Tatterdemalion

Return to Thellamie

Rurik!

Civelia almost cracks.

By her standards, however, she barely holds it together when Sayanastia takes that first bite. For just a moment, it is almost possible to see her as just a young woman missing one arm, absolutely baffled by the fact that Sayanastia just keeps eating the soap, bite by bite. Perhaps something could have pushed her over the edge, in that moment— but it passes. She does not even smile. Her lips clamp like the claws of a crab.

“One more thing,” she instead says. “If you can, I encourage helping out that Lunarian, Heron. We could always use examples of exemplary conduct to be taken back up to the Moon, and the opportunity to treat with one below the Ribbon-Road is not to be wasted.”

…Cair is presently trying to explain to the Lunarian why eating soap is a team-building exercise, and also asking how the moon people eat (“W-we are not the consumption of the sustaining as one. You are not the preservation of affections!”). How would Heron usually handle this sort of nonsense?

(And, keeping in mind that the ceremony will be here before you know it— are you going to take Heron’s place here?)

---

Yuki!

Because the palanquin is in motion, it’s really quite lucky that you didn’t cause the guards bearing it to lose their balance. As it is, there’s a moment of Sulochana holding both her hands out to her sides, ready to try and counterbalance one direction or the other, her eyes startled slits.

Around halfway through your explanation, she snatches the necklace away from you, even as you work your way through the question-filled conclusion, and smothers it underneath a cushion— which gets a coil slapped over it. Back out comes the tablet; her focus is on you, even more than when she was trying to let you in on her secret before.

>[.realsuloarju]
>I am so sorry I didn’t think
>She’s in the mirrors but that means she’s IN the mirrors
>I’m so sorry
>Using her name risks attracting her attention
>But she can’t maintain attention for long, not unless she’s watching someone; she’s in the mirrors and that means she’s in any mirror, which means any mirror across Thellamie might have her attention
>I can’t believe this one
>She’s not dangerous I don’t think but she’s still a STAR, Yuki

She takes a deep breath. The cushion is still. No movement from underneath it at all. Azaza’s not going to jump out of it, nails extended, and make good on the threats she made all those years ago as she scrabbled against the massive golden frame of her vanity mirror.

Sulochana moves the cushion off like she’s doing bomb disposal. The necklace lies there, innocently beautiful.

“…she makes all kinds of promises, asking to be let out. Or screams. She did a lot of that before we removed the mirrors in the Viperiat. Then, around about the time we got those last ones, she was just… watching me. And she knows how to change the reflections, if she wants to. Thankfully she just… gets distracted. Remember how she’d just stare at herself for hours, or how we distracted her with those jewels? Now she’s got every reflection in the world around her all the time, and so she… it had to just be bad luck. That’s all.”

She picks up the necklace, letting it pool in her hands, and doesn’t make a move to give it back to you, but she doesn’t put it away, either.

“…she won’t hurt you,” she says. The undercurrent is palpable: I won’t let her hurt you. Then, as an afterthought: “And the tablets are made by the Lunarians, so. Maybe they have something to do with it. But it’s ’the trouble of our world’ so they won’t have anything to do with the Fallen Stars at all. Because the Fallen Stars are impure, just like we all are. Each and every one of us, apparently.”

Perhaps a touch of bitterness there. Just a pinch.

You’re approaching the plaza— not the Welcoming Plaza, but the one set aside for the ceremony, which will begin at dusk, but, oh, Sulochana will have so many things to do beforehand to make everything perfect. This is the moment you have with her before everything starts rolling.

---

Juniper!

Oh, this is, this is…!

This is some sort of blessing from the Vagabond Order, isn’t it? You’re not familiar with this one, but someone learns something every day, which means that once again you’re the lucky one learning.

You’ve been learning quite a lot, haven’t you? The baygum’s sluzhanka, you: you and this Maid-Knight are the same in some important ways. But you know in your heart that you’re the lucky one. Legends say that their Mansion is a hotbed of repressed tension and simmering desire, but the Pack do not often repress themselves, and their desire frequently boils over, and— as you have learned, intimately— those that try to behave in public are all the wilder when they finally let loose.

Olesya is stock-still. You can feel her fingers clenching tighter, and you rub your fingertips against the back of her hand. Her eyes move up from the ribbon to meet yours. The look in those eyes is the same as the one she gave you after she brought down that stag-goblin, right before she collapsed on your legs.

You try to contain the warmth that is flowing through you, but it’s spilling out: you’re smiling like the first time Olesya showed you the flowers she crushes to make her eyeshadow, your ears are trembling with excitement, your tail is thumping against the ponybutt of your steed. This is unbecoming of both a nun and a sluzhanka, but you’re helpless to stop yourself. You’re going to have to think your way through this, and a little bit of you pouts and leans against a wall in your mental fastness at the thought of thoughts when you want to just give Olesya a kiss and show all of Crevas how amazing the Khatun-to-be is.

But being a sluzhanka means paying attention to your lady’s needs as if they’re your quarry, and Olesya is— she’s still stock-still, she’s trapped in the middle of her mother’s procession, she’s having pictures made of her and you by onlookers, and the only safe action she can find is to do nothing at all.

“We shall both be excellent,” you say, nudging your goblin a little closer. If you were Olesya you could do this in a way that nobody sees it move at all, but here it makes you seem like you’re struggling to control your animal, which is good, actually. You’re not a huntress, after all. “How could we not be? We run together behind the Khatun, underneath the moon’s light, in us found the best qualities of both the Goddess’s serenity and the perilous ways of the Outside…”

The Khatun is watching you, turned in her saddle. She often does. You work very hard to earn your place as Olesya’s prize, her servant, her bedwarmer, but it has not escaped you that the Khatun only pretends not to have her daughter on her own sort of leash in turn. If you were ever to get in the way of Olesya’s path to greatness, well. There are many perils on a woman’s path, sluzhanka.

“…and in turn I offer one of the blessings of the Civil Church that has found its birth in the fertile soil of the western hubs…”

You glance up at Olesya, and you’re close enough to see the moment of realization in her dark eyes. The opening that you are giving her. The threading of the needle between what she feels and what is expected of her.

She reaches around, covers your mouth with her palm, and pulls you up against her (muscles, scent, promise) body. “Hush,” she says, monotone, as you meekly put your hands on the horn of your saddle to the laughter of the pack. “You talk too much, sluzhanka.”

Then she looks to the maid-knight and grunts, shrugs her (broad, scarred, kissable) shoulders. “What she said.”

The Khatun smiles. Your heart is racing like the first time Olesya told you the night was cold and then sat in silence until you figured the invitation out. You squeak pitifully into Olesya’s firm hand and give the Maid-Knight the look of a silly little nun. And then the Khatun drives her spurs into her steed, and the procession moves on, and Olesya moves her hand up— scritches you, the once, a silent relieved thanks— and then pushes your head to the side, a sign to ride straight again.

As if you could, still glowing with that rosy blush. But that’s good, too. You’ll get teased about that later and it’s already making your toes curl. Just wait until your friends meet your mistress!!

---

Eclair!

It’d be really nice if figuring it out made the song go away, wouldn’t it? I expect it’s still rattling around, this time as a complete piece, with mere emphasis on the fragment you remembered, as you work (one-two-three one-two-three) in the near-empty Vessenmer Dyes and Paints workshop.

A lantern flickers light from the back office, where Anesh Vessenmer is going over her records, hunting down your mystery purchaser, as you clean up after the staff. Tools need to be neatly organized and put away, dye pots stacked properly, and so much sand to sweep up and… let’s be honest, if you had all the time in the world, you’d be enchanted by the thought of sorting them all out by color and gradient, wouldn’t you? A task so difficult, so infinitely sub-dividable, that it would be like helping administrate the Mansion in miniature. You’ll have to reveal how much you’re able to resist the temptation, and—

Boots.

Heavy boots. Pair; only one person’s footfalls. Think back: sound of door opening, buried under consideration of task. Approaching you.

Pivot when able.

The Paladin’s tall. The Kel tend towards being short, compact; this one isn’t. Kel tassels hang from her armor, particularly her arms: decorative, distracting. The armor underneath is so much like yours; two sides of the same coin. The distinction is in who you chose to serve. Starglasses at night; the kind of Kel who tries to keep her mind on the ground. Practical, or attempting to convey practicality.

“You know,” she says, stretching, hands behind her head for a moment (important before a possible fight: get limber, get ready). “I thought for a while: why? Is it because you get all obsessive? Or is it just like another of your chores? To do: make her love me. Personally… I don’t really see the use in that.”

And she just. Leaves that dangling, and open, and she’s watching you from behind her starglasses, a shadowed shape in the low light of dusk. A firework goes off in the sky, and colors skitter across the floor between the two of you.

Anesh’s office is dead silent, as if she were holding her breath.

---

Hazel!

The thing about Keli and Seli is that there is something in them that is shining right now.

“Wow, you really hissed her off, ha!”
“Oh, poor dear, running away from your betrothed~”
“You looked so happy because you were thinking about having escaped her~!”
“Oh, you thought, is there no one to save me~?”

They treat obstacles like things to flow around like water: going up over carts, sliding under roadblocks, skidding around large groups, and pulling you along with them. (It would be very unworthy to consider the degree to which they are bouncy, so don’t even start.) It’s not technically parkour— wait, no, Seli is pulling you up a flight of stairs and onto the rooftops. It’s actual parkour.

Both of them are delighted. This is making their nights; a perfect capper to a perfect day of attempting to acquire your money. They almost certainly could get you to Yuki, and—

Yuki.

She’s brave, she’s confident, and she definitely would not take sass from these two. She’d convince them to claim that they were doing it out of the kindness of their hearts! She might have to posture, but she’d save you, her helpless damsel in distress. Maybe you could convince them that you have a contact in the Viperiat who will richly reward them.

Beyond that, well. There’s another thing that might work, right now, and that’s crying. Just bawling as soon as you manage to shake this crazy snake woman for even a moment. Sniffling and hugging your knees and bemoaning your fate. Out of the two, it would very definitely break Keli, and even Seli would probably be awkwardly attempting to comfort you. Just be the pathetic little meowmeow.

Because trying to walk away won’t work (and neither would running away, watching them work), trying to outwit or outflirt them would be a challenge that they couldn’t resist, you don’t even know how to use a heartsword, and—

Keli pulls you into a darkened alcove, claps her hand over your mouth, and manages to fit both of you into a very small, tight space just behind an uncomfortably thin bit of curtain. The sudden attempt to control her breath, to not pant heavily, is making her tremble, and she’s trying not to have her bells and bangles betray both of you. She’s electric with Getting Away With It. In her head there’s not so much as a thought of getting your money, though it’ll come back; she’s just trying to save you from whatever this snakegirl wants, and proud of herself for getting enough of a lead even with you in tow to pull this stunt.

“WHERE DID THEY GO?” howls the scary snakegirl— from a little bit past you. Just a moment more, and you might be able to sneak away behind her back while she chases after a flash of Seli’s silks.

Regrettably, you have an adorable sneeze, don’t you? And you’ve been running, nostrils flaring, and it’s a little musty back here, and Keli has a distracting amount of perfume (and a distracting amount of taking deep breaths at this very moment), and, well…

Return to Thellamie

Sayanastia!

Cair has just walked blindly into a risible comedy routine. The Lunarian is going to keep meandering around in linguistic circles, constantly trying to pin the world down in terms of being and connections, sharp if impermanent definitions, while Cair casually switches between multiple meanings of “sick” to muddle everything up.

That is, if having its hand slapped doesn’t make it drop dead on the spot. Fussy little things, those moon-people. All convinced that contact with the world down here will infect them. They’re already infected in the most important way: they accept the world for what it is.

…once upon a time, that would have sent you into a seething, furious monologue. Come! Let’s! Turn the world over! That sort of thing.

Whatever happened to that fire, hun? Is there any of it left in the ashes of your heart and cosmetics palette? Generations ago, you’d be seizing Crevas as a beachhead for the reclaiming Outside, that swamp which washes out towards the far-distant void; now, you’re just—

“Pardon me, ma’am,” one of the Brothers says, after clearing his throat with more thoroughness than necessary. “In recognition of your exemplary behavior here today, refraining from uncivilized and unproductive behavior, the Goddess wishes to offer you a gift.” This, a palm-sized box wrapped in cheap and colorful paper, he offers you.

(Inside— not that you know this yet, not unless you open it, and of course he’ll just stand here awkwardly until you do— is a bar of Shining Shield Soap, for the Most Persistent & Undesirable Odors. And Civelia will make eye contact with you for just a moment, a moment in which it’s clear she hasn’t fully forgotten certain chariot incidents, and then return smoothly to her tiresome playacting with Rurik. If you open the box, of course, and do not enter into a stubborn-off with this nun, or run away, or start one of Cair’s ridiculous chains of deals, or anything of the sort.)

---

Yuki!

“All I need is you in my song,” Sulochana says, and squeezes your shoulder. Could you ask for a better bestie? “No matter the verse. And— ah, I think, here we are.”

But here we are doesn’t mean you’ve arrived to greet Civelia. She’s chosen, instead, to pull over to receive a gilt box through the curtains. “Ah, thank you, Sulmya,” she says grandly to the artisan standing on the steps. Her voice slips registers so smoothly, from a soft-spoken friend to this assertive Princess. “I am sure this shall be sufficient for my needs. I shall send my regards and orders for the solar festival.”

Sulmya does that funny little shimmy of her coils that you think counts as a curtsey, and Sulochana lets the curtains fall again as the palanquin-bearers pick up the pace. In her hands, it’s clearer that it’s gold and silver worked over a thick, dark Outside wood, so dark it’s a little dizzying.

“Go ahead. Open it,” she says, pressing the box into your hands.

(And of course you’ll open it, thumbing the lock, won’t you? Won’t you have a glimpse of the fashionable necklace inside? Outside of Crevas, where the Outside meets reality, there are crabs which eat the grains of the variegated sands and the insects hiding between them, and over time the inside of the shells become something like mother-of-pearl, all iridescent and glossy, different colors every time the light shifts. The panels of sand-nacre here are divided by absolutely perfect pearls from the Aestivali islands, their pure milky white contrasting with the mutable hues of the panels. And in the center is the official cartouche of Crevas, the coils working around each other, done in the palest and most delicate gold. If you open this, if you hold it against your skin, if you let her use her tablet as your mirror, you’ll see that she picked every part out deliberately to complement your ears and your complexion. Somehow, she’s managed to find something in Whitemarket that is as loud about how much she cares about you as it is about the money she spent on it.)

(But you’ll also— for just a moment— see a flashing, furious eye where the light hits the silver so perfectly that it’s almost… well. A mirror.)

---

Eclair!

“You ask me for a song, girl?” There is a dry bemusement in her voice. “I wonder what I should make of that.”

Fortunately, in the moment in which she is considering you and your status as regards the hunt, the song is echoed back from the retinue. “dum-te-dum, dum-TE-dum, dum-te… this one.”

The huntress is one of the younger members of the pack; her voice is a hoarse whisper. She wears weatherbeaten, mottled black and grey; her eyes and lips are also painted black. In the shadows, in the dark, she would be invisible. But here in the colorful city, in the Festival of Light, her gangly, hunched frame is superimposed on the world. In her hands, she fiddles with a tablet.

And from it, blessed relief, issues forth the song, now familiar. Even before she says it, Dollwaltz has clicked into place. If you’d been able to explain the tune properly, Madeline would have been able to help; she introduced the song to the Manor, after all.

A memory surfaces: a fellow maid, glimpsed from behind, humming along as she dusts in the Evening Wing of the Garnet Library. Her vibrant carrot-orange curls bounce with every completed tripartite collection of notes, and a glossy black heel lifts off the floor.

In this memory, Timtam does not turn to face you.

…but she was not the composer, and plenty of people have listened to it and saved it to their tablets, probably. This huntress, for one. Her smile is self-satisfied, even as she lifts her dark eyes just enough to meet yours. The Civil claps her hands together and looks up reverently at the huntress; she barely comes up to the huntress’s chin, even in that hunched posture. (The Civil is wearing a simple leather collar lined with fur, with a silver ring hanging at the front, almost hidden by her fur ruff. No member of the Order could miss it, or fail to guess at its implications. You are very attuned to such matters of positioning.)

“Ah,” the Khatun says. “So clever, Olesya.” If she was unsure if she approved of you for asking, there is no doubt that she approves of Olesya for answering; that she is proud by proxy. “There. You have your answer, little sluzhanka. So we are settled.”

---

Hazel!

“I still can’t believe you said that to her, yah?”

I’m very certain that the end of that conversation is still playing on loop inside your brain. For all that you’re trying to distract yourself with pretty flowers in the light of early dusk, marveling at statues of Nagi that don’t have any of the mesmeric prowess of the living, you can still remember her surprisingly husky laugh, her pat on your cheek, her suggestion that you shouldn’t miss the Queen of Light.

And now here you are, trying to distract yourself a little more with a view from the gardens, which are on this jutting outcropping from the rock. From here, from this railing, you can see the city stretch out above, but mostly below. You can see the plaza which is thronged already with people waiting for the goddess’s big reveal, and you should probably head over there soon, you and these two girls hoping to steal your wallet, and if you’re lucky you’ll meet Yuki there to defend you, and if you’re really lucky you’ll catch another one of Anat’s performances.

Turn your head to the right, and there’s rooftops glittering in the last rays of the sun’s dimming light. (The sun never sets in Thellamie; it just powers down for the night, like a giant lamp on a timer.) The streets that Keli and Seli have pulled you through, giddy and delighted, full of wonders you’d never see back home.

Turn your head to the left again, and there’s the Viperiat, the final dungeon, the castle where Yuki saved this world from an evil snake-star-lady in all of the mirrors. The place she didn’t drag you to.

“Oh, don’t kidnap me~”
“Ha! What, don’t you remember what we told you?”
“The Nagi don’t snatch people right off the street.”
“You need the Khatun and her pack for that.”
“Though people who don’t pay their debts sometimes find the homehubs perilous.”
“But you’d never do that, yah?”

Turn your head a little more to the left and there’s Keli, hand underneath her chin, tail resting against the back of your thighs. Turn your head all the way back to the right, and there’s Seli, running her fingernails across the stone.

“Really, it’s been a magical day, yah? Priceless, even?” And here it is. Oh, here it is. Earlier than you expected. Are you ready to stand up for yourself, Hazel?

Well, it doesn’t matter, because that’s when somebody screams at you from a private gazebo higher up the smooth ramps of the garden, and what she says is:

---

Purnima Karn-Pana!

“I need her weakness!” That’s what you said, slithering in circles around the family’s private gazebo, tugging at your hair like you were wringing Yuki Edogawa’s neck. “It’s her or me, isn’t it? That nasty little outlander, that assassin-for-hire, that… that… that awful little brat! How am I supposed to outplay her? We don’t have her context, she doesn’t have a home hub, and I need information! So Mevis, report!”

You’d turned on your family’s spymaster-general, then, this two-legged Nagi with the build of the Kel. She’s old, certainly, but that’s become a viciously-used asset in her line of work. She’s able to ferret secrets out of half the grandmothers in Crevas.

“Well,” she said, interlacing her fingers, “dearie, there’s one weakness this outlander has that she didn’t have last time. You see, she’s become a young woman now, and she’s so confident in her alliance with the Arju that she has brought her husband to Crevas this year. A young and handsome man, with horns like a venturer scout; that’s what I’ve heard.”

Your heart leapt. Mevis lapsed into silence then, smiling as she let you think through your thoughts. Quite considerate of her, but you didn’t stop to consider how she knew to do that. “Yes! If we can seize this husband of hers, we have her by the very heartstrings! What will you do then, Yuki Edogawa? Go running to Sulochana and the Arju, force them to overextend, start an open war between the families? Or will you come to me so that I may give you terms. What would you do for him? Would you betray Sulochana? You would, wouldn’t you, you conniving schemer! I won’t just be safe from you, you wretched assassin, I shall use you to be Sulochana’s very downfall! And all we need to do, Mevis, is scour this city— spare no expense— to find this antlered outlander, wherever he…”

You let your words trickle away as you stared down into the lower gardens, where a young man with antlers just so happened to be, flanked on either side by elite Aestivali bodyguards.

And now we’re caught up, aren’t we?

"Seize him!” You are, of course, flanked by your bodyguards, well-coiled and strong. But you’re not content with pointing him out; you heave yourself down the ramps, showing the vaunted speed of a furious Nagi. "He’s mine!!”

Oh, sure, the Aestivali can grab his arms and run with him, but you will have him. You shall have him, or your name isn’t Purnima Karn-Pana, next Princess of Crevas!

Breathless Dead

The Princess Alpha clenches her fists. It’s so easy! She can see it! All they would have to do is…

Put themselves in another trap. Dare the Fates again to allow them another fortunate escape. Put Bella in another demand to use her incredible strength to save the entire ship. To save her. To save the forgetful princess locked away somewhere inside of her.

“…thank you, Sagetip. Your wisdom is a credit to our pack. I will not be a fool who does not heed her own advisors. Let us prepare the ship for flooding chambers. If the Starsong were here… we’ll need to herd the associates into the central chambers of the ship and modulate the pipes for large-scale draining and flooding. Once we’re done, we’ll be able to drown the enemy no matter where they think themselves safe.”

She can smell salt. Somewhere in the back of her eyes, sunlight refracts on water. Glory to the Worldshaker, the king of the fathomless depths.

“…but we’ll still need to make sure we have the cavalry ready to draw off the drones, cut off Summerkind from Liquid Bronze, and run down any retreat. I will see to this personally.”

Return to Thellamie

Cair!

Fallen Far goes dead still in that Lunarian way, like a spirit tablet processing footage. (Which usually takes a while after a filming shoot. After you take one picture, the painting function is still filling it out as you watch; taking hundreds at a time leaves it rendering in the background for ages. But experimentation is its own reward, isn’t it?)

Finally, Fallen Far nods. “This is the interpretation performed sufficiently. I am the endeavor of safekeeping to my sick suit. You are not the acquisition of that which is in possession. You are the managing of materials for the Recurrence.” A hitch in the buzzing voice. “…for the Heron? The maintenance of my sick suit is the objective. I am the successful use of the Shaping Matrix. You are dictating how this occurs.”

An awkward moment of silence, and then a hapless gesture at the tablet. “You are the active appreciation of our gift?” Some gift. Well, technically this was a gift. From Civelia. Heron somehow getting her to agree that the whole Handmaiden team needed their own tablets was a major coup on her part, and likely an accounting headache for somebody else. If you break this, some Civil is going to be sarcastic at you on her behalf (because she barely ever changes her facial expressions out of the defaults of Refined, Thoughtful, or Appropriately Pleased, see). Anyway, the point is that these things are expensive imports.

“I…” For a moment the Lunarian just locks up again. “…am not the provision of this gift.” Is that a buzz of defeat? “You are dictating how this occurs. You are the contractual formation. I am the subject of contracting. I am not the relinquishment of this sick suit or the teaching of the Pure Land. You are the service offered the Heron.”

The gloved hand offered, palm-up, is slender. The fingertips are all orange, like the ridges of the suit, but not hard. This is a wild thing to be offered. You may very well be the first person who gets an invitation to touch this hand like this? The Lunarians are very good at keeping their distance, fighting with polearms, bowing politely before leaving a room, ignoring offers to shake hands: that sort of thing. Posterity and science have their eyes upon you, as do the members of the small, curious crowd accreting around the two of you.

---

Eclair!

Travel directly through the Outside is harrowing. This is something that is taken into account by just about everyone, even the Order. Everyone uses the Stone Roads to travel from hub to hub, settlement to settlement, because they may have their own dangers, but they are at the very least stable.

The Outside is unstable. It is what is left over from the wars between existence and the void, the turbulent half-places of strange adventure. The venturer guilds know its rules, by and large, and exploit them to bring back treasures, exotic materials, and goblins. Goblins like these riding beasts, actually.

That’s the lesser part of the boast that is being made here today: look at our goblins, o you city of colors and serpents! This one, grey and clammy and long-haired, was bridled at the side of a treacherous stream; that one, maned and tusked and full of cowed rage, was wrestled into submission. This one, thick-shelled and heavy-pincered, is broad and flat enough that a Nagi rides on its back; that one, a goblin-mouse of unusual size, long-tailed and clever-handed, with a slight-framed rider low in the saddle. There’s even a Civil in a fur-lined coat riding a hippogriff with the forequarters of a dove and the hindquarters of a pony.

And there, in place of honor, is the Khatun. Not that you would recognize her on sight, mind you— you are not familiar with her night-black steed, its crescent horn, its vicious fangs. Neither does she wear a crown to mark her leadership of the Khaganate. All that there is to mark who she is are the furs draped over her shoulders, the straightness of her back, the single golden torc about her neck, and the eyes as hard and sharp as flint. Eyes which take in the city of Crevas and offer nothing in return.

“She rode through the flipping Outside?” Mel breathes, holding the tablet close to her chest. “All the way here?”

“And they’ve barely changed at all,” Jaks— adds. “I’ve heard they all have to swear to her that they won’t. And she refuses to let the Outside change them, so they just… don’t. Because they promised her they wouldn’t."

(This may sound familiar to you: the promises that you have made the Order and the securities which you have been granted when traveling into the cities are similar. But the thoughts of three dreaming dragons armor you and your body while walking through a dreaming world, not one grey-haired woman.)

Those flint eyes fall on you. The Khatun pulls back her reins; the night-black monster she rides complies, fangs grinding against the bit. The procession halts, with most of the riders managing to rein in their goblins with half as much skill and authority. (The goblin-crab scuttles sideways and nearly crushes a teenager against an ice cream stall before the Nagi gets it in check.)

She stares. dum-te-dum, dum-TE-dum. Members of the procession, as well as onlookers, glance from her to you and back. Mel is shrinking back into a doorway like it would save her, if it came to that.

“Girl. How is Noon?” Her voice is not loud; it doesn’t need to be. It is not even cruel. It is burnished steel and a velvet sheath. There is a turquoise stud in one ear. There is a ring made out of the skull of a small avian goblin on the ring finger of her right hand. Under her coat, a shirt of scales (goblin-drake, not dragon, you know dragon scales better than anyone in this city) is cinched tight against her wiry frame, her slight breasts. There are bags under her eyes, suggestive of chronic insomnia; no sign of how she handles it. But she must.

She is a warlord without a war, so the hunt will have to do. How is Noon, Eclair? That most rambunctious and aggressive of dreamers and mistresses. Dreams herself out beyond the Mansion, sometimes, to run into travelers. Or hunters.

Perhaps that was a hint of fondness in her voice, though— for the chase, or for memories as old as you, or for a worthy adversary well-remembered. Or perhaps it’s just a threat from a brute, an iron fist in a velvet glove, an old woman slavering at the thought of skinning a dreaming dragon and seeing what’s underneath.

---

Yuki!

Sulochana slowly, languidly curls around your legs. It’s a very natural instinct for Nagi, reflected in their furniture; it feels much like a cool, smooth blanket tucking you into bed, enough to lock you in place but not putting your legs under strain.

She approaches giving you scritchies in the same relaxed fashion. Her long nails graze your scalp, running along the natural lines of your hair pulled into that ponytail. You’d swear that your scalp becomes twice as sensitive in Thellamie, comparatively, especially riiiiiight there just behind your ears. Do your best not to melt in a complete puddle, dear.

“Shhh,” she whispers. Nagi would be amazing at ASMR, actually. Their hypnosis runs on something similar; since you’re not staring deep into her eyes right now, listening to her is just a pleasurable, relaxing buzz. “Keep that adorable voice down, Yuki. Didn’t I just say I’m not supposed to know? But… they say that when it chooses you, your head is wreathed in light. It’s all curves and arches in the Civil art, but of course I’ve never seen it.

“Long ago, generations ago, another one of the Fallen tried to conquer Thellamie. This one was worse than Azaza, if you can believe it— at least she was just economically ruinous and expected everyone to accept slavery under her ‘enlightened’ rule. This one had light which filled the trees, the flowers, and the bodies of the dead, and it overwhelmed several northern hubs, the ones where the Avel lived.”

She’s got the cadence of the opening scroll of a dubbed JRPG, and she’d do an amazing job at that. Her coils shift against themselves slightly as she adjusts her position, rubbing against your legs; she cups the back of your head.

“Vesper the Conqueror, who brought the Serigalamu back to the light of Civelia, led the final defense at Willowbrook. And she sealed the Fallen there, somehow, and Civelia forbade anyone from trying to find her body. If you try to travel there by stone, you’ll emerge in a dark forest which has swallowed up the hub, where all the trees are a little bit alive, and all of them hate you… but the forest’s advance was stopped there.

“But without the Crown of Light, which Vesper wore to battle, we haven’t been able to perform effective rituals to expand out into the Outside, and we have to rely on Outside hunting to supplement our farms— which makes the Outside more hostile in turn— and thus we have to run blessed Heron ragged keeping the mirrorfolk and rampaging goblins at bay. So land prices have been steadily rising, multiple hubs are at risk of housing crises, and there was a famine two years ago which… I did my best to make sure no one in Crevas went hungry, Yuki.”

She leaves unspoken: my best wasn’t good enough.

She leaves unspoken: when I am the Queen, there will be neighborhood expansions underneath Crevas, and I will order the creatures of the Outside to leave the hubs alone, and I will run myself into the ground to make sure that famine never touches anywhere in Thellamie again.

[And here, darling Yuki, you may roll to offer her Emotional Support, or you will add to her Need.]

---

Hazel!

A memory, dredged up while you’re in the “shower space” of dancing: one of the first interactions that Yuki had with these two was being offered guidance in the seedy areas of a hub— and then they revealed, when they had her in a tight spot, that there were fees involved. Oh, how could this have slipped your—

Keli guides you into lifting her, and you manage, given that you’re both putting momentum into it, you’re doing a spin, and she comes right back down—

That would be why. They want your money. Though there’s reasonable evidence that they’d accept sizable discounts for “kissing us and deciding which one is the better kisser” or “taking your shirt off, handing it to us, and posing, actually, do some of those dance moves again, and maybe you’ll get the shirt back.”

You have experience with girls like this, haven’t you? Not a lot of experience, but you know the way that some girls can treat boys who are quiet, shy, weird, and, well, bullyable. Even if these two think you’re entertaining, maybe even more than that, you’re doomed to humiliation, impoverishment, and inevitable rescue by Yuki unless you can figure out how to weasel your way out of—

Oh, you’ve been going longer than you think, haven’t you? Song flowed into song into song. And the crowd’s applauded a few times, and Keli’s showing you how to bow properly (at the waist). And then, oh, lucky boy, you get to experience the after-performance: members of the crowd coming up to offer donations, praise, and requests.

“That was wonderful!”
“Are you a new addition to Keli and Seli’s act?”
“You added so much to the performance!”
“Here’s my ID, message me later~” ([.mashbash], if you’re wondering.)
“Here, you simply must accept this!” (A handful of Coronets for your purse, and is that a purple gem? Keli will insist on that for sure.)
“May the light of the stars illuminate your path!”

A little Nagi kid actually wraps around your leg and gives it a big, big hug, nuzzling their soft cheek against your knee. Their mother eventually convinces them to let go, apologizing profusely, but the kid still waves bye to you over mom’s shoulder as she slithers away.

The crowd finally thins out, but before you can attempt an escape from the nefarious duo and their intentions on your purse, a shadow falls over you.

Have you ever listened to ASMR, Hazel? Ever felt that shiver run down your spine as something in your brain shifts straight to relax? Especially after, say, a moderately intense workout?

“You’re very talented,” the Nagi singer says, leaning over you, to your left. (That’s a thing they can do! Most of her body is behind you!) “But you don’t look Aestivali. What led you to fall in with these two ashiqs?” Her voice is melodious, as soft as Keli’s silks, and perhaps this is when you realize that you’re dangerously susceptible. Her eyes are barely visible through her bangs, but every glint of gold is intoxicating.

“We’re showing him around, Anat,” Seli says, on the other side of you, dangerously sudden (you just didn’t notice). “It’s his very first time in Crevas.”

Anat Amora-Ugari lifts one ringed hand to her vividly black lips. “Oh, well. You should keep him around, I think.”

“What,” Keli jokes, a little titter in her laugh, a little bush in her tail, “and share the spotlight?” And whatever is under that, and there is something, is lost to the shift of Anat’s bangs and the sway of her upper body. She’s not even doing it on purpose, sweetie. (But it does have something to do with that dance, and how perhaps their answer is a little different now; how, perhaps, they might be considering you more than just a victim, having seen how quickly you took to performing. But that goes right over your silly little head.)

“If you don’t steal him away,” Anat says, and places one hand on your shoulder with a squeeze, “I just might~”

Breathless Dead

“Plundering Fang is right,” Princess Alpha Ember says, cheerfully. (After all, Plundering Fang has renewed her oaths of loyalty to the pack; feuds can shift and fade as circumstances necessitate. And they’ve both been Mosaic’s pet, anyhow.) “If we carry out the proper rituals in honor of Mars Wolfkeeper— the strike team, the flatbread for the auxiliaries, the line of communication— we will be as victorious as we were following Bella’s lead against the Crystal Knight.”

Quizzical looks. Princess Alpha Ember thinks back over what she’s said. Rituals? Flatbread? Or—

“…by which I mean Mosaic, our pack lar,” she smoothly corrects. “It is the prerogative of the divine to accumulate titles; this is one which she has recently revealed. Our Lady of the Bells. Sagetip, be sure to add some to her shrine. And all of you— she will look even more favorably on us if we use this name for her.

“Like when we fought the Crystal Knight, the forces of the Azura are only as strong as their leaders. If we can eliminate this Liquid Bronze, we clear yet another threat from our board. Quick, surgical, and under the Wolfkeeper’s auspices, under the blessing of Bella Victorious.

“But Summerkind— if we must meet them in the field, can we drown them? We’re still dredging out the lower levels; we have water and to spare. What are their mobility capabilities? Luring more void-horses to our side might allow us to strike from unexpected directions. That might also be worth consideration for Liquid Bronze’s drones; if we cannot strike at him directly, we can feint and make him commit his drones too early, let them all burn out fast— multiple feints, if necessary. We do not burn out. We are Ceron!

“Sagetip: analysis?”

[Filling Her Belly with Bella has allowed Ember to heal her Sense stat.]

Return to Thellamie

Eclair!

This couple, they are— well, they are a little frazzled, but in a way that is likely familiar to any proper Maid-Knight. It is the frazzlement of people who have been given orders in a crisp, authoritative, but polite tone. (The Maid Voice, as it is sometimes known.) Most people don’t think of themselves as being just another part of the furnishings, at least when it comes to certain arrangements— such as arranging photographs, or forming queues, or defending them from things which go bump in the night. (Every child growing up has some story or another about a friend’s friend who really did have a goblin under their bed or in their closet.)

They accept the tablet back, slightly stunned, and look at the bold colors— still developing, ripening, in front of their eyes, as the cold thoughts of the moon turn to highlights and depth of shadow— and there is a moment where they both recognize the artistry involved. The spirit tablets have many strange capabilities, the methods of which the Lunarians refuse to explain, but their automatic pictures do not paint anything but what is in front of them. This means that there are two compositional styles developing at the same time: an improvisational one so giddy at the prospect of art on demand that it overwhelmingly emphasizes the candid, awkward and impulsive, and a formal one that errs towards being stiff and extremely deliberate.

Yet you’ve managed to infuse the careful planning of the formal school with a sense of spontaneity, as if you could step into the picture and catch what this man is about to say to his wife, some private joke in the midst of the celebrations. On the woman’s face, you catch for a moment the wish that she could hang this up in her house.

(But of course, she can’t. The tablets are miraculous, but the cost of hiring an artist to copy its results onto canvas are prohibitive. Naturally, this means some of the Nagi mercantile families are already doing it, and there’s an artistic bounty out for anyone who can take an aerial photo of the Sapphire City of Aestival and produce a canvas equivalent.)

Then the man’s eyes focus over your shoulder. It does seem that a tumult has been growing in that direction while you fussed over getting this picture just right.

“We should probably—“

“Thank you so much,” the woman says, tugging you over to one side of the street. “Do you charge?”

“Do people do that? Charge for taking tablet paintings?”

“Well, they should. That’s a job if you ever leave the Maids, right?” Her laugh is a little awkward, and she glances to you. “I’m Mel, by the way, and this is Jaks—“

“And she’s brought her entire bloody retinue through the Outside to show off,” Jaks— says. “Wonder what the snakes are going to make of this…

Ready to see what’s coming, or do you already know?

---

Cair!

The oddest people get drawn to Heron. There’s actually deep magic lore to this; Tsane would probably be able to explain this to you. Something something law of sympathy, something something magnetism, something something nails driven through cloth. But you are not the metaphysics gal. You are Miss Appraisals.

So, here’s an appraisal for you: the armored bodysuit’s putting you in mind of a lovingly patched jacket. Speaks to someone who either takes pride in what they own or who can’t replace it, but refuses to let go of their dignity. It’s a rich green, with plates (or shell?) the texture of lacquer, and its ridges brighten to orange where they regularly protrude. The ones that are worn by Lunarians are immaculate, seeming to repel dirt around them, but this one has lost that impossible luster. One kneepad is scuffed, and several plates are missing, particularly on the fingers of the left hand, leaving only the skintight suit underneath. A pink sash is pulled tightly around the right bicep, suggesting… well, suggesting that the suit’s infamous integrity may have been compromised. Too strictly knotted to be a prize or decoration.

Shoulderless sleeves, a tabard, and loose trousers, all in faded pink— this is where the sash came from, cut from one sleeve. Very revealing by Lunarian standards; they prefer vast, sweeping dresses with long trains. The sleeves are long, flowing, but do not inhibit full range of motion at the wrist. Tsane probably knows whether there are winds on the moon, and if this was meant to flutter in the breeze or to simply hang still and emphasize the way that Lunarians can just stop moving completely.

Like all Lunarian helmets, this one is oblong, sloped, narrow. It is cloudy, impossible to see more than the shape of a face through. Patterns move across it, and even you know enough about the night sky to note their similarity to both star charts and the background patterns of spirit tablets. Things which might be sigils spread and fade over the face— over wherever eyes might be— like frost on windows.

Above the helmet float two long silver-and-pink objects of unknown purpose. One is, unusually, crooked— no, crumpled. The angle at which it floats is crooked. There we go. You likely have your own theories about their purpose; plenty of people do.

“You are the managing of materials for the Reoccurrence.” Now this is interesting. You’ve heard Lunarians once or twice before, maybe, just because of the circles that Heron can— well, not move in, but pop into without repercussions. Their voices are pleasantly, sweetly monotone, never rising above a polite conversational volume, with a reverberating echo buzzing beneath the words. This one?

This one sounds hoarse. The buzz is harsher, not jagged but still pointier than the all-smooth-edges voices of the moon. Like thistles and daisies.

“I am fallen far.” No. Add the capital letters. Fallen Far. “I am requiring the use of a Shaping Matrix. It is impossible for dirt to possess a Shaping Matrix. Therefore only the impossible are possessing one. You are the managing of materials for the Reoccurrence. You are dictating how this occurs.”

…it’s possible that Heron might have whatever she wants. But not in the regular stacks. Not unless a Shaping Matrix is a really fancy term for a paintbrush. You’d need to commune with the Tent’s deeper parts in order to dredge up something, assuming you give this alien the time of day.

---

Yuki!

>[.rockamt]
>Hey, gals. Something’s come up. Somebody’s stalking a nun.
>Gonna get to hand out a righteous asskicking. Litrally.
>Enjoy the ceremony for me.

>[.praxispacksis]
>Hurry back if you can! Everything I have heard says that tonight will be unforgettable!
>Yuki and Sulochana are going to be there, right? You really won’t want to miss it!!
>O, that I might join you all through some sort of miracle!!

Sulochana has her own tablet out, pulled from her purse. She keeps glancing up at you and smiling as her nails clack over the tablet’s face. She’s properly lounging, too.

A palanquin like this is all pillows and gauzy curtains over a very firm mattress, and it sways from side to side like a ship as the Nagi bear their Princess along. But because her human half is sinking into the pillows, her tail is free to wrap around you casually, giving you a comfortable headrest, making sure not to restrict your arms so that you can pull out your own tablet in turn, and while you wait, there’s the message from Aadya. Kind of a disappointment, right? Whoever she’s going to beat up sounds like they have it coming, though.

“…I can’t get over that name for your world,” Sulochana says as she types. “You might as well call our world Fire, or Light, or Colors. ‘Earth.’ Not even Mud, which has its uses, but plain old Earth. What was your creator thinking?” The tip of her tail strokes your cheek fondly, a cool touch that lingers.

Oh, a new DM. Sulochana is watching you expectantly, even as she continues to type.

>[.realsuloarju]
>This is a secret that even I’m not supposed to know.
>But I think the goddess wouldn’t mind, since you’re not from Thellamie, and since I know you can keep a secret.
>She’s going to remake the Crown of Light tonight, and I think the reason she’s here of all places is because she’s going to offer it to me.
>This is extremely important, Yuki. The Queen of Light isn’t anything like Azaza. She brings prosperity, fertility, facilitates construction, stabilizes land that’s been eroded by the Outside…
>You haven’t seen Thellamie as she could be. I haven’t, either. But the first slither to changing that is going to happen tonight.

As you reach the end, the tip of her tail shifts position, lying over your lips. She winks, and then tugs you towards her. But lying down like this, it’s awkward for her to pull you into her grasp, bordering on impossible; no, it’s an invitation. A request for cuddles as you ride. She’s still a giant cuddle bug, and she probably wants carefully worded reassurances that she’s going to make a good… generic leader, doing generic leader things.

As for the market— you clever thing, you remembered that Whitemarket is on the way. It is one of the best luxury marketplaces in Thellamie, situated in the middle of the wealthy residential area which lies below the Viperiat. Most of the goods which line the winding sub-streets of Whitemarket are display pieces, and you are intended to commission a bespoke product after inspecting them, barring several specialty import shops. Between you and me, it’s largely notable for being expensive and having prestigious names attached to the pieces, and most of its “specialities” should be purchased elsewhere.

It’s got a markup on glasswork almost everywhere, for example, claiming that bringing pieces all the way up from the lower city and choosing only the best materials for clients justifies a larger price, but if you actually know what you’re looking for and how to judge glasswork, you can get much better deals in the Market of Refractions downcity. The same goes for perfumes; unless you want to strictly buy local or want to be assured that you’re buying only guaranteed masterpieces of scent, you’d be better suited by going to the Cosmosial near the Welcoming Plaza and buying straight from Aestivali perfumers, or better yet, going all the way to Chalcedony off the Sapphire Hub. The biggest monopoly on quality you’ll find here is on Nagi furniture: the long lounging couches, the wall hanging poles, the recessed beds, the sunbathing benches, and even the installation of basking pools.

Between you and me, chances are good that you’re going to pull over here at least once to pick up a gift that Sulochana has prepared for you.

---

Hazel!

Lamb is delicious, isn’t it? Soft. Yielding. Toothsome.

Especially when it’s smothered in a rich, creamy sauce, with a hint of heat in the back of the mouth. Green and purple vegetables— roughly similar to lettuce and tomatoes— are included, wrapped in a flatbread brushed in a garlic-based oil. The whole is wrapped in a triangle of wax paper for ease of eating and walking. Keli and Seli have already finished theirs by the time you get to the foot of the broad stairway that leads up to Cesus’s garden. (It was so chivalrous of you to pay for all three. What a good, good boy you are.) But you’re still lingering, aren’t you? Really enjoying the taste, the texture.

A silvery note rings out, and both Keli and Seli perk up, suddenly as intent on that note as they were on you a moment before. The note is followed by a voice, singing: “I— I— I—” A pluck of strings joins in, and you finally catch a glimpse, there, on the canyonward side of this square: three people, standing together.

The first, the tallest, the most obvious, is a Nagi in a sequined dress, silver on deep indigo, and— oh, it’s based on the night sky, isn’t it? That magical sky where the stars move faster and all the colors are sharper. She’s the one hitting that note, and as she turns her head, you see silver threads woven into her black hair, elegant and time-consuming. Which means it’s all right to stare, doesn’t it? She meant for you to look.

The second is a Kel, plucking the strings of an instrument like a violin crossed with a harp, tucked under his chin. Unlike most of the Kel you might have seen today, he isn’t wearing sunglasses (or, more accurately, starglasses). There’s an actual, literal twinkle in his eyes, a glint of trapped starlight. Yuki will have, of course, told you about how prolonged direct exposure to starlight is intoxicating, how it can change people’s eyes and thoughts.

The third is another Nagi, wearing a top that looks like it was made out of panes of stained glass. She’s holding her hands to her chest, and between her palms a light grows, soft rays leaking between her fingers. She exhales, pushes her palms outwards, and the light (like a bubble) bobs outwards, over the heads of onlookers, and passes through— right through— your left antler.

Seli is making some sort of hand gesture at the singer, who’s laid her eyes squarely on Seli. And, yes, the singer makes a gesture back, almost hidden inside of a flourish. Seli steps forward, and Keli takes a half-step, and then the two of them look back at you, and then at each other, and then at you again.

Keli guides that last bite of gyro up to your lips, even as Seli undoes a sash around her hips and wraps it at each end around her wrists. “Come on,” she says, her voice lilting in puckish delight. And then, even as you finish chewing, she’s pulling you out in front of everyone.

“—and I, too,
I turn for you,
my darling pole-
star.
The chill wind of night,
the whirling delight,
I’ll share these with you,
We’ll cut you right through…”

And Keli has your hand, fingers interlaced, and she’s raising it. “Just follow me, pretty boy,” she whispers, barely audible above the song. A white-yellow light passes right through your chest like a budding flower.

She takes the lead, guiding your steps, forward, back, down into a dip that nearly leaves your antlers scraping the glass tiles, and—

And for a moment, her veil covers both your lips. It’s very clearly not a kiss, certainly not, but there some cheers and whoops from the audience. You feel more than see her tongue, a hair’s breadth away from your lips.

Then she maneuvers you upright into a spin, and you’ve got one arm twisted behind your back, and from the crowd’s cheers of approval it looks good. Keli steps back, and you have to follow. Keli steps forward, and you have to advance. She turns you again, and guides your hand to her hip, even as she raises your other hand interlaced with hers.

And all the while, Seli is whirling around you, elegant, like a moon, except the Moon here is still and fixed in one place. Think instead: like a constellation. You’re lucky that the song demands some stateliness from these two.

“—and you are mine,
sing it out,
let it roll through the air.
You’ll find me there,
beneath the arc of stars…”

[Keli’s pulling a String here; if you do your best to obey, receive XP.]

Breathless Dead

Ember stares. Her hands are balled in her lap. She is twisted about in her seat, staring so hard that a guilty conscience might be pricked by the remorseless gaze of her mismatched eyes.

“Then what the fuck are we waiting for?” She bushes up as she says that, nearly rising out of Bella’s lap. “Why haven’t you given me the orders to have the Silver Divers hunt for information? This is a quest from the gods, Mos—“

She flinches, droops her ears. Disappointed in herself.

“Bella. I’ll do anything to see it through. Forget hiding in suns. Forget the Azura. We’ll defeat them all if we have to. I swear to you, as your— as your knight. We’ll find it together, and then, and then… if you’ll still have me…”

Because she’s not the Princess Redana, she doesn’t say. Because she’s just Ember, Alpha of the Silver Divers. Because you command me and handle me in a way that makes me thrill. Because we’re so fucking obviously in love. Because the thought of wearing a bride’s white gown is a thrill that makes her want to jump up and run laps. Because I would do anything for you.

Her tail is thumping into a plate of crab, repeatedly.

Breathless Dead

Breathe, Dany. Breathe. Don’t inhale crab. Don’t choke on the crab. The strings of her are pulled taut, and— for a moment she isn’t sure which self she is. Ember is being handled by her lover, but this Princess Dany must have felt like this when Bella touched her.

How they must have played, Princess Dany and Admiral Bella. In her mind’s eye, Ember pours Bella into a tight spacer’s jacket and thigh-hugging leggings, chest resplendent in medals, boots reaching her knees, holding her cap emblazoned with the golden trident of Poseidon with the quiet confidence that she holds Dany’s chin. “We will keep to my heading,” the Admiral tells the pouting princess, “and you will hold your tongue or I will have you escorted to your quarters.” And it’s a challenge, and a promise, and the implicit threat to make sure she stays in those quarters to await the Admiral’s pleasure…

What else could she have been? The obvious strength, the command, the control. The confidence as Captain of the Plousios. And there’s one surefire way that a polity can keep an ambitious, Mars-blessed warlord loyal.

Ember manages to swallow, having been helped to chew. She leans her chin into Bella’s hand, and draws from her deepest reserves of personal courage to ask the gloating, charismatic demigoddess before her: “…how long were we engaged? Do you remember?”

If only she could remember, in turn. She would have worn white, with a red flower at her breast, for the imperial engagement. Her hair in a bun like this[1]. A bell at Bella’s ear, silver to complement naval black. A dance, her own small hand resting in Bella’s.

Yes. A dance. They’ve danced before. Or— did she watch a young man dance with Bella? Or did they watch a reel together, about the dances, Bella’s little head resting on a child’s shoulder? It’s all a mess, all a tangle, and she doesn’t know, she can’t know, what this commanding warlord remembers of promises or chases—

Chases.

“…did I run away from the wedding??”

---

[1]: further proof that Bella remembers, at some level. Her fingers know exactly how her bride-to-be should look.

Return to Thellamie

Amah Vess-Mekel!

[Amah. Come.] You flinch guiltily as you feel the thumps through the floor, filled with the sudden irrational fear that you are going to be chastised for staring at the Maid when everybody else stopped to do it, too. The face that Leiksh pulls at you says that she’s thinking the same thing, and you make a face back before turning and slithering over to Mistress Anesh, who is still working that cloth the Maid gave her in her fingers.

“Yes, ma’am?” Your voice cracks in the middle of the yes, and you take a moment to imagine the floor yawning beneath you and sending you plummeting down to the Demon Queen Hell, where presumably there is only torture by furious ifrits instead of the unbearable awkwardness of being alive. Must be nice, comparatively.

“Take your apron off,” she says. You know, the nightmare scenario. But before you can throw yourself to the floor before her belly and beg her to give you a second chance to prove yourself, she continues. “Go to the Sidewinder’s Arms in Uptown. Sister Tammithyn Murr needs to know that she was right about the Maid Knights. I will stall this one for as long as I can, but she does not have much time. Can you remember that, Amah?”

nod nod grateful nod life is beautiful again the birds are chirping isn’t it so great to be alive and employed

“I told her,” Mistress Anesh continues, to herself, with you right there listening. “I’m not getting involved. Didn’t I tell her? I’ll do my duty to Blessed Civelia, but asking me to fight those— why are you still in your apron, Amah?”

---

Eclair!

dum-te-dum, dum-TE-dum, dum-te-dum-DUM…

You know the song that the child was humming to her rabbit. It’s going to be running in a loop in the back of your thoughts until you can remember the name, isn’t it? An itch in your fingers, aching to be pressed against the keys of a piano, to hunt along the ivory until you’ve caught it like an errant Outside goblinmouse trying to get to the cheeses.

The simplest explanation is that it’s one of the songs that Madeline is always playing off her newfangled spirit tablet. She’d explained to you, gushing, that it’s the latest fad, inspired by Yuki Edogawa: a simple program on the tablets lets you treat the screen like an orchestral room, playing each instrument in turn and then replaying each one together, and then you can mail the resulting songs to your friends. She’s got her face smooshed against hers on every break, going on about music packages she’s been mailed.

The click of the tablets’ picture capture function is a new addition to the sounds of the city, and everywhere you turn, some lucky owner is using one to trap moments from the Festival of Light, giddy at their new ability to make art with the press of a button. What do you make of that, Eclair? And—

“Pardon me, ma’am? Milady? I, ah… would you be willing to help us out?”

He’s Serigalamu, but there’s a hint of an Avel lilt to his voice, the kind passed down by a parent. His companion (no, look at her necklace, wife) is more obviously Avel, but her skirt is the long, wide-hipped sort still popular among western farmers. He holds out a spirit tablet, set into a protective fur case. An expensive luxury, given their Lunar manufacture, but one that more and more people are managing to get their hands on— especially with the Festival sales, and the Princess’s success in negotiating with Kel.

With that in mind, it’s easy to deduce why this man, barely prosperous enough to afford this wonder of the Moon, is asking you to use it for a photo. Out of anyone in the city, surely a maid-knight’s the only one who wouldn’t be tempted to walk away with it. Behind the two, the Golden Arch — a masterpiece by the goldsmiths of Crevas in honor of the goldsmiths of Crevas — rears against the bright sky.

---

Yuki!

"Purnima Karn-Pana,” Princess Sulochana Arju hisses. You might think there’s not enough sibilant noises in there for a hiss, but trust me, she manages it on account of being a Nagi. “She’s from one of the client branches of the Karnashas, but Humash Karnasha selected her as a successor, presumably because she’s going both blind and deaf, which is the only reason— anyway, Purnima seems to think that the leadership and courage I displayed during the Azaza Crisis isn’t reason enough for me to have received this position, and she’s making an absolute crow of herself in the Lower Chamber, trying to build a coalition of anyone who feels slighted or that they’re not quite prospering enough under my leadership, and… well, after tonight, she might get what she wanted.”

The way she says that, though, isn’t defeated or seethingly furious. It’s impishly haughty, the sound of a Princess laying a trap. She sneaks you a sly glance.

“But enough of that! Tell me about your summer camp and the fencing! You don’t have Heartblades, so you must have been fighting like Maid Knights! It must be so difficult not having yours to hand when you’re back in Yukis— in your world.”

As you head down to the outer stables, and the palanquin waiting there to carry you down to the Welcoming Plaza (after Sulochana considers and then rejects the idea of riding there on an exotic tamed goblin almost like an elephant, just with six legs)— go ahead and consider how you feel about Earth becoming known as Yukisworld in Thellamie. Even if you tried, at this point, you’d probably only be able to get it known as “Yukisworld, sometimes called Earth.” Or, you know, Yukisearth.

(This is actually Keli’s fault. You are vaguely aware you may be owed royalties the next time you see her.)

---

Rurik!

“We will have need of your indomitable heart,” Civelia continues. “Your puissance shall be the lens through which my light is filtered for the benefit of all Thellamie. So you must be ready in your Tent by dusk, I humbly beseech you. Even if you find something of exceeding interest. Please.” The subtext is clear: Heron needs to be ready to take her place in the ceremony at that time, however the Handmaidens need to wrangle her. Not that she can express displeasure with the Hero of Ages, but she’s had a long time to practice guilt trips, and she always makes sure to tip Heron well for a job well done, tips which inevitably trickle down. When Heron’s around, that is.

Which is something of a sticking point.

Because nobody has told Civelia that Heron is in the Heart of the Moon right now, trying her damnedest to stop it from falling out of the sky and shattering on the peaks of Kel.

“It’s fine? Don’t worry her about it,” Heron had said to you, buckling her travel pack on before she jumped through the portal, deep in the Outside. “Like. Imagine I cause mass hysteria, right?” The lunar wind was tousling her hair; she stood in silhouette against its silver light. “We evacuate all of Kel, and then I come back and it was nothing? She’d finally snap.”

In that moment, as you all stood there, the Hero of Ages had stared for a long moment, flashed a sign of peace at you all, then jumped through and didn’t look back.

---

Lovely Hazel!

Oh, darling. Oh, you little sweetie.

You have made a fundamental mistake in dealing with these two, and that is—

“But you just got here, yah?” Seli trills, putting one finger up to her veiled chin in thought, and then glancing over at Keli.

“Yah, so you can’t say for sure,” Keli replies, nodding. (She has sensed the Bit. Even if she was just scolding Seli for scaring you, she has to play along.)

“You don’t even know about the Market Wars,” Seli continues, tail swishing behind you. “You’ll stumble right into their intrigues and get all. wrapped. up. in them.”

“Beguiled by their golden eyes, their sinuous swaying, lured close until it’s too late to escape…” Keli lets out a fluttering sigh at the same frequency as the butterflies in your stomach.

“So you’re right, they don’t usually scoop people up at random—“

“—just cute boys who have seen too much—“

“—innocent, unable to explain he’s not a familial agent—“

“—under their spell—“

“—under their coils—“

“—dragged away—“

“—to be buried alive!!!”

Keli gasps and bats at Seli, reaching over you to do so. Her perfume comes with her. “They do not! She’s winding you up, darling.”

“I have been buried alive by Nagi before, yah?” Seli says, and waggles her eyebrows in a way that makes Keli gasp, then snort.

“Nooooo, not like that, look at him, he’s gone as red as Carmine Street! You are wicked~!”

“But I’m not winding him up about the Market Wars.”

“She’s not,” Keli admits with a theatrical shrug, her hand almost, almost close enough to touch you.

“Which is why I cannot, on my honor, allow you to wander about without guidance and protection,” Seli concludes, and her arm has snuck its way around your arm, and her sleeve is really soft and gauzy and also she’s not letting go.

“Oh, wonderful, yes!” A second arm shoots its way around your other arm, and Keli gives you a little squeeze with the crook of her arm. “You simply must see the gardens of Princess Cesus—“

“—who was actually a man, you know, like you, and what do you think, Keli, do you think he could ever be a Princess?”

Keli considers you, and you’re standing up now, pulled to your feet by the vulpine scoundrels on either side of you, and maybe your legs go a little weak when she shuts her eyes and says, with a voice like the most sincere sunbeams: “Yah~ <3”

And I shall share with you a secret, lean in close to listen:

Seli thinks your voice’s wavering is attractive; it makes her want to see what else she can make that voice do, the ways she could make it squeak and break and fail you. But Keli thinks that you have a very cute face, and would look just darling with your mouth, ah, handled properly, if you know what I mean. Just because she’s the sweet one doesn’t mean she’s not thinking about Gagged Deerboy Noises right now, as her tail’s tip curls and trembles for just a moment.

Don’t give me that look. You did ask.

[Seli takes the string: “Flusterable Little Thing, Isn’t He?”
Keli takes the string: “Pretty Little Thing, Isn’t He?”]

Breathless Dead

The first months of training with the Silver Divers were physically and psychologically intensive, and one of the first lessons is that control is something that can be taken, won, used as a prize. Control of a body, control of a hormonal system, control of a heart. Control wrenched away over and over until she was strong enough to keep it. You do not belong to yourself, Ceron says: you belong to the pack.

Ember melts into how Bella handles her with eager gratitude. The way her stomach twists as she’s tossed up in the air; the way that she is crushed against the full and supple flesh of, of Bella; the way her hair is attended to. You do not belong to yourself, Ceron says: you belong to Bella[1].

She hums[2], eyes shut, basking in Contentment. The kind of scent usually only released during cuddle piles. Safe, soft, secure. Caught again. And again, and again, and again. Woven like strands of hair into a braid, into a crown.

A crown.

“…is that why I became the alpha of the Silver Divers?” A furrow in her brow. “But I didn’t want to. It’s just that no one else could have done it and stayed loyal to your commands. Shouldn’t that have come naturally to me if I was a princess? Did I lose that with my memories, too?” Underneath, unspoken: was I a good leader? Am I broken, lesser than Dany was? Am I worthy of being your dream?

By the gods, I want to be worthy of being your dream.

---

[1]: and Bella belonged to you, and Bella saved you, and you saved Bella, and love is a spiral of shared belonging. You are hers. She is yours.

[2]: the Ham-Scraper’s Lament, first introduced as a leitmotif in Rage of the Batrachomyomachia.