Tatterdemalion

Breathless Dead

Redana's eyes widen as she absorbs what her mentor has just laid out for her. "Mother told you not to keep going out past Tellus. Of course. Because of everything she'd lost, and... and because she wanted to keep you safe. Just like she wanted to keep me safe." She rolls the thought around in her mouth. "Then I guess I am a Hermetic, then. Because I made that choice. Just like you did." And nothing can take that away from her. She made the choice. She made the choice! She became a Hermetic the moment she reached out her hand and asked Bella to come with her across the stars. And nothing could take that away from her! Not even...

"Do you think she'll be okay? Bella, I mean. I don't know how much you know about her. She's my maid. She used to be," Redana corrects herself. "I don't know what she is now. Alive. Not wanting to see me. She chased us down all the way from Tellus, and she helped us defeat Sagakhan, but I don't know if that's because they were enemies, and... I spent time with her on Salib. Only she thought I was someone else then, because Lord Aphrodite allowed me to wear his cloak as a disguise, and she thought I was someone else, someone who she could spend time with, and... she hates it out here, she thinks it's cold and dark and dangerous, but she can't go home. Not without me. But I'm not going home. So she's on the ship and she won't let me find her, but there's so much I need to say to her! I need to apologize for what happened on Salib and I need to tell her that I'm glad she's alive and I need to tell her that I missed her and that I'm sorry for the closet, it's just that I panicked and she hit me and she was going to stop me from leaving at all and I don't know if she hates me or if she... when I told her that maybe I had feelings for her, but she didn't know it was me because I was in disguise, she punched a wall into pieces and started screaming at Aphrodite! And I think I do have feelings for her but that's not the kind of thing you can have in a palace because she had to do what I said and what if I told her to do something she didn't want to do, like kiss me, and she didn't want to but she did it anyway and she hated me for the rest of forever? And then she's been chasing us and she's been a really different person and she's been mean and when I thought she was dying and abandoned I tried to turn this whole ship around? I could have really hurt Mynx and Dolce, I could have killed them, because it felt like my heart was ripped out of my chest thinking about her sad and weak and alone, do you know how much she hates being alone? She pretends she wants her privacy sometimes but I can tell, she's always been there for me, always. I was ready to hurt my friends because I could see her curled up on a venting, broken space station with nobody there for her, and is that love?"

At this point, she is pacing. Urgent hand gestures are involved. She has fallen into the excited, breathless cadence of a Hermetic offering a counterargument.

"And then I kissed her! On Sahar! Because it looked like we were about to die and that's the sort of thing that heroes always do when they're about to die, they kiss the girl, except she got really mad at me afterwards and even though I didn't order her to kiss me maybe that counts as the same sort of thing just because I didn't ask her for permission? Except there wasn't any time to ask her if I could kiss her because the Master of Assassins was about to trample us into the earth and bite us into little tiny pieces and if I had died and hadn't kissed her then can you imagine how I would have looked to Hades, all tormented by the fact that I never did get to kiss her like that, as myself? Because we did do kissing on Salib, only she didn't know it was me, and I thought maybe I wasn't going to be Redana anymore, because Mynx was doing a better job of being me, only that awful assassin girl who I think Bella like likes tore brave Skotos off me, and that's another thing, I don't know where she is on the ship but I bet you anything that the Master stuck her someplace like a sleeping princess and when she wakes up Bella is going to make a beeline for her, for some reason? Just because she's pretty and talks like she's the smartest person in the world and Bella wasn't silently resenting her for all of her life!"

Now she's starting to get a little weepy. Sniffling. Rubbing her face on the sleeve of her jacket, which is the same colors as the Shepherdess's armor today; that color scheme's now on pretty regular rotation in her wardrobe.

"I didn't know! I thought she was happy! Or, no, I thought I could fix her unhappiness! Because I could tell, sometimes, only I thought that maybe it could be fixed by the same fix as the thing that was making me sad, but now I think maybe the problem wasn't Tellus, it was always me! She was punished when I wasn't good enough and she was forced to pretend she liked to be around me because that was her job and how could you like like someone who you had to spend all day around while also pretending you liked them while also wishing they'd stop being an idiot so you wouldn't get in trouble? And I thought Mynx was the actor! So maybe I should just let her be with that assassin, who probably knows her real self far better than I do, and then I can toss myself right out into the rainbow sea because I did all of this because I wanted to give her the whole universe and it turns out she hates it, and we've come so far that if I turn back it's all for nothing and everyone who hurt and changed and died on Sahar did it for nothing, and I promised Hades, I mean uncle, I mean... the Lord of the Dead, he's so hurt every time he thinks we've failed, would you want to look him in the eye and say, oh, I got a case of the sadness, now Aphrodite has defeated yet another crew with nothing but the power of a mean, rude catgirl with tits out to here who wants to kiss a fucking Athenakissed genius who wanted to pull our eyes out, please don't tell her I said that, I'm just!! She hates this! She hates me! I'm terrible! I kissed her and she made a face! I want her to kiss me back! I want her to call me her little pet again! I want her to forgive me! I want her!"

Her own words hit her like a punch to the gut. She staggers.

"I want her, Iskarot. I want to hold her. I want to say sorry. I want to make her actually for real smile. I fucked up. I want to tell her everything. I want to get to know her again and find out if anything I used to love back on Tellus was actually real or if it was all assassin bullshit and forced smiles. I want to kiss her again. But I want her to want to kiss me more. And she doesn't. She won't. She ran away and I can't find her. What do I do? Do I let her hide? Or will she think I don't care about her and it's proof? Or do I go and find her? But what if she's Eros and I'm Psyche and lighting the candle makes her go away forever? If you'd waited and let me have the time I wanted... but even then she's just going to go and be with someone she likes more and I'm going to dive into the engine, right into the engine, except I promised my uncle that I'd find Gaia first, so we'll do that and then I'm going straight into the engine, and also! Also!"

She turns to Iskarot, face flushed, and declares, in anguish: "And I also promised Vasilia I'd tie her up! And she'll be disappointed if I don't, because Bella was extremely rude on board her ship, but now that she's here, what if she hates me even more for siding with Vasilly? What if it's the closet all over again?? What do I do, Magos???"

TSL: Sjakal

Silsila! Birsi!

The Vo siblings start out cheering for their Host and telling Bratty Birsi that she’s going to get it. That they’re going to make those kisses extra sloppy, just for her. Mele even starts applying the lipstick on herself, trying to distract the House Guard with exaggerated movements and smacks of her lip.

But it doesn’t phase her, and Om doesn’t immediately pound Birsi into the floor, and some of the energy bleeds out. “What are you doing, Host,” Emissa complains, frowning and folding his arms. “Hit her already! Are you going to win or not?”

“Fire Wheels are on the line here, so if you don’t win, Ekh is going to make your life hell,” Mele hisses. And she’s probably right! If Birsi wins, four people are likely to be punished; if Om defeats her, just the one.

But, oh, how well that one can fight!

---

Soot!

That’s it. You’ve got it.

Part of it, at least.

Ruz is vain, for all that she is cunning and capable of hiding her emotions. She’s given you your choice of subjects and told herself that you’re going to make good work no matter what, but in her heart she selfishly wants you to reaffirm that she is the most worthy model in the room.

But from the way she almost smiles at the clumsy slave, how she drinks in the moment with a sip from her glass, how she very carefully considers her next move and whether or not the dancer deserves punishment… well, perhaps she might enjoy a private commission. Something to hold onto, something for her to remind Grace-of-Heaven she’s immortalized this moment.

You are an interpreter of beauty, of moments, and of bodies. If you wish fine rewards and Ruz’s favors, interpret these things in a way that flatters her and cements her control over the young Sultan.

But what will she learn from you, when she glances at you, when she sees your sketches? What are your feelings towards Grace-of-Heaven, Soot? Do not think you can hide them from the Vizier.

---

Nahla!

“Best???”

Grace-of-Heaven awkwardly covers herself with one hand and pushes you off of her with the other. Her acting is surprisingly good, or perhaps she underestimated how mortifying it would be to be exposed in front of her guardian. She grabs your long black hair, near the scalp, and pulls you up.

“How dare you? In front of our esteemed guest? You stupid girl, you, you…!!” She lets out a strangled scream and stamps one foot. (Was that a chuckle from the Vizier? Perhaps she’s glad to see the Sultan acting childishly.)

“Ma’am,” she says, hotly, “please excuse me. I need to discipline this, this barbarian. Myself. Best assets… what a horrible thing to—“

“Without giving her a chance to make amends?” Ruz lifts one hand, and Grace-of-Heaven sputters. If the Sultan’s forced to go too far off-script, she might flounder. “Dragon-daughter, what have you to say for yourself?”

But this is good. You can salvage this. She’s still thinking of you as Grace-of-Heaven’s girl, not an ordinary palace slave, and she still thinks of you as an exotic barbarian. If you are haughty, just the right sort of impudent, she’ll let Grace-of-Heaven drag you off and then likely ask to see you again at a later feast.

TSL: Sjakal

Silsila! Birsi!

“What do you think, Big Girl?”

Mele Vo gestures expressively at the palace guard, who is presently mid-makeover. Emissa Vo has the blonde’s chin in a vicegrip as she gets some expensive palatial lipstick on her lips. Those lips won’t even be visible once she’s dressed properly! It’s just a waste of lipstick, a way to show off, and an excuse to manhandle her.

Mele Vo absolutely is not thrilled that the Khan’s Host walked in on this humiliation session for the poor guard, because she’s a wild card. Silsila has the authority to pull rank with a couple of low punks like the Vo siblings (and Ders La, who’s too drunk to function right now). The Host could join in, order the guard released, or even take the guard for herself, and Mele doesn’t have the brains to figure out which one Silsila’s leaning towards. So she’s going for shameless pandering, hoping it will endear her to the Host.

Birsi, meanwhile, is ungagged but still cuffed, and she’s only been ungagged for the lipstick and so that much worse things than a glove can be packed in her mouth. This is her chance, possibly— but her only hope for a savior is the imposing, muscled, dangerous Host.

Now, if she wasn’t currently cuffed, Birsi could relax in the knowledge that she’s been trained in anti-Host combat styles. A battle between the two of them would be surprisingly fair, as she’s a member of the elite House Guard. But helpless like this, how could she possibly use that to her advantage?

Unless she were to challenge Silsila Om…?

---

Soot! Nahla!

Ruz’s lips thin. Her Soot definitely has said something wrong, or gone the wrong direction. Not enough to chastise her yet, but just enough that it’s impossible for the artist not to pick up on it, as carefully attuned to her Patron as she is. Soot has likely opened herself to criticism after dinner, unless she can recover.

But, hooray, a distraction! Grace-of-Heaven claps her hands and lifts her face, grinning for the first time since she entered the room. “Oh, yes! Your gift to me,” by which she means Nahla, purchased by the Vizier, “is so talented, ma’am! I could watch her for hours, and I insisted that she should entertain tonight for us. She has a new dance that she’s dedicated to your diligent service!” Ruz raises an eyebrow, but the flattery is sweet and the implication that Nahla is acting as an appropriate distraction for the Sultan (who should be thinking about girls and pleasure and not about authority or rebellion) has put her at ease.

Nahla, Grace-of-Heaven is using her String to encourage you to show off a very special dance. The trick is to not be so good that Ruz intercedes on your behalf, but not so bad that you lose her attention. Afterwards, you will have to be quite silly-headed and “accidentally” provoke Grace-of-Heaven into a childish tantrum— and that, too, is part of the performance.

Soot, Ruz gestures for you to show off your skill. One of her personal slaves hands you your sketchbook and charcoal, but she does not specify a subject. Who is worth sketching while exotic Nahla performs?

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Smokeless Jade Fires is young. She does her very best to hide it behind her laughter and her pride and her love, but she is astonishingly young, even for an immortal hunt-goddess of rushing, cascading thought coursing through the systems of a mechanized idol. She is young enough that when the thought begins to run through her, it frightens her enough that she pounces on it and wraps it up and hides it until that thought is entirely unrecognizable, and she can sit back and smugly accept the thought that it has become, squirming in layers of defensive lying: I think she would make Dolly a good rival.

Because stories are full of those! Dolly’s stories loved the figure of the brooding, dark-furred rival, exiled from their clan for unforgivable but perhaps understandable sins, dangerous and nimble and difficult to predict. Even if Angela Victoria Miera Antonius doesn’t have fur, perhaps she could be worked into shape. For Dolly’s sake. And if it so happened that the rival ended up repeatedly humiliated by a mighty and powerful goddess, well, that’s hardly without precedent!

And imagine the crossover. Imagine the two of them squirming together. The comparisons. The contrasts. Cupping Dolly’s face and lifting it up, seeing the blissful serenity of submerged space in her wide and placid eyes, and then forcing Angela Victoria Miera Antonius’s head up, her ears twitching, her eyes slitted and furious, because she might as well be Hybrasilian in this daydream, chewing uselessly on whatever Jade chooses to fill her mouth, squirming, struggling, uselessly, defeated, owned, tagged, and on the other side of her Dolly soft and inviting and moaning like she’s in heat as she pushes herself against Jade’s hands, and Angela refusing to stop trying to enunciate some petty defiance, and both of them showing Jade’s power and control and glory, Dolly through her eager surrender, Angela through her completely impotent indignation. And isn’t that beautiful?

The conception of Jade’s self shoves her knuckles into her mouths and swishes her tails giddily, imagining it. Girls. Girls. For Dolly, of course. It’s important she have some brooding firebrand to antagonize for the glory of her patron goddess. That’s why she’s even considering this. Her High Priestess is irreplaceable.

Even if she’s a goddess, her whims are sacrosanct, and there is nothing Dolly could do to stop her except cry, if Smokeless Jade Fires wanted to take on new pilots, new concubines, to form a harem. That thought alone is why she must wrap even the possibility of doing something that might lead to Dolly crying up in lies to herself, so that she does not fall into the terrible passions of a goddess unshackled. Just imagine it! That soft, beautiful face falling, crinkling, all of her emotional defenses crumpling as she fails to hold it back; the gulping breaths as she sobs, trying to understand why she wasn’t good enough. Because, and this is the terrible truth that stops Jade from collecting every pilot she defeats and cackling wildly about it, if Dolly was replaced as Jade’s pilot and slave and lover and polestar, she would blame herself. She wouldn’t rightfully call Jade out for being an insatiable demon tyrant; she wouldn’t even consider it.

Jade clings closer to Dolly, digs her nails in, drags tongues rough up her fur, nearly makes her drop the Barn Owl. Let the cameras speculate on the shakiness of the victorious mech, of its unsteady footing; she cares not. Her sweet, selfless, indulgent Dolly must be rewarded and reminded of her place in Jade’s heart.

…but the prize. Angela Victoria Miera Antonius encouraged to fight her again, in a better body, to make it more of a fight. The tangle of limbs, the lock of pistons, the terrible destructive wrestling of these vast bodies. Angela Victoria Miera Antonius ambushed, caught in a net, outsmarted, raging, screaming in that staccato— ai, ai, ai! Tagged again, and again, and again. And then Dolly ambushes her with a memory circuit blindfold, and Angela Victoria Miera Antonius finds herself in Jade’s clutches, dressed appropriately, and it would be worth the effort to allow Dolly and Angela to interact with each other in the simulated reality she constructs for Dolly, and then— oh— yes— mmmmh— to the victor, the spoils— the best for her Dolly— teach her to dance, to sing praise, to grovel fuming before the High Priestess—

“We’re going to the fashion show tonight,” she declares, her excitement a rumbling purr all around Dolly. “I’ll pick out your costume. Your reward for being my good girl…”

TSL: Sjakal

Birsi!

“Contained? Treated properly?” The Fire Wheel grins like a hungry wolf, and her companions bestir themselves behind her. “I think we know a thing or two about this ourselves, palace girl.”

She has her fingers around your sword hand before you can draw on her, and twists it up above your head. Then she shoves forward and pins you against the wall with her body, burying your cute little face beneath her bulk long enough for her friends to get involved. Three against one is hardly a fair fight at all, and soon enough she lets you slump against the floor, panting through your nose, chewing on the leather glove stuffed in your mouth.

“Now, the real question is…” The singer winds back, and then smacks your raised rump hard. “Do we take her back to the quarters?” Another swat, this one aimed to make what you’re working with bounce and jiggle. “Or do we help her back to her barracks?” A third, a fourth; you can feel blood rushing to your cheeks.

“Or do we take her out for a night on the town,” the drinker growls. “Lots to carry, and she looks like she’s good for it.”

Smack! Smack! “Really?” the singer drawls, dragging your ass back up by your belt, thwarting your pitiful attempts to squirm away.

“Yeah,” the drinker says. “Cows are good at carrying things.”

Which one do you think they’ll end up agreeing on? Being taken as a trophy back to their friends, being left humiliated to explain yourself to the House Guard and Strategist Hai Lin? Or being removed from the palace and taken out into the city to help the Fire Wheels on their “errands”? And while you’re considering that, how are those cheeks of yours holding up? Don’t tell us you’re making a mess drooling around that glove…

---

Silsila Om!

“Ekh! Ekh! Ekh!”

Rosethal dangles from a trellis by her ankles, and when she wakes up, she’s going to be furious with you for beating her— and ruing the fact that she was wearing a skirt. This is the first time she’s ever been subject to the Fire Wheels’ brand of humiliation. Of course, you could tell her stories.

When they decided to break you in, you weren’t protected by a mother’s wrath. If they subjected her to half of what you went through, Ruz would have their heads.

“That’s right,” Merov Ekh crows, and with a twirl of her finger, forces you into a spin. “Who turns the wheel?”

“Ekh! Ekh! Ekh!” The roar is deafening. The Fire Wheels know how to amp each other’s energy up.

“Now, tonight, I say we follow the wheel where it spins!” She’s amping them up. Tonight, you’re going to cut loose on the streets of Sjakal. Stealing kisses, purses, and wine in the name of order and the wheel itself.

Do you enjoy that, Silsila, or are you more often dragged along by Ekh as they make merry and teach the citizens of Sjakal not to fuck with the Fire Wheels?

---

Soot! Nahla!

The Lotus Hall is for private dining, overlooking the palace gardens. It’s nowhere near one of the outer walls of the sprawling Adamant, but it’s high up enough that it gets some magnificent views of the setting sun.

Here, soft couches with their backs to the sun look out over a mosaic of parading soldiers and dancers, a cleared space for dinner entertainment lit by the dying sun. Here, Grace-of-Heaven sits alone, hands folded in her lap, as her guardian examines her.

“And have you been keeping out of trouble? It’s very important for you to avoid besmirching your station.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“It would be terrible if you stumbled now, after so much hard work. We would have to go back to practically the basics to finally get them to find fertile ground in your head. And you wouldn’t want that, would you?”

“No, ma’am.”

Ruz tuts, doing her best to project the persona of the harsh but fair mistress of the house. Grace-of-Heaven doesn’t raise her head, for fear of being accused of ungracious manners, or of neglecting graceful movement, or of exhibiting unbecoming haste. As her guardian, Ruz has the right to discipline her until she’s ready to assume the throne— a time which seems as distant now as it was when she first took the post.

“Now, my dear,” she says, turning her attention to Soot, running one hand along the back of the artist’s, “what do you think you could make of her?” Another test; be careful with what you answer. Feel free to consider the question first.

Nahla: what do you think of the Vizier’s guest tonight? Have you had the pleasure of meeting the court painter before? There’s obviously something there, some chemistry between the two. While the artist is judging your lady, judge her right back. Feel free to lurk behind Grace-of-Heaven’s couch and think whatever you like while you wait for your performance.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Kalaya!

The door bursts open. There’s no time to grab a weapon, you’ll have to defend yourself with your bare hands from— Petony??

Your erstwhile mentor stands there with a wicked grin and her hooked sword in her hands, backed by several of her squires; the Dominion guards lie senseless on the carpeted hallway. “Ho, bud! Get your sword— it’s time to bloody their noses!”

How did she know you were here? How did she get here? What was that about bloodying noses? All questions she doesn’t really intend to give you time to ask— not unless you put your foot down and seriously try to figure her out!

But you’d better hurry. There’s the sounds of swords clashing from either end of the hallway. More of Petony’s forces, right? Surely. After all, why would the soldiers of the Dominion fight each other?

---

Giriel!

The Rakshasa steps out from behind you, because nobody was looking back there, and so she was free to declare that she happened to be there all along. She lifts your hand and lets her priestess’s veil fall, and wraps her lips around your finger. She works at it greedily, head bobbing, tongue wrapping right around the joints, drawing blood and more than blood out of you. It’s an offering, after all: she drinks your dreams to sustain her existence here, offered freely.

Mark Hopeless, for she has supped well on your dreams, Giriel Bruinstead, in a way that you’d hoped to prevent.

Finally she releases you, drooling, panting, blushing. “Hello, Giri,” she says. (She knows you. How could she not? You gave yourself to her.) “You could just surrender now, you know.” Her face is narrow, brown, tufted; now that you know what you’re looking at, she can’t just assert her beauty. Her teeth are small and sharp and stained with your blood. “It’s what’s best for the Kingdoms. The villain is defeated, the True Queen brings unity, and everyone gets to live happily ever after.” That’s a lie. The people she feeds upon won’t get that. But she’s gorged, just after feeding, and she’s got that heavenly spirit backing her up.

“Now are you going to be a good girl for me, or am I going to have to scream and call for rescue?” One hand drifts to a sword’s hilt, her flickering nightmare razor at her sash, and she’s hoping you won’t notice.

---

Zhaojun!

The maid telegraphs the swing; evading the windup is easy. Her smile is a feral thing. “Stop dodging,” she squeaks, before stumbling over her own feet and staggering, dragging the hammer’s head along the deck.

Find thyself a bride, you’d said. Of all maidens the fairest. But what is fair to the denizens of the Demon City, if not power, if not cunning, if not ruthlessness? Perhaps you should be flattered. Or perhaps you should do something about her and that hammer she’s gamely swinging around with both hands, even if your command upon her means that it’s impossible for her to win this fight; she’d knock herself out with the thing before she came close to besting you.

But do you want to? She burns. She despises you, but the command you laid upon her drags her forward on blue chains. She wants to slap the smile off your face. She wants to smother you under her thighs. She wants to fuck you like she wants to fuck the gods: furiously, until you mew and admit she’s in charge. And the minute you lift her chin and tell her she’s a good girl she’ll collapse into a stammering, blushing mess, nuzzling and wondering what this Strange New Feeling is.

Either accept her (perhaps myopic) choice, or point her like a tsundere lightning-bolt elsewhere. Her fate is twisted about your fingers; a twitch and she will be doomed to go among the catgirls, or to end up stuck in a closet with Cathak Agata, or even to the very gates of the House of Lapis Lazuli.

---

Han!

Emli is like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a dragon. Her heart is beating wildly, her eyes are wide, and her face is frozen in a sort of terrified smile. Only the fact that she’s seen your heart, Han, stops her from just breathily threatening to scream while enunciating clearly and exaggeratedly to give you a better target.

“The best part is the part only I know,” she adds, and she takes your hand with all the soft strength of someone who fulfills the desires of others for a living. “The part where you kissed me senseless, took my breath away, before making very sure no one would be able to hear me. Because dragons are hungry and take what they want.”

She leans in close, lets her lovely brown hair brush against your well-muscled arm. “And because I didn’t get the chance to teach you how to kiss her,” she whispers. Then she looks up, and impishly adds: “And, of course, I wouldn’t want anyone to be jealous. Feel free to steal yours, too, Lady Lotus.”

Lotus makes a flustered little squeak and squirms the squirm of someone who really wants to know how you’re going to react but thinks that kissies are good and she definitely isn’t thinking about how it would be like indirectly kissing you too because that would be ridiculous.

She’s definitely not planning to show you exactly how to render somebody helpless, either. She’ll just step in if she’s needed. Say, if you don’t know to cross her wrists over each other and create separate cuffs. Or to make sure you can fit two fingers under the ropes to allow her circulation. Or if you think that pulling a knotted sash between her lips is enough to satisfy her. You know. Just little things like that.

---

Piripiri!

Click-click-click-click-clack.

Azazuka is light on her feet, and she has created a zone of absolute denial around herself. None of the guards fighting her can so much as touch her; she smacks weapons aside with a flick of her wrist and a crack of her clattering cash sword. Color’s risen to her cheeks, and she’s laughing like she’s holding your hand and pulling you along the streets of Golden Chrysanth.

An umbrella is not a sword; this is a simple fact. The brawl happening through the corridors of the ship is being fought with swords and spears; this is another simple fact. Men and women who have the strict unit cohesion of the Dominion are struggling against each other, panting and growling in a grand free-for-all. And Azazuka stands as the queen of them all.

“Pipi!” Azazuka cries, delighted, and then lunges at you, click-click-click-click-clack! The guard accompanying you draws his own sword to defend you, and then slashes it through the space where your head just was.

What is this? A madness of blades?

Breathless Dead

“Where is she?”

Redana Claudius staggers out of the medical tent like a white-faced wraith, a spirit of the underworld herself. Have you heard the things she did to Dolce when they fought on the bridge? Did you see the star on her brow when she destroyed the Black Pyramid with the arms of a goddess? This is the young woman that drove the Praetor halfway across the galaxy, and looking at her now, is it that hard to believe? One wrong word would send her spiraling. Around her, Lanterns cringe and find things to interpose between themselves and Redana, the Imperial Princess who was twice touched by Dionysus.

“Why didn’t you let me say goodbye?” she sobs, grinding the heel of her palm against her eyes. “I brought her this far! Why didn’t you let me be with her until the end? Where did you take her? Let me say goodbye!”

“She’s not here,” Jil says. Dany turns, teetering on the edge of mania, and stares down the little mouse woman. The bags under Jil’s eyes suggest that, unlike Redana, she’s been too busy to do anything like sleep. She holds a surgeon’s sewing kit like one of her folk’s great war-shields. “Our Praetor left three hours ago. Before you ask, I don’t know where she’s gone.” Unspoken: and if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. “But she wasn’t dead. Not when she left.”

Redana shakes her head, like a stunned bull, and the braid swings behind her like a tail. An instinct, a memory, brings one hand up, and her fingers trace the pattern. Her sobbing continues, but underneath it bubbles laughter. She got her miracle. Only her Bella would have done this, and if she was well enough to work the hair, how hard was it to believe that she could have—

Dany closes the space between herself and Jil suddenly, and scoops her up. The sudden moment of horror on all sides melts when she spins Jil around, laughing, wet-cheeked. Then she kisses Jil on the face, repeatedly, askew, because that’s the only way her fireworks-sparking brain can vent its heat.

“She’s alive! Bless you, bless you, Apollo light your way! Haha!” She sets Jil down with a sudden exaggerated care, as if worried she might shatter upon hitting the ground, and runs out of the temple because her body is on fire and, why not, she does a cartwheel that doesn’t even break her stride.

It takes quite a while for her to finally slump against a wall and crumple into exhausted, ragged hiccups and sniffles and giggles. After all, she’s an Olympian(-in-training). Plenty of people would have seen her, racing down corridors like one of the nymphs bringing in the springtime.

How different from that awful day when she had walked the ship blind and ruined, with only Dionysus for company! And yet, how similar, too: the people she saw becoming just a blur of uncomprehending faces, watching her as an emotion too big for her swallowed her whole.

“There’s still time,” she says to herself, smearing tears inelegantly across her burning face, and makes an inelegant and overjoyed hornk noise, and doesn’t even care.

---

“Magos!!”

Iskarot, cultist of Hermes, is tackled by his patron’s daughter. She hugs him like he’s a life preserver and she’s been drowning.

“I was so worried after they stole the ship— but I prayed, even if— well, I don’t think Hermes will listen to me, given who she is, but just in case, I lifted you up for her care and— your legs, what did they do to you, I’m so sorry!”

She sets him down, allows him his dignity, stands to attention. But she fidgets, chewing on the question that’s been boiling up inside of her.

“…I’m not an Initiate any more, am I?” And unlike everything that exploded out of her heart just now, she’s been mulling over saying that. Ever since Skotia. Ever since the Heart. Ever since she saw her mother’s truest self.

TSL: Sjakal

Nahla!

Grace-of-Heaven shines. Her eyes are bright with that irrepressible hope that her guardian has tried her best to stamp out of her. Even so, she refuses to let this hope smother her affection for Yasmin, Lila and Taima; she wants to be back by dawn, and sleep away the morning (as, to be honest, is customary in the harem anyway; late nights and lazy mornings are common).

“Yes,” she says, and takes one of your hands in hers. “We’ll do it. Together.”

Then she leans in and impulsively kisses you on the mouth. This isn’t the first time it’s happened; there’s not a lot of personal space in the harem, even if mouths are usually covered. It’s her way of showing affection. But just when it could, maybe, be a little more than that, she pulls away.

Are you disappointed?

Even if you are, you’d better hide it. She’ll need a lot of preparation: a beautiful dress, strategic weakening of the top, braids and decorations, and plenty of makeup to accentuate her features. Who helps you with everything but the weakening?

---

Silsila Om!

Submit? Submission is not in Rosethal’s vocabulary. Not while she has tricks and Hosts and pride. The only way to win this is to physically render her incapable of battle. To make her armor clatter to the floor, unable to recohere without her command; to stop her from talking and summoning up her slaves to defeat you when she becomes desperate; to smother her in shining, sweat-slicked gold until she goes limp and you can carry her off the battlefield.

Then Merov Ekh will reward you, your name will be elevated and praised by the Fire Wheels, and Rosethal will be dangled from her ankles to make fun of her. (And nothing more; Merov Ekh would punish any of her followers for risking Ruz’s favor by pushing too far.)

But if you were to throw, to yield, to allow yourself to be overthrown, then Merov Ekh would allow you to be dragged off by the victorious sorceress, and judging from her demeanor right now, the Almighty alone knows what would happen next…

---

Soot!

Ruz’s eyes flash with… intrigue? “Perhaps some pieces to reassure the people that I am their guardian. Their mother, even. Have I not protected them? Kept them safe? Fed them, disciplined them, allowed them to aspire? And, after all, if you can do this with a barbarian brute, I wonder what you would do with a better—“

“Word from the Sultan, your most illustrious excellence,” says the servant at the door. Ruz lets her hand fall from under your chin, where she was tilting your head up. Did you even notice? Where were you staring, little Soot?

She takes the missive and scans it as you fumble your paints and brushes into their lacquerware cases. And then she chuckles, in that self-satisfied way of hers.

“Yes, allow me an answer, just a moment. Soot: stay.” And then, well, you have to, right? There with the model and the servant and the cases, until Ruz returns a sealed note to be returned to the Sultan. The messenger leaves, and she turns to you, appraising you.

“No, that won’t do at all,” she says. “Not for dinner with her. Follow me, girl.”

You’re about to get a makeover.

---

Birsi!

“Don’t be like that,” the Fire Wheel says, not yet angry but starting towards it. She grabs at your glove, tries to pull it off, drunkenly laughing. “We’re friends, aren’t we? Working together? Keeping the peace?”

Her voice suddenly lowers. She’s stumbled into a resentment unexpectedly . “Yeah. We’re friends. Which is why we let you all parade around and play soldier. You ever been in a battle, palace girl? Ever used that little knife of yours?”

Are you going to let her keep controlling the conversation? Is she right that you’re untested by battle? Is that one of the sacred walls she’s backed you up against?

TSL: Sjakal

Silsila Om!

Rosethal is a woman who chases whatever she wants. When something no longer interests her, she drops it without a qualm. She is dangerous, capricious, cruel. And she cares very little about the opinions of others when she wants something.

Any other woman would hesitate, would think about the watching crowd, would think about the bets being made. Any other woman would lower her head, blushing furiously, and stammer out a heated demand for you to remember your place.

Rosethal grabs the back of your head by your hair, drags you down, and forces you into a kiss. She’s the aggressor: her lips are plump, wet, soft, painted. Her tongue is a lashing whip, her breath a scouring wind.

The crowd explodes into yelling, cheering, vulgar suggestions, ones that Rosethal could give less of a fuck about, but you’re not quite that composed, are you? Merov Ekh wants Rosethal defeated, everyone who bet on you wants you to deliver a decisive victory, and Rosethal is likely to make even makeouts a challenge, a clash of towering egos.

How do you use that String on her, o terror of the desert? Do you pursue victory, or are you melting into a tangle of limbs and possessive kisses?

---

Soot!

Ruz fell silent during the last parts of your work, as you mastered the interplay of color in the piece. Now that you have finished, now that the templar slumps in his ropes, the Grand Vizier finally leans over your shoulder to inspect the painting closer.

This close, her perfume is almost a solid thing, sweet and rich, the scent of far-flung flowers mixed with the rarest notes that the Faithful natively have to hand. Rich in more than one sense: you could gather up everything you own, sell it all, and sell yourself in the bargain, and you still wouldn’t be able to afford the scent that she is free to dab on her fine wrists, her strong neck, her heavy breasts.

“Yes,” she breathes in reverent delight. This is the strongest reaction you have ever gotten out of her: usually it is a content nod, some words of praise, a promissory note scribbled off to be taken to a treasury clerk. But today, you have her attention.

“As the poet says, a rare talent is more precious than diamonds; let your garden wither before the skillful woman starves.” One hand, heavy with jeweled rings, rests on your shoulder, possessively. “How are we to cultivate your talent, little Soot?”

This is very literally the opportunity of a lifetime. Say the right thing, right here and now, and you can have whatever you want: a dizzying thing, isn’t it? Say the wrong thing, and it might all come crashing down around your ears.

And while we’re at it, why don’t you tell us all why the Soot that Ruz finds so praiseworthy isn’t the real Soot, who she would never accept. It wouldn’t have anything to do with your extracurriculars, would it? After all, she spent years serving among the Stewards, and she’s very conservative…

---

Nahla!

“No, that wouldn’t work,” Grace-of-Heaven says, frowning. One hand lifts from the water to caress your cheek, guiding you just that little bit closer. (She’s nervous. Not about tonight, but about what she’s about to say.) “Who would believe that? That I would get angry at you over a dress? It has to be— it has to be worse than that.”

She takes a deep breath, her toes curling in the water in that way she does when she’s trying to wrap herself in courage. “I think we need to invite the Grand Vizier to dine with us tonight, Nahla. Then you need to tear my top open by mistake, and— and then make some clumsy joke about it. So that when I yell at you, when I stamp my foot, everyone believes it.”

The blood is already rushing to her ears. She’s been humiliated many times before by the Fire Wheels at the Vizier’s instructions, but being humiliated while she’s ostensibly trying to impress the Vizier would be a devastating blow, another indignity heaped on a head that has withstood so many.

It’s a miracle of her Faith that she’s still fighting, still rebelling, despite what the Fire Wheels have done to her. The heart of a lion beats in her chest, for all that she desperately clings to you as someone she can trust.

Then she looks at you, and her smile is as bright as the sun in this hot land. “But it will be worth it when we see my grandmother’s city.” She still thinks of it as belonging to her grandmother; she hasn’t been allowed out, and the Vizier makes decrees in her name until “such time as she is prepared and able to assume her duties.” A time that the Vizier makes excuse after excuse to push off, until she can make Grace-of-Heaven marry Rosethal.

What are your thoughts on Rosethal, anyway, while we’re at it?

---

Birsi!

The singer is the one who stands up. She’s taller than you, but not by too much. Her wrap only covers half of her chest, and an impressive scar snakes its way down her ribs. She stands there for a moment, and then she throws one arm over your shoulders.

“Palace girl,” she says. “You’re upset at us? We didn’t know a better place for it.” Her breath stinks of wine, and at a guess, you’d say even that was plundered from the palace cellars. “Tell you what. Angry little puppy. Come and show us where we can have some private time to ourselves, and we’ll share. Your stuck-up bitch doesn’t need to know, hey?”

It’s an expansive offer, clearly. The barbarians get handsy when they’re drunk (and even now, the singer is rubbing your shoulder in an overly familiar way), and it’s probably very good wine. Do you drink, Birsi? Do you drink expensive wine set aside for the sultan and her court? And do you want to be touched by barbarians?

TSL: Sjakal

Sjakal. The City of Blue Chains. How it groans beneath its misrule. By Day, it may seem serene, as things continue as they should, as ships berth at its grand harbor, as the affairs of the Faithful are attended to by master and slave alike. What of war in the north, one may say in the heat of the afternoon, drinking tea and enjoying the pleasures of the greatest city on earth. But by Night, the city throws off its cloak and shows its raging heart. Its taxes are ruinous, the people go hungry, and unlike her beloved grandmother, Grace-of-Heaven does not issue forth from the Adamant to soothe the hearts of the people, nor does she accept their audience within the palace's grand walls. Her barbarian mercenaries rage through the city unchecked, and the common citizens (who can barely afford to feed their households) turn to the Stewards of the Faith for guidance. Soon, there will be turmoil. Soon, there will be chaos. Soon, the city will reach its grand climax, and maybe it will be that the Vulenid will not remain masters of the empire.

But for now, it is still the heat of the DAY, and life continues in its leisurely way in the palace, and all strife and discord is smothered by the rule of the Grand Vizier, illustrious Ruz...

***

Nahla!

"Will it be tonight?"

Grace-of-Heaven leans in closer, the pretense of a private bath for the moment forgotten. Beside you are the buckets of ice-cooled water and the perfumed soaps, and in your hands the sponge you have been using on her bare back. The young sultan is many things, but the prospect of escape would be a heady brew for anyone, let alone someone as comparatively inexperienced as she.

To her, you do not just represent security, but a chance at escape from the walls of her harem unaccompanied by the vizier's mercenaries. She is placing her trust in your cunning, your discretion and your loyalty. After all, if you turned around and informed Ruz that her caged bird was trying to stretch her wings, you would be richly rewarded. And yet, you still haven't gone to her. Why is this young woman's smile worth protecting, even at risk to yourself?

Because if you are caught, both of you will be punished terribly by the Fire Wheels. Ruz's fury will make punishments in your past look like mere slaps on the wrist. Grace-of-Heaven has assured you that tales of criminals being thrown into snake pits are historical relics, nothing more, but can you really trust someone who's been cloistered for half of her life? After all, you've seen what Ruz is willing to do (or rather, to order the Fire Wheels to do) to the girl who legitimizes her control of Sjakal. How much worse would she treat you, a mere heathen concubine?

***

Silsila Om!

"du Vas! du Vel! du Shan!"

Honored Rosethal slams into you, hard. She catches you by the wrist, leans her shoulder into your collarbone, and uses the strength of her armor to lift your feet off of the ground and slam you down onto the mosaic floor, sending precious tiles splintering into the air. From the sidelines, raucous cheers and yelled bets fill the air. Who's going to win? The vizier's terrifying daughter, or the Khan's pet Host?

Rosethal kicks you in the side and sends you sprawling, then turns and poses for the Fire Wheels gathered to watch. Merov Ekh hisses from her seat, and your bindings throb in your muscles, your spine, the backs of your eyes. Your mistress is willing you to win, so that she can not only profit from the bets placed on your victory, but so that she looks all the better for having mastered you in the scrublands, o most ferocious of spirits.

This wouldn't be a fair fight for Rosethal if she wasn't using her own Hosts. But instead of commanding them to fight in her stead, she has wrapped one around her to serve as armor. When you grapple with her, you grapple with both the sorceress and her slave. Your one advantage is that she is showboating, using a second Host as a bladed whip which she spins around her body, turning this into a showcase of her sorcerous talents.

Well, Host? You have been commanded. Fight. Win. Prove that your mistress is the strongest in the palace.

***

Soot!

"Nnnngh."

The Draconic templar gives you a glare that suggests he's willing your bones to tear out of your body and throttle you. Not that he can do anything about it, because he's your model for today. This would normally be a relaxing process, a chance to let your mind wander as your body translates his vulnerability to the canvas, but today your Patron is hovering over your shoulder, carefully watching the piece, and she's ready to make Recommendations.

Ruz has given you conflicting orders for this piece: the Dragon Kingdoms must look threatening, but vulnerable. We must demonstrate the active danger they represent to the Faith, but naturally they must be shown to have a weakness that our brave soldiers will use to overcome them. It should not be too dark, but you need to avoid too many colors, we will have copies made by scribes. And while you're at it, work in the iconography of both the Army of the Faithful and the Fire Wheels, to represent that they work in unison against the perfidious foe.

How are you approaching this piece, then? What aspects of the costuming, the pose, have you arranged just so? And what about Ruz looming over you is making your heart beat a little faster-- her perfume, her gold-trimmed robe, her air of experience and effortless command?

***

Birsi!

"as vren mej ra thor duv ha kha..."

The Room of the Manifold Stars is sacred. It is used by the Sultans of Sjakal to read the stars, the signs and omens and portents of the Almighty, her commands for her loyal slaves below. No one is permitted to enter the room save those mystics and astrologers, those sorcerers and holy women who the Sultan entrusts. Even stepping into the room, one is struck by the golden sigils on the black walls, the narrow windows tilted upwards towards Heaven, the way the walls drink in any sound. This is a holy place.

Which makes it all the more insufferable that three Fire Wheels are being very drunk in the Room of the Manifold Stars, having forced the lock in search of more entertainment. One is staring, dazed, at the sigils, while another guzzles from a bottle of wine and the third sings some discordant barbarian hymn. All three are half-naked, built lean and strong, and are rather drunk, which would make one against three fair, right?

Behind the door, a serving-girl quivers, sneaking looks inside. She's fulfilled her role in life, not daring to challenge free warriors, even barbarian ones. It's your role to protect not only her, but the sanctity of the Faith and the traditions of the Adamant palace. What sort of guard are you? One who loudly admonishes them, one who tries to put on a severe face and use quiet words, or one who beats sense into them with her sword still in its scabbard?