TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

Dolce lands. Or, perhaps, his hooves found the floor, and the rest of him caught up. He bows to the once-Housekeeper, bows to Apollo, and the third bow is involuntary. But before the floor can greet him properly a pair of strong arms cuts in, holding him fast. “What was that? Are you okay?” Vasilia asks from somewhere behind him.

You know, now that she mentions it, that is a good question: How is he? Do excuse him a moment, he has to sort through a dozen people to find himself again. But there, just after the finish, and beneath the pile, you’ll find him; dazed, but alive. Alive. Alive! All his heart erupts, joy mingling with shadows of grief until he cannot tell them apart any longer and he’s filled up thrice over. Out pour the tears. There shines the smile. It is done! She did it! She lives again, and he! He’s not crushed! Is this what it’s like, Hera, to bear the darkness that destroyed another? Are our burdens really so light on the shoulders of others?

No. No, his heart aches, for H'san, for Jalia, for every one of them, even as it sings. His heart strains to hold the heady river of emotions from overflowing its banks. Later, it will dry up, and what will he use then to keep himself together? The weight remains heavy. There are limits, after all. “I, I think I need a moment.” He breathes.

“Then.” Her hands are steady. Fortunes of effort are spent to prevent their moving an inch. “Would you care for me to keep holding you?”

He is silent. He is listening. He is feeling his weight settle in her hands, and he is listening. “...I think so. But. Please, just that, for now.”

“As you wish.” She says, and he lets himself rest limp in her grasp. Lots to think about. Lots to think about. Names, that he would not forget. The hole in the Housekeeper’s heart, left by humanity. How long she must have toiled around it. Who else…?

But first, food.

“We have a lunch to make.” Finally, he rises to his hooves, leaning on her arm to keep his knees from wobbling. “May I ask for your assistance?”

“You’re the captain. You shouldn’t have to ask.”

“But if the Captain wants to ask, he can. So. I did.”

Her smile shrinks to a thin, pale line. “I. Should warn you, I’m only a week past learning what a broiler is. Don’t expect any miracles.”

“I don’t know…” Dolce watches a god weep for joy at a plate of food. His hand squeezes her arm. “Miracles do seem to be in style these days.”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Kalaya!

Oh no! As you keep her attention with swordplay and conversation, a great mountain of a lady (a blacksmith, by her leather apron) sneaks up behind the highlander! Her wooden sword raises high, higher, held in both hands as she sweeps down before the warning can escape your throat and-!

The highlander catches the sword in her bare hand.

The blacksmith’s eyes go wide as saucers, then wide as dinnerplates as she strains with all her might, but her sword stays caught fast. A spin, swatting your own strike away, and in one great heave both sword and smith go tumbling across the field. The highlander snorts, and you swear you see smoke puff from her nostrils. “What is this, a fight or a tea party?”

She gives you no time to answer; she’s prepared one of her one. With a shout she’s upon you, raining down blows that leave no room for conversation or mistakes. To call her form sloppy would fall short of the mark. Your trained eye knows by the twist of her arm and the lurching, always-forward posture that this girl’s never seen a trainer for more than an hour. Has she even used a shortsword before? But she’s fast. She’s strong, and you feel it every time your guard catches one of those terrifying swings the wrong way. And she has a complete disregard for pain and her own safety. A feast of openings lies before you, how many do you take advantage of? How many can you take advantage of, brave knight? Why doesn’t it ever seem to slow her down?!

Your own training finally pays off, feint into parry into blades caught and crossed, and still she pushes you back, back, to the edge of the arena! You dig your heels into the earth, you drop to your knees, you throw all your weight against the tide, and at last you stop. Teetering on the edge of diaster, the highlander towering over you. Her blade presses ever closer. Your arms tremble to hold her back. She grins, right in your face, and are you surprised when you don’t see fangs? “Name’s Han. Nice to meetcha, Knight.”

A taunt. A challenge. A test, for the one who put this whole tourney on. Because the only deeds that will earn Han’s loyalty are ones that get the job done. Look around you, Knight, past the festival you’ve set up, to the N’yari roaming the highlands, the demons clawing at the edges, and the Dominion pulling the Flower Kingdoms under their spell. Where are the defenders of the Kingdom? Where are the princesses who swore we could live lives of peace? What are they up to, while the rest of us watch our worlds crumble around us?!

They’re gone. They’ve left us alone, and help isn’t coming. So it falls to people like Han, and the few knights who give half a damn about their duty and have the strength to do something about it.

So. Kalaya. Are you strong enough to do something about it?

[Rolling to Fight with Daring: 6 + 6 + 2 = 14. Taking a String on Kalaya via provocation, inflicting a Condition through violence, and seizing a superior position. Kalaya chooses one in return.]

Breathless Dead

The choice should not be his to make.

The thought does not survive the next passing of plates. Of course it has to be him. There is no one else. He is her. She is him. They are not, but they are, and there may never be another Chef to meet the Housekeeper. Forgive him for shrinking, ma’am. There is too much at stake to not make a choice. But it may be a mistake. He doesn’t want to hurt her. He knows it will hurt. He wishes he was clever enough to find a better way. But all he can think is this: The last one left should not be cursed for surviving.

Please. Don’t be angry.

The next time the Housekeeper’s cycle takes her across the gaping emptiness, it is not her hands that perform the flourishes. Dolce holds the precious motion, in his hands, in his heart, and asks a difficult question of a broken soul.

“Could you tell me about the one who worked their knives like this?”

And for the next. And the next. And the next after that. Remember, think, speak, and do not stop the work, and I will hold the monuments you no longer can. Will you tell whose names are on them? Will you let me remember them with you? May I be the first you tell?

Housekeeper. Dear Housekeeper. The universe holds too much for your love to stay frozen.

Go, and be well.

[Talking Sense with Wisdom: 6 + 2 + 0 = 8]

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

You wanna know why the last knight was running a tourney? Because their precious princess picked somebody else as their date for some ball or whatever, and they were so mad they ran off to get a new set of lackeys to cheer themselves up. For that, she turned over three towns to snatch up their best and haul them off to be as useless as her.

So Han did them all a favor; she kicked the crap out of anyone dumb enough to compete, and told the knight where, in excruciating detail, she could stick her honors. And the knight lost her mind. Ranted and raved about how this highlander thug was spitting on the knightly traditions of the Kingdoms or something. And the townspeople listened. And they ran Han out of town.

There would’ve been a makeup tourney the next week, if everything hadn’t caught fire, or the knight hadn’t gotten absolutely thrashed by the Vermilion Beast of Lanterns. Last she’d heard, her legend still hadn’t recovered.

Now here she is again, with a wooden sword gripped so tight in her fist it might splinter into nothing, about to do it all again. No clue what this Kalaya’s about, but this stupid tourney’s all anybody in this town cares about, so here she is. Beat up enough people, get enough attention, get someone to tell her where a witch is.

After that, who cares if they chase her out? She didn’t wanna stay here anyway.

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?]