TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

Manners. When all else fails you, you can always count on good manners to point you in the right direction.

"My thanks, sir, it is most kind of you to say so," for instance, was much more likely the right thing to say than, say, screaming, or saying nothing at all and screaming on the inside. No matter how sensible either of those options seemed at the time. Was that a problem back when gods first made themselves known to mortals? Perhaps Olympus had to wait until they’d developed passable etiquette before they introduced themselves. Unless they were wiling to accept terror as a form of awe? Maybe it was the style at the time. And if it wasn’t for manners, he might’ve put voice to any of that, when it had absolutely nothing to do with the unknown god sitting before him! Ha ha ha ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Yes, he has been quiet for too long, thank you for noticing. “I had been wondering, since Jil first brought it up, who was responsible for the development of bar fights. It did not seem to fall neatly under any divine umbrella, but it was much too uniform across too many disconnected cultures to be completely up to chance.”

In absence of...well, in absence of any cue or clue alike, he chances to press his hands together, palm to palm, and decline his head in respect. Not every god shared the gesture, but more than enough to make it a guess as reasonable as it was inoffensive. "It is an honor to meet you, Sir Mars." Mars. Mars. His name was Mars. He knew that, and he shouldn't have. Truth of the divine neither from study nor experience. Which was, perhaps, how this sort of thing worked in the aforementioned introductions between gods and mortals? That might make a lot of _Prelude_ by Someone-Or-Other a bit, ah, problematic. And he stuffs the rest of that thought in a box with many of its cousins, to be chewed on…later. Much later. "Indeed, sir, I and some of my companions will soon attempt to cross the Rift into the land of the living. Your consideration of my services is a great honor, though I must admit ignorance to your domain, along with nearly all that awaits us beyond the Rift.”

Another bow of his fluffy head. Deferential. Humble. Ruthlessly noncommittal. All the proper ingredients for a safe return of the conversational initiative. Under the circumstances. Manners assures him that no god would dare risk the wrath of another, and harm a guest under their hospitality. Myth whispers that harm was a rather flexible term.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

The scales fall from her eyes.

Blinking, her vision clears, and the dragon comes into focus. Her muted silks flap in the wind, hugging her body with the speed of her approach. She is a flower, rushing to the sun. She is an arrow, fletched with promise. She will not run away. She will not break. This time, she will meet her opponent head-on. Give the dragon a thousand thousand words, Han would not believe her. Let her hear the song of her laugh and the thrum of her umbrella, and the duel works its greatest magic yet.

The world goes white. Hurtling through the air, Han opens herself up, and great rivers of essence pour into her insatiable heart. Raising her blade, Han opens herself up, and essence floods out of her in waves of blistering heat. In. Out. The dragon beneath her skin writhes and rages to escape this body, and a barrier the width of a tissue frustrates its claws. She dances on the knife-edge of transformation, pushing the excess of essence from her body in the breath before it can burn her out from the inside. She glows impossibly bright, a star in the shape of a girl, flying to the foe. Where her foot strikes the earth, it hisses and bubbles beneath her. Slipping, melting, where she expected to find solid ground. In slow motion, she topples forward, no tool to hand but her sword.

Her sword.

She tenses, and releases. The force of her strike spins her full around. The force of her strike stops her fall. The force of her strike is the fire of her heart, released at once in a clap of thunder. It explodes out from her, a blazing, tilted ring, racing away from her on a burning wind. Plants turn to dust moments before their ashes are scattered to the winds. Bound demigods are sent tumbling from the melee to fall in a breathless, squeaking heap. The ring of fire slices tree limbs clean off, blackening the stumps in an instant. It digs a flaming trench in the earth before Han, racing to meet the oncoming dragon. Try to dodge; all the air is a furnace. The ground is full of fire, licking at silks and shoes.

But the fire is not the danger. Neither was flash-powder, or nets, or ropes, or clouds of smoke, or any tool of this clever dragon of the Dominion. She knows this, now. The real threat is not the fire. It is the girl. Always the girl.

And there is Han, leaping in close from the heart of the flames. Thrusting with her sword, red-hot. Clawing with her free hand, wreathed in embers. She is fire, and the fire is truth, and the fire is honesty. She who will burn away all masks and all lies.

Step forward, and she will show the world who you are, daughter of dragons.

[Han rolls one last Fight, taking aim at Piri's mask, and the dice say 1 + 2 + 2 = 5]

Breathless Dead

The Traditionally Unwritten Rules of Bar Fights

• All initial participants must have the clear opportunity to retreat before the fight begins in earnest
  
  • After blows are exchanged, anyone is welcome to leap into the fray, provided the matter is not one of personal honor.
    
    • It is considered polite to formally announce a duel if the fight is meant to be closed to further participants.
  • Clear communication is a must. If a person does not understand they are being threatened with a fight, they do not have the ability to consent to the fight.
  • Arguments are an acceptable introduction to a fight, provided there is enough body language to make it clear an escalation to blows is imminent.
• No one is to bring a weapon to a bar fight. Improvised weapons, such a stools, pool cues, etc. are allowed, provided they are not wielded with intent to kill, maim, or otherwise inflict grievous injury.
  
  • If an improvised weapon should break across an opponent, the broken bits may not be used as a shank.
  • Bottles may be used, provided:
    
    • The bottle is mostly empty.
    • The bottle is constructed of a material that may shatter into small pieces on impact.
    • The shattered bottle is not then used as a knife.
    • The current style of dress includes shoes, boots, or other such protection of feet.
• Musicians, performers, and other such artists of ambience are automatically excluded from brawls, unless they themselves decide to join.
  
  • Participants may hide themselves in instruments, pieces of the set, particularly bulky costumes, etc., provided their presence does not interrupt the performance.
• Victory is primarily determined when enough participants retreat, become too injured or intoxicated to fight, or are thrown out, such that an overwhelming majority of the remaining participants are too occupied with cheering, dancing, or drinking to their triumph to continue.
  
  • If the fight is still ongoing at closing time, then the fight must be moved elsewhere.
• Any violators of these rules are to be immediately and bodily thrown out of the bar by all other patrons.
• The above rules may trend lower or higher in the standards of acceptable violence in a manner directly proportional of the respectability of the bar.
  
  • If you have to ask if something is appropriate for your current level of respectability, the answer is likely no.

“As you can see,” Dolce taps his pen on a well-scribbled cocktail napkin. “The average bar fight is not the sort of place where one collects or inflicts grievous injuries.” This particular bar was adorned in many rare, ancient curios. Posters painted with an ink so light and faint, the pictures might just dissolve to nothing at a glance. Warnings to patrons to watch their glasses carefully, lest they be stolen by birds, lions, and all manner of creatures. A most intricate phonograph in the corner paused its playing only for a marvelous working of mechanical arms to switch one record for another. “And this is a very respectable establishment. Not so much that a fight is out of the question, but certainly enough to prohibit serious violence. It would be a grave disrespect to the hospitality of Hades to cause trouble.”

“So if you want to give her a scar, it must be one she accepts from you willingly. Cuts and scrapes are common in this sort of thing. You have to leave the right impression, so that when she gets herself patched up afterwards, she chooses to keep a memento of you. How you might do that will depend a great deal on what she’s like.”

He stirs his drink, the gentle clinking of ice soothing against the hum of conversation, the rum tum tum of the gramophone. “Could you tell me a little more about her? Be as thorough as you can; any little detail might be key. And. You should tell me about her face, too.” A serious, tactical nod. “In case I have to pick her out of the fog of battle, you see.

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?”