Dragon Harem Quest - Or: Saying You Were Gay Wasn't The Conversation-Ender You Hoped For

They're just trying to rile you up. Just like when they left that calling card. Just like they have been with almost every word they've ever said to you. They play with people. They manipulate people. They must be expecting you to go barging in, blunder through whatever traps and wards they have prepared like some clumsy oaf, but you're better than that. A storm rages in your very bones. You don't need to get close at all.

You take a single step forward and roar with all your might, a flurry of forking light pouring forth from your throat and sizzling down the street like a flood-swollen river. Paper tags lying in the darkness that pools between the cobblestones and close-knit buildings flare to life, embedded knives gleaming in the reflected glow of your breath. Lavender lightning leaps from all corners of the street and spear the elemental storm through like harpoons, but they prove woefully inadequate for anything but slowing it down. Takara leaps out of the way, a shadow in purple and white that flits across the way and skips twice like a stone, landing lightly on the far side of the street. Your lightning washes over the lamppost they once occupied, hissing bolts of blue-white light leaping to anything within metres. When all's said and done the poor thing sags dangerously, still smoking and glowing in places.

"A-ha," Takara says. "Now this gets interesting."

They go for something up their sleeve, you go for another bolt. Quicker and weaker, lighting crackling and arcing from your claws rather than your maw this time. They duck behind another lamppost, letting the metal take the brunt once more as they produce a... fan? A flimsy thing made of wood and paper, some kind of character or symbol painted on it. You can make a few educated guesses as to what that character means when Takara gives the fan an almost imperious flick and what should have been a gentle gust of air spins into a roiling twister.

Again and again you throw lightning from your hands but Takara keeps stoking the tornado as one would a fire, letting it grow taller and broader and stronger until you can't even see them through the funnel of swirling dirt and dust and rippling air. Going from simply throwing your aim off to actively deflecting your lightning, twisting it off-course or simply absorbing it into the spinning storm of detritus. The lamp-light flickers, windows rattling in their frames all around, loose shingles are torn free from nearby rooftops and already you can feel the insistent invisible pull of the vortex. You take a step back, then another, craning your neck to see the rippling open end of the wind-spout against the stormy night sky. No doubt Takara's lying in wait beyond, ready to throw whatever curse they're preparing at you if you try to go around or over.

You clasp your hands together and bare your teeth in a snarl of effort, muscles bulging in your arms and back as you drag them apart again. You draw something more from within, leashed lightning sparking and arcing between your talons, contained by the cage of your claws. Pouring power in from either end without letting it escape, compressing it, compacting it, forcing it to coalesce with nothing but brute strength and the absolute certainty only the enraged can muster. You raise it up to chest-level, arms trembling, a low growl forcing its way up your throat and through your clenched fangs, and with a flick of your wrists you cast it out. It travels slowly, almost absurdly so, and for a moment you feel a stab of panic that the encroaching tornado will sweep it up and send it spinning uselessly up in the air.

It punches through the skin of the twister like a stone dropped into a swirling pool, trailing flashing forks and arcs of light in its wake like luminous roots. And all at once it bursts with an almighty thunderclap, bathing the street in light and shaking the ground beneath your feet. Every window rattles, every pane of glass in the closer lampposts crack in two, and the tornado is torn asunder from the inside. On the far side you barely glimpse whatever curse Takara was trying to work -several concentric circles of lavender light around a vast emptiness- being overwhelmed by the ball lightning. Takara sweeps their hands in a circular motion, casting off the excess energy and sparing themselves any worse than a bad static shock or two.

"Y'know I was hoping to keep this down!" they shout, digging a claw in to clean one ear, "but I guess if the only string to your bow is 'lightning' there's not much you can do but make peace with the inevitable noise complaints!"

They feint left, as if to make a break for the city limits, only to dash right and scramble up the side of the building like no more than a paved road. But vertical distance is no safe haven from you, and with a mighty leap and two flaps of your wings you rise high into the air, soaring above the city skyline and higher still. Just what Takara was waiting for. The white paper fan flashes in the gloom and you're flying out of control, spinning and tumbling end-over-end, no idea which way is up until you grit your teeth and force your wings to obey you.

You didn't go far off-course, just further down the street than you planned. You rise higher with a few more flaps, keen predator's eyes scanning the rooftops. It doesn't take you long to find them. Though they jink and dart between the many chimneys and lightning rods of the residental block rooftop they still stand out like a splash of paint compared to the gloom all around them. The most curious part is when they stop, hunch down against the slope of the roof with the district's interior park at their back, and start fiddling with something else papery in a flurry of knives and claws. An easy target.

You raise both hands and fire, twin bolts of sizzling cerulean light leaping down from your claws and- splitting off, dividing at harsh angles to strike the rods instead. Though Takara flinches from the closeness of the strikes, they're left completely unharmed. They crane their neck to see you, amethyst eyes shining in the dark.

"Lightning lightning lightning, is that all you've got?" they jeer. "All those years, you'd think you'dve learned more tricks!"

They leap to their feet and throw a cloud of paper scraps into the air. For a moment even you have to pause, bemused that they would waste time tearing up their precious talisman paper into confetti - but these are no random off-cuts. Each pale piece moves with a purpose, not floating down like a flake of snow but swooping into place, a rustling leaf borne on a magic wind. From the 'blizzard' are born two 'snowmen', built before your eyes from the ground up like papercraft figurines scaled up to the size of a man. On Takara's right a swordsman in a wide, battered straw hat, the tip of its canine muzzle barely visible beneath the frayed brim. A long, tangled mane of hair and a tattered scarf, battered loose-fitting pants and a longer jacket over it all, a curved sword held sheathed in one hand. On Takara's left a winged spearman, a crow-like avian in lightweight armour that somehow seems sturdy despite the material of its construction, each individual feather like a painstakingly hand-folded piece of paper. The blade of its spear curves out like a short sword in its own right. Colour bleeds into them before your eyes, painting them in such lifelike tones that had you not seen the moment of their creation you might have wondered where Takara's friends just came from.

But enough about that. It won't save them. You swoop down into a dive, arms trailing behind you as you aim your body at the rooftop like a missile. You let out another mighty roar and your three foes are bathed in lightning, forced to hunch down low and cower before your might even as the lightning rods spare them the worst - and surely keep the apartments below very well-powered. You can just glimpse them through the bolts, arcs of power like luminous fat-bodied snakes swarming for a meal. The dog-faced warrior with a hand on the hilt of its sword. The spearman ready to drive its weapon home. Takara crouched and ready to spring, two handfuls of knives at the ready.

You pull up from your dive so sharply that every muscle in your body burns and screams in agony, your whole body bowing and curving back. Your momentum washes off and for one solitary moment you just hang there, perfectly suspended in the air before Takara's wide-eyed face. Muscles flexing and bulging beneath the azure-blue armour, dragging your arms in and across your body as you force your wings to obey you. They crackle with leashed power, each invisible conduit tattooed into the blue leather shining, as with one almighty beat they blow with just as much force as that silly little fan of Takara's. There's an audible whumpf of displaced air as the paper soldiers go first, tumbling away in the breeze like the weightless familiars they are. Takara follows suit a half-second later with a startled "shit-!"

You flap thrice to get your altitude back, watching with a cruel smile as Takara and their paper dog hit the ground. The familiar takes it well, seemingly lacking the mass to break or bend too badly as it hits the grass and flattens. Takara takes it a little harder. Though they scramble and flail they hit the ground and bounce once before they can right themself, skipping and leaping two more times before they skid the rest of the way to a stop. You're already dipping down into a dive again when you notice the winged familiar righting itself, flapping furiously as it rises to meet you.

It's more of a reflex than anything else really. It jabs for your vulnerable wing, so you draw them in and stretch out your hand. The long-bladed spear keens as it creases your shoulder and lunges on, useless. You fall faster, faster, collecting the thing under your arm as you go, and before you can think of anything else you hit the ground with an almighty crash.

It seems you ah, misjudged the speed of your approach. You find yourself kneeling in a crater where some of the paved walkway used to be, the ruin that once was the familiar's paper torso driven so much deeper beneath your claw that you burst a water pipe. It 'dies' without a sound, sagging completely flat beneath you, and when you withdraw your hand it's soaked in inky, waterlogged paper 'guts'. You grimace and shake it clean as you straighten up.

"You know it wasn't my first choice to reach this deep in the old trick-bag," Takara remarks, leaping through the gazebo set in the crossroads between the walkways. More lights are turning on all around you, startled shouts and other voices drifting faintly to your ears from the street this all started in. You think you even hear galloping hooves off in the distance - a guard carriage? Takara turns a full circle, arms outstretched, no doubt to indicate the sounds of chaos all around.

"But we're running low on time," they finish. "Sic 'im!"

They duck down, and whatever they do next your attention is drawn more to the dog-faced warrior sprinting full-pelt at you. It draws its sword and casts the paper sheath aside, setting upon you with a silent snarl and all the fury you could expect from a real warrior. Its ferocity is matched only by its agility, darting left and right, to and fro, striking a new place every time you move to block a previous blow. For a moment even you are stymied, thoughts whirling in search of any idea how to defeat your clearly skilled opponent, before the simple fact sinks in. Though its impossible paper blade may be sharp as a razor, it would have to be a thousand times sharper than that to have any realistic chance of hurting you. So the next time it falls you just close your hand around it and tear it in two.

The dog-faced swordsman looks down at the ripped stump of its blade almost in offence. You reach out and lift it in the air, one claw grasping it by the haunch and the other by the chest, and simply tear it in two. The spell breaks with a loud rrrrrip and what was once a familiar falls between your talons in so many shredded scraps. You fix your gaze on Takara again, meeting theirs.

"So violent," they remark. "You should talk to someone about that."

And with that they gash their thumb open on one fang of their foxy grin and slap their bleeding hand down on the design they etched in the stone. It flashes purple once, and lavender traceries rush forth through the earth towards you like arcs of your own lightning. In what seems like an instant the ground beneath you buckles, nearly pitching you forward as you fight to keep your balance, but the damage is done. The earth itself is collapsing, crumbling, sucking you down as the rubble folds over you like foaming waves. You grunt in shock, flapping furiously as you try to rise. You feel it give only slightly, but no matter how you drain the greedily-grasping earth is stronger. You bare your teeth and try to break free yourself, to tear your feet out of the dirt and stone, but no matter how you shift you just can't find a solid enough footing to pull! All your strength and it's failing you, leaving you as helpless as any other as the plateau itself swallows you up. Takara's dry-throated, mocking laughter fills your ears as helpless anger bubbles and boils up within you. You try throwing lightning bolts at Takara to interrupt the spell, only to be rebuffed by short, thick walls of earth rising up to screen them from the strikes. You even breathe lightning down at your feet in a desperate attempt to free yourself, but all you do is make more rubble to drag you down - and Takara's laughter only gets louder.

And then you have an idea.

You snatch up a fist-sized chunk of pavement and hunch over it, digging your thumb-talon deep into the stone even as the earth rises past your waist. Tracing and re-tracing the lines of a rune until it's cut deep enough and clean enough. You know you must look ridiculous to Takara, trying rune-carving now when you won't have time to spell out even the shortest of phrases before the earth reaches your neck and freezes your arms.

But you don't need a whole phrase. Just one word, so deeply entwined with your very being that the rune might as well be engraved on your heart. So you draw back your arm and throw.

The stone itself bounces off the earthen rampart protecting Takara with a sad little thmp.

The thunderclap that follows shatters the air with its sheer volume and rattles the gazebo in its very foundations, every blade of grass shivering and bowing as the almighty sound radiates out and out. Even your bones seem to shiver inside you, your fangs humming in your gums. The sound means nothing to you of course - you endure its like daily seeking a fresh jolt of energy - but to the unguarded it wounds as badly as any sword. The spell ending, allowing you to tear free of the earth and clamber onto solid ground again, is your first clue that you've won. The strained, gurgling groan of agony from Takara is your second.

You've... you've won. You've won. You've won! You can scarcely believe it. It all flew past in a whirl of action and adrenaline and anger but now you have a moment to sit and let it all catch up to you you're almost shaking in disbelief. You did it. You showed them what a mistake it was to cross you and you won you're- you're practically a real dragon now!

"uugh... ggggoohhhhffffffuhhh... gods i can't even hear myself" Takara groans deliriously from down the path. "ah- aahhhoowww that's was dirty, that was a dirty trick you pulled"

No. You're not done yet. There's just one more thing to take care of. You stalk down the path, step by measured step, drawing your wings in close around you like a cloak. Takara's out from behind their defences now, dragging themselves away arm over arm. They glance over their shoulder long enough to see you approaching, looming closer and closer like an oncoming storm.

"jjjust... sec, give me... one..."

They stagger to their feet, clawing their way up the side of the gazebo and digging in for support. Any semblance of their impressive agility, let alone basic balance, seems to have deserted them with their deafening. Even their eyes are glazed and unfocused, face drawn with pain. It occurs to you that they won't be able to hear a word you say. That's no trouble. You're sure you can make yourself understood. You hold one claw out by your side, talons half-curled as if already throttling the fox's pale neck, eyes locked on theirs as you stride close enough to-

"DO NOT BE AFRAID"

A light as brilliant as the sun bursts to life before you, a wave of heat washing over you. You stagger back as you're forced to squint, throw up your hand to shield your eyes and look away, blinking away stars. Something materialises in the space between you and Takara, and by the time your eyes have adjusted to the light the sight of it takes your breath away anyway.

It's like a construct of awe-inspiring artistry and complexity married to the finest work of a world-renowned sculptor. Some marvel of precursor civilisation that should never have seen the light of day for fear of exposing it to the unworthy. Its shape is that of a man, carved from a single slab of the purest obsidian and sculpted in such reverent celebration of the male form you could teach an anatomy class with it. Every flexing muscle connected by taut golden sinew, every crack or seam in the glossy surface somehow seeming deliberate, as if the sculpture could be accomplished without but a statement had to be made. It hovers just above the ground, taloned toes just a hair's breadth from touching, holding up similarly clawed hands to ward you and Takara away. It hovers on an array of wings, so many you can barely count them, so bright that you can barely stand to look at them straight on. Wings that glitter and shimmer, overlapping and blurring into one another, shedding light as golden as the morning sun. Its face is a blank mask, a gleaming obsidian mirror deeper than the night sky, and the longer you look the more clearly you see the golden lights glimmering within like stars and constellations.

"We have precious little time and you must listen carefully," it goes on.

"sorry if you're saying something i got nooooo idea" Takara says before it even finishes, drunkenly indicating one still-ringing ear. The beautiful half-mechanical half-organic thing shoots the fox a glance that somehow seems long-suffering even without facial features and allows itself to land. Its great plumage of ever-shifting wings fold in and retract, reshaping until they're not wings at all. Just a short mantle flowing from its shoulders and ankle-length half-skirt flowing from its waist, both glowing golden yet gauzy and indistinct as air. You wonder if you'd even feel anything if you touched them. You fight valiantly against the urge to test it.

"Eldingar," the new arrival says, turning to face you, "I understand your anger and acknowledge you have every right to be furious at Takara, but I beg you to reconsider. There is so much more to them, to you, than any of this ugliness has allowed to show. Takara has done a great deal of wrong and deserves just punishment, but please - killing them would bring you no peace."

You start. You blink. You refocus on the sleek creature's visor, as if searching for some hidden meaning in the swirling stars. It... you didn't think about it at all, even when Takara brought it up. The word just bounced right off you like an arrow. But now, here, the very thought makes your scales crawl, makes your stomach twist and turn and tie itself into knots. Your brow furrows, your gaze falling. You shake your head slightly.

"N-no. I wasn't- I mean I never-" you say haltingly. Your mouth feels too dry. You force your head to rise and you meet the strange being's 'gaze' once more. "... I was only going to scare them," you finish almost plaintively. "I- I meant it when I said I only wanted the map back, I only..."

Was it? Was that 'only' what you wanted? Especially when the hate and anger was burning bright in your stomach and it felt so good to charge on and on like an implacable storm, scattering Takara's silly spells to the winds, making them bend, making them break, making them fall?

"I-" you gently press one hand against your stomach. "I don't want to."

The entity's shoulders sag with relief, and a moment later it simply combusts, consumed by a sudden raging inferno. Its searing light almost blinds you once more, forces you to squint and recoil. Lowering your defences just long enough for Issachar to rush forward and wrap his arms around you in a crushing hug. You freeze in place, eyes wide, his short coils of hair barely tickling you under the jaw as he tucks his head into the crook of your neck.

"I'm sorry it took me so long," he says. "By the time the others were worried enough to come find me and warn me you were so far gone, I worried I wouldn't even reach you in time. I had to use so much power I'm-" He shakes his head. "I'm just glad you're alright, Eldingar."

You arms wrap themselves around him before you've fully caught up on what's happening. You decide not to worry about it too much right now. You shut your eyes, let your jaw rest on his head and squeeze him back just as tight. "I'm... really glad you're here heh."

When you open your eyes Takara has sagged all the way down to the ground again, propped up against the gazebo with their head turned away - no doubt so they don't have to witness a moment more of this disgusting display. You gingerly let go of Issachar and pull away as the sounds of the city reawakening draw even louder and closer.

"Okay we need to move fast but I think we can still manage it," you mutter. "I just have to go turn Takara upside-down and shake 'em until the map falls out, then if I pick you up I should be able to fly us out of here before Ljósingar-"

Too late. Lightning strikes the grass only metres from you, but Issachar is the only one who flinches - Takara is blissfully still too deaf to notice. A god rises from the sparking, crackling aftermath of the strike, drawing itself up to its full height and striding proudly from the crater to meet the upstart interlopers causing so much chaos and destruction. Ljósingar is an avian sort but only just, for the sky is the natural domain of those that fly. They have been called upon to win many wars with their great power and greater wrath, and thus they are a being of war themself; a sleek, sharp thing of steel and silver, their beak a cruel hook, their talons like knives, their very wings like bundles of blades forged together without flaw or seam. Their head is like an iron helm, sleek and smooth but for a backswept crest of bladed feathers, their eyes burning with the inner cerulean light of the storm that sustains them. A light that shines through a few other joints and seams now that you take a closer look, flickering and brightening as the god draws closer and takes in the scene before them.

"What," they say. "Is going on. Here?"

"I understand your displeasure with the events of tonight and rest assured we are both deeply apologetic," Issachar replies so quickly you hesitate getting your own words out. You take a quick glance at him for support.

"I... I was pursuing a thief," you say, drawing yourself up to your own full height so Ljósingar doesn't start getting any funny ideas about dominance displays. "This thief has done great harm to me and my own, stealing from me and harming those dear to me in the process. It was only by chance I encountered them here."

Ljósongar's head tilts as they fix one sizzling, judgemental eye on you. "I understand that must have been of great importance to you, but must you have destroyed half a street and city park starting a fight right then and there? Did I not at least deserve a courtesy call?"

"I only arrived this evening!" you protest, and pause as you realise with a strange feeling that you weren't actually in the wrong this time. Not really at least. "I was only searching for information when the thief -Takara over there- approached me first and goaded me into a fight. I had every intention to call upon you in the morning."

Ljósingar follows your gaze and peers down at Takara, taking a few steps closer and hunching down for a better look. They let out an ambiguous grunt of annoyance and straighten up, clack-clack-clacking a beak like a huge set of steel shears as they think. They clasp their hands behind their back and turn to look at you once more.

"Well. I have no desire to cause a diplomatic incident over a mere thief attempting to use my holy city as refuge." They snap their fingers, and suddenly a squad of men you didn't even notice approaching descend upon Takara. They must be warrior-priests of Ljósingar, you realise, clad in beaked helmets worn beneath the hoods of their armoured robes, wearing clawed gauntlets that crackle and spark with power. In short order Takara's wrists are bound by loops of leashed lightning, and the priests begin the long process of rummaging through their robes for all the knives and talisman paper secreted away in the sleeves and folds and pockets.

"They have a travelling companion too," you add suddenly as the memory strikes you. "A godly sort - they left him in the room they rented for the night, said he didn't have the requisite temperament to help fight me. Would you please ask your men to be gentle when they arrest him too?"

Ljósingar arches a brow, which after an embarrassingly long amount of time you realise is probably because you said 'please', but they give the order all the same. Takara is marched to a waiting carriage at the park entrance and the rest of the priests disperse to search for Petros, leaving you and Issachar alone with the god of this city.

"What a mess," they grumble. "In the meantime, I cordially invite you and your... associate?" they let the inquiring word linger until you nod "to my home for the night. Once the troublemakers in question are safely in custody and you two have had a full night's sleep, we can get to work properly unravelling this unfortunate situation we all find ourselves in. Does that sound agreeable?"

"Very much so," you reply, barely suppressing a sigh of relief. "Rest is a wonderful idea."

Which is of course why you don't get any.

The accommodations aren't Ljósingar's fault, really. They did the best they could with the time they had. They hurried off to deal with other God Business at the first opportunity they had, leaving the staff to find rooms for you and Issachar, and they're... nnnice. You're sure a mortal ambassador or other dignitary would find them quite comfortable. But the last thing you want right now is a soft bed, and there was hardly time to empty out some of the city treasury so you'd have enough money to sleep on, so... here you are. Standing on the balcony in the rain, staring up at the sky and watching the steeply-angled lightning bolts rain down from the clouds, sizzling as they strike the great temple-top spire again and again and again. Part of you wants to fly up and just get absolutely blasted, but that's probably extremely rude here.

Ugh. Takara. Issachar. And you guess Petros now too? It's all a mess, growing messier and messier no matter how hard you try to clean up. It's still niggling at you, nibbling and nipping at the furthest recesses of your brain while you're not looking.

You sigh. You need to talk to somebody. Tonight. You're not getting any sleep and this solitary silent is grating on you like a whetstone to the horns.

[ ] Find Issachar's room and speak to him. It's time to get the full story from him. No more tastefully-omitted details.
[ ] Find Takara's cell and speak with them. Some things still just don't feel right. Maybe you can at least get them to tell you where the map is.
[ ] Find Petros' cell and speak with him. You have a second-hand account or two, but this is your first chance to speak face-to-face with what you suspect is another map-boyfriend. He even managed to spend days on end in Takara's company. What was his secret?