Tatterdemalion

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Maid Confined in Yearning!

Being bad at something you love is very frustrating. You were once definitionally good at swordplay. You must have been. You were War. That red hussy thinks she’s all that, but she can’t hold a candle up to you. So you were, of course, the best at swordplay, and spear drills, and shooting firewands, and thus had no need to stoop so low as to actually perform. You knew you were skilled, and they were arts of war, and therefore you claimed them and loved them. That’s how owning concepts works. You occupy them, exploit them, and leverage them.

So it is embarrassing that you are this bad at actually fighting. It’s not your fault! It really isn’t! If you were as strong as you’re supposed to be, you could destroy entire armies of the Rakshasa, wither them beneath iron and fire, see their strategies unravel and turn to dust, and claim their territories as your own, anchor them, claim them for the world you helped make! But she made you clumsy and flushed and turned this body to cross-purposes! It’s her fault, that smug, superior, scheming spirit that didn’t even have the good grace to not fall to a common garden goblin when she bested you!

You are not pathetic! You are not below the likes of this parasite! You are Maid Confined in Yearning, and you will prevail, no matter how you are sweating, and panting, and bouncing, and even if this body is a liability, your will is adamant!

You fling yourself at the parasite before it can insult you further by ordering your conqueror about; you go tumbling, and you yank, pull, tear, using your fumbling fingers and your blunt teeth and your kicking legs to explain to the Rakshasa that you are not going to lose again!

Then she grabs your wrists and pins you to the deck.

The look in her eyes is wild and dangerous and it’s your body’s fault, this weak and mortal thing, that makes your face heat up and your heart race in panic and a pathetic, helpless squeak escape your blubbering lips and your hips are rocking from side to side, your toes not finding any purchase on the rain-slick deck, and she’s going to eat you and you can’t make her let go of you and nobody’s coming to help you, why is she so cruel as to ignore you like this when she put you in here, why won’t she come over and tear the vicious hungry thing off of you and stroke your hair until you stop shaking it’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not fair!

“S-someone, save meeeeeeeee! Pleaaaaaaaaaase!!” And right there, right then, you mean it. You want someone to come and save you, because you’re a useless little thing and you want to be held, you don’t want to die, you just want to be safe—

A white sword lifts the Rakshasa’s chin, and she does her best to look small and pitiable, even though her fingers are digging into your soft skin. The person holding it is one of the children of the upstart dragons, but right now, you don’t care, do you? You’re sobbing in relief, stupid little buttoned top heaving as you take snot-choked breaths, your body swamped by gratitude.

“What have you done to my soldiers?” The Red Wolf’s voice is caustic, searing. She’s barely holding back her fangs, and a silly little thing like you can’t remember if that’s literal or not.

“I didn’t do anything,” the Rakshasa simpers. The Red Wolf opens her eyes again and the air chars. You whimper and shut your eyes but she can see through you, all of you, and what does she see? Frills and lace and needy rubbing? Blushing cheeks and mincing steps and you will never go home? “I didn’t,” the Rakshasa growls, defiant. “Whatever is on them is her work.”

The Red Wolf half-turns to look at your conqueror, and the Rakshasa lets go of you, is snaking upwards, fangs open and nails sharp—

And the mean dragon opens an umbrella sharply in her face, and the Rakshasa stumbles back, trips over you, hits the railing with a scream and tumbles over, and the force of it sends you bashing against the railings and you hear them creak and you just keep screaming, and you don’t know whether or not you’d survive because you’re not thinking about it, you just don’t want to fall, please don’t just let you fall, do something, the railing’s creaking harder with every pitch and thump of the ship, and nobody cares enough to save you.

---

Piripiri!

You snap your umbrella shut. The demon maid, one arm dangling through the railing, one heel wedged beneath it, is screaming her head off. The Red Wolf gives you a nod of gratitude, shifting her grip on her sword.

“Jaws,” she says. She means for you to help her flank the blue-robed thing that’s dangling Giriel over the side of the barge, threatening her with a firewand to the forehead. No time for saving sobbing, useless demons. (She must be feeling more terror right now than in her entire existence.)

And then—

On the other side of the deck, three Flower Knights burst through a door. Kalaya Na, Petony the Tiger Knight, and…

Uusha.

The Tiger Knight is saying something, but Uusha is staring at the Red Wolf, and, uncharacteristically, the Red Wolf is staring right back, not moving forward, not leaving her flank open. Her eyes flick once to Giriel, and then back to Uusha; her hand is, for a moment, unsteady on her sword.

“…save her,” Cathak Agata asks you. Begs you. And then she turns to face Uusha, both hands on her sword’s hilt, and the anger roiling off her is causing the rain to hiss and steam away all around.

---

Kalaya!

“We need to go,” Petony half-snarls at Uusha. “Victorious Vixen of Violets has already given us all the distraction we can afford!”

What a distraction. The barge is careening deeper and deeper into the tangled forests of the Flower Kingdoms, and even beginning to tilt upwards; it’s cutting a path back northwards. Away from Chrysanth, back towards N’yari country. It’s unclear how Petony thinks that she can get all of you off safely, or how she thinks that priestess managed to do this at all.

The air’s cut apart by shrill, desperate, helpless screaming from a maid, frantically kicking and scrabbling over by a railing, unable to get to her feet for some reason. Piripiri is on the other side, too, and—

Cathak Agata, standing opposite Uusha, holding her sword like it’s a dragon’s thunderbolt.

“She’s not going to let us leave,” Uusha says, the words slamming into place with the weight of lead. Her armor creaks as she shifts her weight. “But there’s three of us. Two of them. And she’s scared.”

“We need to leave, you glory-seeking bitch!”

“Everything I have done, I have done for us! Now if you value your oaths to our land, our people, and our gods, fall in line!”

Petony looks like she’s either going to piss herself or take a furious swing at Uusha, and it’s hard to blame her. Those last three words were delivered like a furious mother losing the last of her patience— but there was something of a monster’s roar in them, too. If Uusha’s still in pain from being shot, she doesn’t show it as she draws herself up to her full height and lets the cloth wrapping fall from her spear.

Her gauntlets close around its shaft.

And with a guttural roar, Uusha suddenly charges across the deck at Cathak Agata.

---

Lotus of Tranquil Waters!

You have a lot of pent-up makeouts inside of you and they come exploding out like a geyser. Look, Han! Are you watching? This is what you can do!

You guide her hands up to cup and squeeze and a happy shiver runs through you. Your mouth is wet and scented like flowers, and you give its gift to Emli, who has visited you, who still smells like Han. And since Han probably thinks you’re terrible anyway, a selfish heartbreaker who takes kisses and doesn’t care about her feelings, well…

Maybe it’s okay to intermingle the kisses she gave Emli, the kisses you wish she wanted to give you, and the way you’re smacking your hungry, inexperienced mouth all over hers. She holds you, she has you, she’s appreciating you, she’s touching your body and she wants to, and a terrible awful part of you really does hope that Han might be watching. Maybe…

No. She’ll just know that she was right about you. Spoiled princess. Liar, pervert and worse. Should have tossed you to the N’yari. Shouldn’t have bothered to save you as a strong, beautiful, incredible dragon. Shouldn’t be saving you, even now.

But it feels too good, and you’re too weak, and if Han won’t hold you, at least Emli will, right here, right now. And maybe you can dream about Han tugging both of you by leashes, pulling you into bed, and the three of you sharing kisses until you can’t figure out where one of you ends and another begins, but later. In between thinking about Han kissing you like she kissed Emli, pressing you up against that wall, but being so gentle, exploring, being such a sweetheart with all of her strength, and—

“Good girl,” Emli gasps, and your thinkies capsize.

You’re glowing when she finally leads you back to the bed, helps you readjust your veil, folds your hands neatly in your lap, and leaves you to burn inside. You can’t look Han in the eyes. You want to turn and stare and see what she thinks. You aren’t brave enough.

“So, Han… are you ready to tie me up?”

Oh wow you’re braver than you thought actually hi Han yes would you like to tie up the girl who you both just kissed? Do you need help maybe? Does she remind you of anybody?

You are hopelessly gay. There is no cure.

Breathless Dead

The brass knuckles are out. Dany’s body was the one that made that call, slipping them over her hands and curling into fists, forming a boxing stance. Strong footing, hands up, ready to block or snap out, catch any opening. This isn’t an exhausted, bloodied girl flailing on a rooftop; this is Redana Claudius, strong contender for the Gold.

“Stand down,” she says. Her pulse pounds through her fists. “You are a prisoner of the Princess Redana Claudius of Tellus.” Her body is a spring. It would feel so good to let the tension loose. To catch that perfect nose square on. “Your Master is dead… or worse… and I did it. I and Bella, of your Orders.” Which one was Bella? They’re all an inchoate mass of deadly tricks in her head.

The situation is… bad. Not because she doesn’t think she can go toe-to-toe with this huntress (she can, at least long enough for the battle to be noticed, probably) but because she’s… distracted. The way that the assassin moves. The flexibility, the inhuman grace, the precision. It’s not the same as what Dany can do, all raw power and stamina, but game recognizes game, training recognizes training. The blonde locks spilling down her back, the insouciant little smirk as she drinks Dany in, the long legs, the delicate power… no wonder Bella had it bad for her. Don’t think about being chased, Dany. Square up, hold your ground, show her your mettle.

“…and I only opened up your box because I needed to know if she was inside,” Redana lies, trying to shore up the moral high ground. “Help me find her, and I’ll let you keep sleeping before you run rampant.” There? See? Nobody needs to get punched in the face, and if somebody does, then they clearly deserved it for rejecting such a sensible offer, so there.

TSL: Sjakal

Silsila! Birsi!

The city of Sjakal opens up before the two of you, spreading out like a brand on the world, all lit up by lanterns in the gathering dusk. The light makes it harder, down there, to see the stars spread out across heaven. Down there, it's a labyrinth, a city built above and below another city, an orderly city of wide streets and gardens devoured by the need for more housing, more warehouses, more markets, more wealth and more bodies, by bright canvas and wood, by the irrepressible spirit of the Faithful.

Turn to look southward, and you can see the most likely place for your investigations to begin tonight: the 78 Heavens, a neighborhood built entirely within the old Circus. Where once chariots raced and the crowd roared, now there is a city within the city, one that never sleeps, one where any traveler can buy a bed for the night, companionship for the night, spectacle for the night, and things which the Stewards very much frown upon being sold. It's a confounding maze of signage and noise inside, but there are very few ways in, and all of them controlled by Mother Bes and her family.

Silsila: the Fire Wheels view the 78 Heavens as being beneath them; they're in the lap of luxury, they're not going to go slumming it. Why go buy overpriced drinks to see a fight when they could watch you and Rosethal go at it? That's good, by the way. If the Fire Wheels let loose inside the 78 Heavens, well. It's very flammable, it's got few exits, and it's full of the dregs of Sjakal. People would get really hurt. Maybe that's one reason Hai Lin is sending you here; the reason she gave you, on the other hand, is just that the House Guard must be proactive in defending the Sultan. (Funny, given that she's not been very proactive against possible threats inside the Adamant.)

Birsi: the 78 Heavens are a raucous den of iniquity. Or so you've heard, because you've never been. You keep your nose clean, don't you? You're above all that sort of thing; you thrive in the knowledge of a job well done, the simple pleasure of being praised. But here you are, red-headed and doing your best to scowl. Maybe even try spitting in the street, if your heart can take it. You're unveiled, given equal parts deference and glares by the people you pass, and walking into a dangerous assignment.

At least you have surprise on your side. Tell us about making your way through the lively streets, as people make way (or shout insults from the safety of an alleyway mouth), and how you plan to barge your way into the 78 Heavens like proper Fire Wheels.

---

Soot!

"Hey, Soot~"

Bowlyn melts out of the shadows as you take a shortcut between Mercy and Largesse, accompanied by two of her Rats (as the gang calls themselves). There's a bounce to her step, all anticipation and nervous energy. "You sure you want to be out tonight?"

"It's going to be messy tonight," Tall Rat says, with naked glee. They're a gangly one, usually involved with climbing and clambering and shimmying out of windows. "Sword work. Big work."

"A lapdog and a kettle." A member of the House Guard? And a Host? Giggly Rat (that's the best nickname you've got for her) seems pretty jazzed at the thought.

"You might want to go home and bolt the windows," Bowlyn says, and she does a pretty good job of hiding from the Rats that she's a little worried about you. "There's a difference between painting and... well, dealing with this." But if you insist, she won't stop you. You've got her gift, after all. You've got style. And even if she loves your graffiti, and might indulge in it with you after the sword work (if she wins), well.

She might be in the market to commission art of a House Guard and a Host in a compromising position, if she wins. And as long as you've known her, Bowlyn has always won.

---

"Iris!"

"Jasmine" comes up coughing and red-faced, but a sniffle or two and clinging to your sleeve and she's fine. What a brave girl, holding it all in until you helped her out. "I am never complaining about what our maids do again," she swears. "Imagine having to... well!!" (She says it like she complains about them all the time. She doesn't. She'd probably lie to cover for them if Ruz found something to criticize about their work.) Then she giggles, and takes you by the hand, and pulls you along as she runs.

She nearly gets both of you run over by a cart pulling out of a narrow street.

But she barely notices, and she's giddy as she lets herself run in a way she hasn't been able to do ever since you met her, and likely before then. She's drinking in everything around her, but she's got an end point in mind: the top of a hill, topped by a statue to the legendary hero that built this place, on the other side of a bridge. By the time you reach the statue's base, both of you are hitting the wall pretty hard, though she's definitely more pampered than you. But that doesn't stop her from looking out over the southward swell of the city and putting her hands to her chest and making a sound like she's either about to start laughing or crying.

"It's Sjakal," she says, and she's definitely losing the battle against crying. And, to be honest, can you blame her? This is the biggest city you've ever seen in your life. It glows like a fire underneath the almost-black sky, and you can make out the bright colors of the streets (where they're not covered by gaudy banners or makeshift archways) and the stateliness of the city's many cypress trees pointing up at the sky. It's beautiful. It's dangerous. It's unexplored. It's brooding. Anything could be around the next corner. Anything could be around the next corner.

Then she turns and throws her arms around you, and she's hugging you like she hugs one of her pillows. "Thank you thank you thank you," she says, the words bursting out of her like water pouring through a broken dam. "Nahla, I-- Iris, I mean, we did it, we did it!!"

You're going to be in trouble tonight. Whatever you do, whatever you say to her, she's going to end up in trouble somehow. But maybe it'll be worth it for how happy she is, right here and now?

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"I didn't taunt you."

It's a testament to Dolly's fortitude, her inner strength that Jade curls about like a fortress, that she's able to get the words out. She could just lean forward. She could smush her face up against that hand and breathe in deep, feeling the pressure against her face, letting the smell swirl about her head. The smell of excitement and attentiveness flooding through her and underneath, her washed skin, the body wash that lingers on it, and what would the distinct tang of sweat add to that? A shiver rumbles down through her bushing tail.

Jade is amazing at visuals, and sounds, and especially tactile sensations, where she is an unparalleled goddess. But she's sensitive about the fact that she's still learning how to replicate smell and taste, particularly because she knows. She knows that Dolly is Hybrasilian, and she knows that Dolly finds those senses particularly appealing, her little heart racing when she finds something particularly interesting. Not that she can't feed Dolly's adorable nose and thirsty little tongue information, but she has to play it safe; if she messes something up, if she makes something that Dolly can't handle, she'll end up with Dolly retching into a wastebasket again. And that leads to an unpiloted mech stomping around a training zone, cursing in furious garbled code and smashing targets, while her beloved pilot lies in bed with her face buried in a pillow.

"You know, maybe I should push you forward," Jade purrs, knotting her fingers in Dolly's hair. "Get that beautiful face all over her hand. But that's not where you want to be, is it, my heart, my beloved, my priestess? You want a footstool and your hands nice and neat behind your back while I hold you in place right in that cleft, don't you? While she squirms and makes muffled, useless complaints, the color so, so bright on those smooth cheeks of hers?"

"I am Dala of the Hunter Clan, whose star name is Seven Quetzal, and I serve the goddess Smokeless Jade Fires, who lives inside of the mech you fought. Not like a pattern intelligence, she's more than that. But I did enjoy piloting her while she fought you, and she enjoyed it, too." "Tell her I want to fight her again." "She would like to fight you again in the future," Dolly says, and smiles, and means the smile. She's being nice, which she always enjoys, and maybe she'll get to be friends with this big, emotional, nice-smelling alien girl.

"Tell her I'm going to put her in her place."

Dolly locks up. Her heart starts hammering, her eyes wide as she stares up at Angela Victoria Midoriya Antonius. Jade lazily wraps a tail around her midriff, squeezing possessively, nails playing on Dolly's shoulders. This is what it means to be the mouthpiece of a goddess, isn't it, Dolly? But it's not just embarrassment, is it, Dolly? Her body can't lie to a goddess. Jade knows how she's reacting to being on the spot. How she wants to bury her face in Jade as soon as this is over, and shake and mew, but how at the same time she couldn't be moved from the spotlight with a construction crane right at this second.

"...and she is going to put you in your place," Dolly continues, squeezing her thighs together. "Good girl. MY girl." "She helped me find mine. Everything we did in that fight was only possible because of her instruction, her guidance, her knowledge of what I can do. If she thought you were a bad pilot she wouldn't even be saying that, she'd... she'd want me to insist on calling you Trophy." "Maybe I should." "So when we fight again, Angela Victoria Mmmmiera(?) Antonius, please give us your best! It's a holy duty! And tonight..."

Jade goes silent, her fingers flexing on Dolly's body, her breath felt rather than heard. In, out. In, out. She lets Dolly stumble for a moment, free of puppet strings. A test, to see whether she chooses to exalt her goddess. But more than that: uncertainty as to what her Dolly is going to say. Smokeless Jade Fires acts on her desires, but in this moment? She wants her Dolly to speak what's inside her heart.

"Tonight, would you like to watch the show with me? I understand if you're upset, but I promise we don't want to hurt you." "I do. But the good kind. The fun kind. I want her to writhe for me." "...we don't want to really hurt you," Dolly amends, stumbling back over her words. "It's just that I'd like the chance to make it up to you? To prove that there's no hard feelings from us, and maybe help you feel better, too?"

"What if she wants you to make it up to her by kissing you, Dolly? Wants you to be her little trophy for the night? Would you do it? Sit in her lap and purr? Wear a collar for her?" Jade's tone is light, teasing, as she runs rings with her fingers. "A Trophy like her? What would THAT be like, being the trophy of a Trophy? Maybe I should let her. You'd love it, wouldn't you~? My lusty little bride~" She nips and tugs at Dolly's ear with a playfully mocking growl, dancing back and forth on the line, letting her own crystal heart throb with something which might be adrenaline as she envisions making her bride and her Trophy kiss, jealous and needy and achingly curious at the same time. She can't stop herself from panting into her bride's ear, letting vent some of that confusing mess.

And Dolly leans forward, ever so slightly, Jade not moving her but moving with her, and huffs the scent of Angela Victoria Miera Antonius. The tip of her tail curls, clenched tight against itself, as she imagines that, too, being used to make her goddess and a flustered alien pilot happy, plummeting down into a new and degrading social role for an evening, face pressed against the alien's inviting chest, wearing a spirit collar and a real collar, doing everything she's told until her goddess takes her up in all of her hands and uses her, again, as a weapon. But the kind of weapon that can be forgiven, even cherished.

[Dolly attempts to Figure Out the alien pilot and gets a beautiful little 6, hopefully leaving her open to being counter-read, or perhaps ending up in over her head with Angela. She also hopefully activates Wingmate, giving Jade +1 forward to her next Fight or Entice against Angela.]

TSL: Sjakal

Leaving the Adamant is no simple matter. It has few gates, and those closely guarded; but even then, there are those who must pass in and out. Most who do wish they didn’t have to; traveling by night has become more perilous as of late. The Fire Wheels will go roaring and wild out of the Blue Gate, which means that it has become the most perilous route of all. So here at twilight the palace expels its servants, its common-born, and its terrors, and soon the five of you, too, will join the trickles out into the city of Sjakal, wild and tumultuous…

---

Nahla!

Grace-of-Heaven practically glows with your reassurance, and quickly puts on the simple linen clothes of a common citizen, the sort whose household would only support one or two slaves at most. She unlocks your own collar with a key she secreted away; permanently welding a collar is both inhumane and unfashionable, because a woman of means should be able to provide you with multiple accessorizing collars for every occasion and outfit.

The Faithful are odd in that sort of way. It’s all about power and control, clearly delineating who gives orders and who follows them, but people’s roles are fluid in practice. It’s possible to rise and fall, to be freed or to be enslaved, and almost nobody ends up permanently locked in place. Back home, social classes were much more static.

But here? Grace-of-Heaven looks surprisingly natural in a simple, opaque veil, wearing a mantle over a belted dress, with flat sandals and her hair loose under a flower-mimicking headband. The sparkle in her eyes, the bounce to her steps, the feeling that everything is going to turn out all right: that’s all her, independent of her title and her ownership of you.

Right now, anyone who saw you in the street would take you for equals. Friends, or family members, or even… well, girlfriends. Especially if you hold her hand to help guide her along.

“How about… hmmm… oh, but what if I say the wrong thing? The wrong name, I mean. If I pick the sort of name people don’t actually use, people, other people, would be suspicious of us! But maybe… nicknames? Little simple things? Maybe that would work!” She takes your hands in hers for a moment and squeezes. “How about… I’ll be Flower and you’ll be Darling? Or, no, that’s… Ring? Clever? North? Do any of those work?” Oof. North is a bit on the nose. Might as well be Foreigner.

Whatever name you end up picking, it’s time for you to reveal how you’re getting out of here!

[Grace-of-Heaven accepts, and clears a Condition. You have your choice of boons.]

---

Silsila! Birsi!

The Fire Wheel costume is laid out on the briefing table with the reverence of a suit of armor. Red and black, festooned with tassels and trophies, lacking a veil entirely.

“It is difficult for us to work in the city at present,” Hai Lin explains, hands behind her back, smiling in the way she does when she’s playing the General’s Game, her pleasantly serene and perfectly ironclad game face, which doesn’t move an inch whether she’s winning or losing. “Therefore, given this unique opportunity, I think the Fire Wheels will act in the city instead.”

That does make sense, Birsi. She can’t assign you anything sensitive with Ekh’s Host standing right here; she can’t make a play that requires secrets to be kept from the barbarian. But she’s instead turned this into an opportunity to pursue a different goal.

“Namely, you will go out and act with the decisiveness and personal initiative expected of a Fire Wheel— not in any way to discredit them, and indeed, this may bring them some credit. But you must be allowed to act in ways that, perhaps, might be unbecoming of one of our company.”

She gestures at the grand mural of the city that takes up one wall of her meeting room. “There is an element of unrest in the city at present that is difficult for us to address, given our duty.” You’re the House Guard, after all; you only leave the Adamant in the company of the Sultan or their servants while on duty, traditionally. “One in particular seems likely to present a threat to our duty. One Bowlyn, a leader of thieves who is acting against the Faithful and our… associates.” She means the Fire Wheels.

You know a little about that, Silsila. The Thief-Queen’s been making fools of the Fire Wheels, as much as she can; looting houses while you speak with the owners, picking off Fire Wheels left alone, and leaving graffiti at the scene of the crime.

“The two of you will go out and, working together, see this disruptive element inconvenienced to the best of your ability.” Carefully worded. It allows for anything up to bringing her and her thieves in bound up in a coffle, or as little as bringing back more information that Hai Lin can then feed back to the Stewards.

She then turns to Silsila, still smiling regally, impossible to read. “Host, given the terms of your arrangement tonight, I would prefer to request that you assist our Birsi in looking particularly appropriate for the part.” Unspoken: otherwise I will order Birsi to order you, but I don’t want to put strain on tonight’s working relationship, especially given that you are still the slave of a rival player in the palace.

So, Silsila: what does giving Birsi a Fire Wheel makeover look like? Is hair dye involved? How do you stop her from standing out like a sore thumb?

Birsi: this is an order from a superior. But what are your personal thoughts on this mission? It’s dangerous for you, which is both daunting and a sign of how much trust Hai Lin places in you.

---

Soot!

You are released, full of delicious food and projects to be working on for the foreseeable future, to pack up and dream of your promised workspace. Tell us all about the process of leaving the Adamant: how you are frisked by the House Guard, how you prepare to defend yourself against the steadily more perilous walk home, and to what degree you daydream your way through it.

Because, after all, you have business this evening on the streets. Graffiti to paint. A new design to emblazon proudly.

And maybe you’ll run into Bowlyn tonight, the Thief-Queen of Sjakal, who is your— sister? Childhood friend? Other crush? Artistic influence? How are you very closely connected to one of the most wanted women in all of Sjakal?

Breathless Dead

“It could be Bella,” Redana lies to herself.

It looks like a tomb, and that’s freaky. It looks so much like a tomb of steel that even Redana, sheltered from the signifiers of death save in the iconography of Hades himself, recognizes its shape. But the glories etched into it, the prayers written on slender ribbons and attached with wax, the symbol of the thousand eyes and the circle of arrows— this is a holy sarcophagus of Artemis. When she runs her fingers over it, it should tremble and thrum with barely-contained power. It doesn’t, though. It just lies here, in the depths of the Third Shrine, sealed shut.

Is it so hard to believe that maybe Bella’s curled up inside, the same way that her— that Dany used to, when she was overwhelmed by her responsibilities and duties as the Imperial Heir? It would be nice. Redana could undo the seal, give Bella a wry smile, tell her she was looking for one Bella, have you happened to see her about? There isn’t room inside that coffin for two, but she could wait, she could take a seat, she could sing songs from back home. Anything to get Bella to sit down and talk to her.

The brass knuckles are heavy in her coat pocket.

Because it’s not Bella in there, and Redana knows that. She can feign surprise when she opens it up and reveals the other assassin. Not Bella, not Mynx, not even Beljani-Epistia. (She feels guilt when she thinks about that; she hasn’t mustered up the courage to ask Beljani-Epistia if she regrets what happened, or if she would have preferred to stay dead in that shining refuge within the Eater of Worlds.) The other one.

”I really think she loves you.” A taunt. Trying to get under Redana’s skin. An assassin too clever for the world trying to slip a knife somewhere soft. She hadn’t heard the things that Bella had said that night; she hadn’t heard Bella’s disgust after being kissed on Sahar. She hadn’t even seen Bella run off after everything Dany did, so what did she know?

Dany slips one hand into that pocket, curls her fingers around the knuckle. An intuitive weapon. Not hard to understand at all; a layer even harder than human bone, designed to add heft to a blow, to spread the force evenly. A weapon for a blunt instrument.

When she pulls her hand out of her pocket, she’s got a knuckle on one hand. After all, it’ll take both hands to break the seal; it’s designed to avoid accidental opening. An assassin, loosed without preparation, without a target? Very dangerous indeed. Inauspicious, besides. But maybe it is somehow, impossibly, Bella in there, and Dany will laugh and think herself so silly for being ready to toss out a challenge.

The sarcophagus opens with a hiss of pressurized air. The inside is white, white, white; the blankness that approaches the infinite. And inside, her neck still faintly bruised, her eyes sightless yet open, her breath achingly slow, is the assassin. Her hair is loose, a shining halo around her beautiful head. Redana’s fist clenches tighter until the brass bites into her palm.

Come on. Get up. It’s not a fair challenge if you don’t get up. Who proves a challenge against someone lying down in their bed? All that would prove is that Dany’s a brute, violent and ignorant. So it has to be on the level. Then she’ll show you. Then she’ll win. Then she’ll… then Bella will be able to see that her Dany cares. Cares enough to make a stupid, stupid challenge on her behalf.

Come on, then! Get up!

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

A muzzle lowers, whispers in a receptive ear. Names, offered. This is a place of the fair folk, and an offer of a name is perilous. But it’s given. Let it be known that 3V Wuz Here. And more than that, the connections of a shared name mean that when 3V trots giddily back to Black, she’s trailing two wolves along with her. Only two; they aren’t a monolithic whole. But maybe it’s like atoms smashing together to form new elements.

“So this is my girlfriend,” 3V chirps, and if she’s panicking at all she’s not showing it, she’s glittering like the disco ball, radiant. “November, like the month, like the heroine. Novie, this is Amie and this here is Lupawn, like the thief.” Do you know that thief, Black? Diving into cleavage, running from the Inspector, made kindly by the old man still young who loved the planes? “We’re going to get hydrated.” She takes that clever possessive hand in hers and tugs Black close, tapping on the back of her palm like it’s all macros.

Go for the collar. She might be mortified later, but right now she’s exploding into stardust and you could tie her up with a cobweb and make her hop. Push her a little more. See how she yields.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"And the cultivar dropped out of fashion in favor of varieties with thicker leaves that had an easier time growing in dark places, which, naturally, but the slight blue-green sheen you get right here on the edges, that's unique to this cultivar, and when the Hybrasilian Seed Archive was founded, we thought that there weren't any more of these around, a hundred-year-old strain gone, until a hobbyist from Vúlacuar found a bag of seeds in his grand-aunt's shed, but it had been water damaged, which is deadly for seeds, so it was a race against time to try and-- huh?"

Dolly blinks like, yes, a barn owl as she's accosted by Angela, mid-gesture at the gorgeous Seastone Fern that they have here, spilling hungrily out of its pot. She takes a step back and bumps into a stool, her tail curling defensively around it as she is accused of, of...? Getting away with something? "Ai! Aiiii mean hello!" Dolly's eyes cross for a moment as she tries to focus on the barrage of accusations and the neurofiber, which has Jade on it and, oh, oh no! Oh no no no no no!

"Oh, hello there, Angela Victoria Miera Antonius," Jade purrs, draping herself over Dolly, hands roving over the dress she'd designed. A nice, tight dress to show off her Dolly's curves, fringed at the collar and shoulders, with a beaded skirt swishing and dangling down her thighs to her knees, disguising the fact that it was dangerously short-- except from the back, where it dipped very low indeed, below her bouncy curls. Impossible to hide that. The use of bright Compass colors in bold arrows was a deliberate Hybrasilian fashion statement, old-fashionedly religious: black, white, red, and blue. Dolly's fur provided the yellow. Her earrings, too, were fringed, with real blue and red feathers. A high priestess for the modern era, a messenger for a goddess, someone who didn't need confidence when she had a goddess pressing up against her bare back. "Fancy seeing you here. Dolly, don't apologize."

"I'mmmmm," Dolly says, before eating the word sorry. "Glad to see you made it!" "Oh, Dolly, she's going to assume you thought she couldn't make it." "I mean, I knew you would! Why wouldn't you?" "Because we trussed her up, Dolly. Remember her squirming on your shoulder? Making such cute noises? Mmmph, mmmph~" "I'm! I mean! I mean! Hi! Sorrrrr." "Shhhhh. No apologizing, remember? Chin up. Shoulders straight. Look her in the eye, and tell her you don't have a game."

"I don't have a game... Angela, Victoria, Miera, Antonius!" "There we go. See? Try to remember the name next time." "I'm just a humble priestess," she says, gesturing downwards at herself. "Really, I'm honored to get to be here alongside the likes of you!" "Flattery. Really, she should be honored. She just doesn't know it yet." "I'm... not thrilled that somebody wrote that!" "Good save. Good girl~" "IIIII, think you did good, no, I really did! It's not your fault you couldn't beat Jade, and haughty heiress is just a dumb headline alliteration. It was fun, and--"

Smokeless Jade Fires flows down Dolly's gloved arm and flicks into the air, resting there at Angela Victoria Miera Antonius's side, putting her chin on the back of one hand. She's mostly like a Hybrasilian, but her tail is huge and brushy and silky; her fur is black, and her cobalt hair is stiff and styled like two wings of a helmet, flanking her goddess mask: a black fox, eyes and ears and upper lip limned with gold. Below it, her teeth are like the fangs of a TC "vampire," or the fangs of a Marshwolf. She lifts her free hand, and Dolly's leash falls neatly into it. She tugs, and Dolly feels her collar stiffen around her neck. "Come on, Dolly. Let me get a good look at her."

"And, really, I mean, as long as we both had fun, I had fun, did you have fun?" "Oh, she definitely had fun. She belongs on her knees right next to you, don't you think? What could be more fun than that?" "Sure, maybe, knees, knees got bruised?" Dolly makes an exaggerated shrug as she starts circling around Angela, trying not to look like she's sweating and flustered. "But you're Angela Miera Victoria-- Victoria Miera Antonius! Aaaaaand!"

More of Jade's hands pull Dolly's hands onto Angela Victoria Miera Antonius's hips as she's in the middle of turning around, and Jade doesn't care that Dolly's stepping on the train. Jade's leaning in close, drinking in the glittering hair, the swell of Angela's hind end, tail wagging. "Mmmhm, mmmhm~! Just like I thought. Good girl, Dolly. Okay, over here, let me get a look on this side before she explodes~" Tug, tug! Swat, swat! Get moving, Dolly!

"And I think that participating in these games is a good form of cultural interaction and exchange between our cultures and I'm sorry about the...!!" "The mark? Mmmm. No. We're not apologizing for that, Dolly. Do you really want her approval more than mine?" Dolly, blinking, shakes her head, tail swishing in flustered agitation, as she ends up right back in front of the Haughty Heiress. "Good girl. Now. Go ahead and be your cute self. Win her over. I know it's tough, but I believe in my Dolly~"

"What I mean to say is... can I make it up to you? I honestly, really don't want you to feel bad. No games. I just had to do the circle thing forrrrrr cultural reasons! You know! A friendship thing! I'm so silly, I didn't think to explain, I'm just, the neurofiber was a lot, and I got all flustered, and! Please? I promise, whatever you think of me, I can try to make it right." She dips into an approximation of a TC curtsy that her beaded skirt was definitely not made for.

Dolly stands there, heart hammering, extremely incredibly aware that she's being stared at by everybody. I'm being a quirky little alien might have a shot at working on Angela, but every single Hybrasilian in the room knows that's definitely not what she was doing, the sleek-furred girl she was talking to about the fern is staring incredulously at her, and Jade is dragging her tongue up her ear, and Jade watch where those hands are going she doesn't need the encouragement, and she wants to melt into the floor but in a way that can definitely be seen through her dress. She puts her gloved hand over her bare one and gives it a little squeeze to steady herself as seconds drag out into subjective years, waiting for Angela, Mierida, Victoria, An..gel...os? Her last name is not Angelos. A...? Aardvark. NO! Anton?! ANTONIUS. And she didn't even need Jade purring it to remember!

[Dolly makes an Entice roll, forced into the role of a manic pixie dream kitten, and barely manages a 7, because she's a little flustered cutiepie.]

TSL: Sjakal

Nahla!

For a moment, everything hangs in the balance. Ruz's eyes are boring through you, as if trying to find the real girl underneath the performance. Then, amazingly, she begins to chuckle. "She really is a ridiculous thing, isn't she? Far be it for me to hold you back from instructing your slave in the ways of the Faith, my sultan. In fact, I think this is an excellent opportunity!" Her smile is a wicked, flickering rapier. "Go and teach her. I expect her to provide me a demonstration on what she has learned tomorrow night."

Grace-of-Heaven freezes up for a moment as she imagines how, exactly, her guardian might want you to demonstrate. You have to squirm and give her a little discreet pinch on her rump before she stammers back into life. "Of course, ma'am! That's my responsibility, after all! How can I hope to lead the host of the Faithful if I can't even teach one barbarian?"

So saying, she drags you out of the room awkwardly by your hair. It's a difficult performance, whining and squeaking all the way out while also being nimble enough on your hands and feet to keep her moving-- and even outside of the room, all she can do is help you up and keep leading you by the hair, making you walk backwards. But she's starting to get a little shaky; she's still exposed, she's likely got thoughts of you alone with Ruz swirling around her head, and she's also so close to succeeding that the adrenaline's likely turning her head.

Maybe you should pull her into an empty room for a brief reassurance and congratulations?

---

Soot!

"Hmmm." Ruz flicks through the sketches you provided her as you finish dinner. Together. "Yes, you do have an eye for quality. Naturally." She lingers on the sketches of herself, and drinks in the sight of that self-insert sketch, before devouring the kiss with her eyes. There's a lot of feelings churning there, which you're only beginning to unpack.

"She's not ready," she says, finally. "Isn't it obvious? She can barely control one of her girls; she'd tip all of our dominion into chaos if she took full responsibility for the administration. And my heart aches for her, it really does, but I will not fail her sainted predecessor by failing to carry out my own duty. If she sat on the throne today, she would be the next Ejelgarn: she would march our armies to defeat, provoke the populace to riot, and simper and whine about how unfair everything was before being deposed and bringing the Vulenid line to an unceremonious end." Her sigh is more than a little theatrical. "Can you imagine how this weighs on me, my dear? If anything were to happen to me, and she lost the support of the soldiers I brought in to assist her, everything would come undone. And this is the axis point of the entire world! I bear the weight of civilization itself while a silly girl lets her concubines paw all over her."

Ah. She's reacting to the picture of Grace-of-Heaven, looking so sad. Don't pity her, Ruz is arguing: give me sympathy, instead. A chance for you to reaffirm your loyalty, and Grace-of-Heaven would never need to know. Just flatter her. It's fine. What could possibly go wrong?

---

Birsi!

Just you, because you have a choice to make, pinned up against the wall.

You've got Silsila's sword locked hilt to hilt. If you pull off just the right twist (and you can, you know how to do it), you can disarm her. The sword will clatter at her feet and you can bring the tip of your sword up to her chin, informing her that you have won and you will carry out your duties. It's questionable whether the Fire Wheels would stick around or try to run away now that their champion has failed, but you'd have done your duty. You would be upright and righteous, carrying out your oaths to the House of the Vulenid. And you would, doubtless, make an enemy of Silsila Om.

Or you could let that opportunity slip (no one would know you let it pass, probably not even Silsila herself), and you could accept her terms. Likely you could even add on an extra obligation or two on Silsila's part. And if you brought Silsila to your commander, the Strategist Hai Lin, you would likely be commended, given a duty that only a Host and a treasured guard could carry out, and given the opportunity to spend more time with the rambunctious, powerful Host.

What's your choice, Birsi of the House Guard of the Vulenid? Your oaths or your desires? Thankless righteousness, or praise from your commander and the thanks of this powerful, playful, bullying Host?

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Kalaya!

Petony, the Tiger Knight, steps forward and wraps you up in the kind of hug that squeezes the air out of you. "See? That's why you're special, sprout! Never doubted you for a moment! Here we are, busting in to save you from the wiles of that clinging vine, and here you are worrying about my feelings! Well, let me tell you something, little Lily! My heart is indestructible, and nothing is going to get in our way! The three of us are going get off of this boat and see about earning you a story worth the telling!" Relief seeps into you as you realize that-- wait. Three?

There's a shadow at the doorway.

They must have gone down to the brig, first.

"Let's go," Uusha, the Stag Knight, growls. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. It's impossible to see the expression inside of that unearthly muzzled helm of hers, but the wood of the lintel creaks where she grips it. Uusha, who knows what you did in Hell. Uusha, who beat you senseless for it. Uusha, whose armor was shaped by forest gods, snaking and whorling about her long limbs. Uusha, perhaps greatest of the knights of the Flower Kingdoms. "We have work to do."

---

Han!

Emli blinks a moment. Her bemused smile is not cruel at all, and her fingers are soft on yours. "I'm your caretaker," she says. "It's my job, and my delight, to ensure that every guest assigned to me is satisfied with their care aboard the Beneficence." Then her voice softens, and for a moment, she's holding onto you, rather than the other way around. "I'm also a girl who was given the chance to see the world, to serve the Dragons, and to meet wonderful, wonderful people like you. So won't you let me be part of your story, Han of the Dragons, if only for this chapter? And for the rest of my days I'll get to remember the day I helped a dragon and a daughter of gods elope." Her laughter isn't magical, like Lotus's; it's just real, and delighted with herself, and so very, very happy to be held.

She guides your lips up to hers, her rosebuds part, and...

---

Giriel!

"You're dangerous."

The Rakshasa holds you by the chin with one finger, and you could not break that hold with all the power that is in you. Part of you is aware of the danger that you are in, but it is locked in the back of your head, hammering on the door, while the Rakshasa leads you on with that one finger resting beneath your jaw.

"Not that you could outsmart me, but even a big, dumb bear like you can be dangerous once you figure out what you're doing, and you're the only one of them, the whole lot of them, that knows how to stop me." (That's not true. The Hymairean, the one who hates you over the blood you shed, she could stop her. But you can't say that, and you shouldn't say that.) "Even the Celestial Lion, the diarch! I led her on and I danced with her and she's got my song coursing through her veins, all that power and it spins about like a child's toy here and there, wherever I lead it!" (She's gloating. She has to gloat. She put on the mask of the shrine maiden and it's still influencing her, her cloyingly sweet voice melting through your head.)

"And as for the witch, well... maybe we just forget about you? It happens. So much is happening tonight! When Kalaya Na rules the Kingdoms, do you think she'll remember you at all?" (The trees are whipping past terrifyingly fast. The wind is a howl and the rain is barely able to keep up, being lashed sideways to spatter against skin. The roar is filling your ears, the bottom dropping out of your stomach. She's hesitating, she's thinking, she hasn't made up her mind, she holds your life in the palm of her hand.) "No, maybe we just--"

Something shrill and small crashes into the Rakshasa, diving into her side, and that finger slips away as the two figures skid on the wet deck, howling in indignation and awkward scrabbling, and you are left staggering, and she had you right up against a gap in the railing and your heel's out over open air, so when you take a step back everything goes out from under you and the world plummets with a sickening lurch and the scream's bubbling out of your throat--

You're dangling from one hand, branches scraping against the barge dangerously close to your face, no purchase on the slick wood, gone from helplessness to helplessness, and there above you is the Rakshasa's lion, long nails digging into your wrist, being pulled inexorably close to falling herself, hair a wild mane, eyes burning a hot lambent pink flecked with shining azure stars.

Stagger, Giriel Bruinstead. But take also a String on the Rakshasa's lion.

---

Zhaojun!

Giriel is heavy and this is very difficult actually.

Your mistress and your would-be suitor are having Romantic Follies on the deck, the kind that involve hot-headed slaps and hissing, and perhaps that will not be a very good match after all. Ah, well. Sometimes it's more important for the experience to happen whether or not there's a permanent connection, no? But that's not what has your head pounding and your muscles screaming and even though in a moment here both of you might tumble off this impractically tall barge into a thicket while traveling at precisely twelve-and-a-half miles an hour, you don't let go.

Why?

Which one of you reached out for her hand, or were you working in tandem at the moment when you saw the step out into empty air, the spell broken, the horror in her eyes?

---

Azazuka!

Yayeh!

You are in love with the Red Wolf. You are going to kill the Red Wolf.

Yayeh!

Lead her on! Make her think she wants you! Be interesting, but not too interesting! Entertain her associate, but don't be indecent with her, either! And then you went out on a boating excursion, and everything from then on has been chaos and adventure and danger and Agata has been ignoring you! Why? Is it because she doesn't find you interesting without your attendants and your gifts? Is it because that daughter of the Sapphire Mother has been all doe-eyed and coquettish about the ship? How dare she? You've been sulking and miserable for days because you want her to want you, even though it's not allowed; you want her to glance at you and have her eyes widen, you want her to actually be clumsy and speechless for once looking at you, you want her to admit that you've learned quite clever things from your teacher and that there's more to you than knockout curves and your family's money!

Yayeh!

And speaking of the teacher, here she is! Enigmatic, exotic, competent, sweeping demons off their bellies and sparing you hardly a glance! How dare she? How dare she ignore you, too? You should teach her a lesson! You will teach her to underestimate you - you, Azazuka, who was never allowed to even dream of being one of the knights! Well, how's this, mother? How do you like this, father? Your cash sword lashes through the space where her neck was, but a moment before, but instead of curling around her and dragging her off her feet, she's ducking to one side, battering you back with her umbrella, as if she's trying to teach you a lesson still, as if she's not taking you seriously!

Yayeh!

"Are you watching, Pipi? What do you think?" Laughter bubbles out of you as you cut off her avenues of escape, forcing her into a smaller and smaller zone, your sword hissing all about. "Is it too much? Too noisy? Do you think darling Agata will like it? I'll ruin her! And then-- the funniest thing, Pipi, is that I don't know what to do next! Mother and Father will be so awfully cross, won't they?" Your familial piety, the very same that kept you from chasing dreams and fancies, still makes frantic attempts to bind you, but... but you can worry about that after you've slain your love! Then everything will explode so very messily, once these fireworks going off inside you have gone silent!

You catch her umbrella's haft with your sword, and you twist, put your shoulder to the work, pin her against a locked door and force all the air out of her. An elbow is deployed viciously. "Well? What do I win, Pipi?" Laughter is bubbling out of you; isn't this grand? Isn't this just wonderful?

---

Piripiri!

Mark a Condition, and do your best to squirm out from under Azazuka's pin; the heiress has got a solid advantage here in the tight, cramped corridors that don't let anyone escape her sword, and she's got you close and fast. Playing on her family's orders and plans for her would be a cruel knife, but perhaps a necessary one; she's let them stand between her and her childish dreams all this time, after all.