TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

"I have several stacks of forms taken from my last job, and I can reproduce the ones I do not have. I would be happy to put them to good use." It's something. It's more than standing still. No, it's much, much better than standing still. A bit of the tension leaks from him, finding a direction to move in.

He can help her to a more appropriate spot. Or he can bring his desk here. He'll do either. He'll do anything.

Wherever and whenever they are, there comes a moment when he stops. A thought, at last, has come into view. "You could tell. You could tell right away that the Azura here weren't the ones to target." He says it without judgement. Just a simple truth. "You're right, I know you're right, but I didn't think about it until you said it."

Above him, a thousand thousand worlds upended to create a pretty picture. About him, the god of love calls it good. In his hands, he straightens his papers. Unnecessarily.

"Does it feel like this...all the time? Holding a knife, when someone you want to use it on is. Right there? It's, well, it's quite a lot. So much that...even though I know you're right. I didn't think about it until you said it."

Dolce of Beri looks to Bella the Deodekoi, Praetor of Nero.

"How did you manage it? All this time?"

Return to Thellamie

PraxisPackSis has entered the chat.

Yes, maybe there’s another Aestivalian nun of Civilia working in the Khaganate, but he’d know that face anywhere. It’s Juniper. Real. Here. In the flesh! And, wait, she’s? For this huntress?

His heart does a happy flutter on her behalf. He’d heard she’d gotten quite involved with the Khaganate with her work, but wow! Wow! Good for her! And for her to be with the same huntress looking after him? What are the odds?

He opens his mouth. He closes his mouth. He thinks about putting his head back down on the pillow. The math gets complicated. He looks over to the Serigalamu. He swallows. “Is it okay for me to get up now?

She blinks. She blinks again. She glances at Juniper. (He should’ve added a please. Now it’s too late.) She meets his eyes, and

Nods. Once. Slowly, with propriety and intent.

It’s difficult to tell, with the air a smidge hazy from the fire, and his eyes are still muddled with sleep, but the corner of her mouth quirks, just a bit. A spark that colors all her shadowed face.

(Another smile. Okay. She’s okay. He’s okay. Maybe.)

Now he just needs to…if he wiggles like so...grips through the layers, gets his shoulder in under there…scoot, scoot, scoot, get the rest wrapped around…and tuck and fold and shake and tuck…there!

The flat lump of blankets has transformed into an upright lump of blankets, all without losing a bit of its precious, cozy warmth to the cruel elements. His head and antlers are just about all that can be seen; with his masterful technique, he’s wrapped great folds of the blankets around both arms, so he can both curl up nice and tight and also easily peek his hands out to handle breakfast.

Now that he is properly, formally seated:

“Juniper! Hi!” The blanket pile shakes in a rough approximation of waving. “I’m. Trying not to yawn. Goodness. Sorry, it’s been…a heck of a trip so far, still waking up. But.” Do your worst, sleep. Do your worst, bad decisions and painful days. Hazel Valentine Fletcher needs no horns to glow; his face will manage just fine. “We’re in the Khaganate. I’m here.”

He could just about vibrate right through the floor in excitement.

Breathless Dead

He could feel when she was nervous.

In her defense, it was a lot easier when he was nestled in her lap, hugged tight to her chest, with her breath (or sudden lack thereof) tickling his ears. She’d spent ages learning how to silently, gravitationally lock their doors. It wouldn’t do to disparage the effort.

Besides, it didn’t make the rest of it any easier.

“Of course, I have no concrete plans,” and he couldn’t tell if she’d dreamed this up today or had a full suit hiding in the closet. “Beri is woefully lacking in tournaments of honor, and the Crystal Knight may take offense if I were to outshine her at the next parade,” and. Hrm. On the off chance that wasn’t a joke? He trusted she’d done a proper amount of math on that. “But,” she sighs, and all he can hear is star-flung longing. “If a girl’s to dream, she may as well dream in detail, no?”

In his hands, a little book. In the book, sketches. Drawings. Palettes. And one illustration they all built to.

Dolce thinks. Long enough to give it proper consideration. Not so long she would suffer.

He could feel how she was nervous.

“If I were to see you like this? I may not survive the experience. I’m not sure you’d consider that a flaw.”

A rumble of approval rolls through her, and into him. “Do you know why I picked these colors?”

“The purple, it’s from the Starsong, no? I remember, you told me of the first time you really, really looked at space from within it. You saw colors you didn’t even know could exist. One in particular stuck with you.”

“And I’m still not convinced the shade is quite correct.”

“The gold is from Lakkos, and from you. Your family loved it. You wanted something better.”

“Is it a crime to deserve the best?”

“This cream-white,” he taps with his finger. Sure enough, the colors match exactly. “I don’t see many knights with white in their colors. I don’t think it’s just because of the Skies either. It must be rather difficult to keep clean in battle. Other colors, you have a little more leeway, a better chance for stains to stay hidden.”

There’s a silent permission given. She doesn’t have to do this for him. He doesn’t need to see her fly to battle in his colors to know how she cares.

“Mm.” Her arms wrapped tight. Her fingers dug deep. “I shall simply have to be better than everyone, then.”

*****************************

Bella!

You may be the only one here who can hear Dolce before he makes himself heard.

-jinglle jinglle jinglle-

The two of you may be the only ones who know it’s a different bell now.

He stops in front of your couch. His outfit is precisely as perfect as all of your surroundings. Even when he turns to face you, you cannot find a bad angle to view him from. The humble, yet elegant vest even goes with his collar.

Blue. Woven with several other matching blues.

“What. Have they done. To make you give them that much faith.”

You. You. Give them the benefit of the doubt. A courtesy. You. There’s a question. For you, Praetor. He needs to know. Please don’t answer.

“I think.” He doesn’t wait. “I have forgotten to thank you. Properly. For Sanalessa.” He doesn’t bow. “Artemis entrusted her to me. She. Was gracious enough to teach me much, about.” He doesn’t look away. “Many things. It would have been. Improper. To lose her, and all the gifts of a goddess, before we were.”

“Finished.”

He doesn’t blink.

He doesn’t dare blink.

“So. Is there something I can do for you. To thank you?”

Praetor. Bella. Friend.

Please.

Give him something to do that he won’t regret.

Return to Thellamie

Sluzhanka.

Noun.

Someone who has been caught by a huntress of the Khaganate, serving said huntress until such a time as they can evade another hunt. Ownership, care, and training of sluzhanka is a key component of a huntress’ honor and status. As they are both servant and trophy, they often travel publicly with their owners and provide support during hunts. Thus, poor behavior and upkeep not only reflects badly on the huntress, but also threatens the success of the hunt. This can lead to other huntresses attempting to win the sluzhanka for themselves in a series of challenges, posturing, and other such maneuvers.

The origin of this tradition is very old and very important. Hazel cannot remember it right now. Please don’t tell PraxisPackSis. Wait. No, that’s. Juniper. Yes. Don’t tell Juniper.

While you’re not doing that, he’ll keep lying perfectly still, and also breathing.

It’s very tricky. Being still. Between staring inoffensively at her ankles and contemplating local trivia, he has plenty to keep himself busy. Yet no matter how hard he tries, his body keeps trembling. (Light pricks. His body moves. Her nails do not.) He can’t breathe quietly. (Gasps. Faint yelps. Half-caught and fighting to escape.) He’s making no progress on becoming an obediently inanimate object. So he has to keep existing. Here. In this conversation.

This long. Long. Conversation.

Perhaps. Hrm. Perhaps? Perhaps he’s meant to say something here. You know, that just might be it. The meaning is obvious. She’s going to be doing the cooking, which is very nice of her. He’s not to get up. So. She’s obviously waiting for him to say something. Or nodding. It could also be nodding. She’s expecting an answer. He should say something. He should do something. At least.

His neck inches around, and ha ha ha wow she is. Here. Over him. That is. Hrm. A lot. Taller. Than he thought she’d be. Crouching down. (She’s not done talking. Don’t interrupt.) You know what’s fun? Looking at the walls. Over there. (Don’t look at her.) Golly, what neat patterns! See, he can follow that line, and it traces out in a spiral around “mphh!”

Okay! Now she’s done talking!

Neat!!!

“That, wasn’t really my job, you know,” the bundle of blankets replied with a normal laugh. (It wasn’t his idea.) “I served everybody, not just. That. Is to say, I had tables, and I served whoever was at them. I don’t think we had any ladies-only servers?”

Nothing.

“And I never got promoted to dancing either.” (He wasn’t a dancer. Here or there.) “A couple of folks also did that, sometimes. But that happened elsewhere, the cafe was too small. And, I was good working there, so I didn’t ask.”

He speaks to a mountain.

“I didn’t, intentionally strut? Maybe I did by accident, but, nobody ever said anything about it?”

The sausage sizzles noncommittally.

(Stop talking. You’ve said too much already. You should’ve waited for her to reply, and now you’ve overwhelmed her. Not everybody’s a morning person. Not everybody’s as excitable as you. Remember that. Lower the energy level when you’re talking with her.)

Well. He may not be an inanimate object, but he can stay lying down like one.

The bed is still warm. It feels all the warmer for the faint chill clinging to his skin. The blankets…gosh, he was too tired to appreciate them last night, but the blankets. He’s not sure he could carry them all. Thick, heavy, and the bottom layer was a tightly-woven pattern that felt so, so nice to rub against. And that was good. It’s nice. It’s nice to be snug and warm here.

It’s. A different sort of warmth from the beds at the Chrysanthemum. They didn’t have to use so many blankets, of course, on account of being indoors and the hot springs. It was more like, like, the air itself was a blanket. Inviting you to slow down, rest, take it easy. Welcome, weary hearts. You are in good company. You are among friends. You are doing good. You were safe. A soft, embracing warmth…

(Did she see your back.)

Hazel stops breathing.

(No. No, she, she had her hand on your back, and you’re still wearing the vest. She shouldn’t have, no, wait, where was it again? Shoulderblades? Lower than that? No, it was around the shoulderblades. How wide? How tall? Oh no no no no she looked away. She looked away fast. When you looked at her she looked away and looked embarrassed she saw it she saw it she saw it that’s why and she thinks you’re a she knows how do we explain we can’t we can’t no no no why did you say yes why did you let Miss Yaz do it why were you so stupid)

*************************************

Olesya!

Only the tips of his antlers poke out from the blankets. But you are a skilled huntress. You know the value of patience in luring out a catch.

So you stand. So you wait. So you have faith in the power of a plate of freshly-cooked breakfast.

There. His thin fingers emerge; the bait is working. See them grip the blankets. See the lump shake as he wiggles his way out. The blankets are many; it takes him some time. There’s his messy curls. There’s his tired eyes. His curious little nose.

His mouth.

His lips.

See them purse as he swallows, musters his courage, and nods to you.

“Thank you.”

He’s lying on his back.

He’s not looking you in the eye.

He’s waiting for permission to rise.

But you might not know that last bit.

[Activating Friendly Benefits: Olesya gets a string on Hazel, and she says one thing she finds attractive about him.]

Return to Thellamie

He dreamed of safety. He dreamed of firm coils, of strong coils, working over his weary body. He dreamed of enforced stillness. He dreamed of a curious look in her eyes.

Her eyes.

Her.

He…he never did get her name….

Hazel stares at the roof of the tent, and eventually he will piece together that it is, in fact, a tent, and a real tent that he is sleeping in, at that. Eventually. First he’s got to wonder why he’s seeing it again, because he’s pretty sure he saw it a bit ago, and, then, it was really important, they were, he was going, but he’s forgotten what without forgetting the feeling. Then there’s the matter of moving. Or rather, he can’t move. Because he’s wrapped up. Completely. Definitely. Does he even have legs anymore? Or arms for that matter? There are conflicting reports. But he’s definitely being squeezed, unless he’s being squished, or maybe…maybe…say, why’s he seeing this ceiling again?

It’s breakfast that pulls him from the swamp of half-sleep at last. Dreams can muddle a lot of things. They have to work pretty hard to beat the call of freshly-made sausage and tea. And he has to work mighty hard to crane his neck up enough to beat the call of heavy, still-warm blankets.

Sore. Everything’s sore. Moving was a mistake. Guhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Well. He’s up. Sort of. Up enough to be committed now. Blink away the fog. Squint into reality.

Behold; a wolf. Girl. Girl and wolf. Right. Those exist now.

She is. Wow. She is. Big.

(His eyes bounce from her middle to her broad shoulders. Automatically, without thinking. As if he could manage much thought right now. Around the back and neck and shoulders is safe and everybody knows that.)

She’s…making breakfast? She’s making breakfast for him? She’s already up, and, she’s making breakfast? For him?

Wow.

(He shifts, and he groans louder than he needs to. He’s just a little sore. It’s not that bad. But it’d be bad to startle her by suddenly talking.)

“Mornin’,” he says blearily, rustling (noticeably, audibly, just in case) from his nest of blankets. His face - well, his face from the nose up, at least - peeks out at the huntress. His eyes go to the fire. “There anything I can do t’help…?” And. He. Pushes himself up. With both arms. S..slowly. Slowly, now…

(A draft hits his back. He feels the chill bite at his skin. His mostly-bare skin.)

wait am I still wearing the-

Breathless Dead

From his perch on Vasilia’s lap, Dolce strains to twist bloody red branches of thought into the real thing. What does it look like? Is it red? Red does seem appropriate. It would stand out against the blue, utterly unignorable. Probably a scary sight to see suddenly appear in the sky. For as long as you had one, anyway. What are the barracks like? How do they know when it’s their turn to fight? Do they even take turns?

Do they do anything that isn’t for fighting?

Consider also that nothing here is accidental.

It is only the second example he’s seen with his own eyes, as it were. Up until now, it’s always been the Skies. This? This is what the Ceronians built when they at last overthrew the Azura. They built, with no one left to stand in their way. And this. This. They built. This.

Do they remember every battle? Every battle, from the first to the two hundred and fourteenth? Do they compare the skylines they’re bombarding with ones they’ve torn down before? Do they know the names of the people they slaughter?

Do they remember the Skies at all?

What do they have which is so worth striving for?

Dolce runs a fingers along the weaving thread of his collar[1]. His bell is respectfully silent.

“How do the Skies get anything done here?” Is the question he asks. “The Service will be at work here too, and countless other people. How do they work without losing themselves in their surroundings?” Is what he says after that.

Vasilia’s is the hand he holds. Soft skin squeezing sharp claws.



[1]: He has returned to the comfortable vests and aprons he loves so much, but the collar remained. Not the silver one, no. This one was a gift from a secret Ceronian admirer, who hand-delivered it with her two honor guards at a pre-arranged meeting point, but you didn’t hear it from me. This one is a woven band of some gentle yet strong fabrics, dyed in Vasilia’s colors.

His pretty clothes answer to Mistress Vasilia, and right now they belong to her alone. The collar is a reminder. Especially for the two of them.

Return to Thellamie

Hazel takes a minute to catch his breath. In the huntress’ arms.

(You won. Because you won. You. You. All this. And the Nagi. You were worried about winning?! You just. For winning. For winning?!)

Hazel takes another minute to wiggle out of the huntress’ arms. She’s short. The geometry is complicated.

(The stupid. The charm. Why?! Why would it work like that?! It wasn’t! It didn’t tell me! How was I supposed to know? It shouldn’t have. It’s not! It’s not fair! It’s not fair! I should be able to cancel that out, and, wait, could I, it’s still mine, I could make another rule no wait no nghh she could just do it again so. So! Stupid! Dumb! Idiot! Ghgh! It’s not fair!)

Hazel earns a tug at his throat for his trouble. Hazel stumbles.

(Nope nope no no no do not do NOT. I am NOT. I am not yours. This is stupid. Charm. It shouldn’t be like this. He finally. Stop. I ghhgnnghgnghgngh don’t like you don’t like you don’t like you gghhhhhhhhh and, oh, good, Yuki’s mad. Argument. There’s a whole thing happening. Yuki’s shouting. People are kneeling. People are angry. Yuki’s angry. Yuki’s angry. She’s saying something about him. It sucks. It sucks to be here and he can’t go fix it and he can’t run and he can’t move because somebody)

Hazel grabs a length of leash. Hazel holds it firmly, giving himself a bit of slack before his collar.

Hazel says

“Could you,” Hazel breathes. “please.” (too much dial it back too much too much) “Stop tugging. I am not going anywhere. You don't need to do that.”

(don’t like you don’t like you yuki’s angry everything not fair not stupid can’t don’t don’t don’t don’t no yell don’t can’t ghh charm you you you you)

Hazel is taller. Hazel has leverage.

Hazel does not budge on the next tug.

*********************************

Some time passes. Some things happen.

A spell is a spell. A truth is a truth. People are leaving, in a semblance of peace. Nobody’s openly fighting. Nobody’s trading words. The Rootwalkers march obediently through an open door, pass the eyes of a Knight, a Lady, and a Dragon. They will be last. But they will leave. And then some people might have a chance to return.

There’s a moment where paths cross. Olesya has done this much already; she’s forced Negodincia to play nice long enough for goodbyes.

Hazel steps up to Yuki and the brave Nagi princess. Rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, runs his fingers through his still-dripping hair.

“Um. Hey.”

There’s a longer silence than he’d planned for. (Too many things to say. Too many things to say first.)

“I guess…turns out Queen of Light prophesies from the stars play for keeps. Who knew?”

He laughs. (He can laugh at himself.) He gives a wan smile. (He can break the tension.) His hair is a wet mop of a mess. Later he might remember to be flustered at only wearing a vest and short short short shorts. Now he stands without flinching. Covered in dust, debris, and the odd dead leaf. (He’s tired.) And still his horns glow a faint gold. And still he smiles. For a little while longer.

“I’ll be in touch. I promise. I’m sorry I didn’t reach out sooner, it won’t happen again. And, we’ll see each other again, at the Ball. That’s also a promise.”

He fidgets with his hands.

“And…here. One second-”

Before taking Yuki’s with his right, and the Nagi’s with left.

“I’m gonna try something.”

Deep breath. In. Out, and eyes close. In. Out. And.

Open.

Starlight answers his call.

It glows in his eyes. It glows in his horns. It builds in his heart, racing, rushing, leaping! Up his body, down his arms, through their hands, around and around, galloping in a circle through the three of them. Free as laughter. Fast as love. As it comes, it picks up injury, it picks up weariness, it picks up despair. As it goes, it leaves closing wounds, it leaves life, it leaves a world that is rushing and alive and as real as they’ve ever known.

By this thread of light travels a song. It springs to the heart all at once, like sneaking open a door halfway through a concert. From deep, deep in the bones of the Golden Faun it plays. There it would have stayed, were it not for starlight. Now it dances between the three of them, and the cry of the song is I wish I could give you more. Soothing hurts is not enough. Mending wounds is not enough. Compared to what has been done, this gift is the smallest mote of copper traded for a golden crown. How I wish. How I wish. How I wish.

“Thank you both. For everything.”

Hazel squeezes Yuki’s hand. And. Well. Starlight is a funny thing, and. He squeezes the hand of the Nagi Princess before he can remember all the reasons not to.

“I’m sorry things ended up like this. But I’ll make sure Thellamie gets a good Queen. I promise.”

Once more, he manages a smile.

“That’s a 3-promise combo. One of my most powerful moves.”

[Rolling Nature’s Touch for both Yuki and the Nagi Princess: 6 + 6 + 2 = 14. They both:
-may give Hazel a string to clear a Condition
-are suffused with starlight, and the world around them comes to life]

Breathless Dead

She needs him. She calls to him, in not so many words.

He rises, like the first gentle rays of dawn. Hush now, everyone. Hush, or you will miss it. There are only a few steps between him and his place. Listen, and you will hear a song no lark of the morning could match.

-jingle jingle jingle-

And stop. And sink. To his knees, before her throne.

One of her hands rests level with his eyes. (She did not need both to deliver her instruction to Taurus.) It is a terrible crime, touching something so precious without asking. So his hands hover a whisper above hers. So he meets her thoughtful gaze with a plea in his eyes. So he waits, for a wan smile to warm, for the faintest hint of a purr, for the inclining of her head.

Then, at last, he touches her.

Do you feel the work that has gone into him, Mistress? Have the oils and brushing and care polished him to your liking? Is he as soft as he looks, as temptingly soft he has looked all this long, long day? Feel no need to rush in your judgement. You have time. He will take his time, stroking, massaging, caressing each finger. Answer, if it pleases you, and you will give him such a gift.

“I thought of you always, when I was lost.” Even his voice is soft. It is for you, and you alone. “A bit behind me, and to the left. Or the right, when there wasn’t room. Whenever I was lost. Whenever I felt out of my depth. Whenever I had to say something difficult to survive. I thought of you. I could hear you, and I did my best to imagine what you would say, if you could see me.”

He coaxes her hand open. Runs his thumbs along her palm. Clings, for dear life.

“I listened to you. I hoped dearly I had imagined you properly, every time, but you got me through it. I survived. I don’t know if I would have if you hadn’t been there.” Even the hitch in his throat is soft. She won’t mistake it for a sigh. “Softness can’t fix everything. I knew that, but, I know that, now. There are times when being soft cannot stop a tragedy. There are times when, if I want something to happen, I have to take a harder stance. A sharper stance. And every time, I have to ask myself: Is this really one of those times? Or have I just not tried hard enough to find a better way? Even when I decide it might be a time to be sharp, always, I worry if I am betraying myself. If I put my foot down here, in this way, am I giving up? Have I decided, at last, that what I thought was important was just. Silly? Not realistic? Impractical and unimportant, when it really matters…?”

He laughs. Delicate as a bell. Tight as a collar.

“Didn’t you say it already, Mistress? Intoxicating thoughts. Thinking myself a little bigger, forgetting my place. If they test your might, what hope have I?”

“I needed you. I needed your voice. If I was only soft, I would not have made it home. But if I were too sharp, I would have betrayed myself. Not my softness. But the kindness and love that I have kept safe thus far.”

One hand lies across her palm.

“Your sharpness saved my life. And so I offer it again to you.”

One hand cradles a finger.

“I am yours, Mistress, if you will have me.”

Slowly, he bows.

“All my strength.”

Slowly, against a racing heart.

“All my softness.”

Slowly, lashes flutter.

“All my love, all my faith…”

Slowly, lips press against her claw.

And linger.

“...in your sharpness.”

His tongue gives the tiniest lick. For good measure.

“If you will have me…”

He does not rise. The claw hangs by his mouth. A chin could be tilted. A neck could be traced. Lips could be teased. And he does not rise.

“...I am yours.”

Breathless Dead

Vasilia!

-jingle jingle jingle-

-clink!-

A fresh cake is set before you, notably absent of lime honey. There wasn’t enough time to whip up a substitute.

The flowers are gone, replaced with curling ribbons in a beautiful array of soft colors. They sway as he takes one, jingling step back. They sway as he lowers himself to join the two kneeling Ceronians flanking him. They sway, and they bounce, as he sweeps an arm out in an elegant bow. “Mistress Vasilia, I hope this cake is more to your liking?” He looks up, for your approval. You see the strain it is taking to not crumble into a heap.

There is a terrible power in your hand, Vasilia.

Your Dolce is a bundle of new and terrifying experiences. Old ghosts war with fresh blooms, once-firm foundations shake, and all of it winds tighter with every passing moment. All of this can be okay if you’re the one in control here. If you take your role, now, and build for him a home in your arms, then the tangle of contradictory feelings can unravel at whatever pace they need to. Everything, even uncertainty, can be made safe. And what new treasure might grow in him, if you give it a chance?

Or you can vent your wrath on the pack that did this to him. Taurus was a good start, one you may have just decided you’re not finished with. The two beside him are obviously only concerned with him as their ticket out of this mess. Possibly also as a way to score points with Taurus by saving her from further thrashing. Why should you be gentle with them? Cement that the wolves of Ceron are first of all to be feared, and dealt with appropriately. Give all these new thoughts a horrible ballad of terror; he knows the steps already.

But you knew you held this power, didn’t you? You’ve known it from the first moment your heart leapt to see a kindly fluff of cloud following in your shadow. That love is always a dangerous thing, but all the more for a sheep to love a lioness.

Go on. The choice is yours. As it always has been.

Show us why a sheep’s heart is safe in your hands.

Return to Thellamie

The charm is warm in Cutie’s hand. Unevenly warm. Like the heat was coming from somewhere deep inside it, leaking to the surface in patches against his palm.

He shouts something - probably several somethings - as the ground he was hoping to land on splinters to pieces. The mid-air impact with a wolfgirl knocks another yelp loose. Not that anyone can hear any of it over the sound of a dragon’s fall.

He opens his eyes enough to see his rescuer slash kidnapper expertly swinging them to safety slash imprisonment. And that his grip hasn’t failed him. No matter how tightly he clings to it, the charm somehow doesn’t bite back.

Now that he can get a good look at it? The stag’s antlers look shockingly familiar.

He…no. No, it’s no use complaining about it. Not him.

(Miss Yaz and Alcideo said Cutie was a natural. He’d helped so many people. He’d eaten such tasty food. He’d slept, warm and cozy, in such lovely company.

He’d felt safe here.)

He’s got a job to do.

“I am the Golden Fawn!” Hazel shouts, converting fear to volume with remarkable efficiency. “If you want me, you’ll have to win me, in my contests! Nowhere else, and no way else! No more…” No more hunting him down? Riots? Invasions? Fire? “No more collateral damage! You’re hunting me, and me alone, and only in the contests I choose! And,” gosh he wishes he had enough time to draft this out. But, no, being specific never works; there’s always a loophole if you go too specific. “And if you - or anybody helping you - break the rules, you might get disqualified! Depending on the situation! I’ll figure it out!”

“And! My first contest! Will be!” Something calm. Something peaceful. Something more…more proper. “A ball! We’ll have a ball, with all the Hunters attending! It’ll only happen when the last traces of the Rot Star are gone from Vespergift, and the Chrysanthemum, the Chrysanthemum gets a new tree! Healthy and not poisoned!”

“It’ll happen at a location to be determined later!”

“Does anyone have any questions?!”

The light in the charm, the light within him, it swells with his racing heart, and-

[2 + 1 + 2 is, in Thellamie and in Yukisearth, a 5]