Tatterdemalion

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"Are you sure, High Priestess~?" Six Stones' voice is playful as she unfolds the ritual cloak in her hands, the closest item of clothing that happened to be at hand. Broad bands of color; fringed tassels whispering on her fingers. She does not yet hold it out to her superior in the cult. Rather, her eyes linger on the idol towering above the both of them, her teeth bared in amusement but her tail carefully tucked behind one ankle. Teasing, but remembering her place. Holding it just out of reach, to make it so that Seven Quetzal has to choose to come and take it.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Dolly sputters, not quite sure where she wants to put her hands. There's a lot of her to cover up, and she's blindingly aware of the burnt mark in the fur on her shoulder, so close to her neck, the rabbit in the huntress's teeth, and, and, the thing is, she's been in this situation before. This exact situation. Minus the pirates, minus the stares, but... she likes to play, and Jade likes to see her squirm, and she's been paraded out before the cult wearing nothing before. It's just that everyone else could still see her clothes, then, and she could just enjoy the thrill of experiencing public nudity without, actually, you see, subjecting everyone else to it. The plausible deniability, the attempt to hide what only she's experiencing, the...

The Jade. The Jade part of it. That's important, too. If she were to lift her hands over her head and try to tell the engineers who follow her goddess to drink in the view, she'd feel selfish, demanding, dangerously audacious. Vulnerable. If anyone were to complain, to tell her that she was acting in an inappropriate way, that the high priestess of a goddess should conduct herself with more dignity, she'd fall apart, and not have Jade there to catch her. Jade is her safe high place, covered and unlit. In Jade, no one can see her secrets.

(But if there is anyone she would share her secrets with, it would be... Angela doesn't count, and neither does Ksharta, because she's seen it. And Valynia would just take charge like Jade does, and would, peel her, out of her, clothes, and, and then, mmfff, and she needs to practice her sacred seduction so that she can fulfill her goddess's command next time. But the cult is safe. The engineers are trustworthy. They follow her and probably don't daydream about usurping her place, and even if they did, Jade wouldn't let them, not after what she's done today.)

Her tail's tip twitches agitatedly.

"I just supposed..." Six Stones trails off, and then offers the cloak, sheepishly. Dolly steps forward, mouth dry.

"Supposed that I wouldn't want to cover myself after the Red Band tore the clothes off of me? Groped me, tied me so tight, marked me, and told me that I would be their trophy? Told how I'd be used to steal the goddess from all of you and instead make her their goddess? Mouth stuffed, mmm mmmm, unable to talk back as they, they kneaded my......." Her hands glide over the cloak, palms resting on Six Stones' forearms, as her brain blanks on trying to find a word that's not going to make her spontaneously combust. "Bosom." That was incorrect. Mayday. Help. Jade?

In the depths of the Idol, Jade stretches her jaw, lets her limbs expand to the full extent of her temple-room, still feeling more solid than she has in her entire life (outside of the underworld). Dolly is bright in her mind, but she's been that bright the entire way back. For once in her life, the goddess needs to recover, to catch her breath, to... to consider what she wants to learn from what happened. How she can take the sword that Whispered Promise knows how to wield and make it her own.

"I'm sorry," Six Stones says, and as far as Dolly can tell, means it. See? See? This is why! This is why she shouldn't! Jade would have known exactly how far to push, and Dolly would have... she would have been squirming and trying to soften that fantasy, not going full speed down the track! And now here they are, the two of them, in a tangle of paws and tails.

"Well!" Dolly says, and pulls the cloak off Six Stones' hands and around her shoulders, fumbling with the clasp. "I! Forgive you! Because you are a good girl, Six Stones, and just because! You weren't thinking, that doesn't mean, and you are very different from those pirates, all of you, and besides, I feel safe, around all of you, and..." She pulls the cloak tighter, against her, regardless of how it strains. "I don't blame any of you! Only Whispered Promise could have piloted through those dangers, and Smokeless Jade Fires chose her well! So!! I, will attend to the goddess..."

She should just leave it at that. It'd be good! She's got her way out to scamper back into Jade's arms, to hide in her safe high place, to bury her face in her hands while her goddess teases her about how badly she wanted all of her cultists to treat her just as roughly as those pirates did, and goodness, you even lied to them about how you lost the rest of your clothes? But she's still talking. Why is she still talking?

"...as soon as I have offered thanks to the goddess at her offerings. Please, join me!" She walks forward, past Six Stones, and as she does so the cloak opens ever so slightly, and it's the only thing she's wearing, and if anyone wanted to stare they, they could, in the brief flashes as her thigh pushes it to one side, and she will be prostrating herself before the idol of the goddess and her offerings, and the cloak might, it might hike up, and she doesn't know who'll be right behind her, and she's power walking to the shrine, and the cloak is the thickest and the thinnest thing in all of existence.

(Later, Jade will be with her. In the shower as she cleans herself off. Tracing the shape of the brand with one claw. Showering her back with possessive kisses and nips. Offering her whatever she needs to feel safe, protected, owned. And Dolly will fall asleep, exhausted, loved, and bound just as snugly as Valynia kept her-- no, moreso, when she wordlessly begs for more, for Jade to be even more possessive, to punish her and reward her in the same breath, to reassure her that she doesn't secretly need Valynia and those impudent, territorial, musky pirates. But that is not yet.)

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Kalaya-phraya!

“And then! And then! Who should show up but my delinquent of a little sister, dragging a poor lost priestess behind her! Can you even imagine what the poor dear must have gone through? But then the goddess sent me a message— or, at least, I thought she had, but then the fox vanished, leaving me out here, in the middle of nowhere, and it’s just so much!”

She buries her face in her hands, elbows on the table, and bawls. There’s been a lot of buildup, and she’s finally lost the last bit of her composure— one might well assume. Certainly, this isn’t ordinary priestess behavior.

“Ever since I tried to get that spirit to banish one of the rakshasa, not knowing that it was even worse, that it was base and vile and… is that it? Has the Sapphire Mother of Lotuses abandoned me? Every step of the way, I’ve, I’ve, I’ve tried to do the right thing, and… what am I supposed to do now? I’m supposed to know! That’s my job! Just like you’re supposed to be strong and do swords good and, and…”

She crams the palm of one hand against her messy face. “Don’t even look at me,” she groans, suddenly embarrassed at how completely she’s coming apart in front of the first stranger to show her kindness in… probably some time.

---

Fengye!

“I have rights,” the mud-spirit complains, sullenly. Its fists are terrible maceheads, its back hairy with roots and stems, its face a squarish approximation. “Rights to not be treated like this. I know my rights. I’ll put in a complaint. Go back to where you came from. Not here. Not our land. I have rights.”

A delicate hand briefly bursts forth from the muck and smacks its side, furiously, before being slowly dragged back in, uselessly clawing at yielding mud.

“Our Thorn Knight will fix things,” it continues. “Send them all back. All the outlanders who don’t treat us right. The Dominion and their gods, all gone. Sapphire Mother’s crown and daughter, retuned to her. Out of the way, speck. Go home.”

---

Giriel!

The warlock draws her sword. It’s a smooth whisper out of its sheath, but even a whisper can be menacing. Her breath is rattled; you’ve struck a raw nerve.

“And what do you know? Idiot witch!”

“Not an idiot,” Peregrine corrects, still behind you. “Dependable. Conservative. Not likely to help. Come on.”

“I will not be insulted,” the warlock yells, and it rhymes with the lessons she’s learned from her tutors. The Broken King cannot endure mockery or questioning. He demands subservience and respect. “Keep her name out of your mouth and get out of our way, hag!”

“Not in our… mmm.” Peregrine runs through a mystic calculation of symbolism and demonology in her head, gauging relative impact on her sorcerous project over any other concern. “No. You’re right. Demand satisfaction.”

Evidently, she thinks that having Ven back down would be bad for the purpose. If that’s the case, your intuition says that Ven losing decisively would wreck her entire project. Even odds on her being furious or simply shrugging and taking it in stride.

Ven herself is… well. Clinging to anger, embarrassment, letting her own emotional armor dig into her wounds. The comment about Kalaya really got under her skin, didn’t it?

Breathless Dead

The tent’s small. Barely fits two. The tent’s damp. Nothing really dries out here, no matter how she tries. The tent is humid. The warmth of their bodies fighting against the cooling rain on their skin, the livingness of them filling it from corner to corner.

She lies there, sometimes, for a while. Right after waking up, or just before she falls asleep. The color of the tent is blue. It is streaked like a tiger’s flanks with rain. If she reaches up, presses her fingers against it, then the water soaks through, trickles down her fingers.

This is a holy place. Here, where the air is thick and her partner uses her arm as a pillow. Here, where the only sound is rain striking the tent, the wind rippling the sides, their breathing in and out, and far-off roaring. It never lasts forever; her companion will sit up, grouse, start pulling on damp socks, start out into the light before dawn. Or she will succumb to exhaustion and sleep without dreams.

Outside the tent, the world is wet and unclean. It’s not a judgment, just a fact. Grit sticks to the fingers of her gloves. Her leggings are impossibly smeared with mud. Even where the rain kisses her, it doesn’t wash away the sweat and the grime. And at the end of the day, she enters the tent, muscles aching, fingers numb, absolutely spent, and she peels off the outer layers and drapes them over a bag, and she works her way into a different bag, and she lies there in the midst of holiness.

Once, she asks a question. Does the question itself really matter? Her companion tells her to shut up and go to sleep. She watches the rain, and listens to the rain, and says something— inconsequential. Sound leaves her.

Her partner rolls over, presses a clammy palm over her mouth, hisses. She kisses that palm and holds it close, cold fingers trying to be gentle, tracing over the knuckles. They’re holy, too.

The next morning, her lover slowly wakes, lifts her head from breastbone, yawns with a flash of white and luxurious red. Stares down. “…idiot,” she murmurs. “We’re going to be late.” But she still stoops to undo the shoelaces around thumbs, fumbles with the almost-iron knot in the kerchief.

The waiting wasn’t hard. It was holy.

On a different time— after the rain change— after, in the shadows of angles, in a tent pitched within yellow flowers—

She kisses those cheeks dry, as best she can, and holds her beloved’s head against her chest, one ear to the heart, one ear to the rain. The rumbling running through her is as beautiful as the thunder that rumbles against the top of the mountains.

This is another thing: one night she is not there, and the sound of the rain comes to find her, to come up behind her, to embrace her. She is lost. There are lights blinking up on the mountainside, red, as far away as the moon. Every step she takes leaves her just as far away. She doesn’t know what she means, and that empty not-meaning is the leash that tugs her along. It takes the sound of the rain and the thunder to take her hand and cover her eyes and lead her back to the tent, where she can sleep, where she can forget the far-off pulse of lights promising that if you come close enough, we will have a meaning, and you will understand, here, under the moon, under the stars, under no sun.

Somewhere, a crown exists only to be proof that it was forgotten. Maybe it lies, impossibly, at the base of the tower which holds the lights.

Breathless Dead

It wasn’t ever a conscious choice. Not really. It would be nice if it was, wouldn’t it? If Redana had a moment where she tried to hold onto everything, but found it all slipping out of her grasp like sand, and had to choose what was most precious to her?

No. She’s always been herself. And she doesn’t even notice what slips away. She is the strain of muscles, moving trunks out of dry-dust Plovers at awkward angles. She is the rhythm of a march back and forth, the plip-plap of feet striking the ground over and over and over as one thing after another is ferried from one place to another. She is the hand that helps lift a corner, and she is the work-song of the Coherent rippling up and down the line.

Everyone here is hers. A company, a conglomerate, a crew. The names bleed away easy. They are sensations, images, connections. A warm meal. A proud roar. Advice from below. A birdlike chirp above the crowd. The bell hanging around her throat.

Maybe it will be funny later that nobody really notices her losing her name. She’s listening for the inflection now, the attempt at getting her attention over the din of the work. She doesn’t even notice (it was so easy before, after all). It’s gone. It’s noise. It’s three syllables rising and falling. You could say anything to get her attention, sweat bleeding through her clothes, teeth flashing white through ruddy lips; she’s in the runner’s high, the elation of her body, the need to turn her shoulder to the wheel and make it turn.

Does it matter who anyone is? She holds on to what they mean. Warmth. Friendship. Loyalty.

Love.

She loves the anxious little sheep who makes sure she takes breaks, who pushes a thermos of hot tea into her travel-roughed hands, whose voice is soft and full of care. She loves the lioness who competes with her, who pushes her to work harder, who rallies labor around the toughest jobs and takes position at the front. She loves the woman with the red eye, the sternly hot one, the one who provides a rhythm to her life (a finger tapping a bell, a wagging tail, hushed laughter). She loves her companions, one and all, who she is grateful for, who are going to make it to the end together. She doesn’t need to remember who they were; she remembers who they are now.

(And by night the bells are close around her, and whisper a rising-falling-rising mantra: re. da. na. RE da NA. re-da-na. a pretty three-part meditation. It marks time when they lose themselves in the now, in the ways of move-like-this, in the mouths-and-limbs dance. A name is nothing. Wipe away all signifier and what is important still remains.)

By the time the vehicle is ready, she is the sensation of labor for others; she is the joy of service; she is the vessel of orders rung out from bells. Her colors are red and yellow; she is anxious as she watches the horizon, itching to move. She has to keep moving forward. She’s not going to give up, even if she has to carry everyone to the end. She is a sword, a wheel, a vehicle, a lover, a beast, a thunderbolt. She is all things for her companions, as necessary— and for the sound of bells most of all.

For her, anything. Everything. As long as it is not here forever.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

”Autograph? I should demand your head from your shoulders, you impudent, impious whelp!” Smokeless Jade Fires, victorious, clutches her high priestess closer to her powerful body, and rests the tip of her thunderbolt lance beneath the chin of this pirate rogue. One nail taps on the shaft as she considers venting her wrath, before she instead slips the tip past the pirate’s neck, forcing her down onto her knees.

“In fact, I think you must be shown humility. At length. You will come with us and you will take up the duties of a handmaiden for the lustrous high priestess you dared to defile with your lusty, greedy paws. You and your former tyrant queen, who I have only not destroyed in my fury because my beloved, my bride, my treasure has convinced me she is better as a dumb pack iguanadon.” The overawed pirates crane their heads past the goddess to see that pathetic little minx, hobbled and groaning under the weight of her ill-gotten goods: necklaces heaped around her neck, bags full of gold straining on her shoulders, a ruby the size of an egg strapped between her lips.

“I’m sorry for everything I have ever done to offend you and your bride,” the half-lioness cries, groveling on the floor. “Thank you for your mercy, O Strider Between The Earth And Stars!”

“Mercy? It is not my mercy,” Smokeless Jade Fires sneers, “but that of my priestess, whose kindness is as bountiful as her breasts and whose generosity overflows like her wet mouth into these unworthy rags you have crammed between her plump, mewling lips!” Dolly squeals, blushing, heart racing, kicking her bare bound feet in total flusterment. “Know that she has my permission to ravish you as thoroughly as you have molested her, that I will carry out her every desire, and that only by satisfying her can you ever hope for freedom, for I will give you no mercy but by her pleading! Now, before we embark, remove your mangy uniform. Yes, in front of your compatriots! It is time for you to learn what it is like to be humiliated, helpless, and drooled over, you wicked little slut!”

---

It would have been much better if she was the one down there, not this, this enigmatic, teasing, restrained mercenary, this hero-pilot who refused to unsheathe her claws, who is just letting these audacious and irreverent kittens prance away without a care in the world! Not even their leader, who is clearly the one pulling the strings. The brute they’d faced together? Clearly some brute of a lieutenant, meant to soften them up for a carefully masterminded plot— and now she’s free to begin scheming again!

Jade fumes, and rattles her chains, and growls under her breath. Her body (her body) throbs like Dolly’s usually does. She aches, impossibly. Her jaw strains! It has never once strained in her entire existence! Only her vast pool of experiences from Dolly reassures her that this is… natural. For someone tied up. Like she is.

Of all the ways to feel like she had a body! A thousand dooms on your head, Whispered Promise! Only to be rescinded after Dolly intercedes (at length) on your behalf!

(What would it be like, for this to be natural, to have a body? Not the awe-inspiring idol, but one that could, could feel without calculation, could release various chemicals from its pores, could hold Dolly and be held?)

Ngh. Ten thousand dooms, Whispered Promise. Half of them onerously tactile and odoriferous. And another one for each pirate you let go.

---

Whispered Promise stands at the hatch and snaps her fingers, almost smiling, and with a furious groan, Smokeless Jade Fires opens her cockpit like a good girl. She accepts them both into the space, both of them bearing her fabric, her mark of initiation into her mysteries, into the temple that Whispered Promise molded into shape. She hangs, helpless, unable to cover herself up, unable to look Dolly in the eye, fuming and seething and—

Dolly wriggles out of Whispered Promise’s arms, onto her feet. Before the hungry, lustful mercenary can catch her, she’s hopping like only someone with lots of practice can. “JDDH!!!”

And Dolly flings herself at her goddess, bouncing up as close as she can, pressing herself against Jade’s almost-body, which can’t snake around her, which can’t yield or firm on command, which can’t run simulated fingers through her fur, which has to just accept…

The feeling of Dolly pressing her soft chest up against her wiry frame. The warmth of her body, felt through the link. The strong, almost-and-should-be unpleasant smell of the lusty, sweaty pirates, the kind that she can’t properly give Dolly, not like this. The sensation of their bindings and their gags, melding together as Dolly rubs her gag-swaddled cheeks across her goddess’s face, purring, insistent, headbutting her gently, leaking muffled drooly giggles, and over their connection, Jade feels and knows:

Jade Jade Jade Jade you came for me I missed you I knew you would come Jade Jade Jade Jade pirates hot and sexy and stink horny but you you you LOVE YOU you did this for me you let her tie you up for ME because you wanted me back I’m safe I’m here I’m back I’m yours I want my scent on you I want this musk on you I want to fuck you I love you I need you Jade Jade Jade Jade Jade!!!!

And Smokeless Jade Fires, who doesn’t understand why she’s crying, rubs her cheeks on Dolly’s gag, and presses her body up against her bri— her wif— her— her Dolly, and strains against the chains and wills them to break so she can wrap herself around Dolly a hundred times— no, if it means she can have a body for her Dolly, she’ll do it the once.

But the chains don’t break, and they keep her like this. Solid. Almost real. Wet. Needy. Taking breaths of Valynia, who I couldn’t seduce for you, I tried so hard, but maybe she’ll do it again and I can practice with you, you can show me what to do, maybe she wants an exotic dancer to entertain her crew? and Milk Tooth, that’s her nickname, she’s the one who was squeezing and bouncing my breasts and left handprints all over and The One Who Looks Like A Fox whose name I don’t know but who was the one who shoved my face down her top and The One Who Kept Pinching Me And Telling Me How Sexy And Breedable Thicc(?) Girls Are and Jimmy Rat, I don’t know why that was her name(?), maybe because she smelled so strong much.

…dooms rescinded, Whispered Promise. If you take them back home. Even if you pull Dolly into your lap and make her watch the piloting. She’ll whine and beg for you to be nice, you know that, don’t you? She’ll volunteer breathlessly, wordlessly, to accept “punishment” in her goddess’s place. She’s the bravest one in the room.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

It.

It wasn't a good squeal.

Because, because it was too breathy, too wet, too earnest, too awed.

She's very sorry, Whispered Promise, you deserved a good squeal! You really did! That was, it was the best fight she's ever seen! That's how characters fight, in stories, but you're the actual thing! How could Jade, even Jade, ever--

(an indignant thrashing, drool-wetted fur, fists clenching)

...mmmmaybe Jade could. No, of course Jade would! It's just that Dolly is silly, and doesn't, can't, doesn't see how... but Dolly's not the fighter, so that's all right! That's all right?

(a chin lifted, a huff that leaves an imagined plume of hot breath, a lip pulled back from sharp teeth)

Please, Jade, she's not the fighter. That's you, Dolly thinks as hard as she can (but she gets all mixed up with that dress swirling, and, and the brand) (the brand???) oh, um, she visualized that brand too hard, didn't she, and Jade can, she's definitely feeling how Dolly's clenching her legs and, and, and Dolly is a silly little kitten trying to tuck her tail between her legs and think beggy thoughts at her incredible and powerful and temporarily inconvenienced goddess--

Whispered Promise chooses this moment to cradle Dolly in her arms, pressing that gag-buried face into her shoulder, fingers playing with the outline of the brand as if she can tell exactly what Dolly was thinking about, and her other arm's in the crook of Dolly's bound knees, and Dolly's, well, her ass is dangling without support, but that both makes her feel oh-so-helpless and thinking about it being... touched. (squeezed; hands clenching, desiring, wrists straining against chains with the NEED of it) The look that Whispered Promise gives her is impossible to read, but it makes Dolly's ears go back in mortification. Her eyes dart everywhere, trying to find somewhere safe to land, but there's absolutely nowhere, and, well...

How would it make Jade feel if she rescued someone and that someone tried to hide how they felt? If she hid her feelings (like she's sitting on the entire box of feelings about mean rude bullying possessive pirates and that's going to be a talk later)... if she hid her feelings, wouldn't that be ungrateful? Wouldn't that be unworthy of the goddess she serves and loves and is going to be reunited with, and it's Whispered Promise and her incredible swordplay to thank?

She heroically forces herself to look Whispered Promise in those watery pools (that river, that dam, that bursting, that hunger, and her toes curl and she almost looks away like a coward unable to meet the gaze of a goddess when they first met) and she mumblewhines her thanks, ears submissively low, taking deep breaths through her pirate-stinking gag, aware of how every step Whispered Promise takes vibrates through her, aware of how those teeth would feel, aware of how wet the outer layers of her gag are, aware of how even Jade was (tricked? blackmailed? defeated? for her, for her, *for her*) bound by this mercenary, this creature-of-contracts, this Whispered Promise, and names really do have power, don't they?

Thank you, she says through moans and shudders. For bringing me back to her. My Jade, my goddess, who would do anything for me. (a huff, a lifting of the chin higher, but the tip of a tail wagging, wagging, wagging) I'm helpless. But doesn't that make you want to take pity on me? (pirate-ruined clothing torn apart, peeled off, a very NAUGHTY high priestess left on full display all the way back!) Doesn't that make you want to take PITY on me, and, and my goddess, who is, is sending a lot of sensations and wants, through our connection, and that's adding to the squirming, because, being naked in someone else's arms would be a lot, Jade, and just because-- pirates-- see-- if they'd-- if they'd-- maybe Valynia, definitely maybe Valynia, and walked her around the station on a leash, and...

(the absolute damned certainty of naked torments for VERY NAUGHTY HIGH PRIESTESSES)

[Oh, Mirror, even while Insecure, Dolly's offering you a 7 on Entice. If you want. If blushy submissive kittens trying to thank you incoherently but oh-so-earnestly is your sort of thing.]

Breathless Dead

A name? If it needs a name, it is Redana's. That's the one that sticks to it. Oh, that plover? It's Redana's. She's been in its guts; she's played with its muscles and traced her fingers along its spine. It's the one she keeps mounted on the side of the bay she always uses, the one with the seat just how she likes it, the one that hums its name back into her spine. It's weathered and not ornamented, not decorated, not personalized outside of how familiar its grips are beneath her gloved hands. Redana's roars like a lion as it leaves its cables behind and falls into the sky.

It's always been this. The placid blue is unnatural, but Redana's will adjust eventually. What's one more unearthly color when it's been kissed by every one that Polychromatikí had to offer? It's always been falling, over and over, tumbling out every time into the tumult and the tempest. There's no storm that its pilot hasn't seen and then, grinning, dived into. It taps its deeper energy stores, the ones designed to let it keep a d-scythe burning as Redana makes her way up and down the Plousios.

Everything's packed, right? Bags stuffed into the floorboard, the nagging feeling that something must have been left behind, but beneath her the world opens up and the thought of turning back seems wasteful. Her seat hums in agreement. The only way is forward, to see what hasn't been seen, to discover what comes next. The wild rush beneath her (like water, like a river) is just encouragement to clench the grips tighter, to brace her feet harder against the pedals, to squeeze more speed out of Redana's until it's like she's looping the Olympic sprint over and over again, and everyone else is straggling behind, except--

Except for Bella. For a moment, she catches a glimpse of black and cyan in her periphery, and her first instinct is to bring the D-Scythe to bear, but she checks herself, and Bella crests like a dolphin breaking free from a nebula-spur, and then she tumbles back down to earth, to claw at the ground, to try to keep up. And Redana doesn't doubt her for a second, even as she rockets forward, and the entire world unfolds underneath her mountain by mountain, river by river, flag by flag, and she can go searching for quests and lost treasures later, because right now she just needs to accelerate until she's left everything

everything

everything behind her, in the trail of her thrusters, in the echo of her engine, in the wake of the prow with which she cuts into the unknown. And nobody's here to hear her laughter, nobody except for Redana's. But that's fine. Bella's keeping up. That's all she wanted in the first place, isn't it?

Breathless Dead

The dress is the deep red of rubies, or of living blood. It fountains down from her left shoulder. Beneath it, the undershirt clings to her like a second skin, black and gold. It pours itself into the grooves of her shoulders and her back.

At the shoulder, a brooch gleams: the thunderbolt of Zeus, swan-winged. It blazes where the lights strike it, limned in gold, shining adamant. It is the shadow of the tiara on her brow. If you could catch starlight, hammer it into place, make it cool until it hardened, and then string it on lace— that would be the tiara of Redana Claudius.

Here, then, is the prize of Odoacer. Here is the daughter of Hermes, with suns strewn in her golden hair. Here is the daughter of Zeus the Thunderer, who set the wheel into motion, who speaks with authority. Here is Bella’s yearning and Dolce’s hope and Alexa’s catalyst. Here she stands, small in stature, but beautiful, radiant, treasured.

For Bella’s sake, she holds her head up and does not look away. And that makes it easier to notice that this is not one of her mother’s court dinners, at which she is meant to show off her poise and fine manners. And it strikes her that here, at last, is the reason. It’s not to get a passing grade, it’s not to earn a reward from her mother, and it’s not because of her title. It’s because everyone is looking to her, and they see the Imperial Princess, and they long for her to be more than she is. So maybe, just for tonight, she can be.

“Friends,” she begins. She’s calmer now than she was earlier, when Bella was helping her with the dress, with the rouge, with the lipstick, when she felt small and clumsy and steeped in peril. Now the dress (flowering down her body, ending in skirts like petals) feels like a new kind of armor. “Sailors. Comrades. If I may speak.”

The cheering is honest. She parts her lips and then closes them around the half-formed words. Her eyes are hot and she has to blink them clear. “We have done the impossible already. Now all that remains is doing it again. No one has survived crossing the Rift— but no one has defeated the Master of Assassins, survived the perils we have faced, or gathered such an auspicious and determined crew!”

Her hands aren’t shaking. Not after she got all the words out of them. “I cannot promise that I can match the blessing that Lord Hades has offered us upon our arrival at Gaia, the seed at the root of the universe.” She says it right. The words have been careening around her head for hours. The root of the seed of the seed of the root of the universe entire. Flowers, trees, things which grow, the grave of the Master, the trees of Mynxkiss. But what is this room but a garden? “But I will promise you glory wherever I rule, hospitality wherever I live, and satisfaction with whatever I can provide. And…”

Her cheeks are wet again. The lights blur. But she is still smiling, and there is no murmur of discontent or scandal. It is safe here. She is safe here. Here, out of all the universe she has seen, because of who is here with her. She raises a glass instead, and the reply echoes and multiplies until it is her father’s jovial roar.

“And I know that we are going to succeed,” she says, as if she can carve it into the universe through saying it. As if maybe, this was in and of itself a ritual, like the ones she performs before the altars of her family— no, one of her families. Because this is her family, too.

She holds the glass higher, and with all of her strength, declares: “Damn the Rift! Glory to the Mariners! To Gaia!” And all around her, her family joins in, joyous and defiant.

And then she lowers her eyes, and catches a glimpse of Bella across the room, her own lips half-open, a naked hunger in her eyes, and a giggle bubbles out of her. Come and catch me, she tells Bella with a wink, sipping the bubbling champagne in her glass. Pull me aside with urgent news. Where are we going to hide? How are you going to praise me? And how are you going to stop me from being too noisy and interrupting the party~?

Every moment until she finds Bella at her arm will be all the more electric for it. Come, Assassin. Show her the power of your Hunt.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Dolly!

Not Angela.

Shivering, squirming, toes curling, trying to arch, head full of sloshing water seeping into her spine, soaking into her gag, trickling out her pores. That’s not Angela. Impossible to be Angela. Not a heart like that, all hunger and need, barely restrained, teeth at the back of her neck.

The realization makes her heart rattle loose and bounce around inside of her. Jade has been captured. That was the heart of a pirate! Soft, certainly, but… appreciating softness. Like, say. Her softness.

What if I never get to pilot Jade again? What if I’m Valynia’s pet priestess now? What if she doesn’t let me see Angela and Ksharta again? What if she stuffs me in a box or a cage or a flight locker? What if I’m her hostage to make Jade obey? What if she seduces Jade through ME? What would Angela think, what would Ksharta think, what would my big sister think? What if she dresses me up and takes me to fancy dinners and then makes me ride back in the shuttle luggage bin all stuffed with everything else they’re bringing back??? What if they don’t let me pilot her again, if I never get to feel her hands on me, if I never get to be her good girl? Valynia, please, let me— mmnngh, what if she makes me beg, and mlem, and humiliate myself before she lets me, or, whether or not she’s going to, and she just lets me think she’s going to, and she touches this mark on my shoulder when she tells me, because she’s in control, and please, even if it’s hot, this is important, Jade, please, Jade—

But all she can feel from her goddess is moaning and imprisonment and— envy? I want to be her. Oh. Oh! Well. Dolly flushes, the heat spreading through her. She wasn’t even thinking about Jade’s feelings. Maybe… maybe that was better? If her goddess found someone who was better? If she really loved Jade, shouldn’t she…?

Power. Desire. Lust. Control.

Desire. Desire. Desire. Desire.

What do you want most of all, Dolly?

Dolly lifts her head, the heaviest thing in the world, and stares at the door with all of the dignity she can muster. On one end of the scale are all the delicious, embarrassing, confusing delights and humiliations that Valynia can inflict on her, things which she’d never ever be brave enough to admit to Jade, or even things that Jade just can’t do… but on the other side is Smokeless Jade Fires.

She’ll break. She knows it. Once Valynia starts squeezing and rubbing and burying her underneath the musk of her own desire. But that doesn’t mean this little hare doesn’t have the heart of an earthshaker, doesn’t have enough strength to make one more demand to be reunited with the goddess she lo—

WHISPERED PROMISE????

The defiant, gargled demand for her goddess never leaves her swaddled lips. It’s more of a ridiculous horking drooly bray, much more audible than she was expecting, and she can’t even hide, or cover up, or, or, and gosh, that’s— that’s her— she was— and the look she gives Dolly, all tangled up and dangling, is as calm and, and controlled, and she’s all of that underneath??? There’s no way— she could be thinking anything— behind those river-lake-sea eyes and that, that dress, that is not how, piloting, you see, look, except she’s trying to find anywhere else to look, but it’s no use, Mirror and that gorgeous jaw-dropping dress and those unique spots underneath, which she doesn’t want to stare at in case, you know, it’s rude, but would Mirror say anything, because she’s in control but underneath she’s so, she’s so, she’s so…

So hungry.

And the thing about her calm, her mask, her unblinking neutral expression as she looks over Dolly’s disarray is that Dolly has no idea, no clue, where that hunger’s pointed, but that definitely was an appreciation for softness and her softness is on display and the thought of Mirror squeezing her, in control, finding all the buttons—

Buttons?

BUTTONS.

…”what does this do,” she’d murmur, so soft, so calm, as Dolly’s eyes bulged and fluttered in turn, learning her like only Jade had, plundering her deep vaults and carrying out treasure, controlling her white fire engine perfectly, and what would it be like to be her? To be loved by her?

Her eyes dart between the pirate and the terror, between the dread-desired and the enigma-with-teeth, and they’re— going— to fight— over her???

Oh oh oh Jade!!

And for a moment

Dolly can feel

A wet cheek pressed against her own

Dolly can hear

her name, drooled

Dolly can know

she is wanted

Breathless Dead

The princess keeps returning to the idea of writing things down, only to shove the thought away and pull the goggles back down instead. There is so much to do. There is so much to do. Enough so that she can glut herself in it. Roll out of bed in the morning, try not to wake Bella up, wake her up anyway, apologize profusely, and then work until Bella finds her and picks her up and carries her back for dinner and words and hungers. She needs to be hundred-handed. Every person on the Plousios is working two jobs, and Redana keeps volunteering for more. Let her do four jobs. Let her do six. Let her drag the ship to the Rift herself.

Because if she's working, there's no room for the doubt.

What if you wrote everything down, Redana? But then you'd be admitting that you'll need it. And then you start wondering whether you'll even remember how to read. What if you filmed yourself? But no good. We don't have the materials. You can't divert Isakarot from the vigil on the engines. And what if you forget what words mean? What if you're scrubbed clean? Scrub. Scrub the cables. Dislodge the crabs from behind the Third Hub. Carry a message to Jil, who is herself a hub, who speaks for the Lanterns scurrying crossways and up and down and doing the same work she is. Spin out a plover-cable, make sure the reinforced plating is holding, try not to stare at the mind-annihilating river-scar tearing open the universe.

If she thinks too much about it she might think she's making a mistake. If she thinks too much about it her hands might start shaking. It was easy to be brave on the Tunguska. It was easy to feel like she was doing something big, and brave, and meaningful, and Bella was by her side. But then the thought starts creeping in again.

What if she forgets how to read? What if she saves everything she is and it doesn't matter, it's lost anyway? What if the Lethe scrubs words away, too, and the ship will breach the other side with all words and sigils and numbers washed clean? Wash. The fountains need to remain clear of crabs, otherwise the flow of water through the ship will be disrupted, and then the water will grow stagnant. She murmurs prayers to her Uncle as she unclogs pipes, and she finds herself resting her forehead on the cool stone, unable to move, letting the water wash over her.

The smoke is everywhere. She lights incense before the altars anyway. Father Zeus, please protect us. Uncle Poseidon, we honor your strength. Cousin Artemis, make our way straight and clear. Uncle Hades... Cousin Apollo, show me the right thing. Aunt Demeter, please keep rot from our food supplies. This is the role of the ship's champion, here where there is nothing left to fight.

(What if there is something to fight? What if nobody comes back because there are great big eyeless Lethe-snakes writhing through that pinkfire sea and everyone's forgotten how to use plovers by that point in the trip? How can you organize a defense when you might be forgetting the fact of being attacked as soon as you look away? When you forget how to use a sword?)

---

He's staring at the rift, too. Or, no. He's bathing his face in its light. There is concern in his expression, though not fear. Redana stops to look at him, and she could keep running, but she doesn't. Her face is smudged with grease. Her eye flickers and switches off the faint line it's tracing to her next destination. The further away from Tellus she's gotten, the weaker it's been. Or is that just her imagination? Maybe it was something else. The fight with Sagakhan. The proximity to the river. Maybe it's forgetting, too.

Standing next to him is comforting. The warmth suffuses her skin, makes prickles run up and down her arms, cups her cheeks. "Thank you," she says, and clasps her hands together in that way that he likes. He returns the gesture, but doesn't look to her. He is silent, as always. (As apparently always. She hasn't seen him very often at all.)

So it's up to her to fill the silence. Which she does. Eventually. It's hard to tell how long. They took a seat; they both fold their legs, but only Redana hunches forward to rest her elbows on her thighs. She can feel her heart beating through her body. She's warm. Like a fruit on a summer day. Pluck her right off the vine.

"Am I stupid?" His expression softens, and he lowers his eyes from the scar in the sea. "Because... everyone else thought it through, didn't they? Back on the Tunguska? I thought, if I really, really believed in Bella, and we wrote everything down, and... what if we forget that, too? What if we're, what if we're babies? Babies can't steer ships! We're just going to get eaten by forgetting-eels! And it's my fault!"

He reaches out and takes her hand. It's almost painfully hot. Almost. But she curls her fingers around his hand anyway. The throb of blood fills her head. Her eyes are wet.

"...but if I don't do this," she says to him, to the wound, to her mother, "then Uncle Hades is just going to be that sad forever. Like he was when he thought I was going to die, on that very first battle at the Eater of Worlds. If I don't do this, then Epistia and Beljani will have become Belistiajani for nothing. I will have dragged Dolce and Vasilly through all this for nothing, and Bella, and Mynx, and stranded Alexa so far from home, and..."

She does not cry prettily. Her fingers squeeze tighter around his hand. The Lethe throbs; rivulets of white sear through it like lightning bolts, almost invisible. Behind them, so very far behind them, the pilots of the monsters have tea forever in the sunlight, and they'd told her, hadn't they, be bold, be bold. There's something special about this crew, this voyage.

(You have two shadows, Sir Aeon had whispered in her ear, one taller than the other. Take heart in this.)

"...but they'd still go," she admits. "It's not my fault."

It's not your fault. Is there any enlightenment more difficult? Or so often attained and lost, over and over?

"Just because I started this, doesn't mean..." She wipes her face on the back of her free hand, and then discovers that he has offered her a tissue. "Because Bella, she's going for a wish, now. Her sisters. And Dolce and Vasilly, they think it's possible, too. If I ran away, I'd just be leaving them to face this alone."

The Lethe roils. But Redana looks up at it. Stares, until she remembers to worry that maybe her eye can forget itself.

He leans in and gives her a kiss. One, singular. The faintest brushing of his lips against her skin.

That night, Bella will comment on the sunburn, on the almost red-gold tinge. And that night, they'll sit together and write.

---

MY name is Redana. It's your name, too, if you're the girl with the gold hair and the one blue eye and the one green eye. If that's not you, please give this to Redana instead. Okay, Redana, since you're reading this now. You're from Tellus, which is on the other side of the universe. Don't go back!!

You are going from one side of the River Lethe, which is the very big pink-white awful thing you are going through, or on the other side of. If it's behind you, don't go back!!

You have to keep going. You're looking for a place called Gaia. Once you get there, you'll deliver a message from Lord Hades. If you've forgotten the message, I think really YOU are the message. So just get there and everything's going to be okay, I promise. Once you're there, or maybe once you go back, Lord Hades will offer all of you a wish. You want your mother to change her mind You want Bella to be free You want everything to be You want everyone to be able to choose their life for themselves. Don't forget, please. No asking for a discus that always comes back or more Batrachomyomachia sequels or for Bella to love you (because she does)!!

This is Bella. She's beautiful. You know that. She loves you, and you love her, and you couldn't do anything about it until right before we got to Lethe. So please ask her if you can kiss her again, and if she forgets you, do your best to fall in love with her again. She's mean on the outside but that's because her mother was AWFUL to her growing up, and on the inside she wants to take care of everyone and help the people who can't help themselves.

This is Dolce. He's one of the smartest people you know (but see also Iskarot when I write about him, too). But he's really kind, too. Give him big hugs! He's so soft and fluffy and he makes silly noises when you wiggle around with him. He used to be in charge after you tried to turn the ship had an argument with him. But then he decided not to be? Jil's in charge now. Please take care of him. Protect him.

This is Jil. She is very good at telling people what to do. Whatever she says, you can probably trust her, unless she's drunk, in which case you really shouldn't. I wish I could tell you more but she hasn't been captain for very long and you've been busy. I've been busy. Mostly you've been working together on ship maintenance.

Oh! Ship maintenance!

[...]

Which is why you should never ever ever let the crabs back INTO the pipes.

...oh. Right.

This is Vasilia. She's proud and dangerous and prickly, but she loves Dolce more than anybody else, and she's really fun to fight with. Not a real fight, but a practice fight. If you forget how to fight, ask her to teach you. She's the best at swordfighting. Bella's stronger than her, but you CANNOT fight like Bella can, so don't even try it.

This is Alexa. You won't find her on the ship anymore, but you owe her SO MUCH. She protected you even though you dragged her on this quest and... maybe we should forget that. But we shouldn't forget Alexa. She's the best at lifting and the BEST at hugs. She's on the other side of the Lethe (DON'T GO BACK!!) and she's looking after Hades' dog. When you come back and everybody is free to be themselves, you go find her, you go give her more hugs, and you ask her where she wants to go and you take her there. Okay? You owe her a lot. She's the reason you made it this far.

[...]

That's everyone. Everyone you're friends with. I didn't mention the Master of Assassins or the Azura on Salib or any of the Kaeri because we were NOT friends and if you forget them, good riddance. Good luck. I believe in you. You're going to do an amazing job, Redana.

PS. if you get in trouble ask the Shepherdess for help. She's you, but from later. I don't think she forgot any of this, so maybe I'm just worrying about nothing? Maybe my eye really can remember all of this? But just in case, just in CASE, please do your best to remember everything here, okay? Study it like it's the Hesperidean Dialogues. (Maybe try to forget those too, actually?) Bella says she's going to "dunk you in the Lethe if you forget those after all the hard work I did" so try not to, and if you do forget but she forgets she said that, don't tell her. This one time. I promise it's okay.

That's all I can think of. Don't forget the gods, either. They're actually your family. Don't trust Aphrodite. Say a special thank you to Apollo. Remember we're doing this for Hades. Her the god that Iskarot worships is your mother. And Iskarot isn't going to forget her, so you can ask him for an explanation, but if I write her name down maybe she'll be able to come find us immediately? I don't know. I worry about it. It's complicated. You can't go home and see her until you've had your wish. Okay? Please?

Don't give up on Gaia. Don't give up on Bella. Don't give up on swords and adventure. I think if you do all that you'll be doing an okay job of being me. So let's do our best, okay?

- Prin Redana Clau Dany