TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

The first warband only makes their presence known when it is already too late.

Three volleys of seven arc silently through the air, exploding on impact. Starbursts of feathers accompany a thunderous harmony of talons on deck, of spear on shield, of voices raised in ancient prayer. Hear us this day! See now our hour of triumph! We are victory made manifest!

The target turns to face his doom. A hatchling in either hand. A third nesting in his wool. Three more attempting to make a meal of his ankles. A dozen more scattered on the floor around him.

“...may I help you?”

First observation: The rituals do not have a provision for asking your opponent to please leave aside childcare duties and report to the field of battle. They approximate with an awkward shuffling away, while the least fortunate among the warband are pushed forward to help soothe the now-crying babes back to sleep.

It will, frankly, be the most approachable Dolce will make himself all morning. The twelve chieftains that remain soon learn their lessons, and opt to deal with the single, harmless sheep later. Breathing room: Established. Now to devise an approach for victory, and not just stalling out.

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

Vasilia found herself draped in a luxurious lavender bathrobe, holding enough coleslaw to make an ill-advised meal. It was, perhaps, not what she’d expected when Hestia had suggested she leave her chamber doors unlocked for visitors during waking hours.

Well. She’d be as lost with entertaining as she’d be lost with this, so suppose that was a wash.

“We have an agreement, the fridge and I.” She followed a coolant tube’s impressive arc across the room. “In exchange for room and board, it keeps food cold. I wasn’t aware I had to check my appliances for risk of assassination.”

The tub, she gave a tentative sniff. From a safe distance. “I wasn’t aware Archmagoses made their own coleslaw, either.”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Sometimes in life, you make a mistake, and you pay for it every day for the rest of your days.

Every village in the Highlands (and some in the lowlands) deal with the N’yari as a chronic presence, suffering raids and kidnappings according to the inscrutable whims of the cats. They are a fact of life, the same as rain or taxes. When Han was a few years younger, and truly coming into her strength, she believed some things in life were less certain than she’d been taught to believe. If she could just beat up the N’yari really really good, then they’d be too scared to bother her village anymore! It was the perfect plan.

Except that after she’d chased off the first bunch, a raiding party of even bigger catgirls took their place the next moon. And the next moon. And the next moon. And the moon after that, too. Until, one fateful night, Machi of the Ōei and her handpicked battle-sisters paid her village a visit.

Words were said. Some stuff happened. A terrible fate befell many a tree and rooftop. And. Well. Han’s plan succeeded. N’yari don’t come to her village anymore. Because Machi’s claimed that territory for herself. And she’s not going to let anyone else raid there until. Uh.

Until Han agrees to come with her. Willingly.

So. Yeah. While she was still living with her parents, Machi and her band would regularly appear at random intervals to propose...adopting? Fighting? Marrying? Kidnapping her? Frankly, she’s not sure if she can call it kidnapping, but there’s just not a better word for it? She really thought things would get better once she moved out, and if you’re curious how well that’s worked out for her, may she direct your attention to the giant catgirl holding up the one barge on this entire river that contains a Han.

(Striking, in the one moment she wouldn't have interrupted for the world.)

So how does one deal with persistent suitors(?) from the N’yari? Observe the tactics of the wizened hunter, whose patience has run out years ago:

Step one: Tap Jazumi on the shoulder.

Step two: Apply left hook to N’yari at maximum speed.

Step three: Savor the sight and sound of a catgirl soaring through the air, landing in the river, and failing to cope with her new aquatic lifestyle. (These few seconds are for Han. This is Han’s Special Time. It's what makes dealing with all this actually possible.)

“What’s the matter, Jazumi?” She squats on the balls of her feet, grinning impishly. ”I thought you wanted the river.” With a N’yari-free spot on the deck to call her own, Han flips the cloth bundle off her back. In a whirl of white fabric she stands tall for her, the patta gleaming on her right arm, crude blade pointed squarely at Machi. “Or is there a better reason you idiots came this far off your mountain?” she growls above the rain.

And out of the corner of her mouth, a whisper: “Stick close to me, bud. I’ll get you out of here.”

[Fight roll: 4 + 2 + 2 = 8. Going for opportunity for allies (free Lotus!) and seize a superior position (by launching Jazumi into the river) Jazumi (or possibly the other N'yari?) picks 1 from the list too.]

Breathless Dead

The playwright that brought them together ought to have kept writing. His eyes would widen in surprise. She would glow with pride, and yet, restrain herself. Offering, without demanding. He’d answer with place settings for two. She’d make a quiet joke of serving him, for a change. Old songs, set to older rhythms swell after a long silence. Aphrodite would stand guard at the kitchen door, and he will suffer no one to pass.

But the script ends here. They are alone, together, on the stage, with no one but each other for an audience. He suggests he should leave three times over, and asks her if she’s sure six times more. She can’t focus on him and her lesson at once. She can’t explain he’s not the reason her words come out too curt, too rough. They reach the table, with food enough for them both, and pasta is so much easier to enjoy than words have been, but neither can forget that speaking is as necessary as eating, if this is to survive.

But he waits, out of habit. She waits, out of need.

“Not bad.” Hestia eats, unhurried, and unwilling to encroach on Aphrodite’s domain. “Next time, do one thing a little differently, and see if you like it better.”

A topic. Any topic at all. Safety in a storm. “I didn’t know you were learning to cook.” He didn’t know she wanted to learn, either. Never held much interest in the kitchens, if he wasn’t in them. Had he missed something, all this time?

“‘Cook’ may be a strong word. Let’s start with ‘feeding myself’, and see where it goes.”

He sits for longer than he should, pulled between expectations. Praise her efforts, and risk seeming like empty flattery? Give her company in her amateur state, and risk bruising her pride? “You...have a good teacher,” he hedges.

“Mmm?” She blinks. ”Ah, yes, of course. Indeed, she’s quite good. Would that I had called on her sooner.”

Silence. Forks hunt down noodles too small to matter. Perhaps neither were the right answer. Perhaps he chose wrong when he blundered into the kitchens, and no more answers were right.

“She’s brought to my attention,” she continues. “Other, aspects of my life that I’ve left...deficient. Too deficient. In desperate need of personal attention.”

“Oh?”

She lingers on a meager bite, staring into the empty, oily plate before her. She hears the intent, hiding behind the question. A sneaking thoughtfulness, standing ready to catch any responsibility, and keep it from landing squarely on her shoulders. “Yes, and I suspect it will take a great deal of my attention.” Nothing to clue him in. She knows he will wait up tonight, wondering. She still says nothing. “More than I can usually spare. Between that, and, other, considerations: I have to ask:”

She sets down her fork. Her knife rests against it at the proper angle. She dabs at her mouth with a napkin, before folding it beside her plate, and now she can’t pick up any of them again. Nothing else to delay with. “Dolce, I am stepping down from Captainship for some time. Would you care to take it in my place?”

The news knocks the thoughts clean out of his head. She sees his mouth hang slack, before a mask of duty latches shut over his heart. “Of course, I would gladly take charge for you-”

“No. No, I’m sorry, I’m truly sorry, but that can’t be how it is. I’m not going to be Captain for some time, but that doesn’t mean you have to.” No one had to do anything. No one but her. “If you don’t want it, there are other qualified people on board. Give it a few days, and the Alced will have a Captain from their ranks, favored by the gods.” Unlike her. An Alced Captain on the rise, and she on yet another step down. A long, slow spiral of compromise and tragedy, ever-downwards, from her first breath to an awkward conversation in an empty kitchen on a doomed voyage. But now she could make mediocre pasta, and everything will be different.

She gathers up the dishes - as a proper domestic person should - and one by one sets to washing them in the sink. Needed one more job to hide behind, after all. “You’re my second, Dolce. My second,” she says, filling her vision with chores instead of wool. “It’s your right to take it up or refuse. Whatever seems best to you.”

“And you’re...okay with this?”

“I don’t have much choice in the matter. Not really.” Not anymore. “Zeus has taken issue with me, and if I were to press on like this, it would only end badly for everyone.” She turns, mustering up the remnants of a smile. “But. I think I’ll be alright.”

“Ehhhhh, ‘alright’ may be a strong word for it.” Hestia waves her hand uncertainly. “Let’s start with ‘resigned acceptance’ and see where we go from there.”

As it turns out, being the goddess of hearth and home did not render one exempt from the frustrated pouting of a deeply injured soul. But it did allow Hestia to deflect all consequence via an honest shrug.

He is not so lucky. Finally, questions with words to answer, and nothing less than the fate of the voyage hangs in the balance. The literal fate, of course, but probabilities of dying horribly in a space fire speak quieter than he might’ve feared. He had served under many Captains. Mission mattered, crew mattered, but who decided the tenor of a voyage more than they who stood at the helm? What manner of voyage would Captain Dolce run? What manner of voyage did he want to run? No one had ever asked him before. Least of all himself. “I, hrmm. That is. A lot to consider.” Already, one could hear the considerations tumbling around in his head. “But I will give it some thought.”

“You don’t need to give an answer right away. No one will know, until you’ve made your decision.” The dishes seen to, the meal done, the news given, she makes to leave. And there she pauses at the doorway. This is it. This is the time. The most honesty they’d exchanged since...well, since honesty had demanded they walk this road in the first place. Three little words. Words she’d told him a hundred thousand times over, and the pressure of not saying them threatened to burst out of her chest. Hadn’t she waited long enough? Hadn’t she suffered enough?

He’s still sitting there. Watching her. All the way from the other side of the kitchen.

“Be...” She bites her lip. And waits some more. “Be well, Dolce.”

He watches her go from his seat at the table. A hundred hundred paths trace their way through his heart. None reach an ending in time. “Be well,” his little voice vanishes into the dark after her. “Vasilia.”

He hopes it is not a wrong answer.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

No? What? Hey! Who in all the hells said she could be sad?!

Whoever it was, Han’d have words with them in a minute. Right now, she was busy pressing herself up against the wood of the cabin wall, hardly daring to breathe lest she topple over the delicate little thing hunching over and across her. A whisper of silk brushed her bare shoulder, but all she knew was a touch so faint and light - the tufted flower of a long reed, reaching out in passing - and lingering, a ghost of sensation. A rainy-day garden had sent its regards. Now, it embraced her. Richness and sweetness and the promise of life, life abundant and thriving in defiance of clouds!

The priestess drew back. Her gifts, she left behind her. Her hand left the simple, wooden umbrella. Han watched it go, across her lap, to the deck, and no. No. No!

And her hand shot out to stop her.

(She’s warm, priestess. The girl is drenched from the rain, and by all rights should be ice cold now, but through the damp her hand is warm over yours. She moved faster than you could see, and yet, her grip isn’t rough. She holds you like...like...like a little brown fox, carrying a Very Important and Precious message in their little jaws. No matter what happens, they will carry their cargo to its destination, and when the time comes they will drop it at the recipient’s feet, and there won’t be a scratch on it. A grip tight enough to hold you, and gentle enough to let you go safely, should you choose.)

“...you’ve done more than everybody on this boat put together.” The words are curt. Forceful. Important. And definitely not forced out as soon as they enter her head. “And you shouldn’t get soaked and miserable because of me.” Her gaze falls away from the priestess, contemplating the rushing waters, the dry deck surrounding them, the sight of her crestfallen face that she couldn’t bear to look at even a moment longer, the sound of the rain. And thus was the product of her musings: “Traveling’s better with company.” Lots of people said that. All the time. Including her. So. Maybe you should say it too? And stay?

The priestess did stay. And stay. And stay some more, without ever actually sitting back down. Which was, in hindsight, a perfectly reasonable response to the sight of a long, red, angry gash on a girl’s arm that she had been successfully hiding beneath her poncho. But perhaps if she’d gotten over her shock a little bit quicker, Han might have had enough attention to spare to the hair on her neck, standing on end, or the sudden absence of the oxen’s tread...

[Han rolls a big ‘ol 6 on Entice. XP abounds!]

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

She takes you, priestess. With only one eye, she takes you. All your fumbling, mumbling, giggling, anxious uncertainty, suspicious tiger references, lies, unwise vulnerability, nothing escapes her notice. Not even when she quickly adjusts her bonked-askew hat (the most motion she’s made so far) does her eye leave you. Not once are you free from her gaze. She is watching. She is judging, little bud. And all you can do is squirm, imagining how poorly you’d fare under both those eyes.

And maybe you could spare yourself a little judgement if you could explain to her that giggle of yours. It’s not. You’re not supposed to. Impossible. Couldn’t, shouldn’t, nobody laughs like that, priestesses don’t laugh like that. It can’t be a real sound. It just can’t. And. That’s that. So there.

And, no, really? They let you out of the Temple? Before you turned into a terrible, miserable, useless, stuck-up, well, priestess? That can’t be right. She always thought that was part of the curriculum. Or, at least a prerequisite for letting you in the door in the first place? Wait, no, she didn’t escape did she?

...no, on second thought, not that. Definitely not that. She couldn’t escape her way out of an open field. All alone on a boat full of strangers, and what does she do? Plop her butt down next to the scariest, toughest thug around, pour out her heart, and ask for...oh no what is she asking her for? And what’s she asking her for?! This isn’t her job! Her job’s, uhhh, something else! That isn’t this!

Yeah, alright, she did ask. A brave ask, if you ask her. And a brave ask deserves a good answer. She’s got plenty of those.

Han snorted. A rough, gruff, ugly laugh. “Doing it wrong? Sprout, you’re not like any priestess I’ve ever seen. First one to ask for a review, that’s for sure.”

The highest, most obvious praise she could offer.

Nailed it.

Breathless Dead

“Aww, you have noticed me.” A memory of good humor sparkled in her eyes, then faded once more. “He. Usually took care of,” Preparing her meals? Fitting time to eat into her days? Keeping her alive? “Such things. I’ve let him do as he pleases now, a sort of, leave of absence.” Of her. From her. “It’s. Been quite some time, since I’ve had to think about...”

And that was quite enough pity for one day. Either she was going to sit here and starve, or do something about it. If only the latter could be as effortless as the former. But when she planted her feet, and dug her claws into the table for leverage, Hestia’s hand was waiting to help her up.

“Have you any pasta-related wisdom to spare too? The kitchens ought to be quiet now, and the Alced won’t be here for days. Even if they hurry it up they can’t take the bridge if there’s nobody there to take it from. It’s just the principle of the thing.”

*******

“So now I just...wait?”

“And stir, occasionally.”

“How occasionally?”

“Every few minutes. Doesn’t need to be precise. Just enough to keep the noodles from clumping together.”

“There’s no spice or, I don’t know, seasoning, I should be adding? Just wait?”

“Ten minutes if you like them firm. Twelve if you like them softer.”

"Usually, there's a sauce of some kind to go with it. Shouldn't we be starting that?"

"Once you've graduated from pasta."

“...this isn’t a test, is it? There’s not some secret step that I ought to deduce from what’s come before?”

“We’re not making a test. We’re making lunch.”

“Ah. Of course.”

“...”

“...”

“...it’s just, boiling pasta. There’s something about it that sounds, I don’t know, complicated? Involved? I always imagined it a bigger fuss than this.”

“Everything sounds bigger than it is, at first. But we all get there in our own time.”

“Like ten to twelve minutes?”

“Ten to twelve minutes, sometimes.”

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

Once upon a time, there was a little chef who wasn’t happy just being a chef. So unhappy was he, that one night he broke every rule he’d ever learned, snuck aboard a spaceship, and left his rightful place far behind. This made the little chef happy, for a time. He saw many wonderful things, met many wonderful people, cooked them all sorts of delicious things, and even found a wife he could hold and treasure forever. But this, too, wasn’t enough. His friends could not journey with him. The sights of space revealed themselves to be full of danger and despair. And even his marriage threatened to crumble to dust. So the little chef asked the wise goddess Hera what he should do to fix his cursed heart.

And Hera, in her infinite wisdom, told him he hadn’t broken enough rules the first time.

The little chef held some small concern. He told Hera, “I don’t know, wise Hera. This wisdom may be too high for me to understand.” But could he, a mere chef, so easily discard the words of one so wise? Shouldn’t he ought to, at least, follow after her, and see the results for himself? This was a wisdom more his station. “If you think it wise, then I will try my best.”

And what would his first desire be?

“Mynx ought to eat. And she won’t, unless somebody prepares her food in a way that she will accept. It is not so different a desire than those I’ve had before, but I know I can do this much.”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Who cares about a stupid umbrella?

By the time the sun rises, every waterway will flood with gossip. Did you hear? Do you know? Vermillion Beast of Lanterns struck again! Terrorized an entire village, she did. But how? But why? Wasn’t there a whole guard of the Dominion’s finest staying there? All battered! All beaten! They say she batted them aside like they were nothing. Their swords shattered against her hide. Their hearts melted at her terrible voice. The last one fell, groaning, and she vanished into the fading light. Nothing! They could do nothing! Fear the Beast’s wrath!

(How brave, how brave, they’ll say, that the soldiers would fight so the villagers would be spared. How noble! How heroic!)

Nobody’ll be talking about an extra umbrella, scattered amidst the rubble. Too plain a design to even notice; deep forest green, dotted with tiny, scarlet flowers. Blends right into the mud. Pretty bad umbrella, in the end. They’re supposed to be for showing off. Or telling someone you don’t want them getting wet.

So who cares about a stupid umbrella?

The priestess, apparently. Of course she’d care. What blue-veiled busybody could resist such an opening? ‘Oh, dear, what a terrible thing! No umbrella! Don’t worry, I’ll graciously let you share mine. Aren’t I such a bright, shining, kindly help to all? You may thank me at your convenience, while I tell you all the ways your life’s gone wrong.’

Han didn’t need your umbrella. She had her hat. And a hood. Which were perfectly fine, and keeping her dry enough. But despite two whole layers of Don’t Talk To Me, and a vast array of danger signals perfected over hundreds of years of highland tradition, her coldest shoulder had company.

(Press against her, feel her tighten. Brush her knee, feel her start. Not to recoil. Never to retreat. Tense. On edge. High alert. A tiger, coiled to pounce. Or flee.)

She could try to keep ignoring her. She ought to keep ignoring her, until she got the idea and left to find easier praise. All she’d have to do was nothing. Sit, on a barge, in her own land, surrounded by some kind of fancy rain-activated perfume (worth more than everything she owned, no doubt) while an unwelcome visitor blabbered pretty lies in a voice oh so effortlessly high-class.

Just that. And nothing less.

Han half-turns to meet her, one sharp, emerald eye peering from beneath hat and hood, pinning the nosy priestess to the deck with her stare. “Tired of attention, bud?” A growl ripples through her voice. Innocent bystanders strongly consider scooting away. “You wanna run that by me again?”

Go on. Cut to the chase.

Tell her why you’re really here, priestess.

[Rolling to Figure Out a Person: 5 + 6 + 0 = 11. First question: What do you hope to get from me?]

Breathless Dead

So. It wasn’t a prank of Zeus’. Wonderful.

“I can’t just step down, and, vanish away. No, no, it’s simply out of the question.”

And yet. When she turned her mind to the problem at hand, where was the road that carried her to victory over her foe, when she no longer had divine aid on her side? Hadn’t she said this quest was important? Hadn’t he said so?

“But if it’s for the sake of the voyage, then. Perhaps.” Give her a moment. This was a set of words in a novel order. “Perhaps I can find a way to step. Back. Temporarily.”

It was, all things considered, remarkable progress under dire circumstances, and if she felt a little less like death then she might’ve demanded a medal for her efforts. But step back to what? She couldn’t leave the voyage. The auguries predicted smoother sailing for some time, yes, but not nearly enough to set down anywhere for, what, a vacation?

...when was the last time she’d had a vacation? Question for later.

“Hestia, I wish we could have met earlier, but perhaps I can make up for that some by asking more of your wisdom: What do you suggest I do? Pasts, futures, these are tricky things to take hold of. I may have forgotten how, along the way.”

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

The ship bore him on. Hera held him up, and in her presence no care could intrude. The physical awareness of form, the mental balance of attentions, the emotional weight of anticipation, all that usually composed a Dolce scattered to the void. What was left was free to drift and rest and simply be.

Now, much of him shied away, naturally repelled from the thought of marital debts owed. He much more preferred the reverse, to give, than to risk greed, and overstepping of bounds. But, amidst himself sat a shining core of a thought, a vision of two resting their full weight on the other, and neither falling or slipping. And if that couldn't be marriage, than what could?

And yet...

"I don't know what I ought to say." He heard himself wonder. "I could sit in front of her for hours, and I wouldn't know. I can't, Hera. I'm not ready. I need...I need..." And the strain of searching for the unknown threatened to pull him back together, until a gentle brush of Hera's hand scattered him back into restful quiet, and tipped the words right out of him. "I don't know what I need. And I don't know how to know what I need."

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Han

The Beast

Archetype: Heir of Dragons

At the height of their power, the daughters of the Dominion stand unveiled. Their birthright manifests amid torrents of tightly-woven Essence, revealing scales, claws, fangs that had always been there, had you the eyes to see them. In their hands, their mother’s gifts are an elegant saber, dancing free in the wind, effortlessly graceful, all the more beautiful for their peril. All the Kingdoms love them, and rejoice in their presence.

Vermilion Beast of Lanterns carries a hard reminder: Dragons ought to be feared.

Tall as a litter. Powerful as an earthquake. A cataclysm imprisoned in ruby scales. Limbs ending in claws, where they do not hold blades. Inferno heart, ever-burning, consuming wood, air, Essence. The face of a girl, now sharpened by crest and pointed ears, and a pair of glowing, slitted pupils. Hearts and flagstones break at her roar. Blink, and she is gone. Falter, and you are finished.

Face her wrath, and despair.

Aesthetic: Defiant Demeanor - Delinquent clothes - A crude sword

Han is. Compact. But rather than frailty, her stature speaks to a tightly-knit form, not easily moved or broken. Her hair is a deep auburn, and you may ask if it is dyed at your own peril. She wears it in a plentiful, messy ponytail, to keep it out of her face. Good thing too; any hair that strayed in front of her piercing eyes might well be incinerated on the spot.

As to attire, those of the Dominion speak the virtues of skirts and shun the shameful, unnecessary display of bare skin. Many have taken up the refrain, putting away the traditional pants and loose garments of their lands in favor of the high-class foreign styles. Last Han checked, this was still the Flower Kingdoms. And if any of those Dominion types took issue with her clothes, then they were welcome to try and dress her themselves.

She wears loose, baggy pants, regularly hiked up to the knee. (Let’s see you walk around with soaked pant legs, see how you like it.) Her shirts are simple, plain, and unadorned, with nothing to distract from her bare shoulders and toned arms. A tattooed dragon’s claw snakes over her left shoulder, curling around her bicep to grasp at a jagged sun. The rest of the design hides on her back, and you will not see it. She carries no umbrella, opting instead for a drab brown poncho and a wide-brimmed straw hat. Simple. Unassuming. Ideal to hide under and glare from.

Her sword is a patta, technically. Practically, it’s a lost blade attached to a lost gauntlet, and it gets the job done. While messy, and ill-equipped for more traditional forms, it favors a blend of wickedly powerful slashes and intermittent martial arts. What weaknesses it has, she more than makes up for in physical ability and sheer stubbornness. Given the impossibility of sheathing it, she opts to wear it on her back in a conspicuous bundle of cloth. Which, in a pinch, also makes a perfectly serviceable club.

Stats
Daring +2
Grace +1
Heart -1
Wit +0
Spirit +2

Conditions
Angry (-2 on Figure Out a Person)

Feral: 3

Your Feral score starts at 1. If it hits 4, you can’t hold back the beast any longer and you Transform. If your Feral drops to 0, you lose access to all your Beast playbook moves until it increases again. On the plus side, you’re fitting in. You blend. You’ve assimilated.

Increase Feral when:

• You express yourself in a shocking way through your appearance
• You display intense emotion that society wants you to conceal

Decrease Feral when:

• You feel that your bestial nature has hurt someone you care about
• You go along with an uncomfortable interaction to fit in

Moves

Transform: You have a bestial form, which you can assume at will and must assume whenever your Feral hits 4. When you do, tell everyone what the beast in you looks like, increase your Feral to 4 if it’s not there already, and roll +Daring:
10+: Choose 2
7–9:Choose 1

• You are in harmony with your beast and may clear a Condition
• You are magnificent and little escapes your notice; you gain leverage or an opportunity with a monster
• Pain is nothing to you; ignore the next time you would Stagger while transformed
• You can move in ways no ordinary person could

You revert to your usual form when your Feral drops below 4. While transformed, you may mark a Condition to avoid reducing your Feral, as often as you like.

Ferocious: When you Fight, you may mark a Condition to choose an additional option, even on a 6-.

Tenacious Purpose: When you commit yourself to a specific goal, you may ask the GM once per scene how you could advance that goal in a way that violates “civilized” norms. Take +1 forward to act on the answer. If you refrain, it counts as an uncomfortable situation that reduces your Feral by 1 and you must mark a Condition.

Shameless: When you say aloud what you want from an NPC, you may give them a String on you to ask a question about them from the Figure Out a Person move.

BDE: When you make it clear to your foes that you’re the biggest threat, then for the rest of the scene, whenever you roll a 10+, you may choose someone present to be impressed or intrigued with you. Once during the scene, when you gain a String on someone, gain an additional String on someone else who considers you an enemy.

Oppositional Defiance: You defy authority as a reflex. If someone tells you to do something, even if it's something you wanted to do, your instinct is to not do it. If you directly defy authority, gain a String on that person. If you comply, they gain a String on you.

Truths of Heart and Blade

Smitten Kitten: When you become Smitten with someone, say why, give them a String, and answer this question:

• What have you done that you are sure they view as inappropriate?

The Bloody Truth: When you Figure Out a Person in physical conflict, you may additionally ask one of these questions, even on a 6-:

• What awakens the beast inside you?
• How could I get you to kiss me?

Strings
Giri: 2 strings
Kalaya: 2 strings
Piri: 2 strings
Red Wolf: 1 string
Lotus: 1 string

Smitten With
Lotus
Machi

XP: 1

Advancements:
-Move from Beast playbook: Shameless
-Move from Beast playbook: BDE
-Move from another playbook: Oppositional Defiance
-+1 Spirit

Fellowship: The Heart

Let us return, for a moment, to a sad soaked bundle, held twice tight. The first grip looses, and deposits two passengers on solid ground. Collect all your things. Mind the gap. Ride again, soon! The second grip relents only that eyes may see what hands cannot. Are there tears? Does she breathe? Does she fear? Maybe. Possibly. Probably. The cloak intrudes. Were both of her arms not unquestionably occupied, Wolf would have already torn it to shreds. An anxious growl builds in her throat as she waits, and waits, waits for trembling arms to peel away the layers.

The cowl falls back, and Wolf falls into a dream of enchantment and cunning. A vision of fiery orange and creamy whites, of fur invitingly soft and glowing with color. A curiosity of pointed, fluffy ears and a precious dollop of black dotting a perfect nose. A promise of poise, power, and so much more, wrapped in limbs curving with lithe muscles. An eternity of shining emerald; stare, please, stare, lose yourself deeper and deeper and deeper in her, without hideous lenses to get in the way.

Wolf stares. Wolf waits.

Blink. And the dream is put aside. Back to waking. Back to gangly limbs and patchwork, speckled coat. Back to ill-kept and tangled fur. Back to spectacles perched on a snout all the wrong shapes. Back to a low rumble in Wolf’s chest, felt through paws, through cloak, filling her with unconditional approval. Back to lying weightless in a strength that could hold her forever. Back to a closing distance, and foreheads meeting, and one last, precious word spilling from Wolf’s lips.

And the name was

”Jackdaw.”