Tatterdemalion

Huntresses of Hybrasil

It is not Dolly's place to second-guess her goddess. Not really. That's the purpose of the restraints, the guidance, the gag, the entire world inside of the mecha. All Jade has ever asked of her is to yield and receive the blessing of the goddess directly. Well, that's not technically true; Jade has asked many other things of her. But they boil down to obedience. To be passive and blushing and to accept the gifts that she is offered. You're going to be a good girl, aren't you, Dolly?

But at the same time, this time, she wishes she could speak. That she could whisper into Jade's ear that it's not working. That the rope is about to snap. That the pirate will match strength with strength, and that brute strength already overcame them working together once.

Dolly strains. She leans forward in the cockpit and moans, pitifully. Her heart is pulling taut against the net it is woven in, but not out of fear. No. Fear, but fear of not being good. Want. Want enough to bite. And, beneath it, the prayer of the girl who wanted to be swept up into the stars, desired by a goddess, preyed upon by pirates, to be constrained and owned and loved.

The lines slacken, the hands push her forward. "Go ahead," Jade says, toothful. "Tell her as only you can." And now it's her, just her, straining as Ada gains inch by inch against the throbbing ion-kissed cords, and she's still, still mouth-filled, still decorated, still exposed. The leash goes slack, trails against her fur, brushes against her bodysuit in a way that Jade knows exactly how to translate as a momentary and sensitive hitch. But she holds it in Dolly's peripheral. This is how she can keep playing the game for you, Dolly.

Dolly headbutts the queen.

Right beneath her chin, the two mecha come together with the delicacy of a ship docking. It's difficult work not to spear the throat on Jade's ears, but Dolly manages, and with her free hand, she cups the back of the queen's head. The idol was not designed for vibration, and so Jade extends herself throughout it, all of it, and demands its bones to shake. Of course it will not destroy the systems; she knows its tolerances intuitively. The calibration will be long, but let her adoring worshipers do so to show their love for her! Fingers designed to grip weapons of war brush the queen's skull with reassuring firmness, down to the back of her neck, where a mother would kiss.

"She'll hear you," Jade whispers. "And not just her. Everyone will. Everyone watching will hear you, Dolly." Her tail lifts her bride's chin in a way that will cause extensive detailing work for their opponent's pit crew. "If you want to win the fight in the precious Dolly way, you have to let them all know." And some will know, and more won't, and it's impossible to say what the consequences will be, but the thought is making her giddy, making her teeth long and sharp and wicked. And it's making Dolly's palms damp and her thighs shake and her eyes shut tight, pulse pounding through her body as she makes her choice.

Changing the output of the speakers is a flick of the ear, a twitch of the finger. Nothing to her. Everything to Dolly.

"Mmmm," Dolly hum-purrs, attaching the lead to her hip, at the magnetic clamp belt. A way to lose. If Ada pulls, she'll tear Dolly-- purring, gentle Dolly-- off her feet. "Mmmm mmmm," she continues. Her own breath washes hot over her face, pushed back by the thick layers. "Mmm, mmm mmm hmmm." An unmistakable purr, the trill of communication, of "we were play-fighting and now we are not," which every kitten knows, but... muffled. As if her mouth were packed full. Everybody can tell, probably. They all are going to know. But. But but but. They won't. Know. In person. Probably. But they might wonder. They might ask. Or they might insinuate. Or tease. Maybe Jade will change it up, leave them guessing, or maybe she'll, she'll, she'll...

The clench of Dolly's thighs requires instant weight redistribution to avoid her losing her footing in the debris. We can't have that, dearest.

The body language of Seven Quetzal is that of a little sister begging to win. The gag-speak of Dolly is that of an obedient little submissive acting as her mistress's seductress. And the entire match rests on the strength of her heart and the strength of her hips.

[9 on Emotional Support, but Jade will burn her String on Ada to add 1 to Dolly's roll and make it a full 10, because it's the capstone of the match and Dolly deserves to be spoiled.]

Huntresses of Hybrasil

What does Jade do when she is threatened? When her lance is insufficient (because she will not use it to be cruel, because she wins by the rules that she sets out for herself)? She constricts, she restrains, she seduces, she caresses.

Out comes the cord.

She seemingly overbalances, lets the lance be batted to one side, but she uses it as counterbalance, and the cord wraps around one of the Snow Goose’s wrists, the lead swinging in smaller, tighter circles. She darts to one side, pulling it taut long enough to force her opponent to strain, and then lets out another length, enough for her to dart around, laughing, light-footed.

Each punch could end her. So she seeks to pull those wrists in, force the powerful mercenary to strain against her own frame. She is fast— so fast! Her suit is damp with sweat. She is tying this warrior with her own ropes, and Jade whispers of pressing her up against the foe, chest to chest, both of them pretty little packages for her glory. Each flex, each pull, convinces her that the whole thing is going to come undone, that she’s going to be yanked off her feet, that she’s going to be wrapped so, so tight— but Jade is correcting for her, always knows where to put her balance, knows knows knows her knots! She slides between the thick thighs of the Snow Goose and pulls the cord up taut, tight, hooks it to the web between her shoulders.

And then, because Dolly is such a good girl, because they’re on camera, because she fucking wants to, she shoves her body against the Snow Goose, front to front, trusting in the cord to hold. Daring it to hold. If it does not, she loses.

“Pray to me,” she purrs. “And I will bless your family and their stars, lifter-of-stones, teaser-of-princesses.” She can feel the current running through the cables— no, not current. Magic. The magic nips at her skin and sends vibrations running through her front. Jade’s hands are on her cheeks, squeezing, rubbing, playing with her collar, digging nails into her thighs, making her shake with the effort of staying there, doing what she’s told, pressed up against a tamer of princesses, and don’t they get the big Terenian dresses and crowns? What would she look like in one? Princess Seven Quetzal… “A homecoming I will promise you. All I ask is worship. Well. Worship… and service to be discussed later.”

Princesses. Yes. An explanation would be most useful. Another honor for her peerless bride! And another desired torment, yes? Oh, how you will sing of princesses for her, pilot!

[Jade manages an 8 on Defying Disaster with Grace, and risks the match on it.]

Breathless Dead

Five days out from Fountainhead
and seven yet to sail
the sea she sings forever
and the wind joins in the wail

There’s tack at morning tack at night
and beer to ease it down
I’ll catch a fish with my bare hands
and toss it to the clown

White his curls and white his cheeks
until he gets a kiss
then he’s red as evening skies
and lost in bleating bliss

He’ll gut it fry it salt it sweet
drown its head in brine
turn its bones to cutlery
a fin for every tine

Five days out from Taste-my-lips
and seven yet to sail
the sea she sings forever
and the wind joins in the wail

My Bonny’s down beneath the mast
counting grains of rice
sorting good from sour salt
and executing lice

Her hair’s the sea at edge of night
her skin’s the breath of dawn
and as for all the rest of her
the song would run too long

She’d cut through Alexander’s knot
and tie his e-le-phants in turn
and if all the Azures barred her way
she’d make their water burn

Five days out from Land-of-bird
and seven yet to sail
the sea she sings forever
and the wind joins in the wail

Don’t you cry, your highness fair
we’ll rock you back to sleep
there’s naught to fear in empty sky
or in the darkest deep

We seek the sky beyond the sky
the sea beyond the sea
the island where the suns give birth
and where your dreams run free

Go wrap your waist in shining silk
of tissue make your boots
and hope to find a far-off land
where you may tend your roots

Five days out from Carvenhall
and seven yet to sail
the sea she sings forever
and the wind joins in the wail

One and all we sing this song
though why I’ve quite forgot
go tell our cook I’ve got a net
so ready grill and pot

On we run against the waves
this little ship and I
and there’s no time to wonder where
or even wonder why

Tonight we’ll feast beneath the stars
and dance til dawn’s first light
and then we’ll do it all again
and then we’ll do it right

Five days out from Tellus
and seven left to sail
the sea she sings forever
and the wind joins in the wail

Breathless Dead

The knight stares out at the perfect blue. The surf roars its heartbeat. Rise and fall. The stones sing where the trailing fingers of foam turn them.

She is aware of her heart. She is aware of her fingers and the blood in them. She is aware of her hair, braided with love. The ribbon is a part of her body, as much as her boots are, as much as her stomach is, as much as the ocean is.

The stones sing. Clack-a-clack. The ocean yawns and reaches for them again, but the foam only reaches their toes, and the wave shrugs back down. Strange wood lies on this shore. It is shaped like someone sleeping, or like an explosion of fingers, or like serpents. There are no birds.

The knight hoists the princess up as high as she can, to keep the train of her dress from dragging in the sand, and says: “We need a boat. Let’s look.” And she marches down, against the foam, looking for a boat, or a very large raft, or even a very large tree big enough to fit everyone inside, all of her companions, all of her heart. A white boat, a black boat, a tall boat, a long boat. A yacht, a galleon, a clipper, a battleship. Something left abandoned here, a dream (a dream?) of crossing left behind.

She will name it Starsong, when she finds it. And she will. That’s what knights are useful for.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Family.

Dolly has family. An older sister, Jade’s midwife. She watches the matches; from afar, she is their witness. But her work has her planetbound, trying to understand how Jade hatched herself out of the stone egg, and here Dolly is standing on the surface of a world made for challenges.

Jade stretches as she helps Dolly to stand, and the idol cannot contain her as she does so. Her back brushes against the sky; her hands encompass the entire battlefield; her tail curls around the world. Then she recedes, tidal, and places her hands on her shivering, eager Dolly.

The ruthless play would be to fight like a Fisher: to use the lance like a harpoon, to stab and stab, to seek a weak point and run the Snow Goose (which must be its name) through. But Dolly hums in gratitude and lets the bells on her tail chime as she uses the lance as a staff, whipping it through the space between them, stressing the metal of the mecha-worthy haft as it tears against the air. You want a good fight, Snow Goose?

Marvel, then! Behold the circle of her hips, the arcs of control, the way her idol moves with perfect footwork. Try and touch her again! That spearhead will kiss you and let your heavy armor slip away. And if you can bear her down to earth, if you can close in when the lance demands your distance, you will have earned your win.

But is she not beautiful, Snow Goose? Dolly is untrained, not particularly skilled in combat, but she does not need to be. She just needs to obey, and she is so, so good at that. When you fight her, you are really fighting Smokeless Jade Fires, wrapped around her so tight, showing her off. Can you see her jingling chains in the sweep of her feet? The bounce of her bosom when she presents her breastplate? The huff of exertion through her nose? Hidden in plain sight, waiting for you to notice, as she stands exposed beneath the cameras.

“Who is this family you fight for?” A question both for the pilot and the cameras. “Why are they so important to you, that you would fight for them— here, of all places, against me, undefeated and clad in holy terror?” She cedes an opening, gives ground, presses herself against Dolly’s back and squeezes. “I promise, we are listening~”

Breathless Dead

“That is so sad!!”

The princess will find herself aggressively squished against the knight, who is sniffling. But she can’t get her arms up around the princess, and there’s no way she’s going to put her down, so there’s no way of stopping the tears.

“Surely that’s not all! There’s got to be… what about…” The knight thinks, or tries to, but the specters of princesses in need of rescue haunt her as she marches along, even in her distress still surefooted and careful. After all, we can’t have a delicate princess tumbling out of the arms of a knight. What a scandal that would be! What would everyone think?? (The fact that there is no one around to notice doesn’t occur to her.)

“…but that must be the reason there are knights!” And what of what she’d said? What had she said, anyhow? Something about happy endings? “That’s what we’re for! To be there for you! To stop those dreams from dying! No sad princesses! Not while I’m around!!”

No sad princesses! It echoes in the dream of cities, a declaration that will be draped over her shoulders. Here, then, is a virtue of chivalry!

Breathless Dead

Had she ever been here? In the depths of the city, surrounded by the city, by people, by crowds, everyone crammed into cities built to house entire species? Where everything was loud and crowded and houses were built on top of houses, stores exploded out into the street, and everywhere you turned there was someone else?

The answer becomes no. The memories of clinging to her arm slip away, replaced by a city more real than real. A city without anyone else; a city built for the benefit of the buildings, which whisper to each other in the dark. A city of secrets and hidden places; a city that has meaning that is not derived from inhabitance but from existence and context.

From high up, she glances down through a window and sees a shack, squatting in a grassy square in the shadow of taller walls, wires curling on its sides. From below, she looks up and sees ten dozen golden windows, each one spilling out light, each one promising solitude. From across the way she catches a glimpse of pink-white trees lit up by phosphorus beacons, casting long shadows of reaching arms across the city.

“All knights are the same kind of knight, milady,” the knight says. “It doesn’t matter whether they have a sword or a spear or an axe, except that swords have an advantage over axes, and axes over spears, and so on. Some ride horses and some ride skateboards and some ride rainbows. But all knights are the same knight, because in their hearts, they all have a quest. And sometimes this quest is to go someplace, to find someone or something, to never give up. And other times it’s to go where someone else is, to keep them safe no matter what, and to never give up. And sometimes, I guess, it’s both? I’m both. My quest is to protect you, and to follow my fair damosel triangulus, and to not let that kill me, because then you’d both be very upset at me for being so careless! Knights rescue the helpless, the captured, the kidnapped, and even when they get caught up in it, they’ll always find a way out in the end. To be a knight is to devote yourself to the happily ever after as your mistress, your tyrant, your god.”

The ceiling overhead is vaulted but thin-slatted, and where there are slats missing, the pale pink sky of twilight peeks through. Around them are locked doors and locked windows, invitations to peek inside and see treasures. It would be wrong to crack these vaults open and take what they like; it would be easy, but it would be a blasphemy. So the knight continues onwards.

“It’s your turn,” she says, smiling, hefting her up a little higher, pulling her a little closer. “Tell me about princesses. What sorts are there? What kind are you?”

Huntresses of Hybrasil

“Again, you refer to me as royalty! As one who does not rule but is revered— ah, I see how that must translate for you aliens, with your bloodlines of rule!”

She’s keeping the worst of it off Dolly. Her beloved pilot is still squirming under the weight in ways that are not very productive, but that is because her legs are pinned under weight as comforting as Jade can make it. What a kitten she is.

It’s up to her, as always, to find the solution. That is her role, after all. To show Dolly the way out, to make her thrill, to make all that dare to challenge them look like fools. And there is a way to do so here! It’s just that she hasn’t seen it yet, and she’s running out of time. Soon this Invisible Avian will tire of showboating and bury the both of them under the rubble.

“I may not be one of the Honored Ones,” she continues, avoiding even their proper titles. Not even she would casually speak of her Grandmothers before the watching crowd. Dust showers onto her front as she strains, and realizes that she is stuck, unable to get leverage to push it up further. A thought flickers into her head, and she guides Dolly’s arms back down, slowly blotting out the sky. One foot hooks the bottom of the tank. “But you are right to acknowledge me and my authority. I am one of the powers of the universe, immortal from the moment of my birth. I hatched from an egg, born to myself, and I walk the eightfold path that is forbidden to your kind.”

Metal groans. Dolly’s arms are wobbling with the effort. You can do it, sweetie. “And if that makes me a princess, then I accept it— princess of the hunt, stone-crowned, and—“

The plan was simple enough. Shove it upwards, using the bottom of the tank as leverage, knocking it into the Ephemeral Swan and giving them an opening to scramble up and free, but her knee jams into something, the tank jars loose from her grasp, and she has barely a moment to decide what she will do.

She flows over Dolly like night. Pins her down. Pushes her face against the floor, swaddled in shadow. She interposes herself between Dolly and the feedback of being crushed underneath the cement-weighted tank. Her own cheeks burn with embarrassment, and some quirk of the feedback makes her feel like she bears all that weight on her shoulders, her back, crushing her against the voluptuous curves of her priestess.

No pain for Dolly. Just weight, entrapment, helplessness. Even failure will be a gift for you. As long as you are here, as long as your goddess is here, as long as you have offered yourself up body and soul, you will be protected, and indulged, and loved.

Well? You want to finish this fight, Preening Crow. Lift the tank. Mock them if you must, but you won’t end it like this. You won’t abandon the chance to continue showing your power. You’re hungry for it. Perhaps you will ready cords, or step on your opponent as you lift it off, but you won’t end it like this.

But until you do, all Jade can do is push one knee against Dolly, insistently, and watch her squirm, night-hooded and barely audible, arms stretched out, hips bucking by centimeters, trapped underneath the weight of her goddess, who would hold up the world for her.

[They could have tried to Synchronize, but the image I had in my head was to Defy Disaster with Daring, no matter that it’s their worst stat. Anyway, they have rolled a 4 and are at Ada’s mercy; she gets to define how the match continues, or if Jade has any further chance to win.]

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Giriel!

The warlock closes the gap between you. But she does not strike. The sword is the promise of violence in her hand, but she holds it back, torn between anger and hope, doubt and longing.

“You’re lying,” she spits between her teeth. “I wasn’t offered help. I was never offered help. And where was your help, witch? What have the people of these kingdoms ever done for you that wasn’t done to curry your favor, to buy your help with the spirits, the portents, the demons at the door?”

---

Kalaya!

Two mud-slick hands grasp at you. One is desperate, flailing, the delicate hand of a dainty maid.

The other is the firm, clawing hand of a N’yari warrior. One who could, one imagines, put Fengye and Sagacious Crane at risk. You know how opportunistic the N’yari are; if you pull her out, she’s likely to try to grab someone and make a run for it.

So here’s your choice, noble knight. Do you pull them both out? Or do you fumble, try to get a better position, and risk the enveloping, clinging mud-embrace of the spirit?

---

Lotus!

Oh, Han.

It takes you some time to realize how she’s shivering underneath you, trying so desperately not to… to do something. Your attention was absorbed in the delicate work of pouring your essence through your lips, your tongue, giving her everything you can. Here, far from water, in the wood which drinks its essence, you give her everything.

The gash scabs over, the scar glossy as lacquer. The bruises ebb, the blood-dam loosening with a twist of your essence. Cool waters lick along her veins, dampening her fires, reducing her pain, and that must be why she shivers; her skin prickles with cold.

You try to stand, to not linger, to not take more from Han than she would want from you, and the room slips sideways. Your essence is unbalanced; you silly girl, you didn’t need to give her so much of yourself!

But she catches you.

Your head is on her lap. Her hands are on your head. When you shift, the links of the chain around your ankle drag across the fine boards of the floor.

“You saved me again,” you say, and you can’t stop yourself from smiling. Your face uncovered, your dress splayed out around you like the petals of a flower, you smile up stupidly at the girl you…

“It was my fault,” you blurt out. “I got you into this mess, and I did too much— I should have gone slower— thank you, and, if I had to be here, with anyone, I love. That it’s you. That’s what. And. And.”

You turn, blushing, still smiling, and nuzzle your mouth against her palm, toes curling as you try to will yourself to turn into water and melt through the floor.

“I want you,” you mouth against her skin, again.

Breathless Dead

Two magics, one right on the heels of the other, like Olympians desperately competing for the laurels.

The first? That’s the sweep— one arm under her knees, one cradling her shoulders, tucking her head in close to the breastbone. The huff of breath through a scarf, the firmness of her biceps, the set of her shoulders, both suggesting that she’s not treating this casually, not underestimating the burden, but not fearing it, either. No, she is like the horse which flares its nostrils before it begins a long and steady trot, the kind that can continue for hours.

The second is the sparkle in her eyes. She knows who she is. It has flowered inside of her, suddenly, but right, so right. Why this moment fits into her hands perfectly. Why she follows the triangles. Why she has a sword. How could she have forgotten?

“It is the privilege of a knight to carry a fair maiden,” the knight says, puffing out her chest with pride and delight. “Thank you for doing me this honor.” She cradles the fair lady gently, as chastely as she may with a hand on her thigh, for her heart belongs to another, and any flustered glances will bounce right off her oblivious delight.

A knight!

She is a knight!