Tatterdemalion

Breathless Dead

The name of this palace is Plousios.

It is five kilometers long and one kilometer tall. A full fifth of its expanse is dedicated to glorious Hestia, providing the warm wind that billows throughout its winding corridors. Another fifth is the prow, shining, inlaid with golden paeans to Poseidon's glory and might. Inside, there is room for an entire city of intrigue, astonishment and delight, and yet the genius of its design is such that a pack of Ceronians may man it, resplendent in their uniforms of pearl and coral.

"Here," she says, spreading her arms, letting the ruby on her finger flash in the mirror-light, "is the Souk of Ourashima!" The sound of running water is omnipresent here, cascading down ornamental falls, fountaining up into the air, running down diamond-tiled channels, visible wherever carpets and pelts have not been laid. The yawning roof above is bright white-gold, and the light turns the spray and the jewels into prisms. This is the treasure-house of the Lady of the Plousios, who looks down forbiddingly from the marbled throne on the wall: ruby and citrine her eyes, sapphires and obsidian splinters her hair, pearl the flash of one fang. Ember touches her lips, one breast, and then bows in the direction of the mosaic. "Hera keep your heart," she says in ritual blessing. Then, turning her attention to the visiting Magi and her retinue again, she beams: "Here, all of us in the court of the Lady play at commerce. The tribute of a thousand thousand worlds flows through our hands in this place! She brooks no theft, here, in the treasure-vault of heaven, so we all must haggle for whatever we like. Keep what you like, trade whatever you do not as dearly as you can, and give the Lady her tithe when we next arrive in port! It is one of our many wonderful games aboard, along with the Vasillian Arena, the Phantasmagoria of the Two-in-One, the Orchidwars (which you may already be embroiled in, but only as a pawn, never the victim, not until you join the court or the crew and begin the dance of high-and-low), the Dolcenarium, the Repository of Saffrons, and the astonishing False-beach of Tides." Names spill easily off her tongue, strange fantasies, shapes that resist definition; her head is full of strange smoke.

She helps the Magi pick her way up through the souk, pays no heed to her retinue's bristling, pouts and preens when her guest-and-host (strange, to be both?) has such trouble making her way up through the crowd. What a way to be acting in the midst of paradise! "Wherever you like, I will show you," she offers brightly and easily, the silver ink glowing on her fur. "Though if you wish to sneak into the Court of Bells or the Divers' Rock, you accept the consequences~! The greatest reward comes with the greatest risk, after all, and you will quite be pulled into the Orchidwars if you are caught! Nothing can be hidden from Our Lady's eye for long~!" Her tail wags in playful mischief. "Whatever you want of me is yours, guest of Our Lady; your wish is my command!"

Then, a thought surfaces like the shell of a turtle, and with a coquettish flutter of her eyes and a hiding of her face, she continues: "Except, regrettably, I must warn you against requesting me. There are places here where you may watch me dance, if you like, and in those places there is fine music, and all kinds of delightful substances to indulge in, and you will not want for any sort of eager company, and there are such trees in that place..." For a moment, her brow furrows, her voice trails off. But that is such a slippery thought, and not one appropriate for such a lovely place. "But I am Our Lady's most favoritest favorite, her good girl, her pet Diver, and she would punish us both terribly if you challenged her claim, dearest heart. I am the most perilous prize in this entire souk, sweet Merya. She defeated the Divers for me; she pursued me so, so far. So far. Across the Plousios and back! So anything else, my Magi, ask anything else of me and you will be enriched thereby, but just do not wish for the phoenix's egg, or for Our Lady's seat, or for me!"

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Reverberations, then silence. Dust, settling. Stillness.

"Then what is the fucking point of this, Whispered Promise?" There is audio distortion at the edges of Jade's voice. Maybe it's intentional. Maybe it's more than that. "Tournaments are a game! So what if you aren't the one who gets to-"

Dolly taps her lips and closes her eyes, stressing to her goddess that this is important. The bindings of the goddess fall away, and Jade stalks behind their body, passing through towers like smoke through air, lashing her tails and growling, that growl still the undercurrent of her pilot's voice.

"Why do you need to face her, Mira?" Dolly's voice is small, despite the vastness bouying it up. Unassuming, gentle, trying to snuggle up against her at a party, trying to get her to relax with cards and snacks and drinks. "You're about to snap in half like your nail, and... we do owe you. At least enough to not... why aren't you enjoying this? We want to show the world Jade's glory, and not lose to the Banders, but... who comes to a tournament they think is stupid, and makes themselves miserable, just to fight one Zaldarian knight?"

"She pilots our body once and she thinks she's unknowable and untouchable," Jade murmurs, behind and below Dolly. "As if it's my fault that the Banders had their own gods on their side, both times. When she tells you to shut up, we go for her throat. I'll beat her with her own tails."

"This hasn't always been fun, but that's always been because of, of what's outside the fight. This is thrilling, and daring, and everybody's watching us, and I can't, we can't... we owe you for what you did, Mira. Saving me. I can't solve your problems, but I can't even help if you don't say something, please, just... you're not my enemy. And almost nobody in this tournament's been an enemy, just a friend I hadn't met yet. I don't want you to walk away as one today."

Stillness. Dust, settling. Silence, then the reverberations of Dolly's breath.

---

This may be the stupidest thing that Angela has ever done. Ever. In her life. But she's done plenty of stupid things already in this tournament, and look where it's got her: on the ropes, trying to figure out how she can pivot from failure, and clawing for any scrap of victory and respect that she can get her hands on. A long, slow, lingering defeat? That's not her style.

The fight with the Zaldarians, that's her style. And that's not going to happen as long as that sword's there to cut her apart as soon as she closes in. But Marcina knows that her zone is impenetrable, which will let her try the impossible, stupid plan of firing her missiles at point-blank range, charging into the explosion of chaff and grazing impacts, and-

So of course it's not a simple thing to disarm someone in a fight like this. There are power cables. There is a grasp that could swing a mountain around by the roots. But all of Marcina's strategy relies on that sword, and if Angela wants to level the field at all, her only option is to swing her head in for a headbutt even as she tries to force a release of that sword, to let it fall by Marcina's side trailing from its cables, to...

Well, to do what Smokeless Jade Fires would do. Make the match about something different, something you can win at, because if you play the game that your opponent wants to play, you're doomed.

MASKS - Ghost Gate City

Hsien!

"Ma'am, don't worry! Help is on the way! Unidentified Anomalous Creature, you have five seconds to remove yourself from the civilian or we will exercise lethal force!"

So the good news is that it's just two of the idiot HOUND soldier cosplayers, presumably drawn over by the sound of a damsel in great distress. The bad news is that they're pointing guns at the wombat, which is refusing to shift itself from taking a nap(?) directly on top of you. Having something directly on top of you being shot at sounds like a great way to accidentally get shot yourself, and also, won't these dinguses (in big, face-concealing helmets) try to arrest you once they realize exactly who you are? You're lucky that a headless wombat is just such a great distraction...

---

Shifu!

Izi gives you a long, lingering, impossible-to-read look before sighing and deleting the picture off her phone. "Well, I did promise."

"For the record," Chan butts in, "we can't transform. Except by transforming into old people with back problems, one day at a time."

"Now, what was that about needing to find your parents? Because I can set something up," Izi continues. "Set the group chat on it. Are they somewhere in the city? Do you even know? What do they look like? Can they look like anything, because they're shapeshifters? That would be really tough..."

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Don't worry, Whispered Promise. Smokeless Jade Fires has the lilt to return and then some in her reply. "Greetings and defiance, champion of Yourself! I will not insult you by insisting on a surrender you will not offer. Let me offer a game, instead! A prize for each of the first three blows!"

Cloak against cloak. It is draped across Dolly's shoulders and cinched over her face, gossamer-thin. This is the sort of game that huntresses play in order to hone their skills, their stealth, their maneuverability. Ghosts hunting ghosts. The best rely on tricks to draw each other out: distractions, feints, dirty tricks. Jade purrs and feels her hair standing on end, excited. This has to draw out the huntress inside of Whispered Promise. How could it not?

"A shame you didn't stay longer; you left just before my glorious return. I could have offered you divinations and blessings from the underworld, and reassured you that it is no shameful thing to lose to a goddess! Just ask the lovers I have gathered in my wake! Angela Victoria Miera Antonius, Ksharta Talonna-- how they have come to accept the weight of the divine!"

Jade works from the ground: mines, solid-shot jackals lurking in alleyways, the gentlest shifts in weight distribution as Dolly daintily takes step by step. Too much risk flying above, not when attention to detail and awareness of their surroundings will be key in flushing out Whispered Promise. Then the game can really begin, and there will be joy in the fight, such that not even she can deny it!

---

Missiles!

Angela does not strike her forehead, though the impulse runs down her arm. Mecha pilots learned quickly to tamp down on certain instincts, certain moves, when connected to such a powerful frame. This is going to be very difficult without some way to flush out defensive instincts, to force Marcina to flinch. Loud, explosive, disorienting missiles would do the trick, whether or not Marcina logically knew that they couldn't pierce the armor.

There's no way that passion wins this battle. There's no way to make it look particularly good, either. It will be constant maneuvering, staying out of range of that sword, waiting for one of her possible targets to open up for a short snap of autocannon fire, whittling away at the behemoth. One mistake and it will risk being over. If only she had experience with the sort of action games that rewarded such methodical, careful play...

Huntresses of Hybrasil

"I wish I could help her," the melancholy young woman says, wrapped in the arms of the sacred, watching as their shared body is healed. The body that they have presented before the entire universe, so often damaged, so often repaired. "But I invited her in, and she stayed outside. And I waited for her to come in, but..."

"Then we will repay her by finding her heart," Smokeless Jade Fires says. She has not stepped away from Dolly for hours. She notes the exhaustion in her bride's stance, the stress in her shoulders, and she wraps herself around her love to protect her from the whole world. "Only then can you open it and help it to... do whatever it is that plants do when you touch them."

"...what?" Dolly scrunches up her face. "I... are you thinking of ferns? The ones that curl up when you brush a claw against them? Because most plants don't really do anything at all when you touch them."

"No. Plants grow better when you touch them." It is a statement of fact. "I remember watching you care for them. Your magic is a little thing, but it is something I will never have." Dolly's eyes are wet, suddenly stinging. "I cannot do anything but challenge Whispered Promise to fight. We can tear each other open and wet our teeth with each other's hearts, but you can touch her, dearest." "I couldn't last night." "That is because you were not touching her," Jade continues, stubbornly. "If you really had, she would have bloomed. I know this."

"Girls aren't flowers," Dolly murmurs. "And maybe all I touched was ice on the river."

Above them, their shared body waits to be touched, so that it can curl around them.

Breathless Dead

The growl rises in Ember's throat like a building wave about to crash upon the shore. She scrabbles against the wet floor, strains until she feels like she's about to burst, fighting just to stay halfway upright, pulled onto her knees against the strength of the Azura's coils. The glare that she gives the technoarchaeologist is sharp, defiant- but she does not snarl. Her heart is racing too hard for her to pretend to be tame and docile, but she is still one of the Silver Divers. Just because she blew her cover doesn't mean she can't veil herself behind the pieces.

"I am Ember of the Silver Divers, the servant of Lady Mosaic, and I was born from the sea, Azura. This ruin is holy to Our Lord of the Deep Places. Can't you smell it in the salt? He is our god, and he has meant for us to be here. You must set me free to seek out the mystery of this ship, or it will never be free from his wrath." Eyes, deliberately widened. Tail, slowly brushing against the tiles. Zealots are underestimated. Trap her in truths. Earnestness blooms around her, unsubtle. "Into the deep it descended," she says, her voice lowering, husky. "Out of the deep it is offered. Deeps and deeps. His song echoes in the halls. The oil-slick on the walls is the stroke of his fingers. Set me free and I will consecrate this ship. Cage me, and the Lady will break anything that stands between us."

Breathless Dead

The song pours out of Ember's throat: inexplicable, irresistible, irrepressible. It spills, sloshing, syllable-foamed, to pool in lungs and hearts. It doesn't matter that she's singing it (almost) alone. A taut chain's as good as a staircase, and the tide must turn, it must turn now, she knows it in her bones and her heart and her nose, even as Corvii chase after her.

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

She needs to be on this ship. It's freedom. If she makes it up, if she just avoids being knocked down (not that she's making pursuit easy, she moves like she was born in the treetops, alternating between running and swinging herself beneath by her arms), then heaven will break open, the heart of this old wreck will stir, and something, Mosaic, something will happen that is a miracle. All she has to do is be there. To be ready. To welcome her lover aboard, to somehow escape from beneath the sight of this terrible eye, to be free of everything except love and wonder.

Huntresses of Hybrasil

Dolly's on the floor.

Not passed out, mind you. She's a lightweight but not that much a lightweight. She's got a teal green drink in a cocktail glass in one hand, but she's got a card in the other. Six Stones is already out of the round of Bride!, having drawn double Huntmasters. A fan sent her the deck; she's the Bride, #8, with Jade as the Goddess and so on, down to the Jackals, #1. It's a light game for a small circle of friends, a good game for jokes and sips of fizzy drinks and laughter.

But she sets the cards down and uses the couch behind her to unsteadily lurch her way back up onto her feet and, with a swish of the tail that nearly knocks the deck over, makes her way over to the bloody-fingered pilot hissing out sentence fragments. Her hands close over the incredible mech-piloting fingers of Whispered Promise.

"Shhhh," she says, low and calming, the way she used to talk to her plants in the greenhouse. "You don't have to tell me now. Wait." Her gravity is irresistible; she draws Mirror down slowly into the ring, manages to move her glass with a minimum of mess using the tip of her tail, pulls her down with gentle hands and a thumb rubbing the undersides of her fingers in a gentle, soothing pattern.

"I suppose it's my job to handle this sort of thing," she continues, and flop, her frizzy-curled head is on Mirror's shoulder now. "But I don't want to. I've had. A day. All bad positions and intense dodging and freaky invisible guns and having Jade go down there, again, on the roads, and... you can tell us both when she's back."

She slips the card into Mirror's hand, draws another from the deck, doesn't move her head from the shoulder. It's like being smothered by a very slow-acting pitcher plant. "Have you played before? It's fairly easy. The card rules are in the bag-- thank youuuu, Nines. <3 I think we should accuse Angela of being the Pilot. Both of them haven't been played, and- ai, ai, ai, pbbbbbt." She sticks her tongue out at Angela like a kitten, doing a silly squint.

But her hand's still on Mirror's, warm, clinging, and there's a superstitious healing purr in the back of her throat.

[8 on Emotional Support. Open up or explode.]

---

The road to the realm of the living is long. When she returns, it will be late. Dolly will be bundled up in a blanket, snuggled up next to Angela Victoria Miera Antonius, slowly blinking, trying her very hardest to stay awake so that she can smile and close her hands together in salutation.

And Angela will smile as Dolly lifts her chin up and smiles like the world's all set to rights, and she puckers up for an invisible kiss, Jade's hands in her hair and on her shoulders and stroking down her back, kisses of victory and love and you-stayed-up-now-go-to-sleep. Kisses just for the two of them, victorious, loyal, all-but-unseen.

MASKS - Ghost Gate City

Hsien!

You have never seen Alice in Wonderland. This is almost certainly the case. You're not familiar with the whirling chaos of a dream collapsing, of the chaos of a deck of cards suddenly rising up and crashing over your head, of all sorts of strange and chaotic things swirling about you, and it is while your mother screams at you through a mouthful of fangs, her eyes yellow fires, ordering you to spit her out right this instant you little brat, that something flings itself at you--

--and the back of your head hits the pavement. Above you, the towers stretch into the clouds, holding up heaven (metaphorically, perhaps literally). It's doing a misty late evening rain, dusting across your face, your cheeks, your lips, the bit of blood in your mouth. This is an experience that demands you make a gifset about it, combine it with just the right bit of poetry, and feel satisfied for making art.

Above you is something like a wombat (which, thanks to Tumblr, you know is an animal that has square-shaped poop and uses its ass as a defense). It has no head, no neck, nothing but body. It has wings like a pigeon, four of them, sprouting off its grey-furred, rounded body. Three pairs of clawless paws knead on top of you as it settles in, and the weight of it is like a building falling on top of you. The density is just incredible.

But at least the vending machine is gone, and it's raining on you, and above you, you can see the police aerocraft making its final approach to the nearby HOUND Rapid Response Center. The world is still beneath you, and the clouds are grey-green, and you're definitely going to need someone's help getting this weird little critter off of you, unless you want to try something audacious.

---

Shifu!

"Well..." Izi says, drawing it out, clinging to the first instinct that she can find, which is to conversationally maneuver until she can find a place where she's strong and forceful again. "You did just ruin my raid. And turn into an elephant."

"Izi," Joshua begins, "if you don't delete the picture off your phone then this place might get shut down and there will be no place for raids to happen, and who's going to open up a new place this close to the skating rink?"

"Fine. Explain to me how you turned into an elephant and I'll delete the picture," Izi says, going for concessions. "And I want a real explanation. If I'm not satisfied, I keep the picture. And you don't have the guts to ban me, before you say anything, Chan!"

---

Rain!

A vending machine tumbles through the ceiling. Not in a way that it breaks through, more like someone just happened to push a precariously-placed vending machine off a ledge, but it's a vending machine trailing a power cable and increasing in speed as it tumbles down towards you, and things might have gotten dicey for a moment there, but Bai tackles you right off the bench and onto the floor, wrapping her arms around you as the vending machine breaks the bench in half with a horrible noise of crunching and smashing glass and, far away, a shrill scream.

Bai is on top of you, breathing heavy, and... are you completely in control of your powers right now? You're not about to sink through the floor, right? It'd be really easy in a moment like this.

Breathless Dead

From indignity to indignity; from failure to failure. By all accounts, the Silver Divers are a broken-down pack of whimpering, cringing has-beens. They shy away from Corvii, keep their heads down low, work diligently and without complaint, and if the Corvii made halfway decent supervisors instead of simply being sadistic bullies, they'd be aware that the Silver Divers are one command from Mosaic away from repurposing trench shovels and chains. It doesn't matter why Mosaic told them to stand down (to avoid the entire town being caught in a lethal crossfire, or simply obliterated from above), only that they have their orders. Be good, be beaten, give the unkindness no excuse to single you out. Be ready. Be ready.

The cruelty, Ember ponders as she hauls, is inefficient. Before the arrival of the Corvii, they were already making good time. Morale was high; villagers were even beginning to have the courage to socialize, to joke, to sing howling Ceronian songs alongside the pack. And Ember was the liaison, the mediator, the messenger between Beri and the pack and the demigoddess; she was embarrassed and unsure how proud of herself to be for what she'd done, the betrayals she'd had to choose between, the moon-swirled collar she was proud to wear. There was joy in the work, those first few days. The circle of her pack was expanding, and labor was a chain to bind them all together, too.

And now look at them. Slow, quiet, miserable. Useless. Fear smothers joy beneath the purpleblack acrid flighttense. Eventually the work will be done, and it will take longer and be worse. There are more accidents. And that is why Ember, still hauling, still carrying small messages where she can, has a scream building up inside of her that is harder and harder to clamp down on. Her teeth ache with violence. How dare they come and defile the work? How dare they come and make the burn of her muscles and the unity of labor unclean? How dare they stamp out the songs?

It is more difficult for the villagers. They do not know how to pretend. They do not wrap the knives of their selves inside cloth; all they have are forks and spoons meant for not-battle, for tilling earth and spearing crabs and mixing creams, the sorts of things that the Silver Divers need other people to worry about. They do not have the pack to take comfort in, even in pretended distance. (It is pretended. Ember believes in that with her whole heart. Her pack has to understand her why: they have seen her in battle and in victory. Nobody can look at Mosaic and not understand. Nobody.) The people of Beri are going to break, and Ember yearns for the command to rise up and be Pack again, fighting for honor and justice and to defend the innocent.

And Mosaic waits.

And so Ember waits, and watches, and hopes, putting all of her faith in Mosaic, and trying not to wonder why, when their eyes meet, Mosaic always looks away first.

Mosaic has to have a plan. She has to know what she's doing. That's... that's what it means to be in charge, to be touched by the gods, to be her. Because Ember's put her everything in Mosaic's hands, and she has to trust that it was worth it and Mosaic is going to know what to do. That's what it means when you give all of yourself over. That's what it means. And if she is a knife in the ribs, she does not mean to be, but she cannot be anything else, either. She cannot stop herself; she would die looking to Mosaic. Unwilling to yank that trust away, even at the last second.

So she is ready, Mosaic. She and her pack have made of themselves knives wrapped in linen. Blunt and innocuous and easily overlooked and yet still, underneath, the handle and the blade remain. At your call, Alpha. The Silver Divers are yours, and so you are theirs, too.