Tatterdemalion

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Fengye!

The Maid trips. It’s a flailing, undignified trip, and the noise she makes while she goes down is ridiculous. She lies on the ground a moment longer than really might be called for, wriggling and muttering to herself and drumming her feet on the ground.

When she rises, she refuses to look you in the eyes. Her cheeks are flushed, and her energy is like a crow that is considering whether it must fly away from an approaching traveler. “I do not need your admiration,” she hisses. “Idiot! Fool! Witlack! My tenacity is as overwhelming, as potent as the rest of me! You have no right over me, as if I were some new creation spun out of formless chaos!” She scuffs one foot on the ground and works an errant lock of hair back behind her ear, apparently lecturing the trees somewhere off by the side of your head.

And just like that, things start clicking into place. The person she is now wars against the leviathan in her past, and compliments, honeyed poison, and saying things quite unbecoming of both of you will give you power over her.

It puts you at terrible risk, spiritually. Especially if you forget that she is a devil, once a tyrant of tyrants. But consider also how enjoyable it would be to wind her around your little finger. Maybe the noises she would make would even be worth the risk to your soul…

---

Kalaya!

Petony checks the knots on the impressively tied (and purring) N’yari warrior herself, before giving her a mighty smack on the rear to get her moving (which elicits a muffled— not a growl, more of a squeal). “That was excellent not-swordplay,” she says, grinning, following behind the (intentionally slowing down?) catgirl. “Who taught you how to fight like that? Clever and dirty— just like me!”

Who did teach you, Kalaya? Or was this spur-of-the-moment, the inspiration of some small god who favored your thoughts? Tell her some of how you trained to become a knight of the Flower Kingdoms.

(And, just as importantly: do you lead Machi on a leash, or do you take Petony’s place in encouraging her to keep moving with smacks to her rump? Either way, the N’yari warrior will appreciate it, I promise. You’ve won that right.)

---

Lotus!

You are such a bad girl.

What were you expecting? For Han to roll on top of you? For Han to wake you up with kisses? For Han to say that she has a clever plan for smuggling you out, but you’ll need a change of clothes, so that you can stammer and blush when you see your disguise, but it’s the only way, and Han will dress up too, just a pair of sensual performers on their way to Golden Chrysanth, and maybe Han would do feats of strength to match your feats of…

Your indulgent fantasy fizzles in the face of not having a particular talent. Feats of walking on water, maybe, but that would blow your cover, and who would pay to see that, anyway? And why would you need to dress in revealing outfits to walk on water? It makes no internal sense.

You wanted to wriggle up against Han and drape one arm back up and over her head, her hair, and bring the strong, pretty, thoughtful, kind, amazing girl in for selfish awful kisses you don’t deserve. But you knew that you didn’t deserve them, especially after how you stole one from her on the barge, and so you made a prim little noise and slipped out of bed, which was the most difficult thing in the whole entire world and you deserve a prize. A tribute, maybe. “Didn’t try to force kisses out of someone who didn’t want to kiss her.”

…on second thought, skip the tribute. Skip breakfast. Skip everything. You don’t have the strength to insist on her leaving you behind, like you deserve, and so you selfishly accept her help…

Climbing out the window??

---

Piripiri! Giriel!

With one step, you are on one side of the river. With the next, you are on the other. The Golden Banneret hums Homecoming, a traditional children’s song in Hymair— we’ll hang wreaths from the windows, when we’re home, when we’re home. we’ll sweep out the corners, when we’re home, when we’re home…

She turns her face up to the sky, to the sunlight shining through the clouds, and feels joy at being down here in the world with the two of you.

You’ll be on the two lovebirds soon.

Breathless Dead

”I’ve got it, I’ve got it!”

There are children on the ship, now. Their feathers are still coming in, pushing out of soft downy hair, and they are gangly and loud and full of energy, racing up and down the refurbished decks, playing games, and they love the Imperial Princess. So she can’t say no, sometimes, when they ask her to play.

This game is similar to discus, but there are teams, and the disc soars and spins and flutters on strange wings, and the fledglings madly scamper and shove and laugh as they try to pass it up and down one of the grand halls.

Then Amer shoves Malethi down and out of the way of the disc, and Malethi lands badly, and Amer’s war-whoop is drowned out by the rising noise coming out of Malethi, hurt and confusedly indignant and in need of help.

Dany races over, and the fledglings part for her as Malethi stumbles up, holding their head and wailing, and Dany says something nonsense like, hey, are you all right? And she doesn’t know what to do. She doesn’t know how she can help. Maybe she needs to be the Shepherdess and make Malethi better??

But then, a click of the tongue that quiets everyone. One of the Alcedi matriarchs has risen from where she sits with her sisters by one of the fountains. She pats her knees, and Malethi stumble-runs over to her, wrapping their arms around the matriarch, who strokes their head and begins to say…

---

Redana wraps her arms around Bella and pulls her in, tight. Her old friend struggles, but incoherently, like a crab that’s been hurt and doesn’t understand you’re taking it to safety. Redana doesn’t let go. She can’t let go. And when she pulls one hand back to fumble with her gag, Bella doesn’t wrench herself free. (The packing drops wetly onto her thighs.)

She squeezes. She is here. She doesn’t, can’t know about the way that the smell of her skin is smothering the blood, diluting the poison on Bella’s tongue. She is here, and she is strong, and when Bella slumps and lets her weight fall on Redana, it’s nothing to hold her up. She can do it. It’s okay. She’s here.

One hand drifts to Bella’s side, presses against her ribs, by her heart. “Do you hear that?” Redana’s breath is a sigh. Gentle. Soft. Like wings. “It’s the sea inside you. The waves are rolling in and out. In. Breathe with it. The waves are coming in. Out. The waves are washing out. When they come, they’re crested with the prows. In. When they go, they’re taking all we left. Out. It never, never stops. In. Listen, and you’ll hear it. Out. We all are part of the sea. In. And the sea is a part of us. Out. You’re alive and you’re here. In. And I’m alive, and I’m here. Out.”

Bella’s heartbeat is… slower. Steadier. Dany licks her lips, suddenly dry. “You did a good job,” she says. “You didn’t— you wouldn’t have. You wouldn’t have, Bella. You’re not a monster.” Then, ridiculous, tumbling out: “And if you are a monster, you’re our monster, and I was a monster, too, and I didn’t hurt Mynx. You won’t hurt her. And we’re going to find her, and get her to stop, and then…”

She swallows. Her voice cracks, just a little bit. Be a good girl, Dany. Be strong for Bella. “And then you can take them home,” she says, like Hercules holding up the sky. Her grip on Bella tightens. “You and Mynx and Beautiful and everyone. I’m not going to make you come with me. I promise. And you can take care of Mynx, and you can be with B-Beautiful, and I’ll get across, and when I get to Gaia I’ll ask Hades… I was going to ask him to make Mom let everyone go, but that’s stupid, isn’t it?”

Her hand drifts down to Bella’s, wraps around her fingers, squeezes. “I’m going to ask him to set everyone free. The Alcedi and the Kaeri and every single Assassin and everyone back home. So that you don’t have to go Rampant and the servitors won’t want to serve and so that we can all see the stars together, and I’ll come back, I promise, I promise.”

She rests her head against Bella and tries not to cry and fails, because her cheeks are wet. “Not even Lethe could make me forget you,” she swears.

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

She shouldn’t laugh. Really, she shouldn’t. But the spray bottle tickles the part of her heart that loves ridiculousness.

“I picked the job,” she says, and she means it. Despite the moonlighting, the motorcycling, the reporting (who owns my house?), she picked this because it seemed the happiest way to keep her savings from nosediving. All she really wants these days is enough to get by, and some good times.

“But ouija? That’s roleplaying without the dice. Or is calculating the probabilities of dice rolls too close to your job?“

By the way, complete and actual coincidence, 3V’s got a new 3D-printed centerpiece display to advertise Inheritance. Níðhöggr, wings outstretched, antlers majestic, perched on one of Yggdrasil’s gnawed roots. Not the version she beat her head against back when she played Mythos, but she likes this one.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

“Dolly, listen very carefully. This is what you’re going to say, and this is how you’re going to say it.” Jade takes Dolly’s free hand by the wrist, pushes her fingers together, gleeful. She tilts Dolly’s chin up imperiously even as she pushes Dolly forward, clamps Dolly’s bare palm over Angela Victoria Miera Antonius’s mouth, and shivers to feel the warmth of those lips on Dolly’s skin.

”You talk too much,” Dolly says, acting like the villainess from A Weft In The Yarn, one evil laugh away from complete camp. It’s adorable how she can’t act. She’s just so sincere, so aware of her own performance that it’s tripping her up. And even Angela can probably tell. ”You sound much cuter like this. We enjoyed listening to your pathetic, garbled, helpless complaints on our way back from our hunt.” Keep your grip firm but not tight, Dolly, no matter how she squirms. ”You’re so cute, in fact, that we’ll give you one chance. If you beg us in your best simper, Princess, to let you go… we’ll do it? We’ll do it! We’ll unwrap you at the end of our walk. If you sound pathetic enough.” There is your out, Angela Victoria Miera Antonius. A small bit of amusement for a goddess. A disappointment, but… important. Dolly would be disappointed in her if she pushed this gorgeous, indignant, helpless warrior too far without an out.

(Please don’t, Angela Victoria Miera Antonius. Give Jade her satisfaction. Show the goddess you want to worship. Be feisty, be a fire, make your noises, the ones that make Jade’s immaterial breath hitch in her throat like a stone. How magnificent you will look, your mouth swaddled in Hybrasil cloth. All the better for when Dolly leaves nips all up and down your neck. All the better for when you meet a goddess.)

”If you say anything else— if you bluster, if you sneer, if you defy us— we will treat you like you deserve for humiliating Dolly—!!” Dolly’s tail swishes in the dust and her voice trails up into a high squeak. Jade strokes her fingers down Dolly’s throat: down, girl, down. Present strength for your goddess. ”We will carry you as our trophy, again, and you will sing the hymns of Smokeless Jade Fires. Your voice is so beautiful for that.” The villainess slips for a moment; Dolly’s register is instead sincere, a compliment. Jade’s teeth nip at her ear, tug teasingly. Stay in character, love.

“Lift your hand. Now stroke it down, like this. Lift your fingers here, at the swell of her chest, drag your claws just a moment longer— good girl. Good girl. Ksharta Talonna is watching you, too.” The word serves as Dolly’s string; she glances back over at Ksharta, a victorious huntress, and Jade feels Dolly’s flustered excitement when she locks eyes with the kitten.

But beneath her, panting, catching her breath, is Angela Victoria Miera Antonius. What a prize. What a trophy. What a wild mare. Jade licks her lips, and awaits to see how the battle of hearts unfolds. Will you fight, Princess? Or will you grovel and beg for an end to the game?

[11 on an Entice, if Angela is interested in what Jade is offering, which is being gagged by a cute Hybrasilian who thinks that your voice is pretty, and then being thoroughly appreciated by a goddess.]

Breathless Dead

She shouldn’t have heard those words. Even now that the party is becoming more still, silent, save for the gentle creak of branches, Mynx’s whisper should have been too low, too hushed, too easy to overlook as Reshella panicked and tried to figure out some way to help Bella, grabbing at a nearby cushion just to have something to hand. But she does. And the words are barbed, and catch her by the heart, and pull Redana back out.

Lethe. The river of forgetting, marking the very edge of the underworld. In her mind it is grey, frothing, empty, vast. (Of course she knows it. For all her struggles, the deeds of the Gods have always come easily to her.) The implications of what Mynx is saying are so terrible, so awful, that her mind circles them like a ship succumbing to a whirlpool.

That if she is right, then everyone is dead already. Is that what it means? We are the breathless dead. But, no. Jas’o died. She has seen death already. So Mynx has to be wrong. (But what if she is not?) Maybe she got it mixed up. Maybe they’re descending into the underworld. Silly, mischievous Mynx! (But she would never. Not about something like this.) Am I dead? (I am not dead. And even if I am dead, I still have to help Bella. Living or dead, it doesn’t matter.)

She grips the cushion tight. If she could say something, she doesn’t even know what she would say. Mynx knows when she’s lying. She doesn’t know if she could accept everyone leaving. She doesn’t know if she could bear to make everyone follow her. Dolce, Vasilly, Alexa… Bella…

Bella, it hurt because she assumed you’d want to come with her. Maybe this time, if she comes to the edge of that awful river, if she doesn’t expect anyone else to come, if she can even find the courage to cross…

Her words would be useless even if she could use them. Her heart doesn’t know anything. All she understands is that she cannot, will not let Mynx turn Bella into one of these waiting trees. Bella would be so scared! She doesn’t want to be a tree! And it would be putting her back in that closet, taking the choice away from her, and you can’t, Mynx, you can’t! You can’t make everyone sleep their way through Lethe! How would they even go back? No one on board is ready! And what if Lethe eats the memories of trees, too? And what if nobody forgives her afterwards? And what if you can’t turn them back? What if you forget you made them into trees? What if Bella is leaves and flowers forever? What if she never gets to eat Dolce’s cooking again, or exercise with Vasilia, or see how Alexa will grow, and can Alexa even become a tree?

And in the name of every what if, every fear, and all the desperation in her body, Redana takes the cushion in both hands, each one at a corner, swings it back over her shoulder, and smacks Mynx in the face as if she were playing polo, so hard that the cushion explodes into feathers, and out of that explosion rears up—

A monster who Redana wants to save, too. But she’s got nothing. No dumb words, no arms and armor, nothing except her body, which is locking in place as if she, too, were a tree.

But she’s not going to run away from Bella. Not even if Mynx became a dragon to match Sagakhan. She’d stand here in her triangles and her gauzy silk and she’d just put up her fists and bop the dragon once on the nose before being eaten.

Whatever Mynx makes of herself, it can’t be scarier than Lethe. It can’t be worse than feeding Bella and Dolce and Vasilia and Alexa to those grey waters. And it can’t be worse than Redana leaving Bella behind again, again, again.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

The moment Dolly closes her eyes, the world shifts. Her ears twitch; the hum of a local insect almost drowns out the sound of the rickshaw slowing. The air is warm, almost uncomfortably so, but a cool breeze whips along her back, stirring her fur, kissing the tips of her ears.

She’s a Hunter. This isn’t what she was born to do, but it is what she was chosen to be. That means she can do it. In this moment, she can be a Hunter. She has the weight of the caster in her hands, she has put herself in the perfect position, she can’t miss.

But she closes her eyes anyway.

Behind her lids, she can see Angela sending Ksharta sprawling as she dives out, grabs the ladder, scales it using those incredible arms, straining, as she frantically reloads, winds by hand to avoid a jam, swings it up, but Angela’s already closed the gap, pushes the caster to one side, shoves Dolly down, and even though she could run, she wouldn’t, because she’d be caught, and Angela’s shirt would be clinging to her, and this wouldn’t be like what happened at the fashion show, this would be different, visceral, punishment…

But she’s not going to miss. She already knows it as she pulls the trigger, and she can’t take that back as the caster’s tension snaps and sends the bolas hurtling around Angela’s torso, pinning her arms in, throwing her off balance long enough for Ksharta to turn around and pounce. And the pull of the trigger is a rush of adrenaline, like piloting Jade’s idol, the heady high of power under control, of being the fulcrum point. The hunt is sacred, isn’t it? And Jade partakes in it just as much as Dolly does, as goddess and as huntress, a pair lost in the swell of the hunt.

Angela’s yelp sends a tremor through Dolly, eyes still closed, and she almost sways. She doesn’t give a name to the feeling in her teeth, her stomach, her toes.

”There we go,” Jade says, in the dark, eyes closed, ears drinking in the delicious sound of victory. “Good girl.” She caresses the softness of Dolly’s upper arms and revels in the tremor. What’s done is done, and her glory is her glory. And Angela will be so, so indignant.

Dolly’s the one who moves first, eyes only half-open by the time she’s bouncing off the awning, and she lands perfectly on her feet. And like this, from this angle, it’s easier to see that underneath her fluff, she has the muscles and thighs of a temple dancer. When she stalks forwards towards Angela, it’s not on Jade’s strings.

But she does have to swallow before she can get the words out.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she says. Jade can feel the tensing of her gut, the nervousness racing through her. She straddles Angela’s legs, pins them down for Ksharta. “Out here on the frontier. Wild. A big lady like you might get in trouble.”

Swallows again.

“Are you— I mean— you’re our trophy, tonight, but you, it’s your choice whether you’re an offering,” she stammers, and flexes that glove, a threat, an offering. “Jade would like that a lot,” she blurts out, and then squeaks, and just like that, she’s no longer the cool huntress teasing her quarry, she’s a flustered girl unable to look the girl she’s flirting with in the eyes.

“…but we are carrying you,” she manages to add. “That’s part of the experience. We’ve got a pole and, maybe, if you ask nicely, we won’t walk you down the big roads to Keoni’s, the ones with lots of cameras~”

She wiggles in place as Ksharta cinches Angela’s ankles together. There’ll be a lot more coming when they need to secure Angela to the pole; it needs to be direct, because letting her dangle from her limbs would put her spine at risk, being such an oversized creature. But, stars above, the thought of her hair dangling down as she’s carried off like a prized catch has Dolly’s stomach doing somersaults, to say nothing of the sounds she’ll be making…

“So. Gosh. Angela, any… I can say it, I will! Any last words, Angela?”

[10 on Defying Disaster. What a lucky kitty!]

TSL: Sjakal

Nahla!

The Grand Vizier is meticulous. Exacting. Precise. And you, as you have presented yourself, are none of these things. You are careless, clumsy, broad.

And it is this that makes you an irresistible delicacy to her, here in her lair, where she has ordered the world to be just so.

What will pass between you, as Ruz succumbs to her desire to have something of her Sultan’s prize for herself… the Almighty alone will know.

Will you tell Grace-of-Heaven? Or will you hide Ruz’s desire from her?

---

Silsila Om!

Hai Lin duels naked to the waist. Practical, given the risk of infection from cuts with the tip of a blade. She is pert, trim, lean, like the sword she expertly handles; she wears a long glove on one hand, a dueling affectation you haven’t seen before.

“To surrender,” she says. She has not offered you her own terms; she seems confident that she will be able to force any terms she pleases when she is victorious. She will not hold back; if fortune turns against you, she will press her advantage without remorse.

---

Birsi!

The 78 Heavens are sleeping fitfully. The world is nocturnal here; at night, everything comes to life. So it is that Jekkan is able to find you a very private booth in a nearly-empty diner. The sizzling sound of eggs comes from the kitchen on the ground floor as Jekkan presses herself close, your seats overlooking an empty (and oddly stained) stage.

“What do you think of that palace?” Jekkan’s hand is exploratory, drifting lightly over your skin. “Do you think they will be able to control the city for long, your sisters?”

Ostensibly, the Fire Wheels are occupying the palace so that they can suppress unrest. If she’s hinting at what you think she’s hinting at, Jekkan might be a revolutionary, an anti-Vulenid, someone who wants to see the Sultan toppled from her throne.

Does that sober you up, Birsi? Or does the heat of her, the scent of her, in the dark, do these things turn your head like wine?

---

Soot!

”jheb At! jhen Ask! jhev Sha!”

The Host springs to life, unfolding from her gaudy necklace, wrapping itself around Rosethal as a second skin. She shoves the low table into your shins, hard, and then vaults over it, knocking you down from your seat, sending you sprawling.

She’s not supposed to have done that. The shins, that is. That’s not necessary correction, that’s needless cruelty. But it might be difficult to tell her that, because she’s picking you up by the throat.

“Where do you even get off speaking like that, you miserable little worm? You wriggling snake? You want to know why I’m better than you?” She lifts her other hand, and her Host-gauntlet splits apart, spins her around her fingers with a murmured command, and then locks around her once more. “Because I was born to command. I am never going to be a servant like you, because I command the Host themselves. abh Vekh!”

Metal writhes across your body, seeking to encase you, to clamp over your limbs, to leave you helpless, and you can feel a dull heat, an intelligence, inside, but she doesn’t let her Host come out to play like that towering Silsila Om, does she?

And then one of the Fire Wheels speaks up. “She’s playing, right?” The other players are glaring at her; she’s broken the unwritten rules of the game by attacking another player. She’s about to be in a lot of trouble, especially if you were to, say, kick her, or otherwise distract her. This whole room would explode into chaos.

And if Rosethal still wins, you will be in so, so much trouble. You’re going to be in trouble either way— Ruz dotes on her daughter— but if Rosethal wins a fight here, you’re going to be disappearing to her chambers for punishment…

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Machi of the Ōei!

Who is this girl?

There is such a spirit to her— the same that your dragon, your stone-heart, denies whistles through her own heart. By the time the ostentatious flower-petal tackles you around the midriff and you tumble head over tail down groundwards, your body is stinging delightfully, in ways that will ache soon like your initiation rite, and there is laughter on your lips.

Your battle-sisters gasp and scatter, seeing you, greatest of all of them, come tumbling down. The ruffled one tries to force your wrists together to loop silly ties around them, and you strain and do your best to shake her off.

Then this little firebrand, this wind-girl, this knight of knights, tilts your chin up with her empty sword, and such a strange and wonderful sword it is. And you blink the mud from your eyes so you can stare up at her like the eagle stares up at the sun.

You shake off the other knight with a yowl, and that earns you a smack (so delightful a smack) on the cheek with the empty sword. You push yourself up onto your knees, and the empty sword lifts to punish you. Ha! Let it! But you will have your way first. You, Machi, always impress your will upon the soft, silly lowlands below.

“They are yours,” you purr, lifting your wrists together for the little knight. “Not hers. Your victory, wind-girl. Your prize, until my sisters ransom me. Or until I escape.” You grin. That’s a challenge, wild-heart. The bonds haven’t been forged that can hold Machi of the Ōei if she wants to undo them. The least she can do, then, is make you work for it.

You take a String on this wind-girl, showing her your mighty heart and your respect for a cunning opponent. But you then offer it back to her: Wind-girl, if you take Machi of the Ōei as your trophy, if you bind her fast and show that you respect her strength, if you silence her and thus show you respect her cunning, then you may have an XP from the wild mountain-peaks and the cities beneath them. And if you admire the mighty muscles of Machi, if you run your fingers along them admiringly, if you let your eyes linger long on her dirtied face and her beauty, you may as well announce yourself Smitten at once, for who would look upon these things and not fall madly in love with the champion of Grandmother Moon? Yes, to the envy of her dragon, even! Is it not the place of a N’yari to be adored and desired by these silly petal-soft lowlanders, after all?

---

Fengye!

“It is your place!”

She really was more bearable when she couldn’t talk, wasn’t she? The sled slowly works its way along muddy roots, and the Maid slowly (but with an almost frightening intensity) makes her way along through the uncharted woods of the Flower Kingdoms, as if she will just stumble across some hidden shrine or woodsman’s trail. And as she does, she rants her blasphemous gospel.

“Even you, debased as you are, stupid and rebellious, remember a little bit of what you were made for! Don’t you all honor your parents? Your mother and your father, you devote yourselves to them. They gave you life, they gave you means to survive, they protected you— and if you forced them out of their own home, threw them in a pit and locked them away, do you think that anyone would praise you? Should praise you?” She stops to sputter and wipe hair out of her face. “And that is because you remember us! We made you, we shaped you for your purposes, we gave you everything you needed, and you ungrateful, backstabbing little wretches sided with the gods! As if they see you as anything but useful pawns on the board! When you were with us, you had purpose, cosmic purpose! You were where you were meant to be!”

The sled catches on a rock and the Maid sprawls. She punches the mud with a helpless, pathetic growl, as if trying to punch the world for betraying her. The sniffle must just be your imagination.

The flipside of what she was just saying, however, is easy enough, isn’t it? When everything was in its place, she was where she was meant to be, too. What would it mean for her to not be part of that war?

But maybe that’s not what you’re thinking about, either. What would your parents say if they saw the two of you now, and listened to the Maid’s complaints?

---

Han!

There is a waterfall in the highlands, in a place not impossibly far from where you grew up. It is known as the Moon’s Drop by both highlanders and the N’yari, and there is an understanding: whatever your grievances, no fighting by the shores of the Moon’s Drop. The roar from it is the kind that sinks into your thoughts. The churn is fierce, and there are all sorts of tales about what might lie beneath the confusion and tumult of that pool. It’s said that seeing it for the first time makes you forget how to speak.

Her fingers are so soft, so gentle, so careful. She lets you bundle her into your angles, your absences, your firmness.

There is a place where the colorless flowers grow. The color they were meant to have was eaten in a battle at the beginning of time, and now they are an absence of color, and they steal the colors from everything around them. And it is said that if a lover plucks a colorless flower for her beloved and ties it in their hair, the flower will take on the colors that suit them best, and the truer their love, the brighter those colors will burn, borrowed for a time by a flower that lost everything else an impossibly long time ago. It is said, too, that when the winds strike the flowers and run their fingers through the petals, you can see the colors of the winds, which were made in the high airs and of which only the N’yari know the secrets.

Lying down just felt right, didn’t it? The pillows were easy enough to pull out of the closet, and the two of you curl up under a blanket on the reed mats.

There’s a city that’s the most wonderful city in the world, and it was built on top of an ancient city of the devils, and that’s why its buildings are all black stone and why all its towers are strange and terrible, but the people of that city have covered that stone in colors, and in silks, and in flowers, and have made of it a miracle. And you can buy and sell anything there, and you can dress how you like, and you can meet as many people as you please. And in that city, even if it’s for a day, you can be free of everything and simply be.

She’s the one who falls asleep first, curled around your arm, fingers interlaced with yours, and try as you might to dislodge her, she just curls up tighter and mumbles something in her sleep, and eventually the thought of bothering her is too much to bear, and she smells nice, doesn’t she? Like flowers. Like freshly washed clothes. Like something you’ll never forget.

And eventually, you fall asleep, too, and dream of lush grass, and flowers, and blue curtains. And there was something about the little brown foxes, and a girl who gave you a secret in a box, and when you opened it up it was a kiss that sank through your skin and made the whole of you drunk, and you sang silly songs with your bare feet in the fountain…

And when you wake up, you wake up smiling, and with Lotus’s face smooshed into your hand, unveiled, loudly snoring.

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Piripiri! Giriel!

Golden Banneret of Miles is sniffing on the shore of the river, and letting a prayer slip lick at the lazy rain-clotted breeze, seeing which direction she’s to lead you in next to reach her promised crossroads. The hum of insects is loud, almost deafening, but that’s the rainy season for you. If it’s not the thud of raindrops on an umbrella, it’s the bugs who hide under leaves and come tunneling out of the mud, roaring their strange and inhuman drives at each other.

You did bring umbrellas, didn’t you?

Breathless Dead

The first thing that saves Reshella is her shining eye, which sends a jolt of raw portent down her spine when Mynx approaches her, which means that Reshella is ready for her and not fumbling and bumbling into her arms. At least, her body is ready, shifting into a loose stance and ready to yield; her mind is busy staring, wide-eyed, at the could-have-been Dany. Taller, fuller, actually dressed (for all that her silks hint and tantalize, promising a glimpse of budding flowers if you simply come closer, closer), effortlessly graceful in a way that Dany, that even Reshella, cannot be, because for her every movement is conscious and hopeful, but Mynx moves like she has sublimated the Muses into her blood.

But the second thing that saves her is that Redana knows wrestling, and this is an anti-wrestling that Reshella can do. Giving ground, ceding way, backing up towards Bella, and wherever Mynx leans forward, Reshella invites her closer while still twisting her body away, and it almost looks like they’re dancing together, doesn’t it? In its own way, is this not as thrilling as entwining together, does this not drag the fear and yearning of touch out of her, is this not what her heart has been hoping for? Danger and peril, titillation and desire?

Behind her, she can hear, she can feel Bella, she knows that Bella is close, and maybe she won’t even be in real peril after all, maybe she’s good enough to keep the dance going, maybe she’s one of the heroines tonight too, maybe Bella will sniff and then say that her disguise was silly but that it still worked, and—

And she stumbles and nearly falls, her heel caught on the foot of a careless Alcedi, and Mynx is there, catching her by the wrist, and there’s applause, and her pulse is racing as Mynx slips her other hand under Reshella’s back, brings her close, and Bella is about to spring, but it’s too late for Reshella, and Mynx is smiling so kindly, but there is Aphrodite’s lighter guttering in the light of her eyes.

“Sweet dreams, Princess,” Mynx offers, and releases Reshella’s hand to lift the veil and kiss her on the lips, which is what an Imperial Princess deserves from the Assassin who knows her best—

And stops, confused for a fatal second, because she was not expecting those lips to be hidden under black and gold, pulled so tight over Reshella’s cheeks, hidden underneath her veil and her hair, and did not think that Redana would be so daring already, and perhaps wonders how Bella could have brought herself to do it for her Princess, and so the recontextualization, the adjustment of the story, is the difference between the kiss happening before Bella can reach her, and the pounce reaching Mynx first, and thus Epistia’s gag is the third thing that saves the lovely dancing-girl.

And Reshella crumples, veil fluttering, hand lifted to her triangles, and, oh, she did need to be saved, didn’t she? And how her heart hammers at being saved. How she watches everything that comes next with the wide-eyed admiration that Reshella is allowed to display! Redana would jump in, get involved, make a muddle of the struggle, maybe even risk Bella’s ire, but Reshella is being fought for and she couldn’t stand up right now if she was told that the Plousios’s reactor was overloading.

Not until Bella offers a hand to help her up. And let that fourth salvation be the sweetest and the best, please, please.

[10 to Overcome the risk of being kissed by Mynx. Thank you, Epistia. Thank you, Bella. <3]

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

“Hi, welcome to Gensoukyo! Nice to see you!”

Who owns my house?

The thought is an itch between her shoulderblades, and she’s on her phone in a way that’s probably not best practices, but whatever, it’s her place, right?

> Hey, giiiiiiiiiiirlfriend, can you pick up a pack of Advil+2 for me? I’m good for it. Love you <3

That’ll keep him together. She should have gone last night, but the thought about the painkillers slipped through her fingers until she banged her shin opening this morning. And November’s good for it, right?

Who owns my house?

She’d thought herself lucky when she found the place and the rent was so affordable. She’d been worried about taking a direct hit to her ablative savings. (Once this armor absorbs 12 HP of DEBT, erase from your sheet…) She’d all but yanked the keys out of the realtor’s hands and thanked her lucky stars that she’d found the perfect place for her silly little dream project.

> You’ve still got the key to the back door, right? And don’t let “the cat” out. No matter what. Outside is not good for “the cat” right now.

Is it opsec to use quotation marks like that? If she doesn’t, odds are that one of her girlfriend(s?) would text back that uh actually 3V you don’t have a cat? And that’s way weirder to explain. She can explain that it’s a reference to a dumb meme she saw on her dashboard.

It’s Him. “The Cat”………..

“Hey, welcome! Good to see you, Jen! How’s the Janissary army shaping up? We’ve got some more Olivia Green in stock, actually, right over here…”

Who owns my house?

memengine.com/generate

IT’s HIM…………….

“THe Cat”

Save File To Device

Edit

Exposure 100, Brilliance 100, Contrast 100, Brightness -100, Black Point 50, Saturation 100, Vibrance 100, Warmth -100, Tint 100, wait, no, Tint -100, christ, Sharpness 100. Perfection.

Who owns my house?

Good question. But the world keeps spinning and it’s her clever Gamer Fingers that have to do the job of keeping the plates in play. Who else could?