Tatterdemalion

Breathless Dead

Skotos does not share in the glory of Redana. Every sunbeam casts its shadow, after all, and here they are, off and to the left. If they were ambitious, they might be pained by how perfect, how effortless a princess Nero’s heir has become. They might compare themselves unfavorably to her; after all, surely the difference between her and them is that Skotos does not have the virtue and character to be like Redana. The universe is arrayed in hierarchy; the high ascend to their rightful places, and the low settle in their appropriate spheres.

This, then, is where Skotos belongs: lacking in charisma, dignity, presence, and honors. They are all but anonymous, a saffron robe and an all-shrouding hood. Beneath Redana, beneath Dolce, and most definitely beneath Bella, lost in the cosmos, drowned under shining waves.

The most that they are willing or required to influence proceedings is when they offer Alexa a glass of wine while Dolce speaks, mutely. Not because Skotos knows about Alexa’s new tongue, but simply because they have a tray of wine for the toast to the captain. Really, the wine is the notable thing here; Skotos is interchangeable with any other member of the cult, even with furniture if you’re not really paying attention.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Zhaojun!

“You are obviously a spirit of great power,” Machi says, her voice reverent. “You even talk in riddles like a sage.”

Then she smiles. It’s positively feral. “Which means when I defeat you and force you to grant my wishes, you’ll be able to bring our warband to glory!”

This is why comparative theology is an important subject.

The heavenly emissary will find herself assailed on all sides by both sweaty catgirls and desires of glory, adoration, love, plunder, physical striving, and victory. The uncomplicated but yearning desires of simple girls.

Their plan is simple: they mean to wrestle the emissary down and twist limbs until she concedes and agrees to grant their wishes. This might be a somewhat undignified way of being able to manipulate them all the more easily. It might also be a shame that the heart of the emissary cannot endure. Will it come to swords and firewands? Or will Zhaojun somehow outwrestle half a dozen baying N’yari?

***

Kalaya!

It is moon-dappled night and you cannot sleep.

You have encamped on the far side of the river that runs between Rose and Mount Fang. It is the quiet hours of the night; the rain is a gentle pitter-patter on the canvas over your head, and the insects sing in their orchestras. The cooking-fire is simmering low embers beneath its umbrella. The air is warm and wet all around you, though that’s hardly unusual. These are the Flower Kingdoms, after all.

You get up and slip out of the tent you are (by her request) sharing with the priestess, who teased you not to peek as she got ready for bed, and seemed perhaps a little disappointed that you didn’t. She is surely asleep. Not that you notice the glimmer of light beneath her lids as she watches you go.

A walk. That’s what you need. Your legs will still be sore come morning, but all of this destiny mess is going to crack your head in two if you don’t move. You walk in the muted silver light of the moon hidden behind the clouds, through pale shadows, trying to exorcise the confusion that swells in your heart like mist rising off the river.

Then you hear it: the clash of swords. Your sword is already in your hand, even before you draw close and realize that it is one traveler by night, hidden in cloak and straw hat, against three N’yari. The traveler weaves a net of steel around themselves, but even so, it is clear the N’yari will win this fight inevitably; the traveler must fight as hard as they can against three raiders lazily darting in and out. Go and even the odds.

***

Han!

The little bud stops to think. She really considers. But she’s still quick to come to her conclusion.

“No. No, I’m not going to change my mind. Unless you’re trying to tell me I’m not wanted, but I think you’d just say that if that’s what you meant. You’re very... earnest. Simple, even.” That... didn’t sound like she knew how that sounded. “Besides, that’s probably not true. If people see that you’re looking after a priestess, they’re more likely to excuse crass behavior outright or ask me to correct you, rather than being gossips about it, and— oh!! Hello!!”

A little brown fox darts out of the shadows and zooms over to the priestess, who kneels down and greets one of the messengers of the Sapphire Mother as if it’s a beloved family pet. She even takes its little paws in her hands!

“Mmhm? Really? Oh, thank you.” Yip! Yip yip! Arf! Tail wag! “Oh, while you’re here, what do you think of her? I think— mmhm! That’s what I thought, too. And she’s... oh, gosh!” She looks up at you and, even though it’s dark, you can feel the sparkliness. (And, conversely, Incredibly You Energy coming off the tattletale fox.) “Of course! How could I not realize? You’re a daughter of the Thunder Dragon! That’s why you’re so heroic!”

She lets her veil fall to one side so she can give that dumb brat fox kissies on its dirty muddy face, and then fusses it back into place. “Well, that settles it. I’ve always wanted to meet one of the dragon-blooded! Eee, this is so! So! Just so exciting!!”

***

Piripiri!

“Finally,” the Laema hisses, adjusting her bulk on the couch so that she can get a better look at you, “one of them with deeply-buried taste and sense. Though it should know to address its betters appropriately: it is to use my terrible Lord when speaking to the Prelapsarians. Still, we will forgive this lapse in decorum the once. Forget again and we will not be so generous.” Pointing out that discrete gender markers in address are in fashion these days would be a foolhardy thing to do.

One long scarlet nail the size (and sharpness) of a sword lifts your chin. “If we were to use other colors for it, we would draw from page-whites and boar-blacks. It might like gaudy colors like most of its kind, but that is because it is ignorant of sumptuary law. Blue is for Our Mother of Law, yellow for the Enlightened Dancer, silver for the Mirror-Copses, red for the Dreamer. But the Sky-Twister and the Unspoken Word allow for white and black for one of its station. And of course, anything can look good in our King’s colors.”

“Well, there she is.” The warlock marches through the attendants with the arrogance of someone who knows they are untouchable. The Laema withdraws her nail with a warning hiss, and you can look at— ah. She’s dressed for the road. And she stopped to gawk at you.

“You’re lucky, you know,” the warlock sneers. “I’ve got better fish to fry. The daughter of the Sapphire Mother thinks herself safe away from her mother’s arms. Don’t think she’ll keep you company here, though.” She reaches out and takes your chin between forefinger and thumb. “I intend to keep you close. How I’ll make you scream, you impudent little worm. I’ll burn the thoughts out of your worthless skull. When I’m done with you, you’ll be useless for anything that’s not serving the true Empress of the Kingdoms.”

(She’s posing. Posturing. Trying to work up something in herself as much as she’s trying to scare you. A real disciplinarian would be stern and precise, not looking like she’s a stupid impulse away from—)

She knots her fingers in your hair and pulls you in for a kiss. She’s sloppy, uses her teeth, is trying to prove something. She kisses like a demon. Perhaps she’s only had the chance to learn from them.

“Lots more of that when I come back for you,” she whispers into your lips. “As much as I want. Everything in these kingdoms is mine by right, after all.”

“Is it done?” The Laema sounds like she’s as impressed with the warlock as you are (which is to say, absolutely not at all). “Our commerce is over, Prince Ven of the Brass City, and your master’s credit will be charged. That is all.”

“No,” Ven says. “Not until I say you’re done.” That was a flash of anger in her eyes when the Laema pointed out, spitefully, that she’s beholden to others in Hell. For a moment that anger could have been directed at you, but it seems she’s decided to be petty and nasty right back. “I am not satisfied with this outfit. An old crone wouldn’t be caught dead wearing something this out of style. Tear it all off and make something that actually lives up to your reputation, rag-weaver.”

The Laema launches into an apoplectic fit of cursing in the First Language. It is extremely and uncomfortably comprehensible; the meaning and sensation of each curse, being forced to eat rotting meat and being stabbed in the spine by a lover and being whipped by the dogs of hell, is slamming into the back of your mind like a rock. Ven smirks, having won this stupid dominance dispute, and then “pats” you on the cheek just hard enough to sting. “I’ll see you when I come back, little bud. And that’s when your obedience training will really begin.”

And that’s when she miscalculates; she leaves you in the Laema’s care assuming that the Laema will be immediately paying attention to you and that her assistants wouldn’t help you cause mischief. Both of these, you of course realize, are incorrect assumptions; the Laema is incandescent and tearing through a chest of dresses with her nails (and the violence with which she does so is proof enough of the dangers of Hell), and the assistants are draping themselves over you and languidly complaining about having to get rid of all their hard work without actually getting started.

***

Giriel!

You are in a room deep within Uusha’s sanctum. Keep hold to that. You are in the candlelit dark. The air is stale. You are sitting on a firm stool.

It is just that your hearts have also slid through the door you opened to the Demon City, drawn by its gravity, and found yourself on the Wrack-waste. It is the detritus of ten thousand battlefields, heaped up upon themselves: broken weapons, bloodstained scraps of cloth, torn canvas tents, blackened spurs of wood. The wing of some magnificent flying ship juts out of a dune, its golden ornamentation corroded and rusting away, its feathers all plucked and torn. This is the birthing-place of the Wrack-dolls, assembled from all around you.

The General arrives. Tichtokh breaches the surface of the Waste like a centipede-whale. He is the size of a tower, hundred-handed, thousand-handed, each one clammy and pale, with too many fingers, each arm wrapped in bandages and quilted cloth and burnished leather, each arm jutting up against the one further along. Each hand has its part to play: supporting him as he rears up above the tarnished sea, grabbing at that which has reached the surface and examining it, weaving together tattered banners and ruptured breastplates and chipped spearheads. He wears a serene white mask, framed with coarse black hair; his mandibles churn, visible just underneath its rim. He brings it low, even as more and more of him catches up to where you stand. You are nearly as tall as the span between his lip and brow.

“Augurs! Oracles! Diviners! Prognosticators!” His voice is a fluting multitude, a legion of boys too young for the battlefield, lilting above the bray of trumpets and the beat of drums. “How goes the War? What are our victory-omens, our triumph-signs, our inevitabilities, our certainties?”

The General never accepted that he lost. Or, rather, he is the aspect of the Broken King that will never accept that defeat, complete and utter as it was. By turns deluded and shrewd, gregarious and apoplectic, as likely to conscript you and offer his munitions as to imprison you on suspicion of espionage, he is perilous— and you leave his presence only by his sufferance, as long as his attention is on you.

(Though that is not as long as might be feared. He is very busy. There is so much to be done. Armies to be sewn. Munitions to be inspected. Stratagems to consider. Fair-weather allies to beseech. Temporary setbacks to lament. Tunnels to burrow. Saboteurs to sentence.)

Without waiting for you to finish an answer, he cocks his head and exclaims: “Ha! From the thousand-seven-fifty-seventh front! Straight from the beachhead! Deliver, deliver! Bring your news from the front— unless you have brought us more traitors?”

Two hands brandish a blue rope, pulled taut between them. No, not a rope. The veils of priestesses of the Sapphire Court, knotted together. Too new to be old trophies.

The General accepts your String, Giriel. You should treat any further roll of 7 or 10 in the scene as being a 6 or a 9, respectively, for he will spend it then.

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

“I will be yours,” Constance says. “We will forget knights and swords and violences. I will bring you down to the stones and the waters and we will lay down the wizard’s sword with the other offerings. You will not die. I will not let you die. But there will be things you must shed, to be mine.”

This was not the plan. To give her a true choice. To lay out a road they both could walk.

“Name and title and sword, my bear. Cross and blood and chalice, my heart. They are the weights around your neck. If you cling to them, they will bring you to the end: a sinner who meets her fate. Your faith and your martyr need your guilt, your destruction. If you choose life, you will need to become a new thing. A champion of the old ways, shameless and free. And deathless I will keep us, far from famine and far from the King, until Adam’s kin fade from Britain and we all awake again.”

Humanity demands you be punished, Robena. That is the weight, the calculation: why do you hide from me, Adam? Why do you cover yourself, Eve? Because of what you have done, you will labor, you will struggle, and you will know pain, and you will die. But the land and the blood and the wheel are older than the garden, and there are stranger apples off Britain’s shores.

“Cast them all off and take my hand, Robena. If you do not, you will die, and there will be nothing I can do to save you.”

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

Constance makes the penitent knight wait. Perhaps not as long as she could have, for fear of losing her, but now that she has control of the moment again, she is loath to lose it carelessly. Her pale fingers drift in the ice-cold water.

“I do not play with the dead,” she intones, looking deep into the lights flickering on the water, pinpricks in the shadow. “And you are dead already, Sir Coilleghille. When you meet that axe, you will not get back up and gayly offer to meet it again in a year.”

She pauses. Her fingers break the surface of the water, and she lets them lie invitingly on the brim, instead. “If you meet that axe.”

She turns, and in that wan light her dress is a thing of scales ready to be shed. “You never asked for my help, Sir Coilleghille. Would you do so now? The dead can be cheated of their due, after all.”

Sunshards

Of course Rose knew from the moment that Keron said it that the wolf was her friend, Yue. Admittedly, up until that moment, Rose had been tilting her head just the littlest bit to see through her gold-beaded hair, just out of the corner of her eye, wondering why Yue’s girlfriend Hyra was coming out to fight for her. But the Countess would never be fooled by appearances! That meant that, somehow, amazingly, unbelievably, Yue was a wolf now! Maybe being a wolf was contagious. Many other sorts of curses were, when hearts got all tangled up and tied tight together. (She shivers and bites down on the showy knot in one of her silk scarves, tied between her full lips. For display, not use; Rose is demonstrating her self-control today.) But that meant that she’s besties with a fox and a wolf, which makes her such a lucky girl! They’re noble creatures, after all. Yes, even the wonderful wish-granting foxes, even if they are sneaky and tricky and get good girls in trouble sometimes!

Besides, now that she knows what she’s supposed to be looking for, peering between her braids all gleaming in the sunlight? Of course that’s Yue. Yue doesn’t care about being cool, the way princesses and monsters do, the way that Hyra does. Like Rose herself, Yue is blissfully willing to toss aside her dignity in order to be joyful. Watch the way that she dashes gleefully across the field, so quick that Rose can’t keep up and avoid getting in trouble at the same time! Instead of being caught moving her head, Rose stares carefully at Tianic and waits, and— there she goes!

(Something buried under silk sashes and perfumes stirs briefly, wiggles in its shining chains, and chuckles to itself. The first point to Yue the Sun Farmer. Well done. A blow only to defeat a Squire, but that in and of itself is incredible growth for a herder of sun-grazing sheeps.)

When Tianic hits Yue in the side with that broad sweep? Rose jerks her head up and lets out a garbled gasp! So teenie-tiny that doubtless Yue can’t even hear it, but Rose still feels the guiding smack of the crop against her lovely cheek for being caught at all. It hasn’t even left her rump before she’s dutifully back in position, as still as your average non-ambulatory piece of furniture, but don’t be fooled, she’s looking desperately out of the corner of her eye, and... Yue’s okay! Her veil flutters ever-so-slightly as she lets out the tiniest, most controlled sigh of relief, and the crop does not come down again, because it might have just been the wind, after all, and everyone is clapping so loudly, and Rose is doing such a good job keeping her back steady, even if she’s got her own cushion of sorts squished up against her knees.

But it’s just getting harder and harder. It’s taking all of her focus and determination to stay still and quiet, a pretty little trophy, because, oh, if she’d just been a little better or smarter or usefuller, then maybe the Countess would have let her cheer Yue on! If only she was dancing on the wall right now with the colors of Yue of the Terraced Lake and Squire Tianic of the Sky Castle fluttering from her sleeves, free to cry out and move, move, lose herself in the dance, step by step on that narrow arena wall, to let Yue know that she was appreciated! Her heart hammers against her knees, desperate to break free and wave at Yue and scream for her to win, or at the very least, to show the whole Sky Castle her very best!

Round and round and round Yue goes, having stolen her opponent’s sword, but that’s when there’s a gasp and the audience turns its attention, for just a moment, up! And Rose glances away from the perpendicular arena, just before the magical moment when Yue the Wolf becomes Yue the Sword Maiden, and just imagine how surprised she’ll be!

But that’s when Chen comes down. For her. For her. She feels Karon remove those feet from her back as if they’re happening on the other side of the Sunshards. Chen plummets through the air, dress swirling magnificently all about her, hair played with by the envious fingers of the wind, free in a way that little Rose could only dream of earning, and that for the better, because she would probably stumble right off that sword, and then where would she be?

Chen comes down before her helpless girlfriend, the picture of grace and poise, compared to which the whole world might as well be made entirely of a pack of wild Yues, exuberant and careless and happily clumsy. She reaches down and tilts Rose’s dainty chin up with one finger, the delicate silk of the veil pooling on Chen’s palm, and sees a slave-girl exploding with joy as radiant as the sun, as free as Yue down below in this moment to simply revel in the compliment, the attention, the yearning, the being wanted, and all the scenarios and ideas and guiltily desired betrayals go out of her silly little head all at once and all that is left is: ”CHNN!!!”

She belts out her girlfriend’s name at the top of her lungs, around that expensive and oversized knot, beaming and wide-eyed and smiling, helplessly smiling; not even Keron’s most terrible threats of discipline could stop her, not even she herself could stop the way her face melts into delight.

And then—

A candle finally snuffs out.

Chen gets to see that sudden awareness fill Rose’s eyes, gets to see those huge round dark circles narrow into slits, gets to see that joyous innocence get swallowed by centuries of experience and self-control and hurt and denial, and when Rose from the River looks her in the eye, it’s suddenly like a bird being hypnotized by a snake, isn’t it? All of that strength and power and attention suddenly focused to a razor point.

And Chen gets a front row seat to Rose from the River considering her position, considering changing her shape, considering bursting out of her pretty silks and ropes, considering becoming again that terrible monk of battle and war. Rose’s expression melts into sheepish half-irony, but she can’t hide the sincerity and desire underneath it: to get to stay Rose, simply Rose, for now, for as long as Chen will let her be.

She wiggles her shoulders to devastating effect, showing off how tightly her arms are bound behind her, how valiantly her top struggles to contain her, and widens her eyes quite deliberately, hamming it up, and that smile, if anything, is even sharper and freer because of the secret the two of them share.

“Chnn,” she moans. “Pllsss, savf muh, sayf yuuh Russ~” Yours. Yours. Are you paying attention, Chen? She’ll feel guilty for this later. She’ll struggle with the Way and how she wants, so much, to be allowed to swoon into your arms instead. But right now, she wants you, she wants to be yours, and as long as that’s true, she doesn’t care whether you win or lose. Might even sabotage you, if you let her. You look so cute wiggling and blushing, after all.

You’re allowed to blush right now, by the way, and stare, and shamelessly ogle. Encouraged, even. Why do you think she’s wiggling helplessly for you, silly girl? What’s a prize without being admired and shown off?

[Rose happily gives her girlfriend that String and then counter-volleys with an 11 Entice broadside right to the face.]

Breathless Dead

Redana no longer works among the Coherents.

She walks with the Magi now, listening to them, offering words of correction and advice in her melodious voice. She wears stately robes now, and her hair is bound up in the olive. The unpleasantness about the storm, the changed course— it is waved aside. What matters is that, despite the seeming contradiction of the orders, the Order carried them out, and that is to their credit.

She sits in state among the debates with a fan in one marble hand, and by lifting it on one side or the other she gives her judgment. This is the use of royalty, after all: through discernment, to take the many and make them one, to decide what direction the future will turn, to cause things to happen through hands that are not her own.

Redana has chosen a captain.

Now Dolce has a very capable second-in-command. Early in the morning and late at night she comes to him with lists, data, and reassurances. He has command of the vessel, and so Redana will make that smooth and simple for him. The first he hears of half the problems on the Plousios is when Redana informs him, with that smooth and effortless elegance, that it has been taken care of.

Redana might not be as fun now, but at least she’s finally grown up. Isn’t it a relief? Some of the Coherents might grumble, certainly, but others might see her shine and know her to be come into her own at last: a star to chase until morning. Untouchable, distinct, sacred: set apart from the world of ordinary men and women.

And at odd hours, Redana sits in her renovated chambers, white marble and gold, the bed spartan, the wardrobe full of subtle variations, and she holds the cup of coffee between both cold palms and stares into the swirling veins in the stone while Skotos brushes her hair.

Skotos is always with her. It’s just that Skotos is not important. Not noteworthy. It is Skotos who carries the papers, Skotos who stands at her elbow, Skotos who brews the coffee. Skotos wears the saffron robe and their face is swallowed entirely by that hood.

If you don’t pay attention, you’ll miss that Skotos is in the room. They might not even be a person. Have you heard Skotos talk? Have they done anything not in anticipation of Redana’s needs? They’re an ornament, like Mynx or Bella, not their own person. And this is what they deserve. It is the only fitting punishment. Silent, servile, subordinate.

Skotos knows they deserve this. That’s why they sleep even less than the Princess. That’s why they fade unseen into the background. That’s why they make inedible food every morning and hang their head when Redana smoothly pushes the plate aside and gives them an encouraging smile. That’s why they are Skotos. They deserve nothing more.

Sunshards

Scene #1.

Chen will come for her.

She'll zip into the tower on her sword, smashing through a window, or dramatically opening a door, or even sneak in and wake Rose up with a finger to her lips and that heart-meltingly cheeky smile. What, exactly, she ends up doing to get to Rose doesn't actually really matter; what matters is that it will be unexpected and sudden and dramatic, and she'll suddenly just be there. There'll be a hug. And--

And she'll take the collar off, won't she? Because that's what a hero would do. She'll tell Rose that she can go back to being a priestess of the fox goddess and take off all her humiliatingly revealing silks and wear something more modest, and Rose shouldn't argue with her, because of course her girlfriend, her lady, will know better--

But would she really feel happy about it? She likes being made to dress like this. Because there's no judgment of her for choosing to wear them. If she had to be practical and responsible and smart she'd probably dress in something oh-so-ordinary. Whenever she tries to make her own choice while getting dressed, the Countess tuts and explains to her that her place is to be a mannequin for her mistress's fashion tastes. What would that look like, anyway? Would Chen make her wear North Wind Chic? All fur and muffs, like wearing a warm blanket, instead of these whispery silks?

No, no, no, maybe that won't happen. Maybe...

***

Scene #2.

Chen will come for her.

But she'll confront the Countess and demand the return of her Rose with the grandeur of a princess, and the Countess will tell her to sit down and she'll fetch her Rose, and Chen will sit in one of the sitting rooms in that tower and wait impatiently, all ready for a trap, and that's when Rose will enter, and the lights will be all low, and Chen won't be able to take her eyes off Rose, who has made herself the goodest girl that she can be, who is the trap for Chen's heart. And that's when Rose will dance. And Chen will go as red as roses, hands in fists in her lap, as Rose draws closer and closer, showing off just how much she has learned from the Countess, and when Rose slips to her knees and offers her leash, she'll get so adorably squirmy and shy as she takes it from Rose's hands and--

And then what? Rose hasn't, you know, ever really been with Chen, but while Chen might be good at teasing her (ah, getting picked up at the market!!) she's not really like the Countess. She might be the least bossy princess in the Nine Kingdoms. Rose would probably have to walk her step by step through how she's meant to be used! And what kind of topsy-turvy world would that be? Imagine, Rose bossing around a princess! Absurd! Unheard of! She'd get them both into trouble! And however would Chen introduce her slave-girl to her parents as her girlfriend? Oh, Chen would be so embarrassed of her! No, no, no!

No, but what if...

***

Scene #3.

Rose climbs up onto Chen's lap and distracts her. That's something she's so good at! She's a pretty distraction. She drowns Chen in kisses, and when Chen finally surfaces for breath, that's when the handmaidens all around them strike! And Rose adjusts her veil and bats her eyes as Chen succumbs to the chloroform, and when Chen wakes up? That's when she'll find herself in Keron's clutches. And then, and then?

That's when Rose will get to be dangled as a prize. Maybe Rose will even get to be Chen's Thian! Just imagine, Chen, being trained in being a good girl! No more worrying about being a princess, no more furrowed brows as she talks about all those difficult things that cause her heart to hurt: the dragon-princess and her mothers and everyone's expectations. It's the easiest thing in the world to live up to the Countess's expectations, because she'll explain herself clearly, and if you get things wrong, she'll punish you and then explain things again, and she'll be so patient until a sillyhead like you learns what she is meant to do! And unlike mothers or princesses, the Countess will never push you into a place where you're really honestly truly miserable, because she takes responsibility for all of her handmaidens!

And then maybe all three of them will get to be a trio! Just imagine: Chen, the protagonist; Rose, the eye candy; and Cyanis, the schemer! All three of them, getting into mischief, entertaining their mistress, being the stars of a new sort of story. Maybe they'd even color-coordinate, though Cyanis and Chen would have to figure out who gets the light blue, and Chen would have her snow leopard pet as their mascot, and Cyanis would be the one who came up with all the zany plans, and of course Rose would be the hapless one who got into trouble, but it'd be all right, because, because, because! Because she and Chen would still have something so special, and they'd be fanservice for their mistress, and Chen's prize for being the bright and sparkling flower right at the heart of the harem would be having Rose all to herself when neither of them was on call, and then, oh, and then! And then!!

Chen will come for her~

***

Scene #4.

But then Qiu will kidnap Chen and Rose and Cyanis to send a message to the Sky Kingdom and dangle them over a pit of packaging-serpents capable of wrapping anything up in thirty seconds flat and leave them to squirm together and make such beautiful muffled conversations with each other and now they'll be the ones in need of rescue together and Chen will rest her head on Rose's shoulder to reassure her and Cyanis will come up with some clever plan for escape that ends up toppling all three of them into the snake pit and then they'll have to try to hop out of Qiu's lair only for Rose to get caught at the last minute and of course Chen won't leave her behind and Cyanis despite all her bluster will turn back too and that's why the three of them will be chained up to Qiu's throne when Jessic arrives to challenge Qiu to a duel and the three of them will have to squirm and try to tell Jessic through their big fat gags not to accept Qiu's terms for the duel because they can't be worth that much to a princess but Jessic will agree anyway because Keron told her just how good and pretty and special these three girls are and then and then and then--!!!

"Rose!"

"!!!"

"Were you listening to anything I was saying? Of course not. Hop over here so we can make sure you remember..."

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Giriel!

“You know,” Peregrine says, off-handedly. “The one they’re supposed to be angry at. The foreigner.” Peregrine: too busy to learn even Cathak Agata’s nickname. “Demons,” she adds, abruptly, vaulting nimbly over your question. “Tell me more. Clade?” That is, what common ancestor titan. “Malfeas?” That is, the Broken King. Not a name to be used lightly at all; Peregrine has it on a leash, the same way she uses the names of gods. “Cecelyne? Adorjan?” The Mother of Deserts, who is the King’s robe. The Fivefold Wind, who is the King’s breath. “...Qaf?” A crooked smile; she resonates with the Endless Mountain, driven like a spear through the Broken King, and has been known to call up its Hollow-sages to argue theology.

But of course it is the King. The other Titans would leave different signs and spoors, and it is the King who resonates best with the hearts of the people of the Flower Kingdoms. The Mother of Deserts may have her cults in Gem, dressed in silver veils, and the Fivefold Wind may have her cultists race up and down abandoned towers in far Chiaroscuro, but the Broken King reigns here.

Of course you will confirm this, and things will unfold from there; Peregrine has been unleashed on something Interesting. If it is to placate her witch, of course Uusha will consent to calling up demons, binding them fast, and bidding them answer, in the depths of Uusha’s mountain den. Will you take part, Giriel?

Will you parlay with demons as Peregrine wraps song and will tighter and tighter about them? If so, tell us what it is like to prepare, and roll to Call or Commune, as you like— depending on how far you push. One is simpler, the other more elaborate a working, with greater risk and reward.

***

Kalaya!

“Watch yourself, bud,” Petony growls, embarrassment leading easily to anger. “You have a lot to learn about being a knight, after all. When Heaven provides a beautiful girl in need of protection, it is wrong not to admire her. You insult her, otherwise, and not content with that, you insult me as well.”

She steps close, bristling. “So go ahead, Kalaya-phraya,” she says, over the priestess’s feeble attempts to defuse the situation. “Make your apologies and there won’t be any need for me to teach you respect for your elders and for the lovely little flowers of the world.”

***

Zhaojun!

The wind-spirits do indeed take the messenger of Heaven to her destination. They simply succumb to their desire first, and that is why the journey there is undertaken both at incredible speed and in a slowly-tightening gyre, lashing round and round the Flower Kingdoms beneath the silver-streaked clouds. The leopard beneath her pumps its hips furiously, at every moment threatening to unseat her, to send her toppling below, a fall to be feared for its lack of dignity more than any injury.

Lights and lanterns flash by like bolts of lightning. Faces frozen in the moment of seeing, then overlaid by the sight of hundreds more. Farmers in the fields; soldiers on the march; a festival of lanterns in a prelapsarian city; a daughter of a god chasing after a daughter of dragons; witches gossiping in the mountains, speaking names of old power; the Chosen One arguing with that other fool knight; a jungle that the leopards shy away from, stinking of Hell’s old fires.

The tighter Zhaojun clings, the louder and more delighted Jenny Tosstrees laughs; the louder her laughter, the faster her leopard streaks through the high airs; the faster they go, the tighter Zhaojun clings fast. But somehow Jenny is still limber enough to turn in her seat, take Zhaojun by the chin, and steal a kiss from that stone mask, smearing blue lipstick on the white stone—

And then she melts into mist and lets Zhaojun tumble into the mud in front of Machi of the Ōei, who— bedraggled, bedrenched, and frustrated— is making good time back to her hidden camp. Spooked, the N’yari go for their swords while making impressive jumps backwards, hunching and hissing to seem larger and scarier than this newcomer.

“You picked a bad time to fall out of that tree, lowlander,” Machi growls. Her warband, not yet knowing who they deal with, begin to circle around, cutting off avenues of escape, getting ready to pounce.

***

Han!

You walk alone. The rain picks up, becoming leopard’s teeth— you know, when it feels like each drop was tossed down from on high to hit you, personally. Your shoulders hunch, which does nothing to protect the back of your neck, and you instinctively make for a copse of trees, dark on black, which will give you a moment of shelter from the rain in their lee. Everything is soaked; your skin is almost burning hot against your clothes. The air is stiflingly humid, and there is no respite. You might as well be swimming in the river. And there’s no Machi here to laugh and challenge you to a race to those trees and pull you into the foliage once you get there and peel you out of your clothes so that you can try vainly to use her fur as a towel. You are alone. And you always will be. Because you push everybody away, because you know the truth: you do not deserve to be loved.

Someone touches your shoulder. You shake it off, spin around, ready to make them regret trying to—

It’s the priestess. Holding half an umbrella, awkwardly. Heaving and trembling from having to run to catch up to you (or the fear that she was about to get clocked, don’t forget that).

“Thank you,” she blurts out. “I didn’t say it. And I wanted to. Thank you. For saving— us. And.” She stands there a moment. Shuffles from foot to foot. The And hangs in the air. The tension builds.

“I’m going to the Two Hundred Gates Temple,” she finally admits, unable to look you in the eye. It’s a long detour out of your way. “If you happen to be traveling in that direction, and you don’t mind the company? It’s just that— anything could happen out here. And you fought off an entire raiding party of the savage N’yari, and... well. I’d rather your company than theirs, if you’d have me.”

She. She wants to travel with you. Probably because you’re strong and just protected her, but. After everything you said to her. After Machi kissed you. After her umbrella got broken. And she still wants to go with you?

(Try not to think about the “priestess secures a promise of protection from a monster and then tames them through virtue, spiritual lessons and seductive bondage” genre of stories. That is not what should be springing to mind. Thinking about yourself as a monster in that sort of situation— and besides, you would never— and just because that’s always what the monster thinks to themselves at the beginning before they learn their place— and anyway this little bud couldn’t seductively tie up someone if her job depended on it, definitely!!)

***

Piripiri!

The world in the courtyard is dull, dark green. The leaves are too glossy on the vines that sprout all over the stonework; the rain falls from a bright grey sky, framed on all sides by trees leaning over the walls. You remain in the Flower Kingdoms, though you cannot say where. You have not, perhaps, heard the grim stories of Kingeater Castle.

The courtyard is a mosaic of stones. There once was a gate on one side of the courtyard, but now there is only crumbling stone and empty air. It is too obvious for an escape right now, into a thick and perilous jungle; there are tigers and worse than tigers in the wild places of the Flower Kingdoms, and the path from the gate is quickly swallowed by verdancy. You must know where you are going, from a place like this.

On the other side of the courtyard is a vast circular door. It is shut. Shadows pass behind it, and a sickly green-yellow light plays underneath it when you do not look straight on it. You kneel in the rain and wait, still accompanied by the still soldiers of Hell.

This whole place is... soaked. It has drunk deeply of Hell’s Essence and now is drenched as deeply as a washcloth. Things scrape behind the walls, laughter rings out as if from distant rooms, and the sounds of the jungle all around are muted and dull. And you kneel at the center, at the nexus point of the walls’ attention, and it makes you sweat cold and hard. A lesser woman would begin to panic. But you have been trained. You know how to wait.

Something that is like a small green snake at a glance slithers across the courtyard, knocks on the door with its head. The door creaks open from the other side, and for a moment discordant music blares loud and hot and sharp, and the sounds of battle and hatred and desire, and the yellow-green light stabs its way into the world. The serpent slithers through. The door swings shut, but the light lingers. The light of Hell’s mad green sun. The air is sharp and acrid, like firewand powder.

Some time later, the door opens again. The Laema passes through with her attendants, who none of them bear legs, each and every one with a different scaled tail, each and every one with a different bead-curtained hat, and amongst them all comes the Laema, who like many demons insists that creation bear her marks; that the degenerate ideals and beauties of the world be elevated by her touch. Her robes drag on the ground in a dozen subtle shades of gold; her hair is bound in a vast headdress-wheel, each lock wound about the irregular spokes of a false sun. Her lips are a gash of red and her eyes flicker like Hell’s green fires.

“Disgusting,” she says, as her attendants erect: wardrobes of silver wood, chests of brass, measuring-sashes of gossamer, needles of iron, mirrors of copper, and a great couch for the Laema’s vast coils. “Drab. Muted. Ashamed of itself. Even worse than Whirling-in-Rags’ little pet; at least it attempted something with color. Left to their own devices, they never fail to disappoint.”

Tell us about what the Laema has failed to understand about your clothes and their meaning as she orders them incinerated and has you fitted for fire-blackened brass and sheer green silk, has your hair pulled into a bun and your face painted with green bands on white cheeks, your teeth made black with charcoal, your eyes ringed with the names of the Laema as a signature.

And, if you dare, you will have time enough after the teeth painting to speak: to ask her something, or to flatter her, or to spite her.

Breathless Dead

“I will,” Redana growls. “I can feel it.” When she strikes her breastbone it is flinchingly hard. “Traitors! Backstabbers! Liars!” When she strikes the wall there is a sound like breaking glass. “Cowards! Cowards! You left her and did nothing! And what if she hates me? What if everything was lies? Do you think I can leave her?”

The tears are coming freely now. Her shoulders tremble. “She was so scared,” she groans. “In the box. I know that now. And then I thought she was happy. To be with me. And then she turned cruel, but now— how long did she hate me? Behind her smiles? And now, and now I’ll always know she died cold and alone and scared, curled up on some godsforsaken rusting wreck, and I can never apologize to her, and I can never ever try to make it right, I can’t fix any of it, and it’s her fault for abandoning her and it’s your fault for wasting our time and I’ll never know if we could have saved her if we’d just been faster and I’m going to kill you, kill you both, cowards and traitors and faithless and murderers—”

She reaches out into the air and the air becomes tainted with hot ozone and static. Perhaps it is because she is drunk; perhaps it is because Dionysus has its hand on the scales; but the change from girl to monster is not immediate. It is slow in the way that the final act of a tragedy is slow, and behind Redana are a thousand thousand doors, a thousand thousand green eyes, a thousand thousand could-have-beens and never-weres, shadows of shadows, gunslingers and pilots and generals, tyrants and matricides and maids, and through them all shoving them aside like a bull, the vast shadow rising of Redana Chrysopelex, who has both the strength and the will to tear everyone in the room apart and then half the crew for seconds. Redana’s fingers curl around the haft of something that might, in a moment, become an axe.

And Redana’s eyes are closed, and her face is contorted into a gross sob, and the tears flow freely as the Nemean looms over her. She is blind; she sees only Bella, curled up on a steel floor, cold and still. She is deaf; she hears only the hiss of Bella’s wounded words lashing against her, overflowing from old and hidden wounds. She is senseless; she feels only pain.

She will not return.

The Nemean will overthrow the Shah, perhaps, and turn the great wheeling ships of the Azura, bound to one fatal, grand and terrible will, against Tellus, and condemn humanity by turning it to silvered glass and steam. Or she will ride the ruin of the Plousios into the tempest, laughing as she goes, and do battle there with the leviathans of the deep. She will, heartless, assume the hole in the world left by Redana Claudius, whose heart is pierced and who can no longer stand under the weight of it.

Sunshards

Rose flinches from the zappy, bitey, familiar jolts. Not that the Countess ever got so mad as to use this on her before, but... she must have broken a Burrow artifact when she was a child, to flinch and risk tears as the little fangs nip at her skin. To remember— pain. And not the good pain.

But the words. They’re the gentle soothing she needs. To serve is right. Her mistress (whether the Countess or her beautiful Chen) is correct. She must have been such a sillyhead! To think that the Countess agreed with Cyanis! Just because she was repeating the fox’s words... oh, what a silly girl she is!

She nuzzles into her— into— into the Countess’s thumb with her cheek and looks up with those big, dark eyes. “...does this mean I’m not a bad girl? Do I... do I not get spankies? I... I don’t understand...”

Because that would be! Well! Maybe she just deserves them a little bit for being so easy to be confused! Just enough so that she knows she’s been punished and then forgiven. And then she can go back to being a good girl and waiting for her princess to save her, which... she’ll do eventually, right? R-right??