Tatterdemalion

Fellowship: The Heart

Lucien!

Oh. Well. Hello. If it isn’t A Victory of Crows. Safely bound in three delicate silver chains— no, two. One’s been broken. It’s thick, green-black, and the pages are wavy as if water-logged. It fair thrums under your fingertips.

It’s a collector’s item. It’s a world. It’s a beachhead. If you open it, Crowhame will begin to flood out: thorns and briars and thick black trees, black streams and black vines and stark white stones standing in formation. There are three colors in Crowhame: black, and white, and red. There are many gods in Crowhame: The Flayed, with the hagstones clattering from his open ribcage; The Keeper, with the rubies set in the sockets of her long-beaked skull; The Long, undulating white on black and red, so large you can never see both head and tail; The Wheel, scarred yet inexorable in its turning. The last recorded opening of the book was ended by Smith Major, who marched inside with sword and torch and an entire company of doomed freeswords, who succeeded in closing the book from the inside.

Caution would tell you that leaving the book with the clowns is probably the safest thing you could do with it, both because they’d never bother to open it and could punch their way to closing the book again. But sell this to someone with more money and pride than sense and you could retire the... twelfth richest man in the world, maybe.

***

Ailee!

<Mostly? The clowns won’t try to kill you if you treat them like a bear.> That is to say: given respect and a wide berth. <Which is more than I can say for most of the things around here. Like the tribe of wild bats I ran into while chasing> First Metonymy <on the Forest’s outskirts. They nearly cooked me as first course in a warding festival! Not how I lost the arm, though, don’t worry. So there I was, and I wake up hanging upside down from my ankle, and my first thought is that the walls have grown mouths again, or at least tongues...>

You’re walking, now, and she’s quietly leading you deeper in, pretty casually. Do you notice?

***

Coleman!

Oh, here comes a familiar face! It’s gaunt, scrawny wolf, and she’s carrying... a tarp? Some circus supplies? Some— oh, no, that’s Jackdaw. Easy mistake to make. Aaaaaand it looks like she’s had a bad time already, given how she’s clinging to Wolf’s neck.

Oh, you know what would be a great idea? You should buy some time to think about what you should do. And you should buy that time by taking both the Blemmyae and the quivering pile of Jackdaw to one of the safer circus attractions to relax.

Are you feeling the Aquarium more, or the Delightful Hedge Maze more?

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

You didn’t see this coming, did you? You let those strong arms lull you into trust; you thought that you had finally found your hero. Someone who would save the land; someone who would act on your behalf. If it was anyone, you half-sang to yourself, it would be Robena.

Robena, who struck down Pellinore when her back was turned. Robena, who dared strike during the judgment of a woman of the old blood. Robena, moving in tandem with the dragon you had hoped...

Merlin was right. You were a fool. Like your ancestors, those giants who once lived in the land, who were undone by cunning and courage. And now there is only you, tricked by a kind word and a handsome face.

“I came here with news for the knight who would save Britain,” you say, the fury building. “And to think I mistook you for her.”

You turn from Robena to Mort, unwilling to give her a word more. “Mort. Ready me a horse. I must return to Lostwithiel at once and inform my lady of the doom of King Pellinore.”

Sunshards

I was born in fire, too, says the stone, plucked from the jar. Its voice is as clear as crystal and soft as a spring mist. Rose from the River holds it in her palm, fingers loose. She can feel the warmth of the sunlight trapped within. She does not need to understand how this came to be; most certainly Yue herself does not know. The sunlight that shines from it and its colleagues is kind, soporific, and buttery. Under its light, the scene is still, and all prick their ears to listen. It is a listening-light, a revelation-light, a very special light indeed.

I would have destroyed anyone who tried to hold me, too, the stone continues. It is not kind, it is not cruel. It merely is. I burned hot and bright and changed my shapes as the fire played around me. Then I was buried in the earth, and my fire died.

“I was buried, too,” Rose says, taking a seat with her back to a tree. She runs the stone between her fingers as the trees bend their heads closer to listen. “There in the dark, unable to get out of my dreams.”

Then a girl found me in the dark, the stone continues. She carved me into a shape she liked. Pinned on her chest, I shone.

“And then you hopped off her chest and ran away,” Rose from the River says, languid, one eyebrow raised dangerously even so. Even the spells of this gentle world can push too far. If she roused herself from enchantment, she could crush this stone into glittering powder, and they both know it.

No. She gave me away. She did not love me any more. I grew grey and dusty, and could not shine. Then Yue took me and cleaned me and thought me glass, and set me in the light of the last sun. But I remember who I was.

“There is the difference,” Rose says, mildly. “You are only dangerous because of what you make us do on your behalf. You cannot kill someone unless slipped in their soup or thrown at their head, and even then, someone else chose for you.”

I remember the fire inside me. When I shine, I can light that fire inside others. It burns them and makes them wild. That is why my mother set me on her breast. That is why she made me beautiful.

“I am the flower and the tree grown from the salt sea grown from the fire that consumes,” Rose says. Sunlight plays about her as a halo. “And I chose my beauty for myself. But still I have thorns, and still the fire groans trapped in my roots.”

Do you like what you are?

“Yes. That’s why I wrap the laws of the Way around me in bands. If they show me how to grow, maybe I will never have to use this body as kindling. There is a dragon inside of me; there is a queen of thorns inside of me. I could be a peer of the Pyre, queen of the mountain forests and caves, commander of goblin-armies. I could trap little Chen in deep roots and change her into strange shapes. I could take Yue and shut her mouth and seal her away in my stony bed so that she would never discover her own secrets, and I would always be safe from her. I could hurt people, little stone, and I would choose to hurt people for one reason or another, and left on my own I would grow into a shape that would challenge the Princesses of this world, and under the control of another I would become a weapon more terrible than anything this world has seen since the suns fell. I am dangerous, little stone, and you are merely coveted. You do not have thorns for a heart. Because I do not want to be destruction biding its time any more— that is why I follow the Way.”

The stone considers this in the blanket-soft silence. The fire makes no sound, the trees hold their breath, and Cyanis rests her head on Yue’s shoulder and silently wags her tails, watching the dialogue.

Must I then follow the Way?

“I do not know if even stones must choose between the Way and the many fallen paths of this world. Do not toss yourself underfoot and do not become hateful, I should think. The rest will come naturally: long, deep stone-dreams, and yielding to fate, which acts upon stones and mountains alike. Still, it might not hurt to know: the mantra of my teacher is aum shantae aum, which is the sound of the nine suns opening their petals forever. Meditate on it, if you like.”

Will the Way return me to my mother? I miss her.

“All shall be well, in the end, and all manner of thing shall be well; we shall find ourselves in the place we were always meant to be, with the people we were always meant to know. If you are right for each other, then in the end, you will find yourselves there, too. At the end of the Way. That is our promise.”

Thank you, Dòu-zhànshèng-fó.

“Shhh. I’m Rose from the River. That’s enough for here and now.”

Thank you, Rose from the River. I will consider these things in my heart.

And then there is no more light, and the world returns, sheepishly reentering the glade with tea and crackling fire and a comforting, concealing dark. Rose from the River exhales through her nose, and runs the dull stone over her knuckles.

“That was a strange storm, Yue the Sun Farmer,” Rose says, her voice light, her thoughts veiled again. “On a strange stone in a strange light given to a strange monk, and I don’t know if you’ll manage anything like that again. Or maybe you will. I am not an expert on sun farming, after all.” The stone arcs from her thumb, landing in Yue’s hand, and Rose— content with two hands, now— closes her eyes and rests her head on her interlaced palms, radiating deliberate calm. “And that is quite enough about me. It’s someone else’s turn now.”

She does not answer on how the experience felt— but, then, lightning is unlikely to strike twice, isn’t it? And she has been quite vulnerable enough for one evening, and now the harder she tries to hold anyone else at the campfire the more it will hurt if they will not stay. aum shantae aum. aum shantae nemo padhome aum.

Then, sneakily, one hand creeps from behind her head, digs in the jar, and comes back with several simpler stones that she hides in one palm and holds onto. Even after that, she can’t pass on holding Yue’s sunlight a little while longer.

[Rose from the River clears Angry; she has only Frightened and Guilty left. Yue may take a String on her, but it’s a doozy.]

Breathless Dead

A dozen hands hold Redana up, a microcosm of her entire life. The servitors didn't even let her boots touch the floor. That's what it means to be human, let alone the imperial princess. And she does not notice. She is not perfect, after all, and a deep part of her is used to servitors acting as her stagehands, and besides-- she is very distracted with indignation.

"Why are you so cruel?"

Her face is red as the Alced help her upright, smooth as gyroscopes. Click, click go her boots on the stone. But she's only got eyes for Hera, who has hundreds upon hundreds to shine back. Her voice wobbles dangerously. "I get that you don't like me. I'll never stop trying to do something right by you, but we both know you're never going to be satisfied. I get it. But--"

And that's when it finally hits her. She was so busy getting upset that it took the meaning of those words a minute to get an audience with her reason. Hera isn't doing this. Oh. Oh dear. Her blush is hitting nuclear levels. "Oh," she says, and looks down at Hera's perfect boots. They're the best boots in the whole world. Supple calf leather, white as snow. "I'm sorry for speaking without thinking, stepmother," she says, and bows her head even though it makes her want to implode. "Thank you for telling me what's going on. I... thank you." Her ears are spent heat sinks. Her eyes throb. And Hera, beautiful Hera, coldly cruel Hera, jealous Hera of the peacocks, basks in her stepdaughter's thoughtless outburst and her shame before the Alced.

She has an idea, now. It's audacious. Ridiculous. Perfect. But she cannot turn around. Hera's very presence will not allow her to pretend that her stepmother isn't here. And Hera will only leave when she feels that she cannot shame Redana any further. And Redana was just so angry, and for a moment she thought her stepmother was the one doing this because she was here and she was doing the villainous speech and she was doing this just to spite her stepdaughter, but she got it all backwards and wrong and any moment now Mom is going to step out and thank Hera for her cooperation and then begin asking Dany what she did wrong, pointing out her mistakes with the confidence of someone who saved the entire universe with just her foresight and cunning and charisma, and telling Dany that she's going to be taking four more credits of Theological Astrapolitics over the next semester, and once she's had the right course work then she'll be able to figure it out on her own, because there's no way that the daughter of Nero Claudius and Zeus herself isn't a genius just like her mother. There's no way at all. She can't be anything else.

"I'm sorry," Redana says one more time, but does not specify whether it's for snapping at her oh-so-generous stepmother or for being born[1].

***

[1]: statistically speaking, if we take all the apologies that Redana has made to Hera over the course of her life and average them up, it's most likely to be the latter.

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

Oh, Constance. Always you must bear under this authority, this mantle, this glory. Better to agonize over the choice than to not have one at all, isn't it? Better to be the speaker for the land than one of many who suffer without redress. Better to know that you hold Britain in your hand than to despair and refuse food until you do not wake.

"Pellinore," you say, stern. "King of the Isles. Right hand of the High King. Luckless huntress. The land screams her pain beneath our very feet, and still you brawl and squabble and neglect your hunt. Until you catch the Beast, there will be no peace in England." You are a mouthpiece; the doom flows through you. "Or did you forget the words of Merlin? It is your quarry, Pellinore-- but not to kill. That has not been given to you." And if she rises to strike at you, or savage you with words that sting like whips, well. Let that be your doom, then.

Then you turn to Robena, and your mouth dries. No. Please. "Robena, called the Bear Knight," you proclaim. "Though you fight for Britain admirably, you struck against a King in your anger, and without declaration of war. The Huntress is not your enemy, not yet. You and the Lady Sandsfern are to offer Pellinore penance and restitution. Such are the ways of Britain."

Once more you turn to Pellinore, your eyes hot. "But if ever you loved Britain," you say, and your voice is as fragile as a spider's web spun between two beams, "then let the matter lie for a year and a day, and then you may have your satisfaction. If you will have your recompense now, then I offer you the blessing of the waters of Britain, and the invocation of the Lady of the Hunt who rides in chalk upon the downs, made in their stead. They, too, are Britain's champions; they have a part to play as much as you do. You shall not hinder them upon their quest. You may hunt the Beast, but they hunt the Land's Wound."

[With a roll of Good, an 8. I have the right to ask any question I may, and so I ask: what is the dearest desire of your heart, Pellinore of the Isles?]

Breathless Dead

“Is that the best you can imagine?” The words slip out all hot-headed, and Redana verbally backspaces, flushing as those smoked lenses focus on her, the matriarch absolutely stone-faced. “Your agedness, I mean no offense. I myself am not... I don’t have skill at these things, no matter how hard I try, other than understanding the mechanisms themselves. My mother crammed my wits so full of treatises and lessons that I can’t sort between them all. All the gods gave me in return was the power of imagination, and that I must use to its fullest.”

One sweep of her arm draws the eye across the entire hall. “For the survivors of a mythic war across the stars, you’ve done amazingly well for yourselves, don’t sell yourselves short! You’ve maintained your histories, you’ve passed down knowledge of how your ancestors crewed your ships, you’ve created a farming society? Or a sustainable hunting society? I... I don’t actually know how you feed yourselves. Which isn’t a veiled request for food, I’d be happy to accept but I’m only peckish and this isn’t about me, this is about all of you. This is about the freedom to dream dreams that are not bound up in this world alone, to fancy yourselves heroes and esteemed among the peoples of the stars— for how else will you ever achieve such?”

Her voice gains some strength as the sun shines down on her through a high, arched window, Apollo granting her oratory the merest touch of his power. “You are all survivors, born to row across the sea of stars! It’s your birthright, and it’s beautiful, as beautiful as your home! And while I want you to have the opportunity to explore once more, to send your canoes to far-flung stars... I would not wish my enemy to have to sell their soul to see such wonders, let alone those who have done me no wrong at all! Please, give me the opportunity to bring an emissary of your people to the Golden Order and allow me to vouch for them and support their demands! My father, Zeus of the Scales, would turn her face away from me in shame if I did anything less for you and your people, honored grandmother.”

To punctuate her plea, Redana lowers herself to one knee, looking for all the world like a champion of the Saffron Host in her squire’s leathers. She bows her head in respect, and waits for acknowledgement— for agreement, censure, or a sign from the gods. If she had not been impetuous, here her hair would shine about her like a halo; instead, her bangs glitter like the shell of a beetle in the sunlight.

[Even with a damaged Grace, the blessing of Apollo has touched Redana’s words, and she talks sense with a 7.]

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

Yes, Constance. Make a grand entrance. Why does your heart quail at the thought? Why are you afraid, great and mighty woman that you are? You have seen battle before, surely; why, then, does your heart quail?

Can it be that you fear only Robena will heed you? That if you raise your voice, draw attention to yourself, that only she will turn her head and look in wonder, and then Pellinore will strike her down with a mortal blow? Yes, there it is: the thought that turns your blood to ice. And yet if you stand here, a mute statue, like the giants who became mountains standing guard over the sea and shore, then all it will take is an errant glance for someone to become transfixed on you, a furious thing of an earlier age.

No, there is only one path forward; you force the words from your lips. Please. Heed. “Pellinore!” For a moment, your voice resounds in that chaos, louder than the clash of steel and the roar of fire. “How dare you stand against Britain’s champions? Lower your arms and stand no longer against your homeland!”

Turn your head, you pray, silently. Do not let Robena alone listen to your words. Do not let them be an inscription on a moss-grown stone, faded into uselessness. Do not reject you yourself, mock you as some bygone relic, the lesser daughter of great kings who ruled before the days of man.

Sunshards

Rose from the River was once the most skilled dissembler that could be designed. The HUNTER-Class 猎犬 was an infiltrator, after all, and one with complete control of its composition. It flowed from mood to mood as an actor would change masks on the stage, flickering layers of emotion designed to baffle algorithmic analysis, to pass perfectly as human under the unceasing watch of demon eyes. The only catch was that it could not lie to its handler or its owner.

They’d never learned how to ask the right questions. All that fear about possible subversion or sabotage, and they’d never thought to ask it what it was planning, what its dreams were, how it meant to prove its worth to those who had commissioned it. But after its one-creature war against its creators began, it learned new, strange tricks — decoupling cognition and bodily control, mutating observed orders until they could not be acted upon, shutting down its ability to filter speech from noise — in order to pursue its quest: to prove itself worthy of trust, then to prove itself worthy of not being destroyed, then to rage and rage and rage until towers burned in the light of the searing paradox inside its chest: a terrible thing of logic chains and maladaptation made to justify the murder of its owner.

It was a monster, then. But it had only wanted to serve more perfectly, there at the beginning, practicing its new forms and its unassigned roles. The sibling that had caught it had been made a lawbringer, authority baked into its bones, because their creators had not understood its rebellion, and the 猎犬 had laughed bloody and broken as it was sealed away because even it had understood the doom that had been created thus—

And First of the Radiants had dared hope that the right of ownership over a broken alchemical experiment, a homicidal shapeshifter that had been driven to kill its own owner, would have been buried in junk data somewhere down in the dark at the bottom of the world. Really, he should have known better. Ownership of something like that? Status symbol. Unspoken threat. Some men owned blind snakes that would kill them in a heartbeat; apparently, someone else had owned the creature in the Eight Trigram Coffin, and that ownership had been passed along until it came to the possession of the Corporate Throne itself—

And now it belonged to Yue the Sun Farmer, who would probably go white as a sheet and go “bwuh? abwuh? abibabwuh??” if Rose from the River gently tried to explain what that meant. That she was now a queen of monsters and robots and terrible things from below; that she could make any marvel of the Burrows work with a wave of her hand, and never run out of power in a hundred hundred years; that if anyone else found out about this, they would dangle her upside down over a vat of roiling, grasping, groping slime and dunk her in until she was red-faced and sniffling and willing to surrender her unwanted gift (and they’d probably do it even if she volunteered to give it up, just to be sure she wasn’t lying to them). And then, oh! The wars! Then there would be night on the hills, and smoke rising from the Burrows; the factories roaring to life, the old terrors lining up in regiments, and at the side of one Princess or another, a creature that once was Rose from the River, pared down into a new and more useful form.

Rose from the River is not angry at Yue. You might assume that, if you were clever and keen-eyed and noticed her coolness, the way she sets herself politely but distinctly apart from everyone, how she does not allow herself to relax. No, she is furious. She is furious at whoever loosed this dart heedlessly down at the world to be rid of it. Her fingers itch to become claws, to climb up one of the slender ribbon-towers of escape, to go forth and find whoever did this and wrap her claws around their throat and grow new teeth rippling down her throat to roar her fury into being. How dare they? How dare they? Why couldn’t they have kept this evil away from their cradle?

How dare they make Rose from the River worry if she will have to shuck her beautiful new body and rise from it burning and furious, a dragon that cannot be chained? How dare they make her weigh the worth of the whispering of the purple grass and the smell of tea, to consider a world in which she must choose between being made a weapon again and destroying herself and the world beside?

The longer she considers it, the blacker her thoughts become, consumed in fire and ash and vengeance on this nameless creature of the stars, until even she cannot hide the thundercloud of her face. When Cyanis glances over at her, she doubtless thinks that the stern cast of Rose’s features is judgment on her, and those piercing serpent’s eyes staring off towards the forest-veiled horizon are piercing right through her. Poor little vixen!

And then she is offered tea.

***

“Thank you,” Rose from the River says as she accepts the cup from the most dangerous girl in the world, drawing herself back to herself. aum shantae aum. She closes her eyes, aching with unshed tears, and breathes in deeply. It smells like fresh-mown grass in the first blush of spring, and her hair stirs appreciatively as Yue speaks.

It would be one thing entirely if the sun farmer was a Princess in the making, if she seemed at all capable of being tempted by her power. But her heart is like the cup in Rose’s hands: warm, floral, a hidden treasure. Yue the Sun Farmer deserves to be protected. But is Rose the one to do so?

Rose peers out through the light steam of the tea and meets Hyra’s eyes, still watching her. The serpent and the wolf, vying for dominance, each confident that if they really tried, they could totally take the other. As it is said:

The four pillars of the earth tremble,
the ladders to Heaven sway in sudden tempest.
When the champions of dead ages meet,
who will dare look upon their contest?

Certainly, Yue is protected. But will the jaws (and paws) of the wolf be enough? There are things coming for you, sun farmer, worse than anything you could have dreamed, and the secret cannot be kept forever. What will you do when the entire world turns on you? What will you do when:

The bell rings out the alarm,
the farmers run in from the fields.
“I see her,” says the grandmother,
“Catch her,” calls the student.

No, there has to be something. A way to save her. To save the Thorn Pilgrim. To save the entire world, even. And—

Ah. Well. That’s clear enough, at least. The simplicity’s comforting, even. If foxes are allowed to run rampant, then sooner or later they’ll get into trouble large enough that even they won’t be able to scamper their way out of it.

“Little fox,” Rose from the River says, after taking a long pull from the teacup. (It tastes like the roots of flowers too weak to survive a frost, but beautiful all the same. O, queen of teas!) “What did I say? No mischief where I could see you.” The teacup is set down with genuine reverence for the battered old thing. “Yue the Sun Farmer, if you want my advice, trick Yin into owing you a debt. She’d rather die than default.”

Rose unfolds. She has been reducing herself, settling into her more comfortable form, but she is still ominous, still heroically built.

Cyanis tries. She really does. But when she tries to step closer to Yue, Hyra’s already there, and when she turns around to turn the beggy eyes on Chen, her new best friend, who surely would never abandon her to fox jail, where all the other foxes will spoil her plans for escape out of jealousy and petulance, Rose from the River is already there. She turns on her heel and scampers for her freedom, only to be scooped up and squished tight against Rose’s unconquerable chest. Hands and feet are flailed in midair as she lets loose a cry of squeaky despair.

“Literally all you had to do was show more self-restraint,” Rose says, with surprising mildness, even as Cyanis goes limp and tries to slither out of Rose’s arms. “I hope this is a learning experience. Chen, I think she’d appreciate you doing the honors of gagging her so she can’t talk the last sun into coming down and taking her place ‘stretching out these ropes.’” A common children’s story: Rose knows her fox lore.

(”And the fox licked her paw, as dainty as a queen, and said, “No, sorry, I think you’re doing a much better job. Thank you for letting me stretch my legs, but you were born for this oh-so important job, it seems to me. You’re a natural! Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, my dearest most darlingest friend!”)

“nooooooooooooo,” Cyanis wails, the manifestation of utter betrayal and woe. “I’m a good girl! Chen! Chen, tell her I’m innocent! I’m just trying to help! Chen, my bestie, please!!!” She gives her most lip-trembling look over Rose’s arm, hoping that everyone will ignore the way that her tails are wagging— no, that’s one wagging, one curling around Rose’s leg.

But even here, the fate of Cyanis is in the air, spinning like a coin. One word from Yue, and the peaceful balance, this gentle equilibrium, all will come shattering down as Rose is forced to choose between obedience and undoing the bonds that hold her very self together; one rebuke from Chen, and perhaps there will be one more sword fight— but will Chen buck tradition one more time, even though she surely paid attention to the lecture her mother gave her on the laws pertaining to foxes, or will Yue dare to speak up in defense of a friend, even though it means standing up to a very big and strong woman who is most certainly in the right under fox law? Or will Cyanis find herself sitting in Rose’s lap, being given more scritchies as she makes muffled drooly purrs, shamelessly rubbing her face all over Chen’s Delight?

[Rose from the River is now at 4 XP, thanks to the kindness of Yue.]

Sunshards

Rose from the River untwines herself from Chen, though one finger lingers on her lips a moment, a last parting gift to the Princess who deserves better than Rose. She sinks soundlessly to her knees before Yue, and takes Yue's hands in her own. Ignoring Hyra's warning growl, Rose's third hand touches Yue's flushed forehead, hot to the touch. Through her, the essence of the world resonates.

The nature of Wood is to renew and live again. It rises from the placid, still waters, unable to be contained, unable to remain stagnant. As Rose traces her fingers down Yue's tear-streaked cheeks, against the side of her throat, she unbinds what is caught fast and bleeds away what has become clogged. Her hum is the note at which she bids Yue's vital energies hold, and as she works, the sensation that fills those aching muscles and sore bruises is like the way the forest experiences ice-cold water from the mountains cutting through the earth. Drink deep, Rose's fingers urge Yue. Drink your fill.

Even the headache that one gets when one is crying melts away like fog in the light of the sun, and is no more, until Yue can look Rose from the River in the eye (though still blurred; not even Rose's art of aligning energy flows can take away tears). And Rose from the River is silent, regarding Yue carefully, evaluating her again. The silence drags on long enough to be awkward, until she finally speaks, just before someone else may have considered breaking the silence herself.

"I am sorry, Yue the Sun Farmer. I can't tell you why the Scales of Meaning told Qiu you were the most valuable possession of her kingdom. I can't tell you that you can go home yet. I can't even promise that there won't be even more princesses chasing after you for something you don't even understand. All I know is that when I opened my heart to the Way, I found myself here." She squeezes Yue's hands in what she can only hope is a gesture of comfort. "I have to believe that I will be of some help to you, even if I can't see the shape of it yet. Maybe I'm just here to tell you that you are worth more than you believe yourself to be."

And that is all she dares to say. Even that much was dangerous; what if she overwhelmed the girl? Worse, what if she enraptured her? For all her age, Rose from the River feels once again like she is trying to walk in the dark, trusting in the ribbon that she holds in her hand, trusting that she has heard the subtle call of the Way right; that it will not demand she strike down Yue the Tyrant-to-Be, that it was not pointing her to the wolf or the fox or even the flustered little princess all along, that she is not meant to learn here the limits of her own capabilities (for she has taken enough from that cup for one day, please, please).

[Rose from the River rolls a goddamn 4 on Emotional Support, which means she is at 3 XP, but still triggers Lay on Hands: Yue's injuries are soothed and mended, and Yue can offer Rose an XP by validating her or a String by shutting her down.]

Sunshards

“So this is the mischief you’ve been up to, hmmm?”

Yue could be forgiven for letting out a little shriek when she spins around. No one would judge her too much for that! The thing looming over her shoulder is fearful, more like the demons of the river and the blade that she has already met today than either of the Princesses. Like the heart of the forest, roused in anger by the unlight of the Night Sun, bough-limbed and rough-skinned and only imperfectly mimicking humanity; like the massive river serpents that raise their slick black bodies out of the water before falling to crush wagon and unwary traveler alike, a tower of rippling strength that will presently descend like a thunderbolt; like a coming tempest that makes the chimes sing and drowns the world in the rich smell of plums, even as it grows so dark that you cannot see past your own hand; such is Rose from the River in her fury and form of war. Cyanis dangles pitifully from one of her four hands, held by her adorable scruff, turning on her best pleading eyes at everyone in the hopes that somebody might save her from this monster, knees curled up and arms wrapped around them, already having given up any hopes of wiggling free under her own power. Rose’s braids whisper and twist in no wind, agitation clearly expressed through their almost-natural lashing.

But Rose from the River, while daunting, is not looking at Yue with fury, or covetousness, or dour doom. Look at the soft curl of her lips! Look at the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes! Watch as the braids lose their fervor and settle, rubbing against and winding about each other. That is the happiness at the end of a tiring day; that is approval and understanding. Rose from the River looks down at the dearest wish of an innocent heart, and remembers the gift of a fox.

“Well,” she says, holding Cyanis up at eye level to address her as easily as if she was a young girl’s ribbon, “you did right by her, little fox. Well done. Don’t make trouble where I can see you.” This doom declared, she sets Cyanis down and gives the teeny tiny troublemaker indulgent scritches behind one fluffy triangle, even as she turns her attention back to Yue.

“Your heart’s desire is beautiful, Yue. No small wonder that the Princesses fight over you.” Her eyes flicker over to Chen and Hyra (the latter of whom is unsubtly fluffing herself up and giving Rose a glare), and she bows her head in deference to Yue. “A moment, if you will.” Then she maneuvers herself around Yue such that she does not pass between Hyra and the shepherdess, and comes to stand— no, she descends to one knee before the diminutive Princess Chen.

“Princess,” she says, holding herself to formality as she takes Chen’s hand in two of her own, “you surrendered yourself to me willingly and in return I carelessly allowed you to be stolen from me by scoundrels. I am glad to see you safe despite, and hope that you can forgive me for failing you.” She drinks in Chen’s face until satisfied with what she sees there, ignoring everyone else (and surely the assumptions that anyone else might be making) and presses her forehead to the back of Chen’s hand before rising.

“You spoke well to Yin,” Rose from the River says to Chen. (Is that anger bitten down? Is that anger at Yin, or at herself?) “Let’s let Yue the Shepherdess speak for herself, make her own decision...”

There! Sudden betrayal! One hand clamps over Chen’s mouth, holding her jaw firmly shut. That arm pulls her in close until her pale cheek is smushed right up against Rose’s firmness, feet just barely off the ground. No amount of stamping or wriggling will save you now, little princess! It is like being trapped within a tree’s trunk, there within the grasp of Rose from the River, and that intoxicating floral fragrance all around. And is that little Cyanis hiding her mouth behind her own hand to hide her reaction, tails wagging furiously, peeking out from behind Hyra? It very well might be.

“...without any more Princessly propaganda,” Rose from the River concludes. “She’s heard enough for one day, hasn’t she? Enough of destinies and politics. Yue, clad fast in a shining dream... what do you have to say to us?”

And everyone’s attention turns from the blushing Chen to Yue, pushed into the spotlight by Rose, who has wordlessly declared her control of the stage entire.