TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

Ember!

-jingle jingle jingle-

Picture a shark’s fin cutting through the surface as it approaches its next meal. Or a silly pup’s ears poking up out of a cornfield, scooting back and forth as they make their stealthy sneaky approach.

-jingle jingle jingle-

Your pack is all around you. There is much work to be done, and little time to do it, but you are Daughters of Ceron, one and all. You move as one. You work as one. You perform as one. The miracle will be done, and it will be done on time. Over the hustle and bustle of hundreds of wolves, that delicate sound floats above them all.

-jingle jingle jingle-

It bumbles along, neither hurried nor lazy. It weaves through the pack, snaking a route through the tightest of openings without missing a step. The only time it slows is when a passing wolf bends low and it must dance beneath their fingers.

-jinglejinglejinglejinglejingle!-

But not for long. Never for long. It always keeps moving. Inexorably, obediently,

-jingle jingle fwump!-

Back to you.

A mass of fluffy curls (politely!) places itself in your waiting hand, ringed by a crown of flowers, as if to say, “Here! Here! This is where your hand goes!” There’s no struggling bleats. His breathing is steady and sure. His head is still beneath your hand.

“I finished the letter, and sent it straight to Vasilia. She knows when and where to expect us.”

It was his idea. You could have sent the invitation yourself, but what better way to assure Vasilia that everything was good than a letter from her beloved’s own hand? A pity to have your precious treasure put himself to such pains, but for love, an exception could be made. And he asked so, so eagerly.

Besides. You’ll make it up to him soon enough, won’t you?

He’s doing such a good job of not looking where the tailors are hard at work. Even with a potent rush of nerves and excitement coursing through him. He wouldn’t dare ruin the surprise.

Return to Thellamie

In an empty field back on Earth, tucked away off the beaten path in the woods, there is an old stump, and there is a patch of clover. If he was standing by the clover, and Yuki was farther than the stump, he was safe. If she was any closer, and he wasn’t ready, she’d get him. It’s a distance he’s gotten quite familiar with. It took him an awful lot of afternoons getting got to get acquainted with it.

The autumn lady’s hand reaches out. Past the stump.

Cutie’s hand closes around the outline of a hilt. In one motion - like he practiced! - he draws forth the outline of a sword, and doesn’t swing it wide and dramatic-like, but remembers to stop when it’s properly centered. When he could see her through the blade.(1)

Yuki had said duels were scary. Sometimes a good scary! Sometimes not. As she’d told him of more and more of her adventures, he only now realized he’d forgotten to ask if they ever got *less* scary. Had her stomach tied itself in knots before she jumped into action just a minute ago?

“Woop!”

And that’s all the time he has.

He blocks low to ward off the lunge as he takes a half-leap back. Thank you, Yuki, for picking a sword that did lunges for him to practice against. Thank you, Yuki, for letting him practice with you long enough for him to ignore the instinct to keep running away from the scary venom sword. (Thank you, Yuki, for letting him hear stories of a brave knight-in-training, who stood her ground and fought for her friends.) Though the thanks will have to come later. Right now he’s trying very hard to keep breathing.

Cutie plants his feet, swipes back, and only yelps a little bit as he barely catches her counterstroke. “To be faIR! Your knights -eep!- are breaking everything,” sidestep, lean, but back to the center. “And hurting people badlYYY,” he can’t get pushed back. Hold his ground. “And putt-woah putting all our guests -woop! hup!- in danger,” swing when he can. Remember to make her defend too. “and you're trying to king, kidnap, king and kidnap me!”

A clang, a feint, a twist, and their swords lock, striving to push the other back.

“I think those are some pretty good reasons to be at leastalittledifficult!”

A knight of Kel would beat her. Cutie can at least hold her here. He has to.

[Rolling to Defy Disaster with Daring, like Yuki would. Cutie is risking his own composure, remembering the duel and forgetting the heart: 4 + 3 + 0 = 7]

(1) - Cutie's Heartblade

He and Yuki spent a good while staring baffled at his heartblade when he first drew it, and then spent twice as long fiddling with it to see how it worked. Or, more accurately, that it was even there in the first place. He could feel the hilt in his hands, and there was *some* kind of weight to the blade, but all they could see was a neon outline of dancing rainbow colors. Clear enough to spot where the sword was and wasn’t, not so bright as to be a distraction or a flashlight. It was like somebody had modded the sword out and left in the visual effects.

He’d thought it was maybe, like, a temporary sword? Something to use while Thellamie is still figuring out what sort of heartblade to give you? But, no, Yuki hadn’t had a heartblade like that when she got here last time.

Heartblades were supposed to be a reflection of, well, your heart. And he had no earthly (Thellamiey?) idea what this one was supposed to reflect. This, this, empty space where a sword should be.

Breathless Dead

Good.

He is doing good.

Everything is good.

Good. Good. Good.

The individual breaths of the pack melt into a warm, hazy cloud. There is pressure that holds fast, pressure that scratches gently, pressure that drifts luxuriously across him, and there is only a memory of hands. One voice speaks of performance. One voice continues its litany of whispered honey. Many voices speak, of wool, of collars, of peace, of treasure.

Dolce does not consider which is which. There is nothing he needs to mind. There is no task or protocol he needs to remember. There is no one he must help. They’re all good. He’s good. This, is good. Good. Good. The worries are answered and disassembled before they can be thought.

He is completely limp, floating in darkness, borne along in a sea of wolves. To where, from whence, he cannot say, and doesn’t bother remembering. There is a click. There is a pressure that lingers around his neck. Soft, lovely, not so tight to squeeze, not so loose he can forget, so good nestled in his wool.

There is a jingle.

A beautiful, delicate note, ringing bright in the rumbling sea. And the sea takes notice of it. The note mingles with whispers, and the whispers bring with them fond nuzzles and playful touch. So cute. So lovely. So pretty.

Imagine. In the darkness. Beyond the darkness. Imagine that Vasillia…that Mistress Vasilia might hear this note too.

Poor Dolce’s heart aches to bursting, and he must, and he must say,

”Yes.”

Good.

Return to Thellamie

Cutie remembers to hold his breath.

…after the first breath.

It’s not as bad this time? His head does feel a little dizzy. The warm coils, the relief of Alcideo’s escape, they’re suddenly so, so tempting to sink into. And he’s distractedly aware every time the lady in the autumn dress takes an elegant step closer. But he can still think. He can remember to keep holding his breath. He can piece together that a faint whiff from far away must not be as bad as getting the full blast up close. He can see what’s going to happen if this Nagi has to fight two on one.

(Well. Nothing for it, then. Just one step in front of the other, Hazel.)

“Excuse me, could you please let me go? I can help.” He spends his stored breath to free himself. He doesn’t take another just yet. Cutie is a professional of Cafe la Faune. Never late to a shift, can’t be kept down by the odd spilled drink. With a one and a two and a zip and a bop bop bop, off goes his shirt, on goes his vest, and it does take him a little longer to remember how to properly tie a shirt into an impromptu mask. Then, he breaths again. And his head only stays a little bit dizzy. “I think her perfume does something if you smell it too much. It made me feel really loopy when she grabbed me. This seems to be helping?”

Funny. He’d asked for this shirt on day one. Some of the other hosts went about their jobs with only the vest and the very very very short shorts, but thank everything that wasn’t a requirement. Miss Yaz had told him so, told him that he was doing just as good a job in a shirt and vest. That he didn’t need to be that daring to make the customers happy. He wasn’t sure there was enough encouragement in the world that would make him wear that to work.

He stepped behind the Nagi, and took up his post. Between her and the autumn lady.

Well it’s a good thing he’s not working right now, isn’t it? If there was supposed to be a uniform for dueling, then his got lost in the mail.

“If you go ahead, I’ll hold her off as best as I can. Maybe try and get some distance too? I think that’ll help your head. Miss Yaz - I mean, the Nagi with the bow, is a friend too, she should back you up.”

Another crash of magical arrow meeting magical hammer.

“I practiced a bit with Yuki, no worries. If we’ve got them outnumbered, we might as well take advantage of it, right?”

He hopes that’s a good enough reason for the plan to be a good one. He can’t think of a better one. Squinting into the light, he puts one foot back, holds his hand ready, and focuses on the silhouette before him.

“Could you please just leave, then? I’m pretty sure nobody would get hurt that way.” His wrist itches. Now is probably a bad time to scratch it. “And, besides, I’m not really interested in being King? Or transforming anything? Really, it’s neat enough to be here.”

Thank goodness he practiced talking with Yuki while practicing with Yuki.

Breathless Dead

The world slips into soft, fluffy darkness.

He only just remembers to breathe.

Did you know, there’s a disadvantage to all this wool? Yes, it’s one of the softest, most luxurious materials around. Yes, it’s so, so pleasant to brush, for him and the brusher. Yes, in a pinch, it does quite well at cushioning falls and various household accidents, and warning him when he’s perilously close to bumping his head on a table. And that’s the problem. In the darkness, what’s the difference between the thick coils of a snake and the powerful arms of a wolf? There’s only muffled pressure. There’s only being held fast on every side, from every side. It gets harder and harder to pick out the hissing breaths of the Azura from the swelling tide of panting engulfing him. He’s surrounded. By everyone and everything. And he can hardly tremble he’s held so firmly.

“Lie back, little prince.~”

…sorry, what was that? Who was that? With the voice like molten chocolate? They were talking to him, because there wasn’t anyone else they could be talking to, and it was his ear that they breathed their whispers into. That. Hrm. Had Ember told them something ahead of time, without telling him? Or was this how they treated all their…captives. Captives. He is a captive. Not prey.

While these thoughts occupy his mind, his body obeys on instinct. Not that he can do much moving. But he can go limp. He can very easily go limp.

“Gooood. Good sheep. Brave, bold, daring sheep, to give himself willingly to the Wolves of Ceron.”

He’s…floating? He’s moving? It’s impossible to tell, beyond how long it’s been since he’s touched solid ground. There’s, he feels points of pressure, everywhere, always in motion. Dozens of hands holding him up, brushing through thick curls, getting ohhhhhh, getting that one spot behind his ear, yes, yes, oh yes. Flows of lean muscle covered in short, soft fur caress his face, his limbs, and weren’t those in scales a moment ago? He’s squeezed against soft pillows, invited to sink, sink, sink in so deep…

It makes it very hard to get his thoughts together enough to say, “excuse me, I, should warn you, just in case, I’m not really-”

The hands find his chin.

“Shhhhhhh.”

And they scratch, and they pet, and they play, until properly articulate speech becomes. Difficult.

“Relaaaaax. You’re being so, so good for us.”

Oh. Ohhhh.

See. He had thought something about this was familiar.

Vasilly called him treasure too.

“All you need to say is ‘too much’ or ‘yes.’ It would be a stain on our legend if such treasure came to harm in our hands.”

She had fur like that. She had muscles like that. She held him like that, so tightly he had no hope of escaping. She loved squeezing him silly. She loved to see

to…t-to see…

A vision rises from the darkness. Vasilia rises from the darkness. Perched upon her throne, glorious in her finery, she rises above, and all she sees is under her dominion. And what does she see before her but the famed Ceronians, lavishing such care upon her precious Dolce in her honor. See the curl of her lips, and know her approval! Hear the rumble in her chest, and know her delight!

It. It was quite. Hot. With, so many, around. Oh. Goodness.

“Leave alllllll the rest to us. We know how to treat royalty, don’t we, little prince?~”

“Y…yes…”

Return to Thellamie

Cutie breaks the surface, and gasps his first clean breath in what must’ve been hours.

He misses drowning.

The sounds. A startled shout, fast-fading. A heavy thud. A cough. A gasp. The sound of dozens, hundreds of people crying out and fighting to escape somewhere, anywhere. (It was farther away last time. This close, he can make out the waves of panic. He can hear the individual screams.) Something shatters, splinters, and he can’t turn to look, and he’s afraid to look, and his imagination fills in the gaps.

How? How did this happen? He was just bringing out a plate of cinnamon rolls. He only had a few minutes left in his shift. A lady, a pretty lady was smiling and laughing with him, and he can’t tell how much his heart is racing or fluttering. It’s all gone wrong. It’s all gone so, so wrong. There’s smoke. There’s fighting. There’s screaming. No, roaring.

Yuki?!

Racing. His heart is definitely racing. It’s not making them leave any faster. It doesn’t seem much to care.

She’s different. This isn’t like when she misses the dodge roll and the boss only had a sliver of health left. She. She’s angry. He’s never heard her so angry. He still can’t turn to look, but he can hear as well as ever, and a hundred AMVs tell him what she, what Yuki must look like right now. What she could look like. (The tray? No. No. It’s too far away. Can’t go back for it. Maybe make her another treat afterwards. Say something now. Now. She needs you to say something. She needs you to be there for her. Do it. Talk. Say something. She needs you. She needs you. You have to say something. Say something. You need to. You have to.)

Cutie is still. Cutie is staring at scales. Cutie is silent.

Walls of coils press in on all sides, gently, as they carry him away. Hugging him close. Shielding him from. All this. Behind them an axe sings and a leopard growls, and they know Yuki is still on her feet and fighting.

Cutie snuggles in deeper. Even though he doesn’t deserve it. It’s just. Instinctive. The coils. They’d do it for anybody.

And then they stop.

And his heart freezes.

(Say something. You have to.)

“‘Deo, please.” He’s fighting to keep his voice from cracking. He’s fighting to keep his eyes dry. “You’ve got to get out of here. Get everyone in the cafe out of here. Through the back halls if you have to, just get them as far away as you can. I,” There’s a thousand things to say. There’s no time to say anything. There’s no room to get it wrong. “I’m sorry. Tell Miss Yaz it’s not her fault. I’m going to be okay. I promise. The one with the axe?” Be strong, Cutie. Be strong like her. “That’s Yuki Edogawa. She’s my friend.”

(He doesn’t deserve this. Not him.)

“Just, please, Deo. Go. I’ll be okay.”

Breathless Dead

This sure is an awful long time to take his measurements.

That’s the thought he’s holding onto with all his rapidly-draining might. It’s just a measuring session. She’s just taking his measurements. Once she has his measurements, she’ll let him go. He just needs to. Hold on until. Until she’s done.

“Just obey.”

Thinking. Thinking is a relatively new development. How new? How long since, since…since he could hear himself think?

Praying. That’s what he’ll do when he’s done. When she’s done. Taking his measurements. He’ll find a god and thank them. Maybe Hestia? Is she in charge of waking up? Or is this, could it, does it quite qualify as, maybe, it’s a Hera? Good. Okay. Hera. Hera has the colorful pretty peacock dresses. Hera has the colorful pretty peacock dresses. Peacock feathers are so pretty, right? They’re so pretty. He can picture them right now. He’s going to keep picturing them. If he’s thinking of colors then it must be her colors. If he’s remembering a pattern it’s got to be her feathers. It’s got to be her. It’s just got to be her. She’s why he’s awake at a measuring session. Not. Not presented to Vasilly. Yet.

“You are an excellent servitor.”

The dressing room. He’s in a dressing room. There’s a dressing room outside of these coils. Dolce is in a dressing room, getting his measurements taken. He is not. He is. Not. Well. He is probably pretty good. She’d say he was excellent. But. He is not. He is.

Dolce is an excellent Dolce.

“Let me see your eyes.”

Dolce is not going to. Show anyone, because, he’s, trying very hard to look at the scale patterns. Yes. Yes. It’s quite something, isn’t it? Little marks. How do they stay the same distance apart? When the coils. When the muscles. Squeeeeeeeeeeze-! And relax? No, yes, yes, those are. Mgh. She is. Very good. With her nails. And his cheeks. And ears. He’s, no, he still needs to study, scales. He - oh, ohhhhhh, yes, that’s a good spot-

“A good sheep deserves a good rest.~”

Darkness. Fluttering closed. Just for a moment. Then. Echoing. Colors. Swirling. Swaying. Combining and reforming in endless fractal patterns and he’s so close to figuring it all out if he just looks a little deeper no no no no no no bad bad haa! Haa! Haaaaaaaaa-!

It’s. Really hard. To hyperventilate. When walls of muscle are forcing you to take long, deep breaths. Squeezing him empty with each exhale. And again. And again. And again. And again. Fifteen scales. And again. Between those lines. How many. And again. H-how. The next. One. And again. Two. Three. Four…again…and again…

“Baa?”

Ember…?

Would you…mind moving…? He was almost, maybe, halfway to halfway…?

Ember?

Ceronians?

Ember?!

“Aa…a…admiral hat. Y-yes. Quite. Of course.”

His voice is squeezed as small as it can be. By the rasping breaths all around him. By the glint of fangs in his periphery. By a dozen paws running through his curls, perilously close to skin. There’s a pinprick every time one of them slips. He braces for a bite that never comes. Every time. He closes his eyes, but the colors are gone. The patterns are gone. He can think, and he can hear every Ceronian circling in search of a spot of exposed wool. Waiting. Watching.

It was easier when he couldn’t think.

Dolce is sitting still, so still, oh so obediently still. There will be hats, there will be coats, there will be outfits of whatever shape and size they wish to dress him in, whether he likes it or not. The wolves of Ceron will fight over him, or they will fight over the ship. His opinion on the matter is immaterial. So long as they believe he can be won.

There are interesting bruises on display, and they will be noticed later. He is looking into Ember’s eyes. He is hurling himself into Ember’s eyes. Nowhere else is safe to look.

Once she has his measurements, she’ll let him go.

He just needs to. Hold on until. Until she’s done.

Return to Thellamie

Oh. O-oh. Oh. Oh. Ohm. Hum. Hmr. Oh. Ah. Um. Oh. oh.

It

It’s, okay, um

Okay. So. It turns out? Voices like that. Hit a little. Different, when they’re pointed at you. Directly at you. For you.

Somebody really should stop this room from swaying. That feels like a safety hazard?

He opens his mouth. He closes his mouth. There were supposed to be words in between. There didn’t seem to be any? That’s weird. He should try again. No? Still nothing? That’s no good. Try again. Better, this time.

“I…I don’tt…”

Whoops that’s all he can say because she’s laughing again, she’s laughing again, and it’s not a mean laugh, it’s, gosh, it’s, why is he smiling too?! Gosh! Laughing! Happy laughing? With him?! And it is not helping the whole, the whole, thinking straight, thing, which is very important because, because she knows he’s the Golden Faun, and that means she is hunting him. He is being hunted, right now. And. And. So he needs to take a deep breath and ohhhh nno no no no bad wait oh no the perfume’s so much stronger nowwwwwwngnghghhghh come on come on come on he-

Well.

Hrm.

He seems to be completely surrounded by coils now.

Neat.

Cutie does not scream. Cutie does not yelp. Cutie does not look at the colorful and elegant Nagi who is coiled all around him and squeezing him tight until the room stops swaying and holding a heartblade to this other pretty lady’s chin in his defense. Nope. He does not do a one of those things. You see, he is a very sensible fellow, and a sensible fellow would, in a sticky situation like this, draw his heartblade and join the fight.

He just has to-

If he could-

With a little wiggling he surely-

And a tug and a two and a-

“Um. Shouldn’t I have my arms free for this? Anyone?”

He speaks at a very sensible volume. Hopefully somebody heard it.

Breathless Dead

Blink. Blink.

Sorry, did he hear you correctly?

Ah. Hrm. He did.

Wolves competing in pampering him, to make Vasilia happy. Wolves pampering him. Competing, in pampering him. To make Vasilia happy? Wolves.

”That certainly is an idea.”

Of everyone in Beri, he did not have to wonder what a life under Ceronian rule would’ve been like. He’s already lived it. Close enough, anyway.

They watched in the kitchens. They watched in the gardens. They appeared around corners when you least expected it. Gasp. Halt. Let your tray unbalance. They broke the silence so thoroughly you’d feel its jagged edges tomorrow. No hiding from their noses. No outrunning their legs.

No mercy.

Which is as far as the fight or flight goes before waves of smooth muscle squeeze in from all sides, and a tantalizing snack gently floats to his lips. The discussions are put on hold, by order of the ship’s acting chief authority. The only sounds permitted are quiet munching and soft bleating. When they finally return to the matter at hand, he still feels like he’d fall into a jumble of wooly pieces if she let him go. But the barks couldn’t quite reach him now. Dyssia had piled up an awful lot of coils and crackers against them.

”There would be some. Hurdles, to overcome.” To put it delicately. “They would have to be quiet, for one. Not whisper-quiet, no need to go that far, but no barking, howling, or particularly loud growling. We are acting for the good of the ship, yes, but Vasilia would take quite some convincing to let me suffer a constant headache for the foreseeable future.”

”No, no chasing either. That wouldn’t do. Neither physically trapping nor running to ground. She’d only want me to go with them willingly.”

He pauses. Squirms, as much as he is permitted to.

”She wouldn’t like to share either. If they took liberties with me…” He leaves the thought hanging as he searches for the least distasteful words. “No making out. No groping. No biting.”

”...aside from all that, then, that could work. If they were able to successfully pamper, Vasilia would not need to fake her pleasure. The theory is sound.”

It is an entirely fair and well-reasoned assessment, with the notable exception of his own permission. Which he cannot give, because he has just taken a rather large bite of cracker and cheese, and he will be much occupied with savoring the complex flavors until further notice.

They need a plan. The need is great. Which is why it is worth giving an impossible plan its due consideration. If there is a crumb of a solution to be found, some seed to grow a better idea from, then they will be sorry if they missed it in their haste. But as the plan is, indeed, impossible, then it is not worth considering any further than that. Perhaps another prize? Some other way of garnering Vasilia’s favor that did not throw the whole ship into chaos?

That was the trick, wasn’t it? Ember. Is an exception. And this would be quite easier if that were not the case. If wolves did not need to howl, or hunt, or have, completely. Then they could simply.

They could.

The wolves, could.

A long-sleeping dream stirs. Born to a chef of the Starsong, courting a noble and beautiful lady before he realized it was a courtship. He brought her freshly baked cookies, soothing tea on cold, lonely nights, every recipe he owned or could learn he lavished upon her, and every day the dream grew stronger. But as strong as it was, it held no power against a heart well-loved. Bound in sacred oath, held fast in her arms, he was at peace. All he had to give, he had given her, and it was enough. And so the dream slept. For long years it slept, passing from awareness, until he hardly ever remembered it anymore.

A long-sleeping dream stirs. Of a sheep greeting his beloved dressed in a fine, princely suit, and not his weathered old apron.

“Well. Either way.”

Time is of the essence, no?

“We really ought to ask Vasilia, first.”

And that would be the quickest way to put this whole silly thing to bed.

Return to Thellamie

He’s…cute? Him? Him? With all his everything? Cute?

He’s. Cute!

She says he’s cute!

Why, that just! She’s! Wow! Wow!!!

C’mon, ma’am, stop it! How’s he supposed to hold all this happy and stay professional? He’s trying! He’s trying real hard! But his smile’s melting into a big, wrinkly grin, and, and, he’s shuffling from one foot to the other, and pawing at the ground like a big bashful goober. And. W-wait. No. No.

Noooooooooo aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

It…it does say that on his nameplate! He is Cutie! You said so yourself! Many times! Oh, oh gosh, golly, heck and beans, his tail’s gonna flick right through the ceiling, and it’ll be all your fault, and, he sure hopes you’re ready to live with that! It’s gonna happen! Just you wait!

But maybe. But maybe? She is ready for that? Because her hand. (Hazel.) It. It’s. Wow. It’s so soft. (She just took your hand.) How can hand be so soft? How can hand so smooth and so lovely against his? (No customer’s touched you this entire time.) And. Oh. Ohhhhhh. Her thumb. Running across his hand and wrist. (She took your hand.) Baaaaaaack. And forth. Baaaaaaack. And forth. So soft. So soothing.

So cool.

(Her body is too cool.)

…bwuh?

What was that noise?

He looks. He turns. He can’t move.

He can’t move.

Oh.

(This is bad. Something’s wrong. He should feel afraid. He should feel alarmed. But he just. Can’t. It’s there. Sort of. But it’s like his head and heart are stuffed with fluff. Thick, smothering, floral fluff. He has to muster an effort even to tug at his trapped wrist. Beyond the fact that this lady has a grip of iron. Even putting his weight into it, she’s not budging an inch.)

“Uh…um. Excuse me…”

(And still. He can’t. Ngh.)

“Ma’am, could you, please-”

(Why can’t he think?)

“Could you just-”

(What’s wrong with him?!)

“Stop!”

There’s a flash of light.

Warm and wild. Laughing and leaping. Rush and ruin. Condensed to a single glimmering moment. Stretching wider than words can hold. They dance, never-ceasing. They dance, never-seen. They dance, through the heart of a Faun, and through the touch of a hand. Swell of wonder! Of joy! Of life! Plant your feet and suffer the tide! Bare your heart that it may be treasured!

Listen! Listen! And hear the song of the stars!

[The mysterious visitor is given a Touch of Nature: 3 + 5 + 2 = 10
-She must answer the question “What do you hope to get from Cutie?” or take a Condition
-She may give Cutie a string on her to clear a Condition]