TheAmishPirate

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

This is a new peril.

The hide of the Vermillion Beast has stood proof against sword and bow, tree and stone, enlightened fist and hellish wrath. What technique is this? Why do the muscles that withstood a demon greater than the mountains yield at so light a touch? So unbelievably light a touch. Be wary, daughter of dragons. Let not your guard falter. Watch her. Find out what she’s up to. Sink to the depths of those soft, inviting eyes, and find your answer. Search the mysteries of those warm, rose-blessed cheeks, and find your answer. Behold the shining, unveiled lips for but a moment, before she-

The Vermillion Beast of Lanterns bellows forth a warning to the cursed denizens of Hell, spoken in the ancient tongue of Heaven that none can decipher. The specifics are far too terrible to repeat. But they are very serious. And very real.

(Do not bother asking Melody for a translation later. She will be too busy laughing to tell.)

Why? Why do you do this to her, oh flower of Heaven? Don’t you know? Didn’t you see? A Beast is for destruction. A Beast is here, to break the things that need to be broken, because nobody else will do it. A Beast does not. A Beast couldn’t. So how was a Beast to prepare for gentle, soothing fingers, caressing her horn? How was she to know that was a place dragons ought to be held?! None of this. None of this! Why. You. Y-you…

She purrs.

Her awful voice hid, in the deepest places of her heart, and there it shook and it shook and the soft rumblings flowed through her body and set her tail to flicking about the wastes. She presses her head the barest bit closer, pressing into her, and the rumbling passes through her too. She sinks into the rain-soaked garden. Her thoughts float on the wind. Melody is close. She is so close she could just…if she maybe…parted her lips…does she have, no, maybe…how…

Too late. Melody is close. The Beast’s jaws part. A long tongue flicks at her ear, and a rich breath of fragrant fire washes over her, and the delight of her giggles is the most precious treasure yet.

For a moment, everything is. And it is, by a miracle, enough.

Breathless Dead

This night, the papers have departed, taking with them maps, memos, and missives alike. They leave only questions to linger around the shoulders of a sheep and a lioness, sitting apart on the same bed. His heart races to pump the Thunderer’s lightning through his body, and any moment he will burst from the strain. He must talk. He cannot talk. But he must. He must go first.

She is waiting, still.

“That night, when you told me about what had happened between you and Bella, I’d thanked you for being honest with me. And, I did mean it. But when I said that you didn’t need to apologize anymore, that I wasn’t hurt, I don’t think I did mean that. I hadn’t really given it much thought; how could I have meant it? But I thought I did, and I thought it was enough, and I couldn’t explain why it wasn’t so. You kept asking, too, checking in to see if my answer had changed. And every time, I told you the same thing. I was fine. I’d accepted your apology. Everything would be fine, now. But nothing felt fine, and I didn’t want to burden you with nothing more than vague feelings.”

Amazing, how such a sensible plan sounded like rubbish when he had to speak it aloud.

“Do you remember when you offered me your post? Just earlier, that day, Hera had told me that I could, perhaps, learn more about what was the matter if I found something new to work for. It couldn’t have come at a better time. Even though…” He quietly promised to make Hera a nice snack. “I wasn’t sure it was such a good idea. I was just a chef. What business did I have, putting on a fancy hat and telling people what to do? How badly might that go?”

Unconsciously, his hand drifted to his chest, and rubbed at soft wool that only yesterday ached to the touch.

“It. Hasn’t gone perfectly, yes. Ah, no, that’s beside the point. We’re here, and we’re alive, and we have the Lanterns now, and that’s more than I thought we’d get. It’s more than I thought I could do, even though it nearly all went wrong. After…after I got hurt, it got me to thinking; if I could do this much, then perhaps I could think a little more about what I wanted? If I’m at least this much more than a chef, then, maybe, I could ask a little more?”

“And I realized I wanted you. Vasilia, I want you so badly. I don’t want to travel, or do any of this, if it’s not with you. But when you and Bella…” A hundred words offer their services. None feel up to the task. So they burn, restless, in his throat.

“Dolce…” She looks so worried. At him. At his chest. At his face. “If you don’t-”

“Please. Please listen, I have to get through this part. I can do this.”

“Very well. Just. Just be careful. We can speak more tomorrow. It doesn’t have to all be tonight.”

Wouldn’t that be nice? But he cannot rest on the thought of retreat too long. If the momentum is gone, then…! “I thought about losing you, Vasillia. I’d always worried, maybe one day, you’d realize I was just a silly little chef, but never, I’d never actually lived in a world where it might happen. And that hurt. It hurt terribly. Losing you, that would hurt more than anything, ever. I kept thinking about what I could do to make the feeling go away. There must be something I could do to make sure this would never happen again. But all this? Being Captain? Made me realize I didn’t just want you. I want a life with you, Vasilia. Not just any life. Not a life where I serve you in fear of losing you. I want a life where I serve you because I’d burst if I couldn’t. I want to wake up, and know that you’re there as sure as I breathe. I want to make your meals, find you treasures, plan such adventures with you, and hardly be able to think straight for how much I’m looking forward to your smile. And I can’t see your smile if I’m too busy worrying I’ll lose it.”

She does not smile, now. Where a smile might live is broken, and her eyes are anguished longing, and her hands tremble not to hold him, and through the pain she manages a slight, questioning nod.

The words are exhausted, now. Let whatever may come, come. He nods back.

And at once she gathers him up and sits him on her lap and wraps her arms around him tight, so tight. “You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me, darling. My darling. Whenever, wherever you fear, you must tell me. If you’re able, please, tell me. I thought I could see you hurting, but when I asked you, you always said you were so fine, and, and! I didn’t know what to think anymore. If I’d known, I would have told you, in any way you needed me to say it, that you were my most precious treasure. And nothing would ever, ever change that. My dear heart. My dear, dear Dolce.”

Of all the terrible futures he might have brought about, somehow, he never thought to really anticipate the one he was hoping for. “Vasilia…” Now, he trembles. Now, the tension locked tight in his heart releases, and he holds onto her for dear life.

“Shhh. Shhh, it’s alright, darling. It’ll be okay. I’m here. It’ll be okay.” She whispers into his wool, brushing the terrifying thoughts aside like so much dust. “I want to know how I can keep from hurting you again. You don’t deserve to face that from me, ever again.”

“I think…in the future, we shouldn’t do a plan like that, even if we’re out of options. Where we play with hearts, I mean. It doesn’t feel right, and, even if I know it’s for the mission, I don’t think I can keep from breaking apart.”

“Of course. Of course. Where should I draw the line? Touching another’s arm? A clever line to throw them off-balance?” When he grew quiet, to think, she added. “Whatever answer you give is okay. I don’t want to win a victory at your expense.”

“I think, if it were just teasing, perhaps? And you yourself were out of reach? I don’t know…”

“We’ll start there, then. If we need to move it, you can signal me. Cough loudly, or, I don’t know, do something attention-grabbing. We can work on it. Together.”

He feels, rather than sees, the thought approaching. The tensing of her shoulders. Her chest swelling with a sharp, bracing breath.

“Here. Just so you know, I don’t tell this story out of guilt. Well, okay, there’s guilt, but it’s not the motivating factor. You’ve not, forced this out of me, even though it is a rather big exercise in trust, but, ugh!” Pouting lionesses were difficult to take seriously. Fortunately, he had a lot of practice. “Look. It’s a story that I wish I had told you a long time ago. It’s a story you ought to hear, one that very few people in the universe know. And I want to trust you with it. I want you to hear it, and see me. As I am. Not…not as I might pretend to be, at times…”

Fitting, that the telling should begin how it would end; in each other’s arms. As gaps were filled, and a hundred questions answered, he nestled up in the crook of her arm, where he’d always fit. Her hands found their homes in his wool. Their heartbeats slowed, as one. There was much to learn, for the both of them. Too much to fit into a single night. They had thoughts to turn over, experiments to try, questions that would only come in time. But all must begin somewhere.

They were together again. Let that be enough to start.

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

“She means to kill the Princess.” Dolce says from his seat. “It was her aim on Salib. I don’t think she would give up so easily.”

“Not on treachery of that level, no.” Vasilia added, standing by his side as she surveyed the scene. “If she means to kill the heir, then she most certainly won’t stop with that. All of us are loose ends she must tie up, and this will be her best chance.”

“Indeed.” He nodded, then raised his voice over the collective murmuring. “Mynx? If you are listening, you have the best insight of all of us into her plans. What do you think?”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

The blade demands one arm. It will not serve her here. So she cradles Melody’s tiny frame in the crook of the one arm she’s got left. Do you strain to reach her? To hide away? Don’t. Don’t you move a muscle. She’ll hold you closer. Sneak one, solitary finger behind your head, and keep it from falling limp. (She cannot feel the wave of hair, cascading over her claw. No silk ever looked so soft.) She’s got you. Rest in the shade of her body. Her scales can endure a hundred suns. You are safe. You must be safe.

The fearsome head of the Vermillion Beast of Lanterns dips low to the Priestess, then freezes. What…what does her head look like? She’d seen glimpses, in rivers, on posters, but in the hoards of her memories not one face belongs to her. She senses no spike or ridge along her neck, as she swallows great lungfuls of stinking air. Nothing below her jaws either. So. Perhaps? Perhaps she can descend, slowly. By inches. By the breadth of hairs. Freeze, when she feels the slightest pressure. Listen, for cries of pain. Feel, for agony. Then, with barely a twitch of movement, back and forth. Brushing against her forehead.

Her jaws part hardly at all, keeping rows of fangs hidden. The Beast does not talk. The Beast is not made for talking. The Beast roars and thunders. Rips and tears. From the corners of upturned lips rumbles forth a crude, discordant avalanche of a voice. Feel it echo through her body, straining to break forth in horrible violence. Feel it, if you do not wish to hear it.

“liTtLe........bUd.”

No more. Any more, and. She’ll break it. She’ll break her. She’ll break the most precious thing she’s ever been allowed to hold.

Please. Just let that be enough.

Breathless Dead

He stands, today. Did you expect otherwise? Did you intend to visit him at his sickbed, deliver the news when he was too ill to shout at you? Unfortunate; now you bar his way. He waits there for you to finish, dressed in his sharpest coat, hat perched proudly atop his fluffy head. You cannot escape his clever gaze. He sees you. He hears you. He takes you in like you are the only other soul aboard this vessel, his vessel, and then? And then?!

He stumbles to close the distance. He throws his arms around you, and gathers you up in a soft, squeezing hug.

“You’ve come back to us.”

He chokes.

“I was so afraid…you’d lost yourself and your way. And we’d never see you again…”

If there is more to say on the matter, let it not be heard. If there is more to say, let it be said in the language of tears leaking from eyes squeezed shut. Of hats fallen to the deck, forgotten in the light of things far more important. Of arms trembling as they burn through precious reserves of strength to keep a once-lost friend from ever leaving again.

“If this is what you want.” How does such a small voice sound so steady? “If you think that a new desire might help you find your impossible dream, if it will help you build the language that show the shape of your heart, then I will find a new post for you at once. But please. Please. Don’t make a punishment of this.”

A last bit of strength. One last, little squeeze.

“Not when I’ve not asked for one.”

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

“Redana. Darling. Do you know what else is cool?”

A single paw strains, reaches, and desperately pats at her back.

“Inside voices. Please.”

This isn’t real. No. No. Don’t let him see. Isn’t it enough that she told him? He knows enough. Don’t. No. He can’t. Don’t make him see. He can’t see her. No. No. No. No. No.

“I, ah, it’s quite alright, no one asked you to find out. Not your duty, not by a long shot.” Who’s here? Who’s listening? Leave! All of you! Before she makes you! ”I didn’t think the full details of that day were worth wide dissemination. Certainly not a concern to you.”

Then, only then, does she face those big, unfairly precious eyes of yours. The one that stabs her through the heart. The one that lays her thoughts bare.

“...so. How. Exactly. Did you ‘see the whole thing?’”

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.]