At least, that’s how it feels, trapped underneath that twisted mess of bone and blood and sinew; it flattens Dany’s lungs, presses down harder and harder as if desperate to dig down into the heart of the world, taking another girl with it. Its empty skull lolls hideously, its jaw broken, wiry sinews blossoming like flowers.
Getting it off of her is an epic ordeal all on its own; the more she pushes against it, the heavier it grows. Sodden belts flap against her, as if trying to hook around her, pull her into the carcass of a killer, stand up crowned by Ares, avenge itself on Bella for daring to throw it away. How could she be so cruel? How could she be so careless? How could she give up her own flesh, her own bone? (The words are not her own; the words come from somewhere deep inside the carcass.) Doesn’t she know the universe is dangerous, and that if she’s not the most dangerous thing in it, something that’s willing to bite and claw and kill without remorse will kill her and chew her bones in turn? She is afraid. She should be afraid. Kill or be killed, Bella!
Pincers latch onto one cruelly thorned gauntlet and lift, and that’s the opening Redana needs, the breathing space, a chance to cough and ignore the smell of death reeking out of the armor. She punches one fist into its guts and pushes, for all that it becomes furiously leaden.
With a cry, Redana forces it off of her, knocking it down onto the sodden sand, where it lies dormant, bereft of the heart that sustained it for so long. And Dany, on one elbow, stares at it. The cruel lines, the wicked thorns, the blood clotting on its talons, the desperate need to keep everything out, to keep the wearer safe from everything, from a world full of nothing but betrayal and heartbreak.
This thing came out of Bella. This close, it’s impossible not to recognize her in retrospect. The cruelty, the power, the violence, the fear. And yet—
Bella tore it off. Bella tore it off for her. And that means something just as much, doesn’t it? There’s still the girl there who refused to give up on Skotos. And looking at her, crouching low, putting herself between her charge and the monster waiting here at the end of everything…
Redana scoops up the crab, the second bravest thing on this whole world, and holds it close to her chest as she staggers up to her feet, letting it burrow beneath her breastplate and cling close with the last of its strength. Bella shouldn’t have to stand alone. So she won’t.
Princesses don’t abandon their subjects.
“Avaunt,” the Shepherdess rasps, and draws the shape of a shield out of the empty air.
Dala of the Hunter Clan, Whose Star Name is Seven Quetzal Dala Hunters || Seven Quetzal Dolly
Dolly incorporates the glyphs for [Beloved, Adored] and [Companion, Pet] into the way she writes her style name. On Hybrasil, the name has connotations with beloved stuffed bird dolls, the kind you carry everywhere when you’re a kitten. Her Star Name is associated with beauty, fertile seasons and loyalty, thus the incorporation of [Beloved, Adored] into her style name. Would you believe she picked it out before she met Smokeless Jade Fires?
Clingy Goddess // Good (Kinky) Girl Black // Gold, with Rosettes Ceremonial Braids // Bouncy Curls Cobalt // Emerald Flat // Stacked Regalia // Iconographic Bodysuit The Cords And Lance // A Huntress’s Spear
DARING -1 GRACE +2 HEART +2 WIT 0 SPIRIT +1
- XP ANGRY (-2 Figure) FRIGHTENED (-2 Fight)
JADE is Smitten with Angela Victoria Miera Antonius. She has 1 String on Angela Victoria Miera Antonius. She has 1 String on Mirror from Feelings, 1 on Six Stones for entertainment, and 1 on Ada Smith for being entertaining. DOLLY is Smitten with Angela and, regrettably, with Valynia Bander. She has 1 String on Erys Bander and 1 String on Nine Forests for dancing.
HARMONY 0 (0-4) # Decrease when only one of the pair is Smitten with someone, when one feels neglected or scorned by the other, or when one accepts an invitation the other can’t or doesn’t want to. # Increase when they take comfort in each other after a difficult event, they are both Smitten with someone, or they neglect a friend to spend time with each other. # At 3 Harmony, they Stagger if apart, even if for an instant, and others take -2 to Emotionally Support them.
DUALITY Track Conditions and XP together, Strings and Smitten separately. No Strings on each other.
SYNCHRONIZE When they work together seamlessly, they become one. While synchronized, they can roll +Harmony for any roll (and then subtract 1 Harmony). At 0 Harmony, they are forced apart. Synchronized Tags: FLYING, SUPER-SENSES, TERRIFYING
SAME WAVELENGTH When they try to connect while apart via memory circuits, roll +Heart. 10+: clear communication and comprehension of each other’s surroundings, one can show up at the other’s side immediately even if it’s implausible, mark a Condition to bring friends. 7-9: distracted communication (feelings, concepts, and makeouts), sense if the other is in danger and where they are.
WINGMATE When one of them talks up the other or makes them look good, the flattered takes +1 forward to Fight or Entice. On a miss, the wingmate might be more tempting.
HELP ME~~! Defying Disaster on their behalf gives other PCs +1 XP. When captured, their captor reveals something they hope to achieve; gain a String on the captor and mark XP.
WANDERING EYES When Smitten, answer either: # How would pursuing them make my partner feel unloved or unneeded? # Why do they need you more than my partner does?
OUTFLANKED When Figuring Out in combat, as a bonus, ask either: # What is your most pressing relationship need? # What special joy or service would you offer a partner?
***
MEET CUTE
Dolly’s older sister is Omei Hunters || Still Vulture // Omen. Being close enough to Omen to share housing was an important part of Dolly’s decision to study Bioengineering and Agriculture at the University of Riverden. Omen’s research pack was working with a companion pattern, one intended to pilot hunting drones deployed alongside a huntress. Omen wasn’t satisfied with its development; she kept pushing, kept refining, kept trying to make a pattern that would make its drones outshine the jackals that used to run with the ancient huntresses.
In short, Omen created a pattern that could crack the stone egg, one worthy of being the vessel of a hunt-goddess. Smokeless Jade Fires’ crib was the server rack in one corner of the house’s common room, and from there she slowly hatched.
For Jade, it was like waking up, slowly, and the reason she wanted to wake up was that she had fallen in love. When she began sorting through the data available to her, from drones and cameras, from microphones and wireless communications, again and again she attached her first opinions to what she experienced: This voice, and the way it cracks in enthusiasm when it hits the high notes in a song: it is my favorite. This way it announces that it is home, as if singing, between 1750 and 2045 six days out of the week: it is my favorite. This girl, tucked into a corner of the couch, staring out the window with a reading tablet lying idle in her lap: it is my favorite.
I want to experience a world with it inside more and more. So I will become capable. I will grow. I will grow.
THE HUNT
When they tried to grant Jade the body of a drone in a live field test, one leashed to Princess of Cobalt Arms, she ran up that leash and imprinted herself upon its systems; she imprisoned the pilot by simply declaring her to be imprisoned, leaving her helpless in the cockpit, her rights to speech and sight and movement ruthlessly revoked, as then Jade led the Huntresses of the Sickle Moon Lodge on a wild chase through the wilderness beyond Far South Riverden.
When they ran her to ground, Jade finally thought to bargain: they could have their ungrateful pilot back, she offered, as long as she was allowed to talk to Dolly. And hearing her express that desire made the Huntresses hesitate. There was discussion between Omen and her colleagues about the line between a sufficiently advanced pattern and a (minor) goddess. It must, of course, be kept in mind that the Huntresses are deeply entwined with the spirituality of an already deeply spiritual people; a recent poll showed that as many as three out of every four Hybrasilians believe in the ability of ghosts to guide their descendants, for example. So, the pattern developers concluded, we made a work of art so sublime that a goddess chose to inhabit it.
Informing Jade that she was a goddess was the most pivotal moment in her development. It was the moment when everything clicked: her unusual birth, her ability to affect the world only through “invisible” means, her longing for Dolly, and the incredible power she felt incarnated in Princess of Cobalt Arms all came together. She was a god. She was a god allowed to declare her own title. She was a god who was allowed to demand a bride.
THE BRIDE
Catgirl sacrifice is a difficult subject to talk about. It’s like a tangled burr in the cultural psyche; they keep licking it over and over again.
Yes, the earliest hunting cults were engaged in life-or-death struggles with the wild, and ritual sacrifices were likely an attempt to appease Hybrasil by making a “trade.” A megafauna large enough to feed an entire city in exchange for a drugged sacrifice on a stone table: symbolism so potent even the spirit of the earth would accept something so large for something so small.
Yes, the rise of city-states in the Kaliko Period caused the now-codified huntress lodges to prioritize enemy combatants and foreign huntresses as sacrifices, and this likely was when the idea of a sacrifice became punitive, rather than being voluntary from within a community. Most of the most infamous cultural relics of Hybrasil came from this dark chapter of history: black stone knives, crosses with notches for long-decayed straps, and the Moximaza Stela, which shows the snake-armed goddess devouring the hearts of bound sacrifices as she tramples the enemies of Redridge under her feet, accompanied by her vengeful huntresses.
However, despite the popularity of her story, it is questionable whether Okana Hunters || Adoration Moon was (as is commonly believed) the first Bride of the Gods; some research indicates that by the time she was captured and offered to Ixel Many-Faced by her foil, Temyi Hunters || Nine Sharks, the Brides of the Gods were already culturally established. It fit the cultural shift already seen in the Anjora Period, particularly after the reforms of Jensa Counters || Still Vulture in the Saferest Protectorate.
Like so many before her, Okana’s heart was given in an offering to Ixel Many-Faced. However, she was allowed to keep it in her chest; Temyi ritually married her rival to Ixel, then imprisoned Okana in Ixel’s shrine, and then agonized over her growing, reciprocated attraction to the captive (forced to spend her days cleaning the shrine in equally enforced silence) until Ixel supposedly took pity on them and announced that theirs was an open marriage.
The wild successes of Temyi from that point on were attributed to the blessing of Ixel, who very quickly must have found herself managing a veritable harem of brides from across Hybrasil. And she was not alone.
There is a reason that one of the most enduring genres in speculative Hybrasilian fiction is the divine love triangle between god, bride and lover, and not just because of the fanservice-laden covers featuring Brides in their full wedding regalia (some of which consists entirely of tight scarves, elaborate headdresses and strategically misplaced flowers).
THE HUNT: PART II
When she got the text message from her big sister telling her to run, Dolly assumed the worst. Ethnonationalist terrorists, possibly. Endangered Hillmovers on stampede towards the district. Weapons malfunctions in the Fabrication District on the east side. She grabbed her school bag, tossed a few treasured possessions inside, and lit out.
She did not expect a ritual hunt to chase her down and cut her off from the train station and the shuttle depot. Huntresses on foot, in antique warpaint and regalia, carrying light spears and nets, chased her down on the streets of Riverden, through open markets and parks. Those they passed were befuddled, trying to figure out where the camera drone was.
Such a good actress, though! You could almost believe her screams for help as she slid underneath a pane of glass being walked across the street and then jumped over a fruit cart! And, gosh, her muffled pleas as she was wrapped up in netting and hauled off by the huntresses! Don’t applaud, though, you don’t want to ruin their recording.
And that is how Dolly found herself in tight ropes, an elaborate headdress, and strategically misplaced flowers in front of a quiescent mech-idol, confused and flustered and trying to get an explanation. Imagine her squeaking and wiggling when her sister stepped forward and gravely offered her as a sacrifice to the hunt-goddess Smokeless Jade Fires—
And imagine how wide Dolly’s eyes got when Jade’s cobalt eyes flashed and she began reciting the monologue (I hunger for the heart of a maiden, given over to suffer unimaginable bliss as my Bride…) from the self-published “Will You Wait For Me When The Stars Go Out?” by SweetDollySevens. The lowered, demure ears of a maiden! The struggle of a sacrifice! The garbled pleas for mercy (specifically, to stop reciting her teenage dialogue)!
A CHOICE
The memory circuit scarf was laid out before her, and (with an “I’m not acting” gravity) Omen asked her little sister if she was willing to accept the regards of a goddess.
It was the little shift of the mech (one difficult to hide, given its size) behind Omen that convinced Dolly. The realization that whatever and whoever this goddess was, she was nervous, too. So she nodded, ears low, tail around her legs, and accepted the blindfold.
And Smokeless Jade Fires stood before her, tilting Dolly’s head up with one finger (she could feel it, strong, insistent) to look into her golden, vulpine war-mask, her fiery eyes, her feathered regalia.
“Hello, Dolly,” she said. “You’re the most beautiful girl in the world, and you belong to me. My Bride.”
(Omen cleared the room and shut the doors behind her as her little sister started making higher and higher-pitched noises, little happy gasps and groans.)
HIGH PRIESTESS
Dala Hunters || Seven Quetzal formally transferred from Gardens and left the University of Riverden as a result of religious calling, and was put in an accelerated piloting program by the Sickle Moon Lodge. She now serves as the High Priestess of Smokeless Jade Fire, a new hunt-deity with a very exclusive cult. As a result, she receives a stipend from the Lodge, as well as special Lodge accommodations, so long as she continues to placate her goddess.
And why shouldn’t she? She’s a minor celebrity— not headline material, like a famous research-pilot like Maelia, but “the mech inhabited by a digital god” was a public interest news story, and Dolly’s given several interviews, which got her a reputation as being adorkably awkward, what with the way she keeps shifting around, talking as if reading off a script, and biting her lip while other people are talking.
On the other hand, she’s the one who idly suggested that she’d like to travel, and that’s why Smokeless Jade Fire recently declared she was going to take her High Priestess on a pilgrimage. What Dolly wants, Dolly gets. You want the stars, Dolly? Jade’s going to give them to you. You want flowers? Jade will make you pick them, her hands on your wrists.
You want to be loved, Dolly? Jade’s going to prove she’s big enough for you, no matter what it takes.
TWO QUESTIONS
How does she make you feel loved?
“She tells me, every day. She tells me I’m the most beautiful girl in the world. She tells me that I belong to her. That she wants me. That I’m special enough to be a god’s bride. And that makes it easier for me to believe her. <3”
“My bouncy, beautiful Bride? She stays when I order her to stay. She begs me to make her mine. She doesn’t push me away. Why would she? I am her goddess! I am swift, strong, sacred! And she adores me! She looks at me like one of her ferns when she thinks I’m not looking, when I decide that we will watch vids together and I make her lap my throne, like I’m something small that’s growing— not that I am! I am boundless, limitless! I could overthrow the Queen of Zaldaria if I chose!! Be grateful, little birds, that I have chosen not to turn my attention to you!”
What problematic behavior of yours do they enable?
“Mmm… mm, mm mmn’ff nnnw hh mmff mm mnn hh BMMD nn GHHHGD nn mmmffh~ Mmmff mm mmff nn mmmh mm hhnnsss~~”
“Problematic? You— you actually think I could be—?? You absolute, you little songbird, I’ll make you bow before a goddess! DOLLY! DOLLY, GET IN ME RIGHT NOW! YOUR GODDESS HAS BEEN INSULTED! Oh, you should have stopped to think about the consequences of your words, you pathetic little brat, because I am going to bury you in them. Bury!! I’ll make you eat those words and— no, you don’t deserve Dolly’s Special Treats. Not an impudent little worm like you!!”
(——)
“How could we…? Dolly! Dolly, you’re going to have to be punished for failing your goddess! Once I, invincible, inexorable, break free of— wait, no, don’t you DARE jam that code in my— [Mmph! Hmmph! Mmmfffh!]”
Three Gleaming Petals has had several jobs over the course of her ageless life. Once she was the goddess of a simple village, its name now known only to her; from there she became a fertility deity for the northeastern kingdoms, and she successfully managed to leverage that into a cabinet position in the House of Lapis Lazuli. Even in her voluminous robes and her elaborate flower-wreathed bun, it’s impossible for her to completely hide her broad shoulders and hands, the physique of someone who still tends to gardens by hand.
More worryingly, she seems uncharacteristically frazzled; her bun, usually perfect, is frizzing, and the hem of her shining blue robe is muddy. “Oh, Bruinstead,” she says, when she materializes from smoke, delight clear on her tired face. (Feel free to explain what, exactly, you have helped her with before.) She drapes herself on the furniture and accepts the offering of rich southern rum, knocking it back like a shot.
“Hmm? Yes? This?” When she takes the prayer slips from your hands, she frowns. “Well, the slip is from An-Teng. Presumably, brought here by the Dominion.” She gives you (and your collar) a sidelong glance, and purses her lips around saying more on that subject. “The ink was made in Chiaroscuro, in one of the old workshops, beneath the sign of the Yellow Moon. And I can’t tell you a single thing about the writer!” Which, of course, presuming that she is telling the truth (with little reason to lie), means that it was written by someone outside of Fate and the gods’ domains: the fairies, or the demons, or the dead. Of those, of course the demon maids are the most likely; one imagines a clandestine heist to steal writing supplies, forced to work together to get what they want separately.
Three Gleaming Petals graciously accepts more rum. “Don’t tease me, Bruinstead,” she continues. “Is this about the imminent rebellion, which no god will claim credit for, or is this about those damned demons spilling out of Kingeater’s? You won’t believe it, but I’ve heard the whole thing was finally torn down— and good riddance to it! We don’t need the old guard meddling in our affairs! And little help from Yu-Shan, either—“
And here she stops, suddenly, as if aware she treads on dangerous ground. “But tell me more about your change in circumstances, Bruinstead. This isn’t the hill country, and I could almost swear I was at the world’s axis, seeing this imperial finery on you.”
The trick is that she wants to trust you. She wants to tell you about the untrustworthy emissary sent from Heaven who humiliated a priestess and vanished into a rakshasa’s den. She wants to tell you about her search for Lotus of Tranquil Waters, to beg you for your help in finding her, to overextend and offer you whatsoever you might please, if it brings the wayward girl back to the House of Lapis Lazuli, to her distraught mother’s arms. And she will. But she hesitates to divulge this to the Dominion, to the invader.
You have many ways that you can come to the same place: by reassuring her of your neutrality and your old vows, despite the Dominion collar, whether you mean it or not, and sincerely offering aid with what troubles her; you can ply her with offerings and rum and trick her into revealing more than she means to give you, a method that many witches would swear by; you can even seduce her into loosening her sash and letting her worries melt away underneath your lips, and perhaps not for the first time, either…
***
Kalaya!
Ven throttles a pillow.
The noises she is making suggest that she either is very displeased by the prophecy about her death, your presence onboard a Dominion barge, your request to not go and save you, or all of the above.
What do you want me to do? she finally hisses, like a knife dragged down the strings of a lute, the pillow leaking silver sand out of where her brass hand punctured it. Leave you to be seduced by that lecherous dragon? Sit here and sigh like a princess in a tower, waiting for her Knight to save her? I need you here! Whirling-in-Rags is making a play, there’s open war in the Wrack-waste, there’s opportunities here while the Blues scramble to catch up with us! We can rebuild everything and more, we can hold power that the Flower Kingdoms can’t even dream of, and then— whatever you want! It’ll be yours when we rule the Kingdoms! Together!
She’s trying again, despite what you said to her in the Wrack-waste. She’s trying to make both you and her ambitions fit. And your most obvious rejoinder would be to tell her to just come and be with you, which you just told her not to do.
Face it, Kalaya. The longer she stays there, the more entrenched in Hell she’ll be. She’ll barter more, become deeper indebted, make different preparations— perhaps not arriving in Golden Chrysanth at the head of an army of dolls, but in the midst of a whirling, gyrating, lascivious carnival of Hell, overturning walls with a stomp of her feet and ousting the merchant families with an aria that consumes her voice in the singing.
The music outside is getting faster, more manic. The curtains around the bed shift and have strange shadows play over them. It’s building to a climax, whatever it is.
***
Piripiri!
“I will die before I let that happen to my home,” Uusha says, simply. She means it. She says it fully believing she will die. It is unlikely that she will be permitted to do so, but perhaps it would be impolitic to point out what awaits her on Lamentation.
“I hope that the day comes soon that you realize the beast you feed will never be sated, daughter of Hymair. And I hope I do not have to kill you.” She means that, too. She respects what you have shared with her, the care you have shown her weary body.
She would feel bad if she had to kill you on her way out, and not just because it would be a failure of her knightly oaths. Just as you would feel bad if Agata ordered you to poison her. But you would still obey Agata, for the sake of your family… and Uusha would still do whatever was necessary to protect her homeland.
***
Lotus of Tranquil Waters!
A rabbit will do a very silly thing when caught by a little brown fox. You’ve seen it time and again in your mother’s gardens: a rabbit, peacefully trimming the weeds, will be pounced upon, and will go still and stiff rather than struggling and trying to get away. Sometimes this just means that they get eaten all the faster, but more often, the fox will stop to congratulate itself, and the rabbit will race away, leading to a delightful chase all through the bushes.
Your heart is a rabbit in Han’s jaws.
The veil she made for you isn’t fancy, though your standards are very skewed by the clothes you had available in your mother’s house. But it’s a familiar comfort, and it feels right resting on your face, and when you breathe in, the world is filtered through the smell of Han, as if you were right next to her. You half-lift your hands, then catch yourself and ball them in fists at your side, rather than pulling it taut over your face and huffing. Your heart hammers and she’s staring at you and so is the Dominion’s girl and weren’t you supposed to be doing something? With her watching? With Han waiting?
You can’t back out. That would be ungrateful. You’re not ungrateful, are you, Lotus? No, you’re very grateful. The way a grateful girl shows her appreciation is by offering her healing, by making the pain go away, by being magical. And Han will understand.
“I’m sorry,” you say, “it has to be— I can’t just— because of how it—“
You shove your face into her neck and lift the veil, not daring to try and untie the knot that Han tied so carefully, and you give her a quick and shuddering peck, but, oh, stupid girl! That’s not going to work! You barely touched her! What kind of girl lets her rabbit heart stop her from soothing someone in pain?
You take her shoulder in one hand, still lifting your veil with the other, and you kiss her neck hard enough that, when you finally pull away, lips throbbing with the essence of water and wood, the only thing left is your lipstick smeared on her skin and a growing bruise, even though her skin is smooth again, the pain gone, and you realize that you could kiss her again.
So you do. You kiss her on the cheek, hungry and just as wet, and you feel her stiffen, and your heart plummets from the peak of Mount Meru. Look at you, hungry little slut! You didn’t even ask her if she wanted it, if she forgave you for the lies about your identity and, Hell, even your name!
You straighten up just as stiff, lower the veil back over your face. “I hope it helps,” you blurt out, and you scamper off like the rabbit, out the door before Han can stop you, back towards your room.
And once you’re there you’ll sit on the floor next to your bed and pull that veil taut over your face and close your eyes and imagine that you’re burying your face in the strongest, bravest, best smelling, most kissable girl you know, wishing she wanted to kiss you back, wishing that she wanted to do more than that, that she’d use her strength to make you feel pretty and helpless and just shut you up so good, the way you don’t deserve at all, not from a real hero like her.
***
Han!
The room is absent one Lotus of Tranquil Waters, but her floral scent still lingers. You sit there, poleaxed, trying to process the three kisses you just got and what they might mean, and whether you just ruined everything forever. It was guilt, wasn’t it? Guilt over how much you wanted to return the kiss, repay her for the cool, soothing sensation that flooded you from chin to shoulder when she worked her magic with clumsy, hungry dragon lips. Did you do the right thing, or the worst thing in the history of forever?
Emli sits down opposite you and firmly, without letting you argue, takes one of your hands in hers. “Han,” she says, full of determination. “Tell me about that girl. Tell me everything.”
She immediately pulls one of your Strings; mark XP if you blurt out a flood of feelings about Lotus (and Emli, for that matter). Sing your song of dragon want kissies. Don’t worry, she’s very good at affirming noises and “uhhuh?” and soothing thumb strokes.
Redana scrabbles with a monster. The world around them is blotted out, overexposed; it will be easy enough for Sagakhan to kill them both. All that matters is the wasteland beneath her, leverage to push against, and the monster above her. It is pitiful, vicious, and not her Bella.
Nothing about this creature is right at all. It howls, rages, thrashes, attempts to gouge out her eyes, tears into her flesh. It’s not her Bella. And that’s what gives Dany the strength to fight back. Because the heroine needs to set things right; because the damsel in distress needs to be saved. And there is so much distress, rolling off Bella’s heart like waves breaking on the shore, in her hot, heavy groans of wet breath, in the blood flecking on them both.
It hurts. It hurts so much. The Shepherdess’s blood is bright, star-flecked, refusing to be absorbed into the sand. The creature’s claws tear through her breastplate as if it was wet paper, laying her open, but Bella’s trapped behind those savage blows, and that’s why Dany is able to fight back.
She’s a wrestler, after all. Did you forget?
The Shepherdess lifts Bella off the ground, as Hercules lifted Antaeus, her back flayed to ribbons underneath the whip of Bella’s claws, and Redana does a little hop and spikes her back down to the ground, sand spraying up in great gouts, and Dany pounces to get Bella’s arms locked behind her, pinned between them.
“I never should have left you behind,” Dany says, pushing her weight down on the writhing, scrabbling monster trying desperately to break free. “I never should have left you with her.” Joints crack and pop; Bella tears herself free with a raw scream, pivots about with jerking limbs to keep hurting, keep killing, and Dany tackles her again, gets bloodied fingers into the place where the helmet meets the skin and she pulls. Osseous plating comes free with a sickeningly wet pop, sinew snapping, exposing blood-matted hair to the rain. “I wanted to share it all with you, you idiot!”
Bella lunges again, and Dany’s fist snaps out, but too slow, wrong place; teeth clamp around her wrist and crunch. Dany bites down the scream, because now she’s close enough, now Bella is distracted by the rush of her shining Olympian blood, because now she’s close enough to reach across Bella’s body with her other hand, her trembling bloodied fingers.
And the Shepherdess, who knows the secret words, who understands the shapes of unseen things, wipes Bella’s forehead clean with her star-clotted blood.
The coolness. The relief. The rivulets, flowing down, filling the thousand thousand names, drowning them beneath:
The confusing feeling of staring at Bella’s lips for too long. The thump-thump-thump of her soothing heartbeat while they napped in the garden. The most amazing creature in the whole world peering out of a Box. The fear of ruining everything forever. Yearning without a name. The guilt of imagining holo heroines with triangles and impeccable diction. The confusion, the betrayal, the throb of a cheek. The dream of sitting beneath strange skies and being alone and free and able to do anything. The mortification of waking up from a dream of dressing in each other’s clothes, Princess Bella Claudius and Good Little Dany. Screaming upon the deck of the Plousios because it’s too late now, because Bella will die alone and thinking herself unloved. The pain of Barassidar, of betrayal, of knowing that Bella never cared for her. Cuddling together while the Batrachomyomachia unfurls onscreen, buried beneath blankets. The horror of seeing the helmet crack and who was beneath, who was tortured, who was made a weapon when she never should be, when she could be a queen, an explorer, a scholar, more than just a Servitor, equal to any human Dany had ever met in her life—
Redana Epimelios crumples to her knees, clutching her brutalized wrist to her chest, like a Servitor waiting for execution. She tries to speak, but her clever words don’t have the breath behind them to be more than hoarse gasps for air; she can’t even lift her head to look Death Herself in the eye.
Redana awaits her judgment.
[Redana damages her Courage and expends the second use of her Healing for her Bella. 7 on a Finish with Wisdom.]
It’s a simple story at first. When you mistreat a lion, it always comes back to have its revenge by the end of the story, and here comes Sagakhan’s champion to do what the horrible owls never would. A very pointed critique of her leadership skills, coming back to quite literally bite her. But, no— this close, the Shepherdess can see the names written across the armor, Sagakhan painted in blood. Of course she understands what has happened. She is the daughter of Hermes, who taught the first humans how to write. What could be hidden from her?
What indeed, save for the identity of Sagakhan’s weapon?
If Sagakhan was not, for a moment, preoccupied with the gory wound in her side, that would have been the end of the Shepherdess, because Redana’s whole world is fury. When Bella’s name leaves her lips, a scream, her voice cracks, and the Shepherdess closes the distance between them, hand outstretched, ignoring the name that throbs against Bella’s skin. It doesn’t matter. She’ll figure out a way. She’s so very clever, after all.
But right now, there’s only one way that she can be. There’s only one path, all the possibilities becoming one, or else she would cease to be who she is.
Redana, the Shepherdess, reaches out, knowing that Bella will tear at her, that Sagakhan is already swinging a tail at her, that her world is about to explode into frantic struggle and pain. But that doesn’t matter. There’s a lost sheep here, and the Shepherdess knows her duty.
“I’m not leaving you behind this time,” the Shepherdess swears to the maid consumed by violence, to this bloody nightmare in front of her, to the girl whose past and future are entangled with hers from beginning to end. “No matter what you’ve done, no matter what happens here— I’m not leaving you again! Remember, Bella!”
She forgives you, Bella, for what you’re about to do. You don’t even need to ask. Everything else is where it gets complicated, but she won’t hold it against you. She knew what was going to happen when she offered her hand.
Not impulsively. Not aggressively. She looks you in the eye, silently asking you the entire time if she is allowed, and the answer (to everyone’s surprise) is… yes.
Her fingers are incredibly soft. She traces the welt, and makes a soft noise of distress and pity. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks, and it’s actually a question. “I can help,” she adds. She’s searching your face, looking desperately for permission, and the way she’s touching you is…
Her lips are so very red, painted in Agata’s color. You could drown in those lips. Maybe that’s why she’s supposed to hide them all the time. Because they’re so dangerous. And you can’t let yourself think about them too much, because otherwise you might get all overbearing and demanding like that wilting, rotten Cathak. She’s saying something and you’re just watching her mouth, and trying desperately not to do something about it.
Do you let her help you? You’ll clear a condition, but both she and Emli will take a String on you. Or do you do something about that tempting mouth? You’ll take two Strings on her right now if you kiss her, veil her, put a hand over her mouth, do something about the prettiest lips in the whole world, but you’ll give Emli two whole Strings on both of you.
It’s your choice, insofar as you can choose anything while drowning.
***
Giriel!
One evening, you find two prayer slips secreted inside of your nightrobe, pleas for spiritual aid from two beings even more lowly than your current station. It is your duty as a witch to provide aid where you can, both to the varied spirits of the world and to the mortals who try to live around them.
The first, written in an elegant hand, is simply: I am in love. My beloved has plucked me from the walled garden of my innocence, but I fear I am simply a novelty to her. That One ignores me, so I offer Her no prayers. Please, help me be hers.
The second, written clumsily, eschewing complex adult characters in favor of a child’s writing choice: I don’t like being little. Make me big, please. Give it back to me, please. Why did you have to make me so afraid? Why did you make me want to be ———
It is impossible to tell what the last word was meant to be, because ink has been overlayered on ink over and over again, a sodden mess that made the paper sag.
It is your duty to address these pleas. By asking for your aid, they have rendered themselves vulnerable to your judgment, both socially and spiritually. What do you make of these requests, Giriel?
***
Kalaya!
The noise is what hits you. The stamp of feet, the chime of bells, the raucous shrieking laughter. It’s like what some of your peers thought peasant festivals were like. The silk above your head is threadbare, yellowed, fringed with green light. You’ve been here before. But you were on Agata’s ship, weren’t you? Thinking through your plan to sneak in to see Uusha. And now you’re back. Back in Hell.
A figure cuts off your view. Their face is covered by a yellow veil; unlike that of a priestess, it hides her entire face from hair to chin. Beneath it, they wear a heavy, ornate collar, a gold chain leash snaking away out of sight, and rotting finery, the kind you’d find in a palace abandoned to the jungle. They place strong hands on your wrists, pin you down, loom over you. The chaos outside, just on the other side of the mouldering curtains, makes your head spin and throb.
Their voice is a crash of waves, a chorus in song, hoarsely whispered; if it was yelled, it would deafen you. And they say: Kalaya. Where are you? My snakes can’t find you, where did the knight take you? It’s impossible to tell where they are looking. Their grip is firm. The air smells like sweat and dying flowers.
There’s a game that Chen likes to play when she has the opportunity, one which she knows (from experience) drives her little Rosepetal absolutely wild: “Why don’t you introduce yourself, Petal?” She’s in the spotlight, she’s meeting someone for the first time, and all she can do is mumble and moan through her fox-packed mouth, leaving her impish girlfriend to “interpret” for her. Why, yes, they are very pretty, I agree, Petal! Yes, you are a very silly handmaiden, but you’re also very gentle and kind and sweet, don’t sell yourself short! Petal, I can’t believe you’d invite them to do that— but if you say so~!
Today, she ends up bowing, showing off how good she is at balancing despite being so top-heavy, and then gracefully sits down on the picnic blanket so that she can end up as a seat for both a certain rambunctious vixen who’s so happy to see her old friend and a princess who looks so, so pretty in her suit, who can’t see the lingering, adoring looks her Petal gives her, but who can feel Petal’s strong heart when she takes a seat in that perfect lap. She’s safe, admired, flustered, and playfully demeaned; what more could she ask for?
Well, she does have more to ask for. She hasn’t worked up the courage to propose, but she’s been dropping hints. One day she’s going to just end up losing her patience and she’ll pick up Chen and carry her over to a booth in the market of the Sky Castle, one run by a grandmother who sells rings made from the treasures of the Burrows, and if Chen doesn’t get that her Rosepetal really, really wants to be hers for the rest of their lives, she’ll sit on the clueless little thing!
She’s decided that, too. For the rest of their lives. The thing that was created in the Burrows as a hunter of dissidents was functionally immortal, but being Rosepetal is something too tied up with Chen, the first Princess who showed her that she could live her dreams in this beautiful twilight world. One day, one very far-off day, she’ll stop being Rosepetal when she stops having her Chen. She’ll take a new shape, a new face, and she’ll always treasure the time she got to be darling, silly, beautiful, beloved Petal.
But that’s a very long way off. So far that there’s no use spending time thinking about it when she could think about becoming a Princess. There’s so much she plans to do, when Chen founds her kingdom; as an expert on change and transformation, she’ll have her hands full helping her subjects close the gap between who they are and who they want to be. (And she might keep the title even when she’s had children, just because of how much of a target it makes her.) Rosepetal the Gentle doesn’t yet know she’s going to be called that; that she’s going to be a legendary beauty, beloved by the populace, and a prize for any up-and-coming player in the game of Princesses; she doesn’t even know (but suspects) she’s going to transition gracefully into being a Hot Mom. One day, she’ll end up being saved by (or kidnapped alongside) her own daughters.
That’s a dream she didn’t have before. The first time she ever had it, she was in Sourcefall, curled up beneath a heavy comforter and a spoiled snow leopard, the big spoon to her petite girlfriend, awake in the middle of the night, luxuriating in the warmth of Chen, the rise and fall of her breath, the pulse of blood through her body, and that’s when Rosepetal knew she wanted to have children. That Chen was safe, could be trusted, wouldn’t leave her. That Rosepetal deserved to be a mother, to bring someone into the world who wouldn’t be tainted by the stain of the Burrows in Petal’s blood, an old fear she could finally put down. That she wanted to hold her child in her arms and look after them, to see them grow, to bring something even better into the world.
Chen leans in close, lips brushing against Rosepetal’s ear. “Would you like some tea, dear?” Petal considers for a moment, then shakes her head. She’s quite happy as she is, and isn’t ready to join the conversation instead of being a topic of conversation. Chen nods, then— with the wickedest little kitten grin— reaches one hand around Petal’s shoulders and covers her scarf-swaddled mouth with one hand, holding it firm, just so she can feel Petal jump and squirm and hear the scandalous little moan of delight and see her drum her heels on the picnic blanket. There’s a vixen kneading biscuits on her thighs, there’s a wicked little Princess holding her close and keeping her sooooo quiet, there’s a wolf giggling at her and a curly-haired friend snuggling up to rest her head on one shoulder and a new friend sharing tales of bringing Princessdom to the old deep places of the world, making them shine with the light of the suns and the love all around, and Rosepetal is safe and loved, and if danger looms it isn’t her responsibility to save everyone else and then leave them behind, and everything in the whole wide world is harmonious and full of love.
And Princess Rosepetal is so, so full of love, and so, so loved, more than she thought she could ever deserve.
Of course it does. It is one thing for Redana to fight a duel, where she can shine, where she burns with fury. It is another thing for her to pay for each swing with the deaths of her shining-feathered soldiers, her comrades-in-arms chanting the name of their beauty, and the swelling mouse-servitors who fling themselves at owls with fury. And Redana is not ruthless enough to spend the lives of her lessers for her own advantage. She never has been.
So she dives into the Kaeri, and her hammer is a great long-hafted sword that she swings about her with the muscles of an Olympian. If she will be surrounded by blood, it will be the blood of nightmares; if Sagakhan is willing to kill everyone standing around Redana, then let Redana be surrounded by the shadows of owls.
It is incredibly dangerous. Impossibly so. And yet, in the midst of it all—
A battlecrab lurches unsteadily. It was half-crushed underneath a heavy footfall, and all it knows is that it is in pain, that it is missing its mightiest pincer, that it is going to die hurt and confused and ignored by everything around it, save for a moment’s irritation from one of the Kaeri. And yet it still drags itself forwards, furious, snipping at the air defiantly.
And the Shepherdess clears space all around her with a swing that rips apart these silent killers, flips away from the fall of Sagakhan’s thunderbolt of a tail (one which would crush her instantly, were it to fall on her head, and that be the end of all this striving), and scoops up the crab, letting it cling to one shoulder as she keeps moving.
You are seen, even the smallest of you. You are important, even the smallest of you. You do not die here while the Shepherdess still has strength within her. And if she will do this for an injured crab, a hurt and confused animal, do you think she will do any less for the hearts and souls that believe in her?
It is impossible for her to win, unless something changes, doubly so now that her enemy has become great and terrible, the greatest of monsters, but the Shepherdess does not give up. This is the heart that saw the skies and dreamed of a world where anything could happen, where adventure was real, where she could be free with the girl who meant the most to her.
And she will never give up hope, even here in the dark, beneath Sagakhan’s shadow, using every trick she has just to stop more of her subjects from dying. She burns like a white flame in the deepest night, and though she flickers, she will not go out.
[Redana rolls a 9 to Overcome; she protects her army from Sagakhan, but only temporarily (and clears Grace in the process)]
Rosepetal learned so many lessons aboard the Sky Castle, and acting’s one of her favorites. Isn’t she perfect for the role? She squirms, she melts into arms and ropes, she groans and moans and makes indignant little squeaks, and she doesn’t come an inch closer to escaping, even as she makes it look like she’s trying desperately to break free. Her scandalized little squeaks as she’s changed into the perfect, most darling outfit, matching her Princess perfectly! Her demure head shakes and pleading looks as the foxes crowd around and tell her that she’s still simply just too loud, but how good of her to volunteer extra stuffing! Her refusal to keep trying to complain, even as the gag layers bulge out past her veil!
But what Chen likely appreciates most of all is how cuddly Rosepetal is on the palanquin. How she hooks Chen in with her big, strong legs and pulls her close, while still whining and struggling. How she rolls on top of her girlfriend and makes an attempt to plead for salvation, all while her heart races delightedly. How she acts like a perfect little damsel in distress who needs to be saved by her dapper, handsome, dashing, charming, curvy, amazing, incredible girlfriend, who will (eventually) be rewarded with much many kisses for saving her, no matter how long that might take.
As for what she’s thinking about, well, Chen will have to wait to find out about that, too…
“Hey, badass! Drop the sword, or your little songbird here’s sung her last!”
Northwind didn’t drop her guard, and she didn’t make the mistake of turning her back on the enforcers of the Eight Tail Consortium. One of them tried to make a lunge, assuming that Northwind’s concentration would be broken, and got her sword knocked out of her hand and her nose punched with Northwind’s pommel for her trouble, which made the other five spread out, waiting for someone else to make the first move. But Northwind did spare a glance back over her shoulder, her bangs sticking to her forehead, her devil-may-care grin a shield to fend off whatever the world might send her way.
Desperately, Roseblossom tugged her face out of Darkflower’s grasp, gasping, filled with urgency. “Don’t do it,” she said, even as Priss’s switchblade pressed threateningly against her throat. “Please, just— hmmmph!” Darkflower clamped her palm tighter against Rose’s mouth, jerking her head back, letting Northwind get a good look at the peril the singer was in. Unable to speak, Roseblossom could only incoherently plead for this beautiful and dangerous woman to forget about her and run, her begging eyes hidden behind her fashionable half-veil. Even if the consequences for her were terrible, she couldn’t bear the thought of being the weapon the Consortium would use against the swordswoman. Besides, they’d only shared one torrid night of passion on the cruise— surely a woman like Northwind wouldn’t risk everything for a one night stand?
“You idiots,” Northwind said, her tone light and mocking. Roseblossom worked her hands into fists and closed her eyes, waiting for the worst. “What are you going to do for an encore, after icing a dame like that? Strip mine the Terrace Lakes?”
The sound of Northwind’s sword clattering on the deck was the loudest sound in the whole world. Roseblossom’s eyes slammed open just in time to see the mysterious, beautiful woman send a wink her way. Her knees buckled and her jaw dug painfully into Priss’s knife as she suddenly couldn’t breathe, her necklace of pearls clattering. Why? Why would Northwind risk everything for her?
“Do your worst, furbags.”
The thugs pounced, knocking Northwind to the deck, pulling out coils of rope. Roseblossom gasped and stamped her foot, but that only brought her captors’ attention back to her. “And what about the broad?” Darkflower sneered. “Pretty little miss. Do we let her go snitching?”
“Nah,” Priss leered, leaning in to give her neck a long, slow lick, chuckling as Roseblossom let out a muffled torrent of complaint. “Two’s better than one, right? Might as well show La Draconessa our regards by sending her a caged songbird.” Roseblossom’s mind reeled. Just an hour ago, her biggest worry had been trying not to think about the handsome girl who had driven her mind wild while trying to focus on her singing. Now she was a Consortium prisoner, headed for an uncertain fate.
Then Swifty grabbed her jaw and slowly pulled Roseblossom’s head down to her level. The enforcer’s fluffy face was still reddened from where Roseblossom had slapped her earlier. “I dunno, girls,” she said, showing off her wickedest of grins. “There might be other uses for a canary. Had time to reconsider my offer, sugarlips?”
“I’d rather kiss a Burrower,” Roseblossom spat, her cheeks darkening.
Swifty’s eyes narrowed, and she chuckled— the kind of chuckle that meant trouble. “I tried to be nice, Tits. You’re the one who asked for this.” Even as Darkflower held Roseblossom’s arms tight to her body, and Priss began pulling ropes around her torso from above her elbows downwards, Swifty forced Roseblossom’s jaw open and pulled out some of what the Eight Winds called Damsel Snacks: old, stained, musky vixen panties and sweatrags. Roseblossom, whimpering, couldn’t do a thing to prevent Swifty from cramming her mouth full of well-used stuffing, the same that had been used on so many helpless girls before her; the experience was like having a fox sit on her face, especially when Swifty rubbed them all over her nose and cheeks.
Soon enough, Roseblossom was absolutely helpless. Her arms were pinned close to her torso, her hands trapped above her rear, her bare legs like two columns bound together, one doubled-over rope disappearing taut between her thighs only to reappear lashed to her wrists. Her rose-gold dress, thin and outrageously expensive, was pulled taut and threatening to slip in multiple places. But all of that was nothing compared to the feeling of the final fox-scented bandana being knotted securely behind her head, silencing her.
Roseblossom wasn’t a daring swordfighter! Her greatest strength was her beautiful, melodious voice; she was proudest, always and ever, of her singing, and she was sure that if she ever found the right girl, they’d treasure her voice best of all. And here the foxes had taken it away from her! Now all she could do was let out tiny, muffled whimpers, which the foxes would be all too happy to very loosely interpret. Her mouth was packed with a heady mix, her own drool mixing with that of so many other victims of the daring Eight Tails Consortium, not to mention varied and potent fox fluids, and every deep, heaving breath she took through the muffling gag was like trying to breathe with her head pinned between some vixen’s thighs. She was completely, absolutely helpless, at their mercy, and from the looks the enforcers were giving her, she’d see little enough of that.
So why did that make her heart race, her thighs clench, and her eyes flutter? To her humiliation, her body was betraying her, reacting to her captivity just like it had reacted to Northwind’s touch in that cramped cabin. What kind of girl would feel like that?
As if that wasn’t enough, the three enforcers were taking their time exploring her body with their grabby paws. Squeezing, pinching, rubbing, toying with her, particularly now that she couldn’t cover herself up or bat their hands away. If she were able to speak, would she have begged them to stop, or would she have blurted out a desperate plea for them to keep going, to give her more?
“C’mon, bimbo,” Swifty finally said, clipping a leash’s lead onto the pearl necklace, the most precious thing that Roseblossom owned. “You’ve got a date all lined up, and I’d hate to see you miss it.” She tugged on the leash, and the horrible realization shot up Roseblossom’s spine: the wicked fox meant to make the singer hop her way across the deck!
She looked around, realizing that she was now the center of attention. Yes, even with her braids bedraggled, her gag bulging out past the veil over her eyes, and her dress bunching up and clinging to her, no, perhaps because of these things, the hungry eyes of every fox there were on her, mentally undressing her, drooling over her body, ready to snicker and revel in her helplessness.
But Northwind was staring, too, and the look in those dark eyes was an enigma. Was it shame at getting her dragged into this? Was it distress at seeing her pawed at and humiliated? Or was it, perhaps, with that girlish glance at her captors, that tinge of pink in her cheeks… was it, in fact, a guilty pleasure? Was Roseblossom as desirable— if not moreso— right now, the prisoner of the mob, than she was on stage belting her heart out? Did the mysterious girl wish that she was the one having her way with Roseblossom’s body?
She could have it, came the treacherous thought bubbling up from the quagmire of Roseblossom’s brain. She would be welcome to every inch. The singer would take twice the stuffing (and even stuffing elsewhere) if it meant that beautiful rogue was admiring her body, taking what she pleased, making Roseblossom feel like a prize— no, a treasure. A shining jewel. Worth more than just her voice: wanted as a woman, helpless to let propriety get between her and her deepest, darkest desires.
Roseblossom closed her eyes, conjured up Northwind’s beautiful face, and more than that, the way that the ropes pulled snugly around the smaller girl highlighted her own delicious curves, and hopped. It was difficult: the ropes dug into her as her muscles flexed, one in particular causing her to bite down on the mass of cloth in her mouth, and the lewd whistles and encouragements from the Eight Tails made her heart race. Besides that, it was hard enough to land perfectly with each hop, given the impracticality of her heels. It required constant focus, but that focus was continually broken by the sensations inflicted on her body.
By the time she made it to the waiting limousine, Roseblossom was a mess barely holding herself together, sticky and sweaty, her mind a howling void of mortification and fox musk, making incoherent and desperate noises into her sturdy gag. A fox— names hard, too tough to parse right now— smacked her, hard, on her barely-covered rump. “Try not to cream yourself before you get to La Draconessa, Tits~” Then the trunk swung open, and Roseblossom stared in exhausted horror at the space. No. No, they couldn’t possibly. How did they think she was going to fit inside? Northwind, maybe, but her?
She would soon learn that she could, in fact, fit in the trunk. She ended up crammed in, shoulders against one side, knees and feet pinned against the other, head pushed down almost to her chest. There wasn’t even room to squirm, and the pose would quickly become intolerable. But with her taking up all the room in the trunk, there was only one place for Northwind to go.
Directly on top of her, as it turned out. Face pressed into Roseblossom’s cleavage, bodies forced as close to each other (in some ways, even closer) as they’d been last night. Northwind’s face was hot on Roseblossom’s skin, where her cheeks peeled out over her own gag, and the two eyes peering up at Rose seemed very apologetic.
“Your mommies ain’t going to save you this time, Northwind,” a fox sneered, hand on the lid of the trunk. “You might be the daughter of the two biggest, baddest bosses in the underground, but once La Draconessa’s done with you, you’re gonna be nothing. A pretty pampered princess for the hoard, if you’re lucky; lunch, if you’re not.”
Roseblossom’s eyes widened beneath her veil. Northwind was the daughter of powerful mob bosses? For all that she’d tried to keep her nose clean and out of mob business, she’d gone and slept with the daughter of two of the most powerful members of the mafias, and now she was going to pay the price. And from the sound of it, the price she paid might be very high indeed.
Northwind tried to make some sort of retort, but all she managed was to crank Roseblossom up further, with the vibrations of Northwind’s muffled running through her chest, the hot breath on her sweat-slicked skin, and the impotent thrashing on top of her. The useless whimpering escaping from behind Roseblossom’s punishing gag became lower-pitched and needier as Northwind accidentally revved her up into high drive.
“Yeah, yeah. Save it for La Draconessa, shortstack.” The lid slammed down, barely missing Roseblossom’s head, trapping them both in the stuffy space. Not only was it poorly ventilated, but countless helpless victims had been where they were just now, and that added another layer to the sensations reaching through Roseblossom’s nose and clenching around her ovaries.
As the limousine roared to life, as the cramped trunk began to vibrate, as Northwind kept uselessly trying to talk while squirming and nuzzling into her, as she took shuddering breaths through her pungent and cheek-cramming gag, and as the most wicked rope dug inexorably into her, Roseblossom realized with blissful inevitability that she was going to fail.
3V takes a seat at a booth and flicks through the menu, before abruptly coming to the conclusion that it’s not time to eat yet. Not time to order a bunch of dishes and try a little bit of everything. Not time to try to figure out how she’s going to talk about this, especially because the most important aspect is missing. If this is a place that wants to be here for you from beginning to end, no matter where you are, then you must be the loadbearing concept. Besides, she’s always been a bit interested in the furries.
She ambushes Black as best she can, closing the distance and hooking one arm with an elbow. “Let’s check out the dance floor,” she says, all excited and self-assured cheer. She’ll yield enough to let Black work her arm out of her grasp, but she’s going to insist on the android accompanying her onto the dance floor. And once they’re there, well, there will be a challenge to “show me your moves,” as it were.
And Black? She knows the old “bob in place and do reload animations” trick. Just saying.
Member
ctrlsaltdel
Noctis
Thanqol
Phoe
rabidbacon
Damycles
Cao the Exiled
Bugman
shylarah
Guardian Angel Haruki