Tatterdemalion

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Chamber of Harmonious Arrangements!

The erhu player chokes and lets the strings run silent. Emli breaks off mid-simpering, suddenly serious, watching the Red Wolf like a mouse like watch, well, a wolf. Legionnaires stand looming with more intentionality.

She holds out one hand. Piripiri’s eyes dart around the room for a moment before she removes her glove, peeling it from her skin, and places her hand in her mistress’s waiting palm for inspection.

Dead silence. Agata is unreadable as her eyes drink in that cut, so slow to heal. She looks up, considers Piripiri for a while, then back down at the cut. She’s barely breathing.

“Sacrilege indeed,” she says. “To give the blood of the ancient guardians to the enemy they kept at bay. Even I know how serious that is.”

Piripiri’s hand is released, and the Red Wolf turns her attention to Giriel, at her side, so close, so favored.

“My hands are tied,” she says, quietly. Angrily? Passionately. “Lady Giriel, I find you in violation of the Sanguine Edict of the Mother of the Host.”

Two legionnaires step forward at a flick of Agata’s hand. Giriel is pulled to her feet; a glove is crushed over her lips as her hands are wrenched behind her. And Agata rises and suddenly is on her, their faces close, speaking in a whisper…

***

Giriel!

“I have to keep up appearances,” she breathes, the promising fire licking at your cheek. “Trust me.”

Do you? Or do you lash out, betrayed?

There’s a shiny XP if you let yourself fall into the clutches of the pretty girl, incidentally. And trouble, too. Plenty of it.

***

Fengye!

Nice job. You’re out of the frying pan— but are you out of the fire? You are beneath suspicion, but Agata does not seem particularly happy that you forced her into making a decisive move. She might very well spin around and make an example of you next. She very definitely doesn’t believe that you did that or that the demon maid is them, but that makes you vulnerable, particularly after dinner, when she can isolate and deal with her guests again.

Here’s a lifeline, though: despite Maid Confined being under the control of the Hymairean dragon-blooded, she’s still connected to you mystically after a wonder-working like that. If you can get your fingers on the metaphorical strings, you can give her a (literal) nudge. And she’s got a vessel full of wine.

***

Han!

Emli’s got her hand on you, trying to soothe, to comfort, but fuck that, right? Right?

Except. Uh. Okay. See. You did just see that wound on the other dragon-blooded’s hand. And it did look nasty. And, well, Giriel is a witch. Sub in the Red Wolf for a brave knight, and you’ve got the end of a bunch of lowlander stories.

And sure, you might be a highlander, more accepting of witches, but witches are still outside the community, and your own palm prickles in sympathy.

But on the other hand, this is Giriel we’re talking about. You know her. There’s got to be a reason why she did that, and you should definitely speak up.

(On the third hand, the injured dragon-blood is standing right next to a frightened-looking Lotus, who’s sitting like a deer frozen in the middle of the road, across the room, in harm’s way.)

***

Piripiri!

So here’s the thing. Agata is obviously into this witch. She’ll be like this for a while. At least a week. And she’ll pull her punches as much as she can.

But she’s also devious. There is a very high chance that she’s angling to make the witch one of her slaves, atoning for her crime through loyal service. And she’ll say it’s only for show, until it turns out that it isn’t, but by then it will be too late for the poor, foolish witch.

And then you’ll be stuck with her as a colleague, or as a servant, or as sulky entertainment. Not the first of Agata’s flings to end like that, either.

Does the thought cheer you up, or make you tense up?

***

Kalaya!

Cathak Agata is descended from the last great dragon in the world, and that fact is searing. She is a dragon in her heart: confident in her power, rapacious in her greed, and careless with the things she considers lesser. What is the Flower Kingdoms to someone like the Red Wolf? A stage. A toybox. It’s full of pretty girls and pretty flowers and a chance to play the hero. She means to make it a jewel in her hoard; to take what she likes from it and add it to the glory of the Dominion. She is hungry, Kalaya. And the Flower Kingdoms are so delicious.

As for getting her to leave the kingdoms alone— you are aware she’s here under orders, right? You would need to put her in such fear for her life that she would run back to Lamentation with her tail (metaphorical) between her legs, or else present a unified front with no weak points for her to exploit, the kingdoms yielding under one crown. And out of everyone you know, there’s only one person who’s got a real chance of doing either of those things.

She just beat you senseless, and the last you saw of her was getting shot in the side.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” she says, eyes still covered. “I can hear the pout. All you have to do is work with me. Wear our colors, work alongside some of our hard-working girls from the Legion, and prove decisively that you are not some destined champion against the Dominion. We can even pick out a target that works for both of us. How about those catgirls? They’ve been a problem for a long time, haven’t they? Well, I think that we could definitely teach them a lesson.”

(Sending the Legions against the N’yari would horrify them. It would be an act of Mars, bloody and domineering. They would withdraw, suddenly and in grief, and then either seal the doors of Mount Fang shut…

Or they would retaliate in fury, and then it would not just be simple raiding. The Flower Kingdoms would burn. Bullying, teasing N’yari would die. So would innocents who, normally, would just be in for some kidnapping and theft.)

[Kalaya, please answer: How could the Red Wolf get you to serve her?]

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

Aevum!

3V takes it. It’s non-alcoholic, of course. Just the sort of thing you drink because everybody drinks it, and it’s not cloyingly sweet (like half the liquids 3V puts into her body on an average day). Sips it and watches Yellow, watches the city, drinks it in. This. This is what she was missing on the Park.

A car roars by, heading for Zeus. 3V’s heart doesn’t skip a beat. In a moment like this, how could it? The cars are just another part of the great roaring engine all around them. More lights, more signals, more little fragments of meaning. The sort of meaning that only November’s got a hope of interpreting, out of anyone.

“Ownership. Whole messy thing started when somebody looked at a tree and said: stop, this is my tree.” She doesn’t even remember where she picked this up, or who said it. “You can’t have the apples. And, sure, some trees need specialized care, and sure, you don’t want people to gorge themselves on apples so everyone else goes hungry, but… but now other people gorge themselves on owning the trees.”

She smiles ruefully. “Then again, ownership is what allows me to tell people, no, you can’t use my likeness to market spam products. Actually happened this past week, there was this shovelware crowdfund that used old pictures of me to imply that it was Pro Gamer Content. I sent them this really… you know. I’m asking you nicely not to do that, and if I have to ask again it won’t be nice. Do I still count as one of the tree owners if I’m the tree?”

***

The Park!

“Shoo, shoo, go get dressed,” 3V says with a wave of her hands. “I’ll keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn’t get mobbed by cats.” (She lives on Aevum; cats are the first thing she thinks of when she thinks of “feral animals that run in packs.”)

The offer of a one-shot veers over her head because she wasn’t specifically invited. Not that she’s not interested, but she’s not the sort to butt into a home game. (Now, games at Gensoukyo, that’s something different entirely. That’s Her House.)

“Here, lemme help with breakfast— do you prefer Dr. Rolfe or Gavin? I’m fine with either.” And a parry: I’m cool with the dude, and not sure why you’re needling him. Like, if he was a Creep, the vibes you’re giving off would be way different, this is more like you’re worried he’s going to let something slip you haven’t told me?

Sunshards

The sudden change in power does, yes, leave poor Rosepetal somewhat stunned. Here she was, being so elegant and careful, artful and teasing and, beneath it all, sincere, doing her best to convey her meaning without breaking character or implying she was in a position of power, and now here she is, mouth stuffed, ordered to shut up, and incredibly self-conscious over how hot she finds it. She’s not a silly ditz; she’s just so preoccupied, overthinking, and not paying attention to where she’s walking. The poor dear needs her Chen to guide her by the wrist, leading her stumbling and blushing to the shop. Her eyes are darting, her fingers are clenched against Chen’s hand, and she’s trying to cover all of herself with one hand. (And it’s pretty obvious that she only got bashful right after she was silenced. She’s walking on the edge of a precipice, heart pounding, each step so careful, too afraid to glance down.)

Then Chen whips out the scarf, and pulls it so deliciously firm over her cheeks, over her pouting lips, cinching it behind her head, and that’s what shoves her over the precipice with a helpful pat and a command. Now this isn’t just an embarrassing punishment that’s got her flustered and self-conscious and squirming: now it’s something that her Princess gave her. She half-closes her eyes. No, that’s not the right way to say it: a filmy snake eyelid snaps down for a moment, and her brilliant golden eyes are hidden as if behind a gauzy veil.

She reaches up and rubs her fingers over that scarf, staring at her Chen, and even when the eyelid rolls back up, her eyes, usually so keen, are unfocused and relaxed. Then she makes a noise through the handkerchief and the scarf.

It is toe-curling.

It is also deliriously happy, the sound of bashfulness and excess thoughts melting away into that long, deep, delighted moan.

When Rosepetal stands back up, it’s with a sudden elegance, the elegance of Rose of the Sky Castle, a body that knows what it’s meant to do without that pesky brain getting in the way of things. When she sashays into the racks, swaying like a snake-charmer’s pet, she’s already up on the balls of her feet. If you whispered words of command into a willow-tree and had your true love step out, eager to make your every wish come true, the result might look something like Rosepetal picking out her outfit, humming, blinking slowly and contentedly with that snake-lid, moving with unnecessary spins and hops and not caring who sees what.

(And you can see, Chen, if you sneak a look. You can see everything. And when she catches you, peeking from around the aisle, she stretches, hands above her head, thighs taut and strong enough to crumble stone, soft chest rising and falling with her breath. And then? She bounces on the balls of her feet. Just for you.)

When she emerges, it’s hard not to stare, isn’t it? So much of her outfit is marching the scarf her Chen gifted her with: diaphanous white pulled snugly over her rich, dark skin. Her sleeveless top all caught up at her elaborate lace-over-leather collar (with a ribbon leash tucked neatly inside, waiting to be rugged out), the buttons down the front seemingly almost ready to pop, so sheer that it’s easy to make out the voluminous (and still straining) lace underneath: the deep, rich purple of the Northern Wind. Her gloves, extending snugly up past her elbows, and her stockings, racing up past her knees. The apron, which exists in shadow, with only a cute snake and snow leopard tail entwined in embroidery to distinguish it. But not the skirt, scandalously short, hiking up whenever she bends over (and, yes, it’s the same purple lace, Chen, your purple, feel free to stare), leaving a zone of Absolute Princess-Destroying Territory between her stockings and the skirt’s lace trim. And not the proper white headpiece, flanked on either side by thick ponytails: barely constrained with three ribbons on either side, heavy enough to kill a man if she spins on her gleaming white heels, pushing her legs up to their most presentable. And not the leather-and-lace cuffs around her elbows and wrists, ankles and knees, an odd but frilly decoration unless you recognize the design worked into the leather. Push them together, and they’re not coming apart no matter how Rose tugs— but only for her.

Oh, how she matches her Chen! She curtseys with that teeny skirt, unable to help herself from flashing hints of that rich purple on either side, and she lets her Princess twirl her around like a doll, pose, show off her outfit (just as daring, in its own way, as her precious short-lived outfit that Chen will undoubtedly replace). But between Chen doing her best maid poses, smiling like the sun peeking through the mountain peaks, and Chen leading their mistress through the city? Well, we can’t forget Rose squatting down, thighs not so much as trembling, pigtails brushing against the ground, to take her Chen’s perfect, round, shining face, and press her gagged lips to her girlfriend’s own, again and again, smothering her in gagged kisses, fluttering her lashes and humming I love you, and when she pulls away, she leaves her girlfriend breathless. Freedom from shame! Chen gets to look forward to those often. Much more often.

As for cleaning up Ys— well, Rosepetal isn’t doing a lot of thinking! That’s for people who haven’t been told to shut up, for people who aren’t wearing an outfit to make everyone jealous of both the Pyre and the Twin Shard Princess, and for people who aren’t giddy with delight, all but dancing through the streets, wringing their tiny skirt in their hands and trying to remember not to put their wrists anywhere near each other, so— Chen! Cheeeeeeeeeen!! She did it agaiiiiiin! And here she comes, prancing back to Chen, with a demon tossed over her shoulder and another three writhing in a sack, holding her wrists out with a begging whine, and giving her another thank you kiss before running nimbly off to toss demons back before the Pyre! Anyone might think she’s doing it on purpose, but the truth is simpler: Rosepetal doesn’t have to worry, because her Princess gagged her and is here to take care of her and here she is dancing through Ys, solving an invasion without a sword, just her muscles and her willingness to obey while looking like a knockout, and she never dreamed she would really get to do this! Not in a hundred years! Free and owned, shameless and flaunted, able to trust like she’s never been able before.

…until Chen leaves her in the claws of the Pyre of Meaning, who apparently finds it very funny to listen to Rosepetal’s flustered little huffs and moans, legs like columns, arms the same, as the promise of those cuffs is realized. And with her arms pulled back like that, well, when Chen comes out, it’ll be hard not to stare at the lace in her face, and the giddy whimpers of her Rosepetal being arbitrarily punished by her owner. Not that Chen knows it, necessarily, but she’s watching Rosepetal fall hard and fast knowing that her Chen is there to catch her.

Knowing that even if she’s helpless, her Chen would never let someone hurt her little Rosepetal. That she’ll keep coming back. And that she’ll tease her helpless, wiggling sillyhead of a girlfriend before pulling her limbs apart again, strong in a way that Rose is denying herself.

(It’s okay, Chen. Rosepetal is nodding when you catch her eye, and she’s awfully forward in her squirming, and she picked out that top for a reason. Go ahead. Show her how much you appreciate her, now that your hands are free. Threaten to snap those buttons. Get a nice handful and weigh her thoughtfully. Put on a show for the crowd and the demons and your mistress and make your Rosepetal feel like she’s the heroine of this very special story.)

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Kalaya!

“A fairy?” Agata’s laugh is both expansive and condescending, as if she’s delighted you’d actually try that. “That’s ridiculous! If it was one of their schemes, I would have…”

She breaks off, considers what she’s saying carefully. (That’s one of the special skills of the Rakshasa, which you may or may not know: they prey in the empty spaces of perception. The more influence they exert, the harder it is to pin down that they’re responsible. And the Red Wolf knows that, too.)

Then she’s up in your face, fast, holding your chin with one hand, tilting it up, her eyes intense. Then she opens her eyes again, as if lifting a veil, as if pulling away a mask. The air is thick with heat, the kind that licks wood and fiber down to nothing, that demands no secrets before it. And you are a shadow in the sun, a little mouse before a viper, flickering, insubstantial—

And she slumps back in her chair, one hand over her eyes, teeth on display, louche. The heat, slow to dissipate, is all that remains of her full power. “Compress,” she says, holding out her other hand to the medic, fingers impatiently curling.

“Well,” she adds, to you, once a cold compress is laid over her (grandmother’s) eyes, leaning back with nonchalance in the chair. “It seems you’re right. They’re such pests, aren’t they?” Her teeth are so white. “I’ll have to see to an exorcist. But the best way to weaken an enchantment like that is to act very directly against it.”

She tents her fingers. “So I think I may be able to save you, Kalaya Na, from leading half of the Kingdoms into the waiting maw of the fairy folk. How exciting it will be!”

***

Han!

“You put that hand back,” the slave-girl says, teasingly, taking your wrist and guiding it back to— oh, that fork. “I’ll do anything you want tonight,” she continues, and she couldn’t possibly mean what you think she might mean, “except letting you besmirch our reputation for hospitality.” Her eyes are sparkling as she leans in close and pours you more, until it’s almost at the rim, and then sets the pitcher down decisively close to her own seat. “Because we have to work very hard on that reputation, I’ll have you know! I’ve done place-setting drills!” She pouts for a moment, before bouncing back (just like her nut-brown curls, bounce bounce).

“Anyway, how’d you get this one?” she continues, eyes savoring a scar running parallel to your bicep. And she wants to know! She super wants to know! And she smells of very expensive perfume, and she’s snuggling up next to you, and she’s even reaching over to help roll your duckskin pancakes while looking at you so expectantly, focused on what you want, how she can spoil you.

Maybe you haven’t even noticed the Red Wolf just smoothly letting conversation flow over your complaint, because you’re in the hands of Emli now, and she has the soul of the kind of puppy who will climb right back into your lap after you set her down on the floor. The social entrapment is all the more sinister for being orchestrated by Emli’s supervisor; she is all sincerity and completely guileless.

But you probably notice when the Red Wolf suddenly diverts the dinner conversation.

***

Piripiri!

Naji slithers up, with Maid Confined wobbling on her heels in her train. She’s got a dish for… you? Held out, with a pleading look, a “nnnhmmmph,” and a nod of the head over to where Lotus sits. Lotus of Tranquil Waters, a hostage who could be the fulcrum on which the transfer of power turns, but one dangerous to publicly keep.

You already know the Red Wolf’s plan for her and her boisterous companion. They’ll be seen off publicly at Lanceolata, personally escorted off by Agata herself— and then they’ll vanish without a trace. And you know, too, who will be assigned the task of returning them to the Dominion’s arms.

Which makes the glance Lotus gives you over her shoulder all the more of an unintended knife. A hopeful “is she hungry?” sort of look. The kind that says that if Agata’s hand weren’t casually resting on her knee, she’d get up and already be asking you why you’re not sitting down (Grandmother forbid) or sharing in the meal. She picks up a strawberry and works it between her lips, completely innocent of how she looks while trying to nibble off the stem, and of how very conspicuous her sneaky glance back at you is. And she’s not just looking at you; she’s letting her eyes linger on the demonesses’ backs, too, when she thinks nobody’s watching, dragging those eyes from the Maid’s heels to her exposed back to the collar—

And then Agata directs everyone’s attention elsewhere, and the little flower jumps and chokes on the strawberry. She puts a hand to her mouth, eyes watering, and makes an effort of trying to swallow.

Someone could step in and help her. Should, even.

***

Fengye!

“And how did you end up there?” Cathak Agata’s attention has suddenly snapped to you. “While we’re at it, what, is the food not good enough?” It’s probably maybe mostly a joke. “Who are you, anyway? I don’t think we were introduced, and, does anyone…?”

She makes a show of looking around at everyone involved. Notably, the knight who brought you along, who trusted you, who thought you could be more even without the help of the goddess? She’s absent. She’s not here to step in and speak for you. And nobody else here really interacted with you, except for the priestess, and she saw you turn into a raging part of the Broken King’s soul.

The Cathak scion turns her attention back to you, and waits for your answer. She’s smiling, but it’s a lazy, expectant smile. Or is it? What is she hiding behind it? Is she hoping to let you dig your own grave? Playing with you as a cat plays with a mouse?

***

Giriel!

Here’s the thing: you know.

Once get all your thoughts aligned in a row, that is. The warmth of Cathak Agata seems to radiate off of her, sinking into your bones, filling them up with lazy warmth. Comparisons might be made, by the bold, to a bear being lulled to hibernation. It doesn’t seem particularly intentional; it’s just that being near her, mid-meal, is making you feel like a cat with a belly full of milk, stretched out by the fire with her paws tucked in neatly.

And the smoke! It keeps drawing your attention away. Its curls up near the roof are a little like all those terrible snakes you had to endure, but, no, they twist and writhe as if suspended, and— every time you’re almost close to it, it’s gone. It smells wonderful. Like cinnamon and cloves.

Then Agata leans close and whispers in your ear: “Wait until you see what I have just for you.” One finger drifts along the edge of your plate, the lacquered nail (three long, two short) almost scraping against the porcelain. And that gets some legs under you, though perhaps all pointed in the wrong direction. Her voice has such a lovely, playful trill to it, and her hair lingers, brushing against her shoulder as her attention darts back outwards. With the confidence of one of the Princes of the Earth, she simply assumes that you will be delighted to have her. And it is very doubtful that she is wrong. There’s a reason not to get too full yet, hmm?

But you know. You, alone out of the room, have the necessary pieces to know that whoever this meek, mousy little scribe is, she worked a spell over the General, a fragment of the Broken King himself, and reduced her to the furiously blushing, grunting, teetering-in-heels maid barely given enough time to finish pouring you more wine before, with a thickly-muffled whine, she’s pulled off towards the Dominion agent standing well behind you. She is a wonderworker, a sorceress, and she may have saved all your lives.

She also looks like she’s just risen out of her own grave, Agata’s attention on her making her seem to dwindle into a flickering little candle-flame, and she hasn’t said a word about what she did. You don’t know who she is, why she’s not crowing about her victory, or why she allowed her prize to be taken from her— but you could reveal what she did to everyone.

Do you?

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

On Aevum, Yellow!

“I hate fences. Have I ever told you that?”

The purpose of a motorcycle on Aevum is twofold. One is to get up on the expressway, that secondary artery pumping hot and fast through the station, and then spin it up until the world blurs, until you feel like you can almost keep pace with the trains, until your thoughts get left behind. The other is to find a place to pull over and drink in the sights of the city.

So here Vesna leans forward, hair tucked neatly into the helmet with its jagged streaks of neon pink, and gestures at Ares, the sprawling complexes of Wellington with their fences and their locked doors and keycards.

“Too many open world games. You know one of the fantasies they sell in those? You can go anywhere. It doesn’t matter if it’s locked; you can pick the lock, hack it open, find the key. It doesn’t matter if it’s somebody else’s house, because all you need to do is sneak in when they’re out to see what their life looks like when it’s unfolded. And if you see something interesting? Head for it! Clamber up slopes, see what’s between you and it, keep going until you’re satisfied and you’ve got an answer to your question. That’s a little what it was like on the Park, but— well, nature sucks at generating interesting content. We’re way better at that. When we throw things together, they’ve got meaning.”

She glances over at Yellow through the smoked glass of the visor. “How about you? What do you make of Ares, dear? What do you think of fences?”

***

On the Park, Gavin!

Well, yeah. Naturally. It’s no longer 3V’s favorite in that scene (don’t get her started on AoA’s megacampaign formats, or how it still ends up prioritizing combat over its other components despite the marketing) but on any given day she’s got a table in Gensoukyo reserved for AoA players, and fond memories of thumbing through the supplements: Lemuria and Mu; Red Mars and Fecund Venus; Sky London (with the Squamous Men and the Narcissus Bazaar).

Nah, right now she’s really into KATAPHRAKTOS, and not just because of the deep-fried memes. ([foliage][management][?]) Now there’s a game that commits to being about combat, but still tries to interrogate the morality of fucking awesome mech combats and asks you to make space wars about things worth dying for.

A game that asks, hey, what if a thousand years from now we start getting our shit together? What if we leave capitalism floating dead in the void and fight to defend gay luxury space communism, to fulfill its promises, and to fix all this crap? And what if you could figure out who’s standing athwart the rails of history telling you to go back into the dark, and then blow up his giant robot with [SHOTGUN].

That being said, 3V owns being a gaucho. Be free, clever and bold, and solve disagreements with close-quarters facón fights.

“Hey! It’s gonna take me a minute until I’m ready to throw myself back down the mountain, so I don’t mind the extra company. I miss that from the big tournaments, actually— everybody trickling in and grabbing breakfast, accumulating like snow rolling downhill, meeting folks over toast. Gavin and I were just getting to know each other, Ferris; seems like a fun dude to me. Must be nice to see folks out here. I get twitchy if there aren’t enough folks passing through my place, can’t imagine days without seeing anybody up here.”

Said without judgment, more a self-aware acknowledgment of how very, very social Aevum is by necessity. The only way to keep folks out of your life is to lock your apartment door and refuse to leave.

Breathless Dead

“No!”

Redana stands and makes to leave the palanquin; Lacedo barely holds her back, on her own orders.

“Dolce— Captain— what she has done is my fault! I have failed her, failed Hera, failed myself! When I thought her dead, I— you know what I did! When I walked with her on Salib, she saved my life and showed her scars, her hurt, her life spent being punished, punished for my imperfections! And now you want— Lacedo, let me go— now you want to, you want me to abandon—?!?”

There is a struggle. Growling. Panting. A hushed compromise.

“I am bound in our chains,” Lacedo finally says for the room, her voice burying agitation under solemnity, under the half-memorized rhetoric of a born naval officer. “If I leave her behind again, if I let her fall, she will drag me into the dark with her. I will be unworthy of both Zeus and Hermes. I have lived with her since I was a girl, and I tell you now: she is not evil, she is wounded, and roars loudest where the thorn pricks her.”

There is a silence. The curtains of the palanquin have fallen still. The shapes within can barely be seen, mere silhouettes, close together.

“Heap punishment on my head, but let us save her if we can. Lock us in cages, but set them together. Make me do penance in her name, shame and denounce me for her crimes, whatever must be done, I welcome it. Only do not make me abandon my oldest, most ill-treated friend.

“Please.”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Chamber of Harmonious Arrangements!

“—and of course, we expected anyone still remaining around the cursed castle would be in league with the warlock and her demon army,” Cathak Agata says, making an expressive gesture with her goblet. “So when a dragon emerged with several demons in tow, they thought they were under attack and moved with their characteristic efficiency to neutralize the threat! We’re all lucky that I was there to interpret the situation, aren’t we?”

Rain slicks the windows of the oversized cabin. Lanterns softly sway overhead from heavy chains, interspersed with incense braziers. The tables were set down easily, slotting into grooves on the floor to keep them steady, and the floor liberally cushioned to accommodate sitting or reclining as might please one. An erhu player sits in one corner, his silk robe loose and his chest intricately tattooed, playing O! Gloriana of the Triumphs! Legionnaires stand to attention between the narrow glass-paned windows, stoically ignoring the pervasive aroma of Dominion cuisine: duck skin and greens wrapped in pancakes, roast sweet potatoes served with cashews and dried piri-piri, sesame-seed cake and smouldering-wine. Cathak Agata has her own bottle of that last, spiced herself, and poor Lotus’s eyes start watering whenever she twists the lid off.

Because Lotus is sitting next to her at one table, wearing a red-and-gold gown, her blue hair bound up around a golden comb, skin fairly glowing from her hot bath, her lips and lids both gleaming red, with golden accent lines down the center of her lids and lower lip matching her gold-rimmed glasses. It’s not like Cathak Agata has a spare priestess outfit to hand, after all. You’ve all been helped into similar outfits, given that everything you were wearing was taken to be washed. (Though for some of you, “it’s being washed” was the second reason, the first being “evidence.” But the whole silly thing got taken care of! Everything is fine!

That is to say: Han, Giriel, Piripiri, and Fengye are all there, accompanied by Azazuka (on the other side of the Red Wolf), the demonesses (in the service of Piripiri), and Melody/Lotus (unveiled and very aware of it), as well as attendant slaves in black collars and fine robes (open low at the chest) to handle pouring drinks and lubricating conversation.

Han, Fengye: you have been through the mortifying experience of being processed as prisoners of the Dominion. Stripped, cold water poured over your head, then left to stew while bound in cells barely as large as a closet. This made suddenly being pulled out and tossed into hot baths, untied, and offered extensive help from Agata’s handmaidens in getting ready for dinner all the more abrupt and dizzying. Agata’s got the final say on which of those experiences you get when you leave dinner, but it seems like she’s eager to shrug it off as a ridiculous misunderstanding by everyone involved.

Giriel: you have not been through this experience. After waking up on board Beneficence of the Hearth, you cleared up the whole thing with Cathak Agata, who declared that she’d set the whole situation to rights. She’s also explained to you that both of the knights are under care from her physician to see to their injuries and that she would like to have a private night meal with you tonight in her cabin. The sort where food’s an excuse to taste sweeter things. Congratulations! You saved Han and her demigod from the brig, and you’re going to get rewarded for it! Everything is coming up Giriel tonight.

Piripiri: you have been Disciplined for letting Azazuka out into dangerous situations, given that you were meant to keep her under safe observation in Golden Chrysanth. In her usual magnanimity, Agata then turned around and delivered both the demons into your care, and (just before the two of you entered the Chamber of Harmonious Arrangements) informed you that she wanted you to arrange a night meal for Giriel Bruinstead. Because that is, unfortunately, actually a very good use of your talents.

Do try making your own duck rolls. They’re a delicacy for a reason, after all. Don’t even think of having to refill your own glass. Just enjoy the warmth to contrast with the rain lashing against the windows, the pleasant music and incense filling the room, and the brilliant smile of your hostess.

Everything is fine.

***

Kalaya!

You woke up naked in a cell, and it got worse from there. When legionnaires dragged you out of the cramped cell (through a hexagon-shaped room down in the hull, suggesting room enough for six other prisoners), they didn’t offer you clothing or answers for what was going on. They just dragged you up several floors, hands under your armpits, and cuffed you down to a chair in a guest cabin, leaving you to stew and bite down on your gag, trying to find some way out.

Then Cathak Agata takes a seat opposite you, in full Dominion uniform, gold cords and impractical jacket, her fiery hair falling loose down one shoulder, and studies you for a long moment, pointer fingers resting under her lip.

“Kalaya Na,” she says. “Not really what I was expecting.” She reaches out, hooks one finger under your gag, and pulls it down to rest around your neck, then pulls out the sodden wadding, setting it down casually on your lap.

“So, Kalaya Na, Princess of the Lily, can you explain to me how, exactly, you plan to…” She makes a show of pulling out a journal, looking for a certain page, reading the contents carefully. “Unite the Flower Kingdoms under your sword, defeat and humiliate the Dominion and the N’yari, force Cathak Agata to pull your chariot through the streets of Golden Chrysanth during your Triumph procession, and then usher in a golden age unseen since the days when the dragons ruled the whole world, as declared by virtue of the Five Maidens of Destiny?”

The journal snaps shut like the fall of an executioner’s axe.

“I am very interested in hearing how you plan to do all this, and how you’re making your sales pitch spread so fast. It’s like wildfire, and I have to know, because I didn’t think those particular techniques of Imperial Intelligence were disseminated yet. But they’re the only people I’ve seen who are this good at spreading a “”grassroots”” movement, so.”

She smiles, and it’s like staring down a dragon. Your heart really wants you to know that even if she doesn’t have fangs, she might as well.

“Let’s do this the easy way, like friends,” she adds. “I like you, after all, even though you apparently intend to dress me in a cow’s harness and make me trot with a whip licking at my heels. You know, apparently it was a grandmother who was sharing those details when my agent noted it down? Wild stuff. Wild stuff.”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Giriel!

“I wanted to thank you for your service, didn’t I?”

When Cathak Agata cups your cheek with a bloodied hand, she wraps her spirit around you. Warmth suffuses you; the rain hisses away before it can touch you. Being this close to her is like sitting next to a fire, letting the heat sink in deep, until it is almost but not quite painful. She helps you to your feet as if helping a doll stand.

“What were you thinking?” Her admonishment is half gentle, half baffled. “Taking on an entire demon army by yourself, sealing their gate, defeating the warlock and her minions?” Her thumb rests on your mouth and she shushes away your attempts to explain. The warmth is so pervasive that it’s all you can do to stop yourself from falling asleep and letting Agata take care of where you walk. Even injured, she’s a pillar of confidence. You’d never think Han managed to lay a claw on her.

Han. She’s being wrestled down by legionnaires, dragging her over to the coffle: Han’s little demigod stands with the mad, brilliant woman who dared to impersonate the General, and the little demoness who used to be one of the most feared power players in Hell, all three collared and gagged, waiting for their forced march. Kalaya and Uusha are chained down to medicinal stretchers, and Azazuka—

“Release her, you dumb bastards,” Cathak Agata barks, the way that important people yell at people they think are simple but, dammit, good at heart. (The condescension of those who think themselves protagonists, and everyone else supporting players.) “Don’t you recognize her? If she’s so much as bruised…!”

And then Azazuka’s throwing herself into Red Wolf’s arms, which is to say, somewhat into your arms. “Oh, Gatty,” she squeals. “Don’t be too hard on them! I don’t know what’s been going on, but this witch here, she helped me, and so did the Hymairean, they’re innocent of whatever is going on!” Even as tired as you are, you recognize the shift in her demeanor: this is the mask of the Hapless Socialite Who Gets Her Way Out Of Indulgence. She’s trying to protect you and the Hymairean, and to a lesser extent, everyone else. She gives Agata a look that probably gets her anything she wants back home, but Agata frowns and gently lays a hand on her shoulder. Azazuka’s breath hitches a moment, but not from pain.

“What happened? How did this— and why are you here?” Concern. A hint of anger, roiling underneath for the first time. Azazuka definitely isn’t supposed to be out here, and shit’s going to rain down on someone who is responsible. She glances off to one side, her face away from you, but you can tell someone’s getting eye daggers. Then she returns her attention to Azazuka. “I’m afraid I don’t have a palanquin, my dear lady,” she says, taking her hand and simply breathing across her knuckles, the better to not irritate the sunburn, and Azazuka’s eyes flutter helplessly for a moment. “But if it is not beneath your dignity, I would make these brutes bear you on one of our stretchers back— and you, too, my witch. There’s no need for any more walking tonight.”

Han roars her fury into thick-packed cloth as her ass is smacked by a legionnaire to get the coffle marching. But that might as well be a mile away, because Agata’s helping you down onto a stretcher and she’s even got an umbrella for you.

After all, she’s the hero. She’ll take care of you.

Sunshards

Rosepetal doesn’t set her Chen down. One hand strokes along the back of Chen’s neck as she nimbly— up, up!— takes Chen up to meet the Pyre of Inspiration, taking great bounding steps like gravity is something she can ignore by simply wanting it to be so. So she comes to meet someone who is finding the world to be suddenly new and beautiful, and takes her by the hand, with all the solemnity of a monk and all the grace of a handmaiden.

“Princess Chen of the North Wind and her Rosepetal, reporting for duty, mistress,” she says. “However, I am happy to inform you that if you are willing to wait until after the battle to cash in the shares you own of me,” she says, with a playfulness, as if joking between friends, “I am authorized to extend our contract until such time as you are satisfied with our service.” No more hours. No more seconds shaved off. An openness, a shutting of the eyes and falling into her arms, trusting that she will be caught. “This special offer is only increased in value, because it comes along with a fox-certified master maid.”

No hiding in your Rosepetal, dear sweet Chen! She knows you want her to turn your head, to tilt your chin up, and make you look up at the Pyre. “That’s right! The second time I met her, she was displaying her core competencies by cleaning an entire shrine wearing the most darling little uniform, weren’t you, Chen?” And now look whose head is being nodded!

Rosepetal’s voice only becomes a little more serious while her little princess is busy overheating. “It’s just that this city and its safety is very important to Chen, and if she’s worried about it, she’ll be so clumsy, knocking over valuable vases with her skirt and tripping over her own heels and let’s not even get into all the things she’ll spill all over herself! And if she’s not worried, you’ll know that whenever she does that, it’s because she’s trying to be a naughty girl who needs Burrows discipline, just for you.”

She looks out at the walls of the city, the multicolored smoke and the assault ribbons, and squeezes Chen closer. Her Chen. Her defender, her treasure. “It’s your choice,” she says. Because if she doesn’t say it, if she tries to trick her and run rings around her, if she doesn’t treat the Pyre like a person who’s even more vulnerable right now than her Chen, then she’s betraying everything she still holds dear, all for the sake of Chen— and that would sink its fangs into the root of their love, a still-young tree still coming into its fruits. How could she meet Chen’s mothers knowing she was a traitor of innocence? How could she kiss Chen’s perfect lips knowing what she’d paid for them?

So she holds Chen tighter and her heart plummets, as if blindfolded, waiting to see if it will indeed be caught. If the dream she danced, here and now, was true. If the promise of the twilight on those purpled hills was true. If she can still bring happiness into the world.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Kingeater Castle!

Thunder rattling the trees. Rain, pouring down on the ruin.

Where there was a castle, there is now devastation. Everything was uprooted, down to the dungeons, down to the very foundations: the earth is a loose slurry being churned into mud. Trees have fallen, the stables have been washed away; come morning, there will be nothing to say that Kingeater Castle was once here but the mudslide drowning the earth.

Night on night pierces the darkness, forcing it open like the wedge of an axe’s head, and from it pours innumerable silver grains of sand, glowing from within as if imbued with moonish light, as if the stars themselves had been crushed to powder, and the murmur of their rush, hissing and tumbling over each other, is a hymn: all hail to the Mother of Deserts, all glory and power to the Edict Fount, may her body stretch into the shadows of eternity. And behind the ten sleepwalkers who stagger out into the sand-clogged mud, a presence rises, night blotting out night, and its tears are sand, and its mantle is the color that remains when all other colors have been eaten, and the sand surges forth like a high tide, hungry, inexorable, infinite; but the one who walks last, so that none will be forgotten as they walk single-file through the body of the Mother of Deserts, who alone did not slip into the cold waking dream of the rise-and-fall, the spell of the place where everything is the same as everything, she raises one hand and the door closes behind them, the ten of them, mortals and dragon-children and demons alike, and then there is nothing but the rain in the almost-light before dawn and the driving rain and the exhaustion, the bone-deep exhaustion, of walking the devil’s road out of Hell.

For the Mother of Deserts is the sister-bride of the Broken King, and she drapes herself around his bones like a suffocating robe; and her dictate is that those who leave must walk her road, and stand in her waste of ruined stars, and suffer for daring to leave, which she may never do, being now infinite. She could drown all creation beneath her weight and still only have extended the merest finger out of their prison.

The spell that the one wrapped around the nine was a mercy. Better to walk through that wasteland dreaming than to feel it bearing down on you, than to be tempted to collapse, than to be forced to understand the length of the journey.

***

Giriel!

Objectively: days. But also objectively: it’s maybe been an hour since you left. Subjectively: you are exhausted. You walked last in line, holding a candle, and you saw the shadows heaped up on themselves in the distance, horribly suggestive of entire civilizations drowned beneath the sand. You heard the sand-hymns and were coming dangerously close to understanding them. You held back the attention of one of the creators of the world with a candle and a waking dream, with blood and will and Peregrine’s help.

Peregrine. She stayed behind. She’s almost certainly got business with that warlock, who ended up escaping Uusha. She’s there because she’s got her hands in the guts of some interesting experiment, down to the wrists, and she’s there because— well, the last time you saw her was when she was abducted by that strange heavenly spirit, and there’s a connection there that you’ve almost hit, but it’s slipping through your fingers like smoke.

But can you be blamed? You’ve just walked for days without stopping, beating the responsibility of everyone’s safety on your shoulders, keeping all of them safe. And are they going to understand what you just did? Are they going to be grateful? Or are they going to listen to the dragon-blooded girl who looked at you with hate in her eyes? (Peregrine would understand.)

You’re sitting down. You don’t remember when you sat down, but it’s a thing that’s happening now. Sat down in the sandy mud (muddy sand?). You did it. And now it would be very appreciated if the world stopped requiring you to do things, because you’re going to need someone’s help to stand back up. Your thighs and feet have decided to go on dockworkers’ strike together. And the conversations happening all around fade in and out, cut together with the song of the sand.

That’s why you don’t notice what’s going wrong until it’s too late.

***

Piripiri!

Naji has wrapped herself around you, and you are sinking into her coils. Your hand throbs; your legs ache. The world has been too much, too loud, for too long. You need to dig your roots in and drink deep (metaphorically speaking).

Here’s a fun question to consider, though. You’ve been traveling through the Demon Desert for… folklore says it’s at least three days. The witch wrapped a simple enchantment over your eyes to protect you from the journey, but time still passed. If you sleep for three days and then awaken, are you still a hostage? Are you still required by honor to remain? Or does it even matter, did the witch break the oath of protection that stood between you and Uusha?

Naji nuzzles you with her body and you can feel her anger radiating off her. It’s not directed at you. It’d be nice to think it’s at the witch, wouldn’t it? Devils don’t much care for oathbreakers, after all (though they resent the oaths they are forced to swear). She probably deserves to be untied and told what a good girl she’s been, doesn’t she? It’s just that your fingers are so thick and heavy right now.

It’s the warmth of her fury and the softness of her flesh that drown out the signs you should have picked up on before it was too late.

***

Fengye!

You’re small again. But, luckily, Maid Confined in Yearning is smaller. She tugs at you, trying to pull her wrist out of your fingers, hissing— and she’s got more energy than you do, because walking through the desert (Zhaojun knows more) is harder on you comparatively fragile mortals than it is on them. So you’re forced to shift your footing and try to keep her from pulling you onto your bad leg.

Which is why the crossbow bolt screams through the place where your head was, before ending in a meaty thud that meant it hit someone.

Maid Confined screams and her helpless, pliable body throws itself of its own accord into your arms; she buries her face in you even as your leg goes out from under you and you both collapse into the muck, and she’s screaming so shrilly that you can’t hear yourself think, and you’ve got to wonder: is this how you die? With a former part of the Broken King’s soul squealing and kicking her feet on top of you while people get shot at?

***

Han!

The fire within you is waning. You won’t be able to stay like this for long. It feels achy, like you held a stretch too long, like you’ve been holding a muscle in place and now it won’t relax. It’s… fuzzy, memories of walking through somewhere dark and empty, like a tunnel, but with no walls, and there was this song—

Melody shifts on your back and sinks her fingers into your mane. Her chest rises and falls; she’s actually asleep. There. That’s something you can focus on. You didn’t manage to punish the rotting bastard who did this to her, but you saved her. That’s enough. She’s safe because of you.

Then pain explodes along your neck, crackling, burning, and Melody screams herself awake because her wrist’s caught in it, and everything— as the saying goes— goes to Hell.

***

Kalaya!

The world swims into existence. Rain hammers down onto your face. Pain swims underneath the bleariness of the world. But you’re home. You’re definitely home. The Flower Kingdoms, where the rain never stops during the rainy season. You push yourself up onto your elbows—

And Uusha grinds her boot down onto you, sending your head thudding back down against the mud. “Stay down, beetle,” she hisses. She looks about as bad as you feel: her face is bloodless, her eyes are half-shut, her stiffness is the fragility of someone who knows she is brittle. And even so, if you tried to get back up again, she would beat you into the mud until you stopped moving. Again.

The clash of your sword against her spear! The whirl, the execution of moves known by heart, the reserves of strength you pulled from again and again! The thorns that snapped from her armor, the bruises that blossomed on her skin like opening petals, the elegant arcs of her spear’s heads through the air, the whine of the wood put under such pressure! You fought like devils under the green light of Hell!

You can’t really be blamed for losing, you know. You were fighting the Stag Knight. One day, you’ll be as good as she is; one day, she was where you are now. She’s got long limbs and experience on the battlefield and a relentless fire in her heart, and that’s a lot to stack up against love.

(Love: Ven got away. She’s safe. You did it.)

Uusha opens her mouth to say something to you in her brittle, burned-through-anger voice, and you, through those bleary eyes, get to watch as she painfully turns, as she grabs at the air, slowed by exhaustion and the fatigue of fighting you. You hear the crunch, the way the air is forced out of her lungs in one sharp exhalation, as the bolt punches through a weak point in her armor, just a hair too fast for her to catch. You see the moment when she decides to lean into the momentum, so that instead of standing like an idiot who will get shot more, she topples like a falling tree and tumbles down a muddy slope.

And you hear the roar of the Imperial Legion.

***

Kingeater Castle!

Han is having a very bad time; she shakes and flails and roars to topple towers as the thunder bolas constrict about her throat, as a confused Melody screams in agony and tries to pull her wrist out from underneath the lines crackling with the power of a trapped lightning bolt, as Uusha topples into the dark bleeding from her side, as Imperial legionnaires reload a bolacaster and close in, ready to kill everyone. They’d do it, you know. Without so much as blinking.

And that’s when Cathak Agata rides into the scene on her coal-black horse (an already unusual animal to see here), rain hissing into steam in a halo around her body, and vaults from its back, does a somersault in the air, landing squarely on Han’s back.

The Red Wolf’s sword bursts into leaping flame and she raises it high. And with her in the midst of you, crossbows are lowered and shields are hammered into the mud, soldiers forming a ring of pikes to keep you hemmed in while their glorious leader plays her part.

“Hold still!” she says, pulling Melody to one side, and swings her blade down. The bolas explode into thrashing, arcing things like eels boiling in a pot, agony lancing through the air looking for victims, and in that moment, this is true:

Cathak Agata has Melody held tight to her chest, and is prepared to defend her from such things as a rampaging dragon out of her mind with pain.

After all, she’s the hero.