Tatterdemalion

Breathless Dead

In the desert, Redana walks.

The ship yawns and unfurls. The metal on the walls, well-welded, is gone; there is glass. There is glass and glass and glass. It drifts in dunes up and down the passages, crunching under Redana’s feet. The walls are warped. The labyrinth is here. She walks it, and her clothes are leopardskin and blood, and when she lets her fingers drift against the mirrors she flinches back because they are so cold, they burn.

She is bloody; she leaves smears on the glass, shivering, demarcated. Has she committed another sin? Her body burns where she embraced Mynx, held her so tight, in her throat where she screamed, in her fingers which made fists pressed against her spine. And did she pop? Or... no. That was when the curtain fell. Mynx’s voice follows her, but the words are meaningless: Zenoy, Zanzenoy, Zenangelov. That is what the Coherent say to her when she pushes them aside, into the wastes: Zenoy, Zanzenoy, Zenangelov.

She wanted to become the Nemean and tear Mynx apart for being a coward, but she saw the thought falling like a star, from outside herself, and she was afraid, and Mynx was afraid and knew her death, and there trembling on the edge of calling down that violence she called out, and what she called out was that Mynx was not the one who needed to be punished, Mynx was not the monster, Mynx was not, and she raised one hand to backhand the coward and her fingers interlocked and—

There is a statue that stands alone. The sky above is roiling, a nebula split in half by Nyx’s sword, so violently black that the pink within throbs. The statue is white, glass-scoured, blasted. The back has fallen out, worn away completely, leaving a thin marble facade smiling serenely out. Bees crawl in and out through the parted lips, brilliant black and all-consuming gold, cloyingly sweet to see. It stands in the middle of the road, and Redana cannot go around, cannot go around at all, because distance is boundless and mirrored on either side.

“I hurt you,” Redana says, pressing her forehead to the sandaled foot, the claws and the arch. “Because i am stupid. You were right, you were right, were you always right? By being born I hurt you. Come back. Come back. Please. Let me show you what I wanted. Just let me show you what I meant. Please. Please. Let me unhurt you.”

And she looks up, and Bella looks down, her eyes in the hollow mask painted circles nested forever in a thousand colors, black holes for falling into until the stars fail and the gods begin the game all over again, and her voice is the whisper of the bees passing in and out from her lips. ”Zenoy, Zanzenoy, Zenangelov.” Thus she proclaims, and condemns blood-stained Redana to her punishment, by authority of Redana Nulla, Never-Empress of Tellus.

***

When Mynx catches up to her, Redana’s dug a groove in the shrine door (Dolce has the key) with her nails, which are too strong to break. She lies face-down on the floor, her manic energy all at once expended. Mynx lifts with her knees, asking her ward if she is okay, as if she can do anything about it, as if she did not do this somehow, and all Redana hisses through a clenched jaw is, simply, ridiculously, again: Eloy, Elioyama, Sabakthani.

And together the three of them make their way to the infirmary.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Zhaojun!

What is a battle between martial artists but a dance by a different name? Sagacious Crane flares into life, her maiden’s heart wounded by this sudden betrayal, for a moment too angry to fall apart; she is not too dissimilar from her sister, if one digs in the right place.

When she strikes at Zhaojun, ineffectually, her mud-drenched sash lashes through the air like a whip. The bandar-logi crowd in on all sides to watch, their heads cocking to one side and then shuddering slowly back upright. They make a sound like raindrops striking bamboo as they do, until the world all around melts into a haze of sound, the pearl that by necessity is formed by the crude world of matter around the things that truly matter.

Ah, Zhaojun! This girl has been molded already, from the first time that she saw an icon of the Sapphire Mother, from the first night she spent blissful and secure in the Temple of the Pure Lotus, from the first day she spent walking the roads of the Flower Kingdom as a rising star amongst her peers. She has been reassured, over and over again, that if she walks this road she will be rewarded, accepted, beloved. She has tamed and sublimated her temper— the very same that flares now. It will burn but a moment before it dwindles into despair, unless it is stoked.

If she is mocked— if she is reminded of her birthplace— if she is challenged for her right to serve her goddess— then she will hold the bandar-logi at bay with the strength of that old and well-buried hurt. But to burn water is a terrible thing. It will hurt her, perhaps more than it will turn her against you; she will go from this place, no matter what happens, and quietly insinuate that the possession was flawed, that the goddess Zhaojun was decieved into an inauspicious and unstable manifestation, that perhaps the Sapphire Court should correct this error.

But left to dwindle, confused and betrayed, she will be helpless before the rakshasa, let alone their servants.

As for her fear? That her peers, her goddess, and her world that she is so desperate to fit into see her for what she is and reject her; that she is not some sparkling gem rescued from humble birth but simply another common stone. That in this place, Zhaojun will judge her and find her wanting, tainted by her birth in the mud between the rocks. Nothing more, nothing less. That is the fear that would drive her to defeat the bandar-logi. Will Zhaojun act upon it?

And how, pray tell, does Zhaojun let slip what she hopes to get from Sagacious Crane, or does she armor her heart and refuse to let anything by her stone face?

***

Giri!

It is very difficult to know Cathak Agata’s true feelings. After all, you are simply a witch; you have not gone on pilgrimage to the far side of the world where her matriarch-ancestor lies and receives the tribute of nations. The gleam of emotion in her brilliant eyes, the one you do not know enough to read right, is like that of a dragon who has seen something it wants. Perhaps it is the touch of skin on skin, your controlled strength, your humility. But more likely it is your sincerity that Cathak Agata wants to take between her teeth until the taste has grown less novel.

Even so, she is not a monster. Take a String on her, and know you have leverage on her heart. Even the judges of the dead may be moved by sentiment; how much more a breaker of hearts?

As for the divination: here, each sign reveals itself. Central, of prime importance: possession, achieving a goal dearly sought. On the outer rim, low, are several symbols that are almost clear if you squint: success in love, victory in battle, to come into possession of a material windfall, the sorts of things that people always ask if you see in their future.

But in the upper right (an unfortunate direction), clear as day, the stain forms a broken circle, a dire omen which indicates the influence of the Broken King. And this isn’t the first time this month you’ve seen it appear, or even this week; the King is on the move (which is to say, his shattered aspects and their infernal hosts have been invited into the Flower Kingdoms to act on the behalf of those who listen to their poisoned words). Conversely, in the upper left, still oppositional, is a mountain, strength, associated with the N’yari. Which means that her goals are opposed by the N’yari, or the highlands in general, or someone or something renowned for their strength.

Which does suggest the reading that whatever she wants will be opposed by both the N’yari and the power of Hell. Which, in turn, suggests that whatever she’s striving for may very well be a good thing. Even if that isn’t necessarily the case, wouldn’t it make you feel better if it was? Better than assuming that the Broken King is stoking her towards a downfall, or that her achievement of good fortune might come at the expense of others.

But you want to know how she leaves you, don’t you? At the steps to the teahouse, that liminal space between light and warmth within and the pale rains without, she stops you, takes your hand in hers, pale fingers curling against your skin.

“When you have put them to rest,” she says, her voice earnest, her eyes shining to blind sense, her grip inexorable, “then come back to me, Giriel. I want to thank you for your service— not just to the Dominion, not even just to me, but to the legionnaires who stand beside me— in person.”

And she lifts your knuckle to her lips, bowing before you in that exotic manner of a foreign knight, and you feel not just the heat of her lips, the steam of her breath, but how one tooth grazes against your skin, promising more, rougher, all of her—

And then she lifts her head, strokes one stray lock back from her face with the innocence of a girl who has just been given her first kiss, and dismounts from the steps, looking back up at you as the rain hisses ever so softly against her cheeks.

If you promise her that you will, if you swear to it, if you understand better than she feigns what she means to reward you with, or if you just become Smitten with her immediately, mark XP. If you hesitate, if you catch a glimpse of the dragon beneath her fair mask, if you let yourself be caught up in thoughts of broken circles and ill fortune, mark a Condition. Either way, Cathak Agata has relinquished her String on you.

But she has not relinquished her intentions on you.

***

Han!

The moment is textured, rich, pregnant with meaning. The way you can feel her fingers, so delicate, underneath yours. The way she stays, as if transfixed. The fact that it is growing darker, and she is a silhouette against the lanterns now, and even if you dared look at her you could not see her expression. The agony, not just of moving your arm, but of being vulnerable.

Then you feel her fingers curl around the side of your hand, and her thumb grazes a thoughtlessly devastating path along the back of your hand, and you hear her hiccup slightly, but you can feel that smile.

It just hurts all the more, literally, when she is yanked backwards off her feet and, as part of the fancy transitive property, yanks you forwards too. You weren’t expecting that, in a moment of vulnerability and overextending, and you end up sprawling into the rain-slick deck as the N’yari acrobatically vault onto the ship from the riverbank.

You’ve seen N’yari before. King’s Crown, you’ve seen these N’yari before, you realize as you retract your throbbing arm. That’s Kigi there; she grabbed the pretty boy from the wedding party who tried to get in her way and is now sitting on him, giggling coquettishly as she pins his wrists to the deck and smothers his face in black-speckled fur. And that’s Hanaha (or “better Han”) menacing the bride and groom, tail flicking as she drapes herself over their laps and squishes the bride’s cheeks in one hand, making jokes about a “matching set.” And, Mother of Lotuses, that’s Machi’s hellion of a little sister, Jazumi, wrenching the priestess’s arms behind her back and lashing them fast (and don’t pay attention to the way her shaky grunt of discomfort hits a note that’s almost appealingly husky, or how her frantic squirming is pulling her poncho tight against her, that definitely isn’t worth noting for thinking about later). Which means—

When Machi hits the deck, the barge shudders. Her huge sword is slung over her back; the chains keeping it in its scabbard are set with labyrinth-charms carved from rough stones, the same as the ones dangling from her braids. The purr of her amusement is a low rumble that sets the water on the deck vibrating. “Look at you, little lowlanders,” she says, her mismatched ears twitching with amusement, earrings gleaming in the lantern light. “Don’t you know there are taxes for using our river?”

“And tariffs!”
“And charters!”
“And fines!”

“Battle-sisters,” she says, grandly, “take your prizes, scent-mark them, and bind the rest fast.” (The little priestess lets out a breathy gasp and squeezes her eyes shut.) “If a voyage down our river is what they want, then it is what they’ll have!”

But you, brave Han, are lying unnoticed in the dark, being rained on, and even though Machi is starting to sniff the air, recognizing a familiar scent, you have a moment to...

To do something. To make the mistake of trying to have a swordfight on a barge (one that Machi will not even draw her sword for); to make the mistake of tackling Jazumi and likely knock the priestess overboard in the process; to make the mistake of trying to intimidate the brats into leaving, because then you’ll be threatening them with a good time.

Really, so many possible disasters unfold in front of you. While you’re picking one— how do you know them, anyway? Have you chased them off, have you saved a sister from them, have you (Sapphire Mother forbid) spent a summer being bossed around in Machi’s sprawling family home in a little frilly apron?

***

Kalaya!

Petony pinches your cheek in a way very reminiscent of your older sisters before she stalks off to arrange payment. And already, you might feel, she falls naturally into that role. But to impress you, more than to follow her old oaths, she pays from her own purse (and follows it up with shaky credit from Rose when that runs dry).

You go forth from that place into the paleness of morning, and you go on narrow roads up and down the gently rolling hills, making together for the border of Rose. Even if Petony has no little love for the kingdom as it is now, the rumors she has heard, of both N’yari on the move and the dead sleeping restless, these prick at her heels even after she has sobered up. Like a turtle her retinue moves across the land, umbrellas interlocked as they follow her.

(They are something like soldiers and something like servants and something like adoring admirers. To be a knight is an ambition that many do not have the fortitude to follow, and so they content themselves with clubs and quilted armor and daubed symbols showing their allegiance. It is for this reason that the great battles between kingdoms, ones that see crowns rise and fall, have the character of a violent ball game as much as anything that could actually be called war. You do not yet have a retinue; you have yet to make your name the seed of a story.)

And you walk together, and you sing walking-songs together as the rain beats down, and Petony lifts her voice up in challenge to the world— and that’s why it takes you so long to hear what’s over that next hill. And then? Then Petony begins to run, unsheathing her hooked sword, and her retinue pull out their clubs, and there’s you working to crest the hill, too, you ready to fight by the Tiger Knight’s side no matter what’s causing the roar of battle just beyond—

Then Petony stops, hesitates, and you can see why, even as her retinue mills about the two of you, looking down at the battle being fought in knee-high water, in rice fields, in the driving rain. On one side, there’s the red-lacquered armor of the Imperial Legion, with their heavy shields and spears, struggling to form a shield wall with only an eighth-Talon’s worth of men. A banner in the Imperial style snaps in the wind as legionnaires force open the gates of a farmer’s compound, putting innocents at risk just so they will have a place to stand and a wall to put their backs to.

On the other side are things that it takes you a moment to understand are actual, real demons. Their many-medaled coats are an ugly bruise-green, their heads hidden under hoods and shrouds, and they grip heavy sabers in pitted gauntlets. The sounds of flute and bell accompany them as they dance, manic, like wasps, sabers rising and falling as they spin and jerk their way through gaps in the line.

(If a witch was here, they could tell you more. That the icon borne, there, is their Promissory, which grants them leave to act in the world, as provided by the warlock who accepted their services. That these are Wrack-dolls, made by the clammy hands of the First General, the soldiers that do not die, for they are dreams of black mud and infected wounds wrapped fast around their scavenged armor. That their warhounds, harrying the crossbows on the flank, are Fathers-of-Serpents, which the eye rejects and abhors, which must be fought by striking where you dare not look. But you only know that these are monsters of story and song, and that they serve whoever summoned them here.)

What is happening below is not the battles you heard about growing up, where champions duel in the midst of their armies, where the defeat of one knight is the signal for their retinue to withdraw and yield. It is ugly work from both sides, the work of iron Mars shining high above the clouds. A family patriarch dares confront the legionnaires about bringing the battle to his land, his home: you see him, his robes white, being tossed down— impossible to tell from the distance if he moves or lies still. Demons set fires to the stone walls about the compound, hungry green flames that lick at and devour the very rock.

Petony’s hesitation is not because she is afraid. It is because her outrage wars with the responsibility you represent: the struggle is plain on her face as she tries to decide whether to charge the demons from the rear, or to charge them and keep going until she has her hands around that legionnaire commander’s throat.

***

Piripiri!

“Have you not been? It’s the sort of experience you have to have, Pipi!” That. That sure is a nickname. And that sure is a way she takes your arm in a way that brooks no dissent, steering you down towards the docks.

And then, the trouble. The trouble is that the street urchin whose boat is closest has a slender boat, and three people would be a tight fit— but what does Azazuka do? Does she wait for one of the larger boats, perhaps a barge, perhaps invite half the docks to join the two of you in festivities?

Well, she considers it. You can see her glance across the lake, survey the boats in evidence... and then take an umbrella from one of her handmaidens, a gaudy pink-and-purple thing of waves. “Why wait,” she bubbles, pulling you in after her, handing the barge-rat (who has an actual rat peeking out of her vest?) a gold coin ten times what the trip is worth. “You must see the city from the lake in the rain, there’s nothing like it,” she adds, and then claps her hands together so suddenly that the barge-rat fumbles her pole and nearly loses it. “And the lanterns! Melai, go and fetch us two paper lanterns! We can release them on the water and add to the lights all about the city! It’s the sort of experience you must have.”

But that gives you a moment, standing in the boat with her and the little barge-rat, with her bodyguards glowering at you and your pilot, and time enough to second-guess yourself (and third-guess that second-guess). You should insist on a chaperone, even if the thought of impropriety (seemingly) hasn’t crossed her mind. Just so that there’s no way she can use it as a weapon, or that it can be used as blackmail.

But what if she gets offended and invites you to go by yourself? Or what if she’s actually scheming and intends to seduce you out there on the lake, bribing the street urchin into staying silent as she plies you with kisses and— hey, stop thinking about that! The fact that you would even think that is why you need to have a chaperone!

Oh no Melai is coming back with lanterns, you have to choose! Make a scene and risk hurting your business partner’s feelings (and after she bought a treasure for you, ungrateful thing), or stay quiet, despite the fact that anything could happen on that lake?

Sunshards

So this is what it felt like to be moved by someone else.

A strange thought. Even if Chen wasn’t exactly a big, strong girl herself, capable of picking Rose up and carrying her, it’s not like Rose ever... and anyway, how would she even dare? Holding someone like this was so intimate, so demanding. And it is easy enough to melt into the movements: the strut across the room, each step small but quick, on the ball of the foot, her hips swaying easily as she went. Then the low curtesy (not that she has any skirt to lift, not yet), the steps of making the tea (a ritual, one that priestesses are as familiar with as monks), and then the way she is to fall to her knees, elegantly, head bowed and hands upraised, the tea as still and smooth as glass within the cup.

The only problem is when she is released and told to try for herself. Because she is useless, isn’t she? Suddenly, bereft of that comforting touch, everything comes undone. She wobbles dangerously across the room, her balance gone; her curtesy is ungainly, her blush as she recognizes her own nakedness is furious, and she is seized again by gentle hands before she can butcher the tea. No, no, back to being controlled, little Rose; you clearly aren’t ready for this.

Then Thian hits upon it: little reassuring words. That Rose can do this, that she is graceful, that she is pretty when she walks, and, ah! There. That does it. A dozen repetitions around the room under Keron’s eye, but all that was needed is one. When tested again, her footsteps are perfect, exactly where Thian guided them; her curtesy is low and perfect and without any self-awareness, and her skill with the tea is almost mechanical, but with a gentle fluidity that suggests more than rote learning.

So here is a prize, Countess, that much is obvious: a girl who is incredibly malleable. It takes more than an eagerness to serve to be this eminently moldable, to yield this thoroughly, to be akin to wet clay. She could be shaped into a perfect maid, or a deliberately imperfect one; she could have new truths whispered into her ear to change her very self. Tell her who she is, and she listens.

Ah, a case in point: Rose lifts her head and dares look the Countess in the eye, though she quails like a wet kitten. “Please,” she dares, “is my Chen all right...? Whatever you do to me, please, just don’t punish her... too much...”

Her voice is faltering, but the spark of defiance in her eyes still exists. It is as feeble and weak as a mouse trying to hold a sword, but for her Chen, she will still dare speak out of turn and speak to someone so far her superior, so important and commanding.

(And deep within, the nameless thing is strangely proud.)

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

Constance looks to Sir Harold. Then she looks to him again; she opens her eyes in a way she had not before and looks at him. And she sees; she witnesses; she accepts. That is one of the roles of the priestess, after all; she is a mediator not just between the supernatural and the ordinary, but between the varied selves that surround each and every one, waiting for their moment to be born.

She reaches out and takes his hand, her skin like alabaster, his rough and weathered by sun and sleet. The pressure is gentle, but her arm forms the arc of a bridge that could stand a thousand years and never fall.

"I cannot forgive you," she says. "But I can sit with you until the pain is gone. You will forever be an oathbreaker, but... thank you, Sir Harold. For reminding me that that is not all you will ever be. I cannot wash it white as snow, but I can tell you know that you are in the process of becoming something new. The oak's scars do not fully heal, and yet the leaves grow green. It is only that-- she must want. She must want to shed her skin and be new."

Like the snake. Like the year. Like a god. Like a king, in the days before Man ruled Britain.

Like the snake, which ate the herb called immortality. And that is why there is Death, and Pellinore will one day submit and rest and sigh no more. And that, too, is why Constance will wear scales and molts in the garden. For the serpent is sacred in its theft.

Breathless Dead

"I'm fine, Dany."

Redana's face is ashen.

"No, that wasn't a yawn! I'm fine!"

The Auspex doesn't even need to tell her that Mynx is telling the truth.

"I slept on the wrong side of my bed, your highness!"

Because it's like one of those funny pictures.

"If you don't get it, it's okay. I'm sure your tutors will be happy to explain to you again tomorrow."

Where you spend your whole life thinking it's a monstrous face and then one day you see that it's someone sitting for their portrait at an odd angle, but because it was so small and stuck inside that sprawling gilt frame, you mistook the negative space for a cheek and a screaming mouth, but now you can see it, and you can't see the face again no matter how you tilt your head at it. Because you saw what was really there, even though you'd never been able to see it right in front of your face every time you looked.

"There's nowhere I'd rather be, Princess."

Redana is an Olympian. She has also been training with the Coherents, swinging hammers and forcing panels into place and pulling on cables in sync with a hundred other arms. The table is nothing to her. She lifts and throws it like a monstrous discus at terrible speed, and when it strikes the reinforced wall, it cracks and splinters and skitters, pinwheeling, into Redana's bunk, legs shattered and surface ruined.

The noise that tears its way out of her throat is something that should belong to the Nemean. It is an echo of her great-grandfather's scream when the flint tore its way into his thigh, when from him came whirling galaxies and entropy and time and blood and love, smeared across the dark. For a moment, there are three shadows underneath the flickering lights, and Ares smiles through bloodless lips at Mynx, and the divinity strains to burst its way out of her bones and her flesh and her skin and smear itself across the Plousios.

And then Redana crumples to her knees, just a girl again, making gross heaving sobs, because now she can see the picture.

“We are going to put it back and pretend nothing happened.”

"Bella, this is for you! I’m going to save you and everybody else, whether or not you want to come with me, now stop! squirming!"

"I'm more than that, Redana! I'm so much more!"

"You thought I was useless. You thought I was stupid! I'm so much more than your dumb little pet, Redana! I'm a praetor, you moron! I shot you down, I brought you here! And now I'm going to bring you home because those are my orders, and there is not a fucking thing you can do to stop me!"

Every mistake. Every failure. Everything, on her shoulders, forever, while she tried to pretend she cared for the stupid ditz of a princess who brought consequence upon consequence down on her head.

She must have been so scared. And Dany had just wanted, desperately, for her mother to understand that Bella didn't have anything to do with it, that Bella shouldn't be punished for letting Dany escape, that's why, that's why if Bella wouldn't come with her, that's why she had to leave Bella in that closet, and if that was just the worst in a long line of punishments she'd been given over and over, all Redana's life, bearing everyone's responsibility, and if everyone expected her to be perfect, too, just like Dany, then--

And--

And--

Mynx is at her shoulder now, and Redana grabs at her with sudden violence, in the way that a drowning woman will. She pulls Mynx close, and her eyes are huge and blind with tears.

"Where is she, Mynx?" Her voice is quiet in the sort of way that suggests it will be very loud in a moment. It is the sort of voice that proceeds oaths and terrible dooms and declarations to mothers that can never be taken back. It is the voice of someone who is falling forever.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Giriel!

Of course, taking the time to finish the tea meant that Cathak Agata— her fires now merely a smolder, paying as much attention to the hazy rain outside as to you— is able to answer the question. You are unable to escape with that loose end dangling.

“I’ve asked myself the same question. As I said, I am not a witch, and I wouldn’t do you the dishonor of declaring to you the answers that you and your peers glean from the supernatural world that surrounds us all. But I imagine that being raised from the dead through desecration is much like being suddenly woken from slumber; and the shamans of the savage cat-women know your idioms better than we do, being your guests far from home.”

For a laywoman, not a bad guess. It’s certain that things are more complicated, but she has given you a hook for contextualization: that the ghosts of the highlands are being driven to chase off “intruders.” A tactic that would backfire on the N’yari, if they truly intended to linger in or pass through the land they drove to haunting, but— it is possible. Not certain. But possible. Fools and arrogant women alike call up what they cannot put down. That’s what falls to you, then.

“Now, Lady Giriel,” she adds— oooh, Lady. “I have one more matter to ask of you before you leave. I’ve heard that you are one of the best interpreters of omens in this land.” How thoughtful of her to word it in such a way that you aren’t necessarily obligated to correct her and tell her that Peregrine is the best. “I haven’t had the chance yet to see your methods— would you be willing to read my fate?” And here she smiles like a wolf, beautiful and perilous.

***

Zhaojun!

The occupied shrine looms suddenly around a turn in the bend, heaped up on the high earth like a vulture clinging to a crag. It is lightless, bereft of lantern or candle; the shadows cling to wooden slats and coil within the inner shrine, its doors opened. There has been desecration here, a perversion of Heaven’s laws. In such a place, even a celestial emissary might be— vulnerable.

The steep stone steps are mossy and wet, and the shrine is bereft of keeper to sweep it dry. The guide’s feet are sure, but the same cannot be said of Sagacious Crane; she stumbles and catches herself on Zhaojun’s sleeve. She stammers apologies and thanks, muddling them together, and then continues:

“...and of course I know the steps of the Husband-Seducing Demon Dance, and the Lotus-Arousing Sequence, and the Removal of Petals— which, yes, that would seem to be— I do not have the special raiment, but I am trained in the classical arts, as every priestess of my rank is expected to be, so that will be only the most minor of difficulties, o gracious and cunning Zhaojun...”

And so the three of you come to the shrine’s courtyard. Black fingers tighten on slats; a low hooting and screeching fills the air as the uncouth goblins, the bandar-logi, multiply in the shadows, each bone-white face in the midst of a dark mane ducking away before it can be seen. The guide takes up a fallen drum as Sagacious Crane lifts her poncho over her head and tosses it with practiced disdain to the stones; her top is covered in a river of beads, small and precious drops of lapis lazuli charting the deep current from shoulder to hip in amongst the many lighter glass beads in turquoise and sea-green.

She takes it by the hem and, with a shimmer of beads, with a circle of her hips, with pride in her goddess rather than herself, with a carefully-hidden seed of insecurity that an innkeeper’s daughter would be found pleasing in shape and motion to an emissary of Heaven, Sagacious Crane lifts the top a fatal fingerwidth, revealing olive skin around a stone-pierced navel, and begins her circuit around the courtyard, her eyes flashing, her feet never still, and one by one the bandar-logi grow perilously quiet and begin to emerge by their ones and twos, long limbs splayed as widely as their curling fingers, obscenely scuttling and peering at Sagacious Crane with their dark eyes.

One takes up the drum from Six Sounds Starving and continues to play without missing a beat, as the guide melts into the mist and the moment, as Sagacious Crane reveals the merest flash of her breasts’ underside and bandar-logi tumble down from rafters and flash their fangs in response, unable to tear their eyes away as the curves are again lost in a haze of beads and a spin that sends her skirt billowing.

She trusts in Zhaojun, but that trust is simply an extension of her trust in her training and order, which itself is an extension of her trust in herself, that she has chosen correctly, to the standard that she can expect from herself. If she is right, then the priestesses above her, who assigned her to this, must be right, and if they are right, then Zhaojun is right, and if Zhaojun is right, then she is capable of defeating all of these wicked things so long as Sagacious Crane keeps them enthralled. Therefore, she must do so; therefore, she has nothing to fear from the rough paws of the bandar-logi; therefore, she dances as if before the sacred idols in the Temple of the Pure Lotus, beguiling but untouchable, serene save for the palpable disdain she has for this audience, which she cannot hide, which both attracts and repels them, bringing them closer and closer in spirals and waves.

And yet there is no sign of their rakshasa-queen. Clearly, there is improvement to be found; why else would the rakshasa remain elusive? Clearly, the sweetener must be sweetened; the snack made irresistible. Or was distraction of the simple bandar-logi in and of itself the goal? Will the priestess raise her head and find no sign of Zhaojun, and disaster if she falters, and disaster when they come close enough to seize her fast— save that Zhaojun find the queen of this dream-hive and rebuke her?

***

Kalaya!

Petony swings wild. That’s a part of her reputation, too; that she can go from high to low quickly, and from low to high just as fast. And attention from a princess (who is also a knight) perks her up like a tiger who’s scented something delicious to eat.

Soon enough she’s back to laughing and lets you carefully maneuver her cup away from her. “I’m not one of the Twelve,” she says, with something almost approaching humility to those legendary knights, “but I’d go blow for blow with any one of them! And we should show the little princess— the little knight here some real action before she realizes it’s mostly flower wars and court politics!” Say what you like about Petony; she has the loyalty of her retinue, who roar wild and happy as she springs to her feet, cheeks flushed and smile dangerous.

Take a String on Petony or a benefit, and then— quick, before she leaves the room— figure out how you’re going to get her to pay. She’s supposed to have credit from her kingdom, but she’s on the outs with Rose, and she’s been racking up a major bill here, what with all she’s been drinking. An appeal to chivalry might work, but that’s still very easily a downer to her mood— and Petony swings fast.

“Say,” she adds, while you’re still thinking, “what kingdom are you sworn to, what princess caught a princess? Is it Hyacinth? It had better not be!” She throws back her head and laughs.

The Knights of the Accord of the Thorn have always been sworn to sisterhood in principle, but to the various kingdoms in practice. Thus, your sword-sister one day may be your enemy the next. This, when combined with the divisiveness of the Flower Kingdoms, means that talented knights are sought eagerly by the kingdoms, and kept close through chains of love as much as by loyalty. Many a princess has been instructed to seduce a talented knight into accepting her parents’ offer.

(This means that you, yourself, likely have: insight into the situation with Princess Meli and how her dalliance with the Red Wolf has threatened her kingdom; Opinions about the Red Wolf using her troops as mercenaries without lasting allegiance, which is making royal politics even more unstable; explaining to do about your relationship with your own kingdom and how it has nothing to do with fancying your sisters.)

***

Piripiri!

So. Here’s an idea. An idea inspired by making it to the end of the street and seeing one side fork off down a switchback to the very edge of the ward’s petal, and the barges coming and going, the people releasing lotus blossoms on the water, the people taking their lunch or their tea out on the water, and, ah, the freedom, the comparative privacy, the lack of places for Azazuka to buy you more gifts and put you into even deeper debt! The kind of place where you can look at the city again from the outside, all lit up in the rain, and sneak glances at Azazuka’s warm, beaming face (because glances are all you are getting, ma’am), and work hard on figuring out that present without a host of distractions on all sides: street vendors and people pushing past and outrageous umbrellas and landmarks and all of that, left behind you as you’re poled out into the vast lake around the city.

It is, in fact, such a flawless and excellent idea that you will receive XP if you choose to do it, maneuver Azazuka down to the docks, and hop into the barge being steered by the young woman with the scuffed trousers and the greasy ponytail. What could possibly go wrong?

***

Han!

It’s not your fault. It’s totally not your fault. It is completely not your fault.

It is not as if, say, you glared a hole through an anxious and vulnerable young woman, letting the moment stretch on longer and longer, giving her more time to compound worry upon worry, until she’s squirming and fidgeting and desperate to know if she’s done something horribly wrong after all, and then you laughed at her and told her she wasn’t like other priestesses and was thus failing at being one.

“Oh,” she says, in a devastated little voice. Her shoulders tremble with effort. “I’m s—“ She chokes on the word. “Sorry for bothering you, ma’am.”

And then? You know what she does? She doesn’t stand up and in a huff lecture you about how good fortune comes to those who respect the spiritual hierarchy of the land. She doesn’t get up all snooty and walk away to leave you to get rained on. She doesn’t even burst into tears so that everybody knows that you, Han, are the terror of every priestess from here to Lake Zenba.

She leans over (and her veil trails ever so slightly against you) as she sets the umbrella down, wedging it against the deck, so that you can keep it when she slinks away. Do you realize your mistake and act while she’s still hunched over you, or do you sit there like a slack-jawed cow until she has her palms on the deck and is starting to stand up, muttering something too small to be heard about having a good night?

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

"Forgiveness."

The Christians speak much on forgiveness: its power, its worth, its value. They neglect to explain, then, why their god will only offer it when his bloodlust is satiated on his own son. Is it because any forgiveness must include pain? Is it because, if there is not suffering, it will be forgotten, and forgiveness turn to wickedness turn to a new need for forgiveness?

There is no need for cruelty. No need to punish those that stumble beyond what they deserve. Why then does she want to see Robena suffer?

Because then her own need to suffer is obviated. Because she blames herself for showing Robena what England has become, for setting her on the path that led to the axe being buried in Pellinore's back. Because she blames herself for speaking, for thinking she could end battle with nothing more than the glory of her name and station. For thinking that she controlled Robena, that Robena was a piece in her game she was playing against the absent King and his servants. And if Robena does not suffer, then Constance must ask herself whether she deserves to suffer; and that is a terrifying thought.

"Forgiveness," she says, and takes the needle back up from where her slack fingers let it fall. "Do you think she understands the wrong she has done me, let alone the wrong she did to Pellinore? Do you think she knows her need for it? I do not know. And that is why we must find out. Whether she craves it more than she craves her life. I must be temptation, I must be desire, for only the Robena who could turn me away could stand before Pellinore and seek forgiveness. That is a funny joke, isn't it? The kind that you like, Tristan? Only if she rejects me may she have me. If she embraces me, I will see her dead by midwinter. Ha ha."

And then, Constance, you do not need to ask yourself if you love a woman who does not deserve to be forgiven, and you will not need to ask yourself whether you will forgive her for the pain she has caused you, and you do not need to know the answer. Things will be so painfully, sharply simple if Robena succumbs. That was how the old kings did it, and that is how the land still is: if you break the rules, whether or not you know them, you will die.

But if you cannot see or know the laws, how will you know when you are trapped inside them yourself?

Sunshards

Rose does not have much experience with makeup. Her mind shies away from reasons. Something about... meditation. Or travel. Or just... it slips through her fingers like fog, and it doesn’t feel good when she tries to touch it. So she exists in the now instead. In the now, where her skin feels soft and smooth and made to be touched, gleaming like a river lit only by shardlight. In the now, where her hair falls to her shoulders, transformed from thick and vine-like braids to mossy, sweet-smelling curls, glossy green-black bangs falling loose about her face, which is... small. Dainty. Pretty, in a way which makes her chest tighten and her heart race.

Her lips are so full, so golden! They make her look like a treasure. The dusting of gold on her lashes, traced around those golden eyes, rings gleaming at her lobes and (so small!) at her nose, they make her shine, put her skin into contrast, and oh, Chen will be so happy when she sees her, won’t she?

(Deep within, the nameless thing worries whether she will. It feels joy and nervousness alike; these wrists cannot hold a sword, and she was beloved because of her power and strength... wasn’t she? Would her new friends prefer her like this, a fluttering damsel in need of their help, more than the smirking, powerful warrior?)

(...would she prefer to be this, to lose herself in Rose, innocent and beautiful, to wish the candle never blown out? The coils scrape against themselves as she realizes she does not know. Maybe it would be better for the monster to sleep soundly, never to wake while Rose hangs on her girlfriend’s arm, in desperate need of both protection and adoration, able to express her love unburdened of the knowledge of the Way and the responsibilities of strength.)

Rose stands, nearly unbalancing herself, putting out one soft and useless hand to steady herself. Then she turns and flings herself into Thain’s arms, and her tears threaten to undo much hard work.

“I look beautiful,” Rose expresses about herself, in echo with something deep within. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Oh, no. It is real. The cosmetics of the Castle in the Sky struggle to hold against Rose’s happy tears, running down her cheeks no matter how she tries to stop them, getting her more and more flustered as she waves one hand to try to dry them. “I just... I never learned, and Chen didn’t complain, but... oh, you will let me show her, won’t you? Please?”

Then she looks down at herself, and squeaks, just like her best friend, who... who... who looks after her? Yes. That’s why Yue, the brave knight, is associated with protection and haplessness. How many scrapes Yue got poor, useless Rose out of! How much Rose looks up to such a gallant country swordswoman! And the precise source of the squeak is forgotten. But she squeaks, and tries to cover herself up, very much aware that silly, useless girls like her are supposed to be embarrassed and flustered when other people see their bodies on display. Not that they really do anything about it other than getting even more useless and wound up and trying haplessly to hide themselves from everyone’s stares!

(Deep within, the nameless thing flinches in embarrassment and promises to apologize to Yue one day for... certain assumptions about her, and girls like her.)

“N-not like this,” Rose stammers. Her hair flops in her face, and she contorts herself trying to brush it out of the way while not exposing herself, which leads to her failing at both counts. “You can’t, I mean, my dress, I...” Squeak! Squeak squeak goshies! She stumbles back into the hands of giggling handmaidens, who— with soothing compliments and helping her hold her hands behind her back like a good girl— sit her back down to fix her makeup before anything else happens. Oh, don’t worry, little Rose, we’ll probably get you dressed before we show your lucky girlfriend, and if we have to change your collar to complete the look we’ll be sure to keep your old keepsake safe—

And though she doesn’t know why, Rose is helplessly smiling as she blushes furiously and squirms in their hands, even as she holds hers behind her back where they’re just as useless as the rest of her, her heart racing like a champion horse, making feeble complaints and feeling everybody’s eyes on her in ways that... that, um, monks don’t get, what an odd thought that is. Of course she’s not a monk, she’s a priestess— and, more importantly, a captive. How thrilling, knowing that at the end of all this fun, Chen will come save her and pull her into a— meep!!! Gosh gosh goshies!

Breathless Dead

“So what,” Redana starts to snap, digging alfalfa out of the pancakes with her fork, “Mother decided I needed some clowns?”

Then, again, she stops, and considers what she’s said after she’s said it. She looks at Mynx again, properly, and puts the fork down with a sigh. “No,” she says. “She decided I needed friends. I’m sorry, Mynx. It’s just that... I never would have seen this side of you or Bella if I hadn’t left. You would have fooled me the whole time, and I never would have seen how much Bella really hated me, or the lengths you’d go to just to keep me safe and miserable in my little cage. And I would have thought everything was fine.”

Around them, the ten thousand nameless noises of the ship as it is stressed by the rigors of travel, slingshotted towards their next destination. The sound of pancakes, chewed. The sounds, too quiet to hear, of the body: the beating heart, the rush of blood, the flutter of breath in and out of the lungs.

“I’m surprised Bella hasn’t jumped out yet with a straitjacket and an ELF,” Redana jokes, trying to plaster over that ache. “Is she too busy chasing Alexa around and lecturing her over letting me run off with her?” And she almost hides it. Almost. Almost manages not to glance over at the door, not sure if she is scared Bella will walk in or needs Bella to walk in and be coaxed into trying the pancakes, too.

[Redana Claudius flexes her Wisdom for once and rolls a 12. She would like to ask two questions, to be answered truthfully: what can Mynx tell Redana about Bella’s secret heart; and what does Mynx want now, and how can Redana help her?]

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Zhaojun!

It is said that the language of Heaven is wreathed in flame. It is said that it is written in glyphs that are left open to the reader’s interpretation. It is said that the first language was created as a tool of control, command, and as a method of expressing yearning. And all these things are true.

But still, Sagacious Crane must be commended for only flinching a little as her mind struggles to process a tripartite verb, with the knowledge that she heard three meanings and one sound. From her composure, she has heard such language before; from the way the rhythm of her walk falters, she does not have familiarity with it. But she does not fall to her knees in awe and surrender understanding in favor of rapture.

“A marvelous saying,” Sagacious Crane says. She does not say— oh, I see. Neither does she say— I do not understand. The careful words of a woman trying to buy herself time to puzzle out a meaning.

Her desires are so simple, though the reasons and meanings behind them writhe like the bright-banded serpents of this land. How she wants to be commended, or at the very least, told that her service was acceptable. How she longs, too, to see the mighty goddess Zhaojun lay the goblins and the rakshasa low with some peerless display of celestial skill, one that means she will not have to apply herself in battle, for the priestesses of the Sapphire Court are not peerless martial artists, relying on the assistance of small gods to defend them— and here, her only weapons will be her sash and her arms, which she does not value, despite their strength and shapliness.

That desire is a ready-made snare. All one of the rakshasa need do is pull on that string and Sagacious Crane will be lost in dreams of the goddess’s victory. How far will she follow in a daze, witnessing Zhaojun defeat ever more improbable opponents with a fearsome array of second-forms and true revelations of mien, even as the goblins swaddle her in silk and carry her down below the earth, there to be both wine and glass for their feasts?

To defeat the fair folk from beyond the world’s rim, you must fight above your desire, even one as simple as the guide’s, who wishes merely to be a good guide for honored guests. You must be able to see through their beautiful lies, though they offer you the fulfillment of your heart. And then, too, you must be able to outfight them. A difficult task, indeed.

“We shall build a cage for them,” Sagacious Crane concludes, her mind still clouded by a dread of what is to come. “I shall submit myself to your wisdom, radiant star of the dawn, whose light pierces the dark and brings revelation.”

As for what she loves most? The light of Venus is pervasive, and no desire can hide beneath it. Unpeel her heart of lesser things: her adoration of the priestesshood, her time spent as a silenced novice under the absolute authority of her superiors, her desire to see the Vermillion Beast locked away in a meditative anchorhold beneath the waters of Lake Zenba, her love of chilled noodles with crab meat and finely grated cheese, and (for once, not the cliche of newborn cats) baby monkeys. Underneath all the things she enjoys, there is a precious sapphire, and it is: the second-to-last night she spent at home, eating out of a hotpot with her sisters (who she wants to provide a good example, someone they can look up to) and her parents (who she wants to make proud, who deserve a daughter who becomes renowned and successful and, most importantly, sophisticated in the way they never had the opportunity— thus, the way she strives to scrub her hill country accent clean), in the place she still unconsciously thinks of as home (an inn on a winding road through the hills, a place of a hundred needful chores, a place where she played tag and skip-rope and mock swordfights with her little sisters).

That is what Sagacious Crane of the Reeds loves most, and it is the quiet tragedy of her life that love for her family is what has sent her away from them. When she is the Abbess, she thinks to herself— then she will have fulfilled the dreams of her parents for her life, and that will be the fullest declaration of her love for them.

***

Giriel!

Cathak Agata takes your hand. She reaches across the table, all innocently intense, and squeezes her fingers against the back of your hand. “It’s not,” she says, and the fire is in your hand, now, intense and inviting. “There are lives at stake, and you’re the one who can save them. What is one shabby cloak when compared to the lives of my guards?”

As if noticing the looks she is getting, if not from you then from other customers, she seems to realize that she is touching you for the first time, and then she withdraws. The air tingles where her hand rested against your skin, achingly sensitive.

She sits back, but her eyes still smoulder with Heroic Intensity. “I have been guarding the border of the Kingdom of Rose from N’yari incursion, but in the past month, my soldiers have been haunted. Our iron is no match for the restless dead, and the fear they instill sends ordinary women and men wild with fright. I have dredged friends and companions out of the clinging mud, wrapped them in shrouds and written my condolences to their villages.”

Now you can almost taste her righteous fury, stoked around her brow like a crown— that here is an enemy that will not face her openly on the battlefield, but strikes at her subordinates instead.

“I have reason to believe the N’yari have desecrated highland graves and stoked their occupants to lamenting violence. I have come to ask you to help me set things right.”

That is a very serious claim — the N’yari haven’t been at war like that with the Flower Kingdoms since the Sister-Warlords ruled. But her sincerity is like a brand against your skin, and the cloak lies there glimmering, reminding you: you can be a hero, too.

***

Kalaya!

Petony-Phraya’s eyes are red-rimmed. The dark shadows under her eyes have run in unsightly circles onto her cheeks. She sulks in her great tigerskin cloak like someone half her age, her hook sword lying unsheathed on her lap, a half-empty bottle of plum wine at her elbow.

One of her retinue unfolds from the shadows to remove you: a large boy with a half-shaved head. But before he can lay a hand on you, Petony raises one hand, cowing him with a barked, incoherent command. Then she glares at you like you’re the midday sun.

“Princesses,” she says. The warriors sitting around the long table, legs folded beneath them or sprawled out on the reef mats, nod in agreement. She stares at... no, through you. It’s unlikely she immediately recognized you as a princess. Like, she couldn’t have, right? You’re a brave, bold knight, and you deserve to be at this table.

(How long have you been a knight, anyhow? And what makes you worry she can see right through you anyway?)

“They promise that you’re special, and let you kiss them in the gardens, like you’re sneaking around, like it’s a game. They try to make you stay, make you another one of their family’s tools. That’s all it is. A big scam. We’re just their dogs. Well,” she says, and her voice is rising, becoming piercing, like the mighty war cry of the Tiger Knight, “this dog has fangs, Meli! Down with princesses! Down with liars, pretenders, and royals!”

Drinks are had, and smoke rings are exhaled, and Petony glares balefully at the ring in the wood by her hand, worn by hundreds of cups incautiously placed directly on the table. “Where’s the new cup,” she slurs to herself. “Can’t even... new cup...”

***

Piripiri!

You may be charming. A single flower would do quite well. Just take care not to be too charming. It suits Cathak Agata’s purposes to be reluctantly pursued but never caught by Azazuka, always just out of her reach; you have been forbidden to present an alternative to the daughter of merchants. For if Azazuka were to fall for you?

You would be invited to have tea with Cathak Agata in the Black Spur Redoubt. And you would stay there until certain things were found to have been made perfectly clear. You are not a player in the Game, Piripiri; you are a pawn.

So do be charming. Be an associate, be a friend, but do not dare to be anything more.

“Oh, daaaarling,” Azazuka says, looking back over her shoulder and beaming at you. “Do come look at this! Isn’t it simply delightful?” Her voice has an excitable trill to it, as if she’s seeing everything for the first time, despite the fact that she must have attended this festival every year growing up. And in her hands she has— ah! A model of the entire city, each ward shaped like a lotus’s petal, with the towers of the citadel rising from the center like stamen. The wards fold in on the center, around those towers, revealing intricate decoration in gold leaf, and careful interlocking facets to hold it closed, still in the shape of a lotus flower.

This flower she hands to you. “Here,” she says, as if it is not a completely inappropriately expensive gift. “So you’ll always remember being in the most beautiful city in the world.” The model is warm where she touched it, but not as warm as her smile. One of her attendants opens a purse and starts counting out golden coins as she takes your hand and pulls you along, barely giving you the chance to find somewhere to put the model.

It had better be a very good flower, darling.

***

Han!

The priestess... giggles. It’s like drops of rain dripping from the branches during a lull, breaking the placid surface of a lake, clear and high. If you were extremely attentive, or were one of the mountain witches, you’d be able to notice the subtle echo contained within the laugh, as if it were bouncing around a grotto. But your analysis likely starts and ends with “wow pretty.”

One hand flutters up to that veil while she tries to regain her composure. (Bereft of both hands on it, the umbrella tilts and bonks you on the hat before she manages to get it under control.) “I’m sorry,” she says, “I’m so sorry, it’s just, you’re just like her! Marchi, from— uh,” she adds, inexplicably flustered by herself, “That is, she’s from where I’m from, that general area, not really that close when you really think about it, but there’s this person who is named Marchi and she’s just like that, she growls just like her tiiiiiiger,” she finishes, having been completely unable to find a different word that started with “tie” and made any contextual sense.

“Ugh!” She says. “I’m sorry, I’m talking too much! I just don’t know when to shut up, do I?” Oh. Oh wow. It is very obvious this priestess has never ever met a N’yari. That’s the perfect set-up for one of their punchlines. “I just, okay, you got me, I was lying when I said I came over here because it was too noisy over there, I just... you looked lonely. And that’s what we’re supposed to do, right? Us priestesses. We’re supposed to look out for people.”

Then, quietly, conspiratorially, impossibly, she whispers to you, all uncertain vulnerability: “Am I doing it wrong?”

And that’s when it clicks that, unlike any other priestess in your experience, this little flowerbud isn’t looking to manipulate you and give you a lecture. This is the first time they’ve let her out of the temple alone, and what she wants from you right now is reassurance she isn’t a screwup. But when she came over here? All she wanted was to shelter you from the rain.

But that’s okay, because you’re great at reassuring people. Just the best, right? That’s a thing you know how to do. Just, like, make a joke. Tell her how you’ll shut her up for her, or something. Or ask if, wow, she really is a priestess (because of how not like Certain Other People You Know she is). You have got this on lockdown.