TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

It’s familiar.

A Manor serves far fewer than a palace. A family may enjoy the aesthetic comfort of a tidy kitchen. A Housekeeper must remain invisible. He sees the nuances of Purpose that gave her her arms and recognizes the hands that molded his wool. He does not look for any other staff; he already knows she is alone, and has been alone. A Chef watches a Housekeeper, born galaxies apart, and sees himself, and may not see himself, and the gravity of negative space draws him ever closer.

“Vasilia?” He hears himself, and forgets that he even spoke the words. “Would you be my eyes, please?”

She has no place for him. She is enough for the task. She has been enough. She will be enough. She is a universe unto themselves. But could that universe expand? He was not born to match her, and would not dare try. Slipping between spheres, slipping almost from thought, guided by a voice of his heart, he became more than a sphere. The system gains a second sun. Orbits drift in increments to match their destined paths. Nothing disturbs her trance. And yet.

Tell me who you are, Housekeeper. He does not know if you can speak anymore. A tongue may be only for tasting, now. Broken. Transcendent. Alive. He cannot tell from without, and so he asks you from within. Who are you, Housekeeper? Tell him of you, and he will tell you of him.

For this moment, you are not alone. And the universe may never be the same.

[Rolling to Overcome with Grace to make this all possible: 5 + 4 + 2 = 11]

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Plan? Yeah. She’s got a plan alright.

Run until hungry, thirsty, or tired.

Fix the problem.

Keep running.

Find her.

Make. Her. Regret it.

(The teacups and dress are bundled up and packed away safely. She’s back to her sleeveless shirt and pants, the better to run with. Her hair is even more of a wild mess than usual; the plan has no considerations for roads or baths. She holds the coin in her pocket instead of her hand. It would not be intact otherwise.)

Turtlehead isn’t the plan. Turtlehead is where she’s at. So, Turtlehead is where she’ll search. Not for a priestess. Never them. They wouldn’t believe her. Worse, they’d think her the culprit. Never a priestess. She needs a witch. If you want something done, you get a witch.

First person she meets. Are they a witch? Great, problem solved. Are they not a witch? Then they’re going to tell her where she can find one.

Breathless Dead

A rival? Maybe. Maybe not. How can he know until he meets them? The Housekeeper may have an interest in foreign cuisine, or long to collaborate with another cook, or feel a sore need for a break. There’s too much they could be, in this place where anything may be possible, so why fret about it when he could just meet them and find out?

Though he hoped they at least still liked good food, well-prepared. It would rather complicate everything if they didn’t.

“Thank you, everyone. Please, go and mingle while I prepare. Vas-” Ah. No. That’s not the name he should use, is it? Right? “Vasilia, would you. Accompany me to the kitchens?” It. Really ought not to be a question. If he’s Captain, you see. Captains generally give orders, but, questions were acceptable sometimes. And this seemed questionable enough?

Already she stands at the ready, seeming at once poised, but in an instant she will melt into a steady march behind him, and no one will mark the transition. She remains watchful of their surroundings. She does not look at him as she answers. “As you wish...Captain.”

He cannot see the concern, gathering at the corners of her eyes.

As they left the court, Dolce clung to the one rule that must hold true, no matter the custom: Food had to be brought from where it was prepared to where it would be enjoyed, as quickly and directly as possible. The complications of grav-rails might’ve stumped another Captain. But Dolce had, perhaps, the second-most experience amongst the crew in gravitational thinking. If he could not find the kitchen, then perhaps they were never meant to be found.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Little bud...you’ve had a hell of a day out, huh? The road’s an educational place, but still, maybe you oughta take it a little easier on the lessons. Or maybe you should’ve done some more studying before you headed out. Either way, it’s too late now. The only way through is forward. Plus side, you’ve learned to be scared of the N’yari. Probably. Sheltered priestesses make breathy little gasping noises when they’re scared, right? That sounds right, yeah. So, good, you’ve learned to be scared of the N’yari. You know to stay away from them. And if you learn just whose shoulder you’re sleeping on? If you learn what she’d been just a few hours ago? If you learn there’s things far, far worse than catgirl bullies out here? You’d stay far, far away. And you’d be right to.

Stupid Machi. She was right about something after all. Flowers and stones don’t mix.

But you’re never going to make it to that temple on your own, little bud. In a few years, maybe, but now? You’ll get eaten alive out there. That’s what’s hurts. That’s the stinging, heavy pain in her chest that won’t let her sleep.

Don’t you worry your pretty little head, though. For you, she’ll pretend to be a flower for a few days. She’ll see you there safe. A promise is a promise, no matter what happens.

[Feral: 0]

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

Along the low, leveling slopes of the lowlands, following the course of the river Spearwort as it rumbles ever-onwards towards the sea, far away from cities of industry and consequence, the Sapphire Mother’s gaze fell upon the town of Thimbleweed. She watched their hearts sink deeper into the muck of endless rains, without any sunlight to cheer them. In the quiet of her own counsel, she feared the allure of fire and heroism, and what the good people of the Flower Kingdom might forget in their swooning. So it was that she directed her priests to revive the flagging tradition of the Festival of Leaves.

Come one! Come all! Taste the fruits of generations of Flower Kingdom ingenuity! Leaves and blends perfected over generations of tea-makers! Peruse the finest of Flower Kingdom pottery, and find yourself a new favorite teacup. Sit with your friends, your families, your neighbors, all your favorite people. To brew a fine cup of tea takes great care and practice, a work of art and a work of heart. Who better to enjoy it with than those you love? Sit awhile, share your stories, hear the tales of your Kingdom’s bravest and best. It is the Festival of Leaves, and all are welcome!

Across the great river, two travelers stand beneath half an umbrella, and the sounds of the festival carry over the rain-swelled rush. The lights of the inns and teahouses shine in place of the stars this evening, guiding all to their doors. “Oh! Oh! Oh!!!!” The priestess nearly loses control of her umbrella for bouncing. “They’re having a festival! It’s, it’s, um, I’ve heard of it before, I know it, but I’ve never actually been, so, can we? Can we stop in? Oh, just for a little bit, please?”

It’s a trap. Of course Han knows it’s a trap. Who do you think she is? It’s always ‘oh, we’ll just stay for a minute’ or ‘just one show, then we’re going’ but then you see the market, or you hear about the headline act, next thing you know you’re paying for three nights at the inn and the whole trip’s gone out the window. Oh no. Not this time, festival. You gotta get past Han, first. “Mmmm. I don’t think so. We should keep moving, if we want to make good time to the temple.” Responsible! Thought-out! Selflessly missing a festival! Victory!

Han might’ve withstood complaining. She might’ve endured the long sulk. She even might’ve stood strong in the face of the dreaded Silent Treatment. But the priestess did none of these.

She stops her hopping. “Oh,” she says, in a voice so tiny it could blow away in the wind. “I. Suppose you’re right…” Does she sniffle? Does her lip shake? Impossible to tell beneath the veil, especially when she straightens her back stiff and refuses to let even a single tear fall. Because she’s a priestess, you see, and a good priestess wouldn’t. Wouldn’t cry over something as silly as a mere festival.

Of the mighty Han, there is nothing left but an aching, tearing hole where her chest used to be.

“You know.” She blurts out. “Maybe. We can spare some time to check it out. We’ll just stay a minute. Or two. Tonight.”

At once the light returns to her eyes. “Oh thank you, thank you, thank you! We’ll only be a minute, I promise!” And before her guide could say another word, she grabs her by the hand and leads her laughing towards town. Han gives no resistance. How could she? She didn’t weigh a thing right now. She was full of air and butterflies and starlight, and maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

“Oh look! Look! They have festival dresses!”

Or maybe it was the worst mistake of her life. Hard to say.

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

“So what does Han’ya mean?”

Mistake. Definitely a mistake. As bad a mistake as the dumb rosepetal dress the priestess insisted she wear, in broad daylight. Couldn’t it have waited until they got to the inn, bud? Where no one would ever know?! But Han does not glare. You could tell she isn’t glaring, because she turns right past the priestess, to look at a bird, which is something she does all the time, when interesting birds are around. “Uhm. Who wants to know?”

“Oh. Um, me? Kinda?” The priestess fidgets with the handle of her half-umbrella. “It’s just, I’ve never heard a name like that before. And names are so important! And, I wanted to know what yours meant.”

“It’s-” time to shut the hell up, Han. Bite your tongue if you have to. Except, no, wait, too sharp, you have to keep saying words or else she’ll realize how close you were to exploding just there. “-not exactly,” And you can’t be too hard on it, she seemed to like that name. Don’t want her to think you’re mad at her for liking it, can you? “Not exactly my real name. It’s just,” long breath. It’s just words. This part, you say without thinking. “Just a...nickname, Machi uses.” Awesome, great. Perfect. Now keep going before she notices your face is red why is your face red?! “Call me Han. Because, that’s my name, and that’s what people call me.”

“Han…” Her reaction is inscrutable, as she tastes the name behind her veil. Yes, her eyes were sparkling, but that didn’t mean anything. They were always sparkling, actually. “That’s a nice name.”

Then the little priestess dips low in a perfect curtsy. “My name is Melody of Silver Bells. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Han.” She glances up, expectantly batting her lashes, the propriety spoiled only slightly by the giggles bubbling out of her.

“Yeah. Uh.” Was she supposed to curtsy back to a priestess? Too late, she was already doing it, clutching two fistfuls of flowery red dress and staring a hole straight in the ground. Where she belonged. “It’s nice a pleasure, a nice pleasure to meet you, Melody.”

(Melody. What a pretty name…)

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

The market. A warzone, for the good girl. Tea-soaked idiots clogging all the walkways as they gape at the latest teapots that work exactly like every other teapot ever. No pushing, no shoving, no shouting, just. Patiently follow Melody. For as long as it takes. Each booth, a dark alley, hiding con artists who wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, or maybe just some lost kittens, and so little time to tell the difference. No thank you. No thank you. Say it as many times as necessary, without growling, don’t you dare bare your teeth at any of them! Even if they deserve it! Not to mention, a responsible traveler would keep a careful eye on the purse, spending enough on what was worthwhile without spending too much...

“Well. You’re certainly excelling at mingling, little sister.”

Han knows that tone of voice. She knows who she’ll see before she rounds on the culprit. Another priestess, her silks accompanied by gold rings on every other finger, and her veil patterned with an overly-stylized lotus, of all things.Her nose high in the air, staring down at a blinking Melody. Oh, you thought you could slip past her guard and say that to Melody, huh?! You’re a little out of practice with mingling, are you? Good news! Han’s got some quality mingling for you right here you-

“Awww, thank you!”

Huh?

Melody claps, her silks bouncing merrily. “I was so nervous I wouldn’t fit in - it’s my first pilgrimage, you see - so, so I’m so happy to hear that! Thank you! Oh, I mean,” She performs an elaborate gesture which was...um, probably a priestess greeting? Probably??? “Thank you, sister!”

Melody couldn’t see the wicked smile her ‘sister’ was wearing beneath her veil. You gotta look at the eyes. That’s where you’ll see a priestess’ condescension, every time.

Except for Melody. That's where you see her smile.

Han steps between the priestesses. And turns to the smaller one. “Melody, they’ve got these tea sets that look like, turtles? Or something? A few streets over. You wanna take a look?”

“Oh my gosh! Yes! Let’s!”

Ignore the smug satisfaction radiating behind you, Han. Just keep following. Show her some turtle cups. Keep those eyes smiling. Before this know-it-all takes a parting-

“Hmph. At least you’ve trained her well.”

-bwuh?!

Han whirls on her. And Melody whirls on her too??? But the snooty priestess is already walking away! She’ll be gone in a moment! Quick!

“I’m just her-!”
"O-oh, I haven't been-!"

Tragically, their objections got caught in each other's crossfire, with no survivors. At once, they silently signed a treaty, agreeing to keep walking towards turtles, look anywhere but at each other, and say nothing for longer than they should. Which suited them both, as they each had some. Thinking. To do.

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

“Aiieeeee! The Beast!” A shrill cry rings out. “The Vermillion Beast of Lanterns comes! Flee for your lives!”

But it is already too late! The Beast is upon the town! See it come wriggling from the inky depths of stage right, its body so long that none can see the end of it! Wild eyes spin and bulge from its ugly paper-mache head. It opens its mouth, and oh, what wicked fangs! The land erupts into flittering flames, reds and oranges flapping wildly as it roars and stomps, and no flower survives its passing. The good townsfolk scatter like chaff, for no one could have the courage to withstand such horror. But lo! As the princess stoops to collect a child’s toy, dropped in the chaos, she falls! And ruins her dress! The Vermillion Beast of Lanterns towers over her, and she is helpless, only a dainty hand raised against the doom fast befalling her-!

“Get back, your highness!” A brave knight draws her sword with a declaration of steel! In shining armor, she stands between the monster and its helpless prey. “By my oath to the crown - no, to our oath of the moonlit garden, I will hold back the Beast!”

“Trouble these kingdoms no more!” A priestess in bright blue silks leaps beside the knight, streams of calligraphed ropes flowing from her sleeves. “Peace, creature, by choice or by the Mother’s hand!”

The bindings are not for the Beast alone. They’ve already wound tight around the heart of Melody, perched on the very edge of her seat, shining eyes wide as can be. She says nothing. Only gasps escape her lips, and with each turn of the terrible battle, she clings tighter and tighter to her companion’s arm.

Han’s free hand comes to rest gently over hers. She leans close, voice dropping to a whisper only for her. “Easy, bud. No beast is gonna get you.”

“I promise.”

Breathless Dead

Disappointing. Disheartening, even. Was there no one here who cared for travelers from far away, in the midst of a journey together? Did they see no worth among the crew, save for that which Senator Thist could squeeze out of them in fines and political points?

No. No, perhaps just not like this, huddled in a dark court to attend to their business.

Every performer has the same weakness, dear heart, though we take great pains to hide it. Sooner or later, we all have to breathe.

“Your honor, I propose a short recess!” Dolce leapt in the gap between inhale and exclamation. “Perhaps I could prepare the collected assembly a meal, to show our gratitude for receiving us? We have survived for weeks on nothing but the meager supplies we carry, you see, and I’m sure we will all think better on full stomachs.”

Breathless Dead

Could it be…?

No. No, of course it couldn’t. If it were, the largest diplomatic incident wouldn’t have been a bad landing on a sacred highway. Just the nerves of his first diplomatic mission, making him watch for disaster wherever it might possibly lurk. No need to worry; the matter is an easy one. She is mistaken, and their innocence will be easy to prove.

Except…

Senator Thist continues to bellow, now going into the long and storied history of the street in question via anecdotes of the honored shahs who saw to its creation and glory. The stories are lovely, but lack much in the way of legal proof. Nor do they present much opportunity for him to speak. For the sake of some unknown political gain, she strives with all her might to pin a crime on people she’s only just met today. Could the matter truly be finished with proving their innocence? Would the crew be upset and hurt if their Captain raises only the barest of defense for them? So, ought not he strike back?

But why? Why does she insist on prosecuting them, when she cannot possibly be sure of her answers? Why is she so desperate for profit that she would attack them on sight? What more might he break by breaking her position?

And above it all, there stands the satrap. She makes no move to stop the Senator. But could she? Would she? Suppose she permits this. Suppose even that they welcome every guest with a mock trial, to test the measure of their cunning. There may be some larger game at play, and the straightest path through the halls of Azuran power may still hold some winding turns. To give even the appearance of responsibility may tie them up at once, if they speak incautiously. But suppose this is the only door that will ever be opened to outsiders? Could he risk everyone, their mission, his duty, on so treacherous a path? Should he, even?

A Captain would see the crew through this trial, and that was the simple truth of the matter. Why, then, did so many paths lay open before him?

At a wave of his hand, five advisors close in, and despite everything it is four more than either he or Vasilia expected. On instinct he awaits a sign from her, but she maintains a total lack of challenge to the four occupying territory that had once been hers, and that is sign enough. For now. Beneath the cover of Thist’s oratorical exhibitions, they share what insights they’ve gathered.

[Rolling to Look Closely: 6 + 5 + 2 = 13. What are the stakes of the various paths through Thist’s attack?]

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Bud? Bud. Do you see the fire? It’s a nice fire. Big enough for two. She built it that way, you know. Could’ve made it all small and smokeless but nope! It’s big and blazing and crackling away. And look! See how many trees they’ve got to hide under? Absolutely spoiled for shelter. There are so, so many places you could sit right now, and any of them are fine. Honest. She won’t be broken up if you sit anywhere else. You don’t have to. Um. Sit with her. But - okay. Alright. Yes, you’re wriggling closer. That’s. Your choice? Right? You’re...choosing to curl up beside her, like she’s the only shelter you have from the storm.

What in the mother’s own name is she supposed to do with that?!

...is what she’d say, if the thought didn’t keep slipping straight through her fingers. She shifts against the tree, feels the priestess nestle up closer, but before her surprise turns to panic it has to contend with that voice. More than rain, more than the scent of flowers, it fills the air to bursting and falls all about her. Don’t you know? It whispers. Haven’t you heard? This is the time for stories. Here is the place of rest. Stay. Be still awhile. You are safe, little one. What worry can survive such an assault? Fear falls away, and all that’s left is warmth. Of the fire, of a pretty little priestess by her side, of a world gone still with her still in it.

The Thunder Dragon. Maybe she ought to have paid more attention to the legends, in hindsight. But in her defense, how was she supposed to connect the dots on her own? A Thunder Dragon, whose scales became flowers, and whose daughters breathe fire? What?! How did that make any sense? The rest though…a hero, here to save the Kingdoms in their hour of need. A daughter of dragons, mighty and powerful. One would would not let anyone take what was rightfully hers.

A hard-beaten heart, wounded from a long and trying day, takes in these treasures and perches proudly atop them. A hero. Saviour of the Kingdoms. Mighty! Powerful! Don’t take her stuff! Her stuff. Hers…

She didn’t remember turning to look. Or, deciding to. One moment, there was a story. The next, there was her. Bright blue hair, framing glasses, framing painted shadows, framing long lashes, framing rich, earthy, sparkling brown eyes. Her silk veil flutters in the wind, whispering suggestions of jaw and lips beneath. People that, wow, like that couldn’t really exist. Impossible, for them to exist this. Close. So close, to her. For her. Trusting, and snuggling, and admiring with eyes bright and shining, and she chose her. Her.

Would she choose to draw even closer?

Would she…

The priestess turns to the fire. Han turns to the fire, sharply, and her faces turns to fire. Would she what, Han? What exactly would she?! With her! And! Well! What?! Get it together already! You don’t just go thinking like that about somebody you just met. You don’t even know her name! She’s just a lost little priestess who needed a bodyguard, and recognized talent when she saw it. Don’t go reading anything else into it like, like some kind of creep. What are you, desperate?

(Yes.)

Anyway. Han clears her throat. Stares long into the fire, letting it cast her face into deep, blush-concealing shadow. Her voice isn’t as pretty or as fancy as some, but you don’t travel as much as her without learning how to tell a good story. And of the N’yari, she has stories to tell.

“Far away, on the very edges of the Flower Kingdom, in the heights of the Highlands, stands Mount Fang. If you could climb the sheer cliffs, stand against the howling winds, and plow through the waist-deep snow, you might stand atop the peaks. But you will not be able to escape the tribe of the Oei. Their eyes can track a butterfly through a typhoon at midnight. They can leap over a house in a single bound. And the smallest of them can throw a soldier - in full gear - over their shoulder like it was nothing.”

She says, with the confidence of one who’s seen it happen. Multiple times.

“They come down from their mountain lairs to raid the Flower Kingdoms. They love gold, and jewels, and spices, but most of all?” A knowing glance, to her captive audience. “They love pretty girls. Anyone who catches their fancy, they bind, and gag, and carry off to their mountain, and that will be the last sunlight they see for months. Maybe even years. Unless the N’yari decide to take their pets for a walk.” Which was something she hadn’t seen for herself, and with any luck, she never would. “Once you’re under the mountain, you belong to the N’yari. They’d have had you cooking, cleaning, entertaining, whatever strikes their fancy and whatever they’re too lazy to do themselves. If you’re good, they might dress you up in their frilliest outfits for a uniform. If you’re bad, they might just do it anyway. Or maybe they’ll tie you so tightly that you can’t move a muscle, and make you promise a hundred times over not to make anymore ‘silly mistakes.’ All while they sit on you and tickle your face with their tail. Anything to make you never forget; you belong to them, now.”

Memories spring unbidden to mind without the soothing guard of a priestess’ voice. A ghost of a taste dances on her tongue. Han draws within herself, just a bit tighter.

“Escape is impossible. No one but the Oei know the ways through their twisting caverns. Your sentence is up when they get bored of you. One day, without warning, they tie you up from head to toe, carry you back to the Highlands, and drop you off somewhere you can hobble back to a village. All the while they watch from the trees. One last show, before they go.” Bitterness. Anger. Spat into the air, and stabbed to her own heart. “They raid the Highlands because we’re easy pickings. Because no Kingdom keeps enough trouble here to challenge them. So. I make my own trouble. For any N’yari that thinks they can mess with my home and get away with it. If they want new maids to play with?”

Her eyes narrow to burning slits.

“They’ll have to take ‘em from me.”

[Rolling to Entice with stories of bravery and binding: 3 + 5 - 3 = 5. The XP race continues….]

Breathless Dead

The Plousious’ contingent stands as a unified spectrum of cautious, faded blue. The gesture of ignorant foreigners who, nevertheless, strive to meet the customs of their host. The Order representatives carry their color as yet another shield, blending the new color with their old symbols in a way that both marks them as members of the crew, and further obscures their markings of rank. Standing aside from them, Coherents proudly display their blue hides and matching augmentations. A grand gesture, diminished somewhat by the several more ostentatious modifications that had been soundly vetoed. And at the center of them all, a little sheep, dressed the brightest of them all but still respectfully below the satrap, and a guard of honor around him. At his right hand, a lioness, politely glaring at the senator before him.

Out of all the wonders of this court, Vasilia standing at his right threatened to upset his balance every time he noticed. It was good they’d practiced beforehand, or else he might have lost his wits at the first hurdle. But his own words came to mind readily, for a Captain ought to take their own orders seriously: Senator Thist sought to entangle them. So, he would not engage.

Instead, he turns to a servant, the very one who’d shown them into the satrap’s chambers. “Pardon me, but could you tell me what she’s talking about?” he asks, making no effort to hide his conversation or its contents. “‘Scout’...is that what you would call a starship? Is she speaking of the Plousious?”

A good servant took care when answering a guest’s question, lest they complicate the business of the Master. The worst questions were the ones where you could discern no malice, and thus, the machinations you found yourself in were far more perilous than you could even imagine. But the best sorts of questions were the ones where you could discern no malice, for the question was simple, and the asker was curious, and no guile could possibly exist here.

To the servant, Dolce asks as he always liked to be asked; with refreshing honesty, and simple curiosity.

[Triggering Heroes of the People to auto-hit a Speak Softly, asking: What can they tell us about the incident Senator Thist is going on about?]

Breathless Dead

In the end, the moment had passed without incident. The crew accepted his words as the words of a Captain. The meeting had immediately gone to questions of logistics, command structure, the hundreds of points of minutia necessary for a ship to fly painlessly. No complaints were lodged with his choice of words, posture, tone, length of eye contact with any one individual in the audience, plan, or even choice of coat. His desire had been achieved. He was Captain.

Victory ought to have felt a little less like a dishrag, wrung twelve times over.

A teacup wreathed in steam enters the dimmest peripheries of his awareness. Mynx was likely still close to hand. Somewhere. He hopes she understood the noise he made was meant to express a gratitude; the most grateful grunt he could muster. Words, he might not ever speak again.

Except that he would, in time. Captain was not a destination, after all, but a journey, and one he needed to walk a little further still. Past the Endless Azure Skies, drawing ever-closer to the Rift. Perhaps, if the gods truly did favor his ascent, the Azura would know more than they of the perils ahead. They might offer some fresh insight into its terrible workings, of how a ship and its crew might wisely choose their path through. And if he were truly blessed? He rested a hand gingerly on his chest.

Perhaps that might help him to navigate the aching in his own heart, too.

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

The Endless Azure Skies. The once-mighty jewel of an empire, fallen to ruin, the last vestiges of its power and people locked in an eternal battle for supremacy over the scraps.

To journey so far, and find yourself right back where you started. Was it a time to laugh, or to cry?

Mere weeks ago, she would’ve derided the lot of them for fools, let every sight pass unseen, and be off the moment they were able to. Today, she would do even better; no one expected an egg-carrier of the Magos to go much of anywhere, so no one would order her anywhere, and here is where she would stay. On board the ship. With a perpetually discomforting relic.

But to journey so far, and find yourself right back where you started...

Perhaps the streets of the Azuran empire would teach her what the road to her estate, to the arena, to the favorite places in the vast plains she once visited looked like. Could the warriors of the grav-rail tell her how she felt the day she first saw the perplexing scroll of alien forms in her family’s vault? Would a queen to this fallen empire be her best chance at finding her past, to grant her a wish for a future?

Vasilia would never know, as an egg-carrier of the Magos. But if she wanted to be a little more than that, she had a sacrifice to make, and an apology to deliver. One that would be far, far more uncomfortable than mystery relic eggs.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

The turning of days comes to an end. Another year passes the great and the small alike. The emissaries of Heaven are already on their way, and nothing will slow the steady tread of their starry oxen. No machination of demon, divine, mortal, or anyone in-between can hope to change the hour of their arrival. They will come to the house of the Sapphire Mother, with two grand carts, bearing in them two jeweled eggs, or two earthen jugs, or a chest of stone and a chest of jewels, or a silver cloud and a golden cloud, depending on who tells the story. The Sapphire Mother will open her storehouses, and accept the new year’s fortunes. If her houses be not empty, then they will burst, and all will be thrown into chaos as ill and good fortune flood the land.

The wise say it is for this reason that all must quietly accept their lot from the Sapphire Mother, for it is to spare us all a far worse disaster that some must suffer. The wise might also say that it’s not actually the end of the year yet, but given how wrong they were on the first point Han sees no reason to believe them on the second. How else is she to explain the mountain of bad luck crushing her voice into a quiet moan? In fact, that stupid fox is probably the one who delivered it all! The jerk! How dare you look so pleased with yourself! No, don’t kiss the rascal, bud! Gah!

She still has a chance. The night’s dark. The priestess has no lantern, and is completely distracted with fox kissies. Up to the treetops. Leap to the open sky. Get out of binding range. Don’t return to the earth until this place is a distant memory. Find a new village to live in. Forget everything she had in her old place, it’s dead to her now. No, wait, she didn’t give her a name yet. No way to track her down. Daughter of the Thunder Dragon? Weird priestess nonsense. Unless Machi ever said her name? (warmth. drowning in her. hers. her stone-heart) Nope. No way to tell. Can’t risk it. Dead to her. Wait hang on did she say exciting? Heroic? Always wanted to?!

What?!

Here she makes her second-worst mistake: Instead of leaping out of her life forever, Han takes another look at the little priestess. She lets herself hear the wonder in her voice, see the delight turning her fingers silly as she fumbles with her veil, instead of the perilous threat her heart screams must, must be there. No matter how hard she looks, all her fears catch a glimpse of is the terrifying possibility that she herself might be the cause of all this. And her worst mistake?

Deciding to open her mouth.

“Uhhhhhhhh. Yeah. That’s right. One of the dragon-blooded. Guess I’m just lucky to have met you. First. Instead of all the other dragon-blooded running around, because there’s so many of us.” Oh gods above below and sideways what was she saying. Why was she saying. This is the worst and dumbest she has ever been. “Good. Good. Glad you’ve thought about it. You shouldn’t go rushing into things without thinking, or else you’re going to get yourself in trouble.” Gee, Han! What a great idea! Thinking. Who’d have thought?! “Now that that’s all settled, we should make camp for the night. And.” Han. Han. What are you doing. “And you can tell me everything you’ve heard about dragon-blooded.”

No, wait, actually, that’s good. That’s a good idea. Get her talking, see what she knows. See what she expects. If she’s going to be travelling with a priestess, Han can’t afford any mistakes. She’s going to be an ordinary, simple dragon-blooded girl, escorting a priestess to a faraway temple, which everybody knows is the last thing an angry guardian spirit at large would be doing.