TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

It’s over just as quickly as it began. A moment of calm replaces the frenzy of imminent crisis. A moment of calm scored with guitars played at inadvisable volume that somehow did not drown out the sound of a million million drones waking up.

It might be the best they’ll get for some time. He takes the opportunity to sheathe his sword. “No, I’d really rather you didn’t kill everyone, thank you.” He speaks to Sanalessa, but his eyes are on the drone. In a few days time, it would be dead. It had no brain, no thoughts, no capability to understand them or what was happening. Disabling them would mean rendering them immobile while they waited to die, alone and in what pain the Biomancers had seen fit to give them.

He bows his head to the drone, stilling his thoughts for a moment of total silence. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, before turning to Sanalessa. “Could you just kill them for now please? As cleanly as you can manage? Ember, could you please hold them still a few moments longer?”

What comes next, he doesn’t have to see. He trusts a priestess of Artemis to be neither cruel nor inefficient. And he’ll need his wits about him for the next while. (That’s what you’d say, right Vasilia?) He marches over to his desk and begins consulting folders and binders, pulling out sheets of documentation and arranging them accordingly. What was this alert level? What zones were to be evacuated, and in how much time? Give him timetables, protocols, and everything in-between, and he begins to see the shape of what will happen on this ship in the next few minutes. The plan would need some adjusting, but the plan was still the plan: Meet up with the Craftstman, and get out, together. Only now, instead of escaping stealthily through a ship preparing for war, they would be escaping by whatever means they could through a ship going on high alert.

[Dolce is certain something’s wrong here. Activating I’ve Got a Bad Feeling About This to learn both the quickest way out and the safest way out, for all of them.]

To his credit, he only gets a little ways into his work before he remembers his manners. “Oh, my apologies. Ember, this is Sanalessa. She’s a friend I’ve been traveling with, the story’s a little long to tell now.” If she wished to give any further details, she could choose to do so herself. That was not his place. “Sanalessa, this is Ember. She’s a good friend of mine from back home, or rather, where home used to be.”

He pauses in his search, only briefly. “Actually, how did you get here, Ember? Did anyone else come with you?”

Ember!

His voice is different then you remember it. Not rude, of course not, he’d never be rude. But when did you ever know him to take charge, even in his own kitchen?

Return to Thellamie

Hazel was prepared for disappointment. He was hoping for approval.

He was unprepared for the approval of foxgirls.

Is. Is that going to happen if they go to Garnet? Wait is that a when they go to Garnet? They don’t. They’re not. Surely not? But they’re going there. So. Is he going to have to work there? Would they need him to? No, well, of course, they’re joking, it’s a joke, ha ha ha, there’s, there’s other jobs, surely. Oh he cannot even look at the two of them right now help his cheeks are burning up aaaaaaaaa

He is spared, only managing a tiny sputter before the oldest, most sweetest lady in all of Thellamie descends upon him. In this moment, Hazel realizes he’s never actually thought about grandmothers here before, be they Aestivali, Nagi, or what have you, but there she is. All the powers of fox and grandmother. Her silvery fur is soft, her voice is soft, the smile that wrinkles her nose is extra soft, and with the unstoppable power of many years, she at once bestows upon him a mighty blessing: Handsome young fellow.

He couldn’t be happier with his new clothes.

(Yes, most of the unprompted compliments he’s ever gotten have been from kindly old ladies of no relation, butt that doesn’t dim his smile one bit.)

The world feels a little less scary now, doesn’t it? They’re going to get a nice dinner somewhere. They’re going to get a good night’s sleep someplace safe. Tomorrow, she’ll have the route all planned out. At no point is she going to suddenly ask for his wallet and/or valuables. It’s going to be okay. It was rough there, for a little while, but it’s going to be alright now. All he has to do is what he’s asked.

But first, he’s got one more thing he needs to do.

When she takes his arm, he holds it out juuuuust so, nice and straight and stable, so she has all the support she’d like as they walk. His arm holds still, even as he bows to, er, himself, from the waist. His other arm hovers indecisively - do they do sweeping bows in Aestival? - before settling on polite and straight by his side. “I know this isn’t much, but, thank you. Thank you,” and he hopes with all his heart she can hear how much he means it. Behind him, his tail flicks a steady, joyful beat. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without your help. You’ve done,” his words trail off, his gaze bouncing between clothes, and wool, and grandmother, and decoy, and there’s not enough time to say everything he wants to, they’ve got to get going! “So much for me, and, I just hope that you’ll be safe and that I can make it up to you someday.”

[Activating Friendly Benefits with Inara. She gets a String, we get to hear what she finds attractive about Hazel.]

Breathless Dead

Dolce could’ve followed 20022. He also could’ve stood up on his chair and provided a singing, musical accompaniment to the fight. There’s a lot of things he could do that he doesn’t think to do.

He stands on the edges. The sword was a gift from Vasilia. The ready stance was a gift from the Starsong. He observes, and that is a gift he has made his own.

"Ember, can you give her a hand with whatever this is? I've got your backs."

When the time is right, a sheep and a blade will be where they need to be.

Return to Thellamie

In the breath before the grand reveal, a single, magical word is spoken.

”Pardon?!”

And then - clap! Fwhoosh! Fwhoosh! Fwhoooooooosh!

Hazel rises to his feet, blue-white light glittering in his wide eyes. How did…? Where did…? For him? He can really? This is all for him? He looks down one rack, then looks the other way, then back again, but no, it’s the same either way. There’s no end to the line of clothes swaying on the rack in a dazzling rainbow of colors. They stretch far, far into the distance, past where he was pretty sure a wall used to be, vanishing into a blueish, white glow. If he stares long enough, he can start to make out little shapes in the flames, and their capering dances make his head a touch giggly. Like, like hiking in the mountains and stepping out onto a view so incredible, the only thing you can do is laugh in awe and amazement.

But magic aside, he has to pick out an outfit? One outfit, from all this? Where’s he even supposed to start? Do you pick up clothing this nice like normal clothes, or do you just pick them up by the hanger, or-

Her voice shakes the room, and he jumps with a startled yelp. No thank you ma’am, he does not want to be on a leash by morning! He would like zero leashes for the foreseeable future! See how much he’s nodding agreement! Okay! Yes! He’s-

“HeY!!!”

-stumbling out of swat range?! Abwughbhg?! Why?! Why was spanks a thing that could happen! What is the meaning of this! Explain, foxgirls! Explain!

no seli winking is not an explanation aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

He scampers into the nearest clothes rack. For hiding. For defense. For a place where the world makes a little more sense. For a place to bury his face in his hands and let out a long, muffled squeak, like a teakettle trying to keep a secret. But there was no time for letting off steam. They were on the clock. Focus, Hazel, focus! You gotta pick out a disguise! Quick! He looks around him, and. Huh.

Huh.

He peeks out of the clothes rack, but no, the nice lady is already leading Keli and Seli away, paying him no further mind. There’s been no more claps, or magical fwooshes, or anything. So how is it that the one clothes rack he happened to stumble into just so happened to have something so…so possibly wearable?

Could this also be a sort of magic?

Whoever she is, she must be an awfully clever magic…person. (Wizard didn’t sound right, sorceress was a little better, but still didn’t feel impressive enough, you know?)

Anyway! To the changing booth. With an armful of possibilities.

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

Huh.

Huuuuuuuuuuh.

You know.

He didn’t?

He didn’t hate it, actually?

It’s not something he’d usually wear, for sure. As if he ever thought of wearing - what is this, silk? Whatever it is, it’s really soft. Not in a cozy blanket sort of way. Smoother than that. Fancier than that. Quite a bit nicer than that.

The pants remind him of his jeans back home; they’re loose, and he can squat and stretch easy as pie in them. But where his jeans were a bit baggy, these wore their extra fabric in graceful, flowing arcs, down to his ankles. When he walked back and forth in front of the mirror, they had a sort of swishful bounce to them, trailing his own motions. He wasn’t sure if he tied the sash/belt/thing correctly, but it was a lot fancier than his own worn belt, and the fabric didn’t dig into him when he sat or bent down.

The shirt. The shirt had started on thin ice. Yes, it fit him tighter than any t-shirt he’d ever worn, somehow without feeling too tight. Yes, the material was nice and comfy against his chest and back. But the stomach. The stomach was. Hrm. Not. Flattering. Something looser would hide that a lot better.

But then he’d put on the, what was it called, a capelet? A capelet atop his shoulders, draped over his arms and chest. He got the sash belt figured out. And you know what? With everything put together? His tummy didn’t seem quite so bad. The loose fluttering of the capelet drew his eyes a little higher, obscured the unflattering sides just the right amount. And the sash, with its pattern of woven snake tails, was so eye-catching that he couldn’t notice his own waist properly.

Now, he didn’t know anything about this sort of fashion. Taking another look at it, he was positive he’d picked out at least one devastating fashion faux pas. But taking a third look at it, as he walked back and forth, and saw his pant legs swishing, saw the capelet fluttering, felt the smooth, cool fabric brushing against his skin, well, maybe he was pretty close to alright?

Maybe.

Possibly.

Well. One of the three of them would tell him if he was making a fool of himself, right? He’d have to ask about something to hide the horns anyway.

Nothing else for it.

They didn’t have much time.

Taking a deep, deep breath, Hazel Valentine Fletcher nudged the curtain back, and hesitantly left the safety of the booth.

Return to Thellamie

It’s instinctive, the holding still. Generally speaking, if somebody yanks you to the ground and claps their hands over your eyes and mouth, they probably have a pretty good reason for doing so, and most of those reasons call for holding very still and taking stock of the situation. The surprised “Mrmph!” is also instinctive. That can’t be useful for most of those reasons, but he’s two for two now, so it seems rather hard to keep from doing. The quiet that follows when the hands are removed is just good sense.

Yuki told him a lot about Thellamie. Whatever she didn’t tell him first, he was bound to ask about eventually. He knows about the stars in the sky and a star on the ground. He knows about maid knights, paladins, tricksters, magicians, singers, dancers, and quite a few people between. He knows about the Outside, portal stones, and a few things about the moon.

He doesn’t know who she is. He feels who she is. Which isn’t as helpful as a name in some circumstances, but not this one. He feels he should keep kneeling until she says it’s alright to get up. He feels he should take questions of how she got her and what’s going on, and tuck them someplace it won’t be a bother to her. He feels he shouldn’t question why she would trouble to help him either. As a matter of fact, he feels he shouldn’t say a word until she’s done speaking her piece, and until then he should sit here and look at her politely. Look at her suitably impressed-ly? Would she be offended by a quiet “wow?” Maybe hold off on that. Just look, for now. Look at…himself.

But the trick with feeling small is that thoughts can be as large as ever. As she speaks, a few old ones make themselves heard.

That's not him. The voice is the same. The height is probably the same. The face, uncertain. The antlers, he doesn't know them well enough to say. His chest isn't flat, toned, perfectly shaped, perfectly groomed, perfectly lean. His chest shouldn't be shown. He wouldn't wear a robe that low, and definitely not one so bright. On second thought, no, he wouldn't have that face either. Not a face so smoothed with makeup and eyeshadow framing his lashes. He - and that's just it; he's him. Ugly. Disgusting. Common. Trash.

They aren't him. They're close enough to see him. Far enough to be something and someone else.

"We do, ma'am," and it is ma'am. Of course it’s ma’am, for her. (Yukisearth, that’s home, right?) "We've got both those things. It's just that I haven’t ever looked like that in a mirror before. Which, it’s not to say it’s wrong, no. Nobody at the ceremony got close enough to get a good look at me, so they don’t know much beyond a boy with glowing antlers. Honestly, you’re probably what they’re expecting a Golden Fawn to look like, so, if you wanted to lead them off the trail, this should work better."

Maybe they’d really want to chase a prize like her.

Breathless Dead

Dolce holds the single sheet of paper with both hands. One on the upper-left, one on the lower-right, held at the correct distance to hold the scrap perfectly in tension. You don't hold important documents in the center. There you must press your thumbs into the document until it turns concave. The line between readability and a crease is knife-thin. Dolce does not crease the paper. Dolce does not wrinkle the paper. Dolce does not permit his breath to rustle the paper.

"Okay." Dolce says with his mouth.

Dolce turns in one step. Five steps, equal in distance, take him to his desk. He picks up his pen.

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

Vasilly had a wonderful voice. Glaive or tongue, do not ask him which she was more skilled with. To say that she could fill a room with her voice would be a gross understatement. Let him walk from one corner to the other, let him duck into cupboards or rifle through closets, let him go where he will and do what he will, her words would find him all the same. Let her breath caress his ear. Let her speak to the wind. It made no difference. Here she purrs, stretching luxuriously over her syllables. Dol~ce. How she tastes each sound. Here she runs, now here, now there, and back, and again, and again, and how could you keep from dancing to her rhythm? Hiding was pointless. She did not need to see you to know she had led you precisely where she meant to. Her next swipe would tap your guard where you cannot expect it. Her next feint would wind you up. One breath of silence, the illusion of safety, a precious chance to melt.

When he sank into her jaws, it was a formality. Her voice had already swallowed him whole.

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

Dolce stretches. He reaches for a fifth sheet of paper. His pen resumes the work.

"Please, do not feel as though you must stay on my account." He speaks without looking up. "This may take some time, but I will send word when I'm finished. I know how busy you are."

An invitation to step inside is noticeably absent. 20022 had to put the fruit bowl on the floor to hand him the paper.

Return to Thellamie

Hazel runs with all his might in the wrong direction.

He feels it, in the impact that runs through his body with each bounding step. The faint burn in his thighs and side that’s going to get much worse as soon as he really stops. He can’t hide it, the crack in his voice when he turns, just a smidge, to call back over his shoulder,

”I’m sorry!”

Later on, the feelings will have space to bloom into messy, complicated thoughts. But that’s later. Now, in the chase, there’s only time for simple. Direct. So simple, he hasn’t got the words all sorted out yet. It’s just things he knows. Things like…

The huntresses are the ones chasing him. The guards are the ones helping him. They, and Yuki, and Princess Sulochana (surely, obviously) could help him even more, if he could just get to the Viperiat. There’s danger that way. There’s people that way. Keli and Seli aren’t taking him that way. They can’t know everything he knows. Two people saw everything that happened. One of them is snoozing atop her terrace. He’s the only one left. And what is he saying?

“I think the guards are trying to help! There’s a bunch of Serigalamu hunters, they’re the ones after me! The guards were holding them back!”

And they’re running further and further away from the Viperiat.

It’ll get him out of the city. It’s not a bad idea.

It’s not the right way to go either.

Return to Thellamie

Oh no, had he forgotten?! It was, well, oh no, he hadn’t thought, but, was that true? Seeing them now, there’s an awful lack of surprise, like he expected them to be fine the whole time. There’s a lot of complex mathematics in that thought, flashes of a big misunderstanding sorted out multiplied by the inevitability of foxgirl escapes, to the power of everyone having bigger problems. But he’d also thought going down into Purnima’s house meant danger, so, that meant-

Ah. A tug at his arm. She wasn’t going to let go, huh.

That. Mghh.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t able to, there was a lot going on, and,” he shook his head, ears flopping a half step behind. “And. There’s no time to explain everything, and, there’s no. I know you’re. I think you’re. This really. This isn’t. Can we please.” He takes a breath because he’s got no more air left to keep trying to talk. Flushing. Not blushing. Not this time. “Please. I have to get out of Crevas before I ruin this festival for anyone else. I’m sorry. I. Can. I can ask Yuki to cover any previous expenses.” A howl sounds. Closer, now. His foot thumps anxious on the street. “It’s okay if you run now. But. Could. You could. Could you. You two. Run, good, and. And.”

And the haze in his head can only permit so much.

Keli!

You said he could be a princess someday.

There’s no smile on his face anymore. His face is mussed with sweat and dust. The voice that squeaked now cracks with the effort to ask the question his whole heart screams. He is so hopelessly out of his depth, and his only thought is to keep from being a bother to anyone, not least of all you and your sister.

He holds that purse like it’s the most precious thing in all of Thellamie.

You hold his trembling wrist.

You said he could be a princess someday.

What do you see today?

[Rolling to Entice Keli: 4 + 2 - 1 = 5, but that upgrades to a mixed beat because of Women Want Me, Fish Fear Me]

Breathless Dead

It is still some time before the engagement begins in earnest. The Biomancers are hard at work around the clock, and Dolce is hard at work during normal business hours, because if lack of sleep causes a lapse in the dining service disaster will ensue.

“My…temporary nemesis, will not let me stray far once we find them. I think, if I were in his shoes, it would be far easier to simply restrict my movements and actions rather than try to figure out what I was doing. He will certainly not let me leave the ship; I can think of no excuse that he would accept. Nor is there any function of the Service that could compel him to let me go at such a critical moment.”

Thus, there will be no lapse in the dining service. His order forms are rerouted the moment they leave his desk, helpfully filtered through several stages of quality checking for overtaxed supplies, inventory management, and disagreeable menu items. Precisely eight hours after he attends to his duties, he will be given an invitation to dine with 20022, after which they will take a refreshing stroll back to his quarters. No doors or desks are locked. He is an honorary member of the Service in honorary good standing, and so, to lock him away would be unthinkable. It is a testament to 20022’s diligence and good planning that he still has so many resources to spend on looking after his junior.

“That said, he has no way of knowing if I even want to leave. His authority ends at my office, as it were. To pry into my doings, that would require time, paperwork, and a reasonable suspicion that could stand up to outside scrutiny. He will be much too busy for that. Without any way of knowing for sure, I think he will settle for waiting, and watching for the slightest clue of mischief. Should he spot one, he may make my life rather difficult.”

Dolce’s evenings are spent as peacefully as they can, under the circumstances. He reads. He writes letters. He chats with Sanalessa over herbal teas, to what end, no one really knows for sure, but he is quite consistent about asking for his tea things in the evening. It is important to keep close tabs on such a dangerous resource, isn’t it?

“Since we do very badly want to leave, I think it would be best if it was not my idea.”

Tonight, someone knocks at the door.

There is the chink of cup meeting saucer. A rustle of wool and papers. A click. Dolce opens the door wide.

“Hello? Oh, it’s you-”

They are all the words he’s allowed.

Return to Thellamie

This is the biggest Birstake in the history of birds, everywhere.

Him? The Golden Fawn? No, sorry, he’s Hazel. From Earth. You’ve probably never heard of him. Which makes a lot of sense why you might not realize he’s not all that, prophetically speaking. Wait, was this actually a case of mistaken identity? Was there supposed to be a different deerboy getting a wet crow to the antlers, but he’s here instead and now a prophecy’s been ruined forever by wrong place wrong time?

That’s a neat thought. He’ll come back to it later, there are more important things happening right now, like aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

He makes an undignified scramble out of the now-loose coils, and the only mercy is that nobody can clearly see this part. It’s like trying to crawl around in a bouncy castle; no purchase anywhere, and every other step the ground gives way and you go bum over teakettle. When at last he finds solid ground again, it’s another fumble to tug the sash down, and get the gag out of his mouth. Patooie! Which is almost certainly enough time for a wolfgirl to climb a tower and be about to pounce on him. Better peek so he at least sees his doom coming for him.

On the plus side, he’s not immediately captured, or peppered with heart-arrows. Downside, the huntresses won’t be stymied by the city guard forever, and one or both of those things will surely follow. Worst of all, neither of those facts have really sunken in, as each fresh scream sends his heart to yet-unexplored depths of mud. All this, because he got caught. Because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Because-

“Better get going! Awk! Awk!”

“Yes! Yes! I know! I’m going!”

“Eh, doesn’t look like it!”

“It’s a work in progress!”

Right. Okay. Feel sad later, make an escape now. Escape to where, exactly? Down was no good, down had at least two snakes, that is two too many. The plaza? No, no, no, plaza is all kinds of bad. And his thoughts might’ve continued on these pathways until time and awks forced him to one bad decision or the other. But starlight does funny things to a fellow, especially one who’s never had so much as a sip, and the Crow of Destiny hadn’t asked before giving him a whole bird-ful. As his eyes danced beneath the glow of his antlers, they saw fascinating possibilities in a rope tied to the tall tower, and the sparkly light jacket that Purnima had dropped in her sudden snooze…

Hunters!

As your heartblades sing and dance with the city guard’s, there’s a glimmer of movement up above. Sorry, scratch that, there’s a whole dazzle of movement up above.

“Hey!!!!”

With a novel battle cry, the Golden Fawn wraps a spangly bit of fabric around a rope holding up some of the festival banners, the light from his antlers now positively radiant, and-

”Aughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!”

-well, he doesn’t particularly zip on down, there’s far too much friction, and it’s a struggle to get past the banners without getting completely tangled up in them, but he does stagger his way down quite admirably.

“Stop fighting! I’m running away now!”

“...please don’t chase me!”

Then he’s falling the last few feet, windmilling his arms wildly to keep from eating pavement, and he’s off at a bouncing run to the far end of the plaza and the city beyond it. Away from the crowds, away from the festival, away from anything that he could possibly put between himself and the pack. Nothing but winding streets, the dark of night, and his glowing antlers.

Well. Perhaps you’ll be sporting and fulfill one of those requests?

[Rolling to Defy Disaster (Grace) to protect the crowds, risking his own safety, taking -1 from Women Want Me, Fish Fear Me: 1 + 3 + 2 - 1 = 5. Oops!]