TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know if it is the same at all. If, if…”

A thousand pardons, Lord Hades. Please, he begs your patience. Let him collect himself. Let him screw his eyes shut against the searing vision of Lethe. Just minutes ago, he was whole. It’s not something you can keep looking at if you’ve got to keep moving forward. And he’s got to. He’s got to. But the river is so wide, and he’s never felt so small. If he stares too long, the idea of it will fill him past bursting. What was he saying? Grab onto the thought. Hold onto it for dear life, and don’t be swept away, silly sheep.

“If I go now, I go alone. If I am back here in a few week’s time, then, that’s a few week’s time. That’s at least time enough to talk to Vasilia. With time to spare. Who knows what else we might do? Then, when we Reach the rift, we will have reached the Rift.”

He still can’t look. But he turns to where he remembers Hades standing, all the same.

“That has to be enough to make it different, right?”

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

Vasilia runs the rich, vibrant blue through her hands. Her fingers speak to softness, but had she been listening when they were just a guest’s robes? Blue shouldn’t look so good on her. “Thank you, but. I don’t wear an honor higher than Captain anymore. Though not even that, these days. But if we’re talking in the old days...”

“I had triumph. Oh, I had more triumph than anyone could believe. I mentioned the inherent advantage of the Glaive? The style at the time drew heavy inspiration from our Plovers; hulking walls of armor, slamming into each other until one of them yielded. Then there was me. Armored only enough to prevent serious injury, leaping circles around my enemies, and piercing any weakness with laser-accuracy. I practically revolutionized single combat overnight. To the crowds, I was more than just a new face, I was their face. I could speak to the common citizen far more than any of the more sheltered elite that I regularly tore apart. I spoke to a future they longed for. Not to mention I was a fiend in the ring. Not one opponent faced me that didn’t have some button I could push, some weakness I could exploit in delightfully entertaining - and effective - fashion. ‘Sensation’ would be putting it lightly. My name was on everyone’s lips, that first Olympics. I earned my seat, and then some.”

“Alethea was not so lucky. Her family bet everything they could afford - and then some they couldn’t - on her debut, and she bombed out completely. But my star was rising so rapidly, I managed to catch them on my ascent. Her family came under my house’s protection and care, and I took Alethea on to manage my affairs. Of which I had considerably more than I did a few weeks prior. Have you ever found the stakes for sleeping late turn into a matter of life or death overnight? Honestly, I think I would have been swallowed up alive without her. I...well, I hardly thanked her enough at the time, but she managed me just as often as my business. She could do that, you know. Say things that only a lifelong friend could get away with, when I needed to hear it. And Clarissa...”

Her hand already rests on an apple. To hold, to contemplate, to toss in the air, to stare long into while judging all the various ways that one might actually eat the thing, to take long, savoring bites. She draws her hand back. And pushes the plate away.

“Ah, well, she won her share of medals too, of course. She was, she was there, too.” The words disgust her as soon as she hears them. “No, no, that’s all wrong. Ugh, honestly, why do stories have to lay things out with words? As if everything can be so neatly sorted out?!”

The Furnace Knight offers no wisdom. Only patience. Patience long enough for the quiet to arrange her thoughts, and lay her ears low.

“My apologies for my...outburst, sir Knight. This section is...difficult. To explain. Difficult to explain. Alethea had her hands full managing my estate. We only really saw each other on business, in those days. Meanwhile, Clarissa and I both attended the Senate, exhibition matches between the Games, public events, speeches, training together...sometimes quite late at night, even…” Her breath came shaking. A hole in her heart throbs. “We were young. We were all we’d ever known. We clicked so well. We each kept waiting for the other to stop pushing, and, the next day, we would be back to preparing speeches as if nothing had happened. She never said anything. I never said anything. Then we’d have a late night attending the theater and it was all over again. And again. And again, again. Never complaining, yet never remarking long on it, and neither of us giving the other the opening to change it. Gods, what, what idiotic little messes we were.”

Her knuckles clenched white against fistfulls of blue.

“I suppose, no one ever taught us how important it was to put things down in those troublesome, blasted words. For all I knew their power. Perhaps because I knew their power. Perhaps, I was just a young coward, coming into their fear. If all you’ve ever done is win, how terrible the thought of losing...”

Breathless Dead

“You may as well get comfortable, Sir Knight.” She certainly wasn’t going to stand the entire time. The battlements made for a good enough bench, the parapets a table for food and drink. “It’s not a short story, nor one I tell often. I see it often enough, in my head, but out loud?” Her heart turned inside her chest. An absence, at her side. “Not even...I’ve only told snippets, never the whole thing. I don’t know what ought to be cut and what ought to stay. I don’t know if you are the right audience, but…”

She had to start somewhere.

Enough stalling. The beginning was a fine enough beginning.

“I don’t supposed you’d have known of Lakkos, except as a footnote in the star charts. It is positioned just so, between the orbits of much greater stars, that anything adrift in that sector will wind up crashing to its surface. In the old days of humanity, they made the atmosphere thick, yet yielding, that nothing would hit the planet with enough energy to shatter it or itself. Even living things could enter atmo with only mild burns. They turned it into a scrapyard, I think. A mine for parts and materials. The old machines and foundries are still there. As are every servitor they set to work there, and every servitor who found themselves drifting through space in that sector, once humanity retreated to Tellus.”

“But before humanity completely vanished, the Armada made one last call, to scoop up any remaining humans by imperial decree. They left.” She coughs. “An impression. Along with a fair number of ‘artifacts’ from the capital. Likely meant to ensure they’d never forget the awesome power of the Empire. It turned out to be highly educational. We learned a lot. And never forgot it. Overnight, the planet was united in one sentiment: To build the biggest and best plovers and war machines, that they may serve the invincible Empire as their allies, when they returned in their war against the stars.”

“Our worship went further still. We sought to emulate the perfect ways of Tellus. We selected our leaders through the divine rites of the Olympics, showering them with crowns and gold, as they did in the Empire. We held great, public trials of combat and skill, but mostly combat. Power was, after all, the chief virtue of the Armada. But we picked up their knack for corruption rather quickly too. Those who won at the Games enjoyed positions of wealth, power, incredible fame, while the rest of the peasants spent their days mining scraps for the Senator’s pet plover projects. And though the Games were open to all, well, if you didn’t have the time, money, or equipment to properly prepare, what chance did you have?”

“If there was a silver lining, at least our wars became rather less bloody, but none the shorter. Why send your precious plover into battle with your neighbors, and risk damaging your best asset to the Empire? Better to sabotage their works, while jealously defending your own. Take them down a peg in the next Games, and enjoy the spoils of victory afterwards. But with no end or Armada in sight, the arms race never ceased. The toll on the citizens never faltered.”

“Mind, I know all this through hindsight. Years of time spent away, epiphanies from awkward stares, that sort of thing. At the time, I was merely the only daughter of a noble house of Lakkos. Our star had been rising, and there I was; bright, strong, quick-witted, fiercely competitive, gifted in speech, a gem in need of polish only. They told me I was destined to rule, and I was quite ready to tell everyone else the same. Greatness, glory, light, those were all I could see in my future, and I shone with promise.”

“Here, I must mention my friends: wild Clarissa, and dear, stern Alethea. Daughters of nobility both, I met them through the many, many training classes we attended to prepare us for our debuts in the Games. We were the same age, most of our days were spent together, then most of our free time afterwards, we got along so well. Clarissa and I were both from rather notable families, at the zenith of their power. Alethea, though, her family’s fortunes had been sinking, and she was their last shot at retaining what standing they had left. It was through her that we had our window into the world outside the palaces, of the terrible fate that awaited her should she fail to take home any prizes. The same fate that most of our citizens woke up to every day, without hope. We swore that we would all win - and thus save her from poverty - but I went one step further; I swore that we would put an end to the endless ‘wars’ that had inflicted such harm on our people. With all I had going for me, with how I was learning to break and mend hearts with nothing more than words, surely I could turn the hearts of all of Lakkos to peace?”

Here, she pauses. “You asked, when we first met, about where I first learned of the Glaive? Well, this is where I started. Amid the detritus that our family had claimed as treasure was a single, unspoiled scroll of wondrous martial forms. They detailed a style I had never seen before, one I could hardly believe was possible. Of course, it was years until I learned what grav-rails even were, but at the time, I thought I could surely master it, with enough effort. I spent all my spare hours in training, practicing, trying to get it right. I never quite managed to replicate it *exactly*, but I got rather close. Close enough to devise a form that no one on Lakkos had ever seen. I could say that inherent advantage was the reason why I picked it up but...no, that would be a lie. Because you’re right; there are other styles that could have given me similar results much quicker and easier.”

She nudged a grape around her plate, steering it expertly through the pile of produce without stopping. “I think...what ultimately drew me was the promise of the Glaive. There are things I can do in this style, openings I can create, victories I can achieve, that I can’t get anywhere else. All it takes is enough imagination, inspiration, and instinct. And that is how I wished to fight.” And perhaps she’d never told this story out loud, but the words slot into her heart so neatly that they couldn’t have been anything other than the truth.

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

Failure.

Funny, he’d been so worried about getting so many Captain-ly things wrong, when it was the quest itself he ought to have been looking out for. Not that he’d been careless with his life, it’s just. It’s not something you can really keep looking at if you’ve got to keep moving forward. If he’d never done anything dangerous, he’d still be in the Manor’s kitchen right now. Whole. Alive.

They’d told him so. Hadn’t they told him so? No good would come of a chef wandering from the fold. The mouse’s cries came through fuzzy but the Majordomo’s snarls were on his neck, heavier and louder than any bell. Reason! Order! The right thing, in the right way! So it was! So it always must be! He, the silly sheep, he thought, maybe, if he wore the Captain’s hat, maybe he could be a Captain, and not a chef, and never have to fear the consequences again. Silly him. Silly Dolce.

So quiet, about Lord Hades. No dogs barking there. Quiet, and still. Rest, at last.

No trouble, moving his hand now. Slowly, it rose, white against the black of Lord Hade’s perfect suit, save for, for a little glimmer of gold, ‘round his ring finger…

So I swear…

He stopped. Fingers hovering over Hades’.

“That...that so long as I draw breath…” He heard himself mumbling. “First of my loyalty. First of my heart. Never...never to leave…”

Whole? Alive? When had he ever felt that way in the Manor? Would he have ever left if he was so happy there? Why, his hours had been filled with nothing but books, and kitchens, and meals that no one ever ate, and long nights without rest wondering what was the matter with him. Hadn’t he prayed to Hera then too? Hadn’t she promised him an answer? And though she spoke in action, and not words, was it not the same answer she’d given him a few weeks ago? Then, his goal was to run, to leave, to live among the stars and have others taste his cooking every day. And now? Now?

“I’m, sorry, Lord Hades.” He draws back his hand, and gently curls his employer’s hand shut. “Not yet. There is. I think.” Still so tired. Still so hard to think, but, but, he couldn’t, just couldn’t stop now. “I want to make Redana’s dream real. I want ships where no-one is afraid. I.”

His vision blurs. With tears, and cigarette smoke.

“I want to talk to Vasilia. There’s, oh, there’s so much I need to tell her. We can’t, we can’t leave it like this, not any longer, please, we can’t...”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Snakes are just tiny dragons that never learned how to fly, breathe fire, or have legs. Kinda like little scaly puppies, except they might try to tie you up and/or eat you up if they get too feisty. And these ones? These ones are demonically feisty.

And still she finds time to snort at the silly maid. “What, you’d rather walk?” Her shoulders roll beneath you, and you could be forgiven for thinking she’d actually drop you. “Screw how this goes, this is what you’ve got. And I said.” She bares her teeth at the oncoming hoard. “I could do this all night!”

She clutches (muscles flexing beneath your fingers) the two of you tight (strong hand pressing into your stomach) and the ground cracks beneath her feet as she leaps (stomach-turning, up is down, hold onto her tight now) for a tree branch big enough for the three of you.

[Rolling to Defy Disaster with Daring: 5 + 2 + 2 = an oh-so-close 9. She takes an XP from Piri’s Help Me!!! Han will be risking Azazuka's safety.]

Breathless Dead

Most of a lioness emerges onto the rooftop to join the Furnace Knight. Gone is the bombastic style of a Captain, or even the regalia of a trusted lieutenant. She wears the garb provided by her host; lightly colored to reflect the heat, breezy in the wind, unrestricting for invalid and initiate alike. Without finery to hide behind, the weaknesses of her bloodline stand exposed in the sunlight. The base ingredients faded long ago, yet their legacy remains. Too muscular here. Too soft there. Claws sharp, but not sharp as they should be. She pads across the bare stone, too loud for the predator she might have been. Not enough herbivores in her family tree to still the rumbling in her stomach, as she arranges a platter of choice fruits to graze on. Why would snakes have fangs like that if they never wanted for meat?

It is one of the few harmless curiosities here. She savors it as much as the fruit.

Of her newfound wealth of knowledge, she has added a few more treasures: Wherever she finds him, the Furnace Knight always stands a little off-center, always leaving a little room for her to join him in his contemplations. He will not answer every question, but neither will he despise one, asked respectfully. Hades is not always present. Hades is never far. Neither are in a rush to explain themselves. With these jewels, she buys herself some comfortable distance from the uncomfortable possibilities of Lord Hades. She takes a spot beside her host, leaning against the battlements to take the weight off her blackened ankle. She picks over her meal. She takes in the worn-down island.

She knows she has to start somewhere.

“Why stay here?” She asks, into the silence. “Salib is a ruin. Everyone I’ve seen is either a slave to the past, or profiting from the former’s enslavement. There’s no desire to change themselves or the status quo. It has been this way, and it will be this way for a long, long time.” There is familiarity in her assessment. A little spite, yes. But a spite that can only come from someone who’s lived through the same hell, and knows its face well enough to despise the details. “Your home itself is isolated, I don’t take you for the type to get involved in the rest of high society without cause. So why are you bothering to stay around? Why an old island on the same planet, when you could live anywhere you like?”

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

A good servant carries out their work with silence and efficiency. The only sign of their passing should be a task completed to perfection. Come when called. Speak when spoken to. Disappear afterwards.

It is only natural that the chef should cry when there are none but the waiters to be disturbed by his sobbing.

All that is familiar is dead. His body is wrong, in ways he never knew it could be wrong. She stole the strength from his limbs. Nothing moves without pain. Some things move without asking. She stole the softness of his coat, and replaced it with empty holes and sticky iron. She stole the gentle bleat of his voice and all he has left are ragged cries. No way to breathe right. Burning. Sweating. Freezing. Cold. It’s so cold.

Hard to think straight. Hard to see any of it. It’s not possible. None of it’s possible. Despair, so deep and so total as to entrap completely, even with no one around to enforce it. How?! How can something so horrible be real? How can, how can so many live...how do they live? What, must it be…?

The waiter clutches her face beside him. She shakes. She heaves. She doesn’t see him. Doesn’t see the knife in his hand. Covered in, covered in, no, no, that’s not, it’s the knife. In his hand. Raising up. Knuckles white. Nothing left to color them.

*CLANG*

Piercing the slop. Ringing off the deck. Louder than his voice can manage. His hand falls. Catches her sleeve. Tugs. His eyes screw shut. The tears still leak out.

“I...I’m sorry…”

His breath comes in shallow gasps.

“I...knew it was bad...couldn’t...how much worse it was, for...you…”

Be herself. Be another. Somewhere in there, she would hear him. She, she had to hear him…

“I didn’t know...I’m sorry, I....I didn’t know….”

She had to know this wasn’t her fault.

[Pay a Price: Spending a Food for the ruined meal]

Breathless Dead

No, no Azura blood here, not unless my great great great grandparents had a secret they never told anyone.

Funny. All this time she'd been hunting for her past, and now that it's finally found her, the joke lies crouched behind her lips. Ready to spring forth and deflect away. But will it save her any hurt, in the end? Avoid a sting today, and suffer the knife tomorrow. If she even gets a tomorrow.

"It...is a rather long story, sir Knight. Perhaps we ought to move to someplace more-"

The floor rushes in. Her arms flail to catch her. Her arms stay still. Her arms are gone. Impact, in sight only. Stars burst in silence. Through the burning aftertrails, she sees herself lying flat on a floor that feels like nothing. In the distance, somewhere in the realm of ankles, a wisping tendril of smoke and flashes of sparks vanish into a fast-encroaching darkness.

Ah. I was wondering how I got out of that unscathed...

She remembers rising off the floor, limbs swaying weightless, before sight itself goes numb.

[Suffering damage from Bella’s Keep Them Busy. Damaging Courage. Paying a Price for Working Alone: Vasilia loses consciousness. When she awakes, she will not know where she is, and will be unable to return without the Furnace Knight’s help.]

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

His time limit enters, wrapped in delicate ribbons.

Does she see him? Does she care? Ask someone else. He has a mouse, and a small kitchen to attend to. “I see.” And he does. He hopes he does. “Before now, all I had to go off of was the Princess’ word, a scrap from Mynx, perhaps a hunch or two of my own. It wasn’t nearly enough. All this…” Fills in the gaps. Gives him the precious perspective of another pair of eyes. So much to consider. So much to weigh. And yet. “It was not kindness when she forced herself on my wife. Even now, I still don't know why she did it. I don't see any mercy in my death, the death of those I love, and the fate that awaits the Princess. For Bella...I don't know. I still don't know what I ought to make of her.”

“But. Thank you for your answer, all the same.”

The food is ready. Soups and pastas and more ready to be taken upstairs. One by one, he turns down the flames to a low simmer. No burning or boil-over for someone to clean up later. "I wish I had known you before tonight. There's...ah, there's no time. Everything's going wrong, and neither of us can fail. I know what happens when you don't do your job, but this time it's going to be so much worse, isn't it? For you, and for the one you follow. I wish, how I wish there was a way that we could both win. That my job and your job didn't have to be mutually exclusive. I know you don't love yours. You love her. As I love my wife, and all my friends too.”

"I wish you the best, miss. Whatever happens...I don't think this is enough for me to hate you."

There he folds his hands. There he waits. No sword in his hand, no clever scheme behind his back. He has given his answer. It is time for yours, Lantern.

You know where the ring is. You have all the power to seize it. All you will have to do is condemn your enemy to death. On the scales of life, you must judge that his is worth less than another's, for no reason other than you are standing on opposite sides of a fight neither of you started. He is not even giving you the excuse of a drawn sword. No resistance. The choice is yours, and the Lord Captain defers to you freely.

To take the ring, you must hate him enough to wish him dead.

What is your answer? What does Apollo teach of your enemies?

[Rolling to Finish Her with Wisdom: 1 + 2 + 1 = 4]

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

"Heh. Not bad."

Han folds her arms behind her head, casually strolling through the jungle undergrowth without breaking a sweat. Heaviest thing she’d ever lifted? Bigger than an ox, fully loaded? Yeah, hard to say, maybe Han couldn't beat that. Then again...

She grins, all teeth and boastful delight. "Ten of the Dominion’s finest. In full gear. And most of ‘em were still conscious"

...the Vermillion Beast sure could.

Amidst the chorus of whoops and hollers and no-way-you-didn'ts, her eyes flicked over the assembled group. Lit up by torches, tearing through the jungle, she stood on a tidal wave that’d been building ever since she arrived at Turtlehead, and now it was strong enough to topple an entire castle. That stupid Ven wouldn’t even know what hit her. So why is everyone being so quiet? Why do people keep looking around all nervous like they're afraid of the dark or something? What is with all of you? This wasn't right, and Han was going to fix it.

She rolls her shoulders. Cracks her neck. And waves for the retinue to hang back.

“One sec…”

Piripiri!

Good news! You don't have to walk anymore!

Someone catches you by the legs and hoists you up, and here it comes again, the slinging across a back, dogged by laughter as you squirm helplessly for all to see. Steel yourself. Play your role. Run through your litany of squeaks appropriate for an inexperienced maid. You are prepared for this ambush. You will endure the humiliation. They will not break you. Here it comes. Any second now. Anyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy second now.

...gosh, this sure is the slowest you've ever been slung over someone’s back. Maybe Azazuka knows what's going on, some kind of Flower Kingdom - wait, Azazuka?!

Sure enough, there she sits on Han's other shoulder - wait, other shoulder?!

Sure enough, you're not kidnapped at all. You're seated comfortably on Han's bare shoulder, her bare, muscular arm curled snug around your side, her bare hand resting on your stomach. Seated above the group, vines and branches lurch out of the darkness at you, but never so much as brush your hair. Han will not let them. She squats low under hazards without losing a step, without jostling either of you. No horse or elephant ever gave you so smooth a ride. No harness ever held you so surely or so...gently.

(Despite her perilous proximity to indecency, the hand stays still. Almost as if the thought of opportune wandering never even crossed her mind. But that'd be ridiculous. An unruly thug like her? So then why...?)

Here come the shouts from the rowdy bunch behind you, but they’re not aimed at you. They tell Han to go for it, keep up the pace, wagers of meals and drinks on how long she can carry the load. Han devours the encouragement whole and turns it into raw energy, whooping with the best of them and shouting back, "I can keep this up all night!" She meets your eyes as she says it, and you know it's as good as a promise. As long as necessary, she will carry you. Hold you. Lift you high and safe above the muck of the jungle, a treasure on par with Azazuka herself.

And when has anyone ever done so much for the fourth child, let alone a common, helpless maid? Without having a thing in it for them?

[Han rolls to Entice Piri: 6 + 5 - 1 = 10. Han takes a string, Piri chooses one from the list.]

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Alone With a Witch

Giriel? Is there a Giriel here? Ah, yes, good to see you, glad you could join us today. Please, take a seat. Would you like some water? Tea? Light refreshments? Thank you for stopping by on such short notice. We were just hoping to ask: What the hell?!

There is a script to this crap. Always has been. Han didn't write it, but somebody sure did, and it’s played out the same way every day of her life. See, she just did the part where she talks about doing something she knows you wouldn't approve of, with every intention of doing it no matter what you say. Now, this is a pretty loose scene here, and you have a lot of choices for what to do next. Maybe you tell her how stupid she is? That's a popular one. Or, if you're feeling less spiteful, you could always tell her that she can't actually do it, and things will go horribly wrong if she tries. Maybe with or without actually telling her that, and pretending she's not smart enough to read between the line. Then there’s grounding her, slapping her upside the head, shame upon her whole family, there's options! Loads of options!

None of those options involve hugs! What are you doing?! You're off script! She had all sorts of real great grunts and snarks ready to go, and now look. She's completely lost the plot. How’s she supposed to know what to do now?! She hears you, and she knows what those words mean, and she even knows what they mean in that order. Maybe not said to her, but still. Her mouth twitches, a big grin bulldozing all the confusion away.

"Heh. Yeah I did."

Okay, that's something. That's all the defiance and pride she been saving up, just, not directed at you. Or anyone. And, without anywhere for it to go, it settles right back down to her heart. A proud, sturdy fortress from which she can take on the whole world.

Just before you let go, her hand snakes up and gets a hold of your arm, and maybe she's not sure what she's doing, or what yo’re doing, but she gives it a little squeeze anyway. It feels right. Shut up.

And hey; she’s still got her second cup to share with you. She swirls it around, taking in the rich aroma, and a few more words sneak out of her before she can think to stop them. "It's....nice that someone appreciates it."

Don't you go asking for more, Giriel. You've worked enough tricky magic on her for one afternoon; let the poor girl enjoy her tea. Take the fruits of your meddling and be happy with that. Your little Han knows you're proud of her.

And if Giri - the coolest witch a girl could hope to know - thinks she's doing alright, well. Then it just might be true.

[Clearing Insecure]

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

And Then There Was Uusha

(Oh gods let it be true.)

The Han who sits before you all is a changed Han. No more the out of control, raging bonfire of passion, out to destroy her foes and everything that gets in her way. She reclines jauntily in her seat. She raises her cup to the Stag Knight in respect, when Giri motions to her. She is the coiled predator. The immovable mountain, ready to erupt in unquenchable fire. She is, unquestionably, extremely cool and knows exactly what she's doing.

"Name's Han." She adds after Giri says her piece. "I'm gonna go tear down Kingeater Castle once the damn rain lets up. Nice to meetcha" And she's so confident she'll win, she takes a long, slow sip of her cup of tea.

How's that, Stag Knight?

Breathless Dead

Ah.

Visalia bows at once in respect to one who is far, far, obliteratingly far above her present station. "I'm afraid you are at cross purposes, sir Knight. It would be exceptionally poor hospitality for you to remove my head."

Etiquette would demand that she leave it there, let the subtext speak for itself, and allow the one of higher rank to ask further. But etiquette had never been dragged through a choking cloud of chemical warfare, alone in an alien empire. Etiquette was also not staring down the barrel of an unknown sense of humor.

"My only teachers were a single scroll of katas, and my enemies. The former, I met long before I met a grav-rail. Whereas with the latter, I met the two simultaneously," she explains, without returning upright.

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

Dolce’s answer takes time, as pasta in boiling water takes time, or the one learning to boil the pasta takes time. When he speaks, he speaks to her, though his eyes grow distant, reflecting the clouds of steam.

“In the Starsong Privateers, it is the captain's duty to lead the song. The fleet commanders choose the set list, and the captains play the right songs at the right times. But. If they drive the percussion too hard, then the song does not play. If the singers lack the heart to sing from the depths of their souls, then the song does not play. If the instruments are at war with each other, each believing totally that their way is right, then the song does not play. If there are those who do not feel the music, or don't know the words, or simply can't tolerate a war song at full volume..." He gingerly rubs at his soft, floppy ears. "If the captain relies on them, then the song does not play."

“I have not met many good captains like you speak. I don't think they would lead very good songs.”

A salt shaker leaves the countertop. One of twenty drawers slides open and shut. The shaker returns, minus the weight of one ring.

“Which is not to assume that I lead any better. I have been lucky enough to watch some brilliant conductors, and to hear them speak to their work, but the real thing is far harder then it looks. I have no commander, nor other captains that I must stay synchronized with. I am on my own; the choice of song is ultimately mine.” And was it not so long ago that his most consequential decision was which drinks to serve with lunch? “I have a band of thousands, I know less than half of them by name, all while the concert is underway, and the song will play on with or without me. Perhaps if I were a different sort of a good captain, I would find this all a lot easier. But, perhaps, that would just makes other parts much, much more difficult.” He blinks. He turns his head. He looks down, dipping in a small bow. “May I look to your wisdom, then, as one so close to Apollo?”

Your real work. For whose love you put up with all other tasks.

“Does Apollo teach kindness and virtue to your allies, and cruelty and spite to your enemies?”

Breathless Dead

Really? Really.

No, no. Makes all the sense in the world. Set up a smokescreen to stun the beast and trust your officer is capable of extricate themselves. After all, the only thing that matters here is that the princess remains unharmed and unbothered. Absolutely paramount. You've got to have the right sort of mindset for this work. It's to Redana’s advantage that she can set aside such sentimentality in the heat of the moment. Lucky her, to work under such a marvelous princess.

The stinging gas billows thick around her; the rest of her tactical assessment would have to wait. Without a word she slips off her perch and floats down to the chaos below. Her weapon is already in her hand. She has nothing to reach out for. With such blessed freedom, she can spare a hand to glide a hair's breadth from the wall as she smoothly falls. If she's granted a warning, at least she can push herself away from instant death.

She holds tight to that vigilance as her vision burns and the room dissolves into muffled cries. Falling, falling, draped in a chemical cloak, she falls yet further down...

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

Dolce offers no resistance as she takes the nearly-empty pot from him. A disturbance might spill some, and even a stain in the servant’s corridors is a stain on the palace. “Ah. I understand. I was far hastier then I should have been, and I've given the impression of insult. Believe me, it was not my intention. Only a short while ago I was a chef, and not a captain, and it would be terribly unfair to assume you knew.” But assume she did. Quite a few assumptions, really. “The change was not just my decision, nor was it particularly simple. Though I did have to choose to take up the role in the end, a good Captain thinks to their duty, not standing.” Unlike the implications that certain individuals had just made.

“But I would not forget the work of the waiters so easily.”

He offers no objection to pot or behavior. His smile is true, as true as lamplight, without a hint of mockery. Not even with a certain ring now dangling precariously from a little horn. “Come, let us go to the kitchens together; the soup must take a precise dash of seasonings before it is brought back.” No, not even taking the opportunity to excuse himself as she continues the work she willingly took on. His steps, too, are true. “I wish I had known we would have such dedicated waiters today. It is not every day one gets the chance to work alongside someone who loves their work so.”

And how can the praise, the curiosity, be anything less than true, too?

[Rolling to Speak Softly: 6 + 5 + 1 = 12. Why does Jill carry such courage and commitment to Bella? Bella, who does such awful things?]

Breathless Dead

Nothing quite so refreshing as flying helplessly through the air to be maimed or murdered.

No exit to furiously search for while staying steps ahead of her doom. No form-fitting dresses to creep into her awareness and incite washes of shame on reflex. No good that a blessed pistol might do, if only she could find the target to aim for. The world reduced down to the question of what a flying lioness will do with the moments she has left. For the first time this fight, since she landed on this planet, she's

empty again

The glaive leaves her hand. The guards raise their shields. And the glaive raises the guards, a sudden well of gravity dragging them up in the weapon's path and out of the way of hers. The throw’s momentum sends her corkscrewing, and she will not waste it. One hands strikes the floor. One hand taps her belt. No plume of smoke marks her passage and yet she rockets to the ceiling, past guards, past glaive, no weight to stop her ascent.

No weight, that is, save for an astronomically attractive glaive.

The ceiling filling her vision, she slows. She stops. She falls, into an orbit circling her blade, tighter and tighter until she lays hand on it. There it freezes. There about she swings. And the two land upon on an ornamental outcropping not yet blasted by the storm.

There, she stops. There she breathes. There, she watches, for the split-second warning she will have before you strike again. She is here, because for the first time in her life she was looking for the path that did not end in blood. Hers, or another's. And not even lightning can blind her eyes.

If she wasn't doomed, she might consider that a victory. If Redana could direct an ounce of care to her plight, she might consider celebrating. Lucky for her, she'd grown so accustomed to disappointment, she hardly felt a thing.

[Rolling to Overcome: 6 + 3 + 1 = 10. Paying a Price by erasing Vasilia’s bond with Redana.]

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

Dolce inclines his head to the mouse, his Captain’s hat remaining undoffed thanks only to the near-empty pot he juggled with both hands. ”I'm terribly sorry for startling you. But I’ve volunteered to cook for the assembly today, and we’ve run out of soup, and I must return to the kitchens to fetch some more.”

Of course he must use the servant’s corridors to restock. What if he ran into a dignitary and splattered their carefully blue robes? Unthinkable disaster, far too perilous to risk, and both of them know it.

“Please, accept my apologies for intruding unannounced upon your corridors.” The pot shifts suddenly, and he might have splashed her spotless robes but for the skill of his hands. Not a drop spills on her or the floors. Not even when his hand darted to her sleeve, and a ring vanished into his coat. “I won’t be in your way at all.”