Tatterdemalion

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

There have been many surprising things that have happened at this castle since their arrival, but perhaps the most surprising of all is how, once they have left the presence of that ephemeral queen, Constance Nim turns to her companion and seizes him fast, pulls him close, and for that moment she is flesh and blood and shaking ever so slightly, so unlike a mountain.

“Thank you, Tristan.” The words are as raw as a rabbit pulling its foot free from a snare, but have just as much life to them. “I owe you and your jests… I owe you. If you would have any favor from me, name it and it will be yours, if I can provide.” The sort of offer that is only extended because the recipient is trusted. Even Constance does not know whether Tristan’s reply will be light-hearted in turn, or as serious as the tilling of the earth.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Heavenly Cytherean Machi!

You dance on the edge of disaster, and how beautiful the prance of your feet! Over one shoulder you have a very dangerous witch indeed; if she realizes your nature, she could punish you for it. After all, this is the girl who spoke with the Morningstar herself. So you leave her breathless, disoriented, jostled; you have done your best to remove her from play.

The Stag Knight vaults forward, her great bronze-ringed spear singing in her hands, and, ah, to fight her? That would be a battle. But you don’t have the requisite audience yet. You will need all eyes on you for that battle. Draw her out, lead her on, and let her give chase!

***

Giriel!

The way that Uusha moves is incredible. It’s not showy, not flashy, but it is intense. Her witch has just been stolen, and now she’s going to get Peregrine back. There’s no room for this fight to deescalate now; it’s on, and good luck trying to stop the Stag Knight when she’s on the move.

You may continue to chase at their heels, but Uusha dictates the tempo of this battle now, not you. Hike up your skirt and run after them, if you dare!

***

Kalaya!

The highlander is small (even compared to you), but practically radiates surliness. Whack, whack! She sends aspiring warriors tumbling to the ground with her great swings of her sword. (Some of them will definitely feel it later; even middle-aged shopkeepers and mothers with their skirts tied up around their ankles are involved in this fight, because this tourney’s feverish energy has infected everyone. Luckily, anyone who really shouldn’t be here should get disqualified early, thanks to your plan.)

She’s perfect.

What a perfect supporting character! (Is a terrible thought to have, but there it is.) Everybody would take you seriously if your second-in-command was a fire-breathing, butt-kicking highland scoundrel, with you around to keep her in line. All you need to do right now is show off just how worthy you are of having fans! To display your skill with a sword and awe this surly girl, who’s just looking for a knight worthy of her service!

***

Han!

Usually, these tourneys are just a bunch of, you know, young adults looking to blow off steam and earn the chance to travel the Flower Kingdoms. Traveling with a knight is a hell of a way to spend a few years, after all. You get to see the land, make new friends, have big useless battles that get the blood flowing, and party all night long afterwards. No wonder it’s a coveted gig. Too bad that you are here to tell everyone that they are dumb and useless, though that’s to be expected when—

Someone who could be part of your mom’s tea club brings her sword down towards your shoulder blades. You smack the sword out of her hands so hard that it flies into a pimply teen and knocks them sprawling into the wet earth. Why is everyone getting involved with this? Like people with grey in their beards would want to pick up stakes and go tramping around the Flower Kingdoms?

That’s when you see the knight approaching you, and she’s… well, what’s your impression of her? Not like you can tell right away that she’s a princess and a knight. She’s small, deceptively so, and you need her attention! You have to make her tell you where you can find a witch!!

***

Piripiri!

Stumbling upon the secret passage wasn’t as much a stroke of good fortune as you might think. Kingeater Castle actually has a lot of them, burrowing beneath the ground like an anthill— not that you would know that, of course. To you, it was just the breath of hot, sweet wind down there in the dark, and the rich smell of rain, and a tunnel sloping upwards.

When you make it out, the sky above is a dark bruise, and the rain is coming down like falling teeth— but you can’t afford to dally. The longer you stay here, the more you risk being hunted by the hounds of Hell. The jungle stretches out before you, thick and vine-choked and bursting with colors: purples and blues, reds and pinks, and most of all green on green on green, visible when lightning cracks across the sky.

Beside you, Azazuka squares herself up. Her hair’s loose, and risks being caught on vine and bramble; her shoes are gone, her dress is rumpled and moss-stained, and her cheeks still have indents from the straps; but she’s not panicking or whining or draping herself over you. When you glance at her, and she glances back at you, there’s a little bit of steel in her that wasn’t visible back home.

She needs your help, she needs your expertise, and she may even need an impromptu haircut before you make it out, but she doesn’t need strength. Azazuka of Golden Chrysanth will provide that herself, bereft of her wealth and her servants, allowed to use it for the first time in her life.

How does the journey go for the two of you, the spy and the heiress alone together?

Breathless Dead

Skotos is a prop.

They must be. If they had interiority, then they would be overwhelmed with the revelation that Alexa has lost the favor of Athena, whose face she wears. If they were a person, if they had a relationship with Alexa, it would force them to reevaluate a past that has been severed from them like a lizard’s tail. How long, they would ask themselves. Then: why would Athena turn her face away from her champion?

It would force them to admit that they are not Alexa’s friend. Come to think of it, they aren’t anyone’s friend. Skotos is unmoored from the web of interconnections that makes up the universe, the thrumming strings of Aphrodite’s lute. A shadow is nothing more than a lacunae that passes briefly over the world.

Redana Claudius does not have friends, for she is too important; she has advisors, trusted companions, or loyal followers. Skotos does not have friends, for they are too unimportant; a rounding error, a loose cable, a rusting panel in a flooded corridor. They have no right to offer Alexa advice, to seek the attention of the philosophers, to be involved in a daring battle, a handicapped hero against two rogues juggling a useless cultist. They sink into themselves with a convulsive shudder, resigned to their role. Even in this sort of story, Skotos deserves to be nothing more than a prop. So they shall be. Or would be, perhaps, if not for—

Who here recognizes Skotos as a shade, a formless echo bereft of its proper place in the universe? How do they see this?

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Giriel!

“It’s one N’yari,” Uusha says, rather simply. It’s not the opening to a rant but rather a raised eyebrow, an acknowledgment that your priorities are odd in a way that suggests there’s more going on beneath the surface. But she doesn’t press you, and neither does she try making her way around the boulder. She plants her feet and looks to the two of you, you and Peregrine, and her retinue (somewhat more baffled by what’s going on) do the same.

“Something different from calling down heavenly tigers,” Peregrine says, and she’s intrigued. “You’d need a lot of weight pushing through on either side of here and there; that’s how the 108 Celestial Gates function, though they link that weight to the position or the stars, and I’ve only gone to visit examples once or twice.” Not an insignificant trip, likely one of the times she just left for a few months in the company of strange things. “But you are not thinking about weight.”

She takes you by the arms and looks up at you and you (and your thoughts) are all that shines in the world for Peregrine. You have an idea she wants, and she’ll turn her attention onto you until she gets it. This is made more complex by the circumstances, namely, that you are all busy, not to mention the heavenly spirit disguised as a N’yari.

***

Heavenly Cytherean Machi!

Each part of the whole must be in unison: witches are nerds. They are the sort of girls who poke and prod and question the simple rules that Heaven puts in place, and they are not incorrect in doing so, because those simple rules are put in place as guidelines, policies and (in some cases) wishful thinking.

But there may be internal dissonance in the severity of demons. The Heavenly Envoy would, of course, be aware of the seriousness of that matter. Machi of the Ōei, on the other hand, would regard them as a challenge to her authority. This is made further complicated by the occlusion: Hell works outside of Fate, and thus must be opposed wherever it is found to avoid doing damage to the right, ordered, and proper destiny of all things, despite that it cannot be found by simply following the threads of destiny.

In short, you are obligated towards some sort of action, or to further provoke some sort of action, so that you may further use these nerds and their knight (older than them, heartbroken once, loves the idealized kingdoms more than she loves herself and is thus empowered in the sight of Venus) to further your own goals—

Or at the very least, to pursue the overlap of your myriad goals, great and terrible raider in the name of love.

***

Han!

“Oh, you look like a strong one,” the priestess breathes. Of all the luck! Everyone in town is streaming out towards one of those knightly tourneys. You know, where you can compete to try to prove to a snooty knight that you have what it takes to be a professional spear-carrier and hanger-on. If you got involved, you’d probably beat everyone and then offend the knight by turning down her honors, and then there’d be words, and then the Vermillion Beast would strike again, and this definitely is all theoretical and has never happened.

But the priestess is pressing a flyer into your hands, written on a strip of off-white reed paper, the characters written in broad black strokes. A grand tourney: a big fight, jousting (in boats, first to get overturned loses) and duels, all just to get one of three exclusive and prestigious slots for the Branch War itself. And it’s important. It’s terribly important.

Hypothetically, if you were being enchanted right now, it would be a rather diluted one, given that it has to stretch over an entire town, but if you’re already thinking about a priestess, worrying about her, focused like a dart in flight on her, then it might, perhaps, be easy for someone who lives and breathes fantasies to just poke that a little bit, without even trying.

Whatever you want (a witch) can be yours if you win! Therefore, you should take that full head of steam (or so the thought goes, even as that purple-eyed priestess flounces and chirps about how exciting it’s going to be and what an opportunity and her brush strokes on the paper thrum in your head) and go and win the tourney! Don’t let anybody stop you, because that’s how you (and everybody else involved) get what you want!

Hop to it, mouth-breather. You’ve got those intense Crazy Eyes and while that’s great for anyone who might be into eating something spicy and strong later, some of us are trying to build up a legend here, and you smell like you haven’t showered lately. Just get over to that tourney already.

***

Kalaya!

Everything is ready! You’ve even got the fishing coracles ready for the joust: getting one up to speed and knocking over an opponent’s boat while keeping yours upright is a test of strength and skill worthy of any knight.

“You know,” Petony points out, “as excited as they all are, they’d be even more excited if you participated.” She offers you a wooden blade hilt-first as Victorious Vixen orders everyone to get into their rings, having just arrived with a surly highlander in tow.

It’s actually your choice whether or not to get involved: some knights would tell you that it’s better for you to remain impartial, as the judge, and that it’s very inauspicious if you’re defeated by a contestant this early on, while others (like Petony) would tell you that no retinue follows a knight who hasn’t proved her strength and skill, and how better than to disqualify some people personally? Besides, it’s a good way to gauge the most skilled people involved.

Petony’s cashing in that string immediately: if you get involved in the same grand melee as that highlander, showing off your trained sword skills and hyping yourself up at the expense of some early disqualifications for others, take 1 XP on the house.

***

Piripiri!

The teased and tantalized seamstress will not be found for some time, and she’s quite unlikely to “recall” what you might be up to. You have free rein through the mouldering, labyrinthine castle.

Corridors are shadow and reeking moss. On the other side of rotting doors, always on the other side, can be heard the sound of Hell’s revels. Sometimes, horribly, you find skeletons down in the dark, and ancient flower iconography suggestive of a burning rose.

There was a Hell cult here once. They’re gone. The stain on reality remained.

It’s below the earth, in the deep dark, where you find the cells. You creep along, relying on hearing alone, your sight blind and your gloves uselessly thick and your nose overwhelmed by a smell like ten thousand fallen petals. In that dark, all you can do is extend your senses as far as you dare, almost to the point where your body moves like a puppet, and listen for the sound of a heartbeat and a breath beneath the distant cacophony.

You return to yourself in time for battle. You feel the sword coming, a ripple of displaced air against your skin, and nearly twist an ankle ducking out of the way. Two of the Wrack-dolls, here, alone, guarding almost-abandoned dungeons. There’s no quarter here: either they will bring you down and lock you away in the dark, or you will overcome them and free Azazuka, who presses herself against rusting bars and tries desperately to will you to win, unable to tell what’s going on but trusting that it must be salvation.

Fight them, Piripiri. Do not hold back. Down there, lightless, against the undying soldiers, reach victory as your teachers insisted. Take the battle to these things of Hell, even if you have to snap a leather-thong wrist and steal a sword for yourself.

(Your prize in victory: the keys they carry, Azazuka’s total freedom, her assistance there in the dark freeing you from that fine and hellish dress.)

Sunshards

The silks are violet, rich as springtime.

Rose from the River doesn’t acknowledge Chen at first. She simply sets each article neatly onto the low table to one side: the tight top, the voluminous pair of trousers; the slightly less transparent bra and panty set, emblazoned with Keron’s sigil; the veil, thick and decorated with silver swirls; the gaudy hoops, the heavy rings and bracelets, the amethyst for her navel; then the collar and cuffs, set down with a definitive clink. Finally, rope, white, whisper-soft, in coils, and folded kerchiefs and panties and scarves, one after another after another, soft and smothering.

Only after making sure Chen’s fate is laid out in front of her does Rose from the River stand, make her way over to the princess in chains (without so much as a word) and kneel in front of her, hands on her thighs, butt on her heels, the very picture of grace. She holds there for a moment— long enough to make a certain silly someone wonder if that’s all Rose from the River intends to do, to simply sit there and wait for further instructions from the Countess.

Then Rose from the River reaches out with one silk-soft hand and tilts Chen’s head up, and up, and up, and shuffles closer so that there’s more Rose from the River to look up to. Close enough that if she removed her hand, Chen could bury her face in the pillows on offer. Close, but for that gentle and inexorable hand.

“Hello, girlfriend,” Rose from the River says, and her almost-visible smile is both fond and wicked. Her thumb finds Chen’s lower lip and presses down, the nail resting against her teeth. “I waited so patiently for you to come and save me. I should have known better.” Her tone is low, but not serious. Not cruel. “You took one look at me and got jealous, didn’t you~? That’s why you’re here now.”

She leans in close, close enough that the hem of her veil brushes against Chen’s mouth, and laughs. “Girlfriend. When I was young, you had to ask first. Is it the custom here to simply decide?” That thumb slips in deeper, presses Chen’s tongue to the floor of her mouth.

“Or maybe you couldn’t help yourself,” Rose from the River continues, sibilant. “Maybe you took one look at me helpless and fell in love. Is that it, hmm~? Poor little Chen, at the mercy of her heart! But I can’t blame you.”

The thumb drags on the back of her teeth on the way out. Rose from the River drags it lazily against Chen’s pleasantly plump cheek, restraining herself from embracing her and smothering her and claiming her. That’s not how the scene goes. Not yet. She is always acting in one way or another; she has simply been given permission to take on a different persona now. Thank you, mistress.

Rose from the River straightens, leans back, crosses her wrists above her head in a clash of bangles. “What do you think of me now, darling~?” She sways like a snake about to strike, or a snake lulled by music, or a coin on a string. “Do you like this? Do you want this?” She’s so close, and that’s the most enjoyable part, knowing that no matter how far forward Chen leans, her hands manacled behind her back, she’s just a breath away from being able to touch Rose from the River, but not allowed to close that final sliver. Not yet. “What my mistress has made of me~?”

She lowers her hands, cups herself, lifts— right in front of Chen’s face— and then lets them fall. They’re heavy, Chen. But so soft, too.

“Do you want me?” And that is not part of the performance. Even Rose is allowed truth, even if it’s hidden in veils and finery. She wants to hear it. She needs to hear it. After that, the torment can continue: the teasing, the seduction, making Chen beg to be owned and made helpless.

But more than she wants to obey the Countess, Rose wants to hear from Chen’s own lips that she’s wanted: not as a weapon, not as a bodyguard, but as a woman. The way Yin didn’t want her. The way she’s only been wanted when she’s worn someone else’s face. (And while she might make some changes to this face, now that she is at the helm of her own mind again… it’s still hers. It’s more hers than any face anyone else has ever kissed.)

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

“Robena Coilleghille must face death,” Constance says without hesitation. “She must be confronted with it; she must give herself over to it. If you pardoned her now, she would never know if she would be brave until the very end.”

She takes a breath. Her heart is an ember in her chest. How it burns! Like a bonfire on the solstice.

“But I do not believe she should die. If I held that axe, I would nick her neck, and let that hot blood spattered on the stone be enough. I would leave her a scar to remember her penitence by, one for her fingers to trace should she be tempted to folly again. I do not know if her doom can be turned aside, here in her garden, but— that is my judgment on her.”

Breathless Dead

Oh, dearest Alexa! How heroic you look, carrying a simple initiate like this! It is, indeed, one of the traditional heroic poses; if these students had any refinement, they would recognize this in a moment and give you the honor that you deserve! All their attention is on you, after all, the woman of the hour! Swept up in a daring chase, attempting to sweet-talk a gaggle of undergraduates, carrying an object of rescue like Percy Novus carrying Queen Andromella, and looking good doing it! As for all that with Athena and the loss of her favor, well, that’s the sort of drama-preserving handicap any good story needs, and one that everyone here is quite likely oblivious to.

And yet you still acknowledge the cultist’s gratitude. Is it, perhaps, that you are not so different? You have been driven to the dregs, your identity unmoored from its shining and steadfast purpose; small wonder that you are able to see, if only slightly, beneath that anonymizing hood and the air of absolute irrelevance.

“I’m very good at listening,” Skotos murmurs, sotto voce. You might be the only one who even hears, Alexa. “You should let us stay,” she adds. Can something be unheard but still understood? Like stage directions, or a passing thought. Like the wind, unseen but felt.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Episode 2: Ven.

Everyone gains 3 XP from the End of Episode resolution.

Tatters currently has available 5 Generic Strings out of 5 for the episode.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Heavenly Cytherean Machi!

There is an aching knot of Fate entangled in Turtlehead. The first building here was erected by a hunter of tigers, and these he would trade to travelers going up and down the Spearwort. Others stayed with him over time: friends, members of his family, a clever witch who saw the value of the surrounding marshes. Stories heaped heavily upon themselves here for generations, but still you know the very house where first a man looked upon the land that would become Turtlewort and desired it without knowing it.

What a fool! As if muddy bogs are better than the glories of worked stone and the shining treasures of Mount Fang! Steal, kiss, and laugh without remorse!

Kalaya is coming here. Look! Here she comes with a heart full of joy, tended to carefully by an obedient shrine maiden! Her heartstring drags her towards Turtlehead, following in the footsteps of an old friend. And here she must learn that her true nemesis is the N’yari raider!

But so too comes a daughter of dragons, raging and furious, her anger threatening to boil. She, too, is being dragged along by her heartstring. She aches with her loss. An easy tool.

And here, too, you stumble upon two witches on their way to Turtlehead, accompanied by a fearful and terrible knight. One sees you for who you are, but she seems deeply troubled by her own thoughts, her heart’s string tangled up frightfully.

How do you present yourself to her?

***

Giriel!

Following your heartstrings, as it turns out, was the way back to your bodies. They shine in all the colors of blue, and it is fortune that the General managed not to sever them. That would have been a terrible wound. They are things to be kept careful.

But when you got back, Peregrine’s eyes burned. And she was the one who told Uusha, and that’s why the three of you have been on a grueling march for two days with half-a-dozen of Uusha’s best followers. At Turtlehead, you will rest and sleep for hours, and from there you will seek out Kingeater Castle, the path to which is occluded from mortal eyes. The Stag Knight is loyal to the Flower Kingdoms first in all matters, after all.

Which has made it all the trickier that a heavenly spirit has revealed herself in the form of a N’yari. It’s the blue of her eyes that gives her away. (If Peregrine recognizes her, she gives no clue, merely raises an eyebrow.) As a witch, you need to acknowledge you are at her disposal, but you would be disrespecting her if you revealed her identity to Uusha.

How clever are you, Giriel? And though it’s been a few days, you can be honest: does the memory of Hell still haunt you?

[You, clever witch, may take a String on Zhaojun, but may not reveal her identity— yet.]

***

Kalaya!

“You’re not really a knight until you’ve won your first Branch War,” Petony says, not unkindly, as she buckles her gauntlets. “Don’t worry, though. I won’t go too hard on you.”

You are a knight in training, and therefore you are in need of a retinue. In the trading town of Turtlehead, then, you are holding a Branch War: using wooden weapons, you and glory-seeking volunteers will stage a mock battle over flags against Petony’s retinue. It’s not just a test of your sword skills, but your ability to inspire and lead fresh recruits against a superior foe. Your problem isn’t finding people to fight alongside you, however.

It’s the fact that Victorious Vixen of Violets has somehow convinced half the town to volunteer to join your side. This has spiraled very quickly out of control from a fun event for the young and restless to the event of the day, with the other half of town planning to watch and eat fried noodles on the sidelines. You’re going to outnumber Petony ten to one, at least, if you don’t figure out some way of winnowing the ranks.

Is that what you want? It’d be more glorious if you overcame Petony with a smaller retinue, and your knightly skills will be difficult to display when you can just overwhelm her defenses with bodies and sticks. But if you try, you’ll have to be clever to avoid causing offense to Victorious Vixen and the townspeople you reject from your ranks.

After all, you can’t just lead half of an entire town into battle against the N’yari, right? Right? It’d be like trying to hit a mosquito with a battle axe! Forget the guilt of leading so many people away from their town, just think of the logistics! Okay, maybe some of them are just volunteering for the day, but you’re still running the risk of having too many people want to join you— and if you’re leading a horde, how will any of them stand out?

***

Han!

Do you have a plan?

Do you even know where you’re going?

Your feet are leading you to Turtlehead, but is that intentional or simply the providence of Heaven?

What will you do to that duplicitous pilgrim with her stupid coin when you find her?

Questions. Many questions. All that is certain is that right now, you can see the wooden walls of Turtlehead rising up out of the marshes, hung with colorful reed mats.

(And that, perhaps, if anyone could help you now, it would be a witch.)

***

Piripiri!

Messages and missives pile up for Prince Ven while she is absent. It takes time for you to assemble a report out of each one (which is reported to the scribe-demon, each in turn, by hissing serpents), but two narratives emerge: one set of reports deal with challenges to an infernal assault, places where the Flower Kingdoms are weak, and ways in which it can be subverted and turned to Ven’s dominion.

But the second has to deal with the fallen kingdom of Snapdragon. After its fall, its royals were banished to the highlands, it seems, and Ven craves to know their movements, their health, and to have demons work to their good— unseen, by her orders, but even so. A narrative suggests itself: that she has offered herself to the very kings of Hell for the sake of her family. No, you decide after some further consideration: she made the deal for herself, but some small all-too-human part of her wants them to be awed and proud when she reunites the Flower Kingdoms under a green sun banner. So what if they would be horrified? She can keep lying to herself until that day comes. Then, her heart touched by Hell, she would likely lash out terribly, and do things that everyone would regret.

And therein lies the second problem: Ven will not let you go if you do not have leverage. And the trick is that information she would try to torture or bewitch out of you, possessions you clearly do not have on you (and information of where you have them, well, as above), and you have nothing you can meaningfully threaten.

It’s a question that gnaws at you. You’ve been in no-win scenarios before, but this one is particularly vexing. How can you force Ven to let you go short of somehow ambushing her and taking her hostage?

The solution, however, comes from an unexpected quarter.

“Prisoner!” It is one of the daughters of the Laema, having pushed her way through the Wrack-doll guards. “You have done such a good job in here that you will be required to do it elsewhere in the castle! After all, when the Prince arrives with the great prize of Hell in her grasp, she must be received in cleaned halls!” Her tail twitches, and her performance is just a bit too broad: she is trying to deceive anyone who might report to Ven. Maybe this is one of Hell’s intrigues, on behalf of an infernal rival of the Prince or her own mother; maybe she simply cannot bear to see such a good maid face a terrible fate. Maybe she wants to sneak you into a side-passage and seduce you for her own satisfaction.

Maybe she is enough like a human simply to pity you.

But that is not the only thing that you must address. For you have been watched this whole time, haven’t you? By such clever eyes. Tell us what Ven will soon know: how could Ven get you to submit to her?

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Han!

The tiger, frozen in an evil-banishing snarl, looms over the two of you as you relax from setting up camp. It’s a simple set-up, familiar to anyone in the Flower Kingdoms: a lean-to with a small fire pit at the open end, just large enough to give off some light and heat the turtle-shaped tea kettle. Comfortably cozy, safe, and comparatively dry. Melody picked this spot because of the tiny shrine grounds: so tiny, in fact, that it’s barely more than a handful of stone lanterns and the statue of the tiger.

One more night together. One more, and then you’ll have gotten her there, and it’s not like she’ll ask you to go any further. You’ve got to get back home, after all. And it’d be weird and pushy if you offered to keep going. So one more night’s all you’ve got, and so many things that you can’t say to her. Things that would be crossing lines or would make her look away and tell you that she can do the last day’s trip on her own or that she never wants to see you again. But you don’t even get that.

You’d think that it’d be out of the way enough that no one would disturb the two of you. You’d really think that! You can’t even see the road from here, it’s behind a bend in the path! But no sooner have you got the water poured and the tea bags steeping in the little turtleshell cups than you hear the crunch of twigs under a boot, and the pilgrim looms out of the darkness.

They don’t approach you at first, not even after Melody brightly and a little too loudly greets them. (You can feel her hand on your thigh, trembling with just a little bit of nervousness.) No, they approach the tiger and kneel beneath it, bowing their head in silent prayer and contemplation. Minutes tick by; Melody sneaks her cup under her veil and then squeaks because it’s still too hot. Finally, the pilgrim palms an offering into the tiger’s mouth and then turns to you.

“Honor to the servants of the Sapphire Mother,” she says, bowing her head in submission. “May I rest here for a time?” And she sounds so polite and tired, and besides, sheltering fellow pilgrims is auspicious. If you told her to go get stuffed, you might as well pack up and go home right now, because what would be the point of Melody finishing her journey?

So you pour her another cup of tea, and she accepts, and she cups it in two gloved hands. Her wide-brimmed hat keeps all but her strong jaw and the very fringe of her dark hair in shadow. You sit together, and the pilgrim lets out a melancholy sigh, and of course Melody asks if everything is all right, and that makes the pilgrim start a little— but then she gives a tight (self-ashamed?) smile and apologizes, and pulls out a flute. To repay you for your hospitality, she says. A shame she only has the flute, because those are unlucky, you know— but not like you give a hoot about priestess superstitions, and Melody doesn’t complain.

So the pilgrim plays her song, and the notes are sweet and warm. Or is that the fire? It licks at the air like a lover at your throat. Not that there’s any of that going on. A strange thought to have. Your body grows warmer and heavier, and Melody shamelessly snuggles up to you and closes her eyes to listen, and she’s warm and heavy too, and soft, how is someone this soft allowed out of her temple? You can feel every one of her breaths, slow and heavy and sleepy. The fire’s just orange on black now, and the flute is a bird calling in the distant mountains. So far away.

So very far away.

***

The sky is a yellow haze. High, behind black clouds, an emerald has been hammered into place to shine. Those aren’t birds. Those aren’t birds.

You are bumped and jostled on all sides. Coarse fur. Slick scales. Lashing tails. You reach deep inside you, but there’s just an empty hollow where your dragon nature should be. Noise. They are laughing and screaming and yelling from the stalls that crowd the streets. Your first taste of a real city, country girl? It reeks. It reeks of sweat and tears and blood. It is hot. So hot. That green sun bakes the black pavement stones and there is no relief, not even if you pulled off your skin and made of it a parasol. It’s in fashion, though. If you want to try it anyway.

Music. Bells that reverberate in your head. Drums that shake your bones. Flutes like knives. Wordless wails from things hanging in cages. Something without fingers will have played something that will have been in the shape of a harp that will have been in the shape of a heart that is not now because it is a thing that cannot exist in the now only in the then, because that was its punishment, it and all its sisters, for what happened in the War, so there is a hollow in the song that you will only remember as something achingly beautiful and lonely.

You shove against the crowd, but it’s no use. They shove back, harder, and bruises blossom on your skin like flowers, and they push you into the empty square, and there is a giant dancing there, and his tattered yellow robes billow as he spins faster and faster and faster. Beneath the layers of rotting bile fabric, his body is beautiful brass. So beautiful. You can’t see more than a flash at a time, but you know in your bones. Beneath his veils, brilliant light throbs where a face should be, might be. His footprints are red. So red. So red. So red.

You shouldn’t be here, he says, pityingly, without stopping. Don’t you know where you are, daughter? Don’t you recognize my body?

And the stones beneath you buckle, because they are skin. And the high spindle-towers buckle, because they are bones. And the sun throbs, because it is a heart. And beneath you, a scream boils upwards through the Broken King’s ruined body, agony and fury and desolation and despair, and when it reaches you? You will throw back your head and it will tear through you and split you apart like an orange as you birth it and you can’t run you can’t even move your feet and the creator of the world spins faster and faster and raises five hands in merciful benediction as the scream rips through your feet—

***

The gasp jolts you awake. It’s so soft that you barely hear it leave your lips. Your throat throbs, raw and hoarse, with the effort of its passage.

You’re lying on your side. It’s a mist-shrouded morning, and the rain is a gentle thrum on the lean-to. The fire is cold ashes, and the tea cups lie where they fell.

You are alone.

In the tiger’s mouth, a beautiful Snapdragon coin waits for you to find it, turned down on its face so that it would not witness its lady’s deeds.