and stopping to help lift fallen beams out of the streets: she's just happy that she's got you to challenge her again. She spars with other Paladins constantly, but none of them are a challenge as unique, as delightful, as you are.

"So why be in two places at once?" she asks, demonstrating with the salt and pepper shakers (having well-seasoned her eggs). "What's the point of her declaring her attack on the goddess while also fighting me at the dyemakers' shop? And why did she come here, fight Heron's personal trainer, and then run away? Is she just trying to confuse the issue? What if she is a lying lieface and she's smokescreening us with her alibi? And if not... what's going on?"

She's looking to you not for answers, but for the escalation of theories, of bouncing facts back and forth, of helping her attune her inner compass to what she should do with her quest to apprehend Eclair Espoir. (One may note that she is not working with Heron right now.)

---

Hazel!

Olesya looks at you. Like, really looks at you. Studies you, her head cocked, her shaggy morning hair weighed down with beads and ties. Then she gets up, steps over to you (in barely more than one step), and squats beside you.

And she puts her palm between your shoulderblades and decides that you are no longer pushing yourself up. Not in a cruel way, but in a humiliatingly effortless way. You were up and now you are not. Squirm, little chewtoy, squirm.

"In the Khaganate," she breathes, "a huntress may permit her sluzhanka to cook her kills. It is an honor to them. But we have not decided whether you are or are not mine." Her tail thumps, the once. "You are enough mine that my sister cannot have you and you are enough not mine to not upset your Yuki Edogawa." Her nails are present on your skin.

And she holds you there. And says nothing. Take a glance back over your shoulder at her half-open mouth, her eyes which flick away from yours, the tension in her stance like a deer about to bolt. Then suffer the awkward headpat which smooshes you into the pillow. "No more dancing and strutting for Avel ladies, Fawn," she says, and regrets it immediately, and then flings herself back at the cooking in time to save the eggs from burning.

---

Handmaidens!

"As you once said, in your ineffable wisdom," Brother Mason dryly responds, "bing bong, so simple. You use that thing made entirely out of coats and Aestivali scruples in order to handle rebuilding this ancient shrine to your modesty and good taste, and while she handles that, you go and finally take the fight to the dragons and their fawning maids."

(In case you are confused, dear darling Cair, what he is implying is that Heron is immodest, tasteless and has been ignoring a perfectly good Quest.)

"Though I would understand why you are hesitant to take action at this moment," he continues in all humble piety. "I have studied enough of your mighty deeds to know that the temptation of the role of the interior decorator is strong with you. Especially in this monument to your community outreach. Far be it for me to imply that saving all of Thellamie from perfidious maids is more important than fussing with proper couch placement."

---

Eclair Espoir!

The next step of the invitation was brought to your table with the complementary vanilla wafers: come take tea with me in the Persimmon Room. It is natural that you would follow through, knowing what I know about you. Up the stairs on the east side and out into one of the side-rooms, stepping through a beaded curtain.

Before you is a circular table. A bench extends almost all the way around it, the circle broken at the exact place you stand. A table for friends to sit at, shoulders snug against each other, pushing baskets and plates around so that everyone can get a bite. The light coming through the windows is broken up by the swooping lattices.

And framed against those lattices is Timtam, dressed in Kel finery: a rich silk robe, dipping low at the chest, cinched tight around that devilish waist. Bells dangle from her hairpin, and her entire face is hidden behind more beads. But it's her. You'd know that insouciant crossing of the knees anywhere.

She's alone in here. But the room implies company. A teapot sits in the middle of the table.

"Well. And who do I have the honor of speaking with today, miss?" She gestures with a long pipe, held with seeming casualness. Her smile is a suggestion behind her beaded veil. "Come, sit down, you darling little thing." Her Kel accent is almost flawless, and even the slight Vespergift roll of her rrrs is a deliberate affectation. She presents herself to you as artifice, just as you do in turn.

Breathless Dead

The Princess Redana stands small next to the couch, fretting. Though, it must be admitted, she’s bigger than usual. The ceremonial fur capes of a pack returning to Nemesis are bulky, are anonymizing, for all that the ceremonial armor is designed to maximize exposed skin for the transcendental kiss of the winds of Capitas. (Flowers, silk and bones.) The helmets, too, are bulky and anonymizing; one sits in the crook of her arm. (Flowers, silk and bones.)

The WAX system within will kill all sound. Her companion will be the song of her own blood. There will be no need to speak aloud, because Ceron’s daughters speak through scent, through art, through instinct. No distractions from outsiders’ words; nothing spoken on the surface of Nemesis by pack or captive. This, then, is the challenge all of her training was pointing her towards.

That was the compromise that the first Shoguns made for their pleasure-palaces glutted with trophies and the art that a warrior race must make to feel civilized and distinguished and justified. They would be able to watch the swirling nebulas, the designed sunsets, the rain of jewels. They would be able to feel the kisses of the enslaved Anemoi on their skin, perfectly cool and soft, playing with their earrings and cloaks. They would taste the feasts that Azura wonderchefs prepared, drink variegated wine fresh-squeezed from Iris-grapes, drag their tongues across salt-flecked skin. And, surrounded by the subtle scents of the pack, they would converse in perfect self-control. Only a drunken sot, a hedonistic fool, would lose control of the self; so goes the ethos of Nemesis. Control the self to control the galaxy.

There will be music, Dany knows, and afterwards she will regret that she never got to hear it. There will be songs that are bridges between stars. There will be waterfalls which sing, each stone placed with perfect care. No matter how many times Sagetip has told her about the Ethos of the Shogunate, the thought of losing herself to Capitas keeps coiling around her.

Just a little peril. Just a taste. Tie her to the mast, or better yet, envelop her in Bella’s arms (but she’s still recovering). To be lost in the beauty, to be engrossed completely, to experience the whole of it at once even if it destroys her, to take her helmet off and listen—

She’s going to do it. She tells herself that she is capable of resisting, that she has an important mission to Gaia, that someone needs to look after Mosaic-named-Bella, but the absolute surrender to beauty and desire is something that she will not have the strength to overcome.

Because here, in the center of everything, is an adventure that could take centuries to play out. Here is the fulfillment of her childhood dreams, if only Bella would join her for them. Here is the great big wide world and its charms, contracted to a subjective point. Here is the knife that is made to slip underneath her ribs.

She stands by Bella’s couch, and she holds her helmet firmly against her side, and she frets, and she says nothing, even though soon there will be no need for her to say anything at all, one with the pack as they carry out their plan to infiltrate Nemesis itself.

To infiltrate Nemesis as a pack escorting dignitaries, including one of the Azura ambassadors. The Honored Dyssia, Title To Be Workshopped.

Return to Thellamie

In most of Thellamie, the city is your home. There’s no need to leave the valley of Crevas or to go beyond the walls of Vespergift or to swim out past the shoreline of Emerald, not when there are so many perils of the Outside just waiting to drag you into strange adventure.

Not so out west. Not in the Khaganate. There is no other place in Thellamie like it. The Stones out there are not weaker than the rest, but their effect is diffuse, and there are broad zones where reality and unreality mingle, where mirrorfolk ride goblin-beasts and sing hymns to Sayanastia.

The people here became tough, strong, courageous; they banded together in tribes and competed fiercely for resources, for Outside treasures, for pride and prestige. They learned to secure a prize tightly, lest someone snatch it from their grasp.

And now their most ambitious huntress has her eye on the greatest prize of all.

---

Hazel!

Tea. The bubbling of the hot water, the floral scent richening, and the sizzling of… sausages?

The blanket is heavy. It’s like having an entire dog draped on top of you, pressing you down onto the furs and the feather pillow. Don’t get up, it says. You are warm here, you are comfy here, and all the soreness in your body just needs to be pressed out by this blanket.

But if you take a peek out from it, into the fire and the shadows of the tent, you’ll see Olesya steeping the tea and preparing sausage and eggs over the fire on a two-tier stand. She is wearing a notably snug tank top, one which exposes her broad shoulders completely and hikes up at her stomach.

On the roof of the yurt, the driving rain. On the floor of the yurt, goblin-skin rugs. Inside the yurt: warmth, and tea, and sausages, filling the air even as the smoke swirls up and through the flaps.

She’s very strong, you know.

(Oh, and before I forget: take a String on the Princess Sulochana. Did you dream of her? The starlight in her eyes, the delight and longing on her face, the way her fingers tightened around yours and were reluctant to let go?)

---

Yuki!

Aadya, the Rock on a Mountain, sits on you.

As you were semi-peacefully asleep in a suite at Le Serpentine, a little slice of Crevas in the chill of Vespergift and the de facto HQ of the reconstruction committee, right up until she sat on your stomach, this is likely an unwelcome wakeup call.

“We’re going for a jog,” she says. There are bags under her eyes which suggest she has not slept particularly well over the past several days. “Then a box-breakfast at Chatte Souffrance and I will tell you everything about Eclair Espoir. She’s just the tip of the spear, Yukes. Up and attem!”

“Milady,” Pasenne calls — a little shakily — from outside. “Is everything all right…?”

---

Handmaidens!

“You let her slip through your fingers?”

Brother Mason is bristling. He clutches his tablet tight to his chest as he strides through the Chrysanthemum. If he declares the reconstruction a priority for the Church, then its resources will be brought to bear, focused on this disaster. It should be simplicity itself, but when are things ever as simple as some people would like them to be?

“You had Eclair Espoir here and then you were distracted playing knights with a dead dragon. The agent of three quite living dragons of unknown power and capability, and you let her slip through your fingers?”

Underneath his ceremonial robe, he drums the fingers of his left hand agitatedly. When he looks at the repair work to be done (which really isn’t anywhere as bad as it could be, as long as those stairways get rebuilt and the load-bearing walls get shored up), he’s not looking at Vespergift but at the great cathedrals of Kel.

“Eclair’s compatriots struck at multiple monasteries on the outskirts of Kel last night. We need information on the Order of the Aurora and what their intentions are for Thellamie and her order, her peace.”

And he’s not about to go walking into a maid-mansion full of the presumptive enemies of the Church, now is he?

---

Eclair Espoir!

Welcome to the Interstitial, a cafe full of the presumptive Allie’s of the Church!

It’s a deliberate architectural and stylistic blend of monasteries from all over Thellamie: the angular knot-windows of the west, the stained glass of Kel, the delicate flowering ironwork of Vespergift, the colorful murals of Crevas, and the beaded curtains and incense of Aestival. But don’t get your cute little head confused, it’s just a cafe overlooking a cliff on the southern side of Kel. Far off and away, beyond the swirling winds and the shapeless clouds and the mutable landscapes below, the sapphire-blue bays of Aestival can be glimpsed every now and then.

Both you and Timtam will have to use cunning subterfuge and your wits in order to get into a Civil-oriented cafe in the Civil-friendly heart of Thellamie. She’s certainly stacked the deck in her favor, though, if the uptick in Serigalamu nuns taking a table in the past hour is any indication.

How have you managed to infiltrate this place, Eclair Espoir, this den of danger and delicious pastries? Surely you haven’t just announced yourself and let everyone in the cafe gang up on you at once. After all, some of those Kel nuns have as much muscle as the chariot did.

Breathless Dead

"You are going," Redana sniffles, "to be okay." And the way she says it is like there is no world, no universe, where Bella is not going to be okay. But there will also be no world where she is the way that she was.

This ship's medical chamber is a mish-mash of medicine from the underworld and cures from the land of the living, side by side. Flesh molds and blessed knives, bonesetters and suture wands. In the center is an Asclepian garden, and in the center of the garden is a fountain, and in the center of the fountain is a light shaped like a sun. The sound of running water is impossible to escape in this room. And here is Redana, silhouetted against the sun, interlacing her fingers with the stiff talons of her wife and failing to keep the tears at bay.

She has done her very best. The ship's proper doctors are mysteriously absent. She did not have time to search for a Hermetic, not when her Bella was like this, was like this. She has taken to surgery with a panicked frenzy, and she has done the very, very best that she can, murmuring hymns to Apollo under her breath the whole way. And it must have worked, Apollo must have smiled on her with that beatific smile, because here is her Bella, here is her ray of moonlight, here is her bride, every bit of her that Redana could save.

(She is not completely alone, mind you. Gemini is present here, sitting in a little chair, flipping through a book with an air of aloofness, trying to hide the exertion of telling her sister over and over again that it was still time to live. But the whole host of Tellus could be in the room right now and Redana would only have eyes for her Bella, tears of relief and hope running down her cheeks.)

"We're going to make it," she says, and squeezes. "You and me. All the way to Gaia. I promise." And unspoken is the promise: we will make it even if your legs don't take to the reconstruction. We will make it if I have to carry you in my arms. We will make it if you can never fight again, if you have shattered yourself in order to save your family. We will make it because I promised you that there would be a universe in which we could freely choose to be together.

We will make it because I believe that you will not let yourself die.

But that's the next step. The difficult one. Choosing not to die. Living right now is an effort, is a marathon, is a choice. Just like it was on the Yakanov. Just like it was when Nero made you choose between life and death.

Redana knows her Bella well enough to know that it's no choice at all, though.

All of her sisters are on this side of life. And they need their sister who saved them.

The tools that Redana had to hand were not sufficient for the task of making it as though you never broke, Bella. The materials she could work with were not equal to the body that you were gifted for your holy terror. But there is a rightness in putting something back together so that the scars can be seen, and a beauty in refusing to give up after disaster. You will stand again, Bella; you will walk again; you will hold your princess and be held in turn. And all of you-- all of you-- will see Gaia.

Together.

Return to Thellamie

Hazel!

You shine with the light of civilization, of binding, of laws and strictures, of all the reality that the world can bear. A terrible and wonderful magic flows through you, invests your words with meaning, and makes them truth. It would take terrible magic indeed to break the spell that you weave.

But it just takes a hand reaching over your shoulder and a palm placed on your token to yes, and your spell.

"And while all of that is happening he's going to stay with the last person who won him until the Ball starts," the awful brat adds with a sadistic glee. You are suddenly aware that she's got you. "Because I won." The token thrums with an acknowledgement of this self-evident truth; she's the last Hunter standing, even if she doesn't know what's going on. A boy in the hand is worth... well, you know how that goes.

She twists one hand and a shining leash appears between her fingers, and you get precisely no prizes for guessing where the other end is, Hazel. (Cutie. One more for old times' sake.) She flashes her braces at the assembly and tugs possessively, and both of those actions are largely pointed towards the tall, gangly Serigalamu staggering to her feet.

You know. The one who jumped on a dragon's face to buy you time. That woman. Her cheek's cut, her eyes are tired, and she's lost her jacket which means her shoulders (big, wow) are on full display. And she looks, wow, rather similar to the brat who's claimed you, just older and gothier and big where your captor's a wiry little gremlin.

Then you're all interrupted by a creaking and a cracking, and Walking Elm's limbs bending in odd directions as she lurches to her feet. The way that she snaps them back into an approximation of the proper positions will, I am sure, stay with you forever, especially when you're trying to get to sleep in the dark.

"Oh, a ball," she says, honey dripping from her voice. "Aria, we do love balls, don't we? You had such lovely ones back then, with all your knights and your trophies and your fair damosels!" She claps her hands together, the once, causing another puff of golden spores. Behind her, staggering out from the smashed wall, is the much smaller regular-sized Aria, her eyes still aglow with hate. "Aria, sweet, do go get your builder-knight. She's sure to be useful."

---

Handmaidens!

"After all our long acquaintance, this is how Heron does me? Intolerable," says the Nagi woman curling in a currently-friendly manner around Tsane. Her eyes are wicked, her hair is a mess, and she is still gesturing with a smoking pipe. Her fur-lined blouse is stained with sweat and the strange rain of this night. Did I say that she says that? She declares it. "I do my part in protecting the Golden Fawn from ruffians and ne'er-do-wells, and this is how I am repaid? No, this is not acceptable, not in the least."

She flourishes, from one of her purses, a golden coin. It's rare that these are handed out; that she has one implies that she's done the Civil church some great service, or perhaps that she's done some favor for someone who had and was also drunk, high or very compromised. There, on its face, is the Heronmark, stark in its simplicity. This she hands to Cair.

"I am not entrusting this to anyone but Heron herself, and I am insisting that this be one of her official duties. Repair her holy place, this spring which she gave to Vespergift. Clean up after yourselves, Miss Dragon, and ensure that the Fawn does not spend months being bandied about Khaganate campsites!"

The energy of the argument, I am sure, does not dissipate - but there is a reason for at least some of you to linger and try to fulfill Heron's obligations, or at the very least weasel your way out of having to explain why Heron can't show up and clean all this up with her wonderful toys, most of which are stuck in the Rootwalker-infested Stacks.

Outside, a rushing torrent flecked with suds of soap rushes through the streets.

---

Yuki!

"Oh, we can't let Negodincia, of all people...!"

Juniper does a little foot stomp. It is objectively adorable. The Khanum sticks out her tongue at that, suggesting that she is the Negodincia in question. Khanum Negodincia, one might say, if one was to use her full title; the little princess of the plains.

Olesnya turns and takes one of your hands in her own: broad, warm, firm. She draws it up towards her chest, and she gives you a very intent look. "Miss Edogawa," she says, her voice low and quiet, "put your faith in me. I will not let my sister torment your boyfriend, and I will bring him to the ball."

Juniper's eyes nearly start sparkling. It would mean a lot to her for you to accept this offer, but... well, she didn't really impress you back in Crevas, did she? And she was marked by the crown back in Crevas. That's an awful lot of trusting she's asking from you here, and you're certainly under no obligation to accept it.

Especially right next to Sulochana, who looks indignant and is making a sputtering noise about it.

---

Eclair!

The waterways of Vespergift are a wonder of the world, really. Sure, the Chrysanthemum is squatting on the best hot spring, but here, water moves up and it moves warm, and it cascades down from gargoyles into the sewers, through water purification vats made by skilled artisans, and then back up under the power of the steam of the earth. Now, this system is carefully monitored by the Dame of the Gargoyles, a Civil title with deep integration with the civic infrastructure.

We shall take it as given that, the circumstances being what they are and your single-mindedness being what it is, that you have no compunctions at all about waltzing straight into Vesper Victoria's, which should be bustling with life if the Civils who staff it weren't busy assisting with evacuation (as their oaths demand of them). We shall further take it as given that you know how to open a locked drawer.

The part that I want to know is how you got the soap into the water system in the first place, and how you had so much to hand. That's the part I don't know! Do tell me, Eclair darling, as you remove the safeties and set the gargoyles to running riotous with water all over the city.

Breathless Dead

"Do you think that you can help her?"

It's a quiet, slow question. The kind that Redana is not, by nature, particularly good at. But she draws it out of herself anyway and sets the question right on the side of Gemini's lovely plate. Her mismatched eyes do not lift, for fear of making the question startle away and take to flight.

"Vesper, I mean. I've been thinking about ways to blunt her thoughts, racing all the time, but Bella says I can't just 'give her some of my brain.'" She actually sounds vaguely disappointed. "And being under your thrall streamlines thoughts, blunts them just that little bit, and it wouldn't be a long-term solution, but it might help, right? Might give us time to figure out which plan to stop her super-smart brain from exploding into fire and delight actually will work."

She exudes Tension and Hope intermingled. She's somehow stumbled into handling one of Vesper's plans (though that by the grace of the gods, rather than her own skill), but she still doesn't know how her wife is handling the hunt for Vesper in the bowels of the ship. And at this point, she'd do anything, gamble anything, in order to fulfill Bella's dream of saving another of her sisters.

When she finally lifts her eyes, she is not begging. But her attention is as intensely on Gemini as it ever has been.

Breathless Dead

The plates used to present to the judges are from Beri. Like most plates that exist, they were handfinished by an artisan from a base template. It is nothing to make a plate; it is everything to choose how to shape it, how to decorate it, how to fire it. Lovingly stylized sprigs of lavender frame the plate as a wreath, with the wreath's ends indicating how to orient the plate towards the diner. Small notches in the rim suggest that this was part of a set, with plates intended to slot neatly into each other after use.

On these plates are berry cakes drizzled in lime honey, the crusts crisp and buttery, decorated with edible flowers. Redana curtseys once these are all placed before the judges, one hand going unselfconsciously to her collar. Her smile is the pure happiness that she rarely had the opportunity to display on Tellus.

"Today, we have for you a celebration of the orchard. Now, I could thank our dear Dolce for the inspiration, but there's someone I'd like to thank properly before you eat. Everyone, let's give a big hand to Gemini and Taurus!" She turns, already clapping, and the pack follows suit, and isn't applause contagious sometimes?

"If not for their instructions, we wouldn't have done nearly as well in these three challenges! I certainly wouldn't have thought to give Mistress Vasillia this bouquet full of Gemini's pheromones, targeted for her nervous system, which will ensure that the hierarchy of the ship orients exactly where it should!" Her tail is wagging in absolute innocent delight as the ringleaders of the conspiracy stare at her and the bouquet she is carefully hugging to her chest.

"Now, let's make sure we win the way that we're supposed to! Go ahead and eat up- don't worry, there's no poison in the cakes, only an activation for the inert toxins that were in the tea, so everyone can enjoy the berries! Especially you, Mistress Vasillia, you'll feel so good! It's in the lime honey, you see..."

Return to Thellamie

Yuki!

Sulochana takes a moment to choose between the Khanum and the oncoming dragon. But is it really a choice? She leaves herself exposed to the Serigalamu brat and turns, takes her heartspear, and casts it from her fingers with every last bit of determination she can bring to bear.

It bursts out through the dragon's wooden skull, a firework of light bursting and fading all too fast. That buys just enough time; the dragon smashes into the stairs, through them, and a massive part of the winding stairwell falls apart. With a lurch, you fall through splintering boards. At least from this distance it'll just be like falling off the roof of your house back in Yukisworld.

Sulochana falls, flailing and ridiculous. Juniper falls, shrieking. Hazel falls, glowing like the sun. Walking Elm falls like deadwood.

Cair, naturally, has something up her sleeve for just this scenario, so don't worry about her. The Khanum has a grappling hook, so you don't have to worry about her (or Hazel). And Aadya's running towards the disaster, like always, dripping wet and her face set in determination.

Be the hero, Yuki. Hit the ground (with your axe) if you have to. Save your friends (except for Hazel, who, again, I must stress, will be completely fine).

---

Hazel!

The power of a goddess in the palm of your hand.

Do your best not to be frightened as you fall through broken wood. Don't look at the walls and see the labor that it takes to construct them. Don't look at the ruined cafe up on the upper floors and see how it was a hub for relieving the stress and loneliness of people in a cramped, unhappy city, and see how it could be again. Those aren't the purposes of this Charm.

The purposes of the Charm, as you can feel somewhere between your lungs, are as follows:

• To declare contests for your hand.
• To dictate rules for the contests.
• To enforce punishments in the breach of the rules.

Or, put another way:
When you call upon the Charm through a dramatic pose and short speech in order to make or enforce a rule in a contest for your hand, roll +Radiance. On a full success, choose one; on a mixed success, choose two. On any success, the Charm will do as you bid. It will not help you to evade a contest or its results, and it will not help you avoid connections or binding, which are necessary for civilization.

• Give a String to Civelia, who may Influence you from afar.
• Take a Condition as the Charm saps your strength.
• Summon a Suitor where you least expect them.

Go ahead. Declare (and quickly) the first contest for your hand. May I recommend...

• ...the Hunt?
• ...the Ball?
• ...the Tournament?
• ...the Gambling Tournament With Very Convenient And Affordable Accommodations?

Oh, that last one. You should definitely do that last one. I'll have you safely back in my arms in no time. The Khanum grabbing you out of the air as you speak will be a very temporary safety in comparison, especially since I'm sure you'll feel much less safe once she gets you to the ground and starts trying to escape with her prize.

---

Handmaidens!

I mean, beyond just how Cair gets out of this scrape, you've got plenty to worry about! The complete lack of Heron, for example. Now is the right time for somebody to put on the Heron outfit, but nobody is, so this moment on the ground floor of the Chrysanthemum is a moment for disappointment, for watching Yuki Edogawa's heroism and feeling envy that at least she knows what to do, for quiet blame games to start, and for doing your best to fail to live up to the occasion.

After all, you've just been shown up, repeatedly, by Eclair Espoir: the woman who you're supposed to be trying to arrest, and who is a disconcerting wild card in all this. And she's gone just as quickly as she arrived, in a way that suggests that if she were one of Heron's Handmaidens instead of a maid to dreaming dragons, she'd be making the rest of you look bad.

Especially poor Injimo. Just couldn't get the capture, defeat the beast, or win the battle. It took Eclair Espoir to finally defeat the Architect-Knight, after all...

---

Eclair Espoir!

It would be lovely if Timtam replied right away, wouldn't it? If she was baited into replying hastily, all too eagerly, spilling words across her tablet screen as she rises to your bait. But nothing yet. Instead: bats.

They're a common sight around Vespergift, these mice with wings. They roost in the high towers and fly out in great swarms when they are disturbed, or when night falls. Since both have happened tonight, they move between you and the clouds in great, swirling flocks. (Is that what a group of bats on the wing is called? Let us assume so.) At times, they seem to be like one vast animal in many parts, twisting in impossible serpentine acrobatics. And they glitter.

That's another thing about the bats of Vespergift that Yuki Edogawa would likely be surprised by. The legend goes that they carried off the old stained glass of the great Avel castles when the trees and the dead consumed them all. Each Vespergift bat is studded with glass shards, tiny ones worked into their fur, and they reflect the lights of the city back down on it, which means that right now it looks as if the sky is catching fire, too.

Your tablet pings.
>[.onarainyeve]
>I dreamed about you, Eclair.
>Or, no. I dreamed about someone who looked like you but wasn't you.
>There's a you-ness to you, and nobody else has it.
>And this person who wasn't you, but looked like you, she was covered in fire, from her ears to the tip of her tail.
>Or, no. The fire didn't burn. Burning is a thing that fire does. It was like a picture of fire, like the art you all make with your tablets.
>Appearance without reality. You are very real, my darling Eclairette. It's so easy for me to see you right now, if I try...
>Watching little fires in the sky...
>But you're so very small...
>Be brave for me, my kitten. I know that you will come back home to me.
>And you will know why dear Timtam has tried to hurt all of us with her antics.
>Oh! The little fires! I think I know what they mean!
>They are coming back to you...

That was a lot of words for Evening. Effort, on her part, to cohere her thoughts towards you in speech for so long. She is affectionate with her presence, with her thoughts slithering ghostly through the library wings, with how she drapes her attention around maids like the coils of a Nagi princess- not with words. But she believes that you are worth the effort.

---

Natt!

The damn maid has her heels up on the good cushion.

Behind the wagon come the whimpering, sobbing Civils, later to be sorted into those wise enough to understand and those foolish enough to require training. Soon it won't matter whether they could escape the coffle or not: if they try to run off while you all travel through the Outside, anything could happen to them. So you sit on your fur blanket in the wagon and try to ignore the dragon's sluzhanka. But it's hard when she's got her heels up and is lounging amidst the loot, playing with her silly little tablet, gnawing on the stylus.

She's been glued to the thing since the first reports started coming in on the groupchat from Olesya's hunting pack. Dragons fighting in the sky; a city on fire; tumult, confusion, and the opportunity for glory. And here you thought that striking into Kel itself, plundering another decadent cathedral, and undermining Civelia herself for the good of the Serigalamu would be the best trouble that the night would see. And instead it's the Khatun's daughter who'll be remembered for fighting dragons. Feels like rocks grinding in your chest.

"Afternoon tea!" She murmurs to herself, lazily running a wet fingertip along the rim of a sanctified goblet. "Amorous..." Her smile is almost Outside-mad. "Three times!"

When she glances at you, suddenly, it raises the hackles on the back of your neck. It'd be better for everyone if she was at the back of the coffle, save that then you'd have to answer to the Khatun about the state of her jester. (And, not that you would admit it, even in a parenthetical, you're not sure that you wouldn't end up back there instead, with her eyes shining all bright and fey like that.)

"Ha!" She says, once, deliberately, and drums her heels on the cushion. And then she goes back to gnawing on the stylus, staring at the words on her tablet like she's trying to drill a hole in it, or else convince it to melt. Finally, chuckling to herself, tail's tip swishing fitfully and erratically, she begins to type...

Breathless Dead

The final contest is the most difficult: to win, to rig, to excel effortlessly in. The Daughters of Ceron were able to ensure that their fashion show was far and away the best, the most impressive. What use the suit and impractical hat that the Pix picked out for him? How could anyone pick the rustic chef’s apron and shapeless hat that the Beri delegation picked? No one else was brave enough to do the synnefo’s makeup. Victory would surely fall to the Silver Divers.

Similarly, the tea ceremony was perfected by Ceron, and the shameless “maid cafe” that the Pix put on? Bah. Surely the Gravrail Lioness would see right through their silly curtseys and synchronized dance breaks. The tea ceremony was always theirs to win.

But at this point, Redana is forced to admit to herself: maybe the pack was just a little out of its depth when it came to the Great Plousios Bake-Off. At the very least, maybe they shouldn’t have let everyone in the pack be involved?

The Silver Divers’ workstation is a mess of wolves, scents and opinions. The clear hierarchies of the pack are breaking down in the face of arguments over how hard to knead dough, how long to leave the biscuits in the oven, and whose fault it was for leaving that jar of toppings so close to the edge. Battle is one thing, but baking is quite another.

At least they have one of the judges on-side already! Surely Dolce will do his part! But there’s four judges for this one, and two of them are surprises. And here the Silver Divers are, falling all over themselves at the final hurdle while the Pix make biscuits in the shapes of birds in flight.

This would all be easier if Gemini knew how to bake, and whose voice to prioritize to make a pretty cake. Ah, well. As some poet or other once said:

Bake by the right method and means;
do not let sloth weigh down your thoughts,
and neither use a disorderly recipe,
else chaos will abound and all things overturn.
Bake by the right method and means,
and you shall have a cake in harmony with all things.

Bella would know who said that, probably. She’s very clever. And she’ll be so proud of her princess when she discovers how well she’s played her part in Taurus’s wonderful plan~!

“…this is still too underbaked,” she sighs. On the other side of the workstation, knives are drawn over which citrus to use as an accent note.

Return to Thellamie

Eclair!

They still have the mural. Children, frozen in play: laughing, running, pouncing. Ribbons suspended in a still moment. The grass is green and yellow, and there are no trees. Unidentifiable smears and handprints exist all along the edges, the accumulation of generations.

They still have the long table, too. That's where you sit, surrounded by memories, and yet alone. A moment to catch your breath, a moment to breathe in an old air, a moment to feel small somewhere. A moment to check your messages, where your quarry has once again contacted you.

>[.tmtwo]
>I *knew* it was a gamble sending you to enjoy yourself somewhere.
>A fool's hope that you'd bend an inch.
>But you burned it down? What, did they use the wrong forks at dinner?
>Still, can't blame you too much~

Tablets struggle with taking pictures of things in motion. They fade into soft impressionism, the magic's best effort at capturing the quality of movement. So the picture that Timtam sends you is of herself(?), masked and wearing a nun's habit, making an impudent little Yukisearth V sign, framed by a tall cathedral (but not the sort you'd recognize, hard to say where it is).

And the cathedral is lit from within by those soft yellows and oranges shading into red, and about it shines that ruddy halo. Figures mill about in the background, silhouettes.

The figure of, supposedly, Timtam in that picture: she is not holding the tablet.

---

Handmaidens!

Rurik is not devoured! He is not squashed! He is not flung aside, or dashed against the floor, or swarmed by enemies!

And this is because Aria Thendragon hesitates, for a moment, and considers what he has said. Hate roils in her heart, but more than hate, too. If she continues, she will be destroyed at the hands of the Hero she despises. If she continues, she may yet shatter the weapon that has been made of herself. If she destroys all you gathered here, if she ensures that Heron arrives to the site of a bitter and sorrowful battle, then the Rot Star will be denied a weapon.

And their hate is concordant, but for a moment, the call of the void wars with the bitter spite in her heart.

And in that moment, a yell from up on the stairs: "Let her come, then! Take the Faun! Just pick him up and take him!"

The would-be conqueror, the doom of chivalry, the husk of a past life: she turns away from you as she would a game that she no longer delights in. She turns her damp bulk towards the Golden Faun, jaw opening to snap him up in a bite.

This is a mistake, to turn away from you. You cannot defeat her, but you can buy time, buy an opening for a miracle. Give it your everything, o you lingering bits of stardust. For Cair is, if I have this right, about to change the world.

---

Yuki!

You're not going to make it.

The Handmaidens who you met on the Road? They're doing their best. Olesnya? (Ugh, now you've got me doing it.) She's getting ready to jump onto a dragon's face to try and buy you just a little more time. Suli? She's cornered and doing her good girl best to protect Hazel, but she can't head towards you. And that dragon is still coming.

In the moment when you're sure that you won't be able to make it in time, when you miss a step and come crashing down on one knee, when you're sure that you won't be able to save Hazel and Suli and everyone who needs you- what do you cry out? What bursts out of you? These are, after all, sad cat hours. Do step up to the occasion.

---

Hazel!

The Khanum fights like she's button mashing, and it's working. The Nagi princess repeatedly intervenes, putting herself between you and her, but she can't protect you and herself. Each cut with that heartblade makes her cry out and sob through gritted teeth, and each one makes her just a little bit slower. She's graceful and elegant and she could force this brat to fight at her own tempo, could control the fight, if she didn't have to protect you.

"He even lights up!" Her blade of light cuts through Suli's arm at a shallow angle; not enough to disarm the princess, but enough for her to contract, to fail to push the advantage. "Give it to me! It's the perfect accessory! He'll be my favoritest favorite and I'll have a light-up boy to show off at conclave!" She keeps trying to flank around Sulochana, but the reach of that long spear and the way that Sulochana doubles back on herself, pushing back to buy you room and time, keeps her away for a moment longer each time. "Olly can have the dumb stinking dragon: I want that boy!"

(And the way she says it, it almost sounds like toy.)

The dragon is, I must remind you, almost upon you. And if that wasn't bad enough, Walking Elm is striding very purposefully down the stairs, cutting off your exit. And Yuki's stumbled on the stairs and is calling out to you, too far to sweep you up in her arms and growl at everyone to back off.

This is it. You're doomed. Surely nothing can save you now.