Thanqol

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Rurik!

He had ruled out telling Civelia immediately. It's not that he didn't trust the Goddess to keep a secret - it's that, well, the fact that her blood pressure got a vote was fresh in his head. The Hero had definitely been right about that.

"No sweat," he said. He resolved himself against any guilt at making a promise that he had no ability to keep. His duty and loyalty was plain. Civelia had her priests and paladins; Heron had her Handmaidens. All any of them could do was trust in the Hero. Anything less was selfishness, presuming that one's own problems were more important than whatever the Princess was engaged in.

Kalentia!

She remembered the moment Heron had left. It was burned on her mind.

She'd had the healing spell burning on her fingertips. It had been there for almost a minute - a lifetime - and still there had been no need to use it. Heron had just gone through every enemy before they could touch her. It had been all she could do to keep up. In the end she'd wound up using the spell on herself. Then her cheeks had burned with shame instead.

How could she have explained? What could she have said? She'd realized too late that barrier magic would have been far more useful for Heron; she could have increased her range of motion by sectioning the battlefield and countering threats proactively. But there was no time to study an entirely new magical discipline so she'd gone further and further into a skillset that was worth less and less. She'd dreamed of being the essential pillar of the Handmaidens, the one who gave up individual glory in exchange for being indispensable.

And just like that. She was dispensed with.

Rurik had been right when he'd talked to them afterwards. The world had been at stake. They were sworn to the world's defense; this was the job, they'd always known it might go like this. They still had a duty.

Imagine how selfish it was to put her own hopes on someone already carrying so many.

Breathless Dead

Dyssia!

Gemini has been training. Sort of. She's been trying to train. It's hard because she's not really made for it - she's not really a Ceronian, she just looks like one for the purpose of murder. She's certainly not capable of keeping up with a determined Azura on flat terrain.

Her and... every single bystander in the corridor, though? Well, maybe. You'd better figure that out real quick Dyssia because every Lantern deckhand, Beri songstress, Stone Tribe brute and apologetic Pix have suddenly found their brains telling them that it'd be super cool and good to crash tackle a creature more than twice their bodymass. The upside is the corridor isn't that crowded, and the attempts are kind of halfhearted and impulsive.

But then, you've got this magic sword! And it doesn't seem to hurt anyone you cut - if anything, it makes them snap out of whatever mojo Gemini hit them with and back off. So, how does that go for you?

Dolce!

"It doesn't have to be so," said Demeter, turning over leaves one by one. An old instinct, searching for fungi, insects, discoloration - elements of chaos that she is still vigilant for despite having long banished them from her garden. "Here is my advice: If you love something you should care for it. This is basic morality, and like all morality it can and should override physical law.

"If you were to raise a horse on your farm then you could love and tend it, nurse it with your own hand, raise it taller and stronger than any of its kind could ever be, give it a paradise to exalt in. Yet at any time a flaw in its brain structure might cause it to leap the fence, gallop off into the uncaring wilderness where it will sicken and die alone. No chance of freedom - domesticated racehorse biology requires a caloric intake that cannot be supplied by grass, they need processed grain. That is a disaster! That is an obsolete, broken quirk of genetics. It causes heartbreak and tragedy - and to what end? To what value?

"Take that thought further. Consider your wife; how she struggles with attraction to other people inside the bond of your marriage. No matter how well you care for her something in her brain might make her leap that fence and bring your story to a tragic end. She hates it as surely as you do, but you're both powerless because that's just how things are - but what if it wasn't? What if a little medicine could cure her of that desire? How is that different from setting a broken bone or cleaning the parasites from a rose bush?

"What special value does 'pure' desire have? What special value does 'true' love have? We have seen Aphrodite's face and his cruelties, we have seen where he takes people and how he works in the breaks in evolution's design. Why look at an overgrown forest full of tangled, feral, disease-ridden desires and call it better than a tended and ordered garden?" she smiled. "A sentiment all the more ridiculous given that you, and she, and every other creature in this galaxy are already tended gardens. Biomancy has been used to architect everything you love and hate from before your planet was built.

"And now you're here with an assassin who was built to be an insane hyperfixated murderous psychopath, whose brain was assembled in a lab like this with nothing but contempt for her and the target that aches in her bones. And you suggest that she is in any way capable of making her own decisions? Who are you respecting in that situation? Her, or the Biomancer who added an empathic camouflage subroutine?" she sighs with frustration, clanging her metal leg walking stick on the ground. "Civilization has been so slow to adapt its morality to the technological reality of the modern age. The simple fact is that individualism has no basis in reality now, if it ever did; organisms cannot be separated from their biosphere. I think that the smallest coherent moral structure, then, is the family - and a family member does not need to seek permission before doing what's best on behalf of its members."

Return to Thellamie

Rurik!

Civelia had not always made her introductions so brisk. That was a habit that both she and Sayanastia had been forced to develop over the centuries. Heron generally had little patience for speeches and had, in one of her rudest moves, developed a spell that could fast forward herself through conversations she thought she knew the outcome to. If you were talking to her it wasn't always clear if she was listening intently or if you were talking to the chronological after-image from where she'd sent herself into the future.

The only thing that had really worked at making her knock it off had been to work on their voices. By practicing enunciation and delivery, working in some subtle magical enhancement effects, and cutting out all conversational hesitance and pauses it was possible to delay the Princess reaching for the accelerator. Rurik, for his part, hated using the spell - half the time he'd come out of it either in a fight or a makeout and he wasn't as swift to adapt to those circumstances as Heron was. Part of the act was continuously toying around with the hand gesture to start it, but he erred on the side of not doing that as much as he could get away with.

"Thanks," said Rurik when Civelia was done. He would also have liked to be a bit more formal, but this too was part of the act. The Legendary Hero was as impatient at giving answers as she was when it came to listening to them. He then stood there, vaguely fish eyed and blank - completely unhelpfully waiting for Civelia to continue. As much as he'd have done things differently were he the Legendary Hero, Rurik understood that Heron's mind moved as quickly as the lightning bolt of her heartblade, and it was his duty and honour to not create an expectation that she would be anything different. What a disservice that would be!

Return to Thellamie

Sayanastia!

All of these colours. In each of them Sayanastia could see the crunch and tear of her mighty jaws. She had thought, when she had eaten the sun all those centuries ago, that the opposite of light would be darkness. It turned out that the opposite of light was stranger than she'd ever imagined. Even now it found ways to surprise her.

"Hey, it's cool," Cair. A voice like the feeling of teeth on her ankle. She sighed and flicked her eyes down, a majestic gesture through her long eyelashes.
"I am not concerned," said Sayanastia.
"You sure? Because you've got like three secret agents aiming heartbows at you right now," said Cair.
"Were you not attempting to reassure me things were 'cool'?" said Sayanastia darkly.
"Oh shit," said Cair. "I mean - don't worry about them, they're probably terrible shots."
"Or they are concerned by the presence of human shields," said Sayanastia, flicking her eyes back up to the Crevas Stone.
"What, noooooo," pshawed Cair. "Nobody thinks you'd do that."
"The last time I was here I rode into town with Civelia tied to the front of my chariot, explicitly as a human shield," said Sayanastia.
"Shit, really?" said Cair.
"Really," said Tsane, not looking up from her book.
"Is there an illustration?" said Cair.
Tsane picked out another book, thumbed it through to a select page without looking at the numbers, and handed it to Cair.
"Oh wow," said Cair. "You didn't mention she was topless."
"That," huffed Sayanastia, "is an exaggeration."
"Oh yeah?" said Cair.
"She was wearing... an outfit," said Sayanastia.
"Do you have an illustration of the outfit?" Cair asked Tsane.
"Stop," said Sayanastia. "It was a military maneuver. It achieved its objectives. And regardless. The point is that I am not welcome here, nor do I expect to be. I will keep my eyes and my hands to myself and that shall be the extent of it."
"Aw, c'mon. They think you're cool," said Cair. "And if you scowl a bit, maybe show your claws, I think I can lean on the timeshare guy to get us some free samples."
"What does a free sample of a timeshare even look like?" sighed Sayanastia.
"It means a chance to pick up some cleaning products, maybe some fresh pillows, break up some furniture for firewood," said Cair. "And it won't even cost us lockpicks to get in. And if you think about it, going to 'clutter thief' would be a huge step up for your reputation, right? I mean, nobody assigns secret agents to aim heartbows at me."

Rurik!

It was a great honour to dress as Princess Heron.

You wouldn't think he could pull it off, but that was just what made it so effective. Not only had he practiced the traditions of the Heroine's makeup from an early age but he had been inducted into the guild of Princess Dressmakers at fourteen. For fifty years he had studied fashion and woven dresses in between his swordfights, mastering new and miraculous designs for the Heroine once she was finally reborn. Everything he had done had been for her even before he knew her; there was no interruption at all for him to continue working for her until she returned.

Now, though, the fire was in him. His weaving no longer ended in an endless room of mannequins. Now he was the mannequin. What an honour!

So he smiled and waved, exactly in accordance with the reach and flow of what he had designed his dress to do. This piece was a water cascade of white stained bloody red; a deathless maiden emerging from a pool of crimson. Wings of brass and gold hovered behind him, gemstones set with the lilac-orange of the Princess' heraldry. A great crest emerged from his upper back and curled over his head, set with crystal shards, part moon and part axe blade. Only the tip stained red as the veil flowed down to cover his face. This was a dress for reincarnation, immortality and war, and represented his tribute to she who fought the demons upon the distant moon. The Handmaidens wore lesser versions of the same without the white, fading instead to pale oranges and violets.

It felt... like he had chosen wrong somehow. The children, he hadn't accounted for the children. This was a dress for a more sombre moment, for moonlight and ritual. But that was to be expected. He only made these, he was not the one who was meant to pick them out. A small mistake, and like all mistakes, it would remain small.

Breathless Dead

Dyssia!

There was a strange ripple in the air. There was a... a sword in your hand. You didn't remember it getting there.

"Of course," said NBX-462. "Indefinite redesignation, it's as you say. Should hold up to Sector Governor level. I'll issue the decree immediately."

He turns to go. He doesn't take the gun. There isn't a gun. There's only this sword, ethereal and silver, surrounded by drifting threads of wool where it's cut through the heart of the Synnefo. When did this appear?

"Hey!" bounding towards you, a golden ball of fur and ultraviolence, came Gemini, warrior of Ceron. "Hey! That's my sword, you big dumb pool noodle!"

Her tail wags. The wagging of tails like this have been turned towards orbital bombardment as easily as they have to playfights or games of fetch. You don't know how you got her sword or what you did with it, but she's ready to throw the fuck down right now over it if you don't think real fast.

Dolce!

For all its importance, it is rare for anyone to see the actual work of Biomancy being done. Everywhere its consequences spiral and unravel but the act itself...

Demeter watches over the work of the Craftsman. She wears a laboratory coat melded with blacksmith's apron, and carries a metal leg as a walking stick which she sometimes idly gnaws on like it's a bone. All about her bloom the fruit of summer, sunflowers opening petals of bones, trees that drop acorn seeds filled with teeth, blood oozing out like rubber from the pierced trunks of trees and rows and rows of intestines growing on a trellis. None of this us ugly, none of this is wet, none of it even looks like the gore that should be inside people. Why should it? That would trigger primitive disgust and self preservation instincts and there was no reason that should be a barrier when it could have been engineered out. Why not make that disembodied nervous system a thing of prismatic coral colours? When that ear of corn is torn open to reveal a deltoid muscle group ready for immediate application, why should it not be the pleasing yellow colour and texture of corn?

To work in this garden of nightmares is no different to working in the little garden that fed your tavern on Beri. Demeter oversees both the same as Iskarot carries out the long work of regrowing Sanalessa.

"A strange harvest for you, little chef," said Demeter, measuring the growth of eyefruit with calipers. "And one I am not sure if I should permit you. I am in a generous mood, but nevertheless... tell me, do you remember meeting me once before?"

Memories through the Lethe. Displeasing Demeter beneath a desert sun and storm. This is a dangerous line of questioning.

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

Birdsong in the Northern Hemisphere is beautiful. Soft, lyrical, sedate, the twittering of thrushes and the chirping of robins.

Birds from the Southern Hemisphere sound like angry dinosaurs.

The sky fills with screeching. There's nothing like it, no human throat could make a sound as harsh and metallic. One could wake a drunk from sleep. A flock could raise the dead. White birds emerge from every tree, blotting out the sky. Ten thousand pairs of wings fill the air, ten thousand throats screeching their warcry. Together their sound shakes the underworld. These are the soldiers of Princess Jezara, a weaponized mass migration, the swinging jaws of a trap meant to isolate a foe most terrible.

Fallweaver smiles mutely and gives you the thumbs up. Blue lights in her ears - some noise-cancelling technomancy? A weakness. Leaving her unprotected would have left you with no way out.

But before you can exploit it, the machete swings down. One of the screaming birds has transformed into a warrior, bright in full-body warpaint. She attacks in chereographed sequence before taking wing and rejoining the whirlwind of the flock, lost in the storm of birds - as behind you another bird changes into a second handmaiden who launches her own offensive. This is the shapeshifter's chosen battleground: to hide amidst a storm of birds, where any feather might conceal a blade.

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

"Saber... wait..."

Diaofei watches them leave, too weak to follow, too weak to raise her voice. She'd seen the curse in that kiss - seen it for what it was, realized what it represented. Her Servant had started to look to humans to drain.

That had been her first duty. To maintain the barriers of the spirit world. To prevent demons from preying upon the innocent. She'd thought that it wouldn't matter, that she could burn out Saber in one foolish act of revenge, removing her and Actia's servant in mutually assured destruction. She could confront Actia in the aftermath. That would have been enough.

But things had gone wrong. Her creature had slipped its leash and was growing more powerful, not less. What had she done? At this rate...

With aching arms she clawed her way forwards. She had to stop this...

*

Cyanis, dressed in the silken costume of a dancing girl, staggered into the kitchen. Hair frizzled, clothing torn, hickeys on her neck and sunglasses missing, she looked a mess. She limped over to the refrigerator, threw the door open, picked out a bottle of oat milk and drank directly from it.

"Um," said Katherine Isabella Fluffybiscuits, looking at the bowl of dry cereal she had just poured for herself.
"Want some?" said Cyanis, shaking the bottle.
"No thanks..." said Katherine.
"Or do you want some of that?" Cyanis asked, gesturing back at the bedroom she'd emerged from.
"Um," said Kat, blushing furiously.
"Why not?" said Cyanis, taking another sip of milk. "Lot of benefits to it. Mana transfer. Educational. Get to practice your dancing moves. And I've already tired her out for you so it'll be an easy ride."
"Uh, um," said Kat. "I'm kind of saving myself for... someone special."
"So what?" said Cyanis, wiping her mouth with her sleeve before dropping the veil back into place. "I am too."
Kat looked at her with incredulity. She opened her mouth, spread her hands, and gave the expression of someone who had been pushed well past the limits of what could be passed off as a foxgirl lie.
"What?" said Cyanis. "It was in the butt. It doesn't count if it's in the butt."
"Um!!!" squeaked Kat.
"That's fox law probably," said Cyanis.
"It's probably not!!!" said Kat.
"Anyway, I'll have you know I did a stint in the Sky Castle," Cyanis said, fishing her sunglasses out of the tail fluff where they'd gotten stuck. "I learned a thing or two about hypnotizing dragons while I was there. Important foxgirl skill! You've just got to convince them that you're valuable, powerful and theirs you can get them in the right headspace, and then a charm collar will lock them into that mood. She was eating out of my hands," said Cyanis smugly, "because I was serving her grapes. Speaking of, did you peel all those grapes like I said?"
"Yeah..." said Kat. It had given her something to take her mind off the sound of... Berserker's construction efforts outside as she fortified the shrine.
"And did you get that big palm leaf fan? Because man, it's hot in there -"
"That isn't necessary!" said Kat, clenching her fists in embarrassment.
"Suit yourself," said Cyanis, laying out a cushion and gingerly sitting down. "But I need a while to rest. So it's your turn to distract the prisoner!"
"What!?" squeaked Kat.
"Archer's still fucked up so we can't go anywhere until he heals," said Cyanis. "Berserker's all in on castle building. So we're stuck here with a bored and hypnotized dragoness who can physically overpower us the second she gets her wits about her. So - we keep her entertained. You don't have to do exotic dancing but you do have to figure out some way to seduce her into quiescence."
"... maybe she'll like watching speedrunning with me?" said Kat.

*

Baroness Fallweaver!

It was a popular misconception that Baronesses were, themselves, violent people. This came of the fact that they tended to be at the centre of whatever princess battle was happening, glowing and radiant. The truth was that Baronesses were always at the centre of great battles because they were what was being fought over.

Fallweaver herself had the oblivious eroticism of someone completely unaware of their own beauty. Her jeans were torn at the knees and thighs because she spent a lot of time kneeling down to look at new mushrooms and couldn't be bothered replacing them; the holes showed off the tanned, firm legs of a career hiker. Her shirt held her chest tightly; it had shrunk in the wash, skull and pentagram logo straining against her chest and biceps. Her black and orange hair was framed perfectly by the bright white lab coat, making her seem like an otherworldly angel, surrounded by a halo of ever-falling autumn leaves.

She was a witch and scientist both, her black cat familiar wearing an adorable utility belt filled with glowing chemical vials. She traced the growth of mushrooms according to mathematical curves before choosing the best ones to enhance as arcane lynchpins. Her goal was to expand her sphere of influence and terraform Qiu's kingdom into a beautiful autumnal maze, drawing out the Threeshard Princess to a battle on Jezara's terms. She was the centre of the art and the bait for a trap, safe under the distant but watchful eye of her Lioness. All she had to do was put up enough of a fight that she didn't get immediately captured.

Breathless Dead

Mosaic and Ember!

There's so much to say. Beneath the light of a single, unglamourous moon, beneath a sky of inaesthetic clouds and satellite stars, on a sad little hill with a boombox playing music you forget as soon as you've heard it, all of the mundanity and disappointment comes together to make something awkwardly memorable. A date night. Not a thing of romance and passion, but an unglamourous freedom to be mundane with each other. Here Empire only exists in dream and aspiration.

Dyssia!

"Of course, we are grateful for the removal of the Ceronians," said NBX-462. When had he - !? If he wasn't so obviously soft, small and harmless his sudden appearance would have been startling, but the tension of his appearance disappears as quickly as it came. Even a Biomancer wouldn't have been able to fit an assassin into the helplessness of that ball of wool.

You've just stepped out of your Plover and are on your way back to your room. It's kind of the perfect moment to catch you - plenty of people around but quiet enough that you can talk, you're already moving so it's not taking any of your time, you just had a rest on the way back up here. Perfect timing. "And of course, we will maintain our existing commitment to resupply your ship in full. But an opportunity has arisen in the form of that Esoteric there," he nods at the lethal little nightmare gun that you are carrying. "The Service would like to issue a formal request for that item - and I have been advised that it has been appraised at about the same value as the entire planet you were just on. If you would like to sell it to us, I have the authority to redesignate Portugal according to your designs for an interval of two hundred and fifty years."

Dolce!

At some point during the conversation, Iskarot picks you up. Light as a bag of wool, he lifts you over the counter and puts you on the stool next to him. Then he clambers, three-legged, over the bar and stands behind it so that he can serve you drinks as you tell your tale.

"I can tell you that there's no way your friends will evade Liquid Bronze militarily," said Iskarot. "Killing him wouldn't do it. I mean, he had a divination shrine set up just in case a three hundred year dead colleague should mysteriously return to life, and a commando squad who could find me on a trackless wild. He's a bloodhound and I don't mean that metaphorically. There has to be a way to use that against him but I can't for the life of me figure out what. Vesper would see it, though. She always knew how to get people to consume themselves on her behalf."

He tapped his fingers, brass and gold, on the counter. "Well, that's my request. You figure out how to give me... a week would be excellent, but I'd need at least a day. A day with Vesper and I can find out how to break this chase. But you'll need to get around your little nemesis for that - 20022? I don't doubt he'll be looking to make sure everything goes smoothly for Mr. Bronze, and while Bronze might not notice a day's delay I am sure he will."

Breathless Dead

The Star King!

The Weapon was perfect. It had never failed. It would never fail. The craftsman who had built it had worked back from this effect to whatever causes would make it so. But to kill with Regret meant having to be free from Regret; the faintest flicker of imperfection was like the line of water linking the wielder to the open power socket. All that power needed somewhere to earth itself.

The Weapon was perfect. It had never failed. It never would fail. This was not a promise, it was a threat. To wield it meant having to maintain the same perfection the weapon embodied. If this perfection faltered then, rather than allow itself to be stained, it erased the corruption from its own timeline.

The Weapon falls to the floor in front of the Star Kings. It was pure and untouched. It had never been wielded, a gift from the Gods. It was free to anyone who would pick it up. Of its former owner(s) there was only a fading memory. And a fear.

None of the Star Kings moved. Their pseudowolves shifted, uncomfortable and confused - they did not understand like their rulers did.

Dolce!

"Ha!" rasped the Ancient Craftsman. "You! I dreamed of you. Funny thing, isn't it? To meet a friend from a dream? Peach schnapps, please, and chocolate and chili pretzels. You know these bastards don't have the slightest taste for the finer things in life?"

He unbundled himself, bags of tools filling the chair next to him. Hestia sat down next to him, mug on the table - black coffee for her, she didn't even need to ask. "Do you remember our conversation? I told you how I sought to merge life and energy, stormclouds caged in matter? Well, here we are," he laughed. "Amidst the Funko Pops of my dreams."

He slammed the schnapps down, wiping his scarred lips with the back of his hand. "You - you wouldn't know that, that's a Liquid Bronze saying, the bastard. A man who was so right about his opinions he needed to re-invent his political opponents so he wouldn't have to change what kind of right he was. I worked with him on the Ikarani project now, I remember - well, he remembered. He's a man who forgets nothing and learns nothing. The moment the Underworld coughed me back up he sent his people to collect me so I could see how history had vindicated him. The Summerkind!" he laughed. "He solved the problem of energy based life burning through their physical shells by calling it a feature! He mass produced and militarized my malfunctioning prototypes! There's a genius to him, no mistake - nobody works harder than him towards the goal of avoiding work."

He pursed his lip and tapped his fingers on the table. "That girl - Vesper? I remember her now. I didn't have all the pieces before, I didn't remember, but... I left her in a bad way. I'd like to help her, if you can help me do that."

Sunshards: Chaos Sequence

Aeglesia took the axes. She held one in each hand and briefly felt silly. She should have, like, a belt or a pouch or a big magnet stuck to her back or something for situations like this. She couldn't put these in her backpack, right? That seems super disrespectful. Well, she had a sheathe for her sword, so she was just going to have to stick one awkwardly into her belt where it'd flop around dangerously against her leg and hold the other in her hand all the time.

"Princess Jezera is a shapeshifter lioness," said Aeglesia, clinging to conversation topics she knew about and doing her best to keep eye contact (or, more realistically, throat contact, but oh wow that jawline...) "She's very mobile, but she's her to raid Princess Qiu's territory and to do that she's bought her retinue. You'll probably want -" there was hesitance in her voice, a girl about to choose the coward's path - but then she swallowed, gripped her axe more firmly, and filled herself with determination. "- You'll want to take Fallweaver! Fallweaver is Jezera's Baroness, she's a witch of autumn. She's not any good in a fight herself, but she creates all kinds of monsters to protect her. She wears a bright white lab coat and has black hair with an orange streak. She'll be wherever the trees are most, uh, autumny."

She knew even more - she was an avid reader of Princess Jezera's fan websites. Not because she really liked her - though she did! Uh, that was she liked her, the normal amount. But because she'd been opposition researching Jezera for an opportunity like this. She had to pick a Princess as her target and Jezera had seemed the least scary - and fighting a lioness felt like the most Roman thing to do.

"If you take her, then Jezera will come for sure!" said Aeglesia. "And I won't waste the chance you give me!"