Tatterdemalion

Return to Thellamie

Handmaidens!

At first, the repulsion of the attack leads to another, more determined attack, which leads to yet another even more determined attack. After that, the maids switched to marching in and demanding a duel, which didn't work either. And the clever part, the very clever part about Tsane's plan here, is that it's part of the house. They don't want to carve it off, and they can't abide it being in such a state either.

So eventually, reluctantly, someone decides on diplomacy instead.

She's Serigalamu, this maid is, and she's what you would find if you looked up "statuesque" on your tablet's dictionary function. Her hair is silver and straight and neat; her gloves have no crease or rumple; her eyes are half-closed in a way that reads as superior and emotionally cold. Her eyeliner is so on point that it might stab you.

With her she brought peach schnapps. In a teapot, of course. She's not a barbarian.

"We are at an impasse," she says, pouring peach schnapps into a teacup decorated with an ivy pattern that twists and shifts when it's not being looked at. "You have stopped us from seizing you, but I do not think your trick will allow you to get out of the Manor. And if you were to, perhaps, jump through the window... well. We have strict rules about disturbing the rosebushes."

The rosebushes are certainly much taller and more imposing on the outside of the windows than the last time they were observed.

"We are willing to release you if you carry Heron a message from the Order: namely, that she is not welcome here. We are not a dungeon or lost tomb or labyrinth that she must solve in order to bring back treasures for her hoard; we are a dream of sorority and organization, and if Civelia thinks that she can fabricate a righteous quest to bring us to heel, she and her puppy are sadly mistaken." Her expression does not change; she betrays nothing. "We have done nothing but help the communities of Thellamie for generations; we attend to quests that Heron would never see. If we withdraw to garrison for a siege, there will be unnecessary suffering and untidiness all across Thellamie. Are our terms acceptable?"

---

Yuki!

How far are you going, darling? You're setting the tempo for your... dance. And the key for the instrumentation. And who leads and who follows.

Back when you first came here, called by the need of all Thellamie for a hero, you were too young to understand Thellamie beyond flirting and moments that made you blush, but now you are ready to appreciate just how the people of Crevas play - at least spoiled girls like this one, used to getting what she wants, doing as she pleases, using her wiles as - well, not so much a subtle weapon as a morningstar swung with impressive if not particularly accurate force.

She is cooler than you are, and she seeks your warmth; she is easily flattered, and she drinks flattery in like Azaza did (though she does not demand it, not yet, and she has not threatened to destroy you for failing to praise her beauty in the most superlative terms). She demands attention and rewards it with a firm grip on the hair, the ears, a possessive squeeze of her coils.

And if you make out with her, or even more than that, Sulochana will take it as a grave betrayal, and she will find out - if for no other reason than that Purnima will immediately brag about it.

But she's here. She's hot. She likes biting. And maybe you like being bitten.

So how far are you going? Far enough to break Sulochana's trust? Far enough to feel wanted and clever and competitive, properly competitive, and like you're in control of the situation? Far enough to feel like someone has you at the very center of their thoughts, that they need what you can give them?

Far enough to find out where she's sensitive?

Far enough for her to find out where you're sensitive?

---

Eclair Espoir!

She is defiant until the tear.

She puffed herself up before that, hot-cheeked and pouty-lipped and screwing up all her courage to the sticking point to keep looking you in the eye despite how every flick of her ear betrayed how intensely she was aware of your hand there by her head, cutting her off, so easily able to take her by the head. She was ready for heartblades at dawn before that, a stubbornness which would have lasted into the duel despite how incredibly out of her element she would have been.

But the tear? That disarms her at once. She deflates under your wrath and, worse, your suffering. She crumples just as you crumple, like a discarded rag. And she looks like the most distressed that a damsel has ever been. No princess could ever be so beautifully, achingly distraught, because no princess could fail to be composed in quite the same way.

"What does a dressmaking salon mean if it's in a ruined city?" she asks, and her voice breaks. "Did you want me to buy real estate on the cheap, a whole tower to myself, the New Mayzie Sighs Tower?" She could have. It would have been cutthroat, but she could have. But Mayzie Sighs would have lain awake in that empty, newly-purchased tower and been unable to sleep, or unable to get out of bed and eat, not when no one else in the city could.

---

Hazel!

There are much many fires in the vast tent of the Khatun.

Caught in lanterns. Blazing in braziers. Flickering on the tips of candles. Roaring in the hearths.

It's the size of a mansion, with false-hallways made of leather and fur, and everywhere fire, everywhere heat, everywhere light flickering across trophies: the heads of fantastical creatures, or their wings, or their claws, or their pincers.

The sluzhankas who guide you around? Just between you and me, each and every one of them challenged the Khatun. Each and every one of them lost. Each and every one of them had their bows broken, their sluzhankas freed, and their pride shattered and allowed to heal back crooked. They smoulder, too. The fire in their eyes is stifled and smoky.

The parlor is more of a den. It is heaped with knick-knacks: golden pots, silver spears, chests overflowing with furs, sparkling garnets set as the feathers of falcons, rugs from Kel, tapestries from Crevas, silks from Aestival, even tea sets from Vespergift. And at the center of it all, wiry and shawl-draped, is the Khatun.

She is old, Hazel. Old enough to be your grandmother. Old enough that her hands are defined by taut wrinkles. Old enough that her hair is silver braided on silver braided on silver. But her eyes are still strong, and there is no shaking in her, and she is as dangerous (in her way) as Aria Thendragon.

Not as dangerous as me. Not yet. And I hope not ever.

"He looks tame already," she says, as the tea warms up between the two of you. She is wearing stolen rings on her fingers - hard-won, she would say. "A fine Khagan, once he learns his place."

Beside you, Olesya shifts nervously and says nothing. She can't look at you. She can't look at her mother. She can't even look at Juniper - but you see the glance that the Khatun gives Juni. It's not a glance that suggests good things for Juni one day, and only the Khatun knows when that day will be.

The twins are, well, choosing to tactically retreat behind you as much as possible. Which is very clever of them. If you care about them, then controlling them is controlling you. And the Khatun is very good at control.

And here you are, sitting in a comically oversized fur shawl and a v-neck that is more like a v-chest, and also a tiara. It's the prettiest tiara that Olesya had, which the treacherous Juniper produced for you, and it's as dainty as you are. You do feel dainty right now, don't you, Hazel? The smallest person in the room, wearing clothes too big for him and a pretty, pretty tiara.

"I understand that there are contests. I am sure you understand already who will win them, Fletcher."

Breathless Dead

Redana does not hesitate to take that hand. She slips her fingers against Bella's palm as if it were a natural reaction: like a falling rock, like the failure of electricity, like the erosion of the Lethe. There was nothing else that could happen, unless a god were to step in and catch her by the wrist. But none does. None materializes. None lets their breath fall on her neck. None tells her that she is making a mistake.

Her mind is the surface of a moon, blasted and clean and bereft of life. The wind howls there, and it howls one name. There is a statue there but her back is turned to it. Her back is turned to her. Her back has been turned to her this whole time. What is there to say? What is there in acknowledging her but pain?

The options were simple. Come back in glory, or don't come back at all. It is impossible to face her, unnamed but increasingly undeniable, in anything less than triumph. Not after fleeing. Not after being disobedient, and impious, and a disgrace, and unworthy.

(She's only had the dream about coming back to the palace that was her home and finding another and better Redana already there once. Only once. But it's curled around her throat now. She can't speak that fear. She can't name it. Maybe that Redana who is not a disappointment is a shadow on that moon, beyond the touch of the sun. Maybe she is patient and waits with immaculate poise for a crown that will never come because you cannot succeed from a god unless they vacate the throne, and she is the sculpture of a flower in the sculpture of a vase, cold and nothing like her father at all.)

Redana walks with Bella, and it is very difficult to say which of them is supporting the other. It is Bella who leads and Redana who is dragged forward by love and fear. It is impossible now to deny what is coming. Her mind is the surface of a moon.

Return to Thellamie

Handmaidens!

The ambush is in the tea parlor.

Perhaps the way that Ruthmoreness drooped when she heard that you were from the Hero of Ages should have been a clue. As, perhaps, the way that the Nagi maid smoothly led you into the tea parlor to await an audience with the High Table themselves should also have been.

The rain is gentle on the windows, which look out on several different possible landscapes (pick-your-own-vista). The hazelnut tea is poisoned: not lethally, but soporifically. This is meant to ensure that the dozen maid-knights hitting the room from three different doors will have ease in subduing you. The grooves on the wall? Meant for skateboarding tricks.

This is not so much a killzone as a capture zone. At what point do you realize this, and how do you try to hold out?

---

Eclair Espoir!

The answer is mumbled, but in the droop of the ears, the flush of the cheeks, the way she won't look you in the eye: in all these things, the answer is obvious. She didn't keep the money, and she doesn't want you to know that she didn't keep the money. Figuring out where it went? That will require digging. But as far as raising her own personal circumstances, your generous gift might have well have been tossed into a very big and very deep hole. (There are plenty of gorges in Kel here that would suffice.)

"Perhaps I didn't want to rely on charity," she lies, with a petulant toss of her head. "I worked my way through life, Eclair, and didn't need dragon mommies to treat me with sugar!"

It is a slight against the honor of your mistresses to let that one lie where it lands. Not even pretending that the words were caught in the bracing wind and tossed up into the sky will suffice in this moment, not when she is being like this.

---

Yuki!

She goes for your throat.

Her teeth are possessive; it will be a phenomenal bruise later. Maybe you'll have to greet Hazel at the ball (where, naturally, surely you will be going, if only to make sure that no one takes advantage of the poor innocent boy) wearing a very fancy turtleneck. Her muscles are strong, strong, strong, all around you, but she does not crush you. She is on the very edge of her self-control, but she still has it. Still has you.

When she leans back, ignoring her red-faced bodyguards trying to look anywhere that's not at the two of you, she's got the most self-assuredly smug look on her face. She thinks she's got you wrapped around her little finger, and you've just figured out the way to get her to provide you with what you need.

What do you need, incidentally? She's got resources, and can easily be tricked into deploying them, as long as she thinks she's seducing you rather than the other way around. (The fact that you are Sulochana's friend adds a dash of salaciousness to this that she is eating up, and also if Sulochana ever finds out about this she will hit the roof, as they say.)

"Good girl," she purrs at a tone that would almost assuredly destroy a deerboy. "See? Cooperation has its perks. Jomes!" ("Gemes, ma'am...") "Go and fetch us some coff-eh. And make sure one has some... chili to it." ("Yes, ma'am," he sighs, aware that he is going to break into a boarded-up restaurant to make coffee by hand.)

"Now," she says, still thinking that she's in perfect control of the situation, absolutely unaware that you can play her like a harp, "let's talk about outfits. Where will he be staring when I arrive to claim him? Up here, or down here?"

---

Hazel!

Olesya is distracted. It's obvious the whole time that Juniper is helping out Keli and Seli with their outfit change behind a screen in what is, I assure you, a very salacious affair. Chests are being pressed up against each other. Ear scritchies are being deployed mercilessly. Seduction and counter-seduction are being deployed furiously. There is a chorus of squeaks and gasps and muffled exclamations.

But Olesya isn't paying attention. She's staring into the coals, and your initial attempt to speak with her fizzles out into awkward silence. When she stands up, it is slow and careful and wow she's a lot taller than you huh? Could easily pick you up. Tuck you under one arm. Toss you over a shoulder. All sorts of ways she could carry you.

"My mother expects us," she says. That's all. She doesn't pick you up and walk you out the door immediately - you've got to wait for your sluzhankas, after all - but there's no hiding here. No trying to stay low and away from the Khatun.

You will be presented.

Breathless Dead

It gets into you, the army of it, the army of you, the wires singing up and down the blood. Did the Princess Redana, bereft of all memory, know precisely what she was getting into when she accepted Ceron's gift of battle and dominance and belonging? Of course she didn't. No one can know this in their brain, it goes right past and underneath it and all the thoughts are bobbing on the top of the mind like apples but nobody's interested in those, it's the wine of war that gluts them all, and Dionysus isn't so very far at all, are they? It gets into you and the thoughts are isolated and lonely things stamping bits of this into the memory, though perhaps the Lethe would shake them loose just as easily as the things that she had lost before, not even the shape of that bootprint or the flash of the cannons on the heights or the wail of the shells bursting into disorienting smoke and pellets and roaring, all of that could be washed away underneath the river's surface, all of that could be washed away, and it's not the important part anyhow, the important part is that she is aware of Bella struggling next to her and the swivel of the guns on the far ridge and the way Sagetip has a rifle to her shoulder and is providing counterfire and that's a bleeder shot and Redana interposes herself and it goes through one arm into the chest but she's not just Ceronian no she isn't she's missing the machines that would mend her perfectly but she's still standing, apply pressure, Goldie's got the patch kit out, and it's in her, and it's like being part of Beljani in a way, mustn't it be? Mustn't it? That she is the hand holding pressure on the wound and the hand unfolding the patch and the finger pulling the trigger and the satisfied huff of breath leaving Sagetip's nostrils and the hand of Arrowstalk waving them over to cover and she's the one who takes Bella by the arm and coaxes her along, like you would a child, her voice smooth and her teeth not chattering at all, see, there's hardly any bleeding getting past the patches now, and she'll be moving her fingers again like normal in just a moment, we're not playing hopscotch here but there's an echo of it one two three come along home how you looked so pretty in that apron hopping oh-so-seriously back in the very first month, that's how far back this memory goes, buried so deep that it takes artillery shells to tear it open, and it gets into you, shared in the blood, the blood that tells her that she could renegotiate her oaths with the goddess of the Silver Divers and force this shell-shocked assassin into a more favorable agreement, and she holds Bella tighter, closer, and lets the thought-impulse bleed into the mud, and there's a Thunderbolt who brought a fucking Thunderbolt or rather who impulsively tries to become Shogun using one at this time of day and she'd have gone down holding Bella to her chest and getting blood on her if Dyssia hadn't been an absolute sparrow going one two three and the Thunderbolt picks up a hillside and decides that it should be elsewhere in very small chunks and they're in the cover now, in the cover nicely, and it's Redana who takes a moment to brush Bella's hair back behind her ear because even if everything in her nerves is telling her to be the pack to be dissolved to take control to take a crown for the pack there's still an iron bar at her heart and it's the shape of a Shepherdess-to-be and she would never ever ever look away from the panic in Bella's eyes because that's an entire fucking battlefield in and of itself and it is there that she must not, must never, lose, and the war rushes around her anyway, and she knows rather than sees the next part of the path that she will die before she sees Bella lost on.

Return to Thellamie

Handmaidens!

"Yes!" Ruthmoreness says, at the same time that one of her flankers smoothly interjects with "That will hardly be necessary."

Ruthmoreness gives the interrupting maid a devastated cutie look, but this Nagi maid raises herself higher, her tail swaying.

"Now is not a pleasant time to be visiting," the Nagi says, moving her hands as if playing with an Avel's cradle. "We're very sorry. Perhaps next season. The mess we are cleaning is... sssssshameful."

"Butlookither," Ruthmoreness says, wrapping one arm around Tsane's shoulders, and inadvertently Tsane's neck in the process. "Wouldn't she look absolutely darling in an apron? Absolutely? Entirely? Don't leave me hanging like this, Bethanie!"

Bethanie's eyes are deep; the noise she makes in her throat is a relaxing subvocalization. There is iron sternness underneath the need to be courteous and accommodating.

---

Yuki!

Welcome to the DEN OF EVIL.

The Den of Evil is a hotel room that Purnima has commandeered for herself, the owners having fled during the evacuation. She has the key, somehow, and so she has exploded her belongings all over the walls.

Busts for storing jewelry and wraps on. Mirrors safely covered by curtains. A lounging couch (interior). Tapestries depicting the glories and good taste of the Karn-Pana family. Gold. Everywhere gold. Gold chains, gold dresses, gold teacups. There is no such thing as being too gaudy, not for this intimidating scion of the Karn-Panas.

And around you, coils tighten, if you were wondering why I called her intimidating.

"Firstly: what can I lure him with? Do I need to win him over financially, or with seduction~? Or do I dangle you in front of him and offer to let you go? I mean, not that I would, you're such a lovely bargaining chip against Sulochana, but do tell me if that would be an effective first step to taming him."

She's too imperious, too focused on Hazel, to Get you properly (as Hazel would say), but you do notice it, right? The fact that she's wearing that rich perfume? It's like "pumpkin spice" turned elegant. Between you and me, and you do have to answer this question, does Hazel like pumpkin spice more than you do?

---

Hazel!

PUMPKIN SPICE OPINIONS: GO.

Oh, you want to know about my daughters first? Fine. But you do have to answer about "pumpkin spice" or you will be in big trouble, mister. You will never see the light of day.

My daughters wish to walk the line between dignity and seduction. They're well aware that whatever outfit you put them in will be humiliating, certainly, but they can use that to their advantage with their Feminine Wiles. Olesya is playing a dangerous game putting you in charge of these two irrepressible beauties.

That being said, the veils are... well, there's a reason they're so popular in Aestival. Not a reason that you get to know yet, but I'm sure that you have theories. They're important to my little dears, and while they can handle teasing (perhaps even better than you can), they will smother you (sexily) if you treat that gauzy silk casually.

Seli will do it vindictively, incidentally, and Keli will do it while pouting and acting as if you drove her to this (which, honestly, you would have).

But also don't you dare do some boring dress with an apron and headscarves. That's weak, Hazel. And you and I both know that you can handle a little bit of... daring.

---

Eclair Espoir!

"I need a full explanation," Mayzie complains as the two of you scamper, as best as possible, away from the burning cafe.

She was swooning! She was at total swoon! She fumbled the doorhandle and a paladin had to get it for her and guide her out! Her brain had stopped braining!

And then she noticed your wig askew and, well, we both know that Mayzie is a very smart girl.

She stomps through the snow. Stomp stomp stomp! Crunch crunch crunch! Huff huff huff!

Behind the two of you, a particularly ambitious firework soars into heaven, reaching for the stars themselves.

"Because you knew I was there, didn't you? Why else would you pick that place?"

Let the chill run down your spine as you remember that you didn't pick.

Breathless Dead

Once upon a time there was a little princess of a lonely planet named Tellus.

One night, she was wandering the halls of her subpalace complex, a village built for one inhabitant and her maids, who were secretly fearful assassins in the service of Artemis in disguise. But on such a night as this, she is alone, and she is the moon slipping from shadow to shadow.

And in such and such a room, one hung with tapestries and chandeliers and clockwork fencing automatons that always need a little too much winding to be useful, she happened across a very sad woman.

This woman was wearing a massive fur cloak over her shoulders, and black armor designed to keep a seal when fighting in the void, and held a helmet in her hands, and she was crying. So the little princess hopped up and took a seat next to her and asked: "Why are you crying, miss?"

"I'm descending into Tartarus," this woman said. She had very fuzzy ears like the little princess's favoritest favorite maid, and teeth like that maid, too. Her eyes were blue and green. "I have to sit here and watch my wife get broken and pieced back together by some tyrant who's turned her head like wine, and, and she's really into it, and every part of my biomantic upgrading makes me want to kneel and thank that awful, awful woman for doing that to Bella! What's gotten into her? Is she reacting strangely to the pheromones?"

The little princess nodded very intently. "Like the Hypno Baron of Axum Prime."

The woman, who was very wolfy, said: "Like the Hypno Baron of Axum Prime, exactly."

"Well," the little princess said, holding her forefinger and thumb up to her chin sagely, "in circumstances like that, trying to shock them out of it is the worstest of worst ideas. It'll scramble your wife's brain like eggs!"

"So, so, right, you were supposed to..."

"To stick with them and guide them out of the nefarious hypnotic wiles!"

"May I give you a hug?" And because this woman seemed very, very sad indeed, even with her tail starting to wag, the little princess gave her a very, very big hug, one proof against the very saddest of sad days.

---

A click of the tongue. A shift in command scent. A step forward.

And half a dozen of the Silver Divers are surrounding their tutelary deity, Bella-Mosaic. In their front is Princess-Alpha Ember, one hand on her sword's hilt, shaking with the effort of keeping her spine straight and her knees unbent.

"Lead the way," she says, trying and failing to keep her fury completely under wraps, positioning herself right between her wife and the Shogun of Nemesis.

Because what you do is you stick with them.

You stick with her.

No matter what.

Breathless Dead

Agony tears itself out of Redana's throat. She grabs her sword arm with her other, digs her claws in until blood trickles down the bones of her wrist, and she

obeys.

Her eyes are wide in her face. Her fangs are bared, the noise of her suffering flowing between them like spittle.

Isn't this the wrong way around? Isn't she the one who should be humiliated for being the princess, the alpha, the daughter of Ceron in the presence of the Shogun herself? Isn't she the one who should throw off her ceremonial coat and yield herself to the fire? Why does Bella have to suffer? Why does Bella have to suffer? Why does Bella always have to be the one who suffers, always and every time, while Redana stands untouched and unpunished and unable to protect her?

This was supposed to be different!

Blood delicately dots her heavy-duty, void-proofed spacer's boots. The laces are thirsty.

The noise is pressed out of her lungs. Dionysus throbs at her temples. She meets the Shogun's eyes, and she

obeys.

No interference.

No drawing of her sword, leveling its tip at the Shogun's breast.

No grab at Bella's arm, pulling her back up off the floor.

She trembles like a tree about to split apart, like a wave about to break, and she

obeys.

But she can't find words.

No more words.

Return to Thellamie

Erika Fullbright!

I'm terribly sorry for what happens, and then what happens, and for what happens after that.

What happens first is that the agonistes flings Timtam over a railing. The mendacious maid grabs onto a chandelier made of Kelish crystal and starts it spinning, which adds to the velocity of the fireworks that are tumbling out of her pockets, already lit. Perhaps a detective such as yourself would realize, immediately, that she must have tried to light one to get out of the situation, all smoke and bang and already heading for a window, but that the fuse caught more, and they're tumbling down amongst a bunch of Paladins.

What happens second is that the cafe fills with smoke in Crevassi colors, impossibly rich and vivid, and loud, sharp cracks and bangs and howls. These are the primo fireworks, as they say, and they are turning this place into the sort of chaos that simply destroys detective work.

What happens third is that Mayzie, instinctively, pulls you towards her, pulls you down the stairs, pulls you away from sensory overload until she hits the banister (yes, I'm afraid we're back to banister-based perils, my dear) and starts to tip over based on momentum alone, and she's too surprised to even let out a squeak as her feet leave the ground.

Can you defy disaster here and save the girl, or will you break once more?

---

Handmaidens!

"Best damn eggs ever," the Knight of the Aurora (one Ruthmoreness O'Tara) reads off the burnished bronze tablet that she has been handed. "Tasted of Determination and also Walnuts." She makes the classic Face of Impressedment, all pursed lips and raised eyebrows.

It's raining. Which is to say, of course it's raining. It's always raining here, on the edge between existence and nothing at all, and the wind is warm and damp, and the light is currently green with a tinge of purple. The light's all around, suffusing the air, and the wind's all around, suffusing the light, and the rain comes down like kisses from a cloud-tossed sky.

You're in the first Courtyard, which is on the other side of the first door, despite the lack of any indication that the room beyond would be a large and well-swept courtyard open to the sky, given how clearly the exterior of the Mansion was just a vast but ordinary and definitely roofed house. There are more maid-knights here, skateboards on their backs, hands on their very ordinary weaponry. Dangerous women. Not to be trifled with.

"Well, I'm convinced!" Ruthmoreness says brightly. The two maid-knights behind her give each other a Look which indicates that they may put it to a vote, and Ruthmoreness would likely not get her way if it comes to a vote. Which is very much not the sort of reception that Morning promised you when you put your entire arm in her mouth in order to Provide Eggs.

---

Yuki!

There it is.

The flash of uncertainty, so small that only someone looking very carefully indeed would ever spot it. A flicker of the eyes, a hesitation of the lips. But then she looks down too far, into the gorget as polished as a mirror, and she smiles in self-satisfaction (such familiar self-satisfaction) and plumps her hair with one hand (and you've seen gestures like that before). The doubt slips back under the smugness like a damsel tossed off a ship with weights around her ankles.

One of her guards gets his halberd over your head and pulls it back, pinning you against him with the bright, sparking light of his heartblade threatening to sink into you. To bludgeon your very dreaming heart into submission. Only a grasp on one of his wrists is keeping you from disaster.

"Give up already, you ridiculous creature! Every moment you waste with futile defiance of me, Purnima Karn-Pasha, is a moment that some Serigalamu hussy gets to rub herself all over my Golden Fawn! I had him first, you know! Before the stars anointed him! And now everyone is trying to steal my dear deer boy!"

---

Hazel!

It is very, very easy for Olesya to hold two squirming, lovely girls in her arms. Barely an inconvenience. (Imagine how difficult it would be to escape her grasp, if she decided to hold you fast.) One might even suspect her of deliberately flexing in front of you as Seli rails at, one must guess, all huntresses and all deerboys who refuse to demand the release of two innocent performers, and while Keli pulls out the frantic, helpless fluttering of the lashes. Goodness, they are really quite muffled, aren't they? And very securely constrained. (Imagine if you gave Olesya a reason to catch you.)

"Now, you could keep their gaudy diaphanous street wear," Juniper says, next to you, and then lets out a giddy little titter that suggests she's another flex of those muscles away from chewing on a handkerchief's corner and wagging her tail so furiously as to achieve liftoff. "Or you can pick out something new for them. We've got some tunics and aprons, like mine, perhaps? Or just the aprons? Oh, but there's also some metal bikinis that would be perfect for a moment like this. You could even... perhaps..." she says, lost in the sauce, "unveil them~"

The twins look at her in horror, then back to you. Seli would like you to know that she will get you and make you regret every single choice you've ever made about sluzhanka fashion, and Keli is clearly, from the way her ears flick, thinking about being undressed in front of you, and worse, unveiled, and I promise you, her revenge will be even worse.

But you have the power. It has been thrust upon you. And Olesya is very big and very strong and watching you to see what you choose.

Breathless Dead

Bella, she taps into her palm in a warcode. Over and over and over again. She owes her loyalty to Bella. To Mosaic of Beri. To her wife. I love Bella. Bella. Bella.

Bend, howl her knees. Around her, the Silver Divers surrender. How can they not? The gravity of the Shogun is everything. There are only two possible responses: to submit or to challenge.

And yet, impossibly, Redana chooses a third. With her helmet in the crook of one arm, the fingers of her other hand tapping as if the mantra is the only thing keeping her alive, she stands in the presence of the Shogun. She is small, true. And she is stiff, aware of every shadow, aware that she is attracting the attention of the superior of all superiors.

Her coat is heavy; she cannot move. Her sword is useless by her side. This is not something as glorious as picking up Beri and flinging it, true. It is much easier to stand still, after all. And yet it is, to her still-determined heart, as if the universe is weighing down on her shoulders. Submit. Yield. Submit. Surrender. Beg for her praise. Beg for her love. Beg for her attention. Submit. Assimilate.

When Bella touches the Shogun, the noise that comes out of her throat is small and pathetic and needy. The noise of a little girl, lost and irrationally betrayed. That her Bella is not standing side by side, is not giving her the strength to do anything beyond standing against the impossible pressure of obeying the Shogun herself, is...

Is human. Not a perfect demigoddess who is going to save the day and show Redana the way forward.

Bella. Bella. I love Bella. Bella. Bella.

Return to Thellamie

Erika Fullbright!

"What under the stars is going on up there?" the waitress complains, halfway up the stairs at the same time that you are halfway down. She is huffy, she is bristly-tailed, she is wearing just the most darling waitress uniform, and she happens to actually properly look at you at the same time that you properly look at her.

Mayzie Sighs, balancing a tray on one hand, can be seen seeing past the disguise in real time (as Yuki would say). She's got a pen tucked behind one ear! She's got a miniskirt and stockings with a darling checkerboard design! And she's about to either blurt out that Eclair Espoir is here to a cafe full of warrior-nuns and paladins, or she'll push past you and end up blundering into the duel that's happening up there, and frankly, both of those Aestivali strike me as the sort who would use her as an Avel shield.

You have to do something to save her! And you! From imminent disaster! And not get distracted by the shade of lipstick she's got on! It's a very fetching violet!!

---

Handmaidens!

Morning rolls over, letting out an agonized hiss as she accidentally drives the cursed blade deeper into herself. But she plops her head right in front of Injimo, and that's more important to her than anything. Her hot breath tastes faintly of cinnamon and honey. [you need to feed me that. or i'm never ever ever going to remember it when this dream ends! please, mighty paladin, not!heron!]

The way she opens her mouth is vulnerability. Her tongue is the pink of peonies. She must devour this, representationally, to make it so much a part of herself that it won't drift away when she fades away completely and returns to being herself, sleeping in the Mansion of the Aurora. Why do you think maids are so good at cooking? (And, yes, she'll remember parts of what happened, but she wants to be sure. She needs to be sure.)

[feed me.]

---

Yuki!

"Ohohohohohohoho!!!"

Purnima Karn-Pana is sunning herself on multiple cafe tables that have been pushed together, drinking a cocktail (at this hour of the morning, even) out of a cup which has a little umbrella in it. Her smile is malevolent and self-assured and punchable. Oh, how punchable it is.

"I'll answer that, boys," she says, flicking her tail as you desperately duck under being slammed in the face with the haft of a heartblade (which would do simply awful things to your ability to think coherently for a while). "They're my retainers, they're attacking me because I told them to, and they don't have mirrors, you silly thing, you credulous outlander, though... perhaps it wouldn't be too bad for me to be able to look at myself more often..."

She slurps through a straw contemplatively, and then pushes her starglasses up. "Now be a good girl and get kidnapped, will you? We've got a lot of interrogating you about the weaknesses and tameability of the Golden Fawn to get through, and the longer you dawdle trying to fight, like you aren't hopelessly outnumbered, the more time those scruffy huntresses will have trying to teach him how to bark and do tricks, and you don't want that, do you?"

So here's a question, Yuki. How could Purnima get you to come along quietly and give her advice? I mean, almost certainly not money, but surely there's some sort of price in your heart that she might be able to make a stab at...

---

Hazel!

Keli shoots up like a jack-in-the-box and wobbles in front of you for a moment, just long enough for you to see the secure knots of the Serigalamu worked tightly all about her, trapping her silks even closer to her generous frame, and then Seli bucks from underneath and Keli comes crashing down right on top of you. (Not because she's top-heavy, mind you. Perish the thought.)

"These two were looking to kidnap you themselves," Juniper says with an air of smug satisfaction (somewhere on the other side of perfume and softness). "If we hadn't stopped them, you'd probably be on auction to the highest bidder somewhere in Emerald right now. Don't you appreciate the irony?"

Do you think that's true, o dearest darlingest Hazel? That these two could possibly mean you any harm at all? Certainly not. If they were nefarious at all, then how come Keli is humming apologies to you and fluttering her eyes while wiggling her way into a more comfortable position, in ways that likely remind you of the first time you met? Checkmate, Juniper.