TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

Ever since the Royal Architect, Dolce has kept a little time to study Mars. The odd gap in his knowledge troubled him. Not that he ever planned to go to war, not even when Beri was left far behind, but it was a perilous thing, being unfamiliar with a god. All the worse when you were well-behaved with all the others. Imagine the insult.

So he studied, so he prayed, so he learned, and little by little that gap shrank. What was once a yawning abyss became criss-crossed with firmer ground. Holes remained, but there were paths around, and he could work with that. Iskarot once told him it was an admirable quality for a student to have; the ability to see your own ignorance and not be overly bothered by it. To neither stumble into it blindly nor obsess over it, but to watch, and to wait, and be ready for when answers may come. In whatever form they may come.

In all of his studies, he never found a single prayer or ritual intended for the front lines.

But Dolce is not a soldier; he is only slightly higher than a civilian. There are official terms for those tasked with logistics and assistance to the officers, but unless Mars asks it of him he will not fetch that knowledge. It is all he can do to stay where he belongs, in the center of the column, by Vasilia’s side. He wears a cap, and it’s got a symbol of some kind on it, and he can’t tell you where it came from but he can tell you it means he’s not somebody who should be shot at. He marches. He bandages. He provides, water and rations. He waits for her return. And because he is precisely where he ought to be in formation, then it is easier for Vasilia to be where she needs to be in formation, and all moves as it should, to the glory of Mars.

So he stands, so he waits, as Vasilia rises up alongside Dyssia. The artillery turns.

His ears have not stopped ringing.

[Offering Hope to Dyssia’s next roll.]

Return to Thellamie

Juniper looks at the twins. The twins look at Hazel. Hazel looks thoughtful.

“Hrm. Hrmm. Hrmmmmmmmmm.”

You can tell, because of the thoughtful noises he’s making behind his hand, the thoughtful way his finger tap-tap-taps his cheek, and how slowly he has to nod because his head’s weighed down by all the thoughts he’s thinking.

(There are several options in that list that he will set off to the side with the longest set of mental tongs he’s got, and he’ll wash his hands afterwards for good measure. While hiding his blushing face. And looking intently at the patterns in a fur rug so there’s no room to think of said options again. But not for too long. Not too long.)

“Hrm. That’s an awfully big decision for this time of the morning.”

No, no, it’s no good. He’s got to search farther afield. This is a conundrum that needs a good pacing about. “This is a very generous gift, Bagyum-” he’s pronouncing that right, right? Right. “-Olesya. Two sluzhankas, infamous sluzhankas at that. I wouldn’t want to mistreat them.” He turns as he paces, and for a moment the twins can’t see his face, but Juniper can see how super extra serious of a face he’s making. “So, I think I ought to make sure of my options. They sounded excited about unveiling, but just to be sure, what else do you have?”

(Cutie weathered countless lunch shifts, bouncing from table to table, chatting with guests anywhere from half-drunk to half-asleep. There simply wasn’t time to let a little discomfort stop him, and he would not dare spoil the guest’s mood.

Always, the bit must flow.)

[Rolling to Figure Out A Person: 6 + 5 + 0 = 11. Asking:
What do Keli & Seli hope to get from Hazel choosing their outfits?

Banking one question for later.]

Breathless Dead

Dyssia!

Did you ever realize what a luxury it was to go to war and know exactly who you were fighting?

This will not be a march for the fainthearted. You know nothing of the terrain nor the distance. Your allies may turn on you at any moment. You may be attacked by a people you don't know, as you walk through their home, and what will you do when the wolves howl for battle? The only mercy is that you've already left behind those whose resolve would shatter. The Shogun grants you another; some time to prepare, beneath the gaze of biting shadows.

So perhaps it is a comfort when Dolce joins you, a pack on his back and a pen in his hand. He and Bella had to account for every soul that was leaving, and every soul that would stay. Deck maps with territories color-coded, inventories of supplies and who holds them to account, a mostly-accurate list of all of Iskarot's side projects, he has it all to hand, if not already memorized. Lean on him, brave Knight. Nothing will be forgotten or overlooked on his watch. Let your scales hold back the shadows, and let his heart know some peace.

(Vasilia has gone to Bella and Ember. She has stood apart from them long enough.)

"Excuse me," Dolce offers his notepad to you. "Could you look over these figures? I'm not sure if they're right."

The figures are meaningless. The words in the margins, less so.

The Shogun sounds familiar.

The Shogun, who boasted of her illiteracy. The Shogun, who leads a pack that respects and craves her in equal measure.

I’ve heard the Crystal Knight, the Royal Architect, the Royal Architect’s proxy, Liquid Bronze, 20022, and others. They sounded identical when they talked about their dreams. And she sounds identical to them.

He looks to you for confirmation.

Breathless Dead

Respect for his work. Respect for his posture. Approval? Not quite. But close enough. Mistakes can be fixed later. The Shogun respects him. All voices are silent, for they are satisfied, and in their silence there can be peace. Put away the half-built scaffolding of answers and replies; it is no longer needed. Coax the lightning from his nerves; nothing more is required of him. Let the shadows come into focus. Let the tide of attention and need flow about his ears. Look, Dolce of Beri.

Watch two wolves burn.

They do not move. They make no sound. The fire speaks enough for them both. No shadow can conceal them like this. They will only draw attention to the pack. The pack must stay hidden. So, they must stay. They must silently bear the honor of their Shogun, for as long as it takes for their bodies to adapt to the flames. If they cry out, if they faint, it will be their fault for not growing a fireproof hide quick enough.

No tongue of fire burns brighter than their grins.

She doesn’t see

Dolce watches two wolves burn. Dolce watches the Shogun tear off her coat. Dolce watches a friend sink to her knees. For his work has found favor, and he is now free to watch. Observe. Think.

She doesn’t see She doesn’t see She doesn’t see

Again. And again. And again. He breathes. He taps.

Vasilia squeezes her reply around his hands.

She doesn’t. She doesn’t. Love. Dear heart. My treasure. Mine. She doesn’t.

The greatest daemon the Shogun has ever seen will not turn away. It is all he can do for a friend.

Vasilia of Lakkos will not interfere. She cannot leave his side.

Together, they will witness what happens next.

Return to Thellamie

“Keli?!”

He tries. By golly, he tries. He hops from his knees to his feet to halfway upright, arms up and out, faster than thinking, but not quite so fast as an indignant fox.

The next bit, like any big fall, is a bit of a blur. One moment you’re up, the next you’re flat on the ground, sore and causally lost. What just happened? What’s happening? Though, well, the first one is pretty easy, he mostly remembers that bit. The second one? The second one. The second one. Theeeeeeeeeeeee second one.

Hrm.

Hazel does the only sensible thing and freezes stiff. Not a twitch. Not a sound. Arms spread eagle where they landed. Fingers balled into fists. Safe fists, that cannot grab or snag onto anything. The flattest expression (badum-tish) he has ever made in his entire life. There is something located several miles above him, something he can see perfectly well through the clouds, the rain, the tent, the…fox material, and that is what he is looking at, and not a smidge looking anywhere else. Except for one time when he closes his eyes, and learns that the mysteries of darkness were far, far worse than the mysteries of Up There Somewhere. Here he will stay, and here he will stare, and maybe everything will work itself out somehow.

And it does! It does. It takes. A time. And. Wiggling. But everything works itself out. Just like he’d planned.

(It is nothing like when they first met.

They sat snug beside him. They spoke, one after the other, voices like honey, sticking up and melting his thoughts all at once. His head spun. His heart raced. First one perfume, then the other, switching every time he turned. All around them the festival buzzed with a thousand distractions, and all he could do was scrabble to keep his feet under him as they led him off on a dizzying adventure.

Warm. Soft. Squishingly heavy. Never still. Never still. Push here, brush there, inch, inch the weight of a bound body. Across his skin. Against her silks. Against her skin. There's a lot of skin to go around. To feel. Shorts, vest, and Aestivali silks. Smell of spice and sweet and something, a few other somethings, strange somethings. He can’t take a breath that isn’t them.

No words. No voices. Just soft. Muffled. Rumbling, deep in their chests and up their throats and breathed warm upon him. Silk and silky-soft tresses, nuzzling into him, working and pressing from either side.

No more cold. No more words. Just warm, warm, and soft…)

Juniper is a proper sluzhanka. She waits until he’s re-emerged in the Khaganate from realms beyond, before finishing her story. And Hazel nods. And Hazel opens his mouth. And Hazel says, Very Composed, “Hrm. Yes. I see. I see.”

Which is true! He does see. He sees what she’s saying. He’s not doubting her or anything. Well, okay, he’s doubting her a little. Rather, he doesn’t think she’s lying. Not intentionally, anyway. It’s just that her story makes no sense. Why would Keli and Seli need to kidnap him? They knew where he was. They knew Amali, and Amali knew Miss Yaz, so Miss Yaz probably knew them too. Or maybe they were just in touch? Point being, they were all working to keep him hidden. Why kidnap him, when he was waiting for them - or somebody else - to come by, say the coast was clear, and move on to the next phase of the plan?

Yes, they might’ve had other ideas, or some trouble they wanted to get into. This was Keli and Seli. No more need be said. But deep down, there was the help, there was the dancing, there was running, running, there was the life in a fox’s eyes, and maybe the trouble has to make room for all of that too.

Not that he thinks all of that right here! Not Hazel, no. Hazel is contending with. Other problems. At the moment.

“I. I think my arms are stuck…”

(In the dark and lonely hours of the night, he will ask himself if that was a lie. Could he have budged a foxgirl? If he tried? Was wriggling free really impossible?

Did Juniper and Olesya believe him? Did the twins?

Imagine what they would think of a fibbing fawn.)

Breathless Dead

All voices cry bow.

All voices cry submit.

There is a sliver of difference. There is a silver difference. He has a moment to act.

Vasilia’s hand smells of sweat and perfume. Her fingers stroke his face. They are strong, even moving so faintly. They are soft, save for an unfamiliar ring, and a whisper of anger recalls through the maelstrom. He mouths words into her skin. He taps meaning onto her arm.

“My husband says he cannot know, for he has yet to meet one. I myself agree with him.”

Vasilia’s voice is too casual to be calculated, too reverential to be defiance, too open to be hiding.

Dolce’s voice is gone.

Together, they stand.

Return to Thellamie

Hey! Rude! Uncalled-for assault! Ambush on your own houseguest! Treachery of the highest order! A betrayal of the sluzhanka way probably! And also mean!!!

These are all things he could say. Instead, he says:

“Ackpthpthtphtpthtp noooooooooooooooooooooo!!!”

Not even shrinking into his armor of blankets sparks the slightest hint of sympathy in the heart of this wicked, tricksy fox. Woe. Alas.

(Okay, but seriously, how was any of that precious?

Not that he’s complaining! This is nice!

But seriously. He was just explaining how things were at the Chrysthanamum, since he hadn’t had a chance to explain himself. And then he had some honest questions about sluzhankas so he wouldn’t mess up the plan and be forced to do wolfgirl chores. Perfectly normal behavior. Which apparently earns him the rufflening of a lifetime. Duly noted.)

Olesya interrupts them like a slammed door.

Hazel emerges from his protective cocoon, nose first, peeking out and sniffing the air for whiffs of Trouble. The coast is clear. Solemn, serious, but clear. The rest of his head and ears are safe to pop out and rejoin the conversation. It’s a bit difficult to look serious when ensconced in roughly one million blankets. It’s harder to look serious when untangling yourself from one million blankets, so this will have to do. It’s hardest of all to look serious when somebody is making creatively ambiguous comments about chest comfort! Juniper!!! What is he supposed to say to that?!?!

He contemplates the offered key. He contemplates it so hard. It is the only thing he is reacting to, for sure. Then, when he has finished disassociating for a few seconds or so his contemplations, one hand emerges from the nest to take up the precious key. “Alright.” He nods. Determined. Serious. “I’ll do my best.”

What else can he say, really?

Nevermind that he’s only been here, what, a few weeks? Nevermind he can count the number of times he’s drawn his heartblade on one hand. Nevermind that this bed is still oh so toasty warm and the rain hitting the tent is more soothing than any lullaby. There’s a game of pretend that needs playing, and these sluzhankas are in this with him now. They’re his to care for, and protect, and something else that he will figure out later. For however long he’s staying here. If they can all make it to the ball together? If they can keep up appearances long enough? Then they’ll all be in the clear.

Or, he’ll be in the clear, and they’ll be going back to Olesya, and if Juniper is this happy being her sluzhanka then she’s alright in his book.

Now. First order of business: He fusses and wrestles with the blankets, wrapping them this way, then that way, and, no, yeah, it’s impossible to do this important Serigalamu ritual while looking like a walking burrito. So he will have to do this important Serigalamu ritual in nothing but a vest and booty shorts. Cool cool cool cool cool cool cool cool. Cool.

Second order of business: Walking slowly to the rattling chest. Key in hand. To release the sluzhankas. His. Sluzhankas.

Third order of business: …………………………….

You know. When he was listening to Yuki’s stories, and chatting with folks in the group chat. He learned that this was a world where, yeah, sometimes? Sometimes you get huntress servants delivered to you in an ornate chest. It’s a high honor! A grand gift! Way more honor than would ever be given to him, and so, it was perfectly reasonable and natural to never really devote much thought to being on the receiving end the gesture! Which is making these next steps! Tricky! Really, he thought he would be more, on the side? Somewhere in the crowd, front row if he was really lucky, while this sort of thing happened to somebody else. Put him there, and he can ooh and ahh with the best of them. He’s great at that.

Deep breaths, Hazel. Deep breaths.

Kneeling down, he places one hand atop the chest, and sets the key to the lock with his other. The wood is thick. The lock is intricate. The inhabitants inside will hear something happening.

Turn. Turn. Click.

Try not to shiver, and…

Breathless Dead

Ah.

His first thought is to apologize. Carefully. It’s a fine line to walk, telling her he didn’t mean to dredge up painful memories, make light of her situation, without making her feel guilty for snapping at his ignorance. She had already apologized herself, after all. Mosaic? A subject best avoided for now, only to be referenced obliquely. A mention of a silver lining, that they had both retained enough of themselves to remain friends this whole time. Runs parallel to her advice. Then, perhaps, offer to fetch her a snack, to show there are no hard feelings.

But Dolce remembers the taste of canned coffee.

He looks back up at a Praetor, and Dolce of Beri sets his face in the closest approximation to determination he can manage at the moment. “Alright. I will.” He lets fear shake his voice. He lets anger draw him tight. He lets love hold him steady. “I’d like to do just that.”

He has to bend down, and reach his arms as far as they will stretch to grasp and lift his little desk. “I’d also like to accompany you. For a while longer. You know the ship’s population better than I do, if I have any questions. But, also.” A little smile quirks his mouth. “The idiot voice wants me to accompany you too.”

Return to Thellamie

He’ll have you know that he would not blurt out anything about Encouragement, thank you very much. Not here nor anywhere. But especially not when his mouth is full of eggs and sausage. Warm, but not so hot it burns. The meat reminds him of the gyros from that Mediterranean place his family would go to, where it’s not any one meat, but a combination of flavors into something new. Don’t ask him which flavors. It’s too early in the morning for big questions like that. It’s savory, it’s rich, it hits the spot, and that’s more than enough for him. Don’t ask him why Negodincia would think him hot either. Morning. Way too big. Can’t do it.

Now, there’s other things he’s trying to speak up about, but there still seem to be a lot of eggs and sausage in the way. You’d think that was an easy problem to fix, but it’s far trickier than that. When he’s finished a bite of breakfast, Juniper is still talking. Or the huntress (A Bagyum, possibly? What rank was that again?) is talking. And he’s not going to interrupt them, no. The blanket lump will shift as he raises a hand, trying to signal for silence, but before he can get the point across Juniper’s giving him another forkful. Have you ever tried to not eat something that somebody’s offered you? He certainly hadn’t! It’s really tough! The food is just sitting there. Waiting. Juniper’s looking at him. The huntress is looking at him. If there’s a way to make that moment any less awkward, it was a technique that was beyond him. Open up. Munch munch munch. Aaaaaaaaaand they’re still talking, it’s all important, so he’s got to listen closely, and it starts all over again.

(He is ravenous. He didn’t realize how empty he was until he’d tasted food. A big day. His first duel. Travel across Thellamie to places unknown. Pack rations keep a body on its feet, but do not make a proper meal. The gold-lined bowl is full of hearty, proper breakfast, and if you asked him he’d be hard-pressed to say if it would be enough for him.

Juniper is a trained sluzhanka. The fork rises with enough to make a mouthful, not enough to struggle with. Time her with a stopwatch; each bite is presented like clockwork. She keeps him at a pace where he has no choice but to relax, take his time, and savor this gift of a meal. An honored guest is not required to do anything else.

It only takes him a few bites to learn to stay still, and let her bring the fork to him. Later he will talk, and he will pause to open his mouth wide for her without thinking. Do imagine some of the following punctuation as breakfast breaks.)

“To be fair, the folks at the Chrysthanamum didn’t make me do a bunch of chores. I did have to do some chores, but like, not more than anyone else. I didn’t have to scrub dishes all day and sleep in a half-full cupboard. Really, I mostly just worked as a waiter. Taking orders, bringing people their food, making sure everyone was having a good time, that sort of thing. It was a good job, and, they didn’t force me to do anything more than that. Oh, and they gave us plenty of breaks, good food, and really, they were doing all this to give me a place to hide. Or, well, that was the idea, anyway. But that’s, I’m going off on a tangent there. Just, didn’t want to give the wrong impression.”

“I'm glad to not be doing Negocinda’s chores! That's very good.”

He hasn’t even mentioned Alcideo. Or Miss Yaz. Or all the other folks who worked alongside him at the cafe. Or the deliciousness spell. Or the soft beds and quiet dormitories. Or the, uh, very clear feedback and instruction he was given. But he’s rambling now. Way past rambling. Move it along, Hazel, move it along.

“So. Sluzhankas.” Plural. Gosh. “I remember the general idea. And some of the details from our talks. The plan makes sense.” And he’s very, very happy that plan does not involve elephant-wrestling. Or fighting the. Um. Mirrorfolk. (He breathes in freshly-cooked sausage. He remembers sweet flowers.) “So. First question: How do I…have sluzhankas? Practically speaking? I mean, I understand the idea of it, but, in practice, how do I, are there things I’m supposed to do or else I’m no longer shielded?”

“And are they okay in there? That doesn’t look. Comfortable?”

“...that’s two questions, but, you get what I mean.”

[Activating Friendly Benefits on Juniper.]

Breathless Dead

Dolce’s had a desk brought out. From a different room, he’s brought a comfortable chair to sit in while he works. The heights don’t quite match up, but then again, his height didn’t match up to aesthetic perfection either. He whispers a prayer of thanks that the birds were unable to fix that too. He only pauses his pen when she’s finished speaking.

“Hrm.”

The wind plays at his curls, without disturbing a single sheet of paper.

“It’s good advice. Perhaps we ought to post signs, reminding our crew to try writing out a wish to Hades before attempting the next coup. If anyone steps forward without proof of documentation, then we can declare their plot null and void. Quite the timesaver.” Is he filling out his next form? Sketching out a poster design? Formulating a wish himself? These are all questions. “It is all good advice. Have something valuable to aim at. Too valuable to risk for another good. Even if…”

He falls silent. Still. The papers offer no help, though he stares long at them. Gently, carefully, he returns his pen to its holder. The documents are already straight; he tidies them up anyway, and sets a weight on each stack for good measure. He has to stand on his chair, on tiptoe, reaching past the top of his desk to -snap! snap! some decorative latches. The whole top of the desk lifts up, separating cleanly into a workstation perfect for a lap. Dolce trundles over with his precious cargo, sets it and himself down beside Bella’s sofa, and rests his back against it as he gets back to work.

“To answer your question: Yes.” He says, wearily. “It hurts rather badly. It was a lot easier dealing with wrongs at a distance, and in hindsight. Now? I can do something. I’m sure I have to do something. But I’ll only get one shot. No second chances, no wasting it. So until the time comes, I have to sit with a world gone wrong and just bear it. For as long as it takes. Even if,” and his stomach turns, and his shoulders hunch with shame. “Even if it hurts, and I don’t. Know the heads of the Skies well enough to…hesitate. Enough.”

As if he has the right to even think such a thing. As if Dolce of Beri is the one to decide who lives and who dies. As if those reprimands made the thought any less tempting.

“I’m glad you have Gaia to aim at.” He moves on. Quickly. “It’s, well, it’s a little more complicated for me. When I saw you’d remembered some of the voyage, I wanted to talk to you about it, but then Summerkind, wolves, assassins; I never got the chance until now.” He plays with his pen. Something to keep his fingers busy. His mind’s too busy for important work. “I don’t know how it is for you. It sounds like you remember quite a bit more than me. When I think back, it’s like looking down at a planet through a cloudbank. I see some things clearly, I know some things happened, but the further I get away the foggier it gets. I know I was standing on this planet, and such-and-such was happening, but I couldn’t tell you how I got there, or where I went afterwards. Between two points, was that five minutes, or five months? Which order did they come in, really? How can I know whether or not I’ve got it all back?” A question he’s not keen on exploring too deeply. There may not be a bottom to that well. “I can’t be sure any wish I think of now is the same wish that’s carried me thus far. All I can do is trust that, if the wish was important enough, I’d find my way back to it again.”

And there’s Zeus right over there. And there’s Aphrodite’s breath, still tinging the air with longing. And here’s a sheep, watching them both. Observing. Thinking.

Waiting.

“...could I ask you for a story? From before we reached the Skies.” He’s settling down with his work. Reclining against the soft furniture. “Maybe that will knock something loose. It’d be worth a try, at least.” His head rests so, so close to her hand. It will not take much effort to reach over. To let her fingers sink deep, deep into those soft, luxuriant curls. They grow so thick, so strong, that no claw could hope to accidentally nick his skin. If one’s senses were keen enough, how many hours could be whiled away, exploring all the ways his wool is lovely to the touch?

He won’t mind. He’s not going anywhere. Except to give the slightest sway, to give the slightest jingle, to invite her attention.