TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

What do you do for the girl who is everything?

“Absolutely nothing” goes one school of thought. Why in the name of all that is good, decent, and sensible are you getting involved with a girl like that in the first place?! What are you to the universe? Could the sum total of your life cause even an atom to drift out of its place? Are you surprised that the tales of those who follow after Zeus earn their glory in blood and agony, and only sometimes that of other people? Flee. Run, if you can. Placate yourself to those mad enough to play in her domain, and spend your days under the care of gentler hands.

The barest hint of Zeus’ aspect recognizes its own. Sparks finer than hairs dart out to lick at Vasilia’s armor, punching her skin with a hundred burning needles. To stand before her, just to stand incurs a cost. Forwards or backwards, she will pay greater still. “Y-Yes. Well.” Why is she here? Why must it be her? Why must it always be her? Why, after everything, does she keep doing this to herself? “If I could not distract your eyes from the nearest skirts for even a few moments, what good would I even do with your lightning?”

Why does she do this, for the girl who is everything?

Because only the ones who show up get to play a hand in what happens here. And the only thing worse than the Master of Assassins remaking the galaxy in blood and bark is letting her do it by default.

Silence should not fall on the galaxy, on everyone, just because it put the work in.

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

“I admit. I am…not the best suited, personally, to stand in command over your daughter.”

He hears the shell-shocked voices, giving their report. He sees the wall of empty tables around her in the cafeteria. He turns to stone when her attention falls on him. Wolves and plants both will hunt him in his dreams tonight.

“But I am not alone here, and neither is she. She is young. She is learning. And if I can do nothing else for her, I can give her the space and allowance she needs. Maybe someone better than me can help her find her voice, and what might she sing then?”

“But this?” Bodies lurch across the field, three times maimed, and still it is not over. “How can this be…what else can this be, but, but…” He shakes his head furiously. “I don’t know how to even speak of it. This is much, Lord Hades, and I already have not spoken as carefully as I ought to have, and I apologize.”

So, perhaps. The better thing to say would be as little as possible.

“I understand that you have done more than enough already. I ask nothing more of you.” With a whisper of steel, his sword appears in his hand. “We will still lay them to rest, though. Not for any blessing. But because someone ought to.”

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

A word, then, for the battle, and the roles of Princess and Captain.

No one may stop the garden of Demeter. But only Epestia may be capable of slowing it down without joining their ranks. If the hands of Demeter are greedy enough to try and take her for her own, they will be reduced to nothing by the fury of Ares. How dare she? How dare she?! He will not let go of his precious prize so easily. Not here. Not today. Not in his own domain. As her allies contend with the Kaeri and plovers, Epestia will collect from the gardens of Demeter for every inch of ground, and the distance between them will serve them all.

As to the Captain and his second, they are skirmishers to the core. Fast, quiet, capable of gravity-defying maneuvers without a breath to give them away, their place is not in the front. As the clouds of toxic gas build, they dart under their stinging cover to find their targets. Exposed power cables. Allies in peril. Anywhere fates hang on a knife’s edge, it is their solemn duty to fly in unannounced and deliver a fatally unexpected kick.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

The last bathhouse Han attended had been a humble roadside affair, one of the last gasps of ‘civilized folk’ before entering the Highlands proper. The activities of the Vermillion Beast had taken a little money from hands less deserving, and she decided to treat herself. It was simple, as simple as she remembered it, with fine floral scents dancing through the air, steaming pools, a kindly family who ran the place, and a fine, hearty meal afterwards. She’d spent a night in welcome company, washing away the concerns of her journeys, and went to bed completely happy.

Here, there were more soaps than she knew existed, and that was before she even stepped foot in the tiny tub. Not even the order of washing, scrubbing, and rinsing was the same. Despite the best efforts of the attendants, no explanation rang anywhere close to familiar for her comfort. And so here she sits, asking nothing of the numerous servants buzzing about her. Asking nothing of the pretty girl hanging off her arm. It is impossible to see her hands through the water’s surface, but judging by her posture, they are folded chastely, stiffly in her lap. She holds her heart tightly against the ministrations of luxury, heedless as it burns, it pierces, it hangs heavy in her grasp.

Emli asks the question. And that’s when her eyes meet the scribe’s.

So full of anger and worry. Does she even have a thought to spare, to why her eyes rest so easily on yours? The barest push, and she stumbles out of herself to see your arms, walking slowly, leisurely down their length. So lithe, so smooth, the arms of a scribe faithful to her work, positively glowing with delicate care. And then. And then!

When you draw her eyes upward once again, she looks at you as if you’d just asked her to steal your wallet. You wanted her to steal your wallet. Now she has the little pouch clutched in her hand, and what are these shiny round things it's filled with? Co-oyens, you say? Just what is she supposed to do with these? Just what are you asking of her, you, you, whoever you are?!

A yawning, empty chasm stretches between them. To leap across it risks falling into its unfathomable depths. To make the leap rewards her, it will give her, there’s, the scribe will, what? What?! What does she want with her? What will happen if she accepts? What is she agreeing to? Why is this even being offered, whatever this is? Why is she looking at her like that? Why?! So many questions. No hope of answers. She knows so little. She aches so terribly.

Amidst it all, what little she knows - really knows, deep in her soul - stands in shining relief, as lights in a fog. Danger lurks before her, yes. But not malice. Only a (beautiful) scribe, with a steady voice, promising something simple, on a day when everything has been so, so complicated. If she would just take one, little leap. For her.

She intends to drift over, casually, but such is impossible even for heaven’s favored ones. A push, and she floats slowly across the pool in the sight of all, coming to rest beside you, honored scribe. (Sitting, with your arm looming perilously behind her. She watches it, out of the corner of her eye, as if it were a snake.) “Sure are banking a lot on your ‘Lords of the Dominion’ not being complete wilting jerks.” She fires back, in this completely casual and normal discussion of philosophies, between two people just sharing a bathhouse. “Fresh out of luck if they don’t really care about you.” And maybe she would’ve said more, had she not been suddenly and profoundly aware of Emli pressing warm against her, following into the open space beside her.

One, little leap. And she is surrounded.

[Han will give into desire, despite having no clue what she's given in to.]

Breathless Dead

There is distance, but not enough.

The corpses move slowly, with an inexorable momentum. They cannot maneuver. They will not form complicated battle lines, or strike with technique immaculate. But they will reach. They will grasp with hungry thorns. And only one of them needs to take hold of you. There is distance, but not enough.

She’d filled her hours with pasta mistakes. Hestia taught her the ways of kitchens, homes, and comfort, and she survived on nothing but her lessons. She fled down paths of long-forgotten memory, chasing after a girl she knew, a girl she was, a girl she never reached. Once more she found home, held close to a heart she feared she’d lose forever. And today, in the driving rains, she feels the thorns burning her skin, the grip of the goddess breaking her down piece by piece. There is distance, but not enough.

The Master of Assassins cackles to have pulled such a trick. She throws her head back, too drunk to even see the ants formed up against her. Too far gone to count the bodies she will expend, for the weary work of finding more will belong to the Master of tomorrow. She stands, untouchable, atop her stone altar, so flush with divine favor that none, not even the heretic, might touch her.

There is distance, but by thunder it will not be enough.

“Zeus!” Her voice peals across the field, to meet the mad laugher of the Master of Assassins. “Who raises thrones and tears them down! Who casts her lightning, and obliterates her target without fail! Who stands atop the peak of Olympus!”

“Are you seeing this shit?!”

“She comes groveling to you, pretending to be outnumbered and hard put-upon, when all along she has such a host in her back pocket! She cries faithfulness to her office, when all along she plans to murder the very daughter her leige commanded her to retrieve! Your very daughter! Let her deny it before you, if she dares! If this is the sort of person you want carrying your favor, then let it be so! Your favor is yours, and you need answer to no one for how you spend it.”

“But we have not forgotten you either! I have not forgotten you! How could I?! Incorrigible meddler! Insufferable in your generosity! She of loudest, and most ill-timed laugh!” And lest you think she could exhaust your titles in such a short span of time, hold off the enemy for a few weeks and see how far down the list she can go! “We have no fancy tricks! We have no scheme to fall back upon! We throw our courage to the sticking place, and if that not be enough, then let no one say we held back a whit!”

“If she is to carry your blessing, then let it be so. But if you’re looking for an instrument, to show that no one may play lightly with the Thunderer’s favor, well!” Her hand traced the grip of her pistol. “Here are two, hanging from my belt, that will not put you to shame!”

No one hears the Captain, exchanging his own quiet words with the gods. But that is fine; the one he prays to prefers the quiet anyway. “Lord Hades, this is wrong.” His voice buckles beneath the horror, but he must carry on. “Please. Allow us to set it right. We will put them to rest. All of them. Only, let us do it properly. Let us carry the courage, the memory of all who have come before us. Let their hearts stand alongside our own, that whatever terror may strike us in the task, we will not break before it.”

For that, then, is the order passed down to their legions. The garden of Demeter, however fearsome, is slow, too many to achieve any complicated formation. It will fall, then, to the Kaeri, and the Plovers, and whatever other horrors she possesses, to be the hammer driving them against the anvil of Demeter. Do not forget which way you face. Do not let them take you where they want to. Stand strong, and show them the limits of fear.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

The dragon-blooded servant slips her glove back on, carefully slipping the fabric over the ugly slash across her palm. The scribe testified to perverse blood sacrifice to dark powers. The Red Wolf handed down a judgment without a second thought. But where explanations, counter-points, the fatal blows to misunderstanding might fall, she speaks only silence.

The Legionnaires were not in the business of mercy. The fell on one and all, not caring for the weak, the injured, the unarmed, the innocent. Every act of rebellion was met with more chains, more humiliation, a faster march, yet the muffled whimpering of the priestess silenced her where these punishments could not. How long they spent trudging through the rain, she could not say. But where explanations, defenses, the vouching of character, given at risk of punishment, where these and more might have prevented it all, Giriel spoke only silence.

Han stands in the Chamber of Harmonious Arrangements; deaf, for a moment, to the gentle pleas of Emli. They truss up Giri in Dominon reds, bind her under the law of a land not her own. The injured dragon-blooded lays her hands on Melody and rushes her out of sight. Heat rises, building in her chest, washing through her face, her eyes, her heart, and all is red, and all is choking. But where rescues, defenses, the bold warnings to seize not what is hers might ring out, she speaks only silence.

Even if she has to tear herself to pieces, she will speak only silence.

Breathless Dead

For the entirety of his piracy career, Dolce has operated in the shadows of brighter heroes. An unseen hand, ever-vigilant, ever-careful, possessed with an impeccable sense of timing and a nigh-unnatural ability to slip from awareness, his was the role to elevate others to greater heights, with hardly anyone noticing what he’d done, and that suited him fine. But today he leads a war, as a Captain, and it will not suit anyone to search long for him on the field.

Ahead of the host he stands, clad in a thick suit of densely-woven material, dyed stormcloud-grey against the pale sands. No one on the field wears its like, for only he knows the ways of shearing and spinning. The wool of the Manor can, in the right hands, turn to purposes other than luxury. Do not rub your eyes, oh Lanterns, you have not been blinded by Apollo’s light. Sparks dance within the depths, static charges swirling about him, guided by slight nuance of step and gesture. No blade or shot will be stopped, but many will find their blows frustratingly turned aside. Vital points hidden in a maze of fabric, body obscured by purposeful asymmetry. Atop his head, he wears a matching cap, adorned with his badge of office, complete with earflaps tied around his chin to better spare his ears from the cacophony of battle.

And beside the stormcloud, stands the lightning.

Where her husband stands solemn and sure, Vasilia seizes eyes and demands their full attention. See her body, powerful, strong, wrapped in countless tiny links of sparkling mail. Trace the thunderbolts around her chest, colored in shining gold; the pride of pirates everywhere. No scarf or cape to tangle her limbs. She is free, to fly, to draw any of the numerous weapons hanging from her belt and back, and strike devastation wherever she lands. Steel your hearts, o foes, that when the glittering whirlwind bursts forth from the poisonous smoke, you might not be instantly annihilated.

Together they stand at the fore. Together they are among the best skirmishers to grace the Starsong Privateers. Together they sweep the enemy lines, and neither of them see the one they are looking for.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Why should Red Wolf mind the challenge of this upstart dragon? She sits, on the other end of a high-class banquet, and any threat to her seat must first contend with this phalanx of high society. Han has hardly taken her first step forward, and already the waters rush in to swallow her whole.

Which startles her more; the soft, but firm touch of Emli on her wrist, or the discovery that the extra forks weren’t just spares? What is she to say to place-setting drills and pouting faces and, and, certain? Phrasings?! She mumbles out her thanks, and instinctively knows she’s done something wrong. (No one will tell her what, but they’ll make her pay for it.) The meal offers little refuge. Nothing here looks familiar. Some dishes ask for forks. Some dishes ask for hands. Others are not dishes, they are garnishes, and only some of those are edible. It’s anyone’s guess which is which. Cups of sauces surround platters full of savory meats, and perhaps they are the table’s, or perhaps they are for pouring. A small plate orbits her larger one, and that may be hers, or it may not be, and everybody here already knows but her, and the only way she can find out is by watching everyone else, intently, but not too obviously, and her stomach rumbles at the smell of it all, but she has to wait, she has to look, she has to, she has to, she has to.

(She has to. If it is to happen, for her, she has to do it.)

Unless, food should happen to be on her plate already. Unless, somebody were to keep her wineglass full. Unless, the person sitting next to her (so close to her) seemed to always be having what she was having, and slowly, so that she can watch how it is meant to be eaten. Unless, somebody were to fold up her pancakes into tasty little bundles, with just the right blend of flavor and texture so that every bite is crunchable and perfect. With every dish, pour, and touch of the hand, Emli plucks a little weight off of Han’s shoulders, and only when it is gone does she realize she was carrying it in the first place. Only by the overwhelming relief a full glass brings her does she realize she was worrying about fetching more, and now she doesn’t have to.

It’s. Nice. Unusual, but nice. So unusual that, moments later, she will mindlessly reach for the pitcher again. When the tray of those scrumptious pancakes passes through, she’ll try to grab some without thinking. Patience, Emli, patience. She has not snapped at you yet for your forwardness. Her eyes flash surprise, confusion, the barest hint of alarm, but then she relaxes, pliable in your expert hand as you guide her back where she belongs.

She is on edge. She sits in the den of her most hated enemy, and knows not what she plans. She sits beside a loyal agent of the enemy, and knows not what to think. But she is starving. She is thirsty, for water, for strong drink, for company. She is tired, so tired, weary from toil and injury. And isn’t it so nice, to have such simple needs met, gladly, without having to do a thing herself?

Patience, Emli. Patience.

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh this one? Which one?” Han blinks, peering through a whirlwind of fine dining back into the present, the person sitting next to her. “Oh. Uh, that one. Uhhhhhhh.” She rubs her neck, struggling to remember. (Her eyes had been locked on the priestess as she nibbled on a strawberry. Sitting so close, how could Emli miss the heat rising in her cheeks?) “Oh yeah, that one. Wrestled a tiger that got a taste for village livestock. Jerk got a few good swipes in, before I threw them over the nearest river. Learned his lesson after that.”

(Nobody saw her do it. The good villagers of the Flower Kingdoms had given her the cold shoulder, but not before she caught wind of their tiger problem. She could’ve stoked the fires within her, sent a surge of vitality through her body to heal her wounds, but she’d have been stuck in the wilderness afterwards, little more than a defenseless lump. By the time she’d found a safe place to crash, the wounds were too old to simply erase.)

Han follows Red Wolf’s conversation, for there still is some part of her clinging to her words, searching for the knife she’s positive must be there. And, come to think of it, who was this other guest? She was with them when they all left, but was she with them in Hell itself? Not that she could remember...

Weird. Very weird.

Breathless Dead

“Heap punishment on my head, but let us save her if we can. Lock us in cages, but set them together. Make me do penance in her name, shame and denounce me for her crimes, whatever must be done, I welcome it. Only do not make me abandon my oldest, most ill-treated friend.

“Please.”

@Tatterdemalion

"You did not let her do anything." Vasilia counters deftly. "She made her decisions, not you. You have given her more second chances than she’s deserved, and every single time she’s spat in your face. You ask us to risk all of our lives on the chance that this time could be any different. You know we cannot do that."

"And Praetor Bella saved us," she said loudly, a voice that cracked against the plastic walls of the Anemoi. "She broke a reign of shadows and cruelty, made us masters of our own house. And this is our house. You would abandon the Praetor because you fear what she will do? You should fear what we shall do if you turn your faces from the only soul who ever showed us kindness."

@Thanqol

The full weight of her attention falls on the mouse, and to her surprise, she stands unmoved. "So either we let her on board, where she can doom us at her leisure, or we leave her behind, and you’ll do it for her. Wonderful! You really do take after her."

"Did you hear about the Ikarani?" said Mynx, speaking with a dry throat into the silence. "The last time I worked with her she dropped a space station on a city to kill a single target. Millions dead. That's what they do, that's what they're like. Natural disasters and freak accidents are their tools of murder. And yet, on Salib, not a single civilian died. Who told her to care about collateral damage? Who put chains on the earthquake? Because it wasn't the Kaeri, and it wasn't the Master of Assassins."

@Thanqol

"She has two standards, now, is that it?" The laugh in her voice grows dangerously unplayful. "Why haven’t we stopped to memorialize her tale in song? Saints of her virtue don’t come along every day."

"I do not want to see her hurt. She's hurt us, yes. But I still find it hard to divorce her now from the friend she was on Tellus.

"Surely, we can afford to show her some mercy, if the chance arises?"

@Balmas

Her mouth opens. Her beat arrives. And she cannot make her cue this time. “The friend she - and how much will we put our necks out in search of that ‘chance?!’ The friend you know isn’t there anymore. She is dead. And none of you-”

Dolce rests his hand on hers, and squeezes. Enough to forestall further argument. Enough to remind her that he has heard her, and will not dismiss her. Enough. It is enough, my dear. She makes a show of straightening her jacket as she steps back behind him, taking her place at his right hand.

The arguments have been made. Now it is his turn. All he really had to do was put up his sail, and surrender to the popular result. But was the right choice always the popular one? Should his mind always be changed, if enough people spoke out against him? Would Vasilia accept that there was nothing he could’ve done?

No. No, it was his turn. Or else why even have a Captain?

“When our journey started, I recognized Bella not for who she was, but for the position she found herself in. One with a task assigned to her, and punishments awaiting her should she fail. Punishments worse than those she had already received. What a shame, I thought, that we were all at cross purposes. In those days, I prayed for the opportunity to meet her in a moment of quiet, before the fighting could have a chance to start. Maybe I could, in some way, make her burden a little lighter. Wouldn’t that have been something?” He smiled, wistfully, to remember such bright days. “But that is not what’s happened. To simply say she was thrust, unfairly, into this conflict, and acts only out of hurt, excuses the decisions she’s made. Does a…terrible disservice, to those she has hurt.”

“But, as it so happened, my first impression was entirely wrong. I was wrong about her choice in the matter. And I was wrong about the circumstances she’d found herself in. ‘Unfair’ hardly begins to cover it. I have seen a _glimpse_ of the darkness hanging over the Empire, and I very nearly did not survive it. That she has taken a step - any step - out of line, cannot be understated. She has stayed her hand, even a little, when the consequences for failure are impossibly high, and I cannot ignore that.”

“Which brings us to the present: We have no guarantees that she will take any escape we can offer her. All we have is a chance that she might. All we can do is decide whether we will extend our hand. We are under no obligation to offer her another chance. If we were to turn aside, we would stand well within our rights to do so. The choice is ours, to make as we see fit.”

The breath catches in his throat.

“...I have thought long and hard. I have asked all who could tell me about her, and listened to their stories of the Bella they knew. And yet, if I had her here, and could ask her any question, and know that she would tell me the whole truth, I cannot begin to imagine what she would say if I asked her 'why?' Why wasn’t it enough, to have my wife in chains? Why did your mission need you to take her…” To his shame, he could not stop his eyes from watering. Please do not think less of your captain, oh noble crew, if his sleeves are stained. “...why? Why did you have to hurt her so much?”

“I can’t see any benefit to it. I can’t see any sense in it. If I cannot find an answer. If there is no answer. What do I make of her, then?”

“If Redana were here, she would make of her an old, ill-treated friend, still terribly close to her heart. Jil makes of her the one, good Captain she’s ever served under. Mynx makes of her one who still feels mercy, in spite of the peril it could bring her. Alexa makes of her an old friend, who may yet still live. I cannot make myself believe any of it like they do. I can’t ignore my own feelings, my own sight, in favor of theirs. But. Maybe I don’t have to.”

“When the Starsong first found me, huddled in their ventilation ducts, all they knew is that I was a cook and a stowaway. And yet, they welcomed me in. All that I am today, I owe to that one offer of kindness and mercy.” All the way up to the chair he now occupies, the one that demands he choose. “I cannot see why Bella deserves mercy. But I can see what it’s done for me. I can see that my crew, my friends, those that I love, wish to show it now. What answer of Bella’s can change that?”

The choice was his, in the end. To make as he saw fit.

“I. Don’t know what this attempt will cost us. I hardly know what I would do, if I were to see her every day for the rest of this voyage, but we will deal with one matter at a time. If the attempt would cost us our mission, our lives, then there is nothing to be done. Such is the fate we are dealt, and we must find a way to press on. But if the chance exists, then by the name of Zeus I swear, we will not leave Bella in the hands of the Master of Assassins.”

So as the Thunderer hits her mark, so too will they all return in triumph, or not at all.

“We leave in half an hour. Prepare yourselves.”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

The first battle was of Hell. The second was of Dominion ambush. Han survived a third, down in the murky depths of the barge’s dressing rooms.

She hides the scars from none of them.

The handmaidens bested her in the bath; her skin is on the right side of presentable, freed at last from mud and ichor, and soothed with the finest of soaps. They negotiated an uneasy truce in the mirror; not the royal, regal treatment of other honored guests, but an understated dusting of powders and colors, softening the features without excessive work. At their suggestion, a few glittering, red scales adorn the corners of her eyes. Her hair falls long down her back in smooth, silky waves, contrasted by the sharp collection of accessories they’ve woven through the front, where she demanded her eyes be freed. But the outfit. She had saved her strength for that last fight. A vermillion robe patterned with gold dragons hugs her body tightly - enough to keep up with her movements, without impeding them - broken up only by a sash made up of two formerly-attached sleeves. Her arms alone stand bared in the company. See the sickly, muddled bruises covering them. See the hasty bandages, and know the wounds were from demon blades. See, around her neck, an angry red line, forked and cruel. The best shot of the Dominion, and she stands unbowed.

Or maybe their best shot was yet to come.

It’s not fair. It’s not fair. Give Melody her space, you rotting bastard. Filthy, smirking, Dominion snake. She can smell the stinking wine in your cup. How dare you force her to sit so close. You never even asked her. You didn’t even pretend she had a choice. She’s been through so much and now you make her a hostage without blinking. Because that’s what this is, right? It’s a message. A dare. A challenge. See where your little Melody sits. See what you can do about it. See you cause trouble now, with the deck so stacked against you.

Again. Run through the numbers again. At least twelve legionnaires she can see. There were how many, earlier? It was dark, raining, she wasn’t really looking. They have to be close, of course. Can’t be that big a ship. Time limit. A pile of time limits. How long to clear the table. How long to close the distance. Melody, there, but also Giriel, and between them-Nghh! Her lungs fill too deeply. Her side burns, threatening to come apart. Wilting wrack-dolls, curse them! She should’ve been able to endure a thousand of those thorned things. Should’ve just been a bruise. Stupid demons. Stupid Dominion. Come at her on even ground, see how smug you are then.

Gods. How long was it since she’d seen a proper bed? Since she ate something she hadn’t just grabbed off a bush? Everything smells so good…

Hold on, Melody. Just, hang on. She sees you. You’re not alone here, and she’ll figure this. Uh. She’ll. She’s gonna. Figure.

Red Wolf takes another swig of wine. Melody winces from the smell, pursing her bright lips. Even from so far away, the flickering lantern light dances across them. In Hell, there’d been the green sun, and so much fighting, she hadn’t. Noticed. Thought to notice. Red. Not red. A…better red. Deep. Smooth. Glistening. Cupped gently by precious gold. It’s, painted, of course but, then, why does it look so. So…

(Inviting.)

Wait, no, hold on, what is she doing?! She can’t, bad look! Bad look! Eyes! Look at her eyes, you stupid idiot. She doesn’t need one more person ogling her unveiled face. Eyes are safe. Gold and red and glittering every time she flutters her long eyelashes and what was she doing again? Right, right. Give her a firm nod. She can’t reach her, not yet, but she’s here. She’ll find a way out of this, little bud.

Somehow.

“Yeah. Lucky us.” The cheer is forced through gritted teeth. “Only way we could’ve been luckier is if none of you’d ever came.” She reaches for a pitcher; sobriety and sanity weren’t gonna be pals tonight. Forget dulling her wounds, she’d need it to survive the company-

A hand falls on her arm, careful to avoid the bruises and bandages. The slave girl, stopping her, looking insistently at her for some reason. What now? Is she not allowed to drink until the host is finished? Is that the wine for the third course? Is it actually butter meant for the sweet potatoes?!

Can’t she even get a stupid glass of wine today?

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

The first sensible thing Red Wolf does is get out of the way.

The claw that would have crushed body and blade alike catches only air. The kidnapper shoots to the ground, and the storm is on her heels. Slash and bite and stab and whip and again, faster, and faster. The devastated earth splits into yet-smaller pieces. The air clogs with mud. Above it all, the piercing howl of pain and rage.

Yet the Red Wolf does not fall or falter. She finds the bits of solid ground moments before they are obliterated. Her blade screams! And the blow meant for her side slices a fallen tree clean in two. Dodges. Fancy tricks. Lies! She cannot take victory with these weak weapons. How will you carve through her hide with such a weak blade? Your precious footwork will only grow slower as the wounds mount! You are small! You cannot beat her! Flee! Fall! And never come back!

A tiny scream pierces night and heart alike.

Sparks dance in eyes gone wide in terror. She clutches the Red Wolf’s arm with both her hands. She winces - an almost-imperceptible shudder - to ask this much of her burned wrist. She clings on tighter.

In a flash of molten light, in a tidal wave of Essence, the Vermillion Beast of Lanterns vanishes, leaving behind nothing but a small girl; battered, bleeding, broken. Only her eyes still burn. Gripping her junk sword in numb fingers, she surges forward with a hoarse cry…

[Han reduces her Feral to 3 for feeling she's hurt someone with her bestial nature, thus ending her Transformation. Han also rolls to Fight Red Wolf: 3 + 6 + 2 - 2 (for Frightened) = 9. Han will:
-Inflict a Condition
-Take a String on Red Wolf]

Breathless Dead

Alexa slips through the crowd in the periphery of Dolce’s vision, and he offers up a silent prayer of thanks for his friend and her enormous heart. A Captain sees much. A Captain is only one person. And, still, everyone is waiting on him…

“Wisely said, your Highness.” He speaks louder than even he prefers to. Commanding eyes back to himself, and away from Mynx. “As puzzling as the situation is, this, we know these things to be true: One, we must get our ship back. Two, we must, ah, ensure that Molech comes to no harm by the machinations of the Master of Assassins.” A phrase that had been delicately hammered out with Alexa through the discussion of many hypotheticals. “And third, in order to accomplish these first two goals, we must face the Master of Assassins herself. Whatever she may have planned, I see no benefit in reserving our strength. On the contrary, we outnumber her, both in terms of individuals, and in capable officers. I imagine she would be delighted if we removed one of our chief advantages in the name of caution.”

He could end the briefing there. But to refuse to conduct did not mean the absence of a song.

“Before we depart, there is one final piece of our mission we must address. We cannot afford dissent and confusion once underway; not if we hope to survive this. I ask you, all of you, to consider the question carefully, and whatever my decision be, know that I make it in no less than the light of Zeus herself.” A decision that will not be recanted. An objective that, once set, will be struck without fail, as Zeus hurls her lightning. Nothing less will do.

The little Captain folds his hands in his lap. Allows himself one, final breath, before the leap. When he speaks, he will not shame she whose authority he wields. “Bella has, until Salib, led a force of Imperial troops and assassins against us. Though we have faced many troubles, she alone has hounded us wherever we go. Many times, she has hurt us gravely. Many times, she has nearly brought our voyage to ruin. On Salib alone, she relented, abandoning an Ikarani’s master plan and…and in the fighting, she was taken by the Master of Assassins. We will find her on the planet below, though in what state, none can say. I ask you, my crew: What is our mission’s stance as it concerns Bella?”

There is silence. There must be silence. Only a fool would leap to speak under the consideration of Zeus, and no fool would have survived this long.

It is Vasilia who steps forth first. She, who now knows a little more of her heart, and has spent a lifetime in the practice of wielding it. “With all due respect, Captain, why is this even a question? You have said it yourself; Bella has tried to kill or imprison most of the people in this room. If she has had an opportunity to hurt us, she has taken it more than willingly, she has taken it gleefully. I alone have fought her in pitched battle. I have seen the mindless bloodlust that lives in her. Why should we treat her any different, now that she has found a line she is not willing to cross? Give her another Salib, with an hour more on the clock, and she would pull the trigger without hesitation.”