Tatterdemalion

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

Winter is still and quiet and cold. The serpent curls beneath the rocks and dreams of the sun. Winter is dark and lightless. And Constance is draped in winter. For a moment, she is tempted— the snow crunches under her fingers— and then she lets it fall back to the earth through numb fingers. Its fall is whisper-soft.

She sits in that palimpsest dress by the fountain and lets her fingers drift through the water. It is cold as ice. Later, she will regret this, hand clutched against her breast as she hisses in the agony of feeling returning. But she is not here for herself. She is here for Sir Coilleghille.

The candles are wan. The dress promises skin beneath it, if only a layer or two more was pulled aside. One golden curl rests against her pale cheek. The choice of whether to approach remains in Robena’s hands.

Breathless Dead

You only get one miracle, Redana. You only get one person saved from you. You can’t call down Olympus to stop you every time you want to hurt someone.

She hooks her fingers in Dolce’s wool and lifts him up off the ground with the strength of an Olympic athlete. The things coming out of her mouth aren’t understandable words anymore. They’re just hurt and betrayed syllables sliding out from between her lips.

She slams him against the instruments so hard that not even the insulating wool can protect him entirely, and screams, even as the ship begins its long, slow drift out of the storm. It won’t escape unscathed, but it’s not going to dive into destruction, either.

She’s crying. She’s crying and shaking and falling apart, but she’s still got a grip on Dolce as she slams him into the wall again, and again, and again, until she tosses him aside and, growling like an animal, claws at the clogged pipe. Someone who was patient and careful could clear it. Redana is likely to just get it crammed in deeper.

But what when she realizes that? Will she call down the thunder? Will the Nemean tear open the hull? Will that incredible capability for violence finally be turned against the crew by a gods-maddened princess, and yet another journey to Gaia fail, torn apart by Aphrodite?

The defense of the crew and ship falls again to the (bruised, battered, brave) Captain.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Zhaojun!

An unruly pack of wind-gods meet the Messenger of Heaven on the slopes of Mount Fang. They are inconstant, not in the manner that Mercury is but in the sort of way that the Moon is, waxing and waning through shadow and light, and like the choirs of the Moon (whose musical output is eclectic), they are creatures who do not take well to the song of domination. Or, rather, it might be better to say they sing it as a round, and woe to the one buried under their verses.

They circle around Zhaojun on their leopards and jackals until one approaches directly in the high airs, where the gods play their dramas, seeing but unseen to all but the wise. Her leopard bares its long silver fangs, the winds caressing the opals and turquoise woven into its braids.

“Hail, star-daughter,” the wind-god says. Her third eye is merry and promises mischief, the same as her flickering heart. Her accent is excruciatingly thick and terrestrial, a thing befitting a lesser spirit. “Have thou business ere? Hie up hither on mine ounce.” She scruffles her leopard affectionately and grins through curved teeth. “Thou’s hae a ride as fits lowland hindways fineful, blue-shine. Or this one’s no Jenny Tosstrees.”

...she seems to be offering a ride on her leopard. It’s possible that accepting would put the Emissary in her debt or leave her open for their pranks, but refusal might be perilous while surrounded by half a dozen wind-gods. By right they should yield to Heavenly authority, of course. And presenting them with her scheme directly might play on that love of mischief— if they do not choose to spite her, instead.

***

Piripiri!

Blood rushes to the warlock’s cheeks. Shame burns in her eyes, and anger that she feels ashamed, and confusion, because this isn’t how this is supposed to go. “Are you paying attention,” she hisses. “I’m in charge here,” she says. A rookie mistake. If you’re in charge, you only say that after establishing, without a doubt, that you are. “Your life is in my hands,” she adds, and looks away, having lost the staredown completely.

“In fact,” she says, standing, starting to pace, “you’ll regret your impudence. You’ll wish I tossed you back! Then at least your suffering would be brief. I was taught by the Princes of Hell how to hurt someone. And I’ll do it! You should have begged me for mercy!”

One of the Wrack-dolls laughs.

It’s a shuddering, wheezing sound, a thing of rusted metal scraping against itself, but it’s laughter. Ven turns on her heel and shoves the nearest Wrack-doll back into its brethren, hard, and the sound of that happening is auditory torture, like being stuck in an abandoned armory during an earthquake.

“I! AM! IN! CHARGE!” She yells, like someone who desperately needs to believe it. She snaps her fingers and the Wrack-dolls collapse to their knee guards, shrouded heads bowed, while the warlock breathes hard and fast and furious.

The look she gives you is furious. Like it’s your fault that she is airing out her insecurities in front of a prisoner, like a cut-rate opera villain. (It takes a very special kind of person to play the tropes beloved of Hell straight and not get that reaction, to be fair.)

“Take her,” she orders. “To the Gate. I will call on the Laema later.” (The Laema, the Modiste of Hell; she intends to give you a most indecent makeover. Not being a witch, the most you have are stories about that serpent-witch and her infernal fashions.) The Wrack-dolls stand, and two cut the rope between your wrists and ankles, hauling you up to your feet.

Take a String on Ven, having embarrassed her in front of her own demons.

***

Giriel!

“Oh,” Peregrine says, halfway to Giriel’s lair. “Hello.”

You’ve been walking next to each other all this time, and it’s only now that she’s aware enough of anything outside of her own head to properly recognize you. On either side are Uusha’s brigands, and before and behind, too; Uusha herself leads from behind, covering the trail in your wake.

“Generality is a dead end,” she continues. “Encoding specific narrative through the translation is key to being able to enforce it.” Peregrine is talking about her current pet theory: she thinks she can translate the tongue of the gods into music in order to create heightened meaning and symbolism, and that all sorcery somehow echoes or points back to it. The only rub is that she’s the only witch who can seem to get it to work; every other witch who’s tried has ended up with a burning, ruined instrument. “I told them a story,” she continues. “One about that soldier.”

This soldier... the Red Wolf? Uusha? Someone else? She knows what she means.

***

Kalaya!

Ugh. Of course you’d be that sweet and sentimental. Easy enough to manipulate, but... gross.

It must have just been this, Kalaya: that the priestess needs to be protected just like Ven needed you. That’s why you thought of her. When she glances up at you for a moment, she now reads as bashful, in need of a strong knight to protect her. Being that beautiful? It must really be a curse. Everyone probably thinks of her as just a pretty girl and doesn’t take the time to look past her lovely eyes and effortless grace. Not like you. You’re a good person.

“Because Heaven has willed it,” she says. “It’s not our place to argue with— oh, and she’s gone.” She leans in close and whispers, conspiratorially: “Half the time, I don’t even know what she means. We just have to trust that she knows what she’s doing. Which means— can you introduce me?” She touches your arm, looking for reassurance and protection, and peeks past you to Petony. “I’m afraid I don’t know the knights of the Flower Kingdoms as well as I should. But I’m sure that you’re all doing your very best to keep us safe.”

But don’t you think that Petony is leering a bit too much? That was, indeed, not exactly a respectful look that your mentor was giving the innocent, sweet-hearted young woman. Really, more like an assessment. Probably just saw her as a hot body and a sultry voice, and you should definitely let her know what you think about that.

There’s even an XP in it for you, if you do.

***

Han!

There’s only so much water that one of the N’yari is willing to handle in one day. Machi doesn’t admit that she’s beaten; she just stops trying to get on the barge, claws her way up furiously onto the bank, and whistles for her girls.

You spin around to fix Hanaha and Kigi with your best “get outta town” glare, eyes narrowed, promising them a world of trouble if they don’t get going. And you glare so powerfully that Hanaha decides that she needs to delay you so that you don’t get any cute ideas about hitting them with umbrellas as you go.

So, looking you dead in the eyes, the N’yari raider steals your hat off the priestess’s head, sets the priestess down on the railing, and shoves her over. Then she scampers in the other direction as quick as she can, gleeful, because she knows you’re going to dive right in after her.

Without even really letting yourself think, you leap over the side, ready to dive down to the bottom of the river to save her, and only after you’ve hit the point of no return do you see her, legs up against the barge, impossibly floating on top of the water.

Which means that landing on her is a lot like falling off a log placed over a river. She can’t go underneath the water, no matter how much pressure you’re putting on her, and that leaves you churning your legs under the water and grabbing at her robes to try and stabilize yourself. You end up rolling her a couple of times over the top of the water with muffled grunts and squeaks before you manage to get steady.

She looks away, and what you can see of her suggests that she’s absolutely mortified about this incredibly normal priestess thing. You’ve never heard of a priestess doing this, but they probably just don’t tell the likes of you about their amazing walking-on-water powers. After all, the Sapphire Mother is a goddess of the waters, so it stands to reason that they can all do this and Crane just hasn’t shown it off in front of you because her training trumps her need to rub everything in your face.

You did it! You saved the day. And now you’re soaked, your hat’s gone, you broke a whole bunch of umbrellas, nobody’s going to want you to stay on that barge even after you untie them, and you’re inconveniencing a priestess after you tried to give her a rescue she didn’t even need.

And the worst part is that Machi’s breath still lingers on your mouth. The feel of her still weighs on you. That’s the first time you’ve ever been properly confessed to, and it’s not going away anytime soon. The process of actually setting everyone free is going to be an embarrassed blur of awkward coughing and zoning out as you think about muscles and kisses and being picked up and held.

Feel free to try to leave after, feeling the weight of those glares on you, hearing the murmurs, knowing that everybody blames you for what happened. Even the priestess seems to be keeping to herself, looking over the broken pieces of the umbrella she tried to give you. (A smarter girl might realize not all the murmurs are about you, and that she’s trying to avoid talking to anybody more than trying to avoid you, but you’re busy wallowing in this feeling. Go ahead. Wallow away.)

Mark a Condition, too. You were playing rough and hard there at the end, and your heart hasn’t had a chance to have a breather. That, and that injury’s definitely making itself known.

Sunshards

Oh, gosh! Goshies! She’s— she’s in charge of— it’s her responsibility to decide what should happen to Cyanis? That’s a whole lot of responsibility!

Okay, what sort of perfect punishment would be just right for Cyanis? Think, Rosie, think! Something that would make her feel so special and safe and ready to obey. Something that would make her feel just like you, Rose!

“She should... have to entertain Princess Jessic,” Rose says. It’s perfect! Imagine Cyanis, in just the cutest of outfits, chained to a mighty dragoness’s paw, asked to lift spirits and bring smiles and tell stories! Oh, oh, that’s important. “And, and she won’t be allowed to go until she’s told Jessic a better story than anything she’s ever heard! And her royal title will be the Court Cutie! And—“

Wait, Rose! How can she be so mean to Cyanis? Rose can see her so vividly, eyes full of betrayal, pleading desperately for Rose to go along with her story. And isn’t that what foxes want? They want to tell stories so clever that everybody else dances along to them! And, sure, yes, she did need to answer the Countess honestly, but... but doesn’t Cyanis deserve someone who does her best for her, too?

“B-but,” Rose continues, “whatever she deserves... I deserve a lot worse.” Some strange feeling is roiling deep inside her. Like... it’s right. For silly, useless, weak Rose to protect somebody else however she can. “Because she’s telling the truth! I’m a muh... I’m a muh...”

The words clog in her throat and she tears up. She’s found something she can’t say. Something that’s worse than spankies. If she says those words they’ll eat her all up just like a monster, a real real monster.

“I’m a bad girl,” Rose manages to squeeze out. “I’m really, really good at lies. And duplicating. And everything else that Cyanis said, because really she is a good girl.”

Really, the best punishment for Cyanis would be to make her come in here and look at the absolutely miserable expression on Rose’s face as she tries as hard as she can to internalize everything her friend said about her. Because she’s agreeable and helpful and trying her very best to distract the Countess with someone who much, much more needs punishment, right? Look at her, she’s obviously been plotting the downfall of the entire sky kingdom this entire time! And the only reason that it’s still up in the sky must be that she’s...

She’s bad at being a bad girl.

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

Would that Eve had been so cunning! Had she simply been armed with such a bullet, then perhaps all of her children would have been born in grace. The serpent would have slunk away in shame. Constance, however, rises up in a flickering fury. The candlelight doesn’t quite meet her face, but the offense is clear.

“Are you a child, Sir Coilleghille?” Her voice is something like the creaking of ice on the river, but the warmth of her humanity spreads through the cracks. It is difficult enough not to be angry at the sudden sting, the shock of unexpected coldness, when you are not brooding and anxious and miserable in the waiting all at once.

“Would you rather I left you to what’s coming, then? Do you think miracles grow on bushes ripe for the picking?” Snow trickles down her delicate dress, white lost in the dark, and she writhes like a snake to dislodge it. “You wilful creature!”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Piripiri!

The warlock is short.

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the light and get a good look at her. She is looking over you with an appraising eye. The hand curled under her chin is flesh and blood; the one cupping her elbow is made of ornate green-stained brass, from fingertip to bare shoulder. From the old burn scars visible there, the fitting was not a pleasant process.

“Well,” she says, finally. Her smile is a knife. “It looks like the rat actually brought me something worthwhile. If it isn’t one of the spoiled merchant brats. The sort of girl that thinks money is a substitute for lineage.”

Azazuka’s spirited attempts at insults continue even when the warlock grabs her by the curls and viciously yanks her head back. “I wonder how much your family will contribute to the Work, thinking I’ll give you back. Thinking that I will have a place for those traitors and cowards in the kingdom to come.”

She considers Azazuka, red-faced, drool bubbling on her gag as she tries to pull her hair free, spirited and braver than you might have expected. Her voice drops, a ragged hoarseness at the edges. “But I might find a place for you,” she says, trying and failing to keep her voice steady. “Every queen needs a pet, after all.”

She shoves Azazuka down onto the tiles, hard, and steps on her. There’s a sadistic glee in her grin as Azazuka writhes under her foot, the sort of nastiness that you might recognize from your school days: a subject of bullying now come into power, drunk on it. “Faithless. Honorless. Arrogant. Pathetic. I’ll make you learn your place.”

Then she pulls back, takes a ragged breath, and composes herself. “And what is this one,” she asks, looking at you as Azazuka tries and fails to get back up onto her knees. “A guard? A suitor? A sycophant?” She lets her eyes drift up and down your half-dressed body. “A whore?”

She squats, cups your cheek with her brass hand, traces the ball between your lips with her thumb. “Plain,” she concludes. “Unimportant. Disposable.”

Do you gather information, scion of Hymair, do you read into the bitterness of her eyes and the eagerness of her cruelty? Or do you show her true nobility, entice her with a look of intriguing defiance?

***

Kalaya!

The priestess approaches you on quiet feet, turning her umbrella’s handle in slender fingers. Her shoulders are bare and smooth; her eyes are painted with subtle violet. She considers you before she speaks, and her voice is a soft and smoldering whisper.

“My Mistress is here to advise you, Kalaya-Phraya. The Flower Kingdoms are in turmoil, and Heaven means to set them into right order. You are to be the instrument of our will. Together, we will do wonderful things. But— as my Mistress bids— we must begin with the Peacock-star. An act of daring, something that will exalt your name.”

When she finally meets your eyes, her eyes are dark and lovely and hard to look away from; the contrast with her bright, expensive veil is even more striking. There are few secrets to that sort of gaze.

Kalaya-Phraya, as you consider her words, you are yourself evaluated by that even gaze, by this beautiful, enchanting, just-your-type priestess? Sure, you might have been thinking about that Snapdragon princess, but if you keep looking at the priestess, you really should keep looking at her, doesn’t she look like her, too?

Like her but fully blossomed, even. Better than you could have dreamed. Or perhaps exactly as you could have dreamed, little ditz. Is there anything in your heart but dreams of heroism? Iron and Salt, are we going to have to do a rescue romance?

Kalaya-Phraya, how could Victorious Vixen of Violets act, or change herself, in order to make you Smitten with her? And don’t worry about saying it out loud. Your heart squeals like a squeezed songbird. Enough to make a girl... thirsty.

***

Zhaojun!

There is a surefire way to make sure Victorious Vixen of Violets wins the heart of Kalaya-Phraya and wins glory enough to swell her ego. Oldest trick in the book.

Kalaya needs to save Victorious Vixen from peril. It needs to be terrible peril, but the sort that can be controlled by Heaven’s strings: no demons or fairies need apply. Kalaya needs to be seen doing this by onlookers who can sing her praises. And, of course, there must be a contingency plan in case Kalaya falters.

This much would be clear before the eye of the goddess. So, too, would be the ease with which these two knights could be maneuvered: like pieces on a Gateway board.

Now, the real question is what sort of peril? Wild animals are a classic, easily warded from causing risk, but perhaps anything smaller than an elephant stampede would just be too ordinary. The local moon-touched barbarians, perhaps, would make for an excellent choice; one could play on the extant animosities in order to increase Kalaya’s own glory, if a suitable champion was met and defeated in battle, a squirming Vixen tossed over one shoulder the entire time. Consider also the Dominion, beloved by Mars; seeing Venus’s champion overcome them in the name of love would be a thrill, would it not? One would need to falsify evidence and have her arrested for crimes against the local Embassy, of course, or arrange for her to catch the eye of the local Dominion emissary.

Whatever must be done, surely Victorious Vixen of Violets will understand the necessity. She is, after all, the perfect student, submissive to her Mistress’s will, and not likely to act on pique. Even if her role requires her to be paraded to a gallows so that Kalaya can knock down the hangman at the last moment, well, of course she would meekly place her faith in her Mistress.

She can, in fact, be taken as such a dependable asset that there is no reason to inform her of any plans until they are already in motion.

***

Giriel!

With hot, angry, flustered tears in his eyes, Kayl turns and flings himself into the dark, sure-footed as a goat, running away from something too big and fearful for him. He’s gone and away soon enough. You did your part for him.

Well done.

Uusha lowers her hand and rests it (possessively?) on your shoulder. “Not hollowed out by fire yet,” she concedes. “Come with us, Honored Sister. There’s work to be done.”

The choice isn’t really between accepting or politely declining. If you refuse, do you really think Uusha will just let you leave? But if you challenge her to fight, even though she’d fight you one on one... she’s Uusha.

Do you really think you can fight your way through her to keep your promise? Or perhaps not. You are a witch, after all, and Peregrine is lost in thought; you might be able to call upon the dead or the forest gods. Or perhaps you will stretch that promise long, say to yourself: I will come, Agata, but you will have to wait.

***

Han!

Machi has left herself vulnerable. Not wide open, not her— but she’s expecting you to squirm and fight for leverage and try to roll on top of her, or get her in some sort of lock.

Which means you can sucker punch her right in the kitty bitties and when she flinches, that’s when you get your legs under her and flip her over the side. After that? You’ll have to stop her from climbing back on board the barge, and you have just the tools to use: grab a couple of umbrellas and fend her off with them until she gives up and claws her way back onto the shore. Sure, you might have to break a couple, but what’s a broken umbrella or two, right?

Then use the umbrellas to get Hanaha and Kigi off the barge, taunt the N’yari to keep their attention, grab the priestess, and leg it. If you know anything about Machi (though you definitely know less than you thought you did, apparently, as new avenues of Machi knowing have suddenly revealed themselves), she’ll leave the barge alone to chase the two of you, and she’ll have to call off pursuit eventually or risk being caught out by a knight’s retinue.

Then the wedding party will just need to wait until someone struggles loose or another barge drifts downriver. And, Mother be praised, there’s even the faint glimmer of lanterns far upriver that suggests another might be on its way.

Now all you need to do is look possessive, warm, heavy, needy Machi in her (surprisingly tender) eyes and give her a haymaker to the tits so hard that every gal on the barge is going to flinch in sympathy. Get on that, kitten!

Breathless Dead

"The ship belongs to the Captain. The crew belongs to the Captain," Redana recites back at Dolce with a sneer. "The ship is mine, the crew is mine. Thus. Come on, even I can do this! It's a simple logical statement. If the ship and crew are mine, and they belong to the Captain, then I am the Captain. You've spelled it out yourself! And if I cannot help her with these, then to Tartarus with them! To Ixion's Wheel with us all!"

She begins fiddling with a dial. A dial that, yes, when you pull that hanging cord, signals to the engine room that more speed is necessary. That storm's coming up fast and hard, and in another heartbeat there will be no way to stop; the Plousios won't be able to deaccelerate in time without shearing itself apart.

"I have her blood on my hands, little cook!" Easy mistake to make, Redana. That's yours, dried. From where you've been punching walls and mirrors. "Hers, and Mynx's! I tore her apart! I wanted to, and wanting's the same as doing, and I gave her the death she wanted all this time, the death I didn't want for her, I didn't want for any of them, why, why am I worth dying for?"

She punches the dial and it crunches under her knuckles. Then she rests her forehead on the wall and her shoulders tremble.

"Back to the kitchens, little cook," she says, in a small, still voice. "Or I'll kill you, too."

It's not a threat. Not in that voice. Just fear that she's telling the truth.

Sunshards

If. If! Rose has had enough trouble learning to compensate for her chest, thank you, and if she is struggling right now, it is because she is trying to stop things from falling out, or getting stuck in particularly sweaty places, or just falling over, which is difficult enough when she’s trying to carry picture frames as big as she is! It’s not like she’s some big, strong champion who could carry all this effortlessly, and Cyanis, to boot! She’s just small, helpless, and useless without someone to guide her!

Not that she can talk back, of course. Like a naughty little thing, she is tempted to use her mouth in ways that would not pleasure her mistress. It’s a good thing she can’t! Wherever would she without her gag? It’s there to help her when she’s too silly to remember her rules! Thank you for gifting it to her, Countess!

Instead, Rose squeaks when Cyanis stuffs another tablecloth down her top, grunts when Cyanis tosses another painting on top of the other three and Rose has to catch it and ends up falling on her little tushie, and makes a worried little murr when Cyanis fills her cloak’s pockets with silverware. She is sworn to carry your burdens, Cyanis, but she’s definitely over encumber... encumber...

The fact that she can’t remember the word makes her face heat up and makes the nameless thing inside her writhe in shared embarrassment. How is a silly little thing like her supposed to remember big hard Countess words? And how is a silly, weak, dainty thing like her supposed to carry all this for Cyanis?

Unless. Unless. Maybe it’s a test. Maybe it’s one of the Countess’s no-win tests. Rose has to adjust her grip on the frames desperately. Why are her palms so sweaty? Why is her heart racing? Being punished is bad! Being put into a position where you can’t win so that you can learn just how much control the Countess has over you is... is just...

(It’s safe. It’s being spanked. It’s being called names that make her a squirmy mess. It’s being given extra chores. It’s being given penalties, tied up tighter, watching a timer while she dangles upside-down. And she’s always let out. She’s always let out. She’s never punished without being told how long it will last, she’s never locked in Rose’s Naughty Corner longer than the Countess said she’d be there. That’s why. Because it’s what hurt her, but defanged, made something that makes her squirm and clench her pretty thighs tight.)

Cyanis’s head snaps up. Rose immediately turns all her attention to her fox friend, just in case she’s about to be given new orders— and indeed, she’s right! “Over here!” Cyanis tugs on her leash frantically, darting into a shadowed side passage, and Rose hobble-hops desperately to keep up, trying so very hard not to fall over and not to drop anything and not to think about failing to catch up and—

Cyanis pulls her close around the corner, puts one silly hand over Rose’s face like she needs that to keep Rose quiet, while Rose keeps shifting and trying not to spill paintings everywhere. Why was she hurried over? Why are they hiding? Is this a game? Did Cyanis see an enemy? Why does she like being held like this? (Oh, right! The Countess doesn’t even need to be here for her to remember: it’s because she’s a desperate little slut! Gosh, that was easy! She’s sorry for being so sex-crazed that all she can think about is that hand pressing down harder and harder on the tightly-packed cloth and how much she loves it, Miss Cyanis!)

“You left a trail,” Cyanis moans in her ear, and Rose realizes: oh, no, she did! Gold coins and silver forks and egg-sized gems, all leading up to the two of them! She’s sorry, she’s so sorry, Miss Cyanis, it’s just that you were making her go so fast and she was just trying not to fall over or drop all the paintings and—

“Run!!” Cyanis lets go of her and smacks her rear to set her off like a race horse. And Rose, flustered, useless, flusterpated Rose, gets her heels caught in the cloak and goes down on the paintings in a huge clatter of bangles and treasures and paintings and a fox scrabbling on top of her. At least somebody picks up Cyanis by the scruff of her neck. Up she goes! With a meep and an eep! A squeak, even!

Which means, for a moment, just the blink of an eye, Rose gets to lie on top of a portrait of the Countess, helpless in the knowledge that she’s been a naughty, useless girl, and she deserves to be punished, and a good girl wouldn’t wiggle so eagerly knowing that, and therefore she needs even more training to learn to be a good girl, which is a much, much more complicated and interesting thing than she’d thought back when she was just a priestess.

Then she, too, is picked up by her collar and whisked away with a hmmph! and a mmmph! and a jingle of treasures still, still tumbling out of her top!

[Rose gains +1 XP for getting a 6 on Defying Disaster, netting her the coveted First Advance, which she will spend on Mirror Ball from the Dream Mirror.]

Breathless Dead

Redana blinks. The words shoot through her like darts through mist, embedding themselves in glass shards. She stares at Dolce. Then she laughs.

It is not the laugh of someone who is stable, of sound mind, and sober. It is not the laugh that one particularly might wish to hear from a captain, unless they have already evacuated every non-essential crew member as they order the throttle to be locked into full acceleration and the beak of the Eater of Worlds yawns wide to accept their vessel.

“Once upon a time,” she says, booping Dolce on his adorable nose, “there was a whipping-girl. Her job was to take every single punishment that her mistress deserved. And then, one day, the princess— her mistress— her— she ran away from home and left the whipping-girl behind.”

Redana rakes her hand through her hair, and looks at Dolce with wild bacchanal eyes. Her voice remains perfectly ship-shape, each word precise and trotting into place like an obedient sheep.

“Designations,” she sneers. “If I leave my Bella to starve on some broken husk of a Hermetic toy factory, then I would deserve the torments of the Kindly Ones!”

Dionysus does not so much as flinch. Mynx mouths “what the fuck.” For a moment, the only sound is the throb of blood in the ears. There is no sound of the snapping of claws. There is no scrape of chitin. Burning eyes do not appear in the yawning mouth of the door.

They only sometimes come when called.

They’re very busy, you see.

But there’s this game, Dolce. You wouldn’t have played it, but you can’t be among rogues and scoundrels without hearing hopefully-exaggerated stories.

You lay out daggers on a table. Each player takes turns plunging them against their own breast. Play continues clockwise around the table until you find the one that doesn’t agreeably fold back into itself.

Redana needs to stop talking.

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

“The castle will be dark,” Constance declares, not as a request; rather, as if she was relating something that had happened to her on a Yuletide long past, when she was a child. “There will be few welcoming lights. Her footfall will be heavy in echoing halls, without tapestry, without rushes under her boot. There will be the sound of running water from the fountains, the ice-cold water, trickling through the courtyard. And there she will find me, among the dying dark-paned lanterns. There she will take the fruit from my hand, or else cast it aside. When we have done our part, when we have said our words, then let you serve the boar, and make merry with her; and send a plate to my room, if you would. I may not eat it, but I would rather have it there to hand should I wish it.”