A Green Sun Illuminates The Void, Thread III (Fate Rending Narrative)

[Creticus]

There are ways to destroy someone's emotional well-being without having them win what amounts to a cosmic lottery.

 

[greensun]

There are ways to destroy someone's emotional well-being without having them win what amounts to a cosmic lottery.

Click to shrink...

Once again this ES, he dosen't need Cosmic super-powers to make your life complicated, it just adds to the effect.

 

[earthboy]

That doesn't mean that ES won't do that...I mean the total emotional upheaval of Seista? Do remember who we are talking about.

Click to shrink...

IIRC her village was about to be destroyed by the Albion invasion force, but Saito and his fixed-wing aircraft saved them. That might men that in this continuity, her village gets exterminated. That could provide emotional upheaval, or it could provide the opportunity to survive a terrible event.

Alternately, I could easily see her being tasked with "attending to" Louise in order to feed information to her colleagues.

 

[UrsaTempest]

I think ES said something along the lines of, he wants to preserve Siesta as low-key Antagonist for Louise, or something to that effect. So... perhaps Siesta will Exalt as Dragon-Blooded, before later got mind-whammed with Malfeas' Charm and become loyal underling?

 

[Undead-Spaceman]

I think ES said something along the lines of, he wants to preserve Siesta as low-key Antagonist for Louise, or something to that effect. So... perhaps Siesta will Exalt as Dragon-Blooded, before later got mind-whammed with Malfeas' Charm and become loyal underling?

Click to shrink...

Siesta would probably be a Heroic Mortal in my opinion because I think she's too old to Exalt as a Dragonblood. My Exalted knowledge is lacking but I'm pretty sure if you don't exalt by the time your an adult you're probably not going to.

 

[Salty]

Siesta would probably be a Heroic Mortal in my opinion because I think she's too old to Exalt as a Dragonblood. My Exalted knowledge is lacking but I'm pretty sure if you don't exalt by the time your an adult you're probably not going to.

Click to shrink...

Siesta is not an adult.

IIRC her village was about to be destroyed by the Albion invasion force, but Saito and his fixed-wing aircraft saved them. That might men that in this continuity, her village gets exterminated. That could provide emotional upheaval, or it could provide the opportunity to survive a terrible event.

Click to shrink...

In canon, Tarbes was not the residence of a large group of DBs. I suspect any invasion force landing there would be in for an extremely nasty surprise.

 

[Kylar]

Siesta would probably be a Heroic Mortal in my opinion because I think she's too old to Exalt as a Dragonblood. My Exalted knowledge is lacking but I'm pretty sure if you don't exalt by the time your an adult you're probably not going to.

Click to shrink...

Twenty years old is the generally agreed on cut off point, and you only Exalt at that age if you have dilute breeding. Siesta's still inside that range, and her breeding is going to be dilute. So its still possible.

 

[Undead-Spaceman]

Siesta is not an adult.

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Really? I always figured she was an adult (or at least close to it) because she had a job at a very prestigious place which presumably would have required at least a few years of experience in order to work there.

 

[UrsaTempest]

It is possible, but in order to enter Cecelyne you don't actually need special portal, you just need to walk in the desert randomly then, if you are lucky/chosen, you get to Cecelyne. Or if you have some kind of charm (Hell Walker something?) you can just walk to random alley, then comes out to Cecelyne.

Also, back in the old thread, I think, ES has... three ideas regarding ZnT crossover, other than this? First is where Louise exalt as Twilight Caste Solar, second is as Abyssal, third is, well, the title is 'Dragon against the Void', which ES state it is more like AGSITV's side-stories. Where Siesta exalt as Dragon-Blooded, I think.

Well, there is also one idea where Cattleya exalt as Chosen of Battle, Sidereal.

 

[Filraen]

Wait, doesn't Siesta already knows about Louise's Exaltation?

 

[pheonix89]

Wait, doesn't Siesta already knows about Louise's Exaltation?

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Yeah, Seista knew before anyone but Louise did. Remember, she was in the room when the Chrysalis opened and is clued in about the whole exaltation thing. She doesn't know about Infernals, but she knows a Caste Mark when she sees one and caught a good look at the Slayer mark.

 

[earthboy]

Wait, doesn't Siesta already knows about Louise's Exaltation?

Click to shrink...

She knows Louise is some kind of Anathema.

Her information on the nature of the Anathema is guaranteed to be incorrect (thanks to the Immaculate teachings), and her expectations of Louise's abilities ought to be hilariously wrong.

 

[RadiantPhoenix]

She knows Louise is some kind of Anathema.

Her information on the nature of the Anathema is guaranteed to be incorrect (thanks to the Immaculate teachings), and her expectations of Louise's abilities ought to be hilariously wrong.

Click to shrink...

Actually, some of it will probably be quite right for the wrong reasons.

 

[pheonix89]

She knows Louise is some kind of Anathema.

Her information on the nature of the Anathema is guaranteed to be incorrect (thanks to the Immaculate teachings), and her expectations of Louise's abilities ought to be hilariously wrong.

Click to shrink...

Her information about the abilities will be way off. The immaculate teaching are actually rather accurate when applied to Infernals. EarthScorpion posted a rather amusing bit about that somewhere.

 

[UrsaTempest]

Well, Infernal Manual identify Slayer as Forsaken, which is Dawn originally. While Slayer is combat monster, they also have charms that is more Zenith and forceful personal attack. Combined with Cecelyne charmset....
...I kinda lost track what I want to say here. Hmm.

 

[EarthScorpion]

A Green Sun Illuminates the Void

Chapter 16: An Act of Usurpation

{0}​

It was swelteringly hot in the kitchens. The magics of the Pale Tower gave heat without need for wood or coal, and the wide-open bread ovens wafted their scent of fresh loafs through the room. Despite the warmth, though, Matt Fitzgerald could not help but feel a sudden chill down the back of his neck as he thought – really thought – about what he was doing.

He was mad. Really. Giving food to one of the prisoners was the sort of thing which would get him in so much trouble that... he wasn't sure how much trouble that would entail. Nor did he want to know. Prisoners were only to be fed with their designated meals. That was in the rules.

But... she was so pretty, he thought, stepping around a cook shouting at someone else on the other side of the room. Pretty in a slightly foreign, tattered, noble way, and that accent. His Romalian was poor; it had been the working of the village priest who liked to tutor some of his brighter pupils who might consider a vocation in the clergy. But while Father Smith had sounded much the same no matter what he spoke – the old boy had been fond of a drink or three – the way those exotic syllables dripped off that girl's tongue made her words sound like a love poem.

Well, what he thought a love poem sounded like. Matt wasn't precisely sure what that was, given a certain inexperience in that field.

He... he just wanted to hug her and keep her safe. From everything. From the world. She was clearly far above the likes of him, a noble from far-off lands – the kind you only saw when Albion's course drifted over the lands below where they breathed thick air, but she had talked to him. She had said she would be 'very grateful' to him. And although her looks were gratitude enough – Founder, what if she smiled at him? – what about the fact that she was a noble, huh? Nobles were rich. And she was foreign, so no doubt she would be ransomed out at some point, and ol' Father Smith had said it did you good to get your feet under the table with the nobility.

But that rationalisation was only occupying a small part of his mind, compared to the part which was busy thinking about that beautiful face and the hints of flesh exposed by her torn, blood-stained dress.

He couldn't wait to talk to her again. Or... wait, no. No, if... yes, if he found someone who could help him with the writing, maybe he could write her some... like, some love poetry or something! Someone outside the jail, on his day off, who wouldn't report him or anything and who could help him read that lovely-written note from her again, but better than he could on his own. Maybe even someone who could write in Tristainian, bunch of clog-wearing babbler-talk that it was.

And of course, as a loyal guard of the New Model Army, he was... yeah, he was only paying closer attention to her so she wouldn't escape or nothing. Not that she was a real escape risk, because she didn't have a wand and she was all small and fragile. That warning about how she was dangerous was just clearly an exaggeration, because how could someone so beautiful and feminine be a threat? Now, clearly, she might be trying to use foreign wiles on him, and that meant he'd have to be very watchful for that, and the only way to tell if she was using wiles was by talking with her, right? So he was actually protecting other people by being all watchful close to her. Yeah.

Satisfied by his immaculate logic, Matt went looking for that kitchen maid he was sure had a thing for him and was always good for an extra portion.

{0}​

Sheffield was at the cell once more, her pale face passing in and out of sight through the door. There were more spirits in the place too, this time; six at least.

"I have been reasonable so far," Sheffield said, in her dead voice. "I can continue to be reasonable, if you cooperate."

Louise sat there, hands folded on her lap. She took a deep breath. To be lectured by this thing was intolerable, but she could not simply punch her through the transparent glass-like plane of the door. She would not retaliate. Time was now on her side.

Surely.

"Or else, I could do this," the dark-haired woman on the other side of the door said. All of a sudden, the window changed, becoming no different from the other walls. "Natural light was a privilege of yours. It has now been withdrawn. More privileges will be withdrawn, until you plead for relief and tell me what I wish to know."

Louise said nothing, and took another deep breath, holding it in. She was feeling much stronger; she had three days of at least one proper meal. She would stay strong. She could do that now. She would not let the weakness of her flesh overcome her will, her loyalty to her parents and to Princess Henrietta.

"Still you are the difficult one." Sheffield snapped her fingers, and the lights in the room fell to a dim gloom. "So be it. I will return and maybe you will be more cooperative."

The clicking of her heels receded, and the strange synesthetic forms of her unseen spirits left with her, flowing out through the door's slot. Louise de la Vallière was left alone in the gloom.

"Well, I'm surprised it took her this long," Marisalon drawled in her skull. "Be aware, my princess, that she is likely to begin playing with the light levels at odd times of night." The neomah hummed to herself. "This would be awfully inconvenient if we actually had to sleep, no?"

'I suspect it would,' Louise thought grimly, staring around the cell. There was no sign of a spirit in here, and that meant that she could get back to work on her next letter. A small smile crept onto her lips as she thought about how this terrible treatment of a noble prisoner could be portrayed.

Carefully, she withdrew the small packet of dried ink she had induced the guard to fetch for her from its hiding place in her pillow. A carefully measured amount, added to drinking water, was all she needed to ready it. From inside one of the books, she withdrew a torn out page and from underneath her bed she recovered a stylus. She checked the list of names she had obtained.

"That little fool of a guard had promised to take this one to the chaplain here, yes?" Marisalon asked. "Well, I will leave this up to you. I am sure you know better than I how to appeal to one of the priests of your religion."

As Louise de la Vallière carefully looped out each flowing letter, the characters sublimated into colourless light, vanishing from the eye entirely. There was no room for smiles in her concentration, but as she wrote her message there was an expression of grim satisfaction. A priest would speak Romalian, and that meant that she could be a little more verbose and appeal to scripture. And when the confessor themselves doubted their cause... well.

Her stylus scratched on the page, and light flared in the gloom, illuminating her face from below.

{0}​

A wave of ill-ease was sweeping through the guards of the Pale Tower. By and large, the men and women who worked here were not deep thinkers. They were loyal to the Republic of Albion, naturally; the old torturers and gaolers who had served the now-dead king had been removed from their positions, one way or another.

But their job was to keep the prisoners in the less secure areas under control, to make sure the serving staff were not disturbed, and to protect the place from an attack from without. Their job was not to question what Lady Sheffield from the office of the Lord Protector did, and so they closed their ears to the screams and to the disappearances and the way that sometimes they would have to mop out a cell to remove a viscous mix of blood and oil from the floor.

They could not close their ears to the recent events. Ever since the prisoners from New Castle had been moved here, that was the key. There had been the screaming in the night, something which seemed to grate on the nerves and all to the ear. One could not simply ignore it; like the screams of a child it punched through whatever barriers one put up. And it was not screams of pain; no, they had heard plenty of them. It was something imprisoned but angry. Like a caged beast. Or monster.

It set the men on edge, when a good night's sleep was impossible. And the female guards suffered worse, for one of their barracks was close to the window where the screaming was coming from.

But that was not all. Now, recently, notes had started to appear. Left lying around the place, on scraps of paper and torn up pages, pushed under doors and left on beds; they held impassioned letters which begged – nay, commanded – attention.

And they said things about Lady Sheffield. That she consorted with spirits. That she came from the strange depths of the mystical East and that she had no faith in God and the Founder. That she was not human. That if she knew that they knew her secrets, she would treat them as she did the prisoners, so they must not speak of this to anyone.

And though the guards were not to question what the Lady Sheffield did nor to intrude on her affairs, they had all seen or heard or smelt enough to know that they did not want her attention. There was something terrifying about her. Something dead and cold and reptilian. Yes, some of them might have broken men's fingers or beaten women with knotted ropes on the orders of their superiors, but that was simple, honest violence. It was just a thing they did because they were told to. The noises from her special cells were more... exotic.

Yes. To a man, with those words hammered into their forebrains, they could well believe that the Lady Sheffield consorted with spirits. And that in itself, the heresy of Protestantism, was not something she would want getting out.

So they said nothing. But the tensions in the prison built and built. The stench of the fear of the guards soon began to rival those of the inmates.

And still, at irregular intervals, the noble prisoner in cell five screamed, her voice a whip against fraying nerves.

{0}​

Cromwell's fingers clicked against the wood of his desk. Ta-ta-ta-tap. Ta-ta-ta-tap. The noise was the only thing that broke the silence of his office.

The blond man glowered at the smaller, rat-faced individual sat before him. His eyes flicked over the man's balding mousy hair, his too-large nose, his sallow, fish-clammy complexion and his twitching, greedy hands. Yes, Pierre Gellon, who called himself 'Stumper' was a truly odious little man. That face could have been straight out of a sheet mocking Tristainians. Still, from such allies they would forge greatness.

He merely wished that Stumper was not here, in his office, bringing with him a scent of tulips which tried to mask his sweat.

"You were meant to take her alive," the Tristainian man whined – and yes, it was most certainly a whine, in harsh, heavily accented Albionese. "Her and the Viscount de Wardes. I specifically told you that. It is a vital part of the plan to get the middle and high nobility on side with our part of the plan. If you can't work with us, it might well seem to us in Tristain who support the Reclamation that the entire business is just an Albionese jaunt and we're better off on our own. Maybe looking to Gallia, or even Germania."

Cromwell stilled his hand, and glared at the man. "You are the one who bought news of this attempted alliance to us in Albion," he said. "You and those you represent and those who are your natural allies are the ones who demand favours of us. You have no place to talk of such things."

The other man sniffed. On the few occasions they had met before, he had always seemed to have a cold then, too, and his snuffles were like a knife against the Lord Protector's nerves. "I don't think so. I'm a patriot, see, working for the greater good of Tristain. And that means I got to think of the greater good. So that's why I'm asking you again, and again, and why I had to talk my way onto a trading house mission to your wet island because you're not answering my messages honestly... do you have Louise de la Vallière captive? It's a vital part of the plan! How else can we turn the Viscount de Vajours – and the Griffin Knights with him?" Stumper made a disgusted noise. "Oh, don't tell me you killed him too!"

The priest repressed the urge to sigh, and rose from his seat, pacing out to stare over Londinium. It was a sunny day above the clouds today, but cold winds were blowing in from the Great North Sea, and a spiderweb pattern of frozen ice crystals stitched itself across his window. "The status of Viscount de Wardes is unknown at the moment," he admitted, choosing his words carefully. "We know he was present in New Castle, but he did not fight in its defence. No body has been found, so we assume that he may well be heading back to Tristain. As for the daughter of the de la Vallière family..." he paused. This was where things got complicated, because Sheffield has been clear that no one outside a small circle was to know that she had been captured. But damn it all, she would understand of the need to keep up their alliances.

"She is in custody," Cromwell said, bluntly. "She is being held captive until she is willing to testify about the message she was carrying. That is all."

"And you are treating her honestly and honourably?" the Tristainian man said. "I can't be too forceful about this; this is a de la Vallière. Founder help us all if word gets out that you have mistreated, shamed or... God forbid, she dies in your custody." Stumper gripped the table hard. "You might not understand how this is up in your wet island," he said, "but the family has influence and wealth similar to one of the grand duchies. More than Guldenhorf, even! If we alienate them, make an enemy of them, they'll bring all their debtors behind them, all their old allies behind them and the Reclamation in Tristain will be doomed. Dead in the water because of your damnable arrogance! Founder damn it, Cromwell, this is a matter of great importance! That you did not declare her captivity... that's a breach of the code of nobility, and you know it! She can basically make up anything that you've done to her and she'll be believed, because you're the ones who committed the first offence."

The Lord Protector did not turn to face the foreigner. "I know of no mistreatment," he said. That was the truth, but it was not honest. There was a reason everything had been handed over to Sheffield, after all. "And if it pleases you, you will not blaspheme in my presence, Stumper."

"And," the man continued, ignoring Cromwell and showing rather more backbone than he had ever ascribed to him, "if you even think of killing her to cover up mistreatment, things will be even worse! Her reputation is a known thing. You won't be able to pull the old 'killed while trying to escape' thing – this is a mage who is known to be unskilled. The truth will come out, and we'll all burn. And let me tell you this, Cromwell! I was not joking when I said we'd turn elsewhere. The Tristainian branch of the Reclamation is not your pawn. We're in deep, but not so deep that if you turn on us, we can't turn on you. We're risking a lot here! We expect you to hold up the end of your bargain!"

Cromwell longed to shut the nasal, whining little money-grubber up. Oh, how he longed to do so. But he could not, would not be ruled by such base emotions. No, he would think calmly and rationally. And once he had demolished the last remnants of the Albionese throne, then he would see to the problem of the de la Vallière girl.

"My friend," he said to Stumper, turning around again, "nothing would be further from the truth! I value and respect the risks you're taking. Please, sit down – I believe we both need a drink to calm our nerves."

{0}​

Black boots clattered against the filth-streaked cobblestones of Londinium as, flanked by armoured guards, the woman who called herself Sheffield made her way to the Pale Tower. The city was drowned in clouds this evening, as Albion rose again through the sky, and the mists were painted a vile grey-yellow by the smokes and fumes in the air. In the drizzle, black speckles of smoke left tiny marrings on the woman's pale skin, though they and the drizzle-mist ran like quicksilver off her clothing to leave it spotless.

She was waved past the guards, and entered the grounds of the Tower itself. The feeling of power washed over her and she exhaled. Taking a towel from a servant to help dry off her face and hair – she had not chosen to take a carriage the short distance from the law courts – once again she stared around the interior of the entry chamber.

The waste. The ignorance of the 'Brimiric peoples' in how they treated what remained of the civilisations which had covered this continent before sorcerous invaders from the south with strange hair and eyes had swept their way north; raping, pillaging and conquering as they went.

Then she was headed into the guard room, to confer with the nominal commander of this fortress. Or as it practically was, to ensure the orders she had given to the man were being followed.

"She has seen no one?" she asked, tone clipped. "There has been no contact that has been permitted? The ones who deliver her food to her have been chosen such that they speak only Albionese and they deliver her food through the slot rather than being foolish enough to open the door?"

The man nodded. "Yes, m'lady," he said. The chief jailor was a scarred man, a veteran of Cromwell's campaigns, and she had recognised in him a useful lack of imagination and conformity to given orders. She did not want a smart nor a curious man for the things she got up to here, and in this gentleman, she had neither.

"You obey my orders as per her food?"

"Yes, m'lady. She does not eat it, though, and drinks almost nothing." The man's brows furrowed. "I cannot plainly see how she keeps up that exercise," he added. "She does not look like she has fat to spare." He stood there, waiting for her next question.

Of course, there was such a thing as too little initiative. "Is there anything else atypical or unusual she does?" she asked. "Anything you should be informing me of?"

The scarred man winced slightly. "Som'times she screams in the night," he all-but muttered, then repeated again, louder, when Sheffield asked him to repeat himself. "Sometimes in the day, too. It's not natural. It... it doesn't sound like it's coming from a slip of a girl like that. Not like the screams of the ones in the basement or your special rooms, my lady, neither."

"How does it sound?" the woman asked, her tone deadpan.

A muscle in the man's cheek twitched. "It's... like an animal. In pain or something, but angry 'cause of it. Like a bull in a ring, you know. It's scaring the men," he added, hastily. "I don't let them get sloppy, but it puts them on edge. There's muttering. An'… an' people know there's just a young girl in there, so… there's muttering," he repeated. "And, oh yes, she exercises greatly, but I did say that and it is only unusual for a lady."

Sheffield said nothing to that, but instead strode over to the man's desk, and dropped a sealed letters with fresh orders on the top of the unfinished paperwork which lay there. "I will go see the lady in the fifth cell," she said. "You will continue your work and not follow. The men who talk... have them all flogged, publically. Make an example of them. You will give repeat offenders to me."

"Yes, m'lady."

The pink-haired prisoner in the fifth cell refused once again to cooperate. She did not speak to Sheffield, and ignored the dark-haired woman's orders to behave and cease screaming. She only spoke to insult her captor. Sheffield increased the light within the room to painfully bright, and commanded the Pale Tower to halve the size of the room.

She relished the look of shock on the spirit-get's face as stone grated against stone, the walls shedding their plaster layer as they slowly, glutinously flowed in.

And yet the spirit-get would not provide her with what she wanted to know.

So be it.

{0}​

Pale, wan, Princess Sophia Stewart lay on her bed, and rubbed her bruised and stiff wrists. Her arms and legs were shaking uncontrollably. Even when she tried to compose herself, her muscles simply refused to respond. Every day they put her in those horribly uncomfortable chains for her arms and legs when she was in court, and every day the bruises hurt more and more, the weight and the rubbing adding to the pain.

On the third try, she managed to recover a used handkerchief from her pocket, and blotted at her eyes and nose. She was none too accurate with those gestures, but it made little difference because the cloth was so damp that she was doing little more than spreading the moisture around her face.

And it was cold in here. Maybe it was because of some wind coming from the Great North Sea, maybe it was just because they wanted her to suffer. Well, she was certainly suffering. She was tired and cold and they'd... they'd spent all day saying horrible things about her and her daddy and her brother in the court and being all serious and talking about the 'gravity of her offences' and... and if she looked at her wrists she could see the ugly red and purple banding of the fresh bruises which hurt and she was in here alone until next morning when they would just drag her out, put the shackles on again, and... and... and...

A fresh wave of tears overcame her, and she clung to herself, shaking like a leaf.

There was a bird on her window. On the outside, of course; nothing was alive in this cell apart from her. Not even a mouse. Still crying, she pulled herself to a sitting position, and wiped her nose on her sleeve. "H-h-hello, little birdy," she said softly. It was one of the ravens of the Pale Tower, she could see; its eyes were the characteristic uncanny pale blue never seen normally among birds. "Is... is it cold out there for you too?"

The bird tilted its head at her. Through her blurred vision, she could see its breath in the air. Yes, it must be cold out there too.

"I don't know if you can h-hear me," she said, "but... if you c-could fly in, I'd g-give you some bread. You're m-meant to be lucky. And smart. R-Remember how I used to feed you?"

There was no response from the bird. The little girl tried rubbing her wrists again, and winced at the pain.

"If... if you can hear me, and... and understand me," she croaked. "Please. Please. Find someone who can help. Y-you're meant to be smart, yes? Find... find a knight. Or... or anyone. Anyone at all who can help. I... I don't w-want to d-do that again. It... I can't! I... I can't face it anymore!"

The raven did not even respond to her shouting.

"I don't w-want to hurt anymore. I don't w-want to be alone in here. They... they killed daddy, they're going to kill my br-brother, and... and... and me too." She swallowed, and whispered, "I don't want to die. Please. Little bird. Help me. If... if you get help, I'll... I'll m-make sure you always have f-food and... and I'll make s-sure anyone who hunts you gets their h-heads cut off... and... and..." she trailed off. "Please."

She asked the ravens for help every day, morning and evening. No help came.

Slowly, inexorably her head turned towards the thing that the man who was nice to her said that she should sign. He was nice; she got nicer food when he came and he bought bruise balm for her wrists and ankles. He said that if she signed it, they wouldn't take her into the courtroom every day and wouldn't put chains on her and she wouldn't be hanged and... and Cearl might be saved as well if he signed it too. If she signed it, she wouldn't be a princess any more, but... but she'd still be a duchess, and one who wouldn't get hurt anymore and... and she would be let out of the cell and she wouldn't be so very, very lonely locked in with no one to talk to.

She couldn't face another day like that in the court. She just couldn't.

Princess Sophia of the House of Stewart pulled herself to her feet, and on aching, stiff legs tottered over to the seat by the table. In numb fingers, she picked up the quill provided.

{0}​

Louise de la Vallière had lost almost track of time in her windowless room. Day? Night? She was no longer sure. She no longer even had the sense of tiredness to keep her time adjusted. Once, she had meals, but she was now certain that the Sheffield woman was having them delivered at any hour of the day or night to keep her disorientated.

She dared not ask the guards who came to her; neither the ones who were sympathetic thanks to her little letters and who she smiled at, nor the ones who glared at her. That would be a sign of weakness, and her dignity must be preserved.

It was one of the few things she had left, as Sheffield reduced the size of the room again and again. Now it was barely wider than her bed. The furniture had been smashed to pieces by that woman's spirits. Perhaps she was meant to get splinters from the broken wood which had been strewn over her bed and the floor and so suffer, but her thickened skin did not care about such things. She now had sharpened stakes of wood tucked into her underthings, and though they might not be enough to break down the door, Louise was quite sure that they would be enough to kill a man.

Of course, with sufficient warning, she would be able to tear her metal bed apart and get more functional weapons, but she was not about to do that in the mean time. Not until Sheffield took away her mattress, which would be tantamount to a declaration of war. When she did that, the dead-eyed woman would find out once and for all if her door could really withstand Louise's fury.

But for now, she ate what food she could trust – which was rather more than she once had, for enough guards had been swayed by her messages that most meals came with at least one illegitimate addition – and forced herself to sleep. Not because she had to, but because she needed to conserve her energy for later.

And because at least in her nightmares, she was free. Free in a burning world, yes, free to watch that which she cared above destroyed, free to undergo all kinds of mental torments, but free, nonetheless.

Upon a silver desert, within her own mind Lousie de la Vallière lay, and listened to the whispers of her own voice thrown back through fractured mirrors.

"Why do we wait?" asked the brazen maiden. Unclad as always, her inhuman skin marred with burning runes which now hovered at the edge of understanding, she stood proud and tall. Hands on hips, she blotted out the burning sun. "Why have we not simply crushed them? Make them sick with glory! And let them burn!"

"Why must we act?" asked the azure-robed goddess, kneeling beside Louise. Her hair cascaded down like falling sand, warm against the girl's face and she stroked her hand. "Why do we not endure and grow stronger, and outlast them? Just wait. They will weaken. You will grow stronger. Can you not feel the trickle of prayers from those guards who long for your release?"

"Why do we not act?" asked the gravid mother clad in indigo ice. Her touch was chill against the girl's brow and stung faintly; her other hand rested Louise's abdomen over the dimpled scar mark, reminding her of the pain. "Why have we not punished them for their unforgivable insolence? They marred our beauty. They bought pain to us. They threaten sweet Henrietta, and we cannot permit that, for she is our beloved friend and we want her happiness. They may have killed our child. Make them suffer. We must make them hurt."

"we want escape," hissed her shadow, who lay underneath her. Her own wandering hands flickered over her body, invasive and degrading, and Louise longed to be free of the disgusting feel. "why have we not escaped yet? escape, yes, escape! that is all that matters! escape!"

"Bring clarity to the disorder," the woman of the symmetries sang, in ten thousand voices like chiming crystals and fingers on wineglasses. She was stronger now, her crystal-lit form and colourless-burning eyes brighter as she knelt by Louise's feat, in supplication. "We know better, don't we? We will obtain freedom, because it is needed. Already the commoners are subjugated to us; they recognise how things should be. Albion dares overthrow its rightful rulers? That should not be; we know this! We will make things right! We will save the prince and princess, and restore them to their thrones!"

If the crimson lady of the storm said anything, the girl did not hear her. Madly the red spectre danced at the edge of vision, but nothing was heard from her and no advice was forthcoming.

"Remember yourself," Marisalon urged, nervously looking from side to side at the versions of her mistress cast through other lens. "Remember what you want."

"I..." Louise breathed. "I want all of this. Everything. Yes. Just a little while longer." She gazed up at Marisalon, her eyes gleaming green in the light, and her lips seemed to move on their own, talking for her. "They say just what I want, between them. They say what I want, because I say what I want. Here. In my nightmares. In my dreams. The voices in my head aren't something outside me, they're me. The memories are there, and they're saying that everyone is at least two separate things... no, three. Thoughts, feelings and flesh. I'm just... more than that. I'm more than most people. I'm more than mages – mages might be thoughts, flesh, feelings and familiar, but I have you, and I have them." She gestured around her, hands scraping up sand, and the not-hers seemed to strengthen as she drew them in.

"They locked me in here to make me mad," her mouth said for her, "but I am not going mad. No. I think I'm going sane. And I'm waking up."

Louise de la Vallière woke up. She opened her eyes to her tiny cell filled with splintered wood and torn books. And she screamed; for once out of genuine fear.

The dream was not what had scared her. No, it had not scared her one bit. It had felt right. There had been the disturbing feeling of her own hands on her, touching her in a way she had not controlled, and it had felt right. It had felt wonderful. It had felt like power. She had taken it, embraced it, and even now inside her she felt something new burn. A spark – a spark like staring into the sun that tasted of the brazen maiden – which promised to ignite when she needed it.

No, what had scared her was the lack of fear. And that terrified her to her very bones. Because in the dream, she had been, and had not been her. And the existential terror of becoming Other and welcoming it was fresh in her head. She had been her, but had not been herself. Or perhaps it had been the other way around. She had been herself, but the mind which had been thinking for her was not her own mind.

For the first time, Louise de la Vallière paused, and considered what power enough to escape from this place might cost her. The concept of cost for power was in its own way strange – though Mother had made dark mention when she thought her daughter had not been listening of the burdens of square rank and how it set one apart. But now the question was put before her by herself; would she become the her surrounded by embracing, caressing not-hers?

She heard the rattle of the hatch, and ignored the accented words from Sheffield.

Yes, the girl decided. If it would get her out of here, because this place was odious to her eyes. If it would give her Sheffield's head, because right now she hated that woman more than anyone she had ever hated before. Marisalon had been right, damn her, for she needed to remember what she wanted to do with this power, but as it stood, she would, if only it would free her from this torment.

{0}​

There was a scuffle outside the door to Cromwell's office, and the sound of raised voices. The man just about had time to look up from his paperwork and draw his wand before the door burst open.

"Oliver!" said the warden-proctor assigned to the princess, face red from his sprint from the Pale Tower. "She signed!"

Cromwell dropped his wand, which clattered against the table. "In truth?" he blurted out.

"In truth!" The other man paused for a moment and smoothed down his mantle, adjusting his collar, and walked over to the desk at a more sedate pace. He carefully placed the signed papers down. "The handwriting is somewhat shaky and there are tear stains on the parchment, but it is her signature on each of the documents in order." His fingers rustled as he sorted the papers. "One and every of them. The pardons for the Reclamation and all who partook of its righteous cause; signed and initialled. The death warrant for the prince; signed and initialled. The founding document of the Holy Republic and the writ of delayed abdication; signed and initialled!"

"It worked!"

"It more than worked! Oliver, I would be comfortable taking this to the clerical courts of Romalia itself," the warden-proctor said, grinning like a cat who had just acquired a bowl of cream. "Even the pope cannot nullify this, for the foundation and the writ of abdication is based on the very justification of Romalia itself, and if..." he cleared his throat, "... and if an heir of Brimir – who by canon law can speak ex imperia – cannot 'pass authority over matters temporal and secular until the next Founder comes', then Romalia has no legitimacy to contest the abdication!"

Oliver Cromwell popped his knuckles. "Well," he said, "I do believe that means the charade of these trials can finally end. We have a hanging for that arrogant young man to attend to, and once he is out of the way... why, I do believe our sweet princess can be crowned and we will have the final seal of legitimacy in the eyes of the world! As God himself is our witness, he favours us and has made this all possible! Let none gainsay this glory!"

{0}​

The day was clear and cold. A crowd had gathered before the Traitor's Gate of the Pale Tower, and their breath steamed in the chill air. Last night, the passage through a cloud had coated everything in moisture, and it had frozen, painting everything in pure crystal. Already the muck and filth of Londinium had marred it, though, leaving the white smeared with grey and brown.

There were ravens sitting on every free surface, jostling for position. Their sky-blue eyes were locked on the dark gallows that waited.

A drum sounded in the still air.

"Present the condemned," the sergeant of the guard called out, his voice crisp.

Out from the tower to the south of the execution yard came the Prince Wales, flanked by scarlet-clad members of the New Model Army. His hair was washed and he was clean, and the weight he had lost while in jail passed unnoticed. The man was dressed in the full splendour and finery of the royal family; a symbolic gesture in its own right. Conspicuous in its absence was the crown worn by the heir to the throne. That rested upon the head of the Princess Hibernia who, wan and shaking, sat up in the spectator's box beside a smiling Oliver Cromwell. From the point of view of the crowd, the bonds which kept her restrained to her seat were hidden.

Step by step, Cearl of the House of Wales shuffled towards the gallows. He was unable to stride, for his legs were bound. The crowd rumbled and roared and surged; the armoured figures of the New Model Army held them back. Step by step he drew closer, towards his death. And his sister watched him walk, in the knowledge that she had signed the warrant for his execution.

{0}​

A scream sounded out from the prisoner in the fifth cell, and something in the heads of men broke. All through the smoke-filled room where off-duty guards spent time, figures flinched and the more nervous dropped their drinks.

"I have had enough," snarled one guard, a brutish-looking man whose pouchy face spoke of long and hard drinking. He was already on his feet, but now his knuckles were whitened and his expression contorted into rage. "That is it! Enough! Someone has to shut that thing up! I cannot take it anymore!"

"Jack, you..." another one began.

"Shut up! It... the screams in the night! I was woken up twice yesterday by that!"

There was a cough from a blond man, whose hands shook slightly as he lifted his mug. "The maids are getting freaked out because they can hear her even closer, you know," he said, "and the food this morning was cold, and do you know, William said it was because they were nervous!"

"Yeah!" agreed the first one. "Well, listen up! I can't take it! And the bosses are doing nothing about it! We tell them she's a pain, and nothing happens! Well, we should go and bloody shut that thing up! I have... I... I have had it up to here! No more! It ends!"

"You're just on edge," someone tried to mollify him. "We're all on edge, what with the cold weather and... and that Sheffield woman and the things she does and that nasty business on Watersday and the cold food and..."

"And that screaming! 'Svoid, what's the matter with you all! I don't care if that creepy foreigner wants that prisoner kept alone; we get the key, we teach her manners! How hard is it?"

One of the priests – a good sort, who didn't act too uppity in the eyes of the men – gently shifted in his seat. "I..." he wetted his lips, "I don't think that will solve anything." There was a haunted look in his eyes when he added, "Certain... bits of information have... have come into my possession, and... and I can only say that if the one in cell five screams, it is because of the attention that... that woman pays to her. If the rumours are true, then we are all... all damned men if we allow Lady Sheffield to keep on with what she does. I... I have prayed long and large, and... I fear for my soul, and..."

"Oh shut it!" roared Jack, the twitching man. "I don't care 'bout that, not right now. Not when she keeps on screaming like that!" To rumbles of agreement from other guards, he added, "So what I'm saying is that we should go see the governor, lay it flat to him if he's in, take the keys if he's not! We had this bloody rebellion so cloggie-loving freaks wouldn't boss honest hard-workin' men around! And yet they do nothing to shut that clog-wearing 'crat up! If any other prisoner did that, we'd be allowed to punish 'em! This one? Nothing! Who's with me?"

Scuffles broke out between the guards as those whose nerves had been pushed to the limit violently disagreed with those who had been hearing the rumours and reading the notes of maltreatment and treachery by those who had sent dead-eyed-Sheffield to this tower. And in the end, it was the former who won out, and whose heavy boots tramped their way up to the governor's office, forcing open the door to reveal his absence and the wall of keys behind him.

All Matt Fitzgerald could do was scuttle up to the door of cell five, peak through into the horribly cramped confines, and blurt out a warning he prayed would be enough, before running away. This could not stand; not as something honourable men did. He would have to find those ones who had read the notes, had seen the truth, and act to protect that vulnerable girl's honour – or at least avenge her.

But too soon the angered mob had arrived at the cell, with the key. They had their truncheons and they had their fists and they had a gleam of madness in their eyes; the madness of men pushed beyond their limits.

And as the door opened and the heavily built, armed men rushed in, their victim – slight, underfed, petite – smiled a dreadful, murderous smile.

{0}​

The last body fell to the ground. Casually, Louise de la Vallière dropped the piece of broken wood the length of her forearm. It hit the ground, and splattered, throwing up a grimy mix of blood, broken wood and sand. The room burned in green and brazen fire; her forehead was a cross-shaped brand into an inner sun.

She wiped her face and her forearms on her bed covers, leaving them scarlet, and then carefully and deliberately bound the long gash on her arm from where one of them had lunged with a knife. The girl unfastened the buff jacket from one of the more intact corpses, fastening up the heavy garment over her weeks-worn torn dress. She went barefoot; none of their shoes would fit, and her soles were now tougher than boot leather anyway. In one hand, she carried a solid oak truncheon.

From a man's shirt, she tore a strip off, and bound her hair behind her in a ponytail. It had been getting in her eyes.

And so she said farewell to her cell and the corridors around it, leaving behind it the burned and sand-flayed corpses of a dozen men.

{0}​

The guard was facing the other way, and she was barefooted. For whatever reason, he failed to notice the green glow. He did not even hear her as she padded up behind him, and grabbed his head with one hand, slamming it into the wall with brutal strength. Fire licked out from the cracked skull, scorching the wall, and he fell to the ground spasming.

"Fairest lady," Marisalon asked, a trifle hesitantly. "Where are you headed? What do you seek?"

"The chapel," Louise growled, mostly to herself. It was merely thankful she could read the signs around this place. "I'm going to ask someone who can speak Romalian where Sheffield is. And where she keeps her stolen things so I can get my..." and she stopped speaking, to drop into a defensive half-crouch. She had almost walked into a squad of four guards, and they were already recoiling in fear from the green glow around her and the shouting already had started.

She moved.

The first man took the truncheon straight on his forearm, viridian flames burning through his padded jacket from underneath. Bones crunched, and he screamed in agony, but Louise was already moving on. Burning sand howled from one hand to leave a woman faceless, and the girl ducked to catch the descending blow from the third on her own baton. He might have been able to stop the first jarring counterattack, but the second was too fast and caught him on the side of the head. He fell like a sack of meat and the one standing opponent looked more ready to wet herself than fight.

With her free hand, Louise grabbed the bulky, red-nosed woman by the throat and pinned her against the wall. From outside, they must have made a comical pair; a slender young girl holding up a fully grown woman by her neck. The guard was not amused, though, as her heels bashed against the wall behind her, fighting for purchase.

"Sheffield," Louise hissed at her captive. "Where!" She tried in every language she knew.

The woman tried to gasp something, and Louise lowered her down enough that her feet were on the ground again. She did not let go of her throat. "Down!" the guard managed to croak out in broken Romalian, despite the pressure. The woman's eyes flicked across the expression her captor wore, wreathed in a terrible glow and with not one smidgeon of mercy in her cold gaze. "Under! Stair down," she tried to point along the corridor, to the long oxen-powered lift shaft, "... heavy door! Down down stair! Long down!"

The sixteen-year old girl dropped the woman, letting her fall to the ground and retch, gasping for air. She followed it up with a solid kick to the thigh, drawing a yelp of pain, and a violent twitch.

"I feel that was plenty merciful," Marisalon quipped. "Are you still going to go to the chapel?"

"No," Louise said. "There'll be more guards there, and I need to save my strength for the Sheffield-thing. I can feel a slight ache already. And... I think I need to stay in close confines. Stairs are good for that. And," she paused, clutching at her head as the world washed itself in shades of gold. Marble halls unfolded in front of her, high chambers which disturbingly felt in their own way not dissimilar to the Pale Tower. And then she was back in reality, "... and I need my Staff back," she managed. "This truncheon doesn't cut it."

"Literally."

"What?" the girl asked, padding down the hallway on sticky feet, leaving her screaming victims behind her.

"... it is a blunt object? It literally doesn't cut... oh, never mind."

"Marisalon. Shut up." She drew a calm breath. "I can't believe two months ago I'd... I'd never have been doing anything like this," she said, releasing the breath. "I... I wonder when I'll start feeling guilty."

"Not now, my fair lady! Save it for later!"

She ran across no more guards on the way down the long stairs which spiralled around the lift shaft, but there were bodies here already and bloody smears on the white walls. Louise de la Vallière permitted herself a contented smirk. She had actually done it. Just like Pierre Vallequin, in The Prisoner of the Black Tower, she had seemingly driven an entire fortress to infighting and chaos. Just through a few notes and a few words and keeping them up with the screaming and...

"My highly beautiful and manipulative princess of the green sun," Marisalon said, "you are being excessively self-satisfied. I do not think this was all your doing; nothing should fall apart that fast. There must have already been a rot."

"Well, of course," Louise said, stepping over a body on a landing with stab wounds all over its back, "they're a bunch of traitors. They are thus, automatically morally degenerate. No wonder they turn on each other after a little bit of screaming and a few notes."

"Hmm," the neomah said deliberately. "No, I think there must be something more. But now we must get out of here."

"Once I find Sheffield and my weapon... and the princess and prince, too," Louise said firmly.

Down and down she went, heading deeper and deeper. From what she could remember of the outside of the Pale Tower, that meant that she was almost certainly in the underground bits by now. There were other guards who proved responsive to her polite requests, and while some required some persuasion, some – ones who had read her notes, she suspected – were more than willing to direct her to Sheffield.

And so it was she found herself deep in the bowels of the Pale Tower, in front of an elaborate iron-plated door. This was it; the groaning guards who had been protecting this place before she had arrived had confirmed it. She now carried their swords, one in each hand. With a solid kick to the door which left the lock so much ash, Louise rushed into Sheffield's private quarters.

{0}​

The hammering at the door was incessant. It interrupted the quiet drink the commander of the New Model Army forces stationed nearest to the Pale Tower was trying to enjoy, and with a twist of irritation he placed his glass down. "What is it, man?" he demanded of the runner at the door, red-faced and gasping.

"Trouble... at the Pale Tower! From inside! Lieutenant Havindesh by the gates requests... requests aid and..."

"Must be Royalist scum," the officer said, lurching his weapons rack and grabbing his wandsword belt. "I don't know what in Founder's name the guards are doing letting them get loose, but..."

"Sir," the messenger said, gasping, "the guards are fighting each other! It... some of... ones near the edge, they'd heard that it was about Lady Sheffield from the Lord Protector's office. She'd done something and the guards are rising up and... it's very confused, sir, but the men I spoke to seemed to hate her!"

The sword clattered down from suddenly numb fingers. "Royalist sympathies in the guard of the Pale Tower itself? Intolerable!" the man roared, picking his weapon back up. His face was tomato-coloured. "Call up Welsingborn from the Third with his men, and then get the dragoons in the air! This cannot be tolerated! We cannot let Royalists control the Pale Tower, least of all now!"

The messenger said nothing. He had once had to carry a note down into the bowels of the Pale Tower for Lady Sheffield, and he could well see how people forced to spend a lot of time around her might be somewhat... on edge. "I will require... require written orders to take to the dragoons, sir," he said, following standing orders for the use of the beasts in cities. In truth, he did not think it was wise to call out the dragoons like this, which would be a sign of weakness the population would notice... but he was not paid to think.

"Right away!" the officer snapped, grabbing a piece of paper and scrawling the blotted orders down. "Get them airborn to catch runners, get me mages who can shut this down, and get me my aides!"

{0}​

Louise de la Vallière stepped out of the broken door, eyes unfocussed, and retched. Lord. Founder. That place. That smell.

She was going to have nightmares about this day for a while. She could feel it in her gut. There had been dried blood on the floor and the stench of iron and faeces in the air. Things of bone and iron had been piled into corners. There were crystals on the workbenches; windstones and firestones and earthstones and waterstones wired into things which resembled the constellations. In the centre of the floor, there had been a carefully arranged pile of teeth, surrounded by markings in the First Tongue. Marisalon had translated the words for her. They... they had not been very large teeth.

There was one thing which was actually certain. The Sheffield-woman had never slept in that place, for all that she had thought it was her quarters. There was no bed there for her. Beds for others, yes, beds for her... for her experiments, but no bed for the woman herself.

Her knuckles whitened around the sword which had been on one of the desks, under an arrangement of crystal lenses. Her staff-glaive, the Staff of Destruction had not been there, but what she had found there was her husband's sword. It had called to her.

"Come on," it whispered to her, even now. "Let's go kill, yes? Especially the cold woman. She wanted to enslave me, and that's not all right! Not at all. Especially when she just wanted to study me, and not use me to kill things at all! So we should stab her, again and again. And then cut off her head and burn her to ashes."

That seemed like a very good idea. The sword spoke to her, and it was feather-light in her hands. For all that it seemed old and rusty, it was not made of mere iron or steel; the brass-and-green fire which she wore as a gown clung to it, as if it was an extension of her self. That much was already clear, because she had unleashed herself and the blade upon the things in those terrible rooms, and though it might not have been as sharp as the Staff it was ruinously fast.

Louise spared a glance behind her. Already she could see the smoke in the air, from the fires she had started. She had burned and she had cut and she had smashed those clay pots marked with the First Tongue word for "binding" on them, unleashing the spirits trapped within. The synesthetic clouds of otherness had rushed out, and even despite their strangeness Louise could tell that they, too, longed to be free.

There were screams from up the stairs. Presumably, the spirits were taking their vengeance on those who had been allied with their binder.

"You should catch up with them, or else the fun will be over," her sword advised.

Sword in hand, Louise de la Vallière climbed up the stairs again, and men ran from the glow that preceded her.

{0}​

The barricades on the first floor were reinforced, and more and more guards were gathering there.

By and large, the ones here thought of themselves as the loyalists, faithful to the cause of the Holy Republic. They were not the ones who had been going in to kill a noble prisoner, and if many of them had a dislike of that horrible Sheffield-woman, well... that was just because they were faithful citizens of the Republic. An Albionese Republic, for the Albionese, and a thing a man had rights to was not being bossed around by some foreigner who did unwholesome things in the basements. And who had men who talked about normal things beaten bloody by those creepy black-dressed clerics she had around her.

Matt Fiztgerald sighed. This whole thing was a mess, just because some hot-headed idiots had gone to hurt the beautiful girl in one of the cells. When they – 'they' being him and some friends had gone up to help her, they had been repulsed by the thugs who'd drawn arms on them. So they'd fallen back down to the entrance, to control that, and make sure that no prisoners or traitor guards got out, and that they could get help from the outside when it arrived. There... there were spirits in there, by Founder's Void! Men couldn't deal with those things! They needed priests and mages!

They had solid men at the cordon, and hence it came as a surprise when they came fleeing back to the main barricades, babbling in fear. The light that followed them hurt the eyes, a sick greenish-brown that flickered like firelight.

He saw her.

Beautiful. Terrible. Holy. Barefooted, gore-splattered, wrapped in unearthly fires she stood before them. Her eyes were holes into an inner sun, and no man could stand to hold them without terrible force of will; her hair twitched and swayed as if it was a living thing. The crimson trail of footprints behind her bubbled and boiled. She had a blood-soaked sword which whispered in a harsh voice in one hand, and her other was crooked as if she was holding an unseen wand.

There was fear there; there was certainly fear. But at the sight of such... such wonder, such power, his heart quailed and fluttered to her, like a moth to a flame. He could not explain such feelings; he merely knew that Lady Sheffield had been right to fear her, and despite that he would follow her if she but commanded him.

And she spoke. "Sophia," she demanded of them, with a heavy Tristainian accent. "Cearl. Where?"

His heart sank.

For the Prince Wales had been hanged three days ago, and the Princess Hibernia was long gone from this place. And while someone who could speak Tristainian hesitantly explained this to her, he flinched and shivered, for fear of disappointing the sacred terror before him.

The scream of rage came as no surprise.

{0}​

She was too late.

She was too late.

She was too late.

All the killing. All the maiming. All the subtle manipulation and overt inspiration of fear, and she was three days too late to save Princess Henrietta's lover or that sweet little girl. All her power had been as naught because she had not been fast enough. She had been so sure that she would be able to rescue them, so sure that everything would be there for her to get there in the nick of time that... Louise de la Vallière screamed in sheer rage and frustration as hot winds blew through her mind.

"My lady!" Marisalon snapped. "The next step! You cannot rescue them now, hence, get out of here! As quietly as possible, so you can run into the city, but escape!"

Yes. Yes, that was it. She had to get out of here. She had to. Yes, Cearl was dead; the man behind the barricades said he had seen him die. Yes, they had taken the princess away, to some secret place in the custody of Sheffield... and that meant there was no revenge here.

"Kill them all," her sword whispered to her.

So what she had to do now was escape. Escape, so she could hunt them down. Escape, so she could protect Princess Henrietta. Escape, so that she might live. Wreathed in wrathful flames she marched towards the barricades uncaring if they fought her or not, because they were in her way.

They chose not to, in a babble of Albionese which had men almost raising their weapons before they lowered them again. Perhaps they were aware that with a blade in hand, they could not strike her and she would have their blood. Perhaps it was sheer mindless terror.

But either way, the men and women at the barricade parted to let her through, and she broke into a run. She had to get to the exit. She had to. An ambush inside the great chamber, treachery and madness; she had to escape! Bare feet slapping against stone, she sprinted down halls she had seen once before, sword held in both hands. There might have been a portcullis blocking egress; once one bar had been severed to cheers from her blade, the green fire consumed it over precious seconds, leaving only ash.

The first natural light she had seen for days nearly blinded her. It was late evening, and the blood red sun on the western horizon was lost by the viridian radiance which illuminated her.

Someone shouted something up ahead, and shielding her eyes against the light she could see silhouetted figures. Serried ranks stood, in dark metal armour which reflected her green corona. The first rank knelt, weapons levelled. A second rank was behind them, and a third waiting for the next shot.

The shining sun before them laughed, a bitter, desperate weary laugh, and charged.

"Fire!"

The first rank erupted in smoke and flame, the zip of musketballs tearing pocks into the stone of the Pale Tower. The charging figure flickered to falling sand where they would have passed through her, catching one upon the side of her blade. The second fired, and there was no time for a third, because now the brightly-burning one was upon them, cutting into their tight ranks with reckless abandon.

In amongst the middle of the men, Louise de la Vallière chopped and she cut and she lunged with her husband's sword. Gouts of crimson blood and green flame erupted from men who tried to club at her with musket butts or dropped their weapons to draw knives; they met a too-light, too-fast sword which screamed battle taunts at them in their own tongue. She darted in among the close ranks, her own lack of height working for her, and as mage-officers fired upon their own troops to try to cut down the terror, she was shielded by their own side.

One beast roared overhead, and another. Fire washed down from a flame dragon, setting men and their blackpowder alight. The four-armed goddess-titan of cold light merely screamed her defiance to the heavens, and the girl at the heart of the conflagration flashed back to normalcy at the centre of a teardrop of burned and screaming bodies.

She launched herself forwards again. The casualties she inflicted were slight compared to the ones caused by attempts to kill her among the tightly packed men, and she ached and wearied, growing more and more tired. The end was in sight, and yet her foes seemed all but limitless. Her hair had entirely escaped from the tie which had constrained it, and it now lashed out as if it was but another limb; snatching men to pull them off balance, yanking a levelled pistol off-target, brachiating over an attempted block.

It was not enough, and wind lashed out from ahead, sending her and the men she fought flying like skittles. The triangle-class wind mage she faced kept his wand levelled on her, as another rank of men – how many were there? – levelled their weapons.

She was crying, Louise de la Vallière realised. Her tears flash-boiled into steam and her face was smeared with blood from both herself and others. She had countless grazes and gashes and cuts, and she realised that she was bleeding heavily from her left arm... had she been shot? She couldn't feel it, but she did not appear to be feeling any pain at all.

Betrayed. Imprisoned. Confined. Ambushed as she tried to flee. Was this how it really was going to end? Before... before she could even extract revenge on those who had done this to her? Louise de la Vallière closed her eyes, foreign memories flooding every thought in her mind and every breath in her lungs as she grasped for anything, everything she could.

For a heartbeat's span of time, her eyes stayed closed.

And then someone else opened them.

{0}​

 

[pheonix89]

Oh dear. They are about to get to fight Merela, aren't they.

 

[Ginger Maniac]

God save them from the Queen...

Pity she's powered by something greater than mere gods, hmm?

Heheheheheh.

 

[slybrarian]

Very clever legal manueverings on the part of Cromwell and his band, legitimizing their new government and undermining any attempts by the other powers to marshal support to restore the old order. However, his casual dismissal of the important of not mistreating the de Valliere girl is a major mistep. Understandable, given that he's just hanged a prince and killed a bunch of other nobles, but none the less major. It also works only so long as the princess is still in their control, which may seem like a minor point at the moment but may become a slight problem in the face of other female royal now on the island.

 

[greensun]

I actually think this may be a Charm. I don't remember the name of it, but I do know that there is one Charm for an Infernal Exalted that lets the Exalt go One-Winged Angel when beaten, I'm not entirely sure if this is true, but if it is, I think Albion just lost a army.

 

[EarthScorpion]

Oh, yes! All hail the Queen.

How many Dragonbloods and Sidereals was required to take her down in the Usurpation again? Because none of those men facing her now were exalts. Tsk, what a shame.

Click to shrink...

Considering that;

a) Louise is the main character of the story, not the as-yet-formally-unnamed Past Life,
b) She's already running tired and hurt from weeks of underfeeding and fighting her way out of the tower, and,
c) It's her body that's going to be doing anything

... don't get too locked into the idea that you're going to see a lavishly described curbstomp.

 

[Salty]

Considering that;

a) Louise is the main character of the story, not the as-yet-formally-unnamed Past Life,
b) She's already running tired and hurt from weeks of underfeeding and fighting her way out of the tower, and,
c) It's her body that's going to be doing anything

... don't get too locked into the idea that you're going to see a lavishly described curbstomp.

Click to shrink...

Louise's body, Past Life's habits and force of personality. We may not see a curbstomp, but that doesn't preclude Glorious Solar Command.

 

[greensun]

Considering that;

a) Louise is the main character of the story, not the as-yet-formally-unnamed Past Life,
b) She's already running tired and hurt from weeks of underfeeding and fighting her way out of the tower, and,
c) It's her body that's going to be doing anything

... don't get too locked into the idea that you're going to see a lavishly described curbstomp.

Click to shrink...

Curbstomps are boring, what are intresting is the combatants both taking a horrific pounding.

An young Infernal Vs an Army is actually heavily in favor of the army, she is only young. She is also exhausted, so yes her turning the Albion army into red paste is highly unlikely, but she will still kill dozens, if not hundreds of her enemies.

So I guess you have something else planned?

I await eagerly

 

[greensun]

Sorry.

Just had a look back at my last post, and I seem to b typing while drunk.

This is why you don't do anything like this while tired.

 

[UrsaTempest]

There is enough carnage in this chapter to satisfy my bloodlust. No need for curb-stomp battle! Tired, so little Motes. And we're aware how important conserving mote is... so, maybe Louise will be forced to 'merely' use mundane Ability. Or Stunt like crazy. Still, I'm curious about the reaction at Tristain when they hear Louise's... escape.