Tatterdemalion

Breathless Dead

She’s still for a disconcertingly long time. Because, sure, she knows what she wants! Boon: easy. When you meet a princess, a real princess, of her own planet, with the laurel wreath in her wheat-blonde hair, with the red dress dripping with the golden beads and the purple sash, with a face that’s on the adorable side of pretty, with the gloves, the real white silk gloves— that’s the kind of thing you can’t miss out on! You have to ask her for the opportunity for service, or for a kiss, or for a sword to fight her enemies with, but she keeps digging deeper into the things she knows, in her bones, in her blood.

“All right,” she says, looking the princess in the eye, how odd that they’re the same height. “I know what I have to ask. What’s the impossible deed that’s troubling you? Is it… taming a giant lion made out of five smaller lions? A truth hidden at the very heart of a death-moon? Picking between three eggs, one of which has the fire that does not go out inside of it, one of which has the sea that is not quenched inside of it, and the last one has your heart inside of it, only nobody knows which one is which? Beating you in a cross-planet race, because you can only marry someone who beats you fairly?” She considers for a moment. “I’m not sure I can help you with the last one. I’d have to ask… you know, the triangles? Her. She might still say yes, though, so if that’s it, we should— no? Okay, well, the reason, the reason, is that when you meet a princess who’s just miserable, it’s because she has an impossible wish in her heart, like… like…”

(“Like looking up through the clouds and catching sight of a star, impossibly far away, and wishing you could close your hand around that star, not because you want to drag it down to earth but because you want to use it as a handhold to pull yourself up and see all the places you’d read about, dreamed about, imagined— only, you would never get to see them, because you were a doll shut away inside of a closet, waiting, and if the throne was ever empty, you’d be brought out and sat on it so that you could be a replacement, and that would be even worse, because it would mean that your mother was gone, your confusing and loud mother, your mother who would yell at you so that she could smile like a cat and say that she loved you when you ran to see what was wrong, your mother who wanted you to be the you that she could see in her heart, only you didn’t know how to be that girl, and you sat in the closet and grew heavier and stupider and you stared out at that one star, a gift from your father, and you made a wish to go— and then you realized that if you stayed in the closet, you would never ever see that wish come true. So you pushed the door open and slipped away, a little doll with a bruised cheek, dragging a statue along with you in a pleasure yacht you didn’t know how to sail, but you prayed to the lord of the shining rainbow sea, and he took his beloved niece where she needed to go most of all.”)

“Like that! Exactly! And that’s all over your face, your highness. And the only way to make things better is to make that impossible wish happen. Then you can be yourself, instead of a miserable princess, because all miserable princesses are the same in how sad they are, or how they’re sad— that’s better. So what’s your impossible wish, and the impossible deed I have to do? I think I’m good at doing them. How else would I know all about them?”

(”…”)

“Well, if you don’t know, or you can’t say— I bet it’s because you can’t say, that’s usually part of it, princesses are always having their voices stolen away one way or another— then come with me. I think we’ll figure it out on the way! Come on, take my hand, try slipping that wreath off, and we can find you an incognito dress! It’s not an impossible task, but it might just make you smile, your highness. And that’s part of the quest! Just take my hand, and I promise: I’ll find a way to help. What’s your name?”

(“…Redana Claudius?”)

A very long stare. “No,” she says, finally, “I don’t think that’s your name. Because your name is supposed to make you feel good, not look like you’re waiting for the world to crash down on your head, your highness. Maybe that’s your official princess name, sure— but I think we might be able to find something better. Not like I’m one to talk. Triangles has got it, I think. She’s the dependable one…”

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Up! Up!

Dolly barely needs the prod from Jade. They’re both Hybrasilian; they both know how to respond to a situation like this. The jump is powerful, but the pivot off the shoulder of the Unfindable Gander is almost delicate. A hand that could be used to grip a lance or drive it into the guts of a mecha, instead brushing their opponent’s shoulder. Thruster microbursts, kisses of wind, turning her body, bells spinning and singing—

And then they are above the steam, changing position, the night air cool on her back as Jade calculates the landing. A chastisement. Hardly enough to secure victory, but feel how Dolly’s heart races! She spins, she holds her arms out, she entrusts herself to her goddess and the night itself.

Then they plummet, and the drop in Dolly’s stomach means that she squeals as the ground races towards them. Their opponent has but half-turned, attempting to bring some weapon to bear, no doubt. It is Jade who brings her hands up into the chastising mudra. The cloak’s flickering on impact will mean that the audience will have one perfect shot of her body, one to be paused and zoomed in on.

Leg extended and locked into plac, Dolly kicks her opponent full in the face, and then springboards back, further into the factory. Sparks briefly light up the dissipating steam as she digs her legs in.

“I’m afraid she’s already taken,” Jade proclaims, her righteousness dripping from her fangs. “Whatever you may have heard about the Red Band, she is still MINE to discipline. And I have decided she gets to keep her modesty for a little longer.” They’re on the move again, circling; Jade’s grandeur echoes through the factory. ”I can’t have any milk-mouthed pilot thinking themselves the equal of Smokeless Jade Fires, after all. Did you learn nothing from my matches? Or were you too busy drooling over the matchless beauty of my… ah, yes, my princess, that’s what you called her~”

[Boxcars on Defy Disaster with Grace, much to Dolly’s good fortune.]

Breathless Dead

Her fingers dig into the soft fur, and the girl in her lap makes small chirps and growls of delight. She is tucked into one corner, back to the sea, facing the hills which blaze out yellow (and blue, that rich indigo blue, the flowers like bells) (and red, red-black, like the scales of a snake) (and purple, sheep-wool-curled purple clinging to the hills). Beside her the hound-girl reclines, head in her lap, playing at watching the clouds. The hound is one-in-two, the ones that share their thoughts. So when she digs her nails in, when she rubs circles in the fur, when she fluffs up an ear, it’s two people that feel the joy of being pampered.

Her hands are disconnected from her head, which watches the colors go by in their vast swathes. She’s seen colors like those before, hanging in the sky. Was it a sky? It wasn’t really anything like the sea, now, was it? Those impossible clouds melt under her tongue like candyfloss in bursts of flower petals.

The hound heaves shoulders up into her lap. She responds by rubbing and playing with the exposed throat, and the sound of the hound’s tail hitting the chariot bed is near-deafening, a drum solo of enthusiasm and joy. “Right there. Right there. I can see why you had a thing for her. My sister’s so lucky, isn’t she?”

Sisters? Sisters, then. Yes. Maybe an in-law one day. It’s fine to have a sister-in-law on your lap, tongue lolling, panting, grabbing at wrists whenever they seem to be drifting away so that she can pull them back to their work. A bond of friendship-through-association being strengthened with scritchies.

Thump, thump! Speak of the Beloved and she will appear. The hound playfully leers up at her sister, mimicking the act of taking a photograph. The girl instead stares, respectfully. She could join in, but there’s a head in her lap, and they’ll both hunt her down if she stops. Instead she just intently studies the way her Beloved stretches, the lift of one heel, the muscles working under her skin.

Thoughts of skirts will bedevil her long after the sound of bells moves on, moving up the line.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Dolly is already leaning into the bow, a smile on her face. Lance out, one hand brought up to her chest, one foot gracefully back. "Ah, the Hidden Bird! But I can clearly see you, how odd!" Jade's voice is a whisper in the temple, but it booms outside. As Dolly lifts back up, Jade's hands supporting her, her eyes are closed out of happiness. The bells hanging on her chime gently, and the padlock on her collar rests against the hollow of her throat.

They'd only barely glanced at the information right before they were to be launched. Instead, they'd gone for that walk, they'd fallen asleep curled up together with Ocean Harmonies IV playing over the speakers (as much as Jade could sleep, that is), and they'd collaborated on Dolly's current piloting getup. The bracelets at her wrists and ankles are thicker today, and ringed with bells, and she wears only a loincloth-- all her suggestion. Clawed hands rub at her cheeks and hold her fast by the chin, and any fear over not having a plan is buried underneath the power of her goddess, the bliss of her position, and the thrill of this hidden exposure.

Today, she is not just silly little Dolly. She is the dancer of the goddess. And victory is found in the fight, not in the victory.

That is what Smokeless Jade Fires whispered in her ear, after all.

"Because you do not know our ways, you do not know my power and my glory," Jade says. Dolly raises a hand in what she hopes is a proper glory pose. Fingers up, shake the wrist, make the bells sing. Jade makes the smallest tilt of the hand, lifts two fingers slightly. Dolly purrs, happy, eyes still closed. "I am Smokeless Jade Fires, Hiding Hen! I pass into the underworld and return with the knowledge of the ancestors! I touch my fangs to the heart! My priestess is Dala Hunters, delight of delights, whose hunt is holy! And in your honor, Vanished Sparrow, let us both be ghosts!"

The cloak of darkness is cool on Dolly's fur where Jade drapes it over her. Her bells still, as silent as Dolly herself. She lifts onto her toes and begins the Dead Bird Strut, which will take them past the open ground and into the factory, where-- oh, yes! Where there will be shadow and movement out of the corner of the eye. Where they can fight a war surrounding the faithless. And even if that just flushes her out, that's still forcing her to cede ground!

As two who are one, they make their approach, cloaked and quick and well-silenced.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Giriel!

“What other way?” She drags the hilt of her sword down her brass arm, scraping, discordant. A hell-sound, slavering and vicious. But underneath…

There’s something there. Something that Kalaya can’t help but reach for. She hasn’t lashed out yet; she hasn’t called for demons contracted to her will, or swung her sword at your head. She’s still making up her mind, even as she paces, gauges your guard, considers you— and what you stand for.

There is always another way, Giriel Bruinstead. The warlock is lost, committed to a path that she’s already spent much pursuing. If she gives up now, she’ll spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder for the debt to come due. But you can help her stop.

This is your magic, Giriel. And of everyone in the Flower Kingdoms, you’re the person that she needs right now. The one who can show her that there is another way.

There’s a shift in the wind. The smell of the rain is cleaner. The seasons are close to changing.

---

Kalaya!

Half-hug nothing. Sagacious Crane pulls you in and clings to you. She’s not a particularly good hugger— all stiff and awkward— but she definitely needs it. Isn’t this what it means to be a knight, after all? This isn’t the usual sort of distress, but you’re still being helpful. Of use. Her hero.

“Yes, yes, that’s— yes, I know just the place where we could beseech the Sapphire Mother for her aid and advice! I’d, I didn’t want to go back to her after the failure of my… well, that’s not important right now. What is is helping you, brave knight!”

With some remaining sniffles, she takes you by the arm and leads you down the river. It’s not the worst walk in the world, despite the rain, the borrowed umbrella from the dumpling stand, and the exhaustion you yourself are facing. And the way that the priestess is clinging to your arm and laughing a little too much at what you say. You might have an admirer, Kayala.

But the sacred place she’s bringing you to? It seems that it’s already occupied— by a great, hulking mud-monster facing down a defenseless woman with an umbrella. One you’ve definitely never met before. Isn’t this the sort of thing a knight’s supposed to get involved in?

---

Fengye!

You have an audience yet again. Coming down a nearby dirt path are a priestess clinging to the arm of a knight, neither of whom look like they’re having a particularly good month.

“Come and claim her,” the Rootwash mumbles, in a pathetic attempt at subtlety. No doubt it hopes you will sink your hands into the mud, looking for the Maid, and then it may force any concession out of you it pleases. But the invocation of rights was correct, and you have this under control— so long as the knight and the priestess don’t interfere.

---

Lotus!

Han is a hero.

That’s why your heart is racing, isn’t it? Feeling her strong, steady fingers remove layer after layer, unwrapping you, freeing your voice, somehow even more enticing than being gagged in the first place? How gentle she’s being with you, even as she winces whenever she raises her arm too high? How she growls, in a way that sends shivers down your spine, that she’s going to protect you? You wanted to be saved by a dashing hero, and that is exactly what you have gotten. It’s difficult to even try and find your voice.

But you have to. Because only a selfish girl would indulge in her own pleasure without caring about the needs of her hero.

“Han,” you say, and your voice is a fluttering bird in the cage of your heart, beating against the bars. “You’re hurt. Please, let me just… may I?” Your fingers brush against her sleeve, slowly rolling it back, even as you look Han in the eyes. She’s tired, and she’s trying so, so hard not to show it. “Please. You got hurt trying to protect me. It’s… it’s the least I can do.” It’s the only thing you can do. You’re not a swordfighter like the two children of dragons who fought over you, like a treasure they both desired. Your tongue touches your dry lips (surely just because of the gag!).

You lower your veil, and scoot down, kneeling beside her— which is a mistake, because now it’s just a little too high up to kiss, and also you’re kneeling next to her like a N’yari slave-girl waiting for permission to serve, but you can’t get back up. Your legs won’t obey you, because you’re staring up at your hero and you can’t decide whether you want her to let you kiss her wounds better and cradle her head in your arms or to pull your face up to hers with those rough, gentle hands and kiss your unveiled mouth, and you shouldn’t be thinking about that, but your lips are parted anyway and you can’t pull your eyes away from her mouth, even as you rub her arm and wait for…

For permission. To be allowed. Even as the daughter of a goddess, you are familiar with this. A good girl asks for permission before she acts. A good girl considers the feelings of others before her own. A good girl respects that Han only sees her as something to be protected, not as… as more.

“I don’t want you hurt,” you say. “I want…”

I want to kiss you. I want you to hold me and make me feel safe. I want you to tie me tighter and toss me over your shoulder in a daring escape as i breathlessly squeal into every one of those gags. I want you to think I’m pretty. Do you think I’m pretty? The way you looked at me…

“I want you…”

And you should say something to finish the thought, but it just hangs in the air, and you are completely at your hero’s mercy as you kneel there, in the most gorgeous dress you’ve ever worn, staring up at her through your golden spectacles, heart in your throat, lips parted, goosebumps under your fingers.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

The tablet on the table chirps with the notification: message received. Information about their next rival, their next battle, their next chance to win. Their next glorious victory, so that all the universe knows of them and sings their praises.

Smokeless Jade Fires ignores it. It doesn’t matter. She just keeps staring at her priestess, laid out beneath her on the couch. Her fingers trace Dolly’s cheeks, play at her lips, brush through her curly hair.

“Mine,” she whispers. “Mine,” she begs. “Mine,” she promises.

It should be crushing. If Jade wanted, it would be. The weight of her attention is incredible. All of that divinity, that magic, that vastness all focused on her body, her face, her self. Overwhelming, crushing, obliterating. But it’s like… like Jade’s being careful. Just like that first night.

“Yours,” she promises. “Yours,” she begs. “Yours,” she whispers.

How can Dolly possibly take her seriously? Didn’t she see her failure at the hands of that dreadful, wonderful minx? But… but everything says otherwise. The joy when she rushed to her goddess’s side. The joy, here and now, just from her presence. The shame mingled with her excitement when she thinks about those mangy, wicked pirates.

Of course they stole her. Look at her. The shape of her eyebrow; the fullness of her lip; the softness of her cheek. To own Dolly is to own the universe. Her fingers brush against the missing fur on her Dolly’s shoulder, and an angry thrill rushes through her. How dare they? To mark her without her…

Oh. That was a familiar expression, Dolly. A squirming, guilty expression. One which makes Jade’s stomach squirm. Were those pirates… better captors? Would Dolly run off and find better…

”I’m sorry,” Dolly blurts out. The guilt has been eating her up on the inside, bit by bit. “I… I tried. I really DID try to seduce her, like you wanted! But she barely let me talk, and, and she had all these plans for trying to make you her goddess, and… I’m sorry, Jade, I’ll…”

“Shhh.” A hand over Dolly’s mouth, just the way she likes it. The heartbeat, the thrill, the happiness in her eyes that doesn’t go away no matter how many times she does it. “I am… happier that you failed.” Confusion. Is she saying that Dolly is a failure? What would Mirror do? Mirror would be all confidence. If Dolly thinks she was doing her goddess’s will, then… then it is right to let her believe that. “They did not deserve you. She does not deserve you. I deserve you.”

(But you weren’t there. You couldn’t stop them from snatching her up. You were helpless. You needed her. You would have done anything Mirror asked just to get her back. What kind of a goddess does that make you, Smokeless Jade Fires? The kind that wants to crush the mech of the insolent cat who dared mark Dolly as their property.)

Once Jade lifts her hand, Dolly says, meekly: “I think we should go for a walk.” Something’s upset Jade, she can’t pinpoint what, but… but all she can do is try to be good. To try and help Jade be as happy as her goddess makes her. “So… everyone can see who I really belong to. Who deserves me.”

Jade’s ears perk up. This. This is something that she can do better than any pirate can. “Yes, I agree,” she purrs, tail drawing slow curls in the air. “My high priestess, wearing her flowers, skyclad, and bound for her failures. Silenced, decorated, and forced to flaunt herself— so that these pirates cannot say they have a special treasure that no one else has seen. Not if I have shown the world, first~”

It is a game. All the pirates could do is undress her, crudely. Jade can give her the experience of showing the entire world without fear of consequences or judgment. Jade can conjure up crowds, make her predicament impossible and perfect, and keep her safe. They can’t do that. They doubtless saw Dolly as a toy, a treasure, a prize— and not as something to be carefully taken care of. Something precious, fragile, and perfect.

It’s almost certainly a game. She’s putting her trust in Jade, every time, that she’s not really, truly naked. It’s just an illusion, for her eyes only. It’s a way of baring her throat, of being vulnerable. The pirates didn’t ask her for trust. That’s something only Jade can give her.

Maybe she wouldn’t mind being kidnapped again. Trying again. But only after she’s talked with Jade about it first. If she’s not comfortable letting Dolly try to succeed at the mission again…

Unbidden, she thinks of Valynia and shivers. There is… there are… it would be nice. To be her captive again. To be teased and groped and put in a dangerous predicament. But not if it hurts Jade. Never if it hurts Jade. She’ll fight like a cornered mother before she lets them hurt Jade.

The tablet sits forgotten on the table as Jade works Dolly out of her clothes, seeing her both clothed and unclothed, and instructs her to cover up the brand with a snugly-tied cloth, and fixes a shining silver collar around her throat. After all, the games are nothing more than another game.

If she had to choose between victory and her Dolly, Jade would never hesitate. Never again.

(She covers each layer of cloth in kisses and digs her phantom claws in Dolly’s fur; she rubs her cheeks on Dolly and wills for her to smell her love as hard as she can. This is how I love you, Dolly. I will give you everything.)

Breathless Dead

Rise and fall. Rise and fall. Lift and swing. Flick. Pant. Lift... and swing.

For a while there, the journey spooled out to her schedule. She pushed herself up to the brink and then would call for a stop, for pacing in place, rotating her arm, taking water passed up the line. The dead, spiteful crunch under her boots. The netting lying on her limbs, caught in place just below her chin. The whisper of hot breath, as if the nettles were alive, were resentful, were wishing them all ill. If they were to turn around (but of course they cannot turn around) maybe the nettles would have closed up behind them, netting them in place, knotting them in place. Brown and black and muddy pink.

She is a direction two-in-once. She is forwards, never backwards, stumbling forward even though her body is aching, even though the burrs are getting everywhere, and the poor lamb is going to need a shearing, isn't he? Keep going. If she stops, really stops, she'll be too tired to keep on. It'll be too tough to get up. That's what her body is telling her. Just keep going forward. Don't fall asleep among the thorns. This is like... it's like something. She's been tired like this before, hasn't she? Somewhere. Circles. Was she running in circles? Round and round and round. It slips through her thought like smoke and is gone.

But she is also towards her. She orbits her like a satellite. The beautiful tributes, the raiment of a queen-in-exile. And yet, and yet! Her body is a thunderbolt, is a wonderful thing just like hers. They're two parts of the same movement, and even if she insists on eating all standing up and glancing towards the green-pole-speckled horizon, it's her that lets her come close enough to stillness to be able to slip back out of it. After all, it's not like Alexa's there to carry her.

What an odd thought.

Alexa: (n), the idea of being carried in safety, of resting your head against a shoulder and feeling the steady pace of footsteps, not jarring, not timid. The number four? Four corners? A square? A square, then. Geometry-security.

I'll Alexa you, she tries to explain, through a mouthful of sweet apples. I'll do it. Just watch me!

Breathless Dead

Of course she was the first one to find them. She has been insatiable. Like a hound-servitor trapped indoors, staring out the window, yearning to run. So she does. She runs. She climbs. She clambers. Yes, she clambers— up and down and over. She is, ostensibly, a scout. What she is more often is an adventurer. The nature of this valley is such that wherever she goes, she can look around and find something new, interesting, intriguing, underneath a shining pink sky.

It must be what she was made for. Her sword swings in a scabbard slung over one shoulder. Her bare limbs burst with freckles. Her gloves are sure, her boots grip steady. She catches herself running her fingers over the dust-catching scarf, which feels… right. In its right place, just like she’s in hers.

When her satchel is empty of ration bars (and full of interesting rocks and sun-faded trinkets), she navigates back to… to security. To a scowl and a wagging tail-tip. Look at these stones, she offers; look at this pin for your shadow-hair, look at this scarab-ring for your soft-finger. Let me give you the way forward; let me be your guide through the valley and the mire, up the shelves and down the stairs. Just give me a kiss. Just tell me I did good. Just wear my gift, just once.

Tell me that my body is useful, and I am good at using it, and what brings me joy is worth doing.

So of course she finds them first; she approaches them with her sword in her hand, at first, and then sheathed once she comes close and sees the mania. The smiles, the sweat, the exhaustion— but without the joy. Just the obsession. Just the labor, and not for its own sake. And above them all stands Desire.

She offers her honored enemy an emphatic apotropaic gesture.

Then she is going here and there, there and here, jumping over ditches, steadying a handcart, offering a steadying hand, asking: do you want to leave? Do you want to come with us? I can’t quite say where we’re going, but it’s dreadfully important— don’t you want to come? (But wanting is the whole of it, and dooms her to failure.)

Finally, one stops, and considers a moment.

Not yet. Not after all I have done to remain. When the harvest is done, he promised… I will have my reward. Everything I ever… everything. And that is enough to drown all the rest of them. Petty. Grasping. Unworthy. I alone am worthy, was ever…

…but thank you. Good luck, and here—

They offer her the weathered cloak-clasp. Jagged Ceronian bronze, the wolf’s head over clouds (unless they are the backs of sheep). A statement, and a weapon, and an impossibility. She closes her fingers around it, and they stand a little straighter for it.

Let it see starlight again, and battle, and glory. Let the Azura remember who made them tremble. Let the universe remember me, who changed the course of stars and determined the fate of trillions with the lifting and lowering of a fan.

Their teeth flash, and she takes a step back despite herself, but, no, they are already stooping, lifting the grave-dirt onto their shoulder again. She touches the brooch to her breastbone, and presses a point into the skin, enough to dimple, as she watches the conqueror, the ruler, the insatiable, make their way up the pyramid again.

But their tail wags, tired but sure, and she clips the brooch to her scabbard. She has done what she can. Now all she can do is make it to the other side for their sake, too.

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?