TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

Vasilia swam through an ocean of polite fondness. To each who had faced her in the sparring ring, she offers not the same quip twice. A chance to start our record fresh, eh? But of course, I will be happy to beat the forms into you a second time. Darling, of course you need no such excuse to spend an afternoon together. And the ocean ends where the ocean must, on shores stained pink.

The hum of the party fills the room, even if the party doesn’t. The ocean of fellowship ends where it must, on shores stained pink. No one is in a rush to get closer. There is no rush, to get closer. It will reach them, in time. All they have to do is wait. It is here, alone on the shores, where Vasilia leans against he railing, glass in hand, and stares long into the hole in the sky. She’d thought it might be like a yawning pit, solid color ready to swallow them up in a featureless abyss. The Rift is bright, searingly bright, but the Rift is a hole, and the Rift is a river, and she watches the flow of nothingness swirl and play in the wrongness.

“Drifting through; impossible.”

Iskarot slumps into the space beside her. He holds his glass in a paw uncloaked. And Vasilia does not stare. Staring is uncouth, ill-mannered, and horrifically droll. She lays eyes on him. Runs her gaze softly through the fur kept fastidiously trimmed, when no one but Hermes should have ever seen it. The Coherent design their bodies for aesthetics. The Hermetics for brutal convenience. She does not shy away from the joints and tubes. She blinks, once. Slowly. “Lucky that none of us are drifting, then?”

He snorts. “Obviously. Your track record of willing mediocrity and dedication to self-preservation would not abide such an abrupt change of course.” With his free hand, he pulls a blunt from some secret pocket. Perfectly clean, and well-kept. The sort of thing one saves for a final journey. “Why are you even here?”

From the depths of a faded coat, she produces a battered lighter. The sort of thing one carries in hope of a friend’s need. She holds it steady, as Iskarot lights up. Keeps herself still, and patient. “I’ve rather had enough of being dead.” The light flickers in her eyes. A tiny, faithful spark of red against the drowning pink. “It’s high time I lived, for a change.”

Either the answer was satisfactory, the blunt a marvelous one, or this hour’s allotment of words depleted. It is enough. They stand, watching, long enough for the space between them to shrink, and their shoulders to brush together. Not quite long enough to risk a sip of the wine she served her. But long enough for her other side to feel rather empty.

She casts a glance back, and at once she finds the splash of soft, creamy white amidst the crowd. Dolce has stopped beside Jil, who is animatedly trying to show him a word or two in the Lantern’s tongue of touch. A difficult task, when your student is ninety percent airy wool by volume, and petting his arm more insistently only gets you a soft, silly smile. It’s hard for him not to wander, poor thing. Doesn’t know how to handle a party he’s not working at. Four times he has made valiant forays into the thick of it. Four times, he has found more friends to speak to. Three times, his orbit has returned to her side. All she has to do is wait.

Her hand clutches at empty space.

She downs a glass of courage. Pauses. Scowls, sharply. ”Dammit.” she mutters. “The absolute gall of her…” She does not recognize the vintage, the type, and the pink makes it difficult to discern color, so she cannot say for certain that it’s her favorite, so this is a perfectly fair amount of credit to give. And she walks through the crowd, wading into a sea of fondness. Here and there, a face from the sparring ring halts her, and again fresh charm springs to her tongue. A chance to start our record fresh, eh? But of course, I will be happy to beat the forms into you a second time. Darling, of course you need no such excuse to spend an afternoon together. And somewhere, her orbit reaches its conclusion, and she clasps Dolce’s little hand in hers.

Somewhere, the line exists between love and like. And she will never find it, if all she does is wait.

Breathless Dead

Dolce sits upright on his kitchen stool, and sets his pen perfectly perpendicular to the page. "Aphrodite, please, do not take my silence as an attempt to ignore your presence. Not now, after we have journeyed so far." He pushes an ashtray to the edge of the counter, as far as he can reach. Offering, to whoever may be standing near by. "Rather, our small crew is busy preparing quite the offering to you. I hope that you enjoy it, when the time comes."

He takes up his pen again. Speaking not to the limited quantity of ashtrays aboard their vessel. Speaking not to how much operational friction a limitless supply of carelessly-strewn ashes could produce. Offering, humbly, a proper receptacle for a god's cigarette.

His pen flies through the last letters. His penmanship is no less flawless for the speed of his hand. They have little time. This deserves the best.

He tucks his papers into the red folio labeled Recipes, and soon his hoofsteps are receding down the smoke-strewn hallways.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Your umbrella beats a series of squawks from her besmirching head, and one failed attempt to chomp the offending umbrella out of your grip. You stand and face her, an imposing figure with her umbrella-cane. Your feral stray stands tall, thrusting her shoulders back, presenting herself as big! Intimidating! Highly un-smackable! Instincts take over, when the mind is otherwise preoccupied.

“You…!!!” She sputters, once, and then comes the onslaught of your assessment. It pushes her gaze aside, carrying her eyes away from you. Back and forth her head goes, first one way, then the other, never resting at center long enough to do more than shoot your umbrella a cautious glare. She doesn’t interrupt your words. She doesn’t interrupt your lengthy pause. She barely interrupts the long silence that follows after you’re clearly done speaking and all you’re doing is watching her and the best she can sputter out is “You…you….you, Piri?!?!”

Until finally, she explodes.

”Lead with that next time!!!” Her mighty roar cracks so little that it practically doesn’t count. Consider it a blessing, that you have your mask for protection. If she had to see the smug expression on your dumb face she would die forever. “And then maybe! I’ll go easy on you when I beat you! And!” Her fierce, thundering heart sends blood rushing through her body, and that is why she looks so flushed. “And I’ll only haul you around half the Kingdoms to sing your pretty story about me! Gah!!”

She recedes into a fine pout. A fearsome, but ultimately harmless sulk, that will almost certainly abate under the influence of a good walk, and the soothing power of Water.

(Lotus brushes against Han’s balled-up fists, and coaxes them open like blooming flowers meeting the bright sun. She takes each cold, calloused finger in turn, and rubs new life into them. Tending to her brave champion. She wraps them up snug, strokes gently with her thumb, until Han gives a little wiggle to say it’s all better now, could you move on to the next one please? Or Han tugs at her hand, gently, to say no, wait, could you give that one little more attention? And, sometimes, her dragon will wrap her strong hands around hers, and give a light squeeze. To say that everything will be alright. And she shouldn’t worry about a thing.

A finer halter you could never have devised. Han will walk, obediently, until you reach your destination or she collapses from exhaustion. Good thing you don’t have far to go.)

Breathless Dead

When Dolce was little, barely big enough that his wobbly legs could support him, the Manor brought him and every other lamb of age to school. It was the best time to learn, you see, that precious time before there were so many lessons to un-learn. Flanked by guard dogs, the little lambs paraded around the Manor grounds in formation. Right hoof, left hoof, right, left, right, left. Backs straight. Heads forward. Eyes always watching. Ears always listening, as their teacher whispered lessons of history in a voice so soft they had to strain themselves not to miss a syllable. And then a guard would fire their rifle. The good lambs of the flock continued exactly what they were doing, without flinching. The bad sheep would stumble.

Dolce catches his own reflection in the gleaming metal of the hatchet blade. His chest hardly shifts with the rise and fall of each measured breath. In for three. Hold for one. Out for four. Repeat. His knuckles, inches from the blade, are no whiter than the rest of his wool as he grips his glass.

His cheek twitches.

The conversational silence, wrapped so tightly around his jaw, shudders and strains, and bit by bit he pushes his mouth open. At first, for a sip. He would have to close his mouth again, to swallow. He reconsiders, and puts the glass down. “I see.” The voice is barely his. His throat closes too tightly for proper diction. “So you heard of me, before the napkin.”

The perpetual din of the bar hasn’t stopped. Because it wasn’t a threat. This wasn’t a flash of anger, or any worrying emotion. He had been in danger from the moment Mars manifested. This was merely a reminder of the fact. The surrounding conversation swallows up the sound of his stool scooting clear and his hooves finding the floor again. He bows, low, from the waist, holding the pose in perfect stillness. It takes seven breaths for his throat to loosen. Three more to push his chest just so, to give his voice the proper intonation of respect. “It has been an honor to be in your presence, Lord of the Hard-Won Lesson, He Whose Shadow Inspires Abundance, Peace After Nightmares.”

This is the proper way for a mortal to address a god, especially one whom he has given disrespect. The names may be right. They may be wrong. They are chosen with care, spoken clearly, and with eyes downcast. It is all one of his station and stature can do to make things right, and he feels his stature keener than the blade of Mars’ hatchet. Small enough that his greatest capabilities could fit in a kitchen, with room to spare. Just tall enough to sit at a bar with a god, and hear him swear to burn his most prized possession, his greatest pride, his perfect world.

For love. Always and ever, it was called love, wasn’t it?

“I hope.” He blurts out. “I hope I do remember our meeting, today. And, that.” His eyes burn hot with unhelpful and unshed tears. “One day. I may leave upon an altar a fine meal that brings you joy.”

No matter what future awaits the both of them.

Breathless Dead

Did you know? That if the Starsong were granted a boon of Olympus, and at once came into possession of ships and loyal souls enough to grow their fleet tenfold? The underworld would hardly know the difference. Sure, fewer would live under the heels of local tyrants and the long shadow of the Empire, and that would surely be a blessing. But it wouldn’t be enough. The edges of the former Empire needed so much more.

And, it shouldn’t be that hard. It doesn’t feel like it ought to be that hard, when what is bountiful on one planet may save lives on another. But worlds need more than the occasional passing ship to see the stars as anything more than dream and decoration. A regular flow of goods demands the impossible logistics of dedicated ships, moving between planets with anything approaching a reliable schedule. It begs trust, that when you give your possessions to the creatures that came from the stars, they will return again, at some point, with something they say you need. All this, without even considering the risk of the Armada striking wherever the Starsong put roots down.

“I can hardly imagine it.” Dolce shakes his head in wonder. “I would very much like to see it, sir Mars.” And then, a light shines in his eyes. “You know, that reminds me; our ship is attempting a system that’s not unlike the one above. We don’t know what it will be, exactly, but that’s the whole point; we’re abandoning the idea of a single Captain controlling the ship, and coming together, all of us, to decide how we would like the ship to run instead. Anyone who’s passing through the Rift will have their say. I don’t represent anyone myself, but I will be on hand to help mediate...”

Just mediate. And after that? Once they’ve decided on what will replace him?

Traditionally, the role of Captain was one that led to higher advancement in the political sphere, as he understood it. He did not think any would be racing to try and woo him to a new post. His service had been…adequate, certainly. He had brought them to their destination, as best as he could, and no one had asked him for anything more than that. Rather, no one *would* ask him for anything more than that. A day where they did not see their Captain was a good day, a day without emergencies, a day they would not be asked to fight for their lives. A Captain who reminded them his door was always open, who asked for their names, who asked about what they were up to, was surely administering a test, and they were still alive, so they must’ve passed. In all their memories of Captain Dolce, their happiest would surely be the day he left their lives forever, and returned to being just Dolce. Not the sort of person you’d think to put in charge of, well, much of anything.

Much less entire star sectors.

If there was no one for him to represent, then there was no one to tell him where they wanted him next. As it had been his choice to seek the Captain’s chair, so it was his choice of where to go next. One thing ending, that another could begin. In all his memories of Captain Dolce, what did he hold closest to his heart? Where, in all this great, wide ship, might a sheep belong?

But the memories do not come easily. Trials and tests spring to mind at once, but though they give him courage, they are of little help. There is no job for leaping between a Princess and the bridge controls, and if there was, he wouldn’t be keen to do it again. Of the day to day responsibilities, of the average tasks, these slip through his fingers. No matter how he stares into his drink, one memory shines so brightly that all the rest seem faded and dusty. A kitchen, where he laid down his hat, and took up an apron. He could tell Mars how the spoon sounded as it scraped the bottom of the pot, and he’d have to consult his notes to remember what was discussed in his meetings yesterday. One hour, shining brighter than months of faithful service.

Maybe you are one of mine, after all...

“Forgive my ignorance, sir Mars,” and he bows, and his eyes are averted, downcast from the vision of confident perfection. “but it rather sounds like you have all you could want, and the surface world is precisely to your liking. As for me, I’m afraid I may just be a chef now. Your favor is yours, and you may grant it to whom you wish, of course. But down here, it is difficult to see what use I could be.”

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

The river is still steaming.

Fire will lose out, in the end. This Water flows from the mountain peaks, from snowmelts and secret rivers from beneath the earth. The clouds carry endless waves of pilgrims, trudging across the land in countless streams and rivulets to join the great flow. All will come to the sea, in time. Behind and before, there is more Water, and always will be more Water, and there can be no victory for Fire. But here, the surface still bubbles, and the branches above vanish into great clouds of steam.

The spy had to pry the patta from her chilled hand, teasing each finger loose. When it was gone, she grasped at the empty space, as if her blade might hear her song of need and appear when called. To what end, to what task, none can say. But as the cord passed over her wrists, it passed over hands clenched white. As the gags passed over a demigod’s dangerous mouth, a low growl mingled with the soft brush of silk.

When it is her turn, she raises her head. When the time has come for her humiliation, her eyes aim to burn the mask her blade could not. When she is thanked?

“Tch.”

She turns her head away.

“Well good for you.”

She should be half-drunk with fatigue, after how much essence she threw away. She should need a breath of Wood and Water to manage the hike you have planned for her. She should hardly be standing. Fire will lose out, in the end.

But she is still steaming. Burning, with the memory of her first dance white-hot beneath a damp cord around her wrists. A contradiction. An injustice. In her mind and in her heart nothing can exist beyond why. Why had she won so many fights before, just to lose this one? Why, when the world was nothing more than her and her, and she felt so, so free, and there was nothing she couldn’t do? So why?!

Why was that a lie?

Why couldn’t she win?

Please, agent of the Dominion. Fellow dragon. Agata’s long shadow. Do not see in Han an ill-mannered brat, unable to bear defeat. Look with your eyes and your dragon’s heart. See your opponent. See your rival.

Her education has been nonexistent. Every lesson she thinks she has, she bought with her own strength, with no one to tell her if it was a lesson worth learning. Defeat, to her, is always humiliation. It is mountain bullies demeaning her, showing her how small she was to them, giving voice to the shadows of her heart. She is no flower. She is a rock. She is a beast. She will only belong here. She will belong nowhere else. Defeat, to her, is always suffering. It is pulling arrows from her side in the depths of the forests, with no one to remind her that she is anything more than bloodied and broken. It is town after town singing the praises of the Dominion as dissident voices vanish into the night, never to be heard again. It is crowds of eyes on the problem child, who is always wrong and never learns her place.

Victory? Victory is safety. Victory is vindication. Victory will make it all worthwhile. If she is strong enough to grasp it. And whose fault will it be if the Vermillion Beast falters?

How could she master her heart, under such conditions? How could her techniques be anything but sloppy, even when they are drawn at last from her dragon’s heart? But you, ah, you. You have had training. You have had teachers. You have that which she sorely lacks. You have seen yourself grow into something new and beautiful, and watched others grow right alongside you. You know the path of dragons.

You see what she could become.

Her instincts are sharper than any blade. She saw your tricks, and moments later hurled them right back at you. A fast learner, with the right examples to learn from. Training, that’s what she needs. Talent is something you nurture. Instinct is something you hone. And ah! What talent to nurture! Those near-limitless reserves of endurance, the way her mind shrugs off the weight of injury and fatigue. Make her perform a hundred forms, and the last shall fall with the earth-splitting strength of the first. Her affinity for essence, though? That is a fine treasure indeed. It is as if she was born to breath it rather than air. The sheer volumes she can muster without collapsing, that alone presents such delicious, novel opportunity. All this, without mentioning the glory of her aspect made manifest. All together, with the right training…

In her heart, you see the makings of a champion that any Kingdom would count themselves lucky to have. A blade of unflinching honesty, against whom no lie can prevail. Strike her from ambush? She can take it, and decimate with her counter-stroke. Dance out of her reach? Just how far do you intend to dance, exactly? She can blanket a field in fire and close any distance in a heartbeat. Try any trick you like. Try every trick you have. The only way to beat her is honestly. Blade to blade. Heart to heart. Bared, for all the world to see. No artifice or pretense could survive contact with her.

A terrible foe, against those whose blades are reputation and image. A terrible foe for those like Cathak Agata.

What she could become, but now she is a hatchling, stung bitterly by the loss of her first duel. Leave her to it, and no one could say what trouble she might cause, least of all her. Her heart will cry and weep until she blindly follows after it just to drown out the noise.

Please, agent of the Dominion. Fellow dragon. Agata’s long shadow. You have long to go before you reach shelter and safety and comfort, and your lessons can begin in earnest. But your fallen foe cannot wait so long.

Can you spare a taste, to whet her appetite? Can you show her a new meaning for Defeat?

Breathless Dead

Hands folded in prayer now rest on the counter. Fluffy ears flick here and there, to catch the many words of Mars. His eyes welcome in every gesture of his sculpted arms, the swift dance of expressions playing out across his face. Mars speaks to a captive audience of one, undistracted by thoughts of what to say next or what he might petition for. The more he talks, the more little lights he leaves behind. What was once a void of total nothingness and infinite threat, now winds a dimly-lit path. Star by star, tracing out a vision of the divine to mortals far below.

So long as he keeps talking, Dolce can follow the path.

“It is as you say, sir.” He raises his glass without missing a beat. “I have traveled far with the Starsong Privateers, yet farther still on this journey, and I have still found no peace in these worlds. I don’t just mean war and bloodshed, either. I have met so few who seem to desire it at all. Her Highness a notable exception, of course, and thank goodness for that. But for many others, it always seems to be thrones, power, control, but never peace. Never what comes after.” War leading to war, coup leading to coup, conflict to conflict to never ending conflict. Too few to keep the warlords away from peaceful worlds trying only to rebuild. No one to stop the cruel whims of the Armada. A galaxy growing quieter and quieter, heading always towards a final, deathly silence.

He takes another bracing sip, and stares long into his bitter drink. “This may be a silly question, given that I may forget it all anyway. And, if we succeed, we should see it ourselves, but…what’s it like? The land of the living? Where people know you and remember you, Sir Mars?

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.