Tatterdemalion

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"Winter's the theme, but real mountain winter, the clear blue sky, the, you know, the bushes all green and red peeking out from beneath the snow, the kind of cold that makes you shiver but smile?"

Dolly is not wearing her (beautiful, exquisite, oh-my-stars-Jade) outfit, the one that only she's seen. Well, her and Mayze Szerpaws. And Smokeless Jade Fires. Just the three of them. Their little secret. It's the memory of that dress (how Smokeless Jade Fires draped it over her, pulled the cloak snug, kissed her cheek) that puts the bounce in her step.

This time, she's not shopping alone. That's not the only difference-- she's not shopping for herself, either-- but it's the really important one. With Ksharta and Ada and Sixes around her, she's safe from Valynia. Almost certainly safe. Probably safe. Because, goshies, if Valynia showed up with enough firepower for all four of them, and decided that they were all coming with, kittenish Ksharta and maternal Ada and teasing Sixes, and their safety depended on Dolly's willingness to do whatever she said, no matter how degrading, and--

"Hmm?! Ooh! That's some really, the lace does set it off well, do you think we can find something with pearls in the lace, though?"

"Platinum beading," Jade adds. She's trying "fashion" herself. Layers of white silk edged in her fires, burning without consuming, flowering in gold down her front, cuffed in cobalt. It's a powerful outfit for a powerful goddess. "That would fit better than pearls."

Doesn't she even see it? Not the beading. They're all looking to her, and not just because she's the mouth of the goddess. She's the rope that binds them all together. That damned pirate had good taste, stealing the most valuable treasure in the entire tournament. Each victory represents glory, and not just for Jade herself (who deserves every accolade, demonstrating that her peerless skill allows her to overcome any challenge, to confound every mortal who had the bad luck to be matched against them). No, when they win the tournament, it's going to be all for the glory of Dolly.

They will lift her on a pedestal! They will put her face on their iconography! She will look so sensual in her bodysuit, and no one will ever know how they will be broadcasting her hidden submission and restraint when they reproduce her victors' portraits! The three great civilizations of the stars will learn the name of her bride, and they will pay homage to her, and Jade will curl her tails around her priceless captive on her victor's throne and whisper: "I did all of this for you."

And then, oh, and then? She'll discover, waiting for her in Jade's idol, the two gifts that she'll be taking with her from the tournament: Ksharta Talonna and Angela Victoria Miera Antonius~! They will, of course, both be honored that they are being added to the goddess's harem on a permanent basis. Who wouldn't be? Now, the only question remaining was whether to risk using her own cult to arrange Dolly's victory present, or to contract out those uncouth Red Banders for the most effective (and arousing) abduction the cult could afford...

"Excuse me, do you have anything with platinum beading?" Dolly asks, Ksharta doing a good job of looking like she isn't hiding behind her. The tip of Dolly's tail wraps around Ksharta's ankle with a squeeze as she dives into negotiations with the sales-Terenian on how they can, together, fulfill the will of the goddess. (Ada is stalking back into the shelves, trying to find a possible third option, something to gruffly offer the "perky little thing.")

Someone might come to entirely the wrong (or entirely the right?) conclusion if they were to notice the hand held behind Dolly's back, fingers intertwined with Ksharta's own. How else was Ksharta supposed to be able to see their goddess? How else was Ksharta supposed to feel the comforting embrace of their collars, and hear the calming tinkle of their bells? And how else was Ksharta supposed to know that, victory or no victory, Dolly still wanted to be around her?

(And how could she hope to hint to Jade that, victory or no victory, Dolly still loves her?)

Breathless Dead

The knight floats.

All around her, there is splashing, sputtering, laughter. So she smiles. She floats in the center of them all, still tied together to her. She made it through. She made it up. She didn't lose anyone. (Well. She didn't lose anyone who was hers to lose. The Praetor made her own choice.)

Slowly, she smiles. It's not a beautiful smile, particularly. It's big, goofy, toothy. Her ankles bob up and down in the water as she kicks, not enough to propel her along, just enough to join in the splashing. She is warm for the first time in her life, the warmth of a cat, the warmth of not needing to move at all. Is this what she was always chasing, down behind? The throb of warmth in her aching muscles, the comfortable ache, the "you can take a nap" ache? The sun beats cheerfully down on her, and the heat is congealing inside of her body, and all she can find the strength to do is to squeeze the hand, still in hers, and then let her Mosaic go.

She made it. To be fair, she doesn't particularly know where "it" is, or the fine details of why it's so important that she's made it, beyond the warmth that flowed through her like a brushfire. Beyond the need for life itself. Beyond the laughter, the splashing, the crying with relief.

The knight floats, and doesn't even notice when she falls asleep, held by the sun-kissed sea in the gentlest embrace that can be imagined.

Breathless Dead

Sail me closer!

The knight is the Starsong. She knows her lines and wales as well as she can, given the length of their journey. And when the ropes whine and strain under the task, they are her own tendons and nerves howling. To deliver the Praetor to her doom is the death of the ship. But the ship will perform its duty. Nothing less is asked for it than all that it can give. And always, always, it is...

It's like taking the next step, the very next one. (Crest this wave. There will be a moment outside the waves; the sails will need to be turned already.) It's always her who's taken the next step. (The vertigo, the lurch, the strain of the sails threatening to rip away if she does not hold them.) The step from the earth to the sky. (The swing of the prow in the final approach, a knife defiant against the Eater of Worlds.) The step from star to star. (The next wave is the truly dangerous one.) And she chose the river, didn't she? (She screams the ship's pain as the wave crashes, crushes, envelops them whole, seeks to disperse, ropes pulled taut around waists, not a one of them slipping free, and they're through, and the sails are sodden, but they're alive for another wave, and that's all she can ask of herself, another step, just one more.) Running was like this when she was a girl. (Final approach back towards the head, riding the swell, a razor's edge and on either side the ship capsizes.) Is that why she is laughing? (Her lover glitters like a star to follow.)

So close now. (The eye swallows the sky.) The ship is dying. (The ship gives itself for everyone it loves.) This last crest will be the final one. (The ropes come unwound as she lets them all go, as she draws her sword, as she knows the route she will take across the deck in her heart. If every safety line is connected to the ship when it shatters, they will all drown with it.) Her sword is a kiss. (Each line grabbed by the carabiner.)

With a scream, the Starsong yields to the inevitable ocean. With a cry, the knight leaps through the wave, with all but one of the crew's lifelines attached to the mag harness about her hips, reaching out her hand for the hand she knows will be there.

Go, Praetor. Only this far can she take you, no further. And when you are victorious, she will be there waiting, she and the Mosaic and the crew of the Starsong, bound together in every way that matters.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Piripiri!

Never let a weaker person fight their own battles.

The noodles sizzle in the oil. The knife flickers in your hand, cutting apart the vegetables that will add body and texture.

Never let a weaker person fight their own battles.

What is going on between those two is certainly soft, and sweet, and good. But it is also a battle, of sorts, and you are letting Han (who burned so brightly, who fought so hard, but who still could not defeat you) stumble her way through romance for the first time, and isn't it just an itch on the back of your neck? Your own teachers certainly wouldn't have done so unless they intended on showing you how your untrained, inchoate instincts had failed you.

How do you shut those instincts up, daughter of Hymair? Or do you find the temptation comforting?

---

Han!

"We should escape," Lotus says, and absolutely does not let you go.

This is difficult, because she is smooshing your face into her body, and running her fingers through your hair, and generally being as clingy as a pretty girl like her would be over, like, some small kitten or her purse or a dainty flower. She's got her ankles wrapped around one shin as you recline together, rubbing the rope of her leash against your skin. She has swallowed the dragon whole with her softness, her good smell, her caring fingers, and that is a far more constricting prison than any chain or rope or, hypothetically speaking, the tiny cell underneath a lake that her mother is going to shut you up in the second she finds out that you have been so forward with her beloved daughter, and this is definitely the best time to suddenly remember that, isn't it? Jail For Dragon One Hundred Years, Plus Another Hundred For Face Crimes Committed Shamelessly Right Now.

"Right? We should escape?" She makes absolutely no move to get up off the divan, or to stop running her fingers through your hair. "We should start planning it, at least. Maybe we need to give her a false sense of security, lull her into complacency until she makes a mistake, but who knows how long that will take? And how many indignities she'll force us into for her entertainment? Maybe she'll tie us back to back, or, or front to front, so we have to stare at each other, and, that'll, give us time to come up with a plan...?"

From the grip she now has on your hair, and on your shin for that matter, it seems increasingly unlikely that she would be capable of coming up with a plan under those circumstances.

---

Giriel!

It's not Ven that lashes out at you. She's too soft for that, too malleable, too vulnerable, like some lost little kitten baring its teeth and hissing because it's scared of everything. How far she's risen from the depths of her preening villainy!

No, it's not Ven. It's Peregrine.

"Noodles? Disappointing," she says, as the wind-leopards bowl you over, sit on you, digging their icy claws into your arms, baring their half-there teeth. "Irrelevant in grander scale. Cakkavatti imminent. Strike her down."

"Witch, you do not control me either," Ven snarls, turning back towards Peregrine, whose eyes flash with Hell's green fires. She still thinks she's in control of the project; that she's not just going to make another King who will Break. Another facet of the world-crafting tyrant who is, at the end of it all, pathetic and alone in his shattered grandeur.

"Control? Yes. Also necessary." Another twist of her wrist, and ghostly shackles wrap around Ven's limbs. The sword is raised, and Ven is marched towards you, struggling against the spell, though whether from genuine repentance or affronted pride is difficult to tell.

Peregrine is the greatest mind of her generation, but taking on all of Hell and thinking she was going to get the upper hand may have been too much, especially because she must have forgotten that they could tempt her with things she wants. You're going to need to find some way of diverting her, or at the very least making her think that you'll be of use to the hell-fueled obsession of making Ven into the perfect king, and you've got to do it very, very fast.

---

Kalaya!

You are bowled over by a screeching, hissing N'yari who has just been covered in all the mud and would like all of the mud to instead be anywhere else, including on you. She shake, she floof, she knock you on your knightly butt and then notice the screaming priestess behind you. You'd better act quick, before she gets the priestess all muddy as part of trying to scamper away with a prize from all this (that, very specifically, being the priestess).

---

Fengye!

The Maid is so grateful at being freed that she is giving your neck a hug with her hands! And shaking you! What a good girl she is, trying to show her gratitude! It can't be anything else, because she's too pathetic and feeble to really do anything else, but, gosh, the intensity in those eyes! The baring of her teeth in an adorable snarl! The way she wiggles as she hugs you!

Then the monster roars, and she squeals in fear, and her hands drift lower as she clings to you, shivering, trying to put you between her and the scary thing of mud that had imprisoned her! To not be delicate, she's managed to unintentionally cop all of the feels while pressing her mud-slick, shivering body against you, looking to you to save her-- you, who she had, let's be honest, just been trying to throttle.

This is something you will be able to lord over her forever.

Breathless Dead

The only sane option would be to give the monster as much space as it deserves. To watch in awe as it breaks through the water, as it makes world-swamping waves with the shrug of its shoulders, as it creates an absolute shipwreck zone that requires no malice to destroy. A forever memory, a holy mark on the cheek, the kiss of the untouchable divine. To navigate the absolute shipwreck zone is impossible.

It is the prerogative of a knight to dare the impossible, when it is given to her.

The Starsong does not have a wheel. Not with the yellowfolk on board. She has a web of ropes, cables, levers, not to send signals for miles but to allow for control from a central hub. This has been the work of the entire voyage, the work of construction and knotting, improvement for the sake of improvement, for the sake of a moment like this.

The knight stands in the middle of it all, the Ancient Craftsman riding on her shoulders like a grandfather, and she knows she’s done this before. This is why she wears gloves which don’t slip on the handles. The Starsong hasn’t fallen through Poseidon’s song, but she has. Which means she’s the only one who can do this. And she’s grinning as she steers the Starsong along the length of an impossible wave, into the absolute shipwreck zone.

She can worry about what they’re going to do later. Right now, she exists in the moment, in the strain of pulling a line taut, in the knowing of sails like wings and fins, in another ship she has learned to love through earnest service, and in the laughter spilling out of her lips. When the waves fall, the spray is stained with rainbows. And yet, the Starsong impossibly breaches the surface again, and she continues where no ship has survived before.

Eventually, she will find the wave the ship cannot survive. But in her heart, there is no such wave.

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~”