Tatterdemalion

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Two Empresses move forward, but not as fast as one Terenian. There's fire on her wrists and a goddess riding her, plain to see, a warrior chosen for a battle. Promises on the table from both empresses, and so much glory for you to win, Angela Victoria Miera Antonius, if you listen. Take it all and you can be the rival that Dolly truly deserves, the beautiful Terenian who--

No, that's not right, Dolly realizes, and offers a silent prayer to her goddess. She's part of this, too, and Angela doesn't want rivalry for its own sake. Take it all and you won't be anyone's joke, Angela. Can you tell her that, Jade? I have never thought of her as a joke, but she's been hurt by people's refusal to take her seriously before. And-- goddess-- my goddess-- yes, she'll be a good kitten, hands behind your waist, won't let go--

Take it all, Angela Victoria Miera Antonius, and...

"I saw this," Jade whispers in her Terenian's ear as she comes in hard, jabs at the Zaldarian's guard, takes early ground. Around them, a convergence; behind her, two empresses close in, unwilling to see their promises granted to this warrior. "Your potential. Your fury. Your warrior-heart. That is why I marked you as mine, Angela Victoria Miera Antonius. I could think of no greater conquest save my first, my greatest, my beloved."

Dolly melts into the rub of her cheek and looks up with devastatingly soft eyes at her pirate captor, another hand of her goddess, and like this, it's easy to see why the goddess fell in love with her from afar. She leans into the gag, mewls like a girl who gets to have her fantasies come true every day, and when Jade guides her face into Valynia Bander's chest, she breathes in like she's on the beach trying to drink in the sea air, fingers curling against the pirate's back.

"Tell her your plans. Threaten her with your worst," Smokeless Jade Fires whispers in the pirate's ear. "She's a naughty little thing who wants to be the damsel in distress. Distress her. I'll take my time to save her tonight." Unspoken: but I will save her. I am in control of the scene. I am giving her to you because I love her and you are making her so, so happy for me.

Her fingers trace Valynia's neck, measuring for a collar.

Joy is clear on Angela Victoria Miera Antonius's face as she becomes, for a moment, the center of the room, armed with an ambassador's stave wrenched out of his hands, using it like a Hybrasilian spear, carving space for herself out of the fray. The goddess gives to those she loves, and in this moment, it's impossible for her not to see Angela Victoria Miera Antonius as Dolly sees her: the physicality, the demand for attention, the sweat on her bare arms, the bounce of her dark hair, the broad white teeth bared in a victory-grin.

The thought of Angela barging into the room, flush with victory, and revealing that she was in league with the Red Band the entire time makes Dolly's knees buckle and makes her bury her face in Valynia. And now, little huntress, I will have my revenge for what happened on Akar II, and then, and then-- but then after she's pawed at and groped and treated like a pirate's prize, at a party of all things, unable to cry out for help from oblivious partygoers, oh, then, Valynia double-crosses Angela, and she's got access to the outfits from Akar II, and she leaves them on the bed together for Jade, and, mmmfff, Angela in that pink-red gauze, tied so tightly together that Dolly can't lift her face from those generous alien breasts...

Angela's breathing heavier, and she's flushed for reasons that don't have to do with the battle. She's getting some images, some echoes, and Jade might be encouraging her by giving her glimpses of Dolly pressed up against her, batting those eyes, making her adoring little noises. But that's just part of the expanded senses Jade is offering. Words are becoming less useful, not when the emotions and the images are so much more immediate and easier for the goddess to spread out among those she's connected to. This is hard for her too, you know. But fighting and fucking start with the same letter, don't they?

No one can touch Angela Victoria Miera Antonius, not while she is dancing with a goddess on her back. Her prize awaits her in a side chamber, to be rescued or betrayed, but it is one of several prizes that can be won. All she has to do is fend off two Zaldarian empresses and somehow defeat this Zaldarian knight who gets fiercer the harder she's pressed, a battle-lust that is a mirror of Angela Victoria Miera Antonius's own, but guarded, not able to burst forth the way the laughter spills from Angela Victoria Miera Antonius's lips.

Dolly sways her hips, invitingly, but also to let Angela know that war is a dance. And she spares a moment to say another prayer for Ksharta Talonna, who is just as good a girl, and who would most definitely save Dolly and Angela before the station exploded. The station is allowed to explode because of Red Band explosives, it's her fantasy and she doesn't have to worry about logistics. But Jade shouldn't do that. Can you hear her, Jade? Some fantasies can remain fantasies, Ksharta can just say that the station's about to explode as she parades two lovely slave-girls back towards the idol, Jade, and also maybe tonight isn't the right night to do actual exhibitionism, and, mmmph, yes, knee there, nip there, tug her head back by the hahahahaiiiiir...

[An Entice has occurred, and it is a 9. It is Dolly attempting to entice Valynia, but it is also Jade enticing Angela with Dolly, and it is also Angela enticing Solarel through glorious combat. <3]

Breathless Dead

A dark shape cuts through the water with the ease of a shark. Out of the many dangers of the deep, she knows that she is one of them; that she is a part of the host of the outside. And so as a shark, sharp-toothed and sleek, dangerous but not vicious, Ember passes by crabs and jellyfish with equal ease. The residual intensity of the Adaption Instinct edges everything in crisp colors, but by the time that she beholds the ruin, it had almost passed. Almost.

It roars up her spine again, eyes wide, aware that what she is seeing is, no, has the capability of being a threat. It is without life, without animation, but it is intrinsically dangerous. Like a sword, lying unsheathed on a table. Even broken on the seafloor, this cyclopean ruin (for it was they, the one-eyed, who made the weapons of the gods) is a possible threat to the Silver Divers, and it is...

It is not her responsibility to investigate yet. And yet, she hovers in the water, slowly treads, looks down at the achingly familiar mystery. It is her duty to bring news of the dragon and its light-scanner to her packmates. It is, technically, still her duty to fulfill her training exercise. Going on an exploration of whatever lies inside that husk, bleeding death into the water, a slow accumulation of toxins that have her shivering just from the trace elements working their way into her nose from this far away, is not her duty. If she dies, breathless and trapped, or poisoned by the deathwound of this titan, then her information about the dragon's tactical capabilities may come too late. It is not her duty.

And yet, she struggles. She can see a gash torn in its flank, the deathblow of a comet. She yearns to swim inside, to walk down its halls, to see the drowned fountains, the miles of corridors cable-wreathed, the old chambers, the starheart, the starheart, the starheart, bound in adamant and raging, even buried beneath the weight of Poseidon, its veins seeping into the water, its claws abandoned in the corridors, its crew all shelled and pincered now, missing the captain, missing the temple, missing the stowaways, missing the statue, missing the princess, missing--

Her hand touches its flank and she starts. The water around her is clouded, stagnant, clinging to her fur. She kicks off, nostrils sealed, limbs pumping, and spends far too long getting to where the water is clear, and her heart is racing, and the tightness in her chest tells her that it is time for her to return to the surface. But she knows.

The way, that is. If she can lead from the beach, the dragon has given her the gift of knowing exactly, exactly how to reach the fallen titan. She can come back with packmates, with wetsuits, with rebreather muzzles, with her Alphas, who will know what to do with this impossible primordial corpse, how to pick its bones, how to learn its secrets, how to call for a reclaimer fleet; with pumps, this could even be their new fortress until it is lifted back into the stars.

It belongs among the stars.

Is she light-headed because the sun is drawing close, or because the thought has lodged inside of her brain like a knife in flesh?

It belongs hanging, impossible, beautiful, among the stars, and she belongs on it.

She loves it like she loves her pack. She knows its secrets, its turns, its furious planet-devouring heart.

And she has never seen it before in her life.

Ember breaks the surface of the waves with a gasp that is a scream, and she reaches up, tries to keep going, lifts her hand up towards the sky and the stars, and then she bobs beneath the water again, and the shock of it makes her sputter, shake her head, unseal her nostrils. She is already trying to sweat out toxins. She needs to get to her pack, to be hosed down, to deliver her message, and then--

And then they will invade the sea.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

The timing's uncanny; the live musical performance has changed from the moving Hybrasilian ballad Among the Reeds, Unseen to a modernized performance of the traditional Terenian folk song Rotten Red Fruit, with a pre-programmed light show casting shadows of old gods and demons on the walls. Jade lets them through. (It's not that she's micromanaging the entire electronics system here, it's more that she's added herself to the great big complex system, another layer of projection and audio, Ksharta thinks.) The whine of the guitar, the thump-thump-thump of the drum (like all their hearts), the lyrics of defiance in the face of the two-faced coin of oppression and desire, they're all for this, all for now, for

Angela, whirling, catching the Empress of Zaldar behind her ankle and swinging her down into a dip, so she can whirl her back up and send her spinning into her rival, so she can spread her arms and laugh, so she can have the Empress shoved back into her, the impact sending shivering sparks across her front, the impact enough to rock her back on her heels, but those nails are digging into her shoulders as she's clutched possessively

Dolly, pulled into a red-lamped room, pinned against the wall, as Valynia thumbs the faint shape on her shoulder where her fur hasn't fully grown back in yet, the same shape Dolly insisted on only having partially filled in, the same shape Dolly's found herself occasionally touching, and the way Valynia rubs up against her and smiles sends shivering sparks across her front, and she takes a deep breath

Jade, many-eyed, but the security cameras weren't cleared for this performance, and the shadows shivering across the walls remind her too much of the underworld, and Dolly's delight is the same as Angela's delight and they're both things that she can't give, not really, the impact and the softness, the violence and the scent, but she does her best, doesn't she, and her jealousy claws and bites against the growing realization that she can feel it, too, she can smell it, too, she can feel fierce and small at the same time, if she closes her eyes she can feel the blood pumping hard under Angela's skin and she can smell Valynia Bander's intoxicating perfume

Ksharta hiding behind the buffet table, tail curling and twitching, aware that literally everyone else in this harem/polycule/channel/situation is horny as fuck right now

Angela, one wrist twisted behind her back as she's sandwiched between two possessive dragon girls, using her other hand to tilt up an imperial jaw, teeth bared in a grin, feeling the excited shiver as she pushes herself back against the other, dimly aware that she's the axis on which an entire species' intrigue turns tonight, wishing that there was something similar for the kittens, imagine if there were two goddesses fighting over her

Dolly, feeling Valynia's fangs on her neck, tugging, tongue dragging on her fur, mewling into her, but with enough devotion to her goddess to try and give as good as she's getting, cupping Valynia's toned butt and lifting it into a biscuit, wishing that the wall behind her was Jade feeling her up, and it would be bad if she was kidnapped from the party, wouldn't it, it would be a security disaster, so there's reasons to hope that doesn't happen, beyond the tangled-up feelings of what that would do to Jade

Jade, running into someone, no, through someone, passing through them like a ghost, wishing she was able to tear herself apart and be everywhere at once, glorying in Angela's physicality the way that Dolly does, helping Valynia turn her priestess into a shivering mess, running a reassuring hand through the fur on the back of Ksharta's head, and

"You know we can feel it, too," Ksharta whispers.

The desire is a loop, the want that is tying the four of them together, one hand clutched together, the other reaching out. There's more bleed the more it gets; palms over mouths, hands on wrists, eyes drinking it in, and the yawning need to meet those desires, to be a good girl, to make them sing like Whispered Promise can.

Jade stops. She doesn't know what room she's in. The song is reaching a crescendo. Black and white war on the shining walls, each one containing the next figure. She crosses her legs and folds her hands in her lap, seated on the air, and she opens up her heart, unfolding like the flower, and in that moment of vulnerability her harem can feel her helplessness on the strings of Whispered Promise, her need to keep Dolly safe, her hunger to be good for them and to deserve them.

And her hands are on Angela's wrists, guiding, squeezing, a halo of jade fire around her head, an encouragement to give as good as she can get, to make her goddess proud, to teach them not to underestimate Angela Victoria Miera Antonius, to show the goddess what this kind of fight is like and how to glory in having a body, how to enjoy the throb of pain, and she'll guide you to the victory you want

And her hands are under Dolly's corset, under Valynia's dress, digging in, working in circles, the hot breath on Valynia's neck, and if you want her you must have me too, the sting of the brand on Dolly's shoulder replaying on Valynia's skin, and hands between them offering materials with which to shut her up, this is how we play, Valynia Bander, with magic and trust and the glory of a goddess, and what you do to her you share with the harem

And her hands are running slow trails through Ksharta's fur, relaxing, comforting, reassuring, you are part of us but you are not required to lose yourself in the decadence, my heart is a stone temple and there is unquenchable fire there which gives off no smoke but there is also water, cool on the tongue, soothing, and in this space it is your choice to walk into the fire, and you are my good girl, Ksharta Talonna, I am proud of you, your cooking and your hunting, and your courage to wear me tonight, now tap my hand if you need more attention because Dolly you are a bad, bad girl, seduce her MORE, use your BODY, show her why I CHOSE YOU, I LOVE YOU--

And guests gawk at the figure of the goddess, eyes closed, handless arms unfolding behind her like the petals of the flower, the water of the Fishers dripping from her mask, an art installation, another performance, they say that she's actually the mecha that Seven Quetzal pilots, you weren't here when she pulled herself free from it, she's actually a hologram and a Hybrasilian psyop because of the Empresses being here tonight, you can pass right through her, what in the world is she doing?

Smokeless Jade Fires doesn't care. She can't. Her world is three women, and what she can be for them. That is enough.

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.]