TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

Gemini and Taurus!

Have you had a chance to try your own cakes? The pack just brought you yours, moments before they all stepped back to give you the spotlight you so richly deserve. It would be a shame if you never got to try them. Go on! This is all for you, after all.

Oh, don’t worry, there’s no need to give such a look at Ember. She’s a clever girl! A good girl! She remembers exactly what you told her, and she is going to follow your instructions to the letter. As soon as this contest is over, and Vasilia declares you the winner, she’ll present the flowers, and not one second earlier. And Dolce?

Dolce is not in his seat anymore.

-jingle jingle jingle-

Dolce is taking both of your hands in his. Giving them a gentle tug forward, to the judges table.

You didn’t hear the bell until he was beside you.

“We can’t be done with the contest before you receive proper credit.” His smile is pure, sweet honey. He squeezes your hands fondly, and he is all warm softness. Just like you made him. “Your legend is important. I would hate if this was left out.”

How did this happen?

You planned this whole thing out. You must have. Where else did this brilliant plan come from, if not your own brilliant brain? But obviously you couldn’t plan for everything. Not with the time and tools you had available to you. It’s only sensible to disregard anything too outlandish, and make your plans around the more likely outcomes.

What are the odds the pack would make something good? Not just passable, but something with a real shot of winning the whole thing? Look, you’ve seen them bicker over the cookpot countless times. You knew what you were getting into, that’s why you blew the competition out of the water in the first two rounds. No matter what you made, you’d still win, so why bother trying? Except now Gemini has had to watch the slow, magical process of a pile of ingredients transform into something incredible, bombarded by ever more delicious scents, and she had to wait for the judges to get their plates before she could be served because that’s the rules and no amount of pouting could change that. And so her mind was on other concerns. And so Taurus was cowed. And so neither of you could silence Ember before it was too late.

“If you have enjoyed yourself today, Mistress Vasilia, then please, give all your thanks to these two. It was them who got the whole pack to work together to this end. It was them who dressed me in robes, in a lovely collar, in beautiful flowers, and sprinkled sparkling gold powder into them. It was them who told me to give them to you when we won, and tell you all about their wonderful smell. It was them who told me how important it was you got to smell these flowers deeply.”

But perhaps most of all, what were the odds that a sheep of the Manor, your captive, would love a pair of wolves so much that he would take them by the hand, all on his own? Without so much as a tremor of fear jingling at his throat to give you warning?

So really, it’s not your fault at all things have turned out this way, and thus, nobody should blame you for anything.

Anyway, you now have the undivided attention of a peerless grav-rail master, you are hemmed in on all other sides by your own pack, and her beloved husband has you both by the hand. Do be careful with him. The last person to cause him distress got an Angelshark for their troubles, and that wouldn’t be good at all.

Return to Thellamie

He’s doomed.

The certainty sinks in, and there’s not room for any other thought. Terror? Panic? They’ll have to wait their turn. He’s busy. Being doomed.

“Hazel!”

That is a dragon. The mouth is as big as him. Are those talons as big as his middle? A huntress is clinging to her horns with all her might, and it’s hardly doing a thing. He can’t imagine his heartblade making a scratch. (So it wouldn’t. That’s just how it works.)

“Someone help Hazel!”

No one’s coming. No one can make it in time. No one can stop the dragon. No one can get the plant lady out of his way. He’s trapped. He’s doomed. They

They’re going to win.

They’re going to take him away. They’re going to claim him. They’re going to tame him. And all of Thellamie is going to rot away. Forever. Because he’s doomed. And no one’s coming.

The dragon blots out the skylight. A single thought bubbles up to the surface.

It’s not fair.

Odd thought to have when you’re about to be eaten by a dragon. But there you have it. It’s not fair.

This Nagi Princess shouldn’t have to keep fighting through so much hurt.

The Chrysthanamum shouldn’t be empty of people and full of rubble.

Yuki shouldn’t have to fix all this.

For him.

For him.

The jaws nearly swallow his vision. Nearly.

One bounding step takes him to the balcony. The second launches him through the air. Behind him, even as the huntress bears down in a shadowed mass of claw and blade, the dragon’s maw is turning to chase him. Probably. He’s not looking. All his focus is on that outstretched hand. His only hope. His only option.

(Just one step in front of the other, Hazel.)

-clap!-

He has to get himself out of this mess, for once. He’s caused enough trouble.

They can sort out the financing later.

Breathless Dead

Ember!

A full piece of paper thwaps you right in the nose.

Or does its level best to. You’re a mighty warrior of Ceron. You may yet catch it.

However this meeting comes about, you find in your hands a piece of paper, and on it, a note written in careful handwriting; how long those cakes should stay in the oven, the right sort of consistency to knead dough, and might he suggest lime as a fine finishing touch? He’s so, so glad that everybody wants to help make this a wonderful event for Vasilia. You all are doing so good. Here, a list, of everyone’s names, and a baking achievement they should be proud of. However it turns out, he knows it’ll be lovely. He knows you all are fighting so hard for your pack. Do your best to make this a good finale.

Signed, Dolce. With a doodle of a sheep, offering you a heart in these trying times.

You look to the judges table. A Summerkind watches all of you, some ancestral memory of pies and home keeping her spellbound as she takes in your work. Iskarot might be asleep? Iskarot might be asleep. His hood is pulled up too high to tell, and it would be rude to ask. Dolce? Why, your captive guest isn’t even looking at you. He’s hard at work, pen scribbling away. He passes his work to Vasilia, who reads it over with a relaxed, unreadable smile. Her only sign of approval is to give the next piece of paper a casual flick of the wrist, and it flies on an impossible dance of gravity to tuck itself behind a Pix’s ear. The next one will go to the Beri delegation. By the excited buzzing from the other groups, their notes are just as encouraging and useful.

But you know. Technically speaking. They don’t really need the help, do they? Perhaps there’s an expert tip or two that they might not have thought of, but all your opponents are comfortable, at ease in their element. The Ceronians are the only ones floundering. Distracted. Lost, and in sore need of guidance to make up the lost ground. You stand to gain much from this aid. Far more than anyone else. But if everyone is getting regular notes, then nobody can complain about unfair treatment. Especially when every note is vetted by the chief judge herself. The playing field is leveled, and no one notices how much ground the wolves are allowed to make up.

Then again, maybe a bake-off is more fun when nobody bombs. When nobody has to present their creation with their fists clenched behind their backs, see their creation through a haze of missed opportunities and shortcomings. The wolves, the foxes, the people of Beri, when was the last time any of them tried the other’s cuisine? This voyage has been long on everybody. A good meal, shared in good company, soothes many hurts.

The beaming sheep slides another note to Vasilia. He starts another before she even finishes reading.

Who can say which is the truth? All you have is a pretty little sheep so full of joy he must keep writing or else he’ll pop. And his beloved mistress basking in the glow of his heart.

Worry not, Ember. Gemini and Taurus will not be disappointed. The bake-off will be

good.

Return to Thellamie

…how long was he out?

(Not “out” in the traditional sense. Just making out. Don’t you forget it.)

It has to have been a long time, right? It took this Nagi Princess a long time to fight off the hammer monster, and nobody else was close enough to reach him, so. It has to have been a long time.

If it wasn’t. Then. Then the Crysthanamum was ruined in the space of a few minutes. That’s how long it took for things to get this bad.

(He doesn’t know how bad it really is. He can’t see much through the smoke and the rubble. The battle downstairs is a mass of rumbling and shouting, and he doesn’t recognize any of the sounds but not a one of them is good. There’s no time to look. Plenty to use his imagination.)

It’s the only thought in his head as he runs alongside the Nagi. It’s bad. It’s getting worse. It’s all because of him. None of this would’ve happened if he’d not been here. He needs to run. He needs to get out of here.

They stop.

Cutie’s hands open and close, halfway between re-drawing his heartblade and balling up in bitter frustration. “Ma’am.” (He knows it’s not going to work.) “Please.” (He’s not able to stop himself.) “Whoever you are, can you just. Let us get out of here?” (Don’t shout. Don’t scowl. Keep it together.) “Before anyone else gets hurt?” (Keep it together Hazel) “Please!!”

A golden light glows overhead.

Over his head, specifically.

Oh no. Not now…

[Rolling to Entice the Khanum, but unfortunately, Women Want Me, Fish Fear Me: 5 + 3 - 2 = 6]

Breathless Dead

Dolce says nothing. Not a word. Not a sound. He sits safe and comfortable in the company of wolves, glowing like the first, fond whispers of sunrise, but without any birdsong to accompany it. Not until Vasilia looses his tongue with a gracious sweep of her hand.

“Perhaps - long, long ago - I thought a poor chef would only deprive a noblewoman of the treatment she was due. I dreamed of a day when I could give you everything I thought you deserved and I could not provide. Perhaps by succeeding there, I would no longer feel as though I was falling short of you.”

“I do not think that anymore. Yet the dream remained.”

He holds his tea with both hands. Still, and thoughtful.

“I grew. We grew. And I think love must grow along with us. Was this the sheep you swore an oath to years ago? True, he might have been living somewhere inside me, hidden away, but neither of us knew it at the time. How could we? You are not the same either, which also is not a criticism. Every day, we wake up to see somebody who is and must be different than the person we first married. How can our oaths be fulfilled unless love, too, is a growing thing?”

“Today, we get to share an old, fond dream. Whether or not the tea we drink here can compare to the tea shared in the late and lonely hours, what does it matter? I would not dare insult your love, Mistress, and suggest there are reserves you have not or could not give to me. But if I am permitted the boldness of a wish?” It is a risk, to speak without waiting. But it is also a performance. One he cannot keep from seeing through. “I would wish, with all my heart, to share this new, old dream with you. Grant me this precious choice and chance, to love and be loved anew.”

Breathless Dead

Five breaths between the invitation, and the first sip.

Their chests rise and fall in patient unison. They breathe the same blend of steeping tea, plum blossoms, and delicate perfumes. They sit in the same hut, sit upright in the same pink glow. They rest in the embrace of the same music. All that differs is the view they savor. For even the love in their eyes is one and the same.

Dolce sits in his same outfit, minus only the boots. Ember herself had removed them, one by one, that her guest of high honor could sit more comfortably. His fan sits safe in his pocket. There is no need for it here. The table, the tea, the breaths, they are barrier enough.

Vasilia wears a suit sharp enough to duel with, elegant enough to dance with. The shirt beneath, closest to her heart, is a creamy white. The color of his wool.

Five breaths end far too soon. Five breaths end precisely on time.

They take the same cups. Slowly, deeply, the same drink dances on their tongues, and leaves behind the same complex, bitter notes.

Dolce sets his cup down. Vasilia sets hers next to his. One breath passes.

“Sweeten my tea for me, darling.”

It is all she need say. He takes her cup, and no finer treasure has this precious sheep held in his soft hands. A ripple in the tea would be as devastating as a crack in the glass. Up, up, up, until the steam tickles his nose. Until he can lean in, and press a kiss to the rim, as gentle and lingering as a butterfly perched on a blossom. One breath. Two breaths. Three breaths. He parts, leaving the faintest memory of pink behind. And then. He. And then he…

Oh, how he wishes, with all his heart, to get up and carry the cup back to her. Let him sit on her lap; there is a perfect spot for him, he knows it. Let him raise the tea to her lips, that her arms may be free. Let her take his softness. Let her take his loveliness. Let her take his flowers. Let her smell them, so deeply, so sweetly! All of this is for her, is hers, let him give it to her at last!

He sets the cup down, precisely where she placed it. Bows his head. Flutters his eyelashes, and smiles with all the sweetness she could ever ask for. “Your tea, Mistress Vasilia.”

No makeup could make his cheeks glow so beautifully.

Return to Thellamie

“Aah-!!”

He doesn’t get a say in the sound. She pulls it from his throat. And he’s not allowed any other words either. He tries. He really, really tries. There’s a question in his eyes, there’s a plea in his wide eyes, but he can’t get it to reach his mouth, stuffed full of flowers and fear. No. She doesn’t allow it.

“Ah! Wh, uh! Mm! Mm!!!”

His gasps for air get faster. His cries drip with desperation, higher and fainter with every. Stinging. Inch. To no avail. She grants him no mercy. She blots out the skylights. She pushes her body atop him until the banister bites through his worn vest. The pain brings clarity. Only enough to taste how thick the air is with her scent. The world shrinks down to a tugging on his head, a biting at his neck, a smothering weight grinding him down, wild eyes, teeth, breath, laughing, laughing

This is the part where running would be a fantastic idea. It has been a long, long time since he had a say in ideas. Legs scrabble at the floor. Arms fight for purchase. He wiggles. He gasps. He is drowning in honey. He. Danger. Pain. Held. Fighting. Helpless. Toy. Plaything. Resist. Trapped. Kissed. Can’t.

Owned.

Darkness.

Drifting.

Lighter.

Lighter?

He opens his eyes.

Is he floating in space, or have his legs gone out on him? How long has he been here? Where’d this Nagi come from? How’s the lady making that awful noise? Why’s she staring at him like that? What was. Any of that?

All good questions. They’ll have to wait. He’s much too preoccupied figuring out which of these arms are his, and he’s got to. He’s, he needs to. Once he finds his hand. He clutches her wrist tight and woahhhhhhhhh everything melts into a shimmer of motion and vertigo and he hits something soft and he wraps his free arm around it or else he’ll tumble over into heaven knows where.

And. And he’s maybe had enough. Tumbling. For now.

“Ha…?”

He looks up. And up. Past the curiously smooth bands of color pressed against him, past the hand holding his, up, up, up a gently swaying curve, past weight and softness, guided by a frame of dark hair, to land at last on a pair of shining, glittering, golden eyes. And the eyes are looking back at him. Stricken with worry.

Ah.

(Okay. Okay. We see what happened here. Now. Say thank you. And apologize. It's the least you can do.)

“Thhh…thankk…” The air’s clearing? The air might be clearing. He’s panting for breath, and each one tastes just a little cleaner than the last. “Thank. Yyyy.”

(You can stop pretending this is difficult. It’s just some words. You know how to talk.)

Right. Right. He sniffs. He swallows. He breathes. “Sso…sorr…” He clings tighter to her waist. Her solid, strong, warm waist. “I, uh, I…I.” She’s holding his hand. His fingers are all tangled and discombobulated, but. She. She’s holding his hand. Tight. “I’m, sh-she, that was.” Scales are so, so nice to rest against. The texture’s, mmm, feels so lovely against his cheek. “I’m, I-I-I…”

(Come on. Say it.)

Cutie gazes up at a Nagi Princess, and she must be a Princess. Why else does she dress so pretty? How else could she be so strong, and so kind? So. He has to say it. He opens his mouth. To say it. For her. The Golden Faun gazes up at a Nagi Princess, cheeks flushed, vest battered and torn, eyes sparkling with a memory of starlight, mouth open and panting and trembling, and he says,

“I…I’m s-sorry…”

[Rolling to Entice Sulochana, and spending a String on her to boot: 3 + 5 - 1 + 3 = 10]

Return to Thellamie

Turns out stabbing someone was the one thing he never practiced.

You don’t stab with practice swords, see. There’s actually a lot of people who put in a lot of work to make sure you don’t stab with practice swords. There’s special helmets, there’s padded clothes, there’s swords with the tips blunted, there’s the duelists never really thrusting with all their might, etc. Come to think of it, had he ever imagined it? Stabbing someone? He’d made a lot of imaginary AMVs in his time. Had quite a lot of material to choose from. And. Well. There’s a woosh. An attack lands. The opponent falls over. Never really dove into the in-between bits.

Cutie has to learn. Now.

(This is bad. We need to get out of here. We need to stop her. We promised we’d stop her. That Nagi is counting on you, Alcideo is counting on you, Yuki is counting on you, and two of those people are watching you right now. You’re so close. You beat her in your first ever real duel and you’re about to throw it all way. Just lift your hand up. Lift it up. You’ve got to lift it up.)

That Nagi, Purnima? She’d looked at him like that. Almost like that. She wasn’t as…warm. Soft. Sweet, a-and, adoring? Purnima was happy to have him in her clutches. Right now, she, this pretty lady, she looks so happy to have him. To. To. To, do, this, with him. Like she’s been looking forward to this for a long, long time…

(These people are wrecking the Crysthanamum. They hurt everyone they could get their hands on. The dragon could’ve got Yuki. They’re going to do horrible, awful things to Thellamie if they get their hands on you, and you can stop it. You can stop it right now. Do it. Stop it. Stop her. What are you waiting for?)

She’s tilting his chin up. She’s holding him. She’s holding his head, in her hands. Her thumbs carefully wipe the dust from his cheeks. Brush. Brush Brush. It feels. She feels. Every time, it’s. W. Waow.

(Go go go go what are you doing lift your sword stab her stab her right now stupid Hazel what are you doing you can do this why aren’t you doing it why aren’t you listening why aren’t you listening you’re messing up what’s wrong with you no no no no no don’t don’t you can’t you can’t you’ve got to run run run run run run-)

He’s. Breathing really hard, from. The duel. His heart. Pouding. Really, really fast. Hands trembling. Flowers, and fruit, and, it’s all around him, getting thicker, she, she’s so close and, and, something fascinating might happen next, if he just,

”Wh…what are you…” he whispers.

It’s so easy to make a mistake when you don’t have to do anything.

“Mmmph!!!”

Time gets a little funny. There’s a jolt, surprise and rushing and oh all knocking him flat at once, and it’s only a jolt, right? But, in the space of a jolt, she. She. She engulfs his lips in hers. And! There is! A lot! To be engulfed in! And she’s going so, so, slowly, caressing, humming, tasting, and then pressing deeper, again? Somehow?! How?! Every, she, with every, every time, there’s explosions scattering his thoughts, melting them all to mush, and, there’s probably something he ought to be doing at this part? But nobody ever told him and he’s not really had time to, practice?

“Mm! Mrr! Mmm, mmmphrrrrrrrr!!!”

Right! Yes! How! How dare she?! This is, this has got to be, she, you, you can’t just, in the middle of, duel, like this?! His hands find her shoulders and oh no there’s also very soft but that’s not the point he’s got to, he’ll, if he can just, get, push, some distance-

Wait when did her arm wrap around his back?

Wait when did her arm get that low on his back?!

”Mrrrrpp!!!!”

Hey! Bad! Extra cheating! On top of cheating! He wiggles, and he squirms, and he strains with all his might, but. But. It’s like he’s pinned against stone. It’s like he’s sinking into a pile of plush cushions. He. He can’t do a thing. Without her. And then. She. She guides his head up, up.

Her lips part. He tastes. Sweet. And distantly, bitter.

“Mm-!”

She pours herself in.

”M-mmmmmmm-!!!”

Is he still trying to wriggle free? Or are his legs threatening to give out? Are his fingers sinking into her shoulders to grip and throw her off? Or is he clinging on for dear life? How long does she spend savoring his mouth, filling him with breath after dizzying, melting breath, before she at long last pulls away?

He’s not aware. Time got a little funny. Let’s see…

He’s aware she’s up to something. He’s aware she tugged at his lip just now with an indulgent purr. He’s aware she can’t beat him here. He’s aware of her eyes, her curls, her cool skin, her wonderful perfume, her glowing smile, her, her lips…

“You…I-I…y, you…I’m, st-still…not, gonna, be king…”

He’s not aware of much else besides. Not even how his defiance fades off into a tiny, tiny whimper.

[Rolling with Allure to Entice Walking Elm: 6 + 5 - 1 = 10. Cutie takes a String on her, Walking Elm chooses one from the Entice list.]

Breathless Dead

Up he comes. One foot in front of the other. Never a foot placed wrong, in space or time. A chef must move with precision; he must be where he needs to be without getting in anybody’s way or being noticed before his time.

“The walk is not just swaying hips and flattering clothing. Our precious conquests may tell a different story, but we’re not here to speak of captives, aren’t we~? Watch these three approach you: Which one could you most easily talk to? Which of them is the highest ranking? Which is the most dangerous? You know, don’t you? And yet none of them have spoken a word to you. The body is an instrument, and oh, what songs it can play…”

He struts. He sways. The robe hugs his wooly frame snugly, tied with a high-waisted belt of gold. The hem flutters with his rhythmic step. Rivers of flashing embroidery wave up and down his body. His curls bounce, and sway, and draw the eye to the perfectly poised shifting of his shoulders. Back and forth. Back and forth. A soft, delicate little thing. Wrapped and bound in luxurious comfort. Is he not made to be nestled up so lovely, held in a tight embrace?

It’s too much. It’s too much for a sheep to bear. He stops, and he must stop, and his fingers trace up his sleeve. The texture, the material, the shine, he is utterly enraptured. He leans back with ease. The curve of leg to robe over wool to cheek to curls beckons the eye upward. To shining bell. Gentle smile. Parted lips.

“Eyes closed, now. Fear not the pen and brush. A Daughter of Ceron holds within her a soldier, an officer, a peasant, a princess, a slave, a conqueror, and hundreds more. It is a petty trick to wear paints and masks. Far better to bring forth what always hid within.”

He is drawing closer now. Close enough for her to reach out and seize him. In the shadow of her claws, he steps through a slow dance. Step, and turn, and lift, and hold. Hold. Offer what the distance so unjustly denied her.

Drink in his curls, Mistress Vasilia. Are they not lovely? They have been brushed, washed, combed, blessed, and they are as luscious as the finest silk. They are as smooth and rich as fine cream; drink them in. They are adorned with fine, curling ribbons and a single, beautiful flower. Gaze through them. Follow curling lashes flitting through the clouds. Bask in the joy coloring his cheeks. Spy a light splash of pink at his lips.

But spy no more than that. The dance continues. Step, and turn, and stretch. Be satisfied with only passing glances. Again. Again. Again.

He passes beyond her reach. He passes untouched.

For a moment, his body blocks his right hand.

“Turn. Snap. Look. Hold. It must all happen in a moment; surprise is your greatest weapon. Strike from concealment. Use sudden motion to sow confusion. Find your target.”

-snap!-

The fan blooms, bright and brilliant. Noble regalia on a sea of pure white. Your symbol, Mistress Vasilia, and beneath it, his mark:

The long ladle. For serving. For providing.

The keen knife. For sharpness. For precision.

All this is yours. All this belongs to you. All this hides behind a thin sheet of silk. Save for his eyes. They are all you are permitted to see now. Shadows of gold and orange - bright as the new sunrise - frame long, curling lashes. Watch them blink, slowly. Here and there, just faintly, freckled dots of stars glimmer in the radiance. And his eyes themselves.

He meets your gaze, Mistress Vasilia. He is startled. Breathless.

Captivated.

“And make them want you~”

A slow smile curls Vasilia’s lips. With one hand, she bids him to continue. With the other, she has not stopped kneading the cushions of her throne. With her eyes, she devours him.

Dolce turns at her command. Dolce faces a long, long walk to the other end of the runway. Where he will turn, and face a long, long walk back. Then Dolce will face her again. And strut for her again. And feel his heart and head melt into a molten puddle. Again.

Dolce can’t do it.

Dolce doesn’t have to do it.

The wolves of Ceron bear him aloft. Again.

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.