Tatterdemalion

Breathless Dead

The tea is not the point. The tea is the vehicle.

The Princess Redana had very little patience for tea ceremonies, back on Tellus. Very little patience for most things, if we are being honest with ourselves, if they were not part of the eternal now, not something that allowed her to use the engine of her body, not part of her yearning to see and run and sail and reach. How did Hermes ever think her daughter would not desire to be on the move, on the run, chasing the horizon? Might as well have tried to tie down dawn.

As Ember, though, she learned. The Silver Divers, for all their hunger and ambition and predatory instincts, demand discipline. Any member of the pack that cannot tame their body in the service of the mind, in the service of the pack, is one that has failed.

Putting on a proper tea ceremony is about knowing the proper meanings and uses for everything. The color of the walls of the hut that they have erected around Vasilia and Dolce (a pink so faint that it is almost devoured), the flowers worked into Dolce’s hair (fresh plum blossoms steeped in their own scent, evoking Tranquility and Belonging), the number of breaths to hold before you pour (three, and don’t let your hand waver). It is slow, deliberate, and made to show perfect control of mood, body, and time.

The tea is not the point. The tea is the vehicle.

It is a variant stolen from a world three stops back. It spills elegantly from the mouth of the kettle, blue-green and bitter, the color of a sea. The color of the depths. The color of Poseidon’s fingernails. It does not so much as ripple as it is poured.

Goldie is on the harp, carefully plucking each string, her eyelids rich in luster. Sagetip’s flute is as faint as the color of the walls, a breath of wind to move through this place. And Redana pours as they play, not breathing as she pours, still and quiet in her heart.

Patient enough to do this right.

The third cup she pours for herself, and sips slowly as proof that she has not poisoned any part of this. (Not that this has stopped determined enough Ceronians from using these ceremonies as a gambit.) Her ears curl in slightly, just like her toes, and as she lowers the cup, her contented smile is the one point of failure. It is too happy, helpless in the face of her drink and the presence of her friends.

“Drink deep and well,” she sighs, eyes closed, joy radiating.

Return to Thellamie

Mayzie!

On Yukisworld they've got a story about a musician who was told he could bring his wife back from death, only he couldn't look back on his journey back through the Outside. Of course he did, because he'd missed her, see. And she melted back into everything unreal, into the dreams of slumbering not-dragons in their infinite coils.

You make the same mistake on your way out, taking a detour through the public-facing stairs to avoid the congestion of the evacuation. And as you emerge into chaos, you see Eclair Espoir, old friend and crush and enemy, who only has eyes for this Timtam, show the Architect-Knight herself about the cafe, putting her through her absolute paces.

It's the most beautiful damn thing you've ever seen, and the most beautiful damn woman who's ever walked the face of this town. Your ears, traitors that they are, wiggle.

You want, more than anything, to tear her out of that armor-- out of those frills-- and use that maid-knight's body as a canvas for your art, the art that you almost managed to convince yourself would never go anywhere. The Yukisworld designs.

---

Eclair Espoir!

Take a String on poor, absolutely besotted Mayzie Sighs, standing at the back of the cafe. Wrap it 'round her. Pull it tight.

And then lift your lovely chin and sniff the air. Fire! Here? Where there is so much wood? That is a safety hazard. And a cleaning frenzy is upon ye, is it not? Douse it! Surely there are pipes! Surely there is an entire hot springs complex downstairs! And surely you can smother out some magician's fire, likely by smothering out some magician.

Your honor demands nothing less. (And I'll toss this in, just as a bonus: that useless Paladin is downstairs, too~)

---

Handmaidens!

You're fine. Everything is fine. Why wouldn't everything be fine?

Steam swirls up maddened from the hot springs as this invasion pours out from the heart of the vast tree: another one of the Architect-Knight's own doors, likely. And on the other side, your own Stacks. A veritable garden burns as the steam rises in great gouts, the water hissing away as magical fire consumes the bathing area and the trendy cafes. Down here is the chaos of magical war, an echo of the great battles that brought down the homeland of the Avel centuries ago.

And through it wades a Paladin intent on securing the Public Safety, building steam as she goes (if you will forgive the pun). Aadya, the Rock Upon a Mountain, is here to fight her way through anyone who stands between her and closing that door. And in the swirling steam, everyone may as well be her foe.

---

Yuki!

"You don't know who I am?" She meets your axe with the bow, using it like some sort of exotic double-bladed sword. When she bares her teeth, semi-precious stones flash in your face. "Bitch, have you been lost in the Outside for the past forever?" She's good at slipping in, under your guard, hot and close and rough. "I'm the most important person here! Dig the earwax out of your triangles and listen up!"

The two of you careen into a wall and she manages to pin you with one arm, her body against yours, her starglasses crooked (and, thankfully, no baleful light behind them). Outside, dragons roar, battling across the skyline of Vespergift. Her breath is hot with a local specialty, similar to wassail on your world.

"I'm the Khanum, dumbass, and whatever you idiots are fighting over, I want it." There is love in that sentence: love towards herself, heaped up on her own head, shining with self-regard. "And then I'll show it off to Mommy and she'll know I'm a much better hunter than Ollie ever was." There's love there, too, before it turns to spite.

You make an attempt to break free, but she's got her leg under yours and she's spinning you into a drop on the stairs, which means you're tumbling right back down them as she races up, cackling, feckless and wild and free.

What sort of String does she take on you, out of curiosity? I mean, feel free to answer once you've come to a complete stop.

---

Cutie!

She kisses you again, and the smell of her is all around you, sweet as honey, sweet as sin, flowers blooming and pollen on the fur of bees. Her hair falls about you like a curtain. She is soft, inviting, and eager to devour. Eager to pour more of her magic into you, to leave your limbs trembling and your breath faint and your eyes fluttering.

The yank on your hair is sudden, sharp, startling. I'm certain that it elicits a gasp from you, that jolt when you're already feeling like the ground's all gone from underfoot. And that gasp, that grip in your curls, the shape of your mouth as it leaves you: these things are as intoxicating to her as she is to you. The smile that she gives you, the way her eyes widen, the way her grip tightens: these are the signs that she, too, is succumbing to desire. The beating heart of her is cracking through her carefully grown facade.

It has been a restraint this entire time for her not to hurt you. Not to hurt everyone. Because her job is just to bring you in, to feed you sap and honey, to make you succumb in order to advance the plans of a very sour star indeed. But that Rot Star? It can't help itself. Never could. Azaza tried to make the whole world worship her, but she was self-absorbed, obsessed with her own beauty, lashing out to make the world conform to the way she wanted it. And Miaou was just lashing out because she was hurting, and now she's sealed down beneath Kel, all shadow and flame.

But the Rot Star is aware of the world around it, and it hates the world. A slow, creeping, toxic hate. And it grew Walking Elm in its gardens and made her fair, for silly boys like you, and made her sweet, all the better to pretend she's that she's not as dangerous as the dragon.

She pulls your head back, inch by inch, and stares at the look on your face. The curve of your neck. In this moment, she has power over you, and she knows she can hurt you, and it is making her giddy, giddy, giddy.

Distracted.

"You don't get a say," she breathes, not blinking. She is grinding your back against the banister, pinching flesh against bone. Her other hand's fingers brush against your exposed throat. "Whatever made you think you had a say?" And she laughs, high and shrill and joyful as she digs her nails into your skin, drunken on victory.

And Princess Sulochana Arju shoves her heartspear through Walking Elm's chest and its forked head juts out an inch from your face and Walking Elm's grip on you loosens and you're flopping free and half through the banister and the Princess screams and flops against the banister and catches your wrist before you can lose your balance and go all the way tumbling out into empty space.

"Don't let go," the Nagi princess says, hair flopping into her eyes, hand clenched tight around you for fear of losing you. Beside her, Walking Elm is crumpled against the banister, making an awful hissing noise like no person should ever make. Her eyes are still locked on you.

Take your String on that poisonous woman. And once your fingers are working properly again, wrap them around Sulochana's wrist. She'll pull you up.

Breathless Dead

The walkway is not suspended in the air by ropes, nor by chains, nor by struts. It is held, perfectly still, by the Daughters of Ceron. They serve as the way up, too. Up into hands, little sheep: up onto shoulders, strut confidently from us onto our steady ground. The walkway itself is a figure-eight, an hourglass, a place to walk until walking is no longer required.

Behold your husband, Vasillia of the Grav-Rail! Take him in from a distance; know that he will strut down the walkway until you could reach out and pinch his cheek, should you so desire. Naturally, given his body shape and the demands of fashion, he is wearing a robe- but it is the details that matter! This robe is the sumptuous maroon of a courtier from Tellus, and the orange-gold thread woven subtly into the robe shifts as he moves, shimmering and evoking the kitchen-hearth that is his domain. From his belt hangs a purse and counterweight; the counterweight is the pale white of a void-monster's bones, carved into the shape of Hestia sitting upon a cloud. A fan, similarly, is designed to be tucked into the inner pocket.

Out with it, Dolce! Flash it, let it be shown! On its white silk is a noble sigil from a world far, far behind us now, one which will serve well enough as the emblem of the noblewoman who sits in judgment. Beneath it are the tools of the chef, crossed as noble arms--

And which tools are these again, proud and extremely comfortable Dolce? Do share with us as you walk, coming and going, letting your lovely wife see you so warm and cozy from all angles. Let her see how the robe complements your frame; let her see the fuzziness of the boots, which are still able to stand up to any dropped knife; and let her see the flower that has been pinned delicately to your curls. Let her see all this, Dolce, and let her know that Ceron shall most definitely win the Contest of Fashion!

Breathless Dead

She fought for this job, you know? Bullied her way right here, with her tools in her hands, and the burning determination to fulfill that which has been left undone. A task which yawns, enormously, across her past. And even if she cannot think of exactly why this must be done, she knows with certainty that she must do this. For Dolce. For Vasillia. For the journey.

The song that spills from her lips is slow, contenting, one she happened to hear back at the beginning of everything. Back when she, oh so briefly, rode with privateers. And she got to hear how they roared their excitement, how they tossed call and response back and forth across their ships, and, most importantly for this moment, how they wove their voices together to sing of the journey home, the sway of waves, the romantic tension of fighting alongside one another, and leaving all your fears, your disappointments, your regrets behind you.

Hold your head high!
Hold your head high!
We are alive!
We are alive!

The brush and the comb are as gentle as that song, but as insistent. These are the weapons with which she carves out Elysium. The drag of the brush through his curls, across his scalp, never tugging or pulling, just giving each one the proper bounce. The flick of the comb, the twist to accentuate those ringlets. They are scented with oils, and in their wake they leave softness, tenderness, and a certain sensitivity of the scalp.

For, say, when Ceronian nails drag up and down. Like this. While the song continues, promising peace and safety and joy among your comrades, your dearest friends, the people who chose to stand side by side with you.

And you hear that, Dolce?

The whole pack is singing along.

Let it fall, let it go.
Let it fall, let it go.
We are here, and we are now.
We are here, and we are now.

You carried so much for so long without complaint, once-Captain. You were trapped among enemies, forced to join in the hunt of your beautiful wife. Let it fall. Let it go. Let it fall. Let it go. We are here, and we are now.

All we got is us!
All we got is us!
The people who fight with us,
side by side with us,
we're all on the same ship home,
we're taking the same ship home.

And one day, Dolce, that will be true. That's a super Princess promise.

Return to Thellamie

Aadya!

It's no choice at all, really.

Even before you saw Juniper helping lead people away from the Chrysanthemum, across from the holy monastery of Vesper Victoria's, you knew that you had to get involved. So it's as you're making your way inside, using your bulk to work against the tide of people breathlessly yelping about dragons-- fire-- the trees coming to kill us all-- maid knights--

That's when the front of the Chrysanthemum explodes.

The beautiful murals, broken. The supporting beams, splintered. (One falls directly towards you; you catch it like a training weight.) The Serigalamu huntresses all about break down streets, herding fleeing customers and employees and the goblins of a petting zoo alike towards safety. (They didn't do that in Crevas. Something to note.)

When you run inside, you're accompanied by two other women: Juniper, her face pale, and a Serigalamu woman with a drawn heartsaber. Across the street, Sayanastia the Dark Dragon is pinned against a statue of herself by this city's worst nightmare. And across the city, bells are tolling: invasion. forest. our nightmare is here.

---

Cutie!

Back and forth! One and two and hop! The two of you dance across the platform, even as something unfortunate happens to Cousin It above. Everything is focus! You slip into the rhythm of evading her stabs, start reading her tells, because for all that she's a peril, she's not a spontaneous swordfighter. Like a video game opponent, she fights like someone with a preset list of moves. She's got the reach on you, but you are adapting admirably, and then she manages to fence you in, against a bit of remaining banister on these great big stairs, with quite a drop behind you, but you see the opening and you take it--

Her wicked weapon tumbles out of her grasp as you twist it away, and it descends to the floor. (Don't worry about it falling tip-down. That's fine. Probably.) And now, disarmed, having lost the battle, she...

Reaches up and pulls down your makeshift mask.

Time seems to slow. Behind her, you can see Yuki. You can see your would-be Nagi savior being helped up. You can hear something unfortunate continuing to happen to Cousin It.

She is cradling your chin and leaning in.

You wanted a hard choice, little Golden Fawn? Well, one way or another, you've got one, because here's what you can do:

• you can stab her in the ribs with your sword, without hesitation, just show Yuki that you're capable of actually stabbing someone, to protect yourself, stab someone who doesn't have a weapon, someone dangerous, her eyes full of light, her lips rich and full, OR
• you can let her kiss you.

Show us all who you are, Cutie.

---

Yuki!

So you stagger out of the wrecked cafe, exhausted, and notice a lot of things:

• the giant hole where the front of this building used to be, and the way that the wind's pulling chrysanthemums out from that great big tree in the center of this place, in a rather unnatural way
• the awful woman who gives you the bad vibes leaning in to give Cutie there a kiss
• the Serigalamu huntress in a gaudy tiger-striped one-piece bathing suit and starglasses who is pulling a heartbow back to her cheek, aiming at the both of them, that's right there's a new challenger here, taking aim from a lower and now mostly-abandoned turn on the stairs
• Pasenne heroically pulling Sulochana back up onto (for now) stable ground
• your friend Eclair grinding on the face(?) of Cousin It with her skateboard

I think you have plenty enough to be dealing with. Good luck, dear; you always do shine under pressure.

---

Eclair Espoir!

The Architect-Knight is a figure from ancient stories, a dependable henchman and lackey for Bad Queen Aria. Any story about plucky knights deserting from her ranks (including the ancestors of the Order of the Aurora, looking for something good and true to serve rather than the emptiness in Aria's heart) wouldn't be complete without their being suddenly fenced in by walls, by cells, forced to escape a prison-labyrinth being built up all around them. (Fortunately, almost all of these "dungeons" were demolished, and good riddance.)

She is a nightmare. She is unbreakable loyalty given to a monster. She has really let her hair go while she's been imprisoned.

And she is at the beginning of a combo chain.

Time to start cleaning up around here, isn't it?

---

Handmaidens!

Well. Hrm. That big tree there has become a very bad problem. Even with its roots sealed away, even with all of those paper talismans dangling from its branches, even with all of those iron bands around its trunk, somehow the poison of the Rot Star has entered into it. It's obviously starting to die, but it's releasing hundreds-- thousands?-- of blossoms into the city through the hole that was made when Sayanastia got bulldozed through the front wall. That is almost certainly Bad. But you're the Handmaidens of Heron! Which will make your impending failure to contain them even worse.

Also, you're getting a pinging from Kalentia in the group chat at the same time, because apparently she's in the middle of a collapsing dream-prison that had some sort of awful evil tree magic bloom at its heart, looking for her, and you all should watch out for Rootwalkers or things of that nature! It looks like a Fallen Star is making a big move, so be ready for that!!

Return to Thellamie

Yuki!

The terror of a bygone age in front of you takes her starglasses off for a moment. Behind them is light like sludge, like tears, like bile rising in a throat. Light that has curdled. Light that is capable of animating the bodies of the dead when laced with the flora that it is more closely attuned to.

O daughter of Yukisworld, the First Fallen made an elaborate system of magic because he was a fucking nerd. (Just ask Tsane.) He refracted his light into a dizzying series of essences, each one ripe with possibility, with secrets to discover, with unexpected edge cases and combo spells that not even he could have imagined. But each of us? We are peers to the magic of this world, and ours is alien to what our lost brother made down here. Even mine. One day, you might have the chance to really see that. But here's the magic of the Rot Star, the Poison Star, Spite themselves.

And for a moment, she looks lost.

"Why...?" It's a sigh out of floral psuedo-lungs. "I... there was... in the beginning there was... my knights..."

Then she focuses her attention back on you, and her rictus grin returns. "The why doesn't matter, squire," she hisses, and there's another voice underlying hers again. A wet, awful voice. She flicks out the arms of her starglasses and slides them back up her nose with her middle finger. "First comes the Wildwood. An empire of leaves and bones. Then, in the end, the mushrooms; and after them, nothing." She purrs that word like it's a pickup line (and that was her, not the wet voice rejoicing in leaves and bones).

She casually tosses a table your way, and your axe only barely cuts through it. Casual. She's relaxed about this, for all that getting nicked made her angry. She's not taking this seriously as a challenge, a duel, a battle against an equal. That's how you could do it (you realize, ducking another chair). She wants knights. She wants someone she could love to hate. She wants-

A roar echoes throughout the Chrysanthemum. Aria's head jerks up, and an awful laugh bubbles out of her. "So you're here, too. I'm allowed this. I'm allowed this!"

She turns and starts running. And once she's out of the cafe, that's when the wood starts growing out of her.

(You're still not satisfied? Well, her problem is that she's a corpse puppeted by starlight, with a personality so big that it still serves as the container of that light. You'd need to drain it out of her, then put your head together with Heron- or someone who's pored over her library- to fill it up with something else to sustain her, and even then you'd still have Bad Queen Aria to deal with, now free to pursue her goals to topple Thellamie free of a master. Or you could put her to rest.)

---

Cutie!

Ignore the dragon transformation behind your foe. (It's incredible, really. The speed of the growth, the way the branches curve like real ribs, the scary woman dangling from vines in the place where a real dragon would have a heart.) Her eyes are gold, her breath is sweet like apples, the way she sways is like the branches of a willow tree in the wind.

"Yes! Let's leave! Nobody needs to be hurt, just come with me!"

She reaches out, and somehow you manage not to take her hand. You rebuff her, in fact. (Politely, I'm sure. There's a good Cutie!) It doesn't matter whether it's just a step back or a defiant flourish of your Heartblade; it's enough that you, in this moment, reject her. Because she's dangerous and fake and you've got a Princess of Crevas fighting right behind you to protect you from people like her.

"Well." She sighs and draws her Heartblade, and it is thin and black and some sort of sap runs down the groove in the blade; the carpet hisses where a fat, sticky gobbet falls to the ground. "There is really no need to be difficult, is there?"

She lunges for your legs. You do not want to be pierced by that Heartblade, Cutie. It is very, very good at causing pain. The sap will spread in your veins and it will burn like ant bites and cramping muscles and you're not good enough to be here and you are never going to college. If she is the carrot (and I think we can all agree that carrots are vastly overrated as a root vegetable), that sword is the stick whittled down to a vicious needle.

Get stuck by that awful thing and you might just curl up into a whimpering ball for her to carry away.

---

Handmaidens!

It is an unfortunate truth that there is just enough glorious, showy empty air in the center of the Chrysanthemum, above and around that showstopping tree, for two dragons to have a battle- provided, of course, that they are quite willing to smash each other into either side of the spiraling helix staircases that run all the way up the sides of the tower. Or, for that matter, through the walls and into the cold winds outside.

But Aria (you know her, Yana, of course you know her, in your heart there is still a connection to this body, and you can feel the awful light that fills her up, and the weight of the bog that she wants to turn the world into, the petulant plan here at the end of all her clever plans of carefully orchestrated decay and collapse, long centuries past, but the light was never the source of the hate, that's all past life cringe married to the trauma of being killed) isn't much of a dragon, is she? A parody in glistening wood and flowering vines and white bones. But she's enough of a dragon to twist in the air and then flare her wings out, beating powerfully up towards her other self.

And here's the thing, darling Handmaidens: dragons are the bones of the world. The First Fallen convinced the slumbering coils of the dragons to be instead of roiling in not-existing. Which means that there's no room for two dragons here. Not in the too, too solid world. One needs to win.

Aria slams into the Dark Dragon like a kiss with fangs. Only room in a hive for one queen! Only room in Thellamie for one dream! And this sure isn't fair, two against one, given that the Rot Star's riding her veins, its light bursting against Yana's shadows, saying: you are small, and you are less than you were, and you will never have this glory again.

Heron would know what to do. But Heron's not here to figure out the option that a Paragon would choose.

---

Eclair!

You're as drunk as any kitty maid has ever been, here or anywhere else among the stars. But it's all sloshing about in your head. Your feet are certain and sure on the stairs, and that demands all the peerless focus of one of the members of the Order. You pass through the evacuation of the Chrysanthemum untouched, even as the pretty ladies and boys who work for smiles show off their training to make sure that no guest is getting left behind.

Your feet lead you, and they lead you-

Here.

Why are you here, a few steps to the left on this landing? Because, here, it leads into the backstage of a theater stage, to all the props, the costumes, the masks, because this is a Lunarian comedy that they're doing here, which isn't to say it's a comedy written by Lunarians but rather a comedy about Lunarians, and part of that is the exaggerated costumes, the over-elaborate dresses, the masks, the masks, each one hung up with care on the wall.

There's one missing.

She was here.

Eclair Espoir, do you dare take the space where there used to be a mask and put it over your own face?

Maybe this is the drink talking. But this is one of my temples. The magic trick makes new magic tricks, and this is one of them. You can catch a glimpse, here, if you act with holy irrationality. If you look out on the empty audience as Timtam would. If, for a moment, you are wearing the absence of her mask.

Either way, your armor settles comfortably onto your shoulders as you look at this empty space. Catches you up in a hug. It missed you, too. (I can say this here. Doesn't it make you almost believe it's better than being true?)

---

Yuki!

All the way back to you, sweetie. I'm not going to leave you dangling in the wind! Because Suli is the one dangling in the wind.

It's hard to get one of the Nagi to lose their, for a lack of a better word, footing. But Cousin It over there cheats with their magical hammer. A trapdoor with a slide leading right out into open air is just mean. You get to see Cousin It kick her right down into it, even as two dragons rage in the center of the tower.

And if I know anything about you, Yuki Edogawa, it's that you're not going to let your Sulochana fall. Not when you're watching her claw at empty air.

Breathless Dead

Ember holds a collar in her hands, and she is stiff as a statue.

C'mon. Be a good girl. Put it on. There's something misfiring here between her arms and her brain, between her hormones being played like a harp and the way her arms just won't move. And that misfire, that jam, is...

"...Bella said this is okay, right?" It's hot and hard to think, and the crush is on all sides, the joy of Ceron is being part of the pack, but her arms just aren't moving. "Because, she, Mosaic, she's the only one who gets to..."

That's untrue, isn't it, Dany? You get into all sorts of scrapes. Tumble up and down the scoreboard, end up in peril and doom, change from face to face like drama masks, but down at the bottom of them all there's you. And you're married.

"I'm your sister-in-law," Gemini breathes sweetly in her ear. "I'm practically doing it for her."

"Okay," Ember says, eyelids heavy. "But can you put her name on here? Weave it in the, the collar, or etch it on the tag, or..."

Gemini takes it from her. Ember's arms fall like her training weights are tied to them. All around her are the sound of bells, of bells, she was wearing a bell and that made all bells beautiful, Bell-a Bell-a Bell-a, and when they find that lost world nobody and nothing's gonna keep them from finding a home, Bell-a Bell-a Bell-a with a jangling mood and a beautiful face, softer now, lovely always, Bella who came for her, Bella who married her, Bella who refused to break...

Gemini shows her the nametag, etched with a claw, the name of the one woman she belongs to, and Redana throws her arms around Gemini and hugs her, tail thwacking all around, giddy with the relief of everything settling into place in her head. Now she can stumble back down from rule. Now she can be praised for her qualities and not judged for failing to measure up. Now she can be a very special member of this pack:

The one who has BELLAS at her throat, and a small silver bell hung there.

Return to Thellamie

Handmaidens!

I do regret to inform you that, given your circumstances, you'll be able to freeze all of the Rootwalkers in the room, but if you don't do it from outside the room (say, inside the tearoom where Injimo is having so much fun), then you'll end up freezing yourselves, too. (This isn't fatal, thankfully; can you believe that in Yukisworld, people can't survive being frozen in an ice crystal if you have warm blankets and tea ready after the crystal's shattered? It truly is a bleak place.)

But it would be best practices to clamber down into the tearoom, pump the room full of ice essence, and in the process seal the door shut with more ice. Then you'll only have to handle the assassin, catch the Architect-Knight, and enter the Stacks by another route! Simplicity itself.

---

Yuki!

"Don't use your name," Walking Elm says from behind you, her voice still high and cheerful. As sweet as poisoned honey. "That's not information they need yet~!"

Aria clutches at her throat. For a moment, it's illuminated from within; starlight flecks her lips like blood. Things that are not muscles shift under her skin. Then she draws her lips back into a crazed smile, all for you.

"You are brave. A knight. I used to have knights like you." Her voice is a hoarse whisper, the roar gone. She pushes her starglasses back up her face, hunches down low. Her tail drags across the floor. "Heroes! I hate heroes." That word there, it reverberated with a second voice, one that is slick with mud and hate.

She comes at you like a comet. You sidestep, flick your axe out, and she slams into it, keeps coming. She catches you by the throat, smashes through the thin wooden wall of the cafe. You wrench free and careen into tables, smashing abandoned plates and teacups on your way down. But she doesn't press her advantage, she doesn't leap on you and give you a bad end, all claws and teeth and the sweet smell of death. She clutches at her face and cackles, hair spilling out between her fingers.

"What do they call you? The Rootfelling Knight? The Lumberjack-Knight? All the great knights have a title. Oh, what I would have made of you back then!"

Take a String on her; she imagines you among her court and its chains on her heart stir. (She thought she could inhabit a role and avoid contamination by the world, as if it would not enclose itself around her- right, Yana?) She is also giving you what she thinks you want: honorable combat between a knight and a monster.

Your throat aches. You are lying in broken porcelain. Take a Condition, too. You are facing Aria Thendragon, though you haven't gotten her name yet. You are fighting the champion of a Fallen Star, a dragon of rotting wood and light and command. Fighting her, in any context, is a very good way to pile up Conditions.

---

Cutie!

See, even I remembered this time!

Anyway, Yuki just got bull-rushed through the cafe window by that scary lady. No read on which of them is getting out of there. You'd really hope for it to be Yuki, but...

Alcideo doesn't say a word. He does do a duelist's salute with his heartblade (you never asked him if he could fight, did you), and he puts his trust in you.

Take a String on Alcideo. Go ahead. It's yours for the taking.

The snake-princess starts slithering in the other direction, heading upwards, just because the whole press of people is going down- and then she's stopped by a hammer slamming down onto the stairs, and a sudden wall bursting up out of the floor underneath that hammer, and then, oh, and then?

Cousin It from your Addams Family comes crashing down on top of the wall, except she's got bare arms, both of which grab the hammer and heft it up.

Dear damosel / death-delighting;
invasion I incited, / an influx of idiots
wood-worked / without will,
but bitches / my back do break.

"The Handmaidens harry me hence, hard-treating me. Come, carry this callow--" She breaks off, swings the hammer, shatters a heart-arrow the size of a bloody ballista-bolt (see, now she's got me doing it). On the other stair of the Chrysanthemum's helix, Yaz nocks another arrow. The Chrysanthemum is not helpless.

"So much violence, Hazel~" Walking Elm is following you, arms outstretched welcomingly. "What a fuss~ Why don't you come with me and I'll make sure both of these knights fix everything they've broken!" She smiles and it's radiant and perfect and you're holding your breath, aren't you?

"...ugh, my head," the Nagi princess groans, holding one wrist up to it. Her breath is coming hot and quick and her cheeks are flushed. You can feel the warmth in her shifting scales. You are holding your breath and not getting turned on at an unfortunate moment, aren't you? "What... are you... doing...?"

"Finding a happy solution for everybody," Walking Elm says, and the sun is behind her now, throwing her face into shadow. Above the two of you, another one of Yaz's shafts splinters into jagged shards of magic which fade away harmlessly. "I don't want to have to hurt anyone, believe me!"

And it sounds so much like she means it. She's a very good actress, after all.

---

Eclair!

"Everyone," one of the chefs says, banging on a pot with a ladle in order to get attention, and it's just misfortune that you're the closer one to that noise, isn't it? "We've just received word that we need to evacuate the building! The stairwells are unsafe, so if you'll all follow me through the staff entrance?"

Mayzie looks from the chef to you and then back to the chef and then back to you. "Come on," she hisses, standing up. "Now's our chance to get away from this mess, Miss Logic!" She's still got your notebook, and in this moment she's split as to whether to stay or to go whether you will or no.

If you had a String on her, you could pull it. But there are ways and means to get that sort of String in a moment like this, aren't there?

The floor beneath all of you trembles. Somewhere down below, there is yelling and the sound of smashed tableware. The sort of thing that every member of the Order instantly attunes to and itches to fix, isn't that right?

Breathless Dead

Now, the Princess Redana would have gaped uselessly at this. Come, we can admit it. Her sense of justice would have been pricked, and her indignation would have swamped her in sputtering, blushing, and an insistence that that was deeply unfair! It would have taken a looming maid behind her to actually make her insistence that the universe should be fair, should play by rules, should involve everyone working together to a common aim.

Ember smiles beatifically. "Why, that's so clever, Plunder~!" She makes a hand signal to her wolves and then slides down the coils right into Plundering Fang's arms, still smiling. "Much more clever than I would expect from you, honestly! Did a thought finally get into that silly little head of yours?" She tilts her head in an impudent way, showing the flash of her neck, and then smacks the rump of her old tormentor while exuding Challenge. But when Plundering Fang's arms tense around her, she's already snaking out, dancing a few steps back. She sticks out her tongue.

"Or am I wrong? Did Mistress Bella Mosaic give you tips on fashion after you begged her so politely, wagging your tail, sitting on command and showing her how well you can bark? That must have been her idea! Oh, you naughty little thing, using your lustful body in order to get plans from our patron demigoddess!"

Plundering Fang lunges, but Princess-Alpha Ember is already doing a backflip, the sort that she'd practiced over and over again on Tellus. She lands nimbly and dances back, rump waggling, teeth on display, knowing full well that Plundering Fang never chases somebody alone.

Behind Plunder, Goldie is already wrapping a soft, comfy blindfold over Dolce's eyes, while Flickear gives him scritchies right above the ear and tells him that he's doing a great job. Bereft of sight, the gentleness and omnipresence of Ember's followers will certainly be all that the Synnefo can focus on, even in the coils of the serpent (who, once Fang's drawn off, will also be blindfolded~!).

[3 on Keeping Her Busy.]

Breathless Dead

“Your fuzzy ass is not measuring him.”

“Embi—“ Here Plundering Fang hesitates, months of arduous training swinging down like a rapidly descending paw. “Miss Ember, we are clearly in our rights. It’s in the rules the sheep gave us. We are allowed to make measurements for his outfit.”

“Where’s her ruler, then? In her tits?”

“She is the ruler. Look closer at her scale patterns, if you would. Ma’am.”

“…well. Huh. I mean. Isn’t that inefficient?”

“baaaaaaaaaaaaaa.”

“I am assured that it’s a classic Azura method of measuring for tailoring.”

Ember taps her foot, crosses her arms, frowns. This would be so much easier if she could just tackle Plundering Fang and have a no-holds-barred wrestling match over Dolce. Have a real brawl of it!

But that would be disqualifying. That’s in the rules, too. No roughhousing, no howling, and no pouncing. (Goddesses only know whether he just walked right into those coils, then.)

Inspiration strikes the Princess Redana, who’s ready to add seamstressing to her long, long list of talents. “Well, don’t mind me,” she says, clambering onto the coils of the serpentess, situating herself between the sorceress (who’d cast quite a spell on her a few adventures back) and the hapless Starsong Privateer.

“Heya, Dolce!” She grins, heedless of the interesting bruises still lingering on her neck and shoulders. (Not that bruises were uncommon among the Daughters of Ceron, but practically anyone would have had these heal by now. Toxins have a way of lingering.) “I’m thinking: admiral hat. Hold still and let me get the circumference?”

Her loyalists are already clambering onto the Azura in order to surround the sheep on all sides. Protectively. Very closely. And Plundering Fang’s remaining friends are doing the same thing, and there’s definitely not enough room for everyone, but they’ll pack in close around the sheep anyway, giving him awkwardly false headpats and complimenting his curls…