TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

Alas, poor drink umbrella. You were destined for tropical climes, but you’ve flown too close to the sun now. Tissue-thin paper curls as the naked flame of your death approaches, when from the heavens descends a hand of wispy clouds. At its gentle insistence, the flame comes no closer, sparing you a fate most ironic as its owner pleads mercy with the Princess of Skull and Flame.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think you should bring a molotov cocktail to a bar fight.” The little flame reflects in his wide eyes, illuminating great caverns of worry. “I don’t think it’ll get you anything you want. Unless you want the entire bar to ally against you and throw you out the nearest window.” On account of the fact that this particular bar didn’t have a swinging door to throw disreputable miscreants out of.

But what cares the sun for such trivialities? Weigh all the clouds in the sky against the heart of the Skull Princess, and see that clouds are cowards, actually. Heed well her words, oh rebellious ones of the sky, and by her cry of “come onnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn” will you just! Let her! Set a little fire!

The clouds remained, unmoving and uninebriated. “No, yes, I’m quite serious. It’s true. There are hundreds of disconnected worlds out there who have figured out bars, and also that people like to come to them to get into fights. The forms are a little different, but in the customs, there’s a surprising amount of overlap. Chief among them; no one is to bring a real, serious weapon. You may bring your body, and the odd improvised weapon, provided it doesn’t cause grievous pain or significant bother, and nothing more. You could win the fight handily if you were the first to pull a knife, sure, but it wouldn’t make you the winner. It would…it would be like surviving a battle by covering your Lantern to hide.”

And you’re better than that, aren’t you, Princess? You’re strong, you’re tough, you don’t take nonsense from anybody, and you would never betray your heart like that. It would break his heart to see you in such dishonor.

“If I may,” he adds, arm only shaking a moderate amount with the effort of holding back the lighter. “Have you considered a tactical advisor? Someone who knows the territory, who can help translate your strategies into action?” Up he rose in his chair, as straight-backed as one could sit while still wrestling with a mouse. “I am recently out of a job, after all. I’d gather a list of references, but they are all very far away, and you’d have to push me all the way back across the galaxy to get them."

Breathless Dead

Notes, Taken Silently, On Account of The Drinks and Festivities

-Jil had glanced at the drinks list before ordering the frilliest-sounding drink listed. It was, in all likelihood, only the third or fourth least alcoholic option (confirmed when perusing the menu for his second round), not counting those which contained no alcohol at all. Possible she was in the mood to sample local flavor. Possible she was too winded after an exciting day to remember any of her favorites. Possible she’d never heard of any of these before, and had tried to aim low.

-Jil had spent the majority of her life living in the shadow of the Kaeri, in halls built from the bones of her too-slow ancestors. Silence and watchfulness were a primary means of survival. Bella (Bella) was her best example of kindness. Rooms devoted to leisure aboard the Plousious were limited to nonexistent. Possible this is her first time at a bar outside her own people. Possible this is her first time at a bar.

-The target of her ire had not acknowledged their presence, not even as Jil outlined a hasty scheme to ambush her. Ambient crowd noisy enough that he couldn’t decipher conversations more than three tables away. Unlikely she could hear them. Possible that Jil has never met this mouse before in her life. Possible that Jil has met this mouse many times in her life. Facial tattoos bright, distinct, details visible from distance. Target could be hearing this conversation, and playing dumb. Consistent Rival behavior. Unlikely. But worth remembering. Never count out a Rival.

-Jil had consumed one half of her drink. Her latest sip was taken with closed eyes, held breath, and a few seconds to brace herself. Muscles visibly tensed across her entire body, especially across her brow, cheeks, and jawline. The opposite of relaxed. Highly probable she regretted her drink choice. Highly probable she was not enjoying herself. Possible relation to sudden ambush plans.

Response

“Now, now,” Dolce chides good-naturedly. “Getting wasted is no reason we should forget our manners.” He waves to the barkeeper, and puts in an order for the next round. His glass vanishes behind the bar. “I remember, once, a shipmate of mine ambushed one of our fellows on a night out. The punch landed seconds before the target was about to start weeping into their drink. The night…hrmm, we tried, but I believe that was the moment the night was beyond salvaging.”

He shook his head sadly. Right on cue, the bartender slid a glass full of a dark, violently frothy liquid into his waiting hands. Regrets from the past needed company, after all.

“No, a special occasion deserves a proper bar fight.” A nod. A sip. A grimace. “Mmm. And proper drinks. Trade you a sip? That lemon thing looks rather refreshing.” It’s a bracing burn, this drink. A taste to remind you that you’re not just alive, you’re _strong_. Powerful. Ready to howl at the storm with the sheer thrill of drawing breath. Perfect to prepare a queen of skulls for battle.

Does it have alcohol in it? It’s got spirit, in spades. Spirits, though? Well, the bartender was certainly thinking of alcohol when they prepared it, so maybe the spirit of the thing got mixed in there. You can’t discount the possibility.

“Now then; how shall we test the waters? We have a wheelchair, which would provide ample excuse for an accidental bump as we pass.”

Breathless Dead

That’s the trouble with being a lump; there’s no easy way to get yourself upright.

“You know,” oh, dear, right, yes, legs aren’t yet up to a scoot into a sitting position. At best they can manage a sort of half-wiggle, and that was generously rounding up. “I really think we ought to ask first before making it a swords and stealing raid.” Hands, it’s all up to you now. Brace yourself on the armrest and! Up! “It wouldn’t really be stealing if they’d have just given us the drinks anyway. And a wheelchair really does benefit from the use of both hands.” Good sense, from the fellow who was sitting askew at best.

“Though, I should also warn you,” he admits sheepishly. “I’m not very good at getting drunk.”

Breathless Dead

The tension left him in fits and giggles, in cracking smiles and quiet tears, draining out of his tiny body and leaving him a sodden, woolen lump in a chair. Thank the gods for natural padding, or else he might’ve had a cramp in his neck, lying flopped against the armrest. Dimly, he’d registered Vasilia materializing out of the surrounding chaos, where she’d quickly press-ganged the Alcedi into a moving crew. Difficult to tell someone in a wheelchair that they’ll have to move all their things back themselves. Especially when you moved it all out in the first place. Or did that count as stealing? Hrmm. The statue dog was…somewhere else. Not here. Not a problem. They are alone, on a little island of inactivity all to themselves. Free to do as they wished. Free to do nothing at all.

He cranes his neck, up over his chair, peering upside-down at the mouse laid flat on her back. Jil of the Lanterns, who’d known only one good Captain. Who saw the world through a curtain of her ancestor’s skulls. Born into darkness, Assassins, and Empire. She asks her questions bluntly, forcefully, with a blithe disregard to polite language. He answers without fear. “To be fair, we may have left weird behind several stops ago.” And yet, eating his hat hadn’t seemed such an impossible leap, in the moment. “Maybe a little surprising, true. But I believe you.”

“...so.” His fingers idly play with an errant curl of wool. “Does that mean you’re thinking of crossing? On this ship? There’d be a seat at the table for you too, you know.” And wouldn’t it be nice if the seat was next to his? Captain Dolce would oversee the transition of power as his last official act. Another friendly voice at his side, one speaking for an entire community, wouldn’t that be grand? And, he knew it wasn’t really a matter of odds, but it was hard to think of it any other way, that the more friends one crossed the Rift with, the greater chance you’d still know at least one of them on the other side.

Still. It wouldn’t be right of him to be so greedy.

The choice was still hers, in the end.

Breathless Dead

Strike for strike, then. Weakness for weakness. Dolce’s docile, innocent smile can weather long, grueling hours, legs about to collapse, a heart so full of pain he might burst, but never has he trained to endure the honest, body-shaking laughter of a friend. His nose twitches, shaking to hold back a grin that would surely stretch from ear to ear were it turned loose. But he is a professional. He will not give the ground so easily, and shame his name. With the grip of a practiced expert, he holds himself steady on the line. The scrunched-up half-smile, like the tiny silhouette of a ship against a massive star, may only serve to make his joy seem all the larger, but he holds himself steady all the same.

“I can help you with that, if you like.” He is the calm. “My time in office has dulled neither my culinary skills nor my hospitality. I would gladly stand before you,” he is not looming. He is much too short for looming. “Hat in hand.”

He is the very picture of humble servitude and that was a professional snort he’ll have you know.

Breathless Dead

This, then, is Empire. The Armada around Tellus. The curious gravity of Lakkos. The Manor’s picket fence. A sheep could clear a fence with a running start and good form. But never could you leave. Her Highness had run from a goddess, sacrificed her entire future, and if you listened closely you would hear a whisper of titles trailing in her wake. Because that was what one did, for a Princess. And for a Captain, one would do quite a bit, to ensure their attention could rest fully on the matter of keeping a ship running. No matter how many quiet dinners you’d shared together; a Captain was still a Captain.

Then again. There’d already been one mutiny today…

“Jil. What am I about to do is completely unrehearsed, and could not possibly be a signal. No one will harm you or yours. Please don’t stab me.” No sudden movements. His hands rise to lift the ornate hat perched atop his head. Up it goes, clearing ears and wool easily. No difficulties, no accidents. Down it goes, to rest on his lap, turned to face him in all its glory.

And he takes a bite. Tears off the Captain’s insignia in one go.

(Broth. This belonged with a soup of some kind. Perhaps soaked in seasonings for days, weeks, to soften it up and add flavor, and then draped alongside some noodles, eggs, chopped vegetables, fish, make up the nutritional deficit…)

“No Captains.” He says, swallowing. “This is not an Imperial ship. This is our ship. And whoever is going through the Rift ought to decide how it runs, together. And. If I’m not really a Captain, then you can’t be having a mutiny. At best you can kidnap me, as a friend, for my own good. And I can tell you why you don’t have to, and you can decide if that’s good enough. So.” A bleat slips out, and it’s okay, because friends don’t ambush friends with assassins and gods. A sheep can bleat, and no one has to bleed for it. “So do you have a problem with that?”

Breathless Dead

If he was a Temple Assassin, he dearly wished someone would have the decency to tell him so. Now seemed a rather insensitive time to raise the question.

“Nothing so grand, terrible, and straightforward as that. I’m afraid I’m just a sheep.” He starts, hands folded carefully in his lap. No fidgeting. “And a chef. Then a runaway, and a pirate. Now, a Captain. I did stumble into that one, but, to be fair, I was already thinking of trying something new.” Not even a nod. He’ll furrow his brow, and that’s plenty to tell her he’s giving her due consideration. “I’m not sure what that makes me now. All of them? None of them? It’s difficult to say.”

She searches for the strike she fears is coming. Generations of instinct, running on finely-tuned genetic hardware, wind her body tight with adrenaline. This close, he can hear her heart thundering, fit to burst. How much must it hurt, to stand so still, when your nerves are screaming death, death, death comes for you! Run! Flee! Scurry! Save yourself!!!

It isn’t fair. To complain about a knife in your ribs after you’ve drawn your sword. That’s not a rule, at least not one he’s familiar with, it’s just good sense. But. It makes it difficult, to hold your sword steady, when there’s blood running down your coat, and steel jabbing at your lungs with every breath. Put down the sword, and the wounds can be tended to. Put down the sword, and lose what you took it up for in the first place.

It’s isn’t fair. But he holds himself steady. No movement that could possibly be a signal. The most he can do, all he can do, is leave her no doubt if he swings. If.

Because the choice is still hers.

He swallows hard. “But whatever I am, I want to be the sheep that makes this the last voyage. I want it all to stop. Not just good people throwing their lives away year after year, and half the galaxy growing dim. The Spear of Civilization. The Atlas Cultural Sphere. The universe shattering over and over again, falling apart, and broken people without a chance to put themselves back together again. Enough of it. It has to stop.”

“I know I could try and get…on with it, and live a happy life. I’m glad you want that for me. But how am I supposed to live a quiet, happy life with Vasilia, knowing what I know now? The universe is in dreadful need, and I have a chance - maybe the only one I’ll ever get - to help set things right. Maybe everyone could pull it off without me. Maybe it’ll be just a little bit better if I’m here. I don’t know. But I don’t think I’d ever be able to live with myself if I didn’t try.”

They may need all the help they can get, to stop the one behind it all, the one he is wise enough not to name aloud.

“So. I want to go. That’s my choice, Jil. Mine. And not anybody else’s. For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’d have a problem with that. But I can’t do any of it if I get overthrown and stuffed in an escape pod. So.” He holds himself steady. He whispers a silent prayer. “So do you have a problem with that?”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Piripiri!

Han walks into the trap beautifully. She charges right through the dust cloud, into the waiting embrace of your net. A wave of heat and Essence carries you on your way to Lotus, and as you sweep the demigod off her feet the two of you are bathed in the glow of flash-powder and the howl of Han’s rage.

Turn, and return to the dance. Your shield has become her camouflage. She lurks somewhere, blinded, in the depths of that cloud of dust. You take one step. Two steps. Lotus takes no steps, but attempts an awkward hop. She tries, but cannot keep up with you. You pull away. And Han bursts from the cloud like a comet. You duck back from a vicious overhead swing, and at once she follows it up with a wide swipe, a back kick, leaping slash, a raging river of heat and violence and are her eyes closed?!

She has no time to wait for her vision to recover. Her rival stands before her, when she could be bashing her into the ground, and she cannot bear to wait. She hears you. She smells you. That’s enough to throw swing after swing at you, and you can’t dodge her forever. You’ll make mistakes eventually. You’ll get tired first. You have to. She has to beat you. She’s going to beat you. She’s just got to beat you.

You cruel, cruel dragon. An agent of the Dominion, she might’ve crushed in the jaws of the Vermillion Beast. A pretty spy, she might’ve broken all advances on a shield of stubborn rudeness. But the moment she followed you into this duel she lost her greatest weapons. The fire that burns in her knows only how to break, to maim, to dominate. Now victory intertwines with the heart of her opponent, and she is lost. What else did you expect? All her life’s been a fight, and never a dance. For the hope of beating a rival, she will blindly hurl herself on your blade until she can no longer move. In defeat, she will curse her weakness, sitting atop a well of strength that could level cities. Who could be satisfied with a victory like that? Not a dragon. Never a dragon. For dragons are greedy, and want the best fights, the best victories, the best kisses.

And no dragon could resist a chance at all three.

Let your joy be made complete, o Daughter of Heaven. Reach into her heart, give her the sword your blazing eyes hunger for, and you will have your best fight.

Breathless Dead

"That's what I'm saying. It is your choice."

He flicks an ear. Three javelins whistle through the air to glance off the deck a step away from the Alcedi. Each from a different direction. The churning chaos around them presses on without missing a step.

"I don't suppose you've seen my wife...? No, you wouldn't have. It's best you hear it from me anyway." He wheels forward. The Alcedi do not stop him. A flock could be obliterated entirely in a mutiny gone wrong. And still, he is unarmed.

"Jil. I'm going through the Rift. I can't say if I'll make it to Gaia, but I swear I will try with everything I have and everything I am. If you want to push me out of this, I'm the one you'll have to go through." His brakes squeal as he stops before her. A pace outside her cutlass' reach. "Is this how you want to do it? Behind my back? Ganging up on me, when I can't even walk? This close to the Rift?"

Jil, have you heard the stories of Sahar, when Demeter raised her hand against Dolce and Vasilia? He would never speak of such things, lest he take honor that was not his, and bring shame to the goddesses name. But some say they left the field untouched, while Demeter was left chastened, abandoned, bloodied, even, by Olympus. For the crime of overstepping her bounds.

Do you know where you stand? When you meet the eyes of the captain you are deposing, do you smell the cigarette smoke? Hear the scratch of the Hunter's pen? See the light of virtue flicker, but for a moment? How thoroughly - really - have you prepared for this?

"Tell me why you're doing this, Jil. Please." He begs. "The choice is still yours."

Breathless Dead

Crowds surge, crates lurch like icebergs, and a solitary sheep wheels his way steadily through the hanger. Gaps in the whirlwind open before him, and close in his wake. Never pushing. Never quite stopping. Always where he ought to be, when he ought to be there. And now he is before Jil, armed only with a frown.

"Were the choice mine, there would be no difficulty at all," he says. "Why?"