Tatterdemalion

Breathless Dead

She's not afraid.

The first time this happened, there was an attempt to be afraid; she didn't know what was going on, why she was hyperfixating on the grin on Plundering Fang's face, the tilt of the sky as she turned on her axis, the tautness of her muscles as her heels left the ground, the wetness of her own half-open mouth, the nails digging into her side. But it was submerged beneath the genetic need to understand, to remember, to be able to explain how she was defeated. Part of training is learning how to survive during the Adaption Instinct, and that's why the recruit is barraged with new experiences during their training-- and that's why a Ceronian never forgets the experiences of being trained and initiated into the pack. All of those memories are more vivid in her head than the faint mist of whatever happened before she joined the Silver Divers.

So she swims. She knows well enough how to avoid the sludgewater, and, it's the oddest thing, but the current's working against them. As she swims out and down, all those toxic clouds are swept back up towards the beach, and the current's with her, pulling her downwards like a riptide as the clouds fade away like dying jellyfish, spat back up out of the mouth of the water. The water pulls, but it's comforting, it holds her tight as if to say that she is safe here.

So she follows. Out she sweeps, kicking her legs together like a mermaid, past the reef, downwards to where the light begins to falter and her instincts tell her that she should be relying on scent. She doesn't need to breathe, not yet. Above, the dragon still follows after her, but she is moving fast, and the current is unpredictable, and it pulls her deep; she has a decent chance of losing it on her way to...

Wherever she is going. She's headed perpendicular to the route she should be headed, out towards the current Silver Divers camp (for the daughters of Ceron move their location regularly to baffle their foes). But the sea is insistent, and little Ember trusts it. It is like being rushed along by many faint hands, urging her forward, inviting her down deepwards, and if she closes her eyes, she can see the faint throb of a riot of colors, a memory so old that it comes without names or a sense of self, just joy and speed and discovery. So she swims. So she lets the hunt fall behind her. So she braves the unknown again.

[15 on Overcoming the peril of the sludgewater.]

Huntresses of Hybrasil

The lights are snuffed out with the clicking of a jaw.

Zaldarians are faint outlines in the dark, light highlighting the edges of scales, the faintest touch of luminosity. That means the eye is drawn to them, at first, before Jade breathes, and it is the wet breath of a predator in the dark. (Hearts beating in time. Ksharta Talonna's irises widening as she tries to drink in the light. A hand on the back of Dolly's neck.)

Smokeless Jade Fires opens her eyes in the middle of her presence, looking down at the petulant royals who threaten her priestesses. She does not stop opening them. Like the Terenian peacock, they flare out behind her, like wings, like her tail stretching off into infinity, and then she opens, for a moment, several of her mouths, her fangs limned like Zaldarian scales.

Then she flicks the lights back on, trains the spotlights on the usurper and the usurped and her, standing between them, seemingly small. "This is not how we behave," she says, and for a moment she lets a third eye blink, flesh like oil. A calculated reminder of what she is. "Is it?" She drags her gaze up the legs of the usurped, lifts a lip lasciviously, then turns her attention to the illuminated chest of the usurper. "Not in here. Behave. If you want to fight, there is an entire arena designed for it, entire bodies made for it, drones so everyone can watch, all within casual flight distance. And if you want to fuck, there are discreet rooms for that. So go ahead and pick one, and keep your claws in at a party."

Then she strides forward, curls a finger. The yank surprises Angela Victoria Miera Antonius by surprise, and she staggers forward. She straightens up quickly, certainly, but the gesture is unmistakable. "Of course I find you in the middle of trouble," the goddess says, sweetly, pityingly. "What do you have to say for yourself~?"

"Are you going to scold me, little god, or are you going to stop those pirates from walking off with your pilot?"

The absolute, inhuman stillness is its own tell.

"We're not pirates," Valynia adds, over her shoulder, as she ushers Dolly into the ballroom next door. "Pirates don't get invites to big parties! We're just a group of enthusiastic pilots~!"

"You're going to get it," Jade whispers, just loudly enough for the empresses to hear. The sound systems here are only so good, after all.

"If you want a rematch, there's an arena designed for it, I hear," she retorts. "Any time you want, little goddess. Now keep your claws in and go save your blushing bride all weak at the knees. I'm not afraid of a couple of royals having a spat." And I'm not afraid of you, either, she thinks, almost loudly enough to hear. She scoops up a wine glass and stares down Dolly's girlfriend, waiting for either a temper tantrum or a huff.

Jade works her jaw, huffs, and then says: "Behave." And she turns and flickers and is out of the room.

Angela Victoria Miera Antonius takes a long sip from her wine glass and smiles the smile of someone tied into Dolly's fluster and Ksharta's awe, aimed towards her of all people. "Good luck, goddess," she murmurs, and then turns to the Empress of the Zaldarians. "Now, where were we?"

Breathless Dead

It would be nice to dive, to hit the water with her hands to cut it open, to be propelled down into the depths. But she's on the beach. All she can do is walk, slowly, confidently, into the water. Running attracts their attention. Walking, even walking in an unexpected direction, is easy enough for the eye to miss as she sinks into the waves, and then she starts to swim. The Silver Divers specialize in swimming, after all. The water deadens scent, but her eyes kick in to compensate. She holds her breath and feels the pressure slowly fill her body as she hugs the sand, her fur sleek as an otterskin, immersed in the sea. Once she gets out from the beach, once she gets to the drop, she'll take one more breath, face sticking out of the water briefly, and then she'll be able to drop.

The coral's beautiful, once you hit the drop. The sun slants through the water, illuminating the Divers' Garden. This is where she plays-- not here, exactly, not this precise spot, but all along the coast. This is another training ground, another place where she can race her packmates, another battleground full of advantages. Here is where she has learned to knife-fight in a place without air; here is where she has learned how to free herself from weights. Here is where she has learned how long she can hold her breath; here is where she has learned how to share her breath with a packmate who is floundering.

It didn't take her long at all to learn how to think in three dimensions. She earned praises for that, and envious glares, and extra chores maintaining the underwater defenses. It just came so naturally. She doesn't have a mobility pack here, but if she did, she'd be jetting along, eyes squinting as the water rushes past her face, making automatic adjustments at a level underneath thought. She might be the little Ember of the pack, but the sea can't quench her fire. It loves her too much.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Maybe it's Angela's fire that quickens her step. Click, clack, click across the grand floor, and on her arm is Smokeless Jade Fires. (This is before; this is before they pass into the next chamber after Angela and Ksharta, but it's important, Jade, please, we have to thank her, she did have something to do with the dress you commissioned--)

It's clear that she's tongue-tied, and not because Jade's keeping her quiet. She stands there a moment in the heels, the ones that almost bring her up to Mirror. (Jade herself has the kind of armored stilettos that could punch a hole through steel if she could only touch the world, refusing to cede so much height to her bride.) She is a princess of the mountains, a vision in white snow and delicate silk, her cloak tied in place where Jade's billows from one shoulder. The stockings and the gloves offer flashes of her thighs and her shoulders, and the corset's framing contributes with the cloak tie to draw the eye quite naturally to her bust: the unity of the formality required to mingle at the Gala with the greedy eye of a goddess. But the headdress, now that it's not crushing her under the weight of moping, elevates her. The designer has made her a worthy high priestess of the new chic, boldly stepping forward into a contest among aliens, able to take the best elements of the Terenians and claim them for her own (as if her pet Terenian wasn't proof enough).

Even as Dolly frets and tries to figure out where to look, balancing a respect for Mirror's modesty and the knowledge that this must be deliberate and thus an act of bold fashion, Smokeless Jade Fires looks Mirror straight in those wet blue eyes. Her eyes are the halo of light around an eclipsing moon, a ring of fire that does not dim. Goddesses do not blink unless they choose to. You wounded her pride, Whispered Promise. You humiliated her, and showed her a skill she did not possess, and you brought her beloved back to her. Her wounded pride will not allow her to back down, and her debt to you stops her from pouncing. So she stares, like an aggressor, daring you to look away, the intensity of her eyes hinting at the fact that she is not like you, Whispered Promise; whether or not she is a goddess, she is something that has built her identity around that belief, and on one wrist her destroyer's will is constrained by her debt to you, and on the other she is bound by the fear that you will, somehow, defeat her again, and that is intolerable to her, and around her neck is the desire to master your magic which can bind even the gods, the effortless wielding of the sword that she has spent her entire life learning how to wield--

"I'm so proud of you," Dolly half-whispers. She rubs her own cheeks, tearing up, because she's finally figured out why. Why you would dress like this. "You're reclaiming them." The only way to love her spots is to display them proudly to the entire world, isn't it? An act of radical self-love, of courage, and it would be arrogant of Dolly to believe that it's her encouragement that led Mirror here, but the magic of Dolly is that she immediately makes room in her heart for Mirror's victory. She smiles and does an encouraging hop from foot to foot, like a kitten inviting someone to play, and manages not to stumble in the heels. "And I won't-- you've got to make everyone see, right? Come find me once you're inside, okay? You have to meet Angela, and I owe you a dance!! I don't know how you convinced Mayze Szerpaws, of all people, to let you consult, but-- I mean, it's our secret, I haven't told anybody!"

"Shh," Smokeless Jade Fires breathes in her bride's ear. The back of her free hand glides across Dolly's jaw, suggestively, and the breath that the high priestess takes fills her up from the tip of her tail to the tips of her ears, and knowing that Angela Victoria Miera Antonius and Ksharta Talonna can feel her desperate hope and terror that her goddess is going to gag her in front of the entire gala short-circuits her brain completely, and her eyes bashfully slide down off Whispered Promise's face until they catch on two protruding struts, as it were.

"I have done impossible things before, Whispered Promise," the goddess says, evenly, her smile slightly too wide. "But even I have not disarmed the entire galaxy of a held weapon in one blow. Daring." She finally breaks eye contact and crooks a finger, evoking the leash without the leash. "Come, dear. The rest of my harem awaits our pleasure inside."

"Thank you," Dolly mouths one more time at Mirror, and then lifts her head and, for the first time, walks with her wife into the eyes of the galaxy, into the cameras, into the challenge of a four-way memory weave connection, into the thoughts of Angela pulling her into a private room, into the knowledge that Angela can feel the way she feels, into a night that she couldn't have dreamed of a year ago, into the music, into the lights, into the live performances, into the ribbon dances being performed over her head, into fleeting eye contact with a former empress of the Zaldarians, into an unforgettable night.

[Dolly rolls to Emotionally Support Mirror, and... it's a 4. But she is able to burn her String from when Mirror rescued her and showed off her heart to bump it up to a 7. So Mirror can either open up to Dolly (later in the evening, even), or she can tick Feelings up to 4 (later in the evening, even). Smokeless Jade Fires, on the other hand, has triggered Mirror's Center of the Web, and may be handled as Mirror sees fit.]

Breathless Dead

Two routes coming up. One leads towards Beri: natural next step. Blend in among the villagers, hide out at Dolce's long enough to shake initial tail, steal fishing boat and fake a trip out for crabs, then race Corvii to meet up with Divers once they realize she's not going for crabs. But! That's the natural next step. Route: open, particularly when approaching the town gates. Estimated delay from bicycle inspection complicated by circling Corvii and risk of being run down. Entire plan required being inconspicuous milkmaid.

Downcliff route: leads to the beach, longer way to get to town, more bushes and overhanging trees to baffle being spotted from above. Stash bicycle at first turn, underneath the cherry branches, then proceed downwards on foot. Change feigned occupation to beachcomber; leave sandals with bicycle, roll up sleeves, affect squint from sun glitter, hunch shoulders slightly. Commit. ("Make us believe you're a beachcomber, Little Ember! Wrap your sword in silk! The hidden face can be any face!")

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Han!

"It means I fell in love with you," Lotus says, the bravest girl in the entire Flower Kingdoms. Her glasses are a little crooked; her lips are wet with your mouth's... wetness. Her blue hair's a halo on the pillow. "I don't know exactly where, but... I like you, a lot, and I care about you, and I think you're a hero. And I think. I think I would be very lucky if you wanted to give me a chance, because I feel safe around you, Han of the Flower Kingdoms. Han of the Dragons."

She brings your hand up to her chest, and you can feel the heart beneath her skin. Her soft, gentle, demigod heart, which is beating for you. Delicate, like a flower. But she's placing that flower in your hands because she trusts you not to bruise the petals. And the look she's giving you...

"You won't break me," she whispers. "I want this. I want you. I want you to kidnap me back from her. I want you to toss me over your shoulder and run off with me, and I don't care if my mother's watching. I want you to be my big mean dragon who's going to make me her bride, as long as I can be the priestess who kisses your bruises and I can stop you from hiding your injuries and pretending that you're fine. As long as I can be yours, Han. I'd pick you-- I am picking you. Over everything in my mother's house. Because all of it isn't you."

Lotus of Tranquil Waters is the daughter of a member of Venus's court, and right now, you know what Venus means. It means her pulling you closer because she wants you to do the same. It means being wanted and having your want be wanted back. It means hunger and it means thirst. It means a girl who gets squirmy when she gets tied up but wants you tying the knots and keeping her quiet, because she feels safe with you. And it means a girl who sees you hurting and tears up because she wants to kiss you better.

Do you make her feel that she is loved back, Han of the Flower Kingdoms?

---

Piripiri!

The sip of tea is calculated. Loud enough that you can barely hear it over the sizzling of the food. And there she is: the woman who trained you all those years ago. She has an umbrella; she has a hat with a veil all around the rim, parted so that she can bring the tea to her lips. Beside her is a teapot, which you did not hear sing.

"Well," she says. "How has your service to the Red Wolf come along, dear?" Her voice betrays nothing, but to ask is to know. She always knew before you did.

Go ahead. Admit it to her first, so that you can then admit it to yourself.

---

Kalaya!

"It is very clear," says the goddess, and the words she uses mean illumination and glory and I am impressed all at once.

Her palanquin rises out of the waters. She is huge. She could pick you up with one hand and shake you like a child's doll. Around her are cranes, and warrior goddesses, and ferns the size of you, and little brown foxes, and pillows, and in the middle of it she lounges, head propped up on one hand, sapphire-sequined dress hugging her curves, and she looks a little like your mother, because she looks a little bit like everyone's mother.

The Sapphire Mother of Lotuses slowly blinks at you, considers you. Around her are demigods with burnished spears, flowing dresses, knight's breastplates: some of her many daughters. Then she nods, once. "This one. This is the knight." And what that means is chosen and royalty and guardian all at once. "Kalaya Na. The Dominion desires our home. Hell seeks to destroy it. You and the Stag Knight have been warring for my heart; but you love more. You love when it is foolish and you love when it is hopeless, and that is what we need for our Champion."

This is how she chooses you. This is the moment in which the fate of the Flower Kingdoms shifts. What is the token she offers you, the one that will convince Uusha to stand by your side against the Dominion, that will unite the Kingdoms behind you, Queen of Queens, Knight of the Sapphire Mother?

---

Fengye!

The real question, the one left remaining for you, is who you're leaving with tonight. On the one hand: the most eligible employer in the entire Flower Kingdoms is in front of you, and if there is anyone who can talk her way into her court tonight, it is you. On the other hand, there is still a N'yari here, who has just had the fear of Kalaya Na put into her, and she's going to be very well behaved. On the third hand, you have always had a will of your own. That's why you volunteered to wear the mask in the first place. Tell us your plan, tamer of demons.

---

Giriel!

That distracts her just long enough, makes some long-buried modesty flare up, that you can tackle her, and the two of you are wrestling, and there are wind-leopards everywhere, and somewhere behind you is a scream and a surge of power, but you have to trust in goodness and keep Peregrine pinned underneath you, one hand over her mouth, until the leopards grow bored and slink away, leaving you panting and sweating and vulnerable to being stabbed in the back--

But Ven just sighs, standing over the two of you. "...you'll need help with an exorcism," she says. Her silhouette is different. Tearing off your own arm will do that to a woman.

Behind her, blackening the grass underneath it, lies her brass arm, the fingers slowly curling up like a dying snake.

The good news is that once you've exorcised her, Peregrine will be mostly fine. Upset that you pulled her back from the brink, but once she really starts thinking again, she'll realize that she wasn't the charioteer and that she wasn't at the reins, and then she'll be angry. Not at you, she'll just be embarrassed and quietly offer her support with whatever you have planned next. The bad news is that you still have to carry out that exorcism.

Better make it the best one the Flower Kingdom's ever seen. Peregrine deserves nothing less.

Breathless Dead

Corvii? Easy. Corvii don't have packs; they have unkindnesses. That's what they intend to bring to bear on the poor, innocent farmgirl taking her milk down to Beri: unkindness from every side. Grilling questions, barking orders, keeping her off balance, even pushing her into tears. Relentless, ruthless, and cruel for the sake of cruelty. It's what you have to breed into soldiers meant to sink ships.

But they're not a pack. Each and every one of them is just instinctively looking for a weakness to exploit: in a hull, in a breach, in emotional defenses. Somewhere to wedge into. And they're competitive.

Ember the Innocent Farmgirl brings the bicycle to a screeching halt and blinks at the Corvii overhead. "Goshies," she says, so guileless that butter wouldn't melt in her mouth (ignore the panting, it's tactical, and there's little difference between someone winded from a bike ride and a Ceronian regulating optimal temperature). "Mornin', all! How can I help?"

"Hukkkou," one rasps, the consonant catching in their throat. They lower until they're just far enough above the ground to tower over her, closing ranks. Faceless, relentless menace. Fake pack.

"Oh, sure thing," Ember the Innocent Farmgirl says, tapping the (pilfered) earring. She kicks the stand and approaches the one directly in front of her, and then stops. "Hold on," she says, tapping her chin. "I should give it to that one, right? He's bigger than you are." Innocence. Wide eyes. Ignorance, but one which hides a point. "Although," she continues, slowly turning, "you've got a better set of Temple Best, and you've got much shinier feathers, but you've got the best 'rail, and you--"

She stops. Tries and fails to stifle a laugh. "Well, of course you ain't the one in charge," she says, trying so hard not to be Rude. The lack of explanation is crucial. It's so self-evident that the others will jump in, pick on the runt, and then they'll split while they argue over which one, precisely, is the one in charge. She might have to cover her head and avoid a few dominance swoops, but she'll be able to split long before they remember who and what they're fighting over~

[7 on the Overcome, but only because she's got +3 Blood now. I'd like a temporary solution to the problem, and to avoid harm as she Gets Away in the process, which explicitly does not mean she avoids further attention.]

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.)