Thanqol

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

For all the might of yearning, it is and remains only half of the cosmic dance. The other half is denial. The fly yearns for sugar; the Nepenthes denies it and takes its life. This requires strength. Strength of will above all, for if the Nepenthes lacked will it would have evolved into one of the uncountable blossoming flowers of the Flower Kingdoms, yielding its treasure to any claws that demanded it.

But the kingdoms lack this strength, just like this priestess lacks it. She dances a dance of power and denial but how long will that last, even against this weak and opportunistic craving? How long would it last if the rakshasa applied its <disruptive> hunger? Not long at all, she thinks. All of the confidence here rests upon her own shoulders and if even one decision in the chain of her life was proven to be wrong it would crack. In the time it took to recalibrate from a shaking of the self the battle would be over and the ropes would be tight.

Zhaojun's arm clashes with Crane's, and her heel sweeps her from her feet and sends her to the mud.

The logic is inescapable. If this maiden's confidence is destined to be broken then it shall be Zhaojun who breaks it. She shall not leave such a critical task to these mere bandar-logi. That would be an abrogation of responsibility.

"Once there was a maiden!" she declared, tossing her hair that flared and floated with blue fire, eyes ablaze with the same. Her voice boomed out, raising and flowing downhill into each beat. "She danced upon the Blessed Isle, and the stars fell from the skies to watch her! She danced upon the isle of Wavecrest and the pirates sailed from every sea to watch her! And then she danced upon the head of a pin and not even the philosophers would bother to contemplate her."

She shifted, flowed, serpentine as she performed the martial kata of the Earth Dragon - but she performed it wrong. Instead of immobile stability her posture swayed; a mountain in motion, a mudslide or an earthquake where the soil moved like the sea. Trust not your foundations, foolish priestess! What yearnings brew within that heart other than complacent trust?

[Figure Someone Out: 7; she may ask one of me.
How could I remake you to become capable of withstanding the bandar-logi?
Truth of Heart and Blade: What are you most afraid of?
One to ask later]

Sunshards

Chen!

+Good evening, Princess Chen.+

The thought was soft like tracing one's fingers along a silent engine was. Hard and fierce and capable of filling with fire and heat... but choosing not to do that. Soft for all it wasn't in that moment.

Princess Jessic had come to sit below you, her head almost but not quite coming up to your eye level. She radiated the warmth and shine of having been bathed, cleaned, and made up. Her clothing was rugged and fashionable; a dragon-sized leather aviator's jacket, lined with fur, set with a crimson thunderbolt pin. Well worn and traveled, thick with pockets - clothing to brave exotic lands in. She also wore scarf, gloves, and boots - autumn's wind was here and she evidently was not somebody who liked the chill.

+Qiu told me you were having trouble,+ said Jessic. +Is this a good time?+

[Take a string on Jessic]

Rose!

You are washed. This is not left to your own care, it is the work of many hands, many soaps and many gentle sponges. Your hair is cleaned. This is not left to your own care, it is the work of many brushes, many shampoos and conditioners, and many light and gentle scissors. You are painted. This is not left to your own care, it is the work of many artists who can work on eyes and skin and lips in tandem, all working towards an outcome that seems so natural as to be invisible. You could not tell where the makeup ends and you begin, you could not say for sure where the you of this morning ended and where this new you arrived, perhaps all of the changes might be a trick of the light. But it's a good trick. It holds no matter what angle you look at it from. You can't see the seams or the paint or clearly express what has changed, but somehow everything has. Your eyes are bigger, your cheeks are warmer, your shadows are softer.

You have seen this face before. But this time, as much as you would like to, you cannot blame fox magic. All the paints and brushes and artists are still here before you, as real as the daybreak.

"Absolutely lovely," said handmaiden Thain, the director of this work, leaning back amidst her cooing assistants. "Absolutely. I can see why the Countess likes you so much, there was so much beauty in you waiting to get out."

Yue!

Tail! Tail! Aackpbbt!

Once again you're sneezing away a faceful of tickly wolf fur. Once again Hyra's crimson eyes are sardonic, amused and confident as she scores yet another win. Once again you struggle to come to grips with how little the sword matters in this sword duel.

Those crimson eyes flash and fill with confidence, brilliant and sardonic and amused but with that wary, attentive edge of a consummate performer sizing up her audience after each new trick. Then she turns and her eyes are sharp and intense and powerful and while you're catching your breath she's in so close swords are useless and she's tangled amidst your legs such that she only needs to flex her back to send you falling to the ground. A paw presses on your collar and a cold nose touches yours and a smirk - and then she's back again, standing on her hind legs and leaning on the crossguard of her sword.

Do you see it yet, Yue?

Do you see it when Hyra leans against the coat-rack, sending it toppling? You might not then, because that rack is carved mahogany and is fancier than Mr. Witthord's coat rack and you can't let it break! Who knows what they'd do to you if you broke the prison furniture!? You go for the save but - thwack! Thwack! Two more sword-blows across the thighs and Hyra is trotting away again as content as the devil.

Do you see it when she drops your sword on the ground, causing you to lower your guard and letting her rush you? Do you see it when she carves a magic pattern on the ground and you're so freaked out by all the possible things it could be that she can rush you? Do you see it when she suddenly barks and makes you flinch so badly that she's able to rush you?

Don't worry, Yue. Even if your brain is a useless fluster, eventually your bruised butt will get the message and your body will start reacting on its own. The lesson will dawn, one way or another: fighting like this isn't about skill at all. If Hyra wasn't a wolf she could no doubt move faster, more precisely, hook your chin under the tip of her blade rather than giving a clumsy whack with the flat of the blade across the thigh, but that's not what's letting her get close in the first place. What lets her get close is that she's confident. That she knows you, your habits, your instincts, your reflexes, your weaknesses. That she can stare you in the eyes so intensely that she can walk right up to you and your heart is pounding so hard that you can't lift a finger.

Hyra of the wolves is teaching you that the truth of the blade is in the heart. The head, the hand are useful. But it's the heart that sends maidens falling.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Consider trust: a nonsense concept. Either one yearns so badly one will sacrifice one's defenses to achieve it, or one yearns for defenselessness itself. Either way one has ceded control over one's desires, for what is more malleable than desire? In the paws of a lioness one can be remade to want new and terrifying things. Such is trust! Nothing more than a failure to defend one's own desires!

There is no value judgement attached to that failure, though. It is natural! If you place yourself in a position where you do not defend your desires then your desires were not powerful enough to command your absolute allegiance. As one's heart is run through Venus' crucible the slag is burned away and the steel is alloyed and purified ever towards the transcendent cravings of the constellations! So trust is not a weakness, it is the act of submissively seeking a purer desire!

"Is that so, sister Crane?" said Zhaojun. "Can you render your heart vulnerable? Can you render your charms superior? Can you weave your mind and soul and body into a trap so sweet that it will drown a gluttonous fae who tries to drink from you?"

She doubted it. This was raw sugarcrane, not pure rose honey. Take her, thresh her, purify her in heat and wet and dissolve her in coffee and she could be a pleasant sweetener at best. One couldn't satisfy the hunger of a soul as decadent as her quarry with a snack, even though she was a snack.

"Of course you can!" she said radiantly. "After all, as I said, you are a priestess just like me! Your soul is ready for this duty. You will open like the Nepenthes Thai and enchant the fae so entirely that it falls into you - and as it falls enraptured by your beauty, I shall work its undoing. Each knot you untie from your dress shall bind the rakshasa ten times over!"

[The Mask: 6!]

Breathless Dead

Redana!

The Auspex answers. The Hunt - Artemis, the chibi expression of her sitting behind a desk pushing papers that cause starships to fall from the sky. The Harvest - Demeter, as radiant as the highest summer, with a bounty so mighty that simply looking at her glyphs causes alfalfa to sprout from your pancakes. The Heart - Aphrodite, smoking with his feet on the table in the midst of a destroyed home, torn book pages drifting from the sky around him.

Mynx, for her part, gave a tired little smile. Of course she's eaten the pancakes already - you once caught her licking your utensils in case they had been poisoned. But she takes the offered food anyway because it came from her Princess and she can never refuse you anything, least of all your kindness.

"Princess Redana," said Mynx, "we did not go through all the trouble of putting on a show for you because we hated you. We all did it because... well, an Empress who never learned how to smile would be a terrible thing indeed, wouldn't it?"

Alexa!

One goes low, sliding in for a sweeping kick to your ankles. Another leaps high, pipe swinging in a wide horizontal sweep in the other direction. Pure flash. The Coherent know how to put on a show.

Their attack is either devotion or hubris, filled with fist-bumps to each other followed by unnecessary flips, lay-ups, flexes and poses. Perhaps their displays of ostentatious skill and co-ordination glorify Athena, perhaps she regards it as tacky or frivolous. Whatever her opinion, hers of you is worth and the blows start coming in. Strike after strike, punch after punch, knocked hither and thither with an intention to hurl you out of the workshop as quickly and fashionably as possible. They intend to have that pride of yours one way or another.

Do they take it?

Vasilia!

"Get some lunch," said Hestia. "You've forgotten, again. It wouldn't kill you to learn how to boil some pasta either. Food is important, drink is important, it's not just something that happens on the way to the next final showdown."

Dolce!

"I once heard a philosopher," Hera's regal nose crinkles a little at the word, although she still speaks it with respect, "say that mortals can never truly know what they feel because feelings aren't real and desires aren't real. Instead they experience the inexpressible and, in anguished inarticulation, invent linguistic narratives to cage those feelings. This pain must be because of love. This joy must be because of revenge. The stories mortals tell themselves give meaning to a meaningless existence, and so all it is simply a case of telling yourself the right story. Aphrodite cursed her by making her an inveterate shipper of romances that would never canonically happen, but I always wondered if she had a point."

She stands up, sweeping her regalia and her court around her as she prepares to leave. "If the philosopher was correct, then the answer would be to experiment with narratives of the self. Invent an achievable desire and tell yourself your impossible desire is the same thing. Adjust as you learn. In time you will build a vocabulary that gestures at your heart, even if it is not its true voice."

Bella!

You have never been in a room so crooked.

To be sure, you have spent your life amongst Imperial politics; poisoners and assassins and dissemblers and professional liars. You have been in rooms designed fundamentally around surveillance or intimidation. You have met some of the most profoundly wicked hearts hidden behind servile smiles. But those deceptions were high class and far ranging, or ruthlessly direct. This is...

That wall is filled with expensive looking heavy bound book covers. You take a breath; not one particulate of paper dust in the air. Not only are those books unread they're quite possibly empty cardboard shells to give the impression of an impressive library. That wall has a bust of Tiaephon, an ancient Azura lawmaker. It has a coffee stain upon its crown where a mug has been periodically set down. An ice pack rests upon your head. It is in actuality a single huge tray of chocolate fudge brownies that, rather than having pieces cut from it like in a civilized way, has simply had bites taken out of it like it was a gigantic cookie. The room has no less than seventeen flags. Big ones, small ones, little ones on the desk, all the blue and violet of the Endless Azure Skies. The walls seem to be held aloft with expensive marble columns and floating Azura grav-rail technology. On closer inspection it's just a thin vinyl sheet textured to look like marble wrapped around a cheap gypsum plaster core.

It's at once the least and most trustworthy room you've ever been in. Least because it overwhelmingly wants to pick your pocket. Most because that's the extent of its ambitions.

You're resting on a couch, tight red leather that looks amazing and has the comfort of a dilapilated park bench. There's a small tray of food on the coffee table in front of you, not counting your headache brownie - three peanut butter sandwich halves, a whole egg, and a glass of milk mixed with sherry. There is also a styrofoam cup half filled with pills with a scrawled post-it note attached reading DRUGS. And no sooner have you sat up and looked around than Thelis Thist has burst back into the room in an array of silks that even a complete cultural outsider like yourself suspects must be A Bit Much. She's smoking a cigarette and counting a stack of low-denomination banknotes when she sees you, which she hurriedly crams into her bra when she notices you're awake.

"You're up!" said Thelis Thist. "Have some drugs! My shop guy tells me that your deathtrap belonged to the Order of Hermes, which is a hell of a coup. That takes us international! Oh and he reckons he can give you fifteen eighty for the salvage but that's bullshit, don't believe a word of it, I can get you eighteen hundred by week's end, that's a promise."

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Ten thousand frenzies from the sky. Each raindrop yearns.

THIS is what it is to be a GOD. To feel the YEARNING of the natural world. To feel the craving of the leaves for the sun. To feel the hunger of the earth for the sky. To feel the imperious craving of the hundred-billion parasites that scratch and claw and chew at the mighty roots of the trees. And above all in this, the season where the sea and sky are one: the desire of the rain! Each falls in prayer, seeking prayer. Let me strike the face of a maiden, they cry! Let me be the first raindrop to fall upon the face of a newborn rooster, their first and eternal taste of life! Let me crash against a leaf and knock a beetle from its perch so that it might scream its devotion to me as we fall entwined into the earth! Let me! LET me! Let ME!

The rocks below her feet strain and yearn for the kiss of her shoe. Let me chip and break and tell a story forever that it was you who broke me! Let your foot fall into my mud and shape this path forever with your footprint! Crush my delicate newly-sprouted stem and punish me for defying the Law of Man and Gods by daring to grow upon a sacred path!

The rainforest yearns. The world yearns. The sun and moon and skies and everything yearns, governed by the timeless stars of blue above. No clouds or rain can hide the constellations from her now. Even her own falling gaze is insufficient. She feels them against her skull as they shift and move, ascendant and descendant at all times and at all places. The Musicians. The Pillars. The Lovers. The Ewer. The Peacock. Once a King upon an empty field said: I am, that you might not be, and within that cosmic decree were the seeds of love and violence and otherness and uncertainty and not. Even when the heavens burned and the King fell, unable to drag all down with him, his decree was still enforced. If anything, it was enforced even more diligently for now the decree reigned alone, having overthrown the King who made it.

So what is it to Zhaojun that these mortals yearn too? What is it to Zhaojun if some part of her yearns? All things yearn, and what they yearn for is not theirs to decide. If her masters decreed it she could teach this mere guide and this mere priestess that they belonged at the feet of the fae. That they belonged at the feet of Zhaojun. That they belonged at the feet of each other. Such was the administration of Heaven and such was their luck that they were not to be corrected.

Yet. The constellations ran through her hair like fingertips. The Maidens might ever change their mind. They, too, yearned.

The rain yearned for her face. Her mask denied it. The rain yearned for her skin. Her parasol denied it. The rain yearned for her blue-glowing spirit lantern. Its heat denied it, cloaking her in an ethereal haze of steam and mist as it sizzled away before it touched the eerie metal. Not every love was worthy.

"You do not comprehend the natural order, sister Crane," said Zhaojun to the priestess with a smiling voice. "I did not either, before I [met/became/submitted to] the Goddess. You seek to build cages with your words; insufficient. Only good for caging other words. Build cages with your heart, your mind, your body, your soul. Why else send a priestess to deal with a god rather than a common minstrel?"

[Center of the Web: What does Sagacious Crane of the Reeds love the most?]

Sunshards

Countess Keron snapped her fingers imperiously. Immediately guards in flowing scale armour with black and white capes surrounded her. "This one," she said, pointing at Chen. "Has spoken out of turn. Have her strung up by her heels above the market square until she learns respect." Another snap and two of them have moved to take Chen by the arms.

"This one," she said, looking at Rose. Her voice was the kindness of authority, so certain it overrode all doubt, "is weak. Fragile. Useless. Look at her, she doesn't even know she is meant to apply makeup, the pathetic creature. Take her away and teach her how to be presentable for goodness sake. The next time I see her I want her to look soft."

"And you?" said Countess Keron, bending down to look at Yue. "And you, little knight? You need strength, and the only way to gain that is by taking it away from someone else."

Despite the harshness of those words and the coldness of her eyes, Countess Keron is not cruel when she says that. She dealt with Chen and Rose like they were nothing and oh, that made her mighty, but there is no contempt in her voice for either of them. Having power, rendering another weak kneed and short of breath and trembling against the ropes, is not the same thing as being mean.

"And so you will fight in the arena," she said, drawing herself up again. "And there you will stay until you can overcome me in a clash of blades. Challenge me whenever you like, but be assured you will need the strength of many victories to stand against me."

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

Oh, Xristos. Now you've done it!

Apricot sets his heels in. He's seen enough. The sweet salt is on offer and he will not take a single step until he has received his due. Blasted beast! Idiot girl! That stuff must have come all the way from Arabia in the pockets of a pilgrim who knew better than to drag holy relics, and might have paid for a fine dagger! To give it to a horse!? In front of her horse!? Where in this blasted, foggy island was she supposed to find sugar!?

Suffice it to say, she and Apricot were not destined to get along today. He had his demands and she was too impoverished to meet them even if they had been reasonable. Knight and steed lock eyes. He knows he will have no profit from this, and yet he stamps his foot for the principle of the thing mattered.

[Undertake great labour: 9]

There were no negotiations. They both knew they were past that. He had his demands - assault Liana from behind like a brigand and rifle through her pockets for spare sugar. She had the state of her soul in the face of her impending death preventing her.

So it came to strength once more.

Apricot was an unusually large and strong horse - but he had to be, for Robena was an unusually large and strong woman. He had mass and bulk on his side but she had a lower center of gravity and boots that gripped better on the slippery stone, along with the low cunning to spill water from his trough to make the ground more slippery still. The reins were useless here - if they were the point of contact between the strength of knight and horse they'd snap in no time. Instead she gripped him in a headlock and hauled as he did his best to bite her. It was hard going, and at one time he got his teeth around her gauntlet and left dents in the steel. But after a morning of sweating and straining and doing her best to keep her vocabulary Xristian, at last she pulls Apricot into the daylight. Immediately his stomach got the better of him and he gave up the struggle to go and chew on the grass by the side of the path while Robena wheezed for breath.

Bastard horse.

Breathless Dead

Eater Of Pancakes!

Swish swish. Bella is sitting down in front of you, but her eyes aren't her own. She's looking at you with an intense, searching expression, staring deep into your eyes that she might imagine the truth below.

"I can't tell if you've changed, Redana," said Bella softly.

She takes your chin in your hand, so lonely, so distant. You see a ripple across her fur and your heavy eyes fall closed again. You feel the prick of antivenom fangs on your mouth and you don't know if she bit your lip as Bella or as Mynx.

She's Mynx when your eyes clear, leaning back on her chair, balanced on two legs and her tail, leather boots up on the table and with an expression like a joke is growing amidst the melancholy.

"Holy shit you're in so much trouble," she said, white teeth grinning with just a flash of your red. "Redana. Did you know? Did you know that you were running towards the Hunt, the Harvest and the Heart? Would it have changed anything if you did?" She's halfway towards falling to easy teasing but the weight on her shoulders and in her heart weigh against the helium of her smile.

Alexa!

"Your wrath is irrelevant," said the Hermetic. "It is as plain as day that Athena has turned her face from you, and I do not require relics to deal with you. Simple Coherent should be enough to eject you and teach you a lesson about respect."

A withered finger raises and points and half a dozen improbably bulky Coherent enforcers approach you, picking up pipes and wrenches, flexing and scowling and striking poses. And, true to the Hermetic's words, Athena is not with you in this. Your mind is filled with fog; you cannot see the angles, you cannot calculate the tactics, you do not know how to smoothly and flawlessly win this battle.

But deep in your secret heart you feel a burning sensation that tells you that an ugly win can still be a win.

Vasilia!

"Oh, you're fucked if you want to keep doing the hero thing," said Hestia brightly. "You've lost the favour of Zeus and she's not the kind of god who takes 'I've thought about what I've done' as an apology. You probably can't even comprehend how much you were coasting on sheer divine favour. Like, that ramming maneuver? Shooting a Hermetic Evoker in the face? That whole thing with Demeter? People way more skilled than you were nothing but blood vapor by this point on your insane journey. Frankly right now you'd be lucky to get steady employment, which I nevertheless suggest attempting because if you pull your husband back into this shit then you will not be able to protect him."

Dolce!

"If she is your Captain then she owes you your wages when you arrive in the next port," said Hera, gently touching her forehead against yours. "If she is your king then she owes you her sword when evil threatens you and yours. But if she is your wife then she owes you everything. And if you do not get your due, the interest in each case will be pain."

Bella!

"Don't you dare move!"

You've had that yelled at you before. But this... isn't being yelled at you. It takes you a moment to orient as the overweight Azura woman jogs up to you, huffing with the exertion and mopping her forehead with her immense cravat. "Oh! You poor dear! You've injured your neck and you might be paralyzed for life!"

She's still not talking to you. She's talking to the crowd - she's making some kind of show out of this, but you can't comprehend what her game is. "You, ser! And you! You saw the whole thing! You saw this poor girl almost killed by this deathtrap, and as Themis is your judge I declare you are all witnesses! I'll have you write your names, and may any woman who does not be held in contempt of the gods and their law!"

And then she's ducked her head into the cockpit to look right at you - and her watery eyes fill with a hard cunning, and she gives a firm wink. "Listen," she hisses. "We play this right and you could be a rich woman. I am Thelis Thist, Path of the Attorney," she tucks a business card into your dress out of sheer habit. "How much can you ham up your injuries? If you're actually injured that's even better."

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Zhaojun
The Trickster

Archetype: Mysterious Rival
It's difficult to judge Zhaojun's intentions or predict her methods. She operates according to an unknowable code of justice, a secret divine agenda, and the turbulent heart of an unknown common girl. Untangling her motivations is as difficult as finding a flaw in her perfectly rehearsed martial arts.

Aesthetic: Divine Possession
Anyone who has attended a festival in the flower kingdoms will recognize the style. She carries the formal paper lantern, patterned with spidery warding kanji and elaborate watercolour flower patterns. She wears the formal robes of blue and white, elegant and impractical, run through with gently clicking soft beads. She wears the stone god's mask, the traditional ritual instrument by which a priestess may address a god as an equal. Her hair is done up in the elaborate and traditional bun and braid, long and dark and heavy. In all ways she might be ready to lead a procession or beseech a divinity.

But there is a difference between seeing a ready fireplace and seeing it alight.

The lantern burns with an eerie supernatural blue. The mask shifts between expressions depending on the light and her pose. Her dress flows in a supernatural breeze. Her hair flicks like a lioness' tail and her fingernails are long and sharp. At times she seems to have the aspect of a cat, as predatory as any N'yari, crouching low to the ground, the shape of her motions clear through her dress. At times she has the aspect of a divinity, floating a foot off the ground so her dress just barely brushes the floor. At times she seems inhumanly normal, able to put her feet up and talk so unconcernedly your mind brushes away the glint of blue fire in the depths of that stone mask. Strange phenomena follow her. Prayer strips tear themselves from trees to float behind her, catching the blue fire and burning like candles. Strange winds or lulls in the monsoon rain herald her presence. Statues of the gods change their postures when she draws near - bowing down, drawing blades, revealing themselves as blessed or wicked.

STATS
Daring +1
Wit +1
Spirit -1
Grace +2
Heart +1

Too Many Feelings: 1
Start at 1 and increase your Feelings by 1 each time you gain a String, someone gains a String on you, or you mark a Condition. You may also choose to increase your Feelings any time you find yourself gasping or swooning over someone. Strings assigned during character creation don’t increase your Feelings.
When you open up to someone whose regard matters to you, reduce your Feelings by 2. When you secretly perform a loving act for someone, reduce your Feelings by 1.
If your Feelings track reaches 4, you can’t hold it in anymore. Tear off the mask and scream what you’ve been holding in, do what you’ve been afraid to do, and damn the consequences. You can give anyone present a String on you to gain a String on them. Stop when the consequences catch up with you, for good or ill.
Afterwards, reduce your Feelings to 0 and clear a Condition. It feels good to get it out, at least in the moment.

Ew, Feelings: When someone offers you Emotional Support and you refuse to open up, increase your Feelings by 1 and choose 1 from the listed options for that move as if they rolled 7–9. If they rolled 10+, they know they got through to you; they gain the benefits of a 10+ result as if you had opened up.

The Mask: When you seek to persuade an NPC of a lie about yourself, roll +Wit: 10+: Choose 2 7–9: Choose 1
They believe a big lie
The lie you have chosen is unexpectedly perfect, creating a new opportunity
They give you the benefit of the doubt and remain convinced even if there is some evidence of your lie

Additionally, whenever a PC Figures You Out, you can give false answers. You must increase your Feelings by 1 at the end of any scene where you do this.

Play the Part: When you use someone else’s personal item or clothing to disguise yourself as them, roll +Daring:
10+: While you remain so dressed, your disguise is perfect; only your words or deeds may expose you.
7–9: Someone sees through your disguise, but they don’t give you away just yet. Give them a String.

Center of the Web: When someone approaches you to get something from you or threaten you, choose 1:
Gain a String on them or they lose a String on you
Ask them a question from the Figure Out a Person move
+1 ongoing against them for the scene

Knives behind the Mask: When someone reveals a secret about you in your presence, you’re prepared with a damaging secret about them. If you reveal it now in retaliation, they mark a Condition. If you keep the secret for the time being, gain a String on them.

I Ship It: When you want to make a match between two other people and talk up one to the other, roll +Heart:
10+: You may give the listener a String on the other person or give the other person a String on the listener
7–9: As above, and the listener can either take a String on you or give the other person a String on you

Anyone involved may mark XP if they become Smitten with anyone else involved, including the Trickster (immediately or later this session, maximum of 1 XP per PC).

Truths of Heart and Blade
A Beautiful Lie: When you become Smitten with someone, say why, give them a String, and answer this question:
- What secret do you have that you think would make them reject you if they knew?
I See through You: When you Figure Out a Person during a physical conflict, you may additionally ask one of these questions, even on a 6-:
- Who do you want me to be?
- What are you most afraid of right now?

Strings I possess on others:
Who has seen a hint of what’s behind your mask?
Who has been the worst victim of your trickery?
Whom are you most concerned about?

Giriel 1
Piripiri 1
Kalaya Na 2
Han 2
Machi 1

XP: 2

Conditions:
Insecure

Fellowship: The Heart

Some people, some stories, confused Ailee. Stories about people giving up power. Stories about people who weren't tempted by power. But far more than that, stories about people who were tempted by the wrong kind of power.

Oh, there is such might to be had in the red. In the concentration of force, in the capacity for unspeakable violence and immense, unstoppable presence that speaks its vices so convincingly the world must obey. The heat of being the one, the only one, the orbit around which all revolves - it sears her from the inside. The power to have everything you want at the tiny cost of having this be everything you want.

She could cast her body aside like a glove. Throw away her memories of home, her memories of lanterns as a burden. Never have to think about what happened to Lucien because she could burn his silhouette from her mind along with all the rest of it. She could ascend, return - come home. And coming home would be a battle - an eternal battle, the King locked against the King, one against one, casting fragments of herself into the world until they came back to engage in masturbatory showdowns once again. All the world could be the backdrop to her perfect solipsism, and would that not put the cosmos in its place like nothing else? To look upon all its wonders and all its terrors and decide, instead, that one's own self was far more interesting?

Thus her judgement: That only she mattered
Thus her wrath: That she was the only outlet that mattered
Thus her curiosity: The destructive, tearing search for something else that might matter
Thus her waste: That nothing else mattered
Thus her pride: That only she mattered

Every word followed in sequence, in eternal circular logic. They were written on the gleaming green sigil-tattoos that wrapped her arms, they slipped from her lips, an oroboros proof against the world. King Dragon opened his jaws to swallow her once again.

She took a step towards those jaws. Welcome home. This is where I belong, what I am for. Blood pumped from the heart and now returning for another circuit. Nothing matters, Ailee. Not Lucien, or Jackdaw, or Coleman or any of it. Nothing matters.

And this, Ailee thought, was what all of the stories got so wrong about tempting someone with power.

If she had judged power by how many kilograms of force she could apply to the strength tester in the Carnival then this offer couldn't be beaten. If she had judged power in the ability to resist being hurt or capacity to hurt others then this was the ultimate boon. If power meant becoming one with the status quo here was its ultimate manifestation.

But what kind of person had such a flimsy idea of power?

Thus her pride: My dreams matter most of all.

Her tattoos wheel and spin as her hand reaches for her vest pocket.

Thus her waste: Anything that stands between me and my dreams is worthless.

Soft fingers close around the handle of the revolver.

Thus her curiosity: The more I learn the grander my dreams become.

The revolver whirs open.

Thus her wrath: Anything that asks me to give up my dreams will burn.

Five bullets, one after another, are loaded as she plants her foot on the Dragon's tongue.

Thus her judgement: My dreams are bigger than myself.

She fires five shots. The traditional number, the ritual number. All that was needed for this fight to conclude as it always did.

The jaws begin to close around her.

But she has one more bullet.

Thus her heroism: Power that does not help my dreams come true is worthless.

In the jaws of the dragon, Ailee fires her final shot.