Tatterdemalion

Huntresses of Hybrasil

One glove. Two hands.

Whose hand was she going to hold?

On the one hand, Ksharta needed reassurance. A reminder that she was... appreciated. Wanted. Cared about. That she didn't need to be the winner to be... interesting. Loved? Maybe. Dolly certainly absolutely didn't mind sharing Jade with her, and wanted her to be happy, but was that love?

On the other hand, Angela had lost even harder, and had... gone to ground. Barely seen after her match with Solarel. And Dolly missed her. Really, really missed her. When she'd reached out, let Angela know that she had space in her retinue, that the Gala wouldn't feel complete if Angela wasn't there, she'd felt...

Jade first. Jade, always, first. She'd promised. But Jade wanted more, and that meant her high priestess got to share, got to be their doorway into Jade's world. But she couldn't go to Jade like this, couldn't ask. Jade might tell her to pick Angela, to make the exotic alien their favorite, to leave Ksharta to fend for herself, and how could she do that to a kitten like Ksharta? This would be her first interstellar party, surrounded by aliens, and she'd need her, her big sister (right?) to look after her. But Jade might agree, and she. She couldn't do that to Angela, either. To invite her along and then snub her the entire night isn't the right kind of rivalry. It's the kind that would hurt. Angela wouldn't want to ever, ever see her again. Wouldn't ever pick her up and smirk. Wouldn't be the bad girl to Dolly's good girl.

The closer the Gala (THE Gala, the Crystal Gala, the social event that was her chance to dazzle among the stars, to be the kind of bride that Jade deserved) got, the more of a nervous wreck she was, and the harder it was to keep it hidden. Jade didn't need to know. Jade shouldn't know. It was her problem to deal with. She had to choose. Even if it felt like she was ripping herself into two pieces.

---

"Do shuttles distress you, child?"

The miserable lump sitting between Ksharta and Angela is jerked out of her reverie. "I, um, I'm not-- I'm okay," she says, and smiles her I Am Definitely Okay smile, glove still resting against the casket in her lap. On her left, Ksharta Talonna, platinum beads draped between her ears, looking like a vision of loveliness, her shoulders shrouded in powder blue lace, looking for all the world like the spirit of the snow that lingers in summer. On her right, Angela Miera Victoria Antonius, having been "forced" into the role of the Captive Alien, all burning red and velvet black, her vulnerable midriff exposed and her eyes wreathed in smoke, bracers on her powerful arms and belled anklets on her delicious ankles, which is where anklets go.

And no Jade.

She hasn't seen her goddess since last night. Hasn't heard her, hasn't felt her. Just a message left for her saying that the goddess "would be waiting for her," and an instruction to bring the casket that appeared overnight. At least it meant that she could start falling apart about her impossible choice in peace for the rest of the morning.

Ksharta. Angela. Both beautiful in their own ways. But what is she supposed to do? Trail them both behind her, holding onto her arm, for the entire night? To her credit, the thought of not letting either of them enjoy Jade's presence doesn't even cross her mind. It's a gift that has to be shared.

Kimri (Blessed Daughter of Grandmother Night) is giving her a concerned look, but they're on their final descent, and the line of mechas is revealed in its glory, including, yes, there's Jade's idol, and the relief that floods her for a moment seeing that familiar shape should really be embarrassing. For a moment she forgets about her impossible choice and just longs to see Jade again. Being apart for the whole day has been...

Different than when she was with the Red Bands. That was knowing that Jade would come for her, and she had plenty. Plenty. To think about in the meantime. Not just the same worries looping on repeat.

---

The ache of Dolly's heart is an empty hollow in her goddess's chest.

It's going to be worth it, she tells herself, as she stretches one more time, feels out every part of the grand system. The station is a technological marvel, after all. A non-trivial system to overcome. Ever since Nine Forests plugged her in this morning, she's been engaged in a glorious hunt. It is one thing to disable a state-of-the-art cybersecurity suite; it is another entirely to tame it.

It's going to be worth it. It's going to be worth it or she'll send herself to hell for what she's put Dolly through today. The shock, the joy, the surprise, the love, it's all going to be more than enough to pay for what she's feeling right now. And she's committed now. The only way out is through, or Dolly would never forgive her.

---

Dolly clings to the casket like her life depends on it. She is flanked by her... girlfriends? Fellow concubines? Women that she wants to hug and reassure and share her goddess with, even if that means keeping them trapped right by her side, leaving her with the responsibility of figuring out what exactly they're going to do and finding ways to entertain all three of them and, and she's out of time, Jade's going to make her have to choose--

And as if the thought summoned her, Jade's idol leaks thick thundercloud smoke, and the goddess pulls herself free with a resounding laugh, and a ripple of shock and gasps runs through the Hybrasilian delegation and the observing Terenians, and

hold on, what?

The casket tumbles from Dolly's hands onto the landing platform as her jaw drops. They. They can all. Everybody can. This once, everybody. All of them. Unless Jade is faking a reaction from literally everyone, and... if she started believing that, she might as well stop believing in anything but whatever Jade wanted. (And she's not that good at people, the sensible part of her whispers. She couldn't fake everyone in this kind of fidelity, right? Ksharta still smells like Ksharta and Angela still smells like Angela, and this is happening, this is really happening, what does it mean that this is happening?)

The goddess turns and grins at the sight of her people, and then begins the walk down the line of mecha, tail insolent, teeth on wicked display, and with every step, she... shrinks. The clouds contract around her, the rumble of her footsteps becomes quieter, until she is merely an ordinary height, just a little taller than Dolly in her heels, tall as a Terenian. The clouds are solid now, gleaming black armor with glowing cobalt lines, a futurist's idea of personal armor somehow powered by a crystal fire drive, and her cloak (pinned at one shoulder) flutters behind her, rimmed in, what else, blue-jade fire which does not give off smoke.

"Honor to you, Blessed Cousin!" She is an impossible warlord, a knight from the holovids, a goddess in the flesh, and the half-bow she offers Kimri (Blessed Daughter of Grandmother Night) is the kind one offers a respected inferior, honor more to Grandmother Night than Kimri herself. "Thank you for bringing My beloveds to this Crystal Gala for Me." She turns her golden eyes to Dolly, curls one finger, and Dolly feels the pull of the leash hanging from her neck, the leash that everyone can see, and she opens her mouth, not knowing what she's going to say.

Smokeless Jade Fires pulls her into the kiss, in front of everyone, and she's careful not to unbalance Dolly, the only hint that she's not, not physically here, not embodied. Another one of her goddess's cunning tricks, but that's why Dolly, Dolly loves her. Never willing to let her lack of a body stop her from putting on the performance of a lifetime. Dolly melts into the perfect kiss.

When they break the kiss, it's only then that she notices in the periphery the giant screen, rimmed in the goddess's fire, blowing up the kiss for everyone to see in the highest definition possible. And they can see the deep breath she takes, and the flustered droop of her ears, until Jade dismisses it with a wave of her hand, lets it melt away into sparks and curls of smoke.

"I have one more gift for you, my darling birds," the goddess purrs. "Ksharta? Do pick up what My bride dropped in her ardor. Angela? Do come along." A look is shared with the Terenian, an invitation to play along; you've come this far, titan among kittens. Don't you want to see the punchline?

---

The hunting tent's drapes close behind them. (The floor is the dock, the gold-flecked black that drinks in light, and the reflections of the walls of the tent glow more vibrantly than they should.) Another impossible flourish, hiding them from sight in the middle of the dock, right at the feet of Jade's idol. Jade takes a seat on a stool in the middle of the tent, interlocking her fingers, still smiling. "Ksharta? Angela?" she says, eyes flicking between the two. "Seven Quetzal has been agonizing over trying to choose between the two of you for tonight. After all, she only has the one glove, the one sign of my favor. Whose hand could she possibly hold? She yearns to show you how much you both mean to her, but she can't! Because it is not her place to worry. It is hers to be bountiful, and to pour her love out, and to endure whatever I--"

"Out with it," Angela snaps. Her arms are folded, and her eyes are hard. "She's been worrying herself sick, and you didn't think to think to reassure her? Ai, I thought you were better than that, you peacock goddess!"

Jade opens her mouth. Jade shuts her mouth. Her tail lashes in agitation. Her tongue runs over her teeth.

"Please," she says, in her smaller voice, like she's trying to walk over a river on a piece of string. "Please open it. It was very difficult on short notice." Her eyes slide to Dolly, and they're the same eyes that looked longingly at her in the cockpit as Mirror rode them home. She reaches out and places one hand on Angela's bicep, squeezes once in thanks. And then she turns to Ksharta, who has already opened it up, and is staring wide-eyed at the inside.

Inside are three gloves: one wrapped in huntress's knives and chef's knives winding up its length in miniature, like ivy, each handle tied together by a subtle silver cord, and another decorated in owl's-feather patterns, each one framed by delicate chains, and one decorated in the feathers of the quetzal-bird, each one wrapped in neat bows by dancer's silks.

"You don't need to choose, Dolly," her goddess says, her voice slightly thicker than usual. "I'll dance with all of you tonight--"

And Dolly rushes up and lifts her goddess's illusion of a body up into her arms and squeezes, and feels a deliberate purr and a loving hand on her head as she sniffles and starts making just a mess of her makeup, but that's okay, because Ksharta and Angela are going to whisk her off to a bathroom to touch up, and Jade is going to go with them, and everybody will be able to see her but Dolly's harem-sisters can all touch her, and she doesn't need to choose, she doesn't need to choose, she can love all three of them, she can hold all three of them, she can dance with all three of them, the love she has to offer can be felt by all of them, from her little huntress-sister to her strong and teasing alien (who is going to "punish" her later for the outfit) to her goddess, and she doesn't need to know how Jade is doing all this, because it's enough that she is.

Breathless Dead

The belt is cloth, and she pulls it snug around her hips. Under the slightly baggy shirt, the focale serves as a wrap. Her ears hide under the maze-patterned kerchief that her good boy offered up freely. His tail is still going thwap thwap thwap in happiness behind her, and the temptation to double back and give him some more scritchies is strong. But that Warsphere has her on edge. Almost impossible for it to be anything more than a coincidence, but Ceronians don't trust in coincidences. Treat it like it's deliberate. Compromise could be flowing either way: it would be just like Plundering Fang to get wind of troop movements and use it to set her favorite chew toy up to fail, but on the other side of the knife, the Azures could be trying to catch any Ceronians they could get their coils around after having a sighting reported by a gossip.

But an entire Warsphere? She's definitely not important enough for an entire Warsphere to deploy just to get their hands on her, and it would be a long shot to gamble on catching Plundering Fang and her posse. Still. Now that they're out in force today, they'll take any victory they can get, and that includes catching her (and, in the process, making her fail her training exercise).

Tributary Team Chaksha, at risk. Attack at dusk. Inform Gemini.

Too much open ground between her and Beri proper. Risk of interdiction. Cloudy weather, but no rainscent (she is on her toes, sniffing the air, without conscious decision). His bicycle: possible asset, suggestive of property ownership, easier to blend in while still making good time. But a pleasure ride at this time in the morning? Suspicious. She needs: ah. There we go.

The clink of glass; she sways her hips, lifts her tail as she bends down to pull out the bottles, each one handcrafted. A way of apology to her good, good boy, sitting there so quiet and so pretty. Each one filled to the base of the neck, then sealed tight. "You'll be able to go and fetch them later, won't you~?"

First: she does her gear check, tightens the back wheel, adjusts the seat. Second: she lines the front basket with a cloth, soft to avoid jarring the bottles. Third: she sets two wooden dividers in the basket, wedges them in snugly. Fourth: she slots them in, three bottles to each row. Fifth: close the door behind her and walk the bicycle down to the main road.

Just a simple farm girl out on the milk run, Warsphere. These are headed for Dolce's, necessary for his drinks: stirred into coffee, served with ice, thickened into cream. She had too much anyway, you know, it would have gone to waste, and besides, Dolce always cooks too much. (Wouldn't be the first cover she's associated with him, but he's the perfect mark. Responds better to cuteness and the feeling that he's helping someone who needs it than he would to kisses and compliments breathed into his ear. Only risk is losing track of time after he insists on feeding you. Need a reason to skip out early.)

She lets the brake go slack and starts downhill, grinning as she starts picking up speed. It's a different kind of thrill than diving and climbing are, but one she can definitely appreciate. She'd never been on one before...

Before her initiation. Or before her arrival on Bitemark. Or before whatever else she'd done before that. Swordplay, sailing, service. All components of what she offers to her new pack. But you'd think she would have remembered if she'd ridden these things before her arrival. Not that this is her first time now. Five years gives a wolf plenty of time to get occasional practice in.

Breathless Dead

Defeat is deepshade brown like trampled mud rubbed against the nose, damp like the post-exertion burst of muscleswell between hairs, salt like a tongue pushed between the teeth victoriously. Every breath is Defeatbrown whistling through her nose, ear-lowering, a better blindfold than the blindfold.

The rope (black, red accents) barely squeaks as Waverunner hauls it against some sort of beam, until her sandals leave the ground, toes curling as she looks for some sort of footing. Give up, Defeat says. Energy wasted in exertion. Defeat tells you when to reserve your strength, black snakes coiling in your arms. Someone— Plundering?— pushes her backwards, one-handed, against her tensed abs, sets her swinging. Her mittens bat uselessly at the rope, trying to get leverage.

"You have time-sensitive information about an upcoming Azura interdiction," Plundering Fang says (from behind her?). "At dusk, they intend to hit Tributary Team Chaksha in a reprisal run. However, like always, you were caught while trying to exfiltrate." Plundering Fang cups her rump and squeezes, then pushes her into a harder swing. Her hips twist despite Defeat, feet trying to seek out an outcropping or a root to stabilize against. "After your captors realized you were no threat, just a pathetic, adorable puppy in over her head, they left you here... after stripping you and carrying off your equipment." Below, Waverunner ties the rope off; likely a Whistler's Knot.

"Inform Gemini about the interdiction before the sun touches the sea." She should be smelling Demand: hot, forceful, penetrating, tension in the shoulders, red like pepper on white meat. It's just really difficult with her face muzzled so thickly in Defeat. "When you fail... we'll discuss your next training regimen at Divers' Dock, Little Ember." Someone— Jester?— scoops up her Silvers: squamata and tunica, silk braccae, her hard-won vēlum, and the intima they peeled off her (and seem content to steal, this time). But not her focale.

No, that's what they soaked in Defeat and tied over her gag, knotted and padlocked in place.

"No Azura patrol is considered aware of your punishment and you are not to reveal what you know to them. All civilians are fair game. Your packmates are honorbound to assist but cannot deliver the message for you. There will be deductions for immodest presentation. May fortune favor you, Daughter of Ceron!" And with laughter, with Joy, with silent feet, Ember's trainers and tormentors (because to the Ceronians, they are one and the same) disappear into the grass, leaving their packmate to swing in the predawn breeze, stifled by Defeat. Ember waits for them to disperse, hands clenched in her mittens, abs tensed.

Then she starts throwing herself into the swing.

She's light enough and strong enough that she'll eventually be able to get herself onto whatever she's suspended from. Blindfold's necessary to remove first; then she can take stock. Give up. You are overwhelmed. Submit. And learning the scents of Ceron was only the first step in her education. Now she is learning the most important lesson of all: how to overcome them if an opponent tries to subvert the scents. And overcome them she will.

(Ignore the fact that she will be a mewling, hot-cheeked, ears-dropped mess by the time that she gets up there, and that one firm grasp on the back of her neck would have her on her knees. Ignore the fact that expecting an initiate to be able to overcome a pheremonal command is like expecting her to juggle a couple of mountains. In theory, there's a flimsy enough justification for forcing her to try, and when she manages to succeed, because she is going to succeed, it should be enough of an upset for her to push Whitebark to the bottom of the pack in her place. Struggling is useless. Doesn't it feel good to yield? Know your place, Daughter of Ceron.)

Assuming everything goes well, assuming she doesn't have the bad luck of running into a patrol (or her girlfriend, which would be a different kind of luck entirely), assuming that she can get herself untied, assuming she can work the focale off despite the padlock, her first order of business will be hunting down clothes. She's been trained in that, after all. Extensively. Infiltration, ambush, and distracting sensuality are all part of her training; if she can't get the drop on a farmer, she'll just use seduction to get one in a compromising position.

(And if you were to ask any of the smaller-framed farmers of Beri about a Ceronian spotted in the area before— blonde, short, figure like an extremely athletic nymph, perky-eared and perky-chested— they might blush, and laugh nervously, and say that the Ceronians are getting bolder this season. And they might remember smoky looks, and careful ropework, and a kiss in thanks, so much gentler than any Ceronian they'd ever dealt with before. And one in particular might remember stumbling on Lady Mosiac's dress draped over a bush and the sound of aggressive and thorough détente coming out from behind the lemon tree. But that is hardly a secret at all.)

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.]