TheAmishPirate

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

She got distracted.

She got distracted by the kidnapper, and could not save Melody from this terror. She should never sound like this. It is not right.

And she will burn the world until it is so.

She reaches a claw behind over her shoulder. Her sword flows off her back, sparks flying between blade and ridge, and as she takes hold it flashes to its full might. Keen of edge. Unbreakable, even with her might. Holding her as tightly as she holds it.

Before her are two identical demons. But of the two of them, one of them has hold of Melody. And so, it is no decision at all.

Down she falls. Down, leaping from the falling rain of Kingeater castle, a jagged, blurring missile, and at the last step she turns on the width of a reed and her blade howls at the speed of her strike. Through coat, through carapace, through wrongness beneath, they are all damp paper. The demon’s rantings turn to enraged screaming. A dozen arms, thick as tree trunks, descend upon her. A dozen arms fall severed. She does not slow a step.

One. One arm reaches through the rain of its brothers. One arm gets close enough to touch her. She catches it - no, she punches it with her own free fist. Her scales are undented. The Generals’ knuckles are bruised. But she slows, just a step. An opening. One becomes many. From all directions, the unholy things grasp at her, to bury her twice and for good.

And all of them burn.

Hotter. Hotter. Hotter! Until the air melts around her! Until she turns from vermillion to blazing white! Until her scales cry out, straining to contain a sun! Until every leap and lunge is an explosion pushing faster, faster than the infinite arms of Hell’s own General! See them languish in her wake! See them turn to ash and recoil in twitching agony! See the blazing comet circle the general, and if your eyes are not equal to the task then follow the trail of burning gashes up his body! Up and up, tighter and tighter, and for a moment she is a roaring halo above his head, bathing all of Hell in her light!

The whip cracks.

The lightning falls.

A hammer-blow of the heavens, condensed into a single stroke, pushes back the eternal clouds of Hell. And in the light of that baleful sun, a General is made to kneel.

A silken rope falls from his hands, and the blade of Heaven takes it in her claw. A snap of the wrist. One last, dizzying twirl. Melody is safe, bundled up, and clutched tightly to her still-warm scales.

The world is made right again.

[Rolling to Fight: 2 + 4 + 2 = 8. Marking Frightened to pick another option with Ferocious:
-Inflict a Condition
-Take something from him (Melody)
-Create an opportunity for an ally (Fengye, for only an imposter would kneel so easily)]

Breathless Dead

He sits upright, today. His wool curls marvelously, all creamy softness and no memory of blood. Vasilia wasted no time in cleaning him up properly. She’s laid out charts and papers before him, close at hand, and he’s made a valiant dent in the pile today. There will always be some matters easily resolved.

Alexa’s arrival heralds the start of a much-needed break, for the answer of 'when you are ready for tea' is a resounding 'five minutes ago.' Do not take it for an insult, She of No Arms, when the infirm Captain unscrews the thermos and pours a perfect cup without spilling a drop. He takes but a little sip, enough to warm his belly, and curls up with the cup hugged in both hands.

It is here, where you ask your question. As heart and body warm, and troubles are naturally coaxed free.

“...it is odd, being Captain.” He stares at his own reflection in the cup. “Everyone looks to you for direction, so naturally, I assumed the job would come with a great deal of scrutiny. And, it has, yes, it very much has. And yet, when I ordered a pursuit, no one noticed I gave no instructions for when we catch up.”

Sitting here, you can see the papers more clearly now. Trajectory through the warp. Estimations of relative speed. Interior of the Plousious, as best as could be remembered. Notes, in tiny, scrawling hands, of intel overheard from duct and shadow. Compiled into a rough list of opposition: A Master of Assassins. A number of Kaeri warriors.

A single name, accompanied by a question mark.

“I keep expecting someone to come in at any moment, and ask for me to fill in the gap. I’ll have to, soon. But I hope they give me a while longer. Not because I’m trying to stall, no. I know there’s no one else but me to make this decision, or else why have a Captain? There’s just, oh, there’s so much to consider, and every bit, I have to go over with a fine-toothed comb, and wonder if I’m just seeing what I want to instead of what’s right.”

Dolce heaves a miserable sigh, and slumps his shoulders, and the motion upsets a delicate equilibrium of documents. A star chart slides aside. A freeform, sprawling list, written in his own hand, sits ready beneath it. His eyes draw to it. They cannot help it. It is where they rest, when there is nothing else. When there is not something more pressing to hide it.

“I’ve also been, trying, to record things. Whenever I can, when they come to me. It’s not - it doesn't work if I try to, it’s like there’s a great cloud over those minutes, and only, sometimes, I see something, and it’ll remind me, and then. I write. As best as I can. It’s not for the mission, really, but.”

He shrinks around his cup of tea.

“I don’t know if I can remember it all. I think that might be a little horrible of me.”

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

“Apart from the odd laugh, and the air of mystery, I thought there was no use for the past. That the sooner I could be rid of it, the better.” Vasilia takes the vacant spot on the rail beside her, and the opportunity to continue. “But without it, what then is your present? How do you find a future? With no foundation to build on, you simply…are. And such you will remain.”

She watches the stars in vain. Her eye finds the blazing trail for a moment, before it is lost in a sea of its fellows, and all is blinding, intoxicating swirls of color. She stares. She follows. She blinks, again.

“In case you’ve misplaced your present, dear Alexa.” An impish smile tugs at her lips. “Currently, you are on a ship, hurtling towards your father, after winning the respect and honor of the forces he himself raised up, puzzling out how to subvert his every command to you, in hopes of discovering how to 'rescue' him away forever so he will do no harm to himself or others.”

“Is that really how the old bastard raised you?”

Breathless Dead

He’d seemed smaller than she’d ever remembered. A pale, wispy thing, held in place by heavy blankets, or else he would surely dissipate at the slightest breeze. Perhaps the king-sized bed didn’t help matters, but! But! See the bandages! See his wearied, labored breaths! Didn’t he need this kind of care? Dear Dolce. Dear heart. Forgive her. Forgive her.

So she was caught off-guard when the woolen lump leapt to her arms hard enough to make her stumble. And when her shocked, laughing introduction was so rudely interrupted by overjoyed kisses. And, she couldn’t recall if she pushed him down, or those tiny arms pulled her in, but she did distinctly recall a whiff of cigarette smoke as her mind turned to deeper concerns. A week was a long time, after all. They had a litany of kisses to perform.

For greeting, for surprise, for dispelling worries both real and imagined, for every night of absence, double for every lonely morning, for indignation at now, of all times, to be so full of cheek, and you must be quiet now or else, for the way you speak when you must finish your thoughts even when you are melting to uselessness, for the love of your wool, for the love of your fur, for love, and always for love. And when they’ve both lost their breath, they cannot be close to halfway done. She clutches him tight to her chest, and presses fond, lingering kisses to his forehead whenever she thinks of him absent, and he pecks at her cheeks with contended little bleats whenever he thinks of a world without her.

“I thought-”

“Shhhhhhhhh. Shhhhh, darling. No more thinking. Not tonight.”

“I’m allowed a little thinking. Captains have to think”

Unassailable logic. She yielded the point, but it cost him dearly in nibbled ears.

“I thought I might never see you again. And. Now, I think I know what to say. What I should have said, but I didn’t know how to say it. That I even needed to say it.” He does not name the time. He does not have to. They are in her ship, after all. The space is theirs, the light is theirs, the warmth and the safety is all of their own making, but it remains her ship.

“Ah.” She adjusts. Her arms close tighter. “Is it…?”

“It may not all be pleasant. But. I think, we ought to go over it, all the same. For us.”

For us.

Could she have imagined him tackling so directly that which he’d evaded and excused before? Just how had her little chef - no, her little Captain spent this week?

“Yes. Yes, I know, darling. I. There are some stories I must tell you as well. Old, old stories.” She hears him gasp. “Stories that I should have told you long, long ago.”

“...but not tonight.”

“Not tonight.” She lifted his chin, and marveled that such a face could be his. Could be hers.

“Not tonight…”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Punishment is simple.

Her demonic attendant will be taken from her. They will be beaten. If she draws her sword, they will be beaten. If she tries to take her back, they will be beaten. If she admits where Melody is, they will be beaten.

No complaining now, kidnapper. It's only fair.

[Rolling to Fight Kalaya: 6 + 4 + 2 = 12. Choosing:
-Inflict a Condition on Kalaya with violence
-Take something from Kalaya (her veil, revealing her identity)
-Gain a String on Kalaya]

Breathless Dead

For the greater majority of his life, the world consisted of a single household. Everyone else was simply theory. His heart was too big for such surroundings, and so he filled it with adventures, comrades, worlds, friends, and even a wife. He was not blessed with eyes of the divine, but then again, most sheep weren’t. With what sight he had, he gathered up these precious things, and held them close.

Now, the visions of a god pours into him. And no divine insight to help him make sense of it all.

To know. To know the people, the places, the homes, all as real and living as him. All gone. Through no fault of their own. With nothing they could do to stop it. It is a horror too great to fit in a single household.

So his heart bursts. Shatters into dust. And still, the visions keep pouring in. Still, he looks, he must look, at each vision, before it is lost. They were here. And they’re gone. He knows. He must remember. He carries them now. Another. The next. No more. Stop. Why. Don’t look away. Don’t forget. He can’t. No. No. No no no no no no no nono no no non o

Trapped within his own mind, Dolce drowns. The business of his body must go on without him.

[Damaging Courage. Paying a price for working alone: Dolce is stunned, unable to act in whatever happens next.]

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

Her face turns to the sea. Her eyes fall to the ground.

“I am tired, sir Knight. The years are long, even in the telling. Let me rest, and I will give you my answer after.”

For the rest of that first day, the ancient castle held her fast within its walls, and permitted her nothing. It shepherds her into an ancient library, well-maintained, with high windows to welcome the sunlight and permit the breeze. Among the jewels of a civilization, she hobbles straight for a laughably thin novel. By the end of the first chapter, she knew the entire story. By the end of the last chapter, she’s had to move twice to follow a tantalizing sunbeam.

The castle brings her to a high rooftop, the village stretching out below her in its entirety. Her hands found paper and pencil, and idly she translated its criss-crossing roads to sketchy lines. She follows the paths by which the town must have grown, in times long past, out from the castle it was placed to serve. And when her thoughts grow sluggish and the bounds of her ability draws near, her host provides a plate of soft cheese and bread. Sit. Eat. The view will not go anywhere, and neither will she.

As night fell, and her path took her back to her bed, she passes a room full of instruments. Entertainments, for a time when musicians might live in employ here, to delight the heart of their patron with their talents. But her eye fell on a guitar, too worn and weathered to ever appear before the Furnace Knight, whose purpose was only to serve as practice for better tools. This, she took with her. In the safety of her room, her fingers slowly remember a dance practiced too rarely. The empty halls of the guest wing fill with the plinking of strings, gradually restored to rightful tuning. Notes, without music.

Far more than she’d thought she’d have.

*******

On the second day, her sentence is lightened; no more confinement. For the first time, she walks the beaches unaided, paws sinking into delightfully warm sand. She sets out with a packed lunch, and no destination. Her wanderings take her through the village paths she’d sketched, to squares that had once been alive and thriving, the intersection of a hundred lives she’d never known. The paintings of a Path-lost artist guide her, murals spanning entire blocks and twisting around houses and onto rooftops. Over the hills, through brilliant patches of flower, and up to where a tall, tall tree stood sentry over a glittering, inviting cape. Who was she to refuse?

An outcropping of rock serves as a diving board. In a graceful leap, she arcs into the sea, cutting through the water with steady, practiced strokes. She propels herself ever-onward, even as waves seek to push her back, fight her passage, tire her out. It will have her, in the end. It is too great a foe, and even those with gills must rest eventually. But inside she burns, and her muscles burn, and she glides ever-onward, and none of this was possible yesterday.

On her return to shore, she climbs up, up to the boughs, to take in her opponent, to take a well-earned lunch, to take a nap in the sun. To wake, and see the island all about her, and the stars blinking in one by one. Worlds she’d seen. Worlds she could see. Nothing between her and them but time and space.

The guest wing flooded with experimentation, that night. A freeform drifting of songs, plucked half-remembered from her mind, and blended with the sensibilities of her heart. Songs that were not hers. Songs she had no right to. But songs she could play, and return to, all the same.

*******

On the third day, she watches.

She watches the horizon. Clouds drift as only clouds can, yet their ways are as unique as Salib. Vibrant colors, peeking over the oceans, carrying on paths she cannot see. Flashes, where some dense congregations collect, and a shimmering haze falls beneath them, playing a percussion she cannot hear. Spherical Azura ships dart through the Skies, a constant glittering accompaniment. No shine of Engines, only the distant impressions of embellishment and pride. Always they fly, carrying on business she cannot know.

She watches the Glaive. It rests where she laid it; leaning against a stand meant to display, as a trophy. As a memory. It has not moved for days. No one has disturbed its rest. They are alone, the two of them. She studies the weapon, as if her hands could not trace the shape of it. As if her arms could not recall its weight, its balance. Leave nothing for granted. Gaze upon your partner, with eyes refreshed and new. See what secrets lie hidden, if she only had taken the time to see them.

But the Glaive is silent.

She watches the Furnace Knight, and not for the first time. He works his ancient body through a routine both ingrained in stone and always-evolving to the day’s needs. Stretching, practice forms, recovery, strikes, techniques, all blend together in a free-flowing symphony of motion, that nevertheless hides its most precious secrets from his attentive audience. The invitation stands, that she may join him. But so does a question, and so she stands apart.

That night, her songs are soft. Her songs are sweet. One by one, she plucks them out, and she plays until she cannot sing for weeping. She falls asleep clutching at her chest, as if she could pull emptiness itself out and toss it aside forever.

*******

On the fourth day, she steals away from the great house, taking her guitar with her. She tells no one, crosses paths with no one, and finds a quiet field of vibrant vegetation to play her songs to.

The Furnace Knight finds her anyway. Gracious host that he is, he slips into the audience without disturbing her song, and as the last notes fade, he patiently awaits the next one.

For a breath, all is quiet.

“You may have never crossed paths with the Starsong.” Her fingers work a low, thoughtful backing. “They are a more recent addition to the universe. Life, born from the drecks of humanity’s fall. Rarely do more than a handful come from the same world, the same lives, and yet. All are united in a common cause. All have felt a brokenness, and now work to set it right. Whether it be by the folly of the Empire, or something far worse still, they see a universe that has lost its song, and dearly needs music again.”

Her song grew loud, but not loud enough to completely swallow up her soft sigh. “Idiots…I don’t know what the universe needs, sir Knight. I hardly know what I need. But what I want?”

Her fingers slowed, and lay still. Her song faded to silence. It has been days, and she is tired. So tired.

“I just…I don’t want any more people to be chewed up in the wars of the wicked. And…I want to be someone, who could bring that about without completely ruining it. That, sir Knight, is my wish.”

“Those I’ve tried to love. Those I’ve…” Her fingers run through some thoughtless notes. To hide her crumbling voice. “Well. They don’t deserve any less than that.”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

You, who have trucked with failures; behold victory.

Her hide glitters, the first of her namesakes, proof against weapons mortal, and demonic. Would the gods have entrusted the world to that which could not stand against hell? But you do not have room to stare. You do not dare avert your gaze. Hunched over, nearly on all fours, yet her long nose all but brushes yours. She bares rows and rows of glistening fangs. Her snarl could tear mountains to rubble, were she to unleash it in full. The air is fire, her eyes are fire, save where they are split by an endless blackness that threatens to swallow you whole.

Do you see the antlers, flowing from her head, save where they fork and split like lightning? Do you see her tail, flowing long from her body, swaying hypnotizingly slow? The only time you will see it, before it strikes? Can you bear the sight of her blade, weaving sinuously down the ridges of her back, waiting for its master’s hand to spring to life? A thirsting thing of scale and fang, once grasped, not to return until it has drunk its fill of victory?

And you thought to defy her, liar? Kidnapper?! Poisoner of her lands!?!

Yet the gravest insult of all; the wind answers for you. In deafening hiss and eternal hail, it hides you away and cries fight me! Fight me! How can you fight me, o glory of heaven?

The wind, make a demand of her?

The wind must learn its place.

An ocean stirs. Raging flows of Essence swirl through her. Embers fly from arrows deflecting off her hide. Faster and faster, more and more, flowing down the length of her tail, a secret weapon of the dragons.

(It is a secret weapon the same way a fever is a secret defense. A wager, that this will hurt you far more than it hurts me. A body takes in so much Essence, that no weapon or being can approach without first passing through fire. Teachers of the flows often let their students stumble into this art on their own, that they may experience firsthand the dizzying, burning reasons why only the desperate or foolish would try it in battle.

These rules, like many others, do not apply to dragons.)

She spins, her tail striking like lighting, and a crack of thunder sends torrents of burning air down the hallway. Arrows in flight burn, melt, shrivel to useless nothing, and it is all the opening she needs. Four claws shred stone and climbing! Leaping! Catching the air and hurling herself ever forward! Wall, floor, ceiling, it makes no difference. All are hers. All will serve. A feral mass of scales and violence tears after the kidnapper, and the wind feebly strikes at her wake.

Pathetic. How can the wind fight a dragon?

[Rolling to Defy Disaster with Daring: 4 + 3 + 2 = 9. The Vermilion Beast will sacrifice the appearance of control.]

Breathless Dead

He had rather hoped his other duties would have waited a little, and perhaps come at him in an orderly fashion. Not all at once. Not now. Not with her.

But. He did say he would watch her back first. He did offer her the lead. And she’d let him. She’d let him.

“Go!” The power of the divine, the battle of armies, bat his voice from the air as soon as it leaves his throat, but she will hear him. She will hear him. “I’ve got your exit!”

Go, brave mouse. Your wish awaits. And if the dark closes in around you, do not throw your life away in despair. Turn around. See the light, marking the path home.

He will be waiting for you.

[Dolce is certain something’s wrong here, and Has a Bad Feeling About This: What’s the safest escape route? What’s the quickest escape route?]

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

Vasilia stared at the empty space where a god once stood. Fury and sorrow alike stinging her eyes.

“Oh. Brilliant." She mutters. "At least it’ll be a short future of survival and hurt. With a finale ripped straight from the worst day of my life. Wonderful! What a prize to look forward to. It’s a good thing all those years of agony were finally worth something. Can you imagine? If it all just ended with! With!”

The old battlements wailed in anguish, as her claws slowly dug grooves into the stone.

“As if I needed you to tell me I'm destined for failure. Read the bloody room next time, you miserable skeleton."

Breathless Dead

“If it’s a matter of wishes…”

The enormity of the task before him is....well, he’s more than enough to disqualify her wish right now. Where is his crew? His ship? Where is the enemy? What is their plan? Where is Vasilia? Is she safe? And him, with barely enough blood left to realize how outmatched he is. But all of that would have to come later.

His hand rises, and finds an open drawer. Slide it out, out, out, until it can move no more. One hand grips it tightly. The other pushes hard against the floor. His head explodes in stars and darkness, but, he isn’t swallowed up. Not yet. Not if he rises slowly. Stops. Catches his breath. Repeat. Rising higher, from drawer, to countertop. A mercy, that his hooves find enough purchase to keep from sliding out from under him. Hand over hand. Hoof over hoof. Stumbling through a space half-remembered, and a darkness about his eyes.

Following a brave little light that would not go out.

“In the short term...I wish I could watch your back.”

The rest, he can work on after.

“My name’s Dolce. It's a pleasure to meet you.”

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

The robes protect her. She is wrapped in finery too good for a simple guest. It brushes soft against her, fends off the ocean breezes, neither too warm nor too chilled. So why does her fur grow damp with sweat? Why do her arms shiver, no matter how tightly she hugs herself? Why does the wind rip straight through the fabric, through a gaping hole in her chest, scourging her heart with salt and emptiness? Why? Why?!

“...you’re getting ahead of things, sir Knight.” She shakes her head, and pushes the kindness an arm’s length away. “The end’s only just begun.”

“My first speech of the day, my first act of repentance, I delivered to the vast assembly of my household. Hundreds upon hundreds, packed into my family’s Great Hall. I spoke of a life away from this wretched planet. Of a future filled with hope, where whatever else may happen we would live and breathe as free creatures, free from the chains that hung so heavy around Lakkos. No more to fight the wars of wicked schemers, but to fight for ourselves, and a brighter tomorrow. And when the final echoes of my oratory crescendo faded from the assembly, they gave their answer in stunned silences, broken only by whispers they would not dare speak to my face.”

“I left Alethea behind, to speak with any who lacked the courage to address me directly. She later told me, under protest, and at my own insistence, that those who did speak with her wished only for the perspective that my right hand could offer. Was I truly so stupid, to think that they would believe the same old pack of lies? When could they resign, without falling prey to what was surely a twisted test of loyalty and adoration? Would she lie for them, and say they were moved by my words?”

“In the end, Alethea would be the only one to join me. But. Before that. I had a sacrifice to make.”

“Given the Thunderer’s favor in my ascent, one of my earliest projects had been to secure a safe, private passage to Zeus’ temple, that I could more easily make offerings for my continued success. Here, at the last, that passage granted me secrecy amidst the chaos of Lakkos’ muster. No one would pass me on the street, and wonder why I was not in my Plover, en route to battle. I arrived to find the temple mercifully empty; all the other Senators had made their offerings while I had anguished in my deliberations. Everyone else had already gone, tripping over themselves to prove their merit on the field of battle, and gain privilege over the spoils. I had no time to waste on second-guessing. I had to be swift, if I was to make my rescue in time.”

“And yet, when I finished my prayers, and saw Clarissa standing in the entrance to the temple, I stopped. She asked me what I was doing there, urged me to go with her, assured me that we could still make it, together. And I answered her.”

“My second speech of the day. I could not remember the last time I’d spoken so. The words flowed from my heart without thinking, without planning. I felt the radiance of Zeus herself upon my shoulders, in the command of my voice, better than in any performance I’d put on. Years, actual years of never knowing what to say to her, gone in an instant. It’s now, Clarissa. Our time is now. No more wasting away here. No more dancing to the tune of wicked, heartless monsters. We could get out of here, together, and never ever look back. The wonders we would see! The adventures we could have! The things we could do, together! This was our chance, our only chance, and we may never get another one. We may never have another day like today, so, so please, Clarissa. Please! Come with me!”

“I thought...I thought the mantle of Zeus was on me so powerfully, that she didn’t recognize me anymore. My words had pierced her into awestruck silence, surely.”

“She asked me if I’d lost my damn mind.”

“Leave? I wanted to leave? I wanted to give up everything we’d ever worked for, just to run around the stars like, like some kind of space vagrant? Like a peasant? Come on, Vas. I would be dead to everyone if I did this. That’s it, game over, done. So would I just knock it off already? You can’t fight everyone on the planet! That’s all you’ve ever done! Picking fights you’ve got no way of winning, all because your public will hate you if you don’t. Well, look where that’s got you! They all hate you anyway! They’ve hated you for ages! How do I know that? Because it was so easy to get them to turn on you!”

“All I did was give them a little push, so you’d finally quit letting them push you around. I didn’t have to do much; they just, you know, needed permission to say how they truly felt. Don’t you see? You don’t have to keep fighting for them, Vas. I’m here. I’ve always been here, except you were too busy fighting everyone else to see it! So. Are you finally going to give this up? Or. Or…”

Nothingness. A gap in the record. A hitch in her breath. “I...don’t remember what she said after that. I can’t, remember it clearly, after she drew her spear. I remember I kept trying. To talk her out of it. Even when I had to draw my own glaive to defend myself, I kept trying. But my best words had already failed. What else did I have? Maybe, I thought, so long as I could keep trying to talk her down I could…I could forget that Clarissa had not once matched my medal count. I could ignore my instincts, telling me that she would keep coming after me, so long as she was conscious and capable. If I just, if I just shut my eyes, kept them closed a little longer, I could pretend I’d never seen the path to victory, and another one would reveal itself, but...but time. Time was never on my side. The battle was already underway, and every moment I stayed could cost the Starsong everything, I couldn’t afford to delay, I had to end it quickly and. And.”

The impact. The spray. The gasp.

“I created my opening, and ended it in one strike.” Echoing. Still echoing. Drowning out her own voice. “I didn’t even have time to wait and see if I’d killed her.”

“Because. Because I knew. Bloody and sobbing, stumbling down the steps of the temple, I knew. If I stopped now, it was all for nothing. Everything. The Starsong would be overwhelmed. The citizenry punished. I would face death or imprisonment. Clarissa…” No. No. No more. No. No. No. No. “So. I kept going.”

“After that, the fight itself was. Rather anticlimactic, I suppose. Or maybe I was too numb to tell. The Senators were not prepared for a sudden attack from the rear, and in the first moments I crippled too many of their power couplings. They eventually overwhelmed my plover, but they paid tenfold for it. Not counting the last one I destroyed on foot. Zeus was. Thorough, in her blessing. With the forces of Lakkos scattered, Alethea carried my battered body to the Starsong, but I’m afraid it was already too late.”

See now your guest in the Underworld. See the light recoil from her eyes. See the hollow in her chest, carved out by a lifetime of mistakes and weakness, which no mortal can endure and yet live.

“I died that day, sir Knight. The little girl who dreamed of forging peace with her beautiful voice is no more. I don’t know what creature they took out of Lakkos, and I’ve spent every day since wondering at the answer. I have lived like a lightning bolt, forever in the present, without a past, and no dreams for the future. I have done little else but hurt people, and a growing number of them didn’t deserve it.”

“That is the failure of my first life. A disaster I’ve not been able to stop, not even…” Her fist tightens, until the golden band digs red agony into her fingers. “Not even when I’ve had great reason to. All I’ve learned is how to be stubborn enough to keep living. And I’d hoped-” As if she had any right to. “I’d hoped finally owning my past would bring me more than a future of survival and hurt.”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Choice? What choice?

She is the strongest. She can hear Melody in danger. No one is going to stop her.

No one can stop her.

Every day she wakes to a voice in her heart, and every night she falls asleep to its truth. Some days it whispers. Some days it shouts. Now it bursts beyond her heart. All plans. All strength. All doubts. There is no part of Han that does not howl

the world is wrong, and I will burn it right.

A bottomless well opens, and essence pours down its insatiable depths. Never stopping, always hungering, only ever more, more. More than a body can hold. More than her body can hold. Waves of heat and power pour off her, essence releasing where it can hold no longer. A blazing star, a molten girl, drops to her knees. And from that blinding light erupts claws, scales, antlers, tail-!

A roar splits the light.

Paper burns to ash.

Pride crumbles to primal fear.

The air moves aside too slowly, and shatters before her in brilliant flame.

The Vermilion Beast of Lanterns comes. Flee for your lives.

[Han’s Feral jumps to 4. Han is Transformed. Rolling +Daring: 4 + 3 + 2 = 9. She can move in ways no ordinary person can]

Breathless Dead

All things considered, it’s not a good idea. The Ikarani must know he survived, and will have contingencies in place to finish him off. If she goes wandering, instead of staying put, she will almost certainly get caught up in the first disaster she comes across, and likely will not survive the encounter. None of this is wisdom. Apollo would not tell her to do any of this.

And on some level? She has to know it too. The fear that she’s spent her entire life breathing in now hangs thick around her, so thick she can hardly breathe, much less see, but somewhere in her heart she must know all this to be true. So what good would it do him to tell her it too?

Instead, he lies back. Closes his eyes. Gathers up what little strength he has, and uses it to carry his weak, stumbling voice all the way to her. Through the fear, and through the pain. Let her hear him just one, last time.

“The princess…wants to sail to Gaia.”

“We’re going to have to cross the Rift. I don’t know how we’re going to manage it. Just looking at it…it terrifies me. Even if we get past it, there are only stories of what lies on the other side of the universe. It will be to the gods if we find Gaia at all. But if we do? If we deliver what Lord Hades entrusted to us? Each of us, four of us, will be granted a wish. The princess wishes for a world where her mother steps down peacefully. She wishes for a world where the stars will be open to all. And the Empire of today will just be a bad memory.”

“Bella…I don’t know what Bella wants, exactly. But the ones Bella works for, they want to kill the Princess. They will then, most likely, organize a coup against the Empress, bringing forth whatever allies and plans they have had lying in wait for just such an occasion. But when the dust settles, they wish to sit on the throne, with no one to challenge them ever again. The Empire of today will be no more. And, I think a new Empire, born of blood and silence, will take its place.”

“Both sound at least a little impossible to me.” And yet, a chef had become a Captain, so perhaps that wasn’t as large a barrier as advertised. “So what impossible do you want, miss?”

[Rolling to Talk Sense with Wisdom: 6 + 6 + 1 = 13]

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

This distraction is less enjoyable. Perhaps it is the point of the lesson. She will not think it so until later, if she ever does.

At once she is hackles and pinned ears, hissing and surging adrenaline. Her glaive whistles through the open air. Her fangs find no targets. Still she swings. Still she bites. Still she strains for some scrap of control as strength, overwhelming strength entraps her. She is pulled apart. She is crushed. She cannot breathe. Not like this! Not like this!

She is on her back, gasping for air. The Furnace Knight lands, well out of reach, completely untouched. He waits patiently for her to flex her fingers, to feel her arm moving under her own power again. To peel the glaive from a white-knuckle grip, one finger at a time. To rise, to return to the Underworld from someplace much worse. Then does he continue, in a slow and measured tone, free of threat and abounding in calm. There is the sky. There is the sun. There is his voice. None are going anywhere. Breathe, student.

She finds deep breaths filling her lungs. She finds nerves abating, retreating to an uncomfortable buzz that threatens to squeeze her chest tight again. She finds a voice, pulled taut and words nocked, and only by slow, steady strain can they be removed without violence. “I would appreciate. A warning, if that is going to happen again.” She shivers. She needs a drink. She won’t drink again. She takes her seat, and it is something she can do, and something she needs, and it is a start. She has to start somewhere.

“You’re right. Of course.” And she settles back into the comforting embrace of the storyteller. “I was a young, headstrong, fool of a girl wearing a Senator’s robes. I knew stagecraft, I knew fighting, I knew diplomacy, but I knew nothing of the long game of politics. Where all my opponents had decades of practice and fewer morals. Once, I sought to secure broader access to fresh water for those working in the scrapyards. It was all mine, for the low, low price of a shipment of plating. Said plating had been intended for additional solar shielding on the worker’s barracks, and yes, thousands would surely suffer terrible solar burns in the summer months, but they’d have water! They’d be alive! Dehydration or sunstroke, how would I care to let them die? Another time, I traded a run-down slum for bigger and better housing elsewhere. Within a month, the residents had been forced out, and a new luxury theater was underway. Meanwhile, my new housing project was still in the early stages of planning, materials would be double-claimed and take months to resolve, the builders were ‘accidentally’ promised their pay in advance, more funds would have to be raised, and all this time the people slept on the streets. So it was, everywhere, with everything I touched. Maybe you’re right, and maybe a more adept hand could have made a difference. But at what cost, when the vultures would devour everything they could get their claws into?”

“But if I’m being honest, it’s the wrong question to ask. In the late days of my rule, I noticed the tenor of my public appearances change for the worse. Where once I had only enjoyed broad, fervent support, the public of those days presented an unbearable tension. A clear marking line, between my wild-eyed fans, and...other, less ecstatic gazes. Desperation. Battered hope. Flickering embers of resentment. The same I would see in Alethea’s face, when she would come to demand an explanation for my latest dealings. More than the continued setbacks to my causes, this, I found the most intolerable. I doubled my efforts, not in statecraft, but in performance, seeking to bring them grander and more magnificent displays, anything to win back their adoration. No, the question is not if a different approach could have worked, sir Knight. It is if I was capable of playing my cards so close to my chest, playing the long game for the greatest good, if it meant giving up the praise and glory that catapulted me to fame in the first place.”

“I have thought on that question often, in this new life of mine.” Her eyes fall to the royal blue robes, draped over her motley frame. “I told you; I do not wear an honor higher than Captain, these days.”

“But where was I? Yes: An endless spiral of compromise, and a wavering public. This went on for years, and would have continued for many more, if a wild card had not upended everything. Lakkos’ military specialty was in the plover, I’d mentioned. We’d had no interest in spacefaring, as the Armada - when it returned - would surely be enough for the war to come. So when a Starsong cruiser cut through the atmosphere and opened broadsides against Senator Demetris’ household, there was no defense against it. His personal plover, the pride and joy of his household, was laid to ruin, and his security force scattered to the winds. The Starsong could’ve left just as easily; we had no way to stop them. But against all self-interest, they stayed behind to evacuate citizens who wished to flee with them.”

“The call came down from the chief of the Senate; all were called forth to punish the invaders. We would crush them with the full might of Lakkos. A storm of plovers, armed with the best scraps of the Empire, would crash down upon them before they could get airborne again. Any who refused would be thrown out of the Senate, their material assets seized, and divided up amongst more deserving statesmen.”

“Later, I would learn that the Starsong had, through some misadventure of theirs, stumbled onto our planet, and learned the plight of our people. One of their agents went undercover, sought out the lay of the land, crashed a wedding, might have stolen the bride? I can’t remember. Whatever the case may have been, they could not turn a blind eye to the misery they saw, and thus, their sudden assault. But all that, I would only learn later. That day, there was only one thought on my mind.”

“One hour. One hour, and one of my greatest foes had been rendered a nonentity. And if I did not fight to destroy the ones who did this, I would be destroyed myself.”

“One hour. One hour, and they had done more to tangibly help these people than I had done in my entire life. Everything I had ever worked for, revealed to be ash and dust by comparison. Hypocrisy, failure, laid bare in an instant.”

“Alethea found me pacing my rooms, the orders crumpled uselessly in my hand. Dear, loyal Alethea, she said what was on my heart, that I hadn’t the courage to say aloud: I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t live this life another day longer. And together, we devised a plan.”

“It was simple, really. If I was to no longer be a statesmen, I would need to leave. If the invaders were to survive, and the evacuees to survive, they would also need to leave. Our interests aligned perfectly. I would collect my plover, and the biggest shuttle I owned. To my vast household, I would offer the same as the Starsong; the chance to leave with me, and escape this wretched planet. Then, while Alethea handled the ensuing logistics, I would pay a brief visit to the temple of Zeus, and offer up everything I owned for my victory that day. Blessed by the gods, I would strike the Lakkos nobility a devastating blow from the rear while they were occupied with the Starsong, thus proving my own loyalties to my would-be allies. We take off, never look back, everyone lives happily ever after.”

Dear little Vasilia. Dear, stupid, silly, sun-eyed Vasilia.

“It was...it was such a simple plan. I’d already had my great epiphany. I knew I’d done wrong, and wished only to make it right again. Shouldn’t that have been enough?”

How can you still hurt her, years after your passing?